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peaceoutofthepieces · 4 years

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Sink Or Swim

tag list: @cleocc @feeling-kinda-so-so @hopelessromanticvirgo @dreamy-slytherin @adora8 @lockerfivethreefive @painfully-oblivious @poeticinemaa @jjustonemorething @saraben00 @wedarkacademia @coolguyssyndrome @hischbabe @suckerforsobbe @tayspots @starmansander @theah0lt @zoenneforever @invisibleme @chibibanane

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Friday, 20:42

Songs: Daniel Blume - Nights Like This; Selena Gomez - Feel Me

Lucas feels ridiculous.

They haven’t been at the party long, and he’s spent the whole time hiding away along the sidelines. He’d made the mistake of asking his dad to get him a costume, anything, it just has to be a costume, it won’t be that bad. He couldn’t help it, on short notice, with his grounding still somewhat in place and homework beginning to mount up. He’d expected something simple, a crappy zombie costume or maybe a skeleton. Something simplistic. Casual.

He should’ve known better. He should have prepared himself to have to come to the party as a prince.

He’s not even a cool prince. He looks like he walked straight out of a Disney movie, and an animated one at that. He’s just glad there are no frills or over-bright colours. The deep blue is comforting enough, but he still feels weird.

Robbe snorts next to him. “Stop fidgeting. I told you you look good, didn’t I?”

Lucas hums, and continues pulling at his sleeves.

“Lucas, seriously.” Robbe reaches out to still his hands, moving to stand in front of him. “I’m literally wearing the same costume as last year. With the same fake blood.”

Lucas grimaces.

“Yeah, exactly. You look hot. And you have to believe my opinion.”

Lucas raises a brow. “Is that so?”

Robbe hums. “It’s way more trustworthy than the guys’. Luca and Yasmina also said you look hot, right?”

“I think Luca thinks everyone looks hot pretty much all the time.”

Robbe considers this. “Maybe. But I don’t. So believe me.”

“Okay,” Lucas sighs. “For the record, though, you look better than me.”

Robbe snorts, but squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Lucas offers him a smile and casts another glance around, seeking out someone in particular—as usual. It’s not difficult to find him. His eyes latch on to Jana first, and then the arm curved casually around her waist, before trailing up to Jens. They’re dancing awkwardly in the middle of the crowd, but with abandon, not caring how ridiculous they look. Lucas almost wants to cringe at the sight, but his lips creep up in a smile regardless. Once he sets his gaze on the other boy, it’s hard to look away.

He’d met Lucas at the end of his street, despite Lucas’s protests that he didn’t have to go out of his way. Lucas had had to stop before getting to him, freezing in the middle of the sidewalk. Jens had gone for a more expected look, decking himself out in a skin-tight skeleton costume, partially hidden under his coat. It was his face, though, that sent the largest shock through Lucas. Someone had done his makeup perfectly, shading in his temples and eyes and cheekbones and even his neck, highlighting his bones in white, making all his features stark and eerie and stunning.

It would have been fine, if he hadn’t skimmed his eyes over the length of Lucas’s body when he finally reached him with parted lips, as if speechless. Lucas had felt fidgety then, too, until Jens had drawn himself together and cleared his throat. He’d smirked, and said, “I see you took Yasmina’s comment seriously, huh, charmer?” Then Lucas had been able to laugh, and brush the moment of tension off, and Jens had disappeared ten minutes into the party with Jana tugging at his arm.

Lucas feels some of the tension return in a fiery ball of attraction and jealousy, warring together in the pit of his stomach.

“He still looks hotter than both of us, doesn’t he,” Robbe sighs, and Lucas looks at him to see that he’s found Jens in the crowd, too.

Lucas allows himself to nod in agreement. “Even though he’s a terrible dancer.”

“He’s fucking awful,” Robbe laughs.

Lucas drags his gaze away to smile at Robbe again instead. “I’m sure you and Sander would upstage him.”

Robbe’s grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he shakes his head. “Uh, I don’t think dancing is my thing either. Sander looks good doing anything, though.”

He sighs, and Lucas snorts, shaking his head slightly. The quiet admiration he holds for Robbe increases in size. It’s strange, seeing someone be so open. It’s not like Ralph, Ralph who is older and experienced and not like Lucas. Robbe, though...Robbe feels fairly similar to Lucas in a lot of ways, and it makes something in him wonder, stirring with a little more hope than he’d held before. A little more understanding.

“How is Sander?” He watches Robbe’s grin twitch as he asks, and quickly backtracks. “You don’t have to tell me. Anything.”

Robbe shakes his head, his smile turning soft. “No, it’s okay. Sander’s bipolar. He already told me I could tell you. He has a good handle on it, it’s just...not always easy,” Robbe shrugs.

Lucas turns the information over and over in his head and hopes he doesn’t look as shocked as he feels. A part of him flinches away from it. The rest of him is screaming that he should have known, somehow. He pushes both sides away and searches for a response. “And right now...isn’t easy?”

“Yeah,” Robbe sighs. “I don’t think it’s a depressive episode, but he was worried it was the start of one. So he’s just taking a bit of a time out this week. He’s still going to school and everything, so I know that it could be worse. That it’s just a bit of a low mood. I just...I think there’s something going on that he hasn’t told me, but...there’s nothing I can do if he doesn’t want me to know.”

“You’re there for him,” Lucas says carefully. “And he loves you. I’m sure he appreciates that enough.”

Robbe shrugs again, but his smile returns, just slightly. “You’re wise for a Disney prince.”

Lucas scoffs and bumps his shoulder, and then they’re laughing, and it’s okay. Robbe gives him a grateful smile and Lucas clasps his shoulder for just a second. He wonders, for a moment, if he should say something, if he should just begin to explain, and he opens his mouth just as Yasmina slips through the crowd in front of them.

She’s donned in all black, with artfully crafted horns on her head made to represent Maleficent’s. She tugs another girl behind her by the wrist, and Lucas recognises her from the party the week before, with her easy smile and dark fringe, now adorned with gold to match her Cleopatra costume. “Look who I brought,” Yasmina presents her.

Robbe instantly greets the girl with a cheerful, “Hey,” and a hug, completing the gesture with a kiss on the cheek. When they part, he gestures at Lucas, and Lucas gives a small wave. “This is Lucas. Lucas, this is Noor.”

“Robbe’s ex,” Yasmina adds helpfully.

Lucas’s eyes widen in understanding. He quickly fixes a smile onto his face as Robbe rolls his eyes and Noor laughs. “Nice to meet you.”

She gives him a quick hug as well as she returns the sentiment. “You’re the one from...Utrecht, right? Moyo told me about you. I’m from The Netherlands too.”

“But she refuses to tell us where,” Robbe says.

“Well, you’ve gotta keep a little mystery,” Lucas agrees.

Noor nods approvingly at him. “Exactly. No Sander tonight?”

Robbe shakes his head as she turns back to him, wrapping an arm over his shoulder. “Not tonight.”

Noor squeezes him. “Everything good with you two?”

“Yeah, everything’s great,” Robbe assures.

“Good.” She pinches his cheek, and Robbe lets her, rolling his eyes fondly, and Lucas can only watch on in astonishment. Robbe hadn’t mentioned they were still friends, and Lucas wouldn’t have believed him if he’d tried to describe how friendly they actually are. He supposes they’ve had time to get to this point, but he can’t quite imagine himself in a similar position. He doesn’t have the heart that Robbe does.

“Do any of you want to come search for a non-alcoholic drink with me?” Yasmina asks hopefully.

Lucas meets Noor’s eye first, and they both turn to smile apologetically at Yasmina, laughing at themselves. Yasmina rolls her eyes with a smile and focuses in on Robbe, who gives in with a small flap of his hand.

“Yeah, okay. You two don’t want to come?” Noor and Lucas shake their heads and Robbe squeezes Noor’s shoulder as he steps away from her. “Okay. You’re in good hands with Lucas, anyway.”

“Yeah, Prince Charming,” she gestures at him easily, and Lucas laughs, already feeling fond.

Robbe and Yasmina slip away, and he and Noor are left sharing a smile. The silence that settles between them is more casual than awkward, but Lucas still searches for a way to break it.

“So, you and Robbe,” he finally settles on, because it’s the only thing he knows. He cringes immediately afterward, but Noor doesn’t seem upset, listening patiently. “I mean, how was that?”

Noor laughs quietly. “Short. Never perfect. But Robbe isn’t easy to stay mad at. Especially when he seemed so much better off, so much happier, after all of it.” She shrugs. “It helps that his boyfriend is pretty cool, too.”

Lucas laughs, too, and a new slot of admiration is created just for her. “Yeah, he is. But you seem very cool, yourself. I can see why he thought, if anyone, that he could like you.”

“Charmer, huh?” Noor smiles, and Lucas can only shrug, feeling bashful. He wonders how he’s managed to paint that image for himself so quickly again. He marvels at how the word no longer sounds so much like liar.

He’s trying to be more himself, now that he has the room to be someone new. He doesn’t hate the idea that it might not be so different from who he already was.

Noor gets distracted as someone else comes to greet her, and Lucas gives them a small smile and falls back into his own little bubble. He doesn’t mind. He’s able to pick Jens out of the crowd again in seconds.

He still looks ridiculous, swaying out of rhythm with Jana’s arms now looped around his neck, the two of them laughing. Looking incredibly cosy. Lucas watches, and wishes, and wants, and he hates himself for it.

Then suddenly, Jens is looking back.

It should be hard to see in the dull light of the room, from completely opposite ends, but Lucas has no doubt that Jens is looking at him. His gaze flicks up and around and lands on Lucas, as if he’d felt him looking and wanted proof. Lucas feels his jumbled bundle of emotions creep up and lodge in his throat, and he swallows thickly, but he can’t make himself look away. Even as Jens doesn’t part from Jana but moves closer, even as his lips tilt up into something like a smirk but maybe a smile, even as his lids fall to create half-moons out of his eyes, Lucas looks.

Jens keeps looking back.

“Hey.”

He snaps out of it as Noor leans up to speak in his ear, smiling knowingly at him.

“Let’s go give him something to look at, hm?”

Lucas stares down at her, shaking his head in instant denial. Panic bubbles up in him, spreading and stretching until there’s no room left for air. “I—What?”

She flicks her eyes to Jens and then back, raising an unimpressed brow at him. “I’ve gotten better at seeing things in the past year, Lucas. With you, I know exactly what I’m looking for.”

He straightens, feels his face forming into something like a glare against his will, but she sets a hand on his arm and squeezes.

“Hey,” she says softly, “stop that. It’s okay. It’s not like I’ll tell.”

He looks at her for another moment, eyes flicking between hers in search of sincerity. He deflates when he finds it. His voice comes out as barely a whisper, and he’s almost sure she won’t hear it. “Is it that obvious?”

She squeezes his arm again and shakes her head. “Only with the way he’s looking back at you right now.”

“That’s not…” Lucas trails off, wondering what he wants to say. “Jens doesn’t look at me like that. Jens isn’t like that.”

Noor tilts her head, frowning. “How do you know?”

Lucas’s lips part and shut as he searches for an answer. Surely it’s just obvious. Maybe he’s the one in the wrong, for so easily ruling Jens out, but it’s the only way to keep his sanity. Even if Jens could be interested, Lucas can’t allow himself to think that Jens would be interested in him.

He sneaks another glance at Jens, and Jens is still looking back, albeit now with a tiny frown.

Noor uses her grip on his arm to give a tiny tug, raising her brows at him as she begins walking backwards, into the crowd. Lucas follows numbly, only coming to his senses when he’s surrounded by dancing bodies. Then he’s able to rapidly shake his head and look at Noor pleadingly. Backtracking.

“I can’t even dance,” he protests, trying to pull out of her grip, and she lets go only to wrap her arms around his neck.

“Lucas, hey, just take a breath.” She squeezes the back of his neck, and he tries to listen to her, drawing air in carefully and slowly blowing it out. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. We don’t have to dance if you don’t want to. But if you really think he isn’t reciprocating, why waste your night on him? It’s a party, and you look hot as hell, and you should be having fun.”

He almost tells her that she’s just made that a lot harder, because the anxiety currently swirling in his chest is almost enough to drag him under and keep him down for the foreseeable future. She seems to know, anyway, squeezing his neck again as her smile softens into something apologetic. She doesn’t ask any more questions, and she doesn’t make him say the words, and some of the worry dissipates in a cloud of relief.

Someone knows someone knows someone knows.

It’s a little distressing that she’d been able to figure it out on her own, after knowing him for mere minutes, but he’d given himself away and he hadn’t tried at all to deny it. He can’t bring himself to be mad, or upset, as Noor’s smile widens again and she guides him into a rhythmic sway.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, letting himself relax slightly, following her lead.

Noor’s grin widens, and she slides her hands down his arms until she can grip his and guide him into a more dramatic movement. He snorts, and tries not to feel too stupid, and eventually lets a small smile grow on his face.

He can admit it feels nice, taking a moment to let himself go. He doesn’t feel so ridiculous, now. Noor helps, taking the lead and keeping her wide smile, squeezing Lucas’s hands on occasion, dancing happily without much assistance from Lucas. Lucas finds himself moving mindlessly, helped this time by the alcohol only recently added to his system.

His eyes drift back to Jens on their own accord. It’s no harder to find him now, and Lucas’s heart flutters and pounds when he instantly meets his eyes. It’s impossible to truly tell from such a distance, with the lights dim and flashing, but Lucas is almost sure his gaze has darkened, has taken on a new intensity in the few minutes that Lucas hadn’t been looking.

His breath catches, and then leaves him in a rush, because Jana has pulled Jens down into a kiss, and Jens kisses back.

But he’s still looking at Lucas.

Even as Jana cups his face and holds him closer, even as his hands move to her back, even as Noor wraps her arms back around Lucas’s neck, oblivious, Jens keeps looking.

Lucas can’t look away.

Even as his heart tears itself to shreds, it pounds. He can’t stop watching how Jens’s jaw works, how his lashes flutter, how he dips his head, how his eyes never leave Lucas. As if it’s Lucas he wants to be kissing. As if it’s Lucas he has in his arms.

As ridiculous as it is, Lucas can almost feel it.

Stop. He wouldn’t be kissing her at all if he wanted to kiss you. You knew to expect this. Why would he want you?

Lucas has no answer to his thoughts other than the emotions swirling in his chest. The ache from where his feelings had crumbled to dust seems to have inflamed, as if struck by a match. Smoking, not quite managing to set him alight, and still, he has never felt anything like it.

The music cutting off is the only thing that snaps him out of it, and then the lights lift, and he realises Jens has looked away, glancing around in confusion with the rest of the crowd. Senne—who Lucas hadn’t even gotten to greet tonight but who he’d met at his first party here, along with Zoë—clambers onto a chair at the front of the room and claps his hands.

“Cops are at the end of the street, we’re clearing out. Anyone with something to hide needs to go now.”

Fuck.

Lucas casts around in search of his friends, but there are too many people moving around for him to see much. When he looks, however, he can tell that Jens has disappeared. Zoë has taken his place, and is already collecting her things with Jana.

Noor grabs his arm and reclaims his attention. “Do you have anything?”

He shakes his head. “Who did you come with?”

“No one, but I’m fine, my bike’s just down the street. I’ll be gone in seconds.”

He hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she rolls her eyes, but she pulls him down to plant a kiss on his cheek. “It was lovely meeting you, Lucas. Don’t forget what I said, okay?”

He nods, but she’s already slipping through the crowd and disappearing. Lucas begins to follow, moving with the others in hopes of finding someone, and he merges into the hallway at the same time as Robbe, who is collecting his things from the corner. He catches sight of Lucas and smiles, making his way to him quickly and latching onto his arm. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, but do you have the stuff?”

Robbe’s eyes widen slowly. “Fuck. Jens.”

Lucas knew it. He closes his eyes briefly and then takes a hold of Robbe, pulling him down the hallway with him. They look ridiculous, he’s sure, a prince and a zombie slinking through the currents of people, but there’s a new purpose filling him now.

#van der stoffels #vds #wtfock #skam nl #sink or swim #vds season fic #sos clip

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insomniac-jay · 3 years

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Redoing My Remastered THH Girls Redesigns

I needed to fix them bc they were so ugly. I might do a redesign series of if I to keep the high school aesthetic.

Reblogs > Likes

I wanted to give her both detective and spy vibes bc I think she’s great with both.

She has shorter hair but I kept the braid. Her canon jacket now becomes a trenchcoat with large gold buttons and purple belt, sleeveless black catsuit, white long sleeve undershirt, and her purple boots bc I like them. Her coat has a high collar and the symbol of the Kirigiri Detective Agency on her lapel. The catsuit has a zipper on it so she can easily take it off whenever she wishes. She keeps her gloves but they’re longer. She also wears cat-eye glasses and a chain on her belt.

Sayaka Maizono

I WILL get her right this time. I decided to do mostly idol but with some hints of y2k in there bc I’m still not over y2k Sayaka. I also took some inspo from Toastie’s redesign of Sayaka and the comeback outfits of the idol group Oh My Girls.

She wears a light blue headband with a big pink bow on it, white blouse with frills on the sleeves and collar, dark blue tie, light blue button up tube top, asymmetrical plaid pink pleated skirt with three small belts that connect to a plain white skirt, dark blue kitty socks, and holographic heels. She also wears music note earrings.

Celestia Ludenberg

I wanted to go for a bit of a Queen of Hearts aesthetic for this one. I was also inspired by an artist on Instagram who gave Celeste a skirt resembling a Roulette table (if anyone can tell me the artist’s name that would be nice).

I have two main fashion hcs for Celeste: Gothic lolita and Y2k so I’m gonna try and combine those. She wears a black mesh shirt, black lolita style off shoulder dress with short puffed sleeves and red lining, the skirt is in the shape of a Roulette table, light red petticoat with different card suits underneath, black stockings, and her heels from canon. I decided to give her jewelry that reflects her desire to be royal and her talent of gambling.

Aoi Asahina

I want them to look like a swimmer.

I gave them curly hair, freckles, bean eyebrows, and brown eyes bc I say so. She wears a pair of teal goggles, light pink swimsuit with a donut on it, ocean blue shorts with mermaid scales, and a pair of baby blue Crocs with charms on it. She also wears a cute mermaid hairclip.

Chihiro Fujisaki

I put her hair in pigtails and made her chubbier bc I want that for her. She also has freckles and bean eyebrows and braces.

Chihiro wears a light green tweed hoodie with programming and coding pins and the collar from her canon outfit, white dress shirt, brown sweater vest, and a pair of cute pajama pants. She also wears light green Crocs with charms.

Toko Fukawa

I wanted to give them a mix of nerdy and dark academia at the same time as well as took inspo from her beta design. I got rid of the braids bc they’re ugly and replaced them with a bun.

She wears a dark purple blazer with white lining, white dress shirt, coral turtleneck, dark purple skirt with a slit bc it’s Toko, knee high socks with garterbelts, and black dress shoes.

Sakura Oogami

Queen I’m so sorry I haven’t done you justice in the past. This time I will.

She wears a red sports bra with a trans pride flag and floral designs on it, pink sweatpants, a cute bunny hoodie, and some boxing shoes. I decided to tie her hair up bc it’s gonna get in the way of your fighting, queen.

Mukuro Ikusaba

He wears a green tank top, black long sleeve shirt, camo vest, baggy black pants, and combat boots. He also wears a dog tag necklace and a black jacket as well as carries a sniper in a case on his back.

Junko Enoshima

She wears a big red fur coat, monochrome spaghetti strap crop top with monochrome lacing, red pencil skirt, fishnet stockings, and red pumps. A pair of red heart-shaped sunglasses rest atop its head and she walks around with a little Monokuma cane for extra flair.

#danganronpa redesign #kyoko kirigiri #sayaka maizono #celestia ludenberg #aoi asahina #chihiro fujisaki #toko fukawa #sakura oogami #mukuro ikusaba #junko enoshima #danganronpa trigger happy havoc

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sylvie-writes · 4 years

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Getting Ready

I’m sorry for my train of Sarah posts.

Summary: Tony invites (y/n), Steve, and Sarah to the party that takes place during Age of Ultron.

Warnings: none. author’s misconception of a shirt. grammar mistakes.

Um so I’m gonna make this two parts because I can’t finish the whole story today but i’d still like to get it out today. *whew*

Part Two: Are You Worthy?

A/n: the real question... is it a button up or button down...

Steve leaned against the bedroom door frame, caching the sweet moment unfolding in front of him. His two favorite girls in the world were involved in the most adorable conversation he had ever seen.

“I’ll be right back, pumpkin!” Sarah was sitting on your side of the bed, as you bopped her nose before venturing off to the walk in closet. All the clothes were orderly and tidy on both sides. Your work uniforms and resplendent dresses were neatly hanged on black velvet hangers while your casual clothes were adroitly folded and stored on the small, overhead wire shelf. Steve’s side of the closet was organized just as well. The suit was folded in a garment bag, resting on his shelf while rows of button ups and slacks also hung on black velvet hangers, a gift courtesy of Pepper when you both got married years ago.

There was no need to rummage through your closet, for your options were all pleasantly presented before you. Tonight, Tony was hosting an extravagant party, inviting hundreds of people to the compound, shield agents mostly. Normally, you and Steve wouldn’t take Sarah to the parties, but Tony insisted that this one time she should come, claiming that he ordered chocolate covered strawberries just for her. Your daughter absolutely loved strawberries, ever since she was a baby, they were her go-to snack. Now, throw in chocolate into the mix, she was gonna be ecstatic.

This morning, Nat had texted you a picture of her outfit. She was gonna wear a simple, yet elegant black dress that really complimented her striking red hair. That woman could pull off anything, she could make a potato sack look good. Not wanting to duplicate the look, you opted for two other dresses.

The first dress you had in hand was a white lace sheath dress you had worn to a lavish dinner date with Steve last year. Your other choice was a blush midi dress with a v-back foldover collar, one you wore a few years back at a friend’s baby shower. The two options had yet to be seen by any of the other team members, saving you money and time. After all, they both were practically new, no wear and tear or worn out seams.

You walked out of the closet after a good ten minutes of handpicking different choices till settling on the dresses in hand. Sarah was now cuddling with the knot blanket, leaning up against the headboard playing a game on Steve’s phone. The said man was sitting beside Sarah apparently coaching her through the game

“Hi babes, I need both of your opinions.”

Sarah shot a bright grin at you, enthusiastically gesticulating her willingness to help. Steve winked at you with his enchanting blue eyes. Ever the gentleman, he got up from the bed, walking towards you to hold the dresses.

“What are you wearing, honey?” Steve pointed to the dresser, a dark prussian blue button down and black slacks, tidily folded and resting on the wood top. Your pupils virtually grew into dilated hearts, picturing Steve in the lovely attire. The visionary must’ve been obvious as the man you were dreaming about, casually smirked at you, the heat instantly flooding your face. You swallowed harshly, trying to get your scattered brain back in order. How he still managed to get that effect from you was beyond your understanding. While Sarah looked out the window, bored, you cut your eyes at Steve, standing beside you with your dresses laying over his arm.

“Anyway, Sarah what do you think I should wear?” Her head whipped from the window, her disinterest now replaced with attentiveness. Steve held up the dress, allowing Sarah to see them fully. She scooted to the edge of the bed, laying on her stomach and holding her delightful little face with her hands.

“You always look pretty, Mommy! But I really like the pink one!” With her left hand, she excitedly shot out her finger in the direction of the dress. You took the dress from Steve and walked towards the closet that had a floor length mirror hanging on the wall between yours and Steve’s sides. The dress that Sarah had picked was actually the one you secretly hoped she would choose. Great sense of style, just like her mother.

Once in the closet, you slipped off your loungewear and into the dress, unable to reach the zipper when Steve walked in. Your husband was always there when you needed him, literally. He’d show up coincidentally at the times you need his assistance, now being one of those times.

“Need some help?” Looking in the mirror, your eyes met with Steve’s playful ones and you smiled at his offer of help. He most definitely must've seen you struggling seconds ago. One of Steve’s large hands held at your waist where the zipper started, and the other hand on the actual zipper, slowly sliding it up your back. You looked in the mirror to see Steve smiling at you adoringly. He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing your cheek.

“You look beautiful as always, doll.” As Steve’s arms were still around your waist, so you brought your hands to rest them on his forearms, leaning back in his embrace.

A minute passed and suddenly you felt something tap your leg. You and Steve both opened your eyes and looked down to see Sarah, sweetly and patiently waiting for her parents.

“Mommy! You look so butifil! Getting down on your knees, you picked up Sarah, then turning to face Steve.

“Don’t you think little Miss Sarah should pick out my shoes too?”

Sarah’s face visibly lit up and she clapped her hands happily.

“I think so, mama!” The little girl let out a squeal and you let Sarah down from your hold, turning her to your shoe rack. Heels, flats, sneakers, boots, and summer shoes all separated in uniform order.

Sarah scanned over the many overwhelming options until she reached for a pair of grey, strappy, closed-toe stilettos.

“These look amazing, baby! Thanks!” You took the heels from Sarah’s hands and quickly brought them to the drop zone by the door, and changed back while Steve got Sarah’s outfit picked out. By time you came to her room, Sarah apparently already had a dress in mind. Steve held up a ginger dress, frilled at the neck and sleeves. A small bow accenting the waist with three wooden buttons above. You came to take the dress from him with Sarah popping her head out from the bin of shoes, mini rose gold flats in her hand.

“Mommy, Daddy, does this look pretty?” You truthfully answered her question, a proud smile growing on her face at her parent’s approval. Steve left to get showered first while you bathed Sarah. The Rogers household always had a routine for events like these. Steve would shower first while you bathed Sarah. Once he was finished getting ready, which was normally pretty quick, you’d trade places. Steve would dry Sarah’s hair while you showered and did your own hair and makeup, not really going all out and extreme for the makeup look.

Steve and Sarah came into the bedroom to check on you. When they walked in, you were already dressed and ready to go, just like them. Standing in front of the dresser, you put on your wedding ring and some earrings.

“Mommy?” You looked to your right to find Sarah now at your side.

“Yes, babe?”

“Can I wear a necklace?” Sarah didn’t have her ears pierced, that was something you and Steve decided she could choose when she gets older. You smiled at your daughters eagerness to dress like her mother. It was adorable.

Opening up the small wooden jewelry box, you sifted through it and to the bottom, finding a small velvet box. You took the box, unlatching the lid, a mini pear shaped opal kindly twinkled at you. Steve had come up behind your back, hands on your waist once again, as he looked over your shoulder at the box he knew very well.

“Sarah, Daddy gave me this necklace ten years ago, please be careful with it, honey.” You slipped the necklace on her, securing the clasp tightly and turning her back to face you and Steve. Her face was showered in a serious look. Using her big girl voice, she made a promise to you and Steve, gazing into your eyes.

“I promise, I will take care of this.” It was hard to not giggle at her seriousness, a cute sight to say the least.

Her usual smile returned and all goofiness with it. You had left them, for they headed to the front door while you went to grab your phone from the bathroom, returning just in time for the cuteness that would ensue. Sarah quizzically stared at Steve, who was a little confused but then reassured when the girl started smiling again.

“Daddy looks like Prince Charming!” Her statement, adorable, but very true.

Steve squatted down to Sarah’s level, looking up at you.

“And Mommy’s as pretty as Cinderella then?”

The girl swiftly bobbed her head, blonde hair flying around, and then watching as her father got up to get the heels from your hands. A way he’d show his precious and darling wife his affection, using your daughter’s sweet notion as his excuse.

“May I?” Your husband’s hand rested on the heels, asking for permission to which you sheepishly smiled. Smoothing out your dress, you sat on the mudroom bench, Steve taking your left leg in hand. Sarah stood behind him, a large cheesy grin on her face, as she daydreamed of the princess’s glass slipper. Too caught up in her own world, Steve gently picked up your foot, pressing a kiss to the top before slipping it in the shoe. A small giggle left your mouth from the kiss you had just received. Your right foot also obtaining the same luxury as the left. When your heels were slipped on, Steve helped you up from the bench, knocking Sarah from her day dream. She looked down to see your shoes on and gleefully announced her observance.

“Just like Cinderella and the Prince, Mommy!”

Sarah was absolutely beside herself, clearly pleased that her parents just reenacted a scene from her favorite movie.

“Just like Cinderella and the Prince.” Steve picked up Sarah, holding her in one arm and reaching for your hand with his other one, leading you all out of the apartment and to the car.

To be continued…

Till then, if you love seeing Sarah, check out Days of the Week, Mon Cheri, and Gone. All of which are on my masterlist!

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #chris evans

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dearlazerbunny · 5 years

Text

If/When/Then

Pairings: Kyoya Ootori x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Five Times trope; G, mentions of severe anxiety

Words: 4200

Summary: Or, five times Kyoya didn’t kiss you (and the one time he did)

WARNING: the last bit gets a little angsty

One

“Kyoya. I swear to god. Can we please just-” you rub your eyes exhaustedly, trying to get the harsh blue glow of your laptop out from under your eyelids- “take a break? Or better yet, call it a night?”

The boy sitting across from you on the sofa glances up, his work reflected in his glasses. “How many words do you have?”

“Kyoyaaaaaaaa-”

“Y/N. How many words?” His tone is partially amused but mostly paternal, like he’s asking a small child how many candies they snuck before dinner. If you weren’t so brain dead it’d piss you off, but as it is you’re mostly just petulant.

“Um… three thousand and… something?”

A slender finger pushes his glasses further up his nose. “And the minimum word count is…?”

“You damn well know,” you mumble, before letting your head drop into your hands. One of your elbows is resting on your keyboard, leaving a long trail of jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjs across your half-finished essay.

“What was that?” A socked foot aims a kick at his shin, but your aim goes wide and he dodges it easily. “I believe the answer is six thousand.”

You give a long, heartfelt groan.

Kyoya sighs. He can easily knock out an essay in under an hour, while you require a little more effort- and a lot more bribery. Even if English is one of your best subjects, he knows sitting here for the past few hours laboring over a boring political comparison has to be dragging on you. And he’s been too caught up in his own work to even try to keep your spirits up- something he’s now regretting, seeing the usual sparkle in your eye dull to something uncharacteristically quiet.

“Here.” He reaches over the edge of his perch and feels for the basket of blankets he knows will be sitting there- his sister has a fondness for being wrapped in a minimum of three layers at all times. Carefully, as so not to disturb his own precious computer, he reaches over and drapes a loose-knit woolen beauty over your lap. He even takes a second to tuck the ends over your toes. You watch, fascinated, so used to his fingers tapping out mile-a-minute documents in a harsh staccato that this moment of softness seems unreal. Maybe you’ve already fallen asleep and are dreaming, or it’s a particularly nice sort of 2AM hallucination. Kyoya notices you staring- of course he does, he notices far too much about you nowadays to try and convince himself he only values you as a friend- and very pointedly looks anywhere but your gaze. He’s not sure he could look away if he caught your eye now, hazy with sleep and reflecting starlight from the nearby open window. “Better?”

“Um- yeah.” You settle a little further into the cushions. “Thanks.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Of course, when he glances over at you not ten minutes later, you’re fast asleep, laptop precariously close to toppling to the floor. He rescues it and saves your work before shutting it down. There’s a slight smile on your face as you dream, and the overwhelming urge to lean over and press a kiss to your forehead makes Kyoya stop still.

His fixation on you has grown over the past few months, that much is clear, but he hadn’t predicted them to progress this quickly this fast. He has his grades to maintain, a club to run, and a company to prepare for. He shouldn’t have time for silly distractions, like categorizing exactly how peaceful you look curled up next to him, or reaching out and brushing a piece of hair out of your eyes.

He shouldn’t. And yet, he does- he always will, for you.

Two

“Remind me again who said this was a good idea?” You squint your eyes as you turn your face towards the sky, which is lit by a brilliant sun. The Host Club is hosting on location this time- a beautiful stretch of beach peppered by towels, umbrellas, waiters offering fruity drinks, and a couple hundred squealing girls. You know. Relaxing. “I think I might like to punch them.”

“You might talk to Mori about a healthy and productive way to manage your rampant anger issues.” You snort and roll your eyes, which in turn makes the corner of Kyoya’s mouth tick up. He’s under an umbrella nearby, neatly marking down figures on his notepad. “Besides, I thought you liked the water.”

“I do, when it’s not so…” you gesture to the gaggle of twenty or so girls nearby, all primping and twisting in their bikinis to hopefully catch the eye of their favorite host- “crowded.”

“Ah.” He can sympathize with that. The smell of salt and brine takes him back to childhood, with the two of you making castles in the sand and pestering the other with seashell-finding competitions. Beach days were lazy days when your parents couldn’t be bothered to have either of you in the house, but to the two of you they were worth their weight in gold. Today, as he watches you stretch into the heat, his childhood friend is overshone by the you of here and now. You’re gorgeous in a simple one piece more stunning than any of the frills the other guests are wearing and hair in a sea-woven braid dangling down your back. Likewise, the Kyoya of here and now is having some thoughts that his five-year-old self have would never even dreamt of.

“I’m going swimming. If I don’t come back in an hour, tell Tamaki it’s his fault for dragging us all out here.”

“Hm? Oh,” Kyoya clears his throat. “Yes, of course.”

You throw him a glance- is he acting strangely? You can’t quite tell; it might just be the heat- before jogging off towards the waves, well away from the party as a whole.

He watches you go, and thinks about going with you, before a guest trills his name and his attention is dragged back to where he doesn’t want it to be.

At the end of the day, the crowd has left, and the club gets a precious hour or so of pink sky and calm surf to themselves. Hikaru, Kaoru, and Haruhi are searching the shoreline for shells and sand dollars; Mori is hauling damp sand for Honey’s massive sand castle; and Tamaki surveys all of them like a proud father. You and Kyoya are sitting a little away, just close enough to the water to let it kiss your toes. “This is more what I remember,” you murmur, a smile on your face, and Kyoya digs his fingers into the sand so they don’t accidentally wind their way around yours like they want to.

“Oh, here.” You pluck your friend’s glasses from his face and use the towel draped loosely over your shoulders to wipe the lenses. When you hand them back, Kyoya has a bit of a stunned expression on his face, making you giggle. “Sorry. They had salt on them. Seemed like it would annoy you.”

“Indeed,” is what he says, willing his tone to be nonchalant or at least neutral. What he wants to say is, do you remember when we were eleven, and you tried the same thing? You ended up getting knocked over by a wave and lost them in the ocean. I was so mad at you, but I still had to hold your hand on the way home so I wouldn’t fall. You didn’t let me trip. Not once.

If he were a braver, bolder, better person, he’d kiss you right now, and see how you taste like salt and sunshine and memories. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t- he lets the Hitachiin twins, who are sneaking up behind you, douse you in water instead. He lets you shriek at them and take chase, threatening to drown them both, breaking the moment and leaving him sitting by the sea alone to remember what was and what might be.

Three

It’s safe to assume that Valentine’s Day is never a dull affair in Music Room 3.

Everything is decorated with lace and delicate crystal trimmings; the roses are even more bountiful and in every color the human eye can see. The attire is more formal than usual, the cheeks rosier and the lips pinker, and it tends to be the one day when the hosts receive more than give.

Each of their tables is piled high with gifts, cards, baked goods swirled with elaborate frostings. Even though Tamaki keeps insisting that the girls should be the ones receiving sweet nothings, not the hosts, you can tell he’s more than pleased by the growing mound of sentiments slowly dwarfing the other boys’. As it should be, Kyoya supposes.

Honey’s haul is mostly sweets, naturally, and this year Mori also has a surprising armload- apparently one of the only times his admirers hear him speak is when he says ‘thank you’, leading to multiple gifts just so they can hear his voice more than once. Hikaru and Kaoru’s combined mountain looks more like a dragon’s treasure horde than a pile of presents. Haruhi adamantly refused everything until one guest brought her a particularly excellent platter of fish, based on the way she’s been sitting in the corner with her cheeks stuffed for the last twenty minutes.

Kyoya notes all of this with a vague smile, adjusting his calculations and trajectories for the next few months to match the turnout. Valentine’s Day is one holiday he can generally sit out. Sure, there’s a small stack of cards and remember-me’s on the sofa next to him, but his persona as the analytical and aloof host tends to leave him further down in the ranks than the other boys. Which is just fine with him, if he’s being honest- he has manners, but being constantly charming is tiring at best and egregiously aggravating at worst.

“Mother Dearest, it appears you have another card to add to your beautiful collection!” Tamaki flounces over in his wine-colored suit, at least thirty guests in pursuit. “It doesn’t come with a giver, unfortunately- oh! Perhaps you have a secret admireeeeeer!” He wiggles his fingers excitedly and hands over the card with a flourish. “How exciting! A mystery for Valentine’s Day!” His groupies sigh and fan their faces, overcome with the romance and intrigue of it all.

“Thank you, Tamaki,” Kyoya says drily, nimbly plucking the proffered gift from the boy’s fingers. “Please, don’t ignore your guests on my account.”

“I would never! Each and every one of my princesses mean the world to me!” As he and his followers fade back to the other side of the room, Kyoya props his glasses back up on his nose and curiously slides his thumb under the flap of the envelope. It’s a plain white paper, not embellished with hearts or gemstones or ribbon or any of the other garish decorations usually attached to such a thing. The card is similarly simplistic, with only a pencil-sketched heart on the outside and a greeting that reads, “To My Favorite Host.”

Interesting. Perhaps there’s a mystery here after all. He flips it open, not sure what to expect- and immediately has to keep himself from laughing outright. Inside is a crude sketch of two stick figures- one has comically large glasses drawn on its blank face to helpfully distinguish itself as the Kyoya of the pair- and note in chicken scratch: You’re such an asshole, but I guess I love you anyways.

Only one person could be responsible for such a thing. After all, you were never renowned for your artistic talents.

…

“I got your… note.”

You don’t look up from the book you’re paging through out in the courtyard underneath a spectacular old tree. The leaves frame you beautifully against the afternoon sky. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm. I found the art particularly museum worthy.”

Now you smile a bit. “Well, you’re a museum worthy sorta guy.”

“Favorite host is quite the compliment.” He’s getting dangerously close to… something; toeing a line he hasn’t touched before, and it’s making his heart race.

“Don’t get too cocky. Mori’s still got like, an eight-pack.”

Kyoya sits beside you, careful to leave several tree roots between you and him. “Why a valentine? I see you every day; you could have just told me yourself.”

“I dunno.” He fixes you with a look, one that says sure, I believe you. You give a halfhearted shrug, shoulder almost brushing Kyoya’s. “I went by the music room. Everyone else had, like, mountains of stuff and I just… felt like you were under-appreciated, that’s all.”

“I see.” A beat passes with nothing but the wind ruffling your hair. “That’s… kind of you.”

Now you do close the gap between the two of you, nudging your knee against his. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Four

Your laugh, Kyoya thinks, is the best thing he’s ever heard.

You’re draped over the edge of his bed, head towards the floor, giggling wildly to yourself as you mutter an inside joke that only make sense to you. Your cheeks are flushed, and the bottle of alcohol you snuck into Kyoya’s room is sitting a few feet away, half full. He’s had a few sips, but he isn’t much for relinquishing his mental faculties so easily. It’s tempting, though, what with you so lazily tapping his shoulder or nudging his side to get his attention- it’d be so easy to demolish all his carefully crafted walls and drown in you.

But someone has to be the responsible one- and if he’s honest with himself, the thought of you or he regretting what happened in the dead of night come light of day makes him sick to his stomach. So he sits primly against his headboard, the computer on his lap a boulder pinning him to his spot, only glancing at you every so often to make sure you haven’t tumbled off the bed completely, despite your absolutely intoxicating mood coaxing him closer and closer to throwing caution to the wind.

“-and you’re just… you’re just a good person,” you continue, meandering through your thoughts. “Like, seriously. Why do you have to be so amazing. It’s so goddamn annoying.”

He desperately hopes you’re too out of it to notice the reddening of his own cheeks. “I am hardly what anyone would call ‘good.’”

“Lies! Lies. And. Slander.” You emphasize every word with a poke to various parts of his body- his big toe, his elbow, his knee. “Like- okay. What are you working on right now?”

In actuality he’s browsing through the Ootori Group’s latest research and development journals, evaluating their recent findings and sifting the unimportant from the extraordinary. But you’re most likely far too gone to actually understand any of that, so instead he just generalizes: “refining new data from the company.”

“Yeah! You wanna be a fucking doctor, that’s like- that’s amazing!”

Kyoya quirks an eyebrow. “You do realize my entire family is in the medical profession.”

“No, your entire family throws their money at the medical profession.” You wave a finger in the air like a drunk scientist hypothesizing their theories. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No, listen you jerk!” You haul yourself up and place yourself face-to-face with your best friend, close enough that Kyoya can see the intensity in your eyes. “It’s one thing to pay for shit, it’s another to actually be in the room when someone is having a heart attack and wanting to save their life. You care. More than anyone I know. And that makes you amazing.” You let out a rush of air, the sudden verve in your words having worn you out. “I dunno. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense. Whatever. I’m gonna lay down.” You curl up next to his knee and half heartedly arrange a blanket around your legs before falling asleep.

Meanwhile, Kyoya’s gaze has never left your face. The words may have been spoken by a loose tongue, but anyone could hear the honesty in your voice and see the passion in your eyes. You really think that much of him? Or rather, could you possibly think as much of him as he does of you?

He wishes he could shake you awake and ask you to elaborate. He wishes he could tell you that if he’s amazing, you’re a supernova. He wishes he could get drunk and fall asleep next to you while pressing lazy kisses anywhere he can reach.

His reaches for the bottle, but his fingers barely brush the glass before changing course and clicking off the lamp instead.

Five

God, I hate these things, you think to yourself as you tug on the straps of your dress. You’re not quite sure if you’re referring to the pins sticking your scalp, the uncomfortable formal gown you’re squeezed into, or the entire event in general- actually, it’s most likely all of the above. As much as you love Kyoya and the rest of the boys, you adamantly refuse to attend any of their grand balls. You’re not a fussy person, so the general pompous air of the things always gives you a headache, and you hate wearing dresses anyways. But today you zipped yourself into a slinky black sheath number that’s long enough to hide tennis shoes under the hem, forced your hair into something presentable, and even threw on a little mascara.

Because of Kyoya.

Kyoya, who mentioned in passing that this was the best celebration he’d ever planned, and seemed extremely proud of it to boot. Kyoya, who always grumbles as he slips on his suit, wishing he could spend the night with his charts and figures instead. Kyoya, who always returns to school the next day more stressed than usual, a tight smile plastered on his face as he fends off hordes of fangirls.

The things you do for this boy.

It’s immediately clear when you arrive that you stand out in your ebony gown, a wisp of smoke and night sky amongst a sea of flouncy pastels. Luckily, each of the boys steps up to greet you- a sweet hug from Honey, carefully avoiding wrinkling your dress; good natured teasing from the twins; a particularly extravagant complimentary poem from Tamaki. Eventually you meet Haruhi at the table laden with food, grateful for someone down to earth to laugh with.

After an hour, you’re almost convinced Kyoya finally worked up the nerve to skip the event altogether when there’s a delicate gap on your shoulder. “Would you care for a dance?”

“No,” you say, because that’s what you always say when Kyoya asks you to do something (even if he knows you’ll do it anyways). He smiles and takes your elbow, ignoring the whispers and glares from the other guests- who is she? What makes her so special? Everything, he wishes he could tell them. So many things he it would take him years to count them all.

“I thought you hated these things,” he says when you’re safely tucked in his arms on the dance floor. The fabric of your dress shimmers softly, as though marking you as something uniquely precious amongst all the other attendees.

“I do,” you reply. You’re slowly taking his lead, following the waltz music played by a six-piece orchestra. “But I think you hate them more, so I figured if anything I could help put you out of your misery.”

“Hm. Poisoned boutonnière, perhaps?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiding up in the rafters with a blowdart gun.”

Kyoya chuckles, sweeping you along. You’re not a bad dancer, all things considered. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness, though that might be difficult given your choice of attire.”

You grin at him playfully, raising your hem up just enough so he can see your battered old sneakers on your feet. “Nah, I always come prepared.”

It’s such an odd juxtaposition- this beautiful girl in the sinful dress accessorizing with sharpie-covered shoes that are peeling rubber- he can’t help but laugh, a real laugh, perhaps the first one he’s given since the night began. Even out of your element, you still maintain something that is so quintessentially you. He wishes he could tell you how beautiful you look. He wishes he could nudge your sneaker with his dress shoe in a secret invitation to follow him somewhere quiet, to steal small fleeting moments that would make the whole night worth its while.

He thinks about this every time you scuff your feet, hearing the slight squeak of rubber against the polished tile floor.

And the beginning…

“Stop it, Kyoya,” you grit out through a clenched jaw, using all your strength to unfold your friend’s fingers from his bloody palms. His fingernails have dug so far into the skin they’ve left bright red crescent moons dotting his hands. You focus on those, trying to soothe the sting with the fabric of your shirt, because if you look at his face and the tears crawling down his cheeks you’ll start crying too, and that’s not what either of you need right now. “Just talk to me. Please.”

No response. He’s trembling as though there’s a blizzard only he can feel, so you sit him on your bed and wrap him in every blanket you have, leaving his hands free so he can clutch at yours like a lifeline. “Just focus on me, okay? Everything is fine.” You try to keep your voice steady as you murmur anything reassuring you can think of, trying to coax life back into his eyes. You knew his anxiety had gotten worse, but this… this is the most catastrophic yet. You sit cross legged in front of him, so close your knees brush his, and hold onto his fingers for dear life. “Keep breathing. I’m here. It’s all okay.” Please please please come back to me. Come on, Kyoya. Don’t let the demons win.

Slowly, piece by piece, something in him seems to uncoil. His grip lessens just a little, and his breathing becomes audible enough to reassure you he’s still with you. Gently, you put a hand to his forehead, then cheek, testing his temperature. “Hey. You with me?”

Something like a sob escapes his lips, thin and heartbroken. Your own shatters along with it. In an instant you have him in a hug, arms as tight around him as you can possibly manage. Kyoya tucks his head into the crook of your neck, practically collapsing on top of you until you aren’t sure where he stops and you start. He says your name over and over and over again, a hymn only he can hear. You press your lips to his temple just to reassure yourself he hasn’t left you and let him cry; only able to offer comfort in presence and spirit. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you hold him tighter.

“I’m always here. You know that.”

He sniffs and wipes away a tear with the heel of his hand, wincing when the salt burns his cuts. “Idiotic. I apologize for… all of this.”

“Stop,” you say firmly. You bring his eyes up to meet yours, so he can see the fire in your gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. Ever. Okay?”

Kyoya stares back at you, feeling small and worthless against the monsters in his own brain. Every second spent with you banishes them a little farther back into his mind, loosening the vises wrapping his chest and letting him breathe a little easier. It has almost consumed him today, so he ran to the only safe place he knows- you. And you had held him and wiped his tears and not for a single second judged him for falling apart.

It occurs to him you are one of the few people on earth who see him for who he truly is, and will still hold his hands anyways.

Ever so gently, he presses his lips to yours- soft, tentative, and barely there. It’s a thank you, and offering, and a question all at once. It’s not the grand romantic gestures he’s planned late at night, wanting to sweep you off your feet in a shower of confidence and joy, or even really a conscious decision- it’s instinct, want, and something like bittersweet love.

You blink at him, eyes wide. “Kyoya… I-”

He stills. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, bringing a hand up to press your fingers against his cheekbone. “Don’t ever be sorry,” you say again, and then you kiss him back. You kiss him like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do; like you’re saying to him what took you so long, you idiot?

He doesn’t know. But he won’t ever make that mistake again. He’ll kiss you every day for as long as he lives to make up for all that lost time, all those late nights and seaside musings and dances with a hand on the small of your back.

When the sun rises, it illuminates a world of a thousand new possibilities.

#Kyoya Ootori #kyoya x reader #Kyoya x you #ohshc kyoya #reader insert #ohshc fic #ohshc fanfiction #ohshc angst #ohshc fluff #kyoya ootori angst #kyoya ootori fluff #kyoya imagines #kyoya ootori imagines #ohshc imagines

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gemstoneconstellations · 5 years

Text

Escape Artist Cat

Summary: Your cat made a secret friend who likes to put ugly bows on her and you don't appreciate it.

Wordcount: 1595

“Kuiper! I’m home!” You shout for your beautiful fur baby as you hastily throw off your work shoes. Within seconds you are greeted by a string of meows. Your small, slim black cat is now weaving her body between your legs, purring and meowing for you to hold her.

You bend down and pick up the needy kitty, holding her like a human infant. “Hello my princess! I missed you so much- seriously!? Again!?” You groan as you catch sight of the dark purple frilly ribbon on her neck. This morning she had been wearing a simple bright yellow ribbon with a bell. You don’t even have to look to know that the ribbon was now in your mailbox.

“How? How are you getting out and who is changing your ribbons without my permission?” You hold the sleek kitty out in front of your face, staring into her gold-green eyes. Kuiper just meowed at you, pawing at your skin. You sigh and place her on the floor. She rushed to the kitchen, looking at you expectantly. “Okay, okay princess. Dinner first, then I’m changing your ribbon back.”

You lounged on your couch, watching the hero news as you pet your sleeping kitty, who was now wearing a light pink collar. She rolled onto her back, showing off her belly; you noticed that it seemed to be rounder. “Someone needs to go on a diet.” You giggle as you scratched her under the chin. Someone must be feeding her as well. Your eyes wander to the box that sat on your coffee table; it was slowly becoming full of purple ribbons and the sight of it irritated you.

You have nothing against the color purple. Any color looks good on your lovely Kuiper, but that’s just it. It’s your Kuiper, you furry cat baby, and someone is taking off the ribbons you put on her to replace them with their own. It was annoying. Plus, you like putting bright colors on her; it made it easier for you to spot her in the dark so you don’t accidentally step on her. But this is getting ridiculous. You need it to stop.

The next day before you leave, you pin a small note to Kuiper’s collar, warning the offender to stop changing the ribbons you selected for your princess for the day. There; hopefully they respect your wishes. “Bye Kuiper, be good.”

Shinso dropped his tired body onto his plush bed. Working as an underground hero is extremely exhausting. On top of already having a hard time sleeping, Shinso felt completely drained. He looked at the clock to see that it was four a.m.; he let out a loud groan. Luckily he doesn’t have to go back in till later that night, but still. Shinso wrapped his blankets tightly around himself, willing sleep to take over.

A few hours later, he felt something fluffy covering his mouth. He grabs at the fur wrapped around his face; Shinso opens his eyes as he hears the familiar meow of his neighbor’s cat. “You know you should really stop sneaking out to suffocate me every day.” The cat just meowed at him, kneading at his toned chest as she purred.

Letting the cat go to curl up on his chest, he looks over at the clock to see that it was barely nine a.m. “I’m going to sleep some more. Mind keeping me company, pretty girl?” The cat didn’t even look at him, seeming to have already fallen asleep. Shinso hums, closing his eyes again and stroking the warm fur ball on his chest.

His neighbor’s cat somehow sneaking out to hang with Shinso during the day has been a reoccurring thing for weeks now. She always leaves before her owner comes home. It kind of felt like the cat was using him as a heated bed and belly scratcher during the day when her owner is away. He didn’t mind though; he loves cats and is happy to have a napping buddy. Plus it’s fun changing the cat’s collar; he could hear his neighbor’s frustrated groan sometimes. He could hear them question the cat about the collar or how she was getting out like she could answer back. Though, Shinso did also wonder how she keeps getting into his apartment.

His hands freeze when he feels something crinkle under his fingertips. Shinso opens his eyes to see a note attached the light pink collar. Careful not to awake the kitten, he takes the paper and opens it before snorting into his hand.

Please leave her ribbons alone. I like the ones she is already wearing, thank you very much. Also, ease up on the snacks; my slim kitty is turning into a bowling ball. Oh yeah, he is so buying the biggest bow he can find… after a few more hours of sleep.

“Oh my god… it looks like you won first prize at a state fair!” You hold up your cat to look at the gaudiest bow yet. There were multiple neon colors, frill, and it was the size of her head! Where do they even find something like this? “Whoever you are, Ribbon Fiend, you have god-awful taste!”

You struggle to get the ugly thing off. Kuiper meowed persistently, done with being held and wanting her dinner. You finally got it off and she jumped away from you to sit in front of her bowl. “Okay, okay. You are so bratty.”

Once the fur ball was purring happily at your feet with a full belly, you picked up the ugly bow and was about to throw it away when you saw a small scrap of line paper stapled to it. Nah. Really?

“Who the fuck just writes ‘nah’ after I wrote a paragraph! No, no nah! Kuiper, show me where you are escaping! You are grounded! I don’t like the crowd you are hanging with!”

Kuiper ignored you, choosing to groom herself before meowing at you. “Don’t talk back to me! I don’t remember raising you like this! Bad furry baby!” Sick of your antics, your cat walked away from you to her cat tree for a nap.

You were still muttering to yourself about hating the word nah now, that you missed the laughing coming from next door.

After that, you would often get teasing notes attached to some of the ugliest bows. You asked them once where they even find them and the response made you giggle. Trying to spoil the furry baby by yourself by stealing my source? I think nah’ Okay, so you were starting to find these notes charming. Not sure how you feel with your cat becoming a carrier pigeon though.

“I still don’t get how she is getting out…” You were laying on your couch, Kuiper curled up on you your lap. Next door, you heard your neighbor’s door slam and Kuiper instantly got to her feet. “Kuiper?”

You watch as your cat ran as fast as she could to your room. Did something spook her? You followed her just in time to see her tail go under your bed. “Aw, Kuiper, what’s wrong?” On the floor now, you tried to squeeze under the bed. But there was no Kuiper in sight. You pushed clothes and boxes aside till you reached the wall… and the open air vent. “That’s how she’s been getting out…”

Peering into the vent, you try to see if you could grab your escape artist cat by whispering her name. A man’s voice spoke up in surprise, surprising you as well. It sounded like the man was in the room; the vents must be directly connected. “Gah! Why do you always jump on my face as soon as I get home? You are very pretty but your fur does not taste good.”

You couldn’t help giggling at the man’s distress. “That’s what you get for putting ugly ass bows on my cat. I’m coming for you, my bratty kitty.” Shimmying out from under your bed, you rushed out of your apartment to your next door neighbor. You’d never met him before so this should be interesting. You pressed the doorbell and waited.

The door slowly opened and you were face to face with a man’s bare toned muscular chest. Holy shit. Your face instantly went red and you forced yourself to meet the face that owned the toned chest. “H-hi.” Your eyes met dark purple eyes with just as dark eye bags underneath them. All that confidence you’d had earlier, vanished, poof, gone. “I… um, think you have… my cat?”

The man leaned against the door frame, his indigo hair swaying as he did. He crossed his arms and gave you smug smirk. “Nah.”

Your eye twitched at the sound of that word; as much as you hated that word it didn’t sound so bad coming from him directly. “Nah?”

“Yeah, at this point she’s pretty much our cat. Want to come in and discuss a custody agreement?” His grin widened as he motioned you inside. You could see Kuiper making herself right at home on his couch.

You looked back at him. Yup, still shirtless. You swallow down your nerves and take a step inside, repeating to yourself not to mention he was shirtless and that the ugly bow fiend was maybe kind of a little hot. “Shirt- I mean sure, sure.” Kuiper looked up at you, still wearing the cute pink ribbon you put on her this morning. “As long as we can agree on no more ugly bows.”

“Nah.”

#shinsou hitoshi #shinso hitoshi #shinsou x reader #shinso x reader #shinsou hitoshi x reader #fluff #cat #Kuiper is my real cat and the cute little shit likes to steal my bottle caps while im drinking and hides them

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thebeauregardbros · 3 years

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“The Ultimate Character Questionnaire”: Alus Beauregard

a fuckton of random questions abt alus ramblingly answered

questions stolen from [here]. i cut out ones that ask the same questions i accidentally answered prior, or just didn’t interest me enough to answer, so if you wanna do this for your own OC I recommend copy+pasting it from the source!

Basic Character Questions

First name? Alus (pronounced ‘Ah-Loose’)

Surname? Beauregard (taken from adoptive father)

Nicknames? Alus wants to be called “Al” but it doesn’t stick because his name is already short. Lots of people unfortunately call him Alice. he does not like that

Date of birth? unknown but he celebrates his birthday on All Saint’s Wake (aka Halloween)

Age? Funfact: Alus and Arc’s age is the age between the RPers’ real-world ages (I’m 24, Arc’s player is 25, but for a brief period Arc’s player becomes 26 while I’m still 24.) So they’re going to be 25 this year (2020)... what the fuck. stop growing. dont do that.

Physical / Appearance

Height? I... he’s tall. Despite Alus being the max height for Miqo’te characters (5′8″/173cm), other male Miqo’te RPers say their characters are taller than that anyway, so I’m like.. not sure what to answer. I don’t want to break reasonable canon of what’s possible for Miqo’te but I also don’t want him to be short or average sized in comparison to other average Miqo’te. I’m just gonna say, definitively, “Alus is tall for a Miqo’te”. If you have a tall Miqo, Alus is just as tall. Or half an inch taller. Take that as whatever you want. I’m tired.

Weight? I... don’t know? This question really doesn’t clarify anything to me; people can be the same height and weight and look totally different in body type. If you absolutely had to get an answer from me, my best guess is maybe somewhere between 170lbs-180lbs? (assuming he is 5′8″)

Build? Wide shoulders, slender hips, long legs, big wide chest and a nice strong core. He is muscular; burly and brawny; his body type feels intimidating and large. He has a healthy amount of fat over his muscles, but still has much clearly visible muscle especially while flexing.

Hair colour? Golden blonde; it’s got a subtle yellow-ish tone that reminds you of sunshine.

Hair style? Alus’ hair is naturally thick and wavy. His hair is grown out long; about armpit length. His hair is choppy, even somewhat feathered. It’s a bit badly damaged from years on the road, but the split ends and fly-aways sparkle brilliantly in the sunlight like a messy halo around his head. His hair naturally very poofy, like damaged 80s hair. Long bangs that were once pushed back fall gracefully over his face like a wild child running about in spring. Whilst resting away from work, he braids it loosely.

Eye colour? Heterochromia; A raspberry red in one pupil, and a sun-shiny yellow-orange in the other.

Eye Shape? Thin and serious, and slightly down-turned. Small double-lid.

Glasses or contact lenses? His eyes are overall pretty healthy, but he’s slightly far-sighted. He uses glasses once in awhile to read, but they’re not super necessary.

Distinguishing facial features? Heterochromia and his adult male Miqo’te markings. He tends to wear purple eyeshadow around his eyes and a subtle purple lip tint.

Which facial feature is most prominent? The facial structure of Alus more resembles an Elezen than a typical Miqo’te; he has a long slender nose, a oval face shape and noticeably high cheekbones.

Which bodily feature is most prominent? Alus’ lion-like tail is somewhat unique among other typical Miqo’te.

Other distinguishing features? His style of dress tends to stand out in a crowd; he favors pure white and soft pastels over more popular color tones among adventurers like blacks and greys. Also unlike the typical adventurer, he is more want to wear fabrics of the fancy and soft nobleman, decked out in frills and lace like a prince locked far away in a chamber more than any man on a dusty and bloody battlefield.

Skin? Uh... a... “medium tan” skintone? (again I have no idea how tf I’m supposed to figure out labels for skin tones when there’s no widely used phrases for specific tones fghdjkgh) with a “warm gold undertone”. The small amount of skin that’s ever exposed upon him is surprisingly soft, as if he never did much hard work in his life. [SPOILER]Underneath his clothes, however...The countless scars upon his torso, back, legs and upper-arms are rough and hard, like treated leather.[/SPOILER]

Birthmarks? Not that he knows of. He has lots of scars from messing around in his childhood but he can’t remember the origin of them all. Any of them could be birth marks as far as he can tell.

Tattoos? None! And he never plans to get one. He has yet to see any tattoos that match his personal aesthetics of what he’d put on his body yet and even if he did, he can’t imagine liking them enough to want to get one.

Physical handicaps? [SPOILER]Numbness in various small patches of skin throughout his body.[SPOILER]

Type of clothes? I already answered this somewhat but if you’re curious about specifics, I made [this pinterest] of stuff I’d imagine he’d wear. Pretty much just take the “aristocrat” Japanese street fashion genre and turn it white, and give it a bit of a gold trim. Lots of frills and lace; heavily inspired by fantastical shoujo manga glorified depictions of what a Prince Charming looks like in medieval setting fairy tales.

How do they wear their clothes? Some (not all) of the specific guidelines I have in my head of what his wardrobe’s like; Colors are only pastels, white, or gold - once in a blue moon he might wear a rich dark raspberry red color or bright orange or yellow. He will NEVER wear grey or black. Pants have to be long enough to reach the ankles. He prefers wearing his shirts tucked-in. Clothes MUST fully cover everything on his body excluding head, neck, and hands at all times - low neckline acceptable in off-duty time. Under special occasions only (ie beachware); lower arms, top of feet or shins can be uncovered. He wears a lot of jabot ties.

What are their feet like? (type of shoes, state of shoes, socks, feet, pristine, dirty, worn, etc) Alus takes his quality of fashion seriously. He’s the type of guy who wears expensive fancy soft white socks trimmed with gold nobody will ever see with the little suspenders on his legs to keep the socks from sagging down. He adores wearing white pointed dress shoes, especially if they have a bit of a high heel. Gold jewelry or buckles are lovely, and any shoe with lace, bows, ribbons, fancy beadwork or faux flowers are supreme. (Google image search ‘Bridal Boots’ if you wanna see his shoes. He’d seriously wear any of them.)

Race / Ethnicity? hhhhhhhhh it’s 5am man I dont have the energy to google faces until i find a reasonable faceclaim and try to figure out that person’s ethnicity... they’re Fantasy Characters... alus is a miqo’te.. maybe had some elezen or hyur in his lineage? idk

Mannerisms? Alus is like a living embodiment of a cartoon Disney prince. I don’t know how to better describe it; He’s elegant and gentle for the most part but can also so comically stiff you could mistake him for an automaton or a piece of background cardboard - then when the moment hits, he can spring into an unrealistic slapstick looney toon nightmare. He always seems to be in a constant state of floating between elegance, stiffness, and slapstick. There is never a break. There is never an in-between.

Are they in good health? For their active life circumstances of constant physical hardship, they are in amazingly good health.

Do they have any disabilities? I don’t think of ADHD as a disability (and I’m saying that as someone who has autism and most likely ADD or ADHD myself) but it’s classified by a lot of people as a disability. So yeah, uh, Alus absolutely has ADHD.

Personality

Are they more optimistic or pessimistic? Definitely more optimistic, sometimes to a fault. I think there’s a degree of choice in there but he’s kinda lost the boundary between blind trust and trying to believe in people and situations because he morally wants to. He is still a worry wart, and that is what causes him to fight so hard as he does for making things around him better as well as making himself better - but I think he makes a very active effort of not letting anyone see that part of him, maybe in an effort to convince himself as well that everything is and will be okay.

Are they introverted or extroverted? Extroverted in a lot of ways and introverted in others. Alus loves and thrives around people, and I think he’s a bit more drained than the average person when he’s alone vs. being in a crowd, but he’s still living more as an introvert - one-on-one deep talks can make him extremely anxious. He’s great at the surface niceties but can often find himself too devoted to strangers, which leads him into trouble sometimes. He’s like a really great social co-worker and a extremely awkward off-duty member of society that doesn’t really know how to function or navigate normal relationships.

Do they ever put on airs? A b s o l u t e l y. Alus’ entire persona is carefully hand-crafted over a lifetime. It’s not to say “This isn’t who he really is, he’s a liar”, but moreso “He’s not quite the person he wishes he was yet.” He makes a really large effort to put on airs of this confident and beautiful Princely type of heroic figure straight out of a fairy tale where he simultaneously knows that such a goal is impossible, since this isn’t a story book - this is real life, he is flawed and complicated, and nothing is as perfect as you wish it was. But he keeps trying no matter what.

What bad habits do they have? Low-key bullying his brother, for sure. Arc is the only person Alus just can’t really put on airs with so his perfect image just breaks down around him. While Alus appears to be a very gentle and kind individual around other people, he’ll comically slap and roast his brother without mercy. (Don’t worry; it’s mutual between them.)

What makes them laugh out loud? Almost anything. Alus is definitely a big giggler, and an even bigger loud spontaneous laugher.

How do they display affection? There’s two major levels of it. First, it’s showering you with little gifts - sweets, flowers, even money if you’re in need, with nothing asked in return. If you’re very close to him, it’s skinship; he loves spontaneously hugging others and holding hands and all that kinda platonic stuff. He’ll pretty much not let go of your arm if you’re around him. He also loves dancing with people, you bet he’ll do the whole nine yards of weaving you around him, lifting you above his head and dipping you.

Mental handicaps? Hates being touched. He has some really bad memories of being manhandled and despises any type of physical restriction on himself, especially from people he doesn’t find VERY close to him. He hates even more to be seen in casual clothes, especially clothes that expose his skin. He’s really not a fan of his exposed body and it’s gonna take a lot for him to get over it. He’s slowly getting better but it’s a long journey.

How do they want to be seen by others? Someone to look up to; someone to rely on. He wants to be the hope for humanity, essentially. He wants to inspire others to heroism and kindness just by seeing him, and he wants to make the world a better place just by existing in it.

How do they see themselves? Someone who’s just not good enough; Someone who needs to keep working to be better; someone who’s chosen destiny is to be the hero of humanity.

How are they seen by others? Probably as a weirdo. He definitely comes off as eccentric; his strange comedic ramblings and sudden dancing mid-conversation, as well as his random gifts and bag full of pranks, magic tricks and fireworks just really feel off-the-wall. His immediate devotion to others may also come off as exceedingly suspicious. I think how he dresses and his cafe also indicate he’s kind of the ‘rich unhinged guy’ stereotype. People who know him well though know that he’s an extremely good person who would give you the clothes off his back if you needed them more. He loves humanity and would do anything for it.

Strongest character trait? His stubborn devotion to his ideals, for sure. If he wants something, he’ll work his hardest to make sure it happens.

Weakest character trait? Far too trusting of strangers; he gets taken advantage of very easily, and he’s almost always happy to come back for more. He’ll even give the biggest villain a 2nd and 3rd and 4th chance. His inability to condemn anyone as truly evil may cause far more hardship for everyone in the long run than if he just chose to kill the person or lock them up indefinitely and be done with it.

How competitive are they? Alus thrives in competitive environments due to an absolute love and adoration for sportsmanship. He does a fantastic job making his competitors have fun and feels that a competition that is too one-sided doesn’t have any fun or worth. He loves difficult competition because he feels that it helps better himself and his rival.

Do they make snap judgements or take time to consider? Oh, he’s absolutely a “strike now while the iron’s hot” type of a guy. He knows that even a second of a wait can change things for the worse. He’s also definitely a philosophical type that thinks over every possible scenario in his mind in his off-time, but ultimately, he’ll always be the one running off to get things done as soon as they’re brought to his attention. He’s the opposite of his brother, who wants to slow things down before making rash decisions. Alus just knows those decisions need to be made, so it might as well be now, so he just gets it done and worries about the outcome later.

How do they react to praise? He’s actually probably never used to it. I think he has a bit of a low self-esteem problem in how he sees himself as never quite as good as he wants himself to be, so praise can catch him off-guard pretty easily. He’ll cover that up by clumsily stating something comically over-the-top like “Of course, I am incredible! I am the best! Mwahahaha!” but not before gasping for air and stuttering like a shy schoolgirl first.

How do they react to criticism? He has a great ability to deflect toxicity into positivity; he asks what people mean and tries to understand them. I think if the criticism can be taken as constructive, he’s always happy to take it. If the criticism is just plain mean, I think he’ll ask if there’s anything he can do to help the person he’s talking to - he knows nobody would say such mean things to another unless they were having a pretty bad day.

What is their greatest fear? Oh, y’know. Losing his brother. Slugs and slimy things. If you wanna get painful and philosophical about it, I think he’s terrified of the future. He tries to live in the moment and just do the best he can at all times, but when he sees that what he does doesn’t help a lot of the world to stay safe, it freaks him out. In his mind, he’s doing a lot, but in reality - it’s not much at the grand scheme of things. He tries not to think about it too much. He tries not to think much of the past either - of all the mistakes, of what he could and couldn’t have done. It frustrates him. I guess you could say his greatest fear is his own limits. It never feels like he’s doing enough, or even if he ever could do enough.

What are their biggest secrets? [SPOILERS, OBVIOUSLY] Alus is absolutely disgusted with the military powers of the world, and the politicians. He tries to stay optimistic and bright on the outside - he stays useful and does what he can without complaint, he tries to lie to himself and say it isn’t too bad, tries to focus on the good these systems do, to be placated and trust his brother that things will work out alright in this setup - but he sincerely wishes that somehow they could be abolished entirely. He’s frustrated with the idea of any one person or power having control over the lives of others - people those single powers may never meet - will inevitably cause a lack of humanity and understanding of others. Nobody should have this power, not even him, not even the gods. As Alus’ writer, I don’t think he knows a good alternative, he just knows he’s seen enough immoral and inconsiderate shitfuckery in these systems that he can barely stand it anymore. I think many soldiers probably feel like this eventually. [/SPOILER]

What is their philosophy of life? literally just look at the [quote insp tag]

When was the last time they cried? I FEEL LIKE ALUS IS THE TYPE TO TEAR UP AT EXTREMELY COMMON SHIT TBH?? EVERYTHING IS SO BEAUTIFUL I STARTED CRYING TYPE??

What haunts them? [SPOILER]Literally just... becoming a soldier or a fighter to begin with. He wishes it never happened, he wishes the world didn’t need fighting to begin with. But he knows he can never go back now, and even if he did, he’d probably still become a soldier all over again. It’s all he can do in this violent, terrible world.[/SPOILER]

What are their political views? Notable traits would supporting equality rights for Beastmen, more funding towards helping refugees, more funding to adoption agencies and orphanages, more transparency about tax profit and spending, creating opportunities for different countries to share their culture.. etc. (Note: I like to believe that larger glaring IRL political issues like lack of LGBTQ+ rights, gender inequality, ableism, skin-color-based racism and other large current inhumane social problems aren’t problems in FFXIV’s universe. If your RP character uses bigotry in accurate line of these IRL social issues as a character trait, you are not welcome in my RP circle. Period.)

What will they stand up for? He hates violence in general, so he’ll do whatever he can to stop it. Anyone who seems to be controlling or keeping other people against their will is something he loathes. No means no!

Who do they quote? Urianger. like a lot. Probably mostly accidentally; he picks up a lot of vocal mannerisms from the guy.

Are they indoorsy or outdoorsy? Outdoorsy, for sure. He grew up under the stars and being forced indoors for a long time will probably give him feelings of anxiousness and claustrophobia, especially if the space is small. He has had some bad experiences being unable to go outside so he takes his freedom to roam outdoors very seriously.

What is their sinful little habit? He loves sweets. This guy is all about boasting a healthy diet, but his weakness shows the exact opposite. More serious answer: He tends to procrastinate bad, especially when it comes to his passive military duties.

How do they treat people better than them? If they breathe, they’re royalty. Utmost respect and courtesy. Treats them as if he’s the royal butler to their fancy ass selves, even if they’re the lowest of the low in poverty.

How do they treat people worse than them? Honestly? Pretty much the same answer as above. If he gets truly angry at someone, he’ll tell them how and why straight-up, but he’ll never stop giving them the respect and courtesy he believes every human being deserves.

What quality do they most value in a friend? Someone who is as ridiculously open-hearted and ready to confess love to the nearest person along with anything else in the world as Alus tends to do, but also someone who pays close enough attention to him that they can tell when he’s in distress. Alus has a hard time speaking up about when he feels uncomfortable, so someone who has a talent for empathy - detecting other peoples’ emotions - would be incredibly invaluable. That’s the fastest way to his heart.

What do they consider an overrated virtue? None, and all. He thinks that if anyone gets carried away with any traditional virtue to the point that they’re causing evil in the world, they’re just misguided. He understands that - or at least actively wants to understand that - so he can forgive.

If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be? He... honestly thinks of himself as more of an Elezen than a Miqo’te. So anything that ‘gives away’ that he’s a Miqo’te, he could probably do without. He likes his ears and his tail though! But maybe if he was taller? lmao. (I don’t intend to ever Fantasia Alus FYI, MAYBE if male viera comes out and my partner agrees to it AND I have absolutely no active RP going on, but it’s very unlikely, and if it does happen it will be considered a retcon, not a character development)

What is their obsession? Definitely his aesthetics. He spends an incredibly large amount of time, effort, and money on making himself look and properly act like a “fairy tale prince charming”. It’s not only a philosophical mindset of being moral and heroic, but also being charming and supportive to everyone around himself. He honestly hopes and believes that if he succeeds in creating and upholding this image that every person who rests their eyes upon him will be filled with determination and hope that heroism and safety is real.

What are their pet peeves? He disapproves of the glorification of alcohol, smoking, or any other vices that are bad for the average person’s health. He won’t turn away the people with these vices as potential friends, but he’ll certainly be tempted to lecture them on it. He is also really not a fan of casual skinship between strangers, nor is he a fan of an aggressively pessimistic attitude, nor will he ever really be used to people who wear very little clothing (He isn’t disapproving of the sex industry or sex workers per say, he just doesn’t ‘get it’; he could never imagine himself in their shoes), nor is he a fan of other people trying to change him to be more chill about his aesthetic code (how he dresses, how he positively interacts with others, etc.) - but he tends to be more quiet about his dislike of these things. He tries to stay open minded and patient, but yeah, maybe it’ll take a bit longer to get to ‘close friend’ status with these things.

What are their idiosyncrasies? (special mannerisms?) His posture tends to be stiff as a board: too perfect, like some sort of breathing statue or mechanic humanoid, while at other times it’s as if a switch is flipped to make him become a crazy slapstick ragdoll. He tends to speak in a constant fluctuation of ‘ye olde English’ and common casual speech, and he keeps a few feet distance from people he isn’t especially close with at all times. He’s generous with money and far too trusting of strangers to the point it feels like an overblown parody of these traits. He’s painfully optimistic and takes compliments first with a moment of surprise before he adjusts his reaction with over-the-top narcissistic vigor. He’s a constantly faltering image of himself. He’s a walking symbolism of good-hearted chaos.

Friends and Family

Is their family big or small? Who does it consist of? The only people Alus regards as true family is his twin brother, Arc, and his late adoptive father, Gwenneg. There are other Beauregards in the world, and other great “found family”-esque friends yet to make, but Alus cannot imagine them ever meeting the kind of friendship and connection he has with his brother and had with his father. Perhaps he’s tried in the past, but it just never feels the same. He’s at the point he’s given up on the idea of it happening casually.

What is their perception of family? A close-knit group that is always there for eachother, practically living at eachother’s hips. The type of people you can just glance at and they can read your mind, and even if they disagree with you, they’ll go along with you and fix it later. They’re always up for improving eachother. They are essentially extensions of oneself, and like limbs, even if such is cut - it is carefully looked after and healed, the rest of the body worries and tries to better it, never blaming it’s limb for not being good enough. All part of one system.

Describe their best friend. Arc is undeniably Alus’ best friend. I feel a bit weird talking about my friend’s OC for them, but I will say this; Arc’s strengths are in his slow and strategic approach to things; his love of politics and ability to glide through them, the way he finds the best routes and setups in battle, the timing, everything down to the little tiniest details to turn a battle of either wits or blood - he thinks over all of it, something Alus lacks. And despite being much less prone to trust than the willingly naive Alus, he can find the good in just about anybody when it really comes down to it. Arc knows the dark side of this world and is constantly aware and remembering of it, but understands it’s still worth fighting for. He’s also got a pretty good fashion sense! He seems extremely shady when it comes to his bar business though... It seems to be played up as a joke, but you’re never quite sure as you’re talking to him about it.

Ideal best friend? In assumption this means ‘a best friend besides Arc’, I think Alus’ standards are low. Of course, he’d love to have someone who shares his basic interests of aesthetics and his moral philosophy that centralizes on a love for humanity, and the honor and strength of action to act on it, but he also wants to know someone who can teach him a lot. I think that type of person could be absolutely anyone, especially someone that is nothing like him. Alus doesn’t want to necessarily completely change himself through the journey of knowing anothers’ life, nor change someone else entirely either, even if it’s for the better. He just wants mutual understanding with others. He finds a joy that can be found nowhere else when he feels two people, who don’t have anything in common, can find a common ground. This kind of thing excites him. I think something in-between -- someone who is a lot like him in a lot of ways, but has a few traits he lacks completely -- is ideal for him.

Describe their other friends / Describe their acquaintances. (combo’d) Alus doesn’t really have other people he regards true friends, I think. He kinda regards every person he meets as his friends. That’s really all there is to it for him.

Do they have any pets? No pets, just a lot of animals that follow him around for food scraps and snacks. He always has an open window for birds and butterflies, and an open door to dodos and chickens and stray cats. He enjoys the company of birds the most, though he’s a fan of the loyal doggy too. In terms of his mounts - He mainly only claims ownership over his military-issued chocobo for paperwork purposes, but regards her as a friend without a voice more than an animal under his ownership.

Who are their natural allies? Anyone who agrees for humanitarian rights, I think. Alus just exists to be a hero, really.

Who are their surprising allies? People he once fought. He always reaches out a hand for people who’ve made mistakes and tells them that he’ll be their friend if they agree to stop their mean-spirited behavior.

Past and Future

What was your character like as a baby? As a child? Equal combination “good kid” and “absolute little shit”; On the surface, he’d always be loyal to his father and polite to strangers, but the second he and his brother got some time to themselves they’d get into all kinds of shenanigans - especially if they manage to find some way to conceal their identity. Most of those shenanigans were pranks trying to scare people with All Saint’s Wake-esque props. They were also a time they were absolutely not above purposely trying to confuse people on which brother was which whenever it was convenient or just funny.

Did they grow up rich or poor? Poor, but I think he still thought himself as lucky. He might not have had a big room to himself or a lot of possessions, but he got to travel the world and meet so many interesting people and see so many interesting things in his father’s caravan.

Did they grow up nurtured or neglected? Nurtured for sure. His family were joined at the hip.

What is the most offensive thing they ever said? I’m sure Alus used to have a potty mouth when he was a kid and young teen. He picked it up from being exposed to so many different individuals growing up. If he’s been around a lot of sailors in Lima Lominsa, I think it’s a safe bet that he probably swore like one too. After his father died that changed almost immediately though in order to honor his dad’s memory.

What is their greatest achievement? I’m sure there’s much more impressive individual achievements he has accomplished - monsters he’s fought, hostage situations he’s negotiated, villains he’s managed to persuade to become heroes, but if you asked him, he’d tell you that simply being lucky enough to be chosen to become one of the Warriors of Light or opening his cafe are the achievements he’s most proud of.

What was their first kiss like? [spoiler]Still haven’t had it![/spoiler]

What is the worst thing they did to someone they loved? I feel like even though Alus adored his father, he probably did a lot of things to make him worried or stressed out, maybe even ran away once or twice just for the fun of it. It was a lot more innocent time for Alus and I don’t think he’d do anything like that in adulthood.

What are their ambitions? Alus just wants to end all war. Full stop. It’s not that complicated. He doesn’t really know the most effective way how to, though. He just keeps doing whatever he can when people request his help - which usually ends up taking advantage of his physical combat skills.

What advice would they give their younger self? Cherish this time. Hug your father and tell him you love him more often. And maybe focus on being a medic or someone who helps the world peacefully more than someone who uses violence to solve the world’s problems. Maybe care a little more about politics.

What smells remind them of their childhood? Chamomile, road dust, seasalt, and old fancy dusty antiques.

What was their childhood ambition? To grow up to be a glamorous warrior that saves the world again and again and to rescue a pretty princess.

What is their best childhood memory? Dancing on the streets of Ul’dah with his brother for a little extra pocket money and becoming unexpectedly popular.

What is their worst childhood memory? Losing his father to the calamity and being passed between temporary foster homes again and again, then finally losing his brother in that mess, too.

Did they have an imaginary childhood friend? Alus left out honeyed milk for faeries all the time as a child. Post-calamity, he started to quietly make-believe that faeries and little unicorns visited him when he was particularly lonely or bored, or just wanted to escape his own mind for awhile.

When was the last time they were crushed with disappointment? [FFXIV POST-STORMBLOOD SPOILER]Hearing about Zenos’ body being revived against Zenos’ wishes for a perfect death.[/SPOILER]

What past act are they most ashamed of? Any time Alus can’t save someone from death. Sometimes, Alus must be the one to kill them himself. This is an unbearable sin to bear for him.

What past act are they most proud of? Any time he can save someone. Any time he can help the suffering of someone by giving a little coin. Every time he has made someone smile. It is all the most cherishable, wonderful memories to him. None better than the others.

Has anyone ever saved their life? His twin brother Arc probably on at least a weekly basis. I think saving eachothers’ lives is a regular thing on a battlefield, even if your ally is basically a stranger.

Strongest childhood memory? Just sitting underneath the stars, curled up under a blanket with his brother while they rest their head on their father’s lap as he reads them bedtime stories.

Love

Do they believe in love at first sight? Absolutely. Guy will trust anyone at the drop of a hat, why not fall in love, too?

Are they in a relationship? Not officially, no. I think he casually flirts a lot and has gone out on sporadic dates with many people, but he hasn’t become anyone’s “steady”.

How do they behave in a relationship? Alus is extremely inexperienced. I think he’ll end up trying so hard to show off to whoever he’s dating that he’ll become exhausted. He wants to treat his future spouse like royalty.

When did you character last have sex? [SPOILER]Never![/SPOILER]

What sort of sex do they have? Nothing kinky or out there, he’s a shy confused mess to begin with when it comes to sex - he’s probably very reserved and traditional about it. I should note that Alus is canonically asexual, even if he doesn’t fully realize it yet. He doesn’t really understand the appeal of sex but he’d want his significant other to be happy. [NSFW/18+] He’d definitely insist on being a top, though. [/SAFE!]

Has your character ever been in love? As an greyromantic writer, I have no fucking solid idea what romantic love is supposed to be defined as. If you define it as ‘fantasizing about having a certain person in mind as a future spouse’ then, yes, Alus has been in love loads of times.

Have they ever had their heart broken? Many times, but it rarely gets him down for too long - he’ll fall in love with the next person he sees, then the cycle restarts.

Conflict

How do they respond to a threat? A fake, forced smile. Explaining calmly to the enemy that what they’re doing is wrong. Explaining calmly to the enemy to drop it and go drink tea with him instead. If being calm doesn’t work, yelling at them about their hypocritical morality like some sort of shounen superhero making a speech.

Are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue? Tongue, for sure. Alus will be so painfully reasonable with his enemies that the only way he’s drawing his sword to fight is someone else draws first.

What is your character’s kryptonite? Like any hero, he’s a sucker for hostages. Also, math completely turns him fucking stupid. [SPOILER]Also... having his morality questioned, especially being accused of being a hypocrite.[/SPOILER]

If your character could only save one thing from their burning house, what would it be? A faerie tale storybook from his childhood his father read to him often when he was alive.

How do they perceive strangers? “A friend he doesn’t know yet.”

What do they love to hate? I don’t really imagine Alus truly ‘hates’ anything or anyone, just greatly dislikes or disapproves of them. And even then I think he doesn’t particularly enjoy disliking them. I don’t think he views negative feelings as something to be prideful over.

What are their phobias? Slugs and other slimy creatures, as well as mild situational claustrophobia.

What is their choice of weapon? His fists, for sure; there’s some sort of philosophy inside his mind that fighting with his bare hands or body without tools or weapons to aid him is the ultimate form of respect towards other human beings’ pain and livelihood - he wants them to know he shall feel pain right back if he strikes someone else, and he’s allowing himself the possibility to be hurt in return.

What living person do they most despise? I think anyone who justifies war or pain as a glorious and wonderful thing instead of a tragedy is someone he dislikes. Especially if said person has no respect for human life or the bodies of the fallen.

Have they ever been bullied or teased? Plenty. Unfortunately mostly his given name is particularly targetted. He’s also been called too soft plenty of times.

Where do they go when they’re angry? Home - his house is well soundproofed and cozy. He may go on an off-trail walk alone in the middle of Thanalan or the like.

Who are their enemies and why? The Garlean army, the Ascians.. do you really need to ask why? They wish to create death and chaos, that’s plenty of a reason enough.

Work, Education and Hobbies

What is their current job? Maelstrom military field medic, café proprietor, free paladin

What do they think about their current job? The café is seemingly always empty, but he doesn’t mind continuing to pour money into it. It’s a safe haven to him and a symbol of his independence from the violent life of military duty. Being a field medic is endlessly horrifying, but he’s glad he can help people. His status of Free Paladin makes him obligated to carry out duties to help Eorzea, which is something he’s proud of - but he is always not all that great at drawing his sword at the sign of trouble.

What are some of their past jobs? The only other “jobs” Alus has had in the past were mostly just side jobs for a little extra pocket money, mostly dancing on the street.

What are their hobbies? Dancing, capoeira martial arts, piano, tea brewing, baking, reading, writing, sketching, watercolor art, goldsmithing, fashion, bird keeping.

Educational background? Went to a school for accounting for a few years. He retained absolutely no information about accounting.

Intelligence level? Literate; can read older more complex texts easily. Good with maps. More of a “physical education” kinda guy.

Do they have any specialist training? Paladin training. Nothing else formal.

Do they have a natural talent for something? Weirdly incredibly good at parkour - stuff like navigating tightropes and climbing up buildings without any hesitation or struggle.

What is their socioeconomic status? At the moment, Alus is pretty well-off. He and his brother own their own business in the Lavender Beds, and Alus can afford high class clothes, hobbies, furniture and the like. He’s also prone to donate to charity near constantly.

Favourites

What is their favourite animal? whatever birds are ROUND

Which animal to they dislike the most? S L U G S

What place would they most like to visit? His cafe, honestly. It’s a safe haven.

What is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen? People.

What is their favourite song? Simply Satie

Music, art, reading preferred? Alus loves playing piano, drawing sketches and reading storybooks. I don’t think he could trade one for the other! (He’s awful at singing though.)

What is their favourite colour? Pale blue, white, yellow-gold, and pastel pink.

What is their password? “Password”. Nobody will ever get it!

Favourite food: La Noscean toast! (AKA French toast!) with lots of berries and whipped cream!

Who is their favourite artist? ??? ((OOC: if Alphonse Mucha was in FFXIV it’d be him idk))

What is their favourite day of the week? E V E R Y D A Y (but probably mostly Sunday)

Possessions

What is in their fridge: Fresh salad, fruits, fresh berries, vegetables, tofu, jackfruit, orange juice, leftover strawberry shortcake, protein shakes, leftover rice, eggs, butter, yogurt, frozen berries... and even fresh flowers?

What is on their bedside table? A dozen lighthearted fairytale and academic books on aether he recycles through reading every night as he goes to bed, a pitcher & glass of water, a vase with a flower in it, reading glasses, 3 inch tall lil stuffed dodo.

What is in their bin? Compost bin for old fruits/vegetables/egg shells/bread and a recycling bin full of paper and packaging garbage.

What is in their bag? A lot of coin, a hairbrush, a box of ice chilled flowers, travel-size beauty products, lots of fireworks and other fun little spectacle toys, a pocket-sized book of poetry, a basic armor polishing set, a miniature sewing kit, bandages, healing potions.

What is their most treasured possession? A very old and damaged book of fairy tales from his childhood.

Spirituality

Who or what is your character’s guardian angel? His adoptive father - at least, that’s what he wants to believe.

Do they believe in the afterlife? Yes! Very much so.

What are their religious views? [SPOILER]Alus has a complicated relationship with religion. For the most part of his life, he’s believed in The Twelve like every other Eorzean, but as he’s grown older he’s found himself more and more impatient and even disgusted of the cruelties that the gods allow to happen, and the ways followers of Nald’thal and Halone use their religion as a means to prey on the weak for the sake of money, classism, and racial disparity. Hearing the words of Garlean soldiers point out that proof that The Twelve exist is seemingly nonexistent has further disrupted Alus’ belief in them. Alus does, however, firmly believe in Hydaelyn.[/SPOILER]

What do they think heaven is? Alus has no true confident belief in what exactly the seven heavens are, but he likes to think heaven is a place where flowers bloom all the time, the weather is always warm and sunny, bugs don’t bother you and war and violence never happen, and relaxing tea parties are hosted all day long, clothes are comfortable and pretty and never soiled by dirt and mud no matter how much you play in the grass.

What do they think hell is? Like many Eorzeans, Alus believes in the seven hells. The seven hells are a place that one must climb out of to eventually make it to heaven, and depending on how bad of a person you were in life, the deeper in hell you start out in after you die, and the more you have to climb before you get upward into heaven. Alus finds great comfort in this ideology because it means that no matter how bad a person was in life, they may still find forgiveness and redemption in death.

Are they superstitious? I think he’s open-minded. He seems to discover so many legends of being real every day that it’s difficult for him not to believe in anything and everything he hears. He tries to be respectful of the unknown and follow their rules, but when push comes to shove it’s all about the grandest happiness for everyone - he will challenge whatever fae or ghostly apparition that wants to mess with him if he thinks what they’re doing is immoral or unfair.

What would they like to be reincarnated as? A stream. A rosebush. A rainbow. Something that others can look at and feel at peace, something for others to enjoy. A way to give love without living a life that inevitably creates suffering through heroism. To just exist as part of the beauty in the world.

How would they like to die? He doesn’t know. Death scares him. He does not want to die in battle. He does not want to die sleeping in a bed. But he wishes he’ll be old. He wishes he’ll have lots of friends. And he wishes he did everything he could while he was alive to make the world a better place as much as he possibly could.

What animal is most like your character, spiritually speaking? .... A golden retriever. Eager to please, extremely loving and loyal, a strong body, picky about weird things, and incredibly goofy.

Values

What do they think is the worst thing that can be done to a person? Betrayal?? torture?? bullying?? rape?? what do you want from me. He hates all forms of toxic and violent behavior!!

What is their view of ‘freedom’? The ability to form your own path; the ability to be whatever you want, even if the dream seems impossible to everyone else. The ability to go anywhere you want, walk and run anywhere you want, travel anywhere you want. The ability to say no when you want. The ability to be respected as independent.

How often do they lie? NEVER!!!!!!! He might bend the truth a little bit or side-step an answer but even white lies he’s not into. He rarely needs to white lie about anything anyway; he tends to see the best in everything.

What’s their view of lying? BAD AND UNNESSESARY

How often do they make promises? Constantly.

How often do they keep or break their promises? He 100% keeps his promises unless he’s literally physically incapacitated and in which case he will apologize and try to make it up to you so much

Daily life

What are their eating habits? Vegetarian. He eats really healthy and he eats a lot. Big fan of asian food I think. Has no problems eating stuff that’s bland as hell; I feel like it’s part of his determination to better himself. Has a terrible weakness for sweets, though. Secretly hates stuff that’s slimy, like mushrooms, but he will never complain if it’s given to him.

Do they have any allergies? Nope, he’s lucky. If he does, he hasn’t discovered it yet.

Describe their home. Very white, tons of gold nouveau trim on everything, and tons of flowers everywhere. Looks like the home of royalty. [Here’s his housing aesthetic.]

Are they minimalist or a clutter hoarder? Neither, I think. Maybe leaning closer to minimalist over clutter-lover; he likes everything being clean and easy to access in his house. His design aesthetic of nouveau isn’t necessarily minimalist in inherent style though imo.

What do they do first thing on a weekday morning? Wakes up extra early, takes a quick cool shower to wake himself up, eats a quick and simple breakfast full of protein; most likely something with a lot of nuts and eggs as it’s ingredients + big salad. packs a simple lunchbox and starts his day: Every morning, he walks to the statues of Nald and Thal, viewing the warm pink sunrise in the process. he pays his respects to each; cleans and dusts with a simple cleaning kit he’s left there prior. Leaves some simple offerings. Finds somewhere nice and empty in Thanalan to do some excercises and martial arts training for the day. sits down and eats lunch afterwards. lazily walks home, takes another quick shower to get the sweat and dust off. while his hair is drying, he puts on makeup and decides a proper outfit to wear for the day. meets up with arc, goes on their obliged military-issued mission for the day.

What do they do on a Sunday afternoon? Makes an effort to drag Arc over to his place for a big fancy dinner. Tea and crumpets as an early evening appetizer. Alus cooks everything while Arc hangs out and talks, lending a bit of help when Alus demands asks for him. Arc sneaks in alcohol. Alus yells at him. repeat next week.

What do they do on a Friday night? this but like, outside, alone, in the middle of thanalan somewhere

What is the soft drink of choice? If soft drinks existed in Eorzea I can’t help but feel like Alus is one of those freaks who don’t like any of them.

What is their alcoholic drink of choice? NO

Miscellaneous

What is their character archetype? This question originally linked to some basic archetypes, but I already have TVtropes collected and they’re far more interesting as an answer imo SO: [All-Loving Hero], [Reluctant Warrior], [Cloudcuckoolander], [Warrior Poet], [Stepford Smiler], [Motor Mouth], [Large Ham], [Stupid Good], [In Touch With His Feminine Side], [The Fashionista], [Light Is Good], [Flower Motifs], [Declaration of Protection].

Who is their hero? I don’t think Alus has a specific person in mind that isn’t fictional - fact is, nobody is as perfect as the type of person he strives to be. I think he finds traits of admirable heroism everywhere in people, though. Everything from his friends who fight for the good of the world no matter what, from the villain who unexpectedly saves someone while nobody else is watching, to the single mother who works hard to raise her children, to the homeless people who just continue to fight on to live even when everything feels so hopeless around them. I think he sees traits in others he wishes he had all the time. He wants to embody all the good traits of everyone. And I should mention, if one is to have a ‘hero’, it is expected that person to be better than one, yes? I don’t think Alus believes he’s particularly better than anyone else, especially in their positive traits.

What or who would your character dress up as for Halloween? Alus goes HARD on All Saint’s Wake. He and Arc’s signature best costume always ends up being these hyper-realistic ghost costumes that they trick out with special glamours, magic, and tech to surprise the passerby. If it doesn’t genuinely scare someone, it isn’t enough!

Are they comfortable with technology? I think he’s absolutely got the boomer brain when it comes to allagan technology. He can get by fixing old mechanical clocks and the like but when it comes to allagan stuff, he’s just absolutely out of his element. He’ll certainly listen if someone wants to try explaining it to him, but it’ll take considerable time before he fully “gets it” and usually when he does, it’s more on blind faith and an ability to follow basic directions more than true understanding. I think in general it just doesn’t really interest him and if he’s going to spend the time and energy to learn about it, he’d rather use that energy on his other interests - books, physical training, baking and the like. (Modern AU: He’s absolutely the guy still using an ancient flip phone because “It still works!” Also, he capitalizes and uses perfect grammar in all his extremely-hard-to-type number code texts.)

If they could save one person, who would it be? It’s a difficult question, because of course - the first person to come to mind is Arc. But the thing is, Arc can take care of himself. And Alus knows this. Alus trusts this. So when it comes down to choosing between Arc and someone less capable.. Alus will most likely help the less capable person. If Arc is hurt, Alus knows he’ll forgive him. But if Arc were to die? And it be Alus’ fault? It would utterly crush him.

If they could call one person for help, who would it be? Arc, of course. There’s nobody Alus would rather have by his side while dealing with problems.

What is their favourite proverb? “Since it is likely that children will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and courage.” – C.S. Lewis (Personally my fav proverb in thinkin about Alus is “Because the world is so full of death and horror, I try again and again to console my heart and pick the flowers that grow in the midst of hell.” – Hermann Hesse)

What is their greatest extravagance? This is kind of a depressing and even controversial answer, but it’s honestly any time he has ducked out from military duty with or without permission when all of it has just gotten to him too much. He knows that him not being there will be more of a problem than a solution - he knows that - but any moment he can just pretend, for a moment, that he’s just a normal man running a normal little girlish cafe during a time without war.. That’s his greatest extravagance.

What is their greatest regret? The amount of enemies he has been forced to down when talk wasn’t enough is piling higher and higher every moon cycle. It’s an absolute horror. He tries so hard to be nonlethal as possible. He’s studied so much how to avoid vital organs, how to down someone without hurting them badly, but no matter what there is always the chance of there being a prior injury he didn’t know about, or a undiagnosed medical problem that was just activated by the smallest knock.. That isn’t even to mention the people who have been hurt because the people he talked down didn’t keep their word or stood back up when he thought they’d stay asleep. No matter what, he just isn’t enough to save everyone. Why is it that no matter how hard he works to have this ideal of pacifism, it never works completely? Why is it never enough?

What is their perception of redemption? That the unwavering truth of this world is that people are fundamentally capable of change. He refuses to believe otherwise, no matter what. Perhaps it is an active choice instead of an instinctual one, nobody is certain for Alus’ mindful case. He believes the expectation for lifelong punishment for a past crime is petty and cruel, and in itself deters people from switching sides for the better. He believes anyone and everyone deserves the right to have the choice to right their wrongs at any time. Don’t misunderstand though - He understands sometimes people are far too gone for simply dropping everything they’ve done and that’s enough to erase their mistakes - he knows that some people can only find rightful redemption in the afterlife after execution, even if execution is not an ideal solution to stopping them in his eyes. But he prays for them. He’ll never give up on anyone.

What would they do if they won the lottery? Back into investments or savings to get an even bigger profit later. Alus knows how to play the smart long game. But uh... If the fates play a trick and he sees a beautiful fashion piece in a shop window, maybe that won’t last too long. He’s also notoriously overly generous with money to the needy, he spends money on service tips like pouring water out of a glass. Money is always moving, and if he starts to run low, he just works a little harder to get back to the comfort zone. He’s in a pretty good place in his life monetarily wise atm already.

What is their favourite fairytale? It’s difficult to answer this because I don’t know what sorts of stories exist in Eorzean canon! But I can say that the real-world 1986 manga “The Sword of Paros” is a huge inspiration to Alus’ character. It’s about a person born with the title of ‘Princess’ who believes to have been born the wrong gender, and does everything in their power to prove themselves worthy of the title of ‘Prince’ despite immeasurable odds against them from their family and their country. The hero also falls in love with a commoner woman who wishes nothing more to be loved by the idyllic image of a charming knight in shining armor that comes and rescues her, and their love is ultimately tragic as it’s also not recognized as valid.. but the prince never stops fighting for his title and the right of his love, and the ability for them both to be happy. Though the story ends without the ideal conclusion, the very concept of these characters fighting against all odds for something genuinely better for the whole world is something Alus is really all about. (Also, seriously, read this manga. It’s groundbreaking. It’s Utena done right.)

What fairytale do they hate? Any faerietales that have unhappy endings, or seem to focus strongly on tragedy or pessimistic ideas of realism in the world. That tends to fall into the category of ‘cautionary tales’ most the time. He’s also really not a fan of stories with body horror or gore.

Do they believe in happy endings? I think he believes that happy endings should always be the goal, but I don’t think he truly accepts that they actually exist. He understands that happiness and safety is always temporary, and this is why he should always strive to make the world a better place. If he helps someone get to a point that they’re happy, healthy, and safe - he’ll just move on to the next person who needs his help. A happy ending for himself though? I think he’s not confident in it, but he wants to live every day to the fullest as he can before he dies. He accepts this as part of his duty - he knows he’s living on ultimately borrowed time.

What is their idea of perfect happiness? Being in love, being surrounded by people you love, having the support of others you trust and having the ability to spoil the people you care about. Having a home you’ll never be kicked out of.. And no war that you have to leave to. No people you have to harm. Just the peace to drink tea with your former enemies as you gaze out onto flowers on a warm day... That’s all he ever wants.

What would they ask a fortune teller? I think he’s concerned if he’ll ever someone to truly share his life with besides his brother. He just really wants a good friend.. Ideally, someone attractive he can hold the hand of!

If your character could travel through time, where would they go? Before the Calamity. He’d just want to listen to his father tell him a few more stories again. He misses the peacefulness of his childhood, the certainty that someone out there stronger than him loved him and wanted to keep him safe, the ability to ignore his own call to war... He wouldn’t so selfish to want to try and bend fate enough to save his father, though he would if he had the chance.. But he knows it’s impossible.

What sport do they excel at? (Modern AU) He was definitely a cheerleader in highschool and/or college, I feel like. Probably into dancing! And ofc a dedicated martial artist. I feel like he’d be pretty good at football and wrestling too - games that require a bulky build to be great at - but he just doesn’t have a particular interest in either of those.

What sport do they suck at? (Modern AU) Probably stuff like archery and tennis - not only would he’d thrive better in big team sports, he’s just not much for long-range dexterity. He’d also be absolutely incompetent as an esports competitor lmfao.

If they could have a superpower, what would they choose? Anything that was especially effective at saving peoples’ lives. Time travel to stop mistakes before they happen or say the right thing before a war breaks out, super effective healing powers... anything. Just to stop suffering and death.

#meme #alus beauregard #ffxiv rp #this literally took me like 4 months to complete fuck

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until-we-fall-in-love · 5 years

Text

Into the Hush: Chapter One

Into the Hush Masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes/Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader undertones

Summary: It's only ever been you and the rugged wilderness; both unkempt and undomesticated. Until it isn't anymore.

(1870s Cowboy AU. A/B/O AU. Gothic/horror.)

Warnings: Violence, gore, dark themes, A/B/O dynamics, smut in later chapters.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: howdy ya’ll lol don’t know how i came up with this one but it’s an A/B/O cowboy historical gothic au. it’s gonna get dark! also gonna be a real nasty slow burn lmaooo so mind the warnings, if you don’t do well with gore or violence, perhaps this isn’t the fic for you. also if you don’t like the Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, this isn’t for you, either, though i will be taking some liberties with this and trying to give my own take on it because there are aspects of it that i don’t like lol. im not quite sure how long this series will be, but i have plans for it. that being said, saddle up pardner lol and pls let me know what you thought of this first chapter!!!!

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Wyoming, 1872

The early morning air is crisp with new spring, cold and a little damp, dew glistening on the grass and glinting gold in the morning sun. Your breath still comes out in soft puffs that curl into the air as you step out onto your creaking, front porch. It overlooks the barren dirt road that leads up to your humble and charming farmhouse; weathered by time and storm and pleasantly cluttered with life and home at every turn. Off to the left is the freshly tilled ground that has been planted in; herbs and fruits and vegetables that will take over in the warm summer months. Trees have shaken the snow from them and have turned green and budding and new again.

You wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders, trying to gather more warmth from the worn cream, crochet wrap. You know once the sun rises higher into the afternoon, you’ll grow too warm for it, but now it’s needed. The wind curls around you, rustles your hair, lifts your skirts. It carries the promise of warmth, the reminder of winter.

All is peaceful in the morning, before the day has broken over the hills. All that sings is the birds, lovely and bright and flitting from tree to tree.

You lift your skirts, head over to the back porch, which wraps the entire way along your house. In the back is the barn, the pasture for the animals to graze when it’s warm. The creek towards the back, bubbling softly over the stones, crystal clear and cool. It’s perfect on a summer afternoon, but now would be too cold for you.

And you begin your day, head over to the shed where you ready the feed for the chickens, grab a basket for eggs. You enter the coop, greet the clucking hens with a coo, spreading food for them which they hurry to eagerly. As they eat, you gently reach for warm eggs in their nest, gather it into your basket and rush on to your other chores.

Milk the cows, get them fresh water, fresh hay and in the afternoon, you’ll let them out in the pasture to warm in the sun.

A few of them are round with calves, ready to give birth any day now.

You tend to the single horse, only one now after your father’s male passed away last spring. The one left is yours; a dappled, brown mare you’ve affectionately called Clover.

You’ll take her to town later, to sell extra eggs and milk, all the goods you can in exchange for bread or spices or money for the tax collector. By the time you’re finished with your chores, which is taking longer and longer as the farm extends and your father grows older and older, it’s around noon, the sun beginning to warm into pleasant rays of topaz and canary.

Your father sits on the porch, in his old rocking chair, smoking a pipe. His knee has been bad since this past fall, has a harder and harder time helping you. Not that you mind; this farm has practically become yours, but he hates leaving you to it all alone.

He’s been dying to set you up with an Alpha, find a good man to marry and help you with the farm. But none of the men from town pique your interest, few good Alphas in the small town of Longbrook, Wyoming. The train, not far from town, brings newcomers once and awhile, but it’s mostly quiet, tucked away in a valley, a river snaking its way through and out into the plains of wildflowers and fields.

You know Longbrook’s secrets, the quiet, beautiful places that you run to when you have the time. Spend your evenings lazing in columbine and aster flowers, beneath old, crooked trees near quiet, turquoise lakes. Or on a bluff, looking high above the world, cool wind in your face and the fluttering of birds nearer to you than planted on the grounds below.

You know where not to stray to, when the wilderness grows too rough and dangerous. Unrestrained in both it’s beauty and viciousness.

So independent that you can’t quite imagine your life beside another, especially not beside an Alpha, with their combative, controlling natures. You can’t imagine a husband that wouldn’t mind you taking off, disappearing into the wilderness and returning when you fancy; like some feral cat, your father always remarks gruffly.

He isn’t a fan of your disappearing acts, either. Alpha that he is, he’s kept careful and close watch on you since you discovered you were Omega, as irritating as it is. Controlling, but only because he means well. You manage to sate him by coming home before nightfall, when dusk is lavender and rose and the moon is only beginning to take the sun’s place. Besides, there’s not much he can do with his bad knee, can’t keep you cooped up the way he used to.

Ever since your mother had passed, you had to step up around the farm, grow up a little too quick. Responsible and resourceful, you work hard for you and your father. But your father has grown rather overprotective, wary with the Alphas he let come around; well respected in the town, no one has dared disobey him. A few had tried; Brock Rumlow, the tax collector, was the most notable of them. Pushy and irksome, he’d tried to convince you to disobey, sway you to sneak out with him or let him come by but you always turned your nose up at him.

You have no interest in someone so aggressive, so controlling.

You aren’t one to roll over or lower your eyes submissively; many Omegas aren’t, in your opinion, but it’s expected. There’s no time for that, though, not for you. No use or desire for it. You have a farm to take care of, to keep running smoothly. You have a life to live, adventures to have, open sky to chase.

And there’s certainly nothing and no one that’s going to stop you.

“Be careful goin’ into town,” Your father speaks up finally, smoke curling from his lips, voice rough and fogged, “Heard there was a few newcomers.”

Your father is always wary of newcomers, prefers to assess them himself, rather than hear from others.

“Yes, pa.” You respond, not particularly interested in them, nor sticking around for one of your father’s infamous lectures. You hurry on, grabbing all that you need, loading up Clover for the journey. You saddle her up, throw yourself over her with practiced ease, hitching your skirts up slightly and out of the way.

“Be home by nightfall!” Your father hollers after you, but you’re already easing Clover onto the dirt path.

“Of course!” You call back, just as you urge her into a faster pace, your voice carries on the wind, distant and as light as the new blossoms.

You push her into a gallop; not because there’s a rush, but because it’s fun. Because the wind is in your hair and the sun is warm on your shoulders and Clover thunders across the ground, kicking up dirt and making a mess.

You let a grin hitch onto the corner of your lips, lean forward, ease into the speed. The town is only a twenty minute ride, fifteen if you pushed, but you want to enjoy the ride. The landscape blurs past you in shades of olive and juniper, butter cream, robin’s egg blue. The pop of lily white, a sudden burst of dainty pink or blushing red. But it’s just you and the trees and the pounding of your heart along the beat of hooves against the solid ground.

Free and open and bursting, you race away from home eagerly and into the wilderness.

You end up slowing Clover halfway through your journey, appreciating the spring air, new and linen clean, shadowed patterns falling over you beneath the trees. The wind tickles your cheeks, the distant sound of the river can be heard when you listen carefully, a soft rush of water. It’s soothing, like the creek by your house, the sloshing lake you visit often. You let it carry you into town, peaceful, lazily letting Clover step onto more worn dirt roads.

Town people shout to you in greeting, wave as you pass by; you’re a familiar face to them. You give them smiles, holler back to some as you make your way to the grocers to sell your eggs and milk. You swing down from Clover, hopping easily onto your feet.

You end up walking out of the grocer’s with some extra money and a few cans of preserved vegetables and fruits. You buy some bread at the bakery, a pastry to split with Wanda, who you’re hoping can join you for the afternoon.

You catch sight of her outside the dress shop, peering at the finely made clothes through the window. She wears her own dress of dove grey, similar in fashion to yours rather than the ones she gazes at; your dresses are looser, easier to move and work and play in, aprons tied around your waists instead of the ruffles and frill of the dresses in the window. Her long curls cascade over her shoulders, near copper under the afternoon sun.

You call to her, watch as her features light up upon seeing you, before she picks her skirts up and bounds over to you. Her scent hits you; sweetly Omega, soft clary sage, warm rose, and damp patchouli. Mysterious and floral, she’s always been a little offbeat with her wide, wondering eyes that linger in darkness.

Some of the elders call her a witch, little demon child, with her Eastern European ties and mischievous curl of her lips. But to you she is only Wanda, your dearest.

Her fingers, nimble and quick, find yours, lock and lace together. “Hello, darling.” She says, pressing her lips to your cheek in greeting, her voice melodic and smooth; velvet dark and sweet twilight.

You let your cheek brush hers, lean into the touch eagerly, soft, rosy and warm skin against yours. “Hello, Wanda.”

She pulls back with a flutter of her lashes, wide eyes finding yours. There’s a familiar glimmer in them, which makes your heart leap amorously, excited and playful. “Are we going to sneak off to the meadow today, still?” She asks, dropping her voice to a hush and stepping nearer. Your hands tighten over hers as you draw closer, duck your head so you catch another breeze of her scent in her hair, the nape of her neck.

“Yes,” You reply, an eager smile pulling at your lips, “I bought us a pastry to split and a book to read.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” She nearly purrs, bouncing lightly on her toes in excitement. You’re about to pull her along, drag her towards Clover when someone clears their throat behind you.

You both turn, fingers still interwoven, pressed to one another’s sides. Her warmth is welcome and comforting, especially as you both find Rumlow gazing back at the pair of you with depthless, cold eyes. His face, so marred and twisted, gleams pink and shiny with scarred and new skin under the afternoon light. The rays of white gold sunlight do nothing to lighten his features, nor the darkness of his gaze.

It pierces deep into you, as if he wants to pry and prod and pick you cleanly apart. It’s the gaze of a conqueror, you think, the gaze of someone who wants something that can never be theirs. It’s a disturbing hunger, the kind that sends a deep chill down your spine.

Wanda squeezes your hand in comfort. So attuned to you, she perhaps can tell by body language or the dip in your scent that you’re frightened in some way, that Rumlow has caused you distress and he has yet to even open his jagged, scarred mouth.

“Lovely afternoon for you ladies.” He says very coldly, as if he is not in fact concerned with the weather nor you both.

“Yes, it is.” Wanda replies for you, a dark, protective little gleam in her eyes. You can smell the shift of scent with her light aggression, the flare of sage that burns and tickles your nose. It sharpens and spices, makes you blink with it.

“You’re both looking mighty fine, rich with spring. Omegas always were sweetest in spring. Isn’t that right?” He muses and it chills you to the bone, makes you press closer to Wanda’s side, as if you could fold into the safety of her body.

There is old folklore; spring being associated with Omegas. It’s all about fertility and the new life that blossoms in spring, old wives’ tales of Omegas getting their strongest heats in the spring after long, dormant winters. Perhaps there is some truth to it, biologically, because winter can get so harsh and so sparse with food if one isn’t careful. Bearing children in winter would never be easy, but it’s something you don’t wish to linger on, particularly not with the way Rumlow is eyeing you.

Like ripening fruit to be picked. A flower blooming, awaiting the moment to pluck it from the earth.

Wanda grows uncomfortable now, too, you can feel it in the bunching of her slim shoulders. But she steps in front of you purposefully, a show of challenge to Rumlow, one of protection for you.

“Isn’t that right, ladies?” Rumlow urges, taking a step forward and Wanda sharply takes a step back, forcing you back as well. You cling to the back of her skirts with tense, seeking fingers.

“I sure hope you’re not botherin’ these girls.” Another voice speaks up, authoritative and strong and sure. The kind of voice that gives commands, ones you think many eagerly would follow. Not unkind, but unwavering. When you both turn to the source, it’s a blond man, broad shouldered and wide and tall. He’s dressed simply, the top few buttons of his shirt popped open to reveal a muscled chest. Pretty, light blue eyes. He has an honest face, a strong jaw, trustworthy and noble.

His scent is distinctly Alpha, strong and commanding; cedar wood and leather. The soft notes of something gentler like cotton and the way your linen smells on a summer day fluttering in the breeze to be dry. It’s soothing, a deep comfort compared to the off-beat, metal tang and sour blood smell of Rumlow’s scent.

Which, has become bitter and salty with his anger and aggression for this newcomer.

“I wasn’t bothering them. Was I bothering you Omegas?” He asks sharply, prickling with agitation and it makes you grip Wanda’s skirts a little tighter. “And who are you, anyways?” He then almost growls, “Newcomer isn’t gonna tell me what to do.”

You can tell Rumlow’s itching to pick a fight by the tightening of his shoulders and baring of his teeth. The air becomes charged with scent, territorial and angry and pungent. Wanda’s is still spiced and agitated, too, with the threat of Rumlow. Your own is dipped into distress, irritation, and the newcomer’s becomes stronger, cedar wood sharp. Rooted in place, he cocks his head slightly, challenging.

“Why don’t you move along.” The newcomer says, and he’s not asking, he’s telling. It’s bold of him, with the way Rumlow’s face; twisted and angry, settles on him. No one challenges Rumlow in this town. He holds too much power, is too strong; both physically and socially. Even protected by the law by being a tax collector for Alexander Pierce.

Another man steps up behind the blond, eyeing Rumlow with particularly cold and dark eyes; midnight blue, the evening sky bleary with stars, depthless and all consuming. His hair is longer, brushing the tops of his shoulders, half pulled back from his strong face--

When your eyes settle upon his features for the first time, it feels as if you’ve been struck; a blow of lightning, the sudden shock of cold water, the gasp you take when you resurface. It’s damning, you think, as if you’ve seen him in your dreams or in hazy, unknown past lives. As if you’ve known him your whole life, somehow, as if you recognize him now and wonder how you ever could’ve forgotten him.

He looks like the tragic heroes you read about; the ones that rise only to fall, crumble down after being so noble and wide-eyed. He is breathtaking and standing tall and strong against Rumlow’s piercing gaze. There’s a warning in his eyes, a half-dare, begging Rumlow to try something and see what happens now. Where the blond is golden-hearted and bright-eyed, he seems darker, more eclipsed.

And surprisingly, it works, Rumlow eyes the pair of them, weighs his options, and then promptly steps down. He mutters something about leaving, about how this isn’t the end. But you can’t help the quirk of a smile, the hint of cruel amusement you get from watching him ease away. Slink off back into the hustle of town.

Wanda smiles wider than you, sharper, a little more mischievous, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rumlow cower like that.” She says and turns towards the newcomers with a radiance that is hard to match.

And the blond smiles, easy and gentle, “Glad we could help.” And then with deep courtesy, “Steve Rogers, by the way.”

“Wanda Maximoff.” She pulls you back up to her side once more, offers your name to them, too.

Steve claps the other man on the shoulder, an ease is shared between them that is not unsimilar to you and Wanda. Steve adds, “James Buchanan. But we just call him Bucky.”

And Bucky nods, his eyes finally sliding over to you; his scent hits you at nearly the same time. Offbeat and pine, the sharp, cold smell of metal. There’s evergreen and winter, maybe the soft spice of juniper, the low cut of musk. It makes your eyes flutter, makes your head go soft and bleary with it.

“Pleasure to meet you both.” Wanda says and her voice refocuses you, her fingers skimming yours to ground you. You flit your eyes away, but can feel Bucky’s suddenly sink over you the way the red sun will drop below the hills.

You become keenly aware of your bare neck, hair pulled from your face and shoulders to reveal it to him. The cut of your dress suddenly seems both revealing and not revealing enough. Like it could constrict you, or maybe you’re showing too much skin.

“What brings you here?” You ask, perhaps a little cooly, eyes seeking out the horizon rather than them. Anything but him.

“Passing through. Looking for work for a few weeks.” Steve answers politely and his eyes glitter like the creek in the high summer. He’s pretty, you think, long lashes framing those eyes.

“Oh!” Wanda exclaims and she loops her arm through yours solidly, her body warm and soft beside you, “You’re in luck! She needs help running her farm!”

You almost choke. Throw Wanda a glare but she only meets you with that impish, precious smile you can’t stay mad at for very long.

“I don’t--” You try to protest.

“She does!” Wanda interjects, “Her father injured his knee awhile ago, been looking for someone to help out.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then perhaps Buck and I will have to stop by.” Steve says easily, a half amused grin tugging at his lips as he gazes between you and Wanda. Almost as if he’s endeared by your antics. You bristle.

“My father doesn’t take to newcomers very well.” You warn, as if that’ll scare these two Alphas away so easily after their little stunt with Rumlow. You worry that few things will scare these two off.

Regardless you don’t need them on your farm, don’t need them trying to help or care for you or order you around. It’s always been you, and no one will change that. You’re not about to let them treat you like some soft, little creature who should be inside baking them pies and fetching them water.

But you can feel Bucky’s eyes on your face still, as if he’s trying to burrow in there, make a home upon which he gazes.

You grow even tenser, teeth grinding. No home to find inside you; just the unruliness of nature, the ever-changing seasons, or unforgivable storms. The river that churns too fast, dives between the mountains and the forests, the sly, sharp-toothed fox.

You turn your nose up, “Besides,” You say, insolent and dry, “I don’t really need any help.”

“‘Course.” Steve agrees and you aren’t sure if it’s to placate you or if he’s genuine, “But if you’re looking for an extra pair of hands to order around, we’re your guys.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” You say, though decidedly won’t.

Daring yourself, you finally force your eyes to Bucky once more. His face is stern and closed off, reserved. He hasn’t spoken once, and stupidly, horribly, you long to hear his voice. You wonder what it sounds like, if it’s rough or smooth or everything at once. Does he speak loudly or softly? Will you have to lean in to hear him or will you step back at the crack of it?

And yet, he hasn’t needed it once yet. His presence, formidable and strong and raw, is enough.

You blink, look away just as he glances back at you. This strange game of cat and mouse with eyes is making your fingers twitch and tighten in your skirts.

“We should be off,” You tell Wanda, wishing to flee, to feel the wind on your face and Wanda’s body beside yours and the afternoon sun bursting on your skin.

Steve wishes the pair of you well, gentlemanly and sweet. Tips his hat with a boyish sort of grin that perhaps would leave other’s swooning.

And Bucky, gruffly, and with a sort of gentleness you aren’t expecting to find, says to you, “It was nice meeting you both.”

Something warm settles into your chest, sliding down like molasses, dripping into your stomach and core, spreading throughout you like it owns you; settles deep into you like it won’t leave, real deep into the marrow of your bones. And you inhale, breathe as if this is your first real breath in the whole of your life.

You find yourself replying, almost as softly, “It was nice to meet you, too.”

His lips twitch upwards in the barest hint of a smile, as if it’s the first time he’s smiled in a long, long time and he needs you to show him how again.

So you do, you give him your own smile that isn’t much bigger, but it’s much easier and sweet as honey, clever as a fox. Almost like you want him to chase you, follow that curve of your lips.

Wanda giggles, before pulling you away and back towards Clover to begin your adventure for the day, but you think you can feel the dark of his eyes on the back of your neck still, the line of your shoulders. It lingers, until you ride off into the heather hills with her and disappear on the gauzy horizon.

---

Wanda and you roll in the wild grass on the sloping hills. Laughing and chasing and playing like you’re girls again, half-savage and free and untempered. You tumble and shriek and hitch up your skirts, loosen your dresses and unbutton collars. The sun is a gold glow, warming the earth and your skin, shimmering dreamlike on the new green buds, the wheat yellow of the tall grass. You tip your face up to the sky eagerly, just as you let yourself flop back into the field, back hitting the ground that catches your fall, cradles you. Clouds pass overhead in cotton shapes, free and darling, and you’re still breathing a little hard from romping around with Wanda, feeling your heartbeat inside the cage of your chest. You feel flushed with life; ferocious and curious and excited.

Wanda drops down by your feet, before slowly, languidly crawling atop you. She straddles your waist, her skirts spilling out over the two of you. You sit up on your elbows, jostle and try to dislodge her a little with another round with warm laughter, but she holds fast, nails digging into your shoulders.

“I saw the way you were looking at Bucky.” She says and there’s too much mischief in her eyes, a clever glint that the sun turns amber and honey hazel.

You roll your eyes at her, but even the mention of his name on her lips makes something inside of you stir. But you indulge her, leveling her with an unamused gaze, “And how was that, Wanda?”

She leans over you, her fiery hair brushing your cheek, your shoulders. She fits herself closer, twines her arms around you all close and snug.

“Like you wanted to bare your throat to him right then and there.” She teases playfully, voice dipping into a warm, rumbling purr. Her nose drops, nuzzles lightly at the sensitive scent gland at your neck. It makes you squirm, your fingers tightening in the skirts of her dress.

You allow her so close, allow lips and teeth and nose into the dips of your body because she’s so familiar to you. A piece of your heart is firmly in her small, warm hands. It blurs the thin, unsteady line between you two, though. Scenting at the neck is usually romantic in some way; often times sexual. Comforting, when it needs to be, but you’ve laid so many times with Wanda, gotten so close and tangled together that you often find your nose at her throat, the nape of her neck, tucking your face into the crooks of her body and she to you. You know her like a lover, you think, sink into her body beneath the sun and the moon and the open skies that spread out before you both. As if the whole world opens for you two.

“Your scent got sweeter; milky lavender and dark jasmine.” Her lashes tickle your collar bones, her mouth warm and open against the skin there. It makes you flush deeply, sink into the earth beneath you, “Want him to bite you?” She jibes, flashes pearly teeth, her canine gleaming in that white sun.

“Wanda!” You yelp, shoving at her and she throws her head back and laughs, “No!” And you begin to wrestle with her once more, pushing her off and sending you both tumbling down another hill. You shriek and peel with laughter, pulling and grabbing at each other until you roll apart.

She gets on her hands and knees, feigns a growl from an Alpha in her throat, the kind that rumbles out from deep within them, but the sound is a little muted, and too light in her mouth. She suddenly pounces for you again, playful and light, sending you belly up and onto your back, though. “You want him to tackle you like this,” She torments, grabbing at your wrists as you try and squirm and fight with her.

With a grunt and all your strength, you roll her right onto her back now, hook your legs over her hips like she did.

“You want to simper and cry under him,” She says and this time her voice gets soft and breathy and pouty and she is good at that. Her back arches beneath you and you push at her more, tighten your hands around her wrists, shove them down to the ground, feel her heaving chest and trace the curve of her smiling lips and rose touched cheeks with eager eyes.

“I don’t!” You laugh, playfully bare your teeth at her and try and growl back the way she had. It’s better than hers, a little more bite to it, but it’s still too light and soft. She laughs with you at your attempt now, laughs and growls and yells with you until you’re both breathless because there is nothing and no one around to hear you but each other.

You howl and chase and fall into each other with giggles and wildflowers in your hair, get lost in her and the way the sun begins to fall from the sky and cast everything in a rosewood haze, slow and burning and beautiful.

She lays her cheek on your back when you ride Clover back to her home, and she kisses you goodnight, lips at the corner of yours. Promises to see you tomorrow.

And then you ride home, race fast and hard before the sun is swallowed by the moon, before the stars blink into existence and your father scolds you to all hell and back.

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

Home seems eerie with the darkness that creeps around its edges, night drawing out all the creeks and aches and splinters in the old house. All the memories pushed towards the back of your mind rush forward like skittering spiders. The last sliver of light sits on the horizon, fighting, railing against that inky sky as you get home.

And when you rush through the front door, shouting, “Pa, I’m home before the sun’s set!” You aren’t expecting to nearly run right into the broad chest of Steve Rogers.

You blink hard and he steadies you with a hushed, “Easy,” And his big hands on your shoulders.

You look up at him in disbelief, brows furrowing, quickly lurching away from him, only to realize Bucky stands to his right.

“What--” You start to snap, and this time your teeth are baring with aggression and irritation, gone is the lightness and playfulness you had with Wanda. Your eyes flash with the last cut of light that slashes through the old windows of your house.

“There’s my feral cat of a daughter, fellas.” Your father says and your head whirls to him.

He begins to introduce the three of you again, but you cut him off, “I met ‘em today, Pa.”

“Oh, good.” He says dryly, unappreciative of your tone. You force back a wince, know you’ll get scolded for that one. “They’ll be helping you out on the farm for a few weeks.”

You whip back to face Steve and Bucky, narrow your eyes at them, “Thought I told you both I don’t need any help?” You snap, unruly, wildflowers still caught in your hair that now slips free of what it’d been pulled back in earlier. You’re sure you look half-wild.

Steve holds up his hands as if he means no harm, palms up to you and you see they’re rough and calloused and scarred. Used, working hands. Hands that have seen a lot. You glance at Bucky, notice that one of his hands is gloved, the other free. You try not to stare, flit your eyes back to Steve.

“In our defense, we didn’t know this was your farm. We were sent this way after inquiring in town for work.” Steve says calmly, and then puts his hand over his heart, “Honest.”

You scoff lightly, turn back to your father, “I don’t need them, Pa.”

“No,” He agrees and pride swells in you, a small bubble of it for a heartbeat, “But they’d be a great help to you.”

There’s no amount of arguing or protesting that’s gonna change your father’s mind once it’s been set. He seems settled on this, content and confident. You try not to pout, try not to stamp your feet or snap or glare them right out of your house.

Final discussions are had; pay and what times they’ll arrive and leave. Your father, thankfully, warns them to listen to you, and if he finds differently, they’ll be kicked to the dirt as quickly as they’d gotten the job.

And then he warns them, quite frankly, to mind themselves around you and you can feel your cheeks deepen into crimson. Bucky and Steve dip their heads, though, say obedient and firm, yes sir’s, as if they expected it.

Your father finishes with, “Alright, then. You two start tomorrow.” And then he looks to you, “Walk them out, will you?”

You huff, but do so, walk them to the porch where the crickets and frogs have begun to chirp and croak and sing. The night crawls onward, the wind rattles this old house. A chill overcomes you, a little shudder. You think you can hear the far-off sound of baying coyotes, erie and high pitched in their frenzied yelping.

“Suppose I’ll see you both bright and early in the morning, then.” You say, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Suppose so.” Steve says, lowers his eyes a little, “I did mean it, we didn’t know this was your farm.”

You eye him, “Nothin’ I can do about it now, is there?” You counter, unwilling to give an inch, no matter how sweetly he looks at you with those darling, blue eyes. You’re sure that boyish charm works everywhere else, but you refuse to let it here.

He has the good sense to dip his head submissively, nodding slightly, “We’ll get out of your hair for the night then, let you rest. Goodnight, ma’am.” He says respectfully, before easing down off the old wood that protests beneath his heavy steps.

And for a heartbeat, it is only you and Bucky and the rattling tree branches and the croaking night. A moment frozen, as if you’d captured it in a bottle like a letter that you’ll throw into the sea. Just this sliver of time that makes the whole world stand still, as if it’s been waiting or fearing for your coming together.

You have nothing to say, but he inclines his head, holds your eyes like he’s holding the world in his arms, and murmurs all low and rumbling, “Goodnight, miss.”

Then turns his back on you, and hustles over to Steve, to their tethered horses.

And this time it’s you that watches him, eyes glued to his muscled back, the nape of his neck, as he eventually is swarmed by the darkened, reaching horizon.

---

You fall into bed, feeling strange and wary, a little weary, perhaps a little hopeful, too. For what, you don’t know. You can feel the wind changing, coming with new spring. But there’s something else, something heavier; the pressure is building, as if there’s a storm brewing. The kind of spring storm that bring destruction and clamor and the kind of rain that threatens to sweep you away in their flood and ferocity.

Your bed creeks, the shadows are tall and reaching in your room. The moon spills in, but instead of painting you with wonder or lovely, pearl light, it only makes the shadows that much darker. The night brings the cold, makes you pull tight and inwards. You curl up beneath your quilt, try and ward off all that presses in.

Eventually, you sleep.

And you dream.

You dream in visions of phantom grey and oil slick black, syrupy red, and flesh pink. You step lightly in a graveyard, the earth freshly turned and dark. Stones jut out from the ground like jagged, crooked teeth. It swallows you whole. The fog is thick and evasive, surrounding you and gathering around you, a train to your skirts that murmur and brush against stones and dirt and the hollowed out ground.

A grave with your father’s name grows from the earth, forces you to stop, stutter backwards. Your teeth begin chattering, the clanking of bone against bone. You can feel the whispers of wind, something so near. Your heart plummets as you read his name, as you see his grave, which you now see is besides your mother’s.

The ground trembles.

Their graves crack, splinter like a dropped glass, bursting outwards in a wave of skittering, flaming stone.

Frantically, you drop to your knees, try to put them all back together, as if that will somehow help. As if that will fix anything. You curse and cry and there are tears-- there are tears that drop onto burning stone. It sizzles and smokes but you can’t put them back together. You are alone, and you can’t.

Your hands begin to burn, flesh pink and blister white. Mud sucks at your legs and your knees and then you are sinking, sinking, sinking--

Oil drowns you, forces its way down your mouth and your throat and clogs your lungs. Seeps into every part of you. It’s invasive, forceful in it’s push and pull of you, it sucks at you and you are forced downward, kicking and screaming. Forced to swallow and take and be filled.

You twist, frantic. Try to fight back, but you are caught in the thick of it. It devours your screams and cries and pain.

And from above, there is a cut of silver, a star in the inky sky. A hand; metal and unnatural plunges in for you. And he pulls you clear out of the muck, the earth’s blood and into his arms.

When you emerge, it is as if you’re cleansed by the light. Gone is the slick oil, gone is the choking and drowning and thrashing. Bucky holds you to him now, crushes you to his chest where you can hear the live, thundering beat of his heart.

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs, cradling your skull as if it’s precious, something to be protected. Your nose is pushed to his neck and you--

You cling to him, swallow down clean gulps of spring air and the juniper bright and metal sharp smell of him. Pine, there is pine and evergreen, too. Clean and fresh and dipping into musk. Your heart slows, lulls, with his voice in your ear; that voice you’d so desperately wanted to hear.

You feel as if you’ve heard it your whole life now, as if you can’t imagine going another day without hearing it. And he says your name, not Omega, just your name. And he breathes and is warm and alive beneath you.

When you look around now, the earth is fertile and bright and warm. Spring damp roses and sweet, honeycomb sunshine. The fauna is in full bloom, an overabundance of life that leaves you inhaling the fragrant air. It’s so thick, almost cloying.

And there is no breeze, you think.

And Bucky’s lips are at your neck.

And there is a stirring in your stomach but its--

It’s all wrong.

He tries to lay you down. And you don’t protest because there’s something so tempting about it all, so safe, or so instinctual. There’s an ache and a burn and you want to shed your skin, you want to let him in and never let him out, bury his body in the ground with you. Become the earth and fertilize the flowers and feed the foxes you love so much. You wanna lie with him until the crow calls, until you’re nothing but him and you and the gem stones deep in the ground.

But when his face lifts from your vulnerable neck, it is not him.

Rumlow stares down at you, his scarred face so close and imploring. He croons Omega and you shriek, you try to get away, but it’s like the oil all over again; you trapped and thrashing and stuck. Rabbit in a snare. Fox in a trap. You scream, scream for Bucky or Wanda or even Steve or your father. You scream until it tapers off and burns into something ragged, shredding your voice.

He is just heavy atop you, and his face is morphing and shifting, like he’s a new creature altogether. Blackened eyes that are too wide, too large and there is a gaping whole where his mouth should be--

You claw at him, scratch with nails, pull at pink flesh and cartilage and bone until he starts dripping blood and saliva, growling like a rabid dog. You twist his face away so sharply, so horribly, that there is a sickening crack and then the full of him collapses atop you.

You squirm and you are crying, choked sobs because it feels like you are burning, or aching. Lonesome and longing or horrified and fearful of everyone. You want to be held in equal measures that you want to run away and never see another face again. You are torn, split in two and unraveling.

When you scramble away, deeper into the fragrant wild grass. You realize there is wetness, slick and warm and--

There is blood. So much blood coating your legs and it seeps through your skirts, stemming from between your legs. It pools beneath you, waters the flowers and seeps into the earth as if it belongs there.

You howl like an animal, fingers squabbling in the dirt and the blood and your body as if you can put yourself back together again--

You wake with a hard, sucking gasp. Blinking hard in the darkness. Your hands pull at your nightgown, shift to feel your skin, still warm and dry and clean beneath your heavy quilt. Reassuring, gulping breaths bring back cool air into your lungs. I’m safe, you tell yourself, it was just a dream.

But the night is still dark and the bed still creaks and the wind still howls, almost the way you had when you’d found all that blood-- No.

But now you’re just awake, in a lonely room. And there is no comfort, no warmth or forgiveness in the hollowness of it all.

You rise in the morning, heavy bags beneath your eyes, and begin your day in hopes of a better one.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #a/b/o verse #alpha/beta/omega au #cowboy au #bucky barnes fanfiction #alpha bucky barnes #omega reader

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kitterymagari · 4 years

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An Everraium Tale- PART 1

AN EVERRAIUM TALE

I- The Good Luck Charm

The fishermen of Lunarie Bay know a morning when Marcel walks by the docks will ensure a hearty catch, and the old women sitting outside store fronts will feel their old bones relax thanks to her polite waves in passing. Before following through with any important venture, the townspeople leave offerings (usually metal bells) at Marcel’s doorstep. Students on big test days hug Marcel for extra security; those with a lick of bravery and a pining heart may try to kiss her as a foretelling of what could be in their future (she always refuses these).

Marcel Fontaine of Lunarie Bay was a living and breathing good luck charm--for everyone except herself. So, to all but her, the strangely dim afternoon two jaunty looking fellows flew in town (which usually always had clear weather) felt uncharacteristically unlucky.

“We start here and move our way up,” Fio commands. Checking her compass one last time, she nudges her head in a “c’mon” motion to Grim, who is still tying the airship to port. Floating a few feet above the water, the Selkie’s Pride stands out slightly among the dozens of docked fishing boats. She sniffs the air with a frown. “It smells like fish.”

“Almost like we’ve stopped at a marine village, isn’t it?” Grim smiles cheekily as he passes her and walks towards the bustling dockside market. Fio reluctantly smiles to herself before following suit; chatter of the lively market growing as they approach.

“You’re looking for Marcel, alright,” The salesman eyes Fio as inconspicuously as he can, but she clearly notices. He sets both outstretched hands loudly on the table and narrows his gaze. “You gonna buy something or what?”

Fio musters an almost friendly look. “Grim, give the man a few coins for his trouble.” He has no time to pry for more before the entire market turns its head to the faint approaching jingle of bells.

“Marcel! Marcel, over here!” Stall owners and shoppers all over the market clamor around what seems to be a teenage girl, dressed in decade old West Everraium fashion: a wide pierrot collar, frilled dresskirt and flowery stockings. From her poof of braided hair comes the jingling, where three golden bells are tied into the strands that frame her face and ears. She politely swats greedy hands from pulling her in all sorts of directions while repeatedly apologizing to them.

Fio storms through the crowd like a machine, as if slicing herself a path with dual blades cutting tall grass. Grabbing Marcel by the wrist like a carnival prize, she turns triumphantly to the pursuers, many of which either silently glare or back off completely. Marcel can only stare up at Fio with a mixture of confusion and awe.

“This little dear and I have some urgent business to attend to. I’d say sorry, but we’ll be so quick you won’t even miss her.” Fio turns to look at Marcel directly for the first time. “Isn’t that right?”

“Y-yes, I’ll be back!” Marcel averts her eyes away from Fio’s as she speaks, but Fio doesn’t seem to care. Winking at Grim, who’s leisurely strolling up the path, she guides Marcel away from the grumbling townspeople and into a secluded alley far enough away between two stalls, yanking her wrist every so often to hurry up the process.

Letting go of her arm, Fio lightly pushes Marcel into the wall. Grim, who guards the entryway, looks back at them long enough for Marcel to get a decent look of his face. It’s slightly more boyish in contrast to his strong but slim figure, with handsome monolid eyes, a defined jaw, pointed ears (was he part Pixie? She couldn’t see any wings) and long dark hair half pulled in a high bun. When he catches Marcel looking he flashes a bright smile, one that no doubt would make a few villagers swoon. Fio on the other hand exudes dominance, her eyes lively and shadowed by a swath of unruly hair with charms dangling from hidden ears. Her complexion is a tad darker than Marcel’s, smooth all except for the vertical scar crossing through her lips and lower right cheek. Behind her extravagant ruffled coat Marcel gets a peek of a mysterious weapon strapped to her back.

Any observations are interrupted when Fio snaps her fingers in Marcel’s face.

“You’re the Luck of the West, aren’t you?” Their eyes bore into each other, and Marcel tried her hardest to look strong. “Word on land is it’s either you or those bells--but no one knows for sure.”

“So what if I am?” The bells jingle slightly and accentuate the edge in her voice. “Just shake my hand or whatever, and get going. They won’t let you get away with anything.” She jerks her head in the market’s direction, causing the bells to clang even more.

“Keep acting up and I’ll personally write your morteatri.”

“Little bit of an old school threat, don’t you think?”

“Ha, you’re one to talk, wearing that mierda.” Fio leans in, done with snippy back and forth. “Listen up little witch. My partner and I have a proposal for you.”

“-Aw, I’ve been promoted from right hand to partner!”

She flips Grim off before continuing, prompting him to pretend to blow her a kiss.

“The ass is Grim. And I--” She bows and raises her arms dramatically, “am Captain Fio Delier of the magnificent Selkie’s Pride. Consider this a royal recruitment invitation. We’re your ride out of this shithole.”

Marcel scoffs.

“Shithole? Lunarie Bay is a wonderful town. You have no right to disturb such kind people!”

“You’re right to think so. Everything must be handed to you on a silver--no, gold--platter. But it’s clear how they really viewed you back there.” Fio may as well have poked a finger in Marcel’s frilly chest.

Marcel doesn’t answer for a few moments. Is this defeat? No, that isn’t totally correct. Marcel is a tool, that’s always been obvious to her. But security could be a fair trade off. She can stand a cushy, meaningless existence. ...Right? Marcel’s eye catches the gold bell in her periphery.

“Maybe I’d go with you, for my own reasons. But I need more information first. And--don’t take me for an idiot. You’re using me all the same.”

Fio grins deviously. A terrifying sight, Marcel thinks to herself.

“We’ll see about that. But it’s either now or never,” She leans in, enough for Marcel to smell faint jasmine perfume. “So make a choice.”

Marcel breathes in deeply, and without thinking she nods her head, echoed by affirmative bell rings.

Stepping back, Fio grabs the weapon on her back, swinging it around her head in a perfect swooshing motion, and holds it straight out in front of her with both hands. Marcel isn’t sure completely, but it appears to be a worn, metal-tipped wooden scythe.

“To the airship!”

“Airship?!” Marcel looks at Fio, then Grim, frantically. “I didn’t know it was an airship! What if I fall off? I have to pack--what the hell is that thing--” but Fio is already striding out of the alley. Grim is quick to pat Marcel on the back.

“Welcome aboard! I know you’ll love it. No need to pack, but if you’re speedy I’ll let you tie up any loose ends here before Fio gets too annoyed. Oh, and no one’s fallen off… yet.” He flashes another bright smile, and it kicks Marcel into high gear.

Running out of the alley and into the street, Marcel is greeted by the sight of Fio re-fastening the scythe to her back. Market goers are strewn around her across the ground in an almost perfect circle, dazed, but to Marcel’s relief, relatively unharmed.

“What the--what’s wrong with you!?

Fio looks up, satisfied with her handiwork. “Got a problem, Jingle Bells?” She asks.

Grim speaks before Marcel can.

“I cannot wait for you to meet the rest of the crew. That’s constant entertainment right there!” He chuckles to himself before inspecting a vacant fruit stall that catches his eye, and swiftly begins stashing fruit in his various pockets.

“MARCEL FONTAINE. Shame on you for making an old man wait.”

Marcel and Fio both whisper under their breath in unison.

“Shit.”

“Mierda.”

Not far away in the market square is a withering ghost of a man, with dark, worn eyes and a menacing aura. He wobbles slightly, supported only by a rickety cane.

“Grandpa!” Marcel tries her best to grasp a semblance of calm and runs to take his free arm. “I was just on my way home--no spriteberries left unfortunately--but I have big news. I’ve been called out to the world just like you always said I would!”

“Foolish brat,” her grandfather spat out. “Luck is no use selfish.”

“But… didn’t you always foretell this possibility? I haven’t even gotten to explain.” Marcel feels her eyes water against her will.

“Stop crying and come home before it rains.”

“You live with a total stronzo,” Fio whispers to Marcel after the old man yanks himself free, turns, and begins to slowly hobble back up the street. “I’d have offed him ages ago.”

Maybe it’s the bad weather, or this sudden second chance, but Marcel is different. The world feels different. She stares after her grandfather silently, a great player in the objectification that is Marcel’s life, and organizes her emotion as cleanly as she can. But really, what’s the point in that? If I don’t feel vindictive, resentful, what is it? She thinks. Looking at effortlessly Fio subdue the same people that clamor Marcel’s good fortune any chance they get, or even Grim stuffing his pockets with spriteberries without care of stealing from them--these rowdy strangers (who she trusts against her better judgement), they’re less empty.

“I changed my mind,” Marcel whips around and faces Fio, Grim, and the horizon head on. The usual clang of her bells stops short. “I’m ready to go now.”

“Fantastic!” Grim says with a mouthful of ripe punchfruit.

“Okay Jingle Bells, a few rules we need to run over before we hop port,” The three rogues linger beside the massive Selkie’s Pride airship, which, much to Fio’s boosting ego, Marcel cannot stop staring up at. Perhaps due to the ornate carving that adorns the sides of the ship (displaying scenes of mythical battles with sea creatures and flying beasts alike), the grand triple masts billowing in the wind, or the huge selkie figurehead, Selkie’s Pride is a true sight to behold. “Hey! Listen.”

“Sorry!” Marcel says, blushing slightly. Fio continues after motioning Grim to start untying the lead.

“I, as your captain, reign supreme with authority. In the rare instance I’m gone, Grim’s in charge. My ship has no room for stowaways. Do your part or I’ll throw you overboard mid flight.”

“About that… I’m just the luck aren’t I? So… what do I do…”

“Fantastic question! I’m so glad to see you’re not hopelessly dense. You, little dear, have been promoted from otherwise-useless luck object to lookout.”

Grim laughs from behind. Screw you both, Marcel thinks.

“Captain! Assistance required!” An unknown voice shouts from the airship.

“Un momento!” Fio looks serious for the first time. “One last thing: if you spot any intruders, leave the fight to Grim and I.” And with that, she hops over the railing and disappears.

A plank drops down from the deck abruptly, causing Marcel to jump back. Grim is standing at the top of it with his hand beckoning to her.

“Ready to meet the crew?”

A sudden chill sends shivers through Marcel. The sky is graying fast; someone from on deck yells to leave before a storm hits. There’s no time to look back to the town, and all she’s ever truly known for the past seventeen years, to question if she’s ready or not. Locking eyes with Grim, she takes a leap of faith and steps on the airship.

#an everraium tale #original story

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amuseoffyre · 5 years

Note

Flashback, a la Crossing Paths. Maybe something in eastern Europe? Or a good palace intrigue?

Versailles

In Versailles, one didn’t really need to do anything to fan the flames of temptation.

The court was already a sizzling hotbed of scandal, intrigue and jealousy. The most a demon really needed to do was imply that Lady So-and-So might have been caught en flagrante delicto with Count Such-and-Such, picking the targets of his information with care, knowing full well that the gossip would filter through enough ears to cause envy, malice and lust.

Of course, the fact the words come from his lips to one, then her lips to another is neither here nor there. Gender is such a useful plaything and the men of the palace like a promiscuous woman with ample charms to divert them.

One such… charming boy caught Aziraphale from behind, rudely hiking up her skirts and fumbling under them.

Aziraphale raised his brows, changed his nether parts, and waited nibbling on his lower lip, for the shriek of pain. One of the benefits, Aziraphale thought happily, of being a demon was that your earthly body could do whatever you wanted it to.

Including biting where it ought not be able to bite.

It was one thing to be promiscuous. It was quite another to let some little bastard think he could get away with such coarse and unwanted attentions.

He moved through the rooms, changing form as he went into a more masculine guise to approach a handful of the royal bastards. A messy bunch, that lot, ready to lay hands on anyone who had not yet been conquered by one of their number. They even made a competition of it, which had always struck Aziraphale as a rather crass waste of time.

Still, humans were humans and they were damned good at being damned rotten.

“Anything interesting about?” he inquired, sprawling in among them as if he had always been there.

“Liselotte has a new Lady companion.” One of them said, grinning. “Older than most, but you should see the hair on her.”

“Fair?”

Another of the lads grinned, shaking his head. “Flaming red. We want to know if it’s real.”

“And how, pray,” Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows, “do you intend to find that out?”

One of the young men grabbed at the front of his breeches. “To see if the top matches the bottom,” he said with a leer.

Ah, of course. Humans and their… odd affectations. Didn’t they realise, he wondered, that some humans couldn’t even match all the hair on their heads, let alone around their genitalia. There were men enough with three shades of colour between brows, moustache and crown.

“Which is this mysterious lady, then?” he inquired, peering around the room.

The leader of this particular group of ruffians pointed across the room to a cluster of women.

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped like a rock.

“The seated lady?” he said, straightening up. “Red hair, ivory gown? Gold at her throat?”

“The same!” One of the interchangeable idiots grinned at him. “How long do you–”

Aziraphale tightened his fingers in the boy’s frilled shirt. “That one,” he growled, the rumble in his voice making them quail away from him, “is mine. You touch her, you think of her, you breathe the same air as her, I will make you wish for death.” His eyes blazed, his teeth sharp against his tongue. “Am I understood?”

The boys scattered like frightened rabbits.

They were only a few, he thought darkly. A handful of idiots and perverts in a court full of them. And Crowley was sitting there, radiant and glowing and smiling that damned angelic smile, and had no idea of the attention she was drawing.

He straightened up, pressing through the throng like a shark through the shoals. People spilled away from him and that was good. The men especially reared back in alarm and consternation, as well they should, as he let them feel a little of the trepidation every woman in the room was well-accustomed to.

He came to a halt before the Countess, but his eyes were only for Crowley, who flushed red and immediately started trying to hike up her fashionably revealing dress.

Aziraphale didn’t even bother with words. He flicked his eyes sideways towards the door that led into the gardens and raised his eyebrows. Crowley made a face at him, but then stepped sideways from human eyes.

“What do you want?” she demanded, self-consciously folding her arms over her breasts. Lord, she was lovely.

He offered her his arm. “A tête-à-tête?”

She glanced back at the woman who he presumed was her charge, chewing her lip, then nodded. “Five minutes, no more.”

It was five minutes more than he’d expected and he beamed at her as she slipped her arm through his, leading her through the oblivious crowds of people and out onto the terrace. The air was crisper and fresher than the hall, a gentle breeze sweeping in across the rolling gardens.

She stepped away from him at once – as usual – and sat down on the edge of the balustrade. “What do you want, Aziraphale?”

He gazed at her, taking note of the way her hands were already clenching in her lap, half-hidden in her wide skirts. “You look lovely,” he said.

Crowley flushed furiously and looked away. “You’re wasting your five minutes.”

“I’m not.” He sighed and sat down beside her. “Look… my dear… this place is a toxic cesspit. You… can’t look as lovely and intriguing as you do. You’re drawing… the worst kind of attention.”

Crowley looked at him guardedly. “What?”

Aziraphale hesitated, then reached over and carefully squeezed her hand. “The men of this court are, generally, vile, rapacious little bastards. You are…” He hesitated, picking his words carefully. “They consider you… a fresh target, if you will. The first one to… plant his flag, so to speak, will be the victor.”

Crowley’s face twisted in distaste. “Ugh! This is like the Romans all over again!”

Aziraphale smiled crookedly. “They would like to think so.” He gave her hand another squeeze, then lifted his fingers away. “Perhaps make yourself a little less noticeable to stave off unwanted attentions?”

Crowley glanced down at herself. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” she said with a rueful look at him. “I thought I should try and blend in with what they were wearing.”

“You do look… quite lovely,” Aziraphale said with a crooked smile. “If you need to say you were ravished by someone, you can always say I did it. Save the others the need to try.”

The angel arched a brow at him. “Probably better if I just change,” she said, getting up and shaking out her skirts. A couple of carefully-placed miracles and she went from alluring to still elegant but very clearly Do Not Touch style. “I have no plans to be ravished by anyone.”

Aziraphale sighed. “A shame. I would have been… very willing.”

Crowley laughed. “You’re terrible,” she said, adjusting the lace that hid her décolletage. “Are you coming back in?”

He smiled for her. “Shortly,” he said. “Enjoy your work, my dear.”

As soon as she was out of sight, he sank sideways against the foot of the statue beside him. “Damn it, you idiot,” he muttered. “Keep your mouth shut next time.”

#fic: inverse omens #demon aziraphale #angel crowley #good omens fic #reverse omens

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popatochisssp · 5 years

Text

Working Out the Kinks (Kinktober 2018) 17/31

Day 17: Masturbation | Seduction | Collaring | Orgasm Denial

Pairing: SF!Sans/Reader

Additional Kinks: None

AO3 Link

A little long (sorry to clog your dash!) but entirely sfw, so no cut again!

You got the idea when you’d asked Papyrus about his.

You’d seen them around a lot since monsters surfaced, plenty of monsters wore them, but you’d just sort of assumed it was a fashion trend and never really wondered about it beyond that.

At least, you didn’t, until you’d been taken as a monster’s lover.

So you’d asked Papyrus.

“yeah, yeah, it’s a… it’s a culture thing, i guess,” he answered you carelessly, not even looking up from his tablet. “makes a statement.”

You’d looked at the simple black leather collar around his neck and the shiny gold bone-shaped tag that dangled from it.

“So…what statement is yours making?”

“m’under my brother’s protection.” He tapped at his tag, making it twist a little. It was blank. “Sans is tough, everybody knows who he is so he didn’t even have to put his name.”

“But names are normal? For anybody else?”

“uh-huh. but y’know, only two skeleton monsters Underground, bone-tag’s gotta mean ‘Captain Sans Serif of the Royal Guard,’ and ‘this guy works for Sans, you fuck with him, you’re fuckin’ with Sans, proceed with caution.’”

“Huh. So people didn’t mess with you as much?”

“sure they did,” Papyrus had shrugged. “just didn’t usually live a lot longer after. was a little more of a deterrent that way.”

You had weighed your words, trying to figure out how to ask what you wanted to know without sounding insensitive or oversexed…

…but then you remembered you were talking to Papyrus.

“So it’s not a kink thing?”

Papyrus snorted. “shit, no.” But then he added, “can be sometimes, with couples and stuff. depends on the kind of collar.”

You had him lay it all out for you.

Apparently plain leather with no frills was for working relationships—your boss might give you a collar, or if you had a tough friend who was willing to protect you, you might finagle one out of them.

More…involuntary…relationships used metal collars, literal shackles with a visible padlock to show that this person wasn’t acting of their own free will. They were in servitude to somebody stronger and meaner than them and the only way to get them out of it was to get that person out of the way.

And then there were lovers’ collars.

They tended to be more ornate, more delicate—sometimes fine chains, sometimes ribbon or lace, but always worn by choice and always with a soul-shape on it somewhere, the color of their partner’s magic.

Mostly, it was the submissive partner who wore them, but it was something of an open secret that the dominant collar-mate would wear one that complemented it, just out of sight so it wasn’t obvious.

Armed with your new knowledge you planned your ambush with as much cunning and finesse as the skeleton you meant to catch, acting quickly, of course.

You wanted to have it ready in time for Sans’ birthday.

You were excited as a kid in a candy store when he finally got home after a long day at work on the day of, giving you a tired, shark-toothed grin as you greeted him.

“Happy birthday,” you said warmly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I have a surprise for you.”

Sans just huffed out a laugh. “UNLIKELY, BUT IT’S VERY CUTE OF YOU TO TRY.”

You put on an only slightly exaggerated pout. “You still don’t think I can surprise you?”

“NO ONE SURPRISES ME,” he told you, leaning against the furniture with his arms folded, trying to affect maximum-cool-badass-ness. “IT WAS A GOOD EFFORT, YOU SHOULD BE PROUD OF YOURSELF FOR THE ATTEMPT, BUT I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOUR GIFT ALREADY.”

“Oh, do you?”

“OF COURSE! THE ORDER CONFIRMATION EMAIL WAS SENT TO OUR JOINT ACCOUNT,” he pointed out. “YOU DELETED IT QUITE QUICKLY, BUT NOT QUICKLY ENOUGH, I’M AFRAID!”

You frowned. “Aww, you saw it?”

Sans patted you on the hand, a little condescendingly but you knew it was kindly meant, so you let it go.

(That, and you were already thinking about how great it was going to be to see the look on his face…)

“I DON’T NEED TO BE SURPRISED TO BE ABLE TO APPRECIATE A WHOLE CASE OF IMPORTED REDS,” he told you, reassuringly. “IT’S A VERY THOUGHTFUL GIFT AND WE’RE GOING TO HAVE SEVERAL LOVELY EVENINGS ENJOYING IT. PLEASE DON’T BEAT YOURSELF UP TOO MUCH JUST BECAUSE YOU WEREN’T ABLE TO CATCH ME UNAWARE! NO ONE GETS THE DROP ON THE MALEVOLENT SA—”

With perfect timing, you set the jewelry box on the table with a gentle ‘tmp’ sound.

Sans’ jaw audibly clicked shut.

Yours was aching with the strain of your grin.

You watched him stare daggers at the little box, eye-sockets narrowed. You could practically see the mathematical equations floating around his skull as he retroactively put together what the hell had just happened and you wanted to laugh…

But you managed to keep quiet.

“……A DECOY,” he realized. “YOU WANTED ME TO SEE THAT EMAIL.”

You shrugged. “The wine is your other gift,” you told him. “This one, I paid for in cash.”

“YOU SLY FOX, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ACTUALLY PULLED THIS OFF…”

You nudged the box a little closer to him, trying to break him out of his stunned stupor. “I didn’t pull it off just for you to not open it, go on.”

Sans took the box in his claws and opened it, sockets going wide at what was inside.

The custom black velvet choker you’d commissioned, just the right size to snugly fit around cervical vertebrae, with a charm in the middle in the shape of a heart and crossbones. It was the color of your soul, as Sans had shown it to you, with your name embroidered along the inside in the same shade.

“Do you like it?” you wondered hopefully. “I have one for me, too, but I thought…I thought you should put that one on me. And yours should fit under your scarf without being obvious, I tried to make sure.”

Sans was quiet for a long, long moment…

And then the exact opposite.

“OH MY GOD,” he exclaimed, “I AM SO ANGRY RIGHT NOW?! YOU COMPLETELY BESTED ME! I DIDN’T SEE THIS COMING FOR A SECOND, YOU SURPRISED ME AND YOU GOT ME A COLLAR FIRST?! UNTHINKABLE! I CANNOT BELIEVE…!”

You reached out for the box, to…maybe take it back?

But Sans immediately pulled it closer to his chest, defensively. “NO, IT’S MINE, I’M GOING TO WEAR IT FOREVER, I’VE NEVER BEEN SO IN LOVE WITH YOU! STARS ABOVE, GET OVER HERE SO I CAN KISS YOU!”

You laughed, but…well…your collar-mate was calling you.

You went straight into his waiting arms.

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Definitely 18+ content in either direction of this, read responsibly please!!!

#working out the kinks #undertale #fanfiction #sans #sans/reader #swapfell/fellswap #sf!sans #myfic #papyrus #sf!papyrus

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e350tb · 5 years

Text

Todesreich - Chapter I: The Halls of Power

Washington DC, 1962

“General Clay just called, sir. He’s reached the embassy.”

The President exhaled; he seemed to relax ever so slightly.

“Thank Christ,” he muttered.

Blue rubbed her hand slightly as he rubbed his temple, gazing down at his oak deck. He wiped a band of sweat from his forehead and straightened his tie. His beady eyes scanned the room and briefly met hers - in them, she could see conflict. Here he was, sending an envoy to the greatest enemy America had ever faced to create a lasting peace. In some ways, setting a table for Hitler was a betrayal, and both knew it.

“Mr. President?”

She’d only been a baby, and he’d been in the South Pacific, that autumn day in 1943, when America had learned of it’s greatest military disaster. Thirty thousand men lay dead on a beach in southern Italy, with the loss of fifteen warships - the mournful words of General Eisenhower, taking full responsibility for the failure, echoed on every radio in America. Yet for both of them it had changed everything. She grew up in a world terrified of fascism hiding behind every curtain, and he’d built a career on it. Yet now, they were here to make peace.

The press were already repeating the wry comment; ‘only Nixon could go to Berlin.’

Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States, arch grey-baiter and cold warrior, reached for the telephone. He dialed the number of the American Embassy in Berlin, before turning back to his staff.

“I’d like to be alone for this,” he said.

Slowly, the men in grey suits began to file out. Blue followed, stepping out into the hallway and taking a deep breath. It almost felt like she’d emerged from underwater.

She knew they needed to do this, but she couldn’t help but feel sick. The idea of offering the olive branch to the Nazis, considering what their thugs would do to someone like her if she lived in Germany… it just felt wrong. It made her skin crawl.

Yet, she supposed, this was politics. She’d expected as much when she took this job, and seen just how low it went. She’d seen Joe Kennedy’s campaigns; how he’d tried to smear one of Vice-President Rockefeller’s aides as a homosexual (and it wounded her that people thought that was wrong.) You had to swim in the muck to make it. And maybe they could change things in Germany. Maybe they could make it freer.

Maybe she was being too optimistic.

----

Berlin, 1962

Lance McClain hated Berlin, and he’d only been here a day.

The marine sighed as he stood in the guard tower, his heavy rifle leaning against the wall and his helmet removed. Sentry duty was a boring and lonely job on its own, and he was already over it before he’d even reached his post.

But then, the real kicker—he learned that guard duty was not fated to be a thankless job, and he would have a partner. That effectively lifted his spirits, and then dropped them with twenty times more disappointment when he spotted a familiar, dark-haired mullet approach the spot during the same shift change.

How’d Hunk get out of this?

If he was up with Hunk, it’d be fine - they could at least talk. But Keith Kogane? This guy. The stick up his ass had a stick up its ass. He just stood there, quietly watching the deserted streets around them, his face set into a frown. God, his whole aura just radiated with that smug undertone of I’m-better-than-you, so much so that on top of that there was an added layer of I’m-too-good-to-talk-to-you-because-I’m-so-much-better-than-you.

Lance sighed heavily and pursed his lips together. He blew against them, making a popping noise - pop!

Keith’s hands seemed to grip his rifle ever-so-slightly tighter. Lance noticed. He tucked his hands behind his back, like an officer inspecting his troops, and gazed off into the distance. For a few seconds, all was silent.

Pop!

Keith’s shoulders visibly raised, but his focus remained purposefully forward, on the streets. His breathing seemed to become more laboured, his brow furrowing-

Pop!

His breathing was definitely louder now, and Lance could hear his teeth grinding against each other. Smirk widening, he leaned in close to Keith’s ear, as if he was about to share a deep, dark secret. His face was set into the single most trollish expression he could possibly manage.

…

Pop!

Keith’s rifle shot back, the butt slamming right into Lance’s most prized possessions. He winced and cried out, collapsing to the floor and clutching his privates, wheezing and moaning. He spluttered in a raspy voice; “Man down! Man down!”

“You gentlemen wanna explain what you’re doing?”

Lance glanced down. Through his swimming vision he could see the gruff visage of Colonel Iverson, his arms crossed and his lips thin.

“I’ve been viciously assaulted, sir!”

“Sir, Private McClain was deliberately trying to annoy me, sir.”

“I was not! I was just making noises!”

“Shut up!”

Iverson pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Private Kogane,” he said. “Don’t react. It’s what he wants you to do. You’re a marine, you need to be a professional, you understand?”

“Yes sir!” Keith salutes.

“Private McClain?”

“Yes sir?”

“You’re an asshole.”

He sighed heavily and walked away.

Lance climbed to his feet and leaned against the wall, sweating. Keith rolled his eyes as the marine dry-heaved over the side, still squatting from the sudden and unexpected attack on his nether regions.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” he grunted.

“I may never have children,” Lance cried melodramatically.

He glanced down, watching as another two marines opened the gate. The Ambassador’s car - a hot-pink Chevrolet limousine, chosen as a symbol of American wealth, drove out onto the street and off towards the government quarter.

“Hey Keith, ever wonder why we can’t have cars like that?”

“Hey Lance, ever wonder what it’s like to be hit in the nuts twice in five minutes?”

“Fine, shutting up…”

-----

The Volkshalle was a breathtaking monument to hideous waste.

Shiro glanced up at the cavernous roof above the enormous assembly room, covered in gold regalia of Germany and the Nazis. Everything about it was built on a massive scale - the paintings, the sculptures, the truly enormous marble statue of Adolf Hitler at the end of the room. Yet if one looked closely, between the lines in the concrete, one could see the mold building in the cracks. You could smell a strange dampness in the air, leaving a chill in its wake that crept far lower than bone-deep.

“It’s almost symbolic,” Matt whispered, and Shiro was rather inclined to agree.

They were walking to a meeting room, Ambassador Clay deep in conversation with their tall, wiry technocrat of a host. Albert Speer was grey and balding, but time hadn’t diminished his passion for architecture. He was pointing at every aspect of the Volkshalle he found interesting and describing it in detail - and Clay was nodding politely and making a heroic effort not to appear as bored as he surely was. Speer wore a leather coat over his traditional brown party uniform, and part of Shiro thought he looked like a Nazi biker.

Next to them was John Profumo, British Ambassador - an up-and-coming Tory with an eye on the Prime Minister’s seat. He’d been forced to spend the morning looking at Speer’s models for grand new buildings, but it was an open secret in political circles that Profumo had an interest in models of a very different kind; specifically of a young and curvaceous kind. Yet he was also a professional and well-regarded, to the point where it was suspected that Prime Minister Butler had dispatched him to Berlin to prevent him from taking his job.

Before long they had left the grand atrium and were walking down a corridor, heading to the big wooden doors that led to one of the Nazi Party meeting rooms. On either side of the door was a guard - a member of the Führerbegleitkommando. These men, who these days were clad in the same tan-brown party uniforms and peaked caps as a party officer, were technically under control of the SS, but in actuality they answered directly to Hitler (or at least the minions who claimed to speak for him.) Shiro locked eyes with one of them - a grizzled, scarred veteran of a thousand nightmares in the East, by the look of him - and fought the urge to shudder.

They saluted, but Speer paid them no heed as he pushed open the door. He led the party inside, snapped to attention, and raised his arm.

“Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler.”

The room was grandly furnished with red carpet and drapes; a massive painting of a caped Hitler, surveying a map of his European conquests like a Roman emperor, covered the opposite wall, and swastikas adorned every pillar. Below the painting of the Fuhrer sat three men, none of whom looked particularly excited about their company. Shiro thought back to his briefings on these men back in Washington.

To the left, Martin Bormann - short, portly, round-faced, his constant expression stern and slightly bewildered. There were few frills on his uniform - just the standard party badge over his breast. On paper, Bormann was little more than Hitler’s secretary, yet this position offered power. He could and did control who could see the Fuhrer and when. Furthermore, as head of the Chancellory, he had official control of the Nazi Party itself, and while it was difficult to call Nazis a unified entity these days, it still counted for something when dealing with an errant clerk or rogue governor.

In the middle, Herman Goering, the portly, flamboyant head of the Luftwaffe - which, under Goering’s personal insistence, had expanded to include not only planes but considerable ground troops. The once black-haired Goering had gone bald at some point in the late 1950s, something that clearly irritated him given his insistence on wearing grand, gold-braided hats indoors. Some thought him a drug-addled joke; yet he held the feared Gestapo under his belt, having wrestled it from the SS in the fifties, and under his boisterous, charming mask was a cruel streak a mile wide.

To the right was a hunched, gaunt man, his face almost resembling a skull. This was Joseph Goebbels, the Minister for Propaganda, who had expanded his fief to include the Berlin Police, the city’s garrison, the Hitler Youth and the brand new television stations. It was Goebbels who had flooded the European airwaves with crude, anti-Semitic caricatures and pulpy, one-dimensional tales of martial derring do. It was he who controlled what was known and what wasn’t known. It was he who ensured the dark rumours of what was happening in the East remained merely that - rumours.

These were the so-called ‘moderates’ - a tentative, creaking faction defined only by a mutual opposition to Heinrich Himmler and the SS, and a determination to avoid the collapse of the Reich.

The others took their seats, but Shiro made sure to stand, as inconspicuous as possible, by the door.

“Ambassador Clay! Ambassador Profumo!” Goering extended his arms, beaming. “I trust you’ve enjoyed Berlin?”

“Yes, it has been a delight,” Clay lied smoothly.

“Indeed,” said Profumo. “But we really ought to get down to business, Herr Reichsmarschall. Her Majesty’s Government is keen to get this trade deal sorted.”

“You were a general under Eisenhower, were you not?” asked Goering, smiling plainly at Clay. “I always felt he was cruelly treated by the American government, you know? I-”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Goering,” said Clay. “President Nixon has a few preconditions to opening trade with your nation, which I’ve taken the liberty of writing down.”

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

“Uh, Herr Ambassador, surely we should start by telling you what we want out of-” Speer began.

Clay raised his brow.

“Mr. Speer, let me be frank,” he said. “Germany’s credit rating is atrocious. One American dollar buys ten Reichsmarks. You have no international market for any of your products. Americans don’t want Fanta and Volkswagens, they want Coca-Cola and Fords. Your bargaining power is nearly nonexistent. Depending on what we negotiate, all that might change, but let me make this entirely clear, gentlemen; you are not in a position of power right now.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. Speer seemed to pale slightly, and Bormann sank in his chair. Goebbels didn’t initially seem to move, but Shiro could just about see his hands shaking. Goering still smiled, but it seemed decidedly pained.

He took a deep breath. “Right,” he said, his voice laboured. “Of course. Please, Herr Clay, your proposal.”

Clay leaned forward.

“Caucasus oil. Ruhr coal. Steel. Rubber. Maize from the Ukraine. These are the things America wants, not your dinky little Beetles.”

“Please, the Fuhrer doesn’t like the term Bee-” interrupted Bormann.

Clay raised his hand to shut him up.

“Most of all,” continued Clay. “We want uranium. We know there are deposits in the former Soviet Union. We want it; we want to survey for it, we want to build mines, we want uranium from the existing mines.”

He slipped the paper over to Goering.

“Here’s our offer.”

Goering picked up the paper, scrutinising it carefully. His face blanched, and he handed it over to Goebbels, shaking his head.

“The offer is… I’m going to be quite honest, Herr Clay, we expected-”

“That is the President’s proposal, Mr. Goering,” Clay replied simply.

“But… but the prices…” Goering blinked, slowly and deliberately. “And… the American market…”

“Once we have traded for a few years, we can talk about selling German products on American markets,” said Clay.

“I…”

“This is robbery!” Goebbels sprung to his feet, shaking with rage as he pointed at Clay. “This is banditry! You would drain Germany dry for a third of the market price, and we would gain nothing!”

“We would jumpstart your economy,” said Clay.

“You would hold us hostage!” screeched Goebbels, slamming his fist on the table. “You thieves! You Shylocks! No self-respecting nation would ever sign such a deal!”

“You asked a deal like this of the French,” muttered Holt.

Goebbels turned on him, and it was as if his eyes were orbs of fire.

“We conquered the French!” he bellowed. “They were crushed under the Fuhrer’s mighty heel! Where are your tanks? Where is your boot! We are not conquered? We are not cowed! We are German!”

“Now, now,” said Profumo, “we are not here to denigrate Germany or Mr. Hitler, we are simply offering a realistic-”

Goebbels now turned on the British ambassador, his fist again crashing against the oak table.

“You!” he bellowed. “Will address him as! The! FUHRER!”

He punched the table one last time and stormed towards the door.

“Mr. Goebbels, please!” exclaimed Clay. “President Nixon has only-”

“To hell with President Nixon!” spat Goebbels.

He slammed the door behind him.

Speer took a long, deep breath, cradling his temples.

“Well,” he said, “that went well.”

Goering bit his lip.

“Gentlemen, perhaps we can reconvene later, when Herr Goebbels has… calmed down,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt at Goebbels’ name.

“That would probably be for the best,” nodded Clay.

There were no further pleasantries - instead the group walked out in awkward, deafening silence.

#todesreich #voltron #steven universe #nazis #blue pearl #lance mcclain #keith kogane #shiro #sam holt #matt holt #richard nixon #albert speer #martin bormann #hermann göring #joseph goebbels

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dib-adrift · 5 years

Text

[ @dib-adrift @addie-bear @high-chancellor-raask ]

((The following includes mentions of prostitution and a murder. Read at your own risk))

The gala was as big and extravagant as everyone had been going on about. The ballroom was huge, with a high, domed ceiling, a view of the glittering, purple sky above. There were giant staircases and over a dozen tables, everything decked in dark navy and gold. Galactic Alliance colors.

Dib was also put in these colors. His outfit was unlike one he’d ever worn. A dark blue tunic with gold buttons, each one surrounded by intricate gold embroidery. The pants he was wearing were far softer and nicer than any other he’d worn. He still had his boots and coat, which he was grateful for. They’d just been cleaned up a bit, as to not take away from the rest of his outfit.

He’d already been around the room twice and shook a few dozen hands. He couldn’t remember a single name he’d been told. He wasn’t sure if that was important. He had a feeling he wasn’t the real star here. Which was fine. Poised over in a corner, he could keep an eye on Addie, who was currently talking for some diplomat from...Murac? Murai? Nero? Eh, whatever. He was certain she’d remind him at some point.

Addie made sure to remember every name, to ensure she said the right thing. She’d studied aggressively about every diplomat and representative that was going to be here. She was taking no chances tonight. These things was where the real stuff happened.

She certainly wasn’t fond of being showed off in such a matter, like she was a pretty trophy that Dwicky had won. She wondered for only a moment if Dibkins felt this way sometimes. Probably not. He liked dressing up and looking pretty. Addie did as well, but she wished immensely that she’d had a say in the dress she was wearing. It was lilac, off the shoulders, with bright gold loops weaving along the bodice and skirt. None of that bothered her. What did was the excessive frills along the hems. Oh, and the slit along the side that was uncomfortably high.

She also did not want how the seamstresses and stylists knew her size. She hadn’t been measured, and somehow she now had several outfits that fit her like a glove. She shook her head. Curiosity killed the cat.

How many people did that saying really stop, though?

Dwicky had to admit, he was rather impressed. He’d sort of expected Dib to be an awkward mess, but Adalet worked the room with such poise and grace and charm, that for once he could actually believe she came from royalty. He watched her carefully over his glass of bourbon. He still wasn’t quite sure what to think of her being here. Then again, so far, she’d been nothing but a new splendid asset.

Still…

He placed his empty glass down, knowing one of the servants around here would take it away, making his way over to her.

Dib had finally gotten himself a drink, taking care not to overdo it. He wasn’t necessarily a lightweight, but he had to be on his best behavior here. He looked around, noticing Dwicky making his way over to Addie. He moved along the wall, slowly, keeping his distance, but keeping a close eye on the girl he’d found himself working with.

They’re daughter.

“Why don’t you just say you’re in love with my parents?”

He shook his head. He couldn’t think those things. Not right now. He had a job to do. He had to focus.

Addie found herself in the middle of a debate about weather kale was better or spinach. Honestly, she almost felt sorry for these people, to lead such dull lives that they were arguing over vegetables. She was just about to excuse herself, move on to the next guest, but was stopped as someone stepped in her way.

“High Chancellor,” she said, her tone neutral and unwavering. “Something I can help you with?”

Dwicky watched her a little longer before making his final approach. He eyed something off to the side, before looking down at Addie with a grin. “Would you mind dancing with me for a moment?” It wasn’t a request.

Addie stared at him for a moment, trying to think of some reason she could use to refuse that wouldn’t get her into trouble. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of one, and so she took his hand and nodded.

Being royalty and going to military school, she knew quite a bit about dancing. She didn’t tense at all when Dwicky put his hand on her waist, leading her in a waltz on the floor.

Dib continued to watch them, still keeping his distance. If Addie was uncomfortable she didn’t show it, but he couldn’t help but feel...something. A burning in his stomach. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to keep himself calm.

“Enjoying yourself, little bird?” He asked, leading the dance perhaps a little too dramatically.

Addie had no trouble keeping pace. Dancing wasn’t too different from combat. Place your feet her, turn there, and make sure you don’t fall down. At this point in her life she could waltz with her eyes shut. “Very much so, sir. This was a good idea on your part.”

“Of course it was. After all, everyone should know that the oh so famous Nightingale of Justice has decided this side is the right side. And, may I say, I am rather impressed with how you work a room. These leaders seem rather...enamored with you.” He spun her suddenly, pulling her around so that her back was toward him. He kept his grip tight, making certain she couldn’t move. “Especially Lord Durga.”

Despite Addie’s instincts, she didn’t even try to struggle, looking exactly where Dwicky wanted her to look. She’d just had a conversation with Durga about an hour ago, and he wouldn’t stop trying to touch her. She’d lost count of how many times she’d had to step away.

“You know,” Dwicky said, his voice suddenly lower than before. Like a snake hiding in the grass. “I used to send Chance off with him sometimes. You know, as a means of negotiation.” His fingers ran across the gold comb that held her bun in place. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain what I mean.”

He didn’t. Addie knew exactly what he meant. She knew all about how Dwicky used to pimp Chance out to people so he’d have an easier time making deals. She swallowed hard, burying whatever words threatened to erupt. “Why are you telling me this, sir?”

“Well, Chance isn’t here, is he?” Dwicky told her. “And as I said, Lord Durga seems very fond of you.”

Addie took a moment to look at Dwicky out of the corner of her eye. So...that’s how it was going to be, then? She looked back over at Lord Durga. He looked almost human save for the two extra eyes on his forehead. She bit her tongue. She couldn’t disobey.

Dwicky twirled her out of his old before pulling her back into the waltz. “You’ll be a good girl, won’t you Commander Denivar?”

Addie remained impassive. “Yes sir.”

Dib took a step forward when he saw the way Dwicky was handling Addie, but remembered himself, along with Addie’s words. He knew they were a warning. He had to be careful, after all. Then he noticed how she left the dance, left the dance floor. She reluctantly stood in the hallway for a moment before continuing out of the ballroom.

Dib’s eyes went back to Dwicky. Who was he nodding to? He scanned the room, seeing one of the fancy dressed diplomats get up. He looked way too happy with himself as he exited the room himself. Dib’s brow furrowed as he walked over to Dwicky.

“Can I ask what that was about, High Chancellor?” he asked.

“Of course you can, my boy,” Dwicky said, snapping his fingers at one of the waiters. Within seconds he had another glass of bourbon in his hands. “Negotiations, is all. And, well...I’m afraid a girl like that does need to prove her loyalty somehow.”

Dib stared at him for a moment, trying to keep what he was truly feeling to himself. He then nodded. “I see,” he said, beginning to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Dwicky asked.

“Just to get some air,” Dib replied, making his way out of the ballroom.

Addie went to the room she was told to go to, making sure no one else followed her or Lord Durga. She stood by the doorway, waiting, ready. The door opened, and the lord stumbled in, obviously drunk, laughing. “Where are you, pretty girl?”

Addie wasted no time, lifting the syringe in her hand and stabbing it into Durga’s neck. He grunted a couple of times, struggling with the potent sedative she’d put in there, but eventually he fell to the floor completely unmoving.

“Good think you like you liquor, huh?” She said, capping the empty syringe and replacing it in her garter on unexposed thigh.

As she exited the room, she found Dib coming from the other end of the hall. She rose a brow at him. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here I’m checking on you,” Dib told her, offended that she would think anything else.

Addie rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, Dib. I took care of it.” Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t let the smile happen.

Dib gave her a confused look before moving a bit to look behind her into the room. His eyes widened. “You killed him?!”

“Would you keep your voice down!” She scolded him. “And I didn’t kill him. I gave him a super strong sedative. He’ll be out until morning.”

“Addie I don’t think he’s breathing.”

Addie rolled her eyes. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll check his pulse.” She knelt down, pressing two finger to where she thought a blood vessel might be. She furrowed her brow, then rolled him over to listen to his for any sign of breathing. She sat up and blinked. She knew she should have read the dosing instructions. This was why she wasn’t a doctor. “Well...I guess you’re right this time.”

“Addie this is serious you just killed someone! You killed one of Dwicky’s allies!”

“Dwicky doesn’t have allies he has chess pieces. And this isn’t the first time I’ve killed someone.” She stood up and brushed off her dress before walking past Dib back out into the hall. “Close the door behind you, will you?”

Dib stood there, dumbfounded. What did...any of that mean? He took one more look at the dead body before sighing roughly and making his way out, shutting the door behind him just like Addie asked.

He supposed they would deal with this later.

#|birds of prey|#tw creepy #tw murder #tw needles #tw drugs #tw sedation #tw alcohol #tw prostitution #tw prostitution mention

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2pcontinued · 6 years

Text

A Silent Symphony

Standing at the edge of a ballroom, the beautiful golden chandelier holding many bright candles that illuminated the entire room, you watched longingly at the dance floor. How you wished to be there, waltzing the night away with a handsome stranger. Of course, you could, but lord knows you would be in a load of trouble for doing so. So for now, you simply watched. At least your uniform was cute, even if it was a but uncomfortable. A pair of black mary-janes were shown on your feet, while on your actual body you wore a black frilly dress that stopped at just below your knees, with a white band going around and cinching your waist, and short puffy sleeves that connected to the more modest version of a sweetheart neckline that was also decorated with frills. A pair of plain white stockings covered your legs. Your hair was pulled into a low bun, tied with a white ribbon, and you wore white gloves over your usual rough hands, due to the labor the master of the estate required you to do. Little did you know, a pair of eyes were watching you from afar, staring intently at your simplistic figure, with a look of interest.

Some time later, while you were escorting a guest to their designated room in the estate due to them drinking a little too much of the selection of refreshments you served during the ball, you had walked up to the third floor of the mansion to drop them off. Once you had left them in their room a drunken mess, you started to begin to go back to the party to finish the rest of your job. As you were walking back down the stone staircase, a small melody filled your ears. It was very quiet, almost nonexistent, but still prevalent enough for you to be able to hear it clearly. You stopped in your tracks for a moment, unable to choose your next course of action, yet settled on a decision mere seconds later. Nodding your head, you decided to follow the sound. You knew this land like the back of your hand, so nothing you discovered would be new to you, not to mention, you were always doing the same thing all the time every day, so a change of pace would be inviting. Your shoes clacked against the stone pavement of the stairs you were walking up, currently leading you to the second to last floor, floor five. Once you had arrived at your destination, you opened the brown wooden door at the top of the flight of stairs, and walked down the corridor slowly, making every step you made as silent as possible. The music only got louder. The wallpaper decorating the hallway was a lovely blush pink, with a small off-white stripe marking every every six inches or so of the wallpaper. The floor now had baby blue carpeting, a color you had always found to be joyous and quite adorable, the color itself expressing youth and innocence without even using a picture. Passing every door, you noticed that the music was coming from the very last door at the end of the hallway. It didn’t exactly make sense, since that room had always been vacant every time you had cleaned it, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. It’s not like you got a bad feeling from the situation anyway, because if it had, you would have stopped a long time ago. You trust your instinct with every fiber of your being, as it has never steered you wrong before.

Reaching the final door, pure white with small pink roses decorating the edges, you grabbed the brass knob, and turned it in your hand gently. Pushing the door open, a beautiful scene filled your sight. The usually ugly fading avocado green wallpaper had been replaced with a pristine white wallpaper instead, as the moon lit up every dark crevice of the room. Gold trimmings decorated the connecting area of the floor and wall, and a large white and gold rug covered part of the floor, as a shiny dark brown hardwood floor peeked from underneath the item. On the left side of the room, trays upon trays of pastries and the most delicious smelling sweets sat on top of a table with a white tablecloth, and pink roses occasionally decorated the table, completely snipped from their stems and the flowers left untouched and oddly perfect. The finest wines and drinks stood next to the sweets on the table, along with a chocolate fountain, what you may say is arguably the best addition to any dessert table. A large window removed of it’s glass with a curved top allowed the full moon to show, it’s holy light shining upon the magnificent display before you. A man stood near this window, not very tall in height, only reaching about 5’6 at most. His back was facing you, however you could see his strawberry blonde hair glisten in the moonlight.

“Excuse me sir, I don’t think you’re allowed to be here.” You spoke, a little unease in your voice, due to the stranger standing across the room from you. He turned around, and you were able to fully take in his features.

What he lacked in height, he made up for in pure and absolute beauty. Extremely fair skin, slightly littered with freckles, as well as deep and sensitive eyes that resembled the color of sapphires when the sunlight hit them, filled your view. Thin, yet plump pink lips with a slight cupid’s bow as their shape, and a button nose that looked almost too tempting to touch with the tip of your finger. His eyebrows, slightly bushy yet well groomed, and long eyelashes framed those mesmerizing eyes of his. His face was slightly rounded, with his chin coming to a small point, his body looking a bit plump and more on the well-fed side, showing his status in society, and providing an explanation for his adorable somewhat chubby cheeks. He was wearing a soft pink waistcoat with a matching pink tailcoat, and a baby blue bow tie. A white wing-collared dress shirt was tucked into neatly pressed cream-colored pants, and he was wearing white gloves, while on his feet were white dress shoes. My god, was he gorgeous. And he was staring directly at you.

A smile graced his perfect lips, yet he didn’t expose his teeth. The music continued to play in the background.

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear, but I was hoping that I could stay a bit longer in here, if you don’t mind.” His voice had an English accent, something that charmed you further about this man.

“Actually, I don’t mind at all.’ You had no idea what you were saying, of course you minded, you could get punished for this, but something about the air around you made you change your mind. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Excuse me for interrupting.”

As you were about to grab the doorknob to leave again, a sharp wind passed you and you felt your freehand being grasped in another’s.

“I would actually enjoy it, if you stayed for a little while with me. I don’t like to be alone.” His hand was freezing cold, as if you were holding a cube of ice instead of the hand of another person. His voice was genuine and softened, showing that he wasn’t lying. At least you hoped he wasn’t.

Nodding your head, he didn’t let go of your hand, but instead turned you around to face him, palm touching palm, fingers intertwined. Your face burned up like the Sahara during the day.

He smiled at you, teeth barely exposed, but enough to show off some of his pearly whites. Even his teeth were perfect.

“Shall we dance?” He asked, and due to the close proximity, you could smell the faint scent of strawberry coming off of the man. You were so close, you could nearly count every single one of his individual freckles on his face. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad way to spend a lazy early morning.

“Yes, we may.” He gave you a reassuring look, then the song began to change. Wait, there was no piano or record player, so who was playing the music? You had no time to think, as he pulled you closer to him, you started to shift and turn in synchronization, one-two, one-two, feet moving together gracefully. Your dress swished all around you, and you could feel the air blowing past your face as you two moved together swiftly. It seemed as though he had you under a trance, your movements completely mimicking his, following his lead completely, not even thinking about anything else but the dance and keeping up with him. As the song began to end, he dipped you down, and you could feel his face nearing the left side of your neck, at a steady pace, slowly but surely making it’s way to the tender meat that was your flesh. Your eyes were closed softly, your head falling back, somewhat sleepy in your state, not fully conscious in a way.

Once he had gotten close enough, he began to open his mouth, and sink his teeth into your delicate skin. Close, so close he could almost taste it, which he could. Almost. Just as his fangs were about to pierce your skin, your eyes pushed themselves open, a look of anger written on your face, and you glared at him. You snapped your neck and head back up while he maneuvered his away from yours to avoid your head impacting his, and messily pushed him away from your body. The blonde looked surprised, and a little amused, to say the least.

You lifted your leg up and attempted to kick him, yet in a flash, he was gone again, in front of the window you had found him in when you first walked through the door. Raising your fists up to protect yourself, your gaze hardened and eyebrows furrowed, as a hard frown set itself upon your features.

“Who are you, and what did you do to me, you sick man.” Your voice held no hesitation and no fear. You were ready to kick someone’s ass if need be.

The man simply giggled, and grinned at you, revealing his full set of teeth.

“My god..” You whispered to yourself, as you saw rows of fangs lined up on the sides of his mouth, the sharpness of them terrifying you to no end.

“What’s wrong, poppet? Are you surprised?’ His voice came out like velvet, yet held a dark undertone that you despised. He continued. ‘Let me introduce myself, then, to the pretty lady.”

As he said that, he jumped backwards into the window and landed slowly, floating like a feather onto the ledge, and bowed his head down to reach his waist, then lifted his head back upright. His tailcoat swished dramatically behind him. What a show-off.

“I am Oliver Kirkland, a powerful vampire! And you were supposed to be my next meal, my dear.” This part caused your eyebrows to rise and your shoulders to tense, but you stood your ground. No way in hell you were backing down now. Even if his voice got oddly high-pitched during this moment, and it aroused worry in your body.

“However, you, my love, resisted my charms at the last minute. How fun!’ He paused for effect, and lifted his right hand to his chin, stroking it thoughtfully, before he begun again. ‘I have a feeling we will meet again, dearest (Y/n), so, until then! Toodle-loo!” And with the wave of his hand, he was completely gone, as if he vanished in mid-air.

When he left, the entire room changed once more. The walls returned to it’s previous deteriorated state, the floors dusty and rickety, creaking under your body weight, and the treats gone. The room was completely silent.

“How did he know my… Where was the music coming from…” You questioned yourself aloud, knowing that you would probably never find the answers if he didn’t give you the answer. Well, this was beginning to get a bit too personal for you. Collapsing against the aforementioned nasty green wallpaper-covered wall, you sat on the floor, your knees pressed against your chest, the moonlight seeping inside from the window barely hitting the tips of of your shoes. A chill ran down your spine. You might need a drink or two to finally begin to process what had just happened.

(This is for anon! My first ever halloween event request fulfilled, so thank you for allowing me to fulfill your request, and have a lovely day!)

#2p england #halloween event #2p hetalia #drabbles

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