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andypantsx3 · 3 years

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statistically significant | 7 | bakugou/reader

length: 23,490 words | 7 chapters

summary: You’re the scientist who developed a neural net to model the value of assists. Now that your work is feeding into the hero rankings, pro hero Ground Zero has a bone to pick with your results.

tags: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, m/f threats of violence, problematic behavior

One month later

The Hero Awards certainly did not disappoint the second time around.

Though you’d spent the last few months in the company of some of these heroes, you couldn’t help but linger on the sidelines as they stalked their way down the walkway, staring in awe. As before, they were decked out in their absolute best, glimmering in jewel toned dresses with daring cutouts, or carving dashing profiles in well-fitted suits. Reporters and fans swarmed the sides of the red carpet, roiling like a pot reaching an agitated boil.

Their excitement was so palpable it hung heavy in the air, absolutely contagious. Maybe it was the fact that you knew some of the heroes up for awards tonight personally, but the potential of the evening simmered under your skin, a soft but constant hum of frenetic energy.

Or maybe some of that was due to the fact that this year, you’d been able to convince your boss to shell out the extra cash for the full dinner option. No longer would you need to smuggle snacks into your dress--this evening, you were a solid professional.

Which was a good thing, really, as the dress in question was not altogether any more secure or supportive than your dress from last year. You’d tried to angle for a thicker fabric and a little more of a conservative design, but several people had aired opinions on your choices over the course of the last few weeks, and you’d ended up in a thin swathe of delicate fabric that was really quite pretty, if you did say so yourself, but would support a grand total of maybe two popcorn kernels.

“You’re looking awfully forlorn over here,” someone chirped by your ear.

You startled, whirling to find Mina behind you, looking rosy and radiant in a form-fitting dress only a few shades lighter than her skin tone. Tiny pearls and clusters of glittering pink diamonds were stitched carefully into the fabric, winking at you as she moved, as bright as the conspiratorial grin she wore. She looked absolutely fabulous--she was one of the people who’d bullied you into the snackless gown, and you could begrudgingly admit that the girl had taste.

“Is it because a certain hotheaded blonde isn’t here yet?” she asked, a pink eyebrow going up.

You flushed. “Mina--oh my god, no. Not everything is about him, you know.”

She idly inspected a nail, looking supremely unconvinced. “Someone should tell him that, then.”

You huffed a laugh. The last time you’d been at the Awards, you’d said as much to him yourself. But a year later, the message was still not exactly being received.

“I’m actually thinking about dinner. I’m literally starving,” you complained, trying to divert the subject.

Mina nodded sympathetically. “I have a six pack and I still had to suck in to fit into this shit.”

As if on cue, your stomach growled sympathetically. You weren’t proud of what it was going to be like when you were finally unleashed on that multi-course dinner, but god it was gonna be worth it.

Several shrieks went up in the crowd of fans behind you, and you looked over your shoulder in alarm. Your pulse relaxed slightly when you realized it was just another pro sauntering down the walkway, but then the lights flickered off ashy blonde locks, and your pulse jumped violently. You jerked in surprise.

Mina didn’t even try to suppress her snort as you turned around fully, eyes pulled like a magnet to Bakugou as he stalked down the red carpet. Even looking like he would rather be anywhere else, and moving briskly over the carpet like he was going in for a kill, he still looked better than he had any right to. The charcoal of his suit--stitched with deep ruby flowers so dark they were almost black--brought out the piercing scarlet of his eyes, and your heart leapt into your mouth when those eyes cut over to meet yours.

His expression didn’t change, and he kept moving, but you flushed all the way from your head to your toes at the intensity behind his look.

Mina made a disgusted noise. “You’re both like a dog with a bone.”

You glared at her accusingly. “We literally just looked at each other.”

She clicked her tongue. “Please, he all but just pissed on you to mark his territory.”

Before you could reply, she called out, catching sight of Kirishima, and seized you to drag you over to say hello.

You let Mina drag you around for the next half hour, making polite conversation with her high school friends, a couple of friends from other agencies, and one fashion journalist who Mina had converted into a weekly drinking buddy. Mina kept the conversation light and easy, and you enjoyed yourself for the most part, though you almost passed out when a very distinct head of green curls materialized over her shoulder and then Midoriya Izuku--better known as the number one hero Deku--was smiling at you eagerly.

Things got even weirder when he appeared to not only already know who you were, but knew a great deal about your work, enough to ask some very detailed questions about your training model software that was going into production a couple months from now. Mina had the gall to cut into the conversation to call you both huge nerds, though she’d directly benefited from the model herself.

The conversation was unfortunately cut short when a calloused hand flung itself in front of your face and a rough voice sounded from over your shoulder. “Stop sticking your nose in my fucking business, Deku.”

You whipped around to find Bakugou glaring over your head at his former classmate. His hand closed around your shoulder and dragged you closer to him.

“I was just asking about her model, Kacchan,” Midoriya said patiently. “It’ll be great to be able to compare my movements directly with some of the other heroes in almost real time! Ojirou’s been trying out some new fighting forms and I was thinking I should try to adapt them to work into my shoot style--”

“Just because you couch it in nerd shit doesn’t mean you’re not trying to spy on me, fuckstick,” Bakugou said. “Stop poking your nose into my relationship like the town fucking gossip.”

Midoriya flushed a little, looking slightly chastened when you turned back to him in question. He gave you an embarrassed little smile. “I did want to meet you for reasons other than your model. Kacchan’s been my friend since I was little, and I wondered what kind of person could interest him so much he wanted my perspective on your work--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou demanded, but he wasn’t fast enough.

You perked up in interest. “He asked you what?”

Bakugou bristled like a cat being dangled over a bath, but Midoriya was paying him no mind. “Right after the last Hero Awards, he’d done all this research and he asked me about whether your model results lined up with some of the personal analysis that I was doing--”

“Deku,” Bakugou’s fingers tightened on your arm, growing alarmingly warm. “If you don’t shut the fuck up right now I’m going to punch all of your teeth straight down your throat and into your stomach.”

“Kacchan,” Midoriya protested, but he was interrupted by a call on the overhead for everyone to start taking their places in the theater interior for the awards to begin.

Bakugou used the distraction to pry you away from Midoriya. In the blink of an eye, he’d gotten you across the theater and was corralling you towards the Miruko agency tables, looking like he’d sucked on a lemon. You stifled a laugh. You’d wondered a couple months ago exactly how and when he’d figured out you were quirkless, and he’d once asked if you thought you were the only one who’d done their research.

If things were anything like you were starting to suspect, your demands that he do better at the Hero Awards had apparently aroused his interest in more ways than one.

You and Bakugou hadn’t exactly settled on formal terms for your relationship yet, and he still more often than not answered any of your interest with the assertion that you were the one with the crush on him. But this was more evidence--beyond the mysterious coffees that showed up at your workstation almost every morning--that your interest was more intensely reciprocated than he was willing to own up to.

By the time you’d settled at a table and been flanked by a grinning Mina and Kaminari, the awards were getting underway. They were thrilling to watch, something you’d had to miss out on last year when you needed to sneak out with a giant hole in the front of your dress. The heroes you’d worked with this year raked in an insane number of awards, and their elation was palpable, so thick you could almost taste it in the air. The pair of men with satyr horns were named the Best Rookie Duo, Miruko was awarded Takedown of the Year, and Kaminari clocked the Fastest Fight Win for a battle last month in which he’d rendered a villain with an aluminum quirk insensate only seconds into the fight.

A very unfortunate match up, you thought.

Mina nabbed an award for Fan Favorite, and in almost no time, it was the moment that you’d been nervously awaiting since nominations had gone out. You’d cheated, doing your own calculations behind everyone’s backs just to get a clearer picture of what his chances were, and you rather liked his odds, but there was always a chance it wouldn’t go how you thought. But this was the moment that Bakugou was up for Most Valuable Hero.

You barely heard any of the words the host was saying as he trotted out the names of the nominees, detailing some of their key accomplishments. He covered Bakugou's latest slew of assists and rescues, stats that made you feel kind of weirdly warm and proud, and then your ears strained for the syllables you’d hoped to hear.

And then:

“The winner is...our explosive number six, Ground Zero!”

It took everything in you not to leap out of your seat in joy, though something like a strangled squeal managed to escape you. Bakugou gave you an evaluating look as he got to his feet, stalking up on stage with his usual intensity.

As soon as he was up there, it struck you that allowing him time for an acceptance speech was maybe not a great idea. Graciousness was not exactly a strength of his.

“Obviously I’m the most valuable,” he growled into the mic. The stage lights glinted off his hair and teeth, making him look slightly more predatory than usual. “I didn’t need you fucks to tell me.”

A choking noise could be heard from Kirishima’s seat a couple tables over, and Mina put her head in her hands.

“What’s important is that I’m number six now and it only took me a month,” Bakugou’s head swiveled in the direction of Midoriya and you suppressed a groan. “Don’t get fucking comfortable. I’m gonna wipe the floor with every one of the top five, and next awards you’ll all be kissing my ass.”

He didn’t seem like he had much more he wanted to say, which was an incredible relief as both the host and nearby security looked about ready to wrestle him offstage.

He leapt neatly down from the stage, and when he made it back to the table, he didn’t take his seat again. Instead, he grabbed your arm, hauling you out of your seat, and then he was pulling you down the aisle and through the door to the reception area.

He pulled you past the snack table and you thought he was steering you towards the stairwell again, but at the last second he took a sudden turn, shoving you through a door into the women’s powder room. You didn’t even have enough time to formulate a question before he had you backed up against the wall, your shoulders hitting the cool stone at the same time his mouth hit yours.

His kiss was hot and demanding as always, and you lost yourself in it easily. He trailed a line of burning kisses down your neck and over your shoulder, making you shudder and shake when he lingered too long over any particular spot.

It was hard to think past the press of his body on yours, but you tried your best to formulate words.

“Katsuki--it’s--we’re in the women’s room,” you panted, embarrassed by the fact that even as you spoke, you were clutching him closer. “This is--what are you--? S-someone’s gonna come in.”

Bakugou broke apart from you just long enough to level a searching glance around the room and--spotting what he’d been looking for--hefting the trashcan in front of the door with a forceful kick to stop it shut.

“There, nerd. Now stop fucking complaining,” he rasped, immediately attaching his mouth back under your jaw. You shuddered.

“What the fuck has gotten into you,” you demanded, seizing a fistful of his blonde hair to pull him back from where he was leaving what felt like a very deep bruise over your collarbone.

He leveled you with a burning, red-eyed stare. “Like you don’t fucking know.”

You looked at him in question. “...I actually don’t.”

He tried to lean in again but you gripped his hair harder. “What? You can’t just keep throwing me up against walls, especially here. What is it with you and shoving me into weird places at the Hero Awards?”

Bakugou growled. “If you don’t shut the fuck up and let me do what I want, I’m gonna burn throught this dress too.”

You froze up, then glared at him accusingly. “I literally write the code that processes your rank. If you ever wanna come within sniffing distance of the top three, you won’t touch a single thread of this dress.”

The hands on you grew hot, but not hot enough to burn. Bakugou slid a calloused hand over the curve of your waist, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“God, the fuckin’ attitude on you,” he said, almost reverently.

You felt your face warm under his scrutiny as he leaned closer. “You wanna know what's gotten into me? I wanted to melt that entire fucking thing off you last year. You were so fucking mouthy, such a little brat to me. Wanted to rip your dress off and fuck you right in the stairwell until you forgot you’d ever even heard of numbers.”

You shivered. Bakugou smirked, eyes darkening, leaning back in to bite under your jaw. You realized you’d lost your grip on him and willed your fingers to cooperate again.

“I fucking won that stupid award because I let you boss me around. I've waited an entire year. Now you’re gonna let me do whatever I want with you.”

Your legs went out from beneath you but Bakugou was already there, catching you under your thighs and hauling you up onto the countertop between the sinks. Your back brushed the mirror, glass cold under your shoulder blades.

“Y--you know, if you actually want to be number one, you can’t make speeches like you did,” you babbled nervously as he filled the space between your thighs. “Your public approval rating is part of your ranking, right? It’s weighted right below rescues…”

Bakugou paid you no mind, fingers already searching over your back to find the zipper to your dress. He yanked it down with little ceremony, seizing the front of your bodice to pull it off of you.

“I don’t need to be fucking nice if I’m the one saving the day,” he announced imperiously, leaning down to capture a nipple with his mouth.

Your hips jerked, and he pressed a hand to your thigh, holding you back down against the counter. Dimly, you registered that the words were familiar. “N--not--ah!--not this again.”

Bakugou didn’t deign to respond, instead doing something absolutely mind-bending with his tongue. You swore loudly, catching a fistful of his jacket. “Fuck, Katsuki!”

A hot palm slid up your thigh, gathering up the soft material of your skirt until he could slip a hand underneath. Calloused fingers trailed over your core with obvious intention. You inhaled sharply when he pressed them into you, leaning up to cover your mouth with his again.

Bakugou had you squirming wildly against him in barely a minute, snorting when you tried to get a hand on his zipper.

“Want me that bad, nerd?” he asked, pressing forehead to yours in an oddly tender move.

“If you don’t hurry the fuck up I’m gonna finish things myself,” you threatened, though Bakugou did not look at all as if he believed you.

He helped you get his zipper down, taking himself in hand, but he stopped just as he brushed your entrance, leaning forward to bite another kiss into your mouth.

“Now it’s time for you to make good on your end of the bet,” he growled, a smirk growing over his features. “You’ll tell me I’m the best and I was right all along.”

You stilled underneath him, disbelieving. “Are you--are you fucking serious.”

Bakugou pressed forward, just enough for you to feel the pressure of him on your clit. You fought down a noise like a whimper. Damn him.

“I jumped two ranks,” he said. “You’ll tell me I’m the best if you want me, nerd.”

“I am not gonna beg for you like this,” you announced, though it sounded a little more like a question than you had wanted it to.

Bakugou brushed his thumb over your clit again and little sparks danced over the corner of your vision. “Mmm, you’re gonna scream.”

You felt something like a tension snap inside you. Fuck it. He was so annoying but holy shit if he wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever encountered. If he needed his ego stroked, well it wasn’t nearly as much as you needed your own stroking.

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, fine--just--you’re the best, and you were right all along. Now will you please--”

You didn’t even get to finish before he was sinking into you, narrow hips fitting flush with your thighs. You swore at the feeling of fullness, and then he was moving, picking up into a frantic pace. He leaned forward, sealing his mouth over yours to swallow all the little noises you were making. It was mere minutes before you were shivering underneath him again, moving your hips to meet his, desperate for more, Katsuki, more.

“Ah fuck--so fucking good for me,” he grunted against your mouth, giving a particularly hard thrust, and that was all it took to unravel you.

You stifled a scream in the thick fabric of his jacket, arching up into him. He cursed and followed after you with a few more short thrusts, crushing you against the counter when he let his weight go slack.

You panted underneath him, catching your breath while your fingers slowly unclenched themselves from the hem of his suit jacket. Bakugou rubbed his face in the hollow of your shoulder, radiating smug satisfaction.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it, nerd?” he rasped, biting down lightly where he’d left the hickey earlier.

You pulled back, looking into his face again. He looked far too pleased with himself, but he was so handsome like this, all messy hair and a kiss darkened mouth. Your irritation with him fizzled out a little.

He flashed you a predatory grin. “You said it yourself--I'm the fucking best.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop your hand from coming up and tangling in his hair. “Shut the fuck up.”

Bakugou, predictably, did not look as if he was going to shut the fuck up at all. So you took matters into your own hands, and leaned in and kissed him again.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha x reader #my hero academia #bnha #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou

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wingsofanillyrian · 3 years

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Lights Over Monaco: Chapter 1

ITS HERE! I plan on updating this weekly/biweekly, based on how busy I am. Let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list!

Special thank you to my new F1 friend for inspiring this fic as well as being my beta reader, @acourtofcouture ! F1 fans out there, her fics are AMAZING

Chapter Masterlist

F1 Glossary

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

Nesta Archeron discovered Formula 1 when she was 9 years old. She woke before the sun one Sunday morning, quietly excited to have the television all to herself and watch whatever cartoons she wanted. But she couldn’t remember what channel they were on, instead flipping through the programs. She had almost given up when she stumbled across a race.

The moment she had seen the brightly colored open-wheeled cars flash across the screen, she paused. For whatever reason, the high pitched wasp-like scream of the twelve cylinder engines and the astonishing speed that the drivers were travelling enthralled young Nesta. She didn’t look away once for the rest of the race, or even for the post-race interviews and wrap up that most adults skipped. Something about it had her adrenaline pumping.

Nesta traded her dolls for matchbox cars, and when she grew older, picked up racing magazines instead of teen ones. Ever since that day, Formula 1 consumed her. No matter how the other kids or her two younger sisters teased her for it, her love for the sport never tarnished.

She spent years getting up at 2 am to watch live races that were being held halfway around the world. Instead of going to her senior prom, Nesta stayed home and layed out her predictions for the season’s drivers and constructors championships. She didn’t know how to do anything half-ass. She poured her whole heart into the sport and devoted her life to it.

**********

Nesta spent her 24th birthday working. It wasn’t like she could request the day off, not that it mattered. The racetrack at Monaco was exactly where she would have been anyway, working or not.

A press pass got her through the first security checkpoint. The team tents loomed ahead as she waited for personnel to cross the unstriped asphalt, inching her car carefully through the throngs of people. She rolled her window down, soaking in the sound of air tools and snippets of conversations.

Street tracks like Monaco were her favorite. They required drivers to push themselves with plenty of technical corners and dramatic incidents. There was less room for error, as the tracks themselves were not as wide. Drivers had to know their limits and follow the racing line closely.

Race tracks were Nesta’s comfort zone. She knew each track on the calendar like the back of her hand. Every turn was permanently etched in her mind like words on a tombstone. Race weekends followed a set schedule, something that she could appreciate. Friday: practice laps. Saturday: more practice, followed by qualifying, where each driver got the chance to set the fastest lap and secure a spot in the starting line up for the main event on Sunday.

Before she had graduated college, Nesta had managed to fully entrench herself in the world of Formula 1. Securing an internship at ESPN her sophomore year, she had made herself indispensable to the crusty old man that had been the senior track side reporter for decades. She studied everything he did and the questions he asked each driver, noting what changes she would have made. Somehow, he came to admire her spirit and taught her the tricks of the trade.

When he retired the year after Nesta graduated, he went to the board of directors and personally recommended her to fill his spot. She waited two agonizing days for their decision.

Using whatever means necessary, Nesta had clawed her way to the top and cemented her reputation as the most cutthroat reporter in the industry. Her goal had been for everyone in motorsport to know her name, and in only two years, she had done so. Better yet, she had caught the eye of one of the fastest drivers on the grid.

Her phone rang just as she pulled into the press parking area. She answered, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello?”

Tomas’ velvety voice thundered through the speakers of her Civic. “Hey baby. You here yet?”

“Just pulled in,” She replied, touching up her makeup in the rearview.

“Right on time for a quickie. Meet me at my trailer in five.”

Tomas had already hung up before she had the chance to protest. Both their reputations hinged on their relationship staying secret. If the press caught wind that she was fucking a driver, her credibility would go out the window, and Tomas would be the laughing stock of the grid. So sneaking into his trailer wasn’t exactly the type of discreet she was aiming for.

Tomas Mandray had been racing for Red Bull for two years when she had scored her first exclusive interview with him. He had just been awarded pole position at the Spanish Grand Prix in Barcelona, and Nesta had sweet talked her way into the paddock. It had taken minutes for his charming blue eyes to enchant her. He had won that race, and taken her to bed straight after.

The sex was great, but that’s all it ever was. Their relationship was purely based on the physical; nothing emotional on either end. They had agreed on that from the start. Just sex.

Unfortunately for Nesta, somewhere along the way it had become something more.

Sighing, she put on her oversized sunglasses and hid her tawny hair under a gauzy scarf. The fashion wouldn’t stand out at all amongst the celebrities that frequented the Monaco Grand Prix. Going over the top here was expected; Monaco was known for its money. Due to the lack of income tax, Monaco was a haven for white collar delinquents and royalty alike. Lamborghini’s and Ferrari’s were commonplace, and women wore rings that could set a jewel thief up for life.

No one bothered her as she strode towards the pit checkpoint, flashing her press badge to get by. She fell into her usual cadence, exuding an air of importance and invincibility. Seemingly without realizing, people moved out of her way when they saw her coming. The navy, red, and yellow of the Redbull tent came into view, and Nesta inserted herself into the crowd of mechanics and VIPs to get past security. Press wasn’t allowed in the area until after the race.

Nesta broke away once inside, heading down a back corridor. She knew the layout by heart, having walked the path many times. The door at the end of the hall led outside to Tomas’ private trailer. She didn’t bother to knock before entering. Tomas would already be waiting for her.

He set down his phone as she entered. “Finally,” He said with a savage grin. “We only have a few minutes.”

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

Tomas left as soon as he finished, donning his jumpsuit without so much as a kiss goodbye. Utterly used to the behavior, Nesta straightened her clothes and again touched up her makeup before heading back out.

She was scheduled to conduct a pre-race interview with Cassian Valle in the Mercedes tent in twenty minutes. Redbull and Mercedes were at opposite ends of the pit, giving her plenty of time to think.

Truthfully, Nesta was dreading the interaction. Cassian was an arrogant ass. She couldn’t stand interviewing him; all he did was skirt around questions and try to flirt, which made it incredibly difficult to get any headline-worthy tidbits from him.

Azriel Sainz, Cassian’s teammate at Mercedes, was much more amiable. He was mostly forgettable and quiet, but always gave her something to work with and was sometimes downright pleasant to talk to. She could understand why the public loved him, but not why they were so enamored with Cassian. Sure, he was a three time world champion, and that earned him plenty of fans, but he was just so… dreadful.

She made it to the Mercedes pit just minutes before the scheduled time, immediately spotting her tense cameraman, Jacob. Slim built, he was average looking, nothing special. He was sweet though, if not a bit of a pushover.

“Where the hell have you been?” He hissed, chocolate brown eyes wide. “Valle is waiting.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, handing Jacob her sunglasses and the scarf. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Not my fault if he was early.” Nesta accepted her microphone and rolled her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with then.”

“Happy birthday by the way,” Jacob added. Yes, there was the pushover side shining through.

Nesta threw a grin at him over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

Cassian’s back was to her as she approached, his white Mercedes jumpsuit half on, the arms of it cinched around his waist. The crisp gray shirt he wore left little to the imagination, hugging his sculpted form. Good; at least that would capture the attention of any women that might be watching. As would the deep brown curl that fell in his face when he turned to her.

“If it isn’t my very favorite reporter,” He crooned, a grin plastered on his face. “Took you long enough to get here. I also hear it’s your birthday.” Nesta glared at Jacob. He shrank under her steely look, an apology stumbling from his lips.

“I would give you a birthday kiss, but I think you’d knock me out if I offered.”

Nesta pointedly ignored him, “Let’s just get on with it,” She said, motioning to Jacob to start recording. Once he signaled he was ready, Nesta breathed deep, the sweet scent of high octane fuel assaulting her senses. It steadied her, and she slipped into her professional mask before turning to the camera.

“As we all know, the Monaco Grand Prix offers drivers a unique set of challenges. The two-mile street course has 19 technical corners with little room for error. It is in Monaco that we get to see who has what it takes to be a Formula 1 champion.” She turned to Cassian, gave him a professional smile and continued.

“Last year, you had a puncture at turn seven when you ran over some debris. Coupled with the fumble the pit crew had with not having your tires ready when you came into the pit, you finished a disappointing 12th place, winning you no points in the driver’s championship. Do you expect that this year will be better, or will you stick to your usual aggressive driving style?”

Cassian laughed, running a hand through his unbound curls. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be changing anything. You can expect to see me on the podium, sweetheart. Most likely in first.”

Nesta grit her teeth. She couldn’t air that, and he knew it. “How about you answer the question without trying to piss me off?”

“It’s too easy,” Cassian said, that devilish grin returning. Nesta cut him a glare that simmered with violence. “Alright fine,” He relented, putting his hands up. “Go again.”

She repeated her question, and this time he answered, “I don’t really see any need to change my driving style, what happened last year was a fluke. I went wide on the turn and didn’t notice Vanserra's front wing until the last second and wasn’t able to change course.” Nesta nodded, encouraging him to go on. “I don't see myself making any mistakes like that this year. You can expect to see me on the podium, most likely in first.”

“Thank you for that Cassian. Good luck on the track today.”

“Thank you,” He said, waving at the camera. He paused before adding, “Though I won’t need luck.”

Nesta rolled her eyes and signaled for Jacob to cut the recording. At least that last bit could be edited out. “You are absolutely insufferable, you know that?”

Cassian shrugged, undoing the arms of his fire suit and slipping into them. “I do my best.” He winked at her before zipping up his suit, opening his mouth to say something else when the Mercedes team principal, Rhysand, barked at him to get his ass in gear. He gave Nesta a wordless salute before jogging off.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Jacob said, packing up his camera. “That guy has balls.”

“He’s a Formula 1 driver,” Nesta said simply, putting her sunglasses back on. “Of course he does.”

**********

Nesta watched the 78 lap race from the press box, silently cheering Tomas on. Each time the pack of cars passed, the windows rattled, doing little to muffle the engine noise. She chatted with the others as necessary, keeping one eye on the tarmac below. Tomas had started from pole position, and held onto first place until the final 10 laps. He had attempted to lap an AlphaTauri driver when the driver had failed to yield, violating FIA regulations. The two had bumped tires in what was ruled a racing incident, but Nesta knew better. Tomas had lost his cool and nudged the other driver on purpose, nearly sending him into the wall.

It was a bad call on Tomas’ part, as the comfortable four second lead he had held over second place shattered. Nesta swore under her breath as Cassian overtook Tomas, her heart dropping when the other Mercedes driver, Azriel, did the same. Tomas would not be happy about that.

When the checkered flag waved, Cassian was first, Azriel second, and Tomas third. The winners parked before the podium, anger radiating from Tomas as he tore his helmet off. Tamlin, the Redbull team principal, said something to Tomas that had his cheeks burning red.

Nesta grabbed Jacob and headed for the press room. They had a half hour tops before the post-race interviews started, and Nesta had to make sure she was front row. Though it didn’t matter where she sat; she always made sure her questions were answered.

It was more so for Tomas. She wanted him to see her, to see the understanding on her face and know she supported him even when he didn't win.

They were first to the press room, and Nesta had ample time to prepare questions. She couldn’t question Tomas, or she risked uncapping his rage. Instead, she jotted down a question she knew would shift the focus from Tomas to the Mercedes drivers.

Reporters began filing in, vying for the perfect spot and debating the race results with one another. Nesta remained in her seat, determined to maintain her composure as her stomach churned. Tomas finally entered, jaw set as he took his place on the stage. Nesta tried to subtly catch his eye, but he pointedly avoided looking at her.

Cassian and Azriel entered, laughing and congratulating each other. Nesta noted the slight change in Tomas’ posture, the only hint of the blood boiling beneath his skin. Cameras flashed, reporters shouted, but still Nesta remained seated. Cassian, at least, sought her out in the crowd, and flashed her an ‘I-told-you-so’ grin when he found her. Once the clamor had died down, Nesta stood. The room quieted further, the others having learned not to talk over her if they valued their jobs. Nesta had a knack for digging up dirt on anyone she pleased.

Her eyes were still locked on Cassian as the moderator indicated she could ask her question.

“Azriel,” She started, turning to the dark haired man, “You were lucky you were able to take second in this race, after the incident in turn twelve on lap 27 when you sustained heavy damage to your front wing, thanks to the actions of your teammate. Does it ever get under your skin that Valle’s overly-aggressive driving threatens your own position in the championship?”

The room was silent. Tomas hid his grin behind a well-manicured hand. Cassian’s eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. Good; she had hit a nerve. Azriel shrugged, crossing his arms.

“It was a racing incident. Could have happened to anyone. I don’t think the blame lays entirely with Cassian; I could have given him more room on the corner.”

And that was that. Nesta didn’t ask any more questions, but she could feel Cassian glaring at her throughout. At the end of the interview, all three drivers thanked everyone before leaving.

As Nesta made her way back to her car, she texted Tomas.

You okay?

Her heart pounded as she waited for the reply. Her phone buzzed minutes later.

I’ll be home late. Party at the Redbull house.

Oh. Okay. See you later then.

“Happy birthday to me,” She muttered, stuffing the phone in her pocket.

Nesta wasn’t sure why his reply stung, but it cut deep. She had hoped that he would want to see her instead of going to another party and spend time with her on her birthday. Instead, he would probably stick his tongue down another woman’s throat like usual. She couldn’t really blame him. Their relationship had to remain secret and to do so, Tomas had to maintain his playboy aura. It wasn’t really cheating if she had agreed to it.

But if that were true, why did it hurt so fucking bad when he did?

Some of her tension eased when she finally spied her car in the lot. The Blue Bullet, she had nicknamed it, due to the strikingly bright paint. It was the first purchase she had made upon being promoted, and it had since become her pride and joy. She had chosen it because it set lap records left and right when it had hit the market a few years back, and she had craved speed her whole life. On city streets, this car was the closest she could get to experiencing Formula 1 without completely breaking the bank.

“How about you don’t ask stupid fucking questions next time your prettyboy loses?”

Nesta’s breath hitched. Your prettyboy. The accusation was clear. Her hand slipped from the door handle, turning towards the voice. If he knew… If he knew about her and Tomas, they were done for. She willed her voice into solid steel.

“Cassian. I would advise you to choose your next words wisely.”

He placed a hand on her Civic, getting in her face. “Racing means you have racing incidents. I don’t expect you to understand, seeing as you’ve never been behind the wheel of a real race car.” He sneered at her car, the insult striking home.

Fear faded, replaced by a rising wave of scarlett rage. Nesta’s gaze stuck to where his hand lay on the bright blue paint, utterly vexed by the infringement. She bared her teeth at him, rising to the challenge in Cassian’s flaming hazel eyes.

“Get. Off.”

Cassian started at the command in her tone and obeyed. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Understanding the nuances of Formula 1 is my job description. I asked about that incident because I knew it would piss you off. Looks like I was right huh?” Her temper was getting the better of her. “And by the way, would it kill you to give me a decent quote once in a while, instead of always trying to get in my pants?”

“I do not-”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” Nesta scoffed, yanking the door open.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward as she slammed the car door. “I was already planning on it.”

Those parting words haunted her drive home, even as she took the long way in hopes of blowing off steam. She shifted through the gears, throwing the Civic around corners much faster than was probably safe. Nesta didn’t care; her head was a mess. At least he hadn’t mentioned anything more about Tomas. Maybe Cassian had just thought she had a crush, based on the way she had been looking at him during the conference. Gods, she couldn’t get Cassian out of her head.

His grin followed her up the stairs to her apartment, where she snapped the curtains shut. She couldn’t bear to look out over the track any longer today.

Those words echoed in her head as she brushed her teeth and crawled into bed alone. Swam through her thoughts of Tomas, as she struggled to keep her eyes open when the clock showed 1 am. As she finally gave in, they were her last thought.

I was already planning on it.

@aphoeni @planet-faerie @nina-zcnik @linsimin @that-little-red-head @teagoddess99 @enpointe10 @electronicstrawberrystrawberry @awesomelena555 @iptneus @weesablackbeak @wonderland--memories @nessian-trash-heap @magicalwaterfall @perfectlyimpxrfect @cassians-wings @valkyrie-archeron @acourtofcouture @nesemryn @chloepereyra @illyrianshadowhunter

#Lights over monaco #nessian #nessian au #nessian fanfiction #acotar #acomaf #acowar #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of war and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #acotar fanfiction #my writing #nesta archeron #cassian #lucien vanserra

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katsukisblackteddy · 3 years

Note

hi hi hi !!! i was wondering if you could do a bakugou x indian reader who’s from new york?? like lwky veronica lodge and/or blair waldorf vibes ?? like she’s really cheeky and sophisticated and gives a lot of gifts?? like someone could give her a hug and boom the next day ‘ here’s a 12k bracelet from tiffany & co 😃😃 ‘ IDK I THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE FUNNY OR SOMETHING IDK I HOPE THIS ISNT TOO WEIRD LMFAO

“And I Thought Momo & Todoroki Were Rich”

Pairings: None Pronouns: She/Her Word Count: 1k Warnings: None

Being the daughter of two high profile parents came with its perks. Your father’s business was considered a tech giant, and it made him one of the richest men in the world. Your mother had been the United States’ top neurosurgeon, before she retired deciding instead to focus on her philanthropic passions of bringing healthcare to developing nations through Doctors Without Borders. (My point is...y’all are rich rich)

“Alright everyone quiet down. There’s a new student coming today.” Aizawa stated tiredly, his shoulder length dark hair falling into his face a bit. He stood against the desk at the front of the room, his eyes going to the door when he saw the door knob turn.

“I hope it’s a hot girl!” Mineta remarked as Hagakure pushed him off his chair causing the short boy to fall face first onto the ground. Hagakure wasn’t a mean person, he just got annoying.

The door opened to reveal Nezu standing beside you, a brown skinned girl (BrOwN sKiNnEd GyaL..i’m sorry i had to). To the others, you seemed friendly enough with your full lips pulled up into a soft smile. Your dark hair came to just above your shoulders and you wore a simple red headband in your hair. “Hello everyone. I’m (y/n), it’s nice to meet you.”

“Woah? Where are you from? Your accent is so cool!” A blonde boy with a black lightning bolt in his hair asked, his eyes wide and a large smile on his face. “I’m Kaminari Denki, by the way.”

“I’m from New York.” You answered before taking the only empty seat which was beside a boy with half white and half red hair.

“Why’d you come to Japan? New York seems much cooler.” Mina sighed. “I’ve always wanted to go!”

“My dad is expanding his company and my mother wanted to expand her charity. I don’t mind though.” You explained with a shrug of your shoulders.

“Wait a second! Ochako it’s your birthday?!” Mina announced suddenly, after receiving a notification reminder on her phone.

“My birthday’s tomorrow, Mina.” The brown haired girl with rosy cheeks corrected her.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow? What do you like? Jewelry? Perfume? Shoes? Concert tickets?” You questioned thinking about some of the things you had given as presents to your friends in the past.

“N-no, that’s too much!” Ochako’s eyes widened as she shook her head.

“That’s okay. I’m sure I’ll be friends with everyone here, if that’s what you’re worried about?” You tried to reassure her. “It’s not that big of a deal, Ochako...I’ll surprise you then? Do you like pink?”

She nodded as you made a mental note. You had seen a really pretty necklace with a pink diamond in the center that was in the shape of a heart. You had originally wanted one for yourself, but it would be much more fun to match with someone.

After your first day of school at UA had ended you had been standing outside waiting for your driver to take you to your father’s company where you would meet your mother to go out to dinner.

“(Y/n)!” You turned hearing your name being called as you waved over to the group of girls and boys that were approaching you. Kaminari, Kirishima, Ochako, Midoriya, Jirou, Mina, Hagakure, Momo, and Bakugou (who had been dragged by Kirishima) came to stand near you.

“Oh hey guys! Thanks for making me feel welcome today! You all are great friends.” You smiled at them, before glancing behind you to look at the road to see if your driver had come yet.

“Do you wanna hang out tomorrow since today’s Friday?” They asked you as you thought about it for a minute.

“Tomorrow…” You paused running through your schedule. “I think I’m free tomorrow. Do you want to come over to my house? We just finished moving in!”

“Sure. Send us the address!” Mina answered excitedly as everyone nodded, even the explosive blonde agreed.

“We can have a party for your birthday Ochako! It’ll be perfect!” You said excitedly as you clapped your hands. “I’ve gotta go talk to my event planner! I’ve gotta get decorations! Wait...what kind of cake do you like? Do you even like cake? Maybe cupcakes?”

“E-event planner?”

“Yeah...I can’t plan a party by myself without input from him.” You said as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “He’s great! I gotta go! See you tomorrow! I’ll text you the details tonight.” You called as you walked off towards your vehicle where your driver was waiting with the door open for you.

It was the next day and the doorbell rang signaling that your new friends had just arrived. You opened one of the two large front doors to see the group holding snacks and gifts.

“Happy birthday Ochako!” You smiled, holding the small long blue box with a white ribbon wrapped around it. You pulled her into a hug as she entered your home along with the rest of the class, before you stepped back allowing everyone to enter. You handed her the gift. “I hope you like it.”

“(Y/N)! T-This is too much! How much did this cost!” Ochako was practically speechless after puling the ribbon off and opening the box, her eyes wide as she held the beautiful necklace in her hands. It was a heart shaped pink diamond on a gold chain.

“Do you not like it?” You grew concerned. You always thought you had been a good gift giver, your old friends had always loved the gifts you gave them in the past.

“N-No I love it! It’s just really expensive isn’t it? How much did it cost?” Ochako questioned as you helped her put it on.

“Don’t worry Ochako! I got it at a great price because my mom is friends with the jeweler.” You explained. “It was only 1,470,490 yen! Isn’t that such a steal!” You said as everyone’s eyes widened at your smile.

“1,470,490.00 yen! (Y/n)!”

“I know, I feel kind of bad, I should’ve paid more.” You shrugged a small frown on your face. “Why are you all looking at me like that? Was it a bad gift? All of my other friends loved when I gave them gifts like this?”

“You spent more than one million yen on a necklace for someone you barely know.” Bakugou broke the silence with a roll of his crimson eyes. “Dumbass.” He added after a moment

“It wasn’t that expensive, relax guys. That’s only like my weekly allowance.” You said with a laugh and shrug. “Now come on! Let’s party!”

“Weekly allowance?” Kaminari sweatdropped. “And I thought Momo and Todoroki were rich.”

TAGS:

#katsukisblackteddy #requested #bnha x poc!reader #bnha x indian!reader #rich girl alert #blair waldorf vibes #ochako is shook #mha x poc!reader #bnha #mha #bnha x reader

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winterrose527 · 3 years

Note

have you done an Ella - museum curator, Robb - investor on a tour work??

Ummmm no I had not! And wow was this one cathartic to write. It came out way longer than expected because this is a subject near and dear to my heart...

Thank you for this prompt!!

***

She was so sick of this shit.

Over a year of it. Ever since the governor’s order in April 2020. Back then she’d almost believed it was just a blip, a couple of weeks. A vacation, almost.

But then the ban on gatherings. The shutdowns. Finally the masks.

Every museum in the country had shut its doors along with libraries, movie theaters, and every other place desperate parents could take their children on a rainy Saturday.

Theirs had been luckier than most. An endowment a few years prior, which had been earmarked but not mandated for an expansion had been used to keep the lights on and the staff fed - literally. Their programming had gone virtual and understandably attendance had dropped but not entirely – thanks to a few local artists that had generously donated their time for a last minute plug.

Ever since restrictions had lifted, the crowds had returned somewhat. A rainy spring and summer had helped, but they were nowhere near their ‘pre-pandemic’ levels (and with the Delta variant on the rise she wasn’t super comfortable with the term ‘post-pandemic’ to describe their current state of affairs).

She wouldn’t say that today though.

No, today everything would be rosy – not just the botanical gardens that abutted the museum and had been started in 1853 – no, 1854.

Not that she imagined the potential donor would be fact checking her but nevertheless there was no room for error. She needed to represent the museum well. Her colleagues were counting on her – not to mention the collection itself depended on her.

The board had decided at its most recent meeting if they didn’t get an influx of donations within this quarter they were going to sell off a few pieces from the collection.

There was nothing sadder to a museum than deaccessioning. The staff all loved and protected the collection, and they truly felt the impact they and it had on the community. Myrcella loved to walk through the galleries on Thursday afternoons to see the regulars who’d come to visit the paintings like old friends of theirs, stopping by to say hello to a Baroque oil here or an Impressionist watercolor there.

So if schmoozing yet another prospective donor was what it took to mean that Mr. Poole’s favorite still-life stayed put for his bi-weekly Wednesday morning visit, then she would schmooze. She would schmooze Sansa Stark like her life depended on it.

She knew Sansa Stark sort of. It was the sort of thing where pre-pandemic they had run into each other at half a dozen events every year and always had a lovely chat and discussed getting together and then never did. The North was a small world and they ran in similar circles. But they weren’t friends.

Still, she was her best bet. From the wealthiest and most philanthropic family in the North, of course she was.

And she had to deliver.

The board had all made it clear that they expected results, and it had been suggested that really Myrcella Baratheon shouldn’t have such a hard time finding donors. But all her usual suspects had come to her with their own sob stories full of please tell me you won’t shut your doors but without any promise of relief, and the people she knew down south – the sort that profited from the world being in such dire straits had no interest in a little regional museum. No matter how much she marketed it as a hidden jewel.

To them, there was little worth in a jewel hidden, and they had no interest in having their act of charity buried under the northern snows.

So Sansa Stark was it.

She smoothed her dress, chosen carefully for the occasion. Sansa was always impeccably dressed and favored ladylike, tailored dresses for daytime, just as Myrcella did. Today, which had turned out to be a gorgeous one, she’d chosen a pale blue scallop trim knit dress, her grandmother’s wristwatch her only accessory. Feminine but appropriate. More comfortable than the clingier dresses she only ever so occasionally wore when taking around a male potential benefactor.

“Good luck,” Gilly, their glum registrar said as she raised her wrist to her nose to make sure she could still smell the scented oil she’d spread there that morning.

“Thanks baby,” Myrcella sighed, “Lunch from that naughty salad place when I’m done? My treat?”

Gilly smiled at that, “My treat if you get her.”

“Oh, now the stakes are really high,” she teased and blew Gilly a kiss and walked through the halls.

She felt eyes on her as she went. It was a small, tight-knit team, and it made it all the harder every time she received a sheepish regret. If she couldn’t succeed, one of them might lose their job if the board couldn’t decide what to sell. Even if they could, depending on how long this lasted.

Game face, Baratheon.

She took a deep breath and then smiled for fifteen seconds. She let it drop, knowing that it would still be in her eyes when she walked outside and it felt a little more genuine when her heels clacked along the gorgeous marble floor.

Walking over to the security desk, the smile reappeared on her face.

“Morning Roddy,” she grinned.

“Good morning to you Miss Myrcella,” Rodrick greeted her, “You see the game last night?”

“You’ve known me for four years,” she noted, “When in all of that time have I ever seen the game?”

He chuckled, “There was that one time in 2018.”

“Oh no, I totally lied about that,” she assured him, shrugging, “I wanted you to think I was cool.” She then looked around the empty lobby, “No Miss Stark?”

He grimaced, “Not yet. Traffic is back though, folks still aren’t used to it.”

She nodded, picking at a non-existent thread on her dress and looked around. Her eyes narrowed in on something and she crossed the lobby and picked up a tiny scrap of paper, crumbling it in her hand and then walking back over and tossing it in the trash behind Roddy’s desk.

“I’ve been sitting here for two hours, didn’t see it,” he noted.

She smiled, “Well you’ve been doing less important things like making sure no one robs the place.”

He opened his mouth to say something to her but then his gaze was directed behind her, “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t open until 11 o’clock on Tuesdays.”

“I sort of have an appointment,” the man said.

She knew that voice. She’d heard it before. In a coat closet at Alys Karstark’s birthday party. At the next table over at a charity even in 2019. Deep, stubbornly Northern, as unyielding as Valyrian steel.

She felt her palms sweat and forced herself not to rub them on her dress, rubbing them together instead and then turning around with a bright smile.

“You’re not Sansa Stark,” she greeted him.

He grinned sheepishly, though she wasn’t sure this man had ever had occasion to be sheepish in his entire life, “Afraid not. Myrcella, right? We met at that thing – that um… save the…whatsits.”

She giggled, and she heard the sound echoing garishly on the marble, “I believe that evening we were saving the seals. Or the… tulips, maybe.”

His smile spread slowly across his face, a dimple marking its end like an exclamation point, “Well we did our part even if we can’t remember what it was, I’m Robb Stark.”

She liked that he introduced himself. He’d done so every time they’d met, as though he in no way expected her to remember him. Sansa had done it the first five or so. Must have been how they were raised.

On the other hand, she’d been raised to act as though someone was foolish for not knowing who she was, introducing herself had been something she’d had to learn when she moved north, like parallel parking and salting her stoop.

Her hand extended and his met it, taking hers in his larger one and shaking it firmly as he looked her in the eyes briefly and then her lips slightly longer before purposefully going back to her eyes, “Myrcella Baratheon, and I remember you, Mr. Stark.”

“Well if that were true you’d remember I prefer Robb,” he noted, releasing her hand.

She shrugged, leaning forward conspiratorially, “Old habits. Can I get you something to drink before we begin our tour?”

“No thank you, I’m fine,” he shook his head.

She nodded, “Well it’s beautiful out now, why don’t we start in the botanical gardens. There’s been a bumper crop this year, we recently had the Cerwyn wedding here, did you attend?”

He fell into step next to her and said, “No, I didn’t. I was meant to but they reduced it to just family.”

She nodded, “Right, seems to be happening quite a bit. Will you do the same for your wedding?”

He stopped walking briefly and before she could stop too he had started again, “No… uh, rather than reduce the guest list we decided not to have it at all. We called the engagement off in January.”

“I’m so sorry!” she internally stabbed herself in the throat, “I didn’t know.”

He shrugged, “The nice thing about there not being any events over the past year is that the press didn’t really get wind of it.” Then stopped abruptly, “Not that… it’s not like that makes up for the past year or anything.”

She laughed, “Don’t worry, I know what you meant. I am sorry though, about your engagement.”

“As am I,” he agreed, “But it’s for the best. We parted as friends. Had we gotten married, I’m not sure we could have done so, so I’m grateful for that, and for her.”

A gentleman.

So many men played the part. Opening doors, buying flowers. So few of them realized that manners mattered very little when they were offered without grace.

“That’s lovely,” she noted, pleased for once not to have to lie.

It was a gorgeous day, a perfect seventy-nine degrees and clear blue skies. As though they’d understood the importance of the occasion, the Phlox stood proudly in battle formation and the scent of honeysuckle surrounded them.

“Sansa wanted me to apologize for missing your meeting,” Robb noted.

“I hope nothing’s the matter?” she asked.

A grin overtook his face, “No nothing at all. She’s in labor.”

She smiled, grabbing his forearm briefly. They both looked down at her hand on it and she pulled it back as gingerly as she could.

“That’s wonderful,” she told him, “Her second, right?”

He nodded, “A girl. And I’ve convinced her out of the name Corona.”

She chuckled, “Oh come now, you could call her Corrie for short.”

“And her parents idiots for long,” he noted. Then told her, “They weren’t really going to call her Corona.”

She smiled, “And here I was about to tip off the press…”

He smirked, “Narrow miss, then.” He looked around, “So. Flowers.”

“Not just flowers,” she pointed out, “We have a community garden to the left and down that lane local beekeepers keep their hives.”

“My mistake,” he allowed with a close-lipped smile.

That smile annoyed her. It was the same one she’d heard in the voice of every southern donor she’d called when they’d offered her good luck with her little country museum.

It was the smile someone gave her when she’d already lost.

“Perhaps we should go inside,” she noted, “I can show you our contemporary wing which we’ve recently devoted to elevating female and underrepresented artists. Or perhaps that’s a bit too avant-garde for you. Would you like to see our hall of armor and weaponry? I believe we have a few pieces that your ancestors left on one battlefield or another.”

“I’m sorry,” he noted, rubbing his jaw, “I told Sansa we should just cancel this meeting but she insisted.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Stark –“

“Robb,” he corrected her.

“No, I’m addressing Mr. Stark right now,” she argued, all of the frustration and helplessness of the past few months bubbling up inside of her, “May I ask what exactly it is about this that you find amusing? Is it the painting that we’re going to have to sell so that it can end up in someone’s climate controlled storage unit and never looked at again? Or is it the leaky roof? Perhaps the pay cut we asked all senior employees to take? Or how about the summer interns who had gone through a rigorous hiring process only to be told we couldn’t take them on at all? I certainly hope it’s not the seniors who used to come here for their Saturday afternoon watercolor classes which we had to cancel because we didn’t have anything to pay the instructor even though it would have been the perfect activity for them because it is outdoors and safe. Or maybe it’s the after-school programs you find so laughable…”

“I’m not laughing,” he pointed out. “But you’ll forgive me if I take your righteousness with a grain of salt.”

“I’m not sure that I will, actually,” she argued.

“No?” he asked, “Well let’s talk about those seniors? Don’t you think that funding is better spent ensuring they have free and safe access to the vaccination that can actually save their lives? Or what about those kids? Sure, the after-school program is great, but how about providing computers to allow them to do remote learning? Now I’m sorry if you have to lose one of a thousand paintings in this place, but if money can be better spent giving people what they really need then I’m sorry – sell the damn thing.”

That was hard to argue with.

But not impossible.

“So you’ve drained your coffers?” she asked.

There was only room for one of them on the moral high ground and she’d always enjoyed the view.

His cheeks had turned blotchy in anger but they paled now, “Excuse me?”

“Are you in the red?” she asked, “Declaring bankruptcy? Let’s not go that far - Taking out loans? Leveraging assets?”

His jaw clenched, revealing a muscle in his left cheek that might have been attractive if she wasn’t about to rip his head off.

“No,” he noted, “But my family’s company and my family have given an exceptional amount this year already.”

“Well,” she pointed out, “It has been an exceptional year already.”

“Are you always this haughty with potential donors?” he asked, stepping ever so slightly closer to her.

A flash in her mind of his hand ghosting across the back of her neck as he secured her coat over her shoulders. That smell.

“Never,” she admitted, stepping ever so slightly towards him, “But you’re not a potential donor, are you? And tell me, is it really because you don’t think it’s worthwhile or because it doesn’t sound worthwhile?”

His face contorted in anger, “You think we’re giving so that people will write songs about us? We want this country back on its feet. We want to return to normal and if we can’t do that, we want to make sure to give people as comfortable an existence until it reverts on its own. Tell me, Miss Baratheon, can you actually find fault in that?”

She shook her head, “No, I can’t.” He looked surprised and she shrugged, “It’s a flawless argument. Just an incomplete one. Giving an exceptional amount right now isn’t enough. You have to give until it hurts, because you can. It is wonderful, exceptional, heroic, to be doing all that you have done so far. But what comes next? What comes after? What happens when the dust settles? When things open? When we get things under control? What happens when people are ready to return to what was before and none of it is left because it wasn’t deemed essential. Because it’s just flowers and amateur beekeepers and pretty watercolors? I understand that we are not on the top of the list and we shouldn’t be. But we should be on the list. We need to do more than survive, Robb. There are things apart from us that we need to endure. Things we need to protect.”

His mouth twitched at that.

“I’m sorry to say I don’t have time to see the armor,” he told her.

She felt the defeat trickle through her veins slowly.

She held out her hand, “Thank you for letting me rant at you.”

He shook it once again, narrowing his eyes at her, “Something tells me you’ve still got some left in the tank. I’d quite like to hear it. Have dinner with me tonight and convince me.”

It was happening to all of her girlfriends. After a year in isolation, their ability to detect a creep from a mile away had withered. She hadn’t thought that hers had too. He’d seemed like one of the good ones.

She pulled her hand away, “That’s not the way I do business, Mr. Stark.”

His eyes widened in horror, “No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t get to make these decisions.”

“You’re the CEO,” she pointed out.

“Yes I am but Sansa insisted on inserting a clause into her contract that she gets final say over any philanthropic decisions,” he sighed, “I literally am not even allowed to choose the location of a book drive.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that, a tiny bit of hope bubbling inside of her, “So when you said you should have cancelled the meeting…”

“It’s because Sansa’s already decided that we will be giving a donation, she wanted to discuss the structure of it with you – you know whether you’d prefer a lump sum, or whether you want it in increments, if you wanted it to be public to inspire other donors or whether you wanted it to be private so that they couldn’t use it as an excuse not to give…” he waved his hand, “She’s better at the specifics and I’m sure she’ll be calling you in between contractions to fine tune them.”

She laughed, “Please tell her not to. A pledge is more than enough to take to my board, we can map out the nitty gritty whenever she or whomever will be replacing her in the interim has time.”

He nodded, “You’ll have them within the week.”

She was about to thank him but the words caught in her mouth, “So wait a second… did you just wind me up for the sake of it?”

He grinned, a chuckle present in his voice though it hadn’t yet broken, “I’d like to point out that it took very little to wind you up.”

She laughed, because he was right and admitted, “It’s been a tough year.”

He nodded, “For everyone. So, now that you know I have absolutely no control and can hold absolutely nothing over you… have dinner with me.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I enjoy arguing with you,” he told her, then grinned sheepishly, “And because I lied. Sansa told me that I could cancel the meeting and I insisted on coming because I wanted to see you. The bad thing about this year is that there were no events where I could have a chance of bumping into you…”

“Oh that’s the bad thing about this year?” she asked.

“Well,” he grinned, then did a scarily good impression of her, “Maybe it shouldn’t be at the top of the list, but it should be on the list.”

#fanfiction #modern au #robbcella #fluff #prompt

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mk-vasy · 2 years

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Daily Prompt Twenty-One

<"Kill me if you must but I shall not bow to a King who wears a crown studded with jewels of every life he has ended."> She spat.

She stood in the middle of the throne room defiantly. She wore scraps of dirty clothing and her skin was covered in grime. Her hair was a rat's nest at the nape of her neck. Dried blood cracked at the corners of her lips and under her nose. But somehow managed to lock eyes with me. As if somehow her dirty and broken was still better than me, a King.

"It would be boring to kill you." I spun my dagger on my armchair engraving the wood with a little circle. "But I can make you bow."

I nodded to the guard and used the flat of his blade to slap the back of her knees. They quickly gave out and she crumpled to the floor. But a cry didn't ring from her lips. My guardsmen placed the tip of his sword on the back of her neck. If she tried to rise she would be met with the tip of his blade.

She only laughed. "Is this what your reign has always been? Forcing people's loyalty to you at sword point? How long until your people realize that they have swords too?"

I growled digging my dagger into the wooden throne. Who did this peasant girl think she was? If I didn't kill her it would look bad for my reputation. I nodded to the guardsmen to finish the job.

"Your Grace, if I may." My councilmen kneeled in front of me.

"What is it?" I demanded.

"Your Grace, she happens to be apart of the Royal family of Valyeria." He said.

"Didn't we just conquer Valyeria?" I asked.

She scoffed.

"Yes, I don't think it is wise to kill their Princess so soon after the countries surrender. It might insight a rebellion. That costs money and good knights of the realm."

I tapped the hilt of the blade against my lips. I would have no problems squashing a rebellion. But the treasury was worn thin from the war, along with my men.

I looked back as the girl on the floor. She didn't look like a princess.

"Fine, have her cleaned and taken to a room in the castle. We'll have guards posted with her at all times." I said dismissing them.

They dragged the princess to her feet. She was smiling maniacally at me.

"Valyeria will rebel with or without my death. And your bones will decorate my throne room." She said.

"We shall see." I rolled my eyes. "Take her away."

Author here! So, I think I have finally decided on what my weekly series will be. I am going to pick a book world like Harry Potter or Percy Jackson and write a short piece of a character living in it. Not the main character but from the point of view of one of the side characters. I think it'll be fun. Reminder the prompt will always be in <> with my original writing afterwards. Thanks for reading!

#fantasy #fantasy novel #short story #writing #writing prompts #ficition #steamyromance #kissing #love #author #enemies to lovers #reading

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thecandywrites · 3 years

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Blood For Gold

So. I was SO INSPIRED by @kriskukko ‘s regency era orc art, please forgive me for taking it and putting it into the photo montage that I do for all my stories but I wanted everyone to see your amazing art and really get a visual sense of the story I want to tell. For more amazing orc and other fantasy beings in GORGEOUS period clothing- @kriskukko is where to go. They’re amazing.

I’m a HUGE fan of Jane Austin in general and now with historical period dramas like Death Comes to Pemberley and Bridgerton, they need a fantasy twist with orcs, elves, trolls and of course mouras which are my own precious creation. Also because this is a fantasy period piece, I’m fudging and blurring the lines of historical accuracy just a wee bit. Regency Era- 1811-1820 ish. First Industrial Revolution- 1760-1840 and railways becoming a key transportation tool around this time as well. So we’re going with all three at the same time.

Trains, Industrial Revolution, Regency, Nobility, Intrigue, Murder Mystery, Damsel in Distress, Mail Order Bride, Only One Bed but with a twist as Only One Train Cabin, all the clichés. ALL OF THEM. Enjoy. And I really hope @kriskukko enjoys this because this was written specifically for them. And it’s written as a reader insert. Hope that’s ok. If that’s annoying @kriskukko, I can change that. Technically this will be female reader insert.

Blood For Gold

Part 1

You were happily sitting on the train, in a private first class cabin suite, dressed in your mourning clothes, relieved that others took the hint and left you alone so you could travel in peace, reading one of your latest acquisitions from one of the more upscale and prominent bookstores in Kent since you were traveling from Kent back to London Towne. Normally you would never dream of traveling alone, but you did just give away your latest paid companion in marriage the day before to a man who would love her for the rest of her life so you found yourself feeling bittersweet at the loss of her company, both sad to lose such a close friend yet happy she would be happy. She was your third paid companion just this past year to do so. But you were far from begrudged. But now you would have to start the process all over again and have to take out an advertisement in the papers for a new paid companion and start anew.

Then your thoughts were interrupted by the knock on the door by a station master since the train had stopped on its way into London, stopping in the industrial district.

“Yes?” You asked as he came into your suite.

“Begging your pardon Countess, but there are two first class gentlemen looking for a private cabin on their journey home and it’s a full train today and we’ve filled up all the other cabins, would it be a horrible inconvenience for them to share this one with you? We’d like to extend these certificates of first class cabins on future trips to you if you’d be willing to share yours with them.” He offered generously, holding them out to you hopefully.

“Who are the gentlemen?” You asked curiously as you looked from his offering back to him.

“Duke Damsey Voyambi and Count Javyn Jabire.” He answered. You didn’t know them personally but you knew of them. Men of both nobility and industry and supposedly of considerable wealth in this country. Although you did hear rumors of both gentlemen of being romantically attached to various debutants so you’d have to be careful to not let any rumors spring up. The last thing you needed was another scandal on your hands.

“But of course, I would be happy to share my cabin with them.” You readily agreed before you took the ride certificates into your black laced gloved hand and put them away into your purse as the station master then happily left and returned with the gentlemen a moment later, they were exquisitely dressed but did smell like their factories, they must have been just checking in on their businesses.

“Countess Morrigan, this is Duke Voyambi and this is Count Jabire.” The station master introduced as you stood to greet them formally. Duke Voyambi was orcish and the count was clearly troll, but you were moura, so it made little difference what they were.

Mouras- ever since the moura plague over a hundred and fifty years ago that wiped out the heavenly moura population, leaving only the royal moura and mountain moura to live on since their own moura heritage was “diluted” by other races enough genetically to withstand the plague and live on- were now all born with golden yellow eyes, golden blonde hair and their moura collars and cloaks, instead of being actual objects containing magic and power were now reduced to looking like they were painted on the skin with gold glittering ink. It’s what made mouras stand out even more than they used to. Gone were the days of the real moura gifts but the breed’s legacy lived on. But you were of course in your mourning attire, mostly all black and covered up, the only moura trait giving you away were your gold eyes and little golden freckles on your cheeks and nose, otherwise you looked mostly human.

“Pleasured to make your acquaintance Countess Morrigan. How do you do?” They bowed as you curtsied in kind.

“Please, won’t you sit down gentlemen?” You invited as you gestured to the other bench before all three of you sat down again.

“Thank you so much for having us Countess Morrigan, we’re much obliged.” Count Jabire thanked you earnestly.

“Pleasure is all mine your graces, a journey is always more enjoyable when spent with amiable company.” You answered pleasantly.

“So why are you travelling alone Young Countess?” Duke Voyambi asked curiously.

“I believe you have me confused with the Young Countess Jane Morrigan, I am her late grandmother in law Audravienne Saharrazat Morrigan from Dorierra, I was married to the late Old Count Edward Morrigan.” You gently corrected, your r’s rolling while your moura accent flourished and furled with the pronunciation of your name, which both of them couldn’t help but raise their eyebrows at that revelation as they realized you were that Countess Morrigan.

You were the reason every young man threw themselves into business if only to make enough money to afford a moura bride as beautiful and wonderful as you. To hear of the late Count Edward Morrigan’s death had many marking their calendars to mark when your mourning period would be over so they could pursue you themselves. Especially since after the death you weren’t immediately whisked away back to the moura stables of Dorierra but stayed in the country and it seemed to be in this moment that both actually took note of your mourning attire and seemed to connect the dots so to speak.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, again, so sorry for your loss, I believe the last time we were in the same room was actually your wedding to the Count only two years ago, forgive us for not recognizing you.” Count Jabire offered.

“It’s alright, I did not recognize you either, that day was a bit of a blur for me and all the faces ran together having met so many people that day.” You admitted.

Your wedding to the Count was attended by all of high society in this country, even the entire royal family attended, all of which you barely remembered because of the circumstances of your marrying the Count. It was all a blur for you and most of the first year of being married to him, you’d much prefer to forget and the circumstances of his passing had you feeling relieved you had only been married to him for a year. Much longer and it would have finished you for good. But you had settled into widowhood much easier than you had anticipated and it afforded for you to finally enjoy life again. Now that he was dead, you had a very charming and pleasant life, and one you would be loathed to lose.

“Oh it’s perfectly alright, practically the whole country came for your wedding, it would be impossible for you to remember all of them, especially when all of them were practically strangers to you that day. And especially since you rarely come out into society since.” Duke Voyambi reasoned and all you could do was smile politely but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Edward had been a widower, he was human and had married a human wife in his youth and used his family’s small and modest fortune and invested it into industry and investments, all of which paid off handsomely so that the Morrigans were one of the wealthiest nobles in all of England, if not most of Europe. Then Beatrice, Edward’s wife died, and in his old age, and now fully established wealth, Edward decided it was time for him to “buy” a moura bride, a tradition most kings partook in going back for a millennia since the moura stables were established specifically for that purpose. The moura estate of Doriera functioned like a racing horse stable. All brides were put on display and bought and sold or rented to the highest bidder, because since the plague, mouras were becoming even more rare and sought after and were the first to embrace the mail order bride system. Edward wanted a moura bride who was young and vibrant and entertaining to keep him company in his old age and give his last years a measure of happiness and pleasure. He had paid a fortune to the moura stable in Doriera for you since you had a pedigree that rivaled most ruling kings and gifts galore, not to mention were an outstanding beauty in your own right and Edward got what he paid for because you delivered on all accounts.

Edward had been incredibly sweet, kind, thoughtful and generous as a husband when you first married him and treated you like the gem you were and in the beginning, you found much to appreciate and have affection for as he helped you to adjust to living in England, away from the moura stables and indulged you endlessly because he could afford to. He made sure you had a very generous allowance paid out weekly, wore splendid gowns and practically dripping in jewels at all times. You were his delight in his old age and he even had the good sense that it was all down in writing and was taken care of by his steward.

However six months into the marriage, he started to go completely senile, mistaking you for Beatrice and then getting so angry when you weren’t her and especially once the sun set every day, he became a different man, he grew incoherent, irritable and angry and even violent but then in the morning and during the day, he would come back to his senses and himself and would apologize and do everything he could to make amends and even hired special assistants to keep himself from hurting you further but even that only lasted a few months, the last three months of his life was spent having all sense leaving him and he became completely senile and deranged no matter the time of day and that’s when the abuses started happening, in his senility, he dismissed his helpers and Richard, his eldest son and heir, who was looking to save money, agreed with their dismissal, no matter your pleadings or theirs and even his steward plead with him but Richard and his family turned a blind eye to it since they viewed you as his paid caregiver and basically dumped him on you and left you all alone to deal with him and shut you and him up and away from society so they would not and could not see it for themselves while forbidding you from contacting the stables or anyone else about it to “preserve the family honor”.

Then the “incident” happened and Edward unexpectedly passed. And it came as a relief to everyone else in the Morrigan family. Richard then fully inherited the estate and very quickly shipped you and all of your things off to live in London Towne as soon as you could be packed- to live in an exquisite and surprisingly luxurious townhouse in the fashionable side of town that was big enough to suit you just fine because you couldn’t return to the moura stables because ‘you were broken beyond repair’ by Edward’s and Richard’s treatment as judged by the stable masters who were beyond enraged at your treatment and thankfully Edward had written it into his will and specified the kind of living you would receive upon his death so that the rest of your life, until you chose to remarry someone of your choosing, would be in comfort and luxury and even accounted for inflation and unless Richard wanted to lose everything, he would be honoring his father’s wishes and pay out what you were definitely owed and had earned by enduring it, under the threat of the truth being discovered and him losing everything, including the family honor and estate and business to you, which the stable masters were more than ready and able to hire the best international lawyers who would make sure to hold the new Count Richard Morrigan to the very letter of the contract his father signed when he “bought” you from the stables which clearly stated, should you be damaged in any way, you would inherit all of Edward’s estate to “recoop” the damages inflicted on you personally which all moura contracts superseded all others in all courts worldwide.

So that left Richard to pay for your silence and discretion on the matter, effectively doubling what his father had already set out in your material living agreement which you had the good sense to get down in writing and have the stable masters cosign it so that it accompanied the contract Edward signed which you kept a copy of in your possession and the stable masters also kept the original copy of and had it witnessed by the highest judges in the land, in private of course. Which for the price of your peace- and complete independent freedom from the Morrigan’s, you agreed to it since you could not return to the moura stables yourself.

So you made peace with your circumstances and counted yourself fortunate to have the moura stables still backing you despite technically no longer being a part of them even though you knew that if this particular country were to ever become unsafe by either revolution or war, you were still welcome back to the stables under those conditions to simply preserve your bloodline, but little other circumstance garnered your return to them.

Besides, you got to have the very same staff that served you at the Morrigan Estate named Broadcove follow you to your new townhouse- Mirador and they were ever so happy to follow you there because you were a good and fair mistress to them and took care of them exceedingly well and they made at least twice the money they would make at any other house and they were loyal to you to a fault. Even the steward followed you to Mirador because he knew his master had done you wrong.

“How are you getting home to Broadcove?” Count Jabire asked curiously.

“Oh since the Late Count Edward Morrigan passed and the New Count Richard Morrigan and his family has taken ownership of Broadcove, they thought it best I mourn in peace at a house of my own, so I have since moved to Mirador since the late Count’s passing.” You informed them.

“Oh how kind and thoughtful of them.” Count Jabire noted and you fought not to snort a derisive laugh at that. It was never ‘thoughtful’ on their part. It was always just a business to them.

“Yes, it’s been most helpful to me. It’s incredibly convenient to be in town and so close to so many amusements and diversions, it has helped me with my grief a great deal, especially since the living afforded to me by the late Count is generous enough for me to afford a paid companion so that I don’t get too lonely. My latest one was married only yesterday, Lady Bellum to Sir DeVaunce, you may have seen the announcement in the paper perhaps?” You readily agreed.

“Oh yes, yes of course.” Duke Voyambi readily agreed while Count Jabire nodded in agreement.

“But now it seems I will have to take out another advertisement for another, since it’s obviously a little unseemly for a lady such as myself to travel alone, especially in this country.” You allowed as they nodded and gave each other a meaningful look.

The rest of the ride was spent in pleasant conversation as all three of you got to become better acquainted.

Duke Voyambi owned a soap company, making not just soap to wash the body, but laundry supplies as well which explained his own scent on his clothes smelled like he worked as a laundress. But he also employed a union of orcish workers. One of the few captains of industry that was for the union instead of against it, which you greatly respected because you could tell he was passionate about the betterment of orcs in general, from livelihood and wages, to education and living and working conditions and was incredibly safety conscious.

Count Jabire on the other hand- he owned one of the many flour mills, using the river rushing through the feet of the bridge to run the giant wheels to make flour of various kinds. And it was why he smelled like a bakery and why the two of them together smelled- if anything- interesting. But they were clearly friends, and close ones at that and in conversation, they clearly played very well off each other and it was entertaining for you to sit and listen to them. You were almost saddened when your stop came and all three of you had to disembark.

But at the same time, you were relieved to see Malcom, one of your manservants there to help you with your things and there with a carriage to take you home.

“Till we see each other again gentlemen, may you both get home safely.” You offered the Duke and Count, curtseying again as they bowed and tipped their hats to you before you left to return to Mirador.

“You have visitors waiting on you my Lady.” Malcolm informed you as he helped you into your carriage.

“Who?” You asked.

“Count and Countess Morrigan.” He answered before you groaned and made a whiney whimpering sound which brought a grin to Malcom’s face.

“Why?” You asked.

“Don’t know, but they came bearing gifts my Lady.” He answered.

“Great, well, I suppose we shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer than they have to.” You urged him as he finished loading your things up and the driver drove the carriage home as you steeled yourself for whatever would find you once you came home.

“Countess,” Richard and his wife Agnes greeted you as all three of you curtsied to each other respectfully.

“Count, Countess.” You returned respectfully.

“We trust your ride home from Kent was pleasant as always.” Richard urged with forced pleasantness.

“It was,” you confirmed.

“So what do I owe the pleasure of your presence your Graces?” You asked curiously.

“Well since your mourning ends in a fortnight, we came to invite you to everything that will be happening shortly after, and since you will be out of mourning and even half mourning in a fortnight, you will need new clothes to stay with the fashions, we must get you out into society as soon as possible. Surely you long to see it and we brought all the invitations that we should all go to as a family.” Agnes insisted as cheerfully as she could muster as she presented you with a stack of invitations and you wanted to laugh scornfully in her face for her audacity. But decorum would not permit you to do so- so you simply smiled politely as you took them from her.

“Of course.” You agreed as you started looking through them.

“Well we must get you to the designer houses as soon as may be for they may need time to finish your gowns in time for all of these events. Take the next couple of days to rest and recoup from your journey from Kent, so on Wednesday perhaps, we should go, in the meantime, the stables have sent gifts to celebrate the event, and your servants have taken the trunks to your quarters for your inspection and we must inform you that you now have a dowry, should you chose to get remarried of fifty thousand pounds.” Agnes suggested. You were being paid thirty thousand pounds for your silence a year, since Edward afforded you fifteen thousand but Richard doubled it for your silance and discretion, but the Morrigan’s estate and business earned them hundreds of thousands of pounds a year which they were using to build an even bigger estate in the country along with a new townhouse in London that was going to rival any other as well, the new country estate was going to rival the Palace of Windsor or even Buckingham Palace. Which is how Edward could afford to give the stables two hundred a fifty thousand pounds to buy you outright from the stables but Edward, when he had not been senile insisted that you were worth every penny. But still, they always viewed you as a gold leech and they were obviously keen to get rid of you and have you ‘latch on’ to someone else.

“Yes, Wednesday would be a good day for that, thank you.” You agreed, in a desperate attempt to get them out of your house so you wouldn’t have to put on this pretence any longer than you had to.

Mourning here lasted a year and a day for widows, the first six months were spent in deep or full mourning, where the widow would wear nothing but black, and the last six months were in half mourning where a little bit of subdued color was introduced back into the wardrobe, which seemed almost alien to you since mouras liked to dress in the brightest and most vibrant colors possible.

But you knew the sooner they could get you remarried after the mourning period- the better for them because they would no longer have to pay for your living arrangements and pay for your allowances. They were going to dump a fortune into getting your market ready and dump you on the first willing suitor who showed interest and they would try to induce you to remarry but you were determined that only the deepest and purist and most genuine love would ever induce you into matrimony now.

If they only knew who you shared a train ride with- they would be going to the gentlemen directly to try to broker a deal behind your back as you wondered exactly what tricks they had up their sleeves to try to pawn you off.

But you had tricks of your own. You just needed a little help...

#Blood For Gold #a story inspired by #@kriskukko #their regency and industrial revolution art #orcs #orc period drama #bridgerton #but orc and fantasy being style #it's going to be so fun!

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kelyon · 4 years

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Golden Rings 1: A Town

Cursed Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Mrs. Gold goes shopping

Read on AO3

The people of Storybrooke, Maine lived in fear of the day before rent day.

Rent day itself was bad enough, of course. There was one landlord in town and the only thing worse than giving him all of your money was not having any money to give him. Contrary to popular rumor, Mr. Gold did not personally break the kneecaps of tenants who turned up short on the fourth Sunday of the month. No, what he did was much worse.

Mr. Gold was always the first to assure frantic tenants that he was a reasonable man. With a smile that never reached his eyes, he would promise that everything would get sorted out. He would never turn someone out on the streets for a first offense. He was always willing to make accommodations. For a price.

Late fees were the first recourse of the desperate. Mr. Gold was happy to waive rent for weeks at a time. If you were a little short in June, he could easily collect June’s rent in July--along with fees that totalled up to almost double the original debt. And July’s rent was due as well, wasn’t it? To be sure, this was a steep price, but it was better than losing your home. Wasn’t it?

If you had something you could offer up as collateral, he might be willing to give you a small personal loan to cover the rent. Then the late fees and missed payments were added directly to the principal of the loan. But Mr. Gold understood if someone was struggling and could only pay the interest. Interest that accrued daily and compounded weekly.

You didn’t have to rent from him to be desperate enough to borrow from him. More than one unlucky soul in Storybrooke had arranged for a loan of a thousand dollars--to be paid off at one hundred dollars a month for one year--only to still be making payments of a hundred dollars a month long after the originally planned payoff date.

Anyone who wanted to try to break the cycle, or who were among the unlucky few who Mr. Gold no longer saw as a good investment, was more than welcome to offer up their valuables to pawn. After all the stock for Mr. Gold’s Pawn Shop and Antiquities had to come from somewhere.

But Mr. Gold was never interested in the objects that people wanted to sell. A television set or stereo was worthless in an antique shop. Diamond rings from broken engagements got less than a tenth of what they had been sold for at the jeweler’s. Designer fashions or collector’s items would all be turned away. It was Mr. Gold’s shop, and he had the final say on what inventory he took in.

Instead, the pawnbroker had an uncanny eye for the possessions that owners would rather not part with. He liked to buy heirlooms, the more personal the better. If an inkwell had been at your grandfather’s desk since you were a child, or if your mother wore a bead necklace to every wedding she ever went to because she said it was good luck... Well, that was exactly the sort of thing that Mr. Gold would pay to take off your hands.

He had an entire display case of items that were monogrammed--silver hairbrushes and hand-embroidered handkerchiefs and bronzed baby shoes. He would pay extra for a picture frame if it had an old family photograph inside. The shop was full of mementos and trinkets that really only had sentimental value.

Mr. Gold took from everyone, but he would only pay cash for an object that came with a piece of your heart.

When you had nothing left that he wanted to buy, that was when you were in real trouble. You could tell because Mr. Gold kept smiling, his gold tooth glinting as his hands tightened around his cane. He would keep things businesslike. Mr. Gold wasn’t the sort of man who shouted at people in public. No, he kept calm, almost genial, as he suggested that maybe you and he could work out some kind of deal.

A favor, he would call it. What was a favor between friends? And you were friends, weren’t you? Didn’t you want to stay on friendly terms with Mr. Gold? You wouldn’t want the situation to get unfriendly, would you?

Faced with that situation, people would promise him anything--property, services, information. Worst of all was when he wouldn’t say what he wanted right away. But you knew that you were in his debt. Even if your financial obligation was cleared, you owed something to Mr. Gold. And sooner or later, he was going to take what he wanted.

But before he did, he would send her to pay you a visit. The day before rent day was when she was on the prowl. Mr. Gold’s wife was an omen to the people of Storybrooke, a dreaded apparition whose presence foretold desolation. She was her husband’s creature and she did his bidding without question.

****

It was a rare day when Marco Benigni was grateful that he had never had children. He and his sweet Nicoletta had tried for more than thirty years of marriage, but they had never been given that miracle.

When they had been young and full of hope, the couple had dreamed of a big family. Marco had wanted to see a face in every window waiting for him when he came home from work. As they grew older, their dreams grew smaller. If they couldn’t have a dozen children, maybe five would do. Or maybe only three. Or even one. And by the time they had realized that it wasn’t to be and had started talking about adoption or fostering, Nicoletta was already sick. Then all of Marco’s dreams and prayers and wishes went to her.

All these years later, he wished for a child more than ever. Their little house had always felt like it was missing something. Now that Nicoletta was gone, the place was as empty and quiet as a graveyard.

For as long as he could remember, Marco had carved toys and figurines from scrap lumber. He had always planned to give them to his children. Over the years he had made enough to fill the second bedroom, what was always going to be the baby’s room. Even now, he still carved in his spare time. He kept hoping for a miracle, for some chance to be a father. The toys gathered dust while he waited for a child to magically appear and help him be less lonely.

But when Mrs. Gold walked down the street, Marco remembered that the world wasn’t always a good place for children.

It was the fourth Saturday in October. Marco was on his first job of the day. He was the best handyman in town--an easy claim to make, because he was the only professional handyman in Storybrooke. Most of his days started with a trip to Storybrooke Hardware and Paint. He would take a free styrofoam cup of coffee and pick up supplies for the day and see if anyone had posted on the bulletin board for a job that needed doing.

More mornings than not, his first job was at the hardware store itself. The owner of the place, Dotty Compton, was a sweet young lady with hair the color of straw and a tendency to snort when she laughed. She kept a good shop, but she had no idea how to actually use the tools and materials she sold. Every day something broke, and every day she asked Marco to fix it for her. With a tip of his hat, he obliged.

It made him feel like a gentleman, to help a lady in distress. He didn’t want Dotty to be embarrassed if her sisters showed up. Both of them were more handy than she was--the sort of people who would build their own houses if they had the money. Either one might stop by and point out something that they could easily fix but Dotty didn’t know how to. So Marco quietly covered for her and kept the hardware store in the best shape he could.

On that particular Saturday morning, he was fixing the outside sign. Last night’s rainstorm had knocked the plastic cover down away from the lights. One of the flickering bulbs would need to be changed soon. When Dotty asked, Marco would have to take the cover off again to put in a new fluorescent light. He could change it now, but maybe Dotty wouldn’t want to sell herself a lightbulb just yet. The lights would do well enough flickering for a few more weeks, and it wouldn’t do him any harm to get back on the ladder again come November.

Marco’s thoughts were interrupted by the clacking of high heeled shoes on the brick sidewalk. He looked down from the ladder and cursed in Italian. It was her. The reason he could be glad that he never had children. He had to believe that children would be better off unborn than to be brought into a world where women like Mrs. Gold walked the streets.

She was coming from the pawn shop. It was barely ten in the morning but Mrs. Gold was tarted up like she was headed for a night on the town. She had her hair up and makeup on. Necklaces and bracelets and earrings sparkled in the morning light. That green skirt barely covered her bottom and what kind of lunatic wore a blouse with no sleeves in October in Maine? But that was how Mrs. Gold always paraded herself around Storybrooke on the day before rent day.

Across the street, Dr. Whale was walking out of Storybrooke Coffee. Marco watched the doctor stop dead in his tracks to stare at Mrs. Gold. He even tilted his head to get a better look at her bare legs as she walked away.

With a huff, Marco slammed the sign to the hardware store back into place. The noise was enough to break Dr. Whale’s attention from Mrs. Gold. Startled, the young man went on his way in the opposite direction. He had a coffee in hand and a spring in his step.

“Yeah, go on to the hospital,” Marco muttered. “Go save lives and keep your eyes in your head!”

What if he had had a son like that doctor? And it wasn’t just Whale. Half the men in town gawked at Mrs. Gold every time she went streetwalking. How could he and Nicoletta have brought up a nice boy in a world so full of temptation? Women like Mrs. Gold were breathing advertisements for the lowest kind of living.

Marco must have wished on the right star last night, because Mrs. Gold walked right past him. She usually left people alone if they were regular with their rent payments. Marco kept his cash in a little wooden box he had made himself. Over the years, he had scraped up enough together to make sure he always had a full month’s rent in reserve. Keeping his head above water with Mr. Gold was Marco’s top priority. He slept easier at night knowing that his landlord and that woman had no reason to bother him.

Climbing down the ladder, Marco gave another look down the street to Mrs. Gold. She flounced by the flower shop with her nose in the air. He shook his head. What must it be like to have a daughter like that? How easy would he sleep if he knew that his little girl was married to a man as ruthless as Mr. Gold?

Sometimes he saw her in the hardware store. Usually she lingered by the big spools of rope and chains. Marco had noticed Mrs. Gold rubbing a length of nylon rope between her fingers or wrapping the natural hemp around her wrist. She tested the weight of a brass-plated steel chain like she was picking out a tomato for supper.

Once, he had seen her in the paint aisle. She wasn’t looking at colors, but had taken a wooden paint stirrer and was slowly slapping it against the palm of her hand. Mrs. Gold’s expression had been thoughtful, almost dreamy. She had walked away like she was floating on air. Along the hem of her short skirt, Marco had seen a rectangular pink mark on the back of her thigh. He couldn’t say for sure, but might have been a welt.

He shook his head and brought the ladder back inside to Dotty. Marco wasn’t that much older than Mr. Gold, and that girl was young enough to be his daughter or even his granddaughter.

But Mr. Gold was the richest man in Storybrooke. That woman strutted around town like she owned the place because she did, through marriage. Mr. Gold made everybody pay for everything. What did his wife have to go through in order to be worth what he gave her?

****

Tom Clark sneezed when Mrs. Gold walked into Dark Star Pharmacy.

There probably wasn’t a connection between the two events. Hay fever season had run long this year and now they were bumping into flu season. Ragweed was still in bloom all over town. And the rain last night was probably exacerbating the mold that he knew was somewhere in this drafty, damp old building that he was paying a fortune to rent because of its “character” and “charm.” After working in this place for as long as he could remember, Tom was pretty sure those were just code words for “dust” and “termites.” There was probably asbestos too, so he would have mesothelioma to look forward to when he retired--if he ever made enough money to retire.

He sneezed again. Then he heard Mrs. Gold’s tinkling laughter from the magazine rack by the front door.

“Well, Mr. Clark!” Mrs. Gold’s voice was always high and bubbly. Just listening to the sound, you could never tell if she was a genuine airhead or if she was pretending to be a porn star. You had to listen to the words to know for sure. “You know, I read somewhere that men sneeze every time they have a dirty thought. Have you heard that?”

Mrs. Gold was on the other side of the store, but she fixed Tom with a direct stare that nailed him to the ground. His mouth hung open. He knew she wouldn’t stop staring at him until he answered her.

“I-I-I dunno,” he said as limply as he could.

Then she came toward him, white legs in high heels striding forward in what could only be described as a stripper strut. Mrs. Gold was not a tall woman--how the hell were her legs so long?

Elbows on the counter, Mrs. Gold put a finger up to her berry-red lips. Tom had never seen her wearing less than three rings and today was no exception.

“Do you think that’s why all the boys I knew in high school had a box of tissues by their bed? There were always piles of wadded-up tissues all over their rooms. And lotion! It was really useful for me since I have such dry skin, and the boys were always so helpful about wanting to rub me down.”

She giggled after that, and it made her breasts bounce against her tight, almost sheer shirt. Tom was suddenly reminded of the bottle of lotion in his bedside table. Oh boy...

He pulled out his hanky and sneezed. It was a thick, mucusy gob that made his eyes water. He shoved the hanky back into his pocket and made a few subtle adjustments to his pants while he was at it. Then he pumped a quick squirt of hand sanitizer from the container he kept by the register.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Gold?” he asked as he rubbed his fingers over his palms in a cleanliness ritual that was practically muscle memory.

She giggled again, as if he had even attempted to make a joke. A strand of her curly brown hair had escaped from her bun and she twirled it around one finger.

“Mr. Gold told me he called in my birth control prescription for a refill.”

Oh thank God. Now Tom had a reason to walk away, even for just a minute

“I’ll go check in the back,” he said. “It, uh, might be a sec. Feel free to look around, see if there’s anything you want.”

“I always am.” She winked at him and pushed away from the counter. Her hips swung back and forth as she walked around the store. Tom stared at her. Mrs. Gold was wearing a very short, very tight, very shiny green skirt.

Mentally shaking himself and physically taking as many deep breaths as he could through his congested nose, Tom went behind the shelves of pill bottles to try to get his shit together.

“Okay, Tommy-boy, calm down.” He rubbed his face and then sneezed into his elbow. He had to think of unsexy things. Things like nuns. Or gonorrhea. Or Mr. Gold if he ever found out that Tom had even looked at his wife.

Mr. Gold if he ever found out that Tom was short on the rent.

“Crap,” he said to himself. It was the day before rent day. He did have enough on hand to cover it, didn’t he? Mr. Gold only accepted cash. If there wasn’t enough in the register or the safe, Tom would have to get to the bank before it closed at noon. Crap.

The prescription bag for Mrs. Gold was already prepped and waiting. Grabbing it, Tom went back to the front of the store. He opened up the register and started counting out bills.

“Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, three. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, four. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty…” Before he could continue the count to five hundred dollars, Tom’s concentration suddenly drifted away.

Mrs. Gold was still in the store. Mrs. Gold was in the aisle directly in front of the cash register. Mrs. Gold was bent at the waist in a perfect ninety-degree angle to get a good look at the lower shelves. Mrs. Gold’s skirt was very tight. Mrs. Gold’s skirt was slowly creeping up the beautiful round curve of Mrs. Gold’s ass.

Tom sneezed. He looked down at the cash in his hand. What was he counting? How much money did he have? He had the same amount for rent every month, but right now he was damned if he could remember what that amount was. Crap.

“I’ve got your script here!” His voice cracked on the last word. Christ, he sounded like a horny teenager. Well, that was half-accurate.

“That was quick!” Mrs. Gold bounced over to him, her purchases clutched to her chest. She let the items spill out onto the countertop.

Tom fought his reflex to sneeze again. He really should be used to this by now. Mrs. Gold had played some variation of this game every month for as long as he could remember.

But it never stopped amazing him how she could make innocuous purchases seem so dirty. The counter was covered with one box of every type of condom--every brand, every style, every size.

In Tom’s experience, most men found a prophylactic that was comfortable for them and stuck with it. So who were all these different sizes for? How many different men did she need to provide condoms to? Had she picked out his brand along with all the others?

There was also a box of latex gloves, a roll of duct tape, and the largest bottle of KY jelly they had in stock.

“Would you hold these here while I run and get something else?” Mrs. Gold didn’t wait for his answer, but shimmied off to another aisle. A moment later, she ran back and--Jesus Christ, was she even wearing a bra?

She put down that month’s copy of Cosmo and a bottle of lotion. Tom didn’t look at her. He just rang up all the paraphernalia in silence. Some obscure sense of decency made him put everything in a paper bag instead of plastic--no one would be able to see the lurid contents unless Mrs. Gold took them out and showed them to people.

He wouldn’t have put it past her.

“D-Do you have any questions about your prescription?”

“I do, actually!”

She leaned over the counter, arms crossed under her chest so they pushed up her cleavage. Her voice changed to a low whisper and Tom had to move closer to hear her. All of a sudden Mrs. Gold gave a crap about privacy. “This birth control, is it affected by how often it’s called upon to be used?”

Tom opened his mouth but couldn’t talk for a second. “I-I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs. Gold.”

“Well…” She was halfway over the counter now, probably standing on her tiptoes. She could reach out and touch him if her arms weren’t jammed underneath her boobs. “The thing is… Mr. Gold really doesn’t want me to get pregnant. And he told me to ensure that nothing allows that to happen. And I know I have to take the pill every day, but what if I have intercourse more often than that? Will the dosage have to change based on how many times a day there’s sperm in my vagina?”

Tom sneezed so hard it gave him a headache. He turned away from Mrs. Gold to blow his nose.

Goddammit, he was a medical professional! Mrs. Gold was using legitimate technical language! He had gone through eight years of pharmacy school! He could have a conversation with his patient about her medication without breaking into a cold sweat over what his landlord’s wife did in her bedroom!

Tom’s mouth started spouting facts on autopilot. It was a self-defense method to keep his mind away from… any of that.

“Yeah, no, this type of birth control is ninety-one percent effective if you’re taking it every day. So nine out of a hundred people taking it can get pregnant. Medically speaking, those are amazing odds. But if you’re worried about that nine percent chance, you should definitely use another form of contraception.”

With a weak smile, Tom handed Mrs. Gold her bag of condoms. “It does look like you’re stocked up for a little while, though.”

For the first time since she walked through the door, Mrs. Gold’s smile disappeared. Stone-faced, she pulled her wallet out of her purse and slammed three fifty-dollar bills onto the counter.

“Mr. Gold isn’t going to waste a rubber on me.” She spoke like the fact was so obvious that Tom was insulting her by making her say the words. Bag in hand, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the store. She left one sentence in her wake: “Keep the change!”

****

Ruby Lucas had been watching Mrs. Gold all day from the big front windows of Granny’s Dinner.

Ever since that woman first walked past them after the worst of the breakfast rush, it had been a terrible day. Ruby had messed up lunch orders, fumbled with trays of dishes and added up totals completely wrong. Granny had yelled at her but there was nothing special about that. Ruby had yelled right back. She was too on edge to play nice or to do her job right. She couldn’t think about anything but Mrs. Gold and the fact that the rent was due tomorrow.

No one knew how Mrs. Gold knew who had their rent money and who didn’t. Some people suggested a network of spies or hidden security cameras in all of the property Mr. Gold owned. Others attributed it to occult powers. Dr. Hopper said she was just good at reading people. In a town like Storybrooke, it wasn’t a bad bet to assume that any random person owed Mr. Gold money. For her part, Ruby was more than willing to believe that Mrs. Gold had some kind of sixth sense, that she could sniff out fear like a dog.

If Mrs. Gold could smell fear, then Ruby probably reeked.

It was three in the afternoon. The lunch rush was over and dinner hadn’t started yet. Leroy Miner was the only person in the diner. He had come in for “breakfast” an hour ago and would be nursing a cup of coffee until he decided it was time to go over to the Rabbit Hole. The cook, Tony, was either in the kitchen or taking a break in the alley behind the diner. Granny was in the back office, wrestling with their accounting software and going over the books for the week. Ruby wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes. Cleaning up was mindless work and she could do it while still keeping a lookout on the street.

“She’s already been past here, hasn’t she?” Leroy had lived in Storybrooke long enough to know what was going on without having to be told.

“Four times,” Ruby said. She grabbed a stack of napkins and started ramming them into a dispenser on every table in the diner. “She keeps going back and forth, up and down the street. Circling the town like a freaking shark. She’s just trying to scare people!”

“Guess it’s working,” Leroy muttered into his mug.

“I wish she’d go home,” Ruby hugged her arms over her chest and looked out the window again. “Or I wish she’d just come in here and rip out my soul and get it over with!”

“Flip the sign and say you’re closed,” Leroy suggested. “I wouldn’t mind sitting in the dark until she goes away.”

Ruby shook her head. “Dinner rush’ll be starting soon. Granny would kill me if I turned away customers. And besides, it’s not like ignoring Mrs. Gold does any good in the long run. Rent will still be due tomorrow.”

She went away from the window and back to the coffee pot to get Leroy a refill. He nodded his thanks.

“Would it do any good if I gave you a fifteen dollar tip on a five dollar meal?”

Ruby almost cried. She had spent enough time around Leroy Miner to get to know his moods. At that moment, he was in the sweet spot between the end of his hangover and the start of his drinking. Those were the times when he would offer to do anything for anybody--before he realized that the best he could do was never enough so he might as well reach for a bottle.

What might happen to Leroy if he ever found somebody he could help? He was a hard worker, when he was sober, and if he found something that he thought was worth working hard at. With the right people around him, Leroy could be a part of something good. Maybe. Someday.

Ruby gave him the best smile she could manage. “A nice tip never hurts.”

He slid a twenty across the counter and pulled on his hat. “Good luck,” he said. “Maybe she won’t come in after all.”

No sooner had he said that than the bell over the front door chimed with the entrance of a new customer. Neither of them looked up, but they both heard the confident stride of very high heels. The retail price of those shoes was more than Ruby had paid for her car.

“Thanks Leroy,” Ruby said. “But I don’t think I’ve got much luck today.”

“Who’s getting lucky?”

Mrs. Gold carried a bunch of shopping bags in both hands. She’d been all over today. She set the bags on the floor in the middle of the diner, right in front of the door. Leroy edged around them sulkily, trying his very best not to attract any attention.

That did not work.

“Hi, Mr. Miner!”

Gulping, Leroy nodded and looked down at his work boots. “Mrs. Gold,” he mumbled, before barreling out the door. Lucky jerk.

Ruby would have run out the diner, down the street, into the harbor and off into international waters if she could have, but that wasn’t an option right now.

“Can I get you a menu, Mrs. Gold?”

After years as a waitress, Ruby could respect the art of a fake smile, and Mrs. Gold could put a Barbie doll to shame. There was never a hint of what was going on beneath the surface--or even that there was something more than met the eye. The woman was all glitter, from her jewelry to her clothes to her eyeshadow. When she wanted to put on a show, Mrs. Gold could sparkle like polished glass.

She sparkled now, smiling with white teeth and lipstick that cost as much as an average Storybrooke citizen’s water bill. Ruby had seen an ad for that brand in a copy of Vogue. The gold vials were sold in lacquered jewelry boxes with a velvet ribbon so you could wear them like a necklace. Mrs. Gold kept hers on the outside of her purse. As far as Ruby could tell, the woman had several vials for each shade she liked, and she switched out black or gold or smooth or scaled to coordinate with the rest of her jewelry. The outside changed, but the inside was always the same.

“No menu for me, Ruby. I just came in to see what was on display.” Her gaze swept over Ruby’s bare midriff and short skirt for just long enough to show that it was intentional. But then she shifted over to the glass case by the counter.

“Oh,” Ruby said. “You want something from the bakery?”

Mrs. Gold smirked. “Let’s just say Mr. Gold told me to bring him home something sweet.” One finger trailed across the front of the glass, smudging it. Mrs. Gold’s eyes stayed fixed on Ruby. Her pink tongue slid over her berry lips.

Mouth dry and stomach churning, Ruby didn’t trust herself to talk. This was it. This was what she had been dreading for as long as she could remember.

With her legs apart, Mrs. Gold bent at the waist to look at the pies and pastries for sale. Ruby stood behind the case, ready to pull out whatever Mrs. Gold asked for. A family came into the diner--both the parents and the daughter stepping around Mrs. Gold’s bags as they made their way through the door. Ruby told them to take a seat and she would be right with them. For now, she knew she wasn’t allowed to move.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gold had her butt sticking up so much that Ruby could see it over her shoulders. Suddenly, her head popped up and her stray hairs swept back away from her face like she had just come up for air after giving a blowjob.

“What have you got with cherries?” she asked. “Mr. Gold has been craving something red.”

Ruby went red. That was her color. It was the color of her hair dye, and her accessories, and her car, and her goddamned name!

“I-I-I I think we’re sold out of cherry pie.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “W-we’ve got apple?”

“No,” Mrs. Gold said flatly. “Mr. Gold and I are not apple people.” She put her hand on her neck and toyed with one of her necklaces. She considered the baked goods some more. “What about cream? Mr. Gold enjoys a bit of whipped cream every now and again. Have you got anything like that?”

“A cream pie?” Ruby winced as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

Mrs. Gold lit up like a kid at Christmas. She smacked her hands against the bakery case and pressed her boobs against the glass in her excitement. “Exactly! Is that something you could offer us?”

“Uh…”

She was going to throw up. She was going to vomit all over her landlord’s wife and the dry cleaning bill for those designer clothes would be added to the rent and they would never have the money to pay it back and they would lose the diner and the bed and breakfast and Ruby and Granny would be homeless and jobless and she’d have to turn tricks on the street just to keep them from starving!

Icy blue eyes stared at Ruby. They looked even brighter for being outlined in black eyeliner and three layers of mascara.

“Think it over, honey,” Mrs. Gold purred. “Tomorrow evening, Mr. Gold will be stopping by for the rent. Let him know if you have anything you want to… offer. Anything sweet and red that he and I could share. Okay?”

Mutely, Ruby nodded.

With a final dazzling smile, Mrs. Gold picked up her bags and strutted out the diner door into the fall twilight. She didn’t even buy anything.

Still unable to speak, Ruby grabbed a handful of menus and tossed them to the family in the booth. She left the restaurant unattended and raced back to Granny’s office.

“Tell me we have money for rent this month!”

“What?” Pulling off her reading glasses, Granny looked up from the flickering beige computer. She still had both index fingers pointed out from typing. “Why in the hell do we need the rent already?”

“Because rent day is tomorrow!” Ruby’s hands gripped onto either side of the wooden door frame. She had to keep herself from throttling her grandmother. “Are you saying you don’t have it?”

“What are you talking about?” Granny looked at the calendar on the wall. “Rent’s due on the last Sunday of the month.”

“No.” Ruby did not scream. She did not wail or cry or howl in despair. She kept her voice very calm. “No, Granny. It’s the fourth Sunday of the month. This month has five Sundays. So the rent is due tomorrow. Mrs. Gold was just here.”

Granny went pale and put her hand over her heart. “Oh no,” she said softly.

“Yeah!” Ruby squeaked. “Yeah, I guess she stopped by for a reason!” Weak, hysterical giggles bubbled out of her. They would turn into sobs if she didn’t get her shit together.

And Granny could only stare at her in powerless horror.

“Yeah,” Ruby nodded, still laughing. “Why fight it anymore? There’s no escape from the Golds. Tomorrow is rent day. We don’t have anything. I’m going to be absolutely fucked!”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #ouat #golden cuffs

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quicksilverconnoisseur · 4 years

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Chapter 7/17 of the final part of the Quicksilver series

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon, Marriage, Shotgun Wedding, Will Finds Out, Will Finds Out Something Anyway, Hannibal Lecter is not the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is Hannibal, Established Relationship, Coming of Age, Memory Palace, Age Difference, Young Will Graham, Genderfluid Will Graham, Nonbinary Character, Angst and Romance, Explicit Sexual Content

Summary: On summer vacation with Hannibal, Will acts on the spur of the moment and makes a life-changing decision. Not everyone is going to approve but that’s only the start of Will’s problems - how much does he really know about Hannibal and will he live to regret loving him?

Set in an AU where Will is a young genderfluid student who began dating Hannibal after they met as part of his studies. Can easily be read as a standalone (I wrote it that way on purpose - see intro notes for more info!).

Fic is complete - the first three chapters will go up over the weekend (Fri, Sat, Sun) and afterwards will update weekly each Friday.

In which Prof Crawford has a request and Alana comes to dinner. Also, Will has something to confess to Hannibal.

The weather turned in the night. Rain drummed angrily against the windows as they lay down to sleep but by morning it had passed. Breakfast was hardly over before Will was opening the doors to the garden wide and finding the paved path there damp and gritty under his bare feet. Outside was a little bistro-style table, jewelled with rain. He took out a cloth to dry it; underneath clung the ragged ghosts of spiders’ webs and he wiped those away too.

The table and its two matching chairs had appeared in the garden one day, set close to the sunniest wall; wrought-iron and marble-topped, suitable for all weathers. Perhaps they’d been in Hannibal’s possession all along, stored in a recess of his capacious garage or an unnoticed corner of the wine-cellar, but Will liked to think there was a different explanation. The table was small and cosy, just big enough for two. The garden was small and walled, unadorned; there were no flowers or beds and the only decoration came from the two topiary boxwoods which framed the dining room doors. The effect was, for Hannibal, strangely anonymous, and nothing at all like the rest of the house. Alone, he would be indoors with his music and his baroque interiors; Will could only conclude that the table and chairs had been put there for his own pleasure, a thought he enjoyed very much.

The sky was bright, if clouded. By lunchtime the air would be warm and humid but just then it retained a memory of the night’s rain - a dewy freshness which chilled the wrought-iron seats and made Will glad of the robe wrapped around him. He’d only just sat down when Hannibal came out with coffee and the half-croissant Will had left behind in his haste. He seated himself next to Will in silence.

It was early for a Saturday and everything was quiet; Will studied him peaceably, drinking his coffee. Hannibal’s face was still blurred from sleep; he wore a red sweater and pyjama pants which paired with the shirt Will had on. His expression stirred only a little, when his attention was drawn by a sound beyond the garden or a bird flying overhead, but inwardly he was fully active. He tended to wake completely and all at once, ready for conversation and for life in its entirety, whereas Will needed longer. His own talk that morning had been confined to the necessary - what to eat, what to drink, a desire for outdoor air. Hannibal was simply waiting, with extreme and measured patience, for Will to join him on the paths of his mind.

“Almost had enough coffee now,” Will said. “It’s safe to speak - I’m open for business.”

read more on ao3 | read from beginning | ko-fi

#hannibal #hannigram #hannigram fic #hannigram fanfiction #hannigram au #hannibal fic #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal au #fic #genderfluid will graham

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powerprivilegemoney · 4 years

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Marjorie Winifred Kendall Bird

(September 3, 1898 - July 22, 1961)

Socialite. Marjorie known as Winnie, was born in a shack along the railroad tracks in Missouri. Her father worked for the railroad. Not wanting any part of that life, she packed a suitcase and headed for New York in 1917. Florenz Ziegfeld spotted her on the street and put her in his show. Wallis sent her a dozen red roses after seeing her on stage, but she was not taken by him, as he was five inches shorter than she. Winnie had hopes of making it on the silver screen one day. Winnie met Wallis Bird, They eventually married and moved to Farnsworth where the parties they hosted became legendary. Wallis made good on his promise and began making professional-scale movies of the lavish entertainments they held at their 60-foot pool. At another event, a troupe of circus horses performed on the front lawn. It may not have been Hollywood, but Winnie was the star of all their homemade films. Bird kept a stable of 40 horses, but his real passion was his 20-car garage filled with the most expensive cars money could buy. Gleaming behind each bay was a Hispano-Suiza, several custom-painted Rolls-Royces, a Bugatti, Stutz Bearcats, Bentleys and an Alfa Romeo, all tended to by a staff of mechanics. Winnie busied herself with collecting fabulous gowns from Paris and buying jewels. She wore diamonds to the beach and in the pool. At some point she landed on the best-dressed lists and was often featured in Vogue magazine. She once showed up at a neighbor’s fancy tea party dressed from head to toe in a bubble gum pink dress with matching hat, shoes, gloves and hair dyed to match. The Birds’ every move and activity was recorded on film of which Wallis would have weekly screenings in the ballroom for his friends. Years later, the two giant Movieola film projectors stood rusting away in the glassed-in solarium next to the ballroom. Miles of black and white 35 millimeter movie film had been torn from their metal canisters by vandals where it now snaked all over the house and zigzagged from room to room like a jumble of streamers on New Year’s Eve. You could hold strips of film up to the light and make out the images that captured life on the Gold Coast during its heyday. There was Winifred smiling in a flapper dress as she danced around the marble fountain or posed elegantly on the satin divan holding a glass of champagne. There were shots of the happy couple prancing about in an open field on horseback. Another reel showed Wallis Bird driving around the courtyard in one of his shiny new cars, seeming very proud to show it off in front of the servants. Several frames down showed Bird at an airport, most likely Roosevelt Field, where he was climbing into a small plane that would end their fairy tale life. On June 5, 1940, Bird was flying his private plane up to the Catskills for some peace and quiet. As he was cruising over the Hudson River, a violent storm erupted and the plane was hit by lightning and crashed not far from the water’s edge. His mangled body was found the next day. Devastated, his widow ordered the broken pieces of the plane collected, placed in crates and stored in the basement of Farnsworth. Winnie was never the same. Unable to deal with her husband’s sudden death, she spent the next several years at Doctors Hospital in New York and all but abandoned the house in Oyster Bay with everything in it. Despite the fragile state of her mind, she retained control over the vast fortune she inherited and though living in a hospital, she was free to come and go as she pleased. As the years passed, Winnie began to take on a kind of a Norma Desmond (Sunset Boulevard) persona and wore fur and ostrich-trimmed negligees during the day, then slipped out at night with her diamonds and gowns and headed for the Stork Club and El Morocco. As a rich widow, Winnie was never without her circle of handsome escorts. On one of Winifred’s many trips to Paris to have more gowns made for her, she met a man who claimed to be a prince. Prince Nicolas Sturdza, who designed dresses and hats, spoke seven languages and was a taller version of her late husband. The prince was fascinated by the $1 million necklace she was wearing, with the 10 huge emeralds that had originally belonged to King Ludwig of Bavaria. Over cocktails one night, Sturdza began to weave tall tales. He intrigued Winnie with a dramatic account about how he had just escaped from Communist Romania after spending three years hiding in a mountain cave, where government police had put a price on his head. He claimed his mother was starving in prison and his father had been shot trying to escape. Winnie was so taken by his story that without checking to see if it was true, she gave him $50,000 so he could try and save his family. A short time later, she cooed to the press, “I’m in love with a prince. He makes me feel 20 again.” He was 16 years younger than she was and when friends tried to warn her that he was not what he seemed, Winnie snapped, “He is not a gigolo like so many phony princes who target vulnerable rich women, like that poor fool Barbara Hutton.” Despite the warning signs, they became engaged and Winnie made plans to restore the long abandoned villa in Oyster Bay. They began to travel all over Europe buying expensive things for the house, staying in the best hotels – with her footing all the bills. Sturdza had promised to introduce her to the European royalty but never got around to it, nor did she leave him when it got back to her that he kept a string of young boys on hand wherever they traveled. But as time passed she was beginning to tire of him. Things took a dark turn when Sturdza realized he was about to lose his meal ticket and brought in an old psychiatrist friend, Dr. Gerard Savoy. Savoy had been in trouble with the law and his license had been suspended. Within a short time, Winnie was under the complete control of Sturdza and Savoy and was being forced to take as many as 100 pills a day. While she was in a fugue state, Sturdza would take Winnie shopping to the most expensive shops in Europe where he would manipulate her into spending $20,000 to $60,000 on jewelry. The gems were brought back to the hotel and stored in a vault. Records show that even in a drugged state, Winnie knew she was in trouble and cabled her attorney in New York claiming that she feared her life was in danger. Her pleas for help were ignored. In July 1961, Winifred’s lawyer received a cable stating that she had died during the night at the Beau Rivage Hotel in Lausanne. Dr. Savoy listed the cause of death as cerebral hemorrhage. Her millions in jewels vanished without a trace. The lawyer, suspicious, flew to Lausanne and informed the police about Winnie’s calls for help. Her funeral had already taken place and after much wrangling and paperwork, her body was exhumed and an autopsy showed she had been poisoned with a massive dose of morphine. The murder trial created a sensation on both continents. Sturdza, who as it turned out was not a prince, and Dr. Savoy, who was no longer a doctor, were both convicted of murder and sent to prison for life. Most of Winifred Bird’s jewels were never found.

Marjorie Winifred Kendall Bird is entombed with her husband and his family in the Bird Mausoleum at Hillside Cemetery, Cortlandt Manor, Westchester County, New York.

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lethesomething · 5 years

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There is a rule, number 5632B Subclause 29 of the 'Code of Conduct and Vestimentary Regulations for Tarask Administrative Personnel and Affiliates' to be exact, that forbids public servants and their direct entourage from wearing ‘any garment or accessory, either upon the body or the head, that contains one or multiple specimens of living or reanimated creature, be it animal, insectoid, humanoid or supernatural in nature’. This particular rule is not one the administration is particularly fond of, because its inception shows a certain amount of weakness in the bureaucratic apparatus that, one assumes, said apparatus would rather forget. However, it remains on the books in spite of this, as a safeguard for future repetitions of the occurence that lays at its inception, a way, one understands, to make sure the administration will not be taken by surprise again.

It started, according to the oral history of the event, when on a trip to the nearby capital of Catilina, a young ingénue named Aurora Maximus came into contact with a ‘Weaver’. These Weavers were, at the time, people who adhered to a particular style of clothing and make-up and who, most strikingly, had a habit of weaving their hair into shapes. It has long been fashionable in the capital to wear your hair long and coil it into braids upon the head, and Weavers, it seems, would go the extra step and create shapes such as birds, or bows, or animal ears, particularly in an effort to make themselves stand out within the rather colourful nightlife of Catilina.

Miss Maximus saw the style and, so the story goes, was inspired. The Weaver style had at this point been popular in Catilina for a few decades, particularly among those fairly young in years, and was seen as typical teenage fare by its citizens. When transplanted to the bureaucratic center that is Vestinex, however, the trend became something else altogether. Theories abound as to the reasons of this, but the main one speculates that the style formed a rare creative outlet that was quickly seized by a frankly bored population.

Vestinex, being the sensible city that creates and processes almost all of the paperwork for the entire empire, has a fairly strict ruleset, you see, indicated primarily by the 'Code of Conduct and Vestimentary Regulations for Tarask Administrative Personnel and Affiliates', and a few other tomes. These specify, for example, uniforms for its people, based mostly on status and role within the government, that apply to both the public servants themselves and to their partners, children and other members of the household. The Code furthermore prescribes rules of conduct befitting a government emissary of the Tarask Empire, and both administrative workers and their retinue are expected to hold up the honour of their status as a government official by adhering to these rules. This includes refraining from alcohol, wild dancing, playing loud music or putting on lewd spectacles such as romantic theatre. Considering the entirety of Vestinex is populated with public servants, it stands to reason that such forms of low entertainment are rarely, if ever, organised within the city limits. Vestinex is, after all, a very sensible and highly regulated society, built and maintained at maximum efficiency so as to keep the gears of the empire running smoothly.

However, for al its fervour in regulating activities and clothing, Vestinex had, at this point in time, no regulations for hair. The oversight seems strange, but can perhaps be explained out of a demand for cultural sensitivity. For while most of the culturally Tarask citizens crop their hair short out of a sense of practicality, the dwarven and elven workers attracted by the administration tend to enjoy some more whimsical styles, choosing to braid their hair and beards and perhaps even embellish them with beads or rings. So it was, perhaps, that the Vestinex government elected to keep hair unregulated, opting instead to allow a certain amount of cultural individuality while individually advising those public servants that veered off too far into the realms of the fanciful.

Either way, it appears Vestinex was not quite ready, regulatory-wise, for what would follow when miss Maximus showed up to a bi-weekly Young Person's Mingling Event, wearing her hair fashioned into the shape of a swan. She was, of course, quietly judged by the many chaperones at the event, who deemed such a fashion silly but otherwise harmless, the drolls of a teenage girl and a whim she would hopefully soon grow out of. Such leniency was, sadly, mistaken, because miss Maximus started a trend. One that was governed not by any kind of regulatory restraint but instead by the very humanoid need to ‘one-up’ others.

The next Young Person's Mingling Event, for instance, contained quite a lot more of these silly hairstyles. There were wings, more swans, one boy with beautifully long black hair had managed a serviceable crow. The chaperones, this time, did choose to reprimand their wards, but they could not reasonably punish them, for they were not breaking any rules.

It is possibly at this point of realization that things truly lifted off. Other family members got involved. Supplies of hair oils and ribbons, filler material and bendable latticework were imported from the capital. Swans turned into eagles, crows into elaborate depictions of cats. Soon, not only teenagers, but also their parents and house servants spent hours braiding, oiling and shaping their hair into ever more elaborate displays.

Of course, not everyone was pleased with this turn of events. Requests were sent by disturbed citizens, reports were written up, guidelines suggested. Committees gathered, but the wheels of law do not turn fast. In the mean time, fashion continued to be made. A teenage girl named Lithid Taxandria started a small publication in which she drew and wrote down the best examples of the style, giving tips and tutorials on the side. It is through this publication that we know that on one December Networking Event, the Shadow Minister for the Department of Roadworks showed up wowing everyone by wearing, fastened to his head and worked into his hair, a small latticework ball filled with fireflies. It was beautiful. It was inspiring. It was the beginning of the end.

Not to be outdone by a mere Shadow Minister, others started fashioning moving spectacles. Butterflies were employed, glittering beetles found themselves trapped in necklaces. The Field Executive for the Cabinet of Educational Writings Pertaining Woodcutting was spotted wearing a bracelet that held a shoal of small but sadly rather short-lived glittering fish. One unnamed person went so far as to keep two live, white mice in lacework tunnels throughout their elaborate pompadour.

The trend came to a head one fateful July evening, at the Second Yearly Celebration for the Resurrection of the Nuncial Library, when the wife of the Secretary for Provisions to the Eastern Border wore a beautiful, shimmering, oversized earring containing a small winged creature that glowed with a soft orange light. It is unknown whether or not she was aware of the exact nature of the creature within this jewel. And to be fair, it is not known to this day exactly what said truly creature was. Theories abound that it was an elemental, or perhaps a small demonoid figure, summoned inside a cage that, it appears, shattered some time throughout the night.

What we do know, is what happened next. The Nuncial Library burned down (again), with many very important records lost. Twenty five people died, including the Head of the Department for Trade in Bricks and Sheep, and the very popular Undersecretary for Traffic and Town Signage. Eye witness accounts vary, with some speaking of a fireball, a rift in the fabric of reality or just a lightning strike. One witness, who suffered heavy burns, swears they saw a giant hulking figure covered in scales descend upon the networking event, thrashing furniture and flinging dignitaries around.

Either way, the trend became unfashionable overnight. Teenagers, once they were done mourning, cut their hair or went back to simple loose styles. Their parents quietly put away the supplies. Butterflies were released back into the outdoors. Eight months and 24 days later, rule 5632B Subclause 29 was finalized and written into the Code.

(One of the cities in my DnD campaign is a Forbidden Palace meets Bartleby the Scrivener, with like a pinch of Dangerous Liaisons. It’s great.)

#short story #fic #dnd #campaign resource #technically

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whoworewhatjewels · 1 year

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Who Wore What Jewels Weekly

We are rounding up the best jewels of the week. From Jenna Ortega doubling up on the iconic Elsa Peretti Bean necklaces for Tiffany & Co. to Jodie Turner-Smith’s jaw-dropping multi-colored gemstone red carpet jewels courtesy of Irene Neuwirth to the epic brooch moments spotted on the likes of Nick Jonas, Ke Hey Quan, and model Coco Rocha, scroll down to see who wore what jewels and vote on your…

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#Adrien Brody&039;s brooch at Manodrome premiere during the 73rd Berlinale International Film Festival Berlin #celebrity jewelry #celebrity jewels #Coco Rocha&039;s brooch at LVMH Prize Cocktail Event during PFW 2023 #Gigi Hadid out in NYC for Next In Fashion Promo #Helen Mirren&039;s jewelry at UK premiere of Shazam! Fury of the Gods #Jenna Ortega&039;s necklace at Scream IV NYC Premiere #Jodie Turner-Smith&039;s Irene Neuwirth jewelry at 2023 Green Carpet Fashion Awards #Katy Perry&039;s jewelry at NBC&039;s "Carol Burnett: 90 Years Of Laughter + Love" Birthday Special #Ke Huy Quan&039;s brooch at 2023 Film Independent Awards #Michelle Yeoh&039;s jewelry at 2023 Film Independent Awards #Nicole Scherzinger&039;s jewelry on the Masked Singer #Quannah Chasinghorse earrings at 2023 Green Carpet Fashion Awards #Sofia Carson&039;s jewelry at "Born In Roma Intense" - Valentino Beauty Party #Sutton Foster&039;s jewelry at The Roundabout Gala 2023

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dragonleesupporter · 5 years

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My First Story Ever! (First of the Paradigm Series): The Meet {WARNING: TRIGGERS}

Paradigm is a world of anthropomorphic wolfish creatures called greckens that live in a medieval-styled era where females are dominant and males are generally enslaved and treated as inferior.

This whole world was created and published here with a little inspiration from thetickleraven’s He Came From the Woods AU, so go check them out! This would not exist without them!

Critique is appreciated as this is my first story ever on this social media! If you have suggestions or requests, feel free to tell or ask me!

{TRIGGER WARNINGS: This series will cover some adult, hard-to-swallow topics and includes some cursing, but some stories will be entirely cute, fluffy stuff. Just watch for the warnings! This first one starts with some traumatic flasbacks, so I’ll give this one a warning for those sensitive to that kind of thing.}

The purple Grecken stood, hunched over and held in place by his binds as his heart raced. He could hear footsteps behind him as he desperately yanked on his confinements. More footsteps… He pleaded to deaf ears as he could hear the sound of metal on metal rise over the murmurs of disapproval.

The dark basement that surrounded him was filled with the blood of past victims, yellow filling his eyes and a dreadful stench filling his nose. Through the cracks in the wall, he could see a million tiny white eyes gazing hungrily as a hoard of flesh-eating insects cleaned their mandibles in anticipation.

“P-please! Don’t cut them! I’ll be a good boy! PLEASE! I’LL BE GOOD!” He shrieked, eyes popping out his skull as he saw the glint of a blade approaching from the shadows.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re good or not. I want you here and now, and you must be in an acceptable form for the alchemists.” A deep, loathing voice sounded from behind him. Ritah’s voice. “Give me and my girlfriends a good laugh, and quit squirming!!”

“NO! PLE-”

The blade came down.

“AH!” Alo woke with a start, nearly falling out of the tree he was in.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the remainder of the screams echoing in his mind. His dreams always consisted of small reminders. Like why he can’t be seen, why he can’t go back, … and why he can’t fly… That had been the second worst day of his life. The first worst day in question was the day he escaped…

Another flaskback.

Working out on the field with alchemists bound to come for him any day to study his “unnaturality.” Handling back-breaking work alongside his father and other males Ritah had bought. Farming, cleaning, organizing, and pampering Ritah and her girlfriends… he was just a child at the time.

The day following the removal of his wings, he was sent back out to the field. His father saw what had happened to him and pulled him aside when the girls weren’t looking.

“Look here.” He said, placing his bruised hands together. “When I had my wings cut, the day after, I got a short spurt of energy due to the traumatic event. It’s biological… Sadly, I didn’t use it, and here I am. When your spurt comes, RUN. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing or where you are. Take advantage of that adrenaline! This energy comes very rarely. If you’re going to escape, it’s got to be today. You’ll be able to outrun them.”

“B-but what if they catch me?!” The purple child quivered and squeaked, the very thought of trying to run away made him shake with fear.

“They won’t. Now get out there before they realize you’re gone.” His father ushered him out of the bush quickly and got back to hoeing the new garden.

Several hours later, when Alo’s burst of energy came while he was moving bales of hay in the barn, he hesitated. It felt as though all of his insides were vibrating as he sat there, shivering and twitching. Then, with a breath, he sprinted. He ran as fast as his beaten legs would carry him out the barn door, his feet slamming the hard ground and his breath sporadic.

“HEY! GET THAT BRAT!” He heard Ritah howl infuriatedly behind him from the fields, the fire in her chest audible in her wild screeches.

“No! You leave him be!” His fathers voice echoed before an ear-piercing shriek cut through the air sharper than an axe, making Alo run even faster.

“Keep going Alo! Don’t look back! DON’T LOOK BACK!” His father’s voice faded into nothing but incoherent wailing as the poor child dove through a small gap in the barbed fence. It ripped the skin on his shoulders and face, but he didn’t care. His whole body was strangely numb as he forced himself deeper into the woods, all the screaming and yelling slowly disappearing behind him.

That had been the worst... and also technically best day of Alo’s life. The day that had granted him freedom, but also the day he lost his father. He knew his dad didn’t live a day after that, since his contributions to his escape was the equivalent to a death penalty. Alo only knew that because of what happened to his uncle, but that was the third worst day of his life, and the purple Grecken had done enough self-reflecting for the morning. He was hungry!

…

“One lame apple, two slices of filthy bread, and a swig from the river. Perfectly healthy breakfast.” The thief murmured sarcastically under his breath while he ate what was really a brunch.

He found himself walking along the river several hours later as his mind wandered. Of course, he was always aware of his surroundings, looking around frantically in case anybody saw him and his “unnaturality,” but it was good to just let himself think for a while before he had to find his next meal. Every day he would travel toward the rising sun, away from where he came from. The thief didn’t know for how long he had traveled since his escape, all he knew was that he couldn’t stop. Not until he knew he was truly safe from Ritah… his mother…

He sighed peacefully as he made his way under a bridge, the shade cooling the boiling hot sun that had eaten at him for past hour. With Alo unable to go into the water next to him, he was certainly grateful. In fact, he was so grateful that he didn’t realize the gold tracing the bricks in the construction.

“Hey! What are you doing down there?!” A deep voice shouted from the bridge he had just wandered under as he passed through to the other side. “You’re on royal ground, peasant!”

Alo looked up, surprised that his lack of focus had landed him in the sights of a castle guard. He always hated guards, they were so snotty and stuck-up and whenever they saw him, they’d chase him. One of the main nuisances that Alo had to deal with on a weekly of not daily basis.

“Oh no! I’m breathing royal air?! Fuck you!” Alo shouted back and was about to run before he realized…

“Wait… a male guard?? That NEVER happens! What kingdom am I in?!” He thought as the guard fumed red.

“I’ll have you know such things are not tolerated in Dujokah!” The, now red, grecken flung himself off the bridge and into the forest to chase after Alo who had already started sprinting to the next bridge to cross over.

“Well, I guess that’s one question answered.” Alo thought as he dashed across the bridge and into thick brush where he couldn’t be seen.

After breaking through to the other side of the bushes, the thief jumped a couple brick walls for good measure. He silenced his panting and waited, until he was certain that he wasn’t followed. Aware he could very well be surrounded by guards unbeknownst to him, the purple grecken made a beeline for the castle before him, knowing that if the guard behind him couldn’t clear the walls he just jumped, no one would be able to reach him on top of the castle.

The castle was easy to climb for the escape artist, but he realized a small flaw in his plan. Castles weren’t like huts or bars. They had sharp roofs that the thief couldn’t sit on and would likely either slide off of or pierce himself on the pointy tops. Luckily, there was a balcony just above him. After a cautious glance over the edge and realizing no one was inside the room that led out the balcony, the thief made his way onto the upper tier, just to see a dresser covered in makeup and jewels, as well as a royal bed and a whole-body mirror in the room connected to ledge.

“Shit!” He thought. “This must be a princess room! I’m so dead!”

He turned to leave but part of him whispered.

“No… get a jewel first.”

“Nah… I don’t need it.”

“Neither does the bitch who has it.”

“It’s not mine to take! I don’t take what I don’t need!”

“Come on… you know you want it.”

“No!”

“Aaaaargh.” Alo growled and simply sat on the balcony armrest, looking down at the confused guards as they searched around for him several stories below… almost ALL of them male…

“What a strange place...” He murmered.

Alo decided to look up and felt his heart skip a beat. The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon, casting an array of reds and oranges onto the valleys just below it, and a wide selection of purples that stretched across the sky, the smallest specks of stars just coming into view…

“Hello?” Suddenly came a voice, making the thief nearly fall of the ledge.

Alo spun around and saw what he thought was a princess until he took a closer look.

“WHY ARE YOUR EYES GREY?!”

“WHY ARE YOU A GUY?!”

Both shrieked at the same time and pointed at each other fearfully...

“A prince??” Alo thought as the other Grecken cautiously stepped forward.

Yes… a very… attractive… prince. The grecken had golden fur with light blue eyes and white fur in the hollows of his ears. He wore a white, golden-laced, jeweled suit accompanied by light blue tights and sashes to match his eyes, golden shoulder plates, white shoes, a golden-laced dark teal cape, and of course, his crown.

The prince looked at the stranger for a moment. Alo was a dark purple grecken with grey fur at the hollows of his ears as well as strange grey eyes. All he wore was a patchy dark blue hoodie and slightly loose jeans with bare feet gripping the railing.

“What in Seah’s name are you doing on my balcony?” He huffed after returning to the present moment.

“Okay… we got two options…” Alo thought to himself. “Tell him the truth, or fuck with him… hmmm. Let’s confuse the hell out of this bastard.”

The purple grecken suddenly grew a sly smile.

“Oh, you know. Just enjoying the view. But now I guess it’s been ruined with a royal pain giving me THAT look.” Alo pointed at the prince’s face, who seemed surprised at his sudden change in attitude. “But if you want me to leave, that’s fine.” Alo shrugged nonchalantly and jumped off the upper tier.

Unknown to the startled prince, Alo had just latched himself onto the wall below the balcony to see what he would do.

“Oh Seah!” He heard a frantic cry and footsteps rush to the edge as the strange golden grecken peeked his head over the ledge and blicked multiple times in disbelief, his mouth hanging wide open. “H-how are you doing that?” The prince raised an eyebrow, looking down at the, now smirking, hooded grecken.

“I’m just holding onto a wall! But if you think THAT’S impressive…” Alo continued to spin and flip and launch himself all over the wall, never slipping an inch. All the years of him climbing walls while dodging guard’s arrows sure had become a skill of his.

When he looked back up, he was surprised at the awe-stricken gaze he received.

“That was amazing!” The golden Grecken started to hop up and down as the boards supporting the balcony creaked slightly and dust fell from the bottom.

“Woah, there. Careful. That balcony isn’t necessarily ‘new.’” The thief slid out from underneath the structure.

“That WAS an amazing show, but I will not take orders from a peasant! You still owe me at LEAST an apology for breaking into my room, considering if you haven’t stolen anything! Even though I doubt you would, you NEED to apologize!” The prince suddenly got sassy and slightly childish, choosing to stamp his foot repeatedly to prove his point.

SNAP.

The prince opened his eyes to see a purple face looking at him with worry, but as soon as their eyes met, the stranger’s expression morphed into a cocky smile.

“Now you owe me a thank you.” He hoisted the golden one back onto what was left of the balcony.

“W-Well… I-I-I-I guess we’re even…” The prince, flustered, crossing his arms.

“I suppose I should be more thankful to meet a PRINCE instead of princess. I’d be long dead by now if I were caught in a princess’s room.” Alo shrugged.

“Yeah, that’s me. Shasta the Prince… the only prince.” The golden grecken looked down slightly with what looked like… sadness? But then it was wiped off as he turned back to the stranger, excitement taking it’s place.

“Shasta, huh?” Alo raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. Shasta the PRINCE. The HEIR, if you will. Who may you be?” Shasta tried to act mad or professional, but couldn’t help his tail wagging slightly at the thought that he was actually meeting someone outside his castle walls.

“Alo the Unwanted.” The hooded figure chuckled slightly at his own self-deprecating joke just to receive a sharp gasp from Prince Shasta.

“You aren’t unwanted! There’s got to be someone who wants you with them!” Shasta’s eyes started to look sad again. “Say… I think you’re quite cool! ... If not a little rude...”

“Really?” Alo tried to hold back a hopeful smile that was fighting its way onto his face.

“Yes!”

“Well, that’s nice to hear.” Alo suddenly realized that he had just had a full conversation with a royal heir and had given him his NAME. He was supposed to be invisible! He couldn’t go around giving his identity out to handso- STUBBORN royal blood! He had to get out of there!

“I got to get going now.” Alo, tried to hide his face as he started to climb back down the wall, afraid his newfound acquaintance would definitely give his location away to others who wanted to study or imprison him.

“Wait! A-Alo, right? Will I see you again?” The prince called out hopefully.

“N-no… I don’t think so.” Alo kept his face hidden and continued to climb down.

“Pleeeeaaase? I’ll be here tomorrow at this time!” Alo paused for a moment. Had a prince really just… pleaded for him not to leave?

“Nah. You’re not worth my time. Next time you’ll see me I’ll most likely be in shackles… farewell… Prince Shasta.”

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving a whimpering prince to morn his empty space.

“H-he’ll come back.” Shasta forced on a smile and looked into the sky that was being filled with more and more stars. The same sky he had stared at his whole life. “He’s got to come back… a-and he will. I can feel it.” He could feel doubt rising inside him like a bubble of uncertainty, but tried to ignore it as he forced back tears to smile at the beautiful sky.

“I’m not going back.” Alo repeated to himself over and over as he snuck into a closed food market, slipping his hands into small cubbies and becoming a rock whenever someone walked by, tucking into his hoodie and rolling into a ball. “I’m not going back… I’m not going back.”

Alo climbed a tree and settled into a branch and sighed to himself, frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t seem to get the prince out of his head.

“I’m going back, aren’t I?”

#ParadigmSeries

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