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purple-goo-writes · 3 years

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The Shadows Watching Gotham

Or Watcher as most knows them,is a popular YouTuber and Podcaster and is the outside world's only reliable source of information about the on goings of the Mask Community within the crime ridden city known as Gotham. Aka the No Man's Land and the Crime Capital of the World.

Rumor has it that Watcher is the only way an outsider can contact the Bats. If this is true or not, Superman is about the find out.

Chapter 1: A rattle of bones

The Justice League of America and their younger counterparts watched the monitor in their meeting hall with rapt attention. On it, Barry had pulled up the channel of a popular youtuber, The Shadows Watching Gotham, hoping to get some more intel on the situation on Gotham and the vigilantes that the JLA wished to recruit. Though while the older members were listening with only half an ear, the younger ones were entranced with the hypnotizing and haunting narrative as Watcher spoke. His soft, raspy voice wrapping around them like an intoxicating perfume leaving the Young Justice Members wanting to hear more. Perhaps it was the strange ambient music playing in the background that added to the mystery surrounding Watcher that had them so entranced.

"...Just a friendly reminder for all my Gothamites listening in, Dr. Crane, otherwise known as The Scarecrow, escaped Arkham during last months breakout. Please do not forget your gas masks at home as he is still at large."

Watcher sat at an old and cluttered desk, the only light from an offscreen lamp, possibly a gaslamp, which bathed the teen and his surroundings in a soft golden glow. Though the JL couldn't see anything behind the teen except for pitch blackness, possibly the result of a backdrop. They couldn't see much of the Watcher as his face was blocked by the arm, the pop filter and mic of the studio microphone the teen was using. The teen was wearing a white long sleeved shirt which was rolled up to his elbows, showing off wiry, yet muscular arms covered in an odd variety of scars most Gothamites had littering parts of them, and a pressed red vest with black embroidery swirling across it, a gold tie could be seen just below the arm of the mic. Over all, the Watcher was just as mysterious and cryptic as the vigilantes he talked about.

"Now as the sun rises upon the decrepit bones of our fair city, I must bid you all a fair the well and a hopefully Good Morning. This is Watcher signing off."

And with that the screen went dark, snapping many out of the trance they had fallen into whilst listening to the Watcher speak.

Superman cleared his throat, before standing, "As I was saying. In order to hopefully meet with these vigilantes, I have managed to establish contact with The Watcher, as he is so far our only reliable source on the vigilantes that are not simply rumors spread by the Gotham Gazette or hearsay spread about through the villain network."

Hal frowned, leaning back in his chair rocking it back on two legs, "Yet isn't he just as hard to get a hold of?"

"Which is why I am going to meet him as Clark Kent with Kon acting as my back up in the form of my son shadowing me at work," the man of steel replied, ignoring how his clone/son rolled his eyes and muttered, "Isn't that what I normally fucking do?"

Their relationship was still rocky at time, but Ma Kent was determined to get Clark to do right by the boy. After all they were only on good terms due to Ma Kent. But, Kon was going through what Ma called his rebellious stage and trying to break out of his father's shadow as most teenage sons do. Which lead to snippy comments during meetings and Clark wondering just how Kon managed to get another new piercing, personally he blamed Lex for those because of course the man would figure out how to give a Kryptonian piercings just to piss Superman off.

Clark simply sighed and went back to addressing the others, “The Watcher agreed to meet with us tomorrow evening after I explained that I was writing an article about Gotham and it’s rumored vigilantes and found that he was the only reliable source I could find with recent information. And that I learned about him thanks to my son, Conner.”

“Meaning, I have to watch over fifty videos on Youtube so not to sound stupid when I talk to the dude,” Kon muttered to his best friend, Bart, who giggled softly into his hands. Both ignoring the looks their mentors gave them, though Barry’s was more fond then reprimanding like Clark’s.

“Exactly how will you know if it is this Watcher that you are meeting?” Wonder Woman inquired, a frown settling on her face in contemplation, “After all we do not know what this mysterious Watcher looks like…”

“We will be meeting him at the abandoned opera house within Central Gotham. He said he would know it is him by the red feathers he wears,” Clark sounded confused at this but only shrugged, “It’s the best I could get, he wouldn’t agree to meet outside of Gotham. Due to Gotham being declared No Man’s Land still by the President, even with the major rebuilding done by the Waynes… Most Gothamites don’t leave now.”

He sighed at the confused looks he was getting from the other members, “That was how Watcher explained it to me after I asked.”

The next evening…

Gotham was just as gloomy and foreboding as it was described in all the forums Kon had schemed the night before. What they had failed to mention was the literal stench of despair and fear that hung in the air. Or how Kon felt like the shadows were closing in slowly around him and his sorta-dad/Genetic donor as they hung outside the desolate opera house. Really the building was something out of a horror movie, and that was saying something considering this was Fucking Gotham and most places were probably used as references for horror movie scenery. It was huge and probably had been grand looking back in its prime with its gothic architecture and scale...though now the huge dome of the building was crumbling, slowly caving into itself and the once bright walls of it’s outer shell were now grey and covered in graffiti with most of the stained panels of it’s windows busted out from various villain attacks, bullet holes littered the siding and the once bright letters announcing the next play were broken and mostly missing. Honestly, Kon expected either a ghastly apparition from Hamlet to start monologuing or a serial killer to leap from the crawling shadows of the building looming over them.

He was not expecting someone to fucking sneak up on them out of the shadows and nearly scare Kon into fucking space!

“For an investigative reporter, you aren’t very observant, Mr. Kent,” came a soft, yet raspy voice like smoke behind them, causing both Kents to nearly break cover and leap on top of the building they were standing in front of. A smoky chuckle greeted them as both Kents whirled around just shy of inhuman speeds, “Really, I’ve been standing here watching you two nervously pace for about an hour now.”

An hour?

But how did they not hear him?

Kon was distracted from his thoughts as he took in just who was standing before them. The other teen, as their voice sounded young and didn’t yet have the full changes that signaled adulthood, only came up to Kon’s chin making him around five foot something compared to Kon’s near six feet. (He was so glad they fixed the aging and growing thing. He did not want to be stuck at the height of a thirteen year old forever.) They looked possibly male, but Kon wasn’t going to assign pronouns until they properly introduced themselves it was only polite according to Ma. Kon was still surprised that they managed to sneak up on the two Kents. They were wiry, yet muscular, built mainly for running from what Kon could tell, it was hard to tell with them still somehow blending in with the shadows despite how they were dressed. A white button down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, with a bright red vest with black embroidery, a golden tie tucked into the vest, black dress slacks and slightly scuffed yet still shiny red loafers. A black trench coat was slung over one shoulder as the person watched them with amused blue eyes, the only part of their face they could see thanks to the bulky, yet futuristic looking, black gas mask with red lights. Kon could only see the person’s eyes thanks to the clear face shield protecting their eyes from foreign objects. Shaggy and long black hair framed the person’s face, the inky blackness of their hair almost blending into the Gotham night if it wasn’t for the bright red feathers tied throughout the inky mass.

Bright red feathers…

Feathers!

“Oh you’re Watcher!” Kon exclaimed being the first to recover, causing the podcaster to chuckle, “Oooh? I see you actually did remember. I was beginning to think that staring was just what Metropolians did.”

#the shadows watching gotham #podcaster!Tim #tim is a mystery man and apparently the YJ teens dig it #listened to Heather Dale Incantations 1 album for this #batman #batman au #isolated batfam

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chatonyant · 4 years

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Some hella messy doodles for the shippuden designs! Excuse the every changing details because I am never truly happy with final designs dear lord-

I’ve got design notes! Long wall of words belooowww

Starting with Naruto once again!

his clothes are based off of several unfinished ideas I had of Uzushio and how their proficiency with seals would allow them to be more flamboyant or lighter in their gear. The magic of storage and protective seals!

there are seals embroidered into the inner lining and occasionally the exterior, acting as both armor and pack. Uzushio always seemed like a rather bright place, connected to the sea, so I made the robes generally blue themed but also darker as they are still shinobi in the end and bright colors are harder to hide.

I added a hood because Naruto just,,,, he has modern streetwear vibes. He’d love hoodies

The whole Uzushio inspired ensemble is cause I was thinking that in this au he finds the opportunity to find and visit the island itself. Probably during the time skip, considering it’s hard to really place the discovery of a long lost village within the six-month period between graduation and the chunnin exams

At first I wanted to give him like a mesh crop top to show his seal but then it kinda didn’t have that traditional vibe that I wanted, so I added the kimono top and a red obi with symbols that kinda symbolize the seal (because Naruto connects with Kurama much earlier in this AU)

The headband was honestly ridiculously tricky to place because i was trying to draw this longer hair without making it poof weirdly at the top. Plus I wanted to keep the headband where it was cause,,, cause i was thinking when he goes into tailed beast mode the ribbons flare up to look like Kurama’s ears :”DDD peek design amiright-

his hair. is longer. because i love long hair Naruto to bits and it makes him look like his parents ;;; both of them

the gloves. I have no excuse. They just Look Cool

Sakura:

I gave her an undercut

she deserves it

I didn’t mention this in the other redesign post but she has dimples (though i’m really bad at drawing them

that one scene where she tied up her hair in the Kazekage Rescue Arc was so fucking beautiful I couldn’t resist throwing it in here lmaoooo

i can’t draw it right but imagine the ponytail kinda flowering out like a sakura blossom

I took a lot of different things I liked about the older!Sakura designs and smooshed them in one with my own twist

like sleeveless qipao

Belt from pre-timeskip period stays, except now with an extra medical supply bag

longer pants cause they look nice

Sasuke:

honestly I like his normal shippuden design a lot so i kept most of it

I added a cape though, cause he does travel around a bit

and as i was drawing him the collar reverted to a similar shape to his kid clothes

fun fact

the reason that his outfit remains largely the same is because

Sasuke does leave

the action itself doesn’t change, but the circumstances and the ensuing effects do. quite a bit, actually.

and no it does not take the entirety of shippuden to get him back

because he is not a revenge obsessed angry kid here

the biggest reason for all this change is cause I want to change Orochimaru cause i wanna make him live purely because I love mitsuki so fucking much

also i gave him a little half ponytail cause i wanted to give him longer hair but then realized that idk how to draw that and make it look good sO new style boyos

Kakashi? what are you doing here?:

I wanted to change up Kakashi’s look as well because it’s actually really fun to design these outfits no matter difficult it may be bUT it was difficult because I just... can’t see him without a vest.

Not that i can’t see him without wearing a vest, because i have and it’s good and I like it, but i can’t see him going into battle or on missions without one.

I’ve got this headcannon that the vest is lowkey like a security blanket and it’s this grounding weight whenever he’s in this adrenaline filled situation where he may suffer many varieties of consequences if he’s not careful. It has his tools and it’s his armor. Replacing it with a robe feels like robbing him of something he’s always had and is always used to

he keeps a vest

i modified it a bit to make it more right hand sided (i may headcannon Kakashi to be ambidextrous but there’s no denying he uses his right hand more) and the collar to be a bit thinner

Kakashi is like, made for biker fashion. like leather or denim jackets on motorbikes. So I gave him a haori that emulates that look

Naruto came back, saw that Kakashi didn’t change at ALL and took it as a personal offense and dragged him around to get new threads because “Kakashi-sensei, we all upgraded our closet, you should too!”

kind of a sad headcannon that Kakashi didn’t quite let himself enjoy things that wouldn’t benefit him as a ninja and therefore just stuck to his normal outfit of ninja clothes and jonin vest. Icha Icha was the one exception and he picked it up because he had no idea what to do once he was out of ANBU (i would like to back this hc up by pointing to Boruto where Kakashi no longer really holds himself to this rigid ideal of a ninja and lets loose and has fun with Gai and Mirai)

ANYWAYS

he actually likes the stuff Naruto finds for him, though he has no idea where the boy is actually finding all this shit

some misc info about the outfits:

Naruto began learning sealing after the Wave Arc, and he took to it like a fish to water. (i have uzushio spirit hc that I will tell at a later time)

a rare nugget of information he found about uzushio seals was that they were often stitched into the clothing itself

so Naruto went wild with this

he learned sealing while practicing normal embroidery on the side and as he went on his 2-3 year trip with Jiraiya he learned more and just got better and better

He added the seal to his own haori himself and actually made one for Kakashi too. Kakashi just didn’t see him whip the gift haori from one of the stitched sealing scrolls

embroidering takes a really long time and matching it with sealing? oof, hard work. So he actually only got two done and is in process of Sakura’s next. Now that he’s back in the village, he can talk to her about certain things she would want/need considering Naruto isn’t sure what a medic-nin requires.

he made additional gifts for everyone in team seven (even sasuke, even if he doesn’t know what will happen) and hopefully as time passes little trinkets will start to appear

i just really like the idea of naruto being a really craftsy person. He just keeps making small trinkets except these trinkets have sEALING POWER cause he’s very chaotic with his experiments like that

#naruto #naruto shippuden #uzumaki naruto #haruno sakura #uchiha sasuke #hatake kakashi #team 7 #naruto fanart #au #nart au #alp art #doodles #was trying to figure out in what order i should post my thoughts but bOY i have no idea how #so ill just post as ideas come #hopefully that doesnt get too confusing #JESUS THIS WAS ONE OF MY FIRST DRAFTS AND I STILL HAVENT POSTED IT OOPS

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talesofsonicasura · 3 years

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Wonderful Hunter

Chapter 1: Awakening

Life was very odd when it came to the future. Sometimes souls are brought together in the most extreme circumstances...in a bang. Warning: Description of graphic injuries and swearing! Rating Estimate: Teen

I never wanted to be a hunter. Ever since I was little, there was a desire in me to perform. Dance on the stage to my own melody, to bring awe and in wonder for others to witness. A dream that I never had a chance to grab.

To perform in little free time, what wasn't taken by vigorous unwanted training. Nearly every piece of money made to buy materials with the purpose of crafting costumes was placed for ointment to mend any injury or ailment. A toy soldier who wished to no longer have a winding key.

Who would've thought that day where the key had broken was the day I died?

"What the hell did you do?!" The soft whir of electricity echoed through the void in a massive blur of distortion. Voices clear for all to hear but so jumbled that a possible identification of even a gender was impossible. Under all that chaos was a quiet heartbeat. "The machine is overloading! Everyone evacuate immediately!"

That soft whir grew into a high pitched whine as a formed cacophony alongside the harsh thuds from thousands of stomping feet. "___?! No, come back it's too dangerous! Leave that mongrel behind!" Growls of pain and concern from some unknown animal blend together with the crackle of electricity.

An explosion of bright white and velvet purple burst throughout the void with that heartbeat going silent and a small voice hidden amongst it all. Despite the darkness filling the abyss, sensations of phantom pain, muffled voices full of concern, and hands across the skin, that one voice overrides them all.

"We had a good run, pal. Misfits always stick together, ____."

Bright red eyes opened with a harsh start, their owner fully aware of the unfamiliar dimly lit room around them. These confused ruby orbs belonged to a young man around his mid 20s, and almost nude except for the black boxer briefs. Wild cherry blossom pink hair that ends halfway down the man's back, soft peach tan skin, 6'8 tall body sculpted with lithe but powerful muscle and covered in various scars.

Some of these healed wounds were mild such as scratches, bite marks, punctures but there were extreme ones from burns whether it be acid, electric or fire, 2 in deep lacerations to even a large bite mark on the jugular of his neck. Part of the man's body such as his chest and arms were covered in fresh gauze bandages paired with a crude makeshift splint on the right arm.

Raising an eyebrow, the young man removed the bandages whilst breaking the splint with a harsh pull before he took in his surroundings. The room seemed to belong to someone with a rich background from the decor alone. Pastel blue walls lined with beautiful expertly painted portraits, furnished dark oak dressers, a large vanity, double king sized bed complete with silk sheets, pillows, and hard oak frame, large oak wardrobe and three separate doors.

If anything, this made the man feel very out of place. He did catch what looked to be a pair of clothes folded by a table near him, a note on top of the stack. The pinkette delicately got out of the large bed and walked over to the table. 'Dear guest, sorry if I had to leave you a bit underdressed but your wounds needed to be addressed. Hope these would suit you until your wounds finally finish healing. The discussion about the armor would be a later dealing. Sincerely, Maestro of Wonderworld Theatre, Balan."

The man couldn't help the snort or raised eyebrow from the rhyme scheme of the note. His caretaker had left a plain white shirt and long black pants, the material being silk from spiders by the feel of it. Placing the clothes on, he noticed it was a perfect fit suspiciously as it wasn't too tight or loose.

Upon leaving the room, the young man fully understood where he was. It seemed to be a theatre, well, if a theatre was mixed with the dimensional size of a small mansion and aesthetics of a castle. The grand small staircases, rafters above a tall ceiling, fancy torches hanging through a few corridors and the various posters of different shows being some evidence.

As the pinkette walked down the halls, he couldn't ignore the feeling that he was either being watched or led somewhere. The corridors felt wrong, almost if the walls were alive and shuffling each other. He also can't forget the sensation of invisible eyes on his lone form. Whatever the case, the sound of someone talking or to be precise, two people grew louder.

"You are not touching my guest, Lance. Even if the man is odd, I will still hold a defensive stance./ That human isn't normal. Something you would easily notice if you drop being formal. Injuries on his flesh were those that can kill any human. You aren't blind to that weapon and armor made from materials that aren't of man."

Both voices were definitely male in tone and their owners' clearly arguing. The first voice was deep and had a texture similar to smooth chocolate, a type of sweetness paired with charisma. The second voice was softer just as it was light in pitch, however there was hidden animosity to the calm yet alluring tone, a siren luring their delusional prey.

All of it was coming behind a slightly opened door, perfect to peek through or eavesdrop. Quietly the pinkette tiptoed over to the oak frame, ruby eyes looking into the room on the other side. This particular door led to what appeared to be a bar from the kegs put on the side of the bar stand and the various liquor bottles stacked on the shelves behind it.

Sitting at a table adjacent to each other were two humanoids, both being significantly different from the other. The only traits these two oddities shared were their tall 10 maybe 11 ft tall forms, peculiarly thin waists, tendril-like hair, performer attire, spindly arms and spindly legs. Other than that, they could be considered Yin and Yang or opposites.

The one on the left had soft jellyfish-like pastel green hair similar to dreadlocks, pitch black skin, a large perpetual toothy smile, and amber yellow eyes that peered through his hat. A sparkling white hat bearing a red ribbon which acted like a mask for those odd eyes, red cravat, long sleeved short white coat with gold elegant rims, a black tuxedo vest, short red cape alongside fancy white gloves, long glittering white pants that were ruby red past the thigh with gold rims on the bottom, and white pointed shoes.

His opposed companion looked more human except for some glaring details. Deathly pale skin highlight by soft dark violet, long elven ears, blue eyes bearing slit pupils that dwelled in yellow iris, sharp clawed fingers, and long black tendrils with elegant markings in various colors such as green, pink, blue and yellow that sprung from the man's back but was also his hair.

A pitch black bodysuit with gold rims, torn long sleeved short violet cloak bearing elegant gold embroidery for a top, white mask shaped pauldrons on his bony hips and gold toed shoes made for nasty kicks. Wine glasses sat between these two eldritch like entities.

"Dragging others into darkness might be your role, but this one isn't taking a more grizzly toll. He is also greatly injured and like you said could've been dead if I didn't help instead." Spoke the top hatted male, that deep velvet voice belonging to him. It also meant that the darker counterpart had to be Lance from what the pinkette heard outside.

The young man scanned the room, ruby eyes looking for anything familiar to him. His focus immediately sharpened on the glint of darkish violet poking from a large wooden crate, belonging stripped off the pinkette. Carefully and quietly, the man opened the door then slipped inside.

He stuck close to the floor and moved about as the two slender giants were focused on their conversation. It was almost comical how the young man traveled on his hands and feet like a predatory cat, stealthily approaching the target without a sound.

The pinkette was about to reach for the box when the unexpected happened. The door he went through had slammed itself shut with a loud thud, both giants immediately pulled out of their conversation and watched as the chairs parted away from each other. An act that put the stunned human on full display, a deer in the headlights or hand in the cookie jar situation.

No one moved as it was a silent staredown, neither were expecting the chairs or door to come to life like that. It was the man who immediately broke out of his stupor first, the pinkette sidekicking the crate. The box shook as an object was flung out of it by the harsh force, a gun.

It was a double barrel shotgun that was an inky sinister violet in color, the barrels were that same violet but lightened to a red color by the end, the handle of the gun mimicked a dark violet scabbard bearing tannish gold spiral patterns on the side, bone like caparace similar to a segmented blade lined the bottom of the gun barrel and held the trigger within a bone like cage.

With very fluid movements, the pinkette grabbed the descending gun from the air by the handle and spun it until he was holding the trigger whilst the barrel was aimed at the two taller entities. Sapphire and amber could see the subtle cautious fear hidden in those steeled ruby orbs.

"Who the hell are you? And where am I?" The pinkette's voice was slightly rugged, fire within the husky baritone, and a bit of a growl in the pitch. You could hear how deadly serious the human male was at the moment from his voice alone. Lance and his unnamed companion carefully put their hands in the air, sudden movements would only spook the pinkette further.

"There is nothing to fear, you are completely safe here! Please put the gun down, such an item used in a theatre is a huge frown!" Even that giant smile remained despite the slight twitches that showed the top hatted male's nervousness, well, that plus the beads of sweat and now dot sized pupils.

Lance merely raised an eyebrow at the weapon. "You do know it is rude to destroy those bandages you were given? Balan had some difficulty but his will to help you was focused and driven." Those words made the pinkette lower his weapon but not drop it.

He contemplated the words then thought back to the note. Whatever conclusion that came to mind was enough for the smaller man to put the gun down on the table, something that eased the room's occupants. "That means you're Balan? Fucking hell. What the hell happened to me?" The pinkette questioned as he went to sit on the floor only for a chair to move in place instead.

An action that made the human jump back in shock, nearly kicking the chair. "Bloody hell! My day has already been Congalala shit so I really don't need all these magical shenanigans! Please tell me you have some liquor to spare." Balan and Lance could only look at each other completely aware of a very odd explanation.

Not even 5 minutes later, the pink haired man had down half a bottle of wine as he now sat with the taller odd men in the room. Massaging his head, the mortal man finally spoke up. "So I am in a magical sentient theatre that serves as a gateway to someone's heart. You two, mainly Balan, are tasked to use that magic to bring balance to anyone whose heart is out of place upon entering. Nearly godlike beings who performed this task for over 3000 years?"

The top hatted Maestro nodded his head in agreement while Lance took another swig of his wine glass. Both of them ignored the pinkette swearing under his breath, the guy was having a bad day so it was normal. Although none of them could deny that this particular person was anything normal at all.

"Alright. My name is Val'tah, Val'tah Choso and I'm a Monster Hunter." Val'tah quickly raised his hand up before Balan and Lance almost immediately shot out of their seats. "Whoa! Not that kind of hunter for Namielle's sake so don't have your knickers in a bunch. Do any of you have a pen and paper?"

Magically upon request, the mint green haired performer took out a pen and notepad from behind his cravat. Rolling his eyes, the hunter took the items and began to draw something on the paper. Val'tah then placed it on the table for both Maestros to see.

It was a sketch of what looked like a dragon made completely from stone. Stony humps that grew bits of moss protruding from the back, a tail that looked like large pebbles strung together, even flat wings to a wide meteor shaped body and narrowed rhinoceros-like face. "That is a Basarios, a Monster or species of monster."

Lance and Balan looked at the picture with curiosity. It definitely explained why the man had that sort of weapon or armor. "Hunters are sort of like mercenary peacekeepers. Whenever a monster starts a huge ruckus or someone has a job in monster infested territory, we get called to do it."

Taking a swig from the wine bottle, much to Balan's distaste, Val'tah continued. "We don't have to slay targets such as the Basarios if we want to. A Hunter has permission to capture and relocate any large monster to a better habitat, something that I usually do. Where I'm from, it's our duty to keep the balance of not only the ecosystem but between human and monster kind."

A hum of acknowledgment rumbled from Lance's throat, it was almost comical in a sense. Normal hunters have various goals in mind when it comes to hunting: glory or survival. This was the first time hearing about ones who bring balance amongst more dangerous fauna and humans. How very ironic.

"Very interesting, to imagine there is a world beyond the realm of our understanding. There is still a question, how did you end up in our sacred bastion?" Balan's question rang through Val'tah's head alongside a bit of pain. Memories flashing through the pinkette's mind as a look of solemn horror crossed his face.

"I'm remembering it now. I was assigned to an expedition to investigate some odd ruins located near Wyvern's End, a den of a very dangerous monster. Those ruins were actually a machine that accidentally turned on and… I think I was caught in an explosion. Dear Namielle, I think I died."

Silence washed over the room, it was so deafening that a pin drop could be considered a bomb going off. Balan's perpetual smile dropped into a neutral frown, horror crossing his eyes upon the hunter's visage earlier. Severe burns on the unprotected skin and his arm in a very unnatural angle...Wait.

Any other chance to say anything was stopped when a look of abstract terror and grief burned within Val'tah's eyes. "No…! Buena was with me. She must have got caught in the blast too! Where's Buena?!" The pinkette shot out of his chair, the piece of furniture hitting the floor with a loud thud.

Neither Lance or Balan could grab the hunter before he ran for the door, the hard oak opening into a gray expanse of rocky terrain than the actual hallway. Not that the change deterred the hunter as Val'tah ran in but surely took the two Maestros by surprise.

"The theatre opened its doors to a new world never seen before! Could this be the hunter's trauma born from his core or is it something more?" Balan was quick to pick out the growing intrigue within his darker counterpart's words. There was more going on with Val'tah but they couldn't figure it out without finding the man.

Both Maestros quickly ran through those doors to catch up with the hunter and his questionable head start. It appeared that the gray expanse was actually the part of a larger mountain, a steppe to be more accurate. Thick deciduous forests could be made out past some of the gray rocky cliffs other than the one the door led them there, vast yellow fields of grass and very rough uneven terrain laid alongside unknown fauna than just plants.

Or the terrifying large nest made from various sticks, broken logs, ivy, bones of different creatures; humans included, and large egg shell remains of whatever species made it. The only indication that this world was made by Val'tah's heart were the small floating islands and giant airborne accessories or props.

Ribbons woven through part of the forest, a showman's cane that hung by the cliff leading down to the grassy plain, masks hanging across the stone walls, and instruments disguised as plants or rocks playing beautiful music bearing a tribal origin by the beating drums, whistling flutes and sitar strings being strung.

"How very odd and peculiar. This place must be spawned from a memory very familiar. It will be harder to avoid any wrong, when the aura of this world is heavily strong." Balan spoke wearily, a feeling that they were being watched prickle the fuzz on his skin. There was also the strong sensation about splitting up being a very bad idea.

Using the cane to slide down to the forest below helped give both theatre dwellers a quick glimpse of the surrounding areas before they hit the ground. For a split second, Lance swore he saw something large moved through the trees. Whatever it was, it was too big to be Val'tah or any of his familiars.

Both Maestros landed on a reddish clay ridge, small ledges to an almost natural stone bridge connected the large ditch at the center, a small stream of water passing down the middle, various large mushrooms and beehives leaking honey from multiple branches. Or that they weren't exactly alone.

Grazing about the area were deer, their pelts were a dark green speckled by white dots that overlapped a soft peach underbelly, large grayish silver antlers for the males whilst the females had short black horns and azure eyes that stared at the duo. Some of the deer continued to munch on the flora while the others kept a wary gaze on Balan and Lance.

"Definitely inhabitants of Wonderworld but not quite. I think these deer were crafted by Val'tah's memories that hold powerful might." If these animals shared similar traits to their earthly counterparts, the Dark Maestro knew they were relatively harmless unless provoked.

Another thought then immediately crossed Balan's mind. "If these creatures are here, then we might have more to fear. These deer are prey…" Suddenly the various green pelted beasts rose their heads up, ears twitching as if they caught something the other two hadn't.

"Wouldn't a predator cause dismay?" The top hat wearing man really didn't like where things were going as the large herd began to scatter immediately when the sound of heavy thuds could be heard. One deer was running for the bridge, the thuds stopped and both Maestros only had time to blink when something large and purple snatched the scared fawn off the stone ground.

"Holy shit." Balan would've scolded Lance for foul language if they didn't have a bigger problem on their hands. The body of the snatched deer hung limply from the jaws of a giant purple monster. A 69 ft hulking dark violet draconic tiger, its body mostly covered in violet and yellow edged plates of caparace like armor bearing a ruby red underbelly, a short tigerine snout that held large sharp teeth and two large tusks at the ends of the mouth, giant jagged yellow horns that mimicked those on the helms of samurai which also covered long thin ears or the burning azure eyes.

Both front and back legs held four digit paws carrying razor sharp claws or what looked to be long yellow spikes on the forelegs, and the large reptilian tail that ended with a three pointed Spade spear. Balan and Lance watch the deer disappear into the beast's mouth, minced to pieces down its gullet and the feline smiled with blood tinted fangs.

Or that the draconic tiger let out a threatening roar right at the duo as bright blue fire burst from the edges of its mouth like a miasma. They barely had the chance to jump out of the way when the giant beast bounced at the two, sharp claws shredding through the dirt as if it were paper.

"This is a beast we'll have to fight or neither of us will come out alright!" Violence wasn't something Balan often indulged in but he knew there were times that he had no choice. Facing his hands forth, small spheres of yellow energy manifested on the maestro's fingertips before tossing them in the form of arrows.

With a wag of its tail, the draconic tiger brought forth burning blue will o' wisps and launched it back with a tail swipe. Both volleys of energy exploded into fireworks of their respective color, the armored beast leaping through the smoke with claws alight in blue fire.

Lance quickly dove under the beast while Balan flew over to the left side, the Dark Maestro flared out the tendrils on his back then slammed into the beast's unprotected belly alongside a vicious uppercut. The violet tiger felt the pain but took the opportunity to release a thin burst of glittering blue powder from its body before being launched into the air by Lance's attack.

Whatever the blue powder was irritated the raven haired male, the sensation being a mixture of itchy powder and bubbling hot grease. "Lance, look out!" Balan's shout made him look up at the airborne beast, the spade of its tail had opened into a trident as it swung the limb through the air.

The momentum being enough to correct the beast's position and trajectory so it could dive-bomb the Dark Maestro like a burning blue meteor. Neither of them expected for that particular powder to ignite upon contact as Balan watched his dark counterpart get flying by an azure explosion from his own body.

Creating a larger blast of yellow energy, the hat wearing man threw it at the violet tiger before heading over to his fallen ally. It let out a howl of annoyance upon the projectiles not only striking it's face but burst into a thick mustard smokescreen that made the feline gag.

Lance laid slanted by the tree he had hit, burn marks sprinkled over parts of his skin and clothing was singed too. "You okay, Lance?! This beast has more frightening power than just a ferocious stance!" Balan spoke, carefully helping his counterpart off the ground.

The movement made the elven male let out a mild hiss before shaking the greenette's hand off him. "As much as I like seeing you frown, this beast needs to be taken down. Balan, watch out for any powder from the skin of the hide, you'll lose more than just your pride."

Sharp claws of the draconic tiger swept away the hatted maestro's smokescreen. Bright blue fire burning burst the open jaws, the feline was absolutely pissed as even more azure fire spewed from the legs and tail or that the yellow ridges on the back and forelegs were now giant blades. It let out a furious roar forcing Balan and Lance to prepare for another attack.

That was until the entire world became silent, all of the instruments had oddly stopped playing. It was quiet until the sound of shamisen strings being plucked filled the still air with an orchestra of intimidating brass to follow in its wake. Sinister sounding melodies of violins and shinobue flutes were met with someone walking out from the brush.

youtube

It was Val'tah, a violet mask resembling the tiger donned on his face alongside dark violet coat with golden fur sleeves, dark violet hakama trousers decorated in elegant gold patterns reminiscent of fire and swords, two fake tails similar to the violet beast sewn on the back and without any shoes, only barefooted.

Balan and Lance stood speechless as the pinkette did something neither of them expected. The hunter had begun to dance in a style similar to those done by kabuki actors. His arms glided through the air, bits of glittering violet powder produced from the sleeves creating streaks in the air with an appearance mimicking purple misty fire.

Val'tah stomped his foot to the ground to spread out the mist like powder around him, the man spun into a short pirouette so he could stop in the Dragon Stance found in martial arts. It was like the hunter was manipulating magic to flow with his elegant and entrancing dance.

The sinister orchestra went perfectly with Val'tah's movements. Beating of hand drums, male chants with an ominous tone, shinobue flutes paired alongside the plucks of the shamisen and strung chords of the violin told a story on its own. A ritual performance of omens and cautionary tribulations.

Balan and Lance couldn't look away, neither could the beast who appeared to be calming down. The long yellow caparace blades lower themselves back into thin ridges, the trident tip of the tail collapses into its spade form and the eerie blue fire burning around the beast sputters out. Bright blue in its eyes dimming into a soft mellow teal.

Val'tah spun on the ball of his feet before transitioning into an aerial kick. The pinkette then used the momentum of the kick to position himself so he could bring down his arm in for a slash. He landed on the ground in a predatory stance, nails of his right hand dug into the soil, feet spread apart with knees bent for a crouch, left arm held out behind the man and the tiger mask facing the spectators.

The hunter then twirled himself into a backflip, all for the purpose of landing on his feet with his arms held and hands pressed together while the fingers were positioned to mimic fangs. Val'tah pulled his arms apart and let out a loud beastly roar with the final loud beats of the drum, the draconic tiger letting out its own roar in unison.

The pinkette took off his mask once the music returned to its more peaceful counterpart. "Glad I made it in time or Buena would've torn you to pieces. Luckily the Sonata of Omens can be played here or I would've been forced to do an acapella." Balan nearly choked upon the words Val'tah just said.

The giant hellish tiger that spews blue explosive fire was the hunter's friend?! Something Lance couldn't help but state the inquiry out loud. "You telling us the beast that nearly had us ravaged, is your companion that you ran off to scavenged?!"

Val'tah sheepishly scratched his head and let out a soft chuckle. The beast or Buena groomed their paws as if nothing happened. "She is a Magnamalo and they tend to be... tenacious predators. Buena is unique since she's friendlier than the regular 'malo, at least to me and any friend of mine."

Balan had a feeling there was more to this odd bond than just a story but… "At least your missing friend has been found, even if she treated us like a steak for a pound. Best to return back to the theatre, Lance got burnt bruises that need gauze by the meter." The top hatted Maestro then clapped his hands together as a giant door formed behind him.

It was big enough for the large Magnamalo to go through without any hindrance. Val'tah had a feeling there was going to be more magical convenience when it came to this odd theatre than just the taller duo living inside and a magical replica of the ritual clothing for the Sonata of Omens. Something to think about when he tries to figure out their situation.

And that's it! Yes this is a crossover between Balan Wonderworld and Monster Hunter but also my first Balan fic too! If you guys don't know, Balan Wonderworld is one of the games I've recently got and wholeheartedly. Sure it had problems but it was a delightful experience throughout my entire playthrough.

If you do decide to get the game, wait until it goes on sale. The full price isn't really suited considering the huge controversy involving it's development.

Our two star characters of this fic are an unlikely pair.

'The Hunter Who Wished To Dance' and owner of the mysterious 13th Door in Wonderworld: Val'tah Choso. A Monster Hunter who strived to become a performer but forsaken the goal partly for his ward, Buena.

Buena is a subspecies of Magnamalo called Will-O-Wisp Magnamalo. They expel blue fire often mistaken for spirit orbs and can engulf their body in an armor of azure fire for offensive defense. Only the Sonata of Omens, a mysterious ritualistic dance can calm a rampaging Magnamalo.

Until next time folks! I'll see you back in Wonderworld.

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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years

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The Bunad: roots of a nationalist symbol

The bunad is a Norwegian folk costume which exists in many regional varieties. A symbol of rootedness and belonging both local and national, the bunad is ubiquituous on Constitution Day, 17 May, but it is also used at other festive occasions. Although it is far more widespread among women than men, male bunads have become common in some social circles.

Can anyone wear a bunad? Is it a real bunad if it is made in China? Is it a symbol of origin and roots or a nationalistic symbol?

It is estimated that Norwegians own altogether 2.5 million bunads, worth more than 40 billion kroner (€500 million). In other words, one in two citizens owns a bunad, and they are expensive garments with embroideries and filigree silver ornaments, consisting of several components often including aprons, headdresses, scarves or shawls. You could easily buy a few prestigious and beautiful dresses from famous designers for the cost of a single bunad. Moreover, bunad ownership and use has grown fast in the last few decades.

The increased popularity of bunads could be put down to the growing prosperity of the population of oil-rich Norway in general. But this is hardly the whole story. A symbol of Norwegianness, rootedness and regional origins, wearing a bunad is a statement about identity. Non-Norwegians are often puzzled by its widespread use, since folk dresses are associated with minorities in other parts of Europe. Perhaps the Norwegian identity is essentially a minority identity, even though independence was achieved through a bloodless secession from the Swedish–Norwegian union in 1905.

The ongoing story of the bunad is complex and involves claims and counter-claims about authenticity, the feared and respected ‘bunad police’ and a vivid popular discourse about who has the moral right to wear which bunad. The right not to wear a bunad is generally tolerated, but there is no strong and visible cosmopolitan discourse dismissing the widespread love of folk costumes as antediluvian, reactionary, nationalist and possibly racist. Yet there is no consensus concerning which dresses should be classified as sufficiently authentic and what the criteria are and it has led to controversies.

The bunad is a particular kind of festive dress. The term is a neologism based on an archaic dialect word, introduced in urban circles by the author and nationalist activist Hulda Garborg in her pamphlet Norsk klædebunad in 1903. Writing during a feverish phase of Norwegian nationalism just ahead of independence, Garborg argued the need for a truly Norwegian and regional form of formal dress. She collected and systematised what she saw as intact and useful regional bunad traditions, and even designed some bunads herself. Interestingly, Garborg never denied the syncretic and partly invented character of the new, traditionalist folk costume. She nevertheless emphasised its role as a marker of rural, Norwegian identity.

A relevant distinction can be drawn between a bunad and a folk costume. Folk costumes are everyday and festive clothes which were traditionally worn by peasants in southern Norway, and – like certain kinds of peasant food – have been recontextualised and upgraded more recently as formal dress. Bunads, on the contrary, are reconstructed and re-designed – sometimes very nearly purely invented – costumes designed from the early 20th century onwards, and are used at occasions such as Christmas Eve, Constitution Day, weddings and other major social events, although not at funerals: bunads are bright and joyful garments. Some bunads represent minor adjustments (‘upgradings’ and modernisations) of the original folk costume, while the link is less obvious or absent in other cases.

The bunad is an important traditionalist symbol of modern Norwegianness. Most of these costumes are related to regional and minority folk costumes from Central and Eastern Europe, and the German influence has often been commented upon. More importantly, the bunad confirms Norwegian identity as an essentially rural one, where personal integrity is linked to roots and regional origins. However, 18th and 19th century peasants would often wear European-style dress at formal occasions such as weddings, or they might wear a folk costume, which gradually went out of use. In other words, there is a clear element of modern invention, which nobody denies, not only in the currently widespread use of bunads, but also in their design.

What exactly, then, is a bunad? One possible answer widely accepted is: a festive dress associated with a regional Norwegian tradition, accepted by the Bunad and Folk Costume Council as such, and widely recognised as a bunad by the public. Its popularity as a symbol of tradition has increased proportionally with the modernisation and urbanisation of Norway in the last hundred years, thereby saying something essential about the politics and poetics of identity in modern societies, where the quest for rootedness in the past increases with de facto uprootedness.

In contemporary society, many if not most individuals have two, three or four options: they can legitimately wear a bunad designed in the place where they live, in the place where they grew up, or in one of their parents’ places of origin. They cannot, however, legitimately wear a bunad from wherever they fancy. Of course, they could buy it, but their friends and relatives might frown.

Norwegians who live in the heart of urban cities and have no real rural roots are sometimes unaware of people in the heart of Bunad Norway who are deeply offended. These rural Norwegians as they see it have no time for West End ladies who claim Telemark ancestry when they buy the perhaps greatest status symbol of all bunads, namely the expensive and exclusive East Telemark bunad. They also disapprove of people wearing gold chains and earrings with their bunads.

There are frequent conflicts over authenticity framed within the bunad discourse itself. In the valley of Numedal, competition between two alternative bunads actually led to the creation of two distinct factions in the 17 May parade of 2002. Family members fell out with each other; local politicians groped for compromises. One of the alternatives, a simple folk costume, is woven in dark fabrics; the complex, reconstructed bunad sanctioned by the Bunad and Folk Costume Council is much more elaborate and colourful. The defenders of the simple costume argue that the new one, ‘overloaded with silver and embroideries’, is inappropriate and clearly inauthentic for a traditionally poor mountain valley; while the other faction see the simple bunad as sordid and joyless. Both factions claimed that their bunad was the most ancient one. The colourful and expensive alternative won in the end.

The bunad stirs up strong emotions. After the 17 May celebrations in 2001, Queen Sonja was criticised in public for wearing sunglasses with her bunad; in the same year, Crown Princess Mette-Marit was severely reprimanded in the press for wearing a purely invented ‘fantasy costume’ rather than an authentic bunad from her home region. She has since made amends, and now has several bunads to choose between (legitimate in her case, being princess of the whole realm), including an elaborate bunad from her home county of Vest-Agder in the far south of the country. Women are generally advised by the Bunad and Folk Costume Council not to wear makeup and earrings with their bunad.

Because of the wealth of detail, a proper bunad cannot be made industrially in its entirety. This partly accounts for its high market price. Moreover, the knowledge and skill required to make a bunad is considered a cultural, local form of knowledge – a kind of inalienable possession. In the spring of 2002, a conflict erupted between the traditionalists and a young entrepreneur who wanted a slice of the market. This conflict inadvertently brought the implicit ideology underlying the bunad to the public eye. The controversy is still alive today, with cultural arguments overlapping with the economic ones.

What happened was this. A young Norwegian of Chinese origin, who originally worked as a cook, began to take an interest in bunads. He took a bunad course, learning the basics of the craft. Before going into business, he changed his name from Aching to John Helge Dahl, realising that he would have little credibility as a bunad salesman with a Chinese name. (The current owner of the company founded by Dahl is nevertheless called You Hong Bei.)

Dahl founded a company called ‘Norske Bunader’ (Norwegian bunads), and then he did the outrageous thing, namely to contract dozens of Chinese seamstresses in Shanghai to do the stitching and embroidery. The fabrics were sent from Norway, and the completed garments were returned – at a much lower price than that of the Norwegian competition. He built the bunads himself. ‘To most people, it is the quality that counts,’ he says, ‘not who has done the embroidery’. Of course, he can offer bunads at a competitive price.

The Bunad and Folk Costume Council reacted strongly against Mr. Dahl, as did Husfliden. At one point the latter threatened to sue him for plagiarism, but since bunad designs are not copyrighted, they were likely to lose a court case. Their argument was that the craft amounted to a locally embedded kind of knowledge which did not travel well, comparing it to dialects. Talking about mass production and industrialisation of bunad production, they argued that the use of foreign labour leads to cultural flattening. The resulting products were said to have no hau, to use the anthropologist Marcel Mauss’s term for the ‘soul’ of an object.

Opinions bitterly divided people. Many who defended the traditionalists said that this concerns ‘personal knowledge’. Bunad embroidery was a kind of handwriting. They argued that when anyone can take a pattern, send it abroad, and make a good profit from the product, people will ask: ‘What is it that I am spending one or two months’ salary on?’ Many argued that this kind of garment would feel alienating, and that it would not satisfy people’s emotional need to build their own history into the garment.

Another argument concerns the low salaries in China, claiming that it was immoral to hire ‘underpaid women’ to do this kind of work. Dahl’s Shanghai seamstresses were paid what he described as a good salary in China, but which is a fraction of a comparable Norwegian salary. Yet others have said that it may be acceptable to employ immigrant women living in Norway, who may have assimilated some local skills, but not to employ foreign women living abroad.

Although the Dahl case was spectacular in that it simultaneously brought out both accusations of racism and controversy concerning criteria for authenticity, his business innovation was less original than it might seem. Several producers admit that they outsource parts of their production to the Baltic countries and elsewhere where wages are low, and even Husfliden has admitted that parts of their bunads are made industrially because of the high cost of labour in Norway.

The anxieties voiced by the critics of the outsourcing of bunad production are threefold: In a thoroughly neo-liberal society (anyone can wear what she wants; anyone can design and make bunads anywhere in the world), national identity suffers because regional roots are severed; economic interests suffer because prices go down; and the personal or emotional pole of the user suffers since the garments lose their special quality.

In what exactly does this ‘special quality’ consist? What is the nature of the considerable personal capital invested into clothes?

What is reaped from this investment is a handsome profit, an enhanced sense of community and visible boundaries to the outside world. Cultural property of this kind is intangible, it is legally oblique, and it is poised to lose against both the brisk efficiency of contemporary capitalism and against the individualism of free choice.

So the main question as I see it: is what price your heritage?

Put your secret/sacred knowledge online, and the spell is immediately broken.

This kind of knowledge has to be scarce, localised and difficult to obtain, or it loses its magic qualities. Beyond pricing policies and profits, this is what stirs the souls of the people who care about the national and regional provenance of their bunad. Had they chosen a Dior dress instead, or a pair of blue jeans and a nice T-shirt, the problem would not have arisen.

Still critics argue why all the fuss? The Bunad is no different from what a kilt is to a Scotsman or a lederhosen is to the Bavarian or a sari is to an Indian. Yes and no. Each of these have differing degrees of exclusivity and symbology.

The kilt arguably was an English invention to control the Highland clans. But it became something else - a national symbol of being loyal to clan, crown and country. It used to be people only wore kilts if they had a hereditary claim to that tartan but nowadays no one really cares what tartan you wear (much to the chagrin of older generations). The lederhosen has always been a regional symbol not a national one but has been ‘McDonalised’ to an Oktoberfest fancy dress costume party. The sari is an interesting example that remains a distinctly Indian national symbol but can also now be readily worn by anyone around the world - just as well as I love wearing saris at Indian weddings and when I lived in India. But the Bunad is different because of its own distinct roots that has never left its national borders. The Bunad is a living tapestry and its threads can’t be simply out sourced to other countries.

One’s heritage should never be outsourced. To the anti-traditionalist naysayers I would say that the bunad is a special kind of garment saturated with symbolism and existential significance; it is from somewhere, not from anywhere. It’s Norwegian, born and bred.

#bunad #norway #custom #heritage #tradition #dress #folk #norge #norsk #culture #society #history

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camillemontespan · 4 years

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suitor no. 6 [interview with camille montespan]

@moonlightgem7 @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @burnsoslow @pug-bitch @jovialyouthmusic @ibldw-main @emichelle @sirbeepsalot @saivilo @notoriouscs @katedrakeohd @mskaneko @gardeningourmet @dcbbw @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @sawyeroakleyscowboyhat

Knot Magazine has launched its series to shadow each of the suitors competing for the Prince's hand in marriage. Last week, we followed Lady Hana who showed us how to master embroidery and play the piano. The week before, we were taught basic French, Italian and Spanish by Lady Kiara.

Which brings me to ask what our last suitor can teach us. For this issue, we introduce Camille Montespan.

Miss Camille Montespan. Not a Lady. Not a Countess. Just Miss.

In case you have been living under a rock this past month, Camille Montespan was found in New York and brought back to Cordonia to compete against the best of Cordonia's noble ladies for Prince Liam's hand in marriage. She is being sponsored by House Beaumont, which in itself is a huge deal and shows that of Bertrand Beaumont has faith in Camille, then surely she is the true winner.

Camille bursts out laughing at this assumption. 'Oh honey,' she says, wiping tears away. 'Bertrand Beaumont has no faith in me at all.'

... If this was a documentary, the sound of crickets would be played right now.

********

Camille is 27 years old and a native New Yorker. She was raised by her grandmother and was a waitress before she came to Cordonia. 'I didn't go to college,' she tells me as we sit down for coffee. 'We couldn't afford it. My grandma always felt really guilty about that but honestly, I didn't mind in the slightest. I preferred working.'

Working as a waitress.

She blinks at me. 'Yeah, it's actually not as easy as it looks. You got to keep customers happy, keep service flowing, prioritise your workload, stand on your feet for 12 hours and all with a smile on your face.'

Potential Queen right here, clearly.

Look, I like the girl so far. She's polite and friendly, quite warm actually. I want to get to know her. But surely she finds it crazy that she is in this competition?

'Oh, 100%,' she tells me. 'I know it's insane. It laughs in the face of Cordonian traditions. But you know what? Sometimes, change is a good thing. It means you're evolving.'

I'll admit she's quite wise.

**********

For our first night together, we are attending a ball at the palace. Having lived in the palace for a month now, I wonder if Camille has become adjusted to her new environment.

She rifles through dresses in the boutique as she considers my question.

'Kind of but in a weird way,' she replies. 'I still find it strange having a maid come to clean my room and everything. I tried to help her tidy once and she told me off, apparently I should let her do her job..'

I ask if she is quite self sufficient. Camille nods enthusiastically. 'Definitely. Always have been. I do things myself and just get on with it.'

This is a far cry to the other suitors who have staff on call. Countess Madeleine has someone who's only job is to sort out her wardrobe. As in, keep it tidy. Picking clothes up off the floor. Glamorous, right?

'I always think the best way to judge a person is how they treat service staff,' Camille divulges. 'Basically, if you're rude to a waiter, maid, cleaner, whatever, you're a dick.'

She is also the only suitor to use.. colourful language.

She draws out a gold silk dress. 'Ooh I like this.. What do you think?'

I look at the dress and can't deny it's beautiful. I tell her it would suit her colouring. She has the most luminous, caramel skin. Camille blushes and hugs the dress to her body. 'This is the chosen one!'

She is like a little girl playing dress up. Camille may have gotten used to the palace but clearly, having a boutique is still a novelty.

'When all I wear are jeans and oversized sweaters, sometimes it's fun to act out a fashion montage in here,' she whispers conspiratorially. She throws a feather boa around my neck and cries, 'Fashion montage!'

She stops when she notes my confusion. 'Oh god,' she says, a look of horror etched on her face. 'I've been hanging out with Maxwell Beaumont too much..'

*********

Despite being a commoner, Camille manages to look regal once she is ready for the ball. Her dark hair is pulled up into a chignon, her eye makeup is smokey and she wears a delicate gold arm cuff.

I tell her she looks really pretty and a bright smile spreads on her face. 'Thank you so much!'

We meet with Bertrand Beaumont, the Duke of Ramsford, and his brother Maxwell, before we traipse down to the ballroom. As we walk down the corridors, I hear Bertrand whispering rules to Camille. 'Dance with Prince Liam, smile always, don't drink too much, always be on your guard.'

I ask Maxwell what he thinks of Camille. He flashes me a smile. 'She's awesome,' he says. 'Really nice and she isn't like the other ladies in the competition. Like, I can actually talk to her without feeling judged. She's become my friend.'

She is actually the most relatable suitor in the competition which gives her an edge over the other ladies. But relatable isn't the only thing a queen should be.

When we enter the ballroom and greet the Prince, Camille dips into a curtsey and addresses him properly. She acts like she is in control. When he takes her by the hand and guides her to the middle of the room to begin the Cordonian Waltz, everyone watches.

She moves fluidly. It's clear she's been practicing. I look around the room and see the other suitors watching her with distaste, except for Lady Hana who is smiling.

I spot a dark haired man wearing a denim shirt in the corner. He is nursing a glass of whiskey, the only person in the room who has rejected champagne. He is also the only one not dressed in formal wear which is unusual. His eyes are fixed on Camille.

I find myself unable to stop watching him watching her. His eyes never leave.

It is only when the dance finishes and Camille and Prince Liam break apart that the man averts his eyes. The journalist in me knows there is a story here.

I join Camille who invites me to sit beside her. We are joined by Lady Hana and Maxwell, who is carrying a bottle of champagne.

'Drake, come join us!' Maxwell calls out.

The man in the denim shirt comes over and sits on the other side of Camille.

I decide to ask what he thinks of my interview subject. Does he think she is up to the job of becoming queen?

He looks surprised to be asked. 'Uh yeah, I guess so..' he answers.

Camille rolls her eyes. 'Such glowing feedback!' she teases.

Drake smirks and tosses back his whiskey. 'That's the best you're gonna get out of me, Montespan.'

Camille nudges his shoulder with her own and he smiles softly.

There is DEFINITELY a story here.

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

The next day, we are going to a barn raising. I don't know why but it seems to be an event to show that the suitors can get down and dirty.

Countess Madeleine feigns a headache. Duchess Olivia is keen to use an axe to chop wood -she told me in her own interview that she happiest when weilding a weapon.

Camille opts to wear denim shorts and a black vest with converse. 'I've never built a barn before but hey, first time for everything,' she tells me, pulling her hair into a ponytail.

I ask her what she thinks of her fellow suitors. She chews her lip thoughtfully. 'Hana is really kind,' she tells me. 'We got on instantly which is really nice. I was worried I wouldn't make any friends here but she and Maxwell have proved me wrong.'

I ask if Drake is a friend. She shrugs. 'I think so? It's hard to tell with him..'

I push on, saying they looked friendly at the ball last night. Camille quickly picks up her rucksack. 'Enough talking, let's build barns.'

*********

The sun is boiling and everyone is sweating. Camille takes out a bottle of water and hands me it, which is actually quite sweet. 'I've got one for myself,' she says.

We join the group. Prince Liam greets her enthusiastically. 'Are you ready to build a barn?' he asks.

'Let's give it a shot,' Camille answers. 'I've not been to the gym in forever though so maybe don't count on me for heavy lifting..'

'Don't worry, I got your back, Montespan.'

Ah, it's Drake. Or, Denim Boy who is Hopelessly In Love with Camille as I like to call him. I called it first folks.

Denim Boy is not wearing his denim shirt. In fact, dear reader, Denim Boy is shirtless.

Camille looks at him. Her face turns red and she looks away to speak to Maxwell but her eyes keep looking at Drake and his lack of a shirt.

Nobody else notices except me and him. I know he has noticed because he is starting to look distinctly proud of himself. He occasionally looks over at her with a smirk on his face.

Is this going to be an issue, I wonder? Camille is in the competition to marry Prince Liam and right now, she looks like she has forgotten Liam even exists. And he's trying to engage her in conversation right now!

Oh this is awkward. So awkward. I've never written a love triangle before.

Okay maybe I'm overthinking. Maybe this is not a love triangle. Maybe this is just me trying to find a twist for this article. Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there.

'So, who wants to join Drake to help him pull beams?' Liam asks.

Remember how Camille mentioned she hadn't been to the gym in a while so she can't be counted on for heavy lifting?

Remember?

She volunteered to help Drake.

*********

I am umming and ahhing over whether to include this next part. If I don't include this, I am failing at my job. So, I will write this next part and you will keep an open mind about our last suitor.

Camille breaks rules.

Suitors are to be chaperoned at all times by their sponsor. It keeps them on the straight and narrow and their reputation intact.

But this suitor is different.

I heard her door shut at 11pm. We are staying next door to each other while I shadow her and I hear everything.

Naturally, I open my door quietly to see what is happening and sure enough, Camille has snuck out. I would like to say that she maybe left her room for a midnight snack but she is wearing a coat and is walking quietly.

At the end of the corridor, Drake appears.

It is my job as a journalist to report on what I see. And what I see is Camille sneaking out of her bedroom to go gallivanting with Denim Boy!

I suppose I was half right though. She is going for a midnight snack.

**********

I ask her the following morning if she slept well. She nods and pours me a cup of coffee. 'I did, did you?'

Oh I bet she did.

Reader, I am caught up in this drama! Oh its delicious!

'Did I hear you leave your room last night?' I ask casually.

She keeps a straight face. 'I didn't leave my room last night.'

I like to think we are becoming friendly but clearly, Camille is sticking to at least one of her chaperone's rules. She is on her guard.

We are due to attend afternoon tea with the suitors and Prince Liam. Camille admits to me that she has never been to an afternoon tea in her life. She looks embarrassed by this admission. My heart tugs for her.

If there is one thing that's obvious about this suitor competition, it's that it's each woman for herself. Backstabbing and bitching comes as a side dish to our macaroons and cakes, but Camille stays out of it, instead choosing to socialise with the more friendly suitors such as Hana and Penelope.

I see Lady Kiara is talking to Denim Boy who looks like he would rather be somewhere else. I notice that Camille keeps her eyes away from Drake and instead engages in conversation with Penelope about poodles.

It is interesting to be here. I am an outsider looking in. Prince Liam always speaks to Madeleine and Olivia, however whenever he gets a free moment, he manages to speak to Camille.

I watch as he takes his chance and slides his chair over to Camille and Penelope, greeting them both with smiles.

Penelope soon leaves the two of them, which only prompts Liam to lean in closer to Camille. He is looking at her like she is only girl in the world. He pours her another cup of tea and hands her the cup; their fingers brush. Camille quickly draws away and sips her tea.

She is his favourite. I can see that now; everyone can. I look around and see Madeleine primed to leave her conversation with her mother so she can pounce on the prince. I see Olivia settled back in her chair, a glass of champagne held to her lips - Olivia told me she can’t stand tea- and her eyes are fixed on Camille and Liam.

Liam calls over Drake who joins the two of them, his jaw set. He stands behind Camille’s chair so he is facing Liam head on. Only I see his fingers brush the top of Camille’s shoulders, touching her bare skin.

Camille soon stands up and I see her make her way to the restroom. Liam looks after her. I seize my chance to steal a moment with the prince and Denim Boy.

I take Camille’s seat, introduce myself and Liam says hello to me with a warm smile on his face. He is a kind man, as everyone knows. He has laughter lines and his lips are always upturned in the corners so it looks like he is always smiling.

‘What do you think of Camille Montespan as your potential wife?’ I ask. I see Drake look away and he clears his throat, making an excuse that he needs to speak to Maxwell about something.

‘I think she’s got a very good chance,’ Liam says coyly. ‘From what I’ve seen, she’s conducted herself with grace and she is kind to everyone she meets. If I’m honest, I am actually in awe of her.’

I ask him to explain. He grins. ‘Well, she’s not a noble. She’s been thrown in the deep end, having to learn about Cordonia, our traditions, etiquette, royalty.. I imagine it hasn’t been easy for her and I think it’s a true testament to her character that she has managed to excel at everything she has been presented with. Clearly, she is a dedicated and intelligent woman.’

I wonder how often he gets to spend time with her. If she’s a favourite, surely Liam sees her all the time?

He laughs. ‘Hardly. To be honest, whenever I ask her to meet me in the evenings, she is always busy or tired.’

My mind flicks back to when she snuck out of her bedroom but I don’t say anything. Do I feel a sense of loyalty to this woman?

I am about to ask for more of his thoughts but I’m interrupted by Madeleine who has approached him. I take my leave and go up to my room to take notes.

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

That evening, I am sat with Camille at the window of her room. She is dressed in silk pyjamas and has her legs tucked up underneath her. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun and her face is free of makeup. She looks youthful but also quite tired. Clearly, this past month has been exhausting for her but she takes it all in her stride.

I ask what kind of princess she would like to be. Camille exhales. ‘That’s a loaded question..’ she says quietly. ‘God, I feel like I’m a child again, you know how some kids want to be princesses when they grow up? Um, I guess I want to be fair. Fair and kind. I also want to make a difference.’

Her voice sounds off.

Is she counting down to the ball when Liam makes his decision?

‘My whole life will change if he picks me,’ she tells me. ‘I’m actually really nervous. Is that silly? I just keep thinking, here is this man who could pick you, who has told you that he can offer you the world, but then you catch yourself wondering if you really want it.’

She breaks off, knowing she has said too much. I ask if she is having doubts because she isn’t a noble and this is a completely different world. A fairytale.

Camille nods, looking away from me to look out the window. ‘Yeah. That’s it,’ she whispers. ‘It’s because I’m not noble.’

She doesn’t sound convinced.

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

Camille turns out to be really good at sailing boats. She also rides horses well and can dance like she’s been waltzing since a young age. In this short space of time, Camille has learned how to excel at every task she’s presented with and Bertrand Beaumont is starting to be more complimentary about her whenever I see him.

‘At first, she was like unformed clay,’ he tells me seriously as we watch her ride one of the palace horses. ‘But I have moulded her to be good at everything. She is challenging ideas that commoners can’t do what we do. She is a wild card. A dark horse.’

He sounds like he likes her now. Bertrand chuckles. ‘I do, actually. She is good friends with my brother now and I always admire people who are keen to learn. At first, she was a little flippant but I think she decided to just buckle down and get on with it.’

I ask if he thinks she will win the competition. He shrugs and flashes me a wide smile. ‘I have no idea,’ he answers. ‘But that is a stark contrast to when I first met her and I thought, ‘oh dear god no.’

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

Camille dances beautifully tonight. She is wearing a green silk dress and her hair is tousled around her shoulders. I watched her get ready and she spritzed her hair with coconut spray that smelled delicious. For fun, she spritzed my hair too, and joked, ‘Don’t give away my hair secret!’

She danced with Maxwell, who twirled her around and they laughed constantly. I am aware of her secret shadow who is sitting in a corner, his eyes on her the whole time. I decide to join him.

Drake is wearing a suit. For once, he is dressed up which makes a nice change. He looks good. Really good. He is still drinking whiskey though, but hey, baby steps.

I ask why he doesn’t ask Camille to dance. He reddens and tosses back his whiskey. ‘I can’t dance,’ he tells me bluntly. ‘Plus she would only say no.’

Camille wouldn’t say no. Not because she likes him but because she isn’t rude. Of course she would say yes.

I tell him so and he smirks. ‘Trust me, it’s better this way.’

Liam soon interrupts Camille and Maxwell. Camille is handed to Liam and the two of them waltz around the room. I see Drake clench his glass. This whole tortured romantic persona is starting to grate. I want to tell him to just ask her to dance. But to do so would ruin this article. I am here to profile Camille and her efforts to win Liam’s affections, which she is doing. I am not here to encourage a love triangle, no matter how much I see this being the situation.

Camille bursts out laughing at something that Liam says. It’s a real throaty laugh and it makes some courtiers turn to look at her. Even when she isn’t meaning to, Camille commands attention.

That is what a princess and future queen needs to do.

Drake stands up and leaves the table without saying goodbye. He leaves the ballroom. His whiskey glass is still half full; I pick it up and sniff. It’s incredibly strong.

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

The following night, we are staying over at Applewood. The day was pleasant and Camille helped plant an apple tree at the orchard, flashing a warm smile to the cameras. The public are there and applaud. Out of all the suitors, she is the only one to crouch down and give the children cuddles.

I can see her winning this competition.

I was later back to my room as I was enjoying a drink at the hotel bar with Bertrand. He is actually quite fun once you get to know him. I now have an invitation to the next Beaumont Bash in my pocket and I will be sure to report on everything I see.

As I walk back to my room, I see a man I haven’t seen before running towards me, a look of sheer terror on his face. He has a black eye. I try to stop him but he ignores me.

I get to my room and hear crying from next door.

Concerned, I am about to knock on Camille’s door, but I’m stopped by the sound of a male voice inside, murmuring. I don’t knock. I can’t ruin her privacy.

This is when this article gets complicated. I want to report on everything I come across but to do so is an extreme violation of Camille. The woman agreed to meet me so I can profile her, not to air her dirty laundry.

Which is why I didn’t listen to the conversation next door. But I will phone my editor tomorrow and speak to her, telling her about my dilemma.

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

My editor wants me to report on everything. She wants my honest opinion If I don’t, I am lying to Cordonia who should know the type of woman Camille is.

This is what I think about Camille.

She is kind. She is warm and has no hidden agenda; what you see is what you get with her. She will happily chat to you and is interested in what you have to say. She cares about Cordonia already and wants to make a difference. She is intelligent and hasn’t been swept up in this grand lifestyle. Her feet remain firmly on the ground.

The next morning, we leave Applewood. Camille’s eyes are red rimmed and she looks exhausted, choosing to look out of the window of the car as we drive back to the palace. When we arrive back, she turns to me and apologises.

‘I’m sorry for being quiet,’ she says. ‘I just had a hard night last night. Someone got into my room and tried… well, it wasn’t nice. But it’s been dealt with.’

I’m alarmed to hear that someone got into her room but she waves away my concern. ‘It’s fine. I got help. But anyway, I’m sorry for being so boring today. I’m going to have a rest and we can meet in an hour? Palace bar? We can have wine, my treat.’

Am I about to have girly chats with Camille? Is it weird that I’m excited?

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

She looks refreshed when we meet at the palace bar. She has ordered a bottle of wine and pours me a large glass. ‘How long have you been a journalist?’ she asks.

I’m surprised that she is the one asking the questions. I tell her and she asks more about me, which is quite nice actually. We talk like girlfriends sharing wine after a day at work, not like a journalist and her interview subject.

‘Thank you for profiling me,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s been great to get to know you.’

I am about to say the same but we’re interrupted by Denim Boy, who has entered the bar. He gives me a nod and he nudges Camille on the arm. ‘Can we talk?’ he asks.

She nods and throws me an apologetic smile.

I watch them both leave and I see Drake place his hand on her lower back as he guides her away.

They look like a couple. They look more like a couple than Camille and Liam ever have and that is one thing I need to be really honest about.

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

As this article went to press, Camille was told to leave Cordonia.

Pictures came out of her and the man I saw running down the corridor at Applewood in her room. Camille was clad in her underwear while he had her in an embrace. The pictures were broadcasted around Cordonia and Camille left the palace in humiliation.

I’m confused about this. It doesn’t make sense to me. I had never seen Camille ever speak to the man before and she never mentioned him.

The photo was taken from outside so clearly, someone was installed outside the palace and spied on her. That reeks of suspicion. Who would want to spy on Camille?

I wonder what this means for her and Drake.

Not Liam, no. Because I genuinely feel, now that the competition is over and Camille is no longer at the palace, I feel that she never had feelings for him. I think she liked him, of course she did, but there was no spark. It doesn’t matter now anyway; he is now engaged to Madeline.

But there was spark with her and Drake, who I lovingly named Denim Boy.

What will become of the two of them? Camille will no doubt go back to New York and Drake will remain in the shadows of the ballroom. Shame. I found myself rooting for them.

And that is my honest opinion.

#trr fanfic #drake walker

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hungryhyena · 3 years

Text

im having fun w embroidery but i forgot how much hand sewing hurts my wrist rip. think i need to find my wrist brace before i do too much more.

im also working on my new vest! im doing a big painting for the back, it covers the whole thing. i like my sketch but im gonna keep it secret til its done c: most of the dye patterns i tried washed out but the front still looks pretty good. doing a like... idk. fun bright theme. fantasy-ish lean, with colors and patterns and just things that i enjoy. flowers n art n maybe a couple of my dads dnd patches. queer shit. gotta spike it too

the car is at the shop, theyre saying we can go get it tomorrow. once we can go places again i think i might get some more embroidery stuff, i def need more canvas n floss lol. i have lots of fabric but its all patterned n just some random thrift store floss

i am... having a Difficult time, mentally. kinda blew up at my mom today bc stress. but it feels better to Make Things, stay busy, while i have the energy and focus, than just laying around n being sad n stressed

#i have another vest that was gonna be all queer stuff #but :/#i like this one #i am Considering embroidery on the vest itself #im trying yo idk. stay positive. keep trying. its hard

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somekindofseizure · 6 years

Text

When the Ink Dries Part VIII

Chapter 19

Scully waited in the parlor room armchair wearing borrowed clothes, winding a chunk of overgrown split ends around her finger like late autumn weeds, the fur hem of Stella’s wool pencil skirt prickling her thighs. She picked at her nails until one cuticle bed split open and bled. Stella was still getting ready - had spent almost the entire day getting ready - for the fallen officers’ memorial event, but Scully’s impatience was levelled squarely at herself.

First thing this morning, Scully had promised herself she would get it over with. In retrospect, she could see that her plans were doomed the moment she sunk against the bathroom door jamb and set her eyes on Stella. Stella had been studying herself in the mirror, squinting, shoulder blades knitted together under her t-shirt, weight back on her heels. Holding herself as she held everyone - at a distance. Scully crossed her arms over her chest and cleared her throat in an effort to be acknowledged. Her secret was an accidental one, born as a simple piece of information, an unshaped piece of wet clay. Using nothing but time and cowardice, Scully had shaped that harmless blob into a weapon with a shortening fuse. She had never considered herself an artist, except in the field of avoidance.

“My first work event since I’ve been out of commission,” Stella said with a self-mocking smile. She looked down at a jar of cream and she swiped a glob across her forehead. Scully hesitated - she’d get to the secret in just a minute - and reached for Stella’s hand, caught two of her fingers. Stella’s shoulders swiveled and her hand swung with Scully’s like a trapeze act without a net, eyes flickering and then meeting her partner’s in the mirror. Traveling forty feet in an instant of eye contact.

“Will they find me… as I was before?” Stella asked, a forced comedic lilt to her voice that reminded Scully of when she had to resort to asking Mulder how some skirt made her butt look. She was embarrassed that she cared.

“A couple months older, maybe,” Scully teased, then re-capitulated. “Yes, they will. Better, even.”

The secret began to smolder the minute Scully decided to put it off until later, foolishly leaving it to eat the silence like a fire eats oxygen. Now it was hours-stronger, solid as cement, an extra story of the flat inserted between the two existing levels that they occupied.

Scully looked up from the armchair and felt her chin drop when she heard the typewriter click of Stella’s shoes on the staircase. Stella descended slowly, dangling pauses like pronouncements, each patent leather heel hovering over its next step like she expected it to rise up and meet her rather than the other way around. Blouse nipped at the sides pinned by seams to her body like a cloud to the sky. Blacks so deep the gold seemed to swim in it, whites so new they shaded her face pink. On her, a police uniform was a fantasy of authority and sex so pure that it seemed more like a costume than a mandate.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Scully said, forgetting both her secret and sucking of her bleeding nail a moment.

“Bring that finger over here and let me do that for you.”

If they’d had more time, it would have been a good idea, actually, a way of getting through it... Run her fingers over Stella’s body between sentences, feel her out like a bit of Braille on smooth, sure stone, fingers placed here and there along her pulse, her spine, her hips, and yes one in her mouth. Stella had an aptitude for nuance in physical contact that she lacked in conversation. Would it have been exploitative to talk to her that way? Or an act of kindness?

“That’s your real uniform?”

“I can’t tell if you’re judging or leering,” Stella said. “If it’s the latter, please make that clear and let’s skip the party.”

“You keep calling it that. Party.”

“Because it is a party, darling. We’re having alcohol and we put on high heels.”

“You partake of both those things every day.”

“You don’t.”

Scully smiled despite herself. Stella was square-shouldered in the foyer mirror now, one lazy eye on Scully in the reflection as she fastened the little black tie around her neck and tossed her hair. As she did so, the blonde picked up the shine of the embroidery on her collar, a crystal casting the sun for a rainbow.

“Are they all going to look like this? Your colleagues? Underlings?”

“Why?” Stella teased. “Looking for a replacement?”

“No, of course not.”

Had that come off as overly serious? Defensive? Later, in a childish game of what-if, woulda-coulda-shoulda, Scully would wonder how much sooner Stella would have read her, caught her out, had she not been in an unusual state of self-surveillance, so vigilant of her own vulnerability with the “party” that she could miss something to obvious.

“I have them tailored,” Stella said with a sheepish so-what of a smile.

She slow-stalked the kitchen like a jungle cat, stroked the cylinder of a water glass and placed long, inexplicable glances on various inanimate objects in the room, as though deciding whether to consume or spare each thing. Then she sipped her water, made tiger stripes on the rim with her lipstick. There was silence to fill here, but Scully’s mouth had gone dry.

Finally, Stella reached for her jacket and slipped into it as though she’d been recently painted and was trying not to smudge herself.

“How should I introduce you?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“People are likely to assume we’re fucking no matter what I say.”

“Only you assume that about everyone.”

Stella grinned into her last gulp of water and murmured, letting it echo and bubble as she slurped, pausing to swallow in the middle of her phrase.

“This is for your benefit. I’m making sure you’re prepared. People will whisper.”

“I’ve been whispered about that way at work my whole life.”

“There are worse things to have whispered by colleagues.”

“I know. I’ve had those whispered too.”

Stella was unsatisfied. She didn’t want jokes, she wanted confirmation that this evening would come off without a hitch. It was not for Scully’s benefit, not really, and that was okay. Scully spoke as though by rote, repeating her lessons.

“I am prepared for them to assume we’re a couple.”

Stella circled her and collected a small clutch purse she’d left open on the barstool, nudged Scully’s jeweled earlobe with her nose. She tucked her phone into the bag, a bed of tissues and lip gloss, and then held it under her armpit as she put both arms around Scully’s waist. Her face now rested on Scully’s shoulder, the carefully-applied layer of cosmetics wafting like spring flowers sealed in wax, a semi-edible decoration atop a birthday cake. For a moment it seemed unlikely that anything else scheduled for this evening could hold as much weight as that shoulder did.

“I didn’t say couple. I said fucking.” Her jaw had dug itself a permanent residence in the posterior delta of Scully’s clavicle. Scully worried for a moment that the makeup would come off on the sweater, but it was Stella’s sweater after all. “Be a lamb and say it for me.”

“Fucking,” Scully murmured.

“Mm.”

Scully turned to face her. Her neck spasmed where Stella’s chin had left a dent.

“You look nice in my things,” Stella said.

Scully nodded, the guilt traveling like a heart attack up her arm from where Stella held her wrist. She’d always been shit at accepting compliments, so Stella didn’t notice.

“You look perfect,” she countered.

“Thank you,” Stella said with the quiet, simple grace Scully could never seem to muster.

Scully braced herself. She had Stella’s attention, the intimacy of a couple’s last moment alone before a party. She battled the sickening rush of temptation as she considered what to do with it, whether to speak or keep Stella close, to stay here on the safe side of things a little bit longer.

“Come, darling.”

She took Stella’s arm and followed her out.

It had been a long time since Scully had observed Stella in a professional setting and she was mesmerized during the ceremony by her focus. Hands and limbs kept to herself throughout the ceremony, occasionally lifting her chin, a sort of reverse nod of approval at something a speaker said or did. Scully wondered if Stella’s mind was wandering, if she let herself think of the fact that she could have been one of these names, if she felt guilty or lucky or strange for having narrowly escaped a place among these unfortunate honorees.

At the end, everyone was directed to the back of the room where tea lights sprouted on pale blue cloths tossed over coin-sized tables. The room let out a collective sigh of relief, moving en masse toward the promise of small talk and wine. Cocktail waiters emerged from swinging doors like crumple-vested spiders, drawing invisible webs around arbitrary clusters of people. The mourners took part at once, moving easily between grief and relief. Everyone knew their ghosts would be holding their coats for them at the door. It was a party, like Stella said.

And for Stella, it was turning out to be a pretty good one. Her posture was already soft with victory. She’d appeared here in one piece, as herself, had reclaimed her reputation as reliable and invincible. Scully’s ankles wobbled in her shoes as she thought of the car ride home, the living room where they’d step out of their shoes and wiggle sore toes, of how she’d begin to spoil a perfect night. She wondered how many drinks Stella would have in her by the time Scully finally said what she needed to say. One or two and it wouldn’t make a difference, three-plus meant a sloppier tongue and quicker wrists, the sum-total effect of which was generally more auspicious at the end of a night together.

Stella took two glasses of white from one of the passing trays and handed one to her date.

“Chardonnay,” she grumbled with the pout of an adult equally well-versed in self-abuse and self-care. “I spoke to them about this last year.”

Scully laughed.

“People are grieving for Christ’s sake,” Stella went on.

Scully sucked her stomach in on a deep breath and Stella noticed, misread it as self-consciousness. Scully let her, sins of omission multiplying like the empty plastic cups on the tables. Stella leaned in, put her lips against Scully’s ear and Scully wondered if there would be marks on her skin like the water glass, little bands of metallic pink across the cartilage.

“Do you want to go? We can go,” Stella prompted. She fiddled with the knot of the bow on Scully’s wrap sweater and freshened it in a shorter amount of time than it had taken Scully to do in the first place.

“No, no. I just… think I should have worn my own clothes,” Scully said because she needed something true to complain about. “Or borrowed a uniform.”

“No one would have known the difference, two thirds of these people are idiots.”

“They seem nice.”

“That’s the third I’m willing to talk to. You could have had mine. Uniform, I mean. I hate wearing it,” Stella said, righting herself beside Scully.

“You do? Even after all that nipping and tucking?”

Stella’s face darkened as it often did when her memory retraced certain steps. Scully felt obtuse for needing time to understand the tailoring – it was an act of control, not vanity.

“It reminds me of school.”

This was always how getting to know Stella had been, like picking up items on a scavenger hunt: school names here, siblings there. There had been times she was tempted to sit Stella down and ask questions for three hours, take notes and turn on a journalist’s tape recorder to get it all down. It had never much bothered her much; she’d told herself she knew all she needed to know. How to read Stella’s temperature from across the room, hear the switch flip from silent-at-peace to silent-in-turmoil with music blaring and a bar full of people. That Stella likes to be touched, but only by people she trusts, that she likes innocent-faced men and women with purpose, that she brushes her teeth in the shower and leaves cabinet doors slightly ajar, that she likes to dance but only when she asks, that she washes her face wearing a red polka dotted headband sometimes. She knew she could call her for any reason, at any time, and not be judged or turned away, and that when Stella didn’t answer a question, it meant Scully would find it out eventually, out of nowhere, in some other empty space between two moments, when Stella was finally ready to share it, and then Scully might wish she’d never asked it at all. But she didn’t know how Stella was going to react to what she had to tell her tonight, and that made her feel like all that knowledge was for nought.

They were moving now, Stella in front and Scully in tow, sailing the crowd shoulder to shoulder, Stella billowing in and out of conversations with impressive ease. Her fingers trailed behind when she walked, or at her side when she stopped, left an infrared wake for Scully to follow. Scully felt freer than she was used to feeling as someone’s date. And feeling good while she deceived Stella was unsettling. Stella’s trust was a limited fund, one she was using up with every moment she held her tongue.

Stella had stopped now, but the crowd continued to move, and Scully had the sensation of standing still on a boat. She felt her temperature rise and pushed up the sleeves of the sweater. Her forearms turned pink from the friction. She couldn’t do it anymore.

“Stella, I have to-”

Stella turned, pinched a crepey pastry off on hors d’oeuvre tray and supported it with a cocktail napkin on its way to Scully’s mouth. Scully lowered her eyes but obediently nibbled, licked the flakes off her lips.

“Stella-”

But she needed time to swallow and in that time...

“Oh. You remember Ferrington?”

Of course. The girl who had “door-stepped” Stella with the soup. She’d had to twist Stella’s arm into a thank-you phone call, but Dani hadn’t picked up anyway and the voicemail got it. Dani had a date tonight, presumably a girlfriend and Scully wondered whether Dani had assumed the same about her - presumably girlfriend.

“Hello again,” Dani said with a gracious first nod to Scully. “Dana, right?”

“Hi there. How are you?” Scully said, trying not to sound angry. None of her worries was Dani’s fault. “I don’t know if Stella told you but I loved your soup.”

Dani beamed and the conversation split, Stella taking on small-talk with the girlfriend and Scully entertaining Dani.

“Still here in town?” Dani asked.

“Yes, still here,” Scully said and tucked her hair behind her ear.

A warm hand on her lower back, one of Stella’s fingers segregating two lines of cashmere ribbon around her waist, a gesture of concern, of care, of – Scully put her hands to her cheeks to cool them - possession.

“Warm in here, is it?” Dani said to Scully, head cocked in empathy. Her face must be the color of an apple. “So, how long before you go back?”

“May only be a few more days,” Scully said under her breath, wiping her brow. She didn’t think Stella would hear and she didn’t want to lie - had not actively lied yet about it.

But of course, the room went silent the minute she mumbled it and her voice seemed so loud it was as though someone had inadvertently passed a microphone under her lips. Stella dropped her hand from Scully’s back, turned with such eerie cool that for a second Scully wondered if Stella had known all along, had eavesdropped on the phone call last week. She searched Stella’s face for some emotion - forgiveness or fury, anything other than the punishing granite wall of indifference suddenly being erected inches from her nose, limiting her view of all else.

Scully glanced at Dani, swallowed, squeezed her lips together before she spoke.

“I - I got a call from my work and I can’t extend the leave any longer so--”

“Always… hard to see a... friend go after a long visit,” Dani said, turning to Stella, unsure what exactly was going on but perceptive enough to know she should take Stella’s side.

“Mm. Excuse me, this wine is abominable,” Stella said. “I’m going to talk them into coughing up some liquor. Anyone?”

And Scully had no choice but to let her go.

Scully found Stella ten minutes later in a screen-porch-faded bathroom with chipping yellow paint. Familiar in the manner of a fever dream, more unwanted and disorienting for each recognizable reference point - a pallid iteration of the psych ward restroom in which Stella’s consolation had begun their friendship. Stella leaned on the sink with fighters’ fists, blister red with white spots at the bones, staring with chilling remove into the ceramic basin. Scully’s instinctive relief at not finding Stella in hysterics quickly transformed into the panic of finding this instead. She glanced uneasily at the walls, as though to make sure they wouldn’t close in on her.

“Stella -”

How many times had she said her name like that tonight, trying to get to more? So many it was starting to seem detached from Stella the person. A word became meaningless and foreign if you said it enough.

Stella held a hand up and caught her eye in the mirror a moment and then a toilet flushed. A waitress emerged from one of the stalls and embarrassed, fumbled through the hand-washing process. Stella’s stare was unforgiving and lasted the duration, and Scully waited, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying to absorb the awkwardness with micro movements.

“Lock the door,” Stella said when they were finally alone.

“What if someone has to --”

“I said lock it.”

“I’m sorry,” Scully said as she flipped the bolt. It was heavy and hard to push, left a line in the middle of the pad of her finger. The irritation she was beginning to feel in reaction to Stella’s behavior was something of a relief. Anything to avoid the self-reproach she’d been bearing up under all day. “It’s not like I want to leave you. But I have to unless I’m going to, I don’t know, move here.”

Stella’s glare set into her like a machete, cleaved her right between the eyes.

“You think I care if you go? I care that you just made me look like an idiot.”

“You don’t care if I go?”

“Don’t be a cliché.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t want to stay but you don’t want me to let you go either.”

“I just… I didn’t know where this was going… and my life…”

“It’s not going anywhere,” Stella snapped.

Scully licked her lower lip and swallowed, trying not to cry.

“Well, that’s what I assumed.”

“I sound angry but I don’t mean to. I don’t like surprises.”

Observing Stella’s process of calming herself was one of the more disconcerting experiences Scully could summon to mind, on par with the mid-ride plateau of a rollercoaster, helpless between two loops, listening to the engine click and collect the momentum it needed to throw you off the next drop.

“I don’t want anything to go anywhere,” Stella said, gaze softening but not warming, falling like sleet into the sink. Scully followed it, gripped the drain with her eyes before it could swallow her.

“You haven’t been happy having me here?”

“That’s the present. You’re talking about the future.”

“You know, this is a version of the same conversation we had fifteen years ago after the first night we spent alone together,” Scully said.

“Maybe we’re fools for needing to have it again.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have had it in the first place.”

Stella scoffed.

“Come on, Dana. What? And just been together?” She looked at Scully. “You wouldn’t have had any of your life with Mulder, your child.”

“I lost them anyway.”

One of Stella’s eyes flinched and she licked her bottom lip, swallowed whatever bit of gloss she’d picked up there. She turned back to the sink.

“Well, I guess I make for a decent consolation prize.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Scully said, “and you know it.” She hated the way her voice sounded, wounded and will-less.

“You speak to Mulder recently?” Stella asked and ran her tongue in front of her teeth.

“Yes. Why?”

Stella tossed off a look that landed like a punch in the chest.

“Don’t you dare,” Stella said and her voice rattled like a stick.

“Dare what?” Scully finally asked. But Stella didn’t answer because she knew Scully knew. Don’t you dare pretend he’s beside the point.

Cold air suddenly puffed from the vent overhead. Scully crossed her arms and shivered with the recognition that she was taking part in an overreaction. She had made many fights in her life worse this way, by trying to manufacture the end before it had lived its natural course, diminishing a drama before it had played out its denouement.

“Listen. I don’t know what you want from me,” she said. “What was my alternative here?”

“Bring it up sooner.”

“And then what? You would’ve said stay, quit your job, move to England, and we’ll go to a party next week? You’ve had this thing on your mind for days. It would’ve ruined it.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

Scully took a step closer and Stella stepped back.

“Let’s talk about this later when we’re calm,” Scully said, reaching for her. Stella swatted her arms back out of reach.

“Let me be,” she said.

Scully looked at her feet as Stella edged past her, avoiding her like the pit of a natural disaster. The thought of staying in this bathroom one second longer than necessary was unbearable. The thought of not following Stella out made her feel lost and scared and alone in a foreign country in a way she had not felt switching trains on complicated tube lines, not felt getting lost on runs around ungridded alleyways of gory murderers.

She spent the hour rationalizing and emerged hungry and thirsty and calm, her tailbone sore from the plastic toilet bowl cover seat. This would blow over quickly. She and Stella had been through too much. There were advantages to spending most of your life arguing every day with someone you loved. You knew what to do with an hour alone in the bathroom. (Not that Mulder had ever given her an hour alone in her life.)

The lights had gone darker, the crowd had grown louder and there was music she didn’t recall noticing before. She searched the room for Stella’s golden head, eager to make things right. The bar came into view as the crowd parted and Scully stopped short, felt a few bodies stiffen and pile behind her. A couple drops of something cold splashed her calves. People doled apologies or sought them but she didn’t care.

There was Stella on a high stool with an arched back and a strategically crossed leg, talking to, or rather, listening to, or rather, pretending to listen to a male officer in his thirties. Bored and sloping as the moon, leaning on one elbow over the bar, forearm waving its half empty glass of Scotch like a loose clock hand. The shoe on her crossed foot clucked on and off her heel and she was absent behind the eyes, already living in an event to come within hours, the furthest future she was capable of embracing.

Scully threw a sharp glance down at the floor, then moved forward, thinking of the courage of crime scenes past. She tried to imagine the comfort of a flashlight in hand, a gun in its holster, a walkie promising backup.

Stella looked at her as though she were one of the cocktail waitresses carrying substandard table wine and she might as well have murdered her.

“Hi there,” the idiot man said, chipper, swingy, a lucky guy having a lucky night, and Scully allowed herself to hate him deeply and irrationally as she waited for Stella to introduce her. Nothing.

“I’m going to head back to the flat,” Scully said at last.

“I’ll be there eventually. Few more things I want to do here.”

He beamed with pride, the man did, in the periphery of Scully’s view; he was that thing she meant to do! But Stella ignored him for the time being, fixed Scully with a hunter’s stare, eyes empty as the viewfinder of a rifle, Scully filling in the space between the crosshairs, fur up on the back of her neck under a string of pearls. She felt Stella’s focus sharpen, watched her trigger finger wiggle around her glass. And Scully turned while she could still get out alive, bolted through the human foliage of widows and revelers toward the exit.

There was comfort in the predictability of it: Stella going home with some random man to escape reality. Scully managed mostly to put the details of it out of her mind and wondered instead what her role here was, what Stella would be expecting of her. This, she thought, was as apt a description of love as any – wanting to give another person exactly what they expected of you, even when they weren’t looking, even when you were furious with them.

She’d left her shoes in two different spots on the staircase, clothes in three distinct heaps. She’d hidden her phone from herself, hoped she’d had enough to drink on an empty stomach to fall for it, then cried and taken a shower and sipped wine from an open bottle. Not knowing what else to do, she’d resorted to tackling the contents of two junk drawers and a spice rack on the kitchen floor. She’d done this with Mulder sometimes too, reorganized his (overbearing, overwhelming) spaces in their home and office. It made her feel closer to him then, and to Stella now, trying to safe-crack her logic from the inside out, determine why one thing was on the same shelf as the next, or why condoms were in the kitchen at all (though not wonder too hard). It took a great deal of energy she would have otherwise used on self-pity to frame things the way Stella would, distinguish complex system from misplaced item; everything with Stella fell into one or the other of those categories.

It wasn’t until she heard the thick poplin-gabardine swish of uniform sleeves in the foyer that she realized that Stella might view the innards of cabinets splayed across the hard grey floor as a provocation. But it was too late to undo what she’d already undone, so she kept her eyes on the bottle of cardamom, weeded out a yellow potato chip clip, thought of Stella wiping her hands on a pair of overpriced sweatpants while closing a bag of kettle chips she’d stash in a corner behind the red wine.

She slumped a little deeper, expecting any minute to hear strident stilettos making their way to the fridge, to feel Stella’s triumphant glare on the back of her head. She braced herself for the smells, the sights, the evidence of spite-sex. It was Stella’s right to go home with whomever she wanted, with or without the impetus of a fight. Scully had never asked her for any sort of exclusivity. She was good at not asking people for what they couldn’t give, but bad at accepting the fact that they didn’t offer it up.

But there was something other than gloating triumph going on. Stella stood still under the arc that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. A truce had arrived, or at least, it was within Scully’s power to provide one. Scully picked up a plastic container of rainbow nonpareils and shook them weakly.

“What are these for?”

“Ice cream. Fairy bread.”

A smile ached across Scully’s teeth.

“Fairy bread? How am I supposed to keep arguing with you when you say stuff like that?”

“I’m sorry. It was rude to send you off that way,” Stella said. What she didn’t say was for fucking somebody else.

Scully put one hand on the floor and pressed herself up to stand. The eye makeup hadn’t budged, of course, and the lips were red from rubbing rather than taupe from painting, but the cheeks were splotchy, and the bottom rims of her eyes sagged until the red part showed, as though they’d been stretched beyond repair. She wondered where Stella could have cried. Surely not in the presence of that strange man. In his bathroom? The cab ride home? On some street corner between here and there, hiding in a shadow with her palms pressed into a row of brick? Her heart sizzled like an antacid dropped into a glass - sadness competing with jealousy and anger. Mulder had never tried or tested her in this particular way. The first time they’d had sex, or maybe sooner, she got his undying faithfulness in return. She’d only ever lost him to ideas, thoughts, to himself, never to another person.

The uniform skirt was wrinkled at the hips and the blouse sagged so that it was almost unrecognizable from this afternoon. Scully felt a twinge of sadness remembering how the day had started; stiff fabric and affectionate glances, innuendo in a foyer mirror.

“I didn’t expect you to be sorry,” Scully said.

“That’s two of us then.”

Scully rolled a row of unsharpened pencils that were waiting to be organized on the counter. They seemed so clean and useful absent the frustrated chewing marks she was accustomed to finding in her and Mulder’s office. Stella found other things to sink her teeth into.

“It’s your prerogative,” Scully said.

“I know that. But you’re standing there looking at me like that and it makes me want to die.”

Something in the phrase or in Stella’s voice resembled a distant generic concept of couplehood. This was how most people behaved. They belonged somewhere at a certain time of night, they were sorry when they weren’t in that place, other people who expected them in that place got jealous, everyone felt guilty. That was what a relationship was… wasn’t it? How could she have gotten to this point in her life and not known?

“Maybe we could go to therapy,” she said and almost laughed at herself. Somewhere she’d heard people talk like this. “You know, figure it out.”

Stella looked at her with something like gentle reproach. Or sympathy. Or pity. Or apology. Whatever it was, it was not cruelty.

“But you’ve come so far,” Scully said, turning her face away, giving in, letting it fold like a pile of shirts on her shoulder.

“Please don’t ask me to come any further.”

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

#wtid #myfic #stella and scully #stella and mulder #MSR fic

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hoodedscarlet · 6 years

Text

Title: A Picture In Blue Fandom: Overwatch Ship: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada Warnings: PWP, Rough Sex, Face-Fucking, Grinding, Dirty Talk, Power Exchange, Dom/sub, Suits, Light Pet Play Themes WC: 4835 Read on AO3 here

-x-

The mission was nothing to write home about on the surface; some casino in Monaco with corrupt Talon agents and blood money on their hands. Jesse knew that they'd have to dress the part to even get in the door; nice clothes, good hair, the regular works to blend in among the rich.

But he hadn't expected this - Hanzo walking out dressed up like he owned the place, hair slicked back and suit immaculately fitted. He looked good enough for McCree to sink to his knees in awe - and with him down there, looking at Hanzo with doe eyes, both of them had some ideas for how they should spend the time before the mission...

-x-

He’s dressed to the nines, sleeves rolled and collar starched - a dream of a white collar businessman even with his bow within reach, despite Jesse knowing so well the strength of he man beneath the suit. He reeked of ostentation, of the refined nature only acquired through the filth of money. No off the rack vest fitted a man like this one did, no machine embroidery could match the level of detail of that on his sleeve. But even in their finery, the clothes didn’t wear Hanzo - no, he sat as if he were royalty, lax in an outfit that would dwarf lesser men.

Their surroundings certainly called for it; even though this was just a hotel, lodgings before the mission itself commenced, it seemed Winston had deemed it necessary for them to stay in a place as fancy as the casino they were eventually going to. At least, it was the only explanation that Jesse could come to as to why there was whiskey on the house and finery everywhere he looked. Despite his own fondness of the liquor it was Hanzo who was taking advantage of it right now, whiskey stones clinking as he took a sip of the honey coloured liquid. It was fitting, considering how he was dressed - the way he was acting blurred the lines between a persona for the job and something other . Something more primal, a someone who he had gotten to know quite well over the past few months.

It was one of many reasons that Hanzo had Jesse captivated in this moment, why that even in the comfort of their own hotel room, with seats all around them, he sat between Hanzo’s legs like an eager lap dog. Not that he was immune to Hanzo’s beauty on any other day - Hanzo could certainly attest to the plethora of sweet names he would call him at any hour - but a man in a well fitted suit? Jesse was human, damn it, and Hanzo looked good enough to eat.

“I didn’t think you would enjoy my outfit this much, Jesse,” Hanzo said, amusement tinging his voice as he looked down at the other man “if I’d known I may have worn this before now”. Jesse made a noise in his throat somewhere between a whine and a groan in reply, throwing his head back over dramatically. “Sugar, if you dressed like this again I don’t think my poor heart could take it.” “It may be a risk I have to take, considering your reaction” Hanzo replied with a laugh, hand returning to carding through the loose locks of Jesse’s hair. Certainly not an action Jesse was complaining about - the smooth moment was lulling in the most wonderful sense, making the world seem hazy around the edges. Here at Hanzo’s feet he could catch the musk of Hanzo’s cologne with every other breath, was aware of the strength of the thigh beneath his cheek. It took more energy than he expected to snap himself back to awareness and meet Hanzo’s eyes. “How much time we got, Han?” “About an hour until we meet at the casino - surely you’re not…” Hanzo’s voice trailed off as Jesse pulled back onto his haunches, smirking as he did. “Of course I am. Did you really expect to dress up like that,” Jesse said as he pushed Hanzo’s left leg open, “pet me like a puppy” as he pushed the right leg open “and then walk out of here like you haven’t just driven me crazy? Sweetheart, I don’t think you know me all that well if you don’t know how much I want to suck your dick right now.” He could hear the hiss of breath escape between Hanzo’s teeth but Jesse did nothing except keep level eye contact with Hanzo, waiting for the man’s verdict as he weighed up the situation. For a man usually as stoic as Hanzo it was fascinating to watch too, another glimpse of the man beneath the mask - eyes narrowing, the hand not fiddling with Jesse’s hair tapping rhythmically on his other thigh.

“Lemme suck your dick, Hanzo. I'll be real good for you, promise.” Jesse said again, voice softer, his hand edging up Hanzo’s thigh. He expected it when Hanzo cut him off at the pass, slim digits wrapping around his own and paralyzing him. He didn't expect though for Hanzo to lean down, brush his lips over the knuckles in an action so tender it made Jesse’s breath stutter in his chest. “I cannot get these pants dirty, Jesse,” He said slowly, level in a way that was overly cautious and told him that he’d already won the man over. To keep up appearances though he flashed Hanzo a fox’s grin, leaning on his thigh with a hand under his chin as he took his hand back. “Has swallowing ever been a problem for me?” “Well, yes, there was that time at Illios-” “You weren’t wearing a suit then-” “And you weren’t being a brat then, so be quiet,” Hanzo snapped back, an authoritative tone in his voice that made Jesse’s mouth clamp up as quickly as his cock jumped in his pants. Already like two puzzle pieces he could feel their roles sliding into place, his own submission pulling him down, down into that floating place. And Hanzo…Jesse being down on his knees only emphasized the sharp edges of his jaw, the eyes that could cut right through him. Like fine clothing, Hanzo wore power gloriously and Jesse couldn't help but surrender to the lure.

“You can also take time to come down from a scene like this” Hanzo spoke again, pulling Jesse out of his own thoughts “and while I know you're able to come to quickly if needed, I do not want you going into sub drop later and not telling me. Can I trust you to communicate your needs properly after this?” “Of course,” Jesse replied, “I don't think this mission will be anything too far outside the usual wheel house. I can manage.”

“You want to, or you’re able to? I don't want you getting hurt.” Jesse just leveled him with a look of his own.

“I'm a grown man, Hanzo. If I'm not feeling peachy, you'll be the first one to know.”

“Good then,” Hanzo said, the concern being tucked away once more. His fingers, still idly stroking through Jesse’s hair, came down to his chin instead. He felt his face pulled upwards until he could feel the slight strain, unable to look anywhere but Hanzo.

“Colour?”

“Green.”

“Shirt off then,” Hanzo said, a devilish smile playing at his lips. “And make a show of it for me, pet”.

“Yes, sir,” Jesse said in reply, eyes lidded as his fingers made his way to the collar of his shirt. Flick as the first button came undone, flick as the second did as well - he let his chest arch into the motion as his fingers spidered down, each new button undone revealing another few inches of tanned chest.

“Slower,” Hanzo purred, eyes following his every movement. It made an exhibitionist thrill surge through Jesse, made him rake open the shirt to show more skin again. Already he could feel his fingers push against old bruises against his collarbone - bruises that by the pleased grin Hanzo was wearing they both knew the source of. Jesse could still feel the bite of Hanzo’s lips against his skin if he thought about it too much - thoughts that he tried to will away as fast as possible. Already his pants were starting to feel tight and they hadn’t even gotten to the good part. He gave Hanzo a small smile as he flicked open the last button, shrugged his shoulders back to let his plaid shirt fall back over his arms. Jesse’s toned chest was exposed in its entirety now, rope-like muscles that continued down his arms and abs that weren’t softened by age just yet. He knew he looked good, had many a pretty girl tell him so at a bar, but it paled in comparison to the wolf hungry gaze of Hanzo looking down on him. Now? He didn’t feel like the top dog - he felt small, dazed in a way that made his body throb with need. He watched as Hanzo picked up his whiskey glass again and followed the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Good, pet.” Hanzo said. Jesse shivered.

Hands in his lap, Jesse let his body still as the glass was placed back on its coaster, Hanzo making a noise as he let his legs spread again. Though the invitation was there Jesse didn’t move; he knew better than to now. This thing, this dynamic between them was a game they’d played and perfected for months and the first rule was that Jesse did not lead, only followed. “Take my cock out,” Hanzo said, tone deceptively flat but the words direct - Jesse wasted no time in making his way between Hanzo’s legs properly, pushing them apart just a little bit more to make room for his shoulders. If Hanzo minded he didn’t say, just watched as Jesse’s nimble fingers made their way to his waistband. Usually he’d tease the skin above, skim the skin as a taster for things to come - but this time his calloused fingertips just met the crisp cotton of his shirt and he was quick to pull back. After all, Hanzo was put together just so, an oil painting layered over to achieve perfection - and if he was going to ruffle Hanzo’s perfect image, he was going to do it with his tongue, not fingers already bumbling with sex drunkenness.

Feeling daring he leaned into Hanzo’s crotch, finding the zipper of his trousers with his tongue and relishing the sharp intake of breath from above him. Good. Though submission burned bright and heavy in his gut, it didn’t twist away his mischievous nature. Riding the high he bit the zipper pull between his teeth, dragging it down. Slowly, slowly, feeling each of the teeth give way and part to expose the cotton underneath. Royal blue, just like the rest of what Hanzo wore - he should have guess his outfit was coordinated down to the last thread.

He shuffled Hanzo’s trousers down just a little more - not enough to crumple the pressed fabric just yet, but more than enough to expose a thick strip of Hanzo’s upper thigh. Most tantalising of all though was the heavy line of his cock, straining against Hanzo’s underwear and making Jesse’s mouth water in a near Pavlovian response. He couldn’t help it - he leaned forward, kissing the head through the fabric. Down here the scent of Hanzo was intensified - the smell of water and soap was strong and there was still the breath of cologne that was blink-and-you-miss-it. But beneath that was the scent of him , of salt and musk that was certainly helped along by his arousal. He pressed another wet kiss just below the first, watching as he soaked the fabric through and made it cling- -Only for strong fingers to wind into his hair and pull . A high pitched moan was ripped out of his throat as he was wrenched back, taking a moment to focus back on Hanzo’s face as he panted in place. “What did I tell you to do?” “Take out your cock,” Jesse replied, taken aback momentarily by the breathlessness of his voice. It was hard to focus on that though, not when Hanzo’s lips were a straight line and he could feel disapproval rolling off him in waves. “And what did you do?” “Not that.” Jesse said, hanging his head. Or at least, trying to - the hand still fisted in his hair stopped him from moving anywhere, only made the pull more intense and drawing another whimper from him. “Do what you’re told, pet. You do not want to be punished tonight,” Hanzo said, letting go of Jesse’s hair once more. “Now try again. Properly, this time.” This time his words were not met with a charming quip or even a ‘yes sir’; Jesse’s attention was wholly turned to the sight in front of him. He was quick to pull Hanzo’s cock out from beneath the fabric, pushing his underwear down further so it didn’t cut into the shaft. He could feel how heavy it was in his hand, the tip red and wet with more than spit and he wasted no time licking a long line up the underside of it. He felt it twitch in his grasp as he did so and it made satisfaction curl in his stomach.

“That’s it, nice and slow,” Hanzo said, fingers winding back into his hair. This time it wasn’t a directive pull though - no, this was grounding, encouraging, fingers digging into his scalp in the way Hanzo knew he liked. “Not in your mouth just yet though. I want to enjoy this just as much as you. Though, I suppose that’s hard - you enjoy having a cock in your mouth more than anybody else I’ve met, don’t you?” Jesse just hummed a note of approval at the base of Hanzo’s dick, tongue running along a prominent vein back up again. “That’s what I thought,” Hanzo purred, eyes lidded even as a flush was beginning to rise to his cheeks; the first sign of him succumbing to Jesse’s ministrations. He savored the thought triumphantly. “You didn’t even try to hide how much you wanted it tonight, pet - I think I saw your knees hit the ground as soon as I came into the room. Are you that desperate to get your lips around my cock? To serve and please a well dressed man?” Jesse just whined, looking up at Hanzo with pleading eyes. Drool slickened the corners of his mouth, lips already swollen despite not even being taken down the length yet - he looked a sight but none of it mattered, not when Hanzo was looking at him like this.

He was quickly pulled off Hanzo’s dick and he would have complained if two fingers hadn’t replaced it immediately, slid onto his spit slickened bottom lip. He didn’t even think before delivering the same treatment to them too, chasing the taste of whiskey on the pads of Hanzo’s fingers. Above him Hanzo made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It doesn’t even need to be a dick for you to utterly debase yourself either,” Hanzo said. Jesse could feel the fingers curl slightly in his mouth and he tried his best to pay them proper attention all the same. He didn’t even know when he started bobbing his head, a slight back and forward as he panted around the digits on his tongue. “A delightful little whore for me, ready to serve however I want you. I wish I’d brought the collar, pet - you would have looked such a pretty picture for me. Panting so on your knees, with your dick so wonderfully hard.” He punctured the words with a press on Jesse’s crotch with his foot, an action that took Jesse so by surprise he couldn’t force back a wide mouthed groan. He tried to pull back from Hanzo’s fingers as his whole body pulsed with arousal, with need, but he was stopped by Hanzo’s other hand, forced to keep the tips of Hanzo’s fingers in his mouth as he shook with pleasure. “But I don’t even need to touch you for you to be ready and aching for me, and you don’t need a collar to know exactly who you belong to, do you?” “No sir,” Jesse said after a moment, once he remembered how to speak again. The words were lisped around the fingers still in his mouth, pulled back once he spoke. “Good,” Hanzo replied. He took a moment to pull a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, wiping his fingers off on the neat square of cotton. It was a careful, measured action - enough that he could see that the square when put back was not folded as neatly as it was when withdrawn. “Now, it’s time that we see your mouth put to better use. Hand on my thigh, pet.” Jesse felt the hand tangled in his hair pull him over and he didn’t resist, relaxed into the motion as Hanzo’s cock brushed against his lips. At the same time he let his right hand come up to rest, tapping against the muscle of Hanzo’s thigh as he looked over to him for confirmation. Hanzo had been adamant that they had nonverbal safe words for situations like this - so far it hadn’t lead them astray.

“Good, pet,” Hanzo said. This time when Jesse let his lips brush over the tip of Hanzo’s cock he didn’t fall back, just let his lips blunt his teeth as he took it into his mouth. Already he could taste the salt bitter on his tongue but it wasn’t a concern for long, not when Hanzo was pulling him down further, filling his mouth entirely. Jesse wasn’t doing the work anymore; no, Hanzo was just moving him now, using his mouth, using him in a way that made his head spin. He gasped for breaths of air between each rock as Hanzo moved his head more and more drastically. Jesse let his throat lax as he felt Hanzo’s dick reach the back of his mouth, hips instinctively jack-rabbiting deeper as more slick tightness opened to him. The moan from above made Jesse squirm, all too aware of his own hardness painful and trapped against his thigh. “Perfect for me,” Hanzo gasped out, breath a ragged staccato as he fucked into Jesse’s throat, “such a good toy, you know just what to do. Opening up so well for me, couldn’t ask for anything better. Fuck- ” he seemed to cut himself off at that, words tripping on his tongue. His thrusts were losing their rhythm now, the grip in Jesse’s hair nigh on painful. If anything else was happening Jesse couldn’t tell - his whole world had shrunk down to be pliant, be submissive, be good . Making sure his tongue stayed lax and his throat stayed open even as tears welled in his eyes and spit dribbled down his chin. He was a mess but he didn’t care - he’d come apart for Hanzo a thousand times because he knew the man would put him back together again.

Hanzo barely had the time to bite out a warning and let Jesse gasp for a final breath before he came. Jesse was pulled down to the root, lips flush to the base of Hanzo’s cock as he felt each pulse again his palate, swallowed against the sudden rush of come. Hanzo had pulled him so far down he couldn’t even taste it it as he swallowed and that thought in itself was erotic in a way that made him want to squirm. But he didn’t - mainly because he didn’t want to choke but also he was still burning for praise, praise as he got in breathless words from the man above him as the hand in his hair loosened.

A tap on the thigh had Hanzo finally drawing him off and Jesse gasped for breath as his throat was finally cleared. He tasted the last bit of come still clinging to the crown of Hanzo’s dick and usually he’d swipe it off himself with two fingers, suck them into his mouth with a wink and a devilish grin. But now, now his mind was reeling from lack of breath, from the ache in his jaw and the burning need in his gut. He was a ball of desire and need and he looked to Hanzo to plead his case for release.

For the first time since Hanzo had started fucking him Jesse could see the damage he’d done to the man’s impeccable appearance; Hanzo neatly styled hair had fallen out of place, locks falling around his eyes. Jesse wasn’t sure when Hanzo had undone the top button of his shirt but he had, pulled open his tie so it hung loose. It exposed the column of his neck, skin that was still red with sex flush and as Jesse wiped his mouth he was hit with the sudden need to get his mouth on the unmarked space. A foolish thought, to think that his oral fixation would be subdued by a face fucking and a sore jaw; or perhaps this was just his hunger for Hanzo with another name.

Fact of the matter though was that Hanzo looked well fucked, if putting himself back together now with commendable speed. He looked at Jesse with a pleased expression that made his toes curl. “You’ve done so well for me, pet. Are you ready to come?” “Yes, please, yes,” Jesse said, words almost coming out in an incomprehensible mess in his eagerness. Though he wore slacks he hurt from how hard he was, how much he ached for contact, any sort of friction or touch. His hips jerked minutely just at the words and for a moment he became truly aware of just how much of a sight he must look in this moment. Pupils blown, hair sticking up at all manner of angles as he knelt shirtless on the ground, unable to close his mouth as he looked up with a dazed look at his lover. It was a look that was incomparable to the usual cocky gunslinger found on base or at the local bar - but then again, Hanzo was an exception in so many things.

“Hmm, but do you deserve to come?” Hanzo said with a smile that was so quickly turning more devilish, eyes sparkling with a mirth that made fear seized in his chest. No, no he couldn’t - he’d been so good. He hadn’t touched just like Hanzo had always told him to, trained him to for so long. It’d be cruel to leave him like this, hard and aching, oh, he’d been so good! He didnt realise he’d said every word until Hanzo smiled even wider above him, as he recognised the sound of his own voice scratched over and raspy from abuse. It was enough even in his own well fucked out state to bring an embarrassed flush to his cheeks, to look away as he felt it travel down his chest. But the laugh he heard from Hanzo in response wasn’t unkind, only endeared. “You’ve made your case well. You may come-” Jesse’s hands immediately scrambled to his waistband, fingers so clumsy he couldn’t even find the top of his zipper on the first pass and- “- wait.” Jesse made a sound of confusion as his hands dropped away from the opening of his pants, flew back as if they had been burned. How the hell was he supposed to come if he couldn’t get his fucking dick out? Clearly his frustration was amusing to the other man because Hanzo made no effort at explaining right away. All he did was pull his arms up and behind him, stretching out as he shuffled back in his seat on the couch and tucked himself back into his pants. So slow, the expression on his face as pleased as a cat who’d gotten the cream - it was like he wasn’t even aware of how much of a hair’s edge Jesse was on, how much he needed to come. Hanzo even rearranged how his legs sat on the ground too, one even coming to rest right in front of him- Oh no. “Did I say you could use your hands?” Hanzo said, with a too-pleased smirk in his tone that made Jesse want to scream . “You know how good pets come, my love - and since I’m so kind, I’ll even let you use me to get off.” The words shouldn’t have sent such a strong bolt of arousal down his spine - but it did , and he nearly fell over himself in his rush to clambour onto Hanzo’s leg. It would be humiliating if it didn’t turn Jesse on so much, if Hanzo didn’t know that as well. And sure, he expected it to come up in their play sometime - but not like this, not when he was half dressed and desperate and Hanzo sat above him like a king. He made a noise as his cock brushed against Hanzo’s calf, as the friction against his over sensitive dick made his gasp and jerk. Even still trapped underneath layers of fabric the muscle beneath him was strong and firm and fuck , he couldn’t help the way his hips stuttered at the contact. He ground down against it, making whimpering sounds as his hands scrambled for purchase around him. “That’s it, earn your pleasure,” Hanzo said, leaning back into the couch as he watched Jesse falling apart beneath him, struggling even to keep a rhythm to the desperate grinding of him hips. “We both know you don’t even need my touch because that’s how badly you need this. You’ll even settle for rutting against my leg like an animal, coming in your pants like some sort of desperate teenager. And you’ll love it, too, won’t you? This gets you off and you cannot deny it. How filthy .” Jesse just moaned, unable to control the sounds coming out of his mouth anymore as he desperately chased after his release. He was barely in control of his own hips anymore - why would he try to when he was so close now, friction so good, pressure so strong. Fuck, he wasn’t going to last- “Come for me, pet.” Those were the only words he needed, in the end - with a shout he couldn’t have muffled if he tried he felt himself let go, hips jerking as he felt everything finally unwind and him come so hard he saw white. He couldn’t think of anything except the pleasure burning through his veins, that pulled his body taunt. So good, so good - he was pretty sure he had dug his fingers too hard into Hanzo’s thigh in the process, could feel come soak into his underwear in a way he knew would be unpleasant soon. But all of that took a back seat in the moment over the shear relief of release. He floated even as he finished coming, as he slumped to the ground utterly spent, and through it all he could feel fingers slowly stroking through his hair, words cooed to him even though he barely had the sense of mind to comprehend them. “Good pet, good boy,” Hanzo said, words soft as his dominant persona finally slid off. “You did so well, love. So well.” They stayed like that for a moment - somewhere in the haze of afterglow Hanzo pulled him up on the couch beside him. Jesse welcomed the action entirely - after all, it let himself slump more easily against Hanzo’s form, take a moment to steady his breathing in the crook of his lover’s neck. Distantly, he knew that they would have to get up sooner rather than later, but for now he was content to come back to himself like this. “Feeling better now?” Hanzo asked after a few more minutes of comfortable silence. Jesse just made a noise of discomfort, finally summoning the energy to roll off Hanzo and back onto the couch. “Listen, that was hot as shit Han’,” Jesse said, laughing as he buried his face into his hand “but jesus , my pants are uncomfortable like you wouldn’t believe.” “You did ask for it.” Hanzo said in return, leaning over and moving some hair out of Jesse’s face. Jesse huffed as he did, but leaned into the doting touch - when Hanzo’s thumb brushed across his lip he pressed a kiss to it and the way Hanzo’s face lit up made it more than worth it.

“I wasn’t complainin’ about that part and you know it.” “But it’s far more amusing to work you up. You look so cute when you’re stroppy” Hanzo replied, mirth sparking in his eyes. Jesse took one look at Hanzo like that, brushing a hand through his now messy hair and just groaned, getting to his feet. “Well, if Mr. Just Wants To Work Me Up wants to know where I am, it’s gonna be having a shower and getting ready so we’re not late. Again .”

“Please. I love you dearly, but nobody wants you walking up smelling of sex,” Hanzo straightened his tie and buttoned up his shirt once more, walking past Jesse into the bathroom “and we do not have the time for me to fix myself up again if you start getting handsy.” “Is that a challenge, sugar?” “Jesse, if you- did you just slap my ass? ”

The two of them ended up appearing ten minutes late to the casino for the mission. For some inexplicable reason, maybe or maybe not helped along by their intertwined hands and Jesse’s shit eating grin, they weren’t asked what caused their delay. -x- My Ko-Fi!

#mchanzo #mccree #hanzo #overwatch fanfic #ow fanfic #scion hanzo #pwp #hi welcome back me to the fandom #i dont even know if posting fic on tumblr is really a thing anymore #but id like to have a good platform to advertise commissions #and i dont think you can mention ko-fi or anything on AO3 #so tumblr it is!

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barisifictionarchive · 7 years

Text

Bella Carisi

Gif credit: @whatbarisiwore

Ad Vitam Aeternam by thesorceressfromthelake

(1282 | Not Rated | Complete)

Sonny Carisi has been waiting for his soulmate since birth. He has learned everything he could possibly know about soulmates all in anticipation of meeting them. Him, if he's being really honest with himself.

Sonny Carisi meets his soulmate when he least expects him.

Or, Carisi is forced to reevaluate everything he knows about love when a case in his first year at SVU hits a little too close to home.

Belong by linzclair219

(64356 | Mature | Complete)

Recovery is a long road, but it's easier walked with someone who understands. Rafael is not quite the person he was, and neither is Sonny. But they still have each other, they still love each other, and it's obvious that, on their own, they would have crumbled by now.

Set four months after the events in Company, during June 2017.

Busted by Kaye_21

(43343 | Not Rated | Complete)

Everyone (seriously, everyone) finds out about Sonny and Rafael, in 6 parts.

Reactions vary.

In which Fin is groovy, Sonny and Amanda are bros, Rafael and Liv are besties, the Carisis are hilarious, Lucia Barba is scary, Tucker is nice and Amaro gives dating advice.

Catching the Bouquet by Kaye_21

(27516 | Not Rated | Complete)

Sonny gets shot. Rafael doesn't take it well.

Lucia Barba meets the Carisis. Rafael thinks that's even worse.

Worst of all, Rafael considers marriage.

Celebration by notmyyacht

(605 | General | Complete)

Bella calls him out of the blue.

Clothes Make the Man by greygerbil

(2120 | Teen | Complete)

Rafael always has something to say about the things Sonny chooses to wear.

Company by linzclair219

(49908 | Mature | Complete)

Barba's death threats never really went away, but it's different when someone actually tries to follow through on them. What happens next feels like the entire world unraveling for a couple who are always in control.

Count Your Blessings by Robin Hood (kjack89)

(5067 | Teen | Complete)

Five times Rafael asked a Carisi for their blessing to ask Sonny to marry him, and one time Sonny asked a Barba.

Dinner by MJ (mjr91)

(1326 | General | Complete)

Bella invites Barba to dinner. Unofficial sequel to notmyyacht's I Won't Run, I Won't Fly series.

An Extraordinary Family by tobeconspicuous

(2178 | Teen | Complete)

Dominick and Tessa Carisi loved all four of their children equally. They just weren't aware of how special their four children would be.

Family Gathering by Amsare

(1167 | General | Complete)

Relatives. Too many people for his taste – it was not a secret he was not a social person, as it was real that Sonny was his complete opposite. Relatives everywhere.

A Hundred Lifetimes by Barisilub

(1721 | General | WIP)

Time is running out for Dominick "Sonny" Carisi, a man whose lived through many lifetimes...

I see my future in your eyes by Lifeisruined

(5078 | Teen | Complete)

It’s late, there aren’t that many people around, and Sonny’s fingers curl around the ring. Okay. He can do this. He can stop right here, after a perfect night, and pull out the ring and ask Barba to marry him.

Sonny stops suddenly, spinning to face Barba, who looks startled. “You know I love you, right?”

Kinstones by Skysquid22

(2310 | Teen | Complete)

Soulmate AU where people have marks on their body that is half of a puzzle piece. The puzzle is complete once you and your soulmate touch.

Let's Hope This Goes Swimmingly by notmyyacht

(2229 | Teen | Complete)

Sonny's family is having a family reunion and they want to meet the new boyfriend.

Not Until I Felt Your Sunshine by Robin Hood (kjack89)

(2400 | Teen | Complete)

Barba needs to find something to call Carisi besides, well, Carisi. Or detective. Or, heaven forbid, as he has done exactly one time in public to his eternal mortification, babe.

Nothing comes as easy as you by nopex3 (Imsuretheyarentinlove)

(12138 | Mature | WIP)

“Alright, Sonny, do you know who the president is?”

“Obama, I voted for him. Will you let me know what’s goin’ on please? Who was that woman?”

He nodded and wrote down a few things in Sonny’s chart, “Real quick, do you know yesterday’s full date.”

Sonny thought about it for a second. “It’s 2014, September the ummm 7th. I remember ‘cause me and my mother went to dinner to celebrate me gettin’ placed in Manhattan SVU.” He studied the Doctor’s face, read his expression as he jotted down several more notes in Sonny’s chart. “That’s not right, is it Doc?”

“No, not exactly.”

Once Upon A Time In New York by MJ (mjr91)

(5980 | Teen | Complete)

For King Dominick Carisi, marrying off the royal children is considered especially dangerous. In the Kingdom of New York, the dedicated members of his Council of Ministers have to find a spouse for Prince Sonny. This is that story.

Search by linzclair219

(50074 | Mature | WIP)

Sonny needs Rafael. Rafael needs Sonny.

They know it to the cores of their very beings that they need each other.

What happens when a tough case brings back some old friends and some new enemies? How will the couple handle the strain this case brings down on their relationship? And what happens when their team is put to the ultimate test?

Set about two months after the end of Belong. Final part of this series.

Snark and Presumption by tobeconspicuous

(13852 | Teen | Complete)

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a husband.”

“I’m pretty sure Austen said wife not husband.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, now go get him.”

So Far In A Few Blocks by PhillyStrega

(45184 | Explicit | Complete)

“See anything you like?”

The guy who’d been charming Amaro now seems to have focused his energies on Rafael. He’s draped himself along the top of the pastry case, long arms crossed and fingers tapping at the glass. Even with the smattering of gray at his temples he looks too young and too self assured. Embroidery on the breast of the pale pink apron he wears over his dark blue button up announces him as ‘Sonny.’ Which. Yes, that fits.

“Just looking,” Rafael quips. “I’ll take a coffee if you sell any to go with your small mountains of sugar.”

Sonny looks concerned and then says, “this is a bakery,” like he’s seriously thinking Rafael somehow missed that. “Sugar is kind of our thing.”

An AU where Sonny runs his family's bakery and neither he nor Barba are very good at letting themselves have what they want. Maybe they can figure that one out together.

Sugar and Spice by notmyyacht

(3388 | Explicit | Complete)

With Christmas right around the corner, Sonny decides to do something a little special for Barba.

Textmates by barbaesparza

(1352 | General | Complete)

In a world where matches receive special phones on the youngest of the pair's 20th birthday, soulmates are able to contact each other by phone call and text message.

Thanksgiving is for family by Musichick2004

(3700 | Teen | Complete)

Sonny planned on going to his family's house for Thanksgiving. Rafael planned on staying home. Plans change, and the Italian Catholic Carisis find out about their relationship.

Turn Back by SlasherFiend

(11572 | Mature | Complete)

A man that was put away ten years ago for rape is back. The squad can't wait for him to escalate to catch him, but they have nothing left to go on. When he grabs one of their own, it's a race to the rescue to avoid history repeating itself.

Unbreakable Kiss by PhoenixofFire177

(2002 | Not Rated | Completed)

The type of kiss that really shouldn't be happening; it's a mistake, but you can't find yourself able to pull away.

Under My Skin (Deep in the Heart) by blav527

(1802 | Teen | Complete)

A text, a piano bar, and Rafael Barba singing a love song. Is Sonny dreaming?

Wait for it by Tubas_Rock1967

(1398 | Not Rated | Complete)

Sonny came out; it didn't go well.

Wanted by barbaXcarisi (barbaXbenson)

(4160 | Teen | Complete)

The sun was brutal, beating down on him and causing sweat to pool at his back and run down his temple. Occasionally, when he moved a certain way, it hit the gold sheriff’s badge pinned to his vest at just the right angle and nearly blinded him. But he had to ignore it. He had a job to do.

He finally had Rafael Barba in his sights and he wasn’t letting him get away. Not this time.

While Sonny was Sleeping by ilovedrwilson

(18039 | General | Complete)

Well, only a lawyer would be pretentious enough to wear a pocket square in a hospital room. Could Gina or Theresa have brought their boyfriend to Sonny’s hospital room? He couldn’t recall them mentioning anyone, especially someone who would be close enough to feel comfortable holding his Ma’s hand.

White Liars by keraunoscopia, tobeconspicuous

(6614 | Explicit | WIP)

“Shit, Gina’s walking towards us.”

Rafael took a step back and smirked. “So am I your boyfriend?”

“She has a smile on her face,” the detective's tone grew panicked.

Rafael couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Time to make a choice, Carisi.”

Yes, I Can. by PrismaChris

(3540 | Teen | Complete)

"You can't imagine- you can't imagine how many times I have knelt and- and prayed to be relieved of this weakness."

"Yes, I can."

#barisi #themed list #bella carisi #Less than 5k #less than 10k #10k to 25k #25k to 50k #50k to 100k

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