#the silk parade: existing in color

[orlissa]

How Not to Commit a Crime Against Historical Fashion–A Basic Guide for Writers

I have been reading a lot (mostly YA) (pseudo)historical (fantasy) novels (and let’s not even get started on what’s going on TV), and I’m stunned and horrified by the complete lack of basic understanding of historical fashion most authors display (not you, Rebecca Ross, darling, you didn’t do anything wrong). So here is a little guide from a miffed little gremlin who knows just a tad bit more about what people wore in the ye olden days than the average person (really, I’m no expert), so YOU don’t commit these heinous crimes:

First and foremost, and I cannot stress this enough: clothing and fashion don’t exist in vacuum. They are intrinsically tied to culture, climate, and, maybe most importantly, technology.

For the most of history (and I’m primarily talking about Western history here, sorry), people wore a simple base layer under their clothing: chemises, shifts, undershirts, underpants, drawers, combinations. Women and men! These had a very important function: they protected the actual outer layers from sweat, and protected the skin from chafing (e.g. from a corset). In the time and day when you didn’t have sewing and washing machines, outer clothes were relatively super expensive, while doing laundry was an actual nightmare. You didn’t want to wash you gowns much, because it was hard on your hands and on the fabric as well. So instead you wore a chemise–made of, most likely, some inexpensive, white material, in an easy-to-sew shape–, and changed and washed that chemise frequently. So as long as your worldbuilding doesn’t include (basically) fast fashion and washing machines (washing spells?), you really, really wanna have your characters to wear an undershirt/chemise.

You also have to think about colors. Chemical dying had a great advancement in the 1860s, which brought on a plethora of new and bright shades that actually lasted. Women’s clothing thus became extra and blindingly colorful, while men’s clothing went… black. As before these chemical dies black dye was hard to make and it also faded fast. (So yeah, your medieval bad guy is actually not that likely to wear black.) Purple is extra tricky, as it was traditionally made from a little creature called the purple dye murex, and making such dye was a lot of work and thus super expensive–so for the longest time only the wealthiest wore purple: senators, cardinals, kings…

(I just read a scene today where in the late 1800s Sicily a male character exchanged a leather shirt for a black (linen?) one at the town market, which he put right on the skin. I was understandably upset and manifested the author stepping on a piece of Lego.)

Climate really determines what people wear: think not only about the temperatures, but what raw materials are available at the climate. (Like, can they wear silk? Are there silk worms in this world? If yes, where? How can the characters have access to it?) Also, do not be daunted by the layers and think that your characters would be sweating buckets in the summer: we are talking about natural materials here which breathe.

Also, I’m not happy to rain on your parade, but generally speaking your (pseudo)historical character wouldn’t be showing too much skin in public. They don’t have sun screen, so they’d be protecting their skin from the sun by covering up–no short sleeves and super low necklines for you! However, evening attire can be more daring (short sleeves! Uncovered shoulders! Décolletage!)

I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: before the… say second third of the 19th century, you don’t have corsets. You have stays, that give the body a conical shape. Then at the turn of the 18th-19th centuries you have transitional stays, which might be closer to modern bras/bralettes than you’d think. The point of these is to push the boobs up (since the gown is loose around the stomach, there is no point in trying to shape the silhouette there). Then you have corsets. You cannot tightlace (drastically shrink the waist) until the mid-19th century, when metal eyelets in corsets are introduced (and so they can take more tension). Still, it was more like an exception than a rule.

“Whalebone” is not actual bone. It’s baleen, those thingies in the whales’ mouth they use to filter their food from the water. Baleen is made of keratin, the same substance that makes up your fingernails, making them flexible.

Also, it’s just my general advice: try not to conceptualize corsets as bras, but as shoes: they need to be broken in, but once they are molded to your body, they are rather comfortable.

Clothes also play a cultural function–they have a meaning, a function. E.g. the point of panniers (those wide hip-thingies in 18th century gowns) and crinolines was that the women who wore them took up a lot of physical space. Women might not really had much say in everyday life, but they used fashion to show that they are there (men hated it, btw).

General silhouette guide to the 19th century, very roughly:

1800-1820s: Regency (brr, I’m gonna say it… Bridgerton). Boobs up, waistline right under the boobs, skirt is light and loose, with not much volume (will end up looking like a nightgown if the costume designer is not careful enough)

1820s-1830s: waistlines are going down (but still kinda up), skirts are getting fuller, sleeves puffier

1840s-1860s: waistline down to the natural waist, skirts are getting really full with huge crinolines, sleeves slim down, pagoda sleeves (getting wider down from the elbow) later down the road

1870s: First bustle period. Skirts get flat in the front and the sides, stick out in the back.

Turn of the 1870s-1880s: Natural form era. The bustle shrinks.

1880s: Second bustle period. The bustle comes back, gets even bigger.

1890s: Skirts become more A-lined, sleeves get puffed up (till they are ridiculous), chest shaped like a dove’s

#historical fashion #fashion history #writing advice

[aclaywrites]

Alas, it no longer exists, but for many many years the OKC AIDS foundation held a Halloween fundraiser that was truly the event of the year. Food, drinks, decor, and the Ls Gs Bs and Ts in their very very finest costumes. I saw some truly great works over the years: a drag queen dressed as the entire film of The Wizard of Oz, in a half black and white/half color ensemble complete with a top hat that was Emerald City with the witch on her broomstick actually flying in a circle above it. Every time I passed her in the crowd I said “You’re going to win the big prize” and when she did, she came and found me and hugged me and said “You believed in me!!” I saw a bunch of lesbians dressed as the Partridge Family, and when they’d walk around the room they all held cardboard panels that came together to form the bus, and they’d wave out the windows at us. A woman with dwarfism dressed as JonBenet Ramsey in her cowgirl pageant gear. My best year, I found a set of pink silk slippers and built a 30s movie star peignoir around it— I got so many compliments from the drag gals!

When I was in high school I was known for having a girlfriend and got some shit about it sometimes. One guy used to hassle me a lot, telling me being gay was a sin and I was gross and going to hell. Like a lot of outspoken homophobes, he set off my gaydar and one day when he wouldn’t lay off I told him so. “The only people obsessed with gay people are other gay people.” He was big mad, no surprise. Then one year at the Halloween ball, I was checking my makeup in the bathroom next to this gorgeous drag queen when she suddenly stopped and turned to me. “Mandy!?! Oh god honey, you were so right!”

So you can keep your Pride parades and your music festivals, I’ll even take a pass on an Oscar party if you make sure I never miss Halloween.

#lesbian queries #lesbian query of the day #lesbian #lesbian history #herstory #gay shit #halloween #yay lesbians #partridge family #wizard of oz #drag ball #drag

[vipetriol]

Bird Brain

@troisfleur sent: [CATCH] “THIS MIGHT BE YOURS?”

It’s a bird. Peacock, more specifically, looking just as confused at being caught as Trey is at having caught it. Confusion is nice, though; generally, when it’s Trey’s turn to feed the flamingos, they generally just threaten to knock the feed bags out of his hands and take a few fingers with it.

Trey’s the last person who should be handling birds, really. But, hey, quick thinking at least kept him from being at the receiving end of intimidation tactics. To be fair, the peacock does look like it’s considering violence. The tail feathers are most definitely ruffled. (After one swift, testing peck, Trey’s never been gladder to need glasses, as he’s pretty sure he’d lose an eye to its ire otherwise.)

“Don’t think this is a new and exciting breed of croquet flamingo coming to play, haha." Trey's animal linguistics grade from freshman year was honestly atrocious, but the harried squawks that follow the attempt at pecking his eyes out probably aren't very kind. "Mind giving me a hand?”

Peacocks are a symbol of royalty and status all over the world, and for good reason— with their proud gait and striking colors, they exist in the collective imagination as nobility incarnate. Doubly so for those born in the Scalding Sands, where they're a staple in parades and celebrations; the patterns of their plumage embroidered into the lavish silks that best represent their markets; and their colours —purple and green— present in clothing, banners, and souvenirs, stand as an emblem of a beloved princess’s resourcefulness and wit.

And well, isn’t that enough? Someone ought to stop feeding their ego, because they’re also some of the most ill-tempered, hostile, pompous, egotistical, downright insufferable birds Jamil has ever had the displeasure of dealing with. 

—Although, on second thought, perhaps that wasn’t actually true; his encounter with RSU’s resident goose back at the beginning of the school year still stood among the highlights of unfortunate events that befallen him in the past semester. 

Then again, if the peacock's expression and angry squawks (ones which Jamil is fairly certain are the avian equivalent of brazen obscenities) are anything to go by, comparing its current state to that of RSU's bloodthirsty mascot back during orientation wouldn’t be completely off-base. 

He must act quickly— lest it devolve into carnage. The last thing Jamil needs is Scarabia’s menagerie inflicting injuries on another dorm’s vice-housewarden, so there’s no time to waste on greetings, apologies, or explanations. 

“Stay still,” he instructs, grabbing the first piece of fabric he finds close at hand. It’s an old towel —Is it his? Maybe Ruggie’s? It doesn’t matter now— which, with a quick swing of Jamil’s magipen, is lifted into the air, hovering over Trey (and the peacock by extension.)

“ I’m going to drape this over its head— the dark helps them calm down when they’re agitated. ” 

#{ I'm sorry that this is kind of ass TT } #{ But this is such a fun prompt } #{Two overworked vice housewardens dealing with difficult birds } #{ 🍀 Trey Clover } #{ Thread; Bird Brain }

[iridecsense]

𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 - 𝘮.

⤷ summary: “You’re blue, I'm red, I wanna kiss your neck and make you purple all over.”

ꕥ word count: 33.7k ꕥ pairing: credence barebone | fem!reader  ꕥ genre: fluff, angst, smut ꕥ rating: 18+ ꕥ warnings: mentions of physical and religious abuse, mild violence and angst ꕥ kinks: femdom, masturbation ꕥ author’s note:  Credence’s first time requested by anonymous. Experimenting a new writing style with this one, I hope you still like it! This is very soft, but also sinful. I always suggest using Interactive Fics extension on Google Chrome and Firefox when reading my fics. Enjoy. ;) ꕥ key: (y/n) - first name (l/n) - last name (e/c) - eye color (h/c) - hair color (s/c) - skin color

There are very few moments in life worth living for. Most things in life are mundane and repetitive. Humans aren’t as complex as they like to think. Humans are simple. Without realizing, it they put themselves into a routine. Eat, work, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, work, repeat. Eat, sleep, work, repeat.

Albert Einstein once said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.” And yet, most humans never fall into insanity. How is it humanity survives such a dreary existence? The answer itself is simple. It is because despite living simple, tedious, monotonous lives, they still have those few moments.

Credence wanted nothing more than to experience one of these moments. Life for Credence was human. It repeated on an infinite loop, no matter how much he prayed for it to stop. Unlike most people’s lives, Credence’s routine wasn’t something to accept comfortably. There was no eat, sleep, work, repeat for him. His day started with an unsavory meal. It was usually porridge or stale bread. Then he would go out and hand out his “mother’s” flyers while she ranted in the streets. After that, they’d return to the orphanage where he’d surely get beat for doing something wrong. After being denied dinner, he would return to his room and cry silently in his bed, trying to dream of a life better than the one he lived. Then repeat.

Today was supposed to be no different. Today, Credence would have to hand out flyers around Times Square until nightfall. He hated handing out flyers in Times Square. It was bright, loud, and crowded, and the rich people from The Eggs always came down to shop and attend the cinema.

Rich people are assholes.

For the most part, Credence was invisible amidst the hustle and bustle of the square. People were too busy chatting amongst themselves or rushing to the nearest store or restaurant to even bat an eye at him. He didn’t mind it. He welcomed invisibility with open arms. Being seen usually ended with new bruises and scars. That's what happens when you’re an outsider, and Credence was an outsider in every sense of the word. He was an outsider to the rich people that pushed past him on the sidewalk, an outsider to the orphanage, and an outsider to himself. 

So, the lowly outsider stood hunched over in the middle of the sidewalk next to a cinema. Above him was a large marquee lit up by five hundred flashing bulbous lights. Mobs of people dappered up in evening dresses and suits, tipping their fedoras and clutching their mink coats excitedly entered the theatre. Credence looked at the flyers in his hands. Mary Lou gave him three hundred flyers to give out, and he barely gave out thirty. Most of the ones he did manage to force into someone’s hand ended up on the ground not ten feet away from him. They couldn't even bother to find a trash can. He wouldn’t dare return home with such a disappointing turnout.

The sun had long since set. The roar of the night became corrupted with wealthy party-goers. The Square was alive with chatter and street music. The streets were filled with intoxicated drivers flashing their fancy topless automobiles and the pretty women that shouted inside them. It was rather scenic, and Credence often found himself staring longingly at all the people whose lives seemed much happier than his own. It was one of the few ways he could pass the time.

He would watch couples walk the street hand in hand, seemingly in love. The woman would occasionally point out something on display she fancied and sweetly coherence her partner to buy it for her—to which they always did. He would observe a gang of college gentlemen around his age hop from bar to bar, obnoxiously laughing and roughhousing in the streets, cat-calling passing dames. In his mind, he was one of them. He pretended he lived in a world where he wasn’t an orphan and grew up in a wealthy family. He would have a mother who loved him and a father who was proud of him. He would go to college and make friends with other boys. Maybe he’d fall in love with a girl along the way. Someone sweet to please the folks back home. Then it would be him parading down the streets with a pretty girl around his arms in Times Square, and some other poor guy would be miserable in his place.

As his eyes wandered the streets, watching the snippets of other people's lives and inserting himself in them, his eyes landed on her across the street. She stepped onto the sidewalk in front of a boutique. Her hair fell around her shoulders in waves, neatly placed under a velvet green beret. She had on a slim fitting wool coat with mink trim over a lace-covered silk dress that shined in the night’s light. When she began to walk, his eyes followed her down the street like magnets. The way she seemed to carry herself was unlike the others around her. She wasn’t pink with liquor, stumbling in her heels on the pavement. Each step she took was one of elegance and confidence. He couldn't look away.

“Hey, watch it, punk!”

Credence found himself shoved to his hands and knees on the ground, the flyers in his hands dispersing in the air around him. He winced in pain and looked up to see a man angrily peering down at him.

“Watch where you’re goin’, freak!” The man cursed at him.

Credence kept his head down. “I’m sorry, sir.”

The man sucked his teeth and purposely stepped on some flyers in front of him as he walked by, pressing them into the wet sidewalk. Only when he was sure the man had gone did he find it safe to move. He ignored the soreness in the palms of his hands and tried his best to salvage as many flyers as he could. Passersby couldn't have cared less about the papers they ripped and crumpled under their perfectly pointed shoes. He picked up what little there was left unscathed—about a hundred at least. He was lucky most of them were still stacked together. He went to collect the last salvageable stack across from him when another pair of (s/c) dainty hands reached for them.

Credence’s eyes landed on a pair of green pumps pointed at him. His eyes trailed up past long legs shielded from the cold by nude stockings, green silk, and tawny fur until they met painted red lips and glossy (e/c) eyes. Up close, she was much more captivating. He could now make out her soft, round features and see how her (h/c) curls perfectly framed her face. Her cheeks were dusted a lush red. Whether it was from the early winter chill, or a detail of her makeup was unknown. Either way, she was stunning. It took him longer than it should have for him to notice the flyers she was holding out for him to take.

Credence awkwardly stumbled to his feet, keeping his eyes trained on the tips of her shoes to avoid her gaze. Even in his slouched state, he towered over her, but somehow he still appeared small.

“I saw that.” Her warm voice filled his ears, catching him off guard.

He lifted his head to look at her once more. “What?”

The girl looked in the direction the man from earlier had left and frowned.  “The prick who knocked you over was half-seas over! He could barely tell his left foot from his right! If he had, he would have seen that it was his fault knocking you to the ground like that.”

Credence didn’t know what to say. That was the most anyone had ever said to him without spewing insults his way. Even more peculiar was that the strange girl talking to him was trying to defend him. His awkward speechlessness didn’t seem to phase her in the slightest. Instead, her targeted vexed expression relaxed into a warm smile.

She urged the flyers towards him once more. “Sorry about your papers. I don’t think there’s much left to save.”

He carefully took the papers from her hands, noting how perfectly manicured her nails were. “It’s okay... thank you.”

“No need to thank me. No sense in being praised for common decency, right?”

Credence found himself speechless. He wasn't sure how to respond to such a statement. It was definitely something he should be grateful for. Most people wouldn’t look twice at him struggling on the street, let alone go out of their way to help.

The girl spoke through his silence. “You don’t talk much, do you?” She chuckled.

He shamefully bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” she quickly assured him. “Sometimes, I think people talk too much. I don’t think people should say things they don’t need to, otherwise, words lose all valuable meaning. You know what I mean?”

He nodded slowly. “I think so.”

She seemed pleased with his answer, her smile growing ever so slightly. It wasn’t long before it was replaced with another frown. Unlike before, this wasn’t a frown of annoyance, but concern. Her brows turned upward and her red lips parted to let out a sharp gasp. She looked at him clearly for the first time, her eyes wandered over his slender form and taking in his appearance.

“Goodness! Aren’t you cold?” She asked, her voice laced with worry.

Credence shrugged half-heartedly. He was used to the cold by now. He only had a handful of clothes to begin with. He didn't have the luxury of having clothes that match the changing weather, he could only wear whatever clothes fit him from the donation pile. The warmest garment he obtained this winter was an old navy blue suit best designed for autumn’s chill, but useless against winter’s cold. She found it hard to believe he stayed in the cold for so long without freezing to death. Credence thought that was a bit of an exaggeration. It was a particularly cold November night, enough to keep the patches of ice and snow that had been shoveled to the gutters intact. With every shaky breath he took, a puff of white mist would follow. His nose and the tips of his ears were permanently colored red and, given his natural pale complexion, made him look rather sickly. But, he bore through it because he had experienced far worse.

Without warning, the girl took the liberty of placing her palms on the back of his hands. The gentle action was so alien, he flinched when he felt her warm skin.

“Your hands are like ice!” She gasped. “They’re two degrees short from falling off!”

It must have been true because the feeling of her hands was enough to send a fiery warmth throughout his body. Such affection was so foreign to him, he began to doubt it really happened. It wouldn't have been the first time his mind played tricks on him. Perhaps he was home in his bed, lucidly dreaming about a chance encounter with a pretty woman. In a moment, he would wake up, and the warm feeling of a woman’s touch would turn cold, and he’d find himself alone in his room again.

His theory was swiftly disproven when he felt her hands gently squeeze his. As if she had the brightest idea of the decade, the woman’s face lit up.

She took a step closer. “Say, why don’t I get you some tea to warm you up? There’s a coffee shop still open a few blocks away—I could drive you in my Ford!”

Credence blushed and swallowed. His eyes darted around nervously. “I’m not sure I should...” He mumbled.

“We can stand here in the streets like a couple of gulls if you’d like, but I’m not going to leave you out here to freeze, so you might as well say yes,” she smirked.

He wanted to say yes. But there was a voice inside him that warned him not to go. It was the same nagging tone Mary Lou barked in his ear. His mind spiraled, spewing scenarios of his adopted mother’s fury. He should be home by now. She never liked it when he returned home late. She would beat him again. She might even ice him—something she did when she was truly furious with him. The thought of it made his blood run cold.

“I-I can’t,” he stammered. “M-Mother is expecting me home—she’ll be wondering where I am.”

The woman’s once playful expression slowly faded. Her brows gathered at the center of her forehead and her smile faded. Credence was trembling and stuttering, helplessly trying to explain why he had to return home. His words slurred together into a tremulous speech. Passing pedestrians gave patronizing stares, actively avoiding the pair and whispering amongst themselves. The woman placed a comforting hand on Credence’s shoulder, silencing him almost immediately.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” She said softly. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to upset you by it.”

She looked him in his eyes and offered a kind smile. There was a skip of his heart. A strange feeling weighed in his chest he had never felt before.

“Why don’t I drive you?” She suggested. “That way you can be home twice as fast!”

Credence took a moment to think about it. He found it increasingly impossible to say no. Against his better judgment, he found himself wanting to extend their encounter, if even just for a minute. He had the smallest inference that if he said no, it would disappoint her. The thought of disappointing her was something he didn't want to do. He felt obligated to appease her. She had shown him a kindness that he may never get again. He thought he could at least keep her pleased.

“Okay,” he relented.

The girl grinned up at him and linked her arm around his. His cheeks grew warm, and he tucked his chin to his chest to hide his blush. Not that she would notice either way. She gingerly led him down the street, trying to engage him with small talk. He tried to listen, but he would get distracted whenever he felt her chest brush up against him. She was so close and so warm. Her touch burned through the thin material of his jacket and made his skin tingle. He could smell her perfume, like lavender and vanilla.

Such an alluring scent it was. It smelled familiar and sweet in its flowery nature. It reminded him of the transition from spring to summer, when the flowers became the most vibrant and fruit ripened to perfect sweetness. He wished he could smell it every day. It would be a refreshing change from the stench of mildew and boiled cabbage he often smelled. He wondered if she always smelled so sweet.

“So, what’s with the pamphlets? Are you a part of that Second Salemers organization?” she asked, pulling him out of his fantasies. He looked down at her and saw her looking up at him expectedly. He couldn’t help but grow hot with embarrassment.

“Y-yes,” he answered.

“Really? So, you believe in witches?” She teasingly wiggled her fingers in his face.

"My mother does,” He answered.

“How interesting,” she thought aloud. “I can’t say that I believe in witches, but if they do exist I wouldn’t mind.”

“You wouldn’t?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, they’re human like us, right? People tend to demonize things they don’t understand. Just because they’re different doesn't mean we have to fear or prosecute them. I think we should embrace each other’s differences and learn to appreciate them, rather than forcing everyone to assimilate to one idea of normalcy. If we do that, then no one would be unique. We’d all be the same.”

He listened closely as she spoke. He was absolutely fascinated by her. It was rather profound, the way she thought. Most people would disagree with her sentiments, especially his mother. The world Credence knew was built on a system of separation. A system that separated classes, races, sexes, and the able-bodied—a system he was a victim to. Never once had he met someone who desired to rid of it just as much as he did, and he certainly didn’t expect to hear such scrutiny from someone who seemed to benefit from it.

When she finished her societal criticism, she stopped in her tracks and craned her neck up to face Credence.

“Excuse my rambling,” she flushed. “I talk nonsense when I go deep in thought. Don’t mind me, I probably sound crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Credence spoke up. “I wish everyone thought the way you think.”

Their eyes locked in a moment of tenderness. His bold sentiments were enough to make her heart skip a beat; unbeknownst to him. Their intimate trance was broken when a passing car flashed its blinding lights in their eyes, causing the girl to release her grip around Credence’s arm. The loss of contact made his arm feel too light; as if someone had taken a piece of his arm away.

The girl let out a sheepish chuckle. “Well, this is it,” she said as she walked over to the luxurious motor car parked on the side of the street. Luxurious seemed like an insult of a descriptor for the magnificent opulence of the machine. The streetlight illuminated the pearl-colored metal that matched the white-rimmed tires. Gold embellishments lined the rim. Tawny leather seats contrasted the exterior and matched the fabric roof. It was something Credence had only seen in advertisements.

“She’s a bit much, right?”

Credence hadn’t realized how apparent the astonishment written on his face was. He expected the girl to laugh at him, but the girl didn’t find joy in his culture shock. She was nervous, as if she were ashamed of her possession, like he had just discovered her most shameful secret.

“She was a gift from my father,” she felt the need to explain. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful or anything, I truly am. It’s just that I would never have bought something so ritzy for myself.”

“I like it,” said Credence.

His words seemed to relax her otherwise tense demeanor. “I’m glad you do,” she smiled as she opened the door. He watched her slide into the driver's seat. He approached the machine cautiously, eyeing the foreign object skeptically. The girl watched him closely, an amused smirk curling her lips.

“You’ve never ridden in a car before, have you?” She asked. Credence shook his head.

“I promise there’s nothing to worry about,” she chuckled. “I happen to be an excellent driver. My father wouldn’t have given me one so expensive if I wasn’t.”

This was true. Such a beautiful car wouldn’t be gifted to someone who would evidently wreck it. The girl pats the empty passenger seat invitingly, urging him to get inside.

Credence slid into the passenger seat, the cool leather seeping through the thin fabric of his suit, sending shivers down his spine.

“Here.” The girl reached in the back seat of the car and pulled out a large grey blanket. “The car will get warmer as we drive, but this should be good for now.”

Credence placed his papers on his lap and reached for the blanket.

“Wait,” she stopped him, a small frown appearing on her features. “You’re bleeding.”

Credence followed her stare to his left hand. He turned his palm upward to find the healing wounds on his palms had reopened. He didn’t notice the sting of the cuts before, but now his hand burned with the slightest movement. He couldn’t help but feel exposed. He hated his hands. They were ugly. Permanently blemished with raised scars that formed from healing and reopening and healing and reopening at contact with his mother's belt. It was unsightly. He shied away from her, mortified. She must’ve found them just as repulsive.

But the girl didn’t seem phased by his calloused and scarred hands at all. She didn’t hesitate to reach inside her breast pocket and pull out a pink handkerchief to wrap around Credence’s hand. Again he could feel her warmth. Her soft hands caressed his skin, pulling him closer. She handled him gently, delicately folding and wrapping the silk fabric around his cuts. She glanced at him as she did so, only to find him avoiding her gaze with his chin tucked into his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered as she tended to him.

“You’re sorry?” She let out a breathy chuckle. “And what are you sorry for, exactly?”

“I-I don’t know,” he stammered. “For making you drive me home. For ruining your handkerchief,” he said.

The girl sighed as she tightened the cloth around his hand and tied it into a bow to keep it in place. “Bunny, you’re not making me do anything. I insisted, remember?” She reminded him. Credence felt the entirety of his face grow hot. He turned to face her again, only to be met with the same (e/c) eyes and kind smile she had before. His heart felt as though it were beating a mile a minute.

“And don’t worry about my handkerchief,” she adds. “I have dozens of them. They’re more for looks anyway, I never use them.”

Credence nodded and silently thanked her. She gave his hand another squeeze before leaning back in her seat and starting the car. The car made a sound like a lion and roared to life. The seats trembled beneath them, and the headlights lit the road ahead. When the car jerked into drive, Credence felt uneasy. She drove the car well, and he suspected that she was driving at a slower rate for his benefit, but the feeling of the car moving made his stomach churn with excitement and fear. He walked everywhere he went. He’d taken the subway once before when he was younger, but somehow this was different. He fidgeted in his seat, finding anything to distract himself from the tight feeling in his stomach. His eyes fixated on his hands, brushing his fingers against the smooth fabric of the handkerchief. It was colorfully embroidered with flowers and lacey patterns. He followed the design with his eyes until they came upon two scripted letters embroidered in gold on the corner that wasn’t tied into a knot.

“Are these your initials?” He asked to distract himself with small talk.

The girl gasped dramatically. “I never introduced myself, did I? How rude of me! I’m practically a stranger and here I am driving you around Manhattan without giving you a proper introduction.”

The girl took one hand off the wheel and held it out in front of him. “My name’s (y/n) (l/n).”

Credence took her hand and shook it lightly. “I’m Credence. Credence Barebone.”

“Credence. What an odd name. I like it,” she grinned before pulling her hand back. “So, where am I taking you, Credence?”

He told her he lived in the old chapel on Pike Street. She fell flustered while trying to explain she didn’t know exactly where that was. Credence then told her she was going the right way, and if she kept going straight, he would tell her when to turn. While they drove, she did her best to get to know Credence. He answered every question she asked with a short and vague response. She didn’t ask him many questions to begin with. She mostly talked about herself or the people she knew, like her family and friends. Almost everything reminded her of them.

He figured she did it to make him feel more comfortable. He didn’t mind. He enjoyed hearing her talk. While driving, she saw a dress in a boutique and mentioned that her friend, Darla, would love to have a dress just like it. When they passed a tea shop, it reminded of her mother, who only drank earl grey tea; which, to her, is the most boring of teas. On the sidewalk, there was a stray cat running into an alleyway. She told him how much she wanted a pet cat as a child, but she couldn’t get one because her father was allergic.

He couldn’t help but be enthralled by her. The more she talked, the more relaxed he became. He stole glances at her when she wasn’t looking. Watching her lips move as she talked, outlining the bridge of her nose and the curve of her cheek. He had been staring so intently he hadn’t even realized she’d asked him a question.

“Credence?” Her voice filled his ears.

“Yes?” He answered.

“I asked if I turn here.”

Credence turned to look out the window and saw that they had stopped at the corner of Pike Street. It was a quiet neighborhood filled with old apartments that had dim windows and unfriendly doors. Sticking out like a tabby cat among tigers was the Church of the Second Salemers. A rickety thing dwarfed by the buildings that surrounded it. Credence’s heart sank. If only the ride was a little longer.

“I can get out here,” he told her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

Her lips twitched into a bittersweet smile. “Alright,” she simpered. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

“It was nice meeting you too,” He said truthfully.

There was a beat of silence. The two sat awkwardly, not really knowing how to say goodbye. Credence stared at his hands in his lap and began to untie the handkerchief.

“Keep it,” she stopped him before he could. “To remember me by.”

Would this really be the last time? He knew that she meant nothing by it, but hoped he didn't have to remember her. He wanted to see her again. He didn’t want it to end.

He gripped the cloth tightly in his hand. “Thank you.”

He reluctantly opened the car door and stepped onto the slushy street, closing the door behind him. She waved at him through the window, to which he returned in a less enthusiastic manner. He took a step back onto the sidewalk and watched as she drove down the street until she disappeared around the corner.

“Goodbye... (y/n),” he whispered.

It had been weeks since Credence’s chance encounter, and ever since his mind was consumed with thoughts and fantasies of (y/n) (l/n). Everything reminded him of her. The melting snow on the ground, the smell of flowers that mimicked her perfume when he passed the floristry, passing women in mink coats and tea shops; they all emulated her.

He often thought about how different things would have been if he did what he wanted that night. Would she be with him now had he gone to the café when she’d offered? Would she have liked to know him? Would she have enjoyed his company? The more he thought about it, the more he wished he’d taken the risk—his mother be damned.

Now all he had were memories and theories of what could have been. Though, fantasizing became his new favorite pass time. Reminiscing about her was one of the only things that gave light to his otherwise dark, mundane life. Like right now, he was thinking of what it would be like to make her laugh while scooping porridge into bowls for the orphans to eat.

He thought her laugh would sound feathery and jovial; the kind of laugh that makes you want to smile and laugh with her.

“You’re smiling.”

Credence was pulled from his thoughts by his sister, Chastity. He looked to the side and saw her smirking into the pot. “What?”

“It’s not just today,” she says. “You’ve been... different lately. Happier, I think. Always smiling to yourself. Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Did you meet someone or something?” She persisted.

Credence scoffed. “How could I have met someone?” He refuted.

Chastity she glimpsed at Credence skeptically. “I guess not,” she hummed, much to his relief.

“Doesn’t explain why you’re blushing, though,” she smirked.

Credence’s cheeks burst into flames as he attempted to sputter an explanation. Chastity giggled to herself, finding amusement in teasing him.

“What’s going on, children?”

The sickeningly sweet voice was enough to raise the hair on the back of their necks and shudder their hearts. They turned around, craning their necks up to the banister. Mary Lou Barebone towered over them just as menacingly as she could in her own prim and proper way.

“Nothing, mother,” Chastity answered for them. “Credence was just telling me a joke.”

“This is no time to be joking,” she scolded. “We have a very important meeting today with Father Blackwell, and I will not allow distractions. We can't lose focus. This is our chance to spread our message to the church— to the city! You should be preparing, not laughing.”

“I’m sorry, mother,” Credence apologized.

“Don’t let it happen again,” she warned, before sauntering away.

Even in her absence, Credence couldn’t find the will to relax the rest of the morning. The threat of her looming presence was far too great. After the orphans had finished their meal and left, Chastity washed all the dishes while he cleaned the dining hall. Once they finished their menial tasks, Modesty came downstairs to tell them Mary Lou wanted them to hurry and dress in their best attire for Father Blackwell.

Father Blackwell was the priest of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He was the most famous priest in New York City and the priest of the mayor. Mary Lou was very anxious to present her case to him. According to her, once Father Blackwell hears her pleas and shares it with the church, the city would finally begin to take her seriously and put a stop to the heresy festering right under their noses.

So she believed.

It was Sunday. Today they would attend a mid-day service and attempt to get counsel with the priest. Though, Credence doubted Father Blackwell would even see them. As he got dressed, he looked himself over in the mirror. His ‘best’ attire was a dark plum suit so dark it looked black if you weren't paying attention. It made his already pale skin look even fairer and darkened the color of his raven hair and russet eyes. It was the only suit that fit him perfectly and had few blemishes. He’d probably look like a proper gentleman if his mahogany shoes weren't so terribly worn due to them being the only pair he owned.  

He took the matching hat off his dresser and put it on. Hidden underneath it was the pink handkerchief. He took the piece of fabric in his hands and held it up to his nose. It smelled like her. Remnants of her perfume still lingered between its stitches. He was grateful she allowed him to keep her handkerchief. He felt foolish for ever trying to part with it. It was the only proof he had that she existed; that their brief night encounter had truly happened.

“What are you doing?”

Credence instinctively hid the cloth behind his back, turning around to see Mary Lou standing in his doorway.

“I was straightening my tie,” he says, his voice wavering slightly.

Mary Lou looked him over for a moment, trying to find something out of place. “Come now,” she orders, having found no reason to torment the boy. “We’re leaving.”

She walked away. The sound of her heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs was Credence’s signal to breathe again. He pulled the handkerchief from his back and folded it neatly before hiding it underneath his pillow.

On their way to the cathedral, Mary Lou gave each of them a stack of flyers. She wanted them to hand out flyers to the congregation once the service ended while she talked with Father Blackwell. If there was one thing about Mary Lou, she was passionate and determined. When she set her sights on something, she will do everything in her power to execute it. She’d been planning this meeting for weeks. She readied herself in the only way she knew how: through constant prayer and tedious preparation. In a way, Credence was thankful for it. When Mary Lou became enlightened on an alternative approach, she was far too busy focusing on it to bother him. It was one of the few windows of relative freedom he had, and they came once in a blue moon. This meeting could mark the end, or the beginning, of this liberation.

Sitting in the pews during service, he could hardly concentrate. St. Patrick’s was a magnificent building, an authentic replica of the renaissance with its high, arched ceiling, stone engravings, and vibrant stained glass windows. It was the epitome of class and beauty. So, naturally, it would be the one church favorited by the high society. Wealthy families filled the better half of the sanctuary. While Credence and his family sat in the back with the rest of the commoners, they filled the front pews with tailored suits, mink coats, and Sunday hats. As Father Blackwell preached to the congregation, Credence searched the pews for a familiar face.

He knew his chances of seeing her were low, but he couldn't help but hope one of those Sunday hats would turn around and reveal those sparkling (e/c) eyes. His leg shook nervously, his eyes darting from one aisle of pews to another. It only stopped when a firm hand tightly gripped his thigh.

“Pay attention,” Mary Lou whispered, malice laced in her tone.

Credence swallowed, his body tensing immediately, afraid of even moving an inch in her presence. He turned his attention from the pews to the altar. Father Blackwell was standing in front of his pedestal, reading a scripture.

“We are living in a godless time,” He said. “Satan parades in the streets, preying on our sons and daughters! When the night comes, our children leave and venture into the streets. The devil and his minions tell them to wear promiscuous evening attire, commit sodomy, and fornication! Tempting them into Speakeasies to drink the Devil’s urine and feast on the bodies of Lilith’s daughters! Our city has become the devil’s playground. There is no God out there. Only sin.”

Flashes of her face imprinted in his mind. Credence frowned and tried to push it from his thoughts, but he couldn’t. His thoughts became consumed by her. As Father Blackwell spoke, he began to envision things he knew he shouldn’t.

“‘The body is not meant for sexual immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body.’” Father Blackwell reads. “Don’t you see? It isn’t ‘fashion’ or ‘modernity’. The devil has infested the media to infect our minds. He wants to taint our bodies to further stray us from God. ‘Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body’... and therefore, is a sin against God.”

His cheeks burned, and he prayed nobody would notice. He’d never thought of her like this before. Yet, somehow, the sermon unlocked one of his most shameful desires. He imagined the feeling of her warm body pressed against his. He reminisced about the feel of her soft skin. He pictured the curves of her lips, chest, and hips. He wondered how they would feel on his lips. Would they be just as soft?

“Brothers and Sisters, we must rid ourselves of all sin. Protect your children, for the devil, has his eyes set on them. The greatest sin against God is the polluting of our holy bodies. We must practice modesty and chastity. Only then can we be saved... Let us pray."

The congregation bowed their heads and listened as Father Blackwell lead the closing prayer.

The priest’s words echoed in the back of his mind. Even as he and his sisters handed flyers to those exiting the church, his mind would drift back to the sermon. Mary Lou had left him and his sisters to talk with Father Blackwell. He watched as she walked down the aisle to meet him at the altar. Father Blackwell was already conversing with a member of the church, a stocky man wearing a cream-colored suit and matching hat.

She nearly approached him before another man stopped her. Credence recognized him as Deacon Ripley. Deacon Ripley was as galling as his face would suggest. His face was pointed and far too wrinkled for his age. Deacon Ripley had a habit of sticking his unusually large nose into other people’s business. He reminded Credence of a sewer rat, just as unsightly and full of shit.

He couldn’t make out what was being said, but from the looks of it, Deacon Ripley was reprimanding Mary Lou. Mary Lou did her best to get Father Blackwell’s attention, but he and the mustachioed gentleman ignored her calls. Mary Lou was never really one to lose her composure, but in her desperation, she attempted to divert Deacon from obstructing her access to Father Blackwell. She rushed to the altar, calling Father Blackwell. She began stating her case, catching the attention of those still left in the church.  

“There are evil forces at work, Father!” She shouted. “Heretics walk freely amongst us, doing the devil's work!”

Deacon Ripley came behind Mary Lou. “Pay no mind to her, Father Blackwell, she speaks fabrications.”

“This is not fiction, Father, I can assure you,” she says. “I have seen them with my own eyes. The devil’s concubine.”

“What is this you speak of?” Father Blackwell demands.

“Witches, Father. There are witches here in New York, working right under our noses—”

“I told you, Father, she’s insane,” Deacon Ripley cuts in.

“I am not crazy,” Mary Lou snarks. “And if we don’t stop them now, there will be hell to pay!”

“Enough, Ms. Barebone,” says Father Blackwell. “I will hear no more of these fairytales. Please, have decency.”

Father Blackwell turned to the gentleman and guided him to a back door where they disappeared from the sanctuary. Mary Lou, still determined to be heard, began shouting after them, preaching her testimony of witches infiltrating New York. This resulted in her being handled by a few clergymen and escorted off the premises. People whispered and gossiped as the Barebones walked by. It wasn’t hard to tell Mary Lou was humiliated. She put on a brave face, clenching her jaw and holding her head high. She grabbed Modesty by the hand and walked away. Credence and Chastity followed close behind with their heads down.  

It had been about a week since the church incident. Mary Lou hadn’t left her room since. The only one to see her was Modesty. Mary Lou always had a soft spot for the younger sibling. In any other circumstance, Credence would have taken such behavior as a blessing. Whatever wrath Mary Lou was feeling wasn’t being directed at him. But the looming threat of her presence left him little to no space to relax.

Credence was helping Chastity make pamphlets in the dining hall when the sound of Mary Lou’s door opening and closing halted their process. Small footsteps trotted down the stairs and into the hall.

“Credence,” Modesty called. Credence stood from his seat and walked to Modesty, who handed him a stack of flyers once he was close enough. “Mother wants you to pass out these flyers around town. She said not to come back until they’re all gone.”

Credence took the flyers in his hands and reluctantly walked to the door. It was snowing today. It wasn’t cold enough for it to stick, but it was cold nonetheless. He already wore his warmest clothes, which happened to be an old navy sweater vest, grey wool suit jacket, and matching trousers. He threw on a grey fedora and ventured into the streets.

He didn’t mind handing out flyers. Anything to get out of that awful place was enough for him. It was just about noon when he left. He thought it best to head towards the inner city. It was Saturday, so there were sure to be people bustling in and out of shops today. It usually wasn’t a long walk, Credence was used to walking long distances. However, the nipping cold slowed his pace a bit.

In the first hour, he spent walking around midtown and passing flyers around the park. Handing out flyers in winter rarely yields any results. People are far too cold and miserable to bother pulling their hands from their pockets to grab a piece of paper. After a very unsuccessful hour, he migrated further north, closer to Times Square.

“Credence?”

Credence stopped in his tracks, his heart jumping wildly in his chest. He slowly turned around to where the voice had come from. There, in all her grace, was the last person he expected to see. He could see her even more clearly than the last night he saw her. This time, she wore a large, white fur coat that stopped at her ankles and a matching fur hat. In her gloved hands, she carried a small beaded purse that glittered when light reflected off it.  In the day’s light, her skin radiantly glowed, much like her purse. Her eyes seemed bigger than what he remembered, mimicking that of a doll’s. They were enhanced by the brown eyeshadow that darkened her lids and the mascara that elongated her lashes. Today, her lips were raspberry pink instead of the deep red he remembered. Snowflakes nestled in the nooks of her curled (h/c) hair, making her appear even more angelic.

“Mi-Miss (l/n)?”

He hadn’t a moment to process her appearance before she rushed into his arms, catching him by surprise. She threw her arms around his neck and rested her chin on his broad shoulder. His hands instinctively gravitated to her waist, holding her steady as she stood on the tips of her toes. She felt lush in his arms, the heat from her body sent warmth spreading throughout his center. The expanse of his neck and cheeks blossomed into a dusty shade of rose. His mind raced as he tried to collect his thoughts. He was almost sure she could feel the rapid beating of his chest.

If she did, she didn’t seem to mind. She held onto him, squealing excitedly. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you!” She said between giggles. “I was hoping you’d be here!”

Credence raised his brows, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You... You were hoping?” he repeated.

She pulled away, falling back on her heels to look him in the eye. Her hands still held onto his arms. “Well, I wasn’t sure if I’d see you,” she says. “But every time I come down, I hope I do.”

“You visit often?” He asked.

“As much as I can,” she admits. “I live in Kings Point. Do you know where that is?”

He nodded. Kings Point was a village up North by the bay in an area commonly referred to as West Egg. Many wealthy families live there in their ritzy mansions, throwing parties, boating, and golfing.

“Yes, well, I can only visit on weekends. Mainly with friends. But, lately, I’ve made a habit of coming down on my own, since I met you.”

She had said it so casually he thought she must’ve not realized how it sounded. Had she been purposely coming to the city, hoping to cross paths again? A small smile formed on his lips.

Her hands slipped from his arms and returned to her side, much to his disappointment.

Just then, a man behind her coughed, drawing their attention. (y/n) looked back and gasped. “Oh! I’m sorry, Eddy. How rude of me! I completely forgot to introduce you.”

She stepped back to the man’s side. “Eddy, this is my friend Credence Barebone. I met him a few weeks ago in Town Square. Credence, this is Edmund Tully.”

Credence and the man made eye contact. The man, Edmund, was tall; even taller than him. He was built, with wide shoulders to match his thick neck and strong, clean-shaven jawline. His rectangular face was undeniably handsome, with strong, straight features Credence had only seen before on statues and hooded green eyes. His blond hair was almost completely hidden underneath his grey newsboy hat that matched the tailored grey suit he wore underneath a thick, black, fur-lined ulster.

Credence was already intimidated by the man. He was older, around his late twenties. If it wasn’t his overall overwhelming appearance that intimidated him, then it was definitely the pointed glower directed at him. (y/n) didn’t notice it. Her eyes were focused on him.

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Credence, bravely offering his hand.

Edmund looked down at Credence’s outstretched hand. “Yes, and you as well,” he said indifferently, reluctantly taking his hand and forcing a smile. (y/n)’s brows wrinkled slightly at the interaction as she looked between the two men.

When they stopped shaking hands, Edmund turned to (y/n). It was almost comical how drastically his expression changed when he looked at her. His face softened and his phony, tight-lipped smile became genuine.

“(y/n), darling, I’m afraid I have to go now,” He said.

“So soon?” She asked.

“Yes, actually. Your brother and I have a meeting with your father and Mr. Finnegan around lunch,” he explains.

“Oh, I see,” she hums in understanding. “Well, you better get going.”

“You’re right, I must.” He took a step closer to her. “It was lovely running into you today, (y/n).”

Credence watched as he bent down and placed a large hand on her waist. She too reached around to wrap your arm around his torso. He watched as the man kissed her right cheek before moving to kiss the other. This didn’t phase her at all. Instead, she smiled as if it happened all the time. Credence felt looked away, upset by the display. Why did he feel upset?

The two pulled apart, and Edmund began to walk away. “I’ll tell your brother you said hello, shall I?” He yelled.

“Yes! And tell him that mother wants him home by ten o’clock tonight!” (y/n) responded as she waved goodbye.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Credence spoke up.

(y/n) looked back to face Credence. “I have two older brothers, actually,” she told him. “Aaron and Channing. Eddy is Aaron’s friend. They met at Oxford University. He and my brother both work for my father now, so he’s around often. He can be a bit... overbearing sometimes, but he means well.”

“And your other brother?”

“Channing is only a year older than me, so he’s twenty. He’s my best friend,” she revealed. “He isn’t here, though—in New York, I mean. He’s currently studying abroad in Japan.”

“Japan?”

“Crazy, isn’t it? Between you and me, I think he’s only there to follow this Japanese girl he met. And I don’t blame him! I met her before and she’s very beautiful, sweet too! Though, I do miss him a lot. Sometimes I wonder if I should have gone with him when I had the chance.”

Credence looked down at his feet as he listened. For some reason, the thought saddened him. Did she miss her brother so much that she would end up leaving for Japan one day? Would he never see her again? Would she miss him if she did? He didn’t want her to go. He wanted her to stay so they could keep meeting like this. So he could see her face and have her smile at him so kindly, like she always did. Her brother might miss her, but he needed her.

Credence felt so selfish for thinking such things. How could he possibly think he deserved her time? If he told her what he truly thought, how would she react?

As if she could read his thoughts, (y/n) took a step closer to him. He picked his head up to face her and saw that she was smiling up at him.

“But, if I had done that, then I wouldn’t have met you,” she says.

Just as quickly as his deprecating thoughts had come, they left once her words reached his ears. Credence could only stare at her in disbelief.

“And he sends me letters every month, so, I guess it's all right,” she chuckled. “So, how have you been?” She asked, bringing him out of his daze.

“I...I’ve been well,” he says.

“I’m glad,” she smiles. Her eyes travel down his form. A small crease forms in the middle of her brows as she tilts her head to the side. “You still haven’t gotten yourself a coat, I see.”

Credence looked down at his clothes as though he had forgotten what he had on. “No, I haven’t.”

She cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brows. “I suppose I could just buy you one.”

Credence shook his head, not wanting to inconvenience her for a second time. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I wasn’t really asking,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Really.”

She stared at him for a moment, squinting her eyes slightly. “Fine, then.” She began unbuttoning her coat. Credence watched her, confused by the sudden action.

“W-What are you doing?” He asked.

“If you won't let me buy you a coat, then I won't wear one either,” she says simply.

Credence furrowed his brows. “But you’ll be cold.”

She scoffed. “And you’re not?”

Credence was rendered speechless. A small smirk curled on her painted lips. “Either you let me buy you a coat, or I won’t wear one at all. I can’t walk with you knowing you’re freezing and I’m perfectly comfortable.”

She was impossible. No matter what he says, she would always find a way to make him give in.

“O-Okay,” he concedes.

(y/n) grinned brightly, fixing her coat back over her shoulders and hooking her arm around his as she had once before.

“This will be fun!” She beamed.

She led him back in the direction she had come while eagerly telling him about the boutique she knew would have the best selection for him. He increasingly became more comfortable in her presence. He even properly engaged in conversation, much to her delight. And whenever she smiled up at him, he found himself smiling too.

The boutique wasn’t far—about three blocks away to be exact. It was a small blue shop with gold painted windows. Through them, Credence could see posed mannequins dressed in all kinds of fancy coats, dresses, and suits. Written above the entrance in the scripted font was a sign that read: Vendicci’s.

Upon entering the store, their ears were filled with Italian opera. The shop appeared to be empty. There were no other shoppers, and the front counter was left unattended. Credence followed her to the counter. On its surface was a small golden bell that she tapped lightly. The bell rang, signaling their presence.

Shuffling could be heard from the back of the shop, catching their attention. From the back of the shop, they could hear harsh whispers and unintelligible curses. A short, thin man came stumbling in. He had dark olive skin and chestnut brown curls that fell around his Grecian face. He was disheveled—the first three buttons of his pink dress shirt were unbuttoned, and the fabric of his pressed white pants were creased. Without looking, the man made his way to the back of the counter, mumbling in a language he couldn’t make out.

Following behind him was a woman equally disheveled in appearance. Her short black hair stuck up in odd places, and she had missed one button of her blouse. She wandered the shop, to mind some clothes on the rack as the man drew near to the front counter.

“Stupidi Americani... Sorry, we are closed for now. You can come back later when—,” The man stopped when his eyes landed on her.

(y/n) smirked. “Hello, Raül,” she waved.

“Bella!” He gasped and hurried towards her with open arms. “How wonderful to see you!” He said in a thick Mediterranean accent. He placed hands on her shoulders and pulled her in to kiss both of her cheeks. “You look even more lovely since the last I saw you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Raül,” she chuckled.

“Where have you been?” He pouts. “It’s been so long I’ve barely been able to survive without you.”

“I’m sorry, Raül, I’ve been trying to be more mindful of how I spend my money,” she explains.

“Mind your money here! I have so many new items you would look molto bella in. I saved them just for you,” he winked.

“That’s sweet of you, Raül. I promise I will come by and try them on at another time.”

Suddenly, the man became aware of Credence’s presence in the room. He looked at him like something had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Raül raised a skeptical brow and asked with pursed lips, “Is this man with you?”

“Yes, he is,” she says as a matter-of-fact. “We’d like to buy a coat. Something thick for the winter.”

Raül nodded and hummed, turning back to face her. “You’re just in luck,” he says. “Early this week I got a shipment straight from Italia: a fine selection of winter coats designed by Feliciano Romano himself.”

(y/n) gasped, clasping her hands together. “That’s fantastic! We’ll try those first!”

She took Credence by the arm and they followed him through the shop where they came upon a round archway covered by red velvet curtains. Raül pulled back the heavy curtains to reveal a separate room. It was small. The carpet was also red to match the curtains and the loveseats and chairs that decorated the room. In the center of the floor, was a circular platform. Above it was a circular ring of white drapes that had been pulled up. Across from the platform was a wall of mirrors, reflecting the room from different angles.

The woman from earlier had come in as well. With her, she brought along a rack filled with many expensive coats. She pulled it to the side of the room, right next to the platform. Raül thanked the woman with a playful pat on her buttcheek.

Credence blushed, having put two-and-two together about what was going on between the two co-workers before he and (y/n) had shown up. (y/n) was unfazed at all by the promiscuous interaction. Instead, she took off her coat and hat and threw them on one of the sofas facing the platform before taking a seat.

“Let’s begin!” Raül said excitedly.

“Stand up there, Credence.” (y/n) pointed to the platform. Credence did as he was told, and stepped onto the raised surface, awkwardly awaiting more instruction.

The dark-haired woman came up to Credence with a large coat in her arms. He didn’t need to put it on to know it wasn’t something that would suit him. She stood behind him and slipped the sleeves of the coat over his arms and shoulders. The coat itself was heavy enough to make him slouch slightly and tense his leg muscles to carry the added weight. The warm fabric engulfed his lanky form. It was made of strange, thick fur—not mink, but from another animal, he couldn’t guess. It was dark brown, and in some areas, it looked black. The length of the coat ended just above his ankles and the sleeves practically covered his hands, the tips of his fingers were all that were visible.

It was definitely a coat well suited for a more muscular type of man. It was the kind of coat that would be perfect for a large Russian mobster. However, on his lanky form, it just looked plain silly. (y/n) looked at him in the mirror, catching his eye.

“Do you like it?” She asks. “Be honest. I won’t buy you something you don’t like.”

“It’s fine,” he lied.

“Absolutely not!” Raül said as he took a step onto the platform and stood in front of Credence, looking him over intently. “I never thought I would say this to anyone, but, my dear, sable is not for you.”

“You don’t think so?” (y/n) chimed in.

“Miss (l/n)!” He gasped. “You are my most fashionable client! Tell me you don’t think this works for him!”

She looked him up and down, a smile stretching across her lips. “I think he looks cute,” she says. “like a cuddly bear.”

Credence blushed and shied away from her gaze. Raül tuts his tongue and rolls his eyes. “Well, he must be the skinniest bear in the forest,” he mutters as he pulls the coat off Credence’s shoulders.

“Want to try another one?” She asked. Credence nodded.

Raül went through the rack before pulling out another coat for him to try. He found one he thought might look best and took it off its hook before helping Credence try it on.

After he helped him slip his arms in, he took a step back to look him over. “How's this?”

It was a slim-fitting burnt orange fox fur coat that stopped halfway. It had a low collar and large brown buttons that trailed from his chest to the hem. He noticed how it was tighter around his waist and made his hips look bigger than he’d like. He thought it was a coat he would see on a woman. 

“It’s a bit bright for winter, don’t you think?” She pointed out.

“Nothing is ever too bright,” Raül argued.

She squinted at Credence’s reflection in the mirror, pondering the look. His face burned red and he silently pleaded she disliked the coat as well. His flustered expression made her stifle a fit of giggles. “I think we’ll try another one,” she smirked.

Raül sighs and slips the coat off Credence’s shoulders, much to his relief. The next coat was a black and white trench with large black buttons and a belt. Credence stood uncomfortably in front of the critical pair.

Raül crossed his arms, a small approving smile plastered on his lips. “Now this, I like!”

“I don’t know...” She hummed. “What do you think, Credence?”

“It’s itchy,” he says.

“It’s tweed,” Raül said, as though it made it better.

She giggled and looked at Raül. “Another?”

They went through several different coats, most of which were unflattering or uncomfortable. Credence thought the others were doing it on purpose — at least, he felt like she was. There was something about the playful smirk that curled the corners of her lips whenever he was dressed in a seemingly ridiculous or feminine coat that made him feel as though she had taken joy in dressing him up and watching his cheeks turn red from embarrassment whenever she expressed how ‘cute’ he looked. While there may have been no initial mal-intent when she initially insisted on buying him a coat, he was starting to feel like she was toying with him; teasing him for her own pleasure. 

Raül pulled another unsatisfying coat off of his shoulders only to replace it with another. The weighted coat comfortably slipped onto his shoulders. When Raül properly fit the coat onto him, he took a step back, a small smile gracing his features. Credence turned his neck to look back at (y/n) who had a similar expression of approval.

“Wow.” She whispered.

The coat was indeed impressive in a simplistic kind of way. It wasn’t too flashy or extraordinary. Just a simple black trench that fell to his knees. It was a sharp, angular cut, one that seemed to broaden his shoulders to imitate a somewhat muscular appearance. The shade of black complimented his pale skin and matched his raven locks, making him appear more porcelain than before. 

“Magnifico! So handsome, like a dark prince!” Raül cheered. His assistant then too voiced her agreement.

(y/n) moved from the sofa to the platform where Credence stood. She eyed him closely, circling him before stopping in his eye-view. She ran her hands up his arms, feeling the material under her skin. She dragged them up and across his shoulders, before stopping at his chest. Credence’s heart drummed against his chest, excited by her touch. He wondered if she could feel it through the coat.

“Do you like it?” she asked him.

“I do,” he says, truthfully this time.

She smiled and turned to face Raül. “We’ll take it!”

(y/n) left with Raül and the woman from earlier to pay for the dashing coat, leaving Credence alone in the dressing room. He looked himself over in the mirror, admiring how he looked in the black material. He couldn’t deny how good he looked in it. For the first time he looked, normal. Better than normal—he looked like a proper gentleman. Sure, a real ritz could snuff him out in a heartbeat, but to the average New Yorker, he could pass for someone on the same caliber as (y/n). It was like looking at the version of him he always wanted to be.

It wasn’t long before the fleeting fantasy soured. The rational part of his brain picked at the flaws of this entire interaction. How would he explain to his mother where he got such an expensive coat? If she saw him wearing it, she would definitely ask questions he was afraid to answer. Either way, he knew he couldn’t be seen with it on while she was around. But he couldn’t throw it away; not when she went through all the trouble of buying it for him. And it was such a nice coat... Credence shook the worries from his mind. He couldn’t think about it now. 

After (y/n) paid for the coat, the two bid Raül goodbye and ventured back out into the cold. Already, Credence noticed a stark difference of the cold with the coat protecting his skin. It dulled the nipping chill that never left during the winter months. 

“Much better, isn’t it? ‘Not cold’ my ass,” she snarked playfully. She fished around her coat pocket and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves. “Take these.”

Credence eyed the gloves questionably. (y/n) sighed and took his hand from his side, sliding the gloves on before doing the same with the other. “There,” she grinned. “I wasn’t sure if these were gonna be the right size, but look! They’re perfect!”

“But... you didn’t have to buy these for me,” said Credence.

“I didn’t buy them,” she says. “Raül gave them to me—well, to you. He says those gloves must go with that coat. I have to say I agree; they really complete the look.” She began walking down the street again, prompting him to follow her. “And don’t worry about the coat, okay? Like I said before, it’s on me,” she reminded him.

Credence still felt couldn’t accept something so valuable without thanking her. She bought him a coat because she cared about how he was feeling, just like when she helped him off the street all those weeks ago. He felt indebted to her—grateful to her. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he returned the favor tenfold. 

To her, this was obvious. She could tell buying the coat bothered him. He was so tense. He probably would never relax around her unless he somehow proved that he deserved to. Perhaps she can help him see. She glanced at the taller boy from the corner of her eye.

“But,” she sighed. “If you’re still looking for some way to repay me, I can think of something I’d like you to do.”

Credence perked up. “Really? What is it?”

She grins up at him, showing her pearly white teeth. “Go on a date with me.”

Credence’s eyes widened. “W-What?”

(y/n) chuckled. “If you don’t want to go on a date with me, that’s fine.”

“No!” He said all too desperately. He blushed at his own excitement. “I mean... Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“It’s why I suggested it, isn’t it?”

Credence blushed. A date? He’d imagined taking her on a date in his head about a hundred times. He thought of what he might say and do on the chance he got to be alone with her again. Maybe this time he’ll follow through.

“Okay,” he gave in. “Where do you want to go?”

“How eager are you!” She laughed. “I didn’t even say when and you’re already trying to sweep me off my feet, huh? Either that or you’re just trying to get rid of me.”

“T-That’s not how I meant it!” he stammered.

(y/n) giggled at his demise. “I’m just teasing you, Bunny. No need to turn so red,” she smirked.

She didn’t help his case when she slipped her arm between his to link their arms. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to her being so close to him. No matter how many times she touched him, he always managed to get flustered. It’s probably why she did it so much, just to see him blush.

“Now is as good a time as any,” she said while smiling up at him. “Are you hungry? I’m starving!”

They walked through the city together, arm in arm. Unlike last time, Credence attempted to be more interactive with her. (y/n) was definitely the more dominant converser, but his attempts to be more engaging with her didn’t go unnoticed. He asked her the questions that have been collecting in his head since they met.

He asked her what she did in her spare time (paint) and what her favorite food was (chocolate). He learned that she was a Columbia scholar currently on break and that she recently adopted a hairless cat named Onyx (it was the only cat her father wasn’t allergic to). Talking with her became easy. He even made her laugh a few times.

While they walked, Credence felt like they passed about twenty different restaurants and cafés he thought she would like. But whenever he thought they were about to stop, she kept going. He was wondering where exactly she was taking him. 

“Are we eating somewhere in particular?” He asked discreetly.

(y/n) nodded and hummed. “I’m taking you to one of the best places on earth. Salone’s! It’s not that far from here. It’s been a while since I’ve been, but I’m really craving it. Have you ever been there before?” She asked.

Credence shook his head. “Never,” he said, causing her to gasp dramatically.

“Oh, now we definitely have to go! What kind of person would I be if I let you go on living without experiencing God’s gift to man? And by ‘God’ I mean Dixie Salone, the owner.”

When they turned the corner, there was a small restaurant named Salone’s across the street. Taking precautious measures, (y/n) gingerly led Credence across the street and to the restaurant. When they opened the door, the smell of grease and peanuts filled the air. The place was reasonably packed, with average looking people all looking at them as they entered the room. (y/n) looked out of place in her rather extravagant attire, though now—with her on his arm and his new coat—he probably looked just as pretentious as she.

If (y/n) noticed the leering eyes of the other customers, she didn’t show it. Instead, she scoured the area for a place to sit, before landing on a booth tucked away in the back. They claimed the booth for themselves. Credence took the booth facing the door, shedding his outer attire and tucking it away in the seat corner. (y/n) slid into the seat across from him, shrugging off her coat and hat, revealing her clothes underneath.

Underneath the mound of fur, was a matching white dress. Unaccommodating to the weather, the dress underneath hung off her shoulders. It had long sleeves, but the upper half of her chest and her shoulders were exposed. Though, Credence figured when you have fur to wear over your clothes, it doesn’t matter much what you wear under it. The fabric was velvet, which must have also helped. From what he could see, it hugged her body well. Credence looked down at his hands on his lap, realizing he had been staring a bit too long. Lucky for him, she hadn’t noticed.

On the table were two menus placed before them. He looked down at the large printed sheet. Credence had never been to a restaurant before. He had eaten nowhere else but the church. He ate once a day (if he ate at all) and it was the same thing almost every time: porridge and stale bread. But on the menu before him, there was no porridge or stale bread at all. There was soup, steak, chicken, and almost every kind of pie. He felt his mouth watering just thinking about it. 

“Don’t bother looking at the menu,” (y/n) told him, gaining his attention. “I’m going to order for you. This place is really only good for two things, everything else is subpar, trust me.”

He looked at the menu again, mildly disappointed. He was looking forward to trying fried chicken. He took a moment to look around the diner. Most of the people there looked like working classmen: factory workers or nannies. Some still wore their uniforms under layers of sweaters and scarves. Others wore regular everyday clothes. Many of those who eyed them upon their entry returned their attention to their food and prior conversations. Though, there were a few that still snuck looks at their table in the back. Some were harmless, like the little girl who was staring at (y/n) in awe. Some were more menacing, like the rugged-looking man sitting on a stool by the counter who seemed annoyed by their presence.

(y/n) noticed that Credence’s eyes were shifting around the room pointedly. “Is something the matter?” She asked.

“It’s just...” He began. “I never thought you would be the type to eat at a place like this.”

“I guess it does seem a bit funny, huh? I look like someone who’d frequent an uptown steakhouse, right?” She chuckled. “Truth is, I’ve never had a big part in that lifestyle. Banquets and fine dining, I mean. It’s all fake and pretentious. But this—” she gestured to the room around them. “This is real. The food is real. The people are real. Do you know what I mean?”

Credence nodded. “I think so.”

“Some of my favorite memories take place here. My father would take me here when I was little on his days off. It was one of the happiest times of my life. I guess I wanted to relive that with you today.”

Credence took notice in the look in her eyes. He could tell that recalling such memories saddened her. He didn’t like seeing her upset, but, at the same time, he was glad she wanted to share something so important to her with him. One day, he hoped to do the same.

Not long after that, a young woman dressed in a red dress and a white apron with a stitched red S on the bottom corner walked up to their table with a notepad in hand.

“Hello and welcome to Salone’s, what can I get the lovely couple today?” The waitress asked. Credence couldn’t help but blush after being referred to as a couple.

“Yes,” (y/n) said happily. “Today we’ll—” she stopped mid-sentence before glancing at Credence across the table. She smirked and waved the waitress down to her.

The waitress smiled and got down on her knees next to her. (y/n) grabbed a menu and held it in front of their faces so Credence couldn’t tell what she was whispering. He watched in confusion as (y/n) whispered their order to the waitress.

The waitress nodded, and every once in a while he heard her giggle. “Yes, alright... okay... got it!”

The woman stood back up on her feet and smiled down at the two diners. “If you two just wait here, I will be right back with your orders,” she said cheerfully before trotting off.

“What did you get?” Credence asked once she had left.

(y/n) shook her head and held her fingers to her lips to imitate the motion of closing a zipper. “It’s a surprise,” she winked.

Credence nodded, having decided to trust her decision. In the meantime, while they waited for their food, (y/n) engaged in another conversation with him. It was a continuation of their earlier conversation about pets. (y/n) wanted to know if Credence had any pets. When he told her he never had a pet, she asked him what kinds of animals he likes. He told her that he never met many other animals before. He’d seen many rats in his life, but that just came with the joys of living in New York City. But he thought it appropriate to mention he once made a bond with a stray cat when he was younger.

It was a black skinny thing, with a chewed off ear, and part of its tail was missing. One day, when he’d been left out on the streets as a punishment (he told her he was walking home), the cat came up to him and was begging for food. Lucky for the cat, he had a piece of bread in his pocket. He gave it to the sad creature, and it ate it from his hand. He’d never pet a cat before then, but he liked how it’s fur felt when he brushed it, and the sounds of the cat’s meows. After he told her that story, he stated that he probably liked cats the best.

“We’re just alike! Maybe one day I can take you to meet Onyx,” she suggested.

The corners of Credence’s lips curled up softly. “I’d like that,” he said.

Just then, the woman from earlier came up to them with their order on a large silver platter. The waitress placed the hot food onto the table, along with their drinks before leaving them to enjoy their meal. Credence looked down at the plate of food in front of him.

“Burgers?”

“Burgers,” she repeated excitedly. “If there’s one thing this place can make, it’s a damn good burger. Well, that and a mean vanilla milkshake! The fries aren’t half bad either,” she says as she pops one in her mouth.

Meat and fried potatoes filled his nostrils. The burger was as big as the plate it came on. The sesame bun was soft and round, and the edges appeared to be lightly toasted. Crunchy lettuce, cheese, and two slices of bacon coated in mayonnaise and ketchup poked out from the sides on top of a thick beef patty. (y/n) smiled in amusement as she watched Credence carefully take the burger in his hands. His eyes were practically sparkling with excitement.

“Go on,” she encouraged. “Take your first bite! I want to see the look on your face when the juicy meat hits your tongue.”

Credence glanced at her across the table, before opening his mouth and taking a generous bite out of the hefty burger. Various flavors overstimulated his senses. The beef and pork collided with the onions, lettuce, cheese, and condiments to create an unfamiliar taste he’d never experienced before. The meat was succulent and juicy, just as she said it would be. The cut of the beef was thick and chewy, and the bacon was crispy and flavorful. The bun was soft and crunchy and tasted as though it was toasted with butter. It wasn’t stale at all! It was like it came fresh out of the bakery just before it wound up on his plate. 

It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

“Well?”

Credence hadn’t even realized he closed his eyes, but when he opened them, (y/n) was looking at him expectantly. He swallowed the delicious food and licked his lips greedily, chuckling softly.

“It’s good,” he smiled.

A wide grin stretched across her painted lips. It was the first time he’d laughed around her.

“You have a pretty smile, you know that?” She told him.

Credence’s cheeks reddened for the thirtieth time that day, and he lowered his head to hide it from her.

(y/n) chuckled softly before taking his basket of fries. “Here.” She took the red ketchup bottle from the side of the table and drizzled the condiment over the fries in a zig-zag pattern before sliding the basket back towards him.

“Thank you,” he muttered bashfully through a mouth full of food.

“You’ve got ketchup on the side of your mouth,” she told him.

Without thinking, he stuck his tongue out to lick the spot clean. (y/n) smirked in amusement, watching him do so, finding it cute.

“Did I get it?” He asked.

She snickered and reached her hand across the table to the side of his face. Her thumb gently swiped the corner of his mouth. The action took him by surprise. He sat tensely as she did it. It was a quick moment— a gentle touch, and yet his entire body burned with heat at the contact. When she pulled away and leaned back in her seat, the warmth still lingered. She looked him in the eyes, not breaking contact as she brought her thumb to her lips. The pink flesh of her tongue darted out and lewdly flattened against the pad of her thumb, cleaning it of the ketchup.

Credence felt his body ache at the simple action, the tips of his ears burning incredibly hot. (y/n), who was by no means ignorant to the effect she had on him, could only smirk and marvel at the rosy tint of his cheeks. Credence was grateful she didn’t draw attention to it. It was easier to hide how flustered she made him when they were outside, and he could blame his feverishness on the cold. Now that they were inside and it was warm, it made it harder to deny. He couldn’t bear being teased by her further, he felt like he might explode. She must have sensed it too, because she made no other moves to make him blush after that. She acted as though it didn’t happen and continued to eat her food. Credence then too returned to eating, praying that the ache he felt went away. 

It did, with the help of other distractions. (y/n) continued innocent conversation as they ate to keep the peace. As they talked she could tell that her earlier display still hindered his interaction. While they talked, she’d notice his eyes would linger on her lips rather than her eyes; and whenever they did lock eyes, he would trip over his words and look away.

It was cute, she thought.

Before she could decide to tease him further, the waitress had returned to their table, having noticed that their plates had practically been licked clean. She asked if they were finished with their plates, and they both nodded.

As she collected their dishes she asked, “Can I interest you two in some dessert?”

(y/n) pursed her lips and turned to Credence. “What do you think? Still have room for more, pretty boy?”

Credence flushed.  “I-I’ve never had a milkshake before,” he stammered, referring to the claim she made earlier.

She smiled, before gingerly holding up a finger to the waitress. “We’ll have one large vanilla milkshake with extra cherries, please!”

The waitress returned her smile and winked. “Coming right up!”

It wasn’t long before she came back with the milkshake. It came in a large glass cup filled with vanilla milkshake and topped off with a generous swirl of whipped cream. It was decorated with a cherry, but the extra cherries (y/n) asked for layered the bottom of the glass. The waitress placed the glass on the center of the table between the two. She handed them two big, red and white striped straws before leaving them once more. They both took one and put it into the glass.

(y/n) smiled eagerly at Credence across the table. “You get the first sip,” she said.

He thanked her as he leaned forward and wrapped his lips around his straw. He sucked on it how he normally would without realizing how thick the milkshake was. (y/n) watched him struggle for a moment as he nearly ran out of breath trying to suck the ice cream up the straw. He got it eventually, the cool, sweet, vanilla filling his mouth. It wasn’t what he was expecting at all. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, really, but he just knew that the taste surprised him. He never had sweets before. Sugar is a gluttonous indulgence that Mary Lou found sinful. But as the sticky sweet cream slid down his throat, he wondered if all sin was just pleasures he was being denied.

He didn’t have to tell her he liked it. It was written all over his face. It was probably the most relaxed she’s ever seen him. She enjoyed seeing him that way, with a small smile on his face and flushed cheeks. Credence was so invested in the milkshake, (y/n) was sure he would drink it all if she didn’t get her sips in. Credence nearly choked when he looked up and saw her face mere inches from his own, sipping on the other straw in the glass.

She didn’t seem to mind at all, being so close to him. Her eyes were closed as she sipped. Her curled lashes brushed against her full cheeks and her glossy lips circled the straw delicately. This close, he could see the texture of her (s/c) skin, seeing the few freckles and moles that decorated her features he hadn’t noticed before.

When she did open her eyes, he didn't look away. This time he looked in her eyes and saw for the first time that her eyes weren’t just one shade of (e/c), but a combination of different shades and colors to make the color that was distinctly her’s. Similarly, she saw that his eyes were a deep brown, almost black if it weren't for the few streaks of chocolate brown and burgundy that reflected in the light.

(y/n)’s lips curled into a smile. She bashfully looked away from his eyes and into the glass. The two drank in comfortable silence, savoring both the milkshake and the tender moment. They drank the contents of the glass, leaving nothing but the leftover cream and cherries at the bottom. They wouldn’t go to waste. Cherries must have been (y/n)’s favorite because ate most of them. She did however offer one to Credence for him to try. She held the cherry by the stem and encouraged him to take a bite. He thought it was a bit embarrassing that she insisted on feeding it to him, but he took the cream covered fruit into his mouth and found it just as sweet—if not sweeter—than the milkshake itself.

She let him eat the remaining cherries himself. While he was eating, he watched (y/n) gather her things, putting on her coat before sliding out of the booth.

“I’m going to go pay while you finish,” she told him as she got up.

She walked over to the front counter where the waitress was counting money from the cash register. Credence watched as the two women talked. (y/n) smiled at the waitress and said something that made her laugh. She reached into her purse and pulled out several bills. She handed it to the waitress, who looked at the cash in her hands with wide eyes.

“For me?” He overheard the waitress ask. When (y/n) nodded, the young girl squealed in excitement and rushed from the counter to hug her. The two stumbled due to the unexpected force, but (y/n) didn’t seem to mind. She laughed and hugged the waitress back, patting her back in a friendly manner. Credence, having finished his cherries, got up to stand by (y/n)’s side.

“Thank you so much, miss!” Credence heard the waitress gush as he came up.

“It’s nothing, you deserve it,” (y/n) insisted. (y/n) turned her attention from the young girl to Credence beside her when she felt his presence. She looked up at him with a smile. “Are you ready to go?” She asked him. He nodded.

The waitress looked between the two and grinned softly. “You two make a sweet couple,” she said.

(y/n) returned the grin, hooking her arm around Credence and leaning her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, playing into the waitress’s assumptions.

“You two have a blessed day!” The waitress left to tend to a waiting customer leaving him victim to (y/n)’s smug grin. At this point, even his neck was red. (y/n) couldn’t help but find  it amusing. No matter how flustered he got, he wouldn’t protest.

She lightly squeezed his arm, making him look down at her. “Are you ready to go, pretty boy?” She asked him.

It was the second time she called him that, and it was just as startling as the first time. The pet name made his heart swell in his chest and his brain stutter. But again, he didn’t protest. He just nodded his head and turned his face away to hide his reddened cheeks. (y/n) giggled, satisfied with the reaction she got, and they both walked out of the restaurant and back into the cold.

Outside, the snow had stopped falling, but the sidewalks were still slick with slush and ice. (y/n) took a deep breath, breathing in the crisp air as she looked up at the sky.

“Is it that late all ready?” She muttered to herself, her happy features falling slightly. Despite the heavy, grey clouds blanketing the sky, they could still see the sun shining brightly behind them. Credence too looked up at the sky. From what he could tell, it was around three in the afternoon..

He turned to (y/n). “Do you have to go now?” He asked her regrettably.

Her eyes fell down from the sky to his own. Her lips pressed into a small smile and shook her head. “Not just yet,” she said.

“Why don’t you walk with me to the park.” She demanded more than asked and pulled him off down the sidewalk.

He walked with (y/n) a little while longer, back towards the park. Along the way, (y/n) would stop outside shops and look at the items displayed in the windows. Some things of the things she expressed an interest in were for her, sometimes she would see an item and would say something along the lines of “Mom would love this” or “Aaron has something like this”. But sometimes she would stop and turn to Credence and ask, “Do you like this?”

He had to talk her out of buying him things multiple times. She seemed so eager to spoil him. She wanted to buy him a new pair of shoes and a watch she’d seen on display. There was an expensive-looking suit outside of a tailor’s shop, and her eyes practically sparkled upon seeing it. She tried to convince him to go in and try it on, but he knew if he did, she would end up buying it for him. How he deterred her from the idea was a miracle in itself. But eventually, she dropped the idea, and the two continued on their walk. 

The two reached the park without buying a single thing. When they reached the entrance of the park, (y/n) stopped, and pulled away from his side. Credence halted in his tracks, turning around to face her. He looked down at her as she smiled up at him.

“Do you have anywhere to go after this?” She asked him.

Credence shook his head. His mother wouldn’t be expecting him until dark.

She pursed her lips and tilted her as if in thought as she sighed.

“Should I just kidnap you?”

The question took him by surprise. (y/n) laughed at the perturbed look on his face. “I’m joking, Credence,” she said between snorts. “I won’t kidnap you. Not unless you want me to.”

Credence smiled softly, letting out a soft chuckle of his own. This made (y/n) smile even bigger than before. She took a coy step closer to him, taking one of his gloved hands in her own and swinging it playfully.

“I had fun today, Credence,” she told him. “As first dates go, this is probably the best one I’ve ever been on.”

“Just probably?” Credence mumbled jokingly.

(y/n) smirked, amused by the sudden remark. “Yeah, just probably.”

Credence looked down at their hands, admiring how small her hands were compared to his. Somehow he hadn’t realized just how much shorter than him she was. He always felt smaller than her. He didn’t mind it: feeling small. It was different from how other people made him feel small; like his mother or strangers on the street. They made him feel tiny, like a bug— like something disgusting and inconvenient. To them, he was something they could easily step on. But with her, it was different.

With her, he felt small, like a flower. And to him, she was the sun. She was so big and so bright. Whenever she was around, he felt alive. And whenever she wasn’t, he felt like he might die. He didn’t mind feeling small around her, because, at least when he’s with her, he is consumed by light. 

“I had fun too,” Credence spoke up. “I really enjoy spending time with you, Miss (l/n).”

“Are you always this formal?” She teases despite her obvious blushing. “I enjoy spending time with you too, Mister Barebone.”

She gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before letting go. She brushed past him, striding down the street. Credence watched her as she walked, his heart sinking just a little.

As though she could sense it, (y/n) looked at him over her shoulder as she walked and grinned. “Don’t look so sad,” she yelled to him. “I’ll find you again.”

With a chaste wink, she disappeared around the corner and away from his line of vision, leaving him with a full stomach and an even fuller heart.

That night, Credence returned home alone. He reluctantly walked back to the crooked chapel. His mind was fogged with thoughts of her. When he came to the front of what he, unfortunately, called ‘home’, he hesitated to go in. He looked through each window. It was dark inside. Could everyone have fallen asleep already?

He looked down at the coat on his body. He quickly shrugged the heavy material off of his shoulders and folded it in his arms before quietly entering the house. The house seemed empty, and it was almost too quiet. He pushed his way through the dark and carefully made his way up the stairs as to not make a sound. He’d gotten good at being quiet in the house. He memorized each squeaky board and mastered the art of moving in silence despite his height. 

He crept up the stairs as he’d done many times and tip-toed to his bedroom, where he then quietly shut his door. Once he heard the door click softly, he released his breath and sighed in relief.

His room wasn’t much. It was small and comprised a bed with an old iron frame, an armoire, a sink, and a metal tub that he uses to bathe. He looked down at the coat in his hands. He moved to the armoire by his bed and opened its doors. There wasn’t much inside; he had little to put in it, anyway. But today, he would be thankful for that. 

The armoire was a rather fancy piece of furniture. It stood out in his otherwise destitute room. The armoire was just as old and worn out as the rest of the room, but it wasn’t hard to tell it was an ornamental relic of the 19th century. It had enough space to fill two weeks’ worth of clothes. It was almost offensive how little there was inside it. One detail about it was its hollow bottom. Credence could slide the bottom plank of wood to reveal a cubbyhole. Its original purpose must have been for shoes or winter blankets, but now it would serve a new purpose. 

Credence kneeled on the ground and packed the coat neatly into the cubby before throwing his new gloves on top. They fit perfectly inside and he was allowed to slide the wooden plank back on with ease. With that accomplished, he rose to his feet and closed the armoire doors. He began undressing, stripping his clothes until he was left in nothing but his boxers.

It was as cold in the house as it was outside, but credence had no pajamas that would keep him warm. He had but one pair of old satin pajamas that were too small for him. He decided not to wear them tonight. The naturally cool material wouldn’t provide him warmth or comfort.

After putting away his dirtied clothes, Credence fell back on his bed and stared up at the rotting ceiling above him. As he lay there, his mind would drift to the memories of his ‘date’. Just thinking about her made his heart beat faster. He pictured her in his mind, reliving the time he spent with her.

It was the most surreal thing. Being with her made him feel things he never felt before. She made his heart flutter and his cheeks warm in a pleasantly addicting way. When he was with her, he forgot everything bad. There was no anxiety, no judgment, no harsh words, or abuse. He was just a normal man with a normal woman. He wished he could feel that way all the time.

His hand reached behind his head and slipped under his pillow to retrieve the soft pink piece of fabric he kept there. He held it up in front of him, rubbing it between his fingers. The moonlight from his window reflected on its threads, and he could read the stitched initials in the corner.

“(y/n)...” He whispered her name so tenderly. Just saying her name aloud made his lips tingle. He loved saying her name for the simple reason that it was her name. He would say it a thousand times aloud if he could.

He brought the cloth down to his nose and inhaled its scent. Her fragrance still lingered on the soft fabric, clouding his senses. Credence felt a familiar stirring rise in his stomach. Heat rose to his cheeks, and he pressed his legs together. His mind flashed to the other day in the church, remembering the lewd images of her he had fantasized about. A part of him was ashamed. Sexual desire was a sin he shouldn’t act upon. It was a vile, disgusting act. That’s what the church told him, at least. And his mother would have no part of it either.

Mary Lou made sure to reprimand him whenever she suspected him of sexual temptation, so much so he shied away from girls all together. Yet recently, he’s felt a bumbling desire well up inside of him. He knew what it was; he felt it before. Only once before had he fallen victim to his lusty desire. It had been in his adolescence. He was sleeping when he had a dream about a red-haired woman he’d seen on the street. She was most likely in her twenties at the time, but she was so captivating he remembered her face for a week. He dreamed of that red-haired woman touching and caressing him. She’d even kissed him like he’d seen couples on the street kiss. This mild fantasy woke him from his sleep with a shameful mess on his bed.

He was so humiliated and ashamed he rushed to confess to Mary Lou, who punished him greatly for his lasciviousness. He didn’t dream of the red-haired woman or any woman at all after that. That is, until he met her.

At first, his thoughts of her were innocent. He would fantasize about holding her hand and laying on her chest as he slept. She would caress his face and run her fingers through his hair.  He would give her chaste kisses on her cheek, and she would giggle and laugh, returning the favor. But that changed that day he went to church and listened to Father Blackwell’s sermon. That was the first time he thought of her in such an erotic way.

It was because of this he felt particularly suffocated by her presence today. He became even more aware of her touches. His eyes would stare at her lips more often and glance at the curves of her chest. He thought about how she held on to his arm; How warm and soft she was; Her small hands. He thought about how her finger felt brushing against his lip. About how her tongue darted between her plump lips to lap at her thumb.

Credence bit his lip to keep his whimpers from escaping. His thoughts were filled with images of her, his body reacted on its own. He curled on his side and pressed his legs together to relieve himself of his growing hardness. Instead of discouraging his growing lust, it seemed to only spur it on. The feeling of his thighs pressing against his length brushed an itch he desperately desired to scratch.

He wanted her by his side so terribly. If only he were as confident and manly as the men he saw on the street, she would be. If he were as confident as the man she was with today, then he could call her by her name. He too could take her by her delicate waist and kiss her cheeks. And, oh, did he wish to kiss her.

He wanted to kiss her many times today. He wanted to kiss her the moment he saw her. He wanted to kiss her again in the boutique when she pressed her hands on his chest, and again when she asked him to go on a date with her. He wanted to kiss her multiple times in the restaurant for teasing him so viciously, and he wanted to kiss her deeply before they said goodbye.

He imagined what it would be like to be that kind of man; what it would be like to have her with him now, and what he would do if she was. If she was there on his bed laying next to him, he would want to kiss her now as well. He would have her under him, staring up at him with her beautiful (e/c) eyes. He would brush the hair away from her face and stroke her cheek. Her hands would hold his sides and pull him closer so their bodies lay flat against each other. He would feel her and she would feel him. Her warmth would consume him, and their bodies would mold together.

Credence closed his eyes and smelled her pink handkerchief. If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend she was there.

“(y/n)...” He whispered her name once more. His hips rocked hesitantly, the undeniable bulge in his boxers was now too evident to ignore. Rocking his hips caused a pleasurable sensation in his stomach. It felt so good, he did it again... and again... and again; rocking his hips as he held her handkerchief to his nose and imagined her.

He thought of kissing her soft lips as he pressed into her, feeling her hands run up and down his sides as they had done before. He wanted to rock his hips against her like he was doing now. Would it feel as good for her as it felt for him? Would she breathe as heavy as he was now? Would she pant and whisper his name?

“A-ah...”

He panted lewdly, pleasuring himself with these thoughts. But it wasn't enough. He needed more.

He laid on his back on the bed. His body seemed to know what to do without thinking about it. He kept his eyes closed as his free hand snaked down his body to palm himself over his boxers. He rubbed himself through the fabric, his shallow breaths filling his ears. But to him it wasn't his hands, but hers; her soft, small hands touching him gently.

It was her delicate hands that slipped past the waistband of his boxers and gripped his length. It was her hands that stroked him slowly. She was there, whispering his name while he whispered hers. The more she stroked him, the shorter his breaths became. Each breath he took was filled with her scent. She consumed him, wrapping her essence around him, and filling his body with heat.

She stroked him faster as they kissed. He kissed her deeply, slipping his tongue past her lips as he’d seen couples do before. He could taste the cherries and vanilla on her tongue, as sweet as they were in the milkshake they’d shared. She moaned his name in her mouth, driving him crazy.

“Ha..-ahh. ahaa...”

More, he thought. All he could think about was how he wanted more. More of her scent, more of her touch, more of her.

Her hands became wet with his slick, gliding up and down his length with vigor. His body was overtaken with a foreign sensation, buzzing through his body, collecting where he wanted to be touched the most. The faster she stroked him, the better he felt. She felt good, so so good.

“H-Ha...-haaaa...(y/n)...”

He wanted to say her name over and over. He wanted to shout it, loud enough for the heavens to hear. He didn’t care if God heard him. He wanted God and the angels to hear so they would know how she made him feel. He was overwhelmed by love and lust for her. He wanted them to know that his body was hers and he willingly gave it to her. He wanted to touch her, please her, feel her.

His eyes clenched shut. Her hands pumped his twitching length excitedly, the buzzing heat collecting at his center. His legs began to shake, his back arching from the bed. Lavender and vanilla, that’s what he smelled as his vision blurred and the buzzing heat tingling in his core burst and was replaced with a cool wave of overwhelming pleasure.

His body trembled, somehow coated in a thin layer of sweat despite the room being cold. He stayed still, laying in silence as he let his body calm. When he finally opened his eyes, he half expected to see her hovering over him with that playful smile on her face, only to be met with the rotting rafters of his ceiling.

He sighed through his nose. Once the euphoric cloud in his mind cleared, shame and regret replacing his lusty desire, he moved from his bed to the sink across the room. He turned the knob and a low stream of water fell from the faucet. Taking the dingy rag that rested on the sink’s bowl, he wet it, using it to clean up his mess. As he wiped himself, he wondered if that was what sex was like. He never touched himself like that before, though he wanted to many times. Now that he had, the answer to his question was clear. Sins were just pleasures he was being denied. 

He returned to his bed, burying himself beneath the covers. He took the handkerchief back into his hand and held it by his face as he slept on his side. His eyes grew heavy, the scent of lavender slowly drifting him to sleep. A passing thought in his mind wondered if this is what it would feel like to sleep by her side. He would do anything to just hold her once, to lie on her chest and listen to the sounds of her breathing.

That was his last thought before falling asleep.

Several days would pass since the last time he saw her. They would be long, dreary days spent in the chapel. It snowed relentlessly for three days, making it impossible to venture out. During that time, he would clean and help Chastity serve meals to the orphans that sought refuge from the streets. The day when the snow finally ceased to fall, Mary Lou tasked him with shoveling the street in front of the chapel while she took Modesty and Chastity into town.

It was once he finished shoveling that he realized he had the rest of the day for himself. He pondered staying in the house for a moment, but quickly threw the idea. He couldn’t bear another minute in that house. Instead, he went on a walk. It wasn’t unusual for him to do this when he had the time. He would walk aimlessly just to get away. He only could afford to when his mother left him alone.

Today, Credence found himself at Central Park. It was no surprise that the park was packed. The low temperatures of the past week allowed the lake to freeze over, thick enough for people to skate on. Men, women, and children scattered across the area. Carolers were singing Christmas songs and street vendors peddled treats. It was a pleasant and lively scene.

He had almost forgotten that Christmas was so soon. He’d been so caught up with his duties it had slipped his mind. He liked Christmas, even though he didn’t celebrate it the way most people do. His mother forced him and his siblings to attend church on Christmas Day. But he could appreciate what others did on Christmas. He liked seeing the kids play in the snow, showing off their new toys. He liked the idea of parents spending time with their children by the fire. He even liked listening to Christmas songs that would play on repeat outside the record store.

Credence watched the people as he walked through the park. He liked to imagine himself in their place. Sometimes he was a kid playing fetch with his dog. Sometimes he was a woman making snow angels, or a man building a snowman. Right now, he was the man of a couple skating on the ice, holding hands with his partner. The pair laughed as they spun in circles, occasionally grasping at each other’s arms when they slipped.

He was too busy projecting he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. Like any other creature, he was susceptible to attack. He flinched as he felt icy-cold pellets burst against the back of his head. He heard a sharp gasp not far behind him, followed by a heap of childish giggles. Credence turned around, expecting to see a group of devious looking children. Imagine his surprise when he saw her standing ten feet away from him with a group of children looking incredibly guilty.

“Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry, Bunny! I was aiming for your shoulder, I swear!”

“(y/n)?” He muttered in disbelief.

How did she always appear in the least expected places? He stared her down as she rushed towards him. Today she was wearing a heavy, brown fur-lined coat and a green cloche hat that matched her boots. When she reached him, her hands immediately reached behind his head to dust the remaining remnants of her snowball from his hair.

She looked at him apologetically. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I feel like a total gink,” she pouted.

His cheeks burst into flames. The position she put him in had her chest brushing pressing against his as her hands brushed through his hair. At this angle he could see how neatly curled her hair was under her cap, falling in styled swirls around her face. Her swollen nose was red from the cold. Her breath that smelled distinctly of coffee beans warmed his cheeks.

Credence’s expression softened, a faint smile ghosting his lips. She was still apologizing to him, frantically brushing snow from his hair and shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he said in hopes to calm her. 

She closed her eyes and sighed. Her head lulled forward, hiding her face in his chest. “You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” He heard her muffled voice say.

Credence swallowed the lump in his throat and nervously licked his lips. This was the closest she’d ever been to him. He reached a dithering hand to grasp hers and rubbed the back of her gloved hand with his thumb.

“I’m not angry,” he assured her.

(y/n) lifted her head from his shoulders to meet his eyes, searching for any sign of irritation. “Are you sure? You can get me back, if you want.”

Credence nodded his head. “I’m sure.”

She believed him this time, her relief washing over her face. “I really am sorry,” she said one final time. “I just saw you walking past by chance and I wanted to surprise you.”

“I was surprised!” He said a bit too excitedly.

This made her laugh and playfully push his shoulder. Her laugh alone was enough to put a smile on his face, one that made dimples appear on his cheeks. He felt her hand firmly grasp his, holding it properly.

“Why aren’t you wearing your new coat and gloves?” She asked. “Don’t you like them?”

Credence had forgotten he wasn’t wearing the coat you got him. He couldn’t, not without his mother seeing it. If she knew about the coat—if she knew about him seeing you—she would be furious. He kept the coat (y/n) had given him hidden with the rest of the precious things she gave him. He wore the old navy blue coat out that Mary Lou had recently acquired and given to him. It wasn’t nearly as warm or stylish as the coat (y/n)  had gotten for him, but it was enough for the winter, and it was the only thing he could wear in front of his mother.

“I do like them,” he answered. “I was afraid of ruining it. I don’t want to wear it out too much.”

It was the best excuse he could think of at the time, and after mulling over it for a brief moment, she seemed to accept it. She then told him that, if he did end up damaging his new coat, she would simply buy him another, and spoke no more of it.

She nodded towards the lake behind him. “Did you come here to skate?”

Credence looked back to the lake. “Oh, no,” he said. “I never learned.”

Another gasp left her lips. “You’ve never been ice-skating before?”

He shook his head.

“Then we’ve got to fix that, now don’t we?” She reckoned.

Before he could ask what she meant, she’d already left his side. He looked in all directions until he saw her talking to an older couple sitting on a mess of picnic blankets under a tree. It appeared she’d asked him a question because their answer was a shake of their head. She waved goodbye to them before walking off to pursue another person, who gave the same answer. He watched her do this a few times around a small area of the park with no luck. At one point, she stood in the middle of the snow pondering while she scanned the area. Curious, Credence walked up to her.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Looking,” she replied simply.

Her squinted eyes panned across the park, her lips pursed as though she were thinking very hard about something.

“Ah!” She shouted, a triumphant smile stretching across her lips. She turned to Credence and winked. “Follow my lead.”

She walked down a small hill towards a small group of children who were playing in the snow at the bottom. Credence followed a few steps behind.

“Hey, kiddos,” She waved.

The kids stopped what they were doing to look up at her. She waved her hands towards her, beckoning them over. The children shared confused looks, before cautiously making their way towards her. She squatted down Asian style to meet their eyes. Credence stayed a couple of feet away, but he could still make out what was being said.

“Can you keep a secret?” He heard (y/n) ask the children.

The kids nodded and hummed in confirmation. (y/n) grinned.

“You see my friend over there?” She pointed behind her, directing the children’s attention to Credence. “He’s never been ice-skating before!”

The children snickered whispered teasingly among themselves. Credence looked away, embarrassed to be taunted by children. (y/n) giggled with them and easily brought back their attention.

“I really want to teach him,” She revealed once their jeering ceased. “But he’s so silly, he forgot to bring a pair of skates.”

“That is silly!” One of the little girls yelled.

(y/n) looked between Credence and the children. “Now, I see you have a pair of skates.” Sure enough, there were a pair of skates laying in the snow where the kids were once playing, far too big to fit on their small feet.

“Do they belong to any of you?” (y/n) asked.

“No,” The little girl shook her head. “They were already there.”

“We think someone left them by mistake,” An older boy chimed in.

“I see,” (y/n) hummed. “Do you think I can take them for my friend, then?”

“But we was gonna use ‘em! We saw them first!” A small blond boy frowned. (y/n) looked at the boy and flashed her kindest smile.

“Oh, were you now? How about I just borrow them? I’ll bring them right back to you, I pinky promise!” She held out her pinky for him to take. The boy looked at her hand in front of him. He lifted his hand and stretched out his pinky.

“I guess that’s okay...” He mumbled through puffed red cheeks.

(y/n) hooked hers around the boy. “Aren’t you sweet?” She affectionately pat the top of his head. “I hope my kid will be as kind as you are.”

The boy blushed and swat her hand away from his head, adjusting his hat. “Whatever, Lady!” The blond boy ran away, the rest of the children chased after him with childish taunts.

(y/n) chuckled and rose back to her feet. She walked up to where the skates were laying and picked them off the ground before making her way back to Credence’s side.

“Are you ready?” She asked excitedly.

Credence shrugged his shoulders, still processing the events of the last fifteen minutes. (y/n) scoffed and rolled her eyes, forcibly taking Credence’s hand.

“Just come on,” she groaned as she dragged him towards the lake.

When they reached the edge of the ice, she handed him the skates and ordered him to strap them onto his boots. Credence did as he was told and sat down on the nearest bench, securely strapping the skates onto his shoes. After (y/n) had double-checked to make sure they were on right, she held out her hand for him to take. He grabbed it, using her to find his balance. When he stood to his feet his ankles wobbled, disrupting his balance.

(y/n) gripped his arm tightly to keep him from falling. “Careful,” she warned.

He held on to her as she guided him to the lake. She stepped on the ice with ease. She grabbed his other hand and helped him step on the ice. Immediately after his skates touched the ice, his heart raced.

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” his voice fluttered anxiously.

“You’re okay, I got you,” she promised.

She pulled him further out onto the ice, still clasping his hands. Credence gripped her hands for dear life while silently trying to figure out how it was he ended up in this position.

Other skaters flew past them as he stumbled on the ice like a baby deer. (y/n) didn’t give up on teaching him. No matter how many times he slipped or tripped, she was always there to catch and pick him back up when he fell. Eventually, he got the hang of it. He started balancing himself on his own, gliding somewhat smoothly without having to hold on to her. It didn’t take long for him to relax and reciprocate her playful activities.

(y/n) eventually stepped off the ice, giving him the space to skate on his own. She watched him fondly, taking in the smile glowing on his face. He went around in circles, almost bumping into others a few times, but he directed himself easily. She would say he was a natural.

He went on like that for a while as she watched. When he’d had enough, he made his way back to the edge of the lake where she stood.

“Was that fun?” She asked when he skated towards her. Credence nodded his head and smiled bashfully. She helped him stop by taking his outstretched hands. 

“You’re a fast learner. I’m kind of jealous. I didn’t get the hang of skating until I was twelve,” she brooded jokingly. “Are you done?”

“Yes,” he said as he stepped back on the snow. 

They walked towards the bench, and Credence sat down to take off his skates. (y/n) stayed standing. “There’s a vendor selling treats across the street,” she told him. “Why don’t you give those skates back to the kids while I get us something to drink?”

“But––” Credence tried to protest, not having the courage or social skills to approach a group of children. It was quickly ignored, however, for (y/n) had already made up her mind, and began walking to the street. 

“I’ll be right back!” She said as she left him alone on the bench. 

Credence looked around, silently doubting his ability to find the kids. His eyes scanned the park until they landed on a group of children having a snowball fight. He recognized one of the children as the bratty boy (y/n) convinced to let them borrow the skates. 

He reluctantly got up from the bench and walked over to the children, skates in hand. The closer he got, the louder their shouting laughter became. Most of the children were boys between the ages of seven and thirteen, but three girls around their age had gained their friendship. One girl stayed off to the sidelines watching the others play. He recognized her as well.

“Excuse me... little girl?” He called. The little girl turned around and held out the skates. “Here.”

The girl took them and smiled. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.”

She looked behind him, frowning when she saw nothing there. “Where’s that nice lady?”

Credence pointed across the street towards the street vendor where (y/n) was patiently waiting in line. “She should be back,” he told her.

“I like her!” said the girl. “She’s very pretty, like a princess!”

This made him smile. It made him happy to know others, even children, saw her the way he did. “Yeah,” he agreed. “She is.”

The little girl looked at Credence, noting the soft smile on his face as he watched you. “Do you like her or something?” She probed unexpectedly. 

“Uh... I...?” Credence struggled to find the words to say. It's not that he didn't know the answer, it was just that he hadn’t expected to be asked that question. Especially not from an eight-year-old girl. Were his feelings that transparent? Did you know how he felt too?

The little girl didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I think she likes you,” she told him, surprising him for the second time.

Credence flushed pink. “Really?”

The small girl reached her hand to pat Credence's arm and imitated the look of someone wise beyond her years. “Trust me. Women know these things.”

Oddly, he couldn’t help but feel a bit hopeful despite the words coming from a child. He never felt about anyone the way he felt about her. The way he is when he’s with her—the way he talks to her and touches her—he can only be that way with her because he likes her. He could never be that way with anyone else. But he always felt that, for her, it was different. Seeing her interact with others like the children, the waitress, Raül—even Edmund—made him realize that she was kind to everyone. She didn’t treat him that way because she liked him. She treated him that way because that’s just the kind of person she was.

“Hey, kiddos!” (y/n)’s voice caught his attention. Both Credence and the girl looked up to see her holding a cardboard box of steaming paper cups. “I got something for you!”

The children playing heard her too and ceased their fight to run towards her. They circled her like a litter of puppies, excitedly asking what she was holding.

She lowered the box for them to see, showing off cups filled with light brown liquid. “For letting us borrow the skates. Be careful though, it's hot!”

The kids yelled enthusiastically as she began handing them each a cup. Credence walked to her side to help her.

“What is it?” He asked.

(y/n) frowned. “Hot chocolate. Have you never had hot chocolate before?”

He shook his head, causing her to gasp.

“I wish I had known sooner!” She pouted. “I got this is from a vendor across the street. I could have gotten better hot chocolate with marshmallows at a cafe a block from here.”

“I think it’s delicious!” The little girl interjected. 

(y/n) smiled down at her. “Well, if you think so, then it must be.”

Credence ended up being the one to give the bratty boy his cup of hot chocolate. (y/n) watched him as he drank it greedily. 

“What about you?” She asked him. “Do you like it too?”

“It’s pretty good, I guess,” he said, trying his hardest to sound indifferent, but it was hard to take him seriously with the chocolate mustache on his lips.

(y/n) laughed and took his cheek between her fingers, pinching them gently. “Gosh, you’re so darn cute! Do you have a big sister already? I can be yours, if you want. I’ve always wanted a little brother!”

The boy blushed and pulled his face away from her hand. “Lady, you’re crazy!”

He threw his empty cup on the ground stormed off angrily. The other children finished their cups and handed them back to her nicely before running off too, leaving her and Credence alone. 

“What did I say?” She mumbled to herself.

Credence couldn’t help but find it amusing. It was nice seeing her tease someone else for a change. 

“Maybe he already has a sister,” he answered sarcastically.  

(y/n) scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, just drink your cocoa,” she chuckled after handing him a cup. 

The two threw away the empty cups and cardboard box in a nearby trashcan. (y/n) suggested they take a walk around the park and talk. She asked him if he liked the hot chocolate, to which he answered yes. She then asked which he liked better: vanilla milkshakes or hot chocolate. He told her milkshakes. They talked like this for a while. Occasionally she would ask about his family and what he liked to do at home. He didn’t give her many satisfying answers, but that didn’t stop her from prodding.

“So, did you give up on hunting witches?” She asked.

Credence swallowed another sip of his hot chocolate. “I’m sorry?”

“You don’t carry around flyers anymore. Did you give up?”

“Oh. No, it’s not that,” he said. “I don’t think my mother will ever give up on exposing witches. It’s just that right now she’s kind of stuck.”

“Stuck? Stuck how?”

“She wanted to speak at the church to let everyone know about what she’d seen, but the priest, Father Blackwell, wouldn’t allow it.”

“I know Father Blackwell,” she told him.

Credence perked up. “You do?”

“Yes! My father is a big supporter of the church. Personally, I identify as agnostic, so I don’t go to church with him unless it’s for a holiday like Easter or Christmas. I wonder if you’ve seen him. Not that you could miss him. He’s a rather large man,” she joked.

“Does he wear a white suit?” Credence asked, remembering the stocky man talking with Father Blackwell the last time he visited the church.

(y/n) grinned and nodded excitedly. “That’s his Sunday suit! He has four of them. For some reason, he only likes wearing cream-colored suits on Sundays.”

“I have seen him,” he admits.

“Small world!” She exclaimed. “Well, anyways, I can definitely tell my father to put in a good word for your mother to Father Blackwell.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course! Better yet, why don’t we go right now?”

“N-Now?” Credence gaped.

“It’s Wednesday, they have a service tonight. Father Blackwell will be there, and I can try to convince him to let your mother have a set this Sunday!

“But what about your father?”

“We might not need him. I know Father Blackwell well enough. He might be swayed on my word alone. It won’t hurt to try,” she explained.

“I guess not,” he agreed.

“Come with me, my car is just a short walk from here!” She grabbed his free hand and directed him towards the street where she’d parked her car. 

After they reached the car, she drove him to the church. It was a short fifteen-minute drive from Central Park. It was still too early for the service to start, but when they entered the church, a few people were sitting in the pews praying. An older woman was playing the organ at the altar while Deacon Ripley read scriptures from the Bible. He stopped only stopped when he noticed the two walking down the aisle. 

“Oh, God,” Credence heard (y/n) mutter under her breath. “Not this clown again.”

He wasn’t used to you outwardly showing your distaste for someone; you were always so nice. But considering it was Deacon Ripley, it wasn’t too surprising. 

He was a cunt.

As they came closer, Ripley marked the passage he’d finished reading and closed the Bible. 

“Miss (l/n),” he called her name with a sneer. “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?”

“I’m here to speak with Father Blackwell,” she replied coldly. It was the first time Credence had ever heard her use such a tone. 

Ripley frowned, taking a step down from the podium. “What business could you have with him?”

(y/n)’s lips curled into a sly smirk. “My business with him would be his business and mine, so why would I tell you our business if it isn’t your business to begin with?”

Her witty remark clearly got under Ripley’s skin. His frown deepened and splotches of red began appearing under his grey skin. He didn’t get the chance to respond before Father Blackwell stopped him. 

“Give it a rest, Ripley.” Father Blackwell had come out from the door to his office. He moved between Ripley and (y/n), and held out his hand for her. “(y/n), it’s lovely to see you. It’s been a while. A year, I think?”

She took his hand and shook it. “Don’t be silly, Father. You saw me earlier this year, remember? For my parent’s Easter party.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he nodded, chuckling softly. “Must’ve slipped my mind. What brings your here, child?”

 “Ah, yes, about that...” (y/n) eyed Ripley. “Can we speak somewhere private, just the two of us?” 

“I don’t see why not. Step into my office.”

(y/n) turned to Credence and gave him a reassuring smile before following Father Blackwell to his office and disappearing behind the heavy door. Credence could feel Ripley’s eyes burning a hole in the side of his head. He obviously wanted to say something to him. 

“Seeing that godless woman walk through God’s doors was not something I expected to see today,” he began, excited to get his two cents in.  “But I must admit, seeing you by her side surprises me more. I didn’t realize you two were so close”

What was his problem? Why did he hate her so much? Then Credence remembered what she said to him in the park. Could that be why Ripley hated her? Because she didn’t believe in the church? No, it had to be something else. His pointed anger felt too personal.  

“We’re not really,” Credence answered. “I only just met her.”

“So you say.” Ripley circled him. “I wonder... Does your mother know about you and Miss (l/n)?”

If there’s one thing Credence hated about Ripley, it was his talent for stirring up trouble. His hobby of collecting and relaying gossip often caused spouts within the church. Credence fell victim to this twice before, each time resulting in a beating from his mother. He had to be careful with what he says to Ripley because he will most definitely relay it to his mother if he thinks it will cause conflict. 

“She does,” he lied as best he could. 

Ripley raised his brows. “Really? I never took her for the kind of woman who would allow her son to stroll the streets alone with such... unholy company. If there’s one kind of person Mary Lou hates, it’s women like her.”

Credence frowned. “What do you mean by ‘women like her’?”

“Don’t you know? Not only does she not accept the Christian God, but she fully denounced him. Instead of saving her divine feminine for holy matrimony, she committed salacious acts with various men that would make the Virgin Mary cry.”

Credence fell silent. So this was the reason. The malicious smirk on Ripley’s cracked lips proved that he couldn’t wait to tell him what he knew. 

“Oh my,” Ripley sighed. “I suppose you didn’t know.”

Credence clenched his fist. He could feel his body vibrating with heat. He was so angry. How dare he speak about her that way? How dare he disrespect her? Spread rumors about her? Was gossip not a sin?  Who was he to degrade and scrutinize her?

So what if she did? He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change what he thought about her. It didn’t change how he felt about her. But hearing such demeaning words come from Ripley's mouth made his blood boil. 

There were times where Credence would get like this. It wasn’t often, but when he did, his mind would think dark, violent thoughts. They build up in his head until anger and rage blinded him. He wanted to say something—do something. He probably would have too, if her voice hadn’t rung in his ears, immediately calming his nerves and the growing anger inside him. 

“Credence, I did it!” 

He saw you rushing excitedly towards him with a big smile on your face. You came up to him, grabbed both of his hands, shaking them wildly. 

“Tell your mother that she can speak this Sunday at the end of the service!”

Credence swallowed the lump in his throat. His tightened chest released the tension it was holding and his hands unclenched to hold hers. Looking into her shining (e/c) eyes made all his violent thoughts disappear as if they were never there. 

He blinked a few times, already forgetting how upset he’d just been. “H-How?”

“Magic,” she winked. 

She hooked her arm around his and began walking him back down the aisle to the exit. “Do you want me to drive you home?” She asked, looking up at him.

Credence smiled, Ripley’s taunting comments fleeing his memory. “Yes.”

The drive took longer than expected. There had been an accident on Manhattan Avenue that detoured them to Harlem. Credence didn’t mind it. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye just yet. Driving through Harlem was an experience in itself. He’d never been past the Upper East Side. Harlem was a lively neighborhood. People played music and danced in the streets despite the cold. Murals lined the walls, and there was a hopping joint around every corner. Credence looked out the window in silent awe, taking in everything he saw. 

“Have you never been here before?” (y/n) asked, noticing his astonishment. 

“No,” he told her truthfully. “It’s really nice.”

“You know, I used to live here,” she revealed.

That, he found hard to believe. His doubt must have been visible on his face because she laughed and shook her head. 

“What? You don’t believe me? It’s true, I swear! I wasn’t always like... Well, we didn’t always live in Kings Point.”

Having something to prove, Credence watched as she made a sudden turn, off course from where they were heading. The townhouses they passed were tall, skinny, and faintly worn down. The further they drove from the commercial streets, the quieter it became. They rounded about four blocks before turning into a barren street. Some houses were completely dark, while others had lights in their windows. The car slowed to a stop in front of one of the dark houses. It wasn’t terribly worn, but chipping blue paint covered the exterior and there were cracks in the brick fence that protected it. 

(y/n) parked the car and moved to get out. Credence did the same, opening the door and stepping onto the pavement. (y/n) came to his side and eyed the house. 

“This was my house,” she spoke after a while. “I lived here until I was nine.”

She walked up to the gate and pointed at the mailbox inside it. Faded letters that spelled her last name were imprinted on the stone from where a sign used to be. He tried to imagine her living it; it was almost comical. He only knew her to wear mink coats and designer clothes. He’d only pictured her living in a palace—somehow it felt fitting. Imagining her in such a small house and living an average life didn’t seem right. But perhaps that’s why she kept surprising him.

“No one lives here now. Sometimes I come back just to look around and remember as much about the place as I can.”

Credence walked to her side. “What do you remember?”

A smile fluttered on her lips. “I remember chasing my brothers around the house. We sat by the fire during the winter while my father read us stories and my mother knitted blankets and scarves. I learned how to ride a bike right on this street!” She looked down at the cracked pavement. “We were happier, I think.”

“Are you not happy now?”

(y/n) looked up at Credence and flushed. “I am! I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just...” She sighed. “Now that my father has his own architect firm, he’s been so busy I rarely see him anymore. My mother and I were never really close, and it’s pretty easy for us to avoid each other in such a big house. I don’t know... Sometimes I wonder if it was all worth it.”

“What about your brothers?” asked Credence. “You seem close.”

“We are,” she smiled. “We always had each other, and most of the time it was enough. Even when Aaron left to study at Oxford, Channing paid extra attention to me. Still, I want us all to be as close as we were.”

He could sympathize with that. Blood-related or not, Modesty and Chastity were his sisters. They’d been through a lot together, and that was enough for him. He didn’t know what it was like to lose a close relationship with a parent, having never had one in the first place—but he figured that’s what made it worse. 

“Anyway,” she elbowed him playfully. “D’you believe me now?”

Credence nodded. She chuckled softly, taking his hand and guiding him back to the car. They continued the rest of their drive uninterrupted. It was relatively quiet aside from the few comments she made along the way. By the time they reached Pike Street, it had started to snow again. It wasn’t heavy like the days before. The snowflakes fell slowly and softly, fluttering down gracefully on the window-shield. 

The care halted to a stop on the street corner. (y/n) turned to Credence, who was already looking at her. 

“Thank you,” he said. “For helping me.”

She smiled and looked down at her hands. “You don’t need to thank me,” she blushed. “I was happy to.”

“Still, I want to. Thank you, for everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

They regrettably said their goodbyes, something Credence hated doing because he was never sure when he’d see her again. He stepped out of the car and onto the icy street, turning to wave goodbye at her one last time before watching her drive off down and disappear behind the buildings once she rounded the corner. Credence turned on his heels and walked back to the snow-covered chapel. His feet dragged behind him to stall his arrival. He walked up the creaking steps to the door and opened it lackadaisically. 

He began stripping himself of his outerwear when he noticed another presence in the room. He looked to the stairs and found his mother, Mary Lou, sitting there. Her icy blue eyes bore into his skull. Credence got a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, a vestigial remnant of primal instinct that signified impending danger. 

“Hello, Mother...” He said upon seeing her. She didn't respond. She only looked at him in a way that made him increasingly nervous. He shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“I have some good news.” His mouth began moving before he could think. “Father Blackwell said he would let you speak this Sunday. It’s towards the end of service, and he is only giving us three minutes to speak, but that’s better than nothing, right?”

“Did your jezebel tell you that?” She spoke dangerously.

Credence’s body tensed. “What are you talking about, mother?” He asked, fearful he already knew the answer.

Mary Lou opened her hand to reveal the pink handkerchief. His stomach dropped as she threw the cloth down at his feet. Mary Lou rose from the stairs, her heels thumping loudly as she climbed down.

“I saw you at the cathedral, Credence. You and your little harlot,” she said as she walked towards him. “I was on my way to speak with Father Blackwell when I saw the two of you skip outside with her clinging to your arm.”

Credence kept his head down, staring at the handkerchief by his feet. Mary Lou circled him like a vulture ready to pick at a rotting carcass.

“I always knew your flesh was weak... but I didn’t know all it took was a pair of big (e/c) eyes to make you fall from grace.”

“Mother, I—” The sound of her heavy hand slapping across his face cut his sentence short, sending him to the ground. 

“Silence!” She ordered. Credence felt tears prickling behind his eyes. He stared at the handkerchief lying pathetically on the floor. Mary Lou’s pointed black shoe came into his view and stepped on the delicate silk. Mary Lou was never one to yell, that’s what made her anger so much more terrifying. She spoke barely above a whisper, in a sickeningly sweet and proper tone, the cruel words that left her thin lips.

“The worst part of it is: you tried to hide it from me. You knew what you were doing was a sin. You knew that God was watching, and you did it anyway.”

“Mother, it’s not what you think,” Credence said through his strained tears. “I didn’t touch her!”

“Don’t lie to me, Credence, I saw the way you looked at her!” Mary Lou seethed. “You think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking in late? That I wouldn’t smell the perfume on your clothes?”

Credence fell silent, realizing that denial was futile. It didn’t matter what he said. Mary Lou had already set her mind about his relationship with (y/n). He knew it was too good to be true. He had been happy for far too long. He should have expected it wouldn’t last. He always screwed everything up somehow. This was his own fault. He deserved this.

“You know what I have to do now, don’t you?” She whispered.

Credence did know. His heart thrashed in his chest, fear coursing through his veins. “Mother, please, don’t!” he begged feebly. “I won’t see her again, I promise!”

Mary Lou kneeled in front of Credence. Her hand reached up to lift his head. He forced himself to look her in the eyes, his vision blurred from his tears. They were unfeeling and as cold as the words that left her lips. 

“I know you won’t. We’ll make sure of that.”

More people die in winter than in any other season. That is a known fact. The blistering cold is more dangerous than the smoldering heat. During the winter, everything dies. The plants die, the animals die, even the sun dies just a little.

“Credence?”

There was nothing worse than winter, he thought. There was nothing worse than being left in the cold, wet, nodding in and out of consciousness—somewhere between life and death. Maybe he was being dramatic. He’d survived this at least twice before. He will be allowed back home, eventually. He would be given a hot bath and warm clothes. He would be wrapped in a blanket and laid on his bed. He would be forgiven.

But, in this moment, he had no warmth. The clothes on his back were damp, sticking to his skin like icy sheets. His already pale skin looked almost as white as the blanket of snow that covered the city, save for the faint blue tint of his lips.

“Credence.”

At first he’d thought walking would make him warmer. Maybe if he moved his muscles, his body would produce what little heat it could. Thinking back on it now, it was a pretty stupid idea. If anything, it made it worse. The wind had picked up, and the snow fell faster than it was earlier. How long had he been out here? It could have been twenty minutes or an hour, he couldn’t tell. Time moves slower when you’re miserable. What he did know was that he had walked about four blocks from the chapel. He thought he might find a place, a warm place where he could sit and rid himself of the cold.

He’d try a tea shop, a restaurant, and a bookstore before giving up. No one would let him in. They were all closed early for the holiday season. He then became increasingly aware how late in the afternoon it was, and how much colder it would be once the sun finally set. And he would still be here, cowering in a filthy alleyway that smelled heavily of rotting food and urine.

“Credence!”

How did she always mange to find him? Her large eyes bore into his own, wide and unyielding. She was close enough that her short breaths gave him the first gust of heat he’d felt since he was thrown out of the chapel. Unlike before, it didn’t smell of coffee beans, but of the hot chocolate they had shared just hours before. If the sweet scent hadn’t filled his nose, he would have sworn she was a hallucination. This was the last place he’d expect to see her. Yet, she always had a knack for turning up in places he’d least suspect. Regardless of what she always said, it felt a little more than coincidence—something just shy of fate.

“What are you doing out here? Where’s your coat?” Her hands flew to his shoulders, her own body reacting to the lack of warmth jolted and shivered.

It was her kind eyes he liked the most. Her eyes had the greatest warmth, the kind that filled your chest whenever you looked at them. He could stare into them forever and never get cold. Her eyes are what he’d miss the most.

“You’re soaking wet! You’ll freeze half to death out here! Come to my car, It’ll warm you up.” She reached for his hand, but he would not give it to her.

“Go away.”

This he could not say while looking in her eyes. It would only make it harder. There was an unpleasant pause, one that continued for a second too long. Her voice, he would miss the sound of her voice as well. He wanted to remember it as best he could, even if the last words she would say to him were full of resentment.

“What?”

He turned his back to her, hiding his tears. He had to do this. It was bound to happen anyway. What was the point in watering a dead plant? The fantasy should have long since ended. It shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

“I’m fine. Just go away,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

But he wasn’t fine, and he didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to follow her to the car, where she’d wrap him in the wool blanket she kept in the back seat, and she’d hold his hands to keep them warm.

She scoffed, her heels scuffing on the asphalt as she stepped back, exasperated. “Yeah, right, you’re one minute away from mummifying out here! Just get up and come with me!” She reached for him again, taking his hand. Her touch. He’ll miss her touch.

“No!” He jerked away from her gentle hands.

He didn’t need to see her face to know it hurt her. It hurt him just to say it. But he had to. He made a promise he had to keep. No matter how much it hurt. The next words to fall from his lips would be nothing but lies to mask the truth.

“I don’t need you.”

I do.

“I don’t need your help.”

Help me.

“I don’t want to see you anymore!”

Please don’t go.

Another pregnant silence. The lump in Credence’s throat was large enough to suffocate him. Every time he tried to swallow it down, it would grow bigger, prompting more tears to stain his cheeks.

“You don’t want to see me anymore?” She repeated. Her voice was as cold and steady as the snow that fell around them.

Everything dies in winter. The plants die, the animals die, even the sun dies just a little. The sound of her heels knocking on the asphalt faded along with her warmth. He’d call out to her if he wasn’t a coward. He would tell her the truth and beg for her forgiveness if he had the strength. But when he couldn’t smell lavenders or vanilla, or feel her unwavering warmth, he knew that it was too late. She was gone.

He fell to the ground, burying his head in his knees to muffle his pained cries. The icy ground didn’t phase him. He felt nothing but the ache in his chest and the swell of his throat. He wondered if that pain would ever go away. Could he continue on like this? With the feeling that a part of him had been taken?

He unclenched his fist, revealing frayed pink fabric; the stitched golden letters staring back at him mockingly. It was the only surviving piece of the handkerchief his mother burned. He’d picked it from the ashes before she threw him out on the streets. The smell of ash and smoke dulled the scent of lavender and vanilla it once carried. But, if he focused hard enough, he could still smell the traces of her perfume. For now, it will be enough.

He sat in the alleyway until the early night sky replaced the setting sun. He would sit and listen to the passing cars and pedestrians in silence, until he could no longer feel the fabric in his hands, or the sting of his aching muscles. His swollen eyes grew heavy, barely staying open longer than a second. He closed them, letting his body relax and fade slowly into nothingness.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, he stayed curled in the alleyway, unaware of his surroundings. Unaware that a car had parked outside the alley entrance. Ignorant to the footsteps that neared his meek form and the shadow that loomed over him. He was oblivious to it all until he felt a weight on his head and shoulders. He pried his eyes open to find himself wrapped in a thick wool blanket.

A dainty (s/c) hand opened for him, tempting him to take it; his saving grace.

“I’m not going to leave you like this. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

Her eyes weren’t angry. They weren’t cold or full of resentment. They were as kind and warm as they always had been, perhaps even more. Her rosy lips held a gentle smile just for him.

“You don’t have to see me again after tonight,” she concurred. “But I need you to get in the car. Please, Credence. Just one more night, then you’ll never have to see me again.”

Had it been anyone else, he would have refused. The hold his mother had on him was stronger than the yearnings of his heart. His fear of her would keep him from acting on his desires—what he truly wanted. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. But now, with her hand outstretched for him to take, there was no nagging fear pulling him away. No voice in the back of his head vilifying him from acting on his whims. Because, for the first time, someone had heard what he didn’t dare to say aloud. For the first time, someone cared. 

Had it been anyone one else, he wouldn’t have taken their hand. He wouldn’t have stood from the frozen ground or walked towards their car. Anyone else, and he wouldn’t have gotten inside and felt the heat melt his frozen muscles. If it was anyone but her, he would still be wasting away in the freezing, damp alleyway. 

“Just try to relax and get warm,” she told him as they drove off. He didn’t have the strength to speak. He was far too tired. She could see from the corner of her eye that he was falling asleep. His head rested on the window, his bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open. She took his hand that rested in his lap. It was cold to the touch, like ice, as if no blood coarsed through his veins. 

She refused to let go, instead she held it tighter. “Rest. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

If he wasn’t already drifting to sleep, he would have asked where she was taking him, but his eyes refused to open, and his lips would not open to pose the question. Instead he let the motion and hum of the car lull him to sleep. 

New York City was known for many things: its gigantic skyscrapers, the lively scene, the people. But it was easy for tourists to see what the locals could not. New York City was by no means as glorious as its reputation would like you to believe. Everything great about it was reserved for people who could afford it. Shopping, clubbing, broadway, the cinema; it was all novelty. The grit of New York City was something the average New Yorker would like to escape. If the city was as great as it was made out to be, then why did the wealthy live upstate in their palatial mansions? It’s because beyond the smog and stench of the city was fresh air, and acres of woodlands and grasslands to admire. 

That’s all Credence could see when he opened his eyes from what felt like a year’s rest. From the passenger window he could make out the shadows of tall, snow covered maples and oak trees rushing past. The road was long and winding, twisting through the scenic route with ease. 

Beyond the trees, he could make out the orange lights of houses drawing near. It wasn’t long before the trees were replaced by vast mansions with plunging yards, overly decorated for the holiday season. The drowsy fog had barely lifted from his mind to take in such a foreign sight. As his mind awoke, so did the rest of his senses. He became aware of his body, and how it was no longer cold and wet. He could feel his blood circulating in his hands and feet, allowing them to move and wiggle as he pleased. His nose was no longer stuffed, and the numbness in his face had left. 

Taking a peak through the corner of his eye, he saw her; her eyes focused on the road. The light from the passing mansions cast shadows over her features. She was otherwise relaxed, if it weren't for the faint wrinkle of her forehead, the kind that appeared when she was deep in thought. He was too afraid to say anything. Even if he wasn't, he wouldn’t know what to say. Things had happened so suddenly, he couldn’t keep up.

Instead, he kept silent and watched the houses roll by as she drove. Trapped in his thoughts, he began to realize just where she was taking him. He didn’t know why she thought to bring him here, or what she planned to do, but he concluded she was taking him to her home. He’d never been to Kings Point before and he never imagined going within his lifetime, but he could say with confidence that it did not disappoint.

Kings Point was exactly how he imagined it, save for a few minor details. Under different circumstances he would be awestricken, but tonight he didn’t have the energy for it. All he had the energy to do was count the mansions they passed in his head. It was better than thinking of the events that lead him there.

He counted seventeen pompous manors before the car’s speed gradually reduced to a cruise. He watched as a large manor with swooping gable roofs and multiple chimneys came into view. An untouched layer of snow blanketed its long front yard. Windows were plentiful, all of which were lit with those distinct orange lights.

The car pulled into the long driveway, normally protected by a gate, but tonight that gate was left open, allowing them to drive through with ease. As they drove closer to the main manor, he could see the two other sprawling houses that surrounded a large courtyard highlighting a marble fountain.

When the car came upon the front of the manor, there was a man in a black tailcoat tuxedo waiting for them. The car came to a stop, and the man came around the hood to the driver’s door.

“Miss (y/n), welcome home,” he said as he opened the door. (y/n) thanked him, taking his outstretched hand and stepping onto the scalloped cobblestone.  

When the door closed behind her, leaving Credence inside. The two were clearly conversing, presumably about him. She would steal a glance at him through the window a few times while she spoke. The man, who he could now see was no longer in his youth, only nodded compliantly. When the two seemed to come to an understanding, (y/n) walked around to his side of the car, opening it for him to step out.

“Follow me,” She said, taking his hand.

She wasted no time pulling him from his seat and leading him off to some side entrance of the manor. The door they entered was smaller than the wide, double-doors he saw at the front entrance. Inside was just as grand as the outside. The door they took lead to a kitchen as big as the chapel he lived in. Currently, it was packed with chefs prepping large platters of food and servers organizing the trays.

(y/n) clasped his hand tightly as they bulldozed their way through the kitchen. She apologized to the passing help, weaving her way through to the door that stood on the opposite end of the room. Credence kept his head low, allowing her to guide him. Once they reached the adjacent door, she pushed her way through, pulling him down a hallway that he could see led to a set of stairs.

They were rushing down the hall when they passed a side room they didn’t realize was occupied. Their footsteps prompted the voice of a woman to call out into the hall.

“(y/n), honey, you’re back already?”

(y/n) stopped in her tracks, cursing under her breath. She held her finger up to her lips, telling Credence to stay quiet.

“Yes.” She answered.

The woman called out again. “I thought the shops would be busy today.”

“They were.”

“Well, did you get everything you wanted?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment’s pause before the woman spoke again.

“Alright,” she said. “Don’t go picking at the food in the kitchen! You’ll just have to wait until tonight like everyone else!”

(y/n) rolled her eyes. “Alright, Mom.”

She signaled for Credence to continue walking towards the staircase as her mother continued to talk from the room.

“And once you put your gifts away, come back and help me finish arranging the poinsettias in the foyer!”

“I will!” She yelled back while pulling Credence up the stairs.

She practically dragged him down the upstairs hall and pushed him into a room, closing the door behind them. That flowery scent that was distinctly hers immediately overtook his senses. The wide, circular room was lit up by various lamps and a sparkling chandelier made of iridescent crystals that hung at its centre. The dark wood panelling of the walls contrasted the rosy accents: blush pink art deco wallpaper, tall white drapes that covered balcony doors, the various mix-match carpets that covered the wood floor like patchwork. The broad circular bed enclosed in a silky white canopy sat against the wall next to a small fireplace. On the other side was a door he assumed led to a bathroom.

(y/n) stood awkwardly by a three-mirror vanity, bashfully fiddling with a silver hairbrush. She’d shed her coat.  

“Sorry about her,” she muttered. “She gets like this around the holidays.”

It was overwhelming, being in her room. He’d barely had a moment to register all that was happening. Now that he had the chance to breathe, his anxiety got the better of him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He should be in the city, on his knees begging his mother to forgive him, not miles away in King’s Point; and definitely not in her bedroom.  

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here—”

“You promised me, Credence,” she interjected, silencing him. “Please... Just let me have tonight.”

He clenched his jaw, turning his head to stare at the wall. It was better than looking in her eyes. He heard her move from the vanity. The sound of a cabinet being opened caught his attention. She had an armoire of her own, though hers was grander than his. It towered over her, composed of white and gold painted wood. From inside, she retrieved a blueberry colored suit. Credence recognized it as the suit she eyed in the window the week before. 

“I got you something,” she said, placing the suit on the bed, along with a fresh pair of brown oxfords. “I know you told me not to... but I just couldn’t help myself.”

Credence walked to the edge of the bed, brushing the material with his fingers. She got this for him.  

She moved to a dresser, where she pulled a neatly folded white towel and cloth from the drawer. She walked back to his side, holding the towels out for him to take.

“There's a bathroom behind that door. You can take a bath and get yourself ready. I’ll come back once I’ve finished helping my mother.”

He took the towels from her hands, leaning towards the idea of a bath. His body still hadn’t completely warmed from the ride, and his clothes still stuck uncomfortably to his skin. She left him alone in her bedroom, closing the door behind her as she left.

Credence stayed by her bed even after she had left. He took the suit into his hands. The material was thick and soft. He could tell by the fine stitches it was of high quality, unlike the suit he currently wore. He collected the pants and shoes in his arms and walked to the bathroom door. Much like the bedroom, her bathroom was big. A porcelain bathtub resting on top of golden legs facing a large window that looked over one of the gardens. Credence walked across the mosaic floor and turned the knob of the tub. Hot water rushed from the faucet and filled the tub. Steam rose into the air, forging the mirror above the sink. He placed his clothes on a stool away from the tub so it wouldn’t get wet.

Stripping himself of his clothes, he dipped his foot into the warm water. Pleased by the feeling of the hot water heating his skin, he pulled the rest of his body into the tub and submerged himself until only his head remained above water. He sat in the water unmoving for a while with his eyes closed. The water relaxed his tense muscles, ridding his body of the prickling cold. As he sat there, resting his head against the edge of the tub, he thought about how long this would last. Why did she bring him here? 

Credence opened his eyes and found a rectangular bar of soap sitting on the tub’s edge. He lifted his hand from the water and took it, bringing it to his nose. Lavenders. 

He really shouldn’t be here. There was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that was sure something would go wrong. His mind went back to what she’d said. He promised her he would stay with her tonight. He supposed he did, even if he hadn't explicitly say the words ‘I promise’. Taking her hand was more than an answer. 

But he had made another promise—a promise to someone he never dared to disobey so brazenly. He promised he would never see her again, to wipe her from his life and pretend like she never existed. And yet, here he was, laying in her bathtub, washing himself with her soap, wearing the clothes she bought him, and standing in her room. 

Credence stared at himself in the mirror by the armoire, now dressed in the blueberry suit she’d given him. It fit perfectly, as though it were made for him. It probably was. The shoes on his feet were comfortable. At first, he didn’t think they would fit; they were much larger than the pair of shoes he always wore. But after he pulled his socks up and slid his foot inside, he realized it wasn't that the shoes were too big, but his were a size too small. He could walk in them without his toes uncomfortably pressing against the tip. His toes could breathe and soles of his feet didn’t ache with every step. 

He almost didn't recognize his reflection. It was like another person was staring at him in the mirror. He looked like one of the men he admired in Times Square. The handsome scholars who came down from The Eggs to frequent the speakeasies to unwind after a long day of doing whatever rich boys do. He looked like the kind of man she belonged with.

A knock came from beyond the door.  “Are you decent?” Her muffled voice called from behind it. 

The door opened, and she peaked her head inside, meeting his eyes immediately.

“I knew it’d look good on you,” She smiled brightly, making her way towards him. “Does it fit nicely? I tried my best to guess your measurements. I was afraid it would be a bit off.”

He let her place her hands on his chest, smoothing the fabric of any wrinkles. His heart beat in his chest loudly, like it always did when she got this close. He watched her closely as she looked him over, avoiding his eyes. Her hands flew up to the black tie around his neck. 

“Your tie is a bit crooked.” She chuckled softly, taking the tie into her hands. “Let me.”

“Why are you nice to me?” He spoke lowly as she untied the knot. 

She furrowed her brows, her hands halting. “I’m sorry?”

“Most people would have ignored me had they saw me lying on the streets like I was today, and the day we met. Many people did. But you...” Credence struggled to find the words. “You helped me after I had fallen and dropped my papers, then you drove me home. The other week you insisted on buying me a coat, even though I told you I was fine without one, and then you took me to that restaurant. And then today, you convinced Father Blackwell to let my mother speak. You’ve been kind to me without even knowing me. Why?”

(y/n) lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Do I need a reason?” She countered. “Can’t I just want to?”

When he didn’t answer, she understood that wouldn’t be enough. She sighed, focusing her attention back on the tie. 

“Why did I do those things?” She bit her cheek in thought. “The night we met, I saw what that jerk did and wanted to help you. You looked so... sad. People walked over you—ignored you. It was like you didn’t exist, like I was the only one who saw you. I didn’t like it—seeing you like that. I just thought it would be nice to see a smile on your face. Maybe if I saw you smile, it would make me feel better.”

“Now that I’ve seen your smile, I’ve become a bit fond of it. Addicted is probably the better word. After seeing you smile for the first time, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to see it all the time. If stuffing you full of burgers and teaching you how to skate put a smile on your face, I would do it. I would do anything to keep you smiling.”

She looped the tail of the tie and pulled the knot, tightening it around his neck. She adjusted his collar and let her hands fall to her sides. Her eyes flickered up to meet his. 

“So, I guess the answer to your question is: I did those things because I like you.”

Credence swallowed the lump rising in his throat, sending it back down to his chest. His eyes glistened in the light, glazed with rising tears. His heart ached in his chest, still hanging on to her words. ‘Like’? She liked him?

“And now?” His voice cracked. “Do you still fell that way? Even after the things I said?”

“Why did you say those things?” It was clear she had been wanting to ask this for a while. “Did I do something—say something to upset you?”

Credence vigorously shook his head. “No!” 

He clasped her hands tightly, taking her by surprise. “It’s not you,” he tried to explain. “It was never you.”

She held his hands just as tight, like she was afraid he would fade away if she let go. “Then?”

He swallowed again, looking down at his feet. “It’s my mother... she...” 

(y/n) frowned. She lifted Credence’s hand, turning his palm upward to expose the raised scars on his palms. 

“Was she the one who did this to you?” She whispered, though it sounded as if she already knew the answer. 

Credence stayed silent. He didn’t have the strength to say it out lout. 

“Did she leave you out on the street?” She asked, anger rising in her voice. 

“She doesn’t want me to see you anymore,” He muttered, shamefully. 

“Is that what you want?” 

Credence stilled. Nobody had ever asked him what he wanted. They locked eyes, (y/n)’s stared deeply into his, yearning for an answer. He barely opened his mouth to answer when a knock came from beyond the door, the person behind it bursting into the room. 

(y/n) dropped his hands, turning to face the culprit.

“Aaron, how many times have I told you to wait for me to answer before coming in my room?”

Aaron was a stocky man, just a few inches shorter than Credence. His angular face was covered with a tapered beard. He had the same (s/c) skin and (h/c) hair as (y/n), but his eyes were a light brown. He wore a black formal tuxedo with a matching bowtie. The smile on his face fell slightly as he looked between her and Credence. 

“Sorry sis, I didn’t realize you had company.”

(y/n) sighed, crossing her arms. “What do you want?”

Tearing his eyes from Credence, Aaron turned his attention to his sister, his smile widening. “I just thought you might like to say hello to someone.”

(y/n) raised a curious brow. “Who?”

The answer to her question walked in not a second later, dressing in a black fitted full dress tuxedo. He too shared a similar complexion to (y/n) and Aaron, but unlike Aaron, his eyes were the same has hers. He smiled, displaying a row of perfectly straight white teeth. “Hey. Did you miss me, street rat?”

(y/n)’s eyes widened, “Channing?”

Channing chuckled as she sped towards him. “The one and only—Ow!”

(y/n) had punched him hard in the shoulder. “Why didn't you tell me you were coming home?!”

Aaron snickered to the side. “Told you she would do that.”

“Well, that would defeat the purpose of it being a surprise, now wouldn't it?” He said, clutching his sore shoulder. “Can’t you act like a normal sister and be happy I’m back?”

“I am happy, you jerk,” she smiled, pulling him into a hug. He hugged her back gladly. It was clear the two missed each other greatly. 

“(y/n), who’s this?” Channing asked, looking over her shoulder at Credence.  

(y/n) too looked over her shoulder, her lips still holding her elated smile. “Aaron, Channing, this is Credence. He’s my plus one for tonight.”

“Right.” Aaron skeptically squinted at Credence. “And do Mom and Dad know that you have a boy in your room?”

(y/n) placed a hand on her hip. “I don’t know. Do Mom and Dad know about you and Mr. Finnegan’s daughter?” She deflected with a glare. 

Aaron cleared his throat, wrapping an arm around his younger brother and pushing him towards the door. “We’ll see you downstairs.”

“Wait,” (y/n) went to grab Credence by the hand and pulled him towards her brothers.  “Why don’t you show Credence around? You can bond and do whatever boys do while I get ready.”

They all looked at Credence, who was too petrified to protest the proposition. Aaron gave Credence a look that made him think he wasn’t too keen on the idea, but kept his otherwise cheerful smile. 

“I don’t see why not,” said Channing kindly, flashing an inviting grin much like the one (y/n) had given him many times before. He was starting to see the similarities between the two. 

“Yeah, come on, Credence,” Aaron agreed, throwing his free arm around Credence’s shoulder. “Hang with us guys for a while, we’re much more fun than she is.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes, escorting the men out of her bedroom. Credence’s pleading eyes silently asked for her not to leave him on his own, but she said nothing to stop them. She only gave him a comforting smile from the doorframe as they pulled him from the door. 

“I’ll see you in a bit.” She promised. 

Aaron and Channing dragged Credence down the hall, guiding him to another set of stairs. Unlike the ones (y/n) had sneaked him up an hour before, these stairs weren’t hidden in a corner at the end of the hall. It was a grand bifurcated staircase, with wide, velvet-clad sweeping steps that plunged into a wide landing that split in two directions: upwards to another wing of the manor, and downwards to the foyer. He could hear the music and babbling chatter clearly from the top of the staircase. The two brothers led him down the many steps, and again down the steps to the foyer where a great crowd of well-dressed men and women conversed under dropping garlands and mistletoe.

Without warning, they pulled him into the crowd, weaving their way through fur shawls and padded tuxedos. Tucked away in a corner of the room, Credence saw something he’d least expected: a familiar face. 

There, resting against a paneled wall, was Edmund Tully, drinking from a half finished glass of brandy. His eyes were distant and seemed to dart around the room, looking for something or someone. He wasn’t entirely sure if Edmund found what he was looking for, because when Aaron had called out to him, he gave up on his previous endeavor. 

It appeared that Edmund was not only friendly with Aaron, but Channing as well. They greeted each other as old friends do, with open arms, harmless roughhousing. Credence stood idly by, feeling out of place. It was only when Edmund set his green on him that Credence was pulled into their circle. Aaron noticed his friend’s stare and pointed his attention towards him. 

Aaron gestured to Credence, snapping his fingers. “Eds, this is uh—this is—give me a second—”

“Credence,” Edmund made up for Aaron’s forgetfulness. “Am I right? We met before.”

Aaron and Channing looked between the two unlikely acquaintances. “You have?” The eldest brother asked. 

Credence nodded, confirming Edmund’s claim. 

“Through (y/n), of course,” Edmund clarified. 

“I see,” Aaron hummed. 

A server in a tight vest came up the group of men with a tray full of glasses filled with a pinkish liquid. Credence watched as they each took a glass from the tray. 

“Do you drink, Credence?” Asked Channing, noticing Credence’s empty hand. 

“Sure he does!” Aaron exclaimed, taking an extra glass and shoving a it into Credence’s unsuspecting hand. “It’s Christmas!”

Giving into the pressure of the situation, Credence accepted the drink. It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s done today. The gentleman made a simple Christmas toast, before taking their own respectable gulps. 

Credence brought the glass to his lips, letting the strange liquid slow past his lips and hit his tongue. Somehow the cold liquid felt like heat on his tongue, vibrating down his throat and spreading that warmth into his chest. It was a strange sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. While it was strong with alcohol, the sugary sweet after-taste made it palatable. He took another sip. 

Credence found Aaron and Channing to be decent men. Channing was more friendly to Credence that Aaron, but it had more to due with the age difference and the extenuating circumstances in which they’d met. He supposed it must have been hard warming up to the strange man who was found alone in your younger sister’s room. 

Edmund on the other hand didn’t address him much at all, only speaking to him when obligated. He had the sneaking suspicion that Edmund didn’t like him at all. Credence could care less. To be fair, Credence wasn’t sure he liked him either. 

Like (y/n) had asked, the two brothers, along with Edmund, showed Credence around the mansion. They took him upstairs and downstairs, through long halls and into opulent rooms that were also filled with partygoers. All the while, they continued to keep a full glass in their hands. Credence had drank four full glasses of pink drink by the time they circled back to the foyer—and they hadn’t even venture half of the vast manor. He wasn’t fully convinced that just one family lived in such a palace. 

They loitered the foyer, the music in the next room traveled well, distracting him from the conversation he wasn’t completely involved in. His eyes darted around the room, glossing over the painted and shaven faces of the other guests. He didn’t know what he was looking for until he found it—or rather— her. 

Descending from the heavens that was the staircase landing was her elegant figure, clothed in a velvety red dress that hung off her shoulders. Her hair fell in waves around her face, adorned with pins that resembled holly. The long pointed sleeves clung to her skin along with the rest of the dress, hugging her figure dangerously. He was the first to see her, and in parallel, she saw him first; her painted red lips curling into a wide grin once their eyes met. 

His chest was filled with a fluttering excitement as his eyes followed her movements drawing nearer. She walked straight towards him, bowing her head shyly as she got closer. The others noticed her too, hooting and hollering as she came, embarrassing her more. 

“The Princess has finally decided grace the party with her presence,” Aaron playfully jeered. 

“It’s not easy being the most attractive in the family, it takes a lot of work to look this good,” She bantered. 

“Tons of it, if you ask me,” Channing muttered snidely as he took a sip of his drink, causing a fit of harmless laughter between all of them but Credence. 

“You look amazing,” Edmund complimented over the giggles. 

(y/n) thanked him, her eyes drifting back to Credence expectingly. Flustered, Credence sputtered the first words that came to mind. “You look beautiful, you always do.”

(y/n) blushed, her girlish smile reaching her ears. Her brothers found the interaction equally amusing, stifling their laughter. Though Edmund didn’t find it so amusing, his once joyous expression faltering. 

“I have to steal my brothers for a moment,” (y/n) revealed. 

“What for?” Channing asked, unaware that he was needed. 

“Mom wants to see us all for a portrait. You were supposed to have been there by now. Daddy’s getting restless,” she told them.

Aaron cursed under his breath, having forgotten about the detail. He turned to his friend and handed him his drink. “It will only be a minute.”

Aaron and Channing hurried off towards the stairs whence (y/n) had come. Before she left, she met Credence’s eye. “Just wait for me here, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

She then disappeared up the stairs with her brothers, leaving him alone with Edmund. And then there were two. 

“Why don’t I show you to the gardens,” Edmund suggested after an awkward beat of silence. 

Credence didn’t get the chance to deny the offer before Edmund turned on his heels and headed towards the door, beckoning him to follow. Out of pure obligation, Credence followed, venturing from the manor and out into the cold (though the consistent warm buzzing in his head and chest kept him warm enough). 

Edmund guided Credence around to the main garden that sat in the center of the sprawling houses. Snow covered the hedges and statues that scattered the grounds. 

“Where are you from, Credence?” Edmund asked suddenly as they walked the garden path. 

Credence shrugged his shoulders. “Here.” 

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You might be from New York, but you’re not from here.”

Credence’s brow furrowed. What was he playing at?

“How did you meet (y/n)?” He pestered. 

“In Times Square,” Credence answered. “She helped me when I fell on the street. We kept running into each other ever since.”

Credence wasn’t sure why he was telling him all this, but he felt if he wanted to know, why not tell him? 

“You know, it's charming,” said Edmund. “How you’re sweet on (y/n). It’s pretty obvious. You look at her like a little puppy dog. It’s almost endearing. But it’s pointless.”

“Pointless?” Credence repeated. 

Edmund stared blankly at the younger boy. A sly smirk teetered on his lips.  “Oh, come on. Do you... Do you actually think you have a chance with her?”

Credence’s silence only amused him more, spurring him to laugh tauntingly. “Oh my God, you do! I almost feel bad for you!” It was only now that Credence noticed the subtle slur of his words. “Listen, mate, I’m only saying this because I feel like we could be friends. It's not going to happen. (y/n) is a sweet girl, almost too sweet. She’s oblivious to these kinds of things, you see?” He leaned against a stone post.

“How should I explain this? I’ve watched her grow up, and I have seen many young chaps like you fall all over her. She doesn’t realize her kindness attracts people. There have been many broken hearts left at her feet. You don’t want yours added to the pile, trust me.”

Yes, Credence decided in that moment he didn’t like Edmund at all. He took too much of a likeness to Ripley; they had the same condescending leer. The buzzing of his head wouldn’t allow him to hide his obvious disdain, and for the first time Credence would speak his mind, unafraid of the consequences. 

“Is yours one of them?” He asked boldly. 

“Excuse me?”

“Your heart,” he reiterated. “Is it one of the ones she broke?”

“I—”

“Do you feel threatened by me? Are you afraid that she might not like you as much as you think?” 

“What did you just say to me?” Edmund sputtered. 

Credence continued, feeling no shame for what he was about to slur and stutter. “She’s only nice to you because you’re friends with her brother and she’s known you for so long. But that isn’t enough to win her affection. Deep down, you know that.”

Edmund took Credence by the collar, “I suggest you stop talking,” he whispered dangerously. 

“You say that I don’t have a chance, then what do you have?” Credence chuckled provokingly. “She said she likes me. Has she ever said she likes you?”

“You don’t know a damn thing!” Yelled Edmund, red in the face. “To her, you’re just a pet. A sad little puppy she has to take care of. She’ll give you treats and dress you up like a doll, but it doesn’t mean anything. She’ll never see you as a man.”

“Is this what you do?” Asked Credence. “You drive away any person who you think might come between you and (y/n)? There’s nothing to come between. She’s not yours. She never was. And she’s not mine either. I don’t care if she doesn’t feel the same way I do. That doesn’t matter. But she said she liked me... and I like her.” Credence smiled. “And that is more than anything you’ll ever have with her.”

A powerful fist collided with his left cheek, sending him to the ground. The pleasing buzz in his head was replaced with rushing blood pounding against his temple. 

“I told you to stop talking,” the assailant heaved. 

Credence struggled to his hands and knees. The punch left a metallic taste in his mouth, and a bubbling rage in his stomach. Without thinking, he lunged forward, tackling Edmund to the ground. The two fell in a heap on the cobblestone, wrestling and thrashing violently. Credence got the upper-hand, landing a satisfying punch in the face, leaving Edmund with a bloodied nose. It didn’t last, because as soon as Credence wrestled his way on top, he was back under him, taking blows to the face and ribs. 

He couldn’t react fast enough to defend himself, and honestly, it was a miracle he landed a punch in the first place. He curled into himself to protect his face and ribs. The same vibrating rage he felt earlier that same day with Ripley danced under his skin. His thoughts faded in and out between consciousness, each unfamiliar thought being one of violence and rage. Pure, dark rage. 

Edmund may have got a peak at this entity—a glimpse into it’s glassy white eyes. If he had, he didn't say so. He only hesitated, a look of both confusion and fear flashing over his once blinding anger when their eyes locked. If he had seen those shining white eyes, they disappeared as soon as they came, her voice retreating the beast inside. 

“EDDY! CREDENCE! STOP IT!”

It was a trick of the lights, Edmund would later conclude. A figment of his drunken imagination. But it wasn’t true. The truth was Credence had a part of himself he couldn’t control—a part of himself that could destroy buildings and uproot roads—a part of him he couldn’t control, that is, until he met her. Until the sound of her sweet voice reached his ears and calmed the blackness to its dormant state.  

Edmund was pulled off of him, pushed several feet back while she dove for him on the ground, dirtying her red dress. The light from the lamppost and house gave the illusion that she glowed in the night.

Her eyes were big with worry. “Credence, are you okay? Does it hurt?” She helped him sit up, taking his face gently in her hands. It didn’t hurt. He couldn't feel anything but her warm hands caressing his cheeks. 

“I’m hurt too, (y/n),” Edmund croaked from his place. Aaron and Channing were there, barricading him away. “I got hit too. Why don’t you ask me if I’m okay? Huh?!”

(y/n) glared back at him. “You’re drunk!”

Edmund’s red face became wet with hot, angry tears. “WHY DON’T YOU ASK ME, (Y/N)?! DON’T YOU LIKE ME TOO?”

She held on to Credence's arm, holding him close. “I think you should go,” she muttered. 

Edmund sniffed, a look of pure heartbreak slapping over his chiseled features. “(y/n)...” He called for her one last desperate time, but she turned away, shutting him out completely. 

“Come on, man,” Aaron said sternly, pushing him back. “Let’s take a walk, okay?”

“GET OFF ME!” Edmund pushed Aaron away from him, staggering backward. He took one last long look at (y/n), hoping that she would look at him again. But she didn't. Her eyes stayed trained on Credence. He stepped back, defeated. 

“I can walk by my bloody self,” he slurred bitterly, retreating further into the garden, Aaron chasing after him. 

“Can you stand up?” (y/n) asked softly, taking Credence by the hand and pulling him to his feet. 

Channing helped as well, guiding them both back into the house. They stayed away from the festivities, taking the hidden stairs back up to her room. Channing had retrieved a medical kit after they reached her room, leaving once (y/n) insisted she could care for Credence on her own. 

Now, he sat next to her on her bed, while she shifted through the medical kit. His eyes trained on a young, black, hairless cat played curled up in a stuffed bed by the fire. This must’ve been the cat she had told him about. 

“Do you mind telling me what that was about or are you just going to stay silent?” Asked after the long silence. 

“It was nothing,” he told her, as she took his face in her hands to examine the wounds on his cheek and lip. 

“Yeah, right.” She muttered, taking a wet cotton swab and dabbing it on his scraped cheek. It burned, causing him to wince. She stopped immediately, looking apologetic. “Sorry.”

She went for the medical kit again, rummaging through it messily before stopping abruptly.

“You know what, I’m not sorry! Serves you right worrying me like that! I leave you for one minute and you’re picking fights in the street! Just look what he’s done to your face!” She cupped the side of his face where Edmund had punched him. She sighed, taking another cotton swab from the kit. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to yell. I don’t like seeing you hurt is all.”

He looked at her deeply through lidded eyes as she dabbed the cut on his lip. 

“We were fighting about you,” he confessed.

She stopped, her eyes flickered to his for a moment, before focusing back on his lip. “Me? Why on Earth would you be fighting about me?”

He didn’t say. She waited for an answer, but soon concluded she wouldn’t get one. He hissed when she began applying cream on his cuts. “Fine, then,” she mumbled irritably. “Don’t answer me. Just hold still—”

His lips were on hers before she could finish her harping. The swab fell from her hand in shock, her eyes wide as saucers. He was kissing her. His eyes were closed, his lips plush against hers. He ignored the sting of his cut as he pressed his lips onto hers like he’d seen couples do many times before. His heart pounded in his ears. He would have kept kissing her if he hadn’t held his breath for too long. When they parted, and he opened his eyes to see her staring, awestruck. 

His ears turned red, and a wave of embarrassment crashed over him, realizing what he’d done. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have—”

Her soft lips crashed into his with passionate force, her hands flying to caress the nape of his neck. Now, it was his turn to be taken aback. Credence had kissed her how shy young couples do: pressing his lips onto hers. But she kissed him like lovers do, moving her lips feverishly against his, licking his lips coyly with her tongue. Imitating her actions, Credence let his eyes fall shut, opening his mouth for her. Her tongue slipped passed his lips and swirled around his, welcoming the foreign sensation.

“(y/n)...” He whimpered out of pure instinct. 

She pulled away, leaving him a blushing, panting mess. 

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you call me by my name,” she whispered. A smile stretched across her lips.  “Say it again.”

Credence’s cheeks burned, but he gladly did what she asked. 

“... (y/n),” he called her name again.

“Again.”

“(y/n),” he repeated.

“Credence,” she whispered his name, sending shivers down his spine.

“(y/n),” he whispered breathlessly. 

“Credence.”

“(y/n).”

She captured his lips in another sensual kiss, pushing him back onto the bed. The medical kit fell to the ground, forgotten. She laid on top of him, her legs wrapped around his thin waist, pressing her body against his like he’d imagined many times before. His heart thundered in his chest, his mind consumed by her. Lavender and vanilla, it was all around him; pressing against him, kissing him, caressing him.

“Credence,” she said between fiery kisses. “I want you.”

“Y-You want me?” He flushed, making her giggle. 

“Yes,” she chuckled, taking his hand. “Do... Do you want me too?” Her voice was small and unsure. 

Credence nodded, lacing his fingers between hers. “I’ll always want you.”

His words seemed to spur her on, reviving her confidence. “Is this okay?”

The touch of her hand on his thigh traveled down to his waist, sending shivers up his spine. The beat of his heart pulsed powerfully in his chest, ringing in his ears. He watched expectantly as she drew nearer, hovering over him. One of her hands rose to tenderly cup his cheek. Her hand was soft and warm against him. The way she touched him was unlike any other. She was always so gentle with him, so kind. 

Their lips were mere inches apart. So close he could feel her warm breath on his skin. She looked at him through hooded lids, her eyes darkened to a deep shade of (e/c).

Credence swallowed. “I...I’ve never...”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” 

She grinned, kissing his lips tenderly to calm his nerves. He felt her fingers move to unbutton his suit jacket. She pulled it off his shoulders, discarding it to the floor.

“Just relax,” she cooed. “I’ll take care of you.”

His black tie slipped off with ease, the buttons of his white dress shirt opened one by one the sound of fabric rubbing against each other and sultry sighs filling their ears. His shirt joined the jacket onto the ground, leaving him half-naked under her. He felt exposed, his eyes nervously fidgeting around the room. 

Her warm hands grazed the sides of his waist, delicately dancing up to his chest. She noticed the change in his breathing, his chest rising up and down in anticipation. He’d never been touched like this by anyone, not once. But now, as her hands glossed over his torso causing goosebumps to rise even though his skin was burning hot, he realized he wanted to be touched by her all the time, in every way. He wanted to kiss her over and over again; to feel her lips against his. He wanted to be close to her in the closest way possible.

As if answering his silent prayers, she pressed her chest against his, her breath tickling his cheeks. She kisses the mark on his cheekbone tenderly, then the corner of his lips, then his jaw. His eyes lull back. He let his head fall to the side, presenting his neck to her. Her hot breath on his neck excited him. Her lip pressed soft kisses down his jaw and neck, marking him with her red lipstick. Her wet tongue licked a stripe up his jugular, and he made a sound he’d only made once before in the confines of his room. 

She did it again, licking, sucking, and biting at the sensitive flesh of his neck. Credence bit his lip, muffling his desperate mewls. 

Her lips kissed up to the spot just under his ear. “It’s okay,” she whispered in his ear. “No one else can hear us. It’s just me.” 

Hoping to drive out more sweet moans, she sucked on the flesh of his neck she learned to be the most sensitive. His hips bucked upwards, grinding between her legs. He squirmed pathetically under her, his desperate pants and moans filling the room. 

His body was sensitive to her every touch, each kiss sending jolts of electricity through his body. She left love bites on the expanse of his neck and collarbone, coloring his pale skin purple and mauve. 

She caught his lips in another open-mouthed kiss, assaulting his mouth with his tongue at her pleasure. 

“Is... C-Can I touch you?” He asked through her kisses. 

She pulled away, her nose brushing against his. “Always,” she breathed. 

His hands daringly glided over her arms, reaching around her back. His fingers found the zipper to her dress and pinched, pulling it down her back until it stopped at her waist. She slid out of the dress with ease, slipping it off her body and letting it pool around her waist. His eyes glued to her bare chest, turning red from the neck up. She took his hands and guided them up her sides, outlining her feminine curves. 

She brought his hands to cup her breasts. His touch was hot on her skin, her own blush burning undeneath. He could feel her heart pounding wildly in his chest, and he knew she was just as excited as him. He let his body act on its own, his hands massaging her breasts. She let out a shaky breath, her mouth falling open. 

He continued, brushing his thumbs against her hardened nipples. Her hips rocked sensually against his twitching member. Her name slipped past his lips, his eyes trained on her figure above him. Her hands pressed on his chest, her hips moving in circles over him. Credence sat himself up, snaking his arms around her hips, gripping them firmly. They stared at each other breathlessly through half-lidded eyes. Credence’s already dark eyes turned to black pools reflecting in the moonlight. 

He mimicked her affections, placing chaste kisses under her jaw. He kissed the expanse of her neck, tasting her soft skin. He pulled her hips into him, guiding her movements in his lap. His length strained against his trousers, aching to be touched. 

“You said you want to touch me, right?” She panted. “Touch me here.”

She moved his right hand from her hip, slipping it under the velvety veil that covered where she wanted him most. He could feel her through thin lacy fabric, her heat already slick with arousal. He experimentally rubbed his fingers up and down her slit, studying the twitches and jolts of her body. She seemed to really enjoy when his fingers brushed against a certain spot, so he kept his attention there, rubbing steady circles around the sensitive area. 

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her head falling to rest in the crook of his neck. He enjoyed hearing her high-pitched moans, even as they were muffled against his neck. He pressed harder, picking up his pace to hear more. Her hips jut against his hand, jerking every so often. Her breaths quickened, and she whimpered his name in his ear. 

“Faster,” she’d pant desperately, her grip on his shoulders tightening. 

He did, circling his fingers as best he knew how. Her thighs tightened around his legs, her body stilled but he didn't stop. Only when he felt her body shake and relax against him did he stop, her sweet satisfied moan reaching his ears. 

He held her in his arms, peppering kisses on her shoulder and neck as she steadied her breathing. When she did lift her head from his neck, she pecked his lips and cheek. She held his face in her hands and moved to lie on her back, pulling him down in the process. 

He planted his hands on either side of her head. He admired her from above. Her red lipstick was faded, smudged messily on her chin, having been transfered on his own lips and neck. She didn’t break eye contact as her hands unbuttoned his trousers, pulling them down his waist and kicking them off with her feet along with his boxers. They lingered like that, just staring and admiring one another. He didn’t feel embarrassed. He felt strangely calm. The rest of the world seemed to float away. Nothing else mattered. Not the party down stairs, or the people laughing and drinking. Not Edmund and his jealousy, and not his mother and her vilification. Nothing mattered but her and him together in this room, together in her bed. 

He bent down to kiss her with all the passion and love he could muster. She was everything he could ever want and more. She was his saving grace, his goddess. He wanted to show her how much he loved her. ‘Closer,’ he thought. He needed to be closer to her.

Their lips and hips magnetized, their bodies melded together. He whispered her name like a mantra because he knew she liked hearing it as much as he liked saying it. He felt her hands slip between their bodies, grasping his length. She guided him to where she needed him, his tip pressing teasingly at her entrance. With her help, he eased inside, feeling her wrap tightly around him. They sighed in each others mouth, devouring their intoxicated moans. Her legs wrapped around his waist, urging him further. 

She opened for him like a flower in bloom. His hips moved without having to think. Being with her felt so natural. Every move he made came to him like second nature. His thrusts were slow and gentle, drawing wanton moans from her lips. Her hips rocked into him with equal fervor. She collected his moans with her kiss, her fingers tangling themselves in his hair. 

He lost himself in the feeling of her, his pace quickening. He watched her pretty face morph into varying expressions of pleasure, each thrust of his hips creating a new one. He’d never felt so good in his life. His body tingled and his skin burned pleasantly. He didn’t know it was possible to feel such pure, utter euphoria. 

He fisted the rosy silk sheets, his breath stopping in his throat. She tightened around him, and like a wave crashing down on a cliff side, he came. His body vibrated and twitched above her. He called her name into the air, his spastic thrusts edging her to her end, which—by the sounds of her shameless cries—was as powerful and illustrious as his. 

There was a moment of stillness; a moment in which they heard nothing but their shallow breaths and the crackle of the fire. They could do nothing but stay in their connected position with eyes locked. Credence fell to his side next to her on the bed. His muscles ached and his skin was slick with sweat, but he was filled with unwavering adulation. Eyes still locked, they said so much without needing to say anything at all. His hand found hers, lacing his fingers between her small ones.

They laid there, staring lovingly in each other’s eyes for what felt like hours. He silently adored her, memorizing the details of her features until his eyes grew heavy from exhaustion, slowly falling shut as graceful as the falling snow outside.  

Credence pried open his tired eyes. The fire still burned beside him. It crackled and danced, keeping the exhausted pair warm under the thin sheets. The moonlight broke through the balcony glass door and cast shadows of the curtains across the room. There was no music heard from downstairs and the manor outside sounded empty of all festivities. 

He took the time to embrace her presence. She laid on her side, facing him. Her eyes were still shut, soft snores falling from her lips. She held his hand between their bodies. Her thick (h/c) hair sprawled wildly around her, messed by their passionate love affair. And still, even with her hair a mess, and the corner of her lips wet with drool, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He reached his free hand to brush the fray hairs from her eyes, watching her lips twitch and curl into a sleepy smile when his thumb brushed against her cheek. That smile alone rid his mind of any and all doubts that still lingered. 

There are very few moments in life worth living for. Most things in life are mundane and repetitive, and when they weren't, they were bleak and agonizing. He’d been through it many times before, taking in so much pain he thought death was a kinder fate. But, as he lay next to her, listening to her slow steady breaths, watching the rise and fall of her chest while she slept; he knew he would face it all again, if it meant he could have more of these moments with her.  

#credence barebone x reader #credence barebone smut #credence x reader #credence smut #credence imagine #credence barebone #credence fantastic beasts #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beats the crimes of grindelwald #crimes of grindelwald #fantastic beasts the crimes of grindelwald #Newton Scamander #newt scamander #newt scamander smut #newt scamander x reader

[the-painted-siren]

Sea and Storm

The Ninjago writers decided I didn’t need my heart then, I guess. Real groovy, guys. Next season better have to do with Kai bringing Nya back like the undyingly dedicated big brother he is or I swear to everything that’s ever had the misfortune of existing next to me I will grab a megaphone and parade around LEGO headquarters until they make it so.   Also, Riptide is playing while I write this hurt/comfort so if it’s weepy and incoherent, that’s why. Tags: Spoilers for S15, Major Character Death

Jay goes out on a bolt of lightning. He doesn't remember if it was before or after the rest of his family and he doesn’t hear any echoing screams follow him on the trail of rolling thunder. He just knows that one moment he’s staring into the eyes of the enemy and the next he’s soaring. 

There’s a cold blue ocean beneath him and violet clouds wreathed around him. The pleasant hum of his element courses through his veins as he steps down onto the horizon, a single ripple stilling it’s entire surface. He breathes out, a gentle gust of wind rising through his lungs or the strange tracing of lightning they’re comprised of now. 

He’s alone, he realizes. For the first time in years, he’s completely, one-hundred percent alone. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t at least have the fuzzy outline of someone he loved in his memories. 

He showed up to the monastery, young and spirited and dizzy with joy, and all but glommed onto Cole as the only other student of Master Wu in the vicinity. He flocked to Zane once they had the Bounty, and to Kai and Lloyd and Nya. One by one, he gained his team, his family. There’s a bitter-sweetness in knowing he’ll only see them once he’s found his place in the Departed Realm, knowing there wasn’t a single moment he had without them when he was in Ninjago. 

Sure, Zane had been a self-sacrificial moron that one time and Jay, heart-sick and failing to even look at food without aching had fled to where the lights were brightest and the cheers were loudest. 

But they got him back. In the end, through bruises and battles and the glint of a green blade and the noodle master’s nasally laughter, they got Zane back. 

Not like how they never got Nya back. 

Pain is an old friend, by now. Nya’s absence, hollow and excruciating the way only missing a Yang could be, made itself a permanent home in Jay’s heart. He’s used to it by now, even if it never stops hurting. 

It won’t stop hurting here, either. 

Which, really kind of sucks. Even when he’s one with his own element and beyond the rational reach of emotions, grief still finds a way to wound him with everything its got. Sea mist and the sound of the ocean still finds a way to force itself into his presence, with a bright and radiant glow and a high siren song. 

Actually, that might be a literal glow, now that he’s bothering to focus. 

If he could breathe, then the ability might have just been stolen from him because she’s here. 

Suddenly and violently and oh, so brilliantly, only as she can be, only as she knows how to be, Nya’s here. 

And it’s like he’s a kid again, lovestruck and giddy as he first lays eyes on her. Messy and sooty and sniping at her big brother’s hair as they stumble from the Fire Temple, a valiant smile on her face because not even the mighty Lord Garmadon could scare her, the same smile she wears so many years later. FSM, he loves that smile. 

Of course, because he’s so smooth, he goes out of his way to pick the first cheesy pick-up line that comes to mind. 

“Have I just met an angel?” He asks. 

Nya laughs, really laughs, like it comes from deep within her core and resonates across the sea and the sky with unbridled energy. He sucks in a shaky breath. FSM, he loves that laugh. 

“You’re the one flying, Jay,” She replies, once she’s wiped the tears from her eyes. “I think the angel here is you.” 

Jay’s lightning burns brighter, a flash flickering up around his face—he’s blushing. He’s hesitant but he holds out a hand nonetheless. Nya glances once at it then plunges straight into hugging him, a tight embrace that flutters through him and mingles with her waves. He hugs her back, faintly recalling the scent of ash and the taste of salt from the last time they did this. They sway together in perfect harmony, their legs tangle together, they’re so close to one another, a proximity he hasn’t had in so long. 

They dance, feet touching on the ocean and sending gentle wrinkles over its surface. They dance, like they always used to because it was their thing, their dates, their activities. 

They dance, sea and storm, jagged and uneven, silk-like and serene, skipping to the everchanging beats that only they can hear. In the sky, on the clouds, then into the deep blue between the weeds and the rocks, both as dragons and as people. 

And they hold each other as though this is the last time they ever will. 

Though deep in Jay’s heart, he knows this might be all he’ll ever get to do until time fades away and loses it’s name. He’s okay with that, he finds. 

Then, even they’re not alone anymore. Jay’s eyes are tugged toward the sea below him where something narrow cuts a neat path through the waves. A dragon’s head at the prow, sailing white wings upon three masts, the sound of laughter and familiar music and the mouth-wateringly delicious smell of stir-fried udon—Zane’s and Kai’s signature dish, a recipe they concocted together. 

The Bounty. 

“How long have we been here?” Jay looks at Nya but the Bounty pulls her gaze toward it, commanding it. 

She startles then glances back at Jay. 

“I don’t... know...” the answer is kind of lame, unsure. Which is how Jay knows its serious because there’s hardly a time when Nya doesn’t know what’s going on. “Here, time is....”

Strange. Weird. It flows differently from Ninjago. None of which she replies with. It all makes sense to Jay and simultaneously makes no sense at all. He’s going to have words with the Time Twins for this nonsense. 

Later though. He’s more distracted by the colorful glowing sparks on the deck of the Bounty. There’s a fiery gold and a shimmering green, their warmth vast enough to be felt even in the stratosphere. Then there’s a tell-tale twinkling blue-white and an earthen, olive grey. 

“It’s home...” Nya finally says, her voice drenched with awe and longing as though she’s been away from them for decades. 

Jay feels a weak smile pull at his lips. “You want to go see them?” 

Nya flashes him that smile he loves again. 

“Do I ever.” 

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago jay #ninjago nya #fanfiction #writers on tumblr #my writing #Me? Writing romance? It's more likely than you think #Oh of course with that found family junk #I can't stay away from the ultra high of found family #ninjago spoilers #ns15 spoilers #ns15 #seabound #seabound spoilers #my fic

[cosmic-hearts]

castles in the air | lee donghyuck | one

lee donghyuck x female reader

genre; enemies-to-lovers, friendship, romance, fluff, angst

warnings; none

foreword; in which even though you might be a real-life princess with a prince promised to you right from the start, you won’t be getting your happy ever after.

next chapter >> 

“Which dress would you like to wear tonight, miss?”

Not a pink dress. Donghyuck hates pink. 

You resent yourself for it, but it’s the first thought that pops into your mind when the nice boutique lady presents your options to you: a peachy pink Alex Perry gown that reminds you of what you used to like when you were ten, a bold red Lia Stubella one that screamed movie star (except you clearly aren’t one), and a glamorous Elie Saab champagne silk dress that was honestly beautiful but had a plunging neckline that was a little too low for your comfort. 

You eye the pink dress warily, remembering the first time you met Lee Donghyuck. Back when you had even less of a say in the clothes you wore, your mother had forced you into a stiff candy pink dress with ribbons all around the waist. You felt like a walking stick of cotton candy, but your mum insisted that you looked adorable. Donghyuck gave you the stink eye all throughout dinner, and when you privately asked him why, he mumbled something about having a raging hatred for pink. 

It would be a hilarious anecdote if you could look back on it fondly with Donghyuck, safe in the knowledge that you two were best friends now, but reality is quite the opposite. You’re not best friends, neither are you two even friends. 

No. Definitely not pink, you think to yourself, mentally crossing it out even though a part of you wanted to wear it just to see the look on his face, to elicit some sort of reaction from him; it didn’t matter if it was one of disgust. It would be better than nothing.

Because resentment was the only form of emotion he could ever seem to spare you. 

—

Lee Donghyuck watches Sohui as she slings the tie around his neck and does a perfect knot, her deft fingers occasionally grazing his chest. She’s clad in a simple, off-shoulder white dress and wears minimal makeup, her inky black hair a glossy cascade down her back. 

She looks like an angel. 

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to go?” Her gentle voice lures Donghyuck from his thoughts and he smiles at her, placing an arm around her waist and drawing her close to him.

“You’re my girlfriend. Of course it’s okay.”

Her gaze is downcast, lips pouted in worry. “But your parents don’t know about me. And what about her—,”

“That’s why you need to come with me tonight. So they can know about you,” Donghyuck tries to keep his tone light to mask his worry; deep down, he too knows that tonight is going to be precarious and defining, and it could either make or break his relationship with Sohui.

When they reach the hotel, Donghyuck laces his fingers through hers, and he’s not sure if it’s to comfort Sohui or himself. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes widen at the intricate glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the artful statues of greek Goddesses posing in all their prehistoric glory, and of course, the people parading all around in their finest evening wear like nobility. It is moments like these when he’s painfully reminded of the sheer gulf between the worlds they come from; his reality exists only in her wildest dreams.

“Donghyuck-ah!”

He whirls round at the sound of his mother screeching his name, bracing himself for the whirlwind of interrogation that is sure to consume him. He tightens his grip on her hand, wondering if he and Sohui will make it out alive. 

Mr Lee hurries towards him, the click-clack of her heels against the marble tiles like a mocking countdown towards his impending doom. As expected, she stops short when she sees Sohui, hand interlinked with her son’s, her gaze hardening into one of icy judgement. Mr Lee raises a questioning eyebrow but remains silent. 

And so it begins. 

“Who is this, Donghyuck?” Mrs Lee asks in a tone of apparent civility but she doesn’t bother masking her cold appraisal of Sohui as she assesses her simple dress, lack of jewelry and unimpressive hairdo, in stark contrast to her own immaculate styling and head-to-toe designer wear. 

“Mother, Father, this is Kim Sohui,” Donghyuck says, wrapping an arm around Sohui’s shoulders, “and she’s my girlfriend.”

If looks could kill, Sohui would be writhing on the floor right now. 

“I see. It’s nice to meet you, Sohui. How long have you been dating my son?”

The poor girl stares down at the floor, fidgeting. “Four months?”

“And you know that my son’s engaged? And he has been for a period of time way longer than four months.”

The color dissipates from Sohui’s cheeks and she pales instantly. “Yes, Mrs Lee.”

“We can deal with this later, mother—,”

“Mr and Mrs Lee!”

The Lee family meeting is cut short with the arrival of another family; your own. 

Donghyuck’s eyes are immediately drawn to you; he clenches his jaw as a film descends over his eyes, that familiar feeling of mutiny washing over him.

He takes in your silk champagne dress, no doubt flown in from the most expensive Parisian or Lebanese designer. He takes in your flawless half-updo that’s been styled to perfection, not a curl of hair out of place. He takes in your polished, elegant strides, six-inch heels notwithstanding. Everything about you is immaculate and impeccable; you appear entirely self-possessed and composed, the very portrait of style and sophistication, grace and glamour. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off you as you greet his parents, a cordial smile playing on your lips when his parents gush over how beautiful you look tonight. 

“And who might this young lady be?” Donghyuck flinches when your mother asks, her sharp eyes pinned on Sohui like a predator does prey. 

“Oh, she’s just a friend of Donghyuck’s,” Mrs Lee says, at the exact moment Donghyuck blurts out “my girlfriend”. 

While everyone falls into stunned silence, anger radiating off his parents in potently palpable waves, Donghyuck’s eyes flit over to you immediately to gauge your reaction. Would this news be enough to shock you, to cause you distress, to cause your perfect facade to crumble for once? Because for once in your life, things weren’t going according to your perfect plan, and they were now out of your control? The very thought causes a sense of triumph to swell through his chest. 

But you don’t even bat an eyelid. 

Without missing a beat, you break out into a warm smile, extending your hand to Sohui’s. “Hi, my name is Y/N. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“I’m so sorry about my son,” Mrs Lee says, absolutely flabbergasted, “we had absolutely no idea about any of this.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you say, and though Donghyuck tries his hardest to read your expression, you do a perfect job at keeping it inscrutable; he’s unable to figure you out. “We might be engaged, but it doesn’t mean that we can’t date other people, right?”

Your parents look aghast at your flippant reaction, and it nearly causes you to giggle.

“Your daughter is so understanding, as always,” Mrs Lee gushes, “Hyuck really doesn’t deserve her.”

Donghyuck’s head hangs low as he clenches his fists, his mother’s final verdict like a dagger aimed straight for his heart.

He can never win against you. 

—

After Mrs Lee banishes Sohui from tonight’s function, Donghyuck vanishes. You set off in search of him, feeling a sort of responsibility for what just happened even though you’re not exactly sure what you should be held accountable for. 

You traverse through the crowded expanse of the ballroom, stopping every couple of minutes for people to gush over how lovely your dress is, how exquisite you look tonight (you were indeed the daughter of the largest fashion conglomerate in Seoul; there was no way anyone would tell you your fashion sense was hideous). You smile and either demur or thank them politely, depending on how sycophantic they choose to be. You’re good at playing the game; you’ve been raised your whole life learning the ropes of how to be a people pleaser, how to be charismatic and alluring, how to draw people to you and your cause. 

And it’s always worked with just about everyone in your life. Except, of course, for Lee Donghyuck.

The one person you need to charm the most simply refuses to fall under your spell. 

It’s frustrating, but more than that, it’s terribly unsettling; is he able to see through your veneer of poise and confidence to the weak, less-than-worthy girl you’re so afraid to acknowledge? You’ve always believed that vulnerability wouldn’t look good on you, and that’s why you try so hard, in every aspect of your life, to maintain that flawless guise, that charade of effortless excellence. Yet, with a single withering sneer or chilly glare, Lee Donghyuck manages to strike down that meticulously manipulated illusion you’d gone to great lengths to construct.

You don’t like it. 

You shake off all unpleasant thoughts and slip on your game face as you step out onto the balcony where a familiar lone figure stands deep in thought, a forlorn silhouette in the darkness of the night. The wind whips through your hair as you move to stand next to him; you produce your shawl from your purse and wrap it around your bare arms. 

“Hi.”

You don’t look at Donghyuck; a part of you is afraid to see that ever-simmering resentment on his face. But he makes no reply, gazing out at the cityscape beneath you two. You pluck up the courage to continue.

“I’m sorry about Sohui. She seems really nice.”

You hear him exhale, a heavy sound that dissolves into the breeze. Yet he remains silent.

“If you’d like, I can talk to Mrs Lee—,”

“Shut up.”

The words on the tip of your tongue grind to an abrupt halt and die. Donghyuck finally turns towards you, his dark eyes piercing through to your very core.

“Why did you do that?”

Steeling yourself, you match his stare. “I really do think it’s perfectly fine for us to be dating other people. I know you don’t like me, and I won’t force you to. But I just want to remind you that what needs to be done has to be done, when the time comes.”

Donghyuck smirks. “You think I’ll marry you?”

Onward with the diplomatic route you continue. “I hate to put it this way, but you have no choice. We were betrothed to each other since we were kids and we’re bound by a formal contract—,”

At this, Donghyuck grabs your wrist roughly and you lurch forward, torso mere centimetres away from his. He inches his face closer to yours; you can count the beauty spots splayed across the expanse of his honey-gold skin, and the musky scent of his cologne makes your head spin.

You almost gulp in his face. Almost.

“Do you want to marry me?” He asks, all sardonic bitterness gone from his voice. It almost sounds like a genuine question, like he really wants to know your opinion on the matter.

You take a few seconds to clear your head, to formulate a prudent and politically correct reply that your parents would approve of.

But Donghyuck seems to be able to read your mind. “I don’t want a model answer, Y/N. I’m asking you what you really want.”

You chew your lower lip in unease, avoiding his probing gaze. What do you really want? All your life, all you thought you really wanted was to fulfil all the plans your parents had laid out for you even before you were born. To be a good daughter to your parents, a good student to your teachers, a good heiress to the family company. And eventually, a good wife to Donghyuck. Because all these were the means to an eventual end—wealth, material success, approval from your parents, and with those, you’d assumed, would automatically come some form of happiness (a nebulous concept you never truly understood or appreciated). Why should you question your parents, when they’d told you time and again that they only had your best interests at heart?

But now, being faced with Donghyuck’s resolute gaze, the defiant tilt of his chin, with his fingers burning into your skin, you’re not so sure anymore. 

What do you want?

“I-I don’t know,” you mutter softly, so softly that it almost gets carried away by the wind into the night. But Donghyuck catches it, and he doesn’t miss the quiver in your voice that tells him it isn’t very often you’re unsure of something and you admit it. His grip on your wrist loosens and he remarks, “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“What?”

“You not knowing something.”

Your cheeks almost colour with embarrassment. You snatch your hand out of his grip, take a step back and straighten up, ashamed of having let your mask of seamless composure slip, even if it was only for an instant. Looking him directly in the eye, you say in a sharp tone, “Don’t ever touch me again without my permission.”

With that, you turn around, your shawl flapping violently behind you in the breeze and hitting Donghyuck in the cheek. 

He watches you return to the ballroom and disappear into the ceaseless sea of designer gowns and overpriced tuxedos, right where you belong. But he can’t forget the flash of vulnerability he’d seen in your eyes, the shadow of doubt that made him think maybe you weren’t the infallible robot he always believed you were. 

Maybe you too, like him, want to break free from the confines of this cursed matrimonial match.

—

You sit at your desk, working on a history essay that you normally would have completed hours ago but it’s 7pm and you’re not even halfway through yet. You glance outside your bedroom window, or your ivory tower as you like to call it; your house was basically a castle set amid carefully cultivated gardens, and nights of rushing essays made you feel like Rapunzel stuck in an endless cycle of work. 

Anyone would say you were practically a princess. Born with the privilege of not a silver but golden spoon in your mouth, you virtually had the world at your fingertips. Your every whim and fancy came true; all you had to do was ask and you would receive.

But no one understood that this just made it even more difficult to prove that you are worthy. 

Do you even deserve everything you have? This was a nagging, disturbing question that you would likely never have the answer to.

Before you can delve too deeply into your existential issues, your phone pings with a text. 

Lee Donghyuck

Hi. 

You almost drop your phone. You had Donghyuck’s contact saved because your parents forced you two to text each other obligatory birthday wishes and congratulations whenever either of you did well in something. The last text was Donghyuck congratulating you on winning the debate nationals half a year ago. His texts always had this note of forced civility, like he’d rather be skinning a cat than sending you a text. But you hadn’t won anything recently, nor was it your birthday, so why did he deign to contact you?

Lee Donghyuck

Can we meet? I need to discuss something with you. 

You can’t forget the way he’d momentarily disarmed you, or the way you’d callously left him on the balcony that night. Why would he want anything to do with you after that horribly awkward encounter?

You

When?

Lee Donghyuck

Right now, if you’re free. 

It’s funny how your first thought is, what the hell am I going to wear? Then again, it’s not like you have regular midnight escapades with the boy who regards you as the bane of his existence; how would you know the dress code for such an occasion? You end up slipping into your baby pink Adidas tracksuit, the one you usually wear for your night runs—Donghyuck’s strange loathing for pink be damned. You have no intention to endear yourself to him, at least not tonight.

You slip out through the back gate and into the rose garden, where Donghyuck is waiting in the pavilion. His hands are in his pockets and he looks deep in thought, like he’s ruminating on contemporary problems of the 21st century when in reality, you’re sure he’s probably just dreaming about that girlfriend of his. He doesn’t even seem to mind your all-pink ensemble.

“Hey Donghyuck,” you say coolly, determinedly looking ahead of you and refusing to look at him, “let’s make this quick, please. I have an essay to write.” You almost immediately regret how petty that sounds, nothing like the businesslike tone you were striving for.

“Fine.” Did you imagine the mild disdain in his voice? “I just have a proposal for you that I think you might be interested in; I was wondering if you’d want to form an alliance.”

Now that's businesslike. You turn towards him, curiosity aroused. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to marry you; you know that clearly enough. But I’m sure you wouldn’t want to marry me either.”

You remain silent, unsure where he’s heading with this.

“The thing is, we never really tried to get close to each other; maybe that’s why our parents are so insistent that we’d be a good match. My parents don't listen to me when I tell them I don’t want to marry you; they say that I’ll get over it, which is bullshit, because I know what I want and it’s not you,” he says, looking over at you, “no offence.”

You smirk. “None taken. Please go on.”

“So if we show them that we’re making the effort to get to know each other better, but it doesn’t work out in the end, maybe they’ll let us off. I mean, mine won’t, but you can tell your parents that you don’t want to marry me; they’ll surely listen to you because you’re literally their darling princess. My parents will have no say then.” The sneer in his tone definitely isn’t imaginary this time.

You consider this for a moment, trying to find loopholes in his plan. “What exactly does ‘getting to know each other better’ entail?”

At this, Donghyuck takes a deep breath. “I need you to keep an open mind about this because it’s for the greater good, Y/N. It’s going to be painful, but I think we should pretend to date each other.”

You keep your expression stoic when really, you feel your heartbeat picking up speed and a surge of heat diffuses across your cheekbones.

Lee Donghyuck never fails to surprise you. 

“And your girlfriend is okay with this?”

“Yes, I’ve told her about it; she gave me her full support. After all, it’s all fake anyway. And this way we can break off our engagement faster, which is what we both want.” 

You know you should say no but you can’t deny that this was indeed a rather expedient plan. And you would never admit it, but you can’t seem to suppress that clandestine urge that had been bubbling inside of you ever since that encounter with Donghyuck—the urge to, for once in your life, take control of your own decisions. To snatch the reins of your fate away from your parents, to do something for yourself instead of for the people around you. This would be your one and only act of rebellion, the lone stain of sin upon your spotless record of dutiful daughter. The thought fills you with a dark thrill of exhilaration and sends electricity charging through your veins, a feeling foreign to your body. Almost immediately you feel years younger, like an errant child about to undertake a secret mission in the forbidden forest.

“Deal,” you say, extending your hand to Donghyuck’s and finally meeting his gaze with your own. “I look forward to working with you, Lee Donghyuck.”

#lee donghyuck #lee donghyuck imagines #lee donghyuck scenarios #lee donghyuck fluff #lee donghyuck angst #nct dream #nct dream fanfiction #nct dream fanfic #nct dream imagines #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #haechan scenarios #nct haechan #haechan nct #haechan fluff #haechan angst #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct fanfiction #haechan fanfic #haechan fanfiction

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 2 | A New Life

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Note: Here’s chapter 2! Thanks for all your comments and love. I was kind of shocked at how many people would want to read this so thank you! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for this story. P.S: Find the season 8 reference 

Slowly, Visenya’s eyes open, her vision hazy and muddled as she’s stuck in between distant dreams and the waking world. One blink, two blinks, three blinks. The room is much brighter than the darkness in sleep, her heavy eyes begging her to succumb to it once more, if only for five more minutes. Sunlight floods in through the window, cleansing away the darkness and the nightmares that come with it. The bed beneath her is lumpy and uncomfortable, leaving much to be desired in terms of comfort. The distant shouts of patrons in the tavern below only slightly muffled. Due to the thin walls, it sounds as if someone is screaming from behind Visenya’s door rather than from the floor below. A low grunt leaves her mouth, head pounding like a drum. Pain faintly shoots through her jaw as she slowly unclenches it. A loud pop echoes in the small room, Visenya’s arms stretching towards the ceiling. Lying in bed for a moment longer, she stares at the ceiling with a blank mind.

A year.

It’s been exactly a year since she showed up here. And despite that, she’s never grown used to it. A piece of Visenya still believes that this is all an elaborate dream. Perhaps she’ll wake up and be back in camp, fighting a losing war. Or maybe she’ll be in Winterfell, tucked away in her bed as she huddled under her furs to keep away the cold. All the Starks will be alive and well, and Visenya can laugh with them over breakfast as she chases away the bizarre and dark nightmare.

But the other half of her knows that idea to be false, nothing but a fantasy that’s just out of her grasp. This is real, and so are the actions that led to her showing up in Blaviken. She can still see it too, in the depths of her mind. The last image of Robb burned in her head as his body was paraded around the burning camp, his head cut off and replaced with Greywind’s. The unspoken apologies bubbling out of Visenya’s mouth, all the words she never got to say to him and never will.

No, this is all real. And the sooner Visenya accepts that the sooner she can move on with her life.

She just hasn’t learned how to.

A crash from below and a slew of muffled curses bring Visenya out of her thoughts. Metaphorically and physically, Visenya shakes her head in an attempt to clear away the lingering melancholy. With a heavy sigh and the popping sound of bones cracking, Visenya pulls herself out of the bed, throwing aside the thin, itchy blanket. The cool wooden flooring on her feet is a stark but welcome contrast to her warm temperature. With the grace of a drunkard, she stagers over to the small dresser shoved in the corner of her room. In the process, she tosses off her old nightgown and trades it for a simple blue dress. She haphazardly tosses it on, unbothered by any wrinkles. It’s one of the few dresses she owns. She managed to sew it - after many pricked fingers and a storm of curse words. She received the fabric from the local tailor. One of the local men was harassing the tailor and Visenya offered to get him off her hands in exchange for some fabric. Needless to say, the man - who turned out to be usual at the tavern - had a beautiful black eye for a solid week. It’s a win-win for Visenya; she gets free fabric and the men think twice about harassing her.

If they’re smart, that is.

She still owns all the things she brought with her from Westeros. Her clothes and sword were cleaned, various holes patched until they appeared brand new and her sword shined brilliantly. Her clothes lie in a chest, carefully folded and tucked under her small bed. The sword lies beside it in its sheath waiting to be used once more. Visenya had been unable to get rid of the items but couldn’t bear to look at them. So they’re neatly tucked away, collecting dust as Visenya pretends they don’t exist.

Some nights, when riddled with melancholy and sorrow she’ll pull out the chest and unsheath her blade. The fine dress, embroidered with small flowers and details of silk alongside the deep blue cloak adorned with a fierce dragon and a proud direwolf gets drenched in salty tears. Sobs tear through the silence of the room, echoing in Visenya’s mind until it’s the only thing she can focus on, blocking out the sounds of screams from that night. She’d trace her sword, feeling the dragon on the hilt beneath her fingertips. It was both a source of pain and strength for her. It reminds her of what she lost in Westeros but it also reminded her of who she is - what she is. A dragon; and a dragon is unbothered by the sheep.

With a halfhearted ruffle of her tangled hair, the previously silver locks now dyed a mud brown. In fear of sounding vain, she hates the color. The golden - silver locks were always her pride and joy. It was soft as silk and shined like fine jewels, reflecting beautifully in the sun as it glittered like gold. The light bouncing off the alabaster snow made her glow. Sansa used to adore braiding her hair, styling it in southern braids. Now it was dry, tangled, and dull; never styled in the intricate braids she used to wear.  

But the dye is a necessary evil. Despite not being in Westeros - or anywhere near it - silver hair isn’t a natural color for women her age. And the people in Blaviken don’t take kindly to anything different. So, in an attempt to not garner any attention to herself, silver became brown. And with each application of the dye, Visenya feels a piece of her old self being chipped away, whittling away until there isn’t much left.

Another crash.

She turns around, another sigh escaping her mouth. She moves towards the door, swinging it open as she moves down the hall. It is bare and empty, with no patrons stumbling out of their room blindly. Her room is the closest to the stairs, often hindering Visenya from getting a restful sleep if the tavern below is in full swing. The floorboards creak beneath the weight of her, the sounds lining up with each breath she takes.

Every day is a challenge to keep her head down and mouth shut. The patrons are rowdy and crude, many of them before even having a drop of ale in their systems. Insults would hang at the tip of her tongue, thrashing at the patrons like an angry serpent, ready to land a deadly strike. Her palms covered in crescent-shaped scars from clenching her fists for so long. And sometimes she’d let go and allow her temper to flare and get the best of her. But the risk is never worth the reward, and Aldred has proven to not be a kind boss.

So with a deep breath, Visenya steps down the last set of stairs and sets off towards the bar. The scent of stale alcohol and farm animals mingling with the aroma of food hits Visenya’s senses, causing her nose to wrinkle in disgust.

“There you are! Took you long enough to get down here.” Aldred, the innkeeper loudly exclaims upon seeing Visenya. She mutters a quiet sorry as he shoves a tray of drinks in her hands. “Quit your apologizing girl. Just take these drinks to that table.” He motions over to a rowdy group of men, all donning dyed red leathers. A group of bandits - or mercenaries, Visenya doesn’t care to find out. They came in last night with a woman named Renfri, and haven’t shut up since. She manages to balance the tray in her hands and takes over to their table, dropping it with a thud.

“Enjoy.” she sarcastically mutters, already moving away before any of them have a chance to speak. A scowl automatically places itself on her face as she begins another day of work.

“Do you ever smile Jane?” Isadora, another one of the serving girls says as she passes by to bring another table their drinks. She’s kind enough but the biggest gossip in this backwater town. You can count on anything you say to her being passed around Blaviken within the next hour.    

“Only when bathing in the blood of my enemies,” she mutters to herself, quiet enough that no one should hear. The small chuckle that leaves a woman Visenya was passing, Renfri, told her she was unsuccessful. Visenya pauses to give the woman a quick glance before moving back to the bar, where Aldred already had another round of ale ready for a different table. She picks up the serving tray, careful to not spill the drinks ontop.

“You always so grim?” Renfri asks Visenya as she walks past her to serve a table. This time Visenya doesn’t pause but does answer the woman.

“Only when my heart beats,” she nonchalantly says in a deadpan tone. She hears Renfri stifling another laugh, but if she said anything else, Visenya didn’t hear.

“Here ya go boys,” she mutters, once again dropping the drinks carelessly on the table. Some of it splashes out of the cups and creates small puddles. A few of the men scowl at her as they grab their respective drinks.

“You always do have the most lovely smile Jane.” one of the men pipes up. Jerald, he’s here far too often and spends too much coin. It doesn’t help that he also smells like he’s never been introduced to bathing. Then again, that is most of the people in this town, Visenya has unfortunately discovered. Jerald, feeling brave from the copious ale he’s already consumed, reaches a hand out to grab Visenya. The anger bubbling under the surface of Visenya snaps, the fire inside her flaring to life. With the speed and ferocity of a roaring fire, she grips his hand that rests on her arm.

Without a moment of hesitation, she bends his wrist back until the back of his hand hits the table surface. He lets out a strangled cry of pain as she holds his hand in an uncomfortable position. The men around them let out various cries of surprise but do nothing else. The previously jovial atmosphere in the tavern dissipates, silence smothering the room as everyone stares at their table. She tightens her grip on his wrist, bending down until her face is a few centimeters away from his. Like a snarling wolf, she bares her teeth at him.

“Touch me again, and I’ll show you something far nicer,” Visenya said, a threat thinly veiled in her words. His eyes stare at her, closely resembling a spooked deer, fear speckled in his gaze. She holds him there a moment longer before releasing his arm. Without another word she swiftly moves back to the bar. Multiple pairs of eyes continue to follow Visenya as the atmosphere slowly returns, the chatter in the room picking up. And by the time she reaches the bar, the only two pairs of eyes on her, Aldred and Renfri. Aldred’s beady eyes follow her, a scowl resting on his face while Renfri watches her with a critical eye mingled with a look of approval.

“They always like that?” Renfri asks her, casually leaning again the bar counter, nonchalantly tossing pieces of her breakfast in her mouth. She lazily watches Visenya circle around the bar until she stands across from Renfri. Visenya’s gaze moves from the counter to meet Renfri’s. They quietly watch each other, Renfri waiting for an answer, and Visenya contemplating giving an answer.  

“All men are the same when they’ve got ale in them.” Visenya smoothly replies, breaking the silence and ending their stare-off. She grabs another cup and fills it to the brim with ale, sliding it over to Renfri. The woman merely raises an eyebrow at Visenya before tipping the cup up towards her mouth. Visenya watches as she finishes the ale so fast she could’ve given Robert Baratheon a run for his money. She slams the cup down, wiping away any residual ale on her face. Visenya says nothing, opting to begin eating an assortment of meats, cheese, and bread.

“Renfri.” she simply says, holding a hand out to Visenya.

“I know,” Visenya says, placing her hand in Renfri’s. “Jane.”

“I know.” Renfri mimics, giving her a teasing smirk. Visenya returns the gesture. She takes a moment to get a good look at Renfri. Shoulder length brown hair that’s almost as messy and unkempt as her own; a red blouse - matching the red leathers of her band of men; and a rather large brooch of a sword going through a circle with glittering gems on it.

“Nice broach.” Visenya simply says, removing her hand from Renfri’s grip.

“I think so too, it’s why I have it.” she smugly says. Visenya simply snorts with a snarky retort on the tip of her tongue, when they’re interrupted.

“You stupid girl, the fuck you think you’re doing? Get back to work!” Aldred bellows as he moves towards the bar, gathering the attention of any nearby patrons. “I swear you’re more trouble than you’re worth, Jerald and the boys said you attacked him again,” he sneers, resembling a boar preparing to attack. Visenya subtly rolls her eyes, eliciting a snarky smirk from Renfri. Aldred always did have a way with words.

She grabs two plates of food, probably prepared by Isadora. Without glancing in his direction she glides past Aldred, taking them to their respective tables. She drops the plates on the table. Without waiting for either of them to speak, Visenya turns back to leave. Before she can get back to the bar, the tavern door swings open. A large figure donning a cloak enters the tavern with heavy footsteps, his hood concealing most of his face. But Visenya manages to get a decent look at him before he moves from view. Sculpted face, piercing amber eyes, and snow-white hair. He quickly approaches the counter, where Isadora currently is. Visenya’s too far to hear what’s being said, but the pair are quickly interrupted when Aldred swiftly approaches them His face is nearly red with anger, making Isadora immediately move away from the two. At this point, everyone in the tavern has gone dead silent. Visenya moves closer in an attempt to better hear the conversation. One of the men with Renfri had already stood up, venomously shouting something at the stranger.

“Go; on your own or at the end of a rope. Your choice.” Aldred spits at the man, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s trying to appear intimidating, but the man before him is easily twice his side. Plus, Visenya doubts Aldred could overpower a half-dead chicken.

“Not a hard choice.” the man replies in a smooth voice. He turns to face the man that had spoken to him earlier. Visenya continues to move closer until she’s nearly behind the counter.

“Fuck that, kill him with your bare hands if ya have to,” Aldred says. After he says this, the rest of the men in red leather stand up, getting into a defensive stance. Visenya silently rolls her eyes at the situation. As far as she’s concerned the man hasn’t done anything wrong, and now they’re threatening to kill him. She carelessly glides behind the counter, trying to distract herself from the current tension.

“Probably why business isn’t so great,” Visenya mutters to herself, starting to pour another cup of ale, ready for this mess to be done with. She can feel the flames slowly building as her temper does - the same way it did the night she died. If they didn’t stop this nonsense, Visenya imagined she would be the one doing the killing and not on her own volition. Though the only thing she’d be mourning here is free room and board.

“Come on Witcher, you’re not scared of us are ya?” he asks in a mocking tone. A few of his men begin to step up beside him. The stranger just continues to stare at them. “Show us what ya got.” he goads, obviously looking for a fight.

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment?” Renfri interrupts, dramatically turning to face the group, throwing her food back onto her plate.

“Witchers can’t be trusted,” Aldred says through his gritted teeth.

“I’m not speaking to you,” Renfri says, not bothering to look at Aldred. “I apologize for my man’s interference in your day.” Renfri continues, nodding at the stranger whose back was turned to her. “Hopefully he can improve his behavior by tomorrow’s market.” Renfri finishes, her tone implying the words had a deeper meaning. The stranger and the man in red leather continue staring tensely at each other before he speaks up.

“Sorry Renfri.” he simply says, still staring at the stranger before swiftly turning back to his table.

“Beer for my friend and one for me,” Renfri calls out to Aldred, turning back to the counter to finish her food. Aldred simply huffs and crosses his arms, staring down the stranger - resembling a petulant child. “I am speaking to you now, good sir!” Renfri calls out to Aldred louder, slightly leaning against the bar. The stranger, who now faces the counter pulls down his hood, revealing tangled white hair that goes below his shoulders. His current position also lets her see his black studded leather armor and a wolf pendant that hangs from his neck. Visenya, who’d been at the counter pouring drinks into cups, without looking to Aldred for confirmation, simply slides two drinks their way. One for Renfri and one for the stranger. Aldred glares daggers at Visenya, but she can’t pretend to be bothered. With the tension in the room slowly easing, so is the fire that was bubbling inside of her. Something Visenya is grateful for. Renfri simply gives Visenya a nod and turns to the stranger. He also nods his head in acknowledgment of her but does nothing further.

She moves to grab a cup of ale that Aldred had loudly slammed on the counter, his intention to get Visenya’s attention. As she grabs the mug he harshly glares at her but says nothing as she moves past him. The volume in the room has returned, but the tension is still there. Everyone seems to be uncomfortable with the presence of the stranger.

“Jane! Another round if you will!” Renfri calls to her as Visenya was making her way back to the counter. As she passes Aldred who was still standing in the same position as earlier, she gives him a sickly sweet smile. The smile that was only reserved for arrogant Lords that visited Winterfell and Robert Baratheon, when he came to ask Lord Stark to be his Hand. On her way past him, she grabs a pitcher of ale. As she moves around the counter, she replaces Renfri’s cup with the pitcher.

“We both know you’re going to drink it all. Might as well cut the middle man.” Visenya teasingly tells Renfri. Renfri gives Visenya a sly smile, but it doesn’t match the broody expression on her face. She picks up the jug and moves towards the stranger.

“More and more monsters wherever I go,” she says, her tone sounding defeated, before leaving the tavern. Visenya watches her for a moment before turning her gaze to the stranger, who she now stood before. Even sitting down he was still taller than her. His gaze moved from Renfri to Visenya. His expression is unreadable, not sure what to expect from her.

“Jane.” she simply says. The stranger raises a dark eyebrow at her. Strange, it doesn’t match his head. “That’s my name.” she finishes. He gives her a gruff ‘Hmm’ before taking another drink of his ale. “This is normally the part where you tell the other person your name.” Visenya quips.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he answers after finishing his drink. Visenya nods in satisfaction.

“You made quite a stir coming in here,” Visenya says, already pouring him another drink.

“It happens,” he replies shortly.

“It must be the hair.” Visenya sarcastically quips. Geralt quietly chuckles.

“Must be,” he replies, his voice gravelly and rough. She opens her mouth to respond with something witty when they’re interrupted.

“How much coin for you kikimora then.” Marilka, the alderman’s daughter, interrupts, leaning against the counter beside Geralt.

~

Tags: @queenmendes ; @losers-club6 ; @demigoddesofchimichangagod ; @power-of-words23 ; @winter-moons ; @madamwhisper ; @toribentleyva ;  @comicbeginning ; @naughty-koala07 ; @im-a-muggleborn ; @belgiantrash ; @mikariell95 ; @ayamenimthiriel​

#geralt of rivia #geralt #geralt x reader #geralt x oc #geralt of rivia x reader #jaskier #jaskier x reader #jaskier x oc #jaskier imagine #the witcher #game of thrones #crossover #house targaryen #visenya targaryen

[corinthbayrpg]

NAME. Isra Siddiqui AGE & BIRTH DATE. 1269 & September 15th, 751 CE GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Manticore OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Aiysha Hart

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death ) As a major hub on the silk road at its height, Damascus held great opportunity for anyone with good business sense and the means to found such a venture. That was the life into which Isra was born, daughter of a merchant who lived a comfortable but boring life. Her birth brought the death of her mother, and her father resented her for it. In her eyes and her smile he saw his wife and the loss of her, thus blaming his young daughter for it. Isra felt this coldness even before she understood why he showed it. Instead of treating her like family, he raised her as a lamb to eventually be brought to market. Their middling but comfortable status as merchants meant she could make a marriage that would benefit her father and afford her a good life, a good life away from her father and therefore out of his thoughts. She learned skills befitting a wife intended to sit still and look pretty, but for one so sharp and curious as Isra, it was a painfully dull upbringing. The goings-on of her father’s business fascinated her, from the diplomacy involved in dealing with foreign and domestic traders to dealing with the craftsmen who created the fine damasks that were her father’s best seller. She knew if given the opportunity, she could bring greater success to his endeavors. However, any attempts to suggest he teach her how to run a business were met with cool disinterest or even outright obstinance. It would not be appropriate for a woman intended to be a pretty ornament on someone’s shelf to learn such things.

When Isra reached the appropriate age to entertain suitors, the parade of rich but undesirable men seemed endless. They brought her expensive gifts and spoke with flowery language, but all of them offered a life in a gilded cage, one so insufferable that Isra rebuffed every effort of these men to find themselves in her good graces. She prayed nightly for some way out of what seemed like an inevitable fate, one where she existed as some trophy for a man richer than her father but with every intention of forgetting her once she’d provided sons to solidify their family’s legacy. One evening while on the cusp of sleep, an unfamiliar voice spoke to her softly. He said to wait for the man with gentle mannerisms, an easy smile, and eyes like obsidian. If she married him, she would find her way out of this. Upon awakening, Isra considered this dream for only a moment before casting it aside–marriage was not what she wanted. However, the man described to her arrived within the week, and though he’d arrived with the same intent as all the other men she’d refused, he approached with a different angle. Where the others brought peacocks and jewelry and clothes, he offered books and conversation, something to keep a quick mind from idling too long in boredom. Also as expected, he asked for her permission to marry her, and even with the stranger’s voice in her mind, she refused him as she had all the others. He was different, yes, but he offered a life no different than any of the other men to seek her hand. By the third time, curiosity won. If the voice she heard near a dream was not just that and instead part of some greater design, then perhaps her life could be different. She accepted.

To his credit, her new husband was as kind and respectful as when she first met him. Like her father, he too made a living as a merchant, though he dealt in precious metals rather than cloth and tailoring supplies as her father had. He treated her as an equal and opened to her the inner workings of his business, everything she’d ever wished to learn while younger. In time, she might have learned to truly love him, but a year and a half into their marriage, he took ill abruptly and deteriorated quickly, then succumbed to the illness leaving Isra a widow and sole heir to his business and resources. It seemed as though the invisible stranger kept his word, and from there Isra launched herself fully into her new life as proprietor of a business all her own. As she gained experience, so too did her wealth and renown increase. It was everything she ever wanted–freedom, respect, and a life she loved. Isra reached an elderly age, she greeted death exhausted and content, ready to rest.

This was not what the stranger from her youth had planned. In the Underworld, he revealed himself to her as Hermes, messenger god and patron of merchants, though Isra knew him as a trickster among the Greeks as well. Her life was part of a deal, one she agreed to upon marrying the man Hermes found for her. It had been a good, brief marriage and an even better life, he said–now she had her own part to play. She would return to the surface as a succubus, a devourer of souls. Her intended targets would be those who acquired their high positions of wealth and power by exploiting others. In order to maintain some semblance of normalcy and power when she returned, Hermes safeguarded much of her resources, gifting her with a home and a business like she’d owned in life. This was perhaps the only part of her new existence Isra didn’t outright hate. For a time she even tried to avoid her charge, but the longer she went without feeding, the more pain and hunger crept into her mind and body until it was too much to take. Focusing on things she knew helped, and as she had in her first life, she grew a business trading various sorts of goods throughout Europe and the Middle East, carefully avoiding places of war in order to keep herself and her livelihood safe. She began in Damascus, safe and familiar, but her unaging status required her to move lest she be discovered. Her world opened up quickly; she was not alone in her inhuman status as witches and vampires and werewolves and other powerful beings became visible to her. Unlike them, she was little more than human aside from her ability and curse to take a piece of someone’s soul. Her long life took her from Damascus to Aleppo and eventually north to Ankara and Constantinople and onward to Europe. Places like Venice and Rome proved to be profitable too. In 1850, she found herself in the Greek city of Corinth Bay where she opened a shop that specialized in an old favorite: cloth and tailoring supplies.

Eight years into her stay within the city, a destructive earthquake struck the city. Isra might have noticed the brief but strange feeling in the magic there had she been given a chance, but in the chaos of the earthquake, a shapeshifter who had discovered her identity struck her down in her shop, ending her thousand year stretch on earth as a succubus and tossing her into the dark abyss of Tartarus, her punishment for her deal with Hermes. In Tartarus, time warped and stretched unfathomably, and there her soul was subjected to all manner of horrors until it was shattered and broken, Isra a shade of herself who knew only pain and the endless nightmare of a dungeon forgotten even by the gods. It was at that point Typhon took hold of her, reshaping her into a being of his own design. Under Typhon’s control and the watchful eyes of the Erinyes, she existed as nothing more than a plaything for the serpentine giant who dwelled with her in the underworld.

And then something different happened. The monotony of daily nightmares in the dark was cracked by the sundering of the veil, and the door to the cage that kept contained Isra and her equally monstrous kin swung open. Once more she stepped onto the surface, warm and bright and dizzyingly colorful and with her monstrous abilities intact. Despite her addled state, she still possessed a keen mind and an unending anger in her chest. She remade herself once before, and now she would do it again, this time with no rules other than her own.

PERSONALITY

+ ambitious, clever, confident - vindictive, reactive, cruel

PLAYED BY Jay. CST. She/Her.

#jay

[queenofeden]

my contributions to @lovelikeyoursfest for the first prompt, “the start of something new”. these are technically both excerpts from longer in-progress fics featuring my apprentice, laurel, but they happened to fit the theme so well i thought at least part of them deserved to see the light of day. consider this a teaser for my future works if u find urself interested~

chronologically, nadia comes first, julian can be found under the cut

Nadia & Laurel

January, 5 years ago

The whole of Vesuvia thrums with the energy of the masquerade, like one large body set to motion at last after a long winter. The lights, the reeling crowds, they pulse and pump as they make their way along the arterial canals, upwards, always upwards, to the highest reach of the city -- to the beating heart of it all -- the palace. Laurel catches Asra’s hand in her own, dragging him along, or he her, or perhaps they simply get swept away together by the throng, laughter bubbling on her lips for what feels like the first time in months.

Try as one might, it is easy to get separated once the party truly takes hold of the palace. The hoi polloi of Vesuvia clamor towards the offered food and drink, while the elite swan about and entertain themselves with chatter and gossip. It is not with intent that she loses track of Asra somewhere past the room full of enchanted, talking statuary. One moment he is there, and the next he is not, the space he once occupied at her side now taken up by three bustling women in matching silver gowns and masks done up like swans, all vying for entry into the room. It matters little to Laurel. Asra will find her eventually, when he cares to be found himself. He always does, somehow, whether she cares for him to or not.

There is little intent to where she wanders, keen to let herself be drawn wherever the whims of the party may take her. She knows there is something surrounding her -- a pall of grief, though it seems too melodramatic a sentiment. It is a palpable, invisible thing about her nonetheless. People walk around her, unsure of why, rowdy drunkards don't dare to jostle or bump her. Her own personal never-mind-me spell, cast without intent simply by virtue of existing. Their disinterest rankles, but she shoves the ill-feeling down deep. It's not them she's here for, anyway. A tall glass of fizzing wine makes its way into her hand, plucked deftly from a passing servant’s platter, and she carries it along in her gloved hand, sipping occasionally, leaving a smear of bright red along the rim of the glass from her painted lips.

The heavy press of the party lessens as she finds herself on the veranda, the roar in her ears fading, carried away on the cool evening breeze. It chills her overheated skin, bare beneath only a few thin layers of chiffon and satin, and she relishes the prickle of gooseflesh it leaves in its wake like a kiss. She takes her glass and drains the last of the golden wine too quickly, and trades it for another -- something pink and dangerously sugared this time. This too she finishes in a few deep gulps, setting the empty glass back onto the bemused servant's tray and taking another before they have time to even move away. Alone, save for the alcohol that burns in her too empty stomach, she wanders the less crowded gardens, full of others who have little interest in being found. She hums along to a familiar tune as she passes through a faint cloud of sound, drifting over the tops of the immaculately trimmed hedge walls.

She feels sweet with wine and song, the lightest she has felt all year. Here, the sounds and smells, the anonymous, whirling multitude of bodies-- they keep out what Laurel would rather forget. Here there is no responsibility, no pitying glances from familiar patrons, none of Asra's well-intentioned saccharine condolences. No one knows her here, not behind the gilt painted mask. She is hardly herself, if she wants not to be, and oh how desperately she craves the chance to not be herself, if only for just a little while. That is the true magic of the Count’s masquerade, something far more powerful than what she could throw together in a mortar at home and call such. She is only the swell of the music. It lifts her slippered feet, carrying her in some semblance of dance as she walks the cobbled path, eyes closed in what would feel almost like joy, if she could remember the feeling.

There is no one on the path with her, no one to see her dizzy, stumbling attempt at a coranto, so when her body meets something else -- someone else, the slide of a silk gown against her bare arms -- her eyes snap open, and she stumbles backward with an embarrassed curse.

"Shit! Sorry, so sorry."

Laurel lifts her gaze, expecting to see the heated glare of whomever she'd been unlucky enough to plow into. What she does not expect is the countess -- The Countess -- blinking back at her with equal amounts of surprise. 

With a choked sort of squeak, Laurel drops immediately into her best, lowest curtsy, knees creaking and head bowed so low her mask threatens to slip straight off her nose.

"O-oh, My Lady Countess, forgive me! Please forgive me!"

Her heart hammers in her chest. The Countess! Of all people to drunkenly stumble into! The count would likely have her head for daring lay a hand, however accidental, on his beloved wife. Or perhaps the countess herself would ask him to cut off her wicked, clumsy feet instead as a mercy. 

Less likely was the countess's voice -- rich and deep and rolling over her like sweet molasses -- saying softly, "It’s quite alright. Please stand."

Laurel blinks, straightening her spine in fractions, giving ample time should the countess deign to change her mind and command her to sprawl, prostrate in the dirt, at her feet instead. She doesn't. Eventually, Laurel is able to lift her chin and look the -- only slightly -- taller woman in the eye for the first time.

She had known the countess was beautiful, much in the way that people knew the sky was blue, the grass grew green, and the south was a frigid waste, an immutable fact. People spoke often of her features in the market, lauding the beauty of her violet hair, her striking, crimson eyes, her high, royal brow. More so, she knew it to be true by the simple truth that vain Count Lucio would never settle for less. What few memories she has -- a parade, swirling streamers in the air; the profile of a distant woman, nestled like an idol on a float of white roses and purple hyacinth -- are clouded by time and distance. She had pieced her together that first year, vague impressions and gossip and distant glances in the town square where she deigned to appear. Vesuvia's very own princess had crossed her mind very little after that.

This close, close enough to smell her sweet jasmine of her perfume, to count the faint few freckles on her bare shoulders, Countess Nadia is more lovely than Laurel could have ever imagined.

Laurel's gaping leaves her uncharacteristically silent, but the countess seems to recover first. Likely she's used to filling stunned silence.

"How is that you found me here?" she asks, a faint tinge of pink across her nose, though whether it is from embarrassment or anger Laurel cannot gauge.

Laurel glances around, taking in the tall topiaries that surround them. “I-- where is here, exactly?”

Julian & Laurel

Late September, 5 years ago

1.

The first time she arrives at his clinic, Julian doesn’t yet know that he should turn the woman he would come to know as Laurel Lobban away. She comes to his clinic like most regular patients, in a hurried flurry of skirts, eyes bright — not red, thankfully, the sclera a clear, healthy white with irises of sky blue — sharp with an edge of desperation. Perhaps a family member was sick, a spouse, or sister. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had dragged him from his clinic in the misty, early hours of pre-dawn with their pleas.

He lets the woman in — his first mistake — and leads her to the small table in the corner where he offers her a perfunctory cup of poorly brewed coffee or tea, though she doesn’t look to be in any particular need of it. There is a tension to her body, ratcheted tight as a halyard line. If plucked she might sing, high and sweet like the E string of his vielle, but that could also be his third cup of coffee before sunrise talking. From over her nose and mouth, she pulls down her paisley patterned scarf to reveal full but drawn lips, chewed raw and near bleeding. She stretches and bunches the fabric in her hands, twisting it into knots.

“You’re the doctor, then, yes?” she asks, squinting up at him. “Doctor Devorak? The one everyone talks about?”

A grin, black and bitter as the lingering taste of coffee in his throat, spreads his lips thin at that. “Well, now, that depends. What do the people say?”

The woman watches him, eyes canny as a hawk, flitting between his features, sizing him up. “They say you help people, that you don’t overcharge like the hacks in the heart district do.” She sniffs with derision then, nose crinkling up, though whether at the thought of his colleagues uptown or the smell of something in the room, he cannot tell. Astringent probably, he had just cleaned his tools for the day. Often he forgets how strong the smell can be to those far less nose blind than he. She coughs delicately, like she’s trying to suppress a gag. “They say you’re a good man.”

Ah, well, hm. Julian can’t say he’s heard that one before. ‘Foul, beaked harbinger of misery’ yes, ‘heartless bastard’ sure, ‘utter fool’ sometimes, but good man? Compliments were not something many of his patients or their families had on their minds once he was around. Her words settle like a heavy stone in his near empty stomach. This close, with her looking at him just so, her eyes are less so the color of summer. Darker, near navy, paling into a grey to match his own with a flash of almost-barely-there yellow at the center, like a brewing sky at sea -- one set to storm and tear him to pieces any moment, the look of them setting his sailor’s intuition on edge. He ignores them, words and eyes both. 

“And are you in need of my help then?” he asks, stepping away to rifle through his curio cabinet, stuffed to bursting with jars of tinctures and salves. “You don’t look beplagued, perhaps some other malady? Allergies? A fungus?”

A loud, nearly surprised, scoff. “I don’t have a fungus,” she asserts with umbrage.

He feels his cheeks heat, grateful that his head is buried in the cabinet and not on view of her no doubt scrutinizing gaze. “Of course not, of course not, so sorry. I didn’t intend any offense miss-- ah, I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Laurel, Laurel Lobban.”

She’s right behind him again. He jumps, knocking the shelves with a wayward elbow as he turns. Her hand is held out to shake, and he takes it with mild surprise. Her grip is firm, no nonsense, but she squeezes a little too hard just before she lets go in a way that lets him know how intentional, how controlled those reads he took of her were. He would see nothing of her that she didn’t want him to, that much he could tell. 

“Laurel Lobban,” he repeats, rolling the matching consonants on his tongue. “Laurel, laurus nobilis, lauraceae, like the plant,” he rambles, finishing rather dumbly. She snorts.

“Yes... like the plant. Are you all right, doctor?”

Was he all right? Maybe that third coffee had been a bad idea. “Fine, fine. Though I would be more fine if I knew what I could help you with, Miss Lobban. Hard to diagnose if I don’t know what ails you.”

“I don’t — ” she sighs, frustration warring across her features. “I’m not sick. I’m not here for some tincture. I — I want to work with you.”

He laughs. It was the wrong thing to do, by the telling darkening of her expression, the subtle shift in her jaw as she clearly clenches her teeth. He can’t help it though. It trails off, nervously, his stance shifting from one leg to the other. Whatever you do next, proceed with caution, Ilya.

“Work? Work here?” Nailed it.

“Do you work elsewhere?”

“I — no. This is it,” he replies, gesturing weakly at the single, cramped room, with it’s tiny storage closet and its rickety loft where he keeps his private office which is little more than a second closet. Why would anyone want to work here? With him?

“Then yes, here. With you.”

That he didn’t like.

“And do you ah — do you have any medical expertise then?”

She frowns. There’s a knot of lines between her brows that would be cute, almost endearing, in any other situation than this. Her cheeks flush pink. “Well, no. I mean I’ve read a few books, but… I had hoped you would take me on as an apprentice.”

His mouth falls open, spluttering. He weaves around her so that he’s no longer pinned, like a bug to a board, between her expectant gaze and the cabinet. “Unfortunately Miss Lobban, I’m not equipped to take on apprentices at this time. You see, I’m — well, the fact of the matter is — ”

Stop it. Stop talking.

“There are plenty of other doctors who would take you on, I’m certain.” Who? It doesn’t matter. Doctors who aren’t me. Why would anyone want to learn from a failure who couldn’t even cure his patients, anyway? What could he possibly have to offer an apprentice?

“I don’t want those doctors. They say you’re the best in the city, I want to work with the best.”

The best. Julian bites back another fit of laughter. Grinning — baring his teeth really — instead. “Now now, flattery won’t change my mind.”

She’s followed him again, standing as close behind him as she dares while he flits about the room, restless with nervous energy.

“If I was flattering you, doctor, you would know.”

Had he been this insistent when he’d come to Nazali the first time? Almost certainly, if the stories he’d heard oft repeated are true. How had they put up with him, and not thrown him out on his ear? The simple answer is that they are a much better doctor, a better person, than he. Nazali had discovered the plague, had made the greatest strides in its classification, its treatment, yet. And what had he done with their teachings? Squandered it all. Sat by and watched as patient after patient came to him for help, had plied them with false comforts, and in the end had done nothing, save for ease them into their inevitable deaths. He should tell her that. Should count out his many failures for her like he does for himself every night in place of sheep. Certainly that would frighten her away.

What he says instead is this: “Have you ever watched someone die?”

Her mouth goes slack, obviously taken aback by his question. For a moment he sees the fear flash across her eyes, but quick as it came it's replaced by something else. Something harder. She licks her lips and smiles, lips wobbling at the edges. "Do you ask all the girls that, or am I just special?"

He keeps his gaze hard, until the slight upturn of her lips collapses into a frown.

“Surely that can’t be a prerequisite for the job.”

“On the contrary,” Julian replies, nerves solidifying. “Humor me.”

Laurel’s eyes slide sideways. “No,” she says carefully, chewing over her words. “Though death and I are no strangers.”

Julian takes a deep breath, a brief flare of pain in his chest for having been the cause of the dark shadows that crossed over her features at that admission. He rakes a hand through his curls, shoving them away from his face, where they stay for a moment, before flopping back into his eyes. 

“So you have lost someone?” he asks, though it is less question and more statement of fact.

Her gaze flicks back to him, sharp and pointed as the tip of a blade. “Hasn’t everyone in Vesuvia by now?” she asks him cooly. 

Julian at least has the grace to look chagrined, feeling the heat of one of his telltale flushes burning under his collar. “I suppose you have a point there.”

“I don’t relish the thought of death, Doctor Devorak, if that’s your concern.” Laurel grips the strap of her bag tightly, staring up at him, imploring. “And I’ve no agenda, I assure you. I simply want to find some way to help.”

It is that moment that the door of the clinic swings open, the sharp RANG-CLANG-CLANG of the bell startling the both of them. A barrel-chested man heaves in the doorway, face shining, slick with sweat as he gasps, hands on his knees.

“Doctor! Doctor please, my husband he — “

Immediately, something shifts in Julian. One moment he is himself, good old Ilya Devorak. The next he is simply Doctor, parts within himself shuttering closed as others open, the whole of him changing as instinct takes over, just as it had every instant before a battle when the quiet set in and he and Nazali knew the first wave of bodies would soon hit; the calm before the storm, captured entirely within himself like a model ship trapped in a bottle.

“On it!” he barks, grabbing his overcoat and mask from their hooks with practiced ease, already making long strides towards the door before Laurel’s voice cuts through the quiet roar of his thoughts.

“Doctor please!” she all but hisses, chasing after him with stubborn steps. “I need — let me do something, anything!”

With a sigh, Julian reaches out and fixes the scarf about her neck back over her nose and mouth before placing his own mask over his face. Safe behind red glass, he cannot see the piercing blue of her eyes anymore, no longer at risk of being swept away by the violent current of her.

He takes her by the arm, and gently but firmly leads her to the door, past the panicked man who dumbly, silently, follows them out onto the street at Julian’s other hand. The rosy tendrils of pre-dawn light are barely making their way across the sky, the cobbles beneath their feet still heavy with morning fog yet to be burned away by the heat of the day. With a deft flick of his wrist, Julian switches the crude sign on the door front from ‘IN’ to ‘OUT’. When he turns back, Laurel still lingers under the halo of lantern light, hem of her skirts dancing around her ankles as she shifts anxiously from foot to foot. 

“I — ” 

“Go home, Miss Lobban,” he says, voice half muffled, mouth filling with the cloying scents of camphor and dried roses. “Truly, the best you can do for anyone is to not find yourself here again.”

With that Julian turns and follows the snuffling man where he leads, leaving Laurel behind him, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom.

#lovelikeyours2020 #the arcana #my fic #apprentice laurel tag #nadia x apprentice #julian x apprentice

[2dtcnjspring]

Texture & Pattern

Vincent Van Gogh

Texture Texture refers to the surface quality of an object. Texture is an important component of a successful composition because it appeals to our sense of touch. This is true even when we do not actually touch an object our memories provide the sensory reaction or sensation of what that object might fell like if touched. Texture becomes one more element for us to think about when we look at any composition.

In effect, the various light and dark patterns of different textures are visual clues for us to enjoy the textures vicariously. Of course all objects have some surface quality even if it is only unrelieved smooth flatness. The element of texture is illustrated in art when an artist purposely exploits contrast and surfaces to provide visual interest.

There are two categories of artistic texture - tactile and visual (actual and illusion).

Roy Litchenstien, cubist still life, oil on canvas, 1974

AIGA poster

Alex Hubbard, SK 23, Silkscreen print, oil and enamel on canvas /wooden stretcher, 72.05 x 50 x 1.57", 2009

Tactile Texture Tactile texture is texture that can actually be touched. In painting texture describes the uneven paint surface. In graphic design texture can add a sense of reality “realness”. Things that seem more real to life often result in a more emotional response from the viewer, and can in turn be more memorable.

Architecture and sculpture employ actual material and have what is called tactile texture – texture that can actually be felt. In painting the same term describes an uneven paint surface, when an artist uses the paint (a technique called impasto) so that a rough, three dimensional paint surface results.

Consider Vincent van Gogh‘s painting from the top of this lesson. Texture is not just created through the pattern of short brushstrokes, but it is also created through the ridges and phrased edges of the paint strokes that are obvious to the viewers eye. The painting is revealing what it truly is– Paint on surface– Not just an illusion. Same goes for Thiebaud’s painting below:

Wayne Thiebaud, “Boston Cremes”, 1962

As we’ve been exploring through this class a traditional idea of a collage is gluing down pieces of colored and textured papers cloth and other materials. Collage moved from a folk art to A fine art in the 20th century. Collage allows us to Play with compositional arrangements more easily by cutting reshaping and altering images and moving them around before pasting them down.

Anne Ryan worked mainly in collages of cloth. Her closet show various bits of cloth and contrasting leaves and textures interspersed with some scraps of printer paper. The light and dark pattern is interesting but her attention is mostly drawn to the contrast of tactile textures. See below:

Anne Ryan

VISUAL TEXTURE:

Anslem Reyle, Untitled, mixed media on canvas, metal frame, 256x205cm, 2007

Texture can also be created through the illusion of texture. By reproducing the color and value of patterns of familiar textures, artists can encourage us to see textures where none actually exist. Visual texture carries the same visual punch as Tactile texture. Visual texture can also be created with photography, used on its own or as a filler for a shape, foreground or background.

In painting artist can create the impression of texture on a flat smooth paint surface. By reproducing the color and value patterns of familiar textures painters can encourage us to see textures where none actually exist. This is called visual texture. The impression of texture is purely visual – an illusion - it cannot be felt or enjoyed by touch. It is only suggested to her eyes. Artists use this as a way to stimulate the composition and move your eye around the surface. Various textures can convincingly be re-created. Visual texture can be an interesting design element even without subject matter or any pictorial reference.

Max Ernst, Surrealist painter

The ultimate point in portraying visual texture is called trompe l’oeil the French term meaning to for the eye. This style is commonly defined as deceptive painting. In trompe l’oeil the objects in sharp focus are delineated with meticulous care. The artist copies the exact visual color and value pattern of each surface. A deception occurs because the appearance of objects is so skillfully reproduce that we are momentarily fooled. We look closer, even though our rational brain identifies the image as a paining and not the actual object.

Robert C. Jackson

20th century artistic emphasis has been on abstraction, distortions, and non-objective patterns. But in much art the trompe l’oeil tradition continues And is not limited to painting. Marilyn Levine works in ceramics as seen in “Thom’s Jacket” from 1989 below.  it is incredibly realistic but again it’s made of ceramics and is an illusion.

Texture and Pattern It would be difficult to draw a straight line between texture and pattern. We immediately associate the word pattern with printed fabrics such as plaid, stripes, polkadots and floral patterns. Pattern is usually defined as a repetitive design, with the same motif appearing again and again. texture, too, often repeats, but it’s variations usually do not involve such perfect regularity. The difference in the two terms is admittedly slight. material such as burlap would be identified right readily as a tactile texture. Yet the surface design is repetitive enough that a photograph of burlap could be quite a pattern. Once a visual texture is represented within the confines of a space or shape it often may look flat to our eyes and take on the characteristics of a pattern.The essential distinction between texture and pattern seems to be whether the surface arouses our sense of touch or merely provides designs appealing to the eye. While every texture makes a sort of pattern, not every pattern could be considered a texture. 

David Lynch, Twin Peaks, film still, 1990

Pattern is a great way to distinguish between areas of contrast on an image and compositions.

Barry McGee

Pattern inspiration There are many artists, designers, and architects that employ beautiful, intricate and complex patterns. I’ve compiled the “best of” collection to inspire you for your Patterns Assignment. Each image is accompanied by a short description of the artist/designer/architect/etc., and each name is hyper-linked to their website (if applicable), so you can get more details on the people that inspire you the most.

Sol LeWitt, whose deceptively simple geometric sculptures and drawings and ecstatically colored and jazzy wall paintings established him as a lodestar of modern American art.

Installation view of Sol LeWitt’s Wall Drawing #260 at The Museum of Modern Art, 2008. Sol LeWitt. Wall Drawing #260. 1975. Chalk on painted wall, dimensions variable. Gift of an anonymous donor.© 2008 Sol LeWitt/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. Photo © Jason Mandella

Sol LeWitt, Drawing 915.013

Sol LeWitt, Wall Drawing #260

Le Corbusier (born Charles-Édouard Jeannere) was a Swiss architect, designer, urbanist, writer and painter, famous for being one of the pioneers of what now is called Modern architecture or the International style.

Bridget Riley British painter and designer. She shows a complete mastery of the effects characteristic of Op art, particularly subtle variations in size, shape, or placement of serialized units in an overall pattern.

Bridget Riley,

Blaze 1, 1962

, Emulsion on Hardboard, 43x43 in

Bridget Riley,

Descending, 1965,

Emulsion on Hardboard, 36x36 in.

Bridget Riley, Parade I, 1999-2000, oil on linen, 89 5/8 x 206 ½ in / 227.7 x 524.5 cm

Robert Zakanitch paints lace and embroidery. His patterns are beautiful and speak to the shifting instability of texture.

Blue Birds (Lace Series) oil on panel, 2001.

Flowers doily painting. Robert Zakanitch

Take a close look at the figure-ground relationship in the works by M.C. Escher, who is most known for his impossible architecture and landscape drawings, showcasing his play on perspective and point of view to create structures which ultimately cannot exist. I have always been more captivated by Escher’s pattern works. His ability to create a fluid and seamless plane of repeated images fitting perfectly together is both unrivaled and inspiring.

Bird/Fish, June 1938, Drawing, 228 x 243 mm (9 x 9 5/8’’)

Smaller and smaller, drawing 1956.

Horseman, June 1946, Drawing, 213 x 214 mm (8 3/8 x 8 3/8’’)

Another great example of pattern can be seen in Islamic art & architecture.

Japanese paper is another beautiful source for pattern inspiration.

Navajo Weaving has a unique look, drawing from its Spanish and Pueblo history and nomadic way of life.

Traditional Amish Quilts lend patterns that have beauty in simplicity. Modern quilt artists are using black with solid colors and discovering the beauty in such basic designs.

Stephen Westfall

African Textiles are infused with spiritual and mythical meaning in the actual pattern designs on the cloth. Specific patterns are also used as a form of identity with each tribe having their own unique patterns.

A man’s cloth of the Asante peoples, Ghana, c. 1960. Photo: E. G. Schempf.

A man’s cloth of the Asante peoples, Ghana, c. 1960. Photo: E. G. Schempf.

Kente Cloth, Woven by men on a narrow loom. Found among the Asante in Ghana and associated with royalty. Both silk and cotton are used.

El Antasui

Takashi Murakami

Polly Apfelbaum

Marc Handelman

Katherine Bernhardt

Texture/Pattern Project 1. In your sketch book draw out at least 4-5 distinct textures or patterns. Play and experiment. Look at the textures you might have around the house. How could you translate them onto a two dimensional surface? Draw each texture or pattern in a thumbnail shape (no less than a 1″x1″ square) this that you do not have to fill an entire page. 

2. Once you have created your patterns and textures you will find an image that is of interest to you from a magazine, newspaper, picture, image you print out, etc. 

3. You are going to recreate this image on a piece of bristol paper (if you don’t have access to your bristol you can use a piece of computer paper). You will recreate this image using the textures and patterns you created with your thumb nails. Each texture or pattern you use must replace a color/value in your original image. You must choose your textures or patterns appropriately to convincingly recreate the value changes in the image with only a texture or pattern. Therefore you may want to tweak your original texture and pattern designs to account for apparent value changes in you image. If there is a darker area on your original image, you might want to make your pattern more condensed and smaller. If there is a lighter area on your original image, you might want to make the pattern larger and less condensed. 

 Also depending on your image you may need to create a few more textures or patterns. (Textures or patterns can also be specific to the image, for example: if wood is representing in your image then you may want to create a wood pattern for these areas of your image - you do not have to though.)

4. Your recreated image will be in back and white using the different patterns and textures to distinguish the areas of value. This project should be done in micron pen and sharpie. All colors and values in your image must be translated to a texture or pattern.

Project examples

Final Product In the end you should have 3 part for this project. 1. The original image in presentation format on a piece of bristol paper. 2. Thumb nail sketches. 3.The final recreated image (on bristol paper) with all values converted to textures and patterns.

*Again if you do not have access to your bristol paper you may use computer paper.

#texture #pattern

[theblackbookofarkera]

Anija Hinjari

Anjia Hinjari

The Anjia Hinjari are a powerful lodge of sorcerers that make their residence in the kingdom of Vaktara. The Anjia Hinjari were formed by one of Arkera’s most legendary wizards, Archmagus Vallakan Vir-Karuz. Vallakan was one of the greatest magickal minds ever live but sadly a pompous, smug narcissist utterly obsessed with immortality and blasphemous power. Though he is known for many great works in the context of this chapter it is his founding of the Anjia Hinjari lodge.

The Anjia Hinjari is chiefly constructed upon the principle of life extension and the accumulation of arcane power that comes with prolonged existence. The primary magickal doctrine of the lodge comes from fragmented texts penned by the dead sorcerers of the Old World empire of Rar Jung. These texts though few and incomplete are chock full of unconventional techniques and unique spells not found elsewhere in the ancient world. The principal arcane lore that inspired Anjia Hinjari doctrine is intrinsically amoral which has shaped the dark nature of the order.

Having full control over the kingdom of Vaktara the Anjia Hinjari operates with impunity able to kidnap, murder and experiment as they wish. The full scope of their atrocities may never be known but suffice to say they are innumerable and egregious. Operating out of the capital of Lym-Gabal the lodge headquarters of Hajaran Gab is an Old World fortress protected by spells few have the power to counter.

The power of the Anjia Hinjari was only challenged once, famously in the Anjia Hinjari War in which they fought a ghastly magickal war against the Lodge of Many Colors. The war ended with a narrow Anjia Hinjari victory proving the order can be challenged through defeating them is near insurmountable.

“They parade through the streets like a cavalcade of fools with a lethal heir of superiority. The brothers and sisters of the order wear silk gowns of crimson and silver skullcaps, there raiment and adornments cost more than what the good folk of this city earn in a lifetime of toil. When they grace our streets the watch clears the way with a ferociously one should only have when facing their most hated foe.”

- Aziz Paal, dye merchant

#arkera #creative writing #fantasy world #worldbuilding #world building #conworld #mythology #low fantasy #dark fantasy #high fantasy #grimdark #cosmic horror #sword & planet #sword & sorcery #role playing games #dungeons and dragons #dune #conan #lord of the rings #world of warcraft #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #warhammer fantasy #warhammer 40k #bloodborne #dark souls #dragon age #the witcher #age of sigmar #the dark tower

[something-fanfiction-ie]

Daughters To Wed | Four

Pairing: Prince!Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings: Okay, so, lots of mentions of blood. Like, L O T S. And Tom gets really drunk. And I think like one curse word?

Word Count: 2 ,461

Summary: You are the daughter of a man infamous for having many children, only to marry them off in an effort to climb the social ladder and gain more riches. You have grown up hating the idea of marriage, only to be married to the Prince of Braydal, and the future King, Thomas Holland. The both of you are very unwilling partners, and that seems to be the only thing you have in common. It isn’t until things start to crumble around you that you realize there might be more to the cold prince than you thought.

| Prologue | One | Two | Three

___

The world froze.

Time no longer existed as Tom felt a warm liquid soak into his clothing. Blood, in pools this large, was less the bright red it was commonly associated with, and more of a blackish color. His heart felt as if it were beating in slow motion as he tried to push himself up from the carriage floor.

The crowd outside the carriage was chaos, as men ushered their wives and children into what they deemed as safe places, people screamed, shoes clattered against cobblestone, and horses reared.

Tom could not focus on anything other than the blood. There was so much blood. Never in his life had he ever seen so much blood. Even, at twelve, when he busted his head on a tree branch goofing around in the woods with Harrison, there had been blood down the side of his face and all over his shirt.

It felt as if the entire bottom of the carriage had been painted in this iron-smelling, black-red substance. His clothing was heavy with the stuff, seeping through the several layers that he wore. The stench of iron was so thick, that he could taste it in his mouth.

This moment, just after the gunshot, these few seconds of the young prince sitting in blood, sliding through it to get himself into a sitting position as the people around him went crazy with hysteria, would haunt his nightmares until the day he died.

Two more gunshots rang loudly over the buzzing of the parade attendees, cutting through the thick cloud muddling Tom’s mind. This time it had been the royal police as they took the shooter to the ground. His hands were secured to his back as a few people weakly cheered. 

Meanwhile, Tom had realized that the blood soaking into and through his clothes was your blood. You were splayed out on the floor, staring up at the sky with a blank stare that shook your husband to his very core. It hadn’t even taken a moment from the second he saw you for him to catapult into action. 

Shoving his way up to the Coachman’s seat, Tom looked a little bit like a mad man. He was covered in blood, his eyes wild and his hair a mess as he snatched the reins from the unoccupied bench. The coachman had fled to safety beneath the carriage, which was one of the only things that kept Tom from whipping the leather against the mares’ backs and riding back toward the palace.

“GET OUT FROM UNDERNEATH!” Tom screamed, kicking the wooden front and drawing the attention of the scared onlookers. The coachman scrambled out from the side, splayed out on his back next to the curb of the stone roadway. His lips moved in a stutter, but noise didn’t come out until the Prince snapped the reins and began to maneuver his way through the crowd and the stalled parade.

“YOUR HIGHNESS!” He yelled, but Tom didn’t stop.

Even when he got to the palace, the carriage careened into the dirt in front of the steps, kicking up rocks and dust in its violent wake. The horses were still moving when Tom jumped off the side, rolling with the momentum. Jagged rocks scraped through the fabric of his blood soaked clothing. The doors of the palace opened behind him, but he didn’t notice the voices being thrown at his back, all he could think was to get to you.

Scrambling back onto his feet, a task much easier said than done in his state of mind, Tom threw himself against the carriage door and yanked it open.

You were as pale, unblinking, and your chest barely moved as you lay helplessly on the floor. Half clambering into the carriage, Tom pulled you into his arms and tried not look back at the puddle of blood collected where you had been. You let out a small gasp as Tom settled back on the ground, which lit a small hope in his heart.

Just maybe you would be okay.

Maids and butlers and what appeared to be the entire palace staff had flooded outside and gathered around the both of you. Through the ringing in his ears and the cloud over his head, Tom yelled for them to send for a doctor, a nurse, anything!

“Please.” He pleaded, holding you in his arms, clutching you to his chest as if it would keep your soul from leaving your body.

“Please.”

“You, my dear, are very drunk.” Tom looked up into the dark brown eyes of one of his closest friends. He stood in a doorway, the world spinning around him and the only thing to keep him anchored was the wall. Stumbling forward in a drunken stupor, he fell into the long and warm embrace of Lady Coleman.

Zendaya carried his weight with ease, half carrying and half dragging him through the hall to her sitting room. Once there, she gently coaxed him onto a plush velvet green armchair just in front of a well-lit hearth. Heat came out in waves that warmed his chilled bones. He was drenched in rainwater after the long walk from the tavern to Zendaya’s home. It was nights like this that Tom refused guards and fancy clothes and carriages and, apparently, cloaks. One guard followed him the whole night, poor man. Zendaya was almost positive that all the prince’s guard played rock-paper-scissors or drew straws when it came to deciding who would go out with Tom on his bender.

Tom has been out drinking, alone, at a tavern close to his friend’s studio flat just outside of the Capital. Zendaya, while technically married to a wealthy man, lived alone. In all the years Tom and Zendaya have known each other, Tom has never met her husband. Rumor had it that he was a gay man and she had no intention to seriously marry at the time. After the wedding, her husband left to travel the world and she stayed, taking up a career in the arts. She was a wonderful dancer and an even better actress. In fact, Tom and Zendaya had actually met after one of her performances just a few years ago.

At the beginning of their friendship, there had been many rumors that they had become lovers and that the young prince intended to make her his mistress after his wedding. In reality, while Tom was very attracted to her, she was very beautiful, she was also married. There was also the matter of his betrothal, and the small fact that she had made it very clear that she had no need of a man.

“My life is good because my husband is never home, what makes you think I want to ruin that by having you, or any other man, in my bed?” Had been her exact words. So, they stayed friends.

“God, I hope so, I’ve been drinking for hours.” He raked a hand through his wet curls, which were weighed down with water which dripped from the ends. He stared at the flames in the fireplace as they reached for the top of the chimney. Each lick of orange curved and danced in its brick home, moving in such a captivating manner that for a moment, Tom could see why people were so attracted to pyromania.

Zendaya shot him a look, walking to the liquor table tucked into the corner of the room, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. When she walked back over to her very intoxicated friend, she put the glass into his line of sight with a sigh. Snapping to attention, Tom was eye to eye with the glass of water, nodding his appreciation as he took the cup from her outstretched hand.

“You’ve been married less than a month Tom, usually husbands don’t drink themselves into a stupor until the second wedding anniversary.” Zendaya sat in a chair opposite her guest, looking very regal and proper in her cream nightgown and silk floral dressing robes. She had managed to stuff her hair into a sloppy French twist with a hair pin or two before she had rushed to answer the pounding at her front door. Tom’s lips twitched in amusement when he realized that, even in night clothing, Zendaya looked like the royal in this room, and not him.

There was a pause as Tom sipped at his water and Zendaya waited, her ankles crossed and her hands folded neatly into her lap. When Tom set his empty cup on the arm of his chair, he launched into a drunken rant on the inner workings of his month-old marriage. Zendaya tried not to think of how wet he was making her furniture as he complained.

“I cannot stand to be married to her another day! I cannot take it. She has my whole family, and Harrison, and Tessa, wrapped around her finger and I have no idea how. Actually, that’s a lie, I know how she’s done it. She is just as clever as her scheming father!” Tom pointed a drunken finger at nothing in particular. At this point, it felt like he was talking more to himself than to her.

After about an hour of nodding her head and ‘Oh yes, I understand’, Tom had slowed down and looked like he was about to fall over in his seat. Zendaya coaxed him to his feet and basically carried his drunken dead weight into her guest room. It took a lot longer than normal as he poked at paintings and pictures framed on the wall. She tried not to feel too bad when he fell into the door jamb so hard that his shoulder would most definitely be bruised. By the time they made it into the room and over to the bed, Zendaya almost cried with relief. Tom was asleep before his body even hit the mattress. Poking her head outside, she quickly informed the royal guard that Tom would be sleeping in her guest bedroom and he was welcome to come inside to keep watch from there.

The guard followed her inside without any surprise. This was not unusual behavior for the young prince. This was the seventh time Tom had slept in her guest bedroom since the beginning of his marriage. Always drunk, always disheveled, always complaining.

Zendaya waved goodnight to the guard and then found her way to her own bed where she fell asleep quickly.

The next morning, Zendaya was surprised to see Tom still in her home. He stood behind the chair he sat in last night, which was still damp given how utterly soaked Tom had been. The fire in the fireplace was out thanks to her maid who had left just after Zendaya had gone to sleep. She always woke up before the maid, Anne, made it back in the morning. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem, but it had been raining for the last week and with the rain came a cold.

“You’re up early.” She said as she entered the room.

“As are you.”

“I was not the one absolutely pissed last night, either.” She teased, going to sit in the chair she had jokingly deemed as her ‘Tom-help’ chair given that she always sat in this chair when Tom came to talk to her. No one asked her about it, and she had never told anyone of the nickname she had given the armchair, but it had the name nonetheless.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“As you should be.” Tom tried, and failed, to fix his clothes a bit. While no longer wet, they were wrinkled from drying on his sleeping body over the last few hours. His hair, having also dried while Tom slept, was a mess of wild chestnut curls. And there, on the top of his right cheek was a print of the pillow or his shirt sleeve or something. He looked very childlike and innocent, causing a twisting feeling in Zendaya’s heart.

“I just wanted to apologize. This won’t happen again. Thank you, Zendaya.” Now that Tom had slept, drunkenly ranted, and sobered up, he wasn’t giving away anything. Zendaya stood, giving her prince a quick curtsy just before he turned to leave. The guard stood at her doorway, holding a cloak that she hadn’t seen last night but would have been tremendously useful. He held it out for Tom as he neared the exit, taking the cloak and covering himself with it.

Then, just before he left, Zendaya called out to him. After every visit, she had kept her mouth shut and refused to ask the one question she had been dying to ask. The only thing that had kept her form asking was propriety, but she could no longer keep quiet. Propriety be damned after the seven nights she’d had, housing a drunk prince after he complained about his marriage for an hour or so.

Tom turned around, the hood of his cloak still down, his eyebrows raised in response.

“Why do you really hate her so much?”

The question seemed to take Tom by surprise. All this time he had been telling Zendaya how much he hated you. He had been telling Harrison how much he hated you. He had been telling his family how much he hated you, had been telling himself how much he hated you, and somehow Zendaya had known it was bullshit. For a second, Tom was surprised that there could be any other reason to hate you besides the ones he had already given her. He had hated you since that day he saw you in the meadow with your brother.

And yet, the answer was immediate and painfully honest. It almost stole his breath away as he realized for the first time in a month of marriage, and years of engagement, what he truly felt. Why he chose to be this open with Zendaya but nobody else close to him was beyond any sound logic, but here he was. Laying his heart out for her to see in all it’s odd, complex, and vulnerable glory.

He grabbed the fabric where his hood met the rest of his cloak and looked her dead in the eyes.

“Because I think I love her.” Tom popped the hood over his head and pushed open the door. Zendaya stood in the hallway, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows raised. She almost didn’t believe her own ears. Sure, all this time she knew Tom had been lying about why he hated you, but never had she thought that was the answer. Harrison wouldn’t have been as shocked. He had been saying that Tom secretly loved you since day one. Zendaya, on the other hand, was shocked.

Shocked, but smiling.

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[multiverseofmiracleshq]

Emma Frost attempted to throw herself a ( thirtieth ) twenty-seventh birthday party at Krakoa’s White Palace. The party was crashed first by Cable and the three time displaced X-Men he had taken hostage so he could find the young and a currently at large Scott and Jean. The second intrusion was the aforementioned young X-Men and a surprise appearance by Doctor Strange, who claimed to have a solution that would involve no one permanently dying or being sent away. Time was not their friend, however, and there  was only one chance to be had.

THIS IS THE OFFICIAL COMPLETE CHAT LOG COVERAGE OF THE IC

EMMA: Who didn’t love a party? There were some people out there ( those dreadful souls ) but they were irrelevant. It was easier to ask who did love parties, and there was only one relevant answer: Emma Frost. A privileged state of existence had made her privy to many of them but too often they slipped into the void of boredom and disinterest. If you wanted to throw a party you had to throw a good one, and Emma had done just that on all accounts. The White Palace was always primed for people, an alabaster tomb awaiting guests. Diamonds were shipped in, table cloths were spread and every hair on each servers head had been smoothed to perfection. Per instruction a rather large white chair ( a throne, if you wanted to be technical ) had been placed on the dais at the front of the ballroom. A full thirty minutes before guest were allowed in she had taken to it so that every layer of white silk could be arranged just so. Once everyone of note had filtered in Emma waved off whoever she had been speaking to with one gloved hand before rising. The half hour in the chair did its job - she noted mentally - as the dress moved along with her exactly as the designer had promised. “I’m thrilled to see you all here.” Accented syllables cut over the crowd. “Even if it’s six days late. That doesn’t matter. What does is that we are all here and looking divine. There may be conflict in our world, but please, try to enjoy yourselves. It’s a party.” A party for a year she was not turning for the third time. White painted lips covered fangs, claws put away for the night. “Run wild, darlings.”

MESMERO: He sat quietly and on his own, martini in one hand and fingers tapping in the other. He and Emma weren't what one would call friends but nevertheless he was here. This was more out of desperation than anything. He was bored. He desired to do something, to sew chaos, to see a little action but he fought against such villainous urges and drowned his ambitions in alcohol and false friends. "Well isn't this a lovely twenty-seventh birthday party?" he said with air quotes around Emma's supposed age to no one in particular.

SCOTT: Memory problems had been the beginning, what followed had proven to be a whole lot worse. The delirium, the dissociation from himself; Scott was even losing what little control he had over his abilities --- forgetting to put his glasses back on, not knowing even when they were on. It was a surprise to himself that he even attended this bash, that he'd left Jean in her state. But apparently, there was news, something in the pipeline that could help. If he were being honest, he couldn't really distinguish if that were a dream or not, but regardless he couldn't just sit around. Jean was down for now and to keep his mind distracted, he just couldn't miss Emma's party. Hopefully there was a solution. Hopefully Nate found the original X-men.

ERIK: Erik wasn’t one to ‘run wild’ as it were, per Emma’s advice. Not at parties at least.But it was nice to have an excuse to dress up in a nice suit every once in a while. He acquired a drink and kept quiet as the party began, glancing around the room and observing the crowd as the volume slowly increased. Per usual, his white suit made an appearance tonight. It was paired with a bright purple tie and a pocket square to match, and the color stood out well. Wearing this outfit around Emma made him smirk-- an expression that he hid while taking a sip of his drink.

IDIE: Idie had been one of the first to arrive. Being late was something Idie did not enjoy -- being late gave her anxiety, which often led to her getting sweaty, which was something she did not need in a white dress. She was fond of the dress she had found; it was an ivory white dress, which cut off just below her knees. It had a plunged neckline, and a black waistband which was embroidered with sequins. The skirt of the dress was a mixture of delicate tulle and silk, and flowed as Idie walked. It made Idie feel like a fairy -- she hadn't felt this dressed up in a long time. Her hair was braided and twisted up into a neat bun that sat on top of her head. She looked around the ballroom, eyes glancing over familiar faces. She wasn't sure why she was invited. It felt strange to be at such a place. Making her way through the room, a waiter passed and offered her a drink, which she accepted. She clutched the flute in her hand, eagerly looking around for someone she was more acquainted with.

LORNA: Emma Frost, as a rule of thumb, sucked. She sucked and Lorna knew for a fact she was like thirty but who was she to rain on a parade? No one, this time. “It looks like it should be themed winter wonderland.” Lorna scoffed in response to whoever had spoken. With all the diamonds it was a bit extra but again, she wasn’t raining on parades. Turning then to look at how actually had spoken, heavily lined eyes narrowed at Mesmero. “Out of all the places I expected you to be, here wasn’t one of them.”

MESMERO: “Seems a little too innocent for Her royal highness." He said returning a glance with who turned out to be Lorna. He wasn't eager to be in her vicinity. "I could say the same to you. You hardly strike me as a fan of all of this excess." He said before sipping his beverage.

LORNA: “I’m a fan of free booze.” She gestured with her glass. “And we all know something’s going to go wrong.”

MESMERO: "For once we can agree on something." He replied with a faint smirk. "Only reason I bothered showing up was in the hopes of seeing something go wrong if we're being honest."

CABLE: There was a party happening tonight-- that’s what everyone was getting together for, right? Nathan had only been to a handful of parties and they had all been.. fairly interesting. He wasn’t quite sure if he liked them yet, and tonight wouldn’t help him make up his mind. There was no time for fun tonight. It was time to end this, and he didn’t care what anyone else had to say about it. Nate had three of them already, this was good. After securing them, Nate had taken them all to his safehouse and began scratching things off his checklist. At the top of the list was getting Warren his real wings back, and that wasn’t pretty. Truthfully, he felt a bit bad about what he had to do. Grafting new wings onto the other mutant was a painful process, one that left Warren weak and barely conscious even after the drugs had worn off. Nate grabbed him and dragged him over to join Bobby and Hank, who were both handcuffed just like Warren. The other two were almost fully awake now, and it was time to go. “Ready to take a trip?” It wasn’t a question he was going to wait for them to answer. He linked the three of them together, the device coming to life with a hum and blue energy radiating off of them. Then he grabbed onto them, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, and one of the gadgets on his arm teleported them away. Seconds later, they appeared in the middle of Emma’s party. A blue light preceded their arrival and then the four of them were surrounded by dressed up mutants who were suddenly face to face with them. “Hey guys.” Nate spoke up, his voice carrying through the room. “Anyone wanna tell me where I can find Jean and Scott? Oh, and who wants to watch these three for me? I’d owe you one.”

EMMA: Oh, for the love of -- “Nathan.” Emma’s voice was carefully confined, ice cold anger slick under pleasantries. “I was very clear about the terms of your invitation, and I believe this exceeds them.”

MESMERO: "That didn't take long." Mesmero muttered to Lorna.

LORNA: Green eyes flashed in interest. “Erik owes me five bucks.”

LAURA: Living on edge was something that Laura was used to but didn’t like. Her instincts had told her to come to Emma’s excessive party and it looked like they had paid off. Logan hadn’t attended for a more pressing reason and out of respect for her friend Scott she had kept an eye on his older self. The second the blue light faded away and her vision returned, one fistful of claws popped out at the sight of the young X-Men. “What did you do to them?”

SCOTT: Once he'd started rejecting the alcohol and refused to mingle, he started to question why he even bothered showing up. A part of him wanted to speak with Emma, but as she was the center of this party, he didn't want to get in the way of her spotlight. A few of the other X-men were here, but he wasn't too concerned with sharing their present dilemmas. Just as he was debating his departure, a bright light illuminated the center of the room and lo and behold, Nathan. "You found them." He said, his voice too quiet to carry. But no, two were missing, and of the course the two missing were --- "Emma," he said her name as he came up behind her. "Do you know what this means?" They had to stay hands off for most of the hunt, mostly because when their presence bounced off one another, it started creating ripples that reflected just how narrow their time was. Nathan had to handle it, and for the most part, he had.

CABLE: Nathan offered Emma an eye roll and nothing else, then turned to Laura. “You can put the claws away. They’re fine.” His normal sarcastic tone was lost for a moment, being replaced by a stern and somewhat caring one. “Like I said before, Warren needed his wings back. So.. he’s a little tired. But they’re all fine. It’s easier to transport them when they’re knocked out, that’s all. Make sense?”

EMMA: One did not scream at their own birthday party, otherwise Emma would have done just that. A full blown shriek because of course they had to have this little drama on the one night she had ( openly ) claimed as her own. “Yes, darling.” One hand gently fell to rest on Scott’s arm. She loved him differently than she once had, but seeing a proud man suffer was never pleasant. Here she was throwing a party while one mutant hung close to death and four others followed closely behind. “If we knew where Scott and Jean were, we wouldn’t be in this predicament, would we?” The blonde hummed. “See, the two you haven’t caught may very well be the hardest due to sheer hormones and willpower.” Scott and Jean: an obnoxious set of lovebirds. “I can tell you, Nathan, you’re out of time. Your father is here and your mother isn’t, so you need to do more or they’ll both be gone.” Scott may have been happy at the sight of three but Emma was malcontent. Lips twisted into a sneer then as she cast a disinterested look towards Laura. “The boy is right. You can stand down, guard dog.”

IDIE: Idie had long finished her first drink, and was now onto her second one. The peach flavoured drink had left her feeling a little spacey, but the sweetness she had very much enjoyed. Taking sip from the flute, Idie's attention was suddenly caught by the mesmerising blue light. Edging closer to see what the commotion was, her eyes widened in horror when she saw the state the three young X-Men were in. She could feel her body tingle with adrenaline, and she fought to calm herself before she did anything drastic. She watched Cable speak, her eyes locked on Warren, Bobby, and Hank. It felt as if her heart was beating in her throat. She watched Emma as she spoke with a calm dignity. "Don't call Laura a guard dog," Idie said -- a little too loudly. There had been a roughness to Idie's voice as she had spoken, her eyes fixated on Emma.

CABLE: The softer tone Nate had just used fell away instantly as his gaze flicked back to Emma. His jaw tensed, and the bright glow from his bionic eye flashed for a brief moment. The two he had left to catch were his parents. If anyone understood how stubborn they were, it was him. “Yeah. I get that. I’m here because I need help-- something I don’t like asking for.” He saw Scott next to Emma, and his resolve hardened even further. “Sorry about your party, but this is a little more important.”

LAURA: She hadn’t expected anyone to speak up for her, and while her initial look at Idie was cynical the mutant softened to give her a small nod. Her claws slowly slid away until all that was left was a closed fist. Her eyes moved then to lock on the young X-Men. If they showed they were in pain she’d cut them out.

EMMA: “Well, I don’t know about that.” Emma muttered under her breath before rolling her shoulders back to look at Nate. “Fine. I’ll try Cerebro, but we already did that. Your small mother is masking their minds, or using someone else. Unfortunately, darling, I had to put your normal sized mother down this morning and Charles is away on diplomacy so we’re rather low on aid. Hank, Warren,” Emma looked to the older versions of the chained X-Men. “Care to assist carting your younger selves to a holding cell?”

STRANGE: The plea to save the original X-men from predestined fates had proven to give him pause, but Strange had originally wanted to turn them down. As the Sorcerer Supreme, his duties were laundry list long, and included on that list was allowing for fates to play themselves out. If the original X-men were predetermined to follow a specific path, he was not the one to write them a new one. However, that had been before he'd been made aware of the Krakoan resurrection pods, and before he'd decided that he would sever a group of young kids from their present realities once again. With the two remaining original X-men and Gwendolyne Poole, Strange created a wide portal, triangulating the position based on Scott's tether to his elder self. Stepping through, they appeared amongst many. Obviously a party. "Sorry to interrupt." He spoke loudly, although the room was already fairly quiet. "But it appears you may be looking for these two."

TIME-DISPLACED JEAN: “Are we late to the party?” Jean couldn’t help but use false confidence to cover shaking hands. She had nothing but time during the hiding portion of their fugitive days and that time had led to practice and refining control. Her head turned to her captured teammates and there was a brief flash of pink before their cuffs clattered to the ground. “We’re not going back, but he,” that was directed at Strange. “--he won’t let you guys die either.”

CABLE: ”What the--” Alright, so this wasn’t exactly part of the plan Nate had put together in his head. The flash of pink caught his eye and when he saw that his capture X-Men had been set free, a sudden rush of anxiety and anger hit him. ”Hey!” Warren wasn’t exactly in a place to run-- or fly-- away, but the other two were awake enough to flee if they wanted. “What the hell is going on?”

GWENPOOL: This was a par-tay. Super over the top with some we’re richer than god kinda vibes, but still nice. Gwen had taken a stroll when Jean had started talking, momentarily distracted by a scantily clad server in white to grab a lil’ dish of caviar or whatever they were serving. She had just gotten her hands on it and back to the group she had so stylishly arrived with when the angry murder Cable started talking. Really, she was more familiar with the sexy Josh Brolin was but she was willing to ride this plot out. Grabbing her mask and yanking it off her head so that pink and blonde hair hung wildly around her face, she waited for Cable to finish having his temper tantrum. “This guy is what the hell is going on.” She jutted a thumb towards Strange. “For those new to this shindig, this my very good pal Doctor Stephen Strange,” a slight exaggeration, “And he helped me out a few years ago when I was having a tiny little reality problem. As in, he severed my ties to my reality and got me a sweet permanent existence here. When Kid Asshole ( that was Kid Omega ) mentioned what was going down I thought to myself: geez, gwen, what a great time to help the children. So, here we are! I connected ya babes with my dude and he can help them live here as their own people.”

IDIE: Idie noticed the nod from Laura, and shot her a soft smile back. Finishing off her drink, Idie starred at the newcomer, but it was Gwendolyn who caught her eye. Eyes flickered to the young Jean who had just spoke, and then in a flash the young X-Men were free. Idie felt as if everything was moving fast, and she was going in slow motion. "You were going to kill them?" Idie almost shouted. A mixture of disgust and anger swirled through her body. She walked slowly away from the crowd, and went and stood by Gwendolyne. She could feel her body shaking. What had been in her drinks?

LAURA: There were a lot of heartbeats escalating in the room. The weird one who spoke too fast was - surprise surprise - speaking too fast and everyone was paying attention to her so Laura stalked to the other side of the room where Idie was. They weren’t friends. They knew of each other than anything else, but Laura could smell the booze and she seemed scared. “You’re drunk and you need water.” Her voice was low. The servers were still there so she signaled for one to bring over a glass. “I need to go check on them. You can come if you stay calm.” A sloppy ( probably first time ) drunk  was the last thing she needed but Laura didn’t want her freaked out. Moving over to the stirring X-Men, one boot clad foot kicked away a set of the restraints. “Hey,” she crouched down in front of Warren and Hank. “Are you guys okay?”

TIME-DISPLACED HANK: Hank shook his head quickly feeling the effects of the drugs wearing off as the the migraine set in. "Ordinarily if I were put in this situation the answer would be a resounding no, however, all things considered, I'm peachy." Hank said with some strain as his vision began to finally focus in on all that was going on around them.

STRANGE: Strange passed a glance to Gwen, watching as she gave a very colorful rendition of their plan. Regardless of the circumstances, this was not something he wanted to spur into a habit, so to find himself in a similar position as he had been in before was making him want to cut her off and get to the point faster. However, he remained quiet until she was finished, where he could tack on some points. "Severing them from their reality would wipe the present X-men from existence, which is where Krakoa comes in. I'm told mutants are now able to resurrect infinitely. We will have to have a talk about how that damages the fabric of reality at a different time, but we can use the pods to our advantage. In essence, the original X-men will die." As he scanned the room, he could tell they were running out of time. With the original X-men within walking distance of their present selves, it seemed to have been almost accelerating the symptoms. "You," he directed his words at Nathan Summers. "Will have to allow the original X-men to be transported in my care, along with these two." he indicated the two X-men he had standing with him. "And we should do it now."

TIME-DISPLACED WARREN: It was all a haze. Warren had felt them teleport but even after Jean had released them, he had barely moved. It was almost impossible to get his eyes to focus correctly, and all the voices around him were muddled and foggy. He knew they were arguing about them, but that was easy to figure out. Laura’s voice managed to break through, but he kept his hands pressed over his face, covering his eyes. His wings hung limply at his sides and spread oddly around him across the floor. They ached, almost burned-- more than they ever had even when they had been made of fire and metal. Every inch his arms moved, his shoulders cried out in protest. Luckily, the muscles on his back were almost numb. “I’m.. I don’t know.” Warren finally managed to answer. His voice was groggy and rough, but it was there. “I have feathers again, don’t I? I’m not imagining that part?”

IDIE: Idie stared at Laura. "I'm drunk?" She took the water from Laura and started drinking it. "I only had the fizzy peach drink..." Her voice trailed off and she stared down at the glass. "Did that have alcohol in?" She followed Laura as she tried to wrap her head around this new found information. Kneeling down beside Laura, she looked at Warren, her eyes wide. "Yes, Warren." Idie's voice was soft, but it trembled slightly as she spoke. "You have feathered wings again. Try not to move, okay? We'll get you out of here." She was unsure of how they would get the young X-Men out, and unsure of the plan Gwendolyne had explained would work. Taking a breath, she tried to calm her nerves, and took a large sip of her water.

LAURA: “You’re drunk.” Laura repeated bluntly. “There was alcohol in there. I smell it.” From her position on bended knee Laura gave Hank a tight smile. “You look peachy.” The words were supposed to be gentle enough to be slightly teasing. Offering an arm, she rose slowly to help him stand if he needed it before crouching again before Warren. One hand hesitantly reached out to brush one of the white feathers, the soft down confirming they were real. “It seems that you do. I’m assuming Cable followed through on what he promised.” She echoed after Idie. Her mind was numb at times to torture. She had been through enough herself to be desensitized, but here she was forcing her mind to go into the painful places of empathy. She shook her head when the other mutant spoke again. “No, they want you two moved, and I’d rather help you than have Cable drag you along. Can you stand?”

CABLE: Nate reacted to the finger being pointed at him by instinctively moving in front of the three younger X-Men he had managed to get hold of. Their plan sounded insane. Everyone had been shocked, practically appalled, at his ideas when he first brought them up. But this? This was really the solution they wanted instead? “You do realize that if we kill them, even for just a few minutes, that will result in their older selves being wiped from existence. You realize that, right?” It sounded so obvious to him. Why it didn’t to everyone else, he couldn’t imagine. “Severing them from their existence sounds great in theory but pulling it off is a whole other thing completely! My plan leaves everyone alive.”

EMMA: “Our darling resident hothead brings up a good point.” Emma hummed in a begrudging agreeance. He was far too much like his father for her liking. “The X-Men are clearly barely  hanging on. Scott, Hank, Bobby and Warren can testify for this personally. Jean isn’t here at all, and the second any of you die we run the risk of losing them all and that unborn child. Jean,” Emma glanced to the shorter redhead and moved towards her. “You need to do this for yourself.” For a moment her eyes went white as Jean’s went pink, two telepaths talking among themselves. “No,” Emma broke away with a shake of her head. “Whatever you’re planning is too dangerous. Cable will escort you to the past and I will personally wipe your minds since you are unwilling.”

STRANGE: As if he hadn't analyzed every possible outcome already. Hadn't anyone paid attention before? Exhaling, Strange rubbed his brow. "As we are running out of time, young Summers, I did not believe I would have to explain every facet of the plan, but that is already taken care of too. I would not be here if this wasn't going to work. I do not waste my time with bad outcomes."

TIME-DISPLACED JEAN: “You’re wrong, Emma.” Jean shook her head firmly. “It’s going to work. Doctor Strange is going to put you guys in stasis temporarily. We die and then they regrow us in the Hatchery. Two of us. That way we can stay and one set can go back where I’ll be the one to wipe the memories. No fighting it. You know the Five can do it quickly, and Strange will help Tempus with the time part. You have to at least give us a chance.”

TIME-DISPLACED WARREN: ”That asshole.” Warren muttered under his breath, both angry and in pain. It had been a strange journey for him throughout their entire time here. At first, Warren had wanted nothing else except to go home to their correct time. He hated it here. He hated what he saw himself become. Despite it all, he had fought hard to find a place here and make sure history wouldn’t repeat itself. And now, all of that had been taken away from him. He was left with limp wings and a head full of pain and confusion. “My legs might work, but my wings? Not so much.” A half-hearted laugh escaped him as he attempted to move and stand up. He was still pretty weak. A couple blinks later, and his vision was at least improving. But the best he could do was sit on his knees, letting his arms and wings hang limply against him. “Where exactly are we going?”

SCOTT: "And what if it doesn't work?" he knew even posing the question to Strange would get him a look, but it needed to be asked. "I don't think we have enough time for this to go south. This isn't something I want to take a chance on."

TIME-DISPLACED SCOTT: "I'm willing to take that risk." he spoke up. "It is my future after all."

IDIE: Idie nodded, taking in what Laura had said. Her heart felt heavy as she watched Warren attempt to move. Reaching out, she placed her hand softly on his arm. "I don't know, but they have a plan." She could hear the two Scott's talking, and did her best to drown their voices out. "Let us help you stand, Warren. We won't let go of you, okay?" She looked at him, her eyes wide. Her vision felt slightly blurred, but she did her best to power through it. "I promise."

EMMA: “Then your wife and unborn child die.” Emma turned to look at Scott. “As do you and your friends. Why is this a debate? Fine,” there was a sigh of frustration. “The Council voted, but now let the five of you do the same since you’re ruined my party. Do you want to indulge this fantasy and risk death or send them back?”

CABLE: ”Two of you?” This plan sounded more and more ridiculous as it was explained to him. “That’s---” Slowly, his expression shifted from one of horror and surprise, to one of understanding. It was coming together, even as his father protested like he had been doing moments before. “---that could actually work.” He took a glance at the X-Men behind him, and then back to Strange. His anxiety pooled in his gut, One thing he hated was deviating from a plan once he had settled on it, but it was dawning on him that maybe he couldn’t win this fight. But he wasn’t fully convinced yet. This was an outcome he hadn’t predicted, which would create a timeline he had no insight into. That’s what scared him. “This is crazy.”

WARREN: “What the hell, let’s just go for it.” The older Warren made himself be heard. His mind was muddled but he was present enough to hear everything that had been said so far. “This is already a mess. We need to stop fighting and do something about it.”

BOBBY: He had been staying silent so far, but Bobby nodded when Warren spoke. “Okay -- cool. But that has to be it. We can’t take any more risks after this.”

HANK:  Hank offered his younger self a small smile before shutting his yellow eyes tightly do to the pain of just being near his younger self. "I suppose it is my turn to speak then, yes?" He said clearing his voice. "While I am entirely sympathetic to the struggles and tribulations of my younger self, it is with a most heavy heart that I must decline this proposition. While I am comfortable risking my own life for your sake." He said giving a look genuine sympathy to the time displaced five. "I cannot in good consciousness risk the loss of Jean's child when she is not here to speak her mind."

SCOTT: He looked incredulously between Warren and Bobby. "You're willing to risk your lives, Jean's child, for what -- a maybe? Sending them back has a 100% success rate, you can't actually be considering this. It's a no, two to two. We'd need Jean to break it and I have a feeling she's not going to take the risk."

EMMA: This was really a dreadful night and Emma hated playing the referee. Stripes were never a good look. “Then I suppose Scott is right. I can pull her back to conscious, but at the sake of repeating myself yet again: time is precious. Everyone relevant, feel free follow to the Hatchery. Someone call the Five. The rest of you are free to drink my very expensive champagne and then disperse.” With that Emma turned on one heel to gather the necessary people, a telepathic message being placed to Charles.

MESMERO: "Well this was more dramatic than anticipated." He said placing his empty cocktail down. "Waiter. Some of that expensive champagne out hostess was talking about. Thank you."

LAURA: With a body rigid and at attention, Laura listened to them debate before Emma left. She was still crouched down and her legs were numb but her attention turned to Warren. “Seems like you have a chance. If that’s what you still want.” The future had cut off his wings and tried to get rid of him. She wouldn’t blame him for wanting to go back. Nothing here seemed worth it. “Good things we only need your legs then.” Maneuvering carefully to avoid the trailing feathers she helped him stand and took the majority of his weight before waiting to move.

STRANGE: With a swirl of his hands, Strange opened another portal, leading those Emma deemed as relevant to the Hatchery, where the pods were kept. As they emerged, Strange took a moment to look around, the images of his mind probability finally aligning. He'd wondered what this place looked like and how exactly the mutants were managing it.

IDIE: Idie helped Laura get Warren to his feet, being as careful as she could in her current state. Idie looked at the portal Doctor Strange had opened, and then up at Warren. "Do you want one of us to help you through?" She asked quietly.

LOGAN: Everything had been quiet. It was nice, in a way. But in another sense, it was much too stifling. Logan chose to stay with Jean, even though there was nothing he could do. And then the quiet was interrupted by a portal, causing him to jump to his feet-- hands fisted together and at the ready. The group of people he was met with surprised him, and he allowed himself to relax. But only a little. “--what the hell is going on here?”

LAURA: She had known he had been in here. When he jumped up Laura stepped forward slightly even though it was a heavy step weighted down with the additional body mass of Warren. “They’re waking her up.” Her voice was quiet for the sake of her father. “And Emma is calling the Five. They may want the kids to stay here.”

LOGAN: “Waking her up?” Logan’s eyes narrowed, even though Laura was doing her best to keep him calm. “That’s a horrible idea. They can’t do that.”

EMMA: The only indication of a greeting that Emma gave Logan was a brief sniff as she entered the Hatchery. Surrounded by the large golden pods and the life that was in the process of blooming she took a second to reflect on how idiotic it all was. “The Five will be here shortly. They were at the Sextant Habitat and Illyana will be teleporting them in. This is Jeannie’s life at risk, Logan, so yes. We will be waking her up.” Moving around him, Emma made her way to where Jean was lying just as prone as she had left her. Bending down she pressed their foreheads together, fingers resting gently on the redheads temple as the telepathic connection was reestablished. The plan had been to keep her in the Healing Gardens but this had been a last minute change as an extra precaution. They said to make more mutants but had been slow to do follow through, so life had to be protected. After a few moments Emma pulled away and took a step back, body turning so no one saw her catch her breath. It wouldn’t be an issue. Eyes were likely to be trained on the telepath people preferred to stare at unless Emma had her tits out or was being decidedly more useful.

SCOTT: As Jean came to, Scott rested beside her, his first instinct to grab her hand but the situation, on top of other trivial problems, kept him from doing so. "Hey, welcome back." Despite the distance between them, his voice was soft. Speaking as quickly as he could without overwhelming her, Scott tried his best to explain the situation, doing what he could to remember the details. He managed to get all the important parts though, like how the original X-men were willing to put everything on the line for a possibility. "We don't have a lot of time. You have to decide now."

JEAN: For the first time in years, it had been quiet. Jean knew that was something that Emma had done for her, a gift for the woman who been unable to find unrest even in death. The only hum came from something she couldn’t quite place, something that she now knew to be the baby. Had her mind made that connection it would have fought and what she needed was rest. Then, Emma was back. There was almost a whisper of an apology left in her head and then people filled her vision and Scott was talking to her. Purposefully not touching her. The ache of sadness cut through the confusion as Jean shifted her legs to hang them off the cot. “That’s... a lot.” She had to clear her throat. There were a lot of questions, including what day is it? but that could be figured out later. “Putting me back to sleep my not be enough long term. That may have been our only chance at that angle.” Her mind was already filling too quickly. “So now, I’m awake. I don’t want to lose this baby. I can’t think of anything worse. But if you think you can do this, Stephen,” her eyes found the sorcerer. “You have one very quick chance.”

LOGAN: “Okay, wait just a second here--” Logan let Jean speak her mind, but it didn’t feel right. “Doesn’t any of this sound too messy to you guys? What if it doesn’t work?”

EMMA: “Everything’s messy with you lot.” There was a reason she preferred the immaculate nature of the White Palace. “If it doesn’t work we either send the children back or their older selves die. Whichever occurs first.”

ILLYANA: There was an intense glow as a portal open and six forms emerged. Illyana stood off to the side as the Five arrived: Tempus, Hope, Proteus, Elixir and Egg. They began readying themselves for a resurrection and preparing as the Captain nodded towards Emma. “They will be ready by the time you are done.”

SCOTT: He moved from where he'd been at Jean's side, standing off a bit with his arms folded across his chest. This was no longer his decision, no matter how ridiculous of a decision it was.

STRANGE: "We will have to begin by putting the present X-men in stasis so they remain unaffected by the...resurrection process." he stated his words as if he were giving the X-men are more time to choose, but he was already moving his hands, conjuring up a mystical energy that reflected as a glow around the present X-men. As he closed his fists, the glow around his hands dissipated but remained around the mutants. Then, suddenly, like a snap of fingers, the mutants were encased in an energy pod, similar to the ones the past X-men would be going in to fairly soon. And a few moments later, their time in this world was frozen in place, a stasis completed. "Now, for the fun part."

LAURA: Fun part. Laura had killed too may people for it to be fun. It was the last thing she wanted to do, the person she wanted to no longer be. Murder had been associated with her name for far too long, but when Emma’s message appeared in her mind she slowly stepped away from Warren and left a claw slide out. The younger X-Men had authorized this. It was approved. She was still nauseous as she made her way to Bobby and moved so swiftly he wouldn’t have seen it coming, one claw to the jugular so that he was dead before he hit the floor. Blood dripped from the claw before she wiped it on the white of her pants she had been required to wear to Emma’s party. They didn’t have a label, but she was still sad as she looked up at Warren. “No matter how this ends,” her voice was quiet in his ear as she rose up on her toes. “I’m glad I got to meet you.” Her lips found his then, one hand rising up so that her claw could move in a practiced arc. Pulling away, she eased the body down to the floor to rest on the stone and feathers. She knew death. They weren’t there anymore, but it was still sad all the same. Done with her task Laura nodded once to Emma.

CABLE: “I.. don’t like this.” That was an understatement. But what else could he say? As Nate primed his gun and hesitantly took aim at the younger version of his father, it felt incredibly wrong. For a split second, he debated breaking away and getting to them before anyone had a chance to do any harm. Maybe he could still slide them back in time, to go forward with the original plan and save them from killing anyone. But he didn’t. He took a sharp breath in and his elbow bent back, his gun raised and he was ready to shoot. Then he pulled the trigger, and Scott was down right along side Bobby and Warren. Nathan was good at making himself feel numb, and right now he needed to choose it more than ever.

HANK: Hank hesitated for a moment, having his eyes shut not wanting to look at the corpses of his fallen comrades. He thought back on how to end this as painlessly as possible. Thought back to the Goblin Queen and what she had taught him. With a muttering he used a spell he never imagined using. One instant he was standing the next he was on the floor, blood streaming from his ears and eyes.

LOGAN:  Upon receiving Emma’s request, he sent her a glare that was harsh enough to make his face burn a light red. His Jean was weak, barely been awake five minutes and he had missed most of the discussion that had lead them all here. Now he was expected to kill the other version of Jean? Again? It was incredibly ironic and it made him sick. It took a lot for him to be anxious, especially to make his limbs shake as a result, but he was feeling it this time. As he moved away from Jean’s side he couldn’t look at her or anyone else as he made his way over to the young version of her. Jaw set in stone, eyes only meeting hers for a brief second before he muttered a quiet “Sorry” before he released one silver claw. Logan moved just as Laura had with Bobby and Warren-- it was quick. And little Jean went limp, then he caught her and lowered her to the ground with the rest of her friends.

EMMA: Five dead bodies. Five frozen X-Men. Emma stood among the carnage and looked to Logan with what was, in actuality, exhaustion. She looked at him with sympathy and not pity because they both were powerless to help people they loved and she hated that more than anything. “It’s done.” Her voice was bogged down by weariness. “You may begin,” she nodded to the five.

EVA: It was a process. The inception of Krakoa had been the creation of the Five: five mutants with different powers bonded together for one purpose. Eva Bell had not manifested until after the events of the Phoenix. She had been swiftly taken in, a new mutant in a new world. The Five had been formed deliberately. They were brought to bring each other together, to fuel one another to defy nature again and again, multiple times a day for day after day. Even when they thought their energy would be depleted they found themselves more energized. There had been a party in the Sextant Habitat and that was where the Five had been, enjoying a nice break from the work. Emma had called though and they had come without hesitation. Eva watched the murders in a sympathy that bordered on disgust. She knew people died because she regrew them. Watching them die was just different. They were skilled at what they did though, well practiced. Eva focused on her role and felt time roll as her mutation grabbed a hold of it, Hope’s powers speeding up the process. They were fast but it could still take a day to regrow. The additional magical presence of Strange felt like an intrusion to their tight unit but Emma had advised they were needed. The group stayed silent as they worked, ten pods darkening with forms. The first five finished and Eva stepped towards the main group and held out a hands towards the pods where people were ready to be cut out. “They’re ready. The others will be in a moment.”

TIME-DISPLACED SCOTT: Dying hadn't been something he'd remembered, the process a lot more like falling asleep than a flash of light. One moment he was preparing for this inevitability (because if he were mind wiped and sent back to just become his future self it may as well have been a death sentence) and the next he was overwhelmed by a sense to breathe. The instinct was so powerful that he clawed at whatever was containing him until his arm reached open air and he felt dirt under his skin. Whatever encased him clung to his body as he tried to pull himself to his feet, his world still shrouded in darkness.

EMMA: Death gave way to life. She had watched the Five work before but it was still spectacular. Illyana had been sent away to fetch the clothing they had arrived in and it was waiting when the children emerged from their pod, completely naked and covered in what many considered to be the rejuvenating goo of Krakoa. The clothing was handed out until they were all in their time period appropriate getups and Emma reached out to take Jean’s hand. “You know what to do.” Her voice was quiet. “Make sure that the scene is exactly as you left it from every shirt tuck to hair placement. Assume your positions and then complete the telepathic wipe. You will have years of anger and tears, of sleepless nights and sorrow. You will age and you will die, but you will also love. You will laugh and you will see what it is like to grow old. You will not cease to exist, Jean, you will become who you’re meant to be. The second you do so the loop will be closed and one day in the future you will sit in stasis waiting for yourself to  make the right choice, and then you will wake and meet your baby later on. We are all better for having you here, Jean Grey. For having all of you.” Emma kissed her forehead before stepping back to allow room for Nate. “I’ll see you again soon, darlings.”

CABLE: The whole process was incredible and terrifying. Nate found himself almost unable to watch as everything progressed, his mind wandering until the young team had assembled in front of him. They were pristine, just as he had remembered them, and ready to go home. He watched and listened as Emma gave them a speech he hadn’t expected, but one he found himself glad to be witnessing. Everything had finally lined up. It was his turn to finally make things right after feeling like the entire universe was against him. After Emma finished, Nate lifted his mechanical arm and fed the correct coordinates into the body-sliding device. “We’re all set.” He looked up at them, motioning for the five of them to come close as he walked a few paces towards them. There was a hint of a smile on his face, feeling a mix of strange relief and anticipation. Once they were all linked, he activated the device and the six of them disappeared in another flash of white-blue light.

TIME-DISPLACED JEAN: For some odd reason, death felt different every time. Maybe it was because of the how and why. Once again her last memory had been of Logan and his claws, but this time she had seen the remorse in his eyes. She had refused to look away because she heard her friends bodies hitting the ground around them and that was something she couldn’t witness. And then, it was golden. Or maybe it was orange. It was hard to tell. All Jean knew is that it was surprisingly calm and she felt like she could float there forever until something in her urged her to reach out her arms and push. She pushed and the shell that held the pod in place cracked apart so she could climb out. Hank, Warren, Scott and Bobby were clamoring to the surface as well and Jean went from having seen one of her teammates naked to all of them. Still, that little sliver of calm remained as she moved forward to take the offered towel and dry off. She grabbed Scott’s glasses and put them on his face with both palms briefly caressing his cheeks before she pulled away and tugged on the clothes offered. “Okay,” she took a deep breath before looking from Strange to their future selves, frozen in time. “I take it they’re back in the past and we’re here. Let’s finish this.”

STRANGE: Strange had remained on the sidelines for the events that transpired, from the deaths of the past X-men to the re-emergence. He didn't move from his place until the second set had been properly clothed and returned to some state of cognizance. Finally, this was a chance to give the young mutants and opportunity to live their lives separate from the paths determined for them, and in this case, Strange was happy to help. Another set of careful movements and the glow returned to his hands. As this was tearing through the present fabric of reality, it took more than a simple use of magic. "I will establish these mutants as a whole separate from their predestined selves." in this case, he had to guide the magic to do his bidding. "I will allow for the emergence of a new reality as a result of severing the ties between past and present." as he spoke, the glow between his hands moved in tendrils around him and the young mutants, surrounding them. "From this moment forth, your lives will be your own, untethered to the lives of your doppelgangers." as he finished, the light that surrounded them became overwhelming, crowding the room. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the magic was gone, having been swallowed up by his words, adhering to his commands. Lowering his hands, he looked over his shoulder to where the present mutants were still in stasis and with a flick of his wrist and a small pop of light, the stasis ended. "It is done." he said.

TIME-DISPLACED JEAN: It is done. With that being said, Jean’s story went from being a closed book to a new chapter. As their older selves popped back into existence Jean felt a strange stirring she couldn’t explain. They had done it. They were free of the past and the strings that would pull them into an inevitable future. Unable to contain her excitement she spun and grabbed Scott by the shirt before tugging him close and kissing him hard.

TIME-DISPLACED WARREN: The last thing he saw was Laura. He felt the light touch of her lips against his and then he couldn’t figure out whether it had felt like only a moment had passed or an eternity. But when he was conscious again, everything felt lighter. His wings were wet and heavy, weighing him down but the pain he had been lost in was completely gone. He emerged alongside the rest of his teammates and stretched out his wings as far he could manage, shaking them off and letting them breathe just as he expanded his new lungs for the first time. They were all naked. He didn’t much care. It was nice to feel awake and alive, and eventually he cleaned himself up and got dressed. Then Strange did his magic-- Warren had only been able to understand part of what was happening before he died. But he didn’t need time to think about it-- before he even had a chance to worry, it had been done. He couldn’t say whether or not he felt different. Maybe he was truly feeling what Strange had done, or maybe it was mind filling in the blanks where it was needed. But it felt.. good. It was the best he had felt during his stay in this time, and that was for the best. This was his time now. And as his gaze eventually met with Laura’s from where she stood, the idea of staying here finally settled in.

SCOTT:  What had been losing time, memories, his sense of self was suddenly transformed into a whirlwind of emotion and memories that weren't his. They were his, but they weren't his. As Scott returned to a present state, he first took a moment to take in his surroundings, processing them. The young x-men were still here, but so was Jean. His Jean. A realization came to him as he churned through years of new memories that this had worked. Against all odds, they'd all been granted lives separate from each other. For a moment, Scott had lost all reticence towards Jean and went to her. "It worked," he said, even though he knew she also knew. "It worked and we're okay." the smile that was in his voice was overwhelming as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close. Maybe there was a way to look past all the shit that separated them after all.

LAURA: After committing double homicide Laura hadn’t been able to stand there and watch. Maybe Logan could stand idly and wait to see but Laura couldn’t. She had stalked the beach back and forth, pacing even though sand slowed her pace. When she finally returned Cable was vanishing and the new X-Men were emerging. There was a neutral indifference as they clothed themselves once more, but when they began to mingle Laura looked over to find Warren’s gaze on her and exhaled a small smile. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was quiet even though she knew she had done what was necessary. “How are those wings feeling?” As in, do you want to get out of here?

JEAN: She remembered. It was one memory and then the other as they came back into her mind. It didn’t feel like they were foreign or invasive. These weren’t a strangers memory but her own and a piece she hadn’t realized she was missing finally clicked back into place. More components of her personality were opening up as she remembered what her younger self had seen and done. The minds began to meld and Jean’s view remained her own, bolstered now by additional eyes. Even though there had been such a distance between them, Jean watched her younger self kiss Scott and for a moment remembered what it was like to fall in love with him. Then, her Scott was speaking to her and his arms were around her for the first time in longer than Jean could remember. A smile was on her face as well as she kissed his cheek and sank into his arms. Logan had been there with her, sitting by her side. Logan had been there but in that moment Jean needed to pay attention to Scott and the victory they had. Wrapped in her husbands arms, Jean gave Logan a small smile before her head nestled into Scott’s neck so she could repeat, “We’re okay.”

TIME-DISPLACED WARREN: Warren shook his head at her as he closed the gap between them, one corner of his mouth lifting up into a cross between a smile and a smirk. “Please don’t apologize.” His words were soft. “I was a mess before-- I feel great now.” Feathers ruffled behind him as his wings shook, then stretched out again. “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t missed the feathers. It’s gonna take some getting used to but-” He shrugged. “I don’t think it’ll take long to adjust. Especially if you help me test them out.” The smirk had stretched out into a full smile by the time he was done talking, and then he motioned for Laura to follow him so they could take off.

LOGAN: Jean smiled at him and Logan had been watching for it. He smiled back at her and nodded once, eyes lingering for a beat or two before he looked down and away. It was a strange mix of things that he was feeling, but the strongest of it all was grateful that Jean, and her baby, were alright. That’s what mattered in the end. Things would never be perfect, but he had accepted that long ago.

EMMA: If she were crying it would be from exhaustion, and even then her eyes were only mildly watering. Emma watched the celebration from the side before thanking the Five and sending them back to whatever hedonistic party they had been attending. Illyana spoke with her for a moment before following as well. Everyone was leaving, actually. The party in the Habitat was another booze filled blowout that the mutants loved. Jean and Scott were wrapped up in each other and for a moment her eyes lingered on Logan who was stuck in the peripheral. They had both been the leftovers even though Emma had crafted a hundred excuses to stop herself from ever being cast in that role. Standing alone in the center of a victory in a white ballgown, Emma felt entirely alone and entirely out of place. “It’s my birthday, you know.” Emma broke her reverie as she picked up her skirts and made her way to Logan. “Or, it was. What a birthday it’s turned out to be.” She always celebrated herself but there was a longing for others to do the same without it being hijacked. “Join me for a nightcap? We can celebrate that they won.” She pointed lightly to where Scott and Jean were intertwined. “I could use one, and I have a feeling you could as well.”

LOGAN: The white of Emma’s outfit grew brighter as she approached from off to the side, but Logan tried not to focus on it. It wasn’t until she spoke that he begrudgingly turned to her. He let out a light scoff, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. He hated it, but she was right. They won. Logan tried to convince himself he had won too, but it wasn’t exactly the same. “You sure as hell know how to throw a birthday party.” He thought a few seconds more, then gave her an answer in the form of a single nod as he stood up. “Lead the way, I have a feeling we’ve got a lot of booze to get through.”

EMMA: Who would have thought Emma would end her night talking to Logan of all people? She certainly hadn’t, but now she had a very strange desire to drink cheap liquor. Perhaps an unfortunate side effect of her Boston upbringing. “This isn’t the party, trust me. This was a detour. The party has lots of free booze your scruffy little soul desires. Come,” Emma made her way towards the exit of the Hatchery. “We’ll play nice tonight.”

#event: extermination #extermination: finale #chatlog: extermination finale #momevents

[vixxiedust]

The Scholar’s Love Ch. 1

Genre: Romance, Drama, Alternate universe

Pairing: KenxOC

Warning: none

Summary:    

“Don`t you want to find a good husband and get married?” he raised an eyebrow, “Someone noble, handsome, valiant, brave, courageous…”

I narrowed my eyes. Was he trying to describe himself? My sister would probably gush over a man like him but I wasn`t really familiar with men. I never paid much attention to them and as expected I spent most of my life away from them because propriety demanded that.

“My parents will choose a husband when the time comes,” I answered flatly.

  One.

I straightened myself in my blue robes trying to look taller and more authoritative. I knew that it was useless since I hardly looked the part but I could see the girl in front of me trembling with fear and it wasn`t a pretty sight.  I wondered why she was so scared, none of us were going to be slaughtered, none of us was a criminal. It was Acceptance day, a day of glory for all of us. Maybe she felt small and visible because there were only twenty of us. Our line was practically non-existent compared to the men`s one. One hundred of them, advancing towards the Palace in steady strong pace expecting to have a bright future as officials, to help governing our country of Nava.

All of us wore navy blue robes with a tiny white dragon embroidered on our chest. Those who`d be elevated in rank later would switch to a bigger silver dragon but the gold embroidery was reserved only for the royal family. The robes made for the future female officials were slightly wider, made to resemble a dress but other than that the uniform wasn`t so different. The difference lied in the fact that most of us would probably never make it beyond librarians or historians. But had I been born fifty years ago I`d have only dreamed about being accepted here. I`d have remained the daughter of a third rank scholar doomed only to marry and produce kids.

I threw a glance at the male line. Some of the young men there were ogling at  us. Probably not me since I rarely looked agreeable and consciously kept my face as stern as possible but there were some very beautiful daughters of scholars around me. The girl in front of me was blushing furiously from what I could see.

“Raise your head,” I whispered to her and tried to steady her when she swayed startled by my voice, “They won`t dare to say anything to you if you don`t look scared.”

She drew a weak shaky breath and tried to look at me while walking. Unlike me she was wearing makeup. She was beautiful; her hair lighter than mine and braided in the obligatory way for female officials.

“But it`s scary.”

“It`s not,” I said reassuringly, “We are going to serve His Majesty and our country. You can`t be a mess. You represent yourself, your family and the monarchy.”

She nodded hastily, and then she straightened her body a little.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I patted the side of her arm and continued our solemn march towards the gates. Then we stopped at the parade ground in front of the House of Justice and Valor. There was the male part of the Royal family. I couldn`t see them well because I was too far behind but I could make out  the ceremonial robes of our King, the Crown prince and his two brothers. On both sides there were the Ministers in robes of brilliant azure blue.

I heard the ceremonial drums and fell to my knees along with everyone around me. Suddenly I felt so small, like a tiny ant in the sea of more ants, pressing my forehead to the cold ground. I wondered how my sister was doing.

She was probably very excited for her own Acceptance day. I tried to think of her to seek some comfort and feel less alone. She wasn`t far away from here and she was probably now bowing to the Queen and the Princess in front of the House of Elegance and Virtue. I knew that she used to dream of this day for years. She always wanted to be a lady-in-waiting, and then part of the harem, a glorious concubine dressed in silk and precious stones.  She wouldn`t stop dancing when our robes arrived three days ago. This is when we knew that we were approved. For me it was countless of nights of studying and writing and for her ruthlessly cultivating her beauty and talents. And in the end it all paid off. Now we needed to make our family proud, each of us in her own way.

“Future officials,”  the booming voice of the King reached my ears and I quickly directed my thoughts towards the current task, “Today you begin a journey towards self-cultivating to serve your country and its citizen. From now on you shall dedicate your lives to this purpose and the this purpose alone because the nation needs you. We have the army to protect it but we also have you to help me govern it well.”

King Jiyeong, I thought, the second King of the Dragon Dynasty. My father used to describe him as a trustworthy ruler, one who never let things out of control, who looked into the details. And probably rightfully so. His dynasty was young to our ancient kingdom, his ancestors fought with King Yalta from the Crow Dynasty to get to where they were today. They had to set new customs, new rituals, new fashion, everything to erase the previous rulers and their ways.

The Kingdom of Nava was founded by too many tribes and each of them had different beliefs. It wasn`t easy to unify all of them even after centuries of settling on the same piece of land.

I sighed and returned my attention to the Kings`s speech.

“Follow the laws and keep the order. Strive for perfection and bring glory to Nava.”

There was a moment of silence so that we make sure that the King had nothing more to say. Then all of us bellowed:

“Glory to the one true king!”

I finally rose from the ground. I did what I could to rub my sore knees and looking at the other officials around me I wasn`t the only one.

We didn`t have much time to tend to our poor joints though because we were herded by people in brown robes towards three massive stone tables. I saw the long lists spreading like bed sheets. Somewhere there was my name and its assigned position. We weren`t supposed to start with any important position but it also depended on the ranks of our families. Having a third rank was neither good, nor bad, just in the middle. What was worse was the fact that I was a woman.

I was grouped together with girl in front of me. She looked a lot calmer now, as if the worst part was over when in fact it had only just began. It was up to us now  to show what we were really capable of.

We waited patiently and it didn`t take much time before it was her turn.

“Name,” the man at the table demanded without even raising his eyes.

“Adra An,” she mumbled, her voice trembling once again.

“Library,” the man said, “Next.”

“Nala Ae.”

He threw a quick glance at me. Maybe he had heard of my father.

“Library. Next.”

I knew I couldn`t expect much but I still felt disappointed. Adra was there waiting for me. She looked relieved.

“We`re together,” she chimed happily clinging to my sleeve.

I wish I could return the smile. The Grand Library was the standard starting point for most female officials. Men usually got assigned to different departments at  the ministries. I sighed deeply at the thought of spending my time with dusty books rather than people.

“Well, let`s go,” I did my best to look enthusiastic and headed towards the group of officials who were supposed to work there as well.

“It`s not that bad,” Adra tried to comfort me, “Many others never had the chance to come to the Palace in the first place.”

I nodded. After all she was right.

---

I slowly went down the polished wooden ladder after returning a couple of atlases to their rightful places. Then I scanned my desk where a dozen more lied stacked neatly.

Three days had passed since Acceptance day and things were going as expected. Boring. It was boring. Mornings were nice since we had lectures with renowned scholars but afternoons dragged on and on at least here in the library. It was something I had to endure for now. Later when gaining more experience I could submit a memorial to the King and eventually attract his attention. I had a long way ahead of me though. No one came with brilliant ideas three days into their new duties, so in order to outshine hundreds of intelligent men in His Majesty`s court I had to study diligently for years.

I had this dream of attending court like a proper high rank official but in the history of this dynasty there had been only one woman who was able to achieve that and she lived during the reign of the previous king. I knew my chances were low.

I grabbed a few maps and checked if they were rolled properly. And since they were I headed to the shelf dedicated to topographic maps.

It wasn`t that bad, I tried to soothe myself, I liked the smell of books. The other officials here were nice and helpful. We slept in good rooms and all of us, the new ones, had our own small court. It was quiet most of the time so I could focus on my studies and work. I couldn`t complain really.

I carefully placed the maps on the shelf and headed back to my desk. To my surprise there was someone standing there. I could only see his back but he was tall and lean and was tracing an open map with his finger.

I slowly approached the stranger and sensing a movement behind him he spun his body to face me. I stopped dead in my tracks. He was a young man with soft pillowy lips, full eyebrows and dark eyes. His robes were the color of honey and despite being sewn to be only informal attire, they were adorned with elaborate embellishments such as branches and leaves. He was what most people would categorize as charming I suppose.  And noble. He was definitely noble. Probably part of the extended royal family.

I curtsied awkwardly partly because I never cared to learn these things properly. My mother used to scold me a lot for that.

“May I help you?” I asked.

He didn`t bow in return which confirmed that he was indeed way higher in the hierarchy than me. Instead he looked at me from head to toe and his eyes lit playfully. I wasn`t ugly but I also wasn`t the prettiest girl out there, so it baffled me.

“You`re new,” he stated and to  my horror he casually sat on top of my desk.

I felt the urge to pull the open map away from him before it crinkles but I had to contain it somehow because I couldn`t afford to face the consequences of pushing a nobleman from his seat of choice. So I just swallowed hard and nodded.

“Which house?” he puffed his full lips.

“Ae,” I almost hissed at him. I needed him to remove his bottom from the map as quickly as possible but he didn`t seem in the mood to budge, “Do you need me to help you with something?”

“Ah, I was just looking for a map but that`s not important now,” he waved dismissively and continued mumbling to himself, ”Ae… Ae… Ah, could it be that your father is Ying  Ae.”

My father has been active in court lately, so no wonder that his name was familiar to the young man.

“The very same, my lord,” I answered and grabbed the map from the desk.

He almost tumbled down trying to dodge it but I wasn`t going to care at this point. But he didn`t seem to mind it at all actually because he let out a giggle.

I rolled the map carefully and walked to its respective shelf. I heard his steps behind me. He wasn`t going to let meoff so easily.

“It must be pretty boring to work here.”

“It`s only temporarily, my lord, everyone should start their career from somewhere,” I placed the map.

“Oh, an ambitious lady!” he exclaimed. I couldn`t shake off the feeling that he was toying with me.

           He leaned on the shelf casually towering over me. His body omitted a sweet musky smell.

“Don`t you want to find a good husband and get married?” he raised an eyebrow, “Someone noble, handsome, valiant, brave, courageous…”

I narrowed my eyes. Was he trying to describe himself? My sister would probably gush over a man like him but I wasn`t really familiar with men. I never paid much attention to them and as expected I spent most of my life away from them because propriety demanded that.

“My parents will choose a husband when the time comes,” I answered flatly.

Many female officials never married. At least those without a proper backing. They basically led a life of a nun till the day they died. I tried to push this thought out of my mind.

“So you don`t want to choose for yourself?”

He bent a little so that his face was inches away from mine. The fragrance which came from him intensified.

I wasn`t someone who blushed easily but his closeness made me uncomfortable. Partly because I was taught my entire life that men and women go separately except if they are married. His frivolous behavior was too much for me. Yet I spent a minute studying his eyes. They were deep dark brown like bottomless pits which devoured light.

“Everyone with an able body and bearable personality would do,” I answered at last and took a step back to break the spell between us, “As long as my marriage does not interfere with my job as an official, I am fine with anything.”

He bit his lower lip to suppress his laughter.

“Every girl dreams of her future husband,” he said confidently, “Even  those who take the official exams.”

I shook my head.

“I never did.”

He stared in me and I could see that he was very skeptical about it.

“Maybe you haven`t met the right man… until now.”

I blinked a couple of times. Was I mistaken or his voice sounded almost seductively?  

For the first time in my life I met someone who`d openly say indecent things. I have heard that some of the members in the royal family were spoiled rotten and good for nothing but I imagined they would indulge in such behavior in the privacy of their own manors. Or brothels.

“I can assure you, my lord, that I have YET to meet such man.”

He clasped the fabric of his robes right above his heart dramatically.

“Ah, that hurts so much,” he whined, ”But the future lies ahead and I have just planted the seed of love in your heart.”

The seed of love? I wanted to say something clever to him, something to insult him in a subtle but my mind was blank. All I felt was indignation which threatened to make me faint. Luckily I wasn`t that frail.

Who was that man after all? He never introduced himself in the first place.

“We shall meet again, my lady,” he said finally making his exit, “I`ll come to keep you company some other time.”

I was ready to gladly send him off when something flashed in front of my eyes.

“My lord!” I called after him.

He stopped and looked at me. But my eyes were fixed on his chest. It has been there the entire time, hidden between the embroidered leaves in plain sight.

“I could do without your company, my lord,” I said with all the courage I managed to muster. Because, gods, I needed it considering who stood before me.

He smiled and disappeared down the staircase.

A tiny golden dragon in between the leaves. A tiny golden dragon on his chest. He wasn`t just part of the extended royal family. He was from the royal family.

The entire time  I had been talking to a prince.

#vixx fanfic #ken fanfiction #jaehwan fanfic #jaehwan fanfiction #imma back in the game with my rusty writing skills cause quarantine #gotta battle depression and anxiety somehow #it`s not my best work but also i haven`t written anything ages soooo #vixx #jaehwan

[discountalien-pancake]

I don’t necessarily know who in the anti community to ask this, but I’m very confused by rowboat’s clothing in the most recent sj/m card game promo. Heck even Mae/be and alien’s clothing. It all seems to clash and it looks like is a collage of three different characters from three different books with a wolf for aesthetic or something. Don’t get me wrong, the art work is fabulous, just a tad confusing and I don’t think it’s the artist’s fault.

Hi anon! Let me see if I can figure out why it looks weird to you.

I’ve cropped and rotated the preview so that angling doesn’t mess with our perception. Unrelated to your question, but everyone in this picture have the exact same face. 

One of the issues here is color. We have that royal blue on Mauve, forest green on Rowboat, and a teal-ish color on Alien, which is fine separately, but they’re not well integrated here. They’re such strong colors compared to the gold, but none of them are the central color, and there’s too much for them to really be accents, so what we get is three different colors fighting with a bunch of gold and nobody wins. 

Now for the actual clothes. And actually, the big issue with them is also color.

Mauve is wearing some kind of long gown with a plunging back and fluttery long split sleeves, with a little belt at the waist. We’ll call this Elvish medieval, it’s very Lord of the Rings movie kind of dress, but the color is much more modern. Medieval blues were never that saturated, and usually came out a little green. That’s because (Western European) fabric was dyed with woad and resulted in beautiful blues like this:

Indigo results in very similar colors. Alien’s shirt under her armor is a reasonable shade, but Mauve’s is not. Silk and Willow is a great resource for seeing what’s possible in terms of natural dyes and the colors they’ll give, and it’s full of pretty pictures like this:

You’ll notice that the greens on this website are very muted, almost brownish in most cases. That’s because plants don’t dye green very well, and one of the earliest true green dyes was made of arsenic. And even layering blue and yellow is tricky, because dye colors are dependent on pH. Over-dying might shift the pH and result in an entirely different color. (Unset indigo dye is yellow, and dries blue.)

So not only is Rowboat’s vest not particularly European or medieval, it’s also just the wrong fucking color. These are medieval:

Armstreet is a really great historical costuming company to use as reference for medieval clothes (both men’s and women’s, and including shoes). Ignore the green, it’s modern fabric. 

Medieval men’s clothing was basically rectangles with sleeves, so we should see more bunched up fabric around the top of the sash. Theoretically, that vest could exist, but not with that collar, and the shoulders would not be cut in to reveal his arms like that. 

And then we have Alien’s cowl-necked thing, plus golden plate armor. Her collarbone is completely unprotected, but whatever. I can’t really tell what she’s wearing, but the bottom of her shirt would not be fluttering about. That’s just asking for it to get caught on something. Also, please for fuck’s sake, Alien, tie your hair. It’s going to get caught on something and rip your scalp off. 

She should also be wearing chainmail, because she isn’t in full plate armor. I’m going to forcibly restrain myself from ranting about armor for 500 words, but. Listen. Listen. Armor gets battered. There’s a reason real armor is usually very simple and sleek, and even parade armor *cough*Return of the King*cough* is mostly devoid of decoration. Armor is expensive, and decoration is a bitch to repair. Gold plating is stupid because it will get damaged within a single use. We’re going to completely ignore the very idea of solid gold armor, because that’s just. Ugh. Logic, who? Don��t know her.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is that Alien’s armor should be silver in color (not material), BECAUSE STEEL. Which would help reduce the sheer amount of gold happening in this picture and unify the color scheme somewhat.  

So basically, nothing in this is actually accurate to any period, which is fine, it’s fantasy, but they’re trying to be medieval-ish, and the colors aren’t having it. 

#pancake answers #i'm sorry if i rambled too much #costuming #Anonymous

[abalonetea]

If I remember correctly, there's a big evil villain in your story (I think the only reason I remember is because she(they?) hurt Aba in some way and he's my absolute favorite so how! dare! she(they)!). Could you tell more about my now sworn enemy? :D (nothing to be concerned about I just .... *pulls out switch blades* want to have a talk with them is all :) nothing to see here folks :)) )

!!!! i have two big evil villains in my story, and they have both hurt Aba horribly!

(also i am absolutely thrilled that Aba is your favorite, because he’s a super fun character to write about and just!!! adorable!!! i’m so glad you like him! when this move is over, i’ll try and write up some more things about Aba for you!)

and yes, i will absolutely tell you about your new sworn enemies! *blatantly ignoring those switch blades* :) i am sure it’s going to be a very pleasant and all together friendly talk! :)) ) 

Queen Midnight

of my two villains, i talk about Midnight the most. this is because Kee’s role isn’t particularly prominent until you get into the later Arcs, or you’re talking about before the story begins.

Midnight is the current Queen of Fara. she exists in two forms, and i’ll happily talk about both of them! they share the same history, and only subtle differences.

as a whole, Midnight comes from a land that has been lost to time and code. during the Beta Wars, her kingdom was stripped down to nothing. some theorize that she was the only survivor. others speculate that the Butterfly People come from this strange, forgotten land as well.

one thing is known for sure: her words are saccharine sweet, and she’s very good at being Queen. 

some facts

*she’s got cotton candy hair, literally

*her weapon of choice is a lollipop scythe

*on her orders, the Royal Scientists are researching the Code of the World

*she aims to create a kingdom of eternal life and beauty; a true utopia

*loves to paint, often pictures of her old home

*vicious and brutal and rotten under all that sugar

*good intentions can still lead to horrific actions

*a Queen that doesn’t mind killing

*has a personal collection of humboars and licorice wolves

*remembers the time loops, though no one else realizes this

Fields of Fara

in Fields of Fara, Midnight has a very pink color scheme.

you can find a moodboard i did for her here!

the main difference between the two worlds, at least as far as Midnight is concerned, is that, in Fields of Fara, Midnight hasn’t yet discovered how to steal other’s codes, raised her army, or made a grab at total power. her True Intentions are still hidden, a secret, and the vast majority of the kingdom consider her a good and wonderful Queen.

she talks with an air of love and knowledge to her words; sweet enough to be trusting, but with enough poise that there is no doubt of her lineage. her rule over Fara is purely circumstantial. the kingdom needed a Queen, and she needed a kingdom.

Midnight has her own passle of humboars, which she swears are simply pets. she also has a pack of licorice wolves to help the population. she comes off as very caring, and as someone that genuinely wants to help her people. which is true! the problem, of course, is that she doesn’t care how many of her own people die as they search for that perfect utopia.

saving a few is better than losing them all, isn’t it? Midnight certainly thinks so!

her right hand man is Polynya, the head of the Royal Guards. her left hand man is Flame, General of the Royal Guards. 

some facts

*soft gowns and pretty dresses are her favorites to wear

*very manipulative

*not above using threats and black mail

*gives the order for Polynya to kill Locke in one loop

*has been the direct cause of Aba’s death in several loops

*in fact, she becamse Queen directly before the First Loop started

*coincidence? i think not!

*she isn’t actually the trigger for the time loops, but she’s one of the Main Markers for them

*the second born child of the lost queen has no importance to her; his death can only serve to help her own goals

Fara Falls

in Fara Falls, Midnight has a very blue color scheme!

you can find a moodboard i did for her here!

in Fara Falls, the game is set in a version of Fara in which Midnight was able to carry out her original plans - only for the power to dislodge her sanity, thus creating the brutal, vicious world around her. in Fara Falls, long live the queen is something of an anthem; whispered out as she parades through the kingdom, surveying her domain, hoping that if one pleases her enough, she might spare their life.

in all of creation, Midnight is the only character to ever reach Level One Hundred. this is because she is using the Butterfly People, now known as the Corrupted, to harvest the code of other characters and directly weave it with her own. she is power incarnate, a pretty little thing with power that pulses through her veins, a longing and love for the beauty of destruction.

while her sanity is no longer intact, her poise never wavers, her smile never drops. she hosts balls that double as executions, she kills any who oppose her name, and she will rule over this land until the day it turns to code. her right hand man is Captain, head of the Royal Guards. her left hand man is Bolte, General of the Royal Guards.

she loves to feel beautiful, though her soft furls from her alternate self have been traded in for stunning couture gowns, things clad in diamonds and silk. even though it’s well known that she has a vicious, mean streak about her, it’s still hard not to take her curling, sugar coated words at face value. Midnight’s lips drip with honey and venom.

some facts

*she has a personal passel of humboars that she frequently uses to punish her Court with

*always looking for more ways to ensure her place on the throne will never shift

*many don’t remember a time before she was Queen

*her kingdom is built on the ashes of a failed rebellion

*if you speak out against her, she will either have you killed, or she will kill you herself

*will make allies, but only if she feels it can benefit her, and only if she feels she can later cut ties with them

*has issued an order to kill Aba on sight

Kee

and then, of course, there is Kee. now, if you want to learn about someone that has caused Aba endless amounts of pain, it’s Kee you’re going to want to watch. she is, at heart, the one pulling all of the strings - while also not being involved in the going on’s of Midnight.

there is only one version of Kee, just like there is only one version of Aba. technically speaking, Kee and Aba don’t exist in Fara Falls; on a meta level, they weren’t meant to be included in that game, since it’s a gritty reboot about failing the quest for the original Fields of Fara.

that being said, Aba has been glitched into Fara Falls several times, and Kee can travel through all versions of Fara without issue. 

now, i haven’t spoken very much about Kee, so if this post raises any questions (about anything, really!) feel free to ask them!

Kee is labeled as a Hero, just like Aba is labeled as a Villain. they’re both stunning examples as to how labels can be wrong. the fact of the matter is this: there is no one in all the lands as cruel, furious, and vicious as Kee. there is no one that has cut down more innocents than Kee. there is no one that has hurt Aba worse than Kee.

and - you might know about the lock, you might be focusing on the bolt, but it’s the key that will finally unlock all of the secrets you’ve been missing.

simply put, every glitch can be traced back to Kee. she is the one who first stepped off of her chosen path as Hero of the World, who took hold of ?͚͚͡?̷͈̝̲?̗̺̼͍͙͜ and drove a knife into his gut, slaying her brother and, with it, the very path that Fara had previously existed on.

some facts

*she is searching for Game Over, and will stop at nothing to get there

*she manipulates Aba, turning him into a Villain that kills for her

*when her uses for Aba run out, she kills him, too

*this is repeated on many, many time loops

*her preferred weapon is a sword

*if you know the Witch of the Woods, you will see the resemblance

*all but one Spirit of Fara has been felled at her hand

*the spirits are not reborn when the new loop starts

*she has been looping for a very, very long time

*she gave him a new name to go with his new form, isn’t that enough of a gift?

this has been such a fun ask to answer, and i’m sorry that it got so long!

#ohlook tag #ghd villains #midnight oc #kee oc #groundhog day #they are all vicious horrible people