What if...

Fic: I'll meet you on the other side - Prologue

ladyofpride — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 05:41:58 GMT

Title: I'll meet you on the other side
Author: ladyofpride
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson; wholly one-sided Jim Moriarty/John Moriarty (nee Watson)
Genre: angst
Status: WIP
SPOILERS: This is a post-Reichenbach
Warnings: Non-con, violence, language, kidnappings, and basically all the little horrors of having to dealing with Jim... Need I say more?
If you're more of an AO3 kind of person... http://archiveofourown.org/works/589114
Prompt: ~Once in a while Jim's sexuality refuses to align with his mental choices in a partner. John couldn't be more horrified. Dark!Jim; very unwilling John~http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=103367759#t103367759
Disclaimer: These guys existed well before I was even a dream. Also, I hold no claims whatsoever over the show.
Summary: 'To the victor go the spoils.'

Good lord, Sherlock hated that expression...

July – Saturday 2nd, 2012

He's not going to pretend to understand all the little peculiarities of Sherlock Holmes, not his reluctance to toe the line or his subtle want of approval from his small circle of friends. Actually, the whole bit about him having any friends truly baffles him. An audience, he can understand. Hell, a free fuck is nice enough on a regular basis, but he'd always thought that the idea of companionship was above and beyond the amount of time and energy he'd be willing to afford it.

He's thinking of giving it a try now, though. Just throw it up against the wall and see how long it sticks before he gets bored again, but somehow he doesn't imagine that'll be too soon, not with the way the doctor is throwing an almighty fit, trying to get a hit in despite the fact that Sebastian's got an arm around his neck.

He figures it probably has something to do with the fact that tomorrow is his anniversary.

Sherlock's anniversary, that is, exactly 365 days since he first took that step off the ledge and plummeted toward his death. Brains and blood everywhere, all that blinding brilliance spattered across the pavement like so much waste.

A masterpiece if Jim ever did see one.

The general registrar clears his throat.

Jim turns to him and leans into the desk with his hip. The old fool is sweating like a strumpet in high mass, wiping away the beads of perspiration above his brow with a folded handkerchief as he double-checks the signature at the bottom of the form. It's been forged and they both know it, but it matches the name scrawled on 221B Baker Street's lease well enough that it might as well be the real thing.

Eventually the old man nods. Jim fiddles with the twin rings in his pocket before pulling them out. The gold bands glint coquettishly in light as he turns them over in the palm of his hand.

Slipping his on, he turns his attention to one Dr. John Moriarty, nee Watson, and smiles.

He is so looking forward to their wedding night...

~*~*~*~Author~*~*~*~

So...I happen to live all the way over in Canada. If someone would like to Brit-pick this story for me, I don't mind. Either leave a hint in the comment section or drop me a PM, whatever works best for you.

In any case, I hope you enjoyed the intro!

Through the looking glass, darkly - Chapter 2

ladyofpride — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 17:39:35 GMT

A/N: To avoid a little of the confusion that will undoubtedly crop up, any entry from the alternate!Loki's POV will be labelled “Loki Odinson”, with the original Loki's POV appearing under the heading of “Loki Laufeyson”. Likewise, the original Thor will be called “Thor Odinson (Donald Blake)”, with his counterpart being referred to simply as “Thor Odinson”

...Confused yet? Good, 'cause so am I...

Title: Through the looking glass, darkly

Status: WIP

Pairing(s): dark!Thor/Loki; also includes a few implications of Thor/Loki, as well as suggestions of other pairings

Film(s)/Spoilers: This fic begins at the end of the Avengers, immediately after Loki is caught; I also strongly advise that you watch Thor before reading this...

Rating: Nc-17

Warnings: The regular universe/plot will cross over with a slightly alternate universe, meaning that you will have both the regular characters, a dark!Thor, and a good(better?)!Loki. Other warnings include: consent issues, violence, somelanguage, and implications of mpreg (because Loki is, historically, a mother of monsters...)

Disclaimer: If I owned Marvel and its characters, Loki would've been in every scene. Seriously...
Previous chapter(s): ~*~Chapter 1~*~

Summary: The Chitauri are defeated and Loki is apprehended, but the brothers' journey home is cut short when the Bifrost of an alternate universe crosses over with their own, paving the way for not only an altruistic Loki but also a Thor of a darker disposition...

~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\(((Loki Odinson)))/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~

The cold, sharp sensation of the wind whipping through his hair, rushing in his ears, stinging his eyes and face is all too familiar to him. This isn't the first time Thor has taken to the skies with his brother in arm, but Loki is not entirely fond of heights, not since the last time the God of Thunder let loose his grip several feet above the ground, so he clings to Thor as best he can and hopes that they haven't got far to go.

His prayers are answered sooner than he thinks as they slow to a sudden halt, his legs inevitably jarred against solid ground. No, not ground—Thor's settled them upon one of the Midgardian buildings, a large, ugly, rectangular thing that lacks the splendour of their home-world temples.

They're close enough to one side that Loki can lean over and gaze down at streets below: dull and grey and bleak, so unlike what he imagined when Odin spoke of Midgard's earlier days, when fields of beryl and gold stretched out unto the horizon and the towering firs of forests old canopied the sky. This...Loki doesn't know how to describe this. He feels a sharp pang of pity in the cradle of his heart and wonders why, if it is indeed true that the All-father protects all nine of Yggdrasil's realms, the mortals would've ever been allowed to fall into such neglect. Surely they are worth more than this. Surely they breathe the same air as he does now and choke on the poison that hangs heavy about their mouths...

A wave of nausea hits him then and he leans gingerly against the ledge. Either it is vertigo or disgust—he doesn't want to dwell upon it. Hopefully, his visit here will be brief.

“Loki...” Thor says, quietly; cautiously. He steps forward and reaches for Loki's hand, but Loki recoils with a sharp jerk, taking a calculated step back.

“Valhalla forbid, Thor, would it kill you to ask?”

Thor fumbles over his next words, looking all the world as though Loki's dealt him a direct blow to the face. “I...My apologies, brother.”

It's Loki's turn to be baffled now, because Thor has never apologized to anyone, least of all him. Taking in the long hair and the ceremonial armour—armour, he might add, that was to be gifted to Thor following his crowning—Loki hasn't the heart to continue fooling himself that this is the Thor he was sent to retrieve.

His stomach lurches at the thought, that his Thor is still at large somewhere, wandering freely across this vulnerable realm...

He takes a deep breath then and blocks out all sight and sound. His vision grows hazy; the roiling thunder softens to a dull thud; his skin tingles lightly but senses nothing, neither the gentle breeze against his face nor weight of his clothes on his back, until he lets loose the marrow of his soul and spreads it out across the world.

He can sense his Thor, but only by the muffled thrum of Mjölnir. Even so, he feels an odd sort of disorientation when he tries to pinpoint its location, as though Thor has finally grown wise to Loki's ways.

This Thor, however, is enveloped in an effulgence that tugs at the frayed ends of Loki's nerves until he has no choice but to centre his attention solely on him. This Thor's Mjölnir sings a song all its own, and, together with its master's glow, blinds Loki to all other life on earth.

All but one.

Somewhere, on the precipice of his cognisance, Loki can sense his other self, a silent vortex whirling off into the darkest recesses of the universe.

Slowly, but subtly, it is sucking Loki in...

“What has transpired here?” Loki asks upon returning to consciousness.

Thor opens his mouth, closes it promptly, and sighs...Licking his lips, he turns away from Loki and begins to pace. “Where do I begin?”

“With him,” Loki murmurs quietly, because he has never imagined it possible to feel such...such dissonance with one's own self. “With the one you call brother.”

Thor doesn't stop pacing, but he glances at Loki long enough for him to catch the glint of grief in his eyes. “He does not consider himself either kith or kin to the House of Odin. He is my brother before all eyes but his own...”

“Why?”

“Why?” Thor laughs, but it sounds more pained than cruel, so unlike Loki's true brother. “...It began as a bid to prove himself my equal and ended with an attempt to conquer Midgard. His mind has been poisoned, though how I cannot say...”

'Because you've always been superior to me,' Loki thinks bitterly, but he buries that thought before it has a chance to take root. Yes, Thor might be Asgard's one true champion, but Loki has always been loved—arguably, more so than his brother. Mischievous as he can be, his pranks can't compare to the blatant cruelty of the would-be king.

“As little as my word might mean to you,” Loki whispers, “I apologize.”

Thor halts and glances up at him again; the look he gives Loki now is almost enough to break his heart.

“I need to find your counterpart,” Loki says just as soon as he's certain his voice won't quaver. “I was charged by Odin to find him and return to Asgard immediately thereafter.”

“Why?”

“You...” Loki licks his lips, mind racing to find the right words. “He was banished, Thor...perhaps untimely so. His exile should not have transpired as it did. Regrettably, that is all that I am at liberty to say...”

“Sif and Fandral can confirm this?”

“Yes.”

“And if not?”

“Then confine me; send me back—whatever you deem fit.” Loki glances skyward at the brewing storm and wonders how much of it is guided by this man and how much of it by his real brother. “I have no quarrel with you. Truly. This is merely...a most unfortunate turn of events.”

Thor laughs a little under his breath, almost as though in disbelief, but then he turns and reaches out for a door, opening it wide to reveal a set of stairs. “Follow me and do not attempt to use your magic. Your counterpart is a considered a criminal here; the Midgardians would just as soon as persecute you as they would him.”

“Then I swear by the House of Odin that I shall keep from all intentional ill-doing and to obey, as best I can, the laws of this realm and any realm you may observe.”

Thor pauses; Loki knows he can feel it too, the way the fabric of this reality binds him to his word,. He hopes that it is enough—that there will be no further hostilities between them. Time is, after all, of the essence.

“Thank you,” Thor murmurs eventually; and then: “If it is within my ability to do so, I will help you search for your brother.”

Loki nods, then steps forward, eyeing the stairwell warily. “...Where is it you mean to take me?”

“A man the Midgardians refer to as 'Fury'. Ultimately, it is his decision as to whether or not you and your companions will be welcome here.”

'Of course,' he thinks, because there is really no contest when you pit a self-proclaimed god against any number of mortal men, and the Midgardians would be foolish to think otherwise.

Sympathetic, though no less convinced that these people can offer him help, he glides past Thor and descends the first flight of stairs in silence, his brother's counterpart in toe. He can only hope that this Fury will see fit to leave him and his companions alone to their business, or, at the very least, not hinder him if he thinks they should be supervised task.

Somehow, though, Loki doesn't imagine that this is likely to be case...

~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\(((Thor Odinson)))/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~

Seidhr has never been his strong suit.

Even so, the pendant Thor liberated from Loki's chambers nearly a decade ago serves any man, and he, the God of Thunder, is no exception. He doesn't understands its inner workings, only that Loki crafted it lovingly in his youth before he learned to manage the spell himself, and that perhaps he has years yet before Loki discovers it missing. Thor has, after all, only ever used it in secret.

Both Mjölnir and the pendant are the only weapons he has at hand when he descends upon Midgard, his fall hindered only by the fact that his fingers find purchase on the handle of his hammer mere feet above the ground. The wind whips around him upon impact, the ground shuddering at his touch, but no visual mark is made otherwise of his arrival.

He is there for only the briefest of moments, kneeling in the cool grass, his father's jeremiad still ringing in his ears when he feels it: a subtle tug at the core of his being connecting him back to the warm glow of Asgard. It is not drawing him in, per say, but he feels as though the gates of his homeland have been thrown wide open, Odin's cold, hard stare falling heavily, once more, upon him.

He reaches beneath the collar of his tunic impulsively and grasps the pendant tightly in his fist, distancing himself from the point of his arrival mere seconds before an image of Loki manifests before his very eyes. His brother doesn't move initially, seemingly dazed, until Fandral and Sif appear at his side. Then his gaze tracks the horizon cautiously, gliding over Thor as he surveys his surroundings...

Thor very nearly laughs. He wants to—can feel it bubbling up inside his chest, in fact, because if Loki, God of Mischief, sorcerer son of the House of Odin, can't hope to find his brother where he stands now, then Thor has just been afforded an odd sort of freedom he couldn't hope to find anywhere else within the nine realms.

He bows his head then to the heavens, sending the Norn's a silent prayer of thanks, before beginning his retreat by foot. He will return to Asgard, of course, to take back that which is rightfully his, but until then he will enjoy his new found freedom as best he can.

He isn't expecting the storm though, neither the faint rumble of thunder in the distance nor the sudden gust of wind. He turns his gaze skyward, mystified, not entirely certain whether Loki has somehow managed to master the elements as he has or if this phenomena is a common occurrence on Midgard.

A figure descends from the evening sky, clad in red, fire dancing at his fingertips, but does no more than hover when he discovers the trio. The next to follow is a peculiar beast with rigid wings, proceeding no further than the first, but as a flash of lightning illuminates the sky there is no mistaking the man that glides over the field like a raptor after its prey, who grabs Loki with practised ease and, together with his brother, tumbles heavily to the ground.

Thor is far enough away now that he can avoid the battle entirely if he so chooses, but he is insulted by this imposter; wonders what he means by this attack.

The battle is over though almost as soon as it begins. He approaches his brother and the men surrounding him, recognizing Fandral at once but not the warrior opposing him, but by then they have seemed to have reached an agreement and Thor is ready to reach out and grab Loki, maybe put an end to this nonsense; perhaps even wake to realize this is all some sort of drea—

“—slipped between the fabric of two realities...” Loki murmurs. He looks tense—tense in the way Thor usually makes him whenever he walks into the room; lingers too closely; takes him in hand rougher than Loki is expecting—but then an odd sort of peace passes over his expression, and Thor wonders when last he has ever seen Loki to be that relieved. “I suppose it's possible, then, that there exists another Thor Odinson, and that that counterpart could be you.”

Thor pauses, only an arm's-length away from Loki. He glances up at the other...Thor and wonders why the man hesitates in his answer, why he simply doesn't reach out for what is his and bring this matter to an end with the righteous swing of his hammer.

But this Thor is adorned in the armour of a king. He does not attack. Even brushes off the annoying red demon that leans in close to mutter his opinion instead of demanding absolute silence, as though he has lost some of the mettle that had once made him great.

Thor looks back to Loki, sees the war waging in his eyes; Loki is pleased with what he sees, but is unsure whether or not he should truly trust this man.

Thor shouldn't be made jealous by this revelation, but he can't help but wonder who Loki would rather call brother if he had to choose between the evil he knew now and this snivelling excuse of an Asgardian.

He isn't given long to dwell upon that thought. Just as it occurs to him to reach out again, this stranger steps forward to grab his brother about the waist before ascending into the heavens. Thor takes chase; follows them over the vast city of these little people before landing on a nearby building, where he crouches silently and waits.

Almost immediately, he can feel that persistent tug again, so cool and inviting, like the first real blush of spring, but then he feels a heavy weight against his chest, gradually growing warmer, until the pendant is burning him through his armour like a red, hot seed of Helheim fresh from the fires of its plains. He flinches instinctively and reaches up to take it in hand, but by then the moment has passed. Thor's gaze falls on Loki and it is then he realizes that his brother's attention has settled entirely now on him...

Who is he, Thor wonders, this great pretender; this would-be king; this...this other self. He doesn't understand his brother's notion of two realities intertwined, of nine realms lying upon another layer of nine realms, like an almost-perfect reflection of Yggdrasil on the water's surface. If such a thing were possible, how then have these two halves never met before? Surely, then, this must be some ploy to ensnare him—or possibly a waking dream, devised by the All-father and implemented by his brother to punish Thor where he can be a threat to no one but himself?

He moves closer to the edge; watches Loki flinch away from the imposter before he can compose himself again. Thor can't help but wonder why Loki ever gave chase; why, when he knows that Loki has prayed for his untimely demise, he would come all this way to search for him. Or is it merely because of Mjölnir? Is Thor to be stripped entirely of his power, to be left wandering the nine realms under mortal terms, exposed to all enemies and ailments this world might have to offer? Does Odin merely want to punish him, or has Thor been sent here to suffer a natural death, tucked safely into some obscure corner of the universe where no one will ever find either hide or hair of the truth?

No...No, he thinks, because Odin is not without his wisdom and Loki is never without his wit. Thor's untimely demise so close to Odin's surrender to sleep would be an open invitation to all of Asgard's enemies. They need the Mighty Thor and they need his heir; until then, Thor is safe from their wicked games. This banishment, then, must only be a temporary arrangement.

Thor watches them converse quietly from his perch, but does not pursue them when they disappear into the building. He knows where they are; knows too that they will certainly be searching for him. For now, then, he can rest.

Relieved, he sinks to his knees atop the building and leans back against the ledge, mind whirling as he wonders how one might sneak back into Asgard undetected and without the aid of Heimdall. Surely, it can't be impossible, not with how Loki appeared discretely upon that island with both Sif and Fandral at hand.

It is only because he has settled himself down to rest that he feels it—something other than Loki tugging at his mind. It's in there, with his brother, though he can't quite explain how he knows, only that he understands the invitation for what it is, not quite threatening or overbearing, but alluring all the same...

Thor sits there and thinks. Then he looks down upon Mjölnir where it rests heavily in the palm of his hand and wanders what sort of enemies and allies he can hope to make in this backward universe of theirs. Certainly, there are many of both to be had.

Sighing, he closes his eyes.

And then he listens...

~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~

A/N:...Meh. Blah-ending is blah, no?

In any case, thank you for the many wonderful reviews! If you see any odd sentences or glaring grammar mistakes, feel free to give me a kick. Otherwise, just sick back and enjoy, 'cause this ride is about to get a little bumpy... ;D

Through the looking glass, darkly - Chapter 1

ladyofpride — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 04:39:47 GMT

A/N: Just what this place needs—another angsty story! Am I right? ...Probably not, but here goes nothing...

Title: Through the looking glass, darkly

Status: WIP

Pairing(s): dark!Thor/Loki; also includes a few implications of Thor/Loki, as well as suggestions of other pairings

Film(s)/Spoilers: This fic begins at the end of the Avengers, immediately after Loki is caught; I also strongly advise that you watch Thor before reading this...

Rating: Nc-17

Warnings: The regular universe/plot will cross over with a slightly alternate universe, meaning that you will have both the regular characters, a dark!Thor, and a good(better?)!Loki. Other warnings include: consent issues, violence, some language, and implications of mpreg (because Loki is, historically, a mother of monsters...)

Disclaimer: If I owned Marvel and its characters, Loki would've been in every scene. Seriously...

~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\(((???)))/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~

This is how it begins:

Odin's voice rumbles through the heavens, like the quick harsh snap of the universe splitting in two, and the whole of Asgard falls silent. His sons are closest to him when he speaks and the sound penetrates them both to the core; paralysing, as though words alone could strip them of their immortality. In a sense, they can, as they already have with the sole object of Odin's rage—his eldest son, the heir, who stands now before the portal to Midgard stripped of his every worth.

Tears do not prickle the corner of Thor's eyes, but he has trouble meeting Odin's stare and thus keeps his gaze trained on the ground. Loki is equal parts horrified and amazed, torn somewhere between pity and relief as his brother's banishment is finalized. All that he has both feared and desire, here, now, before his very eyes...

He is free.

He is free...

When the final blow is dealt, Thor's armour melts away into hot sparks and molten iron. He is thrown back into the portal, arms outstretched, and it is in that instant that the unthinkable happens.

Mjölnir is already pressed close to Odin's lips, but the All-father has barely whispered the first of his commands when the hammer is torn bodily from his grip. Down into the void it tumbles after it's one true master, spiralling madly toward Midgard, where the mortals roam, free from all pain and suffering but that which they inflict upon themselves.

Loki's breath catches in his throat. Odin is already calling Heimdall forth, ordering that Thor's descent be altered if not altogether stopped before he reaches the mortal world. And Heimdall tries, that much is clear, but how effective he is in doing anything other than tearing Thor apart somewhere between here and there is a mystery even to him.

He edges closer to the portal and gazes into the abyss. Loki can feel it almost, the trail Thor has left in his wake, and it is because of this he is confident enough to signal Heimdall to close the bridge before the mortals' world can be torn apart.

“Where?” Odin asks, because he knows how Loki sometimes slips between the fabrics of the nine realms for no other reason than that he can.

“Midgard...in a fashion,” he murmurs. It feels oddly now as though he has a second shadow—as though they all do, as if there is an imprint of this realm overlying the original and now somehow Thor has managed to cross over to Midgard's twin... “I will need time. And volunteers.”

Odin doesn't ask how long, only waves one of his guards forward when he catches the glint in Loki's eyes and requests that soldiers be assembled for the journey. Sif will undoubtedly come, Loki thinks, and perhaps another of the Warriors Three, because tearing Thor from a universe wholly unprepared for his rage is not a job for any one man.

Glancing up at the All-father, Loki is painfully reminded of how old he is. The white of his beard, the lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes—he's delayed his slumber for too long now, waiting for Thor to take over as king. Loki knows it; Frigga knows it; Thor knows it—was perhaps hoping for it, even...

“We will find him,” Loki says, although getting Thor to do anything he doesn't want to has always been a feat in and of itself. Loki has his tricks, of course, but there's only so much he can do before Thor applies his muscle as a quick solution. “We won't return until we do.”

Odin nods; smiles sadly. Then he turns away and retreats across the bridge toward the city, for once in his life wholly, and truly, defeated.

~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\(((Steve Rogers)))/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~

His brain doesn't register the pain until well after the fight. This body of his was built to withstand the worst of war, but it's been so long since the last time he's truly had to struggle just to see the end of another day. He feels edgy, even after he's told that none of the alien corpses have managed to reanimate themselves since their untimely demise, and realizes, dimly, that he hasn't eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours.

Naturally, the Avengers assist however they can in the aftermath of the attack, searching for survivors in the rubble that line the streets. Three days since their victory and Steve is still keeping track of their losses; feels a sharp pang of guilt every time he lifts a slab of iron or concrete to find a cold, stiff body in a pool of blood. Feels worse still when he realizes how many victims have yet to be identified, wondering if there's someone out there searching for them, yet uncertain of their fate, the same way Peggy probably mourned him after he disappeared beneath the ice.

It is now that his body starts to ache. It hurts to bend his back and he begins to feel fatigued, but both Stark and Banner tell him that, considering his fitness regime, it's more likely than not a symptom of stress, so he stretches himself out as best he can and tries to sleep—and eats, occasionally, whenever one of his companions reminds him to.

The fourth day he wakes early and makes himself a half-decent breakfast of scrambled eggs and slightly-burnt sausage, then bikes down to one of Shield's lesser known HQs to see if there's anything else he can do. He finds Thor there, which isn't too surprising, considering that Loki's been confined there, indefinitely, at least until Thor can figure out how to use the Tesseract himself. Selvig is nothing less than helpful in that department, but watching Loki through the glass panels of his new prison and knowing that the Asgardian already knows the secret of its use irks him a way he wouldn't ever care to voice out loud.

The prison itself is essentially a vacuum. Loki has been warned that tampering with the walls or making any attempt at an escape will result in a sudden lose of oxygen, not enough to kill him, certainly, but swiftly enough to suck the breath out of him before he can so much as an utter a spell. Thor assures Fury that their father will attempt to send him some form of restraints before they leave, but until then Loki sits smugly in the corner of his cage and makes a habit of cutting passerbys to the quick with a few choice words to pass the time. He makes a few jabs at Steve when he comes to watch Thor argue with his brother, but Steve is numb now in a way he hasn't been since he first woke up to realize his old life was over and there isn't much anyone can do to change that.

It comes as a surprise to everyone then when an Shield agent pulls Thor out of the room to enquire about how exactly this 'All-father' intended to send the restraints, because their satellites have been picking up a strange reading on Governor's Island that resembles the signature of Thor's first visit to earth and they want to know whether or not to take evasive action.

Thor gives him a weird look (which is really saying something when you consider how odd earth is as a whole to the man and how well he's been taking it all so far), and then brushes past him toward the stairwell, cape wiping the air behind him as Steve jogs to catch up. No sooner are they out the door when another Shield agent runs them down, requesting that Steve jump on the next jet with Natasha to examine the site, because they just got another reading and this one is considerably stronger than the last.

Thor is up in the air before Steve can even blink, but the island is less than a five minute flight away, and apparently Stark is already there, having hacked into Shield's satellites when no one was watching.

It's late in the evening, and Steve doesn't particularly enjoy fighting in the dark, but the three figures they see standing by the island's National Monument just off Comfort Rd don't exactly spring into action the second the jet's spotlights settle on them. It's a small mercy considering the sharp breath Natasha takes when they realize that one of them bears a striking resemblance to Loki. His hair is shorter but there's no mistaking the face of the man with a penchant for terrorizing mankind.

“Uh, did somebody pay this guy's bail when I wasn't looking?” Stark mutters through his helmet's speaker, “Or is Fury in the habit of handing out day passes now?”

The Loki that stands before them doesn't look angry or alarmed—even goes so far as to rest his hand on the shoulder of the woman beside him when it looks as though she means to raise her spear. The blond man to their left already has his sword drawn, but decides against levelling at anyone when he notices Loki's gesture, and so the three of them merely stand there, silent, as the air seems to thicken around them until a thin sheen of green light surrounds them like a sphere.

“...He just raised a force field,” Stark says, sounding stupefied. “When the hell did he learn that trick?”

Nobody gets the chance to answer that question, because no more than two seconds later lightning flashes across the sky, an angry swell of storm clouds spiralling into existence above them. Loki and his lackeys cast their eyes skyward, weapons drawn, but Thor takes them all by surprise when he soars onto the scene at ground level from the east, shredding through Loki's force field in a shower of green sparks before knocking the God of Mischief clean off his feet. Together they tumble to the ground, the force of impact carrying them several meters off to the side as the woman takes aim with her spear.

Stark swoops down and tackles her before she can throw it, but she rolls back to her feet an instant later, stabbing the ground with the end of the spear in order to pole-vault herself at his head. She catches him in the face as he turns to stop her, bowling him over with the kick before he can level his arm cannon in defence.

Natasha hovers close enough to the ground for Steve to jump safely out the back of the jet before turning on her speaker. “Loki, call your people off. You've got nothing to gain.”

Stark appears, more or less, to have the wild, amazonian woman under control, keeping relatively even with her, hit for hit, so Steve chases after the other man, who, in turn, is already half-way to where Loki is trying desperately to dodge Thor's hammer. Loki is screaming something at Thor, but he looks nervous more than anything else, and eventually Thor stumbles to a halt.

Both Steve and the other gentleman slow to a jog, eyeing each other warily as they approach the brothers. Steve isn't exactly getting a creepy vibe from the guy, but he raises his hand anyway when it looks as though he means to walk over to him, taking a half a step back to make the message clear. “Stand down.”

“If you think we came here looking for a fight, you're sadly mistaken,” the man replies, and he looks sincere enough to mean it. He even sheaths his sword for good show. Then he glances back at the brothers, each of which is staring at the other in bewilderment. “We're here for him actually. Please—believe me, we have no quarrel with Midgard...”

Steve's heard 'Midgard' enough times from Thor to realize that this guy is from Asgard, and since Thor also only ever mentioned Loki as being unduly hostile, Steve figures that there's a good chance this guy is telling the truth.

Over by the monument, though, Stark and the woman are still duking it out.

“Stark,” Steve mutters after taping his earphone, “stand down.”

“Why don't you tell Wonder Woman here that?”

“Stark.”

Stark sighs into his receiver, but he turns his busters on and rockets into the sky where the woman can't reach him. She watches him warily for a moment and then glances over at the rest of them, lowering her spear cautiously to her side.

“—home?” Steve hears off to his left, and it's then that he realizes that both Thor and Loki look as though they're trying to come to some sort of an agreement.

“How long have you been here?” Loki asks, taking a hesitant step forward.

Thor frowns. “Since when?”

“Since you fell. I tried to follow as soon you left.”

“That was several moons ago.” Turning, Thor now addresses the other man. “My friend, what is this trickery?”

The 'friend' in question can offer him nothing more than a horribly confused look before casting his gaze questionably in Loki's direction. “This is the Thor we're after...is it not?”

Loki opens his mouth as though to say 'of course it is', but then stops himself short. Swallowing thickly, Loki returns his gaze to Thor. “...Even if you somehow managed to lead me astray, Mjölnir's power leaves a trail of its own.”

“Mjölnir?” Thor murmurs quietly, glancing down at the weapon in his hand.

“Yes, and you came here, to Midgard, mere moments before we arrived ourselves. Of that I am certain.” Loki gives him the once-over then, clearly unsettled by what he sees. “...How you've come to change your appearance is beyond me, but seeing as I am hardly the only one who can cast illusions, I wouldn't put it past you to try. Now—don't interrupt me, Thor—we've come to take you home. If you leave now, peacefully, I promise to speak with father on your behalf.”

Thor opens his mouth and gaps, looking every bit like a fish out of water. It's comical, in a way, until Stark lowers himself beside Thor and pats him heartily on the back. “You haven't got an evil twin tucked away somewhere, do you?”

Thor brushes his hand off with no real menace, ignoring the comment altogether. “Forgive me, brother, but you couldn't be further from the truth.”

Loki looks a little pissed now. Instinctively Steve raises his shield, but Loki only closes his eyes then and sighs, and suddenly Steve feels as though they just avoided some sort of nuclear crisis. “You slipped between the fabric of two realities...I suppose it's possible then that there exists another Thor Odinson, and that that counterpart could be you.”

Steve's mouth suddenly goes dry. Two Thor's—two Loki's, even, are more than he thinks Shield can handle. Hell—more than humanity can handle.

“Call me crazy, but I think we should head back to HQ now, you know? Maybe compare Loki A with Loki B before we come to any conclusions...”

It's about the most diplomatic thing Steve's ever heard Stark say, so Steve lowers his shield and watches as Thor takes Loki gently by the arm—much to Loki's surprise—before disappearing with him up into the sky.

Sighing, Steve turns to the other Asgardian and nods his head at the plane. “Unless you and your other companion can fly, I suggest you get in the jet.”

“...Jet?” the man enquires.

Steve opens his mouth to explain, but realizes, dimly, that he's not entirely sure how to describe it himself. Stark more or less cackles into his speaker and then takes off, leaving Natasha and Steve to deal with their alien visitors.

Steve doesn't imagine they'll have much trouble with the man, but one look at the woman and he figures that things are far from swell between them. Then again, she keeps glancing around, eyes focused on the thunderclouds overhead, as though she's expecting someone else to drop out of the sky at any given moment...

Steve doesn't say anything, but he gets the feeling that her fears are far from imaginary. He can sense it too, as though someone is watching them, waiting for the right moment to spring. What they're doing here, though, and what they hope to achieve is beyond him, but as long as it doesn't entail another attempt at world domination, he doesn't think he'll lose his mind just yet.

Natasha grounds the jet long enough for them to board, and then, before either of the two warriors are seated, takes off again into the night. The man falls into his seat in surprise; the woman, grabbing hold of one of the siding straps, smiles.

“You've mastered flight,” she breathes.

“Yes,” he replies. “Is Thor the only one who can fly on his own?”

Her smile wavers. “He...well, no.”

“I'm sorry—I'm not trying to intrude.”

“No,” she assures him. “We have no secrets to keep from you, but...there are many things Thor can do. Flight is the least of it...”

Her companion clears his throat, arms stuffed awkwardly through his seat's straps to better brace himself. “Perhaps we need not worry, hm? Thor can be reasoned with...when he wants to be.”

The woman and the man share a look then. It's not lost on Steve, but he decides against enquiring further. He'll have the answers soon enough, and then...

And then, he supposes, they'll search for Thor, wherever it is this alternative deity could be.

Even if, apparently, he doesn't want to be found...

~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\~*~

A/N: Well, that's all for now, my lovelies! Expect another update soon.

Hope you enjoyed! ;D

((PS: I'm not entirely sure why the font keeps changing, but I have yet to figure out how fix that. My apologies...))

The Devil's Consort - Chapter 2

ladyofpride — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 04:06:37 GMT

A/N: I sincerely apologize for the freakishly long delay. It took me forever to write this, edit it, delete it, and finally rewrite it a handful of times until I was satisfied with the finished product.

In any case, thank you for the beautiful reviews. I promise not to be as tardy in the future!

Title: The Devil’s Consort
Fandom: Tanz der Vampire
Pairings: Herbert/Alfred (human), implied Alfred/Sarah and Krolock/Alfred, as well as a hint of von Krolock/Alfred
Rating: Nc-17 overall
Disclaimer: The heart of the musical resides in Vienne, though the plot itself belongs to Polanski.
Warnings: A heavy dose of homoeroticism and vampirism... although, perhaps to a greater extent than that of the musical (movie); also maybe dub-con...?
POV(s): Predominantly Alfred and Herbert, although I might sneak in something from von Krolock along the way.
Format: Chaptered
Spoilers/Timeline: Takes place following the end of the musical, supposing Alfred manages to escape Sarah’s bite... Also supposing he doesn’t quite escape von Krolock’s company.
Summary: Once again a prisoner of von Krolock and his kin, Alfred prays to the God that they all claim is dead...
Previous chapter(s): Chapter 1

~Chapter Two~

There is something to be learned from a deep and convalescing sleep, to watch the gentle rise and fall of a heavy chest as the body wages war against the notorious ‘fever’. Here, in this cold and sombre place, he is reminded of life’s inherent fragility—of his darling Alfred and the boy’s coquettish blush, once plump with blood and full of vim, now thin and small and weak...

Beads of sweat dot Alfred’s face and neck, eyelids fluttering as he tries to evade the demons of his mind. His skin burns to the touch; his lips are moist.

Herbert wants to kiss him.

He lays Alfred down atop the duvet before stretching out alongside him, pressing up against his trembling body as the poor child goes on dreaming. Herbert wishes he could have a peek into that tender mind, but settles, instead, for stroking the side of Alfred’s face ever so gently...until his eyes fall on the angry little mark adorning Alfred’s tender throat and the drop of blood on his torn collar.

His father had kissed the boy.

His boy.

Such a deplorable act, considering how generous Herbert had been to Sarah Chagal...

But his father had hardly been satiated by Koukol’s body and Herbert would be a hypocrite if he said the man could’ve waited until someone else wandered by. In fact, he was hard pressed to say anyone had been pleased after that little fiasco, though he was grateful for the lack of complaints from the others before they had slithered back to their graves in silent dissatisfaction to rest until the next winter solstice. His only concern now is the ‘poor’ Sarah Chagal...

He knows his father will collect her at sunset.

Honestly, though, he could hardly care less...

He is woken from his reverie when Alfred stirs beside him, murmuring in his sleep. Herbert recognizes the tell-tale signs of apprehension and rolls over on top of him, resting his weight on his elbows as he watches that angelic face, waiting...

Alfred opens his eyes, at first weary and then at once afraid. He gasps—

And then there is nothing but silence.

Herbert smiles as he takes the opportunity to gaze into those dark eyes as Alfred’s pupils shrink into two fine points. The boy is completely under his thrall now, trapped where consciousness bleeds into oblivion, heart racing, as he tries to keep a grip on reality. Suddenly and inexplicably slipping...slipping...

Alfred’s body relaxes, eyes no longer wide, vision focused on an imaginary horizon somewhere in the forevermore as Herbert leans down to steal a kiss. Just one. Then another. And again, because he cannot help himself, deepening it as he swipes his tongue in between those delectably pale lips for a little taste...

Alfred lies soft and docile beneath him. A living doll.

His love.

Herbert retreats a moment to admire the display, the boy’s flavour lingering on the tip of his tongue. Such a beautiful boy. Herbert is utterly mesmerised.

Until he’s reminded of the bruise.

Taking him by the chin, Herbert turns Alfred’s head to the side to hide the hideous thing from sight so that the darling’s glossy eyes now observe the dusty curtains instead of his inamorato. Then Herbert noses that lovely throat before giving it a quick peck.

Tonight is the night. Herbert knows. He’ll bite him and birth him, and then they’ll fuck like animals until he can satisfy the internal beast with something other than blood.

And then... and then they’ll make love.

“There is a reason you stopped me.”

He retracts his fangs and sighs. Throwing a glance over his shoulder at the figure hovering in the doorway, Herbert manages to compose himself enough to say, “Is that so...?”

“Heat of the moment, Herbert...Doesn’t he look exquisite?”

“He always does.”

“And what of him when he’s dead?” his father inquires judiciously, though Herbert suspects the man is musing on much more than this particular human being. After all, Sarah fled as soon as the opportunity presented itself, given her new-found powers and congenital need for freedom. “You might want to entertain yourself with a mortal lover before you give him the means to escape. His mind will be malleable in life. He can still see reason.”

Oh, but that blood and that pretty, little pulse...

“You only want to play with him yourself,” Herbert whines, nosing said pulse as he takes a deep breath. Alfred’s scent is intoxicating. Human emotions; what a treat. “You know I don’t enjoy having to the share.”

“Neither do I, Herbert.” The tone of his father’s voice leaves no room for argument. If Count von Krolock had any desire to couple with their guest tonight, there was really nothing he could do about it. “If I wanted him for myself, I would have taken him already.”

Herbert whines again, low and deep in the back of his throat, almost quietly enough not to have been heard. But he understands that he’s tired—the sun is already up over the horizon, and having to share Koukol’s mangled body with the many other members of this family left him completely at the mercy of the beast.

He really did enjoy the notion of a human lover, though, at least for a little while. The warmth, he finds, is so enticing.

How could he resist?

“Somehow, I doubt our darling Alfred will be thrilled with the decision.”

Krolock chuckles softly to himself. It’s a hearty laugh for one as cold as he. “Perhaps you should give him a year. If he finds his existence too much to bear by the next celebration, we’ll offer him a solution.”

Herbert smiles. A year of a mortal Alfred all to himself without any interference whatsoever, either from Sarah Chagal or that bumbling professor... “Very well,” he mumbles. “Shall I leave him here?”

“I see no reason why not. He’s hardly going anywhere.”

Smiling, Herbert gives his mon cheri a quick peck on the cheek before lifting the veil. Alfred’s eyes immediately flutter closed.

He will sleep soundly until the night.

Giving the human one last, long look, Herbert slips off the bed and follows his father down into the darkness of the catacombs. He will tend to the mortal when he wakes...

All, he decides, is well in the world today.

~*~Alfred~*~

When the sound of a bird flapping madly against the windowpane wakes him that evening, it is with such lethargy that he almost feels like surrendering to sleep once more. But through the haze of his slumber he is assaulted by the unpleasant sensation of cold sweat and the heady aroma of something bittersweet, and then he realizes, dimly, that not all is well in the world today.

He tries to move, though his arms and legs feel like lead, so warm and utterly weak that he can’t help but wonder if this was what ‘death’ is like, a violent pull that is patient, though no less relentless; a slow seduction to the inevitable...

But then the bird flutters away, and instead of yielding to that enticing pull Alfred decides he would much rather spend his time figuring out what God and fate have in store for him. He is alive for a reason, though what that reason may be is beyond his wildest imagination.

Fighting down a wave of nausea, he lifts a heavy hand to run his fingers through his hair. Surely, he must have been poisoned. Or perhaps he had been afflicted with a fever, just now broken? It would certainly explain the fatigue.

Arm flopping uselessly to his side, Alfred focuses on the slim beam of light on the far wall, the only illumination of the room, compliments of a single crack in the gaudy curtains. Orange instead of gold, and steadily fading now, he realizes that the sun is due to set at any given moment, taking that glorious daylight with it—

—was the ball. They would have to steal her away from him then, out from under his very nose, and make a break for the carri—

If not for the fact that he’s almost entirely paralyzed, Alfred would’ve fallen off the bed.

He’s back at the castle.

Graf von Krolock’s castle, to be precise...

Lord, help him now.

The nausea returns as he realizes the severity of the situation at hand. He’d barely been able to escape the last time he fled the castle and that had been with the assistance of the professor. There are no crosses left to save him now, or doe-eyed girls to impel him. His weapons are gone, and so is the carriage, and his captors are more than aware of what he is capable of when given the opportunity to act...There are no second chances now. God had dealt him his hand before and he failed to make do with it what he could.

Now...now he has nothing.

He’s startled from his thoughts when the curtain moves, cutting the light off with a finality that frightens him.

Alfred doesn’t have the strength to flinch, so instead he holds his breath and listens carefully as someone hums a familiar tune in the darkness, accompanied by the sound of fabric shifting as the curtains are arranged with a sharp tug before his guest wanders across the room toward the bed.

He doesn’t really need to guess who it is.

When a lamp is finally lit, the feeble light casting foreboding shadows in every corner of the room, Alfred finds Herbert standing there beside him. Smiling. “Good evening, mon cheri.”

He takes a deep breath, mind reeling, knowing all too well that Herbert is a creature of impulse.

He also knows he needs a distraction if he ever hopes to leave this place with his dignity intact. “...Do you really speak French?”

Herbert blinks slowly—once, and then again, obviously caught off guard by the causal question. But then he laughs a little, as though it had been a joke, and his smile warms into something approaching human. “En effet, je parle français! I am of nobility, am I not? Indulging myself in the fairer languages of the world is practically my duty, Liebling.”

Vaguely, he nods.

“And what about you, darling? Is there, perhaps, a little French under your belt...?”

He doesn’t miss the double entendre but chooses to let it slide in hopes that he can keep the conversation from taking any sudden or unexpected turns that would inevitably end in his nudity. He likes his clothes exactly as they are; on him. “Yes,” he admits quietly, because he is familiar with a family’s expectations of an only son, filling that role himself among his five siblings, “but only a little.”

“Nothing else?”

“No...not really.”

“No matter,” Herbert coos, taking the liberty to sit down beside Alfred’s left hip. “I could teach you something, if you’d like. Romanian is ever so beautiful...”

Alfred tries to inch his way over to the other side of the bed, though the effort is effectively crushed when Herbert reaches over to slap his thigh. The man keeps his hand planted firmly on Alfred’s leg just above the knee. “Please, try to behave yourself, Albert. If I was really nothing more than a slave to my desires, we would be engaged in something a little more pleasant than chit-chat, don’t you think?”

Throat tight, Alfred nods. He supposes it’s true...

“In any case, I have a proposition for you.” Giving said thigh a gentle squeeze, Herbert removes the offending hand in order to fold it over his lap with the other. “I take it you enjoy your humanity?”

“Yes,” he replies, though quietly. “...Very much so.”

Herbert hums thoughtfully in response. “As I’m aware you already know, we have a little soiree every winter to keep the family lively, and so I think it goes without saying that Father and I would be ever so delighted if you would care to join us in the celebration next year.”

Alfred blinks, somewhat stupefied. “You mean to say I have a choice?”

Herbert laughs, though it does nothing for his nerves. “Bien sûr! Absolutely, my dear...though what form you would prefer to take for the event depends entirely on what happens between now and the end of the year.”

He doesn’t even bother to ask the vampire what he means. It’s already clear in the way Herbert is smiling at him.

“Father and I are of the opinion that we need to save humanity from itself,” the vampire elaborates, “which means you have until then to convince us that you’d be better off human than one of our own.”

...Convince them...?

...that it was better to be ‘human’?

“Why can’t you just take my word for it?”

Herbert looks as though he’d very much like to touch him again.

Alfred sincerely hopes he doesn’t.

Instead, the immortal stands, smoothing down the front of his vest as he wanders around the bed toward the window. Though his destination is the curtains, his eyes never leave Alfred as he glides across the room.

Alfred feels so terribly small where he lays.

Grasping the heavy curtains with both hands, Herbert takes one last look at Alfred before turning completely to the window and flinging them wide open.

There’s an azure glow that halos Herbert’s fair head, not from the direct light of the sun but rather the gentle blush of the distant horizon still warmed by its brilliance. The same light dwindles like the last fiery lick of a smoking candle, snuffed out without so much as a whimper, to leave Alfred completely at the mercy of the beast.

He’s never felt so alone in his entire life.

“You’re not as naive as you’d like me to think,” Herbert murmurs absently, back still turned to the room as he admires the twilight landscape below. “You’re young and nervous and you don’t have much of an opinion of yourself, but you like to keep a careful eye on your company and you care very much for the safety of your companions... This is why you can’t pretend with me, Alfred. You know exactly what I want.”

Slowly, Hebert turns. Folding his hands deliberately behind his back, he takes a few calculated steps to close the distance between himself and the bed, almost playfully, as if this is all a game.

The feeble candlelight blazes in his eyes.

“Convince me that there are benefits to your corporeal warmth, Alfred...” He presses one knee into the mattress, and then the other, before crawling forward until he’s hovering over the boy. His hair curtains his face. “...Dazzle me, if you will.”

Alfred doesn’t know what to say.

He wishes he could move.

“I-I don’t...” he stammers before he can stop himself. “I don’t think I can.”

Herbert doesn’t look discouraged though. The man’s eyes flicker briefly to Alfred’s throat before giving him a firm pat on his cheek. “I think you’re capable of a great deal more than what you give yourself credit for, Alfred, but I digress... You must be hungry.”

“But I’m not—”

“Nonsense. That’s the fever speaking!” Herbert leans back carefully onto his knees, eyes trained on Alfred before he slips off the corner of the bed. “I think I shall also draw you up a bath.”

“But really—”

“I should,” Herbert interjects. “It’s the blood, darling. You simply reek of it...”

He tries hard not to sniff, but when Herbert finally turns his back, he submits to his curiosity. He can’t smell a thing, but then...

Reaching up to touch his throat, he gingerly prods the scars there. Sarah had attacked him last night after their grand escape. She almost bit him. If not for the professor—

The professor...

Oh.

Abronsius.

Fear had been his constant companion this evening, but anguish was yet new to him and he feels its sharp pangs now like an arrow to his heart. Unless his fevered mind is mistaken, Abronsius had saved him from Sarah—literally threw his life away to keep Alfred from succumbing to her bite...

Poor Abronsius...Poor, stupid, wonderful Abronsius, too blinded by his thirst for knowledge to sense what was going on around him, but not so far gone as to miss what was truly beautiful in life. Alfred knows he has no direct way of thanking his mentor, but he supposes that if he is ever to survive this affair, he must continue the professor’s work. Never shall the world surrender to those creatures of the night! Alfred will make certain of it.

Quietly, Herbert begins to hum again. Alfred can hear the water sloshing in the tub as it drawn from the archaic pipes, undoubtedly warm and fragrant, exactly as Herbert prefers it. Just as long as the viscount doesn’t decide to crawl into the bath with him or do anything else untowardly, Alfred doesn’t care what Herbert does between now and tomorrow night. He has a year yet to plan his escape. That is all.

Turning over onto his side, he watches as the world descends into darkness beyond his windowpane. Out there, he realizes, is the world he loves...

Out there is freedom.

A/N: The ending must sound choppy and I apologize for that. My muses have been running on a quarter of a tank of gas lately and I’ve been struggling to write at least half-decent fic.

In any case, I hope you enjoyed!

Translations:

“En effet, je parle français” ~ ‘Of course/indeed, I speak French’ (French)

“Bien sûr”~ ‘Of course’ (French)

An update

ladyofpride — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 04:04:10 GMT

I'm not dead.

That is all.

;)

(Sorry, I realized how inactive I've been, and since I don't want to get deleted from anyone's list I decided to drop in again. ;P )

If the Devil Wrote Poetry - C1

ladyofpride — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 04:10:55 GMT

A/N: My other computer is broken, which is the only reason why I haven’t updated ‘In the Shadow of Albion’ yet. I really need to invest in a USB device, seriously...*shakes head in shame*

Title: If the Devil Wrote Poetry
Rating: M
Pairing(s): Ludwig/Feliciano; includes Antonio/Romano, Roderich/Elizabeta, one-sided Francis/Feliciano, etc...
Length: Actually, I don’t foresee this one taking more than a couple of chapters (five more at the most, maybe?). It was supposed to be a one-shot, but then it grew longer than I could handle editing in one sitting.
Warnings: AU, swearing, a smidgen of violence, and, of course, a little smex. Also, Ludwig might come off as a bit of a jerk in the beginning (but that’s because he doesn’t have his loveable Italian to humble him, yet—and besides, growing up with Gilbert is bound to rub off on a guy, even if only by a little) ;)
Translations: Because I am, most certainly, not a pro at this, I’ll be posting what I assume are the correct translations at the bottom of the page. If you’re a native speaker (or just an autodidact linguist), please feel free to tell me if I’ve made any mistakes.
FF.net: If fanfiction.net is more of your thing, I’ve also posted the story there: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7394199/1/If_the_Devil_Wrote_Poetry
Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish otherwise, Hetalia is not mine...
Summary: (AU) To avoid an invasion from the Beilschmidt Empire, old Roma Vargas proposes a marriage between their families to keep the peace. Ludwig accepts. Feliciano, on the other hand...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

“...That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

Roma shrugged and slumped a little further into his throne, trying—and failing—to ignore his firecracker of grandson as the young man began yet another diatribe. What he could he possibly say in his defence? It was the best he could do, given the circumstances...

“Oi!” Romano had seen idiocy in finest form before, but this had to take the cake. “You married me off to King Carriedo to avoid the same ordeal, or don’t you remember? And why the Beilschmidt family, eh? All I’ve heard for the last three years is ‘Bonnefoy this’ and ‘Bonnefoy that’—I thought you were worried about him invading, huh, and not this Beilschmidt fellow?”

“Beilschmidt’s father was a reasonable man! But I’m not getting any younger, and now that that Gilbert’s the emperor there’s no telling what that family will do.”

“What they’ll do? How about what I’ll do, huh? If he does so much as think about invading us, I’ll shove my boot so far up his potato-loving—”

“Romano,” the man tsked. “Inside voices, please.”

“Inside voices? ...Inside voices?! Do you honestly think—?!”

“Romano, please.” He had been powerful once; had been renowned for his military success—feared, in fact, for what he could, and would, do to his enemies should they ever set a toe out of line—but that was the old days, and though his face tended to betray his age, well...he was certainly starting to feel old, and weaker, perhaps, even though he didn’t have the heart to tell his grandsons yet. “Gilbert himself is already married. It’s his brother that we’re talking about here, and Ludwig’s not too bad.”

“He’s a Beilschmidt,” Romano snapped. “And besides, I’m pretty sure that idiot brother of mine doesn’t even understand what ‘sex’ is yet. You just can’t leave that bambino to the mercy of that...that beast.”

“That ‘beast’ is going to be your brother-in-law. At least give him a chance.”

Romano went beet-red in a half-second split, but no eruption was forthcoming. He opened his mouth, gapped for a moment as though he couldn’t think of anything else to say, and then abruptly turned about face to storm out of the throne room.

Roma flinched as the door slammed shut behind him.

He could already tell that this wasn’t going to end happily.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Gilbert had many ideas. Many, many ideas, in fact, though Ludwig would argue that about only a handful of them deserved to ever see the light of day. There were some things that came out of his brother’s mouth that would’ve been better off left unsaid, such as the carriage that didn’t require horses, and a box that cooked food without a fire—but those were merely gibberish in comparison to what his brother had in store for him today.

“I like children,” Ludwig confessed, trying hard to wrap his mind around the logic of his brother’s proposal, “but I don’t believe that a man such as myself has any business being a father.”

Leaning back a little, Gilbert propped his feet up on top of his desk and crossed his hands behind his head. And then he smiled, one of those charming little curls of the lip that meant trouble for all parties involved. “No problem, kiddo—little Feliciano is a prince.”

All right...Ludwig was okay with that, but there was yet another matter that had to be taken into consideration and that was the question of Gilbert’s ever present thirst for power. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but...weren’t you adamant about invading them only last week?”

“About that,” Scratching his chin, Gilbert’s smile wavered a little. But only a little. Gilbert was an optimist in the oddest sense of the word. “Antonio’s married to the eldest kid, so he asked me not to do anything drastic. Then King Roma mentioned that he had another grandson, so I did a little reconnaissance, and, like, whoa, talk about beautiful—no joke, Ludi—and, I’m pretty sure he sleeps in the nude...Perfect, right?”

Ludwig had to disagree with the man’s cursorily evaluation of the prince’s overall worth, but he already knew that finding someone agreeable to settle down with was really just a question of mind over matter. His parents weren’t really all that in love with one another and yet they had done well enough for themselves as a couple. And since Feliciano would be marrying him to save his kingdom, Ludwig failed to see how this wouldn’t work... Actually, it might be nice having someone to talk to—not that he was lonely, of course, but if they were going to be intimate with one another, there was really no reason he couldn’t share what was on his mind either—

Not that this Feliciano had to chat with him (—Ludwig was well aware that not everyone was interested in talking about politics or whatnot, least of all his dearly departed mother, who, in fact, deplored anything that had to do with his father’s work—), but Ludwig was certainly open to having a light conversation with his future spouse in the evening. It might even be nice. After all, there was still the chance that they might actually like each other...

“...Fine.”

Gilbert blinked. “You’ll do it?”

“Ja. When do we meet?”

“Well...” Kicking his legs off the desk and using the momentum to rock himself forward, Gilbert leaned against the desktop with his elbows and steepled his fingers curiously under his chin, managing to look every bit the little rascal he’d been for as long as Ludwig could remember. “Roma’s already handed the kid over, so I suppose we could drop by tomorrow. Until then, I guess you should just sit tight.”

Nodding, Ludwig glanced at the door out of the corner of his eye. He still had all those reports to go through and he hadn’t had the chance to eat yet, so...

“You won’t regret this,” Gilbert chuckled, watching Ludwig as he rose from his seat. “One look and you’ll be head over heels for this kid.”

“Perhaps.”

“Seriously.”

“And what do you suppose he’ll think of me?”

Gilbert gaped for a moment. Then he grinned. “That you’re the sweetest guy in the world...?”

Ludwig snorted derisively and made his way toward the door.

He’d believe it after the ‘I do’s.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Feliciano was, for all intents and purposes, still a child—very much so, in fact—and Romano was willing to bet both his kidneys that the little bambino still didn’t understand why people slept in the nude together, other than to avoid dying of heat exhaustion. So as soon as he burst out of the throne room, he went about the tedious task of tearing the palace apart looking for him, only to discover that Feliciano wasn’t anywhere in the near vicinity and wouldn’t be until tomorrow morning.

So Romano snapped at anyone within earshot and stormed up and down his brother’s halls until Antonio dragged him away for supper. And then, at the crack of dawn, he returned to Feliciano’s suite to brood in the sitting room until he heard the servants rushing to the main entrance to bid the young prince welcome, at which point Romano stomped after them to give Feliciano the ‘what’s for’ and waited, rather impatiently, for his little brother to show his stupid little face.

He was effectively neutralized, however, the second Feliciano stepped through the door, throwing both of his arms around Romano’s neck with a shout of unadulterated joy and squeezing the mother-loving breath out of him without so much as a ‘how-do-you-do’. Romano bore with it, because, one, he wasn’t about to hit his brother when he already had to deliver bad news, and, two, he wasn’t entirely sure he could hit Feliciano, at least at this proximity.

Good Lord, he hated those hugs...

“I have bad news,” he gasped, just as soon as he could breathe again.

Feliciano merely smiled at him and patted his cheek gently as he was wont to do whenever Romano greeted him. Then he blew a kiss to the old maid as he trounced down the hall to his bedroom. “It’s good to see you too, Romano!”

“Are you even listening to me?” He snapped. “This is serious business, you little bastard. Nonno is trying to get rid of you.”

“You’re always so mean to me,” Feliciano pouted, but the smile he flashed at Romano over his shoulder betrayed his genuine mirth. It was hard to get Feli in a bad mood—harder still to tell him the world was crumbling all around him.

Once in the safety of his bedroom, Feliciano dove onto the bed, face first, and burrowed himself under the mountain of pillows. Romano sat down beside him after closing the door, and pinched what he supposed was the boy’s arm when he suspected Feliciano had already fallen asleep.

“Oi—I thought I told you to listen?”

“You didn’t,” Feliciano replied, though his voice was muted by the pillows. After a moment he resurfaced, smiling benignly at Romano as he tried to fix his hair. “So, what’s new?”

“Marriage,” Romano grumbled. Then he slapped Feliciano’s hand away when the boy moved to pat his arm affectionately. “Not mine, stupido... I’m talking about yours.”

Feliciano opened his mouth to reply...and then he closed it, as though he couldn’t remember what he wanted to say. Chances were, he probably had no idea what to say. Period. “You’ve been eating enough lately, Romano?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the point. The point is you’ve been betrothed to Prince Hedwig, or whatever, of the Beilschmidt family.”

“...Betrothed?”

“Yes.”

“...Like you were?”

“Yes.”

“...Is he nice?”

Romano rolled his eyes. “Hell if I know...Probably not. His older brother is a total ass.”

“You’ve met?”

“Unfortunately. The moron’s friends with Antonio, so I can’t exactly ignore him.”

“And what happens if I don’t?” Feliciano murmured. “ ‘Get married’, I mean.”

“Too late. Nonno already handed you over.”

Feliciano’s eyes went as wide as saucers—Romano would’ve been tempted to laugh if he wasn’t in such a dour mood already. “But if he isn’t nice, I don’t want to marry him!”

Romano shrugged.

“No!” Feliciano snapped (it frightened Romano...just a little), and then he grabbed Romano’s arm, giving it a desperate shake. “Nonno won’t make me if I ask him, right?”

Oh, ha. That was actually kind of funny. “Nonno’s hands are kind of tied right now. If the moron had invested more time and effort in keeping up his army after dad died, we wouldn’t be in this situation, but I digress...I suggest you run.”

Feliciano stared at him blankly for a moment. “...Run?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because the Beilschmidt’s are cruel bastards that don’t allow afternoon naps, and because you obviously aren’t old enough to get married yet, so, yeah, run. If you start now, you just might make it out of the city before those potato-freaks get here, but I’m only guessing, because I don’t know when—”

That was about as far as he got before Feliciano was out the door.

And then he heard the horn going off in the courtyard to announce the stupid Beilschmidts’ arrival, and, well, maybe he was a little satisfied with how everything was progressing, because, hey, it was the Beilschmidts after all...

...and maybe Feliciano deserved to fall in love like he did.

(—as if he’d ever tell Antonio that. Yeah, right...)

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Gilbert was right.

Roma really didn’t age.

At first, Ludwig thought it was the late king that sat before them in the throne room—then he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, because, well...yeah.

It was kind of creepy.

“So you’re...‘Ludwig’?” the man in question murmured, appraising the fair-haired duo from his perch on the throne. Ludwig knew the king approved of the betrothal, but he had a sinking suspicion that maybe the old man was still a little over protective of his youngest grandson—and maybe, just maybe, he was starting to have second thoughts...

Too late for that, Ludwig thought sardonically. He’d already accepted.

“Jawohl, Majestät.” He paused here to bow, well aware that Gilbert was probably trying very hard not to roll his eyes as he followed his lead. “Ich heiße Ludwig.”

“How old are you?” the man inquired, and this happened to be a question Ludwig was familiar with, at least when he was standing next to Gilbert. It usually threw people for a loop when trying to figure out which one of them was the eldest, simply because Ludwig was taller than his brother.

“Twenty-seven,” Gilbert replied for him.

In the corner of his eye, a messenger shifted his weight anxiously from one foot to the other.

“Feliciano has just become of age...” Roma frowned, more so in concern than disappointment, but even so, Ludwig didn’t like where this was going. “We really haven’t prepared him for marriage yet. So, perhaps—”

“I don’t have impossible expectations,” Ludwig interrupted before the man could take that particular line of thought any further. And really, he didn’t. Feliciano just had stand by his side in public and keep his mouth shut, maybe smile a little and make himself agreeable with anyone Ludwig wanted to introduce himself to, and that was pretty much it. Other than what transpired in the bedroom, he assumed he wasn’t asking for anything the boy couldn’t do already. It was all very simple, really.

“That’s...nice... But I understand you’re a busy man, Herr Beilschmidt, so perhaps we could al—”

“Oh, for the love of—” Gilbert threw his arms up into the air, the way he usually did when his battle plans weren’t going exactly as planned He was an impatient man, even at the best of times. “—consider yourself lucky we’re going through with this at all, Roma, because if Ludi doesn’t marry your grandson, I’m going to marry him off to some countess Carriedo keeps yapping about, and since Ludi doesn’t want to have kids that’s going to present yet another problem for us. So where the heck is Feliciano, because that nut of a woman, Elizabeta, has already got the whole ceremony planned out for the end of the week and I’d like to drag him back with us before anyone else gets cold feet. You think you can handle that?”

“Perfectly,” Roma replied dryly.

“Awesome.”

Inclining his head toward the wary messenger, the weary old king waved his hand for him to step forward. “Tell Bonifacia to pack Feliciano’s things, and then fetch the boy for me, please.”

“I...” The man took off his hat, its ridiculously long feather tickling his knees as he worried the rim anxiously between his fingers. “I mean...well...”

“Yes?”

“He’s gone, Your Majesty.” The messenger shrank back a little, glancing nervously between Ludwig and
Gilbert as soon as the words left his mouth. “He ran away—just fifteen minutes ago, actually...”

...

Scheiße.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

A/N: Love it? Hate it? Can’t decide? No worries, darlings. Drop me a note if you have a chance, but this fic is going to get finished anyway. I just thought you might like to come along for the ride...

Translations: (Or what I’m guessing they must be. Please correct me if I’m wrong.)
‘Bambino’ ~ ‘baby (m)’ (Italian)
‘Nonno’ ~ ‘grandfather’ (Italian)
‘Stupido’ ~ ‘stupid’ (Italian)
‘Jawohl, Majestät’ ~ ‘yes, your majesty’ (German—at least, I think that’s how it’s supposed to be)
‘Ich heiße Ludwig’ ~ ‘my name is Ludwig’ (German)
‘Herr’ ~ ‘sir/mister’ (German)
‘Scheiße.’ ~ ‘shit’ (German)

Writer's Block: Friends 4 ever

ladyofpride — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 19:19:21 GMT

Oh, wow....our friendship has lasted for many, many, many years. We've been going to the same church since I was a little girl, attended high school and university together, and now I get to be a bridesmaid at her wedding next summer. XD I'm also close friends with her fiance and younger sister, and I don't see our friendship going anywhere in the foreseeable future.

I consider myself quite blessed to be able to call her my friend.

Madness

ladyofpride — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 03:54:42 GMT

...I must be crazy.

I just signed up for the 100k word competition at 100k_supernova, and then I realized just how long a document 100,000 words is....*head desk*. Well, at least I have until March to finish it.

As for conjuring up a plot, I'm fresh out of luck. I'm leaning toward a Mentalist fic with the focus around Red John, from before he started killing leading up until the season 3 finale ("Strawberries and Cream (Part 2)"), but I kind of miss Chuck...I'm thinking I just might write a short Chuck fic for the heck of it and keep the Mentalist fic.

Any ideas?

(PS: If you're interested in the competition, you can read up (i.e. sign up) at: http://100k-supernova.livejournal.com/1375.html)

In the Shadow of Albion - C2

ladyofpride — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 21:34:58 GMT

A/N: I'm glad I'm not the only one that seems to be intrigued by the odd pairing. Thanks for all the feedback, guys. ;)

Title: In the Shadow of Albion
Rating: T to M — it should be important to note that if I do *coughprobablyeventuallycough* up the ante, I’ll put a big flashing light over the chapter(s) in question.
Pairing(s): ‘multiple pairings’ , but I guess it also has an odd element of England/Italy that should be pointed out. The usual suspects are also present: Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/S.Italy, etc....
Warnings: dark!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don’t know what to level of detail just yet)
Translations: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (with a special thanks to Red Hot Holly Berries for providing me with the Italian!)
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Previous chapter(s): In the Shadow of Albion - C1
Summary: Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy’s the only one that seems to notice anything’s wrong with the old Empire...

“Feliciano~,” Spain sang, and it was said with such a melodious trill that he was tempted to give it a try. As it would turn out, though, all he could manage was something that was more of a grimace than anything else. “...You remind me too much of my little tomato, Feli. Do you need a drink?”

A glass of wine sounded nice right about now, but Italy was never the sort of person to get drunk in the middle of the day, whether he was fulfilling his quota of business hours or doing something a little more entertaining. Besides, inebriation was never conducive with hiding from one’s enemies, especially those who took pride in a long history of espionage...

Italy didn’t want to risk it.

“Grazie, Antonio, but no.” He bowed his head a little and tried to hide his anxiety behind his good manners as he sat down beside the man on the lobby bench. It worked most of the time, at least when he was a child. “I’m... looking for Romano.”

“He ate your pasta, you know,” the man murmured absently. “I told him it was rude, but he said me you forgot to wake him up on time this morning. ‘Fair is fair,’ he said, but I honestly wonder how he could tell...”

Italy bristled a little (—he was hungry, for goodness sake, and there was no way Ludwig was going to let him run off to make a new batch. Never mind that they were in London of all places, which meant no one here knew how to make it properly—) but he had something bigger to worry about at the moment, and he didn’t relish the thought of being alone long enough to have to deal with ‘it’ without someone to back him out. So he decided he would simply sit there with Spain and listen to him talk, and after the meeting he would tag along with Ludwig back to the hotel room and forget that anything ever happened—

Only that Prussia was here when he shouldn’t have been (—not since Ludwig put him under house arrest after the last, little fiasco—). Italy could practically feel the trouble stirring in the air as he waltzed through the door

“Hey, Gorgeous~,” Prussia whistled with a cordial little bow and a flourish of his hand. He leaned down to give Italy a quick peck on the cheek and winked at him when he pulled back. “Don’t tell West, okay? Or he’ll have my head.”

“Don’t tell him that you’re here?” Spain inquired, “Or that you kissed Feliciano?”

“Couldn’t have kissed him if I wasn’t here, right?”

“I see...”

“Of course, you do.” Prussia winked again, but this time it was for Spain. “You have a moment? We need to talk...”

‘...Oh,’ Italy thought, because that was the cue for him to leave. To ‘leave’—alone—because Prussia was up to something that was so much more than simply wandering across Europe when he should be back in Berlin. Italy understood, of course—he had a tendency to tattle on the albino whenever his heists were targeted at Ludwig—but Ludwig was still in the boardroom arguing with America, and Italy had only wandered out of the room because he’d been following Romano (who was where exactly, because Italy hadn’t seen him since). And now he had to go all the way back up to the eighth floor by himself, and how was he supposed to know if England was—

Prussia snapped his fingers and Feliciano’s focus narrowed back onto the ‘here’ and ‘now’. “You look ill, kiddo.”

“Pasta withdrawal,” Spain smiled.

“You Italian’s are addicts.”

“Are not,” Feliciano murmured, but really he wasn’t feeling too good. “Where’s Romano?”

“Hiding from you,” Spain sighed as he gave the illustrated dome above their heads a good look. The picture wasn’t too bad actually—Feliciano could’ve painted a ‘sky’ a lot better than that, but could give praise where it was due. “Like I said, he stole your pasta.”

“Tell me, please~... I promise I’m not angry. I’m just...lonely.”

“Lonely how?” Prussia asked.

Which was answered by a swift kick to the shins from Spain. “If you’re not careful, amigo, your brother’s going to cut off more than just your head. And when you’re nothing more than a lonely, little eunuch, Francis and I will have a good laugh at your expense.”

“...My offer still stands.”

“Estúpido, go ahead and die, see if I care. I won’t save you if my Romanito and his mafia ever find out.”

Prussia winced a little. But worry was always fleeting with him and he plopped down on the bench between the two of them with a smile. “Fair enough. But seriously, Feli, just give us ten minutes. This isn’t for your virgin ears.” After a beat, he gave the Italian a curious look. “Are you a—?”

“I’m leaving,” Feliciano sighed. He was bound to bump into someone else sooner or later on the way back, so there was really no reason for him to linger. England didn’t have a vendetta against him, anyway, and the likelihood of running into him in the next twenty minutes or so was pretty slim...

Right?

“Such a darling~!” Prussia swooned. “I’ll buy you a drink sometime, okay? Anything you want.”

“Grazie.”

“And I’ll let you hold Gilbird, too. You like Gilbird, right? Because I know he likes you.”

He—...okay, yeah, he did. A lot, actually, because he was just so small, and soft, and incredibly adorable, how could anyone resist?

“...Okay,” he said. Then he stood up and excused himself for the time being, wondering why Ludwig never seemed to be enthralled by Gilbird the same way everyone else was. Maybe it was because he was a dog person—not that Italy didn’t like dogs (—he adored them, in fact!—), but Ludwig’s were rather large and just a tad frightening when they all tried to greet him at once. They’d never bitten him, of course, but any one of them weighed almost as much as he did, and that was a lot of weight to deal with when they were barrelling toward the door to see him. Not that he was really complaining, of course, because he loved them, but it—

“I’m sorry!”

Italy froze.

At first he was too afraid to move (—it wasn’t every day you were affronted by a bodiless voice—), but then two things occurred to him: one was that said voice sounded nothing like England, and the second was that the voice had been apologizing to him, not threatening him or shrieking like a banshee, in a way that was actually rather polite for something that could’ve been potentially terrifying.

Having convinced himself that any kind of doom, whatsoever, was not impending, Feliciano blinked a little and realized, suddenly, that his visitor wasn’t really invisible at all.

He was...

Well...not America (though the resemblance was uncanny), but he was Caucasian, at least, and his dialect was from the West... He was probably one of France’s, then, because he didn’t have England’s bushy eyebrows. ‘New France’ wasn’t it, or was that someone else?

Feliciano opened his mouth to speak, and very nearly outright said 'New France’ until he recognized the sleeping bear in the nation’s arms and remembered that France had lost that colony a long, long time ago...

“Canada,” Feliciano greeted. “Mi dispiace. I didn’t see you.”

“I understand,” he mumbled. And then he smiled a little, even though Feliciano could tell it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run into you.”

“No worries.”

“Thank you. I guess...I guess I’ll see you in the boardroom—”

“Canada,” he interjected, just as the man was about to leave. Despite what he tried to tell himself, Feliciano was still afraid. “Y-you...you look sad.”

The Canadian stared at him for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, almost as though he hadn’t really expected Feliciano to want to speak to him beyond their salutations. But then his shoulders relaxed a little and he adjusted the weight of the bear in his arms, and Italy smiled one of his most charming smiles because he knew it was something few people could resist.

“...Can I tell you something?”

“Per favore, anything~.”

“Well, I...” the Canadian glanced over his shoulder quickly to check for company, and then lowered his voice. “I’ve been fighting with both Ivan and Alfred for a while now, and you know how they get sometimes...”

Oddly enough, he did. He’d fought against them in the past, after all, and he didn’t ever want to go toe-to-toe with either of the two superpowers again. It made him wonder, then, how Canada of all nations had managed to peeve both of them off at the same time.

“Sì,” he agreed. “But why?”

“Well, the UN wants us to finalize the extent of our sovereignty over the sea by the end of the year, and as it so happens, Russia and I are separated by the Bering Strait. The farther either of us can claim use over the ocean stretches out to about the end of the continental shelf, and now Ivan is trying to claim that that border between us should shift farther in my direction.” Canada paused long enough to scan the hallway a second time. Spain and Prussia were still in the lobby just around the corner, but they were still too far to eavesdrop on the conversation, experts that they were... “As for Alfred, he won’t accept the fact that the Archipelago is my territory and that he just can’t sail through the Northwest Passage without permission. So then what does he do? He cruises on through with a nuclear submarine! I mean, I understand that Alaska touches the Arctic, but if anything happens up there, I have to deal with the mess, you know?”

Italy blinked. And then he blinked again. Of course, he knew that they all had their own problems and that, perhaps, Canada had always been pushed around a little by the others, but Feliciano had always thought Alfred was closer to his northern counterpart than just...well, whatever this was. Brothers were supposed to be kind to each other, weren’t there? Honestly, what other reason would Ludwig have not to strangle Gilbert after all the grief he’d caused him?

...Then again, Romano still tended to shout at him every once in a while (not to mention the hail of fury his brother had called down from the heavens above when he found out Feliciano and Ludwig were doing a little more than just sleeping together in the same a bed. Honestly, though, Feliciano thought Romano would’ve figured it out sooner than that...)

“What do you think is going to happen now?” Feliciano inquired, not because he expected Canada to already have a solution to his problem, but because his mind was beginning to wander somewhere rather inappropriate. He didn’t want to have to explain to the man why he was blushing if said mind chose now of all times to run away with him.

“No clue, but I told Belarus that Russia was gradually expanding away from her, and I think he might forget the whole ordeal when she gets her hands on him. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll probably settle it over hockey somehow; I’m not too worried about Ivan. Alfred, on the other hand...well, what can I say? At least Arthur understands what I’m up against. I’m actually kind of surprised he wanted to talk to me.”

Arthur...?

As in England-Arthur?

Italy opened his mouth—and then closed it again. Part of him didn’t want to get himself tied up in England’s business (or anyone’s business, for that matter, because he barely had enough time to deal with his own problems), but there was a nagging little voice in the back of his head that told him that this tidbit of information was probably important. It might even give him a hint as to why England was looking as smug as he did, and not just in an ‘I-got-a-leg-up-on-France’ way either.

“That’s nice.” Italy tried to smile. It probably worked, because Canada looked none-the-wiser “What did he say?”

“Oh, well, that Alfred’s got a good ‘whipping’ heading his way, and that, if I wanted, Arthur would be more than happy to troll through the Passage to hunt down any intruders, American or otherwise, so long as I promised never to become ‘French’ again...” Canada frowned. “...whatever that means. He already knows about my French-Canadians, and I can’t see him forgetting about Quebec.”

“But he doesn’t remember you often, no?”

“Not my name, no, although he seemed to have no problem with that today. Strangely enough, though, he’s never forgotten my birthday, so at the very least I know he’s always remembered I was a colony.”

Italy wanted to flinch. That sounded kind of horrible, actually, because, really, who forgot about their own colony? Granted, England had lorded over at least a quarter of the world’s population by the 19th century, but even Spain had managed to remember all of his underlings during his rule as an Empire, and that was while trying to take care of Romano, of all people...

Feliciano really had to applaud the man for his patience.

“Anyhow, do you want to head back?” Canada nodded at the elevator at the end of the hall. “I want to see if I maybe can catch Alfred before the end of the break.”

‘Maybe’. And that was a pretty big maybe. Alfred was stubborn in his ways, and Germany didn’t particularly enjoy buckling to anyone, so their argument could very well carry on until the end of the day. And that was usually what happened on a good day. Last year, Ivan and Alfred had very nearly bludgeoned each other to death while arguing over who-still-had-what with respect to their nuclear missiles.

Italy didn’t say as much, but trailed after the Canadian quietly into the elevator anyway. Once they were inside, though, something else occurred to him.

“...What was England like?”

“Hm?” Canada pressed the eight and stood back as the doors swung shut. His ahoge bobbed as the carriage proceeded to carry them up. “You mean when I was a colony?”

“Sì. When he was an empire.”

“Arthur was an ‘empire’ for a while, you know, but I suppose...I suppose he was a no-nonsense kind of guy. He could be charming when he wanted to be, but he enjoyed his power, I think, and maybe...” Canada paused here, blushing in embarrassment as though he hadn’t ever meant to tell anyone about this. “...maybe he enjoyed it a little too much. I mean, he still has the Commonwealth, but losing America probably left a bitter taste in his mouth, and the years of Alfred’s revolution were probably the bleakest of my life. But what do I know, right? Arthur grew up in a time where you killed or were killed. You probably remember what it was like.”

And he did.

He remembered being small and weak, and not yet a nation; merely something his ‘brothers’ fought over for his inheritance from Rome. He remembered talking to Romano about the Spanish Inquisition and of Francis when he tried to take his brother away from Antonio. He could even remember the feeling of Ludwig’s men raping his lands after ‘Italy’ signed an armistice with the Allies...

They were bitter memories, all of them, and he didn’t particularly enjoy reminiscing over them—not when he closed his eyes and could easily remember the good times, the days he spent painting, and cooking, and listening to Austria’s music. He was never powerful in the way his friends were, but he was happy at least, and that would never change.

He wondered then, why anyone would want to go back to those days...

“Why do you ask?” Canada inquired.

“No reason. I was just curious...”

“Thank you, then,” the man continued. “It’s nice having a conversation with someone that isn’t looking for a fight.”

“Sì,” he said.

Because he knew exactly how that felt.

A/N: I know this chapter was surprisingly Arthur-less, but have no fear! I just needed to give Italy a moment or two to prepare himself...

Translations: (Red Hot Holly Berries is my wonderful Italian/French translator, but since I used one-worded phrases this chapter, I decided not to bother her. Having said that, if I managed to screw that up, I apologize...)

“Grazie” ~ ‘Thank you’ (Italian)
“Mi dispiace” ~ ‘I’m sorry / My apologies’ (Italian)
“Per favore” ~ ‘Please’ (Italian)
“Estúpido” ~ should mean ‘Stupid’ (Spanish) . Feel free to correct me if it’s not.

In the Shadow of Albion - C1

ladyofpride — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 02:21:27 GMT

A/N: "Why?" you might ask. Well, this is really nothing more than a long-winded response to a dare, one in which I had to exercise a unique pairing... Seriously, this was all I could come up with. *hides*

Title: In the Shadow of Albion
Rating: T to M — it should be important to note that if I do *coughprobablyeventuallycough* up the ante, I’ll put a big flashing light over the chapter(s) in question.
Pairing(s): I'm leaving this open with a ‘multiple pairings’ sign (because it's true), but I guess it also has an odd element of England/Italy that should be pointed out. The usual suspects are also present: Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/S.Italy, etc....
Warnings: dark!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don’t know what to level of detail just yet)
Fun Facts: I’ll try to explain everything along the way through the characters themselves, but if I sneak any jokes into the mix I’ll point them out at the bottom of the page.
Translations: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page.
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Critique? Welcomed.
Summary: Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. It's really too bad Italy’s the only one that seems to notice anything’s wrong with the old Empire...

~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~

Between spouts of doodling on his notes and listening to Japan's lecture on greenhouse gases, Italy noticed something rather peculiar about the nation seated across the table from himself. England wasn't exactly a "rowdy" person when left to his own devices, but when he was sitting to the just left of America (—Alfred was his colony once upon a time, wasn't he?—) and to the right of France (—Italy would never openly condemn his Big Brother, but even he had a limit to amount of groping he was willing to put up with from the man—) there was usually no saying how long it would take before the Brit found himself at his wit’s end. Especially after America had managed to spill his fries all over England's work, and France was not-so-subtly feeling him up under the guise of trying to "help" the western nation clean the whole mess up. Even Italy could tell it was a recipe for disaster—in fact, he was honestly contemplating whether or not he should take this opportunity to duck beneath the table before England lost his composure altogether and hurled his tea cup at one of the two offenders...

Germany must have seen him flinch (and really, Italy suspected Ludwig must have had developed some sort of sixth sense concerning his habits by now), because the man grabbed him by his collar before he could drop out of sight and murmured that he should "pay attention" to Japan if he didn't want them to skip over the lunch break today.

Italy was rather partial to his pasta, so he relaxed into the man's grip and contented himself with watching England scribble the odd note down between sips of tea. From all outward appearances, Italy could easily imagine that England was miles away right now, far from his ex-colony and long-time enemy. It was a nice thought, really, because how often did any of them get a chance to escape one another? Don't get him wrong—Italy was fond of his friends, but he lived with the constant fear of someone (anyone, really, if you included Lichtenstein) invading him when he least expected it. Never mind that it was the 21st century—Italy lived in the Mediterranean, after all. He got an eye-full of violence from across the proverbial pond all the time...

He glanced sideways at Romano—who was busy arguing under his breath with Spain—and then at Ludwig—who was busy actually paying attention—before deciding that this is what was probably meant when people said they were stuck between "a rock and a hard place". Italy would agree that the ordeal wasn't very funny. His chances of escape were nil at this point.

He sighed as quietly as he could without setting off Ludwig's internal alarm, and then slumped down in his seat. He had hidden a box of pasta under his chair before they began today (there was never any way of telling when he would get hungry) but Germany had removed it sometime over the course of the morning without him noticing. Or maybe Romano ate it, he wasn't quite sure.

All he did know was that he was pasta-less and starving. What a miserable situation to find oneself in...

As fate would have it, his eyes wandered back to England—who, he realized, happened to be looking at him. Normally, it wouldn't have been a particularly remarkable thing (after all, people stared at each other all the time, there was really no avoiding it) except that England was smirking (just a little) and there was an unmistakable glint in his eyes (which wasn't "just a little"), which Italy recognized from years of running, hiding, and inevitably being caught by whoever wanted to conquer him at the time. Italy would describe it as yet another miserable situation, second only to being pasta-less, and that he would have given anything at that moment just to—

"Five minutes," Ludwig growled, haven taken Italy by the arm and before he could slip under the table. The man’s timing was uncanny. "Five minutes, Italy, and then you can eat. Try to sit still until then, would you?"

"Sì..." he mumbled quietly. Part of him wanted to alert Germany to what he had just seen, but he doubted the man would believe him anyway. Italy was infamous for scaring himself silly on a regular basis... Maybe he was just scaring himself silly, he could never tell. Or maybe—

Maybe he wasn’t over-exaggerating, because a second glance at England revealed that the man was still, in fact, staring at him, with his elbows propped up on the armrests of his chair and his fingers steepled condescendingly in front of him. The impression the posture gave him reminded Italy too much of the way Spain sauntered when the man had come to visit him between bouts of conquering the new world, or the way Prussia smiled when he openly boasted the many vital regions he had captured in his prime—or Germany, even, when the man had marched to hell and back again on nothing more than the whim of a deranged leader...

It was a look Italy hadn’t seen in a long time.

He would be lying if he said part of him hadn’t been hoping that he’d never have to see it again...

"Oi," Romano muttered. A quick jab of his elbow into Feliciano’s ribs drew his attention away from the former Empire, realizing that he had managed to zone out on his brother’s question. "I said, how much longer?”

"Uh...five minutes," he replied.

He could already tell it was going to be the longest five minutes of his life...

~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~

Next chapter: [ Chapter 2 ]

A/N: Like it? hate it? Aren’t quite sure what just happened there? Drop me a note if you’re in the mood. I appreciate the feedback.

Also, the other chapters won’t be as short as this one. I just wanted to start with a teaser...

Translations:

"Sì..." ~ “Yes”, but I’m pretty sure you already knew that...

Fun Facts:

1) “Italy lived in the Mediterranean, after all. He got an eye-full of violence from across the proverbial pond all the time...” ~This fic doesn’t take place in any particular time, but I image Feliciano and Romano aren’t exactly ignorant to all the hell that’s been breaking out on the African continent. My prayers are with all the people living there right now...

2) “The impression the posture gave him reminded Italy too much of the way Spain sauntered when the man had come to visit him between bouts of conquering the new world, or the way Prussia smiled when he openly boasted the many vital regions he had captured in his prime—or Germany, even, when the man had marched to hell and back again on nothing more than the whim of a deranged leader...” ~I don’t think there’s too much here that you’re not already familiar with. Spain, quite literally, sailed the globe, which is why Spanish is such a widespread language (although, Spain’s pride undoubtedly took a blow when England defeated his Armada back in 1588). Prussia is...well, he’s ‘Prussia’ and he picked fights like nobody’s business. His victim of choice? That would probably be Austria (Prussia really had it out for that guy). And as for Germany, well...Hitler’s little tyrannical reign is something I’m sure we’ll never forget. I think Ludwig was probably driven half mad by the guy because the little nutter really tore his country a new one... *heavy sigh*

Writer's Block: It's cold outside

ladyofpride — Sat, 09 Apr 2011 02:30:15 GMT

-40 (Celsius). I live in Edmonton, AB, and this temperature isn't too much of a feat during the winter if there's a significant wind chill.

(...Keeping in mind that summers are usually 20-30 degrees (Celsius). It isn't a winter wonderland up here 365 days a year. We just have a greater seasonal variation).

Clandestine - chapter one

ladyofpride — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 22:16:41 GMT

A/N: My apologies---this HRE-is-Germany theory is certainly twisted, but every dream needs its chance to soar, right?... Sorry, Italy.

Title: Clandestine
Rating: Nc-17 (or M)
Pairings: Germany/Italy (Ludwig/Feliciano), HRE/Italy, and ~in a twisted sort of way~ Germany-is-HRE/Italy...
Warnings: "angst" always deserves its own warning, because while this is a 'romance', I realize most of you would rather skip over the heartache. That being said, I'd like to include 'sex', a certain degree of 'violence', and perhaps a bit of 'language' to the list, as well as the possibility of 'dub-con' if this turns out the way I have everything planned...
Fun Facts: ...can be found at the bottom of the page. If you're not a history buff, don't sweat it—I'll explain most of the information I use at the end of every chapter.
Con-crit: I'm not a published author, and I realize that some of my commas might've migrated between sentences, so I'll accept any advice you can give me. Seriously, have at it, darlings.
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Summary: The grandson of Rom and the lover of Germany, Italy doesn't know what to do when faced with the absolute power of the Holy Roman Empire—an old friend and a long lost love, the first man to ever hold his heart. Try as he might, he can't prevent the past from unraveling at his fingertips...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

By the hands of none other than Napoleon Bonaparte, 1806 bore witness to the dawning of a new Confederation and the swift cessation of a most persistent Empire. With the abdication of the Holy Roman Emperor, Francis the Second, the kingdom's liberated German Princes aspired to create what would ultimately lead to a naissance of nations. Each entity would eventually declare their own independence, yearning to stand before the world, personified, as so many of those that had come before them.

And in due course there would come another, through Empire, Republic, and Reich, until the Federal Republic of Germany could look outside his office window at the streets that were his veins and the people that were his blood, and know that he would remain for many years to come, alive in every heart, even if all that lingered of him was nothing more than a whisper. With that alone, he could survive almost anything. He was Germany, after all. He would persist.

But he was hardly the first to think that, and he certainly wouldn't be the last.

The Holy Roman Empire, after all, was much more than a meagre stretch of land...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

It was raining.

Feliciano didn't mind the rain. He even enjoyed it on days such as these, when the heat was sweltering and his sweat-damp shirt clung to his back. Sticky and hot and almost heaving in the humid air, he paused in his mopping to push the kitchen shutters open as far as they could manage and stood there for a moment to appreciate the cool breeze that had accompanied the midday storm. It reminded him of days spent dallying in the fields; of losing track of time and running home late in a light drizzle, frock hiked up around his knees with a bundle of flowers heaped in the cradle of his apron. Austria would scold him about the importance of punctuality as Hungary fussed over his wet hair, and then he would wander off to see if Holy Roma wanted to paint or chat or simply be with him, even if it was only for an hour, because tomorrow he'd be leaving again. Like he always did...

He missed the Holy Roman Empire.

More than anyone would ever know.

He left the windows open as he washed the kitchen floor until his bones began to ache from the chill and the rumble of thunder drowned out the sound of his humming. The house smelt heavenly, and his floors were clean, and maybe he still needed to change the bedspread before he was finished for the day, but that mattered little when he knew his lover would be a here tonight. So he closed the shutters and lit a few candles, and went about doing what he did best.

He'd never tried to make Gefülte Nudelnbefore, but he was familiar with Kummelweck, and by the time he had the table set, Ludwig was struggling to wiggle his key lose from the new lock on the front door. Then his eyes fell on Feliciano and the key pulled free, and he blushed the most handsome shade of red Feliciano had ever seen.

"Guten Abend, Italien," he mumbled quietly.

When he saw what the Italian had prepared for dinner, it brought a smile to his face.

Feliciano greeted him with a kiss.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

Ludwig was a proud man. He was fierce in his determination and persistent in his endeavours; a formable ally when given a chance. He was reliable in a crisis and well-known for his attention to detail, but unless he was needed for anything more than his regular duties he was content with living his life as he always had, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and with whom. That was all.

And he couldn't have been happier.

His days consisted of meetings and phone-calls and a never-ending pile of paperwork that grew more often than it ever shrank, but he had duties here, too, in the bedroom, where Feli was the instrument of his heart's desire, and where Ludwig could pretend he was a musician, pulling gasps and moans and the most delightful little noises from those gloriously soft lips. Feliciano, with his legs wrapped around Ludwig's waist and his ankles crossed behind the German's back, was the only one that knew his every side, and was the only one that ever would. His first and only love...

Feliciano Vargas.

Here, beneath his hands, warm and slick and oh so very inviting, Ludwig could show his oldest friend the man he wanted him to see, the one that was compassionate, and loyal, and loved. Loved by Italy.

Always by Italy...

Feliciano came with a cry; Ludwig dove headfirst into the fire after him.

He would gladly burn for him.

When he could breathe again, he pulled free of the Italian and collapsed beside him, quiet and lax and entirely too satisfied with himself. Feliciano looked good post-coital—smiling, sighing, still trying to catch his breath—as he reached out for Ludwig's hand and threaded their fingers together. Then he kissed Ludwig's knuckles and closed his eyes...

It was moments like these that Ludwig wanted to last forever, where both he and Feliciano were completely at ease. So he kissed Feliciano's hand in turn before the smaller man could drift away, and asked him what he would want in if he could have one wish.

"But I'm already happy," he yawned, turning over onto his side to face his lover. Feliciano's smile was lazy as he was enveloped by the German's arms, and broadened when Ludwig kissed the crown of his head. "I don't have any more wishes."

"I understand... but even if you thought it was trivial, what would it be?"

"I suppose..." He lulled off for a moment there, breathing softly, as though surrendering to his exhaustion. Ludwig wondered if he had eventually fallen asleep, but then Feliciano shifted in his arms and continued, "You know, I had a friend once," —another yawn masked as a sigh— "He died when I was very young. Alone, I think, because I wasn't told until much later..."

"I'm sorry," Ludwig murmured, because he hadn't meant to ruin the mood.

"Don't be," Feliciano whispered as he snuggled closer. Ludwig could hear the smile in his voice. "I think I would want one last chance to say goodbye...and to tell him I wasn't angry or sad because of him, even if he promised he'd come back someday. I don't want to think he died with that guilt."

He hummed in agreement and stroked Feliciano's hair, and thought about all the promises he'd made over time to the people that he loved. No more wars; no more bigotry. He had had his fill of that in the twentieth century...

With one last kiss to the top of that auburn head, he pulled the Italian closer and settled into a more comfortable position, listening as Feliciano's breaths evened out, gradually slowly, until Ludwig's mind drifted to another plane of existence...

He dreamt of an open field and a sea of flowers—and a child kneeling in the shade of a tree as she collected blossoms in the lap of her skirt. He called to her, and she turned to look, but before he could put a name to that smiling face he found himself standing in the midst of battle, blood on his hands, as a Frenchman sheathed a sword in his fragile, little body...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

If she could wish for anything, Liechtenstein would ask for the opportunity to repay her brother, in full, for all the kindness he had ever shown her. If she had more land, she would gladly give it to him; if she had more people, they would pledge their allegiance to him.

And if she had had even an ounce of power, well...she would give everything to him.

If only she were stronger.

Then she could repay him...

But all he really wanted was a simple 'goodnight'.

"Sleep well," he said before turning away, footsteps fading down the hall. She watched Switzerland's back until he disappeared around the corner, and then she closed her bedroom door, lost to her thoughts...

That night, she dreamt of 1806, the year of her birth, when a handful of threads from another's existence coiled together to weave the very fabric of her life. And then she dreamt a little farther back to a war that was not quite her own—to a people that were not quite her own—before she felt it breaking away, almost violently, as though it was never hers to begin with...

When she woke the next morning, Liechtenstein felt at a lose.

Somehow, she knew she was incomplete...

Irreparably incomplete...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

After a seemingly eternity of solitude, he stirred...

[Next chapter: chapter two]

A/N: If you have any comments, questions, or concerns, feel free to drop me a note. Regardless of whether or not you actually do, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Fun facts:

1) The aforementioned "Confederation" refers to the 'Confederation of the Rhine' (which would later become the 'German Confederation', and then the 'North German Federation' (to cut out Austria), and then the 'German Empire', and then... You can probably tell where I'm going with this). Likewise, the "Empire"refers to the Holy Roman Empire (or, as it was referred to by the 16th century, the 'Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation'), which was dissolved during the Napoleonic Wars when Bonaparte sufficiently squashed it to make his French, little satellite, the Confederation of the Rhine. Gosh-darnit, Francis...why couldn't you have left things well enough alone, huh?

2) The 'German Princes': Interesting story—the Holy Roman Empire wasn't really a country or state, but more of a congregation of entities that were governed by bishops, dukes, and kings (and the like) that were collectively known as the 'princes'. They later banded together to form the first 16 German states of the federation, which, in turn, would eventually lead to the beautiful Germany we know and love today!

3) I'm trying desperately to find the article again, but someone has Himaruya quoted as say something along the lines of Liechtenstein rising from the Holy Roman Empire's ashes. The Empire "ended" on the 6th of August, 1806, and Liechtenstein's "birthday" has been penned down as July 12th, 1806, when she first gained Independence through her accession to the Confederation of the Rhine. I could go on, and on, and on about our darling Lili, but you'll learn more about her over the course of the story. Even as a minor character, she plays an important part in the plot...

4) Here's one more totally random (but equally fun) fact: Even if you're a hardcore Holy Roman Empire fan, you can't hate Napoleon completely—the French Revolution is what propelled our dear, sweet Feliciano into taking matters into his own hands as far as nationhood goes, and it was through Napoleon that he became the Kingdom of Italy, with none other than Bonaparte himself as King (Eugène de Beauharnai was his viceroy). Spread the love, darlings...

Clandestine - chapter two

ladyofpride — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 22:04:56 GMT

Title: Clandestine
Rating: Nc-17 (or M)
Pairings: Germany/Italy (Ludwig/Feliciano), HRE/Italy, and ~in a twisted sort of way~ Germany-is-HRE/Italy; additional pairings
Previous chapter(s): chapter one
Warnings: “angst” always deserves its own warning, because while this is a ‘romance’, I realize most of you would rather skip over the heartache. That being said, I’d like to include ‘sex’, a certain degree of ‘violence’, and perhaps a bit of ‘language’ to the list, as well as the possibility of ‘dub-con’ if this turns out the way I have everything planned...
Fun Facts: ...can be found at the bottom of the page. If you’re not a history buff, don’t sweat it—I’ll explain most of the information I use at the end of every chapter.
Translations: ...can also be found at the bottom of the page.
Con-crit: I’m not a published author, and I realize that some of my commas might’ve migrated between sentences, so I’ll accept any advice you can give me. Seriously—have at it, darlings.
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Summary: The grandson of Rom and the lover of Germany, Italy doesn't know what to do when faced with the absolute power of the Holy Roman Empire—an old friend and a long lost love, the first man to ever hold his heart. Try as he might, he can't prevent the past from unraveling at his fingertips.

~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~

Though years of war had done well to harden him, dissolution had smoothed out the last few lines of grief and quenched his ever-present thirst for more. He was Prussia— Allmächtiger Preußen—lord of the old world and attendant of the new. He had persevered through the destruction of his once proud kingdom, and would endure the heady thrum of the atomic revolution, if for nothing else than the sole sake of knowing and of being known, now and forever, by the last of his magnificent people...

And it was through Germany, today, that he could feel the whole world changing...

Lying in bed on a bright, Sunday morning, he dreamt of France and Napoleon...and a corpse. The Holy Roman Empire, still warm and soft, though void of soul, lying amidst the pile of bodies. That day, Prussia had thought of his own people, and how they desired a new Empire. ‘A German Empire,’ he thought—with the exclusion of Austria, perhaps, so that he could nurture this one without Roderich’s influence.

So he knelt before that tiny corpse and pricked his finger on the tip of his dagger before smearing the blood around those precious lips. And then Prussia leaned down to breathe a little life into him, and held him, and watched as the first glimmer of life flickered behind the veil of his dull and glossy eyes...

Despite the destruction of his kingdom in favour of letting his brother thrive, Gilbert never once regretted the day he founded Germany. Ludwig had somehow always been more than just a dream. He was simply a grand idea waiting for the day of its fruition.

Today, however, Gilbert felt as though a piece of his brother had been severed from the whole, and that this fragment had become sentient immediately after the amputation. The sensation was so peculiar, Prussia really couldn’t describe it beyond the impression of an abortion, self-induced; a miscarriage instrumented by the will of none other than the infant itself. And now he could feel the entity growing, spreading its influence far beyond the boundaries of its fellow nations, like a conqueror come to rape and pillage the land...

Opening his eyes to the first rays of light, the sun peaking coyly at him over the bottom of the windowpane, Gilbert reached over to the bedside table to collect his cell phone, and dialled up an old friend.

Austria, it appeared, had sensed something too.

~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~

Despite how he felt that morning, Ludwig tore himself from the warmth of their bed (—the tangle of sheets; Feli; the knowledge that he could easily lie there for the rest of the day and wouldn’t hear a word of complaint from his little Italian—) and trudged into the shower to cleanse himself of a most unfamiliar chill. He washed away the thin sheen of sweat and dried himself in haste, and then carried his aching body downstairs to collect his things from the living room before heading off to work.

He would be lying if he said he hadn’t practically bolted out the door, hoping, praying, that Feliciano was still fast asleep in bed.

And all because he felt a little...ill.

As easy as it was to share his weakness with Feliciano, he hated to appear anything less than the embodiment of virility in the eyes of his lover. It was for this reason alone that he left a letter on the kitchen table detailing the fact that he expected he would be busy for a while, but that Feliciano was more than welcome to spend the week with him after tomorrow—just not today, please (no, certainly not today; he felt now as though there was something was rolling around in the pit of his stomach), because he couldn’t even tell if he’d get done in time to sleep tonight. He’d ask his boss for a little time off and then drive together out into the countryside somewhere, maybe Florence even, to hide away and indulge themselves however they saw fit...

Feliciano would understand, of course. Despite his penchant for long afternoon naps, the Italian had once ignored him for days on end in an attempt to do away with all his paperwork. Generally speaking, ‘paperwork’ was never ending, but Feliciano had certainly dented the pile his boss had assigned to him in order to spend the weekend off in Berlin.

They had worked out, long ago, how to weave one another lives around each other’s.

It made him wonder why, then, he simply couldn’t tell Feliciano he was sick.

‘Because I don’t want him to see me like this,’ he mused wistfully to himself, ‘and because I don’t want to have to tell him to keep his distance if he doesn’t want to catch what I have,’ which would really be a shame, because he was finding it increasingly difficult to get out of bed in the morning after his nights spent sleeping with Feli. It was too easy to kiss him awake and massage his slender limbs, wrap those gloriously long legs around his waist and make love, over and over again, until Feliciano’s every thought was occupied with nothing else but him...

He often wondered if he had become too possessive of his lover.

Even so, he didn’t think he could afford to let Feliciano see him like this.

“You do not look well today, Herr Deutschland.”

Startled, he looked up to see Angela Merkel, his Chancellor, standing before his desk. Realizing then that he was slouching, he corrected his posture and gave her a polite nod.

“It is nothing, meine Bundeskanzlerin. A flu, perhaps. That is all.”

“Over what?” she asked. The files in her arms were his work for today, but she kept them pressed securely against her chest even as he held out his hand to her expectantly. “Nothing is wrong with the people, at least to my knowledge.”

“It is a personal matter,” he murmured, and that was the best answer he could offer her. Occasionally, a nation could separate a portion of their personal life from that of their people. After all, they were not immune to the consequences of the decisions they made outside the popular opinion of their citizens... “I assure you, there is nothing to worry about.”

“Likewise, Ludwig. Go home; get well. What I have for you today can certainly wait until you’re better.”

He wanted to argue with her, but she was fierce in the way most women are when given the opportunity to bloom. She had won her position as the first female Chancellor in Germany for a reason, and Germany didn’t often want to go toe to toe with her.

Even if they did occasionally argue over the Life Partnership Act...

“...Call me if anything comes up,” he said, relenting. Naturally, he would know if anything was wrong before she did, but even he knew politicians had a way of keeping secrets. He could hardly read another person’s mind. “Auf Wiedersehen...”

She smiled a little and turned away—before turning back to grab the files from his ‘In’ pile. “These can also wait,” she said before he could open his mouth, and then she was really gone, leaving Ludwig, baffled, where he sat at his desk.

Stunned, he listened as her shoes click-click-clicked against the floor tiles as she disappeared down the hall. Then he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples gingerly, willing away the migraine growing there...

Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was looming in the distance.

It felt eerily as though another war was coming.

~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~///\\\~*~

“This is it, huh?”

Despite his perchance for shoving democracy down everyone’s throat, Feliciano had to admit that Alfred F. Jones had an honest face. Even though Alfred preferred to make his own cars (Lord knows—the American’s had their gas guzzlers), Feliciano could see the way he appreciated Italy’s newest convertible, how sleek it was, and classy, and curved in all the right places...

Much like his women, Feliciano thought merrily to himself.

Alfred whistled as he hopped into the driver’s seat, holding his hand out expectantly for the keys. Italy tossed them to him and returned the man’s smile as he climbed in next to him, watching as Alfred gripped the steering wheel admiringly before finally deciding to gun the ignition.

The engine practically purred. Feliciano had always appreciated that about automobiles, the way you could feel them hum, almost as though they were an extension of yourself. Such heavy beasts... They made him feel powerful somehow, not in the way one man could lord over another, but through the way you could look at the open road ahead of you and know that you were utterly free..

He felt that way Ludwig too most of the time—not as an extension of himself, but rather as his other half. Together, they completed the circle that was Feliciano’s earth...

He glanced at Alfred out of the corner of his eye. The man was grinning like a kid in a candy shop.

Feliciano really didn’t mind these impromptu visits, especially when it gave him the opportunity to ditch the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

“Hey, Vargas—you mind if I take us for a spin?”

“Per favore. Be my guest.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

Feliciano slouched down for a moment, thinking... Then he gestured to the road with a wave of his hand and smiled a little smile. “I’ll direct you along the way.”

“Will do, Captain.”

They tore out of Rome like nobody’s business (much like everyone else on the road, Feliciano mused), cruising through the Tuscan countryside without so much as a care in the world. Feli loved the feeling of the wind in his hair; the sunlight warm against his face. He especially enjoyed the almost impressionistic quality of the passing scenery. He’d have to paint it again someday. Maybe tonight even, if it was true that Ludwig was busy. Perhaps then, he’d give the finished project to his lover—

—before Francis could get his hands on it, of course. He had a feeling the man would never return the ones he’d taken so many years ago...

“Turn here,” he said maybe fifteen minutes into the ride when he remembered where he wanted to go. Alfred followed the direction without question. The dirt road he had chosen took them off the highway and out through a pasture, one that was as old as time to Feliciano. Holy Rome had visited him there often when he was young and had played with him, rolling around in the flowers and the grass, until they were too tired to move anymore.

Feliciano could recall collapsing next the boy under a tree and simply sitting there, listening, as Roma recounted his many tales of glory on the battlefield...

‘I shouldn’t think about him.’ And really—he shouldn’t. Since he had become intimate with Ludwig, he had promised himself he would stop wondering ‘what if?’ What if he wasn’t dead? What if he came home? What if he was still in love with Italy...?

Feliciano couldn’t explain why he was thinking of him. Perhaps it was because of what Ludwig had asked him last night. He was just being nostalgic. The feeling would pass...

Speaking of which, he wished he had woken up early enough to say goodbye. He hated it now when he slept through the morning until noon, at least on the nights that Ludwig decided to visit.

“—here, okay?”

“Hm?” How rude of him—he hadn’t been paying attention. “I’m sorry?”

“I thought maybe we’d pull over for a bit. You look tired.”

“Just a little,” he murmured. And then he felt it, “—Here. Here is perfect.”

Alfred gave him an odd look but didn’t say a word as he slowed to a halt along the shoulder of the road. Cows were grazing on the other side of a low, wooden fence. The thicket of trees behind them had grown quite a bit since the last time Feli had been there.

“Come—let’s get a little a shade!”

“Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to steal your car?”

“Out here?” Feliciano smiled. “No. Now come, per favore. This is a wonderful place to rest.”

“...With the cows?”

“Yes. With the cows.”

Alfred shrugged but decided it was for the best that he follow him as the smaller nation bolted out of the car. Hoping over the fence after Italy, he accompanied Feliciano into the shade, where they merely sat together quietly and passed the time watching the cows go on grazing.

Feliciano appreciated the simpler things in life.

“...Alright,” Alfred sighed, “I guess this is peaceful. A little. Mattie likes to go camping, but I’m a Vegas man myself. Drives him nuts...”

“Sì, but you haven’t lived until you’ve celebrated in Europe. Ask Big Brother. I’m sure you’d agree.”

“Okay, no argument there,” he laughed. “Francis knows how to get people drunk, I’ll give you that much.”

Feliciano smiled gently. Then he propped his knees up and crossed his arms over them so that he could use them as a support for his chin. “Might I ask, then...what brings you here?”

“The car, really—Francis let it slip you were putting something together and I needed a break. And I was in France of all places, because Mattie wanted me to tag along on his annual visit. The molestation is sometimes too much to handle when you’re the only one within groping distance, even for Mattie.”

“I see... So, I guess that makes you a ‘hero’, hm?”

Alfred’s eyes practically sparkled—the usual reaction to such statements, Feliciano noted. “Damn straight. A friend in need is a friend indeed, right? Heck, I’d even swoop in to save you if you didn’t already have Ludwig waiting in the wings.”

Which was certainly true.

And Feliciano could empathize with him concerning Francis. Now that he knew, more or less, all the things two people could do with one another in the bedroom, he had a better idea of when Francis was making a pass at him...

Fortunately, Ludwig could also tell when Francis was making a pass at him, which was really for the best. His lover was so much better at explaining that they were in a monogamous relationship; Feliciano honestly had no idea how to be stern or intimidating.

“—and you’re probably daydreaming about him too. Eerie, huh?”

Blinking, he stared at Alfred until he was able to register what he had said. “Mi dispiace—I’m sorry, what?”

“Germany ...You zoned out. Look.”

Lifting his head from his knees, he gazed out across the field at a figure in the distance and squinted his eyes against the sun. It was later now than what he’d expected. They probably should’ve started back a while ago.

Strolling through the long grass at a leisurely pace, eyes focused entirely on Feliciano, Ludwig was making his way gradually over to their little thicket of trees. For a moment, Feli was worried. His lover looked solemn—confused, almost, in the way that he was appraising Feliciano. But then those narrowed eyes softened and the slightest of smiles graced his face.

This was a look Feliciano was familiar with.

And so, when he sprung to his feet and ran over to greet his lover, he was not the least bit surprised when Ludwig relaxed into his embrace and bent his head down to accept Italy’s kiss...

...Somehow, it felt as though an eternity had finally come to an end.

A/N: I believe that HRE would be a fiercely possessive man/boy, but I’ll leave that idea to your imagination until I post chapter three. –And I apologize for the late update. My internet connection has been less than desirable these last few weeks...

Translations: (Keeping in mind that I speak neither German nor Italian...)

‘Allmächtiger Preußen’ – Almighty Prussia.

‘Herr Deutschland’ – “Mr” Germany

‘Auf Wiedersehen’ - Goodbye

‘Meine Bundeskanzlerin’ – My Chancellor (fem.)

‘Per favore’ – Please

‘Mi dispiace’ – My apologies/Sorry

Fun Facts:

1) Otto von Bismarck (AKA: "The Iron Chancellor") was the Prime Minister of Prussia from 1862-1890, and he wanted the Hohenzollern hegemony (--a royal family that ruled in Prussia from 1701 to about 1918--) to spread throughout the German States I had mentioned earlier in the last chapter. He could accomplish this by unifying said German states, but then he could only really get anything done if he booted Austria (---Prussia's darling nemesis--) from the picture. There's a long and fascinating tale that follows all this (after all, this is the birth of Germany we're talking about here), but that's a story for another time I suppose. All in all, I think it's important to mention that although Austria and Prussia weren't ever too amused with one another, Austria-Hungary has been a long time ally of Germany.

2) ‘Meine Bundeskanzlerin’ (‘My Chancellor’; keeping in mind that Bundeskanzlerin is the female denotation of the noun Bundeskanzler) – Angela Merkel is the current Chancellor of Germany, and she took office on the 22nd of November, 2005. I’m not going to say much else about her other than her party is the CDU/CSU and that they claim to be ‘centrist’ on abortion and gay rights (I’m ‘?????’ as to what that means). I believe she’s more or less implied that she plans to undo the gay marriage/civil union legislation already in Germany, but I don’t think she’ll really dare to touch what they’ve got going on for themselves right now (which, last I heard, is a Life Partnership Act: couples can take each other’s names; qualify for state pensions if widowed; divorce and demand a settlement; etc... I don’t know all the details though, sorry)

3) Gay Rights in Germany – see the above point.

4) To be fair, I have actually no idea where the Holy Roman Empire and Italy would’ve hung out. Seeing with how enamoured Roma was with Feli though, I imagine he would pop in to see the little fellow whenever he could (—and didn’t he actually do that in one of the episodes? Sorry, spoiler-alert! I’m pretty sure he made a cameo in the story about the gondolas...).

5) If anyone else here is weirded out by the fact that some of the European nations are catching on to a change in power, so am I... I imagine it would be pretty freaky if I helped to oust an old ruler, thought he was pretty much dead, and then found him standing on my doorstep x-number of years later. Can anyone else say hell on earth?

The Devil's Joke - Chapter 1

ladyofpride — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 06:50:40 GMT

Title: The Devil’s Joke - Chapter 1
Rating: Nc-17 (overall)
Characters: Canada, America, England, France, North Italy, Prussia, Spain, South Italy, and a few others. This also includes their dark (or merely unfortunate) counterparts in the other world.
Pairings: Canada/America, Canada/others, Germany/Italy (other pairings, etc.)
Warnings: This story follows both the regular, light-hearted hetalia!universe as well as the dark alternate universe it crosses over with. Having said that, be prepared for a little violence, suggested dub-con/non-con, hate!sex, and a bit of language... It’s a psychological twist. My apologies.
Disclaimer: The rightful owner would never, in their right mind, treat these beloved characters as horrendously as I do...
Summary: Somewhere through the looking glass, Mephistophelian shadows stir...and they yearn for Matthew like nothing they’ve ever craved before.

~*~The Other~*~

Alone at last, he collapses to his knees on the hardwood floor, exhausted, faint, already stretched beyond his capabilities. The floor whines beneath his weight, a low creak in the otherwise silent room, before his focus narrows to the pounding of his heart and the sound of the wind whistling through the eaves.

Eyes stinging, mouth dry, the air rushes from his lungs in a strangled sob. The first of many. This is his only chance to vent.

God is watching, but He mustn’t care.

No one cares...

He curls his arms around his chest as he chokes on the next gulp of air, tears warm where they trickle down his face. He can’t count the number of times he’s come up here to hide. Too many, he thinks. Too many to count. Too many to continue going on like this...

He’s tired.

He’s just so goddamn tired...

“I know.”

The voice startles him, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s too sore to move.

Lifting his head, vision blurry through the tears, he discerns the faint silhouette of a man sitting on his old oak trunk, back to the attic window, where the sunlight filters in around his head. It’s a mockery of a halo.

Be that as it may, this is as close to angel as he’s ever been.

“W-why are you here?”

“For you, of course,” the shade coos softly, offering his hand in a gesture of goodwill. “Tell me that you want this to end, and I’ll do it. Just for you.”

“That’s not how you operate...”

“For you,” he muses, “I’ll try. No more worries, no more pain—you’ll go on living as though you’ve never known them at all.”

Even if he’s telling the truth, there’s no erasing what’s been done to him...

There’s just no way.

Even so...

“When was the last time you smiled, Matthew?”

...he takes his hand.

~*~Matthew Williams~*~

“Stop that, please.”

Alfred glances at him out of the corner of his eye and pauses, mid-munch, before stuffing the rest of the French fry into his mouth. The chewing commences, lips firmly sealed, and he grins arrogantly as though he hadn’t been stirring up any trouble at all.

Matthew has a feeling he’s only doing this to irritate him.

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Alfred rolls the top of the MacDonald’s bag shut and pushes it over to the side, away from his paperwork. Matthew’s been trying to pay attention to France’s speech, but it’s an incredible feat when the seating plan put them together, and the smell of the food is actually starting to work on his appetite, and he’s jet-lagged, so, really...

How is he supposed to focus?

“I’m still hungry.”

“Our lunch break is in half an hour.”

“What? I’m a growing country.”

Matthew hasn’t forgotten ‘Manifest Destiny’ just yet, so he excuses his behaviour as a pre-emptive measure on his nation’s behalf and takes the liberty of punching Alfred in the shoulder.

Not hard enough to hurt, of course.

“...You hit like a little girl.”

“You’re getting fat, Alfred.”

“Okay, ouch. You don’t see me making fun of your silly, little, pseudo-French, do you?”

Even though they’re both smiling, Matthew’s prepared to smack him again—but then England throws him a certain ‘look’ from where he sits across the table and it gives Matthew reason to pause as he weighs the repercussions of being chastised by his former guardian in public. Considering the sad amount of attention he’s given most of the time, he really doesn’t want to tarnish the vague image the world already has of him.

(Even if it’ll give his brother a good laugh....)

Taking note of England’s attention, Alfred hums pleasantly in the back of his throat as he settles comfortably into his seat. Satisfied to having won their little banter, Alfred nudges his ankle gently under the table and starts twirling his pencil between his fingers. Foosh-foosh-foosh. Right next to his ear.

Foosh-foosh-foosh...

“I swear to God, Alfred—”

“—Merci,” Francis finishes at long last with a little wave of his hand and a courteous bow, ignoring the gentle applause of his peers in favour of glancing briefly at North Italy where the nation is sleeping soundly to his left. A quick nudge from Ludwig startles him from his siesta—an odd sight, in and of itself, considering Feliciano usually avoids napping out in public...

Somehow, Francis’ apparent amusement manages to smooth over the unintended insult.

Matthew would’ve felt guilty himself for losing attention halfway through the speech, but the foosh-foosh-foosh is really starting to get to him and he can’t focus on much of anything other than the smug look on his brother’s face.

He wants to put an end to that sound. Badly. So he reaches over—

—and steals Alfred’s lunch.

“Wait—what?”

Leaning back in his chair, holding the bag as far from his brother as he possibly can, Matthew listens idly to Ludwig as the German announces their break. Alfred will get his lunch back, eventually, but not, perhaps, before Matthew’s had a chance to wolf down the remainder of his fries.

“Mattie—Mattie, come on... You can’t do this to me.”

“It’s a heart attack in disguise. You’ll thank me in future.”

Almost completely sprawled across Matthew’s lap, fingers brushing the side of the bag, Alfred comes pretty close to knocking them both over when the tries to lunge for the meal in question. “But don’t you love me, babe?!”

Matthew snorts derisively—but loses his grip when Alfred inadvertently elbows him in the stomach, knocking his glasses askew in the process. Matthew lets him have the bag but gets one last shot in by shoving Alfred off his lap and onto the floor.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Alfred jumps back to his feet and dusts off his pants before fishing a fry out of the bag. Waving it triumphantly in Matthew’s face, he pops it into his mouth with a decisive smirk, and settles back into his chair.

He chews loudly before swallowing.

“...Victory’s never tasted this sweet.”

Matthew snorts again but doesn’t turn down the fry offered him. He knows how to pick his battles. “Does this mean you’re finally going to stop gloating about the American Revolution?”

“Pft. Fat chance. You gonna kick Quebec out any time soon or would you rather we not talk about it?”

“That doesn’t even compare.”

“Cry me a river, Mattie,” he quips. “But speaking of victories...you gonna help me celebrate?” He finishes the offer with a suggestive brow-wiggle, but keeps his voice low enough to avoid drawing the attention of the herd of nations migrating to the door. “You’ve left me in something of a dry spell since last week, babe.”

“Don’t be lecherous,” Matthew scolds, trying—and failing—to take another swing at his brother.

Thankfully, the great U.S. of A. doesn’t see Francis looming behind him.

“I’ll give up on the lechery when you finally see reason, Matt. Just embrace you’re inner cowgirl and let the good times roll, you know? It isn’t called the ‘wild’ west for nothing.”

Oh, he knows alright...

And so does Francis, which is what earns his brother a well-timed slap to the back of the head.

“Ow.”

“Salaud...”

“Hey—no outside interference, frenchie! This business is strictly between the Americas.”

“Mon petite deserves so much better,” Francis groans. “Such beauty is wasted on the beast.”

“You’ve obviously never seen Disney then, have you?”

Francis smacks him again and looks as though he’s winding up for a good, long rant, but the sight of Feliciano making a beeline for the door distracts him the second he opens his mouth. The frustration visibly eases from his face, promptly replaced by something Matthew can only describe as a cross between mischief and prurience, before darting off after his next victim.

Matthew can’t help but sigh...If Feliciano’s too frazzled to brush off Francis’ advances today, he knows Ludwig won’t hesitate to break the Frenchman’s neck.

The cleanup’s going to be messy.

“And here I thought I had a short attention span,” Alfred chuckles. Tossing the bag of MacDonald’s onto the table, he slouches in his chair and tries to bat his eyelashes as innocently as a superpower can for a nation of his disposition. “Now, what were we talking about...?”

“Lunch.” Rising from his seat, he gives Alfred a look that says ‘And you’re not coming’. “Give me a minute to go grab something.”

“But...”

He takes a moment to swat away the hand that tugs the corner of his suit jacket, not the least bit fooled by Alfred’s failed attempt at puppy-dog eyes. “Try not to destroy anything while I’m gone, ’kay?”

“Really?” Alfred sounds incredulous. Then he smiles and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Come on, Mattie... Twenty minutes. I know where we could go...”

Matthew has half a mind to hit him, again, but he supposes this time he’ll leave a bruise, and there’s only so far they can play-fight before Arthur grabs one of them by the ear.

“If you doodle on my notes while I’m gone, I’ll remove MacDonald’s from Canada.”

Mouth a-gap, eyes wide, Alfred looks as though he just killed his dog. “B-but think of the children!”

“I am.”

“Yeah, well...clearly you’re not lovin’ it enough.”

Matthew can’t help but cringe. “You know, I really wish you weren’t so corny.”

“I wish you weren’t so cold,” Alfred mutters. The double entendre isn’t lost on Matt, but his brother smiles kindly enough that he decides to pull the reins in on his tongue for once. “Oh well...you’re coming back with me to New York, right? Cause Paris is nice and all, but Francis is here and I’m pretty sure he’s on to us.”

‘If only you knew the half of it,’ he thinks. Francis had a nose for love. Hell, the man could smell romance from a mile away.

Returning Alfred’s smile with an affirmative wink, Matthew wanders through the throng of nations chatting idly by the door and navigates his way to the stairs at the end of the hall. France and Italy are nowhere in sight, but then, neither is Germany...

He can’t help but admit that he’s beginning to wonder what’s going on between them. Ludwig’s been as stoic as ever, but Gilbert is practically buzzing with excitement, and Romano is redder than usual livid self. The cherry on top, however, would definitely have to be Feliciano’s sudden change in behaviour. If he isn’t worrying himself to the point of exhaustion, Matthew doesn’t know what to call his sudden bursts of lethargy these days...

It probably doesn’t help that Francis has been on his tail since February, but he digresses.

Humming thoughtfully to himself, he decides it really isn’t any of his business, and that whatever happens will happen despite what he says or does. Although...it wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with Francis. His papa has the nasty habit of getting carried away with himself, after all.

One floor down, second door at the end of the hall, Matthew’s already reaching for the doorknob to his office before he realizes he’s finally made it there. He’s tired, and a little jet lagged, and Alfred’s been about as bubbly as usual, so he chalks up his sudden daze as exhaustion and gives his head a small shake.

‘Wake up, already.”

Pushing his door open with his shoulder, it isn’t until he’s hit the light switch that he realizes there’s something wrong with this scene.

He doesn’t remember it ever being quite this...bright.

Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, he spots the offender leaning up against the wall beside his desk—it’s a full length mirror with a metal frame, fashioned into several, delicate braids of poison ivory and something he can only describe as a mask plastered up above the centre.

...Good grief, he can’t even being to fathom what it’s doing here.

“Alfred...” he mutters, because he has an ever-growing assortment of odd gifts his brother’s sent to him over the years, everything from an orange mixer to some kind of vintage tricycle he found god-knows-where back in 1973. Though, if he had to be honest, the mirror’s really a little too morbid for Alfred’s tastes. There’s nothing fun about. Nothing cheery.

Curious to see whether this really is a gift or if it was sent to him by accident, he closes the door with a gentle kick and talks a tentative step forward, reaching out to brush one of the metallic leaves before glancing at his reflection.

It isn’t his reflection.

Startled, he almost trips over his feet as he stumbles back into the office’s sole bookcase. In truth, the reflection is him, but the Matthew Williams on the other side of the looking glass is hardly up to par as far as his health is concerned. This Matthew Williams is sickeningly pale. There are bruises on his throat where he’s been strangled and he’s thinner than anything Matthew could’ve ever imagined himself being. Starved, maybe, or merely worn down by misery, though the dark circles around his eyes are beginning to distract Matthew from everything else...

His violet eyes are closed.

Matthew can’t help but wonder if he’s...dead.

“If you could save someone from a fate such as this, would you do it?”

His reflection’s lips aren’t moving and the voice doesn’t seem like anything he imagines he’d sound like, but he’s certain that it’s coming from the mirror.

Hesitantly, he replies, “...Yes.”

“In this moment, if the power was yours, and yours alone, would you save a soul such as this?”

Somehow, it doesn’t sound so much like a question as it does a suggestion, as though this uninvited guest has already figured out what he’d like to say. In truth, he wants to say ‘yes’, but every part of him that is Matthew and Canada is telling him to say ‘no’. That it’s wrong;. Oh, so terribly wrong...

He feels as though there’s something pressing in against his chest, like a knife jabbed between his ribs.

“I...”

‘I would,’ he thinks, but he’s so afraid.

Horrified.

...The hell is this?

But he can’t say ‘no’...he’s never said ‘no’. Not to Alfred, not to Arthur, and certainly not to someone that looks as desolate as...well, him.

Taking a tentative step forward, he brushes the glass with his fingertips. It’s cold to the touch.

His reflection doesn’t stir from its upright repose. Deathly quiet.

The deceased on display.

It stirs inside him something he doesn’t want to identity. He’s connected with this pitiful creature somehow and he feels as though if he doesn’t speak now he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

...

“Yes.”

His answer echoes in the empty office. It thunders in his ears, and in his heart, and suddenly he’s all too aware of what he’s done.

But by then the mirror is crashing down upon him.

And then he sees nothing at all.

~*~|~*~|~*~|~*~|~*~

Two souls in reverse, stretched first from the inside-out before folded in again, hand to hand, eye to eye, as malleable as molten iron. He twisted them in turn through the looking glass, one for the other, before sealing the gap between them, and then he clapped his hands, and smiled, and sat back to admire his work...

Somewhere, he knows, the devil’s laughing.

And he’s laughing with him...

A/N: And so there you have it...chapter one.

Since I’ve read this over a number of times and am somehow always able to find grammar mistakes, please don’t hesitate to correct me on anything. Having said that, reviews are lovely, but I’ll continue writing this regardless of what happens. It’s my little home away from home as I continue weeding out the kinks in Tanz der Vampire fic...

Hope you enjoyed!

Dissolution

ladyofpride — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 03:50:40 GMT

A/N: This is what happens when I let my muses out for a little fresh air. They hijack my computer and either play Tetris or mess around with my brain children.

My apologies...

Title: Dissolution
Rating: R (?)
Warnings: sex and a hint of dub-con; use of human-nation names
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Hetalia.
Side-note: The snippet begins sometime after the American Revolution, just prior to Canada's own independence, and ends directly after the nation becomes a 'dominion' (which first included Ontario, Quebec, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia before all our other provinces/territories made a home for themselves and jumped aboard the bandwagon).
Side-note #2: I don't hate England. At all. Seriously, I'm Canadian, and I like the Brits, and I actually really like Arthur's character, but my muses were in one of their moods, and, well... My sincerest apologies. (England isn't evil!)
Pairings: one-sided England/Canada; hinted America/Canada

If he had to be honest with himself, he wishes he was anywhere but here.

—'a man of propriety, you know. Unlike his brother'—

He doesn't have to strain himself to hear the spite in their voices. Bitter. Presumptuous... Some things never change. England is a gentleman in many ways, but his people are too old for their own good. They've grown to think they know it all, that there's nothing that can surprise them.

This world is full of little people...

—'will always be rewarded. The Loyalists are'—

Cowards?

He often wonders...

There's still a part of him that believes he didn't try hard enough to hear Alfred out, that perhaps there was something else he could've said or done to keep the peace between them. The American Revolution is over now but no one's really won.

How long will it take them to realize that?

And Francis...

...Betrayed him again, first for his sugar colonies and now for Alfred. Matthew can't find the strength enough to feel surprised. Was the man hoping to see his son ravaged?

Was he really worth so little?

—'absolutely charming'—

—'quiet. Knows his place'—

—'not the least bit like'—

His brother.

...He misses his brother.

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

He doesn't travel often. Not across the sea. Not to Arthur. His people are still trying to bud beneath the fields of the ice and snow. Their time will come someday, he knows, and then perhaps he'll amass to something.

...Maybe.

Arthur finds him after the banquet, still somehow taller by half an inch, even after the beating he took from their brother. Even so, he pales in comparison to way Alfred seems to loom over everyone.

Somewhere along the line, Alfred had burst through the seams, ever-growing—ever-lusting— over power and land, and Canada foresees no end to his brother's obsession of stretching himself far beyond his limits. His cities will burn before the goliath that is America sees reason, and even then, maybe not...

Canada has been privy enough to witness both sides of his brother in action. The sinner and the saint. It is for this reason alone that he can't hate him without remembering that he loves him.

Compassion has always been his greatest weakness.

He genuinely misses him, none the less.

Here, in England, he is an ornament. England's colony. England's companion. England's hand in the New World. Matthew is but an extension of something bigger—something 'greater'—than he could ever hope to achieve. He has land and an abundance of common sense, but his growth is stunted by the walls they've built around him and he's beginning to feel suffocated by the way these men and women leer at him like a prize well-earned.

Vaguely, he wonders if he'll ever be free.

Arthur's gentle touch on his arm is the close to their evening. They pardon themselves from the hostess and leave without another word.

Matthew's world feels hollow.

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

When Arthur fucks him, it's without resentment or hate. Though he had never touched Matthew before Alfred left, he is as gentle and as considerate as anyone could ever expect him to be, an honest surprise considering how much Matthew looks like his brother.

For this, at least, he is thankful.

He watches the way Arthur screws his eyes shut as he rocks above him, pinning him down only hard enough to let him know that he's staying until they're finished. And when he reaches the pinnacle of his pleasure, head bowed, lips hovering close to a kiss, Matthew tightens his legs around his narrow waist and they ride it out together. Throats on fire. Screaming like the damned.

Matthew would tear down this house if he had the power.

Then he'd tear down Alfred's too, for good measure.

He's reeled back into reality by the heavy weight on his chest. They detach from one another and he collapses on the ruined sheets.

Outside the window, the stars are shining.

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

When he wins his own independence, the Dominion of Canada has a private audience with his brother. Upon request, of course, otherwise he would've avoided Alfred altogether.

Alfred sizes him up when they finally meet and it's either longing or fear that flashes across his face before he can compose himself again. It's almost enough to break Matthew's heart, but he hides his pain behind his hand as he brushes his bangs out of his eyes, and goes on pretending like it was never there to begin with.

There'll be a time for that another day...

The hand that clasps Matthew's is firm but genial. The smile is genuine.

It feels nice.

"Congratulations, Mattie."

...He thinks, perhaps, they can start from scratch.

...

"Thank you."

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

A/N: ...I don't know what this is. I've been drafting a longer story but part of me just needed to vent. I apologize for splattering this across your computer screen.

*bows head*

The Grinch who stole...never mind

ladyofpride — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 01:57:08 GMT

Title: The Grinch who stole...never mind
Giftee: skysurfer12
From: ladyofpride
Type: fic
Rating: Pg-13/R
Pairing: Casey/Chuck
Spoilers: Season 1 through to the end of Season 3. Ellie knows.
Disclaimer: I totally wish I owned ‘Chuck’. Do you realize what kind of adventures I’d have them go on? Lol...
Notes: Having not written for this fandom in a long time, it was quite refreshing to return to my OTP’s usual banter. I hope you enjoy it, darling!
Beta: insane_science8 (thank you, so much—I know you’re not a slasher).
Summary: This is the facetious tale of how Colonel John Casey almost stole Christmas...

“You need a tree.”

A grunt.

He swings his legs over the arm of the chair and dangles his head back over the other side to give the big man a smile. “I think that’s the first ambiguous grumble you’ve ever given me. Should I classify it under ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

Kicking off his shoes, jacket slung over one shoulder as he marches through the door, Casey gives him ‘the look’, the one that implies Chuck should already know about his thoughts concerning the usual annual festivities (‘and the morons that celebrate them’).

“No? Okay then...how about some lights? Or perhaps a little garland?”

“The only greenery allowed in this house is the bonsai, Bartowski.”

Ouch, his surname.

Casey is standing his ground.

“Come on, big guy—Ellie already thinks you must’ve brainwashed me into moving in with you. It doesn’t look as though anyone lives here...” He glanced pointedly at the new portrait of Ronald Reagan hanging on the wall in front of Casey’s hidden gun locker, which was, perhaps, the most vibrant thing in their abode. There was really nothing here that suggested their apartment was inhabited by anyone that wasn’t a robot. Casey’s habits borderlined on OCD at times...

“Somehow, I think a lack of Christmas decorations is the least of her problems.”

Chuck winced.

To be honest, his sister found it rather hard to comprehend that her baby brother was leaving his relationship with the goddess that was Sarah Walker for their seemingly insane neighbour. But as upset as she was ( ‘Robbing the cradle, don’t you think? —No offense, Chuck, but I’m pretty sure Reagan had him ‘fighting the good fight’ when you started playschool.’), she was beginning to warm up to the idea. Casey was a spy, after all (one that could keep Chuck in line on a good day and save his hind when he ran into trouble), and Chuck knew it would put her mind at ease if he could find a way to prove to her that Casey was, in fact, a human being.

Though, it certainly didn’t help that Casey allowed Chuck to have absolutely no influence on how he ran things. Whatsoever.

“...What about mistletoe? You like kissing me, don’t you?”

Casey frowns a little—but only because, yes, he does in fact like kissing Chuck, which is probably the only reason he leans down to peck him on the lips before heading straight into the kitchen.

Chuck bristles.

“Oh, come on! You have no idea how depressing it is walking into Ellie’s house and seeing all the holiday cheer. She’s like Mrs. Claus. But younger...and married to someone other than an old man.”

The insult falls on deaf ears. Casey goes about his business pulling ingredients from the fridge.

“Casey...?”

Still no answer.

“You’d like it,” he says in his best sing-song voice ever, “I promise.”

Casey rewards him with a laugh—which dies as soon as he turns to the sink to run a little water for his pasta. Tied to the tap is something green.

“Chuck, what the hell?”

“Do you know what that is?”

The man graces him with a grunt.

Chuck smiles.

Doing his very damndest to sneak up to his boyfriend, Chuck stops a step short of the man and waits for Casey to turn around before pecking him innocently on the lips.

“Mistletoe?” Casey asks incredulously.

“Yep.”

“Doesn’t it have to be hanging to work?”

“Maybe...” Chuck murmurs before sneaking in another kiss. Casey rests a hand on his lower back to draw it out a little longer, and they part with a heart-warming smack. “Now, don’t tell me you didn’t like that.”

“Hm... It has its merits.”

“And?”

“I still don’t see it hanging.”

“Well,” Chuck sighs, “if we’re already making out before we’ve given it a chance to work its magic, what do you think you’ll get once it is above our heads?”

Casey’s eyes darken, fixating on Chuck’s lips before he steals another kiss. “Is that a promise?”

“Only if you’re nice,” Chuck hums, leaning back gently in Casey’s embrace so he can trace the buckle of the man’s belt. “I don’t reward the naughty.”

“You weren’t saying that a week ago.”

Chuck slaps him gently on the stomach. “Come on, you usually like it when I’m happy—I’m bouncy and energetic, and we end up have fantastic, mind-blowing sex until the crack of dawn... Don’t you want me to be happy?”

Casey looks thoughtful for a moment.

“And I promise to do whatever you want under the mistletoe.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Absolutely.”

Casey kisses him again. “Then we’re probably going to need a lot of mistletoe...”

~*~*~*~*~

3 a.m. and Casey collapses next to Chuck rather than on him, hot and tired and entirely too smug for a man his age considering the extent of his stamina. Chuck isn’t complaining, though.

Tied to the headboard is a small bundle of mistletoe.

“Any other requests?” Chuck gasps after he’s given a chance to catch his breath, but, wow, he’s really not complaining.

Casey shakes his head and presses a kiss to the corner of Chuck’s lips, briefly eyeing the culprit of this whole affair before sighing contentedly. “So...a tree, huh?”

Chuck nods. “Yeah, a tree.”

“And garland?”

“Uh-huh.”

“...And mistletoe?”

Chuck smiles. “And mistletoe.”

Just as long as he got his Christmas.

The Devil's Consort - Chapter 1

ladyofpride — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 03:16:51 GMT

A/N: I want to thank you all for the wonderful feedback, especially valancystar, who is a wonderful sounding board and fellow fan. Spread the love, everyone! Let’s reignite the TdV flame of the English-speaking community...

Title: The Devil’s Consort
Fandom: Tanz der Vampire
Pairings: Herbert/Alfred (human), implied Alfred/Sarah, and a hint of von Krolock/Alfred
Rating: Nc-17 overall
Disclaimer: The heart of the musical resides in Vienne, though the plot itself belongs to Polanski.
Warnings: Homoeroticism and vampirism... although, perhaps to a greater extent than that of the musical (movie).
POV(s): Predominantly Alfred and Herbert, although I might sneak in something from von Krolock along the way.
Format: Chaptered
Spoilers/Timeline: Takes place following the end of the musical, supposing Alfred manages to escape Sarah’s bite... Also supposing he doesn’t quite escape von Krolock’s company.
Summary: Once again a prisoner of von Krolock and his kin, Alfred prays to the God that they all claim is dead...

~*‘Our nightmare is over now...’ –Alfred (Draußen ist Freiheit – the reprise)*~

~Chapter One~

The first thing he discovers when they stop for a breath—when she collapses into his arms like a lifeless doll—is that his darling Sarah is suddenly unbearably...cold.

He brushes the pale exposure of her skin, tracing her shoulder with his thumb, and marvels at the absence of warmth. Absolutely nothing...as though she was made of stone...

As though she was dead.

Head resting in the crook of his neck, panting heavily against his skin, Sarah eases her meagre weight into Alfred’s trembling arms and murmurs something comforting about the woods and the mountains; about the freedom they could find here, outside, where there is no one to stop them. The world, she whispers, is waiting for them just beyond the horizon, where they can spend an eternity together if he wants to, doing exactly as they please.

Alfred is enchanted by her sweet voice; her soft caress...but he is suffering from the sensation of something sordid crawling around beneath his skin, festering there like an infection that has finally taken hold. It creeps into his lungs, good and chilled, before spreading up to the crown of his head, settling there like a fever not easily broken.

The euphoria of having escaped the castle together with her and the professor is beginning to fade.

“Sarah?”

“Alfred,” she breathes, lifting her dainty hand to cradle the side of his face. She nudges his chin up with the bridge of her nose and kisses his adam’s apple, so startlingly uncharacteristic of the girl he once knew that it forces him to freeze in place, simply holding her, as if he’s crossed the threshold and can’t find the strength to turn back. He’s her puppet now, and she’s pulling his strings. “You’re too good to me, Alfred. Stay with me, Alfred...”

Alfred. Alfred. Alfred...

He’s never heard her say his name so many times before.

He glances over his shoulder to check up on the professor. The man already has his little notebook in hand, scribbling away fervently, as though he’s finally found the Holy Grail of his studies. The sight is distressing, despite its familiarity—just another reminder that Abronsius is more interested in the science behind life and death than the actual importance of the two.

For one so old and frail, Alfred is truly surprised that Abronsius has so little respect for the emancipation of the immortal. How many times has he nearly frozen to death in the snow? How many perils has he thrown himself into with the pomposity of a mythological paladin? The man is certainly lucky to still be alive. Why, only last win—

His breath hitches in his throat as Sarah suddenly presses herself decisively closer. A perfect fit.

Alfred blushes.

“P-professor Abronsius...”

“Not now,” the older man mumbles. “A moment, if you please.”

“But—”

“Don’t bother with him,” Sarah chuckles, fisting the front of his tawdry frock coat, leaning heavily into him, practically clawing... The lapel tears as she pulls him down to his knees, the snow soaking through his leggings, before crawling into his lap. “We could have the world, darling.... We’re free now, you understand? Absolutely free...”

“Not really,” he murmurs sheepishly.

Sarah laughs, high-pitch and louring, not too unlike the other vampires Alfred had seen at the ball, flouncing about with their rotting fans and putrescent appeal—so purulent in comparison to von Krolock and his son. She resumes kissing his neck as he tries to crane his head away, shoving him over the moment he leans too far back—and then she straddles his lap like a lover, spreading her hands over his trembling stomach, savouring the sensation, as if this is the most natural thing in the world...

Alfred stops breathing for a moment.

Smiling, she pats his chest gently, once, before lifting her hand high above her head. She tears his collar in one clean stroke, nicking his throat with her extended nails, and finally pounces on him, fangs bare, before he has a chance to squirm away.

Alfred gasps in pain, a delayed reaction, and thrusts the palm of his hand under her chin before her teeth can meet their mark, his carotid artery—the only figurative thread of life that matters to him at the moment, despite the fact that there are other vampires chasing them, as well as Koukol, and the wolves...

Abronsius throws his book at her.

Sarah squeals in surprise, head jerking back as he nails her in the nose. Alfred’s face is subsequently flecked with coagulated blood as she raises her hands to shield herself, a brief opportunity that Alfred eagerly exploits to shove her bodily off his waist.

“Not a moment of peace!” Abronsius hollers. “Not so much as a breath before the disease takes hold! You see that, my boy?! Hm—you see?!”

Confused, Alfred wastes a second or two gawking at the professor before scrambling to his feet, away from where Sarah is sitting in the snow, fussing over her broken nose. “I...what?”

“Chagal took longer.”

‘Chagal took longer’...took longer to...to...

‘Die,’ Alfred thinks miserably.

Sarah is dead...

The woman in question hisses venomously as she wipes the blood from her face, rising steadily to her feet, skin practically glowing in the pale moonlight as her eyes fall on the older gentleman... Alfred knows that stance—that stare—and what it means for the professor if he doesn’t do something soon.

Alfred lunges.

Sarah catches the professor first.

Jolted, Abronsius loses his balance in the snow, arms wind-milling comically before together he and Sarah tumble headlong through the trees, down the steep incline toward the make-shift road. Alfred reaches out for the old man futilely, fingertips brushing Abronsius’ coat sleeve before both of his companions disappear into the maze of coppice and evergreens...

Alfred staggers after them, tripping over an extended root before landing painfully on his knees. They vanish ahead of him into the darkness, seemingly consumed by the night, as he stares on in disbelief.

“Professor...” he murmurs.

“...They will live, Alfred.”

He nearly screams.

Turning is difficult in his position, and he twists his left knee in the process, but Alfred eventually finds his balance in the snow and takes a calculated step back. Any chance he has of escaping is slim, seeing as the sun is still an hour away from rising, but there’s still a small part of him—the source of his naivety he supposes—that continues to hope against all hope that someone will come to save him.

Frantically, he wonders if he should just dive after Sarah and Abronsius and be done with it...

“She was close,” Krolock remarks quietly, gaze falling on Alfred’s throat. There’s a gleam in his eye that betrays his baser urges, like a dying man that’s finally found water.

“But...but she didn’t...”

“No,” Krolock agrees, “Not yet, anyway.”

Trembling, Alfred covers the puncture wounds with his hand, the extent of his defensive abilities at the moment, but the simple gesture is enough to propel Krolock into action and the man takes a long stride forward, closing half the distance between them before the Count can compose himself again.

Fidgeting, Krolock flattens out the front of his vest with his hands and finally lifts his gaze to Alfred’s eyes. “Anther sip, I think, will do the trick.”

“But you—”

Krolock lifts his hand, a gesture that demands absolute silence.

Alfred’s voice abandons him completely. He can’t look away.

“There is something you must understand about this hunger, Alfred—that it is insatiable...eternal. Sarah only managed to whet my appetite, and I’ve already promised you a place in the greater scheme of things, so please...relax.”

Relax...

Alfred feels faint.

Speckles of colour and light dance across his vision as he collapses, but he doesn’t hit the ground. There are arms around him, supporting him, tugging his ruined collar farther open as a greedy mouth descends upon his wound, lapping at the dried blood, murmuring something about eternity and the many wonders he will find there...

There is a voice in the distance that is calling his name...

Krolock doesn’t move.

Alfred tries to lift his head, to search for the source of that voice, but the task is almost too much for him to manage in this state and his throat remains exposed. Krolock continues to hold him, like a marionette, and turns to greet the newcomer, talking in low, gentle tones, as if trying to pacify the stranger.

Vaguely, Alfred wonders if he’s been saved.

He continues to listen to the conversation—or tries to, in any case, because suddenly he finds himself drifting away, arms and legs being rearranged as he’s handed off to someone else. And then he’s flying—or at least it feels as though he’s flying, because the wind is whipping through his hair and the world is turning beneath him. There is only darkness here and the soothing silence that comes with the deepest of slumbers...

His thoughts wander to Sarah and Abronsius as the shadows steal him away. He thinks of sunrise and of warm, breathing people—hundreds of thousands of them, altogether, far away from this strange, open land. Out there—somewhere—is his freedom, and he’s determined to find it, to free himself from this castle; this place...

Against his better judgement, Alfred surrenders to this darkness.

And it welcomes him.

~*‘God is dead...’ -Graf von Krolock (Gott is tot)*~

A/N: Wow...this thing took forever to write. I’ve edited it so many times this far that I really won’t be insulted or surprised if you tell me I’ve left a mistake (or if something, more or less, sounds odd).

Thank you for sticking with it to the end of chapter one, though. ;)

Disenchanted - (Tanz der Vampire)

ladyofpride — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 05:27:20 GMT

A/N: I apologize if you’re getting a little sick of my posts. I just get so lonely with just the small morsel of Herbert/Alfred fiction out there on the internet... *curls up into a ball*

Title: Disenchanted
Fandom: Tanz der Vampire
Pairings: Herbert/Alfred; implied Sarah/Graf von Krolock; unrequited Alfred/Sarah
Rating: R-ish
Disclaimer: The Austrians (Germans?) must be duly credited with creating this stunning musical—Roman Polanski gets props for coming up with the plot, though.
Warnings: Herbert and homoeroticism come hand in hand, so I’m pretty sure that’s a given... Maybe a hint of dub-con, but I think it can easily be seen as indifference.
Starring: Whoever you want, but personally I prefer Kamarás Máté as Herbert and Aris Sas as Alfred (or Lukas Perman, because that boy is fast becoming another favourite...).
Spoilers/Timeline: Takes place following the end of the musical.
Summary: The heart trembles where the soul fears to tread...

Cold lips worry his throat as he turns his gaze on the starless sky. The nocturnal fays have long since been obscured by a brumal storm, snow and ice glancing off the windowpane as the mortal world goes on sleeping, ignorant in its bliss—much the same way he was before embarking on the Professor’s journey... Alfred thinks back to warm hearths and gentle laughter, and wonders solemnly how long it’s been since he first stumbled across the threshold into von Krolock’s eternal kingdom.

Too long, perhaps.

Sarah is out there, somewhere, roaming the benighted world as a harbinger of darkness. Alfred knows that she’s still alive—still animate—in the way the Count sometimes gazes out the windows of his athenaeum fondly. She’ll come again, Alfred knows, to be reunited with her dark lord and saviour, but not before she has done his bidding, spread his disease, like a rat that carries the plague. Only then will she be happy...

“You’re distracted,” Herbert huffs indignantly, the fingers of his right hand ghosting over the buttons of Alfred’s shirt, plucking them open, one by one, with an unnatural grace. Alfred has become quite familiar with this dance and stops his own hand, mid-flinch, from grabbing Herbert’s wrist.

Instead of giving in to annoyance or disconsolation, he sides with indifference and moves his arms a little so Herbert can slip off his shirt. Then he lies back on the mattress as the viscount straddles his hips, briefly fascinated by the golden strands of Herbert’s hair, glimmering in the candlelight, as he tries to forget about the book he was looking for when he originally wandered up here.

“I’m thinking of Sarah,” he admits quietly.

If Herbert hears him, he doesn’t give any indication that he cares. Instead, the viscount ducks his head to steal a kiss, and Alfred simply allows himself to be enchanted, just this once, because thinking of Sarah is starting to wear away at his sanity and he’s tired of wondering where he went wrong...

“Mon cheri,” Herbert murmurs tenderly and Alfred just goes along with it, welcoming both the bitterness of his pain and the succulence of the pleasure that follows shortly after. Intoxicated; bewitched. A tiny voice in the back of his mind even goes so far as to suggest that this is okay, and he gives in to it; simply lets himself go. It can be divine, really, when he wants it to be, because Herbert’s been at this for centuries now and because it hurts in such a way that Alfred can almost forgot he’s no longer human.

When he cries out, it’s Herbert’s name that falls from his lips. A small surprise, but it’s this tiny detail that earns him the extra bit of care the viscount sometimes forgoes in the better interests of his own gratification: an afterglow that’s pleasant. It doesn’t matter much to Alfred, really, but it sometimes makes him wonder if the dead really are capable of love—that maybe if Sarah truly loves the Count, there’s still hope for him yet to find someone of his own...

“Oh, Alfred...” Herbert whispers softly, so happy and content—and conceited, as though he knows something Alfred doesn’t. “You’ve become disenchanted, haven’t you? Sarah’s lost her charm.”

Alfred tries to ignore the finger tracing idle patterns on his shoulder, but Herbert pulls him in close, under the warmth of the dusty duvet, and eventually he has to swat it away.

“I wasn’t seduced.”

“I know.”

“...I loved her.”

Again, quite smugly: “I know.”

Alfred feels like lashing out at Herbert for making him feel so small; so easy. But he doesn’t—because he never has and he never will. He died a love-struck boy, always quiet and polite, and he’ll remain in that perpetual hell until Sarah puts an end to him.

“You’ll see eventually,” Herbert sighs, almost as though it’s a promise, “...and then together we’ll make you scream the house down.”

“No.”

“We will.”

“I loved her...”

He did.

“I know,” Herbert says again, and Alfred can almost hear the smile in his voice—because Herbert really does know and so does Alfred.

He loved her—truly, honestly, loved her—more than she could possibly understand...

But not anymore.

A/N: I’m not exactly the best at endings, so I apologize if it feels like a sudden jerk...

In any case, thanks for reading—I hope you enjoyed it! ;)

(PS: If you see any grammar mistakes, please don’t be afraid to tell me. I hate them... They must be eradicated!)

The Devil's Promenade

ladyofpride — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 06:09:26 GMT

A/N: I felt bad for poor Alfred after writing ‘Appetence of the Dead’, so I decided to put together something milder... The bad guys still win, though. Surprise, surprise...

Title: The Devil’s Promenade
Fandom: Tanz der Vampire
Pairing: Herbert/Alfred
Rating: Pg-13
Disclaimer: The Germans (Austrians?) are credited with making the beautiful musical, although the plot is, more or less, Roman Polanski’s brainchild. I, on the other hand, own absolutely nothing...
Warnings: Other than homoeroticism (we are dealing with Herbert here...) and general vampirism, I think we’re safe.
Starring: Kamarás Máté (Herbert) & Aris Sas (Alfred) – because they rule my world...*happy sigh*
Spoilers/Timeline: Takes place during the ballroom scene when Professor Abronsius and Alfred make one last, vain attempt to save that fool of a girl, Sarah... *grumble grumble*
Summary: “Welcome,” the Count murmurs eventually, smugly, as though he had always known this moment was coming. Truthfully, he probably did.

Silently, Alfred screams.

“Enjoying the music, mon cheri?”

Alfred chokes on his answer. The dance has taken him to the other side of the room, far from the object of his desire, and now Herbert is sidling up beside him, slipping an arm tenderly around his waist as he yanks him off the crowded floor. Alfred loses his dreadful wig in the process (watching as one of the Count’s unholy guests unintentionally gives it a hearty kick back into the din) before turning to glance briefly at Sarah, hoping vaguely that she will finally see that he has come to rescue her.

...But she doesn’t.

Interesting enough, no one really seems to notice him. All eyes are currently glued on Graf von Krolock and his stunning escort, the ever-fair Sarah, practically glowing, Alfred’s one true lo—

“You’re not even listening,” Herbert whines, giving his side a decent squeeze. Alfred nearly squeals in surprise.

“I think the Professor is looking for me,” he says instead, scanning the room for his old companion, hoping against all hope that somebody else hasn’t subdued his mentor much in the same way Herbert has simply thwarted him. Sarah’s liberation might depend entirely on Abronsius if Alfred doesn’t find a way out of this situation soon... “Wait, how did you know it was me?”

Herbert rolls his eyes, seemingly unimpressed. “I saw you when I waiting for my turn at the spinet. At first I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to dress as atrociously as old Corvinus, but then I realized his wife was looking for him and voila, here you are. Surprise, surprise...”

“You...don’t sound too happy.”

“A win is a win, I suppose, but I would’ve much preferred to have found you sometime later, alone, where we could’ve enjoyed ourselves a little in privacy before your initiation.”

Alfred’s mind nearly goes blank. “...What?”

“You know,” Herbert whispers coyly in his ear, “Your ‘initiation’...I’m going to bite you, silly.”

That much Alfred was clear on. “I’m sorry, but I’m still caught up on the ‘where we could’ve enjoyed ourselves’.”

“Oh,” he sighs, “Sex, mon cheri...but as soon as father is finished parading his little tart around the room, the family will have his permission to take a strip out of you. I wanted to make it special, but I suppose this will have to do...”

“Wait, you can’t—!”

“Shh!” Herbert hisses suddenly, gesturing his arm vaguely to something beside the main entrance where everyone else has apparently turned their attention. Alfred cranes his head to catch a glimpse of Sarah struggling in the arms of the Count, von Krolock’s face buried in her neck, body trembling as the reality of the situation finally dawns on her. Her eyes find his across the ballroom floor, wide and frightened, like a lamb at slaughter, pleading for him to save her...

Not far from Sarah, the Professor hollers indignantly as two of the ancient vampires take him by the arms, hoisting him up off his feet where he kicks futilely at the air like an ill-tempered child. The old man cries Alfred’s name in warning before his naive assistance feels a familiar prick against his foolishly exposed neck—only this time Alfred doesn’t have a good book to stuff into that horrifyingly gaping mouth. He should’ve known Herbert was going to take advantage of him as soon as the opportunity presented itself, just like he should’ve known trying to save Sarah was a losing battle...

Shocked, Alfred jerks once in surprise as Herbert sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh of his vulnerable throat—the pain is sharp and brilliant through the haze of his disbelief.

It hurts worse than he was expecting.

Voice having abandoned him, all he can manage is a soft gasp as Herbert pins him to his chest, draining the very essence of his life force as fondly as a mortal man kisses his lover; so sickly sweet that Alfred’s stomach turns. He feels faint.

Frightened, he tries hard not to think of what this new immortality means for him.

Over Herbert’s shoulder, he can see the apparent disappointment of the other guests as they stop to watch the scene unfold, jealousy shining brightly in their eyes—somehow they terrify him more now than they ever did before, when he saw them crawling their way to freedom from the grave, the unholy and the undead having risen, like hell on earth, like...

Dimly he realizes Herbert is laying him out on the cool floor, still draining the blood from his tender neck as the vampire’s father guides Sarah carefully across the room. Flushed, she gazes down at Alfred almost apologetically—turning her face away suddenly when they’re eyes meet, as though she’s too ashamed to look. Haughtily, von Krolock stares at him with a vague sense of intrigue, tilting his head to one side as he studies Alfred’s pale figure, Abronsius still screaming somewhere in the background as though he thinks his curses will actually save them...

“Welcome,” the Count murmurs eventually, smugly, as though he had always known this moment was coming. Truthfully, he probably did.

Silently, Alfred screams.

The Appetence of the Dead

ladyofpride — Sat, 06 Nov 2010 04:25:14 GMT

Title: The Appetence of the Dead
Fandom: Tanz der Vampire (The Fearless Vampire Killers)
Pairing: Herbert/Alfred, and minor Graf von Krolock/Alfred
Rating: Mature (Nc-17)
Disclaimer: The musical belongs to the Germans and the original plot belongs to Roman Polanski. I own absolutely nothing.
Warning: Well...smex, hypnotism, and angst (since Alfred obviously loves Sarah and doesn’t want to sleep with anyone else). Non-con/Dub-con too since this story somehow progressed down that long and winding road...
Starring: Kamarás Máté (Herbert) & Aris Sas (Alfred) – because Máté’s “Wenn Liebe in dir ist” rules my world...and you have to admit, it’s rather hot watching a vampire Máté trying to seduce a exceptionally nervous (and straight) young man---namely Aris. ;)
Spoilers/Timeline: Takes place following the end of “Wenn Liebe in dir ist” had Professor Abronsius not *ahem* interjected when he did to save Alfred from Herbert... (Follow the link to see Kamarás Máté and Aris Sas in the performance together, but make sure you watch it to the very end of the video (if you don't understand German, just tell me and I'll give you the lowdown): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSChnQ2aDE8 – Oh, and be prepared for the screaming fangirls in the background. They’re fairly loud...)

“Neeeeeeeeeeeein!!!”

A puff of cold air against his neck, tactfully blowing a stray hair out of the way—vampires don’t breathe, of course, but they can talk and sing, so Alfred really doesn’t find it all that surprising that they can still utilize their lungs. It’s fascinating actually, although Alfred’s appreciation of this discovery is diminished by the fact that he’s seconds away from being on the receiving end of those abdominally long fangs, the ones currently pressing into his delicate throat...

Oh dear God.

He’s going to die.

“You’re trembling!” Herbert exclaims, not even trying to hide his jubilation. Alfred is far beyond perturbed at the moment—if he didn’t already know death wasn’t going to save him, he would’ve welcomed it, pain be-damned.

“I never tremble!” he retorts, purely on impulse—and then, before Herbert has the chance to mistake this as an invitation to continue, he adds, “Please, just let me go. I taste awful—I’m sure!”

“Oh, I highly doubt that...” Herbert murmurs gently, still straddling his waist, holding dear Alfred’s arms apart. The vampire leans up a bit to look him in the eye, shifting so that Alfred can really feel the pressure on his hips...and then he smiles. “Tell me you love me, Alfred, and I promise not to take a nip.”

Alfred is flabbergasted. “I—what? ...You can’t be serious.”

Herbert just goes on smiling, letting Alfred get a good, hard look at that toothy smile before shaking his head in mock solemnity. “I’m afraid not.”

“But—but I love Sarah!”

Herbert arches his eyebrow so high Alfred is surprised by the honest emotion. “But you already know she belongs to father—who, by the way, has given you to me. Let’s not forget that, shall we?”

“But I don’t even like men!”

“Not a problem,” he replies, almost flippantly. “Most gentlemen aren’t interested in that sort of thing until they’ve given it a whirl.”

Alfred chokes on thin air.

“Oh, don’t do that, Alfred. Come now—I’ll show you. Then you’ll see...”

“Nein!” he cries. “I don’t want to!”

Herbert ‘tut-’s at him as though Alfred’s acting like a petulant child, and then lifts himself up onto his knees, off Alfred’s waist, so that he can pull them both to their feet. Wrists still secured in Herbert’s grip, Alfred digs his heels into the floor when he realizes that the man’s destination is the bed.

“Please, let me go! This isn’t funny!”

“Honestly, Alfred, it’s rather quite enjoyable. I can make you feel simply marvellous!”

“I think I feel marvellous enough in my own bed, thank you.”

“Is that an invitation?” Herbert murmurs coyly. “Because if it is, I think it’s only fair to tell you that this is going to be your new bed after tonight.”

“Nein, please—”

“So polite,” he sighs casually, yanking Alfred forward in the process. He takes them into a spin and twirls Alfred mercilessly until he’s clutching Herbert in a vain attempt to stay standing, dancing them into madness, humming along the way, as the last of Alfred’s courage seeps out into the cold.

After what feels like an eternity, Herbert gradually slows to a halt, humming gently, to deposit Alfred on the edge of the bed. It takes Alfred’s head a moment to clear before he realizes Herbert is looming over him now, leaning in, pushing his shoulders firmly until his back hits the mattress, and then—!

Alfred’s next words are muffled by the kiss; cold, soft lips pressed decisively against his timid mouth, drinking up his cries for help. He can feel the strength draining from his limbs as a sense of frailty settles in the marrow of his bones. This is it, he figures. Herbert is going to...going to take him.

Alfred begins to thrash in earnest.

“Shh, liebling. Shhh... Would you prefer it if I enthralled you?”

“Professor Abronsius!” he hollers, “Professor Abronsius, help! I’m being—”

“Oh, hush!” Herbert snaps as he drops his full weight onto the squirming body beneath him, manoeuvring himself into a better position before Alfred has a chance wriggle off the bed. “There’s no need for that! I put him under a trance a while ago. Father said I could.”

“Professor—”

“Really?” Herbert huffs, but by then he’s locked gazes with Alfred...and suddenly the world isn’t swimming anymore.

...He can’t figure out for the life of him why he was screaming only a moment ago. He’s in a rowboat out on the lake with his father, watching the water ripple as the man takes another powerful stroke. The sun glances off the surface and dances against his face, warm and soothing, a reminder of his childhood, of the days when he was happy and carefree, no vampires to worry about...

He’s bare from the waist up before he’s able to reunite his consciousness with the rest of his body, but already Herbert is in the same state of undress and working on the fastening of Alfred’s trousers as he starts humming that infernal tune again.

“Nein!” Alfred shouts—and he doesn’t know how he can make that word any clearer, he’s said it at least four or five times already this evening. “Why can’t you understand—I don’t want to do this!”

“I think that’s obvious, Alfred, but I also happen to know that your opinion matters little until you’ve given it a try. Who’s to say you won’t like it?”

“I’m saying I won’t like it!”

“Which brings us back to my point—now hold still, mon cheri,” Herbert sighs, catching Alfred’s wrists as he tries to wrestle his way to freedom. “I have to be honest with you, this first part is going to be a bit painful and I don’t imagine you want to be cognisant for that.”

“Professor Abronsius!”

“You’re incorrigible,” Herbert mutters, though it only sounds half-hearted. “But if this is any indication of your usual persistence, I can only imagine how insatiable you be once you get the hang of it.”

“Nein...” he breathes miserably; pathetically. The fight is starting to die in him. “There has to be something else you’d much rather have. You can’t possibly want an unwilling partner...do you?”

Herbert smiles coyly. “For what, precisely?”

“For...bed?”

“For ‘bed’, Alfred? Really,” Herbert ducks his head down into the crook of Alfred’s neck, tongue tickling the dip of his collarbone as he trails it up, up, up to the delicate line of his jaw. And then he brushes his mouth behind Alfred’s ear to take a nibble the, to worry the skin gently between blunter teeth. “Your innocence is intoxicating, liebling. Unsullied. Unspoiled. Unmarred... You’re truly ravishing, Alfred.”

The words, his mouth—both send an involuntary shiver down Alfred’s spine. He trembles as the vampire continues his ministrations, gripping Herbert’s forearms tightly when his host begins to trail his hands up along his sides. So solid and cold, like a statue come to life. Alfred feels as though his soul is vibrating through his skin.

“Alfred,” Herbert whispers against his ear, practically pleading as Alfred’s heart begins its frantic cadence beneath his breast. “Please, tell me you love me.”

Alfred opens his mouth—to say what he isn’t sure, but his tongue is too heavy to form a coherent word and his saliva is thick like molasses, as though he’s trying to speak through syrup. In the end, nothing comes of it, and Alfred continues to quiver beneath this horror, paralyzed with fear, praying that it’s all just a dream.

Herbert’s ponytail brushes against his cheek as the vampire pushes himself up to gaze into his eyes. Alfred senses his consciousness fading again and is only vaguely aware of Herbert’s lips pressing against his own as a cold tongue slips between his teeth, exploring his mouth, tilting his head just so for a better angle...

Suddenly, he’s reminded of Anneliese—blonde curls, blue eyes, and a cute, button nose. His childhood friend and sweetheart. Only five years old, together almost every hour of the day, playing in the field or listening to his grandfather’s fairytales—fables of witches and demons, and the princesses that had to be saved from them; eating sweets whenever they could find them; swimming in the lake when the afternoon heat was too much to bear... cold hands on his thighs, parting them decisively, although he has no recollection of this sensation...

He wanted to kiss her so badly, although he hadn’t known exactly why at the time, and he supposes it was for the best that he never did. It was only a matter of time before consumption corrupted his sweet Anneliese, her little body decaying long before its inevitable voyage to the grave. The memory brings with it his old heartache, Anneliese’s pain—and a sharper pain blossoming somewhere between his legs. Like a strip of lightning racing along his spine, arching up and away but never quite escaping, a new pain now in his hips where someone’s thumbs are hooked to hold him down—and he’s crying aloud, head thrown back, nearly resting his crown against the pillow as he exposes his neck to the stars. Beautiful stars, a maze of constellations, like a fire in his veins, so warm and wonderful, he can hardly believe they’re real. There are hands roaming his sore body, simply holding him down or caressing him, mapping him out like something precious to behold, as another body moves frenetically above him, moaning, writhing, chasing those same constellations...the ones that remind him of Sarah and Anneliese.

‘Careful, now, that you do not lose him to his madness...’

The voice is so familiar...it stirs him from his trance; forces him to open his eyes. There is a third hand cradling the back of his head, its thumb gently stroking his sweat-slicked temple in this brief moment of clarity. Graf von Krolock, guiding his son, a witness of this rape—an accomplice of this rape—and suddenly Alfred hates this creature more than he could possibly hate anyone else, dead or alive—more than the devil; more than the consumption that stole poor Anneliese.

But the feeling is fleeting and when Graf’s unholy gaze falls on him Alfred begins to forget the hand beneath his head, and the eager one spreading his right thigh a little further. He feels the ever-familiar presence rocking into him as though it’s the last thing they’ll ever do, showing him how to kiss the sun before throwing him headfirst into that wicked fire. He’s running, falling, until the last of his consciousness focuses on the gentle prick of his neck where Herbert pierces him with his fangs. Not with the intention to kill, of course, but just enough to set the ball in motion.

Alfred knows it’s over.

Herbert murmurs sweet nothings in his ear as he comes to his senses, sticky with sweat and bodily fluids. His heart is racing so fast he’s still shaking as Herbert lies down beside him, gathering him into his arms, cradling Alfred’s head against his cold shoulder as someone else pulls the covers over their bodies. Only the far candle by the window is still glowing, casting Mephistophelian shadows against the wall and canopy. They dance balefully as another dark figure drifts across the room to the door, ardent eyes boring into him as von Krolock takes one last look before disappearing altogether, a ghost in his own castle, always watching; always waiting...

Alfred clings to Herbert tightly as the man makes an honest attempt to calm him down, still whispering softly, stroking his hair like a lover. And as Alfred eventually drifts to sleep, Herbert promises him eternity—love and eternity and everything in between.

Love and eternity and damnation, Alfred thinks. His weary mind wanders across the dreamscape to find Sarah, Graf, and Anneliese—the shades of his new nightmare—wondering if he’ll ever be happy again. And somewhere Professor Abronsius is still sleeping soundly; and somewhere Sarah is preparing herself for her funeral, so young and naive, and stupid, just like him...

‘Yes,’ he thinks. Just like him.

A.N: I apologize for the non-con—I didn’t start this fic with smex in mind (honestly, I had planned to make it funny) but somehow it ended up that way, and, well...I’m sorry. Please feel free to rant at me about the plot (or grammar—either way, I’m fine with it).

Thanks anyway for sticking with it to the very end.

Bitterly - Part one

ladyofpride — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 05:15:54 GMT

A/N: Here's the next installation of the ‘Villainy’ series, although it’s only Part One for now. The first entry was (Villainy in C Major), followed by (Made in California), (Sweeter than Bliss), and finally (Runaway - Part one).

Also, this update is dedicated to skyesurfer12, who made me realize how badly I missed evil!Casey and who entertained me with one of the most delightful AU fics I’ve read in... well, forever. She does Chuck and Casey justice, and I highly suggestion that you read her fiction.

Title: Bitterly (Part one)
Pairing: Casey/Chuck; UST Chuck/Sarah
Rating: Nc-17
Spoilers: even though the story takes place in an alternate reality, it touches base with many of the episodes concerning Bryce and Fulcrum; predominantly the first season, though, save for the fact that Cole Barker makes an appearance.
Disclaimer: I don’t own “Chuck” *unhappy sigh*…
Wordcount: Part one has approximately 3,300 words
Warnings: AU-ish (Chuck is a CIA analyst, Sarah is still a CIA agent, and Casey is an evil mercenary/NSA agent); more explicit smex; crude language; violence
Summary: Escape is never quite as simple as it seems...

She takes a seat in her quaint little kitchen and tries to clear her mind of all thoughts. Meditate, maybe. It used to work when she was a trainee.

...After a moment she begins to cry, feels the tears welling up in the corner of her eyes and just lets it all out. Her chest constricts as she chokes out a sob. She begins to tremble.

The digital clock on her stove blinks coyly as the minute changes from 3:27 to 3:28am, the most miserable 60 seconds of her entire life. On a night like tonight, when she’s had too much to drink and too little company to share her misery with, Sarah can’t bring herself to pull herself out of a rut. No rest for the wicked, she supposes. After all, it’s only suiting...

She kills men in cold blood. It’s her job—it’s her goddamn duty—but this is certainly different. This was a comrade in arms; a decent guy.

The guilt is killing her.

It’s gnawing away at her insides, some kind of desperate parasite trying to bleed out the last of her remorse. This is her hell on earth; her just dessert. This is what happens when you gun down the people you’re supposed to protect.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen...

Part of her wonders if he’s dead now, a ghost devoted to haunting her until the bitter end of time. There’s a whisper of him in every thought, lingering at the back of her mind as she tries to go about her daily life, pretending, maybe, that she had never met him at all...

Who the hell is she fooling?

Sarah rubs her eyes, frantically wiping away the tears, trying fruitlessly to collect herself in the quiet solicitude of her apartment. She has a plane to catch in five hours. Haiti. She’ll be alone on this one.

She needs the space.

‘But you trust me, right?’

‘...Yeah, of course.’

...Always. He always trusted her, so young and naive, some goddamn analyst who was a little too brave for his own good... He should’ve never come with her to Sao Paulo. Not in her wildest dreams did she ever imagine Casey taking advantage of him like that. He would’ve been better off dead.

And now he’s trapped with the man, doing god-knows-what...

Sarah remembers when she first met Casey, the NSA agent with a carte blanche from the government to do whatever he wanted, whenever he pleased. And he did just that. So long as he came up with dazzling results, the agencies could honestly care less what methods he utilized to complete his missions. John Casey could do no wrong.

And when she ran into him in Kyrgyzstan after a mission that turned quickly sour, with Bryce at the mercy of extremists and her other partner dead, she buckled and asked for his assistance. She didn’t know that he and Bryce had a history. She also didn’t know Casey would threaten to kill them afterwards if he ever saw them again.

But Sarah hadn’t really cared about the particulars. She was a greenhorn herself, a fresh agent in the field, and returning home with at least one of her partners in tow had been all that mattered to her at the time.

And then she ran into him again in Brazil. Chuck had been like her, new to the game but eager to help...

Sarah fought back the next wave of tears and glanced at the clock: 3:29.

An eternity in hell.

God, she missed him.

But she knew the way out. She could find Chuck; set the record straight. Haiti could wait...

And Chuck...She had contacts...She could...

Sarah glanced at the clock.

Still 3:29.

No...Haiti couldn’t wait.

-1-Casey-1-

He wakes just a few minutes shy of the dawn and allots himself a modest morsel of time to simply lie there and think of Roan Montgomery (the legendary Roan Montgomery), the man who had shown him the ropes of Seduction 101 and taught him some of the most backhanded tricks in the book. The fellow had the god-given power to inveigle women with just a few choice words and the right look, and it never seemed to fail. Roan could sack a nun if he wanted her enough.

Casey wouldn’t be surprised if he already had.

All the same, Casey doesn’t envy him.

The curtains are diaphanous and they glow as the sun rises beyond the windowsill. The night’s last chill clings to the room, quiet and soothing, the sole moment of peace in a potentially hectic day, and he takes a minute to bask in the glory. Roan Montgomery might’ve been able to seduce the best of the best, but Casey doesn’t imagine the man has ever savoured a conquest quite as satisfying as this.

Casey leans over to kiss the kid awake before the heat does.

Chuck is still half asleep when he responds, just allows himself to be pulled closer and held. It’s almost easier than training a puppy. Almost. There’s a certain degree of manipulation required for Chuck’s cooperation, and sullying the kid’s picture-perfect image of Sarah Walker is just the beginning. Knowing Walker, business is far from finished between them. And knowing Chuck, the kid’s moral compass is bound to find north sooner or later.

But for now, Casey really doesn’t give a damn.

“What time is it?” Chuck mumbles when their lips part. Casey kisses him again and he can feel the analyst smile against his mouth.

“Don’t know,” he breathes.

“And I don’t suppose you care either.”

It’s Casey’s turn to grin now. Chuck doesn’t realize how close he is to the truth.

“I need to get up.”

Casey slips his hand around to Chuck’s lower back and pulls him closer. He can feel the kid hardening against his thigh. “What’s the rush?”

“Food would be nice. And a shower. I know you don’t mind lying in these sheets all day but I prefer a hygienic lifestyle.”

“But so soon?” Casey inquires. And then he pushes Chuck over onto his back, kisses trailing down his chest and abdomen. He inhales the musk. Feels the kid shudder as he brushes his nose against the hollow of his hip. “I don’t recall hearing you complain about the sheets last night.”

“They were clean when we started...” he murmurs in response.

Coherent sentences. Casey doesn’t care much for those.

He kisses him just below the navel before sinking lower...

One of Chuck’s hands winds itself in his hair and gently tugs him up. “I’m really tired, John.”

Casey pretends not to hear the plea and gives the head of his penis a lick. It sends a chill down Chuck’s spine. “How tired?”

“For an old guy, your stamina certainly frightens me.”

“Remind me to buy you amyl. But really...” Casey asks, letting his breath work on the kid’s sensitive skin, “tired enough to call it a day?”

“Have I ever been able to say no to you?” Chuck replies. Sarcastically.

Casey doesn’t miss the double entendre. “But I can make it worth your while.”

“Oh, and don’t I know it...” The gentle pressure on his scalp lets up and Chuck relaxes again, his free hand fisting the sheets as Casey takes him into his mouth.

Casey let’s his teeth scrape the skin. Not enough to hurt, but it sends another delightful shiver down the kid’s spine. Casey can’t deny that he likes this nervous tension—can’t deny that he’d like to tie the kid up someday either, just lay him down and fuck him into the New Year. He still can’t get Brazil out of his head. Doesn’t think he ever will. You don’t quite forget the first time you have a go around the bend with someone who’s actually worth the effort.

“Oh,” Chuck gasps when he presses his tongue hard against the underside, dragging it up, up, up, tantalizingly slow and languid. He takes the kid deeper into his throat, swallowing as he teases Chuck’s entrance open with a finger. The kid’s still sensitive but he responds positively to the first probing digit by manoeuvring a leg over Casey’s shoulder, stomach muscles taut as he tries to suppress a moan.

Casey works him with a second finger and slides his head up, sucking as he goes. It makes the kid squirm and allows him to fit in a third impatiently before he feels Chuck tensing and clenching in a way that betrays his oncoming climax.

Casey pulls back not a moment too soon.

“John,” he breathes incredulously. The kid’s too polite to push his head back down but Chuck’s fingers wind themselves anxiously in his hair anyway. “Don’t be cruel...”

It’s getting hotter in here. The curtains aren’t glowing so much as they look like they’re burning and Casey would like to get this started before the heat kills the mood.

He pulls his fingers back, watches the kid writhe, and untangles himself from Chuck’s legs so he can reach for the lube on the bedside table.

His cell phone chooses then to ring.

“...I was beginning to wonder if that actually worked,” Chuck murmurs as he watches it hum and glow beside Casey’s wrist. Only a few of his contacts have the number and they know not to use it unless they’re bleeding from every orifice.

Exasperated, he snatches it off the table and flips the goddamn thing open. Chuck actually looks pained at the cell phone’s ill treatment. “You’d better be dying.”

“Well, no...but I think this is about as equally important, Major.”

Casey rests his free hand on Chuck’s knee and strokes the inside of his thigh teasingly with his thumb. Chuck’s still a little hot and bothered but he’s acting rather mellow given how close he was to reaching an orgasm.

“Tell me in ten words or less, or I’m hanging up.”

His contact—Pavel from Kyiv—pauses as though he’s actually counting before mustering a reply. “Dmitri Alekseev is in Paris. He’s killed Mihailova and Titov.”

Casey grimaces.

Mihailova and Titov were on the government’s hit list but they never knew Casey worked for the NSA and had readily offered him their services on a number of occasions. He was well aware that he owed them something in return, even if it was only in their memory.

He supposes it helps that he hates Alekseev’s guts.

“I’m on it.”

“Where are you now?”

He glances at Chuck coyly. “Wouldn’t you like to know...”

“Just call me when you get to Paris, big guy. I can’t speak French worth a fuck.”

“Fair enough.”

Hanging up, he leans forward and gives the kid a chaste little kiss, enjoying the way it flusters Chuck after working him into such a frenzy. “We’ve got to go...”

“If you tell me you planned this, I am never sleeping with you again.”

Casey palms his erection and tries to ignore his own hardon. “Come on, you don’t really mean that...”

Chuck let’s his head drop back and squeezes his eyes shut as Casey begins to stroke him in way of apology. Then he relaxes into it little more. “...No. No, I don’t mean that...not at all...Oh, God...”

“ ‘John’ will do.”

“You egotistical bastard. I hate you...”

Casey kisses the corner of his lips; speeds up his hand as the kid begins to shake. “Really? Because I can stop...”

And he does.

Chuck’s hand quickly covers his own and he opens his eyes. Beautiful brown eyes. “Don’t stop.”

Casey kisses him again and commences with melting his brains. Two more pumps and a well placed twist has Chuck cursing in both English and German as he finds his release—and being the sweet kid that Mr. and Mrs. Bartowski wanted him to be, Chuck’s long fingers find Casey’s cock a moment later, stroking him dutifully in reciprocation.

“Later,” Casey says as he gently removes the hand. He’d much rather get his rocks off inside him than with a little pump-action.

“Where are we going?” Chuck asks hazily, looking just the least bit surprised by Casey’s outright refusal for repayment. It’s such a sexed up look, Casey can’t help but lean in for another kiss.

“Ever been to Paris?”

They’ve been jumping across the globe for a while now—nowhere big, of course, because the States have operatives crawling all over the place. Casey doesn’t want to risk running into Sarah or any of her contacts, despite being the peewee that she is. The woman can be an absolute bitch to shake when she wants to be.

“No,” Chuck mumbles honestly, starting to look a little excited.

“Then I guess this is your lucky day...”

A/N: There’s more, don’t worry. I just have to fix it up a bit more. I literally cut this entry in half before deciding to post it (—so feel free to tell me if I made any grammar mistakes. I hate those...)...

Gehenna - chapter 4

ladyofpride — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 06:35:11 GMT

A/N: I miss Chuck gosh-darnit! Why won’t the 20th come any faster?

Title: Gehenna
Pairing: Casey/Chuck; as well as one-sided Shaw/Chuck
Rating: Nc-17
Previous chapters: chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3
Spoilers: Up to, and including, the Season 2 finale - takes place directly after the S2 finale
Warnings: Some very depressing moments, sexual content, heavy drug manipulation, and possible dub-con
Disclaimer: Chuck, unfortunately, isn’t mine
Summary: Chuck tenses but Casey’s hand is back on his wrist, firm but comforting as the doctor pulls an oxygen mask over his mouth. It sends a jolt of fear down his spine, brief and brilliant through the haze, and then all he sees is nothing.

And it scares him more than anything else ever could.

~*~Chuck~*~

When he dreams of Morgan, he can almost forget he’s in hell.

It’s a welcomed surprise when he finds himself seated at his kitchen table, lucid dreamer, cards in hand, calling “Go Fish” when Morgan asks for a five. Outside the window, the sky is dull and grey. The trees have lost their green. The courtyard fountain is bare.

This is his world without colour.

“You do realize this is what they would’ve done to you years ago,” Morgan says casually as he takes another card from the pile. “I mean, that is if Sarah and Casey hadn’t agreed to let you stay in Burbank.”

Chuck realizes then that he’s nervous. He’s been bouncing his knee under the table up until now and tries to remedy that by steadying it discreetly with his free hand. Somehow, it doesn’t work. “What should I do?”

“Trust Casey, I suppose. He’s always been loyal to the cause.”

“And Daniel Shaw?”

“I’m not sure...” he murmurs. Then he glances over Chuck’s shoulder, frowning in careful consideration. “Maybe you should ask him?”

Chuck turns in his seat, craning his neck to look at Shaw. The man is standing, waiting, quietly on the other side of his couch. Smiling...

“Talk about puberty,” Morgan adds, almost as an afterthought. “I mean, when have your hormones ever been such a mess?”

“That doesn’t help, Morgan.”

“I call it as I see it.”

“He’s right,” Shaw agrees. “But I know how to fix that.”

Chuck blinks. He’s still nervous. “How?”

Shaw manoeuvres around the couch, smooth, liquid fire, like something that shouldn’t be real, and takes Chuck by the hand, pulls him up, leads him down the hallway...

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Chuck murmurs quietly when they slow to a halt outside his bedroom. The light is dimmer here, his room a dark gaping abyss.

The dream is fading.

“Just relax,” Shaw whispers, lifting a hand to cup the side of his face, cold to the touch—but Chuck doesn’t flinch, not even when Shaw leans in to kiss him. Gently.

But then he wakes.

And he remembers there’s no Morgan.

~*~Chuck~*~

He stirs from his heavy slumber covered in sweat, back sticky, hair ruffled and sleep mussed, to the sound of his someone moving around at the foot of his bed. When he opens his eyes to face the day, he’s greeted with the image of one Colonel John Casey leaning over him, frowning in concern, here to deliver his morning medication.

“More pills?” he sighs.

Casey grunts and hands him the Dixie cup. Then a glass of water. Chuck downs everything without hassle buts knows Casey would find a way to toss those pills if he asked—if there wasn’t a camera mounted in the top, northeast corner of the room. They’re expected to behave, and behave they will as long as no one interferes.

He’s been seeing Casey on a daily basis for the last three weeks. Shaw pops up every now and again to play chess or cards, or to talk to him about current events. To the untrained eye, these encounters are rather unremarkable—mundane, one might say—but for Chuck, it accounts for his only genuine human contact since he was institutionalized. The physicians’ concerns lie solely in his physical health; the guards, his immediate safety. But in the company of either Shaw or Casey, he feels a sense of nurturing for what is buried beneath the surface of his ennui.

As Chuck sits up, elbows resting against bent knees, head hanging in exhaustion between his legs, he feels the bed dip beside his hip as Casey takes a seat beside him. It is then that Chuck realizes how odd it is that such an interaction between them is not odd, how he no longer cares for his personal space when doctors or orderlies or company invades it. He used to despise how casually he had been manhandled in the past. Now, it just doesn’t matter.

He pauses a moment as he searches for something to say, but his dream is foremost on his mind and Chuck shifts uncomfortably where he sits, palpitant, as something warm and familiar coils in the pit of his stomach. There’s an uneasiness there, both nauseating and arousing, an old burn he hasn’t felt in quite some time. He is quietly humiliated by the sudden excitation—as though he was young again, gangly and awkward, waging war against his body—and doesn’t dare move from his spot in the fear that Casey might notice, might be disgusted, might leave...

He’s not entirely sure what spurred it on, the imaginary kiss or the inviting heat radiating from his friend, but he tries to clear his mind of both and focuses instead on the sight of Morgan sitting across his kitchen table, cards in hand, trying to devise whether or not Chuck is really holding the five he needed...

“...I need a moment,” Chuck says eventually. He’s able to quash the feeling, slow the blood flow between his legs, but the nausea is persistent and he really needs his space. “I’ll meet you outside in an hour. Okay?”

Chuck can feel the man staring at him. The silence is deafening. His eyes burn.

“...Alright.”

His chest constricts suddenly—he can barely breathe—but Casey keeps his dagger of a tongue behind his lips and leaves him to his peace, alone, tears stinging in his eyes...

He doesn’t care if the camera’s watching him. As soon as the door closes firmly behind his friend, he loses all composure; covers his mouth with his hand, screws his eyes shut tight, tries harder than he ever has before not to cry...

This wave of emotion is too foreign to him now. Chuck can’t imagine how he ever managed it in the past, back when he wore his heart on his sleeve and didn’t care much for what anybody said about him.

He wishes the pills would start their magic already.

...He wishes Casey would’ve stayed.

~*~Casey~*~

He hesitates in the hallway.

The guards posted on either side of Chuck’s door ignore him as he has a ‘moment’, the closest thing to a paralyzing fear that he’s experienced in a good, long time... But he compartmentalizes it exactly as he’s been trained, buries it away in the back of his mind, and the ‘moment’ passes. Just like that. He’s Colonel John Casey again, the master of his emotions, badass and angry to the core.

There’s no room for hesitation in this backward life of his.

He straightens his tie as he paces quietly to the elevator. He rides it up a couple of floors, works his way through the winding maze that constitutes this hell, and eventually finds himself standing outside the door to Shaw’s office. For a second, he’s not entirely certain what he should do. Keeping his cover is his top priority, but watching Chuck’s odd behaviour, how alone and recluse he’s become over the months, is starting to wear away at his nerves and he’s not sure if he can take it anymore.

He wants to kick down the goddamn door...

Instead, he smoothes out the front of his suit and invites himself in.

Either Shaw is psychic of Casey’s timing is off, because the moment he sets foot inside the room his wall screen turns blank. All Casey can catch is a glimpse of Chuck sitting on his bed, hunched over, seemingly frozen in time...

“What’s wrong with him?”

Shaw is visibly startled. He turns sharply to face his guest before smiling somewhat, almost as though he’s been waiting for Casey to ask that very question for a while now, as though this is how he was hoping the whole thing would unravel. His answer of, “Absolutely nothing,” is anything but comforting.

“Bullshit.”

“Not a word of lie,” Shaw assures him, taking a seat behind his desk. “Chuck is right on schedule.”

“That’s Bartowski to you,” Casey snaps. As if Shaw has any idea what kind of person the kid is—as if he’s taken even a moment of his precious time to go and introduce himself, perhaps even explain a little of what’s happening to the poor boy... “And I don’t know who gave you permission to fuck around with his head, but if you don’t s—”

“—Colonel,” he chastises sharply. Still smiling. That smug son of a bitch... “As adamant as General Beckham is to have you on this team, it is well within my powers to have you permanently removed from the premises.”

Casey bites down on his tongue; tries damn hard not to break anything. He can do this.

He can.

For Chuck.

“Explain,” he grunts.

Shaw looks momentarily conflicted, but he takes the win for what it is.

“...This experiment is not my own,” he begins, “but it works, despite how controversial it might seem. It’s never failed before.”

Casey feels like snorting, but he doesn’t.

“Apathy is something Chuck’s neglected in the past—you’ve said so yourself. Your reports are riddled with reprimands for his behaviour despite your obvious pride in his unexpected courage and integrity, and we believe Chuck can be an even greater asset to this country if we can remedy that.”

“You want to cut his hormones off at the knees.”

“No. Quite the contrary, actually. Part of the experiment is to let the subject vent regularly that in a way that is neither violent to the subject himself or threatening to the control the handler has over him.”

Casey wants to make a snide remark, but his stomach sinks at the implications of Shaw’s explanation. He has an inkling of where the man is taking this—has heard this speech too many times before. Phrased a little differently, of course, but it amounts to pretty much the same thing. “...Don’t say it.”

The side of Shaw’s mouth quirks up, just a little, like a proper sociopath. “Sex.”

“I don’t...” Casey feels his mouth go dry. “You’re not...”

“After a little deliberation, we’ve determined that you fit what we’re looking for—you’re old friends, after all, and he trusts you more than he does anyone else.”

“But Sarah—”

“No, not Sarah... If we were to only take his incredibly social nature into consideration, she’d be our first pick, but she’s unpredictable at the best of times and we can’t trust her not to skip town with him if given the chance. No...I think we need someone who’s lacking a woman’s touch, who can be firm with him when the situation calls for it.”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” Casey growls. He hopes it sounds final. “And he won’t want to sleep with me.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge, Colonel. Lately, he’s been given minor stimulates directly before your visits and our research suggests that he’s warming up to you. Just ‘amiable’ I suppose, as you’ve said so yourself, but we plan to increase the dose gradually until you feel he’s ready. I’ll leave the ‘when’ entirely up to you.”

...He feels a little as though someone’s kneed him. Hard.

Casey’s been asked to take a number of bullets for his country in the past, and this would hardly be the first time they’ve ordered him to sexually engage someone of the same gender, but...He doesn’t know how to describe it. This is about the equivalent of asking a guy to bed his little brother.

“And if I don’t sleep with him?” He asks. “Or if he refuses to do it?”

“He’ll do it.”

“You’re asking me to rape him.”

“Colonel,” Shaw sighs, “we already have another candidate picked for the job, so I think it goes without saying that if you’re not willing to do it, he will.”

And that stops him. Cold.

There’s a sharp pain in his chest.

He’s going to be sick.

Shaw is watching him carefully now, fingers steepled over his desk, piecing something together in the back of his mind. “...There’s no shame in telling me you’d much rather withdraw your involvement in this operation. I don’t see why it should be added to your report. You’ve been a great asset to us so far and—”

“You don’t get it...” Casey murmurs. “Do you?”

“Quite frankly, Colonel, I really don’t see what there is to get.”

“He’s not an enemy—he’s a decent person. I’m sure if you talked to him, you’d see that.”

“I know,” Shaw says, “In fact, I believe the Intersect couldn’t have fallen into better hands.”

“Then why the hell are you tormenting him?”

Something flashes in Shaw’s eye but the man doesn’t move a muscle. Casey can’t put a name to it but he’s seen it before, the look a man gets in his eyes when he’s about to die and he’s planning on taking the rest of the goddamn world with him.

“...That’s something I don’t expect you to ever understand.”

...And he could say so many things to that, argue his point a little further, but he’s said too much as it is already and Stephen would kill him if he were to get himself cut off from ever seeing Chuck again. And maybe, just maybe, they can work this to their advantage...

Casey looks down for a moment. Just stares at his feet until he can compose himself.

“...How long do I have?”

“Until Christmas I should think, but we’ll see how things progress.”

A knock on the door interrupts Casey’s next question and Dr. Jewett invites himself, smiling, holding a file of results. Casey hates the weasel of a man but refrains from say anything until the doctor’s excused himself from the room.

“...I take it you’re going to give this a try?” Shaw asks eventually, flipping through the pages.

“To be honest...I would much rather do this than leave it to the hands of a perfect stranger.”

“How noble,” Shaw murmurs, but he’s smiling again and he looks oddly satisfied with his answer, as though he knew all along that this is where their argument would end. “I don’t think I need to remind you that Chuck doesn’t need to know about any of this.”

Casey dignifies him with a grunt.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Mind if I ask one more question?”

Shaw spares him a glance; looks genuinely interested... “Go ahead.”

“Who exactly are you going after?”

There’s that flash again. Casey knows there’s more to it than what meets the eye but Shaw is good at hiding it behind his smile.

“An old foe, Colonel.”

“They have a name?”

“Yes...” He sighs. And then, “...The Ring.”

AN: Wow...I’m really starting to run out of things to say in the author’s note. Just...give me a poke if you see any mistakes or if there’s something else you’d like to say.

PS: I love you (reviewers and non-reviewers alike).

The world without anodyne (Part 1)

ladyofpride — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 21:27:02 GMT

Title: The World without Anodyne (Part 1)
Fandom/Spoilers: The Mentalist
Pairing(s): one-sided Red John/Patrick Jane (implied Patrick/Teresa and somewhat Patrick/Kristina)
POV: Red John
Rating: Nc-17
Warnings: Non-consensual sex and hints of violence (as much as is required to subdue someone). And Red John. He needs a warning all his own.
Spoilers: ‘Red Sky in the Morning’. This is also a companion piece to my other snippet Delirium, although it is not necessary to go back and read it in order to understand this piece. Otherwise, I think you’re safe as long as you know who Red John is and why Patrick Jane is pursuing him.
Notes: Special shout-out to grenegome. It’s her fault I’m hooked on Red John and his strange fascination with Jane. Also—‘anodyne’ refers to anything that relieves (or allays) pain or distress.
Disclaimer: All characters are the sole property of ‘The Mentalist’. The quote at the beginning of this story belongs entirely to Norman Mailer; the end, to Kenneth Langtry.
Summary:

"Crude thoughts and fierce forces are my state.
I do not know who I am.
Nor what I was.
I cannot hear a sound.
Pain is near that will be like no pain felt before." ~Norman Mailer

~*~*~*~

In the wee hours of the morning, another night—another world away from their last encounter, John stands at the foot of Jane’s makeshift bed and watches the mentalist as he sleeps, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the subtle kiss of solicitude above his brow... He wants to claim this blessed silence for his own, but it is neither the time nor the place to break its tranquility. He must be patient.

Red John inhales deeply, matches Jane breath for breath. He is touching Jane without touching Jane, occupying the same room, tasting the same air... They are in perfect harmony with one another.

As they should be.

He feels a sudden thrill at their proximity; struggles to contain himself. Experience has taught him that these things must not be rushed, least of all where Jane is concerned. Jane has grown wise to his ways, has afforded much of his time and effort to dissecting Red John from afar. It would be an insult to fumble his way through this. Such an intimate affair requires grace.

Red John lifts the syringe into the light, inspecting the sedative under the oily illumination of the streetlamps beyond the windowpane. A car passes the front of the house, water sloshing between tire and pavement. Somewhere, a dog is barking.

The world continues to swivel in ignorant bliss.

He taps the glass gently to expel any remnants of air, and then manoeuvres around the mattress until he’s kneeling beside Jane’s head, needle at the ready. A quick jab to the neck and Patrick’s eyes flutter briefly, breath catching somewhere in his throat, a small reminder of the thin line separating life from death...

Jane’s consciousness surrenders to his will.

It is with this simple act that he has begun the delicate process of enlightenment, the slow and sensual extrication of the human psyche. And it is with this act that he welcomes Jane to the fold, to the world outside this world, where the pneuma is free to do what it will, when it will, exactly as it pleases...

Someday, Jane will thank him.

...Someday.

~*~*~*~

“I want him to know and feel pain,
So that when I alleviate it he’ll also know gratitude
...What I create I must control” ~Kenneth Langtry

The will once ceded (Part 1)

ladyofpride — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 05:41:37 GMT

A/N: This fic was written in just a few pieces (which I have to re-read and chop at the appropriate junctures because LJ apparently hates long entries), but since my laptop is in for repairs and I only have part 1 on my USB devise, there will be a short break before the rest is posted (which I plan on posting all in the same day). Also, this is a present for bgeminorum. I hope you enjoy it, my dear.

(Also, I plan on updating everything...just as soon as I can get my head back in the game. Watching season 4 will do us all a bit of good, I think.)

Title: The will once ceded (Part 1)
Pairing: Cole/Chuck, and hints of Casey/Chuck (because how often do I not write them?)
Rating: R
Spoilers: Up to, and including Episode 2x15, Chuck versus the Beefcake
Warnings: violence, torture, language, angst, and UST. This is also an AR fic: bgeminorum challenged me to write a story in which not only does Team Bartowski fail to encounter Cole Barker (who is currently working undercover for MI6 as a Fulcrum Agent), but Fulcrum is able to obtain the microchip from Brad White’s belt containing the identity of the human Intersect...
Summary (AR):

The first time he meets Charles Irving Bartowski, their introduction is brief—Keith and Shelby drop his half sedated body at their superior’s feet and watch in mild amusement as the kid fights tooth and nail to stay conscious.

Agent Acheson, one of Fulcrum’s senior members, fancies the idea that he’s a funny man and rewards their captive’s effort with a swift kick to the head.

Keith tells them that ‘Carmichael’ is the head analyst of the CIA team currently stationed beneath the Burbank Buymore. They caught him after he set off the homing device of the microchip hidden in Brad White’s belt buckle—a microchip rumoured to contain the identity of the human Intersect. Agent White was due to deliver the information to his team when his untimely death cut their plans short, going so far as to let his body slip into enemy hands before he could find another way to deliver the information. For all purposes and intents, it looked as though Fulcrum had failed again.

Tampering with the microchip without the proper equipment led them to Charles Carmichael, posing as a computer technician at the local Buymore and pretending all the world as though he had no idea what either Keith or Shelby were talking about. When they bumped into him again later that evening, out in the parking lot between a truck and a black van, they refreshed his memory with a tranquilizing gun and packed him away for delivery to HQ. As soon as they hit the road, they fished the microchip out of his pocket and savoured, for the first time in a very long time, the sweet taste of victory.

It is a bitter experience for Cole.

When MI6 told him Fulcrum needed to be stopped at all costs, he thought posing as a fellow agent and killing Brad White would do the trick. The Intersect is more than just a compilation of information—knowledge is power, and the power of the US has often been likened to a sleeping elephant. All America has to do is roll over and the rest of the goddamn world will suffocate under its weight. ‘Protecting’ America—for lack of a better word—serves the best interests of both his Queen and Country.

“Do you have any last words?”

The kid looks dazed. Cole’s been standing there in the corner of the room for the last fifteen minutes or so, watching in silence as they beat him senseless. He’s broken a few ribs, his left wrist is swollen, and there are bruises blossoming around his throat where Acheson grabbed him and pulled him to his feet; strangled him, watched his eyes lose focus as he asked him to name everyone at the Buy More working for the government. Now Charles is hanging limply between Keith and Shelby as a gun is levelled at his head. He’s afraid, Cole can tell—everyone can tell—but then the kid asks Acheson if he’s going to kill him and somehow manages to look oddly at peace with the idea when the Fulcrum agent says yes.

“Okay...” he says quietly. “I think I’m okay with that...”

Analysts are rarely—if ever—sent out into the open unless they’re swarmed by army of field agents. They haven’t been trained to withstand torture. Death is welcome to them.

But the kid looks content and that’s about the only thing stopping Cole from stepping in and trying to convince them that they may need him later if the microchip proves to be a dud. As frightened as Charles Carmichael is, the kid knows it’s imperative that he dies, now, whatever his reasons may be.

“If it helps,” Acheson sighs, “most men in your position usually cry. You’ve left us with a good impression.”

Keith nods a little. Shelby grunts in assent.

Out in the hallway, someone is racing toward them, yelling, barrelling past security like a bat out of hell. Cole can see him through the tiny glass window in the door and realizes that this execution needs to happen, hand itching for the gun at his belt, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat... If Acheson doesn’t pull the trigger soon—

But Acheson is just staring at the kid, really staring at him now, as though he’s noticed something he couldn’t believe he missed. “I think Tommy has you on file somewhere. Labelled you as one of Larkin’s acquaintances... If you tell me where he is, I won’t have to shoot you, you know. Believe me, you’ll be doing your country a service.”

“...No.”

“ ‘No’, you don’t know him, or ‘no’, you’re not going to tell me?”

The kid swallows; tries to lift his head a little so he can look Acheson in the eye. “...‘No’, I don’t know where he is.”

“I guess that doesn’t matter anyway. The microchip will tell us—I just thought you might be interested in knowing why we do what we do. You’re supposedly one of the best... Could save the lives of millions if you worked for us... Doesn’t that matter to you?”

The kid shakes his head and let’s it drop again. Cole doesn’t miss the pained expression on his face.

“We’re wasting our time,” Cole mutters, hand still itching. “Shoot him already.”

“Cold, Barker. What’s wrong with a little mercy?”

“It’d be mercy if you shot the poor bastard and put him out of his goddamn misery.”

Acheson frowns at him a little but raises the gun anyway. Cole feels a prickling on the back of his neck as the man squeezes the trigger—

“Stop!”

One of their own analysts, a tiny guy with a shock of red hair, bursts through the door without so much as a warning and stumbles into Cole, eyes wide, entirely too absorbed with Carmichael’s presence as the beaten man lifts his head once more.

“He’s the Intersect!” the little man gasps, holding up a printed photo as proof. “Charles Irving Bartowski...formally known by the agency as Agent Carmichael.”

The colour drains from Acheson’s face as he processes the information. He still holds the gun levelled at the kid’s head but Cole can see the proverbial gears turning, piecing together the kid’s level of security, the number of operations he’s foiled, his ‘acquaintance’ with Bryce Larkin... It all makes sense when you look at it from this angle.

Then Carmichael—Bartowski laughs. It’s a little pained and a little desperate, but it’s a laugh all the same and everyone takes care to pay attention. “Glad to know you got the dud.”

Their analyst purses his lips. “Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Quiet please,” Acheson murmurs. “Both of you...”

But Cole interjects anyway, because this is as good a chance as he’s ever going to get and life is going to be practically hell from this point forward if this development turns out to be true. “That can’t be right. Why an analyst? Just look at him.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, but Cole can feel him watching him out of the corner of his eye. Cole can see the hope and fear all twined together in the sudden stiffness of his spine, the utter silence...

“But look at his track record!” their analyst rebuts. “And look at the lengths the government goes through just for his protection. Agent Casey isn’t exactly known for pea shooting.”

“Protection?” Cole scoffs. Then he looks at Keith and smiles a little. “Be honest, mate—how difficult was it stealing him off the street?”

Keith squints at their captive in consideration. He doesn’t want to say it, but Cole can pretty much read his mind: it was a lucky break. Acheson can see it too.

The senior agent stares at the poor boy for a good long minute...and lowers his gun. “Larkin didn’t have all the time in the world to send the Intersect wherever it needed to be. I can believe that he sent it to someone he trusted, even if that someone is an analyst.”

Bartowski looks horrified. “You don’t understand—you’re wrong! I’m not—”

Their Fulcrum analyst renders any pending argument as moot when he lifts a second photo, this one of a woman on the streets of Paris, trying discreetly to open her umbrella in the rain.

Bartowski freezes midsentence, eyes glazing over as the computer inside his head does its stuff. Keith and Shelby hold him steady until the moment passes. And then Acheson is smiling.

“Let me be the first, Mr. Bartowski,” he says almost reverently, “to welcome you to Fulcrum...”

A/N: ...On a totally unrelated note, I heard Team Bartowski will be battling an individual villain this season instead of an entire organization...Well, they’ll still be up against “evil organizations” in general, but Chuck finally has his Moriarty! Hurray!

I only hope it’s not his mother...

A lover scorned

ladyofpride — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 20:18:40 GMT

A/N: This one’s for ficcingwitch. ;)

Title: A lover scorned
Author: ladyofpride
Pairing: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon
Rating: Pg-13 (I have no idea, sorry...)
Beta: S.J.M., who is an online friend but does not have an Lj account. I apologize if this is not allowed (and will find someone else if you’d like).
Warnings: A jealous Jane. That’s about as best as I can describe it.
Fandom: the Mentalist
Spoilers: No spoilers, really...
Word count: 1,440 words, on the dot.
Summary:

His first clue that there is ‘someone’ is the cologne.

Jane smells it before he hears the gentle tap of Lisbon’s shoes behind him on the linoleum floor. Old. Kind of woody. Not entirely bad... She’s not exactly swimming in it, but the scent is new to the din of their beloved office space and it brushes acerbically against his nerves the same way a flame licks the air. Delicate but severe.

Jane wonders who he is.

“Good morning,” she says, smiling, relaxed. There’s nothing new about her attire and she looks well rested—but it clings to her clothes and Jane knows ‘he’ had to have been close to her, touched her, held her, did to her whatever it is lovers do before work for it to be this strong...

Jane feels a tincture of pressure behind his eyes, the heralding of a migraine. He blames it entirely on the heady fragrance.

“Something wrong?” Lisbon asks—and for a moment Jane wonders when he lowered his defences. The entire team turns to stare at him and he offers a weak smile for their efforts. No use hiding it now.

“A little heavy on the perfume, don’t you think?”

Lisbon blinks and gently turns her head to one side, discreetly smelling her shoulder. Of course she wouldn’t notice it. She’s been hovering in a cloud of it all morning.

She knows about his keen sense of smell and doesn’t hesitate to crack a window. And then she smiles at him again from across the room, brightly. “Better?”

“...Much, thank you.”

But not really.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Jane doesn’t particularly enjoy ruminating on a puzzle that’s already been solved. Such a thing is pointless. As the mystery dwindles on the horizon of enlightenment, charm is sure to follow shortly after.

He likes to refer to this as ‘disenchantment’.

Jane has always had a hungry mind. His peers would call him a knowledgeable man, but it would be foolish of him not to recognize that the more you know, the less you understand. It’s an old proverb, and he sometimes hates how true it is.

He knows his love for his wife will never die, that the chances of finding another woman and starting that pure, unadulterated romance from scratch is about as likely to happen as the resurrection of his other half from the dead, but the yearning remains, the loneliness, the self-loathing—it’s his perpetual hell on earth. He doesn’t understand why he can’t allow himself to be happy again, why he can’t let his demons go, and he doesn’t know whether not the eventual apprehension (and death) of Red John will free him from this guilt.

He imagines it won’t.

And he’s reminded of this when Lisbon comes to work a little dressier. It starts with a darker shade of lipstick and gradually works its way toward a touch more colour in her clothes, hair pulled back, a broader smile... Jane wants to be happy for her—truly, he does—but the thought of her with another man stings and he nevertheless hopes that this mystery man trips up, pushes her buttons, finds himself thrown out the door—and then, maybe, he’ll be happy again.

“Who is he?” he finds himself asking one day—the day the cologne returns—just as she’s finishing up her report. He can tell she wants to leave early today. He overhead her telling Van Pelt that she had somewhere she needed to be tonight.

“Hm?”

“The cologne.”

“Oh...just somebody.”

‘Just somebody.’

Jane’s demons lap up those two little words like fine wine, and he feels a sense of satisfaction swelling in his chest. True lovers do not describe each other as just somebody. It’s a recipe for disaster.

Jane doesn’t need to be a pseudo-psychic to know that.

“Are you busy tonight?”

Teresa watches him carefully, almost as though she thought she knew he overheard her talking to Van Pelt but wasn’t too sure about that now. “...I am.”

“For how long?”

“Pft, a couple of hours? I’m not exactly timing myself, Jane.”

“And afterwards?”

“Not really. Why?”

“No reason...” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Mind if I tag along?”

Lisbon gives him a look that says, ‘Seriously, Jane?’ but she doesn’t openly object. Instead, she leans back in her chair and studies him quietly again. “...Alright. You can come.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude...”

Lisbon’s eyes widen in disbelief. “No, by all means—but you have to promise to behave.”

“Behave?”

“I mean it, Jane. No funny business. Please...”

Jane doesn’t say anything to that, merely turns about-face and leaves Lisbon to her peace.

After closing her office door, though, he allows himself to smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lisbon drives him to an Italian restaurant somewhere uptown and they don’t say a word to each other until they’re in through the door. And then he sees him—the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome Prince Charming of Lisbon’s hectic life. And he smells woody.

Jane has to force this next smile.

“Donald, this is Patrick Jane. Jane—Donald.”

They shake hands like gentlemen should, although Jane has to put a little effort into not outright laughing at the poor man’s name (and not gagging on the smell of his cologne). Donald...really?

“I know I should’ve called ahead, but could we add another seat to our table?”

Donald looks curious but he doesn’t object. “No, of course. The more the merrier, right?”

Jane’s smile is genuine this time.

They’re led to a spacious, little, round booth tucked away in a dimly lit corner. It’s peaceful and quiet and romantic—and Jane doesn’t even feel the least bit bad for intruding. So much so, in fact, that he slides in first so that he can sit between them.

Donald somehow manages not to look peeved.

Teresa must have warned him about Jane.

“So...Teresa tells me you work at the CBI.”

“Yes, as a consultant.”

Donald grins. “I’m also told you’re practically a miracle worker. Is that true?”

“Only when Teresa is leading the case.”

Raising a glass of water to her lips, Jane can tell she’s surprised by the compliment, trying to hide her smile. Jane enjoys spoiling her like this from time to time.

They go on to talk about sports and hobbies and art, and they still haven’t ordered anything yet—and Jane can’t get over how easily the conversation flows. No one’s embarrassed or nervous, and he wonders, in part, if the only reason Teresa let him come tonight was because she knew Donald could manage his company.

He somehow feels wounded.

“Oh, hello...”

Their waiter brings with him a petite woman; brown hair, brown eyes, a heart-shaped face—who looks a little shy as she slips into the booth next to Donald, but smiles rather sweetly across the table at Lisbon, almost as though she was expecting this strange scene to happen sooner or later...

“I’m sorry, Holly—I brought a friend tonight.” Teresa turns her head to look at Jane, a twinkle in her eye, and says, “Jane, this is Holly, my cousin’s fiancée...”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Holly offers meekly. She’s a shy girl, but she’s rather polite. “I apologize if we’ve been stealing Teresa away from her work, but I don’t know how we could’ve planned the wedding without her.”

“Holly’s asked me be a bridesmaid,” Lisbon adds matter-of-factly and looks far too smug as she takes another sip of water. Jane’s feels as though he’s been had.

“Is that so...” he says quietly.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dinner is pleasant. Jane genuinely enjoys himself and discovers that Teresa, when given the chance, will act as girly as she needs to be to get the job done—whether it be for an undercover operation or helping a shy bride plan her wedding. His Lisbon works in mysterious ways...

Holly and Donald break off from them after the meal (having talked, in great length, about flower arrangements and how the hell they plan to seat all the guests that despise each other), and Jane takes his time walking with Lisbon to her car before asking if she’d like to stop somewhere for coffee, his treat.

“A bridesmaid, huh?”

She smiles. “Yep.”

“In pink?”

“In pink.”

“That paints quite the mental picture...”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to believe it until I see it,” he comments nonchalantly.

Unlocking her car doors, Teresa stares at him over the hood of the car and grins. “Lucky for you, my invite has a plus one...”

Plus one...

He accepts. Without gloating, of course.

And this is the first clue that that ‘someone’ is him...