[Event] 2014 OOC Secret Santa Gifts!

[Joselle]

Participants
Misso
Icy
Jen
Worldie
Oli
Kat
Asu
Derp
Mona
Lena
Sheep
Oz
Roma
Koko
Amy

[Joselle]

SPOILER: Click to show

{For Oz!}

HOPE U LIKE

[Kyle Kirkland]

I love it! Thank you so much!

SPOILER: Click to show

{For Amy}
A Christmas Crossover

Vash was dead; that must be made clear. The nurses who checked for his pulse said that he was, so did the doctors who examined his pupils. Even the technicians who scanned his brain for any possible signs of life were in agreement; the man was dead. And once the death certificate had been signed by none other than Roderich Edelstein there was no doubt to be had, Vash Zwingli was as dead as a dodo.

Perhaps I am over emphasising Vash’s deceased state, but the point must be established. If Mr Zwingli were in fact not dead, then the rest of the fantastic and wonderful things that occur in this tale would not have happened. Indeed there would not even be a tale!

The man at the centre of these incredible happenings was the afore-mentioned Mr Roderich Edelstein. He and Mr Zwingli were partners in business for god knows how many years. Roderich had been Vash’s chief and only mourner. And not even he had been particularly saddened by the event, for even then, business was his chief concern and he had ensured the funeral had been arranged at bargain prices.

Roderich had not bothered to update their webpage and, seven years later, the firm was still registered as Edelstein and Zwingli. Newer customers were never entirely sure if Roderich was Mr Edelstein or Zwingli, for he answered to both, it didn’t bother him.

And what a skinflint Roderich was! A miser! A cheapskate! He was a cold, cruel man who never brought anything for ten if he could have it for nine-fifty. Never threw away anything if he could help it. His clothes were ragged and threadbare from so much mending. His hair was lank and his skin pasty, for he hid from the sun as if he considered it his natural enemy. Shopkeepers not did ask how he had been doing when he went to buy his groceries; people on the bus did not ask him for the name of the next stop; and even the guide dogs upon sighting him would lead their owners to the other side of the street, they knew that it did not take eyes to see the coldness that radiated from this man’s presence. Roderich did not care. He had no wish to associate with these earthly people with their human weaknesses. He was alone, and that was the way he liked it!

One day on a Christmas Eve just like any other you and I have known, the weather as cold as the people were merry. Everybody hurried through the streets with their hands buried in woolly gloves, thinking only of seeing their families and loved ones on the morrow. Eyes brightened even as darkness fell, for the night meant that Christmas would come all the sooner! A fog set in, barely masking the excitement of thousands of workers hurrying homewards after a long day’s work.

Through all this Roderich’s office sat open. He worked at his desk, keeping one eye on the mirror he’d placed there to ensure that his clerk was not neglecting the stacks of papers before him. They only had a small heater in the office. So small that it could barely heat its immediate surroundings, let alone the whole office. The clerk, who was wearing a knitted cardigan and fingerless gloves over his office wear, could be seen trying to scoot closer and closer to the heater without actually leaving his desk.

Presently there was a knock at the office door and a young woman entered.
“Merry Christmas Uncle Roddy” called the woman. She was a pretty young thing, with bright blond hair worn in a bob and a sweet merry voice. She was not in fact Roderich’s niece, but she had known him for so long and he had so often been seen with her deceased uncle Vash, that it had seemed only natural to consider him her uncle too.
“You are no niece of mine, go away Lilian!” replied Roderich.

Lilian had walked quickly to Roderich’s office and the combination of frosty air and exercise had brightened her eyes and reddened her cheeks quite attractively.

“Is that how you treat all your customers Uncle?” She replied cheerfully, for she was too used to Roderich to be upset by his appalling manners “I should wonder how you have any clients left if you did”.

“You are not a client, you are a nuisance. And a poor one at that” said Roderich, for he really was a very rude man.
“That may be so, but I still have an invitation that I hope a rich old man like you will accept” returned Lilian easily “I was hoping you would come and spend Christmas day with my husband and some our friends. We would really like you to come, it’s not a very large gathering, so you needn’t feel shy.”

“Christmas!” barked Roderich with real venom in his voice “What’s Christmas but a day wasted. A bank account emptied on foolish trinkets. A petty excuse for missing work, and not a cent earned all day! Any fellow who goes about with Merry Christmas on his lips should be stuffed in his own goose. He should!”

“Uncle!” chastised Lilian

“Niece!” mocked Roderich “Keep Christmas your way, and allow me to keep it in mine.”

“But you don’t keep it at all!”

“Then leave me alone then.”

“But Uncle Roddy” persisted Lilian “Christmas is a time for family. A time for forgiveness and charity. It is a day when we can put aside our own wants and take joy in giving to others. You may not approve of Christmas uncle, but I believe even without monetary profit that it has done the world of good for me and I say God bless it!”

At this point the clerk who had been listening to every word burst out into spontaneous applause, only to be silenced a moment later with a glare from his employer.

“A fine speech, maybe I’ll be seeing you in the law courts” replied Roderich sarcastically, for that was the only suitable comeback he could think of for his niece’s eloquence.

“But why Uncle? Why do you shut yourself in away from the world when Donny and I would be more than happy to have you?” asked Lilian.

“Why did you get married?”

“Because we fell in love.”

“Because you fell in love” mocked Roderich. “Such sentimental feelings do not belong in my office. Good morning Lilian”

“Very well uncle” replied Lilian “but I do hope you’ll reconsider. Merry Christmas! And Merry Christmas to you Arthur.”

“Merry Christmas!” replied the clerk with a modest wave.

“And a Happy New Year!” called out Lilian as she left the office. She was not at all angry with her uncle, reflecting tolerantly that he was a silly old miser who didn’t know what fine company he was missing out on.

Poor Roderich had barely focused his attention back to his work when a knock on the office door sounded again and a man and a woman entered. The man’s hair was longer than Roderich could decently tolerate and he had tied it back in a ponytail. The woman had a rather alarming sense of fashion and was wearing an outrageous winter skirt with ponies embroidered on it. They were both carrying collecting tins.

“This is Edelstein and Zwilingi” the man asked rhetorically “Are you Mr Edelstein or Mr Zwelingi?”

“Mr Zwilingi has been dead for exactly seven years to the day” replied Roderich.

“Oh, how unfortunate” answered the man. An awkward silence followed.

“Well that is like, all the better to make a donation in his memory” continued the woman. At the mention of donation Roderich scowled. “That, like, at this time of year, when it’s like, cold and everything” continued the woman undeterred “We like to make some provisions for the refugees and the homeless. You know, bring a little festive cheer into their lives. Like, so many of them cannot afford a pudding, or even the heating bill. Would you like to bring some joy to another person’s life? Every little bit helps.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Roderich

“Well yes, but-” began the man

“Are there no deportation camps?”

“There are, I wish I could say there weren’t.”

“Oh excellent” continued Roderich “After what you said, I was worried that something had happened to prevent them from doing their good work.”

“I could hardly say that they do good work” protested the man “Many of the inmates die before they ever step outside. Many of them are children!”

“Then let them die” growled Roderich “and decrease the surplus population.”

“But Mr Edelstein!” cried the man “Taking care of our neighbours is our responsibility!”

“It is our responsibility, to not interfere in our neighbour’s business” growled Roderich “Good day to you.”

At this point the man and the lady realised it was useless to stay any longer and they departed hastily. Roderich returned to his work, his temper much improved.

Meanwhile, outside the darkness continued to descend. In the main-street a crowd of people watched anxiously as workers placed the last finishing touches to the large tree in the centre of the square. Everyone from the mayor to the homeless man who lived in the corner was hoping that the lights would work; there had been two power failures already and this was their last chance before Christmas Day itself. At last the workers stood back and the mayor switched the power on. And oh my, what a dazzling sight! The tree shone with a thousand lights that seemed to twinkle like the night sky. A cheer went up from the crowd and friends and strangers alike hugged each other. Someone started up a carol and soon the crowd was trotting along home or to the neighbouring pub to the tune of “O Christmas Tree” Many hours later the mayor and the lead construction worker could be seen staggering arm in arm along through the streets, still singing that sweet old song.

At long last, the hour came where Roderich stood to close up the office. The clerk hastily closed the blinds and switched off the heating, before reaching for his scarf.

“You’ll be wanting the day off tomorrow I suppose” said Roderich.

“If it’s not too much trouble Mr Edelstein.”

“It is far too much trouble. If I were to withhold your wages for it, you would think yourself cheated would you not?”

The clerk smiled and made a weak, non-committal shrug.

“However, you do not think me cheated when I pay you a day’s wages for no work.”

“It’s only once a year” observed the clerk.”

“A pitiful excuse” said Roderich as he shrugged on his coat. “But I suppose it must be done; make sure you’re here an hour earlier next morning to make up for it.”

The clerk promised to do so and left the office with only an old rain jacket to protect him from the elements, for he had no coat. He skidded merrily down the street to catch the bus that would take him home, where his husband and children were waiting for him.

If you want me to continue this I'll be more than happy to give it a shot!

[Astrit Zupan]

Merry Christmas, Queen Joselle! I hope that you enjoy my gift, which comes in two parts.

SPOILER: Click to show

{Part 1: "Christmas with the Lynx"}It was a cold December night, and there was a Lynx afoot in the streets of London.

She ignored the holiday displays in the shops and the little lights strung all over most buildings, dismissing the more obnoxious ones with a grunt of distaste. She glared at strangers who had the temerity to wish her a happy Christmas. She had been doing this for so many days in a row now that she had entirely lost track.

The Lynx had a goal, and it was finally coming within sight: the modest home where a certain man was living. Soundlessly, the Lynx, the thief crept in through the living-room window—and stopped.

The Christmas tree was lit and covered in cheap baubles, as she had expected. What she had not expected was the pile of presents underneath. It was Christmas Eve. She had forgotten.

Early on Christmas morning, Heracles Karpusi abandoned his bed and got up to see about breakfast. On his way through the living room, though, he noticed an extraordinary sight.

Nicoleta, his girlfriend, was fast asleep under the Christmas tree, with her head pillowed on one of the gifts. He knelt down and put a hand on her shoulder.

“It looks like Father Christmas brought exactly what I wanted, after all.”

SPOILER: Click to show

{Part 2: "TND Days of Christmas"}(NOTE: Check back later; I'm going to try to sing this for you!)

On the first day of Christmas, the Commissioner gave to me a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the second day of Christmas, the Commissioner gave to me two Irish gingers and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the third day of Christmas, the Commissioner gave to me three Greek kitties, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the fourth day of Christmas, the Commissioner gave to me four angry Balkans, three Greek kitties, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the fifth day of Christmas, the Commissioner gave to me five Kirkland kids, four angry Balkans, three Greek cats, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the sixth day of Christmas the Commissioner gave to me six cops unicycling, five Kirkland kids, four angry Balkans, three Greek cats, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the seventh day of Christmas the Commissioner gave to me seven Lawless plotting, six cops unicycling, five Kirkland kids, four angry Balkans, three Greek cats, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the eighth day of Christmas the Commissioner gave to me eight agents cross-dressing, seven Lawless plotting, six cops unicycling, five Kirkland kids, four angry Balkans, three Greek cats, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the ninth day of Christmas the Commissioner gave to me nine confused civilians, eight agents cross-dressing, seven Lawless plotting, six cops unicycling, five Kirkland kids, four angry Balkans, three Greek cats, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the tenth day of Christmas the Commissioner gave to me ten chandeliers falling, nine confused civilians, eight agents cross-dressing, seven Lawless plotting, six cops unicycling, five Kirkland kids, four angry Balkans, three Greek cats, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the eleventh day of Christmas the Commissioner gave to me eleven thrown wineglasses, ten chandeliers falling, nine confused civilians, eight agents cross-dressing, seven Lawless plotting, six cops unicycling, five Kirkland kids, four angry Balkans, three Greek cats, two Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head.

On the twelfth day of Christmas the Commissioner gave to me, 12 corgis barking! 11 thrown wineglasses! 10 chandeliers falling! 9 confused civilians! 8 agents cross-dressing! 7 Lawless plotting! 6 cops unicycling! 5 Kirkland kids!!! 4 angry Balkans, 3 Greek cats, 2 Irish gingers, and a teapot shaped like Hitler's head!

WAIT WRONG

...and a partridge in a pear tree!

[Asunara Wisdom]

Frohe Weihnachten, Lena! I hope you like this, because this was fun to write!

SPOILER: Click to show

{The Most Interesting German in the World}

a.k.a. Moments that Ludwig Beilschmidt regrets and then some.

"I really see no reason to be doing this at all," he said, crossing his arms, his brows creased into his signature scowl as the make-up artist fussed with softening the creases "I'm a respectable politician, not a mere actor or model."

"You need to loosen up a bit, Luddy boy! You were chosen for this because you are a respectable politician with the hot bod of your so-called 'mere actor or model'. It's even up for debate that you have an even hotter bod than your average actor or model. Doesn't that boost your ego just a tiny bit? You'd be doing a disservice to your country by refusing to do this," said Michael Collins, director of CI. He, of course, had no bearing to Beilschmidt's public relations organization. Beilschmidt's bid for Prime Minister was well locked-in as the leader of the Labour Party. All he had to do is make certain that the Labour Party continued to cipher popularity from the other parties. Make some public appearances here and there, go do some volunteer work, show that he is for the people. The usual stuff. But that usually didn't include this.

"I don't need my ego boosted, Michael. I need to work. I could have had something else scheduled for this time slot. You know my schedule is very tight. But no, I came here, assuming I was doing a serious commercial for a respectable company, promoting healthy hydration in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, but no! I'm doing an alcohol commercial! That wasn't in the memo!"

"Alcohol is a strong word. It's a beer commercial, and it'll get you a lot of press. And anyways, your public relations office went with the idea. They really went with the idea, actually."

"Verdammt, Lena..." Ludwig said, massaging his temples. It really was funny that the only person that really had autonomy over him was his publicity officer, Lena Märzstadt. She booked all of his public appearances and advised him in regards to public response. However, she had a tendency to make his life harder. Ludwig wasn't very thrilled with the blind date last month, nor was he thrilled about the Labour Party calendar shoot.

"You're not wiggling out of this one, but don't you worry. I'll be watching here to make sure no one will try any, I dunno, terrorist tactics in the studio," Michael said with a bit too much amusement in his voice.

"Mr. Beilschmidt, you are ready for shooting," the make-up artist said. Ludwig groaned, getting up from the chair.

"Go get 'em, Eismann," Michael laughed.

"Eisenmann," Ludwig growled, stepping into the studio. 
--

When he holds a lady's purse, he looks manly.

Enter shot walking down the street with a Gucci purse. Several extras look at him in wonder, but some of the extras nod in approval. That man looks good with that purse.

What a poisonous, poisonous lady he offered his heart to at the time. Her brother was agreeable, and she was sweet— when money wasn't involved. It was understandable for her to miss her lifestyle, but damn, why was it so expensive? He risked much for her besides his wallet; her family's reputation was filth to the general public, while his name was clean as a name could be. A little too clean.

He admits that it was a risk he never calculated, but oh, the things he did for love. The poisoned apple herself never saw the venom within herself, and only those who dared take a bite could tell a little too late.

For now, though, he'll tote her purses as she walks around the Versace store in wonder, as if she just landed in Oz. There may have been some giggles, but all he needed to do was shoot them a look and they would cower.

After spending a day at Versace, he came out of the store with an amazingly functional shoulder bag for himself.

He brought it to work the next day. No one dared call it a purse.

He once won the Tour-de-France, but was disqualified for riding a unicycle.

Pick up unicycle and cross arms, unicycling like it's no one's business. Cars in the background are slower compared to the man on the unicycle.

She happened to really like cycling. And because he happened to really like her, he allowed himself to be talked into participating in the Tour-de-France. It made some headlines and really boosted up his PR. The two of them trained together for the Tour-de-France, but it really was difficult to rival her cycling skills. Even if she didn't have to typically use a cycle as a child to get to places due to her family's fortunes, she made it a habit to cycle often as her brother often did. She was fast, though she claimed that it was only to "keep up with broer". Broer was pretty damn fast if she had to be that fast to catch up with him.

"Liebling, I'm not so sure I'll be able to keep up with you or anyone in this race," Ludwig said as the two settled in their bed. They had checked in to quite a ritzy hotel room in Monte Carlo for this race, which she said would 'ease up the nerves and be quite a comfort for pre-race jitters'.

"Mon canard, don't worry about it," she said, tapping him on the nose gently. "I wouldn't put you up for this if I didn't think you could do it. You are very fast and you will make it. I know you will."

He offered her a tired smile. She often reassured him that everything would be alright, even if it was often he that had to tell her that. She went through much stress with the press and with the Board of Directors in regards to the fallout of the scandals involved with the liquidation of her family's assets. He was there for the tired nights and the tears with each legal document she received, but she had strength lift up his spirits when the political scene caved in on him. He held her hand, reassuringly rubbing it with his thumb. Tomorrow would definitely take a physical toll.

No unicycle was involved in the day's proceedings, but damn, did both of them do fairly well in the race.

His blood smells like cologne.

A close up shot of people smelling him seductively. Goodness does that man smell good. Probably one of Ludwig's more awkward shots, actually. He was uncomfortable with all those noses pressed up against his pectorals. All he could do is glare at Michael behind the camera, but that only warranted another shot.

Ludwig was not much of a party person.

Charlotte definitely was.

It's certainly ironic that the two of them had met at a party, given the prior's aversion to such frivolous social gatherings. He wasn't quite sure how he had made the decision to come up to her in the first place, given her family's recently tainted reputation and his social awkwardness. It just seemed to happen that way.

Perhaps the biggest reason he decided to go up to her was his new cologne.

"Heh, Ludwig. You've been looking at her for a while," Elizabeta smirked, a glass of champagne between her fingers. 

"It's nothing like that..." he said, his eyes dropping to the floor, his cheeks brightening.

Elizabeta set down her glass and put her hands on her hips for emphasis.

"Out of all the people on the Labour Party, I would know when I see the wings of l-o-v-e," she said, over-articulating every letter. 

"It isn't that!" he protested. That only warranted another smirk from Elizabeta.

"Just be careful. A damaged woman is just as dangerous as a whole one."

Ludwig was usually good at following the rules, but not this time. After Elizabeta left, he approached her.

"H-hallo, ich heisse-- Scheisse. Lass mich versuchen nochmal auf Englisch."

His shirts never wrinkle

Sporting an Armani shirt, he gets down on his back and starts doing crunches... and look there, his shirt isn't wrinkling at all!

Sometimes, you have to make good use of your time. Unfortunately, he really didn't have time to iron any of his clothes or go back home in that period of time. He had a press conference in thirty minutes. London traffic would not permit him to call Lena to get a new, fresh-pressed shirt to the hotel on time. Not that she would give him a shirt of that description, with her skills with the iron. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

He wouldn't have time to take off the shirt and fix the wrinkles. With the suit coat already buttoned, that would be inconvenient. Plus, he tried to avoid being shirtless when he was expecting a knock at the door at anytime. The press loved to milk shirtless moments as scandals. Ludwig Beilschmidt was particularly good at avoiding scandal, and he didn't intend to start any. Plus, he really had to address these wrinkles. They seemed to multiply the more he looked at his shirt.

Grabbing the iron from the closet, he plugged it into the wall socket. With his left arm outstretched, he gently placed the iron on the sleeve.

He let out a loud, manly scream that brought half the press in the building right to his room.

At least he was the most neatly dressed politician at the press conference.

He can speak Russian... in French.

A chilly backdrop featuring the Kremlin and fake snow. The famous Russian model Svetlana Mikhailnovna walks in his direction. He looks her passionately in the eye, says "Ich bin verliebt in dich." Of course, because she is no German, she gives him a questioning look. He then takes her in his arms, and French kisses her, long and hard. 

Of course, Michael is silently laughing behind the camera like a buffoon. He mouths at Ludwig "Smooth there, buddy. Smooth."

He may have a good understanding of German, English, and French, but damn did he stumble on his words when it came to any language when he felt awkward. He certainly wasn't in the running for most eloquent politician to roam the planet.

And he didn't happen to know Spanish. 

"Ay carramba, Lucho, you aren't smooth on your feet. Where is your soul?" she said for the umpteenth time. She often questioned his dancing abilities— not that they didn't exist. Charlotte had coerced him into learning tango among other things during their time together. She often challenged him, saying things like 'Broer could show more passion that that— but he chooses not to, or the public might tarnish our name with charges of incest.'

He took to the challenge, and damn, that was the most passionate he danced before.

He doesn't dance like that anymore. He really wants to give some of that passion to the Spaniard in front of him, but he can't get his feet to cooperate anymore. 

He feels the swell of the music, really digs deep into his soul. He puts another foot forward as she arches her back backwards. Hot damn she's flexible.

She reclaims dominance when she sees he's got a little fight in him.

"Are you there, mi corazon?" she smirks, turning him, to his surprise.

"Esta aqui," he says, barely a whisper.

"Say it again."

"Esta aqui."

She laughs. His Spanish really is atrocious, but there was soul in it. She had to give him that.

"Estoy aquí, mi querido."

He is the life of parties that he never attended.

A party scene ensues... but he is absent. However, you can clearly see all the Ludwig Beilschmidt memorabilia in the room. A close-up on a group of people... with one person presenting a Ludwig Beilschmidt bobblehead.

He spent his Friday nights alone. While the others usually go out for a drink, he preferred the solitude.

Though sometimes, he receives rather unwelcome company.

"Ludwig. I need to come over. This is urgent," a hushed voice said through the phone.

"Are you okay, Roderich? It's Friday night," Ludwig asked.

"It's very important that I go to you. I can't stay here any longer, I fear for myself—"

"Where are you?"

"I'll be heading over to your house, It can't wait any longer, Ludwig. Everything is at stake. I can't tell you over the phone, who knows how many people are tapping this line, but Ludwig, thank you."

The phone was dead silent. Ludwig grabbed his copy of this week's Die Zeit, waiting for the door.

Roderich arrived fifteen minutes later. 

"Are you okay? Do you need anything?" Ludwig said, taking his friend by the arm.

"I need... some of your chocolate cake."

...He is the most interesting man in the world.

--
He sat down in the leather chair, grateful for the last scene. 

"How do you feel, Michael?" he said, scowling. 

"You looked pretty good out there, macking on Mikhailnovna! I'll have to say, watching you get sniffed by those models was amazing," Michael laughed.

Ludwig rolled his eyes as the camera began to roll.

He leaned forward to the camera, holding a bottle.

"I don't always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Deutschlander."

He unscrewed the cap, and slowly took a sip. With a small "Ah..." he gave the camera a pensive look.

"Haben Durst, meine Freunde."

[DERP]

SPOILER: Click to show

{This one is for Mona!}

She had no name. She used to have one, but they took it from her. They had no names either. They said they did not need names. What they needed was the swiftness of wind, the sharpness of steel and the night that engulfed their existence.

Francis' hand stopped moving, his quill went back into the inkwell. The world was silent, too silent for his liking. Not even a single bird chirped outside as the night spread its mantle to the western horizon. Perhaps the world did silence itself, trying to understand the event that happened just half a day ago.

It was supposed to be a joyful occasion. A feast was held to celebrate Prince Feliciano's birthday. Yet what happened was close to a tragedy. Had she did not interfere, then the silence tonight would be replaced by the wailing of women and the ringing of the bells, mourning the loss of their princes.

The man glanced at his writing, then back to the unconscious young woman on the bed across the room. Before today, Francis knew her as Lady Sera from Russo family, suitor to the younger prince. But now... he sighed. He did not want to believe it, he wanted it to be a lie. How could he let Prince Feliciano, his student and distant kin, married an assassin who was sent to kill him? Furthermore, the assassin was not a part of some ragtag band. The assassins were an old order, the culprit of several deaths in the span of two centuries in the kingdom's history. Nobles, merchants and peasants alike had met their ends at the tip of their blades. So terrible was their reputation no one dared to say their name, afraid it would invite them into their house.

Not that they needed any.

Lord Francis Bonnefoy knew he would not have anything more to add into his writing until the woman spoke to him. So he closed his inkwell and rolled the parchment. A faint rustle came behind him, but the prince's mentor did not show any sign that he did notice it. He ignored the soft noises until a whispered question inquired his presence.

"You should not be alone here."

Despite having been weakened by her wounds, the woman looked as alert as a seasoned fighter. She sat on the bed with her back straight, bruised fists curled on the blanket. Francis, being a skilled fighter himself, was ready to react in case she decided to attack him. For a moment they only looked at each other. Waiting.

Then he smiled. "Good evening, miss. The guards are outside, perhaps listening as we speak now." He lied. Prince Feliciano did not want her room guarded like a prison cell. Nevertheless, the guards were stationed a bit far from this room, making sure no one come and go unnoticed. Francis took the candle on the desk, bringing the light as he stepped closer to the bed.

"You should be afraid."

"After what I saw at the feast?" he raised an eyebrow. "If that's what you mean, then yes, I am afraid."

"You don't seem hesitate to say so. You should leave."

Her words were spoken flatly, emotionless. They were not orders, just statements. Francis detected a faint threat within her voice, but he brushed it off. If the prince himself said he felt safe with Lady Se-- this woman, then he had no reason to feel afraid. She seemed to realize whatever she said would not affect him the way she wanted. Her eyes scanned the room briefly before returning to the blond man.

"I should be in jail."

This time Francis shook his head. "You've saved the princes' life. Why would we put you together with thieves and muggers?" He sat on the edge of the bed after placing the candle near the door. "You may want to lie down again, and I suggest you to do it. Your wounds will heal faster that way." His advice was received by a cold stare, yet he continued, "the healer will check on you in an hour or two. Maybe Feliciano himself will come."

Her apathetic demeanor cracked as the name escaped Francis' lips. Her lips parted and closed slowly, eyes widening as they stole a glance at the closed door.

"In the meantime..." Francis' voice stole her attention again. "Why don't you tell me a story?"

Confusion clouded her expression. "What if I refuse?"

"What if I tell you more about Feliciano after you give me the story?"

"Fine. What story?"

"Yours. About you."

"You are well-versed in history, Lord Bonnefoy. You know everything about us, more than an average peasant does."

"My knowledge comes from books. The kingdom's lore and old scrolls. Not from someone who has lived among... them," he paused, letting his words to soak into the woman's mind. "You will be the first person who share it to anyone."

She blinked and took a deep breath. "Do I have to tell you the interesting details too?"

"Just start from the beginning, I will listen to everything."

The woman leaned on the pillow. "Oh, but it's boring, my lord. I was a starving child without any guardians when they picked me. Everyone had experienced a similar thing: almost died from starvation during winter. They gave me food and clothes. I did not need any more reason than that to stay with them." Her voice was relax, like she was telling him her mundane daily life.

Francis nodded in response. He knew this already. Their members were the forgotten ones, the nameless, the poorest. People who needed protection the most.

"Like the other children, first I was taught how to steal. Fresh bread, cheese, sometimes clothes or more valuable items we can sell in the black market. Then we learned to trail certain people. As silent as possible. And then we reported back what we saw, hear and smell."

"This... is new," Francis commented. Now he knew how they find their targets.

"You will hear more new things from me, I presume." Her lips curled upwards a little. "Successful jobs brought rewards and holidays. Failures brought punishments, less meal and thinner clothes. I never failed, if you're curious my lord." For a second a smirk danced on her expression. "While everyone was taught how to kill, not all of us raised to be an assassin. Only the best ones did. The others then taught other skills so they could work as civilians. They are everywhere."

"How many...?"

The woman shrugged. "Could be tens of thousands."

"Oh..."

"You look surprised, my lord."

"No. No, I'm not..." Francis straightened his back, pulling his collar a little. It did surprise him. Three hundred was their greatest number as estimated by the scholars. "Please continue with your story."

"My scouting days ended when I made my first kill. I was eleven, and the target was a young woman. She was ugly, but once she had her blood splattered all over her face, she became prettier." The woman grinned. "I even painted her her bed red, decorated her pillows with--"

Francis raised his hand, his face pale. "Please..."

"Terribly sorry, my lord," he heard her apologized, but he knew she did not mean it. "I'll just say that my... hm, superiors were not pleased by my action. We kill clean and in silent, but I made a visual masterpiece instead. We do not play with the dead, but I did." She lowered her gaze, her shoulders shaking as a quiet laugh leaving her mouth. "It was fun."

The bedsheet felt colder on Francis' fingers. She was still smiling when their eyes met again. The bell had long stopped ringing. The world outside the bedroom was as silent as a grave.

"A couple of dead men and women later, I was given a task that would take me years to complete, as I needed to learn a handful of other skills I did not have at that time. And that brings us here." Her tone indicated that her story was over. It was quite strange for Francis, how she could tell him everything without hesitation once she started. Perhaps she had grown to enjoy the storytelling halfway. Then again, who sat before him was not a mere citizen. But an assassin who had seen death from a young age.

"So why you chose to protect Feliciano?" Francis asked, glad finally he could move to the main topic he had been wanting to know.

"He's not my main target-- it was the king. The other assassins you killed were meant to take care of the princes as I kill the king." She looked interested with her bruised hands.

Francis could close his eyes and see the event being replayed in his mind. A couple servant passed the main table at Prince Feliciano's birthday to refill the wine. Lady Sera-- this woman jumped onto the table and knocked the wine jug off the table. Then she chased the servants, killed one with a meat knife, then dueled the other. He screamed at the terrified guests, telling them her real identity before he died. Francis ordered the guards to move the royal family elsewhere while 'Lady Sera' swept the crowd to look for any possible assassin. She faced four assassins at once until the guards captured her unconscious. Feliciano, despite his brothers' objection, requested to place her in one of the bedrooms.

Looking back at the woman on the bed, Francis finally accepted that the sweet lady who was supposed to marry Prince Feliciano and the deadly assassin were the same person after all.

The room became darker as the fire reached the candle's base. Francis rose to lit another one. "That still doesn't answer my question, my lady. One of the wine bearers was about to strike Feliciano after you knocked the wine jug away. You protected him." Francis turned to face her. "Why?"

"You might find the reason is... stupid," she averted her gaze as she spoke.

"A reason is a reason. I'll promise to tell no one if you wish."

But a knock on the door stole his attention. Before Francis opened it, the door swung inwards to reveal a healer and Prince Feliciano himself. Altough his mentor stood closer and he never--not even once--forgot to greet him, this time he rushed to the bed, calling the woman's name aloud.

"Sera! Are you alright? Brother wouldn't let me see you-- aah! What happened to your hands?" he turned and motioned the healer to come closer. While she tended her wound, Feliciano kept babbling, telling her how he had been worried. "I saw you leaving me and the next thing I know, my guards escorted me away! Then they said that you are one of them. That's not true, right? Right?"

Francis noticed that the woman was smiling. A sincere smile she always wore as Lady Sera. She even let the prince touched her uncombed hair. The nobleman stepped closer, intending to distract Feliciano so the healer could work more comfortably, but his feet froze as he realized something.

A string hung from Feliciano's chest, connecting him to the woman's. They were seen together quite often in this past year, but it's the first time the string was visible to Francis' eyes, reflecting the candle's light. The legend of mysterious string was not unfamiliar for him, yet he never witness it himself. Too many people fall in love not with their intended soulmate, and the legend itself said the string would not be visible unless a bond had been formed between them. Many scholars dismissed it as a part of folklore, but he was one of the few who chose to believe it. The healer, despite sitting close to the couple, did not seem to notice it. Neither did Feliciano.

The prince's suitor held his hand, bandaged fingers gently caressing his. She let Feliciano laid his head on her lap, her gaze at him was tender, almost motherly. After a moment that felt like forever, Sera Russo--with unkempt hair and worn clothes instead of satin--beamed at Lord Francis Bonnefoy and whispered to him.

"Can you see it?"

Francis nodded, knowing what she meant. He got his answer, and he was glad.

hope u like it >u>

[Deleted]

for Missososos you get me two years in a row ♥

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{Click Here}

it's-a Pitou that i tried though my anime drawing game is not strong

[Feliciano Vargas]

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{Click to show}

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{ Part 2}

For Ms. Sheep! I have to wait till it gets fired, but I'll send it up to you!

[Deleted]

A little drabble for Jen. ;w; I'm not really familiar with the Mario fandom outside Smash Bros, and I don't read Homestuck, so it was down to writing about Ivan.

So... I wrote a hopefully cute thing about big Russian man helping itty bitty thing. I dunno a thing about writing Ivan though so I just hope it makes you smile.

---

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{Spoiler}The snow built up outside wasn’t just a single blanket. No, this was several blankets stacked up into a single, overwhelming pile, with some walls several feet tall. This was light compared to what Ivan was used to, who looked upon the pristine, untouched landscape with an awe that never ceased to return each time the snows came. The man was reluctant to step out into the powder, lest he ruin the immaculate imagery and taint the season with the threat of his feet.

Bundled up in a thick coat and scarf the Russian stood outside to enjoy the fresh, chilled air. Winter, for him, was both a terrible time and a time of peace when the woods were quiet, when the ice reflected sunlight like jewels upon trees, and when everything was still. There was a certain delight in breathing winter air. It felt… fresh, comforting. When winter wasn’t brutal, it was indescribably beautiful. Today of all days felt special, for the sky was clear and the sun was shining upon the white, turning the landscape before him into a lush field of diamonds.

A scuffle upon the rocks broke the winter silence.

Otherwise, all was quiet. This one stray noise echoed and reached Ivan’s ears, as if it were the loudest sound ever made.

And then… a tiny yelp. A small, squeaky cry for help is what he heard. Whatever it was, it had fallen from some nearby rocks and landed in the snow. As deep as it was, what small critter had fallen prey to the wall of white would never be able to escape, unless Ivan took action. And that he did, hopping from the safety of his wooden deck into the snow. Compared to his height it was merely a small obstacle, and his years of experience gave him knowledge of the most efficient way to move about.

He approached the hole and towered over it, the corners of his lips tugging up into a soft smile. The creature was a puppy of unidentifiable breed, but small and young enough to desperately need help. Ivan wondered where its mother way and looked briefly around before reaching for the pup.

“Ah… this is not a good place for you, my little friend. Yes? It’s cold, and you’re very small—“

He reached a gloved hand down into the hole, and the puppy recoiled to the edge in fear. As it did so the snow above it slid and caved in upon it, but it was saved by the Russian removing it. Wiggling desperately it tried to escape, but Ivan’s secure grip kept it still.

“No, no! Little one, you will not survive alone.” He shushed the puppy and whispered his assurances. Realizing this man was warming than the snow around them it quieted and curled up into a ball. It didn’t know what lay in store, but perhaps it would be better than being alone outside.

The warm air of Ivan’s house rushed to displace the incoming cold but once the door closed it went comfortably still. The puppy was lowered to the floor and its little claws clacked against the wood as it slipped and struggled to find its bearings. Hardwood was a new experience for the young animal, who until this moment was far more experienced with dirt and soil. A fire roared in the living room and the puppy, drawn by the heat, flopped down in front of it (after sliding around a little, whoops!)

It had been a long time since Ivan had any guests in this house, human or otherwise. The puppy couldn’t talk, but its company was a welcome change in the bleakness of this season, in which this upcoming holiday was a thing he normally spent away from precious family. He had no dogs, but instead cut up meat in an attempt to put food in the puppy’s belly.

Coatless now he went to join the puppy in the living room and upon sitting he was immediately assailed – mostly for the food, though. The pup was upon the plate instead and was almost laying in it as it stuffed its face. There would be plenty of time for snuggles later. Everyone deserved to have a nice Christmas, and hopefully for this pair there would be many more.

[Worldie]

This is for Kat [Feliciano Vargas]. I planned to do more, but uh, this turned out to be super long. I can defs try to finish up the other parts (which are definitely not as miserable) I planned if you would like. ;w;'

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{These Christmas Lights}
She thinks it's a bad idea on the first ring. She almost hangs up—it's not like she has any business drunk-calling Gilbert, but it's not like she has any business sitting around in a wrinkled evening gown either. She has half a glass of whiskey—she's past the point of assessing how good it is, but it's probably expensive, it's all expensive—and she's sitting there at the self-service bar of their goddamn penthouse, and she has mascara smeared all over her wrist from trying to rub it off. Roderich can make up for his faults in their collection of fine, imported alcohol, she supposes. She digs into it often enough, more often now than she used to. More often now.

There's a click from the earpiece, a bit of fumbling, and then she's greeted with a slightly slurred, "Erzsi?" So he's been drinking too. Hopefully to a more cheerful occasion than she is.

"Hey," she says. It's quiet and subdued, so she says it again louder, "Hey. Sorry, I hope I'm not calling at a bad time." The hesitation isn't characteristic of her, so it's probably no surprise that Gilbert sounds concerned—or at least, as concerned he can sound given the circumstances of electronic communication and inebriation.

"Yeah—I mean—no, no, it's totally fine," he says. She can hear shuffling in the background, a few hushed words, as though he is excusing himself and shifting around—moving into another room or the hallway perhaps, for a more private conversation. "What's up?"

"I just—" she begins, then she cuts herself off and instead says, "God, this is stupid." She breathes in deep and runs her hand over her eyes again (that fucking mascara itches like hell). "Nevermind, I probably shouldn't be calling right now anyway. It's... It's nothing you haven't heard before." The way she says it sounds like defeat. Not being able to handle this on her own, not being able to be her own hero—those were always her vices. And it's only worse because this isn't the first time she's called Gilbert about this, half-drunk and ranting. It's a losing battle, and a pitiful one at that.

"Hey, hey, it's fine," comes his reassurances. He's earnest (always earnest), and his voice holds nothing but truth. She wants to believe him, because she can rely on him in a way she can't rely on Roderich, and as though reading her thoughts Gilbert says, "It's about Roderich, isn't it?"

She sighs, a burst of static. "Yeah. We fought." Again.

The silence stretches on, both of them holding the knowledge that Erzsébet's and Roderich's fights are nothing new. "What happened?" he finally asks—gently, like he's working a pin into the lock of the chamber of her heart, coaxing her to spill out all of those secrets she keeps tightly raveled up in her chest. And goddammit—she knows she falls for it every single time, for his tone of 'please, I want to help you,' and 'please, I really do care,' but it's so good to know when she doesn't even know from Roderich anymore.

"It was one of his parties again," she says. "Wall Street. And you know I hate those things, but I can do it because it's for him. He just can't compromise—or maybe he's too good at compromise, I don't know!" She falls silent, struggling to gather her thoughts. "I just-I know I'm not supposed to be there. I know I'm not part of their world but I damn well try to be, because he needs me there. But it's always about his business partners, his classist, misogynistic, whatever friends who need me to kiss their asses all the fucking time, and I'm not going to do that, not when they're talking about me like I'm a fucking whore.

"Those girls don't deserve the way they talked about them, like-like they're disposable. I don't deserve the way they talk about me, about our relationship. And I know Roderich doesn't like it either, I know it hurts him but—" The words, once they've begun, flow like a river. These aren't things Gilbert's never heard before; they're things in a long list that he's heard and she feels pathetic for it. She wants to be able to fix it on her own like she's always done, but the alcohol is burning her throat and there's a tremor in her fingers, and it feels like she has the entire world waiting to spill out from her lips. "He compromises. He just can't tell them to stop. But I can—I walked out. He told me to behave myself later, probably once he finally could bring himself to tear away from those asshole business partners of his."

She sighs and runs her free hand through her hair. "And that's that. We yelled at each other, and I came home." She'd come home and poured herself a glass of whiskey, several glasses of whiskey, and since then she'd felt numb to the situation. Or maybe she was feeling too many things to express, but either way, the words had withered and died on her tongue. More than talking any more, she wants to have her fist connect with a good, solid punch to someone's face, preferably the asshole she was referring to.

"He always pulls this," says Gilbert after a moment, and, yeah, she knows precisely the exasperation reflected in his voice. "Haven't you told him how horrible he is as a judge of character, or does he just not listen?"

"I don't know," she says. "I don't know; I keep telling him to find other people, to pull a few of his own punches, but he doesn't, he doesn't. There's always the next event and the next business partner and the next time when he looks at me like he's so fucking disappointed in me and we'll go home and there'll always be this or that: 'oh, Erzsi, why didn't you put your hair up the way I told you to?' and 'oh, Erzsi, why can't you just not make a scene for once?' and it's because your friend is a fucking misogynistic douchebag, that's why!" She almost slams her phone down on the table, but she ends up slamming her empty glass instead, the shrill sound of the impact ringing like bells in the dead silence. It peters out into the emptiness of the house, and for a moment all she can hear is the static across the line and her own deep breaths.

"Hey, he's a prick, all right?" says Gilbert after a moment, his voice crackling through the phone. "We've said before that he's too much of a pansy to say anything his—whatever—corporate tycoon and corrupt politician friends don't agree with."

She opens her mouth to say something, but she doesn't know what. Part of her instinctually wants to defend him, and the other wants to tell Gilbert that he's right, that she should've seen this coming, that she should've ended it the first time Roderich told her her dress wasn't "suitable" enough and shacked her up with some seamstress for a fitted hundred-dollar ridiculousness of an evening gown . She'd dressed in all the satin and lace and diamonds for him, worn a second skin like she was born in it, put up with his asshole friends and he still liked to tell her that going for a drink with her coworkers should be beneath her, because the alcohol was bad, the venue was disreputable, or the company she kept in her free time left something to be desired.

"It's more like a job than a marriage," she says quietly.

Gilbert's cackle sounds broken up and foreign with static, but it's the most comforting thing she's heard tonight. "He was always a chore, Erzsi. 'It was terribly nice of you to have me for dinner, Mr. Beilschmidt, but this chicken is too dry for my taste.' 'Eek, Gilbert, get that spider away from me, but don't you dare use my Mozart scorebook!'" He pitches his voice high with something that sounds like a damnably bad British accent, and Erzsébet can't help it.

She laughs. There are the edges of a sob to it, frail around the corners, but it's a relief to laugh after spending a day feeling like she was going to fall apart.

"Hey, listen," Gilbert says when her shaky giggles subside. "How about you get out of that house for awhile? The little lordling won't be back yet, and it... well, you shouldn't spend Christmas eve like this." There's a slight pause, like a hitch in his breath, but she knows him well enough to know that he's trying to force his next words from his tongue. "So how about spending it with me? Get a pack of cheap beers, hole up at fucking Holiday Inn or whatever, chat and get drunk like we used to?" He ends his question in a hesitant, hopeful pitch, and she thinks he must be an idiot for thinking he even needed to hope.

"Yeah," she says, and she knows that he can't see her but maybe he can hear the smile in her voice. "Yeah, I'd love that. But I have a better idea." His curiousity can be felt over the line, but it just makes her smile wider. It's been awhile since she'd been a co-conspirator in their little plots and schemes, and god, she'd missed it. "How about you give me an hour to tidy myself up and make it to Greenwich Hotel with my dear husband's credit card, and then we order the five most expensive wines they've got on their list and pass out happily drunk 'til morning?"

He laughs again, sharp and loud. "Now that's more like it," he says, and she just knows the smirk that is on his face now. She wants to see it. "We'll make him pay good, literally." He snickers at his own joke, but when it dies down and he continues on, his voice is softer, more serious. "And look—when it's morning again and everything is saner, I'm taking you back there and we're going to remind him who chased off his schoolyard bullies, okay? You gotta set things straight with him, Erzsi, and I'll be your goddamn marriage counselor if I have to."

She nods, and maybe she'll argue with him about it later, maybe she'll have second thoughts about dragging her best friend into her marriage spat, but it sounds like the best plan in the world right now so she just nods and says, "Yeah. Yeah, okay." She wants to tell him that if it wasn't him, it would've been you, the words balanced there on the tip of her drunken tongue, but she knows that's not what either of them need to have out in the open, not now, so instead she says, "I'll see you soon, Gilbert. And thanks. Really."

[Deleted]

THIS TOOK LITERALLY FOREVER IM SO SORRY IM LATE GOMEN

Asunara Wisdom I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS SWEET SWISSBELG YOU DORK

[Worldie]

AHEM. So I'm just going to give this thread a bump. If you have posted your gifts on this thread, your names are crossed out. Those of you (5) whose names are not crossed out, please message me to let me know how your gift is going. If you've sent your gift in private, please also let me know. The one who has not filled out their sign-up sheet should do so, because your Secret Santa would like to contribute.

[Ivan Petrovich Braginsky]

HOLY SHIT I'M SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE. And I'm sorry that it's an arts thing and not a writes thing even though you preferred the latter and I should still do finishing touches and I dunno the characters so they probably look OOC and *wheeze*

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{Just.. sorry hope you like it anyway omfg}

Full version here.