[ ☁︎ ] — Venice had agreed to this. It wasn't reluctant in the slightest in her part, she was willing to meet her friend — one from her high school days (who obviously doesn't know of her “occupation”) — who she doesn't remember being close to. Though her said friend promised that she had someone for her to meet, and she always remembered this person to be honest. So she's curious as to who they'll meet. In an environment like a café in Hoenn, it's easy to ease into comfort. Especially when Venice feels at home with someone familiar.
The mystery-person isn't here just yet, some complications apparently, and is apologising to the grunt's old high-school acquaintance / comrade. She chats a little bit for a while, drinking some of the lum-berry flavoured coffee whenever she has nothing to say. And she finishes it quite fast when she forgets that she doesn't talk much anyway. Her friend is good enough to do the talking. Everyone who knows (/of) Venice knows that she isn't a good socialiser.
They reminisce about their stupid antics in high school, remembering even the silliest details — which naturally brings a warm smile to Venice’s face with a few fits of chuckles. For a moment she completely forgets her reason for being here, but she’s soon reminded by the ringing and tingling of the bell that hangs above the café old-fashioned door. The person is a girl, with long blonde hair that hangs gracefully. “Ah! There she is!” exclaims Venice’s high school friend.
Based off of first glance — which Venice understands is bad, to judge others based off of first glance — the Magma grunt has a good feeling about her. The way she carries herself is gentle and almost like a dance, to which she can feel herself ease into with comfort. The stranger (to Venice, at least) makes her way to the two who look towards the door.
“Hello, I’m Venice. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” greets the purple-haired girl, stretching her hand out for a shake.
there are seven days in a week—someday isn't one of them
What he expected from Marin wasn’t much. There had only been one partner in the long history of missions Seymour had been sent on that’d neglected to disappoint him—so it was that the odds were stacked against her from the very beginning.
Needless to say when they finally did assemble at the given time and place, he was wholly underwhelmed. Not only did their personalities clash akin to water and oil, but he found the blonde far more troublesome than he could have ever imagined. You could imagine his unbridled enthusiasm when no sooner did they start moving did she press to take an unnecessary detour!
Tapping his foot irritably as she waited in line, Seymour wasted no second to let her know his opinion on the matter when she returned from the food stand with shaved ice in hand.
“Comeon, this ain’t a fieldtrip,”
“We’re on a mission. Don’t you know what that means?”
Mind calm, body still. Breathing steady, conscious clear. The steady in and out of her breaths echoed off the walls as the only other noise to be heard was the gently movements of the water outside the shrine. No distractions and no interruptions. She was utterly alone without a care in the world of what may be happening in the city above. Her gym was closed and the Den was being heavily guarded. None were to come in and disturb her unless they searched for the sting of her serpents' piercing fangs.
None could bring her down from this. It was a feeling of such balance that she only got to feel every so often when she escaped the gym. All it would take to throw her good mood would be a single disturbance. Here it was where she could feel like she was a key part of the world and could connect to the power around her. The dragons in the water were strong. They trusted her. They added their strength to her own and made her the trainer she is today- fueling her with the ability to control these Dragon-type Pokemon.
As her meditation came to a close the responsibilities and troubles of the day returned to her. However, with the revitalization from meditation came the determination and energy to take on these obstacles. She stood and stretched her arms towards the ceiling of the shrine.
Hiiii! Ev-er-y-bo-dy! Lisia here! Me and my Altaria, Ali, have come to Slateport City's Contest Spectacular Hall for a bit of FUN!—
They were mirrored words likened to a script; a muscle memory laced on the edge of her tongue each time the cameras rolled onto her. Lisia, are you ready? 3.. 2... 1— and she knows, that the people who stood around watching her were fans, people who appreciated her— people who would wait around just for a chance of catching her attention; but each time she stood in front of them felt like a facade and tasted like too much make up on her skin, every dazzling, dizzying, doldrum defying, was automated and robotic. What did doldrum mean, anyway?
Her digits move while eyes scan the crowd (eenie, meenie, miney—); it's all an act, all for showbiz, she knows, but over time she had learned to trust her judgement of people and was comforted by the fact that most of these seemingly ordinary folks were in fact, extraordinary in their own ways. Chaz, her rival; and even the new champion and now-elite contest coordinator had become her friends instead of acquaintances solely on business.
Sometimes, out of pretence comes forth honesty.
There, in the crowds with a shock of blonde hair and a seemingly star struck expression was a girl who had felt right. Lisia manoeuvres the masses that parts simply around her intended target, her hands reaching to take the other's in a handshake.
"Hi there! I'm Lisia, it's nice to meet you." She smiles briefly for the moment that the cameras adjust, snapping back instantly into character the moment the operator gestures rolling, we are live.
Then let's get this show on the road! This is the Trainer I'm gonna scout today! And her name is... !
He found himself hauled out of the room of his Father's estate that he stayed in for the night, measured and dressed in expensive clothes while a dribble of drool slipped past his thin lips.
Prince charming was suited into a dashing 3 piece suit with the motif of his favorite shade of purple while his pants were kept at a mellow navy blue/black. Quickly whipped around, still snoring, he was pushed into a plush chair with his head snapping to the back and he choked on his spit a bit and the butler's worked on his overly polished shoes. The cushion he rested on was pulled under him and he was on his feet once again. Women charged at him, make up kids and hairsprays ready for the war that was his morning face and bed head. At the end of it all, Steven's canines with sparkling like the stars on a night in the country side and his face was brilliant like a perfectly cut diamond and his hair was as tame and docile as his Metagross (which meant, really really well kept). Somewhat finally awake, a pale hand raised to a dull golden optic to rub the sleepiness awake when it was slapped away by his make up artist, the threats of "you might smudge my art work!" filling the room. Shrugging, Steven was escorted into a room in his Father's home, where the elderly Stone held meetings and such was now turned into an audition room with a long, white cloth adorned table that faced the stage, on top of it, breakfast for the awoken prince.
His mouth watered. Slipping into the seat in the middle, he opened his mouth to pop in a piece of scrambled egg passed his lips. "So what's this all about?" He mumbled, mouth filled with egg. A smack to the back of his head was the reprimand he got for his bad manners. "Ow."
The large den was brightly lit, the floor to ceiling arched windows had the rich maroon blinds pulled to the side allowing the sharp morning rays to seep through the crisp glass diamonds, creating the illusion of dancing aurora on the white marble floors. Large pillars of cream held the ceiling from the ground, towering even the tallest in Steven's team. Renaissance art lined the thick walls of pure alabaster plaster along with carefully painted works of his past Mother, whom he still kept cradled lovingly in his heart. Maids lined the large oak doors and butlers accompanied them in their silent vigil of watching over their young master.
Crossing a thinly, yet muscled leg over the other, Steven eyed the gourmet assembly in front of him. Never would he ever shout to the heavens that he did not miss the food of his Father's chef. He automatically recognized the soft and gentle morning foods of a light and airy soup along with the assortment of fruits organized in a way of a well choreographed dance. The smoked ham and eggs that were suited with the easy to swallow Pecha berry juice and the frothy cup of Moo-Moo Milk to warm the stomach.
A man of considerable height handed Steven a manila folder, inside were the contents over maybe over 100+ profiles of different people with different backgrounds. Still not being able to piece it together, a thin light blue eyebrow lifted in curiosity. The butler pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his swallow tail coat and tucked it into Steven's cravat, spreading the cloth so the male's suit wouldn't be spoiled.
"Candidates, sir."
"For?
"Protection, sir."
"Why?"
"The increase of threats towards the Stone family and the declining of your Father's health, sir."
"Ah."
White gloved hands were clapped together as the lights of the auditorium dimmed and a row of figures appeared behind the curtain.
Zinnia stomped around Team Aqua’s base in frustration. She’d been sent off on one of the most dreaded missions a grunt could endure - recon, specifically in the Petalburg Woods, where ongoing research was being conducted by the Devon Corporation. Matt had apparently already sent a grunt over to rough the researcher up a little - Zinnia was being sent strictly to observe, and she had to take another grunt with her, for “security purposes.”
She sighed as she wandered the halls of the hideout. This wasn’t what she’d signed up for. She was the Lorekeeper of the Draconid clan, for Rayquaza’s sake, and here she was, doing recon work - also known as “we don’t want you in the base, so go away under the pretense of being useful” - for a team she didn’t want to be part of in the first place. She was only there to ensure that Kyogre was awoken, as part of a chain of events to summon the great Originator, Rayquaza. She wasn’t here to do this stupid grunt shit.
The problem was exacerbated by her inability to tolerate any of her teammates. The vast majority of them were either crazed environmentalists bent on remaking the world out of some ridiculous belief that more water was necessary for the survival of Pokémon (Zinnia personally thought there was too much water already), or muscle-brained thugs looking only to fight people and beat them up. She needed a partner that didn’t fit into either category, preferably.
Passing by one of the break rooms, Zinnia spotted a blonde-haired member of the team, idly toying with her Piplup. She’d heard of this girl - Marin, she thought her name was. Apparently, she was rapidly becoming Archie’s favorite recon member, as it kept her out of the base and away from battles, which she was reportedly horrible at. She seemed much nicer than the other dinguses in this team - maybe she would be willing to go on another recon mission, with company this time.
Zinnia stepped into the room and stood over the girl for a moment, trying to make herself look as intimidating as possible. It didn’t work very well in standard-issue Team Aqua clothes.
“He-e-e-e-ey,” she said. “Marin, right? I heard you’re, like, the que-e-e-en of recon. Do you think you could come to Petalburg with me?”
ridiculously short drabble requested by gentletide
Loki slid his fingers up Clint's arms, tracing the veins with avid interest.
“I’m going to bleed you dry,” He crooned into Clint’s ear, watching as his captive shivered, skin already hypersensitive from the frost. He raised his head to level a tired but defiant glare, at which Loki smiled almost lovingly.
He dug blunt nails into Clint’s jaw, watching the ball of his adam’s apple bob and constrict. He slowly squeezed his fingers into the sides of the metal gag and into Clint’s mouth.
He breathed out a satisfied laugh when the archer struggled, clenching his jaw as if to bite but was unable to.
He started move and thrust the fingers inside Clint’s mouth. The archer gagged, blue eyes wet, tearing and narrowing in revulsion. Loki hummed in approval.
“I think I do prefer you in your muzzle.” Loki murmured into the nape of his neck and chuckled softly when he felt Clint’s skin break into gooseflesh.
