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mel-the-pirate-writeblr · 1 year

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Meeting of the Minds (M(T)PJ: Ditto Defect)

My (Twisted) Pokémon Journey Masterlist

3.3k words

☙ ❦ ❧

(ending lines from a nonexistent prior chapter for set-up)

Crystal couldn’t sleep with the beautiful night around her. She sat, staring into the infinite inky sky, with the countless stars. The trees framed it, and Crystal remembered the feeling of travelling – always seeing new places, new Pokémon, new people. She felt almost normal again, like a normal Trainer who had gone to a foreign region for a Pokémon journey, collecting badges and making new friends.

She heard the nighttime sounds of nocturnal Pokémon, and went to see if she could find the source of the natural melody. Everyone else was sound asleep, and they were hidden well within Pinwheel Forest – she wouldn’t go too far. Even if she did, Crystal could follow their auras back.

This could almost be Viridian Forest, she thought. These are different trees, but very much the same. The Pokémon are all different, but their lives are the same. She half-expected Mt. Moon to loom in the north-eastern distance, or even Mt. Silver out to the distant west.

An urge wormed its way into her – an urge to use Transform. As if to remind her that the nostalgia was an illusion and no longer true. The urge grew, and something about it startled her – This isn’t right. Alarm shot through her as the pain followed, and this time she didn’t summon it – some other will other than her own started changing her body. And it terrified her.

☙ ❦ ❧

☙ ❦ ❧

Crystal’s body shifted, horribly, incompletely, unnaturally. She just had to keep this to herself, figure out what to do—

She locked eyes with something. No, someone. A human. This late at night?

He froze. Then he started approaching, slowly. “Are you okay?” he asked softly. He held no fear in his eyes. Just concern.

His bushy, light-colored hair was long, and some fell over his shoulder. It might’ve been in a Ponyta-tail. He wore some kind of baseball cap, and nondescript clothing that could have had more color than just white and grey, but her current grey-scale night-vision couldn’t pick it out.

Crystal noticed, as she bared her teeth at him, that she made the threat with a small snout – a Vulpix’s snout, she realized. She didn’t growl, not yet, her fangs were the first warning. He stopped. The concern never wavered.

“I want to help you,” he said. “Can I help you?”

She let out a quiet growl, just for a moment. No. Go away. I can’t be more clear.

He took another step forward. “Please, I know someone who might be able to help. Who did this to you?”

Who did this? I did this to myself. I don’t need your help.

“Can you tell me?”

I'm a Pokémon, as far as you know. Of course I can't.

The fur along her spine bristled and rose threateningly. Will-o-Wisp fires appeared around her on some uncontrollable instinct.

“You’re a long way from home,” he said. “Vulpix are from Kanto. Who brought you here?”

She took a threatening step forward, growling again. The Wisps moved forward, too. He stopped again.

“I know seeing a human must be scary. But I understand you, can you tell me what happened?”

She just continued to growl.

He sat down, on the forest floor, and glanced up at the starry sky. “You have no reason to trust me,” he said, not looking at her. “But, I promise, I want to help. You’re hurt, you’re wrong. Someone did that to you. You’re not how you should be. It must be scary, and you don’t have to be scared and alone.” He sighed. “How about I tell you about my childhood. About the Pokémon that I helped, and met, and lived with.”

He reached out a hand, and a Sewaddle came out of a bush and nudged against his hand. The Pokémon here know him.

“I grew up with a lot of hurt Pokémon,” he began. “I spent time soothing them, helping them, playing with them. Growing up with them led to me understanding Pokéspeak...”

☙ ❦ ❧

And, for nearly an hour, he talked to Crystal. He poured his heart out, he stayed where he was, as Crystal listened intently. During this time, she reached out with her psychic sense – and she found that he meant what he said. His intentions, his history.

His stories helped her calm down from her initial alarm of her ability malfunctioning, of him finding her in such a state. Maybe that person he said could help might be a good idea. If I can return to human, and find them myself. I have to stay hidden, secret. It’s dangerous that he even sees me. But he doesn’t suspect that I'm human...

The sharp snap of twigs made her whirl around, fire at the ready. The Wisps, which had faded while the guy had talked, whooshed to life as she searched for the source of the sound.

This human was clearly an adult. His hair was nearly shaved right to his head, and had light-colored hair, aside from a darker swish of hair that went around his head, resisting gravity, like it was one of Saturn’s rings.

“Go on, Beheeyem,” the man said softly, not addressing Crystal or the other guy.

Unlike her meeting with the first guy, this human brought a Pokémon with him – something odd, a Pokémon Crystal hadn’t seen before. It had light-colored skin – if it could be called skin, its form had a look of stone – and strange markings on its head. If anything, its strange body reminded her of a Gardevoir’s gown, minus the large and strange head. Its three-pronged hands reminded her of the old, grainy pictures of Mewtwo that circulated in newspapers and on the news. She reached out with her psychic-sense, but couldn’t get a read on it – instead, something pushed back.

“Stop it,” she barked in alarm, stepping back. The presence pushed further, steadily and unhindered. “Get back!” Her fur bristled again, trying to put up a resistance – but this wasn’t like anything she had encountered before. The Wisps surrounded her, but she knew they wouldn't do much.

“It talks?” the man asked.

“It understood me,” the other guy said, “but never responded.”

“That’s not a Unovan accent.”

“It’s a Vulpix, it’s probably from Kanto.”

Come along, a thought said. It pushed its way into Crystal’s mind.

No! She took another step backward.

Come along, it repeated. Its hands started lighting up, off-white flashes.

What is that? she wondered, warily.

Come along.

It wasn’t hurting her. It wasn’t even attacking. In fact, it wasn’t moving, at all, aside from the lights on its hands. Just watching her, as she watched it, the lights flickering. She took a hesitant step forward. She didn’t want to, yet she very much wanted to.

Come along. The thought had become a mantra inside Crystal's mind. Come along. She couldn’t define where it came from – the presence, or herself. It didn't matter to her to figure that out, either. Come along.

Crystal had to follow this Pokémon – she couldn’t not. She felt compelled to go. Her hostility melted away, replaced by a welcome calmness. All of the worries she’d harbored had left. Come along.

A gentle hand touched her back, flattening the bristled fur around her neck. The hand was warm to the touch. “We’ll help you and get you back home.”

The small prick in her neck snapped her focus away from the hypnotizing control, the liquid he injected— But she couldn’t move, anyway – she noticed an energy holding her in place. The same way her Kadabra would sometimes use Psychic outside of battle. Kadabra would often pull berries out of trees with ease, move small boulders, and even the time he caught her PokéDex while traversing Victory Road, where it would have gone over a cliff. Once or twice, he used Psychic to hold a Pokémon in place long enough for her to make a new entry in her PokéDex, before it ran away.

Arceus, no, please, no. She felt the adrenaline rush, in that moment, but it was only a matter of time until that couldn’t help her, she knew. Her panic would only hurry the sedative through her veins. Can I use Teleport to get far enough away before it takes effect?

Fear overwrote her concentration - too many what-if scenarios flew through her mind, pressing against her skull. Her pulse hammered in her head, in her heart, as she stood frozen in place, time ticking by. Stop it. Use your power to get away. Then the sedative won’t matter.

She had to focus – harder thought than done, she realized, as her thoughts scattered away from her and as darkness enticed her to relax – on the clearing where her Pokémon were sleeping, oblivious to her situation. The smallest thread in her mind let her put focus and energy into Teleport, but she quickly reached her limit and couldn’t put anything else into it. This has to work. It has to!

The incorporeal grip vanished as she used Teleport – but it was only a handful of feet away. Without Psychic to hold her up, her legs nearly buckled beneath her as she landed on the ground. So much energy wasted on a few feet! She took a step, but vertigo pulled her to the forest floor.

She heard the humans’ exclamations of surprise, but her exhaustion turned her focus inward – her body was slowing down as whatever sedative they gave her took hold. I have to go, she frantically, sluggishly, thought.

“I’ll take it to my lab for observation,” the man said. “This isn’t a normal Vulpix.”

“Let me know if you need help with it.” The guy looked over at Crystal, pity in his eyes. “Poor thing. I can help transport it home, if that ever becomes possible.”

“I will. Thank you, N.”

Crystal tried to pull herself forward; she could sense Lucario dimly. He’s awake. Lucario, help! A hand scooped her up, and she hung limply in the man’s hands. She had enough awareness to wonder about her abnormally long tails, and that there were only three of them, instead of a Vulpix’s usual six.

“I wonder how you got this way? Let’s go and see what you're made of.”

The darkness swallowed her up.

☙ ❦ ❧

Beheeyem, the Cerebral Pokémon. It has strong psychic powers that it can use to confuse or control its opponents’ minds. Apparently, it communicates by flashing its three fingers, but those patterns haven’t been decoded.

☙ ❦ ❧

Crystal woke up in a strange place. The blurry surroundings gave way to strange, off-white walls and tile floors. Did I mess up so badly that I’m in Professor Juniper’s lab? She pushed herself up, saw her Vulpix-like paws, and remembered what had happened. Pinwheel Forest. The humans. The dread, accompanied by, I lost control of my body.

Panic filled her chest, she could feel herself shaking and the adrenaline that followed the realization that she had always feared this.

Teleport, Teleport, Teleport! she urged herself, shutting her eyes tight and forcing the energy through her terror. She pictured the clearing, pictured Charizard curled up, Luxray and Persian sleeping back-to-back, Serperior draped over Venusaur as they both seem to root themselves in place; and then imagined Lucario, frantically searching for her aura, everyone starting from their peaceful sleep at his urgency.

Teleport.

She opened her eyes to the same white walls. She finally noticed the strange, translucent tube around her, and the adrenaline only made everything worse.

Crystal instinctively curled her three tails around herself. What do I do? What can I do?

Carrying a clipboard, the man from the forest strolled into the room – the main room of whatever lab she was trapped in.

“Ah, you’re awake. For what it’s worth, I”m sorry for the tricks,” he said, trying for a smile. “But you’re just too intriguing to let be.” He walked over to the computer setup next to the tube. “Oh my, the heart-rate monitor— please, I don’t mean you harm. I’ve dealt with strange Pokémon before. If I can get you back to however you’re supposed to be, then I’ll make arrangements to send you back to Kanto. I know that your accent isn’t Unovan. But I want to record as much data as I can before that eventuality. I hope you won’t mind."

His demeanor hadn’t really changed much from that when the other, younger guy was present – but it did change. Crystal couldn’t read him or his intentions, but she had the instinct that he was less concerned, and more curious, than he had acted with the other guy with his genuine feelings on his sleeve.

“ My friend said that you seemed to understand human speech. You can speak, there isn’t any reason to hide that, now, so how about we have a conversation?" the man said. "How about we get you back to your original form, hm?"

Let me go, Crystal telepathically demanded, growling.

“Telepathy,” the man said, smiling and writing something down. “Why don’t you want to return to your original form?”

Put me back, she hissed into his mind, baring her fangs. Where am I?

“Opelucid City,” the man said. “In a lab that I run.”

I don’t like labs.

“Have you been in multiple?”

Crystal didn't answer. She just glared at him.

“Do you have a name?”

Crystal thought for a moment, wondering to herself, What is your end-game here? But she found herself answering, “Yes,” aloud. She had to hold back her name – she almost let it slip.

“Ah, you found your voice. Good. What were you, originally?”

Crystal held the answer, even as it eagerly sat on her tongue. Doesn’t matter to you, she spat mentally instead.

“It does if you want help getting back to your original form.”

I don’t need your help. I did this to myself. I can undo it on my own.

“I can do it just as easily myself,” the man said, his finger hovering over a button.

Crystal's eyed widened in alarm. “Don't you dare,” she hissed out.

“Fine, fine,” he said, putting his hands up in a calming gesture. “Especially when you ask verbally. Another test I want to do is to find out what Pokémon you are. You’re clearly a Vulpix, but also just as clearly not only a Vulpix. Unless you’d like to shed any light on this strange fusion of yours?”

Crystal looked away, staring at her three tails. I don’t know. I noticed my three tails instead of a Vulpix’s typical six. She turned her head sharply to glare at him again, and growled, continuing, Right before your sedative took full effect.

“Then let’s find out, shall we?”

Crystal jumped in surprise as he started powering up the tube that she was in, a whir building in the air around her. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m finding the answer to what you currently are. Aren’t you curious?”

“No! I’m not!” She couldn’t do anything about it. She watched, helplessly, as the machine kept whirring, as the man, hunched over, watched the monitors and computers with an intense, maybe even obsessive, focus. Occasionally, he wrote something down.

She waited for something to happen. Something to change in the tube.

Nothing.

He stood up and straightened his glasses. He regarded her in awe. “It says that your other half... registers as Mew, even though it’s not very certain about that. There is precious little Mew DNA available for study, especially after what happened with the Mewtwo Project in Kanto. But I’m sure you’re plenty familiar with that, aren’t you?”

“I’m not– what? Don’t tell me you think I’m a Mew.” Arceus, why?

“They say that Mew is the ancestor of all Pokémon, and that Ditto came from cloning attempts that weren’t overly successful. Maybe that’s where your origins lie.”

“Mew is the ancestor of all life in those legends!” Crystal pointed out. “I know those legends, I was—” she cut herself off. If he suspects I’m human, he’ll be even more curious. Instead, she continued, “Mew can’t speak human languages!”

“Then how are you, a random Vulpix, speaking with both telepathy and vocally? It seems there are some significant Mew influences in you, and I would like to see a Mew in person, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said eagerly, ignoring her protests. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

She ran up to the side of the tube. “I’m not a Mew!” Crystal insisted.

The man shrugged. “You’re certainly not a Vulpix. I can just make you revert to your original form, and we can have the answer.”

“I have never seen a Mew, as much as I looked!” Crystal said, desperately. “I’m not a Mew, I promise! Just let me go. Let me go. Please!”

“Oh, don’t worry, I plan to,” the man said. "But I want to see a Mew first, or whatever you were, and get some valuable data.”

“Please, I'm not a Mew!”

The man just turned back to his computers, and started hitting buttons, like before. The machine started up again. “You’re just as interesting as a Mew, even if you aren’t one. But I’d still like the data.”

I can’t let him know! Crystal, in her panic, tried to start Self-Destruct – anything to stop anyone from knowing – but it wouldn’t hold. The energy she put into it dissipated immediately, and faster than she could replenish it.

“You won’t be able to use any moves in there,” the man said in an offhanded manner. “It’s specifically for studying Pokémon, especially ones that could get scared into doing something drastic.”

“I’m about to do something drastic, alright,” Crystal promised darkly.

“You can try.”

Her next attempt was Earthquake – but that dissolved as well. Can I overload whatever is draining my energy?

She wracked her brain for a powerful move – All those Legendary encounters, and I can’t think of anything!

Then her body started to change. The bones started shifting, her tendons stretching, her muscles adjusting. Her tails vanishing, the bone cells finding new purposes elsewhere.

“Stop!” she grunted, unprepared for the sudden pain of Transform. But she knew, even if he somehow stopped the devices, her body would have completed it, anyway. “No!”

The pain stopped, faster than she expected, leaving its burning absence in the wake of Transform. She laid on the floor of her tube, thankful that it was over quickly.

“Hm, not what I expected. That seemed quite painful.”

“I told you, I’m not a Mew!” Crystal hissed, trying to breathe through the pain, seeing her human hands. She slowly pushed herself up as her strength returned. “And of course it’s painful. Imagine every bone in your body breaking, deconstructing, every tendon and muscle overstretching. All at once.”

“Evidently. My mistake, Miss. But don’t worry, I have a way to fix everything.” The man made a gesture toward a strange statue, sitting off to the side.

The strange statue Pokémon from before levitated over to her as the tube lifted. Now, she could see the pale brown color of its body, and the red-yellow-green lights on its hands.

“You,” Crystal growled out, glaring at the man. “Get it away from me.”

“Now, now, this is my Beheeyem.” Than man walked over to stand near it. “He’s going to fix this whole mess right up.”

“How can he possibly do that?” she asked, suspicious.

“Beheeyem, erase her memories then prepare Teleport back to Pinwheel Forest. We’re dropping her back off where we found her.”

Before Crystal could say anything, the Beheeyem arrested her mind, and the memories of the last couple of hours started dissolving like those in a dream.

“I hope we meet again,” the strange man said.

One thing, however, stuck with her: her body began shifting again.

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parasite-core · 2 years

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A few OC questions coming on through!

Which OC is most like you? In what ways?

Which OC is the most comforting to you?

Which OC’s design is your favorite?

I always love hearing about ppl’s charas! Excited to see what answers u give!

Ah, thank you very much for this pleasant surprise! You’ve made my night 😊

Which OC is most like you?

I always think Sai is most like me in terms of personality. She’s a bit timid and shy around strangers, and she doesn’t like loud noises. She isn’t quick to tell people about herself when she first meets them because she feels like she needs to gauge if they’ll judge her for who and what she really is, so she observes people first and grows to trust them before she talks about herself more. She also really throws herself into things when she decides she’s going to do them. If something’s going to get done, it’s either 100% or nothing. Also she has terrible eyesight and is my one OC who needs glasses 😂

Which OC is most comforting to you?

Roland is my comfort OC. He’s the one I always go back to. He was my first Pathfinder OC with a group of people, and he became very special to me. He’s always felt a little different from my other OCs, both before and since him. I remember back when I was playing him telling my GM that he felt like my character with the most emotional complexity I’d ever made. And I got so invested in him that when he had a mental breakdown during a traumatic moment, I actually emotionally crashed a bit as well during that week. I remember during that time telling my GM how much I regretted making a character with so much angst. It’s a big part of what led to Umbrolus and Lucien (at least his initial concept) having no angst at all. Then I got bored of that and went back to my angst full force with Draven. But I never got hit as hard by any moment with Draven as I did with Roland. That’s not to say I wasn’t invested in Draven. I’d probably call her my second favorite after Roland, I love my bad luck girl. But Roland really had a tight hold on my heart. And still does. Which given his literal ability to grab people’s hearts and rip them out…eh…

Which OC’s design is your favorite?

Oh man, see, this is the hard question. I have fun designing all my OCs so a lot of them are up there. After careful deliberation though it’s between my two tieflings. Either my gunslinger Kaius, or my barbarian Umbrolus. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good tiefling. They can turn out so unique, with different combinations of skin color and horns and glow-y eyes. Kaius has antlers, grey skin, a gunslinger duster over magic celestial armor, and a pistol that never runs out of bullets, so he’s got style and a flare for the dramatic. Umbrolus has two sets of horns and dark purple skin, glowing flame colored eyes when he’s angry, and wears a green fur rimmed cloak made of dragon scales, so he’s got the intimidation factor along with style. If you put a gun to my head and made me choose between them, I guess I’d probably have to go with Umbrolus by a very thin margin. I like the two sets of horns. He was designed to purposely evoke a very dragon-like visage, since he thought he was a dragon.

I have commissioned pictures of them both, so you can see for yourself. Both are by ioanamuresan on Twitter.

#my ocs #Sai Gwenn #Roland Terrasold #Kaius River #Umbrolus Arcantix #imaginarymen

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simple-study-of-story · 10 months

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Zekiel looked at an empty spot in an art exhibition. Normally, it wasn’t empty. It usually had the only painting that had truly caught his attention. It depicted a crowd of people, their faces blurred in their movement as they crossed the streets, crossed the painting’s frame of view. Buildings and shops stood in the background, also blurred, giving them the same anonymity as the people. Everything and everyone anonymous… except for one person at the center. The one person with details on the canvas. In the monochrome world created, this person at the center of it all was blasted with color. Their raven black hair contrasted with the dull whites and greys around them. Their sapphire blue eyes sparkled with life against the soulless ones around them. Highlights brought attention to their jawline, their nose, their cheeks. He could see every detail in the character’s side profile, from the out-of-place strand of hair hanging above their eyebrows to the smallest faded scar that ran under their ear.

When he first saw the piece, Zekiel stopped in the middle of the walkway in shock. He walked over to it, amazed with how much was captured in a single frame. What intrigued him most, however, was how the artist knew. That was his face at the center of the masses. His face in full color, his face in full detail. That scar under his ear was from a fight with the villain, Syren. She had managed to scratch him with her claws as he tried to stop her from robbing the bank. No one should have been able to get this much detail on his civilian identity.

Now, the spot was empty, replaced with a radius of caution tape, a pair of cops, and a detective. Someone had stolen it the night before and left no trace, except for a couple drops of water from what he heard. It irked him, to say the least. He wanted that painting back, if not for the public but for himself. There was something about it that made him feel… something. That bothered him too: he didn’t know why he felt such a strong connection to the piece. It didn’t make sense to him. He wanted to make it make sense.

He already had a suspect in mind. It was time to pay her a visit.

---

Blix stood against her window, staring at the painting before her. She never named it. It was only known as “Man in a Crowd,” which did the piece no justice, not because it wasn’t true but because there was more to it. It was the feeling of isolation, loneliness, and longing behind it that made it as gorgeous as people said it was. A lonely man in full color, standing out against a sea of unknown faces, in a world that meant nothing but at the same time meant everything.

She wiped away the drops of water resting on the outer bronze frame. How could she have sold this for only 500? None of her pieces should be sold at such a low price, especially not this one. I suppose it was better that I made it famous first before stealing it back, she thought. That way I can sell it at a higher price, again and again.

Someone knocked on her door. Blix looked at the clock. 11:06 am. He’s a bit late, she shrugged before donning her midnight blue jumpsuit and her scaled masquerade mask. It’s all just formalities at this point, she thought as she fixed the mask loosely around her eyes.

Blix went to the door, opening it as she ran a hand through her hair and leaned against the doorframe. “You’re late, darling.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.” The Mask sounded irritated. Just as she expected.

“When have I ever listened to you, darling? And besides, I’ve been led to believe you like being called that.”

He sighed, his mask frowning. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Honey, there’s a lot of things you could be talking about right now. You know me, you need to be specific.”

He scratched his head in frustration, making his hair stick up. “The painting.”

“What painting?”

“Syren for the love of the gods I am not in the mood right now, just give me the damn painting.”

Blix feigned a look of hurt. “No need to be so rude about it,” she mock-pouted. She held the door open wider for him. “Come in and look for it yourself.”

“I’m not going in there.”

“Look, darling, if I had traps set in here, they’d be disabled because I am inside the house. It’s safe for you. Unless, of course, you piss me off real good and then I’d be obligated to try and kill you.”

The Mask sighed, irritated. “Fine.” He stepped inside carefully. Blix had half a mind to yell “BOO!” and shake him up at that moment, but knowing how he could be when angered, she figured that wouldn’t be the best thing to do.

When he found that he was still alive after the first few steps inside the house, she closed the door. “Feel free to explore, look around for whatever painting you’re looking for. Just don’t go to the basement, that’s where I keep the bodies.”

He gave her a look. She sighed. “Ok fine, I don’t keep bodies in there, just their organs.” He glared at her, not at all amused.

Blix huffed. “Okay, damn, just trying to have fun here. I’m gonna make some tea. You don’t have to drink any if you’re paranoid but I’m making enough for two. Enjoy your search.”

---

Zekiel walked around the house. Boxes and papers were strewn around in about every corner he could see. If she was expecting me, the least she could have done was tidy up right?

He walked around the house. Where could she keep a massive painting? He peeked into a hallway. There were three doors, one of which was slightly open. He looked back towards the kitchen, where he could hear Syren boiling water. Was she seriously making tea? He shook his head and walked to the open door, peeking inside.

As he expected, boxes were piled to the ceiling and papers were everywhere. But there were also jars of discolored water, brushes, canvases, and paints. An easel was propped up in the center with the back of the canvas facing him. He opened the door wider and stood there. The entire room was full of art, from paintings to sketches and drawings. Sketchbooks littered the bench before the massive window facing the door. There were birds, flowers, fruits, trees, mountains; one was a cottage in the woods with a garden and a fox waiting patiently next to it. But what caught his attention the most were the still frames of moving scenes, similar to the painting he was looking for.

Zekiel walked in, careful not to spill the jars of water or trip on the loose newspapers laying around, protecting the flooring. He saw a frame of a laughing child, a singer on the streets, kids running with a ball between them, a couple leaning on each other on a park bench. He saw himself as the center of many still frames, giving a flower to a little girl, drinking with friends at a pub, carrying a crate of flowers. Hell, he remembered doing all that. There was even a still frame of him fighting Syren on the beach, where he managed to… well, subdue her, he figured, in her own element. But in all of these still frames, he should have had his mask on.

There was no mask in any of these works.

He circled around the easel at the center and found the painting he was looking for propped up on it. Zekiel marveled at the piece, at every work he saw before him, every little detail he could see, from the pollen in the flowers to the mole on a child’s cheek. It all looked gorgeous. Beautiful. The whole room looked like pieces of a fragmented soul, scattered on the walls, hidden in the eyes of the people drawn, hidden in the beauty of the iris flowers sketched. It was all breathtaking.

“So you found it.”

Zekiel tore his eyes off the works of art and found Syren leaning on the doorway, a cup of tea in each hand, the scales on her mask shimmering in the sunlight that entered through the window. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah I found it.”

“The one on the easel, yeah?”

He nodded. She smirked a bit, a soft smile that he had never known she could do. “Would you like a cup of tea before you take it? I assume you’ll be heading back to the exhibition to drop it off.”

“You didn’t poison it or anything right?”

She chuckled. “If I wanted you dead, I would have tried killing you the second I answered the door. You of all people should know that.”

“Fair enough.” Zekiel walked over to her and took one of the cups from her hand. He took the cup and raised it to his lips before realizing that he still had his mask on. He paused. She took a sip from her cup, flinching as she realized it was too hot. “How long have you known what I looked like?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s been ages now,” she said, blowing on her tea.

“How did you find out?”

She paused. “You know how you go to the beach to calm down after every fight?”

He blinked in surprise. “Yeah…?”

“Where do you think sirens live, darling?”

Zekiel was silent. Then he started feeling a little self-conscious. “How… how much do you… do you see…?”

Syren laughed, a melodious laugh that washed over him like a wave. “You don’t have anything to worry about darling,” she consoled him. “You have a good body if that helps your ego.”

“Oh gods, please tell me that’s all you see.”

“What do you take me for, a full-time stalker?” she said, sounding mildly offended. “I’m not a creep, alright?”

“If you’re not a creep, then explain the paintings and the sketches,” he said. “You could have just told me you’re obsessed with me.”

“Oh please, like you would have believed that that easily.” Syren sipped her tea carefully.

Zekiel looked around. “I just… you could easily make a living off of your work, you know?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s easy to make a living off of this. But also, what did you think my day job was? Some behind-the-desk phone operator or something?”

“Fair enough.” He held the tea to his lips again, then remembered his mask was still on. He set the cup back on the saucer and touched his mask. “I guess there isn’t much need for this stupid thing, huh?”

Syren shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

“Can I close the window curtains at least?”

“Sure,” she said, flicking the lights on.

He went over to the window and drew the curtains, then sighed. “If I’m going to remove my mask, you should remove yours too. It’s only fair.”

Syren was silent, then sighed. “Alright. That’s fair.”

Zekiel exhaled. “I’m taking mine off now then.” He held his mask by its chin and lifted it up, moving it so that it was on the side of his head. Then he turned.

Syren’s mask was in her free hand as she moved to hang it on the easel. Up until now, he had never noticed her eyes. They almost blended in with the shimmering scales of her mask. Now, he could see that they sparkled like golden honey. They were warm and comforting, the complete opposite of what he would expect a villain’s eyes to look like. She looked truly human, and truly gorgeous.

She looked at him. “You’re staring darling,” she chuckled.

He blinked and came back to reality. “I understand why you’re a villain now,” he said, regaining his sanity for a second. “It’s a crime to look as gorgeous as you.”

She blinked, stunned, then grinned. “I’m glad to know that you can flirt back. I’ll be expecting more of that from now on.”

“Would be a shame to disappoint.”

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extravaguk · 3 years

Text

sweets&ink

part of my opposites attract! series.

ksj / knj / myg / jhs / pjm / kth

pairing: tattooartist&tattoed!jungkook x baker!reader

summary: jungkook was everything you feared but exactly what you needed to heal your broken heart.

wordcount: 5k

genre: fluff - angst - smut (s2l!au)

rated: m (?

warnings: some cursing, mentions of past abusive/toxic relationships/trauma that might be triggering, a lil of making love at the end. it’s overall just suuper fluffy, trust me. jungkook is a s i m p. we love that for him! slow burrrnnnn.

Jungkook knows it was love at first sight, but doesn's know how to really explain it.

He knew from the moment he entered the small shop, pastel green walls welcoming him replete of sugary treats, a sweet and heavenly scent engulfing him as soon as he stepped a foot inside. With a new found sense of calmness and serenity within he hadn't experienced in a long time, he searched for deserts of his liking, mouth watering while assessing the many options of baked goods available and bright colored frostings stealing his attention.

"Hi. How may I help you?"

Then he looked up and found you. It wasn't easy to appreciate your whole appearence with the counter hiding the lower half of your body, but it was enough for Jungkook to think to himself that he had never seen a prettier girl in hiis entire life. And that's when he knew it. Any type of movement in his surroundings coming to a halt, his heart skipping a beat, his favourite song playing inside his head. And that particular sensation. The same one that had made him feel so at ease since he found your bakery. For a moment he thought his doe eyes might have actually turned into heart eyes until you raised your eyebrows, a concerned expression replacing your previous warm smile.

Blinking his eyes and clearing his throat, coming down from cloud nine into the real world, he stuttered his order as best as he coud manage, heart pounding inside his chest and later feeling mortified for not being able to pronounce "gingernap cookies" correctly.

At first he kind of hated Seokjin for blackmailing him into going to his favourite bakery to buy his favourite cookies (Jungkook really should've known better than accidentally spill ink all over Jin's new script), but when he comes back home with a goofy smile on his face and dreams of your face, he makes sure to text him he'll go get his cookies anytime he wants.

But Jungkook is a masochist apparently.

Because a week after your first encounter he realizes that not being able to get his mind off a girl he's literally only seen once in his entire life is not exactly normal. Not for anyone, but especially not for him. Realizes that the way he embarrassed himself in front of you and probably looked like a bluberring mess (or a creepy weirdo who had never interacted with any woman before) is not reason enough to not keep wanting to try again. And the way you just giggled at him and simply shook your head as you wrapped the ginger cookies he had asked for in a pretty packaging has kept him aching for more.

So he comes once a week now. Still as nervous as the first day, but content to see that your face seems to light up at the sight of him stepping through the door the same way his does. He likes to see you in your cute pastel dresses, and if he didn't know better he'd think you were just trying to keep up with the bakery's aesthetic. But the more he frequents your shop, the more he realizes you're exactly like the treats you bake. He likes how your vividly honeyed persona contrasts with his darker and reserved one. Likes how you're all colors of the rainbow and he's just a scale of greys.

They are small interactions. Just courtesy and cordial exchange of words everytime he visits. He doesn't even know your name and you don't even know his, but sometimes he asks how was your weekend and sometimes you ask how many people had he inked that week. Sometimes he tells you how pretty you look, and sometimes you blush in response. Sometimes you add an extra macaron in his order and sometimes he debates on whether or not he should write down his number on a napkin and slide in right on the countertop before he waves goodbye.

And although Jungkook has never been one to shy away from women, he feels a certain way he can't exactly pinpoint. A way that makes his confidence falter and leaves him feeling like a little kid who's afraid to confess to the girl he likes. Because as cliché as it sounds, you're not like any other girls he's ever met. You don't feel like any other girl he's ever met. Not the older than him, tattoed and pierced type of girl he's accustomed to; not the type of girl that's addicted to trouble and believe him (maybe even hoped) to be something he's not. So it takes a while for him to summon up enough bravery and determination. It takes weeks of pining and overthinking, and a single push from Yoongi ('stop being a fucking pussy and just do it') to ask you to have coffee with him.

"I... I'm sorry. I can't."

And it only takes those words leaving your mouth to shatter his heart into pieces.

It's fine though, he told you and himself. He wasn't going to be one of those guys who believed the 'friendzone' was an actual thing and tried his best to not make you feel uncomfortable, really tried his best to erase the guilt across your face as you rejected him. So he scratched the back of his head and mustered up a big smile before leaving the shop with a bag full of cupcakes and an unsettled stomach.

Letting out a deep breath you didn't even know you were containing, you observe as the handsome stranger exits the shop. Running a hand through your hair before gripping the counter with your hands, you try to steady the heavy throbbing insde your chest.

The boy in question had been unknowingly tormenting you and flooding your mind with thoughts of him for almost two months now. That day you first had spotted him eyeing the desserts in display in amazement and then you in the very same way. It was sudden and precipitated, but it had almost made your head spin, something you hadn't felt in a long time unexplainable tugging at your insides.

You had kept your cool as best as you could, as best as you had taught yourself in the past. Wrapped those cookies he had asked and then waved goodbye, hoping under your breath he wouldn't come back but silently wishind he would. But then he did. He came back once. And then again. And again, and before you realized he had become a frequent costumer. Trying whatever treats you'd recommended him, creating small talk, sending friendly smiles here and then.

You had learned to expect him at the very same time, the very same day of the week; had learned to manage the fluttering in your tummy and the reddish warmth spreading through your cheeks whenever the eye contact was prolongued. Everything was innocent, it was brief and, most importanly, it never went beyond, even if sometimes you hoped it did.

However, after all these years, there was still something you hadn't learned to control yet. And as he spoke, clearly nervous, hesitant and clearly out of his comfort zone, wondering out loud if he could ever treat you to a coffee sometime, your body shut down. The fondness and excitement you had been harboring over the last few weeks quickly replaced by that which made you want to recoil, made you want to back to your well to let its darkness and loneliness envelop you.

That horrible and ugly wave of crippling fear and axiety all mixed together; a little monster that you had successfully concealed, now displaying its ears in warning and the same smile that had been haunting you for years, now advising you, reminding you and most of all, threatening you, to go back to your own comfort zone. And so, powerless, there was nothing else you could really to but to comply, muttering an apology and a rejection that probably pained you more than it pained the boy in front of you.

You knew you did the right thing, but it definitely didn't feel like it.

Especially a week later, as you expected his arrival- as always, ready with a tray full of fresh baked scones you had particularly made just for him, but were left severely disappointed when time passed and he was nowhere to be seen. Or two weeks later, after spending an extra hour making cake pops that you had specifically designed with him in mind (covered in dark chocolate and white sprinkles), only to realize it was closing time and that he never even showed up.

To say you were bummed was an understatement. You knew you always looked forward to him coming in every week to grace your day with a smile and a polite talk, but you didn't come to terms with how much you would miss it until now. So three weeks later, you still bake with him in mind, trying not to lose hope but still chastising yourself for not being brave enough and accepting his offer. It was just a coffee date, for God's sake, not a marriage proposal! Trying to busy your mind with work and customers coming in and out, even if your eyes dart in anticipation everytime you hear the door swinging.

When hours pass and the sun hides to make room for the moon and stars into the sky, you look at the clock and, with a defeated sigh, finish cleaning and tidying around the shop. But before you can gather your things, the door swings open and there stands the stranger you had been praying to see again.

"Am I too late?" he asks, and you don't exactly know but can tell his words hold a double meaning. You smile, a genuine smile, because he looks bashful with a hand scratching the back of his head like he had done the last time you saw him, and because there's a warm sensation spreading through your chest, like your heart is smiling for you.

"I was about to close, but I can make an exception." you accomplish to say and surprisingly don't sound as nervous as you feel. He mirrors your smile as he walks closer to the counter. "So, what would you like?"

That takes him by surprise because he really had nothing in mind when he decided to come here and now he feels like an idiot.

"Uh, um... I would like... maybe cupcakes?" he sounds like an idiot too. But you nod and smile at him and start gathering his cupcakes into a polka dot cardboard box.

"You missed the cake pops I made last week." you say, trying to keep your voice in check as he hands you his credit car. "I think you would've liked them."

"Ah, sorry... Work has been really hectic." and even if it's true, it's also true the fact that he chickened out and was frightened to face you again. He likes how even when you're alluding to his absence, there's not a malicious tone behind your words. He likes how you're still smiling at him even after he's been acting like a pussy for two weeks. But that's why he's here. "I also would like to apologize for... you know. I didn't-...If I made you feel uncomfortable, I'm really sorry."

With your eyebrows raised, your smile dissipates. "What? No, you didn't do anything wrong, really. It's not- It's not that. I just...can't." you stumble through words, trying to explain how much you actually wanted to go to that coffee date, to get to know his name and more of himself, but unavailable to. You can feel it again. The same anguish that always seem to creep up on you and numbs you altogheter. But him, worriedly sensing your distress, waves his hands in front of him.

"No, no. It's fine, you don't have to explain anything! It's alright!" his smile seems to soothe you and you return his smile in gratitude. "Anyways, I'll... I'll get going. See you next week?"

You nod, anticipation already making its way into you. "See you next week." and then he takes the box filled with cupcakes and says goodbye. Before he can open the door though, a tingle of impulsivity and fearlesness makes you say:

"I'm _____, by the way."

He pauses, clearly taken aback.

"Jungkook."

Jungkook hasn't stopped repeating your name in his head ever since you gave it to him, grinning like a fool and thinking about how good it sounds next to his. He hasn't stopped frequenting your bakery either and has lost count on how much money he's spent on muffins and whatever else you sell. He doesn't care though. All he cares about is how much likes seeing you even if it's only for fifteen minutes in your floral dresses, and as long as you keep looking like you're glad to see him every time, then he's fine.

He's more than fine. He feels amazing. Sings tunes while he works on customers, feels his creativity flowing more than ever and he feels whole. It still baffles him how a minimun interaction with you once a week can make him feel on top of the world.

He's got a bouquet of white and pink lillies next time he visits, so sappy and romantic he doesn't even recognize himself. He doesn't tell you he googled their meaning and his mind instantly associated them with you. Purity is exactly what he thinks of you and admiration is exactly how he feels about you. Hands it to you and the surprised look on your face and the spreading of pink all over your cheeks makes his heart burst. You thank him and he tells you he didn't know what your favourite flower is. You answer it's carnations. He writes it down somewhere in his mind, for next time. And then you're the one surprising him.

"Would you like to have coffee sometime?"

There's uncertainty in your voice that doesn't go unnoticed by him, and for a moment he thinks he's dreaming. He's cool with what he's got right now with you, but you repeating his words back to him makes him feel euphoric, like he can't believe it. He knows he looks dumb, the way he's looking at you.

Completely dumbfounded. He stutters like the first same he met you, but he says yes (omits the part where he tells you he could almost die). You exchange number in each other's phones with shaky hands, set the day and hour, and then wave each other goodbye.

You instantly regret it as you watch him leave. Keep regretting it the following days. That voice in your head telling you 'it'll happen again', telling you fairytales didn't exist and this most likely wasn't one, even if it felt like it was, suffocating you like it had done many times before. Screwing with your head until you consider canceling.

But you power through it, like you had taught yourself to do. This time it's harder though. Because this time there's a new romantic interest at hand, one that's making you feel things you buried a long time ago and made you swear to yourself you'd be smarter and stronger than any man could.

It's Hoseok's encouraging words that help ease the panic. It was also Hoseok's words who encouraged you to ask Jungkook out. Said you deserved something good for once and that you couldn't close yourself to love your entire life.

Thought it was time for you to write a new chapter after a rather sad one.

So on Saturday, Jungkook insists on picking you up and it already feels like too much for you. Especially when he shows up with a bouquet of carnations in his hand and a smile that takes your breath away and definitely doesn't help to ease your nerves.

Takes him by surprised how pretty you look. maybe because it's the first time he's seen you out of your shop and even though you're still loyal to your clothing style, he still fumbles with his words like an idiot to try to express how beautiful you look. Seeing he's as much of a mess as you settles you a little bit. Then he takes you to a cute café that almost makes you laugh, because seeing him, inked arms and piercings and a closet that consisted mainly of black oversized t-shirts and pants in such a bright environment reminds you of the first time he entered your shop.

You're surprised to see how well the conversation rolls, how easy it is to talk to him beyond the usual brief interactions you two have. You like how he makes you laugh and how he seems to love hearing it. You like how his attention is solely focused on you, even if his gaze on yours sometimes feels too intense and his overall character intimidates you. You like how soft spoken he is, how careful he is with words and the sound of his voice. Sounds like a lullaby without melody.

And when the date is over, he drives you home, walks you to your door and respectfully wishes you a good night. You kiss him on the cheek spontaniously before hiding the embarrassment on your face and stepping inside your home. You miss the way he stays at your doorstep for a whole minute before getting in his car and driving himself home. You also miss how peacefully he sleeps that night, dreaming of cupcakes and you. You don't miss the heart emoji he sends you before going to bed, making yours quiver.

You're glad you didn't cancel, and now you're sure you don't regret it at all

It goes on. The dates, getting to know each other more and more, Jungkook's visits to your shop and spending way too much money on sweets and carnations, the butterflies in your stomach everytime he's near and the birth of something inside of you that's starting to make you feel alive after feeling dead for so long.

It's still new, still wholesome, moves in slow motion. You're glad Jungkook doesn't push, doesn't ask for anything, never demands more than a kiss on the cheek everytime he drops you off. He is nothing like he looks like, you realized that right away.

But with every brand new beginning that requires feelings like this, especially as unique and exceptional as the ones Jungkook is causing within you, comes the evil monster trying to scare you off, to make you back off and remind you that not everything that shines is gold. The voice inside your head that keeps bewitching you back into a dark room, reminder in your head everytime that one day Jungkook will want more. He'll want more and you might not be ready to give it to him.

A voice that keeps resonating and has kept you unmoving for the past few years and now is making you feel more frightened than ever.

You've been more quite than usual and Jungkook can tell something is not quite right. It's a friday night, and after having dinner that he insisted on paying, he decided this time to drive you away, to a secluded space somewhere where you both can appreciate the city lights on the hood of his car. He can tell, so he asks you, but you give a vague answer. He wants to ask again, but he's afraid of overstepping your boundaries. He wants to get to know you in every level, want's to scratch the surface until he can see everything. He wants to learn you inch by inch. Wants to love every part you bare to him, because he's sure he will.

"My ex partner was abusive."

You finally say with a voice that's not entirely yours, and it doesn't feel real. Doesn't feel real to say out loud and letting the words sink in. It's taken all this time of excusing behaviors that were not excusable, trying to make light of a situation that wasn't and blaming yourself for things that you were not to blame for. Jungkook stays silent, but his attention immediately focused on you as soon as you spoke. Eyes slightly wide and mouth starting to open as if to speak himself. But you go on.

"Not physically." you swallow a lump in your throat. "Sometimes he would throw things at me, but they didn't always land. Or... one time he pushed me while we were arguing. Never raised his hand at me though. It was mostly psychological and emotional. He was extremely jealous and possesive. Didn't like me hanging with my friends, would never bring me to hang out with him and his friends. Though I' was cheating on him with anyone. The cashier at the supermarket, a randome dude on the street that simply looked at me. Anyone." tears prickle your eyes, but you'd learned to hold them back.

"He would always get mad at me. Would already wake up angry and take it out on me. Without reason. Would always blame me for everything. He would get mad, insult me, call me any terrible name you can imagine, tell me I wasn't worth shit. That I wasn’t worth living.Then he would punch the wall, or break whatever was in sight. Everytime, I told him I was terrified of him. Would cry in a corner and beg him to stop. Sometimes he would just laugh at me for it." you sniff, still looking straight at the city lights, and trying to keep a composed tone throughout. You had grown up a lot since then, and you knew Jungkook deserved to know you. He deserved to understand.

"Then he would calm down, apologize while he cried and promised he loved me and would change. He never did. It took me a long time to finally walk away, but the demons still haunt me to this day. You," you choke, because comparing your ex to the guy currently sitting next to you was like day and night, like heaven and hell. "You make me feel things I've never felt before. I always felt like asking for respect was asking for too much. And then here you come, like a knight on shining armour ready to sweep me off my feet. It felt like a dream. Still does..."

Jungkook's hands are balled into tight fists, his whole body rigid as he listened to you. His own heart breaking, like he could feel himself inside you and experiencing your own heartbreak. His blood's boiling, jaw so tight and eyes blinking. Pushing down his anger, because this is about you not him, he lets his body relax before sliding your hand in yours.

"I like you so much,_____, it literally kills me at night how much. Not as much as hearing all of this, though. From the moment I saw you, I was whipped. I wanted and still want to give everything I can to see that smile of yours. It's me the one who can't believe you're paying me any attention at all." you're still not looking at him, but he still sighs in relief when your lips quirk up. "Just having you here next to me and letting me take you out on dates is more than enough for me. Whatever you give me, whatever your terms are, I'm content with that. You're healing, and while you do, I'll be right here."

You look at him now, not bothering to hide the tears streaming down your face anymore.

"What if I never heal completely?" there's fear in your voice as your eyes meet his, but just the dark brown in his gaze help you feel secure, less worried about the future and more serene about the now.

"I'll still be here."

It doesn't take long for you to call it love.

Not when Jungkook keeps proving himself to be so different and so special. Not when his gestures never cease to make you feel so special, so worthy of recieving and sharing love. Because Jungkook makes you feel invincible, makes you feel one in a million.

"What to you even see in me? We're like, polar opposites." you ask him one day. And it's true, you are. So different from each other, yet the same. He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head, still holding your hand in your doorstep about to kiss your cheek goodnight.

"I see everything." he simply says, eyes boring into yours in adoration. "I see the sun, and the moon, the stars, the entire galaxy when I'm with you." your heart clenches as he interlaces his fingers with yours. "Before I met you, I felt like I was blind. Like I was lost and was looking for an exit that I couldn't find. But then I saw you, in your little bakery, with your cute dresses and those eyes, and it was like my eyes opened for the first time. Everything made sense. Everything has been filled with so many colors ever sinc-"

You shut him with your lips on top of his, emotions pulling at your heartstrings the same way you pull him down by the neck. He takes a few seconds to respond, but then this hands are dropping to your waist, their warmth immediately spreading through your skin against the chilly night.

"Would you like to come in?" you whisper, breath fanning over his lips. He nods, hurriedly, and he knows he looks like a damn idiot for the hundredth time, but he doesn't care. Because coming in doesn't only mean stepping in your home. Coming in means you're letting him in. Means you trust him, means you want him there, means you're allowing him inside your heart.

Again, Jungkook doesn't expect nor demands much. Your presence is everything he needs. You kissing him is like winning the lottery to him. Like completing a marathon, like climbing the Everest, like getting his first tattoo. Kissing you is sweet, fills him with something strong that makes him feel on drugs, like nothing matters but you and him. Like nothing has ever mattered to neither of you.

So it's you who leads him to your room, it's you who straddles his thighs and pushes his hair back as his hands carress your sides. It's nothing fiery. It's slow, tentative, and full of care. Of lingering touches, low sighs against each other's mouths.

It's you who reaches inside his shirt, hand sneaking past the hem of the fabric and trembling cold fingers coming in contact with firm skin. It's also you who asks for more with a small roll of your hips. It's you who asks him to take his shirt off. It's him who complies. Still tells you you don't have to, you tell him you want to.

It's you who asks him to touch you. He's scared like he's never been, because you're you, and you're so perfect and everything he's ever wanted and suddenly he's afraid of you're too good for him. Jungkook only wants to make you happy, never wants to see you cry, just wants to treat you the way you deserve.

It's you who begs.

It's you who tells him you need him. Need him take care of you, need him to show you much you're worth, need him to help you write a new chapter, probably even a new book where you're both the main characters and nobody else has ever existed. You say it with tears in your eyes, and he's quick to kiss them away, tongue entangling with yours. He's quick to undress you as well, with hands that still ask for permission even after you've granted it already. Hands and lips that are also quick and eager to learn your body, to find every mole in your skin as he lays you back to look at you in admiration. He keeps kissing you. From head to toe, muttering praise, making sure every 'beautiful' and 'gorgeous' and 'perfect' that leave his lips stay fire engraved in your being forever.

He first makes you cum with careful fingers and skilled tongue, thighs wrapped aro around his head, eyes still looking for yours as his hands keep your body still and yours crumple the sheets beneath. Tells you how good you taste, how long he's been dying to have you like this. Tells you this you his favourite sight as he kisses his way up.

You beg him again, asking him to please, please, fill you up. He groans against your mouth and he tells you again, you don't have to. He says he's happy like this. Repeats he's in no rush and just wants to please you and make you feel good. That it's about you, and will always be about you. You beg him again, and again and again, enticing him with a trail of wet kisses down his neck, up to his eralobe. You whisper there, tell him you need him to fill you with his cock so bad. His whole body goes rigid as your legs wrap around him, legs pulling him closer to where you want him, his erection grazing your entrance and his teeth nibble your lower lip.

Jungkook doesn't move for a while, eyes closed shut, jaw clenched and head buried in your neck. He doesn't move because his mind is somewhere else keeping him stagnant, pussy wrapping around him so good and wet and tight he's about to bust. Takes a while for him to move, but when he does he makes sure to grip your thighs around him, keeping you close, never wanting to let go as he tells you you were made just for him. Just for him. Tells you how good you feel. He tells you he loves you. Kisses your lips as you sob, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. He tells you he loves you. Tells you he'll love you forever and will always keep you safe and happy.

You're crying now, cheeks wet and he stops for a moment to look at you, concern written all over his face as his hands craddle yours, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. "We can stop, baby." You shake your head no. Pull him back into another kiss, urging him to go on. You tell him you love this, love him so much. That it's a good thing. That they are happy tears. That you've never been happier. And then his hips start moving again, your words egging him own, soft whimpers and sobs leaving each other's throats until you cum at the same time.

He then removes himself from you, rolling onto your side but he's quick to pull your body close, arms wrapping around you and lips kissing away the wet stains on your cheeks.

It doesn't take long for you to know Jungkook would be the healthy forever and after you had always dreamed of.

#THE FEEELS BRUH #aaaaaa #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts #jungkook fic

2K notes · View notes

istumpysk · 3 years

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AGOT: Sansa II (Chapter 29)

Baby doll! 😍

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold.

Sweet Sansa, and her gold-tinted glasses.

+.+

"It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies.

I’m so happy for her. 🥺

+.+

Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years before. "His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm," she whispered to Jeyne.

Bronze Yohn's heir, Ser Andar Royce, and his younger brother Ser Robar, their silvered steel plate filigreed in bronze with the same ancient runes that warded their father.

His last match of the day was against the younger Royce. Ser Robar's ancestral runes proved small protection as Ser Loras split his shield and drove him from his saddle to crash with an awful clangor in the dirt.

The runes! Why do you keep mentioning them, old man?

+.+

Other riders Sansa did not know; hedge knights from the Fingers and Highgarden and the mountains of Dorne, unsung freeriders and new-made squires, the younger sons of high lords and the heirs of lesser houses. Younger men, most had done no great deeds as yet, but Sansa and Jeyne agreed that one day the Seven Kingdoms would resound to the sound of their names.

My little optimist. 🥰

+.+

The most terrifying moment of the day came during Ser Gregor's second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Sansa was seated. The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.

The hiding sun, and blood moons.

I’ll let the heavy hitters figure this one out.

+.+

Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself.

Thanks for your foreshadowing, George. I hate it.

+.+

Sansa never saw it. Her eyes were only for Ser Loras. When the white horse stopped in front of her, she thought her heart would burst.

To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. "Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you." Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off.

Sansa having a full-scale emotional affair on her fiancé.

We support you, girl.

(Rose!)

+.+

He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did.

Sharp girl.

+.+

"Your mother was my queen of beauty once," the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. "You have her hair." His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock.

Fuck off.

+.+

When Prince Joffrey seated himself to her right, she felt her throat tighten. He had not spoken a word to her since the awful thing had happened, and she had not dared to speak to him. At first she thought she hated him for what they'd done to Lady, but after Sansa had wept her eyes dry, she told herself that it had not been Joffrey's doing, not truly. The queen had done it; she was the one to hate, her and Arya. Nothing bad would have happened except for Arya.

We have our first episode of altered reality as a coping mechanism, and adaption to stress.

+.+

"He was too kind," she demurred, trying to remain modest and calm, though her heart was singing. "Ser Loras is a true knight. Do you think he will win tomorrow, my lord?"

"No," Joffrey said. "My dog will do for him, or perhaps my uncle Jaime. And in a few years, when I am old enough to enter the lists, I shall do for them all."

Laughing out loud.

+.+

A juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. The king's own fool, the pie-faced simpleton called Moon Boy, danced about on stilts, all in motley, making mock of everyone with such deft cruelty that Sansa wondered if he was simple after all.

Sharp girl.

+.+

And Joffrey was the soul of courtesy. He talked to Sansa all night, showering her with compliments, making her laugh, sharing little bits of court gossip, explaining Moon Boy's japes.

Snails in honey and garlic. Sansa had never eaten snails before; Joffrey showed her how to get the snail out of the shell, and fed her the first sweet morsel himself. Then came trout fresh from the river, baked in clay; her prince helped her crack open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within. And when the meat course was brought out, he served her himself, slicing a queen's portion from the joint, smiling as he laid it on her plate.

Sansa being served honeyed snails while Joffrey charms her. Funny.

Edit: slicing a queen's 😉 portion -> thank you @minitafan

+.+

Now everybody heard him. "No," he thundered in a voice that drowned out all other speech. Sansa was shocked to see the king on his feet, red of face, reeling. He had a goblet of wine in one hand, and he was drunk as a man could be. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed at Queen Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"

Explain to me why Cersei would attempt to dissuade him? He’s either going to die or humiliate himself, what’s the issue? Be quiet, let it happen.

Edit: I just read the next chapter. Please ignore this entire comment, lol.

+.+

Sansa started as Joffrey laid his hand on her arm. "It grows late," the prince said. He had a queer look on his face, as if he were not seeing her at all.

I spent a good few minutes trying to decide why Joffrey's mood soured after the scene between his father and mother. Was he embarrassed by his father’s behaviour? Was he enraged by the treatment of his mother? No.

He simply stopped making an effort with Sansa the second his mother left.

+.+

"Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her," the prince told him brusquely. And without even a word of farewell, Joffrey strode off, leaving her there.

You’re a bit distracted, so allow me to direct your attention to something: Ned didn’t arrange to have a personal guard escort Sansa and Septa Mordane back to the castle.

+.+

"Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite."

"That's unkind." Sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. "You're frightening me. I want to go now."

"No one could withstand him," the Hound rasped. "That's truth enough. No one could ever withstand Gregor. That boy today, his second joust, oh, that was a pretty bit of business. You saw that, did you? Fool boy, he had no business riding in this company. No money, no squire, no one to help him with that armor. That gorget wasn't fastened proper. You think Gregor didn't notice that? You think Ser Gregor's lance rode up by chance, do you? Pretty little talking girl, you believe that, you're empty-headed as a bird for true. Gregor's lance goes where Gregor wants it to go. Look at me. Look at me!" Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. "There's a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I've watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look."

His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look.

Fuck off.

+.+

"My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Arise, Ser Gregor.'"

Oof, I forgot Rhaegar knighted him. That’s… ughhh. I don’t want to think about it.

+.+

Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away.

I hear pity is the foundation of every successful relationship.

+.+

The Hound caught her by the arm and leaned close. "The things I told you tonight," he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. "If you ever tell Joffrey … your sister, your father … any of them …"

"I won't," Sansa whispered. "I promise."

It was not enough. "If you ever tell anyone," he finished, "I'll kill you."

The people who ship this are deranged.

Final thoughts:

Lots of inappropriate touching of Sansa’s face going on in this chapter.

I suppose if I suffered from a traumatic brain injury, I might be able to ignore the first instance, and assign romantic undertones to the second. I'm sure it’s a coincidence.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #agot #sansa ii

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sarcastich · 3 years

Text

Crown Made Of Barbwire

Everyone got their wings, sooner or later.

Feathers of every color, size, variation.

They start as two little bumps on your back, itching like a growing tooth, around the same time you hit puberty. A bit earlier for girls, a bit later for boys. They grow over the course of your teenage years, and stop once all their feathers have reached their full size.

Some people could fly with their wings, some couldn’t. Most people’s wings were two meters on each side when they were outstretched.

Peter’s wings had only taken two years to grow fully, and were beautiful, pure-white angel wings.

He’d never seen anyone with wings like his. All the other white wings were more like snow owls, speckled with browns and grays, or had underlying colors that gave the top feathers a tint.

He couldn’t quite fly with them, but they were perfect for gliding. He’d scale the tallest buildings in his area, and get a running jump off of them, plummeting for a moment before he got pulled up and flew around the neighborhood until his wings got tired. Of course, you couldn’t just fly anywhere whenever you wanted to. You needed permits, licenses, there were laws to uphold. Most people preferred staying on the ground, anyway.

But not everyone got to keep their feathered wings.

Peter had always heard stories of the burnt ones.

His aunt used it as a reason for him to be good, or when his friends were yelling about seeing criminals they’d allegedly seen out ‘n about.

“-Eat your greens or your wings will burn right off, Pete”

“-I’m telling you, man! His wings were all black and torn up, I’m not kidding!”

They were the result of corruption, evil, immorality, and sin. Once soft feathers scorched, charred, and turned into soot. They blackened and burned away, turning into a shadow of their past wonder, skeletal and black.

Peter had never imagined that one day he’d be standing at the Four Seasons, shooting photos for The Bugle, trying to get a good shot of the Tony Stark.

Peter was among the crowd of journalists and other photographers, rapidly clicking away, aiming his camera lens at Stark. Reporters were yelling out questions, waving wired microphones and recorders over the barrier between them and the walkway Tony Stark was walking down.

There was something about his wings that set them apart from a normal burnt set. Most CEOs, businessmen or just rich, successful, famous people had burnt wings.

But Tony Stark’s weren’t just burnt.

They had horns cascading from the tips to the forearms. The burning away of the pure white feathers had revealed bat-like structures. Stark had no idea why, or how. That was just how they were. Or so he’d told the public.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat when Stark focused on him, looking into his camera and flashing a well-practiced smile. Peter fumbled for a moment before he looked through the viewfinder and took several photos.

And again, he’d never imagined that he’d get a personal request for a photoshoot, by the Tony Stark.

He packed his camera bag with shaky hands, taking extra drives and lenses.

His boss had pulled him aside earlier that morning, and told him that Stark had reached out and asked for Mr. Parker to be the one present and in charge of the interview’s photos. Peter, of course, had accepted in a second. He’d be an idiot to decline. Tony Stark’s picture on his portfolio? What kind of artist would he be if he said no?

Peter stepped out of the glass lobby of The Bugle offices half an hour later and looked up from his phone, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. He was wearing a deep red sweater over a white collared shirt, the front tucked into his soft beige dress pants. He hoped his outfit wasn’t too casual for the occasion, but he didn’t really have time to change anyway.

Just as he looked away from the screen, a sleek black car pulled up in front of him. The driver’s window rolled down.

“Peter Parker?” the driver, a roundish man, asked.

“Y-yeah- yes!”

The man jerked his head towards the back seat door.

“Get in, kid.”

Peter did as told, nervously sliding into the car, barely moving when he sat on the leather seat, hugging his bag.

“Wh- Where’re we going-?” His voice came out a lot squeakier than he’d meant for it to.

“Stark Industries Tower, where else?”

Almost an hour later, the car stopped in front of the blue, glass building. The driver got out and opened Peter’s door. He hadn’t moved since he’d gotten in.

Getting out of the car and almost forgetting his bag, he mumbled, most of his attention drawn by the tall tower.

“Thank you- uh, mister- um-”

“Hogan. Happy Hogan.”

“Yes! Thanks!”

With a nod, he closed the car door and got back in, driving off. Peter took a deep breath, held his bag properly again and started towards the building.

After a short chat with one of the three receptionists, he was led to an elevator a bit farther away from the general area of the entry. He and a shorter woman entered the lift. Judging from her formal attire, Peter guessed she was an assistant. Her wings were far smaller than his own, made up of light blue feathers with streaks of royal blue. He kept his own wings contracted to offer her enough room in the small space.

“Friday, take us to the penthouse, and please let Mr. Stark know that Mr. Parker will be arriving shortly.”

Peter looked at her, confused until a soft tone went off and the elevator started its ascent.

She smiled at him before he let out a soft “Oh-” and averted his gaze.

With another soft tone, the lift stopped and she gestured for him to step out.

“Thanks-”, he started to say, but the elevator door was already closing behind him.

The elevator had opened to something like a living room area. Two sleek, white sofas were facing the rounded glass walls, with an ornate sculpture between them that looked like five giant bowls stacked on top of each other. Everything Peter could see was modern and minimal, with a white-gray aesthetic throughout the penthouse.

He looked around nervously, holding on to his bag by the shorter strap.

“Mr. Parker, welcome.”

Peter gasped and turned around with a jump, startled.

“M-Mr. Stark! Y-yes, hi, I’m Peter Parker, I-I’m here for the Bugle interview shoot?” He inwardly cringed at how he sounded, stuttering, his voice a lot higher than it usually was, clutching his bag for dear life.

Stark smirked at him. “I know, kid, calm down.” He gestured towards the sofas. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Peter stuttered out a thank you, and sat down at the far end of one. He kept his wings close to his body, feeling like he was taking up too much space, still hugging his bag to his chest. He looked up shyly, taking Stark in properly. His wings were relaxed as he walked to the sofa facing Peter, sitting down comfortably.

“Are you afraid of me, Mr. Parker?”

“N-No sir. I mean, you’ve obviously done s-some- uh-.. Not so great things- but uhm- You’re an icon, people admire you-”

“Would you like anything to drink?” Stark cut him off, motioning to the minibar that had very literally risen from the ground.

Peter stuttered out, “Oh- N-No, thank you, I can’t drink on the job-”

Stark poured himself two fingers of whiskey in a lowball glass, without ice, and gently pushed down the top of the minibar, and it reclined back into the floor, looking like another dark grey ceramic tile.

He took a sip, eyes trained on Peter.

Peter cleared his throat, relaxing a bit. “So, where d’you think would be best for the uhm- the shots-?”

They talked about light placement, the conversation somehow dragging over to technology and science, Peter engaging a lot more, and forgetting his nervousness eventually.

After about an hour, they got up, Peter set up his camera, and took his photos.

A behind-shot of Tony Stark with his hands tucked into his pants pockets, wings stretched out behind him. A side profile, while buttoning his suit, and various other shots.

Peter was on his knees, getting a photo of one of Tony Stark’s iconic shades on a small table, the city line stretching out behind it.

Stark had excused himself to take a call, and told Peter to take photos of anything that he wanted. Peter didn’t hear him step back into the room, too focused on trying to set his camera’s shutter speed. Stark quietly took long strides to him, stepping in front of the table.

“Oh, Mr. Stark-! I just wanted to take a shot of the glasses, they’re-”

He stammered into silence as Mr. Stark softly ran the back of his finger along his cheek. He held it under Peter’s chin, tilting his head up. Peter was blushing furiously, but couldn't make himself look away.

“Let me see your wings, angel.”

Three months later, Peter’s life had changed drastically.

He was decked out in the latest designer clothes, a skinny white Etro strap top to match his wings, baby blue Dolce & Gabbana shaded glasses perched on this nose, sitting by a marbled kitchen counter, a Valentino white leather clutch bag resting on it, and inspecting his manicured nails.

A man in an obsidian black suit entered the room, buttoning his jacket and running a hand through his hair, smirking.

“Ready, angel?”

Peter looked up, a cheeky smile on his lips. Wings fluttering, he slid off his high stool and made his way to him. He straightened Tony’s tie and pecked his nose.

“Yes, daddy.”

He leaned away, but Tony let out a growl, grabbing Peter by his waist and pulling him flush against his body.

Peter gasped, “You’ll ruin my outfit!”

“Angel, I bought it.”

Peter pouted, “Well yeah, but you gave it to me”

“I’ll buy you a new one, you spoilt brat.”

Peter giggled and cupped Tony’s face, looking into his eyes and leaning into his touch. “Y’know I love you, Tones.”

They kissed softly, Tony not letting go of his vice grip on Peter’s waist.

“Tony, we’re gonna be late... I want you to check the set up one last time-”

“Angel, I had you set things up. I trust you.”

Earlier that day, Peter had gone to the hotel’s restaurant on the top floor, under a different name and reservation. He’d checked the entire place for wires, mics, or anything that could put them in any sort of bad situation. He checked exit points, weak spots, and all the cameras. He’d been thorough.

He had taped a Glock 9 mm handgun underneath their side of the table, checking repeatedly to make sure it was fully loaded and had its safety off.

Peter grumbled a bit, before letting go of Tony, dramatically sighing, rolling his eyes and picking up his handbag from the counter.

“Well, we should get going anyway.”

Tony shot him a wolfish grin before grabbing his wrist and pulling him back.

“You missed something, i mio angelo.”

He tilted his head to the counter, a navy blue felt box sitting on it now. Peter was surprised. He knew it was a jewelry box, but he hadn’t asked for anything, and even though Tony loved showering him with gifts, there was usually some silly occasion he used as an excuse for it.

He curiously looked at the box, wondering what it was. Something beautiful, no doubt.

“Go on then, Angel, it’s yours.”

Peter stepped back up to the counter and set down his bag on the nearest stool. He pulled the box closer to himself before glancing at Tony, who was smirking at him, arms crossed against his chest.

He slowly opened it, keeping his eyes on Tony until the lid was completely vertical.

His eyes flicked down to the box, and he took in a sharp gasp, hands flying to cover his mouth. “Tony, you didn’t!”

Tony’s smirk grew into a full grin again as Peter rushed around the counter to kiss him, cradling the box in his arms, even though he could easily just hold it in one hand.

“Of course I did, mia carissimo.”

Tony took the box from Peter’s hands, setting it down on the counter. He pulled out the choker he’d gotten for his princess, with Round Brilliant cut, D rate diamonds in the center of Cushion cut diamonds arranged like figure eights.

Peter lightly grazed his own neck with his fingertips, already feeling the weight on his neck, even though he hadn’t touched the jewels yet. Tony held up the necklace.

“May I have the honor?”

Peter silently turned his back to Tony, holding his head high. Tony pressed a kiss to the back of Peter’s bare neck and gently ran his hand through Peter’s feathers, making him shudder before placing the necklace on his neck and fastening the tiny clasp. It didn’t have a chain at the end, it had a specific size. Peter’s size.

Half an hour later, Tony held the passenger door of his Audi R8 Spyder open and led Peter out, Peter giving him his hand like a princess, to the entry of the hotel. There was no swarming press, just the coming and going of guests of the hotel.

Handing his keys over to a valet, Tony pressed a kiss to the back of Peter’s hand.

“Relax, angel.”

They walked into the lobby hand in hand, people stopping to stare at them every few feet. Even if they didn’t know who Tony Stark was, they’d stop to look at the man with the bat wings and the boy who looked like an angel.

They didn’t stop at the reception, they walked straight to the private elevator that led to the restaurant, Tony’s security detail already armed and ready at the top. Once they got there and had been patted down and checked for weapons by Osborn’s security, Tony walked them over to their table.

It overlooked the city skyline, winking lights dotting the land underneath them. He pulled out a chair for Peter, getting a soft smile in return. Sitting in the chair next to him, he held his hand again. Peter shot him a worried look.

Peter kept his voice low, “I thought you said he’d be here on time?”

“Princess, he’s only five minutes late. His detail’s here, he’ll be here, too.”

Peter toyed with the table’s centerpiece while they waited. After about ten minutes, Tony abruptly got up, rebuttoning his suit.

“C’mon bambino, we’re leaving.”

Before Peter could get up, there was a short yell and a loud muffled thump from the elevator.

The glass wall beside their table shattered, rapid shots taking out most of the security team. Tony yanked Peter down by his suit collar, looking out at the building in front to try and see the snipes. The elevator doors ominously opened, a man in black armour stepping out. His wings were plated with metal.

It all happened in the span of two seconds.

He shot the remaining guards before training his gun on Tony. Before he could get a word out, Peter pulled the gun he’d hidden earlier. In an instant, he cocked it and aimed for the man’s head.

The assassin had been a split second too late in aiming at Peter.

Peter fired.

The shooter fell to the floor, dead.

Peter dropped the gun, falling to his knees, a sudden hiss sounding behind him.

His wings had burst into flames.

He yelled out, pain blooming in his wings and along his back. Tears sprung from his eyes and ran down his face, ash falling around him, smoke rising behind him as Tony rushed to his knees beside him, holding him as he cried into Tony’s shoulder, his agonized screams muffled.

In the matter of minutes, his angelic wings were gone.

#starker #starker fic #starker moodboard #wings au #hope yall like it #gonna go cry now #reposting bc im a bit of an idiot

99 notes · View notes

autumnslance · 3 years

Text

FFXIV Write 2021 #15: Thunderous

((A longer one. Violence, blood, and fire. Not safe for heretics or dragoons as we step back to last week and the aftermath of “Heady”...))

“There they are!” X’rhun exclaimed. “Thank the gods!”

Alberic only puffed a breath in agreement as they ran across and down the ravine to where Aeryn was tending to an ashen-faced Heustienne.

“The cavalry has arrived,” the injured dragoon said dryly, her damaged chainmail removed to allow Aeryn access to the wound. Not the worst Heustienne had ever taken, but more than bad enough.

“Thank Halone you’re safe,” Alberic said as X’rhun dropped to his knees next to the women to lend his own aid if needed. “We heard from Kal Myhk you’d tangled with a group of heretics—”

“They took us to Avengret,” Aeryn’s voice cut him off; quiet, too steady, too calm.

For a moment the world paused, until X’rhun’s tail lashed as he turned to look up at Alberic.

Aeryn wasn’t looking at him, her hands resting on her knees now, feet tucked under her. Heustienne’s gaze flicked between Aeryn and Alberic, her own questions barely held back.

“Let’s get Heustienne upright,” X’rhun said gently. “And then get back to—”

“Anyx Trine?” Aeryn interrupted. “Will they tell me the truth if I ask? They must know. If what she said is true.” She turned her head slightly toward Alberic without raising her face, looking at his boots. “She said I should ask you.”

“Aeryn…” His mouth was dry.

She looked up finally, lips parting to say more, but instead she drew in a sharp breath, eyes wide and shining silver, not seeing Alberic or anything else around her now.

He groaned, whether in fear or agony or relief, he wasn’t certain.

——

Alberic followed Corran Striker into the house. It was a pleasant little place, clean and airy. The edges of the walls were lined with brightly painted flower and vine designs, and small pieces of colored glass bordered the custom-framed windows to allow some of the light to also reflect rainbows into the rooms--that couldn’t have been cheap, Alberic thought.

“Please, leave your helm and lance by the door. I think my wife will forgive the boots this time.”

“I keep the lance close to hand, you understand,” Alberic replied as he at least set down his helm on the table by the door.

There was evidence of children; their house slippers by the door, a doll on a chair, a set of tin knights cluttering the low table in the sitting room. His heart ached. “What a lovely home,” he said. “Will the missus and children be joining us?”

Corran shook his head. “Emelia’s running some of her crafts all the way to Fallgourd in the Shroud, and took Zaine and Aeryn with her for the fun. They’ve been cooped up too long, she thought.” He smiled fondly. “It’s a way she deals with her homesickness, and shares that part of herself with our children; she grew up traveling part of the year selling wares as a girl in Thavnair.”

Relief, but also renewed wariness prickled along Alberic’s spine as he followed Corran to the kitchen, leaning his lance on the wall right behind his chair as he took the offered seat at the dining table. “Thavnair? That’s a ways away. Explains the colors though.”

“I got rather lucky,” Corran replied, his tone warm and genuine. “She misses it, but is somehow willing to stay with me.”

“Ever think of visiting?” Alberic asked casually as Corran went about the motions of preparing the lunch he had offered the tired dragoon when they had accidentally met in the treacherous priest’s chapel. Corran had seemed surprised to learn of Comfraire’s heresy, but had offered hospitality despite his own shaken state.

“If there wasn’t always so much work to do, perhaps someday we could,” Corran said quietly.

“I think I’d take the chance, perhaps even move permanently, were I a common man with a family. Get the children far from the war, among the wife’s people.”

“I won’t lie; the thought has occurred to me,” Corran said. “Though I’m surprised, Ser Azure; I’d think one like you would want to keep promising future soldiers for the war in Ishgard.”

Alberic shrugged. “As I said; were I a common man, with a foreign wife who misses her home and children with futures to think of.”

The chronometer in the hall ticked steadily as Corran worked. “Perhaps. Though much as she misses Thavnair, I’d miss Coerthas. I love my home, Ser Azure. There’s little I wouldn't do to see our homeland prosper.”

Alberic did not reply, not trusting his tongue to respond to the man’s gall.

As Corran came to the table with sandwiches and a decent-looking ale, Alberic smiled. “Then perhaps you can aid me in protecting our homeland,” he said. He hoped he was wrong about Corran. “I am tracking a dangerous creature I believe the false priest Comfraire was working with, coordinating an imminent attack from the Horde.”

Corran raised an eyebrow. “I’m but a simple farmer, Ser. I don’t know what help I could be.” He glanced down at his plate.

The chronometer in the hall continued to tick.

“Know you of anyone Comfraire spent time with, when not pretending to holy duties? Places the priest liked to go when not tending the church? I hear you were among those who escorted the fellow on his daily walks.”

“A duty many of us in the community shared,” Corran replied, tone growing strident. “Do you accuse me of heresy merely for minding an old man on his daily constitutional?”

“No of course not,” Alberic answered. He pulled the correspondence he had found in Comfraire’s hidden desk drawer from his pack. “These letters however do indicate guilt.”

“Well that is another story, isn’t it?” Corran asked, leaning back in his chair. The humble farmer demeanor fell away as he crossed his arms. “Why play along?”

“I wanted to be wrong. You seemed like a decent man with a family you love.”

“I do love them,” Corran replied, voice low and cold. “You’re very unlucky you came this day.”

“She doesn’t know what you really do, does she?”

“And once we’re rid of you, she never will,” Corran said bluntly. “Our war doesn’t concern her.”

“And the children?”

Corran’s grey eyes clouded like thunderstorms, his lips drawn into a snarl. “You’ll never touch them.”

They both leapt, chairs clattering to the ground. Alberic reached for his lance while Corran moved with preternatural speed to the sideboard, pulling a hidden blade he managed to raise in time to block Alberic’s swing.

The house was torn and broken as they fought, Alberic barely able to acknowledge the damage as they threw each other against walls and through furnishings. Corran had an advantage with his shorter blade in the cramped space, but Alberic was a far more practiced fighter. If he could get hold of a sword--or better disarm Corran of his--then the heretic would soon be at his mercy.

He finally saw his moment, spinning his lance to baffle Corran’s blade before using his more heavily armored frame to knock the taller man through a door and into what had to be the master bedroom.

The sword went sliding the opposite way down the hall, and Corran laughed bitterly.

“Give it up, Striker,” Alberic said, pointing his lance. He could see Corran’s waist and legs, but the broken door obscured his head. “Tell me about the coming attack!”

Corran's laugh only continued, growing deeper and more growling. Alberic’s eyes widened as he saw Corran’s body jerk, bones cracking and skin tearing, swelling as scales overtook skin.

He swung to drive his lance down through the man as a roar shook the windows, and through the back wall an aevis tore its way inside, the colorfully bordered window panes shattering across the bedding. The dragon leapt at Alberic, and he swung up, barely blocking the creature’s jaws from clamping onto his still helm-less head as they skid down the hall from the momentum of its impact.

Alberic managed to roll out of the way as the aevis let loose a gout of flame, the fire catching on broken furniture. It came for him again but he had made it to his feet, dashing back toward the kitchen for room to move. The aevis lunged at him as Alberic braced himself, a heel against the base of the sink.

His lance caught the beast’s chest and with a roar of his own from his Inner Dragon surging forth, he used the dragon’s momentum to pierce it deeper, throwing it over his shoulder and halfway through the large window, more bright glass breaking as the thing flailed, screaming flames across the yard as it bled out around the lance through it.

Alberic had no time to retrieve his weapon as Corran came for him, tearing apart the walls to fit his new bulk through them to get to the dragoon. He was larger than most transformations Alberic had seen, a heavy red wyvern, powerful and burning, his eyes filled with the same intelligence they had held as a man.

Alberic swore and dove out of the way of claws longer than his own hands. He managed to duck and roll under and past Corran and back into the hallway, needing the smaller space to disadvantage the dragon. Assuming said dragon didn’t just shoulder the walls out of his way, his fiery head rearing back to blast Alberic.

He barely managed to dodge, the heat unbearable as the walls with their pretty flower paint warped, melted, and crisped in the heat, flames now filling the house. He couldn’t last in here much longer, but also couldn’t let this fight further endanger the rest of the village, the commotion surely drawing attention, though any other knights would be too far away while Corran likely had more allies nearby.

His feet hit more metal that clattered, and he remembered Corran’s sword. As the beast came for him again, Alberic ducked to retrieve it, rolling in low as Corran leaped at him. With another shout, Alberic swung up, sliding along the floor on his knees as Corran passed overhead, the sword slicing down the wyvern’s side.

Corran screeched, landing heavily against the door in a tangle, blood flowing freely, wings and talons unable to get purchase in the too small space.

Alberic breathed heavily as he stood and hurried into the kitchen. The aevis was still jerking through its death throes, making a pathetic, pained cry as he yanked his lance from it, more blood pumping onto the sink and floor.

Alberic returned to the hall. Corran watched him, panting himself, lifesblood pooling around him as smoke filled the air.

“Finish me,” the dragon rumbled, in something resembling Corran’s voice. “But I want a promise first.”

“A promise?” Alberic asked. “Why should I pledge aught to a heretic?”

A weary claw gestured, holding a limp, blood-covered ragdoll. Alberic went cold. “For...them. They’re innocent. But we both know...Inquisitors….”

Alberic coughed as he shivered. They wouldn’t care that the children were only children. They wouldn’t care if Mistress Striker was Thavnairian--if anything, that would make it worse for her, no matter if she truly was unaware of her husband’s sins.

“Maybe...she’ll take them home,” Corran said. “She misses it. They could have…Not this.” His eyes met Alberic’s.

They were the grey eyes of a man.

Alberic nodded. “I promise,” he answered, as he pushed his lance through the wyvern’s heart. “Your family won’t pay for your sins.”

When he opened his smoke-stung eyes again, the dragon was gone, Corran Striker’s lifeless form before him, eyes colorless glass, smiling in relief.

Alberic considered for a moment, then drug Corran’s body toward the heaviest flames devouring the house, throwing him into the fire. With luck it would be so burned as to obscure how he had truly died, if Alberic was to keep his reckless promise.

The aevis in the kitchen was dead finally. Alberic retrieved the correspondence knocked to the floor during the scuffle, and gritting his teeth, threw all but one sheet into the flame as well; there was mention of a tower. If nothing else he could salvage something from this mess.

The heat and smoke were too much now, and people outside were shouting and trying to put out the flames, a woman screaming as she glimpsed the dragon half-hanging from the kitchen.

Alberic stumbled outside, battered and bloodied, and fell unconscious at the feet of the Strikers’ neighbors.

—————

It took only a few eye blinks before Aeryn’s groan echoed Alberic’s from a moment before. X’rhun tried to call to her, but she was on her feet in the next eye blink. She whirled in Alberic’s direction, braid whipping so quickly the end came back around to strike her cheek, unnoticed. Her eyes were a storm, lightning crackling in them.

Alberic did not move. He distantly realized that there was nothing any of the three of them could do to stop her of all people.

She flung herself forward and he took the weight of her body slamming into his, her hands gripping at his coat.

That was all.

Alberic didn’t dare move as she trembled against him, head down. X’rhun and Heustienne watched, breath held. Perhaps they had realized the same thing he had.

"I'd forgotten the windows,” Aeryn said hoarsely. “They were almost new; a Starlight gift from him, for Mama."

Alberic said nothing. What could he say?

“You didn’t tell me.”

He sighed. It took a moment to make sound. “By the time I’d realized who you were, why you were so familiar...Well, we had that mess with Estinien and neither of us were in any shape for more terrible revelations. Not the easiest thing to tell a girl you’re the man that killed her father, regardless of the why. And...If the Inquisition, the Ward, if any of them had found out…”

“I’d have handled them,” she said. Neutral, a matter of fact. She wasn’t one to boast.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I thought...Your mother took you to Thavnair. You would have a life there, away from the war. I never expected you to return. To be...this.”

“You should have told me.”

“I know. And you know I’m a sentimental, craven fool.”

She laughed, a wild, bitter noise, finally looking up. Her eyes locked with his, and he thought for as much as she looked like her mother, her eyes were too much like her father’s.

“X’rhun, can you make sure Heustienne gets back to Anyx Trine?” She said, not breaking her gaze with Alberic. The storm still rumbled in her eyes, but all he could see was old smoke.

“Of course,” the Seeker answered. “Aeryn—”

“I’m going home,” she said, shoving Alberic away. He staggered, barely managing to keep his footing. She was stronger than she looked. “I need time to think and rest.”

“You mean Revenant’s Toll, yes?” X’rhun demanded, tail still lashing.

Aeryn only nodded once as she retrieved her pack from next to Heustienne.

“Call me via ‘pearl when you arrive,” X’rhun insisted.

She paused for a moment, then nodded again, shouldering her pack and walking away.

“What the seven hells am I missing?” Heustienne asked after they watched Aeryn’s red coat vanish among the hills. “What did she see? What did you do?”

“Later,” X’rhun said, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get back to something resembling civilization first; Avengret’s heretics may still be on the trail.”

Alberic said nothing, simply following along as they made their way across the wilderness.

#FFXIVWrite2021 #Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Writing #Backstory #Dragonsong War #Alberic Bale #X'hrun Tia #Heustienne de Vimaroix #Corran Striker #Aeryn Striker

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sweetest-honeybee · 3 years

Text

Impulse’s New Outfit

Summary: Scar helps Impulse into a suit much like his own.

TW: None

Word Count: 1278

Notes: This wasn’t edited lol

Enjoy!

——————

Impulse wanted to try a new look, a style he usually wasn’t very familiar with. But, he supposed that Scar could help him given the man’s taste in his clothing.

After Charlie’s message, he got to work on building his factory and it eventually hit him that a factory meant business and business, on this scale anyways, meant that he’d have to dress in something more formal. At least, more formal than his usual t-shirt and cargo shorts. Scar seemed the perfect choice as he’d been swaying away from his usual brown denim jacket and towards coats made of expensive fabrics- his head now crowned with a top hat as well, of course.

So, he did just that. After finishing the entrance of his factory, he glided over to the large wagons across the village. Thankfully, Scar was around, having only been in his garage until he looked up as Impulse landed with a stumble. Through the iron bars, Impulse watched as his friend finalized his Swaggon restock and walked to the garage’s entrance.

“Hey Impulse!” the builder greeted happily.

Impulse approached him with a wave. “Hey! The new, uh, Swaggon? I think? It’s looking great,” he chuckled.

Scar glanced at the new version of it with a proud smile. “Yeah, I’m excited to roll ‘em out.”

Impulse nodded. “Right right, so um, I need a favor from you.”

The other raised a brow but then shrugged. “For the right price, anything’s possible.”

“I need to look like,” he gestured up and down towards Scar, “that. Can you help a guy out?”

Scar looked down. “My clothes?”

“Yeah. I’ve got this whole business thing going on with the factory, thought maybe you could get me looking kinda fancy, you know? You’re the fanciest Hermit I know.”

“Aw, well I do love me some flattery. Sure! Just step on inside this here wagon and we’ll get you started.” He bounded away with what Impulse noticed was a skip in his step. Scar must’ve been excited to do this.

He followed and the builder led him to the top floor where his desk, bed, and lounge resided. Scar left him to stand idly while he dragged a large trunk from out beside the couch near the window.

“I’ve got a whole chest of stuff you could wear,” he started. He eyed Impulse with a hum. “I’m thinking black and yellow to not throw off your whole theme. Or, if you had something else in mind-“

“Black and yellow sounds just fine,” Impulse answered.

“Alright, what do you want to wear? I’ve got shirts, vests, jackets, coats of many kinds, and a bunch of hats,” he listed. “If you want my opinion, I’d say some kind of tailcoat at least.”

The redstoner pondered over the suggestion then shook his head. “No, too fancy I think. A jacket kind of like yours seems like a good choice.” He raised his hands with a shrug. “But, you’re the expert here so you don’t have to listen to me.” He flashed a lopsided smile.

Scar tutted. “It’s your outfit, Impulse. Your feedback is crucial in this process. But,” he trailed off to dig into the trunk, then pulled out a black top hat with a yellow ribbon wrapped around its base. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

He went over and placed the hat on his friend’s head. Impulse looked up as if he could see it which promoted Scar to grab a hand mirror from his desk. He held it up in front of Impulse.

“If you like this hat then my idea should be a good one.” He awaited an answer. Then, really much to some surprise, Impulse broke into a wide smile.

“I like it!”

The builder clapped happily. “Awesome! I’ll grab the rest of the main suit, then you can help pick accessories, yeah?”

Impulse still stared into the mirror admiring the hat. If it were only the hat that produced such a reaction, he assumed Impulse would die from smiling so much. It did bring one to Scar’s face though. Impulse would leave the wagon looking like a new man.

They two set to work on the rest of the outfit. Scar rummaged through the chest and pulled out a matching black coat and slacks trimmed with yellow, and a yellow vest to match. He showed them to Impulse.

“Thoughts?”

The redstoner only looked confused. “Aren’t those…your size?”

This brought out a laugh from the other. “Oh, a little vex magic never hurt anyone. Some tailoring is all.” He waved a dismissive hand which he then used to snap his fingers. The snap produced a blue sheen that travelled down the clothing, effectively enlarging their size. “This should fit you fine.”

Impulse opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut. Whatever worked, he supposed.

He put on the articles of clothing with ease. With more vex magic, the builder summoned a full body mirror that sat against the wall. Impulse twisted and turned, marveling at the look. Though, the t-shirt under such a suit made his face twist which prompted Scar to find a button up to go underneath. After the change was made, Impulse was extremely impressed and so excited that he bounced on his toes.

“I love it! Maybe a bit longer of a coat but I’m very happy with it!” He commented as he tipped his hat at the mirror with a laugh.

Scar was more than proud of himself. His friend looked amazing and it only made his cheeks burn from grinning. Or, it might’ve been the flush that rose to them from the compliments. He turned and lifted a small wooden box from where the trunk previously was by the window. Impulse eyed him curiously as he walked back.

“Are you more of a bow tie or necktie person?” Scar asked. “I also suggest a monocle if you’re feeling particularly dangerous.” He winked and his friend laughed.

“I’m not that dangerous, but a bow tie sounds fun. Not a very serious thing, you know? It’s a candy factory.”

The builder opened the box with a hum. “Any colors you have in mind? Maybe a yellow to match the ribbon on your hat or a darker shade?”

The other peeked into the box which held many accessories- bow ties, neckties, cufflinks, collar pins, and decorative gold and silver chained charms. Much more than he was certainly used to and likely wouldn’t use. But, a vibrant yellow bow tie caught his eye which he pointed at.

“How about that one?”

Scar plucked it from the box alongside a grey bow tie. He put it down on his desk, leading Impulse to the mirror. He put up the bow ties in front of the other.

“Yellow seemed fitting for the kind of business you’re running, but I grabbed a grey one in case you didn’t want something so vibrant,” the builder explained. He alternated the bow ties, giving Impulse time to choose.

“Yeah, I like the yellow actually,” agreed the redstoner. So, Scar put it on the other and stood back, taking in the finished outfit from farther away.

“You look awesome! You’re like a whole new man!” He mused. “It suits you,” he added with a snicker.

“This season and the puns,” Impulse muttered with a laugh. He looked over into the mirror. “I absolutely love it, thank you.”

Scar patted him on the shoulder. “That’ll be a diamond block by the way.”

“Wait, what-“

“Kidding! Only kidding, it’s free.”

“We’ll I sure hoped so-“

“The first time anyways. Additional appointments are a diamond block.”

Impulse rolled his eyes with a fond smile. “Right.”

#this came out a lot longer than I thought #oops #I’ll add a read more here soon #my fic #hermitcraft #impulsesv #goodtimeswithscar

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mel-the-pirate-writeblr · 1 year

Text

WIP: Meeting of the Minds (M(T)PJ: Ditto Defect)

My (Twisted) Pokémon Journey Masterlist

This is part of a mostly-finished-but-unpolished chapter I'm writing in Ditto Defect. It's set closer to the start of DD so there isn't too much backstory that needs to be known other than: Crystal is taking another crack at journeying through Unova and is resting in Pinwheel Forest; Team Plasma has been pretty underground up until this point; and, the best part, Crystal is having a bit of a tricky time controlling her Ditto Ability, and this is the first instance that she has this issue :)

Fun fact: this is toward the end of this chapter as a whole (but not this WIP of the chapter, in total it gets up to 3k words-ish)

(I'm not very happy with my characterization of N, I want to rewrite it before I consider this chapter finished and share all of it)

I do not own the sprite I used! I found it here!

1.5k words

☙ ❧

ending lines from a nonexistent prior chapter (did say this is a WIP)

Crystal couldn't sleep with the beautiful night around her. She sat, staring into the infinite inky sky, with the countless stars. The trees framed it, and Crystal remembered the feeling of travelling – always seeing new places, new Pokémon, new people. She felt almost normal again, like a normal Trainer who had gone to a foreign region for a Pokémon journey, collecting badges and making new friends.

She heard the nighttime sounds of nocturnal Pokémon, and went to see if she could find the source of the natural melody. Everyone else was sound asleep, and they were hidden well within Pinwheel Forest – she couldn't go too far. Even if she did, Crystal could follow their auras.

An urge wormed its way into her – an urge to use Transform. As if to remind her that the nostalgia was an illusion and no longer true. The urge grew, and something about it startled her – This isn't right. Alarm shot through her as the pain followed, and this time she didn't summon it – some other will other than her own started changing her body. And it terrified her.

☙ ❧

Crystal's body shifted, horribly, incompletely, unnaturally. She just had to keep this to herself, figure out what to do—

She locked eyes with something. No, someone. A human. This late at night?

He froze. Then he started approaching, slowly. "Are you okay?" he asked softly. He held no fear in his eyes. Just concern.

His bushy, light-colored hair was long, and some fell over his shoulder. It might've been in a Ponyta-tail. He wore some kind of baseball cap, and nondescript clothing that could have had more color than just white and grey, but her current grey-scale night-vision couldn't pick it out.

Crystal noticed, as she bared her teeth at him, that she made the threat with a small snout – a Vulpix's snout. She didn't growl, not yet, her fangs were the first warning. He stopped. The concern never wavered.

"I want to help you," he said. "Can I help you?"

She let out a quiet growl, just for a moment. No. Go away. I can't be more clear.

He took another step forward. "Please, I know someone who might be able to help. Who did this to you?"

Who did this? I did this. I don't need your help.

"Can you tell me?"

I'm a Pokémon, as far as you know. Of course I can't.

The fur along her spine bristled and rose threateningly. Will-o-Wisp fires appeared around her on some uncontrollable instinct.

"You're a long way from home," he said. "Vulpix are from Kanto. Who brought you here?"

She took a threatening step forward, growling again. The Wisps moved forward, too. He stopped again.

"I know seeing a human must be scary. But I understand you, can you tell me what happened?"

She just continued to growl.

He sat down, on the forest floor, and glanced up at the starry sky. "You have no reason to trust me," he said, not looking at her. "But, I promise, I just want to help. You're hurt, you're wrong. Someone did that to you. You're not how you should be." He sighed. "How about I tell you about my childhood. About the Pokémon that I helped, and met, and lived with."

He reached out a hand, and a Sewaddle came out of a bush and nudged against his hand. The Pokémon here know him.

"I grew up with a lot of hurt Pokémon," he began. "I spent time soothing them, helping them, playing with them. They taught me to understand wild Pokémon..."

☙ ❧

His stories helped her calm down from her initial alarm of her ability malfunctioning, of him finding her in such a state. Maybe that person he said could help might be a good idea. If I can return to human, and find him myself. I have to stay hidden, secret. It's dangerous that he even sees me. But he doesn't suspect that I'm human...

The sharp snap of twigs made her whirl around, fire at the ready. The Wisps, which had faded while the guy had talked, whooshed to life as she searched for the source of the sound.

This human was clearly an adult. His hair was nearly shaved right to his head, and had light-colored hair, aside from a darker swish of hair that went around his head like it was one of Saturn's rings.

"Go on, Beheeyem," the man said softly, not addressing Crystal or the other guy.

Unlike her meeting with the first guy, this human brought a Pokémon with him – something odd, a Pokémon Crystal hadn't seen before. It had light-colored skin – if it could be called skin, its form had a look of stone – and strange markings on its head. If anything, its strange form reminded her of a Gardevoir's gown. It's three-pronged hands reminded her of the old, grainy pictures of Mewtwo that circulated in newspapers and on the news. She reached out with her psychic-sense, but couldn't get a read on it – instead, something pushed back.

"Stop it," she barked in alarm, stepping back. The presence pushed further, steadily and unhindered. "Get back!" Her fur bristled again, trying to put up a resistance – but this wasn't like anything she had encountered before. The Wisps surrounded her, but she knew they wouldn't do much.

"It talks?" the man asked.

"It wouldn't speak with me," the other guy said.

"That's not a Unovan accent."

Come along, a thought said. It pushed its way into Crystal's mind.

No! She took another step backward.

Come along, it repeated. Its hands started lighting up, off-white flashes.

What is that? she wondered, warily.

Come along.

It wasn't hurting her. It wasn't even attacking. In fact, it wasn't moving, at all. Just watching her, as she watched it, the lights flickering. She took a hesitant step forward. She didn't want to, yet she very much wanted to.

Come along. The thought had become a mantra inside Crystal's mind. Come along. She couldn't define where it came from – the presence, or herself. It didn't matter to her to figure that out, either. Come along.

Crystal had to follow this Pokémon – she couldn't not. She felt compelled to go. Her hostility melted away, replaced by a welcome calmness. All of the worries she'd harbored had left. Come along.

A gentle hand touched her back, flattening the bristled fur around her neck. The hand was warm to the touch. "We'll help you and get you back home."

The small prick in her neck snapped her focus away from the hypnotizing control, the liquid he injected— But she couldn't move, anyway – she noticed an energy holding her in place. The same way her Kadabra would sometimes use Psychic outside of battle. Kadabra would often pull berries out of trees with ease, move small boulders, and even the time he caught her PokéDex while traversing Victory Road, where it would have gone over a cliff. Once or twice, he used Psychic to hold a Pokémon in place long enough for her to make a new entry in her PokéDex, before it ran away.

Arceus, no, please, no. She felt fine, in that moment, but it was only a matter of time, she knew. Can I use Teleport to get far enough away before it takes effect?

The incorporeal grip vanished as she used Teleport – but it was only a handful of feet away. So much energy wasted on a few feet!

She heard the humans' exclamations of surprise, but her exhaustion turned her focus inward – her body was slowing down as whatever sedative they gave her took hold. I have to go, she frantically, sluggishly, thought.

"I'll take it to my lab for observation," the man said. "I'll take it from here."

"Keep me updated, please – if I can help transport it home, let me know."

“I will. Thank you, N.”

Crystal tried to pull herself forward; she could sense Lucario dimly. He's awake. Lucario, help! A hand scooped her up, and she hung limply in the man's hands. She had enough awareness to wonder about her abnormally long tails, and that there were only three of them, instead of a Vulpix's usual six.

"I wonder how you got this way? Let's go and see what you're made of."

The darkness swallowed her up.

☙ ❧

Beheeyem, the Cerebral Pokémon. It has strong psychic powers that it can use to confuse or control its opponents' minds. Apparently, it communicates by flashing its three fingers, but those patterns haven't been decoded.

#my (twisted) pokémon journey wip #m(t)pj wip #mel-the-pirate post #crystal oc #beheeyem #vulpix-mew fusion #cw needles #cw needle #can't write N to save my life #yet here i am making him a prominent character in this fic #natural harmonia gropius #cw injection #cw sedation #third person

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luluwquidprocrow · 3 years

Text

(the three-part folding mirror)

the denouements & the snickets, olaf, r, olivia

teen

15,985 words

The year the schism gets worse is the year one of the quarterly information costume parties is held in the grand ballroom on the third floor of the Hotel Denouement.

@lyeekha won my commission in the @asoue-network fandom against hate raffle and asked for the denouements, so i put together some shenanigans with the denouements and the snickets, with slight ernest/lemony kit/dewey frank/jacques, and a few other associates hanging around ~

some minor warnings – language; smoking; brief mention of murder; referenced parental death; identity anxiety about being seen physically and personally

title from i am alone by they might be giants

10:59 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

Kit skirted the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, stopping at the side wall by the drinks, one eye on the table and the other on the dance floor. She couldn’t put her back to it. Not now. There was a tall, potted boxwood nearby, unreasonably lush, almost slouching against the decorative golden pillar beside it. She picked up one of the wineglasses, the only signal she could think of to properly get his attention. She’d have to find Lemony as well; where was he?

The plant coughed.

“J,” Kit whispered, “listen to me.”

A few of the branches parted, and Jacques’s blue eyes appeared out of the green. “What happened?”

Kit breathed slowly. Her free hand curled into a fist, crinkling up the fabric of her dress. She swallowed. It did not help. She gripped the glass. Beneath her feet, the floor gave a slight shudder as the clock out in the lobby readied itself to chime the hour.

“Someone in this very room has—”

WRONG!

7:25 PM—Above The Lobby

It was Saturday night, and Saturday night always meant one thing—Guess The Guest.

Ernest stood in the small alcove situated around the gears of the hotel clock, far above the lobby, and looked down. Like any other night, the sleek gold and red lobby was filled with people, loitering around the front desks and the fountain and each other before they made their way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Well, the ballroom was different. This was a work event, as Frank had so brilliantly labeled it on their schedule, so no one was a regular guest tonight. Frank, who had never appreciated the joy in making up grandiose lies or exaggerated half-truths about the strangers who came in and out of the hotel, certainly wouldn’t appreciate the thrill in watching all of his associates in costume and trying to guess who was who, either. Dewey thought the game was slightly mean, because Dewey was just too kind for this sort of thing.

It was good that Ernest was not Frank or Dewey. Not right now, anyway. Ernest knew how to get joy out of the little things.

He watched a flash of green scales move erratically through the lobby, a cheerful voice calling enthusiastic greetings that echoed all the way up to the ceiling—Montgomery. There was a reason he did undercover work so sparingly. Two women in nearly identical butterfly costumes by the door, one purple and one white, hand in hand, standing close together—Ramona and Olivia. It was nice to see them together. A woman with a deep blue dress that swept around her like a wave—Josephine, here alone. Ernest had it on good authority that the Anwhistle brothers weren’t coming. Another loud voice, but deeper, following the confident swath a tall figure in black cut through the crowd—Olaf. Ernest turned away, in time to catch a glimpse of a long red cape shifting from behind one pillar to another around the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Olaf—aha. Kit. Which meant another one was nearby. Not that the Snickets had arrived together, because none of them ever did, but where there was one there was always at least one other, ready to make a decent amount of trouble. (Ernest liked trouble. The little things, of course.) And there, near Ramona and Olivia, Lemony Snicket, a figure shaped in grey shadows.

The alcove door opened. Ernest knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t give him the courtesy of turning around, keeping his eyes on Lemony. Grey was a fitting color on him, on the long line of his shoulders, his legs. Ernest’s stomach flipped over, once.

“It looks like a full house tonight,” Frank said, standing beside Ernest. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure.”

Ernest leaned a hand on the alcove railing. “Takes more than a murder to stop a party, I suppose,” he said.

Frank didn’t reply, but Ernest knew that for once he agreed. The double murder in Winnipeg two months ago had, like any other sudden, suspicious death they’d dealt with over the years—Ernest shuddered and flexed his fingers—barely made a ripple in VFD, except that after the funeral, everyone had closed ranks significantly tighter.

This worried Frank; this did not worry Ernest. Very little truly worried Ernest, at the end of the day. That, of course, only made Frank worry more, but Ernest couldn’t help that. Frank would find something to worry about if Ernest was still on “his side”. Ernest had much more pressing commitments than the heavy, idle worry that everyone else shuffled between themselves without any results, and it wasn’t that he’d be found out. It was change. The real kind of change, not the noble one, not the fragmentary one. Change Ernest could see.

He shifted his hand on the railing once more. If he kept thinking about it, he was going to argue with Frank, and they’d rehashed the argument so many times the past few months without any resolution that it was better, Dewey had eventually insisted, if they just didn’t talk about it at all. So they wouldn’t. Ernest stood next to his brother, and the silence dragged out between them, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock gears, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at all.

“Ernest.”

Almost.

“Frank,” Ernest said back, in the same critical tone, tilting his head to the side and giving his brother a look.

Frank shot him a flat and unimpressed stare in return. At least he still did that. “Promise me you won’t do anything—” he paused, his face pinching in an aggrieved sort of way before he settled on a word. “—rash tonight,” he finished.

Ernest laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything rash, Frank.” Of course not. You couldn’t carry out a pre-established plan rashly.

“I should hope not. I—”

The door opened, again. Dewey burst into the alcove, all smiles as always, and stopped on Frank’s other side and leaned over the railing, gazing into the lobby. Like Ernest and Frank, he wore the muted red manager uniform, because somebody had said it was the “host prerogative” to not dress up for a costume party. Somebody had felt bad about it when Dewey was disappointed, but somebody had still not relented, and there they were, a matched trio, everything outwardly perfect.

“Everyone’s costumes are so beautiful,” Dewey said. “Who’s that, in the big blue dress?”

“Josephine,” Ernest and Frank said at the same time.

Ernest raised his eyebrows. Frank, stooping so low as to actually guess the guest? Even Dewey blinked at him in surprise. The tips of Frank’s ears went slightly pink, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, Frank, you left your name tag downstairs again,” Dewey said. He pulled the name tag from his pocket, the slim gold rectangle glinting briefly in the soft light of the alcove, and pressed it into Frank’s hand.

“Thank you,” Frank murmured. But when Dewey turned away, Ernest saw the tag disappear from Frank’s fingers, most likely slipped up into his sleeve. None of them wore their name tags with regularity—the black ‘manager’ embroidery on their jackets was really enough—but Frank’s kept showing up places, and Ernest and Dewey kept giving it back to him, every time. Ernest didn’t quite know what to make of it. He wondered about asking Frank about it, but he didn’t want Frank to take it as another argument. Ernest didn’t actually enjoy arguing with Frank. About small things, sure, like Dewey’s stupid poetry and Frank’s inane hotel schedules, the sorts of things brothers argued about. But Ernest was sure Frank would make it into another one about VFD.

Dewey was studying the lobby, one hand on his chin. Ernest watched him go from one friend to another, then stop when he got to Kit’s red cape sweeping towards the stairs. It was an unusual color for her, but Dewey, whether he thought it was nice or not, knew how to identify someone from the pieces they let slip through too. Kit was straightforward about everything, and the way she walked, determined and with an endpoint in sight, was no different.

Ernest and Frank exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” Frank drawled, “when’s the wedding?”

“I look best in black,” Ernest put in. “Take that into account, Dewey.”

“I look best in blue,” Frank said. “Take that into account.”

Dewey’s face went its typical six shades of red, flushing through to his ears as well as he jumped back from the railing and sputtered, “What—we’re not—we haven’t even—I don’t—Kit’s not—you two are impossible.” He stormed out of the alcove, shutting the door with a slight snap behind him, because Dewey had never slammed a door in his life.

Ernest enjoyed a brief chuckle with Frank before his brother fell silent again. The lobby crowd was thinning as everyone made their way to the elevators or the stairs, or to the bathroom, or, perhaps, to some clandestine hallway somewhere else. Ernest could see the ring of neatly-trimmed boxwoods lining the lobby now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was one more than usual, sitting right inside the door.

He leaned forward, squinting. “Did we always have a boxwood there?” he asked.

Frank moved his head down a fraction of an inch and considered the lobby. “Of course,” he said. Then he straightened his sleeves one more time, and left the alcove.

7:35 PM—The Lobby

Among the Snicket siblings, there was an ongoing discussion about the best hiding place. Kit preferred the quiet, professional approach. She stood behind newspaper stands, put her face into books and brochure racks, stayed in the shadows of a store awning. Lemony was difficult about it. He thought the best place to hide was the least likely place someone would look for you; the place you wouldn’t look for yourself. He took dangerous perches in train station windows, seats in restaurants he vocally hated, or sophisticated and cramped corner cafes that had never heard of a root beer float.

Jacques, meanwhile, with a lifetime of hiding experience, always liked to hide in plain sight. People barely ever remembered what was right in front of them as long as it appeared relatively normal. And there were a number of options—a large potted plant could be overlooked among a dozen other potted plants, people received packages every day and wouldn’t notice if there was one more oversized box, every city park lost track of how many statues were supposed to be there, even a regular man in a fine suit crossing the street or driving a taxi was expected and forgettable. Another boxwood was just another boxwood sitting in a free space in the empty Hotel Denouement lobby, slowly making its way to the ballroom for optimal eavesdropping. Another volunteer in costume was just another volunteer in a lion costume borrowed from Bertrand, for the moments tonight when Jacques had to communicate information to an associate.

That was the point of the party, after all. Jacques couldn’t deny that everyone liked dressing up—he liked dressing up, a little—but the main objective for most of them tonight was the passing of relevant information that had happened in the three months since the last official gathering (not counting the funeral). It should have been at Winnipeg, as they usually were, the organization taking over the Duke and Duchess’s sprawling, sparkling mansion, the couple’s easy laughter flowing from room to room. Jacques didn’t blame Ramona for not wanting to do it after what happened there. He doubted she’d actually been in the mansion since, although it was entirely hers. But the Hotel Denouement was a suitable replacement. It was too public to ever lose its neutral position among both sides. No one was going to get killed here, Jacques was certain. But he was mildly worried something else would happen. He didn’t know what. But something.

Especially considering Lemony was here. Not that his brother was a troublemaker—Jacques would never say it out loud, at least—but because Lemony wasn’t supposed to be at the hotel tonight. He had told Jacques that he was going to be with Beatrice and Bertrand, who were working on plans for an upcoming assignment. This meant two things—one, that Lemony had lied to Jacques. But Jacques had counted on that. He had assumed, however, that Lemony meant the three of them were finally going on a date and hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Two, that if Lemony never did anything idly, without a specific purpose, then he was here for an unknown reason. Something else was going to happen, Jacques was certain. Something Lemony wanted to be here for.

First, though, he had to get the boxwood he was hiding in from the lobby to the ballroom upstairs. The pot was significantly heavier than Jacques had counted on.

8:05 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Every time they all got together, Frank was so amazed at how many of them there were. Despite some noticeable gaps—Beatrice’s overbearing presence, for one, which Frank was happy to do without for an evening—the grand ballroom had barely any free space. Every available and noble associate was here, and it filled Frank with a sense that everything was going to be alright. All these people, including himself, doing what was necessary to keep the world quiet. Tonight would be fine. Ernest wouldn’t do anything regrettable; Dewey would forgive him about the costumes and the gentle ribbing; the meeting would pass without incident. Tomorrow would come. Sometimes Frank almost thought that it wouldn’t. Typically when Ernest was being difficult, but tonight even he seemed to agree that the organization—their organization—was impressive.

He spotted a potted plant by one of the drink tables, a boxwood that matched the ones lined around the room and back in the lobby. One branch was bent out of place. Frank would have to have a word with the person responsible later. But he should fix the branch now.

Everyone he passed on his way across the room gave him a quick nod, a brief smile. Frank returned it as that familiar buzzing started under his skin, like it tended to in groups. He shrugged it aside. He gave the controlled smile of a manager with everything in place, and no one said a word.

All of a sudden, his view of the boxwood was blocked. Through the mass of associates came Olaf, head to toe in a suit and mask of black, spiky fur, smiling with all his teeth, unceremoniously pushing a woman in a silver dress painted like a large, rocky moon aside on his way towards Frank. Frank steeled himself. You never knew what you were going to get with Olaf, if he would try and charm you with a reckless humor or annoy you with a joking cruelty. It was one of the many reasons Frank had never particularly cared for him.

“Ernest!” Olaf exclaimed when he got close. He hooked an arm through Frank’s. “Lovely to see you, wonderful party.”

The cold, dark hand twisted its way along Frank’s insides. It gripped down through his chest, put a film over his eyes that made the room seem distant and wrong. The party continued around him, Olaf was still talking into his ear, and Frank couldn’t hear any of it. The name tag pressing into his wrist up his left sleeve didn’t help. Just because it was his didn’t mean it was him. His name meant nothing if no one was going to care about who it was, about what made Frank instead of Ernest or Dewey. No one should need evidence to tell the difference. No one should make a mistake between the three of them. How many times would it happen?

Time was still passing. Frank blinked once, twice, until Olaf’s voice filtered back in and the noise of the ballroom swelled up once more.

“—incredibly delicious, I have to say, but, to be frank with you—ha! This champagne has seen better days, which one of you is responsible for this travesty?”

Frank smiled, a little turn of the corner of his mouth, the professional smile of all three of them. If Olaf wanted Ernest, alright. Frank would be Ernest. “Frank,” he said. The word sounded like it couldn’t possibly have come out right, but Olaf didn’t break his stride, so it must have.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Olaf said. “Meanwhile, allow me to take up one single minute of your time,” he continued, and pulled Frank into the shadows by the door. Frank’s stomach gave a terrible lurch as the stark terror he woke up with every morning came back, riding over the dissonant gap he still felt between his body and his brain. What did Olaf want with Ernest? Had Olaf found out about him? Frank had covered up for Ernest before, but would he be able to keep doing it if more people knew?

“Have you thought about it any more?” Olaf asked, leaning close.

The sheer relief that Olaf didn’t know battled with the swooping fear that Ernest was doing something new Frank didn’t know about, and with Olaf. He remembered, with startling clarity, the last time he talked to Kit, when she told him that Olaf had been spouting dangerous ideas about the organization and trying to rope in as many people as possible. It was one of the reasons, according to the rumors Frank had heard elsewhere, why he and Kit had ended their relationship. What was he trying to get Ernest into? Ernest needed absolutely no encouragement, and neither did Olaf. He had to say something.

“I have,” Frank said. It was the safe answer when you were pretending to be someone else.

Olaf grinned again, big and excited, which was a terrible sign. “And?”

“No,” he said, because it was also the safe answer, and the faster Frank could untangle Ernest from whatever trouble he was into this time, the better. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, with the cool tone Ernest used.

Olaf frowned. “Really? I must admit, I am a little surprised. I mean, I know you weren’t entirely on board, but you’d given it a shot before, and I was hoping you’d come around again.”

Before? They’d talked before? Frank thought a series of incredibly inappropriate words Beatrice was always using that he would never say out loud.

“But!” Olaf pivoted quickly, in his speech and his actions, spinning on his heel away from Frank and shrugging broadly. “Who am I to bend your arm about it! I’ll keep you in mind, though, in case.” He showed all his teeth, his eyes glittering. “And keep me in mind, next time you have anything else worth sharing, will you?” He flounced off again, tearing through the crowd.

It took a few minutes for Frank’s heart to go back to where it was supposed to be from where it was thundering in his throat. He put his hands in his pockets and gripped the fabric, something real and his to hold onto.

Anything else worth sharing. Since their apprenticeships, Frank and Dewey and Ernest had been tasked with organizing a great deal of information, mostly about the history of the organization, but sometimes, and especially as they got older, the very information that was passed along between volunteers. It was part of the reason Dewey had started building his personal archives in the basement. He liked the business of collecting facts. Of course all three of them were still being given that information. Of course Ernest still had access to every single piece of that information. Ernest, collaborating with Olaf, Ernest, sneaking around behind Frank’s back, Ernest, who had promised, at the beginning of all this, that he wasn’t going to jeopardize their positions by doing something stupid.

Ernest, what are you doing?

8:40 PM—The Archives, In Progress

Dewey was not hiding. He liked parties a great deal, and he loved people, but like his brothers and everyone else, he too had his own appointment to keep tonight.

His just happened to be in the basement.

He still sort of felt like he was hiding, especially the further he went into the archives. But things always needed organizing, and while he waited, he had to do something to keep his hands busy. He searched for a set of organization accounting records for five minutes before realizing he’d already shelved it, last week.

So Dewey was nervous. Plenty of people were nervous. Olivia went around all the time being nervous and no one gave her any grief for it. But Olivia didn’t have a sister to give her any grief for it. And Dewey didn’t mind, not really. He loved it when his brothers teased, because it meant they were getting along. But this time it was slightly personal. Because he was meeting Kit, and he was nervous.

Kit was—well, normal. Like Dewey was normal. He loved his brothers, but Frank was high-strung and made it everyone else’s problem, Ernest was often disagreeable for the sake of it, and with the Snickets, Jacques was always hiding in furniture and Dewey didn’t think he’d ever seen more of him than one hand and possibly an eye at a time, and Lemony was wonderful but sometimes too cryptic and morbid for Dewey’s taste. He liked things a little more sensible, comfortable, pleasant. And Kit was organized, reasonable, quiet when other people were reading, cool under pressure. She let herself get lost in books and people she cared about, underneath all the professionalism. Her smile was a careful, slow thing, something private she only showed you if she genuinely liked you. And it meant a lot to be on the receiving end of that smile.

His brothers didn’t get it. He wasn’t involved with Kit, and he wasn’t going to ask her out, because you didn’t do that with Kit. If Kit wanted to spend time with you, that was her own choice. She never did anything she didn’t want or she hadn’t thought through first. That she wanted to spend time with Dewey, specifically, to see him, and no one else, was nice. It made the whole of him feel all tingly and weightless. He wanted their meeting in the archives to be as nice as that feeling.

Dewey grabbed a set of Agatha Christie translations he kept on hand for when things got boring (rarely, but Beatrice got bored easily, and if you gave her a translation she sat down for a while to prove she could read it) and walked to the next aisle to shelve them. His foot snagged on something in the middle of the floor and he stumbled, hugging the books close to his chest so they didn’t fall. He turned around to see what it was, and found Kit blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat on the floor, a thick book open in her lap, her long red dress pooled around her on the floor. Her dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline, but most of her shoulders were covered by the matching red cape pulled around her. In the wide diamond of skin left between the cape and the top of the dress, he could see the sharp edge of something black around her collarbone, a point of the nearly-finished tattoo she’d been getting done. The red sleeves disappeared into short white gloves, with her hands folded together at the bottom of the book pages. Oh. Dewey’s heart pounded for a horrible, exhilarating moment, his mouth going dry. He swallowed once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wryly, closing the book and sliding it gently back in the middle shelf. “I got distracted.”

“Oh, no, that’s completely understandable,” Dewey said. He folded himself down beside her, crossing his legs, still clutching the books to him. “Happens to me all the time. What were you reading?”

Kit smiled again, and it was that slow, beautiful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Have you heard,” she said, “about the cookiecutter shark?”

Dewey had absolutely heard about the cookiecutter shark. “Isistius brasiliensis,” he said. “It can travel in schools, and it bites little circular sections out of fish, like a cookie cutter. Have you heard about the brownsnout spookfish?”

“Barreleye fish, has mirrors in its eyes. Toothless upper jaw,” Kit replied easily. “Anostraca.”

“Fairy shrimp, they swim upside down,” Dewey said. He leaned forward, grinning. “Sometimes even found in deserts. Frilled shark?”

This was his favorite game, with his favorite person, in his favorite place. Both of them were librarians, or librarian-adjacent, so he and Kit dealt in information, not only about nobility but about the rest of the world around them. And the whole world was so fascinating, and there was so much to know and share, so how could you not try and see who could stump the other first?

“An eel-like living fossil, with six pairs of gill slits. Chaunacidae.”

Dewey scrunched up his face, thinking. “I think you got me there,” he admitted.

“Sea toad,” Kit said, looking pleased, “and coffinfish. Deep-sea anglerfishes. The sea toad has fins that can be used as leg flippers.”

“Really? Wow.” Dewey made a mental note to check that out later. He hoped, on the scale of unsettling sea creature to pleasantly spooky sea creature, that it was somewhere in the middle. “So besides oceanic intrigue,” he said, “what else is going on with you?”

“I’m supposed to get something from Frank tonight,” Kit said. “But, I also came to give you this. From Bertrand,” she clarified, and then picked through the seams of her dress, which revealed themselves as hiding at least ten different pockets.

When he had the time, Dewey wanted to study clothing design. Kit and Beatrice always found the place for so many pockets that you could never see from the outside, and Dewey wished he had the same capacity in his slim manager’s jacket and trousers for all the things he wanted to carry around. Poetry; chocolate-covered pretzels; the pencils Kit always left behind; spare buttons; sturdy rope, in case he needed it; maybe a mini chess set. He’d have to work on it. Maybe he could hide them in shoulder pads, or his shoes.

Kit pulled out a book from a side pocket. Dewey finally put the Agatha Christie down, piling it in a neat stack between them, and took the book. It was the one Bertrand had spoken to him about last week—Undercover Underwater: Diving For The Truth, a truly terrible murder mystery novel he said Dewey had to read to believe. He was greatly looking forward to it.

“That was awfully sweet of him,” Dewey said, running his thumb over the cover. He looked for a place to put it, and then just put it on top of his book stack. It felt a little sacrilegious, if it was as bad as Bertrand said, to put it on top of Christie, but he didn’t want to misplace it. “Thank you very much.”

Kit shifted on the floor and put her back to the bookshelf. “Did you hear the Anwhistle brothers finished building that marine research and rhetorical advice center?”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “I guess that’s why they aren’t here tonight? Josephine was all alone when I saw her earlier.”

“They should’ve celebrated with the rest of us,” Kit said. “What a massive architectural achievement—and I wanted to hear about the leeches, too.”

“Yes!” Dewey exclaimed. “Have you seen them yet? I haven’t.”

“No,” Kit said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not in person. Ike gave Lemony one of the earlier ones as a paperweight some time ago but I haven’t been able to see their recent work yet. I hear the teeth are impressive.”

“Cookiecutter shark impressive?”

Kit grinned. “Potentially.”

Dewey laughed. He wished he and Kit could go see them, together. For the scientific curiosity. For spending time with someone who really, really wanted to see him. No, for the oceanic intrigue, of course. “You know—” Oh no. He hadn’t intended to actually start the sentence, but it was out, and Kit was looking at him expectantly, and Dewey was rapidly losing all handles on the conversation. His face was heating up. Everyone else made talking to people whose company they enjoyed look so easy, but the words jumbled together in his mouth. “We should—go? I mean—not right now, but, soon, we could—to the research center—for the leeches, for, for science.”

Pink colored Kit’s face under the freckles along her nose. “For science,” she said. Then—“Not a date,” she added firmly.

“Definitely for science,” Dewey insisted. “Oceanic intrigue, and everything.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking quite a few times. “That would be fine.”

They stared at each other for the longest minute of Dewey’s life.

“We should probably get back up to the party,” he said. The archives were feeling much, much too close, all the books and shelves pressed up against him, the point of Kit’s tattoo still peeking out from under the edge of her cape.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

8:55 PM—The Ballroom—Near The Piano

Next—Jacques had to find Olivia.

He abandoned the boxwood by the east wall, for the time being, out of sight near the piano, where a man with a white half-mask played a pleasant Beethoven sonata while a woman in a sharp, pointed gold suit argued with a man dressed as an octopus with a hat. They did not notice Jacques, even in his own costume, but he noticed them. He noticed everyone in the room so singularly. He’d almost forgotten so many people could be in one place at the same time. You spent a lot of time alone, hiding in small spaces, you got used to yourself.

Olivia was easily identifiable. Nothing she did could ever disguise the tightly-wound nervous energy coiled inside her, not the shimmery white butterfly wings curled over her shoulders or the mask of purple flowers on her face. Something always gave her away. Tonight, it was her hands, twisting together as she talked to someone in a large, leafy tree costume, so consuming Jacques couldn’t make out the face. He scanned the crowd, trying to locate Ramona in her reversed purple wings and white mask. He saw her making her way towards one of the drink tables. Ramona wouldn’t leave Olivia alone for long.

The tree left soon after, and Jacques made his way over to her, getting a decent amount of elbows into the side along the way. “Olivia,” he said, when he stopped in front of her.

Her eyes passed over him and onto the rest of the room, like she was staring straight through him. Jacques frowned. He’d certainly said something. He’d certainly moved, Olivia was right in front of him. People moved around them without sparing him a second glance; someone said a cheerful hello to Olivia and she returned it. His voice dried up in his throat, like if he tried to speak he’d never make a sound. When was the last time before this he’d spoken out loud? No one expected him to talk, in his line of work. When had he done it? No, perhaps she simply hadn’t heard him.

He cleared his throat a few times. That was a sound. That was undeniably a sound. Jacques existed here.

He touched his hand to her wrist. “Olivia?”

Olivia jumped nearly a foot. She turned her head from side to side frantically, and Jacques gave her a short wave.

“Oh!” Olivia pressed her hands against her chest and laughed, breathless. “Oh, Jacques, you startled me. How are you?” she asked, as unfailingly kind as always, as if he hadn’t just frightened her. She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Jacques to tell her the long, substantial answer, instead of the polite one. He almost did. But Jacques was here for business.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Alright,” she said, still smiling. “Ramona’s gone to get some champagne, would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

Her bright smile faltered, her hands seizing together again. “I see,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival.”

Olivia blanched. “The—the hinterlands?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “That’s, ah, terribly far away, isn’t it?”

“It is a distance from the city,” Jacques conceded, “but not far.” It was far from Winnipeg, though. It was very far. Eventually, Ramona would be back there, at least in some capacity. Things would be different, especially if Olivia was wanted in the hinterlands permanently.

“Jacques, I really—I don’t—I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I promise, I’ll think about it.”

An assignment from headquarters was not exactly optional. Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, and Jacques knew who she was looking at. She and Ramona had just gotten together only recently, before the Duke and Duchess’ deaths. Any kind of love was difficult within the confines of their organization, but the solace here, Jacques thought, was that she and Ramona were both there. They would never be that far away. They might see each other a good deal less, but they would see each other.

“You can take your time to leave, if you wanted,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was firm. “But, thank you for letting me know, Jacques.” She gave him her soft, breezy smile again, and slipped off through the dance floor.

Jacques watched her go. They would see each other. That was an invaluable thing, in their line of work. Being seen. Sometimes even the best person you loved with your whole being couldn’t see the part of you that mattered. To be seen when you disappeared from the rest of the world—that was worth holding on to. It would be difficult. But he had no doubt Olivia and Ramona would do it.

The floor rumbled, like it always did before the lobby clock chimed.

9:00 PM—Room 687

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Does the clock always sound like that? Like it’s saying wrong?”

“Incessantly,” Esmé sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I think Frank’s responsible. Heaven forbid he goes an hour without reminding everyone else how little he thinks of their decisions, you know.”

9:00 PM—The Ballroom—North Drink Table

The hotel was not Winnipeg. But right now, that was exactly what Ramona wanted. The modern angles, the warm, well-lit ballroom, the dark corners and firm rigidity of it all currently felt homier than the soft, open pinks and whites of the Winnipeg mansion. She was glad to have another excuse to avoid it and the constant questions. Tonight, she was going to see her friends, and dance with Olivia, and drink champagne, because Olivia said every occasion was cause for celebration and champagne, and Ramona was going to have a good time. She picked up two champagne flutes from the table and took a sip of one in the careful way her mother taught her, so she didn’t leave lipstick on the glass. Her heart stuttered as she saw the press of plum purple streaks on the glass when she pulled it away. The hotel clock was chiming, sounding like a heavy, distorted vibration of a word. It was right. The lipstick was wrong.

Who had done it? Everyone wanted to know. The firestarters? Likely, but they had been quiet for some time, and Ramona wasn’t going to point fingers without evidence. Some older enemy? Ramona didn’t know enough about whoever that was to consider them. Someone new?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her parents were dead, and she’d found them, and she didn’t want to think about who could have done it or why they did. It wasn’t going to change that it had happened. Ramona wasn’t looking for answers. She was looking for—

An arm slung around her shoulders, jostling her and the champagne, which sloshed around in the flutes as she lurched forward. Scratchy fur and outrageous cologne bore down on her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“My dear duchess,” Olaf said, squeezing her tight. “How have you been?”

Ramona found it in her to roll her eyes. Some people didn’t like Olaf, which she completely understood. There was something about him though, as brash and outlandish and obnoxiously tactile as he was, that had to make you laugh sometimes. She felt comfortable, close to a friend. “Just peachy,” she said. She offered him the other champagne glass; she could get another for Olivia. “Champagne?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Olaf said. He hooked his free hand around both glasses and set them back on the drink table. “Look, I wanted to give you my sincerest condolences—” And he did look sincere, sliding around in front of her, his hand still on her shoulder, the joy immediately gone from his face and replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. She was struck by it, by how glassy and shiny his eyes were under the dark of his mask. “I’m sorry about your parents, Ramona.”

Her mouth wobbled at the edges. She knew Olaf could understand. They’d had similar positions in the organization their whole lives—their parents their chaperones, their time split between assignments and society, the safety that existed in his manor as well, its own controlled pocket of the world, like Winnipeg had been, like the Hotel Denouement was, too. She thought of the Count and Countess, still alive. She hoped they’d stay alive.

It wouldn’t do to cry at a party. Ramona picked up her flute again and took another small sip. “Thank you,” she said.

And just like that, he straightened up and pulled away from her. Some of the mirth found its way back into the shape of his mouth and his arm found its way back around her, this time a tight grip at her waist as he steered her back into the crowd. Ramona felt slightly less consoled than ten seconds ago. Easy come, easy go, with Olaf. “I hate thinking about you all alone in that big house,” he said with a sigh. “All that room, all those things—remember when I knocked into that vase in the hallway?”

“Very vividly,” Ramona said.

“A glorious time!” he crowed. “Well! At least you’ve got all of us, haven’t you. What are your friends if not your family, et cetera, et cetera.”

But he still understood. That was what made it so important to be here tonight. What were all the people in the room, the friends she’d grown up with, people she knew and loved, if not her family as well, just as much as her parents had been? They were more than associates or volunteers, stepping in around her not to fill a void, but to offer back some little part of what had been taken from her. Her throat tightened up as she thought about it. Everything they did was hard, but it was also so special. Ramona wanted to hold it close to her and never let it go.

“And what wouldn’t one do for one’s family, am I right?” Olaf continued. “So, if you ever need me for anything—a shoulder to cry on, although certainly not in this jacket, or, say, a partner in crime, or a willing participant in any daring assignment you might come across otherwise—do not hesitate to let me know, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

Ramona stumbled to a halt as Olaf stopped abruptly. He looked down at her with a gash of a grin. “People like you and me, we’ve got to stick together, duchess.” He gave her a squeeze one more time and then finally let go, dashing away.

Goodness, but he was rough about things. Ramona gave herself a shake, trying to collect herself back into order. She stood up on her toes to try and see where he’d gone. She didn’t get much more height, already being in heels, but she did manage to see him already making grandiose hand gestures across the room to those white-faced triplets Ramona had seen once or twice. They were younger than she was, still in their training. The three of them stared at Olaf with three immaculately raised eyebrows. Ramona chuckled a little, dropped back down, and went back for Olivia’s champagne glass.

9:40 PM—The Ballroom—Center

Over an hour had passed, and Frank hadn’t seen any sign of Ernest. He had better things to be doing than keeping track of Ernest, and yet here he was. He couldn’t have gone far—the hotel was enormous, but it was a hotel. The whole world contained on nine floors. You couldn’t disappear from it.

Frank edged his way through the dance floor, searching for him through three separate groups of associates doing three slightly different versions of a circle dance. A snake and a tree frog whirled past, a phantom with them, a tangled shape of dark greens and blacks and bright blues and exuberant laughter. When they’d gone, Frank found himself in the center of the floor and face to face with Dewey, coming towards him from the other direction, his cheeks pink.

“Are you alright?” Frank asked immediately.

Dewey blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Just dancing. Is everything okay?”

He should have known, but Ernest had him on an edge he hadn’t expected to be tonight. He tried to look apologetic but wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “Have you seen Ernest?”

“Not since earlier,” Dewey said. “Oh, and Kit was—”

“When you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Dewey’s shoulders drooped down. “If I see him,” he said. “Then I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He smiled at Dewey until he smiled back, and then Frank moved past him, pushing back into the crowd.

He hadn’t meant to be short about it, but Frank’s worry never came out like he wanted it to. It became biting irritation instead, or a slow-simmering temper he never let boil, or professional, distant orders about hotel business, or a refusal to talk at all in case he said the wrong thing. More often than not, he still wound up arguing with Ernest. He didn’t argue with Dewey, but their conversations were so much more stilted than they should have been lately.

But it was because he feared Ernest was going to slip away from him one day and never come back. Realistically, it was unlikely. After all, Ernest was still here. Indecision entering their home hadn’t taken him away from it. But what if that changed, one day, and it was Frank’s fault, because he reacted too quickly or too slowly? And Dewey—Dewey was so sweet and so kind Frank thought the world might crush him. He had to keep them close, and he had to keep them safe. It would’ve been so much easier, though, if Ernest wasn’t so difficult about it, if Dewey understood that Frank didn’t want anything to happen to him, if they would listen.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d look for Ernest on the way, but for one small hour, Ernest was going to have to wait.

9:59 PM—The Floor Behind The South Drink Table

Through typical party events, The Herpetology Squad (Plus Hector) found themselves on the floor behind one of the drink tables.

“So how do you tell them apart?” Gustav asked, stirring his drink with a spoon. “Because, and I do feel terrible about this, but I can’t do it. We’ve known them for ages, and I can’t do it.”

“Frank is taller,” Monty said immediately, and very confidently.

“What, no, he can’t be taller, they’re triplets,” Hector said. “Do genetics work like that?”

“Hey Haruki,” Monty called around Gustav and Hector, “do genetics work like that?”

Haruki leaned into Hector’s shoulder and considered it. “I’m really not sure,” they said. “But, I always figured, Ernest was kind of quiet, and Frank was kind of stern, and Dewey was kind of, well, kind.”

“But that seems so reductive,” Gustav pointed out. “You can’t just identify a person down to one base trait and leave it at that. And I say this as a screenwriter and director. You need to be creative.”

“All your characters sound exactly the same, though,” Hector said, frowning. “Or, like, so different, I don’t think you’re keeping track of them between scenes.”

“Oh, that’s awfully rude,” Haruki said.

“No, he’s right,” Gustav said. He hung his head into his hands, his glass tipping sideways through his fingers. Haruki reached over and grabbed it, twisting their arm around and up to slide it back onto the drink table where it’d be safer. “I always thought they did, and now I know for sure. I’ll have to renounce film making and go back to herpetology. Or, submarines. I can’t disparage your honor too, Monty.”

“Oh, Hector, you hurt his feelings,” Monty said. He patted Gustav on the back consolingly. “Gustav, you write wonderful scripts. I loved the, the Werewolves In The Rain.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I can’t handle a drunk Gustav,” Hector said, closing his eyes. “Gustav, I’m sorry. To be fair, I only watched—what was it—” He waved his hands around. “—the one with the—you know—”

“Vampires In The Retirement Community,” Haruki said.

“And it was once. And—hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”

10:10 PM—The Short Hallway Between Rooms 40-45 and 46-49

Unassigned numbers within the Dewey Decimal System were not the trouble they appeared to be to a hotel based on it. They still existed in the hotel, no matter how much Ernest had protested that it made no sense to have rooms that had no theme or purpose in a hotel whose very purpose was theme—Frank and Dewey’s rebuttal was that it made no sense to nonchalantly remove numbers out of their sequential existence because they didn’t fit in neatly otherwise. They existed. They didn’t have themes, even this stretch of ten, which had been previously designated but was now just a blank space between encyclopedias and magazine publications, which left the rooms relatively blank and boring, typically unnoticed and unused, but they still existed.

In the brief, dark hallway between the two sets of unassigned rooms, Frank could sit on the bench against the wall, and he didn’t have to think about family or the hotel. Frank sat featureless in the shadows and thought about himself. Usually, it meant he felt better about everything. But tonight, with the worry set aside once more for now, all he felt was that chill through his insides again, when Olaf mistook him for Ernest.

He took the name tag out of his sleeve and turned it over in his hands. Frank was a man in a manager’s jacket, with a face that looked like two other faces, someone who could be anyone. The name tag did nothing but identify him without caring who he was. What was it that made Frank himself, the imperceptible, innate existence of him that mattered? His love for Ernest and Dewey? Visible. His organization? Trivial. The fear he was going to lose everything? Meaningless and a weakness, in the face of everything else. It was hard to say for sure. He had gone his whole life getting mixed up with Ernest and Dewey and it was exhausting to keep trying to prove he was real when it felt like the world was rubbing him out. He leaned his back against the wall.

He heard Jacques before he saw him, like always. Exact, economical footsteps, nothing extraneous, the tap of his expensive shoes on the rugs, the swish of his jacket. Everything measured, as it had to be.

Jacques appeared around the corner, that bent piece of the boxwood plant stuck in his hair. He seemed to brighten when he saw Frank, like Frank’s presence set something off inside him. Frank watched him. What did Jacques see, when he looked at Frank? What was it that made Jacques notice, over and over again, over other people? How was Jacques so certain that when he looked at Frank right now, at that moment, that Jacques was looking at him?

Jacques sat down next to him on the bench. Frank had seen him in a mask earlier, something terrible and orange, but it was gone now, and he faced Frank fully. He was inches away from Frank, and Frank could see every part of him, even in the dark—the calm, if tired, resolution in the set of his jaw, the way he waited, still and patient, as if he could do nothing else. He had the darkest eyes of his siblings, a steady and unchanging deep blue.

“That which is essential is invisible to the eye,” Jacques whispered.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. How long ago had he said that to Jacques? “I initially said that to insult you,” he said.

“It was deserved,” Jacques said. “And I never forgot. Do you know how I always know it’s you now?”

“Enlighten me.”

He put his hand against Frank’s jacket, resting his fingers against the fabric to the left of the buttons. Jacques kept it there, and he didn’t take his eyes off of Frank for anything, not even when the heartbeat under his hand sped up. Frank felt almost split open to the core. He always did, every time. Jacques saw whatever it was. The man who was always hiding knew exactly who he was, because he looked.

“How very sentimental of you,” Frank managed. His breath hung between them. He traced the side of his thumb over the collar of Jacques’s shirt, just below the skin. If he moved his hand just a centimeter he’d be able to feel his heartbeat as well.

“It’s the truth,” Jacques murmured. “Sentiment is—dangerous. Truth is immutable.”

“Do you know how I know it’s you?” Frank said against his mouth.

“How?” Jacques asked.

Frank finally pulled the branch out of Jacques’s hair. “You do terribly stupid things.”

Jacques laughed, and the sound vibrated all the way down through Frank’s throat.

10:19 PM—Room 366

Frank had to be somewhere. Kit was not overly concerned with finding him, but she would rather do it sooner than later. She worked from the ground floor up, combing through the hallways but finding no sight of the Denouement, until she was on the third floor again. The faster she found Frank, the faster she could, maybe, go back to talking to Dewey. About completely professional things, of course. The fact that she felt different when she was with Dewey was simply because he was pleasant, welcome company. He wanted to look at leeches with her, for the delight of science. They expected nothing from each other but a nice time.

She immediately pictured Beatrice waggling her eyebrows at her, if Kit had said that out loud. Not that kind of nice time, she thought, but the mental Beatrice kept laughing joyously at her.

“He’s a nice person,” she grumbled to the empty hallway. He was calm. Regular. Okay. The exact opposite of everyone else, Beatrice. Could she go five minutes without them all picking apart her romantic life? This was why she wasn’t interested. This was why it was strictly nice. There were other, more important things that needed her attention.

The door to Room 366 was ajar, and Kit, who had naturally been trained to investigate the suspicious, investigated the suspicious. She slid herself carefully through the gap in the door and into the dark room. She’d been in there a few times to know it was an absurdly comfortable meeting room, with plush chairs and a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall. A figure sat against the side wall, reaching up and tapping ash from a cigarette out the open window. For a moment, they looked like a blank, featureless shadow, until a light outside the window shifted and Frank—no, Ernest’s face resolved itself in front of her. The tip of the cigarette burned bright orange against his fingers.

“I heard about you and Olaf,” he said. “Would you like an apology, since I’m sure you’ve been getting enough I told you so’s?”

Kit sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” But she shut the door and walked over, sitting down on the floor beside him. She took her own pack of cigarettes out of one of her dress pockets and accepted Ernest’s lighter to light one. She never carried her own.

“He did,” she muttered, giving the lighter back. She brought her legs up and wrapped an arm around them. “Tell me, I told you so. Not in so many words, of course, but I knew he was thinking it.”

“Ah,” Ernest said. “The disappointed look of, I’m not going to say it, but I’m going to think it, in your general direction. Which is worse.”

“Exactly,” Kit said. “At least argue with me so I can tell him he’s wrong.”

Ernest breathed out a long line of smoke. “Yes.” She thought he was going to say something else, but when he didn’t, Kit pressed on.

“He acts like it was my fault,” she said. “Should I have known better? I—” It was a harsh thing to admit, but she and Ernest didn’t do this to lie to each other. “Yes. Fine. But he acts like I can’t be left alone now to make my own decisions. He keeps following me, hanging around.” She slouched against the wall. “My own brother thinks so little of me.”

Ernest hmmed. “Well—”

“Do not. Do not say I’m short. I’m not short. Jacques has one inch on me, Ernest. Esmé is short. I’m not short.”

“Sorry,” Ernest said, laughing.

“Say it,” she said, and pushed her elbow into his side.

“Ow—Kit, you are anything but short.”

“Thank you.” She took her elbow back. The two of them sat in silence, blowing out small circles of smoke as the cigarettes smoldered down. “What’s Frank disappointed about?”

Ernest waved his hand with the cigarette dismissively. “Frank’s disappointed he can’t find a tie that matches the custom paint in the lobby,” he said. “It doesn’t take much for him. I was five minutes late, I didn’t give him the mail on time, I missed a meeting, and he just—” He did an obviously perfect impression of Frank’s unimpressed stare.

Kit snorted. She had to admit, Frank did look like that a lot, even if you caught him in a good mood.

“If he wasn’t so difficult,” Ernest muttered, “he’d be almost bearable.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Kit sighed. “Brothers.”

“Brothers,” Ernest agreed.

10:25 PM—The Ballroom—West Hors d’oeuvres Table

Dewey stood at the hors d’oeuvres table, away from the crowd of his friends, surveying the food. At least, with everything going on, there was always good food to look forward to. It was awful to glare at it like he was. He’d felt so good after talking to Kit, and now he was glowering at little rows of canapes like they were the source of his problems.

He wasn’t usually upset with his brothers. No matter what they did, he knew they had their reasons, and Dewey loved them regardless. But sometimes they really were impossible. Frank’s quiet temper and Ernest’s secrecy and indifference had driven such a wedge between the two of them that when Dewey suggested they didn’t talk about it, it had seemed like the best idea at the time to get them to go forward. Otherwise, he’d been worried that Frank was going to say something he’d regret, because he wasn’t going to change Ernest’s mind, and Ernest might’ve done something terrible. Dewey didn’t think he was capable of something truly terrible, because Ernest was his brother, and he knew Ernest. They both believed in a right way to live, just in different ways, so Dewey respected him. You couldn’t let anything change that. But he was still as worried about Ernest as Frank was, and he had just wanted the arguments to stop.

But it had led to Frank and Ernest almost refusing to talk to each other, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was pleasantries or conversations that skirted the edge of an argument, which was worse. Dewey particularly hated it lately, when he was asked to pass messages between them, typically from Frank. He wasn’t a messenger system, he was their brother, and he was, in fact, if either of them cared to remember, the oldest. But they treated him like someone to protect because he wasn’t as forceful as them. He frowned down at a section of tiny shot glasses of—he picked one up. Gazpacho. It looked so charming and Dewey couldn’t even appreciate it.

What it came down to was, the schism couldn’t come between him and his brothers if they didn’t let it. Just like his current irritation couldn’t come between him and his brothers if he didn’t let it. He considered it, because he was angry, but he didn’t let it change anything.

He found a narrow, palm-sized spoon from one of the other hors d’oeuvres and poked at the gazpacho with it. He thought, for a moment, about the Anwhistle brothers, sitting in their brand new marine research and rhetorical help center, probably having a lot of fun together talking about fungi and grammar. Gregor and Ike were two of the most different but most companionable people Dewey knew. Nothing got between them. They probably didn’t forget who was the oldest. Who was the oldest out of them, anyway? They probably didn’t let it matter.

Oh, Dewey was letting it get to him. He piled some of the gazpacho onto the spoon and took a bite. He wished Bertrand had been able to come. Bertrand would’ve loved the appeal of the gazpacho as well. Bertrand didn’t have a single sibling to complain about and he would’ve enjoyed the gazpacho wholesale. He could’ve stood around with Dewey at the table, and maybe they’d have brought in Lemony, too, and talked about flavor profiles. Lemony, who was legitimately the youngest of his siblings, commiserating over cold soup about how they never stopped trying to protect him either. Who could possibly think Lemony of all people needed protecting, too? There was always that quiet, competent energy around him.

Dewey finished the gazpacho and put the jar on a passing hotel attendant’s silver tray. Where was Lemony, actually? He was sure he’d seen him earlier. Dewey remembered, because it was the first time he’d seen Lemony in a long while. Wherever he was, Dewey was sure it was probably more enjoyable than here.

10:32 PM—The Ballroom—Dance Floor

“Josephine,” Olaf said, sidling up behind her, “Jo, angel of my eye—”

“The correct word for that expression is apple,” Josephine interrupted. She did not take her eyes off of her plate of puff pastry. “We’ve been over this.”

He continued, persistent as ever, his smile stretched like candy. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, angel of my apple?”

“No.”

10:45 PM—The Elevator

The night was passing by, and Kit still hadn’t found Frank. She’d made it all the way up to the ninth floor with no sign of him. Was he the type to be on the rooftop sunbathing salon? Unlikely. But she should check, just in case.

She had her hand against the rooftop door when the elevator dinged behind her. Kit turned to look. The elevator doors parted, revealing the gold-walled interior with rather harsh lighting, and there was Frank, standing with his hands folded behind his back. He caught Kit’s eye and gave her a slight nod. “Kit.”

“Frank.” She stepped into the elevator beside him and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, she smelled smoke for a moment, and her heart leapt before she realized the cigarette smoke must’ve clung to her gloves. She tugged them off and stuffed them into one of her pockets.

“I heard the Anwhistles finished the research center,” Frank said, as the elevator started to move down.

“Yes.”

“And the mycelium—are they still working on it?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Frank sighed. “Do you have any concerns?”

“Some,” Kit admitted. There was no denying it was dangerous. Necessary, but catastrophic if it ever got out of hand. “If anything happens, it can be dealt with.”

“Good,” Frank said, decisively. Silence dropped through the elevator, the hand counting down the floors moving slowly from eight, to seven, to six. Frank raised an eyebrow; Kit realized she’d been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was under the impression that there was—” More, or something else entirely. It was Kit’s understanding that Frank was to give her a list. There was usually only one kind of list that mattered in their organization, and unless she had radically misjudged the ages of the Anwhistle brothers after personally knowing them for years, they wouldn’t be on that list. “—something more specific,” she wound up finishing.

Frank looked at her with his impassive, unimpressed mask. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The hand moved again, six to five to four. Kit had the strangest sensation that she was missing something. She should’ve been given that list, not subjected to a brief interrogation, especially about something she was already aware of. The smell of smoke flitted in front of her again.

Disbelief shot through Kit like an arrow, pushing the air from her lungs. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. She stared at the man in the elevator, and he stared back, cool and collected. It couldn’t be. Because that would mean—but the longer she looked, the more certain she was.

“Frank quit smoking,” she said quietly, “but you didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I—”

Kit slammed her hand against the stop button on the button panel, and kept her hand there, boxing him in against the wall even after the elevator had halted, the counting hand stuck between four and three.

“Don’t lie to me, Ernest.”

One Month Ago—City Headquarters

It wasn’t like there was, say, an initiation ceremony or anything. They’d been through that already, there was no need to do one again. You knew what you were getting into this time, you were just, “changing sides”. And it was so subtle that it barely mattered. Nothing about Ernest’s life really changed otherwise. He ran a hotel with his brothers. He ranked tea brands with Dewey during lunch. He played loud music in Room 784. He carried a lighter in his pocket that he used for other things. He went to headquarters, sometimes as himself, sometimes as Frank, never as Dewey. He acquired messages, and took his sweet time delivering them or delaying them, spaces of time where nothing changed, either. He almost wondered what the point had been, until he overheard Frank spout off some noble patter again. At least he wasn’t like that. At least Ernest knew better.

And since nothing had changed, no one knew. Not even the “firestarters” knew there was another one, namely because Ernest hated the name and disliked a great deal of them, but also because Frank made him be so careful about it. He thought a few people in VFD suspected, or at least suspected someone of switching, because everyone could feel something was happening and they were trying to pinpoint a source, and it was only a matter of time before someone suspected a Denouement. Triplets were naturally suspicious. But it wasn’t like they could do anything, even if they ever had proof—how often did anyone know which Denouement they were talking to, anyway? It was likely Ernest could exist like this for the rest of his life.

The thought almost stopped him on his way into the city headquarters. Day after day of calculated, performative nonsense without an end in sight. Age sagged through him. His bones were too heavy and to move them another step was impossible. He kept walking.

What had made Ernest change? That, exactly that. Change. He’d lived in VFD for practically his entire life, and nothing was different there, either. There had been no great strides made towards the nobility they all talked about, only tiny little steps that were easily set back. Ernest watched his friends and his family get sucked in by this big, dramatic fight that never ended, a fight none of them had ever initially had a part in. He’d learned that you couldn’t achieve “nobility”, whatever that even was, by a bunch of absurd spy behavior and kidnapping, or by coded messages and age-old discussions that went nowhere, or by acting like information weighed more than your life, by pretending any of that was normal. None of it did anything. Ernest was going to find some way to make something happen, to make what they’d lost worth it, and if it meant Frank thought he was a traitor, fine. He’d do it even if Frank didn’t appreciate that Ernest was doing it for him.

The note for Frank that he’d intercepted said that there was a file under the fifth floorboard of the back staircase in the city headquarters. Frank was supposed to give it to Kit.

He made his way to the back staircase. It went up to the observatory, which no one had used since Esmé burned that spot into the rug with her telescope out of protest. The corridor and the staircase were, predictably, deserted. Ernest slowly lifted the fifth board, but it came away without resistance, so he pulled it up all the way and saw the slim folder waiting inside. He took it out, replaced the floorboard, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it.

He wanted to crumple the folder in his hands but he made himself breathe and look at it. It was the upcoming recruitment list. There were some he recognized faintly, distant associates, long-lived families in VFD, but a majority of the names he’d never seen before. New families to carve apart. He flipped through the pages—addresses, dates, times. A few photographs. Ernest closed his eyes and held them shut tight. When he opened them, he was still looking at the folder.

Of course none of it mattered, he thought bitterly, shoving the folder into his jacket. He could intercept or stop a thousand messages and there would still always be more. There would always be more children, more fires, more lies, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop it.

Ernest leaned the side of his head against the banister. He thought about Olaf, suddenly. He’d been trying to corner everyone lately, Ernest among them, talking his ear off about big ideas that Ernest agreed with, but Olaf had a habit of taking an age to follow through with them. Ernest did not have the time to wait an age. He’d shared some information with Olaf a few times, on the off chance that it would spur him into action, but Olaf had hidden it away, for “later”, and it obviously had not helped.

Maybe the only way you could fight a long game was to play the long game back. Maybe that was what Olaf was doing. He was on to something, at least, with his words. Maybe Ernest could try again. Maybe he could learn to wait. Maybe the payoff would be worth it. Maybe.

Ernest stood up. He didn’t at all feel like going home, but he wasn’t going to stay at headquarters any longer.

The staircase creaked. When he looked up, he saw Lemony Snicket at the top by the observatory door, standing like he’d always been there.

“What are you doing up there?” Ernest asked.

Lemony watched him carefully. Ernest got the distinct feeling that he was being appraised. He shivered. When they were younger, you could look at Lemony and see the gears working in his head, like watching—yes, like watching change take shape and form and meaning before your eyes. Lemony Snicket was going to do anything, lead them all anywhere. Ernest hadn’t been foolish enough to believe a twelve-year-old in a brown hat was going to demolish VFD from the ground up. Then Lemony had disappeared, and in the years after resurfacing at sixteen, he looked less and less like that powerful, mythical figure everyone had worshiped and more like he’d seen too much. Ernest sympathized.

But here, Ernest finally saw it, that hunger they’d all talked about. In his eyes, bright blue in the shadows. Physical change, a juggernaut of determination. Ernest’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lemony said softly. “Do you think we could talk?”

10:50 PM—The Elevator

Damn.

The disbelief on Kit’s face was gone, replaced by a blazing, dangerous fury, the threatening and exacting professionalism she hid inside her on full display. She wasn’t all that short, Ernest thought, inanely. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff out of this one. She knew. It was significantly more terrifying than Ernest had imagined it would be. How stupid could he have been, to forget about the way that cigarette smoke would cling, to think Kit Snicket wouldn’t notice. “Kit—”

“How long?” Kit demanded.

“Does it matter?”

He could see that it very, very much did. Kit was already disgusted over dating Olaf; that she’d spent so much time with Ernest when he wasn’t on her side was going to eat her alive, Ernest knew. He winced.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tried.

She glared at him. “What were the names Frank was supposed to give me?”

That, he was going to hold on to. They’d already burned the papers, anyway, up in the observatory. No one was going to get that list now. “I guess you’ll never know,” Ernest said.

Her hand clenched on the button panel. She stepped closer. For a wild and uncontrollable second that seemed to spin out into eternity, Ernest imagined she was going to kill him.

“The elevator is going to start again,” she said lowly. “We’re going to walk out into the lobby. You’re not going to make a sound. We’re going to go to headquarters.”

Ernest didn’t like what he was going to do next. But he was always going to have the upper hand for one distinct reason.

He swallowed and straightened the edge of his sleeve. “Who’s going to believe you, Kit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Regrettably for you, I am at a distinct advantage,” Ernest said. “You and I are the only two people in this elevator. You did think I was Frank. Who will be able to figure out who was who when you try and tell on me? Who can really know for sure?” He hesitated, but it was true. “Why, I could be Dewey, even.”

Kit slapped him across the face, her cheeks flushed a fierce red. The force of it stung hard, knocking Ernest’s head to the side. She removed her hand from the wall and stepped back.

“Does it help if I’m sorry?” he asked, gingerly rubbing the side of his face.

“You aren’t,” Kit said.

Ultimately, it was true. He wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been caught more than that he’d done it. Ernest regretted nothing about what he’d decided to do. Not in his line of work; and Kit was the same, too. But he was sorry he was going to lose a friend.

Kit didn’t have friends, though. You were with or against Kit Snicket, and she always made that abundantly clear. Ernest touched his cheek again, and then lowered his hand.

“I’m not,” he said. He took the elevator key out of his pocket and put it into the lock on the button panel, watching Kit the whole time. She watched him back. The elevator slid into motion, settling down on the third floor.

The doors opened.

11:00 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

“Who?” Jacques asked.

Kit turned slowly back to the dance floor. Was one of them still here? Had she been followed out of the elevator? She locked eyes with a Denouement across the room. Which one? Was it Frank? Was it Ernest, again? Was it Dewey? The clock was still rumbling under her feet. The glass trembled in her hand and she felt almost sick, anger and shame and fear churning through her. She was in a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it off. The triplet held her eyes for a long moment and then walked away.

“Kit.” Jacques had a hand on her arm; he must’ve gotten out of the boxwood. “Who?”

But she couldn’t get the words out, not here. Ernest was right. She was at a disadvantage when she couldn’t prove it. If she pointed the finger now, what would be done? What could be done? How could he do that to Dewey and Frank? To put them in the position where they’d unknowingly cover for him merely by existing? Did they know at all?

What would she do if her own brothers—no. She couldn’t even think it. Kit couldn’t fathom the idea of her brothers doing anything like this.

“We have to find Lemony,” Kit said.

11:02 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Frank still couldn’t find Ernest. He did not have the time for him to be hiding like a child; where was he? Frank had looked everywhere over and over and was back in the same ballroom again, scanning through the associates for what had to be the hundredth time. He caught Kit’s eye—and stopped.

There was cold and intense fear looking back at him. It was unbearable to have it directed at him, and Frank turned away after a few seconds.

Ernest. A thousand possibilities ran through Frank’s head, each of them worse than the last. He had had enough. Frank strode towards the main doors, just as he saw Ernest making his way out of them as fast as possible. Finally. Frank followed him out into the hallway and grabbed onto Ernest’s arm, whirling him around.

“I asked one thing of you tonight,” Frank said.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Ernest repeated. He wrenched his arm out of Frank’s grasp and put his hands in his pockets. “And I didn’t, thank you.”

“Apparently I wasn’t specific enough,” Frank said. “When I said that, I clearly meant, don’t do anything stupid that’s going to compromise the family and our position in it. What information have you been giving Olaf?”

“Who said I was?”

“Olaf.”

“You know, that hurts a little, that you’d believe Olaf over me.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. Fine. Olaf was less important, anyway. “Then what did you do to Kit?”

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Did I do anything?”

It was agonizing, seeing such a carefully blank mask on your own face staring back at you. Frank didn’t hate him, but he came close. “What have you done, Ernest? Do not lie to me.”

Something fractured through Ernest’s expression. “I just—miscalculated,” he muttered. “She found out.”

“She found out?” Frank echoed, his heart skittering in his chest. It had finally happened, and Frank couldn’t protect Ernest this time. Kit wouldn’t keep this a secret, not by a long shot. By morning—by midnight, because nearly the whole organization was already here—everyone would know. And Ernest didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it. “Ernest—”

“It’s fine,” Ernest said coolly. “Considering she can’t prove it.”

The world detached from Frank’s consciousness. Kit’s fear made a sudden, terrible sense. Ernest had used him as a shield between himself and the organization, on purpose, he’d positioned Frank and Dewey as pawns whose only use was whatever Ernest wanted. Frank could feel his hands shaking. They didn’t feel like his hands.

Ernest sighed. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “You’ve pretended to be me, that’s the only way you would’ve found out about Olaf. Don’t act like you didn’t use our face as an advantage too. That’s what we do. That’s what this family does.”

Anger burned through Frank, hot behind his eyes. That had been different. A sharp fury that had been building somewhere inside him all night snapped apart. “You are not a part of this family.”

He regretted saying it the second the words were out. Of course Ernest was still his brother. That was an immutable fact. But Frank was so tired of trying to hold onto Ernest when Ernest so blatantly didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at family, he was looking at a stranger, who stole his face, who used his name, who threw it around like it meant nothing, who denied everything noble and proper and real. It wasn’t how a brother was supposed to act. But it was how Ernest acted, and now Ernest was staring at him with an open, wounded expression, something Frank hadn’t seen since they were children.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Ernest’s jaw trembled for a second, his mouth pressing into a thin, flat line. “I don’t think I am.” He took one step back, a hard glare in his eyes, and then walked away from Frank.

11:20 PM—The Rooftop Sunbathing Salon

Ernest hadn’t figured on Frank being angry, because, primarily, he hadn’t figured on Frank finding out at all. He hadn’t figured on Kit realizing what he was doing, either. Well, that was on him, but Frank didn’t need to be so—he didn’t have to say—

Shit, Ernest thought, breathing hard. He came to a stop in the dark, empty hallway some floors up from the ballroom and let himself think it, pressing his palms into his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He’d have a brother after this, sure, a family member who stood by him and ran a hotel with him and played nice, but he didn’t know if he’d have his brother. He would have an associate, like everyone else, a found family of people who loved on conditions, not a family. Not his family.

He had to find Lemony. Just because he’d been hiding all night didn’t mean he was exempt from this.

Lemony disliked heights, open spaces, and decently-sized bodies of water, which was why Ernest found him on the roof, sitting on one of the pool chairs, his mask discarded beside him. He was studiously avoiding looking at the pool or the ocean or the night sky, dark and enormous above him. The rooftop salon was never used at night, but there were small lights along the edge of the pool and the railing, giving off slivers of stark white light. The brief anger Ernest felt downstairs evaporated the longer he watched Lemony not-watching the world around him. He wanted to say a million and one things to him, but the one that came out was, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“What do you know about exposure therapy?” Lemony offered as a response.

“Enough to know you probably shouldn’t use it for heights,” Ernest said. “Among other things.”

“Point taken,” Lemony said. “What would you say if I told you I was now too frightened to move?”

“That you brought it on yourself,” Ernest said, but he didn’t mean it. He walked over and sat next to Lemony on the pool chair. Ernest stole a quick glance at him again, brief and fleeting. To look consistently was dangerous; Ernest always had to make a distinct effort not to touch.

“Your sister found out,” he said. “Not about you, but about me. She also hit me.”

Lemony’s head shot up. “What?” He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing Ernest’s jaw as he turned his face towards him. They trailed warm over his right cheek, where his skin still smarted from Kit’s hand. Here in the dark, Lemony’s eyes were so bright again, full of concern, directed right at him. Ernest held himself so still, barely breathing.

Falling in love, if you could call it that, with Lemony was what Ernest personally considered the most ill-advised thing he’d ever done, even after lying to Kit. Lemony loved other people, and it was clear in everything he did, in the way he looked when they weren’t there. But Lemony understood what Ernest wanted, and Ernest craved that with a destructive ache.

Really, who else were they supposed to fall in love with but each other? They didn’t know anyone else. No one was going to get this life but them. It was probably why half of VFD had a crush on Beatrice, honestly. It was terrible, but none of them seemed to be able to stop doing it. Ernest included.

“You—” Lemony’s hand jerked back, shrinking down between them onto the chair. “What happened?”

“She knew I lied,” Ernest said. “About the information and about being Frank. I got out of it, but—she won’t trust us again, I think. And Frank—probably won’t trust me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Lemony said. “I didn’t mean for—”

Ernest shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It wasn’t. He and Lemony had both just wanted something, desperately. Ultimately, they’d still succeeded, in the end. They had. Change he could hold in his hands had happened. He still felt hollow about it all, everything drained out of him, but he didn’t regret doing it. Not at all. The hurt would go away and he’d do it again. “What we did—that mattered.”

“It did,” Lemony whispered. “But I never like the cost.”

“Why did you do it?” Ernest asked softly.

Lemony smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t want to stop trying.”

The real, noble answer, Ernest thought. Why the “firestarters” and Ernest would never get him. He raised his hand. Slowly, without looking, he put it on top of Lemony’s. Lemony turned his hand over and gripped Ernest’s tightly. He knew that the way Lemony would try from this moment forward would be different than the way Ernest would, and he wanted to have this moment while it lasted.

Ernest stood, tugging Lemony up with him, and let go of his hand. “You should go back downstairs,” he said.

11:30 PM—The Ballroom—South Drink Table

The party would be over soon, but you’d never know it, the ballroom still thronging with people. But most of the dancing had died down, and Dewey was taking mental stock of how clean up would start. He found one of the attendant’s silver trays and picked it up, estimating how many glasses he could fit on it.

Frank came back into the ballroom and made a beeline for him, pale. Dewey’s shoulders tensed up yet again. What had happened now?

“I can’t believe it,” Frank muttered, grabbing a wineglass.

“Whoa, hey, hold on.” Dewey took the wineglass back and set it off to the side. “What happened?”

“He—” Which meant it was Ernest. Again. Dewey’s patience with both his brothers tonight was wearing extraordinarily thin. “He’s been passing information to Olaf this whole time.”

“To Olaf?” That was not what Dewey had been expecting. A flare of worry burned through him and curled his hands around the tray. “But—”

“No,” Frank said. “This time, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of covering up for him, and he’s going to have to deal with this mess himself.”

Olaf was certainly a threat in one way or another, but it seemed a disproportionately vicious answer for Frank. Dewey frowned. “Did something else happen?”

Frank looked so—frantic, was maybe the word, a terrifying energy breaking out of him in quick bursts of anger on his face. He looked at Dewey, and the emotion seemed to cage itself back in.

“He was found out,” Frank said quietly. “About being a firestarter.”

Dewey had counted on it happening. It seemed unlikely that it would be able to remain a secret forever. It still hurt to hear. Things wouldn’t be the same as they had been, if people knew about Ernest. Dewey imagined the division between the three of them only growing larger, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything about it if it got too wide.

Something broke in Frank’s expression again, and Dewey startled—it looked like guilt. “Don’t defend him,” Frank hissed. “Dewey, he’s going to get away with it. He’s going to ruin what we’ve worked for, what you’ve worked for in the archives—do you want all of that information in the hands of the enemy?”

Dewey clutched the tray. “Ernest isn’t the enemy,” he said, darkly. The agitation from earlier at the hors d’oeuvres table shot back into him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Frank said. “I—”

Dewey slammed the silver plate down on the drink table. A real, genuine slam, like he’d never done before, the glasses around it rattling. Frank stared at him, gaping a little.

“He’s still here,” Dewey said. “That’s enough.”

“Dewey—”

“That is enough.”

12:00 AM—The Lobby

Jacques had never seen Kit so unsettled. Even when she’d been arrested she’d kept her composure. But she stood beside him in the empty lobby, tapping her foot against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. He still couldn’t get out of her what had happened, but it was obvious from her face in the ballroom that whoever betrayed them had to be one of the Denouements. It was a sobering realization, the worst possible outcome of the schism that had been building for too long. One of three identical triplets being a traitor complicated matters, although it was easy to figure out which one it was that had done it. Things were going to change after tonight.

He took a small, brief moment to appreciate that Kit actually wanted to stand next to him and acknowledge him as her brother. Lately, he’d gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him. But now she needed him, and it was a relief to Jacques to still be needed by his siblings. He never thought he did that successful a job of managing to keep them all together.

The elevator dinged, and Lemony stepped out, adjusting his jacket. The only evidence he’d been at the costume party was the mask tucked under his arm, because his suit was as plain as ever.

“Finally,” Kit muttered, and she ran over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, something none of the siblings had done since they were children.

Lemony froze, and then hugged her back. He met Jacques’s eyes across the lobby.

Jacques knew it, immediately. Lemony had played a part in what had happened tonight with Ernest. It shouldn’t have surprised Jacques as much as it did. Lemony had held a perilous position in the organization for years now, and this wasn’t the first time he had wound up disagreeing with Kit about recruitment. But it was the first time it had involved other people. That made it dangerous.

Lemony shook his head a fraction of an inch. Part of Jacques relaxed. The three of them might still be okay. He wondered, with a slight jolt, how the Denouements would fare.

Kit pulled away from Lemony. “Where were you?”

“Did you know the rooftop sunbathing salon has night lights?” Lemony said. Jacques couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked over to his siblings. “Very pleasant. I recommend it.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and she led Jacques and Lemony through the lobby and out of the hotel.

“I’ll drive you both back,” Jacques said. “It’s on my way.”

“You brought the taxi?” Lemony asked.

“Regrettably,” Jacques sighed. “I still seem to have it.” Headquarters refused to take it back for some reason, even after Jacques insisted he didn’t need it. It had been six months since the initial assignment with it and he was still driving it, and probably would be, for the foreseeable future. He took his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive,” Kit said.

“You will not drive,” Jacques said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Kit said, snatching the keys out of his hand and walking briskly out of his reach. “Jacques, did you say something about hives? There aren’t any bees nearby.”

“Trees?” Lemony said. He jogged ahead a little and caught up with Kit’s pace. “They do look particularly lush this time of year, now that you mention it.”

“No one is in a rush, and Kit, give me my keys you are not going to drive—” His siblings raced ahead of him down the front drive, and Jacques ran after them into the night.

1:55 AM—The Ballroom

Olivia and Ramona stayed on to help the Denouements clean up. Ramona had insisted, saying that it was no trouble at all, and she owed them for being so kind to host the party. She was very good at insisting; Olivia had never seen anyone able to resist the charm of Ramona cheerfully demanding she was going to help and they were going to have to deal with it. She hid her smile in the champagne flutes she was stacking on a tray as Ramona talked with one of the triplets on the other side of the ballroom. She picked up the one rimmed with half-rings of Ramona’s deep plum lipstick and giggled.

She’d have to tell Ramona about what Jacques told her, of course. But for once, Olivia wasn’t all that worried about dealing with it. It had been an extraordinarily pleasant night otherwise. Ramona was happy, some of the glow back in her face, so Olivia was happy too.

All the glasses were stacked, the plates piled together, the tablecloths folded up, the lights finally dimmed. There was only one Denouement left in the room, and he stopped Olivia and Ramona on their way out. “Olivia, could I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia said.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Ramona said, squeezing her hand, and she disappeared down the hallway, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.

Some people expected Olivia to be able to tell the Denouements apart, and some people expected her to be as clueless as most others as to who she was talking to. It wasn’t terribly hard to tell them apart, because Olivia liked to pay attention, but what she could never remember what when she was supposed to know and when she wasn’t. Here, she knew the one in front of her was Frank, most definitely. There was a weight to the way Frank carried himself, not like he assumed he was in control, but like he assumed he had to be.

“What is it, Frank?” Olivia asked.

He hesitated, which was rare for Frank. “When was the last time you saw Miranda?”

Olivia blinked. Had she misheard him? “What?”

“Miranda,” Frank said again. She hadn’t misheard. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Miranda?

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I—” When was the last time she saw Miranda? Years and years ago, wasn’t it? Shortly after they’d been taken. Olivia hadn’t minded. Miranda was older than her, not by much but by enough, and enough that they weren’t kept together. Miranda had thought it a chore to look after her, and Olivia hadn’t liked being seen as a chore. She wanted a sister, not a babysitter. So she’d been okay when Miranda was gone. They went to different classes, made different friends, passed each other in the hall without saying a word until their apprenticeships, where Olivia was shuffled around from chaperone to chaperone and Miranda—went where? What had become of her?

The questions spun through her head, dizzying, but they kept coming. What did Miranda look like, now that she thought of it? Had she looked like Olivia at all? Would she recognize her own sibling, like she could easily identify the Denouements? Would she know Miranda if she saw her in a meeting, on the street, at one of these parties, if she was an enemy? But what made a person wasn’t appearance—how did Miranda act? What made Miranda, in the way Frank’s quiet made him? How could she not know what made her sister? Miranda was her sister and it hit Olivia, squarely in the chest, that she didn’t know a single thing about her.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her gaze darting across the floor. How had she gone all this time without thinking about her? How could she not know? How much had she forgotten?

“I’m sorry I asked,” Frank was saying. “Olivia. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Olivia whispered. She took one step back, then another, almost hitting the edge of her dress with the point of her heel, and another, then made herself turn around and leave, back downstairs, through the lobby, anywhere else but there.

Olivia hurried out into the night with the front doors banging open after her; the humid air was sticky on her skin, sitting heavy in her lungs as she tried to inhale. She saw Ramona past the front archway, leaned back against her car a way down the front drive, her shoes beside her and her feet in the grass, the shape of her soft and fuzzy in the heat. Olivia tore off her mask and scrubbed her hand over her eyes, wiping the tears on the side of her dress.

There was a weight on her shoulders, more than just the heat. She had the horrible sense that she was going to turn around and see Miranda. Olivia wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the city, she wanted to go somewhere she’d be away from this. She wanted to take Ramona—would Ramona go with her? She had her own things to care about besides the violent anxiety shaking Olivia from the inside out. She had a duchy to take care of. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with Olivia.

We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival. The carnival was miles from the city, out in the hinterlands, flat and desolate blankness. Maybe she should go. Maybe that would be better. She would be away from the city and be one place where no one had to bother her and she couldn’t bother anyone else. Maybe.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again, and when she opened them the tears were gone and Ramona came into focus, all of her slender and beautiful in the moonlight. Olivia ached to look at her.

She went over to Ramona and slid her hand into hers, tucking her face into the smooth skin of Ramona’s shoulder. “I want to go somewhere else,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Ramona said, her other arm coming up and folding around Olivia, drawing her close. “We can go anywhere you want.”

Behind her, through the open front doors, Olivia heard the hotel clock starting to chime again.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #lemony snicket #jacques snicket #kit snicket #frank denouement #dewey denouement #ernest denouement

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a-edgar-allan-hoe · 3 years

Text

The Last Chthonian

Bucky x Reader, Sam x Reader, Zemo x Reader

Part 8

A/N: Part 8 is here lovelies! Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list! 🖤🔮🖤

Summary: Imagine being Hekate, the Greek goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, doorways and crossroads, creatures of the night, and ghosts and necromancy. You stumbled upon Earth many centuries ago and since then have resided on the foreign planet. During the recent years you created an alias for yourself to hide your true identity, and after the war against Thanos you chose to live out your days in the Scottish countryside, until a certain trio appear at your doorstep one day.

Warnings: language

You and Zemo had sat there in silence in the green house for quite some time, watching the rain slowly die down. And though your eyes were focused on the rain, Zemo’s would occasionally leave the windows to glance at your profile, studying the features of your face and the scar that ran down your eye. It was then he noticed that you had a few others, like the smaller ones across your nose, eyebrow, and lip. These weren’t as prominent as the long one you had, they were older and starting to fade. Your cup was already empty while you stared out the glass windows. Your thoughts still dwelled on what Zemo had said to you earlier. As the sun’s rays started to peek out over the horizon, you let out a sigh, standing up as you did so. You needed to go outside and clear your mind.

“If you’ll excuse me. I should get dressed.” You spoke before leaving the glass room, your robe and nightgown flowing behind you as you went. Zemo watched you leave before getting up, taking the tray of the empty cups with him as he decided to get himself dressed as well.

You went back to your room to take a quick shower before grabbing some clothes from your closet to pack up. You threw on a black mock neck sweater and a pair of dark charcoal grey tweed pants along with your grey plaid blazer that had a black velvet collar. You stopped at your dresser and stared down at the intricate silver metal box that was tucked away in one of the drawers. You pulled it out, your fingers tracing along the floral and vine engraving before opening it. Inside the blue velvet lined box sat a silver necklace. Pulling the necklace out, you laid the pendant in the palm of your hand, it was a little crystal ball filled with tiny stars that had a silver tetrahedron point attached to the bottom of the sphere.

Your mother Asteria had given you this. Her being the goddess of shooting stars and nighttime divination such as oneiromancy and astrology, she had made this pendant for you and filled it with her favorite stars. And engraved on the bottom silver point were the words ‘For my favorite star of all. Love, your mother.’ Your heart sank at the words. She had made you this when you were little, to help you with your nightmares and when you had trouble sleeping. All you had to do was spin the sphere and watch the tiny night sky and shooting stars that were captured in it, and soon you would be fast asleep. The only reason you hadn’t used it, was because you would see your mother in your dreams. And though she had made it where she would be there to provide words of comfort, you couldn’t bear seeing her without breaking into tears. Wiping away the tear that slipped down your cheek you decided to put the necklace on anyways, looking in the mirror as it hung delicately under your collarbone, sparkling against the light in your room.

Lacing up your black docs and throwing your hair up in a braided low bun, you went downstairs and decided to head out to the stables as your dogs followed you out. You stopped by the kitchens on your way out, grabbing a big bag of some krystállinomílos, vegetables and a variety of peppers. You grabbed a few pieces of meat and tossed some to your dogs, laughing as they chowed it down eagerly. “I’ll be back pups.” After you exited the back entrance to your home and approached the stables, a smile broke out on your face as you saw your dark dappled grey Pegasus munching on some oats. Once she saw you she neighed in excitement, jumping around in her stall and stretching out her stormy grey wings.

“Thýella!” You beamed, stroking her forehead as you nuzzled your face against hers. “O pós mou leípeis! (Oh how I’ve missed you!)” You had always admired her and had her since you were but a small child back in Olympus. Zeus had given her to you on your birthday when she was merely a foal and you had named her Thýella, which translated to tempest since she reminded you of a storm. Her muzzle was black and faded to a grey as it went up her forehead. Her mane was jet black, and her tail started as black before fading to a white. Her body was a stormy grey with lighter colored spots throughout her coat before fading into black on her legs, save for her left legs that had a bit of white near her hooves.

“Páme gia mia vólta (Let’s go for a walk).” You told her as you set up her saddle and her reins before hoisting yourself on her back. You exited the stable, strolling through the green of your land as you headed towards the bigger stable you had. Getting off Thýella, you held her reins you stepped into the larger stable. As you peered into the wooden stalls you saw your dragon, his black, maroon red, and dark magenta scales rising and falling as he slept in his stall next to the pile of trinkets he has collected. You smiled once you saw him, he was a gift from your uncle Hades and you had him since he was a wee little dragon in his egg.

You creeped closer, hiding behind his stall before jumping out and scaring him. “Kólasi!”

Kólasi jolted awake, knocking his big horned head into the side of the stall before shaking it off. He stared at you with confusion in his fiery eyes, watching you giggle like you used to when you played with him as a child. He was surprised to see you here at first before squinting his large eyes at you and letting out a disgruntled huff as he turned his head away from you with his snout pointed in the air.

“Oh come on.” You teased. “Min eísai étsi (don’t be like that).” You stepped closer to him, stretching over to look in his eyes only to make him huff again as turned away even more. “Den mou leípses? (did you not miss me?)”

Kólasi side glanced at you, giving you a considering look before nuzzling your face since he was truly happy to see you again.

“Mou leípeis polý paliós fílos (I’ve missed you too old friend).” You chuckled as you scratched his head. “Éla. as páme éxo (Come. Let’s go outside).” You led them outside in the warm sunlight before plopping down on the grass with your bag of food. Kólasi sat down behind you, allowing you to lean back on him as his head craned around to face you. He lifted his wing up above you to provide some shade while you opened up your sacks of food. You handed over the krystállinomílos to Thýella and gave the meat, vegetables, and peppers to Kólasi. You grabbed a krystállinomílo for yourself, taking a bite out of the juicy fruit as you pondered on what the three were doing right now. They were most likely having breakfast since you informed Gudrun and the others to make something for them. You then wondered what they would think once they saw Kólasi and Thýella but decided not to dwell on it any longer since you knew there was only one reaction they would have, and it definitely wasn’t a positive one.

You felt Kólasi nudge his head against you, making you look at him. “Ti eínai aftó? (What is it?)” You watched as he nodded towards the sky and a smile appeared on your face. “I knew you’d say that. Éla Thýella. As páme na petáxoume. (Come Thýella. Let’s go fly.)” You went back into Kólasi’s stall, grabbing the special saddle you had made for him before going back outside and strapping it on his back. With a grunt, you climbed into his back, and considering he was about 16 to 18 feet tall standing on all fours, he always had to lower himself for you. Once you were situated and strapped onto the saddle, you held onto his neck as he flapped his dark red wings before taking off the ground. As you turned your head to look behind you, Thýella had just caught up with you and was flying beside you, your castle became smaller and smaller the higher up you went.

A smile was on your lips as you could see everything below you, relishing in the feeling of the wind against your cheeks as you went higher and higher until you could practically touch the clouds. With a small laugh, you stuck your hand out, feeling the whispy clouds slip through your fingers as Kólasi became level with the ground. Thýella stayed beside you, neighing happily as she soared through the sky. No matter how many times you’ve done this, it never got old. After a few rounds of gliding and loops, it was time you headed back home before Sam got worried. As Kólasi began to descend towards the earth you lowered your body to his neck, the wind picking up speed against you as you dived through the clouds. The clouds around you cleared up and you could see your castle in the distance below you, getting bigger and bigger. Kólasi slowed down as he neared the earth, pulling his body up as he and Thýella landed gracefully on the grass of your backyard.

“Theé mou to échasa (gods I’ve missed that).” You breathed out, your blood pumping with adrenaline from the rush you just had.

“Y/n?” You heard Sam call out for you, which made you curse under your breath.

It was too late now.

“Y/n?” Sam rounded the corner of your home and you saw his face turn into one of terror, his mouth and eyes wide as he tried to process what he was seeing. Bucky and Zemo shortly followed and they too mirrored Sam’s expression. “Is that a dragon or am I seeing shit now?”

“This is my dragon Kólasi, Sam. You’re not going crazy.”

“So......you have a dragon and a pegasus now?” Bucky asked you as he eyed Kólasi. Kólasi towered over the three, casting a large shadow over them as he huffed out smoke from his nostrils while a low growl emitted from his chest. He didn’t recognize any of them and they didn’t seem to be a threat, but with one command from you he would readily light them up in flames. You had noticed this uneasiness in your dragon so you scratched his neck, signaling him that they were most definitely not a threat.

“I’ve had them since I was a kid.” You answered Bucky’s question as Kólasi lowered himself to the ground, allowing you to get off the saddle. Giving Kólasi and Thýella a quick pat on their sides which meant they were free to go, you watched as they wandered off a bit before heading back into your home with the three following you in.

“Y/n isn’t he dangerous? Correct me if I’m wrong but don’t dragons breathe fire?” Sam questioned.

“Yes, they do. But trust me when I say that Kólasi is harmless. Now if you guys don’t mind, I just need to get a few things.”

Sam and Bucky decided not question on it any further, trusting your word, though the thought of you having a dragon still baffled them. They’ve read stories about knights and dragons and now were wondering if dragons really did roam the earth and whether knights had really slayed them. And though Zemo knew you meant what you said about about Kólasi being harmless, he knew that wasn’t entirely true and that you understood the limits to that harmlessness. But despite that, he trusted your word, because if you were wrong about your dragon, the earth would already have burned to nothing years ago.

The men had followed you into your library/study, watching as you went over to a certain section on the wall. You reached towards a candle sconce on the wall, pulling it down slightly before there was the sound of gears turning. Then, as they looked, a book shelf began to open up like a door, revealing a narrow stone staircase that spiraled down to who knows where.

“Of course you have a hidden passageway. Why am I surprised?” Sam uttered which made you glare at him.

“You’re welcome to follow me if you’d like, or you can stay out here, if you’re scared. And don’t touch anything.” You informed before disappearing down the staircase.

The men looked at each other before following you down anyways. At this point they didn’t know what they’d expect to find down there. They were curious as to why you didn’t bother bringing a candle with you down the dark staircase, but as they went in, they soon realized why. There were already candle sconces lining the wall of the staircase, and the candles would only light up as they neared, before going out as they passed it.

Once they reached the bottom of the staircase, they found themselves in a spacious, enormous room, which you had used as an armory and a place to keep your artifacts. The walls were hung with weapons of many kinds from different eras. Armor and uniforms which you had worn from various time periods were displayed near the walls on mannequins, as well as different strange looking artifacts dating back to Ancient Egypt and the Sumerian civilization. In the center stood an open space with obstacles and devices which was where you trained in your combat. In the back of the room, down a corridor was where you had dungeons in case you ever needed them. Next to the dungeons was a laboratory, where you used to make potions and concoctions of different kinds. There were even old paintings of you from different eras, some of them were of just you, and some were of you and other people. But the biggest painting of them all hung in the middle, a painting of your whole family in Olympus. Off to the side, separate from the large room was your underground garage that opened up to your driveway. You owned a collection of many expensive classic vehicles, but the majority of them were classic muscle cars, which were always your favorites.

Bucky, Sam, and Zemo widened their eyes as they took everything in. Just when they thought they had seen everything, they had proved themselves wrong. Letting their feet guide them, they walked over to the paintings you had, staring at the large one in the center. Your father stood in the middle and above everyone else with Hera beside him and his lightning bolt clutched in his hand. On his side stood Poseidon with Amphitrite, and Hades with Persephone. Then there was you, wearing your mulberry purple chiton and deep blood/wine red chlamys with a breastplate over it. A diadem sat on your head and a dagger was strapped to your waist, while a sword and shield was held in your hands as you stood at Zeus’s feet with Athena and Artemis on either side of you. They men stared at the painting of you, you looked extremely regal yet powerful at the same time, an embodiment of a queen. The painting next to that one was of a beautiful looking women with stars in her eyes and hair, your mother. And on her lap sat you as a very young child, your eyes holding that same sparkle as your mother’s arms were wrapped gracefully around your body.

Sam glanced around the area once more before his eyes landed on a golden box that sat on a column pedestal. There was something intriguing about this certain thing and he seemed to be almost drawn to the box as he walked towards it. Bucky and Zemo noticed Sam’s slightly strange behavior, and as they looked to see what he was staring at, they too became transfixed, curious to know what the box was. As they got up close to it, they noticed there were these ghastly engravings of the macabre all over it, of tortured souls, demons, monsters, and evil spirits.

When you had walked back into the room with your bag of armor and weapons slung over your shoulder, your eyes widened at the sight of the men crowded around the gold box. Sam’s hand was reaching for it, about to open it until you screamed at them, rushing over to shove them away. “No! What the hell do you think you are doing?!”

“Wha-what?” Bucky stuttered, shaking his head as he was brought out of the daze and so were the others.

“When I said don’t touch anything, I specifically meant ABSOLUTELY DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING!”

“Wait, what the hell happened?” Sam asked, confusion written all over his face. Even Zemo had no idea what just occurred.

“That is Pandora’s box.”

“Pandora’s box?” Zemo tilted his head as he furrowed his brows.

“Yes Pandora’s box. Do you know what would have happened if you had succeeded in opening it?” You scolded them. “You would have unleashed all the evils into the world! There would have been complete chaos!”

“I’m sorry y/n, I didn’t know. We didn’t know.” Sam apologized, feeling guilty and terrified that he almost managed to open such a vile and dangerous little thing that had seemed so harmless at first.

“It’s fine.” You sighed. “I have what I need. Now let’s go before you guys try to touch another cursed artifact.”

Once you had your things and everything situated, you said farewell to Gudrun and Bjørn and the rest of the workers, giving them each a kiss on the cheek, their faces filled with disappointment in seeing you leave so soon. You said goodbye to Cerberus, Hecuba, Skiá, Thýella, and Kólasi as well, giving them each a hug. You sat there for a while, surrounded by your animals as they whimpered in sadness. With your final heartfelt goodbyes you left your home.

You walked over with the three trailing behind you to your 60s convertible black mustang with the white racing stripes that you had parked out front to drive to the nearest airport where Zemo’s jet would be waiting. After putting your bags and theirs in the trunk and closing it, you stared off at your home and the forest around it for one last time before your eyes caught the centaurs and satyrs that had neared the edge of the forest. You saw as they raised their hands to bid you farewell and luck on your journey, a warm smile formed on your face as you returned the gesture before hopping in the driver’s seat after the others. Making sure everyone had their seatbelts on, you turned your key in the ignition, the car rumbling to life from the sound of the engine that you always loved. Pressing your foot down on the accelerator, you drove off, watching the rear view mirror as your home got smaller and smaller the farther you drove away.

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