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grailfinders · 9 months

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Grailfinders #318: Anastasia & Viy

I hope everyone’s enjoying their farming nodes! we’ve still got three more servants to crank out before we can join in on the fun, so let’s get to it! today on Grailfinders we’re building Anastasia & Viy, the chillest archer we’ve ever made for the summer- though Artoria does give her a run for her money, if only because D&D completely shafted water spells.

while Anastasia is still a Warlock, we had to shift some stuff around. now Viy is a Fathomless, because dear god we were hurting for sources of cold damage in this build. we also snuck in some levels of Creation Bard so she can summon literally any summery thing you can think of. that’s just. a skill she has now for some reason.

check out her build breakdown here, or her character sheet below the cut!

next up: Magic: The Blathering

Ancestry & Background

Viy might be something else, but Anastasia is still definitely a Human of some variation. that gives her +1 Intelligence & Charisma, as well as proficiency in any one skill like Sleight of Hand, and a feat- the Tavern Brawler feat gives her a +1 bonus to her Constitutiton, as well as proficiency with improvised weapons. I don’t care how densely you pack that snowball, it’s still not a dart. it also gives your punches a bit of a boost with a d4 damage die and you can grapple a creature you attack as a bonus action, but we were really just here for the snowballs. most of the snowballs you use are magic, but having the old-fashioned kind as backup might come in handy.

she’s also still a Noble, so that’s another round of proficiency in History and Persuasion. once again, changing your clothes won’t change your backstory.

Ability Scores

your highest score should, of course, be in Charisma. you need it to cast with both of your classes, plus you have to get whomever you just hit with a rock to laugh it off, or at the very least convince them you didn’t mean to put it in a snowball. of course, first you have to hit them with the snowball, so make sure your Dexterity is pretty high too. we don’t need Intelligence too much, but trust me, you do not want to fail those saves with Viy around. archers are at least slightly tougher than casters, so your Constitution should at least be higher than your caster self, right? your Strength was never going to be anything to write home about, but you can also use it to throw snow, so we’re dumping Wisdom. you’re a sheltered kid, and Viy normally takes care of noticing stuff anyway.

Class Levels

1. Bard 1: we could start with either class and not miss out on much, but starting as a bard gives us a lot more magic to work with, plus more freedom with proficiencies, so we’re starting there. the downside is we don’t get any cold spells until level five, and we don’t even get any good ones until we’re a warlock, so if your game’s starting at a low level, consider sprinkling some warlock in ahead of schedule.

that being said, as a bard you have proficiency with Dexterity and Charisma saves, plus any three skills of your choice like Arcana, Deception, and Performance, the first to summon Viy at all, and the others to be a little gremlin.

as a bard, your Bardic Inspiration is a bunch of d6s you can hand out to allies as a bonus action, granting them a boost to an attack, check, or save of their choosing in the next minute. you’re not really a support character this time, but maybe you just made them a nice sno-cone.

speaking of, you can cast Spells using your Charisma. to start off, Vicious Mockery is just you making fun of people. teenagers are mean, they can sense your greatest weaknesses. but of course you also make Friends easily, at least for long enough to take a selfie. you can make people chill out and get worse at stuff thanks to Bane, or dazzle them with snow-blindness as part of a Color Spray. hey, white’s a color. you can also summon Viy as an Unseen Servant to start things off, or use his eyes to make your enemies easier to hit with a bit of Faerie Fire.

2. Bard 2: as a second level bard, you’re a Jack of All Trades, adding half your proficiency bonus to every skill check that you wouldn’t normally put it in. as a noble of house romanov, you probably had a tutor for every subject.

you can also perform a Song of Rest, adding an extra d6 to the healing your party does over a short rest. it’s not much, but I don’t think a sno-cone can compare to open-heart surgery. while on the topic of barely useful features, your Magical Inspiration lets your allies add your inspiration die to the damage or healing their spell does, though if it’s a group spell it’ll only affect one person.

speaking of spells, you can cast Feather Fall now to slow down your fall and avoid damage. Viy’s pretty big, he can probably catch you.

3. Bard 3: at third level you final graduate from the college of Creation, which gives you a Note of Potential. with this, your three base inspirations come with additional effects- when added to an ability check, the user gets advantage; when added to an attack, they deal thunder damage around them; and when added to a save, they gain temporary HP.

more importantly, your Performance of Creation lets you spend an action to create any nonmagical item you wish, so long as it costs less than 20 times your level and is medium or smaller. you can make one item at a time, and while the first one’s free every use afterwards requires a second level spell slot or higher.

oh right, speaking of, you have second level spell slots now! Kinetic Jaunt will help you skate through your enemies and stay out of melee, upping your speed and preventing opportunity attacks for up to a minute.

one last thing, your Expertise this level doubles your proficiency in two skills like Deception and Persuasion.

4. Bard 4: use your first ASI to bump up your Charisma for stronger everything. easy pick. that being said, you still need spells, and even with the ability to summon everything summery, I admit these are a bit of a stretch.

Prestidigitation has a lot of uses, but the key one here is its ability to summon tiny objects for free- if only for a round. you can eat a lot of sno-cone in six seconds though! (why do I keep going back to sno-cones??)

as for your actual levelled spell… Nathair’s Mischief mostly works? every turn for up to a minute after casting, it’ll mess around with a 20’ cube with one of four randomly picked effects. snowblinding and difficult terrain are easy enough to imagine snow and ice doing, and even slipping around and incapacitating people, but I just don’t see how charming people would fit in here. still, 3 out of 4 ain’t bad, so it’s good enough to last us for now.

5. Bard 5: fifth level’s always a great time for bards- your inspiration dice grow up, and you become a Font of Inspiration, letting you use them more often, what with them recharging on short rests instead of long ones. plus, you get third level spells, like the first cold-based spell on the bard list, Glyph of Warding!

… okay, yeah, it’s not exactly great, but it does fit with your prankster aesthetic, doesn’t it? plus, that’s just your explosive rune- you can even throw other spells in the glyph too, and pick specific targets to trigger them. it can be great if used creatively- it’s just a shame it’s so expensive. good thing you’re the tsar’s daughter!

6. Warlock 1: okay, that’s enough goofing around. let’s get coldhearted. when you bounce over to warlock, you get access to Pact Magic no matter who you strike up a deal with- that means you can finally get an offensive cold spell like Frostbite! it’s a start! you can also Create Bonfire at will- nothing’s more summery than a camping trip!

for more ice, pick up Armor of Agathys- your swimsuit isn’t exactly armor, so any extra defense you can get will be super helpful. finally, Viy popping up can definitely Cause Fear in a target, making it harder for them to hit you!

oh speaking of Viy, we still have to talk about what they are, huh? this time around they’re a Fathomless, giving you a Gift of the Sea for free waterbreathing and a faster swim speed! that floaty in your final ascension’s just for show. you can also summon a Tentacle of the Deep as a bonus action. when you create it, and each bonus action afterward, you can make the Viytacle attack a nearby creature, dealing cold damage and slowing it down. you can summon Viy this way proficiency times per day. Fathomless warlocks also get an extended spell list to use, but we’ll bring that up when we actually use it.

7. Warlock 2: at second level, warlocks get Eldritch Invocations to help you make the most of your summer vacation! you get two this level, but since we’re swapping one out next level anyway feel free to use it as you like for now. as for the permanent option, Devil’s Sight grants you darkvision that can even cut through magical darkness! Viy really is cool, huh?

you can also cast Illusory Script, writing something that looks like something else to people you don’t want seeing it. this one’s more of like, a regular prank you could pull, giving an innocuous-looking message to someone that’s actually super embarrassing for them to hold onto, or something.

8. Warlock 3: at third level we can finally get Viy’s usual body by taking the Pact of the Chain to summon a cool familiar! we can make it even cooler with the Voice of the Chain Master giving us ways to see through Viy’s eyes. with this, you can see through Viy as long as you’re on the same plane, and you can speak through Viy as well! now Viy is a walky stalky talky!

you can also cast second level spells like Cloud of Daggers to… I guess make really sharp hail? yeah, the spell stretching didn’t stop just because we made it out of bard, sorry.

9. Warlock 4: use your second ASI to bump up your Dexterity for a higher AC and more accurate snowballs. you can also apply ice to the wings of flying enemies now with Earthbind, and Viy can Toll the Dead, dealing more necrotic damage to enemies who are already hurt. say what you will, but they’re great at taking advantage of an opening.

10. Warlock 5: fifth level warlocks get third level spells, and it’s time to turn up the AC again. with Hunger of Hadar, you can freeze your enemies in place, creating an area of pure darkness that is difficult terrain and deals damage to creatures starting and ending their turn inside.

if the heat’s getting to you, you can also stick yourself in the Tomb of Levistus, creating a big ice cube you can shield yourself with- be warned though, you won’t become unfrozen until your next turn, so if you’re fighting a red dragon, you’ll probably still end up taking more damage than you would by just standing there. this isn’t quite how your invincibility skill is supposed to work, but it’s pretty dang close, and it’s on theme.

11. Warlock 6: sixth level fathomless warlocks have an Oceanic Soul, giving you resistance to cold damage and the ability to speak with submerged creatures. your Viytacles are also now Guardian Coils. when a creature you wish to protect takes damage near Viy, you can use your reaction to reduce their incoming damage. he attacc, but he also protecc.

speaking of attacc, you can now summon a more direct version of Viy with Summon Shadowspawn. this one uses your concentration to maintain, but it frees up your bonus action, which might be helpful later.

12. Bard 6: congrats, later is now! Countercharm is whatever, but we’re here to put on an Animating Performance! now you can bring pretty much any inanimate object to life to fight on your behalf, using your bonus action to command the resulting creature, though you can also inspire using the same BA. you can do this once per day for free, then by spending a third level spell slot.

while that’s cool, it’s not why we’re still in bard. now you can create Leomund’s Tiny Hut! look, somebody had to be on tent duty, and it only made sense for you to do it since you can make them out of thin air.

13. Bard 7: the real reason we stuck here for so long was, of course, for the fourth level spell Phantasmal Killer. the tentacles and shadowspawn are nice, but they’re all… pretty mortal. Viy is not. when you summon a phantasmal killer, you force a creature to make a wisdom save- if they fail they’re frightened until they succeed, and also take plenty of psychic damage each turn they keep messing up.

14. Warlock 7: seventh level warlocks also get fourth level spells, so pick up Elemental Bane to further enhance your cold-slinging with a way to deal extra cold damage and make a target lose resistance to cold damage for up to a minute. if they fail a constitution save.

you can also use Viy’s Ghostly Gaze to see through solid objects for up to a minute once a short rest. vidi, vidi, vidi!

15. Warlock 8: we’re almost out of ASIs, but we have enough for a detour, I think. pick up the Crusher feat to round up your Constitution score as well as put a nice wallop in your snowballs. now when you hit a creature with a bludgeoning attack (while solid balls of ice are cold, they hurt more than they chill) you can knock the creature back five feet. plus, your critical hits give your allies advantage for a round! now that’s what I call a concussion!

we’re also falling back to level three for one of the extended spells, Sleet Storm! this one doesn’t do damage, but it will trip up your enemies something fierce. it’s also one of the tougher spells to concentrate through.

16. Warlock 9: ninth level warlocks get fifth level warlock spells, like Cone of Cold from your extended spell list. with this, you can blast plenty of people with a ton of cold damage in one sitting, freezing them into statues if you kill them this way. it’s probably the most direct analogue to your Noble Phantasm.

if you’re sick of getting hit, good news! we finally have enough free time to pick up the invocation Armor of Shadows, giving you free mage armor. as a bard you do have access to medium and light armors, but now you can show off your swimsuits!

17. Warlock 10: tenth level fathomlocks have some Grasping Tentacles- once per day you can cast Evard’s Black Tentacles for free, and it’s added to your spell list. on top of that, you get temporary HP whenever you cast it, and this spell’s concentration can’t be broken by damage. the spell in question is another big area denial effect, creating a bunch of tentacles that can bludgeon enemies and leave them restrained. it’s not super icy, but it’s a good option for freezing people still.

you also don’t get a regular leveled spell this time! that being said, I’d still check out your new cantrip Eldritch Blast. just because you’re not a caster any more doesn’t mean you can’t use caster balls.

18. Warlock 11: from here on out, instead of getting bigger spell slots you get Mystic Arcana, spells that you can only cast once per day like the regular plebians. your sixth level spell is, of course, Investiture of Ice. with this, you’re now immune to cold damage and resist fire, plus you make difficult terrain around you, which you can ignore if it’s snow and ice. you can also use your action to create a weaker cone of cold as part of the spell. in addition, it slows down any creature who fails their constitution save.

19. Warlock 12: use your last ASI to maximize your Charisma, and pick up your final invocation, Otherworldly Leap! there’s no real reason to have this, but the tripled jump distance gives you an excuse to cast feather fall, plus most servants have crazy physicality anyway.

20. Warlock 13: our final level gives you your final spell, the mystic arcanum Finger of Death. with this spell, Viy pokes someone for massive amounts of necrotic damage, and if they die they come back as a zombie under your control. as we learned last year, nothing’s more summery than horror movies, and you can make anything summery. have fun with your army!

Pros & Cons

Pros:

this build is another one that shines brightest through your own Creativity- with your performance of creation, combined with spells like Glyph of Warding and Illusory Script, you can pull of some absolutely bonkers stuff if you think outside of the box.

AoE effects usually have one weakness: people have to go into them. but thanks to your snowballs knocking people about, your spells become more effective, as well as a lot funnier. you’d have to be pretty cold to pull something like that off, but I’m sure you can do it.

even if your perception’s dogshite, you’ve still got some special eyes that make it a lot easier to see things coming. seeing through darkness and walls, as well as through your familiar, makes it a lot harder to hide from you, a great benefit to have in a snowball fight.

Cons:

you eat through spell slots pretty dang fast- glyph of warding can use two at a time, and you have multiple features that only work once a day unless you’re willing to spend slots. having so many warlock slots is nice, but it also gives you less to work with at any one time than you’d have normally as a bard. also, spending a fifth level spell slot to make a takoyaki cart is probably not the best use of your magic. just being honest.

again, while splitting your caster classes has its benefits, it also locks you out of high level spells and features completely. I don’t think Anastasia has a need to be able to teleport up to a mile away at any given time, but it would be cool to have, right?

you have too many friends. both tentacle of the deep and animating performance use your bonus action, so you can only have one up at a time. the redundancy can be nice, but if you’re running into that many fights in a single day the rest of your party probably won’t be able to keep up. and if you use a shadowspawn/animation combo to have both versions of Viy at once, then you have to deal with the fact that they’re both very mortal. the animated object only has 45 HP, while your shadowspawn has, at most, 65. add in their okay at best AC, and you’d probably be better off with just your tentacles and regular spells.

#fgo #fate grand order #D&D 5e #DND #Anastasia romanov #Viy #warlock #bard

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spxllcxstxr · 3 years

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Inked • S.B

(Gif not mine)

Request: Hi! Could I request a Soulmate AU with Sirius please? Marauders era with matching tattoos. No rush and thank you 🌹🖤 — @fific7

Summary: Mary is determined to find your soulmate and not even an oncoming storm will stop her. (Soulmate AU)

Warnings: some tattoo talk?, rain, thunder, I guess hints/implied bullying, Peter makes an appearance but like he’s not a key part and he’s not like bad or anything

Word Count: 2.3k

A.N: This is the kind of star I’m envisioning for your soulmark (just not yellow) I actually never specify the color, so you can imagine any color you want. This took me like a week to write for some reason. But I like how it turned out. Hopefully you guys do too! Love you all ❤️

****

No one ever told you that soulmarks tingled.

When the eight pointed star seared itself into the flesh of the inside of your left elbow at age sixteen, you thought that was it. You thought that it would just sit there innocently to the point where it wouldn’t cross your mind every second of every day, but Merlin were you wrong.

The prickling of the mark was constant, like pins and needles jabbing relentlessly into your arm. It wasn’t exactly painful, it was just an obnoxious and infuriating reminder that you still haven’t found your soulmate.

Hogwarts was practically the place for the vast majority of witches and wizards to find their soulmate, as it was basically the only topic discussed amongst the sixth and seventh years.

Honestly, you just wanted your mark to stop its incessant tingling to the point where you wouldn’t mind anyone being your soulmate. You’ve never heard any complaints from your friends who had already found their true loves, so you assume that the sensation stops eventually.

But you were tired of scratching at your arm making it look like you had some weird sort of flesh eating disease. It was unflattering and highly inconvenient.

Sure, you could run around like a headless hippogriff with your sleeve rolled up asking everyone you encounter if they’ve seen another person with that identical mark, but that’s not romantic. And you wanted romantic, Merlin damn it.

Plus, imagine the burn of embarrassment that would overtake your entire being if no one shared your soulmark. You shudder at the mere thought.

So, you learn to live with it.

You almost want to rip your arm off when it gets particularly bad while studying or trying to get the perfect measurement for your potion, but after a full year you’re almost used to it.

You’re used to how often your friends would gush about their own soulmates and their constant questions about why you’re still single as well.

Mary MacDonald, one of your best friends, had already found her soulmate, some boy from Beauxbatons that sent her too many Howlers during breakfast, but they loved each other, so who were you to complain?

But ever since she found hers, she’s been pretty determined to seek out yours. Even getting her boyfriend to ask around his own school. You can never show your face around Beauxbatons and that’s final.

She’ll make you sit around the courtyard, pretending to read a book, while she scans the arms of the many crowds in search of your star. Mary tries to walk in on top secret Quidditch practices to get a glimpse of any rolled up sleeves, but so far, no good.

That’s really the only reason she’s dragging you down to the Black Lake even though dark grey clouds are hanging heavy in the sky.

“Mary!” You huff as she drags you down the grassy hills, the smell of rain thick in the air. “I know what you’re doing, I’m not daft, y’know.”

Her hand tightens around yours as she starts to feel you resist.

“What I’m doing? (Y/n), it’s a nice day to just hang out at the lake!” Mary cries, the lie hidden well if she wasn’t your best friend.

“Mary it’s about to torrential downpour.” You scoff.

“I thought you liked the rain.” She shrugs innocently, the sound of weeds getting crushed beneath your school shoes loud in your ears.

“Mary, my soulmate might not even be at Hogwarts!” You exclaim, trying to get out of this whole situation. You could be curled up by the fire with a sugar quill, but no, why would Mary let you have some peace and quiet? “They might be older or younger than me—“

“Well we won’t know that, will we, until we check everyone in our year first.” She insists.

The deep murky water is in sight, a few people are lazily lounging around the water’s edge. Like they haven’t even noticed the rain clouds overhead.

“You’re obsessed.” You sigh, finally stopping your attempts to wriggle away from her.

“It’s because I love you.” She smiles sweetly at you, cheeks pushed high, obscuring her dark eyes.

You continue to rub the inside of your arm against the side of your abdomen, attempting to find some sort of relief. The scratchy fabric of your white button down against your grey vest is probably the most effective. The closer to the bank you get, the better you’re able to make out the figures.

The owner of the vibrant red hair was obviously Lily, one of Mary’s friends, and also the more sensible of the group considering her coat was tightly wrapped around her. She’s in a somewhat similar situation as you—she hasn’t shown her soulmark to anyone. However, if what Mary drunkenly told you one night is true, it matches James Potter’s to a tee. Poor her.

Peter was also there, kicking rocks around and chuckling at whatever story Lily was telling them. His Gryffindor jumper is a little short on him while his slacks are a little long, mud dirtying the hem of them. As far as you know, he doesn’t even have a soulmark. It’s not uncommon or something to be ashamed of, but ever since certain people found out, it’s been quite the issue. Sure the infamous Marauders took care of the situation the best they could, but the damage was already done.

The last person was obviously Sirius, you could tell by the way he has his wand situated in his bun. He was closer to the water, picking up flat stones to skip across. His bark like laugh echoing across the space. You and Mary weren’t too far from the group now, so you could tell that the top two buttons of his dress shirt were popped open. Sirius Black’s soulmark was another mystery. He seems like the type to brag about something as important as a soulmark, but as far as you know, only James, Remus, and Peter were privy to that sort of information.

“Hey guys!” Lily perks up, waving at the two of you.

You smile and wave at her, but as Mary stops and chat, you gravitate closer to Peter and Sirius.

“So where are the other two?” You ask, watching as his stone skips across the water, finally ending with a satisfying plunk!

Sirius turns to face you, a few loose strands framing his face, blowing slightly in the wind.

“Detention.” He remarks casually, lazily trying to tame his curls.

“And you two aren’t?”

Peter shakes his head enthusiastically, blond hair bobbing around. “Sirius and I managed to escape before Slughorn lost it.”

“Hey Pete!” You hear Mary call from behind you. “Don’t you wanna know what you missed in Muggle Studies?”

“Shit, yeah.” Peter bounds over to where Lily and Mary are sitting, leaving you and Sirius alone. Your feet shuffle at the predicament.

You slowly inch closer to Sirius, the large distance awkward without a third person. You’re forced to hold down a wince as your mark prickles almost painfully.

Sirius’ eyes are almost the same shade as the clouds in the sky as they pierce into yours.

“You know how to skip rocks?” He tosses you a smooth stone which you catch effortlessly.

You open your mouth to respond but before you’re able to, you’re cut off by a clap of thunder. The ripples of thunder makes you jump slightly.

“We should probably go inside—“ You start, shivering at the cold wind that begins to roll past you.

“Scared of a little thunder, (Y/n)?” Sirius teases, smirking at your shivering form.

“Don’t be a prick.” You snort. “Just throw your rock.”

You push the thought of the oncoming storm to the back of your mind as you position yourself on the bank.

The water laps at you shoes as you toe the edge, running your thumb over the smooth surface. You mirror Sirius’ position, slightly crouched at the knee, body angled towards the lake.

“One...two...three!”

You watch his body move fluidly through the positions, the stone releasing and skipping across the water delicately. Not only do you get distracted by Sirius, but the mark on your arm gives a sudden jolt, making your posture falter and your stone crash recklessly into the lake.

Sirius brings a ringed fist up to his mouth, trying and failing to stifle a laugh.

“It’s not that funny.” You grumble, embarrassed.

“I mean, it’s pretty fucking hilarious. I thought you said you knew how to skip rocks?” He crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows raised, a chuckle still lightly escaping his amused smile.

“Technically, I didn’t tell you shit.” You remark. “The thunder cut me off.”

“Ah yes. The spooky thunder.” He drawls, wagging his painted fingers at you mockingly.

You bring your hand up to flick him off when you feel a cool dot of water drop onto your hand.

“Hey, did you just feel a—“

In the middle of talking, one raindrop becomes hundreds, the torrential downpour almost instantly soaking you to your bones. You hair plasters to your skin, clothes clinging onto you.

“—raindrop?” You utter weekly, a chill coming over you.

Your eyes widen as you look at Sirius, how his dark hair sticks wildly to his face, like curtains across his eyes.

Lily and Mary let out identical high pitched shrieks, and you hear the sound of mud squelching as the three run back towards the castle.

As Sirius tries to wipe the wet hair from his face, you grab onto his wrist, pulling him as your sprint back to the castle. You’re fumbling as you try not to slip in the mud but at the same time try get to the cover of the castle quickly.

“A little thunder, my arse, Sirius!” You huff out, his wrist still grasped tightly in your hand.

You hear him chuckle behind you, easily keeping up with your pace.

Cold water traces down your back and fills your shoes, your discomfort rapidly increasing with every step and every second you spend outdoors.

Your mind drifts off to Sirius, who was only in his white uniform button down. He must be freezing.

After sloshing through puddles and mucking up your shoes, you manage to get under the cover of the stone castle.

Your teeth are chattering and you body trembles, but at least the rain isn’t cutting into your skin anymore.

Lily, Mary, and Peter are nowhere to be found, though they’re probably making their way to the Gryffindor common room already.

Sirius is wringing out his drenched dark curls, his wand between his lips, but you’re too focused in the face that his shirt is now completely see through. Your eyes wander as you ogle his fit body, shamelessly trailing everywhere. You bite your bottom lip at your confidence.

However, something catches your eye as you admire his arms. A black splotch. Like a tattoo in the inside of his elbow. You somehow go colder than you already were.

“Admiring my beauty—Hey!”

You step forward and latch onto his arm, trying to get a better look at the spot on his arm. Initially, he struggles, but you jab your finger into his skin, your own mark tingling beneath your wet clothes.

“What’s your problem, (Y/n)?” He angrily grunts.

“What’s this, Sirius?” You demand, looking at him.

“Why?” Sirius rips his arm out of your grasp, trying his best to hide the mark from you.

“Because,” You explain, rolling up your own sleeve to expose the eight pointed star on your arm. “We might have something in common.”

Your entire body erupts into shivers both from the cold wind against your soaked skin and the way your soulmark buzzing.

The star stands out against your skin and you watch Sirius’ eyes widen, his jaw going slightly slack.

“Sirius.” You whisper. “I need to know if you’re my soulmate.”

The rain pounds against the castle, wind whistles, and thunder claps, and yet you don’t jump. You’re too focused on Sirius’ expression.

Silently, he brings his index finger to your mark and lightly traces the shape with his fingertip. His finger is cold, but you barely realize it because of the shock that runs through your body, originating from his touch. Goosebumps run wildly across your flesh.

He swallows harshly before pulling away and recklessly pushes his sleeve up the length of his arm. Your heart beats wildly in your chest in anticipation.

Sirius shoves his arm in front of you and you bring your gaze to focus on the inside of his elbow.

And there it is.

His soulmark.

Your soulmark.

The lines are clean and the points are sharp, the star is clear against his skin.

“Oh.”

“You’re my soulmate.” Sirius mutters. “Oh thank Merlin!” He’s laughing, a smile growing across his face.

His laughter is infectious and you find yourself joining him, practically jumping with glee.

Sirius latches onto you, pulling your wet bodies close. He brings his lips to your forehead, warmth spreading from the contact.

“We should celebrate.” Sirius remarks, pulling away just enough to see your entire form.

“Hold on.” You chuckle. “I think you’re forgetting to do something.”

His grey eyes flick down to your lips. “How could I ever forget the best part?” He smirks.

You lips are slow to connect, relishing in the sounds of the rain and how his his hands wrap around your elbows, thumb pressed into your mark.

When they finally join together, you feel whole. Like two puzzle pieces linked together. Eyes flutter shut as emotion run rampant through your body. Your mark tingles before fizzling out when you and Sirius disconnect.

You’re breathless as you cling onto him, as he clings onto you.

“We’ve got a party to throw,” Sirius grabs your hand. “soulmate.”

A stupid grin makes its way across your face.

“Lead the way, soulmate.”

•

Sirius Black Taglist: @quindolyn @fific7 @msmb @lunalovecroft

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20 @amourtentiaa @cherie-draco

#Sirius black #sirius black x reader #Sirius black fluff #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black imagine #the marauders x reader

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blossom-hwa · 3 years

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so I joined an ateez collab yesterday and was yelling to mai about a possible elemental kingdom au kind of like avatar but also not really anyway it doesn’t fucking matter mai was yelling back and now we have this. you have been warned

(I have bigger plans for seonghwa mostly because he’s the one I'm writing for this collab.............. seonghwa brainrot commence)

tagging: @applejongho @mangomingki @wingkkun because all of you need to see this SUFFER

anyway without further ado

ATEEZ ELEMENTAL KINGDOM AU OR WHATEVER IDK WHAT TO CALL THIS

tw: cursing

seonghwa

magma prince, born of an earth/water dalliance gone too far :/

lives in the water but is an outcast, so he’s forced to live on his own by the underwater volcanoes except when he has to come to the palace for ceremonies and such

doesn’t really manipulate water specifically but can control magma hence why I'm calling him a magma prince

he’s a prince because his mom was ocean royalty, anyway she disowned him so we don’t really care about her (fuck everyone who made seonghwa feel like an outcast :/)

has scales on parts of his body like the rest of the ocean dwellers because they descended from sea serpents, his range from black to deep royal blue which INFURIATES the court because those colors are the purest meant for ROYALTY like even his mom’s scales aren’t as deep/pure as seonghwa’s so ha in your FACE

except seonghwa isn’t a fan of the scales because it just makes him feel even more like he doesn’t belong in his own skin :///

friends with fire prince hongjoong and ocean prince san, both of whom are some of the few who treat seonghwa like an actual person and not just an outcast :/

takes very good care of the animals who live around the volcanic vents! a lot of the other ocean dwellers are scared of them because they look so different but seonghwa knows what it’s like to be an outcast so he keeps his little area as clean and welcoming as possible :)

it gets lonely around the volcanoes but honestly seonghwa prefers that over when he has to be at court for ceremonies n stuff. like yeah there might be water snakes around his place but they’re nothing compared to the snakes in the palace badum tss

hongjoong

fire prince of the dragon clan

there are two clans of the fire kingdom, one descended from dragons and the other descended from phoenixes, and they’re Rivals

dragon clan is allied with the ocean dwellers since sea serpents are related to dragons, phoenix clan is allied with the air dwellers because they all can fly n stuff

but anyway more on phoenix stuff in mingi’s part

has scales too, though his are more on the neck while seonghwa’s around around his ribs/waist, also they’re bright red/orange not blue

can produce and control dragon fire, which is destructive and primarily used for offense, so hongjoong’s been trained for an early age how to use it for max power/destruction

meets seonghwa on one of the few times hwa comes to the surface to chill in the sun and he’d just accidentally set fire to a small part of the beach and when he sees hwa he’s like HELP ME PUT THIS OUT

except hwa can’t control water he can only do magma so. yeah

san was nearby though and helped deal with it and later joong was like what the fuck kind of ocean dweller can’t control water and seonghwa was like. I'm half you dickwad

obviously they become friends after that. if they didn’t I'd give you permission to slap my face

but also after that hongjoong learns to keep a much tighter rein on his powers, like yes he’s being trained for destruction but he has masterful control over his abilities

could be considered a fire prodigy in all honesty

yunho

earth boy!! very powerful earth bender

can definitely do a lot of destruction with his powers but prefers to help things grow instead! talks to his garden and swears up and down that his plants grow bigger and taller when he does

good friends with both mingi of the phoenix clan and hongjoong of the dragon clan

earth dwellers aren’t allied with any side of the fire rivalry so they serve as the arbiters/judges when disputes come into place which is fair because earth is solid and stable and just (most of the time)

which is why yunho is able to balance this sort of friendship between the two boys :) does NOT meet with them together though that would be a recipe for disaster (not necessarily because of hongjoong/mingi themselves, they know how to behave, but the neurotic clan elders would throw a hissy fit)

runs a small restaurant in the capital that mostly caters to the working class, people always ask why yunho doesn’t try to do “more” with himself, that he’s wasted potential running a restaurant when he could potentially be a general or something in the army because of his earth bending prowess

but yunho doesn’t care, he’s happy where he is and he develops his bending as a way to protect and help himself and others, and from his friendship with hongjoong/mingi he’s pretty sure he wants to avoid clashing with earth royalty at all costs ksjndksjh

yeosang

air prince :) also he’s blond in this au you can’t change my mind

not particularly one of the strongest benders, but he’s very intelligent and wise which people value a little less than they should but yeosang doesn’t really care, he’s just going with it

imagine! yeosang in flows white robes!! floating on the wind!!!

yes air dwellers can fly sobs because they control the wind

and while yeosang isn’t necessarily the greatest at using his powers for fighting or whatever, he’s very good at flying and has a lot of fun with it along with air noble wooyoung

best friends with wooyoung by the way, no one really gets it because yeosang is quieter and doesn’t yell as much while wooyoung is the definition of Chaos

but wooyoung brings out the rowdy side in yeosang and their screams/yells echo in the air when they get together

a little wary of wooyoung’s friendship with san mostly because he’s a prince and understands the consequences of wooyoung, an air noble, being friends with the allies of their supposed enemy (water is allied with the dragon clan)

(maybe he’s a little jealous too)

but in the end it’s always still woo + yeosang against the world, floating in the sky and doing what they can for their people <3

san

WATER PRINCE WATER PRINCE WATER PRINCE

he’s actually the reason I birthed this au I couldn’t get ocean prince san out of my mind

flowy clothes and a crown of shells and pearls! likes shiny things and will trade with earth dweller merchants for new bits of crystal and jewelry!! tell me he isn’t a dream!!!

one of the beloved princes of the ocean, honestly probably the most loved because he’s so smiley and handsome and all around a very good boy until it’s his turn to perform the ceremonial dances and he turns into a demon

the brightest blue scales run up from his waist to his ribs, another one of the purest colors of royalty

uses his status to get away with being friends with seonghwa (aka people won’t yell at him if it’s obvious he disappeared for a while to the volcanic vents) but keeps their friendship kind of under wraps because hwa is afraid of retaliation when he has to visit the court :/

truly does not give a shit about hwa being half earth, if anything kind of envies it because he’s always curious to explore the volcanic trenches but as a normal ocean dweller the heat would be too much for him if he stayed too long

kinda scared of the animals near the trenches but he warms up to them after some periodic visits

friends with air noble wooyoung! even though it’s kind of (?) breaking alliances but neither of them really cares because they’re so much fun together :D

mingi

phoenix nobility, not quite a prince but close

phoenix fire has defensive and healing properties, so it can’t actually burn people but it can heal and protect from dragon fire/regular fire!

mingi is well-versed in the art of healing even though he’s a little clumsy sometimes :/ luckily phoenix fire doesn’t burn or there’d be major issues skjnsdkjh

can fly! phoenix descendants have a limited ability to fly, not as much as the air dwellers who can literally control the wind to help them, but it’s often enough to get them out of tight spots

only problem is mingi doesn’t like to fly very much skjndgjhn heights kinda suck

but when he does it’s fucking majestic, these orange flaming wings extending from his arms that clash beautifully with his red/orange hair

imagine seeing it at sunset oh my god that’s a dream

the phoenix and dragon clans are in negotiation with each other most of the time because ~hostilities~ but mingi doesn’t often participate in the direct talking because he’s better at working behind the scenes

ridiculously smart and likes to debate with yunho over things because seeing issues from a neutral perspective is very helpful and something mingi doesn’t think people do enough

what he’d really love to do is talk to hongjoong because an opposite perspective would be even better, but people don’t like that happening :/

secretly admires dragon fire because it’s so cool how dragon descendants can control so much destructive power with such ease

(he doesn’t know it but hongjoong admires phoenix fire just as much because god damn sometimes he wishes he was born to heal rather than destroy)

wooyoung

air noble!!!!! bitch if you thought I was making this man ANYTHING but an air dweller you do not know me

likes to watch the sunrise from his vantage point in the mountains :) sometimes wakes yeosang up to watch with him but only when he’s certain yeo won’t cut off a limb if he does skndjsgh

if yeosang is like the soft sea breeze against your face in the summer, wooyoung is the biting, almost playful nip of wind against your nose and cheeks in the winter

very playful! loves to make collect friends!!

can play the flute and absolutely 100% uses it to annoy said friends

you can often hear his screeching laughter and the yells of yeosang + others bouncing off the mountains skjdnsgk

is always on duty for patrolling the mountains because he’s one of the best at flying, but it’s fine because wooyoung enjoys being able to make his rounds and talk to people along the way

sometimes gets a little sidetracked with talking (and maybe eating the food people sometimes give him) but wooyoung is a lovable person no one can get mad at him for too long (which is a problem because he knows it)

thinks the rivalries between elements is dumb af, is literally friends with ocean prince san and earth dwellers 2ho and would like to make friends with mingi (yunho has mentioned him before) if he could just stop being in twenty places all at once

(mingi’s a busy guy wooyoung give him a break)

almost lost his shit when san told him he knew a magma controller, but hasn’t met seonghwa yet because hwa is shy and not very open to strangers

anyway I just think wooyoung air noble who has a personal mission to make as many inter-elemental friends as possible. shrugs

jongho

IF YOU TRY AND TELL ME THIS BOY ISN’T EARTH I WILL CLOCK YOU

earth boy and a prodigy at that! his bending is more advanced than some people twice his age

originally got stuck in training for the army because his bending was just that good, however he really hated having to use his powers solely for fighting so he left and became a blacksmith instead

why a blacksmith? here’s a secret

jongho can metalbend

which is why he sort of has this very good touch with metals and which types to use with which sorts of crafts

in very high demand for weapons like swords and such, but also makes jewelry and toys and pots and pans for regular day to day life

he also gets the “wasted potential” thing that yunho deals with a lot, but jongho has thick skin and those sorts of comments roll of his (broad) shoulders very quickly

LOATHES IT when generals and officials come to him with commissions and expect them to be done first and foremost like jongho doesn’t have around ten other projects hanging out in the background, but he just has to receive them with a smile

(maybe leaves a tiny unnoticeable dent in a general’s sword or something bc even if it’s unnoticeable, jongho knows it’s there and there’s some satisfaction in that)

friends with air noble wooyoung mostly because he is able to deal with woo’s bs, air prince yeosang is always asking for tips

meets yunho through wooyoung and 2ho strike up a nice friendship!

really just jongho stronk boy who can move the earth and will not hesitate to cause a subtle earthquake if some official gets uppity with him <3

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letapollojusticesayfuck · 3 years

Note

"the way you flirt is shameful." Klavier (klapollo) and ema ?

"short fics," I said, like a liar.

anyway please enjoy almost 2k of Klapollo Nonsense.

Send me a random line of dialogue and some characters, and I'll write a short fic!

---

Another grey morning, another lukewarm cup of coffee. Apollo pulls his coat a little tighter around him, scowling at nothing in particular. It’s just his luck, isn’t it, that this week’s defendant is a fisherman, accused of murdering their boat’s captain out on the docks.

It’s also just his luck that it’s March, and he hadn’t even thought anyone would be out on the water this early in the year. Shows how much he knows about the fishing industry.

He jumps when an arm lands around his shoulders, and has to fight to keep his awful beverage from sloshing entirely out of its styrofoam cup. With an irritated huff, Apollo turns to reprimand his unexpected company, but the words die in his throat when he looks over to see Klavier Gavin—and, more specifically, the woolly hat perched on his head. It appears to be lovingly hand-knitted, in a shade of purple he’d swear he’d seen in scraps of wool lying around the office in previous weeks. It also happens to be emblazoned with Gavin’s ridiculous logo, the angular G as distinctive as ever.

“Uh…” he says instead, eyebrow raised in what he hopes is a skeptical, yet bewildered expression. He’s not sure he succeeds with that, though, considering the way Gavin’s casual smile crooks up at the edges into a more genuine grin.

“Ja, Herr Forehead? How goes the investigation?” Lazy curls of steam rise from the stainless steel travel mug clasped in his hand, dissipating into the pervasive fog that’s blanketing the docks. Typical. Apollo considers asking him if he’d like to swap drinks.

“Cold. Damp. And is this a good time to mention that I’m allergic to shellfish? I think that’s probably an important detail, considering….this.” he replies, poking an errant mussel with the point of his dress shoe. His dress shoe that he’s for some reason wearing to a crime scene out by the harbour, because Apollo has misplaced ideas of professionalism, apparently.

“Ach, it’s not that bad! For one, you have my company to brighten up your day! And for another thing...I have news for you about the case.”

“Really. And it’s not just going to be something that you’ll immediately rescind in court tomorrow?”

“HerrForehead, what kind of prosecutor do you take me for? We’re on the same side, you know—both seeking the truth.”

“That’s cheesy as anything.”

“But correct! Anyway. FräuleinSkye has just uncovered something tangled around one of the fishing lines on the boat, and she’s attempting to piece it back together. If you hurry, you might get a glimpse before it goes straight into the evidence dossier.”

Apollo hmms, considering. He’s not sure he wants to just take Klavier’s tip-off; it could be seen as collusion under some circumstances. But he’s really not accomplishing anything on his own, and any new evidence could help him prove Annette Sloop’s innocence.

He also realizes, belatedly, that Klavier still has his arm around his shoulders, and that he’s been unconsciously leaning into the warmth of the taller man’s down jacket.

“Okay, sure—it’s gotta be better than anything I can find here,” Apollo decides, and tries to subtly extricate himself from Klavier’s grasp without drawing attention to the fact that he’s actually found some kind of comfort in their proximity, that he’s really not particularly enthusiastic about losing his human space-heater.

Luckily, Klavier realizes that he’ll have to grant Apollo his freedom if he wants the shorter man to be able to take advantage of his newly-gained intel, and drops his arm back to his own side. Apollo stifles a shiver as the cool, damp air rushes back against him, clinging to his skin with a pervasive chill.

He’d assumed that Klavier had business to take care of on the dock, so the fact that the prosecutor follows him as he boards the fishing boat takes him by surprise. What also takes him by surprise is the intensity of the fishy aroma around the vessel, something that Apollo really should have considered as a factor beforehand. He wrinkles his nose and tries to breathe shallowly—and when that doesn’t work out, he buries his nose in the collar of his jacket.

And that brings with it its own set of problems, because somehow the short amount of time his jacket was in contact with Klavier’s own was enough to allow the other man’s sandalwood cologne to seep into the thin fabric. Apollo wishes this wasn’t his life. Isn’t this the kind of stuff teenagers write about?

Luckily, his panicking is cut short by Ema Skye clearing her throat from the other end of the deck, midway through spreading fabric scraps onto a plastic folding table. She appears decidedly unimpressed, but waves them over.

“Justice. I take it you were informed of the recent developments by the fop here?” she remarks, as disinterestedly as possible for someone who’s practically vibrating with the excitement of being able to do something actually forensically significant.

“Er...yeah, Klavier told me that you’d found something?” Apollo replies, trying to look as though he understands more of the situation than he actually does. He thinks he pulls it off. If not, Ema doesn’t comment on it.

Klavier, however, smiles impossibly wide at Apollo’s words, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s because he’d called the man by his first name, as opposed to his more professional title. A slip of the tongue, nothing more! And yet…

If it’d get a reaction like that, Apollo might start using Klavier’s first name significantly more often.

“Oh, come on, do neither of you actually care about this T-shirt I found? This apparently-bloodstainedT-shirt?” Ema taps her foot against the plank wood of the ship’s deck. Apollo breaks out of his thoughts with just about enough time to look marginally interested in the new evidence—which he hopes is convincing.

And it’s not that he doesn’t want to solve the murder! It’s really just that—well, Klavier is just there, being distracting, like he always is—except it’s worse, recently, somehow. Apollo swears he used to be able to spend time focusing on other things, that he wasn’t always this preoccupied with what the prosecutor was doing, where he was standing, if he was looking at--

“Oh, for God’s sake. The way you flirt is shameful,” Ema says, entirely exasperated. She also seems to be looking at Apollo, for some reason.

“Are you talking to me?” he asks, confused. The detective rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically, visibly resisting the urge to throw up her hands.

“You, him, both of you! This used to be almost funny, you know, watching Gavin be all glimmerous in your direction and seeing you shut him down. But recently you’ve been playing into it and—you know what? I’m done! You don’t get to listen to my stunning forensic breakthroughs until you’ve sorted your shit out, because I just can’t be doing with this. It’s ridiculous. Why can’t you just act like adults?”

The outburst is followed by Ema Skye whirling around, the sensible shoes she’s wearing clacking against the ship’s deck. Halfway to the door to the crew’s quarters, she remembers that she’s left all her forensic materials spread out next to where Klavier and Apollo are standing, and backtracks with increasingly evident frustration.

“You know what? I’m not leaving! You two—off my ship!Go figure yourselves out, and I won’t tell you about this case-changing evidence until you’ve stopped acting like this.”

Apollo’s a little taken-aback—not the least because he doesn’t think that he’s been doing any flirting, especially not with Klavier. He’s been hiding his feelings far too well for that—right?

Klavier looks at him and shrugs, motioning with his head that they should retreat the way they’d arrived. It’s not necessarily the most dignified thing, climbing off a boat in shame after being reprimanded by the detective on the case.

Once they’re back on “solid” ground (as solid as one can call a fishing boat’s dock, anyway), Apollo turns to Klavier.

“So, what was that about? I’ve never seen her that angry.”

Interestingly enough, color rises to Klavier’s cheeks. “Well...I think that, perhaps, she’s...misinterpreting the situation?”

And if Klavier’s strange statement hadn’t been enough to tip Apollo off that maybe something strange is going on here, there’s the familiar pinch of warm metal against his left wrist, his bracelet constricting at the taller man’s fib.

And—they know each other well enough, by this point, that all Apollo has to do is level an unimpressed stare in the prosecutor’s direction, and deadpan “Klavier” with all the air of a man who is taking no bullshit for an answer, for him to deflate and give up, shoving a hand in his back pocket awkwardly.

“Ugh. Okay. Erm. So, HerrForehead, this wasn’t...exactly...unprovoked. It’s possible that FräuleinSkye has been on the receiving end of many conversations about how I would like to….uh…”

It’s quite something, seeing Klavier at a loss for words. Apollo hadn’t thought that the former rockstar could look as awkward as he does now, the hand not trapped in his pocket fiddling with a loose strand of his hair.

He really, really tries not to think about how endearing it is.

Klavier seems to have reached a point, however, where he’s just decided to say things and worry about the consequences later. So Apollo’s contemplations are brought to a screeching halt when the man sighs, flips his hair, and stares at him straight-on, enunciating with perfect clarity:

“Apollo Justice, would you like to go out with me? On a date? Because I must say, I’ve been trying to find the best way to ask you for a while now, but unfortunately all I’ve succeeded in doing is, apparently, annoying the FräuleinDetective until not even Snackoos are a valid enough weapon.”

And—this isn’t the setting Apollo had pictured, in his often-hastily-repressed daydreams about Klavier asking him out. For one, he’d not quite imagined the quantity of fish, or the less-than-steady footing. But Klavier looks so earnest about his request, and Apollo can’t deny the way his heart’s skipped a beat, the way he’s almost petrified to say anything just in case this isn’t real—and so, he takes a deep breath, steps forward, and twines his fingers with Klavier’s.

“You know what? I’d love to. I’ll go anywhere you’d like—with the exception of a sushi restaurant” Apollo smiles, hesitantly at first, and then more genuinely as he sees the softly disbelieving expression on Klavier’s face.

“Really?” the prosecutor asks, and isn’t that incredible—that Klavier Gavin had been worried about being turned down. Apollo can’t quite believe it himself, yet.

“Yeah, really,” he says, smiling up at Klavier, who beams down at him in return. He feels the other man squeeze his hand briefly, and can’t quite contain the impulse to lean in closer to him, consciously this time, sharing both warmth and physical contact in a meaningful way.

When they return to the fishing vessel, Ema takes one look at the two of them and narrows her eyes, proceeding to mime nausea at the way they’re still holding hands.

However, she does follow through on her promise—and by the time they’re ready to leave the crime scene, both Klavier and Apollo are fairly certain of the next day’s trial’s outcome—as well as of the location of their post-trial dinner date.

#lucy's thoughts #my writing #klapollo #thank you for the prompt!!#mogoliz #ask #asks #ask game #sorry these are taking me ages!!#you might have noticed that they keep getting away from me #also i am going to be on an island for five days starting tomorrow #so i will be very slow in answering the other two i've got sitting in my inbox #just know i am getting around to them!!#i will just have to write them out on paper rather than on a laptop #and then type them up later

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the-firebender-girl · 4 years

Text

Thick As Thieves (Zuko x Reader)

-> In which Azula got her redemption arc and gets to be the cool aunt.

Zuko has been equally dreading and anticipating this day for months. The day his sister will finally be released from the asylum on a nearby island. She was continuously monitored and deemed stable now, safe enough to roam free again and insert herself back to society. His last encounter with her a few years back wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience so he doesn’t know what to expect now, will it go awry again? or has she really turned a new leaf? guess he’ll find out sooner than later.

His worries extend far beyond his own discomfort of facing his deranged and misguided sister because he also has others to worry about, he’s got his own family now. A wife, a daughter, and a son. His wife had briefly met Azula when she tagged along with him at one of his visits but he can’t say the same for the younglings. Izumi and Isao, the new beloved princess and prince of the Fire Nation, his pride and joy.

Being a father suprisingly comes natural to him despite his dreadful childhood and having no father figure to look up to. He learnt a lot from watching Hakoda though, he owed that man a lot. Especially now that the closest thing that he has to a father is gone. Uncle Iroh decided that he had done all he could in the material world and chose to ascend to the Spirit World, leaving his mortal body behind and letting his soul make a new home there.

It was a decision that Zuko supports wholeheartedly, but still sometimes he wishes that Iroh is still around to guide him with his wisdom. Now he has this world of ruling and fatherhood that he has to navigate on his own, hoping that he won’t mess it up.

“Love, are you ready?” Y/N’s gentle voice broken his train of thoughts, pulling him back into the real world.

“Yeah... just thinking about... things” He replied lamely, reaching out for her hand which she gives. He always love playing around with her fingers, the contact brings him comfort.

“Don’t get lost in your head too much, okay?” She said, giving him a tender smile.

He stares back at the love of his life appreciatively and gives her a sure nod.

“I just... I don’t know how to feel, it’s like i’m scared of expecting anything if it’ll just put myself up for a disappointment. You know how much of a wildcard she is” Zuko said timidly, looking small and more vulnerable than he has been for years.

“I know Zuko, this must be soo confusing for you, i’m scared too but we’re in this together right? I’ll be with you every step of the way” Y/N assure him, trying to subdue his worries as much as she could. Rubbing comforting touches at his shoulder.

“Spirits, Y/N. What did I ever do to deserve you?” He leaned his head back a bit so that he can nuzzle it into her stomach.

She hums, “I don’t know, you must be a hero or something with what a great catch I am” She grins teasingly, easing up the tension.

She considers it as a triumph when her husband lets out a scoff of disbelief, “Woman you are unbelieveable” Shaking his head at her.

“Part of the charm, love”

To that he can’t help but burst out laughing.

Oh the married life.

———————————————————————

Azula stood on her own two feet, no longer bounded by straitjacket nor in a wheelchair. She stood as a free woman now. She wouldn’t go as far as to say ‘free and changed woman’ because some things just scarred too deep too remove but the therapies she undergo definitely did some good. So was the time she spent away from the capital and from the expectations she used to bear.

Now she stands face to face with Zuko, all out in his Fire Lord regalia. It suits him, not that she would admit that out loud, her pride is still very much intact after all.

“Should I bow to you now?” Her voice sends a cold chill running through Zuko, despite being locked away it seems that his sister managed to keep the bite in her.

“According to formalities you should, but no” He replied, feigning indifferent.

“Whatever you say, Fire Lord Zuzu”

Zuko’s composure cracks at the sound of his childhood nickname combined with what is now his title, one of his eyes twitching in annoyance. From his peripheral vision, he saw Y/N raising one of her hands in front of her mouth to hide her growing smile and a laugh that threatens to escape.

Even the guards who are standing by and thus being a part of this reunion seems to have trouble doing their part after witnessing this exchange. The sound of giggling little voices reaches his ears, at this he softens and put his hands on Izumi and Isao’s shoulder.

“Now who might these be?” Azula said as she redirects her line of vision to the source of noise, raising both of her eyebrows expectantly.

“This is my children, Izumi my eldest....” Zuko said while patting her head lovingly then he moves to do the same to his son, “And Isao, her younger brother”

Azula’s eyes roamed over them, taking in every features as if sizing them up, then she stops when she reaches their faces. Molten gold meets its exact pair, a courtesy of the royal family (superior) gene pool if she say so herself. That eye color might as well be their trademark after all.

“Well hello there little ones, i’m Aunty Azula” She said as she carefully took a step closer towards them. The guards almost block her away but Zuko raised his hand to signal them to be at ease and let her pass.

Izumi shrinks back, scared but at awe at the same time at her aunt’s cat-like movement. It’s soo smooth she looks like she is gliding across the floor and now she’s in front of them in no time. She may be 7 but she’s old enough to understand things, things that she heard people say in a whispers about her aunt whom she never met before. And that is enough to make her reluctant.

Izumi looked to her right at her little brother but Isao doesn’t show the slightest hint of being unfazed. In fact he looks intrigued.

There was a small awkward silence moment before a huge grin bloomed on Isao’s face, making his puffy cheeks even more prominent.

“Hey there aunty! i’m sooo pumped to meet you” He said innocently, excitement oozing from his very being.

Azula is caught off guard by such a welcoming reaction, this is not something that she expected at all. She never even realized her inadequacy in dealing with children until she’s finally forced to face one. What’s the first thing that she should even do? feed them flaming fire flakes? use them as target practice? Agni, Zuzu better not do anything stupid like leaving her with any of them.

Y/N watched as her sister in law seems to be frozen in place, looking at her son as if he’s an alien being. Who knew that the great Azula will one day be stupefied at a mere interaction with a 4 years old child? well the more you know.

“Sooo... lunch, anyone?” Y/N said, a pathetic attempt to break the ice.

Azula just walked past them without a second glance. Making her way inside the palace that she once called home, with Isao tailing behind. Small feet attempting to catch up to her long strides. Zuko and Y/N shared a glance at each other, to which he just shrugs and they too follow after her.

———————————————————————

A week has passed since she came back and Azula is adjusting pretty nicely, well people still cower at the sight of her and most of them stay as far as they can but not that she mind that.

Well everyone except this little bugger called Isao aka his brother’s second spawn. He loves following her around and looking at her with those annoying big round eyes, think that would work on her too huh? too bad she hates children. He really doesn’t know what’s good for him.

Tonight they’re having a family dinner. To formally celebrate her coming back or whatever. At least the food is good. The mouth-watering scent of smoked sea slug, roast duck, komodo sausages, extra spicy fire noodles, and fruit tart filled the air. It’s starting to look more and more like a feast instead of a nice and quiet family dinner. Trust her brother to always make a spectacle out of everything.

Azula was minding her own business, scooping bits of this and that into her plate when the empty chair beside her got dragged back by a pair of small hands. Isao’s round face greeted her as she watches his sorry attempt at climbing the chair. Grumbling, she picks him up and put him securely on top of it before he hits his head on the side of the table or something.

“Thanks Aunty Azula!” He said, giving her his signature wide grin.

“Ughh whatever kiddo”

Azula turns her attention towards the head of the table where Zuko and Y/N are currently sitting, haven’t yet realized that their son has disappeared from his designated chair.

Azula clears her throat, that successfully got their attention.

“Zuko, Y/N would you mind giving some help over here? it’s trying to bond again” A hint of awkwardness creeps into her voice, face scrunching, she’s even shifting left and right in her seat.

Y/N rolls her eyes, “It’s got a name, Azula and he’s your nephew so play nice”

“B-but....” Before she could voice her protest, the couple has already turned their attention away.

She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, Isao’s curious stares burning into her.

Once she opens her eyes again, the boy is already stuffing his mouth full of sausages.

“I guess i’m stuck with you then” She said defeatedly as she watches him happily munching his food down.

———————————————————————

“You know you look exactly like your father when he was little” Azula said to the boy whom she’s babysitting, it pains her to even think about this. What were Zuko and Y/N even thinking when they decided that leaving their son to her care for the day is the best idea. Does she look like she’ll make a good nanny? Spirits, the audacity.

This carbon copy of Zuko is currently sitting beside the pond, with two little feets dangling in the water, creating small ripples here and there. The turtle ducks happily swam around him, waiting for him to throw in another good measure of breadcrumbs.

“Yeah I know that! Grandfather Iroh used to say that a lot” He said to which Azula scoffed and tsked under her breath, “Grandfather Iroh”

“Of course of course....” She said while lazily drawing patterns on the grass, “Good ‘ol Grandfather Iroh”

Isao stops his feeding session and crawled to where Azula is sitting.

“Do you know that my name means ‘honor’ or ‘meritorious’ ? How cool is that huh!? father picked that out himself” He said, wide eyed. Visibly bouncing in his seat while giving her this piece of information.

Azula lets out an incredulous chuckle as she shakes her head, “Of course Zuzu would choose something like that as a name, your father was obsessed with his honor” Drawling out the word obsessed to make her point clear.

“But I think it suits you, little one. So there’s that” She said giving him a shrug. That earned her a smile and Isao makes an exaggerated air fist pump, clearly pleased.

Azula reached out for the picnic basket that Y/N has earlier prepared for them, taking out the wrapped mochi and some tea. She then gives it to Isao, right on time as she hears his stomach rumble.

“Hungry are we? the mochi looks delicious but too bad the tea is already cold”

“Not to worry about that Aunty Azula! I got a little trick I can show you”

Imagine her surprise when fire sparks out of his fingertips, dancing on the bottom of the teapot, warming it quickly to a nice temperature.

“What?!?! how did you do that?” She said still pretty much in shock, watching as the fire slowly dies down.

“I once watched Grandfather Iroh do it, I haven’t figured out how then but now I can do it on command”

This boy really has no idea that he just executed a firebending trick perfectly didn’t he? warming up tea is a complicated form of art, it has to be done perfectly for the leaves and spices to fully release its essence. Such a raw talent in someone so young.

Come to think of it, even if he knows, he wouldn’t have thought about it too much nor dwell on it. If Azula got it right, Zuko’s eldest is a non-bender so Isao most likely or not has no experience in watching a firebending training.

“Kiddo, you can firebend? is there any other tricks that you can do?” Azula asked in an encouraging tone, this attitude is unusual coming from her but even she can’t deny that she has developed a soft spot for her nephew.

“I can create little fire here and there or warm myself up if I needed to but that’s all” Isao replied, looking her straight in the eye.

Azula hums as the gears in her brain is starting to turn, “Would you like me to teach you some things?”

Isao jumps up and down in excitement, this is all soo exciting! he is actually bonding with his aunt.

What an interesting turn of event indeed.

———————————————————————

They are in the middle of a rather pleasant dinner that night when Azula decided to break the news to her brother and sister in law.

“Do any of you know that your son is a firebender?”

The reaction that she earned is priceless, Zuko starts choking on his food whereas Y/N’s jaw dropped open, mouth forming a perfect O-shape.

“He hasn’t shown any sign of firebending abilities, we thought he’s a non-bender like his sister” Y/N answers for her husband because Zuko is still trying to clear up his air pipe.

“Firecracker, why don’t you show the trick that I taught you earlier?” Azula said to Isao, beckoning him with her fingers.

He excitedly nodded and turns to face his parents. He took a deep breath and concentrate, sparks of fire lights up from his fingertips. Slowly he guides the fire into forming a small circle in front of him, the circle then starts to take shape into a dragon, a fire dragon.

Y/N gasps as the shape becomes more and more prominent, flying across the dining hall but never too hot to burn anything. It’s an incredible thing to watch, she is indeed a proud mother. Even Izumi is enjoying the show, her eyes following the dragon’s every movement. Zuko is at loss for words, he can’t believe that his 4 years old son not only can firebend, but he’s damn good at it too. Azula may have discovered his potentials, but of course it’s up to him to mastered it.

Isao can only holds the form for 5 minutes before the fire burns out, after all he’s still young and has a lot more to learn, but that display is enough to make everyone clap their hands.

“Firecracker, you are marvelous! told you they’ll love it” Azula said as she moved one of her hands to tussle his hair teasingly.

Both Zuko and Y/N rushed from their seats to engulf Isao in a hug, Y/N peppering little kisses all over his face, meanwhile Zuko looks as if he’s high on cactus juice.

“Father, mother...stop....I can’t breathe” Little Isao complaints as he attempts to break free.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Y/N said as she bends her knees so that she can be at head level with her son.

“I want to do it right, mother. That’s why I learned some new tricks first before I showed it to you. I don’t want to accidently burn something” Isao replied.

“And you will do it right, son. I’ll make sure of it” Zuko said as he gaze at his son fondly.

“Yeah! you’ll be a great firebender, brother” Izumi joins in and smiles encouragingly.

Azula can’t help the small smile that tugs at her lips. This is a scene that she and the palace walls never got to witness before, a loving and supportive family. Zuko has done it right.

———————————————————————

That night as Azula makes her way down the corridor of the Royal Wing and passes by Isao’s slightly ajar bedroom door, she can’t help but sneak a peek.

The little boy is being tucked to bed by his mother, Y/N who sensed the presence of someone else turns her head around and gives her a small smile.

“Would you like to wish him goodnight, Azula?” Y/N asks her, inviting her in with a nod.

Azula nodded back and let herself in, meanwhile Y/N stands up and gives Isao a kiss to his forehead, “Sleep well my little prince” Azula can hear her whispers the word softly.

After that Y/N walks out of the room. Azula took a few steps closer to the bed and sit at the edge. Hands rubbing comforting circles at his blanket-covered feet.

“You know you’re literally a mini Zuko but I like you much much better than him, firecracker” Azula said in a teasing tone.

“I’m glad you think so Aunty Azula because I like you too! people said you’re scary but I don’t see it, I think you’re a nice person”

Isao’s words got Azula holding back a choked sob, her eyes starting to get watery. No one had ever told her that she’s a nice person. People just see her as this monster, even her own mother.

Coming back here was a hard thing for her to do, she never had a home anyway or anyone to come back to. That does not comes as a surprise to her of course, her family is as dysfunctional as they come anyway. But this little firecracker proved her wrong. Maybe she too deserves to belong somewhere after all she’s been through.

Azula gives him a smile and a kiss to his head, “Sleep well, firecracker” to which she got a “Goodnight Aunty Azula” back as a reply.

As Azula steps out of the room and closes the door slowly, she turns around and came straight in contact with Zuko, nearly tumbling to the floor.

“Why you..” Azula started before Zuko puts a finger in front of his mouth in a shushing motion, reminding her not to wake up Isao.

Zuko made a motion for her to follow him and she did, they walk side by side along the hallway.

“He’s really fond of you, you know” He said, staring straight forward.

“Agni knows why, but despite him being your son he is actually.... tolerable” Azula said curtly.

“You know you should learn to express yourself better, sister. Some emotions won’t hurt you”

“Are you just gonna lecture me or is there a point to this conversation?”

“Fine, fine” Zuko said as he rolls his eyes in a childish manner, “Will you be Isao’s firebending teacher?”

Azula stopped on spot, “Did I just misheard you or do you actually trust me enough to train your son?”

“Hey, you’re a great firebender! no one can deny that. I can’t think of anyone better to be his master, your moral compass might be crooked but that’s what me and Y/N are here for, right” At this he earned an elbow shoved to his chest.

“You don’t have to be so abusive you know” He mutters.

Azula gives him a grin, satisfied that she caused him a slight pain.

“I’ll teach him, not because you asked me to, but because I genuinely wants him to be even greater. He’s got potentials, Zuko” Azula said, more serious than Zuko has ever heard her.

“Yeah I know that, he’s a great kid”

Azula and Zuko look at each other, sharing a silent understanding, and gave each other a nod.

Zuko reaches a hand out for her to shake, “Truce?”

With no hesitation, she reaches out her own hand and take it, “Truce.”

They both then part ways but before Azula turns around the corner, Zuko speak up again.

“Hey, Azula?”

She turns around and raised one of her eyebrow, silently asking him what.

“I’m glad you’re here.... welcome home” Zuko said, giving her a small smile before he turns around and walk to his chamber.

Azula stood in that same spot even after Zuko’s silhouette has disappeared. Contemplating to herself, before letting out a sigh and a smile that is actually meant for her brother despite him not being able to see it.

“I’m glad that i’m here too, brother.”

———————————————————————

A/N : I’m a sucker for Azula’s redemption arc so I can’t resist myself from writing this one. What do you think about it? would like to hear more from all of you darlings ♥️

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unstoppableforcce · 4 years

Text

beer pong

—trivia night universe (3)

pairing: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x bartender!reader

part 2 | next part | masterlist

a/n: I really enjoyed writing this moment between the two of them so I hope you enjoy the mix of fun and somewhat serious! there’s no smut in this part but the next idea I have for them is smut related, and if yall have any ideas, feel free to let me know! I love these guys !!

“Now, do you want to do this or do you want to fuck around?”

Santiago Garcia had never been more in love with another person than he had been in that moment.

He had been dancing around the idea for about a week or two now, but never had such a foreign concept been so clearly illustrated to him before. It caught him every so often, for brief seconds or sometimes minutes, but it didn’t stop him in his tracks until now.

There had been the morning that you insisted on going with him to the grocery store because he never bought the right kind of apples and danced around him in line humming whatever song had been on the radio while the two of you were in his car. There had been the day that you texted him asking him what his favorite color was then showed up later that night with your nails painted that color. There had been some smaller moments too. When you asked him to put your necklace on for you, when you came up behind him in the kitchen and trailed kisses across his shoulders, when your perfume lingered in his bathroom long after you left for work...

The thought had a firmly secured spot in his mind, but it took you standing across the table from him with a raised brow, quirked hip, and ping pong ball in hand and repeated the question, he knew for sure.

He was head over heels, breath knocked from his chest, absolutely and indiscriminately in love with you.

And he was going to kick your ass at beer pong at the same time.

Frankie couldn’t help but laugh as he walked towards the table and handed Pope a fresh beer. He didn’t say anything aloud, but he could read it on his face. He was smug and Fish only got smug when he was seeing right through him, and just as Santi was sure that he was in love with you, he was also sure that Frankie could see that on his face.

He caught the ping pong ball you threw at his head and rolled his eyes, “Honey, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I don’t know, you talk a lot of shit Pope, but this is kind of my realm of expertise.” You smirked back, bringing your beer to your lips as Benny joined you by your side with another beer.

To think you had been so nervous about meeting the guys officially for the first time. He’d told you over an over again that you had nothing to worry about but it wasn’t until the two of you actually arrived at Will’s house and you truly met them. You fell easily into pace alongside them, bouncing back and forth with them like you had known them for years. It was everything Pope knew it would be, and maybe that made him love you a little bit more.

“Ok, house rules here. Nothing too crazy.” Benny warned carefully as he waved his hands over the table as if he were blessing the triangular assortments of red solo cups. “And normally I’d argue the lady gets to go first but it looks like we’ve got an honest-to-god face off ready here so...”

“Damn straight.” You easily replied, holding the ball up as Santi mirrored your movements. “Give me your eyes, baby.”

“You have them, honey.”

Frankie and Benny both shared in a whistle, and as Will came outside with a beer of his own and a plate of snacks, he joined in as well. But your stare stayed locked with Santi’s as you both counted off and threw the balls across table to the respective cups.

Yours sank easily while his swirled around the edge of the corner cup and rolled out, leading to the first round of cheers shared between you and Benny.

Fish landed a heavy hand on his shoulder and blew out another breath, “this is going to be fun.”

And that was exactly what it was, an extension of what it had been for the first hour of the night, an easy flow of fun times. At least until you guys came down to two cups left on each side.

“Oh the pressure is building.” Benny mocked as he lowered himself to his knees to put his face behind the cups to distract Frankie as he faked a few tosses before finally throwing and missing by nearly a mile. “Oh! The pressure has claimed another victim.”

“Shut up Benny—” Fish fought but the two of you were laughing too hard as you bent over to grab the ball from the grass. “They are a dangerous duo—“

“You’re telling me.” Santi chuckled, lining up his shot as both you and Benny began to dance behind the cups to distract him. It almost worked too, but at the last second, he found his focus and his skill and nailed the water in the cup effortlessly. “There it is!”

He slammed his hand against Frankie’s in the most intense high five that they had maybe ever shared while you and Benny threw your hands up, exasperated as the cups in front of you now totaled 2-1, not in your favor.

Passing your ball to Benny, you fished the other ball from the water, dumped the water out, and stacked the cup all before reaching for your own beer and taking a hefty swig. This was it. If there was ever a moment when you needed to call upon the skills you probably should have left behind in college, this was it.

“After you,” Benny gestured with another wave of his arm as you sat your drink down and you gave him a quick reciprocated nod.

Santi and Frankie began a similar dance to the one that you and Benny had managed, pulling the edges of your straight-lined focused mouth up at the corners even as you fought it. And when Will laughed, the whole group was dancing and laughing, and you couldn’t keep a straight face but you were determined to keep your shot straight.

“We don’t have all night honey—”

“I’m focusing—”

“Focus faster—”

“Shut your pretty mouth—”

“We’re waiting—”

The toss was perfect, landing in the cup with a satisfying splash and an echoing cheer taking over the rest of the group. “Worth the wait, baby?”

He pulled the ball out with a smile he couldn’t keep down. He tried to smother it with his drink as he flicked the water off the ball but it was no use, the smile was there. The smile was there and it was contagious to the three other men who considered themselves his closest and only friends.

It was good to see him this happy. Overwhelmingly good to see him this overwhelmingly happy. How could it not make them equally as happy?

Though, Fish wasn’t happy to see his chances to win slipping through his finger tips.

“Let’s see what you got, Benny.”

“Let’s go.”

“You got this.”

He turned to you and gave you a solid fist bump, something that had slowly became your ritual the more the two of you played. Then he turned back towards the table and tossed without a practice windup or any hesitation.

It bounced on the rim.

Both you and him leaned with it.

It bounced in.

The shouting must have annoyed the shit out of Will’s neighbors but none of the five of you seemed to care. You all just burst out in obnoxious cheering, Benny wrapped you up in a quick hug, twirling you around before the two of you descended into laughter, relishing in your victory even more when you saw both Frankie and Santi throw their hands up.

“Good game,” Frankie easily conceded but Santi just shook his head, reaching for his beer.

“Great game,” you countered with a fully body chuckle as you grabbed your own drink and walked around the table to wrap your arm around Santi’s waist and steal a quick kiss from his lips. But as he tried to hide his smile still, you quickly broke through when you said, “do I taste like a winner?”

That not only broke his smile from him, but a full body laughter of his own as well as he shook his head and pulled back from you. “You’re breaking my heart, honey.”

“You knew what you were getting yourself into.”

“Nah, I’m calling for a rematch,” he said, turning back to the group and repeating himself, “A rematch, and we’re going to get Will in on this one.”

“He can’t accept a fair, honest game—” Benny shouted as you raised your bottle in agreement.

“I want a rematch—”

“Sore loser.” You mocked, but another game happened anyways.

Though, this time, there was much less structure to it. Benny was blowing balls out of the cups as they swirled, Santi was smacking away bounces without second thought, and even Frankie was leaning in from the sidelines to get in the way of shots. But it was fun. More fun than you could remember having in a long time.

The night calmed down after that; not as high energy but equally as fun once you all moved back inside.

Benny had a few questions about mixing drinks which ultimately moved all of you into the kitchen with half of Will’s liquor cabinet and refrigerator out on the counter. It was mindless fun for you and they all seemed to be having a good time, but it also meant that by the time you all decided it was a good time to go, you were very, very drunk.

With your fingers intertwined, the two of you said your goodbyes and walked back out into the nighttime chill, swaying your linked arms between the two of you as you walked down the driveway to where Santi was parked on the street. And again, as you giggled, tripping over yourself slightly, he was reminded again of the fact that was becoming a more and more common fact of life for him.

He loved you. He was in love with you. He adored every bit of you and, the two of you hadn’t been together for long, but he was sure of it.

It wasn’t a familiar feeling for him, it wasn’t something he was anyway comfortable with admitting if he was going to be honest, but he was almost a hundred percent positive.

He loved you. He was in love with you. And he was sure of it.

“Why so quiet?” You hummed, swinging your linked hands back and forth with more force to attempt to snap him out of his own head as they two of you made it to the curb next to his jeep.

“I’m not quiet.” He attempted to counter but as he stopped walking and turned to you, he could see the disbelief plainly on your face.

“You sure you’re okay to drive? I can call a lyft—”

“I’m fine to drive, honey, I had maybe three beers since dinner—”

“Then why so quiet?” You fought, with maybe a bit more drunken determination than you typically had as you tugged on his hand more. “Come on, I thought tonight went well—”

“Tonight went so well, I had an amazing time—”

“Then what’s wrong?”

You sounded sad, he didn’t want you to be sad, there was literally no reason in the whole universe for you to be sad and he hated that you thought that something was wrong but... but he couldn’t get the words out.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t said them before, it was just that he had really never felt comfortable saying them. The few relationships he had where he did say it, they ended shortly after the three little words left his lips, and the last thing he wanted was for that to be the case here. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him and if he went too fast... if he said it before you were ready for it and he messed everything up...

He didn’t want to ruin this. He was terrified, and by the looks of it, so were you and that was his fault.

Keeping his mouth shut was going to ruin it, telling you was going to ruin it...

“Nothing’s wrong, honey, I swear.” He said easily but as he pulled his keys from his pocket and tried to turn to the door, you kept your hold on his hand and kept him where he stood.

“Did I do something wrong tonight?”

This was so far from fair to you. You were drunk and he was being evasive, giving you every reason to worry while he was trying to get you not to worry.

How could a night where everything had gone right so far go south so fast?

If he could just open his goddamn mouth—

“Santi, I don’t understand—” You dropped his hand, bringing both of yours together in front of you, wringing them over each other as his silence held...

And he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“I love you.”

He swore his heart was going to beat out of his chest, his stomach was filled with nerves he hadn’t felt in years and watching your face was doing nothing to calm him down. Half your face was cast in shadow from the street lights that lined the road, and as his eyes scanned over every inch of you, he still didn’t find anything to go off of in terms of your reaction. You held his stare with the same sad look you had been wearing before he said anything.

What did that mean?

Was it too early? It had only been a few months, so he couldn’t blame you if you didn’t feel the same especially given how long it took him to open up to you about the littlest of things. He didn’t even know how long he was supposed to wait, was there some sort of timeline that healthy minded adults followed that he was just never told about?

Did he just ruin things? Was he moving too fast—

“Really?”

Really?

What did that mean? Did that mean that he said it too early and you didn’t believe him? Did that mean that you didn’t feel the same? Did that mean he just caught your off guard or did you wish he hadn’t said it?

He could see what felt like a thousand emotions playing across your face and he didn’t know which meant what—

You lips cut him off before he got too deep into his thoughts. And it wasn’t just the surprise of your lips on his, it was the pure force you put behind it.

He stumbled back into the side of his truck, catching you with his body as you pressed every inch of yourself into him. Your hands pulled at the sides of his face, tugging on his ears to get yourself even closer as he wrapped his arms around your waist and towards your back, holding you as close as you were holding him as his lips reciprocated the heavy kiss.

There wasn’t a thought in his mind anymore that wasn’t you. Your intoxicated feet even stepped on his in your overwhelming eagerness, solidly holding every single part of you that you could against him.

He wasn’t sure what it meant, but there was no way it could be bad news anymore, that he was sure of as your tongue pushed into his mouth and your hands trailed up to his hair, tugging with much more intensity than he was used to.

But even then, he had to pull back to catch his breath and it was worth checking in with you as he did. With his forehead pressed to yours, his arms cradled around your back, he opened his eyes and found yours waiting there for him. “So...”

Your face twisted into an adorable intoxicated confusion, “So?”

“I just told you I loved you and you kissed me and I don’t know--”

You stole another kiss off his lips easily. “Are you kidding me?”

Was he supposed to know what that meant? Did he know what it meant and his brain just wouldn’t let him think it or was he just too hesitant? How could you kiss him with that kind of passion and still leave him so confused--

“No, I’m not—”

“Santi, I’m so in love with you...”

Blowing out a breath of relief, he shook his head and pulled your face back towards his, reconnecting your lips and swinging you around to press you into the side of the car while you giggled against his lips. But then he pulled back again, leaving you chasing his lips.

“What—”

“I have to drive home eventually, we can’t just have sex in Will’s driveway...” He laughed out, bringing his hand to your bare neck and the gold necklace that laid there and tracing it lightly with his calloused fingertips.

“Why not?” You chuckled back, nudging your nose into his as his laughter melted together with yours, as hot as the sun despite the gentle chill of the night that surrounded the two of you.

“Because I know he has security cameras and I have a very comfortable bed at home...” He countered, taking his keys back into his hand, unlocking the car, and opening the passenger door for you.

“Fair point...”

As he led you into your seat, he moved to turn away but you caught him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back in for one last kiss.

One last kiss he couldn’t pull away from.

He didn’t know what was different about it from all the others, he definitely didn’t know why it stood out from the kissing session that had just concluded, but he knew that he could feel it was different. And you felt it too, because you lingered the same way, leaning out of the car to hold onto him, still by the collar.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me...” He sighed out against your lips, the words falling much easier now than they had around the three little words.

He didn’t know if it was just the words of ‘I love you’ or just his own fears or his comfort now... He didn’t know what it was, but the words fell like dripping honey from his lips.

“I don’t know, you’ve got three pretty good things in the form of your best friends who we just left inside and—”

“And they’re the best and I’d put my life on the line for them, I have before, but I’m not in love with any of them.” He continued easily, stealing one last kiss before shutting the passenger door and walking around to the driver’s side with a smirk he was never going to lose.

Not as long as he was with you.

And he was hoping that was going to be for as long as he lived.

He got back into the car next to you and found you staring at him wide-eyed and surprised but his smirk didn’t leave his lips and he easily started the car.

“Santi—”

“Now that I’ve said it, I’m going to be saying it all the time, I just want you to know that.”

Your slightly drunken brain had cleared up enough to leave you happy and sober. Your head finally caught with you and a smirk the same size as his grew on your lips. “Good.”

“It might even get annoying—”

“Do you worst.”

Yeah. He loved you.

tags: (these are tags from teh first part, let me know if you’d like to be added or removed) @mandoplease @spider-starry @shakespeareanwannabe @mylifeliterally @this-cat-is-dea @woakiees @imananxiousdriver

#santiago ‘pope’ garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #trivia night #oscar isaac #triple frontier

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chibinekochan · 3 years

Text

How to become a Demon Ruler 113

Part: 01 I 02 I 03 I 04 I 05 I 06 I 07 I 09 I 10 I 11 I 12 I

GN. Reader insert

taglist: @ayesha95 ; @nomnomcupcakesworld ; @fex-phoenix ; @depressed-bixch ; @kitsune-oji ; @witch-o-memes

The party is the last part of this story. So there is one more part after this one.

I wake, being cocooned in my blanket.

I can't see Barbatos anywhere so I just proceed to stand up. I plan to take this morning slowly.

I get ready much like usual.

Strangely, Barbatos doesn't show up at all. As much as his sudden appearances scare me sometimes, right now I miss him.

I find the outfit for the party hanging by the door. It looks very nice. I fondly remember how I bought it.

I find my breakfast ready for me. Another bit of loneliness hits me. This means I won't see Diavolo this morning either.

I sigh and look at my favorite breakfast. Obviously made to make me feel better.

I can only sigh at it. Then I see a note, placed at the side of my dish.

Dear young Master,

I humbly apologize for not being able to wake you up this morning.

I have full faith that you will find this in time before lunch. Please rest until then.

I will be there in time to help you dress.

Your loyal servant Barbatos.

PS. Sorry for leaving you all alone. Please don't cry. ≈ Diavolo

Somehow I can't help but smile at the note. It's obvious how much they care.

I then see the items I requested from Barbatos. He is diligent as always. He even prepared wrapping paper, knowing that I'd insist on wrapping them myself.

So I eat my meal, with little enjoyment, and then wrap all of the presents for the brothers.

I do my best but they aren't perfect.

After that, I'm unsure what to do all by myself.

A wave of sadness rushes over me. I never realized how lonely my life was before coming here. Living day in and day out, always the same, always all alone.

Funny how everything can change so much in a single instance.

Barbatos left me a stack of books. I give this a dry chuckle.

What am I thinking? I have to survive first of all. No time to mope around.

With a bit more motivation I open a book and start to read.

So I pass time until a knock rips me out of the colorful devildom history.

"Come in." I hope it's Barbatos.

"You should ask first, who is there? You never know who might be on the other side." Barbatos shakes his head, but can't hide his smile.

"I was hoping that it would be you." I simply close my book and get up from my bed.

"What would you have done if it wasn't me?" Barbatos sighs.

"Umm, throw a book?" Some of them are heavy enough to do damage.

"I will add self-defense to your lessons." Then he seems to stop himself from saying something else. "We should get you ready."

I look at him, slightly suspicious. "Did you want to say something else there?"

Barbatos seems surprised that I caught on to this. "I need to be more careful around you. Sadly, I have promised not to say anything so please be patient. Just know that I would… no, I already said too much." Barbatos sighs once more. I have never seen him this troubled before.

"I hope keeping secrets from me won't become a habit. I honestly hate that sort of thing." I speak firmly, grimacing at this. "Diavolo acted a bit shady yesterday too." It makes me feel very uncomfortable.

"I understand, . From now on I will not keep secrets from you as long as I can avoid it." Barbatos acts like he is fully agreeing with it, but his words are clear to me.

"You will keep secrets to protect me I assume?" I can't hide my disdain for this.

"Yes. I will shield you from any harm." He doesn't even hesitate.

"It will harm me more if you hide important things from me. I'd rather get hurt by knowledge than by mistrust." I look away from Barbatos.

"What if the truth kills you?" Barbatos seems to honestly consider it.

"Well that might be an exception, but know that I will likely still end up trusting you less. Especially when I realize that you are hiding something." I can't truly fault him for that and it seems like a pretty unique exception.

Barbatos nods in understanding. "I will consider these points in the future. Regardless of this specific case, I have promised to keep it a secret. I hope you can forgive me for this." His consideration is probably as much as I will get out of him.

"Fine, and I forgive you this once." I'm glad he got my message at least.

Barbatos seems relieved by my words. "I'm glad that it's settled. Now we should let you get changed."

I feel pretty embarrassed. "You don't expect me to change in front of you, do you?"

"Based on your reaction, I'd suppose I don't, but this outfit seems rather fragile so if you need assistance I will be right here." Barbatos clearly planned to dress me himself.

There is no way I'd let that slide. "I will change in my dressing room. Will you change too?" Now I wonder how he would look in a different suit.

"No, I will only attend as your butler tonight." Barbatos calmly explains.

"Too bad. I bet you would look great in a different suit." I shrug and smile at him.

"Maybe next time." He smiles gently at me.

Somehow I expected him to protest.

I take my outfit and head to my changing room. Much to my surprise, I find matching underwear and shoes waiting for me. I mean I kind of expected shoes but underwear? This is very embarrassing.

I strip naked and start to get dressed. The outfit for the party is indeed very fancy, it takes me a while to figure out how to dress it all by myself. My pride prevents me from calling out for help from Barbatos.

Then finally I step outside. I walk very slowly, thanks to the new shoes and the new outfit.

Barbatos looks at me with wide eyes.

"Do I look weird?" My cheeks become hot once again.

"Oh no, quite the opposite. You look gorgeous." Barbatos looks at me full of admiration. "Now I regret even more that I wasn't with you when you picked this outfit." He sighs lightly. "Well regardless. I have to insist on taking a picture of you." Barbatos suddenly has a camera.

"A picture? Now I feel like this is my prom night." I chuckle.

Barbatos quickly takes the photo at that very moment. "This will be my greatest treasure."

"Barbatos, you sound like a parent." I smile and shake my head.

He huffs. "I'm just very happy to be able to share this moment with you. Furthermore, I'd like you to refrain from calling me your parent."

"I know you aren't my parent. I think of you much more like a friend, even if you are seeing me as your master." I have to clearly say this to him.

"I'm pleased you see me this way. I don't just think of you as my master either." Barbatos smiles in his usual way.

"That is very good to hear. I can't say how much that means to me." He feels incredibly close to me, I'm very glad it's not one-sided.

Barbatos nods slowly. "I feel the same way." Then he pauses for a moment. "Shall we head over to the venue then?" Barbatos holds his arm towards me.

"Yes, lead the way." I take his arm with a bright smile.

Together we head to the big ballroom. Barbatos matching my speed to perfection.

I notice this especially since I'm slower than usual.

We meet with Diavolo by the entrance.

"Good evening. You look beautiful." Diavolo gives me his biggest smile yet.

Somehow the warmth of his smile seems to radiate right into me.

I take a moment to appreciate his prince outfit. It's similar but different from his usual attire. "You look very beautiful yourself."

Is it right to call him beautiful? Well he is, I have no regrets.

"Thank you. What a shame that Barbatos can't dress up today." Diavolo likes my compliment.

"Yeah, I said the same thing." I chuckle lightly.

Barbatos shakes his head. "You both should take your seats. For the first part of the party, everyone will come to greet you. The brothers should be first. That would be the best opportunity to give them their presents. I have placed them by your seat. After the greeting, there will be dinner. Then casual conversation and dancing. The first dance will be led by Diavolo and you." Barbatos summarizes the full event.

"You have forgotten the speech my father will give." Diavolo only adds that.

"So he will show up? I wasn't sure." Barbatos doesn't look like he knew.

"Only for a bit. I assume it's to watch over my lovely sibling." Diavolo shrugs.

I feel a cold chill running down my spine.

"You don't need to worry about him. You will, as they say, knock him off his socks." It feels very strange to hear Barbatos saying this. I look at him wide-eyed.

"Haha, sounds like you had a chat with Levi." Diavolo chuckles.

"I only hope he won't kill me." This is the only thing that matters to me.

"He would never do such a thing." Diavolo seems very surprised by my words.

I'm not too sure about that but maybe Diavolo is right. I trust him and silently pray that he is right.

"Let us sit down now before everyone arrives." Diavolo then offers me his arm instead and I take it.

I'm more steady now than before but it still feels very nice to do this.

I see two throne-like chairs on the far back of the room. They are on a small stage.

This will be awkward for sure.

I sit down, at least it's pretty comfortable.

"Everyone will go to greet Diavolo first and then you." Barbatos has already taken his position behind my chair. Probably because I might require his assistance.

"I was expecting that. Would it be okay if I get water or something in between the greetings?" I'm known to get a dry throat.

"Naturally. You can also take a bathroom break." Barbatos seems to add this for my sake. That's good to know.

For a bit, I watch the other servants doing whatever. We do have them after all. It's amusing to finally actually see them. I was honestly starting to think that Barbatos does everything by himself.

Then finally something starts to happen.

The big entrance door gets opened and someone announces the demon brothers.

I watch them all with great curiosity when they all walk into the room.

Most of them don't look eager to be here, I share their feelings.

They all wear fancy suits, at least one of them looks extremely uncomfortable in it.

Lucifer walks calmly over to us. Much as expected, he greets Diavolo first, though he keeps it very brief.

Then he comes over to me. "Good evening. It's a pleasure to meet you again. I hope this evening will be a great success." He is very polite.

"It's a pleasure to see you again Lucifer. I hope we get the chance to meet more casually next time. I took the liberty to buy you and your brothers presents in the hopes of forging a good relationship." I smile at him and speak in a manner befitting a man of his stature.

"How very kind of you. I and my brothers have prepared a present for you as well. Please open it later." Lucifer takes a big box from one of his brothers.

He holds it out for me.

"Please allow me to take it for safekeeping." Barbatos quickly chimes in and takes the box. I wonder what they got me.

"Thank you very much for your kindness." I give him a big smile and Lucifer nods at me seemingly pleased.

"Lucifer, when can we eat? I'm hungry." One of the brothers speaks up.

"Beel I told you to eat before we came." Lucifer sighs.

"I'm afraid we cannot serve you food at this point." Barbatos sighs. The kitchen is still preparing it seems.

"I think I might be able to help. I prepared a big amount of cookies for Beel as his present. Please feel free to eat some now." I gently smile at Beel and Barbatos hands him the nicely wrapped cookies.

"Oohhh, how sweet of you." Beel takes the whole package and straight-up eats it, with the packaging still intact. I almost gasp in disbelief.

"Beel don't eat things with the packaging." One of the other brothers shakes his head.

"Sorry, they are very good though. You want some too, Belphie?" Beel shows the half-eaten package to his brother.

"No thanks." Belphie shakes his head.

"I apologize for his behavior." Lucifer sighs.

"Don't worry about it. I have put a few cookies into everyone's present." I somehow expected this to happen.

"Haha everyone knows how much of a glutton you are. Oh so lovely to see you again. That outfit looks very beautiful by the way." Asmo giggles and then calmly compliments me.

"Thank you Asmo. You look gorgeous tonight." I ignore his obvious undertone and calmly smile.

"I know, but I would look even better without the strict dress code." He shakes his head.

"Asmo, I told you, you need to greet Diavolo first." Lucifer seems pretty exhausted. "Beel you didn't even greet the new heir." He looks sternly at the still munching Beel.

"Ups sorry, I just got distracted by that outfit." Asmo doesn't seem sorry at all, but he walks over to Diavolo anyway.

Lucifer sighs again. He certainly doesn't have an easy life.

"I'm sorry. I was just hungry. The cookies were very great. Thank you for them." Beel sheepishly apologizes to me.

"I'm glad you enjoyed them." I can't be very mad at him. He has that puppy aura.

"Thank you for helping Beel. I'm Belphie by the way." He seems grateful and then he yawns.

"It's a pleasure meeting you. Please enjoy your present." I smile and hand him the gift. It's very light compared to Beels.

He unwraps it and starts to smile. "Nice, I will test this right away."

"No you won't, go over to your chair if you are done here," Lucifer tells him off. I start to wonder if they are children.

"I'm back. Sorry, I was cut so short. Anyway, I was talking about how much better I'd look in a more flashy outfit." Asmo his back, casually continuing.

"Stop talking so much and let the others have a turn." This brother sounds rather annoyed.

"Gee, excuse me for making small talk." Asmo rolls his eyes.

"We should talk more later. Please enjoy your present for now." I try to mediate between them.

I show the present to Asmo, I made sure to make it look extra pretty.

"It's so beautifully wrapped. Let's take a Pic before I open it." Asmo proceeds to be busy with that for a moment.

"You must be Satan. I'm very pleased to meet you." I smile politely.

"How did you know? He seems surprised by my guess.

"It was an educated guess. A few things gave you away, like your cat-shaped pin." To be completely honest it was his temper but I will not tell him that.

"Mammon told you about that huh? Well, I'm happy to meet you. I wasn't sure what to expect, to be honest, but you seem to be doing just fine." Satan is pretty polite, it seems.

"I hope you will enjoy your present." I smile at him. He doesn't seem to be too bad.

"Thanks for the gift. I didn't get the chance to buy it. I'll wear it for the after-party." Asmo is cheerfully holding the top I bought for him.

"I'm just glad you like it. Please tell me what you think after wearing it." I feel pretty good about his reaction.

"Sure, I will ask Mammon for your number if you don't mind." Asmo smiles.

"Of course." I think this is a good sign.

Satan has meanwhile gotten his present from Barbatos and seems to be pretty happy.

"Asmo, Satan, when you are done join the others." Lucifer sounds about done with them.

I can see other guests start to line up already.

Satan seems to mumble about something and they both leave.

"Yo, you look great tonight. Almost didn't recognize ya." Mammon is very casual. I don't mind that though.

"Mind your manners." Lucifer scolds him.

"I don't mind if you are casual with me." I smile and notice the last brother still standing awkwardly around. "And you don't need to be scared of me I promise I don't bite." I try to reassure him.

"Don't mind Levi, he is socially awkward." Mammon is pretty blunt about it.

"I understand, . I'm not offended if you are too shy to talk to me. Please take your present anyway. It's some Manga from the human world. I hope you don't own them already." I hope this will help to break the ice.

Levi's eyes light up in an instance.

"This is for you Mammon." I hand him his present.

He basically rips the packaging apart. "Oh, sweet new shades." Mammon looks happy.

Levi meanwhile opens his package very carefully, even when it's all inside of a box. His eyes seem to light up with every title he takes out. "Wow, I haven't seen any of these yet. Amazing! We need to talk about all of them soon!" All of his awkwardness seems to be gone now. I feel relieved.

"Of course, let's do that. I have read all of them myself. You can ask Mammon for my number too if you want." It does sound like fun to talk about my old Manga with someone.

"S-sure.. Thank you so much." Levi blushes and basically runs off. Mammon follows after him.

Lucifer shakes his head. "I hope they didn't give you a bad first impression."

"Not at all. They all seem very nice." I had somehow expected worse.

"I'm glad that you see it that way. I had some kind of idea for you, after hearing so much from Diavolo. He hasn't exaggerated. I look forward to getting to know you better." He smiles kindly and joins his brothers.

"I feel the same way." I need to find out what Diavolo is saying about me. I'm sure it's very embarrassing.

"I'm sure you will fit in just fine." Lucifer smiles kindly at me. I'm not sure what he means but I smile back at him.

The seven brothers are certainly an interesting bunch.

#obey me #obey me!#demon ruler 101 #how to become a demon ruler #omswd #obey me barbatos #obey me diavolo #obey me demon brothers #obey me shall we date #obey me one master to rule them all #obey me fanfic #obey me fanfiction #om! shall we date #om!

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lunar-lair · 4 years

Text

I've been building up these hcs for a while, and I finally decided to unleash them onto the world.

So! Here ya go. My unadulterated thoughts over a long period of time. Have fun w them.

Remus bonks his forehead with another's to show affection. It started simply as something his brain told him to do, I think-some twisted idea of knocking both people out by banging their foreheads together. But then it turned into something he did for affection, due to how close it got your face to someone else's and the contact you share. Plus, it's so original, and that's Creativity's whole thing, right??

(It took him awhile to figure out how to do it lightly enough that he wouldn't hurt the person he was bonking (yes it's called that) but he eventually figured it out!!)

Him and Roman do it like,,,super hard as a way of greeting. Or like, just for shits and giggles, or even to knock someone out of something. It's one of those Brotherly Things™ they do together, y'know?

More Brotherly Things™ they do include slamming into each other to hug for the same reasons up above, shaking each other by the shoulders Forcefully mostly whenever they're explaining something Wild or they're Angy and the other pretending to be annoyed by it, and initiating sudden sparring sessions where one will just suddenly whip out their weapon, and the surprise is part of the spar, basically. It's not cheating; you just have to adapt to when the other suddenly starts one.

They had to explain to Patton Very Thoroughly that they weren't hurting each other and that it was all fun and games before he agreed w it

Janus was the first to adapt, then Logan, and then Virgil kinda had to take some time to stop being startled every time it happened

Thomas got it Immediately.

He has brothers.

He gets it.

Janus! Likes!! Dancing!!!!! VERY important hc

Remus and Janus used to make skirts (and possibly other clothing?) together

All three darks know how to sew

It started with Remus wanting to make something and learning with Creativity Powers and eventually teaching Virgil and Janus

Janus actually already knew how to sew simple stitches due to having to fix a lot of Remus' clothes but Remus taught him a lot more abt it

He ended up knowing more than Remus even did, though, due to ending up Really into it

More than once, he has asked Remus for cloth and made his own skirt, shirt, etc. possibly with Remus' help

In a world where Jan and Virge are close,,,,,,,he totally helped with the jacket

Jan and Lo absolutely have debates like. 24/7 while also playing chess

Remus is eternally wearing thigh high high heeled boots, no questions asked

Roman used to wear Normal boots most of the time before he got Good Bro Stats with Remus again. After that he was Jealous that Remus was a bit taller than him and started wearing his own heeled boots, though his were usually normal height

Sometimes they'll switch boots to mix things up

Roman also started wearing heels bc he thought it'd be fun

Roman and Janus have specific nicknames for each other; one nice and one teasing

Janus' are Prince and Beast

Roman's are Beauty (to parallel Janus' for him) and Snake (another parallel; both are simple ideas of what/who they are)

Janus probably came up with his first and Roman flipped the script on him in return

Janus is pretty chill with coffee or tea, but he prefers tea and knows a lot more about it. Coffee? Eh, not too bitter please. Tea? Basically whatever, but the subtle calm stuff is really his jam. Mostly just a tad of honey, rarely any milk, if he ever adds anything at all. He usually takes his tea straight up; the kind to sit around and Think at the table while it cools y'know.

Patton's actually kind of a coffee dude, but he doesn't drink it that much, and if he does, it probably wouldn't be very bitter and pretty doctored. Tea is too mild for him; just tastes like hot water.

Logan? Coffee for energy, but he likes the Calm tea brings. Flower flavors all the way babey, with a bit of honey and just enough milk to make it a bit richer. Since the coffee is purely for Energy, he doesn't give a shit what it tastes like, as long as it doesn't burn his fucking esophagus he's just downing it.

Roman claims he likes tea bc it's Fancy, but he actually prefers Coffee for the chocolate/bitterness in it and the Energy, so there's that. He actually likes his pretty bitter, funnily enough. Really likes chocolate creamers and vanilla, caramel, or chocolate flavored coffee.

And of course, Remus claims he prefers coffee and just downs it all the time (mostly for shits and giggles probably) but he actually likes tea more for all the different flavors and stuff. Plus it's always even MORE scalding than coffee so it's more fun to down! He actually doesn't like how bitter coffee is and if he did actually drink it it would be drowned in creamer I swear to you. He really likes honey in his tea and a bit of milk, maybe some sugar depending on the type? Not usually though. More fruit flavors the better man.

Virgil drinks coffee in the morning for Energy, and he's pretty chill with it, but he kinda prefers tea for the calming shit it can give you. Drinks the coffee for the Energy, but refuses to just let it taste like shit, so he adds a bit of creamer and sugar, yeah. Mostly up for fruit and flowery flavors, honey all the way babey. Thinks sugar tastes like shit in tea.

Janus has a Large Campaign around trying tea straight more often, or just generally adding less sugar, mostly. Virgil is on his team, Remus is kinda on it depending on what tea you're talking about, and Logan is also pretty much on that train except for when it comes to things like english breakfast teas, stuff like that.

Virge wears a pair of headphones around his neck a lot; they're bluetooth, and hooked up to his phone 24/7, basically. He just throws them on and nyOOMS out of the situation best he can when shit gets hectic. They're kinda like a security blanket kind of thing; nice to know that you have immediate access to blocking out the world around you.

His jacket goes about the same, sorta. In the sense that it's a security object, I mean. He just feels...safer with it. There are very few situations besides being Totally Alone where he'd feel safe without a jacket (but specifically the one he's Chosen for the time, though the Chosen One can change if he finds something new or better), but if he does hang out around you without one, know that he trusts you with all his goddamn heart and he is taking a Leap of Faith rn and you better not screw it up ok.

Jan's gloves and hat are in a similar situation. They're just. Always There. They just make him feel safer y'know

Also I'd die for it to be canon that Janus has a little snake under his hat

Roman and Remus totally make copies of their sashes to hang up at Christmas

Yo but like,,,,,,,,,what if the sides' heights correlated to how long they'd been like...around?

Like how long it'd been since they manifested yknow

Pat is like. Emotions so he probably showed up Immediately. Same for Jan, considering he's self preservation. They're almost exactly the same height. Logan is just a small bit shorter, since he's partially curiosity and he showed up just a bit later. The original King would've been the same height as the other two, but...what about Roman and Remus?

So...the Split probably had to have happened after Virgil showed up, which took...a While. He's super short. Now the question is, would the twins be the height of the King, since they're technically part of him, or Tiney-like smaller than Virge-due to when they split?

...just for Tiney Virgil Rights, we'll make em tall. They're exactly the same height, of course, but Remus likes wearing heels.

All the Og Boys are the same height as Thomas-maybe a bit taller?-but Virge is like. A head and a half shorter than most of them. It's hilarious.

All the sides garden, for their own reasons

Virgil does it for the calm, the monotony, and the bright colors and smells. Plus, it just...feels really nice knowing he helped something stay alive. Makes him feel a lil better about himself.

Janus does it because he's been doing it for...a long time. Not to mention the calm of it all, digging your hands into soil and planting something new...plus, the flowers are always beautiful. Always have been, always will be. Tending to them is like...caring for an old friend. And he has so many memories with these flowers...old and new.

Plus he can plant his own tea leaves which is fun.

Logan does it partially for the monotony, partially for the care, partially for helping something to live. Partially for feeling a little something for the little guys; just...a feeling of saying hello again, having...a conversation with the flowers.

Less science, more emotions. For just a moment.

Patton does it because it's fun!! Because the flowers are pretty, the smells are nice, he can plant vegetables, too, the garden just feels nice, it feels like having more friends…

So many good, good reasons.

He'll have conversations with his flowers, and he's named them all.

Most of them haven't named theirs, but they do talk to them every now and then.

Roman does it for the calm and the prettiness and the scents. And just the concept of a pretty garden...excellent. And it is rather nice, just absorbing yourself in the work of it all...it's like all your cares fly away.

(They all agree with that, if only a little.)

He also has a venus flytrap or two...just gifts from Remus.

Remus does it because 1, fun, and 2, weird exotic creepy plants are so cool!!!!!! He's got all kinds of stinky but fascinating plants, yeah, but he also has some really pretty vivid ones. He also has a soft spot for roses…

(...the King was known for handing them out, back in the day, for fun. The twins...never let it go, even though they're unaware.)

He actually has some nice smelling ones here and there, but he mostly bases whether it's goin in his garden off of it's exoticness, coolness, or cool colors

They also all know flower language!!!

Janus knew first but when Jan taught Virgil about it, he went NUTS over it

Jan taught Remus, but Virgil taught the light sides

After he learned they had gardens too, he went '!!!!!' and info dumped about flower language for a whole half hour before he realized what he was doing and stopped

The others urged him to keep going, and to visit their gardens someday and tell them some details on meaning

Now, most of them may be swayed by meaning when it comes to choosing whether or not they're keeping the flower, and they've even named some of them off the others

Remus, especially, could flip on a dime on a no or yes depending on a meaning and if it fits a friend well

Generally, though, they all chill out in each others' gardens a lot and talk abt their flowers!!

It's part of their daily routine

They all eat breakfast and then they leave to tend to their flowers

They have their own outside gardens, like. Connected to their rooms (with help from the twins, most likely) but they also keep some inside their rooms

Patton keeps cacti and little tiny flowers in little pots here and there. ("They're my little friends!!!!") They all have names, just the same as the others.

!!!!!! Also he totally goes into his tiney frog form sometimes after he waters his garden and chills in the moist soil, or even in the little plants around his room

Perfect place babey

Virgil has a few with calming scents scattered about. Maybe a few bright ones, just so they stand out

Logan...concept: bonsai. Why? Bonsai...cool. Also he can observe it's growth. It's fun ok

He also probably has a few he's doing experiments on and even maybe a few he just liked a lot yknow

Jan...probably just a few who's meanings he liked. A few pretty ones, a few calming ones. And…

One who's meaning reminded him of Remus, and one for Virgil.

After Virgil left, he set it on the dining room table.

It returned to its former spot on the counter when Janus was finally part of his family again.

Patton has a little plot he's set aside for the plants that remind him of the others.

Janus has a similar one. It used to be just Remus' and Virgil's; two lonely souls…

….but now it's filled with 3 more, neatly arranged.

Their family has grown so much.

Also Janus totally does the same thing Pat does but in his snake form. Like he just settles into the dirt and sunbathes.

Sometimes, one of them will come over to the other's place and they'll just chill in one of their gardens together. (Half the time, Patton is sitting on Janus' head, nestled under Janus' little snake hat as best he can, probably with his little frog nose sticking out.)

More than one of the sides have stumbled upon it. Every time, they just take a picture, gaze at them for a little while, maybe say hi, maybe not, and be on their way.

Roman probably plucks a rose every now and then and sets it in a vase. Not that often; just a while after the last one decays, and only one at a time.

He's nice to his rose bushes, ok? He swears to you.

He also totally has a few tiny, colorful ones here and there and some really nice smelling ones.

Just realized, he ABSOLUTELY has a honeysuckle plant. Same for Pat. That's like,,,,,,the Staple of excellent smells and pretty flowers AND childhood man

And...after he bonded again with his brother-or maybe even before-he planted one that reminded him of him…

But it's tucked away in his bedroom. Who knows if it even exists.

Remus just goes NUTS with whatever he wants inside his room, man. Cacti? Totally. Venus fly traps? Yeah, one or two. Colorful flowers that he just likes the looks of?? Hell yeah babey!!!

And...he himself has a flower of his own, tucked away upstairs…

...but he's had it for far, far longer.

(He may or may not have had to change what it was after bonding with Roman again, but hey, people change yknow?)

Also!! They all like poetry-writing AND reading

Janus likes it due to like...just. The pure elegance in the craft, I suppose. The way feelings, beliefs, and philosophies can be expressed.

It's all so interesting, how something so deep can be put into simple words.

His are usually elegant, with old-themed writing and deep metaphors, deep thoughts on philosophy and emotions that can only be expressed through odd metaphors and quiet words whispered by his pen.

Roman likes it for similar reasons; it's such an elegant way to express yourself, there are so many metaphors you can wind in there, and it feels so mystical, in a way...it's such a short little thing, but pure emotions can be injected straight into it.

He has so many. He...there's so much to feel, so much to write, so many ideas, all the time. But no matter what, they're full of metaphors, flowery language, the occasional serious one where he simply...pours every drop of sadness from his heart onto the paper.

He happily injects the emotions he doesn't want into those packed words, filled with so much.

He has his fair share of mystical ones, though, describing old beasts and monsters and songs and soulmates and love.

Virgil likes it due to the emotional outlet it can be, and the pure craftsmanship of it all. Just...the way some poets weave stories together...amazing.

His are often straight vents. Simple words, straight metaphors, lots of short lines and stanzas. Just...conveying things with the words straight from his head.

Remus likes it for the themes poems can carry. So dark, and maybe sad, and yet so simple; not gruesome, simply...heavy.

It's almost what he aspires for, in at least some aspects.

He also loves it for the dramatics of it all and the history, just as Roman does. Drop the love of the romance, though. However, he does adore how emotions can be conveyed.

His are just as mystical as Roman's can be sometimes, though his are often more about horrors lurking in the night, of course. He's prone to throwing extra emotions into his poems, as well, ones he doesn't know what to do with except throw overboard.

Logan likes it for the emotional outlet. For the explanation of emotions through metaphors, like puzzles for him to solve, to try and figure emotions out. And how much that can make him feel, so much packed into such a tiny package.

He has his own of those; small little poems that have...so much emotion poured into them, for when his cup runs over and the emotions he can't handle try to splash out on the ground and stain his carpet, stain the hearts of his friends and even his own.

He also enjoys the philosophy and even psychology in it all.

As mentioned, some of his are...simply filled to the brim with emotions he can't handle, straight vents. But as for style, he often writes with simple concepts, a lack of metaphors, big words that convey the same idea but are hard to understand with the common eye.

Patton likes it for similar reasons; there are so many emotions packed into poems, so many complex ideas he loves picking apart, so many metaphors that rely on emotion that he understands immediately.

He has his own fair share of vent poems. He has so many emotions that sometimes…he just. Needs somewhere to put them. He doesn't use big words, and uses a lot of winding explaining instead, but his metaphors and analogies are always flawless. He always knows what he means.

Sometimes they just sit around and talk about poems, poets they like, recommendations, how they managed to get into it, stuff like that. Double whammy, sometimes they chill in their gardens together and talk poetry or even integrate certain flowers or flower language into their poems.

Roman, Remus, and Patton go out when it rains and just...have fun. Sometimes Ro takes an umbrella and just twirls around a little bit, enjoys the atmosphere (as the feeling of it all is what he loves the most), but sometimes Remus manages to convince him to come play with them.

Remus just likes the rain cause it's fun to play in, yknow? Also, mud! And worms!! Worms!!! Worms are so cool, those wiggly little guys.

All Sides Confirmed, worms are cool, they have worms in their gardens and also worms are just generally cool dudes.

Pat likes it cause Frog, duh. Also it's fun to play in the rain, ALSO duh!!

Lo considers rain just. Smth that happens.

Virge likes the atmosphere of rain and likes the smell that's in the air afterwards, but doesn't like getting wet. Thunderstorms terrify him too.

Jan likes the Vibe of rain, same as Virge, and also likes the smell afterwards, but he likes to stay inside. Yknow, cuddle up with a nice cup of tea (or even hot chocolate, if he's feeling extra cozy) and a book and just listen to the pitter patter.

He doesn't exactly enjoy thunderstorms, but he's good at tuning them out. (And he's also excellent at calming Virgil down during one.)

So when a storm hits the mindscape (or however the hell it works) Pat and the twins will go outside and the others will stay holed up in the living room, drinking tea or hot chocolate and just Chillin.

Sometimes they even invite Thomas, just for fun. (And cause they mentioned it to him and he was affronted at them that he wasn't able to see Pat and the Twins just have fun in the rain.)

Sometimes, rarely, Pat and Ree will eventually convince Thomas to join them in their fun. (Ro or Ree can just magic him clean anyways.)

Catch the twins conjuring up feather pens whenever the hell they want to

Janus absolutely has a pet snake or two. They just sit and hiss at each other sometimes

Pat? Yeah, a couple frogs. He mostly keeps them in his garden, though; they're only really his pets in the sense that he feeds them and talks to them sometimes.

The twins probably share their theatrical strengths

Like,,,,,,Remus? If he's a villain or even slightly shitty as a person, he's got it. Plus a lot more complex characters

Roman? Can do dashing princes and kind characters excellently

Like...they just. Can't do some characters, because that's what the other can do. Y'know?

I don't know, maybe they aren't actually so...split down the middle? But I like the idea of that I guess

Sorry this got so long! I've been collecting these thoughts in a doc for a *while,* so it grew a lot. I can't add a read more either, since I'm on mobile...sorry.

#sanders sides #ts janus #ts virgil #ts remus #ts roman #ts patton #ts logan #character thomas #sanders sides headcanons #tss headcanons #creativitwins #kiiinda. just a bit. almost kinda sorta #trash talks #long post #sorry about that again #like i said though i cant do much about it #thomas sanders #that seems to be The general tag so its goin on

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beauregardlionett · 4 years

Text

Queens of Queens - Ch. 3

AO3 Link

He wasn’t surprised when he stepped into the apartment at the end of the afternoon to find his near completed bench painted. It wasn’t painted one solid color, but swirling with vibrant, haphazard patterns of paisley and geometric shapes, sprawling flowers and cartoonish faces. Caduceus didn’t search for them, but he was certain there was at least one overly detailed dick painted in there somewhere.

Sighing fondly, the Firbolg shut the door behind himself and meandered over to the stove to start on a pot of tea. Much like the bench in their living room, Caduceus’ roommate had taken the liberty of giving their kitchen quite the makeover after they moved in. The walls were an attractive shade of yellow, the cabinets neatly colored a striking blue and detailed with various shades of reds and pinks. Caduceus’ overflowing collection of plants on every surface served to only increase the homey nature of the little kitchen. It was easy for the Firbolg to go about his business comfortably, pulling down a pair of mugs as the kettle heated on the stove.

The water was just starting to boil and whistle in the kettle when his roommate came flouncing into the kitchenette, skirts flying.

“Caduceus!” the little blue Tiefling cheered, her accent ringing bright through every syllable. Wrapping herself around his arm, she beamed up at him in greeting. “Welcome back!”

“Afternoon, Jester,” Caduceus drawled, smiling down at her. “Would you like some tea?”

“Ooh!” Jester peered around his arm, violet eyes shimmering. “What flavor?”

“Hibiscus,” Caduceus said, pouring steaming water into two mugs (he already had Jester’s pulled down from the cabinet in anticipation). Dropping a pre-made tea bag in each, Caduceus handed her the sparkling pink mug with a serene smile.

“I finished making some of these before I closed up. They’re the flowers I tried fertilizing with Sprinkle’s droppings. I think they turned out pretty well.”

Jester took a tentative sip, careful of the temperature, before grinning up at him. She put her mug down so she could hop around a little without spilling any. Twirling in a circle, her deep green skirt whirled around her, wrapping around her legs as she paused.

“It tastes great, Caduceus! I’m so glad Sprinkle could help!”

“He did a magnificent job,” Caduceus acknowledged, leaning his hips back against the countertop to sip at his own mug. “The flowers grew very well, and the aroma is very bold. He’s a natural.”

Jester devolved into giggles, scooping up her own mug as she snagged a muffin from the tray they had left sitting out by the stove this morning. Her blue cheeks were tinged purple with her delight, and it warmed the Firbolg to see.

They had been rooming together for near a year, and any misconceptions they were a poor fit were laid to rest near immediately. They got on like a house on fire, and it shocked everyone involved. Caduceus had met Jester’s mother the day they moved in, and the lovely Tiefling woman had eyed him with open suspicion. Her concern about her daughter’s well-being had been clear. But they had spent all of fifteen minutes getting to know each other—with Jester’s determined reassurances that Caduceus would be a great roommate—before Marion had eased up.

Now he sent his most loyal customer monthly loads of calming, aromatic tea blends.

“I see you found the bench I made,” Caduceus commented, gesturing to the living room. “It’s very colorful.”

“I know I said I would ask,” Jester began, pouting as she ducked her head bashfully. “But it was just so plain, and I couldn’t help myself.”

“That’s quite alright,” Caduceus reassured her, smiling amicably. “I told the customer you would likely paint it, so they’re expecting it. I think they’ll love it.”

That got Jester to perk up again, her tail flicking with excitement behind her as she took a swift bite of her muffin. “You really think so?” Jester asked through the crumbs falling out of her mouth.

“They would be foolish not to,” Caduceus said, smiling as he took another sip of tea. “I’m going to drop it off tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to come along? I’m sure they would love to meet the artist.”

Jester nodded enthusiastically, muffin crumbs falling from her lips as she chewed a bite through a smile. Setting her treat aside with her tea, the little Tiefling darted off toward her room, calling over her shoulder.

“Let me grab my paints! I have some finishing touches to put on!”

Chuckling again, long fingers wrapped securely around his steaming mug, Caduceus followed her. Settling into one of their worn out chairs in the living room, the Firbolg was content to watch on as Jester reappeared with her paints and brushes to continue her work.

A few minutes into her work, Jester piped up, eyes never straying from her brush.

“Oh, Mama called while you were out. She said that some of her customers were asking about your tea blends and would you be able to send over some more sachets for her to sell?”

“Of course I can,” Caduceus agreed, barely giving it a thought. “Anything for my most loyal customer and sometimes employee.”

Jester giggled as she swirled her brush through a bright, obnoxious green. She never said it, but Caduceus knew that it meant a lot to her that he was so willing to let Marion do things like this. Jester had told him that her mother was a bit of a recluse, her social anxiety unlike anything he had ever seen. That Marion had come all the way to New York to help Jester move in had apparently been a huge deal.

They continued to pass the time in peaceful quiet, Jester humming to herself as she worked and Caduceus sipping away at his tea. The afternoon shadows stretched as the evening grew old, and Caduceus only moved to turn on some lights when he got up to start dinner for them. Jester joined him in the kitchen about halfway through the process, washing the paint off her hands before offering to help.

The evening passed with quiet reverence, the pair content to have dinner and chat about nothing in particular. As they were cleaning up, Jester glanced at the clock on the oven and made a noise of surprise.

“I didn’t realize it was so late! I need to get going if I’m going to finish my painting in time.” Caduceus watched the little Tiefling flit around the apartment, changing her clothes in her room and reemerging to throw her painting bag together as she also tried to tug her boots on at the same time.

“Have fun, be safe,” Caduceus called their usual farewell from the kitchen as Jester laced her boots while walking. “I’ll wait up for you.”

Halfway out the door, Jester shouted back, “I promise to be back before midnight this time!”

The door shut loudly behind her, leaving Caduceus chuckling as he settled in more comfortably with his tea and the bench drying nearby.

There was a window seat in their apartment, a little nook gifted by architecture and circumstance that Molly had taken to overstuffing with blankets and pillows. Yasha rarely paid the seat any mind unless it was storming; then she would curl up there and watch the rain against the window, tracing raindrops and just observing.

However, there were rare mornings after sleepless nights that Yasha sat there to watch the sunrise over the buildings across the street. She curled among the pillows and tangled with the blankets and watched the sky turn every shade of dawn and just breathed.

“Mornin’ Yasha,” Molly called as they stumbled blearily from their room. She didn’t acknowledge their greeting beyond a quiet look, but Molly didn’t seem to mind. They went about putting on a pot of coffee before trundling into the bathroom.

Yasha kept watch over the dawn as the smell of warm coffee wafted through the living room.

Over the next few minutes, Molly reemerged from the bathroom, poured them both a mug of steaming coffee, and obnoxiously tucked themselves into the limited space on the window seat across from Yasha. It was times like these that her roommate reminded her far too much of a cat. Despite herself, Yasha smirked into her mug and pulled her feet a little closer to her so that Molly had room.

“I’ve still got some tea from Caddy if you want to sleep later,” Molly said, solid red eyes trained out the window. Yasha knew they were doing that thing where they acted as casual as possible about the topics they never breached so that Yasha might feel more at ease. She loved them for it, and one day she might consider returning that thoughtfulness with actual answers, but the morning sky and the bitter coffee on her tongue were not lending to her speech. So Yasha shook her head and sent Molly a grateful look from behind the rim of her mug.

They seemed to understand and fell silent, watching the sunrise with Yasha for far longer than strictly necessary. Molly tried to get Yasha to smile by poking her legs with their chilled toes, wriggling to get them into the warm crease of Yasha’s knee even as she bat gently at their attempts.

She was smiling small and fond by the time they untucked their stiff limbs from the window seat, and it was victory enough for Molly. Neither of them were very adept at cooking, but they hadn’t fucked up eggs and toast so far. Molly, however, was on probation from the stove after an attempt at pasta had gone very wrong. They stood guard over the toaster as it did all the work and watched Yasha scramble a decent helping of eggs in a pan.

“Unrelated topic,” Molly drawled casually and Yasha slid a suspicious look their way. Her gaze was met with a cheeky grin and sparkling eyes. “Are you ever going to stop pining after Beau and actually talk to her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yasha said stiffly, her cheeks flushing in betrayal.

Molly cackled and swiped the toast from the toaster the second it popped up. “Right. I must have imagined all those besotted glances on your end. And all those times Beau has called you hot and talked about your eyes when she thinks I’m not listening.”

Yasha’s hand froze where she pushed the eggs around in the pan with intent. Looking over at Molly again, she wasn’t fooled at all by their casual attempt at putting spread on the toast.

“She talks about me?”

Yasha sounded far more timid than she intended to, and her tone drew Molly’s attention. Their teasing expression melted into something fond with a tinge of pity. She knew that they didn’t pity her, just her inability to read other people.

“Quite a bit, honestly,” Molly said, casual but sincere. “Gets rather annoying, to be truthful, but she seems very attracted to you. You’re both just too much of a disaster to notice.”

Yasha frowned at them, and Molly reached over to pat her shoulder.

“I say that with all the love in my heart, of course.”

Yasha sighed and went back to their eggs, thoughts now otherwise occupied by a certain someone.

Molly let the topic drop after that. Instead, they turned to more mundane conversation about random things in the news and happenings in the bar from the night before. Yasha was content to listen and add commentary now and then, and the dynamic was familiar.

Cleaning up their dishes when they were finished, Yasha yawned into her hand and shook her head, trying to banish her fatigue. It always seemed to creep up on her after sleepless nights once she had eaten something. Molly’s hands gently removed the dishtowel from her grasp and they gave her a little nudge toward her bedroom.

“Get some sleep, Yash,” Molly ordered quietly. “We’ve got work tonight, and you need a nap at the very least.”

“Fine, fine,” Yasha grumbled, waving over her shoulder in response to Molly’s saccharine call for her to have sweet dreams. She bundled herself up beneath a thin blanket and fell asleep staring at the faded picture on her nightstand.

“Gigi, I swear! If you took my vest to bedazzle it again, I will shred your makeup brushes!” Beau yelled, storming through the bar with her shirt buttoned haphazardly. She had checked her bag and her locker, but her signature waistcoat for bartending was nowhere to be found. Beau knew she packed it before leaving the apartment, too; so it was here somewhere.

“I don’t have it!” Gigi trilled from the queens’ dressing room, all but pressed up against the mirror as she adhered fake eyelashes the length of her finger to her lids. “Ask Dotty! She went into the locker room for something earlier.”

Said queen turned from another mirror, lipstick only half applied, and blinked innocently at Beau. She didn’t buy it for a second and leveled an unimpressed glare with the queen.

“Fine,” Dotty groaned, setting aside the tube of neon lipstick and producing Beau’s unharmed vest from her overflowing bag. “I was going to cover it in glitter. What are you even doing here so early? I thought Yasha was bouncing tonight.”

“She is,” Beau said, brushing a few stray feathers from her waistcoat before shrugging it on with haste. “Molly wants me behind the bar again since Veth has only worked weeknights by herself so far. I was at the dojo when they called.”

From the other side of the dressing room, Amber looked up, heavily made-up eyes narrowing in Beau’s direction. With a gusty sigh, she stood and tossed her cell onto the counter before striding over to Beau. The queen shooed Beau’s fumbling fingers away from her buttons and took over, smoothing out the button up and adjusting the rumpled fabric first. She then tugged Beau’s waistcoat into order over her shoulders and deftly fastened the buttons on that, too.

Beau knew better than to protest like she would with anyone else. Amber was the oldest of their regular queens and very much fulfilled the role of “mom friend”. No one protested Amber’s fussing and got away with it.

“You work too much,” Amber said casually as her manicured fingers fixed Beau’s shirt collar with practiced ease. “Molly could have called Desmond in to help Veth.”

“Yeah, well, they called me. I think Desmond’s got a hot date or something—about time. Either way, I don’t mind it. I was done with classes anyway when they called.”

“Still,” Amber said as she admired her handiwork with an approving nod. “You’re here every weekend, as far as I’m aware, after working every other night of the week at that dojo and attending classes. You’re going to burn out, Beau. Molly’s a hardass, but they’ll give you a night off if you ask for it.”

Beau just shrugged, flashing Amber a grateful look. She tugged her hair free of the messy bun it was in and started to re-do the style, fingers running through her tangled length of hair. It was an avoidance tactic, not wanting to tell the queens that if she had a night off, she would just spend it getting drunk alone in her apartment. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous admission, so Beau deftly whirled her hair into a tight, secure bun and changed the topic.

“Is it just you three performing tonight?”

“Ophelia’s also got a hot date,” Amber chuckled, moving back to her phone to type out a quick text. “None of the others could come in on short notice, and Molly’s fine with us running an extra number or two to fill the time.”

Beau huffed a quick laugh and stole a glance in one mirror to make sure she had gotten all her hair up. Satisfied with her appearance, Beau waved to the queens and ducked out the door with a call of thanks over her shoulder.

They had about an hour before the show was due to start, and Veth was already wearing her mask and set up behind the bar on her stool. The crowd had yet to roll in, so the bar was near empty. Music played quietly from the speakers as the meager late dinner crowd finished up their meals.

As Beau made her way over to the bar, the front door swung open and the vaguely familiar form of Caduceus ducked into the bar. She knew the Firbolg superficially as Molly’s somewhat business partner. Beau wasn’t sure what it was they did business over; she just knew it involved plants.

Ducking in after Caduceus was an unfamiliar figure, carrying a decent-sized, colorfully painted bench on one shoulder. The sight was rather something, because the little blue Tiefling hauling the bench around like it weighed nothing wore an oversized cream-colored sweater and bright pink skirt, grinning cheerfully. Blue hair styled sweetly and violet eyes sparkling as she took in the bar, the Tiefling turned to Caduceus and said something with obvious excitement, the Firbolg smiling back and nodding.

“Hey Cad,” Beau called as she approached the pair. “Looks like you’ve got the bench for Veth.”

“Indeed,” Caduceus drawled pleasantly. “Apologies that I didn’t get it here yesterday, but Jester wanted to finish painting it.”

“And you’re Jester?” Beau asked, turning her gaze to the Tiefling, who was still beaming.

“Yep!” Jester chirped, heavily accented voice bright and saccharine. “It’s nice to meet you. Where should I put this?”

Beau took a moment to admire the way Jester had yet to break a sweat while holding the bench before pointing behind the bar.

“That’s Veth on the stool there. You can get it set up against the counter. Need any help?”

“Nope!” Jester waved Beau’s offer away amicably. “I’ve got it!”

Beau watched Jester flounce over to the bar with more ease than Beau would have thought possible. She watched Veth blink over the bar at Jester’s enthusiastic greeting. Though Beau could only see the Halfling’s eyes, she saw the exact moment the motherly fondness took over.

“She’s my roommate,” Caduceus’ timbre drew Beau’s attention back to him. “Since you were wondering.”

Beau distinctly recalled not voicing that question out loud, but she had learned after a few conversations with the guy to not get into it. He was scarily perceptive and had a tendency to answer questions before being asked. Molly and their attempt at fortune telling could only hope to be so in tune. They had tried their hand at it a month or two ago, and while they embellished the readings enough to fool a few people, Beau saw through it entirely. She was very familiar with the way Molly kept their bullshit just vague enough to be passable.

“It’s colorful,” Beau commented, watching as Veth dragged her stool back around to the outside of the bar so Jester could set the bench down and get it into place.

“Yeah,” Caduceus agreed with a hint of pride in his tone. “She’s a great artist, you know. Paints all over the city.”

Beau took a moment to wonder why she hadn’t heard of such a famous artist before remembering that she wasn’t exactly an astute member of the art community. She shrugged and nodded in reply, finding nothing else to say. Caduceus—to his credit—didn’t seem to mind her silence and instead turned his attention to observing the rest of the bar. Beau stood with him for another few moments before making her way to Veth and Jester.

“How’s it feel?” Jester asked Veth eagerly as the Halfling climbed atop the sturdy new bench. “Do you like it?”

“It’s very nice,” Veth’s pitched voice came from behind the mask, sounding satisfied. “I can walk the length of the bar now, too.”

Peering over the bar top, Beau nodded approvingly. It was wide enough for Veth to traverse back and forth safely, but not so wide that Beau and Desmond would have to stretch uncomfortably to grab things on the counter. Caduceus had done a good job with it, and the paintings were rather detailed and unique.

“Is that flower supposed to look like a dick?” Beau asked, pointing at the curved, colorful flora painted across the top of the bench.

Jester’s delighted laughter was answer enough and Beau decided rather quickly that she liked this Jester girl. Judging from the look in Veth’s eyes, Beau figured the Halfling woman had come to the same conclusion.

“Oh! Caddy you brought it!” Molly’s voice sounded from across the bar. A glance over her shoulder showed Beau that Molly and Yasha had emerged from the door near the back that lead up to their apartment above the bar. Beau had exactly three seconds to admire Yasha’s fitted top before Molly swept up to the bar beside her and stole her attention back to the current conversation.

Molly, with elbows locked as they leaned up and over the bar top to stare delighted at the bench, grinned with glee at the Firbolg.

“This is perfect! What do I owe you for it?”

“Nothing,” Caduceus waved the query away as Molly dropped back down to the floor. “Our partnership is more than enough. I’m just glad I could help.”

Molly simpered a look at Caduceus and moved to wrap around his arm, looking like an overlarge child clinging to their parent. Beau tried and failed to hide a snort behind her hand, earning herself a middle finger from Molly.

“You’re too kind to me, Cad,” Molly said, sounding far too sincere for how childish they looked. “At least let me offer you food or drinks on the house. Aren’t ya always talkin’ about how feeding your friends is an act of love?”

“That’s fair, I suppose,” Caduceus chuckled, giving Molly a gentle pat on the back. “Though, Jester helped, too.”

Said Tiefling’s head popped up from where she had been giggling about something on the bench with Veth. Given Veth’s prickly reception of Beau and the other employees, Beau found herself a little surprised that the Halfling woman seemed so at ease with Jester already. But the blue Tiefling threw a sweet grin to Molly, and they practically melted on the spot. So Beau was seeing a pattern here.

“Do you have any pastries?” Jester asked eagerly, leaning against the counter, eyes sparkling.

“Not at all,” Molly said cheerfully, coming over to the bar to grab Jester’s hands before she could pout too much. “But you’re so positively adorable, I’ll make sure we get some just for you.”

Beau shook her head with an amused quirk of her lips as Molly lead Jester into the kitchen, the pair chatting amicably as they went. Caduceus leaned over the far end of the bar to look down at the bench and ask Veth a few more questions about how it felt, if it needed adjusting, or anything extra added on.

Elbows propped on the bar, Beau fought against a yawn and failed, ending up muffling it against her shoulder as her eyes watered with the force of it. She groaned to herself, mentally calculating how many hours she had left until she could go to sleep.

“You seem tired,” Yasha’s quiet voice spoke up from beside Beau, startling her.

“Jesus, you’re quiet,” Beau hissed, turning to look at the other woman. She spoke up again before Yasha could apologize or comment on Beau’s jumpiness, hurrying from one sentence to the next. “It’s fine, I’m always tired.”

Yasha’s eyes narrowed slightly at her, not maliciously, but still leaving Beau feeling just a little too fidgety.

“You weren’t on the schedule tonight.”

“Nah, Desmond called out for a date. I don’t mind, though. Not like I had plans,” Beau said easily, like she wasn’t fighting bone deep exhaustion after a grueling week of classes in the dojo and at school. Rolling her neck to hear it give a satisfying pop, she sighed and flicked a look at Yasha, who was still watching Beau.

“I’m behind the bar with Veth tonight,” Beau said, just to fill the quiet. She hated being stared at like that, even if it was Yasha. “So you’re on your own at the front. But let me know if you need help, yeah? I think Veth could manage on her own for a few minutes if you need me.”

Yasha opened her mouth, hesitated, closed her mouth and chewed at her lip for a brief second before just nodding. Beau watched her push off the bar and head out front, hands buried deep in the pockets of her signature jacket. She wasn’t sure what Yasha had been about to say, but it left Beau wondering with a fierce desire to chase after her and make Yasha say it. But things like that had never worked on the other woman, so Beau heaved a sigh and moved around to the back of the bar.

Something in her gut told her it would be a long night.

#writing #my writing #qoq #cr #critical role #m9 #the mighty nein #caduceus clay #jester lavorre #mollymauk #yasha #beauregard lionett #veth brenatto #nott the brave

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kunrendeotaku · 3 years

Text

Chapter 13

“Ughh. You’re right. I’m an awful princess.” Star slumps against a rail separating one half of the restaurant from the other, waving her empty cup in her hand. “Just like today, I can never get what I’m supposed to do right. If I do remember my lessons, it's always exactly the wrong ones.”

I lean against the rail next to her and pat her shoulder, then shrug. A bit of self reflection will be good for her, I don’t actually want my city burning to the ground after all. “Hey. Maybe you’re a bit of a screw up. But that just means you have to keep trying, and more importantly, it's what lead you here. We wouldn’t have the chance to hang out like this if you’d never had to be sent to Earth.” Much as my day hasn’t been the best, I’d trade massive highs and massive lows for the stagnant boredom of my usual life any day. Fight a demon, lose your hair, fun and despair all nicely paired together. Doesn’t change the fact I plan to mourn Rodrigo properly later tonight, but it helps get my head straight with the idea of Star altogether-rainbows and fire, amazingly wonderful but definitely going to get me horribly killed one day. I… like it a little too much.

“Aww. That's so sweet. You’re right! I just have to do my best, and listen to my Earth guide. Speaking of which… why are we carrying around empty cups??” Star tilts her head, bright blue eyes clouded with confusion. Perfect timing, she’ll be distracted by the drink machine for sure.

I walk us on over towards the machine in question, thinking that after that little detour our food will likely be ready by the time we finish off with the machine. “Behold! A soda dispenser. You just hold your cup against one of these levers, and carbonated sugary deliciousness comes out! This one here is for ice.” I quickly demonstrate by filling up my cup with ice and root beer, all the while noticing how wide Star’s eyes are.

“It… is it free? How do people not come in and just drink all of it?” I was wondering if she had any real concept of money. I guess she did have some economics lessons sink in during childhood, though I doubt she did much small money purchases as a princess.

“Ah! You see, that’s the ingenious part. We buy our -cups-! You can’t bring in your own cups or you get in trouble, so you fill up these empty ones we bought.” I flick my still lidless paper cup to show my point.

Star just responds with a roll of her eyes. “Is that all?! Anyone could cheat that! Look, look, I can do this super easy.” The crazy girl twists her head to the side and slams the side of her face into the various levers used pushed for soda, holding her mouth wide open. Immediately a small river of three different colors and kinds of soft drink pour onto her face. She doesn’t seem to care at all, other than a twitching eye from a stream of mountain dew pouring directly onto it.

Lord save me from the shenanigans of this idiot. I take a few moments to allow myself the brief stress relief of a face palm, Star giggling all the while as she glugs perhaps a third of the diet coke heading for her mouth. The rest, of course, just soaking my new exchange student’s head and upper body. Once appropriately facepalmed, I yank Star away from the soda fountain by the back of her dress and just glare at her.

She giggles nervously upon seeing my look. “I, uh, guess that's against the rules too?” I give the girl no answer for the moment, as I am too busy grabbing an absolute mountain of paper towels.

“Hold still.” I order her, before beginning to wipe her down. I swear that it feels sometimes like I’m already a parent. My mother can be a messy eater as well, and it stresses me the hell out to the point where I used to carry a handkerchief around all the time just for cleaning up any messes on her, though after one particularly grueling summer of training I disabused her of the habit enough that I no longer bother to carry one. Perhaps I should start doing so again.

I find myself thinking how odd her cheek marks are. I thought they were stickers at first, perhaps magical ones considering how they sometimes changed to reflect her emotions, but now that I’m wiping her cheeks I can clearly feel they are just her skin. She looks a bit uncomfortable at the vigorous scrubbing of her face and neck, but one look at my face convinces her that escaping me when I’m in my mothering mode is a terrible idea. I dry off what I can of her hair next, but that will likely be damp and sticky for a while.

For whatever reason, she blushes deeply when I dry off the front of her dress. Maybe the soda had started to stick and felt uncomfortable, I dunno. Ignoring her cherry red cheeks and the fact that she appears to be considering hitting me now instead of being just uncomfortable, I brush my hands off and declare “Passable. The art of cleaning is one not practiced well enough by people. If I had some wet wipes you’d be good as new, but we’ll have to be satisfied with adequate.”

Star glances towards the floor, muttering “Turnabout's fair play, I guess?” before simply shrugging and letting the tension out of her shoulders with a sigh. I’ve got no clue what she means by that, but I blame Janna. She glances back towards the soda fountain and stretches out her empty cup this time, bless her soul. She starts by grabbing some ice that quickly goes into her mouth to help chill out the blush on her cheeks. A crunching noise sounding out nearly throws me into a full on return of the rant I had on our first meeting, but I manage to just barely keep it in. Ice is bad for teeth, but not even normal humans usually care.

“C’mon Star, get something. I think we’re holding up the line.” I look behind me to see a number of impatient people who were rather unamused to be held up by our antics at the soda fountain. Thankfully Star avoids the dilemma of deciding what to choose by filling up her cup with a bit of every single type of soda. Snapping on the plastic caps for both our cups and grabbing a pair of straws goes relatively smoothly after that, after which I lead us to a booth. They’re just more comfortable than tables, you know? Even if we only have a couple people.

“This. Is. Amazing.” Star is absolutely sucking down her soda, the joys of carbonation or perhaps simply her straw made clear by the sparkling of her eyes. I’m not sure which, I still haven’t pinned down the exact technology level of her old dimension, but it seems vaguely medieval. “It’s tingly like magic potions, but instead of swamp water and magic it takes like sugar water! Best thing I’ve tried on Earth yet, hehehe.” She snags a seat on one side of the booth and slides up against the wall, then glances up at me curiously when I don’t follow her.

“If you think that's good, just wait til you try nuggets with their sweet and sour. Absolutely divine.” I kiss my fingers like what I imagine a food gourmet or chef might, then giggle a bit. “I’ll be right back, I figure our food is ready by now.” A quick run to the counter and back, and our wonderful meal of boxes of nuggets and fries is ready to be served. Naturally, I slide into the other side of the booth across from Star and get ready to dig in. Before I can touch a single bit of food, however, Star holds up a hand with a squint in her eyes.

“Waaaait.” I blink, then my new exchange student dips down under the table. I hear several crashes, bangs, and weird curses. Standard stuff for when I don’t have my eyes on her. Next thing I know her face pops up between my knees. More than a little awkward to have her that close to my crotch, but the pure oddity of her behavior helps to avoid more than a slight blush on my cheeks. “Oh, whoops! Almost got it, hehe.” She disappears back down under the table before popping up right next to me and plopping into the seat with a smug look.

“If you wanted to sit next to me, you could LITERALLY have just stood up and walked around.” Her continued refusal to take the easy way to do anything still baffles me. I notice she’s also managed to pick up another layer of dirt and grime all over herself, and at least three pieces of chewing gum in her hair. Is it actually impossible for her to stay clean for more than five minutes at a time?

“Life is an adventure Marco! You should try it sometime. Besides, if I hadn’t gone over there I wouldn’t have found...THIS!” A muscular arm disappears into her huge mass of hair before ripping out a piece of gum I hadn’t spotted before. “It's squishy and smells like sugar!” I swear my hand has never snapped out faster than in the moment I realized she was about to toss the old gum into her mouth. Whip crack quick the chewing gum is slapped out onto the floor.

“Star! Oh my god, don’t freaking eat things off of the floor! Or the bottom of the table! Or other weird places!” My voice shakes in horror. How had she survived until now? Even now she looks more upset about her stinging fingers and lost treat than the fact she had almost committed suicide by bacteria. I feel the urge to lecture rising sharply in me, and only the threat of our food going cold stops me from doing so. I cut things short with an almost growled “We’ll discuss this later. Now eat your lunch, young lady!”

#svtfoe #star vs the forces of evil #rating: mature #marco diaz #fanfiction #fanfic

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

Text

Pacify Her (Chase Collins AU) (Sneakpeak)

Lemon oneshots that inspired me to create this into a series: Part 1 Part 2

Characters: (18+) SugarBaby!Sub!Chase Collins x You

Overview: Your life has been full of conceit, deceit and malfeasance. Born with a golden spoon in her mouth, Y/N has her life with burdens weighing on her shoulders. With men crawling before her and only one purpose in their minds, it was to be the successor on the wealth that she and her family had. Little did the fellows know, she was married and was one manipulative, ruthless, wealthy dame and she knew one man's plan if she sees fit.

Thus, her mindset didn't phase one mischievous, cunning and obscure man who had his coverts kept where humans couldn't bother to even know because it was too atrocious to start.

One man who had a dour heart who'll manage to corrupt you in the most sinful way. Though, he didn't know that the wickedness he had would bind with yours. He was different among the flocks of men, literally and philosophically because he certainly didn't mind the sins which will soon live upon you both. Those sins that would eat you both alive.

Chase Collins is your evil, witchy, baby boy. The only baby boy you owned, wanted and cared about.

Therefore, he had no right to leave.

Warning: Sugar baby content, infidelity, filthy AF, There’s a lot? of? dirty ass smut in this whole series (ISTG), Toxic relationship. Reader's one toxic bitch. (18+) This can be quite dark? Hehehe? SUB CHASE COLLINS! I don’t even know if that’s considered a warning? Hehehhe.

A/N: I’ll be creating a Masterlist for this once I finish writing the 1st chapter for this series of mine. Tell me what you think about this! I just wanted to try and see if y’all will like this! Send me an ask if ya’ wanna be included in the taglist!

Disclaimer: GIF'S and PNG'S aren't mine, however the whole one shot and edits are rightfully mine to begin with.

Scourging sounds of mirth deafening the stillness inside the elevator where you were both trapped in. Amidst of the discussion running between the both of you. He needed sanitation. You both needed sanitation, cleansing, stabilization because of what has happened between your dueling. You, together needed some psychological help with all the toxicity fuming inside your fiendish ambitions and regimens.

It was an entire blackout, the thought of a sudden sombre in the daylight was doubting you that he had to do with this. The ire he was spitting out of his mouth proves you why he certainly controlled the power of your building because he was in wrath.

Chase Collins was in an outrage because you had everything wrapped around your finger. Even him and it wasn't supposed to be that way because it should've been the other way around.

Yet, he didn't regret cowering before you like a child whom was scared of his own mother because he was actually one in your life and he planned to be.

"I didn't know you had a husband," He spoke lowly and tauntingly as he caged you in his arms, his words were like vile to his heart because he sounded ruined, shattered and under fire. He wasn't supposed to be like this, he was supposed to be heinous, infernal and substantial but it seemed like the world rolled on the ground and now you were on top, the one who had the last laugh and it was maddening him to the fullest.

You let out a ear-screeching giggle, jesting him till he would detonate. Chase's jaw clenched from the sound because he still felt the need to hug you and for you to cuddle him back. Treat him like he was your baby.

It's because its true. He's your baby boy. The only one whom you've risk your marriage with.

Hence, you were his little secret where he could find solace in the midst of his monstrous abnormality of trying to be human.

"Yet, you knew I had a girlfriend and you tried your best to ruin us, me." His voice was shaking from anger, wanting to laugh in spite of the betrayal he was feeling. You were supposed to be crying because his resentment should fear you, though all those anguish felt like everything was falling in your hands and in the right time.

He hated you for looking so vindicated, small and almighty when being guiltless should be the least of what you looked like.

Nonetheless, he would still cave in because it was you.

"What's there to ruin when its already ruined in the first place, Chase." Your euphonious voice, he remembered how soughing it had been and it's still there and he hated you for it again because he couldn't stop the way he felt for you and it was breaking his strong facade apart.

"You made me break up with her," the lights to the elevator turned on and off as he emphasized his words with gritted teeth, getting a glimpse of his ruddy face that was making you feel a little weird, a fathomable feeling forming in the pit of your stomach and you were quick to grab onto his black tie that was hanging out of his coat. He stiffened and you grinned against the darkness surrounding you both.

"I didn't," you stood on your tippy toes, warm breath fanning his ears, giving him a weird feeling of just taking you up inside the elevator for all he wants as he was controlling the whole blackout situation. He could hear the jocularity slipping with your words and it was driving him insane.

He was insane.

A witch has always been insane. Psychopathic. Or maybe it was only him?

"You made the choice all by yourself, I'm not the bad guy here. I'm just a giver, your confidante, the only person who could support you in this life you have. I literally give you everything, Baby. Every, damn, thing." your words came out as seething. The mouth against his ear scratching his earlobe that could make him kneel before you. Kneel before the queen as he sees it fit.

He would. For you. Only for you.

You continued your little twitting, the smug grin never leaving your face. "You want me to leave my husband? Is that what you want to be, baby? A homewrecker?"

Chase's lips formed a thin line, tightly biting half of his lips in between his gritted teeth because no matter how bad that sounded, it seemed the only thing possible to say. It was the truth, he was because he was your baby boy. The latter could feel his diabolic state of mind roaring in the back of his brain. It wasn't like he had never been insidious. He still is, especially with what happened a month ago.

Burning.

The barn.

Caleb.

Ipswitch.

His two-month ex-girlfriend.

The will to have that power..

"I do," Your baby boy murmured as the lights to the elevator was flicking on and off in the most chilling way. You've stared up at him, eyelashes fluttering like a cherub watching behind the clouds. He hated you, still. Albeit, the hate he felt was actually adoration, passion or love if humans may call it.

Chase Collins never felt so much connected towards a human before and he loved it. He loves you, yet he also hated you at the same damn time.

"I'm your homewrecker, as long as I'm the only one," At long last, the lights finally flickered on. The brightness making you squint your eyes shut before you were met with a pair of black ones which should trigger you to run to the hills because he was showing you who he was.

Strangely enough, you were more drawn to him than any other woman would. Not even his ex-girlfriend would accept him, only you because you already knew him deep down. His secrets, his mysteries and the certain blood that runs inside his glorious body.

He was a witch. He was one of those warlocks and the thought never bothered you ever because you accepted him. You still wanted him despite of it.

"Let me be the one to ruin your marriage," his smile was sinister, like a diabolical plan was about to unleash. "I can be anything you want, Mistress."

He roughly snatched the tie off your hands, blinking in the process as his once black eyes turned to normal. A fiery gold outline flashing around the blackness of his eyes before consuming the normality of what color he wanted. Now, the hues of his baby blue eyes sparkling against the lights of the lift ignited a beam out of you. You had him on the rocks. You were his. It should end up that way. It always does. The latter's fingers straightaway went up to the first button beneath his collar, hastily unbuttoning with heedful need as the elevator never moved its spot. Chase being the one to control the lights to the lift you had and you definitely knew why. The boy knew you all along.

"Ruin me if you must, my evil miss muffet."

Despite of the depravity you were both feeding off each other, together you laughed as though the perniciousness was making you both satisfied with your lives.

My divider is contrasting with the content of this post of mine. HAHAHAHHA Fook me, Chase--I mean. Yeah. You get what I mean. Gosh, this is so wicked. Y’all gotta throw me in a bucket of holy water. 🤣🤐🤣😎🤣

XOXO,

TATA (SEBASTIAN’S POTATO BITCH)

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gerbiloftriumph · 4 years

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The Size of Hope

(also on ao3)

Mordon isn’t certain what to make of the fairy tale king his goblin friends captured, and King Graham has no idea what to make of the huge and clumsy goblin who keeps running into his path. The two warily team up, but neither one belongs in the goblin kingdom, and some pain runs deeper than either expects.

(Gen canon-expansion fic putting scrapped fragments from the subtitle file back into the game. Full fic warnings: bruising, canon-typical violence, self-hatred, abuse, Goblins Do Not Make Good Friends)

~*~*~

3/5

(1: Seen)(2: Found)(3: Buried)

~*~*~

Some of the castle tunnels could carry sounds quite far, Graham realized. It made him uneasy. He could hear all sorts of things as they walked. He could hear low murmurs of other goblins (hopefully far away), could hear water dripping down and splashing into hidden underground pools, could hear the chittering chirp of those glowing salamanders as they scampered over walls. He was aware of how his boots rang against the stone, like that noise could pin him down as something that didn’t belong.

It perhaps wasn’t surprising that he heard the voice, then, since he was listening so carefully to shifting shadows. The voice itself, though, that was surprising, and he stopped, heart pounding in his throat.

Was that…Manny?

Positively inconceivable. Absolutely not. And yet. And yet, Graham had always known Manny had something to do with the kidnapping, hadn’t he? Or at least, suspected it, and this might be the proof he needed. He didn’t know why Manny would be here, didn’t know who he would be talking to, but it was certainly his lilting voice, coy and snide and manipulative, echoing gently along this side tunnel. Mordon and Graham had just passed it—it wasn’t on the way to the goblin king, it wasn’t important, but suddenly Graham very much wanted to see what was on the other end of it.

He glanced at Mordon. Suppose Graham did find Manny in these tunnels. Suppose he did confront him. This might be his only chance to do so, assuming Manny was really here and Graham wasn’t just imagining things. But if Mordon was with him, if Mordon saw Manny, if Manny had wrapped the goblins in that deceitful web of his…things could go wrong, fast.

Graham didn’t want Mordon to have to choose between loyalties. Especially because Graham thought he would probably lose that fight.

And, quietly, he wanted to keep Mordon as far away from Manny as possible anyway. He felt a curious need to keep the little (okay, not so little) goblin from that treacherous knight and his lies. Silly, perhaps. But if there was a chance their paths hadn’t crossed before, there wasn’t any reason to subject Mordon to that sort of manipulation.

Right. That’s an easy decision. Give it up, Graham. You’ve got more important things to worry about. Your friends need you. The Feys won’t make it another day and you know it. Find the king. Don’t get distracted. Find the king.

But…but hearing that voice had sent a horrible crackle down his spine. Made him think of things lost.

Wouldn’t seeing Manny be proof enough? He wouldn’t need to confront the knight, he would just need to see. And then he would know. The not knowing was the problem. Graham couldn’t act on a suspicion, not even against Manny: he couldn’t live with himself if he was somehow wrong. The question of who would do this to him, who would try to kill him in such a cruel, calculating way—he had to know.

Decision made.

“Stay here,” Graham said. “I’ll be right back.”

“What?” Mordon looked startled, even with the mask. Horrified, even.

“Stay here,” Graham repeated. “I’ve got to do something. I’ll be right back.”

“You…you’re leaving me?”

“Just for a minute.”

“No!” Mordon’s hands clawed at his helmet, like he was going to rip it off, before dropping them again.

“Mordon….” Oh, no, what have I done, he’s going to jump me, this is it, I’ve ruined everything.

“No one wants Mordon. Everyone always leaves.” Mordon was choking back tears, and he curled into himself even further, smaller and smaller, and his arms were covering his head like he was being attacked. “I am always left. No one wants me. I…I’m a monster.”

“Oh! Oh, no, no, that’s not it,” Graham said, relief slumping his shoulders. He tried that smile, the smile that Mordon seemed to like so much, and he knelt at Mordon’s level. He deserves better. “Mordon, it’s okay. Stay calm. I don’t think you’re a monster. You’re helping me, and I appreciate that, really. I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right back.”

“Promise?” Mordon snuffled.

“I promise.” Without thinking, he reached out and touched Mordon’s bruised arm, the lightest of affirmations, and then he turned and hurried down the side tunnel, leaving the goblin stunned and silent and alone.

~*~*~

Somehow, being alone added a whole new level of stress. Graham padded cautiously down the hall, pressed as close to the wall as possible. At least with Mordon, they could have pretended like he was being escorted somewhere by a guard. Now, though, it was abundantly clear that he was escaping.

The tunnel felt deserted. He couldn’t hear his “best friend” anymore. Maybe Manny had left, or had never been there in the first place, and this was a fool’s errand. He pushed on, wary of every soft sound.

The pale colors of the illuminated salamanders and mushrooms started to give way to a warmer, more familiar sort of light. Flickering torchlight brightened the tunnel with each step, until he found himself at the entrance to a library. Empty of anything but books and stories. Long banners hung from the shelves with illustrations from favored tales.

He was disappointed and desperately relieved at the same time.

In the center of the room stood a pedestal with what seemed like a special book on it. It was marked as some sort of prize winner, and Graham, after considering his options, stepped forward to have a look, curious about what goblins would treasure so highly.

He was startled to realize that he recognized it. When he had first been captured and brought into this underground kingdom, he had stood before some goblin in a rather impressive hat (a goblin Graham suspected might be more important than he’d assumed at the time). The goblin had compared Graham to this book—compared the real king of Daventry to the little illustrated king.

Idly, Graham flicked pages, skimming the story. He thought he recognized pieces of it. It described a kingdom overrun with rats, and a useless king who did nothing but make wishes to get rid of them without looking for any real solutions. And when a solution magically appeared, the town made eager promises to their savior and then failed to deliver on any of them. Justifiably, the whole village was magically stolen away by the piper with an enchanting flute….

Graham remembered the flute playing goblin.

He could picture the goblin standing on the rooftops of Daventry’s town, trilling and dancing like the piper in the illustrations. He wouldn’t forget it in a hurry—that goblin had cracked the flute over Graham’s head during the kidnapping. And here, the same flute, played during a similar kidnapping.

He gaped at the page, at the illustrated villagers vanishing into the caves. This person looked like Bramble. That one might be Chester, in the right light. And the one over on this page was wearing what could be Amaya’s blacksmithing apron. His stomach dropped, and he felt a clammy chill crawl across his skin.

With a shaking hand, he turned back to the front of the book, to the title page he had cheerfully ignored just a minute ago.

Written and illustrated by…Manny.

“Once, in a town just like the one you’re imagining, there was a beautiful castle that stood high on a hill.”

Graham’s hand curled into a fist.

Manny had known exactly what to do, had written a story with just enough injustice to incite the story-obsessed goblins to action. Of course they would want to play out this story, this entertaining tale, and punish the sly villagers who didn’t respect the piper.

And Manny wouldn’t have to do a thing once this story was written. He could sit back and watch as the goblins had their fun. And, to them, it was fun. Graham had seen dozens of examples of playacting by now. Even though they took it completely seriously, even though they hoped some magic would flourish and the frog would transform into a prince, it was still a game. He was still just a toy.

And if they forgot to feed their toy—or, more accurately, if someone broke the food supply line—the goblins wouldn’t notice or care. Graham was a character to tip out of a box and throw away when they got bored. Like the goblin they’d locked in a room to play Rumpelstiltskin until he could spin straw to gold, that poor skeleton he’d found hidden away and forgotten with nothing but a rusted spinning wheel and a towering pile of hay. Not flesh and blood to goblins in the midst of their play. Magic and words.

He closed the book with a thump. So, Manny was fighting with stories.

I can do that, too. I’m good at telling stories.

A story got them in this mess. A story might get them out again.

But he needed to be sure he could do it right. That he could weave the same magic that the goblins loved so much. He went to the shelves. If these books were elevated, kept here in a royal library, they were probably best to replicate as he spun his own. He’d only have one chance at this.

He was still feeling jangled and raw, so when he pulled out the first book and found it had nothing to do with fairy tales, he swore. He didn’t have a lot of time, and a book detailing various goblin pranks was hardly useful. He glanced at some illustration of baby swapping between humans and goblins, and angrily dropped the book, desperate to find something more helpful. Changeling stories were not what he wanted.

Changeling stories. He stomped across the room, muttering under his breath as he searched for something more useful than changeli—

He froze.

Changeling stories.

If Mordon would stand up straight…

Graham whirled, cloak swirling around him. The book had fallen open to that drawing of a human and a goblin exchanging places. His heart was pounding so hard in his ears that he almost didn’t notice the sounds of approaching goblins, but at the last possible instant he realized he was about to have company. He could hear the squeak of a door opening somewhere in the room. (What door? The room didn’t have a door, did it?)

There wasn’t time to get the book. He dove behind a reading desk, hands pressed over his mouth, cloak wrapped around his knees, out of sight and silent. He hoped.

Goblin footsteps were light and quick. Their leather-wrapped feet made practically no sound on the stone floor as they walked, but their stone armor made some scraping noises so he could sort of track where they were in the room.

There were multiple goblins, he thought. At least two.

This is it. I’m going to be caught.

They were coming closer to his hiding place. They were talking happily amongst themselves, and then they were suddenly silent, and Graham thought, Zards, they know something’s wrong. They’ve seen something. I’m dead. And if he was dead, his friends were, too. They wouldn’t get out of this, and he hadn’t even had a chance to try.

Someone leaned against the desk.

He pressed his hands harder against his mouth. He didn’t dare breathe. Everything seemed completely frozen, except for his heart, which wouldn’t stop racing. It was going to give him away: they would hear it thundering in his chest, how could they not…?

And then they were walking away, laughing again. They meandered down the hall, pushing each other and tripping each other and causing trouble.

Hours passed—or, more likely, a minute or two—before Graham eased himself from his hiding place. He inhaled sharp and desperate, lungs aching, knees like jelly, dizzy and weak and pathetic. He couldn’t make himself stand yet. He willed his nerves to calm again, feeling the ghostly imprint of his own fingertips where he’d pressed them against his cheeks.

He noticed the room was different—subtly, in a way he might not have noticed were he not sitting still. He blinked, shook his head, focused. Realized. When he’d entered the library, he’d been sure it was a dead end, but now he could see that one of the bookcases was slightly ajar—a secret door, like that out of a mystery story. Just open a crack, barely noticeable. The goblins had probably meant to close it behind them but hadn’t pressed hard enough.

And the book about the goblin pranks, the changeling story, was no longer on the floor. Not back in its place on the shelf. Gone with the goblins, and Graham wondered if he’d seen it in the first place or if his nervous mind, twisted up with stories and ideas, had conjured it from nowhere and taken it away again.

Briefly, selfishly, he wished it was the latter. But the secret sat in his gut, gnawing his empty stomach. A shroud of stone. A size that didn’t fit.

And that…that…

I need to get back to Mordon, he thought. But...what can I possibly say? What if I’m wrong? What might he do? What can I do?

Manny might still be here. Might be down that secret tunnel. Graham’s initial reason for coming down this path was still viable. And the delay might also give him the time to find the words he needed. He risked losing everything here, he knew. Every step he took could lead him to safety. Or to something deadly. Lives were depending on him making the right choice. Not getting distracted, not taking unnecessary risks. Bramble, Wente, Amaya, Chester, Muriel, the Merchant, Mr. Fancycakes, and now…

Now someone else might need him, too.

#King's Quest #King Graham #kings quest #fic'ing #mordack #ch2

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izaswritings · 4 years

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Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis: Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: blood, violence, and death (NOT any of main characters), injury, some cursing, references to past character injuries, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here.

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

Previous chapters are here.

Chapter III: The Puppet

As the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing.

It was a song unlike any other, a melody created on a whim for this lovely woman and her lonely dance. For a single moment the song hung in the wind as the woman twirled upon the seas; for a single moment they were in harmony, and all the world held its breath at the sight.

Then the stranger realized what had happened, and froze upon the raging waters. At last, for the first time, she saw the Sun. Her dance stilled; the song, too, fell silent. In an instant their eyes met.

The Sun reacted first, an apology rising to her lips—but it was too late. The stranger, frightened by her audience and her heart moved by the beautiful song she had so briefly witnessed, was overwhelmed and fled. The Sun reached out and cried for the stranger to stop, but already the woman had vanished away into the dark, gone as if she had never been.

And so it was that the beautiful Sun met the lovely Moon, and chased her away…

For the second time in under a day, Varian makes his way through the fields back to Port Caul.

It’s early, still, and the whole world reflects it: dew and frost weighing heavy on the long grass of the fields, the sky bright with the pale colors of sunrise. The clouds above, wispy and thin, are lined with a delicate gold; the breeze still carries the heavy chill of the midnight ice. Despite the misty night, the ground is frozen solid from frost. With each step, the iced greenery crunches underneath his worn boots.

Still struggling to wake up, Varian pulls the collar of his coat closer and shivers. The fields outside of Port Caul are endless and sprawling, and in the light of the rising dawn, near breathtaking. The far-off silhouette of the city is gilded by the sunrise, the blue buildings shining soft with a pearly glow in the creeping dawn. Despite the bite of cold and the frosted edges, there is something soft about it all—a winter tempered by coming spring, ice thawed to a chill, something brisk and fresh and clean.

It doesn’t make it any less fucking cold, though.

They must make quite a sight, the two of them, to any strangers who see them: the woman, Yasmin, older and stern, with short dark curls and a confident stride—and a boy, Varian himself, tripping behind her, ragged and worn and trying desperately to keep up.

“How much farther?”

To say Varian is exhausted is a gross understatement. He is bone-cold tired. Numb to the world. A walking dead in the making. His late night has done him no favors, and this long walk back through the twists and turns of Port Caul’s farmlands drains what little remaining energy he has. His mouth is dry and sickly, his head stuffed with cotton, his limbs heavy and shaking with fever chills. The winter sun burns down on the back of his neck, the sunshine bright and as piercing as ice. Before him the wide expanse of the world unfurls at his feet, the fields of the Port Caul countryside near infinite to his eyes. Every time he looks to the horizon, to that distant shadow of the city proper, he feels even more tired than before.

Farther ahead, Yasmin walks with sure strides, making a confident pace through the overgrown paths. Despite her age and small size, she is damnably spry. Varian, still lagging behind despite all his best efforts, squints blankly in the sun and hurries to keep up. It’s ridiculous. He’s barely a head shorter than her, so how does she keep getting so far ahead?

“Hello?” he tries, when she doesn’t answer right away. The exhaustion frays his already thin temper; his fatigue makes him bold. “…Are you ignoring me?” he asks, and frowns as he says it. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at that or not.

Yasmin, still a few paces ahead, heaves a very pointed and visible sigh.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Varian points out, refusing to be cowed. He’s tired, she’s a jerk, and he does not care about what she thinks of him. Not at all. Nope. He’ll be as rude and spiteful as he wants to be, damn it. “Seriously, how much farther?”

Yasmin gives another heavy sigh. “Until we reach the city.”

“…Seriously?”

“What, was that not funny? I thought moody teenagers were all about sarcasm.” Yasmin stamps the ground with her foot, crushing stray grasses flat. She doesn’t even bother looking back at him. “We will get there when we get there, boy, now stop asking and start walking. Bah, these roads are awful…”

Varian gives the distant horizon a desperate look. It is so far. “Why couldn’t we take a cart?”

“Because I do not own one, clearly.” Yasmin shakes her head. “Walking is good for you.”

“You sound like Adira.”

“Vexing though she may be at times, she is, unfortunately, also often right.” Yasmin pinches at the brow of her nose. “…We will reach the city in another half-hour or so, if we make good pace. May you cease pestering me now?”

Considering the fact they’ve already been walking for about two hours, Varian thinks he deserves to be put-out by that—but he bites back the rude comment rising on his tongue before it can slip free, and takes a moment to breathe. She’s awful, but he’s better than this—or, well, he’s trying to be—so Varian settles for a dark scowl at her back, instead.

Still. He is so bored with walking. He turns his scowl to the ground and kicks a pebble on the road with all his might, smacking it with all the anger and force he can muster. The pebble rolls three measly times and then gets caught in the grass. It’s barely moved an inch.

Typical.

Varian scowls harder.

He misses Ruddiger. He wishes he’d thought to run up and wake the raccoon before he left, but the rapid exit and Yasmin’s swiftly retreating figure had panicked him, and he hadn’t realized he’d left alone until they were already ten minutes down the road. Now Varian is stuck here with a stranger he doesn’t know and doesn’t like—with no raccoon to keep him company.

The day has only just started, and Varian is already certain it’s going to be a miserable one.

Which sucks, because it’s looking to be a lovely day—not a glimpse of clouds on the horizon, a day so blinding and bright it nearly hurts to look at. The sheer shine of the morning is so intense he almost expects a summer heat to match it, but in contrast the wind blows cold, bitingly numb against his exposed face. The grasses sway and bend in the breeze, the fields awash in dark green and winter blue, frost scalding the pebbled wagon road.

In any other circumstance, probably, the view would be beautiful. But Varian’s head is aching and his eyes are sore from lack of sleep, and so instead of appreciating the sight he rubs his bare hands together and shoves them in his sleeves, and thinks only of how goddamn grateful he is that he didn’t forget his coat, too, along with his raccoon.

“Chin up, boy,” says Yasmin, at his silence. “We will be there before you know it.”

Varian directs his bleary frown to her back. Easy for her to say. She barely looks bothered by the cold at all—is it that she’s used to it, Varian wonders, or is it that she’s just pretending to be unaffected to annoy him more? He… really wouldn’t put it past her.

Still, though, Varian knows better to speak those thoughts out loud. “Why are we even going to the market?” he asks, instead, curious despite himself. “And why do I have to be there?”

Yasmin doesn’t answer right away. Like Varian, she is dressed for the cold, in a long trench coat buttoned up to her neck and a heavy dress lined with fur; she tucks her hands in her sleeves and takes a moment to fuss over the fabric. “That is a rather layered question. I am not sure where to start. Let us say… Adira has somehow convinced me to help. Doubtless this is not what she meant, but she is paying me to do my job, not to listen to her. My help takes many forms. For Adira, it is information. For you?” She shrugs. “Market.”

“I don’t need help,” Varian snaps.

“Nonsense child. Who on earth taught you that silly lie? Everyone needs help. Do not take it personally—I still do not like you. This is not pity, or whatever your knotted mind has conspired. This is simply what I do. If it helps, you may consider my help as part of my job to you.”

…Varian doesn’t even know where to begin responding to that. “That’s…” He throws up his hands. “That doesn’t make sense! What even is your job?”

He gets another side-eye for that one. Yasmin scowls at him, her eyebrows drawn low and twisted. “…Let me guess. Adira did not mention that either?”

He stares at her. “No.” Obviously.

“Bah, of course she didn’t. Why do I bother?” Yasmin slows a bit, letting Varian catch up, and glances down at him. “I am… I am not sure how to explain this. I suppose I am something of a dealer of information, and of rare goods. I know many things, and can find a great many more things, and for the right prices I can be encouraged to share them.”

Varian frowns at her, mind whirling. “Like, an information broker? Or a spy?”

“Hm. You make it sound so ill-advised. But yes, both, that is about right.”

“…Isn’t that illegal?”

Yasmin blinks at him, slow and deliberate. “Yes,” she says. “But so says the wanted criminal.”

Varian turns red, and for a moment he thinks to argue—it’s not like he actively chose to become a criminal—except, well, maybe, yes he had, but…

He gives up. There’s nothing he can truly say against that, though he thinks he is starting to understand Yasmin a little better now. He doesn’t know much about spies or information dealers, just that they exist, but he imagines they tend to be pretty secretive. And if Varian really is a known wanted criminal to the rest of the world…

He turns his head away, not wanting to follow that train of thought any longer. “Is Ella, too—?”

“No.” Yasmin’s voice is curt and cold, shutting down the question before he can finish. “Ella is… she is not involved in my work, though she knows of it. She is a singer, actually. Perfectly legal.” For the first time, something of a smile touches her lips. “My dear wife can hold quite the tune.”

Well, okay. But something she’s said stands out to him. Varian frowns. “How do you know Adira, then?”

“Boy, for Moon’s sake. You have traveled with her for months. What about that woman makes you think she cares one lick for legality?”

Varian briefly flashes back to the last six months. Jumping carts, breaking into caravans, sneaking into cities guarded by soldiers who weren’t convinced by Adira’s sheer force of authority… yeah, no, stupid question. “Is that how you met her? Breaking the law?”

Yasmin snorts. “Nothing so grand. I met Adira through other circumstances.”

“What other circumstances?”

“Tsk. Question after question with you, isn’t it? Yet rarely any answers in return. This is why I despise scientists.” She rolls back her arm, an absent-minded stretch. “It is none of your business, frankly.”

His head drops. “I was just curious,” Varian mumbles, and at his side, his fists clench. He feels a little shamed. It probably was too rude a question, but—this is more than Adira has ever told him. For all of Yasmin’s prickly answers, they are answers.

Yasmin is quiet for a long moment. Then she mutters something, the words too low for Varian to catch, and raises her voice for him to hear. “We were… Adira and I came from a similar place, you could say. Running from the same thing. I always thought her plans foolish, but… well. What are friends for, if not to encourage foolish ideas?” Yasmin glances away. “Though I am beginning to regret that. I have been too accommodating, I think. But that is how I know her. I find her whatever strange item or legend she needs, and in return she keeps me updated on the comings-and-goings of whatever country she’s tromped through this time.”

“Oh.” Varian’s mind whirls, putting together the slim pieces he’d eavesdropped from Adira’s conversation with Yasmin just last night. Their talk of a kingdom… Adira’s frustration. Yasmin, her voice low, to Adira: The kingdom died twenty years ago for me and Ella, though I see for you the death is recent.

He’d known Adira was from the Dark Kingdom—it wasn’t exactly hard to guess, what with that stupid symbol on her hand and all—but for the first time, Varian looks at Yasmin and tries to imagine her there too. Yasmin, and Ella, and their little house in the fields… he thinks of the labyrinth, and the ruins he and Rapunzel found in the depths, and still cannot fathom it. Even for someone as prickly as Yasmin or Adira, it’s hard to picture anyone once calling such a desolate place home.

Unaware of his thoughts, Yasmin’s voice lowers to a mutter. “Of course, this arrangement works much better when she bothers to stay in touch. A little head’s up, a small warning, hello, Yasmin, sorry for the year-long absence, just letting you know I am not dead, and also I am forever grateful for your friendship and the many favors you do for me—” She cuts herself off and clicks her tongue. “Ah, never mind. But that is how it goes. In the end you are just another odd job she has thrown my way.”

Varian hums, distant, and the conversation drops into silence. He lowers his eyes and watches his feet, step after step after step. It’s easier than looking at the horizon. The sheer distance to the city is just starting to depress him.

“…That reminds me, actually,” Yasmin says, apropos of nothing. “I forgot to ask her, and Adira did not mention it—did she say anything to you about a flute, boy?”

Varian looks up, his face scrunching in confusion. “Um… what?”

“A flute.” Yasmin gestures, miming an object far longer than any instrument has a right to be. “Grand old thing, carved from amber, looks quite pretty in sunlight? Lovely music, curved a bit like a hook, so big it is frankly ridiculous? Loaded with religious importance? Took me months to find and secure? Yes? No?”

Varian stares at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he admits.

Yasmin’s lips thin. “I see.”

There is a beat of silence.

“If that woman has left my priceless religious artifact in that goddamn kingdom, I am going to strangle her with her sash,” says Yasmin, thoughtfully, and then she turns back around and marches on down the road without another word.

Varian hurries to catch up. Despite himself, and despite the wariness Yasmin still inspires, he finds his lips almost twitching in a smile, a vague sense of relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one Adira drives bonkers.

…He’s probably being a bit unfair to her, Varian thinks, with sudden flash of guilt. Adira isn’t that bad. She… she has helped him, in a way. Maybe not the way Varian wanted, or the way he expected, but she has. She’s tried to teach him fighting. She’s kept him clothed and fed and moving in these past six months. He thinks he should maybe thank her, at least for that. As frustrated as he is, Varian is—here. He’s here.

That simple fact means more, now, than it ever did before. After the labyrinth, Varian hadn’t… he hadn’t known what to do. Where to go. What next, or where to now, or even if he wanted that. He’d been free, but he’d been lost, too—and maybe Adira hasn’t given him the direction he wanted, but she has at least gotten him moving.

Varian’s smile fades at this thought. He looks down at his feet, throat suddenly tight. He remembers the way he snapped at Adira, barely a day ago, and squeezes his eyes shut. A headache pulses behind his temple. He—he should apologize, probably. Maybe. He doesn’t think he can, now, but maybe later… maybe if she apologizes first…

His thoughts drift. The wind picks up, a chill striking through him. Varian shivers under the layers of his coat and yawns into his elbow. He feels tired, worn, too aware for the exhaustion dragging at his bones—like the wind itself is all eyes, watching and waiting, boring into the back of his skull.

One step, then another, then again. The wind howls in his ears. The shadows stretch and warp in the sunlight. His heartbeat feels very loud, all of a sudden—like the droning thud of the drums of war, pounding like marching feet against his skull.

All at once, a sudden dread overcomes him. A chill that strikes down to his bones. Each step sends his stomach plummeting. His ears ring. He feels as if ice has been dumped down his back, and his breathing has gone shallow. His heartbeat is rapid-fire, faster than a bird’s.

Don’t go.

He steps toward the city. He moves through the fields. He walks.

Don’t go there.

His mouth is dry. His vision swims. With each step, his heart beats out of tune. Varian looks up in the direction of Port Caul, and thinks, for one blinding moment of clarity: You don’t want to be here.

“Are you alright?”

He startles, near-jumping out of his skin. Yasmin is frowning at him. She stands silhouetted against the sunrise, the shadows cast long and deep across her face. Her brow is furrowed. She is looking down at his right hand.

Varian follows her gaze. His hand is—he’s holding it, he realizes, he’s gripping it tight in a vice, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of his palm as if to burrow beneath the skin. It hurts. It hurts with a dull, solid ache, like pressing on a bruise.

As soon as he realizes this, Varian snaps his hand away. His veins feel tight and cold, stone under his skin. He blinks fast. “W-what?”

“Does your hand hurt?” Yasmin almost looks concerned, in her own irritated way. “This is the second time I have seen you do that. Is that why you cannot sleep?’

“That’s—I—I don’t know.” He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Varian hunches under the attention, and hides his hand behind his back. But even as he does it, his skin crawls, his right palm itching terribly. He has to fight not to claw at his skin. “How did you—wait, why does it matter if I can’t sleep?”

In the distance, the city looms closer than before—they are practically upon the city gates. The wall towers over him, a cold shadow, and beside them a horse and cart rumbles by through the wrought iron gates. The road, beneath his feet, has turned from soft crushed grass to actual paved stone. Varian’s head spins. How long had he blanked out for?

Yasmin scans him up and down, her brow knotted. “That is why we are here, of course,” she says, at last, looking a little reluctant at the shift in subject. “You said to me this morning you have issues with sleep, and I have little remedies for such in my house… so to the market we go.” Her lips press—but then she seems to let it go, shaking her head with a weary breath. “Well. If not an injury, then what is it? Can you not fall asleep, or is it that you cannot stay asleep?”

Varian scowls at the dirt path and stubbornly does not think of dark hallways and darker rooms, the moonlight streaming through the window. “Why does it matter?”

“I have agreed to help you, but I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.” Yasmin is scowling, but it is a distant thing, not directed at him. She looks vaguely frustrated. “I do not like you, I have made no secret of it; you dislike me too, and you have made no secret of that, either. This is fine. We do not have to like each other. But I have tried to be honest with you, thus far—so please, do me the favor of being honest with me.”

She is frank, she is annoying, she is a bladed voice and angry words—but she has told him more in one conversation than Adira has in months. And it is this honesty that makes Varian duck his head, but it is this truth that finally makes him admit it: for all that he dislikes her, Varian is terrified of the idea of continuing to face the dark alone.

Still. It is so hard to admit it, to put voice to the fears inside him. His words come out a teeth-clenched whisper. “It’s—it’s just—” He doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s just too dark.”

It’s shameful, almost. Childish, certainly. Varian is afraid of many things, but the dark, oddly, has never been one of them. He has always felt so secure in the science of the world that the monsters of myth had been dismissed as easy as breathing. And he still feels that certainty. He still feels utterly secure in the fact there is nothing in the closet, nothing under the bed. It’s just—

It’s just too dark, now.

It’s just too much.

“I see,” Yasmin says. Her voice is quiet too. Another cart rumbles by them, the creak of the wheels almost deafening in the silence. The murmur of voices and the rasp of the sea breeze drifts in from the city gates. Varian looks away from Yasmin and up at the gate, and shivers in the shadow. The whisper comes back to him again. Turn back. Go away. It’s not safe here.

“I see,” Yasmin repeats, and her voice breaks Varian from the spell. “Well then. Just to be sure—you are an alchemist, yes?”

Varian lifts his head, blinking echoes from his eyes. “U-um, yeah.”

“I do not own any alchemical equipment, but I have enough bobbles to get you by, I think, if you choose your ingredients wisely.” She turns to the gates and Varian follows, reluctant, as she pushes through the iron doors. “Come along, boy. In the end it may do little, but if darkness is your issue… then I recommend building yourself a light.”

Eugene leaves the castle that night.

His reasoning is simple: there’s no real reason to delay. Eugene has no desire to draw out this parting any longer than he has to. With his goodbyes to Rapunzel said and her letter weighing heavy in his vest pocket, Eugene returns to his allotted rooms and picks up the travel bags he hadn’t even bothered to unpack. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, but it’s best to be prepared.

That isn’t to say he rushes, oh no—Eugene takes his sweet time. It’s almost like planning a heist, in that way. The devil is always in the details, and Eugene considers details to be the most important step. Missing one crucial item in a theft can be deadly, and in a way, well… this isn’t all that different.

The preparations take him the rest of the day. In the hours following his talk with Rapunzel, Eugene repacks his bags and prepares to leave the castle behind. He chooses new clothes, picks up fresher food, slips in a few items he thinks will serve as a welcome gift for Lance. He finds the daggers he’d stashed away when he first moved in and hides away the finer cloths that would get him mugged five feet out from the castle walls. He has a job to do, after all—and for all that Eugene isn’t the most serious individual, he is most certainly a professional. Either he does this right, or he does this not at all… and doing nothing is no longer an option.

By sunset, he’s all ready to go. Eugene hides his belongings in one of the castle’s many nooks and crannies, goes to bother Maximus in his own silent way of saying goodbye—and, when the daylight has faded and the shadows cover his path, slips inside the guard barracks and goes to find Cassandra.

He finds her in her room, thankfully—he’s not sure he could sneak by her new post in the dungeons without being caught, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with that kind of drama right now. But his luck is holding true: he’s managed, from the sounds of things, to catch her right before she heads off for her post. Her door is half-open, the lock unlatched, and Eugene knocks on the wood frame with one hand as he toes the door open.

The room is as empty as his was; the evidence of an eight months absence. It’s cleaner than he’s ever seen it, no stray weapons lying about or anything, and her bed is made so well the cover corners look sharp enough to cut. For all that Cassandra served as a palace maid, and took her duties seriously, her own rooms are usually where she throws all tidiness out the window. This, more than the shadows under her eyes, tells Eugene all he needs to know. Apparently Rapunzel isn’t the only one with insomnia today. Cassandra probably hasn’t slept one wink since they got back yesterday morning.

She looks it, too. He’s caught her in the middle of preparing for her shift, armor half-on and hair an absolute bird nest. She’s always been pale, but today the pallor is almost ghastly, the shadows of her eyes rivaling even Varian’s. There’s a new scab on her lower lip, a wound never quite healed: she’s bit her lip hard enough to bleed.

Cassandra glances over at the open door, helmet in one hand like she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth trying to pry it over her bush of curls. It takes her a moment to realize he’s there, but as soon as she realizes her face twists in a scowl. Her glare is practically automatic, but whatever sting it might have held is dulled by the bloodless pall of her face.

“What do you want, Fitzherbert?”

Bad mood, then. The last name thing is always an indicator. Eugene’s lips thin. He’s not upset. He can’t even blame her. She looks…

She looks how he feels, really. What a mess. “Long day?”

Cassandra gives him a dirty look for that. Eugene winces. “Yeah, okay. Too soon?”

She throws the helmet on her bed, looking about to snap… and then sighs, her shoulders slumping. Her eyes squeeze shut. In the darkening sunset light streaming through her narrow window, the shadows under her eyes seem bright as bruises. “Sorry.”

Eugene snorts and leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s fine. You realize I’ve dealt with your prickly temper before, right?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha.” She rubs at her face and turns away, sitting down hard on the bed. “Still, sorry. I’m not… I just…” She shakes her head, her teeth gritting.

Eugene can only imagine. Demoted to prison duty, after once having been the top detail of the future Queen? It’s more than a slap on the wrist—it’s a bona fide royal punishment, and it’s going to give her a bad rep, too. And that would be bad enough, perhaps, but that she’s being punished because of the situation with Varian…?

Yeah. Yeah, no. There’s no good ending to that story.

They haven’t talked about Varian, really. They’ve barely said his name at all these past few months, beyond the whys and hows of his disappearance after the labyrinth. There is an understanding between all three of them—a looming fight that Eugene can almost taste in the air whenever the topic is broached, and all three of them have been ignoring the problem of Varian entirely rather than risk the argument it might spike. So while Eugene can’t say he knows how Cassandra feels about Varian… well.

He has a pretty good guess that it’s nothing good.

He doesn’t blame her; some days, Eugene feels much the same himself. His nightmares have come and gone these past few months, ebbing and rising like a tide, but though most are filled with dark stone and the knife-like smile of a terrible god, some are older still. A campfire, halfway burning. Arrows in firelight. The way Rapunzel fell back, the sound of her skull snapping against the stone, and most awful of all: that brief, terrible moment when he thought she’d never get up again.

He knows Cassandra dreams of much the same.

“It’s a bad situation,” Eugene settles on, finally. “As expected.”

“Being right about it doesn’t make it better, Eugene.”

“Uh, yeah, no. Yep. Bullseye on that.” He sags his weight against the doorway, heaving a sigh so heavy it makes his body sink with the sound. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, by gods, I sure didn’t miss this. Politics! Hah!”

The briefest hint of a smile curls at Cassandra’s mouth, almost reluctant. “Oh? And here I thought you liked the idea of being king.”

“Yeeeeeah, about that. Sneaky.” He points a warning finger at her. King, hah. It’d been Lance who’d finally told him how succession worked in Corona. Rapunzel gets crowned Queen—and Eugene, marrying into the family, would not be a king, but rather a Prince Consort. Which is a fine fancy title in its own right, but still. “When were you going to tell me that isn’t how it works?”

“When it was funny.”

“Oh-hoh! Fuck you.”

That pale smile flickers to a true grin. Eugene leans back against the door again, pleased with his work. “But seriously,” he says, humor fading to sincerity. “Things may seem like a shitshow now, but… It’ll blow over. Eventually.”

The grin fades. Cassandra looks away. “Sure.”

“Still sucks, though.”

She exhales hard, pointedly. “Eugene. Why are you here?”

This time it’s Eugene who looks away. He taps his fingers against his arm, the uneven rhythm of a bar song that’s been stuck in his head since winter began. His lips press in a thin line. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then pushes up against the doorway, bracing himself.

Well. No more stalling it, he supposes.

“I’m leaving.”

He senses rather than sees Cassandra go still. “...What?”

“I didn’t come here to get lectured,” he warns her, straightening up, finally meeting her eyes. She looks as furious as he expected. “I already told Blondie. I’m heading out tonight. If you need to get in touch, the Snuggly Duckling is your best bet.” He hesitates, then exhales heavy through his teeth. “Look, I—I get it. I know what you’re going to say. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I… I need to do this.”

“We just got back.” Cassandra’s voice is low. “Just got back, and with things as they are— and I can’t even see her— and you’re leaving her alone?”

“I can’t help her here.” Eugene tries to keep the words even, accusation-free, but he can’t quite keep the coldness out of his voice. He knows this already. He knows, and it's already eating at him, and he doesn’t need Cassandra digging in the knife. “I can’t— I won’t sit here and be useless.” Not again, he thinks, but he bites that part off behind his teeth.

Cassandra scowls at the ground. Her expression has turned dark.

Eugene looks away too, hating the knot in his gut. He rubs at his chin and sighs, leaning back heavy against the doorframe. “Besides,” he says, finally, trying to keep his voice light. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that whole ‘no-contact’ clause part of the punishment. This is Rapunzel we’re talking about. I’d bet good money she’ll find a way to break out of that room and into here in about… oh, three days. Tops.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“Well. It’s Rapunzel.”

Cassandra hums at that, tuneless. She still isn’t meeting his eyes.

Eugene holds back another sigh and shakes his head, dipping one hand in his pocket. “...I didn’t just come to say goodbye, either.” He draws Rapunzel’s letter from his vest, holding it out. “For you.”

She goes to take it, but Eugene pulls it back out of reach. “Cass, before you read it—”

She glares at him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eugene says, undeterred. “Not if you don’t want to. I know how much this job means to you.”

Something in the tone of his voice must get through, because her hand stills. She’s quiet for a long moment.

“…Will it help?”

He’s not sure how to answer that. “It’s something.”

“Then yes.” Cassandra meets his gaze, her expression tense. “I want to help.”

He thins his lips, but hands it over. He’s not sure what to make of the look on her face—the odd pinch to her eyes. Cassandra takes the missive warily, breaking the seal and scanning the page within seconds. Eugene watches her face, trying to put a name to what he sees there.

Cassandra’s expression doesn’t even twitch. After reading, she folds the letter carefully and lays it flat on her lap. With one hand, she rubs the corner of the parchment between her fingers, her eyes dark in thought.

“You understand, don’t you?” Eugene says finally. His voice is quiet. His eyes unwavering. A flash of clarity has struck him. “Standing aside, watching everything happen… I never want to be there again.”

At long last, Cassandra looks at him. She doesn’t move, but in this moment, he can finally read her. In this, he knows for sure. The labyrinth has left its mark on all of them, in its own way—and for the two of them, it has left the same scar. It has united them in the horror of being left behind and helpless.

Cassandra’s eyes drop. The anger has faded from her face—now, she just seems tired. “...I’ll look out for her.”

“She doesn’t need it, I think. But thanks. I hate the idea of leaving her alone.” Eugene straightens, waves one hand in a mocking salute. “Good luck,” he says, gentling into something genuine. “Cass.”

She meets his gaze again. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, and this time, it’s almost real. “You too, Eugene.”

Eugene gives a winning smile back and slips out the room without another word—no need to make this sappy, after all. He closes the door soundlessly behind him, and feels something almost like pleased. The conversation didn’t quite go as he wanted—but he thinks it was a success regardless.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and slips back in the comfort of the shadows.

It is child’s play to get back outdoors undetected. He picks up his bag from the hiding spot and slip it over his shoulder, tilting back his head in the night air. He’s got a long walk ahead of him—a long few weeks to go—and he takes one last second for himself, to settle, to be sure. Taking one last moment to breathe.

Oh, gods. Is he really going to do this?

He looks up behind him, one last look at Rapunzel’s tower room. The window is dark, all the lights gone out. But he can still see the silhouette of a figure on the balcony, the flickering shine of golden hair swept up in a breeze.

He lifts his hand, wondering, a quiet wave. He thinks he sees the figure wave back.

He already misses her. But Eugene turns away from the castle regardless. He slips by those castle gate guards without any issue at all, and just like that: there he is, on the road once again.

His heart is tight, but Eugene manages a smile anyway. Rapunzel will be okay. Cassandra, whatever she decides, will be there for her regardless. They have things handled here—and Eugene’s place, for now, is elsewhere.

He’s got work to do.

It takes him an hour to leave the city behind. By the time he reaches the woods it’s gone completely dark outside. The woods are all shadow at this time of dusk, foreboding and eerie, but Eugene palms his dagger and continues on without worry. Even without a sure light, the moon and stars are bright above him—and he’s always been an old hand at sneaking in the dark.

He walks for most of the night, well on to midnight. The time makes no difference, however—even at this hour, he can hear the Snuggly Duckling before he sees it. Laughter, and roaring music, and then distant light through the trees. Eugene shades his eyes against the startling shine and has to physically bite back a grin when he hears the singing. Oh-hoh, he knows that voice.

He rushes to reach the doors before it’s too late, moving fast as the song and music begin to reach its finale. He makes it just in time.

Eugene throws open the door just as Lance finishes a truly impressive solo, and lifts a hand to his ears with no time to spare. “Good gods, men!” he says, as loudly as he can. “I came here to get a drink—but who let a banshee in this place?”

The music stops. Someone’s cup drops and rolls. The Snuggly Duckling falls into a hushed and reverent silence, and Lance falls off the table.

Eugene stares at the stunned room of thugs. The stunned room of thugs stares back.

“...Surprise?”

Lance’s head pops up from the floor. “Eugene!” he shouts, delightedly, and tackles him in a hug.

Like Lance’s word was the stone to break the glass, the whole bar erupts into noise.

“Hey!”

“It’s Fitz!”

“Welcome back!”

“Where the hell have you been, you slippery bastard?”

Lance spins him around, cackling loudly. Eugene yelps, arms suddenly pinned, torn between laughing and hissing at him. “Hey, hey, hey—!”

“You’re back!” Lance drops him on his feet, beaming fit to burst. He looks—he looks good, Eugene realizes, and it makes some secret weight on his heart lift. It’s just been bad news after bad news for so long, that he’d worried… but Lance is here, his smile wide and true, and he looks happier than Eugene has seen him in a long time. He’s dressed in a new outfit, a snazzy black vest with a red cotton undershirt, a new piercing in his left ear. There’s a glow to him, a veil of health that speaks of regular meals and good care. In contrast to the gloom that haunted the castle, Lance’s presence lights up the room. His hand on Eugene’s shoulder is warm. “Long time no see, Eugene.”

“We’ve gone longer,” Eugene says, an automatic answer, but inside, he agrees whole-heartedly. It has been—too long. Far too long. His returning smile is helplessly fond. He is so glad to see Lance. “How are things?”

“Oh, booming,” Lance says, and he says it casual, but there’s a smile on his face that Eugene knows well— that beaming pride, curdled warm, but this time there’s something softer to the edge of it. “It’s, uh—going really well, actually. I meant to say in the letters, but—well, I got the bar!” He gestures to the Snuggly Duckling. “The whole lot of it.”

“Done good work too!” one man yells, and the tavern shakes with the ensuing roar of agreement. Lance laughs again, looking touched. Eugene looks around at the sea of bright and drink-rosy faces, the warm lanternlight and crackling fire of Lance’s Snuggly Duckling, and grins back.

“Lance!” he says, punching his shoulder. “Buddy! That’s wonderful!”

“It’s been a journey,” Lance says, trying for humble, but there’s a brightness to the words, a disbelieving joy that hasn’t quite faded. “I’ll tell you later. What about you, eh? It’s been ages since your last response!”

Eugene’s smile flickers. Lance immediately pauses. “Oh—”

“You’re never going to believe this, Strongbow, old buddy, old pal.” Eugene slings his arm around him, cutting off the inquiry before the rest of the bar can catch onto the shift in mood. “The number of things I saw across the sea, good man, I could fill a book!”

Lance blinks, rapidly, and for a moment his face is terrifyingly blank—and then his eyes go wide in realization. Thank gods. It’s been awhile since they used that code, but the memory of childhood bonding over Flynn Rider books reigns eternal even now.

Lance slings an arm around his shoulders and grips him in a one-armed hug. “Then I, Strongbow, shall most definitely help you write it!” The word-for-word quoted response. Then Lance winks, and the next bit is all him. “After a drink, of course.”

“Of course,” Eugene echoes, wryly, and manages to grin back.

Lance pushes him through the bar, somehow keeping Eugene from the crowd without making it suspicious, laughing and cheering and chattering like it’s a normal Tuesday. Before Eugene even knows what’s happened, he finds himself in a back room of the tavern, drink in hand and Lance sitting across the table, the room as quiet as any rooms in the Snuggly Duckling can get.

“This is as private as I can give you,” Lance says, sitting back in his chair. His smile is bright as ever. His voice, warm as Eugene remembers. But there is a tightness around his eyes, a worry Eugene reads clear as day, and when Lance leans in, he is as serious as he ever gets. “Okay, buddy. Spill. What happened? And how can I help?”

This is why Eugene came here. This is why Eugene needed to leave. Because he’s good. He’s really good. But he’s always been better with someone at his back—and he’s at his best with Lance by his side.

Gods, he’s missed him.

Eugene drinks deep from his flask, sets down the empty cup, and prepares to tell Lance everything.

“What do you need?”

The sun is high in the bright blue sky, and the Port Caul market in full unbridled swing. Stalls line the main city road, stretching on from the docks to the shopping district, their owners shouting wares from across the street. Vegetables, cheeses, smoked meats and cloth and flowers and trinkets—everywhere Varian turns, there is something new to see, some new dizzying sight to catch his eye. He’d thought the crowd from yesterday had been intimidating, but this one puts it to shame. The sheer amount of people and goods makes his head spin. This is nothing like the market in Old Corona—this is more like the capital than anything, or even the science fair. The amount of people out and about for a daily market is mind-blowing.

“Child, eyes on me.” Yasmin snaps her fingers in front of his face. Varian looks to her reluctantly, fighting the urge to keep gaping at his surroundings. “What do you need?”

“What?” Varian asks, too dazed to follow her questions. His eyes drift to the market again.

Yasmin frowns down at him. “Keep up, boy. For a light. What do you need?”

Oh. Varian blinks fast, thoughts muddled by the market, his own exhaustion, and the constant dread that is stillbeating away at the edge of his mind. He says the first thing he can think of. “Matches?”

Yasmin stares at him. Varian slowly flushes, scrambling to get his thoughts in order—nope, nothing. He tries again. “…Fire?”

“That was not a trick question. I meant—a more permanent light, a manufactured one. A nightlight. Something to help keep the dark at bay without being too bright to wake you.” Yasmin rubs at her forehead. “What do you need to make something like that?”

“Oh.” Well, that makes much more sense. Varian blinks hard, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He feels like he’s wading in molasses, an exhaustion that drags at his thoughts and eyelids. A permanent light… something he could hold, maybe. Something bright enough to let him know he isn’t in the dark but quiet enough not to keep him awake. A soft glow. Unwavering…

“A vial, maybe?” Varian murmurs. “No, glass, breakable, bad idea. Stone… too opaque. Gem, too expensive—”

“Crystal?”

Varian blinks, startled from his thoughts. Yasmin is frowning again, but not at him—just off to the side, looking lost in thought. “Would that work?”

“I…” His mind whirls, thoughts tangling. “If it could hold something—was hollow inside—I think so? I need a space to put in the materials, and then I gotta seal it up after, so—”

“Yes, yes, let me handle that—I am not completely bereft of supplies. I am sure Ella has a jewelry clasp somewhere. We will figure something out.” Yasmin tilts her head. “What would you need to make the light?”

He lists ingredients in his head, remembers the likely lack of equipment, and shoves aside all but a few. Lists down his fingers. “Let’s see… um, distilled water, definitely. Probably some sodium carbonate, luminol… ammonium carbonate, copper sulfate pentahydrate… maybe some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, or would just using zinc sulfide work better?” He frowns at his hands. “I should probably test that, the zinc sulfide might be too weak to last, but the other mixture might—”

Varian cuts himself off, his hand dropping. At once he realizes he’s been rambling. He flushes, his confidence faltering. There in the market cheer he feels abruptly out of place, too obvious, too seen. His skin crawls. He swallows hard. “Um. But I… I don’t think I’ll find all that here, it’s—”

“Do not worry,” Yasmin says, surprising him silent. She looks almost bemused by his sudden bit of word vomit. “Port Caul markets sell many things— and things like that for rather cheap. You would be surprised at how many children like to play at alchemy.”

Varian splutters. “It’s not playing—”

Yasmin has already turned away. Her coat flaps at her heels as she strides deeper in the market crowd. “Hurry along, boy. Let us go! I haven’t got all morning.”

Varian yelps and rushes to keep up.

It must be market day, he thinks; the place is busier than it was yesterday, and the crowd is nearly dizzying. People shouting, people selling, laughter high and bright in the frozen winter air. They’ve arrived early enough that the sun’s rising warmth hasn’t thawed the streets yet—the cobble roads are slick with frost and sea-spray salt, the wind brisk against his skin, the breeze as sharp as knives.

Varian tugs up his borrowed coat collar and follows Yasmin best he can, tripping in his too-big boots even with his layered number of socks. In contrast to Varian’s hesitation, Yasmin maneuvers the market like a king in court, eyes sharp and scanning, seeing all the market has to offer and dismissing it just as quickly.

“This way,” she says after a minute, and tugs Varian to the side, near a small stall off the corner. The covered wagon has a table with a velvet cloth, small glittering gems and jewels shining on the dark red fabric. The man minding the stall is tall and round, and when he sees Yasmin approaching he sits up with a smile.

“Yasmin! Been awhile. How’s it been?”

“Lovely, Marin, thank you. Have you any crystals?”

The man hums. “All sorts. What are you looking for?”

Yasmin puts a hand on her hip and turns to Varian. He stares back, blank, then jumps when the man looks at him too. “O-oh. Um.” Their eyes make his skin crawl. Yasmin has already recognized him for what he is. What if this man, too—? “A, a hollow… hollow center. If you have that. And, um… clear would be—be best—”

“Of course.” The man’s interruption is kind, his smile unsuspecting. He leans down and rummages at his feet, the clink of precious stones in the air. “I’ve a few like that. Take your pick.”

Varian surveys the offered collection of crystals, ranging in sizes from small to unwieldy, and finally selects one near the middle—not the cleanest cut, but a nice size, fitting well in his palm. It has a hollowed center like a shallow shot glass, the opening just barely big enough for a finger. Hopefully easy to seal closed, once he’s made the light. “T-this one’s fine.”

“Great. That’ll be five gold crowns, then.”

Varian freezes, color draining from his face. Five gold crowns? He doesn’t even have copper. Oh, gods, he’s forgotten money was a thing that existed again. “I—uh, I—”

“I have it.” Yasmin sets the gold down with a sharp click, the coins stacked in a perfect tower. “Take care of yourself, Marin.” To Varian: “Come along. Next stop.”

“Come back if you need any more!” the shopkeeper calls. “I’ll have a lot more next week, if those trading ships finally make it to harbor!”

“I will think about it!” Yasmin is walking away, but Varian doesn’t move, and after a moment she glances back at him, eyebrows raised. “Hello? What is wrong. Why are you not moving.”

He stares down at the ground, eyes burning. “I didn’t ask you to pay for me.”

Yasmin tilts her head. “I am the one helping you, and this is my idea. I would not make you pay for it. In a roundabout way, I am being paid to help you. There is no loss here.”

“I—”

He can’t find the words, the anger rootless, his frustration smarting. He is sick of feeling helpless, of feeling like a drain; he hasn’t asked to be taken care of, to be treated like a child. But he doesn’t yet know how to put it into words, and all he can do is glower at the ground and seethe.

Yasmin considers him. Something in the hard lines of her face softens.

“…Come here.”

He goes reluctantly, stepping out of earshot from the shopkeeper. Yasmin places a hand on his shoulder, steering him away, and when she speaks, her voice is not softer but somehow gentler. “Listen. I do not know what brought you here, nor do I care. But you are here. And it is clear to me that you need help.” She looks down at him. “Boy, you do not need to like me. I still do not like you. But I am not here to hurt you, or slight you, or whatever it is you think I am doing. My dislike does not mean I cannot do you a kindness.”

Varian doesn’t answer. Yasmin draws her hand away. “If it bothers you so deeply, you can plan to pay me back in your own time. But for now—can you accept this?”

He looks down. The anger, rising, turns ashy on his tongue, cold and empty. “…Okay.”

He sounds tuneless even to himself. In the back of his mind, the dread hums like a lightning strike. Turn back. Go home. It’s not safe here.

He swallows back the anxiety and shuts his eyes tight. He hears Yasmin exhale, soft and tired.

“Chin up, boy,” she says, half-way to gentle. “I am sure you will like this next part. Come along.”

Varian, doubtful, sets his jaw and bravely follows after her.

She leads him further into the market, closer to the docks. The scent of salt and sea fills his nose. The crowd is a little thinner here, easier to navigate, and the sudden breathing room helps unwind some of the tension from his shoulders. He tilts his head in the breeze and breathes deep.

It’s the smell that hits him first. The burning hiss, the sudden bitterness on his tongue like ash—

His eyes snap open. He sees it almost at once.

The small wooden stall. The bright pink banner. The small jars, the neat little labels. The smell in the air, even in this crowded and clustered market place, a sour snap like citric acid, like the tang of metal—

He knows the stall even before he sees the sign. This—this is an alchemy store.

Varian races ahead, pushing past Yasmin and nearly running right into the stall. It has been so, so long since Varian has seen alchemy, even longer since he’s done it properly. The road isn’t appropriate for intensive experiments, and Adira never willing to buy materials, and Varian never quite confident enough to ask for them. After six months of nearly nothing, the sight of the stall is enough to make his eyes prick with tears.

Even the memory of his last alchemy experiment can’t bring down his mood. In the labyrinth, this skill was the one thing that brought Varian some comfort. Some denial of fate, some way to fight. Through alchemy, Varian found a chance to breathe. Through alchemy, Varian defeated Moon’s golem.

And now, this alchemy stall—the sight of those elements, neatly bottled, the equipment, newly shined—it makes his vision blur. Varian’s smile nearly splits his face in half. He puts his hand on the table and leans up, beaming at the shopkeeper, a woman with a heavy afro pulled back in a bun and a no-nonsense alchemical smock. “Is this all yours!?”

“Every bottle of it.” The shopkeeper puts down a vial, a latest experiment of some sort. Her gloves, heavy and dark and made of solid stitched leather, make Varian’s own now-bare hands itch with envy. “Why, you interested?”

“Yes.”

She grins. “Well, then. Nice to see someone who appreciates the art! What are you looking for?”

“Something for a light, if you have got it.” Yasmin walks up from behind him, sounding bemused. “What was it? Zinc sulfate?”

“Sulfide,” Varian corrects, automatic. “Zinc sulfide, and also some distilled water, and I was thinking maybe…”

He lists the ingredients off from memory, counting them off his fingers to be sure he doesn’t forget any. “…and some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, if you have any?”

“Easy enough.” The woman tugs off her gloves, nodding thoughtfully. “How much of each?”

Varian does quick math in his head—some extra needed if things go wrong, enough to make two batches if things go right—and rattles off the amounts in grams. The shopkeeper hums when he finishes, looking vaguely impressed. “Can do. It’ll be a blue-ish light, in the end—should last you a couple months before you’ll have to remake it.”

Varian abruptly pales. The shopkeeper blinks. “Is something wrong?”

Blue, Varian thinks numbly. Blue light. Right. He hadn’t thought of that. He struggles to answer. “Um—I—that is—”

Yasmin touches at his shoulder. Varian looks up at her, but Yasmin is speaking to the shopkeeper instead when she says, “Is it possible to change the color of the light?”

Something like pride smarts in his chest.

“Of course,” says the shopkeeper. “Easy,” Varian scoffs, pointedly, at the same exact time.

There is a beat of silence. Yasmin rolls her eyes. “Scientists,” she says, disgusted. “Would you need an ingredient for that?”

“Alchemists,” Varian corrects, annoyed, and then blinks as the rest of her words sink in. Oh, right. He turns back to the shopkeeper. “Do you have any pigments?”

“I have all the pigments. Could even mix a few powders, but you’ll have to be exact on the color if so.”

Varian bites his lip, considering. Yasmin looks down at him. “It need not be a difficult discussion,” she says. “The intended use already removes a few options. White, too bright; black, destroys the purpose of having a light at all. Red would be… garish, I think. Sort of bloody. Hmm. What about orange?”

He makes a face, unable to help it. Orange has never been his favorite color, and after the amber… “No.”

“Tsk. Green? Violet?”

Violet is too close to blue; green reminds him of the automatons beneath the castle, and what he did with them. Varian shakes his head.

“…Yellow?”

Golden shine and searing heat, the numbness broken apart by a light that burned as bright as a sun—

Some of his thoughts must show on his face. Yasmin stops herself before Varian can even think to interrupt. “Not yellow, either. Hmph.” She considers, cupping her chin in one hand. “…What about pink?”

Pink. Varian considers it. It’s a pale color, and a soft color, like they wanted. If he makes the glow very quiet it won’t hurt his eyes at all. And pink… there is nothing he associates with the color, no light-based trauma to invite nightmares. Pink is sunrise and sunset, soft flowers in spring fields. It’s a color that reminds him of happy things.

“…Pink would work.”

“Pink it is.”

The shopkeeper nods. “I’ll wrap it up.”

They get the ingredients wrapped in small paper bags, and as Yasmin counts out money for the cost Varian shuffles through the wrapped ingredients with a giddiness he’d almost forgotten. He feels renewed, refreshed, the ever-present exhaustion dulled by a joy that could almost burst out of him.

He tucks the packets away in the satchel and tilts his head into the wind with a soft sigh. His smile is a small thing, barely there—quiet and thin, hidden in the light of the winter sun. The market moves around him, warm and whispering. The noonday sun is melting the frost.

And it is then, in this moment, as the crowd swells silent and the market murmurs soft—that is when the screaming starts.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Cassandra closes her wardrobe hard, hearing the weapons knock around inside. It is three days after their return to Corona, and Cassandra’s patience is nearing its limit. Outside of her window, the setting sun burns gold at their backs, casting a long shadow across Cassandra’s entire room. “Yes, Raps. I already said I was.”

“I know. I just—”

“You worry. I know.” Cassandra takes a breath, holds back a sigh. She’s not annoyed. She’s not. She’s just—

Gods, she wishes Rapunzel could just let it go.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture—to be honest, she’s fully expected this. Of course Rapunzel would come to check in on her, especially after the last few days. Eugene’s skipped out of the castle with a plan he hasn’t even told Cassandra about, Rapunzel has been avoiding her parents best she can, and Cassandra—

Cassandra is right back where she started.

She supposes it could be worse; the king could strip her of the guard title entirely. Being demoted to the dungeons, being forced to avoid Rapunzel… these things aren’t good by any stretch of imagination, but as far as limitations go, they aren’t so bad. Take this, for example—for all of the King’s grandiose orders, here Rapunzel is, only three days later having already discovered a path through the tunnels that leads right to Cassandra’s quarters.

It could be worse, Cassandra thinks, and ignores the way it feels like she’s trying to convince herself. It could be worse.

“I just… I want to be sure.”

Cassandra turns, straightening up in full as she pulls on the last piece of armor, strapping her arm guard in place. Clunky, bronze, degraded, demoted. She misses the golden shine of the armor for Royal Guards. “And I’m telling you exactly what I told Eugene. It’s fine. There’s obviously something wrong, and—and you need my help. And if what you overheard was true…”

It’s the reason for Rapunzel’s visit, after all. Cassandra had woken up to sunset, blearily about to get ready for yet another awful night shift—only to find the resident Princess and future Queen leaning over her face like a fretting hen, eyes bright with a stolen secret.

“I’m almost certain,” Rapunzel says at once. “I know it was Nigel talking, he’s got… a distinctive voice. And he sounded worried.”

According to Rapunzel, just this morning while on her way to meet with her parents for yet another awkward not-quite-conversation, she’d passed by a hall and heard Nigel talking with a messenger. Which isn’t anything unusual—advisors talk with messengers literally all the time—except the contents of this conversation had been a little… stressed. A deal in the making, a big agreement between the King and another party—only whoever and whatever this deal was about, it didn’t seem to be about anything good.

Still, Cassandra is content to play devil’s advocate for this. “The kingdom makes deals all the time, Raps. Compromise, trade, agreements… that’s what running a country is all about.”

Rapunzel isn’t swayed. “Trust me, okay? This wasn’t like the usual. The way they were talking…” She bites her lip. “Cass, it sounded… bad. Almost like they—Corona, my dad—were running out of other options, but also like accepting the deal would be…”

“Like a deal with the Moon?”

“Or Zhan Tiri. Just. Bad.”

“I believe you,” Cassandra says, finally. She places one hand on her sword. “But that’s why, if it’s really as big as you say, we need more information, if anything we do is going to stick. So, if this is what’s needed…”

I want to help, she doesn’t say this time. She’d already said it to Eugene, two days and a night ago, when he stopped by her room and pressed a letter in her hands.

“You don’t have to do this, Cass,” he’d said then, letter in hand but holding back. “I know how much this job means to you.”

“Will it help?”

“It’s something.”

“Then yes,” Cassandra had said, cold and trying hard not to seem desperate, and she’s spent every night after thinking about that letter and what it meant, and the look in Eugene’s eyes when he gave it to her. Like he knew. Like he suspected.

King Frederick had been cold when he’d demoted her, near icy in tone. In contrast, beside her, Cassandra’s father had been spitting mad on her behalf, only just holding his tongue, his face dark with an anger that the King hadn’t even batted an eye at. Cassandra had taken the sentence with her head high and her heart burning. She’d known what this was really about, even then. It’s not about the secrets. It’s not even about Rapunzel’s silence, not really. It’s this—Rapunzel, flinching and quiet and different behind the eyes, the attack Cassandra can’t elaborate on and the prisoner who escaped, Varian vanished into the wilds.

In the eyes of the king, Cassandra has failed. Never mind that Varian got a chance to attack because Rapunzel let him. Never mind it was Rapunzel who let him go. Never mind that—

But even then. Even then, that hadn’t shaken her. But when the King had demoted her, when that golden shine of royal armor was replaced by lesser bronze—Cassandra had stared down at gloved hands, and wondered what the hell she was doing there.

Standing in line, she thinks. Guarding locked doors. She’s traveled across two continents, she’s traversed the ruins of a kingdom long dead, she’s looked a god full in the face and snarled—

And here she is. Back again in the kingdom, with armor that doesn’t fit quite right and a restless burning beneath her skin, the whisper of opportunity lost.

When did I outgrow you? she wonders, absently, picking up her halberd, putting the helmet under her arm. She draws the sword and looks at it, the person staring back. When did I lose this?

But she doesn’t say that. She can’t, not really—she hasn’t the words, and a little bitter voice in her gut says that Rapunzel won’t understand anyway. Besides, Rapunzel has her own issues to deal with. Her own struggles. Cassandra doesn’t want to become another burden—not any more of a burden, at least.

When did I become so weak as to be used against you?

But those are quiet thoughts. Cassandra shoves them away, locked back in the corner of her mind where they belong, and turns to face Rapunzel with both hands on her hips. Rapunzel is sitting quiet on the bed, head bowed, gloved hands folded in her lap, and at the sight something in Cassandra’s chest eases. She crosses over, and kneels down before her. “Hey. Raps.”

Rapunzel looks up. Her eyes are dry, the green of her irises cold and clear. Her mouth is set in a mulish sort of stubborn. That tight knot in Cassandra’s chest eases further, and she manages the barest hint of a smile. “Look,” she says. “I get it. I do. And you’re right. It’s—a lot.” Which is a nice way of saying basically treasonous, but hey. “Look. It’ll work out, okay? I’ll do a scan on the dungeons when I can, get info like you requested—” As per the letter still in her pocket, anyway. “—and yeah, sure, it’s… dangerous.”

“Treason. If you get caught. And my dad—”

“Yeah. But Eugene has the right idea. Don’t tell him I said this, but… look. You can eavesdrop on the nobles. Eugene is doing…whatever he’s doing. And me?” Her lips thin. “I can see what the prisoners say. I can walk around and listen, and see what they know. And maybe it’s dangerous, but if it gets us what we need to know, gets us where need to go…” She trails off, pointedly.

Rapunzel dips her head. “I’m worried,” she admits, quiet. “And you’re right, I don’t know enough. But—Cass, what if you’re right about this, too? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s not worth it? What if we just make things worse?”

“Yeah, okay. Good point. But you’re doing this anyways, right? So… I—I don’t want—” Oh, how to word this. Cassandra blows out a breath through her teeth, hard and hissed. “I can’t just sit here, Raps. I can’t do nothing.” Her hands curl, unbidden. “Don’t shut me out again.”

The set to Rapunzel’s jaw eases, just a bit. She reaches out and squeezes Cassandra’s hand, brief and firm despite how the pressure on her injuries makes her face twitch with an echo of pain. “I won’t,” Rapunzel says, and a pale smile flickers across her face. “I… I did promise, after all.”

“You did,” Cassandra replies, neutral.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll lay off. If you’re sure.”

“Very sure.”

The smile on Rapunzel’s face settles, a little stronger. “Thanks, Cass.”

“It is literally the least I can do,” Cassandra informs her, dryly, and stands up with the creak of new armor. “Now get out of my room before your new guard realizes you're missing, yeah? Elias is skittish, but he’s going to realize you used your hair as an escape route sooner rather than later, and if I have to go guard the sewers we’re all going to suffer.”

Rapunzel’s smile widens. “Right!” she says, and scampers up, heading back for her newfound secret entrance to the tunnels. Seriously, how does she keep finding those things? “I’ll try and visit again soon. There’s this dinner party with my parents, and I think I might be able to ferret out a few details on this mysterious deal. I’ll let you know!” Something in her face gentles. “…Please take care of yourself, Cass.”

“Only if you do.”

Cassandra watches her go, and manages a small wave and a weak smile when Rapunzel looks back. She waits, patiently, until the stone door of the secret entrance latches shut, and then lets her hand falls with a sigh.

For a moment she just stands there, basking in the silence. Her hand goes to her pocket. The missive Rapunzel wrote and Eugene gave her sits heavy by her side.

I’m sorry to ask this of you. I know my father is your King. But I need you, Cass. I need to know if you’re with me. You don’t have to say yes now. You don’t have to answer at all. And I will never, ever be angry if you say no. You’re my best friend, now and forever. But whatever you’re willing to give. Whatever secrets you find willing to share with me…

If the time comes to choose, if circumstances force us to make a stand—will you stand by my side?

Cassandra has never been readier. But still—

For some reason, the knot remains, cold and heavy in her chest.

She marches out of her room to her new guard shift with her chin up and back straight and proud. Some heads turn when they see her pass; some faces creases in sympathy, others tight-lipped. Odd, she thinks, and remembers vividly Eugene’s offhand comment on the castle’s reactions. She thinks again of her father’s face when the King stripped her of rank, the anger he didn’t even try to hide, and her lips thin further. There’s something wrong here after all—she just hopes it’s not the internal battle she’s starting to suspect it might be.

She turns another hall, pushes open the last door. Cold, rank air blows against her face. Her nose wrinkles.

Once, in a different age, the dungeons of Corona had served as part of the castle proper. In the start of Corona’s great history, King Herz der Sonne had walked these halls and eaten in these empty rooms, enjoyed food and rest in the grand circular hall that has become the main prison pit. These stone walls were filled with history and majesty, until an unfortunate winter earthquake fifty years after his reign brought the whole castle tumbling down.

The castle was rebuilt, of course—better this time, and it has withstood every earthquake since for the remaining hundreds of years. But of that first, lonesome castle, only the tunnels and this hall remain—the tunnels locked down for fear of constant collapse, and the rubble of the first castle become one of the worst places in the whole kingdom.

The point is that the dungeons are a place of history—and at the moment, Cassandra feels as if she’s experiencing each one. As she marches through and down the enclosed halls, the cold deepens, the stone growing soft with age and dark with a grime built up over centuries. Voices murmur low and bitter through the grates as she passes, and the stench of rot and mildew and waste is so heavy she almost struggles to breathe. There’s a slick moss crawling stubbornly through the cracks in the mortar, and as she passes down to the last and final floor, the old stone sagging and heavy, the ceilings low and strained under the weight of the years, even the voices fade out. There aren’t many prisoners here. In truth, there’s very little here at all. Something wet and watery drips down the wall. The cells are silent and empty. Cassandra, standing all and alone in a dark corridor, takes a deep breath and regrets it almost at once.

She’s in full guard armor, the bronze polished and shining, her curls forced under the tight helmet. Her gloves are crisp on her hands, the halberd stiff in her palms; her stance is straight and her eyes unwavering from the door. Every few minutes she’s to turn from her post to pace up and down the corridor for a routine check before she returns back to the door at the end of the hall.

It’s a joke of a job. It’s a job for newbies and rookies and guards with their heads too full of pride for sense, and here she is. Stuck here until Rapunzel either breaks her silence—unlikely—or until the King cools his temper, which…

Well.

She’s probably going to be here for a while, she knows, and as she stops before her new post, she closes her eyes, breathing in deep through her teeth.

Gods, she has no idea what she’s doing here. Cassandra is skilled and she knows it. She’s wasted here, and the fact she’s only been posted here as punishment for Rapunzel’s actions only furthers the insult. She’s not—resenting it, really, or at least she’s trying not to. It’s not Rapunzel’s fault. That the King is punishing Cassandra in order to punish Rapunzel… it’s more than insulting. It’s downright infuriating.

Not to mention being replaced by Elias, of all the guards. The boy is… new is almost too kind a term. He’s barely not a trainee, and while he’s not a bad kid, Cassandra suspects that kindness won’t stop him from reporting Rapunzel’s every action to the King.

They’ve been back for only a scant three days, and already, most of Rapunzel’s worries are proving justified. If this is destiny, Cassandra wishes she could punch it into submission or something. First the Dark Kingdom, now this—for gods’ sake, don’t they all deserve a break?

But no, of course not. And so Rapunzel’s confined in the castle and Eugene’s walking on so many eggshells he decided running was the better option, and Cassandra is here: stationed in the deepest, darkest, most boring corridor in the dungeon, waiting for nothing.

She closes her eyes. “Look around,” Rapunzel had said. “Keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll find something everyone else missed.” But gods, how is Cassandra going to find anything if she’s stuck miles underground for eight straight hours a day? She’d mentioned the idea of wandering around to listen in on the prisoners herself, but in the secret depths of her mind, even she can admit it’s basically a worthless task. Who on earth would spill the beans when guards lurk around every corner?

She wants to help, but this—

It feels terribly like being shunted. All. Over. Again.

Cast aside and left in the dark, something in her whispers, dark and bitter. Cassandra sets her jaw. There isn’t even a guard on duty to take over once her shift ends— there’s nothing here to guard at all. This job is a joke.

She turns hard on her heel, walking away. To hell with it. If she’s stuck down here, she thinks grimly, she can at least explore. As useless as it is, at least those cells aren’t empty.

The air is like ice around her; the winter cold turned something subzero in the freezing hold of the underground stone. Each breath puffs like fog before her. In her armor, the metal is so chilled her fingers flex on impulse to get blood flow going. She turns down the twisting halls, eyes passing blind over the shadowy cells and water-rusted metal, the withered skeletons of the ruins of the ancient castle. She breathes in, breathes out. Nothing appears. Nothing happens.

Nothing’s ever going to happen.

Who is she even kidding? She’s going to be down here for hours, for days, for weeks. She wants to help but she couldn’t even see Rapunzel herself; the princess had to find a way to her instead. Rapunzel may be trapped in her room, but she already knows how to slip free— and Cassandra’s chains are so much tighter. She has so much more to lose.

And if things do go wrong, guess who’s going to suffer for it? Her, probably. Definitely. She loves Rapunzel, gods know she does, but so much of this mess is just—!

Why did she let Varian go? Why didn’t she ask them? Why hasn’t she explained? What little Cassandra knows of the labyrinth is just that—just the little. Just the bare minimum. She’s not asking for a play by play, but if Rapunzel is going to release known criminals, couldn’t she at least give a real reason? She’d said it was because it didn’t feel right, but what had that even meant? Feeling has no place in politics. No place in acting queen, or princess…

Even after everything, she’s still weak.

Cassandra stops mid-step.

She feels struck, stunned still by her own thoughts. Her hand rises to her head. A wave of dizziness overcomes her, shame like a blooming poison in her gut. The cold of the dungeon bites at her skin like a beast.

That’s… that’s a cruel thing to think. Sure, Rapunzel is a little much at times, but she’s been growing too, changing, becoming more and more sure of her place every day. More confident in herself, even if Cassandra doesn’t agree with all her choices. And—and Cassandra knows that, she understands that, so why—?

“…Cassandra? Is that you?”

She jumps, just barely avoiding dropping her halberd. She whips around, breath caught, weapon raised—and the confused face of a guard blinks back, almost bemused.

She stares at him, mouth open in shock—lowers her weapon rapidly, heat climbing in her cheeks. “I— sorry. You snuck up on me.” She pauses, abrupt. “Wait, what are you doing down here?”

The other guard frowns at her. “Cassandra, this is my post. Aren’t you stationed in the lower dungeons?”

“I…” She looks around, rapid, and realizes he’s right—the walls are lighter, the stink stronger. This isn’t her post at the lower dungeons. This is the first sector—the private prison, for top-priority prisoners, serious threats to the kingdom. Once upon a time, Varian had been kept in this sector, only one floor above her. When had she…? “Apologies. I got lost in thought.”

His scowl deepens. “Look, I know the demotion must sting, but that’s no reason to leave your post. What would the Captain say?”

Cassandra flushes, her lips pulling away from her teeth. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

The guard is glaring.

Abruptly Cassandra remembers herself. She cuts herself off, breathing in deep through her nose. Her fingers clench white-knuckled under her gloves, curled tight and shaking around the halberd. “…No, never mind. You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

She turns away hard before he can say anything more, marching off down the stairs. She doesn’t look back. The guard shakes his head and turns away, pulling the door latched behind him, back again at his post.

She leaves the private dungeon behind, and slams the door tight behind her. She walks quick, her stride furious. Her footsteps echo off the walls. Just like that: alone again.

Water drips uneven on the withered stone. The darkness slithers and seeps in the corners. The lanterns flicker. Unknown even to herself, Cassandra shivers once, and hugs her arms tight.

And in the darkness of a cell just out of view, someone else watches her seethe—and smiles.

“Oh, yes,” the prisoner says. Their voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper; their smile bares feral in the lanternlight. “I agree.”

Cassandra opens the final door, the exit to the prison floor. A sharp, foul gust of air howls through. The lantern flickers. For one shining moment, the prisoner’s eyes glint bright and green.

“She’ll make a wonderful disciple.”

For a moment, Varian doesn’t understand what he’s hearing.

He stands there, before the market stall, hands cold and heart growing colder; the screams, distant, are indistinct to him. It could be cheering, he thinks. It could be celebration. It could be nothing at all.

Except then Yasmin grabs his arm and yanks him back, and people have started to run, and then all at once he hears a boom like thunder and sees shrapnel fly, and he thinks—cannons—and he realizes.

The harbor is under attack.

A whisper drifts by his ears, paranoia crystalized to reality. The wind hisses like a curse. I warned you, child. Now it is too late.

The ground rocks with the force of the explosives; Varian stumbles sideways and just barely keeps to his feet. He can hear laughter, distantly, in the crowd, faint above all the screaming, mingling with the shrieking steel of sword against sword as the guardsmen of Port Caul rush in. But that doesn’t make sense, he thinks—how could it all happen at once, so soon? Or had these attackers planned this, had they snuck in with the market crowd and waited amongst the people for the attack to begin?

Another blast of cannon fire shakes the stonework, cutting his thoughts short. This time Varian isn’t so lucky—he falls hard on his knees, unable to stand on the shaky ground.

A hand grips his arm, nails digging into his shoulder—Yasmin drags Varian to his feet, supporting him against her. In the alchemy stall, the owner has vanished. Varian lists sideways in her hold. “What—”

“Pirates,” Yasmin hisses, and they both stumble when the ground rocks again. Cracks line the street. “I knew they were getting bold, but this is—!”

The jeering grows louder, closer to them. Yasmin pulls him up to his feet, and this time Varian needs no instruction. The pound of blood in his ears, a looming threat coming ever closer—he knows this feeling, this metallic tang in the air.

The labyrinth has etched this lesson into his bones.

He runs, and Yasmin runs with him. The crowd, once comforting, has turned confining; bodies shifting like a living thing, people on the ground, someone crying. Varian shoves his way through, trying to get away. A piercing scream makes him falter, then push on, but Yasmin turns back, vanishing momentarily in the crowd.

Varian stumbles, stopping too, turning back less because he wants to and more on instinct. Panic coats his tongue. He pushes through the mill of people, searching—and finds Yasmin on the ground, kneeling down to help someone up.

“To your feet!” Yasmin is saying, pulling the poor bystander upright. “Hurry! Get others off the ground! We will all be trampled at this rate.”

“Yasmin—!”

“Boy, what are you standing there for? Go hide!”

“I—” He wants nothing more than to run, but her moment of altruism has sent a cloud of shame through him. She’d stopped at the screams and cries for help. He had not. “I can, I can help—”

“I think not.” Yasmin grabs his arm, pushes him away; the crowd swells and ebbs around them. “Go to the buildings, you are small, hide by the crates—this crowd will kill you if the pirates don’t get there first, now hurry and—”

A shrieking sound rets the air, the awful screech of metal sliding against metal. Yasmin cuts herself off, whipping around; Varian stares over her shoulder, numb and horrified. There is a body in armor fallen to the ground, and red smeared across the cobblestone. Above the body there is a pirate, pale like a fish’s belly and smiling with teeth like tombstones, pulling free a crude sword dripping with blood and gore.

Varian claps a hand over his mouth, bile sour in his throat. The sight of blood makes his head spin. He’s never—he’s never seen someone die before, he realizes. Not like this. Not so brutally. He’s never…

Yasmin grips his arm so tight her hand spasms, hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds him, and Varian pulls his eyes away from the dead guardsman with difficulty, swallowing back the sick. Yasmin tugs him behind her, as if to shield him, and herds him back as she steps away from the scene, moving out of the pirate’s line of sight slowly and silently—

And the money pouch in her pocket, still untied and hanging out from her pocket from when she’d opened it, minutes ago, to pay for Varian’s alchemy ingredients—dips, opens, and spills bright golden coins all across the street in a clatter.

Yasmin freezes, her eyes going wide and horrified. Varian’s breath slams shock-still in his throat.

The pirate’s head snaps up. He stands, sword in hand.

He looks right in their direction.

Yasmin says a foul word in a language Varian doesn’t know, grabs his arm, and turns to run.

Varian scrambles to follow, his heart stuck in his throat. He can hear the pirate behind them, beginning to laugh, cackling with a bright and bloodthirsty sort of glee, drunk on something far worse than wine. “Pretty lady!” the man coos over the screams of the crowd and the cannon fire. “Pretty lady, you look like you might have gold!”

“Fuck,” Varian says, distantly, and then Yasmin shoves him into an alleyway. Crates and barrels and open buckets of produce line the dirty side-street, and despite the lack of people it’s nearly a maze to his eyes. Varian dodges crates and spilled fruit, following Yasmin’s sprint best he can—and he thinks, in that moment, he will make it. He can see the other side, the open street, and he is close, so close—

He bursts out of the shadowy alley into the sunlight—and then the ground tremors with a force more than cannon fire, and sends Varian crashing to his knees.

His vision flips. White bursts like stars behind his eyes. The ground rushes up to meet him and he catches himself badly on the stone, cobble scraping up his hands, the street rocking beneath his palms like a bucking horse. Small cracks break through the rock. He doesn’t understand. This can’t be from cannon fire. This is—this is—an earthquake?

He can’t see Yasmin anymore. His head is spinning. Varian pushes dazedly to his feet, and feels so turned around he falls right back down again. His breaths rasp distant in his ears. His hands are shaking. He gets to one foot and lists hard to the side, stumbling sideways until he falls heavy on the thick glass window of a shopfront.

Varian fumbles blindly for purchase, and his fingers catch on the window frame. He gets one hand on the shopfront wall and pulls shaking to his feet, standing hunched and wheezing in the burning daylight. The glass of the shop window shines cold in the sun. He looks beside him, and the shop window reflects back at him, a distorted image of himself. In his reflection he can see the blood on his face, the shadows under his eyes. The fear and confusion clouding his expression.

And behind him. Behind him—

The man. The pirate. Blood on his coat and a smile like death. He is still laughing. Still standing. It’s as if the earthquake hasn’t touched him at all. His eyes burn green in the windowpanes. His hand is raised, and his sword glints bright in the winter sun.

Varian should run. Varian should fight. He doesn’t, though. He can’t. He feels cold. He feels frozen all the way to his bones, all the way to his navel. Like an icy cord has been pulled taut—like a hand on his neck, holding him in place. A weight in the air that is more than fear… an anticipation that is almost supernatural.

All those dreams. All those sleepless nights, trying in vain to fight the exhaustion and the dark. All those whispers in his ears. The memory of it chokes him. The memory holds him still.

The pirate lifts his blade. In the window, Varian’s reflection shimmers like a ripple effect. For a moment, someone else stands in his place. A woman, terrible in her familiarity, with stone-dark skin and eyes glowing yellow like a moon.

Hello, child.

The pirate swings.

Did you miss me?

His right hand is searing with pain. His veins feel like molten metal. The world flashes white, and the pirate’s laughter, behind him, cuts off into a scream.

And like something from Varian’s deepest nightmares—the black rocks begin to grow.

They come out of nowhere: the dark rocks bursting all at once, a starburst of deadly intent. They spear through the cobblestone like a hot knife through butter, crisscrossing and tearing up and down the street in a deadly wave. Dust bursts up in the air like a fog, the streets turned to rubble and ruin. Through the distant ringing of his ears, Varian can hear the rising screams like a final curse.

In the mirror, the Moon smiles. The icy touch at the back of his neck burns like a brand. His hand spasms with a pain white-hot and bleeding, and Varian drops to his knees.

His vision whites. Exhaustion hits him like a physical blow, the drain so sudden it makes his head spin. He blinks, and then—just like that—she’s gone. It is just him in the mirror, now. Just Varian, staring wide-eyed and horrified at his own reflection, blue eyes gone empty and cold with remembered terror.

“—get up!”

A hand pulls at his shoulder, and Varian fights on instinct, struggling to pull away. His limbs are weak, his body aching—he bites back a sob and tries to throw himself back. He hears someone curse.

“Boy, snap out of it! We need to go!”

At last, familiarity seeps through. That voice. He recognizes it.

“Varian!”

Yasmin.

His eyes clear, and he finally recognizes her. Her grip on his arm is almost bruising in its force. Her eyes are wild. There is blood on her cheek.

“Hurry!”

This time, when she pulls him up, he does not fight her.

Varian stumbles to his feet, wavering back and forth. He feels very far away. He feels like he’s drowning. He’s barely breathing at all.

Yasmin is running. Yasmin is dragging him with her. The satchel thumps heavy against Varian’s side like a promise, or a reminder. His hand hurts, but the pain is fading, needle-like piercing turned to dull aching. He feels cold. He feels so cold. He doesn’t want to know.

He looks behind him anyway.

People are crying. People are still screaming. It rings in his ears like the distant toll of a bell. Smoke and dust cloud in the air and drift soft like a fog onto crumbling streets. People are lying still. People are lying silent. He cannot see the pirate at all.

There are rocks, too. Black rocks torn through the ground like a spiny crown, ripping apart the streets. They are everywhere. They are tearing through the city like they once tore up his home. Needle-like and deadly, and each and every last one of them is pointing right at the sea.

His hands are numb. He feels so cold. In the back of his mind, he can hear laughter on a distant breeze, and for the first time he’s not sure if it’s only a memory, or perhaps something more.

Something worse.

Hello, child.

Varian looks away.

In a grand ship by the eastern coast, Lady Caine watches the distant sprawl of Port Caul go up in smoke.

Her hand is outstretched, reaching—her fingers curled as if to grasp the air itself. Her lips have peeled back from her teeth; her dark scowl cuts into her pretty face. The ship is empty but for her, her crew gone out to battle—armed only with their swords and a spare vessel for cannon fire. She is alone here. She is the only one watching. The only one to see exactly when the battle started… and the only one to see how it ends.

It is only Lady Caine that sees the rocks rise up, black towers hanging heavy over the city skyline. Only Lady Caine that sees her crew fall back to the sea, their numbers gutted, their white shirts turned red from bleeding.

She drags her hand away from the water, and her scowl turns to a snarl. She watches, white-knuckled and furious, as the black rocks rise up over the city. Tens upon tens of deadly spears, that lethal black stone slanted and sure, each and every needle-tip edge pointing right towards Lady Caine in her ship.

“Is that a threat?” she hisses, and turns away from the sight, pacing furious across the deck. “No one said the gods would be involved.”

She pivots on her heel, the wind whipping at her hair. Her eyes fix bright and poisonous on Port Caul. Her muttering darkens. “What happened to the Moon being too weak to make an appearance, anyway? I thought she needed a conduit for that. But that fucking moonstone is gone, and all reports say she’s an avid hater of mortals, so how…?”

She trails off, the words falling short. Her pacing stills. She holds herself tall and stiff in the shine of the winter sun, and her hands clench tight into fists. Her nails cut deep in her palm.

Something shudders across the deck. A shadow, a cloud over the sun. The boat creaks and groans like a rusty hinge. Frost crawls along the side of the boat. The wind whispers. Lady Caine closes her eyes in thought.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, the rage falling slowly to contemplation. “Maybe she did choose a mortal vessel. For some reason. Against all reports of her personality.”

A pause. Lady Caine tilts her head.

“And, say, if the Moon did choose a conduit...”

Her eyes open. She looks at Port Caul with fresh eyes. She traces the path of the black rocks. That deadly slant. That unbreakable sword. Those cruel, uncontrolled towers, and the unerring accuracy of their direction, the blade pointed right at her.

Slowly, surely, Lady Caine starts to smile. She watches as her men flee like cowards, running from the dark rocks like cities from a plague, and laughs under her breath. “Someone who can summon the dark rocks, hm…? Sounds like someone we could use.”

Another pause. She tilts her head. She turns to the shadows, to the empty air beside her, and smiles with all her teeth. In the midday shine, the green of her eyes nearly seems to glow.

“Well?” says Lady Caine. “What do you think?”

#tts #tangled the series #varian #rapunzel #rta #rapunzel's tangled adventure #tangled #cassandra #eugene fitzherbert #tangled varian #tangled rapunzel #iza fanfic #fic: labyrinths of the heart #fic series: the long road back to home #fic: faults of the mind

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lovemesomesurveys · 4 years

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5,000 question survey series part--forty-three

4101. What is the most difficult thing you have ever overcome? One is all the surgeries I had as a kid that required spending months in the hospital. It was just a very difficult, frustrating time. 4102. What is more imporatnt, how much someone has achieved or how far they have come to achieve it? Uh, I don’t know if either one is more important than the other. Someone who has achieved anything they’re proud of is something to applaud, whether it’s one thing or many things. I think someone who has had to work hard and came a long way is commendable, but I’m not gonna knock someone who maybe didn’t have to work as hard to achieve something either. I want people to succeed and as long as they’re doing something shady to achieve it, then I’m rooting for you. 4103. Have you ever had anything published? No. I’ve never attempted to have something published either.

4104. Of the following, what kind of person would you be more attracted to (1 is highest, 3 lowest): I don’t look for that in a guy, like I don’t compare them to myself in that way. Besides, I don’t think I’m attractive so I would always think they were more attractive than me. less good looking than you? about as good looking as you? more good looking than you? how goodlooking are you? I’m not. 4105. less inteligent than you? about as intelligent as you? more intelligent than you? I mean, I think it would be nice to be with someone I thought I was intelligent and I could a lot from. It could also be intimidating, though. I wouldn’t want to feel dumb or like I couldn’t contribute anything to the conversation. As long as they weren’t arrogant or cocky about it or put people down for not knowing something. how intelligent are you? Meh. I just feel average. 4106. has less money than you? has about as much money as you? has more money than you? I don’t care about their money. Like, we both could contribute and take care of each other. And if they did have more money than me, I wouldn’t expect them to be the sole provider. I would still contribute what I could. How wealthy are you? I’m not. I’m fortunate that I still live at home and my parents still provide a lot for me financially, but I do contribute what I can towards bills (a couple household bills and my own bills) and whatnot. 4107. less wild and crazy than you? about as wild and crazy as you? more wild and crazy than you? I’m not wild and/or crazy, ha so I couldn’t handle someone who was. I mean, I could handle some, like a little spontaneity and adventure. Someone like, “Hey, let’s take a drive up to the beach or mountains this weekend!” Something along those lines haha nothing too crazy. I’m really gonna need a guy who is down to chill at home and binge watch shows and movies with me, play board games, get takeout, and just take it easy a lot. Not to say we never go anywhere or do anything, but I couldn’t be with someone who always had to be doing something ya know? I don’t have the energy for that and due to health reasons I rest a lot. How wild and crazy are you? I’m not. I’m tame and lame, ha. 4108. Is your bathroom shelf stacked with numorous bottles of lotions and creams? Our bathroom pantry has a lot of that stuff, as well as the cupboard space under the sink. There’s some stuff on the counter, too. 4109. How do you maintain your body? Uhh, I’m thin but I’m not in shape or fit. I’ve always been thin and had a fast metabolism, but for the past few years I’ve been too thin/underweight due to health reasons and appetite issues. 4110. Did you ever imagine that objects have a life of their own? Yeah, ha. I kept stuffed animals and stuff from my childhood because I would feel bad getting rid of them. As though they had feelings or something. I have a hard time getting rid of anything. 4111. What is it like to be an object, do ya think? It could suck cause they’re just being used by people until they’re not useful anymore, or it could feel loved and important if used often. Or it could be like some things I have that are just sitting on a shelf collecting dust and feeling sad. :X lol. 4112. Do stones, rocks, trees, lamps, water, couches, etc all have some sort of life energy running through them? Yeah. 4113. Would you ever consider getting romantically involved with: your teacher? I’m done with school, but no I never would have considered being involved with any of my teachers, then or now. your doctor? Nope. 4114. If ____ asked me for sex, I could NOT refuse. Fill in the blank as if you were speaking. I would refuse everyone at this time. 4115. What is 'nothing'? Absence of something? 4116. Would you rather read about how to get better abs or about how thousands of people across the globe are marching for peace? About how thousands of people across the globe are marching for peace. 4117. Should america make love, not war? Of course that would be nice. 4118. If you could nominate anyone for sainthood, who ould you and why? I have no idea. 4119. Can you name one person who is purely good? Jesus. 4120. How about one person who is completely evil? Satan. 4121. Is there a book inside of you? Uhhh. If yes, what about? 4122. Do you call people more often or get calls more often? Calls more often out of the two, but it’s not a lot. 4123. What do you wake up to? Usually just on my own. 4124. If you could get a free subscription to any magazine what would it be? I wouldn’t. I haven’t read a magazine in several years. 4125. When you wrote letters to santa did you ever ask for stuff that didn't exist? No. 4126. Make up a new slogan for McDonald's: Nah. 4127. What kind of people do you like to be associated with (buisness, writers, dark, antisocial, spiritual, happy)? Chill people that I just vibe with and relate to. 4128. How are you like a toaster? I let stuff build up until pop! 4129. Do you believe we are really in the matrix? Nah, man. 4130. There are 2 dolls, a gw Bush doll and a Sadam Hussein doll. You can only afford one. Which do you buy? I’d have no reason to want either one. 4131. What is a jaberwocky? The dragon from Alice Through the Looking Glass. 4132. Finish the sentances: Nah.

I'm speed racer and I drive real fast, I drive real fast: I'm a big bird and I like to steal, I like to steal and I like to: I'm a barbie doll and I've got grace, I've got grace but: 4133. What do you think aliens would think of life on earth? Probably nothing good. 4134. What image do you get fom the words 'urban decay'? Well, I think of the makeup brand. 4135. Have a ___ day. Fill in the blank with anything but 'nice' Have a chill day. 4136. Do you own anything with a: southpark character or logo on it? No. greatful dead bear or logo on it? No. 4137. What is your impression of beatniks? I don’t know what that is. 4138. What was the last thing you ordered (or watched) on pay-per-view? I have no idea... that would have been ages ago. 4139. Nails, long or short? My nails are barely even there. :X 4140. Do you prefer touch lamps, the clapper, or the old-fashioned light switch? Ha, I think it’d be neat to have the clapper. I could set up the Alexa and get the electronics that are compatible with it and have the same thing. 4141. Can you 'berry talk'? What? 4142. Do you like vines on old buildings? Sure. How about grafitti on old buildings? Murals are really cool. 4143. When someone says 'it's been one of tose days' what do they mean by 'those days'? A shitty day. 4144. Have you ever owned those magic markers that could change colors? Yeah. 4145. It's not easy bein' ____. Fill in the blank as if you were speaking. Me. 4146. Is there a song that has been stuck in your head since you were a child? Wow, no not that long. It can be annoying having a song stuck in my head for a few days, I couldn’t imagine having a song stuck in my head since childhood. I mean, I sometimes have songs from my childhood stuck in my head, but that’s obviously different. 4147. Do you own anything plaid? I have a plaid throw pillow and a plaid pair of leggings. 4148. Do you recycle? Plastic bottles and cans. 4149. What is your strongest point? I don’t feel I have one. :/ 4150. What is your weakest point? I have a lot of those.

What are you doing to work on that weakness? I’m not, that’s the problem. 4151. Paraphrase (rewrite) this sentance without using any of the words currently in it that are more than 2 letters long (except THE you can use THE). If anyone should steal this survey from you they should paraphrase YOUR sentance and so on: “Deep in the heart of turn of the century India a young mongoose is adopted by a british family.” Long ago a European family took in a baby animal in a foreign country. Ha, I don’t know.

4152. A baby is born witha terminal disese. She will suffer agonizing pain for 5 years and then die. The mother gives the baby a sleeping medicine and it dies. Mom claims it was a mercy killing. Prosecution claims it was murder. You are on the jury. What is your vote? Jeez, I can’t with these questions. 4153. Why doesn't poetry say outright what it means? Cause that’s boring. 4154. Read this sentance: “I can’t wait until summer is over.”

Now delete it.

Done?

Now write any sentance you want there instead. 4155. What is your opinion of Orson Welles? I don’t know who that is. 4156. If you were a lotion, what would your label say? I don’t know. 4157. What side id your good side? I don’t have one. 4158. Rewrite that sentance you deleted up there as best you can. Try to get the idea across even if you don't get the exact words right: Impatiently waiting for this season to end. 4159. What is your favorite work by Edgar Allen Poe? A Tell-Tale Heart and The Raven. 4160. Of the following short stories which would you be most likly to read (based on titles alone if you aren't familiar with them, 1 is most likely 9 is least likely)?? Just gonna bold which ones I might read instead. Young Goodman Brown The Cask of Amontillado The Story of an Hour The Metemorphasis Barn Burning The Lottery <<< I’ve read this one. A & P The Sandkings Minority Report 4161. What is the differance between a norm and a value? Values are more general and abstract. 4162. Can you think of a norm in your own culture that is different from a value in your culture? Cancel culture has become the norm it seems, which differs from values in society like compassion, forgiveness, understanding, empathy. 4163. Who is your favorite star wars character? My squad: The Child (baby Yoda), C3PO, Chewbacca, Yoda, and R2D2. 4164. Why haven't we begun to colonize the moon? Because it’s not inhabitable. 4165. What did you think of the shuttle columbia blowing up? That was absolutely horrific and devastating. Ugh. I feel horrible for those who lost their lives and for the people who witnessed it, especially their loved ones. 4166. What do you remember about the challenger? That happened before I was born, I just learned about it when I was older. 4167. Is the force with you? Yep. May the force with be you, too. 4168. What is your favorite spoof movie? The Scary Movie series. 4169. Would you ever own a(n): human slave? Wtf, NO.

robotic slave (where the robot is consiouss of itself)? I don’t want any type of slave. trained ape slave? Nooooooo. human clone slave? Nooooooo. 4170. What can no one stop you from doing? Surveys, ha. 4171. Who would you be bored without? My family, which includes my doggo. 4172. What is your only hope? God. 4173. Would you rather visit france or puerto rico and why? Hmm. I’d be down for either one. 4174. Have you ever corrupted someone or dragged them down? No. 4175. If you could say/teach one thing to all the youth of america what would it be? Respect. 4176. Does any part of your body get in yyour way? No. 4177. Leia or Amidala? Gotta go with my girl, Princess Leia/General Organa. 4178. Do you trust your feelings? Usually. Sometimes I think I’m being paranoid and ridiculous, but also I think I’m just being real and logical even if it does seem negative and pessimistic at times. I want to be safe than sorry, ya know. But there are definitely times where I am wrong. 4179. Do you feel empty or passionate most of the time? Empty. :/ I don’t have a passion and that really worries me. I want that. 4180. What was your monet of triumph? Ha, I thought “monet of triumph” was a phrase I wasn’t familiar with, but upon Googling I think it’s just a typo. It sounds cool, though. Anyway, my moment of triumph... I mean, not to get dark but being a victim of gun violence at 7 months old and surviving is pretty major. I can’t think of anything else. 4181. Explain what piety is: Being religious, I think. 4182. In what ways are you a rebel? “I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.” 4183. In what ways are you a conformist? Uhh. I follow the rules? 4184. Do you likie movie endings that leave you wondering or tie upp all the loose ends? If there’s going to be another movie in the series then I’m for a cliff hanger, it’s exciting. Even though I am super impatient. Otherwise, I typically don’t like when movies just abruptly end and I have to try and figure out what happened. Like, I need answers. 4185. What movie has the best soundtrack? Hmm. 4186. What adventure would you liike to undertake? I don’t know. If we’re ever able to travel again safely, I’d love to do so. I need a fun vacation. 4187. Do you tip gas station attendants when you get full service? We gotta pump our own gas where I’m from. 4188. Do you own any souvineers; what from where? I own a lot of souvenirs from various places. 4189. Does your age make you embaressed? Not the age itself, I just feel embarrassed about where I’m at in life at 31 years old. 4190. Are you the strong and silent type? I’m not strong, but I’m silent. 4191. What doo your shoes look like? Which ones, I have several pairs. 4192. Do you ever admire yourself while naked? Ew, absolutely not. I hate my body, I’m extremely self-conscious. I don’t feel comfortable at all naked. Like literally, as soon I’m done showering I’m throwing clothes back on. 4193. If you could make someone's clothes magically disappear who would you do it to and where? Uh, I wouldn’t do that to anyone. 4194. Who is more foolish, the fool or the fool that follows the first fool? They’re all foolish. 4195. A good website for the bored (not a diary one): YouTube. 4196. Did people REALLY land on the moon? Yes. 4197. Would you rather live for a month in India or Alaska? Hmm. Maybe Alaska. 4198. What is one country you ould NEVER visit and why? I don’t know. 4199. Who is the busiest person you can think of? My mom. 4200. What is the average length of your relationships? Ha, what relationships.

#personal #text #survey #surveys #5000 question survey

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awackyphdinadorkable · 5 years

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A little snippet of a Cherik fic ghosting through my head...

This one keeps going through my mind for some reason, even though it is nowhere near an actual fic at this point. Despite that all, I thought I might share at least the tender, drafty first steps in that direction, because... why not? I just like the mood of it, or rather, the mood it gets me into. *flies away*

There are those days when Erik wished he was back in Paris, in his tiny apartment at the very top of a very shabby building from which he could smell both freshly baked baguettes and fish being delivered for the small food store below every day.

Those were the easy mornings that left his mind blissfully blank – because he didn’t want to think, even less so remember. Those mornings smelled of black café with just a dash of lait. They tasted of croissants with jam. They sounded of the streets waking up below his small balcony where there was only space for a garden chair, a tiny table, and a lonely potted plant that never came to bloom yet didn’t die either. And most importantly, those mornings looked like new beginnings, as the city was painted orange and violet, leaving only the picturesque yet iconic shape of the Eiffel tower in the distance to Erik him yearning for the sensation of that steel.

Now in New York, Erik still has black coffee with just a dash of milk every morning, but the milk doesn’t quite taste like the one he used to buy in Paris. The croissants are positive crap. And when he stands on his balcony, albeit this one is a bit more spacious, there is no smell of fresh bread and fish in the air, just the odor of gasoline and burned rubber rising up in dark clouds, painting even the new beginning of the day in shades of gray. It is those moments that take him to where Erik knows he doesn’t want to return. Ever again.

He scratches his naked torso, feeling a shiver run through him from the cold seeping into his bones. Weather is always miserable around the season, which, Erik will admit, likely suits his overall mood. He supposes it’s more fitting his occupation. In that way, he is merely living up to expectations.

Taking another suck from his cigarette, Erik flicks the stub into the empty flower pot and heads back inside. He lets his eyes briefly dance over the darkened room, wrinkling his nose. Maybe he really should follow the advice he was given and make an effort to make this place a little more personalized. He bought the furniture from the previous tenant in its entirety, only ever threw out the mattress and rearranged some of the pieces because the tenant had no sense of using space whatsoever.

When he rented this place, Erik didn’t much care. His mind was elsewhere entirely, but the apartment looks perhaps even more desolate that the street below his small-albeit-slightly-bigger balcony. However, having spent more time here now, looking at it right at this moment, it has Erik consider a personal touch, if only for the briefest of moments, as this is something Erik never really did and doesn’t really have any intention to start with now.

Most people would buy some flower-patterned pillows, maybe paint at least some of the walls in a brighter color, or hang up a few picture frames, none of which are even up for consideration for Erik. Flower-patterned pillows make him think of Düsseldorf, and he can’t go back there, not even inside his mind. Bright colors tend to make him antsy if he looks at them for too long, reminding him far too much of the darkness residing with him. And picture frames, photographs? Completely out of question.

And so, naked walls it is.

The movement of his wristwatch’s second hands pulls Erik out of his musings. He furrows his eyebrows as he checks the time. Staring at his impersonal apartment took Erik longer than intended. He grabs the wrinkly shirt he never bothers to iron for the occasion to pull over his head before shrugging into his worn, brown leather jacket. He slips into his shoes, ties the laces, and stretches himself once to ease the remains of the chill out of his bones. With keys in hand, Erik flies out the door and sinks into the gray mass awaiting him below.

Of course it rains by the time he makes his way outside.

Of course.

Erik mutters silent curses under his breath as he pulls the collar of his jacket up higher, pondering why he never bought a new umbrella after the last one had a small accident late at night a few months back. Though realization hits Erik with about as much force as the water being pushed out of the puddles as taxis speed past them.

The reason is that Erik doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to remember.

And that is also why his walls are still naked.

It is the reason why nothing changed in his New York apartment ever since he moved in, safe for the arrangement of the furniture.

It is the reason why the mattress is the only thing new in his apartment.

And so, Erik has to walk on without an umbrella, hoping he won’t be completely drenched by the time he reaches the studio. It’s just the last thing he needs on a mediocre morning like this that leaves him yearning for Paris, for his apartment, well aware that he left that all the same way he left his undead plant behind.

When the building comes into sight, Erik finds his hopes most certainly failed, which does not come to him as a surprise, it is the season after all, and hope does not seem to fit him, no matter what certain other people may say. Erik grimaces as he can feel the rain finally seeping its way past the layers of leather onto naked skin, making him wince. He pushes inside, then, leaving gray and rain behind him to deal with later.

Once inside, Erik shrugs out of his soaked jacket and puts it on the hangers he contributed, twirls and swirls of metal, none of which look the same. They made their way all across the Atlantic to here, upon one man’s insistence, who argued, or rather insisted, that throwing away art is “very counterproductive” to their overall cause. The thought never ceases to entertain Erik, since he didn’t believe in a shared cause all the way to New York until it hit him that, yes, he is part of something bigger, a shared cause, whether he wants to or not at times.

Though Erik is still left wondering, more than once, just what that cause may be. Paris took his sense of direction away, which had been sharp as a knife’s edge ever since he left everything behind a metal fence he never wants to cross again in a lifetime. Erik never lacked a sense of purpose for most of his life, but ever since he moved to Paris, almost ran there, cause and purpose became such abstract notions that he finds it hard to believe at times that he used to know so exactly what both meant for him. The cause only ever gained some ominous kind of shape when he walked into the studio for the first time – and found his way there again every day since, not just in Paris but now also here in New York.

He found this most curious group of people back in Paris, or more accurately, the group found him. It was at an exhibition where Erik featured one of his latest sculptures. Needless to mention people were full of praise for his piece of art, which made it hard for Erik not to laugh during the event. The statue was shit, something thrown together, bent out of shape, punched out of it again, to vaguely resemble something avant-garde.

Because once it’s abstract enough, avant-garde enough, no one asks questions anymore, it seems. Then you can get away with almost anything.

Erik accounts part of the lack of critique of that statue to his reputation as a kind of prodigy in the field, a man who never received formal training in the arts and yet crafts metal as though it was natural to him. Which it is, but that is something people either purposely forget about him, which is entirely beside the point of his art, or just begrudgingly accept because of his undeniable talent, which may be only minimally better.

Back at that exhibition in Paris, there was only one person who voiced his disappointment in Erik’s latest creation, a dashing young man with dark hair and arguably the bluest eyes Erik ever saw in his entire life. He was all quick smiles and easy laughs, the kind of man to charm his way in and out of every conversation he either wished to take part in or leave because he found it uninspiring, Erik could tell right off the bat. And that man always had a comment on the tip of his tongue, he could tell that, too. It was he who invited Erik to join their “little potpourri of similarly minded yet out of mind artists,” arguing that Erik would make a “wonderful” addition to it.

Erik politely told the man no, because he worked on his own, would stay on his own till last, Erik was sure, but the man insisted that Erik at least visited the studio just once to see for himself before giving a definite answer.

“You can’t properly judge something without having seen it. I also had to see that statue in the flesh without any flesh in order to be certain that it was only thrown together for the occasion and thus most certainly is below your acutely high standards.”

Erik was shocked at first, then mildly offended. Just because he called it crap didn’t mean anyone else should or had any right to it. Though the easy smiles and the occasional pat on his back soon made him forget his irritation and instead find a strange solace in at least one person seeing that this statue was below Erik’s high standard.

When the young man kept going on about his favorite pieces of Erik’s collection, anger completely deflated and something rather curious set in the pit of his stomach as he sipped his champagne next to the blue-eyed man who seemingly couldn’t be stopped from complimenting Erik on his craft. Though, perhaps to his even greater shock, that man most accurately identified what the statues meant, what Erik had in mind when he made them, even for those that didn’t have a title indicating what exact direction they were heading, what horrors they were critiquing by twisting knots into barbwire and mimicking tooth fillings made of gold, twisting into a loud metal shriek saying “never again.”

By the end of the evening, Erik had been thoroughly introduced to every member of the Parisian Potpourri, eased into conversations he was no longer accustomed to having, and found himself listening intently to the blue-eyed man’s little game of guessing what the art critiques at the event were thinking. He did so based on the way they looked at the painting and sculptures, or so he said. Though he mostly only did it to entertain the remaining members of the Potpourri, as he continued aping those critics in their pompous way of seeing themselves as the only ones able to see, consume, and understand the art.

“If I ever end up making art only just for the critics, that you must promise me, my friends, just go ahead and shoot me point blank.”

Erik enjoyed the evening more than he thought he would, more than he grew used to ever since he moved to Paris to lose all direction. He remained fairly certain that it was no more than a pleasant evening, though, and that he would move on from it the way he always did, never looking back.

Yet, when he left his small flat in Paris the next morning, it seemed oddly familiar, oddly needed, to head to the studio he’d never been to in his entire life. And for the first time in a long time, he found himself looking forward.

Most of those people came and went over time, befitting the lives of artists, or at the very least, living up to a certain stereotype. The Parisian Potpourri was under constant change, people flying in and out, some joining, others leaving, some coming back. But that was the entire purpose of the studio, to give a room for creativity to unfold without dictating boundaries or setting up rules – and keep low the costs, since such a workshop, in Paris no less, would have been nearly unaffordable for most of them, if not as a shared effort to maintain the studio.

The idea remained part of Erik’s time in Paris until he bid adieu to his apartment above the food market, left to wonder what would become of his potted plant now that someone else would take care of it, or rather, not take care of it because he never watered it or gave it manure to thrive.

In fact, it carried on beyond that day, because the man carrying it with every ounce of himself took the idea of the studio all the way with him to New York, only to open up a new workshop where a potpourri of new people soon flew in and out, as artists do, leaving only three constants within: Erik, the hangers, and…

“Charles! I told you to leave that statue alone. It’s not finished!”

Sometimes Erik wonders how that man is even an actual person. Because he can say with utter surety that he never met anyone like Charles Francis Xavier in his entire life. That man is charismatic to the point that it is near painful. He is likely more intelligent than 99% of world’s population, able to recite most of The Once and Future King from the top of his head even when roused from deep slumber. He is young, agile and lithe, and yet, seems to fancy himself wearing cardigans any gray-haired professor at college would want to call his own, only to walk around in just jeans, no shirt and no shoes whenever he sees fit, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Charles always seems to know what to say and what not to say, and sometimes he says just what is wrong to say on the occasion because it pleases him.

And that man convinced me to come all the way to New York. Damn.

“You know the allure of covering the object to be adored, Erik! That is the same reason why most people find so much thrill in the act of undressing and not just in the acts that succeed it,” Charles calls out, hands folded in his back, circling around the covered statue like a lion approaching its prey.

“Hands off, I told you often enough,” Erik warns him, though he knows his voice lacks the fight he used to put into it back in Paris. These days, it’s just mild annoyance with Charles’s apparent inability, or rather refusal, to work on some of his antics which tend to drive Erik near mad.

“My, my, aren’t we in a good mood today?” Charles snorts, flashing one of his easy smiles. Always the easy smiles, no matter the occasion, no matter the season, no matter the rain or the bad mood people have around him.

“You know me, Charles, I am always in that kind of mood.”

“It’s the rain, I suppose,” Charles muses, stepping away from Erik’s work to glance out the window.

And that is the other thing with Charles Xavier that makes him the most curious person Erik ever met. The shifts. Erik lacks a better term for it. He reckons a poet in their group may finally come up with a more elaborate and artistic way of expressing it, but up until now, no artist of the word found their way into the studio.

What he noticed over his time together with this most curious man is that Charles can be bubbly and laughing one second but be completely lost the very next. He can be so close to Erik that there is no more than an inch between them and suddenly, he is a thousand miles away. One moment Charles is elaborating on the merits of the notion of l’art pour l’art, the next, he fades away and leaves nothing but a blank expression on his face behind, before going on about whatever it is that seemingly manifested itself inside his head, only for him to know.

And it is this man Erik followed all the way to New York, away from his small balcony with the curious plant and his morning café with the dash of lait.

Really, damn.

“You know, I like the rain as a motif, but I can’t say I enjoy painting while it rains outside,” Charles ponders, wrinkling his nose as his eyes remain fixed on the scratched, dirty window where veins of water run down it as rain keeps pouring over the glass, pulsing to the beat of a colorless heart.

“How so?” Erik asks.

His fellow artist shrugs. “People are not in a good mood when it rains. Look at yourself.”

“Well, what is there to like about the rain, you tell me? Other than its necessity for wildlife and nature? People are in a terrible mood, as you say. Clothes get drenched, you have to dodge taxis because they will take any pothole there is to leave you even more drenched, and everything is just dark and miserable.”

“But then there is petrichor,” Charles sighs, grinning faintly.

Erik curls his lips into a frown. “Petrichor?”

“The smell of damp earth just after the rain. The smell of a new beginning.” He smiles, but then shifts, turns around abruptly and walks back over to the canvas he put up before Erik even walked into the studio.

Sometimes Erik wonders whether Charles actually moved into the studio without anyone’s realization months ago, but then he remembers the taste of bourbon and the staccato of chess pieces moving over at Charles’s apartment just a few blocks from his own. No, Charles doesn’t live in the studio, though perhaps he really rather would. Erik finds it hard to tell at times.

While his apartment is as impersonal as it can get, Charles spread all of himself in his home, bought entirely new furniture upon his arrival in New York. Though he tends to purchase secondhand since he enjoys “the echo” used objects leave behind when they don’t come straight from the factory. There are some of his small paintings hung up on the walls, a “shameless self-promotion,” as Charles calls it.

He made himself at home in New York, simple as that. And whenever Erik winds up on his doorsteps for a round of late night chess and bourbon, Erik finds it hard to picture Charles anywhere else but in this apartment. There is a way to how Charles navigates through his home, as though he knew ever crevice, every bump in the floor by heart, moving with a kind of self-assurance, a kind of grace that seems particular to only just this man. And sitting in his worn leather armchair, rolled up in one of his cardigans, Erik is led to believe that Charles would rather never leave that place in a lifetime, looking far too cozy, far too comfortable, far too content with the world to ever cross the threshold leading to worlds of gray, taxis, and smog.

At the same time, Charles is normally the first one to come to the studio – and the last one to leave. Erik caught the other man a number of times snoring on makeshift beds made of packs of clay and cloth some of the other artists tend to put on the floors for when they toss color everywhere for abstract paintings. In that way, Charles is always the first person to greet Erik in the morning, and the last to bid him good night, which, Erik will admit, if only just to himself, he finds oddly calming. Yet, it leaves Erik wondering how it comes that Charles seemingly loves being in the apartment, looking so cozy, so at home there, while at the same time seemingly being unable at other times to leave the studio, giving any impression that he lives there, too.

Erik finds himself back in the reality of the studio when his eyes catch movement to his right as Charles picks up the palette with his left hand and dabs the next best brush he can find into the acrylic paint he already applied and started to mix well before Erik arrived.

“One of your commissions or something for yourself?” Erik asks as Charles brings down the brush on the canvas for the first time.

While Erik himself wouldn’t know how to paint even if his life depended on it, he found himself easily fascinated by the way Charles moves the brush across the canvas, how worlds start to grow under the movement of this sometimes impossible man. Because there is a distinct way with which Charles leans into every stroke as though it was a dance to a melody only he can hear inside his head. It is a most intimate kind of dance that leaves Erik questioning at times where the artist ends, the brush begins, and where exactly paint morphs into art.

“Oh, this one is merely to indulge myself, though perhaps I will sell it, if someone is willing to purchase it once it is done. I have a feeling it could turn out really good… despite the really not good mood around here,” Charles says, yet again all easy smiles as he continues his small dance with the brush and the paint.

As always.

Charles became known in the scene as The Clairvoyant, because he has an innate ability to create paintings his commissioners want, crave, in fact. Erik read some of the articles talking about this “art prodigy of the century” after he met him back at the exhibition in Paris. While they were written in different languages, they all shared in one meaning, because they all spoke of a man who can deliver every style from a Renaissance-like paintings all the way to the abstract, leaving even the toughest critics wondering just how this painter manages to create the art his commissioners want to see – and seemingly never failing at the task, not once.

After his research back in his apartment in Paris, Erik was sure that the artist could never live up to the title he was given by art magazines and columns in the back of newspapers. However, Erik had to revise that opinion rather soon – because he became witness and since can confirm that Charles possesses a talent unmatched.

Erik was still getting accustomed to the noise of the studio in Paris when he found out the truth, to people’s chattering and talking about topics he didn’t want to hear about as he struggled his way through the next sculpture bound to leave him unimpressed with his own creation.

An old lady came into the Parisian studio one day, which set forth the process of realization in Charles’s particular ability for Erik. Almost coincidentally, it rained that day, too. She wore her best coat, though it was at least a century old. The gray hair in a tight knot, but with a warm kind of smile withstanding even the nasty weather outside. Erik could tell from her accent that she was from Eastern Europe.

She wanted a painting from Charles, having read about him in the newspapers. A small one, she added shyly, since she couldn’t afford a large canvas by any means. Charles took her aside, charmed her into an easy conversation. Erik grew almost weary at the sight because it left him with the feeling that Charles went in a similar way about him to make him join the studio. By the time the old woman, Alyena, left, Charles was almost instantly up by his easel to set to work.

It was those days Erik was sure Charles didn’t see the inside of his apartment at all. It left him almost worried for the young man because Charles seemed to work without catching a break for more than a couple of minutes before working on the next stroke. Erik could tell that this painting was a matter of heart to Charles because he wouldn’t let anyone in on the process. He locked himself up the way Erik tends to do when he creates, and instructed everyone to leave the small side room alone until he was finished and “ready to return to the world.”

Some days later, Charles welcomed Alyena back to the studio, all the more cheerful when he saw her come in, touched her shoulder for comfort, complimenting her on her lovely coat over and over again as he led her to where he had set up for the reveal. The old woman was visibly nervous, but Charles knew what to say to ease her, the way he always knows. And this time, he said nothing wrong on purpose.

The canvas wrapped with linen certainly did have a particular kind of allure, too, Erik will have to give Charles that much, though the effect only ever set in once everyone got a glimpse at what was underneath.

Charles revealed a most realistic painting of a young, dark-haired girl with ribbons braided into her hair, spinning round and round in sheer joy while holding on to another girl with lighter hair in a tight braid with the same ribbons sitting on top of her head like a crown. And at that sight, Alyena simply started to weep. Erik never saw such a reaction from a commissioner, even less so when the old woman pulled Charles into a fierce hug, asking over and over how he knew, how he could possibly know what Justina looked like as a girl. How he knew that Alyena longed for an image of her childhood friend when she long since forgot the features of Justina’s face.

“But you see her now, don’t you?” was all Charles offered, patting her back soothingly.

“I do, but I don’t know how.”

“And that is the artist’s magic.”

It didn’t surprise Erik that Charles had chosen a way larger canvas than the one the woman had paid for. Neither did it that Charles never made mention of it. The only thing that kept surprising him was the woman’s words to Erik when Charles disappeared for a moment to wrap the canvas for her to take back home. She recounted to him still teary-eyed how Justina was her childhood friend and how they danced at the wedding of one of Justina’s cousins – one last time. The following day, Alyena’s family left, or rather fled from a war about to come, only to learn, years later, that Justina died only a day after they last danced, very likely still with the ribbons in her hair.

“I never had a photograph of her, you see. And my memory is fading faster than me. I always wanted to remember her, though. Because who else will? I never dared to think I’d see her again, but now I do. Right there. She looks just like the last time I saw her. Just like it. It’s like the photograph I never had of her – and so much more.”

That was when Erik understood what people meant when they called Charles Xavier a mindreader, The Clairvoyant of the scene, and it was also the day he accepted that as the only appropriate title for Charles’s way of making art. Because Charles knows what to paint even without the commissioner telling him what exactly he or she is looking for. He just knows somehow, and he knows how to ban it on canvas.

Sometimes Erik finds it a pity, however, because he sees Charles struggle at times, many times in fact, with a painting for a commissioner The Clairvoyant only very silently admits is “not of the kindest nature” or “of a very limited creative mind.” Ever since Erik saw Charles reveal Justina to the old woman, he feels any urge to take Charles’s brushes away when he paints yet another image of a tycoon looking for a pompous self-portrait, putting him in the best light when he likely does nothing but shady business. Because what is Charles, a thoroughbred artist, doing, wasting his precious time and outstanding talent on those tycoons when he could create so many more impossible memories, could paint many more Justinas, making those memories real and last for many more generations to come and adore?

It is those days that Charles shifts away nearly at all times, working late hours, seemingly just to get over with those commissions, to get them out of the studio like trash that needs taking out before it starts to stink. At the same time, Charles seemingly doesn’t find it in himself to refuse a commission, no matter how “unstimulating” he tends to find them – and the commissioners in particular. Charles is seemingly too busy pleasing everyone to ever truly learn to say no.

Erik, by contrast, learned to say no very early on in his life, with absolution in his voice. Right along with “never again.” He doesn’t take commissions. He never creates statues for a certain theme or a particular event. People can purchase his work, but Erik decides who gets them, and he alone settles the price. Some people are irritated by his insistence on it, but Erik won’t have it any other way.

He doesn’t trust anyone with his art other than himself.

He doesn’t trust anyone other than himself, period.

“Oh, by the way?” Charles hums. Erik turns his head, blinking. “Hm?”

“It appears we will be alone for a few weeks,” the dark-haired man informs him, his eyes never leaving the canvas as he continues the easy-going conversation on a rainy day in New York.

“How so?”

“The others are going to this conference of sorts in Milan after all.”

“Thankfully I am keeping out of that,” Erik snorts. “Artists parading themselves and their views on the art is about as interesting as watching paint dry.”

“There is actually something quite stimulating about watching paint dry.”

“Nothing that I can see.”

“I can always show you, Erik.” He smiles. As always.

“I am a sculptor, not a painter.”

“I am a painter and yet I love watching you prep up the metal pieces for your installments,” Charles argues, and Erik knows that to be truth, as often as he tends to usher Charles out of his workshop. “Art enjoys its lack of limitations, does it not?”

“How comes you are not there with them? I bet you’d love to gush about the state of the art while having some Italian vintage,” Erik snorts, the image of their first meeting in the exhibition back in Paris still fresh on his mind.

“Oh no, most of those people are not at all stimulating. Then I rather watch paint dry, or talk to you.”

Erik grimaces at that. “Talking to me is as stimulating to you as is watching paint dry?”

“I love watching paint dry and I love talking to you, so yes.” He shrugs.

“You know, it is these moments that make me question why I ever befriended you.”

Charles chuckles, momentarily stopping his dance. “I know I am irresistible.”

Erik scoffs, though he supposes there is more truth to it than there should be. Because there is something very irresistible to Charles’s person. Erik can see it with nearly any person Charles interacts with, himself included. There is something about him that drives people into his orbit. Like bees attracted to a colorful flower, promising nectar.

There is something intoxicating to Charles’s enthusiasm not just for his own work but that of everyone else. While he will express his views on some Pollocks – which he finds bollocks, all the more enjoying that poor rhyme – and artists whose work he finds “empty” and “devoid of the essential of the art, its meaning or lack thereof,” Charles tends to find something good in almost anything.

He always has hope.

And that is irresistible, something that may or may not have made the decision easier for Erik to leave his balcony and the croissants behind for a shabby apartment in the middle of New York where coffee never tastes quite like it did back in Paris and where his impersonal apartment leaves him frozen in time more often than it should.

“You know, your silence tells me that you tend to agree, which I take as a compliment, Erik.”

“I don’t honor your words with a reply, that’s a big difference.”

“Ah, those talks will certainly take me through the desolation of the empty studio until the others return in a couple of weeks. I thank God that at least you stay by my side, my friend.”

“Someone has to, it appears,” Erik sighs. He shakes his head with a grin before walking into the separate room of the workshop where he can work on iron, tin, gold, and steel without disturbing the finer artists in their daily routines.

“I shall terribly miss you, Erik!” Charles calls out as Erik rolls back the big metal door to slip inside.

“You know where to find me.”

“I always do!”

“And no peeking!”

“I would never! I will be patiently waiting for you once you decide to join me again, my friend. Until then, au revoir.”

As Erik rolls the door back shut, he can hear Charles hum the chanson J’attendrai by Rina Ketty, which has Erik snort while at the same time miss Paris just a little bit less. Charles has a pleasant singing voice and brings him right back to his balcony with the undead plant and the promise of a new beginning shining brightly behind the steel of the Eiffel Tower, with no more than the promise that he will wait.

○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○

“Check, my friend.”

Erik leans back on his arms as he looks at the checkerboard another time, pondering his next steps. Chess grew to be one of his greatest self-indulgences because it is within this game that he feels more direction than he does outside the doors of the studio or within the walls of his impersonal apartment. And thankfully, he found a match in Charles who is always eager for a game, no matter what time of the day.

“I still wonder why you kept that thing,” Erik ponders aloud. “I mean, there is fancier ways to play the king’s game, I’m sure you are aware.”

“But we are in a studio where there is dust and paint and clay flying around on a daily basis. Why would I waste good, polished wood on something I may very well get paint on? This is about the game itself. And thankfully, it would stay the same even if we played it with a bunch of rocks and squares drawn on the ground,” Charles argues. “And anyway, I think the checkerboard has a certain charm to it. I found it abandoned in the back of my drawer when I moved into my apartment in Paris. It reminds me of the good old days.”

“Sometimes, you have to leave those things behind,” Erik mutters.

“And sometimes, you have to keep things to keep alive their memory.”

Erik moves his rook with a frown, making sure to keep his eyes set on the small chessboard instead of Charles’s piercing blue eyes, fearing they may catch just those details Erik is intent on keeping out of everyone’s view. He enjoys playing chess with Charles, did ever since he realized the man was a match to him – and was eager to play whenever both took a break from the art and didn’t yet crave the bitter taste of nicotine to die on their tongues.

What he doesn’t enjoy about it is that very often, Charles talks about things fresh on his mind, things Erik wants to leave abandoned, far away from himself. It makes Erik feel like being caught, and he doesn’t want to be caught, can’t stand the thought of being trapped, the memories of rain and fences too fresh on his mind, no matter how many years passed since then. Because that would lead to admissions about himself, about what he thinks, what he looks like inside, and those admissions are reserved for his art and his art alone. Erik can let them all out there, he can all hide them there, in plain sight. But there is no hiding in plain sight when confronted with Charles Xavier. And sometimes, Erik isn’t sure whether he likes that.

“I really hope they will return from Italy, you know?” Charles contemplates, one hand under his chin, curling his lips into a frown.

Erik wrinkles his nose. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Temptation is strong in that city. A great artistic scene and the Italian sun… Italian food… Italian wine… I can see the appeal… and then of course… the intimacies and inconveniences coming along with it.”

“What now?”

Charles chuckles softly. “You do not believe that any of them will remain celibate throughout the trip to Italy, do you? They all shake it up already here in New York.”

“All of them?” Erik makes a face. “I knew about Emmet and Sally, but…”

“All of them. They just switch around a lot. Emmet and Sally are the only ones who seemingly want to commit to a relationship, even though they both have since explored the possibilities of the number three, if you understand.”

“You know, Charles, there are those things I am not eager to know, and yet, you are the one forcing me to keep them in mind from now on,” Erik huffs, moving his pawn.

Charles removes one of Erik’s pawns. “My sincerest apologies.”

Though both know Charles is by no means sorry. For that, his grin is far too wicked.

“So now you think they will form a community in Italy and just shake it up all day?” Erik questions, which has Charles shrug. “I wouldn’t put it past them, let’s leave it at that.”

“And you didn’t join them? Now I am all the more surprised,” Erik huffs.

While Erik tries his best to keep out of the private affairs of others, he didn’t miss Charles’s seemingly innate ability to charm, sometimes smoothly, sometimes with the grace of a klutz, talking about “groovy mutations” such as brown hair for some reason. Erik can’t tell whether Charles was in a steady relationship ever since he got to know him, though he dares to doubt it since Erik tends to wind up at Charles’s apartment more nights than maybe he should. And he never saw someone there with him, not in Paris, not in New York. There never were strewn around clothes forgotten or someone hiding in the bathroom when Erik made his way inside with the bottle of bourbon. There was always only Charles.

What exactly Charles may be looking for in a relationship? It is a mystery to Erik, too, though he makes sure not to put any effort into learning the truth. After all, that is Charles’s business. It is mere curiosity, Erik tends to think, because a small part of him would like to know what someone as curious as Charles Xavier may seek in a partner. However, despite his way of making people join his orbit, Charles seemingly mastered the skill to keep himself behind a thin layer of fog, leaving Erik always wondering but never quite knowing.

“Oh, you wound me, my friend!” Charles exclaims dramatically, clutching at his shirt. “I am not a man for the quick passions and meaningless couplings. My heart could not take it. I am far too committed to everything I do… and everyone I do.”

“My sincerest apologies.”

Charles smirks at him before looking back at the checkerboard.

“Well, if all of them decide to stay in Italy to follow all aspects of their various passions, we may have to close down the studio,” Erik continues, removing one of Charles’s pawns.

“I would never let that happen, believe me that, my friend,” Charles argues, a kind of sincerity in his voice that has Erik look at him with a grimace. “How would you prevent that anyway? We all share the rent.”

The dark-haired man shrugs. “I have my ways. For that, it is too important for me to maintain the studio. It is the one way creativity can thrive, for me at least.”

“Well, I suppose some may eventually wind up being sated with the gelato and pizza… and the needs of the flesh,” Erik offers, pushing the immediate thought away of when was the last time he satisfied such a need, well aware of the answer, and even more acutely aware of how he doesn’t want to think about it, wants it gone as far as possible, much further than Paris could ever be.

“One can hope,” Charles sighs heavily.

“You have enough of that anyway,” Erik scoffs, far too much to his liking at times, but he grew accustomed to it like he grew used to Charles ghosting through his workshop when he is not supposed to.

“For the both of us most certainly,” Charles laughs, easily, as always. “But you know what?”

“I bet you are about to tell me.”

“I would consider manslaughter for a true French croissant right now. I don’t know what they do with the pastry, but it’s miles away from what we are served here.”

Erik snorts at that. “Tell me about it.”

And just like that, Charles is right up close with him when not long ago, he was a thousand miles away. Those shifts, they are maddening to Erik. And yet, he also grew used to them, no matter how much they irritate him at times. They are constants in his life, too, and oddly so, they create a kind of direction, a drive forward, to the man shifting away.

“I suppose the French put more love into their food. For them, it is more than a way to satisfy a bodily need. It’s a way of life, really. And a very tasty one,” Charles ponders.

“I can only agree to that,” Erik says, moving his knight.

“The manslaughter or the croissant?”

“Maybe both?”

“Ah,” Charles laughs, always easy, something between incredibly close and far, far away. Erik looks past the painter over to the canvas where the acrylic paint is still drying. “I see you made good progress today.”

Charles looks over his shoulder before flashing Erik the brightest of smiles, reaching all the way up to his eyes. “It went rather quickly, yes. I was surprised myself. And how was it for you?”

“Same as old.” He shrugs.

Charles is one of the few people who know a bit more about Erik’s ongoing struggle with creating statues. Erik wouldn’t want him to know, but Charles noticed his shit work before, which was the reason why hiding seemed rather ridiculous by the end of the day. While Charles didn’t press for details and Erik wasn’t willing to give them either, Charles understood that Erik struggles to finish his statues as of late, which makes it all the more irritating to present them at exhibitions, receiving praise for what he knows to be incomplete without a purpose other than not being able to add the final touch.

Thankfully, Charles was graceful about it since the day they exchanged muttered words of understanding, never making mention of it in front of anyone else, not even alluding to Erik’s struggles with his own art. It isn’t in Charles’s nature, it seems, to purposely embarrass someone or point out the errors of their ways, unless they are born out of malice or ill spirit. He is too kind for that, and too kind to say no.

“Oh well, the worst you can do is put yourself under undue pressure. Art needs room to breathe and grow,” Charles points out to him, his tone so soothing and comforting that Erik feels both the imminent urge to hold it close and let it warm his heart and push it as far away as he can because he knows he needs the pressure, the edge. It got the job done before. It has to again.

“Tell that my landlord,” Erik huffs.

Charles studies him, asking quietly, “Are you in financial trouble yet?”

“No, the last exhibitions paid really good money, so I don’t have to worry for another three months. After that, I may have to see to it that something gets done again. Though even then, I have my savings, so there is nothing to really worry about.”

Erik learned the very hard way that you always have to prepare for the worst. He doesn’t live in excess. He always make sure to have enough in his bank account to get out of the country fast, and start over somewhere else.

Perhaps that is part of the reason why his apartment looks that empty, too. So that he is quick enough to abandon it, if he has to, so that he leaves nothing of himself behind for others to find, for others to see, to miss.

Charles smiles at him, albeit a bit uncertainly. “Good, I wouldn’t want you to be in any trouble, my friend.”

“I always find my way around, Charles.”

“That I know.”

“Check.”

“Ugh!” Charles grunts, leaning his head back. “I shouldn’t have given you that opportunity with the knight.”

“No one asked you to.” Erik can feel a thin smile creeping up his lips.

“I know, but I also know you have me at checkmate in two more rounds, which is disappointing for me because I definitely had a chance there, had I not made the dare.”

Erik cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you want me to go easier on you?”

“Oh, please, never!” Charles insists. “Now pass the sentence, my friend. Let’s not prolong the moment of truth for my poor queen.”

Erik puts the queen away in a swift motion. “Checkmate.”

Charles throws himself to the ground in theatrical fashion, an exasperated sigh falling from his lips as he settles down on the concrete floor. His long fingers play piano on his ribs as he continues huffing.

“Are you seriously pouting now?” Erik teases.

“I am thinking.”

“About how you lost?”

“No, about the Sistine Chapel,” Charles sighs, shifting many, many miles away, all the way to the Vatican, it appears.

Erik makes a face. “What? Why?”

“We don’t have any frescos on the ceiling, though we certainly could have, considering how many able artists we have here who could easily put something up there to personalize all that naked concrete. I mean, look at all that empty space up there!” Charles thinks aloud, his left hand leaving his torso to wave around in the air.

“Isn’t the workshop supposed to be a kind of empty canvas so you are not distracted from your own creations?” Erik questions. He never gave it any thought what the studio looked like. It suited his purposes, whichever those grew to be, and it created a constant, a sense of direction in Erik’s life, to somehow manage his daily routine even when he feels entirely lost in the world.

“But hardly anyone looks at the ceiling while they work, so that shouldn’t really be distracting for anyone,” Charles argues.

“Well, you do.”

“Which is why I keep thinking about it,” Charles sighs. “Maybe it would spark my creativity if there were frescos up there for when I glance up to see nothing but a vastness of gray concrete. And cobwebs… someone should dust up there some time. Ugh.”

“I suppose you can talk to the others about the possibilities of having a Sistine Studio,” Erik offers.

Charles grins at that. “I like the sound of that. Sistine Studio, quite catchy, that, even more so since we are no longer in Paris, which left us with the New York Potpourri, which is not at all as catchy as it was back in the day… Sistine Studio…”

“Do you already have an idea of what you would paint on there?”

“Very much so.”

“Ah.”

“Do you want me to elaborate in more detail or would you rather resume your work?” Charles questions, always easy, yet always mindful. Sometimes too mindful to Erik’s taste, because he finds himself scared of the care, the comfort.

He dared to sink into that again, and it left him without an umbrella even years later.

Erik exhales deeply as he puts the checkerboard away to lie down on his back next to the curious painter he followed from Paris all the way to New York. Charles smirks at him brightly before looking back up again. He stretches out one arm to point it at the areas he wants to see redone in color, likely seeing before his eyes already in painstaking detail how he would want to shape the world, even if the world is only the ceiling of a shabby studio they all pay too much rent for.

“Right there, we could have the scenery of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower, for matters of iconography. After all, it must be recognizable even by those who are not of the fine arts. And on the other end, New York, evidently.”

“Evidently,” Erik chuckles, easing into those moments even though he would rather be much more hesitant, more restrained, but following Charles’s long fingers as they point to the ceiling make him forget about his lack of direction, following, for once, only just those swift movements and the soothing sound of Charles’s voice.

“Perhaps the skyline in the background, with some taxis stuck in traffic and the city lying under a strangely comforting blanket of smog,” Charles continues, painting in thin air already. “It would be a voyage, you see. A tale of the past ebbing into new beginnings. A tale of hope. We could have images of every artist of our little potpourri up there. Oh, and there has to be water.”

Erik frowns at that. “Why?”

“I need some blue.” Charles shrugs, seemingly not feeling any urge to elaborate.

“Ah.”

“And then metal, of course, for you.”

“Much appreciated,” Erik snorts, amused, finding himself somewhat surprised at how much he likes the thought of a piece of himself up there despite the lack of himself in his own apartment. “And what of yourself would you put there other than your own image?”

Erik is irritated when there is no instant reply from Charles, as he would expect. Turning his head slightly to look at the young man beside him, he can see an uncertain frown forming on his red lips, his eyes fluttering.

“Petrichor?” Charles offers at last, only ever adding to Erik’s irritation. “How would you draw that – and even if you can, how is that quintessentially you?”

Until this morning, he didn’t even think about petrichor, which makes it hard for Erik to think that this impression of the senses, in any way, encompasses The Clairvoyant of the scene, the man who seems everything and nothing at the same time, who seems to be always at home and always at the studio, up close and incredibly far away, saying nothing and saying everything, the paradox in Erik’s life managing to give direction by not offering any direction at all.

“The artist is in a constant process of reimagining himself, so perhaps I cannot fix myself in my essence because I keep changing?” Charles puts forth, though his tone tells Erik loud and clear that there is a thinly veiled truth behind the smog swimming up before Charles’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Now we are getting philosophical,” he huffs, somewhat frustrated that he seemingly won’t come any closer to resolving those mysteries, clearing that fog, to see what lies underneath.

Erik sighs, trying to see the journey up there, all the more disappointed for what he knows to be no good reason, but Charles is shifting away again, and he doesn’t like it at all. Because that man knows more about him than most others, and yet, there are a great many things Erik doesn’t know about the constant paradox in his life. He doesn’t know when Charles comes and leaves the studio. He doesn’t know how he creates those paintings. He doesn’t know if Charles had or has a partner and what he would seek in a partner to begin with. And he shall be damned all over if Charles remains right about the allure of the covering, not knowing what is underneath.

“One thing I know for certain, though. There has to be a checkerboard somewhere. That much goes without a doubt.”

○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○♦○

“So you will be leaving?” Charles asks, cleaning his brushes, creating swirls of color in the glass jar of turpentine solution.

“No chance for the rain to stop today,” Erik answers, rolling his shoulders. “And it doesn’t seem to me like any progress is in sight.”

“I am sorry.”

“It’s alright. Maybe tomorrow.”

“One can hope.” Charles smiles at him, not as easy this time, bearing much more meaning than Erik can take at times, because it tells him that, yes, Charles knows, yes, Charles understands, yes, Charles comforts. And he wants none of it while wanting all of it.

“And you?” Erik asks, kicking away invisible stones.

“I am just about to finish up. I just have to clean the brushes before I go. Emmet was raging mad at me when I forgot it last time, even though I will say in my defense that I dutifully replaced them all by the next day.”

“Emmet is… one of a kind.”

“We all are. I like that about us. Being like everyone else? Both impossible and even if it were, entirely boring,” Charles huffs. “Either way, I won’t keep you from heading home.”

Erik just keeps standing there silently. Whenever Charles is about to leave at the same time as him, he always waits, if only to break out of the cycles of his and Charles’s creation for once.

Charles smiles silently at him before continuing his routine of cleaning the brushes, having understood the message, no doubt. When the last brush is safely put away, Charles walks over to the basin to rinse his hands another time to get rid of the smell of turpentine. Once he is done, he mindlessly wipes his hands against his worn, slightly splattered shirt. Erik starts walking to the hangers, then, Charles following right behind.

The woolen cardigan Charles brought quickly covers the stains on his shirt, leaving him to look like a professor more than the eccentric artist Erik saw walk around the studios mere moments ago. Those shifts, they are maddening, but they are also constant, and in that way, a matter of getting used to, Erik reckons.

“Erik, before I forget it!” Charles suddenly calls out, whirling around.

Erik furrows his eyebrows. “What is it?”

Charles lifts his woolen coat off his favorite hanger, to reveal an umbrella underneath.

“Here,” he says, handing Erik the black and white object. “You seem to keep forgetting yours.”

“Oh… thanks,” Erik mutters, his mind making any effort to think of the reason why his old umbrella is gone and why he didn’t buy a new one since.

“It’s nothing,” Charles assures him, though it is not nothing for Erik, and that is about as maddening as Charles’s shifts. Because it should be nothing. It is, for all purposes, no more than a cheap umbrella his friend bought for him after having noticed that Erik kept coming without one in hand, all the while complaining about the rain. And yet, holding it in hand, it feels so much heavier, bearing on so much more meaning than it likely does.

“Alright, I believe it is time for us to head out, yes?” Charles continues as he slips into his woolen coat.

“Right,” Erik agrees, proceeding towards the door, his fingers unable to notice the metal of the knob as he twists it and opens the studio to an even darker shade of gray awaiting the two men outside, thunder rolling in the far distance.

“I wish you a nice day, despite the weather, my friend,” Charles tells him, smiling all easily once more, far too easily. “Let’s hope petrichor soon returns to us.”

“Bye.” Erik waves numbly as Charles crosses the threshold, or rather, jumps over it with the same grace with which he walks through his apartment. Charles’s own blue umbrella reminds Erik of one of those cheap monochromatic photos on canvas so popular in furniture stores where just a single object is left in color.

Erik watches Charles walk away with fast strides, hopping over puddles, making his way through the gray mass of people with the lightness of a feather in the wind. Once he approaches the streetlight, however, Charles, for some reason, closes his blue umbrella. He leans his head back and lets the rain drip on him, soaking his skin.

“Truly one of his kind, that one,” Erik mutters, shaking his head as he turns the key in the lock and starts to walk, now with the umbrella in black and white shielding him from the rain, leaving only the faintest doubt on his mind whether Charles knows he actually doesn't forget his umbrella but keeps staring at it late at night, abandoned in the corner, bent out of shape of memories he wants to leave behind about as much as he yearns for the smell of freshly baked baguette, his small balcony, and the plant that neither died nor ever truly seemed to live.

#charles x erik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #cherik #cherik au #fanfic #fanfiction #ficlet #beginnings of something #ramblings #musings #yadda #charles as a painter #erik as a sculptor #yadda yadda

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