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lady-de-mon-coeur · 6 months

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Lady In Red

Chapter 4. Puzzle pieces

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2,747 words

"Earth to Adrien. Hello! Are you alright, kid?"

"Mmm?" Adrien asked absentmindedly, still tapping his chin with his fingers.

"Oh Lord, you both are so silly, you and your ladylove," Plagg sighed in frustration. "Gross! I can't bear all the lovey-dovey stuff and the heart eyes! I need my Camembert!"

While Plagg was munching a slice of Camembert, Adrien returned to his thoughts.

Could it be that Marinette was the love of his life? he asked himself.

He was the kind of guy who always listened to his heart. And now it was telling him he was right. So many things started making sense, clicking together like puzzle pieces.

He thought back to the day not so long ago, when the new ad was filmed at the pool. Marinette was there, and Adrien got so confused about the way he felt that he bumped his head against the car because he couldn't take his eyes off her.

And that day at Musée Grevin, when Marinette tried to kiss him while thinking he was a statue? This almost kiss affected him like an exploding bomb. The way he was freaking out afterwards was only comparable to the day his heart started beating for Ladybug—a real coup de foudre, that is.

That day at the ice rink—if he was being perfectly honest, he wasn't quite sure that what he felt back then upon seeing Marinette in Luka’s arms wasn't jealousy.

The way his heart was melting in his chest whenever he and Marinette slow danced together.

The warmth that filled his entire being when they cuddled together in the Startrain (he felt the same warmth filling him again at the very thought of Marinette pressing her head to his chest like a sleeping kitten).

The way he completely forgot how to breathe, and this is all due to seeing Marinette with her hair down.

And last but not least, the way he felt when Marinette confessed her love to Chat Noir out of nowhere. And although he rejected her, he still felt things.

No, this reverie will lead him nowhere.

Adrien had to make an effort to shake off the daydreams and think more clearly.

What if his heart was wrong? After all, he did not have enough proof. That's what his brain kept telling him.

Adrien rubbed his temples to get his thoughts in order. Then he captured a paper sheet and started scribbling down hastily:

"1. Ladybug wasn't there when Marinette had a birthday date with Evillustrator.

2. Marinette wasn't available when Ladybug attended the Nadja Chamack talk show. Alya was babysitting Manon for her, as she mentioned in her video call.

3. Marinette hid her mask during the filming of the music video for Clara Nightingale, just like I did, in order to avoid being recognised as a superhero.

4. The way Ladybug always seemed to despise Chloé.

5. Ladybug happened to be in New York at the same time as our class did.

6. The way how quickly my letter was delivered to Ladybug. It makes a lot of sense if Alya really is a confidant of Ladybug’s identity.

7. Both girls recently broke up with their boyfriends and are avoiding them now."

"What are you writing so fervently, kid?" Plagg asked suspiciously. "A new sappy poem to your lady in red?"

"Not really", Adrien answered absentmindedly.

He re-read what he had just written and sighed disappointedly.

All of this felt too far-fetched. That proved nothing. He was just clutching at straws.

These were indirect proofs that could be easily debunked by the mere fact that he once saw Ladybug and Marinette side by side.

Yeah, it happened only once, yet it was real.

The day madame Mendeleïev was akumatized and robbed them of their kwamis.

The memorable day he almost figured out Ladybug's identity to be… Marinette.

The day Marinette temporarily wielded almost all the miraculous.

Adrien's throat suddenly went totally dry.

Stop it, Adrien, he internally berated himself.

It might have been just a figment of his imagination. Just a coincidence. Just wishful thinking. Maybe he just really wanted it to be true.

Because if he were to be reasonable and rely on nothing but logic, there was no way Marinette could be Ladybug.

He was now sure that he was the guy Ladybug had been in love with all along.

But Marinette wasn't in love with him! Never has been. She had said so herself multiple times. She liked him as a friend, not as a love interest.

And the more Adrien thought of this, the duller the world around him was getting.

"What is it now, loverboy? Can't tell a good rhyme for "eyes"? You can try "french fries" or whatever."

Plagg's voice again. Adrien must have zoned out for a moment.

Adrien got up and started fumbling around in the desk drawer. It might be his last hope.

There it was—the love letter he got for Valentine's Day, which he believed to be from Ladybug.

And there was also that note from Marinette saying she would see him again tomorrow at school.

Adrien stood up and went to the window, staring into the distance.

It would be fine if he could get a sample of Ladybug’s handwriting.

Because, as nice as it was, the love letter still wasn't enough of a proof. It might've been just wishful thinking that the letter was from Ladybug.

Should he ask her about it when she comes next time?

"Drop it, kid! Just stop!"

Adrien looked up, completely dumbfounded.

Plagg was floating around in the air, holding the paper sheet Adrien had just covered with his thoughts on Ladybug's identity.

"Plagg, what are you do—"

"It's me who should be asking you what you're doing. But I already can see that."

Adrien scowled.

"Give it back to me, you sneaky cat!"

"Here, you can have it." Plagg scoffed, dropping the paper right into Adrien's extended hand. "Look, I see what you're trying to do here, and I don’t like it, like at all."

"Why not?" Adrien asked, staring with wide eyes at his kwami.

"Are you kidding me? Because trying to figure out Ladybug's identity will lead to nothing good, that's why. You know that all too well, boy," Plagg grumbled in a granddad's preachy tone.

"Do you mean I might be on to something, don't you?" Adrien asked mischievously.

"I didn't say that!" Plagg burst out. "Don't try to put words in my mouth!"

The room went quiet as a grave.

"Okay, kid, let's be reasonable," Plagg said a moment later in a much milder voice. "Don't try to investigate who is behind the mask. You know it's a big no-no. Period. And also, make sure to destroy this list by the time your lovebug drops by next time."

"Fine!" Adrien said with a joyless chuckle, crumpling up the paper and slipping it into his pocket, while Plagg occupied himself with another hunk of cheese.

***

"C'mon, spill it, girl! I won't let you go without hearing all the details".

Marinette was sitting at her sewing machine, crafting a new hat.

"I don't have much to say," Marinette said with a shrug.

"But our boy looks like he was born again. You can't tell me that nothing happened between you two!" Alya exclaimed joyfully, and her glasses flashed in the ray of sunshine streaming in through the window.

Marinette reluctantly turned away from the sewing machine.

"Well, we were just sitting on his bed crying and talking about our broken hearts, that's all".

"Is that really all?" Alya asked incredulously, leaning in so close that her nose almost brushed Marinette’s.

"Not really." Marinette answered, turning immediately the colour of the setting sun.

"Oh, really? What else? I'm dying to know." Alya said eagerly.

"We… uhm… kissed," Marinette articulated as her voice dropped gradually to a barely audible whisper.

"On the lips? Is it true?" Alya gasped, her eyes as big as saucers.

Marinette nodded silently.

"I knew it, I knew it!" Alya cried out, her fist shooting triumphantly into the air. "And what’s now? Our lovebirds are together, aren't they?"

"Yes, kind of," Marinette confirmed, rubbing the back of her neck, her voice returning to its normal volume. "He said I could come whenever I wanted. And then we kissed again."

"Oh Lord, how romantic! Rose would be over the moon to hear that!" Alya cooed, but then she remembered something.

"By the way, I have to make an interview with you to keep your cover." She informed. And upon seeing Marinette’s perplexed expression, she quickly explained: "I told Adrien the other day that I got to know about your feelings for him while making an interview with you for the Ladyblog. He might be getting suspicious if the said interview never comes out."

"Then I have to check my schedule. Maybe I can accord you some time later this evening," Marinette responded, and they both laughed.

"Wait, I'm not done with the news yet." Alya went on. "There will be a birthday party taking place on the Liberty this Sunday. It's Juleka's birthday. You're invited too. Don't you dare miss it."

"A birthday party? That's cool! I'm all in!" Marinette exclaimed ecstatically, turning back to the sewing machine.

She had hardly made two stitches when she started realising something.

"Wait a minute, Alya Césaire! What did you just say? The Liberty? Weren't we supposed to go to the movies?"

"We were, but the plans have changed. We all agreed that throwing a party on the pirate ship would be much cooler." Alya shrugged nonchalantly.

Marinette narrowed her eyes.

"I can smell a trap."

"What trap? What are you talking about?" Alya said, batting her eyes innocently.

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about! Luka will be there, too, since it's his birthday as well."

"Uhm… Yes, and what of it?" Alya said, still feigning ignorance.

"I know what you are trying to do. You want to trick me into talking to him since I started avoiding him."

"Gotcha!" Alya exclaimed, snapping her fingers. "You basically admitted that you are avoiding Luka."

"What?.. No, I'm not! It's not that!" A totally red Marinette covered her face with her palms so that only flaming red ear tips could be seen. "Alya, you can’t do that to me," Marinette begged miserably from behind her palms. "I can't do this. It will be super awkward."

"But how do you call what you are doing now?" Alya retorted, slamming her fists to her hips. "It's ridiculous, utterly ridiculous! You cause everyone around you unnecessary trouble. Even Adrien noticed you were avoiding Luka. It needs to stop!"

At the mention of Adrien Marinette surrendered.

"Okay, you won. I'll be there. But I can't promise that I'll talk to Luka."

"That's my girl!" Alya said way more softly than just a minute ago. "I knew that common sense would triumph. There's no need to overcomplicate your life, Marinette. It's overly complicated as it is." She patted Marinette’s back reassuringly.

***

Marinette was turning over in her mind the encounters Ladybug had with Adrien in the past.

She gets distracted by his marvellous green eyes looking at her from the limo window, his mouth agape in awe.

He blushes slightly as they awkwardly greet each other at the TV studio.

He rushes to her rescue when Riposte is about to stab her.

He can't bring himself to so much as touch her shoulder, retracting his hand halfway.

He pulls his hand away as soon as he realises that his hand is on her shoulders.

He latches desperately onto her after his akumatized bodyguard throws him off the skyscraper, the look in his eyes telling her more than any words ever could.

Love, respect, and admiration for her came through in all his doings.

So then, he'd been in love with her all along.

And that tender love poem he wrote for Valentine's Day was for her.

Marinette wondered how he was going to get the love letter delivered to her. Would he have asked Alya to do it for him? Or would he have been standing outside all day long, waiting for her to pass by?

She couldn't fight back a giggle at the thought.

Maybe the reason he ended up throwing the letter in the trash can was exactly that he didn't come up with a plan to deliver it.

But the girl it was addressed to got it nonetheless and loved it so, so much.

She rummaged through her things in a desk drawer until she found what she'd been looking for—a crumpled paper sheet covered with Adrien's neat handwriting.

She knew the content of the paper sheet by heart.

Marinette let out a lovesick sigh.

She longed to see Adrien. She couldn't resist the urge to melt into his embrace and hear his comforting words. She had to see him right now.

She got up abruptly.

"Tikki, transforme-moi."

***

It was a matter of a few minutes to reach his house and find him standing at the window of his room, as if he were waiting for her.

"Adrien!"

***

As soon as they pulled apart after a particularly long kiss, Adrien suddenly said, scratching the back of his neck:

"May I ask you something, Ladybug?"

After having gotten a nod of approval, Adrien pulled out a pink-coloured piece of paper from his pocket.

"Was that you who wrote this?"

Ladybug turned bright red so quickly, as if someone had pushed a button inside of her.

She recognised the heart-shaped Valentine's Day card immediately. The silly, sappy love poem she sent him a while ago but forgot to sign.

No matter how embarrassed she was about having written it, there was no use denying the truth.

"Yes, I… Yes, it was me," she mumbled, lowering her gaze to examine the black spots on her hands. "Did you… did you like it?" She dared a question after what seemed like an eternity, cringing at the sound of her own voice, which suddenly became too thick for her liking.

"Yes, I liked it a lot." Adrien's voice was as soft as marshmallows. "It wasn’t signed, so I always hoped it was from you. I'm so glad I guessed it right."

Ladybug didn't expect this. She looked up to see such a loving look in his eyes and such a heartfelt smile on his lips that she could barely resist the urge to kiss him senseless.

Adrien reached out his hand and touched her cheek, giving her goosebumps. Then he leaned in and placed a kiss on her forehead.

"Ladybug," he said. "This is the best letter I've ever gotten in my life."

Ladybug felt a rush of warmth flood her chest.

How could someone be so kind and gentle? He kept the postcard so dearly, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, just because he thought it was from her. He really loved her so much!

He was perfect! She found herself falling in love with him more and more.

Ladybug cuddled closer to him, and he hugged her tenderly in response.

"I love you so much, Adrien," she murmured into his chest. "You're so kind and so generous."

Adrien said nothing, pulling her closer to him.

"Did you know that your cousin Félix once tried to kiss me against my will?" She continued after having relished his closeness for a while.

Adrien stiffened.

"He did what?"

"I immediately knew it couldn’t have been you because I know you'd never do something like that." She continued in between kisses to his cheek.

Ladybug could feel Adrien's hands on her back balling into fists. He murmured something suspiciously similar to "I'll kill him".

"Don't you worry," she said, placing a soothing hand on his arm. "He got what he deserved—a good punch in the face."

Adrien chuckled a dry, short chuckle.

"You should have told me ages ago." He said, looking her straight in the eyes.

Ladybug smiled fondly at him.

"What would it be good for? I managed to handle it on my own. At least now I know that I won't ever mistake him for you again."

She was silenced with an ardent kiss from Adrien.

Her mind immediately went completely blank, and right now she wouldn't want it any other way. Shadow Moth and Félix be damned. As long as she had Adrien by her side (and Alya and Chat Noir, of course), she was sure she could make it.

#ml fanfiction #my writing #ladrien #hurt/comfort #ml fanfic

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twists-and-things-betwixt · 1 year

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Of Nightingales and Night Ravens: Chapter 4 - Ramshackle Renovations

Chapter: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII

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Summary: In which the cult gets more screen time, debts are paid through cleaning services, Yuu is a Disney Princess for real this time, there are too many animals in one room, and a first meeting occurs in the woods behind Ramshackle, but not the one you're thinking of. (or, Whistle While You Work)

Yuura is referred to as They and He.

Despite however long the Headmage claimed the building to be abandoned, Ramshackle itself is still in fair condition.

Now that the dormitory houses more than three mischievous ghosts, the water and electricity have been turned back on. The hardwood floors are scuffed and carpeted in a thick layer of dust, but they seem to be properly treated and stained; jumping up and down on one of the upper landings didn’t result in Yuura crashing into the floor below. Where the wallpaper is peeling, it's at the corners of individual sheets that could be easily glued back down. The broken furniture could be shoved into an empty storage room to be tended to at a later date.

And in spite of Ramshackle’s rundown appearance, the foundation is solid, the walls could repel the wind, and the roof could keep out the rain and sun. It's nothing more than a large clean up job.

Stains in the wallpaper? Nothing some warm, soapy water can’t fix. The staggering number of cobwebs dangling from the ceilings and sticking to the hard-to-reach corners? There was a broom conveniently abandoned in the entry hall, and a ladder in the back shed. The copious amounts of dust everywhere? In the attic, Yuura found a box of old but clean rags alongside a feather duster that still had all its plumes and a sturdy racket that was perfect for beating carpets and mattresses. The laundry room they stumbled upon was still stocked with cartons and boxes of powdered soap and cleaning detergents. There's even a full set of mops and buckets, and a large metal tub with its own old-fashioned steel washboard.

This, Yuura cataloged with a notepad and pencil, spending the free hours of their day exploring the building. There was no map they could find, so they drew up their own crude copy, counting the rooms and learning of their old designations from the resident ghosts (kitchen, supply closet, parlor, bedroom, study, bedroom, bedroom, bedroom…). Counting windows and determining which ones got top priority (bottom floor to top, front-facing, kitchen and master bedroom). Stacking scattered books and fallen paintings. Remembering which carpet belonged to which room after cleaning. Fixing the clocks and frames they found askew on the walls.

"What do you think, Mr. Giddens?” Yuura asks, hopping off the last step of the stairs connecting the first and second floors. They’d been testing the boards for levels of squeakiness rather than overall sturdiness (a little creaky towards the middle, but muffled by the carpet, and silent if you used the edges instead).

The Chubby Ghost of Ramshackle Dorm floats lazily to their side, taking a peek at the notes in their hand. It was a scribbled mix of Barren script, Common, and neat sketches of the building’s layout littered with numbers, arrows, and doodles of dancing mops and brooms.

"I think this seems like a tall order for one person to handle,” Mr. Giddens drawls.

"Especially for someone as small as you!” pipes in Mr. Weylin, dropping in from the ceiling alongside Mr. Melrose.

The Tiny Ghost nods in agreement. "Your arms will fall off before you finish sweeping the lounge." He shakes one of Yuura’s arms for emphasis.

"I’m sturdier than I look," Yuura insists, already making their way to the supply closet, pencil tucked behind their ear. "I helped my Uncle Sandro clean all the time, and our house was a little bigger than this.

"Besides, I won’t be alone." They turn on their heel, their smile rather cheery for someone who was about to spend the next several hours walking into spider webs. "I’ve got Grim with me, haven’t I?"

----

Among the Heartslabyul students who were present during the Housewarden’s Overblot and witnessed the aftermath, having fled into the Rose Maze before the destruction and missed the Headmaster’s call for evacuation, there was a vote—who to send as pseudo-emissaries to the Prefect who may or may not be a long-lost god of healing.

That’s how one freshman, two sophomores, and one junior find themselves standing on the creaky front porch of Ramshackle Dorm one Saturday morning, two weeks after the first Incident, less than a week after the second Incident when the Prefect was found singing All in the Golden Afternoon in the maze. As if that song isn’t highly restricted in use by the Queendom’s Royal Botanic Society.

"...so who’s gonna knock?"

"Not me! Make Quentin do it."

"What? What did I do?"

"Are you that much of a coward that you can’t even knock a door?"

"You wanna say that to my face, Poncy?"

"Bring it on, Angie."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake—look, there’s a doorbell. Let’s just ring the doorbell, and get this over with."

The doorbell does not work—properly. Rather than a chime or a tinkling tune, their ears are assaulted by a grating screech that lasts long enough for someone to answer the door.

"Hohoho, what do we have here?"

"Visitors? Visitors here?"

"Visitors, or intruders? What do you think, Mr. Giddens?"

"Heartslabyul, I think. And I see nary a red heart or a black spade among them."

"Intruders, then. Heheheh, do you know what that means, Mr. Giddens?"

"I think I do, Mr. Weylin."

Well, we don’t! the four hapless Heartslabyul students cry, huddling together despite their earlier animosity. Is this how it ended, joining the ranks of the ghosts who haunted Ramshackle? There's a reason why everyone avoided the building for decades!

"Oy! What did Yuu say about harassing visitors?”

The quartet would have sighed in relief, were it not for the fact that their savior came in the form of that fiery cat-monster that nearly burned down the Mirror Chamber during the Entrance Ceremony. It’s a little hard not to gawk when the creature comes waddling in with tiny rubber gloves over its front paws and its fiery ears tucked under a checkered kerchief.

(Huh. You’d think that’d be a safety hazard or something).

Bright blue eyes narrow on sight. "Hey, you ain’t Ace or Deuce. What’s a buncha Heartslabyul prisses doin’ here?"

One of the sophomores—the one referred to as Poncy—leans through the open door to shake his fist. “What’s that supposed to mean, ya cúl tóna beag?”

Someone hisses, "Pontius!" and tries to drag him back inside when the ghosts start leering again.

The monster bristles, nose scrunched up and forked tail flicking in agitation. "You wanna fight? I'll show you what the Great Lord Grim can do!"

"Gri—i—im!" Students, ghosts, and cat-monster alike all jump at the call. The voice comes closer, from the slightly ajar doors at the end of the entry hall. "Grim, are you alright? I heard the doorbell ringing. Oh! visitors."

Peeking into the hallway, a great pair of owlish, hazel-brown eyes, framed between an off-white kerchief around the mouth and over the nose, and a blue plaid kerchief around the head, pushing back a tousled mass of dark curls.

"Welcome to Ramshackle!" The Prefect steps into full view, revealing a full-length apron atop faded gym clothes that look several years out of date, bright yellow rubber gloves, and a broom in hand that looks like it's been through the wringer. "Pardon the mess, but today's a cleaning day and we weren't expecting visitors." Once he's close enough, the Prefect extends his free hand, retracts it upon realizing how grimy it is, and settles for a polite yet welcoming nod. Even with the mask in the way, his smile is visible in the corners of his eyes and the lift of his cheeks.

He doesn’t look much like an immortal in hiding or—as some of the guys suggested—a forgotten god of healing. Not with the secondhand clothes, or the messy hair, or the broom.

But they had seen the Prefect fend off that Blot monster’s attack when it came straight for Trappola; if it had been any of them, it would have been every man for himself and Trappola would be mulch. They’d seen him sing a Lost Song that made Diamond lose some of his composure and brought Rosehearts back from the brink of death. Those who were close enough to the spectacle had felt the lingering effects of the Prefect’s spell—warmth like a kind touch, like a sunbeam in the darkness, soothing their aches and pains. And then there were others who were convinced that he was the god of something more, because when they found him singing to those flowers, they not only moved in response, they sang back, unfurling their petals and leaves to reveal uncanny faces, singing with the Prefect in perfect harmony as they swayed like they were dancing in the breeze.

Which brings us back to why they were here in the first place.

Any persisting pride the four Heartslabyul students might have had is dwarfed in comparison to the awe and gratitude that they have towards the Prefect.

“Prefect!” The junior steps up first and bows almost parallel to the floor. The Prefect lets out an inelegant squeak. “My name is Octavian Kendrick, third-year, and on behalf of the other guys in Heartslabyul, we wanted to thank you for what you did for us.”

The Prefect blinks, lowers his mask, opens his mouth, closes it, then blinks some more. “Thank me for what, exactly?”

The other students look at each other incredulously while Octavian shoots up straight in disbelief. “For what?”

“For taking the ruler out of Rosehearts’ ass and making him chill out, obviously—ow!”

“Angus!”

“What Angus means,” the junior continues, blocking his bickering underclassmen from the Prefect’s line of sight, “is that ever since the Housewarden’s, er, Incident, he’s been… mellower. Less… severe when it comes to enforcing the Queen of Hearts’ rules.”

“Less anal retentive, you mean—ow!”

“Angus!”

Octavian sighs.

The Prefect rolls his broom between his hands, humming. "I don’t understand why you would be offering me thanks. Senior Riddle has been doing remarkably well improving himself with Senior Trey and Senior Cater’s guidance, and I didn’t help during his... Predicament as much as Ace and Deuce did. If anything, you should be thanking them."

How is this guy a student at Night Raven?

The sophomore with a club over his left eye and rubbing his ribs—Angus—snorts. "Didn’t help? All of us saw the way you threw yourself in front of Trappola—"

"Like some sort of self-sacrificing idiot—"

"Pontius!"

"And then there’s the part where you used a Lost Song to bring the Housewarden back from the dead!" the freshman with a blue heart on his face exclaims, stars in his eyes. "In Black Tongue, too. I’m from the Shaftlands, and even I don’t know any of the words besides the first line in Pyroxisch. And you need to be really, really good at magic to use a spell that powerful, and you used it to bring the Housewarden back from the dead."

"Quentin," the sophomore with a diamond—Pontius—cuts in sharply, while the Prefect corrects, "He wasn’t dead."

"But he was dying," Angus says, "Like, on Death’s doorstep, and then you started singing in a dead language, and it was like nothing happened to him! We all thought you were supposed to be Magicless."

"Basically Magicless," Pontius clarifies.

"You saw all of that?" is what the Prefect takes away from All of That.

Octavian nods. "About a dozen of us or so. We were in the Rose Maze when it happened."

"A bunch of guys ran in there after the whole Egg Thing and the Housewarden started going on a rampage," Quentin helpfully explains. "We saw everything."

"Ah," the Prefect says thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t been witnessed performing something akin to a miracle; something that would definitely make global news if word ever got out. "To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t entirely certain if that would work."

"What."

"Mm-hm." The Prefect starts sweeping idly at the dirt the boys had tracked in. "Let’s just say… It’s been a long time since I last sang, and I couldn’t be sure if the Song would work or not. But I needed to try, for Senior Riddle’s sake. You understand, of course?"

No, they did not understand. Where did this kid come from? Why is he even here? Everyone in the area had fled or hidden during Rosehearts’ Overblot, besides the Suits and the Prefect (who all appear to be of the same breed of freaking crazy). And then when the tiny, red tyrant was only a pint away from bleeding to death, the Prefect whipped out a Lost Song like it was nothing! Like the ones with surviving lyrics or melodies aren’t guarded as national secrets. Like the only people who remember all the words in their original Barren Tongue aren’t all dead.

…except for one, it seems.

Octavian bows to the Prefect again, and this time, his underclassmen follow suit. "You saved the Housewarden’s life, and because of whatever else you did to make him calm down and not decapitate people left and right, Heartslabyul Dorm is in your debt."

At the word debt, the Prefect’s eyes widen. "Debt?" he echoes. "Oh no, oh no, oh no! You don’t owe me anything, least of all the entirety of your dorm. I only wanted to help—Senior Riddle, and my friends, and..." He trails off, sheepish. "I suppose the rest of you as well."

"And that’s why we’re indebted to you, id—" Pontius falters at the several pairs of glaring eyes that lock onto him—from his senior, his junior, the cat-monster standing at the Prefect’s side, and the trio of ghosts still lingering nearby. "Ahem—Prefect. You helped us all out, so now we have to pay you back."

"That’s the rules here," Angus shrugs, leaning onto a protesting Pontius’ shoulder. "Trust us, no one here wants to remain indebted to anyone. Have seen Octavinelle? Have you seen their Dorm Leader?"

"Actually, I am familiar with Senior Ashengro—"

"Anyway," Octavian interrupts, because he did not like where that sentence was going, "you get what we’re saying. You helped us deal with Rosehearts; we help you out in any way we can."

"Within reason," Quentin adds. "That’s what the others back at the dorm said."

Again, the Prefect appears lost in contemplation, rolling the handle of his broom back and forth.

"Myah, Yuura." They all look down to see the weasel-cat—Grim—yanking on the Prefect’s pant leg. "It’s cleaning day, 'member?"

The big ghost starts chuckling, deep and booming. "Hohoho, I see!"

"It would be nice to have a spare set of human hands helping you out," says the skinny ghost, floating over the Prefect’s shoulder. "Or four, or twelve."

The Prefect glances back at the open door at the end of the hall, and for the first time since they arrived, the Heartslabyul students finally notice the sounds of shuffling and… clacking? coming from that direction.

The Prefect offers them a shy, hopeful smile when he turns back. "You wouldn’t happen to be free later today, would you?"

----

"What, exactly, is going on here?"

"Hou—Housewarden Rosehearts, sir!"

"Nothing’s going on, sir!"

"Nothing? Then enlighten me—why would nothing require a dozen students disappearing together on a Friday afternoon?"

"Uh, well, you see, clubs—and other such after-school activities—"

"Oh, for the love of—"

"Ramshackle, sir! Everyone’s leaving for Ramshackle Dorm!"

"Finnian!"

"I’m sorry! I panic under pressure."

"...Ramshackle?"

----

"Senior Ruggie! Horrible news!"

"So you know how the Housewarden’s tryna to—"

"—heard it from the Hearts guys in my club—"

"I didn’t know the Prefect was accepting offerings—"

"—going on for weeks, apparently—"

"—they don’t even have a washing machine—"

"EH? What d'ya mean Heartslabyul’s—!"

----

Anyone passing by Ramshackle Dorm one Saturday morning in early November would have doubletake'd at the assembly of characters standing at the dilapidated building’s front porch. Certainly, the poor Heartslabyul freshman who volunteered to answer the door swears his heart seized in that moment as he struggles to not immediately slam the door in their faces.

"Housewarden Rosehearts!" he salutes, forgetting the feather duster in hand that sends a cloud of dust flying. "Er, and Housewarden Kingscholar!"

(Nearby, a Savanaclaw student almost drops the wall sconce he was screwing back into place. Turning the corner from the larger storage room, a Heartslabyul pair stumbles and knocks the newly repaired sideboard they were carrying into a wall.)

"...and entourage," the freshman tacks on, rather pathetically.

("Why are we ‘entourage’?" mutters Ace from where he stands by Deuce, narrowed eyes trained on the Savanaclaw trio beside them.)

The Heartslabyul Housewarden studies his dorm member with a critical eye, noting the feather duster, the lack of his uniform blazer, the kerchief in his hair. With the door open, the hubbub of many people moving around inside is obvious. So is the distant sound of singing. "...Quentin Herzfeld, I believe."

"Yes, sir!"

Even out of dorm uniform and carrying what looks to be a covered basket with a bright red bow, Riddle Rosehearts cuts an imposing figure. "Well?" he snaps. "Are you not going to invite us in?"

"Yes, sir! Right this way, sir! Please excuse the mess!"

Someone further back has already run ahead into the lounge, shouting something that sounds like, "—ner Circ—!"

Those still present in the entry hall watch Rosehearts and Kingscholar try to enter the building at the same time, only to knock shoulders and start glaring at each other.

And they just finished gluing down the wallpaper after the last scuffle, too…

----

"So, friends, even though you’re vermin, we’re a happy working throng—oh! Senior Riddle, Senior Leona. I didn’t expect to see you two here. Welcome!"

"Prefect." Riddle sounds close to having a conniption. "There’s vermin in your dormitory."

"Senior Riddle, they’re not vermin," the Prefect chides the Heartslabyul Housewarden, stepping around the line of rats scurrying across the floor. "They're friends." They set their heavy tray down on the coffee table, already crowded with similar trays laden with stacks of painted glasses, old metal pitchers and crystal jugs, and porcelain plates of finger foods. Almost immediately, several students scattered around the lounge drop whatever’s in hand and swarm the Prefect, laughing their thanks and sighing in relief.

The Prefect laughs with them before turning to address their visitors. It’s quite a sight for them, seeing the young men they consider their friends standing together (even if Riddle is steadily turning red; and Leona is looking distinctly vexed; and Jack bewildered; and Ruggie and Trey plainly amused; and Ace and Deuce particularly annoyed; Cater is just taking pictures again). "It’s been a while since I’ve seen some of you together. How are you?"

"Prefect, the rats."

"Yuurachen, love what you’ve done with the place! Smile for the camera!"

"Hey, Yuu-kun, are those sandwiches for everyone?"

"I’m just here to make sure the guys I sent were actually doing their jobs and not slacking off."

"As if you’re one to talk about slacking off…"

"Oy, Yuura! Since when were you inviting other guys into Ramshackle?"

"What about the rats! Yuu, did you replace us with rats?"

"Have you just been cleaning your dorm in your free time for the past two months? Prefect, no."

"We brought you a goodie basket."

Unbelievably, that's what the Prefect zeroes in on, extracting themself from Diamond’s hold to retrieve the covered basket from Clover. "Really? Oh, you didn't have to, thank you!" Removing the gingham cloth fills the air with the yeasty, spicy, sweet aromas of fresh baked breads and pastries. "You wouldn’t mind if I shared these, would you?"

"Well, actually—"

"Hey, don’t ignore us!" Ace whirls them around by the shoulders. "Why's this the first we’ve heard of you bringing a buncha Savanaclaw meatheads and our own dorm-mates into Ramshackle—hrmph!"

Yuura withdraws another cinnamon palmier from the basket and holds it out to the hyena beastman. "Of course, help yourself. I'm making more sandwiches in the kitchen, and there are brownies in the oven, if you want any."

"Score!" Ruggie knocks Ace aside, the redhead's yells muffled by the arlette in his mouth. Half of the pastry in their hand disappears in one bite. "You're the bes', kidege."

"Ati, Ruggie—who're you calling kidege?" Ace is further knocked aside—this time into Deuce, nearly choking on flaky crumbs—as Leona inserts himself between the pair. Somehow, he looks even more irritated than usual, though that could easily be attributed to the presence of not only the Heartslabyul prigs, but also their damn Dorm Leader and his Suits. If he’d known the Little Red Queen had the same plans as him, he wouldn’t have bothered stopping by Ramshackle in the first place.

("You didn’t have to stay, y’know," Ruggie will later point out about an hour later, when Yuura bids everyone goodbye and sends Savanaclaw off with leftover boxes and promises to visit on Sunday.

(To which Leona will answer with a "Tsk," and proceed to avoid the question.)

"Shishishi! Why, jealous?" Ruggie slings an arm over the Prefect’s shoulders, already reaching into the basket for a square of caramel shortbread. "Maybe you shoulda been nicer to Yuu-kun here if you wanted them to love you as much as they love me. Jaza ya ihsani ni ihsani. Anipendaye, nami nampenda."

Several Savana residents choke on their drinks as their Housewarden scowls and retorts, "Ihsani iandame imani." He sweeps his arm around the lounge, more polished and spruced up compared to the beginning of the school term. A few of his dorm members are still hard at work caulking squeaky floorboards in the upper landing, reinstalling fallen light fixtures, and replacing heavy curtain rods over the windows. "What do you call this, then?"

"Compensation, I should think, for the injuries the Prefect incurred trying to clean up your messes." Riddle appears to have recovered from his rat-induced shock, because now he’s stepping in between Leona and the Prefect, eyeing both beastmen with obvious displeasure. "Uninspired, as well, seeing as Heartslabyul already had renovations well underway by the time Savanaclaw decided to stick their muzzles where they don’t belong."

"Eh?" Leona stalks forward, towering over his fellow Dorm Leader. "Word travels fast, Riddle. We all know what happened between you and the Prefect in September. Your hands are as red as mine."

Everyone in the room (and in the adjacent kitchen, entry hall, and dining room, because all the doors are open and sound travels far in Ramshackle) stiffens, the tension palpable between two powerful Housewardens who are still recovering from the aftermath of Overblotting and nearly dying.

Everyone except for the Prefect, of course.

"Excuse me, please." The Savanaclaw trio and Heartslabyul quintet jump back as the Prefect draw circles in the air with their broom handle. "Mostro Lounge rules apply here, gentlemen—no fighting between dorms. And no soliciting, as well, I suppose." They lower their broom and plant a hand on their hip, their mild disappointment evident and more devastating than any anger or upset.

("Why bring up the Mostro Lounge rules, anyway?"

("Dude, they work at the Mostro Lounge."

("They what?")

"Really, Senior Riddle, Senior Leona—your students are present. As their Housewardens, shouldn’t you set better precedents for them when it comes to fostering interdorm relations?" It took many promises and placations to calm everyone down that first day, when both Savanaclaw and Heartslabyul appeared on Ramshackle’s doorstep the previous week and immediately clashed. Yuura would not tolerate all their hard work being undone, not even by Riddle or Leona.

To the astonishment of all those watching, both Housewardens actually look ashamed—they look away from the Prefect and each other, Riddle flushed with embarrassment, Leona clicking his tongue, contrite.

Riddle coughs into his fist and smooths down the front of his waistcoat. "I… apologize, Prefect. You’re absolutely correct. It would be disrespectful of us to engage in altercations while we are guests under your care."

There are too many people in the room for Leona to properly avoid any eye contact. Eventually, he closes his eyes, sighs, and says, "Fine. Whatever. As long as you don’t insist I act all buddy-buddy with Mister Queen over there."

"It never hurts to dream." Disregarding Rosehearts' indignant sputtering, the smile the Prefect gives is like a reward in and of itself—kind, and lighthearted, and encouraging in its genuinity.

("By the Seven…" a Savanaclaw junior murmurs in awe. Like many of his dorm-mates, he's wearing his uniform bandana around his head and an old apron the Prefect found in a box filled with equally old aprons.

("I know, right?" his Heartslabyul year-mate whispers back excitedly, passing a plate full of tea sandwiches.

("Is this what they mean by beast-taming…?" another Heartslabyul student mumbles in a daze. His expression is reflected in several other faces.

(Someone else from Savanaclaw mimics a whip cracking, and is immediately shushed.)

The Prefect smacks the top of their head. "Oh, but where are my manners? Sit down, sit down, please!" They usher their guests around the lounge, mindful of the recently shampooed carpet and the various animal tails lying around, both beastfolk and rattus. "The Cards helped me clean the cushioned furniture a few weeks ago, and the Savana boys helped finish up the rest of the lounge." They turn to the dusty, grungy students delegated to sitting on the floors. "Again, thank you for the assistance. I don't know what I would have done without all of you."

They're answered by an overlapping chorus of "It's no problem," and "You can count on us!", and "Anything for you, Mx. Prefect!"

(On separate couches, Leona and Riddle share the same expression of vague betrayal—from their own dorm members, or from the Prefect, or perhaps both. Seated with Riddle, Trey and Cater share a meaningful, silent Look. On the third couch, Deuce cracks his knuckles and Ace throws a menacing glance at his fellow Card Soldiers. Leaning against the staircase banister, Jack is frowning even more so than usual. And Ruggie? Ruggie is snickering to himself where he's sat on the carpet, cradling the goodie basket the Prefect kindly entrusted to him like a treasure chest.)

Ace takes the glass of lemonade the Prefect pours out for him with a petulant air, grumbling rather loudly, "I don't see why you had to ask these cretini e scrocconi for help, anyway."

"You're one to talk, Trappola!" someone who sounds like one of his dorm-mates says. "Vai a vendere il culo!"

"Cazzo si, Campana! Bacha ma culo, tu brutto figlio di—mrph!" He yanks the sandwich triangle out of his mouth. "Yuu, I'm not Grim, stop doing that!" The Prefect tugs lightly at an unruly lock of red hair. "Yuu."

"Stop antagonizing my guests." They pass the plate in their other hand to their blue-haired friend. "Have a sandwich, Ducky; there's egg salad and tamago sando."

"O—Oh, thank you." That mollifies Deuce for the time being, if the slight fluster means anything. Yuura grants him a pleased smile and a pat on the head.

"Tsk. This is blatant favoritism."

"I don't play favorites so obviously, Pip, you know this." Just in case, they pat his head too. Ace groans some more, but doesn't move away from their hand.

(Blatant favoritism, is the thought on many people's minds as the Prefect fusses over their best friends. Then they move across the room to hand Howl a full glass and to pat his arm. He accepts both gestures with a neutral face, a nod, and a conspicuously hidden tail. Howl, you too?!)

"And your dorm-mates offered to help me, as well as Savanaclaw," they call over their shoulder as they bustle to the open kitchen door. "I couldn’t very well refuse them when they were so willing to help, and kind enough to offer it. What was I supposed to do, turn them away from my door?"

"Yes."

"Ace."

"Wait, wait, hold on a minute." Jack waits for the Prefect to pull their head back in from the kitchen—"Could someone put a kettle on, please?"—"I’ve got it, Mx. Yuu!"—before nudging them back into the room’s focus. "If Ace and Deuce weren’t helping you, and you only started getting help at the end of September…" He shoots them his own disappointed stare. "Don’t tell me you were cleaning your dorm by yourself for a whole month."

"It wasn’t a whole month," the Prefect insists, reaching higher to pat his shoulder. His frown doesn't abate. "I swear it! I had Grim to help me, as well—"

"Grim can barely hold a pen."

"—and, well…" They fiddle with the chain of their necklace, actually hesitant for once. Hazel eyes flicker around the room between their latest guests. "I had a little help on the side, I suppose you could say."

"Oh! Oh, Prefect!" A Savanaclaw freshman with blond hair and the dark ears of a hyrax—the one who was shushed earlier—starts bouncing on his knees. "Prefect, you have to show them that Song you used!"

"Emmanuel!" someone hisses.

"Song?" the Prefect’s Heartslabyul friends echo, curious and intrigued.

"Song?" the Prefect’s Savanaclaw friends echo, ears pulling back almost flat against their hair.

(And who can blame them for being on guard? Everyone who witnessed Leona Kingscholar’s Overblot was also privy to the Prefect at their most destructive and ruthless. Heartslabyul had seen the Prefect protect their friend and heal their enemy; and saw a god of healing, forgiveness, compassion. Savanaclaw had seen the Prefect split the earth in two and summon columns of green flame and geysers of boiling steam; and saw a god of retribution and mercy that came in the form of a swift, humbling defeat.)

The Prefect flaps their hand in a vaguely reassuring manner. "Nothing so drastic or damaging, you needn't worry about that. But… it is a little overwhelming, in its own way."

"Overwhelming how?" Riddle asks with a scrutinizing gaze. By the way he's shifting his feet, he seems to have remembered the numerous rats dotting the lounge floor. Probably because one skirted a little too close to his shoe and nearly sent him flying off the couch.

...is that one wearing a bow?

"Well…"

"Oh, c'mon, Prefect—!" That sets off a clamoring from all directions of the lounge, over a dozen young men begging and pleading with the Prefect, with a comfortable informality and ease born from spending many hours working alongside the suspected immortal (possible god), who so far has displayed a greater preference for goodwill and charity than vengeance and retaliation.

(Which is all well and good for those who initially derided the Prefect for being so small, and weak, and supposedly Magicless, or close to it. Especially Savanaclaw; none of them will be forgetting anytime soon just how easily the Prefect could have ended their Housewarden right then and there. Instead, they healed him completely at the expense of their own health. Truly a merciful being.)

Riddle appears close to beheading people, and Leona to nursing a migraine, before the Prefect throws up their hands and laughs, "Alright, alright, settle down, please!" Then, with a tentatively eager grin, "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt, just this once." And that’s enough reassurance for their friends to settle down. If there’s one thing they’ve learned about Yuura Miyajima, it’s that they hate harming others, necessarily or otherwise. Even being left bedridden in the infirmary didn’t prevent them from making sure both Riddle and Leona were fully recovered from their Episodes.

Whatever this Song is, it can’t be anymore dangerous than Der Zauberspruch or All in the Golden Afternoon.

Cheering, the lounge bursts into action as people leap off the floor and scatter around the room, tossing dirty rags, kerchiefs, and aprons, and tools and supplies onto the ground, throwing open the curtains and windows, and the back door in the kitchen—all under the Prefect’s direction.

"Could someone get the windows, please?"

"We got ‘em, Prefect!

"Everyone grab what’s left on the plates, if you will!"

"Way ahead of you!"

"Now where did I put my broom…? Oh! Thank you, Khari."

"’S nothing, Mx. Prefect."

Slipping away to find a good angle to film from, Cater finds one of his fellow Cards and asks, "Hey, so what’s this super mysterious song everyone’s so hyped about?"

The sophomore—his last name might’ve been Pfenning or Farthing, or something like that—flinches. "Oh, Senior Diamond, it’s just you. Uh… you’re from Pyroxene too, right? You remember that clean-up song kids used to sing? Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift?"

"Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift?" two voices exclaim. Cater startles and turns to the direction of the other voice. Little Jack Howl stares back at him, first with mild surprise that he had heard him from across the room, then with shared bafflement. Wait, you heard that? Wait, you know Pyroxisch? Wait, did you hear what I heard correctly?

In the center of the room, lit up by the midday sunlight pouring through the open windows, the Prefect readjusts the kerchief in their hair before crouching and knocking the floor, steadying themself with their broom. “Gustav, Yasha, Marusya, come here, everyone.”

Everyone not accustomed to the Prefect’s Little Friends—mostly Riddle, he still hasn’t moved out of that stiff stance—jumps back and retracts their feet as well over a dozen rats scamper across the floor to congregate around the Prefect, who smiles and pets them like one would a cat or a dog, and not a mischief of grubby, possibly diseased rodents (again, mostly Riddle’s words).

(Never mind that all of them have sleek, fluffy coats and seem to be wearing some sort of miniature clothing item or accessory. When did the Prefect have the time to knit that fat one a sweater?)

"I’ll have to ask for your help again today, but you’ll get to see your friends. Aren’t you excited?"

It feels like foreshadowing, how responsive the rats are to the Prefect speaking in Common as they bob their heads and chitter in agreement.

Then the Prefect stands up and whistles a painfully nostalgic tune that reminds the native Shaftlanders of clean-up time and overly enthusiastic kindergarten teachers—and something from the woods outside whistles back.

"Please don’t be alarmed," the Prefect says, before a fluttering, flocking shadow descends.

----

"So were you expecting a crap-ton of birds and forest animals?" Ace whispers, his voice a little weak even in his own ears. The rabbit on his lap continues to paw at his waistcoat.

Careful not to disturb the birds that decided his shoulders and head were adequate perches, Deuce leans over and replies, "I’m more surprised there were deer in the woods."

"Honestly, same."

Said deer—a doe—and its fawn seem to have taken a liking to their green-haired senior and Housewarden, with Trey struggling not to laugh in the face of Riddle’s bewilderment as the mother-child pair nudge their legs and the fawn attempts to clamber onto Riddle’s lap. "No, wait, don’t do that. No, stop—"

Leona isn’t faring any better—no matter how many times he growls or lashes out his hand, far too many chipmunks and squirrels return, circling the Savanaclaw Housewarden in hopes that he’ll let them climb on his person. "Herbivore," he says through gritted teeth. "What is this?"

The Prefect’s shoulders shake with stifled laughter, the birds resting on them undisturbed by the movement. "It means they like you, Senior Leona," they say, oddly calm for someone whose lounge is now crowded with an excess of squirrels, chipmunks, and rats, a herd of rabbits, a pair of large turtles, a family of deer, an entire nursery of raccoons, and too many birds to count.

"Totes adorable," Cater declares, taking pics of the rabbits gathering around him for Magicam.

"Hey. Hey, no, not there." Jack waves at the bird that’s made its nest in his hair. It jumps and flutters in the air for a moment before settling down again. "What did I just say? Not there."

"Shoo. Go away." Ruggie kicks a foot out towards the raccoons that keep approaching him. He’s still got the basket in his arms, plus a couple plates he managed to snatch from the coffee table. "These ain’t for you, now beat it!"

(Inner Circle, their dorm-mates think with envious sighs, their persons woefully bereft of any curious or cozy forest creature. Even the animals can tell who the Prefect favors over others. Lucky bastards.)

The Prefect claps their hands. It’s a little unnerving how that instantly catches the attention of every animal in the vicinity. "Alright, everyone," they start in a chipper voice, slightly more pitched than usual. They point to various parts of the room, and in the smoothest transition into Barren any of them have heard, says, "Now you wash the dishes. You tidy up the room. You clean the fireplace—"

They hold their broom aloft. "And I’ll use the broom!"

They whistle again, and then the birds whistle back, and then…

"Just whistle while you work!"

"Off the couch, off the couch, off the couch—" Their dorm-mates probably had the right idea, retreating to the stairs and the upper landing overlooking the lounge. The moment every bird takes off into the air and the animals start moving, Ace and Deuce bolt, ducking their heads and nearly tripping over various rabbits and rodents as they stumble up the stairs. Close behind them are Ruggie and Jack, the former expertly dodging every animal underfoot and the latter nearly getting his ears clipped by a pair of birds lifting a plate.

"How are they carrying those?"

"I dunno, freaky Prefect magic crap?! Where’s the music coming from!"

Their seniors are not so quick in their escapes.

"And cheerfully together, we can tidy up the place." As they sweep around the carpet, the Prefect passes by Riddle and Trey. Riddle has given up all sense of decorum to kneel on the couch, very much dismayed by the number of animals dusting with their tails and carrying very delicate dishes and glassware.

"I—what? No, wait—" Riddle grips Trey’s arm, his expression somewhat (very) panicked. “Trey. Trey, there are squirrels dusting the mantle.”

"Let it go, Riddle." His face is somber and resigned. He only steps aside when a turtle waddles past carrying a stack of overturned glasses on its shell.

"But—"

"This is Ramshackle Dorm. Only the Prefect’s rules apply here."

"So hum a merry tune—hm-mm-mm-mm, hm-mm-mm..." When the Prefect passes by the other occupied couch in the room, they find a certain lion lying face-down, a decorative pillow thrown over his head. They’d worry more about his ability to breathe if it weren’t for the exposed tail snapping back and forth. Instead, they laugh again and kick a dirty rag on the floor up into the air. It’s swiftly caught by a diving sparrow. "It won’t take long when there’s a song to help you set the pace.

"And as you sweep the room…" They start twirling with the broom, moving with remarkable ease around the rats with dusters in their tails, and chipmunks with dishes in their paws, and raccoons with aprons and kerchiefs on their backs. "Imagine that the broom is someone that you love, and soon—"

"You'll find you’re dancing to the tune!" "Du fängst mit ihm zu tanzen an!"

"Oh!" Before their forehead can collide with someone else’s chin, someone’s there to catch them. And when they raise their head, they find green eyes glinting playfully down at them, one hand on their arm and the other still recording with his phone. "Senior Cater!" They beam, positively delighted that another person knows this song that was a part of their childhood.

(Unbeknownst to them, they share this trait with every Shaftlander in the room, and in fact, the entire school. It’s pervasiveness is on par with that Yahoo! nursery rhyme.)

"Drum sei gescheit—"

"—the time will fly—"

"So whistle while you work!" "Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift!"

Oh, you smooth bastard, is the bitter sentiment shared by those watching from up above as Diamond takes the Prefect’s hand and gives them a twirl, eliciting giddy laughter from the Prefect and disbelieving looks from even his Housewarden and the other Suits.

("What’s he doing?"

("Not on my watch—"

("Whoa, Deuce, chill! Get back here!")

The Prefect wasn’t exaggerating when they said the effects of the song would be… overwhelming. But there’s also something so fascinating, almost whimsical about it, too.

For an army of forest creatures, they set about their given tasks with great efficiency. Squirrels swipe their bushy tails over railings, the mantle, and the blackened bricks before beating the dust out of them on the window sills. Rats and turtles carry abandoned tools and empty plates into the kitchen. Dirty rags and aprons are draped over a buck that bumbles after them on its way to the backyard. A few of the braver students make their way downstairs and follow the deer, only to find more squirrels and rabbits washing dishes in the overflowing sinks with startling dexterity.

("They shouldn’t have the motor skills to do this!")

Back in the lounge, a succession of songbirds fly in and out with yellow and white autumn flowers in their beaks, dropping them one by one into a water pitcher that had been left on the table (did they coordinate that?). From the back door in the kitchen and through the open windows in the lounge, there’s a clear view of the laundry set up in the backyard, where the buck sheds its load and the raccoons and chipmunks take over, half-submerged in white suds as they scrub dust cloths and kerchiefs. More little birds fly by, depositing more laundry into the water before plucking clean pieces from the wash tubs. Those are sprawled across the grass and hung on the nearby clothesline to dry.

All the while, the Prefect continues their Song, humming along with the disembodied music and vocalizing in a register many didn’t believe they could reach until now.

("This shouldn’t be possible. At least Der Zauberspruch is an established spell. This is supposed to be a children’s song."

("Wait, so you’re saying…?"

("Whatever’s going on right now, it’s the Prefect affecting the Song, not the other way around."

("The Prefect’s manipulating a children’s song like a Lost Song?"

(What a terrifying thought.)

"So, whistle while you work!"

But perhaps not so terrifying, when the Prefect pauses in their sweeping to offer their finger as a perch to an approaching passerine.

It lands and warbles back, and the Prefect sings, and it’s like something from a fairy tale.

----

"Bye! Bye, Mx. Prefect!"

"Drop by Savana tomorrow! You promised!"

"Hey, come by Heartslabyul later!"

"See ya later, Mx. Prefect!"

"We’ll talk on Monday!"

"Goodbye, everyone! Take care!"

----

"What a bother. Should’ve just stayed in and slept."

"You didn’t have to stay, y’know."

"Tsk. Gotta make sure the herbivore doesn’t do something incredibly stupid. Kid’s too naïve for their own good."

"Ridiculously trusting and naïve, maybe, Senior, but not defenseless."

"Ch. No, not defenseless."

----

"What did we say about trusting people so easily, eh? Don’t play innocent with us, Yuura Miyajima."

"I don’t think they’re playing; they're always this foolish, remember?"

"Aww, Deuce, not you as well."

"Hey, we’re not done with this conversation!"

"Of course not. Will you two be stopping by Ramshackle after class next week? With Senior Riddle’s permission, we could have a sleepover. It’ll be like old times."

"Pfft. I know your tricks, Yuu. Don’t think you can avoid the topic that easily."

"I’m not! I swear it on my mother’s ashes. If Riddle agrees, I’ll even make breakfast for you both. I just went grocery shopping. Those omelets I made before? The fluffy ones with milk and sautéed vegetables? I even got a tin of hot cocoa."

"Hot cocoa? What do you think we are, little kids?"

"Ace, c’mon…"

"I’ll make cherry turnovers."

"...Fine."

At the very least, they could say they got to Yuura first and had them the longest.

(Unless you asked Grim, of course. That's a whole 'nother story.)

----

"I think it goes without saying, that no footage of the Prefect Singing should be released, especially considering what happened the last time it happened."

"What do you take me for, ay? Hey, we all learned a lesson last time! See? No video, I just uploaded some of the pics I took."

@OkayCayCay: @iseeyuu hard at work making the rest of us look bad #CayToday #NRC #RamshackleRenovations #shabbychic #broomdancing #mädchenfromamärchen

@SuziQChuChu: is that the new nrc prefect? cute! <3

@enamel_eclipse: That's the brown eyed kid from last time, right?

@mamamiya: hey, its the person from the nightingale video

@cecilily: what's the nightingale video?

"...Cater—what is the nightingale video?"

"...You're gonna find this hilarious."

"Cater."

----

It’s a little blue songbird that leads them away, alighting on Yuura’s offered hand as they clean up the tubs and washboards outside. "Hello there, ptichka,” they giggle, recalling one of the many endearments their uncles used to address them by. “What are you doing here, all on your lonesome?"

The bluebird chirps, shaking its head and ruffling its feathers. It hops up and down on their finger before flying off and landing in the grass some distance away. It turns around and hops some more. Well? What are you waiting for?

Now, having been partially raised on the many, many tomes and texts that made up their family’s library, Yuura is well-read enough to know that even following a tiny bird into the woods could spell trouble. Why, it could just as easily lead Yuura to imminent peril or their disastrous doom as it could be guiding them to some great treasure, or perhaps even the love of their life! Wouldn't that be a tale to tell? Still, what harm could there be in following? They didn’t get to where they are now without taking a few (read: several) risks here and there. "Lead the way."

The woods behind campus have become quite familiar to Yuura. There are always apples and berries and flowers to be found there, the strong boughs and knotted bark of the trees are perfect for climbing, and it's where their animal friends reside. There’s always a lovely atmosphere, even at night, but especially now in the late afternoon—golden-amber sunlight dappling the soft green grass underfoot, filtered by the lush, fruit-laden branches above. The mildest of autumn breezes that whispers through the leaves and stirs the mess of curls about their face. It’s a gentle, sleepy atmosphere, dreamy and suspended in time.

The little bird flits about up ahead and Yuura obediently follows. In the hazy afternoon light, the figure cradled in the twisted roots of a tree becomes apparent. The birds and squirrels surrounding the figure turn to look at Yuura, but do not flee as they approach, slowing their steps with barely a rustle in the grass.

A standard NRC uniform with a striped tie and the vibrant green waistcoat of Diasomnia House—maybe he knows Yuura’s midnight visitor? A peculiar baton of green and black hanging from the belt. From the relaxed position he’s in, his gloved hands folded atop his stomach and the steady rise and fall of his chest, this person must’ve fallen asleep here, rather than having passed out. How odd. How curious.

"Oh!" Yuura gasps, moving to kneel by his side, "I remember him!"

It's the boy from the Spelldrive Tournament, the quiet, aloof one who had accompanied Sebek Zigvolt and Senior Lilia.

Yuura recalls his hair being gray, but up close, it shines like spun silver in the shaded light, distinct from Jack's grayish-white, or Senior Kalim's pearly white. Up close, Yuura discovers a lovely, well-shaped face; it reminds them of Tsunotaro's unearthly allure and noble mien—charming and enchanting, something straight from a storybook. He’s beautiful.

"Like Sleeping Beauty in the Woods," Yuura whispers. "Do you think he's a prince? Or maybe a knight?" The little bird only chirps in response.

As loathed as they are to disturb such a peaceful slumber (speaking from experience), the hour is growing late, and they'd rather not abandon this man in the woods.

"Hello?" He's sturdier than he looks, barely budging when Yuura shakes his shoulder.

"...Hmm?"

They shake him some more. "Hello—o—o. I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's getting late, and it'll be dark soon—ah!" He lurches upright, nearly knocking foreheads with Yuura.

"Oh! my goodness, are you alright?" Yuura leans away, resting a hand on his shoulder as he sways. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Blue-violet eyes stare at them, cloudy with sleep, blinking with a syrupy slowness. "...This is strange," he murmurs, "You seem... familiar. Have we met somewhere before?"

What a mysterious thing to say. Yuura grins, unable to help themself. "Once upon a dream, perhaps," they say with a wave of their hand.

(They do not notice the sudden alertness in those lethargic eyes. Why would they?)

"I suppose you know where you are? I'm the the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm, Yuura Miyajima. Class A, freshman year." Shifting into a proper seiza, they bow their head to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"...I have heard of you. Silver. Diasomnia, Class A, sophomore year. Likewise."

----

Translations Central Rosen (Irish Gaelic) - cúl tóna beag = "little asshole" Lugha ya Machweo (Kiswahili) - ati = "hey" - kidege = "little bird" - Jaza ya ihsani ni ihsani = "The reward of kindness is kindness" - Anipendaye, nami nampenda = "The person who loves me, I love too" - Ihsani iandame imani = "A loving relationship should follow acts of kindness" Coastal Rosen (Italian) - cretini e scrocconi = "jerks and freeloaders" - Vai a vendere il culo! = "Fuck off!" lit. "Go and sell your ass!" - Cazzo si, Campana! Bacha ma culo, tu brutto figlio di...! = "Fuck you, Campana! Kiss my ass, you ugly son of...!" Pyroxisch (German) - Yuurachen = approx. "Little Yuura" - Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift = "(He) who whistles at work"

#my writing #twisted wonderland #twst #of nightingales and night ravens #onanr #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu #twisted wonderland fanfic

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softly-potter · 2 years

Text

Eradicate

Summary: Bucky's always had a soft spot for the girl down the road.

Pairing: 40′s Bucky Barnes X OC

Word Count: 3074

Warning: Angst

A/N: Anyone remember when Steve and Bucky talked about a girl named Dot that Bucky was flirting with in CW? Well I took that little conversation and ran XD Also, just for this story, Heinz Kruger is the Hydra Agent that Steve Rogers ran down in the 40's who committed suicide via cynide pill. This does not happen for the sake of this story, and Heinz Kruger is alive.Thanks, and enjoy :)

Find Chapter Two Here // Epilogue

Chapter One

1937

Sleep had become nearly impossible after shipping back home. Flipping onto his stomach, Bucky let out a huff, crowding his arms beneath his head.

It's not like he wasn’t used to it, because he was; sleepless nights was just something that happened to you after shooting a gun and watching bodies drop so many times. It hasn’t even been eight years and his ears are already starting to ring, along with his knee joints beginning to ache.

He should be quiet. Finish his tour, then come back and settle down, take care of Steve. Be with Dolores.

Dolores Nightingale.

He grins into his pillow, unable to help the smile that she evokes from him every time she comes to mind. Between her bowtie lips and bouncy auburn curls, she was a right dime. If there was ever a time he thought about quitting, she was always at the end of the list, the bittersweet realization that if it weren’t for the war, they’d probably be married by now. Her father ran a tight ship, her mother even worse. Bucky supposedly owning his own gun manufacturing business had its perks, but it kept her father busy, leaving her mother to raise the family, and Mrs. Nightingale took her role very seriously.

Shifting to his side, Bucky stares at the wall, contemplating. He could call her, echo her nickname, Dot, into the phone, and grin as she laughed at the title. It’d been a while since he’d heard her voice, that sparkly little laugh that made his heart rush. Bucky had been back less than 36 hours, and Dolores was one of those girls that knew not to crowd. She understood the stress he was under and didn't blame him for his lack of communication.

They weren’t dating, weren’t bows. He couldn’t provide that for her while being shipped off, they both knew it, so they’d decided they’d be friends for now. Friends that did unfriendly things in the back of his mustang but they never labeled it. Not until the war was over.

With a sigh, Bucky sits up gingerly, arching so that his back stretches and pops lightly before swinging his legs off the side of his mattress. Beneath his feet, the floor is warm, slightly sticky, and his eyes flutter shut as he inhales slowly.

Dolores was a dime, and he missed her terribly.

Knowing fully well he’d be back way later than he should be, he scribbled a note, sticking it on the front of his door so that a bleary-eyed Steve would know to let himself in the next morning. The boys had decided to get waffles at the diner down the road, but Steve would understand Bucky's late timing. He always did.

Swinging on his jacket, Bucky shoves his feet into his unlaced shoes, bending down to tie them. Keys in hand, he locks the door, taking the apartment steps two at a time before he’s out in the damp Brooklyn air. He’s grinning ear to ear as he begins his walk, looking up and down at the familiar street and signs that he hadn’t seen in over a year.

Growing up, Bucky and Steve had always complained about the city being too loud, too dirty, too busy. Now as the car lights go whizzing by him and the smell of cigarettes fills his nose, Bucky has never been so grateful. He’d been homesick without even realizing it, and as he looked up into the night sky, he gave a quick thanks to whoever was listening for bringing him home.

Dot kept her window open, and if one climbed the fire escape, it was easy enough to slink in and out of. Maneuvering past that well-worn brick and trash cans, Bucky silently lowered the ladder, hoping it didn’t squeak as he gripped the edges. Moving slowly, he climbed the rings, careful to move over the one that was loose and might snap under his weight. Landing lightly, he takes a shaky inhale.

He hadn’t seen her in months. A part of him feared she wanted nothing to do with him; she wasn’t his girl. Dolores was beautiful, funny. It's not impossible for her to have moved on in his absence, as she didn’t owe him anything.

“I knew you were back.”

Smiling at him through the flimsy glass, Dot blinks in the moonlight. Her hair was loose, curls draped over her shoulders, the slope of her neck disappearing into her cotton pajamas.

She hadn’t changed a bit.

Together, they eased the window up, careful that it didn’t slam against the panels lest it wake her ma up.

“Hi.”

“Hey there, handsome.”

Dolores reaches forward before pressing her hand lightly against his chest, fingers spread wide over his heart. It reminds him of pillows, the comfort they provide, and he grips her wrist gently, motioning for her to take a step back. When she moves, he swings one leg into her room, balancing lightly so as to not make any noise before standing upright.

She’s in his arms immediately, hands wracking into his hair as she presses herself to him, hugging him tightly. He can smell the daisies in her hair, and he grins into her shoulder as he loops his arms around her waist.

“I prayed for you,” she whispered into his neck, her lips brushing over his skin so lightly it made him shiver. “I'm not a praying kind of girl, but oh my God, did I pray for you to come home.”

He presses a kiss to her skin, revealing that he can, digging his fingers into the backs of her hips. She’s quiet against him, pressing soft, comforting kisses along his neck and the edge of his jaw before pulling him to sit at the edge of her bed, tucking her legs beneath her. Her hold is strong on him, fingers curled in collar, and he knows it's because she’s telling herself he’s real.

Dropping his hands from around her waist, Bucky traces the muscles of her calves and thighs, dipping his fingers just below the length of her shorts. She tips her head back, lips searching for him in the semi-darkness. Cupping her neck, Bucky presses his thumb against the line of her jaw so he can kiss her properly, and she hums against him, leaning into his touch.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” she murmurs, her mouth a fraction away from his. Bucky shakes his head slowly, exhaling slowly. Dot nodded knowingly, cupping his face between her palms, fingers stretching behind his ears. “It’s okay, Buck. It's okay. You’re back. You made it.”

Her lips are like honey on his tongue, warm and sweet when she finally kisses him. Looping her arms around his neck, Dot nearly sighs with relief. Bucky pulls her closer, settling her on his lap as her thighs fall on either side of his legs as she straddles him. Her tongue pokes out gently, swiping at his lower lip and he opens his mouth, eager to let her in, to taste her again. It had been too long.

“What are you doing here so late?” she whispers, before kissing him again.

He waits until he’s through with kissing her before he answers. “I couldn't sleep. Had you on my mind.”

She rolls her eyes but he can feel her smile. “You need rest, Buck. You don’t sleep enough.”

He chuckles and pulls her closer. “I sleep just fine. Is your ma just as strict?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

It's Bucky's turn to roll his eyes. He kisses the corner of her mouth, his heart lightening as she smiles from the contact. “Lie, then. Come over tomorrow, tell her you're at Elaine’s.”

“I'm not friends with Elaine anymore.”

“Then use another one of your hundreds of friends, say you're going to spend the night with your girls and come stay with me.” Bucky sighs, tracing his hands up her sides, reveling in her softness. Dot tucks his hair behind his ear, her eyes bouncing all over his face. He gives her a look. “What? I got coal on my face or something?”

“Hush now,” she whispers, eyes wide in the moonlight that comes in from her window. “I'm trying to get a good look at you, see if you're as handsome as I remember.”

Bucky barks out a laugh and Dot shushes him. “You trying to be chased down the street with a frying pan?”

They spend the evening curled up in her twin-sized bed, fingers laced together as they whisper to one another. Dot traces the new scratches and bruises that litter his arms and chest, and Bucky kisses the place between her brows every time she frowns when she finds one.

“You still dancin’?” he asks as they lay on their sides, legs tangled. Their hands are raised between them, fingers intertwined as the desire pumps between them. She won’t sleep with him, not while her ma’s just down the hall, but he doesn’t mind. She’s worth every wait, every sneaking opportunity.

Dot lets out an irritated groan. “No. I stopped a few months ago. These girls are something else, something vicious. I doubt I'd make company anyways.”

“Not true. You’ve got a gift Dot, ya gotta use it,” Bucky counters, swiping his thumb over her palm.

Dot shifts, grinning at the nickname but her mind is still elsewhere. “Why would I wanna dance if you aren’t there to watch me?”

Bucky’s glad she’s looking away. His face is an open book, and he knows his guilt is written all over his features. “I will be there one day.”

She glances at him, before smiling gently. Leaning forward, Dot cups the side of his face. “I know it.”

#bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #40's bucky #pre winter soilder

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