#[ in character. ] next time you're planning to injure yourself to get my attention. just remember that a little sweet talk works wonders.

[khruseosold]

Long overdue starter // @loialte​ (Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots)

Tutors, advisers, ears grew weary of these repeated speeches of responsibility, expectations and a Dauphin’s inevitable succession. His attentions never truly knew falter however, they had merely been inhabited with a true-felt wish for differing focus— one such as the image before him now; had their Maker ever filled another canvas with a subject as beautiful as she? Mary Stuart, the recipient of a gaze as intense of blues as his own, the recipient of all adoration and devotion of his heart, and his ears were ever happier to be the recipients of her voice opposed to all other, the only one which spoke in tones as melodious and bright, he’d never tire.

The approached sensation of a cold material to his hands, accompanied by some rushed words from her, gathered his focus and brightened a countenance, bemusement and delight filling every inch amidst his features. It was a demeanour he’d known well, one oft a consequence of one of his mother’s visits, “Mary. Mary,—” Though he knew she was hardly genuinely distraught; a bare lean forward, intrinsic as much per usual, permitted his lips to briefly seek out her own in momentary silencing (and in truthful delight of his reuniting with her). Upon his growing separation, a nose brushed the tip of her, before further distancing left none more than the tip of an index at her chin, “That’s better.” And the rebirth of his earlier delight, “Now, what has my mother been up to, this time?”

[spicycreativity]

Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 1

Chapter: 1/12 Rating: T (for language) Content Warnings: Canon-typical Remus content. This chapter only: alcohol use Characters: All Pairings: Moceit, background Prinxiety, background Intrulogical (yes I played a little game of "pair the spares") Additional Tags: Hey it's the fic I published on Anon because I was embarrassed of how utterly pretentious it is!, post-PoF, sickfic, dirty poetry, humor interspersed with philosophy and Janus-typical pontification, this is VERY speculative and will get Jossed in the future lmao Summary: After claiming his place in the Light and coming face-to-face with the consequences of his actions, Janus finds himself unwillingly re-calibrating his moral compass. For selfish reasons, of course. But one apology snowballs into several, and soon he's running around the Mindscape with a low-grade fever and a guilty conscience as he desperately tries to regain some sense of self. Oh, and he's definitely not falling in love with Patton, so don't even bring it up. One Last Note: I wrote this in an ADHD fugue state. It is HEAVILY influenced by Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, but there are also references to poetry and various other works of literature. I also deliberately used symbols, themes, and motifs. Most of them are pretty in your face except for the recurring ouroboros, which is used as a symbol of rebirth. ...Told you it was pretentious.

When you wake up to the promise of your dream world comin' true With one less friend to call on, was it someone that I knew? Away you will go sailing in a race among the ruins If you plan to face tomorrow, do it soon

Janus appeared in the Dark side of the Mindscape, elation swelling in his chest. Even the ringing headache and bitter taste in his mouth couldn't hollow the unfamiliar triumph that warmed him to the core. Caught up in his own thoughts, it took a moment for him to register the sight before him: Remus, upside-down on the couch, his brow furrowed and face an alarming shade of purple.

For a moment, Janus stood stock-still as he tried to get his bearings. He must have been more flustered than he'd realized-- He'd been aiming for his bedroom.

But here he was, staring down at Remus, who was definitely going to burst a blood vessel (or several) if he didn't flip over soon.

"That's not horrifying at all," Janus said, thinking it would be rude to dismiss Remus, especially since he had probably been eavesdropping. He had likely heard everything. Everything. Even the ugly parts.

"Do you remember when Thomas read that post about Nutty Putty Cave?" Remus asked in a strained, strangled voice. "That spelunker who died because he got stuck upside-down?"

"No," Janus said, before realizing his mistake. "Yes." He definitely wanted Remus to remind him of the gory details.

"That's what I thought," Remus said with a wicked grin.

Janus sighed through his nose. Remus, though he thrived on attention, seemed content enough to continue his experiment by himself. On the other hand, if Janus didn't bring up a certain insult he'd levied at Roman, Remus most certainly would, and at a time where it would cause the most upset and turmoil. Better for Janus to deal with it now, even if he would have to fight the tension pulling his muscles taut. He wanted to dance. He wanted to scream.

Hesitation proved to be Janus' downfall, and by the time he'd opened his mouth to broach the subject at hand, Remus had beaten him to the blow. "You're not usually this quiet, Oralboros. Snake got your tongue?"

Janus, again, sighed. Rather than answer, he doffed his hat, set it on the coffee table, and clumsily arranged himself upside-down next to Remus. The change in position immediately made his head throb. He ignored it. "I definitely meant it when I called you 'evil'."

Remus' eyes widened in faux-shock. "You called me evil ?" he shrieked, voice ringing out high and clear. "Me? How dare you. I'm an angel!"

At least Remus was taking it well. "Sarcasm is my thing," Janus said, realizing that he might make it out of this without having to properly apologize.

For some reason, Patton's face flashed into his mind, and a subsequent twinge of guilt made his tongue go sour. Fine. If there was ever a time to start telling uncomfortable truths… "But I am sorry I said that."

"Wow!" Remus laughed. "You must be upset." A red stain began to spill across his left eye. "You don't apologize."

"It’s not like I care about your feelings or anything." Janus would have liked to have drawn himself up to his full height, but it was impossible to do while upside-down. "As much as I'm enjoying watching your blood vessels slowly burst, would you please turn over before you hurt yourself? I've suffered enough psychological trauma for today."

"Oh, fine." Remus kicked his legs and landed neatly on his toes like a gymnast.

Janus, by contrast, got his arms tangled in his capelet and nearly folded himself in half before he found his balance again. "I meant to do that," he said, turning to grab his hat so Remus wouldn't see the blush on his face.

The sudden sensation of blood draining from his head made the room whirl. He steadied himself against Remus' shoulder until it slowed somewhat, but nothing could dampen the horrible ringing in his ears.

"Well," he said, adjusting his shirt. The sudden appearance of his conscience had taken the wind out of his sails more than he cared to admit, and all thoughts of dancing bled out of him along with a good deal of energy. "I'm not going to go scream into my pillows until I tire myself out."

"Being an agent of chaos is hard work," Remus said with a sage nod, "but that doesn't sound very relaxing, Mr Self Care."

"It's a form of meditation, if you think about it," Janus said.

Remus made a face. "You know I don't do that."

"...Meditate?"

"No, think."

"Ah. Well." Janus made only a token attempt to hide his fond smile. "Good night, Remus. Please stay up late and injure yourself."

"Can do, Snakeypoo.”

Janus turned. It was close enough, he might as well walk to his bedroom, especially considering how well his last attempt at appearing in it had gone.

The reason why that had been so difficult became apparent in mere moments. Janus froze in the hall and dropped to his knees at the giddy wave of horror and delight that made him too light-headed to stand.

He knelt in front of the empty stretch of wall where his door had been previously.  Heat flooded his face.

"Jay?" The rounded toes of Remus' boots appeared in his line of sight. Janus zeroed in on them, the mud splatters and stains on the soft leather. "You have an aneurysm or what?"

Janus, unable to speak, motioned for Remus to turn around. He couldn't deal with this right now.

"Ohhh," said Remus. "Well. Good luck with that ." He hauled Janus to his feet. "So you're a boner fide good guy now, huh?"

Janus stared over Remus' shoulder at the empty stretch of wall where his door used to be. "That depends entirely on who you ask."

Remus shrugged and rose up on his toes. "You can scream into my pillows instead, if you want."

"As tempting as that is…" Janus trailed off, his eyes still fixed on the wall. It was tempting, despite the constant chaos in Remus' room. But he'd have to face the Light side sooner or later. It wasn't like he could move his room back, not without psychologically damaging Thomas and undoing all the work he'd done. "I'm really looking forward to getting insulted some more."

"Alright," Remus said with a shrug. "Try not to throw me under the bus this time, alright? Unless it's a real bus…" His gaze became dreamy, unfocused. "And it's doing 50 in a school zone and there's a whole pack of screaming kids in the crosswalk--"

"Goodbye, Remus." Janus turned and left.

--

The barrier between the "dark" and the "light" sides of Thomas' brain had been a joint venture. It would have been there in some form no matter what, but it was Janus and Roman (with Patton's tacit blessing) who had worked to put up something more physical between them.

Janus ducked under the red curtain, trepidation percolating in his stomach, but what he found on the other side was anticlimactic to say the least: It was dead silent on this side of the barrier.

Janus wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He knew by now that the so-called "Lights" had issues working out their interpersonal issues, and this most recent conflict wasn't the kind of thing you just got over. It did follow that they would all go off to lick their wounds for a time.

Hesitantly, toe-to-heel, Janus crept down the hall. It felt for all the world like he was sneaking around a vast hotel, right down to needlessly ornate design on the plush carpeting. That was probably Roman's doing.

Janus focused, trying to call the Mindscape to work for him. He wanted to go to his room.

The Mindscape listened. Janus turned a corner and found a row of doors stretching down yet another brightly-lit corridor. His eye was immediately drawn, not to the brilliant yellow of his own door, but to the figure huddled in front of it: Patton sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, forehead resting on his knees.

"Looking for someone?" Janus asked, slightly louder than necessary.

Patton jerked his head up. "Oh! Janus!" He plastered an unconvincing smile on his face. "You sure pop star-tled me."

Scaring Patton hadn't brought Janus nearly the level of schadenfreude he'd thought it would. He crossed his arms over his chest, extending a third to help Patton up. "Take your time getting to the point.”

"Oh." Patton accepted Janus' proffered hand and got to his feet. Warmth spilled from him, permeating the fabric of Janus' glove and gently heating his palm. "Well, it's just…" He took a deep breath. "I noticed your door and I thought-- Well, I wanted to make you feel welcome!"

A high-pitched tone resonated in Janus' skull. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing at the mounting pressure-pain-exhaustion in his temples. "Aren't you just a saint ." Patton's face fell. Janus fought the urge to swear aloud. He usually had a better handle on himself, and he knew better than to alienate potential allies. "I mean, thank you, Patton. Truly. I appreciate it." Patton had proven himself useful. Janus should at least cultivate that relationship, even if it meant a little discomfort.

"Have you eaten?" Patton asked. "It's a little late, but I could make something if you wanted." He paused. "Maybe we could play cards or something." Another pause. "O-only if you want to, I mean."

Janus let his face remain impassive even as he internally cringed at the idea of staying awake for even another second. It would be so easy to brush Patton off with a few honeyed words and disappear beyond the barrier of his door. But Patton had stood up for him today, or at least he'd tried to. Janus sighed. Quid pro quo. "That sounds like an utter waste of time."

"Are you… I'm sorry, sometimes I can't tell when you're…"

"Yes, Patton. That sounds lovely."

Patton actually hopped in place, an adorable little jig that absolutely didn't send a confusing little shockwave of fondness through Janus' ribcage. "Really?"

"Really," Janus lied.

He followed Patton down the hall into the living room, which opened into the dining room and the kitchen. Janus studied his surroundings, trying to take in as much as his exhausted faculties would allow. Even in the absence of other Sides, the living room felt warm and welcoming. All the lights were on, and they bathed everything in gentle golden light .

"You're awfully quiet," Patton said.

Janus shook himself. "I was just getting my bearings."

"I guess you've never really been over here, huh?" Pattton opened the refrigerator. Was he actually going to cook , instead of just manifesting something? How quaint. "Do you like grilled cheese?"

It had been a long, confusing day. Doublespeak came to Janus as naturally as breathing, but he was obviously running circles around Patton even when he wasn't trying to. "Yes," he said, hoping to telegraph his sincerity by not emoting at all.

It seemed to work. Patton studied him for a moment before turning back to the fridge. "Then that's what I'll make."

Janus took advantage of this temporary distraction to clamber onto one of the barstools. The slick velvet of his capelet tended to disagree with surfaces like wood and vinyl, and he needed a moment to arrange things so he didn't look as unbalanced as he felt.

He watched Patton work in the kitchen, a detached coolness washing out the scene. Quid pro quo, he reminded himself when he felt his facade begin to slip. He owed Patton this.

He certainly didn't feel the slightest twinge of guilt, that he had been the one to orchestrate this breakdown. Yes, the Light Sides had loaded the gun, but in the end it was Janus who had pulled the trigger.

He shook his head and thought about playing cards, good Bicycle playing cards with holes punched through them like they'd come from a casino. "What should we play?" he asked, pulling the deck from his breast pocket.

Patton looked up from the stovetop, his eyes flicking to the cards in Janus' hand. "Do you know Kings in the Corners?"

"Not personally, no."

Patton laughed, but there was something cold about it. "It's really simple," he said. "I'll show you how to play and you can tell me if you like it."

--

It was nearly impossible to cheat at Kings in the Corners. Janus doubted this had been a calculated measure on Patton's part, doubted he had the capacity for that kind of foresight, but he respected it just the same.

They played in funereal silence, staring each other down across the light wood of the dining room table. Janus, ill-inclined to take off his gloves, utilized a napkin to keep from staining them with melted butter from the grilled cheese Patton had made. Neither one of them smiled. Neither one of them spoke.

Janus pulled a card from the deck to indicate the end of his turn and glanced up at Patton. His face was somber, almost sorrowful, and it clashed against the gentle domesticity of the dining room, with its floral table runner and mismatched placemats.

Janus started to laugh.

"What is it?" Patton asked, cheeks darkening. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Janus swallowed down another peal of laughter and cleared his throat, unable to wholly restrain the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You look like I’m holding you here at gunpoint." It was somewhat ironic, considering Janus was the one who felt like he couldn't leave.

"What?" Patton smiled, but it was more akin to an offering than an expression of joy.

"It’s not really funny. " Janus wasn’t quite sure how to make Patton understand.

Patton sat back with a sigh, placing his cards facedown on the table. "But I guess it is pretty funny, huh? In a really sad way."

Janus almost asked what was sad about it before realizing that Patton probably missed his friends. Instead he said, "Yes" and stifled a yawn behind his free hand.

"I'll make coffee!" Patton leapt to his feet and was off to the kitchen before Janus could so much as blink.

The newfound solitude made it that much harder for Janus to ignore his headache, which had only worsened in the hour or so he'd been playing cards with Patton. Despite the nonchalant facade he'd tried so hard to project, he'd been holding himself tense.

Maybe the night (or morning, at this point) would be easier to tolerate if he had, say, a bit of gold rum.

The corner of a flask dug into Janus' hip. He smiled.

"Just how late are you planning on staying up?" he asked Patton when the latter returned holding two mismatched mugs.

"Oh, I don't know," Patton said. Lied. He set a mug down in front of Janus and then resumed his seat, the cards forgotten by his elbow. "I'm… A little scared of what tomorrow will be like."

Janus eased the flask out of his pocket. "Rum?"

"Oh, um," Patton said, staring at the flask. "I don't know…"

Janus raised an eyebrow, working something out. He landed on it a millisecond later: Patton wanted to be convinced. Easy enough. Janus opened the flask and poured what he hoped was a shot into his own mug. It was black, he noticed, except for the yellow snake that wrapped around it, its tail firmly in its own mouth. Ouroboros. "Surely you don't intend to make me drink alone?"

As Janus had expected, Patton buckled the second he was pushed. "I guess not."

It was funny, Janus mused as he carefully tipped rum into Patton's coffee, how lying was only off-limits when Janus suggested it. Hilarious.

But now wasn't the time for bitterness, now was the time to repay the debt he owed Patton. "Cheers," he said, pocketing the flask once more.

"Cheers."

Janus sipped his coffee. "You put milk in this," he observed.

Patton's smile was surprisingly sly. "I know you want me to think you take it black. Virgil did too, at first. I know you ‘Dark Sides’ have an image you like to uphold."

"And how does Virgil take his coffee now?" Janus asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"With Snickers-flavored creamer."

"Well, I do take my coffee black," Janus lied.

Patton's smile never faltered. "We'll see, kid-- Uh, Janus."

"Patton," Janus said, before he could start thinking about the implications of Patton wanting to call him 'kiddo,' "you are planning on sleeping tonight, aren't you?"

"Maybe eventually," Patton said, suddenly unable to look Janus in the eye. "At some point."

"Tomorrow will come whether or not you sleep. It's definitely better to pull an all-nighter and feel like garbage instead of facing everything with a clear head."

"I know." Patton leaned forward so he could rest his head on his hand.

For a moment, Janus was tempted to mirror him. Sitting up straight was becoming quite the chore. "I know how the others love a calm, rational discussion."

"Oh, I wish." Patton's expression turned wistful.

Janus stifled a yawn behind his hand. He had half-expected the coffee to counteract the depressant effect of the alcohol, but all he had to show for the combination was a racing heart.

"I'll be fine out here if you want to go to bed," Patton said. Without seeming to realize he was doing it, he brought his hand to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail.

It was a tempting offer. A day ago, Janus would have taken it. After all, it wasn't like he cared about Patton outside of professional courtesy. They weren't friends. But guilt nagged at him and wouldn't let him entertain the idea of abandoning Patton for longer than a second.

"That's a remarkable impression of a window," Janus said, waiting for Patton to look confused before elaborating, "I can see right through you."

"You got me." Patton smiled sadly. "That's something I've always admired about you, Janus."

Now it was Janus' turn to be confused. "What?"

"You're so… clever."

Janus narrowed his eyes. "Please do keep trying to change the subject."

"It's just… I don't want to have to lie there and, and think about today and everything I did wrong. I hurt Thomas. I hurt my friends." Patton's eyes were shiny behind his glasses; the unshed tears sparkled in the light when he locked eyes with Janus. "Aren't you going to think about the same thing?"

Anger flared, perhaps prematurely, in Janus' chest. "About what you did wrong today?"

"About what you did wrong," Patton said timidly.

"I," Janus said icily, "didn't do anything wrong." He stared Patton down across the table, jaw set, daring him to push back. Let him lecture and nag, let him prove that he hadn't changed no matter what he said.

But Patton only nodded, his face lined with misery. "Okay," he softly. "I think you're right, Janus. We should go to bed."

Janus thought about how much faster he could get to bed if the table was cleared, and all the dishes and cards vanished in a blink.

"Um, Janus?" Patton said.

"Yes?"

"I don't regret everything that happened today."

"Oh?"

Patton only nodded and sank out.

Janus made a beeline for his own room; better to find his way there on foot rather than risk appearing in the wrong spot.

Once inside, he looked around to ensure nothing was amiss, eyes roving over the dark wood of his bookshelves and desk, his mirrored closet doors, the leather armchairs across from his bed.

Everything was exactly as Janus had left it. He nodded, satisfied, set his hat on the nightstand, and sprawled out of top of the covers without bothering to further undress.

One hazy thought crawled to the surface of his mind before he fell asleep: At least he wouldn't be one of the regrets haunting Patton tonight.

[khruseosold]

[ rolls baby yoda into Tony’s workshop ]

Exclamation mark times ten. Was that ten? Fifty, hundred; definitely meant ten thousand, ten million— googleplex? It’s a baby Yoda. Even if it’s totally a doll, and it’s so not; it totally just blinked at him— it’d be a miracle, it’s too good to even be a Christmas miracle. The ears just twitched and the head tilted. Pepper, it’s alive, it’s real and it’s here with us. Gods, aliens, green raging monster things— yeah, none of that mattered, for there was suddenly a baby Yoda in his workshop. Oh, yeah, so he played it totally cool in very composed Tony Stark fashion; very casually putting his hand on Pepper’s arm and shaking it rather calmly. Scrap that, it was incredibly vehemently, “Pepper,” This had to be a dream, but in the event that it wasn’t; well, “—Pepper, Pep, we need milk, we need a pump, I’ll build the crib— tell me there are more, we’re getting more.” There is a baby Yoda on the premises.

[khruseosold]

“.... I don’t play... games.” (From Nebula from that one time they were in space but she eventually gives in to said games)

Have I mentioned how I love random muse-specific send-ins like this? // @truthsecn​

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you have this whole ‘I’m a kick-ass blue alien lady with zero emotions to speak of and I don’t need anyone’ routine going on, I get it— no, everyone plays games. Come on, sit and put up your dukes. No, no, not literally.” Two pieces of paper that’d been gathered and crumbled in a pocket were taken out, flattened and folded into one another to form a thicker triangular shaped… football? He held it up with every expectation that it would pique her interest— despite it, definitely not being his best attempt, but considering the circumstances, it’ll have to do. “Okay, step one, the object of interest in our very own space rendition of a classic table top, ‘paper football’. Step two,” Triangular paper ball, or something along its likes, rested on the surface between them, hands shifted before him, gesturing and re-creating the famous goalposts, “—you create the goalposts for your opponent when it’s her or his turn. Three,“ Gesturing at the triangle, but keeping his hands positioned as required, wiggling ‘em slightly as if prepping himself for a formidable opponent as the final blow to piquing her interest, “You gotta flick the ball over and through ‘em. Whoever doesn’t, well— miss, ever, wins. Come on, Eiffel 65, give it a whirl, you know you want to.”

[khruseosold]

Continued from here // @loialte (Steve Rogers)

Exercise, some food here and there, absolutely abominable health drinks (especially ever since Pepper got involved in the routine of these), though no longer needed to survive past the present month— and a total and severe abundance in terms of, well, insomnia. It definitely sounded like a healthy lifestyle, if you asked him and well, no one else whatsoever. But then again, no one else had opted to cling onto a rocket and send it kaboom into outer space and barely didn’t survive to recount the story. So where exactly had their right to comment on his newfound lifestyle come from? A yawn slipped at that, and an eye roll at himself occurred nearly simultaneously, “Yeah, okay, I didn’t ask your opinion either.”

Fiddling on his suits had been his primary occupation— whatever they could be or would be, referred to as: machines, toys, distractions. But they were one thing and one thing exponentially more than they were anything else and that was a part of him. The one singular means he had in which he could protect what had to be safeguarded above all. For what was he beyond, in truth and simply stated, a man in a can?

Razzle ‘n’ a dazzle 'n’ a flash a little light, television lover, baby, go all night, sometime—— And then came silence, and it took all of two seconds to see he who was responsible for silencing his music and, well, the source of some irritation (raise your hands if you’re surprised it was Capsicle!) Though his request restored his liking of him by a bit, roughly 1%, “You were frozen in ice for seventy plus years, Rogers, and despite that, I’m still hesitant to even entertain the idea of you around ice cream in any capacity. What makes you think I trust you around proteins and carbs?” Okay, make that 1.5%, for he was feeling generous after that jab, “You’re also hereby scrapped from the authorisation list by the way —I know you heard me, JARVIS.” An accusatory finger aimed in his general direction, “Manners, Cap; you shall not interrupt a man during working hours. Well, unless you’ve come bearing gifts in the form of cheeseburgers, hot dogs, coffee,” Was that Dum-E twirling in place to make a statement? “—or a present for Dum-E, it’s his birthday.”

[khruseosold]

Listen, we have four years of writing to catch up on, Lottie, we’d better get started! // @immobiliter (Jamie “Milord” Fraser)

“Are,” He’d started, gratitude and pride finding their presence in equal measure within the smile he’d offered, taking to the seating that he’d been granted. But mentally, the frustration that’d lingered with him knew little relent in its dominion, capturing all his attention— alright, so perhaps it was affecting him physically just as much, if not more. A gaze peered downward, entirely ignoring his company, beneath the table to observe the active wiggling of his legs that was apparent across his person as a whole, and the attempted stretching of toes; witnessing the remaining distance between his feet and the floor. Only a child would find grievance within such trivial matters, but however silly it might have been to others, it was hardly irrelevant to him. It was only here, with disappointment, that he continued, with an alternate course of topic, “—you are so tall, Milord, are all people like that en Écosse— in uh, Scotland? —Is that where you met Milady?”

[khruseosold]

Yep, off he went again; a sudden swirl of robotic parts serving as a prelude to the sudden absence of a much required assistant that should, in all truth, listen to one Tony Stark and not a single other soul ever (except maybe Pepper, but even that concept was up for debate), nor should he— be moving away from him, moving in a totally opposite direction of where he, quite frankly, needed to be, “Dum-E. Hey, hey, Dum-E!” Did he sleepwalk and tinker one fateful night and program feelings and childhood-like crushes into— is Dum-E... holding flowers? Are those— red roses?

Romanoff, of course, it explained and would everything ever, wouldn’t it? Who didn’t she leave in a blubbering and drooling mess in her wake? JARVIS, perhaps, and even there, one could definitely notice a stumbling of words. Okay, so let’s forget about the fact that even Tony himself had fallen victim to this once upon a time; though those were much different days, hi Pepper, “Yeah, yeah, it’s hilarious, you have the little guy entirely smitten with you,” Some would use adorable, perhaps, but him? With his focus remaining on Dum-E’s outstretched arm that held out said floral arrangement; yeah, for him it was definitely hilarious with a very heavy tinge of immense sarcasm. “—hope you’re proud of yourself, Red. Now waltz on over here, will you? I need him back here; party for two, hope you’re okay with being third wheel.”

Do you remember when you said you wanted a starter from Tony? / @lcdgerbled​​​

[khruseosold]

Continued from here // @loialte​ (Jamie Fraser)

To find oneself in trouble if caught— one had to first, get caught, and this little lad felt himself much too smart to find himself in that particular situation. How much did such thoughts truly differ from other boys of his age, however? Les rois du monde, ones ever impossible to capture, slipping from justice’s grasp to perpetuity. It was a young boy’s dream, surely, but one he revelled in for much as it lasted as his genuine reality; this young boy's arrogance, this young boy’s upbringing that left him with a mind differing from others and skills he put to use more often than he could count; they kept him much alive in such a world where he dominated— well, with some caution applied, any way.

And the utilisation of those aforementioned skills? Right about now was a good moment. The little curls atop his head were slightly ruffled at his own hand, a gestured depiction of some confusion at Milord Fraser’s numerous words, though their definition had anything but been foregone on him— to little knowledge of his elder, of course, “Un tuteur?” Shifting slightly in place, there was a sense of unease about him; he’d been brought into the household through employ; a wager in return for, well, thieving on their behalf. This, would work as another benefit on his behalf, stood he anything to lose in return? And yet, curiosity would nearly always drive a young boy, would it not? Feet had moved him towards the much, much taller man than he, hands rested to his sides in anticipation, “I would be honoured, Milord!”

[khruseosold]

Continued from here // @loialte (Claudia Auditore)

Minerva. He’d not been unfamiliar with such a name, though she belonged to a belief long foregone to him and his, their present— a goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare believed and kept alive in concept through beliefs of those who did not share his own. Their mother had spoken of this deity as well on rare occasion, recounted her as a once great sponsor of the arts among the people; previously known as Athena to the Greeks many centuries prior. She inhabited a religion long since disproven; left within the history of humanity— yet here, she had stood before him, speech as clear as the one that’d lifted him from his stirring thoughts now, curiosity having laid claim to each tone of her voice. And yet it would not surpass his own confusion.

A deity beyond one singular, multiple deities; everything that countered what he’d believed in, still— believed in, “But it, she, was not our Lord, sorellina.” He’d surveyed it, her interaction with the cross to her neck, a need for reassurance; was she struck with doubt, was he? And while normally, such a hand laid in rest on his shoulder would relieve him of concern, here, it merely propelled a hand to travel to meet her own, fingers grasped within his own, “How can I explain a thing which I do not understand? She, they— spoke of our creation at their hands and our betrayal—” A groan originated from him, irritation, dismay, he had no answers, none; he was no more than one inhabited by more questions than any man or woman should know, “There was no sense in her words.”

[khruseosold]

Pepper watches him as he waltzes into her office with that typical mix of amusement and exasperated fondness that only /he/ could elicit, even in spite of the back-to-back meetings with investors and board members that were awaiting her this afternoon -- and /should/ be demanding her attention. "Did you make an appointment, Mr. Stark?"

Lottie, I love you, did you know that? // @immobiliter

“I,” Head cocking from side to side as if in deliberate contemplation, but of all people his life consisted of, Pepper really would be the one to see through it with ease. And let’s be entirely honest, he’s more than aware of it and getting under her skin is one of Mr. Stark’s numerous life purposes at present (well, beyond the fact that to his knowledge, which was quite something, he was dying; which may also have been the main reason why he was doing this in the first place), “—no, was I supposed to get a memo telling me that I should? You may want to get on that, Ms. Potts. It’s okay, we can take care of this while you’re gone.”

A single two-finger whistle promptly enveloped the room before she’d had any proper opportunity to distract him, or well, more importantly, she’d been given no time to intervene in the baby steps of his plan— renovations. If that haywire of a Ferris wheel going berserk was supposed to be representative of productivity or peace or most importantly, of Pepper; that was simply a no-go. Lunacy would become a dime a dozen and he’d be the first to succumb to it before he’d succumb to what else was in his somewhat near future. So on his whistle, about a dozen or so men waltzed in, carrying an array of Iron Man memorabilia and objects from the workshop or duplicates of them, at least— a Dum-E figurine, a basket of bouncing balls, a life-size cut-out of one Tony Stark… you know, nothing too dramatic. A snap of his fingers caught the attention of one and a countenance lit, relatively brightly; momentarily ignoring any potential explosion from her happening to his side, “Here, hand that over, I know the perfect spot—” Yep, you got it, the modern art piece of Iron Man, since she seemed so smitten with it, “No, I’m serious, it’s okay; I’m here, no one will touch anything, your papers will be exactly where you left them.”

[khruseosold]

Continued from here // @dewintr (Milady de Winter)

She was no less than all of that; an offering, a sacrament, a prayer yearned to be more than merely mouthed alone and it met such temptation amidst his person time and time again. This woman, this woman was no less than a display of raw femininity, she was a serpent encoiling and enrapturing him in planes that encompassed and surpassed those of their physicality alone. And yet here he rested, with the weight of her to him— a willing victim to her words and her actions, one ever lucid and aware, wholly subjected to her behest, mattering but little if she’d been aware of such a reality or not; even if he doubted that she ever hadn’t been. Her succour; his saboteur.

“My words are not ones spoken of doubt, madame, but of confidence.” Tainted by a mismatched accent, his attempted pronunciation of French faltered in a word as trivial and brief as this one was, a difference in elegance that sat ill-fitted here. And yet, amusement claimed the air in his throat and once it’d left him in reckless abandon— as if any failure here meant little to him, and less still within her presence. And so it had been warm, his breath, when it barely brushed and caressed the expanse of skin that had awaited at mere inches from him. Flesh that had been been victim to several still leather-clad fingertips trailing the expanse of her neck in intrigue— several that had been almost cruelly interrupted by the inches of fabric that separated one half from another. Momentarily, questions claimed his curiosity as much as they surely would any man and yet they did not find their volume, though the pause within digits held perhaps more words than his thoughts and his recollections ever did. But his silence rivalled a gesture of respect towards one’s inner sanctum and its enigmas— and so the crossing of the adornment’s divide came slowly, a pressure as feather-light as the caresses of his travels to the very tip of her collarbone had been thus far.

[khruseosold]

Starter you never asked for but get anyway // @truthsecn (Murtagh Fitzgibbons)

Suzette, the lady’s maid; is she in love with anyone? If his expectation had been for Fergus to not overhear or see it resonate in sound and posture alike, that ever proud smirk, the surprise would be a sour chagrin for sure, to say the very, very least. “Ah non, comme même,” Dramatics were on utter full display, eyes widening in simultaneous mock and feigned surprise, “—do not tell me that Monsieur Murtagh is in love!” A skip inhabited his own step as of that point then, originating perhaps from a primarily furthered mock that his was linked to anything but infatuation. A dagger’s pommel came to be loosely held within a grasp upon his retrieval from it, every sign present to make ever evident that weaponry was far from a habitual reality. A grin sparked and lightened a countenance, the tip of the blade risen in point at him, “I did not think even I would live long enough to witness such a particular thing!”

[khruseosold]

I’m trading pain for pain, I hope you don’t mind. <3 // @regentofscots

Profound and ever so ingrained it was after these weeks of habitual presence; the ache grated a heart and mind alike, every singular time she captured his attention and vision as a whole. She was a rose, was she not? His rose, soft, divine, yet withstanding and immune to nature’s wither altogether. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, she was all truth he knew or ever had to know; the ease to his troubles, the strength he craved and unknowingly to herself, his conscience in dark hours as these. His wish were that she relented, ceased in her unforgiving interrogations— yet he’d known no opportunity to grant her it either, he never would, not with this. His unfathomable deed for France, for all others  of his family; it’d been his own, yet the consequences could be weighed on all those he’d done it for; the end of his reign and life  could not know or mean the end of theirs. Such a prospect was equally unfathomable, and there was no way to tell her of such a reality— such withhold was the only protection he, himself, could offer; and one other.

The liquid swirled within the chalice at his continuous rotation of it, every motion, in this moment, surely a clear representation of his heart’s trouble to any who’d bear to look and take in. And yet, despite perfectly aware of this, his choice of company had him find his place, precise and ever intended, beside one Marie de’ Guise. One sip served as prelude to another, “She is strong,” A smile was offered amidst his pause, though the next found quietude, barely audible, as if an absent-minded whisper, “—so, very strong.” Physically, emotionally, mentally strong, and ever headstrong. The temporary lightening of countenance and poster faltered in slight, a gaze calling its reverence of his love to halt and instead lowered to his side, briefly towards his company before it lowered to his chalice, weighing his choice of words, “I need her in Scotland.”

[khruseosold]

You’d given me a starter for Claire a while back, after me removing her as a muse; I thought it only fair to replace that with something new. I hope you don’t mind. <3 // @oftheridge

“À la vôtre, Milord! The clinks of tankards adjoined encompassed the space between the two, as did the collective smiles amidst them. The days passed had been little less than utterly miraculous and blessed— with God seeming favourable and on their side entirely; in one aspect more than others. He has restored you. The renewed sight of her domineered a mind still, she had, throughout his existence as he remembered it, shown and proven herself a figure in all aspects maternal, a guide ever bright and supportive to endeavours of heart and mind. The loss of her had been decades prior, yet it felt as fresh and encompassing as it were only the day before, when called to mental forefront— intense enough in presence to match the delight of her return had been and still was. His own tankard lowered, its repose found upon the wooden surface of the table, with his posture as company and an elbow finding the same rest, “To God, for returning Milady to us, safely.” The smile of delight lingered amidst a countenance, posture lightening still, “It has been twenty years— the Colonies, she said?”

[khruseosold]

An assembly of steel clattered, wholly unorganized despite sure attempts at anything other, but it was a mess all in all in his ear. That was, at the exclusion of one set of footfalls; light in their step, consistent, feminine— the contrast of them to the rest, yet found within their escort, all but giving away his company’s identity without much difficulty. A quill and parchment simultaneously found repose when a glance traveled upward at the slowing halt of paces, a Prince of Dorne rising to his feet in courtesy that hadn’t always known many recipients; and a subtled smile growing in presence for much the same reason, though surely classified by numerous as being much more akin to a grin, having known even fewer, “Your Grace.” A sideward step removed obstacles and furthered courtesy by positioning him more directly before her; the smirk growing but ever little, “It is a shame I was not informed that I would be honored with your company this day, for I would have arranged for more Dornish red as to accomodate two.”

Mel, I only semi-brought it up in Discord, but shall we rewrite/prolong the scene that wasn’t actually bad, but could’ve been done so much better? // @wineinthewidow

[khruseosold]

Had the shadows of his silhouette marked the barely lit room as heavily in presence as the initial sight of the chair fallen had stained his features? Some apprehension had led his entrance, though his fairly hastened footfalls soon slowed detrimentally at the sight of his brother; ultimately halting to his side with a half-filled cup held out in offering, twirling within its wait while jest accompanied his words, “I'm surprised even YOUR patience for it lasted as long as it did, brother.” An arched brow presented itself in direction of the chair and the fabric which had been loosely wrapped around his own shoulders, was then readjusted, “It is a hideous thing— bare of even our colors.” Mock inhabited his voice from all sides, corners and means, seemingly ignoring what had been the likely occurrence, as though the clear reality sat anywhere other than the far forefront of his mind; you cannot let these incidents happen, brother.

You’ll always get Oby from me as long as you’ll have me <3 // @theeldestsun​​