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kingconia · 1 year ago

Note

Can we please please please PLEASE get a Vice Warden version of the "Reader is the characters favorite celebrity"

(obvi, Ortho is a child so if you add him make it platonic. But if you take him out maybe you can add Floyd instead! Plus RUGGIE CUZ HES THE UNOFFICIAL VICE )

Take your time and have fun with the request! If you end up not doing it, now worries lol!

A/N: I actually planned to do that for a while. Thank you for reminding me.

HOW TWISTED WONDERLANDS' VICE-HOUSEWARDENS ACT WHEN YOU ARE THEIR FAVOURITE CELEBRITY

Trey Clover. ❤️

— You are his favourite chef, of course. Who would've guess, right?

— You are a quite popular one, a former student of the Royal Academy, and very controversial figure in the media world, because... Well, you are quite talented, yes, but your attitude is just... Awful;

— Trey doesn't see anything that bad in your character, though! You might appear rude to adults, but he just loves how gentle you are with kids! Gordon Ramsay kinnie, you see;

— He is so. So. Happy, when Riddle accidentally asks you to be a chef for his birthday. A very lucky accident.

•

”Did I make that right?” Ace asks nervously, glancing at the bowl in his hand.

An event that Riddle Rosehearts plans is huge. Thousands of quests from all houses, completely different kitchens for each of them... So, of course, when students of Heartslabyul suggested to help you, you were happy.

Until you realised that they are chronical idiots.

You feel your blood boil, hands curling in fists.

Just how in the world this boy managed to mash raw carrot in fucking puree, when you asked him to cut it merely?! How?!

”You stupid donkey!” A yell that escapes your lips makes another two students, Deuce and Cater, shiver in fear. ”Get off!”

Ace instantly puts bowl on the table, taking a step back.

”M-me?”

”All of you!” You hiss, glaring at three of them. ”Out of this kitchen, idiots. And never, ever, come back here again!”

They shrink, running away instantly. You sigh in relief, but then, catch another figure, a taller one, moving after them.

Trey Clover.

”Hey,” you call for him, calmer this time. ”Where do you think you are going?”

Trey glances at you, completely surprised.

”Y/n-sama told everyone to leave,” he bows his head respectfully.

”Only to idiots,” you huff. ”You can stay, Trey.”

You actually noticed that out all of them, he worked more effectively. He knows how to cook, clearly, and he does so quickly and wordlessly. So, if anyone's help would be truly useful, it is his.

”...That would be a big honour for me, Y/n-sama.”

You smirk.

”Yeah, yeah. Come on. Let's finish here.”

Ruggie Bucchi. 💛

— You are his favourite true-crime blogger, lol. He watches your videos as he eats, and it annoys everyone, which also sometimes leaves him more food;

— You are actually not worldwide popular. You are just a student from NRC, from the Ignihyde, and sometimes, he catches your figure lurking around;

— Ruggie supports you from his side account, leaving a lot of comments, and likes, making other Savanaclaw watch videos, too. There is nothing more soothing that listening a gentle voice explaining how someone's body was dismembered, after all!

— Once, you decide to start a special event week: a true crimes connected to each house of the NRC. And Ruggie is especially exited for Savanaclaw video, only to find out that...

•

”Ah, you are Ruggie, correct?”

Ruggie flinches.

He recognises this voice from everywhere.

When he turns to the sound of the voice, he founds you, his favourite person in the world, standing in front of him. You look shy, as if it is not you, who constantly speaks of murders so eagerly.

”Y-yeah, hello, Y/n.”

...Shit, he shouldn't know your name.

”Hi!” You wave your hand. ”I am so sorry to bother you, but, I am busy with a project right now... It is connected with crimes in different locations that representing houses here. And, I spoke with Leona-sama this morning...”

Wow, you really caught Leona Kingscholar in the early morning? Awake? It is another proof for Ruggie's PowerPoint presentation about how cool and perfect you are!

”...But he told me that if anyone is better informed about crimes in Savanna, it is you, since, well, your class differences... I am so sorry, did it sound rude?”

Ruggie had never been happier to be poor.

”You came to the right person,” he exclaims with the coolest expression he has in his arsenal. ”Don't worry, Y/n. I will be your guide in the most darkest parts of the Afterglow Savanaclaw.”

You beam. He tries look collected, but fails.

”Ah, Ruggie, you are the best!”

It is going to be the best week in his life!

Leona-sama:

Brat

Firstly, she is fucking scary

Secondly you owe me for this one

Jade Leech. 🩵

— You are his favourite photographer. At first, you only share your works at art exhibitions, but recently you created a page in the Magicam, to have more connection with your followers;

— Jade is amazed by the way you see this world. How gracefully you present the nature, how gently you portrait people, and how skillfully you froze time! Ah, you are amazing!

— Jade always tries to see more of the world that was closed to him before, and your works are a great help for him;

— ...He is absolutely stunned, when Azul tells him that payed you to come to the opening of the renewed Monster Lounge as the photographer, though.

•

Jade is... Slightly frustrated.

To think, that Azul had an opportunity to employ a walking talent for a few hours, and he used this chance to take photos of the Lounge... Impossible!

He sighs.

He respects Azul, of course, but sometimes he is such a baby.

”Good evening,” Jade greets you with a polite smile on his face, hoping to conceal his genuine amazement. ”How is here to your liking?”

You are straightening your back, stopping taking pictures of the main hall. As you turn to Jade, your eyes lit up curiously.

”You must be... Jade, correct?”

You know his name.

”Indeed, I am,” he nods.

”Thank you, it is fine,” you shift from one foot to another, and he can say there is something you want to do. ”Ah, excuse me, but... Can I ask you something?”

Jade nods again, tilting his head on the left. What with your great mind came up this time?

”...Am I allowed to take a few photos of you?”

Now, it is his turn to be surprised.

If anything, Jade has never been an interesting subject for others' eyes. But here you are, his favourite person in the world, wishing to take his photos—

”Are you sure?” As you nod vigorously, he can't help but laugh shortly. ”Then, of course. Do as you please.”

But if you see it in him, something charming and breathtaking, then there are must be he something. Because you are never wrong.

...And when on the next morning, Azul asks him to explain why the fuck there is Jade's photos instead of Monster Lounge's, as they had an agreement with you, he shrugs.

’You asked me to show others the beauty of your Lounge,’ you write Azul later, absolutely unremorseful. ’And I did.’

Oh, you can't even understand how happy you made a certain someone!

Floyd Leech. 🩵

— Do you know those accounts of tarot and astrology readers, who constantly goes live to speak with audience and made them an online reading? Yes, Floyd adores you for this;

— I feel that he sincerely curious about all this stuff, and though, at first, it was only an aesthetic interest as he found you pretty, now, he is too deep in this to pull out;

— He listens to your everyday advice videos religiously, and I am not even kidding. He trusts you too much, and at some point Jade starts worrying about him;

— Floyd is absolutely reckless and shameless, so, of course, he decides to make a first move unexpectedly and openly.

•

”Since it is a Lover's day, I might as well today be more focused on romantic readings,” you warn, shuffling cards in your hands, eyes fixated on the chat. ”So, write first name of yours, and, your lover's, and both of your ages. Will see how it goes.”

Tarot cards have been a huge part of your life since you were a kid, watching your mom and aunt doing that, whispering quietly. It was only natural that eventually you became an esoteric, too.

It is not your work or main to-do thing, more like a hobby, and an instrument to help others. And most of the time, you are doing it for free. Unless, someone wants to pay you, of course.

”Hm, who is here...”

You see a familiar username.

Floyd Leech is a quite constant fan of yours, always liking your videos, commenting them ridiculously, and asking questions about this and that. So, you decide to start with him. Just ouf of respect.

”Floyd, seventeen and... Y/n, whatever your age is,” you read out aloud.

As you understand what that meant, your cheeks flush instantly. You almost drop your tarot on the floor.

Is he trying to hit on you?! Just like that?!

”I... Uhm...”

What should you do? You spoke with him a few times, yes, and it has been more or less fine? Yet... Urgh.

You take a random card from the bottom of it.

Lovers.

Shit.

”You have some good chances here, Floyd” you finally manage to say that aloud, looking away from camera. ”Just be more forward. And private.”

There is no answer—or it gets lost in many new comments—and you distract yourself with other followers. Until a notification appears on the top of your phone.

Floyd_Leech:

hi :)

You almost groan.

What an impossible man?!

Jamil Viper. 🧡

— Might be not entirely accurate, but you are his favourite book critic! I feel, like whenever Jamil has some time to himself, he reads, and if he doesn't, he listens to all these podcasts or three hours long videos about why a certain book good or bad;

— He finds you accidentally, and since then obsessively checks out your every video, even the oldest ones. Puts notifications on. Follows on other social media. Loves your content;

— He is definitely a more quiet supporter. He likes your videos, but never comments them. So, there is no direct contact between two of you;

— At least, until he bumps into you by accident. In Scalding Sands. On the summer holidays. How insane is that?

•

Jamil knows that you travel a lot, he has seen your highlights in Magicam, but how could he expect to meet you in the bazar of all places?! This place is noisy, awful and there is nothing beautiful or picturesque! What would you do here? And with a book in your hands, too.

”The sands of Love,” title says.

It sounds ridiculous already.

”Shit,” you hiss, rubbing his shoulder with your free hand. ”I am sorry.”

”Please, be careful,” he murmurs quietly, trying to act normal as if he doesn't update your channel every morning and night in the search of new content.

Anyway, Jamil is slightly freaking out. Just a little.

”I am trying, but this book is so awful, I want to die,” he chuckles fondly, a familiarity of your words that you say so often from the screen on his phone, softening him. ”You know, I bought this goddamn book, and the setting of it is here, like, in Scalding Sands. So, I came here to check some details. Like traditions, and, and stuff. And you know, it is all a fucking bullshit—”

So, you made your way to here just to... Criticise an obviously bad book with even more reasoning?

God, he loves you.

”...And, and...” You stutted. Blushing suddenly, you sigh. ”I am so sorry. I shouldn't be dumping that on you.”

Jamil tries his best to offer you a rare smile of his.

”Oh, but I am interested now. Would you mind continue telling me about this book?” He can't help but notice how cutely your eyes lit up. ”But not here, obviously. Please, let's go. I will find a quieter place for you.”

...Seems, like all his luck was saved just for this moment to happen, because you actually follow him, continuing your blabbering.

What a beautiful day it is.

Rook Hunt. 💜

— You are his favourite opera singer! When Rook sees you for the first time, he is in awe. Your beauty, your voice — it is everything. He knows, just from the first sight, that he will be a Phantom of Opera for your Christine;

— He buys the best, and I must stay, the most expensive places for your opera, but keeps himself hidden away for a while. Doesn't need to be seen, he is in his studying sessions;

— Rook is not pleased if you are not a leading singer. He will make everything for this fact to change in future. Would giggle if overhears you saying how lucky you are... If you want him to be your luck, then so be it;

— When Rook is sure that his work more or less done, and he is ready, he will finally meet with you personally.

•

”It is a shame I never noticed you before,” you shake your head, cheeks darkened from the amount of complements you had heard in past ten minutes. ”And you've been here for me from my debut? I am so flattered...”

A boy in front of you smiles eagerly, pressing another warm kiss on the back of your hand.

”Ah, mon inspiration, it is me who is blessed and grateful for being able to witness something so beautiful and generous... The rise of the angel of Opera, indeed!”

His eyes are shining with a pure awe. You almost squirm, when Rook falls on his knees, cheek pressing to your well-kissed hand. You are fighting a wish to caress his cheek just as you do with your cat at home.

”If Gods ever existed, at least one of them, it must be you, their last creation, a gift for dying civilisation!”

”Ah, Rook,” you giggle, getting more and more shy with each second. ”Please... Maybe, you want to... See with me later? Beyond these walls? I mean... Don't get me wrong, of course, it is just...”

It might be a risky movement, you know. Yet, you can't help but feel attracted to the person, who stares at you as if you are the Creator yourself.

”I would be more than glad, mon ange,” his voice becomes quieter, yet, a little more nervous. ”I love that one café in front of this opera, if you care to know. I often order there their special drink... The fall of the Devil, isn't it?”

You blink in surprise.

”That is my favourite, too!” You exclaim enthusiastically.

”Really?” Somehow, he doesn't really look surprised. ”Well, then, after getting drinks, we, perhaps, could see the Art Gallery... Had you ever seen a whole room dedicated to the minerals from different countries? It is my favourite one.”

Your chest warms.

”Mine too!”

You hope it doesn't look like you try to impress him by mirroring his answers, but it is really this way.

Seems, like Rook just knows everything you love!

”I feel like we are a perfect match, mon destin.”

And, somehow, you can't disagree.

Lilia Vanrouge. 💚

— This man is hard to impress... But, you are his favourite... Psychologist. Alright, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think, considering the fact that he was the general for a long time, never caring about human emotions before, and then suddenly adopted three idiots, and that with having his own trauma, he takes a great interest in the psychology;

— So, when he accidentally finds your account, where you speak of different problems, navigate people through theirs, and merely discussing different situations in the world from the point of psychology, he dives in;

— I don't think that Lilia goes on appointment, though. I think, he masters psychology through your channel, instead. He is such a self-taught and crazy-ass talented person;

— When you are invited to work as a school psychologist in the NRC, since Crowley realised that overbolts might or might not be because of lacking a one, Lilia is actually really excited. And he doesn't hide it!

•

”Seeing how mature you are, how healthy you analyse all these situations with overbolted students,” you make a small sip of tea, smirking shortly, ”I can't help but feel slightly proud of myself.”

Lilia laughs quietly, extending you more chocolate muffins that he obtained from the cafeteria just for you.

Since from the first day, two of you became a great friends. And, though, of course, it is you who should take care of him—since he is a student as well—Lilia yet can't help but worry about how much you work, skipping meals constantly, because, apparently, everyone wants your help.

”You are great at what you are doing, Y/n-sama,” he smiles mischievously.

Though both of you are quite old, centuries of life long ago left behind, there is a certain childishness inside of you, that you prefer to call a healthy life enjoyment. A term that Lilia now uses every time when someone tries to lecture him about being too immature.

”Thank you, thank you, Lilia-kun,” you bow your head jokingly. ”But, seriously, I need a proper schedule with all of these kids. But they just can't stop coming... I don't know what is so traumatising about this school, honestly. It is about lessons?”

Lilia laughs.

”Maybe. I mean, my genuine wish to start a massacre returns sometimes, when headmaster comes on our lessons...”

You smack him slightly, chuckling softly.

”I see, now. Honestly, after meetings with him, I too, search for the professional help...”

As both of you laugh, Lilia watches you relaxing eventually.

Ah, who would've thought that a person who helped him unconsciously once, would eventually became his friend?.. What a crazy world he lives in!

#twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #trey clover #trey clover x reader #ruggie bucchi #ruggie bucci x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #jamil viper #jamil viper x reader #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt #lilia vanrouge #lilia vanrouge x reader

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anjelicawrites · 10 months ago

Note

Once poly!Aemond asked his lovers to help him stay in subspace for the whole weekend. It had been a couple of grueling months and he felt his brain needing to be disconnected from everything. He was cutely uncoordinated and in need to be touched all the time, both reader and Osferth walking around with an Aemond koala plastered on their backs. When his lovers gently helped him back, he felt like he had recharged his batteries. The weird thing had been Vhagar, who was less cranky herself and even let reader’s adopted donkey sniff her snout.

From one of your headcannons can you elaborate more pls??? 😏

The OG!Poly is back!

Warnings: kissing, handjob, ass play, blowjob, hints at subspace sex, being in subspace for a long period of time, overwork, stress, hints at chronic pain.

NSFW and 18+ only please under the cut!

Aemond has been working hard on his latest project and had, basically, disappeared from your lives. He would sleep a handful of hours, waking up early and going to bed later and later, to the point that he had started sleeping in one of the guest rooms in order to not disturb you and Osferth. You two knew he was alive because he would send you quick texts or put his dirty laundry in the hamper, but he was a ghost in your lives, who promised you two that he was going to be finished soon. You and Osferth were worried he would overwork himself or that his chronic pain would flare up, you two knew that he couldn't afford it to happen.

The text message arrives in the chat Thursday afternoon, it simply reads "I'm finished. Coming home." You rush home, your only goal is to hug Aemond, which you do, the second he walks through the threshold, your arms hug his slender frame with all your might.

"Gevie, gevie, dōna jorrāelagon."

You can hear Aemond murmur in your hair as you take in his familiar scent, and the tension in his back.

"Please tell me you don't have any leftover work to do." "I'm done. I have the whole weekend off, my team as well." "Oh thank God!"

You stare at him with adoring eyes, take in his tired expression and the dark circles: all the alarm bells go off in your mind immediately. You try to help him relax and Osferth joins in when he manages to return home, to little results: Aemond is still a ball of stress on the couch, all the pent up energy trapped in his tense shoulders and in the way his eyes fixates on the TV, without truly seeing the stupid show playing. Not even putting the collar on has helped.

"You're not listening, are you?" Osferth asks from the floor where he's laying with the dogs. "I'm sorry beloved, my mind seems unable to unstruck itself from this last project. I am so tired and my brain doesn't want to stop."

He sounds exhausted, barely managing to run on fumes.

"Do you think there's something we can do to help you unwind? You never stopped working for two months!" You tell him, worried that he might just collapse.

Aemond hums in your embrace, pensively weighting your words.

"There's something, but I don't know if it's feasible." "Tell us and we'll see, together."

Aemond cups Osferth's face for a second and breaths in his earthly scent, wishing that just your combined presences would be enough to help him finally relax: he feels so drained.

"Would it be possible to keep me in subspace for the whole weekend? I just need to stop thinking and I don't know how!"

You suck in a big breath: it is so huge coming from him, who is still fighting against his demons, it's a testament to the trust he has in you two.

"We can try." You can hear in Osferth's voice that he is already shifting, taking control subtly.

"Let's go upstairs." You murmur in Aemond's ear, following Osferth's lead. "Let's make sure you're all nice and dumb for a while."

Aemond shudders against you, he closes his eye with a tired sigh: if only.

"We are not asking, my sweet prince." Osferth's voice is a low rumble that sends a shiver down Aemond's back. "You will stop thinking, I don't care how long that is going to take."

"Or how many times you're going to come for us, like a good boy." You add.

"I want that, badly. My brain doesn't seem to want to follow the plan." Again, defeated against his own mind.

"It's not your brain we're interested in."

Aemond groans when Osferth's hand sneaks inside his loose trousers and curls around his soft cock.

"You're going to come for us, you don't have a choice."

Osferth's voice has deepened to a growl as his hands slowly moves up and down Aemond's cock. You can see how enlarged his pupils are, how feral his smile is when he notices your fingers finding their home around Aemond's sensitive nipples, pinching them until he lets out a soft whine.

"You're playing dirty." He stammers, his head leans on your shoulder. "You have no idea Aemond."

He whines again when the hand around his, now, hard cock jacks him with intent, fluid already seeping from the bulbous head, hips canting to follow the rhythm Osferth has chosen for him.

"Come, now."

Aemond can hear the command in his voice and that makes the coil in his stomach curl tighter and tighter with every fast movement of the hand around his cock and your cruel fingers on his nipples, the orgasm so close he can almost taste it, yet just a step away from him, his brain still running a hundred miles per hour.

The sudden pain of your fingers pinching his nipples tear through the million thoughts in his head and he comes, body kept upright by yours and Osferth's, who keeps pumping his cock, milking it until Aemond whimpers, raw already with overstimulation.

Aemond is not fully aware of how he finds himself on the bed, naked and hard, his mind is fuzzy on the details of walking up the stairs as you and Osferth kiss and bite his skin and lips, and all his clothes are gone and he is defenseless under your stares: where he wants to be.

The pleasure that slowly consumes his overworked brain never stops, you two dead set in driving him absolutely out of his mind with your teeth, mouths and hands.

He begs when your lips find home around his erection, again, in the attempt to suck his brain out through his dick. His hips squirm uselessly when his hole his violated again by Osferth's long fingers, muscles fucked and scissored until he comes down your throat with a shout.

With every orgasm he can feel his mind losing grip against the pleasurable pain you're subjecting him to, the threads of his million thought snipped at the bud by your bodies on his.

Yet he can't let go, his mind is so stubbornly clinging to the most difficult detail of the project and just focuses there as his body burns with pleasure.

"You know." Osferth's dark voice tears through this last stubborn thought. "One day I will bring you to a piercer and make sure you get the prettiest rings on your nipples. After they've healed I'll put nice weight on them, make sure everyone sees how sensitive they are."

As on cue you bite down on his right nipple and suck harshly, Aemond's mind snaps free of that troublesome last thought and finally floats in that safe space where he doesn't have to think, just feel and soak in your care, and Osferth's.

Aemond's body melts under yours, his muscles completely relaxed, the sign you and Osferth have reached your goal: he's into subspace, where his mind can, finally, let go.

"Come here sweetling, sleep in my arms. You did so good my heart." You murmur, helping Aemond on his side, with his face against your chest.

Aemond's eye is closed, his breathing slow and even, blindly his face finds your breasts and just rests there, where your soft smell envelops him completely and he knows he's safe.

"He's hogging your boobies." "Osferth, don't be morose. Lie behind me and be nice." "There isn't enough space!"

Osferth stares at you like a kicked puppy and, for five whole seconds, you feel bad for him.

"Those are my breasts, thank you very much. Second, Aemond needs them more than you do right now." "I need them always!" "Be good Osferth, come on!"

Osferth looks devastated that he can't hold your breasts the way he likes to, when Aemond sleeps between you two: he has to settle with just a couple of fingers on the upper side of one breast for the night. How unfair is that?

When you wake up, Aemond is still asleep in your arms, his long body relaxed in your embrace. With a gentle touch you caress his back, following the dip of his spine: he needs food and a slow awakening.

From the door Osferth observes you two, enamored with the way you are taking care of Aemond. On silent feet he heads to the bed and hugs Aemond from the back, murmuring that it's time to eat. Aemond stirs and makes a sleepy sound of contentment, cocooned as he is in the double embrace. He can only feel, his mind is still somewhere soft, while is skin blooms with goosebumps wherever your hand, and Osferth's, caress him, a tentative erection stands against your tummy and Osferth gently wraps his hand around it.

"Let's make a deal. You come for us and then we feed you breakfast." Osferth says.

In this state Aemond is nonverbal, he just nuzzles closer to your breasts and moves his hips: he doesn't need words when he has you two. His mind is hazy, yet his nerves carry the distant feeling of Osferth's rough palm around his cock and the sweet taste of your nipples in his mouth, both sensations cloud his mind and mix with the pleasure he has been feeling. His hips move following the long strokes around his cock, unhurried as pleasure tightens in his belly. He hears your soft moans of pleasure and Osferth's praises, the nipple in his mouth is pert and delicious, he can't help but nibble on it as his hips move faster, his cock head rubs against your clit with a wet sound he can barely hear over his own whimpers of pleasure as his orgasm explodes in his loins and his mind flies higher and higher into subspace.

Aemond lies on the bed, his semen splattered on his belly, his breathing slowing down: he looks like the portrait of desire, with his head on Osferth's chest and his legs spread out like an offering. He makes a pleasurable sound when you slowly clean the mess on his groin and tummy, kissing the head of his spent cock. With your lips you follow the path of his beauty marks, until you can hover his parted mouth.

"Let's feed you baby, you've done so well." You murmur and he preens.

He's unstable on his legs, he wobbles and has to lean against Osferth to walk down the stairs; you've never seen him like this, but he's never been in subspace outside the bed. It's endearing to see him, who is always preternaturally aware of his surroundings, walk on unstable legs, nearly hitting the banister with his elbow or trip on one of the dogs. He plasters himself against your back with an happy sigh, while you make coffee. You expect his hands to mold themselves around your breasts, instead he is happy to just feel your warmth seep through the clothes you two are wearing and walk with you, using your body as a crutch to keep his balance. He is not aware of what he's doing, it's just that you smell so good and are so soft, that his body simply follows its natural instincts. You have to put your index in the loop of his collar to maneuver him to where the bench is and have him sit down next to Osferth, who has already cut the food in small pieces and feeds them to Aemond in between butterfly kisses.

He's never been so needy of physical touch like he is now. He doesn't shy away from it normally, but he is never reached for it so openly; deep as he is in subspace he can't help but follow what his body is telling him to do: soak in the warmth of his lovers' skins, taste it with his lips and tongue and just bask in their presence next to him to even out those two month without you two. You and Osferth are keeping him safe as well. A part of Aemond knows he needs your help, that he is not capable of recognizing danger and that he needs to lean on you two for safety. Draping himself over Osferth's shoulders, or yours, and just walk with you this way is an instinct he easily follows and saves him from falling and tripping around the house. Pleasure and arousal mingle with the warm waves where is mind is now, with every orgasm you and Osferth extract from his pliant body, he soars even higher and falls deeper into subspace and becomes ever more responsive to your touch, and Osferth's, his body blossoming under yours as he whimpers and moans with every touch on his sensitive skin. Whatever refractory period he normally has simply vanishes and he seeks your combined touches, until you two have made love to him to both your heart's content.

When it's time to help him resurface from subspace, he stubbornly clings to it, doesn't want to come back and be himself again. It takes you and Osferth the longest time, between soft kisses and gentle words, to see his eye focus again on your smiles. Aemond feels boneless, all his muscles well used and pleasantly tired, his mind, finally, his own again.

"Welcome back sweetling." You murmur in his ear, tickling the sensitive skin with your breath. "How long was I under for?"

He genuinely has no idea of the day and the hour.

"It's Sunday afternoon." Osferth tells him.

Aemond says something unintelligible in High Valyrian, surprised his idea actually worked.

"Even Vhagar is not as cranky as she usually is." Osferth adds. "She's an elderly lady, she's entitled to be grumpy." Aemond will always come to Vhagar's defense, it makes your heart swell. "Not when you're in subspace. She never huffed and slept peacefully: that's a first."

Not for the first time you find yourself wondering about the bond between you lover and his elderly dragon, how deep that runs.

"Come here sweetling."

You let Aemond hug you, this time he can lie pressed between you and Osferth, without stopping the latter's access to your breasts.

"Do you want to sleep my love? It's too early to eat." You say. "Let's just stay like this. I want to feel you two."

His mind, lulled by your combined warmth, starts wandering through disconnected thoughts, simply enjoying the stillness, after months of non stopping worry. Indeed, you three should do this more often.

Poly taglist : @fan-goddess, @notyour-valentine, @aegonx

#answered #polyquestion #aemond targaryen x reader x osferth #aemond targaryen x y/n x osferth #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen #osferth x reader #osferth x y/n #osferth

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tarotsol · 7 months ago

Note

hey there 🤍 would you mind doing a little reading on nct dream’s overall career in 2024? will there be any new achievement?

Hi there! Thanks for the request!

Apologies for getting back so late with this request! So much has been happening lol. It’s been a while since I did a reading for my favs!

Let’s get to it!

NCT Dream 2024:

the groups dynamic:

with the 4 of wands reversed alongside the moon, all i’m getting right now for the remainder of 2024 is that SM is not going to be helping their career in the slightest. this represents a challenging work environment and often a lack of teamwork or a sense of instability. of course, we all know how much of a hell that company is right now and the cards didn’t hesitate to show me. emotions are going to be in the rise for all the members for sure unfortunately.

mark lee solo opportunities:

with the lovers and the seven of sword’s reversed, I don’t see much coming his way for now, his name could be scraped through dirt in the coming months/ something could get leaked about him.

huang renjun solo opportunities:

with the wheel of fortune, clarified with the page of wands and five of swords reversed, I feel like his solo projects are going to be very tinkered with by the company, like a constant fish to bait/ carrot to the donkey manner. the management is definitely playing with him, however their could be a good? businessman forseeing all this mistreatment and keeping an eye out on him.

lee jeno solo opportunities:

with the queen of wands reversed, I think that jeno needs to focus more on his mental health right now. he’s been through a lot.

haechan solo opportunities:

with the two of wands here, he’s just waiting for opportunities to come by right now. he’s also thinking long term about his career.

na jaemin solo opportunities:

he has the 8 of wands, so it’s definitely, no pun intended, in the cards for him right now to get some sort of solo opportunity by the end of the year. keep an eye out!

zhong chenle solo opportunities:

yep, I definitely see some sort of “business” opportunity coming his way soon with the temperance card here! he also is thinking long term about his career.

jisung solo opportunities:

with the 6 of wands, that’s a guaranteed yes! His hard work is paying off and will definitely land an opportunity this year!

That’s all I have for now! Some parts are a bit negative but this is SM entertainment we’re taking about and sometimes we need to be realistic. I wish all the success for NCT this 2024! Again, this is just my reading and things can most certainly change!

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yellowcry · 5 months ago

Text

“Okay, I'm not giving you back”

When people gave Luisa gifts, it was usually related to her role Stuffed donkey toys weren't. But it might just be the best things anyone has given her in a long time

More of Fracture—Swap besties duo! Fracture Mirabel belongs to @miracles-and-butterflies

The sword whistled. Step back, prepare, block. Okay, here she goes.

Luisa got the sword above her head, shifting the weight to another leg. Agrh, it wasn't hard enough. She had to warm up her trainings again. She wouldn't become better if she didn't challenge herself. Which was a hard quest. Luisa's strength was already out of human capabilities. Regardless of from which angle she looked at it. After years of physical work, managing the sword became her second nature. But the problem with being this strong was the fact that a fair training with all her skills was impossible. It leaved a glooming feeling of unsertanity, not letting her to actually know how prepared she was. And...maybe it was a part of the reason why Luisa always felt so unsafe. Despite the fact that she was nearly impossible to hurt even without all her battleskills. But she couldn't tell for sure.

Luisa held her breath, trying to imagine how someone could attack her in the moment.The fighting was all about instincts. And in Luisa's case being as fast as possible to deal with enemies before they get the chance to even get closer to her family. She can imagine them, sitting in the audience while Luisa shifts the weight, breaking through the air to strike.

"Hello." The voice is enough to break her from whatever she was doing. Luisa turned around in panic, before she ever could proceed the voice. Getting ready for whoever was here.

Oh, right, it was another Mirabel. The girls stood a little behind, waiting for Luisa to say something. She raised her head, unnaturally frozen.

"Hi!" Luisa hummed, hiding her sharp tool. "Long time not see." She marched to the younger girl, crouching next to her. "Anything new, or are you just passing by?"

Teenager held out a small box. Unmoving like a robot. "I have a gift for you.. As far as I am aware, it is what people give to show their attachment to sertain person."

Ohh... A smile had spreaded across Luisa's face. It was so sweet, especially if you ignore the part where Mirabel wasn't completely sure at how to show affection. Which wasn't her fault, and the fact that she tried was more than Luisa could ever hope for.

"Thank you!" Luisa grinned, petting Mirabel's hair. Gentle so she wouldn't mess it up. "You're so sweet!"

Mirabel's eyes flinched up. "You do not have to thank me." She stated, passing an yellow box to Luisa.

Luisa hummed, excited, pulling the bright ribbon. What could it be? Knowing her, people usually gave her things related to her role. Whenever it was a millitary styled fashion or some hard equipment to train herself. When the talk was about her, it was always about bare strength. The power piercing through her muscles since the day she got her gift.

But... It wasn't hard. Luisa found herself dumbfounded. Inside the box, was a small knitted donkey. Enough to fit into Luisa's palm. It's dark gray spine stood boldly against the paler nose and belly. Black eyes, also knitted, stared right into Luisa's. A really good and proper made donkey. If Luisa didn't know how much this version of Mirabel was into knitting and embodying, she would assume Mira had bought it somewhere.

"What is this?" She breathes out, squeezing a toy. Her big finger ran across the loose knots of the mane. Soft.

Mirabel tilted her head, replying flatly. "I apologize if my offering did not make you happy." Completely ignoring the question.

Luisa gasped and nervously shook her head. "No, no, I just..." What? Didn't expect it? Luisa was strong, and with it came its expectations. She wasn't supposed to have soft things. They were too damageable. Luisa had to always look strong and a plushie didn't come as a symbol of indestructibility.

"I knew it looked bad." Mirabel continued. "I am very sorry, I should've made it better than this. There's not enough details and the size..."

"No, no, it's okay, it's really good!" Luisa assured her, eyetwitching. "I just... usually too strong for stuffed toys?" She spreaded her arms, for a moment showing off her outfit.

"I do not understand how stuffed toys are opposite of being strong but I am sorry for a misunderstanding. I thought you would like it."

Luisa did. She really did. It was small, and cute, and not hard or dangerous (She hoped for this). She just wasn't used for this. Warriors don't own plushies. At least as far as Luisa was aware. And her role was to ensure everyone:s safety. It wasn't about having soft things to herself. It would just distract her in case there was any danger. And with how Luisa built her image, there was no doubt everyone saw her as strong and indestructible. There was no reason to question if she wanted something small and soft.

Luisa sobbed, wiping her eyes. "Thank you," her lip trembled as she held the toy tight. "It's sweet, really."

Mirabel stared without moving. Her eyes ran uncomfortably, trying to read too hard emotions for her.

"Can I just keep you in my universe? You're too sweet!" Luisa picked Mirabel up, letting her to sit on her arm. Her tears fel down, wetting the coat.

"I can not leave my family." Mirabel nodded her head, wrapping her arms around Luisa's neck. "Can you tell me what have upset you so I won't fail next time?"

"Nothing," Luisa chuckled. "It's happy tears. Thank you."

The listener's gaze fliskered. "I do not understand emotions very well." She replied honestly. Luisa grit her teeth, knowing exactly who was to blame gor this. "But I am grateful you enjoyed a gift for a mother's day."

"I do," Luisa smiled through her crying. "You're the best." She replied almost on instinct before thought has kicked in. "A gift for what?"

"For a day of mothers around the world." Mirabel explained like an encyclopedia. Did she just... claimed Luisa as her Mamá? Luisa froze, not daring to take a breathe. It must be some fever dream from caffeine overdose. "I do know you are not my mother but..."

"I am your mother now." Luisa stated. Brown eyes shoon with proudness.

Oh. And Mirabel is sertainly isn't going back to her universe.

#encanto #luisa madrigal #mirabel madrigal #fanfic #ao3 author #encanto fracture au #pedro and alma swap #bro it's kinda bad i need to kick myself to better productivity #yeah luisa deserves fluff after the last shit

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 5 months ago

Text

Reconsecrated - a Malevolent fic

Normally, he’d be in here, John muttered to himself. But he’s not. Which means… He gasped again.

“John,” Arthur said evenly. “Explain this right now, or I swear, you have not seen how not-calm I can be.”

He’s leaving it to me. John’s voice was thick. He left this honor to me.

Part of the Surrogate series.

AO3

-----------------

Everybody in the damn palace knew something Arthur didn’t. They had to, because the behavior toward him had changed so much that it almost made him doubt his own memories. “Another one?”

Yes. They’re coming!

Of course they were. They probably flew, or had eighty-eight legs, or something. “There he is!” the thing behind him said.

“Fuck,” muttered Arthur.

“Hey! Composer!”

Somehow, Arthur kept from groaning and turned, wearing what he hoped was a welcoming smile.

You look like you’re going to puke.

“Shut up,” Arthur muttered. “Yes?”

“Such an honor, Mister Composer, sir,” said whatever it was, and grabbed his hand with a wet warm something that was not a humanoid appendage.

Arthur managed to keep his feet as the thing shook his entire arm with enthusiasm. “A pleasure, I’m sure,” he managed.

Back off, John rumbled.

It did. “I can’t wait!” And away it slithered.

Arthur shook his hand out, flexing his fingers. “For what?” he said. “Can’t wait for what?”

Fuck. I don’t know. We need to find out.

“How?” said Arthur. “We haven’t even seen the King in two days. The carnival’s taking up all his time. If there’s some composition he wanted, he didn’t exactly let me know!”

John growled. At least it’s been a success.

It had. Hastur had endeavored to make this carnival feel open and fun and stress-free for all who attended, while simultaneously locking it down to the point that not even an earring would pass those walls without his notice.

Initially, merchants complained. They soon saw the wisdom, however: with the guarantee of the King in Yellow that goods and entertainment were safe (relatively, given how madness-inducing the ones in the dangerous half of Carcosa could be), they were making bank.

Are we still going to Odd’s concert?

“Of course.” Arthur shook out his arm again.

Even with all this bullshit?

“I’m going to support him,” said Arthur with the grim determination of an embattled general.

Fine. Turn more to your left, or we’ll hit the wall.

Arthur resumed.

They weren’t completely late. Violin rang over the square, playful and luring and promising more. Arthur skirted the crowd, head down, trying to squeeze close enough for John to see.

“And then she said, not without my donkey!” Odd projected seamlessly, magic carrying his voice directly overhead.

The laughter was quite wild.

“Hurry!” Arthur hissed.

Press against the wall again, John said, and someone recognized his voice.

“The Composer!” someone declared, and Arthur suddenly found himself grabbed and all but lifted, caught in motion like a leaf in a river.

Fuck! John cried, and Arthur was deposited on a stage with a thunk.

Odd laughed lightly (voice still projected) and took Arthur’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “Now, now, you could've just asked for a solo!” He must have been working the crowd for a while already, because they were primed to laugh, happy to follow his lead.

“Uh,” said Arthur, realizing his voice was also projecting, and reddened. “Um.”

This wasn’t our idea! John hissed.

“That’s what Hastur said,” Odd winked to more audience entertainment.

“I’m sorry about this,” Arthur tried to whisper. “We’ll go.”

For just one moment, Odd’s voice was genuinely soft. “You absolutely can. Otherwise, you can help me out just by being a temporary prop. I won’t make you do anything.”

Arthur straightened. “We can help? We’re in.”

Wait just a minute!

“Pinch of playing along?”

Arthur smiled. “Absolutely.”

Arthur! We don’t know what to do!

“Trust him, John,” Arthur murmured with a grin.

Odd’s voice carried again. “Why, we’re changing direction, folks! It’s time for a sing-off!”

What? John roared, word lost under the roar of the crowd.

Odd threw his arm around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him close. “The celebrated chosen Composer, captivating container of the King’s cantankerous kid, Arthur Lester the AMAZING… What do you have to say for yourself?” And Odd held his tail under Arthur’s face like a mic.

Arthur was grinning; he could feel his cheeks burning, which engendered applause, which made him blush harder. “I, uh—”

“A likely story,” said Odd, tilting his tail-tip back to his own mouth, then dipping and spinning Arthur to his other side.

The crowd cheered. Arthur laughed.

Aaah! John called.

Odd elbowed John by elbowing Arthur’s left arm. “Easy, kid, you’ll spook your stallion.” He’d done it in an odd sort of accent, nasally, saying shpook your shtallion.

Arthur laughed again.

John sputtered.

Odd held his tail to Arthur’s face again. “I already know what I’m going to sing, see. My question is what you’re going to lead with.”

Arthur again went red, to the great entertainment of the audience. “I… well, I wasn’t…”

Odd tilted his tail back to himself. “That old chestnut? Pffft! Hey, we got any grandmas in the crowd?”

They did, judging by the cheers (and they quite liked Odd, judging by the wolf-whistles).

Back tilted the tail-mic. “And what else?”

“Else?” squawked Arthur.

“Else! Dance! Fire!” Odd spun, announcing as he dipped his own tail. “Romance! Passion!” He winked at the crowd. “Forbidden delights!” He began to sashay, hips swaying.

Without warning Odd's tail lashed out and gave Arthur a deceptively gentle smack on the ass.

Arthur jumped.

Odd gasped dramatically, hand to his mouth. “Arthur, I am so sorry! I don’t know what came over me—you know that my tail sometimes has a mind of its own!” He seized the appendage once more. “We talked about this,” he said, the picture of betrayal. “You told me you would be good!”

The offending appendage flicked.

“Now,” Odd said, “as I was saying—”

The moment he turned back to the crowd, his tail went for Arthur’s crotch.

Odd grabbed it, wrestling with it, not-so-quietly telling it to behave.

More than the grandmas howled this time.

Arthur laughed hard enough to tear up, and wiped his eyes.

Odd danced around him, light as a Dancer, and leaned in, tail to Arthur’s face again; he’d produced a lute out of nowhere, and began a low, fast rhythm, building in volume and transitioning to higher keys with every question. “So hey, before we get to it, let’s get serious. Arthur Lester, voice of the Shining Court, shadow to Hastur’s grand light, walking-ambulating-circumgyrating favorite of the Court of the Golden Throne…” He took a deep, noisy breath. “Do you have a favorite color?”

The tail flicked right to Arthur. He blinked.“Well, ye—“

The tail flicked left to Odd. “Yes, this is really important,” he interrupted.

The tail flicked right. Arthur laughed lightly. “I… you see—“

The tail flicked left. “Seashell? Pfft, nonsense! I mean, you’re a key player-mover-shaker in a court with kind of a theme.”

The tail flicked right. Arthur’s cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling, and he didn’t mind at all. “I guess it’s be—”

Odd gasped, his strum reaching a fevered pitch. “Bistro brown!? Oh, the betrayal!”

Odd really had worked this crowd up, and they guffawed, bellowing color suggestions, hooting lewd appreciation.

So, almost no one heard Arthur’s answer. “Yellow. It’s yellow.” He took his left hand in his right.

Oh, Arthur…

“Yellow! A little sycophantic, a little grease for the wheels. Hey, next time you’re gonna pour it on that thick, least you could do is warn a guy,” Odd complained far too loudly, and clapped his hands.

Oh! said John. The stage lit up. Yellow silk bearing his sign unfurled from all over, lit with flickering orange light that brings out the golden threads. Torches sit now all along the sides of the stage, somehow brilliant in spite of the noonday suns. I think Hastur helped set this up.

“Gee, you think?” Arthur mumbled.

And Odd transformed his lute into a violin, and he sang, a cheerful, quick ditty he could skip to. “When I was a wee lad, not half good nor half bad, nobody knew that I could sing! Could dance and could prance, and could flirt, take my chance, but never a note I would wing! ‘Til one day, a sweary, magnificent fairy decided to give me my due… she rode me so hard that my words went to shards and there was only one thing I could do: I held out my tongue…” Demonstrated. “And filled up my lungs…” A ridiculously loud gasp. “And let out a mighty… boo-hoo!”

Pause for laughter and applause. Arthur stood back, arms crossed, laughing too.

Odd bowed, the epitome of grace, then pranced again, playing his violin. “Lucky for me, she could speak tee-hee-hee, and recognized skill when she heard it. In trade for our fun, she put me on the run with a letter for help from the guild seat. So goes my tale, with a lesson to sail, should you find yourself under a fairy: don’t be afraid! They’re sweeties, no shade; and always remember…” He drew the note out, running his fingers up the strings to a high, perfect pitch. “To whimper. To whimper! They really do like you to whimper!” And he cavorted across the stage, bowing, flipping his tail, repeating his final verse, which could barely be heard under all the cheers.

Arthur joined the applause. “You win!” he called between cupped hands. “All hats off for Odd!”

Somehow, the roar grew louder, and numerous items of clothing rose into the air��quite a few not worn on the head.

Amazing, whispered John.

Odd trotted over and gave Arthur a quick side-hug—a clear move of friendship, no bad feelings between—and then returned to the front of the stage to play his violin in a haunting, slow tune.

“Where’s the edge?” Arthur whispered.

Two more steps. There.

Arthur climbed off the stage and stood aside, audience yet again.

Hastur never had a chance, said John.

“What?”

The miracle is Odd is still prancing around, free.

Arthur stilled. He frowned, still turned so John could watch, and considered this statement.

Odd led them through popular ballads, getting them to join in; he brought the mood down with sad songs like The Daughter Of Carith; he got them howling again with the utterly bawdy Jester’s Bester Day.

And through it all, John laughed, and cheered, and sniffled when needed, and bellowed praise.

Finally, there was a intermission. Arthur wandered away, tired as he often was these days, and thoughtful. He licked his lips. “So Hastur wouldn’t have a chance, eh?”

What? said John, as if coming out of a trance.

“What you said. Hastur.”

Oh. Yes. This is right up his alley. He’d have taken this guy in a heartbeat, broken him, kept him for ages.

Arthur could believe that. “He didn’t, though.”

No. He didn’t. It’s a good thing, Arthur.

“I know that.” It was a touch sharper than intended. Arthur softened his tone. “Is… it hard for you to see Odd?”

To… what?

“Do… you want to, uh…” Arthur cleared his throat. “Um. Do. Something. With Odd?”

John’s silence could mean anything.

Fine. Arthur had been a father. He’d had hard conversations. He could do this. “Sexually?”

That was one hell of a sputter. What? Are you insane? No!

“Because I know you share Hastur’s taste, and—”

No!

“—if you did want him, it would be normal and nothing to feel shame about, and—“

You are the only person I want, and just my luck, you’re an imbecile!

Arthur sputtered this time. “You said—“

I’m not… John sighed. Look. You know how I feel about you.

Arthur seemed to go stiff. “You’re changing the subject.”

I’m not changing the fucking subject, John growled. The way I feel about you hasn’t changed. It didn’t change when I lost my memories, and it certainly hasn’t changed now that I’ve regained all of them. I can appreciate him, watching him entertain the crowd, even though it means…

“Yes?” Arthur challenged.

It makes some memories complicated, all right? Damn it, Arthur. But no, I don’t want him. Their left hand clenched. I want you.

Arthur’s face was hot. He still didn’t believe that. “If that was true, then Hastur would share that taste. He’d have come on to me.”

John snorted. I promise you there’s absolutely at least one timeline where he has.

Arthur stumbled.

John pushed on. I’m going to wear you down.

“Lovely,” Arthur muttered. “Positively charming.”

I mean convincing you that I mean it, ass, John huffed at him. Is it so difficult to believe that I do?

It was Arthur’s turn to huff. “I’m trying to say you don’t have to keep pretending for the sake of this stupid—” And suddenly, he was grabbed.

What the fuck? John snarled.

Dancers, out of nowhere, whisked them off their feet.

Arthur struggled uselessly. “Hey!”

Forgiveness, your grace, came from a thousand directions at once. You are late.

John did not have spines, but if he had, they’d all be raised. What?

“For what?” Arthur cried.

And it just figured they wouldn’t answer.

Need fucking Sunny to translate, muttered John, who’d observed that they seemed to like Sunny a lot, and had not analyzed why.

Arthur was not taken to his room, but to a huge, tiled, steamy place he’d never been before. The echoes tipped him off.

John gasped.

“What?” said Arthur. “Where are we?”

A very sacred room, said John in a low voice. This is a place of anointing. Consecration.

Arthur felt a spike of panic. “Of what? This is what? Am I going to be sacrificed, or something?” His struggle seemed to be some sort of signal. The Dancers pulled his clothing off so quickly they must have sliced it. “The fuck!” he yelled, and was dropped into hot water.

Arthur, calm down! John said, voice clear as anything even as Arthur’s ears filled. This is a big deal! Calm down! Nobody’s hurting you.

Arthur sputtered, found his feet, and stood, dripping scented water. “What the hell is going on?”

Normally, he’d be in here, John muttered to himself. But he’s not. Which means… He gasped again.

“John,” Arthur said evenly. “Explain this right now, or I swear, you have not seen how not-calm I can be.”

He’s leaving it to me. John’s voice was thick. He left this honor to me.

It was John’s tone that caught him. Arthur went silent.

I’m going to bathe you, Arthur.

Why did it sound… different? “Like you do every day?”

No. Not like I do every day. Not here. Take two steps forward; a Dancer waits with a tray that carries folded cloths. Stand still now, and let me take them in order.

Arthur stepped forward as bid. “In order?”

This is sacred, Arthur. It’s symbolic, not just literal. So much softer: And he gave this to me.

“This… what does this mean, John?” said Arthur, matching the soft tone.

It’s what you were robbed of before.

“Before? John?” Arthur swallowed.

John had begun to use the cloth, but not like ordinary bathing. Gently, he traced Arthu’s face, his closed, gently fluttering eyelids, his ears, his lips. Gently, John traced his jaw, and slowed over the pulse in his throat. This first is symbolic because it represents the removal of your past.

“Excuse me?” said Arthur.

Not literally, you twit. John’s hand was gentle in spite of his tone. It means you’re turning a corner. Starting a whole new life as…

“As?” Arthur squirmed a little.

John didn’t stop; this was a thorough, slow clean. As my own.

The way John said that…

Arthur shuddered, inhaling unevenly. He had no words; everything clogged up in his throat. John had said similar things before, hadn’t he? A million times, with memory or not, he had.

Hadn’t he?

Not like that. Arthur knew in his bones it had never been like that.

The cloth disappeared, replaced by, apparently the second one; it was slightly rougher, and its scent was strong—a little pine, a little mint, a little something else Arthur couldn’t identify. This one represents beauty that my mark, my association, my connection, covers you in.

“John, that’s… that’s silly,” Arthur said softly, but he couldn’t mean it. This felt sacred. Felt… strange, like some kind of massive light was shining on him and through him, and in that naked place, he was not alone: John was there, too.

It means I will care for you. It means I will provide for you, including—

That swipe was rough, across Arthur’s right nipple. He jumped..

—discipline.

“Oh, fuck that,” said Arthur.

John chuckled.

Arthur flicked his left arm. “Dumbass.”

Because you’re my own, John pressed ahead, clearly amused with himself. The second cloth disappeared, and the third one was… soft.

Arthur had never felt anything so soft in his life. It barely had a scent; this was about sensation, and just the brush of it on his face felt like floating in a dream, felt like every nerve he had was brand-new, felt like that naked, light-revealed place inside him was being so gently caressed.

This one… this is the promise that though I am powerful, and though I could crush you… I never will. John’s voice was tight.

So was Arthur’s. “This was supposed to happen last time?”

It’s supposed to happen. Yes. I would’ve… I couldn’t handle him… doing this to you.

“Well. He didn’t.” Arthur swallowed, but the lump stayed in his throat. “Looks like it’s all you.”

It’s me, said John with no venom at all.

Arthur closed his eyes as the third cloth whispered over his skin, so soft it almost tickled, so soothing that his thoughts fell into silence. He forgot about potential staring Dancers; he forgot about the reason for this whole thing. He breathed. The water nearly reached his chin, and he floated, physically and metaphysically, in John’s care.

Buzzing. Pleasing. Warm. Limp except for certain hidden straining—

Fuck! said John a thousand years later.

Arthur startled conscious as he’d been dunked into cold water. “Wha?” he said, bleary.

Don’t you get any fucking ideas, said John.

“Have you enjoyed yourselves?” said Hastur.

Arthur scowled. “I thought this was John’s time!”

“It is, and it was. It is time, now, for the next step.”

Arthur, he… he’s hovering there, flanked by Dancers. I don’t know what he’s doing. You can’t be marked again.

Arthur paled. “You’re not trying, are you?”

“No.” This was as gentle as Hastur’s voice ever got (which wasn’t very), as if this place truly was sacred. “It is time for you to receive the honor that should have been yours.”

Arthur’s face went long. “The fuck are you talking about?”

You mean…

“I do.”

“What?” snapped Arthur. “You know, I was enjoying this until you walked in.”

Hastur rumbled. “It is time.”

“If someone doesn’t tell me what the fucking hell is going on, I am jumping out the window,” Arthur declared.

Hastur lifted him out of the water.

Arthur yipped—then found himself dry and wearing something just as soft as that third cloth had been. He felt it: a shirt, closed by crossing at the waist and held by some kind of belt; and a long, open skirt of some kind. He gasped. “This is that outfit.”

“As it should have been.” Hastur put him down. “Are you ready?”

“No! I don’t know what… no!”

Please.

Arthur froze. “You… you want to do whatever nonsense this is?”

It’s the honor you’re fucking due.

“I’m… I’m not…”

Please.

Arthur’s face twisted. “I can’t say no now!”

They were both silent.

Arthur sighed. “What do you need me to do?”

“Stand in silence. Receive new words. Accept the praise of my people.”

Arthur opened his mouth to reiterate this was entirely unnecessary, and then remembered—

Remembered the way John said my own, the way that touch had felt, the way he’d responded—

Because he had, under the water. He’d been completely relaxed, except for one specific part that stood very much at attention.

The problem had gone away at once with Hastur’s entrance. Arthur didn’t think either of them saw. There’d be no end of the nonsense, if they had. No: there was no reason to feed this manipulation John had constructed to feel in control.

Still. It had not been a normal experience. Maybe it was important to do this. “If I miss a cue because you two didn’t warn me, I swear…”

“Thank you,” said Hastur, who sounded relieved.

Yes, Arthur!

“I guess let’s go,” Arthur said, abruptly feeling shy for reasons he did not understand.

Arthur could hear the crowd. It was a pre-concert susurrus, the quiet hum of conversation from many, many people trying not to stand out.

It also echoed in a way he knew: this was a big room, not the small classroom John had described for him before.

We are in the Cathedral, John whispered.

Arthur gripped his left hand. “The what?”

It’s a cavern of black, shiny stone. The light comes from stalactites and stalagmites painted and glowing, sending flickers dancing across the ebony polish. It is very large, and beautiful. The central altar sits in a pool of swirling gold, like starlight captured and made liquid. Arthur, it’s packed. Every seat is taken. Everyone is looking at us.

Arthur shivered.

I’ve got you.

Arthur nodded.

Hastur finally put them down. Arthur felt the stone under his feet, polished smooth and surprisingly warm.

“Welcome, oh you whose opinions I value,” said the King in Yellow, Lord of Carcosa, and his voice silenced all others.

Here we go, John murmured.

“I’m sure this seems puzzling,” said Hastur, pacing behind Arthur, looming. “After all, this is a place of marking, is it not? Of grandeur, and excellence, and celebration… and yet the mortal who stands before me today has already been marked.”

And Arthur wondered for the first time if marking would have felt… different… if Hastur hadn’t hated him going in. His gut said that was truth.

“It’s come to my attention that there is confusion as to where this one stands,” said Hastur, and rested one enormous hand on Arthur’s side, covering his right arm.

Arthur let him.

“Understandable. At the time of his marking, we were not… at peace, he and I,” said Hastur smoothly, a world of communication in his words.

John snorted.

The audience shifted, a few small murmurs rising and falling like waves.

“This human being—flawed, frail, yet favored—is my court composer. His name, which I choose to use, is Arthur Lester.”

Dead silence. Maybe they all thought Hastur was going to claim Arthur was Faroe’s mother, or something. Arthur had no idea.

“He belongs to me,” said Hastur, shifting around to his other side. “I have chosen him; he has earned that place above and beyond all requirements, including when I thought… less of him than I now do.”

Arthur swore everything in the room was holding its breath.

His left hand gave his right a squeeze. That helped.

“He is more than my musician. While he blesses my court with music famed throughout the Dreamlands, making my jubilees beautiful, making my Rites ecstatic, that is not why we are here.”

He’s going to do it, John whispered so quietly.

Do what?

“I considered many ways to address the… confusion of our early relationship,” said Hastur, which was as close to publicly admitting a fuck-up as Arthur could imagine him saying. “Speeches. Grand gifts. Parading him, perhaps, on the back of a winged camel, so all could watch his reddening face.” He chuckled. So did his guests.

Arthur’s face sure did redden.

Fucker, John muttered, but not angrily (the traitor).

“But none of that was what was needed here. In the beginning, I only spoke to you of flaws; I kept you from seeing those things which made him worth keeping… and that, I will no longer do.”

Arthur jumped as Hastur turned him so they faced one another. He was shuddering.

“Instead,” said Hastur,” I will make it clear, here and now, how he is appreciated. You shall take this with you today; keep it in your hearts, write it in your stories, play at children’s versions in your own time. But for now… you will listen.”

No one made a sound.

Then Hastur did. He began to sing.

John could sing, yes, absolutely, but he didn’t do it often; this was… this was a voice honed over thousands of years, maybe singing literally among the stars, maybe singing to create or destroy or remake at will. This was a voice that buzzed through Arthur’s bones, and made his eyes water, and felt so good that he couldn’t even fall over in the wake of this sound (though falling over felt like not a bad idea—this was tugging on his soul, somehow).

Arthur closed his eyes and rode it as if caught in undertow.

He had no clue what words Hastur sang. They echoed in the Cathedral, bouncing, feeding on themselves to create a chorus; it strummed through him like he’d been made into a guitar string, burned in him like he was a wick set alight.

And after a moment, he realized John was singing, too. Slightly less… big. Less practiced. Less sure. But he was, in perfect harmony, and for some weird reason, when John sang, Arthur could feel the meaning of those words.

Sort of.

Worthy

Chosen

Sorry

Was that one real, or imagined? Probably the latter. There was absolutely no way Hastur would sing an apology in front of so many people.

Would he?

John’s hand clasped his, fingers threaded, and Arthur squeezed as if that were the lifeline keeping him from being swept out to sea.

Elevated

Honored

Mine

Okay, that one was loud and clear, and at this point, Arthur was seeing colors behind his eyes—gold, of course—flashing, mesmeric. It wasn’t marking again, no, but both of them were doing something to their marks, like they had fists in his heart, and it did not hurt, and it was almost too much, and it balanced in perfect torturous tremendous joy.

Arthur cried out. He… sang out?

Sang something, with them, though what he sang was lost to him even as it left his mouth. It felt like release, like the abrupt liquid melt of tension while making love, like the gasping delight of surfacing from deep water into cold and bracing air.

His knees gave out at some point; he didn’t quite remember when, but maybe it didn’t matter, because Hastur caught him.

It was quiet? How long had it been quiet? The last harmonious echoes faded away, and Arthur drifted, blissful, relaxed.

Not… quite as relaxed as in that pool earlier, fortunately. This robe would definitely not hide it if he—

“Do we all understand?” said Hastur, low and smoky.

Someone started clapping.

It caught on, spreading, rising like crackling flame, and Arthur let it wash over him like summer breeze in a field, limp and safe and not hurting.

“Dismissed,” said Hastur, simply. “Follow my Dancers.”

There… feast, John managed.

Feast?

Oh. Some. Party, or something. Maybe. “Oh,” said Arthur, and could not bring himself to care.

“The post-marking ceremony rarely includes the celebrant,” said Hastur softly, stroking Arthur’s hair. “Do you wish to skip it?”

“Sure?” said Arthur, not really clear on what they were talking about.

“Faroe will be there.”

Button pressed. “What? I’ll go. What? Where?” Arthur struggled to sit up.

Fucker.

“Yes, yes.”

You knew that would—

“I want to cement what happened here,” said Hastur. “Seeing him there, part of my family, will help.”

Fine, John complained.

“Besides,” said Hastur mildly, flying just quickly enough that Arthur’s loose clothes ruffled. “It’s not like you had any plans for after.”

John fell stubbornly silent.

Plans for after? What after? What could even come after something like that?

Well. Arthur had a few ideas, but there was no one to do that with here. Not really. Not someone who genuinely wanted to. If John—

(That memory, again, of tentacles creeping up his legs in the Wood)

If John actually wanted—

(The thought, traitorous, of John with a body like Hastur’s)

John didn’t want him. John wanted to feel some semblance of control in this body. It made sense; Arthur forgave him. But Arthur had no desire to feed that. To feed that Hasturian instinct to use.

Besides, his desires were like morning glories: they’d bloom briefly, then fade right away again before morning tea. They didn’t matter. “We can… what do I have to do?” said Arthur, struggling again.

Hastur helped him sit up, but didn’t put him down. “Enjoy your food and your daughter and relax.”

“Oh.” He could do that.

John was still quiet.

“Are you all right?” Arthur murmured.

Better than you have any idea, said John, but he was… distracted.

“Was this not what you wanted?” said Arthur quietly.

A pause. Arthur, said John, evenly. You have absolutely no clue, do you?

That did not clarify. “No?”

John sighed. It was better than I hoped. Everything I ever wanted.

“Without the stabbing and vomiting?” said Arthur, wry.

With you. John sighed again. Just… distracted by his stupid comment. Ignore it. I’m on cloud nine.

So was Arthur.

He felt sunlight on his face as they exited, and the breeze with Carcosa’s famous Tremolo trees in full bloom, and—

“Arthur! Dad!”

—Faroe, who made the whole day worth it, no matter what kind of day it was. “Here!” Arthur cried as Hastur put him down.

She hit him full-on, just big enough to damn near knock him off his feet. “That was amazing! That was beautiful!”

Arthur reddened. “You… saw?”

“I’ve never heard you sing like that.” She hugged him so tightly, pressing into his chest.

He stroked her hair. How had she gotten so big? It felt like it happened overnight. “He said there’s a feast.”

“There is! Come on, come on. You shall be seated beside me,” she added, imperious, and then giggled, distinctly not.

Arthur followed, dragged to what was undoubtedly a horrifyingly revealed place at the head of a table, but because he couldn’t see it, he could focus on Faroe, and on Odd (who’d apparently seen it too, and was very quiet for the first few minutes), and on Parker (though Sunny was quiet, but he had been for a while), and on Hastur, who seemed to be more than a little buzzed, and on John, who was—in spite of seeming lucidity—absolutely smashed.

Before long, Arthur got them singing bawdy sings he’d learned in the England of his youth, and forgot all about the crowd, and the spotlight, and relaxed into his strange, found family’s joy so thoroughly he forgot he was even scarred.

------------

Notes:

Odd’s song inspired by the immaculate Danny Kaye

#surrogate fic #surrogate series #surrogate malevolent #arthur lester #john doe #john malevolent #hastur malevolent #king in yellow #malevolent #malevolent fic #malevolent au

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rcreveal · 18 days ago

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The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch 4

Ineffable Husband banter as Crowley applies for a job, Aziraphale does a good deed, and Crowley has to find bathing privileges as the extent of his loss of powers (thanks to the new Hellish manager) continues to be revealed.

“You want to hire me!”

The barkeep and owner of the Dirty Donkey looked around the ‘Help Wanted’ sign held in his face by a fist.

The fist and ropey arm were attached to a young bloke with a mop of unkempt red hair to his chin, but nevertheless, glaring at Dave through dark sunglasses with a determined expression under a two day beard. God Almighty, the lad was wearing a great kilt like he was born to it topped with a black leather waistcoat over a black undershirt.

“Why on earth would I want to hire you?” retorted Dave to the kilted apparition.

Which seemed to knock the bloke back, he dropped his head and arm, momentarily despondent.

Dave heard the lad mutter, “Alright, we do this the old fashioned way,” then to Dave with a winning grin, “How about a wager? I manage this horde,” the lad stuck his thumb over his shoulder at a crowd of impending customers, ”And you hire me as your new barkeep?” The cheeky bastard held out his hand.

Dave glanced at the crowd and the hand.

“If you can sort out this lot, you’ve got a deal,” said Dave, shaking the demon’s hand.

While Crowley was engaged over at the Dirty Donkey, Aziraphale closed up his shop for a stroll. He generally strolled at unplannable intervals, all part of his long term success in not selling books to the public, but this stroll had a specific goal in mind. Backtracking Crowley’s most recent walk to his shop, Aziraphale soon found the Bentley, parked in the neighborhood, but uncharacteristically bedecked with parking tickets.

Tutting gently from across the street, the angel looked at the sheaf of tickets under the windshield wiper. A tow truck was just turning down the street with the vintage car in its sights, (the tow truck driver, after running the Bentley’s plates, had found that it wasn’t exactly registered, so he reasoned that it wouldn’t exactly be stealing if he were to tow it away and sell it to the highest bidder of his extensive underground network). Aziraphale made a little shooing motion at the tow truck before walking across the street and letting himself into the car whereupon the tow truck driver suddenly remembered that the Bentley was very definitely registered and to a feisty gentleman. He drove on, thinking it would be a good idea to let others in his circle know to leave this car alone. Raising an eyebrow at the departing tow truck, the angel reached around to gesture at the tickets, evaporating them.

Patting the dash gently, he told the car, “You are under my protection. I don’t know what Crowley would do if you came to any harm!” The Bentley’s engine made a purring noise, and one travel sweet popped into existence. “You’re very welcome. Now, don’t tell him I was here!” With that good deed done, Aziraphale let himself out of the Bentley and continued his stroll in the neighborhood.

Dave had to hand it to the rough Scottish stranger, he knew his way around a bar. The red-haired hellion charmed the old biddies from the Agatha Christie reading group, reminisced with the old gaffers back from their venerable association meetings and trash talked with the blue collar workers coming off their shifts. Completely ignored the come-ons of the co-eds, serving them with an impenetrable professional calm, while timing his round of clearing up the empties with somehow deflecting a couple of toughs that came in to bother the young ladies. He made every drink flawlessly and never once missed an order. All while he made perfect change, mixed drinks and engaged with the public. The lad was an answered prayer.

After the crush of people had filtered out and even the patron set on getting himself messily drunk had been sent on his way, Dave walked up to the kilted red-head with a look of grudging respect on his face.

“Alright then, you won the bet fair and square. You’re hired.” Dave extended a hand to the grinning youngster to shake. “What’s yer name, lad?”

“Anthony. Anthony Crowley,” said the young bloke with the unfinished look of one who hasn’t quite filled out into his shoulders, yet.

“So, Anthony, rules are, you work your whole shift. You don’t go home with the customers. No drinking on the job. And I’ll fire you the second I see you do something out of line. Come back this evening. And take a bath, lad! You reek! The only thing dirty about my pub is the talk!” Dave said.

Combing his hair out of his face with his fingers and scrubbing one cheek with his palm, Anthony admitted, “I’m fair skint at the moment, so I’d appreciate a forward on my wages.”

Dave reached over to the tip jar, handed it to Anthony, “You earned this today. Be back here at 5 o'clock.”

Crowley poured the contents of the tip jar into his spog, and waved jauntily at Dave as he headed out the door.

When Crowley arrived back in A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop, he found Aziraphale at his large desk reading a newspaper with a cup of tea at his elbow.

“I thought you were fixing my clothes!” complained Crowley.

Looking over the top of his paper, Aziraphale remarked calmly, “The cleaning agents have to have the proper amount of time to work. Did you have any luck with that job?”

Grumbling at the indignity of it all, Crowley replied, “Yes. As a matter of fact I start tonight, but I need a shower.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, eyes back on the newsprint, “Then go back to your place and bathe.”

“They turned the water off at my place,” admitted Crowley.

Aziraphale let the paper fall to his lap.

“And the electricity. Actually, I had to pick the lock to get in the last time.”

“Crowley!”

“So it wouldn’t work for me to walk back there, anyway.”

“Walk! I thought you drove over here.”

“Used my last miracles to drive the Bentley over. Haven’t been issued any new one’s yet,” replied Crowley.

“You could always use petrol,” Aziraphale said reasonably.

“Put petrol in the Bentley?!?” Crowley said shocked, “Do you have any idea what that would do to her engine?”

“It might make her turn over,” suggested Aziraphale.

“I am not putting petrol in the Bentley and I can’t use my place to shower, anyway, so,” digging around in his spog to a rustle of specie and clink of coinage, Crowley came up with a tuppence which he held up to the angel. “So I have payment for the use of your facilities.”

Aziraphale folded his paper and crossed his arms.

“My bathing facilities are certainly worth more than a tuppence public bath, Crowley!”

“How about as much as a Turkish bath? I’ve got a shilling in here somewhere,” Crowley replied, still digging.

“If you think that I don’t know how much a bath costs at the YMCA, in today’s money, then you had better think again! You obviously don’t, but I’ll let you walk yourself down there to find out!”

Crowley recognized that the angel was getting quite perturbed, and as he was Crowley’s best bet to get a bath, he didn’t know why his natural tendency to antagonize the angel was so present today.

“Ok, ok, sorry, sorry! What do you think is a fair price to use your magnificent bathing facilities?” Crowley oiled.

Aziraphale gave him the look of one who is not to be gotten round that easily.

Then they got down to haggling.

Unfortunately, for Crowley that is, Aziraphale had kept premises for a very long time and not only had a better idea of VAT than the demon, but had paid his bills (on time, of course) as well. Not only could he calculate the gallons per minute to his bath and cost to heat said bathwater, he could haggle like a Victorian Cockney housewife.

Aziraphale was saying, “That's the absolute best deal in the neighborhood for a week of bathing privileges,” hand out as Crowley counted pound coins into it, ”Now, if you're in need of housing, I've a spare bedroom and I can offer you a reasonable rate of…”

But Crowley snatched the towel out of Aziraphale’s hand and headed to the bath, saying over his shoulder, “I'll kip in my car before I pay you room and board, angel!”

Taking the view that he could clean his underthings and himself most efficiently with the undergarments on, Crowley lathered up from toes to nose and sluiced off with as much efficiency as possible. Clean and steaming mad, (he could still regulate his body temperature, so he figured he could dry his clothes that way) he stomped back down the stairs toweling his hair.

“Why do you even have a bed? I thought you said sleeping was inefficient?” Crowley complained to the angel.

“People don't bat an eye at a bookseller who reads books in bed, but they do get curious if I stay up all night in the shop too often,” answered the angel, not to be goaded. ��Feeling better?”

“No! I am not feeling better! I'm feeling humiliated having to get a job to be able to do my job!”

“Were you able to think of all the things you’d need to do that ‘job’?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“Yeah,” growled Crowley.

“Well then, write it all down and requisition it. I find that several requests a day can really get your point across. Do you need any paper?” The angel reached for a spare ledger.“No! Forms are the only thing I have got in abundance!” unable to bear the angel’s smug looks any longer, Crowley stormed out the door in a flash of dark tartan.

Thanks for reading! Your kudos and comments make my day!

If you would like to read more, check out my Master List for one-shots and other multi-chapter Good Omens fanfic

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assortedvillainvault · 2 years ago

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Hmm... 29 x Reader with Warp Darkmatter? If you don't write him, then 25 x Reader with Hades!

"Don't bleed on my carpet"

I can just picture him saying this while shooing minions out the door XD Sorry I don't write for Warp, can't nail down his character and haven't watched blosc (at least the parts without NOS4A2) or the movie in donkeys years. Hades I can do tho!

Hades x Reader

Well SOMEONE is reaping the consequences of this dumbass decision.

You're an indentured servant, like Meg, but you actually like it here most of the time so your sass meter is way lower. Usually.

You stand - albeit not steadily - in the rec room Hades keeps for his staff in one wing of the palace as one leg steadily drips blood all over the Fates' latest knitting project (it's twenty feet long and made of human hair. They were bored)

You can hear Hades literally roasting the imps upstairs for failing their mission. He's going to be in foul mood if you're not in there soon to report success on yours, but you really can't fathom the stairs to get there right now and wow, ok , has it always been this cold in the underworld? Your shawl isn't doing much-

Hades teleports innto the rec with his back to you and a bottle of fabric cleaner clenched in one hand. Oooh his flame is still orange. Shit. You wince as the wound on your leg gushes a little and the blood stars pooling onto the floor under the human-hair-rug-monstrosity.

"Oy, babe, mind telling me why the Fates tossed this at me and said you wouldn't be coming upstairs to our little debriefing?" Yep. He's still mad. "I mean, geez it's not like it's your first day on the job y'kn-" he turned around just as you managed to plant a bloody footprint to the side and, huh, you've never seen his flame do That before, funky.

"Hi." you weakly wave. "Uh, mission was a success I guess? Didn't know political parties could get so stabby." Silence. His eyes are glued to the pool of blood under your feet. You chuckle and weakly snap a couple of finger guns at your horrified employer/boyfriend. "Guess they really wanted to make a point, eh?"

You don't get much further before your knees buckle and Hades rushes forward in a blur of smoke and panicked embers.

Your memories become foggy after that, but you do remember Pain getting beaned in the head by the fabric cleaner bottle as Hades roars at them for...something.

You come to clean, bandaged and burrito'd in Hades himation. An excellent outcome, all things considered. The cloak absoluelty dwarfs you, but it's warm and soft and...still wrapped around the god himself. You're in his lap.

You snuggle down harder. Hades sighs and pushes his eternal paperwork away to glance down at you.

"No more almost-dying on duty, ok? Geez."

You would respond, but a wonderful side effect of Hades' smoke is that he can form as many hands as he likes with it and there's at least three petting you right now. You yawn instead.

If almost-dying gets you this, you might get stabbed more often. As a treat.

One of the smoke hands flicks you in the forehead. You...you said that last part out loud didn't you.

"NO. Just, just ask or something for crying out loud! By ME, dating a freaking masoschist here..."

#thalassa responds #hades x reader #disney villains #x reader #so it's more like don't bleed on the Fates carpet #but at least you can say they definietly saw it coming #badum-tsss #anyway have some bad puns and panicked god comfort

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faehistorian · 1 year ago

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Some random thoughts I had about Malleus being born from a freaking egg of all things.

Does this count as n/sfw? I have no idea, I don’t think so, but I will still keep my insane ramblings behind the cut just in case.

You know, when the concept of Mal being born from an egg I assumed that he was born from two dragon fae parents. You know, he implied he can turn into a freaking dragon, Maleficent style, so I assumed his parents laid the infamous egg while being in dragon form. It makes sense, it saves me from having to think about the monster bit that the fandom is so fond of. I refuse to entertain the idea that Mallenoa/Mallenoire laid an egg.

But then we are hit with the concept that Levan is a freaking raven fae (please correct me if I’m wrong, my Japanese is very basic and I haven’t read any of the more reliable translations), so that begs the question, How the hell did they get the egg? Was it some kind of Shrek’s Donkey and Dragon shenanigans? Then I’m hit with the “Crowley is Mal’s deadbeat dad” HC, and hey, birdman is pathetic and weird enough to manage to pull that one. I don’t even want to think about that one.

Or is it some kind of “love is the greatest magic” kind of schtick? Like, Mama D and Papa D love eachother so much and love decides to grant them an egg that materializes in thin air? Like, boom, you are in love, have a surprise egg that you have to keep alive for 2-3 years like those highschool projects you had to tote around an egg to teach you about the responsibility of child rearing? Do they have to pray for a kid like in Thumbelina? You know, that you wish so much for a child and that if you pray enough fae magic will make a child materialize inside a flower, but here instead of a flower you get a magical egg you have to feed love and magic?

#malleus draconia #twst #twisted wonderland #twst spoilers #i'm sorry i swear I want to be serious and respect the angst but this is just too funny for me

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encantowishes · 2 years ago

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Hello! I've been away for a while, but I didn't forget about Encanto Big Bang! Edit: Find the rest of @hectic-hector's illustrations of the pivotal bucket scene here.

Bruno reluctantly lifted the bucket from his head, peering at the activity around him. "You sure about this?" he asked Félix.

His cuñado clapped him on the shoulder, oblivious to the little stagger that followed. "Look at them. Everybody's focused on their own jobs. Nobody's going to pay you any mind."

Bruno fidgeted with the bucket, unsure.

Félix’s eyes fell on the turning bucket. "Okay, two things, amigo. One, you simply can't walk around safely with that thing on your head. Two, you'll draw less attention without it."

Bruno sighed. He couldn't argue with that. "I could take it with me, though. For … luck."

"Of course."

Bruno tossed some salt over his shoulder, slipped the bucket handle over his wrist, and grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow. Drawing a deep breath, he muttered "I can do this" a few times as he moved forward.

The wheelbarrow contained rubble and unsalvageable belongings that had been plucked from the wreckage of Casita. It needed to be moved from the back of the grounds to the front, where a donkey-drawn cart was waiting to carry it away. An easy enough task, even for a middle-aged man who'd spent the last decade laboring mainly to prevent his own discovery. Bruno felt it was time he pitched in, since everybody else was working so hard, and he'd spent the last couple days hiding behind the remains of a wall. (Though he had mixed the spackle.)

The problem lay in the fact that he had to run a gauntlet of other people to bring the wheelbarrow to its destination. People who had blamed their misfortunes on his prophecies. People who had jeered at him and called him "brujo," as though he'd never heard that pun before. People who had thrown guava churros at him, staining his favorite ruana, and wasting perfectly good churros.

Don’t draw attention to yourself. Just act normal. Or as normal as possible. That’s why it’s called “acting.”

“Omigosh it’s him!”

“The guy from the mural?!”

“Isn’t he supposed to be seven feet tall? My abuela’s taller than him.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t look scary. Just tired.”

Bruno tried to focus on the wheelbarrow and ignore the chatter of little voices behind him, until they turned into a trio of little faces in front of him.

“You’re him, right?” asked a little girl with a long black braid and a broad smile.

“‘Him’ who?”

“THE MYSTERIOUS MISSING MADRIGAL!” shouted a little boy who was plainly over-caffeinated.

Bruno lowered the wheelbarrow and folded his arms. Only it took him two tries, because he’d forgotten about the bucket still hanging from his wrist. But once he’d managed it, he imagined he looked at least a little intimidating. “Who’s asking?”

“Us!” the kids chorused.

“Tío Bruno, there you are,” Mirabel said as she sidled up to him. “Good to see you out in the open! I’m supposed to let you know, we’re having lunch with the Guzmáns.”

“Oh, thanks.” Maybe Mirabel could take these kids off --

“Mm-hmm. Gotta run, Isa’s waiting for me.” She waved to the kids and hurried off.

Bruno looked back at the children, who had encroached even closer. And … were there more of them now? Yeah, a boy with wavy hair, and a girl in a straw hat.

Black-Braid Girl pointed at him. “You are the missing Madrigal!” She grinned as though this revelation was the greatest discovery of her life.

“Aren’t you supposed to have green eyes?” asked Hat Girl.

“They are green,” Bruno said, a little too defensively. “Or hazel. Depends on the light.” This was … very weird. Ten years ago, kids this age would have hidden from him, not ganged up to interrogate him. Of course, ten years ago, this crop of kids hadn’t even been born yet.

“No, like spooky glowing green!” Coffee Boy insisted, lifting his hands to the sides of his face and wiggling his fingers with all the kindergarten menace he could muster.

“Do you really see people’s dreams?” piped up Wavy-Hair Boy.

“AND FEAST ON SCREAMS?” Coffee Boy wanted to know.

“No, and -- what? No! Where have you been getting your information?”

“Camilo,” all the kids said together.

Yep, leave it to Camilo to turn Bruno into the local cryptid.

“Look kids, I got work to do. We’ve got a whole house to build.”

“Aww.” They all gave him very sad expressions. Yeah, this just kept getting weirder. They were disappointed he was trying to get away from them?

“I’m not gonna be able to get rid of you kids, am I?”

“Nope!” they chorused.

“Ay. Okay, how about this: If you” -- he pointed to Coffee Boy -- “go get me some coffee, and then everybody helps me with this wheelbarrow, I’ll tell you a story.”

At this, the kids jumped around like popcorn kernels in a hot pan.

Okay, weirder still, but … kind of sweet?

By the time the wheelbarrow was empty, the group had grown by two more boys, one wearing a poncho, and the other a vueltiao hat.

“All right, back we go for more debris.”

“But the story!”

“I can walk and tell a story at the same time. Can you walk and listen?”

Turned out they could. Bruno and his seven small followers passed Pepa, who stared before breaking out into laughter. “Mamá gallina!”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Where were we? Oh, right. So then Jorge says to Hernando: ‘Señor, I hope you weren’t planning on wearing that for dinner.’”

Together, they filled the wheelbarrow with another load.

“Aren’t you going to put anything in your bucket?” asked Two-Braid Girl. Cecilia. Her name was Cecilia. Black-Braid Girl was Alejandra, and Coffee Boy was Juancho. That was probably as many new names as Bruno was going to remember at the moment.

Bruno looked at the bucket, again hanging from his wrist. “Nah.”

“What’s it for, then?” Cof-- Juancho demanded.

“Personal fulfillment.” The sarcasm might be lost on the kids, but it amused Bruno.

“So you’re just going to leave it empty?” asked Hat Girl.

Bruno stared at her for a long moment.

“The next morning, Hernando was awakened by a terrible thunderstorm,” he went on.

As they walked, Bruno got so into his story that he started gesturing, and the kids teamed up to push the wheelbarrow so they could continue walking. He didn’t notice the woman he nearly ran into as they rounded the scaffolding.

It was Mercedes Ozma.

“Bruno Madrigal. I thought you were dead.”

He leaned forward a little, just far enough to rap on one of the wheelbarrow’s wooden handles. “... Yeah, I’ve been getting that a lot.”

“There’s something I need to say to you.”

Bruno took a deep breath. “Look, if it’s about your fish, I’m sorry --”

“It is about the fish! My abuelo raised award-winning goldfish. World-renowned!”

“World-renowned?”

“They were so important to him, that when their village was attacked, he collected as many as he could before my family fled. Only one survived the journey. And when my abuelo passed, the keeping of that fish fell to me. Did you know goldfish can live about thirty years? Mine only made it to nine. And when it died, I felt like I had let my family down.”

“Oh,” was all Bruno could say, though Mercedes’s story seemed oddly relatable.

“Anyway, that’s why I was so upset about it. But it wasn’t right for me to take it out on you, and I’m sorry.”

She held out her hand. Oh, right, he was supposed to shake it. He was still getting used to the whole “human contact” thing again. He accepted the hand, as briefly and as gingerly as seemed polite.

And then there was awkward silence.

“Um, well, glad we could put this behind us?” Bruno offered.

Mercedes nodded curtly. “Good to see you’re not dead.” She carried on hammering whatever it was she was putting together.

So now not only were children flocking to him, but villagers with decades-long grudges were apologizing? At least one, anyway. Maybe the bucket really was lucky.

“Where were we, kids?”

“The hot air balloons were full of pirates!” Alejandra supplied.

“And Jorge almost fell into the Nile River!” Juancho added.

They all continued to work in this manner as Bruno told his story until Julieta came around to collect her brother for lunch.

“Thank you for the story, Señor!” Cecilia called after him. “You’re a good storyteller!”

Julieta chuckled as they walked away. “Did you make some new friends?”

Bruno took a moment before answering. “I’ve spent my life living in a sentient house and seeing the future, but whatever just happened there was also pretty weird.”

“Was it? I seem to remember you telling our friends some pretty enthralling tales when we were kids.”

“Sure, but that was back when I had friends. Back before ‘little and quirky’ turned into ‘old and creepy.’”

Julieta took her brother’s arm as they continued to walk. “A lot of things have changed.”

He mulled this over. She was right. The valley was open to the outside world now. Casita was gone. All the family had been forced to stop hiding their problems, and to open their eyes to each other’s. Mamá was trying -- he could see she was really trying -- to be more open and less demanding. And his long absence, it seemed, had been enough time to change Bruno’s reputation from “menace to be at best tolerated” to “intriguingly odd old man kids willingly approach.” But how long would that last? Because --

“I haven’t changed.”

“You haven’t? Even after ten years in … in your circumstances?” Julieta must’ve been avoiding saying in the walls, just on the other side of my kitchen, where I’ve spent hour after hour thinking you were gone forever.

Or something like that. Bruno hadn’t missed the horror in his sisters’ eyes when they discovered just where he’d been all this time.

He almost said: “After a certain point, one day is pretty much like another.” But something told him that wouldn’t help. So he changed the subject. “Wonder what’s for lunch?”

Clean up and construction continued. Some days were better than others. There were times he needed to wear his bucket and rely on a relative to be the intermediary between himself and a villager. Other times he was able to take the lead in marking out the next section of work.

Being out in the sunshine wasn’t so bad. Working with his hands was meditative. Although sometimes he didn’t meditate so much as start dwelling on things that bothered him. When that happened, he’d find a relative to work alongside and talk to. He was less anxious about the whole “getting reacquainted” thing when it was one on one rather than at big family meals, anyway.

“I heard a bunch of people talking about what might be outside the mountains,” Camilo said, as he and Bruno tiled the new kitchen wall. “And that led to the old folks talking about what they remembered from before the Encanto. Tío Agustín’s parents said in Bogotá there was a kind of show called a cinema. Basically a theater, but instead of a stage, there’s a … big blank space? and the actors are all very big? but they’re not really there? and … well, I didn’t really understand. But I’d like to see one, someday. See what it’s like.”

“Your pá used to make flip books for you, right?”

“Yeah.” Félix wasn’t a great illustrator -- his artistic gifts were more musical -- but he’d doodled dozens of pictures of little guys getting into various stages of predicaments. Many of these were curious accidents, such as a man tripping over a cat and trying to grab a table to catch himself, only to pull off the tablecloth and all the dishes on his way down. Camilo suspected that these doodles were inspired by Agustín. But the point was, if you ran your thumb across the pages so that they quickly flipped past, the little guy looked like he was actually moving.

“Cinema is like flip books. Except instead of drawings, they have a special camera that takes a whole bunch of partly see-through pictures, faster than you can blink. Then they go into a machine that runs all the pictures in front of a light. The pictures wind up on the wall, or the screen or whatever. It’s kinda like shadow puppets -- they look bigger than they really are.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Visions.” Obviously.

“You had a vision about how cinema works?”

“Look, sometimes I see things in visions that are just incidental to what I’m looking for, but then I get curious about them and follow up. Y’know, at some point -- maybe it’s already happened out there -- everybody’s gonna have a box in their house with a window in it, and they’ll use it to see the same kind of shows they have in the cinema. They’ll even be able to see things happening at that very moment somewhere far away.”

“How does that work?”

“That one was a little too complex for me.”

Later, those kids from the other day found Bruno while he was painting a ceiling, and wanted to know more about Hernando and Jorge. He was getting used to kids asking him for stories.

“Are they friends of yours?” he asked Antonio once, since the kids were close to his age.

The boy had hesitated. “Not really. I mean, they’re nice. They always say ‘hi’ to me. But I just …” He turned his attention to the speckled rat in his hands, lightly stroking his forefinger between her ears.

“It’s okay, I understand. Believe me, I do. I was thinking about introducing them to the rats. Think that would go over well?”

“I think so. Can I help?” Kids his age might intimidate him, but a chance to help animals make friends apparently superseded that worry.

“Couldn’t do it without you, kid.”

“Show them Pecosita,” Antonio suggested, holding up the rat. “She’s the calmest.”

The rodent reveal went about as well as could be hoped. Two of the kids excused themselves when they heard what was coming. A third lost his nerve shortly after Pecosita emerged. But nobody screamed or cried. The kids who stayed loved Pecosita. They thanked Bruno for showing her to them.

That night, Bruno curled up on a sofa at the Guzmáns’ house. He and Alma were spending their nights there, while Agustín and Félix’s families had taken the rest of the Madrigals into their homes. It was pretty quiet compared to Casita. The only sound of note was Mariano’s snores from down the hall. Dolores must really like that guy, Bruno mused, if she was prepared to potentially put up with that.

Bruno couldn’t sleep, though his body demanded rest after the day’s toil. He stared at his bucket, sitting on the floor in front of him. Alternately the Luck Bucket, or the Bucket of Personal Fulfillment (empty). And he thought about what Julieta had said, about how so many things had changed. And about all the evidence he’d seen to support that.

“But sooner or later, it’s all gonna fall apart,” he muttered to the bucket. “I’m gonna mess up somehow. I always do. I’ll say the wrong thing, and then I’ll go back to being Bad Luck Bruno the Brujo. The creepy seer.”

Except, no. Because he wasn’t a seer anymore. Couldn’t do it even if he wanted to. He hadn’t felt so much as a tickle of his Gift since Casita collapsed. Now the only thing that made his eyes itch was pollen.

He hadn’t told anyone that he was relieved, though surely no one would have been surprised. Some of his family members were very upset about losing their Gifts. Others seemed to have mixed feelings. Even Pepa missed her weather, at least a little. No rain, no rainbows, after all.

Bruno sat up, since he wasn’t falling asleep, and grabbed the bucket. “Without my Gift, would I have a chance to be something else?” he asked it. “And if I’m not a seer, then what am I?”

Of course, there had always been one thing he’d wanted to do. And given the reception his stories and his rat had gotten among the kids, maybe it was possible.

His mind wandered to the sight of his little rat stage, destroyed in the collapse. Mirabel had warned him not to look, but he had looked. The various cutouts splintered. The stage itself in pieces. All that work, ruined.

“But I can rebuild!” he said, standing. “I will rebuild!” Balancing the bucket on the palm of one hand, he gestured with the other. “Bigger! Better! Brighter! Bolder! Not just for me, not just for the family. I’ll set it up in the plaza where everyone can see. We’ll call it … ‘The Triumphant Return of Madrigal’s Rat Theater!’ How does that sound?”

“Marvelous!”

“Thanks! I --” Wait. Buckets couldn’t talk.

Looking over his shoulder, Bruno saw Mariano smiling his perfect, pearly smile. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I only got up for some water.”

Bruno very much wanted to put the bucket over his head, but he refused to cause his niece any embarrassment by association. At least, no more than he could help. Slowly, he brought the bucket down to his belly and turned toward the taller man.

Mariano’s smile did not fade. “Dolores has told me about your rats, and the wonderful tricks they do. A rat theater sounds amazing! I’d love to see it for myself sometime.”

“Sure, of course. Premium seats. Just, ah, just don’t tell anybody you saw me talking to a bucket, okay?”

“Oh, was it not your prop? Like in Hamlet?”

“Yep. That’s exactly what it was. Like Hamlet, declaiming ‘to be or not to be.’ To a bucket.”

Mariano got his water and went back to his room. Bruno tried again to sleep, but his mind raced with possibilities. As soon as the new house was finished, he’d get to work on building a new rat theater. Maybe someone had a disused dollhouse he could remodel. His telenovela scripts had, sadly, been lost in the wreckage, but the basics of the storylines were still in his head. Besides, there were always new stories to explore.

He could get his sobrinos involved, too. Make it a family bonding experience. The older ones might not be interested, but the younger three for sure. Antonio would want to help train the rats. Mirabel would insist on making the costumes. Camilo … would probably try to stage a coup to wrest away creative control. Eh, there’d be something the kid could do. Special effects, maybe, or choreography.

Choreography? He was letting this idea run a little wild. The rats, though he tended to think of them as very special, were regular rats. There were limits to what they could learn from him. Maybe if Antonio still had his Gift, something like choreography would be possible, but -- ay, poor Antonio. One of the Madrigals who could honestly rejoice in his Gift, and he lost it after only one day.

Because Bruno’s sacrifice, and even Mirabel’s courage, had not been enough to save the magic. And maybe the family as a whole had a lesson to learn from that. But it was hardly fair to Antonio. Bruno saw how it hurt his sobrino, saw the boy watch sadly as birds flew by without stopping to chat, or stare distractedly into the forest. Bruno would take it all on again -- the burden, the pain, the societal rejection -- if it would reunite Antonio with his animal friends. But this was how it was always going to have played out. He’d seen that a decade ago. All he could do for Antonio now was share his affinity for rats.

Speaking of rats, a blunt-nosed little fellow called Chato emerged from the ruana hood, curious about why his human kept shifting around. Bruno cupped the rodent, and, stroking Chato’s spine with his thumb, finally settled down and began to drift off. If nothing else, he’d give Antonio lights and music and performing rats. Rats for all the kids. Rats for everyone. Buckets of rats.

He began jotting down ideas in a new notebook whenever he wasn’t helping with the new house. Including at mealtimes. He wouldn’t let anyone see what he was working on, not even Mirabel. He’d sworn Mariano to secrecy. He would keep it a surprise as long as he could. Finally, a secret he could keep from Dolores. Finally, a secret that was just for fun.

There were so many hands at work on the new house -- and plenty of those were skilled ones -- that it was not many more weeks before the new house was nearly complete. Bruno was not alone in planning a secret surprise -- all the family members save for one were in on another scheme.

Mirabel had worked so hard, organizing and supporting people, sorting out problems (including arguments) that cropped up -- and hefting her share of bricks, to be sure. Whether she saw it or not, she had all her abuela’s best qualities, and her mamá’s, too. One aspect of the work she had not been allowed to see was a little order that had been quietly placed with the metalsmith.

The moment came. Alma stood with Mirabel, evaluating the almost-complete new house. That was the signal. The rest of the family gathered around. Antonio presented Mirabel the shiny new doorknob, engraved with “M” for Madrigal -- and Mirabel. Then the boy very sweetly walked his cousin to the door, just as (Bruno had seen from his hiding place on the roof) she had done for him during his ceremony. The rest of the family gave her words of encouragement. She was close to tears, and so was Bruno.

Mirabel pushed the new doorknob into place, and a shimmering light streaked over the house. Suddenly it was no longer “the new house.” It was Casita, back to life. The miracle had remembered Mirabel at last.

The familiar moving tiles ushered everyone inside. There, Isabela found she could once again manifest plants of every kind, and Luisa could relocate even the largest of them with ease. Camilo showed off in his usual Camilo way, and Antonio joyously embraced his jaguar friend. Pepa danced under a scattering of hail. Julieta sighed in relief and headed for the kitchen.

Bruno felt that tickling, twitching, itching sensation behind his eyes again. He made a tiny sound of discomfort, and Dolores arrived at his side. “You okay, Tío?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I lived with it for forty-five years. Won’t take long to get used to it again.”

“The break was nice though, huh?”

He looked at her. “ You okay?”

She smiled in a way that wrinkled her nose. “Honestly, it was driving me a little bit nuts not knowing everything that was going on. Hm! Speaking of which, someone is talking about me right now.”

“Someone called Mariano?” Bruno teased.

She gave him another smile, a sly one, as she walked away.

Dolores was immediately replaced by Mirabel. “Tío, I -- well, I know you said --”

“Look at all this! Look how happy everyone is, look at Casita! This all happened because of you.”

“Oh …”

“I’m so proud of you, Mirabel.”

“As am I,” said Alma behind them.

Before Mirabel could respond, the tiles moved them again, grouping the whole family together for a photo, only to prank them at the last second by throwing everyone askew. That picture would become a favorite.

The party carried on. Even though Bruno had grown more or less accustomed to the villagers, he still wouldn’t call himself a mingler. He found a dimly-lit corner in which to watch people and share snacks with Chato and Pecosita. From time to time, a member of his family would notice he was there and come check on him, and he assured them he was fine. And he was fine. He was happy to see his hermanas and sobrinos enjoying their Gifts.

As for his own … Julieta was right. A lot of things had changed. Just because he could see the future again didn’t mean that it was the only thing he could be known for.

The storytime kids, as he’d come to think of them, found him. “Are you able to do the spooky glowing green eyes again?” Juancho wanted to know.

“If I have a vision, yeah. But I can’t really do one here.”

“If you have a what?”

“A vision. If I look into the future.”

“YOU CAN LOOK INTO THE FUTURE?!”

“... Yes? Did you think my Gift was just glowing green eyes?”

“Well, you said Camilo made up all that other stuff, so, yeah.”

Alejandra elbowed him. “Didn’t you listen to Mirabel? She said he could see the future. You can trust her.”

“Will you still tell us stories?” Cecilia asked. “Even though the house is finished?”

“Actually, I’ve been making plans abAAAUGH!””

A tall, sinister figure loomed in the dim light, wide grin and glowing green eyes prominent. “What’s this I hear?” the figure asked in a deranged voice. “Juancho doesn’t believe in my power?”

“Hi Camilo!” Cecilia said brightly.

Sighing, the caricature of Bruno shifted into Camilo. “You could at least pretend to be scared.”

“You’re both storytellers. The two of you should tell stories together!” Alejandra suggested.

“Well,” Bruno said slowly. “If Camilo wants in on the secret project I’m working on, we just might.”

Camilo raised an eyebrow. “Secret project, you say?”

A few days later, Bruno brought Mirabel and Antonio in on the idea as well.

“Tiny … little … tiny little adorable rat costumes?” Mirabel sputtered, her eyes shining with glee. Abruptly, she ran out of Bruno’s room.

Bruno blinked in confusion as he watched her go. “... And I was hoping you, Antonio, could help communicate to the rats the more complicated things we want them to do. Like if, say, Camilo came up with a dance for them.”

Antonio nodded. “I can do that.” He hopped into his brother’s lap. “We’re a team!”

“So what I’m hearing,” Camilo said to Bruno, while giving Antonio a tickle, “is that you want me to direct.”

“Eventually, maybe,” Bruno conceded. “You have several qualities that could be helpful. So I think for now, stage manager might be the best job for you.”

“Stage manager? I could direct and act, but I don’t think I could be a stage manager and act.”

“It’s rat theater. The rats do the acting.”

“Oh.” That was a clearly disappointed Oh.

“Although …” Bruno pondered. “What if we picked a classic tale. All the roles played by rats -- except! For one character, which will be played by a human. The audience will love it. The juxtaposition of man and beast.”

Camilo grinned. “Will I get to sing?”

“What? Oh, I don’t know if it’ll be you in the role. We’ll see how you do in the audition.”

Camilo clutched at his heart. “Oh, Tío! You wound me! How could you do this to your own flesh and blood?”

Antonio giggled.

“You’re definitely not getting the role like that. That was way over the top, even for comedy. C’mon, I haven't even chosen the story yet, let alone the character. You might not be right for the part.”

“Right for the part? I can look. Like literally. Anybody. ” He shifted into his abuela.

“But can you act like anybody?”

“I’ll have you know my very first role was Christ himself!” He shifted again, into a serene and holy figure. How’d he manage that nimbus?

“That was a nativity play. You didn’t have this ‘pass out the loaves and fishes’ look. You were still in your mamá’s belly, while she played the role of Maria.”

“It still counts!”

“You were part of a costume!”

Camilo fixed Bruno with what was apparently his best steely gaze. “I’ll get that role. Just you watch me, old man.”

“Hey, that was pretty good. You might have a chance.”

He brightened. “Really?”

“Don’t call me, kid. I’ll call you.”

Mirabel came back in, carrying a notebook and a small basket. She halted mid-step when she saw what was before her. “Why is Camilo Jesus?”

From Camilo’s lap, Antonio shrugged, toying with the bucket. “I don’t really know what’s going on.”

Mirabel sat down among them as Camilo reverted to himself. “I’m ready to take notes and measurements for costumes. Hmm, any ideas on how to make a rat-sized dress form?” Everyone looked blank. “Eh, never mind, I’ll figure something out.”

Patient Pecosita was recommended to serve as model. While Mirabel unfurled her tape measure, Bruno told the kids more of his thoughts. A remodeled dollhouse might suffice; otherwise, he had other ideas for how sets might be constructed.

“Ay, more building,” Camilo grumbled.

“Before I start making costumes,” Mirabel said, “I’m going to need to know … well, what costumes to make. What play are we doing?”

“That’s … a good question.”

“We should ask the rats what kind of play they want to do,” Antonio suggested.

“... I’m certainly open to hearing their opinions.” Rats had artistic preferences?

“Pecosita says Torbellino is a great acrobat, and Tesoro would make a wonderful star performer.”

Bruno nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Torpe wants to do his own stunts.”

“Absolutely not. That would be like asking Agustín to make friends with bees.”

Antonio’s eyes grew wide. “That’s a great idea! I’ll go talk to them.” He hurried from the room.

As the door closed, Mirabel and Camilo looked at each other and snickered. After a moment, Bruno cracked a smile, too. As eager as he was to make this vision -- er, idea -- a reality, the truth was there was no rush. Nothing to worry about.

Not yet, anyway.

That evening, Bruno was cornered by his three eldest sobrinas. “You weren’t going to leave us out, were you?” Isabela asked, her arms folded.

“Leave you out? Of what, my will? I don’t really have anything.”

“I heard everything, Tío,” Dolores said. “Your big plans?”

Oh. Mariano had been sworn to secrecy. Dolores had not.

“Well, I … well, I just didn’t think you guys would be interested.”

Luisa looked hurt.

“I mean, because you’re adults! And this is rat theater! Silly Tío Bruno’s silly little rat theater.”

“We know it’s silly,” Luisa said. Her eyes widened. “That is! I don’t think any of us expected it to be serious. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t still be a fun thing to do. As a family.”

“Besides,” Dolores said, “Isabela’s got an idea for an addition to the show that we don’t think you’re going to be able to pass up. Why don’t you show him?”

Isabela unfolded her arms and, with a deeply smug look, opened her hands.

“Those are potatoes,” Bruno pointed out.

Isabela began humming. It was an old song, a lullaby. Were the potatoes … were the potatoes moving? At first it was hard to tell, but yes. They rocked back and forth, eventually standing on end. Bruno saw now that what looked like irregularities were vestigial limbs. Each had an indentation that indicated a mouth. And yes -- the potatoes had eyes.

The two potatoes, too, began to sing, in a wordless babble, harmonizing with Isabela. Tottering on their tiny legs. Waving their little arms. Bruno stared at them, mouth agape.

Isabela reached the end of the song, and the potatoes turned and waved to each other.

“Now, I realize they might not look like much. But I’m working on some costumes for them. Something simple, since I know Mirabel will be making rat costumes for you. Hats and ponchos, I thought.”

“Might not … did you just … did you just say they might not look like much?”

“There’s a purple one, too, but,” Isabela shook her head, “it can’t carry a tune.”

“So?” Dolores prompted. “Are they in?”

“Are we in?” Luisa added.

The potatoes, they agreed, would perform the opening act. Bruno wasn’t sure anything he could come up with had any business following singing potatoes, but their performance was too brief to go second. Isabela busied herself training her potatoes and fashioning their clothes. Luisa joined the writing team. Dolores didn’t write much, but she gave excellent feedback, and proved so good at keeping up with everything that Camilo happily gave her his stage manager duties.

Now there was no keeping the project a secret, and soon Félix approached Bruno with an idea for a comedy piece that pitted himself on trombone against Agustín on piano. “You could put us right after intermission,” he suggested. “We’ll get people back in their seats.”

“I suppose that would work, assuming that the play turns out to be a comedy.”

Félix looked across the room at his older son, who loomed over half a dozen rats, doing his very best hammy villain. The rats ignored him in favor of the younger son, who was guiding one rat through performing a pratfall. Nearby, the sentient potatoes had requisitioned Bruno’s bucket for a bath. He clapped his cuñado on the shoulder. “Bro, I sure hope it is.”

Which brought Bruno back to the script. Which wasn’t quite a script just yet, more a collection of vague ideas. Luisa had petitioned for sword fights and unicorns. Camilo insisted there should be a werewolf somewhere. (“Why a werewolf?” Bruno had asked. “Because some kid heard I was a shapeshifter and thought that meant I was a werewolf. I thought it was funny.”) As for Bruno, he’d secretly hoped there might be room for hot air balloon pirates and adventure on the Nile. And as Dolores swept by, she requested some telenovela-style scandalous romance.

“The warrior princess rides in on her unicorn and rescues the mummy from the werewolf?” Bruno asked, trying to get it straight.

“No, she rescues the werewolf from the pirates,” Luisa explained. “And they have a sword fight.”

“Then the princess and the werewolf fall in love, of course,” Camilo added.

“And it’s a scandal because it’s forbidden to love a werewolf?” Dolores asked.

“I think the twist should be that when the werewolf returns to human form, it turns out she’s a woman,” Isabela offered.

“Oh, even better.”

“Why would it be wrong to love a werewolf?” Antonio asked. “As long as she’s not mean. I bet she’d be nice and soft to hug.”

“She might even play fetch,” Mirabel said. “No? What, is that too silly?”

“Where did the mummy come in, then?” Bruno murmured, scanning the pages. “And did Hernando and Jorge just disappear after scene six?” He was sure there was a scene in Act 2 where Hernando was mistaken for a famous wizard, while Jorge disguised himself as a cactus.

After a few days, word began to spread that the Madrigals were planning a big show. Bruno accepted that the secret was out. He did insist, however, that the potatoes remain a secret. Isabela agreed.

“You may have a little problem, hermanito,” Pepa said, stepping gingerly around all the props and pieces spread around Bruno’s room.

“What?” Bruno looked up from the background he was working on, a smudge of paint on his cheek.

“I’ve been talking to people, and I’m pretty sure literally everybody in the village plans on attending your show.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Mirabel asked, sewing a tiny button onto a tiny coat.

“Not if they all want to see what’s going on,” Bruno said, realizing. “Most of our performers are rats! Or potatoes!”

Camilo smiled. “Not to worry, Tío! I’ve got the solution to all your problems. If you’ll follow me.”

Bruno, puzzled, kept his peace as Camilo led him around the upper walkway. “It does mean a change of venue, but I’m just the kind of guy who would donate his own room to the cause.”

When Camilo was five, his magic room had come into being as a theater, and from what Bruno could see, this was still the case after the rebuilding. This wasn’t going to help the problem at hand.

But wait, there was something new, something like a large closet behind the last row of seats. Camilo opened the door, and with a bow, gestured Bruno inside. A light came on. There was a tall tripod in the middle of the room, and mounted atop it, what must be a kind of camera. There were other strange machines in the room as well.

“So these devices are how your future boxes with windows get their instant pictures.” Camilo explained as he started fiddling with switches.

“But we don’t have electricity in the Encanto.”

Camilo shrugged. “Magic house.” He pressed a button on the camera. “Look.”

The control room had a large window that faced the stage. Looking through it, Bruno saw that there was now a large screen hanging in the back, displaying an enlarged image of the proscenium curtains.

“Camilo, I think you’ve saved the day.”

“Well, you know what they say. The show must go on.”

The night of the show arrived. Casita was full of images of butterflies, and Bruno’s stomach was full of metaphorical ones. Clinging to his bucket, he kept peeking out from the wings. In the front row, he spotted the seven kids who had kept asking him for stories, and, as promised, Mariano. Every other seat was full as well. Julieta and Pepa stood at the heads of the aisles, acting as ushers. In the control room, of all people, was Mamá, who had reminded them that she knew her way around an old-fashioned camera. All she needed was someone to show her how to use these new machines. To her credit, she seemed to take to it well.

Everyone else was backstage. Antonio gave the rats a pep talk as Mirabel got them dressed. Félix and Agustín, staying close to their instruments, went over their routine one more time. Likewise, Luisa and Camilo ran through their lines -- as Luisa would be taking on the role of the warrior princess, while Camilo portrayed the pirate captain. (The rats’ attempts at swordplay had been unsuccessful.)

Isabela dressed her potatoes -- in very rustic garments, as she’d indicated -- and complimented Mirabel on her handiwork. “I don’t know how you do it. Your costumes turned out great!”

“Oh … thanks, Isa.” Mirabel might have blushed a little. “The truth is, I made a prototype for each one first.”

Dolores appeared next to Bruno. “I’m not sure a heart rate that fast is healthy in a man your age.”

“What? My age?” Bruno sputtered. “Betrayal!”

She giggled. “But I got you thinking about something else, didn’t I?” She moved on to Félix. “Abuela says she’s ready when you are.”

Félix had graciously agreed to act as the host of the show. His voice could easily cut through the pre-show chatter, and his cheer was infectious. He welcomed the audience to “the Triumphant Return of Madrigal’s Marvelous Rat Theater,” thanked them for coming, and thanked them for all they had done to help the Madrigals after Casita collapsed. He invited them to give themselves a round of applause. Smart.

“And now, without further ado, our first performance of the night: our angel, Isabela!”

Isabela, in her boldest, most colorful dress yet, squared her shoulders and pushed forward a wheeled table covered in bold, colorful tropical plants. The potatoes sat, momentarily inert, in the center. She disappeared to the other side of the curtain.

Bruno held his breath and crossed his fingers as Isabela began to hum. The gasps from throughout the audience told him that at least the vegetables were showing up on the screen. He listened to their high, eerie voices performing even more complicated harmonies than those he’d first heard from them. Isabela introduced each of the potatoes by name and talked a little about how they’d come about by happy accident. This was followed by two more songs before she left the stage, followed by cheers and whistles and deafening applause.

Isabela let out an excited little scream as she returned to the backstage area. “That was amazing!”

“And now for our main event,” Félix announced, “a new play: ‘The Moon Over the Nile.’”

“Break a leg!” Camilo said, as everyone took their positions. Bruno made sure to knock on wood in response.

As the curtains opened, revealing the set, only Luisa remained on stage, saluting with her sword. The play began as the warrior princess encountered the legendary duo, heroic Hernando and his faithful sidekick, Jorge, played by rats (but both voiced by Bruno).

Bruno had been a little worried that Camilo would be upset over not getting the lead role. But the boy had insisted that playing the villain was more fun, plus he loved the song that went with it. Not to mention, he got to ride around in the hot air balloon prop.

As the scenes went on, Bruno found himself wishing, just a little bit, that he’d given himself a role on stage. The kids were clearly having the time of their lives. But … while people treated him differently now than they had before his disappearance, he wasn’t sure the Encanto was ready to embrace him as an actor. If they enjoyed his show, whether or not they realized he’d been the driving force behind it, that should be enough, right?

Now came the intermission. Bruno stopped by the control room to check in with his mother. “It’s going well,” she told him. “This camera, it focuses itself. All I have to do is point it in the right direction.” She noticed what her son had in his hand. “What is that bucket for?”

“Oh, this? Well, it’s um … it’s just … You know what, I don’t actually need it.”

Alma shrugged. “You could set it there by the door, then. Out of the way.”

Bruno did so, and then returned backstage to try to relax for a few minutes.

Time was nearing for the next performance. Félix held his trombone at the ready, but where was Agustín?

Dolores had the answer, of course. She came running up with it. “Tío Agustín went into the control room and tripped over a bucket. He broke his --”

Leg?

“-- nose. Tía Julieta got him healed, but they needed to clean him up a bit.”

“Okay, then we’re just a little delayed. Not the worst thing that could happen.”

“When he tripped, he knocked over the camera. It’s completely destroyed.”

“The camera? The camera that lets us project our tiny little actors onto the screen so people can actually see them? The big dance number is in this half!” He bent over, pressing his hand to the wall, and hyperventilated.

“Tío?” It was Mirabel. “I think there might still be a way we can save this.”

“What?”

“I’ll be right back!”

Agustín appeared, cringing with regret, and his act with Félix began. If the piano playing was a little off, at least they were able to pretend it was part of the comedy of the piece.

Mirabel returned, her arms laden with clothing. “These are the prototypes I made of the rat costumes,” she explained.

“These are … actual, human-sized costumes.”

“Yeah. Well, I never figured out how to visualize a costume for a rat before seeing what it would look like as a human costume.”

Bruno laughed in disbelief. “And you didn’t just draw them?”

“This way I had a three-dimensional view. Anyway, I was already making Camilo and Luisa’s costumes, so …”

Bruno looked around. All his sobrinos were staring at him. “Okay, Mirabel, you’re wizard Hernando. Isabela, you’re cactus Jorge.” He handed them the outfits.

The sisters looked at each other and laughed.

“Dolores … the mummy is a non-speaking role, so you don’t have to worry about projecting your voice.”

“Perfect. Ooh, nice headdress.”

“Can I be a pirate with Camilo?” Antonio asked.

“Aww, hermanito …” his brother began.

“I want to ride in the hot air balloon!”

Camilo deflated.

“You’ll have to make do with your own trousers, pequeño, but here’s a pirate hat and jacket.”

“What about the werewolf?” Luisa asked. “I still need a werewolf to rescue!”

Ah. Yes, Bruno had thought he’d felt something furry at the bottom of the pile of costumes.

“Camilo? You wanna prove that kid right?”

“Nah, it’s all yours, Tío!”

“Isabela? It’s your song.”

“How could I pass up cactus Jorge?”

“But the werewolf …” He looked at Luisa.

“Don’t worry, Tío, I can lift you just as easily as the rat.”

“No, I know that. I was just thinking about the duet.” The song had been written for Isabela’s voice. Bruno wasn’t sure he could pull it off. But as for the mask … that, he would have to pull off.

But there was no time for doubt. Félix and Agustín were near the end of their act. It did seem to be going well, with the audience laughing in all the right places. Bruno pulled on the werewolf costume. “Here goes nothing.”

“My friends,” Félix announced, “in Act 2, the roles previously played by rats will be taken over by their understudies. We return to ‘The Moon Over the Nile.”

Swords clashed. Chashes ensued. Mysteries unraveled. The big dance number went off without a hitch, primarily thanks to Dolores. Camilo milked his villainous reprise for all it was worth. Mirabel’s Hernando was a surprisingly good imitation of Bruno’s. Isabela’s Jorge sprouted extra cacti, which earned her laughs, though Antonio’s ad libs got more. Luisa really did haul Bruno around with surprising ease.

Then came the duet, “When the Moon Disappears in the West,” in which the werewolf’s human face was revealed in the second verse. There were gasps from the audience. Were they negative gasps, or just surprised ones? But at the end of the song, Bruno and Luisa received a standing ovation.

Bruno stared toward the audience, straining, unsuccessfully, to see against the stage lights. Was that applause really for him? Well, it was for Luisa, mostly, surely. But nobody was booing or throwing things at him. Not a single wayward guava churro in sight.

The rest of the play was a blur, until the curtain call. Bruno was the last to be called, and Félix sure was taking his time with it, laying on superlatives like “the man who made it all possible,” “the creative genius” and “one of my favorite cuñados.”

As he stepped through the curtain, Bruno wished he had his bucket to fidget with. It had tripped Agustín, true, but it had also protected Bruno when he’d had to plunge headfirst through the wall of the collapsing Casita. The bucket was a two-edged sword.

Isabela draped a garland of flowers over Bruno’s shoulders. He took his bow. The applause did not stop. This was … this was for him. Actually for him. The whole village was here, and they could see Bruno as something else besides a bad luck prophet.

And so could he.

#encanto #encantobigbang #it's me amrys

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