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arvandus · 3 months ago

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Love and Duty - Chapter 3

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OVERALL FIC WARNINGS: cisfem!Reader; canon adjacent (i.e., loosely-based); 18+ (Minors and ageless blogs DNI!); NSFW in future chapters; violence in future chapters (not against MC); deceit/lying; fake relationship (one-sided); pining; angst with a happy ending.

Chapter 2 (tumblr)

Chapter 3 on AO3

Love and Duty Chapter 3

wc: 6,566

You gave Diavolo your answer and you stayed for dessert. At the end of the evening, Barbatos escorted you out of the castle. You couldn’t hide the disappointment in your eyes as he bowed and kissed the back of your hand to bid you good night. No doubt you’d been hoping for a more personal good night kiss before stepping out into the evening air, but Barbatos couldn’t bring himself to do it. He already had to pretend earlier this evening, and not just with a kiss.

Your question had taken him by surprise and he’d been forced to answer in a way that wouldn’t ruin everything. He was grateful that you’d phrased the question in such a way that allowed him to find a bit of truth to coat his silver tongue.

Do I have you?

You did have him, he reassured himself. You had his friendship, his trust, his support.

He didn’t want you to fail; and not just for the sake of peace, but for your own well-being. After all, even though he did not reciprocate the strength of your affections, that did not mean that he didn’t care at all.

The House of Lords’ treatment of you was unfair; anyone could see it. And yet you chose to meet their prejudice with determination, grace, and stubbornness. How could Barbatos not respect such strength? But strength didn’t make you unbreakable. So how could he not take notice of the way your duties weighed on your shoulders and suppressed your smile? How could he see your suffering and not want to help alleviate it?

Regardless of the nature of your relationship together, Barbatos would be there to support you and offer guidance. He would have done so anyway, had the two of you remained friends, and he saw no reason to not do so now, despite the new circumstances.

And maybe, secretly for him, helping you through this could serve as his own penance for the wrong he was committing; a silent apology for a betrayal that you would hopefully remain forever unaware of.

How badly he wished things were different... how badly he wished he’d had more time to make his choice. How badly he wished he could have glimpsed into the future for guidance before risking not only his friendship with you, but the young prince’s future.

But he knew doing so would prove more or less fruitless. His abilities, while seemingly limitless, had their own restrictions, particularly when it came to himself. Barbatos suspected that it had something to do with being able to exist separate from the timelines; but no matter how many times he tried to look at himself in the timelines, it was always blank, like a blind spot in his mind. It was akin to how one could easily see the faces of others but could not see their own without a mirror. If he had been able to foresee his own future, his past self wouldn’t have made the mistakes he made, and he wouldn’t be here now, trying to correct them.

The more decisions Barbatos acted on, the blurrier the future around him became. And the more he involved himself, the more individuals directly impacted by those decisions became blurred themselves. What resulted was a tapestry of time, of infinite pasts and futures, littered with dark holes. It was as if he were a moth, eating his way through the fabric, weakening its strength.

It was the very reason why Barbatos kept himself as a supporting role to the others. And it was the very reason why he only involved himself in major affairs if Diavolo ordered it. Yes, he tutored the young prince and kept him in line, as any royal butler and steward was expected to do; but any and all decisions regarding the future of the Devildom were conducted by Diavolo alone.

Barbatos had lived long enough to grow accustomed to his limitations. He learned how to look for the blind spots within the different futures and use them as clues. It never told him directly what choices to make, but it did give him an idea of where he was meant to be. He learned to live in the safe spaces, occupying the dark pockets of timelines that maintained their bright, clear futures. It was how he’d found his place at Diavolo’s side, the reason he’d let the young prince lure him into the castle with the promise of rare tea so many millennia ago.

But this... he had no memory of this, despite how he had cross-checked the timelines repeatedly for Diavolo before the prince made his long-term plans. Was it because you’d had your own adventures with being yanked across multiple timelines and places? Were you touched too many times by his ability, moved from thread to thread, that now your own path was blurring like his own? Or was it something else entirely?

Either way, for the first time in thousands of years, Barbatos felt the irritation of his own restrictions. If he’d been able to see this coming, he could have prepared for it. But he didn’t, and now here he was, trapped in a lie that he didn’t want to have any part in.

He had a plan, of course... a way to navigate out of these choppy, unchartered waters with minimal damage. It would have to be carried out prudently, succinctly, like carrying a porcelain teacup filled to the brim without spilling. Fortunately, his mind was as careful as his hands. If conducted properly, not only would the future of peace remain secure, but he will not have to sacrifice your friendship.

...Hopefully.

But hope was a fleeting thing, short-lived on wishes and easily breakable by the harsh reality of words.

And no words cut through Barbatos’s fortress of a mind like the young master’s upon his return.

“Barbatos, I believe we should talk.”

Barbatos’s face remained schooled in neutrality, but he paused for the briefest moment. It was enough to make the prince furrow his brow ever so slightly, the minuscule crack in the butler’s façade enough to confirm Diavolo’s rising suspicions. Barbatos took it in stride as he calmly entered Diavolo’s drawing room. After all, he was his loyal servant and oldest confidant. There were no secrets between them, their trust in each other absolute.

“Where would you like me to begin, my lord?”

Diavolo motioned for Barbatos to take a seat. The butler acquiesced, his back straight and knees drawn closed with his fingers folded formally in his lap.

“How about from the beginning?” Diavolo replied. “Start with the night of the ball.”

Barbatos’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “You suspected even then?”

“There were signs, but I wanted to wait until tonight to be sure.”

“It pleases me to see that your powers of observation remain so keen.”

“I have had an excellent tutor,” Diavolo smirked. “I don’t think anyone else noticed the subtleties that night except for myself. But tonight was more obvious, particularly with her. I would like to understand the situation as it stands now.”

“I thought you wanted to hear the story from the beginning,” Barbatos replied with a tilt of his head. “Would you like me to discuss the past or the present?”

Diavolo narrowed his eyes. “Now is not the time for games, Barbatos.”

“You know as well as I that I do not play games, young master. This is a teaching moment, as every moment is. How you opt to question me will impact the type of information you receive, which will in turn influence your understanding and your opinion.”

However, this was more than just a teaching moment, too; it was a test. Not just for how Diavolo chose to interrogate, but for seeing how willing he was to dirty his own hands, to bear the mantel of responsibility no matter how tarnished. Ask about tonight’s dinner only, and Barbatos could play it off as a budding romance, a temporary fling, with the implication that he will handle the situation without the prince’s involvement. That would allow the prince to play to ignorance should the situation derail in the future. But ask about the night of the ball, and the whole truth will be laid bare, a burden that would be shared between the two of them moving forward.

Fortunately, Barbatos raised him well.

Diavolo sighed and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “Very well. From the beginning, then.”

Barbatos nodded. “As you wish, young master.”

He then began to recount the events of that first night in the piano room.

Barbatos kept the information to only the most relevant facts. He omitted the song you played on the piano, he omitted the details of your frustrations with the brothers, and he omitted exactly how he romanced you. He provided only the fact that you had been at your limit with your responsibilities and that the incident with Mammon and Asmodeus had pushed you beyond those limits. He emphasized your desire to abandon your many positions and run back to the human realm. It was in this delicate, fragile state that you had confessed your feelings for him, which forced him into making a very important decision.

As Barbatos spoke, Diavolo’s eyes narrowed, his voice grunted, his head nodded. He listened silently, his fingers steepled and pressed against his lips.

When Barbatos ended with the farewell earlier in the evening, Diavolo remained silent for a long moment.

“I see...” he finally muttered. “I understand the decision; it might not have been the one I would have made, but I understand it nonetheless.”

Barbatos nodded in understanding. He expected as much from the young prince; he always did have a dislike for lies thanks to his unique ability to see through them. It made the awareness of the wounds they caused all the more intimate.

Avoid answers, yes. Give noncommittal or enigmatic responses, acceptable. Omitting information, necessary. But lies...

Lies were messy.

“Ah, how I wish I didn’t ask...” the prince muttered. His golden eyes lifted to meet Barbatos’s placid green. “I’m sure you’re also aware of the risks this presents us. Not just if she finds out that you – we’re – lying, but if anyone of note happens to see the two of you together...”

“Of course, young master. I will proceed with the utmost caution.”

“Is there any value in using your abilities for guidance?”

Barbatos fell silent for a moment, his mouth pressing into a thin line. He lowered his head the slightest fraction. “I don’t think so. I’ve explained to you before how I am unable to see my own future. By proxy, I will be unable to see hers as well now that our paths are so intertwined.”

“I know you won’t be able to see her clearly anymore, but what about the realms themselves? What about the Devildom?”

“The various potential futures remain the same, young master. That much is unchanged, as it’s already been seen. But that gives us little to work with, as there are multiple possible outcomes, some less desirable than others. The deciding factor of what happens in this timeline will depend primarily on her influence. If I cannot observe her, then I cannot anticipate the proper course.”

“Like knowing where the finish line is, but not knowing the route to get there.”

“Precisely. The chances of her getting ‘lost’ are now much greater than before. Although, she may have already been veering off course prior to my influence...”

“How so?”

Barbatos was silent for a moment as he reflected back, his gaze distant. “The way she was that night. I’d never seen her so...”

“Tired?”

“Hopeless.”

Diavolo let out a low, dissatisfied hum, his chin in his fingers as his eyes glazed over in pensive thought. “I had been noticing a shift in her as of late, but I had hoped it wasn’t so serious. You said yourself that humans are often emotional. Wasn’t there a chance that she was lost in the moment and would recover given time?”

“Yes,” Barbatos replied. “And I was willing to let it play out as such, despite my concerns. However, any possibility for that to happen was eliminated as soon as she confessed her feelings for me. Had I refused her my lord, I truly do think she would have abandoned everything. Being exhausted by one’s duties is one thing. But having one’s heart broken in a moment of vulnerability is another entirely.”

Diavolo hummed and leaned back into his seat, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes to the ceiling. “I see, I see... and now here we are. Are you sure your ability won’t work? Is there really nothing that can be done? You know I dislike leaving these things to chance, Barbatos.”

The risk of the prince’s disapproval was a cut to Barbatos’s pride; disappointing him was something Barbatos took great personal offense to. He released a resigned sigh.

“I will check if you’d like me to, young master. Although I am certain the results will not be very fruitful.”

“Please do. Even if nothing comes of it, I must exhaust all avenues of potential knowledge before we determine how to proceed.”

Barbatos stood and bowed. “Very well. I will return promptly.”

Diavolo watched as the space behind Barbatos opened up into black smoky tendrils. They wrapped around him like a cloak and then he was gone. Once the room was empty, Diavolo braced his forehead against his interlaced fingers, his thumbs at his temples.

“Please let him find something...” he muttered to himself.

—

The black was endless. For anyone else, it would have been entirely unnerving if not panic-inducing. For Barbatos however, it felt familiar, in the way one’s homeland felt familiar after not setting foot on its soil for so long. Beneath his feet he felt hard surface, and from it he could sense how it led off to infinite walkways. And yet, it was a space filled with contradiction as there was no up or down, or side to side. There was only the Here and the There, the Now and the Not Now. Barbatos’s feet began to walk slowly, carefully. It wasn’t so much a risk of falling, but that simply he had to remain focused on where he came from and where he wanted to go. As he walked, the air hummed with power, and he stretched out his hands, fingers splayed, as if caressing invisible grass in an invisible field.

He could feel them.... the multitude of threads belonging to countless souls, stretching infinite. They hummed with life, twisting together with one another and then parting outward as innumerable individuals were born together, lived together, died together. In and out the threads weaved, creating infinite ropes of fate, making up the Tapestry of Time upon which Barbatos navigated. They were taut, vibrating like music notes that couldn’t be heard, in a symphony that played for no one.

No one but himself.

He felt the distinct snap of a timeline being cut, reaching its end. It wasn’t unusual... not all timelines led to happy endings, the worlds within collapsing on themselves. Still, it left a dull ache in him, as if some part of him had been lost, gone forever like a boat cut from its mooring.

His footsteps finally slowed to a halt, and he stared in front of him into the blackness. He’d gone back just far enough to revisit the beginning, where he was forced to make his decision a few nights prior. His hands came up in front of him and he parted the air with open palms and long, slender fingers. It was as if he’d taken the rope of time and unraveled it, individually laid out the threads that made it so that he may seek out your thread, the one kissed with golden light and thrumming with power. The space before him began to ripple and shimmer, light being borne from nothing but simply his will to See.

Light faded to colors and shapes, countless images entering his mind simultaneously, and yet he understood all of them as if he’d watched them individually. Not that it mattered one way or another; time had no meaning here. He could linger as long as he needed to and then return to the When and Where he had left.

Barbatos’s eyes narrowed as he watched.

He saw the moment of where the demonus had spilled all over you, watched as you left the ballroom. But the waters muddied after that, no doubt due to his own influence. Your golden thread had gone dark, overshadowed by his own. The only sign of its presence was the steady hum of power that your soul emanated.

He tried to follow the dark strands, to see where they led, waiting for them to clear. Some cleared quickly, his influence in your life vanishing, and he suspected that those were the timelines where he had been honest with you. He looked closer, drank in their stories to confirm you back in the human world, alone and heartbroken. And the Devildom? Barbatos pulled the threads back together, zooming out to see beyond your human life. A multitude of futures lay ahead, but as he suspected, most of them were bad; the failure of the exchange program, the three worlds returning to their isolation and prejudice...

He returned to the beginning, and followed the threads that remained dark, shrouded in mystery. They were invisible roads that bore no street signs or streetlamps, dark pathways that left him blind.

On and on they all went, branching, breaking into more and more infinite possibilities. In some of them that familiar warm hum of your thread was cut short, leaving empty cold in its wake. In those moments, he knew your life had ended, and yet he couldn’t learn why, his influence too great, his life too entangled with yours. It left a heavy sense of unease, a fear of the unknown that he didn’t often experience.

Farther and farther he searched. Now the threads of life started to split, with some continuing out into that never-ending darkness with their secrets wrapped tight by decisions he had yet to make, and others finally becoming visible. With relief, he pulled them close, searched their depths.

You were there, alive but alone. And you weren’t in the Devildom anymore. You were back in the human realm, with a heavy sadness in your eyes.

And the realms...?

Once again locked in stagnation.

Barbatos’s jaw clenched.

He returned to the other threads, the ones that were still shrouded, and yet they went on and on, cloaked in darkness. How long did he remain entangled with you? What happened in those threads that kept him by your side so intricately for so long?

They were questions that would never receive answers, not until he lived them and learned it in those moments.

Again, he widened his view, took in the bigger picture of the futures that were possible. They were hazy, but they were there, and it was the reassurance he needed. There was hope in them, some of them ending in success while others did not. But there was no way to know for certain which future the present would lead to, the power of his presence hiding far too much for far too long.

For a cold, lonely, tense moment, Barbatos froze, dumbfounded.

Was this it? Were these his only options now? Either a future of failure or a future of ambiguity?

No, there had to be more. If need be, there was still the original paths, the ones he’d traced out millennia ago when the prince was first laying out his plans.

He returned to the beginning again and searched.

And searched.

There were countless variations of how that night’s events transpired. In some of them you were left alone, and you eventually went home to nurse your wounded spirit. In others, one of the brothers found you, each having their own variations of how they approached you in the privacy of that piano room. Even Simeon went to you in some of the timelines, and Solomon...

But what surprised Barbatos the most was how so many of the variations faded into that oh-so-familiar darkness. Barbatos himself must have been the one to find you the most, and it was a curiosity he found himself lingering on. From a practical standpoint, it made sense as he knew the castle better than anyone else.

But there was also a small sense of... warmth. After all, you didn’t venture out to the royal gardens, or walk the quiet late-night streets of the Devildom, or return to the House of Lamentation. Instead, you went to the piano room, where the memory of your time with him brought you comfort.

It was his growing friendship with you that allowed him to find you so many times in the first place.

The faintest hint of selfish pride flared within him, and Barbatos froze for a moment.

It wasn’t often that his Sins presented themselves so noticeably. In fact, he’d learned long ago to keep such imperfections under tight control. To have them stir now of all times...

Strange.

But it vanished as quickly as it came, so he returned his attention to the threads before him.

All at once, he watched, learned, understood.

In most instances, at least the ones he could see that were free of his influence, you stayed in the Devildom. The emotional turmoil you suffered that evening waned by morning and was later quelled by the brothers’ sincere apologies and kind gestures.

It was just as Diavolo had said. Barbatos took comfort in knowing that the prince knew your spirit so well.

Barbatos scanned the infinite spiderweb of visible futures, futures where he played his role as he was intended to, minimal and from the sidelines, small pockets of dark that blurred the edges around the others, Diavolo especially. And you were there too, the light to Barbatos’s shadow, twining with everyone else’s threads, strengthening the bonds.

His eyes narrowed the further he looked.

You stayed, but in far too many of the timelines you suffered, alone and overwhelmed. In some of them, you even buckled, and so did the exchange program.

Barbatos couldn’t help but wonder about you in this timeline, emotionally drained and mentally fragile. Was that to be your future? Would you break under the heavy weight of prejudice and politics?

Barbatos’s gaze went even further, following the various branches, and warm relief washed over him.

There was still hope. Not all the futures ended in loneliness and failure. In many of them, you succeeded. It was often ones where you found love in another, where the support of a partner, or even partners, helped to ease your burden.

They were still here... the futures he’d seen so long ago when assisting the young master in plotting out his path for peace, bright and untarnished. It worried Barbatos that it took him so long to locate them, but he was relieved to see them still intact, still a possibility within the great web.

The relief was short-lived as he pondered their significance.

Should this situation with you fail and take the young master’s vision with it, then Barbatos knew he would have to choose one of these timelines, something safe where his influence didn’t taint the grand plan. That route would become the Primary, the one that everyone would walk moving forward. It would remain the present, but it would be borne from a different past where different decisions were made.

In that sense, the you of this thread and everyone else would cease to exist.

The souls would remain the same, as souls were infinite by nature and occupied all timelines simultaneously during their lifespan. But deletion of a pathway was the deletion of memories, memories made beyond the point of junction where the severing would occur. Everyone’s spirit would remain the same, but their minds would forget, replaced with the experiences of a different path filled with different decisions.

Everyone would forget... except for Barbatos. He would remain untouched, remember all of it. He alone would hold the memories of a past that no longer existed; moments of joy, times of sadness, periods of growth. He’d remember his failures, too; the decisions he made that were the catalyst to losing yet another pathway.

That old, familiar empty ache crept into his chest, settling between his ribs. It was a sadness that never really left him, a burden he had to bear for being who and what he was. He acknowledged its presence and then promptly pushed it back to its resting place within himself, cataloguing it with all of the other countless times he had, in some way, lost those he cared for.

It couldn’t be helped. Duty first. If the prince ordered it, he would obey.

He stared at the stories of past, present and future a moment longer. Then he slowly, gently swiped his fingers across the space in front of him. The timelines rippled, the images faded back into blackness. There was nothing left to gain here.

---

Barbatos was only gone a moment before he reappeared. Diavolo looked up at him from his seat with curious golden eyes.

“Well? Did you find anything?”

“As I suspected, young master. The future you desire remains intact; however, I’m unable to see a clear path to it.”

“Hmm. I see...” Diavolo replied pensively, his gaze distant. Barbatos’s lingering silence hovered, making the air thick between them, and Diavolo looked back up at him. “....what is it?”

Barbatos’s brow creased. “The future you desire remains... however, there are a great many opportunities for the current path to go astray.”

“And, because of your involvement, you’re unable to tell which actions you will need to take to get us to the right finish line.”

“That is correct.”

“Well,” he sighed, “that is quite a conundrum.”

Barbatos’s face fell into melancholy. “I sincerely apologize, my lord. Had I known—”

Diavolo held up his hand and shook his head. “There was no way to know, Barbatos.”

“If I had not volunteered to find her—”

“Then I would have sent you anyway. Besides, I granted you permission. If anyone is to blame for this, let it be me. Were you able to see what would have happened if you refused her?”

“Not initially. But in some timelines our threads parted shortly after that night, which I suspect was the result of such a decision. Once I was no longer present, I was able to observe. She returned to the human realm.”

“Permanently?”

“Yes, although she maintained relations with the celestial realm thereafter, and the brothers opted to visit her from time to time.”

“And the exchange program?”

Barbatos’s only response was a heavy silence and the most subtle shake of his head. Diavolo hummed.

“I see. Well, at least you can take comfort in knowing that you made the correct decision given the situation.”

“Yes, young master.”

“You don’t sound very relieved.”

Barbatos finally returned to his seat on the sofa, the weight of his guilt too great. This time, he allowed his professional poise to fall away, allowing himself a quiet moment of vulnerability in the prince’s presence in the form of downcast eyes and heavy shoulders.

“The knowledge, while helpful, does not solve our current predicament. It seems that in many cases, her and I remain closely tied after her confession. It makes much of the future... unpredictable.”

“Which will make it nearly impossible to navigate.”

“That is correct.”

Diavolo went quiet for a moment, his chin in his fingers. His golden eyes went from pensive to troubled. “Can it be undone? If we end up on the wrong path, can it be replaced?”

“Of course, young master. Whatever you desire.”

Diavolo nodded. “Good. That is good. We could select a timeline where someone else retrieved her that night instead of you. Then this whole situation may be avoided.”

Barbatos knew his young master would come to such a conclusion, and yet hearing the words from his mouth made his skin tingle, a chill running down his spine. He loathed the subconscious resistance that pushed against the locked door of his mind, and he forced it back with a subtle, inhaled breath through his nose.

He had to remain impartial. He was devoted to the prince entirely, and so he must not withhold any knowledge that can impact success.

“On the contrary, my lord,” he said slowly, “the chances of success from that point were adequate, but not as reliable as they once were. In many of them she remained isolated, and I can’t help but wonder if it may have been due to her unspoken feelings for me. If you want to properly secure the future you seek, then it may be best to replace it with a timeline that branches off even earlier.”

Diavolo’s throat rumbled low, his gaze dark, and Barbatos knew he did not enjoy where this was going any more than Barbatos did.

“How early would you recommend?” he finally asked.

“To before she developed feelings for me in the first place. Granted, we have no way of knowing for sure when that was. But her and I had begun to spend more time together over the past six months. So I believe selecting a timeline that breaks off to prior that would be sufficient.”

Diavolo’s eyes snapped up to Barbatos’s, his eyebrows raised. “Six months??” his expression neutralized as his gaze dropped and grew distant. “That is quite a difference indeed.”

A heavy silence followed, neither demon wanting to move forward with such a permanent decision, and yet the threat of failure loomed like a storm on the distant horizon.

Diavolo let out a long sigh and returned his eyes to Barbatos. “Tell me... What would you like to do?”

Barbatos stared at him, noting the subtle softness in his expression. His features lost some of their sharpness, his eyebrows upturned at the corners in silent worry.

His familial love for Barbatos was impacting his reasoning, shifting him from responsible ruler to soft-hearted youth.

Barbatos would have none of it. He refused to let his young master jeopardize everything for the sake of him.

Even so, the next words he spoke were far more difficult to say than he had anticipated.

“If we are to err on the side of caution, then I would recommend replacing this timeline with a safer option.”

Diavolo’s strong jaw set in a stubborn jut, his gaze piercing. “I did not ask for your recommendation, Barbatos. I asked for what you wanted.”

Barbatos frowned. “Young master, what I want or don’t want is irrelevant. Not with so much at stake.”

“I am perfectly aware of what is at stake. However, I don’t think this situation requires such drastic measures just yet. You yourself stated the future is still possible, even if we may not know exactly how to get there. And how this would impact you is very much relevant, at least to me.”

“You are letting sentiment cloud your judgment.”

“Perhaps...” Diavolo admitted. “But unlike you, I don’t see it as a bad thing. The happiness of my citizens is my responsibility, and that includes you as well, Barbatos.”

“Your success is all the happiness I need, young master.”

Diavolo gave a wear sigh and broke his eye contact to stare down at his intertwined fingers.

“You say that, and yet... I know what this will cost you. It’s a loss that no one else will suffer once the changes are made, not even myself. That hardly seems fair. And since you are the only one who will pay that price, I think that what you want is a valid question. So I ask you again, Barbatos. What would you like to do?”

Diavolo knew everything there was to know about Barbatos’s abilities; he had to in order to be able to utilize the butler’s unique skills to their maximum potential. It was a knowledge that Barbatos had shared willingly, once he knew the prince was ready for such responsibility.

Never before had Barbatos regretted sharing the details of his powers... until now.

Because Prince Diavolo was right. Barbatos had gone through this many times, and yet the pain of each remained. And, he supposed, in some ways it wasn’t fair. But fairness was not something he sought for himself; not after the wrongs he’d done across so many lifetimes.

The prince’s love for him felt undeserved, and yet he cherished it just the same.

Barbatos was silent for a long moment. “You are far too soft, young master.”

“As you always tell me,” Diavolo smiled.

Barbatos couldn’t help but wonder what made the young prince so stubborn, his moral compass so resolute. But for the first time in a long time, Barbatos allowed himself to reflect on his own desires, lured by the promise that what he wanted and what his prince wanted could be one and the same.

Barbatos sighed. “Very well. I would like to keep along this path and try to salvage the current situation.”

Diavolo’s smile went from wry amusement to beaming joy. “Great! Then it’s settled-”

“Not quite,” Barbatos interrupted, his eyes narrowed. “We must discuss what will happen if I should fail.”

Diavolo gave a roll of his eyes. “I believe that goes without saying, but very well. If you do fail, then rest assured, we will remedy the situation by replacing this path with a different one. There. Does that help to ease your worries?”

Barbatos allowed himself a small smile. “It does.”

“Splendid. Because I don’t think you’ll fail anyway.”

“It flatters me that you hold me in such high regard, young master.”

“You are always the one with a plan, are you not?” Diavolo teased with a raise of his eyebrow. Then his amusement faded briefly to reveal the worry beneath. “You... do have a plan, yes?”

Now Barbatos did smile. “Of course. As I said before, there are many branches ahead of us where my thread remains intertwined with hers for longer than expected. However, this can mean many things. It can mean that this false relationship goes on for some time, possibly even years. Or, it could mean that we come to an end amicably, after which I remain heavily involved in her life on a platonic level until such a time that I can naturally fade myself back. That would be the ideal outcome.”

Diavolo hummed. “End amicably... and how do you plan to do that?”

“Time, young master.”

“Time?”

Barbatos nodded. “Yes. You know better than anyone how many responsibilities I carry. It leaves very little room for much else. Add in the pressures of secrecy, and I’m certain she will grow weary of me soon enough once this initial phase of excitement ends.”

Diavolo’s golden eyes glittered. “I see. So you plan to run out the clock, so to speak, rather than putting an end to it directly.”

Barbatos nodded again in affirmation. “The only way for this to end with minimal damage is if she is the one to end it. It must be her idea. It’s the best way to ensure her ability to move on and find someone more suited for her in the future.”

“Are you sure that will work? You know how stubborn she can be...”

“Yes... she can be quite patient, and persistent to boot. However, humans’ lives are short. I’m certain that at some point, she will recognize that her years are being wasted in a secret relationship that can never fully develop. Not to any fault of our own, but to the cruelness of circumstance.”

The worry returned to Diavolo’s eyes as he stared at Barbatos. “And if this plan of yours does take years? Or, worse, what if she never gives up? What then?”

“Then I will remain with her, whether it be a year or a human lifetime. You may consider it my penance for my error. However, I don’t anticipate that it will last that long.”

“What makes you so sure?”

There was a quiet pause as Barbatos gathered his words carefully. “I do not take joy in this deceit, young master. In fact, I find it quite troubling. I may not be able to return her feelings with the same ferocity, but I do value her and respect her.”

Something flashed in Diavolo’s eyes, but it was brief, gone in an instant. “You care for her.”

Barbatos found the look discomforting and averted his eyes to the fireplace where the flames danced. “On a platonic level, yes. As such, I will not take advantage of her. And I suspect she will only wait for so long before the lack of intimacy between us becomes a problem too big to ignore.”

Diavolo joined Barbatos in staring at the fire. “I see. And you will use the excuse of your busy schedule and the danger of prying eyes as a way to avoid such situations.”

“Precisely.”

Diavolo gave a tired, drawn-out groan and slouched back into his chair, his eyes closed. “It all sounds very complicated. It makes me exhausted just hearing about it.” His eyes opened and fresh mirth danced in them. “I feel it would have almost been easier if you actually did have feelings for her. Then we’d only have to worry about keeping the relationship private from others, rather than lying to her as well.”

Barbatos’s expression soured. “Do not joke of such things, young master.”

Diavolo barked a laugh. “You speak as if falling in love would be a bad thing!”

Barbatos could barely suppress the urge to roll his eyes. “Political complications aside, such a thing would be more burden than blessing. It would distract from my duties and require time that I do not have.”

“Perhaps some distraction would be good for you,” the prince winked.

Barbatos’s smile turned icy. “If this is your way of trying to get out of doing your paperwork, then it is a poor attempt indeed. I assure you, young master. My loyalty and focus lies entirely with you.”

“Yes, I was afraid you’d say that...” Diavolo threw his arms up dramatically. “Very well, have it your way then. Keep yourself isolated and lonely forever.”

A bit of an exaggeration, considering how often Barbatos found himself in the company of others. A small, dry smile curled the corners of his lips, never reaching his eyes.

“Thank you, my lord. Now, the hour is late. I do believe it is time for me to prepare your bath.”

“Yes, please.”

Barbatos left the drawing room to begin preparations. As soon as he was out of earshot of Diavolo, he let out a deep sigh as the weight of dread eased slightly from his chest, no longer suffocating. The knowledge that he would not have to replace this timeline just yet brought a sense of relief so strong that it unconsciously pulled his lips into a smile as he began to run the bathwater.

His prince was trusting him, giving him a chance to repair what he’d broken. The gesture touched him deeply.

He only hoped he could deliver.

Tag List: @slayersins @doumadono @silverrings-n-prettythings

#obey me barbatos #barbatos obey me #barbatos x f!reader #barbatos x f!mc #barbatos x reader #barbatos x mc #barbatos fanfic #obey me fanfic #barbatos multichapter #barbatos slowburn

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adobe-outdesign · 1 year ago

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asking with big puppy dog eyes

have you done le masquerain line?

Surskit! What a cute little thing. It's based off of a water strider, just with a much rounder body. The long legs and the walking on water thing make that much pretty obvious, and while it doesn't have much of a theme beyond that, the markings under its eyes hint at it evolution's theme.

Visually, Surskit is super simple, having very little detail beyond those long legs, which do most of the work in the design. The horn is interesting, though I'm not sure if I like the yellow color or the fact that it looks like hair—I think removing the lines from the bottom and making it a pale blue to match Masquerain's colors would've looked a bit better.

I also think that the pink markings vibrate in a pretty nasty way against the blue base. I like the blue and the pink is needed to match Masquerain, so maybe doing a lighter blue for the body and a pink for the horn would've been the way to go.

Color squabbles aside though, I do like it. Nothing fancy or all that memorable, but it's cute and has a unique inspiration behind it.

For some reason I've seen a fair amount of Masquerain dislike online, which surprises me, as I've always really liked it. I guess it's just because it swaps out bug/water for the much more generic bug/flying, but the design itself is pretty neat. The antennae working as a pair of false eyespots to scare away predators is accurate to many IRL insects, and they're incredibly striking.

I also like it because it's pretty recognizable as a bug, but it's completely abstract in terms of what kind of bug. It's Japanese name and eyespots suggest its based on a moth, but its water-based habitat and ability to fly sideways suggests dragonfly, while its body shape doesn't really look like any actual insect. I like a good abstract monster design like that.

Visually, it doesn't have a ton in common with Surskit, but they do have the same eyes, round head, and horn, which is enough to at least make them somewhat similar. The pink antennae really stand out against the pale body, and the additional pink on the face helps balance things. I do wonder if the wings should've been more round in shape, as they're the only angular part of the design, but otherwise I honestly like everything that's happening here.

I think that if the line could use something, it would be another evolution or something mega-adjacent. There's nothing wrong with the base line, but it is only a two-stager and isn't super crazy enough to stand out relative to a lot of other 'mons. I feel like there's a lot of potential with these guys. For example, here's a particularly great mega design from Reddit:

But regardless, overall, this is a fine line. The water strider theme is unique and Surskit is cute, while Masquerain is pretty memorable with its more ambiguous design and eyespots. As a bug lover, I like them both.

#surskit #masquerain #pokemon #pokemon reviews

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leggerefiore · 2 years ago

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Tarachoptera

cw: 18+ content, afab reader, egg preg, Slither Wing Emmet, pokehybrid au

why is all the smut I have been writing moth adjacent recently?

You shivered as the odd hybrid pinned you to your bed. His fuzz tickled your skin while his wings stretched out for a moment. Suddenly, why Volcarona were often remarked as appearing like the sun was apparent to you. A strange squeaking noise came from him as he tilted his head. His eyes were a lot more bug-like than most modern bug-type hybrids. They squinted as he observed your clothing with an obvious annoyance on his face. The sheer size of him made you a bit nervous.

“Hey,” you called out to catch his attention, “Are… you horny?” The gears in his head turned at your words. It was obvious, but he seriously was unsure of modern language. You wanted to both curse and thank whoever brought these prehistoric hybrids from the past. His hips ground against yours. A soft whine came from you. This was part of the reason you were going back and forth about these two. One was so extremely horny and stringent in his refusal to better learn about the world he found himself in. The other was a lot more manageable in comparison, however.

You decided to give the poor bug a hand and help strip away your layers. He immediately perked up at your actions and freed his grasp on your wrists. His long, scaly tail wagging slightly while his antennae twitched as more of your skin was exposed to him. A certain grin danced across his lips as ground against your bare crotch, with a slight moan escaping his throat. His fluff felt strange in such a sensitive place. This kept on until you felt something strange growing and pressing out from his crotch area. “Wh-what is that?” you asked. Emmet either understood this or the expression on your face, so he moved away from you to let you see.

From a hidden slit within his fluff appeared a thick and strange phallus that certainly reminded you of ovipositors, but there was just something so different about it and large. Much like the rest of him, everything just seemed too big. You had done some minor research into him and his brothers, and they appeared to be from the dinosaur era. Before you could further your inquiry into that thought, he rubbed the ovipositor against you and forced a moan from both of you.

It was warm; much hotter than you had expected. Maybe it was because it was sheathed inside him, or maybe the heat that Volcaronas have modernly started much longer than currently accepted. His hips humped against you for a moment, length pressing between your folds and rubbing against you distractingly. You felt your arousal grow hotter by the moment. His eyes closed as he seemingly focused on his pleasure for a moment. The way his wings pressed to him was oddly cute.

It was unbeknownst to you if he was trying to turn you on or simply had no clue what to do with his dick, so you decided to give him a hand. Gently pushing him away, you moved a hand between your legs to help ready yourself for his girthy offering. He tilted his head at your actions, but observed everything you did closely. As you parted your labia, you circled around your entrance for a second before pushing a finger inside. This was now partly a show, after all. Might as well entertain him. Maybe he will learn something, too.

You quickly had another finger join your first alongside a thumb to rub against your clit. The intensity from Emmet's gaze sent a shiver down your spine. His wings twitched as he watched you ready yourself for him. It was pretty embarrassing, but you managed to keep your cool despite the increase in blood flow in your body. Just as you felt you were about ready to take him, he suddenly grabbed your hand and pulled it out of the way.

His face leaned close to your pussy, causing you to jump with every heated breath that came from him. For a moment, Emmet just remained there. Then, his oddly long tongue poked out from his lips and he gave a tentative lick between your folds. A shudder came from you, as he swirled it around your clit for a moment before bringing it down to your entrance to press inside. His antennae moved excitedly as he let out a soft whine. You cried from the sudden pleasure he brought. It swirled around inside you, prodding you in ways a human tongue could simply never manage.

It pressed so well into sensitive areas that you reached a hand to pulled his face closer to you. This, however, made him pull back. The sudden action set him off, it seemed. Still, he gazed at you with a gleam around his mouth. He licked it away and carefully began to move over you. Again, he pressed you to the bed, restraining you. For a moment, you wondered if these were normal mating procedures for his species, but the thought was banished from your mind with his ovipositor pressing against you. Emmet now apparently grasped what he needed to do.

The bug hybrid positioned the head of his length to your entrance. There was nothing to be said, so with a quick glance at you, he began to push inside of you. You grasped the sheets as it speared you open. It was, without a doubt, bigger than anything you had ever hoped to take before. The stretch was surprisingly painless, but you still felt overwhelmed from the sheer sensation of it all. Laying limp for a moment, you watched as Emmet's eyes squeezed closed again. He had seemingly pressed all of his ovipositor that you could take into you.

“Nih-” the syllable was caught off by a whine, “Nihcee. Vehrrrry nice.” He managed. Those silver eyes suddenly locked onto yours as he laid against your body, fur tickling your skin. You felt flustered by his attempt at words. Had he actually been paying attention? You had no more time to think on it before he began to slowly pull out. Then, he thrust back in. You moaned. A giggle like noise came from him. The expression on his face did not reflect such a sound, however.

His hips soon fell into a fast and rough rutting, clearly showing how he leaned more feral than aware. His noises were an odd mix of squeaks and grunts, while you struggle not to whine and moan from it all. It hit you deep, pointed head hitting your cervix with each thrust. You desperately tried to meet his pace, feeling a heat beginning to coil in your stomach. It grew tighter as he brought one of his hands down to press between your folds. Emmet instantly took to rubbing your clit with his thumb. You felt so full and contented.

An expected kiss from him to your lips left you awestruck. The poking of his tongue against your lips left you completely at will to his wants. Its thin length explored around curiously before curling around your tongue. You cried into his mouth. A shiver shot down your spine as his fur brushed against your nipples, too. He fucked into you harder, forcing an unexpected orgasm from you.

The sound that came from him as your walls tightened around him could only be described as something feral. Recovery was impossible as he immediately set into rocking you harder against the mattress. You cried out, slowly being pushed into overstimulation. There was nothing to slow him down; the only thing on his mind was your heat swaddling around him. This veracity ripped another orgasm from you, but this still did not slow him down.

He kept going further, sending you into the madness of pleasure. You felt completely exhausted and out of your own mind when he finally came to an abrupt stop. Emmet held himself above you, wings and antennae shivering as a cry left his throat. The moment of respite was much appreciated… Until you remembered the next step for nearly all bug hybrids. A swelling formed at the base of his ovipositor and slowly descended, momentarily catching on your entrance. It pushed through, however, as your muscles had been thoroughly weakened by the constant fucking Emmet had wrought upon you for what must have been hours.

The egg travelled down and stopped dead against your cervix. The Slither Wing hybrid's face twisted with confusion. You tried to open your mouth, but he was quick to bring his hand back between your legs. A cry left you as tears burned your eyes. His thumb played with your clit perfectly. It seemed he was a faster learner than he let on. You came again, harshly, and he took the opportunity to push his ovipositor deeper into you. Any resistance was easily defeated by the prehistoric pokemon.

It was deposited inside you with ease and was accompanied by a liquid. Before you could even process it, another was making its way through the ovipositor. Its descent was easier than its predecessor as it rolled into and joined it. Your toes curled from the peculiar sensation. Emmet groaned as another travelled down, and then another. A fifth, sixth, seventh were quickly laid inside you, each around the size of a baseball. From what you had seen, these were much bigger than the modern eggs of most moth hybrids.

You came for the last time when the eighth, and final, egg landed inside of you. Shuddering, too, when a large amount of the heated liquid spewed inside as well. Emmet carefully removed his length from you, clearly focused on keeping his eggs inside of you. The hybrid carefully began to settle blankets, sheets, and clothing around you, ripping and tearing them to your distant annoyance. One blanket was draped over you as he worked to make his equivalent of a nest.

By the time he was finished, you were already drifting off. He settled next to you, curling around your smaller body with his fuzzy one, The smell of something musky hit your nose, but you nuzzled into him, enjoying the heat he gave. A yawn came from you as finally felt your consciousness fade, body completely tired out.

“Love you,” he cooed perfectly.

Suddenly, you were wide awake.

#emmet x reader #emmet/reader #nastystuff #smut #emmet.ima #pokehybrid au

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fantasykiri5 · 5 months ago

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so which characters do you personally headcanon to be winged avians?

Honestly, mostly just Jimmy, Grian, Wels, and False; Jimmy being a canary, Grian a scarlet macaw, Wels a perigrine falcon, and False a red-tailed hawk.

The other naturally winged species I have is fairies/fae (fairies being a type of fae), which work a lot of different ways since they’re more magical I think, and the only ones I have for being some manner of fae 100% of the time are Lizzie (she’s technically fae, but to use dnd terms she’s more like a god who decided when losing followers or dying to— instead of just dying— trade her traditional divinity to become arch fae.) and Stress, who is a regular children’s-tale-style fairy (which is the subspecies what Lizzie mimics in order to not draw attention of be hunted or shit.)

For other characters species, I actually have a number of very specific headcanons! I’ll put ‘em below the cut though since that’s not what the original question was about

Gem is half elf and half a different elf! Part wood elf and part high elf, with characteristics of both. Currently she’s got a fish thing going on that honestly might be a curse or mutation or something? It wasn’t like that before

Scar is a full wood elf, but didn’t know about it until the beginning of season 9, as he wasn’t raised as an elf and I like to think his ears didn’t grow in until the time he and the rest of Boatem were floating in the void. Elf’s ears are quite long and wood elves specifically can swivel them, but they don’t reach their full size until a while into adulthood and small but pointed ears are incredibly common among players and few are completely human. Scar was raised presumably by Vex? Or in the zombie apocalypse? Nobody’s sure but it wasn’t by elves, he reconnected with that in s9.

Martyn is a half elf, specifically high elf + human

Scott is a full high elf

And Bdubs is 1/4 wood elf, 1/2 halfling (hobbit), and 1/4 human. Occupationally/class wise, he’s a Druid, not to be mixed up with “dryad” which is a species (and not bdubs.)

And moving away from the elves my Joel is a nymph, which is essentially a tree person? But more humanoid than a dryad, which is a tree that is kinda person-y. Joel is more of a person that’s a bit like a tree. I like to think he can turn into a tree sometimes (azalea of course, though for a while I thought maybe Willow? Cherry would also be fitting for s10 but I don’t like having them switch species within what’s technically the same world) and he was born from a tree (and he’s transgender because in legends nymphs are all women, but he said fuck that.)

Pearl WAS human, or the default-humanoid-player species as it were, but got bitten by Ren during double life and turned into a wolfwalker (a piece of Irish folklore; somebody who’s a human while they’re awake and become a wolf when they sleep. They’re human body stays asleep and they form a new one with magic to be the wolf body.)

Etho also WAS human-adjacent, and was turned into a wolfwalker YEARS ago, long before hermitcraft

Ren has been a wolfwalker his whole life, he was born as one

To elaborate on Lizzie and Stress more, the term “fae” is pretty broad, it covers things like folklore fairies, wolfwalkers, nymphs, Allay and Vex, and honestly quite an assortment of other things. There are quite a number of fae creatures that are entirely unique and don’t technically belong to a “subspecies” as well, because fae are just sort of weird like that. It’s a very loose category of being, basically. Anyways Stress is what most would consider a very typical European-style fairytale fairy (with the exception of being human-size) and they’re a pretty common type of fae, they’re related to Allay and Vex, and there are theories that they are an ancestor species to modern-day moth and butterfly (and other flying insect) hybrids, though none have been definitively proven.

Lizzie, as I mentioned above, used to be a goddess. Gods can only fully die when they have no followers left, and when that happens their bodies are essentially sent frozen to another plane to float in space. (THANK YOU Fantasy High for this one, I’ve had vauge ideas for a while and the way Spire is structured helped me figure it out. Go watch Fantasy High basically.) ANYWAYS if a god is in direct danger of that happening they can choose to let go of a portion of their power and become fae-aligned, basically demoting themselves and moving a bit to the left, in order to not die when they lose the last of their followers. So Lizzie is like a demigoddess-but-a-bit-to-the-left, but arch fae are very highly sought after foes for a number of reasons, so what she’s done is essentially disguised herself as the same sort of common fairy as Stress in order to avoid that!

(Also, I’m currently thinking that Gem’s recent sea-monster curse is a side effect of starting to accidentally worship a half-dead god?? Gem doesn’t know she’s doing it, but the universe does I guess. And Lizzie’s domain as a god was DEFINITELY connected to the sea ;D )

Finally, we’ve got simple mob/animal hybrids, off the top of my head there’s Zed (sheep) XB (Gaurdian) Beef (cow) and Doc (creeper+goat+robot+butterfly now, apparently.) I’ve probably got more but idk.

And other than that I don’t think I have any specific headcanons for anyone else? I know I kinda rambled past what your question was but I’ve been cooking some of these up for a while and I wanted to share :D

#asks #adina123 #kiri rambles #my headcanons #I’m not fuycking tagging all of them. no #hermitcraft smp #life series smp #that’s fucking IT I’m not tagging more than that #My notes #I lied I’m making yet another organizational tag. For things I should have written down elsewhere but Don’t. Becuase that’s just how it is #sorry for the essay adina I just REALLY like fucked up world-building shit

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joona-fandom-mars · 11 months ago

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Happy Juno Steel’s birthday! I give you Pokémon au where Benzaiten is still alive and they do killer double battles together.

They were given a gastly (Juno’s) and cleffa (Ben’s) when they were pretty young and so they have a super close bond with them. Their cleffa and gastly evolve at a similar time and down the road Ben and Juno plan to evolve them again (Juno would trade Ben haunter so he evolves to Gengar, then they trade back. And at a similar time Ben would give Clefairy a moon stone). But if I wanted to be tragic like the canon, Ben could’ve died before they could go through with that plan. And both Juno and haunter are to upset to through with the plan for YEARS. Maybe Juno keeps the moon stone on a necklace or something. Maybe Juno takes in Ben’s Pokémon after he dies? Maybe part of Juno’s healing that happens after season two is finally evolving haunter and clefairy. Anyways, for now I’ll just keep thinking about how they’d kill it at double battles

Also added the Pokémon teams of the rest of the Carte Blanche crew + Ben because I love them!! Gonna explain the teams because I’m insane

Juno:

Haunter - starter and is like the other side of the same coin with Ben’s clefairy (especially when they evolve into Gengar and Clefable)

Muk - Martian sewers

Trubbish - was trying so hard to find a weird bunny Pokémon to be Small Fry and if you squint hard enough that’s basically trubbish

Banette - Puppet Pokémon for when he was being puppeted by Ramses O’Flaherty

Ben:

Clefairy - starter, same coin blah blah

Steenee, Aromatisse, and Oricorio - Dance Pokémon for the ballet dancer! (Bonus points for Oricorio in its Sensu style because Benzaiten is a Japanese goddess and Sensu dance is from Japan)

Rita:

Rotom - Her ace because she uses it to hack into electronics

Morpeko - electric Pokémon that needs stacks to stay happy? Come on that’s SO Rita

Dedenne and Swirlix - Cuties she shares snacks with

Bewear and Electivire - she calls them the muscle but electivire accidentally knocked out some bug Pokémon from stepping on it and cried for a week and Bewear is to lazy to help with anything

Peter:

Absol - Angel of Brahma. Do I need to say more

Unfezant, Thievul, and Liepard - these bitches be wearing masks and will steal your goods while your not looking

Zoroark - Can transform into literally anything

Buddy:

Delphox - Buddy’s ace because DUH fire fox that’s so her!

Ninetales, Arcanine, Quilava, and Talonflame - Buddy is obvi a fire type trainer

Altaria - Fire type trainer with the exception of shiny Altaria because they are to elegant not to give Buddy and they’re shiny because it fits her color palette better. And Buddy is just enough extra to have a shiny

Optional, Beautifly - Buddy could replace one of her fire types with Beautifly and then Vespa could have Dustox so then it’s like butterfly and moth wives and also sun and moon wives (their last names mean sun (Aurinko) and moon (Ilkay)

Vespa:

Beedrill - Vespa means wasp and beedrill is basically a wasp

Ariados, Toxicroak, Yanmega, Barraskewda, and Bisharp - all of them a fast, pointy, and look like you can find them in a swamp, except for bisharp which is just fast and pointy

Jet:

Revavroom - the man LOVES cars. Plus revavroom can be something adjacent to the Ruby 7 (maybe Juno starts taking care of it after Carte Blanche crew splits up)

Mamoswine, Magnezone, Blastoise, and Rhyhorm - beefy guys that feel like Jet to me

YEAHEAYEAY anyways INFODUMP OVER, if you read all of this you get a medal 🏅. Congrats. May do side characters and villains at some point, but for now this is all you get :P

#the penumbra podcast #juno steel #junoverse #benzaiten steel #pokémon au #the aurinko crime family #juno steel fanart #tpp #tpp fanart

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tyrannosaurus-trainwreck · 1 year ago

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Spooky season

So, I live in an old house that was, when I moved in, adjacent to an overgrown feral lot that had been seized by the state as derelict and then... kept that way. The previous owner’s solution to the state’s once-a-year maintenance schedule was to build a cinderblock wall along that edge of the property as tall as the building code would let it be.

It solved the problem, but it also means that entire side of my house is basically god’s blind spot. You can’t see it from any of the neighbors’ properties, and you can’t see it from much of my property, either.

This was never much of an issue, until I was sitting home alone one night watching a movie and I suddenly heard something scratching at one of the windows on that side of the house. Not light ‘scritch-scritch’ scratching, either—something was putting some weight behind those nails. I just about jumped out of my skin. I threw open the curtains—nothing. Check out the curtains at the other windows. Same deal—nothing.

It was late and very dark out, and I generally speaking don’t want to get axe-murdered, so I convinced myself it was just a reeeeeeeally big moth attracted to the light and tried to forget about it. The next morning there was nothing out of place or unusual on the side of the house, supporting the ‘forget about it’ plan of action.

Which is what I did for about a week, until it happened again. This time it was louder, lasted longer, and definitely was not a fucking moth. This time I also played it a little smarter and went to a different window and peeked out of the curtains from a better angle on the sly, which made it more unsettling that there was still absolutely goddamned nothing to be seen.

It wasn’t quite full dark this time, so I turned the outside lights on, grabbed one of those five-pound tactical flashlights, and ventured around the side of the house.

Nothing.

No tracks, no prints, nothing’s been disturbed except me. I didn’t hear anything aside from the scratching either time. I walk all the way around the house and back to the front door. Nothing.

Maybe, I tell myself, it’s a bird. Maybe it’s getting to be nesting season and some feathered asshole is just attacking everything it can see its reflection in.

A couple days after that, it’s the weekend. I don’t have to be up for work in the morning, so it’s almost midnight and I’m still awake, reading a book. It happens again. Louder, more frantic scratching. Right fucking behind me.

On the glass fucking door.

Around the minor inconvenience of having a fucking heart attack, because it’s late and something is clawing at the least secure feature a house can have two feet from my back, at this point I was quite frankly fucking done with the whole thing. I whip the blinds open and... nothing. Then I look down.

The smallest adult cat I have ever seen is sitting on its haunches, shoulders barely clearing the stop of the step, paws braced against the glass, glaring daggers at my indoor cat, who very clearly considers this my problem and not hers.

I smack the door, hard, and the cat takes off.

The little fucker kept this shit up for the rest of the goddamned month. I have no idea what sort of beef it decided it had with my cats, who aren’t allowed outside and never have been. Whatever it was, it resulted in me getting jump-scared at least once a week and having to go outside and physically chase the cat off to make it stop scratching at the window like some pint-sized feline Freddy Krueger on three separate occasions.

So this is my annual autumnal PSA: Keep your fucking cats indoors, you goddamned heathens. The rest of us don't need to put up with their WWE Smackdown bullshit while we're just trying to live our lives.

#to this day i have no clue what that cat's problem was #but i very much did not need that scratch-scratch-scratching happening during a rewatch of The Ring

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fly-sky-high-bug-games · 7 months ago

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I can't sleep so how about I ramble about troupe Taka some more since I can't only draw him in the breaks between commissions and stuff but he has clearly infected my brain to the point of no saving it

-I am still thinking how the troupe itself works in this concept and since I started winging Grimm to the point of making him an OC esque, I figured I might as well do the same with the troupe.

-So I end up thinking what even drew Taka to just ditch the temples and join the troupe (aside from crushing on Grimm) and I always mentioned he was bored of the temples and wanted something fresh. But I also like to think he was just so mesmerized by the concept of nightmares, as the temples have such a unique dreamscape (but that's another story) they basically have no nightmares, like, ever. So he was drawn like a moth to the flame...

-I want to showcase a ritual of joining the troupe through Taka's perspective and what it feels like to be bound to the flame which is at the core connected to the nightmare heart. It's not a very pleasant experience but once it passes it's a rather freeing one!

-I think that contributes to his cockiness. He takes the role of the grimmkin as a fresh start where he is allowed to push boundaries. He is essentially "immortal" (i cant get into those details atm but some day aaa) and has a chance to fuck around and find out without getting into too much trouble. It also doesn't change the fact that he is still a very skilled fighter who underwent daily training for mind, soul and body, as such was the way of the temple's teachings. He's a bit of a chaotic person while at the troupe!

-I dont know if other troupe members would like him as much but he is still kind of a goofball at heart who knows when to get serious and how (and he is a little scary when serious...). I assume he would look for fun but it wouldn't be something other grimmkin of different, possibly more tragic or serious origins would be in the mood for.

-I imagine he tried to perform at the acts within the stage as an acrobat of some kind but I haven't decided on what yet. He's kind of a clown/jester adjacent. He can also use poles with fire and spin those for cool effects, since most of his fighting technique includes a staff that he skillfully flips, spins, swings and jabs with (thanks to his four arms). He can perform with fire staff with ease. However, he doesn't really keep the role of the entertainer for too long. He ends up mostly as a grimmkin flame keeper, waiting for summoners to try to take his flame and fight them. (i wrote some stuff about this and how it works but can't be bothered to copy paste it atm and it's not super Taka relevant I guess)

-The origin of his squinting I am very tempted to just go with Flame's suggestion that his vision just got worse over time without him realizing and it turned into a habit gjskgkjg! It's not like I have any other reason so heck it! This is a dude who should have been told to have his eyes checked but no one ever did. And he died with this bad vision too and it stuck around when he became a dream master ghost. Rip!

-He talks about his home but he is maybe not so inclined to talk about why he never had nightmares before. He doesn't know the full history behind his temple goddess and Grimm of the far long past but there is a good reason why Nightmare heart could never tap into the dream realm Taka and other Temple members are part of. Sometimes it's hard to tell if Grimm can tap into Taka's fears at all because of it (he can but not through mind and dreams but his heart, which is granted more difficult to read instead of directly just seeing the nightmare)

-Since he isn't like a ghost self where his mask just sort of floats "attached" to the back of his head, he mostly has it off while alive at the troupe, having it hanging by the thread around his neck, either on front or at the back. No matter what he wears and how, he always has his rosaries around his neck!

-He and Grimm have something going on, idk what that is but it's queer and that's all I need to know the vibes! I'm having a lot of fun with them as a "pair" lol

#sky rambles #muse: Taka #ok typing actually made me sleepy that's good #if you see typos or stuff that don't make sense i'm sorry it's almost 5am the dawn is literally breaking rn *Radiance scream*

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ashyronfire · 1 year ago

Text

Red Sky at Morning || Chapter 29: Tell Me No More Stories

Title: Chapter 29 - Tell Me No More Stories Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Grimm Troupe (including OCs), The Radiance

Warnings: Introspect-Heavy, Found Family, Pre-Canon, Time Travel Fix-It Adjacent, Grey-and-Grey Morality, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Dismemberment, Graphic Depictions of Violence, The Author Likes Gore

Summary:

“Atlas says you’ve improved.” She looked at Pyre, then turned back to say, “Greatly. He keeps talking about wanting to fight you in the Nightmare. He says he feels like you are crippled here, even with your magic.”

Author’s Notes: In the interest of making this available to more people after AO3 crashed, I'm gonna put the chapter itself under a cut as well. Right now AO3 is up and probably fine -- but just in case. :>

CURRENT CHAPTER || READ FROM THE BEGINNING

The Second Cycle - Mulake

Grimm shared in the child’s memories.

There was more to it than just seeing. While he did look through its eyes, he could not describe it as simply viewing. Whenever Pyre brought the child back to the camp, its experiences came flooding back to him like a tidal wave. Every little scratch, every touch, the whispered words, the affection. The spell that bound the child to the charm also bound the charm to Pyre.

Their lives were woven together, kindling to flame and the ash that remained in their wake. He was terribly attached to the hybrid already. Sparring with him was going to be… an experience.

And they had an audience.

Pyre did not seem to mind. He looked very calm as he stepped into the makeshift arena. It was a particularly large grassy field that the Troupe had helped clear out the night before at Grimm’s suggestion, so that the grass was shorn short for ease of viewing and any rocks lingering around were removed to avoid unintentional injury. Pyre had shed his usual cloak in favor of bracers that protected his arms and legs, and a chestplate in crimson that matched Grimm’s own natural coloration. He’d brought with him an elegant nail inlaid with a webbed pattern that brought to mind a damselfly’s wings; the engravings ran from the pommel all the way to the tip, giving the optional illusion of angles to the shape. It was a curved longtail; that, it seemed, was Pyre’s weapon of choice. Grimm did not fight with one at all. He was not that kind of fighter. He was a magician. But Atlas was trying to teach him to fight without the use of his flames.

Against Atlas, that was going terribly. Pyre, he hoped, would prove to be another story.

“Are you sure you do not want to arm yourself?” Nightshade asked him. She had a new set of daggers in sheaths at her side; she held one out for him to look at. “Atlas is adept at forging; he’s been –”

“He is?” Grimm asked, puzzled.

“Yeah,” the moth answered. “He’s been making weapons for all of us. He made Marra the most wicked scythe I’ve ever seen. Alula has a long nail, Atlas has his axe – that thing’s heavier than I am, by the way – and he even gave Reed some daggers like mine. He’s been teaching Mist to use a staff, too. Mist doesn’t really like blades.”

Making weapons for everyone but him, it seemed. He’d known Atlas used an axe, although he’d never bothered with weapons when fighting Grimm. He rarely needed to. He had the physical advantage.

He handed the dagger back. He had a staff, made elegantly by Marra, but he considered it to be more of a show piece than something for actual use. He’d be devastated if it was damaged in combat. All he actually used when sparring was his claws. Maybe he should learn to do more, but it was a rather redundant thought right before a sparring match.

“He never told me he was a smith,” Grimm observed; he glanced into the group assembling around them. Every Troupe member was present, but what fascinated him the most was that Mist was perched near Fae and ignoring everyone else entirely. And he had something over his head: a piece of filmy fabric held in place by woven bands around his mask. “When did our butterfly become so fond of the flashier twin?”

“Fae’s been teaching him about butterfly culture, actually,” the moth hummed. “Pyre gave him that veil. Apparently, there is a lot about butterflies we did not know.”

Did not remember, more like.

He knew, instantly, that veils had significance. The memory came flooding back, unbidden: wearing veils was a social symbol among their kind. Different colors denoted different things. Black was, traditionally, mourning, but adorning it with gems meant that the wearer was of considerable status. The twins did not wear veils, despite being half-butterfly, but clearly, they knew the importance of them.

He did not often think about such things. Who they were before the Troupe was of no great consequence to Grimm. They were his people and he was fond of them as they were. It should have occurred to him, though, that Mist would want to know more about where he came from. Especially since they were both the very last butterflies left in the world of that particular tribe.

Grimm would speak with him after the fight. Not just because he wanted to know what Fae was teaching him, but he also wanted Mist to know what memories he had from Luster. That had felt like a forbidden topic for so long, considering how young the butterfly was when he’d joined them, but…

Not anymore.

Mist was not young in truth now, and he would never be old, either.

“I like his veil,” Nightshade continued. “He’s very fond of it. It belonged to their mother, the twins. Pyre seemed to like that it was going to someone who would take good care of it. That it would be worn for eternity.”

That fit. Pyre was a sentimental creature.

“Speaking of him,” the moth continued. “He brought back the little one. It’s mean of you to send the baby away. Do you not realize how cute little-you is?”

He knew. He even agreed, strange though it might have been for him to admit.

“It is better,” Grimm told her.

“How is it better? You are a part of this family, you jerk. You need to remember that.”

It was better because he wanted to be more than he was. He wanted to be a thing apart. He wanted to learn from others, to take in their experiences, to –

To what?

To fix the holes in his heart, ever glowing like his eyes? To fix who he was, in hopes that he would become someone more worthy of the love that people offered him? Perhaps. Or maybe he was projecting. Maybe he just wanted to look into the mirror and like the person looking back at him.

(Time. Time would give him that.)

“Root for me,” Grimm asked of Nightshade; he twitched his tail and smiled behind his mask. “Your husband beats me up often enough. I need something to assure me that I am not totally hopeless.”

That was eerily close to how Cross had once described him and, inadvertently, it dug deep into an old wound. There was a time when those words would have paralyzed him. He did not think Cross would ever be a wound that fully healed. He saw the snail in everything. But Grimm was surprised to find that while it did feel a little like being slapped, the sharp ache to his heart faded. Atlas was not Cross, and Atlas meant it as a compliment, in his own way.

(And Atlas hadn’t given up on him, either. Stubborn moth.)

“If I manage to win, I will grant your husband’s wish,” he told her. “I will let him find out what it is like to fight the real me.”

“Can I watch?”

His tail playfully undulated to the side. “Perhaps.” But likely not. He did not like disrupting dreams, but he would make an exception to challenge Atlas in the Nightmare. He wanted to let him see exactly how right he was… because he was correct: in the real world, he was crippled, bound by mortal laws, tied to a physical form. He was not physical in his own world. He wasn’t anywhere close to crippled there.

He'd enjoy that fight immensely. But only if he managed to win. Only if he managed to prove that he could. Otherwise, what was the point? To lose to Atlas, as he had so many times before? No, thank you.

Grimm turned and crossed the field. The clearing was good enough for a normal spar. Pyre met him in the middle of it, and the child left the hybrid’s shoulder to fly over to him. He held one hand up and stroked its wings before sending it to settle on Nightshade’s lap (Complain less, moth).

“Are you sure that you are up to this?” Pyre asked him. “Iris told me you’ve been taking her venom. If you are not well…”

How sweet.

“I assure you that I am fine. Do you intend to use magic?” Grimm hummed, turning his head to the side. At Pyre’s nod, he said, “Then I will, too.”

“I would hope so.”

“Are you ready, my friend?” Grimm asked, with Pyre nodding again, and then he offered a flourishing bow, one wing spread at his side. “Then dance with me,” he purred. The lilt in his voice was impossible to miss. Musical.

He did so like to put on a show.

Pyre did not bow back, though he did hesitate (as though considering doing so – perhaps he’d never seen anyone bow in combat, considering that he had so little experience in it in a less life-or-death situation?). He launched forward with a slash, and Grimm teleported away with a soft ‘pop’ – which was perhaps not the most charitable response, but he was not about to be hit while he was being polite.

Rude, Pyre. Very rude.

He reappeared on the other side of the hybrid, who had whirled to meet him. Pyre raised his nail to parry Grimm’s clawed slash and then struck downward. Grimm danced out of the way of it and swiped again, and –

There was a tempo to it, wasn’t there? He’d called it a dance, and fighting was a dance. One-two step.

(Did practicing with Atlas have a similar flow? You slice, I slash. You back up, I step forward. I retreat and you close distance. Was it always like that?)

The sound of metal hitting his claws was loud. They reverberated and felt numb to him. He needed to get better protectors for them if he was going to use them in physical combat, he realized.

Slice. Parry. Scratch.

Rhythm. There was a melody to each movement and he hummed quietly to himself to match it. Pyre no doubt heard him but did not question what he was doing – which was kind of him, as Grimm did not know.

What he did know was that Pyre failed to dodge one of his attacks, and his claws ripped through his shoulder nastily.

Lost the tempo. Fell out of step. The next two hits landed soundly: one-two scratch.

(Give him a minute to get up.

Would a real opponent? No. But it wasn’t a real fight.

He’d drawn hemolymph first.

But he wanted to win. He wanted to win.

He wanted to win fairly. Give him a minute.)

Grimm scurried backwards, giving Pyre more space. The hybrid leapt back to his feet and then –

Threw his nail across the field. That was unexpected. Grimm dodged out of the way of it, only to be sliced on its return as magic propelled it back to its owner. He felt the wound gape in his side over tender scar tissue.

One-two slice.

He dodged. He parried. He moved like he owned the ground, and Grimm was surprised to find that he felt like he did. There was something incredibly satisfying about keeping the tempo, keeping to the melody, like – like –

Left. Right.

One-two scratch.

(You slice, I back up. I fill the distance with my own claws.)

He landed more blows than he took, but Pyre’s nail managed to nick his wings in several places, and at least once on his arm. It was good practice, even as his fingers started to numb from using the length of his claws to block attacks.

(They were going to be so, so sore.)

Every time one of them fell out of the tempo, they took a hit, he noticed. There was synergy between the two of them, and as long as he continued to hum along to it, he… didn’t falter.

Dirt kicked up under scuffling feet as Pyre dashed at him, both hands clenched on the hilt to swing the blade down, and the reaction was instant. Grimm jumped and landed, squarely, on the edge of the blade. He perched, crouched, fingers on one end and feet under him; his claws came up, then, to catch the hybrid’s face; Pyre’s grip on the blade faltered under his weight, the nail hitting the ground, but Grimm himself did not fall, levitating in the air.

Fire danced from his fingertips and flared, blindingly bright, right in Pyre’s eyes.

“Live up to your name. Burn for me.”

As he spoke, Pyre hissed and half-screamed, stumbling back and clutching his face. That was almost enough to make him feel guilty.

Almost.

Grimm skittered backwards, essence spirals trailing in his wake and he stopped far enough away to avoid a counterattack.

He could end it now. He could –

That thought was interrupted by fire igniting underneath him. Unlike his own flames, which were undeniably scarlet, Pyre’s were a rich orange that seared up like a vortex. If he was anyone else, he would have been screaming as his wings shriveled in the heat.

Instead, he called magic into them. His intention was to use them to wrap up Pyre, to disable him, but that was not what happened. No, as if of their own accord, his wings shot into the ground, burrowing serpentine beneath it. Flames rolled down his back, trailed over the extended lengths, and exploded out of the ground directly in front of Pyre, sending him careening into the air.

…when had he learned—

In the middle of a fight was not the best time to think about the fact that his wings seemed to have taken on a mind of their own; he could analyze it later.

He teleported, then, and when the still-blind hybrid hit the ground, Grimm landed on top of him, claws wrapping around his throat, piercing shell a little.

Pyre coughed. His throat spasmed between Grimm’s fingers. “You’re fast,” he panted. “And your fire is nasty. I relent. I need – I need –”

“Alula will have a salve for your eyes,” Grimm answered, releasing his throat. “You seared my wings.”

“You started with the fire.” Pyre coughed and brought his hands up to his eyes, his nail falling to his side. “Going for the eyes. That is a bit dishonorable—”

“It’s fucking brilliant, actually,” came the brusque correction. Grimm looked up to see Atlas approaching, one hand held out to the fallen twin. “Where the fuck is that when you fight me, princess? Where is this jumping on blades and dodging by a hair’s breadth instead of getting punched in the guts like you like it? Where the hell is any of this coming from? I’ve never seen you do most of that.”

One-two slash.

Pyre took Atlas’s hand and sat up. “Brilliant or not, my eyes –”

“You’ll be fine.” Atlas did not sound sympathetic at all. Grimm had thought that he and Pyre were friends. Or… at least friendly? “Alula will fix you right up.”

Pyre looked incredibly unhappy.

(Pyre was a bad patient, Grimm realized. As bad a patient as Grimm himself was. Even if he was fond of Alula – and he clearly was – he was not relishing the idea of being doted on. Grimm felt some sympathy for that. Good luck.)

The child rose from Nightshade’s lap and flew over to daintily land on Pyre’s shoulder. It mrrr’d quietly, bumping its head into his chin, and the annoyance on the twin’s face dissolved away immediately.

“Your father is a bit mean,” Pyre told the child, to Grimm’s quiet laughter. The hybrid leaned down conspiratorially. “I forgive him, though. Even if you and I are more alike right now than usual. Both of us blinded.”

“It can see,” Grimm corrected. “Through my eyes.”

The little buzz of wings told him that Pyre was aware and did not care. Dissociating the two of them, father, and child, seemed to be preferable. Easier for him to process, perhaps.

Pyre patted the child’s back and looked sideways at Grimm. “Next time, you will not get a chance to use such underhanded tricks. Think of something more clever.”

He was very hung up on it being ‘underhanded.’ Grimm was of the opinion that winning was more important than honor, to some degree.

He would ask Atlas if he was wrong about. But it did not sound like he was.

A real enemy would not ask permission before wounding someone, after all.

“I want to keep records.”

Grimm lifted his head to look over his shoulder. Mist stood in the entrance to the tent, arms folded, the short veil that Pyre gave him covering his face, and his wings were twitching slightly at his lower back. Usually when they moved, it meant that he was agitated. His voice alone gave that away, though. Mist sounded positively distressed.

Grimm had meant to talk to him, he had – he’d just… put it off, in part because of dread, in part because of being busy.

“Fae has been teaching me,” Mist continued.

“Has he?” Grimm hummed. He’d noticed the two of them together while he was dueling with Pyre; he’d retreated to his tent after the fight to let the hybrid and Alula have some alone time, for his own injuries were superficial by comparison. He did not ask where Fae went after the fight. The older twin was still something of a mystery. He’d taken to Mist immediately, but not to Grimm.

“Yes. About butterflies. About my culture.” Mist sat on the end of the table, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I didn’t know that our people have an oral tradition of storytelling, or that – that some of them keep complex recordings of every culture they visit. Nomadic. Like we are.” He took a long, shaky breath. “We are bad at being butterflies.”

Perhaps.

“So you want to keep records of the kingdoms we’ve visited, then?” Grimm asked, his tail coming up to undulate behind him. He was fiddling with the enchantments on a hilt not unlike the one he’d made for Iris. “What is stopping you?”

“I want you to, too.”

Ah?

He’d been keeping records for a long time. Ever since his first life. He’d started keeping them after Cross – at an off-hand suggestion from Nightshade. They were wrapped scrolls and bound into shellwood or silks to form books. No one in the Troupe had ever seen them. He did not intend to speak of their existence, either.

“Have you seen my handwriting?” Grimm teased. “It is barely legi—”

“You carry on my brother’s legacy. You owe him this.”

Oh, Mist was pulling no punches, was he?

Grimm turned his head to the side and then exhaled. This was bound to come up eventually, he thought. He’d learned of butterfly culture from Luster’s memories. Though it had been so long (how long? Centuries?) he could recall the events of his first body’s life with absolute clarity. In many ways, it was almost as though he and Luster had become one. The others did not remember him – including Mist. Mist knew of him, but could not recall Luster’s face, Luster’s voice, anything about him. All that he knew was what Grimm deigned to tell him.

He'd thought that kinder, once, but –

Maybe it was not.

Butterflies, as a culture, had oral traditions: they told stories around their campfires every night, for their children and for their adults. Legends. Myths. Some were invented on the spot and some were passed down. They performed music for one another, too, and he could not help but wonder if his fondness for it was at least in part fueled by Luster’s. They’d invented string instruments (was that why he’d picked one?). They existed in small packs and traveled. They never stayed anywhere too long. And they kept intricate, highly detailed chronicles, scrolls and books.

Mist was right. Butterflies were nomadic the same way that the Troupe was. Were they really all that different? But the tribe that he and Luster hailed from was different, because they’d settled in one place. They’d devoted their existence to the worship of the void at the shores of the great swell of darkness. Their people adopted Alula and Nightshade’s family and the others that had come with them. When they died, they threw themselves into the void sea as an offering, to return to the nothingness from whence they came. And when they became adults, they partook of it, ingesting it to forever be dying.

Luster’s past was poisoning him, slowly. The void did not give back what it took.

“ – please, I know, but—”

Speaking. Ah. He’d – he’d missed part of that.

“Come again?” he asked. Mist gave him a funny look. “I was thinking about what you asked.”

“I was reiterating that… bad handwriting or not. You’re the last of my people. Other butterflies exist, but you’re the last of my kind. Our kind, really, you’re one of us, but –”

“No, you had the right of it,” Grimm corrected. “Your people. I am a thing apart and I am not the god that they worshipped.”

He’d been thinking the same, though, that while he’d long abandoned Luster’s body, he had a responsibility to uphold his memory. In many regards, he considered himself a living tribute to a people long deceased: the last will and testament of a culture long gone. With that in mind, did Grimm not think that it was a good idea to preserve all that he knew, in case he himself forgot? In case he, himself, faded?

(He, who could not die?)

But…

He was not sure that ripping open that scar was the best of ideas. Mist did have a right to know. He did have a right to learn about the culture that he’d come from, the people he’d left behind. Alula and Nightshade would want to know what they’d lost, too. The problem was that poking a festering wound risked letting them remember it, and they’d given their memories up willingly to him in order to escape them.

(They are not the same people that they were that day on the banks of the void sea. They have grown. They are not alone anymore. No longer are Alula and Nightshade barely adults who’ve lost everything that they’ve ever loved. No longer do they have nothing left in the world but each other. They have you. They have Marra, Atlas, Mist, Reed. They may even have Iris, Fae, and Pyre. They are not alone. Will it hurt them, truly, if they should get those memories back?

Do you want to risk it?)

“You would have me record your people’s history, as Luster knew it, then?” he asked Mist; he let his tail flick to the side. “You may remember things that you would rather forget. Reading it could bring back the memories you gave to me. I cannot promise they are lost forever. If you stare too far into the dark, you cannot be surprised when eyes meet your own. Is that a risk you would be willing to take, my friend?”

Mist may have looked like a child but treating him like one would be disrespectful. Even if it felt kinder to hide from him the things that Grimm knew would hurt. And they would hurt.

Those were not memories that he would enjoy having.

That culture was dead, but they’d suffered in their dying. They were hurt, tormented, purged like a sickness from the earth by his sister. She’d burnt them away with fire. In their dying moments, they prayed to a god that did not answer and might not have even existed.

The void did not feel. It was a vast reservoir of power, yes, an endless fount. And it felt nothing at all for their problems. What care had it, when in the end all would return to it eventually?

The butterflies of that tribe worked hand-in-hand with the snails who worshipped the void’s magic, who were fixated with understanding its very nature. Cross was one such snail, and Grimm – Grimm had his memories, too. They’d intrinsically understood the nature of the void, of Soul, and of the beast that slumbered near that sea, whose blood flowed cerulean and could heal any wound.

Where there is death, there must also be life. All things in balance.

“I need to know my history. I need to know where I came from,” Mist told him, his head bowing. “I want to be a butterfly in truth. Right now I’m just… a strange moth at best.”

“The Moth Tribe has a very similar outlook on history. They do not tell stories as much, but they do keep records. Butterflies and moths have ever been two sides of the same coin. One flies in the day and the other under the cover of moonlight, but you are not that different of creatures.”

Mist fluttered his wings, agitated. Grimm lifted one hand to brush his fingers over the butterfly’s mask. “You know your history. You know your past. You are yourself. You have ever been. What you remember is your truth. What came before is what you left behind.”

That got him a slanted look, a slight glare, and Grimm smiled, a squint of scarlet behind the mask, and then he said, “But I have given you warning enough. I will grant your request. If your heart breaks at the history that you learn – for it is not the most pleasant story to tell, why else would you have given it up? – that is not something I will be held accountable for. Do you agree?”

He could deny Mist nothing.

He’d promised Luster, once upon a time, to look after his brother. Keep him safe, happy, give him the life that he deserved. He might not have always succeeded at that, but he was trying to get better, and if nothing else, he deserved acknowledgment for the effort.

Grimm was trying.

Mist shook his head. “I… I agree. I won’t blame you. But you can’t protect me forever. Not from everything.”

So sayeth he. That would not stop Grimm from trying.

Alula’s tent smelled heavily of medicine: a little bitter, with the heavy stench of alcohol only barely disguised by floral notes found in the soaps and cleaning agents. She combatted that scent with candles and her sister’s herb sticks, but there really was no way of ‘fixing’ it. She cleaned wounds. She kept the majority of her tent sterile. She was always soaking utensils. If she was in the process of taking care of someone or had recently, it would always be particularly pungent.

He found it comforting.

It was the dead of night, well after the sun had set. Pyre had retreated to one of the empty tents, with Fae and presumably Iris, and strangely, Marra was not with Alula. She was by herself.

He found her wiping down one of the chairs. Probably where she’d sat the hybrid down when she treated his eyes. Grimm had waited a few hours to give her plenty of time quite intentionally, but –

“The eyes were a vicious move,” the moth scolded. “In a real fight, the right choice. We really must teach you the difference between that and a spar, though.”

“He will heal, will he not?” Grimm asked curiously. Alula leveled him a disapproving stare from behind her mask as he crossed the threshold to sit on her table. He perched like he owned it. She always looked annoyed when he did that – which was, of course, why he did it. “And it gave you an excuse to give him medical treatment. Should you not be thanking me?”

“He’s as awful a patient as you are. Barely sat still once his sight returned. Kept insisting that he had things to do. And do you know, I considered pinning his wings to the floor.” She sounded so exasperated; he was deeply amused.

Grimm pulled his legs up and crossed them underneath him. “I might have been a little mean on purpose. I might be… still upset on behalf of Marra.”

That declaration earned him the most withering look. She pulled her mask off, stepped over in front of him, and yanked him down by his horns to meet his gaze. “Then you should be dropping firebombs in Marra’s eyes as well, because they are as much in the wrong as –”

“Lulu, I am on your side on this. I told them to talk to you,” he interrupted. “Do not berate me so.”

“Stay out of it then.” Her tone was sharp. Disapproving. And exhausted. He immediately felt guilty.

No. It was not his business or his place to tell Alula what to do with her relationships, and never would he presume to do so. She deserved to be happy, whatever it took, and if that meant being with Pyre instead of Marra… he would try to understand. He was attached to the dragonfly, she knew that, but he was also becoming very fond of Pyre. It was a complicated situation.

And she was right. It had nothing to do with him. He was not at all in a position to tell her what to do with her life. But…

He brought his hands up to catch her face and pulled her closer to press his forehead to hers.

“I want to see you happy, mama.” She was not his real mother but she was close enough that he was willing to fake it for her. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise that I will not say anything to Pyre, nor will I try to sway any of your decisions or Marra’s. I simply told them to talk to you. To make choices with you, instead of excluding you. That making them on their own without you involved was an injustice to you.”

The moth sighed and brought one hand up to scratch his horns. The shell was a little loose there, over the ridges where they tapered, and her claws gently dislodged some of the shedding bits. It chased away the itch, so he leaned his head into the touch instinctively.

“They did talk to me,” she told him. “For all the good that it did. It is Pyre that they need to talk to. But you stay out of it. And stop bullying Pyre because you’ve got a favorite. Marra would not want you doing that, either.”

She was right, he knew.

He laid his head against hers, closing his eyes slowly.

“I want them all three to stay with us,” Grimm told the moth and Alula laughed. “Oh, stop. It is not because of the twins at all. They are… an added bonus. For you and for Iris. But she is the reason I want them to stay. She is, not them.”

That made her somber up a little.

“She reminds you of your hurts.” At his nod, Alula continued, “And what you’ve overcome. What you have survived. That’s a poor reason to want to keep someone, though. You shouldn’t offer unless you have a better one than that. Iris deserves to be more than just a monument to your pain. She’s a living, thinking person, with feelings and hurts of her own. You’re not the only one who has suffered.”

He knew that. He did. She was right, though, to say it. Just because he was aware did not mean that he was consciously thinking about it at all.

“And you.” Alula’s words drew him sharply out of his thoughts. “Mister chronically single, wants no relationships, needs no one else, happy-by-myself. When you are in a committed relationship, then and only then do you get to start trying to give me or anyone else advice on that matter. Do you understand me?”

He laughed. She was right. He did not want any kind of relationship of that nature. He was not exactly ‘happy,’ but he did not want to give his broken and damaged heart to anyone else.

Better that he be alone than ever subject someone else to the storm that was his entire being. His was a soul on fire, burning forever. No one else needed to sear.

“Yes, mother.”

#ashe writes #red sky #rs chapter #hollow knight #hk fanfic #hollow knight fanfic

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damnation-if · 2 years ago

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Honestly gotta say, the lore setup of the world alone has filled me with Such intense emotions bc CHEF'S KISS nothing beats world building for me, i want to learn All the Things, no matter how wild or mundane

as such, Twilit has caught my attention for their own interest in knowledge, atop being overall very intriguing to me ( shoutout & air kisses to my darling Heluur too ); the deep irony is that i have severe mottephobia, to the point where even just thinking abt moths ( or anything moth-related ) for beyond a few seconds results in prolonged nausea on my part, which kinda really sucks fhrjjdjf

nonetheless i am determined to at least TRY to woo them, as Largely Beyond Human Comprehension & Old AF are def favored traits of mine to find in characters

thank you for all your hard work you've done thus far! i hope you're getting proper rest too! I'm very excited to continue playing this delightful story 🥳💖

thank you so much for your kind words! i have really enjoyed all the worldbuilding... i'm so glad that other people are also enjoying it! <3

but oh dear... i'm so sorry! obviously don't. feel obliged to push yourself if it's really making you feel ill lmao i'm very sorry that my story has ended up adjacent to your phobia 😔 i Have mentioned it before a long time ago but Twilit isn't really all that Moth-y (in fact they're even less Moth-y than the moth!mc), though i don't really know if that will be any consolation. but hopefully not having buggy eyes or antennae is Something at least.

ironically i ended up going with this fairly lowkey set of moth wings because i thought their original concept would be too scary skbsdfg. in the end i figured i'd keep the original concept as a "true form" of sorts; all of the older and more powerful demons have to do things in order to make themselves Small, in order to Fit inside hell, so much of Twilit's being is. Elsewhere lmfao

i do have a faceclaim for their humanoid avatar that mc mostly gets to interact with haha, which i don't for most of the other ROs. so maybe that helps?

i'm going to spoiler the True Form description for people who don't want to look at it and also possibly just because it's. spoilers, i guess? however i don't think this is ever going to be a Reveal, it's just not obvious at first glance looking at them.

it's not super advisable to look directly at Twilit's true form unless you want a bunch of psychic damage, but obviously other archdemons are capable of Beholding them fine. they're Huge, with differing layers of loosely-connected corporeal form overlapping; the. central body? is squid-like in shape, though the skin is scaled and tough rather than an actual squid's blubber or whatever, with a mass of long tentacles that extend from the uh... torso? the head/face region has that... let's say "conical" squid-shape but augmented with bony plates and cilia that evoke the biblical descriptions of angels, with a halo like a burning wheel and so forth. circling the body is a shroud of moth-like wings that can fold up in on themselves or unfurl based on their whim - when unfurled, they vibrate with a loud humming, buzzing noise. black in colour; they have no visible eyes, ears or mouth, but no matter which direction you look at them from, they always seem to be watching you.

squid... How Do They Work

it's not particularly new ground as far as eldritch beings go but i enjoy a good tentacle... Conceptually i mean. they were actually not a demon in this original iteration though haha... they were an elder god. so. things change!

#what does the chaos mirror see #chigusaeyes #thank you again for your message!#i really hope. answering and mentioning moths doesn't make your phobia worse!!#though hopefully since you asked the questions you're somewhat prepared. i can delete it if you need of course #RO: twilit #long post.

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kidelune · 2 years ago

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What is it like? To be alive. To be sentient. To be human. I think, for me, that is to give and take away meaning from everything I do in ways only I find fitting, as a measure of making sense of myself. It is to camp on the border of desperateness, and bow to anything it'll take out of me, regardless of how mad, for my next chance at surviving. It is counterintuitive to play with the fire you know will hurt, yes, to receive some high degree burns while juggling all the shiny flames, yes, to still return to the bonfire in the end, like a moth, yes. But what if that is the only way that I have—what if that's the only way that makes sense to me as a tool of making sense of myself? Because otherwise, if I don't cohere, then what's the point of me existing at all? And what is extant without a little bit of peril? Nothing, says I. They're yin and yang, and I know many that would tuck my opinion back in my hands and send me away. But I never wanted peace or redemption. All I've ever really wanted was to make sense to myself.

I never had a mother, either. She never wanted me. My father had told me the story in full one night, while he was drunk out of his wits; most eloquently, of how he had to beg my mother on both knees to have me, so he could raise me himself. And maybe, back then, he just needed me as a scapegoat for his utterly fucked up life–as if a child could save anyone, I thought–but you did save me, more than I'd expected from anyone in this world, he'd said. He fell in love with me before I had the chance to take my very first breath into this burning house of a world, and had refused to abandon me ever since, although my mother had adjacent plans. I can imagine she did not even want to touch me, let alone bother with fulfilling her role any further beyond her deal with my father. Is it sad that I don't even know what she looks like? I don't know, nor want to and never could, anyway. I was born my father, through and through.

Consequently, I think because I have not a sliver or inkling about what a mother is really supposed to feel like, I haven't really been able to get accustomed to his girlfriend. She's a nice lady, sweet, even. Petite little thing who's always got an expensive bag at her hands. Korean, though practically not as she'd grown up here in Japan under arms of wealth. I can tell she loves pops, and she tries to appeal to me as best as she could. But as a mother in law, I simply cannot find it within myself to locate any merit in the thought of her taking up such a role. At least not for me, not at this big age of mine. Mothers are for boys, and my inner child, timid as he is, would spit at her feet.

Her son is twenty-five and seems to have formed an opinion on me that's, for now, majorly ambiguous than anything else. He gets restless when we're alone, which, I applaud and consider as good intuition. When you can tell that someone is bad news without them disclosing anything to you at all, that's usually a sign of grace. He knows the difference, which is something that'll keep him from my mess for good. Anyway, I've decided I'll keep my dictum of him just as whimsical. Not like I care much.

Christmas was nice (I got a haircut, cigs from dad and made catnip tea for my girls), but happy new year, me. What is it like? To be alive with blood on your hands? What is it like to smile, embrace joy and forget while your kin are dying back home? What is it like to close your eyes at night and see Sangyeon's gaping throat and the murder weapon in your hands? To be fair it's nothing new, and although it still makes me sick to my fucking stomach every new day, such is the nature of my life. This is the only way I can turn to as a reliable source of making sense of myself. Of making sure that I am alive.

The guilt of a kill and buried friends plagues me in the form of multiple smoked out packs in my drawers, but know that if I linger too long, I might fall behind into a gutter that'll pose as my ultimate demise. Though, contrariwise, I still don't know what to do with this peace except turn it on its axis and make turbulence. I don't know what to do with myself and this silence, and happiness, in spite of everything. And how can it be so, that I'm so numb I cry none for anyone else but myself? How is peace, the stubborn fuck, still a part of someone like me at all? Strange. Maybe I should go into this new year with the intent of exploring my peace. Of living silently. Then again, what is extant without a bit of peril? Nothing, not to me. Ah, I'm unsalvageable at this point, aren't I? Hah.

#kk.log

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sincerely-sofie · 8 months ago

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Hi Sofie, i-never-forgot here!😊This may be an odd sort of question and I can’t recall if you’ve either discussed it before or mentioned it in TPiaG or not, but how would you describe Darkrai and some of the others in a tactile sense? I’m a detailed writer myself so I dwell on stuff like this to make it seem as accurate as possible lol

Obviously more animal-adjacent Pokemon would more closely resemble their IRL counterparts (like my main pair of Leafeon and Lucario having fur, as well as Grovyle likely having scales and being cool-natured due to being cold-blooded like geckos) with some “fantastical” differences (like Twig also being scaled but perhaps warm to the touch due to being a fire type? I know she can’t regulate her temperature like normal ones would, but would she still run a higher than average temperature compared to other Pokemon?), but I struggle to describe some of the more vaguely inspired ones, if that makes sense.

Would Celebi be smooth like onion skin or would she have soft hairy scales/powdery like moths/butterflies since she’s technically like a fairy?

Would Dusknoir be more ghostly or tangible? I think he’d be cool to the touch and I know he can control whether he’s corporeal or not at will, but would he be just kind of fleshy or more “ectoplasmic” for lack of a better word?

And as for Darkrai, I just can’t get it out of my head that he’s feathery since Cresselia has them. Is he super soft with short down? I just can’t picture him having fur/hair for some reason.

I guess what this boils down to is that I’m asking for a bit of writing advice haha. I portray my characters as somewhat tactile in their affection but I’m running into this issue of not being sure how to describe some of the others’ physical characteristics😅sorry for the long ask, my friend!

No need to apologize— I love receiving long asks! :D

I’ve been puzzling this out in my head for a while now. I’m wanting to work on writing with more vivid sensory details, so I’ve been working on a bit of a cheat sheet to refer to when I’m describing the main cast of TPiaG. It’s still a work in progress, but here’s some of the notes I’ve got!

Celebi isn't visibly hairy, but she'd feel like a lamb’s ear plant’s leaf if you touched her— very much soft and fuzzy, but in a plant way instead of an animal way. I picture the green parts of her having a shimmery, powdery substance they give off when something touches them, but she usually keeps that substance from building up because it would overwhelm her natural beauty with sparkles if she didn't. She smells like crushed bay leaves.

I imagine Dusknoir would have more “give” to him than someone who is 100% corporeal 24/7, but he's still solid despite having an overstuffed-pillow quality to him. He is not going to beat the beanbag allegations on my watch. He'd feel a few degrees cooler than your average pokemon, but only a few— enough for someone to take note of it if they weren't expecting as much, but nothing comparable to some of the ice-types out there. His hands and head as well as the cuffs on his wrists and his collar / frill all feel completely solid, and are unyielding to the touch. He smells like an antique store— that sort of dusty, perfume-smelling kind specifically.

Grovyle is pretty much a typical lizard in terms of scaliness, though maybe snakes would be a better comparison? He doesn’t feel very rough, but he’s definitely got scales. His leaves are similar to those awful crab grasses that will kill you with paper cuts if you look at them the wrong way. He smells like cut grass.

Twig is entirely smooth, save for her “freckles”, which are actually scattered patches of raised scales that are somewhat rough. She radiates ambient heat that could be compared to a fireplace that's burning low after having maintained a roaring fire for a while— the kind of warmth that's not intense enough to burn your face but is still cozy and comforting. She smells like a campfire, but only a tiny bit— she smells more strongly of forests in the sun and the bark on trees.

Kip feels like a dolphin. I don't know how to describe him other than with this comparison. He’s kinda rubbery and very solid, and has a lot of muscle under his cute exterior. His head and tail fins feel kinda like silk, but with a lot more substance to them. He smells like freshwater and rain.

Darkrai has evaded my ability to describe for the longest time. I can't make up my mind. I love the idea of him being feathery, but it doesn't quite fit the image I have for him in my head. The best descriptor comparison I can summon is those satin fabrics you can find bolts of at fabric stores. He feels… sleek? I guess is a good word? Sleek but not slippery like some of the fancier satins out there. But yeah. He feels fabric-y in terms of texture, and like the cold side of a pillow in terms of temperature. His plume feels more like hair the closer to his head you get, and the further away you get the more intangible it becomes and feels like the air on really misty days where everything seems saturated with cold and dew. The puffy cloudy things on his shoulders share the same trait. He smells like nothing, at least from Twig's POV, but specifically the kind of nothing that you smell in your own home where everything is so familiar you just stop noticing the scents.

I struggle to be very sensory in my writing, so this cheat sheet is going to be a vital resource as I try and describe senses more— hope it’s able to help you a bit as well! :>

#sofie answers asks #the present is a gift au #pokémon mystery dungeon #pmd sky #pmd explorers #pmd eos #pmd #pmd2 #pokemon mystery dungeon #pmd celebi #pmd dusknoir #pmd grovyle #pmd darkrai

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collecting-stories · 3 years ago

Text

Pocket Watch - Finn Shelby

Request: Hey I was wondering if you could write a Finn Shelby imagine no specific ideas for it thank you so much

A/N: It’s been a hot minute since I wrote any of the Shelby boys so hopefully this doesn’t totally suck 😂

Peaky Blinders Masterlist

♢ ♢ ♢ ♢ ♢

It felt like a lifetime since you’d been inside the Garrison. The once intimidating building felt rather small where it was, sitting at the end of the side street, adjacent to a warehouse. You could smell the charcoal and the alcohol mixing in the air as you slipped through the doors. You were meant to be on your way to London...the train had left this morning but you’d hung around the station, letting the train go south without you as you boarded another.

The familiarity and homeliness of the Garrison lent you a hand in locating your target almost as soon as you’d slipped through the double doors. There he was at the bar, boyish features betrayed by his beanstalk of a frame, he’d sprouted sooner than all the other Shelby boys, growing like a weed through the concrete into something absolutely beautiful. If you could’ve stayed away...you weren’t sure you would’ve wanted to. As it was, Finn Shelby possessed the kind of Romani magick that his aunt professed to be an expert in. He didn’t know it but his very being was like a spell over you and try as your mother did, here you were seeking him out.

“I hear they let the girls drink for free here,” your voice carried over the sound of shouting at the bar and Finn turned, his freckled cheeks tinging pink at the sight of you.

He recovered quickly, waving a hand to the bartender without even looking as he spoke to you, “thought you were headed back to London today?” he asked, taking a measured sip from his glass, trying to appear as nonchalant about your arrival to the Garrison as he imagined one of his older brothers might.

“I got on the wrong train.” You replied, reaching for the gold chain of his pocket watch, hanging from his vest. It glinted in the warmth of the Garrison, catching slivers of light from the lamps around the bar. Finn always teased you about your attraction to it, like a moth to a flame. A kleptomaniac, though you didn’t take the watch...just fiddled with it whenever Finn wore it. Even now, you took a step closer to him, nearly pressed against him in the crowded bar, fingers brushing his vest as you played with the chain.

“I’ll say,” he teased, lighting a cigarette and placing it precariously between his lips. He tilted his head up and away from you, giving you the perfect view of his adam’s apple and the slope of his jaw.

“Garrison’s crowded tonight.” You observed, not entirely sure where you were going with the comment. There was the lingering question, why were you there? Why had you missed your train to London? Just for him?

“Suppose it is.” Finn nodded slowly, trying not to make too much eye contact with you, if only so that he didn’t completely cave and give in to you. He wanted to hear you tell him exactly why you had skipped the train and come back to Small Heath. This time, he wasn’t going to let himself be distracted by you. He let out a breath of smoke and tilted his head down, catching sight of you still fiddling with the pocket watch. You’d taken it completely out of his pocket now, the thin gold chain connecting the two of you as you ran your thumb over the engraving on the lid. “Why’re you here?”

“I told you-”

“You got on the wrong train...I heard.” He replied, trying to focus on the task at hand, “doesn’t really answer the question.”

“I thought about it, I don’t really want to go to London.” You confessed, stepping back a little bit, still holding his pocket watch in your hands. “I mean, maybe someday...not alone.”

“Not alone,” he repeated, “or not without me?”

“If you know the answer...why ask?” You replied, looking away from him. The bar seemed to have thinned out slightly, not enough to feel empty but enough that you weren’t stepping into people when you put a little more distance between you and him. You weren’t sure if you were trying to entice him to pull you back in, if this was a test, or if you were trying to keep yourself detached.

“If you know the answer, why not just tell me?” He asked, losing a little bit of that perfectly crafted cool that he’d been working on. In all honesty, Finn was finding himself exhausted by the game the two of you seemed to play all the time. He really didn’t care anymore about who was winning...you’d gotten off the train, that meant something. Why couldn’t you just tell him what?

“If I went to London,” you mused, careful and calculated as you began to let your guard down, “I would miss...this pocket watch and how it looks in the sun when it’s been tossed across a blanket on the grass...down near the park. And I’d miss running my fingers along the thin gold chain that leads, always, right back to you. And I’d miss the way you tip your hat at me when you see me ‘cross the street with my mum, as if we aren’t more than neighbors...and sneaking off under the bridge with you.”

Finn’s cheeks flushed pink, betraying any further attempt at playing it cool as you moved in closer once more and kissed his cheek to tell him that you’d have missed him the most of anything if you’d gone on the train to London that morning. “You’ll be in a world of trouble when your mum finds you here in Small Heath.” He finally said.

“Cause I’m not in London or cause I’m not in London on account of wanting to be here with you?” You asked, unable to stop the smile that crossed your features.

“Doubt there’s much to say about the latter.” Finn was well aware that your mum wasn’t thrilled with you spending your time with a Shelby but, running things in Small Heath the way they did, she had little that she could truly say about it.

“It’s still a bit crowded in here.” You were practically pressed against him by now, your hand flat against his stomach, the small gold chain forgotten as you leaned against him. It wasn’t necessary and the bar was far less crowded than it had been when you first walked in but you couldn’t help trying to entice him to leave. You’d come all the way down here to find him, after all.

“Yeah alright,” he conceded, leaning back to put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the counter. You knew he’d just light another when you got outside. “Let’s get you home.”

#finn shelby fic #finn shelby x reader #finn shelby fanfic #finn shelby imagine #finn shelby fanfiction #finn shelby x you #finn shelby x y/n #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders imagine #collecting stories imagine

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1-800-seo · 4 years ago

Text

Pairing: Lee Taeyong X Gender Neutral Reader

Song: The Louvre - Lorde (lyrics mentioned)

Genre: Fluff/Artist!You + Poet!Taeyong

Warnings: suspicions of cheating, alcohol consumption, slightly tipsy-ness, some kissing, implied sexual content but not explicit.

Word Count: 4000 approx.

Summary: As wandering, travelling college students on a gap year, meeting each other in the Louvre was purely coincidental, and usually summer flings weren’t your thing, but Taeyong was different. And like a moth to a flame, you were entranced.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

The floorboards creak as the tour group shuffles down the hallways of the Louvre, passing many other tourists. The tour group leader stops at another painting and begins his explanation of the painting you see in front of you; well, you would be able to see it if you weren’t at the back of the group. Craning your neck to see, you stand on your tiptoes, before realising it is all in vain. Forgetting the other artwork, you swivel to see another painting on the wall adjacent to it and peer upon it instead. A young icy blond haired man stands beside you, examining the artwork too. He wears a baggy striped t-shirt that shows his delicate collarbones, tucked into a pair of black skinny jeans, a necklace gently hanging around his neck. He looks positively comfy, but effortlessly chic; you can’t help but stare at his chiselled jawline either. The man looks as if he was carved out of marble, angular lines with delicate features, he was stunningly beautiful. And suddenly, you realise you’ve been staring way too long when he turns his head and catches you.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He says, but you sense no malice in his voice as a warm smile creeps up his face. Looking at the ground, the painting, anywhere, you apologise; “Ah, I’m sorry… uhm I like your outfit.” You reply gingerly, unsure of what to say to remedy the situation. “Thank you! It’s new.” He sits down on a near bench, eyes trained on the painting ahead. “As great as this painting is, I cannot stand scenes of suffering - I really struggle to find the beauty in them.” He blurts out after a moment. “Why’s that?” You curiously reply. You’ve always liked paintings from the romanticism era, the painting in question being ‘The Raft of the Medusa’ by Theodore Gericault. “For instance, this painting shows their suffering, and just that itself is not nice to see, but the colour palette is so murky to me. What do I know though, I’m no artist.” You understand what he means, as an art major, you had to analyse this piece one semester. “I get where you are coming from, the aging of the paints makes it appear murkier than the artist intended, and I think that adds to the whole ‘suffering’ aspect.” As you end your sentence, you turn your head and realise the tour group has moved on. You pat him on the shoulder and point in the direction of the crowd. He swears under his breath before standing up and leading the way back with the group. What a beautiful stranger.

Once the tour group has ended, you vacate the Louvre, more sightseeing to do. After a busy day of staring up at the Arc De Triomphe and climbing the stairs of the Eiffel tower, you end up walking by the Louvre again since you previously spotted a cute cafe you wanted to try out. Now dusk, the water display is illuminated, bathed in light and bubbling. You see a familiar figure sat on the wall beside it, looking slightly lost and reading from a notebook. Unsure whether to help, you continue walking on to the cafe, this would only take a minute or two. Once done, with two coffees in hand, you walk back to the Louvre and the figure still sitting on the wall.

“Are you ok? You seem a bit lost?” You gently ask, testing the waters. The man from the gallery looks back up to you, big expressive eyes staring back, and you sense a hint of worry in them. “Hi, yeah, I’m a bit lost. My phone died and I can’t find my way back to my hotel.” He says, forlorn. “Well, I bought you a coffee, if you’d like it, and I don’t mind helping! I can maybe help with directions.” You hand the coffee towards him, and he takes it from you, eyes lighting up as he does. “Aww thank you! That would mean a lot to me, and thank you for the coffee.” You sit down on the wall next to him as you pull up Google maps on your phone. “It’s no problem. Where are you staying? I’ll put it into maps and have a look.” “I’m staying at the mur de coquelicots hotel.” “Oh no way! I’m staying there too! I know exactly where it is, we can walk back together.” “That sounds great.” He replies with a smile, eyes shining.

The pair of you walk through the city as the sun sets and the moon begins to shine. Conversation flows easily, and you find yourself totally enamoured with this stranger. He’s bubbly and friendly, charismatic and charming, simultaneously shy and chatty. It’s hard not to stare as he speaks to you, it’s an added bonus that he’s gorgeous. Unfortunately, the walk is over quicker than you’d like and you two enter through the lobby of the cheap but nice enough hotel. You make your way into the elevator with him, and press your floor. “Well it was nice meeting you. I just realised I don’t even know your name.” You giggle. “I’m Y/N.” “Thank you for your help Y/N, I’m Taeyong by the way.” “You’re welcome, goodnight Taeyong.” You bid your farewell and exit the lift, the doors opening as you finish your sentence.

As you reach the door to your room, you fiddle with the key card, excitement bubbling up inside of you. What a lovely guy. You flop down on the comfy hotel bed once you’re inside of the room. Spending all summer in Paris was becoming more and more like a dream come true.

The sun shines through the translucent curtains as you gather your things into your tote bag and get ready to leave the hotel room for breakfast. You wander over to the quaint bakery across the road from the hotel, and spot a familiar figure sitting in the outdoor seating with a newspaper. The blonde haired man sports a beret, and looks positively relaxed as he munches away on a croissant. You pick out a pastry, before walking over. “Is this seat taken?” You ask, and pull out the chair to sit down. “No, feel free to sit.” He replies with a smile. You sit opposite to him and shift in your seat to get comfortable. “What a lovely morning, right?” His smile beams as he looks your way. “Definitely! I love the warm weather.” You say, “it’ll be perfect to paint in.” “Oh so, you’re a painter? That’s cool, Paris is perfect for inspiration. It’s certainly aiding me.” “Yeah, I’m a painter, I’m here as an international student on study leave. What do you do?” “I’m an English literature major, specialising in poetry, so I’m here finding inspiration for poems of my own.” “Well, you’re certainly at the right place. Speaking of inspiration, I’m going to visit the Palace of Versailles today if you’d like to come with me and are not busy. I thought since you’re alone here, you might want to?” You ask, rubbing your hands over your arms, a slight shiver of nervousness at your sudden offer. “That sounds amazing! Thank you for the invite. What time are you thinking of leaving?” His eyes light up at your offer and your nervousness is put at bay. “Around 12pm, and you’re very welcome.” You reply. “Sounds good, I’ll meet you here at 12pm then?” He responds chirpily. “Sounds good to me.”

Okay I know that you are not my type (still I fall.) I'm just the sucker who let you fill her mind

(But what about love?)

Nothing wrong with it

Supernatural

Just move in close to me, closer, you'll feel it coasting

This wasn’t something you usually did. Asked our strangers or chose to spend time with ones you are not familiar with. But it was almost a supernatural attraction. He was not your usual type at all, but something strong and lulling was moving over you. Something indescribable, beyond enchanting.

Walking around the luscious gardens of the Palace of Versailles was just a sight to behold. The beauty that is held within was stunning. It was as you strolled around it that Taeyong took your hand in his; so casually that you didn’t think anything of it at first, but then it hit you and your heart fluttered. You smiled wide as he looked at you with tender eyes. It’s not wrong to move this fast right? Nothing wrong with a summer fling.

Nothing wrong with it, supernatural.

As the two of you walk around, conversation flows freely. You speak of previous art pieces and he talks about writing, he tells you about how long he’s been in Paris and so many other things. Before you know it, you two find yourselves under a grand stone archway, and conversation trails off delicately. “You’re so beautiful, I love the way the sunlight hits you. I think you’d make a beautiful painting yourself.” He says unexpectedly. A bubble rises through your chest, and you know what you want to do. You lean forward, placing your hands gently either side of his head and you kiss him. His soft lips meet yours and you are drinking each other in. The kiss is brief but heavenly all the same. As you pull away you notice a light blush over his cheeks and a dorky grin on his face. You feel the same grin on yours.

After a lovely day together walking around the palace’s gardens and opulent rooms, you decide to head back and get some food together. Being students and not having a ton of money, you both decide to get food from a local convenience store and to eat it on the hotel room balcony. “What do you fancy eating?” He asks, his hand still grasped around yours as you peruse the items in the shop. “I think I fancy some quiche, what are you thinking?” “I think I’ll get some cheese and crackers.” He adds, checking out the foreign cheeses. Once the pair of you have your haul, you head back up to the hotel room, and lay out your spread on the balcony table. The sun is setting gently in the distance and it illuminates the skies in gentle peaches and pinks. In his company, it just feels so comfortable, so cosy.

A rush at the beginning.

At the shop, you also purchase a bottle of wine, and the two of you share it together. Perhaps the cosy feeling is from that, you don’t know, but either way; you enjoy being in his company and don’t regret talking to the beautiful stranger in the Louvre. After some time, you’re both positively tipsy, not drunk, just giggly and happy. Taeyong starts dancing on the balcony, languid movements and sharp ones intertwined into a beautiful choreography. You’re not quite sure how he learnt to dance this way, he deserves to be on a stage. But for tonight, you were his audience.

Drink up your movements, still I can’t get enough.

He flows freely, not unlike a puppet on a string, controlled by some unseen forces to move his body in ways you could never. “Where did you learn that dance?” You ask, intrigued to no end. “I’m freestyling, just making it up.” Of course, he’s beautiful, intelligent, kind, and talented. “That’s crazy, you’re amazing.” You reply, and he blushes at your compliment. “One minute, I’m just going to go to the bathroom.” He replies, and sets his phone down on the table. “See you in a sec.” Whilst he’s gone you sit and stare at the beautiful dusk sky that is out ahead. You’re aware that what you have with Taeyong is quite the whirlwind, but you really can’t find the space to care. There isn’t any damage being done, and you’re young so now’s the time to have fun and be carefree. You’re in Paris, maybe it’s called the City of Love for a reason?

As almost to interrupt your thinking, Taeyong’s phone buzzes on the table and the screen illuminates in front of you. You can’t help but see what the message says, it’s right there in front of you. The message is from “이 소연” and it reads: “Missing you, my dear, can’t wait to have you back in my life. Enjoy Paris <3”

Is it possible he has a partner? Were you not the only one? It’s entirely possible that you were just a summer fling to him, and he actually has a partner back home.

I overthink your punctuation use. Not my fault, just a thing that my mind do. A rush at the beginning. I get caught up, just for a minute.

Were you just getting caught up with everything? Did you really just rush into things without even a second thought. Of course, you were being naive, you didn’t even ask if he was single before kissing him. And yes, he reciprocated but what did that mean? You were just the enabler.

Alas, you had to move on with the night, getting suspicious of him and acting weird wouldn’t help right now. So when he comes back onto the balcony, you continue the night as normal, pushing down your feelings. Perhaps it was his sister. You really cannot presume. Despite your logical side being sensible, your emotional side still fought a battle. Warring to be front and centre of your thoughts. You know you can’t let it get the better of you though. And so, you carry on with the night, albeit slightly stilted now; and you make an excuse to go to bed earlier than you normally would. You scuttle off to your hotel room across the hall and settle in for the night. Thoughts swirling around and around in your mind.

Can you hear the violence? Megaphone to my chest, broadcast the boom, boom, boom.

The sun rises overhead, almost fully above the buildings as you nibble on your croissant quietly. The streets are starting to come to life as you watch from the local bakery with your morning coffee. Desperately, you try to put your mind at ease, try to push down the onslaught of intrusive thoughts; illogical as they come. After 20 minutes, you start to feel more at peace, you watch the dainty flowers sway in the morning breeze in their pot. You almost expect to feel worse when you see him. He approaches you, leather satchel hanging at his waist, and waves as he comes. Instead you don’t feel worse, you just feel oddly numb. Completely sensationless as you put on a smile in return to his wave. He sits down in the chair across from you, and places his satchel on the floor next to his chair.

“Good morning! How are you today? I hope you’re not hungover from the wine last night.” He says with a giggle. “I know I certainly am, but I’m trying to be positive.” He adds, and you notice his slightly ruffled bed head, must’ve been from a rough sleep. “Ahh, you certainly are doing a good job of being positive then,” you reply with a smile that reaches your eyes and crinkles them, “luckily, I don’t feel hungover. I’m just enjoying the morning slowly and as it comes.” Which is true, you decided you’d take today as it comes. “I’m glad you don’t feel too bad then. I’m just going to nip inside to get something to eat, do you want anything?” He rises from his chair and gestures to the shop door. “No thank you, I just finished a croissant before you came, but thanks anyway.” “No worries.” And he leaves to enter the boulangerie.

I’m just the sucker who let you fill her mind.

You didn’t want to make things awkward with Taeyong. It wasn’t worth it, at the end of the day, all you did was kiss him once. Perhaps you needed to find out more about him, get the full context at least. When Taeyong sits back down the conversation starts back up again and turns to family life. “So do you have any family back home?” You ask curiously. “What, in Korea? Yeah, I do. I have my parents back home and a sister. Yerin, she’s 15 and quite the handful. I miss her, but for now FaceTime calls will suffice.” He lets out a low chuckle at his own joke, making the situation a bit lighter. His answer doesn’t provide any clues to your questions though. “Aww that’s nice, I have a sister too. But she’s older than me. Do you have a partner at all?” You ask now, testing the waters. “Nope, just me, myself, and I.” “Same for me.” Well, that also doesn’t answer your questions. You’re pretty sure that the text earlier wasn’t from his sister, and you expect his mum to be down in his phone as a term of endearment; not a full name so it can’t be her. Is it better to give up the search? Maybe asking Taeyong more later would help. But what to say? Future you would deal with that. For now, you had the whole day ahead.

“So what do you have planned today?” He inquired now, breaking you from your thoughts. “I’m just going to go paint in the local park, do you fancy being my sitter? I need more anatomy practice.” “Ooh of course! I’ve never done anything like that before.” And so today’s plans were set. How could you pass up on the opportunity to paint someone built so divinely like Taeyong? Personal interests aside, Taeyong was made to be immortalised in artwork forever. His sharp jawline, large emotive eyes, and slim frame all coming together to create the perfect sitter for you. A painting of him, no matter the artist who painted it, should be hung in the Louvre. A masterpiece deserving of being viewed by everyone and adored.

Our thing progresses

I call and you come through

The spot you are situated in is perfect, a lush knoll leading out onto a tulip field, the many colours like a rainbow behind Taeyong. You’d decided to paint him in watercolour, partially because of the easy clean up, partially because you want to capture his true beauty, the delicate tones of his skin, hair, and eyes; the gentle dips of his collarbone, the sinewy muscle of his arms.

Taeyong poses quietly, the silence a comfortable one, as you begin painting him. He looks thoughtful, looking out into space behind you, he almost seems meditative, eyes blinking slowly and breathing even. As you mix the colour of his skin tone on your watercolour pan, you see him sigh, and wonder what he is thinking about. From what you know, Taeyong’s an introspective person, much like you, and perhaps that’s the mood he is in today. You are the same. It’s hard in the silence for your thoughts not to turn to the message. Intrusive thoughts fly around like bats in the night time; even if he was cheating, could you not push it aside for the sake of a summer fling? Logical thoughts cross out that of the intrusive ones - of course not, how could you be the other person in his relationship for the sake of selfishness? It’s important to be communicative, and if you have your worries - suspicions - then should you not speak to him about it? Sometimes things are better left unsaid, yes, but this is not one of them.

With a new resolve, you decide to talk to him come the evening. Clarification is what you need, and you must bolster up the courage to get it.

I am your sweetheart psychopathic crush

You know what they say about alcohol, it’s liquid courage, and after a glass of wine or two, you finally feel bold enough to approach Taeyong. You open your hotel room door, and cross the hallway to his. A sharp rap on the door brings you to Taeyong’s attention, and he pads across the room to open the door. You stand near the threshold, looking almost alarmed, like a deer in headlights. Perhaps you came underprepared and unrehearsed. “C-can I talk to you?” You ask, words stuttering on their way out. “Of course, come in.” He replies gently, sensing your unease as he gestures for you to come in.

Once you’re both situated on the balcony in those damn uncomfortable plastic chairs, you begin to talk. “Do you have a partner, Taeyong?” You fiddle with your hands, eyes glued to them in aversion from his eyes. “No, why?” He replies, head cocked to the side in confusion. “When you went to the bathroom the other day, your phone was on the table directly in front of me, and pardon me for breaking your privacy, but I couldn’t help but read the preview of the message that came up. It said “missing you, my dear, can’t wait to have you back in my life. Enjoy paris,” and then there was a love heart at the end. I’ve probably got the wrong end of the stick, but I’ve been so cautious because I don’t want to be that other person in a relationship. I don’t think you’re lying to me, I just wanted to be sure, and ask you since it’s been bothering me.”

Taeyong takes a hold of your hand in his and smooths his thumb over the back of it in a comforting gesture. “I promise darling, I’m not dating anyone. That was my crazy ex. I broke up with her roughly six months ago, and she’s still sending me random messages. The only reason why she knows about me being in Paris is because she keeps hounding my mother for information. She keeps mentioning about me being back in her life, but I promise to you that I have no intention of even seeing her or speaking to her. She’s a mad woman.” At his words you feel tension release inside your chest. Your body feels lighter and you feel a wave of relief. Thank goodness for that.

“I’m sorry you’re having to deal with that Taeyong, and thank you for clearing things up. None of this is my place but, I appreciate you filling me in.” Now you look into his eyes, the dark earthy spheres look back at you as the remaining sunlight gives them a glossy shine. You smile back and he leans forward, lips meeting yours in a kiss. You drink him in now, no longer hesitant to taste him. To him you taste so heavenly, the remaining mature hints of red wine mixed with something inherently just you, has him high with the feeling. He moves his hands to your waist now and you climb onto his lap, eager to be closer to him, to touch him. He fiddles with the hem of your shirt in his grip as you kiss down his neck now, lapping at the warm tan skin. “Let’s go inside, yeah?” He whispers in your ear, and you nod in agreement.

Well, summer slipped us underneath her tongue,

Our days and nights are perfumed with obsession, Half of my wardrobe is on your bedroom floor, Use our eyes, throw our hands overboard.

The morning light spills into the room through the translucent dainty cream curtains as they flow in the wind. The window is open to let the summer air flow in, and you don’t feel a chill at all. Taeyong’s warm skin radiates a heat you’ve never quite experienced, it’s so homely and cosy. The feeling of your head on his chest as you listen to his heartbeat unlike any other else. It’s nice to just be held, to feel the closeness of another human being and feel utterly comfortable.

You think back to the portrait of him you painted yesterday, and somehow you think it’s your best piece. There’s nothing like being able to capture a person with the aura whole. The piece emits something wholly him, just him. You think that’s why it might be your favourite. Maybe someday they’ll hang it in the Louvre, you giggle to yourself at that thought and Taeyong stirs underneath you. “What’s so funny, baby?” He asks, spoken with a gruff morning voice low and gravelly. “I was thinking about your portrait, and I thought about how you could hang it in the Louvre. But only because it’s you.”

“They’ll hang us in the Louvre, down the back, but who cares, still the Louvre.” He replies, a blissed out look on his face. He’s right, maybe not about yourself, but about him. He might just be the ultimate muse.

But we’re the greatest

They’ll hang us in the Louvre

Down the back, but who cares - still the Louvre

thank you for reading! this fic is for the ‘Now Playing’ collab by @haechanblr and it was a joy to take part!! I hope everyone liked this hehe :))

If ur interested in more of my works my masterlist is here <3

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broadstflyers · 4 years ago

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A/N: I am so excited to be starting my first ever series. This is inspired by Taylor Swift’s “Cardigan” because her music creates stories in my head that I must write down on (digital) paper. Please keep in mind this chapter is written in past tense, and the story probably won't be in present tense for at least another few chapters. Let me know what you think! If you want to be on the tag list for the next chapter, or drop any (constructive) feedback, you can take this survey here.

Word Count: 2.3K

Warnings: None

Summary: They say at fourteen you’re too young to know you’re in love. But what if you aren’t?

Navigation: chapter two

Grade: 9 Age: 14 --------------------------------- As sure as you are that spring comes after winter, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and seconds turn into minutes, you know you are in love with Joel Farabee. Not the gushy “I want to hug you and kiss you and never let you go” love, the intense “I want to burst at the seams because I just want to scream it on the rooftops and tell you and it literally crushes my heart that I can’t” love.

Yeah, that love.

The problem?

You were only fourteen when you knew.

Yes, the grand old age of fourteen. The age you were supposed to be nervously texting multiple boys, wondering if you were going to be asked to the ninth grade dance and worrying about who your first kiss was going to be, or even the first person you were going to hold hands with.

It started on the first day of school, but the start of it all was less than romantic. You shuffled up the hallway with one of your best friends, your feet felt like lead.

“What’s wrong?” Luna whispered in your ear.

“I really hate math,” you huffed. It was the last period of the day, eighth period, and you had to spend it in what was probably going to be a room full of rambunctious athletes who would be itching to burst out of the room at the very sound of the bell. How did you know this? Because you had been stuck in a class like that ever since the beginning of middle school. It made for some laughs, yes, but for some reason a pessimistic attitude bitterly swarmed around you in dark circles. Also, math in general made you anxious, and it didn’t help that the last few years you had to fend for yourself because of your lack of friends in said class.

“Well, at least you’ll have me this year,” Luna attempted to reassure you and your looming anxiety.

“Yeah, but I wonder who’s going to be in our class this year,” you mumbled. Your stomach swarmed with butterflies, but you’d rather call them icky moths.

Luna opened her mouth to respond, but you reached the door frame before her. Before you could even make it through the entrance, you made eye contact with a group of rowdy boys sitting at a table directly in front of you. You stopped dead in your tracks. They paused in their shouting to turn and look at you and Luna, since you were only about seven or eight feet away.

You scanned their faces, and you recognized most of them. They were mostly hockey players that played for the local team that looked for a shot at the NTDP in just a few short years. It was Syracuse, hockey was a pretty big deal there. There was also the prospective varsity quarterback and his star wide-receiver, these labels given to them at just fourteen. Of course, more athletes. Suddenly, you locked eyes with this boy you strangely have never seen before. His hand was hovering in air over his friend’s head with what you could only assume is his friend’s pencil in a lame attempt to keep him from grabbing it.

He blinked a few times, and you might have blinked a few times, you honestly couldn’t remember.

You snapped out of your trance and looked over to the board that said, “Welcome class! Pick your seats for the first day!”

“Hey,” Luna nudged you and grabbed your arm, “let’s sit over there.”

She lead you to a table adjacent to the boys’ table, despite your unheard protests of being “too close” to them.

You took your seat huffing, and you pulled out your binder and got ready for class, something you wished the crazy boys would pick up on. Thankfully the bell rang, your teacher shut the door, and class began.

That’s the first time you saw him. Not very eventful, but hey, you two were awkward fourteen year olds just entering grade nine. Of course things were not going to be all fireworks and love at first sight.

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

A few classes went by, and the only disturbance that occurred was when the class was taking one of those horrible diagnostic tests. See, you really hated disturbances, interruptions, anything relating to that matter.

So when this dude named Joel (you learned his name when he was yelled at for playing rap music in the middle of class) started fooling around with his friend while you were trying to figure out why letters were in math now, you weren’t happy, to say the least.

And when he locked eyes with you and made a silly face, yours did not move in a rather unamused manner. You simply blinked and looked back down at your test.

You missed his face slightly fall, but it was short lived when the teacher yelled his name from across the room and made everyone jump ten feet. He was quiet after that.

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

It was a random Tuesday in late October.

You and Luna were chatting about your previous classes, until you both stopped in your tracks and you raised an eyebrow. Everyone in your class was standing up and congregating away from tables. You could hear the ominous music creeping over everyone’s heads.

“Oh no,” you whined to Luna.

She winced. “We’re being assigned seats, aren’t we?”

You nodded. You both stood in the sea of kids and awaited your fate.

“Alright, everyone,” your teacher said. “You guys have been extremely chatty lately.” She paused to side-eye Joel and his friends.

He opened his mouth to protest, but he quickly shut it when she frowned.

“So you leave me no choice, but I must assign seats,” she dramatically said as she unveiled the new seating chart on the board.

Everyone pushed and shoved to the front to see where their name lied in the cards of fate. You heard some soft celebrations and loud protests.

You nudged your way in and scanned up and down the board. Luna wasn’t at the same table, but she was sitting facing towards you at another table. Hopefully you and her would be able to make eye contact. You scanned until you see your name fall right next to someone who you would rather forget you treated so poorly. It was there in bright, bold red.

Joel Farabee.

“Aw man,” you and a voice said in unison. You looked up at your side to see that it’s him. Oh dear brother. Did you both just admit out loud that you don’t want to sit next to each other? You and him rolled your eyes at each other, huffing that you’ll be forced to be in each other’s presence.

And you knew he was thinking some sort of variation of what you were: how dare your teacher.

You trudged over to your seat and plopped down. He threw down his stuff and sat next to you. You could sense his extreme dislike for your rather serious demeanor. Hey, you could crack a smile.

Just not around him. And for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out why. It’s almost like if you did, you knew you would never stop...

You both avoided eye contact, you played with your pencil as he yelled to one of his friends across the classroom about some stupid video game.

And that’s just how it was for weeks. You’d both come in, sit down, he’d scream to his friends, you’d fight shooting him a really dirty look.

Until one day, you accidentally did. Now, later when you told Luna, you swore up and down you didn’t mean to, and it was just the fact that seventh period gym was terrible (but when was it not). Okay, so maybe you were fed up with him yelling about whatever rap song came out, or whatever Instagram model popped up on his feed (that made you shutter).

But what you did wasn’t really admittedly the nicest.

“Joel, do you always have to yell so freaking loudly?” you snapped.

He feigned a stunned expression, or maybe he really meant it, who knows what goes on in that boy’s seemingly empty head.

“Do you have to be such a downer…like all the time? Kinda ruins the vibe bro.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks Joel, because the number one thing I care about is ruining your ‘vibe’,” you put that word in air quotes, “and not getting any work done in this class, bro.”

Now he rolled his eyes. “Look, you could benefit from loosening up a little, you know? You’re kind of just, not a fun person.”

A look of real hurt flashed across your face. One that he caught. “No,” you punctually state. Then you turn your seat so you completely have your back to him and you’re facing the board.

Meanwhile Luna and your table-mates watched the whole situation unfold. Okay, and maybe most of the class.

And when the bell rang and he called your name, you simply decided you didn’t hear it.

“He’s calling you,” Luna prodded.

You just shook your head as you continued down the hallway to the bus. On the bus, you had some thinking to do.

Did he really think of you as...boring? You usually didn’t let the immature words of boys get to you, but this, this really hurt.

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

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” Luna insisted that evening while lying on your bedroom floor that same Friday evening.

“Yes he did, and he’s kind of right,” you begrudgingly conceded. “I haven’t been the nicest to him,” you sigh into your hands, “and maybe I should be.”

“Well, what’s stopping you?” Luna curiously asked.

“I, I don’t know.”

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

The following Monday, you winced and leaned into Luna as you approached the classroom. To say you were terrified is an understatement.

But you took a deep breath, held your head high, and locked your face into a neutral expression. You never let anyone get the best of you, and you weren’t going to let Joel out of all people be one of the first.

Luna offered a small sympathetic smile as she made her way to her seat.

Your heart beated out of your chest anticipating his arrival. Sure enough, you caught him out of the corner of your eye. He took his time and strutted around the room to talk to all the friends he had. He was obviously looking to avoid you, too.

Coward.

Eventually, he made his way to his seat. He cleared his throat, but you didn’t budge. Ever heard of being saved by the bell?

“I’m going to hand back everyone’s quizzes from last class,” your teacher announced. You audibly groaned. That quiz did not go well. Who puts diamonds and boxes and something called factoring in math?

Sure enough, she shoved a C- into your sweaty hands.

“Dang,” you whispered.

You glanced over at Joel’s paper. 100%.

Are you kidding me?

His prying eyes had the audacity to spot your C-, as if you didn’t pry on his paper seconds before.

“That’s rough,” he said, trying to make eye contact with you.

“I- um, yeah, it is,” you choked out with your eyes still glued on your paper.

His heart broke when he heard your wavering voice. He had to do something.

“Can I see it?” He quietly asked, when quiet usually isn’t typically his demeanor.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “Uh, sure?”

He took the paper and started drawing stars around the C- mark, very messily, may you add.

You went to take the paper back, but he moved it away from your grasp.

“One second,” he pleaded. He stuck his tongue out in concentration.

You tried to see how badly he was defacing your quiz, but the position of his arm prohibited you from peering over to see.

“Done,” he proudly said as he slid the paper back over to you.

Instead of a plain old C-, there was now...a C- with stars around it.

“Joel, this is very lovely and all, but why the stars around the C-?”

He smiled with his sickeningly sweet toothless grin, and your heart absolutely backflipped into oblivion.

“That’s not a C-,” he goofily joked, “that’s the moon, y/n,” he said through a smile. “See it?”

You looked up from your paper and looked at him in the eye. Your hands shook from adrenaline, your heart was fluttering, goodness, you didn’t know how you could feel any lighter.

That smile was going to be the death of you.

“Yeah, Joel,” you cracked a smile, “I do see it. Thank you,” you sincerely said.

Crack a smile.

You cracked a smile.

His heart skipped a beat. He knew instantly he was going to do whatever it took to keep that smile on your face for as long as possible. He didn’t care what he would have to do.

He smiled once more, and he turned to his buddies to shield his face from you. He didn’t want you to see how red it was turning. He proceeded to explain to them how perfect his stars were and how no one could top them. Something along the lines of “Bro, you have to see this one, it’s so perfect bro…” He also told them how he made you feel better while slapping his chest, for some reason, as in yeah, I made the mopiest girl in school smile. He sounded like he was priding himself on it.

His smile, the way he talked about you, those freaking stars. You’d let him draw those all over your arm instead any day.

At that age, you may not have known why there were letters in algebra, but you knew that the way he made you feel wasn't the same as you did with your two other crushes back in middle school. This just felt...absolutely weird.

But absolutely right.

And that’s the story of how at just fourteen years old, you knew you were absolutely screwed.

#joel farabee #joel farabee imagine #joel farabee x reader

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p-artsypants · 3 years ago

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The Ghost of Smokey Joe (6)

St. James Infirmary

Adrien Agreste was acting bizarre. Before she can get the truth out of him, Marinette finds herself as the sole heir to the Gabriel brand and the mansion, following the murder-suicide of both Adrien and Gabriel Agreste. The mystery continues as Tikki explains that Adrien was Chat Noir...but if Adrien is six feet under, why is Chat Noir still running around?

Relationships:

Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug

Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe

Characters:

Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, Nathalie Sancoeur, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth

Additional Tags:

Temporary Character Death, Murder Mystery, off screen murder, Ghosts, Supernatural - Freeform, Haunting, Horror, Psychological Thriller, Eventual Happy Ending, I promise, Song fic, Halloween Flavored, Identity Reveal, Aged Up, Canon Universe, Mabel Voice: He's Resting, SPOOOKKKYYYYYY

Ao3 | FF.net

The night of the visitation, it rained. Like a kick to the gut, a painful reminder of what it was like to fall in love…now was only a soothing presence to losing love.

The old umbrella in her hand didn’t help either. It was his. Adrien’s. The very same he gave her that day over ten years ago.

Marinette had agonized over what to wear for too long. It was a wake, so black, right? She had this outfit picked out and everything. A sharp blazer over her little black cocktail dress, with black pumps. Even though it was a wake, it was a wake for her boss, one of the most influential fashion moguls in the world, and she would be taking his place. She had to look her best.

But then, she changed her mind. It was a social event, yes, and she would be in the public eye and representing the brand, true!

But it felt gross.

The cocktail dress was too sexy for a wake, and wearing that much black made her look goth.

It just wasn’t right.

Then she saw the dress. A rose pink, knee length dress that flared out as it went down. It had little black polka dots on it.

And it was Adrien’s favorite. He said so every time she wore it.

Too peppy for a wake. Too casual, too fun and flirty. But a black cardigan over it, and she felt perfect.

She could almost hear his voice as she posed in the mirror.

“I love that dress on you. You look so cute, Marinette.”

It made tears spring to her eyes.

So no makeup then. Because she knew she would be crying a lot more tonight.

“Don’t forget to pack tissues,” Tikki reminded, helpfully.

“Right, thank you, Tikki.” She tucked the little package in her purse.

With one last pass of the brush through her hair, she was ready.

So now she stood outside of the manor, the gate open.

Well folks, I'm goin' down to St. James Infirmary

See my little baby there

She's stretched out on a long, white table

Well she looks so good, so cold, so fair

The paparazzi stood nearby with their cameras, ready to swoop in like vultures.

She must have paused for too long, because they descended on her quickly, shoving mics in her face and asking questions.

Didn’t they know why she was here? Didn’t they know what she was going through?

An arm reached around her shoulders and started leading her forward. “Alright everyone, that’s enough! Can’t you see she’s not in the mood?” Her rescuer shouted.

The reporters didn’t pass through the gate, as that would have been trespassing. So thankfully, the crowd was left behind as they moved forward.

“Thank you,” she said to the unfamiliar man.

“Of course, Miss Dupain-Cheng.” He nodded.

“You know me?”

“I know of you. Head intern to Gabriel Agreste himself, if I’m not mistaken. I’m from Harper’s Bazaar.”

“Oh...a reporter.”

“Yes, but I really was just here as a guest to pay my respects. I’ve interviewed both Gabriel and Adrien a few times.”

“I see.”

He led her into the house.

Let her go, let her go, God bless her,

Wherever she may be,

She will search this wide world over,

But she'll never find another sweet man like me.

She was early, as Nathalie had instructed. No other guests were here. Just funeral staff, some family, and two steel caskets.

Two steel closed caskets.

Might make retrieving Adrien’s ring a bit of a problem, but not seeing his face…cold, motionless, and waxy would keep her somewhat sane.

The man walked with her right up to the casket, the one with Adrien’s picture next to it.

“It’s a shame. That much skill, the absolute genius spread between the two of them. The world as a whole will never be the same.”

“Yeah.”

“Any idea what’s going to happen next? Not that this is an interview, I’m just curious.”

She shrugged, “well, I’ve been offered the position, and everyone wants me to take it...but it’s so…”

“Overwhelming?”

“Yes.” She rested her hand on the casket. “I wish I could have a moment alone with him.”

“Let me see what I can do.” He smiled, then he called louder, to the room. “The lady would like a few minutes alone, if possible.”

“Is she family?” A staff member asked.

“This is Madam Dupain-Cheng, she’s the successor to Gabriel’s empire. She’s practically family!”

There was no arguing with that, and the group of staff members filed out into the adjacent dining room.

“Thank you,” Marinette called to the man, still not getting his name.

“Don’t worry about it darling.” And he followed them out.

Marinette glanced around the room, just to make sure she was alone. “Tikki?”

“I’m here!”

“I need you to keep watch.” The casket had two doors, one on top that would have been open if this was a regular visitation, and one over the legs. She slid the flower arrangement on top over to the bottom section and ran her hand over the edge. She pulled up slightly, and as she feared, it was sealed.

“It’s locked,” she lamented.

“Let me try!” Tikki zipped around the casket, and a moment later, it clicked and the cap opened ever so slightly.

Marinette took a deep breath as her fingers curled under the lip.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Just…I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to see what he looks like. I don’t want to…” but she put her reservations on hold, and pushed the lid up.

She choked out a startled gasp. “Oh no…”

Now, when I die, bury me in my straight-leg britches,

Put on a box-back coat and a stetson hat,

Put a twenty-dollar gold piece on my watch chain,

So you can let all the boys know I died standing pat.

Instead of the mangled body of her true love, there was only a pile of sandbags.

Tikki, also horrified, went over to Gabriel’s casket and phased inside. Then she popped out, “this one is the same!”

Marinette closed the lid and moved the flowers back into place, her mind moving at a mile a minute. Vaguely, she heard the click of the casket as Tikki put it to rights.

Marinette was panicking, but quickly calmed herself down. This didn’t mean anything malicious, not yet. Maybe they were cremated and the family wanted to keep it a secret. Or because there’s no graveside service, their bodies had already been buried.

Who was she kidding, something was definitely going on.

A mystery that was just aching to be solved, but her first priority was to retrieve Adrien’s ring.

“--A moment alone!” A voice shouted from the dining room.

Marinette whirled around in time to see Felix storming towards her. Did he know? Was she caught?

He brushed past her, “move.” And went directly to the casket, grabbing the lip like she had.

“Please sir! You’ll damage the casket!” One of the funeral home staff rushed and grasped Felix by the shoulder. “It’s shut and locked, it can’t be opened again.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye!” Felix snarled. “Look at him!” He pointed at the photo on display next to the casket. “He has my face! I deserve to see him one last time!”

“Sir...he doesn’t look like that anymore. It would be very disturbing to see his remains.”

Disturbing indeed, considering Adrien wasn’t in there at all.

Amelie was quick to join the group and she consoled her son. “We talked about this. You knew it was going to be a closed casket.”

“They said the family had time alone. I just...wanted to say goodbye, face to face.” He shook his head and scowled. “He deserved that, at least.”

Marinette made herself small, feeling like an intruder in this family crisis. But Amelie still saw her and brought her in for a hug.

“How are you holding up, dear?” She asked, pulling away slightly.

“I’m…I’ve been better.”

“Of course, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Marinette had met Amelie and Felix more than a few times working at Gabriel. As the years went on, they came to visit more and more often. Amelie was always insistent that she call her ‘Aunt Amelie’ like Adrien. It felt weird to break the habit now.

“Isn’t pink a little too festive for the occasion?” Felix bit. The red from anger in his cheeks had faded. Now he just sounded bitter.

It was Adrien’s voice…but not. It was a shame Felix sounded so much like him.

He looked just like him too, minus the slicked back hair and glasses.

“Adrien really loved this dress,” Marinette whispered. “I know it’s not—I just—“

His face softened slightly, relieved that she had Adrien in mind, and not fashion. “Sounds fine to me.”

Even after the disastrous first encounter they had, Felix and Marinette never became friends. He and Adrien certainly got along, or at least appeared to, but Felix and Marinette were only ever cordial.

It was a wake, after all. He should be nice. He gave her a small smile, one that looked eerily similar to Adrien’s.

Before she could stop herself, she was hugging him.

He didn’t smell like Adrien at all. He smelled like clean cat litter and laundry detergent, not spicy cologne and the smallest hint of cheese. Belatedly, she realized the cheese smell was probably Plagg’s doing.

“Uh…” He said awkwardly, before sighing and patting her on the back.

“I’m sorry,” she pulled away. “Even though…” she trailed off with a blush, embarrassed with what she had done. “You just look like him.”

“I know,” he shrugged. “I worried about coming. I’m prepared for people to see me and burst into tears. Or hug me, like you did. I get it. As much as I would like otherwise, I’m willing to tolerate it for today.”

“That’s kind of you.”

His face softened further. “You loved him, didn’t you?”

Amelie gasped. “Felix! You can’t just ask things like that!”

“It’s okay,” Marinette assured, hugging herself. “You’re right. I was—am. I still love him, even though he’s gone.”

“And…you know what happened?”

She nodded. “It sucks. And I really wish I could allow one terrible action to wipe everything away…but I knew him. These last two weeks he wasn’t himself. He was cruel to me in a way I had never seen. It just…it wasn’t Adrien.”

Felix gave her a critical look. “I always assumed my cousin couldn’t hurt a fly. It’s…bizarre, what happened.”

“It’s not public knowledge,” Amelie reminded. “And it should stay that way.”

“Who are we protecting by lying about it? The ‘Brand’? The family? Adrien himself?”

“What are they saying, anyway?” Asked Marinette.

“They’re saying both Adrien and Gabriel died from an in-home accident.”

“Vague,” said Felix. “Suspicious.”

“But better than ‘unknown causes’ at least,” said Marinette. “Maybe it’s selfish, but I want Adrien to be remembered for all the good he did…” As Chat Noir, her brain added, “and not the demons he faced in the end.”

“Still, I can’t help but wonder what made him snap,” he mused, looking at Marinette. “Do you have any idea what may have caused it?”

Her mind went back to two weeks, when he had asked her to dinner. He was nervous, and told her he had something to tell her.

And then that phone call a few nights ago. What had he said? Something about the basement?

“I’m…not sure. I’d have to think about it.”

“Perhaps you two could consider this mystery another day? Not during the visitation?” Amelie urged.

“Sorry mom, you’re right.” He glanced back at Marinette. “If you have anything on this, I’d love to hear it. I care deeply for Adrien, and honestly, I’m highly suspicious of these circumstances.”

Amelie huffed. “Darling, you heard Nathalie, what she saw, what the police found, it’s pretty cut and dry…”

“People don’t just murder their father’s for no reason! Especially with supposedly flawless mental health!”

The room grew quiet, as Felix’s outburst was louder than intended. Thankfully, guests had yet to arrive.

“Sorry. This whole thing…I’ve had enough of death in this lifetime.” He cleared his throat. “I need some water.”

When he left, Amelie squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t let Felix get to you. It’s just hard for him. He has so much in common with Adrien, it’s a little scary for him.”

Oh. That made sense. Fear he’d snap too?

“It was sudden for everyone. We’re all going through it.”

“They said you were having a moment alone with Adrien. I'll let you get back to it.” She squeezed her shoulder and left her in peace.

So now Marinette was left to wonder what she could possibly do. Where to even start? She didn’t need anymore time with an empty casket.

An' give me six crap shooting pall bearers,

Let a chorus girl sing me a song.

Put a red hot jazz band at the top of my head

So we can raise Hallelujah as we go along.

There were a few more guests now, but it was still a little early. She saw a man in a suit arranging flowers. He had a name tag on his lapel.

As casual as she could, she snuck over to him. “Excuse me, are you the funeral director by chance?”

“Oh? Yes I am. Bill Hunkerson, at your service. How can I help?”

She had to phrase this very carefully, to not be suspicious. “I’m a very close friend of Adrien’s. He was wearing a silver ring when he died. It doesn’t actually belong to him, and I was wondering if I could have it back.”

The man turned pale, but plastered on a smile. “Well, he’s probably wearing it now. Unfortunately, after we close the casket, we can’t open it again.”

She knew that was a big fat lie. And Marinette hated liars.

She lowered her voice. “Well, since his body isn’t actually in the casket, it shouldn’t be that hard, should it?”

The man stared at her, wide eyed, no longer smiling. “How did you—“ He frowned. “Look miss, I’m just doing what I’m paid for. I don’t know anything. That ring is probably gone forever, and I’d stop this search now.” He straightened his tie and bowed his head slightly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Marinette opened her purse when she was alone. “I don’t know about you, Tikki, but I’ve got a bunch of red flags and alarm bells going off inside my head.”

“This isn’t good! We need to get that ring!”

“We need to find out what happened to Adrien’s body!”

“Yes, of course, that too!”

Marinette gnawed at the inside of her cheek. “Hey, no offense to Plagg, but wouldn’t he know to bring the ring back to me? If he can’t remove it, then wouldn’t he come tell me about it?”

Tikki’s eyes widened. “You’re right! If he died under normal circumstances, yes…but if he was transformed when he died…”

“Then what?”

“Plagg probably would be forced back into the ring. That’s probably why he didn’t come!”

“Now I’m even more worried and confused.” Marinette crossed her arms. “What if Adrien isn’t actually dead?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if…he ran away? And Gabriel made it out like he died? What if Gabriel’s still alive too?”

“It’s a theory, but I don’t know how well it will hold water.”

She studied the room again, trying not to draw attention to herself. She was supposed to be grieving after all.

Felix sat in the chairs over by the stairs, his back to the growing crowd.

Even if they didn’t really get along, two skeptics working together would be better than each on their own.

“Do you mind if I join you?” She asked.

“I suppose not.” He sighed.

Marinette sat in the chair next to him, and sat quietly for a moment, trying to decide how to proceed. She didn’t want to reveal her whole hand, but maybe playing a few cards would be to her advantage.

Felix beat her to it. He let out a weak chuckle. “I hate this family.”

What an awful thing to say at wake. “Why’s that?” She asked calmly.

“They die too quickly. It sounds so awful, I know. But it’s just my mother and I now. Grandparents are long gone, then my Aunt Emilie, then my father, and now them. It sucks and I’m sick of stupid funerals.”

“It must be hard. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well...I’m a pro at it now.” He was resting his cheek on his hand, and was staring at the corner of a wall, just pointedly avoiding eye contact. Still, she could see he had red in his eyes. Though she chose to ignore it. Felix seemed to be the type to hide his tears.

“You know...the last time I talked to Adrien, he told me to check the basement.”

This piqued Felix’s curiosity enough for him to look at her. “Basement? What basement?”

“I suppose here, but I haven’t had the chance to, since you know…all this going on.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. I used to come to this house all the time. It doesn’t have a basement.”

“So…maybe at the company?”

“Could be. I wouldn’t know.”

“Okay, I just wondered...since you were family…”

He growled. “Yeah, some family.”

“Do you...want to talk about it?” She offered, really hoping he would take the bait.

He chuckled again, no humor in his tone. “Might as well, no one around left to hide things from.” He leaned back in the chair. “Gabriel is...was a very private person. I tried to love him, since he was my uncle, but he did a very good job at keeping us at a distance. Adrien was the opposite. We talked often, even when his mom and my dad died and things got rough. Sometimes, it didn’t feel like we were welcomed here. But Adrien so wanted a connection. I could feel it in his hugs when we visited. He was starving, Marinette.”

Marinette willed herself not to start crying.

“Mom and I were told by Nathalie that Adrien and Gabriel were caught in a murder-suicide, as enacted by Adrien, early in the morning on the 23rd.”

“Did she tell you where the murder-suicide happened?”

“Nope, just that it happened in this house. As the only living relatives, she asked if we could come and help with the funeral arrangements.”

“Were you involved in all of it?”

“I thought mom and I did all of it together, but there was one thing that Nathalie insisted on and wouldn’t budge.”

“What’s that?”

“Gabriel is going to be interred in the Agreste family mausoleum, but Adrien…” he sighed with disgust. “As punishment, he’s getting an unmarked grave.”

“What!?”

“That was the compromise. The truth about the murder-suicide, which I am believing less and less, would be withheld from the public as long as Adrien was…effectively erased from the family line.”

She couldn’t help the tears that burst forth. “But that’s not fair! He didn’t do anything wrong! He couldn’t’ve!”

“Yeah kid, I know. I agree.” He scowled. “It makes me sick. I hate it. Adrien was suffering in life, and now he’s going to suffer in death.”

“You don’t think he did it?”

“Do you?”

She shook her head. “I can’t. I know what’s been said, and what people saw...but it just can’t be true.” And she had evidence to prove it, in the form of that empty casket.

“You won’t mention I said any of this to my mom, right? She’s also having a hard time, but she tells me I’m in denial.”

“I won’t say a word.”

Folks, now that you have heard my story,

Say, boy, hand me another shot of that booze;

If anyone should ask you,

Tell 'em I've got those St. James Infirmary blues.

I’m not sure about next week’s update. I’m going camping and I don't know what the wifi will be like. Fingers crossed!

#ml #miraculous ladybug #the ghost of Smokey Joe #fanfiction #adrienette #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste

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