#also funnily i noticed one of the storms is a name spelled just like my coworker

[marsixm]

waiting to hear the storm roll in while reading wikipedia articles on previous storms i lived thru but dont fully remember/know all the details of

[jacks-wylan]

It started to rain a day later.

Geralt's already bad mood started to increase even more, as he stomped down that trice damned mountain. His fingers trembled, and he knew very well that it was not because of the now terribly colder wind blowing, but he couldn't help but notice that the temperature was lower than the day before – lower than that same morning.

He gritted his teeth, eyes roaming up to the gray sky. Winter was coming, and that felt like the only blessing that was falling upon him lately, because winters meant home and late nights with his brothers and the closest thing he could ever have as a break, to have some time off everything .

He felt a pang of worry when, as the day passed, the weather worsened. Not for Yennefer, no, because she could take care of herself, and just portal out of there – but that idiot that went down the mountain path alone, without waiting for him at the clearing as he should have done no matter how much he was offended... the thought of him in a dangerous territory, with an upcoming storm no less, is worrisome. He tried to not think of Jaskier, because the he was still angered – and the guilt was already creeping up his spine, gnawing at his insides – and deep down he was hoping that he, indeed, joined the dwarves in the end, and he was not at all alone – as he was, as it should have been from the start.

Caingorn and the stables where Roach was waiting for him is half a way down, when he had to find shelter for the night. He found an empty cave, built a fire, and meditated. He couldn't fall asleep. Not that he tried, but he knew that slumber would not come easily on him this time. He would not fall asleep peacefully, safe , as he did with Yennefer ever again.

The rain became a downpour by the time he reached the inn.

He was surprised the same when, once entered inside the inn, knowing that he could not go anywhere with that kind of weather – he could not permit that something bad would happen to Roach – he found every single still alive member of the dragon hunt there.

Even Borch. Even Jaskier. Even Yennefer .

She did not deign him of a glance, and Geralt did expect as much. Jaskier, instead, looked at him with a relieved expression, but... but still, he didn't come to him, didn't run towards him and started to ramble as always. He noticed Jaskier's belonging at his feet, belongings that – apart from his lute – should have been inside Roach's saddlebags, with Geralt's things.

He told himself thank fuck .

He did not feel so thankful, though.

The common room was crowded, but Geralt found a table in a corner regardless. He settled there, ordered food and ale, and ignored the conversations around him. Someone was saying that if the storm did not placate, it would be impossible to walk the roads. He heard Yennefer snort and say that if things would not get better, she would just leave them all there and portal away. Jaskier muttered a mean: “Of course you will, but why are you still here?”

It was Borch that reached out to him. He sat next to him, and after he gulped a mouthful of ale, Geralt just asked: “Your child?”

“Safer than us here.” was his response, “The skies are enraged.”

“Shouldn't you be with them?”

“Not now, no.” Borch shook his head, “But I will be, if the rain ever stops.”

Geralt wasn't in the mood to understand Borch's cryptic words, so he just kept eating and drinking. Then he went out, saw Roach, gave her enough clean water and fresh hay, made sure that there still was pellet for her to sleep on. She seemed content, but she also seemed like she was waiting for something – for someone – that wasn't there with them, sniffing at Geralt's hands but not finding the treats he never gave her.

Geralt patted her muzzle and turned back in. The rain still didn't show any sign of stopping, falling almost cruelly on the ground. Roads became torrents, trees bent under the force of wind.

The skies are enraged.

None of the patrons could go back to their lives, when the night came. So the innkeepers decided that until the storm ended, the rooms were available for all of them – Geralt did not talk to Jaskier, as they walked up the stairs to their shared room, because he was expecting the bard to break the silence, but at first he didn't.

The awkwardness fell upon them until they had to look into each other's eyes by the only bed in the room, when Jaskier finally, finally talked. “Left or right?”

Geralt sighed, leaning his swords against the wall. “Jaskier,” he said his name, but abruptly stopped, because he didn't really know what to say.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is a very shitty situation, isn't it? We are all caged here for who knows when, and funnily right after–” Jaskier's voice faltered, until it stopped. “Can you endure me for a little more? I won't get in the way. You can talk with the witch, sort out all your problems, and live happily ever after. If there might be a silver lining here, it has to be this.”

Silence fell on them again. Geralt raised the blankets and got under them: he was pretty sure that not even that night sleep would come to him, but he could at least try. The road to Kaer Morhen was long and tortuous, he needed to be well rested before taking that way.

There was an acrid, bitter scent lingering in the air. Geralt ignored it.

“You really have nothing to say to me?”

Lying on the bed, Geralt looked at him with a sigh, “Just sleep, Jaskier.”

The room got illuminated by a thunder, fallen not too far from the inn. Jaskier jolted, head shot back towards the window with a panicking jump. Geralt could not see his eyes, but he imagined them being wide open, like a deer caught by a lightning. It might not even be too far from reality.

“If only I could.” Jaskier murmured, lying too on the bed but giving him his back. That position made Geralt feel lonely, but it was a sentiment so absurd that he just shrugged it off and closed his eyes.

Outside, the storm did not end, but it got calmer when he got up the next morning.

It was still a downpour, and it still made the roads impassable, but Geralt could see, with some difficulty, a timid ray of sun peaking through the thick, gray clouds covering the sky. He did indeed sleep, for a bit, he felt as refreshed as he could ever be.

Glancing at Jaskier, Geralt saw him still sleeping, his face relaxed, messy hair covering his closed lids. There was a slightly frown between his eyebrows, but so soft that it was difficult even for him to notice under the brown locks of his fringe.

Geralt swiped them off with the lightest touch he could gather so not to wake him up, then turned around and left the room.

The common room was almost empty, if not for Borch, the two Zerrikanians, and the innkeepers. “Most of the patrons went back to their home the second the storm calmed. After all, their houses aren't so far away.” one of the innkeepers was muttering, “Didn't even pay for the rooms, those whoresons.”

Not even an hour later, the storm increased again, with more force, with more violence it hit against the walls and doors. The sky darkened, it was an ominous scene.

“This looks like a catastrophe.” the other innkeeper said, “If it keeps like this, the land will become a giant swamp, and nothing will grow up again. If it keeps like this, our rations will end, and we will all die.”

“Always the same, you shithead. Stop being so gloomy, it's just the second day!”

“Myths spoke of a similar catastrophe cast by an angered God. It lasted forty days and forty nights, to drown the evil on Earth.” Borch said, calmly. “Just myths, they were. Evil is still on Earth, after all.”

The skies are enraged.

Moments later, Yennefer walked down the stairs, followed by Jaskier. They were talking in hushed tones, so low that Geralt couldn't understand most of the spoken sentences, but for the look of it Jaskier did not seem happy with their argument. Yennefer, though, she looked smug, a cutting grin baring white teeth.

Geralt felt something , something ugly and slimy kneading his mouth at their camaraderie. He felt left apart, abandoned, ignored. It was a feeling he should be used to – it was a feeling he always felt with Yennefer, it was a feeling he always made Jaskier feel – but somehow he felt the injustice of it burning on his cheeks, like embarrassment, if more humiliating.

He hated it, this weakness.

“I'm sorry, Yen.” he then said, because what else he has to do? Beg forgiveness, drop into his knees in front of her and say that what he did was wrong, but he just did it to save her. Not to see her die right after saving Jaskier's life, not to see her die after she mended his mistake which would have killed Jaskier, drowning him in his own blood that Geralt helped spill. “I had no right to do what I did, but I don't... I can't regret it.”

“Well, well.” Yennefer snorted. She sat gracefully on a chair, and looked up at him with an elegant black eyebrow arched. “You are apologizing. For someone else it might be enough, but not for me, Witcher.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “Would anything be even enough?”

“I am kind of disillusioned, to be honest, now that I know the truth. Things I could not comprehend before are now clear, and bitter. I do not know what love is supposed to be, of course,” she pursued her red lips, then looked around until her violet eyes stopped on Jaskier – Jaskier that was standing still in front of a window, watching the hell outside. His back was tense, his hands were trembling so slightly. He was close enough to be hearing everything Yennefer and he were talking about. Strangely, Geralt felt guilty. “But I know that ours wasn't love yet. Not a love that matters.”

“Could be, one day.”

“Sure.” Yennefer sneered, “But am I willing to wait? With the risk that once we break the Djinn's spell, all will be lost? I am not an hopeless puppy like your bard,” at that, Jaskier flinched, “I will not wiggle my tail at every scrap of attention you'd deign to give, to be then discarded when you will get enough of it.”

“Like you've done all this time with me?” Geralt growled.

“Like you've done all this time with the bard.” Yennefer replied, unapologetic.

They stared at each other for long moments, Geralt trying so hard not to turn and look at Jaskier again. He didn't want to acknowledge that those words were true and how much effects they had on him. “Why do you care? You can't even stand Jaskier, damn it!”

A thunder fell just outside the window Jaskier was leaning on. He shouted, scrambling away from the shaking – cracking – glass, and it was not long before another thunder fell, and the window shuttered.

Geralt fumbled up from his table, but Jaskier didn't get hurt, just soaked in the rain gusted in as he fell on the floor in fear of it. He whimpered, and brought a hand against his chest. In the chaos surrounding them, Geralt could clearly hear his heart beating like a war drum, louder than any noise, more deafening than the storm outside.

Yennefer went and, with a flick of her fingers, the window returned whole again.

“Fucking hell.” Jaskier creaked, “What the fuck is happening?”

Geralt looked out, and the gray of the storm became black, filled with blue and white, blinding stripes that made the land shake. Trembling like Jaskier's fingers tightened around a chunk of his own red doublet.

The skies are enraged.

And they were bringing down on Earth all of their anger.

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

read the rest on ao3!

[indiavolojones]

anon your MIND… 

 YE━(｡･`ω´･｡)ゞ ━S!!

Idk if you meant this as a request but I did it!!! I hope you like this incredibly spur of the moment, university wicked au lmfaoaoooo

5kish words, gen, asmo/solomon

“I can’t concentrate on coursework or go to bed if you’ve got someone moaning in your bed every other night.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Asmo sniffs, and Solomon very quickly finds the situation slipping through his fingers. All of his phenomenally constructed arguments for why Asmo should be a respectful roommate have disintegrated in the face of Asmo’s pure obstinance. “Besides, where would I take my partners if not to my room?”

“Their rooms. A car. A bathroom.  A dark alcove somewhere. I don’t care--anywhere else but here.”

Pls keep in mind a bunch of small notes:

-I haven’t seen Wicked, only listened to the soundtrack! I don’t remember what happened to make them room together/much of the plot hahaha. This is less of a wicked au and more a magical college au, whoooo~ -I made up so much shit for this. I was pulling lore outta my ass like nobody’s business -Everyone is human! -I skipped around a lot, so if there’s something that doesn’t make sense pls ask and I’ll clarify hahaha, I wanted to keep this short!! (is,.... 5k short...)

-

-

-

“We're all supposedly the best of the best, and yet none of us could stop a burst pipe," Solomon bemoans the status of their old dormitory.

“In our defense, it happened in the middle of the night and we had no idea what was going on?" Simeon offers, tilting his head with a sympathetic smile.

"But midway through the semester!" Solomon won't admit that the loss of one of his few friends being constantly at his side is more daunting than he thought it would be. Simeon is a phenomenal roommate, and understands Solomon better than anyone.

With the unfortunate mad dash to get all the affected students into new, undamaged rooms, the two of them are being split up, and now Solomon will have to get used to another, likely annoying roommate.

"I never realized you were this dependent on me." Simeon teases, and Solomon glares at him. Simeon swirls himself around in Solomon’s desk chair while Solomon walks by, cardboard box in his arms. Just to annoy him, his foot shoots out to stop Simeon mid-spin, and Simeon huffs, looking up at him.  

“Didn’t you say you were going to help?” Solomon asks.

Simeon laughs.

“You asked me to come help move boxes? I thought it was for sure because of you freaking out at getting a new roommate.” Solomon’s lips quirk downwards, and turns his head away with a scoff as he brings the box to the corner of his new dorm. Simeon props an elbow up on Solomon’s desk and watches the other.

“What could you possibly do to help with that?” Solomon asks, palm pressing to the box and releasing the sealing spell on it. “Do you have a solution for this?”

He gestures at the other half of the (thankfully) large room.

Instead of the traditional bunk bed and lower desk set like on Solomon's side of the room, the other half of the room consists of a large wardrobe as additional closet space, an extravagant vanity filled with beauty products, and a nest. A massive nest of pillows, sheets, and blankets—describing it feels ridiculous, but to look on its glory is surprisingly enticing. It does look… very comfortable.

“I think it looks rather nice,” Simeon examines the fairy lights strung up around the walls near the bed. The edges of his roommate's influence barely encroach onto what Solomon would consider to be his side, but as he’s the one imposing on this person’s space halfway into the year… he’ll bite his tongue.

Realistically, there’s no reason for RAD to have shared dorm rooms--the school is prestigious enough that each student could probably get their own living suite… but the chancellor of their particular location is the direct son of the president. He’s a bit eccentric, and enthusiastically vocal about the benefits of shared dorms as integral to the relationships they develop with their peers.

(There are things Solomon’s heard of him too: how he’s the youngest person in his role, how despite the accusations of nepotism he’s completely taken the magical community by storm in his unconventional approach to education.

An interesting man that Solomon would enjoy meeting face to face, rather than admire on a podium, even if he is quite handsome.)

Simeon purses his lips, before snapping his fingers, “A privacy screen?”

Solomon rolls his eyes hard enough that they feel like falling out of his sockets.

“I don’t know why you’re so up in arms about this. I’m sure your roommate will be fine,” Simeon says then, gentle--Solomon looks at the opposite side of the room and has his doubts. “It’ll be good for you to try making more than three friends, you know.”

Taking the books out of the box and lining them up on the shelves of the book case, Solomon tosses a glance back at Simeon.

Simeon isn’t wrong.

Solomon could be the most powerful sorcerer in the world, but it means absolutely nothing if he can’t effectively operate in the modern magical community. Maybe if he was born several hundred years earlier he could have swept up the world in the sheer magnitude of his power, but nowadays, politics infect everything. Solomon can’t patent a spell to wipe his ass without a sponsor, and no one wants to sponsor the intense kid with a bad attitude.

His ability to cast magic without any kind of aide or incantation launched him into the spotlight at an early age. Solomon has always been aware of what other people thought of him. When empty praise didn’t ingratiate his sycophants to him, it just as easily turned to criticism; kids are cruel, after all. As a result, Solomon has always struggled connecting with others.

By the time he realized he would have to work on his people skills to get anywhere, he was halfway through high school with a bad reputation, no friends, and no open doors.

(Funnily enough, it was around the same time that he met Simeon that he realized he needed to be less of an asshole if he was to ever get anywhere in life.

Simeon has been integral in teaching Solomon "how to person", as he puts it.)

“Who’s your new roommate, anyway?” Simeon asks when Solomon doesn’t respond to his comment. “I don’t think you said their name.”

"Did I not?” Solomon hums, “It’s someone named Mephistopheles.”

“Mephistopheles?” Simeon parrots, head tilting to the side, “Didn’t he get expelled?”

As Solomon opens his mouth to question Simeon, the door handle jiggles as someone unlocks it.

It swings open unceremoniously, followed by the quiet moans and shuffling of clothes as two people stumble inside the threshold. Simeon and Solomon can only watch in stunned silence as the taller, curly haired man presses a shorter woman against the wall, his face fully obscured in the curve of her neck as he lavishes it in open mouthed kisses.

Her eyelids flutter, he must be doing a great job--but the second she makes eye contact with Solomon, she shrieks.

“Asmo, Asmo wait--” The girl bats at his chest, her face bright red, “There’s people here!” Asmo pulls his face away from her skin to look at the room, a gorgeous smile on his face as he notices the others does not falter in the slightest.

“Oh, you’re Solomon!” Asmo smiles, before looking at Simeon, “And you’re Simeon. Lovely to meet you both.” Solomon looks at Simeon for some kind of hint as to what the fuck he should do here,  but Simeon also seems at a loss. Before either of them can say anything, Asmo slides a hand up the girl’s side to cup her cheek, speaking to them even as he stares deep into her eyes.

“Now, would the two of you kindly get out?”

-

-

-

The rest of living with Asmo is pretty much a continued repeat of their first meeting. Multiple times a week, sometimes once or twice in a day. Solomon has no fucking clue how someone like Asmo gets any schoolwork done, or hell, when the other gets sleep?

Regardless, it’s two weeks of Asmo getting laid and Solomon not getting proper amounts of sleep, and he’s sick of it.

“There need to be,” Solomon grimaces, swirling around in his desk chair but faltering as Asmo emerges from the bathroom, toweling his hair and jeans hanging low on his hips, “...ground rules.”

Asmo tilts his head, “Rules?” He says the words like it’s a foreign language, new and clunky in his pretty mouth. Solomon wants to sock him.

“You can’t keep bringing partners back here,” Solomon says. Asmo goes back to toweling his perfect fucking hair.

“And why is that?”

“I can’t concentrate on coursework or go to bed if you’ve got someone moaning in your bed every other night.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Asmo sniffs, and Solomon very quickly finds the situation slipping through his fingers. All of his phenomenally constructed arguments for why Asmo should be a respectful roommate have disintegrated in the face of Asmo’s pure obstinance. “Besides, where would I take my partners if not to my bedroom?”

“Their rooms. A dark alcove somewhere. A car. A bathroom. I don’t care--anywhere else but here.”

Asmo ponders this for a moment, before he shrugs his shoulders as he walks across the room to his drawers by the window, “Nope. I don’t think that’s considerate for them.” He digs through to presumably find a shirt, and Solomon bites the bullet.

“You’re on academic probation, aren’t you?” Solomon says, and Asmo freezes with his back turned to Solomon, tension evident in the line of his shoulders. When he turns around, his expression is colder than anything Solomon’s ever seen directed at him. In his brother Levi’s words, there it is: the infamous Bitch Smile.

“I didn’t know you cared about gossip,” Asmo looks like a dragon picking his teeth with human bones as he sits against the window sill.

The afternoon light drifting in through the sheer curtains casts him in an ethereal glow, and Solomon bites back his unnecessary request for Asmo to move out of such flattering lighting so he can negotiate with him properly.

“I don’t, which is how I know it’s true.”

“And? What? You’re going to try and blackmail me with this information?” Asmo sneers, but even crippling distaste is an attractive look for the other.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Solomon scoffs, “I’m offering to tutor you.”

Asmo blinks at that.

“I won’t tell anyone. You know my grades. Half of our required classes are together, so it’s not like it would put me under any more stress than not sleeping. And I’m not unreasonable,” Solomon says, “If you must bring people over, just let me know in advance and I’ll go to a coffee shop or the library. I do need to sleep, so I want them out by nine or ten at the latest.”

Asmo doesn’t immediately say no like Solomon thought he would, so things are already going much better than he expected. However, it still does not prepare him for Asmo’s response.

“Fine. Is that all you want?” He asks, and Solomon pointedly ignores the double entendre.  

“I want one of the shelves in the bathroom cabinet,” Solomon blurts, because Asmo has too many beauty products and there’s no space for him in the current set up. Asmo’s brow rises, even as his mouth twist into a wry, surprised smile.

“Maybe.”

“I can work with maybe,” Solomon smiles in return, standing and extending his hand out for a shake. “It’s a deal, then?”

Asmo stares at the hand, his expression unreadable, before something seems to break. He pushes off the window sill and in a few short strides, huffing with laughter, “What’s with the handshake? So formal.”

Solomon doesn’t rise to the bait even if there is a light dusting of pink on his cheeks. This is the first time they’ve touched, he realizes as his magic hums as Asmo’s hand is warm and steady in his own.

“It’s a deal.” Asmo says, and there’s a hint of interest in his eyes as he seems to see Solomon in a new light.

-

-

-

Solomon doesn’t mean to overhear it. He spends so much time in RAD’s library that it’s essentially his second home.

“How’s your shady roommate?” He hears a voice say, and it’s familiar enough to jarr Solomon from his thoughts.

A tinkling laugh, and Solomon blinks in realization. Asmo? Solomon tries to not eavesdrop, tries so hard to not let his interest wander from the potion formula in front of him, because it really has been giving him trouble...

“He’s not bad. Too stiff. Looks great when he comes out of the shower,” Asmo purrs. Solomon feels the bright pink blush rise to his cheeks. They’re talking openly about this in a library, of all places. RAD’s library is unreasonably huge, though--even on a busy weekday, one could be several aisles away from another human being in this space.

They’re both taking the same potions class, so it’s not too far off the mark that they’d both be in the same area looking for reading materials. Solomon should really just leave before he hears anything else that makes his ears burn.

“I don’t trust him.” Asmo’s brother, Satan, says. Of course. Solomon grinds his teeth. Asmo hmms.

“He definitely has a weird powerful vibe about him. I don’t blame you. His face just looks like he’s up to something,” Solomon swallows the spike of hurt that hits at Asmo’s words, even if he’s heard them before. Two months since he started tutoring Asmo. Three months since he moved in. Their cohabitation isn’t domestic, but it is at least civil. “I’ve seen him sleep but I don’t believe it, you know? I’ve never seen him do anything for fun. He’s so pent up and proper that I’m not sure how he does it.”

“He doesn’t.” Satan tsks, “You’ve heard about what happened, right?” Solomon feels his blood run cold.

That was different. It was an accident. He was a child. He was weak then. Solomon would never do anything like that on purpose again. Surely, surely Asmo wouldn’t--

“Of course! It figures though, all the super powerful kids are fucked in the head. But other than that, he’s not bad.”

But he’s not bad. But he’s not bad. As if Solomon would ever settle for not bad after such an callous description of his person. Fury, the kind that makes his magic churn under his skin at a rolling boil, rises in him: at Satan, at Asmo, at himself for.. For what? Believing that Asmo may actually have been different? That they could have been friends?

“What was that?” Satan asks, likely sensing the swirl of Solomon’s magic.

Cursing inwardly, he wrangles his wild emotions under control through years of practice. He will not prove them right. Solomon closes his textbook. His chair screeches against the floor as he stands, Satan and Asmo crossing out of the aisle into the open study area where Solomon has been seated, completely unhidden.

“Were you eavesdropping?” Satan accuses, his bright green eyes sharp and disdainful.

Years and years of diligently studying. Never losing his temper. His single minded determination to better himself has erected a wall that others look on in contempt. Do not prove them right about you, Solomon tells himself, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave red crescent marks. Do not let the rumors be true.

He cannot look at Asmo, so instead, he smiles at Satan.

“No,” Solomon laughs, and the politeness in it is so fake that it hurts, “I was studying for the same test that Asmo is studying for. Voices carry quite well in a library.”

Satan glances at Asmo, but Solomon still cannot look at him. Tossing his book haphazardly into his bag, he throws it over his shoulder.

“I’ll leave the two of you to it, then.”

-

-

-

“Solomon, hey, wait!” Solomon is not running away, but he has a very brisk pace and does not feel bad when Asmo has to job to catch up with him. “Listen, about what I said--”

Solomon stops sharply enough that Asmo almost runs into him, but Solomon uses his magic to help steady Asmo. It isn’t to be helpful, it’s to stop Asmo from getting close enough to touch him, as if that will protect him from all of these hurt, churning emotions. He exhales through his nose.

“Since you’re actually taking the time to go to the library… I don’t think you need my help anymore.” Solomon forces himself to look at Asmo, steeling himself against whatever petulant expression is probably on the other’s face.

“Right?”

Asmo’s face is not petulant in the slightest. He seems… upset? Solomon feels the beast snarl inside him, a lick of rage at the downtrodden expression on the other’s face. He gets caught shit talking him openly and then has the gall to look hurt when he gets his free tutoring cut off? Asmo’s family is disgustingly rich and well connected. Let him lose his pride and ask them for help.

Solomon will last the year. He and Simeon will room together next year. Asmodeus will not be what breaks him.

Asmo falters at the intensity of Solomon’s gaze, the severity of his words.

“... Right.” Asmo says, and Solomon lets his feet carry him away before either of them say anything else.

- - -

After a week of tense, peaceful avoidance, Satan dropping into the seat opposite him at the campus coffee shop is the last thing Solomon expects.

“I apologize for my conduct the other day.”

Solomon blinks at him.

What is Satan doing here? Irritation immediately blossoms in his chest--he may not be furious anymore, but that doesn’t mean he wants to see Satan, nor had he expected to.

After cancelling their tutoring sessions, he’s made it a point to spend as little time in their (when had it become their room? It was always Asmo’s room at first) room as possible. Sure, it means spending garbage amounts of money on overpriced coffee and shitty wi-fi when the library gets too stuffy, but at least he can breathe.

None of that explains why Satan is here. Apologizing to him. Surely it must be some kind of a trap? A childish prank? Really? Would Asmo stoop so low? He doesn’t know either of these brothers enough to truly say. It’s best for him to be polite for now, until he can figure out Satan’s true motiv--

“You realize that a lot of people don’t trust you because there’s a moment on your face where you look like you’re actively plotting, and then you say some polite nonsense,” Satan says, and Solomon’s brain stops like a record screeching.

“Is this really an apology.” Solomon says, drily. Satan shrugs his shoulders.

“That was an observation. This is the apology.” Satan clears his throat, looking Solomon straight in the eyes. “It was unbecoming of me to speak of you like that in public. I should know better, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s what you thought,” Solomon says, because it’s true. It’s what they all think, and for a good chunk of his life, Solomon rarely tried to make them think differently.

“It was ignorant.” Satan’s bright green eyes stare into his own, and Solomon senses no dishonesty in his words. When Solomon speaks, he finds that he actually might believe them.

“Apology accepted.” Now leave me alone.

Satan narrows his eyes, “Really?” Solomon resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, really.”

“Will you speak to my brother again, then?”

“It’s a little presumptuous of you to ask for my forgiveness and a favor in the same breath.”

“Asmo flunked the last test,” Satan says, in lieu of a proper answer, “He’s in a world of shit at the moment.”

“Why doesn’t he try flirting with the professor?” Solomon scoffs.

Satan props his chin up on his hand with a lopsided smile that’s far more relaxed than he’s ever seen from the fourth brother, “That’s the thing, he hasn’t. Lucifer chewed him out about it and he took it with his tail between his legs rather than kick up a fit about it too.” Solomon’s quick mind lets him skip over the next lines of whatever shitty banter they’ve got to reach Satan’s point.

“You want me to tutor him again.” Solomon asks in disbelief, despite himself. Satan snorts and leans back.

“Nothing so pedantic as that,” Satan waves the notion away, “Just stop avoiding him at every turn, and hear what he has to say. If you’re still mad at him after that, then that’s perfectly reasonable too, considering my brother is one of the biggest assholes to ever exist. He’s unbearably dramatic when he gets into fights with his friends.”

“... Friends?”

Satan stares at him like he’s grown another head, “Obviously.”

Solomon laughs so hard, he’s sure that he’s confirmed all of Satan’s weird opinions of him.

-

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“Solomon?” Asmo breathes his name, hand lingering on the doorknob as he enters the room to see Solomon sitting in his desk chair.

“Satan talked to me,” Solomon says, reveling in the stunned look on Asmo’s face, before crossing his arms, ”He apologized for what he said. And then he asked me to at least hear you out because you’re sulking.”  Asmo pouts at Satan’s words, and Solomon quirks his brow.

“Is he wrong?”

In response to this, Asmo’s face looks pained, lips pressing together as he glances to the side. He’s like a petulant child, Solomon thinks, even if he’s somehow still amused by the other’s expression.

When Asmo looks at Solomon, and he throws his hands up in the air,  “I shouldn’t have said it. There, are you happy?”

“Not really,” Solomon admits, “I understand why your brother might think that of me, but to hear it from someone that I’m helping out...” He adds a little bit of a softer, sadder tone to his voice to make Asmo writhe, and ha, does it work.

Asmo groans, ruffling his hands through his hair, “Alright, I’m a dick! Are you happy? I’m a gossipy bitch and I say things I shouldn’t. You helped me out and I.. took advantage of it. I’m sorry!” Asmo’s arms cross, and he looks so genuinely uncomfortable that Solomon wants to laugh.  

“You’re terrible at this. I was confused as to why Satan might say I can still be mad at you after you say your piece but.. I get it. You’re even worse than he is at it, dare I say.”

“You haven’t met our eldest brother,” Asmo sniffs, before continuing, “Besides, words and emotions are hard, bodies are easier,” Asmo shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“You sound like a bad high school drama,” Solomon scoffs, rolling over Asmo’s affronted gasp, “In any case, I heard you flunked the last test we shared. Maybe if you spent less time flirting with the TA in that class, you could retain the information on the board.” Solomon brings his knuckles to his chin, holding his elbow in his other palm.

“It can’t be helped. If we can get you set up with some extra credit there and you ace the next few exams that should keep your grade above water.” Solomon runs the numbers in his head, but Asmo is waving his hands in the air.

“Wait, wait, waaaait! You’re forgiving me?”

“I’m considering it. You have to make it up to me somehow, but as for the tutoring.. we’re too close to exams for me to want to deal with another roommate if you get yourself suspended. I don’t have blackmail material on anyone else, unfortunately.” Solomon’s kidding about the blackmail, but Asmo deserves a little ribbing after that awful apology.

Although Asmo doesn’t seem offended by the joke. No, it actually seems to be... the opposite? As he speaks, Asmo’s looking at him with a blinding smile.

“Are you listening to me?” Solomon frowns, knocked off balance by Asmo’s expression, “Because if you aren’t, I swear i’m going to--”

A flurry of motion, Asmo crosses the space of their room quicker than Solomon’s ever seen him.

Asmo’s hand cups his face, the other lands on his hip; Solomon has very little time to think, because Asmo’s gorgeous face is in centimeters away from his own. The scent of Asmo’s perfume fills his senses, rendering him stunned--Asmo glances down at his parted lips, and then back up at Solomon’s eyes.

Asmo kisses him, and Solomon’s magic blows out the fuses in their entire building.

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In the chaos of their plunge into darkness, Solomon’s hands shooting out to shove Asmo back accidentally activates his magic, and Asmo stumbles a few paces further before falling to the ground.

“Ah,” Asmo yelps, at the same time Solomon rises from his seat, “What the hell, Asmo?”

They’re not in total darkness, thanks to the dim light from the streetlamps outside, but it still takes Solomon’s eyes a few seconds to adjust. Asmo’s vague form is still seated on the floor, propped up on his elbows.

“What was that?” He demands, still haunted by the firm press of Asmo’s lips against his. Asmo shifts to get up, and Solomon’s arm immediately reaches out to offer his assistance. Asmo huffs at the motion, but takes his hand anyway.

“I thought I could make it up to you this way.”

“By offering to, what, make out with me?” Solomon says, disbelief mounting. Asmo shrugs his shoulders, one hand trailing up Solomon’s hip.

“Sure, we could do that. We could do whatever you want,” and now that Solomon’s eyes have adjusted to the dim lighting, he can see the coy smile playing at Asmo’s lips, “I see how you look at me, how could you not? Besides, you’re quite handsome yourself…” Asmo purrs, his free hand reaching up to graze against Solomon’s blushing cheeks.

For a moment, Solomon hesitates--Asmo is gorgeous. Even if Solomon were deaf to the campus’ adoration of him, he would have to be blind as well to not realize that just by existing near Asmo. There’s always a mix of challenging and inviting in his eyes, an ease that shows itself in all of his movements. Asmo exudes a level of sensual energy that is a powerful skill in its own right, and Solomon is a healthy young adult…

But Solomon has no desire to fall into Asmo’s bed like another one of his hundreds of admirers, clamoring to get into the other’s bed space. He has more important things in mind.  

“That’s not what I meant by making it up to me!” Solomon is very proud of his voice not cracking as he pushes Asmo’s hand away, and the coquettish expression is quickly replaced by Asmo’s pout.

“Well, how else am I supposed to show you how truly repentant I am!” He whines at his failed seduction.

“I can’t even begin to explain how screwed up that is, Asmo.” Solomon groans, running his hand through his hair, “You could have offered me another shelf in the bathroom cabinet or more sink space and I would have considered it a start.”  

Asmo blinks, tilting his head to the side, “... Really? That’s all you want?” He seems stunned that someone would turn down his body.

“Now that I know you were going to offer your body, half of the sink sounds too fucking small, doesn’t it?” Solomon retorts, and Asmo laughs.

A loud knock startles both of them out of their conversation, and he hears the muffled voice of their RA from the other side.

“Are you alright in there? There’s been a power outage -- will you be alright casting magelight, or do you need flashlights?”

Solomon, in desperate need of a reprieve from Asmo’s… Asmo-ness… goes to open the door as the RA speaks. After a quick exchange of assuring the doting senior in their pajamas, Solomon shuts the door with a sigh. When he turns around, Asmo is seated in his desk chair with a soft pink magelight floating idly nearby. Asmo seems to be deep in thought, and Solomon approaches him with slight hesitation.

As soon as Solomon gets closer, Asmo’s gaze snaps up to look at him so suddenly that Solomon almost balks.

“I know what I can do for you,” Asmo says, his eyes twinkling with mischief and utter glee. The pink light casts an almost eerie, and somehow still enticing shadow on the other’s face.  

Solomon isn’t too proud to admit he’s terrified by whatever Asmo is about to offer.

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“... So you didn’t sleep with him?” Simeon asks, and Solomon chokes on his tea.

“What! Of course not!” He coughs through his instantaneous response, pounding his fist on his chest. “He said… oh hell, I can’t say this, it’s ridiculous.” Solomon covers his face with his hands, an unbidden blush rising to his cheeks.

“He said he was going to make me popular,” Solomon groans, a little quieter in volume. Simeon is silent for a long enough time that Solomon takes his face out of his hands to look at him questioningly, but Simeon’s got one hand over his mouth as he shakes in stifled amusement.

“Wh--” At Solomon’s confused expression, Simeon is unable to contain himself any longer, bursting into a loud fit of laughter. Simeon throws his arms around Solomon in a crushing hug, even as Solomon tries to shove his way out of it.

“Oh, this is going to be great.”  

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I feel like this would definitely be considered #crack or #ooc slightly because it’s always hard to translate personalities that are defined by specific experiences (such as being alive for thousands of years) into any AU, but especially ones where they’re only 19/20 year olds lmaaoo

Facets of their personalities I tried to keep: Solomon’s ambition/the fact that people think he’s so shifty, and Asmo’s sexual bravado/blatant insecurities of his person. Who knows if that comes off here, but hey, I had fun lkajflaks

As always, ty for reading!!! I appreciate your kind words and responses on my stuff ;w;

[analysis-by-vaylon]

Illusions, clowns, and "Trickstar": the ideas behind the magic of Star vs. the Forces of Evil -- and the real meaning behind Ludo's name.

I don't think it's controversial to say that that the writers are well-versed in fictional depictions of magic. After all, the show stars a magical princess from another dimension who uses all sorts of hilariously-destructive spells. But I think the writers are also fans of stage magic. (Warning: this is quite a long post!)

Magic tricks -- commonly referred to as illusions -- have been performed by clowns and magicians, both amateur and professional, on and off the stage, all over the world for centuries. Many clowns in Western literature, including Shakespeare's, have their origins in the famous Italian Renaissance commedia dell'arte.

I bring up the Italian tradition specifically because of The Clowns, a film directed by famous Italian director Federico Fellini, which I believe has had an influence on the show through the creative director for Star vs. the Forces of Evil, Dominic Bisignano, who also writes and directs episodes.

Notably, Dominic Bisignano uses a still from The Clowns as the header image for his blog -- in fact, I asked him about it just to be sure. This is evidence, in my opinion, of the film's artistic influence on the show; if you've seen "Bon Bon the Birthday Clown," that much should be obvious. But we can go a step beyond that and prove that, broadly speaking, stage magic and clowns are not only thematically important in the show but also crucial to the development of Star and Ludo.

Sprinkled throughout the show, there are often key lines of dialogue that not only hint at something larger in scope than the current scene but also provide a clue about the writers' intentions. Let's take a look at one of those key lines of dialogue from "Storm the Castle":

Police Officer: You like magic, little girl? Star: Uh ... I guess. Police Officer: Oh, me, too! Heck, I used to go to Vegas every weekend -- all for magic! The thing about magic is if you don't use it wisely, you can lose everything.

The mention of Las Vegas is an indication that the police officer is talking about stage magic, but his words take on an ironic meaning given the context of Star's use of real magic. With this scene, we have the show's first clear connection between stage magic and real magic, and the message is that magic is dangerous -- a recurring theme throughout the show and especially in season two as Star struggles to learn how to wisely use her magic.

Besides in "Storm the Castle," there are other references to clowns and stage magic. A clown briefly appears in "Royal Pain." In "Cheer Up Star," Star tries to cheer up Marco by performing stage magic; similarly, in the same episode, Marco tries to cheer up Star by dressing as a clown. The two most significant episodes, however, are "Bon Bon the Birthday Clown" and "Trickstar."

In "Bon Bon the Birthday Clown," we see Ludo in rare form: competent and terrifying. I've written previously about Ludo's development and the importance of the clown-related imagery in that episode -- the trick candles are symbolic of resurrection, for instance -- but it's no accident that a dead clown was chosen as the crux to build this episode around, and it took me a while to figure out why.

You see, it's all hidden in plain sight -- it's right in Ludo's name.

Plenty of people have pointed out that ludo means "I play" in Latin -- but I think we can go farther. I've said before that the show's writers choose their words carefully, so let's take a look at the word. As you can see, ludo has many denotations:

I play (a game or sport). I frolic, behave playfully. I practice, amuse myself with. I sport, play amorously. I mock, mimic. I tease, ridicule. I deceive, trick.

What's one simple verb that we could use to connote all these meanings simultaneously?

"I clown."

That's the verb we've been looking for. Oh, yes -- did I mention that there is a clown named Ludo in The Clowns -- which, incidentally, is also known by its Italian name I clowns?

(Also incidentally, the word "illusion" has its roots partly in the word ludere, from which ludo is derived.)

Now here's the deep irony of all this: dressing as a villain, Ludo starts off as an unserious, clownish figure in season one -- and later, dressing as a clown, he reveals himself as a genuinely sinister force to be reckoned with in season two. It's quite the reversal.

By the way, Ludo's not the only character based on this concept; Buff Frog is based on the buffoon, who traditionally appeared on the stage with puffed cheeks.

Anyway -- what does all of this mean for Ludo's future? I believe his role in the story is to play as a foil to Star -- her royal jester, you might say. Whether that is as a continued enemy or an eventual ally remains to be seen; I believe there are many paths the story could take. Who knows? By the end of the season, Ludo may even be able to stand toe-to-toe with Toffee. In the meantime, Star has her own journey to make, and we see that in "Trickstar."

Star is the stage magician to Ludo's clown. As I've already noted, Star dresses up as a stage magician in "Cheer Up Star," and "Storm the Castle" makes another comparison between her magic and stage magic -- but it's in "Trickstar" where this comparison is on full display: Star is contrasted with an actual stage magician who, funnily enough, also knows real magic.

Given the series' philosophical view on magic, it's not surprising that a joy sucker would choose, out of any profession, to become a stage magician. Magic is a creative force that can bring people joy -- just as Preston Change-O's tricks do -- yet it can also be, as both Preston and Ludo show, a destructive force that robs people of their happiness.

Star is caught between these two duelling forces. By the way, did you notice the decoration on the cake? It looks suspiciously like her winged wand, does it not? That yin and yang symbol is not coincidental; this episode is thematically concerned with Star's development along the path to using magic wisely and mastering both “good” and “evil” magic.

Star makes a mature decision in this episode: she gives Preston Change-O a chance to prove that he's stopped hurting people, and when he violates that promise, she steps in to stop him and reveal his harm to others -- even at the cost of her reputation. Star is plagued with self-doubt afterwards:

Star: I'm not sure it was worth ruining Sensei's birthday just to be right.

But Sensei, finally proving himself worthy of his title by dispensing some wisdom, is the one who admits that Star was right to do what she did. As others have pointed out, this has far-reaching implications for the Mewman-monster conflict.

Finally, with regard to "Trickstar," the title of the episode undoubtedly references the mythological figure of the Trickster. Preston Change-O is one such figure -- but might Star herself be another? As a potential "boundary-crosser" between the world of Mewmans, the world of humans, and the world of monsters, she might conceivably unite all three. Or, like Loki, she might take on a much more sinister role; "Baby" foreshadows the possibility that she may become like Eclipsa. Only time will tell for sure.

Last but not least, I'd like to say a little about the writers' use of illusions as a tool in narrative fiction. Since the writers are so familiar with magic tricks, it seems only natural that they would employ that trickery when writing and storyboarding. Indeed, many viewers have already noticed how often they use misdirection.

One recent example of misdirection comes at the beginning of "Trickstar." Marco says,

Hurry up, Star! I don't want us to miss the cake.

Meanwhile, Star walks into frame carrying an enormous gift. Star's gift is meant to distract us from the dialogue -- since, as I noted earlier, the cake is thematically important. The writers put extra emphasis on the cake: don't miss it, they say. (Indeed, as a future post will reveal, there is far more to that cake that can be covered in one post alone.) That is classic misdirection, and that's one example of how the writers use it. There's no doubt in my mind they make use of other magic tricks in storytelling as well.

What really fascinates me, though, is that the show's writers seem keenly aware of their position as the magicians on stage.

You see, Star and Marco and Ludo aren't real -- but we care about them. We care about Star and Marco's relationship and whether or not they'll stay friends or become lovers. We now feel genuinely threatened when Ludo appears. We laugh when the characters do something comical, and we feel sad when the characters cry. The writers cause these illusions, like any good fiction, to feel realer than real.

And if you ask me, that's a damn good magic trick.

Thank you for reading this (quite lengthy) analysis post! I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to send me asks if there’s something in the show you’d like to see analyzed!