#indigo whenever you want me to do more of these either suggest them outright or mention me in the op tags i enjoy the brain food

[eemoo1o-animoo]

Word count: 1.8k (love how little drabbles go haywire)

TWs: Cursing and sexually implicit trauma (vague and brief, but still included), Alois referring to himself as "in love" with Claude (one sided Dadlaude go 'whoo'...)

Notes: Suppose this is Coattails adjacent (with the bath because of course @princess-adrienne owns baths... she owns everything that's essential to living in a nobleman's Victorian life. Of course, this is simply what happens when one invests in stocks.) – Maybe I'll put it in my "Trancytails" notes... (it's not actually called that, you know).

There's a reason why I'll never write in Alois' POV ever again, and this is it.

Alois laid back in the porcelain bathtub with his eyes closed. The water was hot, and he was sure he would leave the bathroom, later, with parts of his body sensitive and red, in perfect, square shapes that left him completely bicoloured.

Claude, his pesky stallion of a butler, was – in every sense of the word – absolutely and irrefutably clueless when it came to his basic comfort. Alois wasn't a fool; sure, he gave him the benefit of the doubt more often than not, but sometimes it really got to him when every bath was near-scalding and he'd have to demand it be redrawn, or when food tasted as bland as mud or as salty as cock.

It angered him when Claude only ever remembered to light the fireplaces because of routine, and not because he'd seen Alois shivering over an hour before. Without his order, Alois wondered if Claude would get anything done at all.

Hell, he didn't even need to do it himself if he really didn't want to – just make sure that it was done. Alois drew in a breath sharply through his nose, stinging eyes flying open and staring up at the ceiling.

"I am a demon," Claude would remind him, "and I will make one hell of a feast out of you."

Then, he'd bend down, and all anger would melt away like butter. Why was he ever so mad, and how could he have been so? Claude was, in every sense of the word, perfect. He was a demon, after all – an all-mighty being, contracted to him of all people.

Alois could have grinned in triumph at himself, for he'd beaten the very worst of the worst. And, with Claude by his side, he was even more unbeatable. His Claude was an all-powerful demon, contracted to him and only him, and as such he was loyal to only him.

To no one other than him – not his former father, or to Luka, or even to Jim. Him. Alois Trancy.

(Jim was a coward, he could have never faced up against a demon without deserting Alois in his stead – after all, that was what he'd done in the face of that monster, and monsters were worse than demons.)

But, Claude – despite his apparent perfection – was so, so clueless. Honestly, how many hints did a boy need to give to his fa– demon? Were demons so naturally clueless, that it made dumb old monsters seem smart?

It was absolutely baltic outside – in the negatives, Hannah had said, rubbing her hands together like an absolute, condescending bitch, as if Alois wasn't meant to know what the word 'cold' meant – and Claude had drawn Alois a bath and left the window open as he promptly left.

As much as he wanted Claude's absolute attention, Alois rarely had him stay the entire time he bathed. For one, Jim wouldn't let him. There was still a sliver of him left, gripping onto his paper-thin integrity until it bled, and – two – Claude did an awful job.

An efficiently awful job. An awfully efficient job.

The job had to be done, and despite his niggling, suppressed horror, Alois basked in the reality that Claude had to do this as per his loyalty and contract to him. On the other hand, Claude's deft hands were firm and precise and the lack of ardour behind every movement – every touch – made Alois frosty and bitter and sick.

Strong and efficient touches, as though he was nothing more than sticky dung on the underneath of his shoe in need of scrubbing off. And there it was, again – just like that: that stingy-eyed feeling that so often came to him at the most unwonted of times, plaguing his thoughts like a cold, steel dagger.

It's cold out, Alois seethed to himself, fending off a bubbly, bitter laugh. And he'd left me here in a bathtub of water with the window open! Then, he did laugh. The fool!

Was it all a test? As the wintry air chilled the bathroom and the incessant twittering of robins and the faint chittering of squirrels filled his ears, Alois felt his fists clench. He pushed himself back upright from the opposite end of the bath.

For quite some time, now, Alois was able to reach the opposite end of the bathtub with his feet. In the beginning – and even now – he'd slip, because Claude took his time to scrub the porcelain smooth in the same fashion he did when Alois would finally call for him to do his job.

Was he really the same as a stupid piece of porcelain? Damn – Claude really knew what to do to get under Alois' porcelain skin. That is, if he even cared to know at all.

The fool. The enigma. The...

"Claude!" It was absolutely freezing in the room by now. Alois was full of prickly goosebumps and his hair stood up. Even the water started to shiver. "Get your arse in here! Claude!"

Claude entered so debonairly, it was as though Alois had only whispered his servile name. The steam from the water misted his glasses, but – eerily – he stayed still, and did not remove them to clean the lenses.

"Yes, your highness?" he asked, in the near-baritone drone that had Alois lassoed like a bull to an American westerner. If the room wasn't frosty enough as it was, it most certainly was now.

"You left me with the window open, Claude," Alois smiled sweetly, but his tongue was sharp and his jaw was set. "It's bloody freezing."

Claude did not reply, Alois realised – like he had many times before – because it was not a question. Claude did not answer to statements. It was an irritant little fact of life. And, even more aggravatingly, Claude still hadn't cleaned his glasses, so Alois couldn't even see him staring at him in that usual icy way of his; Alois didn't even feel the searing consciousness of exhibited nudity around him, anymore.

He wasn't sure if this was good. It angered him that he didn't know – and it angered him that he couldn't even confide in Claude about it.

Damn demon.

"Have you lost your damn mind?" Alois asked, suddenly. "And fix your glasses, for god's sake!"

"Not since the day I contracted myself to you, your highness." A bow, slight and pledging, as if to give the act of sincerity before he got to work cleaning his glasses.

Claude didn't do rhetorics, either.

"Quit trying to romance me, you idiot," a bittersweet, defensive testament that he knew Claude would never truly listen to – Claude often heard more than what he listened to, and it was an abhorrent downside to his perfection – "Why did you leave the window open?"

Claude gave him that usual golden glare of his through his crystal-clear trifocals as he pushed them up his own perfectly proportioned ivory nose with his egg-white (Claude called them 'egg-white') gloved fingers, and suddenly the water felt extra transparent, despite its film of bath-oils and floral soap.

"Do you require me to recount this afternoon's events, your highness?" It was funny, really, how Claude did not 'do' rhetorical questions until he asked them himself. Alois answered with a glare that was a piteous attempt at matching the well-practiced severity of his. "Very well, then. You had informed me the water was too hot," Claude stated, in his usual all-work-and-no-play-makes-me-extremely-irresistible demeanour, "but insisted in entering the water anyway. I'd merely intended on making your experience more pleasurable. Was I wrong to do so?"

And there it was: the facade of non-human innocence that never failed to make Alois' heart swell with longing and self-made remorse, no matter how hollow it really was. In that brief moment of faux belief – no matter what the actual extent of Claude's intentions were, because he was in the knowing of its variability – he'd be bright with glee at the prospect that Claude, his Claude, was so trying, holding his best interests to whatever constituted as his heart.

"Well – then – then do better next time! I'm freezing my balls off, in here, and you just let it happen!" It was a pitiful attempt at reprimanding him, now that his brain was mushy with sympathy and love. "Do you want me to catch a cold, or something?"

"Very well, your highness," another bow, only this time his arms remained pinned to his sides. That usually meant he wanted to leave, because the scene in hand no longer had any value to him. "Do you require me to close the window to be on vent, your highness?"

"Yes," Alois said. He allowed it to be on vent because he didn't want the piercing scrutiny of Claude's irritated gaze at the prospect of needing to keep an eye on any future damp that was to blacken the bathroom walls and dirty the fine paint job that he'd applied himself so many moons ago. Claude was funny, like that.

"Is that all?" he asked when the chilly breeze was lessened, but Alois could still hear everything that was still out there.

"You can do something about those birds," he said, not really thinking. He often lamented in great passion that the copious flock of wild birds around the estate was ridiculously agitating, but Claude had never really been ordered to do anything about them – only ever yelled at – because Alois had seen him go out of his way to feed them and let them perch on him as though he was their own personal forest. "They're getting on my nerves."

There was only so much jealousy a boy like him could hold for such vermin.

"Yes, your highness," the first agitated inflection of the evening, how generous. A low bow that almost had him in a perfect ninety-degree angle. Alois nearly felt unnerved by it. "I will see to it that the birds are silenced for you to enjoy the rest of your leisure in peace."

Alois fingered the surface of his bathwater for a moment, mulling over his dear demon's loyalty and how... flat he was, all the darned time. He had to give him something – anything – Alois needed it. He pined for it. Anything. Just a sliver of hope that would tell him, "you will make a tasty meal, and I genuinely mean that". Not... ugh, whatever Claude mistook for compassion.

Ah, but wasn't that the harping-on of a fool? An in-love fool?

Alois splashed Claude with some of his bath water. From his positional bow, he still managed to glare up at him. Then, he stood and – fixing his droplet-streaked glasses – asked, "Is that all you require of me, your highness?"

It didn't feel like a question, this time round.

"Fine," Alois laid back in the porcelain tub with a huff and, closing his eyes for just a moment, he gestured at Claude to depart. "You can go, I know you want to."

He listened to the door click shut. Part of him really wished he hadn't.

Just washed my hair and I’m about to go out in 18°F weather #thriving

[dorminchu]

WIPs [James Bond, Pokémon Lost Silver]

Wahey! Here are two mostly brand new scenes below the cut, just to prove I'm not dead! Note: Please view the post on the main page for correct formatting.

INSULT TO INJURY CHAPTER I: A THOUSAND DETAILS [REVISED]

Graduation from Oxford was a quick, unemotional affair. Madeleine had no extended family to invite—no one else of import, besides her short-term friends. The matter of her attendance was something to be addressed and then forgotten about. It was a little tragic. She tried not to let this show on her face when she had to make her commencement speech.

The ceremony went along as expected. Things were not as interesting when she could pretend her life was just as safe and boring as anyone else’s. As she was wrapping up an individual figure in the stands, no more remarkable than any other, caught her attention. It was an older man, perhaps in his early fifties, hidden partially behind sunglasses and a smart dress-hat. With a nauseating thrill she recognized his hat as well as his smile, the angles in his face a little more pronounced. To Madeleine it was like he was sneering. She did not let this discovery rattle her. If she hesitated it was on account of the crowd and her nerves and nothing else.

But when she was done, succeeded at the podium, she could only think: How long has he been standing there? Why didn’t I notice? They did not speak to one another, as it would surely draw unwanted attention. Not that it mattered. His presence was enough of an affront; why give him further opportunity to wound her pride by acknowledging him outright?

“I’m sorry,” she’d said to her roommate, “I’m really not feeling well. Just take me home.”

Even then, when she was perfectly alone, the memory of him took up residence where physical space would not permit. She tried to dredge up some residual emotions for the man who less so resembled a father and more an anonymous pen pal in recent years. Perhaps it was best for his pride if she continued to avoid him, rather than put him in a situation that would force him to admit his own daughter's indifference.

Her cotenants would be out for a while, glad to be around other normal people who didn’t skirt around crowded rooms, casing the doors and windows. Most of them, by now, thought Madeleine to be frigid, or else exceedingly studious. They’d given up a long time ago trying to invite her along on group dates—it was a losing proposition. She did not drink anything. She didn’t talk unless someone initiated and then she was perfectly reasonable. She would quietly, scrupulously vet what was offered. The other women were under the delusion that she was trying to compete with them, and the men were usually uncomfortable being scrutinised without a lick of pretence. Madeleine found it a little funny, but she was the only one.

So she didn’t mind being left behind. Most of the time. She looked around the room. It had served its purpose during her enrolment. Now it seemed intolerably small, like a holding cell. She had never thought about it this way before. Suddenly she wanted to be anywhere else.

At times such as these, she almost wished she hadn’t decided to go straight-edge—then, maybe, they would keep some alcohol in the flat. She had no friends she could call on without inviting scrutiny. The only other comparable colleague was Arnaud, a fellow Sociology major in her year. She found him tolerable enough to engage in polite conversation, though she did not want to give him or anyone else the wrong idea.

Or, hell, why not? She could use a drink.

⁂

Three years to that day, they were still talking. Well, her colleagues at Oxford would have likely referred to them as friends-with-benefits with a healthy measure of condescension—but this was misleading. It would imply some level of emotional investment. For Madeleine, he was a means of insurance. Whenever he turned up dead or missing, she’d know it was time to move on. Now, Madeleine was not completely heartless. She had taken Arnaud’s advice and transferred over to the 8th arrondissement, with the understanding that they would be rooming together. And Arnaud was easy to get along with and she could afford him the same courtesy. She had someone to come home to and he knew enough about her work ethic from their college years, and her demeanour, to not ask where she had been. She knew enough surface-level information about him that she could still keep up appearances with his friends, as well as her own colleagues at the office—to be discarded, once he outlived his purpose. The clinic was within walking distance from the flat. Open to the general public, rather than more exclusive clientele, but that suited her fine. Each day bled into the next and the seasons changed in rote, predictable manner. She’d go to bed and wake up thinking: Maybe today will be it. They’ll come to collect me. But it had been three years. The lack of apparent danger soon directed her thoughts towards various methods of escape. Usually, Madeleine found solace in identifying the root of other peoples' troubles; a faulty marriage brought on by substance abuse, or more permanent debts that could not be repaid so easily. Most were less extreme and involved simple conversations that were, in Madeleine’s view, no more impactful than the change in weather. She kept no photographs. She had a work computer that stayed in the office. She stuck to using burner phones. She did not discuss her life before Oxford or the Sorbonne with anyone. The only décor was a pot of faux flowers from an elder client; for her falsified birthday, of course. There was even a little hand-written note. The longer the pot stayed on her desk, the more disingenuous Madeleine felt. She'd investigated it a few times when she was alone, looking for wires, but never could prove her suspicions. She got rid of it anyway, just to be safe. The client never brought this up again but Madeleine could souse the hurt in her eyes the next time they met.

LOST SILVER: HIDDEN

Part of the wall had a give to it like rotting flesh. It caught on his fingers, porous and thin. Momentarily freed from the push of the unown Gold threw his body into the weak spot.

It didn’t stick to his skin but tore as like wet paper. Clean break.

Falling forwards into an empty void. Crashing on all-fours. The unown were gone. Ground had no texture but simply existed beneath him, impossibly smooth and cold. There was no light from the tunnel behind him. All the sound fell away from his ears. He felt himself screaming just to hear something but could only feel the physical strain in his lungs and throat. Unown frequency reached him through tinny speakers—overridden by static. He put his hands to his ears. It did not stop. He could feel the blood pounding in his head. Suddenly the tiny screen lit up. His hands caught on plastic. He clutched it desperately, staring into the harsh, inexplicable light of the LCD screen. A voice broke through static:

“Where do you think you are?”

Gold froze. He—

—falling forward again. Jerked out of time and space as though by an ally’s Teleport—familiar loss of footing followed by an abrupt solidity beneath his knees. Shock giving way to nausea. The last time he’d teleported anywhere was at the behest of the old guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and his abra, back at Indigo Plateau. He doubled over. His chest felt tight. He began dry-heaving, desperate for air—the serrated, raw feeling in his throat and chest told him he’d been screaming.

Dry, dusty earth beneath his fingers was baked over. The fresh air he drew into his lungs tasted warm. It was dusk. A thin layer of perspiration on his face and his palms. His stomach settled gradually into queasiness. He didn’t remember teleporting or what he had been doing before his arrival. He couldn’t recall why he was here, either.

“Hey, kid. Finally awake?”

Gold blinked. He straightened himself out and tried not to look as shaken up as he felt. The man in a lab coat and glasses looked down at him impatiently.

“We’ve been waiting for the last hour.”

Gold had no idea how to respond. His legs were shaky. He held up a hand to wave off any attempts at sympathy. “Teleport,” he got out hoarsely.

The man scoffed. “I don’t need an apology. I’ve got all the notes on my desk about what to expect down there. Nothing a tough guy like you can’t handle. We’ll be inside whenever you’re ready.”

The aide was nicer. “Gold, right? Prof. Oak’s told me about you.” She looked around his age, maybe a couple years younger. Her hair was dyed an intense shade of blue and pulled into twin ponytails. She was dressed for the season—just a pair of bright yellow athletic shorts and sleeveless red shirt, white jacket. Her body was toned—Gold had the fleeting thought that she could have been his twin, but her accent struck him as native to Kanto. She had her own POKéGEAR, too; clipped neatly on her bag, rather than on her wrist.

“Oh, uh—has he?”

“Only good stuff, don’t worry.” She extended a hand. “You can call me Kris. That other guy is Mr. Ito.”

They shook. Her gloveless hand was warm and soft, which surprised him. Gold noticed her belt—two standard pokéballs, a moon ball and a lure ball respectively. “You’re a trainer, too?”

“I’m more of a researcher. Lately I’ve been working on the Unown Mode feature of the POKéDEX. We’ll have to set yours up first, before you go down there.” She reached out towards the ‘DEX at his hip, suddenly very businesslike. Gold hesitated. She smirked. “What? I’m not gonna screw it up, I’ve done this enough times by now.”

“I never said—”

Kris inclined her head without waiting for an excuse. With a sigh, Gold handed over the POKéDEX. Kris walked over to the nearby desk. She clicked on a lamp and studied the screen for a few seconds. She whistled. “Wow! They weren’t kidding. Two-hundred and fifty on—” Mr. Ito clicked his tongue and she scowled “—yeah, okay.” She toggled through the settings with an air of aggression that suggested this was not the first time she’d been reprimanded. Gold’s amusement was undercut by the hope she didn’t break any of the buttons. Then again, he knew from firsthand experience that it could take a lot of punishment. “You’re pretty handy with that.”