#maybe it would look cheery if you had possessions and decor. or lights

[geoffrey]

ppl who start a new dyi project just to paint a part of their house white. can you learn how to decorate?

[timebird84]

🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2021 🎄

By @cherryflavoredtrasheater (I can't tag you :/ )

I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus

Gustave stared up at the giant fir tree with awe.

“This one, Mama?” he asked, looking at her hopefully.

She playfully ruffled his hair.

“If you wish it,” she told him, smiling. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Monsieur,” she called to the man who worked there. “We would like to buy this tree, please.”

The man came over and told her the price, and she reached into her purse to retrieve the money.

“You picked a fine one, young man!” he told Gustave as Christine counted the money, but Gustave was too lost in his own little world to even hear him.

The tree was only slightly taller than Christine, but to her seven year old son, it might as well have been the tallest tree in the world.

“Do you need help taking it to the carriage?” the man asked Christine, lowering his voice and drawing closer.

She chuckled nervously.

“Ah-“

“There’s no man around to help you with such things, is there...?”

Gustave heard the uneasiness in his mother’s voice and looked up in time to see the shopkeeper place a hand on her shoulder. Christine jerked away, frowning.

“No, I can manage. And we really must be going, my husbandis expecting us back any minute.”

She grabbed the tree firmly and began to tug it out the door, stubbornly determined to not show any weakness or need of assistance.

“Come along, Gustave,” she grit out.

Gustave grabbed a branch and began to pull the tree as well.

Once outside, Christine paused to catch her breath. She wished for a moment that Erik would have come along with them, but old habits — and traumas — died hard, it seemed, and even after eight years of marriage and almost normal life he still avoided going outside whenever he could.

The carriage driver helped her load the tree up to the back of the cab.

“We can decorate it tonight with Papa,” Christine told Gustave, and his face lit up.

He was bursting with excitement, his head full of imagining how it would look all covered with tinsel and tiny candles and bows. Perhaps they would buy some of those little glass animals to place on the branches, too. He could hardly wait.

As soon as the carriage pulled up to their house, he jumped out the door and went running.

“Papa, Papa!” he cried in excitement. “Come look at our Christmas tree!”

Erik opened the front door and Gustave ran at him, tackling him in a hug.

“Mama carried it all by herself!” he told him proudly.

Erik’s brow furrowed.

“Christine, is that true?” he asked her as she stepped out of the carriage. “That blasted shopkeeper didn’t even bother to help you?”

She smiled apologetically.

“He did offer, but he, ah— well, I think he was trying to flirt with me,” she said quietly, wrinkling her nose. “So I carried the tree myself. I didn’t want to encourage him.”

“What did he do?” Erik’s voice darkened.

“Nothing, Erik, he just— he put his hand on my shoulder. But it’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big— Christine. He put his hands on you.”

“No, no, it wasn’t—“

“Were you uncomfortable?”

“Well, a little—“

“I’ll kill him.”

“Erik, no!”

“I’d kill any man who put his hands on you, Christine.”

She cleared her throat and nodded towards Gustave, who was within earshot.

Erik pressed a possessive kiss to her forehead, then turned to examine the tree.

“What a fine tree this is, Gustave!” he said, his tone light and cheery. “Did you help your Mama pick it?”

“I did!”

“Well, let’s bring it inside.”

With that, Erik hoisted up the tree and began to carry it inside.

The next day, the tree became a thing of beauty, decorated in all the finest Paris had to offer. Gustave stared up at it with wide eyes and a wider imagination. It was the most lovely thing he’d ever seen, maybe.

The day after that, his mother announced with a grin that they were having a visitor that evening.

“Who?” Gustave asked.

“It’s a surprise! You’ll see,” was all she would say.

Not a half hour later as he was sitting with his mother by the fireplace, Gustave heard loud footsteps approaching. His brow furrowed as he looked to his mother, who only grinned.

Suddenly a tall figure appeared in the doorway, causing Gustave to gasp. It was a man dressed all in red with a long white beard that covered most of his face—but not just any man.

“Santa Claus!” Gustave squealed and jumped up.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa laughed in his deep, deep voice. He patted his round stomach and ran a hand over his beard. “Have you been a good boy this year, Gustave!”

“Momma, he knows my name!” Gustave whispered excitedly.

Christine laughed.

“Well of course he does!” She ushered him up to Santa, smiling at how nervous he was to meet him.

“I’ve-I’ve been very good this year,” Gustave stuttered out, then looked up at Christine for confirmation. “Haven’t I?”

“You have,” she assured the boy.

“And what would you like for Christmas, Gustave?” Santa asked, leaning down to him.

“Um—um—um—a train set.” His eyes were wide as he stared at Santa, at his big red hat that covered his curly white hair, at how his eyes were hidden by dark spectacles.

“A train set,” he said thoughtfully. “Very well. If you can continue to be good between now and Christmas, of course…”

“I can! I can be good, Santa! I promise.”

“I am sure you can, my boy.” Santa reached out with a gloved hand and ruffled Gustave’s hair. “Now, off to bed with you. I must be going. I have much to get ready at the North Pole.”

“Goodbye, Santa,” he said breathlessly.

“Goodbye, Gustave.”

Christine led Gustave out of the living room and to his bedroom, where she told him to get ready for bed.

But how could he get ready for bed at a time like this?! Santa was here!

He snuck out of his bedroom and halfway down the stairs, peeping into the living room. Santa was still there, and so was Christine.

“And what about you, my dear?” Santa murmured in a low voice as he pulled Christine close to him. “Have you been a good girl?”

“Oh, Santa,” she said with a little chuckle. “You know I try, but—it’s so awfully difficult, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, well, perhaps I can still give you something—“ Santa stooped down and kissed her on the lips.

Gustave pulled back from his perch on the stairs and scampered back to bed. He didn’t want to watch his mother get kissed. As he jumped into bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin, his mind was buzzing with excitement. Surely if Santa liked his Mama, then it stood to reason that Santa would bring him some really good presents!

He closed his eyes with a happy sigh and let his thoughts drift off.

Suddenly his Papa’s words came back to him. I would kill any man who put his hands on you, Christine.

He startled awake with a gasp, realizing the implications. Santa had kissed Mama. Only Papa was supposed to kiss Mama like that. Papa was a very jealous man.

Papa was going to kill Santa Claus.

A cold sweat broke out on Gustave’s brow. If Papa found out—if Christine accidentally told him—it would all be over. Papa was determined, too. Gustave could easily see him traveling to the North Pole with the sole purpose of killing the man who’d kissed his wife. He began to toss and turn in his bed, greatly distressed. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed Santa to leave before Papa got home from whatever was keeping him out so late.

Unbeknownst to Gustave, Santa did not leave yet.

Christine broke away from his kiss with a grin and a giggle. He had removed his dark spectacles and his golden eyes were sparkling with mirth.

“Your beard is so itchy, I don’t see how you can stand it,” she commented, rubbing her hands over her own face.

“It is worth it to see you both smile,” he said.

“You look so plump, too—how many pillows did you have to use?” She placed a hand on his stomach.

“Five, in total,” he mused and turned around to show her his pillowed backside and she giggled again.

“Oh, he loved it though,” she said. “It was very sweet of you to go along with this, Erik.”

“Anything for my son.” He leaned down and nuzzled his false nose against her own delicate nose. “And anything for my wife.”

But while Erik and Christine were happy with how it had transpired, Gustave was consumed with worry for the next several days. It would not stop weighing on him. At school he heard his friends talking about what they were going to get from Santa for Christmas, and he felt slightly ill.

If Papa killed Santa—and he would—there would be no more Christmas. There would be no presents for anyone. All of these poor fools would go to sleep on Christmas Eve and expect to wake up to gifts and presents but when they’d get up it would be a day like any other because Santa Claus had ceased to exist. How could he explain that to anyone? And what if Papa got in trouble? Terror clutched his little heart.

He was facing the prospect of a world without Santa and a world without Papa. It was too much to bear.

He was walking home with Mama from school when it finally all came crashing down. He had wanted to keep his fears a secret, but Christine had noticed how mournfully he was looking at her.

“Gustave, dear, whatever is the matter?”

He started crying.

“Papa’s gonna kill Santa!” he sobbed.

“What? What are you talking about?” She stopped and knelt down to listen to him, taking both of his hands in hers. “Don’t cry, dear, just tell me what’s wrong.”

Gustave sniffled hard and tried to gather his courage.

“I saw—Santa kissing you—and Papa—doesn’t like—men—to kiss you—and he said—that he would kill—anyone who touched you—and—and—and now Papa is gonna kill Santa Claus,” he broke down into tears again at the end.

Christine looked at him with dismay. He was awfully convinced of this absurd scenario—but he was only a child, after all.

“Christmas is going to get ruined because Papa killed him!” he wailed, and Christine realized they were beginning to draw stares from strangers on the street.

“Gustave, hush—Papa is not going to kill anyone! Come along, let’s go home and we’ll discuss this some more.”

She took the weepy Gustave home and set him on the couch where he continued to cry his eyes out. She went to the kitchen and prepared him a cup of hot cocoa, and by the time she returned he had nearly run out of tears.

“Drink this,” she told him, and he nodded. “Now, the fact of the matter is that Papa is not going to kill Santa. He’s not going to kill anyone.”

“Who am I killing?” Erik asked as he walked into the room, and Gustave cried into his hot cocoa at his comment.

“No one,” Christine said firmly. “Erik, come over here and sit with us.”

Guatave shook his head vehemently.

“Mama, no! Don’t tell him!”

“No, Gustave, it’s alright. Papa already knows that, well, that I kissed Santa. And he’s okay with that.”

Christine and Erik exchanged glances. Erik cleared his throat.

“She’s right, son. It’s okay.”

“How is it okay?” Gustave wailed. “Do you not love Mama anymore? Is Santa going to be my new Papa?”

Christine covered her face with a hand. It would almost seem easier to simply tell him that it had been Erik in a costume, but that would only open a whole new set of fears and the crushing realization that Santa wasn’t real. She sighed. All they had wanted was to bring a little holiday cheer to the boy and it had turned into anxiety about murder. She would like to say she was surprised, but—anything Erik was involved in did have a way of turning into anxiety about murder.

“Ah, no, that's not it—” Erik said. “It’s just—Santa is an old friend of mine, Gustave.”

“You let your friends kiss Mama?” Gustave sniffled.

Erik narrowed his eyes as he thought of the Daroga kissing Chirstine, and his fingers twitched.

“Only Santa,” he said firmly. “It’s just different. I’m not mad at him. I’m not going to kill him, Gustave. I promise.”

“I don’t believe you!” the boy cried. “You’re just saying that!”

“We promise, Gustave,” Christine said. “It’s going to be okay!”

Still he cried.

“Gustave, look—” Erik started. “What if we bring Santa back here and he can explain that everything is fine?”

He stopped crying.

“You could do that?”

Chrisitne raised an eyebrow at Erik, who nodded.

“We could,” Erik agreed. “Would that make it better?”

“Yeah,” he sniffled.

Erik put his arm around the boy and awkwardly hugged him. Gustave finished his cocoa and calmed down, his parents prompting him to tell him about his day.

He seemed fine the rest of the day, but now Erik realized he needed someone to wear the Santa costume so that he could be in the same room with him and show Gustave that he wasn’t going to kill the old man. What he needed was a friend he could trust to do so. His mind immediately went to the Daroga, but unfortunately the man was much shorter than Erik—Gustave would be able to tell it wasn’t the same Santa. Erik cursed his own lack of ability to make friends other than one man throughout the years. But it wasn’t his fault, really—maybe people should have been nicer to him over the years! Yes, that was what had happened! Curse those awful people for not deigning to be Erik’s friend so he could pretend to his son that he was friends with Santa! He fumed with rage at the very thought.

It really only left one option—a friend of Chirstine’s. Christine had a great many friends, most of them women she knew from the opera house and the Conservatory, though she did in fact have a few male friends. He ran through them in his mind, considering. There was only one who happened to be as tall as Erik, but he immediately pushed him from his thoughts, unwilling to entertain it. The others were close enough in height, he supposed.

“Christine,” he asked after Gustave had gone to bed that night. “What ever happened to Louis? Can he come over to wear the Santa outfit?”

Christine frowned.

“He’s on vacation with his family, I believe.”

“What about Franc? Surely he can do it?”

“Franc moved up north a few months ago, it would take him days to come back down here.”

“Jean?”

“Jean is awfully busy at the Conservatory this time of year.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Christine looked away. Erik knew what—who—she was thinking of. He knew she didn’t want to be the one to bring him up.

“I am sorry, Erik,” she said quietly. “I wish one of them could do it. You know I would reach out to them in a heartbeat if I thought they could.”

Erik pulled her close and hugged her, saying nothing.

He stayed awake all night considering his only option. He knew he had no reason to be jealous of him—Christine had married him, and not the Vicomte, after all—but Erik couldn’t help how he felt. Still, he had no other option. And it was for his son—their son.

In the morning he informed Christine of his plan, and she beamed and hugged him tight, and then he set off to announce the plan to <I>him</I>.

He was ushered into the de Chagny mansion by a servant who eyed him suspiciously, and Raoul flinched when he saw who was here to see him. Erik explained in no uncertain terms what Raoul was to do—and that this was for <I>Christine</I>—deposited the Santa suit in his hands, and when he was certain Raoul understood his role he turned on his heel and left.

So it happened that the next evening Erik and Christine were sitting on the couch as she knitted and he read a book and Gustave sat huddled by the fire. As Gustave stared forlornly into the flames, still utterly convinced that he had ruined Christmas for the entire world, there was a sudden knock at the door.

“Ah!” Erik said, rising. “That reminds me, I invited an old friend to come around.”

He went to answer the door. Gustave didn’t bother to turn around. He knew it would be the man Papa called the Daroga. He knew his Papa only had one friend.

That was why it was very shocking to see Santa Claus suddenly in the room with them.

“Oh, hello Santa,” Christine said as she set her knitting aside with a slight blush.

Erik paused, taking in how pink her cheeks looked. Surely pinker than a moment ago? More than when she was sitting with her husband? Were they?

“Hello, Christine,” Raoul said in a deep voice, bowing slightly to her before turning to her son. He’d seen the child a handful of times before, and his heart twisted to see how much the boy looked like Christine. “And hello Gustave!”

“Santa!” Gustave squeaked.

“Santa heard you were worried,” Erik said. “And so he came to set your mind at ease.”

“Yes, Erik and I are friends! Ho ho ho!”

“Really?” Gustave asked.

“Of course!” Santa said. “We go way back!”

“See Gustave?” Christine asked. “Papa would never hurt Santa. They are friends!”

“Absolutely! Your papa has no reason to be mad at me! Ho ho ho!”

“None at all,” Erik said with a giant smile plastered on his face. The Vicomte existing in his presence was starting to grate on him.

“What’s a little kiss between old friends, eh?” Santa mused with a chuckle. “Your papa doesn’t mind! See—!”

Santa leaned down and pressed a kiss to Christine’s cheek. Her eyes widened and she glanced away, a smile tugging at her lips that she tried to hide.

“—He doesn’t mind at all! Ho ho ho!”

Erik ground his teeth together, eyes bright and lips twitching at sight of his wife being kissed by her old beau in his own house. This wasn’t part of the plan!

“Well!” he announced, his voice just a little too high. “Now that that’s all settled, I think Santa needs to get back to his toy shop, don't you think so, Santa? Time to say goodbye!”

“Goodbye Gustave! Be a good boy! And goodbye, Christine!” He waved to Christine and Erik grabbed his arm, tugging him away.

“Alright, that’s enough!” Erik hissed.

Gustave watched as his papa practically strong-armed Santa out the door. To think, they had been friends all this time and he’d never known!

Once outside in the falling snow, Erik released his hold on Raoul so strongly that the man stumbled forward slightly. He turned to face Erik as they stood just outside the house. Erik placed his hands on the vicomte’s shoulders and gripped tightly, shaking him.

“I will throttleyou!” Erik spit.

Raoul pointed at something behind Erik and Erik turned to see Gustave staring at them out the window. Erik grinned and let go of his death grip on Raoul, instead patting him heartily on the shoulders and making a show of wiping the snow off his red coat.

“There you go, old friend!” Erik said loudly with false cheer. “So good to see you again!”

“How about a hug?” Santa asked loudly, spreading his arms wide.

Erik stared at him with an expression that was so blank it almost scared Raoul. Erik’s back was to Gustave, luckily, so the child also missed the brief flash of rage and disgust that came across Erik as he leaned in to hug his old enemy.

“Don’t ever kiss my wife again!” Erik hissed into his ear, seething as they hugged.

“Ho ho ho!” Was all Raoul said.

Erik pulled back from the hug, expecting Raoul to leave. All he did was wave at Gustave in the window.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Get out!” Erik whispered harshly. “Stop mugging! Go home!”

Raoul waved one last time before turning and trudging off through the snow. Erik stood with his hands on his hips and watched him go, wanting to be certain he wasn’t coming back for another stolen smooch.

Gustave seemed a little more at ease that night, though he kept a watchful eye on his father, trying to gauge his reaction. In a handful of days, it was Christmas Eve, and though he mostly seemed to have forgotten about the incident from what his parents could tell, Gustave gave Erik a mournful look as he went to bed after leaving a plate of cookies next to the fireplace.

When the boy awoke the next morning, he had a brief moment of terror—what if Santa hadn’t come? What if Papa really had killed him? He jumped out of bed and ran downstairs and gasped.

There was a pile of presents under the tree, and his mother and father were already there, admiring the tree together. All the little candles on the branches flickered and glowed and made the wrapping paper around the gifts shine.

Gustave fell to his knees and looked at the note attached to the biggest present.

For Gustave, From Santa Claus. Merry Christmas!

Gustave shed a tear in relief, his grin so wide it almost hurt his face.

“Open it,” Christine urged.

He ripped away the pretty paper. A train set! Santa had remembered!

“Oh, Mama look! Look, Papa! It’s just what I wanted!”

“What a lovely train!” Erik said with a smile.

Gustave opened the other presents for him under the tree, and gave Mama and Papa the gifts he had made for them—folded paper flowers for Mama’s hat, and a watercolor painting of a family portrait for Papa. Santa had also brought a big box of chocolates and cookies, and the family enjoyed these as they opened presents.

Gustave munched his treats and looked up at the pretty tree and at his smiling parents and his heart felt full and warm. It was a perfect Christmas, and it was made all the more perfect by knowing that Santa was still out there and that he had brought cheer to everyone everywhere and always would.

[crystalirises]

FundXD au thrid part? Maybe the final confrontation between Dreamxd and George? imagine George offering to take Fundy's place, but XD teases him because he obviously only loves Fundy now (before Mumza saves the day!! or whatever you had planned if you already had something in mind).

Not me accidentally posting it separately. But anyway, here's the third part! I'm sorry it took so long, hope you enjoy this.

But yeah anyway, please do take heed of the trigger warnings. This is probably now what I consider the darkest and the most uncomfortable one-shot I've written. Like in terms of themes, yeah I am just: oh wow I wrote this huh...

So yes, please do heed the warnings and do not read it if any of the the warnings make you uncomfortable.

TW: Forced Relationships, Forced Kissing, Forced Marriage, Possessive Behavior, Captivity, Implied Harm, and A Lot of Dark Implications

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886223/chapters/84740365

“A radiant day for a wedding, do you not think so, my fox?” If only the mattress could swallow him whole. He buried his face on the silken sheets, pressing the pillow to the top of his head, wondering if he could suffocate himself if he tried really hard enough. “Beloved? You’re quiet.”

He rolled his eyes, holding back the urge to scream.

After a moment, he felt the twist of vines against his ankle, gently pulling him away from underneath the covers. Fundy let himself be dragged, having learned the hard way that clawing at the bed to keep himself from getting dragged was a bad idea. He shuddered at the bad memory.

“My darling star, don’t you agree that today is a splendid day for our wedding?”

No, he did not agree. There was no day where he’d ever even consider marrying the god.

“I don’t feel well. Can we move the wedding?”

“Do not lie.” The room turned colder, the chill of ice piercing through his skin that he nearly buckled underneath the pain. Then in just a second, the cold was gone. He was still in his their bedroom, the sunshine filtering in through the glass-stained windows, bathing the room in a kaleidoscope of color. XD was holding him by the elbow, their spherical head never faltering in its cheery smile, if one can call it a smile. The god pulled him into their embrace, holding him with such warmth that Fundy wanted to cry. They shouldn’t be so comforting. “You are well.”

“Ya…” Fundy felt like throwing up, “...well…”

For a god who had lived as long as the world, XD was not as patient as Fundy had hoped. It had only been a week, but the god had given up on Fundy’s flimsy excuses. Fundy had used every excuse that he knew: headaches, fevers, coughs, even “fainting” that one time XD had actually gotten him to stand on the altar. They had grown tired of waiting. Fundy turned his head towards one corner of the room, their wedding outfits only seemed to mock him. He shivered within the god’s hot touch, XD didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, but they noticed the way he was staring at those, arguably, beautiful outfits. XD led him towards them, holding him by the arms.

“I could change your suit if you wish, anything for you, my fox.” Fundy paled, refusing to look at the suit now that it was in front of him. It was in a beautiful hue of orange pastel, decorated with a pastel green flower pinned to its chest. XD had chosen to wear a dress for the wedding, and if Fundy wasn’t being held there against his will, he might have even blushed at the thought of the god in a dress… walking down the aisle. It was a mostly white dress which faded into a pastel green in the middle and into a forest green at the bottom. “You could wear a dress if yo—”

“No.” Fundy already loathed the suit, he wouldn’t know what he’d do if he had to wear a dress. At least XD didn’t mind, though - and Fundy knew it was stupid to feel - he found it somewhat adorable that XD wanted to wear a dress. The wedding dress suited them, even if Fundy didn’t want to marry them. The god hummed behind him, a low sound that had no lyrical or musical tone to it whatsoever, before picking him up. He shrieked, holding tightly to the god’s shoulders.

“My dear fox, the wedding will be divine, it shall take place the hour between day and night.” Fundy had a few hours of freedom. Then… He clenched his hands, angered that he no longer had his claws to tear into the god’s skin. “The wedding venue has not changed from the last time we tried to marry, but, sweet fox, would you wish for any new changes? What do you wish for?”

His only wish was to go home.

The god leaned down and Fundy knew what was to come. He closed his eyes, letting the god do what they wanted. Maybe he should have heeded his papa’s advice. Maybe he shouldn’t have befriended the god who seemed too kind to be true. Maybe he should have stayed at home and lived a normal life instead of searching for… he didn’t even know anymore. But he knew he missed his home, he missed his dads. He missed the normal life in their little cabin in the fields.

Once the god leaned away from the kiss, Fundy let out a sigh. “I want cake.”

---

“Wil, I love you, but now is the time for your ritualistic shenanigans.”

George tapped his foot on the muddy ground, placing his head in his hands as Wilbur ignored him for the tenth time. Wilbur had refused to say what his secret was, in favor of showing what his secret was. If George had known that said secret would involve Wilbur drawing intricate symbols in the mud, George would have gone deeper into the forest on his own instead.

After a few more seconds of agonizing silence and waiting, Wilbur finally stepped back, gesturing for George to come near him. He raised a brow, choosing to stand beside Wilbur despite the nagging voice in his head telling him to leave and go look for their son. George took in the symbol that Wilbur had drawn. He’d traced a circle in the mud, and within the complex lines, George could make out five symbols. The lines merged to showcase a woman. In her right hand, she held a blade. In her left, there were musical notes and discs emerging from her palm.

At the bottom of the symbol, the lines converged to create a pair of angel wings.

“Wil, is now the time to show me that you can draw—” He cut himself off once Wilbur started to chant under his breath. He stepped back, doubt racing through his mind. George had never been interested in magic, being more talented in redstone and engineering, but he feared those who excelled in the practice. Magic meant gods, and gods meant double-edged deals. “Wilbur…”

The symbol began to glow a light gray hue, the smell of metal and death tainting the air. His fear doubled, but he didn’t try to run off. Nervous as he was, he trusted Wilbur, his dear husband.

A splash of cold landed on his cheek, he brushed it away, but then a downpour of rain began to fall around them. The ground turned muddier, nearly grasping onto their legs. George looked up, furrowing his brows at the sight of sunlight. It was raining despite the warm sun rays that were filtering in through the trees. The intricate symbol wasn’t affected by the sudden storm, its glow intensifying underneath the torrent of water. George didn’t know why, but he felt sick. A sickness that wasn’t nausea, it was worse. Like someone had taken a sharp pickaxe and started to chip away at his heart. He held a hand to his chest, grasping for Wilbur’s arm with the other.

Wilbur’s chanting had grown louder despite the rain, almost like he was fighting against the noise. The light gray glow had taken over the entire drawing, the lines scorched away by its brilliance. Then the world began to shake, and for a moment, George could hear screaming.

He slipped once the earth started to sink. Wilbur pulled him up just as the ground gave way, the symbol had caved in, going deeper and deeper until he could see bright red. He shuddered, but Wilbur held him close. He had half a mind to throw his husband an irritated glare. If his husband would stop with the theatrics for a moment and actually tell George what his secret was, then maybe he wouldn’t be second-guessing everything that's happening right now. He glanced back down at the hole. Wilbur had just opened a gateway to the underworld. Despite the red lights of the underworld, the chasm let out a chilling cold that seeped deep into George’s skin and soul.

“You’re a hellspawn, is that the secret? If so, it was not much of a secret I already knew that, Mr. Soot.” Wilbur rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to George’s cheek. Once Wil had left George on stable ground, he watched as his husband walked close to the chasm. Wilbur reached down a hand. George wondered if Wilbur was asking to get kidnapped. “Wilbur, the dead can’t help us.”

“You’re correct. Zombies are pretty shit at… everything. Skeletons… perhaps.”

George took a breath through clenched teeth. He knew Wilbur was worried about Fundy too, but he couldn’t afford to waste anymore time with Wilbur and his shenanigans. XD had taken their son, a wish god had taken their son and George knew the god would refuse to let Fundy go.

“Wilbur, please. We need to find Fundy. XD would do anything they could to keep our son from ever leaving them, we have to go.” He pleaded, but Wilbur was too busy looking into the chasm.

George loudly sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The rain continued to pour around them, and if he didn’t hurry, he’d lose his way down the forest path due to the mud that was beginning to drown everything in its path. He turned to leave, but then a voice broke through the silence.

“A sunshower…? Did you forget to tell your own mum that you're getting married, Wilbur?”

---

Fundy flitted about the room, pressing his hands against his ears as the rain continued to pour outside. He didn’t know why XD had thought it would be romantic to marry one another while a storm threatened to destroy the land, but the constant tapping of the rain on the ground was beginning to grate on his ears. Despite the heavy rain, he hated the warm sunlight even more.

Why couldn’t the weather just be either gloomy or happy? It was a mockery of his life.

He glanced down at his suit, fixing the green flower so it wouldn’t fall off by accident. He didn’t know what XD would do if anything were to ruin their “special day.” He huffed, pressing his head against the glass window. He could see the neverending forest from there. XD had insisted that they live on one of the highest trees in the forest. They wanted to give Fundy a good view.

When XD had first shown him their abode, Fundy had been ecstatic to see the entire forest. He collapsed on a nearby chair, putting his head in his hands. Now everything felt like a big joke.

It was so wonderful before, but he saw through the roses, and now knew their thorns.

He looked back up, worried for a moment that XD would be standing in front of him, ready to whisk him away to the altar. There was a shift of movement at the right side of the forest, perhaps XD reimagining the wedding venue now that the rain had completely ruined the god’s chosen outdoor setting. He took momentary pleasure at the thought of the weather going against the god’s wishes. No, today was not a radiant day for a wedding. But Fundy knew that a “little” storm wouldn’t stop the god. They were too excited, too eager to get the ceremony over with.

Fundy winced, maybe his constant escape attempts had been the cause of that rush. It had only been a week since the god had taken him captive and kept him in their domain, but Fundy had spent every day trying to find a way to escape. He’d given up after the fifth escape… after… Fundy pulled his knees close to his chest. He didn’t want to think about it. But he had to. He had to keep a reminder in his mind about how much he loathed the god and what they’d done to him.

The first attempt wasn’t even an attempt, it was him screaming until XD forced him to sleep.

The second attempt had begun the moment the god had gone into stasis, or the godly equivalent of what was sleep. The god’s hands were wrapped around Fundy, keeping him close to their chest, but Fundy had managed to sneak away after hours of slowly moving. He’d gotten to the door of the bedroom, unlocking it with a bobby pin that he’d found in one of the drawers. He’d gotten down the tree by the time XD realized he was gone. They’d teleported him back to the bedroom, vines growing against the surface of the door, effectively keeping him locked inside.

The third attempt was Fundy painstakingly cutting through the clump of vines after XD had left him to prepare for their wedding. He’d gotten through half of them by the time the god had come back. They’d been disappointed in Fundy, sad that he hadn’t even gotten dressed in his wedding suit yet. Then in a blink of an eye, the vines had grown back, with even more thorns than before. Then XD had whisked him away to the wedding venue, where Fundy then pretended to faint.

The fourth attempt was Fundy getting so frustrated that he took a chair and threw it at one of the windows. The glass shattered on impact, and he’d quickly tried to squeeze through the space, not caring for the shards that pierced his skin. XD had not taken that escape attempt all too lightly.

The fifth and last attempt… he’d convinced XD to give him some sand and gunpowder.

The god had been furious, even more so than what they’d been after the fourth escape attempt. Fundy had nearly killed himself in the process and had even attacked XD out of anguished rage.

Well… XD made sure Fundy could never attack them again.

Fundy sniffed, wiping at his tears. He didn’t want to be crying at his own wedding.

---

It was odd to have a wedding without a wedding officiator. Fundy kept his gaze on his hands, his fingers trembling each time XD traced his knuckles with their thumb. He could feel his throat dry up, his head heavy with nausea that he thought he was actually going to faint and fall over.

“Do I take Fundy Lore-Soot as my lawfully wedded husband?” XD paused, “I do.”

Fundy found it ridiculous. XD had taken up the mantle of wedding officiator, and if Fundy didn’t know any better, he would think that he was part of some comedic play or some big cosmic joke.

“And do you, Fundy Lore-Soot, take the god of wishes, XD, as your lawfully wedded spouse?”

Fundy gritted his teeth, he could feel the god’s magic in his throat. He could barely breathe a few seconds ago, but now it felt like he needed to speak like his life depended on it. “I do. I do. I do.”

He trembled, uncontrolled anger racing through his veins. It was torture to say ‘I do’ once, but the god forced him to say it three times, like Fundy was as desperate as them to get married. XD pulled him close, their gaze hot against his skin. He wished he would melt, that he could melt against the god’s touch and be swallowed by the grass. Anything that could set him free.

“Then by the power vested in me as the god of wishes, I now pronounce us married for eternity.”

The god leaned close, “I may now kiss the groom.” Fundy tried to move back, but the god had formed one more pair of hands. One hand held his hands, curled gently around his wrists. One hand was cupping him by the waist. One hand was on his chin, pulling his face up and towards them. The last hand was at the back of his head, pushing him forward and keeping his head in place. He closed his eyes, losing himself in his mind, refusing to accept what was happening. He focused on the life he’d lost, and his dads who would no doubt why he never came back to them.

After what felt like a lifetime, the god finally let him go.

Well, they didn’t. But they’d stopped kissing him in favor of picking him up.

XD laid him down on the altar.

Fundy blinked, holding onto one of XD’s hands out of fear. The god chuckled at the “endearing” display. “H-hey… the wedding’s over, ya? Time to head home, right? W-what are you doing?”

“The ceremony is not yet over, my star.” XD tilted their head, “You are still mortal.”

Any thread of cooperation they had established broke with that proclamation. Fundy screamed, pushing himself away from the altar just as a series of golden chains rose up from its sides. They wrapped around his arms and his legs, pulling him back down on the altar’s marble surface. He wailed, tears slipping past his eyes. He thought he’d only endure it for this lifetime, that the god would have no choice but to give him up to death at some point in the future. XD watched his struggle, summoning an intricate dagger. “Don’t worry, my sweet fox, I shall make it painless.”

“I OBJECT!”

---

George pushed past the leaven doors, not caring that the action caused the whole entrance way to collapse to a flimsy pile of autumn leaves. He stood at the end of the wedding venue, drenched from the rain. His heart beated loudly in his chest, his ears ringing as he made his way down the aisle. Wilbur was still by the entrance. George had told him to wait before he actually entered.

“Papa—” Fundy’s scream was cut off with a hand, the god having swiveled around to face whoever had dared to ruin their perfect day. George kept walking down the aisle, anger racing through his bones. His son looked so frightened. He clearly didn’t want to be marrying the god.

“Let him go, XD.”

“Why ever shall I do such a thing, my dearest friend, Georgenotfound? I have no intention of ever letting my newly wedded husband leave me. My old friend, I believe you are a few seconds too late. Fundy and I are married.” He heard Fundy scream out a protest, muffled by the hand that the god had left. George could see the tears on their son’s face, and his gaze turned towards the dagger that the god was carrying. He took the chance to look behind him, catching Wilbur’s pale gaze. His husband was looking at the dagger. “Leave before I cast you out. You are tresp—”

“I’ll take his place.”

The only sound that could be heard was Fundy’s fit of screaming. Wilbur was silent. XD had merely tilted their head, the god’s cold gaze meeting George’s eyes, piercing right through the goggles that he wore. He swallowed down the sickness he felt at the thought of marrying the go. XD had been his best friend once, and George had never thought of them in any other way. But the god had taken his friendship as romantic affection. “Fundy doesn’t love you.” The god reeled back, the ‘XD’ carved symbol on their head disappearing, only to return as golden chains that surrounded their white spherical head. “You and I know he doesn’t love you, and neither did I.”

George shook his head, “But I am willing to stay with you if you let him go.”

He met his son’s eyes, holding Fundy’s gaze for as long as he could. He worried it might be the last time they’d ever see each other again… if it went wrong… George shook his head. It won’t go wrong. He turned back to the god, the chains still present. “We could pretend like nothing has changed. I could stay here with you for all of eternity. We could be friends again, you and I. It must have been lonely when I left. You were never really great with making friends with others. We could try again. Just you and me, stuck in this forest forever. Like how it used to be. I won’t run away anymore. I won’t leave you ever again. Let Fundy go, and I’ll stay with you forever.”

The god was silent. For a moment, George thought they would agree. Then the ground disappeared from underneath him and a large hand was painfully gripping him by the leg. “No.”

Sharp cold pierced through his leg. The god glared down at him, “You are nothing to me.”

XD looked over at Fundy, “He… He is everything to me now.”

George placed his arms over his head, preparing himself for the fall. He heard the loud screech, and then his leg was free. He closed his eyes, but instead of hard earth, he fell into a pair of warm arms. He opened his eyes, embarrassingly laughing once he’d realized that Wilbur had caught him. His husband placed him back down, looking at his leg with worry when George stumbled. It wasn’t broken, but XD’s sharp cold magic would keep him from properly walking for a while.

Wilbur helped him away from the angered god. George looked up, watching as the hand that was previously holding him rotted away. XD screeched, turning to them, their golden chains glowing with a blinding light. A scythe appeared within view, striking the wish god right on their face.

The Goddess of Death entered the wedding venue, a disappointed look in her eyes.

“You should have let my grandson go, God of Wishes.”

=============================================================

Ambiguous ending but uh... I have preferred ending and it's def not the bad one.

Clarification for the title (which can't be seen here but is in the ao3 version): So a sunshower is a weather phenomenon where it is raining despite there still being sunshine. While the rain is not as heavy as a storm, I changed the rain here to be that like a rainstorm despite the sunlight that is still present. The reason for this is because where I'm from (or at least according to my mother) when a sunshower happens, that means a kapre and a white lady are getting married (or well, other Filipino mythological legends are getting married).

I just think with XD here being a somewhat monster of a god... well, poor Fundy having to marry him.

The sunshower is basically an indication here that a god is getting married, that's why Mumza asked Wilbur if he was getting married (also Wilbur is the god of music here, not all that powerful against a wish god).

[hisredhysteria]

"And my one true love called me a monster."

Note: I love Courier, so it kinda made me sad to write the end but.....I love Cutthroat just a little more -? This is not very well written— the concept was a spur choice, but it's a little inspired by Gretel's route in Taisho X Alice.

TW: Abusive, yandereish//possessive behavior, blood, guns, violence...also not completely proofread, and Cutthroat may be a little ooc to fit a more yandere like stereotype — (?)

Summary: I literally never know how to summarize anything I write. So basically, Cutthroat kidnapped you and keeps you in a cage. Everyday now, he brings you a new jar filled with a red substance—

Your hands had been cold to the touch, icy from the light snow that dusted the icier glass ground beneath you. Something hurt, inevitably so—it seemed like the tension would seize to be relieved. If it wasn't the very thought of him that haunted you at every ominous echo, it was the numbness that spread throughout your weakening circulation.

Ropes that bound you were coated—coated in terrible essence of an elixir handed to you. A look of delight on his innocent face, upon the jar it'd been in was a ribbon so red it outshined the contents. No way to refuse his delicate gift, you were allowed a game of pretend with every clear glass that came. Like a cat tied to it's owner, his supply of love was seemingly endless. A familiar present to behold you was everyday, tasking you to act as though the jars of cherry red syrup pleased you. Accepting them with a hesitant smile, it was all you'd manage for the moment until you dared to push them away.

His pure sanity seemed skewed, at least, enough to imprison you. That being so, despite his limitless amount of encased crimson poison, you rarely thought to open the jars that came. Much to your capturers dismay, his pale eyes still implored you to do so with all his thoughtful gifts. Nonetheless, a little bit wise with suspicion, you held back. Now—here they lay, piled a mile high at the side of your antique cage.

"C'mon..." He huffed, eyes soft at your hands. "They're only for you, my angel... please....?"

Loneliness ate away at you, even so close to him. It's not as if you never opened a jar. The man himself even noted the crusted over, deeply rose colored ropes were every indication of that. You'd been desperate enough for escape at one point, hysterically spilling the jars amongst your own aching wrists. Sliding through the binds of knotted rope was impossible however. Even if he gifted you a stick of butter to melt, your hands would never separate far. Only far enough to open the jars with a bit of adequacy.

A simple conversation could be all that caused you to cave. All except for the clothes that gave you a hint. The knife that gave you a clue. Even the smell this time was despicable.

"Maybe next time....?" You said, or one could even say asked.

At your words so quiet his eyes would wander, wander to the stack of untouched jars filled with red all placed towards the side of your bird shaped enclosure. A pout was what you earned yourself because your lie was no better than his. Soon enough a tapping noise hummed at the top of the lid as his jar was tight in your hand.

"I promise it's special this time though..." He whined, a fingernail tracing the circular decor bejeweled at the cap. He was right, it at the very least looked special, but with his words you could only fear what exactly made this one any different than the others.

"Is it...-?"

"His~?"

Your eyes grew wide as you pulled the jar further from his lingering reach. You didn't expect him to say anything of the sort, but it would only be so long until one of his jars came back with the blood of someone you knew.

"Cutthroat...? Don't tell me..." You answered back in a choked voice, tears threatening to flood your cage if the bars hadn't been so wide.

"I was looking for him everywhere... I found him though..! I thought maybe you'd like it..." He was all too cheery to add, the smile on his face hiding his devious intent.

Your eyes were glassed over, now staring back at the jar he had gifted you with. Shattered to frail pieces was your heart because you only knew who the contents of today's jar truly belonged to. It hurt worse than your bound wrists to remember when he'd taken you away and if your intuition was right, the person you were with when he had was still out there searching for you. Hugging the jar close to your chest would offer stale comfort, if only you could. But for now, all that was left close to your chest was dwindling hope.

"You're a monster...."

His innocently twisted smile began to fade and in its place was the look of confused irritation "Huh...? But he was getting in the way...if I didn't stop him soon he'd take my angel from me."

"I never belonged to you though..." You reminded him, slowly backing into the other side of your enclosure.

"Of course you did. He was the one that took you from me. Now that you're all mine though, maybe there's really no need for that jar at all....?" His finger on his chin as he gave it hard thought, Cutthroat's arm would eventually reach through the frozen metal bars you were behind. "Awwwe, don't be mean now... give it back. It was mine first, so I get to decide if my angel can have it..." Ironic as it was, the murderer asking for something back that was his first. To play with him like he had you, using his own logic against him proved satisfying.

"No, it was always mine." And to that, you wouldn't be wrong. The liquid that filled this jar belonged to you in some way, even if it wasn't your own blood, it had been your lovers.

The retort appeared to have struck him. Even if for the moment, maybe your disobedience fit into his puzzle somewhere. Cutthroat was all too ready to respond something of his own to you, however he nearly lost the chance at the thunder of jars cracking and tumbling down from the side of your cage. Red liquid coated the ground like rain as shards began to fly astray amongst the fleeting drops. The first time you missed the din that caused this chaos in your cage to ensue, but the second a shot bounced off metal bars, you knew whose weapon was behind it.

"It's no fun to kill if you keep living, you know. I take it now that you're back you want me to try again though, Courier...?" Threat would prove to be a rather gross underestimate of the tone in his darkened voice or the murderous tinge to his purple colored eyes. Because Cutthroat never partook in a cowards playground, his words were only ever allowed to mean promise. He never meant to spare the man his life the first time around, so it only meant the rematch would be easier.

Your heart mended regardless of the jar filled with Courier's blood in your hand. Careful not to become too overjoyed though as facing yet another loss would drag it back down, you were merely trapped between fresh and even coagulated bloody glass. There was nothing you could do once the startling sound of a gun firing filled the hectic air. With it followed sharp pings of his bullets ricocheting in different directions.

The battle would be cheap, unfair at best. As Courier danced and dodged the fatal knives Cutthroat swung, you'd notice that not only was metallic red leaking through his side, there was a small dark gash at the skin on his neck. You thought to plea out for help, to let them both know you wanted out of your cage, but the possibility of distracting your saviours attention is the only reason you wouldn't.

In an abhorrent attack, the white murderer had an elite upper hand. The sound of heavy metal clashing and sliding across the ground filled your ears and you could only watch with horror as Courier fell underneath your kidnapper. Your eyes would fail to wander at first, but for the moment his gun seemed too far from his reach.

"I told you I didn't like sharing. I won't let you touch my angel. Still, those jars can sparkle in even your red... I'll forgive you once you're in full bloom~" A sick cheshire grin on his lips, Cutthroat's knife dug into the skin of Courier's wounded neck. It almost begged to be sliced through and as if he had room to talk in his position, Courier would conjure up a retaliation of his own through strained breaths.

"You shit. I don't remember agreeing to sharing anything with you." Narrowed eyes, Courier's glance threw dagger's much like his counterpart could. His gun was halfway across the ground and far from his outstretched reach. Despite the known distance, his metal hand still instinctually felt around as he listened for the weapon to slide and give clue to where it'd been. His hand would never find it, though if you were fast enough it wouldn't have to.

Your eyes surveyed the area, lost in a mess of bloody snow and glass. Courier's gun was nowhere to be seen until you looked down at your own feet. In your view as you did was the glint of it's barrel. Whispering so softly, your bare feet would have to quickly muster the courage to walk across sharp glass. There was no guarantee of freedom with your choice, for the person who'd come to rescue you was already playing with death. Still, you winced with your split decision.

Carrying you to the edge of the birdcage, your feet would rip and shred from the jars of shattered glass and blood beneath every step. Finally, the gun was within your very reach. Setting down the bejeweled jar from earlier, you fumbled to use your bleeding foot. It would be Cutthroat's mistake not to have bound you by those too, but with fate a second away from your grasp, you found yourself able to get a hold of the gun as they argued back and forth. It was almost harder to grab the grip in a way to accommodate your tied hands, but with time fighting against you, you did the best your hands could allow. Aiming Courier's gun now, you were granted the option of choosing either of their lives to end or continue.

The logical option seemed to be Courier and thus your aim was bodied at Cutthroat. Your jagged breaths told you that taking the life of another was an imminent problem and right as your finger threatened to pull the trigger, Cutthroat's sudden glare up to your own eyes stopped you.

"Oh, how mean of you ....I'm killing him for us though. I wouldn't want my angel to be lonely if both of us died..." His childishly sorrowed tone implied that even shot, he'd manage to end the others life. As much as it hurt to be taken from Courier, Cutthroat's words proved just enough to let the gun slip from your weak grasp again.

[prose-for-hire]

All I want for Christmas is you

[This is a (late) part of my 12 Days of Chirstmas fics]

Pairing: Spike x fem!reader

Request: Hi! A spike request angst for the holiday collection. Where spike and the reader get into a massive fight and he says some really hurtful things. So its really awkward leading into Christmas and the reader considers leaving him. But then spike gives the reader a present on Christmas like a sorry present that changes her mind :)

Requested by: Anon

Warning: Spike and reader fight and say mean things. Swearing. Very light sex references.

A/N: I use the ambiguous phrase ‘jewellery’ rather than explaining what the object is because it’s a reader insert and some people like certain items and some people don’t like any jewellery (blame Buffy and Dawn sorry)

You and Spike loved each other, you knew this. But you and Spike also argued. All the time. You had broken up and got back together more times than you could count. It was a ‘can’t live with him, can’t live without him’ situation. And you were just going in circles.

This particular time, finds you and Spike finishing decorating the crypt. It had been fun, by all accounts. You had even got a tree. He had managed to distract you a lot, making an hour’s task lasting the entire day.

When you were loved up, it was bliss. It was fierce passion. Often languid and sensual. Even giddy and fun at times.

He hugged you from behind, closing his eyes as he inhaled, kissing the back of your head. His hands started to wander from your hips and you closed your eyes in delight. Pressed against him felt so right.

“Did you hear that?” You said, your eyes snapping open. It was bells. Little, twinkling Christmas bells. It was eerie, not cheery. You hadn’t bought any bells.

Spike groaned in frustration and looked around as if you had gone mad. You were always doing this. Driving him wild. Teasing him so.

“What in the buggering hell are you goin’ on about?”

“There’s something…” You said cryptically as you looked around, which irritated him to no end.

“It’s nothing, just- come here”

“Spike! Why don’t you listen to me?” You pouted slightly, hoping it was entice him to take you seriously, check if there was a threat. But it did the opposite.

“Oh, right, and what’s your plan then? Why don’t we scream and run away. That’s about the form of your fighting skills anyhow ain’t it?”

“Just shut up – it’s Christmas” You snapped, looking at him as if he needed to drop it. But this just irritated him, as if you were chastising him. Like he was someone you could control. Emasculate.

“Poor little y/n, making things up for a scrap of attention again” He stuck his lower lip out and tilted his head to the side, in a way that nobody would describe anything other than patronisingly, “You don’t know who you are, not without me” He added the end after a pause.

“You’re the one that followed me around for months on end before I agreed to date you!” You bit back. This is where everything tended to go south. Fast.

“Yeah? Well we’re only together after last time ‘cause I took pity on you and took you back – saw how I left you wantin’ thought we might as well. You’re attractive at least” He leaned in and took your chin, moving you to face him as he insulted you. You held back tears. He was supposed to love you, why was he always so mean?

“Fuck you, Spike!” You shouted, grabbing his wrist and moving him from touching you before adding, “You’re such a self-assured pig!”

“Yeah, you love it” He purred.

“I hate you”

“No, you don’t” He stated. Before dragging his voice out almost sing-song like but in a humourless way, “You want me. You need me” He bit his lip, moving closer and closer, making you shiver. He was trying to charm you into submission. Again.

Well, it wouldn’t work… not this time anyway.

“You’re the one that wouldn’t leave Buffy’s doorstep until I came back with you! You’re obsessive! You’re a slave to love, no - to pain, Spike!” You stated, moving away from where he had started to back you against the wall.

“Slave to you” He offered, that look in his eye. Offering to forget about it, although he had been the one that had been cruel. His look offering making up. In bed, wherever you wanted. He would even apologise if it meant you wouldn’t leave him again. But you were still mad, still angry at the way he spoke to you.

His look almost made you back down, he was hard to resist. You were addicted to each other. Even when you were fighting it could switch to sex so easily. To hot passion.

But not today.

“No. You’re not. You don’t want me. You want drama, a fight. I’m sick of it! Forget it” You shouted, continuing, “I mean it this time, Spike! We’re done!”

“Love, you don’t mean that – we’re-”

“Finished!” You ended his sentence for him, “Get out!”

“No- I’m the one with my name above the door, you don’t bloody pay the rent” He said, backing away from you as you had that look in your eye. You could be downright vindictive.

“Neither do you - it’s a crypt, you don’t pay shit!”

“You wouldn’t throw your fella out just before Christmas, would you, love?” He tried as you had walked him out of the front door, throwing his leather duster at him. He caught it in a ball and clutched it to his chest.

He sighed exaggeratedly. He really didn’t want to have to rough it somewhere, exposing himself to possible sunlight. He wanted you again. He cursed himself. Wished he had just kept his mouth shut.

But you weren’t so innocent. If he hadn’t created an argument, you would have done. It had been in the air. Building up over weeks.

“Bloody women!” He screamed at the door you had unceremoniously slammed in his face. He heard you slide the bolt across the door and he kicked it for good measure, howling in pain and hobbling away.

To add insult to injury, as he stalked through the streets trying to find a suitable crypt it had started to snow. The first bloody snow here in centuries and he had been caught up in it. It couldn’t get any worse.

Shit. Why did he have to think that? He rounded the corner and almost ran straight into the Slayer. He had been dragging his feet, kicking a stone until he looked up and saw her.

“There a reason you’re terrorising the sidewalk, Spike?”

“None of your business”

“Y/n’s kicked you out again hasn’t she?” Buffy’s face lit up as his face gave away she had guessed correctly.

She enjoyed seeing him like this. She was your best friend and she thought (no, knew) that you were too good for him. She told you all the time. But you were both too swept up in the animal attraction. In the possessive, heated entanglement you couldn’t escape if you wanted to.

“Betty the do-good…-er” Spike floundered. It wasn’t his best line. He was ridiculously sad. Mourning the loss of his relationship with you again. He craved you, he wept for you. There was a deep aching in his chest the further he walked from the crypt. The further he walked from you.

“That was tragic. You weren’t kiddin’ when you said you were bad” Buffy said, not able to hide the smile at her own joke.

“Yeah, well, just lost the love of my un-life here. Give a bloke a break” He snapped, sniffing and trying to wipe his eye on his sleeve subtly. Buffy rolled her eyes but for some reason, before she went over to the crypt to collect you and the overnight bag you had packed and re-packed more than you can count, she turned back to him.

“You know she feels the same. Maybe it’s time to let go, Spike. Or buy jewellery. I hear girls like jewellery” Buffy shrugged.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t know” He muttered, luckily she didn’t hear it or she would have spun back and staked him on site. She only hadn’t before the previous interaction because she knew you would never forgive her.

Your relationship was infuriating. And not just to you and Spike. It had a ripple effect, it was a part of your friends lives too. One day you would be shouting and screaming, the next passionately making love on the nearest surface. It was exciting and painful, like whiplash from a rollercoaster. The rollercoaster that was y/n and Spike.

It had been a few days now. You were staying at Buffy’s. She was a good friend to you. No matter how many times you and Spike yo-yo’d between love and hate she was there for you. With as little judgement as she could.

She comforted you while you cried, heartbroken despite Buffy being sure you would manage to find it in your heart to forgive him yet again. You clutched the mug of hot chocolate she had made, complete with marshmallows. She had learnt well from Joyce.

Dawn had slipped you some of her freshly baked sugar-cookies that she had made specially to cheer you up. She had decorated them with little Christmas characters which made you smile at her.

The girl adored your relationship with Spike, whether rightly or wrongly. She looked up to you, wanting to emulate a passionate relationship like that herself when she was older. It was like you were in a romance novel or something.

What you and Buffy didn’t know that since you had moved in, Dawn was Spike’s spy. She was, for the price of $5 and scary stories from his past, she told him all about what you said and how you were feeling. He now knew you were upset, missing him. Wallowing the same as he was. Well, good. But now, he had to make it up to you. He made Dawn help him brainstorm into the night.

She wanted to do it, she was sure it was for a good cause. In the name of true love, obviously.

Spike walked her back to Buffy’s where the Slayer was pacing and you were watching out for her to come home. You were going to give her the heads up that Buffy wasn’t pleased that she had gone awol. The snow had fallen thick now, anything could have happened and Buffy was scared Dawn was hurt.

You saw her then, with him. Your heart rose and your eyes glistened. You watched him trudge beside her, the white glow of the snow lighting up his face, making his cheekbones more prominent. He took a final drag of his cigarette before throwing it away, his eyes finally meeting yours through the window.

You walked to the door and unlocked it, whispering to Dawn that Buffy was gunning for her before turning back to Spike.

“Love…” He started. You just shook your head, you were still hurt.

“Goodbye, Spike” You said pointedly, closing the door on him once more. This time you turned with your back against the door, sliding down it as you started to cry. Dawn worried that it would take more than the Christmas gift they had been planning to win you back as Buffy scooped you up. She suggested that there was plenty of Christmas films you could watch, to take your mind off things. You nodded, leaning against her shoulder debating yourself whether to run after him or not. Buffy decided against any heavy romance-based films as you continued to sniff.

Eventually, Christmas Day came and it was the first that you spent without him in years. You usually made up before. You spent the entire day with a fake smile plastered on your face, not just at the slightly misjudged present from Anya (it was a vibrator, because you were on your own. You opened it in front of Dawn not realising and Buffy had to cover her eyes).

You thought about him the entire day. You ached, pined. You almost braved the thick snow, that you had almost been snowed in by, more than once before one of your friends distracted you with something.

As night fell, you gave up hoping. That was, until, there was a sharp knock at the door. His knock, you knew it. You had slammed the door in his face too many times not to know that knock. You sprinted over there, swinging the door open.

“Spike” You breathed, smiling. You had felt his absence so painfully.

“I know, I’m not stopping, wouldn’t wanna interrupt the touch-feely bollocks I’m sure is in full swing about now” He said and it made you smile, You loved the way he spoke. His accent. The way he phrased everything as if he had crafted it just for your ears.

He handed you a surprisingly well-wrapped gift as you smiled down at it, “It’s- for me? But I didn’t have time to get-”

“You know the only gift you could give me worth anything would be you” He admitted, which was how you felt for him. You didn’t need this, but you knew this was his way of apologising.

You opened the present and gasped, smiling wider. It was jewellery, just the kind you adored with a little gem that sparkled in the moonlight. You looked over at him, how could you ever have doubted him? He did his best by you, he always did. You knew who he was when you had started dating, just as he had known who you were.

“Spike, I’m sorry for how-” You started, but he shook his head, taking your hand.

“This- the way we- it’s not right, I know it” he admitted that the way things were, the bad seemed to take over the good. He lived in hope, though. He was convinced that this time it would be all love, “But I want you, I burn for you – it’s why the gem’s that colour, see? You’re the only one for me, the only one I could ever love through it all” He said it so honestly. So sincerely.

You invited him in after you whispered your own affections, much to everyone else’s chagrin. You showed them the gift and Dawn cheered, telling you she helped. You grinned at her and Spike had to convince Buffy not to stake him again. You both stayed in the living room for a moment, listening to the rest of them talking and just gazing into each other’s eyes.

Then you were kissing. His lips on yours hotly, you had missed this so bad. His lips were made for yours. He drank you in, all of you. Your flaws and your perfections.

He loved your everything. The good and the bad. And you matched his message. He felt it, deepening the kiss. Forgetting where you were for a moment. Until he heard your friends mutter insults at him.

He picked you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist. All the while, you had barely stopped for breath. You never wanted to part from him again. You were pressed close to him, willing him even closer.

His lips caught any exposed skin on your neck, your jaw as he carried you without word upstairs. You looped one arm around his neck, the other against his jaw so you could catch his lips again with heightened desire.

The others just watched you leave, trying to ignore the way you were all-but grinding against Spike in anticipation. None of them were surprised by the turn of events but they weren’t exactly pleased either.

Buffy, Xander, Willow and Giles all shared a look as you and Spike thudded against the walls as you walked along the corridors upstairs trying to find a room to slip into.

They all wondered how long it would last this time as you gave yourselves a very merry Christmas.

[aspenflower17]

Finding You (Part 16 of ??)

Hello metal husband and readers! Welcome to another update to Finding You! What’s on tap today you ask? Well, just keep reading and find out! New here and don’t want to spoil the story? Just hop on over to Part One through this link, and you can read through!

Word Count: 3,558

Tags for the Tagged: @simpingforsatan @naimena @hachimochi @wrathandgreed @magi-minminxiii @rensphilia @a-dream-at-night @chloelikesobeyme @getbehindme-satan @theuglypugling @oofthelazyweeb @solomonismyman (If you want to be added to my tags list, just say the word down below in a comment or a message, and I will get you added to the list :D)

Trigger warnings: One character’s a total douche, talk of war and death

Mc twirled the pencil she had been sketching with debating if she should ask the question she had been thinking about. Her and Michael were the only ones in the room and no one would be coming in for quite awhile. This was probably the best time she’d get to ask, "Hey, Michael. Can I ask you a question?"

He looked up from his book, "Yes? What is it?"

"Well, I was reading a book the other day, and I came across something odd. It… it was about the Avatar's Fall," Mc couldn't look at Michael, so she just continued, "Eyewitness accounts say there were eight angels that fell that day. So, I was wondering: Was there an eighth angel who fell that day?"

The silence was heavy, threatening to crush Mc. After a long moment, Michael's voice sounded lowly, "And just why were you reading about something like that?"

"Meeting them in person got me curious."

"And you would believe an eyewitness account over the teachings of the Celestial Realm?"

"Well, not necessarily. I just was curious since I'd never heard of there being another angel who Fell."

There was silence, and Mc still couldn't make herself look over, "I suppose just because some of them have paid attention to you makes you think you know all about demons.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it then? If you haven’t forgotten, demons will lie about anything. Sinning comes naturally to them. In fact, the seven you keep coming into contact with are the embodiment of some of the most damaging sins. The lower demons are even worse.”

“I just want the most information possible. If there was another angel who fell that day, shouldn’t we tell everyone?”

“You forget your place, Mc. You may have luxuries other angels do not possess, but that does not raise your station.  Questioning Father’s teachings. To believe something a demon wrote about another demon-"

"I'm not really questioning. I was just confused because-"

"And now you interrupt me? Just who do you think you are? I am an archangel, and the only reason you've been allowed down here. You are a simple angel that we have allowed to express her talents throughout the three realms. Do not make me wonder if it was the right decision."

Mc flinched at the door closing. Though he hadn't slammed it, nor had he raised his voice, she had felt the waves of displeasure rolling off of him. The threat about sending her back to the Celestial Realm had her really nervous. Before she was aware of what she was doing, the message had been sent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I could’ve come to the castle.”

“Hmmm… I don’t think that would be for the best right now.”

Satan cocked his head, “Did something happen?”

“Kind of. Anyway, thanks for meeting me here.”

“Of course. Is there anything in particular you’d like to do?”

“Well, I kinda thought, since I have an invitation and all, that you could show me around the House of Lamentation.”

“I… I mean, if you want to. I’m warning you now, it’s almost never calm there. My brothers are… a handful.”

“Sounds great!”

Satan looked over in shock, “Seriously?”

Mc nodded her head, “I grew up with calm. I want some excitement.”

“Well, be careful what you wish for.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

“GIVE ME BACK MY LIMITED DIAMOND EDITION SUCREY FRENZY SIGNED POSTER MAMMON! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT’S WORTH!”

“Course I know what it’s worth! Why’d ya think I took it in the firs’ place?”

“SO YOU DID TAKE IT!!!”

“Oh. Whoops! Forget I said anythin’.”

“MAMMON!”

A blur of demon shot past Mc and Satan. All Mc could make out was white and brown, before Leviathan went past, considerably slower than Mammon, but still fast for a demon. At least, Mc thought it might be Leviathan. The shy purple haired demon was now in all black, with black horns and a snake-like tail. He also looked like he was going to rip apart his brother.

Satan sighed, continuing forward, hands in his pockets, “Welcome to the House of Lamentation.”

“Shouldn’t we do something?”

“Hmm? Oh, about them? I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Ah. I see…”

“We should probably get you out of the immediate vicinity though. There’s no telling what those two idiots might do.”

“Where should we go then?”

“Hmmm… Well, since we’re close, I guess we could start with the kitchen.”

“Sounds good to me!”

As they walked, Mc looked around her. Though the decorations were both a tad macabre and extremely grand, she found herself… comfortable. The candle light cast everything in an almost cheery glow, and the atmosphere, while a little daunting, made her feel like she was…

“... Home.”

Satan stopped dead in his tracks, and turned slowly towards her, “W-wait… Hwat did you say?”

“Oh, did I say that outloud? Sorry. That probably sounded really weird,” when Satan didn’t answer, Mc continued a bit awkwardly, “It’s just… This is the most comfortable I’ve been in a brand new place in a long time. I thought maybe my attraction to the Devildom was just because of how novel it all is to an angel. But… Being in this house, it just makes everything feel more like… Home,” Mc looked up to see Satan looking at her with a very tender but sad look, “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Let’s keep going.”

When they got to the kitchen, Belphegor and Beelzebub were there, former hiding his head in his arms and the latter consuming a concerning amount of food in a very short time. He stopped when Satan and Mc entered the room.

“Burfy! Wrok hus herr!”

“Hmmm? What? Who is it?”

“Ots Emm Fee!”

Belphegor lifted his head tiredly, but smiled when he saw Satan and Mc, “So, you took us up on the invitation?”

“Yup. Satan’s showing me around.”

“Do you guys want some food?” Beelzebub asked, mouth cleared for a second.

“Well, I-"

"Here. You can have this," Beel said, grabbing her hand and dropping what looked to be a kind of sweet bun in it. He gazed at it for a second then looked at her and grinned before walking back to his food pile. 

"You should eat it," Satan said quietly, " He doesn't share his food with just anybody."

"Oh. Okay," Mc said, looking at the sweet. She took a small bite and then her eyes grew wide before eating the whole thing.

"Thought you'd like it," the Avatar of Gluttony smiled.

"It was absolutely delicious! What was it?"

"An orange roll. It's a human word treat."

"I'm going to have to have Luke make it later."

"Did he come with you?" Beel's eyes were shining. 

"Ummm… Not this time."

"Oh."

"I'll make sure to let him know next time I'm coming."

"Please do," Beel said, smiling again. 

"Well, I'm going to continue our tour if that's alright."

"Yes, please do," Mc smiled, turning back to him.

"Have fun you two," Belphie said, dropping his head back onto his arm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mc and Satan progressed through the house. The feeling of familiarity just kept growing as they went. There was a room off the kitchen that Mc felt very drawn to. Satan said it was just an unused bedroom, nothing of note, but it did nothing to curb her interest. In fact, it made her want to see what was inside even more.

When they got to the library, they had to stop because Mc was so excited. No matter how many library’s she saw, personal or otherwise, they never failed to excite her. The fact it was the personal library of the Fallen was not lost on her.

“Do you want to stop here for a bit?” Satan chuckled.

Mc turned to him with wide eyes, “Can we?”

“Of course. Spending time with books is always time well spent. Anything in particular you’d like to look for?”

“Ummm… Do you just want to give me a tour?”

“Of the library?... Hmm… I suppose I could do that. Lucifer does like it organized a certain way. And, of course, if there’s a book that catches your eye, all you have to do is say the word and we can stop to read.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re really after,” Mc teased.

“Well, can you blame me? Reading with someone in companionable silence is one of life’s greatest joys.”

“Well, I suppose it is nice to just sit and read with Sim, though he’s probably the only one I’ve read with.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Most other angels don’t just sit and read very often. Unless it’s scripture.”

“Sounds about right,” Satan said, rolling his eyes and starting to climb the stairs that lead to the second story of the library.

The “certain way” Lucifer liked the books to be organized was by genre, then alphabetically by author.If an author had multiple books, they were to be then sorted alphabetically by title, any series sorted by the first book’s title then in order. Many of the books were old though in impeccable condition. Mc was impressed by the breadth of selection available, and she could sense some spacial magic at work which housed more books than what was visible to the naked eye. While browsing, Mc found a book that looked interesting, and carried it until the tour was over. Satan happened to have a book in a hidden pocket in his jacket so they decided to sit and read awhile. Instead of the ground floor, Satan knew of a little nook on the second story which had a cushioned window seat and two plush reading chairs, so they went and sat there.

Though the story was interesting, she just couldn’t get into the book she’d grabbed. Her mind kept wandering back to her earlier conversation with Michael. She didn’t know how she could have brought up the subject in a way where he wouldn’t have gotten so upset with her. He’d reprimanded her before, but never had he been so dismissive and final about it.

“Are you alright?” Satan’s voice cut through her thoughts. She looked over to see him watching her.

She suddenly felt embarrassed, and averted her eyes, “It’s… Well, I got reprimanded by Michael.”

“Why?”

So Mc told him about her search for information, how Barbatos had told her to ask Michael and his rebuke. When she finished, Satan’s face was impossible to read. He was silent for long enough, she was concerned she had offended him somehow. Finally he spoke, “Lilith. Her name was Lilith. If you want some answers about what happened, I think Lucifer would be the best person to give them to you. I would suggest Beel, but he has enough trauma about what happened as it is. I don’t even know if he remembers, or if he’s blocked it…”

“Blocked what?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Satan knocked on a bookshelf on the ground floor. A deep voice sounded from behind it, “Enter.” At the word, the bookshelf sung open to reveal a secret room. Despite wondering what was going on, Mc was both delighted and intrigued.

“You guys actually have a secret room behind a bookcase?!”

Satan shrugged, “Yeah. The house has a lot more secrets too. It would’ve been my room had I not lost a bet with Lucifer. Now it’s his office,” and with that, he walked in.

The whole room was a lot cozier than Mc would’ve expected. Austere and imposing yes, but there was a level of warmth and comfort to the room Mc would never have expected.

“Satan, what is it?” Lucifer sat at his desk, quill scratching across some paperwork. He hadn’t looked up.

“Mc has a question for you.”

This got him to look up, “Ah Mc. How can I help you?”

“Oh, if I’m interrupting something I can come back later.”

“I could use a break anyway. Please continue,” Lucifer sat there expectantly.

“Okay. Umm…” the memory of Michael flashed through Mc’s mind, and she winced a bit, but continued on with her story. Lucifer’s eyes darkened the further into the story she got. When she got to Michael’s chastisement, Lucifer got up from his chair abruptly, and went over to his window, back to Satan and Mc. Mc faltered in her story, watching as his clothes changed, horns pushing up and out from his head.

“I told her you’d be the one to ask,” Satan intervened, coming to stand behind Mc.

“Why? You know everything. You were there,” Lucifer asked, back still turned.

“You know the whole story,” Satan shrugged, eyes on the black clad figure.

Lucifer was silent and unmoving for quite awhile. Mc’s tension was on high alert for quite awhile, not seeing the horns retreating, until he finally spoke, “Before I begin, I feel I must warn you. You are going to hear things you probably won’t like or agree with. You are not to interrupt me. There will be a chance for me to answer your questions at the end, but only at the end. I will not explain my actions. The only person I answer to is Lord Diavolo. Whether you believe them correct or not, I am not embellishing the truth nor am I trying to hide from it. Knowing all of that, do you want me to continue?”

“... Yes. I would like to know the truth,” Mc answered confidently, though the fact he was still angry put her on edge. She knew he wasn’t angry at her at least.

The eldest, having calmed down enough to revert out of his demon form, came over and sat behind his desk. Satan came and sat next to her, earning a look from Lucifer, “You’re going to stay?”

“She is my guest.”

Lucifer raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, turning his attention back to Mc, “Have you heard about the Great Celestial War?” Mc nodded, and he continued, “No doubt you’ve heard their version of what happened. Probably talks about me and my brothers rampaging around the Celestial Realm until they finally cast us out?” Lucifer looked to her for confirmation.

“More or less,” Mc conceded.

“I am sure they make me out to be a villain in every way?”

“They say before you became angry, you were the model angel.”

“That is… interesting to know. Thank you for that. Now, where to begin?... Do you know anything about our sister?” Mc shook her head no, and Lucifer sighed angrily, “To think they just… Lilith came into my little makeshift family with Beel and Belphie. They were almost triplets in a sense of the word. Beel was the sun, Belphie the moon and Lilith the stars, though I would argue she shined the most brightly out of them. She was... angelic. They should really point to her as the model angel. She was everything an angel should and could be. Though they were all very close, once Beel made himself my bodyguard, Belphie and Lilith spent a lot of time together. Belphie had a habit of going off the the human realm whenever he could, which was not seen as a good thing, though he knew how to keep himself unattached to the humans he happened to meet, so no one could really do much more than grumble. That is, until Lilith started going down him.

Her heart was so pure and full of love, she ended up falling in love with one of the humans she met. Belphie tried to talk her out of it, but it was no use. When the rumors started, I asked both of them what was going on. From what they both said, it was love at first sight. Though I was furious, I went down myself to meet the man in question, and found myself unable to criticize her. He was everything I could have wanted for my sister. 

Unfortunately, he was mortal and he came down with a serious illness. Lilith was devastated. We all tried to tell her this was a good thing. He was a good enough person he would probably join us in the Celestial Realm. I even spoke with my father and got permission for her to lead him to the Celestial Realm when he passed. She wouldn’t listen however. He had told her all about his dreams for the future and she couldn’t let his life end. SO she concocted a plan. I wish she would’ve told me about it earlier, but I only found out about it after the deed had been done. She took a Tarel fruit and fed it to him,” Mc gasped despite herself. That fruit was precious. Michael himself wasn’t allowed any unless Father approved of it. Lucifer didn’t even acknowledge the outburst, “He recovered, obviously, but the damage was irreversible. As punishment for her sins, my father decided she would be put on trial, though we all knew the outcome, “ as did Mc. Either death or complete exile. They were essentially one-and-the-same.

“I had… many issues with the Celestial Realm and how it was run. How it probably still is. I was able to put those all aside however for the sake of my family and my position. This however,” and Mc could see the rage that still filled his eyes, “I could never forgive. Not if it meant the death of our dear baby sister. All my brothers felt the same way, especially Beel and Belphie. We all decided we were going to do something about it. Despite what anyone might say, I did try to go the “correct way” in the beginning. Supplications to my father. Speaking to others that might listen. I think we even tried a petition at one point. Very few would listen. I think there was a level of envy from most of the other angels. They saw in Lilith all their shortcomings, and so they had latched onto the one “bad” thing anyone could ever remember her doing.

“Tensions came to a head one day when I told my father and Michael I would do everything in my power to keep Lilith safe. Michael then looked me dead in the eyes and told me my sister was going to be punished, even if he had to do it himself. I left that meeting trembling with rage, and that’s when I knew I would wage war against anyone who tried to hurt my family, even if that meant fighting my father myself. I flew into the sky that day and sent my declaration of war over the entire Celestial Realm.

“Some came to our aid, but most sat on the opposing side. The war was long and bloody. Many that had flocked to our aid perished, low ranked angels who didn’t stand a chance against the likes of Michael and his bow. On what would come to be known as the last day of the war, we had so few left, my precious family had to be put near the front of the battle. Everything was going fine, and we were actually winning when I saw Michael emerge from the enemy forces. He had spotted Lilith, standing with Beel and Belphie, and I could see his intentions before anyone else. I tried my hardest to reach the three youngest, but a large crowd of angels came to attack me. Whether it was his plan all along to keep me tied up with so many, I don’t know. All I do know is that by the time I had fought off all my attackers it was too late. He had strung three arrows pointing them at my family. They all knew it was coming too, and I watched the panic set in to all three of them, with Beel in the middle. He chose to save Belphie. Lilith went down with an arrow to the wing, which was then followed by three more arrows shot by others, one to her other wing, one to the stomach, and then one to the chest. She looked over to me as she started falling and I…” Lucifer’s voice broke and he had to take a second to compose himself, “Well, let’s just say I will never forget it. After the shock had worn off, I flew after her as she fell. I tried to shoot down as fast as I could hoping to grab her, but it was no use. She crashed into the Devildom, wings singed body broken.

“I didn’t tell anyone about that day for a long time. Eventually I did tell Barbatos and Lord Diavolo who Lilith’s murderer was, which is why Barbatos knew who to send you to for answers. The fact Michael wouldn’t come clean about the whole thing, and that they’ve essentially erased her from history… It makes my blood boil. To see Diavolo acting so chummy with my sister’s murderer…” Mc could see, through the film of tears blocking her vision, Lucifer’s horns starting to emerge again.

Without thinking, she crossed over to him and hugged him, openly weeping. The thought was appalling. Whenever people spoke about the Great Celestial War, they always spoke of Michael’s brilliant  tactical genius. They spoke of how he’d helped crush the rebellion, though they had never gone into detail. She now knew why. Lucifer was taken aback for a second by the behavior, but eventually hugged her back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, yeah. That happened.

Likes, shares and comments all vm appreciated. 

If y’all got the reference in the beginning, I applaud you and offer the chance to quote her magnificence in the comments or you could send me asks and I will reply with another quote (please take me up on this!)

Part Seventeen

[indiavolowetrust]

THE LOCKED=ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO: Choose Your Own Adventure

Guidelines

The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]

Depending on the feedback – comments, DMs, reblogs, etc. – I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Available here on AO3.

If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

Previous part here. Or start from the beginning.

Portrait of a Young Man: Part Five

[Answer in kind. You are a guest here, after all. Despite your circumstances, you must follow social obligations.]

You hate him. You hate him. Good God, you hate this rapacious, scheming devil. You detest this devil with every fiber of your being, every bone in your body, everything you could ever pour your soul into. You hate this conniving beast of a devil with every last ounce of hatred you could ever muster in your body. Just the sight of him sets you on edge. Here you are, having paid dearly for what must have been a boost in his career. Your partially scarred visage, burned body, and want of a leg can attest to that much. What would have become of your academic ambitions and your father’s empire lies in burnt shambles around you. While you have no solid proof of his role in your father’s death, surely the great wealth and business that he has accrued is more than enough for you. Had it not been for your father’s generous donations -- and events, business dinners, strategic alliances -- you highly doubt that the demon before you would be enjoying the fortune that he possesses now.

And yet here he is, untouched by time or any semblance of guilt. If you were a halfwit, you would have sworn that this devil before you simply stepped out from the fabric of your memories.

Despite the intensity of your hatred for Mr. Diavolo -- and your nagging, incessant urge to scream profanity at him and hurl accusations -- you are a guest. Guests do not act in such a manner.

You grit your teeth. Hopefully it passes for a smile.

Mr. Diavolo begins to descend the stairway, his hand on the banister. “It’s been years, hasn’t it?” he remarks, looking you up and down with interest. “You’ve grown up to be quite a fine young lady, I see. How fares your mother?”

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

“She’s doing well,” you lie. “Much better than she was.”

“Wonderful! That’s good to hear.”

He reaches the bottom of the stairwell much quicker than you had hoped, nearing you with long, easy strides. You nearly fall over when he claps you on the back. Thankfully, you manage to retain your balance. Then there is that great, wide businessman’s grin again on his features, as if you two are truly old friends, and you feel the rage beginning to writhe in your core once more.

You want to burn that face of his to ashes.

The dark-haired man steps forward somewhere in your peripheral vision. You turn slightly to regard him. His gaze flickers towards you once, maybe twice on account of your missing limb, but once more he ignores you. 

“While I appreciate this reunion, I believe the hour is quite late.” He nods respectfully to Mr. Diavolo, as if to signal his leave. “And we’ve quite the number of guests who haven’t arrived yet. Surely such reunions and introductions can be set aside for tomorrow.”

Asmo huffs. “Just because you retire so early doesn’t mean that it applies to the rest of us. You’re no better than an old man!”

“My apologies, I wasn’t aware that simply needing sleep insinuated that --”

Mr. Diavolo claps his hands together once, interrupting the dark-haired one in the middle of what would certainly incite an argument. “Perhaps Lucifer is right,” he concedes. “Even the professor has yet to arrive, and I believe he was set to reach the estate by tonight. We’ll have it all sorted it out by tomorrow.”

And so it is Asmo that insists on leading you to your room, your suitcase in tow. The both of you pass even more vast swathes and stretches of corridors, each one appearing to be more expensively decorated and lavish than the last. When you finally reach what you assume to be your room, your remaining leg throbs from the strain. Asmo sets your suitcase to the side as he knocks on the door -- and then he swings it open with a flourish, revealing the four poster bed and gilded mirror within as he does so.

“Ta-da! One room for one young lady.” Asmo passes the threshold to place the suitcase beside your bed, and you follow him in. “I do hope it is to your liking.”

Again there is that dramatic flourish. and --

You realize that you’ve yet to thank the man for helping you up the stairs, much less for bringing your things to your room. Or for making conversation with you, given the dark-haired man’s -- Lucifer, you recall -- complete refusal to speak to you. You can only imagine why.

A sheepish expression graces your features. “I don’t think you need to mention that,” you say, tring to force down the embarrassment. It proves to be ineffective. “I believe I forgot to say thank you, by the way. For helping me up the stairs and whatnot.”

Asmo simply waves off your attempt at social grace. “There’s no need to thank me. What sort of gentleman would I be if I were to refuse extending aid to a lovely young lady such as yourself?”

Your embarrassment only intensifies. Perhaps it has been much too long since you have dabbled in society.

“Besides, we are friends here, are we not? I take it that you’ve no clue as to whom the others would be.” He leans casually against the frame of the door, overlooking a trinket on the rather massive wardrobe. A sidelong glance. “I know only a few of the others, but I’ve got the slightest inkling that your invitation was a bit, ah, unexpected. That you’ve no idea why you were brought here. Am I  correct?”

He’s rather perceptive, you note.

“You are..”

There is a slight pause as Asmo turns the trinket this way and that, his attention preoccupied with what appears to be a carved bat. Or a winged animal of some sort. His visage is turned away from you for only a moment, breaking his hold on your gaze -- but he regards you once more soon enough.

“Then we’re allies!” he declares. “Or, ah, how would you say it -- we’re in the same boat. I was told that this was an opportunity to meet another of my trade here, but I highly doubt that such an opportunity would include that arrogant peacock of a politician. Or you, Miss Georgine. You don’t seem to be much of an actress, I’m afraid.”

His rather cheery demeanor belies only the slightest hint of the unspoken question. Of his sharp curiosity. You respond in kind.

* * *

You wander the halls of the manor after a quiet, private breakfast. Sleep had evaded you in the long hours of the night, despite your needful attempts, and so it was after a restless battle that you had finally given up on such a notion. If sleep did not consider itself your companion at the moment, you would not chase after it. A butler -- a rather reserved man by the name of Barbatos -- had allowed you to fix your own breakfast at your behest, leaving you alone in the cavernous kitchen. Dawn had broken sometime later, a soft, gray sort of sunlight streaming through the curtains, and you had made sure to draw the curtains before you left the room. A silent thank you to the butler.

You cannot help but be somewhat surprised at the emptiness of the corridors. Surely there should be someone else awake at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

Then again, you are thankful for the respite. The coming days will likely be filled with nothing but blunders in social grace, awkward conversation, and generally unpleasant experiences. While you had looked forward to the taste of your old life, the reality of the situation is a bit more than jarring.

It is not long before a great door looms before you, drawing your attention. Unlike the other doors or corridors that you have passed -- which could very well lead to only more doors and corridors -- this one seems to be of some significance. Two snarling bronze lions are positioned at its center, rings hanging from their teeth. The door itself is much more sizable than the others as well, rivaling even that of the great entrance hall, and you feel almost stifled by the sheer size of it. Its suffocating presence only further serves to indicate the importance of what must lie beyond this door.

That, and the fact that there is an engraved sign that reads LIBRARY beside the door. You decide to step inside.

,Much like the rest of the manor, the library bears an extravagant touch to nearly every aspect of the room. Not an inch of space lies fallow. Bookshelves tower far above you, crammed nearly to bursting with novels, manuals, and encyclopedias of all kinds. An imported rug of rich crimson sits at the center of the room, and upon the crimson rug sits a single desk composed of dark mahogany and brass. Muted sunlight streams from windows that reach the ceiling, and heavy, embroidered curtains line nearly every fingerbreadth of the glass. Aside from the rather impressive skylight above -- which somehow does little in the way of visibility -- there appears to be no other source of light in the room.

There is a sound somewhere out of sight. It is indiscernible, given its brevity -- but you are quite sure that you have not misheard. You squint and peer into the darkness in an attempt to identify its source, but the shadows are far too thick for you to do so. If you desire to find the source, you will have to step further into the library.

Do you venture into the darkness?

[Of course! It could very well be another guest. The curtains here need to be drawn open, besides.]

[Oh, yes, let’s go frolicking in the shadows of that accursed devil’s library. Surely that’s not dangerous at all … No, you’d rather keep your head on your shoulders.]

[Perhaps you should try calling out into the darkness first. If it is truly a guest, they will answer.]

[fraink5-writes]

From Darkness Into the Lantern Light - Chapter 5

Another day, another chapter...? Along with the Crux Fleet, another exciting arrival!

I’d like to thank @leio13 for her editing prowess!

Summary: Once upon a time, there was a cold-hearted queen. Although the Tsaritsa, as she was called, possessed her own divinity, she coveted the powers of the other Archons. Aiming to steal the Geo Archon’s gnosis, she sent her strongest warriors to Liyue Harbor. But just when Rex Lapis was almost defeated, he escaped to another vessel, that of a powerless baby, and was swept away to a hidden tower for his protection.

Many years after the great fight, the young and ambitious Harbinger, Childe, arrives in Liyue to grant the Tsaritsa’s desire, but, on his search for the Geo Archon’s gnosis, he ends up tangled in a mysterious man’s dreams to see Liyue Harbor’s Lantern Rite.

This chapter can also be found on Ao3 here. Without further ado, please enjoy!

The door of the Crux Tavern slammed amid the loud chatter. “What’s going on here?”

“Captain!”

“Captain Beidou!”

“We have guests!”

“Guests!”

The Captain marched in, carrying a big barrel over her shoulder. “Guests?” She laughed. “I brought more beer for our entertainment tonight, but it seems like you guys found something much more interesting!” Putting down the large barrel, she strode up to the crowd, quickly eyeing Zhongli and glaring at Childe. “Juza, come explain the situation to me. You guys, open the beer and make sure our ‘guests’ have enough to drink.” Leading Juza outside, she was gone in a flash, but from her brief appearance, it was clear she was a formidable woman. Six-feet tall and with impeccably toned muscles, she wore everything from her right eyepatch to her broadsword with great confidence. As worthy an opponent as she would make, Childe could not fight her if he wanted their trip to Liyue Harbor to go swimmingly. 

After another toast of beer from the crew, the Captain returned, conversed quickly with a few others then pulled Childe and Zhongli to the side. “So, you guys want to stay here? Did you come here thinking that the Crux Fleet would let you go because we have ‘so much in common?’” She stared incredulously at Childe.

“Because we all have dreams!” Childe tried to deflect her hostility with optimism.

“Huh—”

Childe sent several desperate side glances in Zhongli’s direction.

“Yes, exactly!” Beidou suddenly smiled. “If you want to go to Liyue Harbor, we won’t stop you. And we can provide you a place to stay.” She called the nearest member of the crew. “Yinxing, show this man to the ‘Guest House.’ It’s not much, but a roof’s a roof. And our crew will be standing guard. You—” She turned to Childe—“are going to have a little chat with me first.”

“I’ll catch up with you shortly.” Childe waved and smiled at Zhongli, although he didn’t feel much hope behind it.

When Zhongli was out of earshot, the Captain’s amicable face disappeared. “I know who you are, Childe, Eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui. And I know what you’ve been up to recently in Liyue Harbor. But do you know who I am?”

“Captain Beidou of the Crux Fleet.”

“At least you know that much. But what you don’t seem to realize is that I am quite familiar with the Qixing, and I can hand you over at any moment.”

Childe gulped.

“Relax.” Beidou cracked a grin. “I won’t. Right now. Thanks to your friend. I just wanted to ask a few questions.” She inspected her gloves thoughtfully. “He doesn’t seem to be one of you. Where did you find such a specimen?”

“Zhongli?”

“My crew says ‘he’s almost as powerful as Captain Beidou’—almost. Are you sure he even needs you?”

“I’m beginning to doubt that myself.” Childe sighed. “But I hope that I can stay by his side.”

“Good answer!” Beidou took a swig from a mug of beer. “The crew has taken quite a liking to him, so as long as you stick by him, we will help you. Do anything else shady in Liyue, and it’s over for you. Got it?”

Childe just nodded.

“Alright, well, don’t leave him alone for too long now! But I would change your act if you want him to need you~!” Beidou called out with a chuckle. 

***

The "guest house" was nothing more than a neighboring dilapidated building. The wall planks only provided 50% coverage, and the floor was simply the cold, hard ground with a carpet of overgrown grass. But a roof was a roof, so Zhongli dared not complain. This would be his first time sleeping outside of his bed, outside of his tower. He wrapped himself up in a bundle of his own hair for a little more comfort. 

"Hey!" Childe popped in with the same cheeriness as usual. "Did ya miss me?"

"Welcome," Zhongli muttered as Childe plopped down onto the dirt next to him.

Childe chuckled briefly then, acting seriously again, said "Sorry that you have to stay in a place like this."

"It can't be helped. At least there's a roof."

"Are you scared?" Childe asked.

Zhongli had been thinking and rethinking about that question all day, and he finally decided upon an answer: "It's my first time away from home, so it would only be natural for me to be frightened. But you're here, and the Crux Fleet is posted outside. I've learned so many interesting things today, and most people aren't as malicious as I feared they would be. So, I predominantly feel relieved."

Childe stared thoughtfully before grinning. He stretched out on the grass. "You were quite something back there. That must be some workout regimen you have."

"It's nothing special."

Childe raised an eyebrow. Though he looked quite comfortable, his head resting on folded arms, his guard was probably up.

Zhongli inhaled. "Can I ask you a question?"

“Depends.”

“Why did you lie back there?”

“Lie?” Childe rolled on his side to face Zhongli.

“I know that you are not looking for love. So, why did you lie?”

“Ohh that. I simply thought a lie would be more agreeable than the truth.”

Zhongli’s face soured.

“You’re not a fan of lying, huh? Sorry then.”

“I want to know the truth.”

“The truth…” Per contract, Childe had the right to ignore Zhongli’s curiosity. But instead of his deflective grin, Childe’s face lacked any emotion whatsoever. Underneath all his superficial decorations, this face was the truth: an emotionless slate. Perhaps it was due to the dark room, but Childe’s eyes were more lightless than the deep ocean. “The truth is that this body of mine has no dreams of its own. I live to serve my goddess, the Tsaritsa of Snezhnaya. Her wish is mine to fulfill. That’s all there is to it. That’s why I just smile and lie.” Childe’s smile was haunting.

Zhongli averted his eyes. Was it the truth or the lie which he feared? “Then, why did you decide to serve her? Surely there was a reason in that.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What kind of person is she?”

Childe sighed. “I guess that doesn’t go against our contract, so I’ll tell you. The Tsaritsa has a bad rep in Teyvat, but she’s actually a gentle soul. She wishes to create peace, even if her methods are frowned upon. But the world is unforgiving, so she had to harden herself. That’s why, Zhongli, no matter what people say, no matter what happens, I’m going to fulfill her wishes.”

For the first time, Zhongli heard earnestness in Childe’s voice. Perhaps then she really was the only thing that remained in Childe’s heart. Zhongli had thought Childe to be completely incomprehensible, but if he shared such a devotion to one woman, then maybe he would understand, after all…

“Say, Childe. If you discovered something important to you, something which speaks to your core, but it contradicts the will of the Tsaritsa, what would you do?” Would you betray her?

“That’s a meaningless question,” Childe laughed. “That would never happen.”

“You’re right. It was a foolish question.” This time Zhongli was the one to turn away, curling up on his side. He had mistaken Childe’s character a second time. They really were completely different people. 

“Zhongli.” Childe whispered gently. Zhongli shouldn’t have trusted his tone, but he wanted to believe in this warm lie at least. He couldn’t turn around, lest Childe’s lifeless eyes betray the truth to him. “I’m sorry for not having the right answer.”

“There’s no need to apologize. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Cold silence wafted into the building and settled on the hard ground between Zhongli and Childe. What kind of face was Childe making? A smile? A detached frown? Neither option reassured Zhongli, at whom curiosity and fear gnawed. 

A yawn followed by a tiny grunt interrupted Zhongli’s plummeting mood. “Sorry… I’m more exhausted than I thought… g’night…” Childe’s voice trailed off into soft breaths. "Agh—" He winced again.

Zhongli remained completely still until Childe's breathing had an even rhythm. When he rolled around, he found Childe sound asleep, clutching his head. On closer inspection, he had tiny bruises all over his body. Throughout the day he had taken countless blows for Zhongli's sake, including several to the head, in which Zhongli was not entirely blameless. It wouldn't be fair for Zhongli to leave him like this. Zhongli could at least treat the head without it being obvious.

Zhongli tenderly cradled Childe's head, watching for any signs of waking. His parted lips were still, minus the occasional grimace. Underneath his long eyelashes, surely there were dreams. But what kind of dreams did the Tsaritsa's knight—No, Childe—see?

Zhongli grabbed some of his own hair and tucked it behind Childe's head. "Sweet dreams."

[exodusmc]

Until you met him

Genre: Faerie au, angst

Words: 1113

Paring: Faerie Namjoon x human reader

Warning!: Blood, death, possessiveness, incagement,

a/n: Life is not always easy but lets hope for something better. :)

Gif is not mine 

One of his eyes were completely black while the other was brown, human. His hair was like silver and his lips seemed soft. Your gaze moved over him where he sat on a stone, one leg propped up. He smiled, dimple showing, as the forest danced around him. 

“Who are you?”his chin rested in one palm, wind moving through his hair. 

“Namjoon..who are you?” you stared, gulping at his voice. His ears were pointed, his clothing in green hues you had never seen before. 

“..Y/n..”Namjoon nodded, dropping from the stone to stand tall over you. His back was broad, his fingers were soft against your cheek.

“You’re a human…”he let his hand slide down from your face, trailing over one of your collarbones.”Why have you stumbled so deep into my forest? It’s dangerous for the blind.”

Colors bleed brighter around you, sounds became clearer, so much so your head started to hurt. Namjoon kept touching you, marveling at the softness of your skin and hair, the way your breathing was so deep. Your body swayed, falling onto his chest, letting him smell you more. 

“..What are you..”your voice was just above a whisper, mind struggling with the forest’s life. The birds song was eching in your skull but it slowly turned to screams, human screams. They begged to be let go, they begged to die. 

“I’m a Faerie and this is my forest little blind one, you shouldn't be here…”Namjoon’s smile, which had been warm, morphed to something sinister, deadly. His fingers grabbed harder at your arms, black eye bleeding over to his human one.”..now I have you and the forest won't let you go.”

-

The cage was your world, standing in the center of his room. You stared at the bed he slept in, its softness mocking your aching body. Moss and other plants were growing around windows, reaching for where you sat. Namjoon usually sat on a small sofa, watching you like an animal. He would smile, he would ask things, but he would laugh, he would smirk. You had seen more of him, how his arms had been covered in blood, how plants moved like pets for his hand. The Faerie had the power of life but he killed and he laughed at misery. You were scared of being his next victim, scared to be killed because he was bored but Namjoon never hurt you, no, he caressed your cheeks through the bars, he held your trembling hand and told you about his day. He was insane but he didn't hurt you. 

Namjoon stepped into his room, smiling at your shuddering figure. He had news, good news, and he couldn't wait to share them with you, his little blind human. Green vine like plants moved to his hand, blooming into purple and pink wildflowers. His fingers plucked the buds, gaze moving over to you. 

“My lovely little thing, I have news..”he sat before you, arranging the flowers until they satisfied him.”There will be a ball for all the creatures living of the lands and I want you to go with me..”

The bouquet was placed in your hands, so beautiful, so cruel. You had no choice but to nod, hide behind nothing, but Namjoon was happy. He would get to show you off to all the others, have his power. Not even the other Faeries could take him down with you, his little human. 

“Great, I’ll get you something nice to wear...and I promise your night will be a wonder of dance and magic..”

Tears slipped down your cheeks the second Namjoon turned his back. You were nothing but an object to him, something to flaunt, but you couldn't be mad, not when you had hear the cries for help, the death screams. He killed and he loved it. You were his and you would live until he didn't care anymore, then maybe your lips would break into the sounds which haunted your sleep. 

-

Music mixed with laughter, goblets with unknown liquids were passed around. Your dress was a mix of deep purple and light blues, falling perfectly, exposing your shoulders and collarbones which Namjoon loved. He traced patterns over them as you sat on his lap, smiling from ear to ear. You, however, was distracted by the iridescent wings from his back or all the beautiful creatures dancing around. There were faeries like him but there was also others, their eyes weary of those like Namjoon. 

“Namjoon! You finally left your little hut!”a cheery voice said words which was mocking, his face hold child likeness if it weren't for the smirk on his pillowy lips.”..and you have a toy”

“Jimin..”darkness slipped into Namjoon’s mouth, turning his one brown eye black, holding you harder. 

Jimin smirked wider, his black hair covering white orbs which would send shame to the moon. He too sported iridescent wings but he was smaller than Namjoon, ears decorated with studs. It was like looking at lust, his gaze burning. 

“Don't you even dare!”Namjoon snapped his teeth at the younger, breaking the spell you were under. His grip was so strong, it would leave a bruise on your arms. 

“I would never do anything to harm your blind one..Namjoon-ah you know that right?”he challenged the older, glancing back down to your body on Namjoon’s thighs. A dark cloud formed around Jimin, keeping away the greenery trying to strangle him.  

“You would never do that, I know Jiminie..I know..”Namjoon stood up, grabbing your arm.”..Because life can't be killed by shadows..”

Rage burned in Jimin’s orbs as you were dragged away to the dancing people, stumbling after Namjoon. His wings sparked, breath fanning down your face, fingers threading through your hair. He twirled you to the music, throwing you in the air. All around you were laughing creatures, dancing like their life depended on it.

“You’re mine..no one else can have you..You’re life is mine and your death the same..”you were flush against Namjoon, staring into the black holes of his eyes, feeling the sharpness of his teeth against your ear.”Say it. Say that you’re mine..”

“I-I’m yours..” he smiled at your breathlessness but when you said what he wanted, was your fate sealed. You would never get away, you would never escape, because you were his, you were his to feed, his to kill. Your life was his decision and it made you cry, cry as you danced around with magic you never knew of, darkness you never knew of, until you met him, until you met Namjoon.

[cyborgsquirrel]

Sanctuary: Chapter 17

Pairing: Wolfstar

Summary: The epic tale of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, from their first meeting until their happily ever after.

Link to Prologue

Link to All Chapters

Saturday, 25th September 1971, 7:55 am

Remus yawned as he followed Sirius, James and Peter up the stairs to the third floor. Sirius had woken him at the ungodly hour of six forty-five to get an early breakfast before the niffler hunt, and his body was protesting, although his morning chocolate-flavour nutrition potion had helped a little.

They approached classroom 12c and James took the lead, pushing the door open and walking inside. The room was vast with a stage at one end, empty of any furniture, and small groups of students of all ages were dotted around, chatting amongst themselves and waiting for the show to start. They weren't left waiting for long.

At exactly eight o'clock, the stage erupted with sound and light as multiple fireworks exploded in a shower of coloured sparks and words blazed to life on the wall in the same fiery letters Remus had used for his own message.

Welcome to Hogwarts' Annual Super Secret Niffler Hunt

Everyone in the room turned their attention to the stage in rapt silence. The message faded away after a few seconds, and a shiny suit of armour clanked onto the stage and gave the audience a cheery wave.

'Good Morning, Nifflers!' it said. The booming voice seemed to come from inside the empty helmet. 'Many of you have taken part in the hunt in previous years, but for the benefit of our newcomers, I will go over the rules. You will work in teams of no more than four people. Each team will receive a list of items they must collect. All the lists are identical. The items are split into three categories. There are twenty items worth 1 point, which require no rule-breaking to retrieve. Six items are worth 5 points and will require some minor rule-breaking. Four items can only be gathered via severe rule-breaking and are, therefore, worth 10 points each. The deadline is four o'clock this afternoon. Bring whatever you have collected to this room, and your points will be calculated. Be warned, all items will be checked for transfiguration, and any team caught cheating will be instantly disqualified. There is, of course, a prize for the winning team.'

The suit of armour clapped its metal hands together with a metallic clunk and a wooden box appeared in the middle of the room.

'Take one sheet per team. Good luck to you all. Remember, don't get caught, but if you do, don't tell! Let the hunt begin!'

'Wait here,' James said before dodging through the throng of students to reach the box and grab a roll of parchment from the stack inside.

'He'd be a good chaser, don't you think?' Sirius said as they watched him.

Remus and Peter both nodded in agreement.

A four-man team of Hufflepuffs had grabbed their list and were heading out the door, and one of them called over his shoulder as they left. 'You might as well give up now. We always win this game. Hufflepuffs are particularly good finders.'

'You might be in for a surprise this year, Diggory!' James shouted back.

'How do you know his name?' Remus asked.

James shrugged. 'He's on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. I know all the players.'

Remus shook his head. 'And you call me a nerd.'

James laughed. 'Come on, we need to meet today's birthday person in twenty minutes, and then we can get started.'

They climbed the stairs back up to the seventh floor and hung around talking to Silas while they waited for third-year Gryffindor Frank Longbottom to show up.

After Frank had blown out his candle, they returned to their dorm to look over the list and make some plans.

James unrolled the parchment and placed it on the floor so they could all see.

Hogwarts Annual Super Secret Niffler Hunt

One-point items - easy

A quill with a red feather - A muggle pen - A purple sock

A stuffed cat - A white flower - An orange hair-tie

A smooth white stone - A green shoe - A leaf from an oak tree

A photograph of Dumbledore - A paintbrush - A muggle coin

An essay with a 'T' grade - A pinecone - A pair of sunglasses

A battery - Lipstick - A camera - A pink hat - A blue button

Five-point items - detention potential

A trophy from the trophy room

A book from the restricted section

A saucepan from the kitchen

A telescope from the astronomy classroom

A teapot from the divination classroom

A broomstick from the broom shed

Ten-point items - highly dangerous

A tartan scarf from Professor McGonagall's collection of Scottish clothing

A medal from Professor Flitwick's collection of duelling prizes

A tool from Professor Sprout's collection of decorative gardening tools

A potion from Professor Slughorn's collection of rare potions.

All items will be returned to their rightful owners when the hunt has ended

'I have a purple sock and a pair of sunglasses,' James said, jumping up and dashing to his trunk to fetch them.

Sirius also went to his trunk. 'I have a paintbrush. And possibly a blue button. Yes, here.' He yanked a button off of a pair of trousers.

'Sirius!' Remus said, shocked at the wanton destruction of a perfectly good item of clothing.

'What?' Sirius raised his hands in surrender, one of them still clutching the button. 'I'll ask a prefect to spell it back on after the hunt.'

'Right. Sorry.' Remus was embarrassed by his overreaction and tried to change the subject. 'I have a muggle pen, by the way. My mum put it in my trunk because they're easier to write with.'

'Ooh, get it out. I've never seen a muggle pen.' Sirius darted towards him with the air of an excited puppy, and Remus jerked away instinctively. Sirius shot him an apologetic look but otherwise didn't acknowledge his reaction. Remus was grateful.

He rummaged around in his trunk until his hand wrapped around the thin plastic tube of his black biro. He pulled it out and handed it to Sirius, who examined it with fascination.

'Someone get me some ink. I want to try it out,' Sirius said.

Remus chuckled. 'You don't need ink. The ink is already inside it.'

'Inside it?' Sirius asked. He grabbed the list and made a tick next to "muggle pen." 'That's ingenious! It must save so much time not having to dip it every few sentences. Why the hell are we still using quills and ink when the muggles have these?'

Remus shrugged. 'I have no idea.'

Sirius took great pleasure in using the muggle pen to tick off the other items on the list that they owned before James called them all to attention.

'I think we should concentrate on the ten-point items this morning. We have a huge advantage over the other teams,' he said, brandishing the invisibility cloak. 'If our plans fail and we don't get them, we can make up for it by getting all the five-point items after lunch.'

'I think that's a good plan, James.' Remus hesitated, reluctant to argue with his new friends, but he ploughed on. 'But I can't come under the cloak with you. Maybe we should split up. I can collect some single point things while you work on the ten-pointers?'

'Nonsense. We're the magical mischief makers! We work together. You're going to be an important part of the plans. The distraction! We need you to keep the teachers occupied while we sneak in and steal their prized possessions. There's no point in us being invisible if they see doors opening and their things vanishing.'

They spent an hour in the dorm making elaborate plans for each of the four items worth ten points, plus additional back-up plans and emergency exit plans before they headed out to try their luck on Professor Sprout. She seemed like the easiest of the four.

As they traversed the school, they saw small groups of students dashing around, running up to people and asking questions before rushing off again. It seemed like most of the teams were focusing on the single point items. Good.

They reached Professor Sprout's personal quarters, and James wished him luck before disappearing under the cloak. They had all agreed it would be easier to sneak around if only one person was under the cloak, and it belonged to James. Peter and Sirius had been delegated look-outs and had taken positions at either end of the corridor.

Remus knocked on the door and waited.

Less than a minute passed before the door opened, revealing Professor Sprout. She was wearing muggle dungarees and a straw hat with her hair loose around her shoulders.

'Hello, Mister Lupin, I was just on my way out. Can I help you with something?'

'Oh. I'm sorry to disturb you, Professor. I didn't realise it was your day off. I was hoping you could talk me through some things about planting flitterbloom? I'm afraid I don't quite understand why it's necessary to line the seed tray with crystallised sugar before planting, or why we should water it with fizzy water? I want to do the best I can on the essay.'

'Oh, of course, dear. I can spare a few minutes. Do you have your essay with you?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Good. Why don't you come in, and I'll have a look over it and see where you're going wrong?'

This might have been a worrying development. Remus didn't actually have any issues understanding the needs of flitterbloom seeds, and his essay was perfect. But James' planning had prepared them for this. The essay Remus held in his hand had been written right before they left the dorm, copied from his actual essay with a few key points changed.

Remus followed Professor Sprout into her personal quarters.

'Leave the door open, dear. It's the rules.' Remus smiled to himself. That made things easier.

Professor Sprout led him over to a seating area and told him to sit down. Remus glanced around and spotted a set of shelves along the entirety of one wall, displaying a vast collection of decorative tools. Professor Sprout had sat with her back to them, perfect.

Remus sat down and waited while she read through his essay, resolutely not looking at the tools and hoping James was nearly done.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something red disappear, but he kept his eyes on Professor Sprout, not wanting to draw attention to the tools. A moment later, he felt the air move against his arm as if someone was passing close to him. He was leaving, brilliant.

Professor Sprout lectured him for ten minutes before he managed to escape out to the corridor, and he hurried to meet his friends at the designated spot, two corridors away.

'Did you get it?' he asked as he entered the classroom.

'Did you doubt me?' James said, brandishing a garden trowel which had a handle encrusted with red stones.

'I would never doubt you,' Remus said with a grin. 'What's next?'

Sirius rubbed his chin. 'Flitwick is closest.'

James tucked the garden trowel back into his bag, and they made their way to Flitwick's quarters. Repeating the same method as before, Remus knocked on the door, but this time no one answered, and when he tried the handle, the door was locked.

James pulled the cloak off and signalled for Sirius and Peter to return from their look-out positions. 'Does anyone know an unlocking spell?' he asked.

'I only know the one we'll learn later this year, but I doubt a first-year spell is going to be enough to unlock a teacher's room.' Remus said. He took his wand out, anyway, and performed the unlocking charm on the door. Nothing happened. Either he didn't do it right or the lock was too complex for the charm.

'So… Plan 14.b then?' Sirius said.

'Is that the one where we steal a broom and use it to fly up to his window?' Remus asked.

Sirius grinned. 'That's the one.'

'Okay, well, let's find the nearest unlocked room and see if we can count the windows from it,' Remus said.

They were in luck. The room right next to Flitwick's was open and when Remus leant out, he was easily able to count the windows from the nearest corner.

'Flitwick's is thirteen windows right from the west tower,' he said, pulling his head back inside. 'Let's go.'

It took a good ten minutes to reach the Entrance Hall from the seventh floor. They were all hot and sweaty by the time they exited the castle and were glad of the cool breeze as they crossed the grass towards the broom shed. The place was surprisingly deserted. Remus had expected to find at least one other team attempting to gain an easy five points, but as they got closer, he noticed the door to the shed was ajar. Someone had already been there.

'That makes things nice and easy,' James said, skipping up to the door and peeking inside. 'No-one here. Check around.'

Remus, Sirius and Peter scanned their surroundings, but there wasn't a soul in sight.

'All clear,' Sirius reported.

James dashed inside and was back in seconds clutching a broom. 'Step one complete,' he said with a grin. 'Come on!'

They followed him at a fast jog towards the west tower, and once hidden in the shadow of the castle, they stopped to catch their breath.

'Right, I'll cover myself with the cloak. It'll probably flap a bit in the wind, but I'll be less likely to be seen.'

James mounted the broom, and Sirius draped the cloak around him, tucking the end into his socks to try to keep it in place. When he was done they could still see his shoes, but once he was in the air, they would be less visible. Hopefully.

James took off, and they watched his shoes soar into the sky, getting smaller and smaller before stopping briefly and then floating back down again.

James pulled the cloak from his head. 'It's locked.'

Remus frowned. 'I doubt he's put too much security into his window. Alohomora should be enough. I think I can cast it, but I can't fly a broom.'

Sirius suddenly jerked and started rummaging in his bag. 'Hold on, I've got a lock on my journal. We can all try.'

He pulled the book out and handed it to Remus. 'Show us what to do.'

Remus pointed his wand at the lock on the side of the journal and then twirled it anti-clockwise before bringing the tip back to point at the lock while saying, 'Alohomora.'

The lock sprang open and Remus glanced up through his fringe, nervous to see their reaction. Would they think him a show-off?

Sirius grinned at him. 'Well done, mate.'

Remus flushed at the praise and looked at his feet.

James, Sirius and Peter all attempted the spell on the journal several times, but none of them could get it to work.

'Urgh, I give up,' James groaned, flinging the book at Sirius after his tenth failed attempt. 'Are you sure you can't fly up there? It's just straight up and down, nothing fancy.'

Remus shivered as he remembered how it felt when he fell from the broom before, and that had been a much smaller distance.

'He can't, James. You saw what happened during flying lessons. If he fell from up there, he wouldn't survive,' Sirius said.

He would survive. But that wasn't the point. He didn't want to fall. Even if he did heal ridiculously fast, it still hurt.

'Well, we're just going to have to give up on this one then. Hopefully, we can still get enough points to win,' James grumbled.

Oh, Gods. Remus really didn't want to let his friends down. If they didn't win the hunt, it would be all his fault, just because he was too scared to fly. What if he could just sit and hang on, with someone else controlling the broom, though? Maybe he could do it then.

'Alright, let's do Slughorn next,' Sirius said.

But if he rode the broom with someone else, he might touch them. Infect them. He wouldn't infect them if he didn't touch their skin, though. If he was careful. His dad did it every month, and he wouldn't if there were any risk.

His friends were turning to leave.

'I'll do it if Sirius does the flying,' Remus blurted before he could talk himself out of it.

'What?' Sirius asked, staring at him as if he'd suddenly grown an extra head. 'You mean fly on the broom with me?'

'Yes.'

Sirius scanned his face. 'But, you'd have to touch me.'

'I know. If we both wear gloves, I think it'll be okay. Just don't... don't touch my skin.'

Frowning, Sirius stepped closer and leaned in to speak quietly. 'Are you sure? You really don't have to do this, Remus.'

He took a deep breath and nodded. 'I'm sure.'

'Okay.' Sirius stared at him a moment longer, his eyes darting from side to side as if searching for something. He appeared to find what he needed because he turned to James and said, 'I left my gloves in the dorm. Do you have yours?'

James shook his head. 'No, but I can run and get them.'

'I have mine,' Peter said, pulling them out of his bag. 'Thought we might need them for something.'

Sirius took the gloves. 'Nice one, Pete.'

Remus pulled his own Herbology gloves from his bag and slipped them onto his hands, noticing that they were shaking ever so slightly. He took another deep breath, trying to calm himself. It was going to be fine.

Sirius mounted the broom. 'Get on behind me.'

Remus did so, leaving a gap of two or three inches between them.

Sirius glanced over his shoulder. 'You'll have to put your hands on my waist to hold on and move a little closer or the broom won't be balanced. Are you sure you're okay with this?'

Remus nodded and scooted closer, closing the gap between them. He was breaking the biggest rule his mum had set, for something as trivial as a game. But he was taking precautions. So, it wasn't really breaking the rule, was it? He had promised he would be careful, and he was being careful.

Remus placed his shaking hands on Sirius' waist. He could feel the heat from his body even through the thick material of the dragon-hide gloves. His breath was coming in harsh pants, and he tried hard to regulate it. His heart was racing.

'It's okay, Remus. You're safe with me,' Sirius whispered.

Remus gripped him tighter to show he'd heard him.

'I'm going to drape the cloak over you, okay?' James said.

Remus nodded and James moved closer, draping the cloak over both their heads. It only reached as far as their ankles and didn't hide Sirius at all. Remus let go of him and took the edges of the cloak in his hands, before wrapping his arms around Sirius' waist, forcing the cloak to cover him. It was awkward holding on to Sirius like that while keeping his face away from his back, but it was doable.

'Ready?' Sirius asked.

'Yes,' Remus tried to say, but his voice came out sounding more like a squeak. He coughed and tried again. 'Yes.'

He felt a jolt as Sirius pushed off and his feet left the ground. There was no turning back now. They rose smoothly to the seventh floor. Remus kept his eyes on Sirius' back, not looking at his surroundings at all, and with Sirius' gentle control of the broom, it didn't feel like he was even in the air.

'We're here,' Sirius said.

Remus turned his head and moved back a little, letting go of the cloak and moving his hands to Sirius' waist. He would need to let go with one hand to get his wand. Why hadn't he considered that?

'I'm scared.'

Sirius turned his head to look over his shoulder and met Remus' eyes. 'It's okay, I won't let you fall.'

'Promise?'

'On my life.'

'Okay.'

Remus let go with his left hand, carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand. He pointed it at the window, cast the spell, and the window clicked open.

'You did it!' Sirius said. 'Hold on tight. This is going to be tricky.'

Remus grabbed onto Sirius' waist again and felt the broom tilt forward as Sirius pushed down on the end to descend. He leant backwards to keep his uncovered face away from Sirius' back and kept his eyes on the back of Sirius' head as the broom headed towards the ground. As soon as his feet made contact, he slid off. His legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed in a heap.

'You okay, mate?' Sirius asked, dropping the broom on the floor and crouching down to check on him.

'Yeah, I just need a minute.'

'Alright, James and I are going to go back up. You did great.'

Remus nodded from where he sat with his back against the castle and his knees tucked into his chest. He wrapped his arms around his knees and bent his head down, hiding his face, and concentrated on breathing.

'I can't believe you did that,' Peter said, sitting down next to him. 'That was really brave.'

'Thanks, mate,' Remus mumbled.

Sirius and James returned victorious five minutes later, and they hurried up to their dorm room to store their prizes, keeping the broom hidden under the cloak.

They went for Slughorn next, and he turned out to be easy. Remus kept him talking at the door while Sirius snuck in under the cloak and grabbed a potion from the display.

McGonagall was going to be trickier. Not only would they need to get access to her personal quarters, but they would need to make it all the way into her bedroom. And they had only an hour left before lunch.

'The "I need help with my work" excuse isn't going to work on her. Remus is amazing at transfiguration, and she knows it,' Sirius had pointed out during their planning session

And thus Plan 18.a was born. The conversation had gone like this:

'Even if we manage to get in the door, we need her out of the room so we can get into the bedroom,' James said. 'What we need is a double decoy. We need someone in the office, and then we need a disturbance outside to draw her out.'

'Pete can be inside. She'll believe he needs help,' Sirius said. 'Sorry, Pete.'

Peter waved his apology away. 'No, it's true. I'm pants at Transfiguration.'

'But you rule at Potions. Can't be good at everything, can we?' Sirius said, patting him on the shoulder.

'Okay, but how do we get her out?' James asked.

Sirius shrugged. 'What if we stage an argument in the corridor and start flinging spells at each other?'

'We don't know any offensive spells yet.'

'Good point. Fine, we can just have a muggle fight then.'

'We'll have to make it realistic. We'll both get hurt,' James pointed out.

Sirius grinned. 'I'm game if you are.'

James grinned right back at him. 'Oh, it's on.'

'Awesome. That leaves Remus with the cloak to sneak in and grab the scarf,' Sirius said, turning to Remus.

He nodded. 'I can do that.'

And so, ten minutes after leaving Slughorn's office with a tiny vial of golden potion—which Sirius had eyed so longingly Remus was forced to take it from him, lest he drink it—they were in position. Peter was outside the door to Professor McGonagall's office, his actual essay on the theory of changing an object's shape in his hand. Remus was right next to him, shrouded by the folds of the invisibility cloak. James and Sirius were waiting around the nearest corner to begin their fake argument.

Peter knocked. A minute later, the door swung open, and Professor McGonagall stood there, looking down at him.

'Yes, Mister Pettigrew. Can I help you?'

Peter explained why he was there and McGonagall invited him inside, Remus slipped through the door after them and positioned himself next to the only other door in the room. A couple of minutes passed and McGonagall was deep into her lecture on transfiguration theory, with Peter looking bored out of his mind, when the sound of raised voices came from outside.

'Fuck you, Black!'

'Oh, that's an intelligent response. Great job, Potter. Big round of applause.'

'I'm gonna fucking kill you!'

'Not if I kill you first!'

That declaration was followed by a series of thumps.

'What on earth is going on out there?' Professor McGonagall asked, getting to her feet in a hurry. 'Sorry, Mister Pettigrew, please excuse me for a moment.'

As she got to her feet, Remus reached out and put his hand on the door handle, readying himself. The moment McGonagall disappeared from view, he turned it and slipped inside. A quick glance around revealed a good size sitting room with a single door leading off of it. He hurried over and entered the bedroom. Trying very hard not to think about what his professor did in this room, he dashed to the wardrobe. No scarves. Okay, drawers then, he thought, yanking open the top drawer of the five-tier chest. Nope, definitely not that one, he thought, feeling his face heat as he slammed it closed again. The second drawer down yielded results, though, and he pulled out a red and green tartan scarf with hints of yellow. Tucking it into his pocket, he shut the drawer and left the room. He listened at the door to the office and could hear McGonagall's loud voice still scolding James and Sirius for fighting like muggles in the hallway, so he slipped back into the room and Peter's worried face relaxed into a grin when he saw the door open and close.

Remus walked out into the corridor and found James and Sirius cowering before a red-faced McGonagall. He dashed to the end of the hallway, behind McGonagall, and pulled the cloak off, giving James and Sirius a wave, before darting around the corner.

They joined him a couple of minutes later. James was sporting a bloodied lip and Sirius looked to have a nice black eye developing.

'Gods, you two look terrible.'

Sirius waved off his concern. 'Did you get it?'

Remus pulled the scarf from his pocket and held it up with a grin.

'Then it was totally worth it. Nice job, mate.'

Peter arrived a few minutes later and was equally pleased to find their plan had worked.

'We've got fifty points, and it's only lunchtime. We are so going to win this,' he said.

'That's because we're awesome!' James crowed. 'Right, time for food. Remus, do you think the house-elves would mind if we joined you in the kitchen today?'

Remus thought about it. 'No, probably not.'

'Excellent, maybe we can get that saucepan at the same time.'

-o-o-o-o-

Sirius' eye throbbed in time with his heartbeat as he followed Remus down to the kitchen. It was nothing compared to what Remus had gone through so they could get into Flitwick's office, though, so he was damned if he was going to complain about it. James seemed to feel the same way about his split lip. Sirius was in awe of Remus' bravery, facing his phobia like that. He was incredible.

They reached a painting of a bowl of fruit, and Remus stopped, reached out and tickled the pear. The pear laughed, and the painting swung open. The kitchens were hidden behind a picture of food. Nice.

The smells that wafted out on the breeze made Sirius' stomach rumble. 'Merlin. I'm starving.'

'Good afternoon, Breen. My friends wanted to have lunch with me. Is that okay?' Remus asked a friendly-looking elf that had hurried over to them when they entered the room. These elves looked nothing like Kreacher. They all looked clean and happy.

'Oh. Of course. Master Remus. Your friends is most welcomes. Please sit down and we will brings you some food.'

'Master Remus?' Sirius said, raising an eyebrow at Remus and making him blush. Three times in one morning, he was on a roll.

They sat down at the small table, and Breen soon arrived with a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of pumpkin juice. He hurried off again and, a moment later, returned with a small chocolate cake and four plates.

'Wow, this looks amazing. Thanks, Breen,' Peter said, and Sirius nodded his agreement.

'If it's not too much trouble, Breen, could we have a little fruit too?' James asked, and Sirius groaned.

'You and your blasted fruit, James.'

'It's good for you. Excuse me for wanting my friends to live a long time,' he huffed and crossed his arms.

The elf watched the exchange with wide eyes. 'It's no trouble. We have lots of fruit, masters,' he said before scurrying off and returning with a plate of cut fruits that smelled delicious. Okay, so maybe he didn't mind James' obsession with the stuff as much as he pretended to.

Once Breen had left them alone to eat, James leant forward and whispered, 'So, how are we going to get a saucepan?'

Sirius, who had just taken a massive bite out of a cheese and ham sandwich, just shrugged.

'Well, you're as much use as a chocolate cauldron. Remus, any ideas?'

'I think they'll notice if one of us disappears under the cloak.'

Sirius swallowed his food and said, 'What's through the other doors? Maybe we could go in one of those rooms, put the cloak on and come back.'

'One's the laundry, the other is the storage rooms,' Remus said. 'But they're both full of elves too.'

The laundry? Interesting. Sirius filed that away to think about later. 'Storage rooms?' he said instead. 'Anything good in there?'

'Not really. A lot of furniture and things.'

'You know. I reckon they might just give us a saucepan if we ask,' Peter said.

'That seems too easy,' James said.

Sirius shrugged. 'It's worth a shot. If they say no, it's only five points. We already have fifty.'

'Hey, excuse me?' James said to the nearest elf. 'I don't suppose we could borrow a saucepan for a few hours? We'll return it after dinner.'

'Oh. Of course. That's no problems at alls,' she said and fetched them one immediately.

'Thank you very much. We'll take very good care of it,' James said, taking the saucepan. The elf beamed at him and returned to her work.

'Well, that was easy. Great idea, Pete!' Sirius said, laughing.

'Fifty-five points. What do we have left?' James asked before answering his own question without waiting for a response. 'The trophy and the book will be a piece of cake. The telescope is going to be awkward, though. No idea how we're going to carry that through the school without being seen. And do any of you even know where the Divination classroom is?'

They all shook their heads.

'Let's get the book and the trophy and worry about the other two after that.' Sirius checked his watch. 'We have three hours left.'

It took them less than an hour to steal a trophy from the trophy room and a book from the restricted section of the library. Sirius had been tempted to take the volume he spotted on werewolves just to see how Remus would react, but decided that was too cruel and reluctantly put it back, opting instead for a much smaller and easier to carry book called Magicks Moste Ancient.

They had two hours left and were standing at the top of the astronomy tower, eyeing a telescope and wondering how the hell they were going to transport it back to their dorm. Well, that's what Sirius was thinking, anyway. He assumed the others were thinking the same thing, but for all he knew, they could have been considering the best way to capture a Cornish pixie.

'How many secret passages do we know about between here and Gryffindor tower?' Remus asked. Okay, so they were thinking about the telescope problem too, good.

'Only a couple that'll be useful,' James said. 'We'll have to do most of the journey in the open.'

'What about, instead of taking it all the way up to the dorm, we just take it to the third floor and hide it somewhere near classroom 12c?' Peter suggested.

'That would cut the journey in half. Great idea. But we still need to work out a way to carry it,' Sirius said.

They eventually decided to wrap the telescope in the cloak and carry it between the four of them as they walked closely together as a group. As an extra precaution, whenever they saw someone coming they would dart into the nearest room and wait for them to pass. It was a long-winded process, and by the time they reached the third-floor corridor, they had just forty-five minutes to find the Divination classroom, steal a teapot, grab the rest of their gains and get back to the classroom for the count.

'I think it's time to split up,' Sirius said as they hid the telescope in an unused cupboard. 'It won't take four of us to steal a teapot.'

'I agree. One of us should go after the teapot, the rest can help bring everything down to the classroom. The teapot thief will have to go cloakless, though. We need it to hide the broom.'

'I'll go after the teapot,' Sirius said.

James nodded. 'Good man. Remember, get back here by four, teapot or no teapot.'

James, Remus and Peter headed off towards the Grand Staircase, and Sirius went the other way, looking for someone he could ask for directions. He soon found an older student in Gryffindor robes and stopped her to ask if she knew where the Divination classroom was.

'Taking part in the Niffler Hunt, are you? How are you getting on?'

'Quite well, but there isn't long left. Do you know where it is?'

She nodded. 'Top of the north tower, through a trapdoor in the ceiling. Good luck.'

'Thanks,' he called over his shoulder as he ran off.

He reached the north tower in record time and stopped at the bottom of the steps to catch his breath. Eyeing the stairs, he started to regret volunteering for this mission. They spiralled upwards in endless circles and he made a mental note not to take Divination.

He reached the top, a hot, sweaty mess, and checked his watch. Half-past three. He climbed up the ladder and pushed the trapdoor open just enough to peek inside. The room was dim but appeared to be empty, so he pushed the door open all the way and climbed through. He glanced around and spotted the teapots, lined up on shelves on the back wall. He hurried over, grabbed one and put it in his bag. Success.

'Hello, young man. Are you lost?'

Sirius swung around and saw a very old lady with silvery-white hair emerging through the trapdoor.

'Err. Yeah, I was just exploring and wondered what was up here. What is this room? It's so strange.'

'It's the Divination classroom. I hope I'll see you here in a couple of years?'

'Um, yeah, maybe. I better go. Sorry to disturb you.'

'No problem at all, dear. Have a nice day, won't you?'

Sirius turned, made his way to the trapdoor and began to descend the ladder, pulling the trapdoor closed behind him. Just before it closed fully, the Divination professor called out, 'Do take care of that teapot, it's one of my favourites.'

Sirius snorted and shook his head. That was a nice touch, waiting until the last second to reveal she knew what he was up to. At least it seemed like she didn't mind. He hurried back down the stairs, getting dizzier by the second, and made it to the third-floor classroom with minutes to spare. James, Remus and Peter were waiting for him.

'Did you get it?' James asked eagerly.

'Merlin, James. Let him catch his breath first,' Remus said.

Sirius nodded but didn't speak. He was too busy trying to get air into his lungs.

'Come on, let's get inside. We don't want to be disqualified for being ten seconds late,' Peter said.

They entered the room to find they were one of the last teams to arrive. A team of Ravenclaws followed them in seconds later, and then a loud bong sounded and the words "Times Up!" appeared on the back wall of the stage in the same fiery letters as before. The suit of armour clanked back onto the stage and waved.

'Congratulations, Nifflers! I know you've all worked very hard to find all the items on your lists. Let's begin the count! Who wants to go first?'

'Let's go last,' James whispered to the others. 'It'll be more impressive.'

They all nodded in agreement. The count seemed to drag on forever. Some of the teams had collected a few of the five-point items. One team had even managed to get a decorative tool from Sprout. Diggory's team was looking very smug, having achieved forty-five points by collecting all the single point items and all the five-point items, except the telescope. No one had a telescope.

When everyone else had presented their collections, James stepped forward.

'Team name?' the suit of armour asked.

'The Magical Mischief Makers,' James answered, puffing out his chest.

Some of the older students watching laughed. They wouldn't be laughing for long, Sirius thought.

'And what do you have?'

Peter walked forward first, dumping out the contents of his bag onto the floor in front of the suit of armour.

'A muggle pen, a purple sock, a blue button, a pair of sunglasses and a paintbrush,' the suit of armour listed. 'Five points.'

Remus stepped forward and presented the trophy, saucepan and book, followed by Sirius, who produced the teapot from his bag.

The suit of armour announced the names of the items for the benefit of the crowd, finishing with, 'That's a total of twenty-five points for the Magical Mischief Makers.'

'Oh, we're not done yet,' Sirius said with a grin. 'We'll be right back.'

The four of them dashed out of the room. Remus grabbed the broomstick, and Sirius helped James pick up the heavy telescope and carry it carefully into the room to the most enjoyable sound of gasps of awe.

'How did they get that here without being caught?' someone said.

'Thirty-five points. It's an impressive haul but not quite enough I'm afraid,' the suit of armour said.

James rubbed his chin and nodded sadly before dramatically perking up and asking, 'What about if we add these?'

They each reached into their bags one more time, pulled out the last of their items and held them up. Sirius was holding the tartan scarf, James the jewel-encrusted trowel, Remus had the small vial of golden potion and Peter the gold medal from Flitwick.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the room went wild with hoots, cheers and clapping. All except for Diggory and his team, who looked about ready to murder them. Sirius took a bow and saw James doing the same out of the corner of his eye. They were so alike.

'Seventy-five points! Folks, we have a winner! Please return here after dinner to collect your reward. Your items will be checked for trickery in the meantime. Thank you all for taking part in the Hogwarts Annual Super Secret Niffler Hunt. I hope to see you all again next year.'

Their prize turned out to be a selection of treats from Honeydukes, much to Peter and Remus' delight. Sirius spent the evening with his friends, celebrating their tremendous victory and relishing in the thought of the infamy it had undoubtedly bought them. Life was good.

-o-o-o-o-

A/N The line 'Hufflepuff's are particularly good finders,' is taken from A Very Potter Musical by StarKid Productions. If you haven't seen it, it's on YouTube and I recommend watching it. It's hilarious. XD

Chapter 18

[johobi]

Satan, Baby

Word count: 2.6k

Pairing: Seokjin x Reader

Warnings: If you’re sensitive to religious topics and imagery I would skip this one, some rather major if brief angst, alcohol as a crutch, slightly scary in places, especially if you don’t like goats, fingering, tentacles (yep, however brief), archaic dialogue.

Prompt: “Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?” -The VVitch (2015)

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946889

When the devil knocks, you’re only too happy to answer.

Gin-gle bells, gin-gle bells, gin-gle all the way!

The greetings card sits, sardonic, opposite you. It has become a tragic premonition of this year’s festive agenda.  And the friend who’d gifted it you, gleeful grin and all, likely has no inkling of the accuracy with which it speaks. But how would she, when, blithe flake that she is, no longer favours you for her company this holiday. And not because you demanded it of her; of course not. You’re not the type to presuppose anything of anyone. It had been she who proposed your cosy Christmas twosome. A three-day extravaganza of turkey, gift-exchange and, yes, gin. Indeed, she’d been emphatic in her suggestion. It’s only been two weeks, after all, since you unearthed your ex-girlfriend’s year-long, adulterous deception. And you shouldn’t be alone after that, she’d insisted. But, no. The day before its Eve, your apparent best friend fucked off with her degenerate, drug-peddling boyfriend to a romantic retreat.

Christ.

So much for friendship.

So much for love.

Every unenthused effort you’d exerted in giving that other bitch - the cheating one - the Christmas she’d pouted for was wasted. The lurid lights, the offensively cheery decoration of your living room; it distresses your eyes and heart both. Reminds you how hideous a charade the whole ordeal has been. It’s relentlessly fake. A blanket of spray-on snow over nine layers of flaming lies.

It wasn’t just the pantomime of Christmas, though. Everything had been for Lily.

Your family’s desertion of you, for one. To say that they were disapproving of your relationship was underselling the strength of their abhorrence. Backwards, backwoods, and back-to-back harassment was their mentality and method in a nutshell. But you braved their repudiation for a love so true that it gave you the wings they purported God would tear from you.

If He feels so vehemently that a woman shouldn’t tongue another, though, he can fucking keep them.

And so you sit alone, gin in one hand and your dog snoring under the other, pensive. Numbly so, by this point. One can only weather so much before seeking shelter inside somewhere warm and safe. For you, it’s your mind and in the dregs of a bottle. Can’t drink too much, though. You have work tomorrow. The world doesn’t stop for Jesus these days.

Your drink becomes too cloying to endure. Its bottle, while only half-imbibed, sits suddenly heavy and offensive in your palm, because even alcohol has betrayed you. The stunts your stomach is showcasing deters you from persisting, so you relieve yourself of the bottle’s burden in an extraordinary way. Like an active grenade you lob it into the fireplace opposite and revel, exhilarated, how it enrages the flames for an alluring moment. The crack of splintering glass stirs your dog from repose to alarm in a split second, but you soon have him settled. He peers up at you with a question, but you only need smile before his placidity returns.

Maybe I could skip town? the scenario is heady to conceive. It grips you as you speculate within, everything outside your mind’s four walls forgotten. All but the flames afront of you. As they snap and writhe like the souls of those damned, the fire mesmerises you into a deeper state of introspection. You feel free of the compulsion to blink. Sink further into stupor.

I would sell my soul for another life.

The blaze speaks back. It knows you as well as you do. It is you.

Is that so?

Yes, I would, and there’s no hesitance to your thinking so. In your trance you feel easy, open.

That is quite the sacrifice, your mind supposes, though why you’ve taken on a different, more masculine voice to debate yourself is something you won’t allow yourself to examine.

Your eyeballs prickle in protest for being denied moisture. Nevertheless, it’s impossible to blink. My soul is rotten, if I even have one, and you truly believe that. I’ve been through too much.

The second voice inhabiting your body deepens. Deepens, and mutates, until there’s a trio of them speaking in perfect tandem; a whisper, a growl, and a voice of silver silk. Contrarily, it is luminous. Wouldst thou grant it to me?

“W-What?” you splutter it outside the confines of your internal monologue. Because that is not you conversing back. As soon as the exclamation stumbles over your tongue, your reverie disintegrates. You regain your ability to blink, but within one or two you feel yourself shift into an eerier reality. The fire is no longer quite so bright nor dazzling. The embers gasp their final, fiery breaths as they fade. The room is dark but for the paltry twinkle of your looming Christmas tree. Pluto barrels from the room, tail tucked to his stomach, a piercing yelp in his wake. “P-Pluto?”

Silence.

The rapid in-and-out of your breath is all that meets the muted air. Until the slightest shiver of movement catches in your periphery, and then you’re panting like a dying dog. You shrink into the sofa’s security, legs folding to your chest to screen your defenceless body. It must be a trick of the lowlight, but your eyes insist that there is a figure some eight foot tall occupying the corner. But it can’t be, because the tree’s illumination, however scant, catches nothing tangible. And yet, as your eyes squint through disbelief and murk, you swear, solemnly, that two, twisted horns sit atop this silhouette’s head. “Who’s there?” you don’t so much as threaten as squeak, catching your teeth on the tops of your knees. “Show yourself. How did you get in?!”

One blink and the demonic shadow vanishes, like your dry eyes were the instigator of this nightmarish hallucination. But something still remains there, you’re sure of it. It doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t speak, and it doesn’t disturb this plane of existence in any capacity, but you know it’s there. “Who are you? Have I finally gone insane?”

Your heart-rate is in the cosmos. And it only continues to ascend when the shadow responds, in that same, flanged voice. It’s otherworldly and melodic, bordering on soothing, were it not for the growl underrunning every spoken word. “Thou art of clear mind and clearer eyes. Thou hast summoned me.”

The dark form offers nothing to the truth of its identity, and yet you already know what stands there. There is no doubt in your mind. Strange, when up until this point you’ve been atheistic to the point of obnoxiousness. None of that is of any importance now, though, when faced by a being exuding the formidable truth. “Th-The Devil? I summoned you?”

It’s unnatural how your heartrate quietens when it - he - steps forward from indistinction. With him he brings an aura of utter tranquility, and even on its boundaries you feel like you’ve consumed a healthy dose of some benzo or another. Empty of anxiety, you’re able to appreciate the godless beauty of this man. Yes, a man, or perhaps that is how he’s choosing to present himself to you today. Quite against expectations he’s donned head to toe in white; a suit perfectly tailored to cling, and hair like platinum thread. Wide shoulders and narrow hips draw your eyes first, but then they land on, and refuse to waver from, his divinely-featured face. Everything you see there is sculpted by a deity’s master hand. The man possesses voids for eyes; they neither let light in nor out, and as he observes you without relent, you fear for what might happen if you fall into them. “Thou didst,” he murmurs past ripe, apple red lips, and this distraction is almost more damning. God, you want his mouth. More than all those who came before him.

“I didn’t think you were real. I didn’t think any of this kind of thing was real. What else is real? Do you have a name?” you’re not really the type to babble nonsensically, but you just feel so serene. Weightless. Words are but feathers on the wind, and to release them is to be free. There being an ancient, malevolent entity in your vicinity is of little worry.

“Seokjin is one of mine names,” he smirks; a mere twitch of his generous mouth, and cherubs are in chorus in your heart. The rest of your stumbling enquiries go unanswered. “Address me thus, if thou pleases.”

“You look more like an angel,” you breathe into the space between you.

The Devil smiles wider. It’s tenuous, but perhaps you spy two rows of vaguely pointed teeth. “There is nary a difference. They live to serve their Creator, as doth mine conscripts. I, however, am transparent in mine subjugation. He is not. One might consider that,” he tongues a tapered tooth. “Devilish.”

There’s little time to form an opinion on the matter because he takes two more steps to you, and every incremental increase in his proximity robs you of the wherewithal to function. He’s absolutely breathtaking, fatally so. It’s only when you heave in an urgent breath that you realise how even your most autonomic of impulses are impaired by him. You lower your legs to both see him better and signal your receptiveness to his advance. There’s no suggestion of what he may do when he comes near, but his eyes graze your exposed thighs without apology, only that sultry smirk pulling at his mouth. “Say to me,” he whispers low and slow, savouring each syllable like an indulgent meal. “Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?”

You don’t react verbally, not just yet. Your body, however, gives an immediate answer. There is a diabolical stirring between your spreading legs, intensifying for every second his gaze lingers there. It must be some dark magic hitching up your shift and soddening your cunt, but you sense it comes solely from you. You’re inebriate on his exotic musk, so dense that it fills not only your nostrils but your mouth; an irresistible tang compelling your asphyxiation. Rather than draw breath, however, you release a wanton whine. Each moment you go untouched by him your pussy strengthens its revolt. You’re so, unbearably tender, so shamefully wet, that little more than the heat of his breath on your skin will undo you. That much you’re sure of, as you squirm, open-legged and leaking for his pleasure, beseeching him for his mercy.

“Grant me thy answer, sweet girl,” the demon persists at range. He studies how unreservedly you present yourself to him, leaking so copiously that it moistens the sofa beneath. “I must hear it by thy own lips.”

It takes everything remaining of your modesty to prevent yourself from masturbating. “Y-Yes. I want to live a delicious life. Please.”

The one hand obscured in his pocket, he withdraws, raising it to the air. Adorning it is a ring, inset with a peculiarly flickering jewel. You rise, too, but whether it be by sorcery or out of your own, debauched necessity, you don’t know. The sofa dips under the soles of your feet as you straighten awkwardly to attention. The arousal streaming your legs in depraved amounts demands you keep them apart. An undignified stance, to be sure, but something you care little about in your condition. Fuck, you twinge like a metronome at your centre, mouthing around nothing but a desperate wish.

That wish, Seokjin grants. It’s only one more step before he’s level with your bosom, peering up at you completely soulless. Completely endless. His aroma is spicy and thicker than ever, and more potent an influence on you than the strongest of spirits. “Delightful,” he hums with a resonance that tickles your insides. And there’s no time before he actually is. With just the one, bold hand, he bypasses the lacy hem of your shift and embeds two fingers straight into your pliant cunt. Immediately you are boneless and require his shoulders for support, flagging over him like a damsel courting unconsciousness. You’re very much awake, however, because you feel it all. The quivering of your cunt as he stretches you in slow, circular motions. The press of his fingertips as he palpates your g-spot with enough power to weaken your knees. And then, most peculiarly, how he advances into you even at his knuckles’ limits. What felt like fingers before are now far too thick and flexible to be considered as such. The tendrils that penetrate you lash and writhe along the limits of your pussy, caressing the puckered opening in your cervix. The girth of him transformed is almost too much to bear, but you’d rather be torn asunder than risk his withdrawal. You don’t even think to question the unearthly occurrence. It’s far more gratifying than any appendage a mortal can offer.

But despite your best to keep him, The Devil withdraws. Slowly, painfully, he dislodges his digits from your sticky cunt, until there’s nothing there but an intolerable ache. You tremor as you raise yourself from his shoulders, poised to beg his return. “I need more,” you’re starved; raspy. “Please.”

He doesn’t capitulate to your pitiful plea. Instead, he removes his hand from beneath your skirt, fingers demonstrably fingers. They shine with slick so thick it barely runs. And vacant from his index finger is the ring you swear embellished him once. Confusion can’t establish itself before he ensnares you in his sordid eyes once more. “Sign mine book. Kiss these lips. Thy soul is the price,” he’s guttural but hushed all at once, and before you can fathom his proposition he produces a book in his unsoiled hand. Inlaid with bone and scale, the tome looks primeval. The spoiled, aged pages flip to one without entries, and Seokjin smears your essence in its margins. You require no further explanation.

The quill lies immaculate and waiting. “I can have anything I want?”

“All that thou wishest,” his tongue moves more than his lips do; a serpent behind sharp teeth.

It hurts to behold him much longer. The eyes that bore, unabating, into you; you feel him already taking stock of your soul. He’s in you, somewhere, too hot and too intense. And yet you want more. “Can I have you?”

His self-satisfaction suggests that your request isn’t a revelation to him. Just another of his ploys bearing fruit. “Thou desirest me desecrate your unworthy cunt, girl?” Seokjin waits a beat for your manic head-bobbing. “Very well. Sign thy name.”

You do. There’s no reluctance between your scribbles despite the agony that accompanies it. Each stroke scores itself raw into some unplaceable part of your body; your receipt for this cursed transaction. As your signature dries on the page, it’s with crazed anticipation you meet his waiting gaze. “I’m ready.”

The book slams and disapparates with an ear-shattering snap, but not even that can deter you from your trajectory. Delicately but determinedly, you bend until your lips are a whisper upon his. The kiss doesn’t remain chaste for long, however. Seokjin’s tongue pours like molten lava into your mouth, scalding all it touches. Your eyes drift closed while twined by tongue, and it’s then that he seizes you into a steely embrace. Rough, ravenous hands drag you from the sofa and plant you to the floor beneath him. His heat and weight are suffocating, wonderfully so, and each lap of his tongue is a lick of flame purifying you of misery.

God, you think, staring through the ceiling as Seokjin sinks his whetted fangs into your breast. Let me burn.

[amuseoffirebane]

Fic: Merry Freakin’ Christmas

AO3 Link

Word Count: 1613

Summary: Mr. Weed takes it upon himself to make a series of painfully awkward present deliveries.

Warnings: Cheese

Author’s Notes: I don’t know man it just sort of happened

edit 2/12/19, editted an incorrect sound effect

-

Mr. Weed missed Christmas.

Or maybe more accurately, he missed the idea of Christmas. The onslaught of bad music covers, kitschy crap in the windows, the fake cheeriness—that grated on him as much as anyone. But the colored lights downtown at night, the rare cold wind on his lips, the not-quite-real scent of pine, these things were tactile memories that were not so easily dismissed. Becile Manor was an emotional crypt at the best of times, but it grew ever more frigid and bitter approaching the holiday. Mr. Weed didn’t think the ‘bots had ever had a proper Christmas celebration, and he wasn’t going to be the one stringing up decorations and singing carols, but…

Buying things was the easy part.

Handing them out was an exercise in self-flagellation.

 -

“What is it.”

“Uh.”

The Skull looked down at Mr. Weed impatiently. He did not have anywhere in particular to be, but there were few reasons Weed would have to approach him and he didn’t like any of them. Possibly, The Jack was in need of maintenance and needed wrestled into submission. Or Weed needed money and couldn’t get any from Hare. Or something else annoying. So when the engineer reached down to a bag at his feet and pulled out a few skeins of yarn, The Skull was not quite sure what to make of it.

“What’s that for.”

“For, uh, knitting? Crocheting? Whichever it is you, uh, do.”

“What, you want somethin’?”

“What? No, I mean, not really. I mean you could, I wouldn’t turn it down, I just, uh.” Mr. Weed all but shoved the skeins at him. “Thought you could use more.” There was a pause, then Weed clicked his tongue and started digging in his coat pocket. “Dammit, almost forgot, this too, uh—” He dropped a small black box on top of the skeins and handed the pile to The Skull.

The tall ‘bot stared at the box. It was rosin.

“Hare said you had a bass stored somewhere. I don’t—maybe you don’t play anymore, but I thought, y’know, if you wanted to.” Mr. Weed paused. “I’m gonna go.” And he grabbed the bag and shuffled off down the hallway.

The Skull tucked the skeins under his arm and took the box of rosin in one hand. Thoughtfully, he turned it over, and over.

He had not played in a very long time.

 -

“Locksmith. Uh.”

Locksmith slowly turned his head to look at Mr. Weed, standing awkwardly in the doorway with a bag in one hand. “Yes, my good engineer? You look like you have something unpleasant to say.”

“No, not unpleasant,” Mr. Weed said slowly, scratching the back of his neck. “Just, uhh. Unusual.”

“My, my. Has our dear Weed been possessed by the holiday spirit?”

“Guess you could say that,” Mr. Weed admitted with a shrug, before pulling out a book. He took a few strides into the room and handed it to Locksmith, whose ‘spectacles’ glinted as he looked down at it. 1001 Books to Read Before You Die.

“Presumptuous of you to think I am going to die.”

“What? What, no, that’s not—you like, listen to audiobooks, right?”

“Correct.”

“So I thought, maybe there were some you’d like to check out.” Locksmith gave him a look. “Or maybe you’ve read them all, I dunno. Here’s the gift receipt.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

Mr. Weed trundled off. Locksmith watched him go, fingers tapping along the head of his cane, and then flipped to the index of the book.

“Kafka on the Shore, hm…”

 -

Mr. Weed did not give The Jack his present so much as he opened the door to the robot’s room, threw it in, and closed the door again. He felt kind of bad; Jack deserved better than to be treated like a brutal animal at a zoo. But he was dangerous, and Weed just didn’t see a Christmas miracle happening to change him back into the nice, timid little automaton he’d supposedly once been long enough to accept a regular gift.

The bag landed in the wreckage of The Jack’s room and fell over, spilling some of its contents. The Jack’s laughter got softer as he turned to look at it, eyeing it under soot-stained bangs. He clattered to his feet and wandered over to it, not in a straight line but at an angle, as if it might bite him. Slowly, he put out a foot and laid the toe of his shoe on what had come out of the bag. It popped in a very satisfying way.

The Jack then ripped the rest of the bubble wrap out of the bag with his teeth, strewing it across the room and diving upon it with manic glee. Mr. Weed listened to it as he walked away, and thought maybe… well, it was probably just his imagination that it sounded a little lighter.

 -

He knelt at the door and squinted at the crack at the bottom. He ran his fingers along it and swore; too thin. Okay, okay, okay.

“Uh, Dee?”

Silence.

“I’m, uh. I’m gonna open the door. I am not coming in. Okay?”

There was a creak. Mr. Weed grit his teeth, gripped the handle of the door, and slowly opened it.

A white cloth hand shot out, all the way to the elbow, and flailed at him, scratching with blunt fingers. Weed cried out in surprise, slapping the hand away from his eyes. He ducked and held up the vinyl case like a shield. Dee’s hand grasped at empty air, then lowered, searchingly, and ran across the case. She grabbed it and tore it roughly out of Weed’s hands, disappearing back into the room. Weed slammed the door shut, finding himself with his cheek pressed against the door. There was a shuffling from inside.

“I’m taking this!” Dee shouted from the other side of the closed door.

“Okay!” Weed called back. “It’s for you, so that’s okay!”

“I’ll break it! You’ll never see it again!”

“That’s okay! It’s yours!”

“I hate it, you damned son of a—wait, is this Ma Rainey?”

“… Yes?”

Dee paused. Mr. Weed could hear her muttering to herself.

“Yeah, I, uh, if the player up there still works, uh—”

“Shut up!”

“Okay!”

“You’ll regret giving this to me!”

“I… yeah.”

“I’ll play it until your ears bleed! And when you come to take it back, I will rip out your eyes.”

“Yeah you know I’m gonna let you get to playing your record, and uh, never come back. You got me, I really like my eyes, uh. Yeah. Nice chatting.”

Mr. Weed quickly descended the stairs and turned down the hallway, shakily pulling a fresh cigarette out of his pocket. Worst of it was over. Okay. Okay.

There was a faint rumble as Dee moved across the attic. There was the faintest scratch of needle on vinyl, and the blues began to drip down the stairs. Dee closed her glass eyes, rocked on her stand.

Later, in a fit of rage, she may very well smash the record against the wall and shatter it entirely. But for now, she hugged the case to her chest and let the music cradle her.

 -

“Well, well, well. Santa’s little helper’s been busy today, ain’t he?”

Mr. Weed rolled his eyes. Hare had his feet up on the kitchen table and was leering lazily across at him.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s stupid, I know that.”

“Awww, self-deprecation isn’t very Christmasy, Weed. Where’s your cheer? You’re gonna sour my whole holiday.”

Mr. Weed lobbed his gift overhand at Hare’s face. He caught it with a puff of smoke, eye glinting, and turned it over to examine it. Something like a chuckle escaped the old robot. “Gloves. How thoughtful.”

“Yeah, well. Yours have holes.”

Hare flexed his fingers, as if seeing them for the first time. “Well, golly gosh, St. Nick noticed.”

“Can it.” Weed threw up his hands. “They’ve got double stitching. I hope they last, ‘cause I’m not buying you another pair. This has been miserable, ok? And I get you guys like to be difficult, but holy hell. It’s like you’re allergic to niceness.” He crossed to the refrigerator and grabbed a carton out of it. “I’m taking the spiked eggnog and going the hell to bed. Good freakin’ night.”

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas, Weed.”

Mr. Weed stormed out of the room. He did not notice that Hare had removed his old gloves and was turning his hands over in the new ones, wriggling his fingers.

“Not a bad fit,” he said quietly. “Not a bad fit at all.”

 -

The house was dark, but Mr. Weed knew the way to his quarters. He closed his bedroom door behind him and leaned against it, rolling his head back and sighing. Never again, he thought. Not for the life of me. Sorry, Ma. Guess I never got the hang of this.

He took a swig of eggnog and crossed the room, knowing the steps, one, two, three, four—he hit something with his foot. Weed frowned, reaching over to the lamp and clicking it on. He dropped the eggnog carton on the side table and knelt by his bed, reaching underneath. What he pulled out was messily wrapped in newspaper and taped haphazardly. He could feel it was soft underneath the wrapping; not very heavy. Weed’s lips twitched up. He could guess. Oh, he could guess. He just couldn’t believe it.

He unwrapped the gift and laughed.

“Socks. I’ll be damned.”

 -

And that night, the blues crooned from the attic, and softly, from the basement, a bowed bass joined her.

[grimimic-blog]

The story I made for the game collaboration between me and https://urg-urg-urg.tumblr.com/

Halloween 12 all-stars at the Olympic games team racing, featuring Dante from the Devil May Cry series and Knuckles

AKA A huge Hallows eve!

It was no secret to feyfolk that humans were boring. Nearly void of magic, Nowhere near as attractive as elves, all they ever wanted to talk about was taxes and back pain, and even a starving hill ogre wouldn't eat one because they tasted so awful! Truly the worst species on the planet, but something Gong had overheard earlier in the week while visiting a human tavern had caught the little goblins ears. Human holidays were strange and foreign to many feyfolk. It didn't make much sense to pick an arbitrary day to be wear green and binge drink to Gong. She already did that just about everyday, but this "Halloween" had her full attention. "Fizzy hurry up I don't want to miss all the free shit!" Gong yelled in the direction of her closet. A light thump and some obscured insults preceding the purple fairy fluttering from behind the corner. "Hey you're the one that said we had to "Dress up to get free candy"! I'm just trying to make sure I look good. What happens if I meet a hot guy while we're out!?" "Don't kid yourself Fizz, we both know if you set yourself up for failure you're just going to get drunk and crawl in bed with me again after I fall asleep." "S-shut up! That was one time and I was because I was cold! Just get in here and help pick out something for us to wear!"

the girl's shared closet was surprisingly spacious, but that had a lot to do with all small the girls were themselves. Outfits lined the walls, Hanging from hooks and sitting neatly folded on shelves, but where soon to be scattered on the floor as their owners tried to find the perfect style for the nights festivities. A pair of cocktail dress's that happened to be the nicest thing either of them had ever pull from a dumpster, Some comfy pajamas, A pair of thigh high boots that were actually just regular boots on a normal sized person, and an invisibility cloak that made itself invisible when worn rather than the subject wearing it all lay in a pile on the ground before the girls had picked their outfits for the night. A simple cloth vest skirt combo for Gong, and a long silken dress for Fizzy.

The streets were dimly lit by orange glow of nearby lamp posts. The sounds of screaming children dressed in caricatures costumes of feyfolk that Fizzy and Gong would have found rather insulting if either of them had focused on anything other than their fantasies of what an entire night of free candy would be like. A fantasy that was about to be rudely interrupted by what appeared to be two disheveled, and slightly bloated werecats with plastic ears and tails. "Aayyyy whha-WHAT are you kiz gona do wihou a canny bags!!" Asked the first woman at a volume louder than needed. "Ignore her please. She's had a little too much partying tonight" Said the second stranger, as her friend finished the liquor bottle she was holding. Popping the strained button on her small shorts in the process. "Naht the only one am I!" her overly intoxicated friend replied before giving her soberish friend a hardy slap to the gut that sent the small mound into a sloshing fit. "Alright you're going to home to bed! Stop bothering these Girls."  She said before both werecates walked off into the night. "Gong. That woman said something about a candy bag. All of these kids have candy bags! You didn't say anything about needing bags to get free candy!" "Relax Fizz. The bags can't be that important right? Even if they are we could totally kick the crap out of one of these kids, they're only like five years old, and I brought my brass knuckles." "Fine whatever. I still think there's got to be some kind of catch. No one give things away without making you pay for it". The first house of the night was an unremarkable little thing painted white with green shutters. On the porch sat an older looking man dressed as some sort of vampire farmer who called out to the mas they approached. "Ohh aren't you a cute one! What are you supposed to be one of those pocketmans?" "I'm a goblin, and my friend is a fairy" Gong replied. "Oh you kids and your youth! Here you go. A candy corn on the cob for you, and one for you're little birdy there too".

"Now I know why we needed bags" Sneered Fizz as she crammed another head-sized piece of candy corn into her mouth.  The purple sprite's middle  pushing more, and more outward with each swallow. "We'll be fine." Replied Gong. "We can just eat whatever candy we get as we're walking. It's not like every human is going to give out weird stuff like this right?" "Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you spit everything with me fifty fifty alright?" You're like a fifth of my size Fizz! it already looks like you swallowed a tennis ball, and I don't plan on rolling your fat butt all the way home!" "you're one to talk. I'm pretty sure I heard you pop a seam a few minuets ago." The purple pixie punctuated her point with a firm slap to her companions rounded belly. The girl's conversation was cut abruptly short when Gong nearly tripped over the steps leading to the second house of the night. A modest purple building decorated in little ghosts and uncarved pumpkins. The two girls were about to knock when the door burst open and a particularity unspooky spirit stepped out. "Hey there kiddos! You two sure are in for a treat!" Piped the cheery little ghost. "Dude we're like 26" Replied the deadpan Fizzy. "That's alright! You girls can still have a taste of what's under my sheet!" "I'm calling the cops." "My apple pies are famous around here, but not very good for Halloween; Until this year anyway! I've combined apple pie and caramel apples into the ultimate confection!" Cheered the man in the ghost costume as he pulled two caramel covered disks on sticks from under his sheet, and handed them over.

"These are pretty good you know?" Gong said with her mouth still half full. "Kind of hard to eat, but still good". If Fizzy had been listening she didn't or more likely couldn't answer, but being submerged in a pie near the size of your whole body will do that. The difficulty of trying to carry and eat an entire pie on nothing but a cheap craft stick had forced the short sweeties to rest at a picnic table not far down the street. Each bite forced Gong's belly out farther and farther. Straining her clothes, and forcing her legs apart to make room for it's gravid shape. By the time the last bite of thick caramel and flaky apple pie passed her lips the green girl could have easily been mistaken for some near the end of pregnancy; But goblins may as well have been giants compared to fairies, and the effects of the confection were far more pronounced on Fizzy. The candy corn had already left her more than a little bloated, but as the purple pixie slowly ate her way past the hard caramel shell and into the center of the apple pie her belly had ballooned to dramatic levels. Her clothing stood no chance of containing the beast known as the faerie's gut. She laid prone in the pie tin on her basketball of a belly, naked from the waist down, trying with all her might to force any crumb withing reach into her mouth. "Uhh Fizzy any particular reason you aren't wearing underpants?" "Were you not paying attention earlier? What If I meet a stud while we're out? Panties would only get in the way." "Oh right. I forgot that purple balloons were every man's dream girl." Snided Gong. "Anyway, let's get going. the night isn't over yet, and we've got houses to hit."

Gong rang the doorbell of the third house. clutching her heavy, heaving tummy. If she let go her balance was at risk, and the mental image of an watermelon explosion was one she had to shake away more than a few times. The trudge to the third house was made that much longer by her slow, exaggerated, waddling. Each step a miniature battle with her own full tummy. A purple blimp of a pixie bobbing and swayed as she floated behind her. Her own belly nearly scraping on the ground  until a flurry of flapping wins sent her back into the air. The door creaked open. A green sheet that looked distinctively like the ghosts from the earlyer houses poked it's head out the door, googly eyes bouncing wildly. "Who daressss enter the lair of the sneeeeeek?" Hissed the man in very ghost looking "snake" costume. "Nice costume... Dig the color." Gong weezed between breaths. Carrying the extra weight of her turgid gut had left more tired than she realized. "Thankssss friend! I made it myssssself!" Fizzy who's wings were already tired of holding her massive body in air chose to interrupt the two green revelers conversation. "Trick or treat! Now just give us whatever weird candy you've got back there and let us go". If plastic googly eyes could look confused the snake would have looked shockingly bewildered. "There's no weird candy here friends. Just some gummies I'm afraid." Fizz and Gong let out a collective sigh of relief, but apparently it had been too soon as seconds later both of them were nearly knocked over by the enormous gelatinous treats tossed to them by the man in the snake costume. An impressive feat seeing as the costume possessed no arms. "There you go girls, gummy pythons! Hope they're good, I made them myself!"

Bit by chewy bit the gelatinous reptiles were forced into the already packed stomachs of the minuscule monsters as they approached the fourth, and last house on the street. "Ugghh... I swear he must have used a real snake to make molds for these" Fizzy groaned. "I can see the scale prints". "How are we supposed to eat these anyway! One of these is as long as my whole body!" Gong added. "You just gotta slurp it down girl! You've had boyfriends before haven't you?" Fizzy punctuated her insult by taking a large  gulp from the tail end of her gummy snake. "Hey Fizz maybe you should be more careful? You might choke....Or explode." Gong said between bites of her own sugary treat. "you're already looking kinda fat honestly. I was only kidding about the whole rolling you home thing earlier... Are you listening Fizz?" Fizzy unfortunately was not listening as she was far too preoccupied with choking on the massive sugar serpent that currently clogging her windpipe. "Oh my Gods Fizz! Don't worry I-I'll help you! Don't die!" Gong tried every idea she could think of but Fizzy's tiny body made the Heimlich impossible, and the gummy was wedged far too deep in the fairie's bulbous tummy to be dislodged by pulling on it. "Ok. Ok. Think Gong. You can do this." The Goblin muttered to her self, voice seeped in panic. "Ohh I really sorry about this Fizzy. Just hold on I've got another idea." Fizzy wasn't even given a chance to reply before Gong seized the end of the gummy snake and pushed it deeper into her gullet. Slowly the candy serpent was forced into the faerie's stomach. The already strained clothing stretched thinner as seams and stitches popped one by one. Both girls silently hoping they wouldn't be joining them in a similar fashion. As the last of the gummy was crammed down her throat Fizzy fell to the ground. Wings no longer able to lift her boulder of a belly. The impact being the final straw for her poor clothing before the tortured garment released its death knell as it torn to shreds. Fizzy was now nude, and grounded by a belly several times larger than her own body, but she was alive, and the sugary serpent was finally slain. "Oh-oh hell Gong! I though I was gonna die!" Fizzy wheezed out between gasping breaths. "do you still want to go to the next house, or should just head home, so you can rest?" Asked Gong. "No no I still want to keep going. There's only one house left on this street, but I...." "But what? "Do you feel sick? Did you hurt yourself?" Gong's voice was beginning to take on it's previous worried tone. "I can't move... My belly is too heavy..." "I told you this was going to happen! Splitting everything fifty fifty was a stupid idea from the start." "Well we wouldn't have had to eat everything while walking if SOMEONE had remember to bring treat bags!" "Fine I'll carry your fat butt around until we get home! Just let me finish my own gummy first." "I'm not fat. I'm full. there's a difference." The fairy mumbled to herself, as her friend resumed eating the candy snake hanging from around her neck. Choosing to take bites proved to be a much better strategy on Gong's part than swallowing the entire sucrose reptile whole, but it was also much slower. Bite after bite the gummy shrank, and Gong's belly grew. The fabric of her clothing pulled tighter and tighter, threatening to tear any second and leave her as exposed as her purple companion. As the last bit of gummy passed her green lips, Gong took notice of the effects it had on her stomach. The gigantic green orb had ballooned to the size of roughly half her body. Cramming it full with a gummy almost the same length as the goblin was tall may have been a bad idea. No it DEFIANTLY was a bad idea, but there was no way Gong would ever waste free candy!

"Ohh hell... This. This is heavy." "see not so easy is it!" Chided the bloated fairy. Her smirk would have left much more of an impact if not for her own leviathan middle. Gong struggled to lift her huge friend into her arms. A slip of her hand eliciting a sharp gasp from the massive Fizzy. "Watch where you grabbing Gong!" "Ha ha. Whoops." Gong responded. Her face red with embarrassment, as she finally succeeded in hoisting Fizzy over her head, and started the long trudge down the street.

Thud, creak,  thud, creak. Heavy footsteps pounded against aged wood. The combined weight of the two girls was less than that of a large human, but that didn't stop Gong from having a miniature panic attack as each step groaned in their wake. She laid Fizzy down near the doorstep, making sure the overstuffed fairy wouldn't tip over, and rang the bell. Inside the house hurried footsteps responded to the noise. "Like just a sec! I Need *hic* to get my costume on!" For a moment they considered walking away. Cutting their losses and going home unexploded was by no means a bad idea, but as the door swung open, and and the smell of sugary treats floated out, that thought, and really any common sense warning  the two girls about the repercussions of expanding their already massive waistlines was immediately dashed. "Like *hic* sorry about that. Can't hand out candy with out my costume now can I?" Just like the last three houses the owner was dressed in her own variation of a ghost costume, but unlike the others she seemed sort of lumpy around the middle, and Gong swore she could hear the woman emitting a noise that sounded remarkably like faint static.

"Please lady! Just please don't give us anything weird! I can't take anymore. I'm so big already." Groaned The massive Fizz. "Ohh man kid, *urp* like what the hell is wrong with your weird purple dog?" "She's fine don't worry about it. Just tell me you don't have anything on a cob, or a stick, or that you made out of snakes?" "Sorry I don't have any of those. All Ive got is some bags of these fizzy rocks, but they're like old and stuff, so they kind of melted into fizzy boulders." Answered the ghost lady, who pulled two large bags of the candy off the table next to her. They tore into the bags immediately. The woman in the ghost costume hadn't lied when she said the candies had melted together. Large crystalline chunks of candy as large as Gong's head had formed in each bag. Fizzy was devouring mouthfuls of of the hard treat, Seeming to have forgotten the incident with the gummy snake already. Gong ate at a slightly slower, but still noticeably ravenous speed. Half because she wanted this all to be over so she could lay her tired belly to bed, and half because she was too greedy to resist the the gift of free candy. "Ugghh what is this stuff?! My mouth feels all weird, and tingly!" Fizzy whined. "You got anything to drink back there lady?" "Nothing except some orange soda, and I like *hic* totally don't recommend it. "Come on lady we haven't had anything to drink all night. We're dying over here." "Wait here. Said the ghost. After a brief moment she returned from the kitchen with a six pack of orange soda that she handed over to Gong. The first can quenched their thirsts. The second was for fun. The last was because they were both too gluttonous to stop. "I feel- *urp* I feel funny. Fizzy griped. "Aww is *hic* Fizzy felling fizzy?" Gong joked. Oblivious to the fact that both of them were slowly growing rounder. "This *hic* isn't funny Gong! Look at us! We're blowing up!" "I like did try to warn you" Said the woman as she removed her costume. Putting her own bloated stomach on full display. "I've been bloated all night. Those fizzy rocks take forever to dissolve when they get old. "Fizz we need to go now! My belly is *urp* too big! It's getting hard to move!" Gong panicked as the seams of her clothing fought against the inflating green orb inside them. She grabbed Fizzy and waddled away from the house as quickly as her heavy body would allow. Within moments the sound of ripping fabric announced that her clothing had just lost the war against her still inflating gut.

Gong heaved her back into the purple boulder. It rolled slowly, but steadily in the direction of their home. Halloween had not been kind to the goblin nor the fairy. As the last light on the last porch went off signaling the end of the night's celebration both of them were left stark naked, with heavy intensely full bellies, each nearly the same size as Gong was tall. "I was kidding when I said I didn't want to roll you home earlier." I didn't think it was going to be an issue. Gong grunted, as she rolled her friend home. "Maybe your psychic?" Fizzy said. her voice thick with sarcasm. "Can you tell what number I'm thinking of right now?" "No, but I bet it's smaller than your current weight." Gong shot back. "Alright funny girl. Just watch where you going ok? You pushed me into some trash and now I've there's a restaurant flyer stuck to my boobs. What the hell even is a "thanksgiving" about?" "Sorry Fizz. I'll peel it off when we get home. I'm sure it's nothing interesting anyway. You know humans are boring.

THE END

[zenonaa]

...40 ikuzono?

Ikusaba/Maizono - a kiss because the world is ending

also i believe it’s your birthday? happy birthday! this happened to be my next request and i tried to finish it for today aha.

It is Sayaka Maizono who slips in and out of the kitchen and then briskly walks to her temporary dorm, but it isn’t her at the same time. When Sayaka budges some hair from her face, it’s Sayaka who raises her hand, and when Sayaka glances at the knife that she firmly grasps, it’s her eyes that flicker, but she has to remind herself that it’s her. As she looks at the metal blade, she feels five years old again, in her living room by herself back home, but the light from the television isn’t here, it’s the glint of metal instead, and it isn’t a cheery face staring back at her but the wide eyes of her reflection.

Sayaka arrives at a door with a placard of her likeness on it. She fishes out her key from her bra, but she doesn’t have the chance to unlock the door before a voice startles her, and she turns to the source, brandishing the knife.

“Yoo-hoo!” croons Junko Enoshima, strutting over in her mid-sized boots from the other end of the corridor that Sayaka came in from, and who waves her hand from side-to-side in a stilted manner, as crooked as her smile.

Very slowly, Sayaka lowers the knife. Be professional. Best face, Sayaka.

“Hello, Enoshima-san,” says Sayaka, pitch all over the place, but she has a grin fixed on, and that’s better than nothing.

Junko looks at her face and then at the knife. According to Junko, a lot of her photographs are photoshopped, and even how her face crinkles at the sight of a large, sharp knife seems like an act, and when she speaks, she sounds like she’s trying to guess what a toddler drew, not like she is confronted by a possible murder weapon. “What’s the knife for?”

As if thinking that Sayaka might not know what is being referred to, Junko points a fake red nail at the knife in Sayaka’s possession. Sayaka tenses and holds the knife up but not out, and she flutters her lashes and squishes her eyebrows together like she hadn’t realised it was there.

She shrugs and makes eye contact.

“Oh, it’s to cut some fruit in case I get hungry after the cafeteria closes for the night,” says Sayaka, all smiles.

The knife is a bit excessive for that task, admittedly, and Sayaka hardens her features and keeps them as they are even as they ache, waiting for Junko to give her verdict. Junko narrows her eyes. Sayaka thinks she can feel her own heartbeat.

Then Junko beams. “Ah, I see. Healthy snacks, huh? That and all the jumping around you do must be why your frame is so irresistible.”

Junko laughs, and Sayaka mimes doing so, only hitting a few notes. The smile on Junko fades as her laughter comes to an end, and as she presses her knuckles against her hips and tilts her head to one side, her brow furrows, and one eye is wider than the other as she squints.

“You’re not the ball of sunshine that you usually are, Maizono,” says Junko, and she folds her arms over her chest. “Let me guess, you’re still freaked out by that video you saw earlier?”

Sayaka’s heart skips a beat. She averts her eyes and slowly rolls the handle of her knife over in her hand. Though she wants to lick her lips, she doesn’t, and gulps.

“It’s no big D.E.A.L. That you’re wigging out, I mean. Like, everyone saw something freaky, you know?” says Junko, and when Sayaka meets Junko’s gaze, she sees that the ends of Junko’s lips have curled upward, jolly, sunny and almost mocking.

Or maybe, just the fact that she could smile at a time like this was a mockery to Sayaka, whose expression could be described as someone who had just come in after a long spell in freezing torrential rain. Sayaka raises the hand not clutching the knife to chin level. Her fingers curl in, but her hand is too slack to create a proper fist.

“Aren’t you scared?” she asks Junko quietly.

Junko gawks. “Huh?”

“The videos must have been customised,” explains Sayaka, who had been the first to flee the AV room. By sacrificing volume, she gives more steadiness to her voice. “They were all labelled differently, so what must have been on your video isn’t the same as what was on mine.”

“Ooh, yeah! I’ve gotcha. That makes sense,” says Junko. “But it’s all a trick by Monobear, isn’t it? Green screen or some other kind of sci-fi stuff.”

“Maybe.”

Even though Junko didn’t solve anything, Sayaka feels a bit lighter. Tired, numb, yes, but there’s some genuine emotion in her smile, and she gives a friendly wave before saying, “Well… Good night, Enoshima-san. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She unlocks the door and pulls it ajar.

“Hey, wait!” Junko blurts.

Sayaka frowns and turns her head toward her.

Junko has reached a hand out. Her eyes dart about like flies trapped in a jar.

“Um… It was nice talking to you,” says Junko, and her hand loses height.

“Thank you,” says Sayaka, after some hesitation. “Sorry, I am glad to have spoken with you, but I’m really tired. All that…”

Her face quivers.

“… stuff, took a lot of energy out of me,” finishes Sayaka, and she opens the door wider, but as she steps in, Junko seizes her wrist.

Sayaka tries to take her hand away but Junko holds too firmly. She faces her sharply.

“What are you doing?” Sayaka cries out, and as Junko leans in, Sayaka remembers that she has a knife, and that she could kill Junko. While Junko did grab the wrist of the hand holding the knife, Sayaka reckons that she could overpower Junko or pass the knife to her other hand. The thought pulses in her brain, but though no one else is present, Junko dying in front of her door would be suspicious, and she would have to move her somewhere else. However, even in those seconds when Sayaka’s nostrils flare and her mind goes blank, she couldn’t and can’t bring herself to stab Junko, even in self-defence, even if she could.

“Remember, Maizono-san, that there are people who care about you,” says Junko. She lets go of Sayaka’s wrist and rests her hands on Sayaka’s shoulders instead.

In response, Sayaka tenses, and her legs shake, and then all of a sudden, Junko’s head springs forward and their lips press together. They stand completely still, not making any sounds. Sayaka’s heart hammers against her chest. Junko initiated the kiss out of the blue, yet for some reason, Sayaka doesn’t pull away. Sayaka lets Junko’s warmth wash over her, lets her chapped lips stay close and lets Junko’s hand hold her cheek. Seconds pass. Then Junko’s face recedes to a distance that lets Sayaka see it entirely.

“Remember people care,” says Junko, rosy pink. She squeezes Sayaka’s shoulders. “Remember that. Remember, Sayaka-chan.”

Junko’s eyes drill into her, like she expects Sayaka to say something, to react in a certain way. Her lips mouth something, probably Sayaka’s name, but Sayaka barely registers.

There’s a tremor in Sayaka’s chest. Sayaka doesn’t know how long she hasn’t been breathing for. It feels like someone is dragging their fingers across her brain.

“Um… I don’t know what to say,” replies Sayaka. The temperature of her face climbs. She shifts a foot back. If this is Junko’s way of comforting her, from one friend to another, it fell short of her intentions. In fact, it makes Sayaka feel worse. “We can talk about this in the morning, okay? I’m sorry…”

Without waiting for an answer, and refusing, no, unable to give Junko one last look, Sayaka wrenches herself free, hurries into her room, locks the door behind her and slinks down to a sitting position. She hears Junko ringing the intercom but the soundproof room otherwise blocks out the outside world. The only voices that Sayaka hears are the garbled bits of nonsense in her head.

Her hand trembles as she adjusts her grip on the knife. Half of Sayaka’s face stares back at her, and the small flecks of dirt on the blade decorate her reflection’s cheeks like freckles. That strange, unsettled feeling bubbles in her tummy again.

Sayaka hugs her legs to her chest. After tonight, she won’t have to worry about any of this. About anything.

[chocobutt-trash]

Ardyn being creepy stalker old man who want nothing more but prompto's love and willing to kill everyone who's in his way to the point prompto had to give in just so he could save noctis in the end

Oh you have my attention!

I wrote a few drabbles in response to this, but it kinda got out of control, so here, have a oneshot.

(fic below the cut, also on AO3 if you want to read it there)

I tried to gift it to you on AO3 @you-are-so-perfect-that-i but please let me know if I got the wrong user account!

‘My dear Prompto, what do you think?’

He’s been idly watching the canvas awning flap in the breeze, the distant glow of the Meteor lighting up the sky far beyond, but now he looks to his left. Ardyn is far too close.

‘Sorry … what?’

‘Old man’s saying there used to be black chocobos or somethin’.’ Gladio chips in.

‘And there still are,’ Ardyn says, and for every second he edges closer, the air grows colder.

Prompto recoils instinctively. His side hits the edge of the plastic camping chair. He doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to cause a scene. But it’s uncomfortable.

Isn’t anyone going to do anything?

For a moment, it looks like Gladio will step forward, but then the most curious thing happens - a flash of purple-red energy across his eyes, then Gladio’s expression glazes over, and his muscles un-tense. The same thing happens to Ignis, and for some reason Noctis isn’t even looking.

Prompto casts wide eyes back to Ardyn as the man curls a possessive finger under his chin.

‘I merely wish to illustrate it would be a shame for something so precious to be lost.’

His touch is like ice.

Nobody challenges the man, and later, when Prompto goes to bed, he is on his guard the whole night through.

——

Ardyn’s dropship is a cataclysmic mess of lavish furnishings and metal cambers. It looks a bit like an interior decorator had a fight with a mechanic. Nobody wants to be there, especially not in the wake of the man’s great reveal. He’s the Chancellor of Niflheim. Figures.

As to why he’s taken it upon himself to save them from Titan’s wrath, that’s anyone’s guess.

For lack of anything better to do, Prompto wanders over to the rows of Magitek Troopers, strapped into their seats diligently as the dropship hums its way across the Lucian countryside. Maybe he can gather some intel. Maybe he can sate some of the curiosity sunk in his bones.

‘Such a marvel, aren’t they?’ Ardyn has somehow gotten close to him again. His frame is so large he near on blocks out the light. Prompto bristles, watches him warily.

‘I don’t like them.’

A look of mock-surprise now, and it rubs him the wrong way.

‘That’s no way to talk about my army. It’ll hurt their feelings.’

‘They’re machines. They don’t have feelings.’

‘Oh, Prompto…’ He speaks as if Prompto has just said the silliest thing, and it makes little sense. ‘Besides,’ Ardyn continues, ‘I thought you had a thing for machinery. That is, if your prowess with that circular saw down in the ring was anything to go by.’

Prompto ignores the compliment, if that’s even what it is. He turns back to examine the trooper’s eyes, because somehow the red glow is less unsettling than the look in Ardyn’s. The Chancellor continues his rambling.

‘I helped design them, you know. They proved quite the challenge. A few technical difficulties, but now they’re quite obedient. And, I must say, I have developed such a soft spot for them. In a way, they are all mine.’

He strokes the dull metal casing of the trooper’s helmet, far too lovingly. It makes Prompto shiver. For the remainder of the journey, he attempts to put distance between them. He doesn’t go to Gladio or Ignis for comfort. He doesn’t want a repeat of last night, because he has to remain cheery, he can’t make a fuss.

It’s probably nothing.

——

It starts raining as they descend into the Risorath Basin. The Imperial Blockade is mysteriously unmanned. ‘They all but turned the key,’ Ignis murmurs, ‘as if awaiting our arrival.’

‘And if anyone’s waiting for us, I bet it’s that guy.’ Prompto can’t bring himself to say his name.

Ignis ruins it by saying it in full. ‘Chancellor Izunia.’ Prompto wishes he wouldn’t. There’s the most resonant timbre to the Royal Advisor’s voice sometimes, and right now it sets his skin prickling. He’s still at a loss to explain why. He has only the vague sense that something is not right.

——

The party of three have almost reached Steyliff Grove when a rogue basilisk gets in their way.

Damn oversized chicken has petrifying venom, and, just Prompto’s luck, it ends up splashed all over him. The feeling of nerves seizing up is not a pleasant one, and before he knows it, he’s stuck in the mud, staring down death.

This is it.

With an ear-shattering screech and a flash of purple-red light and - wait. The basilisk falls on its side, eyes lolling wide as its feathers sag.

There’s a touch at his back. He can’t move his head to see.

‘You must be freezing.’

That voice.

Ardyn is beside him, yet again, and he’s busy placing that heavy, thick coat over Prompto’s bare shoulders wet with rain. Prompto feels his nose flare, but the venom is still so thick in his system he can’t move, can’t refuse the kindly, yet unwanted action.

‘Shh, now, it’ll be out of your system in a minute. Can’t have you dying here, can we?’

Realisation dawns. Ardyn has just saved them.

The Chancellor catches his eye. He knows Prompto’s figured it out now, and he smiles, pats the coat again over Prompto’s shoulders like he’s tucking him into bed. He hasn’t bothered to reassure the other two, and his smile curls a little higher when he looks at Noctis, all paralysed and bedraggled mere metres away. It’s as if he takes no small amount of pleasure in the Prince’s discomfort.

Moments later the venom wears off, and Prompto shrugs the coat off. He says thank you, albeit reluctantly, because yeah, he’s grateful, but it feels … icky. Forced. Ardyn grins, pleased as punch, and leads them on to the grove with a commanding flourish. He will help them get their mythril, and it turns Prompto’s stomach all the more to think he will be thanking him again before the day is through.

——

The change comes in Altissia, when he tries to stop Ardyn from reaching the altar. So far, the man has thrown aside everyone who’s gotten in his way, but when he comes to Prompto he stops, leans in to him as if he’s about to share some arcane secret. Prompto’s already dropped his gun in the water, so he has to rely on a dagger, hastily pulled from the Armiger.

It doesn’t take much for Ardyn to deflect it. A grip of the wrist, far too tight, making him cry out and try to kick. And soft-spoken words as the dagger falls from his grasp and into Ardyn’s free hand.

‘My, what a brave little soldier. I hate to do this, my dear…’ And he lets go his grip, gathering more of that eerie purple light around his hand. A soft, feathery sensation as it hits Prompto in the face, puffs around his nostrils. It smells of liquorice. It’s overwhelming.

Ardyn plants a gentle kiss atop his forehead as he lolls forward. ‘Sleep,’ he says, his voice low and rumbling, and Prompto is reminded of listening to distant thunderstorms while cosied up in bed at night.

And then, Luna. Prompto’s slipping out of consciousness but he sees Ardyn head up to the altar, he sees him draw the blade - Prompto’s blade - and he sees it vanish entirely into Luna’s flesh.

——

Now Luna is dead, and they have no Holy Oracle to guide them. The crystal still lies captive in the dark heart of the Empire, and so they must continue on.

The train ride to Gralea has been painfully slow and downright depressing, up until the point Ardyn turns up.

Now Prompto’s pulse is racing.

The train conductor is the last bastion that stands between them. He’s a short man, and doesn’t have an ounce of muscle on him. He’s really not going to last long. But he’s Prompto’s only hope right now, and he needs him to distract Ardyn long enough for him to go tell Noct what’s happening.

‘Please, Sir, take it easy, like. Jes’ need to see yer ticket, and-’

The poor conductor doesn’t finish. Ardyn’s face crosses with some dark emotion - impatience? - and he extends a hand. Another flash of that dark energy and the conductor is flung to the wall, where he crumples in a heap. The sound is crunchy, and it does horrible things to Prompto’s brain, where he tries very hard not to think about nails on a blackboard.

‘No need to look so appalled, my dear. I did ask him politely.’

‘You … Is he alive?’ Prompto thinks he spies blood coming from the man’s head and he’s freaking out. There’s nowhere to run.

Ardyn merely shrugs. No longer interested in the mess he’s made, he swings closer and pins Prompto against the windowpane. It jitters with the train’s motion, makes Prompto’s jaw vibrate.

‘No-’ he begins, but his protest is silenced with a kiss. It should be warm, but it’s just as cold as the first time Ardyn touched him, and there’s a possessive urgency behind it. When he feels the man’s tongue snake between his teeth he wants to be sick. He pushes back, but he’s pressed harder into the window. His feet scrabble for purchase against the linoleum.

It doesn’t last long. Ardyn pulls back, breathless and looking near on intoxicated. ‘We don’t have time,’ he says. ‘But no matter. You’ll be on your way soon. Now, run along, and tell Noctis I’ve arrived.’

——

Prompto’s reward for trudging through the snow is an intimate welcome from Ardyn and a squadron of troopers. He’s taken to a small, tinny room, pale and cold as the snow outside, and here Ardyn backs him up against the wall again.

He flinches, expecting another kiss, but what he gets is something cold and hard pressed into his hand. His own gun.

‘Can’t have you dying here,’ Ardyn murmurs affectionately, echoing his words from outside Steyliff Grove. He reaches out to touch him, but now Prompto readies his gun.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Ardyn says, highly amused.

He shoots into Ardyn’s outstretched hand anyway. The bullet passes through sinew and bone and pierces the man’s chest. There’s a fizzing in the air, a black miasma clustering around them, and after a torturous moment the bullet simply drops out of Ardyn’s flesh, clatters on the ground.

The noise rings in his ears.

That shot should have torn his lungs, but Ardyn’s still breathing fine. In fact, he hasn’t flinched at all. So this time, when he reaches forward, Prompto doesn’t see the point in wasting his bullets.

Ardyn doesn’t reprimand him, he merely takes Prompto’s right hand in both of his, and with great reverence, hitches up the black band covering his tattoo.

A soft tug towards the panel by the door, and the barcode lights up an unholy green. The door hisses, then unlocks. So that’s what my tattoo does. Another childhood mystery solved. Ardyn mercifully withdraws his cold touch and smiles fondly at him.

‘Off you go, now.’

——

It’s so cold in the facility.

Prompto wants to move, but it’s far too dangerous. Up ahead, Ardyn’s talking to the Imperial researcher, Verstael Besithia. The man who Prompto apparently ought to call father, if those documents are to be believed.

He doesn’t want this cruel laboratory to be his birthplace, but when he sees the clone in the tank that looks just like him, the evidence seems irrefutable. His stomach, already torn up on a diet of stress and vending-machine coffee, threatens to add some evidence of its own to the scene, but he holds it down.

Ardyn stops near the tank with the Prompto-replica inside. ‘This model was always my favourite,’ he says, while Verstael scowls beside him.

In the annexe, Prompto clenches his hands tight round the gun’s grip. He remembers Ardyn’s words on the dropship. He remembers the kiss. He wants to scream.

——

When Prompto ends up confronting Verstael, he shoots him just like he did Ardyn. He’s almost expecting the man to react the same way, to barely flinch and simply regenerate with that daemonic power. But he doesn’t, he simply falls to the floor.

 ‘Ah, look what you’ve done!’

Ardyn’s voice over loudspeaker is a shock that pulls him out of his pathetic weeping.

He swears, and looks around for the source of the noise. Meanwhile, Ardyn laughs softly and rambles on, enjoying his little power play until he gets to the one line that truly chills Prompto to the bone.

 ‘One less obstacle between us.’

——

He’s in Gralea now, and things have gone from bad to worse.

Ardyn’s hands are tight around him. One at his throat, and one round his waist, dragging him down the rusted half-lit corridors. Well, it’s hardly dragging, because he’s being awfully nice about it. Prompto’s already tried struggling, but he’s got a nasty wound across his face now to show for it. ‘If I’m forced to mar that pretty skin, I will,’ Ardyn had said, and he had been sad but so very determined.

Better to obey, while Ardyn’s being gentle. He’ll escape when he gets the chance.

‘Wh- what’re you doing?’ His voice trembles. He feels pathetic. To have made it so far inside the Keep, only to be cornered at the very last second.

‘Why, only helping you get back to Noct.’ He drawls the Prince’s name out in too many syllables, like pulling apart strands of toffee. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ Lips brush his ear. ‘As for what I want…’

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and that scares Prompto far more than the hand at his throat ever will.

There’s a room at the end of the corridor, filled with screens. Releasing his neck, Ardyn points to one of them.

‘Look at him. Your precious Noctis, running around like a mad thing. He’s not searching for the crystal.’

Prompto fixes him with a stare. Ardyn’s begging the question be asked, but he’s not going to play.

With a slightly exaggerated sigh, Ardyn says, ‘He’s looking for you, you know.’

Again, Prompto refuses to rise to it. He stays silent, and Ardyn flicks his temple. It shocks him enough to make him sniffle. It’s embarrassing.

‘Wouldn’t want him to - ah’ - Ardyn pauses to watch the bridge Noctis is scampering across disintegrate beneath the prince’s feet - ‘fall.’

‘Noct!’ He’s hyperventilating just watching it, but there, on another screen, is Noctis warping to safety, shaken but otherwise okay. Prompto’s still hyperventilating when Ardyn turns to him, eyelids heavy and full of intent.

‘Oh dear, seems he doesn’t have much choice. But you do.’

He tries to kiss him again, and Prompto utters his denial, backs away under the man’s grip. Now Ardyn drops all pretence, and he looks laconic, tired of the chase.

‘I’m only going to make it harder for him the more you deny me.’

He’s serious, holy shit, he’s serious.

It doesn’t make any sense. All he can think is why? Why me?

Again, he wants to cry. He wants to be sick. He wants to lash out, to fight.

Instead, what he says is, ‘Don’t hurt him. Please.’

And he closes his eyes. He’s determined not to tremble at the first touch, but it happens anyway. Ardyn’s messing with the spikes in his hair, sighing.

‘Oh, you really are a gift from heaven. You’re far too good for this world. I would say I’m going to enjoy making my mark on you, but then,’ - he grabs Prompto’s wrist, nails digging ever so lightly into the tattoo - ‘I already have.’

[negare-boshi]

HQ!! Siblings Zine

Hey guys!! I participated in the HQ!! Siblings Zine and it’s finally out! Please, check it out (you have the download link in the twitter i linked, or here, in the direct download link) all the pieces are AMAZING! And the mods have worked so hard putting it together and being the nicest out there, so. If you have twitter and you liked it, don’t forget to rt it! 

As for my piece, I’m gonna put it here under the cut. It’s a Tanaka Siblings piece and it’s hella sad because I don’t know how to write happy things when I’m working extra hard on it so.

Hope you enjoy! And don’t forget to read all the other awesome works because they are AMAZING!

THE DRAGON GOD. a tanaka siblings piece.

He has always loved the dragon’s festival the best. He remembers going to their grandparents’ village during summer, a forgotten land barely reachable by any train. He remembers the big, red door of the shrine, and the summer festivals. When he was little, he thought the dragon was real. It’s funny, now, because there’s no denying the long legs of the men below the paper-cut figure, or the sweaty bodies that carried the long, blue dragon along town.

It had always been his favourite day, the day of the dragon’s dance. Now that he’s older, and smarter, and maybe wiser, he can see the strong legs of his father under the dragon head, making it laugh on his direction. He can see the weak but stubborn legs of his grandfather, trying to follow his son’s lead.

It’s been almost ten years, since the last time Ryunosuke stood here, in front of that same old red door. A small eternity since the last time he saw the fake dragon eat the fake sun, to provide to the gods and the villagers. It makes his heart clench. The village has never been big, has never had a considerable population, but Saeko’s absence makes it feel like half the world has vanished with her.

“Tanaka–kun! Is that you?”

Ryunosuke turns around, pointing the big bag on his shoulder to the shrine’s door. He smiles widely at the old couple that’s staring at him, but there’s no way the tautness on his lips can comfort either of them.

“It is,” he answers with a strong voice, the smile still there. Ryunosuke tries to make it clearer, and brighter, and honest, but the awful feeling in his tongue lets him know he’s failing miserably.

The couple smiles back, though, the loss of weight making their bones sharp edges on their faces. Ryunosuke feels his stomach twist, his hand tight around his bag. It might be the shrine’s memories, what makes him feel the ghost touch of Saeko’s hand inside his.

“Come this way, then, we will give you something to eat.”

Ryunosuke doesn’t have the guts to refuse their invitation, although there’s no food anymore, although they’d be giving him, a soldier, the small they have for themselves.

They walk slowly through the village, now broken and poor. Ryuunosuke looks around, longing to see the small red lanterns around the main street, the dragon masks decorating every shop’s window. Trying to catch a small hint that everything he loved ten years ago still exists, and failing.

War has taken away whatever small normal customs this village ever held dear, and Ryunosuke, throat tight, can’t even swallow the realisation.

“It’s been so long since the last time we saw you,” Shimada–san says while she takes Ryunosuke’s bag with her fragile hands and forces him to sit down. Her husband puts some watered rice in front of Ryunosuke, and they sit down in front of him.

Their eyes, although half starved, shine with excitement. It’s been almost a lifetime, since the last time we saw someone new. Since the last time we saw someone alive, when we thought them dead.

“We were just talking about you,” Shamada–san says, his hands reaching for his wife’s. “And the last summer you came to visit, before—.”

Before war reached this protected corner of Japan, and summers were completely forgotten.

“We were coming from the shrine’s storehouse,” he continues, trying to catch his breath. “Everything’s still there! Can you imagine?”

Ryunosuke has no problem picturing it. He has the ghost memory of him and Saeko putting everything back inside, before the bombs burned all the surrounding mountains.

“I can, of course,” Ryunouske answers, loudly, while he takes a big bite of his rice. It’s tasteless, but he eats it as if it were the last eatable thing on Earth. “Neesan was being so mean and loud,” he grimaces a bit, making the old couple giggle. “She even throw her taiko drum at me! In front of Keiko–chan…” Ryunosuke feels a soft blush warming his cheeks, the Shimadas chuckling now between coughs.

The moment comes to him in a wave, almost drowning him. The nostalgia makes the Shimadas disappear, and the present vanish together with the reality of war.

He’s ten again, the awe of seeing the dragon walk through the village a soft caress on his chest. The adult mind knows the dragon’s just paper craft moved by human hands, but the child’s amazement doesn’t care much.

The summer night is warm and humid, the cicadas chanting together with the priests and the men. All the village is here, reunited around the shrine’s area, wearing yukatas and masks, witnessing the dragon’s dance. It’s fascinating. The fire, the light, the colours. Ryunosuke’s standing on the sidewalk, together with everyone, but his soul is right there, dancing with the dragon.

“Ryu!” Saeko’s voice breaks the dream. Ryunosuke pouts and moves his head a bit, trying to take Saeko away from his sight. “Ryu! Come here!” Saeko’s arm falls hard against his shoulders, her laugh vibrating through his skull.

She pushes his head against her chest, choking him. Ryunosuke is so ashamed he doesn’t know if he’s gonna die for lack of air, or if his blush will lit and burn him whole.

“Ryu,” she whispers onto his ear, making him still. Her voice is filled with excitement and mischief, two things he loves. “They put me in charge of the sun,” she lets him know.

“Really?”

“Really. Wanna come with me?”

“But I can’t,” he says, although he’s already grabbing her forearm to keep her on place. “I’m too young.”

“If you come and take care of the sun, I’ll be able to go play wadaiko for the dragon.”

Ryunosuke frowns, disappointed, for the shared adventure’s the only thing he was looking forward to.

“So you only want me to cover for you.”

“No!” She laughs again, making Ryunosuke’s stomach clench. His sister has the best of laughs. “I want you to be a part of it! Dad and grandpa with the dragon’s dance, you with the sun and me with the music! We’ll make history!”

Rynosuke looks at her, not convinced, but he ends up giving in, because Saeko’s light has always been too bright to ignore it.

He doesn’t remember how the sun looked that year, or what he did with it. He remembers the dragon, moving together with Saeko’s drums. He remembers how amazed he felt, when the dragon seemed to grow real scales, together with Saeko’s music, their father’s legs making it turn into the gods they were praying to.

Ryunosuke remembers thinking the sun he was guarding was useless, for Saeko was the brightest light around. He envied her, but respect and love were so big they didn’t give space for anything ill to grow. The red light of the temple, of the taiko’s drum; the blues of the dragon and Saeko’s clothes. The laughs and the music and the gods, that still existed, that still protected them.

Still protected her.

If Ryunosuke had known then what he knows now, he would have enjoyed Saeko a bit more. When she laughed and choked him. When she took him to the warehouse, forcing him to carry her heavy drum for her.

“I worked hard for the dragon god,” she had said, her hands behind her neck, a smile as wide as the ocean spread on her lips. “I need to rest this important arms of mine, Ryu!”

“I was in charge of the sun.”

“And you did good,” she had nodded, before her expression lit up like a candle. “Oh! Ryu, look! It’s Keiko–chan! Go confess now.”

“What? Neechan! I won’t do that,” the nerves had made him sweat, his fingers losing their grip on the drum. Saeko had laughed, just before hitting him hard on the back.

“Why not! You’re the bestest of boys in this village. What am I saying? Of all Kanto!”

“Neechan!”

“Keiko–chan!!” She had started to scream, waving her arms. “Keiko–chan!! Ryuu is the best boy in the world, okay? Take care of him!”

“Neechan!!”

Saeko had laughed again, and she even kept laughing when he dropped her beloved drum into the ground. Ryunosuke remembers the embarrassment crawling through his skin, but now it makes him feel alive and thankful, instead of sad and overwhelmed. Saeko had always been loud and cheery, a tornado of positivism and stupid decisions that ended up involving everyone who surrounded her.

Ryunosuke had thought it annoying, when he was younger, but now that she’s gone he realises he misses it deeply. He misses her deeply. The shame and the love and the choking hugs and her stupid and loud laugh. That summer, the day of the last dragon’s dance, it’s the last memory he holds of that Saeko. Of the pure, heartwarming girl who laughed at her brother even when he almost destroyed one of her most beloved possessions.

The Shimadas take him to the cemetery once he finishes his food, where a grave with Saeko’s name stands proudly. They let him alone to mourn the loss, but Ryunosuke doesn’t have tears to shed. He squints, a hand caressing the sun-warmed stone, and musters:

“I’ll find you, neechan. I promise you, I’ll find you, and I’ll bring you back home.”

War doesn’t matter.

He will find her, and he will bring her back.