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berryz-writes · 8 months ago

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Jealousy

PART 1

Summary: Your forced to spend the weekend with Azriel the bane of your existence but little do you realise he doesn't completely hate you

did i think of the title before writing the actual fic? Yes i did. ENJOY LOVELIES <3 (ignore mistakes it's midnight😭)

I crossed my arms, wishing and hoping for my sake Rhys was playing some sort of prank and he didn't really mean I had to spend the next three days with the bane of my existence.

"It's last minute I know but you two are the ones I trust to be able to carry this out without gathering much suspicion" Rhys explained looking between the two of us. His expression was slightly apologetic when he looked toward me and it rightfully should have been. He was forcing me to spend 3 days with Azriel. The most arrogant fucking man in the whole of Prythian.

Azriel stood next to me his brows furrowed and his eyes sending daggers at Rhys "I wouldn't want y/n to tire herself out too much. I'll do the mission myself" I grit my teeth together at his words and the annoying belittling tone he used.

"I'm right fucking here. It's better if I go myself, they'll be able to spot a brooding bat from miles away" I replied not even bothering to look at the moody asshole. His wings twitched slightly but he gave no other indication that he had been affected by my words.

Rhys let out a sigh and stood up, walking around his desk and reaching for a folded parchment. "Your both going. End of story" He extended his hand and before Azriel could reach for it I all but snatched it out of Rhys's hand. Rhys looks slightly amused but Azriel didn't. He turned to me, his glare rooting me to the spot. I gave him a pleasant smile back trying to get him even more annoyed. I could hear his teeth grinding together even from the distance between us.

"Go fuck yourself" He muttered to me before storming out the room, his shadows trailing behind as if scared of their master too.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed" I commented, opening the parchment and noting the details Rhys had written, the population of the village, the number of cabins, weapons stores etc. I looked up to see Rhys looking at me, his eyebrows raised slightly as if he found this all amusing "At least try to get along. It'll make things easier"

I let out a sigh. Rhys was right. But annoying Azriel was always so fun. "I'll think about it" I finally let out, leaving his study and going to prepare my weapons.

***

I walked around the cabin, running a finger along the book case. Not a speck of dust in sight, the magic keeping the cabin clean for any guests. There was a double bed on one side of the room, matching side tables on both sides, opposite them were two armchairs and a fireplace which was currently filled with logs as the fire danced away the cold. A small kitchen to the back with cupboards stocked with every ingredient.

Gods I hated this place. Well not the cabin. It was cosy. What I hated was the village itself. It was always so dreary and grey. Not to mention the smell of misogynistic males who thought themselves too high up to talk to a female. Fucking pricks.

I sat down on the bed and unlaced my boots, finally being able to feel my feet properly. The day had been a long and annoying one. Meeting with village heads to discuss why there was disruptions amongst the Illyrians. Making sure females were still allowed to train and their wings were kept safe. The whole lot of them were stubborn, not a word going through their thick skulls. And to add to the growing list of annoyances Azriel had been an asshole the entire day. More than usual.

Before I could think more about how draining my day had been I heard a sharp knock at my door. I readied myself. If it was that fucking Illyrian who had called me a whore I was going to give him a piece of my mind. I walked over to the front door my socks gliding across the wooden floorboards, reminding me of when me and Rhys used to ice skate on the Sidra. I opened the door my frown already in place. Good thing it was because it was Azriel darkening up my door with his gloom.

"What is it Shadowsinger? Miss me?" I crossed my arms and waited for him to say something. Common courtesy would be to invite him into the guest house but I wasn't in the mood of playing nice. He didn't look like he wanted to play nice either. His shadows were moving slowly over his wings and around his body, their colour darker than the night itself.

"I'm staying here for the night" He finally said before moving past me and into the cabin. My mouth fell open as I slammed the front door so the cold wouldn't come in. "What do you mean your staying here? Go to your own cabin..... I was here first!" I admit I sounded like a child but what was he doing here? We had made sure two guest cabins were empty before coming here.

"You were here first? Well that's fucking unfortunate" He replied sending me a glare before sitting on the edge of my bed and removing his belt containing his daggers, bending down to take off his boots too. Why was he looking at me like it was my fault?

I stomped over to him and stopped in front of him "Go to your own cabin! What are you even doing here?" I asked. Gods he was being irritating. Why wasn't he answering me with the truth instead of wasting my time?

He finally turned to look at me, having taken his boots off. His amber eyes looked deadly in this light and with his eyebrows furrowed like that I wouldn't be surprised if he was thinking of killing me on the spot "I can't go to my cabin because it doesn't fucking exist. Understand? Or do you want me to show you a visual representation?" Gods I hated it when he was sarcastic. His head was tilted slightly waiting for my reaction.

I took a deep breath and narrowed my eyes, anger would get me no where "What do you mean it doesn't exist? It was there in the morning so how has it just disappeared?"

He took a deep breath as well as if he were tired of talking to me, he ran a hand through his hair. Gods he was hot......I shook my head. Was my head screwed on straight?

"There was a fight. The cabin was....demolished during it" He explained. I raised an eyebrow "Who fought? Was it you?....Don't tell me it was you"

Azriel shrugged "It wasn't". I rolled my eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed, keeping a big enough distance between us so I wouldn't start thinking about his looks or the way his hair was so pullable or the way his lips...

"Who did you fight with? Didn't Rhys send us with orders of keeping on the down. fucking. low?"

I could see his jaw clench as he refused to look at me "It doesn't matter who I fought with. Your just going to have suck it up and share the bed"

It took me great will power to not roll my eyes again. I took another deep breath "Go back to Velaris for the night"

He turned to me his eyebrows raised as if I had mentioned something stupid "What and leave you here with all those males who would love to fuck you and then slit your throat?"

I narrowed my eyes "First of all, who do you think you are telling me I can't handle a bunch of pricks. Second of all don't you dare underestimate me. Third of all-" I moved closer to him, a grin spreading as I looked at his slightly surprised expression "-are you jealous?"

It was his turn to roll his eyes "In your dreams, sweetheart" He replied, his eyes flicking down to where our legs touched and then back up to my face. I swallowed. This wasn't where I thought this conversation would go.

Luckily, the sound of the door banging gave me the opportunity to escape his hazel eyes. I opened the door to find that same Illyrian who had called me a whore. His expression however was different this time, as if he was forced to stand here and it was taking all his energy to not walk away. His face was also different. A black eye and what seemed to be a broken nose. He was also clutching his side rather strangely...as if he had broken a rib of some sort.

"What? Here to call me a whore again? Say it again. I fucking dare you" I could feel my blood rushing around my body, my fists clenched ready to punch the shit out of this asshole but unfortunately it looked like he had learnt moral decency.

He shifted from one foot to another, his wings folding and opening again before he cleared his throat "I uh...wanted to apologise for what I said earlier"

I raised an eyebrow "You do?"

He nodded his head but I could tell he meant the complete opposite "I shouldn't have called you a whore...I'm-" He cleared his throat again before wincing in pain, his hand clutching his side again. "I'm sorry" He rushed out quickly. I crossed my arms. I was tired. If I wasn't I would have asked him to repeat it.

"Okay well I don't accept your apology, you can go fuck yourself now" I closed the door in his face, locked the door and turned to Azriel eyeing him suspiciously.

"Did you know that guy?" I asked moving over to the bathroom and stopping outside the door to wait for his answer.

Azriel shook his head from where he was sitting on the bed "Nope. Never seen him. Looked pretty messed up didn't he?"

"Hmm" I replied not knowing what to say. I had a feeling Azriel had something to do with it. I went into the bathroom, changed out of my leathers and into my night clothes before stepping out. I wished and wished and wished I hadn't packed shorts for the night. It was already so cold the fire only doing so much if I sat in front of it. While I had been in the bathroom Azriel had changed too, having already laid down on his back, his arm over his eyes. I let out a sigh "So your not going back to Velaris?"

I sat down on the bed, crossing my legs while I tied my hair back. Azriel didn't look at me "No"

I let out another sigh "And your sure there's no other cabins free?". Azriel finally looked at me his lips pressed tightly together "I don't bite"

I rolled my eyes and layed down, the lights dimmed to it being almost pitch black except the silvery moonlight coming in from the window. I pulled the blanket over me and curled up so I had as much heat as possible. Gods it was cold.

After a few minutes of me trying to sleep but failing Azriel turned to his side and faced me. He didn't even have a blanket on "Your shaking the bed" He pointed out.

"It's cold" I turned onto my other side so I didn't have to look at his piercing gaze, just his one look making butterflies erupt in my stomach. "Your so dramatic" He muttered before I felt his arm wrap around my waist and pull me closer to him, until my back met his chest and I was engulfed in his warmth. I froze for a second not knowing what to do "Is this alright?" He whispered in my ear, his voice softer than I was used to. I bit back a smile and nodded my head, settling into his hold. This was so nice. So damn nice. I shouldn't have been enjoying it but I was. It didn't take long for me to fall asleep and I couldn't help but realise that maybe being in Azriel's arms wasn't so bad.

part 2

MASTERLIST

#azriel x reader #acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #azriel acotar #a court of thorns and roses #azriel spymaster #acotar x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #acotar series

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midnight-mourning · 1 month ago

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Sleigh Bells Ring (Are you Listening?)

❄️❄️Midnight's DCA December Day 16❄️❄️

Another cute fluffy fic for you all, what a surprise amiright? Anywho, really tried to capture the scenery with this one, personally a big fan of cold snowy winters mhm, and also kissing robots-WHAT WHO SAID THAT anywho, enjoy!

Prompt: Oouu bats my little eyelashes,,i have a request!!💥💥 i think going on a sleigh ride with the dca would be fun!!!

Word Count: 1796

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Your feet hit the floor with a quiet thump. You stretch, yawning as you check the time on your phone. Still early, but the smell of food cooking downstairs has made you wide awake.

You twist to look outside, seeing a white, rolling landscape looking back at you. You walk over to the window, putting your hand on the cool glass. There's a bit of snow still falling, not as hard as the past few days, but enough.

When you first thought of the idea of returning to your family's old farmhouse all those months ago, you'd been hesitant. Mainly because you weren't sure how the attendant would react to such a stark contrast in environment compared to the Plex, and then your small cramped apartment. Two very different locations in terms of size, noise level, and population.

However, after the devastation that was the fire, and the months of recovery that followed, you think a change of pace would be what was best for all of you. And, you were right.

Both Sun & Moon had seemingly loved every minute of being on the farm, cleaning things up, taking care of the animals and the land, and so on and so forth.

You walk downstairs, the old floorboards creaking with each step, the air getting just a little warmer as you enter the main floor.

You spy Sun in the kitchen cooking breakfast. He turns to you as you enter.

"Good morning, Sunbeam! Did you sleep well?'

You nod, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. "Yeah. You guys been up long?"

"Just a little bit!" Sun walks over, depositing a plate of pancakes, bacon, and other breakfast goodies in front of you. You don't ignore how the food resembles a smiley face, commenting on such. His rays spin at your words.

Mid-bite you speak up. "I'm thinking after we check on the animals we clear out the back of the barn. There's a bunch of stuff back there that either needs fixed up or thrown out already. It'll be an all-day activity, if you're up for it."

"You know how much we love organizing!" Sun claps his hands.

"Great. Let me finish breakfast."

The air nips at your nose, hands in your pocket as you make your way over to the barn. Sun's ahead of you, stopping every so often to examine the snow in detail, or to drop to the ground and make a snow angel. If you weren't trying to stay warm you'd join in, you were having a competition and you were losing severely.

Upon arrival, the animals greet you. Cows mooing, goats bleating, and what have you.

Before you open up the doors a bit further and hit the lights, you watch Moon retrieve a spare carrot from his sleeve, giving it to his—supposedly not favorite—favorite horse, Opal.

"You're spoiling her." You say, unlocking the big doors and starting to push them apart.

Moon scratches the horse's head with both hands while she revels in the attention. "Nonsense. She needs it."

You scoff, but smile as the two continue to admire each other.

You allow all the animals that want to out to roam in their yards for a bit while you and Sun work on cleaning and feeding them. With the help it takes very little time at all. Allowing you the chance to get started on your project in the back.

It's as messy as you always remember it being, your grandpa wasn't a hoarder by any means, just a collector rather. Among the old farm equipment is random knick knacks and quite frankly, junk. No disrespect to the old man, but what use he saw in a five foot tall chicken statue, that was between him and the statue you supposed.

You make good progress however, getting about half of it at least organized in piles before lunch time.

You're about to head back inside and shut the barn up again for a bit when Sun calls you to the very back of the barn.

"What's this, Starlight?" He points to a large mass half covered in shadow and a sheet.

You furrow your brow and decide the best course of action is to just pull the sheet off. After the dust settles, something clicks in place in your memory.

You can't help the grin that splits your face. "Hey! It's the sleigh my grandpa used to take us for rides in when we were kids." You take a step closer, hand ghosting over the brass trim. "Man, I completely forgot about this. Didn't know he kept it all these years. Still in good condition too."

It's true, it was a lot better than you would have ever expected. The dark green painted wood has only a few minor chips and scratches. The leather seats and have no cracks or tears, just a fine coating of dust. Even the brass that decorates and lines the edges of the sleigh look good, you can see your own warbly reflection in places.

"It's beautiful..." Sun says beside you, his own hand hovering just above it, like he's afraid to touch it. "Would, would it still be useable?"

You shrug, looking back to the sleigh. "I don't see why not." You knock the side a couple times. "Wood doesn't seem to be rotted, meaning it should still be pretty sturdy. Why, would you guys want to go for a ride?"

"Please!"

You look up to him, slightly surprised.

Sun fakes a cough, rays flitting. "I mean, if we could, we really, really want to. Pretty please."

You laugh. "Okay, yeah. Shouldn't be too hard. Let's drag it out to the front and we'll clean it up after lunch."

After a bite to eat, you and the attendant work to clean up the old sleigh. Wiping it down, polishing, sharpening the blades and so on. It's tedious work, but you enjoy it and the conversation you share.

By mid-afternoon, the sleigh is ready to go and both Sun and Moon are more than ready to go for a ride.

"Sun hold on, I need to adjust the reins to make sure they're comfortable." You have to shoo him away from you so you can focus.

His rays spin as he whines, but retreats to sit down in the sleigh. "I know, I know, but we've been waiting alllll day."

"And you've been so incredibly patient." You respond, adjusting the bridle on Marshmallow's—named by your cousin's kid—nose.

"Exactly!"

With a laugh, you double check everything before walking behind the horses to the sleigh. Picking up the reins you turn to the frantic bot beside you. "Ready?"

"Yes!" He clasps his hands together. "Please, Sunshine. I'm begging you. Let's go."

You sigh, long and dramatic. Then, you grin. "Alright, let's go." You click your tongue, tugging on the reins once and you start to move forward.

The wind blows all around you, cold against your face. But, you're having too much fun to care.

You swear Sun's eyes are sparkling as he takes it all in. Head whipping back and forth as you travel along. It's peaceful, the crunch of the snow under the horses' hooves, the skating of the sled. Despite the weather it's a gorgeous scene as you cross the countryside.

The snow thankfully isn't too much for Opal and Marshmallow to handle, and you think they seem very content and please to not be cooped up in the barn.

Besides the cold on your face, it's pretty cozy inside the sleigh, the two of you are wrapped up in an old fur blanket you'd found in the attic, and if you weren't so happy that they were having such a good time, you'd be burning up at the thought of sitting so close with them.

Sun's knee bounces against your as he taps his foot, hands fidgeting with your coat sleeve as he has no other way to expel his energy.

You spend a good hour or so out in the snow, even stopping by some of the neighbors places to check in. You return home, cold and hungry, and Sun is happy to usher you inside and cook up dinner.

While cleaning up, you check outside and are pleased to see that the snow has stopped for now, leaving way for a clear night with a full moon. Just like you were hoping.

It takes a moment of convincing, but you pull the boys back out into the snow, stating that it's only fair that Moon should get a ride too.

Soon enough, you're back out in the world, the peace of the night just a pretty as the day. There's only a few stars out, but the moonlight is so gorgeous as it illuminates your path that it more than makes up for it.

It's somehow even quieter out now. The wind blowing only every so often. The lantern you'd set in the back seat casts a yellow hue of the back of Moon's head as he enjoys the ride. While not as fidgety as Sun, he does stick close, hand having somehow intertwined with one of your own, rubbing small circles into the back of it every so often.

All of the sudden, you feel his head rest on your own, it causes heat to grow on your ears.

"Thank you for indulging us and our insistent demands today, Star." He sighs, snuggling closer to you. "This has been lovely."

You duck your head a moment, then clear your throat. "Yo-You're welcome."

Moon's chuckle reverberates against you.

"Could you stop for a moment?" He asks after some time has passed.

You nod. "Sure."

It takes a second, but eventually you're sitting still, waiting for what he's going to do.

What you don't expect is Moon to shift, using his free hand to move under your chin and turn you to face him.

"Wha—"

He bends down then, pressing his smile to your lips, pulling away after a moment.

"That's all, you can keep going now." He snickers, sitting back in the seat.

You blink, taking a moment to process before protesting. "Are you serious? You think you can just do that and not say anything more?"

"Opal wants to get moving, she has carrots to snack on when we return. Marshmallow too."

You hook the reins around part of the sleigh, twisting to face Moon fully. "Opal can wait. I have a few things I'd like to say first." You use both hands to pull his faceplate down to your lips, kissing him again.

And as you sit there, kissing—one of—the bots you love, you can't help but feel a little more grateful that you'd found the sleigh.

So, very grateful.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Gah loved writing this one, thank you @crystalmagpie447 for the request! I hope you enjoyed the fluffy sleigh ride, I def did :)

Masterpost link

Tag list (if you would like added, see this post for more info):

@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8

@luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @amarynthian-chronicles

@robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva

@juukai @crystalmagpie447 @mothgutz236 @lizyxml

#eheheehehe #moon lovers you're finally eating well #im sorry for neglecting you with these #hope this helps #fnaf dca #dca fandom #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #sundrop #moondrop #dca fic #x reader #mm dca december #writing requests

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dcbbw · 2 years ago

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WIP Wednesday 5.24.23

Hi, tumblrs! It’s still Wednesday where I am, and I have two WIPs to share. It’s two new ideas that somehow cut the line and demanded I write something out.

One was supposed to be my submission for #WorldWhiskeyDay, although it may be better suited for Halloween; not Fingers … I had the idea, but no cohesive thoughts have made an appearance yet. Although knowing me, this will probably post Halloween 2024.

The other is yet another take on the Applewood scandal. This is what, my third or fourth one?

And just to put us all on the same page and keep my brain on track, top priorities during writing time over the holiday weekend are: NYC AU, Waiting Room, and these two stories. The MC lunch ask is still floating around in my head as well and thoughts on a companion piece to Cocktail.

Anyways, excerpts are below the cut. As usual, everything is in a rough draft and final, published version may differ. Hope you like it!

Middle of Nowhere (tentative tile)

Song Inspo: Death Letter, Johnny Farmer, Organized Noize

The house sits on a bluff in the middle of nowhere overlooking a large, lazy river, as it has for the past century and a half. It’s almost picturesque, gleaming white clapboard covered with blue sky and bathed in early spring sunlight. Freshly mown grass is interspersed with wildflowers; pussy willows surround the bases of moss-covered trees.

The house has no postal address; it sits on Highway 62 East at Marker 129, in the unincorporated hamlet of Tannerton, equidistant between two bigger towns; not larger … bigger. Fifteen miles to the east is Potter’s Farm where residents and visitors enjoy the movie theater, gourmet Chinese food, a public library, and shopping at big box stores. Fifteen miles to the west is Easton, home to blue collar businesses, public parks and a hiking trail, and long stretches of road filled with fast-food chains, pizzerias, an ice-cream parlor, and a combination barber shop/hair salon.

The house sits empty as it has for the past five years; rumor, legend, and lore say the domicile is haunted, the land it sits on the site of brutal and unnecessary massacres. History tells of previous occupants who met grisly ends, or simply vanished as if the house’s walls and floorboards had swallowed them alive. There is no way to separate fact from fiction. Tannerton’s population is zero; the once-bustling waterway town is no more, save for the house.

Any eyewitnesses to the horrors of the house are the disappeared.

Except for two.

The realtor stands on the front of the house’s wraparound porch, her blue eyes taking in the slow-rolling waves of the Acheron River. In Greek mythology, the River of Acheron was known as the River of Woe and was one of five rivers that led to Hell. As far as the woman knew, no one in this godforsaken corner of the world is aware of that interesting tidbit.

But she is. Her husband is, as he should. He named the river.

She is adjusting the long sleeves of her beige linen dress when her husband joins her on the veranda.

“Is everything ready?” she asks as she turns to face him. The realtor is an older woman, but her face gives no indication of that. Her skin is smooth and unlined even devoid of cosmetics, her sapphire-blue eyes clear and alert, her mouth a cupid’s bow with pale-pink tinted lips.

Her glossy brown hair is still long and wavy, but silver liberally threads her tresses. Her hands are liver-spotted and knotty with veins; her fingers are gnarled, the brittle nails yellowed with age. She tells anyone foolish enough to ask she suffers from arthritis.

“Is everything ready?” she asks, her tone distant as if her thoughts are otherwise occupied.

The man nods stiffly. He is tall and trim; like his wife, his appearance is youthful despite his graying hair. Unlike his wife, his hands and fingers were neither aged nor disfigured.

“It is. They’ll be arriving soon, it may be best to set out the refreshments.”

She nods absently as she scans the front yard. The setting is charming, inviting. A frisson of excited energy courses through her body at the thought of selling the house. There’s a buyer; a younger couple looking to escape the three C’s of a growing city: crime, clubs, congestion. Today is the final walkthrough. The house has sat empty too long; the whiskey untouched even longer.

Annabelle Beaumont walks around her husband to pull the screen door open. “Come, Barthelemy; we have to make sure the Walkers feel right at home when they arrive.”

Come on, come on, come on home

Scandal

Song Inspo: Delusional World Champion, Jean Dawson

Tariq Keriakos stared in puzzlement between his room door and Bastien Lykel, who stood in front of it barring the minor noble’s entry.

“There was a flood?” Tariq repeated stupidly.

The head of the King’s Guard nodded affirmatively. “A pipe burst while the hunt was going on. None of your belongings were harmed; maintenance noticed it almost immediately, but at the moment your quarters are without water.”

“Just my room?”

“Yes, m’Lord. The damage was contained in a timely manner, but we are awaiting parts to arrive. To avoid further inconvenience, another room has been secured for you. It’s Room 4 South.”

“South wing? Isn’t that where the suitors are housed?” Tariq questioned while Bastien pressed a key into his palm.

The sentry was briefly taken aback; the housing arrangement for the visitors at Applewood wasn’t a secret per se, but it wasn’t common knowledge. Bastien quickly recovered.

“It is; given that this is the last night, and all rooms have private baths, I do not foresee an issue.”

Tariq exhaled a long breath. The time at Applewood had been exhausting, this day more than usual. Between Lady Penelope passing him letters from Lady Riley, the horse ride to and from the Ruins, and now his room unavailable to him, Tariq was pretty much done.

“Fine. But my clothing? My toiletries?”

“Already moved and set up in your new quarters,” Bastien assured him.

With a resigned nod, Tariq made his way from the east wing, thinking only of a hot shower and a long sleep.

In the south wing, Riley Brooks, the suitor from America, sat at the vanity in her room re-thinking and possibly regretting every life choice that led to her being in Cordonia.

Tagging: @jared2612 @ao719 @marietrinmimi @queenjilian @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @liamrhysstalker2020 @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @lady-calypso @emkay512 @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @alj4890 @yourfavaquarius111 @motorcitymademadame @queenmiarys @walkerdrakewalker @choicesficwriterscreations

#dcbbw writes #even more wips #trr/trh au fanfiction #writer on tumblr #one day I will finish all the wips #then what will I do

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noxtms · 10 months ago

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MUGGLE METEOROLOGISTS MIGHT HAVE PREDICTED A LATE NIGHT DROP IN TEMPERATURE ACROSS THE COUNTRY, but nothing could have prepared the tiny population of carsington for the hopeless chill that descended on them in the earliest hours of the morning. most were, in a sense, lucky ; the ones who turned in a few hours before would shiver in their beds and find their dreams take a more sinister turn, but if they did manage to shake themselves awake, it wouldn't take long for sleep to reclaim them. it was the muggles awake past what was considered reasonable who would be most affected by what they couldn't see. it was these who would pull their dressing gowns closer when their breath came out in little clouds / who would take the chance to peek outside their curtains and watch the fog rolling in, see the unexpected frost that formed on the grass in their well tended gardens / who would find themselves preoccupied by thoughts of devastation that had no place in the comfort and the safety of their homes. in the morning, it would be an easily forgotten, freak weather incident that brought with it a village wide depression. for now…

well, the dementors paid them all very little mind. they were only present to provide a cover to the masked and heavily robed figures that apparated into the town square, one by one - an added security measure, nothing more and nothing else, stationed along the path that these chosen death eaters took through the sleepy village. they did not turn their heads to watch them, as they went, but their presence led them all the way to the abandoned, stately home where their burning rings had told them they were to meet.

floorboards creak underfoot as they make their way to the highest floor and a dreary attic space that was draped with dusty velvets and lit by dozens of taper candles, complete with the antique table and elegant backed chairs that they have come to know so well over their years of service. the location might have changed from meeting to meeting, over the years, but it is a familiar scene, save for the unexpected reappearance of an unmasked figure who stands loftily behind her throne, white knuckle gripping the back of it. her right hand man, rodolphus, returned to his place seated at her side.

it's been two years since bellatrix deigned to appear at these meetings in person, but in all of that time, her presence has been felt as a suffocating weight, regardless. rodolphus has been her most trusted set of eyes and ears through it all, an ever willing mouthpiece putting voice to every thought and every instruction she's ever issued : a priest through which the lord's will is spoken. this arrangement has always been enough, until now.

"it seems that in my absence," long documented, never discussed. her voice is clear as a bell, "some among you have dared to exaggerate your own importance."

nine individuals, their faces hidden from one another by the silver masks that mark them death eaters - not just any, but inner - exchange nervous glances from where they sit around the table. bellatrix's stormy gaze levels with the tenth, the one stood opposite her, face likewise hidden. her lip curls.

"sit," she tells him, a warning shot.

the room holds its breath, though the problem, perhaps, is that he doesn't.

"i am not a dog for you to call to heel, bellatrix," he replies, all silk.

and then, before their lady can say another word, antonin karkaroff commits the most cardinal of sins ; raising his hand to his face and pulling from it the mask that hid his features from view. he stands taller without it. shoulders back. chin held high. he is unafraid. his companions, the seated inner circle handpicked for their years of devoted service and unwavering loyalty, look down.

"if you were, we'd have already taken you out back," rodolphus murmurs dangerously from where he lounges, the pallid hand that his wife puts on his shoulder in that moment stopping him from saying any more. "you forget yourself, antonin," one of the mystery figures whispers like a prayer, a truth that goes ignored.

"my wolves were not for you to command," straight to the meat of it, she goes, her gaze unwavering. "and neither are my soldiers. you do not tell my death eaters where to go, what to do, when to die-"

"fenrir greyback was a rabid beast," he interjects, matter of fact. it isn't hearsay. they all knew it. "a loose cannon. untameable. he is no loss-"

"you had no right! you-" she snaps, but he doesn't stop there.

"i had every right. if i forget myself, then so do you. for two years, you have left rodolphus to oversee a crumbling regime while i, the minister of magic, have done more for introducing our best interests to the community and exerting control than you have since you took over. all you've done is chase meaningless relics and put your trust in a children's fairytale-"

"you insolent cunt-" rodolphus spits. he might've said more - might've risen from his chair, even - if bellatrix had not kept tight hold upon his shoulder while antonin charged ahead.

"after the dark lord fell, you promised us power and yet, i am the one who's gotten the closest to delivering it. i'm a hero. i have the wizengamot eating out of the palm of my hand, and all i had to do was banish a few dementors with the flick of my wrist and serve them greyback's head on a platter. neither of which were difficult."

bellatrix, to her credit, remains a stoic. rodolphus' rage is an obvious thing. barely contained. he holds the edge of the table for good measure, but a muscle twitches in his jaw, fire reflected in his eyes. even the masked circle, a rapt audience, fidget in their chairs. they shift their weight uneasily and look between them both from beneath their eyelashes, unable to tear their gaze away. she, in sharp contrast, is unreadable. one hand remains visible, where it lays. the other - hidden by the back of her chair - wraps tightly around her wand.

the tense silence that follows his words stretches for so long that it becomes downright uncomfortable. and then, with an admirable simplicity, antonin speaks his truth into the world - long felt, never discussed. "you're done, bellatrix. we have no need of you, anymore."

she lifts her chin - an almost imperceptible movement, an almost betrayal of the raging storm inside. she works her jaw for one, long moment, and her voice is ice when she replies, holding tight to the illusion of her power, here : "with all due respect, you do nothing without my say."

antonin, unmoved, continues to speak plain : "since when?"

if it were not for rodolphus and one of the figures sat at antonin's side moving in the same instant that she did, antonin karkaroff's coup would have ended there with her fingernails at his throat. bellatrix, her expression finally splintering into an unfathomable rage, is little more than a blur when she lunges, her wand forgotten. her husband has to be faster and is hard pressed to pull her back, forced to wrap his entire arm around her waist to tear her from her path. the other figure, hidden behind their mask, is ultimately unneeded in a protective capacity but stands in front of antonin anyway… though he is unaffected by her outburst. the others, most of who jumped / pushed their chairs back / even went so far as to stand, also, and move a few steps away, are unsure what to do.

the most surprising thing, of course, wasn't the explosion of her anger. it wasn't the need for intervention or the way that the feral fight goes out of her body the moment that both of her feet are put back on the ground. it's not that she gives up without her taste of blood, though when antonin's lips quirk upwards in a quietly satisfied smirk, she would be forgiven for going for seconds.

it's just how the ragged silence that falls over the room is broken, as bellatrix begins to laugh.

"you'll see," she says around a chuckle, dark eyes manic, "oh, you'll all see."

it's how she keeps laughing until it leaves her system, encircled by her husbands arms.

it's how her sobered declaration of, "and it'll be much too late, when you do," hangs in the air around them.

and it's, how despite everything, when rodolphus leads her towards the door - a stalwart protector recognising when best to fight and when better to live to fight another day - and a masked figure steps protectively in front of antonin again, she manages a smile for him. their protection is unneeded. she leans in as she passes by, teeth bared, voice low, but her words are for him alone.

"don't get too comfortable. minister."

#nox.plotdrop017 #nox.important #hp rp #harry potter rp #appless rp #fandom rp #canon rp #oc rp #mumu rp #established rp #slur cw #blood cw #( mention but regardless )#eye contact cw

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faelune-home · 1 year ago

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FFXIVWrite 2023 #19: Weal

(A/n: Trying to tell myself not to do more than twin pieces in the few prompts I've been able to do this month and yet twin ideas keep coming to mind. Not that I see anything wrong with providing more cute twins or twin adjacent plots, but I just feel I should diversify a bit more. But ah well.

So how about that all important duty to the star, ey Fourchy? Is it worth the long hours and the time away from home and the secrecy? All for the wellbeing of your kiddos, ey? Lol, I rib on him but I do like the conflict and the character motivation, even if I still wanted to kick him for the end of shb/start of endw, and even now he's kinda still on thin ice.

Word count: 773)

“You’ll be glad to hear that they’re both settling well, they’re sleeping easy in their new room. All the familiar blankets must be helping of course, but it’s still good news.”

“Good, good. They weren’t comfortable with sea travel at all.” Many a night punctuated by wailing and screams, overpowering the sound of creaking floorboards and crashing waves.

“They really weren’t, poor dears. Oh but I don’t think Alphinaud likes the cold much here, he’s always terribly upset whenever we go out for walks around the city. I have him with some extra blankets in his crib for now, see if it helps.”

“I see…we should hope that it doesn’t require a chirurgeon to come in and check on him, but hopefully he’ll adjust soon.” After all, they’ll both be growing up there, in this new-old city; new for the young ones, but many many decades old, even if it had been left with a smaller population for much of that time.

“He will, I’m sure of it. But I’ll keep the household on high alert should we need a healer on short notice, just for your peace of mind,” Ameliance smiled, a small glimmer in her eye as she both teased and placated her husband. Fourchenault didn’t quite have the heart to answer with much enthusiasm.

“I envy your confidence my dear,” he sighed, a hand held to one of his temples.

“Well, I know you worry for them, but they’re stronger than you might think, even at this age. They’ve made it this far, travelling across the world after all. I think this is a sign they’ll be firm fighters when they grow up.” He didn’t want to doubt or refute her words, he’s sure they would be quite fine at this age, with all the help and comforts they could need.

But the worry festered in his mind anyway, casting images of both children only hours old, so small in his arms, the slightest jolt or noise or anything that could hurt them if he wasn’t careful.

Those words stayed trapped in his throat though, finding himself unable to douse his wife’s optimism. She was a balm to his fears.

A chime rang from the chronometer in the room.

“Oh is that the time already?” Ameliance frowned.

“I’m afraid so,” Fourchenault answered, getting to his feet. Their reunion was over so quickly and he had to return to work. They moved to the foyer by the main door, though he waved off the servant ready to open them while he turned to his wife once more.

“I do hope you’re resting. Your work may be important but you can’t work effectively on little sleep,” she said, her frown looking a touch more stern.

“I try to, Ameliance, but really, tis easier to push on and see it done quickly.” Knowing what was at stake, he had to give all he could. He wished sometimes that he could tell her why but…

“But do try harder,” she insisted, “The children would like to see you hale and whole when next you visit. You will visit again soon, yes?”

“As soon as I can. But all this work is for them just as much as it is for every Sharlayan.”

“Oh I know that, of course. But telling them is one thing, at this young of an age, would they even understand the importance of it?” Ameliance asked. When he didn’t respond, she stepped closer to him, a gentle hand upon his cheek.

“I’m not trying to challenge you darling, nor do I disagree with your work or your reasons. Just don’t forget to come home to your children. See them with your own eyes and not just as an update on another missive. If all your work is for their well being in the future, then remind yourself of what you’re working for.” He reached up to hold her hand in his own.

A cry sounded deeper in the house, a quick word from Celia allowing her to slip off and see to the noise without breaking up the pair.

Fourchenault lowered her hand to her side, but gave it a light squeeze, keeping hold of it for a moment longer.

“Very well.” They finally separated, the door opening at the nod of his head. A distant ‘Milady’ sounded further up the stairs, paired with babbling sniffs.

“Lady Alisaie wished to see you–”

It was the last thing he heard, glancing back just quickly enough to see his daughter’s teary blue eyes staring after him before the doors closed.

It wouldn’t be proper to turn back. He had work to do.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #ameliance leveilleur #fourchenault leveilleur #fufu's writing #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv

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severussnapedamagedlove · 2 years ago

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Here is my newest oneshot of Eomer Eadig (because I'm obsessed)

The Art of Service

"and there was only one bed", inexperienced Eomer, rescue, mentions of death, pre-war of the ring/AU

The rain poured across the Riddermark. Grasslands turned to oceans of confusion. The pounding rain, endless hills and cover of cloud. Travel in a downpour was impossible without losing the way a few times. Any experienced Eorlingas would know that it was fruitless. Best to take cover and weather out the storm under protection.

That was what landed him in an old forgotten house on the edge of the mountains. It was large and desolate. Not a soul resided in the expansive estate, overgrown with grasses and vines over the outer stone walls. The sharp echoes of nothing answered the clacking of their horses hooves against the stone courtyard.

“We’ll make camp here for the night,” Eomer declared as he put his saddle through the front door. The leather saddle bags sloshed with the excessive rainfall. It stained the stone threshold with its wet. “Edoras is too far in these conditions.”

His companion shivered. Her dress was soaked through. The cloak at her back was plastered to her backside, sticking to the length of her dress skirts. Bluish color touched the center of her lips.

Her eyes were hesitant, observing the abandoned estate house around them, the luxury cracking and decayed from years of neglect. “What is this place?”

The softness of her voice still punctured the silence with a faint echo.

Eomer brushed the beaded rain off his chest plate. “Years of war have left many estates empty across the riddermark. This was once a nobles house or possibly someone of royal blood.” He eyed the long shadows all around them. “Long forgotten now.”

His heavy footfall echoed down halls in every corner of the house as they searched.

There was not much left. Most of the furniture was gone or broken. It was possible it was stolen in the years it laid empty. The cellar stores were depleted. Waters remained at the bottom of an ancient well, long ago mined in centuries before his people populated their lands. It was old, ancient, with waters sweet of time untouched.

The young lord was used to mess with his Eored. A place out of rain and wind was suitable enough.

The lady at his side, though, was not a shieldmaiden. She was a traveling scholar with whom his sister adored. He had never much cared for her educated ways. Mostly it was at his expense that her explanations came. Still, he was a gentlemen who knew better than to let her suffer.

Hicela trembled in the wet of her clothes. She was no longer exposed to elements, but the cover of night was cool.

Eomer ventured outside through the rain in search of firewood. The storeroom was a round building near the main house. Its door was wretched open against years of green growth.

His arms filled with logs that remained without rot, and he marched back inside.

“There is not much. We cannot waste it.” He proclaimed.

She nodded, seeming in agreement. “Should we burn it where we intend to sleep?”

The suggestion was sound. A warm bed would work wonders for their bodies.

The second floor was creaky. Some boards were weak and cracked. He did not risk leading her through a maze of rotten floorboards. The door nearest was kicked in.

The master of the house once resided in that very room. A dense bed overtook the back portion of it. Though coated in decades of dust, it was clear fur blankets were still intact.

Eomer gestured her inside, earning a curious look as he latched the door close behind them.

“Preserves the heat,” he explained gruffly.

It became apparent that the situation strayed from innocence. Both were capable of simple math. One room, one bed. If they were to sleep, it would have to be together.

He kept his eyes focused on his fingers. They worked with the firewood to spark life in a flame. It was a practiced skill he learned as a young child.

He cleared his throat. “You may take the bed.” The growth of the fire shielded the obvious blush grown over his face. “I have slept worse places than a floor.”

Hicela glanced back at the bed. Her brows flexed tightly in the center as she stared a moment longer.

Finally her lips shuddered a breath. “We really should sleep together.”

Her words snapped such a surprise that he burned his fingers when he dropped a log into the young flames.

“It will warm our bodies best,” she replied quickly. Her eyes stared at his hand. “We won’t freeze if we share body heat.”

Read more on

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1358129816-the-art-of-service

Fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14250563/2/A-Collection-of-EOMER-LOTR-Short-Stories

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48273979/chapters/121745308

PLEASE BE SURE TO FOLLOW. I'll post my other stories of Eomer under the same story.

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pyrepostings · 4 months ago

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No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

Free Birds and Fiddlers

cw: Mentions of disordered eating, Tail end of a panic attack/ptsd episode

~~~

The evening wind howled as Quinn dismounted his horse and tied it to a nearby fence-post. He had been riding all day, searching for his charge who had been reported absent by his friends, and was actually looking for some kind of inn to stay the night when he spotted a familiar horse not quite all the way around back behind a long since abandoned house.

Upon closer inspection, the horse was clearly Kevin's. Unbranded, but still tacked up with gear which was uniquely marked. Quinn thought Kevin knew better than to leave a horse saddled overnight. But maybe it was intentional.

Petting its snout, Quinn decided it wasn't in distress, it was clearly enjoying munching on the otherwise neglected yard, and moved for the door.

The back door opened with a creak, and Quinn switched on his torch as the fading light faded faster past the threshold. He called out for Kevin as he moved through the house, wary of inherent dangers of abandoned buildings, such as rodents and cobwebs and protruding floorboards, but also the possibility of ambush.

He found him, after not too long. Quinn opened a bedroom door to find a knife being pointed at him from across the room, and considering Kevin's demonstrated skill with throwing, he might as well have been holding a loaded gun.

Quinn's immediate instinct was to reach for his own weapon, but thought better of it before unholstering it. He raised his empty hand slowly, and loosened the grip on the light.

"Hey, Kevin, you're not in trouble. Let's put the knife down, ok?"

Kevin did lower the knife, but didn't put it away. His jaw was set, and while he wasn't putting much weight on the wall behind him, he seemed to be using it for balance. "Then stay back."

"Ok." Quinn said. "Alright, how about we sit down, hmm?"

The floor was ratty and uneven, but Quinn slowly sat, with his back against the wall, and Kevin followed less gracefully from his side of the room.

Kevin pulled the hood of his cloak further over his head as he curled in on himself, still watching Quinn. "If I'm not in trouble then why are you here?"

"Apparently, you agreed to meet with some of your friends last night and never showed. They asked if I've seen you, and I joined the search. It's kind of my job to keep tabs on you, remember?"

"Yeah, I'm aware." He started tugging on a lock of hair on the top of his head. "Does... Julian know?"

"Cassie left with a report for him when I hadn't seen you. We can send an update, but I doubt we can intercept that report at this point."

"How did you find me?"

Quinn let out a breath. "You know, we might not be friends, but I've figured out a few things about you. For one, I know you've been enjoying this arrangement far more than the alternative. You wouldn't have made an actual attempt to run, or to seem like you were, so you wouldn't be too far away."

Kevin's eyes were on the floor now, watching something Quinn couldn't see, or wasn't there.

"I don't know all the mental hangups you have, but I know you don't like crowds when you're going through it. I know you prefer little farming towns in the middle of nowhere to actual population centers. I was actually more expecting to find you in that forest a bit more northeastward, but I figured I'd check the villages out along the way."

Quinn took a deliberate pause before continuing, "And your horse was clearly visible from the road, so I figured you were close."

Kevin buried his face in his arms. "oh I knew I should have hid her better."

Quinn felt the corners of his mouth twitch. "It's okay. I know you're not fully in your right mind right now- For that matter, when was the last time you ate?"

For a moment, Quinn thought he was being ignored, before Kevin mumbled, "Breakfast. Uh, yesterday."

"In that case, how's about we get out of here, find somewhere cleaner, an inn that serves dinner?"

Kevin curled up tighter, not meeting Quinn's eyes. "Are you going to make me?"

"No, but I thought you had promised Julian to take care of yourself. Eating regularly is part of that, right?"

"Yeah. I just- I can't-"

"...Or I can go bring something here?"

"Yeah, I could do that."

~~~

Free Birds and Fiddlers

#Free Birds and Fiddlers #late entry #whumptober2024 #no.1 #Search Party #Panic Attack #OC #Kevin my dear oc #and Quinn The Cop OC is here too to be a halfway decent human being #Fic #Disordered eating #panic attack aftermath #I plan to have Kevin name his horse but I haven't decided what yet so it's just The Horse #tw disordered eating

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sofiadragon · 5 months ago

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I accidentally posted instead of putting in a new heading, this next bit is magical theorycraft about repair spells and why people might have patched up clothes when Repairo is right there. Also a bit about clothing durability, fast fashion, and the cost of hand woven fabric.

We know magic can instantly repair things. We know many spells and enchantments don't survive their caster's death, and we know Grimmauld Place, despite having a house elf in residence, went from an opulent home decorated to impress visitors with ostentatious wealth to a molding old heap with carpets worn through in ten years or less of disuse depending on when exactly Sirius' parents died.

So, I suspect that while a simple charm might work in the short term, it doesn't work indefinitely. The thing isn't really fixed, it is just taking on the properties of something that has been fixed, and as additional wear and tear accumulates the damage eventually outstripps the cast spell. You could cast again, and perhaps some specific repair and Transfiguration spells will layer nicely. However, just like using glue to repeatedly repair my Grandmother's cookie jar as my kid handles the delicate porcelain "butterfly on a cat" shaped lid roughly in excitement, the layers start to build up and cause their own issues. The carpets in the Black townhouse were likely charmed to look perfect and to look like the latest fashion over and over. Layer upon layer of magic... and then all the family died or was in prison and it was left to unravel into it's natural state: a hundred years old and worn down to the floorboards.

For clothing specifically: It might distort or disfigure the garment to repair it too many times in a way worse than the apparent damage. At that point there is nothing for it: you have to dispell the magic and start fresh. Now, all those layers are undone at once, and it isn't a frayed seam it's got a great hole you can fit your fingers through. A patch of new fabric sewn onto the elbows and knees or other wear points will do the job, which takes time and materials.

The Materials

The wizarding world is not industrialized and seems to have limited international trade. I imagine you can only apperate with so much, ever-expanding bags must still be pulled along by one's magic, and the statute of secrecy makes large gatherings and large shipments difficult to do unnoticed. The Hogwarts Express implies a few things related to this. Some people just aren't good at long-distance teleportation or taking someone with side-along apperation in canon, and all methods of magical travel seem to be regulated somehow. All the students gather to take a train since they have to move not only children who can't travel alone but also luggage. Inconsistent details aside, some things don't take well to shrinking or improper storage either. I think it makes the most sense to say the Floo is newer than the tradition of gathering at set locations for portkeys or other travel methods (the train itself may be newer than the Floo Network, but gathering for a caravan of some kind likely isn't given even the most cursory look at a population density map.) These days with better travel options for individuals everyone leaves from London, but in the past I think students would join along the way. In modern day the Floo makes traveling with children and a small amount of goods so much easier that most parents take their kids along using it, but large amounts of imported goods are much, much less common than in the muggle world of cargo container ships.

This means that most things are made nearby, by hand (or by wand,) and the market prices of goods will reflect that. A full outfit of clothing used to be considerably more expensive before the advent of fast fashion and mass importation of goods made cheaply in other countries by slave labor. I have a very old fashioned off-white cotton sheath made of high quality (high weight) cotton fabric that I use to sleep in. I wear it like my great-great-grandmother might have: six days a week every week for two years. (☆cough cough autism texture ick solution hem hem☆) People in general did not have closets full of clothes. Just like Harry's first year list asks for him to get three uniforms, people tended to wear the same few items until they fell apart.

Fabrics these days are generally lower weight than they used to be - to the point that our foremothers would say very nasty things about the cheapskate weaver. You can't even buy sheets based on thread count anymore, the threads and the weave used to make fabrics are so thin and skimpy that companies have to cut and weigh a section to make sure they aren't being cheated. Thin = low durability. Fast fashion clothes are made a thin, cheap, and quickly as possible so you just can’t wear them too many times without them falling apart. Heck, sometimes they don't have the hems properly finished and you have to trim the trailing thread yourself. There are a lot of articles about this from a lot of sources. TL;DR: modern western culture includes a closet full of mostly cheaply made clothing you only wear a few times because if you wore them once a week or more they'd fall off you.

There is no indication that Magical Europe has the same kind of industry. Harry's school uniform is hemmed and finished on the spot: the clothing on the racks in Madam Malkins is likely unfinished with basted seams, and will be sewn to order based on the measurements of the patron.

Meanwhile, Remus Lupin is likely wearing a robe he got as a graduation present from James because with proper care a durable fabric really won't dissolve into gauze even after 200 days of wearing it. I have quality towels that are 10 years old, wedding gifts, that are not even fraying on the edge, but the cotton athletic clothes I bought last year are getting worn through already after two summers of use. The hand-spun, hand-woven, wand-stitched clothing Professor Snape is wearing every day, assuming he owns an extravagant five outfits (not including his gray nightshirt and sundries) due to the nature of his work with chemicals and athleticism (man outran a hippogriff, he's not the one skipping leg day) likely means he only buys one new robe once every couple years to keep looking well-dressed at a prestigious position. That robe likely costs a good portion of his annual salary, and Hermione really should have apologized for burning his cloak - an outerwear piece like a jacket one would likely expect to get more than half a decade of daily use from. Looking at the historical prices of day/work clothing it used to be a significant investment and the idea of buying an outfit that you would only wear once used to be a laughable thing even for the very rich who could afford such an extravagant and wasteful practice. Far more likely that a one-off outfit would have some adjustments made to it instead of it being discarded entirely.

So how do these expensive handmade clothes get repaired by Molly?

It is also possible that Snape and others who are desperatly scrambling up the social ladder out of poverty learned muggle mending techniques due to his upbringing, where Lupin or even someone like Molly Weasley (who were both born into well-off or middle class families) may not have learned such things or even think to learn them due to their upbringing. Knitting and embroidery, fiber crafts in general, can and do overlap with knowledge of sewing and mending, but they don't have to. I could easily see Molly sitting with one of Arthur's nicer robes, looking at a tear baby Charlie caused and using embroidery to cover it because it works and she doesn't know how to do it without making it obvious that there was a repair.

On the flip side, I was an accountant but when I finished my paperwork I'd often be found repairing the formal dresses we had in store that were damaged by customers. Yes, even with gentle handling those fancy formal dresses people try on in stores are getting completely ruined. Pulled seams, pulled threads, torn lace, damaged beading, and all sorts of damage gets done (especially during prom season.) I can't knit and have only just begun to crochet recently, but I can repair a damaged formal gown such that nobody can tell it was ever dirty or torn. Saved the business $100-$500 per repair by making those gowns saleable again. The skill is related, but not interchangeable.

That rip? Tree branch now. The burn from the twins having a snit over nap time including accidental magic? Pair of stars. It's incongruous and sometimes she'll use a circle cut out of something else to cover a hole before she embroiders over it but nobody told her you have to align the fabric grain, so people know they are patched. They go as long as they can between using mending spells so they don't layer badly, because once they go wrong you're stuck needing a patch or something newer.

🪡

So the people who know to use (likely proprietary) spells that work like a sewing machine, mechanically moving the needles around, are the ones doing real lasting repairs. The books are light on the sort of everyday jobs done by the lower classes, nearly everyone is a schoolchild or an academic or a member of the social elite. Bill Weasley's job as a cursebreaker comes the closest to the kind of maintenance-man trade that simply must exist in a functional society. A wizard who knows enough about crafting without magic to make and fix items permanently - meaning in a way that is real and not a transfiguration or charm. Spells that shape wood physically, that drive pipes into the ground to make a well, that cast iron and pewter into cauldrons, that fix malfunctioning magical objects... the information about that kind of trade skill type of employment is pretty much nonexistent in the books because Harry isn't interested in the trades, including tailoring, but it must exist for a functional economy.

And the thing about skilled trades is that they know their worth and charge by the job, not the hour.

Wizarding clothing and fashion

This meta/list of HCs has been sitting in my drafts for a while. But here is my meta about wizarding fashions.

1.0 An insular culture with its own unique dress

No shade to people who enjoy seeing and drawing characters in muggle clothing, but I think that the majority of wizards and witches dress in wizarding clothing.

Indeed, the fact that most wizards can’t dress as muggles and are quite conspicuous is mentioned in the first chapter of the series:

“People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.” PS

And then becomes a sort of running joke:

“Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho” GoF

And in DH it is (partly) how Harry recognises that people are watching Grimmauld Place:

“The lurkers were never the same two days running, although they all seemed to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed them were used to eccentric dressers and took little notice, though occasionally one of them might glance back, wondering why anyone would wear such long cloaks in this heat.” DH

Side note: it is peak Londoner to barely take notice of something odd. And this also implies that robes and cloaks are all year wear and that wizards potentially don’t have seasonal clothing.

Given that wizarding culture is very insular (with its own economy, government, and education system), it would make sense that while it may occasionally borrow trends from the muggle world, wizarding fashion and clothing are unique.

In fact, only the younger generation are seen in muggle dress, with Harry commenting:

“Their children might don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley usually wore long robes in varying states of shabbiness.” GoF

2.0 Class and generational differences in dress

The previous quote demonstrates two things: much like in real life, there is generational and class stratification of dress. The condition and quality of wizarding clothing serves as a non-verbal cue about a character's economic status. This disparity is not just a background detail but is frequently brought into focus, such as through Draco Malfoy's derisive comments about Professor Lupin's tattered robes.

“ Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the delapidated suitcase.” PoA

“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed. “He dresses like our old house-elf.” PoA

Even Harry comments on his robes and observes that:

“Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes”

The patched and frayed nature of both Lupins and Weasley’s robes seem to indicate that robe repairs can’t be done by an individual (or when it is done, it is really visible). Another example of this is when Ron removes the lace from his dress robes and leaves:

“...the edges still looked depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs.” GoF

Additionally, in Padfoot returns Sirius’s prison robes still appear tatty despite him having had a haircut and left the country. This indicates that he either can’t obtain new robes or can’t/hasn’t bothered repairing his Azkaban robes.

This is interesting, given that Molly Weasley is able to make jumpers and scarves yet can’t seem to alter robes. While knitting and sewing are separate skills, it seems odd that there aren’t means of repairing robes.

This suggests that robes can only be repaired and bought at official vendors such as Madam Malkins/Gladrags/Twifitt and Tattings.

It is also interesting that both Fred and George buy clothing when they become successful (also a parallel to the real world). They gift their mum:

“….a brand-new midnight blue witch’s hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace.” HBP

However, things being ‘frayed’ aren’t always an indication of poverty. Tonks is first introduced wearing an outfit that is a mix of muggle clothing but with something that is distinctly wizarding:

“Tonks stood just behind him…. wearing heavily patched jeans and a bright purple T-shirt bearing the legend THE WEIRD SISTERS.” OoTP

This outfit is heavily reminiscent of Sirius and James in the Elvendork prequel:

“Both were dressed in T-shirts emblazoned with a large golden bird; the emblem, no doubt, of some deafening, tuneless rock band.”

3.0 The underwear question

Something that gets bought up a lot is whether wizards wear underwear.

Harry (who was raised by muggles certainly seems to):

“He was just piling underwear into his cauldron when Ron made a loud noise of disgust behind him.” GoF

And:

“He was shivering now, his teeth chattering horribly, and yet he continued to strip off until at last he stood there in his underwear…” DH

So does Neville (in the UK, Pants means underwear)

“He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.”

And infamously, so does Snape:

“Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs and a pair of graying underpants.”

Also we get some information about witch’s underwear from Sirius’s very Freudian joke:

“Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then said, “I’ll look for him later, I expect I’ll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother’s old bloomers.”

Bloomers are a type of historical, baggy underpants (think boy shorts, but make it victorian).

In conclusion, Archie, who wanted a breeze around his privates, was probably an outlier.

4.0 Materials and accesories

So what is wizarding clothing made of?

For robes and cloaks the materials most mentioned are silk/satin and velvet:

“ She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.” GoF

Additionally in GoF, we learn that even witches and wizards from other countries wear robes and cloaks:

“Now that they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep bloodred.”

And

“...Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold.”

Other materials include Dragon hide which appears to be used to make practical gloves and boots but also fashionable jackets.

“... followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragon skin.” HBP

Additionally, robes can be embroidered:

“ The man’s scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which were embroidered with much gold thread” DH

“Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent, long, emerald green robes embroidered with silver” HBP

“Madam Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street toward them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing gown embroidered with dragons.” HBP

Interestingly, both men and women appear to wear heels:

Dumbledore:

“He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots” PS

Madame Maxine:

“Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage..” GoF

Monsiour Delacour:

“However, he looked good-natured. Bouncing toward Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.” DH

Madame Rosmerta:

“ Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly turquoise high heels,” POA

Furthermore, witches carry handbags:

“Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly” COS

“ She was wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm.” GoF

“Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag” OoTP

“Ron was rummaging through the little witch’s handbag.” DH

5.0 My HCs

When I imagine what male robes look like, I imagine something akin to a Morrcan thobe or an Indian Sherwani.

I imagine robes to be enchanted to move and in my fic Pietas, I describe my OC Aeliana’s robes as follows:

“She smiled slightly, smoothing the front of her dress, which was decorated with embroidered flowers and birds that had been enchanted to flutter their wings.”

I also HC some cultural variance in robes- with certain countries using different cloth or the skin of magical animals that are native to their countries. With hotter countries, having lighter robes and cooling/anti-perspiration charms.

#harry potter #wizard clothing #harry potter worldbuilding #wizarding society

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casspurrjoybell-31 · 1 year ago

Text

The Consort - Chapter 14 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

Finn

Brayden and I travel for hours.

It isn't until the first slivers of moonlight begin to kiss the horizon that he slows enough for me open my eyes without them burning against the blistering wind.

I squint against the shadows, trying to make sense of where we are but all I see are the tops of hundreds of trees.

He shifts me around his torso and to his back, positioning me so it looks like he's giving me a piggy back ride.

Then I see why.

There's a small treehouse at the top, one that I would have never noticed otherwise.

The surrounding trees hide it without fail, their foliage a protective shield from the rest of the world.

When we get to the top, Brayden pushes through the rickety door and sets me on my feet.

Another pair of red eyes stare back at us and my heart slams against my chest.

Did Brayden bring me here as bait?

As payment?

The Vampire blinks and moves towards me.

Familiar features catch the spots of moonlight seeping through the cracks of the roof and I have an impulse to cry.

It's Kelly.

"Kelly. It's good to see you," I choke out.

My best friend's brow creases in confusion but he doesn't say anything.

Instead he looks over at Brayden who pulls a bag of blood from somewhere within his cloak.

"Payment," Brayden says to Kelly. "As promised."

Kelly snatches the blood bag from his hands, ripping the top off with his teeth and spitting it to the floor.

When the opening of the bag touches his lips, a satisfied gurgle dances down his throat.

It reminds me of the vampire at the University.

Brayden eye's remain fixated on the blood rushing into Kelly's eager mouth.

Based on the color of his eyes, I would guess Brayden hasn't eaten since the last time I saw him.

I shouldn't care about something like this.

Leo would say good riddance.

Yet the yearning for Brayden to drink my blood overwhelms me once again.

Kelly tosses aside the drained bag.

His eyes have lost their blazing edge but they're still red enough to glow.

Brayden pulls a second bag of blood from his pocket and waves it daringly in front of Kelly's face.

"Keep watch tonight," Brayden proposes.

"And this will be yours as soon as the sun rises in the morning."

Kelly licks his lips and nods without hesitation.

"Done."

He doesn't wait around for any additional small-talk.

His light footsteps move around us and he leaves the small treehouse.

The wooden door shuts in his absence and Brayden puts the bag of blood back into his pocket.

The wind picks up in the distance and the floorboards creak beneath us.

It seems the only thing keeping this treehouse together is nothing more than a whispered prayer.

Brayden folds his hands together behind his back and nods to the far side of the room.

"You should get some sleep," he instructs.

"We will need to leave in the morning."

I remain standing and unmoving.

I haven't seen or talked to this immortal man in well over a month.

Having in front of me again feels like a dream, though after having countless fantasies about our reunion, this isn't quite what I imagined.

My stomach grumbles, a low roar of thunder in a room of torrid silence.

"I have no food for you, human," Brayden says.

"I can get you something tomorrow morning."

"I'm fine."

There's a lull in our exchange and I have the urge to ask him everything and nothing.

My legs feel shaky, so I gingerly take a seat on the floor.

"I found out, you know," I say against the strained silence.

"What a Nirv is."

Bogdan remains silent.

I lick my licks and take a measured breath.

"Is it true? That I'm one of them?"

A flicker of red meets my gaze and Brayden's jaw tightens.

"Yes."

'Yes.' In a single word, both my biggest fear and biggest hope is confirmed.

It terrifies me to be a Nirv, to be a target for an entire population of immortal vampires.

On the other hand, knowing I have a scent and a type of blood that makes me more desirable than the others gives me hope....with Bogdan.

Even if he doesn't act on his want, I know he has to crave me on some level.

Leo told me time and time again how precious my blood is and therefore how desirable I am to the vampires.

Even if Bogdan never succumbs to those feelings, he has to have them. Right?

Brayden keeps his eyes on me and my stomach dips.

"So I never got a chance to thank you," I mutter, trying to find my courage.

"For saving me."

"I didn't do it for you," Brayden replies evenly.

My heart sinks.

I should expect these kinds of responses but they still find a way of hitting the most vulnerable nerves.

"If your blood gets into the wrong hands, dangerous vampires could retain a power that could wipe out the entire human population. It isn't safe."

"Why don't you just drink it then?" I ask, half-sarcastically and half-serious.

"Then there won't be anything left for anyone else."

Brayden's eyes shimmer at the thought.

His fangs elongate just a hair, their white, pointed ends glistening with a desire for flesh.

"No vampire would drain you," Bogdan answers factually.

"Your blood is too rich to be consumed in a single sitting. It's intoxicating. They would do all they could to keep your blood pumping as long as possible."

Oh. I think back to Leo's explanation of a Nirv and suck my bottom lip into my mouth.

The supple flesh is chapped from today's journey.

"Is it true... that if they tasted my blood, they would fall in love with me?"

Brayden sighs irritably.

"Vampires are not wired to feel emotions like that, human."

He paces around me a single time and his voice softens.

"But I guess in some ways it would be similar to being in love. A curse on the heart that cannot be undone."

My shoulders sag.

It was stupid to think Brayden saving me was any 'sign' that things had changed between us.

Sure, we shared a kiss once before but really... that kiss was pretty one-sided, as embarrassing as it is to admit.

And it's not like he wants to keep me safe.

He simply wants to keep me away from everyone else.

Hurt drives me to get to my feet again,and I feel my way towards the door.

"What do you think you're doing?" Brayden asks.

"Leaving."

He snorts. When I open the door, however, he's already at my side slamming it closed.

"What do you think you're doing, human?"

I cross my arms over my chest, glaring up at him with annoyance.

"To talk to Kelly."

"He's not strong enough to resist you."

"I'll take my chances."

Brayden's eyes swirl with anger and he lowers his face to mine.

His scent washes over me in waves, the rich smell overpowering my senses.

He gently takes hold of my chin with his hand, tilting my head upwards until my eyes collide with his.

"You ungrateful human," he murmurs.

"I may not be saving you specifically but by keeping you away from the wrong hands, I am saving your entire species."

I reach for the door again but this time Brayden catches my hand.

His cool fingers slide over top of mine.

It's a touch I have dreamed about for weeks.

"What game do you play with me, human?" Brayden whispers grudgingly.

I don't pull my hand away from his and he doesn't drop it either.

"I'm not trying to play a game," I say over the rush of blood pounding against my ears.

"I just miss my best friend. I miss...everything."

The pain I've tried to stuff down catches me by surprise.

Tears spring to my eyes and Brayden recoils his touch, unsure of how to react to my sudden change in emotion.

Salty droplets spill down my cheeks and I hastily wipe them away.

"He doesn't remember you," Brayden whispers. I sniffle and lean my back against the door.

"I know but that just makes it worse. It's like I can still see glimpses of who he used to be. But then he's not."

Brayden runs a hand down the length of his jaw.

He seems of sure of how to proceed with me.

His red eyes study the modest, one-roomed treehouse.

"I do not understand your emotions, human," he finally responds.

"But I will do what I need to keep you here. And keep you safe. What is it you need from me right now?"

A hug.

Someone to talk to.

Someone to explain what's happening and how the world is changing around me.

But my brain pushes all those logical thoughts away.

Instead, it sends a message to my vocal chords and I find myself blurting out a request that I wish I could take back.

"Kiss me."

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yandere-toons · 3 years ago

Note

Hey since you’re doing Psychonauts, could you do a Nick Johnsmith X reader, please?(I am completely aware of this dude’s ulterior motives in the game, I just love his voice actor so much!)

Yandere Gristol Malik | Nick Johnsmith (Platonic Scenario - "The Last Carriage Out of Grulovia")

Warnings: Unresolved Trauma, Famine, Body Decomposition, Drowning, Violence, Blood, Death, Emotional/Psychological Manipulation, Toxic Mindsets.

A.N. – One of my favourite stories I've ever written.

The tweets of songbirds were muffled by the thick glass of the expansive windows allowing the red light of dawn to pour into the halls of the royal palace.

Many portraits of Gzar Theodore Malik and his family hung on the walls in place of other art, each one a splash of dark and gloomy colours that portrayed little happiness in their blank stares.

Maids worked on their knees to scrub the floorboards and rugs before royal boots stepped on them, and butlers walked up and down the corridors with fresh trays of breakfast still steaming.

“Great Gzar, if I may be allowed to rest.”

Theodore turned back and gazed at you through squinted eyes, drawing his hand to his chest as if even considering the request was shameful.

The crown, which sat upon his skull as if moulded to it, was a hill of red larger than he was wide that spiralled into the arms of various candles and dangling jewels. It looked like a chandelier that should have been hanging from wires on the ceiling, and the question of how his neck supported it was one you often pondered.

The creak of a door opening resounded from down the hall.

The thwacks of boots on the floorboards evolved into the soft thuds of heels on the rug, and a pair of hands seized your own with an impatient tug.

“I require more caviar!” A youthful and spirited voice erupted at your side, brimming with a confidence that demanded attention. Gristol Malik sported an indifferent if not slightly annoyed look as he neglected to acknowledge his father or the previous conversation.

As the Gzar hummed in amusement and started to walk away, you leaned over and bent your knees slightly to lessen the strain of resisting the boy. “There are many servants in the palace.”

His father took confident strides in the opposite direction when Gristol tightened his hold on you and pulled once again. “I wish for you to retrieve it. As your prince, I command it!”

The high-pitched barks of Spotty yipped and squeaked in a distant room, and the noise grew louder with the opening of a nearby door.

Gzarina Rokel Malik entered the hall in a series of controlled steps as if she planned each one before taking it, hands clasped in front of her waist and head angled towards the ceiling. The frill of her rose-pink dress and bejewelled crown, as they shook in a smooth rhythm, caught the eye of Gristol.

Taking a long moment to study the interaction between you and her son, Rokel mustered a posh smile and stood straighter with a quiet inhale. “Gristol, isn't it time for your horseback riding lessons?”

* * *

The common land of Grulovia was populated with shacks, dilapidated homes that had succumbed to the erosion of time and were barely livable, and a few too many citizens clad in rags. Their clothes had become oversized due to a lack of full stomachs most nights, and they devoted much of their remaining energy to carving and painting signs that begged for change.

Gristol may as well have been in a world of his own as he trotted along a dirt road on his pony, never looking at the people his father claimed to serve until a large rock landed in his path.

It was as if a blockage in his ears had been cleared, for as the prince watched the stone tear a line in the dirt, the buzz in the back of his head swelled to thundering footsteps and howls of anger.

On the horizon was a mob of fire, metal, and the silhouettes of peasants charging forward. In the hands of the mob were pitchforks and torches, the flames waving back and forth with a furious intensity and casting an uncomfortable heat upon the boy.

More rocks slammed into the ground near the hooves of the pony, and the animal reared its front legs to whinny. It fought the bit in its mouth and the bridle on its snout, causing the leather straps to chafe Gristol's palms. “Don't you know who I am? I'm telling my father!” he shouted at the mob, only to have his voice suffocated in the outcry of the people.

As he turned to leave, a searing pain struck his cheek and knocked him to the ground. Dirt, a fetid substance foreign to the boy, stained his pristine uniform and took the shine out of the gold buttons. The neigh of his mount echoed in the smoky air, but his attention was drawn to the bright liquid seeping from his skin like water from a river.

It glistened with the rosy glow of crimson and reeked of copper, dripping onto his quivering fingers and coating them in a damp warmth.

The heart in his chest thrummed against his ribcage at an increasing rate that surged to the palpitations of an animal breaking out of a cage. Any control over the situation that Gristol pretended to have was torn from him at that moment, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead while searching for his horse to escape.

The hoofbeats of the pony fleeing caused the prince to extend a hand and demand its return, the hooves flinging earth at him and retreating over the hill.

Gristol pulled his face out of the mud with a desperate cry, and when he flipped onto his back to crawl in the direction his frantic mind assumed led to the castle, he saw only monsters who wished to inflict a type of harm on him that he could not understand.

Their humanity had been stripped away to reveal gnashing teeth, pounding fists, and wild eyes devoid of mercy.

He breathed so fast that his lungs began to contract in painful spasms, and the sensation of a crushing weight lying on his chest drained his legs of their strength and filled his head with dizzy panic. Even his arms started to fail him, wobbling and threatening to plunge his body into the dirt without a chance of lifting himself out of it.

Just as the sun was fading into the bared teeth and torches of the peasants, a wall of water crashed upon the rear of the crowd and swept it into the air.

Screams of terror replaced the gales of rage, and the waves swelled and stooped to clutch more in a fluid embrace and toss them out of his sight.

Fearing the rough touch of hands seeking to show him no remorse, Gristol tucked his knees into his stomach and wrapped his arms around his face. The noises swirling around him continued for most of a minute as his whimpers were overshadowed by the deluge and shrieks.

After the land collapsed into a peace rife with waterlogged corpses and the silent echoes of agony, a pair of footsteps approached the boy. He shivered with bursts of intermittent sobs, which turned to shouts and squirming when two arms heaved him against a lean chest.

A deep but feminine voice tinged with a Slavic accent whispered, “Easy, little Gzesarevich.”

* * *

The wind pushed the woman's brown headscarf over most of her face and lifted the hem of her blue kaftan, but she remained in the doorway as she ushered the boy inside. “The little Gzesarevich found himself in a mob.”

Tears of different sizes gushed from his eyes at different times as if he was unsure of whether to let them fall or suppress them.

At the arrival of his father, Gristol flung himself against the man and clutched handfuls of his regalia.

The rich blue fabric, a work of tireless hours by someone whom the Gzar had never met, became stained with dark splotches of tears and blood as both substances jumped from his son's face to the uniform.

Theodore looked down at the boy in surprise and conjured the barest hint of pity before the distraught sounds, muffled by his clothes but still piercing, and the damage to his outfit drew his lips into a repulsed grimace.

The Gzar crinkled his eyes and held his arms away from his body.

Rokel darted into the anteroom with clumps of her dress raised in her hands for better mobility, and a dark look of anger crossed her face when Theodore shoved Gristol off him like a man brushing the dirt off his coat.

The boy stumbled aside as his father marched to the psychic in the doorway, his hand in the air and a finger pointed at the outside world.

“Get back out there!” he shouted as though it were the last thing he would ever say. “Rid my land of those peasants!” His limbs shook in fear, and Maligula whirled to the village with a typhoon forming at the doorstep of the palace.

Droplets of water sprayed his long face before the guards closed the door, leading Theodore to recoil and wince as if he had been struck.

Rokel searched for her son, only to find him stamping his muddy shoe on the rug and clomping down the hall.

You had only seen the prince shed real tears twice in your many years of service to the Maliks, once at this moment and once when he had awoken to an empty bowl and convinced himself that caviar no longer existed.

The part of you that stored his caviar on bags of ice so it would not lose its taste and took his dirty plate away at the end of dinner, the servant, was tugged by the impulse to swipe a stick of cotton candy and give it to the crying boy.

The part of you that cursed his father's rule was glad to watch the royal family be slapped in the face by their failing country.

Even more, the selfish part of you inferred that bringing one of his most desirable snacks would earn some degree of favour if the heir or the Gzar decided to go on a termination spree for revenge.

As you emerged from his bedroom with a creak of the door and a ball of cotton candy in your hand, Gristol paused a short distance from the same door. His puffy eyes recognized the pink material spilling out of the white cone, and after a moment of surprise and tears drying, he rushed to claim the dessert.

The familiar splash of sweetness eased his shudders. It blanketed his hand with a pale fluff that smelt of candy delight, allowing him to forget his skin had been covered in his blood a few minutes earlier. “Come, servant. I shall enjoy the cotton candy in my chambers.”

The prince pushed his hand into yours and steered you back into the room. His voice had calmed from the weeping, but it was strained with a thin layer of sadness.

Once the sugary meal was devoured, he ordered you to retrieve a batch of caviar.

Gristol was sitting on his plush bed when you returned, its length and width stretching far more than was necessary to cradle the boy. The bedposts were tapered to spearheads, which sloped down to where his legs dangled from the side of the mattress.

The jewel-encrusted gold bowl resting on the palm of his right hand shimmered like a horde of precious diamonds, and the mother-of-pearl spoon in his left hand glittered like a star in the night sky. The spoon was balancing on his thumb and the crevice between his index finger and middle finger, bobbing with idle anticipation as he narrowed his eyes at you.

After a minute spent wondering if it was a test of some kind and debating whether it would be seen as improper or not, you met his gaze when he refused to turn his eye elsewhere.

“Servant,” he addressed you in the same graceless way as always, “are you loyal to me?” There was a genuine curiosity to his words, and the fork hovered just shy of his lips.

The bruise on his cheek, a darker shade of purple, seemed as vivid as the moment the rock left the grip of the peasant and split his skin into a bloody contusion. “You would never stone me, never spit in my face?” Gristol plopped the lump of caviar into his mouth, savouring the buttery flavour without breaking eye contact and swallowing before finishing his thought. “Never betray me?”

Recalling the sight of a maid no more esteemed or regal than yourself being tossed into the mud for speaking out of turn, you bowed your head. “Of course not, Gzesarevich.”

She had been doomed to starve along with the rest of the population simply because she voiced an idea at a time when the Gzar happened to be in a foul mood.

If the prince recognized the superficiality of your promise, he did not show it.

“Good,” he muttered through a spoonful of caviar. When the utensil was removed from his mouth and plunged into the bowl once again, his voice became much clearer. “And, 'Gzesarevich'?”

Gristol twirled a few pieces of caviar on the edge of his fork, and he turned to you after watching the motion for a few seconds. “I'm going to be Gzar one day.”

The sunshine streaming through the long windows caught the tip of the utensil before it was stuffed between his teeth. “Call me 'Gzar' from now on. I'll need you prepared for when you're serving me on the throne.”

The fact that he had planned your future and decided the extent of your life with such careless ease as if you were a number on a spreadsheet almost made you forget he was a child.

Apprehension flooded your mind as you imagined the confusion at dinners when the young Malik asked for a refill or said anything to you that demanded a greeting. The inevitable assumption that you were either stupid for mistaking the titles or disrespecting Theodore would be the end of your employment and life.

“Gzar is your father's title.”

Gristol pulled the fork out of his mouth with a delighted hum. “Ah! So you're already familiar with it. Splendid!”

* * *

When the storm of liquid slammed into the windows and crowded around them, it rose to such impossible heights that much of the sunlight was eclipsed. The chamber was drowned in the shadows of the tide, which danced and writhed with furious strength and cast the walls in periodic spots of light.

A darkness fell upon the jewels that once glittered like snowflakes in the night of a full moon, and despite the stone barrier separating the flood from the room, it seemed as though your lungs were unable to find air.

The waves beat against the glass as if there were hundreds of fists pounding to batter the majestic halls of the estate and plunge them into a watery grave.

A hiss echoed in the bedroom as a crack darted across the middle of a window in a jagged shape that was not unlike the claw of a beast, and it twisted and swerved in many directions with such intractable speed that streaks of water began to shoot onto the carpet. The fractured glass was lighter in colour and seemingly thicker, appearing to protrude from the rest of the window.

Gristol opened his mouth to release a frightened gasp, his eyes widening in search of an explanation for the attack. He retreated from the portion of the carpet stained with the dark texture of water and backed towards you.

The silken fabric of his royal garb brushed your skin, and you looked down to see the prince grasping at your hand. “Where is my father?” he asked, tugging your arm as if doing so would provide a quicker answer.

You glanced between the roaring water and the boy with confusion on your lips. When the cracks grew until the windows resembled a mosaic, you clutched the doorknob to the ornate slab of wood preventing you from leaving and yanked it open.

Rokel stood on the other side of the door with her hand raised to do the same, the look of surprise on her face turning to relief after she spotted Gristol.

The sound of rushing water flooded your ears, but the corridor had gained only a narrow flush of water around the carpet and rugs.

Over the sloshing of the tide, a yell was heard from the end of the hall. “Gzarina!” A guard was waving his arm beside a hidden passage, a chunk of the stone protruding from the wall and swaying into the corridor to form an entrance.

The round texture of a tunnel strewn with cobwebs and dirt glistened in the final streaks of sunlight that broke through the water.

Rokel grasped the hand of her son and darted towards the solder, and as Gristol lurched forward in an unprepared stagger, he clutched your hand. A living chain was established between the three of you as the cold liquid pooled at your feet, draining into your shoes and chilling your skin.

Each step required more strength than the last until it was as if you were trudging in the bowels of a marsh.

The guard hauled the door back as far as the decrepit hinges would move, and the shaking of his limbs coincided with the howl of pain forcing his mouth open.

As Rokel lifted the soggy hem of her dress and stepped into the dark tunnel, Gristol hesitated at the edge of the entrance with a curled lip and crinkled eyes. He yelped when his mother tugged him over the frame of the door and planted boots that had scarcely touched anything more than tile into the dirt.

Water had begun to spill into the passage and be absorbed by the old earth, hitting the legs of the guard as his footing slipped a bit.

The jingling of loose gold, overpowering the distant cries of peasants, echoed in the corridor as Theodore sprinted in the direction of the tunnel with arms full of coins and jewels.

You were placing your foot in the dirt when he rammed his elbow into your chest and knocked you aside to clear his path to the escape route.

The hold Gristol had on you was severed in a desperate instant, and his attempts to look back and find you were thwarted by his father screaming for the door to be sealed.

Rokel refused to stop running or let go of her son for even a second, not sparing her husband a glance as he rushed ahead. Coins and small jewels bounced out of his grip with each slam of his boots against the ground.

When the guard collapsed onto his knees and swung the door shut with a rumbling thud, darkness enveloped the passageway except for the dim light of the moon glowing at the end.

The crashes of waves and the yells of peasants continued to explode on the opposite side of the door, growing fainter and overshadowed by the sight of a carriage waiting for the royal family on the cobblestone road.

The driver waved his hat at their approaching shapes. “My Gzar!”

Theodore rushed to dump his gold and jewels in the bottom of the cart, beginning to climb inside before the shocked voice of his son gave him pause.

“You took your gold and not them?” The prince stood a little ways from the carriage with a look of frightened confusion like a cat who had just been shaved. The accusatory edge of his tone met his inability to understand the need for this swift departure, his eyes twitching as if seeing a different, far more pathetic man than the one he called his father.

“I'm securing our future.” Gusts of air whipped the Gzar and pulled the cape and medals he treasured like breath. Theodore grasped the shoulders of his son and, with a yell of strain, he lifted him off the ground. “Now, get in the carriage, boy!”

He tossed Gristol into the arms of his mother, who set him on the corner seat and took the opposite corner for herself.

Theodore hopped into the middle seat and commanded the driver to spur the horses. The rattles of the carriage's wheels zoomed across the cobblestone, and the sound of screams carried on the wind.

When the Gzar shoved you, the back of your head collided with a thin rug that did little to separate the hard floorboards from your skull. Pain bloomed and ran across your brain in a series of throbs and tingles as if insects were scampering along and biting your nerves.

The tall ceiling staring down at you was a blur of meaningless shapes and colours, and the rising water lapped its frigid tongue against your neck.

Silhouettes of various sizes darted into view and hovered around you, their heads turning back and forth to report any injuries and trade observations. Multiple pairs of hands seized your arms and heaved you to your feet in a flurry of water droplets cascading down your back and side.

The faces, once blobs of indistinguishable features, sharpened into looks of concern and alarm as the rush of adrenaline that came with standing so quickly reduced the pain.

The chef, a muscular woman who still bore the smears and crumbs of a recent pie, inserted herself under your left arm, and one of the butlers whose suit was covered in dark stains inserted himself under your right arm.

As the duo guided you farther away from the main entrance and towards the servant quarters, a crew of maids were opening another tunnel in the kitchen.

The sous-chef waited near the secret door with the small figure of Spotty wrapped in his arms like rope, the dog flattening its ears and whimpering at the strips of water trickling into the room.

When the group emerged from the end of the passage, the clop of hooves was heard galloping into the night as servants who had found their way outside raided the stables.

The land was consumed by a moving shadow, for the tower of water had risen over the top of the palace like a great beast opening its mouth to bite down. It plummeted towards the ground with the force of a thousand winds, drawing screams and cries from the lips of all who beheld it.

An explosion of bright light preceded a thunderous crash.

The wave spread outwards instead of forwards with the birth of a transparent shield, which pulsed and shimmered like a ripple on the surface of a pond.

A middle-aged man with a white beard and hair stood in front of you, and he pressed a finger to his temple while extending his other hand to the water.

The liquid spilled over the magical barrier with unending strength to form a bowl-like shape.

With veins bulging in his forehead, the stranger clenched his teeth and fought to steady his wobbling arm. “We'll get you folks out of here! Just hold on!”

* * *

The Lady Luctopus Casino was true to its name, sporting a building in the shape of a gigantic octopus that rose so high above the waves it poked the clouds.

The babble of water as the ocean licked the rocky beach was overpowered by the joyful shouts of winners and the mournful wails of losers.

Atop the head of the octopus sat a luxurious crown, which glowed like a lighthouse to wayward boats in the fog.

Its tentacles were lined with neon suction cups and provided the foundation for various penthouses and balconies, structures that housed martini bars and dozens of people looking for wealth and thrills.

The sharp aromas of wine, margaritas, and pastries swirled around the establishment in an atmosphere of intoxication and indulgence.

These odours wrinkled the nose of Gristol Malik, who wished to save his ears from the assault of enthusiastic shouts but found his arms entangled in those of his mother.

As the shadow of the metallic beast passed over him, Gristol thought, if he turned his head the right way and imagined so, he could see the tentacles moving up and down like the spokes of a Ferris wheel. The carnival seemed like a far more enjoyable destination for the prince, but any words of protest he offered were lost in the shuffles of cards and the jingles of chips.

His father had not deigned to look his way since the royal family stepped out of the carriage, not that Gristol was eager to speak with the man who had uprooted his life.

Rokel let go of her son and put some distance between the two of them once there were many eyes ready to pry and observe.

The interior of the suite Theodore rented after dumping a handful of gems onto the counter and making the concierge struggle to breathe for a minute was even colder, holding a bed with a canopy and other furniture imported from distant countries that did little to impress Gristol.

It had not been more than a few days in the casino when the Gzar tumbled into his bed and lacked the strength to get out of it, and it was then that the prince broke the silence.

Theodore brushed his palm across his chest as the congestion travelled from his lungs to his throat in the harshest cough his frail body could muster, which jerked his head up and down before it dissolved into a weak sputter.

Gristol eyed the man from his bedside and studied his pain with disaffection, resting a hand on the edge of the mattress. “Father, do you remember that servant I used to play with?” His voice was a persuasive blend of curious and expectant.

The Gzar propped his head on the pillow to look at his son, and his mouth hung slightly open with drooping eyelids. “No.” The word came out as little more than a mumble sliding off the tip of a haggard tongue.

Not displaying the least bit of surprise, the prince maintained his clear and innocent tone. “I remember them.” A pinch of malice leaked into his words like the drip of an oozing faucet. “They were kinder to me than you ever were.”

Theodore closed his eyes for a slow blink, opening them with the same dazed expression he had worn for hours as if oblivious to the statement. He watched in sickened apathy as Gristol pressed his hands against the sheets to stand on his toes and leaned his upper body over the bed.

Rokel blew her nose into a handkerchief, and she turned away to weep as if she were alone in the room.

The prince, his mouth beside his father's ear, lowered his voice to a whisper and condensed years of unrestrained spite into a single breath. “You left them to die. I wish you had drowned instead.”

A croaky breath escaped the Gzar as his eyes widened. His heartbeat fizzled like a candle doused in water, and his final gust of air struggled to pass his lips.

When Gristol retreated to his original position, he embraced a twinge of satisfaction at seeing the life in the man fade into nothing.

* * *

After the door to the Levitation Lounge opened, you looked away from your conversation with Sasha Nein at the sound of papers fluttering like tiny wings.

The new mailman, Nick Johnsmith, stood in the doorway with the look of a man slapped and his arms positioned to embrace the letters that now swayed in the air beside him.

The impulse to clean a mess whenever you saw one - an echo of the hours spent helping maids and butlers wipe stains to avoid being fired or executed - nearly pulled you out of the seat, but you told yourself this environment was not so unforgiving.

Despite multiple Psychonauts levitating to the aid of Nick and asking if he was feeling well, Nick looked nowhere but at you. His appearance was fuzzy at a distance, and he gave you no opportunity to move closer.

The mailman dismissed the concerns of his coworkers with a few timely laughs and assurances of his health, joking about “first-week jitters” and handing a variety of envelopes to each Psychonaut.

It was not until later in the same month that he forged a letter addressed to you.

The tired hinges on the door squeaked shut behind you, muffling the shrill mutters floating through the laboratory. A compact list was held in your hand, and your eyes coasted from one line to the next before you squinted in disbelief. “What is he having me pump into this doctor?”

The roll of wheels across the tile floors drew your gaze to Nick, who was driving his cart to you with unblinking eyes and tenacious momentum.

When he reached you, the mailman clicked his heels together and closed his eyes with a look of innocent glee. “Message for you!” chirped Nick, one hand behind his back and the other raising an envelope beside his head.

You lost the first words on your tongue before they were spoken, for as he lingered at the edge of the door, the buttery scent wafting into the air after each breath he took reminded you of fish eggs on a mother-of-pearl spoon. “Have you heard about the caviar surprises in the vents? Someone's been eating it like catnip.”

Nick tilted his head and squinted, nodding slowly as if you had spoken in code. “Yes, someone has been.” He watched for any subtle movements - a nod, a twitch of the eye that vaguely resembled a wink, a repetitive tap of the finger - that he could interpret as support for his budding hope.

When motion in your peripheral vision caused you to glance in his direction out of instinct, the mailman seemed as though he was given new life and approached in joyful haste.

“What do you think of cotton candy?” It was a simple and anodyne question, yet the intense focus of his eyes on you added to it a special significance.

You flirted with a few different responses, only to discard each one as a revelation took hold of your mind like puzzle pieces connecting.

“After all this time, you awaited my arrival.” Nick stood as close as possible without bumping into you, and his look of excitement did not falter even as you turned a suspicious eye on him.

“Pardon me?” Your full attention shifted from the list to the mailman.

He shook his head. “There's no need. You were loyal from the start.”

Nick raised his hands to yours and guided them downwards, removing the paper from your immediate vision. His purple skin, coupled with his yellow, cat-like eyes and the way his hands fit into yours like those of a child, kindled a sense of familiarity in you that was both troubling and intriguing.

As the contentment radiating from Nick brought you inexplicable relief as if an unknown danger had been evaded, a Brazilian-accented voice called from down the hall.

“Darling!” It was followed by the clicks of high heels, and a slender woman in a turquoise shawl and striped skirt emerged from the opposite end of the corridor. Milla Vodello gazed between the two of you with calm happiness that betrayed nothing else. “Sasha and I are eating lunch in the lounge. Would you care to join us?”

An absentminded nod given after a few moments of collecting your thoughts was your answer, which prompted the psychic to address the mailman. “Nick, darling, how about you?”

The man rolled his shoulders and offered a laugh of fake anxiety. “That sounds delicious, but unfortunately, I already ate!” You went to move, but the hands grasping your forearms did not.

Milla squeezed her palms together for a silent clap. “I'll tell Sasha you're coming! Or would you like to tell him yourself?”

Your gaze drifted between Nick and the Psychonaut, noticing the glimpse of rage that flashed across his face like a momentary glint of steel.

A light shake gripped his body that worsened and endured for several seconds before he released you and stepped back. “Forgive my indelicacy.” The chuckle that sailed from his lips was full of nervous energy, ending as Nick curled a hand in front of his chin and placed the other hand on his hip. “The day has been long for all of us.”

He waved at Milla with a calculated friendliness learned from the days of rehearsal, but when it came time to wave at you, his arm wagged at a far brisker and more determined pace.

Once you were out of earshot, his smile disappeared in a cold second. He lowered his arm, and the pleasant aura that had radiated from him like a warm blanket after a stressful day sank to one of dissatisfaction. “I understand now why you hold your tongue.”

Nick turned to his mail cart and cast a final glance down the hall. “I shall break you of the Psychonaut's chains.”

* * *

A void surrounded the dinner table, plunging the area into a bottomless black that swallowed all light and teased the threat of falling without an end. It was diminished by the sways of the candelabra positioned on the centre of the table, which illuminated the fine mahogany texture.

The chair upon which Gristol sat was throne-like and encrusted with an assortment of rubies, emeralds, and other gemstones that Razputin could not hope to identify.

The chair taken by the psychic was much simpler and less imposing, for it was embroidered with only the images of jewels. He confirmed the deceit of the photorealistic patchwork once he lowered himself onto it, finding the comfort of a soft cushion rather than the sharp pain of rocks digging into his spine and legs.

The silence was broken every minute by a clock chime, its hand moving to the next half hour with each stroke of the mechanical timer. An incessant tick-tocking filled the space like an earwig tunnelling through the brain, unreachable and maddening.

The prince gradually sank further into his chair, sliding his upper teeth against his lower teeth and curling his fingers into a tight fist. A quiver was visible in his body as though there was a fury desperate to escape.

As Razputin swayed his head to peer into various corners of the darkness through his red-tinted goggles, he kicked his legs under the table and drew his lips into an unimpressed frown. “Is something supposed to happen?”

The question was directed more at himself and Lili than any of the mental projections that could have been lurking in the shadows, but Gristol faced him as if he had laughed at a funeral.

He composed himself just as quickly and tempered his look of hostility into one of calm irritation. “My servant will be along shortly with the feast.” Despite his downcast gaze and the suffocating aura of displeasure radiating from his end of the table, the prince spoke with unshakable certainty.

Razputin looked around once again and smelt the air, finding no aroma of steam and bread wafting out of a kitchen or a singular door from which to enter with trays of food. “Gristol, there’s no one else here.”

The head of Gristol snapped towards the young psychic, and the prince raised a hand to brush his cape off his knee. He draped his right leg over his left leg and pressed his fist against his cheek, leaning on the table and using his other hand to tap the wooden surface. “It would appear something is keeping them,” admitted Gristol as if hearing that truth on his lips made his stomach churn.

Once another examination of the pseudo dinner scene yielded nothing but darkness, Razputin pulled his goggles from his eyes to his forehead. “If you're just going to sit there, I have something to say.”

Gristol twirled a fork and looked askance at him with overflowing disdain.

The psychic fought to keep his visage free of any distress that would gleam like an open wound, but he could not deny the quiver of uncertainty that shook his voice. “Would you mind explaining what I saw on the way in here?”

Gristol tapped the rear of the fork against the tablecloth and acquired a look of mischievous pleasure. “I don't know what you saw.”

His eyes were narrowed into a look that taunted and belittled the Psychonaut, but when Razputin merely deepened his frown into a scowl, the prince relaxed his gaze and set the fork next to the spoon.

He crossed his arms and looked away, turning slightly and narrowing his eyes. “If that green peasant dies, good riddance.”

Razputin clenched his teeth in a snarl and pointed a finger at the prince. “Damnit, Gristol! This isn't about your revenge quest. This is a man's life on the line!”

His expression filling with indignant surprise, Gristol lowered his fists to his side and spun his head back towards the young Psychonaut. “It has everything to do with me! That rube forfeited his right to draw breath after—”

He was not given the luxury of completing his testament to how he was wronged, for Razputin predicted that his words held no truth. “After what? After he had a pleasant conversation with a coworker?”

The prince turned his head with a scoff. “I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

The Psychonaut gritted his teeth, tensing his shoulders and squeezing the edge of the table. “That you're a deranged little weirdo with way too much time on your hands?”

Halfway through the insult, Gristol took the appearance of a man screaming on the inside.

“They served me—" he slammed his fist into the table and produced a cacophony of rattling silverware “—before anyone else!”

The forks, spoons, and knives seemed to jump and shudder as if they, too, were frightened by the outburst.

Gristol pushed his chair back and stood with a loud creak, leaning towards Razputin and placing his palms on the table like an emperor overseeing the war strategy.

“And if that scum dares give them another order in my presence—” he stopped as a cold malevolence, like a scheme realized, fell over his anger and shrouded it in a fantasy unfurling its wings in the theatre behind his eyes.

The prince lifted his hand and admired his pristine cuticles, but he soon looked askance at the young psychic with an airy voice that teased amusement. “Well, if I was still in Grulovia, I would have him executed for treason.”

Razputin saw the sincerity in his yellow gaze, the dim glow of candlelight fluttering across his lavender skin and giving him an almost luminous quality.

As the frigid whip of fear struck the calm of his stomach, the Psychonaut narrowed his eyes and heaved himself from his seat. “They don't live to serve you!”

Gristol arched his fingers like a cat hissing, digging his nails into the wood and peeling the uppermost layer of the mahogany in jagged strips. The splinters were a paler shade of brown that accumulated beside the divots.

“Yes, they do!” His voice teetered on the brink of an enraged whisper, but the final word boomed with such impossible strength that the room was shaken as if a giant had shouted it from the sky.

The young psychic recoiled just as the nasal tone of Lili overtook his comms, a brief moment of static preceding the young girl's thinly veiled discomfort. “Raz, what's going on? That annoying ride-thing went dark.”

The halls were filled with children's choirs singing in reverse, their pitch corrupted into spurts of discordant chanting that rose and fell like the theme of a nightmare.

Straightening his back and assuming his best imitation of royal poise, the prince turned his nose up and gazed at Razputin as if he were an insect. “They served me faithfully for years. Not my father, not my mother, not Maligula.”

He held a hand to his chest. “Me!”

Razputin shook his head, unwilling to hide the snarl that crept onto his face. “They didn't have a choice! Your father would have killed them or thrown them to the streets if they disobeyed.”

Gristol sneered at the thought. “I would never have allowed it. Besides, they were free to walk out the door at any time. It wasn't locked!”

The surface of the table began to peel and curl into lumps of wood shavings. The wax of the candles started to melt as if dunked in lava, and the flickers of the flames were extinguished in a sudden gust of wind that howled like a ghostly whisper.

When the clumps of hot wax splattered on the rotting table, the back legs of Razputin's chair snapped and threw him against an invisible floor. Pain gushed in the rear of his skull and compelled him to stick a hand on the area.

“Raz,” came the slow voice of Lili, “what's wrong with the people?”

From behind the psychic appeared a ragged figure, the sag of its detached jaw and the wrinkles contorting its face failing to hide the Grulovian colours of its unkempt uniform.

The eyes shone with an eggshell white devoid of pupils and irises, and they gazed at Razputin with no discernible emotion. When the zombified soldier tilted its head to examine him closer, its neck almost popped out of alignment with its spinal cord.

The Psychonaut hollered and squirmed as the creature slapped a rigid hand onto the top of his head and hoisted him into the air.

“Hey! Put me down!” Hearing this plea, the agitated voice of Lili clamoured in his ear for details about his situation. Razputin kicked the flat spot where the soldier's nose used to be, but it merely twitched in response.

The roar of Gristol thundered in the void. “You are no longer welcome here. Soldiers, throw him out!” He pointed a finger at the psychic and swung it towards the endless mass of darkness as if there was more to this slice of his world than a decaying dinner table.

Razputin narrowed his eyes to slits and bared his teeth in a silent growl, exposing his palm to the zombified creature's face. A blast of fire erupted from his hand, and the soldier was propelled into the far distance in scorched pieces.

Rapid squeals like a stuck pig emitted from the corpse.

Doors materialized on all sides of the table, and from them burst dozens of soldiers and peasants. Their corpses were bloated, some missing limbs and chunks of flesh. Many dragged a limp foot behind them, while others waved torches in an unsung chant.

The lyrics to the Grulovian anthem playing on repeat in Gristol's mind were whispered on their cracked lips.

Landing with grace, the Psychonaut turned around and faced the prince in his last demand for reasoning. “If your servant could see what you're doing, they would be mortified!”

The chaos of the mind lulled to an ominous pause.

Gristol widened his eyes and opened his mouth slightly, the twinkle of surprise on his face that gave Razputin a moment of hope washing away in the birth of a sinister rage. “Get out.” He slammed the sides of his fists onto the table each time he yelled the words, “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

He swept his arms across the furniture and knocked the silverware to the ground, and the desperation in his movements brought the mobs to a standstill.

Decomposed heads swivelled on loose necks to the prince, their groans quieting to idle shifts in their jaws.

“What are you doing? Seize that welp, and rid me of his ungrateful presence!”

Gristol's mask of confidence slipped further off his face as the soldiers and peasants began to form a half-circle around him.

“Did you not hear me?”

The aggressive yet lopsided thrusts of their legs and the gurgling in their throats sparked a dreadful fear, one familiar to the sense that overwhelmed his boyhood self.

“I am your Gzar! You will obey me!”

The clock fell from its perch on an unseen wall and shattered onto the floor in a mess of serrated glass, tolling like a church bell.

Gristol jumped at the noise and flinched away from the destruction.

More doors spawned on either side of the preexisting ones, and additional hordes of peasants and guards stampeded through them.

As he retreated deeper into the void, a hand as cold as the Siberian winter fell upon his shoulder. It lowered each finger individually and dug its sharp nails into his uniform.

Gristol stiffened as if on reflex, and the involuntary tension in his muscles only constricted him tighter when he looked up.

The hand was attached to a pencil-thin arm, which led to an unnaturally tall silhouette with a prominent resemblance to his father.

The shadow of an extravagant crown, the same as the one on Gristol's head, hid in the darkness, untouched by the light but shining with a distinct outline.

“Father?” questioned the prince, his voice strangled by panic and on the cusp of breaking.

The eyes of the figure were black and soulless like the depths of a cave that had never seen daylight, and the teeth in its lipless mouth were sharp and crooked as if struck by a hammer.

Without moving any other body part, the hand slid from his collarbone to his chest. Gristol managed the beginning of a scream before he was yanked into the darkness and vanished from Razputin's sight.

“Gristol!” yelled the psychic, but with the prince gone, the mobs of reanimated corpses turned to the Psychonaut once again.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled. Razputin pushed his goggles over his eyes and spun on his heels to scramble in the opposite direction, having mere seconds to judge every door he passed and bet his life on which one would deliver him to safety.

“Lili,” he shouted into the earpiece, “where are you? We have to get out of this mind now!”

* * *

The spherical walls of the Psychoisolation cell were a nearly transparent wave of pulsating magenta, the rich shades of purple and red like strawberry jam fading into a hazy mist around the centre as if it were underwater.

The dual antennae of an old television set, the green leaves of a house plant, and the dark brown wood of two bookcases were visible beyond the psychic shield.

Razputin eyed the pale imitation of normalcy left behind by Compton Boole after the man had locked himself inside and spent weeks dangling on the edge of overwhelming panic, assuming that Gristol had far less respect for anything that was not his royal palace.

The soles of his shoes clanked along the metallic floor, and just as the Psychonaut was nearing the cell, a pair of yellow eyes moved in front of the slot in the door.

“Have they asked for me?” The question flowed so readily from his mouth that it seemed he had been holding it on his lips and waiting to spring at the first opportunity like a predator lying in ambush.

Razputin did not waste a second in responding. “Nope, they haven't said a thing about you.”

Gristol toiled in silence for a moment, his eyes widening and his breath wavering as the illusion he clung to like the last scrap of food in famine was threatened. His pupils dilated in anger, and the truth of this momentary shake in his conviction was drowned in the lie poisoning his mind.

“You can't deceive me.”

There existed a scathing kind of malice in his glare as if the suggestion of otherwise was insulting.

“I know them better than you could ever dream, psychic.” The prince hissed the word “psychic” like a snake twirling its forked tongue, prompting Raz to withdraw from the door and pull his lips into a frown.

The young Psychonaut considered these words before his shoulders slumped in disappointment, and he shook his head with a quiet sigh. “I hope you find peace, Gristol.”

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

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goldenzingy46butwriteblr · 4 years ago

Note

I'm going on a long plane ride soon, and I really need long Tomarry fics (that are completed preferably.) I like time travel stories, serial killers, basically anything that I can totally escape into please please please please :D

Fuck yeah, I’ve got you.

Sky Full Of Glass by SofiaBane

The Horcruxes have become unstuck in time, and it’s the responsibility of the Master of Death to figure out why. And since Voldemort needs to be punished for transgressing into the realm of Death anyway, he might as well come along.

A quite delightful take on the Master of Death Harry, who has complete dominion over space and time, too. 20k.

Nose to the Wind by Batsutousai

While Harry had been content with his second chance, that didn't keep him from thinking what he could have done different, how many people could have survived if he hadn't been set on the very specific path he'd walked. Third time is the charm, though, right?

Now, I have no doubt that you already know this one, but how could I leave it off a rec list? The prequel is also fantastic. 211k.

The Ouroboros by WyrmLivvy

Once upon a time, a woman wished to have a child with the man she loved, that would have his porcelain skin as white as snow, his rosy cheeks red as blood, and his dark hair black as ebony. …

The child was not born with red cheeks but red eyes.

(Tomarry vampire/fairy tale/Snow White AU)

Now, this is not quite time travel or serial killers, but it’s absolutely fantastic all the same, and absolutely worth the read. Fantasy, dark-ish, and a happy ending. 20k.

The Eyes in the Bramblebush by relic_crown

For a long time, Tom was just another violinist, perfect and beautiful and boring. Then Harry truly saw him, and knew he was anything but boring - he was the edge of a pocketknife, the red of nightshade berries, a lie in a crisp black coat.

Harry had never fallen in love so quickly.

Once again, technically neither time travel nor serial killers, but it is most certainly something to sink your teeth into. 12k.

Darling, do you remember what you did? by Baryshnikov

Tom had been waiting to do this.

Waiting for a very, very long time.

Oh, this is gloriously dark, with knifeplay and power games galore. 13k, technically a WIP, but you’d be missing out if you didn’t read it.

Mania by Angel_Of_Mysteries

Harry and Tom have been together for two years, and Harry’s finally ready to take their relationship to the next level. Little does he know, so is Tom.

I can’t say much on this without spoiling it, but it’s wonderfully painful. 9k.

No Body, No Crime by duplicity

Harry works as a car mechanic in a small town. He and Ginny are best friends, their close bond the product of a traumatic event that scarred them both as children.

Now that they are adults with separate lives, it seems inevitable that they will drift apart. That is, until Ginny confides in Harry that she thinks her husband—the charming, enigmatic Tom Riddle—is cheating on her.

A day later, Ginny goes missing. Harry is convinced that Tom is behind her disappearance, and becomes determined to exact justice by any means necessary.

This one was so goddamn painful, but so brilliant. 20k.

God of Nothing by machiavelli

The other orphans avoid Tom Riddle like the plague. He lounges on his broken throne, watches the whispers fade around him with sharp, dark eyes. Nobody can quite work out why he seems so fascinated with the new boy, who walks in smelling of smoke and hasn't said a word in three days.

I remember following this one as each of the chapters came out, and by the gods it was glorious. In a much darker universe, half tinged with madness, Harry and Tom meet, and it’s perfect. 83k.

dust in your pocket by relic_crown

Two hundred years ago, the world died.

All that remains is a technicolor wasteland, swirling with ash and populated by radiation-warped humans. Tom, immortal and bloodthirsty, crowns herself queen of this ruined world and wanders it namelessly, building and burning empires at will.

Then there's Harry: eyes like chips of sea glass, hopeful in the face of the apocalypse -- and by far the most dangerous person Tom's ever met.

Holy shit. An almost steampunk AU, femslash, and completely incredible in every single way. 24k.

Dreams and Darkness Collide by Epic Solemnity (Dark_Cyan_Star)

Though he was raised without the expectation of saving the world, Harry still possesses a savior complex. Only, it's so dark and twistedly immoral, he created an alter ego to practice vigilantism. His second identity makes a name for himself and immediately ensnares Minister Riddle's complete and obsessive attention. A game of cat and mouse begins and morals are questioned.

One of my favourites, although I’m pretty sure it’s been abandoned. Vigilante!Serial killer!Harry and Minister!Riddle, who still runs the Death Eaters, and makes for one dangerous, tantalising romance. 209k.

Footsteps On Empty Floorboards by AgonisedDaily

After a recent screw-up on the job whilst hunting a serial killer, Harry needs a break from being an Auror. His new Victorian house promises just that, but living with the restless spirit of a former Dark Lord isn't quite part of the peace and quiet he was hoping for.

Okay, okay, okay, I know you said completed works only, but I’m incapable of leaving this beauty off my rec list. Maybe I’m just a sucker for darker things, but I think this is beautiful. 125k.

Break and Burn and End by duplicity

Harry Potter has died over and over again: in a cradle, in a graveyard, in a courtyard. If Harry Potter has ever lived, if he was the accumulation of years filled with burdens and grief, he has long since warped into someone else.

So let Harry Potter die, let his legacy run like ink through the pages of history until it dries for evermore. The world is better off without Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort both, so Harry will kill the one of them that he can and hope it will be enough.

OR: Past and present, Harry and Voldemort are connected. A tale of two immortals and the question of what it means to have an adversary when forever is in the cards.

Immortals AU of letting go and healing. I love it. 17k.

I hope this is enough, and, as always, I had fun making it! I will do the customary my fics are great please read them at the end, but considering most of them are WIPs or oneshots, I won’t include them as serious fic recs. You’ve been spared.

#fic recs #tomarry #harry potter #fic rec list

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pangolinheart · 2 years ago

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Okay, a long post of lore and mostly-baseless speculation incoming.

I do believe that, canonically, the WoL is staying at the Fortemps manor when they're in Ishgard proper during the events of HW. Though, I know at least a few people who headcanon their WoL being uncomfortable there, especially after the events of the Vault, so I guess it's nice to have the variety?

I'm not sure why the devs chose to make the player-useable resting space an inn room rather than a room within Fortemps manor. If I had to guess I would say it maybe had something to do with either a) the fact that the interior of Fortemps manor is already an instanced area and it was either considered too complicated or too inconvenient to make the player go through two layers of instanced areas to reach their room or b) to keep with the previously established convention of resting spaces (in all of the other locations they're in hotels/inns, even in the Crystarium.) The player doesn't have a room in the Waking Sands or the Rising Stones, either. Maybe they thought an inn room would be easier to find? (Though, given the people in the notes saying they didn't realize Ishgard had inn rooms, that may have backfired lol.)

I can more easily, however, think of a few reasons why, if they were going to choose an inn room, it would be in this particular location and of this particular... ambiance.

Why The Forgotten Knight?

Well, if you were going to make an inn room attached to a tavern, like all of the rest of Eorzea's inn rooms, the Forgotten Knight is really the only tavern the players have occasion to visit as part of the plot. Two of the DRK NPCs live(?) there, but even non-DRK NPCs are aware of it, as a few early events in the expansion take place there (it's where the WoL, Alphinaud, and Tataru are first introduced to the nature of The Brume). Tataru also does, canonically, work there during HW. So, it's a location all players could be expected to be at least somewhat familiar with.

From a lore perspective, though, why make the rest location a dilapidated inn in Foundation rather than something classier in the Pillars, where the WoL arguably spends more time? I would say it probably comes down to Ishgard's long stretch of isolationism. I think it's very possible there are no inns in the Pillars. The lack of travel in and out of the city means there's not really much need for inns. There are, in general, no tourists or immigrants to make use of them, and my impression has always been that most of Ishgard's trade with the outside world is brokered through outlying settlements and fortifications, like Camp Dragonhead or Tailfeather, so there wouldn't even be many travelling merchants that make it all the way to the city gates. We do know that, while it's probably not common, some High Houses have contacts or friends from other countries (Edmont is friends/business partners with Godbert Manderville, for example). Presumably, though, these individuals would enter Ishgard at the invitation of one of the noble houses, who would host them within their own mansions.

You could also make the argument that it's a good excuse to highlight the wealth disparity between The Pillars and Foundation, since the WoL doesn't spend too much time there during the MSQ compared to many of the expansion's other locations. Which leads to the next question:

Why is it such a wreck?

Cloud Nine/The Forgotten Knight is run by and for the low-born population of Ishgard (so the dingy rooms and gross bed aren't as much a punishment for poverty as they are a symptom of the larger class issue lol.) As already noted above (and several times in the tags), Ishgard doesn't get a lot of visitors prior the end of the Dragonsong War, so the inn business probably isn't very profitable. Fixing loose floorboards and exposed brick, upgrading furniture, and buying new linens all cost money, which I'm sure the proprietor is loath to spend.

Foregoing the expenses of maintenance and remodeling also probably helps keep the price low (and thus, at an affordable level for the residents of Foundation and The Brume.) Without much coming and going by outsiders, my guess is that their normal clientele probably consists of patrons too drunk to stumble back to their own homes and people who, for one reason or another, have a use for a warm room for a few hours or nights. Maybe the occasional Knight stationed outside of the city visiting home? It depends, I guess. So improving the accommodations really isn't in anyone's best interest. Given the general lack of business, funding repairs or renovations might necessitate an increase in cost, which might make the price of a room prohibitive to some of their usual guests, which would cost them money in the long run.

All that being said, it's not a great excuse for the room's general dustiness and disarray. Sure, maybe they can't afford to hire a maid, and maybe the general staff don't have enough time to wash the sheets, but how long does it take to collect a couple (dozen) bottles and replace a candle or two when someone checks out? But I'm not in the hospitality industry, so what do I know? Maybe no one complains because they don't care as long as it's cheap? Or it's not any worse than their usual sleeping quarters, if they even have any? Or maybe this is the only game in town and it's not like they can just go somewhere else if they're not satisfied.

Still... What's the deal with the rope?

I've always genuinely loved how aggressively shitty the inn rooms in Ishgard are compared to any other inn in the game.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #rambling #ishgard #the forgotten knight #this is all probably obvious i just felt like typing #still the funniest inn room in Eorzea #it may suck major ass but it's like a home away from home for rhiki #because that's where her wife and child live

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kosagum · 2 years ago

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cups of tea

summary: clive moves in with the professor after his release and attempts to live a normal life, told in cups of tea. ↳ next: oasis berry

chapter 1. radiance blend — clive dove · angst · 700 words

"soothing in scent and mildly fruity in flavor, this vitamin-packed tea addresses all kinds of beauty woes." in which clive moves in with the professor after his release from the asylum.

life in the professor’s home, clive decided, was going to take some getting used to.

the professor lived in a townhouse in central london, not too far from his place of work at gressenheller u. the brown-brick building was three stories high, with bay windows lining the facade from the house’s basement to the second story ensuring that the professor’s home was never without sunshine. ivy grew from the two plant pots perched on either side of the doorway, and the occasional houseplant dotted the rooms and hallways of the home itself. out back was a tiny garden— flora’s garden, overlooked by clive’s bedroom on the second floor and the professor’s on the first.

“there’s nothing like a bit of nature to liven up one’s living space,” the professor had said, smiling at clive when he first stepped into the entryway.

two days had passed since then. on that day, clive had finally been released, and was brought to london by the professor himself. as clive looked out the window of his room at the blossoms populating flora’s garden below, he folded his arms, fingers digging slightly into his upper arms as he frowned.

it was quiet here. londoners milled about outside instead of guards shifting from post to post. there were no cries or screams from inmates down the hall; most of the time, the house was silent, save for the sounds of flora and the professor moving between rooms. he could leave the house, clive reminded himself, walk right out the door and feel the sun on his face. it had been months since clive had known that, and it left him a thin, pale shadow of his former self.

then again, clive thought, perhaps that was for the better.

“i see you’re skipping breakfast once again, clive.”

blinking, clive turned from the window towards the doorway to his room. standing there was the professor himself, solemn as he spoke. he was already dressed for work, adjusting the brim of his signature top hat placed atop his head.

“forgive me, professor, but I’m quite fine as i am.”

“fine is not the same as well, my boy,” the professor replied. clive’s brow twitched at the nickname. “may I come in?”

“you may.”

with clive’s permission, the professor entered the room, taking a seat in the chair next to clive’s bed and crossing his legs. “flora tells me you’ve also been skipping lunch, and dinner too. she’s getting all worked up over you not eating her cooking, you know.”

clive scoffed. “i'd hardly call that cooking, professor. are you sure she isn’t just trying to take revenge on me for what i did?”

the words came out more harshly than he intended them to. clive fell silent, averting his eyes from the professor’s to a corner of the room.

he was well aware of what the last few months had done to him. clive gripped his upper arms somewhat tighter, his frown deepening when he felt bone just underneath his shirt; yet another byproduct of life in a cell. unfolding his arms with a huff, clive turned back to the window, resting one hand on the sill as he fixed his gaze on london’s skyline.

“i’m already rather worn out from my time at the asylum.”

“yes… i’d noticed,” the professor frowned. “but flora’s food could hardly make you worse. after all, every puzzle has a solution, and a warm meal shared with good friends could be just that,” at this, the corners of his mouth turned upwards into a smile. “we are friends, aren’t we, clive?”

clive said nothing in response, continuing to gaze out the window.

“should you like to join us, flora and i will be eating together at the dining table,” the professor added, the floorboards creaking as he stood up from the chair and began to step away.

“professor,” clive said suddenly.

the professor paused.

“yes, clive?”

“…i’ll be down in a moment.”

#professor layton #unwound future #lost future #clive dove #future luke #hershel layton #cups of tea

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ragingbookdragon · 4 years ago

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ATTEND ALL THE PRIDE!

Batfamily x Batbrother One-Shot

Word Count: 1K Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: For the ask I received! Remember to have fun at all parades this month! Be careful and be safe! Bring friends and family! Even if you don't identify with the LGBTQ+ community you are still allowed to come to Pride! Everyone is welcome at Pride!

**********************************************************************

Just because he was Bruce Wayne's son, a well-trained military sniper, and a world class black ops squad leader, it did not mean he had any sense of time when it came to being on leave. Once that clock started when they hit the tarmac after a mission, everyone lost sense of when they were supposed to meet up again—as much as they loved running with one another, they loved being on leave much more—especially the captain.

That being said, after a major mission of shutting down a world class terrorist organization ring and freeing some hundred plus captives, they all decided a few months of leave was deserved for saving a chunk of the world. And when he got back to Gotham in May, he’d slowly forgotten all about the next month and the pride that went with it.

***

Freshly showered and dressed, he wandered into the kitchen and collapsed in his set next to Bruce’s on the other side of the table, Dick next to him. His coffee had already been poured, hot and steaming like Alfred made best and he raised it to his lips, sipping quietly as his eyes moved around the breakfast room, taking in the sight of his family.

Dick and Damian were discussing something about the arcade rather animatedly—something about Cheese Vikings?, Jason and Steph were in an argument over who was a better Robin—so far Steph was winning, Tim was passed out on the side of the table—unsurprisingly, and Cass and Duke were busy stuffing waffles in their faces—smart cookies those two.

He glanced at his father, noticing that he had the paper, and he took a moment to read over the front page. Pride Month Comes to Gotham! Come Celebrate Today During the Pride Parade! Sponsored by Wayne Enterprises!

Blinking, he set his coffee cup down. “It’s June,” He blurted out, sounding rather shocked, and everyone looked at him.

“Yeah?” Dick said. “It’s been that way for about a week now, (Y/N).”

He looked at him. “No, Dick, it’s fucking Pride Month.” (Y/N) ignored Alfred’s admonishment of his expletive and jumped to his feet, face lighting up like the morning sun. “IT’S FUCKING PRIDE MONTH AND THE PARADE IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW IN THE CITY STREETS!”

(Y/N) spun on his heel and sprinted out of the kitchen like a madman, his heavy footfalls sounding down the hallway and up the stairs before he came back down with a bunch of T-shirts in his hands. “I HAVE SHIRTS FOR ALL OF YOU!”

Tossing them one by one, he shouted, “BI FOR DICK! BI FOR JASON! PAN FOR STEPH! LESBIAN FOR CASS! PAN FOR TIMMY! AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE REST OF YOU ARE BUT I HAVE RAINBOW SHIRTS THAT SAY ‘LGBTQIA+ ALLIES’!”

Everyone looked at their shirts, all designed with the color of their respective flag, then at (Y/N) who was busy slipping his own pink, yellow, and blue shirt on. He grinned at them like a maniac. “Well don’t just sit there! Put the shirts on and let’s go! Pride Parade is happening, and we can’t miss it!”

Galvanized by his words, everyone started putting their shirts on, even Alfred and Bruce before they followed him to the SUV where he climbed in the driver’s seat.

“Hey, (Y/N)?” Jason asked.

“Yeah boy!”

“I applaud that you know my first orientation, but I hate to break it to you—I’m a demisexual bi.”

(Y/N) leaned over into the passenger’s side floorboard and shoved Dick’s legs out of the way before he yanked up a bag and unzipped it. He pulled out a rather large plastic package and threw it back at him, hitting him in the face. “EXPENSIVE FACE PAINT THAT’S NOT WORTH THE PRICE I PAID BUT WHATEVER! PAINT ALL THE FLAGS ON YOUR FACES!”

“Brother, you must really love Pride Parades.” Damian remarked and he nodded.

“LOVE ALL THE PARADES! LOVE PEOPLE! LOVE HAVING FUN! LOVE THE LGBTQ COMMUNITY!” he opened the garage and hit the gas, speeding down the driveway. “HAVE ALL THE FUN AT PRIDE! MEET ALL THE PEOPLE! MAKE ALL THE FRIENDS! CELEBRATE OUR UNIQUENESS!”

He tossed back more items, sunglasses, necklaces, hats, everything. “IDENTIFY YOURSELF! OR DON’T! IT’S YOUR RIGHT TO BE AS COMFORTABLE AS YOU WANT! BUT HAVE FUN!” he stopped at a red light and turned. “DO YOU REMEMBER MY RULES?”

Dick went first as the oldest, then Jason, Steph, Cass, Duke, Tim, and Damian. “Don’t add to the population.

“Don’t subtract from the population.”

“Don’t go to jail.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”

“And if you do—”

“Don’t get caught!” Damian finalized with a grin as Dick wrote the words ‘Not sure yet’ on his face. “I am excited to experience this!”

(Y/N) looked scandalized. “YOU’VE NEVER BEEN TO A PRIDE PARADE? OH, THE INHUMANITY!” he looked at his father and went jaw-slacked. “Dad, are you putting the bi-flag on your face?”

Bruce looked up from his compact mirror and nodded. “Mhm.”

“I didn’t know you were bi?”

“I didn’t know you were pansexual, (Y/N).” he retorted with a smile and (Y/N) grinned.

“What did you think I was?”

“In the closet.”

“HA!”

“Wait, so (Y/N),” Steph started. “When did you know you were pan?”

He blinked and pulled into a parking garage. “When I met Ghost-Maker in a LGBTQ nightclub and when home with him for the weekend.”

No one said a word, merely looking at Bruce who looked absolutely disgusted. “You slept with K?”

“Many times.” (Y/N) snorted, putting the car in park. “He’s extremely proficient at it. It’s a shame he doesn’t experience romantic attraction because I’d marry him in a heartbeat.”

Everyone gagged, but Jason nudged Tim in the ribs and snickered, “That’s pretty gay.”

And then the entire SUV was filled with cackles as they climbed out and marched into the rainbow filled streets, mile-wide grins on their faces and pride in their hearts.

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euphoriyoongi · 3 years ago

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♥︎ So this is Love ♥︎ k.s.j

A Cinderella Story

Requested by: @baby-mochi123

♥︎ Summary:

As an orphan living with your late fathers disgrace of a wife and two step sisters, you’re hidden away from the world. That is, until the King gets inpatient for grandchildren, and invites all maidens to the royal ball.

♥︎ Genre: royalty au, Cinderella-themed, love at first sight, comedy

♥︎ Word count: 5.6k

♥︎ Warnings: none

m.list

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

Once upon a time in a far away land, there was tiny kingdom…

Ever since your father died, life has been rough.

You could barely remember the times you used to play in the grass fields with your mother, or the time you ripped the bottom of your dress as you fell.

Those memories were distant. Nearly gone. Your father remarried after your mother died, and the woman he married was more of a devil than anything. She would act all sweet to you when your father was around, but behind closed doors she disgraced and belittled you.

When your father passed away, she became more evil than before, which was hard to imagine. She was already so terrifying, but now it seemed as though she had something against you.

You were fully grown now, able to do everything for yourself. But yet, you were forced to like in a crammed attic of their home, while your two step sisters enjoyed lavish rooms and jewelry. It was unfair, but you made yourself worth living. With all of the chores and the dust and dirt you'd have to clean up every day, you still had your pride.

You lived in solidarity up and away from the vicious people you could never call family, and the only friends you could call your own were the rats that populated the walls.

The terribly loud clock broke you away from your slumber and bells began to ding, signaling it was time to make breakfast. They forced to go serve them as they lay in bed, and all you wanted was to be able to eat what you made. There would only ever be enough for the three of them and their cat—which was fittingly named Lucifer—and never any for you. That was probably why you were so thin.

"Y/n!!" Your stepmother's voice bellowed through the walls continuously, hailing you to begin her breakfast. She always yelled like she was going to starve if you didn't get it to her in time which wasn't true. She was bigger-boned and had plenty of meat on her bones, and always concealed it with a super tight corset that she would claim her real waist.

"Y/n?! Where's breakfast?" Your step sister screeched at you from her bedroom as you walked by. You ignored her and continued to walk to the kitchen. "Hey! Don't ignore me! Mother, Y/N is ignoring me again!"

You continued to walk to the kitchen and once you got there you began to prepare breakfast. You scrambled up the food and poured tea, and then placed it on 3 plates to bring to them.

As you brought them all their breakfast, your stepmother beckoned you to come into her room. Before you entered, your two ugly step sisters blocked the door. "You're gonna get it bad, Y/N."

You brushed them off again and made your way through the double doors or your stepmother's room, the cat following you in.

The cat glided it's way through the dark room and jumped onto the large bed, curling up into the arms of a dark looking figure. She didn't speak.

"Stepmother—"

"Shut it." She hissed as she pet her cat, who was as dark as the room. His eyes were the only visible part of him. "Seems like you have a lot of time on your hands. Let's put it to good use."

You stayed silent and listened to what she had to say. You knew it was going to be chores, and you just wished you could have some alone time to yourself.

"You have full chore duty today. That includes folding the laundry, washing dishes, scrubbing to floors, sewing your step sisters' dresses and oh—don't forget the garden."

You sighed. "Yes Step-mother."

You had no way out of it. It was all you could do to respect your father.

You could've swore you saw the cat smirk. "Oh yes, one more thing. Don't forget to bathe the cat."

Over the hill was the large grandeur of a palace, where the king and his son lived.

The king was getting impatient, wondering when his son would give him grandchildren. He wasn't getting any younger, and wished to see children before he passed.

Kim Seokjin, the only prince of the kingdom, hasn't even had the thought of settling down yet. He wasn't as young as he used to be, but he thought no one could be his match. The prince was away on business, but was coming home tonight.

His father decided to send out invitations to every eligible maiden in the kingdom to a royal ball, hoping at least one of them will catch his eye.

So it wouldn't seem suspicious, he figured he could plan this ball for his return, and have all the women there for him.

Tonight was the night he planned for the ball. He then sent out all the invitations, hoping for the best.

As you were scrubbing the floor, a thin piece of paper slid through the mail slot on the door and landed right at your feet. You picked it up and didn't bother reading it, you weren't the best at reading anyway. You did notice it was from the palace.

Your step family was upstairs as they were practicing their music skills and you walked up the stairs to interrupt.

You knocked softly, but your step mother screamed as you entered. "Y/n! What did I say about interrupting—"

"This just came from the palace!" You excitedly murmured, and held your hand out for your step mother to grab it.

"There's to be a ball...every eligible maiden is to attend!" She cried out and looked to her daughter's who were jumping up and down.

"We're both eligible!!" They screamed simultaneously, happily shaking the floorboards.

Your eyes lit up when you heard what she said. "That means I can go, too!" You said, covering your mouth with your hand in excitement.

One of your step sisters snickered. "Yeah, right! Her dancing with our prince! That's impossible.

"Greetings your highness, would you mind holding my broom." The other sister giggled as she mocked you.

After their laughs ended, you spoke up again. "Well, why not? I am part of the family. And it says by royal command..."

The sisters looked at each other and then at their mom. "Well...I can't see why you couldn't go..." she stared down at the piece of paper. "If you get all your work done and find something suitable to wear.."

"Yes step mother I sure will!" You smiled as you made your way out. "Thank you."

You ran as fast as you could up the steps to plan your outfit, knowing you have your mothers old dress locked away in a chest.

You noticed it was a bit outdated, so you looked through your sewing book to see any changes you could make to it.

Just as you finally thought you reached happiness it faded away just as quickly as it happened. You were beckoned again to start your chores and now you wouldn't have nearly enough time to sew the dress.

As you worked your ass off to clean and get things done, time flew. You thought you didn't have a change at going to the ball now, especially when you heard the carriage reach the chateau. You sighed. As if your day couldn't get any worse. Your step mother opened her door when she heard you walk by. "Y/nN my dear, why aren't you dressed?"

Your two step sisters peaked out of the doorframe, awaiting your answer. "Ah, I'm not going."

They all smirked, but tried to cover it. "That's too bad. Maybe next time." She cooed and shut the door to get her daughters ready.

You made your way back up to your humble living space, and your shoulders were hunched as you walked up the stairs. You really thought you had a chance for yourself this time. You hated being someone's maid, and you wished things would be different. You had hoped this was the chance to break out of your shell and this house and follow your dreams. Dreams of meeting your one and only true love.

As you entered your room you peered out the window, staining at the tree branches that blocked the moonlight. You sighed, deep in thought.

A sudden creek came from your closet, and the door began to open slowly. You nearly screeched when you saw a dozen rats run out of it, but when your eyes landed on the gorgeous dress that was hung up, you glanced at the little rodents.

"How the hell did you do that? Was that some kind of sorcery?" You stared at the dress with wide eyes, trying to figure out how tiny rats were able to stitch and sew. Maybe you were going crazy. "Thank you..I guess." You said sincerely, but still couldn't wrap your mind around it all.

You rushed to get ready and tossed on all your accessories, including a beautiful jade necklace that sat on the corner of your desk. You were unsure about how it got there, but figured it was the rats with superpowers and carried on with your plans.

You rushed down the stairs as you noticed that they were about to open the door to leave. "Wait for me!" You yelled as you ran, hoping they wouldn't give you any trouble. "I'm ready."

"Mother you can't let her go! It's not fair!" The ugliest sister growled as she tossed her hands in the air.

The other sister huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "This is disgraceful!"

"Now girls...a promise is a promise." Your step mother smirked as she neared you, reaching a hand out to cradle your jade necklace. "Isn't this beautiful, what do you think—"

"No it's ugly—wait! That's my necklace! She stole it!" She hissed reaching out towards it. "Gimme that!" As she grabbed onto it she yanked it, and the necklace broke, sending all the beads to dance across the floor.

You gasped as that happened, and the other sister barely gave you enough time to get a grip when she began to tear your dress from bottom to top. They both aggressively tried to tear it apart, not a care in the world about how you felt about it. It was your mothers dress after all, and now all that's left is the torn fabric that fell from your shoulder.

"Girls, girls. Let's not be too hasty. I don't want you upsetting yourselves." Your stepmother softly spoke, side-eying you as if she didn't see the whole debacle. "Let's go, we'll be late." She said, leaving you all alone in the large empty house, torn to pieces.

You couldn't help but start to cry. You tried your best to be able to go, even trusted rats to fix up your dress. But now your dress was ruined and you were crying, subconsciously finding yourself in the garden under your favorite willow tree.

"It's just no use at all.." you cried out as you laid your head down onto the bench, kneeling. "There's nothing left to believe in anymore."

You let your tears fall, completely oblivious to the bench that somehow turned into the lap of a man. His hand softly stroke your head, listening to you cry.

"Nothing? You don't really mean that, right?" His soothing voice spoke out, and you'd think it would've broke you out of your funk, but it didn't. You still sat there with your head in his lap and cried.

"Yeah, I do mean that—"

"No you don't, or I wouldn't be here." He shrugged and you finally realized something wasn't normal. You sat yourself back and gasped at the boy in front of you. He had dazzling blue hair and eyes to match, with a beautiful pink gown on. He looked very feminine and approachable. Sparkles danced around his figure and he held something that looked like a wand in his right hand.

"Wha—" you rubbed your eyes, trying to understand was was in front of you. First it was artsy rats, now...a fairy?!

He reached around your arms and slowly lifted you up. "Okay, you definitely can't go to the ball looking like...that." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "We have to hurry."

He glanced around, almost as if he was trying to find something. "Now what did I do with that damn wand, I swear I lose it every time.."

Your eyes widened. "Wand? Then you must be—"

"Your fairy godfather—god that's so strange to say. How bout your god-daddy" he shook his head as he covered his mouth. "Wait no that sounds to provocative. Just call me Jimin." He smiled, and then continued to look for his wand.

You glanced at his right hand, which held a long stick-like thing. "Uh...is that it? In your hand?"

"Now who do you take me for? Im not that dumb I—wait, you're right. I guess I am that dumb." He scratched his head in embarrassment and shook it off. "Okay. I say the first thing you need is a pumpkin."

"A..pumpkin?" You questioned, glancing over at the pumpkin patch that was part of the garden.

"Yes. Now what we're the magic words?" He wondered out loud, scratching his chin. "Ah! Bippity boppity boo bitch!"

And just as ridiculous as the magic words were, a grand carriage blossomed from the pumpkin. You were at a loss for words as you glanced from the carriage to Jimin, shaking your head in astonishment. "How'd you do that?"

He smiled. "Magic, I guess." He said not too confidently, looking from you to the little rats around your feet. "Now you need horses."

You looked down and the rats and giggled. You could've sworn you were in a fever dream right now. How was all of this possible?

With the flick of his wrist, Jimin turned the cute little rats into large white horses, standing high and mighty as they were ready to pull the carriage.

You didn't even take notice to an actual horse that stood next to Jimin, patiently waiting to have his turn with magic. "Now you need a coachman.." he muttered and waved his wand at the horse, transforming it into a human man. He sat at the reins of the horses, ready to go.

"Okay what the hell is going on here?" You blinked frantically as you tried to understand what was happening in front of you. How could such a gorgeous man be a fairy, and how could said gorgeous man turn a horse into a person?

Maybe you were high or something.

"Aha. Now, it's your turn." He turned to you with his wand and winked. He looked you up and down and bit his lip, then looked into your eyes. "You're super hot and all, but that dress is a no no."

He waved his wand up to the sky and did a little twirl, and you couldn't help but chuckle at how ridiculous he looked. But all of a sudden a large wave of sparkles encased your body, spiraling around you with high speed. You looked down in confusion, then when it all stopped, what was left was a beautiful silvery-blue dress that sparkled as much as the stars.

"Woah..." you breathed, spinning around in it. It was absolutely stunning, you didn't even want to question how he did it. He then fixed up your hair and makeup, and last but not least, your shoes.

You had a weird shoe size. It was a bit too small for your body, so most of the time it was hard to find ones that fit. So when Jimin magically put sparkling glass heels onto you, you gasped in disbelief.

They sparkled even more than the dress, but all in all you sparkled more than the night sky. "This is like a dream.." you murmured in awe.

"Okay, I'm done." He chuckled, crossing his hands across his chest. "Just one more thing."

"What is it?" You asked him, on edge to go to the palace.

"This is all a façade, okay? Just like all dreams, it won't last forever." He looked into your eyes. "It won't last after midnight. Everything will go back to how it was before."

You nodded. At least that gave you enough time to try to meet the prince. "Okay. I'll be out of the palace before that."

He nodded, then gasped and it nearly scared you. "Okay, you gotta go or you'll be late."

He shooed you into the carriage and as you sat down, the horses that were once rats took off, leaving Jimin in the dust. When you looked back you noticed his little wave, then all of a sudden he disappeared into thin air, making this whole situation even weirder.

When you approached the castle, you noticed how grand it was. With it standing so tall it looked like it hit the clouds, and the beautiful stones that held it all together. This was a dream in life itself that sadly had to end, but you were going to make the most of it.

Currently inside the palace, the king organized all of the women to be introduced to the prince one by one. But everytime a promising woman would walk up, it was almost as if he would yawn at the sight of them.

The prince stood tall in the great hall, barely giving any women a second glance. He didn't want any of them, and just wanted to find someone himself. His father and the arch duke sat up high on the balcony, looking down on the scene. Seokjin looked up, noticing how aggravated his father looked.

You approached the grand steps to enter the ballroom, the sides lined with guards. You looked over at them when you noticed they were looking at you, and continued your walk up a hundred red-velvet covered stairs.

Your step sisters were currently being introduced, you took notice to that as you walked into the room. The far side wall was open, leaving only the beautiful night sky to be viewed. What you didn't take notice of was that the prince stopped in his tracks and was standing at you wide eyed.

Seokjin couldn't help himself. The two girls that were in front of him were such a bore. When he bowed respectfully to them and straightened up he noticed you, where you were directly in his line of vision with the dark sky surrounding you, making it seem like you were sparkling.

He had to meet you. The way you spun around to music that wasn't even being played or the way he just glanced at you once and could've sworn he fell in love, he knew he had to at least know your name.

He pushed past the two sisters and stepped toward you, determined to make you his bride.

He reached out a hand towards your shoulder. "Hello, miss?" Jin said politely, his dark hair pushed up to reveal his forehead. "How come I don't know who you are?"

His father took notice to his interest, and hurriedly signaled the band to play the waltz.

When the music ran through the room, you didn't even have time to answer him. He was breathtakingly beautiful, almost like a prince. Little did you know that he was one.

"Would you like to dance with me?" He asked you and held onto you hand, raising it to kiss the back of it.

You shivered in delight, knowing you fell for him at first sight. It seemed like he did, too. So much for marrying a prince, you didn't care who this guy was at this moment. "I'd love to."

He held your hand as you both made your way to the center of the ballroom, watching all of the women cry in disbelief.

He slid his hands down to your waist and you held your hands onto his shoulders. You moved in sync, your lips just a few inches away from his. His eyes were stunningly dark and mysterious with hair to match. His lips were plump, almost pillow-like and you wondered how they would feel against yours.

You couldn't get enough of him, you were lost in him. In his touch, in his eyes, in his heart. He was also captivated by you and had no doubt you were the one out of all these women.

"Who is she, mother? I've never seen her before." The step sister asked as she tried to get a good look of you from the crowd.

"We'll Ive never—wait a minute...something is familiar about her." Your stepmother wondered, but before she could get a good look, they moved their way out onto the terrace, now all alone without anyone watching.

After the dance was over he held you in his arms, brushing a stray strand away from your face. He smiled at you when he noticed your blush.

He grabbed your hand, holding onto it tightly as he took you into the garden, both of you in bliss.

You both sat down on the edge of a large fountain, not taking notice to the clock behind it. It was nearing midnight, but you were so lost in his charm that you didn't even pay attention.

He sat next you you closely, and looked from your eyes to your lips. "You're beautiful. I hope you know that." He said to you as he leaned in farther. "So, so beautiful."

His lips grazed yours softly, but before it could turn into a kiss, the clock struck twelve behind you, bellowing a loud noise. You whipped your head around and noticed the time. "Oh my god!"

You stood up abruptly, and his hand that was on your thigh flew up as you stood. "What's wrong?" He wondered with worry, noticing how frantic you were.

"It's midnight!" You cried, holding onto your dress like it was going to disappear.

"Yeah..so.." he trailed off, hoping that this night would go farther.

You shook your head and turned to leave. "I have to go." You said sadly, but his hand grabbed yours before you could run off.

"You can't leave now—"

"I have to!" You said as you looked frantically back and forth, hoping nothing would disappear right now.

"But why?" He asked softly. He didn't want you to leave. He had so much more he wanted to say to you, he didn't even know your name.

You had to make up an excuse. "I—uh...the prince! I haven't met the prince yet!" You said and nodded. "Yeah, that's right."

"The..prince?" He asked. Didn't she know it was him? "But didn't you know that I—"

The clock bellowed again, sending you hurriedly looking for the way out. "Goodbye!" You said and bowed, and ran off back into the palace to find your way down those beautiful velvet steps.

"Wait! I don't even know your..." he trailed off as he ran after you. "Name.."

Before he could catch you, all the women blocked his leave and surrounded him, all blabbing something he wasn't paying attention to. All he saw was the beautiful girl he fell in love with run down the stairs, only leaving a glass heel behind.

You ran out of the palace and jumped into your carriage which was thankfully still intact. It rode off and it started to slowly change.

The carriage began to soften like how it was before and transitioned into a large pumpkin, and the horses morphed back into the small rats they once were. Everything was a blur and all of a sudden you fell to the ground with a thud, picking yourself up and scurried with the animals to hide in the forest as the palace guards ran straight, smashing the pumpkin that was once a carriage.

It was quiet now, you stared down at your tattered dress. The cute little rats stood by your feet, trying to get you to notice that you still had one glass slipper. It didn't disappear with the rest of it.

That was all you had left of that night, and you went back home holding it tightly, dreaming about the man you nearly kissed.

The next morning the prince paced back and forth in his room, trying to figure out a way to find her.

Seokjin was never like this. He was always calm and collected, but something ticked in his mind when he met you. He needed to find a way to get you back into his arms. He didn't even get to kiss you.

He held the heel you left behind in his hand and came up with a great idea. He needed to have this heel reach every maiden's household to see if it fit. The problem is, it could fit any number of the girls. He’d just have to wish for the best. His father would never let him out of the palace to do it himself though.

The grand duke was willing. After figuring out the plans, the duke took off to find the girl of the prince's dreams.

“Y/N!” Your stepmother cried out angrily. “Where are you?” She paced up the stairs but stopped as soon as she heard you.

“I’m right here.” She spoke out as you exited one of the rooms downstairs. She always seemed to rush you even if you were doing a great job.

“Where are the girls?” The looked anywhere but you as she asked this, only ever worrying about her own daughters.

You set down the broom you had in your hand and sighed. “They’re still sleeping.”

She rushed up the steps in anxiousness and you wondered what was the matter. You walked into the kitchen and grabbed the tea for them quickly and ran upstairs, only to overhear their conversation.

“What’s wrong, mother?” Both the sisters were in the same room, both tired and yawning up a storm.

“He’ll be here any minute!” She rushed, pulling back the curtains to bring light inside the room.

“Who?” They asked simultaneously with a yawn.

“The grand duke. He’s been hunting all night.” She rooted through her daughter’s wardrobe. “For that girl! The one that lost her slipper at the ball last night. Apparently he’s madly in love with her.”

“The duke?” One of them asked, only to be interrupted loudly.

You walked into the doorway at this moment, looking back and forth at the sisters and your stepmother.

“No, the prince!”

You stopped in your tracks. So that man you met—the man you nearly kissed—was the prince?

You gasped. “The prince?” The glass teapot that was in your hands slipped through your fingers, sending shards all over the floor.

“You clumsy fool! Clean that up!”

You couldn’t even pay attention or acknowledge the fact that you were spoken to. The only thing you did was slowly fall to the floor and clean it it without paying close attention. You couldn’t believe it. You…met the prince?

“Why are you telling us this then? If he’s so in love with that other girl?”

Your stepmother side glanced you and continued to root through the wardrobe. “Because not even the prince knows who she is. The glass slipper is the only clue. So one of you must fit into it.”

You glanced up as you cleaned the mess, listening intently to what was going on. “The grand duke was ordered to try it on every maiden in the kingdom. If the shoe fits, that girl will be the prince’s bride by order of the king!”

“Bride?” You whispered in shock, still unable to wrap this around your head.

As the sisters clashed together in search for clothing you saw yourself out, blissfully dancing to the door to your room.

Your stepmother watched you as you swayed, and she narrowed her eyes. Something was certainly fishy about you, and she didn’t have the time to let you become someone better than her daughters. She sneaked up the stairs and peaked through the door, watching you as you sang lovingly in the mirror.

You coughed of glimpse of her in the corner of your eye and turned around, only to see her slide the key into her pocket and lock the door, slamming it.

“No no no!” You cried out, running to the door. “You can’t leave me in here!” You banged on it with your fists as hard as you can, only to hear her footsteps slowly disappear.

You set your back against the door and slid down to the floor. How were you supposed to meet the prince now? How would he ever find you?

You lost all your hope. When you heard the trumpets sound that the duke was here, your heart dropped to your stomach. You let a few tears fall, upset that no one here would even care enough about you. It spoke a thousand words when your step mother locked the door on you, not caring if you needed anything, or to be happy for you if it was your slipper.

The duke came into the house and glanced down at the two sisters who definitely weren’t the prince’s cup of tea. He still had to do his job anyway. He read out the decree and told the older sister to sit down first to try it on. When the glass slipper seemed like it fit like a glove he stood back in awe, that is, until she lifted her foot up and it was only covering half of it.

Meanwhile, the magic rats were up to something. The smallest one was able to gently slide into your stepmother’s pocket. The others stood by and were able to reach it when the small rat lifted it up. They hurriedly rushed the key up the stairs, but it was a bit heavy for them. This was going to take a while.

The duke sighed and shook his head. “Let’s try the next young lady.”

The next sister tried to forcibly squeeze her way into it. She kept complaining that her foot was just swollen today and kept trying. The duke sat there with a frown, knowing that it wasn’t either of these girls. “Are you sure there isn’t another maiden in this household?” He asked you stepmother, grabbing onto the heel and keeping it safe.

The rats were tired, but were able to reach the top of the steps. Now it was time for you to shine.

“No, there’s no one else here—“

“Your grace! Wait!” You cried and rushed down the grand steps of the chateau. “May I try it on?”

The duke’s eyes widened as he took notice to your appearance and smiled. He signaled his servant forward as you reached the bottom of the stairwell.

Your stepmother rolled her eyes. “Don’t pay attention to her.”

“She’s just y/n! A nobody!”

“Madam.” He stood sternly next to your stepmother. “My orders were every maiden. Now if you would excuse me.”

He motioned you to sit down in the chair and beckoned his servant to bring the glass slipper towards you. As he came closer, your stepmother stuck her foot out, only to come to the servant tripping, which sent the glass slipper flying through the air until it smashed right before your feet.

You weren’t too worried about it—since you had the other slipper—but the duke nearly cried and he tried to piece it together. “No no no, this is terrible!” He cried out. “What could we do?”

You smiled at him and then glanced to your stepmother, who was smirking. You always new she was no good for you. But now you were done. “Perhaps..if it would help?” You slid the other slipper out from behind you. “The other slipper?”

He gasped and grabbed ahold of it excitedly. He reached down to slide it onto your foot, and when it fit, he breathed a sigh of relief. The prince could finally be happy.

Bells chimed and people cried out as you rushed down the stairs of the palace in your grand wedding Dress, holding onto Seokjin’s hand tightly with a smile. This was a dream come true. A fairy tale. Everything worked out for you at the end of it.

Here you were in the back of a carriage taking you both somewhere for alone time, but you couldn’t help but blush as his hands cradled your face. “I’m so glad I found you, y/n.”

You stared lovingly into his eyes, glancing down at his lips slightly. “I’m so glad you wanted to find me, Seokjin.”

He stared at you like no one has ever before. He looked at you with such intent it nearly made you melt. His eyes glanced from your eyes to your lips and once again he leaned it for a kiss, this time actually happening.

His lips softly touched yours, slowly moving into you as his hands cradled your face like you were glass. You wrapped your arms around his neck to deepen this kiss, so in love with each other.

All this struggle, and now here you were in each others arms, happily in love and wishing it would never end.

And they lived happily ever after.

#bts #bangtan sonyeondan #bts fanfic #bts jin #kim seokjin #cinderella #bts post #bts one shot #jin x reader #park jimin

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