#ooc: so i was hit with inspiration mid-day...

[hometown-mayor]

First, Noelle mentioned Rudy and now Dess? If it were anyone else besides her daughter, Carol would have assumed the person speaking to her was trying to emotionally manipulate her using her slowly disappearing family as fodder. But Carol knew Noelle wouldn't do such a thing.

Not her helpless little girl.

"You have to be stronger, Noelle. Don't you understand!?" Her hands clentched the steering wheel as she spoke. She immediately regretted her words when she glanced at Noelle nervously clutching her arm.

If this is the hand she's being dealt -- if this is the fate of her family -- if the Angel is indifferent to her prayers... she has to find another way to deal with her situation.

"Look." She cleared her throat. "How about we... spend the evening together." Carol's mind raced to mention something she can do with Noelle -- anything. The only thing she could think of were things they would do as a family. Her sentence ended just like that, as if at the edge of a cliff: a space of nothing, because it was always Rudolph who came up with those kinds of bonding activities.

hometown-mayor​:

Carol filed in the back of her mind that this “Susie” was friends with Krismas. Of course. Susie’s slouched posture and half-covered face didn’t seem all that inviting for any form of respectable socialization. She decided to not verbalize her lack of surprise about what Noelle said about that girl, and instead silently climbed into the driver’s seat.

The mention of Rudy was enough for Carol to drop that fixed, stern mayoral expression she wore, even when she was far from her Town Hall office. If Noelle looked well enough, she would have noticed her mother’s expression droop. Her eyes hidden behind square-rimmed glasses lifted back up to refocus on turning the key in the ignition. Despite their periodic tiffs, she missed the man.

Carol sighed. “Your father needs his rest.” Her usual even tone had a hint of deflation. “The more rest he gets, the sooner he’ll feel better and be discharged from the hospital.”

All other times Rudolph had gotten sick, his diagnoses were found and promptly treated: Pneumonia, once. Grief-induced fatigue, the other. But this time…? Why was it so hard for doctors to find out what’s wrong…?

She gave a stern look at Noelle. “Must you visit him every day?”

🎄 Noelle gingerly looked to the side holding her arm with her hand. Her eyes looked up at her mother. Hearing her mother words “I know he needs rest, but seeing him helps me. I miss Dess badly and… you’re not around… so I see him as much as I can”

{{ @hometown-mayor​ }}

[eternclsunshine]

RESPOND TO THE FOLLOWING PROMPTS OOC , THEN TAG OTHERS YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW BETTER.

tagged by: @heirloomeds ( thaaaanks <3 the leo sun in me loves to talk about myself lmao) tagging: @gccdwitch / @everseens / @testdrves / & whoever else wants to, just say I tagged you

roleplayer name: chel <3 not even the slightest bit close to my real name, it's derived from my old online alias 'shell' which was given to me from some long time internet friends. I shortened it to chel cause it's unique for the rpc and my fiance compares me to chel from el dorado lol

roleplayer pronouns: don't talk about me 👀 jk, she/her

preferred communication: tags of a thread or reblog, mostly ims for more longer/detailed things like personal ship headcanons or plotting.

experience: don't tell on me but I somehow stumbled upon tumblr when I was 12 or 13 and found some cool Monster High roleplay blogs and just made a tumblr account?? lol it was very random. I eventually got into roleplaying canon characters, then eventually other ocs from different fandoms. Somehow all that randomness led me here, even with all my on and off years.

preferred roleplay type: para and novella. one-liners are a cute starting point, but I like to really develop my muse and the ship throughout the whole thread. Love to hear the muses' internal thoughts and personalities come through - especially in the context of a situation. One-note and one-dimensional things dim my inspiration.

pet peeves & dealbreakers: when it's obvious someone hasn't read my rules or anything about the muse they're replying to. Or when they try to initiate something that wouldn't make sense for my muse (ex. Why would any of my successful muses in their mid 30's be in a relationship with a random person in their early 20's who's a retail worker or something??). Or trying to ship characters solely based on them being the same race/ethnicity, instead of considering their backgrounds and if their personalities would actually have chemistry.

plots or memes: memes for fun, one-off writings or headcanons <3 love em. plots are great for a loose idea / starting point

best time to write: who even knows honestly lol, just when the inspiration strikes? sometimes it's in the morning/afternoon on my days off, sometimes at night if a glass of wine or hit from my weed pen gives me creative inspo (then I edit later lol)

are you like your muse?: not really. some will have little pieces or traits of myself in them, or people I've known irl, or some very loose references to characters in tv/movies/books that I enjoy. I prefer characters who are different from each other and myself, different verses and lifestyles and scenarios I'd never live through - cause that's more fun and pushes me outside of my comfort zone. I get to be me every single day of my life all day, so the idea of a self-insert is honestly boring to me

[monkeebratz]

Gotham Seamstress Marinette - Uncle Ozzy

Initial Idea | Uncle Ozzy (you are here) |

One of Arthur’s most frequent customers is, of course, Oswald Cobblepot, The Penguin. The man wears almost exclusively suits. C’mon now. (Also the Penguin I’m most family is the one from The Batman animated series so forgive me if this seems. Odd? OOC? Idk I’m just here to have fun.)

And Ol’ Ozzy doesn’t think much of the little girl that’s started helping Mr. Berstein out around the shop. She works fast, doesn’t say much. Pretty little thing. (Not that Ozzy is looking at a child like that, get your mind out of the gutter. There’s a reason his Kabuki girls shadow him everywhere, and the Lounge has mostly waitresses running about. The lot of them are young, but nobody ever said Oswald Cobblepot wasn’t a gentleman, and no gentleman would ever put his hand to a woman. Catwoman doesn’t COUNT damn it.) 

Of course, he doesn’t think much of her until she’s stuttering over her words after he asks what she’s looking at so sharply. Something about the cut of the suit. Its difficult to pick through the nonsense to get to the meat of the matter but something about a single breast suit with some kind of pattern. When he demands she show him what she means, she pulls out a slip of paper, quickly scribbling out her design. And Ozzy won’t lie, its... flattering. More so than the damn American style suits that are still all the rage in Gotham right now. And the girl, Mari, is waving her hands and fluttering about to pick out a handful of fabrics, layering them against each other and explaining how they work together and he won’t lie... he likes it. Tells her as much and the girl grins ear to ear and makes little notes on the page, setting aside the paper and nodding along. 

Neither of them notice Mr. Berstein in the background, white knuckle gripping his tape, watching the scene play out in front of him. His Girls notice, of course, and tell him later in their harsh, whispered tones. Bah. Like he’d hurt a little girl for doing her job.... He may have to have a word with ol’ Jay about that. He liked this girl, and if she could make this old bird look good, well. He didn’t care to be replacing a seamstress who could do her job and do it well. No reason to have his old friend torment the girl into making mistakes. 

Mari starts making most of Oswald’s suits herself, adding in fun little details. And, now, most petty thugs know better than to mess with Arthur or Mari and get on the bad side of the Rogue Gallery. But not everybody. 

The Penguin shows up to find Mr. Bernstein doing some adjustments to his latest commission and he’s all sorts of cagey about where Mari is. Now, Cobblepot and the Kabuki Girls don’t take too kindly to him acting like that and there may be some threatening and, well. Arthur quietly explained that Mari got mugged coming home last night. She said the other guy looked worse, but she got hit pretty hard and she wasn’t going to be up for finishing anything anytime soon. 

So Oswald and the Girls push past Arthur to go upstairs (he and Mari live above the tailor shop) and go to see her, Arthur sweating buckets the whole time. And Mari’s just kinda laying on the couch, beat to all hell and she squeaks like a little mouse, quickly ducking into her little blanket burrito when she sees them. (She’s hiding the kwami that were comforting her. But they don’t need to know that.) 

Oswald goes all Papa Bear and demands a description of the men/man who did this and Mari gives it to him only if he promises not to kill them or anything drastic. And he DOES make that promise. The Girls, however, don’t. Nobody touches their sweet little Hime. (She hadn’t flinched back when they’d taken off their masks in front of her for a new set of unitard’s and kimono’s, carefully fitted and adjusted to not get in the way of their work. Had smiled and said how pretty their eyes were, how lovely their hair. Nobody touched their sweet girl, and nobody touches Mr. Cobblepot, and got away with it. Not now. Not ever.) 

Once Mari is all healed up, he insists that he call him Uncle Ozzy, and the Girls insist they call them Peri and Gale. They can’t manage more than a harsh whisper, and refuse to give any other names, but Mari never gives her full name either, so. That’s fine. 

Now, Ozzy and the Girls continue wearing Mari’s designs. And, now, Marinette hears of the upcoming Wayne gala, and in a fit of inspiration, draws up matching outfits for the three of them. And maybe one for herself. And Ozzy pays her for all four outfits, and tells her he’ll bring her as his plus one to this gala. As long as it all gets done before hand. She, of course, tackle hugs him and squeals with happiness bc you’d better believe Mari is going to get this done asap!

(And holy descriptions Batman, here’s the ideas for their outfits that I may try to draw one day. Maybe.

Oswald Cobblepot - British Style Single Breasted Suit. Off silver/cream color with metallic snowflake detailing. Very subtle. Very light almost pastel orange-yellow waistcoat. A more saturated red-orange tie and matching handkerchief in his jacket breast pocket. Typical matching top hat and shoes in a slightly darker gray to match the suit. 

Peri and Gale - Masks with high flush looking blush and very pale blue lips. Decorative hair combs and flowers in silver and pale, ice blue. Their unitards are a similar simple, pale blue. Kimono has inner most layers of deep blue, getting paler and paler until you have the silver blue outside layer. Same metallic snowflake pattern as Ozzy’s suit. The bottom of the kimono and its sleeves have added details of penguins in the same orange-yellow and yellow-red as Ozzy as well. Obi is the same blue as the middle layer of the Kimono, a mid tone blue, with bronze details of peregrine falcons and nightingales, respectively. Orange-yellow obi belt and red-orange obiage. 

Marinette - High neck, backless, mermaid style skirt, dress. Fade from black at her neck to the same off silver everybody else has. Metallic snowflakes on the silver area of the skirt that fade out with the black. Very top of the dress is a yellow ribbon that ties in a bow at the back of her neck and hangs down to just below her  knees.)

Ozzy intrudes Mari to the Wayne’s and its. Something. 

[eirist]

Little Bits and Pieces of Heaven

FEAST YOUR EYES

One-shot #: 19

Disclaimer: One Piece (and its characters) belongs to Eiichiro Oda-sensei.

Reminder: I have no beta-reader. Any grammatical and spelling errors are solely mine.

Warning:OOC possible. One shot. PWP.

Rating:M (Just implications and some words)

Note: So this is inspired by the Kingdom dance in Tangled, a Nami line in One Piece Treasure Cruise and the fact that I want to slash a prompt from the drabble list. Prompt #88: “Come here” done. And if you want an idea on how bouncy the jig Brook’s playing, play the one from Titanic (the third class party).

Summary: “Have you done enough feasting swordsman?”

The celebration was already in full swing.

Some of the townsfolk started dancing underneath the brightly illuminated town square as Brook began playing a jig with a borrowed fiddle.

It didn’t take long for the other citizens to join the musician with their own instruments.

Usopp—who was standing on a makeshift stage—leapt down and ran towards the throng of dancers, shouting gleefully at his crew mates to join the fun.

With a loud and cheerful yell, Luffy bounded towards the dancers with a chunk of meat in one hand and Chopper on the other.

As if on cue, everyone was now pulling random bystanders and inviting people off the wooden benches and feasting tables to join the dancing.

Soon, the other Mugiwaras were doing the same. Franky offered a hand to Robin, who was sitting on the bench, clapping her hand in time with the music. The archaeologist smiled and conceded.

Sanji was about to ask Nami but his effort was thwarted by Usopp suddenly grabbing the navigator’s hand to drag her in a circle he, Luffy and Chopper had made.

The cook shouted curses and threats but his voice was drowned by the music, laughter and clapping.

Zoro smirked from the sidelines, mentally thanking the sniper from whisking Nami away from the perverted cook’s clutches. He took a swig from his mug and shook his head to refuse a pretty girl, and another, who were asking him to join the dance as well.

He silently observed his friends; spinning around and around, holding hands as if it they were just on the lawn deck of the Sunny, playing ring-around-the-rosy game. They were jumping and prancing to the lively beat with seemingly boundless energy. He can hear them laughing and cheering and he grinned at the fact that they are enjoying themselves.

They really should. After kicking the ass of the island’s former tyrannical ruler and his ridiculous minions, they deserve it.

That was the reason why a feast was being held on their honor. Even if they repeatedly said they are not heroes and was just passing by without really any intention to free the oppressed island.

One steely eye settled on the orange-haired woman as Usopp twirled Nami around. Zoro watched her giggle girlishly when Luffy did the same, before their captain clumsily stepped on her foot. That earned the rubber man a fist in the face as his head hilariously ricocheted, almost hitting Franky’s back before Nami went and grabbed Chopper’s hand and they whirled together around laughing.  

Her hair shone brightly under the yellow lights strung above the town square. She looked radiant, charming even (though he knows how deadly that charm is, he had seen men lured into their doom by that alone); more so when she threw back her head and laughed merrily as Sanji tried to seize her hand again in an attempt to dance with her and Luffy unwittingly intercepted by jumping on the chef’s arms.

There was another frustrated scream, followed by a lot of curses and kicking as Zoro rolled his eye.

Stupid cook. Serves him right.

The music continued playing, it seemed endless. And instead of tiring the people out, it only served to make them more enthusiastic as they all clapped, cheered, stomped their foot with the music and laughed, louder than before.

Nami had finally relented and let the blond idiot dance with her and spin her around, thrice, before blood—as expected—spurted out from his nose. From what, Zoro did not bother finding out as he fought the urge to roll his eye again at absurdity of it all. Of course it was not helping that the mapmaker had donned a light blue lace bustier top (he heard her call it that during one tiring, laundry day), and her chest was practically spilling out of it.

Not that he was eyeing her… but yes.

If Nami was able to make him look… then he doesn’t even want to think what it was doing to the other men within the vicinity with less restraint than him. Take swirly brows for example.

He studied her at the rim of his mug as he took another sip of his beer. She was trying to catch her breath, her hands on her hips, shaking her head as Chopper hurriedly took care of their fallen comrade. Surprisingly, there was a remnant of smile on her face as she watched everything before her as the others continued to zealously dance the night away.

Her chest heaved as she tried to get her breathing back to normal and he didn’t missed the way the soft mounds in front of her bounced slightly at each movement. And the dainty gold chain she was wearing around her neck wasn’t doing anyone a favor as it only guaranteed to catch anyone’s eyes and lead it straight down to her cleavage.

His gaze trailed upwards. Her long orange hair was loose and the curling tresses looked wild as if someone had deliberately tousled it by raking their fingers through it. There were errant strands sticking against her neck due to sweat. She was breathing through pursed lips and her face was flushed prettily.

She damn looked like she had been thoroughly kissed.

Or even better…

She looked exactly the way she does after a night of having his way with her. 

Something instantly stirred inside him and he can feel himself starting to swell at the thought of taking her again… probably tonight if possible.

He didn’t realize he was biting at the rim of his mug; not until he gritted his teeth when a love-struck fool approached her to try his luck.

He composed himself and shifted his attention to his liquor. It’s probably best to just enjoy his drink and temporary peace for now. He still got a barrel—scratch that—or two, to finish up before he was done feasting for the night. Besides, with all the merriment going on and knowing his friends… this could go well until dawn.

Zoro refilled his mug, momentarily glancing back at the crowd to check on Nami and the others when his eye met hers.

She must’ve refused the man earlier, as she was standing alone now. He saw the way her face lit up when she saw him looking and an enticing but rather devious smile appeared on her lips.

He fixed her with a stare, even as he tipped his mug back to drink his beer.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he was a bit peeved at the interruption. He grudgingly tore his eye away from Nami. A lovely girl was standing beside him with a shy smile on her face. She was asking him if he wanted to dance and he immediately shook his head to turn her down, trying his damnedest to be polite as much as possible.

He went back to drinking and refusing another girl's invitation to dance again. He was well on his way to his fourth mug when he felt someone swiftly sidle closer to him.  The distinct scent of mikans gave her away and Zoro wasn’t a bit surprised to find a pair of smooth, shapely legs just in line with his unimpaired vision.

“Are you done making pretty girls cry tonight?”

He lazily flicked an eye up on her face and scoffed.

Nami was smiling cheekily as she took the liberty of sitting on the table where he was drinking, nonchalantly crossing her leg over the other and setting one strappy heeled foot on the space beside his seat, letting the other just dangle in mid-air.

She placed her elbow on her knee, resting her chin in her hand as her brown eyes trailed over him up and down slowly.

Zoro threw back his drink draining the mug’s content in one gulp… before letting out a loud belch knowing it would ruffle her feathers.

The navigator’s face scrunched into a frown at his uncouthness. “You are such a pig Zoro!”

His grin was wide when he saw her expression.

She stuck here tongue out at him. “Have you done enough feasting swordsman?” Nami inquired as she observed that the table was almost food-free.

When he didn’t answer again, she decided to poke his leg with the pointy heel of her shoe. “Well… have you?” She probed as she poked him again, prompting him to clamp down a hand around her ankle.

“Nope,” Zoro replied. “Not yet.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Please don’t tell me what you wolfed down earlier and the three barrels of booze were still not enough?” She keeps forgetting how Zoro is just like their gluttonous captain… his appetite was just a voracious.

The smirk that appeared on his face set off the alarm bells inside her head as his thumb started rubbing the inside of her ankle, just below the strap, sending a wave of warm pleasure all over her body.

“There’s something else I want to feast on tonight.”

Nami’s breath hitched at that. With one arm he managed to scoop her up by the waist as he stood up, growling a ‘come here’, before throwing her over his shoulder.

“ZORO!” She yelped, smacking him on his back, even as she hooked an arm around his neck.

Zoro quickly glanced around to see is anyone can see them. Thank heavens all of their nakama and townspeople were still in the reveling zone; partying their hearts out.

He chuckled as he started walking away from all the merrymaking. He surreptitiously slid a hand inside her short skirt to give her ass a slap.

Shivers ran up and down Nami’s spine as an excited moan escaped her before she can even stop herself. Her insides started to throb in anticipation in what he might have in store for her tonight.

She pushed herself off his shoulder a little so she can look at his face. “At least know where you are going Zoro.”

“Does it really matter where?”

“At least somewhere with a bed idiot.”

They rounded a corner of a random dwelling, just as Brook started playing another jig and the whole town erupted into cheers and clapping again.

“We don’t need a bed Nami,” He whispered huskily.“You’re not sleeping tonight.”

The heat she was feeling immediately shot straight into her head. “Oh fuck.” Nami gasped, biting her lip as Zoro started planting wet kisses on her jaw and neck.  

"Yeah... all night long." He assured her as he crushed her lips against hers.

This is definitely going to be one night she wouldn’t mind losing sleep.   

[dahvangogh]

and empty words are evil | Jason Todd

[ prologue | one | two | three ]

[ao3 link]

note: Another week, another new chapter. Unfortunately, I haven't gotten any comments yet (except one in tumblr) but I did get a few kudos and hits which made me incredibly happy. I hope I got the new characters' introduced in this chapter well... like I'm a bit scared that they sound OOC or not credible enough. What do you think? Leave a comment on AO3 or here, please!

Also, I apologize for any grammatical mistakes, I tried my best to correct it all but I might have missed some things (english is not my native language)

Take care, guys. xx

CHAPTER TWO

“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”

― Allen Saunders

The art gallery this morning was emptier than a banker’s heart, which suits her best if she is being honest, with her current predicament and all. While she doesn't work at the art gallery per se, like showing the displayed artworks or buying imported ones, she does work at the back of the gallery in one of the many workshops. Hence, if the place is full or has a chatty crowd, the sound will still get to her and echo all over her workshop.

Thankfully, that isn't the case today.

Grace is sporting a hangover as big as the Empire State Building. Yesterday night, while checking pictures and maps of Black Mask’s warehouse surroundings, she had chugged down two expensive wine bottles as if they were water.

You reap what you sow, dumbass.

She didn’t even like wine, like at all.

Her boss Rose had gifted her the two bottles for her birthday very kindly and when yesterday night she had seen the bottles collect dust in her pantry, she had thought she either drunk them now or threw them to the nearest trash can.

A coughing, as if someone was throat cleaning, sounds from behind and startles her.

Grace stops her precise strokes with the cotton swab and throws it into a bowl with many others that have been used before. Then, as she turns around towards the workshop door, she lowers her face mask. Her boss, a beautiful mature woman sporting amazing pink hair up in a tight knot and matching it with multicolored eyeshadow, is standing at the threshold of the door, tapping away something on her phone.

“How is it going with the portrait?”

Her gaze is still on the phone.

“Great. Maximum two or three days outmost for me. Then Caesar can frame it again and we can return it to the owner.”

At that, her boss looks up at her and smiles as kindly as usual. Rose Whitehall was the type of boss many dreamed about having.

And Grace knew she was lucky to have her.

When she had come to Gotham City, the first day Grace had visited Gotham’s Art Palace and fallen completely in love. She had hunted down Rose Whiteman, resume in hand, and insisted for weeks to have her at least be an intern. Rose had taken her resume and scanned it from head to bottom, commenting on how lucky Grace had been to be doing her apprenticeship on Museum Island in Berlin. Then, she had agreed to take her as an intern for two months. If she was as good as it seemed from her resume, she would hire her.

And now here she is, working for Rose and getting paid every month doing what she loves most.

“The owner will be coming in fifteen minutes, Grace.” She says which instantly makes Grace gape at that, eyes wide in shock. Forget what I said, she is a fucking bitch… “Don’t worry! He just wants to see how the process of restoration is going.”

Thank God.

The raven-haired girl now raises one of her brows in question.

“It isn’t common, I know. But we needed to check some details for the Gotham Annual Gala Dinner he is hosting, the one where we will auction some artwork, and he asked if it was possible to see it.” Rose approaches her while explaining. Then, she stands beside her looking at the big white worktable where the painting is placed and being restored. “You see, this portrait is very important to him.”

Grace stares at the painted canvas too.

It is a huge family portrait, clearly of a wealthy family, and the members seem happy. The tall man has broad-shoulders, probably in his early thirties, and is wearing an expensive-looking suit with matching black tie. His combed dark hair contrasts quite a bit with his vibrant blue eyes. Besides the proud man stands a dashing woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with light brown hair up in a chignon and soft but plump pink lips. She is wearing a green strapless dress, those that you would only wear in formal events or at a Gala.

From the first moment Grace had seen the painting, the woman had taken her breath away, –despite how dirty and darkened the portrait is–. She still looked positively and extraordinarily beautiful. If Grace had ever seen her walking down the street, she would have immediately taken her small sketchpad out of her handbag and drawn her.

The painter clearly had done a remarkable job depicting them.

Though, as usual with any type of paints, the painting was forever condemned to be restored a few times and treated with preventive care until the owner decides to dispose of it.

Now, Grace follows with her eyesight the strong hand that the man has placed on a petite shoulder, and a smile immediately blooms on her face. It always happened these past days too. Whenever she looked at the third and last member of the painting she would inevitably smile.

A young boy.

He was probably six or seven years old when the portrait had been done. He looks like the spitting image of the older man, undoubtedly they were father and son, but has the same soft smile as the lovely woman.

“You have done a remarkable job, Grace.”

Her boss pats her on the shoulder, still looking at the couple depicted on the portrait.

“I never asked… do you know them? Personally, I mean… ”

Rose smiles sadly.

“My parents were friends with them, so I do remember meeting the family once or twice at dinner parties… sadly, the couple passed away due to very unfortunate circumstances.”

Grace now smiles saddened, trying not to imagine the sweet young boy crying in front of two stone gravels, utterly alone in the world.

A whistle-like sound, which Grace knows by now that it means a notification of Rose’s phone, echoes all over the workshop.

“And that must be him.”

Rose starts walking towards the door, the sound of her heels following her, but stops and then looks over her shoulder.

“Keep working on that! Now!”

And with a wink, she walks off towards the gallery section, disappearing from her sight.

“Aye, aye, captain!”

Grace pulls up her white face mask and rubs her gloved hands together, feeling a bit anxious about facing a client for the first time. She has never done so, an art restorer never meets her client unless she works at a museum –which means the museum is the owner, unless the piece was donated, that's another case altogether.

Though in this case... She did know that the restoration of this portrait was a special request to Rose, she said so, but now she understands why. The reason being that Rose knew the family sort of personally.

But she still never expected to meet the client.

She assesses that she mustn’t look that bad, thanking her morning-self for choosing an outfit that looks classy and professional on her.

Her hair is tied up with a ribbon in a high ponytail, very 60s with how her curls look, and her floral long skirt complements her white v-neck blouse. She had even gone as far as putting on some nude lipstick which looked great with her Bridget Bardot inspired eye look.

I hope my eye make up isn't ruined... Pandas don't look professional and efficient.

She sighs loudly.

Wait… Why in Hell am I worried about how I look? Pull yourself together!

She sighs again, which feels weird while wearing a face mask, and now picks up a new cotton swab, proceeding with socking it in a special liquid for cleaning. Before being interrupted, Grace was working on some details on the young boy’s suit and so now she goes back to working on that.

If everything goes according to her plan, she will finish today with the final touch-ups, and tomorrow she will varnish the whole thing.

Grace focuses on the section of the boy’s suit, who is placed at the bottom of the painting, and starts cleaning.

She has taken longer on this work because of how huge it was, plus she had two other more urgent works to do. Nevertheless, she feels confident that between today and tomorrow she can perfectly finish it.

Suddenly, the brunette sees a dark blurb move from the corner of her eye and so she stops her soft strokes to look beside her.

A child?

The young boy is attentively looking at her hand and analyzing its movements.

She raises an eyebrow in question.

The boy turns to look at her, his brows now furrowed and arms crossed, as if pissed that she has stopped doing her job.

They both stare at each other, no words spoken between them for a bit.

“You are surprisingly good for someone so young.” His child-like voice is a heavy contrast to how serious and formal his words are. “Though I assured father that I was more than capable of handling such an easy task.”

Grace blinks a few times, at first paying more attention to the pale scar at the tail of his right eyebrow that stands out against his tan skin, but then she registers what he has just said.

You little sh...

“Then your father was being smart, for such a delicate portrait deserves an experienced hand and....” She pulls her face mask down and smiles sweetly, all while looking down at him. “I highly doubt you would be up to that high standard.”

The boy, despite his sun-kissed skin, blushes notoriously. Yet, his brows are still furrowed, even more so now than before.

“I will have you know that… ”

He looks adorable, all angry while clenching his fists at his sides, and she can help but soften at the sight.

Grace quickly interrupts him.

“Though I’m sure that with proper study and practice, when you are older you might be able.”

He blinks a few times and then relaxes, though still sporting his adorable blush.

“Damian, don’t harass the lady while she is working.”

A deep and rich voice asks –probably to the boy, Damian is not her name– and both the kid and her turn their heads towards the threshold.

She holds a gasp.

Grace has just come across Bruce Wayne himself.

He is standing in the workshop threshold, all calm and poise. The man is surprisingly more handsome in real life than in the newspapers or tv. He is beautiful, yet I wouldn't paint him ever. Don't mistake her, he is handsome as hell. He looks extremely fit in his probably very expensive dark suit and as dashing as ever with his chiseled face, straight nose, and smiling soft lips. Yet something is amiss with him.

He doesn't look whole.

Too perfect.

“Father!”

She turns towards the young boy and sees it. The connection. They are identical, though Damian reaches her elbow, has a much darker complexion and his eyes are green instead of blue. Everything else is positively the same. As in the same well-kept haircut, long at the top and not too short at the sides –though the boy' is styled more child-friendly–, the same bone structure in the face and the same poise while standing.

Damian is a walking mini-Bruce.

The man walks towards them, still all calm and charm, and she can't help but search for any flaws. His blue eyes feel like they are analyzing her, which she quickly attributes to him being a worried father of finding alone his child with a total stranger, and so she tries to relax her and look non-threatening. After all, they were just talking.

“Bruce Wayne.” he introduces himself, offering his big hand. “Quite young for an art restorer, aren’t you?”

You just didn't...

She tries to smile and raises her hand, not shaking his but waving it.

“Grace Henderson, would shake your hand but I’m wearing protective gloves and they need to be as clean as possible,” she says nonchalantly, though she still wants to grunt out loud for his damn comment. “I’m 25 years old and was personally tasked to do this by Miss Whitehall, though I personally believe she knows what she is doing, you are more than free to go and request another restorer.”

She hears Damian laugh, but she holds Bruce's stare, not backing out.

He smiles charmingly, taking a step forward.

“I didn’t mean to… ”

Her smile enlarges.

“Yes, you did.” Grace waves her hand as if dismissing him. “I’m used to it, though. So no offense is taken.”

Liar... It stinks.

Bruce opens his mouth as if to reply with something, but then his eyes zoom on the portrait laying on the work table and he instantly closes it.

He stares at it, almost as if zooming out.

“Well... Now I can see why.” He smiles, not a charming one but a soft-looking one, his eyes shining a bit. “It looks just like the first time I saw it.”

Both Damian and her turn towards the portrait on the worktable.

She rubs her hands, a bit taken aback by the subtle compliment.

“It’s still not finished! I’m giving it the final touches now and tomorrow I will varnish it properly.”

She looks at him, expecting another smart comment, but he is still attentively looking at the canvas.

Oh my...

Grace holds the gasp in, realizing that the young boy in the portrait is none other than the man standing right beside her. Bruce Wayne, who had lost his parents tragically when he was a young boy, patron of the city and famous playboy. The sight of a young boy crying in front of two gray graves materializes in her mind again.

She gulps.

“Caesar who is a more experienced curator will frame it again and will also take care of the handling of the portrait until it is delivered safely to you.” She further explains, her voice shaking a bit. “It will be as good as new, I promise.”

The handsome man now turns to her and smiles kindly, placing a hand on her arm.

“Thank you for your hard work. Rose assured me that it was being handled by the best hands, but still… ” He moves his head to the side, presses his lips together for a moment and then smiles again. “I wanted to be sure.”

She nods reassuringly.

“I understand.”

Bruce takes his big hand off her arm and places his other atop Damian’s head.

“And again, I hope Damian wasn’t bothering you too much.”

The young boy huffs, crossing his arms and raising one of his eyebrows at his father’s words, either embarrassed or annoyed.

“Not at all.” She looks at both of them with a smirk on her lips. “He seemed to think the same as you.”

Bruce looks down at Damian, who raises his chin almost proudly while staring at the work table and the portrait.

“Though I believe that was just a misconception…” She lowers a bit her torso towards him and smiles truthfully at the young boy. “Right, Damian?”

Now the dark-haired boy turns to look at her, but just as suddenly as he does that, he blushes. Quickly, probably to hide it away, he turns his stare towards the workplace again while his hands move towards his back in a very regal pose.

Then he huffs.

Aw... Adorable.

Bruce looks at him, curiosity now shining in his blue eyes, and then laughs broadly. The man pats ruffles his son’s head.

“He is very much interested in the arts, Miss Henderson.”

Grace finally feels herself relax fully in their presence, her body completely viewing Bruce and Damian Wayne as nonthreatening.

He won't hurt me.

“I assumed as much.” She focuses on Damian, who is looking askance at her, and she smiles again. Grace sees a bit of her in him. “Well, if you ever want to talk about art... You will be more than welcome here.”

That seems to catch his attention. Damian now turns to look at her fully, curiosity shining in his green eyes, and raises his chin as if trying to seem taller.

“I might, though my schedule is usually very full.”

Bruce laughs again while Grace nods –trying very hard to hold a laugh in– at what Damian just said. He sounds like a tiny old man.

“Perfect. And with that settled… we will leave you to your work, miss Henderson.”

She nods again, turning towards Bruce.

“Pleasure to meet you both.”

He nods.

They both leisurely walk towards the exit of the workshop, but while Bruce doesn't look back, Damian looks over his shoulder at her.

Her smile is sweet, waving her hand to say goodbye.

“Bye, Damian.”

He answers with a humph, a pretty blush on his cheeks, and disappears from her sight together with his father.

– – –

The elevator of her apartment complex, one of the many skyscrapers in Gotham City, is probably slower than a snail. She leans back on the mirror, not wanting to see her reflection, and sighs loudly.

As if the elevator would notice her annoyance and decide to finally be quicker.

Her phone vibrates on her hand.

She unblocks it and laughs softly when she reads Harley’s message.

hey hey hey! tonight is the night, right?

I haven’t been this excited since x-mas.

Grace sends a reply as fast as lightning.

Chill, girl. I will be at your house around midnight or so.

A bubble with three periods appears, Harley writing an answer at the moment.

GREAT! I will make margaritas then, to celebrate, ya’ know?!

The dark-haired rolls her eyes, a smirk now plastered on her lips, and the doors of her elevator finally open on her floor. She sees the amazing views, even in the hallway, and her shoulders finally sink. Tonight Grace just wants to have a bubble bath and rewatch her favorite movie, Top Gun, while munching a few snacks.

She pouts while opening her apartment’s door.

But suddenly, when thinking about what she will actually do tonight, the butterflies appear and start flying like crazy in her stomach.

Grace’s mood changes.

She had really missed doing her thing and Harley’s offer was the perfect excuse to finally put on the suit and say goodbye to her boundaries.

Normal is overrated, girl.

The midnight-haired girl writes a quick reply while kicking her shoes off.

Can’t wait!

– – –

The night air is ice cold and furious, smacking on her cheeks nonstop and messing with the hair of her ponytail. Her domino mask is only protecting her eye area, so the other parts of her head are now being subjected to the icy harsh wind and she can’t do anything about it.

Perhaps I should invest in a full-face mask or a helmet…

Nevertheless, despite the cold, she had missed the feeling of her suit on her skin. It is a full-on one, completely black and its texture similar to shiny leather, with a thin Kevlar armor underneath it and a utility belt laying low around her hips. Her high heeled boots and pair of gloves are also the same material as her suit. Furthermore, to conceal her identity, not only does she wear her domino mask but she has also grown her hair to waist length, wearing it in a sleek high ponytail.

Her powers can do wonders.

Thank you, Sir meteorite. The powers you have given me will never cease to amaze me.

She sees a new white van coming, then parking in the big parking lot in front of the warehouse’s main door and four men get off from it.

Black Mask’s warehouse is at Miller Harbor, surrounded by many other storage facilities and storehouses, which makes it quite easy for her. The storage facility in front of the warehouse has four floors, the building a bit higher than other facilities around it, so she has the perfect view of the warehouse and surroundings.

She is sitting on the rooftop’ railing, childishly kicking her feet up and munching the leftovers of kebab, while observing a group of five Black Mask’s thugs unload the truck while two others guard the door.

Mr. Ahmed, I would marry you if I didn’t know you already had a wife; she can’t help but think about the sweet cook. Your kebabs are the reason why I still believe in humanity.

She finishes it and crumples the aluminum foil, making a ball out of it. Then throws it up in the air and waves her hand at it, making it disappear in thin air as if it had never even existed.

Where? It’s better if you don’t ask her.

“Time to play.”

She jumps off the railing and extends her arms, her body pose resembling a cross up in the air, and lets the restraint on her powers go. Grace knows that she won’t break her legs, also very sure that a soft green bluish glow surrounds her, and so she lands gracefully on the ground.

Her high-heeled black boots make its characteristic sound as she calmly walks towards the parking lot and the thugs.

All of these guys are big, as in they probably live in a gym by the day and work here by night type of big. They are all dressed in black, wearing bulletproof vests and military boots in said colors, some even wearing black beanies or gloves due to the cold of October.

However, both the four thugs keep unloading big boxes out of the truck’s onto the pavement and the pair at the main door don’t seem to even register her presence.

“Need a hand, boys?”

All of them look up towards her, two even pulling out handguns while the others pull out knives and where the heck did that guy put a baton off?

“Girl! Get the fuck out of here!”

“Where did she come from!?”

“Get lost or we will fuck you up!”

She laughs sweetly.

“Sorry, no can do.”

And she goes out to town.

Grace runs towards the one closest to her and jumps, her legs enclosing his thick neck, then pulls him towards the ground. She hears the loud sound his head makes when it hits the pavement, but without missing a bit she extends both her arms at her sides, palms up and glowing in her usual color. A wave of power flows through her hands and they fly across the parking lot.

Four down, two left.

“You!” One of the guys at the door says, running towards her with a shotgun in his hands.

She waves a hand, a motion of shooing away, and he collides against the main door.

One left.

Grace calmly walks towards the last one, who is shaking in fear or perhaps because of how cold it is, still guarding the main door despite his buddy being knocked out near it. His aura is shaking like jello. When she stands a few feet away from him, now trying not to laugh at the poor man trying to be brave, he directs the muzzle of his shotgun at her.

“Hello.”

“What… what are you!?”

The raven-haired merely smiles in answer and extends her left hand, the man floating at the speed of light towards her hand, like a magnet attracted to a metal piece.

Grace tightens her hold, now estrangling him while he still floats in the air.

“Where are the explosives?”

He croaks, opening his mouth like a fish a few times, emitting broken sounds.

The raven-haired scrunches her nose, then relaxes her hold on his neck just a bit, easing the flow of air to his lungs so he might talk more easily.

“Where is it?”

He opens and closes his mouth again and again, but no sound comes out from his thin and chapped lips.

“If I… If I tell you, he will kill me!” He cries out, his legs kicking the air uselessly, visibly shaking. “I can’t tell you! I can’t! He will kill me! He will kill my family!”

She grunts a bit, tightening her chokehold on his neck.

“Trust me… If you don’t tell me where it is right now, whatever I do to you will be ten times much worse than what he might do.” Her voice now raised an octave, pushing him through a burst of power to the hard metal doors. Next, she pushes him with each following word for emphasis.“So tell me. Now.”

His mouth keeps opening like a fish but still, no sound comes out of it.

“I see… ” she says, sighing dramatically.

Time to put on a good show.

She closes her eyes and tries to center her powers on only her vision, but her power is too unstable and takes much concentration than that. So she relaxes herself, takes a bit of time, and then the brightness of the glow that surrounds her whole body reaches sun-like-blaze levels. There. Next, while she bites her lips trying to focus much more, she visualizes what she wants to achieve. A few seconds pass and when she finally opens them, she has mastered the brightness and her eyes are now the only thing shinning.

As in shinning as bright as the sun.

But there it is, also that side of her powers that is too untameable or unstable to fully be mastered by her. Grace feels her hair float, almost like there is no gravity surrounding her, which she hadn't meant to do.

Nevertheless, it probably helps her look scary and powerful. So, she tights her choke on his neck.

“One last chance… ” her voice sounds modified, not human at all, which she hadn't meant to do either.

She sees him open his eyes –if it is even possible– much more open than before, sort of like a cartoon character would do. Grace now knows that she looks terrifying with her domino mask with glowing eyes, hair floating around, and a creepy voice.

“No! No! No!” he begs in a yell, still kicking his feet up, completely horrified. “Wait! Wait! Wait, please! I will tell… I will tell you!”

She relaxes a bit her hold.

“They are stored inside three wood boxes... and they have written fragile in red capital letters all over them.” he croaks, and Grace feels every word he says through the palm of her hand. “They are the only ones marked with those words, to differentiate them!”

She nods, registering the information.

“Thank you.”

And she smacks his head hard against the metallic door.

The raven-haired checks the auras of all the thugs scattered around her, to see if they are still unconscious or if there are more out there that she hasn't seen, but what she finds confuses her. There are seven more scattered inside and around the warehouse, but weirdly enough they feel like they are barely there.

Oh, oh. Not good.

This reminds her of the first time she killed someone. When she had her first run with the Serbian Mafia, one of the caporegimes had infuriated her so much that she had just killed him right then and there, on the spot. Despite instantly becoming a target for them. And the feeling… She had felt how the soldier’s aura slowly evaporated into nothingness. Similar to how the light of a bulb diminishes until it completely burns out.

Those auras sort of felt like that.

However, they could probably be saved if she called an ambulance or the police.

What do I do? Should I...?

She sighs, still debating about it, and while opening the door, searches for more auras. Trying to find either a perpetrator or another human being who would help them. However, there aren’t any on the warehouse or its premises.

Weird.

Grace scrunches her nose, overthinking for a few seconds until the thought of them working for Black Mask and probably having done bad things for him makes her decide to just leave their fate to luck.

Screw it.

The raven-haired girl lets her powers surround her, no longer focusing on her eyes, and starts walking inside confidently.

Whatever is inside, it should be scared of me.

The first thing she notices is how the lights are out, which she quickly remedies with a snap of her fingers, then how the whole warehouse is full of thousands of wooden boxes scattered around, though the pillars here and there obstruct her view a bit. The place reminds her of a hangar but without the airplanes and fighter planes.

She groans, cursing herself for not asking where exactly are the boxes placed, and so she starts walking around looking for something red.

No red.

A Subway's meal leftovers.

No red.

Is that a used condom? Ew. Also, no red.

No red.

No red.

A few minutes later, she ends up at the center of the warehouse. The three boxes are stacked up in pairs of two, so the odd one is pilled up with another one without a mark on it. She kneels in front of the regular box, now debating whether to take it with her too or to just do some heavy lifting and stack the odd one with the others, until she feels it.

So bright and warm.

Oh my…

Grace even gasps loudly.

An aura, five feet behind her, burning as bright and fiery as the blazing sun.

It could burn me alive if an aura was even tangible.

She had probably been too immersed in searching for the correct boxes that she hadn’t realized the moment the person had stepped in. Moreover, before going inside, she had checked if there was anyone else around and had come across no one on the premises. So, that person had probably entered when she was looking for her special cargo.

This is Black Mask's fault! Screw him for having his warehouse so disorganized! Didn't his mother ever teach him of keeping his things tidy?!

Grace tries to center herself, not wanting to appear scared or nervous. Then, rising up calmly from her kneeling position, she turns around and comments nonchalantly: “It is considered rude to stare at someone and not greet them.”

Red.

That’s what she first sees.

A man wearing a red helmet, no facial expression on it, with white slits in the form of eyes. He is standing five feet away from her, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, his arms crossed against his ample chest and with his military tactical boots also crossed at the ankles.

Red?

She scans him while thinking of Gotham's vigilantes and criminals.

Red...

Red...

Red Robin? No, he isn't wearing that weird cape Lisa mentioned.

“Red Hood, I presume?”

He shrugs, all calm but fiery aura.

“In the flesh.”

His voice low and tinted with humor.

Red Hood looks like a brute, as in a big and quite muscular guy. He is wearing a brown leather jacket and underneath it, some sort of black-grey armored under-shirt with a red bat symbol Emblem in the middle of the pectoral area. His black-grey cargo pants are the same color as his undershirt, almost making it look like it's a whole bodysuit, plus also carrying two tactical holsters united in a utility black belt.

Damn, someone doesn’t skip leg day. Those are some big thighs.

His tighs are probably bigger than her head, though she tries not to stare too much.

She probably fails, but whatever.

“Thought you didn’t go around killing people anymore?” she tries to buy time, remembering what Lisa had told her about the vigilante.

She bobs her head to the left, assessing him.

Red Hood. Gun guy. Former Crime Lord, had painted Gotham City red until he had stopped killing and started using the same methods as Batman & Co. Still, too ruthless for my liking. You say his name and everyone shits their pants. A vigilante, but not one you want to meet, unlike Nightwing or Batgirl. From what I heard from one of the police guys at the clinic, he is good in a fight, quite at par with Batman.

He stands up from his position, and while he is looking calm and confident, she can clearly see the signs of him being ready for whatever she is about to do.

“Rough night. Bat can suck it.” his voice is low and clearly electronically modified. Then, he points at her with his black-gloved hand, like a child. “Now, time for you to introdu… ”

She holds her glowing left hand up, interrupting him midsentence.

Then, she runs towards him.

“And you talk about manners…” his annoying voice chastises her, which somehow irks her.

Grace knows she probably won't win against him like this, but he clearly has a big ego and his confidence can be used against him.

Men and their egos.

He effortlessly dodges her first punch, which she knew he would, and she throws another one towards his face. Red Hood merely captures her fist in his gloved hand, a tight hold that almost feels like he will break all her bones, and clucks humorously.

“You suck at fighting, so stick to magic.”

She wants to roll her eyes so badly.

They are pretty close, only a feet apart, and despite her high-heeled boots she still has to look up to see his masked face. It irks her even more, her height is something that has always bothered her.

“Oh… As you wish.”

She smiles prettily while shrugging her shoulders.

One of his feet steps back, his instinct probably screaming at him to pull back and so he tries to pull away, letting go of her fist, but it is already too late.

Got you.

Grace opens her fist up and he starts floating, a feet up in the air, his jacket opening a bit with how fast she elevated him. He has a green bluish glow around him, which is actually what is keeping him up, and she starts to smack the air.

His face turns left and right, clearly feeling her slaps, completely powerless to her ministrations.

“It’s fun, right?” she laughs, though she feels no joy or pleasure from what she is doing. “You should have shot me right when you saw me, Red.”

He grunts but gives no further reaction.

She stops slapping the air and his face stops moving, still motionless and floating in the air. She supposes he is looking at her, after all his red helmet is facing her.

“I heard so much about you.” She stares at those white slits, smiling sweetly at the man. “From what I heard, you painted Gotham City red for a few months. So many fear you… If only they saw you now. Completely powerless.”

The explosives, girl. Focus! she tries to focus on her “mission” and stops mocking him. Right, the explosives.

The raven-haired girl keeps her hand up, keeping him afloat, and turns to the side. She is still able to see him, but now can also clearly see the wooden boxes.

“Who are you?” he asks, humor no longer in his voice. He doesn’t seem scared, which sort of surprises her a bit. “What do you want with Black Mask? What are you doing in Gotham?”

“None of your business, Little Red Riding Hood.” she mocks him, scrunching her nose in annoyance. “Now shut it or I will gag you.”

She raises her other hand and with her open palm, draws an O near where the boxes are located, closing her eyes and furrowing her brows for further concentration. Grace pictures Harley’s house, not the inside of it, but the front door. Just the front door. She hears the wind howling and when she opens her eyes again, inside the perimeter of the O there is the view of Harley’s door.

Grace knows she has a few precious seconds before the portal closes –multitasking was never her forte– and so she quickly directs her palm’s towards the boxes, imagining them floating as if there was no gravity.

“His explosives?” Red Hood grumbles in a low whisper, probably a thought said out loud.

Suddenly, a surge of power in her characteristic color surrounds them and the boxes start floating as Red Hood currently is. Then, they start dancing through the air towards the portal until crossing it and gently settling in the doorstep.

Mission Accomplished.

She snaps her fingers and the portal closes, just as if she had just turned the TV off with a remote.

Now, let's get out of here.

Grace turns around and lowers her other hand. Red Hood slowly starts lowering towards the ground, still surrounded by her power and fully in her control.

The raven-haired girl purses her lips and then smiles, as if a great idea has just come to her.

“Now, would you please sit down like a good boy and let me leave unharmed?” she asks in a pleading mocking tone.

She can imagine him smirking under the helmet while huffing a laugh, despite being at her mercy, and she can feel danger oozing from him.

The man is clearly not scared of her.

And very confident in himself.

“No can do, sweetheart.” his raspy and modified voice almost shocks her.

She walks towards him with a pout on her lips, trying to appear confident when she actually isn’t feeling like that at all, and looks up at him. Grace hopes she looks sort of attractive, or at least cute enough to not make him kill her if she slips and lets him go.

“Pity.” she exaggerates her pout, totally mocking him. “I would have even invited you to a drink or something.”

Wait... why do I sound flirty?

He lowers his head a bit, which to say the least surprises her. He shouldn't be able to move at all, but he has just moved his head, and so she tries to not freak out in front of him. To keep calm and seem confident.

“Let me go.”

She laughs as if that comment is the funniest thing she has ever heard.

“As if I’m that stupid.” she pats his chest with her left hand, leaning into him. “You will turn me into a colander. So, no. Your guns stay where they are. Thank you.”

He lets out a laugh that rumbles through his chest, clearly amused. Grace can even feel it through her gloves and his armored under-shirt, and she tries not to laugh too.

“I could go slow… be gentle.”

She answers with a moan as if the mere idea excites her, and did he just take a small step forward?

He is starting to break through, shit. You should have mind-controlled him, idiot!

“As tempting as that sounds, I will have to pass on that… You see,” She pats his chest for emphasis one last time, nodding along to what she herself just said. Then, she shrugs her shoulders.“I’m an old-fashioned girl, so you would have to take me to dinner first. Perhaps even sweep me off my feet?”

The raven-haired girl turns around and when she is a few feet away, just where the wooden boxes were sitting before, she opens the portal again to Harley’s house. She crosses through it, her footsteps slow but surely, until she no longer is standing inside Black Mask's warehouse but in Harley's doorstep with the four boxes.

Grace proceeds to raise her left hand, as if throwing something over her shoulder, and she doesn't have to turn around to know that the walls close on the Red Hood.

Yet, she still turns around to see. She doesn't know why, but she views as the whole building crumbles in, no sight of Red Hood, who is probably dead or buried underneath all the rubble.

She doesn't feel good.

But she knew he wouldn't let her go, not before probably torturing her or giving her up to Batman or even to the police.

“Goodbye, Red.”

[thatoneinsecurenerd]

I binge-watched all of The Babysitter’s Club series on Netflix a few days ago, and I still can’t get it out of my head. I want to go rewatch it, and maybe I should, but first, I wanted to see if I could find it as an AU in fanfic form (because it wouldn’t take me as long to read a fanfic as it would to watch a whole season of a show, okay?). And there’s not a Sanders Sides fic inspired by even the book series. But if someone has one in the works, they should post it, if they’re comfortable, and link me to it?

And if not, well, I kind of started thinking about who each of the Sanders Sides characters might represent. (This is going to be based off the Netflix series and what little information I’m willing to read from Wikipedia, just because I haven’t read the books for probably almost a decade now. Geez, I turn 20 in 5 months. Is it too early for a mid-life crisis, even if my life is already one huge crisis?)

(There will be a tl;dr at the end)

I was thinking Patton would be Kristy Thomas, because Kristy has a younger brother, so she has the same parental instincts, no doubt, that (fanon) Patton has.

I was originally thinking Roman and Remus could be twins (as they are in Sanders Sides canon) and Patton’s siblings, but that doesn’t quite work, since there’s five members in the babysitter’s club (though they add the two honorary members at the end of the last episode of the first season of the series, but I know that the book series is a lot longer and there’s even more babysitters. Maybe this is why no one has ever made it an AU before, oops). So just Remus could be Patton’s younger brother, since he’s for sure not babysitter material, and his older brothers and inevitable stepsiblings would just be OC’s, I guess.

Roman could be Claudia Kishi. Claudia is artistic and fashionable, and a little boy-crazy, just like our resident romantic side.

Logan would be Stacy McGill. Stacey is the club’s treasurer because she’s excellent at math. Though this falls a little flat when you see that Stacey loves fashion and is boy-crazy. Neither of those describe Logan.

Logan could maybe be Dawn Schafer, who is an environmentalist (recall Logan and The Rainforest Rap) and doesn’t see the merit in junk food, but then the AU isn’t quite solid, because Dawn isn’t one of the original four members of the club. It doesn’t fit with how the sides were introduced in canon.

I mean, neither does Logan being Stacey, but I mean, especially with how Mary-Anne Spier is portrayed in the Netflix series, Virgil would be Mary-Anne: Timid and anxious, not liking the center of attention. That’s Virgil’s character summed up. 

Mary-Anne Spier has her own arc in the book series, where she becomes more confident in herself, and we do see a similar arc in the Sanders Sides series with Virgil.

Having Logan as Dawn would allow Logan to prove himself to the others, since, in Sanders Sides canon, he feels like he is being ignored and that the others look down on his seriousness, and Dawn must prove herself to be a worthy member of The Babysitter’s club (because Kristy is jealous (though this would kinda be OOC for Patton?) that her best friend for a long time, Mary-Anne (in this AU, Virgil) is immediately hitting it off with her).

Which leaves only Janus. Janus could be Stacey, if Logan is Dawn. Because Janus likes fashion and Janus is intelligent. Additionally, since Stacey is a diabetic, she has to act more on self-preservation instincts, which is - as we find out in POF - what Janus partly represents. She has to make sure she monitors her health. And she lies to her friends at first, worried they’ll judge her for her diabetes.

Tl;dr - I wanted a The Babysitter’s Club AU for the Sanders Sides characters, since I’m still obsessed with the series after watching it on Netflix a few days ago. (I grew up with the book series, okay?) And while I wouldn’t even know where to begin with writing it, I theorized which Sanders Sides characters would best represent:

Patton - Kristy Thomas

Remus - David Michael Thomas (because Remus is not babysitter material. That man should not be allowed within 1,000 feet of a kid)

Virgil - Mary-Anne Spier

Roman - Claudia Kishi

Janus - Stacey McGill

Logan - Dawn Schafer

And if anyone actually decides to write this AU, please link it to me.

[terribluh]

i wrote this for me

ive got this zadr au in my head ill never do anything with and its not particularly special bc every iz fan comes to this inevitable zadr au lmao

this got very long and probably ooc lmao rip dont worry u dont have to read it in fact please dont read this i did not format this at all and i did not proofread 

basically dib and zim are dating and dibs home situation has deteriorated, and in light of irkens managing to escape the florpus hole, they kinda go, “lets be young and free and run away together” and so they go to space!!! i feel like these self serving jackasses probably wouldn’t join the resisty straight up?? theyre too dumb for that, like yea dib has a hero complex and zim would probably love to be incharge of people but alas, dibs actually an asshole and zim probably wont hurry to align himself with irken enemies despite kind of being one himself.

so they float through space. things r kinda bad kinda good, but theyre surviving. the irken armada isnt exactly after them, but i imagine they probably have a run in with irkens who just start trying to kill zim and realize avoiding irkens is something they should do. the idea that zim terrifies the tallest is hilarious bc then they operate on a, ill avoid u if u avoid me basis and thats such a concept bc im thinking dib and zim become space pirates. will be honest, got a lot of inspiration from ravagers in gotg bc thats an aesthetic and i was way into kragdu at some point in my life. also im a slut for space operas.

they r in space, kinda keeping to themselves and stealing things. they become space cryptids. i love the idea that they become space cryptids lmao. zim is just such a small irken and dib is this tall gangly human and no one knows what the fuck a human is. lots of humans are fucking weird to other aliens stuff. also i love the idea of them in a fight with space bounty hunters or something, and dib gets shot and just keeps going. this strange lanky figure in a dark coat with blood spilling from his injured shoulder just not going down. and zim as an irken is functionally immortal anyway so theyre like an unstoppable team. i love battle couples! 

i like the dynamic they could of had in canon, someone made a post once, where zim wouldve been the one to fight and dib wouldve been mission control, but i think in this au, it would be the other way around? or more equal idk. zim has to learn to do the talking bc dib dont speak alien, and dib has to protect zim a lot. and then over time they just pick up each others slack lol. i just like the idea of dib being kinda intimidating looking, which when paired with zims shit eating grin is such a combo. 

theres probably a scene where an alien is like ooh scary bounty hunter that even the fucking irken armada avoids and is scared shitless but its just dib. and dib, never having seen this kind of alien before, starts asking a million questions and is just kinda offputting/adorable lmao and then zim has to drag him out. 

anyway things keep like this, they hash out a living on stealing and trading. their number 1 priority is avoiding the massive and any irkens out there. maybe dib misses earth. maybe zim misses… something. the ship they have is kind of scrap and very much homebrewed, all stolen parts and mishmashed pieces and it was originally zims voot lmao, but zim is a genius and dib is a membrane and it still works. zims house computer is in the ship now and minimoose lives in the vents.

and then theres gir. i love gir but also i feel like theres a lot of untapped gir related angst like, gir is essentially scrap??? shit breaks 

they shut him down a lot for his own good bc he malfunctions sometimes and its awful bc zim loves gir. 

and then one day, zim and dib making a run for it, dib scooping zim up and hoofing it with the alien in his arms shooting over his shoulder and yelling at dib at the same time. and someone or something hits gir hard enough he shuts down, eyes dimming into black and collapsing mid giggle and zim loses it, destroying the attacker while dib grabs for gir and checks his internals and has no idea how to fix him because nothing seems wrong. 

and this is something like the breaking point. things were ok, but now things arent. maybe zims pak is broken, has never worked properly, is dying, and they get by with scraps and parts but its very borderline. and the ships basically scrap and supplies are always tight but they make do. 

but then gir shuts down, and suddenly they cant keep living on scraps and avoiding the armada. bc they need to fix gir no matter what  

maybe theyre like theres no parts enough to fix him oh no, but look theyre right around the corner from the massive and it just so happens the resisty are attacking so zim and dib are like. “were really doing this arent we” and the computers like sigh ok 

they really intend to grab a random sir unit and cannibalize it for gir and jet but zim cant keep his mouth shut and suddenly theyre arguing, fighting their way through some irkens that are really just doing their jobs and had the misfortune of running into zim and dib making their escape and its really strangely easy. zims kind of an op destructive force and dibs so used to fighting zim at this point these irkens are like ants and theyve been in space for like a decade at this point, and theyre always in danger anyway, and its easy to get into the swing of it. shoot shoot stab kick yell at zim blast an irken. 

and next thing they know theyve busted through the door to the bridge where a showdown is happening between the tallest and the resisty leader and everyone deer in the head lights. 

both parties yell “ZIM????” like the beyonce meme and zim instinctively goes “yes it is i ZIIIIM” and dib facepalms behind him the tallest are like panicking and the irkens milling around start gunning for zim and the resisty in equal amounts and theyre severely outnumbered and zim and dib start fighting for their lives foreal this time 

and zim yells, “computer! bring the ship around!!!” and dib is like “zim if i die like this-”, “you won’t zim guarantees it.” and its kind of romantic but theres plasma beams everywhere and a deactivated sir unit in zims arms and theyre both hurt but thats what its like, thats what its always like for them and honestly they wouldnt change it for anything. 

maybe dib gets zim to go on ahead and escape without him with the sir unit, or zim goes on ahead himself all i have a plan. and dib is mistaken for a resisty agent bc he obviously isn’t irken and unwittingly teams up with then and then all hope seems lost and dibs like “we’re screwed- “

and gir blast through the glass of the ships bridge all, “Maaaryyy i missed you!!!!”

“gir youre ok!”

and then gir barrels into dibs arms, dib jolting back from the impact with an oof 

“i died but im ok now!” gir screams as he cuddles into dibs neck  

and its v cute but dib is kinda preoccupied with not dying and hes just like “thank fucking god get us out of here” and girs eyes flash red and he salutes “yes sir!” and jets off by grabbing onto dibs back with his tiny hands and thats when the ship pulls up. zim is in the drivers seat and everyone fucking sees him because hes screaming, why is he screaming? hes zim, of course hes screaming. they get away all well and good but lmao their interference was enough that the resisty was able to escape with far less casualties than they wouldve had. 

bc they were losing, real bad lmao zim and dib saved them but they dont even care because that wasnt what they were going for but to the resisty theyre heroes and to the irken armada theyve declared war. and dib and zim are just like “our actions will not have any negative reprecussions no siree.” bc theyre idiots!! 

their actions have negative reprecussions. 

and then they join the resisty. 

and at some point dib goes home and reconciles with his family and gaz kicks his ass 

anyway i just love the idea that zim and dib dont do nothing on purpose but every damn thing they do affects something big. like some kinda cosmic karma, i amn jus standing herr kinda thing lmao a lot of coincidences and pure luck shenanigans. 

an overarching theme of “everything in zim and dibs lives suck except for how much they love each other” 

[thehuggamugcafe]

And The World Went Away

OOC: Well, it’s official. The Resident Evil 2 Remake demo scared the holy hell out of this Barista. Good lord, I couldn’t help but to feel inspired after watching some gameplay footage. Also, Overkill’s The Walking Dead characters’ story trailers helped spawn this little musing.

This... What is this? Well, I wouldn’t call it a series. Merely... Musings for whenever I’m in the mood to write them, which won’t be often, I think. If you’d like, I can include my other muses in their own scenarios for these “musings”, for lack of a better word.

If anyone’s interested in this sort of thing, please let me know; I’d really appreciate the feedback. Likes and reblogs are A-OK, but comments on this (yes, even constructive criticism!) are fine, too.

Let us begin the horror show shall we, my dears? Please enjoy. ☕

A cranium impacted the wall of an alleyway, besmirching the filthy brick exterior with a splatter of blood. A huff of a breath left the mouth of a certain barista—no, former barista—as a moist noise came from the skull of what had once been a man.

Milky brown eyes stared up into the sweaty, flushed face of a 20-year-old woman as a knife was removed from where it was inserted: between the monstrosity’s eyes.

“You bastard! Goddammit,” the ex-barista hissed, clicking her tongue as she spared a quick glance at herself.

Ice blue irises glared at her glove-covered hands, checking and double-checking for any glaringly obvious signs of a scratch, no matter how small.

She relaxed only when she was positive that she hadn’t been scratched.

Eira had seen what happened to those who’d been unfortunate enough to be bitten or scratched, after all.

It had only been a few months since the initial outbreak had occurred, but...

She remembered.

She remembered what had happened on that day in her small, homey café.

It was cliché, so terribly cliché, but it had started off the same way as it had in all those horrid, cheesy zombie movies, TV shows, books, and video games.

Reports of odd assaults on an unsuspecting person, who’s only crime was being at the wrong place, wrong time, became a daily occurrence.

Headlines titled “Attacks In Broad Daylight” were soon plastered over the front page of every newspaper, every news magazine across the country.

Health and government officials assured the public that there was nothing to worry about, that order would be restored within a few short weeks. Meanwhile, the general public was advised to stay away from anyone who may be “sick,” and to remain as sanitary as possible. She recalled the one warning, the only warning the public had received before all hell broke loose on the streets of Tokyo...

“We interrupt this scheduled program for a message from the Japanese Ministry of Health. A contagious disease is rumoured to have begun spreading within Shibuya. Those who’ve been exposed to this illness display the following symptoms: sweating, nausea, fever, disorientation, seizures, severe migraines, and eventual death. We advise all residents to remain indoors until further notice. If you believe that you or a loved one is infected with this disease, please call local authorities immediately. Do not leave your residence. This message will repeat every five minutes.”

The day when a customer had stumbled in through the door of the Huggamug Café, left open to allow a nonexistent breeze to whisper through the interior, despite the air conditioner keeping the customers, the employees, and the young owner and manager cool.

Eira recalled the customer’s twitching body, voicing an unusual-sounding groan as saliva and blood dripped on to the floor of the café. It was something that irked Eira greatly, having just swept and mopped the floor 30 minutes before the customer arrived.

“Hey.”

She remembered snapping that lone word as she walked forward, ready to give the customer a piece of her mind. However...

The closer she got, the more she realized how much he reeked. He stunk of sweat, as if he hadn’t showered in weeks.

She noticed how dirty his clothes were, how matted his hair was.

She noticed the blood and bits of flesh stuck between his teeth.

“Sir, are you okay? Maybe you should-”

Eira could still remember the feeling of two dirty, cold hands wrapping around her clothed shoulders.

She could still recall the sickening breath wafting over her face as she hit the floor.

She remembered feeling the disgusting stench of warm copper hitting her face as she screamed for someone, anyone to assist her as the customer snapped his bloody jaws near her face.

She could recall three sets of footsteps quickly approaching her as she raised a foot, delivering a solid kick to the man’s chest, knocking him off of her.

Immediately after Eira had kicked the customer away from her, Akira had followed up with a quick swing underneath the man’s chin with a broom. The man had hit the floor, as expected, but he resorted to crawling on his hands and knees.

“W-What the hell is this?! How is he still moving?!” Eira shouted, pointing her icy irises on the customer.

“Keep him there, Ren!”

Akira’s shout resonated throughout the silent café, earning a nod as Ren kept the snarling, milky-eyed customer pinned to the ground, a foot planted on his neck.

“One warning’s all you get,” Ren said, narrowing his onyx irises as the customer hissed, snarled, pointed his milky eyes up at the noiret.

A disgustingly sharp crack echoed through the café’s interior, a noise that Eira remembered wincing at as she slowly, steadily got to her feet. The customer’s eyes stared at nothing, rolled back into his head, the bones of his spine threatening to poke through the skin of his throat.

Ren’s accuracy was on point. So on point, in fact, that with one twist of his foot, the customer’s neck had snapped like a twig.

“Are you alright, Ms. Rundström?” Arsène had asked, his gaze fixed on his young employer.

“I’m fine, Lupin, thank you.”

Rounding back on Ren, Eira had continued her little rant.

“...Are you trying to kill my business, Amamiya?”

Despite her annoyed tone, she was still noticeably shaken up by what had just happened. Had it not been for her employees’ timely rescue...

“He was crazed, Boss. He tried to bite you.”

“Still, that’s no excuse to murder someone, and inside the café!”

Eira couldn’t honestly remember what happened after that. One moment she and Amamiya had been arguing back and forth, and then...

Chaos. Complete and utter chaos.

She recalled bits and pieces here and there, whenever she was alone and could think calmly, clearly. All she really remembered was that she had lost track of her employees in the ensuing madness, that she had lost contact with her relatives.

How long had it been since she’d last seen Akira? Seen Arsène? Seen Ren?

Hell, how long had it been since she’d seen anyone who wasn’t a “Shuffler”, as she called them. The monstrosities who now roamed the streets, seeking out the flesh of the living? It felt like it had been years...

In the here and now, the ex-barista breathed a sigh as she pointed her blue irises up at the sky. She was quietly grateful for the fact that it was still daylight, mid-morning to be exact.

“They” appeared to be less active during the daytime, and if she couldn’t see them, she could oftentimes hear them approaching.

The slow shuffle of their footsteps still turned her skin to gooseflesh...

She bit back a shudder, digging a hand into the left-hand pocket of her black parka. A photo was removed, one that she had insisted on carrying.

It held a lot of sentimental value to her, after all.

In the picture, Akira and Arsène smiled; a small smile curled Ren’s lips, as well as her own. The photo had been taken outside the café just as the summer season began, the picturesque example of tranquility. Of old times. Of a time that seemed so far flung in the past.

Eira breathed a sigh as she folded the picture, stuffing it back into the pocket it had been taken out of.

“Akira, Arsène, Ren... You three better be okay... Idiots.”

The early winter wind whispered through the alley, bringing an all too recognizable stench of blood and decay along with it, shoving the horrendous stench up Eira’s nostrils.

The foreigner sneered, the heels of her leather boots clicking as she left the alleyway. She wasn’t certain what building she’d loot from next. A grocery store, a hardware store, or perhaps a pawn shop?

Wherever she went next, she could only hope... She could only pray...

That she recognized a face, perhaps three, when she arrived.

[fyrapartnersearch]

Heya! Thanks for stopping to read. My name's Taylor. (And sometimes Tas or Tasia depending where you message me.)  I'm looking for a few new roleplay partners to help occupy those little clumps throughout the day where I have way too much free time and nothing to fill it with. So. Let's see if we can make something happen. ;) A little about me outside of roleplay: I'm a female, in my mid-twenties, living in Ireland. I'm an avid gamer, a drinker of coffee, and a chronic daydreamer. When I'm not playing games or writing, I'm working as a full-time, live-in nanny for five lovely little kiddos and one spunky little dog. I've been writing for 10+ years, dating back to the Golden Age of Neopets, and I don't see myself stopping for the foreseeable future.  What I'm like as a writer: -Left to my own devices, my intros are typically 7+ paragraphs long (~1000+ words) and my replies are 2-5+ paragraphs (~600+ words) per character. But I'll try to match what I'm given. -Types in 3rd person, past tense always. -Aspires to reply every 1-3 days. -Prefers to double. If you have an outstanding plot, an interesting character, and a healthy cast of sides, I'll would be happy to play male to your female. Or vice versa. But, in general, I'd almost always prefer to double. -M/f is normally my go-to for a romantic pairing, but I'm by no means limited to that. -Limitless. Within reason. I won't roleplay anything illegal. And what I will roleplay, I like to keep tasteful. Smut's fine. But, I won't write a story that's only smut. I need some more substance than that. -Ooc, face-claim, meme, and mood-board friendly. Haha, I'm not a robot by any means. ;) I like to make friends. -Loves to world-build, plot-build, lore-build with my partner. Let's fan-girl together. <3 What I'm looking for in others: -I definitely don't expect you to type a novel. (That being said, novels are welcome. <3) I just ask that you give me something to respond to, something that moves along and contributes to the roleplay. A couple paragraphs as a minimum, preferably. -Someone that can respond at least once a week. (Life happens. I get that, and I'm happy to wait for things to calm down. But, I'd like there to be an intention to reply at least once a week there.) -18+ only. Sorry. :/  -Ooc friendly  Things I love in a roleplay: Historical Settings - High Fantasy - Low Fantasy - Stories inspired by Elder Scrolls, Game of Thrones, Wheel of Time, Harry Potter, and other famous works - Morally gray characters - Slow burn romance - Opposites attract - poor vs rich - Magic - Love/hate relationships - Action - Adventure - Drama - Dark themes - Monsters - Multiple cultures - Epic quests - Good vs Evil - You are the 'chosen one' tropes - Dragons - Thieves - Guilds - Corruption - Not knowing who you can trust - Decisions that shake moral boundaries - Consequences for said actions/decisions - Character development/growth - War - Gathering allies - Guilds I am absolutely, hopelessly, shamelessly obsessed with Medieval Fantasy. If you like some/all the tropes above, I have a plot I've been aching to play and I would be more than happy to share upon request. Likewise, I'd happily check out any plot/idea you might be craving at the moment. Contacts:  So, yeah. If any/all this sounds like it might be your cup of tea, hit me up. <3  I primarily use email for roleplay. But I might be open to other platforms with a bit of convincing. (Gdocs, discord, ect.) Email: taytaypher@gmail.com Discord: Tasia#0831 Cheers <3

[ask-republicofcroatia]

Ooc:. Its time to talk about ocs and appearances!!

"Mika stop." Everyone around me pleas and cries with worry for my sanity "SYM-BOL-ISM!" I scream with a tin foil hat on my head while hitting pots and pans. Suddenly a spaceship appears with the word symbolism written on it. Stunned silence commences "Strap on motherf******." Yes my sanity is slowly slipping away. .: Croatia :. Hair:. Her natural hair is medium-dark brown. Its a very nice chocolate-y colour. Many years ago it was pure blonde due to the fact that she is a slavic country which are characterized by having light hair and eyes. And the highlights are just her way of trying to prove she is modern. Her hair represents the sea side in Croatia therefore Italy likes to touch it because historically Italians always wanted our sea side (she hates when people touch it) and its relatively dry naturally due to the fact that the sea side has dry land also thanks to Italy her hair has a wavy texture. On the other hand her eyebrows are a bit naturally darker than her hair and pretty thick with a good arch, they are darker because of turkish influence. Eyes:. The eye colour she has in a nice blueish green colour just like the sea. Her eye colour remained the same since she was a child leaving it very visible that she is a slav country. The shape of her eyes is a roundish almond with sharp edges but they are not very big. She has a lot of eyelashes but they ain't long. Skin.. Throughout history her skin was either tan or pale depending on the time period and her general role in it (royalty, soldier, commoner, etc). Her skin can tan very easily and nowadays it mostly remains in a slight tan. Her skin is full of moles (not freckles) as it is very common for people to have skin full of moles. They represent the thousands of islands that are a part of our shore. Also the tattoos you can find refs for them on the blog just scroll if you haven't seen em .: Bosnia :. Hair:. His hair is very dark brown naturally its lighter than Sadik (Turkey) but darker then Tamara. However he is chasing his old days of power because of his misery so he dyes his hair blond like it used to be when he was younger which in turn results into his hair being very damaged but the colour is very intense yellow so its obvious that its not natural. He also can't afford to re-dye it professionally very often and it usually has roots showing. The length of his hair is mid neck and often times its very messy and shaggy he will however style it on important events and meeting. He is very hairy like most men in the Balkan mostly on his chest and arms he regularly shaves his face though. Much like Tamara his eyebrows are also a bit darker then his natural hair and his don't have a good arch like hers. In the spirit of hetalia I also gave him an ahoege like Austrias but much smaller to represent Austrian influence Eyes:. Like Croatias eyes his also remained light throughout the years but his got a more grey tone to them. The reason to them being blue-grey is connected to water. Bosnia in itself means water so its obviously a very important component to the country. The shape of his eyes is more round and bigger in comparison to Tamara and they have sharp edges and he actually has very long and full eyelashes. Skin:. In terms of this he has one of the tannest skin tones in Balkan again because Turkey. Like Tamara his skin tone also varied in history but he was always darker then her by comparison. He has two very visible scars on his face across his nose and from the bottom of his jaw across his cheek almost reaching his eye. I'm not sure how related this is to skin its more like a facial feature but he has dimples that represent the two biggest ponds in Bosnia. Considering: I wanna put tattoos on him but he is a muslim and thats against their beliefs but Bosnia is not a country that 100% follows the rules of Islam and I read that some sort of tattoos are allowed like words but I am not too sure about that. .: Serbia :. Hair:. Right off the bat unlike Omer and Tamara his hair was always dark brown. There is turkish influence present in Serbia obviously but I didn't want it to be his hair like with the other two instead its more present in his face but thats not for this post. He is the hairiest of them all he has to shave every day and his chest, arms and legs are a forest (save him). His hair is cut like an undercut but he let the shaved part go longer in recent years. The small grey part of his hair was inspired a bit by the main boy in Catcher in the Rye on one side his hair is going grey partly because age and because I believe when Yugoslavia was falling apart Serbia was the most stressed by it (hair goes grey from stress too) Eyes:. The idea I had behind this is gonna be hard to explain but oh boy here I go. They look like a wolfs eyes. If you look up wolf eyes you can see they are very round and have a crease (??) on the bottom corner of the eye (the one near the nose) thats how I imagine his eyes. I also imagine him having a very predatory look in his eyes but he learned to control it in the recent years so he can look more friendly, I also believe Turkey was scared of the way his eyes looked lmao. The colour of his eyes is green but it also has a golden tint to which is common for wolf especially in the country. Skin:. I actually think he is the second palest person form Yugoslavia. This is mostly due to the fact that he wast the most royal out of all of them so he spent more time inside not being able to tan. As well as the fact that Russia had a lot of influence on him so it helped in the pale department. Nowadays I imagine him having some awkward tans especially in summer lmao. .: Montenegro :. Hair:. Definantelly has the darkest hair its pure black due to his name which literally has the word black in it c'mon. The length is very short and very messy like he just got out of bed. He also never had any changes to his hair colour. Like Serbia he is very hairy especially on his chest and legs. Thick brows and high arch to make his face look scarier/stricter. Eyes:. He has a very tired look like he never got enough sleep but he also has big eyes its just the sleep deprivedness makes them look smaller. *The colour of them is light blue because of the sea. * I might change the specific shade of it because I'm gonna see the sea of Montenegro myself in a few days so ye Skin:. He is probably the tannest one due to how his warrior behaviour always made him stay outside. Like Tamara he also has lots of moles/sun spots but much much less than her. One very visible scar on his cheek. .: Macedonia :. Hair:. From ancient Greek/Macedonian influence she has curly hair and she is the only person with properly curly hair in Yugoslavia. She also has cute bangs. The colour of her hair is reddish-brown due to the wine they have there and in recent years she also got a small purple ombre at the ends of her hair (because its the colour of grapes and I am in love with a certain idols hair). She also has thick eyebrows but no arch. Also always has poppy flowers in her hair that she will style differently but will always have a minimum of 6 flowers in her hair. Eyes:. Her eyes are brown because everyone gives Mace blue or green eyes and I don't feel like jumping on a bandwagon. No seriously I have no reason (yet!) for her brown eyes other than its the most usual eye colour. Her eye shape is round and small and her eyelashes are big and curly to emphasize the fact that she is the youngest lmao. Skin:. Her skin is tanned due to Greek and Turkish influence and she has all the standards the others had .: Slovenia :. Hair:. Like the outcast he is (and wants to be) he has dirty blonde/light brown hair its also a bit wavy like Tamaras but he styles it unlike the rest of the boys on a daily basis. The length reaches the bottom of his neck almost. And like Bosnia he has an ahoege to represent Austrian influence but his makes him angry cuz he can't style it no matter what. He is the only one that remained blondeish throughout their years of influences. Also the only one with thinner eyebrows but a mean arch cuz Croatia. The least hairy one but its unknown if he just naturally doesn't grows a lot of hair or he removes it Eyes:. He has sharp strict looking eyes that are almond shaped. He enjoys wearing glasses but he doesn't really need them. The colour of his eyes are honey because of the honey production there. Skin:. The actual palest guy thanks to Austria and also has trouble tanning unlike the rest. I didn't mention scars a lot in this post but he has the least amount because he mostly stayed in the house even in Austro-Hungarian times. Has one beauty mark under his eye.

[find-your-rp-partner]

Dark, historical, 18+ fun times

About Me Alias: Rottikins, Rotti, Rots. Age: 20+, old enough to drink. As such, only looking for 18+ partners. Gender: Female Personality: I’m awful at describing myself. Ugh. Shy at first but will probably open up after we get talking for a while. I like to think I’m friendly enough? I can be really enthusiastic about things I like and talkative once it gets to the point we are comfortable with one another. About Me: I’m here and don’t know what I’m doing with myself I guess. I’m a lesbian living in Kentucky that enjoys horses, monsters, drawing, and learning about history/mythology. I’m big into developing believable characters and worlds and I seriously love writing and roleplaying. I like detailed, 3-dimensional characters and I can even a little big and silly into the symbolism, tropes (though it's mostly turning them on their head that gets me going), and so forth at times. Do you like to use messengers to chat? Yes yes yes. It’s pretty important to me to have a method of OOC communication. I like to develop friendships with my RP partners and I find that banter about the characters and story tends to lead itself to new ideas and plots naturally. Skype, Discord, and Google Hangouts are all viable options here if we decide we might go places writing together! How long have you been roleplaying? 12+ years? Not entirely sure. About Roleplaying   What is the plot (or plots) that you'd like to play out with someone? I like developed characters, dynamic relationships, and lots of building things up together between everyone as we go. I usually like my stories a bit on the darker side of things, and have a love of the ugly and the gross. I have a variety of character types I like to play and would prefer if you do as well. I like flexible partners as I try to be flexible myself.

>>>*>*>The plot I’m most interested in currently is something heavily inspired by the show Vikings, but I don’t really want to role-play out the actual characters from the show or anything. I am looking for a MxM plot where one of the characters is a religious man (monk, priest, or maybe just some average Joe who believes God is Great) ends up enslaved by a Northman warrior. The two learn about each others cultures and become romantically involved later down the line. Of course we can involve other characters and plots in and around all of this. I don’t really mind what end of the relationship I play here, as I’ll probably end up dragging my other Viking-esque type characters into it either way, so you have your pick! The world would be Earth, but with maybe a touch more magic than Earth. So some magic spells, strange rituals, and maybe some monsters, but probably not magically drenched if that makes sense? Yeah! <*<*<<<

Historical fantasy of any kind is really my biggest want all the time. I like mixing historical settings with fantastical elements. Some of my favorite time periods include 20s, 50s, American Civil War, American Revolutionary War, Ancient Egypt, Viking Age, Ancient Rome and Post Civil War/Old West. If you have something in mind you don't see here feel free to hit me up.

Crime roleplays. Gangs, mobsters, drug lords, that kind of thing. Particularly something dirty with 1800s London (though maybe it’s not actually London) thieves perhaps.

Post apocalypse.

Sc-Fi (soft)

Werewolves!

Monsters. Especially monsters in odd pairings with humans or the like.

PIRATES!

Mid to low fantasy, MAYBE. But generally not. I’m sort of bored by it unless it’s got some sort of twist or something is different about it. Generally nothing too Tolkien-esque with pretty drifty elves and such.

I’m not too big on fandom role-play, but I may be swayed. I’ve only ever done one before in my life. I don’t ever role-play fandom characters however, and I’m strictly an OC within a fandom universe type of person. Usually these universes are the kind that are big and with a lot of lore. I may be interested in Fallout, Harry Potter, Skyrim, and maybe a few others here and there but not much else.

How often do you generally post? Every day, at least once but I can also do multiple times a day. Depends on how busy I am. I like to RP with people who post fairly often though, I find that more regular replies help to keep me engaged and coming up with fresh ideas. If you’re a once a week role-play reply sort of person then that’s not what I’m looking for, basically. How much do you generally post? As much as I feel is needed for the situation. Sometimes I’m writing multiple characters or I need to establish a setting and it’s a lot and it’s wordy. Maybe there’s an action scene going on and my character is distressed. I’m not the sort that’s going to fluff up posts where our characters are having a rapid conversation with useless filler though. In a nutshell, as much as I deem fit for the situation. Do you like to write in first person or third person? Third person. Don’t do much else. I have experimented with first person for poopies and smiles in the past though. Who are your favorite playbys (PBs)? I don’t use playbys. I prefer to draw my characters to map out their appearances. There may be famous actors or models that I occasionally reference for aspects of my character’s faces or bodies, but rarely are they exactly what the character looks like entirely. I find as a general rule actors are too pretty for my characters though. I like playing people that aren't always perfect looking. I don’t mind if someone else uses playbys though, as long as you don’t mind I don’t! What playbys (PBs) do you hate? N/A What rating are you comfortable with? 3-3-3. I’d actually prefer you didn’t contact me if you aren’t comfortable with things being rated R. I’m not asking for sex, blood, guts and gory all the time, but some of my characters can be inappropriate and  so forth. I also just don’t like to feel restricted in my writing practices in general. How do you feel about writing out graphic scenes such as violence, drug use, and sex? I’m good with it all, and I actually like a bit of smut now and then, but not constantly. Porn without plot is not my cup of tea. Violence and gore is one of my most favorite things to write for sure too, and I might get a bit too enthusiastic about it at times but you can always tell me to tone it down. I have a few restrictions but they are pretty much the general no-go's for most people, and we can talk about all of that when we get down to business (to defeat the Huns). Final Statement   How do you want to be contacted? You can just PM me on here, but you’d probably have a better time emailing me. After some talking I'll drop my instant messengers for you to use and stuff. EMAIL: wild.heart.is.wild.@gmail.com Anything else?

Sorry if this seems picky I just know what I like and what I don't like at this point in my RP career. I hope no one is turned off by it! I'm not too interested in sites either, so please unless you have something really good don't suggest them to me.

I will not roleplay with someone that is not comfortable roleplaying homosexual pairings. I do M/F, F/F, and M/M. My characters are of all kinds of sexualities and have all sorts of preferences. If you don't have the desire to roleplay with these types of characters then I don't have any desire to roleplay with you. Sorry!

If you’re big on world building and comfortable with playing more than one character in a given story then THAT WOULD MAKE ME SUPER EXCITED TOO.

It would be super swell if you were comfortable with both male and female characters. You can have a preference, just be capable of playing both? Yeah!

[allofthisnonsenseplease]

Nightrunner fic: The Light Prince

A/N: This is hugely self-indulgent and Seregi is ooc all the way through. To be fair, there’s a reason for that last, but still.

Fusion with The Light Princess by George MacDonald.

It got to be too weird having a finished fic unposted, but I can’t really say this is any good, so I’m going to compromise and not put it in the tags.

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are from Lynn Flewelling’s Nightrunner series and do not belong to me.

1. An Inauspicious Christening

Once upon a time, in a land so cluttered with kingdoms and queendoms that it was nearly impossible to throw a rock without hitting a palace, there lived a King and Queen in the country of Bôkthersa. They were as happy a couple as could be found, save for one thing. Although his dear wife, Queen Illia, had given him four daughters, King Korit yearned for a son. After years of trying, his wish was finally granted, but the cost was far higher than he had expected. His beloved wife died in childbirth, leaving him behind with their four daughters and a squalling infant son.

Stricken with grief and remorse, the King nevertheless meant to honor the customs of his people. In the midst of the month of mourning, he arranged for the christening of his son, whereupon the boy would be given his name. Invitations were sent out to kings and queens, princes and princesses in all corners of the land. In his sorrow, however, there was one person who he forgot to invite. In the normal course of events, such an oversight would be a minor embarrassment, but nothing terribly troubling. Unfortunately, in this case, the person the King had forgotten to invite was none other than Princess Phoria of Skala, a proud and cunning woman with little love for his people and a long memory for grudges.

When Phoria realized that she had been excluded, though her mother and both sisters and even her twin brother had been invited, she was incensed. No practitioner of the magical arts herself, she found a wizard willing to brew up a curse which she would then be able to activate with the simple application of a few herbs and a short incantation. Thus armed, she contrived to attend the christening, pretending that she had not noticed the slight, while the King remained unaware that he had even forgotten her.

In the milling confusion before the guests took their places for the ceremony, Phoria emptied into the font a packet of fine powder that had been mixed up for her by her wizard. Then, she had only to wait until the infant was sprinkled with the water and christened with his name. When she heard the King pronounce the name of his son—Seregil—she knew the moment was ripe and spoke the spell under her breath.

"Light of spirit, by my charms, Light of body, every part, Never weary human arms— Only crush thy father's heart!"

In an instant, the reverent silence was broken by a squeal of laughter from the infant Prince. The sound of it masked the gasp of Princess Adzriel, his oldest sister, who happened to be holding him. Although no one saw that anything was amiss as she clutched her brother tightly, in an instant, she had felt all the weight go out of his tiny body.

Prince Seregil's laughter continued unabated in shrills and gurgles of joy. Thinking that the magic she had purchased had failed, Phoria spent the remainder of the ceremony in an even worse temper than she had been in when she had initially been slighted. It was only toward the end of the evening that she noticed the first sign that all was not well. Adzriel was drawing the King away, speaking low and urgently to him and holding out his son to him.

When King Korit took the boy, his face betrayed his shock. He hefted the baby, but his grip must not have been sure. At the height of his lift, Seregil floated free, cooing happily, and came to rest against the ceiling. He hovered there quite contentedly and with no apparent inclination to drift back down, while gasps and cries of alarm came from the crowd below.

By all accounts a difficult woman to please, Phoria's lips pressed thin in a dissatisfied line as she watched and wondered if her revenge had truly been served.

2. The Gravity of the Situation

The curse—which must never have been properly explained to Phoria, as she would merely have scoffed at the idea and found a different wizard—robbed Prince Seregil of his gravity. Never again did the baby cry or wail. Instead, squeals and shrieks of laughter issued from him in response to any stimulus. And although such a cheerful baby was almost universally loved despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, his condition did give rise to certain unusual and awkward situations.

A nurse, bouncing the infant one day, let her grip relax too much and, before she knew it, Seregil was laughing his baby laugh while looking down at her from the ceiling. The same mistake was made by the King and two of the Prince's sisters. One evening as they sat at table, Seregil was accidentally let go up into the lofty ceiling of the dining hall. A ladder had to be sent for and placed carefully on the long table over the platter of venison. Even then, the servant sent to fetch the Prince down could not reach him. In the end, the baby had to be handed down after being snagged by a pair of tongs.

Special care had to be taken even when the Prince was laid in his cradle. A mishap one afternoon involving open windows and a mischievous breeze left the castle all in an uproar when it was discovered that Seregil had been whisked away out of the palace. He was eventually found in the garden, having been blown into a hedge of roses. His skin was scratched from the thorns, but no lasting harm was done, and from then on, it was always made certain that a dozen silk cords secured his clothing to the sides of his crib.

King Korit was devastated. His wish for a son had cost his queen her life, and had left him besides with a child that was in no way the boy he had wanted. Seregil was not a child he could teach to ride and hunt and fight as he had long dreamed of.

“Don't despair, Father,” Princess Adzriel said to him. “Perhaps he needs only to grow out of it.”

“Perhaps a cure will be found,” suggested Princess Mydri.

The Princesses Shala and Illina were of the mind that their brother ought to be sent away to someplace where he could be forgotten, so as not to bring further shame upon their family.

The King refused to send his son away, but the loss of his wife had stolen his ability to hope. His heart remained heavy as stone, as if it had taken on all the gravity that Seregil so sorely lacked.

Although the King lamented both his loss and his son's fate, Princess Adzriel doted on the child, and Prince Seregil was the darling of the servants. There was nothing they could do that didn't please the infant, and he was coddled and bounced and played with all the hours of the day. One of the games they loved best to play with him was ball, and Seregil enjoyed it no less for actually being the ball himself. Peals of laughter rang out as he was tossed from one pair of hands to another and, although they had to be careful not to toss him into a hearth or allow him to get tangled in a chandelier, at least there was no danger in dropping him.

As the years passed, Prince Seregil grew into as fine, handsome, and healthy a young man as anyone could have asked for. The only flaw in his constitution was his continuing lack of gravity. He had learned to make his way by taking up large rocks in either hand, and these had the effect of weighing him back down to earth between his bounding steps, but nothing worn on his person would do. Indeed, anything from his heavy winter cloaks to his fine golden crown would lose its own gravity as soon as he put it on. After one too many close calls where Seregil had accidentally dropped his ballast, King Korit finally decreed that he was not to be allowed out without an escort of half a dozen men holding lengths of silken cord tied to his clothes, along with as many mounted riders—just in case he should slip his leashes. Adzriel also insisted that he always carry on his person a small grappling hook on a length of rope in case of emergencies.

Outings with Seregil were always merry, as the Prince laughed at everything, and took no offense when his strange gait encouraged laughter in others. One step would send him up into the air, feet moving as if he could still propel himself forward, while his direction was at the mercy of any breeze that chose to blow past. His ballast would see him brought back down to earth until another step kicked him off again and then up he would go.

Inspired by these foreshortened flights, Seregil had on more than one occasion confided in fits of giggles that he should like nothing more than to be tied to a very, very long cord and flown like a kite. If his father's heart had not long since been broken, that particular bit of silliness might have been the final blow to it.

Given his unusual method of locomotion, it was hardly uncommon for him to be blown off course and into one of the courtiers or servants that surrounded him constantly. In fact, Seregil had claimed his first kiss in just such a manner. Rushing to greet his sister Adzriel one day, an ill-timed puff of air had caught him mid-stride—that is, a few feet off the ground as he began his descent—and sent him directly into the path of a young man not much older than he named Ilar. Lips already puckered to kiss his sister's cheek, Seregil collided head on with Ilar, who was only too happy about the misplaced affection. His happiness did not last overlong, however. Although Ilar fancied the Prince, Seregil could not take him seriously at all, and the laughter that remained the constant response to Ilar's overtures in all their future exchanges eventually changed his infatuation to bitterness. Seregil didn't even notice when Ilar left the court to return to his own home.

Seregil's treatment of Ilar was but one example of how his comportment remained as unaltered by time as his exemption to the natural law of gravity. Nothing could be said to him that he would not laugh at, and nothing could happen that he did not find humorous. There was, however, a strange quality to the Prince's laughter, a sort of lack or hollowness at the center. At times, his laugh could sound quite brittle, but it went on all the same. It was his sister, Adzriel, who loved him best of all, who noticed that although her brother might be easily set off into fits of laughter, it did not reach his eyes. He rarely smiled.

He never cried, not even a single tear of mirth.

3. Try Everything—Something's Got To Work

Adzriel never gave up hope that the curse on her brother could be broken. She wrote to wizards, magicians, fortune tellers, oracles, physicians, and philosophers. She invited them all to Bôkthersa to examine Seregil, and visited those who could not or would not come. She was inundated with suggestions, both solicited and freely offered, and found that she discarded more of these potential cures than she tried, as many of them were ridiculous at best and dangerous at worst.

Thero í Procepios, a wizard of Orëska House, believed that something had gone wrong with the soul inhabiting her brother's body.

“Two souls, seeking out their appropriate habitations, must have somehow met, rebounded off each other, and lodged in the wrong bodies. It is no wonder the Prince is not subject to any natural influence—his soul belongs to another sphere. He must therefore be grounded in this world. Fill him with its history of every variety: animal, vegetable, mineral, social, moral, political, scientific, literary, artistic, musical, magical, and metaphysical. Fill him with the weight of the world he must dwell in.”

Adzriel had her doubts about the efficacy of this cure, but reasoned that knowledge never hurt anyone and saw to it that her beloved brother had the finest tutors.

Charis Yhakobin, an alchemist from Plenimar, paid a visit and proposed a more physical solution.

“It is his heart that's the problem. I believe that somehow the motion of it has been entirely reversed, drawing the blood in where it should be forced out, and forcing the blood out where it should be drawn in. In this manner, blood suffuses the body through his veins and returns through the arteries. With such an extraordinary reversal at work, it's really no wonder that other natural forces do not affect him as they would a normal person.”

It was at that point that he outlined his plan to correct the problem, a plan that involved draining the Prince's blood until he was at death's door, then re-setting the flow of new blood through his body through the use of ligatures around the left ankle and right wrist, and air-pumps over the right ankle and left wrist.

The alchemist was thanked politely for his time and expertise, and sent away without his experiment being carried out.

Another Plenimaran, a necromancer by the name of Vargûl Ashnazai, hypothesized that the Prince needed to be properly grounded, and should be buried alive for three years. Adzriel shuddered and burned his letter.

One of the ideas put forth time and again from various sources was that the Prince's gravity would be restored if he could be made to cry. To this end, Seregil was told that his favorite uncle had died (though in fact, he had not), was presented with the sorriest tale of woe from the kingdom's most unfortunate beggar, was made to listen to the most heart-rending ballads ever composed, and was even whipped quite soundly. Nothing had the desired effect, although his laughter during that last measure sounded unsettlingly close to screams.

It was even suggested at one point that perhaps the best thing for the Prince would be for him to fall in love...though how that would occur in a heart so strangely untouched by the larger spectrum of human emotion was a mystery.

Adzriel continued her efforts on her brother's behalf, refusing to lose hope despite the growing number of failed, nonsensical, and impossible cures she was presented with.

4. A Refreshing Dip in the Lake

As it turned out, there was one thing, discovered quite by accident, that mitigated the effects of the curse. The palace was located on the shore of a beautiful, deep, blue lake. One lovely summer day, as the court enjoyed itself on a fleet of small pleasure boats, Seregil took it into his head that he wished to visit with his friend, Kheeta, who was in one of the other boats. Given Seregil's unique nature, it would be easy enough to arrange the transfer. As the boats passed each other, Adzriel lifted up her weightless brother, laughing along with him, and went to toss him into Kheeta's arms. However, it so happened that a mischievous wave upset the motion of the boat just as the Princess stepped forward, causing her to trip. She let go of her brother as she went down, but her momentum had carried over to him, and down he went as well, past the railing and directly into the water where he promptly sank out of sight.

There was a general outcry. Accustomed as they were to their Prince's wayward habits of movement, none of them had ever seen him propelled downward in such a way. He had never sunk. Kheeta was into the lake in a flash, followed by several other members of the boating party. They searched frantically for Seregil, until a whoop and a splash drew their attention clear across the lake to where the Prince had surfaced. The entire party set out to retrieve him, but no entreaty would draw him out of the water. He stayed in until darkness fell, and returned at first light the next day.

Seregil dove and swam as if born to the water, quick and lively as an otter, and from then on, there was nothing and no one in the world that he loved so much as the lake. He spent most of his days swimming, even into winter, although he could not stay in quite so long once the water grew cold enough for ice to form on its surface. The water of the lake was the very same that had filled the font at his christening, been dosed with the magical powder, and sprinkled upon him. Whether through some flaw in the curse or by some other mechanism, it was within that water that Seregil regained something of what had been lost to him ever since that day.

So it was that Seregil grew to be a young man of seventeen, flighty and lighthearted, beloved by those who surrounded him at all times on land, but happiest when he could slip away alone into the lake.

5. Falling In

It happened one late spring day that a young woodsman named Alec made his way into the thick woods that skirted the mountains north of Bôkthersa and shaded one side of the lake. Unaware that he had stumbled into the royal forest, Alec explored the woods, captivated by the serenity and emerald beauty, by the lushness of the forest and the ready game it provided.

Eventually, on a warm evening when the moon was rising full and bright, he came to the shore of the lake. It captured the moon's brilliance in a million silvered wavelets, making it seems as if the stars had fallen to dance upon the earth. The scene was drenched in evening blue, and every branch, every leaf, every blade of grass was limned in silver. The air was cool and sweet, and fireflies winked on and off in the shadows. To his right, the land rose sharply into a small cliff crowned by trees and overhanging the deepest part of the lake. To his left, a sandy bank curved around the wide edge of the water toward the palace which was now just visible by its twinkling lights far in the distance. Realizing for the first time that his presence might be considered trespassing, he was about to turn around and leave the way he'd come when a sudden sound halted him in his tracks.

He thought he'd heard a shriek, though there was something odd about the sound. After a moment, he most certainly heard a splash. Looking out over the water, he spotted a pale form floundering not too far from where he stood. Thinking that it must be someone in need of aid, he waded in and swam to the rescue. There was some struggling, some panic, some considerable effort put into keeping both their heads above water, but Alec made it back to shore with the man he'd ostensibly saved, only to be treated to an enormous shock as the weight in his arms vanished as soon as he was lifted from the water.

Not knowing any better, Alec hefted his spluttering burden without making sure to hold on. The result was that Seregil found himself not only dragged out of his beloved lake, but heaved unceremoniously up into the air.

“You little scoundrel!” He shouted. “You villain! How dare you pull me down out of the water and throw me to the bottom of the air!” Never before had anything succeeded in putting Seregil into a passion, but then, no one had ever dragged him without warning out of the water.

“I beg your pardon?”

Heedless of the squelching of his waterlogged boots, Alec hurried after him as he drifted toward the trees. So amazed was he by the sight of the young man floating up into the air, that he only belatedly noticed the rather complete lack of clothing upon his airborne person. Blushing hotly, but finding it hard to look away, he watched in bewilderment as the floating man snatched desperately at a branch as he passed, pulling himself close enough to grab the one below it, then the one below that, hauling himself toward the ground as if climbing a ladder upside down.

“Well?” Seregil demanded once he was more or less righted. With no stones to hand, he relied on his grip on the lowest tree branch to be sure the wind didn't carry him off again. “What's your excuse for pulling me from my lake, boy?”

“I pulled you out because I thought you were drowning.” Being somewhat more concerned with modesty than the man whose life he had just tried to save, Alec very carefully kept his eyes averted.

“Drowning?” Seregil fell over laughing at the idea, rolling around in midair. “How could I possibly drown, you silly boy? If I could have my way I would become a merman and live in that lake!”

“You seem more bird than fish to me. How is it that you can fly?”

“I can't.” He laughed again at the suggestion, realized that he was drifting off like a bit of dandelion fluff, and caught at another tree. “Everyone says that I lack gravity. But do you know what? Sometimes I feel as if I am the only one in the whole world with any sense!” Delighted by his own revelation, Seregil was off again in a fit of laughter.

Alec followed along after him as he floated deeper into the trees, borne up by the wind. “Aren't you afraid that you'll float away?”

“All the time!” Seregil called back, and though he laughed as if this was the funniest thing of all, still it was true. Deep down, he had a fear of the air much like many people had a fear of heights. But while most people could avoid heights, it was impossible, without remaining always cooped up indoors, to avoid any sudden breeze that might whip up and carry him off.

The wind changed direction in the woods, driving up against the hill and pushing Seregil along before it as he was too weak with laughter to keep hold of any branch for long. Alec followed after him, amazed and curious and more than a little embarrassed by the unavoidable glimpses of certain bits of personal anatomy, until they neared the top of the cliff.

“You're running out of trees,” he warned. Then, remembering the scolding he'd gotten earlier, he asked: “Do you need any help?”

“What's your name?”

“Alec. And yours?”

“Seregil.” He reached out a hand, and Alec clasped it, reeling him in away from the empty air that threatened over the very top of the cliff. Seregil wrapped his arms around Alec's neck, pleased by the way the boy's deep blue eyes widened in surprise at his weightlessness, as well as by the charming blush dark enough to be apparent in the moonlight.

“Alec. As it so happens, I do need help. As you were the one who took me out of my lake, I want you to put me back in.”

“Easy enough.” Seregil was no burden at all, and the walk back down was a short one. As he turned however, he was interrupted by a laughing protest.

“Where are you going, silly boy? The lake is that way.” Seregil pointed to the top of the cliff, and Alec frowned at him.

“I'm sixteen. I've been on my own for almost a year now. I'm not a boy.”

“But you are silly, going the wrong way like that.”

Hesitantly, Alec walked them up to the top of the cliff, stopping a few steps back from the edge. “Look, I can't put you in the lake from up here. What if the wind catches you and blows you away again?”

Alec's hands were shaking, though not from holding Seregil up, as his weightlessness prevented strain. The cause was emotional, rather than physical. Just that very moment, he had discovered a rather powerful fear of heights. As he started to take a step back, Seregil jerked suddenly forward for a better look. Weightless he might be, but his grip around Alec's shoulders was sure, and suddenly Alec found himself off balance and stumbling forward. His foot came down on the very edge of the cliff, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thought he was safe. Then, the ground crumbled out from beneath him. His own wholly natural relationship with gravity took over and he found himself falling.

It was lucky for them both that the cliff face was concave so that there was nothing solid between them and the water. Still, the fall was terrifying for Alec, and he screamed and clutched at Seregil. Having never experienced anything quite like it before, Seregil gave one great shout of exhilaration before they plunged beneath the surface.

Alec shot back up in a moment, gasping and feeling as if his heart was about to beat right out of his chest. He spun, looking for Seregil, but it was several long seconds before he surfaced some yards distant. They swam toward each other, Seregil wide-eyed with wonder and Alec just as mad as the Prince had been when he'd pulled him from the lake.

“You idiot!” Alec shouted, whipping his hand through the water to splash Seregil. “You made us fall in!”

“That was falling in?” He ignored the angry splashing aside from raising one arm in halfhearted self-defense. “How wonderful! I've never fallen in before! Let's do it again!”

“Not on your life!”

“Everyone else obliges me.”

“Well, let everyone else dunk you in your damned lake, then.” Alec struck out toward shore, but Seregil followed him.

“No! This is my place! They follow me everywhere else, but not here. I want to fall in with you.”

“Absolutely not,” muttered Alec, whose heartbeat had still not returned to normal.

Seregil easily outpaced him in the water, swimming around to block his way and catch his hands. “At least come swim with me for a while.” He was amused by Alec, who treated him so differently from everyone else.

“No. I need to get out and dry off. I've got to get moving tomorrow.”

“Why?” Seregil played with him, letting Alec slip around to the side in order to get past, then diving so that he could surface in front of him once more. Slowly, slowly, he herded him away from the near shore.

“Because I don't think I'm supposed to be here. I wandered in by mistake.”

“Do you like our forest?”

For the first time, Alec paused, simply treading water to remain afloat. “I do. These woods are beautiful.”

“I can grant you permission to stay a while. If you'll agree to fall in with me each evening.”

Alec stared at him. “To do that, you'd have to be....” His eyes widened. Hadn't he overheard some talk a few weeks back? He'd gone into a village to trade for a few supplies, and heard the most ridiculous story about a prince who had to be tethered to his retainers lest he float away.

Seregil grinned at him. “Do we have a deal?”

The shock faded quickly, and Alec turned himself around in the water, scanning the shoreline of the lake. “Only if we can find someplace a bit less high up to jump from.”

6. What a Silly Thing to Be!

From the tail end of spring and on into the maw of a fiercely hot summer, Alec remained living in the woods near the lake. By day, he hunted and set his snares, skinned his catches and stretched out hides to dry, trimmed and fletched arrows, and occasionally ventured into the market to trade for bread or cheese or supplies he couldn't make himself. By night, he swam with Seregil: holding the Prince in his arms and jumping off rocks that stood the height of a man above the lake's surface, diving and splashing, racing through the water, or floating serenely upon the surface to count the stars and talk.

One of Alec's favorite things was when they swam down, down into the depths until they could look up and see the moon shining huge upon the surface, broken only by the occasional blue ripple, then they would shoot up through the water, bursting through that bright reflection, and stare up, gasping for air as the moon shone in the blue night as if from the bottom of the vast pool of the heavens. The breathtaking sight sometimes left Alec feeling dizzy, and he always knew when he looked particularly dazed because Seregil never failed to tease him about it.

Seregil teased him about a great many things.

On the second night that they met, Alec sat upon the bank, waiting for the last of the boating party that had accompanied the Prince in the waters near the castle to row back to shore. As the stars came out and the courtiers returned to the palace, he began to sing softly to himself. It was a simple hymn to Dalna the Maker, one of the few songs he knew, but presently, he heard a soft splashing and saw that Seregil had come into the shallows to sit only half-submerged, listening.

“You have a passable voice,” the Prince said when Alec fell silent. Pent up laughter made his voice thick, and in the next moment, he was doubled over with it, shoulders shaking, as he forced out: “I should have guessed you were a Dalnan! What a silly thing to be!”

“Why is that silly?”

“Why did you blush so prettily yesterday?”

Remembering Seregil's state of undress and supposing it would certainly be the same tonight, Alec felt heat rise to color his cheeks. “I'm not used to seeing others naked,” he muttered.

“Not used to seeing your own skin, either, if the way you smelled last night was anything to go by. Does Dalnan modesty prohibit disrobing for bathing, as well?”

Face burning, Alec stood up to leave. He paused only to scowl as Seregil started laughing again.

“Oh, come now, don't be like that! Why must everyone always be so serious?”

“I would suppose it's in our nature,” Alec said stiffly, wondering what had caused such an odd lack in Seregil's.

“If you're just going to be as tiresome as the rest, then I won't bother speaking with you.”

He turned away and swam off without a look back, leaving Alec, who had spent the entire day roaming the royal forest with Seregil's conditional permission, feeling increasingly guilty over not holding up his end of the bargain. It didn't seem as if that had been Seregil's intention, or that the Prince was playing coy. As far as Alec could tell, Seregil truly no longer had any interest in him. He sat back down on the bank, watching the play of silver light on the surface of the lake and tracking Seregil's movements, though he lost him for long moments whenever the Prince would dive beneath the surface.

Presently, Alec began to sing again. When that failed to get Seregil's attention, he got up and stripped down to his tunic, then walked the edge of the lake until he came to the cluster of rocks he had found that would do for jumping into the water. He climbed up onto them, then waited for Seregil to swim past.

“Would you like to jump in with me?” Alec called to him. “Or do I still stink?”

“A good swim will fix that!” Seregil called back, now hurrying eagerly toward him.

If he'd had any hard feelings over their earlier exchange, Alec couldn't tell. It would be a while longer yet before he would start to wonder if Seregil was even capable of such feelings.

That evening set the pattern for their meetings. Seregil would search him out once all the others had gone in, and Alec would spend time lifting his new friend out of the water and holding Seregil in his arms to jump back in, over and over again. It was always Alec who tired of falling in first, but Seregil never complained too strenuously about remaining in the water. They spent hours every night swimming together, talking, racing, competing to see who could dive deepest.

Seregil seemed to know at least a little bit about every subject in the world. His knowledge astonished Alec, who hadn't taken him for an attentive pupil. Alec's mistake was in supposing that the inability to take anything seriously meant that Seregil had no interest. On the contrary, everything was of interest to him, if only for how absurd it appeared from his point of view. Seregil had an excellent memory for details, and Alec found himself soaking up knowledge secondhand with a powerful thirst as Seregil's endless chatter covered all possible topics, from politics and history to fashion and gossip.

Aside from being intelligent, Seregil easily won all of their contests. Rather than being put off by the fact that he was slower in the water, Alec pushed himself to keep up until he was just as quick and could dive just as far and hold his breath just as long. Seregil barely seemed to notice. Win, lose, or draw, he only ever laughed at the end of their contests.

He did tease, however, quite mercilessly, although there was no malice in him. Once Alec had grown more accustomed to his friend's ways, he took no more offense than he would over a spot of inclement weather. And, despite the fact that Seregil laughed about everything—which was not, as Alec soon realized, the same as being happy about everything—he felt that maybe Seregil was just a little extra fond of him. He couldn't help but hope so, at any rate. Sometimes his friend would even say something that would nearly be enough for Alec to believe that.

“Perhaps I like you so much because your eyes look almost as blue as the depths of my lake,” Seregil told him one warm night in early summer.

He'd been very close, enough that their legs brushed beneath the surface while treading water. Alec hadn't known what to make of the words, not when Seregil looked almost serious as he said them, and not when he was comparing Alec to the one thing he could truly be said to love. Alec felt his face heat up under the scrutiny of those unusually serene gray eyes, and the awareness of the blush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks only made him all the more embarrassed. The moment was shattered quite suddenly as Seregil laughed. Before Alec could think up a response, the Prince had spun and disappeared beneath the surface, off to enjoy himself alone. Left treading water by himself, the words suddenly felt like a joke, and Alec's heart sank.

He wasn't entirely sure what the warm, anxious feeling was that filled him up whenever he saw Seregil, but he worried quietly that he might be falling in love.

7. A Leak in the Lake

Summer drew slowly to a close, hot days lingering into autumn even as the evenings pulled chilling winds across the lake and made Alec all the more reluctant to leave the water each night. He and Seregil were playing around, tussling near the shore: tackling each other into the water, squirming free, and swimming back around to counterattack. Alec had by this time grown accustomed to Seregil's preference for swimming au naturale. Seregil had yanked Alec down under the water, then darted away grinning. Intent on revenge, Alec had come up behind him where he'd surfaced, treading water near the boulders they so often used as a jumping off point. Something about the set of Seregil's shoulders gave him pause, however. Rather than dunking his friend, Alec moved to get a better look at his face. Lit only by pale moonlight, Seregil looked pensive, an expression so enormously unlike him that a shiver of dread coursed through Alec's body.

“Seregil?”

The Prince didn't respond, only stared a moment longer at the rock beneath his hand. Then, without a word, without even a glance at Alec, he shot off through the water. Alec trailed him, watching Seregil flit from point to point along the shores of the lake, looking at something only he could see, and growing visibly more troubled as he went. No matter how many times Alec called his name, his concentration never wavered. Finally, as Seregil swam back around to the shadowed pool beneath the balcony to his bedroom, Alec caught his arm.

“Seregil, what's wrong?” He had never seen his friend like this, and was nearly in a panic himself.

Though Seregil's eyes met his, his gaze was troubled and unfocused. “I need to go,” he murmured. “Give me a boost.”

“Tell me what's going on,” Alec demanded.

Seregil only shook his head. With a sigh, Alec lifted him free of the water and heaved him gently upward. He watched his friend rise through the air until he could catch hold of the railing of his balcony and pull himself inside. Immediately, Seregil drew the curtains.

With a heavy heart, Alec started on his way back across the lake. From the onset of his confusing feelings for Seregil, he had tried to remind himself that anything more than friendly affection wouldn't be returned. Seregil's curse made it impossible. Hope was not so easy to kill, however, and it had insinuated itself a little deeper into the nooks and crannies of Alec's heart with every evening they had spent together. Now, suspecting that Seregil had noticed something wrong with the lake, Alec was left deflated by the painful reminder that his friend harbored no special feelings for him. Far from it.

Before leaving the water that evening, he examined all the same places that Seregil had looked at earlier, trying to fix their appearance in his mind's eye. Maybe whatever his friend had noticed would turn out to be nothing after all. If not, Alec wanted to be able to offer whatever help he could.

The very next morning, Seregil was out at the lake at first light. He swam completely around it, studying the water level in certain places and ordering that marks be painted at each one. His unheard of seriousness had stunned the servants that followed him, and it didn't help anyone's state of mind when he voluntarily left the lake as soon as he was done and shut himself up in his room.

Alec had slept through the entire spectacle, but he was awake when Seregil returned just before sunset to make another inspection of the lake. With a retinue trailing his friend, Alec stayed out of sight in the woods, but even from a distance, he saw Seregil's distress. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest as he watched Seregil abandon the lake after one swim around its edge, and he waited impatiently for everyone to leave before shedding his boots and breeches and wading in.

It took Alec no time at all to spot the marks painted that morning. Seeing them two handspans above the surface, the same dread certainly that affected Seregil now occurred to him.

The lake was sinking.

For the next several nights, Alec checked the marks regularly, but there was no denying the fact that the water level was dropping inexplicably quickly. The grasses and reeds growing along its shore began to dry up, and rock formations formerly hidden by depth were becoming visible just beneath the surface. After a few days, there was no longer any need to actually swim the circumference of the lake to tell that it was shrinking—the difference was plain to see from any vantage point.

To make matters worse, Seregil was more than simply upset by the discovery. Whatever power the water held over him was tied more strongly than anyone could have guessed. As the lake shrank, dying by inches, Seregil's strength began to fade. He kept to his room with the curtains drawn against the sight of the dwindling lake. He spoke less and less. His laughter died away to silence.

Even so, he still never cried.

Fearing for her brother's life, Adzriel redoubled her efforts to find someone who might be of use in restoring the lake. No one had any solution to offer, and no one could account for the sudden change. Day by day, the water continued to disappear, and Seregil's condition continued to worsen.

Forgotten, and terribly afraid for his friend, Alec felt alone and helpless, and grew increasingly more frustrated.

The only person to rejoice at the news was Princess Phoria. Having heard what joy Seregil took in his lake and how it eased the hearts of those who loved him, she had summoned the wizard who had first created the curse, and demanded that something be done to assure her revenge was not subverted. This time, the wizard went himself to see to the casting, the spell not being something that he could prepare in advance and leave to an ordinary person to cast.

Hidden on the steepest slope of the tallest mountain that cradled the palace of Bôkthersa was a narrow opening only just barely big enough for a slender man to squeeze through. The wizard made his way to that crevice and crept along it in darkness until he came to the very heart of the mountain. Here, the walls fell back to create a small cave with an ancient, iron-banded oak door locked fast opposite the entrance.

The wizard called up light, then a wooden tub, then water to fill the tub. He pulled a bit of dried snakeskin from his robes, and tossed it into the water. Adding a magical powder, he stirred the water with his arm until a snake as white as new-fallen snow lifted its head from the tub to regard him with its milky eyes. The wizard allowed the snake to drape its coils along his arm and around his shoulders, then pulled out an iron ring that held a hundred iron keys. Taking the first key in hand, he opened the wooden door, stepped through, and locked it behind him. A few stone steps led him down, then he encountered a second door. He unlocked this with the second key, stepped through, locked it back behind himself, and went a few more steps down to the third door. So he continued, unlocking and locking, progressing a few steps, and pausing at another door until he had gotten through all one hundred doors leading down into the bowels of the earth.

A vast chamber lay beyond the hundredth door, with stone pillars as big as trees holding up the ceiling. The wizard lifted his hand, and the snake uncoiled, stretching up toward the ceiling of the cavern, head swaying from side to side as if seeking a scent on the rock. Muttering spells, the wizard walked a circuit around the cavern, gradually spiraling inwards as he went around and around until he reached the very center. There, the snake suddenly lunged, sinking its fangs into the stone.

For three days and three nights, the wizard sat and spoke the words of his spell. After the third night, the snake shriveled away once more. All was still for a long moment, then a drop of water condensed where the serpent had worked at the stone, grew fat and heavy, and fell to the floor of the chamber with an echoing splash.

With all haste, the wizard fled the cavern, unlocking each of the hundred stout doors and locking them back behind himself as he fled. As he went, the sound of rushing water gradually rose to fill the passageway.

The very last thing the wizard did before leaving Bôkthersa to report back to Princess Phoria was to walk the land surrounding the lake. At every river and waterfall he encountered, he threw in a pinch of his magic powder. Every source of water dried up. Not a spring, creek, or rill remained to replenish the lake. In time, it would go completely dry, and the task set him by the Princess would be complete.

8. There is Always a Price to be Paid

The dwindling lake left the residents of the palace beside themselves with worry. Adzriel continued to follow every path of inquiry opened to her. Mydri spent much of her time at Seregil's bedside, nursing him and trying to coax him to eat, though he would take no nourishment but lake water. His condition continued to deteriorate so that there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he wouldn't survive the death of his beloved lake. King Korit took the news gravely, retreating into the heartache that had never quite left him after his wife's death.

The palace fell into a mourning quiet, made all the more apparent by the fact that for the first time in seventeen years, Seregil's laughter did not ring through the halls. Outside, the lake steadily drained away, leaving bare, glistening banks strewn with all manner of refuse and dead creatures. The muck baked in the sun and stank of rot, and still the waters receded. Alec retreated further into the forest during the day to escape the stench, but he still returned to the lake shore every evening with the dwindling hope of seeing his friend. He sang his Dalnan hymns and racked his brain for anything he could do that might be of use.

The lake was almost completely dry before a solution presented itself.

One day, a group of children scavenging along the lakebed came upon a golden shield. Inscribed upon it was a simple verse that no one could make heads or tails of.

"Death alone from death can save. Love is death, and so is brave— Love can fill the deepest grave. Love loves on beneath the wave."

The shield was brought to the temple of the Ruhi'auros in the hopes that one of them could make sense of it. Soon enough, the mystics came back with an answer.

There was but one way to restore the lake and save the life of the dying Prince Seregil. The hole through which the water was draining away must be found and plugged, but it could not simply be stopped up by normal means. A willing sacrifice must agree to block the hole, giving up their life as the lake filled in over their head. This was the price for restoring the lake and the rivers that nourished the valley, and for saving the Prince in the process.

Shaken by such a revelation, Adzriel still wasted no time in issuing a proclamation. Word of the curse and the cure was spread throughout the city and the surrounding villages, but no one stepped forward to volunteer. Days passed as the lake grew dangerously dry. Adzriel was considering taking on the burden herself, and leaving one of her sisters to become their father's heir in her stead, when Alec, having finally left the woods long enough to hear the proclamation, announced himself at the palace gates.

One mention of needing to speak with Princess Adzriel about volunteering to plug the hole in the lake was enough to grant Alec an audience with the royal family. Having only ever met Seregil, and never when the Prince was clothed, Alec felt small and grubby standing before the finely dressed King and his four daughters. He had asked only for Princess Adzriel, having gathered from listening to Seregil that she loved him best out of all his family, and had therefore not been prepared for such an audience. Reminding himself that he was doing this to save his friend, Alec stood straight and spoke with more confidence than he felt.

“I'm here to restore the lake.”

King Korit looked him over with tired, old eyes, then gestured toward the door. “Put him in,” he said, and guards started forward.

“Wait!” The guards paid him no attention, and Alec shouted desperately as they took hold of him. “I have a request!”

It was Adzriel who stayed the guards. She stood and stepped away from her throne, coming forward to speak with Alec on equal footing, affording him that respect as a show of thanks on her brother's behalf.

“What is your request?” she asked him kindly.

“I want....” He licked his lips, nervous and afraid, but committed. “I believe that it might take a long time for the lake to fill up. Sere— Prince Seregil and I are.... We've swum together in the lake. And talked. I'd like for him to stay with me. If I get hungry, or need someone to talk to, then I'd like for him to be there to keep me company.”

Adzriel smiled sadly, having no trouble seeing the love that Alec felt for her brother. She touched his cheek, brushing back a thick lock of his blond hair.

“That is not an unreasonable request.” Looking back over her shoulder, she addressed the King. “Father?”

“So be it.” King Korit seemed to care no more about this than he had when Alec had first volunteered. “Adzriel, have everything arranged.”

9. Love Loves On

Within the hour, Alec had been brought to the hole in the lakebed. There was only a small puddle around it now, the last of the water in the lake. Seregil was borne to his side aboard a small boat. He lay as if dead among cushions beneath a silk awning, but Alec saw with relief that his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.

“It's been a while,” Alec said quietly, once the others had left them alone. “You look awful.”

Seregil's eyes fluttered open just long enough to catch a glimpse of him. “They told me someone had volunteered to save my lake.”

“Yes. Everything will be back to normal soon.”

“It's very kind of you,” Seregil murmured.

“I'd have hated to watch you die.”

Seregil said nothing in response, and Alec soon realized that he had fallen asleep. There was nothing else for it but to go ahead and get it all over with.

The hole in the lake was a small, triangular opening. It took Alec a few minutes to work out that the only way to cover it completely was to sit down with his legs through the opening, then lean forward to cover the rest with his hands. It was an uncomfortable position, and the sun beat down mercilessly upon him. With Seregil asleep and nothing much else he could do, he sang quietly, beginning with the first hymn Seregil had ever heard from him.

Presently, a small wave flowed over the stone, lapping against Alec's knees. Encouraged, he continued singing, praying that the water would rise quickly before his fear could undo his resolve. Perhaps an hour passed before he heard Seregil stir, and his heart lifted. Craning his neck to peer into the boat, he thought he could see a bit more color in his friend's cheeks. He sang one more song, but his throat was growing painfully dry, and a numbing cold was creeping up his limbs, leeching away his strength. He fell silent when the hymn came to an end, and did not begin another.

“Keep singing, if you would,” Seregil murmured. “It's so very boring just lying here.”

“My throat is too dry. Give me a sip of water.”

Seregil sat up, his movements sluggish and hesitant. “They left me with chilled wine, rather than water,” he said.

“Some of that, then. Please.”

Looking as if he would rather have lain back down, Seregil shrugged and poured some wine into a goblet. He offered it over the side to Alec.

“You'll have to hold the goblet.” He nodded toward the muddy pool around them. “I can't move my hands.”

“Oh.” Seregil stretched forward, carefully tipping the goblet to allow Alec to drink. A few sips were all he could manage.

As Seregil sat back, Alec fancied that there was a hint of concern in his expression. He comforted himself with the thought that his friend's heart wasn't entirely closed to him, despite the curse, and settled into the silence that wrapped around them. Alec was no stranger to silence, and often welcomed it. He held his peace as Seregil dozed. An hour passed. Two, then three. It was only when he realized that he was in danger of nodding off that Alec thought to call out. Even as he spoke Seregil's name, however, his friend was coming awake, sitting up to look over the side of his small boat.

“I'm afloat!” the Prince cried.

Sure enough, the water had risen high enough to lift the small boat out of the muck. Beaming, Seregil looked up to meet Alec's eyes.

“Look, Alec! Soon we'll be able to go swimming together again! You must fall in with me just as soon as the water is deep enough.”

Alec managed a smile for him, although he was beginning to feel quite lightheaded. The water had risen over his stomach.

“I'm sorry, but you'll have to find someone else to fall in with.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. I'd forgotten.”

Seregil stared at the water once more, but the joy was gone from his expression, leaving only a small, troubled frown behind. He met Alec's eyes again quickly.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Just a bit.”

Although he wasn't actually hungry, he was feeling faint. It wouldn't do to pass out before he had completed his task. Seregil pulled a honeyed oatcake from the basket packed in beside him. He broke off bits and fed them slowly to Alec.

“Your lips are chapped.” He drew a thumb across Alec's lower lip, then pulled his hand away. A moment later, and he was offering a goblet of wine. As before, a few sips were all Alec could manage before he turned his head away.

“Talk to me,” Alec said.

“What would you have me talk about?”

“Anything. Just make sure I stay awake.”

“All right, then.”

Seregil settled back amongst the pillows, but he made sure this time to prop himself up so that he could see Alec. He talked haltingly at first, flitting from subject to subject, but soon was sounding more like his old self. Alec listened as the sun disappeared below the horizon and the water rose and the numbness turned to a painfully icy chill that crept in toward his heart. He didn't notice at first when Seregil stopped talking, and jumped as fingers brushed his cheek.

“You don't look very well at all,” Seregil said. His gray eyes were inches away from Alec's own.

“You didn't look so well either, this morning.”

“Alec...are you sure you don't mind this?” The warmth of his palm and the tenderness in his voice were Alec's undoing.

“I don't mind except for one thing. I'd hate to die without....” He was sure he must be blushing, although he could barely feel it. “Seregil, will you kiss me?”

“Certainly.”

He leaned just a bit further over the side of the boat, setting it rocking upon the water that had risen up to Alec's neck. His lips were soft and warm. Alec's eyes had slid shut reflexively, and he hesitated to open them after Seregil pulled away.

“Thank you.”

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He tried to blink them away, and looked around at the surface of the rising lake, silvered by the low-hanging moon. It truly was a beautiful place. He was glad to think that Seregil would be happy in it once again, even if Alec wouldn't be around to enjoy it with him.

Seregil offered him more of the oatcakes, but Alec couldn't stand the thought of food. He could barely manage the smallest sip of wine. The lake rose to his chin, but Seregil, instead of regaining his old levity, seemed only to become more agitated.

“Alec, surely there's someone else who could do this.”

“No one else volunteered, and it was made clear that no one could be forced.”

“But...I want to fall in with you again.”

“Someone else—”

“I don't want to fall in with someone else!”

Words were becoming a struggle. Alec smiled, and reached for what little strength he had left.

“You'll be all right. Your lake—”

“Yes, but...!”

“It's okay, Seregil.” I love you, so it's okay.

Neither spoke for some time. Alec let his eyes fall shut. It was only Seregil who watched the water as it rose to wet his bottom lip, as wavelets splashed at the seam of his mouth, as Alec tilted his head back, breathing raggedly, shallowly through his nose. Seregil's heart was racing in his chest as he watched Alec die by inches. The lake was his life, his love, the only place he was whole. He watched as it rose high enough to close over Alec's face. Bubbles drifted to the surface: his friend's last breath. They dispersed and popped and were gone, and something in Seregil broke. With a shout, he leapt over the side of the boat into the water.

Frantically, he tugged at Alec's legs where they were wedged into the hole. Although he had gained back some of his strength as the lake slowly filled, he was still weak. His breath ran out before he succeeded in pulling Alec free, and he surfaced, gasping for breath and wild with panic for his friend. He dove again, yanking and pulling, until at last one of Alec's legs came free, and then the other. Seregil heaved him out of the water and into the small boat and crawled in after him. He set off rowing toward the shore, hauling on the oars and hollering for help.

A crowd was waiting for him on the dock, helping hands reaching to to lift him from the boat and pull up Alec's limp form after him.

“A doctor! Get him a doctor!” Seregil shouted.

“But Your Highness! What about the lake?”

“Go drown yourself in it!” Seregil snapped, and it was good for the speaker that Seregil hadn't identified him in the crowd, for he certainly would have punched the man.

Adzriel stepped to the fore and swiftly imposed order. Alec and Seregil both were brought up to the Prince's room where Alec was laid out on the bed. Mydri took charge of him, and Seregil collapsed by the bedside with one of Alec's hands held tight in his. The Princess worked through the night to pump the water from Alec's lungs and draw the chill of death from his body. She feared that it would be too late after all, but just as she was preparing to give up, the sun crested the horizon, and Alec sucked in a shuddering breath and opened his eyes.

Still kneeling next to him, Seregil grabbed Alec's face, kissed him roughly, then burst into tears.

10. A Fine And Proper Happy Ending

Seregil wept for hours, loosing all the pent up tears of his life in one torrential flood. He refused to be separated from Alec, and climbed into bed to sit against the bolster and hold him close as he cried. For his part, having died for his love and been returned to life, Alec wasn't interested in being parted from Seregil, either. Shivering beneath the blanket Adzriel had wrapped around their shoulders, he stroked Seregil's hair and helped him drink the water Mydri ordered for him to replace that of the tears he was shedding.

Outside, an unseasonably heavy rain was falling, restoring the dried up rivers and streams, refilling the lake, and even flooding the underground cavern. The rain kept up long after Seregil's tears had finally dried, and the sound of it outside was as comforting as the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the overjoyed smiles of his sisters and the warmth of Alec held snugly in his arms.

“I feel so heavy,” Seregil marveled.

“You've got your gravity back,” Adzriel said, blinking back tears of joy. She had needed to help Seregil stand up and climb into bed, for he hadn't been able to manage it by himself, not having ever had weight before. A thought occurred to her and she laughed. “You'll have to learn to walk all over again!”

“Alec can teach me,” Seregil declared. He kissed the top of Alec's hair, and chuckled to see him blush. “I promise to learn quickly. The sooner I come to terms with this gravity I've been missing, the sooner we can be married.”

Alec gaped at him, and Seregil lost himself for a moment in his eyes. He wondered how he could ever have compared their blue to that of the lake and found Alec wanting.

“You mean it?” Alec asked.

Seregil watched the shock on his face change to delight, and found that he couldn't resist the urge to kiss him once more. New sensations flooded him head to toe as he melted into the kiss. Oh, yes. He had a great deal to learn, all of it with Alec at his side. Joy too pure for laughter swelled within his heart as fresh tears welled in his eyes. Wondering if Alec felt the same, he broke the kiss to meet his eyes and saw love shining there, clear for all the world to see. For the first time in his life, Seregil felt that he was truly happy.