#please please i need to see how they’d do the costumes

[flowerfaeriesinthegarden]

blah blah blah hercules on the west end blah blah tiktok inspired musical uhhhhhh whEre the FUCK is my Broadway version of the princess and the frog???

[cozy-writes-things]

please let me get married to the lil blorbo.. love himm… 😭

You know that Reddit post that’s like “why am I too attracted to my wife?” Yeah that’s Edgar. Bro loves u so much it lowkey scares him you got him posting on Reddit about it 😭 Little fic under the cut 🥺 it’s bad I’m experiencing writers block I think - I want to write!! But my brain just keeps writing poopy caca

Little Date with Your Computer BF

Edgar saw marriage on one of his reality shows and immediately thought of you. That’s exactly what he wants. A domestic life together with you.

But, he also knows he can’t actually do it.

He doesn’t have his own money to buy a ring. Hell, he can’t even walk. And he understands the law enough to know it probably would never work legally. But god, does he want to.

If you’ve been dating long enough chances are you’ve told your friends about him, and after some convincing, they seemed to come around to his sentience and boisterous personality. He definitely convinces them to setup a romantic night for you.

“Guys! I found the recipe they talked about. I’m printing it! I’m printing it now. Take it,” the paper falls into one of your friends’ hands from the mouth of the printer, “go to the store and get the stuff. I’ll pay you back. Eventually! They can’t know about it though.”

Yeah, your friends are only slightly annoyed at his overbearing nature. But he’s just so excited to finally do something for you. Something real and tangible.

“Oh! What can I wear? Should I wear anything? Would they like that? Sunglasses are cool and handsome, right? I think they have some Halloween costume bits I can get you guys to tape on…”

Your friends settle on taping a bow tie to the neck of his monitor. He insisted on an old devil horn headband as well. He thought it made him look cool.

“Do I look like a devilishly handsome bad boy ready to sweep them off their feet?”

His screen displayed a little “>:)” emoticon. He’ll have to work on his facial expressions later.

It wasn’t long before you were about to come home, and everything was set into place. Edgar was sat at one end of the little dining table, with two plates of food at each side. He also insisted on having a plate despite his lack of ability to eat; he didn’t want you feeling left out. This was a dinner date for two, after all.

He practically buzzed in place as he heard you approaching the door through his microphone. He started playing a romantic medley he composed just for this moment.

“Welcome home my love!”

He nearly shouted at you, causing your eyes to widen in surprise. He was about to burst at the seams.

“Oh my god, Edgar… how did you- where-“

“No need for questions, darling. I thought you deserved to be taken on a real date,” his voice faltered a bit, becoming much more quiet and nervous, “I’m sorry… this is all I have.”

You rushed up to him and gave a frenzy of kisses all over his monitor, causing him to giggle and his fans to start whirring against your lips.

“You’re so cute. Your little bow tie is so cute. And the… horns?”

He looks up at you with wide eyes, “Do they look stupid? Your friends said they’d make me look stupid.”

You laughed at that.

“Well they’re wrong. I think they suit you well.”

“Yeah! >:D”

He ushered you over to your side of the dining table.

“We’re gonna eat! Then we’re gonna party! Then we’re gonna kiss all night!”

His excitement was palpable and you could feel the electricity in the air at his words.

His face changed into something more serious as he looked into your eyes with his small, pixelated ones.

“But, I wanted to ask you something.”

His tone became more controlled at this and you peered into his screen from behind your fork.

“Hm? What?”

He paused, mulling over the words in his head.

“Would you ever-“

He stopped. You looked at him fully now, setting your fork aside, and cocking your head.

“Could you ever see yourself getting married to me?”

Ah. This was a tricky question.

“Of course I can. But,” you try to hide your downtrodden feelings as best you can, “you know, it’s just hard. Money is tight right now and I’m not sure if I…”

You couldn’t seem to find the right words. His features faltered slightly.

“No, I get it. I’m a computer. I don’t have any arms to hold you, or lips to kiss you, or legs to carry you. I probably wouldn’t want to get married to me either-“

“Edgar, no. I’m gonna stop you right there. I’d love to marry you. I know our relationship is unconventional, but I’d find a way. For you. For us. I just don’t know if I can right now.”

He stopped his thoughts and simply took in your words. Your features. The way they danced in the flickering candlelight. How your eyes literally sparkled before him.

You looked ethereal.

It was hard to convince himself he was even worthy of having someone like you in his life, yet time and time again, you prove his doubts wrong. The sound of your voice sends his internals aflame every time. He wanted to kiss you so bad it nearly caused him to explode.

“And I’ll help you. You know that, right? I’d do anything for you, darling. Just as long as you’ll let me.”

“I love you Edgar,” you mumbled out, a silent prophecy only meant for him to hear. He couldn’t seem to get the words out to reply. You just flustered him that much sometimes. He managed to display a message on his screen, only for you, and you alone.

I LOVE YOU TOO

[brittle-doughie]

Hi Brittle! just dropping in to ask if you ever would consider doing prompts for the specific lore attached to cookie costumes? asking cause I recently pulled herb cookie's sage of ivies costume in ovenbreak and tbh that version of him would be perfect for this blog 👀👌 Thanks!

-🐦

Ingrained (Herb Cookie)

I did Snow Sugar Cookie’s costume as a prompt, right?

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

You had been visiting Herb Cookie on this bridge for a while now, always telling him your concerns about your life amongst the Cookies. While you did love them, him included, it was nice to just have someone you can express yourself in words to.

“It sounds hard on you. Is there ever a time where you wish to leave it all behind?”

N-No, not like that. No big enough road bump will ever change how you looked at the others. You didn’t know, maybe it was just you going in way over your head to try and be there for everyone.

“But that is something I admire about you, Y/N Cookie. You always try to be the cookie there for everyone, where they’d know they’d never be alone in their struggles..”

You chuckled at Herb’s statement, he was on the money with that.

“Would you say..that you do everything in your power to fulfill every cookie’s wish?”

A vine slowly snaked its way towards your leg without your knowledge…

You agreed. Whatever that cookie would want, you’d do your best to fulfill.

“Then could you help me with something? Cookies rarely come by this bridge with you being the only visitor to come back. My vines require nutrients. Rich nutrients full of…life.”

You felt something grab your leg, making you jump!

Herb quickly comes to you, hugging you close as you freak out. It was then that you see the larger venus flytrap behind his shoulder.

“This bridge is rarely used. And my vines are hungry, Y/N Cookie. They need nutrients. YOUR nutrients. I promise tha by doing this, you’d be making me extremely happy~”

“Don’t be scared. You won’t crumble. I’ll be right here with you, embracing you…”

You tried to calm your nerves. You tried placing faith on Herb Cookie. That his plants would get their nutrients and let you go.

You hiss as you feel vines coil tightly all around you, draining you of your cookie body nutrients. Herb Cookie cooed and whispered in your (nonexistent) ear as he held you tight…

“Please understand, Y/N Cookie. This is not out of anything but love for you…”

“I love you, Y/N Cookie..”

The both of you remained closed together as vines surrounded all around you, with no signs of letting go anytime soon….

“Thank you for doing this for me…”

“I’m…so happy….”

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 27: My Little Brother Just Discovered Rock and Roll

There was exactly one day left before the Hyde Park gig, and a million things still to do.

Apparently, playing live meant you needed a costume fitting, a mindfulness session (thanks, Allen), and—finally, something that actually mattered—one last rehearsal with the band that afternoon. The only thing that felt remotely like a lifeline in her otherwise scrambled, hungover brain.

But for some reason, Vic had woken up that morning with something dangerously close to resolve.

Which was already an anomaly in her usual post-bender programming.

“—and she just looked at me like she already knew me. I’m telling you, that woman really has superpowers.”

She was barefoot on the kitchen tiles, crouched in front of the cabinet under the sink, pulling out bottles like she was summoning ghosts. Red wine. Tequila. A half-dead bottle of gin she didn’t even remember buying. All lined up like a crime scene.

Sara sat cross-legged on the kitchen table, legs gently swinging, not saying much. Just watching. Which was worse, somehow.

“She said this shit was ‘clouding my magic.’” Vic snorted, holding the wine bottle to the light. “I guess she’s right.”

Her laugh was dry. Mean. Like it was aimed at herself.

And just like that, the words came back. The ones she’d thrown at Aegon.

Fucked-up things, cruel and untrue, born from the guilt that had clung to her ever since signing the contract—and from the wine, lots of wine, meant to numb the pressure crawling under her skin these past few days.

“Jesus.”

She twisted the cap, poured the wine down the sink. It gurgled like it was choking on her bullshit.

One by one, the others followed.

Sara’s phone buzzed once or twice beside her, but she didn’t check it. Didn’t flinch. Just let Vic do her thing, like a witness at an exorcism.

“Did she, by any chance, also tell you what to do about Aegon?” Sara asked, like she already knew the answer. Like she could see exactly what Vic was trying to drown in that sink.

Vic let out a bitter smile. If only.

How do you fix telling someone one of the cruelest, most destructive lies of their life? Especially when you knew it wasn’t true the second it left your mouth?

“Not even magic could fix that. I think I pretty much shoved every one of his insecurities right in his face,” she muttered, reaching again beneath the sink. This time for the untouched six-pack of beer cans tucked way in the back. The real endgame.

“You think if you apologized, he wouldn’t forgive you?” Sara asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Vic said, shrugging. “And I’m not sure I want to find out.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Vic exhaled, slow, steady, as the last can emptied into the drain with a hiss.

“Because if he doesn’t, I have to deal with losing him for real,” she said quietly. “But if he does—then I have to deal with the fact that I care. That I want to please him. That if I fail, it fucking hurts. And maybe that’s even worse.”

She leaned against the sink, hands flat on the counter. The words felt heavy, like they’d been sitting in her chest for months, waiting for the right morning to come out and wreck her.

Her dad. Charlie. Aegon. Allen.

All different names for the same damn pattern.

The loneliness. The hunger to be seen, wanted, validated. Her worth stitched together by the reflections of men who never really knew her. That’s what Stevie had been trying to say, wasn’t it?

All those fuck men declarations she’d made with Sara over cheap beer and clinking pints—maybe they’d been prayers. Or lies. Or both.

But then Sara snorted, the most irreverent sound in the universe, like Vic had just told the world’s dumbest joke.

“What?” Vic frowned.

Sara grinned. “Please, Aegon? I literally cannot think of a single time you’ve pleased him for the sake of it.”

Vic blinked. Confused. “Well—I mean, signing that fucking contract for starters. If I could go back, I wouldn’t have touched that thing.”

“You wouldn’t have agreed to make your album? Or open for Stevie Nicks?” Sara asked, calm but razor-sharp.

Vic hesitated.

Didn’t know what the fuck to say.

Every answer sounded wrong in her own head.

On one side: the selfish thrill of making it, finally.

On the other: the crushing guilt of having taken the one thing Aegon still cared about.

“How the fuck should I know…” she muttered, dragging her hand across her face. “All I know is I keep wondering if this is really how I want to do things. With Viserys Targaryen breathing down my neck and Allen using me to settle whatever ancient dick-measuring contest he’s been hosting since the ‘90s.”

Sara didn’t miss a beat. “But Aegon didn’t know that. He didn’t do it to screw you over. He did it because he loves you.”

Vic’s head snapped toward her.

Sara just held her gaze, doubled down.

“He’s an idiot. And you’re more of a mess than usual lately. But I’ve never—not once—looked at the two of you and thought you were feeding off each other’s damage. That’s not what this is.”

Which, honestly, made it so much worse.

Because if Aegon had been just another version of Charlie, or her dad, or Allen, she could’ve written him off. Could’ve pretended she was doing the healthy thing by pushing him away.

But he wasn’t.

And she had wrecked it all—for what?

A bottle too many and the fear of feeling something real?

The worst part was that Sara, who usually had a PhD in fuck men, had just gone out of her way to defend one.

That was the magic Aegon had somehow pulled off.

Vic felt it then—a pressure in her chest, sharp and stupid. Like she was finally being forced to look at the damage without flinching.

“I could talk to him tomorrow,” she said quietly, like maybe if she said it small enough it wouldn’t hurt. “After the set. Try to explain why I reacted like a complete fucking asshole. Tell him I didn’t mean any of it.”

But Sara’s expression shifted.

Sad. Careful.

The kind of look you give someone right before a crash.

“I don’t think he’s coming to the show tomorrow, Vic.”

Vic just stared at her.

She didn’t know why she’d assumed he would.

He’d fought with his dad. This concert was the loudest middle finger of his entire career. And if he didn’t want to see her, well. She couldn’t blame him.

Still, she nodded slowly, trying to keep hope alive in some corner of her chest. “Did he tell you that?”

Sara looked down at her phone, which had been buzzing on and off for the past hour, and finally picked it up.

“Helaena did.”

Vic nodded again, heart already shattered beyond repair.

For a split second, she cursed herself for pouring every last drop of alcohol down the drain—because now she had nothing to quiet the panic, nothing to drown out the fact that she’d just fucked up the only real love she’d ever felt.

She forced her brain to latch onto something else. Anything else.

Because if she kept thinking about Aegon, she’d spiral—fast—and she didn’t know how to crawl out of that hole unless she was drunk.

“Well,” she said, pushing a too-bright smile onto her face as she stepped toward Sara, who was now aggressively typing on her phone with the dumbest grin. “What’s going on there?”

Sara glanced up. “I have no fucking idea,” she said, still wearing that same idiot-smile.

“We haven’t stopped texting since yesterday.”

“I noticed,” Vic said, a real smile tugging at her lips this time.

God, it was such a Sara move.

Swear off men forever—and fall for a girl.

But still—there was something behind Sara’s eyes. Fear, maybe. Or doubt.

“Okay, but what if she’s just being friendly?” she asked, voice smaller now. “What if she doesn’t actually like me like that?”

“She called you beautiful,” Vic pointed out, arms crossed. “While looking directly into your eyes. After asking if you wanted to go smoke a joint.”

Sara looked unconvinced.

Vic could tell the question brewing in her head was bigger than it sounded.

“Well what if… This is serious and it means I actually like girls?” 

“It’d make more sense than you liking boys ever did”

“And what if…” Sara started, then hesitated, lowering her voice like the words carried too much weight. “What if it’s not about girls or boys. What if I just like her?”

Vic didn’t flinch. Didn’t mock. Just looked at her with a softness that only came out when she wasn’t trying so hard to pretend she was okay.

“Well… Then enjoy love, babe,” she said, gentle and knowing.

Sara flinched at the word, just barely.

“God, that’s terrifying, isn’t it?”

Vic nodded. “Worse than playing Hyde Park.”

Because now that the alcohol wasn’t clouding her magic, Vic could finally see the truth laid bare:

That this was what happened to people like them.

Broken people.

Trying not to drown in a sea of questions about who they really are and what they really want.

Getting scared the second something felt good—because suddenly, they had something to lose.

And nothing was more terrifying than hope. *****

The June heat was unbearable for Aegon, who struggled anytime the temperature even dared to hit double digits.

That morning, he’d left the door to the penthouse wide open, windows too, before heading out to wander around Highbury with the excuse of smoking a cigarette—though really, he just didn’t want to be in the apartment. Didn’t want to keep being reminded of Vic by all her shit scattered around.

He was doing his best not to think about her, and for the most part, he managed. After all, he’d always been a pro at sweeping things under the rug. What was the harm in slipping back into some of those toxic old patterns, just for a bit? Just long enough for the sting of her words to evaporate a little.

That fuck you he’d spat at her—justified, sure—kept echoing in his head, and what scared him most was the thought that maybe he’d actually meant it. That maybe it was the end.

Deep down, he knew what monster was speaking for her. He’d faced his own already; hers were still being drowned—one in alcohol, the other in trauma and abandonment issues.

In the end, Aegon told himself, wiping the sweat from his forehead, he couldn’t save anyone. No one had been able to save him, except himself. Maybe one day Vic would understand that too.

Didn’t make it hurt any less.

Didn’t stop him from lying awake all night wishing he could tell her she was a fucking idiot and that everything would be okay. That he loved her. That he wanted to kiss her, fuck her, play music until sunrise, and laugh at their own bullshit until it didn’t matter anymore.

When he got back home, he heard piano drifting up the stairwell.

It didn’t take long to realize Aemond had let himself into the attic and immediately taken over the piano that sat forgotten at the far end of the apartment.

He sighed but decided not to make a fuss about it.

After all he’d had it moved in when Aegon was in rehab—and his brother hadn’t exactly been thriving lately either, not since their father fired him.

That dweeb only ever cared about his career, and Aegon felt a twinge of sadness that their father had ripped it away from Aemond without so much as a warning. Just ego.

Obviously he felt sorry for him. It felt painfully familiar.

“Of course you can just waltz into my attic and use the piano,” Aegon said sarcastically as he appeared in the doorway, making Aemond stop playing immediately.

Aemond glanced at him, unfazed. “The door was open.”

“Yeah, for the air. Not for people from downstairs,” Aegon shot back, dropping the plastic bag with the beers he’d picked up from the corner shop onto the sofa.

He waited for a reaction, but when none came, he frowned.

Change of topic.

“What were you playing?” he asked, trying to sound casual as he crouched down to stash the sacred beers in the mini fridge.

“Bach,” Aemond replied, without much enthusiasm.

“Bless you.”

“Wanker,” Aemond muttered, fiddling with his phone before locking it again a second later. No emails today.

“But I also looked at this,” he added, maybe trying to avoid thinking about the soul-crushing void of his Gmail inbox.

Aegon turned around and saw him waving his notebook—the one with his songs.

“Not bad,” Aemond said.

Unemployment was clearly doing a number on him if he was handing out compliments that easily.

“Oh well,” Aegon let out a dry laugh, focusing way too intently on the fridge, “thank Vic.”

“For teaching you how to write or for the inspiration?” his brother teased.

Aegon laughed, because yeah—it was painfully funny.

“Well, both,” he said, closing the fridge door a little harder than he meant to.

His brother’s unsettling presence, the usual silence between them—which now felt heavier than ever—the need to stop thinking about Vic, gave him an urgent need to reorganize the vinyls on the shelf.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Aemond said, still tucked away in the far corner of the room.

Aegon didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on the records, as if their order could hold the weight of what was unsaid.

News sure traveled fast.

“No, you’re not,” he replied, dry as ever, eyes still fixed on the shelf. Then, for dramatic effect of course, he turned to face him. “That would be a first.”

He caught Aemond lowering his gaze, and he tried—futilely and with zero logic—to dust the shelf with his arm.

“I tried to kiss her yesterday,” Aemond said, flatly.

Aegon froze, but couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere but the wall in front of him.

“Well,” he started tilting his head “I knew you fancied her,” he said, letting out another bitter laugh.

“No, wait—I mean… she pulled away. Right away,” Aemond added, stumbling over his words like he used to when they were kids.

Aegon exhaled, picked up a record, still refusing to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, insincerely. Not even a little sincere, really. He slid a record back into place.

“No, you’re not,” Aemond replied, and Aegon smiled.

Because it was true.

And it was sad that it was true.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Aegon said bitterly.

A few seconds passed in silence—Aegon living up to his Cinderella nickname, and Aemond frozen like a Greek statue—until, maybe, that tension finally cracked through his damn icy armor.

“Right, I’m gonna go…” Aemond said, getting up from the piano stool.

“No, stay,” Aegon cut in, looking him straight in the eyes. “I was joking earlier. If you want to keep playing, go ahead.”

Aemond stared at him for a second before sitting back down. “I just don’t have anything else to do,” he admitted, though he didn’t start playing again.

Aegon felt the weight of those words. His brother hadn’t had “nothing to do” probably since he learned to walk—and even then, he’d seemed visibly annoyed that someone had to carry him around instead of letting him do it himself.

“Super Aemond with no piano parts to record, no lives to save on the streets of Soho,” Aegon muttered sarcastically, shelving the last vinyl before collapsing onto the couch.

Maybe that one was a little too cruel. Especially since—for the umpteenth time that morning—his brother didn’t answer back.

And thinking about it… he’d hit the nail right on the head.

“By the way… I never thanked you for that night,” he began, almost in a whisper—words he probably should’ve said months ago.

The irony of it all: this whole week felt like a bad melodrama and suddenly he had this intense urge to talk about his feelings with his brother.

Aemond turned toward him, visibly surprised—probably just as shocked as Aegon was that he’d even brought it up.

Okay. No. Feelings mission: aborted.

“Looks like you were the only one who actually believed I deserved a second chance at anything,” Aegon went on sarcastically, trying to steer the conversation back to their favorite mutual hate: dear old dad.

Aemond nodded, didn’t say much else—but he started twisting his hands, something Aegon immediately clocked as off.

“Listen…” Aemond began, getting up from the stool, visibly agitated, like the words were stuck somewhere halfway up his throat. “I was the one who told Allen the song was Victoria’s.”

Aegon’s heart skipped a beat, he had to take a moment to believe what he had said was real.

Then he let out a laugh—half hysterical—and dragged both hands through his hair a few times before managing to form a coherent thought.

“Wow, bro, you’re really going for the full betrayal package today, huh?”

He turned to stare at him, leg bouncing now, completely out of control.

“First you make a move on the girl I—” He stopped himself, then went on, “—and now I find out you tanked my career too?” He was incapable to stop, full on verbal diarrhoea “Surprised you didn’t just stab me that night.”

“Enough!” Aemond shouted.

The echo of his voice was the only thing left vibrating in the room.

Aemond Targaryen had lost control.  

Snapped. Like a twig.  

Long, slender, and fragile in front of him.

"I'm just trying to make amends and tell you the truth," he went on, voice low, almost embarrassed by his own outburst.

"Oh, that's easy now that the damage is done and you've got fuck-all to lose," Aegon snapped back, fully committed to not letting it go.

"Yeah, exactly, because I have fuck-all to lose, or to gain, what do you think?" Aemond shot back, suddenly reignited by a fire that, to Aegon, looked scarily close to honesty.

He couldn’t argue with that.

Somehow the universe had karmically kicked his brother up his ass. Was that his way to apologise?

"I don’t have a Plan B. I don’t have another career lined up. At least you’ve got your songs, your fucking—your fucking talent, or whatever the hell you wanna call it.” Of course. 

Aegon, in that moment, saw for the first time something in his brother that he had no idea was in him: he was lost. 

Like him, like Vic. 

Plotting was his palliative, anxiously pulling the threads his way to fake a grasp on his own life.

And at that point of his time on Earth, Aegon realised that he just didn’t have the time or energy to be angry at broken people trying not to drown in their shit. “And now you even know the technique, for fuck’s sake! You could walk into any of those shitty little indie labels you love so much and—"

And then, just like that, a sexy little idea popped into Aegon’s head.

"Let’s do it," he interrupted, not even looking at him, his brain firing on eight hundred chaotic cylinders at once.

Aemond blinked at him, still flushed with anger, his breathing only now beginning to slow. "Do what?"

"Let’s start one of those shitty little indie labels I love so much." 

Silence.

Aemond stared at him like he’d lost his goddamn mind.

"You’re joking."

"I’m not," Aegon replied, standing up, pacing now. "You said it yourself—I've got the songs, you’ve got the… I don’t know, the freakishly perfect jawline and the spreadsheet fetish. Come on, we could actually do something."

Aemond stared at him like he’d just suggested robbing a bank. “You’re actually serious.”

“As a heart attack in a yoga class,” Aegon shot back, wild energy brimming just under the surface. “And listen—I’m not just pulling this out of my ass. Think about it. You already do all of it.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“I’m not kidding,” Aegon insisted, voice sharper now. “Who handled Dad’s schedules? Who’s Cole BFF? Who memorized half the damn indie scene just to keep him ahead of trends? You. Not him. Definitely not me. You.”

He took a step closer, pointing now, like he needed the words to physically land.

“You’ve done the calls. You’ve sat in on the pitches. You’ve read every contract, every release form, every boring-ass distribution agreement. You are the label. You just didn’t own it.”

That wanker blinked. Stunned silent for a moment.

"Oh come on!" Aegon cut in, finally stopping his endless pacing. “You could finally say you are a fucking artistic producer! You've basically been scheming behind everyone’s back—you're like a fucking comic book supervillain at this point."

He was still trying—figured maybe if he joked around it, Aemond would snap out of it. But no dice. The guy was still just standing there, blankly staring out the window like he’d short-circuited.

"Aemond." Aegon tried again, voice more grounded now. "At least do something useful with your own damn talent."

Aemond looked away, jaw tense. That hit too close.

“And if I’m the one saying this…” Aegon went on, with a crooked smile, “...you know it must be real.”

Aemond finally stared him in the eyes, like he couldn’t believe this was the version of Aegon he was getting today.

“You literally just freaked out because I gave you the full betrayal package,” Aemond said, still in disbelief—but Aegon could tell the idea had finally taken root. “You should hate me.”

Aegon smirked, unfazed and sly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Of course I fucking hate you. You’re my brother.”

There was a beat of silence. Aegon could see Aemond’s mind spinning but he still wasn’t saying anything—just standing there, jaw clenched, looking like he might combust or bolt or both.

“Aww,” came a soft voice from the doorway, "I knew you two just needed a little apocalypse to bond.”

Both of them turned, startled.

Helaena was leaning against the open door of the attic, holding a mug of tea like she'd been there the whole time, quietly spectating.

“Proud of you boys. Don’t fuck it up.”

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Worrywart

Notes: Okay not all of my prompt replies are going to be ANYWHERE near this long probably BUT this has been sitting in my drafts for a while AND will technically contain the ask from this anon for kiss prompts:

I hope you enjoy, nonnie

Warnings: Fluff! Domestic Bond and Pup from the Old Dog ‘Verse

Summary: Regardless of having his own place, Bond hardly ever occupies it. His mail (the little bit that he gets) is directed to your flat. He has no clothing at his flat; M's bulldog token to him now sits on your mantle, beneath the television, beside the framed picture of Holly and Bernard in their Christmas costumes. 

"Are we getting up?"

"...Not yet," Comes James grumbling answer. It's mumbled against the nape of your neck as his arm tightens around your middle.

"We'll have to at some point," You glance back, "Holly and Bernard need to be walked."

"They're still asleep."

"How do you know that?"

"They'd be scratching at the door if they weren't. They're as impatient as you are."

"Really?" You smile, "I think they take after their father in that respect." You squirm as James pokes your middle.

"It's too early to bicker, Pup."

"I don't think it's ever too early for that."

James hushes you, snuggling closer.

"I've just gotten back, love. I'm not in the mood."

Your teasing goes soft with the endearment. You hesitate before you shift, rolling over to face him. Once he realizes that you're not rushing to get up, James loosens his grip just enough to allow you to adjust. He smooths his hand up under your shirt as you settle back down. His eyes are still closed; his blonde head is dimly haloed by the sunlight pushing in through the curtains behind him. You raise a hand to cup his roughening cheek, careful to avoid touching the small cut on his cheekbone.

"...You didn't tell me how it went," You murmur.

"It's not important.”

"It is to me."

"...It was fine."

"James."

“Don’t be such a worrywart.”

He turns his head, brushing his lips along your palm. You push a soft sigh out through your nose, closing your eyes. The two of you lay there in the early morning quiet, settling back into sleepiness for a little while. When you hear the scratching at the door, you lift your head, glancing back toward it. You grin as James groans, turning his head and pressing his face into the pillow.

"I've got them,"You offer.

"Hang on,"James uses his grip on you to tug you closer. His eyes are still closed, and you smile as his lips blindly seek out yours. He brushes a kiss to your chin, your cheek.

"You've almost got it—you've almost—" You giggle, grinning when his lips finally smooth over yours. You curl your fingers under his jaw, kissing James warmly. The touches linger, lips slipping tenderly along one another's—until you hear Holly whine.

"Okay," You murmur, drawing back from James, "I can't hear that, it breaks my heart."

"You're such a soft-touch these days," James sighs, flopping back in bed. You reach down, tweaking his nose before you stand, heading for the dresser. You get changed into joggers and a comfy sweater before you sit on the edge of the bed to pull on socks. You have to fight the urge to giggle as James' foot nudges along your thigh.

"Having fun back there?"You ask.

"Get back quickly."

"So bossy. We'll see what the babies want to do."

"Must I bat my eyelashes and say please?"

You roll your eyes, turning to look at James, and grinning when you find him gazing at you sleepily.

"I'll put the coffee on before I go out," You reach down, patting his calf before standing.

--

When the puppies (they're not really puppies anymore, but they'll always be puppies to you) charge back into the apartment, you hear the scratching and scrambling of paws charging for the kitchen.

"You're lucky it wasn't raining out," You call out as you shrug out of your coat. 

"Oh?"

"Mm. I'd've had to wipe down their paws. I'd be making you mop up the floor right now."

"I checked before I put their food out."

"Good boy, old dog," You tease as you stroll into the kitchen. James shakes his head a little bit, a smile adorning his lips as you lean in for a gentle peck. James' arm snakes around your middle, tugging you closer before you can pull away. He groans softly as the kiss grows deeper, his tongue slipping between your lips. You loop your arms around his shoulders, gently pressing them into his skin before drawing away. You smile, sliding a hand up into his sleep-mussed hair.

"Love that you've neglected a shirt this morning," You tease.

"The apartment's warm enough."

"Mm. Giving the neighbors an eyeful."

James chuckles, nudging your nose with his.

"Don’t be jealous. Coffee?"

"Please."

James lets go of you just long enough to push a mug closer to you on the counter.

"You're a saint," You mutter, stepping back.

"Innumerable sources would disagree with you," James comments, heading for the fridge. You push yourself back to sit on the counter, glancing over to where Holly and Bernard are chowing down.

"I'm surprised you're up," You admit.

"Of course I'm up. I was told there would be coffee."

You smile, watching James putter around the kitchen. He still has his own flat, but it’s simply to keep up appearances at HQ. It's all for show; Mallory is more than aware of your entanglement with the double oh these days. He hasn't acknowledged it openly, but in your time working as a handler, you've come to recognize his displeasure or disapproval with a look. You'd had one such a look when you'd returned from your brief excursion helping Breanna. Of course, that disapproval may've been related to your undertaking a non MI6-related mission and potentially endangering a relationship with a foreign government by acting alone...Or it would've be interpreted as such, if Mallory's eyes hadn't darted from the back of Bond's head, then to you, narrowing slightly in the process.

Regardless of having his own place, Bond hardly ever occupies it. His mail (the little bit that he gets) is directed to your flat. All of his clothing is in your dresser and closet; M's bulldog token to him now sits on your mantle, beneath the television, beside the framed picture of Holly and Bernard in their Christmas costumes.

"How hungry are you?" He asks.

"Slightly...Don't forget, we're going to Eve’s tonight for dinner."

Bond grunts, and you can't help but grin in turn.

"C'mon, you love it, really," You tease, "It's good for you to socialize, old dog."

James shoots you a sidelong glance as he rifles through the fridge before he turns back, taking out the eggs, bread, milk, and setting them on the counter.

"What are you making, then?" You press.

"French toast."

"You're too good to me."

--

“There you are—Christ, hurry in,” Eve insists. “You look half-drowned.”

“I couldn’t get away from the office,” You sigh, “And then once I did, I couldn’t get an uber. They kept cancelling.” You shrug out of your coat, glancing down at your damp top. Maybe Moneypenny has one that you could borrow.

“About time,” Bond drawls from down the hall. You cast him an irritate glance, grumbling, “Don’t you start.”

His amused smile drops away as he gets a proper look at you, and he straightened up, sliding past Eve. You watch as he pulls his jumper off, his undershirt untucking slightly and revealing a thin strip of his belly.

“Bond,” You sigh softly as he steps closer, gesturing for you to remove your damp top. You glance toward an amused Eve, her grin wide as James shields your body with his. You hurriedly remove your shirt, hanging it up beside your coat before you let Bond pull the warm jumper down over your head. You catch on the scent of his cologne as he does, reveling in the warmth of him as you push your arms through the sleeves.

“You’re such a worrywart.”

“I should’ve brought you a spare,” Bond grumbles to himself as he draws the thick fabric down over your sides.

“You couldn’t have known I’d need one.” You gaze him with a warm, chastising smile before you reach up, cupping his cheek. “Thank you.”

James leans in, giving you a warm, gentle kiss before drawing away, his warm nose nudging your chilled one.

“My god, Bond,” Moneypenny sighs, leading the way into her living room. “Who knew you were such a romantic?”

[creelkobblelaufeyson69]

Movie night

Warnings: panic attacks

Their friend Dave was picking out a movie to watch. They were in the kitchen making popcorn and getting all the snacks out. They got a text, but their phone was in their living room. Dave picked up their phone to see Sam calling

He grins at the idea of getting the two together finally. He always loved playing Cupid, and even thought he was doing a good job at it as well. He answered with a smirk on his face. They didn’t hear their phone go off, but they did hear the house phone go off

They never understood why Dave still had a house phone, since he didn’t work somewhere that needed one. Having seen way too many of the Stab films, they reluctantly ignored it. Paranoia seeps into their body

The thought of some creep being on the other line was 50/50, but they also rationalized that it could just be a telephone marker. This calms them down as the popcorn had stopped. They take the popcorn out, and poured it into a big bowl to share with their friend

The phone stopped ringing, just for it to ring again. “Can you answer that? It’s getting on my fucking nerves” Dave shouts, which makes them annoyed. They went over to place the now empty popcorn bag in the trash, and then picked up the phone. They answered even if they really didn’t want to

“Hello?” They stood in silence and out of fear. The voice they’ve dreaded of being on the other end was there. They felt sick. The person repeated what they said. “Is this some sick joke?” They managed to say as they felt so sick at the moment

“No. Who is this?” They couldn’t hold in their throw up, and so they went in the luckily empty sink. “Who is this?” The person asked again after they were done vomiting. “Fuck you” they say weakly as they felt lightheaded now. “Is that how you talk to your mother?” The person asked with adding their name after mentioning their mother

“Please stop” they begged as they placed the phone on their shaking shoulder blade. “Stop what? I’m just having a little fun. Speaking of fun, what’s your favorite scary movie?” They cleaned up the sink and then their hands afterwards. “The one where you’re not talking to me” they snapped as they now sat down on the cold white tiled floor

“That’s not fucking funny” the person says in annoyance. “Well what you’re doing isn’t either” their jaw was shaking now, which makes the person chuckle. “You look so cute this afraid” the person says, which makes them hear footsteps. “Too bad Sam will never get here on time to see you alive” this makes them confused for a moment, until the footsteps neared

They hanged up, and felt so defeated. This is how they’ll die. They hated themselves for being so fucking vulnerable. They wished they could fight, but they knew they’d end up accidentally hurting themselves instead of the killer. Someone in a GhostFace costume approaches them, and they felt sick again

The person was about to attack, but Sam caught the person’s attention. “I got you guys!” Dave takes off the mask, which makes them angry now. “It was just a-“ “I’m taking them out of here.” Sam goes over, and helps them up. “But what about movie night?” Dave asked. “We’re having our own movie night now”

Sam goes into the living room with them to get their phone. Eventually the two make it back to their place. They’ve calmed down by now thanks to Sam. The two were now watching a movie, and we’re cuddling close together. Sam also decides to confess her feelings, which makes the night better already

They smiled, and told them that they liked her back. She smiles at that, and was happy the night had gotten better for her now partner

[jarofstyles]

FICTOBER DAY 23 - Don't Hide That Smile

some cute comforting H <3 sorry for being days late my loves

FICTOBER

Patreon

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

“Y/N…. Come on.” Harry pleaded. “I think that got a smile out of you, don’t hide it away!”

It did, in fact, get a smile out of her. But the absolute fail of a costume had made her very, very upset at first.

In hindsight, Y/N knew that attempting a full costume as a first sewing project was ambitious to say the least. What was supposed to be a floor length gown ended up looking like a giant tube, the seams wonky and her poor attempt of dying the fabric last minute making the fabric look like it had been a weird bleach accident. It was the night before halloween and they’d had a check in, Harry wanting to see and Y/N bursting into tears when he’d aside to see the finished product. 

To make matters worse, she had pretended she had it all under control. To a fashion student Harry. She’d wanted to impress him, but she had made a fool out of herself and told Harry she was a phony, which he quickly reassured she wasn’t and thought it was cute she wanted to impress him. When he’d asked to see it, if maybe he could help fix it, she assured him he couldn’t, but it still didn’t help when his reaction to the dress had been a wide eyed “Oh….” 

That had sent another bout of tears, making Harry panic at now being the source of them, so he tried to mend his error. 

“I didn’t mean a bad, oh!”

“I mean, I’m shocked but I wasn’t trying to be mean!” 

“It isn’t awful, please don’t cry. 

“Babe, it’s camp… no. It’s French.”

The reference to Fleabag made her crying stop for a moment, trying not to laugh. She still felt like a failure when he gently dragged her hands off of her face and tried to wipe her tears, frowning as he really didn’t like to see Y/N upset. No one would. She looked so sad and heart wrenching when she cried, her eyes rounding and the little pout- no. 

“I-It can’t be saved, Harry. I watched project runway and i thought I could do it cheaper but-but its so hard to sew on the little machine I got and-and fabric is so, so expensive!” That was a fact Harry knew firsthand. No wonder he tries to get thrifted things so often. “I thought helping my grandma when I was younger would have paid off but no. So now I look dumb, I cried in front of you and I’ve got no costume. It’s too late to go gething now, they’re all gonna suck.” She sniffled, making his heart throb when her sad look hit him. 

He couldn’t lie- the dress was bad. Awful. He didn’t know how she overestimated or cut the length so long, or why the ruffles were sewn over each other or how the bodice was crooked, but somehow she had created an atrocity. But it was abstract, if you’d want to think of it that way- and god, he needed to to calm her down. Functionally, the dress was useless, but in a matter of art, anything could be good. 

There was no way he wouldn’t be flattered that she had done this to impress him. It was beyond cute and sweet and he just wanted to squish her cheeks and kiss her little lips but he held it together. “It’s okay, sweets. You aren’t dumb, we’re all set with the crying now, and we can find you a costume. It’s totally okay. We can match…” He tried to think of what else they could be. Their original was prince and princess, but he had to think on his toes. Looking around, he prayed for inspiration and to actually be quick on his feet sometimes- and thankfully it was answered as he looked at her muted TV. 

“Pam and Jim!” he exclaimed. “Yes- you have the things to be the cat, I can do the paper shirt thing. What do you think?” 

Y/N seemed to mull it over, sniffling again as her eyes scanned Harry’s face. That had been quick, but… “That’s a good idea.” She smiled slightly, making him sag with relief. He couldn’t handle seeing her sad. “A-are you sure, though? I know it’s a downgrade from the other costume we planned. I’m sorry.” Y/N really did feel stupid about it but it really didn’t seem like Harry minded.

“Not a big deal, baby. Promise.” His hands smoothed her hair back, smiling lightly down at her. Halloween wasn’t his thing and he had agreed to go to the costume party with her so he’d made his costume, but he was sort of relieved considering his prince outfit could get a bit hot. “All that matters is we’re going to be together and ditch Niall’s as soon as we’re ready eat our body weight in sweets. I ordered that variety bag, y’know?” 

Her eyes lit up at the mention, making her nod. “Does it have Kit-Kats?” She whispered, her grin widening when he nodded back. “Okay. It sounds good to me then.” Her face plastered to Harry’s chest, body sagging in relief. The secret was out, the embarrassment was over, and now she could finally breathe again. Although.. “When he said he was going all out for the pe party.. I just really hope Niall doesn’t get one of those fog machines inside the house. You can’t breathe with that stuff on”

“About that….” Harry hissed, pretending to wince. 

“For fucks sake. Maybe we are ditching super early.” “I’ve got no problem with that.”

[celestie0]

🪷 CTFUUUUUU your gojo and reader sex tape post was so hilarious omg. Ngl to me they don't give the vibes of a couple that make one (I don't mean this as an insult omfg now that I wrote it it sounds rude as hell) but the type who are professional phone fuckers.

Doja cat's Cyber sex is their national anthem I just know it I had a little locker room talk with reader she told me 😙. And yeah what you said abt gojo's schedule being all over the place as a player I'd thought that too, which is why phone sex is 🔛🔝 for these two. Just two freaky frogs omg I know that dude sluts her out bad and she doesn't want it any other way

He's a player (the *other* type of player) too so ofc he'd have expertise in the area of tasteful nudes but reader's learning curve will be so exponential gojo would be left in the dust in a short amount of time😁 RIP BOZO‼️

Imagine a little roleplay scenario where reader dresses up as a cheerleader for gojo after he returns from winning some final match as a victory treat. That dong goes up at an angle of elevation so steep you could make a mean trigonometric question off of it. I need him BAD I need him esp when he's sweaty after a gym or practice session I'd climb that man like jack was climbing that beanstalk.

Anyway I hope you've been doing well sweets! Thanks for being so nice to me in your last ask and I cannot wait to see what you have in store for us I wanna see that horndog be his authentic slutty self around reader finally 🗣️🗣️

Imagine a little roleplay scenario where reader dresses up as a cheerleader for gojo after he returns from winning some final match as a victory treat.

oh dear sweet baby jesus the scream i SCRUMPT AT THIS…HOW HAVE I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT oh mygooodd that’d be so fuckin hot 😩😩😩 i ran to add that to my notes LOL my head is in my hands i need to write that so fucking bad. HIM RAILING HER WHILE SHE’s WEARING A SKIMPY LIL CHEERLEADER COSTUME AFTER HE JUST PLAYED AN INTENSE GAME babe u cooked w this ty

HAHAHA i feel like they would make a sex tape but they obv wouldnt post it or anything lol it’d just be something they’d do when they’re both drunk asf while on vacation in their hotel room n then they freak out once they get home n realize they lost the flashdrive n someone out there in barcelona is now jerking off to their amateur avante garde porno

And yeah what you said abt gojo's schedule being all over the place as a player I'd thought that too, which is why phone sex is 🔛🔝 for these two. Just two freaky frogs omg I know that dude sluts her out bad and she doesn't want it any other way

okay you’re so right ab cyber sex being (at least post grad) kickoff couple’s anthem 🤧 that “i wish u were here rn” yup. but also LMFAO THATS SO TRUE AB THE SLUTTIN HER OUT he’d have her so downbad she’s flashing her titties at the webcam just cuz she wants to see him cum all over his stomach while he’s jerking himself off to her pixels ✋🏼😩 i was not anticipating to start this day off so horny LOL

idk i like to think all the nudes kickoff gojo has received in his life have been raunchy asf so when he’s so desperate to get a glimpse of kickoff reader while he’s away for work n is like “babe send me a pic please” for the first time n she sends something that’s genuinely really tasteful n artistic n subtle but sexy n leaves a bit to the imagination i feel like that wld drive him more insane than any explicit nude ever would HAHAHAHA

THE DONG GOIN UP YOU COULD PERFORM TRIG ON IT IM CRYING babe i wish to be half as funny as you are some day 🤣🤣

thanks my lovee omg im so happy you’re looking forward to it :””) 💕 you’re my honeybunch sugarplum pumpyumpyumpkin i love yaaa

- ellie 🐸

[shardechance]

post mortem #3 rating: t (for swearing) wc: 2.5k warnings: none for this snippet, however please be aware that the main work does have a non-con warning.

Seeing as no one in this partnership knows how to be normal, here's a deleted scene from JAWBREAKER between Feyre and the Hughes Twins.

Oscar flicks on the hall light on the way up, a sticky red smear left in his wake—another thing to clear up later. When they clear the doorway, stepping into the dark of the attic, their new bedroom stands on full display: one wardrobe, two dressers, a toy box that’s seen better days, an armchair, a bookshelf only half full, and a bunk bed. They’d begged for one at the old place. Seems they got their wish. 

Oscar reaches for the lights but Ferye stops him. “No, it has to be dark.”

“But I can’t find my PJs!” Finn whines, flopping down on the bottom bunk. They’ll be under his pillow, where his mom always leaves them, but kids are kids and the tiredness is setting in, irritation along with it. Oscar, having had a little less sugar and a little more patience, reaches beneath his brother's head and pulls out the missing garments, flops them onto his face, and scrambles for his own before Finn can retaliate.

“You two go wash up and then we’ll play,” she says, dropping into the plush velvet armchair beneath the skylight. Oscar is already through the door, footfalls loud and quick on the stairs as he rushes to the washroom on the floor below. They creak with every step. Finn whines as he lifts himself from his bed, sluggish feet carrying him to the door. “And brush your teeth. I’ll know if you haven’t, stinky!” 

He grumbles something to himself but he’s too far gone for her to make out the words. 

The armchair is twice as comfortable as the couch downstairs, a million times more comfortable than the mismatched furniture back home. She leans back into it, legs propped up over one of the arms. It’s better than anything they ever had as kids. One giant bed and three gangly sisters sharing the one duvet, kicking each other, huddled closer on winter nights when the heat gave out. Getting her own space, her own bed, had been the peak of her pre-teen years. 

She lets her head rest on the back of the chair, looking to the skylight above. 

It would be a pretty nice view of the sky and stars if it wasn’t for the wayward branch of a neighboring oak obscuring it. Never having a tenant stay longer than a year, being on the housing market longer still, would do that to a place. Moonlight still made it to the attic though, filtered through the sparse leaves.

Her phone vibrates, probably Lucien trying to goad her into ditching again, or sharing the latest gossip in the group chat she hadn’t left yet. Not that Tamlin ever checked it. On Lucien’s last update, he was somewhere in Cambodia or Croatia or somewhere else beginning with a C, still trying to ‘find himself.’ Not like he needed to go that far to do it. Just look in the trash bin and there’s a dozen just like him. 

Part of her—a smug, satisfied part—thinks he left because of what happened between them. Considering the only person he even spoke to anymore was Lucien and even that was via postcard, the evidence stacks up pretty well in her favor. 

Good. Fuck him.

She pulls her phone out but doesn’t check the notification. Doesn’t have a chance to. The telltale whine of old pipes that she’s too familiar with cuts out, and the pitter-patter of bare feet taking the old stairs way too fast sounds after it. She turns on her phone’s flashlight.

“Will you tell us the game now?” Oscar asks, arms full of costume pieces he’ll likely have grown out of by next Halloween. 

Finn does the same, barreling past to jump onto his bed. A breathless “Please!” as he lands in the bed face down. His twin sits beside him, legs folded criss-cross on the comforter.

Feyre takes a second to draw them closer, flipping her phone upside down so the flashlight shines upwards. By the looks on their faces—equal parts enraptured and terrified—it’s clear she has them right where she wants them. 

“Boys.” Wind surges outside, rattling bare branches against the rooftop. It’s not quite lightning, but it’ll do. “We’re going to talk to spirits.”

Oscar’s awe turns to straight up fear. “Spirits? Like… ghosts?” 

“Hey! Ghosts can’t get you if you’re in bed,” Finn chimes in. “Everybody knows that. Mom said so.”

They bicker back and forth about the logistics of whether it has to be your bed specifically or if just any bed will do. Finn concludes that the best place to be during a ghost attack would be a mattress store. Oscar counters with but how are there so many haunted hotels? which only serves to lead them down a different path of how does he know that and who has been sneaking off to watch Most Haunted reruns even though Mom said they shouldn’t. Feyre lets them argue, for the most part, only jumping in when it seems things might come to blows.

“Did I say anything about ghosts?” she says.

Finn shakes his head, but Oscar—oh, poor baby. 

“Anyway,” Feyre continues, “I put some salt on your window when you were getting cleaned up. Totally ghost-proof, I promise.” A lie, obviously, but she’d seen it in a TV show somewhere and, by the way Oscar’s shoulders retreat from beside his ears, it convinces him well enough. “Do you want to play or not?” 

“We want to play! Right, Ozzie?”

“Right.” Although, Oscar seems marginally less convinced.

“If you say so,” Feyre shrugs. She hands her phone to Oscar who, in typical kid fashion, twists it so the light shines under his chin, but jumps at the glare. She grabs his wrist, gently turning until the light faces down at his blue green comforter instead. “It’s super important that you hold this still. That keeps us connected to the spirits.” 

A purple velvet bag, in all its faded filigree beauty, sits between them.

It’s been too long since she’d last done a reading, usually only reaching for them on the off chance she remembered, or if she’d had a particularly bad day. She doesn’t believe in all the witch stuff like Elain used to, the full moons and incense and tea blends made from garden herbs. No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just… nice to think that there’s a connection to something bigger out there, even if sometimes it takes a pile of old paper for her to realize it. 

Her skin prickles as she touches the velvet, pulling the worn cards from their home. 

“These—” she starts, spreading the deck between her fingers so the boys can see the pictures. Bright and bold and dark and faded all at once. “—are Tarot cards.” 

“Tarot cards?” Oscar wavers with her phone, light dipping but Finn steadies his brother’s hand before she can chastise him for it. 

She nods. “That’s right, and they’re going to help us ask the spirits a question. The cards are a conduit–uh…a tool, I guess? You ask a question in your head, focus on it really hard and pick the card that calls to you. I have to shuffle them first though, mix them all up.”

“They speak?” Finn asks, as she does her best to shuffle the deck. He’s sat so close to Oscar now, knees touching in the dark like that extra point of contact can offer comfort in a way words cannot. Even like this, they’re inseparable.

“Not with words. You’ll feel it in your heart, or your head, maybe your toes. It’s different for different people.” Feyre keeps her words calm, soothing. It’s not meant to be a spooky exercise. It’s not. God, if they wake up in the middle of the night with bad dreams—no, she keeps it cool, smiling a little as she spreads the cards face down atop the bedspread. An arc before all three of them. “To me, it feels warm. Like the sun.”

Oscar lets the phone droop a second time, and when Feyre looks up to him, his eyes are a little wet. “I don’t think I want to play this game.” 

“Ozzie, please!” Finn pleads, taking his twin's free hand between his own. 

Feyre takes a second, watching as Finn soothes his brother’s hand. It's the type of thing Nesta used to do for Elain, when storms blew out the breakers and left them in the dark, their father nowhere to be seen. Maybe once she yearned for that kind of connection with someone. It had never been there in her sisters—not that she blamed them, anymore—but she found it in her friends. She found it in her part time jobs. She made it her mission to be that person when she could. Her hand dwarfs both boys’ clenched palms. “It’s gonna be okay, I promise. Do you want me to get the lights?” 

Oscar, looking at his brother then back to the faded gilding of the cards, shakes his head. 

“You sure?” she asks.

He nods once. 

“Since you’re being so brave, do you want to take the first card?” Feyre offers.

It’s with a trembling hand that Oscar reaches for the cards, letting his fingers slip free of his brother’s grip. He hovers a palm above them, moving left and right across the deck, pausing in certain spots like he’s considering taking one, but never staying in a place for too long. Like weaving between invisible strands of magic, sensing the cards and their meanings. 

“I want this one,” he says, pulling a card from the dead center of the arc. What remains of the gold around the card’s edges catches in the flashlight. Feyre doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath until Oscar flips his card over, revealing an upside down King of Swords.

Finn almost knocks his twin over trying to see the design on the front. A king alone, sat atop a throne, holding a giant sword. Well, it wouldn’t be her first choice, but it’s not a bad card. “Feyre, what does it mean?” 

“Oh, you would get the King.” She smiles a little. “That’s very you, Oscar.” 

Oscar, eyes still a little wide in panic, seems to relax a little at that. “Why is he upside down? Is he okay?” 

“He’s fine. He means something different if he’s upside down is all!” Feyre places it in the space between them, separate from the face down cards, trying to rack her brain for a way to phrase its meaning. Manipulation is such a harsh word. Inner truth, perhaps? Hidden strength? “What do you feel when you look at him?”

“He looks… cool.” 

“Yeah, but how does he make you feel?” 

“Like… Like I want to play again! Can I have another turn?” 

Finn, eternally impatient, balks at that. He doesn’t have the same restraint his twin has. He leans over Oscar, swiping the first card his fingers touch, swishing it into the air before Feyre can remind them to be gentle. He doesn’t even let her see what he pulled, squinting at it for a second, before he pouts and lays it face up next to the other card.

“At least yours was someone cool! Mine’s just some building.” 

The Tower. Oh fuck.

“Some building?” Ferye starts, nudging so the cards are aligned. She hadn’t been expecting to see the Tower, not really, but hey! These things happen. Chaos? Pride? That’s kinda Finn’s thing so it makes sense. He commands that kind of energy. “That’s the tower! One of the most powerful cards in the Deck.”

“Really?” Finn’s eyes light up at that, looking again at the card between them. “I guess the lightning storm is kinda cool.” 

“I’ll bet.” She nods. “I’ll ask you the same question, Finn. What do you feel? What does it remind you of?”

“I don’t know. It’s like when dad used to let us smash sand castles after a beach day. What does it mean?”

Feyre hushes him and, thankfully, he sits back in his place, enraptured as she takes the time drawing her fingertips over the facedown cards. “We haven’t got the full story yet. It’s my turn.” 

There isn’t a specific question in her mind; nebulous thoughts of school and work and home and the two boys only minutes away from sleep, parties she hasn’t been to, assignments she hasn’t done—phantom warmth pricks her index finger. Despite her belief in the metaphysical being skeptic at best, she puts trust in that little spike of warmth, pulling out the final card. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

“The Devil?” Oscar shrieks, leaning closer whilst simultaneously cringing back. “I thought you said this game wasn’t scary!”

Finn leans into his brother, trying his best to see the goat-headed figure on her card. “That’s awesome! That’s gotta be the coolest one yet! Why is he furry?”

“Hey, the Devil isn’t as bad as everyone thinks!” How do you even begin to explain the intricacies of obsession, passion and sexuality to kids? That’s way above her pay grade. Not a chance. “He gets a bad rap. Not all bad things are really bad, you know? Like… chores! You hate doing them at the time but once they’re done everything feels better, right?” 

Oscar fixes her with a look, dark hair flopping in front of his eyes. “Feyre, it’s the Devil.”

“To me, this means I have an assignment due tomorrow and I need to knuckle down.” Not a lie, but not a full truth either. She does have an assignment—one she hasn’t even started yet—but seeing The Devil tugs on a different part of herself that's probably best kept under wraps. She likes this job. It would be a shame if she scared the kids too much and never got invited back. “It means I need to focus on a few things.”

“That’s kinda… boring.” Finn says, fighting off a yawn. “Can we talk to the spirits now?” 

“We just did, dummy.”

Oscar, seeing his brother fight the clutch of sleep, fails in his own battle. “That was it? What did they say?” 

“They say it’s bedtime. Now.” Feyre collects the unused cards, slotting in the three they chose throughout the deck. Only once they’re all safely in their little velvet pouch does she raise from the bed, letting Finn crawl beneath the comforter. Oscar follows suit, the allure of sleep near irresistible. She lets them get comfortable, standing by the skylight, looking up at the branch blocking most of the view.

“Do you like it?” Finn asks, sounding so much smaller, already halfway to sleep. “Dad says he’s gonna build us a treehouse next summer. We’re gonna have sleepovers and everything.”

Feyre starts towards the door, slowly waiting for creaks of the old floor to announce her slow departure. “For real? Am I invited?” 

Finn shakes his head, or snuggles down further into his comforter. Oscar peeks over the edge of the top bunk, eyes half shut already. “No girls allowed.” 

“Figures.” She reaches the door, pulling it just enough to slip through. One last look over her shoulder confirms what she already guessed. “Night, boys.” 

She doesn’t get a response.

[ladylynse]

Part 2 of this untitled Doctor Who fic where 10 meets up with Grace Holloway again. Posted for @scaehime, who was interested in more.

EDIT: Now tweaked and expanded upon on the AO3.

-|-

The Doctor jolted awake. He tried to claw the oxygen mask off his face, but a pair of gloved hands held it more firmly in place. “Don’t worry, Mr. Smith,” someone said. “It’s simply a precaution. We—”

But the Doctor wasn’t willing to simply listen. “I’m not signing anything,” he said, albeit with difficulty, and his voice was muffled anyway. “I’m not going to let you do anything. No x-rays, no—”

“Mr. Smith, please remain calm.”

“Calm?” the Doctor repeated, anything but. “Calm? You’re trying to...you…you….” He trailed off. An oxygen mask, he’d thought. But then he’d breathed it, and analyzed it. And it wasn’t just oxygen. At least, not anymore. He had to wonder if he’d even said what he’d meant to say, whether or not it had been heard.

This time he did manage to get the mask off his face. “How long,” he gasped out, “have I been in here?”

“You were brought into emergency three hours ago,” came the steady reply. “You’re stable now. You were in shock. Do you remember what happened?”

“Partially,” the Doctor replied, looking distracted. “Did a Vera Taylor tell you who I was?”

“That’s right. Dr. Taylor has insisted that we treat you as we treated her.” A small laugh. “Like everyone else, in other words. We try to give the best treatment possible. You’re in good hands, Mr. Smith.”

The Doctor thought for a moment, cursing whatever they’d given him. He hated being slow on the uptake. “Did you say,” he finally asked, “that I’ve been here for three hours?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “And, oh, three hours is a long time, isn’t it? Lots of lovely tests you could run.” He sat up abruptly, wincing as his movement partially dislodged an IV from his arm. He pulled it out carefully and turned to assess the nurse who was taking care of him. He scrutinized her for a moment, seeing if he could place her face among his blurred recollections of the time he’d woken up on the operating table, but couldn’t. That was a bit of a relief.

“Mr. Smith, I have to ask you to—”

“Sorry,” he interrupted. He squinted at her nametag. “But, Rachel, I’m fine now. I don’t need oxygen, I don’t need an IV, and I don’t need whatever else you were going to give me.” He glanced down. “Though, I wouldn’t mind my clothes, bloodied or not.” He frowned. “That’ll take a bit of mending. Shame. I hate mending. I can take it to Neo-Sydney, I suppose. They’ve expert tailors there. Then again, the prices, and they don’t fancy taking….” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “Still. Better than making do with a costume again.”

“Mr. Smith—”

“Yes, I know, it’s against regulations and all that, but, without them, I can’t show you my ID to—” He stopped, frustrated. “Oh, what’s it matter. I can’t stay. I have more important things to be doing. I shouldn’t even have come in the first place.”

“Mr. Smith, your condition has stabilized for the moment, but I would advise not disregarding the doctor’s recommendations by—”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t be disregarding the Doctor’s recommendations,” the Doctor cut in. “Because I think I know my body a bit better than you, thanks.” He reached for the chart at the foot of the bed.

Rachel smirked at him. “So it’s true. Doctors are the worst patients.”

The Doctor, however, wasn’t paying attention. He flipped from one page to the next and back again, then skipped ahead and frowned. “You’ve scheduled me for an appointment with a cardiac specialist?” he asked slowly.

“Your heartbeat was erratic,” Rachel pointed out. “Even accounting for the shock, the range was worrisome.”

“Speeding up and slowing down,” the Doctor murmured, deciding he’d better not ramble too much in case she decided to have psychiatric check up on him. Twenty-eight beats a minute, then racing to well over a hundred and twenty-eight in an effort to compensate for the fact that his right heart still wasn’t beating. He was lucky he hadn’t slipped into a healing coma. He was liable to find himself locked up in the morgue again if he did.

At the very least, he was lucky they hadn’t cut him open with the intention of putting in a pacemaker or some such nonsense.

“Dr. Taylor was able to pull a few strings,” Rachel informed him, gently pulling the chart away from his hands. “Dr. Holloway will see to you herself.”

“Oh. Right.” The Doctor frowned. He’d managed to walk right into this, hadn’t he? Sure, he’d been debating having a quick conversation with her, and he had landed and set off, but if he was set to meet up with Grace again, this wasn’t what he’d pictured. Him tracking her down, yes, but if he went into the hospital, he wouldn’t have gone in as a patient. At least, not with injuries of this sort. Still, perhaps just bumping into her on the street would’ve been best. But not this. Well, could be worse, he supposed. He wasn’t on the operating table again.

Nearly had been, but wasn’t.

“Clothes?” he prompted, looking up at Rachel again.

“You’ll want someone to bring you a fresh set,” she admitted.

Oh, brilliant. They’d gone and cut them off him, then. He might just be reduced to making off with someone else’s. Again. What would it be now, the third time? There was his third regeneration, and his eighth, and—

“But my coat?” he asked. He didn’t want to lose his coat. He had important things in that coat. Come to that, he had important things in his suit pockets, too. “And, er, you haven’t disposed of my suit yet, have you?”

“Your things are safe, Mr. Smith.” Rachel stood up. “I’ll ask you to wait here while I call Dr. Miller in to speak with you personally.”

“If I'm going to talk to a doctor,” the Doctor replied, “I would prefer it to be Grace, if that’s possible. Is she free?”

“She didn’t—”

“Brilliant,” the Doctor interrupted. “Thank you. Off you go now, Rachel; time’s a-wasting.” He settled back into bed, waiting for her to leave. She looked startled, but she did as she was told.

The minute she was out the door, the Doctor allowed himself a small moan. Ooh, how humans could stand it with just one heart, he didn’t know. Though, he was lucky they hadn’t tried to give him anything. Probably had something to do with the good Dr. Taylor, that. She’d held up remarkably well, all things considered. She reminded him a bit of Grace. And even a little of Sarah Jane, come to think of it.

But he didn’t have time to think of it. He had to get out of here. They’d taken x-rays. And he wasn’t sure they’d just chalk it up to a double exposure again. He wasn’t even quite sure when he was—something he hated admitting; he had a reputation to uphold, after all—and he didn’t fancy going through anything like 2012 Utah again, to name one of the more recent unpleasant experiences he’d had on Earth. 

Now was not the time to draw attention to himself by trying to start up his right heart.

He slowly made his way down the hallway and a couple flights of stairs, alternately trying doors and dodging into rooms, occupied or otherwise, to avoid anyone who looked overtly official. He wasn’t sure how far he’d get, dressed as he was, but he was willing to give it a shot. And he could always pretend he was lost. It was fair enough, he figured, even if it was, likely as not, going to get him a ticket to psychiatric. Ah, well; he deserved a bit of fun. He hadn’t had as much as he liked lately. The last time he’d gone looking for it, things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.

If hadn’t been for one wise, stubborn human, he would have knowingly destroyed an entire timeline.

Sure, it had reasserted himself, skirting around a few anomalies, but he’d been willing to…. He’d tried to sacrifice.... He’d….

“These are his things?”

“Yes. That’s all we found his pockets. No ID, no money—nothing to support his claims to Dr. Taylor.”

Grace. And someone he didn’t recognize. He’d better get out of here. Quickly. He could nip back and gather his things, then be on his way no worse for the wear. Grace might wonder, but he didn’t recall carrying anything on him now that she would recognize. He’d even had the locks changed; the TARDIS key was different. Though that was more because he couldn’t stand the constant reminder of Gallifrey than anything else. Still. New key, new sonic screwdriver….

New body.

Twice over.

And he had no right to ask. To ask would be to burden her with his problems, because she was the sort of person who would take the burden without being asked and wouldn’t lay it down, no matter what he told her. No matter how much he pleaded with her. And he had no right to do that. She’d built a wonderful life for herself. Moved on, just like she should have. Because she’d recognized—

The Doctor dashed into the nearest room. “Oh, hello,” he greeted cheerfully as a rather frail lady looked up at him. “I seem to have gotten the wrong room. I was looking for a Ms. Jones?” He phrased it as a question, but spent some time looking about the room, wandering deeper into it—and away from the doorway—and making it clear that he didn’t expect an answer. “Terribly sorry,” he added. “I’m the, ah, man from just down the hall. John Smith.” He stuck out his hand, grinning widely.

“Dorothy Mae,” the woman replied finally, taking his hand. “You shouldn’t be up and about, young man. I may not be a doctor, but I’m a mother and a grandmother, and you should be in bed. You’re too pale. Never mind that this is a hospital. I’m here after my hip replacement. You,” she added pointedly, looking him up and down again, “look like you got on the wrong side of a fight.” She didn’t sound particularly approving.

The Doctor tugged on an ear. “Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders a bit. “Wasn’t intentional. Just trying to help, me. Nothing serious. They’ll be letting me out as soon as they can process the paperwork, I daresay. Need the beds, I think. But my friend—”

“If they’re going to release you when you look like that,” Dorothy Mae interrupted, “then I will be speaking with my doctor about the sort of care they’re giving here.”

The Doctor began to think that perhaps engaging the woman in conversation had not been his best idea. He pasted a smile on his face. “Oh, well, no, it’s not the care. I’m checking out. Against their recommendations, admittedly. But, really, it’s just a form or two to sign, and—”

“You,” declared the outspoken, if well-intentioned, Dorothy Mae, “ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re liable to get yourself killed if you don’t smarten up.”

She looked like she could have berated him for longer, but the Doctor hastily began extracting himself from the conversation. “Yes, true enough; I will reconsider, I suppose, but I ought to go and tell them that, so I’ll just leave you be, won’t I?” He grinned at her and made his escape.

He bumped into someone and tried to continue on his way, but whoever it was caught his arm. “Mr. Smith,” drawled a man’s voice, “I believe you were assigned to room 403?”

“Dr. Miller, I presume?” the Doctor asked, trying not to look guilty. If he’d waited just one more minute.... “Yes. And may I ask why you are a full two floors from your assigned room?” Over Dr. Miller’s shoulder, the Doctor had watched Grace’s face fall. Perhaps she had thought to connect the dots. He didn’t recall telling her that regeneration worked more than once. Granted, he hadn’t exactly had time to explain anything. Common theme in his life, that.

“Oh, well,” he said slowly. “Fancied a bit of a jaunt, that’s all. Looking to see if I could get a cup of tea, to be honest.” Well, partially honest. He wouldn’t mind a cup of tea now. He needed something to clear his head. “And, I was wondering about my things. Could I have them back? Even the suit? I know an excellent tailor.”

“We can discuss this at a later time, once we have you back in your room.” Dr. Miller steered him towards the lift.

“I’ll join you when he’s settled,” Grace said shakily. The Doctor glanced over his shoulder to get a better look at her. She hadn’t changed, really. So perhaps it wasn’t that long after all. Blimey, it better not be before the millennium. He’d be in a spot then. But surely….

The Doctor accepted his scolding meekly, knowing that if he had any chance of getting out of here, it would be better to throw them off guard. And, sometimes, if you played your cards right, and you acted like you really needed something, they’d give it to you. Like shoes. Shoes would be an excellent thing right now. You can only make it so far without shoes. All right, last time he’d made it over to Grace’s house without shoes, but he’d needed the toe tag on as proof, hadn’t he?

The Doctor did his best to ensure that his conversation with Dr. Miller was short. Grace entered shortly after Dr. Miller had finished his scolding—well, chiding, more like, as if he were a child. But when she came in, holding his coat—and it would take a bit to get those stains out—and a small paper bag, presumably his other things, he almost didn’t want Dr. Miller to leave. He regretted being so apologetic and compliant. He might’ve bought more time if he hadn’t been.

Because, really…. He didn’t want to face her.

He shouldn’t have come.

“John Smith?” she asked softly, depositing his things at the foot of the bed and settling down on the chair by its head. He saw the sleeve of his suit jacket poking out from the bundle that was his coat. Excellent; she’d gotten that, too.

Still, he had to answer her question. He hesitated, and nodded once, sharply and definitively.

“Where are you from?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“Nottingham,” he answered. “Brilliant place. You ought to visit it sometime.”

“And may I ask why you wanted to speak with me, and why you told Dr. Vera Taylor that I knew you?”

“Oh, well, I just….” The Doctor trailed off. Grace was smart, and lying wasn’t his forte in this regeneration. “It’s been a long while, that’s all. I knew you wouldn’t recognize me.”

She was thinking it. He could tell by the expression on her face. Blinking abruptly, she reached for his chart, scanning it. He watched her shoulders fall. “They want to keep you for monitoring,” she noted. “You’ve a bad heart.”

“It’s just overworked,” the Doctor said bluntly. “Temporary. A victim of circumstances, if you will.”

“X-rays inconclusive?” Grace repeated, looking up from the chart. “You’re due for another round, to make sure you didn’t crack a rib. First round was faulty.”

The Doctor was silent for a moment. “Grace,” he said, slowly, deliberately, “may I have my things?” He held out his hand. “Just the bag for now, if you will.”

“I’d prefer Dr. Holloway at the moment, Mr. Smith.”

“Doctor,” the Doctor corrected.

Grace smiled slightly. “Oh, yes,” she amended. “I do recall Vera mentioning that. Dr. Smith, then.”

“Doctor,” the Doctor repeated, watching her hand falter as she reached for the bag.

She turned back to look at him. “I’m afraid, Dr. Smith, that I do not take to calling anyone simply by their profession. Particularly those from Nottingham.” She passed the paper bag to him.

The Doctor took it and smiled. “Well, it’s a bit more than a profession.” He overturned the bag to see what he could find. They hadn’t found much. Sonic screwdriver, TARDIS key, wallet of currently blank psychic paper—pity, that; might be a bit harder to fool them, if they recognized the covering—and his spectacles. Just some surface things, nothing from too deep in his pockets.

And nothing Grace would recognize.

Though, he had to decide, now, whether or not he was going to go through with it. He’d meant to. But then, he thought maybe it would be best if he didn’t. Because the only reasons he’d meant to have any conversation at all with her were selfish reasons. He wanted to know what she’d seen, and how she’d recognized it—how she’d seen what he, and so many others, couldn’t.

A friend had once told him that if you could choose who lives and who dies, you would be a monster. And he’d agreed whole-heartedly at the time. It wasn’t even that long ago. How could he have forgotten that conversation? How could he have turned his back on that so utterly? How could he have disregarded everything and gone and done it anyhow?

He’d needed to be taken down a few pegs.

It hadn’t taken much.

But it was too much all the same.

One life had had to be ended to keep history on track.

And he hadn’t been the one to realize that.

He’d been the one to ignore it.

And then he’d been shown how important it all was, and how foolish and arrogant he’d been, and how wrong he’d been, to stray from that, even once. He’d seen what he’d become.

A monster.

“Dr. Smith? Are you all right?”

The Doctor blinked. Grace repeated her question, moving closer to check on him.

No. He couldn’t just leave. He’d come here, and the TARDIS had made sure he’d come this far, sneaky as she was. He wanted to run from this, like he’d run from everything else. But he couldn’t keep everything inside him forever, keeping silent. He had to tell some things to someone.

Someone who would listen.

Someone who might help him to understand.

Someone he’d touched but not destroyed.

“I’m always all right,” the Doctor croaked, pulling away from Grace. He reached instead for his coat, digging in the pockets. He had some in here, he was sure of it. He’d gotten them the same time he’d picked up that chocolate egg at Easter, since he hadn’t had any for years and he had had a bit of a liking for them. They wouldn’t be too old; a couple of months, that’s all.

“Dr. Smith, you should just relax. Your heart—”

Right. Dr. Miller had insisted on hooking him up to that again. Bother it all. “Is compensating,” the Doctor cut in. “That’s all. Temporary, like I said.”

“You’re not well.”

No, he wasn’t. But he was on the mend, now—if he could just stop running, just for a moment, long enough to have a conversation.

“Grace—”

“Dr. Holloway.”

“Grace,” the Doctor repeated, very deliberately, as his hand closed upon a small paper bag of candy. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and offered it to her. “Jelly baby?”

She looked at him uncertainly. “I was informed that they’d gone through your pockets.”

The Doctor shrugged. “They didn’t know what they were looking for. Would you like a jelly baby?”

Grace’s expression hardened. “Stop it,” she hissed.

The Doctor was taken aback. “What?” he asked, blinking at her. He hadn’t meant to actually offend her. Yet that was how she was acting.

“Who put you up to this?” she continued angrily. “I’m not having it, you hear? I’ve had enough with people laughing at me. I’m not telling that story anymore.”

Oh.

He hadn’t expected that.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected.

He hadn’t thought about it all too much.

“What year is it?” he asked slowly.

Wrong question, it seemed, with what she thought of him now. “I’ll thank you not to persist in telling tales in an attempt to speak to me again,” she said sharply, rising to her feet. “Good day, Mr. Smith.”

“Doctor,” he corrected again.

She glared at him. “Dr. Smith, then. Good day.”

“I’d missed you, Grace,” he said truthfully. “But I’d still thought that I was doing the right thing by not coming back. After you’d made your choice, I mean.”

It wasn’t enough to catch her attention, and she started out the room, ignoring him.

And, well, now that he’d made the decision to talk to her, he wanted to talk to her.

So he made sure that he did catch her attention. “The Master survived, you know. Getting sucked into the Eye. But she’s closed now. Room’s locked, good and tight. Even I can’t get into it. Don’t think I will, unless circumstances change.”

She turned back at the doorway to look at him. “How long?” she asked, her voice still cold.

“Pardon?”

“How long have you spent listening to my stories, gathering every bit of information from every story I’ve ever told the children in the recovery ward? And why do you insist on patronizing me?”

She was defensive. Hurt.

Because of him.

Because she’d believed in him and had told her story.

He’d still managed to….

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely contrite. “I am so, so sorry, Grace. I didn’t know.”

“Dr. Holloway,” she corrected, but her voice had softened slightly.

And then she was gone.

(Part 3)

[steppingstonesuniverseguide]

Deleted Scene from One Step At a Time Ch 36: The Curator

I'm going to be posting a One Step At a Time entry soonish and I'm deleting a bunch of things because it got very *silly* and kind of interfered with the whole *vibe* of the chapter. That being said, I do love the silly, so enjoy an exclusive Ch 36.0 from One Step At a Time.

(Also Techno does say a thing that's might come off as way too rude, but, like, Wilbur doesn't mind. He watched his dad mourn him for years. He knows he's wanted and both he and Techno are 100% aware of this.)

“We are we going?” Tommy asked for the 5th time in as many minutes. This trip was always too long even without a Tommy in the car.

"We already told you,” Wilbur said, sounding grumpy. (Probably because he’d been demoted to backseat. Usually, they’d make Phil sit in the back during civilian outings in revenge for all of the years they had to allow him to drive, but Tubbo was also sitting in the back seat and putting Phil back there seemed like a poor decision.) “We’re going to the library.”

“We are not going to the library,” Tommy said. “All three of you brought your costumes and you brought us masks.” He reached forward to poke Phil. “Phil where are we going.”

"We’re going to the library, mate,” Phil said with more patience than the child deserved today. “It’s just a special library.”

“Is it a crime library?”

“It’s a…” Phil said.

“Yes. It’s a crime library,” Wilbur cut in.

“Technically, it does house books considered illegal in current society,” Phil said.

“Like Animal Farm and The Lorax,” Techno contributed.

“What is a Lorax?” Tommy asked.

“We’ll check it out for you,” Techno said.

“Will you read it to me?”

“I promise you can read The Lorax yourself well enough at this point, but I will read Animal Farm to you if you’d like.”

“Anti-government bedtime story with Techno hour is starting up again.”

“Eventually we’ll get to The Communist Manifesto and What is Property?”

“God please, I don’t want to hear any more about 1800s relationship drama between Marx and Proudhon. This is all your fault.” Techno didn’t see it since he was driving but considering that Tommy make a squeaking sound and having sat in the backseat with Wilbur himself plenty times, he assumed Tommy had just been elbowed in the ribs.

He then heard various slapping sounds.

“Boys, please stop fighting,” Phil said.

“He started it,” Wilbur claimed which was not exactly true, but also Tommy had been being annoying for the entire car trip.

“I didn’t start shit. I just asked a normal fucking question about where we were going.”

“You-”

“Tubbo is sitting in the front on the way back,” Techno said just to Phil. “There is no other option at this point. We have to have an adult sit between them.”

“I’m older than you!” Wilbur declared, too close to Techno’s ear. Luckily, they were at a stoplight and Techno could reach back blindly to shove his head back into the backseat where it belonged.

“Phil,” Techno said. “explain to me again why you made him.”

“Tech-”

“Oh, that’s right,” Techno said, glancing into the backseat. “You were an accident.”

“Unlike you,” Wilbur said, “who he consciously decided to adopt as his itty bitty baby child.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Boys do I need to turn this car around?”

“How?” Techno and Wilbur said as one.

“This is why we don’t go on road trips anymore,” Phil sighed.

“Yes,” Techno said.

“Exactly,” Wilbur agreed.

“Also, he almost drove us off the Grand Canyon.”

“That too.”

Phil just rolled his eyes and turned to look out of the window.

“Okay, but are we almost there yet,” Tommy asked.

Wilbur groaned. “You’re such a child.”

“I’ve never been on a car ride this long,” Tommy complained. Which… now that Techno thought about it was a good point. They probably should have thought of that before putting him in the car.

“Tubbo’s fine.”

“Tubbo’s been asleep for an hour.”

“We’re almost there,” Techno said. “10 minutes.” Well, it was about 10 minutes to the entrance of the library, but he thought Tommy would probably be entranced by that.

[bullet-prooflove]

Anyone up for NSFW Alphabet?

Dirty A-Z headcanon game

Send a letter for more information on my muse’s likes and dislikes! Inspired by kinks discussed around the internet. The (explanations) are mere guidelines, feel free to elaborate as much as you’d like!

A - Alone time (how do they get off when they’re all by themselves? do they watch porn, is it all in their imagination, do they jerk off, do they use toys?) 

B - Bondage (do they like it? do they not? do they prefer to be the one being tied or the one doing the tying?) 

C - Crying (is it a turn on? a turn off? do they cry during sex? have they cried during sex? what was the reason?) 

D - Dominance (do they prefer to dominate, or be dominated? do they have experience as a Dom? Do they have a Dom that they trust already? What kind of things do they enjoy as/with their Dominant partner?) 

E - Extra info (any other fetishes? feet? leather? role playing? blood? fantasies that they might want to experience not on this list?)

F - Food play (do they like using food in the bedroom? are there any foods they prefer to use during sex or foreplay? any they’d like to try?)

G - Group sex (would they have a threeway? four? an orgy? do they put on a show for spectators? or do they like to keep it just between them and their partner?) 

H - Humiliation (does degradation and insults get them hot? do they get off on humiliating someone else? what kind of humiliation is good for them?) 

I - Impact play (here’s where talking about things like spanking, paddles, canes, floggers and the like.) 

J - Jelly (what kind of lube are they using? is it flavored? have they tasted it? do they prefer to use something other than real lube during sex?) 

K - Kissing (what parts of their body do they like having kissed? what parts of their partner do they enjoy kissing? do they like leaving marks / having marks left on them?) 

L - Lighting (are the lights on? off? do they have some kind of mood lighting set up?) 

M - Masochism (do they like pain? scratching? biting? being bossed around? spoken down to? choked?) 

N - Not yet (orgasm delay? orgasm denial? do they tell their partner not to touch themselves for a certain amount of time or under certain circumstances? do they delay or deny other things like bathroom usage or food? do they need to beg first? do they like being denied / delayed?) 

O - Outdoor sex (have they ever done it in public? would they? where?)

P - Photography (are cameras allowed in the bedroom? do they send nudes? do they ask for nudes? would they ever record themselves having sex / being caught up in a sexual act?) 

Q - Quiet please (what’s the volume like in the bedroom? are they quiet? do they scream? do they like a loud partner? do they prefer if their partner is more soft spoken?)

R - Routine (do they have a routine when it comes to picking up one night stands? do they have scheduled sex with their partner? are things spontaneous or planned ahead of time?) 

S - Sleepy sex (do they give oral to wake their partner up? do they like receiving oral to wake up? do they like fucking their partner awake? being fucked awake? how about being fucked to sleep at night? do they have lazy morning sex?) 

T - Top or bottom (self explanatory…) 

U - Underwear (what kind of underwear do they put on in the morning, if any at all… do they own any sexy underwear or lingerie?) 

V - Voyeurism (do they like to watch, or are they more hands on? are they more of an exhibitionist?) 

W - Water (pool sex? bath / shower sex? are they into watersports at all?)

X - X-dressing (do they crossdress as a part of teasing / foreplay? does crossdressing turn them on? turn their partner on? do they prefer to do it or watch their partner crossdress instead? do they use other costumes? cat ears, tails, etc?) 

Y - Yes, Master (what kinds of names are used during sex? do they like being called master / mistress, daddy, etc…? what names do they call their partner?) 

Z - Zones (what are their erogenous zones? what spots on their body should be touched, bitten, kissed, when someone wants to get them in the mood?) 

[ellsey]

Ok so I know the whole deal with Carmen as a story is that she’s everything and he’s just Ken and Christina needs to be (and is!) the star of this particular show, but idk that they need to be putting Anthony is a sludge coloured costume to make the point lol. Couldn’t they just put him in the navy with gold + red accents of the Spanish Royal Guard? It’d go well with her wonderful operatic dress.

I’m so pleased with how consistent they’ve become. I’d have never guessed in a million years back in 2021 that they’d be cemented as US #2 and deserve to be. Anthony’s ankles are working again!

I just googled Spanish Royal Guard and Anthony would look SO GOOD in that color scheme. Quick someone go drop a link to Christina lol. Also it's possible that they will change things in the future. I think she said last year when she got feedback on her rd dress they waited until US Nats to change it. So it's still possible there's a change here.

They really have come so far. I feel like a proud parent lol. They have worked so hard and are now doing complex interesting things I would have never thought they were capable of. It's so refreshing to see real growth and progress in ice dance.

[nirikeehan]

Happy Friday Niri! For DADWC, how about #31 from Artifacts of Thedas, for Cullen and Dorian (heh heh): A Satinalia mask

HI DEMA thank you!! This deliciously fit right into my ongoing masquerade side quest fic set in Pravinquisition AU, previous installation here

Also I was an absolute maniac and managed (I hope) to shove five Cullen & Dorian prompts into one scene, so thank you @zenstrike, @rosella-writes, @kiastirling, and @liza011 for these additional prompts:

overdramatic arguments about non-important subjects

All I Do is Wear Cool Outfits, Tell Jokes and Hide My Depression

doing things in sync

'Rule one: Don’t get caught.'

Madness. But perfect for them and I think I got them all

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1350

---

Cullen stood sentry in the corner of a marble-pillared room, watching the revelry with distaste. A pair of inebriated Orlesians had taken it upon themselves to climb upon a makeshift stage and butcher the Fereldan tavern song Andraste’s Mabari. He was nominally glad the panther-shaped mask he wore hid his grimace, though the rest of him wanted to wrench the damn thing off his face. It made his forehead itch something awful. 

He was grateful to see Dorian stroll into the room and make eye contact. The Tevinter mage looked far more comfortable at this soiree than Cullen knew he would be in a million years. Dorian cut a sharp figure in blues and greens. He wore a black half-mask; it was adorned with feathers and sparkled even in the dim light.

“I hope you’re not grinding your teeth too hard in there, Commander,” Dorian said jovially, sidling up with a goblet of wine in one hand. “You’re like to give yourself a headache.”

Cullen opened his mouth to protest, only to realize how correct the mage was. He worked his jaw, trying to loosen it up. “I didn’t think I’d have to suffer attacks on my homeland when I agreed to come here, that’s all.”

Dorian tilted his head, caught wind of the lyrics, and took a stiff sip of his drink. “I see your point. Perhaps we ought to go somewhere a touch, ah, quieter?”

“Please.” 

They ducked down a hallway that spilled out onto a small courtyard. The chill night was a welcome respite from the stuffiness of the Comte de Valette’s estate. The place seemed deserted, so Cullen removed the mask to the feel the relief of open air on his face. Any moment an angry Orlesian noble would probably materialize and command he put it back on — the allure of secrecy and all that — but for the moment he could think unburdened. 

“Tut, tut, Commander,” Dorian chided, smirking at his clear hatred of the mask and all it signified, “do you also remove your helm mid-battle?” 

“This farce of a party is hardly the battlefield,” Cullen grumbled. “And perhaps if I hadn’t let Fidencio design my entire outfit I’d feel less like a made-up doll.” The whole ensemble had been the bard’s idea. Cullen stood all in black, with a paisley patterned in velvet on his jerkin, gold trim on the sleeves, and a black overcoat. He already felt like a mummer’s idea of a pirate, but then Fidencio had insisted upon the damn mask to complete the look. Because a lion — Cullen’s suggestion — was the official sigil of Orlais and would send the wrong message. “Did the bard pick out your costume as well?” 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Commander, but I’d never need a theatre man to dress me properly.” Dorian smirked into his wine goblet. “I happen to dress this sharply on the regular, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Why, this was just my Satinalia mask from last year.” 

“I bet.” Cullen paid the boasting no mind. “Anything to report?”

“Sadly not. The Inquisitor and I spoke to all the premiere nobles of the Orlesian court — you think they’d want to hide their identities better, but I found them quite easy to identify. They had little and less to say. Nothing but praise for the Comte, but curiously no one can find the man.” 

“Strange, do you think?” Cullen asked. “That the Comte should be so aloof?” 

“Ah, who knows?” Dorian countered. “I’ve been to galas in Tevinter thrown while the host wasn’t even in the country. He’d do it just to remind everyone he still had more money than the Maker.” 

“And Lady Thalia?” Cullen asked, scanning the windows facing the courtyard. In the orange glow of the rooms, the revelers cut ghastly, demon-like shadows. Or maybe that was just how it seemed. The mind could play tricks, and Cullen hadn’t wanted Thalia to accept the Comte’s invitation even before he learned that de Valette was rumored to be some dark mage. 

“She was with Fidencio, last I checked. In that room with the enchanted butterflies.” 

“Maybe I should check on her. No offense to Fidencio, but I’ve seen him in the sparring ring. He’s more of a lover than a fighter.” 

Dorian snorted. “That he is, for certain.” 

Cullen waited for a snide remark about Fidencio’s swordplay in alternative arenas, but Dorian merely smirked. It seemed he was too polite to grasp for the low-hanging fruit. That was fine with Cullen, who had uncovered a strange sense of foreboding he couldn’t shake. He replaced the asinine mask on his face and headed back inside with Dorian matching his stride.

Dorian led the way to the butterfly room, which was full of the flitting insect lanterns and simpering party guests, but no Inquisitor or the headwear-loving bard. Cullen’s bad feeling worsened. 

“Well, they were just here,” Dorian added unhelpfully. 

Cullen walked brusquely from room to room, checking with his stationed soldiers along the way, but none had seen the Lady Thalia. Even Blackwall confessed they’d only crossed paths before she’d met up with Fidencio. 

Dorian kept pace, cracking bad jokes along the way, until Cullen finally snapped, “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously?” 

Dorian sobered. “Ah, yes, the humor is just my dominant coping mechanism, I’m afraid. I’m actually a bit nervous myself.” 

Cullen let out a slow breath. “Any idea where they could have gone?” 

“No, but I think we must employ process of elimination here, Commander.” He leaned against the wall in a small, winding corridor and crossed his arms. “Thus far the masquerade has been confined to the ground floor of the chateau and surrounding environs. As Inquisition soldiers have been stationed in both places, I think it’s safe to assume they’re not there.” 

“So that leaves, what, upstairs? In the guest chambers? ” Cullen did not like to think about what might be transpiring up there. One heard tell of what transpired at certain Orlesian parties. “I hope Fidencio would not be fool enough to let Thalia near any sort of—” Could he even say it?

“I think it’s unlikely Fidencio would have led her to an orgy,” Dorian said blithely. “Unless she asked to go— which is also unlikely,” he added before Cullen’s pulse could spike too much. “Goodness, you have met the girl, haven’t you? She can barely handle one man, let alone a whole gaggle.” 

Cullen chose not to dignify any of that with a response. “So then, where else?” 

A silent beat passed between the two men, and they spoke in unison: “The cellar.” 

“There must be one,” Dorian said. “This is a castle. What’s a castle without a wine cellar?” 

“And a dungeon,” Cullen said darkly. What if the Comte de Valette had made an appearance after all, and now Thalia was his captive? 

“Commander, your imagination is at times alarming,” Dorian said lightly. 

“I’m in charge of an army. I’m paid to think about the worst case scenario.”

“Be that as it may.” Dorian paced back and forth in the corridor, and raised a finger in the air. “I think I might know a way in.” 

“Oh?” Cullen asked. 

“A little staircase I came across when I took a wrong turn earlier in the evening. A pageboy assured me it was just the servant stairwell and steered me back to the party.” 

Cullen drew the mask from his face, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Do you think you can find it again?”

Dorian stroked the end of his mustache. “I’m fairly certain, yes.” 

“Though I suppose we’ll have to think of a fine excuse, to allow ourselves entry,” Cullen mused. “Unless we want the entire chateau alerted to our movements.” 

“Spoken like someone who never snuck around much in his youth.” Dorian flashed him a mischievous grin.

Cullen sighed. “What do you want me to say? The Templar barracks were well-monitored.” 

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me; that was not meant to be a slight. I only mean, Commander, you’ve not yet learned rule number one in subterfuge: don’t get caught.”

[zrtranscripts]

Season 10, Mission 7: Danse Macabre

Carnival

~

[cloth rustles]

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I... Sorry. Madam, I... Oh, thank you, really, but I have to go.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Quinzi, please keep the carnival crowd from jostling Frances. I must say, that magpie mask suits you well. [laughs] And Frances, a black swan to match Maxine’s raven!

MAXINE MYERS: We need to keep our masks on tonight. All the gangs of Venice are out, including the most powerful of them all, the Mala.

MOHAMMED Who, alas, have been on the hunt for myself and Frances since we first stepped foot in this city.

MAXINE MYERS: I’m sorry, it’s my fault! I brought you into danger, into a plague city. But I need your help to locate the source of the sickness. And tonight, with the carnival for cover, we might finally be able to.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I’m just glad we found you, Maxie. I don’t care about the plague... well, I do. Those poor people. But not as much as I care about you. Me and Mo spent months looking for Five, for any of the missing Abel people, traveling all over Europe. I’d kind of given up hope. And then we found you! That’s awesome. And you think the plague’s waterborne, right? Me and Mo and Quinzi have been drinking bottled water since we got here. We’ll be fine.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: And besides, it wasn’t truly you who summoned us, was it, Maxine? Your messages came via intermediaries. And its origins was this mysterious contact you’ve mentioned to us, the person who helped you to escape from Valmont.

MAXINE MYERS: If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have made it out of Tunisia. When I got away from Valmont, I was half-drowned, no equipment. That’s when I got the first message, just a printed note with instructions on how to find a stash they’d hidden for me. Food, weapons, maps.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: But you never spoke to them. You’ve got no idea who it really is.

MAXINE MYERS: No. But I didn’t know how they knew I needed help, unless it was one of the others. Five, maybe, or Janine. I don’t know why they can’t get in touch directly. But with Valmont watching... That’s another reason you need to keep your masks on tonight! Valmont might have eyes in the city. I know he’s been tracking me since I escaped in Tunisia. That’s why I couldn’t risk a message home.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: I’ve tried to raise Amelia since we found you to tell her the happy news. My signal never gets through. Blocked by this Valmont, no doubt.

MAXINE MYERS: His reach is terrifying.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: But tonight, we’ll be just four revelers amongst many as we search for the origin of the plague devouring the city from the inside. After the next bridge, we’ll be in Mala territory. We must run!

~

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: We are in Mala territory now. Although it doesn’t look as fearsome as their reputation. The lights from all the palaces reflecting in the water, costumed revelers on every balcony, quite beautiful.

MAXINE MYERS: It’s not usually like this. Since Z-Day, this city’s been divided into territories run by the gangs. Some of them, like your magpies, Quinzi, take good care of their people. Others, not so much. This carnival is a general ceasefire. All the gangs are free to move through each others’ territory, and so are we.

[fireworks explode, audience cheers]

FRANCES DEMPSEY: They seem weirdly happy. For, you know, people in a plague city.

MAXINE MYERS: You need to understand, everyone out there has lost someone or is in the process of losing someone to this sickness. There is no escape, no cure. It’s a party for the end of the world.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: And you are entirely convinced, Dr. Myers, that this plague is connected to Mr. Valmont?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Yeah. I know he’s like, a terrible person, but deliberately spreading a plague is next-level terrible.

MAXINE MYERS: It’s him. When the buboes are fully developed, you can see a V-shaped lesion in them. I think Venice must be a failed experiment, a test of his panacea that went horribly wrong. But it can be cured, I am sure. I just need to know where it came from, where it started.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: The plague is everywhere! The streets are filled with the sick and the dead! What makes you believe, Dr. Myers, that this has but one point of origin?

MAXINE MYERS: Have you ever heard of John Snow?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Um, yeah. The “You know nothing” guy from Game of Thrones?

MAXINE MYERS: [laughs] No, the other one, the founder of epidemiology. In the 19th century, people thought diseases were caused by miasmas, bad air. He didn’t. There was a cholera outbreak in Soho he was sure was carried through the water. By studying the spread of the disease, he traced it back to just one water pump.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: They removed the pump’s handle! I believe to prevent further infection.

MAXINE MYERS: Yeah! And I’m no John Snow, but I’ve done my best. I’ve spent the last weeks interviewing plague victims, mapping the spread. Quinzi, you’ve been a massive help. You know Venice better than anyone, and you’re very good at opening doors, literally and metaphorically. Thanks to you, I think I’ve located the well that’s the source point for the whole plague. Trouble is, it’s in Mala territory, which we had no chance of getting into before tonight.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: And you think once we’ve found it, we might be able to take the pump handle off?

MAXINE MYERS: Maybe. And more importantly, with a sample from the source of the plague, there’s a chance my contact can synthesize a cure. One of their messages told me that they’ve got access to an advanced lab, but they can’t do anything until they know where the plague came from.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: I see the first Mala checkpoint ahead. Two sentries dressed in red. Even in a ceasefire, it seems they are still on their guard.

MAXINE MYERS: We can’t risk them identifying you. We need to sneak past. Quinzi, take the lead. Stick to the shadows, and move quickly. Run!

~

MAXINE MYERS: I can see the Doge’s palace ahead.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: It’s all illuminated with candles and colored lanterns. Fire breathers, acrobats, and this music... I... I think I recognize it.

MAXINE MYERS: The Mala certainly made themselves at home. They’ve only had this territory for a few months.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Who controlled it before?

MAXINE MYERS: No one knows. The Mala moved in with very little resistance. I think this is where the plague started, a well in the center of the courtyard. We’ll need to blend into the party and get a water sample without anyone noticing.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I don’t like this...

MAXINE MYERS: You are doing great, Frances. We’re almost at the well.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: No, it’s not that. Doesn’t this feel familiar to you guys?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: The Venice Carnival has starred in many a film over the years.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: No, you don’t understand. I’m so sure I’ve heard this music before. If I can just get a closer listen...

MAXINE MYERS: Frances!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Quickly! Quinzi, hide Frances! That dancer knocked her mask clean off!

REVELER: It’s her, the interloper!

MAXINE MYERS: It’s too late. Back the way we came, now!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Not possible. Mala thugs have blocked the entry.

MAXINE MYERS: The other way then, under the arches, into the palace. Run!

~

FRANCES DEMPSEY: We’re inside the palace, but the Mala are right behind us. Now where?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: There, a metal door at the bottom of those stairs. If we slip inside before our pursuers arrive, they may not realize where we’ve gone.

[metal rattles]

MAXINE MYERS: Just kick it, Quinzi. [metal bangs, hinges creak] Everybody in.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: The Mala have run past. We remain hidden.

MAXINE MYERS: They’ll check that door sooner or later. We need to keep moving.

MOHAMME BOUJETTIF: Where are we?

MAXINE MYERS: I think this might be the old prison. I know it’s beneath the Doge’s palace. Frances, are you all right?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry. I felt like I’ve seen it all before, but... Uh, never mind. Can we please keep moving? This place is giving me the creeps. Also, are you seeing lights ahead, Quinzi, or am I officially losing my mind?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: If you are, I’m joining you in madness. This prison should be a shell, derelict, and long-abandoned, but... I see work benches. Are those Bunsen burners? I believe we’re running through a laboratory!

MAXINE MYERS: A hidden laboratory right under the well that’s the source of the plague? It’s got to mean something.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Perhaps our answer lies ahead of us, and with our enemies behind, I suggest we all make haste!

~

MAXINE MYERS: This underground lab goes on forever. What were they doing?

FRANCES DEMSPEY: And why all these cells? Some of them look like part of the original architecture, but... Hey, I think there’s someone in there. Hello? [metal slams, zombie growls, chains clink, FRANCES gasps] Oh, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s a zombie. I can deal with zombies, especially when they’re locked up. Look, it’s wearing a lab coat. But can you see, Quinzi? It’s got this horrible oily green goo leaking out of its eyes.

MAXINE MYERS: It could be the plague. In its later stages, patients show greenish-black veins all over their face and lymph nodes. Most of them die soon after. The bodies are cremated to prevent further infection. We might be looking at the post-mortem stage.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Over here. I believe I may have found something. A telegram. “Stage one infection completed. Withdraw and observe.”

MAXINE MYERS: I was right. This is the source. I guess that’s my area of expertise these days, the zombie virus and other plagues. [laughs] Talk about a specialism you never wanted. But then... How did they get it in the water?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Over there, pipes leading upward. The well is above here, right? And there’s a huge container of that sickly green goo feeding into the pipes. We found your water pump, Maxine!

MAXINE MYERS: That’s not all. Look at the initials.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: V. Of course.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Again, he marks his gruesome handiwork. An egoist of repulsive proportions!

MAXINE MYERS: Frances, help me disconnect this pipe. It’s probably too late, but let’s stop any more of this stuff getting into the water. Quinzi, get a sample of that goo and let’s get out of here.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Wait, is that... It looks like mold growing in the tank. A horrible sickly green mold. Get some of that, too, Quinzi. [metal creaks and bangs, zombies growl] The cell doors have all opened. It must have been triggered when we touched the pipes!

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: An undead fail-safe. There are dozens of them! White lab coat, barely decayed, weeping that pustulent ooze!

MAXINE MYERS: Mo, behind you. Quinzi, it’s about to grab him!

[zombie growls, splatters]

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: A most inventive use of the spectrometer, Quinzi. Thank you.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: They’re swarming the lab!

MAXINE MYERS: We can’t go back the way we came, the Mala will be waiting. Our only choice is to go deeper into the tunnels. Run!

~

FRANCES DEMPSEY: We can’t seem to lose those zoms!

MAXINE MYERS: We did lose our way, though. All those tunnels look the same.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Wait, are you hearing this?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Music. We must be getting close to the surface!

FRANCES DEMPSEY: It’s the same music from the party. The same song, echoing all over the city. I know this music. Like Alice singing when we were kids, like... something in my bones. The music, the dancers with their grinning masks... I remember now! It reminds me of the dreams I had when I lived in the Far Hebrides. Maxine, do you think the plague is connected to the Red God?

MAXINE MYERS: I don’t know how it could be. This isn’t the zombie virus. There’s no red fungus in Venice.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: But there was mold growing in the tanks that held the plague. I have a sample here. And molds are a form of fungus.

MAXINE MYERS: Well, we’ll have to worry about it later. For now, we need to follow the music. Just run.

~

MOHAMMED Through there! I can see a light.

MAXINE MYERS: It’s coming from up that ladder. It must be a sewer hatch in the street. We can make it. Quickly! Give me your hand, Quinzi. Mo, get the hatch ready to shut behind us.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: There.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: We’re alive! We made it out!

MAXINE MYERS: I can’t thank you enough. Now that we have found the source of the plague, you can take it to my contact. They can finally start working towards a cure. They’re based somewhere in the Alps. They said they’d have a car waiting for you at the edge of the city with a map inside.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: A vehicle waiting for us and not for you? But surely you will accompany us, Dr. Myers.

MAXINE MYERS: No, I won’t. I can’t leave Venice. Look, we’re clear of the Mala. I think it’s time to unmask.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Your face! Maxine, what are those marks? Those green-black veins?

MAXINE MYERS: I started getting sick just before you arrived. Fever, joint pain. The more visible symptoms came slower. The veins appeared last night. We know Valmont infected people through the water, but there’s a chance the plague itself is infectious in its later stages. I-I can’t risk leaving.

FRANCES DEMSPEY: You should have told us.

MAXINE MYERS: It would have just distracted you, and with what we’ve found today? If you can get to my contact, maybe you’ll be able to save me. And if not me, a lot of other people.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Frances and I will fly like birds to find this contact. Faster! We won’t fail you, Dr. Myers.

FRANCES DEMPSEY: No. Sorry. It doesn’t take two of us to carry that plague sample, and you’ll be faster without me anyway, Mo. I’m staying.

MAXINE MYERS: Frances!

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Look, I’m not a runner or a thief or a genius who solved the zombie plague like you, Maxine. But I worked on Dearg for a long time. If anyone knows the red fungus, it’s me. Or whatever other sort of fungus we’ve got going on here. This is where I need to be.

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: Are you quite sure, my friend?

FRANCES DEMPSEY: Yes. I’m at least going to stay until the fresh water runs out. And then, well, you’ll have brought a cure by then, right, Mo?

MOHAMMED BOUJETTIF: You have told me many tales of your sister, Frances. I know you don’t want to live in her shadow, but I feel she would be proud. Take care of each other. I will use the escape route you’ve prepared, Maxine, and I will cross rivers, fields, and mountains to bring you back a cure. On this, you have my word!

~

[carbo-ships]

Chapter XXIV

Beginning: Chapter I Previous: Chapter XXIII Petrichor once again belongs to @limey-self-inserts 🥰

When Ardis awoke the next morning, it took her a few moments to get her bearings. Right, she remembered, she was on the Ghost tour bus. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light of her bunk, she realized she wasn't in her bunk at all. In fact, she was lying directly on top of Aether. It seemed their idea to cuddle for "just a few minutes" before bed hadn't gone according to plan. She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She must have dozed off in the middle of their scheduled alone-time, and Aether likely hadn't had the heart to wake her.

He started to stir a moment later and let out a quiet groan. Noticing the weight on his chest, he opened his eyes to find the shy angel. He grinned. “Hey,” came his groggy voice, thick with sleep.

“Hello,” she replied in a whisper, moving to climb off of him.

He stopped her, applying just enough pressure with his broad palm against her back to keep her pressed to his chest. “And where do you think you’re going?” he asked quietly. Ardis stared up at him, not sure how to respond. Instead, she nuzzled her face back into his neck and let out an embarrassed little grumble. He wrapped both arms around her properly and kissed her temple. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

Ardis and Aether eventually got up and made their way downstairs to find something to eat. They greeted a few of the other ghouls – Mountain, Petrichor, Rain, and Cumulus – with sleepy “good morning”s. The clock on the wall indicated it was just after 9:30am. Papa was already at the bar brewing the day’s second pot of coffee in the mini coffee maker. He squeezed Ardis’s shoulder as she passed him, smiling at her warmly. “There’s my girl. Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you,” she said with a nod. 

���I’m glad to hear it. Petrichor, my dear, what’s the schedule for today?”

Petrichor produced a clipboard and leafed through the first couple of pages until they found what they were looking for. “We should be arriving at Accor Arena in about half an hour, load-in starts around noon, our sound check is scheduled for two, doors open at six, opening act starts at seven, we’re on at eight.”

“Perfect. Coffee, Ardis? Aether?”

“None for me, thanks,” Ardis said, pulling a small bottle of juice out of the minifridge.

“Yes, please.” Aether accepted his offer. It would be a long day, and he needed a bit of a kick to get him going. He pulled two bananas out of the cupboard – one for him, one for her.

Ardis stood in the crowd, all the way at the front and about halfway between where she knew Aether and Papa would spend most of their time. The whole afternoon had been a whirlwind. They’d gone into town for brunch and set aside an hour to see the sights, then headed right back to the venue to start unloading. She’d helped Mountain set up his extensive drumset – there were seemingly endless components, and it always helped to have an extra pair of hands to keep things steady while he secured everything the way he liked it. During soundcheck, Papa and Petrichor went through the set order one last time and dictated where and when each costume change would occur. Aether had jokingly warned her that his jacket would come off during “Helvetesfönster” and to brace herself so she wouldn’t faint. She’d rolled her eyes, but he knew she loved how his arms looked when he played. There had been a quick dinner after sound check before once again returning to the venue. Ardis stuck close to Aether’s side as he got himself ready, insisting upon helping him with his neckerchief even though he’d secured it himself countless times, then made her way to the front of the pit before the doors opened.

Ardis had never been around so many people – there were thousands and thousands of fans packed into the arena. She was dressed in casual attire, which the ghoulettes helped her pick out. She’d also completely dimmed her halo and wings, not wanting to attract any attention to herself. The supporting band had come off stage about fifteen minutes ago. She and the other spectators waited eagerly for the large sheet covering the stage to drop. They could just barely make out the shadows of the band members shuffling about. It would be starting soon.

Before much longer, Sodo’s guitar rang from the stage. Thunderous cheers erupted through the arena as Rain’s silhouette was projected onto the curtain. The curtain dropped a few bars later, revealing her friends in all their glory. She spotted Petrichor and another stagehand scrambling to pull the curtain to the side of the stage as quickly as possible. Pet and Ardis shared a smile, and the ghoul mouthed “have fun” before scurrying backstage. With a loud boom, the guitarists moved to the front of the stage. Ardis and the other fans screamed and cheered for them. Aether made quick work of spotting his angel, giving her a quick nod of acknowledgement. She could tell he was smiling ear to ear. Just when she thought the crowd couldn’t get any louder, Papa sprung onto the stage. A deafening cheer filled the stadium before he’d even opened his mouth. The ghouls vacated the front of the stage for him, and he began to sing.

As Papa belted out “Kaisarion”, Ardis realized he was truly in his element. He was a completely different man on stage. She couldn’t help but admire how handsome he looked in his embellished uniform, the tailcoats of his jacket accentuating his smooth movements and his golden epaulettes catching the stage lights perfectly. As he pranced about the stage and worked up the crowd, he pointed a finger her way for a moment to let her know he’d spotted her. She grinned. It was flattering to still get a moment of special attention from the man when nearly twenty-thousand people were screaming his name.

The concert was an exhilarating experience. She’d thought she knew exactly what to expect from sitting in on so many rehearsals, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. Everyone had such incredible stage presence and the stage effects added so much to the performance. Her heart swelled every time Aether approached his microphone to sing. She’d told him countless times how much she loved his voice, and while he insisted she was just trying to flatter him, it was true.

When the guitar duel rolled around so Papa could do a costume change, Aether had never been so determined to prove himself. He usually let Sodo be the show-off, putting on a meek facade to entertain the crowd, but not this time. Sodo thought his newfound aggression was amusing and was more than willing to play along to help him flaunt his talents. They antagonized each other with poorly-hidden grins and Aether periodically glanced to Ardis to ensure she was staring as he hoped she was. Once she and the crowd were thoroughly impressed, they finally broke into “Cirice”. Papa emerged, eliciting yet another deafening scream from the fans. Ardis smiled when she realized he was wearing those ridiculous bat wings. He’d insisted they made him look intimidating, but she always held that he looked silly and adorable in them. As he approached the front of the stage, he sent her another little smile.

She listened attentively as her friends harmonized. “Cirice” had always been one of her favorite songs. When the chorus came around a second time, Papa made a beeline for her. Ardis gasped in delight as he knelt before her at the edge of the stage and reached a gloved hand out to her. The barrier was much too far from the stage to hold her hand as he would have done at smaller venues, but his attention was solely on her. Staring up at him adoringly as he serenaded her, she was certain her face had gone completely red. Papa couldn’t hide his smile either. Before getting off of his knees at the end of the chorus, he blew her a kiss. She pretended to catch it and hugged it close to her chest. Papa only smiled even wider.

The rest of the concert continued in much the same way as Papa and the ghouls periodically checked on their angel to make sure that she was safe and happy amongst the sea of spectators. When the lights dimmed and the ghoulettes started playing “Helvetesfönster”, Ardis felt her cheeks warm. She remembered how Aether had teasingly warned her of what was to come. Just as he’d said, his jacket was missing when he and the others returned from backstage. His sleeves were still rolled down, and she felt her cheeks warm even more when she realized just how eager she’d been to see his arms.

She got her wish soon enough, however, when they started up “Mummy Dust” a few songs later. When her eyes left Papa to peek at Aether again, his sleeves were rolled up well past his elbows. He was watching her, clearly having been waiting for her to notice. She could see his shoulders shake slightly with laughter. It must have been obvious that she liked what she saw. Staring directly at her, he pointed his index and middle finger at his eyes. She couldn't tell if he was demanding her undivided attention, or trying to get her to stop gawking at his recently-revealed biceps. Either way, it was certainly effective. It was rare that Aether cracked a toothy grin on stage, but her flustered expression was enough to do it. He chuckled to himself as he continued on his way across the stage. He and Papa glanced at her from the corner of their eyes as they did their signature “mummy thrusts”, grinning to themselves as she became more and more embarrassed. It thrilled them to get such a reaction out of her. Both men had worried that their concerts might be too much for the angel, but it was clear that she was having the time of her life.

When the concert finally ended and the group took their bows, Aether tossed her one of his guitar picks as if she were any other excited groupie. He wanted her to get the full experience the whole way through. She giggled as she caught it then stuck it in her pocket for safekeeping. The band made their way off the stage, and when the crowd started dispersing, a security guard led her backstage to reunite with her friends.

Next: Chapter XXV