#t: unexpectancy

[vgtrackbracket]

Video Game Track Bracket Round 3

The Ultimate Show from Super Paper Mario

vs.

Unexpectancy from Pizza Tower

Propaganda under the cut. If you want your propaganda reblogged and added to future polls, please tag it as propaganda or otherwise indicate this!

The Ultimate Show:

HOW COULD I LOSE WITH THE POWER OF LUIGI?? Jokes aside this is a VERY fitting final battle theme for an AMAZING game. Seriously if you haven't played this game do it now!!!!

the best thing in the game and it's not even close. and super paper mario is one of my favorite games ever.

Unexpectancy:

This song is so great and epic it had to be split into three parts because to prevent creating the greatest song to ever exist. Incredible stuff. Peak of an already unimaginably good OST.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

WAIT continuing the caretaking thought. putting ander with jer or benji!!! maybe through some anon magic they rescue him from vic‘s training……

next

×~×~×

How could he look so small?

Well, Sahota was usually small, at least in comparison to Jericho, but he carried himself with an air of power and confidence that had the crew looking past his lean frame.

This Sahota didn't have any of that. He was younger, somehow, so much younger. His hair was longer and his face was softer and his expression was full of fear, but it was unmistakeably him. Same eyes. Same scar running from top to bottom lip, though it looked fresher here.

It seemed impossible. Jer had just seen Sahota that morning at breakfast, where he'd instructed the crew to self-train for the rest of the day.

"Vic and I will be out. Don't make any trouble."

But impossible or not, the terrified kid in front of him was very much real. He was partially hidden by a weight rack, his back flush with the wall as he stared up at Jericho, almost like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Jer couldn't blame him. Whether he was here through dimension magic, or time travel, or whatever, that didn't matter right now. He'd been somehow displaced, and didn't seem to know what to do about it. He knelt on the ground, holding up both hands.

"Hey..." he called out softly. "Are you alright? Can you come out?"

Sahota didn't move. Jericho inched forwards, and the kid flinched back.

"I... Please. I'm tired. I... I can't do this again. Please, j-just stay back."

Again? Jericho nodded, scooting back to where he'd started.

"Okay," he said, swallowing. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on. Do you remember how you got here?"

Sahota shook his head. Okay, that made two of them.

"Are you hurt at all?"

That didn't get an answer. The kid dropped his gaze, shoulders bunching up defensively.

"Who are you?" he said after a moment. "Why are you here?"

"My name's Jericho. I'm here to train for a mission." With you. Older you. He left that part out. One thing at a time. "Do you live here?"

"Yeah." There was another silence between them. "Did... Did Shepard bring you here?"

Shepard. Wasn't that Vic's last name? "Uh, yeah. He did."

That did not have the intended effect. Sahota seemed to shrink back further, eyes darting around like he was searching for an escape. "Please," he choked out. "H-he said I could have a break, he said---"

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm not doing anything. I won't even move if you don't want me to, I..." he exhaled. "I'm here to help. I don't know what's going on, but I want to help you. Okay?"

He wasn't sure he'd get an answer, but after a long pause, he heard a small okay.

Whew. Now what? What could he even do about this? He didn't have the power to send him back to wherever he came from. And why was he so afraid? He already knew Vic, he already seemed to live here. The only new factor was Jericho, and the kid was acting like he was a trap ready to be sprung. And the fact that he'd dodged the question about being hurt...

"Hey. Do you mind coming out here? I won't touch you or anything, I just want to make sure you're not injured."

He was once again met with a long silence, but after a moment, Sahota began to crawl out from behind the weight rack. Almost right away, Jericho's gaze landed on the bruise on his jaw, then trailed just below that, to the faint purples that ringed his throat.

More than just the visible wounds, he moved like he was in pain. Stiff and stilted and slow.

"What happened?" he murmured. He'd seen his Sahota banged up before, but it was so much more jarring to see it on this younger version.

The kid froze, wincing as he lowered himself into a seated position. "There... there was a break in."

Maybe that was why he was so jumpy. It made sense, especially if it was recent enough that he was still sporting injuries from it.

"Well, I can promise you I didn't break in," Jericho said lightly. "Vic... uh, Shepard invited me for my computer skills."

Sahota nodded, uncertainty on his face. "And you're not here for me at all?"

Back to that. What did it mean? Something in the way he said it was concerning, but instead of questioning it, Jer only shook his head. "I'm not. I didn't even know you'd be here."

He seemed to relax a little at that. "Okay."

One step in the right direction. Jer held out a hand, careful not to move too quickly.

"Want help getting somewhere comfier? Looks like you need some rest."

Sahota stared at his open palm. He didn't move to take it.

"We can stay here too, if you'd rather," Jericho offered. It wasn't a permanent solution. They couldn't stay in the gym forever, and this Sahota would eventually have to be introduced to the idea that he'd been displaced, either temporally or dimensionally. But... baby steps.

"If I come with you... what happens?"

Well, hopefully you take a nap. Maybe get an ice pack for those bruises. But Jer only shrugged. "I can probably make you some hot chocolate? Not sure if Vi-Shepard has all the ingredients, but I'll figure something out."

Tentatively, Sahota placed his hand in Jericho's. "Okay."

Whew. Another step. He stood slowly, letting Sahota put as much weight as he needed to on Jericho as he got to his feet.

"You can lean on me if you need to." He'd almost prefer to carry him, but he didn't want to overwhelm the kid. Sahota gave a short nod, but stayed an arm's length away, one hand wrapped around the crook of Jericho's elbow.

From here, they could head to the kitchen, and Jer would find a way to break the news about the whole time thing. And tell the rest of the team. And figure out how to tell Vic and Sahota that the latter's younger self had decided to swing by.

He had time to work all those out. For now, he had some hot chocolate to make.

×~×~×

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden , @snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa , @whumpcateyes , @clickerflight

[jessieren]

Ahh the morsetache plus the colour block pink t-shirt…

This was… umm…. a look

[greeneyed-thestral]

[deus-ex-mona]

lxl are the only ones who can get married twice and go on two honeymoons without being a canon couple (yet…?)

[miniscule-meow]

Something Unexpected (24)

Masterpost Wordcount: ~2.7k Warnings: Mentions of non-con touch? First Part | Last Part| Next Part (Soon)

---

Tucked inside Deckard’s pocket, Lark is sheltered from the majority of the action happening at the docks. There are more humans here than she’s ever experienced before, and she can tell that just based on the sound alone. Even compared to the lavish ball in the castle, where everybody who was anybody was in attendance. Even compared to the lively hall of the tavern, where anybody who was nobody gathered that very same night. Overwhelming would be an understatement. Just beyond one wall of fabric, the whole world.

That’s the sort of thing that makes a person feel awfully small.

There’s a whole wide world out there, more people than you can fathom, more places than you could dream up, and then there’s you. Huddled in the bottom of some bastard’s pocket, like a handful of spare change.  

The wide world outside her little pity-party is bustling. People are shouting, calling out to one another across the docks, living their lives to the fullest. As Deckard’s confident footfalls carry him forward, she’s able to hear snippets of passing conversations. Two ladies complimenting one another on their fashionable choice of hat. An awkward first date that might not be going so well, they pass by before she can really tell. A patron haggling with a seller over the price of the catch of the day, claiming that, by the smell of it, it might have been the catch of last week.

Despite herself, a smile blooms across her lips. Just judging by these bits and pieces of conversation, one might think that humans and fairies aren’t all that different after all. Ladies gossip about the latest trends. Young love takes its first, albeit shaky steps. Thrifty, or perhaps, frugal shoppers try to get the best deals. Such conversations she’s hearing now could easily be heard while walking through the markets back home.

Home.

The thought brings a sharp twinge of sadness to her. It reduces any mirth she finds here into something more bittersweet. She hasn’t felt a wave of wanting home this strongly in some time now. Or maybe it’s just that the constant want became overly familiar to her. The pain simply bled into the background, varnishing every situation that she’s found herself in since she left with a thin layer of homesickness. Like a fabric that’s off-white, but so close that you can’t truly discern the difference, until a closer match is placed by its side, she’s been feeling off, but couldn’t put her finger on it until this moment. That’s how she’s felt then, tea-stained. Steeped in misery.

Ugh, she’s waxing poetically again.

Flowery metaphor aside, she feels a fresh spike of loss thinking of home once more. It’s such an unfortunate thing, to be homesick for a place you can never return to.

Even if she could return, it would never be the same. She wouldn’t have the child-like innocence, or perhaps the better word would be naivety, that she possessed before. Never again would she be able to fly through the forest and race up to be the first to reach the highest branch. Even something as mundane as sharing laughter with her friends, that’s gone. All she’s left with are the people who’ve sent her to the wolves- no, it’s worse – they’ve sent her to the humans.  Her entire kingdom has turned their backs on her. But ask any one of them, they’ll probably tell you that she turned her back on the entire kingdom. Upon her return, the court would simply send her right back to the humans. She has a duty to fulfil after all. That’s the best-case scenario. The worst-case scenario would be… probably execution, if she had to guess. She has to be wanted for at least two different counts of treason at this point. Abandoning her people, toppling the treaty they’ve worked so hard for generations to establish, making an utter fool of herself, and of her kingdom. Her list of failures is starting to become more impressive than her list of accolades.

No, Ilek, the Fae Kingdom, that’s not her home anymore. It never will be her home again. She's grown to accept that.

And yet, she still aches.

The word home has almost lost meaning to her now. It’s supposed to be a respite. A place of warmth. Somewhere where you are surrounded by people who love you, and who care about you. Home is where the heart is, that’s what they say isn’t it? So, where then is her heart?

She doesn’t know.

She supposes her heart is… well, just right there in her chest. So, for now, home will have to be what she makes of it. That would be the optimistic approach anyway. Though it makes her wonder, is optimism supposed to leave this hollow sting in your chest like that?

She shouldn’t get all introspective like this. It never leads to anything good anyway. But when you’re stuck in a blasted pocket, it will give you plenty of time to think, and to think, and to overthink. And with that, there might come a little bit of introspection.

Lark sighs, and even stifled in the pocket, she can catch a hint of salt on the air. They must be getting close to the ocean. She shifts, desperately wishing she could see it for herself. There will be plenty of time for her to experience the ocean when they’re on a boat in the middle of it. She’s never seen the ocean before, and she’s never been on a boat before, but she imagines she’s about to be well acquainted with both of those things very soon now. When she asked Deckard about it, he talked about the salt in the air, and how the water reaches out to touch the sky, and how being on a boat can be one of the most terrifying and one of the most freeing feelings you could ever experience, all at the same time. Maybe for someone who can’t fly it is, but for her, the thought of being caught out in the middle of that much water just makes her grimace.

A gentle pressure forms around her from the outside of the pocket, pulling her in and making the cramped space even tighter. Her repositioning must have reminded Deckard that she’s there, causing him to place a hand over her.

“Almost there,” he murmurs. Likely due to her position in the inside pocket of his coat, his gentle voice cuts through the noise of the docks and vibrates straight through her. This feels weirdly intimate to her, practically snuggled against his chest. She knows that to him, it's nothing. The difference between placing a hand over her, and searching idly for his pocket watch would be virtually indistinguishable. There is no warmth in this gesture to him. She’s just another article littering his pockets. It’s dizzying to think that something could be so substantial to her, and be nothing more than a passing thought to him.

That’s the sort of thing that makes a person feel awfully small. Wait, she’s thought that before.

Well, maybe it’s just that when you are ‘awfully small’ it doesn’t take a lot for you to feel like it.

Deckard’s hand falls away, returning her containment from claustrophobic territory, back down into merely stifling.

“Oi, there he is then! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” A deep voice calls out.

“More like a sore in the eye, I’d say,” a woman’s voice laughs in return.

Lark’s about to go back to playing her game, imagining the lives of these strangers from the one sentence she hears from them in passing, when the rhythm of Deckard’s steady footfalls comes to a halt.

“Hey! Behave. Don’t you know you’re in the presence of a genuine member of the royal court here?” the first voice responds, barely containing his own amusement.

“Hm, I don’t know if court jester really counts as being a member of the court,” The two of them dissolve fully, and Deckard joins in, his chest rumbling with laughter. Lark finds herself tossed around and squished against the solid wall of Deckard’s chest as the three humans hug greetings to one another.

This simply punctuates the fact that though she is inside his pocket, she exists entirely outside this conversation.  Whoever these two are, they seem awfully happy to see Deckard.

“So, what brings you crawling back to us?” the deep voice asks teasingly. “Did the royals finally get tired of you and throw you out?”

“How much did you bet on that? I'm not answering unless i get a cut,” Deckard retorts with another laugh. “Really though, it’s the sort of story I’d like to tell after settling in, and getting a stiff drink.”

“Understood. Well, come on then,” the feminine voice chimes, and with that the three of them are off. Well, the three of them plus one stow-away fairy.

---

The steady sway of motion doesn’t cease once they leave the dock. At first, she thought it was just Deckard, but come to find out, this is just what being on a boat is like. An endless pushing and pulling, movement beyond your control. It’s interesting. She thought that there was no way a human could experience anything remotely similar to the loss of control that comes with being held in a pair of hands, but it seems as though this could be close. Close. It’s not like the ocean has a mind of its own, or dexterous fingers that could pinch and prod and manipulate and ravish you. Though, when on a boat you are subjected to the whims of the currents nonetheless.

It seems as though humans have a sense of awe for this sort of thing. Perhaps, it’s their hubris. They think there is some possibility of them feasibly taming the beast, the ocean. They think they could harness its power and wield it as their own. To that, she says, humans are thick, foolhardy creatures. She’s never seen it, but she can already tell, a human has as much of a chance at taming the ocean as she does at taming a human. It’s a truly laughable thought. And yet, humans seem to rejoice and to fear it altogether. Maybe they have a respect for its power. Maybe they find a way to work together. Maybe they set out into the middle of an uncaring void of wind and waves, and their little ships are crushed to bits, and dragged to the bottom of the ocean, and they’re never heard from again. Then, other humans see that and think, wow I can’t wait for my turn to try that. It’ll be different for me.

No, she does not think she likes the ocean. Not one bit.

She just wishes she could have reached that conclusion before being smuggled onto a ship.

“Alright so,” Deckard hesitates. “Well, you probably won’t believe me unless I just show you so… We’ll start here I guess.”

Her world shifts as he pulls at his coat, his fingers dip into the pocket, pulling it open enough for her to clamber up and fly out. Except she stays put. As much as she would relish in being out of this sweaty prison and into some fresh air… there are humans on the outside of this pocket. Her trust or mistrust of Deckard aside, being kept close to his heart is a good way to ensure her protection. One thing she can be certain of is that he’ll do what he can to save his own skin. Pulling her out in the open is another story entirely. If things went south, would he really do anything to help her?

At her hesitation, Deckard looks down, peering into the pocket. She looks up at him with wide eyes, seeing only a sliver of his face. A whisp of dark hair, a portion of a green eye, a furrowed brow.

“Come on,” he mumbles to her, before looking back at his friends, “Sorry, hold on.” The silence from across the table is palpable. She imagines what this must look like to someone on the outside. The picture of Deckard muttering into his pocket, he must look rather strange. “You’re fine, come on,” he says quietly, talking to her again. She shakes her head fervently. She can’t see much of him, but she would swear that he just rolled his eyes.

“Deck, did you hit your head on something recently?” The woman’s voice questions skeptically.

“No,” he huffs, “She’s being,” he starts to explain to his friends before turning the statement down to her, “You’re being dramatic.” After a pause, once it becomes apparent that she has no intention of leaving this pocket of her own accord, Deckard heaves a sigh and plunges his hand in after her. She sinks down, pressing herself against the bottom seam of the pocket as quickly as she can. She wishes desperately that she would have thought of ripping a hole in the bottom, something that would have given her a backup plan for escape. Instead, she’s quickly left with nowhere to go. His gargantuan fingertips brush against her, and once they found their quarry, she’s scooped up into their grasp. His fingers fumble around her, situating their grip on her, and she’s pulled from the safety of Deckard’s pocket, and placed out in the center of the table.

The ale in their mugs vibrate, indicating the motion of the ship. Lark keeps her wings tucked tight against her back, turning in a slow circle to observe these humans as much as they are observing her. Three human faces stare down at her. The girl, with a round freckled face and sandy blonde hair tossed up in a messy bun looks slack jawed. A man, with a deep skin tone and broad shoulders sits with his arms crossed against the table, he regards her with a look that’s some kind of mix of curiosity and apprehension. Then there’s Deckard, the smug bastard, showing off his little trinket to his friends. She doesn’t dare make eye contact with him.

Her hands grasp the fabric of her skirt, she doesn’t care if Deckard knows this as one of her ‘tells,’ she needs something to keep her grounded right now, or she might just combust. The mugs of ale, the idle chatter around the room, the humans looming above her. It was only yesterday she was somewhere nearly identical to where she stands now, and it was a nightmare. It was worse than a nightmare. Even in her dreams she hadn’t considered the vile depths of a human’s cruelty.

She can still feel the ghosts of their touch. Her body, pinched between calloused fingers, arms pinioned, limbs manipulated. Her skirts torn so they could ‘get a better look,’ If it wasn’t for Deckard stepping in, she could have been entirely disrobed in a matter of minutes. That is, if she didn’t drown in the pint of ale she was plunged into first.

Her heart hammers in her chest. Looking up at these humans, the line between memory and her current reality is blurred just enough for doubt and panic to jump electrically through her.

Deckard wouldn’t let something like that happen to her again, right?

He said he would keep her safe, didn’t he?

“Oh shit,” the blonde finally breathes, “you caught a pixie?”

A pixie?

“Excuse me?” Lark’s attention snaps to the woman, with that one word, her fear is discarded and replaced with a hot flash of anger. Her wings flare before she can think, and in a second, she’s hovering right in front of her face. The woman jerks back, surprise gracing her features. “I am not a pixie. I am obviously a fairy.” Larks feels her face growing warm. “Either you are horribly misinformed, or you are intentionally trying to slight me, and I simply will not stand for that.”

“Sorry. I- I didn’t think there was a difference?” the woman stammers, questioningly. Her eyes dart between Lark’s form and Deckard behind her.  

“You—” she gives the woman an incredulous look, “Of course there’s a difference!”

“Oh. Didn’t know,” she raises her hands in surrender, “I Didn’t know,” she repeats.

“Alright. Let’s rein it in,” Deckard says, “At least let’s get some introductions behind us before we start trying to stab anyone’s eyes out.”

[dribs-and-drabbles]

Is this giving anyone else 'Pisaeng and Kawi in the future' vibes?

[unironicallycringe]

I love taking a break from fandoms, then coming back like "hey! I should make friends by engaging with the TES fandom, ill reblog this funny thing I liked and add my thoughts" but realizing people on Tumblr are catty as fuck and will instead just instantly post about how your reblog irritated them lol alright tysm I am now Aware of what this space is like! got it! message received!

My sideblog is prob about to be blocked by half of Dark Brotherhood space but Malon and Lucien will keep me company here in the fucking exile zone

EXTREMELY FUNNY IF I WAS LIKE "I think I'll work on my DB fic and lore and put effort in that space--" THEN GOT SO TURNED OFF OF IT FROM THIS FIRST IMPRESSION THAT IT GOT ME TO UPDATE TMM FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS AHSHXBEHSV

[braceletofteeth]

What's a pretty 🌻 like you doing here in broad daylight?

[ohihopeicanchangethislater]

Physically I'm at work.

Mentally, I'm at An Unexpected Party, and Bilbo Baggins has just vanished into thin air.

[tv-writes-ff]

I read your fic Etched into Skin Like Scars and I really wanted to hear your thoughts on the Yomi/Shizuru ship. I read it and went "... WAIT CIRCLE BACK."

OMGGGGG

I FORGOT ABOUT THAT

honestly, i just love putting random characters together and seeing how they can fit together. anyone who has read my first yyh fic knows that i absolutely love yomi. i didn't expect to love his character as much as i did, but while writing that fic he somehow became one of my ultimate faves.

i headcanon that yomi can be cold, calculating, ruthless, and so on. i also believe that he has his own complicated moral code, that he's intelligent and loves acquiring knowledge, and that he wants someone to accept him and care for him. (youko really did a number on him.)

as for shizuru, she's had to be a caretaker and had massive responsibility on her shoulders since she was young. (which she was amazing at because kuwabara was raised into the best human being.) shizuru is intelligent, fierce, and independent.

how would they fit together? they'd be able to talk easily. long intelligent conversations, debates about different cultures and life philosophies. yomi would also do little things for shizuru, nothing like a grand gesture but remembering that one tea she liked or the flowers that she always stops to admire. looking after her without being overbearing. shizuru would do things to take care of him in subtle ways, speaking quieter when she can tell his sensitive hearing is causing a headache or vividly describing the places she's been since they last met. shizuru would also loudly defend anyone that spoke against yomi, and gods help whoever thinks they can badmouth the human woman because he will hear it and retaliate.

[darabeatha]

@zangyo replied : for ozy it is a secret (not really)

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ ―eeeeeehhh?? is that for me? No don't worry, I'll save you the trouble then, rider.❞ -YOINKS chocolates from his hands-

[deus-ex-mona]

series i’m gatekeeping from my family vs series i’m ✨ok✨ with my family knowing i’m into:

[a-url-that-exists]

curious so

reblog for sample size!

[miniscule-meow]

Something Unexpected (23)

Word Count: ~2.6k

Warnings: Brief mentions of non-con touch

First Part | Last Part | Next Part

~*~

“No. Absolutely not,” she says as assertively as she can muster.

“Oh, come on—” He starts, going to explain it again or beg her. She cuts him off.

“Deckard. I’m not doing it,” she crosses her arms, “it’s humiliating,” she adds with a pout.

“Well do you want to get out of here or not, princess,” he hisses with a new level of desperation. It’s as if this is the first time that he’s considering she actually might refuse his plan.

His plan.

She had promised to hear him out about it, and especially after last night she felt like she owed it to him. She was having trouble sleeping. Every time she closed her eyes, she would just see massive human’s their faces leering around her, their laughter shaking her to her core as they manhandled her. They turned her this way and that. Their calloused fingers wandering across her body, exploring her, and ripping apart her clothes to make sure they could find all of her.

Deckard stayed up with her, telling her the plot of that play he was in back at the engagement party. Her engagement party. It was the only part of the evening that she was actually enjoying until His Majesty decided he had had enough of it and took her away. She pestered Deckard to tell her about it, and he eventually did. He spoke with her until she fell asleep. It was actually nice of him to do that. So sure, the least she could do is listen to his plan.

The plan is every bit as stupid as she thought it was going to be. The way he sees it is they’ll join a traveling group of performers with some sort of act. Something that involves her. This will eventually get them to Gyldredale, a kingdom that is rumored to have open arms to all sorts of beings, human, fairy or otherwise, and everyone can live happily ever after and frolic into the sunset. It’s stupid.

“I just don’t see how this is anything more than a scheme for you to make a quick bit of coin,” she says, scowling up at him.

“Well, hey,” an easy smirk spreads across his face, “that’s certainly a plus.”

 “Everyone will be… looking at me,” she says with a frown.

“Exactly, and they won’t be looking at me,” he has the audacity to wink at her.

“Deckard,” she says, venom coursing through her tone and she tries to glare at him as ferociously as possible.

“Listen. If you want to get to Gyldredale, we have to join the caravan. It’s a group of traveling performers. We have to have an act,” he explains it to her again.

“So why can’t you just do your magic tricks, and leave me out of it,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“If we did that, you would have to be totally hidden, the whole time. That would suck. What would you do, stay in a little shoe box in my luggage? Be stuffed in my pocket the whole time? We’re going to be out there for weeks! If you’re a part of the act, you won’t have to be a stowaway. It’ll actually be more comfortable for you, believe it or not,” he says.

“I thought the whole point was for me to stay hidden,” she grumbles, not wanting to admit that he’s right, being a stowaway would be claustrophobic and dreadful.

“Sure. Hidden in plain sight,” he says with a proud grin.

“That’s ridiculous,” she mutters under her breath.

“We just need to give you a good disguise,” he says, and she doesn’t like his smile, like he’s excited to play dress up with her.

“I don’t see the point. They know they’re looking for a fairy.”

“You could just be a different fairy,” he shrugs.

“A different fairy that just so happened to turn up alongside one of the crown’s lead players. I’m pretty sure I tried something like that, and it didn’t even work on you.”

“Maybe I’m just very smart,” he says, lifting his chin haughtily.

“That’s probably not it,” she shakes her head, but she can’t help herself from laughing as he gasps and feigns offence at her words. “Do you really think it could work?” she asks cautiously.

“Yes, I do,” he nods, boldly confident.

“I suppose…. Is a disguise really necessary though. Aside from my wings, I don’t think any human paid enough attention to me to be able to tell what I look like,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. It seems pointless to change her appearance for someone that might not be able to tell the difference either way.

“Lark, you’re small, not invisible,” he says, giving her a strange look.

“I know, but I mean. I know people can see me. I just don’t think any human really took any time to actually look at me. Like I said, they know I’m a fairy. Aside from that, I don’t think anyone’s ever cared.”

“I know what you look like,” he offers, his tone is surprisingly genuine. “But I pay attention,” he says, his familiar ego immediately making an appearance once more.

“Doesn’t count. You’re looking at me right now,” she shakes her head.

“Alright, let’s see,” a sly smirk spreads across his face. He turns around, pointedly averting his gaze. “Easy stuff first. You have wings, duh. They’re a semi-translucent kind of… off-white color. They are thin, like thinner than paper-thin, thin. But they’re glossier than a butterfly’s wing. The top of…. It would be your left… the top of your left wing is an emerald-green, and black. It was a piece of a butterfly wing, so it’s more matte compared to the rest of your wings. You’re a red head. Long hair. It’s not quite curly, but it’s definitely wavy. Your eyes are green, you’ve got freckles all across your face, and your ears are pointed. You don’t like being alone, but you do like to pretend like you don’t enjoy my company. You frequently try not to smile, and you often get this look on your face that looks like you’re trying to stab me with your eyes. And, your face gets red, and you fidget with your skirts when you get nervous or flustered,” he turns back to her, his eyes flicking down, scanning her for her reaction. Her face is bright red, and sure enough, she’s balled some of her skirt into her fists at her sides. “How’d I do?” he asks, wearing that infuriatingly smug grin. With a huff she quickly smooths out the fabric she was holding in her tight fists.

“Fine. Point taken,” she mumbles, looking away from him. “What are you thinking for a disguise?”

“Well, we can do something to change your hair. Cut it short, maybe dye it. Then we can paint your wings to—” her scandalized gasp stops him in his tracks, “I mean we could do it in a way that you could still fly. It wouldn’t be permanent,” he explains.

“You know how to do that?” she questions.

“I am very confident that I could figure it out,” he replies.

“That’s not a yes,” she says with a grimace. When she doesn’t voice any further concerns, he carries on, though she does continue to eye him warily.

“We could give you a stage name too. Like… Rose or… Sparrow or… I don’t know some other kind of flower, or bird or something,” he says, nodding as he fits together the details in his mind. She rolls her eyes with a sigh.

“It’s a bad plan,” she says after a long moment.

“It’s better than no plan. We can’t stay here. They’ve certainly noticed you’re missing by now, it’s only a matter of time before they start searching and checking the people that were in attendance. If you have a better plan, I’m all ears. Oh! Can you sing? People would love that.”

Lark huffs exasperated as Deckard rambles on about different acts they can do. It seems like her choices have been made for her. It’s either, follow Deckard’s stupid plan for a chance to get to somewhere safe. Or she can stay here and wait to be caught again.

~*~

Lark holds her breath as his gigantic fingers touch against her wings, smearing a strong-smelling goo all over them. She doesn’t know what is worse, this, or when he cut her hair. The cold tip of the scissors delicately grazed against the back of her neck as he positioned himself to lob off her long locks of hair, giving her a crude bob.

 If you would have told her a week ago that a human was going to hold a blade that close to her neck, she would have been certain it was going to be for a beheading.

But even then, in a position where one careless movement could have cost her head, she can’t say she was more terrified than she is now. She squeezes her eyes shut, just waiting for him to be done already.

If you would have told her a week ago that a human was going to touch her wings like this … she would have asked for the beheading.

What if he tears her wing. What if he decides to try and rip it off. What if he-

“Alright,” he says pulling away, “I’m done, you can breathe again.” He wipes his hands on a rag and looks down at her with a quirked eyebrow.

“You’re--” her voice comes out tight and shaking. She clears her throat and tries again, “You’re done?”

“Yeah. Although, you shaking the whole time really didn’t make it easy,” he says, his eyes trace over her form. His expression gives her the impression that he thinks she's being overdramatic.

“I … you could have killed me. Or- or with my wings… worse than killed me. You know that, right?” She looks up at him with wide eyes, flicking her wings nervously. They feel weird with the dye on them.

“Well, did I?” He asks.

“No,” she says quietly after a moment. In all honestly, the process, though nerve-wrecking, it didn’t hurt at all.

“There you go then,” he says with a sharp nod. “I really don’t know what else I have to do to prove to you that I’m not interested in hurting you or ruining your life,” he says. She just shrugs and gives a despondent shake of her head in reply. He sighs, “That has to stay on for a while. So just… sit tight.” He leaves her be as the dye processes.

While she’s waiting, she puts together a new dress for herself using the bodice from her ripped gown, and a piece of one of Deckard’s handkerchiefs as the skirt. By the time she’s finished, she’s ready to wash the dye out of her hair, and off her wings. Deckard comes by with a bowl of warm water and a hand towel for her, setting it behind a book for privacy like he had the other night. She washes until the water runs clear, trying her best to avoid getting any dye on her skin. She dries off, and puts on her not-so-new, but certainly improved, dress. When she catches sight of herself in the mirror on Deckard’s dresser, she stills.

Her hands tremble as she reaches up to touch the short, choppy hair that now hangs above her shoulders. The color is dark, almost black. It deeply contrasts her pale features, and makes her eyes appear more piercing in a way she’s not entirely sure she likes. She turns and looks at her wings. They’re darker as well. The green tip of her wing is nearly all black now, the details more hidden with the dark coloration, while the rest of her wings have taken on a translucent murky grey hue. Her eyes drift to her dress. The stitches around her midsection are thick, and unnatural. It’s nothing like the fine craftsmanship that was used to originally construct the garment. The cream color of her new skirt contrasts with the light blue, and the fabrics are completely different in texture, but it’s better than the tattered mess the dress used to be.

All in all, she’s completely unrecognizable. When she looks back to her face, she finds tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. She wipes them away quickly as Deckard approaches. He was stuffing clothes and things into a large duffle bag which he leaves on the bed when he comes over to look at her.

“Well. You definitely look different,” he says, nodding in approval of his handiwork. As soon as he says that, something breaks in her. She knows it’s stupid, but her gentle tears turn into full body sobs. Through her tears, she sees Deckard stiffen, his hand slowly shifts towards her. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Any time she’s upset, he reaches for her. Like that will ever do anything more than spike her heartrate and cause her instincts to scream.

Her wings are too wet to be useful, so she just swiftly turns and darts back behind the makeshift privacy wall. As she runs past it, the book wobbles, and begins to fall. She lets out a small shout, bracing for pain, but Deckard’s reflexes are faster. His massive hands shoot forward, and he fumbles to catch the book before it topples over on her. She sees his fingers wrapping around the pages, and he yanks the book to himself. He looks down at her with wide eyes, she struggles to hold herself together as now she’s even more embarrassed than she was just a moment ago.

“Hey, it’s okay princess, you’re still pretty,” he offers with a small grin, trying to make her feel better.

“Deckard,” she forces the words out, her voice quivering, “You’re not helping. I just- I just need a second.”

“Right. Sure.” He places the book back between them, his hands hovering an extra moment to make sure it’s stable. “I’m going to uh, finish packing,” he says, obviously feeling awkward. Behind the book, she’s already crumpled to the floor.

Eventually, she manages to pull herself together enough to step back out from behind the book. Deckard is zipping up his duffle bag. He must catch her movement out of the corner of his eye because he turns and offers a gentle smile.

“Princess, I know you don’t want to do this,” he says stepping over to the dresser. “Honestly, I don’t really want to be in this situation either. But if we are going to get through this, and actually get you somewhere safe, this is just how it has to go. I just wanted to let you know that… I’m not going to let anything happen to you. It might not mean much, but I’m giving you my word. Okay?” He places his hand down flat on the dresser, an invitation for her to step on.

“What if you’re lying,” she frowns at his hand, nervously balling her skirt in her fists by her sides, then stopping herself as she remembers that he notices stuff like that.

“I’m not.” It’s all he says in response. She really wants to believe him, that he’s going to whisk her away to her happily ever after, and nothing bad is going to happen to her. It just seems so unlikely. He’s right, “his word” doesn’t mean much to her, not after he’s lied to her so many times now. She’s simply more afraid of her other options. It’s enough for her to step up onto his waiting hand. His fingers curl in around her in response to her settling down into the center of his palm.

“Now listen,” he says, lifting her slowly. “We’re going to have to get pretty close for the next few weeks. So, just try not to fall in love with me… if you can manage it.” He winks at her, grinning his devilish lopsided grin, and slips her into his pocket before she has a chance to protest.