#that's absurd thank you

[milfbro]

gonna do my upper body workout listening to P.I.M.P. so that I can get the strength to push my garbage failhusband over the ledge while holding a very large piece of wood and htting him over the head with it to his death

[ooliecat]

the cake was a lie

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Fifteen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: ANGST... that's about the only major warning I can think of

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Jurian and Vassa took the attic and became scarce, but when night and day slid into one another you still heard her painful screams, muffled as they were by the magic that encased their room. It was a feeling more than anything else. A tension that gripped the House until it seemed to be sobbing. At sunrise and sunset without fail, Vassa’s body broke and rearranged itself, flesh turning to feathers and feathers to flesh. Before it had been a painless process where her body came and went in its various forms, but no longer. Now she felt everything alongside an itch deep within her bones that couldn’t be satiated by food or drink or anything else. 

Go to the lake! Her body screamed. Go to Koschei! And then punished her when she didn’t comply. Like a beast had sunk its claws into her flesh, its waiting mouth only inches away from snapping. To stay away was a slow, agonizing march to death. To move close would be swift, but final, and somehow Vassa knew that if she gave into Koschei’s call, she would be lost forever.

You lingered at the base of the attic's staircase, your bare feet sinking into the soft rug until the sounds of cracking bones finally ceased. Three pairs of feet shuffled above your head and you heard Jurian’s faint whispers like a gentle push of air. When the door opened and Lucien emerged, you saw Vassa crumpled on the floor, now a bone-thin woman with dull, coppery hair and skin ravaged by scratches and pockmarks. 

“Shhhh. It’s ok.” Jurian whispered, encasing her in his arms. 

“I can’t,” her voice trembled. “It hurts. I-I-I’m burning.” 

“Y/n?” Lucien frowned. The door slammed shut with a bang and you jumped backwards. You clutched a velvet pouch close to your chest and then slowly held it out to Lucien. 

“It’s for Vassa,” you explained, trying to keep your eyes on his mismatched ones — one russet as river stones, one gold like the sun. He opened the bag and stared in confusion at the fine, white powder within, giving it a tentative sniff. “Morphine. Humans use it for pain.” 

“I know of it.” Lucien’s frown deepened. “They get addicted. Take too much and they die.” 

“She’s already addicted. That’s what’s happening isn’t it? Koschei’s drawing his power away to get her to return to the lake and every day that passes she’s dying.” Lucien tightened his fists around the bag, still skeptical. Vassa had endured enough. He didn’t want to have her endure this either. “The bag is enchanted and will never allow her to draw too much. Just enough to calm her hunger. If we’re lucky it might help her sleep too.” 

Lucien stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists from around the gold drawstring, waiting for Vassa’s cries to cease. But they never did. And there you were standing in front of him, unwavering and expectant. There was a glimmer of stubbornness in your gaze. A sign of the hours you’d spent researching Vassa’s condition and acquiring the strange human drug, and your disapproval if Lucien didn’t accept it. 

“Thank you, Y/n,” he whispered, “But please go. Vassa hates for anyone to see her like this. Even Jurian and I.” 

You swallowed thickly and nodded, disappearing down the stairs as quickly as you could. The next morning when the sun rose over the mountains and Vassa changed, you heard only the House’s usual breathings. 

The House buckled under the weight of the Inner Circle’s secrets and the sheer volume of history that had occurred within its walls and between its occupants. It utilized its magic in clever ways — your door opened with a creak that wasn’t there before so that Azriel would always hear your comings and goings. Lucien would suddenly find his door locked and the curtains drawn on the days when Helion made surprise visits to see Y/n. Nyx would find himself ushered around by a broomstick that swatted his ankles when the adults were discussing private matters. It was all a great deal of work. 

So it was a relief when Rhys and Feyre quietly moved their children to the House of Wind with Nesta and Cassian, and when Mor and Emerie took the final steps in emptying their rooms and went to hide out in their city apartment. It was even more of a relief when Helion returned to the Day Court, but not before throwing a heavy threat in Azriel’s face that if he should ever hurt his daughter again in any way, shape, or form, he’d strip the wings off his back. 

Meals at the House were tense, quiet affairs, something not even Feyre, Elain, and Nesta’s sisterly conversations or Cassian’s light-hearted humor could ease. Elain stayed close to Lucien’s side, one hand always on his arm or resting against his back or brushing against his, but that didn’t erase what the Blood Duel had done to his trust in Elain. He was kind, but guarded, especially when Azriel was in the room. But it was more than she could ask for because it was more than she’d ever given him in the beginning. 

You and Azriel were worse off.

You were speaking once more, but your words were always laced with a bit of apprehension and Azriel’s were always filled with sorrowful hope. Conversations were dull, short, and didn’t even begin to brush the surface of all the things you should have been talking about. You were terrified not of the Shadowsinger, but of his opinion of you. Did he want you so he could fix you? So that he could feel needed? So that you could be another one in a list of females he burned through? 

It never truly seemed like that was the case, but you also didn’t trust yourself when it came to your emotions. You had told him once that you couldn’t imagine having a love like Feyre and Rhysand’s, or Nesta and Cassian’s, and you still meant it. You were a matchstick and he was flint, and you didn’t know what would happen to you after he had lit you aflame. For all you knew, you were already burning and this wonderful thing you’d had with Azriel would live and die with nothing more than the memory of an embrace in Rhysand’s office to show for it. 

But oh how you ached to touch him again. To hold him like you had before and to have him return the gesture just as strongly. 

You stiffened when Azriel’s hand brushed your arm, warmth bursting out from the point of contact. 

“I’m sorry.” Azriel whispered, and he was talking about more than the wine he spilled when he reached over the table.

You spared him a glance, the first real look you’d given him in two weeks. The flagon slipped from his hands, and if it weren’t for his shadows catching it an inch above the floor, the room would have been doused in burgundy red. 

“Does Lucien know?” 

Rhysand looked up from his papers. Missives from the Darkbringer army and Illyrian troops up north clogged his desk, all begrudgingly accepting his orders to prepare for what could amount to another lengthy war. Letters thrown back and forth between the seven courts added to the chaos, all of them war-weary and desperate for a path that wouldn’t lead to bloodshed. 

You took up the center of his room and stood so quietly he hadn’t even noticed you until you spoke. It had been eating away at you for days since Lucien’s arrival. Every time you two saw one another or spoke, you tried to scrounge for clues that would reveal whether he knew he was Helion’s son and whether he might suspect you were Helion’s daughter as well. The other members of the Inner Circle had been tight-lipped about that secret, a skill you now knew they all possessed with alarming dexterity. 

“Does Lucien know he’s Helion’s son?”

Rhysand slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temples with one careful hand. Finally he said, “Yes.” 

The answer knocked the breath from your lungs. You’d been expecting the opposite. “Does he… does he know about me?” 

Rhys sighed and shook his head. You didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. 

“How long has he known?” 

“Six years. Feyre was the one to tell him. She was actually the first of us to recognize the similarity, believe it or not. But then, no one ever dared to give weight to the rumors surrounding Helion and Aurelia Vanserra while Beron was alive.”

You rocked back and forth on your feet, breath shaking as it entered your body. “Six years. Six years and you never thought to tell Helion that he has a son? I thought you two were friends?”

Rhysand tensed. “I’m Lucien’s friend as well and he begged us to never speak of it - to live as though we’d never learned that secret. And I keep my secrets. We all do.” 

“You and your family have made that very clear in the time that I’ve been here.” 

“If you mean Azriel—”

“Don’t play dumb, Rhys, you know I’m talking about him.” Tears pricked at your eyes, adding to the humiliation that had coated you like a film ever since you’d seen his memories about Mor, Elain, and Gwyn. “I don’t—” You swallowed thickly, “I can imagine how you must have all been whispering behind my back about Azriel and I. How you must have found it so pathetic the way he charmed me when I was really his fourth choice.”

“That’s not true.” Was what Rhysand was going to say. But he didn’t need to. Azriel said it for him. 

Your face lost all color, any bravado melting away at the feeling of Azriel’s shadows wrapping around your ankles like ribbons of silk. You could feel him in the room and that quiet darkness he carried around with him as inherently as if it were stitched onto his body. 

Azriel was shaking. Shaking. With anger, turmoil, or grief — you couldn’t name it. All you knew is that one moment you were standing in Rhysand’s office, all velvet upholstery and suave, expensive taste, and the next you were in Azriel’s room. 

Everything smelled like mountain air. Maybe it was the gothic windows that stretched into the vaulted ceilings, stained glass opening out onto a personal balcony with deep blue curtains fluttering in the breeze. But you were sure that even with the windows barred it would smell the same. It would smell like Azriel. If you threw open his wardrobe you’d come face to face with a wall of black. Lots and lots of black. Black suits he hardly ever wore. Black fighting leathers. Black leather jackets for everyday. Black trousers. Black boots on the floor. Very practical. Very Azriel. 

If you dug through his dresser drawers you’d find black boxers and socks to match and no shortage of knives and daggers hidden behind wooden planks or in leather sleeves nailed to the bottom of his desk. But at first glance you only saw three weapons in plain view — Truth Teller, blade down and stuck in the wood grain of his desk beside a pile of reports, and two obsidian blades hanging from the wall beside his midnight blue bed in the shape of an “x.” 

The smell — Azriel’s smell — calmed you, at least up to the point where you turned to find him standing less than six inches away, hazel eyes boring into yours. Then your pulse skyrocketed. You were certain that if he only looked down to your heart he’d see it pounding against your chest like a drum skin ready to burst. 

“That’s not true,” he repeated earnestly. “And don’t you dare believe it. Not even for a second.” 

His eyes jumped back and forth between yours and before he could stop himself, his hands were grasping yours in a gentle hold. The leather gloves were soft and supple beneath your fingertips. You wanted to rip them off so you could feel his scarred hands again. 

“You weren’t meant to hear that,” you whispered, suddenly feeling small. That angry humiliation went up in a puff of smoke and left you shy and uncertain. 

Azriel gripped your hands a little tighter and you watched as tendrils of shadow worked their way up your arms and got lost in your hair. “But I did,” he said breathlessly, “And I need you to know that it’s not true.” 

“Azriel—”

“I know—” he was shaking his head, “I know what Helion said and I won’t lie and tell you that I’m perfect or that I’ve made any smart decisions about love in the past — I’ve not make a single one — but… but Y/n you’re not a fourth choice. You’re not something broken that I’m trying to fix or some fantasy I’ve fallen for.”

His hands shook and despite the gloves his hands still felt sticky and wet. Slick with your blood. The burning scent of iron in his nose.

“You’re the most real thing in the world to me. You’re—” You’re my mate. The words crawled up his throat like acid and it just felt wrong. He would say those words to you. He would. But not now. Not like this. He came up with something else. “Y/n, please tell me you believe me. Please.”

And there you were. Falling all over again. Burning like a matchstick on fire. The flames slowly eating away at you bit by bit. You wondered what would happen when you finally hit the ground, or when you ran out of length. Would he still hold you like this? Would you still feel real to him? 

“How am I meant to know, Azriel?” 

You’d always been good at books. You knew the ways in which these stories worked where the themes and plot points had been preordained and written with the purpose of being tied up in a neat package by the final page. People were very different. They were unpredictable and chaotic and they could lie through the skin of their teeth and believe they were telling the truth. And that was the problem wasn’t it? Because you still believed every word that came out of Azriel’s mouth, and his hands still felt like they were keeping you tethered to this earth when sometimes your powers and the memories that came with them made you feel like a whisper on the wind. Weightless and at the mercy of something you couldn’t control. 

“You can trust me. You can know for yourself.” 

He pressed your hand against his cheek and you wanted to cry at the faint pricks of stubble beneath your skin and the sharp curve of his jaw. 

He wanted you to use your power on him. He wanted you to learn all the ways he wanted you. All the ways he loved you.  

But you couldn’t do it. 

Azriel panicked when you remained silent, staring at him and at his hands like you were frightened. All at once he was back on the streets of Velaris, cobblestones shaving away at the skin of his palms as he dragged his way up to you inch by bloody inch, fighting against a body that was too broken to move. 

He couldn’t remember what it felt like when he’d stabbed you through the chest and dropped you on the street. Everything between the moment he saw Andrian’s clear-cut eyes to the moment he saw Rhysand’s horrified gaze was fuzzy and dark. But that made it worse because now in his nightmares he could imagine all the ways he’d hurt you, each version teeming with the same level of horror and possibility as the previous one. 

He let you go and hated himself when you stepped back, your hand slipping away. 

“I won’t… I won’t hurt you again, Y/n. I swear on my life. I’ll-I’ll make a bargain, I don’t care. I would sooner die than let something like that happen again.” 

I don’t know what I’d do with that kind of love. If I’d be able to handle it. It might be too much for me.

“Y/n, please.”

 I am not broken. But I am afraid. 

You fled from his bedroom. 

The air had a bite to it now with winter descending. The snow line on the mountains dipped lower and lower each day, creeping like ivy down a brick wall. 

Elain never wore gloves. Not when she was gardening. It was something she and Ione had in common. She liked the feeling of her strong hands, the callouses on her palms and fingers that she’d earned all on her own. She grunted, slamming her shovel into the soil and feeling the microscopic chips of ice give way when she kicked down on the blade. It was too late in the season to be planting tulip bulbs. If she’d been in Velaris she would have done this four weeks ago. But it was alright with her. She knew the value of hard work, and she had enough hope for the future to believe that even though she was late, she’d have something beautiful to call hers come springtime. 

“It’s time for that conversation I was telling you about,” she said cryptically, as was her way. 

Lucien dropped the final basket beside where Elain now knelt in the dirt, her pale pink dress dirtied and littered with her own handprints. The brown bulbs rolled around like oversized chestnuts, the kind that he’d be roasting over a fire right now if he were still in Autumn Court. Instead he was here, lingering in a Court that had never felt like home. Then again… he’d never felt at home in Autumn, Spring, or the Human Lands either. 

He straightened up and wiped his hands clean on his trousers, golden and russet eyes trailing over the River House’s grounds for this mysterious person he was meant to speak to.

There. 

The faint swishing of black robes behind a dark green topiary tree. He should have known Elain had been talking about you. 

You cracked your knuckles and rehearsed the words you’d scribbled out earlier that day and then set to fire in a maddening loop. You’d been restless with the truth of Lucien’s parentage and you couldn’t believe that the others had held their tongues so readily. As it was, without Azriel’s company to help quiet your mind, you’d dug into this new piece of information like a starving animal and couldn’t let go.

Was this a good time to tell him? Would there ever be a good time to tell him? You had no idea. 

Somewhere in the attic, you knew Vassa was itching to take to the skies like the burning comet she was. Every night she shivered in Jurian’s arms, the morphine barely able to take the edge off the humming in her bones, and every morning she let him lock her away in her cage. It was getting worse and worse trying to keep her from succumbing to Koschei’s influence. Even now you thought you could hear her keen cries whistling from the attic like ten thousand arrows launched into the air. 

Somewhere else, in a secret, hidden place you knew nothing about, Andrian had finally been imprisoned. Andrian with his bent neck and silver, candy-floss hair and bloody little hands. 

You shivered and jumped back five feet when Lucien called your name, kind eyes narrowed in concern. His shirt was loose and open and the sweat on his body rose like mist off his skin. He was his mother’s son first, Helion’s child second, and fire still ran through his veins. The chill did not touch him. 

He tipped his head to the side, red hair spilling out from the messy way he’d tied it up and away from his face. A brutal scar ran through his eye like a fissure, starting at the center of his brow before clawing its way down his jaw like a lightning strike frozen in time. But for all the cruelty he’d been dealt with in life, his eyes were gentle, even the mechanical one that whirred and flashed in the sun. 

They were even kinder when he looked at you. You with your inquisitive gaze and curious nature, like a stray cat that couldn’t help but linger too long at doorways. One foot inside, one foot ready to run and hide. He’d caught you watching him at dinners, and he’d catch himself staring when you walked around the house with a book in your hand, so utterly absorbed that you would bump against doorways and bang your hips against sharp corners. 

“Elain told me about you. Did you know that?” 

You blinked in surprise. “What did she say?”

“Elain… Elain doesn’t always speak clearly. Much of what comes out of her mouth can feel eerie or discomforting. But, she told me before we left for the Night Court that I would be happy I came. That I would never regret the things I learned on my trip.” He tilted his head even further, looking more and more like a fox with each turn of his face. “And she mentioned a bird. A bird with ink-tipped wings and eyes like a crow.” 

You flexed your fingers, well aware that the tips were smudged with ink, the nails bitten down to the quick. 

“Someone clever and cautious who’d been hidden away their whole life and needed to see the sun.” 

You felt stripped bare. That strange vulnerability that comes with being summed up in so few words had you feeling airy. Like one sentence could be enough to carry the weight of the three centuries you’d lived and never buckle. 

“I know you’re Helion’s son. I recognized it the moment I saw you.” 

Lucien stepped back, scarlet brows shooting up into his hair with alarm.

You hesitated, then continued on cautiously. “I recognized it because I would know my father’s face anywhere.” 

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

I KNOW IT'S A CLIFFHANGER ENDING BUT I NEEDED TO BREAK EVERYTHING INTO CHAPTERS SOMEWHERE AND I'M GOING TO TRY AND GET CHAPTER 16 UP BY WEDNESDAY SO I DON'T LEAVE Y'ALL HANGING FOR TOO LONG. HAVE MERCY!!!

The good news is that Chapter 16 is already mostly written, I just need to edit it all to make sure things flow smoothly. Also, LUCIEN KNOWS NOW AHHHHHHHHHHHH

Sorry for the Azriel angst... but it's delicious, no?

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

A gift horse for @piosplayhouse

[psicheanima]

the community demands angel being harassed at work by MAKIMA

The people get what they want

[dykecubes]

Tazercraft mental link but make it a lil bit weird, they’ll have a conversation mostly in their heads but partially out loud which from an outside perspective is just fragments of words and half sentences, they go dead silent for hours at a time only for them to suddenly start shouting out loud, very clearly mid-argument, Pac says something but it comes out of Mike’s mouth, Mike starts speaking with his mouth and finishes speaking with Pac’s, sometimes their thoughts become so tangled that they’re unsure who a thought belongs to so they both express it at the same time like horror movie twins, do you see my vision

[universesrising]

shows up late to the server meeting with starbucks

-

hello hermitcraft fandom have the only image i will ever draw of the funny minecraft doofuses

my eyes hurt why did i go nuts with the shading

image i struggled greatly to reference:

[neosatsuma]

I looked it up at last and they do look very different but I’m still on Stephen’s side, actually. Jack can’t expect anybody who’s not a hardcore sailhead to know these things. Plus, it was for a dish and not for actually going and getting real ropes where there are consequences if you use the wrong one on the wrong part of a ship.

HARDCORE SAILHEAD... man you're SO right though, Stephen is vindicated in the hypothetical AITA that he would never ask because he knows he's right like why would he know that. how would he notice it looked off at the one millionth scale size of like 2 inches long painted on a plate. My man is so valid and I shall be memorizing that entire paragraph in his honor

[thegreatyin]

two of them!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[lil-shiro]

BRITISH GP 24' - july 7, 2024 (Zak Mauger/LAT Images via Getty)

[niinnyu]

Here's why I think the Gojo bait is not great writing and why you should maybe think so too (Spoilers till jjk 260).

We've spent the last few chapter consistently establishing a few things about our protagonist (Yuuji) and our antagonist(Sukuna).

1. Yuuji's father's soul is a reincarnation of Sukuna's twin: This instantly creates a connection between Sukuna and Yuuji.

As if you needed one outside of Sukuna's constant mockery of his former vessel's lack of "competance", and that most of yuuji's biggest losses can be attributed to Sukuna, building his wrath brick by brick. But surely adds to it all.

2. Yuuji feels incredibly lonely right now: Anyone he's created any sort of meaningful (?) Bond with outside of just 'hey you're an ally I can fight alongside with' is currently either dead or greatly incapacitated.

3. Also ofc the absolute damage that Yuuji has started incurring on sukuna. Damage that the slew of sorcerors before him couldn't. Forget about everyone teaching him abou love, Yuuji will show him Burning Rage.

This while also having hinted at Yuuji being possibly strong enough to do so on his own. He can go head to head with the King Of Curses with or without the help of his fellow sorcerors once he is able to harness this power.

Anything that was Gojo vs Sukuna feels absolutely irrelevant with the build up that Gege themself has been creating through the past few chapters.

Gojo's form right at the end of the chapter undercuts the pacing completely. Readers are more interested in those last 2 panels of Gojo which are completely removed from and rather jarring to the buildup between Yuuji and Sukuna. Fan interest in Gojo isn't their fault because that's what the chapter makes you focus on.

The only way I see this continue the buildup is if this is somehow Yuuji's doing or done with his knowledge, in which case it'd have been better to end the chapter by showing that Yuuji is aware of it and has an ace up his sleeve, bringing it back to the 2 relevent characters, and for people to stew in what Yuuji could be up to for a week.

But no matter what Gojo's visage there means, Yuuji in this moment has been so greatly undermined, not by his lack of strength, not by Sukuna outright demeaning him, but by the writing itself. By Gege.

And oh, how Yuuji deserves better.

[waketoearth]

HAPPY JAY DAY 2024 !!!

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Though We're Strangers 'Til Now

And now for something completely different! Now I want you guys to do me a favour here, and I need you to picture this fic as having like, a BBC Saturday night family show budget. I’m specifically talking Atlantis, but if you’ve not seen Atlantis (like most people), think Merlin. I wrote Edwin and Charles’ voices entirely as I’d write them in canon-verse, with nearly no regard to the fact I was transplanting them into ancient Greece, so it’s VERY important to me that you embrace the Camp. This is a styrofoam dungeon. Charles is about to meet his destiny in a labyrinth that’s just a quarry in Wales. The historical outfits all have zips up the back. Get on board with the vibe. This one goes out to @every-moment-a-different-sound, who not only made me aware of Painland week as a thing but also approached me for a collab! Go check out their FUCKING GORGEOUS GIFS for this fic!!! This fic quite literally wouldn’t exist without them, Robin you fuckin' rule 💛 4.7k, T-rated, also available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

The dungeon was a proper dingy place. Charles wondered if that's where they got the name from. Dingy, dungeon. Too similar to be a coincidence, right?

Lying on his back on the hard wood pallet, head on his hands, he stared at the pale moonlight bleeding through the window. 'Window' was being a bit generous; it was more of a slit in the wall. Narrow, barred, so high he could've stood on tiptoes and barely brushed it with his fingertips. But at least it was big enough to let in that light. He supposed he was lucky. Between the sliver of moonlight and the sputtering candle in the hallway past the wall of bars, he was bloody spoiled. He didn't know exactly where they were sending him tomorrow, but he had a pretty strong hunch that it would be dark. The kind of dark that drove men mad. Maybe the madness would get him before the bloody great beast in the tunnels got the chance.

Seemed a bit off, really. Putting him in the dingy dungeon when he bloody volunteered for this. Maybe they thought he'd change his mind and leg it in the night. Any half-sensible person would, wouldn't they? No one had ever given Charles an earful for having common sense, though. Usually the opposite.

No running away for him, that's for sure. He was bedded down for the night, just him and a handful of snoring cellmates. Despite the panic and crying, the six other lads had managed to drift into some kind of sleep, however uneasy. Not Charles, though. Too much on his mind. The stupid idea that brought him here in the first place. The near certainty that he'd fail, in the end, and he’d have no one but himself to blame for his bloody demise.

Wasn’t all bleak thoughts, though. After all, there was always him.

The prince.

He closed his eyes, letting it all play out in his head again. Stepping off the boat, being 'greeted' (shackled and marched to the dungeons) by the 'welcoming committee’ (royal guard). Him and thirteen other boys and girls, thanked like heroes and handled like criminals. The king in all his fancy regalia, booming his solemn gratitude to the brave youths for their sacrifice — as if any one of them but Charles had any choice in it. And standing there, at the king's back...

Look, Charles may have had more important things to think about, but he knew a fit lad when he saw one.

Fit didn't even cover it. The boy was just about the most gorgeous thing Charles had ever seen — or ever would see. Unless he spotted a prettier one before he died tomorrow, that is. Bit unlikely.

There was just something about him, the prince. Charles wasn't even into the posh sort, generally. Like with the more well-to-do lads from his own town — something about the baked-in entitlement soured them. Made them ugly, even if they were objectively alright looking. He could smile politely and play nice, but he’d sooner kiss a frog than a rich merchant’s kid. And a prince was a pretty big step up from a merchant's son, wasn't he? By rights he ought to be even worse. Charles probably didn't even register as a human to him. He wasn’t worth wasting a thought on.

Except Charles could still picture him perfectly, in his head. He could play out the whole welcome start to finish. How Charles' heart, all shrivelled in fear, had jumpstarted soon as he clapped eyes on the prince.

"Charles..."

He'd had dark hair all perfectly combed into an inky shine, almost prettier than the gold crown on top of it. Eyes like sea glass, clear and green and shining with a cunning light; eyes that had scanned the line of offerings and landed on Charles. Fixed him with such an intense, curious scrutiny he'd actually felt himself blush.

Hadn't Charles seen him somewhere before? That chin, that nose, those high cheekbones? He could've sworn he'd walked past him at a temple somewhere, carved from pristine marble. He could see him so clearly in his mind's eye, surely he must've known him all his life.

"Charles...?"

If he concentrated, really concentrated, he could even hear his voice...

"Charles Rowland!"

Blimey, that was scary. That sounded real.

Charles blinked his eyes open and frowned. He let his head flop to the side and looked across the cell, where the stone wall gave way to bars.

There, framed by iron and flickering candlelight, there he stood. Pretty as a picture — baffling as a dream.

Charles sat up, slow, cautious. He almost said something proper stupid, like 'what's a nice boy like you doing in a dungeon like this?'

"Um," he fumbled. "Evenin'?"

Mm. Not much better, really, was it?

"Evening, your highness?" he corrected himself, with a wince. Gods, his old man would've walloped him good and proper for talking to a royal like that.

Prince Edwin, however, didn't sneer or snap or even walk away. It was hard to see his face, at a distance in the gloom, but he almost looked amused. Charles thought he could see the barest shadow of a lifted lip, anyway.

"Good evening," said the prince. He said it so quiet, barely above a whisper, but his crisp tone carried regardless. He cocked his head slightly and beckoned with a finger. "Might I have a word?"

Charles glanced behind himself. Just on the off-chance there was another Charles Rowland he didn't know about squeezed onto the narrow bed with him. There wasn't, obviously, and he was a good few feet from any of his sleeping cellmates. No mistaking who the prince was after. He swallowed, stood up, and crept across the uneven flagstones, stepping over the sprawled legs of another boy.

As he neared, as the situation sank in and the prince came into focus, a new bundle of nerves started kicking off. Nothing like the anxious dread that had been stewing in his gut all night, the 'oh, gods, they're feeding me to a monster in the morning' nerves. No, this was different. More familiar but also, weirdly, worse than the monster dread. Fuck, but this lad was gorgeous. Not even the dungeon gloom could hide it. He was almost blinding to look at — and now those clever eyes were fixed right on Charles, no one else. Nowhere to hide. Fuck, Charles probably had sweat and cellar grime all over his face, and all!

Charles came to a standstill, toes almost touching the bars. Up close, he could see that him and the prince were about the same height. Edwin might've had the advantage by an inch or so, but maybe that was just his perfect posture. Spine straight and shoulders back, he regarded Charles with his head curiously cocked and his hands steepled. For a royal, he wasn't dressed all that flashy. Hadn't gone in for any jewellery besides the gilded circlet on his head. And under the blue silk chlamys clasped at his shoulder, his chiton was a simple white, clean and sharp and draped neatly to knee length. Expensive, pristine, put-together, but not exactly ostentatious. Mind you, that's just the sliver of outfit that Charles could see — because the prince had topped the whole thing off with a thick, practical brown cloak. A peacock disguised as a pigeon.

After a moment's quiet contemplation, the prince finally spoke. "I'm told you volunteered," he said. He kept his voice down, but it stayed crisp and clear. Highborn through-and-through. Probably wasn't even capable of mumbling.

Charles supposed it was a bit unusual, but unusual enough to bring a prince skulking down to the dungeons? He reckoned he was right about Edwin's eyes, that cleverness in them — he wasn't just a pretty face under a crown. He wanted to know things. He was staring at Charles like he wanted to pick him apart, understand him.

"Yeah," Charles answered. He forced a grin. "Not my best idea."

The prince blinked and leaned a little closer, intrigued. "Why in the world would you volunteer for this?"

His attention was sort of a lot — but it felt... good. Charles wanted to keep it. Hold onto it. He wanted this clever, gorgeous lad to think he was the most fascinating thing in the room.

Charles shrugged. "I can fight. I can take a hit. Seemed like the right thing to do. The decent thing, yeah?"

Edwin narrowed his eyes. "You’d forfeit your life to... give the beast a fight for its food?"

Charles shifted on his feet. "Not... exactly."

The prince watched him, all expectant. Charles sighed.

"Years it's been going on," he said, barely a mumble — Edwin leaned a little closer still to listen. "Lads and lasses being packed off, fed to that thing to keep it happy. Not right, is it? And I thought, well..."

He'd thought a lot of things. He'd thought well, he was already getting the shit beaten out of him every other day, so what's a little mauling on top of it? He'd thought about being his father's son, with his father's temper, and how maybe that could be a good thing for once. He'd thought about how things could change for him if he came back — and about who would even miss him if he didn't. He'd thought of all those kids less deserving than him, sent miles from home to be ripped to shreds. Sent away from bright futures and families that loved them. Gentle types who'd never hurt a fly. Kids who'd never learned to take a beating. Kids who didn't have the anger to keep them alive. Kids who weren't monster enough to survive the real thing.

"I thought, well, I'm pretty good in a scrap," he said, brightly, plastering on a smile. "Pretty stubborn. Thought if I went down there, maybe I could..."

"Could what?"

Charles raised his eyebrows.

Edwin looked at him blankly.

Charles rolled his eyes, held up one hand, and punched his fist into it twice.

Edwin's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "You mean to... slay the minotaur?"

"Told you it wasn't my best idea," said Charles.

"You have a talent for understatement," said Edwin, a sharp hiss. His voice had quickened and thinned into a hushed, incredulous patter. "I'd go so far as to describe that idea as fatuous, hubristic, and downright suicidal!"

Charles snorted. "Yeah. Sounds about right." He leaned his shoulder against the bars, brought his face closer to the prince's — which was such a brilliant idea it immediately gave him a really, really bad one. So bad it was impossible to resist.

He gave him a lax, lopsided grin — the one that he could bring out back home to make the girls giggle. "Be good if it worked, though, wouldn't it?"

Coming onto a bloody prince like he was some blushing farm lad... well, it probably wasn't a worse idea than throwing himself into a minotaur's labyrinth, but it probably wasn't much better, either. But what did it matter? They couldn't punish him, could they — they were already feeding him to a monster in the morning. What did he have to lose? Why not take a crack at the handsome prince with the pretty eyes? Sod it, it was his last night on Earth.

Edwin, to Charles' immense glee, actually seemed to get a little pink in the face. His eyes darted away and back again. "Yes, well..." He cleared his throat and straightened his cloak with a sharp tug of the front. "Have you a plan? Tactics? A weapon, at the very least?"

"Um. Well. No, not really." He dropped his fist on the bars once, twice, mulling it over. "But, I have been told my smile's pretty disarming!"

If his clumsy flirting hadn't been enough to break through the regal composure, that would've done it. Edwin's mouth dropped open a little, his brows drawing close together as he stared at Charles in abject disbelief. "Dear gods," he said, voice light and brittle. "You're doomed."

Charles chuckled, resting his forehead against the bars. "Yeah. Suppose so. Won't go down without a fight though, eh?"

He looked up through his eyelashes and found Edwin still staring, lips parted just a bit. Fuck, he had nice lips. Kissable. Charles reckoned he’d miss kissing when he was dead. What was the sentence for stealing a kiss from a prince — was it worse than death by minotaur? He might be willing to risk it.

Edwin tore his gaze away and glanced down the hall, first one way, then the other. Furtive. He seemed to come to some kind of decision. "Charles," he whispered. "Are your cellmates all asleep?"

Pulse quickening, Charles forced his eyes away from the prettiest person in the room to have a glance at the others. Everyone looked the same as they had before. Same chorus of snores and soft breaths and muttered, whimpered nightmares. "Yeah. Yeah, I reckon so."

"Right. Excellent." Edwin cleared his throat again and crowded closer to the bars.

Charles' heart was racing. He couldn't lean any closer to the bars than he already was but he wanted to. He didn't mean to, but he bit his lip, eyes flickering down to Edwin's mouth.

Edwin took another wary glance behind him, and tugged his cloak back. He reached inside. His hand closed around something under his arm and drew it out — something long and wrapped in leather.

Charles caught his breath.

"Take it," Edwin ordered, holding the hilt of the sword to the bars and looking Charles in the eye. "Quickly, and quietly."

Charles didn't need telling twice. He grabbed it, his fingers grazing Edwin's. Gods, he even had beautiful hands. Smooth on the back but a bit calloused on the pads. Didn't escape Charles' notice that the blade, though heavy, seemed to be a familiar weight in his hands.

"Cheers, mate," Charles breathed, drawing the cumbersome thing through the gap. If he was careful, he reckoned he could stash it under his thin cloak without anyone knowing.

He hadn't meant to call the gorgeous boy (who also happened to be fucking royalty) mate, but if Edwin was offended he didn't show it. In fact he ducked his head in a bashful little dip. It was so endearing Charles had to do another quick pros-and-cons list in his head about the risks of snogging him through the bars.

"Well," said Edwin, a forced lightness in his tone. "If you must embark upon this fool's errand, you must have the proper equipment."

Charles let out a ragged breath. "Thank you," he said, sincere, as he slid the scabbard through his belt. He laughed a little, rubbing the back of his head. "To be honest, I've... I've never been more scared in my life."

Edwin's shrewd gaze softened. His whole face did. It actually bowled Charles over a little bit, the difference. He felt like he ought to look away, like he was seeing something he shouldn't. A prince shouldn't be looking at him like that. Not him. Like he was something special. Something he was in awe of. "I can only imagine."

Charles bit his lip. "Less scared, now," he said, fidgeting with the hilt of the sword. Even though he felt a bit like he'd been flayed open and laid at the prince's feet, he still managed a wink. "Reckon I'll show that big bugger what's what with this thing, don't you?"

The prince’s eyes twinkled over his small, indulgent smile. "Oddly enough... yes. I believe you just might." He seemed to catch himself, a pretty blush high on his cheeks as he schooled his expression back into something a bit more lofty. "And quite a feather in your cap it will be. That beast has been a thorn in my father's side for years, holding the kingdom to ransom."

Edwin's gaze flickered over Charles, head to toe, and the pretty blush deepened. "If you were to end its reign of terror, you'd be more than deserving of a handsome reward."

"Oh, yeah?" said Charles. If he sounded breathless, it's 'cause he was. "What sort of reward?"

He felt dazed. He must've been dreaming. Five minutes ago he was accepting his fate, and now he'd been brought a fighting chance. By a gorgeous prince. Who was fucking flirting with him. They must've knocked his head on the bars when they shoved him in the cell — he was probably lying in the corner, drooling and babbling.

Edwin's eyes were restless, darting from Charles' face to his feet. His throat bobbed around a dry swallow. He looked too real to be a dream — but also too good to be true. His hand lifted, fingers resting on an iron bar between them.

"Well," he said, sounding pretty bloody breathless himself. "You could take your pick."

If this wasn't a dream, it was definitely a trick. Some rich kid teasing him, waiting to pull away at the last second and laugh at him for being so easy to string along. Or waiting for an excuse to run to his daddy and bag Charles a fate worse than death for getting fresh with him.

Except for whatever reason, he didn't believe that. Couldn't. For some reason, he trusted Edwin. Felt like he knew him. Like he'd always known him. And he knew he was kind. Not necessarily nice, but kind. For whatever reason he knew Edwin wasn't the sort to mess around with someone's feelings — or pretend to be interested when he wasn't.

Why he'd be interested in Charles of all people was another thing, but... sod it. Charles was probably gonna die tomorrow, anyway. Why not pretend it was possible for a minute? What the fuck did he have to lose?

Feeling once again like the undisputed king of bad decisions, Charles took a breath, and put his hand on top of Edwin's. He almost couldn't believe his luck when Edwin didn't pull away. His hand was soft — like the little gasp he let out when their skin touched.

Swallowing past his dry mouth, Charles laced their fingers. He let them lay there, woven on the bars; the warp and weft of it felt so right he wondered how they hadn't been doing this for years. How'd he gone this long, not realising how empty his hands were without Edwin's tangled up inside them?

He looked at Edwin's face and saw all his own thoughts reflected. Saw Edwin staring at their hands like they were a bloody marvel. Like the last piece of a puzzle had clicked into place. His face was so open, so alive — so gently amazed and Charles had never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.

Charles laughed, quiet, awed. "Handsome prize, alright."

That earned him another quick, coy duck of Edwin's head — but Charles could see him preening clear as day. "Be sure you're alive to claim it," he said, soft and serious. He squeezed Charles' hand once before breaking the hold.

Charles sketched a lazy salute to distract his hand from how empty it felt. "No dying. Right-o."

Edwin smiled. A proper smile; a quick flash of teeth breaking through his tight-lipped, regal composure. Charles would've fought the bloody titans to get another glimpse of it.

"You are... odd," said Edwin, matter-of-factly. "And quite mad, I suspect."

"...Cheers?"

Humming, Edwin reached into his cloak once more. "There is just one other thing..."

He brought out something small from a pouch at his waist. Something round, with a leather cord threaded through the middle and tied off in a loop. Edwin held it aloft, thumb and forefinger pinched through the handle. The little round something glowed silky gold in the candlelight, and Charles squinted at it.

"...String?" he asked.

Edwin nodded, reaching into the cell to take Charles' hand and draw it through the bars. His touch lingered as he placed the generous clew of fine, shimmering string in Charles' palm.

"I had the idea that if you were to unspool it behind you, perhaps you might be able to navigate the labyrinth with greater ease." Head bowed, he looked at Charles through his lashes. Pretty, fluttering things they were, charcoal black. "So that when you slay the beast, you might find your way back."

Charles gawped at him. "Mate. That's proper smart."

Edwin preened again — actually, he preened more than he had when Charles' complimented his looks. Handy to know. "Yes, I thought it rather a sensible idea. I spun it myself; I’ve been experimenting with the tensile strengths of different fibres. It shan’t break."

Charles grinned, closing his hand around the clew — and Edwin's fingers, too. "Brains and beauty, eh?" he said. "Where've you been all my life?"

Edwin went pinker, his eyes twinkled. Warmer than the candlelight, brighter than the moon.

Charles would have to offer up a prayer tonight to any god who might be listening. He'd do anything, give them anything, if they only promised to get him through tomorrow alive. He needed at least a thousand more days ahead of him, just to spend finding more and ingenious ways of making this boy smile at him.

Soon, too soon, Edwin sighed, reluctantly extricating his hand from Charles'. "I must go," he said, apologetic. "Questions will be asked if I'm discovered down here in the dead of night."

"Yeah. Yeah, 'course." Charles let his hand fall to his side, clenching it around the thread — still warm from Edwin's hand. He laughed, softly. "Well, um. Thanks for... dropping in?"

"And thank you for your discretion," said Edwin, raising his eyebrows as he drew his cloak back around him. "I'm sure I need not impress upon you the fact that I was never here."

Charles mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

"Good. Very good." Edwin shifted his weight between his feet a moment, finger lifting, mouth opening as if he had more to say. But whatever it was, he thought better of it. He drew his hands into fists in front of him, pressed together knuckle to knuckle, and offered a tight smile instead. "Well... best of luck, Charles Rowland. I truly hope you find fortune on your side."

With a stiff bob of his head, he turned fluidly on his heel to walk away. And it hit Charles again, hard, right between the eyes. The possibility that tomorrow could be his last day alive. A few minutes ago, the idea hadn't bothered him much.

Fuck. It bothered him, now.

"Edwin," he said, almost losing control of his volume as desperation sunk its hooks into him. He grabbed the bars, white-knuckled. "Edwin, wait —"

And he did. He waited, his back to Charles, his posture so, so perfect. Still as a statue.

Charles swallowed. "Can..."

Edwin turned his head, just slightly.

Charles' courage abandoned him. He huffed, shaking his head. "Nah. Nothing."

Of course, if there's one thing Charles knew about Edwin by now, it was that he couldn't resist a mystery. He turned to face Charles, eyes bright and curious. "Is there something else you require?"

Charles forced a smile. "You've already given me two gifts, mate. Bit greedy to ask for another one, yeah?"

"Perhaps." Edwin paused, and took a cautious step closer. "But, between ourselves... I can see little harm in the asking."

Charles' grin bloomed into something more sincere, something real. "No standing on ceremony, eh?"

Edwin's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I hardly see the point. I think perhaps you and I might dispense with formalities."

"Right."

Well then. Why not? Last night on Earth, and all that.

Charles ducked his head, laughing softly at himself. "Well. I was gonna be a bit cheeky, actually. Ask you to gimme a kiss for luck. But I reckon that's a bit — mmf!"

Quick, quicker than Charles could've imagined, Edwin was right there; reaching through the bars, taking Charles' face in his hands, and pulling him into a bruising kiss.They were lucky neither of them broke their noses against the iron strips.

Charles startled, gasped, so blindsided he didn't even know what to do with his hands — so he ended up just sort of clinging onto the bars. But soon enough his eyes fluttered closed, his breath rushed out of him and he melted. He kept his grip on the bars, though, holding on tight just to keep his knees from buckling. Edwin's lips were soft, and hotter than fire. His kiss was clumsy and overeager and not even slightly what Charles would've expected from someone so elegant, so refined. But he tasted of honey and home and Charles could've got lost in him, happily. Charles felt like he'd been shoved against the wall and plundered, in the best possible way. He felt like Edwin was everywhere, filling his senses. Hard not to feel wrapped up in him, with the way Edwin had his hands cupped round Charles' face, covetous and claiming. Like Charles belonged to him.

Fuck, maybe he did. Maybe he always had.

Edwin broke the kiss, but he didn't let Charles go. Just pulled back a little, still framing Charles' face with his fingers. His eyes were dark, hooded, his pretty eyelashes fluttering as he stroked Charles' cheek with his thumb. Face flushed, breathing hot and fast, gazing at Charles like he could devour him with his eyes. Charles shivered under the possessive weight of his gaze. He felt seen, admired, treasured. He felt owned.

He wanted more. More, more, until he suffocated under it.

Edwin took a shuddering inhale. "Come back to me," he said. And just because his voice was high and wavering with feeling didn't make it any less commanding. It wasn't a request; it was an order.

Charles nodded, in a daze. "I will," he promised.

He was as surprised as anyone to find he actually meant it.

Edwin nodded, and pulled him in close once more. Quick as you like, for just one more kiss — this one dry and fleeting, almost chaste. Bit of a departure from the one before, but somehow all the more devastating. Charles could feel Edwin's palms against his jaw, pressing so tight they ought to bruise. He hoped they would. A sword and a string weren't enough; he wanted everything Edwin could give him. Every tangible reminder that this was real, wasn't just a mad dream.

When that kiss broke, so did Edwin's hold. When he stepped away, he went all the way. And with one last lingering, longing look, he was gone, fading into the night. A mirage. A ghost.

And like a broken amphora, Charles remained right where Edwin had left him. Off-kilter, rooted to the spot. His outer shell shattered; his insides pooling at his feet for all to see.

~

It would be a sombre morning, just as the others had been. A familiar and predictable tragedy; as it always was, and always shall be.

At dawn's early light, just as they always had, seven young men and seven young women would be led — marched, bullied, carried — to the mouth of the labyrinth. There, the trembling gathering would be ushered into the embrace of the earth and stone. Pushed by the merciless hands of a royal guard, who'd long learned to look past the blood upon them.

But on this occasion, quite without the guards' knowledge, one youth would hang back from the crowd. From his cloak he would draw a small token, round and bright like a golden apple. A ball of fine yarn — spun in strong, beautiful fibres by strong, beautiful hands. He would find the end of the thread and fasten it, tightly, to an old iron ring within the threshold.

Then, with the clew unspooling from his fingers, painting a trail behind him like a steady drip of molten gold, he would walk into the jaws of death. Not with fear, not even with resignation, but with purpose. He was no hapless sacrifice, no tragic victim. He was a youth who'd grown accustomed to treading lightly through the dark, lest the monster in his house leap from the shadows. A youth with steel in his hand, and his own monster in his belly; a monstrous rage, and monstrous desire. A hunger to rival that of the minotaur’s.

A youth with a promise to keep in the dark; and a path waiting to lead him back to the light.

~~

A ball of thread is known as a clew or, in an alternative spelling, a clue. To this day, we talk about following the ‘clues’ to discover something, and it’s all thanks to the story of Theseus and Ariadne’s thread. — things I didn’t even know when I came up with this idea but make me insane… everything is connected… detective boys forever… Thanks for reading guys! You know I adore your comments 💛 and don't forget to give Robin's amazing gifs some love as well! Dunno if I'll get anything posted tomorrow, but if I do it'll either be something much shorter or maybe some sketches. I will defo see you for another fic on day 4, though! Any encouragement very much welcomed, it's been a rough couple of weeks💛 Painland Week Prompt List

[captainsavre]

You have a wife and a kid? And you want me to move in with you? Call your wife. Tell her. God knows that fatherless kid is gonna need a male role model, especially when the little weirdo tells all the other kids at school about his two mommies. No, go on. Call her. Tell her uncle Mason's coming. I'll pack my bags. STATION 19 || 7.07 - ‘Give It All’

[topaz-luckdragon]