#theatrical tragedy au

[inkyucu]

"People like to call me... Eclipse."

[honestlyboringperson]

This alliance dissolved faster than sugar in hot water. (Persona 5 AU)

Also I know Bigb and Lizzie have similar outfits and themes and Ren is more red than Pearl, who’s codename is literally just another word for “red”. Eh, oh well.

Southlanders

Team B.E.S.T.

The Scottage + Gem

Magic Mountain + Cub

More under the cut!

Lizzie - “Flora” - The Tower Arcana - Carabosse/Persephone

Once the leader of a sorority and with sky-high academics, Lizzie has since fallen from grace after allegations of foul play were revealed. Even if Lizzie didn’t commit such actions, the label stuck and she has since been outcasted from the student body and now spends her days in the shadows, taking care of quite a few stray cats. Despite these setbacks, she still retains her gleam of authority and tries to help lead the phantom thieves, using some of her old connections & IOUs from her days as an honour student. She’s in an active and loving relationship with a certain former delinquent.

Within the metaverse, Lizzie uses Carabosse. Carabosse is more well known as “Maleficent” or the thirteenth fairy from sleeping beauty. As revenge for not being invited to a party, she curses the newborn princess to prick her finger and die, which another fairy changes to simply falling asleep after pricking her finger. I wanted to combine the two aesthetics and themes Lizzie finds herself in; cutesy fairy and supervillain mastermind.

Her Ultimate persona is Persephone. Persephone is the wife of Hades, and queen of the underworld and goddess of spring. Persephone is often equated and conflated with Despoina, who’s real name isn’t revealed to anyone but those who initiate her mysteries. She is noted to be so terrifying, one must never utter her by name out loud unless they want to catch her attention. This is heavily contrasted by the later interpretations of Persephone as a simple spring goddess.

Ren - “King” - The Emperor Arcana - Arthur/Fenrir

Ren is a prodigy actor at a local theatre, with his acting skills being matched by no one in the theatre. He specializes in dramatic characters with flowery speech and theatrical monologues, to the point whenever he’s in the metaverse, he LARPs as an Evil King. He helps hook the Phantom Thieves up with a weapons expert, who for some reason wears a goat mask 24/7. Upbeat and Loud, he and Skizz helps keep morale high in the phantom thieves. He’s very close with Martyn, despite Martyn insisting he’s just using them as pawns. Whether or not this is true or not is yet to be determined.

His persona is Arthur, namely King Arthur. He is a famed king, known for his sword Excalibur and his large entourage of knights. His story lives on through media, be it through simple books to as grand as whole stage plays. He is often portrayed as a well meaning king who defends the land from both human and supernatural threats. Although his legend has changed throughout history, his story is one bedecked by both tragedy and grandeur.

His Ultimate Persona is Fenrir, a key figure in Ragnarok and killer of Odin. A child of Loki, he and his siblings were foretold to bring the end of the universe and in Odin’s attempt to escape this prophecy, he ends up giving them the power and motives needed to enact the tragedy. In Fenrir’s case, he was brought up the wolf in their home where only Tyr had the courage to approach him to give him food, which sparked a friendship between the two. However, due to his rapid growth everyday the gods made three leg cuffs and had Tyr helped trick Fenrir into putting the cuffs on. When he realizes the trick, he bites Tyr’s hand off. In Ragnarok,he breaks free of his chains and swallow Odin whole, killing him.

BigB - “Spectre” - The Temperance Arcana - Winchester/Eshu

A velvet room attendant who is currently abandoning his duties as an Attendant in the first place. Since the new velvet room manifested, he has since been shirking his duties to explore the outside world, never really returning to the Velvet Room. He still speaks in a somewhat strange manner but is polite and charismatic, making him well liked by the people around him. He initially joins the Phantom Thieves to keep Watch of Grian, as he is aware of his true nature, but eventually finds more reasons he desires to stay. He is especially gifted with persuasive speech and helps come up with alibis for the Phantom Thieves whenever they get into shady business. He has an odd habit of exiting rooms through doors that weren’t originally there.

His persona is Winchester, both the person and the mansion. Sarah Winchester was the wife of the inventor of the Winchester rifle. After she was widowed, she was told she would be haunted by those whose lives were stolen by the rifle her husband created. In order to prevent the ghosts from harming her as well as to possibly contact the ghosts of her lost loved ones, she turned her farmhouse into a strange, maze like mansion with doors and windows that lead to nowhere, stairs that end in ceilings, trapdoors, and barred windows.

His Ultimate Persona is Eshu or Èṣù, a Yoruba Orisha who specializes in divination and acts as a messenger between heaven and earth. He was known to have tricked Ifa out of his secrets of divination, and another where he frees Ifa from his imprisonment within a palm tree and casts him as a founder of the Ifa religion.

[aethon-recs]

HP Rec Fest, Day 13 ❄️

@hprecfest daily prompts running through Dec 31. Goal is to find lesser-known or underrated works, even by well-known authors, to feature here.

*

Day 13: A Fic >100k Words

One Year In Every Ten by @saintsenara (E, 165k, WIP)

Summary: A decade after the final battle, a serial killer emerges, with a message that proclaims the Dark Lord has risen again. Harry is assigned to the case. Why I rec it for this prompt: Casefic is a very underrated genre for the Tomarrymort ship, and Asenora absolutely delivers in this case, with a richly layered and complex murder mystery, as well as the beautiful unfolding of a tenuous working relationship between Harry and Voldemort and all the steamy tension that builds up in between them.

if we were lovers by @reggieblk (E, 143k, WIP)

Summary: When Harry arrives at the most prestigious theatrical school in the country, he doesn't have many expectations. The most unexpected thing he encounters is Tom Riddle, and subsequently, falling in love with the only other person who deals with feelings as well as him. But maybe, just maybe, he and Tom will find out that not all love stories have to end in tragedy. Why I rec it for this prompt: The character work is so rich and detailed in this coming-of-age story in a modern AU setting. There's so much thought that went into all the character interactions here, and I love the way that @reggieblk cleverly weaves in elements from plays and uses the theatre backdrop to develop in such a lovely and fraught and realistic way how Harry and Tom end up falling for each other.

*

Running list of recs:

Day 1: Favorite under 5k | Such a Noble Villain Day 2: Comfort Fic | In Somno Veritas | Ouroboros Day 3: Podfic | a taste so good (i'd die for it) Day 4: Fic with Art | A Soulmate Like You Day 5: A Non-AO3 Fic | The Anti-Midas Day 6: Unreliable Narrator Fic | Anabiosis Day 7: A Canon-Compliant Fic | In Your Soul is Sealed a Pleasure Day 8: A Canon-Divergence Fic | Thirst Day 9: A Rare Pair Fic | dust in your pocket | A Breed Apart Day 10: A Fest Fic | In Your Image Day 11: A Dark Fic | As Portioned from a Whole Day 12: A WIP Rec | Lover's Spit | Revolution of Configured Stars Day 13: A Fic >100k Words | One Year In Every Ten | if we were lovers

[jovenshires]

endless au edits: smosh theatre's seasonal lineup (2/4)

keeping up with the run of smosh classics, smosh's second production of the year will be a rendition of little shop of horrors in the spring, directed by the other esteemed smosh co-founder, ian hecox. as per usual, any hecox production is certain to be a delicious twist of comedy and tragedy, and this show fits that descriptor to the t. packed to the brim with bright and colorful costumes, elaborate props, and punchy dark humor, little shop makes perfect sense for a director well-known for finding the bright spots in the darkness (and vice versa). with his trusty stage manager sidekick and previous fellow director, spencer agnew, by his side, hecox is sure to make this musical a hit. as for the cast, fans will be delighted to see smosh's resident powerhouse courtney miller as audrey, a hopeless romantic with a heart of gold. miller is not only a vocal and theatrical legend, but also both nonbinary and queer, something they noted that they hope to bring to the role of audrey. miller shared the news on twitter earlier today, saying, "i cannot wait to bring to you this fantastic person i've gotten to know over these past few months. i've put a little piece of myself into her, and i just want you all to know this is our best, gayest show to date." smosh certainly leaned into this idea by making her leading man fellow queer actor and fan-favorite funnyman, tommy bowe. bowe has been with smosh for seven years now; over that time, he's gone from lighting director to bit-part actor to, finally, leading man. this will be the first smosh show bowe's ever taken the lead on, and as i know firsthand from working with him on several other theater productions, no one deserves it more. bowe also shared the news to his social media today, saying on his instagram that this is "a dream come true." we previously saw bowe and miller side-by-side in last year's production of les miserables as thenardier and madame thenardier respectively. as you may recall from my review, the two than proved that they have electrically fun chemistry and excellent comedic prowess, which is extremely promising for this production. i, for one, couldn't be happier for them, and i cannot wait to see how queer this show can really get. other than the two incredible leads, this may be one of the most interesting and unique casts smosh has ever assembled. starring in his first feature role at smosh is trevor evarts as orin scrivello, dds, audrey's controlling, masochistic boyfriend. known for his previous (and part-time continuing) work at the mythic playhouse, evarts is a mangenue on the rise to stardom, and this show is the perfect launchpad for his career. in an interview posted today with theater weekly, evarts said that he was "so excited to join the cast," stating boldly that, in his opinion, "smosh is the future of theater." as trevor's talent is so evidently rooted in his quick-witted, raunchy comedy, there is no doubt in my mind that evarts will make the perfect killer dentist. you know how the saying goes, though; something old, something new. thus, it should be no surprise that we will see two returning faces to the smosh stage, specifically mari takahashi (audrey ii) and joshua ovenshire (mr. mushnik). after nearly four years of absence, the two original cast members are returning for a much-anticipated reunion with the smosh crew. since their original leave, takahashi and ovenshire have worked together on several minor productions, as well as beginning their own podcast. today's episode confirmed that they would be making their re-debut on the smosh stage, discussing why they left and, more importantly, why they're coming back. as an actor, takahashi is known for her rich singing voice and commanding presence on stage, while ovenshire's specialty lies in physical humor and over-exaggerated personas. i can't think of better additions to this cast - although it will certainly be interesting to see how well the old blood blends with the new...

[the-liars-art]

Slip into the Tragedy

Konrad/Sevatar

Sweet treats, family business, horror movies. a modern AU

1

Almost two decades ago, before his adoption, Konrad had dreamed of this night. Maybe it would end better than he knew. Maybe he'd find something worth a look beside his current horror movie obsession. Maybe it was why he let Fulgrim take him to the club.

When they arrived at the “hidden gem” in the darker city streets, Horus’ words, he was most disappointed that Mort wasn’t with them. He had hoped to talk for a while, but apparently Mortarion fell ill and stayed at a private hospital. Perturabo left early. Said he had work, and somewhere more important to be. Though he did nod at Konrad before he stormed out of the private room reserved for this half-scaled family reunion. Horus and Alpharius called it a strategy meeting. Konrad was promised, next time, a quieter and more personal celebration just for him: their troubled brother, grown to adulthood strapped in mental institutions and padded cells, finally free.

Freed from their father. Or so Horus says.

Not an hour in and his brothers were drinking too much, laughing and blaming each other, their hands full with glasses of different colored liquids. Konrad wasn’t allowed to drink for too many reasons, and he had no problem with that. Fulgrim asked if he was hungry and ordered him a large strawberry sundae, fancy and pink like film prop.

The ice cream turned out most helpful; he needed the sugar for the rest of the night. Even the interior of the club felt too bright and he couldn’t relax a muscle at first. He wore Fulgrim’s designers’, a loose-fitting robe with fluttering feathery fabric at his back and soft slippers , silky black from head to toe. He liked the theatrical style of it.

Several other brothers left. Then Horus and Fulgrim, arguing intensely while Magnus somehow had Perturabo on the phone. They tried not to yell when Konrad sat in the corner staring at them, confused. In the end, they had to walk outside into the large bar area. They asked him to wait and not to worry.

He wondered for a moment where Fulgrim was, but didn’t feel like finding him chatting and laughing, quoting things Konrad never read. Fulgrim would ask him if he’d like some soft drink or snacks, or how was the atmosphere, and smile and try to lace up his feathery shirt collar again.

It wasn’t bad. But Konrad could do without it for a while.

He grabbed his sundae glass and left the empty table. Pink half-eaten ice cream had begun to melt, mingling with the syrups and frozen berries.

The bar outside hosted a dozen strangers. He wondered how many of them had committed a crime. Maybe all of them. None shall be spared, if he makes the decisions.

Strolling through the empty spaces of the bar, he briefly thought of drinking. Around him, several people were drinking. In the scenes from his recent movie obsessions, people who drink carelessly got their good endings. But it was often the opposite. Then he remembered the doctors’ notes. He had no idea if the new medications were working, but they didn’t make him throw up or pass out. He didn’t want them to.

Bored and frustrated, he swallowed another mouthful of ice cream. He wanted to return to Fulgrim’s mansion, hide in the projector room, and bar the door through the night.

As he walked by, a man at the bar table eyed him absentmindedly, holding a half-empty whiskey glass. A plain black turtleneck wrapped tighly around his muscular shoulders and arms. A well-worn leather jacket, also black, hung on the back of his chair. He could get a silhouette of heavy biker boots under the table.

Konrad ignored the gaze, and went on his way through an empty row of seats. But the stranger in black turned to face him fully and began to stare.

He prepared for insults and tried to remember what his last therapist had said. Deep breaths. What color is your current emotion? (Red. He said red.)

“You look like my favorite slasher.” Said the man with a lip ring and an uneven eyebrow slit. It seem like he was sneering when he wasn’t. Was it the strange angle or lighting, or both?

Konrad didn’t expect that at all. He had just watched too many horror movies in too short a period of time without sufficient sleep. Nevertheless, he searched his mind unconsciously, finding nothing to match.

“Which one?” He raised an eyebrow at the man, who was likely closer to his age than Fulgrim’s.

That was when he realized the lighting was dimmer in this part of the bar. The stranger occupied the darkest spot, like blood rinsed away by water, swirling redness gathering at the lowest corner of the bathroom tiles.

“The one in my dreams.” Said the stranger, in all seriousness. His eyes were as black as Konrad’s own.

All of a sudden the sundae glass became unbearably cold in Konrad’s palm; he had to put it down somewhere. This felt new.

“Name’s Sevatar. You are?”

He hesitated, unsure which name to speak of. He was Night Haunter, always.

Sevatar nodded at his silence, intrigued.

“Ow, I get it. Who are you tonight, then?”

Tonight? Tonight he was Fulgrim’s brother. His father’s one of many failures. Proof that madness runs in the family.

“Tonight I am Konrad Curze.” He said solemnly. Sevatar’s expression remained unchanged.

He was glad Sevatar phrased the question that way. The answer tasted wrong on his tongue, though, like the one time he licked the inner side of his wrist to taste the atrocious perfume that made him grimace and itch.

“Konrad Curse’s hell of a name.” Sevatar blinked. “It’s not you.”

This time it was Konrad who stared. He noticed a thin but visible scar across Sevatar’s pale face which resulted in the inconsistency of his black brow and a left eye that appeared slightly smaller. For the first time in long agonizing years, he didn’t feel like a man named Konrad anymore. Not even for his brothers’ convenience. It was never his name.

“You already know me better than my therapists.”

He found himself grinning. He couldn’t help it. When he was a child, one of the doctors used to whisper stop that. He wondered where that little man ended up. It was difficult to return to his line of work without eyes.

A dull pain rose in the back of his head again. He had to bite his lip, suppressing the urge to bare all his teeth like a hissing feline.

But his cheeks flushed curiously hot, instead of cold all over.

Sevatar grinned back, giving his full attention. The silver ring in his lower lip gleamed.

“I’ll buy you a drink.”

Konrad shook his head. “Medication,” he explained, and tapped the ice cream glass with the long dainty spoon. “I’m here with my brothers.”

Sevatar shrugged, rested an elbow on the table, and downed what was left of his whiskey.

“Just a little taste, at least?” His voice sounded as if he was implying something, but Konrad couldn’t tell from the smile that never reached his eyes.

Konrad barely even tasted alcoholic drinks before. One night after he was brought out of father’s confinement, he attempted to get drunk just to know the feeling. He had half a glass of pale bitter wine from one of Fulgrim’s many cabinets and a few gulps of beer that tasted worse. He remembered an exhaustion that he never wanted to experience again.

“I do,” he said. “I do want a taste.”

TBC

(I’ll do my best to update in chapters, but it might be snippets only)

[divinecomedyproductions]

Fandom Woes: Self-Righteousness of Modern Tragedy

I think I want to explain my case better about my beef with modern tragic/more-bitter-than-sweet fantasy/sci-fi, such as RWBY, Code Geass, and D.Gray-Man and it’s not necessarily the stories in of themselves

It’s the Self-Righteous Martyr/God-Complex of toxic contingent within these fandoms, to me they seem to ultimately not care the message the tragedy and suffering of these stories are trying to convey, but rather enjoy them and flaunt them for their own self-righteous megalomania

And I know that sounds hyperbolic, but it’s the tone, attitude and behavior of these people that give me that impression

For example with Code Geass and RWBY and the tragic deaths of Euphemia Li Britannia, Shirley Fenette, Lelouch, Pyrrha, and Penny respectively

As soon as that happened, many among the fandom would come out and theatrically proclaim the necessity of these tragic deaths, how it is so realistic an shows “thats life”, and brag how ultimately hopeful the stories still are and how it taught them how to be oh-so hopeful despite the odds, and I can see them act that way towards the burden of Allen Walker if the fandom was still active today as it was back then.

In any these cases, these people act as if they themselves were righteous martyrs, prophets of God,Life,Reality, usually the latter two because they claim "that's life" or "that's reality" all in a tone that reeks of holier-than-thou arrogance and vanity...

"Of my virtue, I am justly proud..."

Or worse, they speak with ghoulish glee and bragging about it gives them a feeling of power over these fictional characters as if they themselves are God almighty and it bleeds into how they treat real people who didn't like it by passive aggressively or belligerently belittling, judging, shaming, gaslighting, and sneering at them, implying the worse reasons of their distaste, and tell them to go watch a sitcom or slice-of-life anime or something

Then they are quick to condemn other fictional characters like Suzaku from Code Geass for being such a SOB and cheer on Watts putting Cinder on Full Blast, all while implying themselves to be such better people than both

Then they brag about what story was told with these ideas and concepts to be the end-all-be-all of these concepts in any fantasy/sci-fi epics that have even the slightest tinge of darkness and conflict and, lock them down into little theories, formulas, dogmas, and rule out everything else as a corruption, heresy, or a worthless little parasite, because they themselves are the infallible, all-knowing, and all-seeing “literary experts” who got everything all figured out and everyone else, wether the majority or minority, as peon reprobates.

Which then they pressure onto creatives with less power than them, especially when they disagree. All while they themselves can do whatever they want and do whatever they want with things they are unhappy with because “we know better than you”

I have experienced this expressing my ideas of what RWBY could have been instead, AU and Original work and been told it could only work as a slice of life anymore or a sitcom, or otherwise what I do with this stuff is ultimately meaningless and heresy and spiteful

All while they supported things like His Dark Materials Trilogy which is the Anti-Narnia written by a Atheist who hates CS Lewis and Christianity with a passion because he made the concepts more “interesting”

Or how making a sexy magical Captain Marvel with her own sailor scouts like Kamen America and her Kamen Corps because the creators were unhappy with what was done with the concept of Captain Marvel is nothing but a "Porno Captain Marvel Rip-Off"

while making an evil superman like Homelander and other nasty rendition of superheroes in "The Boys" by a guy who despises superheroes is totally fine because he knows what's the "interesting" end-all-be-all of these concepts.

All these things I describe can be summed up to figures in the Bible, The Pharisees

“They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them.”-Matthew 23:4

They brag about the virtues and necessity of tragedy at the expense of fictional characters and real people, and boss around other creatives on what they do with this stuff, especially when they are unhappy, all whilst they themselves do whatever they want because they are supposedly so “objective”, they don’t need to follow the rules like everyone else

These prigs will tell others to “broaden their horizons” and give them the benefit of the doubt, but will refuse to give others the exact same courtesy because once again, “We know better than you.”

These self righteous people seem to only enjoy these stories not because of the message the tragedy and suffering is trying to convey, thats just a shield for them, but rather for their moral superiority and the thrill of power over others and being the measure of all things, for they know how life exactly works for specific individuals in specific genres and they know how to carry it out exactly.

They know with a "G"(gnosis) what's the end-all-be-all of specific concepts in ideas in specific genres and how to carry them out and they alone are the alchemists who can turn lead in to gold and everyone else is subjective and suffer from false consciousness.

In fact, I compare them to Digory’s Uncle Andrew in The Magician’s Nephew who though he could control other people by using their values against them to get them to do what he wants, while he himself doesn’t need to follow the rules, and basked in self congratulation of being a “great magician”

“Men like me, who possess hidden wisdom, are freed from common rules just as we are cut off from common pleasures. Ours, my boy, is a high and lonely destiny.”

And while we’re at it and Code Geass is on the table, let me point to one of the antagonists of Akito The Exiled, Gene Smilas

He was the mentor and surrogate parent of Lelia Macal who sought to bring Europe to a brighter future, often invoking the tale of the venerable St.Joan of Arc.

But when the time came to supposedly save EU, did he bet on his own life like the Saint did?

No.

He decided to position himself as God and Lelia as Joan of Arc, planning for her to die as a martyr for his own gain and become Emperor of Europe, because she happened to be a young lady with good morals who wasn't afraid to fight alongside her troops.

Like Uncle Andrew, Gene was nothing more than a peddling magician, but worse, he saw himself as God who controlled Lelila's destiny all while basking in delusions of righteousness in his quest for power. While Uncle Andrew was at least scared straight by Narnia.

To use a description of the Pharisees from the TV Series Jesus of Nazareth(1977) but slightly tweaked,

He bowed before the Story of Joan of Arc, but violated the heart of it.

And that's why I am so irritable about Tragedy in these kinds of stories, it feels like they are no longer enjoyed out of humility, compassion, truth, goodness, and beauty.

But rather out of pride, vanity, power, cruelty, and moral superiority

and sometimes it tempts me want to write my inspired stories in a way that gives them all the finger rather than for what I saw these ideas and concepts could have been, just so I can give them a taste of their own medicine

I know that's wrong, but these people test my patience, especially when they keep invading other people's spaces, bypass other people's "curations" because "there's nothing subjective about this, I need to correct and educate you", and getting away with this kind of nasty behavior

Because they are perfectly “objective” and everyone else is “subjective” therefore “subjected” to their “objective” will.

@beatricehawthorne @vitamaeternum

[imsparky2002]

We All Dye - A Teen Titans (Girls) AU

Band: We All Dye

Founded: October 30, 1999

Location: Jump City, California

Fun Facts

The band is called We All Dye because at the time, everyone had dyed hair.

While they officially formed the band in 1999, they had been practicing together for about a year before the official founding. Their first concert was on Halloween.

Rachel Roth (Raven)

Born: May 1, 1986

Favorite Acts: The Cure, Korn, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Radiohead, Joy Division, The Smashing Pumpkins

Instruments: Lead Vocals

About: On stage, Rachel Roth is a gothic force of nature. She loses herself in the music, putting all her emotions on display and excelling in flair and passion. When she's offstage, Roth is the complete opposite. In real life, she's a reserved and mild-mannered kid who uses sarcasm and bluntness on a regular basis. Rachel's look on life had been jaded even before her mother's death from cancer, an which caused her to create the band as a way of finally releasing her emotions and hurt in a creative manner. She found that in making the band, she had found lifelong friends who would be there for her every step of the way. She tries her best to do the same for them.

Kori Anderson (Starfire)

Born: May 21, 1986

Favorite Acts: Bjork, Britney Spears, The Beach Boys, David Bowie, Rush, Sum 41

Instruments: Lead Guitar

About: An immigrant from Canada, Kori is without a doubt one of the nicest people you will ever meet. Though she's unapolagetically peppy, she's got a love for rock. She is trusting to a fault, which her older sister Kristen (Blackfire) would take advantage of. It was only after her bandmates showed Kori that she was being mistreated, did she finally begin to stand up for herself. Now she feels that she's finally gained true sisters.

Karen Beecher (Bumblebee)

Born: March 19, 1986

Favorite Acts: Jamiroquai, Green Day, Gloria Gaynor, Prince, Erykah Badu, Lauryn Hill

Instruments: Rhythm Guitar, Backing Vocals

About: The mom of the group, Karen works alongside Kori to be the peacekeeper. She makes sure everybody's packed and ready to go for concerts. Karen's certainly busy as a bee, which just so happens to be her favorite animal. She's also a proud nerd, hoping to work in tech if the band somehow fails to work out.

Tara Markov (Terra)

Born: February 21, 1986

Favorite Acts: Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Linkin Park, Soundgarden, Fiona Apple, Avril Lavigne

Instruments: Bass

About: Tara is a girl who is not afraid to get her hands dirty or speak her mind. This came from being bullied in childhood as a poverty-ridden kid needing to fight for everything she had. She chose to play bass as she felt it fit her "no-theatrics" attitude. Tara also is the most likely to argue either for herself or for other members of the band if she feels anyone is being disrespected.

Alina Hao (Jinx)

Born: August 8, 1986

Favorite Acts: Hex Girls (She won't apologize), Queen, Shonen Knife, Misfits, Stevie Nicks, David Bowie

Instruments: Keyboards, Backing Vocals

About: Alina is as wry, passionate and mischievous as they come. When Rachel was creating her on-stage persona, she mostly drew inspiration from Alina's theatricality. Funnily enough, Alina and Rachel had been rivals in elementary school, due to frequent bouts for spots in school plays. It was only after puberty and tragedy in Rachel's life did the two realize how silly their rivalry truly was, and Alina was invited into the friend group. Now she feels it's her job to back up her friends, and occasionally drive them nuts with pranks.

Rose Wilson (Ravager)

Born: February 21, 1986

Favorite Acts: Nine Inch Nails, Metallica, Alanis Morissette, Guns 'n Roses, Rage Against the Machine, Le Tigre

Instruments: Drums

About: If you want to keep Rose happy, don't tell her what to do without a good reason. She has problems with authority due to issues with her parents and being seen as a disappointment by most of her teachers. Having two younger brothers (with an older brother, Grant, who's serving in the Army) to protect from their mom and dad means she looks out for other kids going through a hard time. It's also caused her to become jaded, using snarkiness as a way to cope with the feelings of hurt and anger that have built up inside her. While she sees all her bandmates as sisters, she particularly bonds with Tara as a fellow victim of parental abuse, even if they bicker a lot.

So that's the band so far. Credit to Artzy for the name choice! Lemme know headcanons, and thoughts in the replies and reblogs. @artzychic27 @nerd-chocolate @msweebyness

[blakebow]

For me, what bugs me about the tragedy of Arkos, the darkness of rwby, and Bumbleby over BlackSun is the Self-Righteous Martyr/God-Complex of toxic contingent within these fandoms, to me they seem to ultimately not care the message these stories are trying to convey, but rather enjoy them and flaunt them for their own self-righteous megalomania

With the deaths of Pyrrha, and Penny respectively.

As soon as that happened, many among the fandom would come out and theatrically proclaim the necessity of these tragic deaths, how it is so realistic an shows “thats life”, and brag how ultimately hopeful the stories still are and how it taught them how to be oh-so hopeful despite the odds.

In any these cases, these people act as if they themselves were righteous martyrs, prophets of God,Life,Reality, usually the latter two because they claim "that's life" or "that's reality" all in a tone that reeks of holier-than-thou arrogance and vanity

Same with the Wasps over Bumbleby because “BEST SAPPHIC REPRESENTATION EVAR!!!” and taunting BlackSun fans for being ��heteronormative”

They’re like Claude Frollo in a sense

"Of my virtue, I am justly proud..."

Or worse, they speak with ghoulish glee and bragging about it gives them a feeling of power over these fictional characters as if they themselves are God almighty and it bleeds into how they treat real people who didn't like it by passive aggressively or belligerently belittling, judging, shaming, gaslighting, and sneering at them, implying the worse reasons of their distaste, and tell them to go watch a sitcom or slice-of-life anime or something

Then they brag about what story was told with these ideas and concepts to be the end-all-be-all of these concepts in any fantasy/sci-fi epics that have even the slightest tinge of darkness and conflict and Representation and, lock them down into little theories, formulas, dogmas, and rule out everything else as a corruption, heresy, or a worthless little parasite, because they themselves are the infallible, all-knowing, and all-seeing “literary experts” who got everything all figured out and everyone else, wether the majority or minority, as peon reprobates.

Forgive my Catholicism talking, but it reminds me of the Pharisees

“They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them.”-Matthew 23:4

These self righteous people seem to only enjoy these stories not because of the message the tragedy and suffering is trying to convey, thats just a shield for them, but rather for their moral superiority and the thrill of power over others and being the measure of all things, for they know how life exactly works for specific individuals in specific genres and they know how to carry it out exactly.

Or with Bumbleby, how they are righteous champions of queer culture against eeeeevilllll heteronormative culture which reeks of resentiment

And that's why I am so irritable about Tragedy in these kinds of stories, it feels like they are no longer enjoyed out of humility, compassion, truth, goodness, and beauty.

But rather out of pride, vanity, power, cruelty, and moral superiority

While Bumbleby over BlackSun and the whole Adam fight enrages me because it feels like some sick power fantasy of LGBTQ+ Revenge against “Heterosexuality” while Sun is supposed to be kind of humble cuck

and sometimes it tempts me want to write my rwby au fanfic and original stuff inspired by it in a way that gives them all the finger rather than for what I saw these ideas and concepts could have been, just so I can give them a taste of their own medicine

I know that's wrong, but these people test my patience, especially when they keep invading other people's spaces, bypass other people's "curations" because "there's nothing subjective about this, I need to correct and educate you", and getting away with this kind of nasty behavior

you totally lost me on all the religious stuff, i don't subscribe to that by-weekly at all, fam.

on that note though, i do agree for the most part with the idea that the wasps have taken advantage of the canonization of bees to appoint themselves to some kind of sainthood, like they're holier-than-though over the rest of the fandom. and frankly, i can't stand those insufferable type of people.

they over project themselves onto terrible ships and even though people tell them how toxic and dysfunctional it is, it goes in one ear and out the other. they don't listen. they live in a detached bubble in a separate reality.

sad to say, that's not the first time that i've encountered fans like this in a fandom. some people really should be on a no fly list because they're clearly mentally unstable and a danger to others, but i don't get to make that call, unfortunately...

i want someone from crwby to come out and tell them that bees was never planned, because i think it would utterly shatter their delusional reality if they felt so betrayed by the hand that fed them. they should be soundly slapped several dozen times until they lose all coherrence.

[pixies-and-poets]

Well, well! What have we here! If it isn't your girl Bramble "I'm going to write fanfics but ONLY RARELY" Scramble with another fanfic!

I don't know if I'll ever continue this story directly, but I thought up a starting point for the Divine AU and haven't been able to stop thinking about it for a couple of days. Enjoy my attempts at "localizing" things into Greek! Phantom is also literally Dionysus here, but it's strange to call him that, so I did what we in the business called "cheesing it" to get us back to his familiar name.

As always, thank you for putting up with my Phandrow obsession lmaaaooo. And now enjoy...

An Appeal to the Heavens

It was mid-morning of a bright day in early spring, and the city streets bustled with activity. Children and adults alike ran about wearing colorful togas or tunics. Street vendors shouted from the sidelines, or pushed their carts straight through the crowd. The drinking was heavy, and wine stained the lips and tongues of many a mouth.

It was the middle of a festival, after all.

The Dionysia lasted for a whole week, and mostly celebrated theatrical productions both grand and small. But today there were also competitions for poetry: theatre’s cousin, and also much beloved by theatre’s God. There were different categories for original poetry throughout the day: epic, tragic, comic, romantic. It was an hour yet before they began, and every adult was preparing themselves with the appropriate amount of inebriation to survive the more tortured of verses- and purchasing fruit to throw, if need be.

Through the mass of pure white or brightly-colored clothing pressed a man who stood out from the rest in his somber long tunic, so dark brown as to be almost black. The only spot of color on his form was the vibrant pink ribbon that tied the cloth around his waist. More notable than his clothes, however, was the way he literally stood out amongst his fellow rabbids: his tall, slender but top-heavy form being so unusual that it drew plenty of rudely curious gazes.

…Or at least, that’s what he imagined they were looking at. More likely, they were staring at the tiny raincloud that followed in his vicinity, bobbing here and there as if to observe the festivities, and occasionally giving off a little thunderclap of excitement.

The tall man carried a bundle wrapped in white cloth close to his chest, protectively but not too tightly, as delicate and guarded as if it were a newborn child. He weaved through the crowd with extreme care, so as not to let anyone bump him and his precious cargo too hard.

Finally, he reached his destination- a grand temple, richly decorated above and among its pillars with carvings of grapes and their vines and leaves, and the masks of comedy and tragedy, and harps, and musical notation. Atop the pillars, its triangular pediment was carved with a relief depicting actors upon a stage. 

For a moment the visitor stared up at the building in awe. He could have spent hours taking in every detail. It was so large, so ornate, compared to the temple in his home village! There was only one, which all the gods had to share, their little shrines jumbled up against one another inside. This one was so huge, despite its dedication to a single god alone! But it only made sense- this was THE main temple to Dionysus, in the city that was holy to him.

And yet… hardly anyone was around. The wide set of stairs leading up and inside were the least crowded space the tall rabbid had seen for a while. This surprised him a bit - he had expected others to have the same idea as him, to come to pray. Perhaps most people saw little use - or little fun - in being pious at a temple, when the whole city was transformed into a shrine for the god’s honor.

The visitor slowly approached the doorway, and then turned around. He noticed his cloud hanging back- the little thing rarely came into buildings to begin with, and certainly not temples.

“I won’t be long, Katára,” he addressed it, with a gentle smile. Then he turned back and entered the structure.

He found himself in a massive hall. On the left side was a large dias - a stage, in fact - and on the right, rows of seating, raised up in tiers. Here plays were sometimes performed, but right now they were elsewhere, all over the city. And at the far end of the hall, which the visitor was now walking towards in the space between the stage and the audience, was a statue.

The newcomer's green-blue eyes, which were often somewhat squinted due to his poor eyesight, widened in amazement. The statue was larger than life, much much larger than even the largest mortal rabbid he had ever seen. And it was an incredible piece of workmanship. At its base, a large harp - which the god’s body was said to contain - was delicately rendered and covered in gold. This was subtly part of a pillar, which supported the statue’s upper body - the god with one hand at his chest and the other stretched out, his hair flowing, his eyes closed and his mouth open in divine song. All of this was carved in stone, but painted in vibrant color: the purple of his toga, the green of the grape leaves in his hair, the red of his mouth, and even more purple on his wine-stained lips, which were said to be a near permanent feature.

Most astonishingly of all, however, is that his giant round belly was made entirely of glass, through which the harp could be seen.

Never before had it been more obvious why the god had earned the colloquial name of the Phantom. He usually kept his stomach transparent, like a ghost, so that all might see the glorious instrument inside. Most statue depictions, of course, could not capture this detail, or had to attempt it in the most rudimentary of ways. He also went without legs most of the time, his body culminating in a ghostly tail- although legends claimed he could give himself legs, if it was more fun to have them.

There was another reason he'd earned that name, of course. He was infamously elusive, appearing before mortals extremely rarely, at least in this age. Some gods, like the hero Perfectus or his less heroic brother Augustus, dwelt among mortals almost full-time; others appeared rarely, but at least sometimes... and the Phantom was almost never seen at all, at least in his own form outside of some disguise.

"So that's what you really look like, eh?” said the newcomer as he gazed up in wonder. How different this was from the simple wooden carvings in the temple of his village! Those certainly couldn’t pull off a trick of transparency like this. Before he knew it, he was at the base of the statue, which was raised up on a huge pedestal of its own. His eyes were at the level of the harp, and he could see his own reflection- a poor, tired poet, gazing at a form of divine magnificence. Embarrassed by his own awkward reflection, he looked upward again, at the face of a god who was rapt with the joy of performance... and without thinking, he reached out a paw and touched the glass.

He stood like that for a moment, before suddenly coming to his senses, embarrassed and ashamed. He took his paw away, and saw that it had left a faint print. At this point he was more relieved than ever that not another soul was present in the temple. He must clean that off in a moment. But for now…

He looked around the edges of the statue’s base. Various tributes had been left here recently; sumptuous costumes and props; bundles of papyrus that were probably play scripts, piles of coins, and more. The newcomer found some empty space and sat his own bundle down, gently unwrapping it. Out he pulled a bunch of grapes.

It was a healthy group - each individual a rich reddish purple, as full and round as the god’s own belly, with no bruises or wrinkles or rot. The ideal representation of the fruit. He had spent far too long at the market this morning, picking out the absolute most perfect bunch he could find. In fact, he was pretty sure the vendor had charged him extra for it after seeing how long he had agonized and deliberated.

Now he sat them tenderly at the base of the statue, and used the freed cloth to wipe off his paw-print. He stood back, looking at his tribute nestled in amongst the others… and felt shame. They were only grapes, after all. Nothing compared with the expensive clothing and masks and other offerings on display. He sighed. Still, it was about all he could afford to give. …That, and his endless devotion, of course. If the god would have it.

But no one seemed to want it.

The visitor tucked the cloth away within his tunic, and then knelt before the statue, his ears flopping forward over the top of his head. He brought his long arms together and clasped his hands and shut his eyes.

“My Lord,” he began. “It's been a while. It's me, Tristan of the Woods, from Chróma Próta… do you remember me? I’m very far from home. I used to pray to you in rhyme, but… well, I think you must not have liked it, because you never answered my prayers. -But I don’t hold it against you personally! None of the gods ever do.”

He sighed, feeling like he was messing this up already. “-So anyway, I thought I might try something different this time. I thought I should be more casual. Perhaps you’d like that better…”

Tristan paused here. His knees were already hurting from kneeling on the stone floor. He opened his eyes and looked up at the statue, at the torchlight reflecting off its glass, making the god seem to glow.

“You know,” he said, “if I’m going to be casual, I should go all the way. Commit to it. I hope you don’t mind.”

He went around the side of the statue’s dais, where there were no tributes laid out, and heaved himself up onto the platform. This was the side where the statue’s ghost-like tail snaked around, and the visitor settled himself into the crook between the tail and the statue’s body, resting his back on the glass, curling his legs up behind the tail.

“Well then.” He began to speak once more, looking alternatively down at his knees, or the statue’s tail, or the decorated walls around him. “I’m here today because - I need your help. Desperately. If there’s ever a prayer I need answered, if you only answer one in my whole life, let it be my request to you today.”

He shifted, slouching down even further against the statue. “You see, My Lord… I am a poet, yes? Or at least I call myself such. But in my hometown, they do not like my poetry. I don't blame them, because neither do you, it seems- the gods, I mean.

Well, despite everything, I care for my hometown. I want to give back to them. It just so happens that they're holding elections soon, for the archon- you know, that’s someone who’s sort of in charge of a town, among us mortals. A lot of decisions, and a lot of responsibility. The only thing is, it’s only open to people who can pay a certain amount of money… to prove we’re financially stable, and responsible, and well-to-do.”

The poet took a deep breath, then exhaled sadly. “The problem is… I’m NOT. I have hardly any money. I barely scrape by. And that’s why… that’s why I came all the way here, to the poetry competitions. I entered myself in all four of them, you know! It’s going to be a busy day for me. But just winning one… that would be enough. The prize money would be all I need to enter the election.”

The rabbid turned his upper body around, to look up at the statue once more, though from here he could only really see the side of his toga, his elbow and his flowing locks. “So… since this is your festival, I was hoping… maybe you could inspire me today, to do extra well? Or… perhaps convince the judges to see the virtues of my work. Whatever you can do, as a god, to help me win. Just one little competition! I… I would prefer it were the tragic poem, as I’m always most proud of myself in that regard. But any will do. That’s all I ask. Just one, my Lord. It’s for a good reason, I promise you.”

He turned back around, put his hands together once more, and was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, it was softer. “Even if you don't like my poems.... maybe you can pretend, just this once. And in return… if there’s anything you wish of me... just let me know somehow. Send me a vision, a divine message in a dream, however you wish to reach me. I will do whatever you ask.” The poet suddenly had a feeling that he might dream of the god that night, and for other nights to come, divine vision or no. He felt very warm, and blushed. Could the gods tell what a mortal was thinking? Especially if they were in the god’s own temple? He desperately tried to suppress the thoughts that had been bubbling up inside him since he first laid eyes on the statue, on the god’s fair face. Absurd thoughts.

“There are, perhaps, better deities to pray to,” he continued quickly, drowning out his thoughts by speaking, “for poetry specifically. But… I have always been drawn to you above all gods, My Lord. I know you have never answered my devotion with any reward, but… well, you are busy, I’m sure, granting the wishes of playwrights and actors from the cities. And who am I but a humble poet from a town buried in the forest? I… would like your assistance, My Lord, but above all I simply… I simply pray that you hear me. I have come here, to your grand temple, and although I have little to offer…I do have myself. And I want you to know that I am ever your faithful servant. I am yours, body and soul, if you will have me. …Thank you for listening.”

During this last bout of speaking, he had closed his eyes, clutched his hands together, and bowed his head once more. Now he opened his eyes and stood up. He got down off the pedestal and walked back to the front of the statue. Trembling, he looked up at it one last time, and felt the warmth rise again to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He was so beautiful, and the lowly poet so unworthy…. How dare he ask for anything?? And what’s more, how dare he dream- how dare he entertain the thought even for a moment- that the god would take notice of him as anything more than yet another wish to grant, or more likely, to ignore?

Ashamed of his whole endeavor, the poet turned and left in a hurry, to rejoin his cloud and prepare for his first oration.

—

But the poor mortal did not know the terrible truth! His prayers had not been ignored on purpose. In fact, they simply weren't reaching the long ears of the gods.

They never had.

The poet was well aware of his own ill luck and misfortune. It was a reality he lived with every day, with every verse he spoke. But he had been taught as a child that the gods heard everyone out, no matter how pious or fallen, no matter how glorious or meek. Little did he know, so complete was his curse, that the Fates blocked his messages from ever reaching the holy realm.

Today, though… in that realm, far above the land in which mortals struggled and died…

The Phantom’s eyes opened. He opened his mouth, too, very wide - not in song, but in a mighty yawn - and he stretched his arms and shook his silver hair. 

Then he groaned and flopped backwards again onto his bed. He really needed to stop having drinking contests with Augie. The god of wine always came out on top, of course, but it was a close one, with the sea-god just barely passing out when Phantom was at his limit. The constant beach parties in Pharos Philia, where Augustus made his home among mortals, had trained him well.

The god of theatre, wine and merry-making was feeling anything but merry this morning. Under the dull pounding of his hangover - something to which even the gods were susceptible - he felt a prickling in the back of his mind. He had prayers to listen to.

Of course he did; it was the third day of that damned festival. He had ceased to care about it decades ago. Mortals always followed trends in their work and their lives, and their trends repeated in cycles, each generation thinking they were the first to discover some grand theme or unifying truth about existence. For a short-lived mortal, their little dramas, both those on a stage and those not, always seemed important and new. For a god, it got boring after a while.

And yet… today he had woken up with a strange feeling. A premonition he could not shake.

Perhaps, for the first time in years, he should visit his own festival. In disguise, of course. It wouldn't help his headache, but… he had nothing better to do.

The god closed his eyes, and the eyes of the statue in his grand temple opened, and glowed. He was looking through them.

….But there was no one around to notice. The temple was completely empty.

Of course, Dionysus thought. Of course it was empty. No one was at the festival to actually celebrate or worship him. They were there for their own entertainment or their own glory, as actors and writers, directors and choreographers. Well, he supposed he couldn't blame them. He knew the feeling.

At least this was a choice spot to manifest into the mortal world, then. In a sparkle of gold, a body materialized before the statue- the guise of a mortal rabbid, although notably larger and more rotund than the average. He had given himself legs, and was dressed in an unassuming blue toga, and even transformed his hair into fancy curls and a neat little ponytail, quite different from the messy locks he was normally depicted with. Still, he did not want to alter his inborn beauty too much. He hoped no one would catch on.

He turned around to give a brief glance over the tributes at the base of his statue. There were some finely-wrought objects and pieces of clothing, but still, nothing compared to what he saw every day in the land of the gods. Some mortals had even offered him their mortal play scripts- eurgh, no thank you. But just as he was about to turn away again, his eyes caught a small spot of purple.

He walked over and saw… a bunch of grapes. They looked delicious, and clean, and very fresh. Someone must have left them here quite recently! As far as he was concerned, this was the only useful gift in the collection.

With a smile, the Phantom picked them up, and strode out of the temple, eating the succulent orbs one by one.

[reggieblk]

what's If We Were Lovers? I was scrolling on the Tomarry tag and I'm so curious now! I love longfics. What's the concept?

hi! thank you for asking!!

if we were lovers is the second long fic I've ever written, and I'll try and explain the concept to you though please keep in mind that I am so bad at explaining the premise of this fic and I rarely do the actual fic justice when I explain it lol

but! basically it's a no magic AU that takes place in the 90's (so same era tomarry) with some timeline mashups when it comes to secondary characters. the premise is that Harry gets into a very prestigious and selective school for the arts (he attends for theatre) and his arrival sparks a bit of controversy because students are only accepted at 12yo or never at all, and he is 18, so joining the last year theatre students. his arrival is not taken well by Tom, whose class he is in, because students get cut every year, and by arriving in their last year Harry has subverted that threat that the others faced every year. there are five other boys with Harry and Tom in seventh year that i love a lot. I'll put the list of tags I have up until now at the end of this post to give you an idea of what's gonna feature in this fic!

concerning the actual writing of the fic, initially it was heavily inspired by the book If we were vilains by M.L Rio, if you've read that. though the inspiration kind of dies out after the first Act of this fic, so it doesn't resemble the book plotwise at all, merely in vibe. as such, I decided the write this fic in 5 Acts, each comprised of 12 scenes (the fic will be posted in Acts so each update will be very long, and there will be a total of 6 "chapters"; Acts 1-5 + an interlude for a rough total of 260k words).

Additionally over the months I made this post, this one, and more recently this one about this fic if they can give you a vague idea of what's gonna be going on.

And, here's the list of tags I have so far :

And here is the summary (which may change bc i literally just wrote it now for this post) :

When Harry arrives at the most prestigious theatrical school in the country under very suspicious circumstances he doesn't have many expectations. The most unexpected thing he encounters, however, is one Tom Riddle. Amidst peers of great talent, his worry for his Godfather, unconventional professors, and a vague sense of unworthiness, Harry falls in love with the only other person who deals with feelings as well as him. But maybe, just maybe, he and Tom will find out that not all love stories have to end in tragedy.

Okay!! sorry for going on so long, like I said I'm really quite bad at explaining the premise of this fic lol. I promise the fic is actually good, and with so much divergence from the canon works, there's quite a bit of world building and stuff.

thank you again for asking!! i hope my answer piqued your interest, and feel free to ask anymore questions I will be more than happy to answer! I'll come up with a posting schedule some time this week and post it but the whole fic will be going up in December!

[marzipanandminutiae]

Can I ask some random headcanons for our blorbo(lucille, obviously) for no reason?

Does she keep a diary? What's inside it? How many hours does she usually sleep a day? In modern AU, what's her favorite movie or theatrical piece? What are some significant objects in her room, other than what we already saw in the movie(like butterflies, books, wood carved animals)?

Sure!

I don't think she keeps a diary, but I can see her writing out her whole sad, sordid life story over and over, tearing it up each time, and scattering the pieces to the winds. A la the movie Byzantium. Because she can't tell anyone. She can't even tell Thomas everything; that wouldn't be Shielding Him from the worst of her pain and darkness (how well does she actually do that otherwise? shhhh). So she gives her story to the howling winter tempest instead.

On a good day, eight. On a bad day- and they are not infrequent -two if she's lucky. I don't think she slept at all the night Edith and Thomas were at the depot.

Modern-day favorite movie...not sure I've seen enough movies to say! I definitely don't think she's a horror fan, though the more lyrical side of the Gothic might appeal. She's seen enough horror in the real world, thank you very much. Something beautiful and sad- weirdly, I can see her enjoying Titanic or something similar. Thomas (and Edith, in OT3) is totally baffled by this. Meanwhile Lucille just doesn't understand why such a bittersweet tragedy about True Love has the reputation it does.

Significant objects in her room? You covered a lot of the bases, I think! I can see her having a very fantastical jewelry-box made by Thomas, though. Are there like four items in it? Maybe. But that's not the point. She deserves things like this, in his mind- beautiful, exceptional things to make her happy after so much darkness.

(the novelization version of her room, with definitely-not-in-the-movie preserved animal fetuses, and witchcraft paraphenalia from all over the world- the actress said she doesn't believe in ghosts; why would she have any interest in that? -can fuck off)

[inkyucu]

So... I got showed a website where you can pose a model for characters, and I planned on making a sketch.

This.... This was not the game plan, and yet I don't mind what happened, because I got to work on my horrible abilities when it comes to working on perspective AND full body Eclipse I will totally use as reference! Two birds with one accidentally thrown stone if I do say so myself

(Transparent version)

+ A little bonus

[honestlyboringperson]

Team BEST in the Persona 5 AU! Skizz looks like utter dogshit because I can’t draw muscles! Sorry Skizz!

Also yes, Etho’s outfit is partially based on @/spell-struck’s Arcana Swap AU design for Yusuke. Go check it out! Their designs are amazing.

Again, More Information is under the cut.

Southlanders

The Scottage + Gem

Fairy Fort

Magical Mountain + Cub

Bdubs - “Scout” - The Lovers Arcana - Peter Pan/Orobas

A man of short stature and an even shorter fuse, Bdubs is a college student pursuing a degree in architecture and is known for his dubious ability to immediately know what field someone should go into. Be it art, film, or even just mathematics, his judgement is never wrong which led him to be recruited into a local theatre troupe to help with casting members to roles. This causes him to befriend a certain young prodigy actor who specializes in theatrically heroic protagonists and bombastically charismatic villains.

His persona is Peter Pan who is a famous pop culture character. Peter Pan is known for his devil may care attitude and his claims of greatness. His abilities allow himself and others to fly, and in this AU, Bdubs is known for uplifting others with both his scouting abilities and work as a phantom thief. Bdubs is also quite boastful, also fitting with Peter Pan’s character.

His Ultimate Persona is Orobas, a Great Prince of Hell and a Goetic Demon. He is the patron of horses, and gives power and control over others. He also can protect people from evil spirits and is clairvoyant. No wonder Bdubs “Horsegirl Supreme” got this guy as his ultimate persona.

Etho - “Shade” - The Hanged Man Arcana - Arahabaki/Inari-Okami

Etho is a mysterious college student known throughout the campus as being aloof, quiet, and even possibly dangerous. Those close to him know he’s just socially awkward. At a young age, he is known for his inventions in engineering and was presented with several scholarships to several prestigious institutions across the city. Unfortunately, he is horrendously bad at anything that isn’t engineering, with his apartment in shambles and his diet mostly consisting of energy drinks and a wide variety of instant ramen.

Arahabaki is a Japanese god of uncertain origin, with this particular portrayal & the one in the Shin Megami Tensei franchise being mainly inspired by the forgery by Tsugaru Soto-Sangunshi. They are a symbol of treachery, rebellion, and heresy after Emperor Jimmu found his enemy Nagasunehiko worshipped him.

Inari Okami is the kami of foxes, fertility, rice, tea, and general worldly success. They are the reason several shrines in Japan have fox statues and they are known for their ability to shapeshift. Their entourage was made up of pure white kitsune, categorized as “zenko” as opposed to the malicious “yako” kitsune.

Skizz - “Knight” - The Justice Arcana - Templar/Heracles

Skizz is Impulse’s best friend and former police officer. He currently works as a construction worker, but helps Impulse with his smithing business. He was fired after directly opposing the corruption that began to spread throughout the city’s police force, and his name was slandered. Despite these tragedies, he keeps a goofy and cheerful demeanour throughout his days. Despite no longer being in the police force, he will not overlook anything he sees as harmful.

Templar, full name Simon Templar is a Robin Hood figure coined “The Saint”. His calling card consists of a stick figure with a halo, and said calling cards were often given to corrupt politicians, warmongers, and other similar low-lives. He was described as “a buccaneer in the suits of Savile Row, amused, cool, debonair, with hell for leather blue eyes, and a saintly smile.”

Heracles is a famed Roman hero, and is considered the god of strength and heroes. He is most known for his tale of the twelve labours, wherein he completes twelve labours set by King Eurystheus to atone for killing his family after Hera makes him temporarily lose his mind. These tasks were aided by his allies and finished with a combination of strength, trickery, and camaraderie.

Tango - “Blaze” - The Magician Arcana - Guy Fawkes/Nimrod

Tango is a popular novelist and D&D master, known for his works in the fantasy horror novel franchise “Decked Out”. Although the original novels were made to satisfy his own desire to tell a compelling story, he becomes severely creatively blocked and is unable to keep up with the demands of his fans. After joining, he’s trying to start fresh with a new franchise, and is currently looking for inspiration for a new novel with the help of Jimmy.

Guy Fawkes is a key figure behind the infamous & controversial Gunpowder Plot. The Gunpowder Plot was a planned regicide, with several barrels of gunpowder being hidden within or near the House of Parliament, with Guy Fawkes being in charge of the explosives. The plan was to blow up the Parliament with the King James I inside and instate a Catholic monarch to the throne. Despite the motives being questionable, the plan failed and all the offenders, Guy Fawkes include were executed for treason. Today, in celebration of the king’s survival and the failure of the plan or simply enjoying the festivities, Bonfire Night was created, with several bonfires, fireworks, and other similar events taking place.

Nimrod is the architect of the Tower of Babel and is known as a king who rebelled against god themselves. The Tower of Babel was intended to reach towards the heavens, but God struck it down and changed the language of the people so they could no longer understand each other and scatters them across the earth.

[leonardoeatscarrots]

So i don't really know much about your fandoms or interests so... idk, would you mind giving me the rundown maybe? Like a little description about the games you like, or some info about your different comics? I want to chat more with you but I'm not sure where to start since I'm not familiar with your fandoms

Haha, that makes sense, my Fandoms can be considered a little niche.

First off, I'm super glad to finally meet you, lol. I've sorta been watching you and Pringles from afar, and you two seem like good friends.

But yeah, I'll happily give you a rundown, thanks for asking ^^

Pathologic/Мор: Утопия is a Russian videogame developed by Icepick Lodge. You play as one of three healers in a bo-hum steppe town, and your goal is to try and save the population from the outbreaking plague. The game has a lot of heavy theatrical influences and is well known for being extremely difficult and cruel. Which means the writing is perfectly catered to my tragedy-loving gay-theater-kid ass.

Karamora/Карамора is a show I got into a while ago. Basically, it's a fictional retelling of the Russian revolution (one of my special interests, lmao), except all the nobles are vampires. It's dumb but it's unironically so well made. Plus it has that twinky ginger guy, Evgeny Schwartz, in it. This show is also what got me on the Russian media pipeline to begin with XD

Lost Splendor was a memoir written by Felix Yusupov (aka the guy who killed rasputin, aka an important figure in the Russian revolution), and it's just incredibly funny for no reason. Man killed Rasputin, but all he could think to write about was how gay and ADHD he was.

Comics. I'm just very normal about them. I have a collection of around 80 different comics, single issues and graphic novels included. My favorites are queer and indie graphic novels, but im also a huge sucker for some of the classics like V for Vendetta. I have yet to purchase The Sandman comics, but they're on my list.

As for webcomics, I'm addicted to those too. I'm probably the biggest fan 5-ever of The Peculiar Compendium of Victor Van Wolfe on webtoons, and I've written a few fanfics and made fanart aplenty, as well as made custom stuffies of the characters. But I have a wide list of recommendations across a lot if genres XD

As for comics that IVE written, I currently have two open to the public on webtoons and tapas.

The first is Spaceships and Vodka, which is my primary comic. It's an anachronistic sci-fi surrounding a band of space pirates. It's a monster of the week style story with a lot of extra narrative told through backstories. It's currently still in the exposition stage and on hiatus.

The other is Gentle Hands, which is technically an AU of S&V. It's a gay romance following a disabled WWI soldier in a shellshock home and one of the nurses he has a crush on. This one is, alas, also still in the exposition stage, but is currently updating one page every other week.

As for like individual OCs, I mostly obsess over my comic characters. I don't typically make Fandom OCs.

My absolute pride and joy is Craig. He's also the fan favorite thus far.

I don't even know where to begin with him.

I have a bio for him and some other OCs I think, but I have yet to actually fill out any more >>_>> executive dysfunction my beloathed.

The full main cast list includes

Craig

Mirium

Derick

Terric

Carl

As well as Erasmus, Rusty, Cipher, Jadyn, and Jesper as some other extras.

So long as I'm here I may as well finish all the bios and make a master post lol...

[nihoneshi]

Welcome to Aqua Rambles on about KFP

I just finished binging Kung Fu Panda 1-3 (not 4 yet) and man outside of a few secondhand embarrassment scenes, because there are a couple of them still for my brain, What I will say is this

god I do miss KFP fandom so so much but I also was REALLY young when I first found myself in that fandom, so like, It's only a matter of time before I found myself brainrotting the movies again and even shorter of time before I re-entered Fandom Space.

So let's get the obvious ones out of the way. God I love Tragedies and the whole prophecy that was laid out hundreds of years ago, I love how cohesive the Trilogy is (I think we all agree that KFP3 was the true end of the Series, since not even the VAs liked KFP4 and it was a glorified corporate cash grab, but don't worry, AUs exist (: )

Tai Lung and General Kai are definitely by far the two MAIN villains I vibe with the most given their situations (Tragedy Affliction & Bond Brother Give-Take disagreement) I do love Shen but my love for him is extremely nuanced on the fact he's a diabolical genocidal sociopath but he's also oddly fucking dramatic, theatrical and comedic of a villain DESPITE the 3 words I JUST called him.

But also the Wolf Boss.. God he's a bastard (affectionate) but EVERY TIME HE "INSULTS" PO HE JUST GOES OFF ON NON-THREATENING TERMS homie please stop being bisexual on the battlefield lmaO /pos.

The Will to write Tai Lung just like 13yo me wanted to has not changed outside of the fact that after a decade more of writing with extremely intricate and nuanced characters with complex tragedies and traumas, I feel like I could finally do justice with this Snow Leopard (especially with Redemption Arcs, because hee-ho I write Saren Arterius, you know. Mass Effect 1's big bad villain that is just as much as a tragedy as Tai Lung but unlike Tai Lung this idiot decided to try to get parasitical genocide machines to spare them and ended up getting indoctrinated against his will)

Now onto Main Cast. Just like kid me, Viper and Mantis were my two go-to idols for KFP1, my love for Crane's realism-centric attitude and Tigress' having second thoughts and a much more intricate wake-up call in KFP2 and on became so much more apparent, like, trust me I haven't watched any of the other animated content but you can tell like, these 6 have gotten so attached to one another (Monkey and Po, especially, literally best buds love that for them)

But the SHEER amount of times I have said this phrase "Viper, Please rephrase yourself" has been in the nearly every thing she has ever said she is so upfront and has misread the room every single damn time. and don't even GET ME Started on KFP2/3 Tigress, the sheer amount of character development she gets is insane

she goes from an asshole to deep down realizing that Po has fallen still due to mental turmoil SEVERAL times and isn't keeping Po down there with Ox and Croc because she doesn't want him getting in the way but BECAUSE She doesn't want him to get hurt like him freezing up both times has gotten him. And then further more watching Po teach everyone their own ways of Kung-Fu all the WHILE TIGRESS IS HOLDING ON TO A BABY PANDA THE WHOLE TIME, EVEN FIGHTING WITH THE KID. AND THEN SHE CARRIES THEM AROUND EVEN AT THE JADE PALACE AT THE END OF THE MOVIE.

And please I can't fucking believe it took Crane several MOVIES TO GET HIS FUCKING NECK FIXED AFTER WHAT TAI LUNG DID TO HIM, HOMIE HAD A CROOKED NECK FOR MONTHS. There were scenes in KFP2 and Early KFP3 where this man's neck was still partially FUCKED. Dude shrugs it off like it's nothing and then proceeds to heal his wing in merely a few damn days max.

The Theatrics, all of the animations, the voice work.. god damn I adore these three movies so so much. But there is one thing I was not expecting and honestly I should've seen it coming.

My eventual brainrot and emotional attachment to side characters and characters with very minimal screen time (I should've seen this with me Writing Volteer from The Legend of Spyro, Nihlus Kryik from Mass Effect 1, and many more)

Dude I LOVE Master Croc, I don't know why SPECIFICALLY him but like. I like how he looks so cocky wanted to kick Shen's shit in, even laughing to himself, how he's so so loyal to Ox after Rhino's (supposed death), like you KNOW these three were inseparable and it LOOKS like Rhino reunites with Master Ox and Master Croc at the end of KFP3 that's what I hope if it was even only for a couple of minutes following what was probably Rhino heading back to the Spirit Realm.

I really love Master Croc, it is not even funny he's such a character, a silly, perhaps.

but now my rambles go to something else, since it takes place in the era that it does.. and like.. my hoard of Dragon OCs and Dragon Characters (literally all the guys on this blog ARE dragons!~ ) Like.. what would be the general consensus of a Dragon popping up in universe? Since back then they're still hailed as deities (Like the Dragon Kings, and all the dragon deities in both Chinese and Japanese mythology)

I am so so curious. But maybe I should add more to my rambles later when I am not so tired but god I have ideas and WILL enact on them.

A tiny edit: I 100% support kaiway due to the context I now have from watching KFP3, homie you have spent all the time in the world holding up Oogway's Chi charm like you want him to see everything like, they def. had something going on pre-banishment

[coralhoneyrose]

Speak What Your Heart Wants You To - (m!Chrobin One-Shot)

Plot Synopsis: When Robin sacrificed himself to defeat Grima, Chrom never gave up hope that he would find him again. Now, reborn half a millennium later with no memories of his past life, Chrom may finally have his chance. Also known as: a Reincarnation AU in which Robin is a historian working as a museum curator, and Chrom has a *very* personal investment in learning more about the newest exhibit.

Originally posted on ao3 with f!Robin for Fire Emblem Awakening's 10th Anniversary. Tweaked to create an m!Chrobin version for anyone who prefers that iteration of the pairing.

Rating: Teen

Tags: Reincarnation, Modern AU, Flirting, Fluff, Humor

Words: 9,751

Chrom raises his coat collar to fend off the damp nipping at his skin. Along the streets, redbud trees and daffodils have conspired to coat the sidewalk in a thin crust of pollen, yet an uncharacteristic chill has sunk its teeth into Ylisstol—as if the city has forgotten that it’s already mid-spring. The hulking shadow cast by Ylisse’s National Heritage Museum does nothing to aid in chasing away the cold. Chrom waits against one of the granite pillars at its entrance, hands shoved deep in his pockets, removing them only to check his wristwatch for the fifth time in as many minutes.

When he first heard word of the new collection debuting at the museum, Chrom was ecstatic. ‘Ylisse’s Star-Crossed Lovers as You’ve Never Seen Them Before!’, the flier promised. He withdraws it from his pocket again, thumbs skimming over its many creases from all the folding and unfolding he has put it through. The collection boasts of newly uncovered love letters exchanged between Exalt Chrom and his husband, as well as their personal journal entries, and a never-before-seen sketch of the Exalt in his youth.

As far as Ylissean historical figures go, Chrom’s namesake is considered one of the greats. Remembered as both a fearsome general and progressive policy maker, artifacts detailing the Exalt's life would make for an interesting exhibit on those grounds alone. It is his love story, rather than his political achievements, however, that made him popular outside of academic circles.

Exalt Chrom and King Consort Robin’s relationship had all the makings of a beautiful tragedy—a chance meeting between fated enemies turned lovers; a desperate fight to save the world; a daring, heroic sacrifice; and the unfaltering hope they would one day meet again. The story is a favorite among the Ylissean people, and has been the subject of many modern retellings and theatrical performances in the centuries since. Chrom himself is enamored with the heart-rending mystery surrounding the two, though admittedly, his interests lay less with the ruler whose name he shares than with the brilliant tactician the man loved.

Chrom has never been able to put words to his interest in King Robin. The fascination is so out of line with his other interests, for things like fencing and swordplay—his passions have always been mired more in the physical than the academic. But something about Ylisse’s grandmaster is magnetic to him. His story plucks Chrom’s heartstrings and makes him ache—shoots him full of a sense of nostalgia for a life he never lived, where heroes fought dragons and maybe fell in love with them too.

It hadn’t been hard to learn all there was to know about the tactician: despite the king consort’s popularity, there was infuriatingly little known about his personal life. No portraits of him had survived, nor were there any known accounts of the time before he began serving the Shepherds. The majority of King Robin’s writing that had been uncovered was focused almost exclusively on military strategy, and while it was enough to prove him every bit deserving of his title as Ylisse’s High Deliverer, it did not divulge much about who he was as a person. 

For that, one had to turn to cursory mentions of the tactician in documents written by his contemporaries, and as dissonant as their portrayals of him could be, Chrom had still read them all. Reports from Plegian and Valmese war generals portrayed the tactician as callous, cunning and ruthless…but the diaries of Ylisse’s Shepherds spoke of his sunny nature, his vibrant curiosity, and his quiet compassion. The accounts all seemed to be at odds with each other, a point which many historians found vexing. He was calculating, he was selfless. He was secretive, he was loyal. Amongst these myriad facades, who was the true Robin of Ylisse?

Personally, Chrom liked to believe that none of the records were more accurate than the others. People were complicated, he reasoned. Why couldn’t these writings be a window into the many masks worn by a man who once had the fate of the world resting on his shoulders? Facets of a jewel whose luster was only achieved through ruinous pressure. Ultimately, though, Chrom’s perception of the tactician is just one theory among many—with as much claim to credence as any other. There is no way to know what Robin was really like...or at least there hadn’t been, until now.

When the new exhibit was announced, it stoked Chrom's hope into a frothy and frenetic thing—ignited a livewire curiosity within him. The collection promised personal letters and journal entries written by the tactician himself, afterall. It was the first opportunity the public would have to get a glimpse into the workings of the king’s heart, rather than his mind.

And so Chrom had pre-ordered a ticket for the exhibit’s grand-opening. He arrived early, and had packed a lunch in his satchel so that he could stay until closing, dissecting every stroke of the man’s quill. After years of admiring the tactician, finally, finally, he would get to know him. He's irrationally excited to have the chance.

Ylisstol’s clock tower chimes, the toll of the brassy bell sending a flock of pigeons skittering into the sky and tugging his eyes from the flier still gripped in his hands. It’s 10 o’clock.

On the other side of the glass doors, a security guard strides forward and turns a key, and just like that, the museum is open. Immediately, Chrom pulls open the door and fumbles his way to the ticket check counter. He was not the only one awaiting the museum’s opening, and behind him, a thin crowd of eager patrons push their way forward as well.

With his entry granted, he scurries between the arrowed signs pointing in the direction of the featured exhibit. His shoes clack against the tile with each step, echoing enormously beneath the vaulted ceiling. Without the brisk outdoor air, his palms grow clammy, half from nerves and half from excitement. What if the letters wind up proving that the version of Robin he’s spent all these years building in his head isn’t what he was like at all?

 …But what if he was even better?

Chrom rounds the final corner, only to freeze in the center of the archway leading into the display room, legs pinned in place. He blinks, scrunches his eyes closed, and blinks again.

There, centered on the exhibit wall for all eyes to see, hangs a highly detailed picture of his own naked body. 

His first thought is that he must be asleep. He’s having that awful nightmare where you show up to work, or the gym, and realize you forgot to put on any clothing. With how long he’s been nervously anticipating this exhibit, it’s within the realm of possibility for it to serve as the setting in one of his dreams. 

But no, that can’t be right, because the version of himself that came to the museum today is fully dressed. When he looks down at himself he can see his coat, his button down and his dark wash jeans. It’s just the Chrom in the picture on the wall that’s not wearing anything. 

It’s a drawing, he realizes a moment later, as his mortified mind struggles to make sense of the scene before him. More specifically, it’s a black ink figure drawing, the parchment discolored with age. It portrays him completely bare and hoisting a set of scales into the air. The only saving grace the drawing offers is the ancient sword clutched in his other hand—placed at such an angle to conveniently block anything especially unsavory from view. 

Chrom stumbles as more museum visitors arrive, pushing past him to make their way into the exhibit. Legs still jelly-like, he wobbles forward to get a closer look. A plaque inlaid beneath the poster reads: 

‘Estimated date ~995, War recruitment poster depicting Chrom of Ylisse, then the nation’s Crown Prince and military general, posed with the exalted blade, Falchion, and a set of scales. The poster is believed to have been commissioned by his faithful knight, Sir Frederick, in an effort to raise troop morale and increase public support of the war effort.’ 

Chrom’s throat constricts as he risks another peek at the poster. It’s not a drawing of him at all, then, but of the exalt he was named after. He’s seen portraits of Exalt Chrom from later in his life, and has received many a comment or jest about the similarities in their appearance. But the picture before him goes beyond a mere resemblance; they don’t just look alike, they look the same. It’s uncanny. No matter how he looks at it, that’s his face—his body. He knows because he sees them in the mirror every morning when he wakes up and every night before bed. They look back at him in the reflection of every window he passes. The only difference as far as Chrom can tell is that his own arm doesn’t bear the brand of the exalt.

His ears catch the sound of snickering and when he glances to the side, he sees two women pointing between him and the poster, breathless giggles spilling from behind their hands. Chrom’s face burns as he turns away, retreating into the high collar of his coat like a turtle into its shell. He’s not just flattering himself into thinking there is a resemblance, then. Clearly the people around him can see it too.

Nerves still in a frenzy, Chrom moves to the side of the room where he is less likely to draw attention and tries to catch his breath. He came to the museum with the intention of paying the poster little mind, but ignoring it now feels next to impossible. He just wanted to spend a peaceful day pouring over King Robin’s writing! At this very moment, his journal and letters are here, being viewed by other museum patrons who cannot possibly be as passionate about him as Chrom is. And yet here he is, cowering in a corner—too embarrassed by a 500 year old drawing to enjoy them properly.

Chrom squares his shoulders and tries to silence his shrieking modesty. If he can just keep it together long enough to snap a few pictures of the writings on display, then he can find a spot in the museum far away from that drawing to read them over in peace. With newfound determination, he edges his way around the room in search of the written documents.

His pulse hiccups with the first parchment leaves he comes to, but calms again when he sees the sign off at the bottom: ‘With all my love, Chrom’ —a letter written to Robin, rather than by him. It will no doubt make for an interesting read later, but for the moment it’s not Chrom’s priority—he yearns to see the words Robin wove together himself.

The next letter on display proves to be much the same. As does the one after that…and after that. He nearly gasps in relief when he finally spies the king consort's crabbed print and angular quill strokes across the double pages of a decrepit journal. Hastily, Chrom snaps a picture and continues his tour around the exhibit’s perimeter in search of more. 

Except that’s it. Everything else on display was written by the Exalt to his husband, rather than the other way around. Chrom loops through the exhibit a 2nd time to be sure, and then a third, ducking his head each time he passes the poster of Ylisse’s previous Crown Prince. But that’s all there is...just one journal entry, and no letters from Robin at all. His stomach tosses in disappointment.

Chrom thumbs the exhibit flier from his pocket again, running a nail beneath the text that proclaims that letters written by the famous lovers will be featured in the exhibit. Lovers plural. It doesn’t make sense—he’s certain the article he read detailing the initial discovery of the artifacts spoke of letters from the king consort as well. So where are they?

It’s possible that upon verification, those documents turned out to be illegitimate…but without a means of confirming that was the case, the question of why they’re not displayed is going to eat him alive. Someone must be able to tell him what happened to them.

Chrom’s eyes drift to the bottom of the flier, where a small line of print denotes the name of the museum staff member that curated the exhibit. He stifles a breathless chuckle, and wonders if it’s too fatalistic to believe the gods could be sending him a sign.

Their name is Robin.

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

Robin cracks his neck and stretches both arms overhead, chasing stiffness from his limbs. There are no windows in the museum’s archival room, and the fluorescent lighting is already starting to strain his eyes, but despite the complaints of his body, Robin’s mood couldn’t be more chipper.

It’s April 19th: the day marking the grand-opening of the new exhibit in Ylisse’s National Heritage Museum, and the first collection he has had the privilege to curate since receiving his promotion a few months prior. It had been a tremendous honor to be selected for the task by the museum board: the two lovers of Ylisse’s Golden Age were prominent in pop culture to this day, and any exhibit featuring them was likely to draw many visitors through their doors. He was flattered to have its curation entrusted to him.

And now the day that all his hard work culminated in had finally arrived.  No more overtime hours and scrounging to meet deadlines: he’s validated all the documents, ensured the displays will keep them protected and pristine, and written all the tour guide scripts. All that is left is to soak up the public’s ensuing praise and relish the role he was able to play in bringing these writings to them.

It fills him with a bittersweet sort of pride. For so many months, those quill strokes and ink blots existed as a very private part of his life—known only to Robin and the ghosts of Exalt Chrom and his husband.  Robin knows their words and their shape on the parchment like the veins that twist his body. He hopes that the people of Ylisse will love them as much as he has come to.

If he’s being completely honest, it is the poster of the Exalt whose presence in his office he will miss most. Robin is aware, intellectually, how ridiculous it is to harbor something akin to a crush on a deceased historical figure, but, well, he has eyes, doesn’t he? He can hardly be blamed for appreciating the Exalt’s assets. And Robin has spent enough time looking at that poster to know he has plenty.

Reading the man’s letters did nothing to efface those feelings, either. Gone was the stern, stoic facade the young king showed the rest of the world. Instead, the Exalt’s letters to his husband revealed a devotion that burned so ardently, one might think the quill strokes were char marks. His words to his lover were deeply intimate, but also surprising in their humor and levity. It was clear that for all the desperate passion they’d held for each other, their relationship had been built just as much on friendship. Robin can’t help but feel a little jealous.

Mostly, though, he is proud of his restoration efforts and of being able to bring a sample of the letters to the public. After so many years spent studying the reign of Exalt Chrom, having a personal hand in the exhibit has been nothing short of a dream.

A tap on Robin’s shoulder severs his line of thought. Miriel, another of the museum’s curators, stands beside his desk, adjusting her spectacles. Since Robin’s promotion, Miriel is no longer technically his superior, but the woman is still his senior, and Robin has yet to fully make the transition to thinking of her as a colleague rather than his boss.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to like this,” Miriel warns him, thin lips pressed into a tight line.

“Well, good morning to you too, Miriel,” Robin teases, unperturbed. “What exactly am I not going to like?”

“I’ve just received a call from the front desk,” Miriel tells him. “A man approached them saying he has concerns regarding the artifacts on display in the new collection. He asked to speak to you by name.”

“What?!” Robin rockets from his chair, and just like that all of his cheer is peeled away.

“But why?” he demands. “I’ve verified all the records; I’ve inspected every item a million times over. They’re authentic—everything checks out! What reason could he possibly have for us not to display them?”

“You needn’t tell me all of this,” Miriel assures him. “I’ve watched you prepare the exhibit myself—you’ve been exceedingly thorough. Whatever concerns this man has about the artifacts’ validity, I’m certain you’re more than equipped to address them.”

Robin purses his lips. Miriel’s praise is not easy to earn, and her endorsement of Robin’s competence soothes him considerably. It also twists the instinctive flood of worry he felt into annoyance instead.

“Why do I need to speak to him at all, then?” Robin counters. “It’s not my duty to entertain the doubts of every self-important ass who walks through our doors. And I don’t appreciate him casting doubt on my ability to do my job. Why should I give him the time of day?”

Miriel sighs. “Under normal circumstances, I’d be inclined to agree. Unfortunately, it would be imprudent for us to simply turn him away. His family is the museum’s top patron: thus, we’re obligated to at least make a perfunctory showing of listening to his complaints.”

Robin pauses a beat, surprised. “...This man is one of the Shepherds?” He mulls this over for a moment before deciding he’s unimpressed. “That just makes him a rich, self-important ass.”

“Philanthropic,” Miriel corrects pointedly. “Can I be secure in the assumption that I needn’t ask you to mind your language while meeting with such an esteemed guest?”

“I won’t be rude to him unprovoked,” Robin assures her blithely. Miriel raises an eyebrow, clearly aware of the danger lurking in that qualification.

“Hmm, right. Well, I shall leave you to gather whatever materials you may need in order to reassure this inquisitive patron of ours, but I would advise against keeping him waiting much longer. His is often the impatient sort.”

“Keeping him waiting?” Robin asks. Miriel nods.

“Upon hearing his name, the front desk took the liberty of sending him back.” She gestures towards the door leading out of the archival room and into the main hall. “He’s waiting out there now.”

“Shit,” Robin says, with feeling. Miriel’s responding smile is grimly sympathetic.

“Naga be with you,” she says, before picking her way to the back doorway and into one of the restoration workrooms further within.

Robin huffs out an incredulous laugh as he watches her go. Just his luck that one of the Shepherds would take issue with their newest exhibit. In all the years he’s worked there, he’s never heard of someone showing up unannounced and demanding to speak to a curator like this.

Grumbling, Robin rifles through the papers on his desk in search of the documentation he will need to prove the artifacts’ authenticity. Of course, now that the exhibit is open to the public, much of it has been filed away in the titanic archival shelving units. 

With an impatient huff, Robin hauls a footstool over to the shelves to retrieve the file. He skims over the names printed on the lip of each folder, and of course the one he needs is nestled on the very top shelf. Even with the boost from the stool, he still can’t quite reach.

Robin curses his short stature under his breath before straining onto his tiptoes. If he’d been born just two inches taller this wouldn’t be a problem. With his arm extended as high as he can reach, his fingertips just manage to brush the manila folder’s edge.

“Aha! Got it!” he declares triumphantly, yanking it free.

The motion shifts his weight too suddenly. Robin feels the stepping stool wobble beneath him, and his stomach lurches as he tips backwards and loses his balance. At the last second, he careens his body to the side, avoiding a disastrous collision with the shelf behind him. Instead, his back thumps heavily against the dusty linoleum floor, the papers from the folder flying up in a flurry around him.

“Ow!” Robin groans, rubbing at the back of his skull. “Gods, ow!”

The metallic squeal of a door hinge tears across the room.

“Is everything alright?” a deep voice calls out. His stomach sinks: that has to be the man Miriel warned him about.

Dimly, Robin thinks that this is the very last position he would like to be found in by someone who already doubts his competence. He makes a valiant attempt to sit up, but the back of his head pounds, and all he manages is to groan again.

“Gods, are you hurt?!” the voice calls. Footsteps reverberate through the room and then a man pokes his head into Robin’s field of vision. 

For a moment, he wonders if he hit his head harder than he realized and if he’s now having some sort of hallucination. How else is he meant to explain that he is staring up at a living, breathing version of the man on the poster? Because that’s him—it’s most certainly him. Robin knows because he spent the last several months staring at that face for hours every day...to validate the drawing’s authenticity, of course.

And yet he finds himself with the treasonous thought that the man before him is even more arresting than the drawing of the young exalt. The stark fluorescent lighting, which is supposed to be unflattering for everyone, drips angular shadows along the strong line of his jaw and the tendons of his neck—pools them in the cupid’s bow of his full lips. His hair is no longer the color of brittle parchment and sun-bleached pigment—it’s royal blue. And his eyes. They’re the azure of a midnight sky, riddled with stars—so bright and dark at once the room around him is tinged sepia by comparison.

“C-Chrom?” Robin asks, the name slipping out before his befuddled brain can think better of it.

“Oh! You—you know my name?” the man asks, sounding just as confused as Robin is.

“Uh…lucky guess,” he replies. The man’s lips pull up into a hesitant smile, and Robin forgets to breathe for a moment. That’s not something he’s ever seen the man on the poster do. It’s disarming. A moment later though, the man’s brows knit back together in concern, his smile sliding away.

“Are you alright down there?” he asks, and despite the pounding in Robin’s head and heart, he laughs a little at the absurdity of the question.

“Oh yeah, I’m great. I was just taking a nap.” 

The man (who really is named Chrom, apparently) rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I suppose that was probably a foolish thing to ask,” he admits with a chuckle. “Here, give me your hand.” 

He offers his own to Robin as he speaks and Robin takes it, letting Chrom haul him to his feet.

For one blistering moment Robin is standing much too close to him—close enough to see Chrom’s individual eyelashes—and then he’s scrambling backwards, putting space between them. Chrom seems impossibly unphased by this accidental violation of his personal space, peering at Robin with a curious sort of concern.

“Should I call for a healer?” he offers.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I should be fine,” Robin dismisses quickly. It’s embarrassing enough that this man found him fallen flat on his back without making more of an event of it by summoning a healer.

“Are you sure? If you were hurt, then you should really��”

“I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m okay. It’s just a little bump,” Robin assures him, and it’s true—already his thoughts are coming clearly again. He presses a finger to the back of his head experimentally and the spot is tender, but only dully so.

“Alright, if you’re certain…” Chrom smiles tentatively at him again. “Err, I’m sorry. You know my name, but I’m afraid I don’t know yours.”

Robin pauses. Telling him who he is will mean he has no escape from whatever criticism he’s here to saddle Robin with. But the man is already in the archival room—at this point Robin can’t see any means of getting out of the conversation anyway.

“...I’m Robin,” he says finally. Realization passes unfiltered across Chrom’s face.

“Ah, Robin! Then you must be—”

“The exhibit curator, yes. That’s me,” he replies. Robin crosses his arms and pops a hip, trying to regain the air of confidence he had before tumbling off the stepstool. “I’m told you have some sort of issue with the new collection? I can assure you, I validated every artifact on display myself, but if you don’t believe me, then I’m happy to show you the, uh…documentation.”

He loses steam towards the end when he realizes that the documents in question are scattered on the floor around him—a fairy ring of papers with the two of them standing at the center. When he looks back to Chrom, however, he’s surprised to see his cheeks have gone pink.

“No, no! That won’t be necessary—it’s not that sort of an issue at all! I think you have the wrong idea.”

Robin frowns. “Then you didn’t want one of the artifacts taken down?”

Oddly, this question also seems to embarrass him. It’s amusing watching how quickly Chrom’s expression shifts—every emotion written plainly across his face in real time.

“Err, well…I mean, truthfully, I do want one of them taken down. B-but that’s not what I’m here about!” he insists quickly. “I actually wanted to ask you about some of the artifacts that aren’t on display in the collection, i-if that’s alright.”

Robin sifts over his words, recalibrating. Chrom’s uncanny resemblance to the drawing on the poster has thrown him off balance, and this confrontation is not going how he anticipated it would. Then again, it probably wasn't feasible for Robin to have predicted that the complaining museum patron who wanted to speak with him would look just like the drawing of Ylisse’s very hot exalt from 500 years ago.

But he does, and since it seems like he’s not actually here to be an ass to Robin about his ability to do his job, the least he can do is hear him out.

“Alright, sure,” he allows. “I’ll answer your questions if I can.”

“Ah, thank you, Robin.” Chrom says his name like it’s the easiest thing in the world—like he’s said it a hundred times before. It’s insufferably charming.

He stoops to help retrieve the papers from the ground before continuing. “I was wondering if there were more letters in the collection than just what I saw in the exhibit. I thought I remembered the excavation report saying that letters written by the king consort had been discovered as well, but…” he trails off uncertainly.

“You’re right,” Robin acknowledges, kneeling to gather the papers with him. “There were more letters found than just the ones on display. Quite a number of them, actually. Written by both the Exalt and the King Consort.”

Chrom’s head whips up to face him. “Really? What became of them, then?” Breathless enthusiasm shimmers in his gaze, like he’s clinging to Robin’s every word. “Were you unable to authenticate them?”

“Ah…no,” he laughs, “they were legitimate. The museum board just didn’t feel they would be appropriate for the exhibit.”

Chrom’s face pinches up, puzzled. “I…I don’t understand. If they’re real, then why wouldn’t they be appropriate to display? What was wrong with them?”

“Nothing was wrong with them, exactly…” Robin says with a shrug. “They’re just much too risqué to display in a museum that families and children visit.”

A whole range of emotions flit across Chrom’s features.

“Gods, you’re—you’re being serious, aren’t you?” he sputters, flushed to his ears. Robin tamps down a fast-budding laugh. He almost can’t believe this grown man could look so horrified at the prospect of adult content existing in letters between lovers.

“Completely serious,” he assures Chrom, his voice as even as he can manage. “I mean, it’s not that surprising, is it? Most of the letters were written when the two were secretly engaged but forced to spend time apart for diplomatic work. They had to express all those pent-up feelings somewhere.”

Chrom considers this for a moment as he hands the papers he gathered back—some of his initial alarm seems to have faded, though his cheeks remain insistently pink.

“I suppose when you put it that way, it makes sense,” he admits. “Still, it’s a shame the letters couldn’t be displayed because of it.” In a mutter Robin isn’t sure he is meant to hear, Chrom adds, “…I rather wish the poster had received that fate, instead.”

Robin shifts his weight—fixes Chrom in a narrowed gaze.

“What’s wrong with the poster?” he asks, a bit defensively.

“W-well, it’s just so…revealing!” Chrom groans. “I’d think that wouldn’t be appropriate for families to see, either.”

Robin huffs out a laugh, recalling Chrom’s words from earlier. “So that’s the artifact you’d like to see taken down, then? Plenty of famous artwork and sculptures depict naked bodies. Honestly, this one is tame, comparatively—you can’t even see his genitals.”

“I—I know that!” Chrom protests quickly. “It’s just that it’s—w-well…it’s embarrassing for me.”

Robin snorts, disbelieving even as he begins to understand. “Embarrassing? You mean because you look like him?”

“Ah, so you can see it too, then!” Chrom says, as if this settles the matter.

“There’s a resemblance, sure,” Robin acknowledges, and if that’s the understatement of the century he’s not going to admit it.  “But no matter how much you may look alike, it isn’t actually you. That poster is more than 500 years old. Something tells me you weren’t alive back then to pose for it.”

“But imagine for a moment that it was reversed,” Chrom presses. “If you walked into a museum and saw your own likeness up on the wall like that, wouldn’t you want it taken down?”

Robin mulls it over only a moment before answering. “Well, I do think I would be embarrassed at first, yes—”

“See?” Chrom declares, victoriously.

“—But ultimately, I would recognize that my embarrassment was unfounded and, frankly, ridiculous. And I certainly wouldn’t deprive the public of their right to view a priceless historic artifact solely to preserve my ego.”

Belatedly, Robin realizes he probably shouldn’t be so brusque to one of the museum’s top patrons while he’s on the job—even if everything he’s saying is true. But to his surprise, Chrom doesn't bluster or snap in response to his admonishment. Instead, his brows pull low in consideration.

“That’s—hmm,” he breaks off, shaking his head. “I…hadn’t thought about it that way, but perhaps you’re right. I suppose the way I’ve been approaching it is rather selfish.”

“Well, it’s an understandable initial reaction to have,” Robin allows. “But…yes, it is. So I’m glad you’re coming to see it my way.”

Chrom laughs, and it’s a low, rich rumble of a sound. “You don’t hesitate to speak your mind, do you, Robin?” he asks, a twinkle alight in his eyes.

“No, I don’t,” Robin acknowledges. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. I’m much the same way, myself," Chrom says. "If anything, I find your directness refreshing.”

Robin raises a brow. “Don’t think you can flatter me into taking the poster down,” he warns. Chrom laughs a second time and Robin wonders if a sound can be addictive—marvels at how he can see himself chasing after the chance to hear it again.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Chrom assures him. “Truly, that wasn’t even the reason I asked to speak with you in the first place.”

“Ah, that’s right. We’ve gotten off track haven’t we?” Robin muses, remembering Chrom’s initial question. Now that Robin has his bearings about him again, he takes a moment to brush the dust from his fall off his shirt and trousers, laying the stack of papers on his desk before turning back to face Chrom with a more analytical eye.

Chrom is, in some ways, the type of person Robin would expect himself to hate.

Even if he didn’t know that Chrom was one of the Shepherds it would be easy to guess he comes from money. He wears simple, well-tailored clothes—the kind that don’t have to do anything flashy to stand out because the quality speaks for itself. And with a face that sculptors would clamber to cut from marble, it would be easy to assume he’s used to having everything in life handed to him. Yet there is nothing pompous or entitled about the way he carries himself. Instead, Chrom exudes an air of approachability. Everything about his posture is warm, and open, and reassuring. There is nothing but sincerity in the soft set of his eyes.

Robin doesn’t know what to make of it. He wants to know more.

“Tell me something, Chrom,” he says, and he’s surprised by how naturally the name slips from his lips. “What made you come asking about the rest of the letters in the first place? You implied you’d looked through the excavation report on them—that’s not exactly light reading. Are you a historian yourself?”

“A historian? Gods, no,” he chuckles. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be cut out for that at all. It’s really just the one era of Ylisse’s history that interests me. Not even the whole era. Just one historical figure.”

Robin nods in understanding. “Right, I suppose it’s natural to be curious about the person you were named after.”

“Err, no, actually,” he says, scratching his head. “I’m more interested in King Robin.”

Robin blinks at him. “The Exalt’s husband?”

“Well, he wasn’t just his husband, he was also an amazing strategist and—” he catches Robin’s bemused expression and immediately breaks off, “Err, sorry, of course you would already know all that.” 

A laugh tumbles out of him. “I do, but it’s unusual to find someone so committed to singing the king consort’s praises—most people are a lot more interested in the Exalt. Information on King Robin is hard to come by, after all. And I suspect many people don’t care to try and take apart how complicated he was, either.”

“Then they’re missing out. The complications are what make him so interesting,” Chrom says, and Robin can see the way his whole body coils with excited energy—a magnetic sort of enthusiasm. “That’s why I was looking forward to this exhibit in the first place. Much of what we know about King Robin is so focused on his military tactics—and I like reading about those as well, but it’s not the same. I was hoping to finally have a chance to learn more about who he was as a person.” His eyes fall to his feet, a chink of vulnerability in his self-assured demeanor. “Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble. Perhaps it’s odd for me to be so invested in it…”

Robin shakes his head. “You forget you’re speaking to a historian. That doesn’t sound odd to me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not at all,” he tells Chrom. “I think that’s what brings history to life, isn’t it? It’s one thing to think about these faceless dolls or toy soldiers acting out stories from our past. But it’s another to experience those stories when you feel like you know its players as people. It’s the little details—like that their favorite color was blue, and they had a bad habit of breaking training dummies—that’s what makes them real to us. And then you’re not just learning the story of a stranger, but a story about an old friend.”

Chrom beams at him. “That’s exactly what I mean. Though I couldn’t have said it so eloquently, myself.”

Robin considers him for a moment—his gentle smile, the earnesty burning in his impossibly blue eyes. At some point they must have gravitated nearer to each other without realizing it, because they’re standing much too close to each other for strangers. Yet Robin finds he has no desire at all to back away.

“...You know Chrom, you’re rather full of surprises,” he muses. “When my coworker told me that one of our patrons wanted to voice their concerns about the new exhibit, you were definitely not what I was expecting.”

Chrom grins at him roguishly. “No? What were you expecting?”

“Mmm, well—for you to be considerably more of an asshole, for one,” Robin says, and a laugh bursts its way out of Chrom in response.

Miriel’s voice surfaces in the back of Robin’s mind, nagging him about watching his language with their ‘esteemed patron’. He normally wouldn’t speak like this to a guest, or anyone he had just met for that matter. And yet somehow it feels like—

“W-well,” Chrom clears his throat. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep you from your work…”

“Oh. Right, of course,” Robin murmurs. “If I’ve answered all your questions then you’re welcome to be on your way.”

Chrom glances at the door, and Robin curses the corner of his heart that wistfully insists Chrom looks disappointed. 

“Right. Well…I guess I’ll be going then,” he says. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me, and…I, uh, well…” He shifts back and forth on his feet, bites his lip, runs a hand through his hair—a bundle of directionless energy. “I really enjoyed talking with you, Robin,” he finally manages.

It’s the sound of his name in Chrom’s voice again that snaps his resolve into place.

“Do you want to read the letters?” he blurts out. Chrom’s fidgeting stills very suddenly.

“The—the letters?” he asks. “You mean…the ones that aren’t on display in the exhibit?”

“Yes, I—I can’t let you handle the real ones obviously, since they require special clearance, but I have scans of them that I can print out if—if that would interest you.” The offer spills from his lips before he can stop himself.

“You would really be willing to do that?” Chrom asks, unguarded awe in his voice. Robin nods, then barely suppresses a gasp when Chrom bridges the scarce space between them, clasping their hands together.

“Thank you,” Chrom says, smiling effusively. “You’ll have to let me make it up to you. I’m not sure how, exactly, but—”

Robin’s eyes dart to their joined hands. “You could buy me a coffee…” he offers.

At his words, unfettered surprise splashes across Chrom’s face and panic promptly ribbons around Robin. Maybe he was misreading Chrom’s cues—for all he knows Chrom’s already seeing someone. Or maybe he’s this friendly and physical with everyone he meets.

“Er, that is—only if you want to,” Robin adds quickly. “I won’t withhold the letters from you if you say no.”

“N-no!” Chrom exclaims, “I mean—yes! I do want to. I’d…like to spend more time with you,” he says, and it kicks Robin’s heart into a gallop. “Should we go now?”

Robin laughs incredulously. “I’m in the middle of a work shift right now,” he reminds him.

Chrom deflates. “Ah, that’s right."

“—But I have my lunch break in about an hour. If you don’t mind hanging around in the area until then, we could—”

“Yes!” he says, instantly brightening. “I can look around the museum in the meantime.”

“Okay,” Robin agrees, failing stupendously to stop a grin from splitting across his face. “I’ll meet you in the lobby, then?”

“Yes, I’ll—great! This is great,” Chrom says. He squeezes Robin’s hand before releasing it, tossing a smile his way as he moves to the door. “I’ll see you then!” Chrom assures him, and Robin pretends not to notice how Chrom almost trips over his own feet on his way out.

It’s only when the door has clicked firmly behind him that Robin allows himself to collapse into his desk chair, face in his hands, heart in his throat, and an embarrassingly high-pitched noise escaping from behind his lips.

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

Chrom has never been a patient person, but he thinks this might be the longest hour of his life. He wanders around the first floor of the museum, hesitant to stray too far in case Robin arrives early. None of the exhibits he passes can hold his attention, though, and he soon gives up in favor of settling on the stone rim of a fountain in the atrium.

He intends to do a first pass through the journal entries he’d snapped pictures of earlier, but for the first time in his life, King Robin’s words can’t hold his interest either. Looking at them only makes him think of the Robin he just met. What are ink strokes, after all, when compared to the way this Robin’s eyes glimmered like fireflies, and lantern-light? How they had shimmered with his wisdom and wit?

And in an hour, they’re going to get coffee together.

‘No, he said I could buy him coffee…’  Chrom corrects himself, ‘and that means it’s a date, right?’ He hopes so, anyway.

Gods, he is out of his element.  

Though Chrom is not a complete stranger to romantic feelings, he would hardly consider himself an expert on them, either. The crushes he’s harbored in the past were warm burbles of shiny, carbonated feelings. They sparked up, briefly made a mess of his chest, and eventually sputtered out again. They had never been like this—where he met someone and immediately felt like he’d injected stardust in his veins. Like he’d doused himself in wildfire and now every breath burned with it.

As far as he can tell, there is no reason for Robin to be affecting him so strongly, but nothing in his body seems to care about the lack of logic to it: Chrom walked into that archival room, and when he helped Robin to his feet, the earth’s axis shifted underneath him.

Ultimately, Chrom passes the time until Robin’s lunch break pacing and tossing coins into the fountain—wishing on every one that this day will end with the promise that he can see him again.

When the clocktower tolls the hour, Chrom pauses his pacing just in time to discern the staccato of footsteps from down the main hall. Robin emerges from around the corner, bundled in an unusual, violet coat and wearing a crystalline smile that could take Chrom apart.

“Hi again,” Robin greets him, and Chrom doesn’t even bother to conceal his eagerness as he bounds over to him. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“No, not at all!” Chrom assures him. Now that he’s near him, Chrom can see the rosiness to Robin’s cheeks—hear the breathlessness in his voice. His pulse flutters with the thought of Robin hurrying down the halls to find him—that he might have been looking forward to seeing Chrom again too.

Chrom half stumbles in an effort to get the door, and Robin offers a grateful grin as they make their way out into the crisp spring air. At the bottom of the steps, Robin lays a hand against his arm, gently leading him down the eastern-facing street.

“I take it you have somewhere in mind?” Chrom asks.

Robin nods. “There’s a café a few blocks over that I often stop at before work. I thought it would make for a nice destination, if you’re alright with a little walk.”

“Sounds good to me,” Chrom replies. Truthfully, he’d been too excited about the fact that he was going somewhere with Robin at all to have put much thought into the specifics of the location.

“Great!” says Robin, “The coffee is what I usually go there for, but they serve sandwiches too, if you’re hungry.”

“I actually packed a lunch, since I was planning to stay at the museum all day,” Chrom admits. “But I’d gladly go for something warm to drink.”

Robin’s eyes twinkle. “Packed a lunch, hm? And here I’m the one used to being the token, over-zealous history nerd.”

Chrom chuckles, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. “Ah, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I’m really not usually this enthusiastic about these sorts of things.”

“Right, I remember. Just the one historical figure from the one era,” Robin recites. “What sorts of things are you typically interested in then?”

So, Chrom tells him. About his love of fencing, and his interest in medieval weaponry (“That’s history too,” Robin teases), and the volunteer work he’s taken to doing with the local fire department. Normally, he’d feel self-conscious rambling so much about himself, but Robin interjects with questions and encouraging smiles that make the words melt off his tongue like warm honey.

With the arrival of afternoon, the high-hanging sun has smudged out much of the morning chill. Tulips and violets lining the sidewalks stretch skyward, their dew-kissed petals winking as they pass, and Chrom wonders at how in just a few hours, the flowers have learned to bloom so much brighter.

After a few more blocks, Robin lays a hand on Chrom’s arm again, beckoning him towards a homey-looking café. Windchimes tinkle as they push through the door. 

“This is it!” he declares. 

Chrom spends a breath looking the place over. The floors, walls, and furniture are all eclectic shades of burnished, warm wood. It’s cozy, and lush: hanging plants and clusters of succulents adorn every open corner and counter, as if someone changed their mind halfway through designing the café and thought to make it an arboretum, instead. The likeness to a greenhouse is furthered by the large, street-facing windows which allow sunlight to seep in, draping everything within the cafe in a cast of soft gold. It's not hard for him to imagine why Robin would like it here.

“Hey there, Robin!” A barista calls from behind the counter. He looks right at home among the plants, a mellow smile stretched wide across his face and his messy, dark green hair blending seamlessly with the canopy of leaves. “This isn’t the usual time we see you.”

“Hi, Stahl!” Robin waves. “Yeah, I’m here for my lunch break today.”

“Looks like you brought a friend too!” the barista observes, aiming his easy smile Chrom’s way.

“Ah, hello,” Chrom says, reaching across the counter to shake the man’s hand, “I’m Chrom.”

“I’m Stahl! Nice to meet you, Chrom,” Stahl says amicably. He shoots Robin an amused look. “Hey, Robin, isn’t Chrom the name of your favorite history guy? You know, the one you’re always gushing about being so charming and handso—”

“Ha ha, very funny Stahl,” Robin interjects, his voice suddenly sharp. “Now, are you going to take our orders or not?” 

Stahl makes a placating gesture and gives a good-natured chuckle while Chrom glances between the two of them inquisitively. “Sure, sure,” he says, “What can I get for the two of you?”

Once they’ve secured their drinks and claimed a table, Robin hefts his satchel into his lap. 

“Let me give these to you before I forget,” he says, removing a neatly bound stack of papers from within. “I laminated them so you could mark them up if you want—that’s what I always do when reading historical documents for the first time.”

Chrom leans close, breathless as his eyes skim over King Robin’s familiar handwriting on the first page. His fingers graze Robin’s as he hands them off, and it’s only when Chrom hears his sharp inhale of breath that he thinks to become self-conscious about it. Rather than jumping away, he intentionally lets his hand linger there, prolonging the contact a moment more.

“Thank you, Robin,” he murmurs. “I truly appreciate this, and I can’t wait to read them.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” Robin assures him. “They’ll all be published in academic journals eventually, but this way at least you won’t have to wait a few more months. You know, since you’re evidentially so eager to do some sordid reading.”

Chrom blinks at him, then down at the stack of laminated letters. He’d almost forgotten the reason they couldn’t be displayed in the first place. Red claws its way across his cheeks when he thinks of Robin printing out such passages specifically to give to him.

“Err, w-when I said I couldn’t wait to read them, I didn’t mean—! I-it’s not because they’re—” he breaks off, taking stock of Robin’s growing grin, an expression he’s all too familiar with, though he’s used to seeing it on the faces of his family members.

“You’re teasing me!” he accuses incredulously.

“Maybe a little bit,” Robin admits through budding laughter.

“I don’t believe it.” Chrom shakes his head, fighting off a sheepish smile. “Am I truly so easy to get a rise out of?”

“Oh, very much so,” Robin assures him, “it’s great fun watching you get so flustered.”

“Is it, now? Then how am I to know that you’re not exaggerating the content in these letters for the sake of teasing me as well?”

The Exalt and King Consort always struck him as fairly serious people, after all. Surely, they wouldn’t have written anything as embarrassing as Robin implied. Bent on proving as much to himself, Chrom’s eyes skim over the front page in the stack and settle upon a sentence at random.

‘I miss you with all that I am, my love. Come nightfall, my hands rove over my skin—a feeble attempt to mimic your tender ministrations, while I muffle my cries in— '

His head snaps back up to find Robin smirking at him, openly amused.

“…O-okay,” he stammers, “I stand corrected.”

“I tried to warn you!” Robin laughs. “Though, it’s not all so sensual, just…a lot of it. But there are plenty of passages in there that are more lighthearted, too. Here, let me show you one of my favorites.”

They pass the next half hour like that, huddled over the pages together, exchanging impressions and eventually meandering into other topics, as well. Talking with Robin is effortless—but even more than it’s easy, it’s enrapturing. Robin is brilliant and witty and opinionated. Chrom could spend a lifetime just listening to him share his thoughts on everything from coffee beans to the monarchy.

After what feels like only minutes, Robin glances at his watch, the laugh on his lips dampening.

“Gods, is it already that late?” he murmurs. “We’ll have to start heading back.”

“Already?” Chrom asks. He takes a sip of his coffee, hoping to hide the disappointed tilt of his mouth with the mug. He’s been so busy talking to Robin that it’s still largely untouched and only lukewarm.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Robin says. His eyes settle on Chrom’s mostly full mug as he deposits it again on the table. “Ah, did you not like your drink?”

“No, I did!” Chrom assures him quickly. “I just liked talking to you more.”

The words slipped out before he could think better of them, and for a horrible second, Robin’s face is blank aside from a bright brush. Then he breaks into a breathtaking grin.

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to do this again sometime,” he says. Chrom feels almost lightheaded with relief. “Come on, let’s get going.” 

Their easy banter from the café continues on the walk back to the museum, but it’s tinged with a heaviness that wasn’t there before. Chrom knows the return journey will be too short, just like every other stage of the outing has been. As they approach the steps that lead up to the museum doors, he tries to make sense of the near apocalyptic pounding of his pulse.

They’ve already spoken loosely of intentions to see each other again—that’s as much as he’d dared allow himself to hope for. Yet the thought of allowing Robin to walk away from him at all tangles his stomach in knots and shakes him to his bone marrow. It feels like a cataclysmic mistake.

The two of them dither at the bottom of the stairs, huddled close to keep from impeding the path of other passersby.

“…I suppose it’s probably about time for me to head back in,” Robin says, scuffing a boot against the ground. He looks almost as hesitant as Chrom feels.

“R-right, I suppose so,” he echoes, straining to keep his tone casual. “Thank you again for the letters, Robin. And—er, yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’m glad I could help,” he replies, offering a tremulous half smile. “…Well, I guess I’ll see you around, then. Goodbye, Chrom.”

Robin turns towards the museum door.

Something about the scene before Chrom—Robin’s face angled away; wind-tousled, white hair and a violet coat; the word ‘goodbye’ in his voice—it all sends a frantic panic lancing through him. Chrom can’t understand it; can’t understand why all of his instincts are warring so hard against letting the other man go. But before he can think better of it, he’s darting forward to catch Robin's hand.

“Robin, wait—!”

He freezes immediately, and turns back to Chrom, bearing no trace of surprise—like he’d been waiting for Chrom to stop him.

“Y-yes?” he prompts, and it’s hope, definitely hope, that colors his tone. “What is it, Chrom?”

“I—” Chrom’s thoughts spin and trip over themselves, clumsy in their desperation. “C-can I kiss you?” he blurts out.

Now Robin looks surprised. A flush crawls into his cheeks; his eyes widen into two perfect pools of gold. And gods, what if Chrom just ruined any chance he might have with him by rushing things? What if this scares him off? What if—

Robin laughs and steps closer. His hand dances up to trace the curve of Chrom’s cheek and his mind goes blissfully blank.

“I…wouldn’t usually do this,” Robin admits, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his unbearably enticing mouth.

“Neither would I,” Chrom breathes.

He stoops and softly presses their lips together, all the same. 

It was just supposed to be a kiss. Just the fleeting meeting of lips to see him off.

It wasn’t supposed to be the ground opening beneath him and a split in Chrom’s mind that could swallow him whole. It wasn’t supposed to be the flood of a thousand memories—a whole lifetime pushing its way back into his bones.

But it is. Because he remembers.

He remembers plucking Robin from golden-green grasses—helping him to his feet beneath a brittle spring sky.

He remembers Robin’s sword at his side. Lightning in his eyes and at his fingertips. Shucking blood from his own blade and always, always knowing he’d be safe so long as Robin was the one watching his back.

He remembers quiet nights tangled in each other’s arms—and less quiet ones too, when the softness of their hands and mouths coaxed plaintive sighs from love-bitten throats.  

He remembers their daughter swaddled tight against Robin’s chest. The blown-glass butterflies tinkling along to the lullaby Chrom would listen to him sing every night.

Chrom remembers everything.

He remembers Robin’s silhouette against the burning dawn—his outline flickering and turning to violet ashes in the wind. How he had clasped Robin’s hand to his heart and clung to it until there was nothing of him left to hold…

…And he remembers the 45 years of aching and searching and praying that followed. 

“R-Robin!” Chrom gasps. That single word, his name, is the same one that he spoke earlier, but now it means something different. Now it means everything.

“C-Chrom?” he whispers, and Chrom can hear it in his voice—knows that Robin remembers too. “Chrom—is this—?”

“It’s real,” he assures him, “Gods…this is real.”

Relief and belonging and the feeling of being absolutely complete all surge up within him as he clutches Robin near, holds him to his heart, kisses his tear-tracks. “Robin,” his voice breaks, “my love.”

Robin croaks out a tear-choked laugh and flings his arms around Chrom’s neck.

It’s too much. A whole lifetime of loving and longing is coursing through him, and his legs buckle with it. They both sink to the ground, still wrapped up in each other—struggling to find space to breathe between the laughs and sobs and kisses.

“I never stopped looking,” Chrom tells him, pressing his lips to each of Robin’s fingertips in turn. “Robin, even in this life, I—I think I was still looking for you. I just didn’t know it.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long, my love,” he replies, and before Chrom can answer, Robin kisses him again, hard enough to make his head spin.

“It’s okay,” Chrom whispers, when Robin has finally freed his lips. The words are a promise to himself as much as to him. “Everything is okay now. I don’t know exactly what we’re meant to do from here, but I know we'll figure it out now that we’re together.” Chrom chuckles despite himself. “Gods…it turned out just how you said, didn’t it?”

“And how’s that?” Robin asks softly.

Chrom smiles at him, tirelessly tender. “We met again in a better life.”

Robin’s response is his lips sealed to Chrom’s again, the kiss salty with the taste of their tears. When they break apart, Robin leaves their foreheads pressed together, fingers tracing down Chrom’s cheek, re-learning the shape of him.

“I may have been right about that, but it seems I was wrong about what I said earlier today,” he admits with a grin. “That poster really was a drawing of you. No wonder you were so embarrassed.”

A laugh thunders through Chrom’s chest—he almost can’t believe the absurdity of it all. To think that ridiculous naked poster Frederick commissioned so many years ago would be what helped lead him back to his other half. That after decades of searching, and centuries apart, his knight’s misguided attempts at boosting troop morale would bring them together again. Though truthfully, Chrom supposes, it isn’t just the poster he has to thank for that. It’s also—

“Gods,” Chrom gasps in horror as realization dawns on him. “Oh gods, this is a disaster…"

“Chrom?” Robin tenses, hands clutching him tight. “You’re scaring me, what’s wrong?”

Chrom takes his hands tightly in his own, squeezing each of them as his face warps into a grimace.

“Robin…forget the poster,” he says. “We need to burn those letters.”