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lizpottersworld · 8 months

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౨ৎ lacy, oh lacy. (james potter x reader)

summary: not everyone gets their happy ending, and in this instance the beautiful, caring redhead falls behind the trail of her angelic best friend. i feel so so sorry for lily in this. i’m sorry to anybody who may relate<3.

pairings: james potter!bf x reader. lily evans!platonic x reader.

request here

For the first few years of attending Hogwarts it had always been james pining over lily whilst she rolled her eyes and ignored his romantic gestures. But now it was him hopelessly trailing behind y/n y/l/n like a love sick puppy. The two girls were similar in a way. They both were gryffindor and shared the same fieriness about them, they both loved and cared deeply and took a liking to school work. But they were also different.

Lily Evans was bubbly, outgoing, and always managed to befriend everyone no matter what house or belief. She loved everything nature and her beauty was undeniably entrancing to every boy or girl in Hogwarts. Her face was soothing and always had a bright smile on, showing off her freckles and light pink blush on her cheeks. Colourful floral patterns and summer dresses were what she was known for wearing. That was what made Lily herself.

Oh but, Y/n Y/l/n. She was everything Lily was and wasn’t. Her hair always flowed perfectly and bounced as she skipped down the paths of flower gardens, oh and how her eyes glowed and shimmered in the sun and the moon’s reflection. The sound of her laughter echoed through every corner of the place she was sat, blessing the ears of the ones around her. Ribbons adorned her gorgeous hair, always changing colour depending on the outfit she wore. Which always contributed to the same colour palette, pink, white and yellow. Her perfume, the one people loved so dearly, smelled like vanilla, white chocolate and salted caramel. It always lingered behind her trail everywhere she stepped.

James had always acknowledged y/n but after the many attempts of wooing Lily he confided in the person closet to her. It didn’t take long for him to fall for the girl. Lily knew she was forgotten the second her best friend fluttered her eyelashes his way, or laughed angelically at his jokes. At first she was thankful that the attention had moved on from her, but slowly over time she realised how much she longed for the boys antics again.

She waited too long. Now Lily had to watch the hopeless whispers of her best friend and crush — no, friend, as they told each other sweet nothings on their walk back to the dorms. How their hands connected the moment they were in reach, the beautiful bouquet or flowers that james out picked for her that made her gush about them for weeks, the giggles her best friend let out when james would make a stupid joke and especially the smiles that beamed on their faces after walking out of broom closets around school.

Lily found herself making up excuses to not hang out with y/n anymore, and she couldn’t help but feel guilty for it. She despised how her mind always lingered on the thought of her heartbroken best friend. She wasn’t supposed to wish that upon anyone, definitely not her best friend of all people. The obvious frown always settled onto y/n’s face as she forced a smile Lily’s way at her awkwardness towards her, she never knew what was wrong — Merlin, she didn’t do anything wrong in the first place. Y/n who was always smiling and living in the moment was dulling at her best friends sadness, anybody could notice how her eyes searched for Lily after a thought came to her mind. Just like how anybody could see how her shoulders fell and her eyes teared up when she couldn’t find Lily.

Call it desperation but Lily needed to tell James how she felt. Her body ached for the approval of the boy even if it mean’t hurting her best friend. But once again, that thought haunted her for hours on end. Jealousy pulled at her mind achingly, cutting out any other feelings she was trying to feel.

Lily should have known that James wouldn’t precipitate the feelings back to her. He had made it awfully clear how much he loved y/n. After begging for days James promised his girlfriend wouldn’t find out about this encounter, as much as she loved the boy, Lily still had the same measurable love for y/n. Every day after then the girl found herself comparing everything about herself to her best friend. From her delicate skin to the clothes she wore. She tried and tried.

Even the compliments like, “Lils, your so beautiful.” and “Im so jealous of you.” couldn’t stop the girl from still feeling envious. If anything y/n’s compliments felt like bullets on skin. She desperately tried to seek the same treatment that y/n got. And even when Lily was copying the little things she would do her blinded best friend would sit beside her and encourage her along the way. And thats what made it worse, her loving best friend was there the whole way whilst Lily begged and sobbed for her to be the one with James instead of her. Oh how she despised how much her mind worshipped y/n.

#marauders #marauders era #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #marauders x y/n #x reader #james potter #james potter imagine #james potter x reader #james potter sad imagine #james potter x you #james potter x lily evans angst #marauders angst #angst x reader #lily evans x reader #marauders x love triangle #lily evans x james potter x reader

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vodkassassin · 4 years

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LiuShangMo and LQG seeing MBJ being handsy with SQH and throws hands. That's *his* squirrelly fellow Peak Lord! SQH is scared and horny, while MBJ is dazed and like "Oh no I want both" while getting thrown through walls.

Wow Cher, go take a drink of water, you sound a little thirsty there 👀

I think I gave Shang Qinghua too much power in this... eh. When you snap, you snap! He deserves it. @cherfleur

—

Shang Qinghua drops the scrolls onto the large, ornate desk with a heavy sigh, wiping one hand across his brow. He looks down at them and contemplates just leaving them there for future-Qinghua to deal with, but the voice of reason at the back of his head makes a sarcastic quip about how well that always works out for him, and how he’s always so exhausted whenever he finally does return from a long day only to find unfinished work that he’d procrastinated, and so he resigns himself to sorting through them now.

Each scroll gets slotted neatly into its respective shelf above the desk, a miniature library of diamond-shaped holes that expand just above the area of the workspace. There’s another shelf to the left of the desk that rises up from the floor and reaches halfway up the wall toward the vaulted ceiling, veritably filled with even more scrolls and work that honestly Shang Qinghua would love to never have to ever think about again, but….

Even if he never actually signed up for this, it still is technically his job. So.

He slides scroll after scroll into the loose system of organization he has going on here, far less complicated than the one he’d had to design for the actual, legitimate library of the Eternal Winter Palace. Shang Qinghua can still remember the soul-consuming, absolute horror he’d experienced the very first time he’d walked into that place, when Mobei Jun had been showing him around, years ago. If he hadn’t remembered the details of the demonic history he had plotted for this part of the Realms in his first life before, then he certainly knew all of it and then some after he’d been forced to, for the safety of his own mind, reorganize the entire, expansive ancestral libraries of the ice demons. An endeavor which had taken him just under a decade to complete.

The demons, it seems, had little to no sense of organization in their lives. They just wrote down what needed to be written and then stashed said document or scroll into the dark library to never be seen again. Heavens forbid if anything needed to be dug up for later referencing. No fucking wonder the political atmosphere of the demon realms were so stagnant and slow.

Anyway. They weren’t like that anymore! Shang Qinghua has since taught them all better. Every single demon in the palace, from Mobei Jun to the youngest kitchen maid, knows the system of organization that Shang Qinghua has worked so hard to put into place, as well as what would happen if any of them were to ever attempt to somehow mess it up.

“Hey,” a bored and impatient voice sounds from behind him. “Are you done?”

At the demand, Shang Qinghua turns away from his desk and gives his companion a narrow glare.

“You know, you didn’t have to come with me,” he shoots back, annoyed.

Liu Qingge’s arms are crossed over his chest, and he glares right back at him from where he’s leaning against the door of Shang Qinghua’s palace suite.

He mutters something, and Shang Qinghua raises an eyebrow, planting one hand on his hip. “What was that?”

“I don’t trust these demons. Had to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?” Shang Qinghua asks, exasperated. “That they’re not planning to attack the sect? That I’m not giving them inside information?”

Liu Qingge scowls. He’s such a scowly man. Shang Qinghua doesn’t remember writing him like this. “No,” the swordmaster says shortly. “I— We know you’re not. Nobody thinks that, not anymore.”

“Then what are you here to ensure? That I’m safe? Because I am safe, Liu-shidi. I’m safer here than I could be anywhere else.” Thanks to his king, there hasn’t been a single attempt on Shang Qinghua’s life in two years! It’s honestly a new record. It just proves how much of a valued and efficient worker Shang Qinghua is considered in the palace. Makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

For some reason, however, his words only make Liu Qingge even grumpier. The man’s hand clenches around the hilt of his sword and he makes a very angry face. Thankfully, it’s aimed at the ground and not at Shang Qinghua, so he knows that Liu Qingge isn’t exactly enraged with him. The fact that he’s enraged at all, though, is still a little nerve wracking.

Shang Qinghua takes a tiny step back. This makes Liu Qingge glare even more fiercely, and the An Ding peak lord does his best not to tear up out of frustration. What the hell is wrong, Liu-shidi? Please tell him, so Shang Qinghua can find some way to fix it so that you’ll stop looking so scary!

Liu Qingge huffs, turning away from him to stare out of the open door instead of at him, like he’s some sort of guard.

“Shidi…” Shang Qinghua hedges, fidgeting with the tail end of his hair ribbon and biting his lip in thought. Is the man even going to answer him?

“There are many powerful demons in this palace,” Liu Qingge finally says, shortly.

Shang Qinghua can feel his soul already exiting his body. “Liu-shidi! Please don’t challenge anyone here to a fight! They take it very seriously in the demon realm! There’s no such thing as sparring. It’s all just fights to the death. If you challenge one of them, they’ll definitely take you up on it!”

Ah! That was absolutely the wrong thing to say! Liu Qingge glances over his shoulder, face thoughtful and considering, and Shang Qinghua can see the glint that enters his eye at his words.

“Shit, no, I meant — Liu-shidi! Liu-shidi, come back here!”

Too late, Shang Qinghua! He’s already out the door, stalking down the hallway like a tiger on the prowl. Fuck Shang Qinghua’s life, honestly. The An Ding peak lord’s shoulders slump, and he hangs glumly from where he’s grabbed onto the door frame, staring down the now-empty corridor with dead eyes.

“Please behave, Liu-shidi,” he whispers. It’s a prayer that he already knows isn’t going to be answered. “... Goddammit.”

Since it’s highly unlikely that Shang Qinghua would catch up to his fellow peak lord before Liu Qingge could make good on his desires and goad a fight out of someone, he decides to leave this, at least, as a problem that is definitely for future-Shang Qinghua to worry about. He closes the door and walks mulishly back over to the desk, grabbing a scroll off the shelf and sitting down to get to work on calculating the tax deficiencies for this month's collection from the merchants in the capital.

Because there is always deficiencies, and the treasury staff of the palace are…. They’re just not really mathematicians. They’re just highly susceptible toward making too many mistakes in the overall count, and mistakes only exist to make Shang Qinghua’s job more difficult. So, he’d long ago told them to just worry about the count of their own departments, and leave the final calculations to him.

It’s a good hour later that the door opens again, and Shang Qinghua is so deep in the slog of long multiplication that he doesn’t even notice someone else is in the room until a large hand settles roughly over his head.

He sits up with a startled sound, lifting his hands to right his hairpiece that’s been knocked askew, even as his face is forcibly turned around and he gets a big eye full of bare chest and black furs.

He blinks, and then jolts out of his chair to stand at his feet and give the scowling Mobei Jun a bow. “M-My king! Forgive me, I didn’t see you come in.”

Shang Qinghua cringes at his own words, glancing fleetingly up from beneath his eyelashes at the demon, who only continues to stare down at him in a glower. Why is his king so goddamn scary all the time? Doesn’t he have any other expression? Why is he so much like Liu Qingge?

And why, oh heavens why, is it so attractive?

You useless fucking gay, Shang Qinghua berates himself from the safety of his own mind. Focus! Let’s do our best not to get beat up today! We’ve been doing so well!

“U-Um, my king…” he tries, hands desperately trying to both keep his hair in order but also not rudely knock the king a hand away. “M-My hairpiece….?”

Mobei Jun’s icy cold stare moves from Shang Qinghua’s face up to his previously neat half-bun, and he finally removes his hand. The peak lord breathes a sigh of relief, fixing his hair while the king takes half a step back and instead looks over his desk, where there are half open scrolls and an ink stone that has been brought nearly to the end of its usefulness.

“You’re working?” Mobei Jun asks, reaching out to touch a finger to the edge of one of the scrolls.

Delicate, tiny vines of frost swirl out from beneath his fingertips and into the paper, and Shang Qinghua makes a noise of panic as he reaches forward to snatch the scroll out from under his King’s hand before the ice can ruin the paperwork.

Mobei Jun retracts his hand, expression dark.

“M-My king…” Shang Qinghua quails, stuffing the scroll into a random empty space on the shelves, disregarding the organization system entirely. He takes the smallest, tiniest step backwards, but the desk hits the back of his legs.

“Shang Qinghua.” Mobei Jun says, simply. It’s enough to send the alarm bells ringing in the peak lord’s head.

The king reaches out the same hand, Frost still costing his long, pale fingers, and Shang Qinghua uselessly ducks his head as if there is any way he could possibly dodge the touch.

He expects his king to grab him by the ear, or the hair, or even the chin like he so often does, but instead the wall next to Shang Qinghua’s desk explodes.

Hm.

That…. What?

Shang Qinghua opens eyes he doesn’t recall ever closing, to stare incredulously at the spot where Mobei Jun had previously been standing. The king is no longer there, the room entirely empty except for Shang Qinghua himself, and here is a large, gaping hole torn in the wall to his left.

It takes a few seconds for Shang Qinghua to reboot from his shock, but once he does he slowly walks over to the hole and climbs over the rubble and debris that decorates the floor and peers out of it into the outer hall that it now connects his suite to.

Ah, there his king is, several yards away, brows pulled down in a deep scowl and blade crossed with a rather vicious and antagonistic looking Liu Qingge.

Shang Qinghua figures that he should have probably guessed.

He watches the two in silence as they go at one another as if they’re trying to kill each other, as they most probably are. Liu Qingge makes to go for his king’s throat, but Mobei Jun summons a jagged spear of ice to redirect his blade and bring his own blade, shimmering and blue just like the outer walls of the palace, around toward Liu Qingge’s unprotected side.

Liu-shidi isn’t the peak lord of Bai Zhan for nothing though, and quickly reveals the weakness as only a bluff, taking advantage of the placement of Mobei Jun’s blade to strike out with his leg and disarm the demon of his sword. The weapon shatters against the ground, and Mobei Jun summons a spear to replace it.

Shang Qinghua steps away from the hole in his wall, gazing wordlessly at where there had once been a shelf. Of scrolls. Neatly organized scrolls. Scrolls which had been filled with data and information that Shang Qinghua still had need of. Paperwork that was either already completely or still awaited completion. He can spot some of those scrolls littering the ground, many of them partially or entirely destroyed by the rubble.

Shang Qinghua brings up a hand to press his forefinger and his thumb down against the sides of his nose. He runs at the bridge, attempting to preemptively lessen the impending migraine, already knowing it would be futile. The clanging and clashing of swords in the hall over isn’t helping.

He steps back toward the hole. His foot catches on a discarded scroll and sends it skittering across the floor. Shang Qinghua feels like crying, a little. He takes in a deep breath.

He watches silently as the scroll hits the frame of the door and rolls to a stop at a pair of boots. Shang Qinghua follows the legs attached to said boots and up until he sees the face of a servant demon standing in the doorway, staring at him in stunned surprise. He watches as the demon glances over at the hole in the wall with wide eyes, as he takes in the mess of rubble on the floor and, finally, Shang Qinghua sees the exact moment the demon spots the buried scrolls.

The blood drains out of the servant’s face, and his eyes flit over to stare at Shang Qinghua. The peak lord isn’t sure what expression he’s wearing, since he’s been doing his best to keep it as blank as possible, but whatever is in his eyes makes the demon take a step back.

The servant sketches a hasty bow, turns tail and runs.

Huh.

Shang Qinghua steps back over the rubble to stand on the hole in his wall. His shidi and his king are still at one another’s throats, snarling insults and causing damage in the interior structure of the corridor. There looks to be another hole in the wall, in the very near future, and —wow! Shang Qinghua clenches his trembling hands in the sleeves of his robes, and jumps down from the hole and into the corridor.

He’s had enough! Did anyone up there hear that? System? God? Shang Qinghua has had enough for today!

The An Ding peak lord stalks over to the two opponents currently fighting to the death in the hallway beside his room. They’re so absorbed with one another and the next possible move they could make against each other than they don’t notice Shang Qinghua approach until he’s already got his hands fisted in their collars.

Shang Qinghua floods the musculator of his upper body with his own qi and gives a sharp, vicious tug with both arms. There are twin noises of surprise as both his king and his shidi go tumbling to the ground.

They whip around to stare incredulously at him, both of them offended and incredibly pissed, teeth bared. They look so much alike in this moment that if Shang Qinghua wasn’t just as pissed himself, he might have laughed.

“Shang Qinghua—!”

“What the hell do you think your d—?!”

“Shidi,” Shang Qinghua hisses, and Liu Qingge abruptly rears back, words cutting off.

Mobei Jun falls equally as silent, sitting up to regard the two of them silently, his analytic and battle-oriented mind likely trying to puzzle out what has the fierce warrior that he’d just been fighting on equal footing so hesitant to interrupt the weak and pathetic scribe that Mobei Jun has before used as his own punching bag. His king is so incredibly observant! It sucks that Shang Qinghua is way too mad right now to appreciate it like he normally would.

Liu Qingge shifts onto his knees, sword held over his legs in one tight fist, and he glares up at Shang Qinghua with a clenched jaw.

The An Ding peak lord isn’t having it, though. He’s way past the point of having it. He can already feel the migraine coming on.

“What the fuck,” he demands, “do you think you’re doing?”

Liu Qingge only continues to glare at him without reply.

Shang Qinghua reaches down and unsheathes his blade. Mobei Jun’s eyebrows rise up in obvious surprise at the move, but the king remains silent.

“What,” Shang Qinghua says, “were either of you thinking?!”

Mobei Jun frowns. “Shang Qinghua, you speak like that to this king?” He finally demands, eyebrows scrunched in anger.

“No, my king. No. Forgive this one his impudence, but,” Shang Qinghua holds up a finger, “shut up. Shut up, or I’m going to shred your body through a woodchipper and serve the remains as a shaved ice dessert to your court of bureaucratic idiots at the next feast. Shut up.”

Mobei Jun blinks in outrage, but doesn’t appear as if he knows how to respond to that. He glances between Shang Qinghua, who continues to stare down at his shidi, and Liu Qingge, who glares back.

“Shidi.”

Liu Qingge hunches his shoulders. “He was going to grab you. He should not have tried.”

“You tore a hole in my wall, Liu-shidi! You destroyed my shelf, and half my paperwork and scrolls! You put me back months in terms of work! Months! Liu-shidi!”

Liu Qingge gruffly turns his head away, belligerent scowl on his face. He clutches his sword in his lap like he wants to use it again, but isn’t yet sure on what.

Mobei Jun leans over into Liu Qingge’s space.

Liu Qingge narrows his eyes at him.

“What’s a woodchipper.”

The Bai Zhan peak lord glares. “I. Don’t. Know.”

“Both of you, look at me!”

Mobei Jun stares back at the swordmaster, eyes growing more and more intense, and Shang Qinghua grows more and more furious the longer these two toddlers ignore him.

“... What is shaved ice?”

“Isn’t it self-descriptive?! Shut up!”

Shang Qinghua drops his sword carelessly back into its sheathe, having not drawn it completely free to begin with, and slaps both his hands to his cheeks in frustration. He lets out a growl, glare fixated at the ceiling, before reaching forward to grab his martial brother by the collar.

“My king, Fix the wall with your ice for now.” He says, not even considering the fact that he’s ordering around Mobei Jun, something he’d normally never dare to do. He turns on his heel and begins to drag a sullen and red-faced Liu Qingfe behind him as he goes.

“Liu-shidi, come with me. You’re going to clean up the mess you’ve made, and then you're going to redo any paperwork you’ve lost me. Do you have any idea how many months worth of work you just destroyed? I am going to fucking flay you alive with nothing but a pair of chopsticks, Liu-shidi!”

Liu Qingge slumps in his hold. The man doesn’t even get to his feet. He remains seated stubbornly on the ground and mullishly allows the still-ranting Shang Qinghua to drag him across the floor and away from the silent Mobei Jun, who stares after them in confusion. The Bai Zhan peak lord crosses his arms and scowls, not meeting the king’s eyes.

After they leave, Mobei Jun regards the hole in the wall of the corridor and how, beyond it, Shang Qinghua’s workspace is completely demolished. He wonders why the man hadn’t just gone back through the hole, instead of walking the long way around.

Then, he spots the half destroyed scrolls that clutter up the floor, and winces. Ah.

#svsss prompts #shang qinghua #liu qingge #mobei jun #moshang #MoShangLiu #vodka answers #vodkassassin fanfiction #cherfleur

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fleetofshippyships-archive · 4 years

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A Tooth of Pearl: Chapter 2/2 - Wangxian

Pairing: Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian Rating: Teen Word Count: 1,004 Summary: It’s been days since Wei Wuxian saw Lan Zhan at that lake, but no matter how many nights he goes back there, he doesn’t see the jiaoren again. He stays near the water as often as he can, though. Just in case.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Merfolk, Canon Universe, Merman Lan Wangji, Pre-relationship, Gift Giving, Pining, Open Ending

Part 3 of my Merman Lan Wangji AU Series

Read on AO3, or below

Lan Wangji knew he should have stayed away, but even days later, Wei Ying still dominated his thoughts. His theft of Wei Ying’s original hair ribbon weighed on him too. After several days, he knew he had to do something, or he’d know no peace.

The easiest and most detached solution was to return the ribbon or compensate Wei Ying for it. The former was the most simple, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Ever since he had taken the ribbon, he had worn it around his left wrist. The indulgence filled him with guilt, bringing forth the words of the elders about association with humans, as well as the reminder of his dishonest act in taking it.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to remove it or return it.

Compensation was the only option he had left, so he found himself stalking through the waterways of Lotus Pier, cautious of being seen but needing to break the surface from time to time, listening out for Wei Ying’s voice.

It took longer to find him than it usually did, and it was more by chance that he finally found him asleep on the edge of a secluded pier. He was curled onto his side, one hand to his chest and the other, sleeve rolled back, dangling over the edge of the pier. He looked moments from rolling over the edge and into the water.

Lan Zhan was able to move so close he could touch him, and Wei Ying didn’t stir at all.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that Wei Ying had returned to the same lake night after night, trying to see him again, even calling out his name. It had taken all his self-control not to show himself again.

And now when he finally did, Wei Ying slept.

That was for the best, he decided.

With great care, he retrieved his gift from where he had stored it in his sleeve. It wasn’t much, a quick carving of some of his larger pearls, attached to a simple tassel of red silk. He had thought of carving a lotus bud or flower instead, something Wei Ying would surely appreciate more, but had found himself carving some simple shell and shark tooth pieces instead.

It gave him an odd little thrill he felt all the way down to the tip of his tail fin to think of Wei Ying carrying shapes of the ocean carved from the pearl of his tears. He tried not to linger on the thought.

The slender expanse of Wei Ying’s arm dangling over the pier beckoned, and he risked tying the tassel around his wrist. He had attached a long chord to it so it would be versatile enough to suit whatever use Wei Ying found for it, and was glad. It now served to allow him to fasten it to Wei Ying’s body, instead of laying it next to him where it might have been knocked into the water and lost before Wei Ying saw it.

With no more than a soft sigh from Wei Ying, he managed to tie it without waking him. It was an unforgivable intrusion to allow his fingers to linger on Wei Ying’s skin, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It was smooth and warm beneath his touch, the tickle of hair pleasant as his fingertips wandered over the back of his forearm.

When Wei Ying sighed again in his sleep, Lan Wangji snatched his hand back.

But he couldn’t yet draw himself away.

There was no red ribbon in his hair, but there was a flash of red near his chest, where Wei Ying clutched one hand to himself in his sleep. There, wound around fingers curled into a loose fist, was the ribbon Lan Wangji had given him, and warmth rushed through him, similar to the thrill he felt when he thought about Wei Ying carrying his pearls.

It was odd, he had used his pearls to compensate food taken from seasides and riversides many times, but he had never felt any attachment to them until seeing them hang from Wei Ying’s wrist. It was a similar case with the ribbon he had woven for him.

Instead of leaving, he moved even closer, placing his hands on the edge of the pier to lift himself enough to see Wei Ying’s face as close as he dared, close enough he could count Wei Ying’s eyelashes and feel the soft caress of his every exhale against his own skin.

Another unforgivable intrusion.

“What is it about you that captivates me so?” he murmured, committing every facet of Wei Ying’s sleeping face to memory.

It could not be his looks alone. The jiaoren were peerless in their beauty, and while Wei Ying was very attractive, he was not more so than faces Lan Wangji had seen before. But when he had first hidden among the rushes to observe the people of Lotus Pier as he passed by, he had been drawn in by the sound of his voice at once. By his smiles and mischief. Perhaps even by the warmth he radiated from his golden core.

Humans were not as aware of the energies around them as they thought, but Lan Wangji saw and felt them everywhere, and none so strongly as Wei Ying’s. There was an echoing warmth in his own body, his own misshapen core, part human spiritual energy, part jiaoren energy.

The warmth Wei Ying radiated called to him, but instead he moved away.

“Farewell, Wei Ying,” he whispered, allowing himself one last brush of his fingertips against the back of Wei Ying’s wrist.

On the pier, Wei Ying’s eyelashes fluttered and the space between his brows furrowed slightly. Lan Wangji held his breath. But Wei Ying did not wake.

Lan Wangji took it to mean he had made the right choice. Though Wei Ying slept, he bowed in the human fashion and swept over him one last, lingering look before diving beneath the surface and leaving him behind.

#mxtx #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #the untamed #cql #chen qing ling #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan wangji #lan zhan #my fanfic #wangxian merfolk au #*#i've been rambling about this au on twitter a lot today #i should probably stop XD

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trvelyans-archive · 5 years

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“so.”

varric’s voice is as loud and booming as ever, as if he’s announcing something to a crowd of invisible spectators. if she watches him closely enough she can see him piecing together the sentences behind his eyes - he’s always spinning a story, always playing along with a narrative, always using the words to match. it’s how he hooks people in.

that damned tethras man and his charming tethras tongue. absolutely irresistible.

“tell me if you’ve heard this one before,” he begins, a playful glint in his small eyes. “there’s this woman. and she’s the loudest, wildest person anyone will ever meet - the savior of the damned, a legend in the making. and she knows too many people for her own good, and too many people know her - a golden-haired mage, a brooding elf, a wide-eyed dalish, and a dashing pirate. and, at one point or another, they all fall for her...” his hands fall to his side from where they were suspended in the air, inviting her to bask in the web he was spinning, and his face softens in earnst. “and yet she picks the humble, lowly dwarven storyteller who follows her around and notes her every movement, her every word.”

“that’s hardly a story. the only thing fictional thing about that is you insinuating that you’re in any way humble,” hawke quips, arms crossed over her chest, shoulders squared. she can’t help but play along with his little game. she couldn’t stop herself if she tried.

“i am humble,” varric corrects. “i’ve been forced to be humble, down in the dirt after my brother betrays me... and my knight in shining armor shows up, lifts my spirits. but i’m still hesitant to tell her how i feel because i don’t want to get hurt again...”

“oh, is that why?”

“’course it is.” his nod is astute. “mutual, unspoken pining between two best friends makes for the best stories. those are the ones that sell the most. people love a good tragedy.”

“well, what just happened could definitely be described as a tragedy,” she grumbles, the gleam in her eyes suddenly cast over by a darkened expression. not even their game can distract her from the purpose of their excursion out to the coast; not even varric’s winning smile can make her forget the heavy pack on her shoulders, weighed down with all the supplies she needs to survive away from the city. “just look at the damn state i left kirkwall in.”

varric makes a move to respond - his opens his mouth, takes a step closer to her, reaches to grab her hand. and then he stops. mind going blank, shoulders sagged in defeat, he doesn’t know what to say. for the first time ever - for the first time with hawke - he doesn’t know what to say.

he’s varric. he’s always supposed to be nearby with a joke and an ambivalent shrug of his shoulders. but nothing feels like it’d fill the silence.

so he laughs - an uneasy, choked out thing, caught in his throat, cracking in the middle like a tree branch underfoot, and says with as much muster as he can manage, “well, that... wasn’t, uh, entirely your fault, you know, hawke.”

“it was.” her words are harsh and clipped and bitter. “it was, because i’m the one paying the price for it. leaving everything behind...”

she meets his gaze and her heart breaks. “leaving you behind.”

“hawke...”

“i know we’ve never said it, but -”

“and we don’t have to,” varric interrupts, closing the distance between them and grabbing her hands in his as he directs his eyes upwards. “you’re gonna come back, hawke. ten months or ten years, you’re going to come back. and when you do, i’ll be here, waiting...”

“pining?” she suggests, sniffling and bringing her forearm up to her nose to wipe it. the tears came quickly - they don’t have enough time left for them to come slowly.

“yeah, sure, pining,” he replies, laughing as he brings a calloused thumb up to smudge a tear against her cheek, not bothering to pay attention to the ones on his own. “if that’s what you want, then yeah. pining. pining after the most beautiful, most wild woman that thedas has ever seen.”

“you promise?”

“i promise, hawke.” his voice lacks volume, lacks conviction - there’s no lies to spin, no plot twist to devise. he’s here, with hawke, open and honest and aching for her, and there’s nothing false or fictional about it. “i’ll never stop waiting for you. no matter what.”

she crumples to her knees, gathering his small frame up in her arms. “i love you,” she whispers into his ear. one of his legs is caught between hers, and her hands never stay one place too long, roaming across the plane of his back - their embrace is desperate and messy and twitchy, completely with hoarse laughter and quiet sobs and thick tears staining dusty fabric. no one likes desperate and messy, varric thinks, but he needs it. in this moment, it’s the only thing he needs. the only thing he wants. ugly. because nothing real is ever very pretty.

“i -” he chokes out a sob, catches her hair between his teeth as he opens and closes his mouth in his best attempt to reply without crying. “i l-love you, too, hawke. shit.”

when she draws away, she presses a kiss to his lips. it is bright and pure and intoxicating, and for one moment he forgets everything in the world besides her lips on his - he forgets anders, and aveline, and grand enchanter elthina and knight commander meredith and all of the shit that went wrong in kirkwall. all he thinks about - all he can think about - is the wet, soft sound hawke’s mouth makes as her lips retreat from his and then, before either one of them can say anything else, come in for another dose.

his mind is reeling, and his thoughts are spinning. he can’t and he’ll never be able to find the words to describe how hawke feels against his body, beneath his hands. how much he’ll miss her.

when finally their kiss ends, they linger in the moment for as long as they can, eyes half-closed in a refusal to admit that a world exists outside of the two of them. then she grabs one of his hands in hers and presses a red strip of cloth into his open, empty palm and curves his fingers around it.

“take this,” she insists. “wear it everyday. in your hair, on your finger, around your neck, whatever. a token from me for my knight in shining armor.”

varric squeezes his eyes shut. it’s too soon. it’s ending too soon. “hawke...”

“i love you,” she repeats. it sounds natural, easy, like she’s said it thousands of times before even though she hasn’t. if only she did. if only she had the chance to. “i love you,” she says again, her voice a whimper.

when he opens his eyes, she’s gone.

he takes a moment to recuperate. blinks the tears from his orange eyelashes, sucks the rest of his snot up his nostrils and swallows it. everything is ugly, and awful, and vile, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying again, tying the red ribbon around his right wrist as tight as he can with one hand. when he’s looped it around enough for it to hold, he takes the end of it between his teeth to secure it. but suddenly it’s close enough to his nose that a familiar scent floods his senses, and he realizes - it’s the piece of fabric that hawke uses to keep her hair out of her face.

it’s what she used to use.

varric sighs. he bends over to grab his own pack, swings it up on his shoulders, and starts towards the speck in the distance that is what remains of kirkwall.

it’s when he gets back to the hanged man and sits down in front of his blank pages that he realizes this isn’t a story for anyone else to read. no one will want to read it. people don’t like happy endings, and this story is going to have one. so he puts his ink and quill away and for the first time, picks up the unused papers on his desk and rips them to shreds.

---

light streams through the gap in the hallway outside the war room. hawke’s back is pressed against the wall, her sword tall and present and threatening even though it’s wedged in between her and the stone, and varric realizes she looks like a hero, like she could be on the cover of a book. but her head is tilted towards varric, a playful, loving smile on her lips, and that would draw in no one else like it draws in varric.

“so... they don’t know about... us?” she asks. her gaze flickers towards the door as she shifts uneasily, looking all too well like she’s trying to keep a dirty, shameful secret, and varric almost laughs.

but he assuages her fears instead, fears that are well-earned. “nah,” he responds with a wave of his right hand. “figured that’d be a story best kept between us. i don’t think anyone else would really enjoy it.”

“well... i think that you’re right.”

she grins at him. though her hair is different, her skin is more tanned, her muscles are bulkier beneath her armor and her shoulders are more broad, she has the same grin she’s always had, the same one that makes him weak in the knees. he stutters for a moment, taken off-guard by her, and she takes the opportunity to snag his hand and start off down the hallway, away from the yelling between the advisers inside the war room.

“i don’t think i remember much of the last chapter,” she tells him over her shoulder, arching her eyebrow suggestively. “you might have to remind me.”

by the time they reach the great hall, she’s pulling him along only by the end of the red ribbon adorning his wrist. there’s still a long walk back to his quarters - their quarters, since the moment she arrived in skyhold this morning - and he can barely wait to touch her again and to kiss her again, to re-familiarize himself with her lips. but he’ll wait. this is something he’ll want to keep private.

“good thing i have a great memory,” he replies, saying and doing no more until she kicks open the door to his room and closes it securely behind them.

---

varric has barely passed through the veil when the vomit is already spewing from his mouth. everything is fucking backwards and upside down - his vision is blurry, his head is heavy, and his limbs ache from exertion worse than they’ve ever ached before. he’s just finished retching as the inquisitor stumbles through the tear in the fade. stroud comes out hot on their heels, his brow line with sweat, sword glinting in the pale desert moonlight.

varric blinks rapidly to clear his vision - once, twice, then three times, then four. and he stops, eventually, finally, chest still heaving as he takes a step closer to the inquisitor.

“where’s hawke?” he asks.

the inquisitor gives him no more of an answer than a shake of their head, and varric falls to his knees, crossbow clanging to the ground and sounding all too well like the cover of a book slamming shut.

#:)#i spent three hours on his and i SWEAR TO GOD.... if this gets 1 note... im gonna lose it #anyway i dont even have a hawke that romanced varric but uh... take this #i was inspired xoxoxo #hawke x varric #hawke/varric #my writing #dragon age 2 #femhawke #female hawke x varric #long post #VERY LONG POST... but i know no one will read it if it's under a read more so :)#gotta use the tactics u know folks #anyway

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har-rison-s · 5 years

Text

Tiny Dancer - 2

I don’t quite know why I’m here, one of my old empty notebooks under my hand and a pen between the fingers of my right hand. Maybe because of my bad memory? Trying to write down everything I can still remember about my long life so I would have the so-called ‘storage’ in my mind for other things. Maybe I’m writing a book and I’m thinking of publishing it, knowing very well that the publishers will think it’s fiction. That would keep me from exposing myself and the ones that have joined me in this long journey.I guess I will have to start with the very beginning.

Well… it was a lovely day of January, Tuesday the 29th. It was an ordinary day, people were going to work, buying coffee, greeting their colleagues, having their lunch break. The country and the whole world was getting fixed after the first World War. My parents weren’t the lucky ones on this day, because my mother was in terrible pain and my father was anxious.

I was being brought to the world that day.

Terrible enough, my mother only got a tiny glimpse of me before her body gave out and she layed breathless and unmoving in the hospital bed. I didn’t even see her. I only know how she looked from photographs. I never knew her, never knew even a flicker of what she was like.

My father raised me, took care of me, taught me everything a father could, a grieving father at that. He wanted me to do great things in life, and he ensured many possibilities of that. Took me any place he could, gave me teachers and opportunities. I hardly missed any.

I was a cute little toddler, a beautiful girl. Curly, dark, brownish-red hair tied up in pigtails with ribbons. Wide chocolate brown eyes with thick eyelashes. My cheeks were red. I remember I used to wear this white dress with red polka dots on it and I loved it. It was my favourite dress and father always made me wear it when we went somewhere, and that was a lot. Now I think he suspected I could impress or cause adoration in any of his business partners or clients.

We visited the carnivals, musical concerts, operas, theatres and museums. We were quite wealthy, you could say. Living in New York and still being wealthy was a miracle then. We weren’t missing a thing, except for my mother.

And that eventually overtook my father. After my mother, I was the only thing he loved most in the world. My mother was the love of his life and he gave her everything he could. And when I was born and she died, he only wanted the best for me and did everything he could, for me. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it made me the happiest kid in the world. All I wish now is to see that beautiful smile once again, at least once.

Six months since I’d turned sixteen, he passed. It was depression. I was devastated when I found out at the hospital. He’d taken so many sleeping pills that they killed him. I don’t really know how it felt to know that I failed to keep him sane. I can still remember that day like it was yesterday. But it’s one I try to forget out of all.

“Father?” My sweet voice cuts through the silence. I wander through all our rooms, already exhausted after my performance in the opera, wanting to do nothing more than to put me and my father to sleep. “Daddy, where are you?” I can’t find him for the life of me. He couldn’t be in my room, now, could he?

But I stumble into my room. There’s a light coming from my bathroom. Why hasn’t he answered me, if he’s in there? The door is… it’s halfway open. I can’t hear any sound coming from inside the room. Is there something wrong? Is he sleeping in my bathroom? For what ever reason… Is he even in there?

I push open the door and at first, I don’t react at all. And then I see him. Lying on his stomach, head turned to one side, the eye I can see open slightly. “Father?!” I exclaim, horrified.

I kneel down in front of him quickly and turn him on his back. He’s heavy and unconscious. What is wrong? I shake him desperately, but no response. I put my ear next to his chest to make sure he’s breathing. Maybe he’s only in a deep sleep. But I can’t feel or hear any proof of the fact that he could be breathing.

“Father, wake up! What's happened?!” I panic. I don’t think this is good at all. I have to get help.

I stand up and run out of the room, but not before my eyes linger on him for a bit longer. He’s pale. I pick up our kitchen phone’s reciever and turn the numbers correctly so I could call the ambulance. I make the call, almost bursting into tears and return to my father lying in the bathroom. The ambulance base isn’t far from where we live, so they’ll be here quite soon.

It’s only then that I notice there’s something in his left hand. I reach over his body to open his palm and see what it is. It’s only a folded piece of paper. Quite important paper, actually. It has my name on it.

But I didn’t notice the pills on the bathroom counter, nor the empty bottles that once contained them that were lying next to my father’s body. I was too shocked and determined to help him to notice anything besides my own father.

The ambulance came and he was rushed to the hospital, with me following suit. And while I waited for a doctor to come update me on my father’s condition, I read what was in the folded piece of paper with my name on it. It was a testament, my father leaving everything he has to me. And above his signature are a few words meant for me.

‘I’m sorry, Scarlett. You make me the happiest man. But I can’t take this anymore. I really am sorry. I wish you the best, my girl. I wish you only the best. Be careful out there. It’s a lot more dangerous when you’re alone now, without me.'

I couldn’t believe what he had written and I didn’t even understand what he meant, truly meant. For a long time, and I mean years, even decades, I didn’t understand the last words about how dangerous everything had become. I only thought it was a regular thing a father tells his kid. But it wasn’t so ordinary, not in my case.

A nurse came out of the room my father was in, bringing a sort of an explanation about what’s happened. I jolted up from my seat when she started walking towards me. I watch her with frantic eyes, many many scenarios of what has happened and what the doctors will do running through my mind.

“Mrs Kings?” She asks to make sure it’s me. I nod and my hands start to shake, caused by an anxious feeling inside me. Maybe he’s had a heart attack? A stroke? “Your father consumed a lot of sleeping and stress-relief pills.” She informs me and I gasp, my hand over my lips. The nurse sighs. “I am sorry, but… we couldn’t bring him back. It was suicide.” She says with an apologetic look on her face, and the way she speaks is slow.

Her words don’t register for a while in my head, and there's a blank feeling in my mind. “Wait, wha—how—what?!” My voice breaks and my words spill faster than I can speak. “You can’t be serious. My father wouldn't...”

“I’m afraid I am, miss.” The nurse responds, her voice sad, but not as sad as mine. “We are terribly sorry for this. But we were too late.”

“No, no, no… you can’t—I was, I was with him just before the show! He was—he was… he was alright! He said he’d meet me after…” I trail off because I’m choking on my words. I’m at a loss for air. I am at a loss for everything, nothing seems real, nothing is there. Everything’s… lost.

I remember I felt myself start to fall. My knees were giving in and I didn’t have the strength to keep them strong. I couldn’t move myself up on my feet. I was falling, I couldn’t get any words out. The nurse put a hand on my shoulder and kept asking me questions. I couldn’t answer her. There was nothing I could do.

I spent the rest of the night in the hospital. I couldn’t go home. I couldn't go there, where my father had just... intentionally took his own life. I couldn't. I couldn’t move at all.

I sat against a wall in the waiting room, my knees pressed against my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs. My stare was blank. Empty eyes looking forward, but not at anything in front of me. Just as they were taking every wire and system off my father's still body, taking him out of the reanimation room and pushing the stretcher with him on it down the hall towards the morgue. I never noticed. And now that I think of it, I didn't want to. The only time I looked at my father or his dead body was at his funeral.

I was lost. I don’t even know if I was capable to think. Thinking of what was to come, what would I do now, what would happen from then on. I definitely had questions, but no answers. I didn’t know what to do. I didn't even know who I was without him. i was practically no one.

Who I am now and who I was then was all thanks to my father. All because he wanted me to be great, wanted me to be someone. But who could I be without him? I'd only be Scarlett, a sixteen-year-old from New York. I wasn't anyone... Anyone important. Not without him.

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cloudwomensquarterly · 5 years

Text

Zoriada and Marisol from SanTana’s Fairy Tales Written By Sarah Raphael Garcia

The following story appears in SanTana's Fairy Tales and is reprinted with permission from Raspa Magazine.

Zoriada and Marisol

I am an enchanted woman named Zoraida.

But of course you already know my name. You knew me when I was alive.

In this life, I reign from far, far above the castles and queens. I travel by whispers, wishes upon the North Star and hushed weeps. Just like you called upon me in midst of bloody murmurs, wishing for death to ease the pain. Some call me death, others the Godmother of life.

In my last life I too thought it was my fate to die as a woman on a night like tonight. But death came just too soon, leaving me trapped between other’s lives and my own.

I was an unfamiliar name in a city filled with dreamers. I was strong like the palm trees swaying in the Santa Ana winds and lyrical as the parrots living under the green, mama bird-like wings of the Pacific Coast palm trees. My legs, long and silky, danced to their own melody without any awkward stumbling or mispronounced schemes.

Fortunes—I had none.

My purse was of more value than the coins clinking in its deep corners and melancholy was my lover leading me into the bitter sea. Still, I lugged my stitched heart in weary arms— leaving it exposed to everyone I passed on the dark, twisted streets.

I was inspiring, so you kept saying when you spoke of me. But now, I appear in reflections, cupped hands and wishes.

For as long as I could remember, I wanted to twirl my long hair between china-red fingertips and blush when I cupped my breasts in front of the standing mirror. I wanted a man to caress my curves, from my hips to my puckered lips. But to most, my type of love was forbidden—cursed by society like the familiar tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.

Love—I thought I would find it.

But when my limp body was found, winded and pale as the ocean’s spume, it cast a shadow over those close to my heart, leaving only the jagged sounds of shattered dreams and a person by another name—the name I was given at birth, not the real me.

Before I tell you what is to become of you, please keep breathing. As painful as it might be, I plead for you to keep breathing—at the end I will ask for your wish, I promise you that.

When I was at my last breath, I regretted believing someone would actually love me and wished for death. You think you prefer not feeling anything but the truth is your despair has summoned my presence—because we are the same. Like you, I too was first called a boy at birth. A boy who stared at other boys and envied the red ribbons the girls wore in their long wavy hair. It was a girl who helped me see who I really was.

“I like your eyelashes. You would make a pretty girl.” She was ten like me, and wore an eyelet dress with matching socks.

“But I’m a boy.” I was dressed in jeans and plain t-shirt my mother picked out for me.

“Those boys are mean to you. Do you want to pretend to be a girl and play with me?” I still remember her, she was the first to accept me.

Before I could fully see beyond my own skin and feel the moths flutter wildly in my heart.

But really it could have been anyone thereafter: my mother, my only sister, my first lover—all paid me a compliment about my soft skin, perfect lips and almond shaped eyes. It wasn’t until many years later my hair became my true beauty.

Back then my name was Gabriel. My mother said she chose my name because I was her little angel. I wonder what all their birth names were before I helped them die. I learned to never ask. The names they give us do not affect who really are.

Here, let move your hair out of your eyes. Your curls are such a pretty shade of caramel, perfect with your brown skin. It saddens me to see it fading. Doesn’t the lavender oil feel good on your temples? I used to rub it on myself after a “bad” day. I should’ve taught you more when I was alive.

My mother taught me about the healing powers of the oils as a boy. I think my mother knew then it would be the only thing she could pass on to me to heal myself. Lavender is for balancing, soothing, normalizing, calming, relaxing, and healing. Ginger for warming, strengthening, anchoring. And oregano oil is invigorating, purifying and uplifting. But my favorite of all is jasmine—it induces calmness, relaxation, sensuality, and romance. My mother often reminded me of the healing pur- poses of all the oils, even when I jerked away angrily at fifteen because I told her she should’ve taught me to fight instead.

I added some jasmine on your wrists. You will be able to smell it later, should you choose to live.

I remember the first time I was beaten by the neighborhood boys. They never liked me. They called me names my mother would never approve of, “Joto,” “Faggot,” and “Maricón.” I never told my mother why they chased me down the alley. I just told her they were boys from another neighborhood. That’s when my mother started chanting all the remedies. Often, on the day after applying oils on my face and limbs, my mother gave me a cup of ginger and arnica tea with breakfast. She also gave me a lemon lightly covered with honey, in case the tea left a bad taste in my mouth. Lemon is uplifting, refreshing, cheering. I say honey is just as sweet as a rose at your nose tip and solely to indulge. My mother would say it was anti-inflammatory, to help with the bruises. Should you decide to get up, I left some honey and lemon on your table, all you have to do is boil water. I do hope you choose to get up but I will understand if you don’t.

At nineteen, I ran into my mother’s house blubbering tears. When she asked what happened. I spat the words out as if she had always known. I didn’t try to ease her into my real identity or even try to confront her with it. She saw me in pain and did what came natural to her.

“Mijo, who hurt you? Come here, come here, let your mama hold you.”

“Mama, it hurts so much.”

“Where mijo, show me where. I will get my oils.” “No, don’t go. Mama, he used me, he used me. He told me he loved me. And I just gave myself to him.” Instantly, my mother dropped her arms. I looked at her and called for her, “Mama?” She just stared at me without any words. I knew then it would be hard for her to understand. I knew then everything would be harder and I would have to learn to heal myself. And although my mother never asked me to leave her home, I felt it was necessary, out of respect. On my last day, she burnt sage around my body before I walked out the door. But I couldn’t continue with the silence, it was like sucking on a lemon with cracked lips.

I’m sure you have a similar story. We all do. I don’t ever assume mine is the worst. At the time I thought it was best we didn’t share our pasts, but now I wish I could’ve told you more when I was alive. We all feel pain differently, some of us know how to heal ourselves, others don’t know anything else but pain.

Look how they left you, how did you even make it into the apartment? And your beautiful dress, did they really have to rip it in three places? You are such a beautiful woman, skin softer than all I have ever felt.

I see the sewing machine in the corner, a new fabric hanging from the needle. You know, that’s how I managed to pay for my own change.

I see myself now reduced to a skeleton in a hand stitched cloak. I have shed all the layers of flesh, skin and gender. You’ll look like this when you’re dead too. How trivial our differences become, between lives. In my last life, I did succeed in becoming a woman, the only part of me you knew. We are a lot alike. We both hungered to be accepted, I succumbed to the death of it. You want to stop the pain; I now regret wishing it away.

But I didn’t know I was coming to heal you.

I only realized you were calling for death when I entered this apartment.

When I first moved out of my mother’s home I found myself wandering through days in no particular direction. I lived in this same small apartment, making the living room my stage, such as you did too. The man who took me in was not a lover. Sometimes he would say he found me in his own reflection, like a walking mirror reassuring his presence; other times, he’d say I found him, like an abandoned newborn fawn wobbles towards a horse for comfort. Once he claimed he saved me, without saying from what. But now I know, his guidance prolonged my life to be what I am now.

I remember very little of the first year out of my mother’s home. But I do recall the sun rising after I left the apartment, sometimes several hours later. I knew I was on a path, something better than before, and possibly a change, though I can’t remember ever contemplating these things on my way to the warehouse where I worked as a packmule. The man said there would be times when the sunrise would make me smile. Yet, since the day I met him I only showed him the face of an orphaned child. He was rarely home when I returned after night fell. But with time, things did change. My hair grew longer and longer. I kept it just passed my shoulders. On the days I remained home from work the man taught me to sew. While the man dressed himself before leaving for the night, he spent the time lecturing me about drag etiquette and giving a hands-on lesson on how to convert woman’s clothing to compliment our bodies.

“Remember, inhale while you zip-up. Exhale when you tousle your hair. Scream when you need to, because we all need to scream when we do.

“Pat your lips before walking out the door. And shower yourself in the scent you wish to perspire.

“If anyone, and I mean anyone honey—man or woman— even looks at you with disgust, just blow them a kiss as you pass them by. Be who you are, walk tall and mighty like a queen.”

He also gave me my first dress. He said he hoped it brought the same memories as it did him. I can’t say it ever did.

The only clothes I had from the time before my change were the threads my mother provided, the plain white t-shirts she afforded with the labors of her healing. Instead of throwing them out, I used them for lining, to keep the one who taught me to heal close to me. I knew in her own way she showed me love.

The man was my strength, as I hoped to be yours. The man told me he had to let me walk on my own. He gave me his room, with a closet full of beautiful dresses, and colorful accessories. Caddy corner from the sewing machine sat a vanity mirror covered with make-up tips and inspirational quotes— words I heard him tell me time and time again but I was too tired to make them my own.

About a month after the man left, I began to use his things, tailored each piece to cling to my waist. It was in his absence that he taught me how to be a woman. I hoped to pass on my things to someone one day too.

It is odd how you called to me when I first crossed your path. You were the first to compliment my hair, “I like your hair, reminds my of an onyx stone. Is it real?” I laughed, put my arms around you, teased you about your little boy clothes and brought you home the same night. You were my lost child of the night. But of course you probably do not remember your first year either. Or maybe you remember everything, and I’m just a foolish lost soul.

I bet you thought you would never know what happened to me or why I left. I didn’t mean to leave you like this. It was an honor to see you bloom. Unlike me, you listened to my words and teachings like a starving child licking your lips over breadcrumbs. I never gifted you a first dress because you made it when I was gone—in one day. You wore it before your hair grew out and your curves filled it in. You were the fawn born a doe. I never say I found you because I know you saved me from me. You gave me the courage to face my change and to own my new name.

Zoraida. Marisol. Like sisters. I was more like jasmine; you are more like ginger. We both healed each other. Yet, it was I who fell for the wolf disguised in sheep’s coat. My prince promised me an untold fairytale. I wanted to keep him all for myself. I never shared his name or the details of our prelude. I left before you came home. I left wearing a new dress, carrying my finest purse and wearing matching shoes. I hoped to be swept off my feet and carried away in his arms. He did just that.

My prince let me enjoy our shared meal and drink one glass of red wine. He offered me a ride home. The stars were out and my shoes were not made to walk the streets. How could I deny?

I prepared myself for the good night kiss. Pushed my hair behind each ear, dabbed my lips lightly on a tissue to avoid leaving him marked. I would thank my prince shyly while looking up to his eyes.

But before I could tell him where to turn, my prince drove in a different direction. When I joked about getting lost, he said he had been watching me from long ago.

“I saw you first at a bus stop. You applied red lipstick on your lips.” He said the words while his black eyes turned to see me.

“Oh, it must have been a day I was running late.” I responded and giggled while looking away.

“I watched how your hair grew, before it even passed your ears.” This time, he spoke in almost a whisper, staring straight ahead.

“Oh, what do you mean? It has been this length for months.” My voice cracked and my body tensed up.

“I’ve been watching you, pretending, pretending, that’s all you do!” His voice changed its tune, his brutish words echoed as if they bounced off each window in the car.

The car came to a stop and it wasn’t at my home. I immediately went for the door. When I moved away from him, I felt a roughness around my neck. My hands didn’t have the strength to reach the door or window. I tried to scream but the noose got tighter and tighter. My fingers burned from clasping the rope, trying to keep inhaling. I got very tired and let my eyes shut. When I awoke, I was tied at my ankles and wrists, laid in a small space. I was in the trunk of his car. I tasted metallic on the tip of my tongue and was undressed. Pain, pain, every- where—like ten beatings in one day. I could only close my eyes to dream of something better. I awoke to my prince opening the trunk to beat me more. He didn’t speak, nor could I with the gag in my mouth. I could only wish, wish I would have never believed another could love me. I never awoke again.

A young woman found my body, behind a dumpster. I watched her walk out from the nearby building as I floated above my naked self. My scars under my breasts were practically invisible and the ones between my legs were beginning to fade. I covered myself in lavender and tea tree oil every day—it was my daily ritual. The relief brought me happiness. I knew how to heal myself but I couldn’t undo what my prince had done.

I passed the first months after death watching you. I hovered over you when you walked alone at night. I rubbed oils on you during your sleep. I wanted to heal the pain my absence caused. But when I read over your shoulder that they excluded my name, the name I chose for the real me, I wished I could live again. They erased me, replaced me with the helpless boy my mother raised. They convicted my prince for killing a man, even though I grew up to be a woman. It was anger that forced me to listen. I heard the cries from others like me. Some cried to die, others prayed to live. I couldn’t allow for them be alone in such desperation. I left your side to be with them. I applied oils and spoke comforting words as they whispered their wishes. Each time I arrived at a newly bruised body, I feared it might be you.

Today, my worst fear came true. But now I can truly be the wiser woman you need me to be. You have a choice Marisol, you can choose to die today or to live past tomorrow, live to speak aloud our names. Give them a reason to speak yours in the present, let mine be a legend. You must choose between life and death. Only you can choose.

Tell me my dear sister, tell me what you desire, I will help with the pain. Inhale the sage I burn for you now, it will cleanse you of any doubts and give you strength to speak. Is it life or death you seek?

I will make whichever wish you choose come true.

Sarah Rafael García is a writer, arts educator and conceptual artist. Since publishing Las Niñas (Floricanto Press 2008), she founded Barrio Writers, LibroMobile and Crear Studio. In 2015, she completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing with an emphasis in Fiction and cognate in Media Studies. In 2016, Sarah Rafael was awarded in part by The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, through an Artist-in-Residence initiative at CSUF Grand Central Art Center, to develop the multi-media project titled SanTana’s Fairy Tales (Raspa Magazine 2017). In 2018, she held an artist residency at The Guesthouse, Cork, Ireland and was honored as an Emerging Artist at the 19th Annual Orange County Arts Awards. Most recently, Sarah Rafael García was selected as a 2019 University of Houston Kathrine G. McGovern College of the Arts and Project Row Houses Fellow. She currently splits her time between stacking books at her tiny bookstore in Santa Ana, California and developing her forthcoming sci-fi literary project in Houston, Texas. To read more about the SanTana Fairy Tale collection, see this excellent review at De Colores: The Raza Experience in Books for Children and please look for the book and purchase it online.

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clownfuckery · 7 years

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A Monster for a Mate - Chapter 1

PENNYWISE X OC

Table of Contents (in progress)

Prologue

A/N: Let’s find out a little about our OC, shall we? -----

Reminiscing

May, 2016

So, where does this story begin?

Some would say in September of 1989, when a wounded It went deep into the earth to heal, sleep… and to plot. Some would say it begins when It awoke once more, in the summer of 2015 to feed upon Its game. There are those who say it begins upon my own awakening, nine years prior in the fall of 2008. Others would argue that it begins on the day I met Pennywise the Clown. And then there are those who go off the deep end, who begin to rant about how Pennywise was doomed the moment Its opposing force, some great big Turtle floating in space, choked on a couple of galaxies. But all I know, all I remember, are the ramblings of some madman dressed in a crisp black suit. He spoke as if from far away, spinning a tall tale of how the balance of some cosmic, mythological structure in the blackness behind the universe hung by the guardians of the beams. He talked of how they all needed to come down. It all seemed ludicrous then, but now I know that he spoke as though I would somehow come to play a part in it all. Perhaps his words held no real meaning, perhaps they were simply the disjointed, incoherent, and angry mumbo jumbo of some space lunatic.

But now I know he spoke of It, and the one certainty which came to pass years later. And now, in these short, few months in which I fell under the spell of Pennywise’s guises and floated in the deadlights that danced in his eyes, I grew to understand him. To like him, need him. Love him? Maybe. Yes, maybe that too.

“Shh, there there,” I whisper as I place the small, warm bundle in the nest. A sound that is both a sigh and a chuckle escapes my lips as the bundle stirs and begins to whine, then quiets and goes still. Part of me wants her to wake just so I can look into her eyes and fall in love all over again with those two, shining yellow embers. Instead, my hand reaches out and I smooth back the red wisps of hair that stubbornly stick out around her head.

Just then, the fear strikes me. It is a primeval cold that seeps into my bones and makes me stiff with dread. The fear is not my own, and I cannot truly rationalize it, but it still leaves me paralyzed, and against my nature, I fear my own mortality.

“They’re coming” the voice behind me says. I turn to find Pennywise entering the nest. He collapses in my arms, and I try my best to soothe that fear, that white silver pain that leaves him blind and terrified.

“They can’t kill you” I say, wrapping my entire body around him. “You can be hurt, threatened, cornered. But never killed. You’re the Eternal, the Eater of Worlds”

He shudders, and my embrace tightens.

“Do you hear me?” I say forcefully, pulling back to look him in the face. He nods frantically, trying his best to smile and look composed, but I see the desperation in his eyes. They’re bloodshot, and the black kohl around his eyes is glistening with tears.

“I called for them. I sent them my calling card in blood. And when they get here I will kill them all! I will cast them, shrieking and insane into the deadlights. And then…”

“…we will feast” we say together “and doze for a while”

He presses his lips to mine, and as I taste the sweetness of his mouth, I feel his lips tremble. The words of that man in black come to mind once more, and I can’t help but think that the ka-tet of six who were once seven are agents of that man. Or perhaps… I was.

“The portal must remain open” were the last words he had said before he disappeared into the bustle of Main Street, leaving me stranded in a town I did not know.

So, where does this story begin?

The Opera

October, 2015

Masquerade!  Paper faces on parade  Masquerade!  Hide your face  So the world will never find you… I stood behind the curtain and watched in fascination as the performers followed the choreography to perfection. I looked out to the audience, and my eyes scanned over the throngs of black hoods that lined the aisles, invisible to all, save for me. Instinctively, even after years of having those dark guardians as my constant companions, I still looked around me to see if any had noticed. I caught a glimpse of my costar Michael O’Hare getting into position to burst into the scene at his cue. The makeup artist was adjusting the mask that covered half his face, and he was wrapping the cloak around him in just the right place that would allow him to create the Phantom’s signature swoosh of the cape. I turned back to the stage and watched as another fellow performer, Jeremy Hammell, who stood on stilts and wearing a big ruffled onesie, sprinted to the front of the stage, where he did a tip-toeing number as the rest of the ensemble brought the second act into full gear.

Eye of gold…  Thigh of blue…  True is false…  Who is who?  Curl of lip…  Swirl of gown…  Ace of hearts…  Face of clown…

“Faces… drink it in, drink it up, till you’ve drowned in the light…” I hummed along quietly as I watched him prance around the stage, the exact image of that character from my childhood I held dear. As he finished his small number and retreated to the back he flashed me a wink, and I returned it with a thumbs-up. I knew he would agree, he had no choice in the matter.

“Oh come on Jeremy! Do it for me” I had whined in rehearsals, batting my eyelashes like an exaggerated coquette.

“Fine fine, don’t get your panties in a wad” he said, taking the folded paper which bore the somewhat grainy and low-quality picture I had printed out “what’s the deal with this clown anyway?”

“He was my favorite growing up! You know, my mom even drove five hours just so I could see him at a fair in Buenos Aires. I watched his…”

“You watched his show every freaking day, yeah you told me that. Creepy looking bozo, probably some pedophile or a drunkie. You owe me dinner” he retorted, handing the picture to Gladys, one of the makeup artists.

“You’re the best!” I squealed, kissing him on the cheek and rushing out of the trailer to get fitted.

I was brought back to the present when I felt someone come stand next to me, take my hand, and wrap it around his arm.

“Now look like you really love me” quipped Conor Fontaine, my costar who played Raoul. He was tall and unbelievably handsome. A perfect poster boy with his long blond hair and piercing blue eyes; and yet it was Michael, with his rugged looks and unapologetic humor into whose hotel room I snuck in at night.

“Scarlett, Conor… off you go” signaled the stage master.

“I will never get used to your stage name” Conor laughed and we waltzed back into the scene.

The production had been a roaring success. Thirty cities, one hundred and fifty shows, sold out theaters across the country, Canada, and Mexico. But on that night, on the last show of the Phantom’s North American tour, the energy was electrifying. As much as I was a creature of control and poise, I allowed myself for once to become lost in the magic of it all. The lights, the colors, the rousing music of the orchestra. In my eyes, Michael truly became the Phantom, Conor was Raoul, and Jeremy was Pizarrín, the clown who had delighted my afternoons as a child.

Have you gorged yourself  At last in your lust for blood?  Am I now to be prey  To your lust for flesh?

My voice cracked with rage and horror as I confronted the monster. I could feel more than hear the held breaths from the audience. The throngs of black hoods that lined the aisles however, remained motionless.

I kissed the monster then, and I could feel the prosthetics that covered half of Michael’s face tickle my lip. The kiss was intense, passionate, and as he returned the fervor, I wrapped my hands around his neck. The audience burst into raucous applause. A few moments later, there were tears in the audience and from fellow cast members watching from behind the curtain as I sailed away with another, leaving the monster to crumble in the depths.

The curtain fell.

One by one the cast walked onstage to receive their accolades. When Michael and I walked hand in hand, we received a standing ovation. The cheering and applause were deafening. The black hoods finally raised their heads and at once, they joined in the applause. I blew a kiss, and even though to the eyes of all I was reciprocating the love from the spectators, I was in truth acknowledging my father, who stood just behind the orchestra. From his black cloak he retrieved a single red rose tied with black ribbon, and he tossed it at the stage. It landed at my feet, and I picked it up, took a long whiff of its fragrance and walked backstage.

The curtain fell again.

Daddy Issues

I listened to the sound of Michael breathing. His left arm was wrapped around my waist and his naked body was pressed behind me. His breathing, still shallow and coming in pants, was beginning to slow down and deepen. A minute or two more, and he would be fast asleep.

It was almost a science of sorts. You learn to predict the post-coitus patterns of a man after a few times underneath him. For Michael, I had his pattern down to a tee after Washington D.C. We had begun to sneak into each other’s hotel rooms and dressing rooms at Atlanta. From casting and rehearsals, there had been this energy between us. No, not actor’s chemistry, but an electricity that sparked and crackled the moment we touched hands and began to go through the early stages of learning the choreography. We sang as we rehearsed, and I could feel his eyes burn into mine, not in that beguiling, deceitful way typical of a performer of his status, but his eyes danced. They were a bright, open shade of blue, and yet behind the frankness of their depths, I could see the storm brewing within. It was dark, and full of lighting and thunder.

Soon after the production left its home in the Majestic, our hands began to do the talking. Flowers in my dressing room, embraces held a few moments longer, tighter and constricting. That electricity soon made its way onto the stage, and it echoed in the reviews that followed the Phantom after it packed and made its way onto the next city. “The passion and the aura ooze from the wooden beams of the stage, flow past the pipes and strings of the orchestra, and intoxicate all that sit in the plush red seats of the opera house” Steve Connelly from the New York Times had written.

I let out a small giggle and I felt Michael shift behind me. His breathing was now coming in long, deep inhales, and he turned onto his back. He was asleep. I stole a glance at him, and I slunk off the bed. Upon emerging from the bathroom, I quickly gathered my undergarments from the floor, then the red beaded Versace dress I had worn to the after party. I slid on my pumps and turned back to the bed. I watched Michael sleep, taking in the way his black hair covered half his face, almost Phantom-like. His broad chest rose and fell, and my eyes ran over the thin line of hair that traveled from his chest, down his stomach, and disappeared under the sheet that draped over the bottom half of his body. He was an excellent lover, perhaps one of the best I’d had, but that wasn’t saying much. He mattered to me no more than my next meal. I would not see him again until the international tour kicked off in four months, and most likely by then, there would be a new toy to play with.

I placed a gentle kiss on the one cheek that was exposed and headed for the door. As I passed the sitting room, I gulped down the remaining wine from the bottle at the table, grabbed my wristlet from the couch, and left.

Upon exiting the elevators and crossing the lobby, I took notice of the striking man in the black and red suit waiting by the doors. He twirled his cane in what I knew was exasperation and impatience.

“Were you really going to stand there till I came out? What if I decided to stay the night for once, dad?”

“Ha! You never do” he snorted, wrapping an arm around me and guiding me out to the black SUV with tainted windows that waited. A black hood disguised as a valet attendant held the door open.

“There’s bound to be lots of attention at the Ritz” he said as the SUV took off into the brightly lit streets of Los Angeles.

“Why would you do that? What if I wanted to be alone for once?” I groaned, looking out aimlessly toward the city lights. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his head snap toward me so fast, he might have broken a bone or two if he were human.

“On your night of triumph?! What’s come over you? You wanted this”

I didn’t answer, pretending to be enthralled by the darkened windows of buildings and small shops. There was a mural that depicted the struggles of Mexican immigrants in the narrow and over-populated streets of downtown LA.

“I sent flowers to Katherine” I said after a while “you nearly killed her”

“Oh come on, since when you do you feel any remorse? You wanted this” he repeated, and this time, his voice dropped a few notches, turning raspy and dry, almost like a growl. He was twirling his cane again, and I watched his fingers run over the handle made out of solid gold and carved into the image of a serpent. Or was it a dragon?

“I didn’t mean it when I said it. If anything, you could have just…” what could he have done? Make her catch a really bad case of tuberculosis and make her miss the production, only to return after convalescing, thus leaving me in the sidelines again to play poor old Meg Giry as I was originally cast? Or maybe…

“Given her throat cancer?!” he laughed, loud and boisterous, slapping the shoulder of the black hood sitting on the passenger seat. He and the other sitting at the wheel laughed along.

“With only a month before rehearsals? How would you have done it, Lus?” the one driving asked through his laughter, looking at me through the rearview mirror with his bright, red eyes. I made a face at him.

My dad scoffed. “Say what you will, that human part of you will always infuriate me. You take what you want, with no thought to the cost. Do you understand me?” he asked, taking my hand. I nodded.

“Yes, dad”

The SUV was now turning into the circular driveway of the Ritz Carlton. “Good. Now, get out there, and bask in the glory you deserve”

The black hoods at the front transformed into men in suits as we drove into the chaos of paparazzi and fans. The black hoods stepped out, with one going to control the crowd, and the other to open the door of the car. Right before I stepped out, I turned to my father once more.

“I will be going back to Vermont tomorrow and there is something you WILL do for me” I snapped at him and then exited the vehicle.

I smiled my way through the crowd, signing pictures of Michael and I as the Phantom and Christine, pictures of me alone on the stage belting out “Think of Me”, and editorial photographs. I took selfies, shook hands, gave hugs, and tried my damned hardest not to squint at the binding flashes of the photographers. My father stood directly behind me, invisible to all, and yet with the smuggest smile upon his face. If there was something the daughter of the Great Orchestrator of all evil could boast of, it was of a doting, proud, overprotective father.

“Whatever it is, I won’t do it. I know where you’re going with this” he retorted as I finally made it inside and the elevator doors closed. He said it with such rigidity, and yet his voice sounded already defeated.

“Yes, you will” I smiled, taking off my pumps.

“I will not leave you unprotected”

The elevator dinged, and we exited into the Presidential Suite.

“Unprotected?!” I laughed, walking into the bedroom. The black hood who kept watch over me stepped out of the closet and transformed into his usual façade. “And just who do I need protection from? Nosferatu?!” I said with obvious sarcasm, pointing to my guardian. He sucked in a breath in mock offense.

“Sorry Nos” I said to him. He only chuckled, exactly like my favorite monster, and waved his long, spidery hands at me.

“There are things you do not understand” my father nearly shouted “things you will never be able to even begin to comprehend, because of that cursed human nature you carry. You’re limited, and as much as you are my daughter, and an Untouchable, you are still at risk…”

“Aww, am I really so-”  Important  “-precious to you?” I cooed, stepping towards him and placing a hand on his arm.

“Don’t try to flirt with me, I’m not one of your toys” he said, shaking me off. My tone softened even more.

“All I ask is ten days. No you, no black hoods, no guardians. I need some space”

“You wish to be rid of me, Lus?” Nosferatu gasped, clutching his chest, pretending to be deeply wounded. I chuckled and walked to him, wrapping my arms around him. He returned the embrace and placed his cheek upon my head. Nosferatu had been with me since my eighth birthday, never leaving my side. I had convinced him to change his appearance into the classic vampire, and had remained my closest friend ever since.

“I think the precious princess needs a vacation. You’re tired, aren’t you?” Nos said softly, gently holding my chin and cooing at me. I nodded and stuck my bottom lip out like a little child.

“Enough!” barked my father, sickened at the childish sight. Nosferatu looked at me and shrugged.

“Killer of joy” I murmured under my breath, but Nos wouldn’t dare react, biting his lips to keep from laughing.

My father sighed. The cane twirled again. He had lost this battle the moment I had stepped out of the car.

“You will not leave Vermont. Ten days” he said with finality. I squealed and I hugged him tight. He only rubbed my shoulders twice and stepped back. Physical contact was something he always shied away from, especially from me. I never understood why. He showed his affection in much “practical ways,” as he put it.

The Man in Black

I landed in Vermont to no fanfare, having left it behind in the chaos of L.A. My white Range Rover was waiting for me at the parking garage when I exited Morrisville-Stowe Airport. The car was unlocked, and the keys were in the ignition. No black hood in sight. With my bags secured in the trunk, I now drove down Route 100, past the lower village and the tourist area, into the residential area of the mountains. Getting off the main road and taking the narrow streets into the wooded area, I soon reached the one-lane that diverted into the long driveway lined with pine trees, and I stopped at the wooden gates lined with black ironwork. The gates beeped and whirred as they opened, and I was home. I had changed the name of the property from Black Mountain Villa to Haven Estate upon my purchase of it nearly three years ago. The majestic stone mansion rested on top of a hill, the crowning glory of the thirty acres that surrounded it, mostly hidden by pines and evergreens.

I opened my luggage and threw my clothes on the bed as I made the necessary phone calls. My adoptive parents were first, and it took enough convincing to keep them from getting into the next plane. I lied, saying I was going to New Zealand on vacation. My brother and sister were next, and the same lie kept them away. Friends were kept at bay by simple text, and the messages sent by Michael, asking where I was and if we could meet up, went ignored. The last call I placed was to the housekeeper. She had been to the house just the day prior, she said, and had stocked up the fridge. She offered to come in, but I told her I’d be away, and instructed her to return with the cleaning crew in ten days. With hesitance, she relented.

I walked down the winding staircase and entered the butler’s pantry to grab a beer from the bar when I suddenly stopped in my tracks. The fridge was open. As I closed it, I turned to the sound of a crown cork popping open, followed by a sigh of contentment and whistling coming from the balcony adjacent to the kitchen.

My blood boiled as I sprinted past the kitchen and burst into the balcony.

“You lying, deceitful snake! How could…”

My accusation died in my throat as I took in the man sitting on my armchair. His wavy, black hair was perfectly combed back, his black suit was perfectly pressed, and his blue eyes looked at me with amusement.

“…you” I breathed.

He smiled and nodded. I hadn’t seen the Man in Black in years, not since the day of my Awakening. It had been my 21st birthday, the day I had been officially recognized as my father’s daughter, the last descendant of the Nephilim.

“Forgive me for making myself at home, we don’t have beer this good where I come from” he said, taking a long chug of my Stella Artois.

“What are you doing here?” I said, snapping out of my shock.

“Oh, you know me, I’m just a walkin’ dude, passin’ thru” he said in his distinct drawl. He looked me up and down. “You look good. Healthy. Prosperous. Congratulations on the play. You got what you wanted”

He threw an open newspaper on the table. I picked it up and groaned when I saw a picture of me performing two nights ago with the title: “The Best Christine Daae since Sarah Brightman?”

“The most angelic voice to ever caress the walls of the Shrine Auditorium” the Man in Black quoted from the paper. “I don’t know where the Shrine Auditorium is, but it sounds like some pretty big stuff. Daddy must be proud” he winked and took another long drink. I shifted on my feet and crossed my arms. He wasn’t praising me, he was judging me.

“If you’re passing through, you must be going somewhere” I said.

“Indeed I am” he said, standing. He walked up to me, tilting the beer bottle back and taking another long chug. “Just left New York City. Looking for a boy named Jake. Got a couple of questions for him. Figured I’d stop by and check in on you. See how you’re holding up”

“Well, you seem to know everything there is to know. Save you a trip up here”

“Oh, but I did need to come here. Last time, when we met, you had quite a few questions, don’t you remember?”

I looked away. I remembered quite vividly. I had hounded him with the million questions that gnawed at me from childhood. He had sat down on the pool chair at my parent’s house, hidden in darkness as I sneaked out of my room to meet him. Of all the characters who had called on me on the day of my Awakening, the Man in Black, or Walter Padick as he had called himself, was the one that had stuck most prominently in my memory. A sorcerer from another dimension, he had talked of parallel words in six different universes. He talked of recreating them all in the image of a great King, and spoke of ways to access these worlds through portals to a place he called Mid-World, with some of these portals being on Earth. When I asked him to take me there, he simply looked at me with a hint of disdain and regret, saying I was “too old to be of any use there”

“You left me with more questions than answers” I now said accusingly.

“Some of your questions didn’t need answering” he replied.

“They do” I said, looking him dead in the eye.

“Ah, the big one” he exclaimed, placing his arms out and turning dramatically “why are the Ancients relegated to Earth? You know, you keep asking those kinds of questions, one day they’re going to get you hurt”

“I need to know”

“You have everything you need to know. You already know of the places on Earth where your daddy’s kind is not permitted to go”

My eyes widened. Father had always boasted of Earth having been his domain from the moment of his exile. He claimed every square inch as his own.

“Oh, he hasn’t told you!” he exclaimed “you’ll have lots to talk about when he gets here. Probably in no less than twenty-four hours, if you’re lucky. Black hoods are probably flying on swift wings as we speak”

I didn’t respond. I knew he was right. There was no way my father would let me out of his sight for too long. Even at the age of twenty-six, I still felt like a repressed little girl. More so now, standing before that great traveler, seeing his sympathetic gaze, no doubt thinking that I was a pitiful child.

“You know, there is a place you can go where he can’t find you” he whispered after a short, unsettling silence.

I looked up at him confused. “A portal?”

“Of sorts. It’s the only place where you can disappear without having to step off-world”

“Where?” I asked.

“A little town in Maine, called Derry. The place itself is nothing out of the ordinary, small and industrial but it is a direct link to my world. You can stay there and hide for a few days. It’s the only city in the Keystone World where your daddy and his minions are forbidden from entering”

“Hmm” I mused. I wanted to say no, but the prospect of being away from the ceaseless watch of black hoods was nearly irresistible.

“How do I know you’re not tricking me into something?”

“And risk daddy’s wrath? Now why would I? The ol’ serpent may be banished, but he sure as hell ain’t one to trifle with. I promise, you just stay for a few days and come back in one piece. I am the only one permitted to use that passage so you’ll be safe. He’ll forgive you for dropping off his radar, like he always does”

I watched him. His face was serious. He drank the rest of the beer, and placed the empty bottle in the waste bin.

Derry, Maine.

“I’ll go” I said.

End of Chapter 1

CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER 2

-----

Tagged: @hello-helianthus

#pennywise #it 2017 #it movie #pennywise fanfic #pennywise fanfiction #pennywise x oc #pennywise fic #fanfiction #fanfic #it #stephen king #daddywise #clowndaddy #pennyboi #clownboi #clownfucker #pennywise smut #horror

154 notes · View notes

acuaticamber06 · 7 years

Text

Undertale, Chapter Six

Woo! Weekly goal: reached!

We left Sans blushing in the car last week. (And, OHMIGOSH @reptilerach drew out the scene in comic form and I just about DIED. <3<3<3 ) Let's see what trouble they get into this time!

Warnings: More light cursing. (This is becoming a habit. lol)

Obvious Disclaimer: I don’t own Undertale or any of the characters in it, just my own characters. This story is for fun. ^_^

***

Undertone, Chapter Six

Sans tried to answer Rin's questions about Grillby, but he was more than a little uncomfortable with the honesty of his previous words. Look, you're easy on the eyes, kid. Even my sockets can see that. Heck, if you weren't already taken, I'd- He rolled his eyes at himself internally. You'd what? Sweep her off her feet? Tell her how gorgeous she really is and make her fall for your charms? Have her wrapped around your little phalange with a few well-placed kisses? You're a fool, Sans Skeleton. A dreaming fool.

He acknowledged the feelings and did his best to let them go. Squashing them down and ignoring them wasn't going to help. He'd probably start obsessing over them, and then he'd have a real problem on his hands.

No matter what, he wouldn't do that to Grillby. The elemental had been an anchor for him through the years, becoming like an older brother to him and being a giver of fatherly advice. Whatever the rest of the Underground thought of Sans, Grillby had always been his reality check, for better or for worse. Now he had to be the reality check for himself. If you ruin what they have, you will be losing your best friend. You will fracture the monster community, and Grillby will withdraw into himself. Worse than that, he might never trust another woman with his heart again. Hell, he might lose faith in every other being on the planet. A car that was rapidly closing the space between them whipped into the left lane and passed them, hitting the gas and squealing the tires as it turned a corner. "Holy crap. Could he have gone any faster?" Rin frowned and raised her voice. "LEARN TO USE YOUR TURN-SIGNAL! Jerk..." "Eh, maybe he was just hungry." Sans shrugged. "Hungry? I don't care if he was starving, that's no excuse-" "You do know what the fastest fast-food is, don't you?" Sans interrupted with a smirk. "...What?" She asked with a grin of her own. "Lamb-Burg-inis!" "Ugh, you're driving me crazy, Sans!" She laughed. "Hey, a fella has to toot his own horn sometimes." Their giggles faded and her face grew a little more serious. "You know, he might just be angry that he's driving a lemon..." His belly laughs were tempered by the realization that splashed over him again like a bucket of cold water. Stop it. It doesn't matter how pretty she is or how much she likes your jokes. It doesn't matter how much you think you like her: you have to let this one go. For Grillby's sake. He lightly punched Rin's arm. "You've got a pretty good pun game, kid. I don't think there's much else I can teach you." "And so the student surpasses the teacher." She took a deep breath and let it out. "You know, Sans, I...keep most people at arm's length. If you're distant from others, they can't hurt you. And thanks to the circumstances, I didn't have any friends when I was growing up." He parked behind the bar and turned to look at Rin. There was a vulnerable honesty in her eyes.

"I'm really glad that you are my first real friend." His heart swelled and he extended his hand to shake hers. "Me too, kid. Me too." After she shook his hand, Sans pulled her under his arm and gave her a solid noogie on the head. Rin protested loudly through her laughter, and he eased off so she could sit up again. "Come on." Sans opened the car door and stepped out. "Let's go see how Grillby's doing. The bar will be open any minute now." Rin hopped out and beat him to the back door of the bar. "I've gotta run downstairs for a second, but I'll be back up in a few, okay?" "Sure." A wall of familiar smells enveloped him as he walked into the kitchen. Rin took a sharp right and practically flew down the stairs to Grillby's apartment. He plodded through the swinging doors to his place at the bar, greeting Grillby with a pat on the back. "Hey, Grillbz. We're back." The elemental lifted one eyebrow in question. "The cleaning crew finished and I paid them." Sans answered. He already knew what the bartender wanted to know. "Rin is downstairs. She said she'd be back up in a minute."

Grillby nodded and went back to polishing a glass. "I, however, would be interested in getting a Burg AND some Fries. My magic is totally gone and I'm starving." Grillby looked up at him, amusement written all over his face. He pointed to the clock on the wall. It read 3:57. "You're kidding." Sans said, exasperated. Grillby's smile grew as he shook his head. "You're really gonna make me wait until the bar officially opens to order my food? After everything I've done for you two today?" Grillby considered the question for a moment, then nodded decidedly. "Grillby, so help me Asgore, if you don't get your burning butt into that kitchen and make me something to eat, I'll-" Sans eyes shifted past the laughing elemental at the swinging doors. What he saw made him go slack-jawed. Rin walked into the room, dressed almost exactly like Grillby. She had black slacks, a white, button-down shirt, and over that was a smart, black vest. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, but one lock strayed down the side of her face. All of those things were very normal, but every piece looked like it had been made to fit her perfectly. He had never seen her in something so clean-cut. She was fully clothed, but somehow her outfit accentuated every beautiful curve on her body. Sans felt his face start to flush blue and he tried not to ogle her. Instead, he trained his eyes on Grillby, waiting for his friend to react. ~~~ Grillby was staring at Sans like the skeleton had lost his damn mind. Whether mute or not, Grillby could never get him to shut up, much less stop him cold in the middle of a sentence. Is he...blushing? When he noticed that Sans' eyes had moved to something over his shoulder, he put the glass down on the bar and turned around. Suddenly, Sans' reaction made a lot more sense. Grillby didn't know where she'd been hiding it, but she had an outfit almost identical to his bartending uniform. Although there were a few...subtle differences. For one thing, she was wearing short sleeves. Her shirt wasn't made to be tucked in, but he actually liked it better that way. It flared out at her hips like a tiny skirt.

As his eyes traveled up to her face, his temperature rose and he felt the flames on his face turn blue. Her shirt also wasn't buttoned to the top. She'd left the first few buttons undone, showing some skin underneath. But she hadn't forgotten the bow; she'd tied a black ribbon around her bare neck. He swallowed hard and tried to smile, inclining his head to her in welcome. She smoothed out her vest and looked up at the men. "Well? What do you think? Is this alright for work?" Grillby nodded a little too enthusiastically, and he heard Sans snort behind him. Laugh while you can, Sans... Rin pulled a small notepad from her pocket and tucked a pencil behind her ear. "Great! I figured we'd draft up something more official for tracking my hours later. Do you mind if I keep track of it in my notebook for the time being?" Grillby shook himself into action and handed her the tablet. *You don't have to start today if you don't want to. Aren't you tired? "Not right now." Rin shrugged. "And I'd like to learn as much as I can about how you do things. I haven't spent as much time here as I would have liked." She looked warmly around the room. "Actually, I wish I'd let myself take you up on your offer from before and just come to hang out. I guess I didn't want to inconvenience you." Grillby couldn't help the smile that peeked through his flustered state of mind. She was adorable. *You are never an inconvenience. Remember that. She read his words and returned his smile with a nod. Holding up a finger, Grillby reached beneath the bar and fished out a clean towel. He tossed it to Rin, and felt a little pride inflate his chest when she tucked the corner into her back pocket the same way he did. *Let's get started, then! Sans will be our guinea pig. I think he's hungry. Why don't you take his order? With a smirk, Rin swayed past Grillby and leaned over the bar directly in front of Sans. She looked up through her eyelashes at him seductively, and when she spoke, her voice was husky and low. "Hey there, stranger. What'll it be?" Sans gaped at her and tried to stammer out a reply when Grillby couldn't take it anymore. He and Rin broke down in a fit of laughter, leaving Sans looking flustered and confused. As soon as he was back in control, Grillby tapped her on the arm and gestured at Sans. "You're right. I'm sorry, Sans." She looked at the skeleton, wiping tears from her eyes. "I was just teasing you. Are you hungry? What can I get for you tonight?" ~~~

For the rest of the evening, Rin bounced from table to table, taking orders and chatting with customers. She especially liked talking to Big Mouth, a Monster who truly fit his name, who she immediately nicknamed "Biggie" out of fondness. She could have wasted an hour just discussing food with the guy. She also met Red, a Bird who used to communicate for Grillby before he got his new system into place. Rin wondered briefly if she had some kind of telepathic magic, but she promised that no, she couldn't read minds; she was just good at reading people. When Rin reflected on it later, she never remembered actually asking Red that question, so the Bird's response still left her wondering. But it was when the regulars from the royal guard showed up that Rin found her favorite customer. All of the Dogs were wonderful people who asked her as many questions as she asked them. Dogamy and Dogaressa made a cute couple (albeit a little over the top), Lesser Dog acknowledged Rin and then immediately went back to a variant of solitaire that she'd never seen before, and Greater Dog seemed overjoyed when Rin referred to him as "Major." Then she met Doggo. The poor fellow was practically blind. (Rin almost assumed he was totally blind by the way he dressed. She didn't know anybody who wore a bright pink tank top with leopard-print pants.) He explained that he could only see things when they moved, and from that moment on, she swayed slowly from foot to foot so he'd know she was there. She felt bad for judging him based on his clothing choices, so it was to Doggo that she directed her attention throughout the remainder of the night. After setting down one of his refills, he asked her a question that had been burning in her own mind for the bulk of the evening. He held out his arm. "Do you...do you want to touch it?" Rin stopped. "What?" "It is a common reaction in humans. We Dogs look so much like their pet counterparts that the first thing most people want to do is pet us." He held his arm out again. "Go ahead, if you want to." Haltingly, Rin brought her hand up and gently stroked his arm. It certainly wasn't the strangest thing she'd done around a Monster, and she didn't want to insult her favorite customer. "Oh! Oh, wow!" A grin crept across her face. "Your fur is so soft!"

She could hear his tail thumping beneath the table. "Thanks, but that's nothing. It's softest on my ears." Rin lightly touched his ears and was astonished to find that he was right. "So it is!" Rin leaned over to look at him. "You have to tell me. What's your secret?" "Careful, Rin..." Dogaressa spoke behind her hand conspiratorially. "He'll keep you here for the rest of the night if he can. Petting's his favorite activity. Well, next to fetch, anyway." Rin glanced back at Doggo. "Wait, you play fetch?" "Sure I do!" His tail thumped underneath the table again. "Huh. That's...uh, interesting!" "Why?" He quirked his head to the side. "Well, I didn't think Dogs would play fetch. With anyone." "Why not?" His head tilted all the way back to the other side. "I... I guess I thought it would be...demeaning somehow?" She explained delicately, twisting her towel between her fingers.

"Most of us did outgrow the game when we were pups." Dogamy nodded. Doggo folded his arms defiantly. "It's cardio with a purpose, Dogamy. Just like a foot race. There's nothing wrong with that." "Well I think it's great." Rin tousled the fur on Doggo's head and he leaned into the touch with a smile. "We should totally play sometime when I have a day off." She spotted Grillby waving at her from across the bar and excused herself. She might have been imagining it, but Doggo seemed to droop slightly as she walked away. "Are all Monsters this nice? I don't think I've met a rude Monster yet." Rin tucked her towel back into her pocket and leaned against the bar across from Grillby. *For the most part. Nearly every Monster I know is nice in their own way. Even Asgore has a kind heart, despite all that he and Toriel have been through. Rin nodded, trying to look like she understood while desperately digging through memory files to remember what little Monster history she'd been exposed to. I've GOT to get myself a book on the subject. There has to be a book, right?

To her right, Sans cleared his throat. "Heads up, Grillbz. It's a blue moon tonight." Grillby's head snapped up toward the door. Rin followed his gaze to see a beautiful Spider sweep into the room. Her skin was an iridescent lilac, and it sparkled in the low light of the bar. She was wearing a ruby red dress with butterfly sleeves for each of her six arms. Her handbag had a gold-chain strap and matched the black heels on her feet. Grillby moved out from behind the bar to greet her, and Rin could see that her hair was twisted up neatly with a red clip. As she spoke to Grillby, Rin decided that her most striking feature was her eyes. There were five in an arch across her face, and each one blinked in succession from left to right. "We use 'blue moon' as a code for her because she so rarely comes in to the bar while it's open." Sans said in low tones, bringing Rin's attention away from the Spider. "She's been pursuing Grillby ever since we came topside. Recently she's really stepped up her game; changed her look." "Oh?" A twinge of jealousy twisted in her stomach. "Yep. So I guess the 'heads up' is for you, too." Sans took a swig of his drink. "Remember when you asked me about your 'competition' earlier? Well, as far as Muffet is concerned, she's the only one who qualifies." "Did I just hear my name, Sans Skeleton?" Muffet strolled to the bar with three arms looped around one of Grillby's. He looked from Rin to Sans with an expression of defeat. "Indeed you did. Rin, this is Muffet. She owns a bakery up the street from here. Muffet, I'd like you to meet Rin: Grillby's first employee and new roommate." The whole bar seemed to go quiet, and everyone's eyes in the group did something different in that moment. Rin's widened in shock, Grillby's pinched shut with silent regret, Sans' tugged up at the corners in suppressed laughter, and all five of Muffet's narrowed directly at Rin. The look sent a chill down her spine. "Really? How...delightful." Muffet was almost able to remove the derision from her voice. "Muffet makes the best doughnuts you'll ever sink your teeth into." Sans continued. "And her bakery doubles as a tearoom. It's a quiet place; good for reading, if you're into that sort of thing."

The tension was palpable, and Rin couldn't handle it much longer. She offered her hand to the Spider with a smile. "It's lovely to meet you, Muffet." "Ah, yes. Charmed." She shook Rin's hand with the lightest contact. "And this may be Rin's first day on the job, but I can already tell that she will be an invaluable asset to ol' Grillbz here." Muffet's look narrowed further. "Hahaha, Sans!" Rin punched him not-so-lightly in the shoulder. "You're exaggerating. I'm just learning the ropes today." She glared at him beneath her smile with as much Knock it off! as she could muster. The last thing she wanted was to make an enemy on her first day in a new community. Sans must have understood, because he deflated a bit and redirected the conversation.

"Hey, it's a little later than we usually see you, Muffet. To what do we owe the honor?" "Oh, nothing in particular! It's just such a nice evening. The stars were practically begging me to take a walk." She leaned back against Grillby's chest and looked up at him with a dreamy look in her eyes. "I'm sure Mr. Domona understands. We are creatures that thrive in the darkness. Nights like these were made for Monsters like us."

Her words hurt Rin more than she cared to admit, so much so that hearing Grillby’s last name for the first time didn’t even phase her. It was one thing to know that she wasn't a Monster like Grillby, but to be reminded of the fact in a not-so-pleasant way by a beautiful Monster made that knife twist in her gut. Even worse, she was a beautiful Monster who wanted Grillby. A chime sounded and Muffet raised one of her left arms to look at her watch. She was looking down when Grillby shot a panicked I didn't ask for this! look at Sans and Rin, holding his hands up where they could be seen. "Oh, my! Look at the time! It's already two AM." She spun on one foot and took Grillby's two hands into her six. "Why don't we take a walk, Grillby? Just you and me and the starlight. Since you have an employee now, she can close up for you." Muffet's eyes narrowed and locked with Rin's. "You don't mind, do you, dearie?" Both Rin and Sans took a breath to protest at the same time, but Grillby beat them to it and slid the tablet in front of Muffet's face, breaking that steely gaze. When Rin let the breath go, it was more of a sigh of relief. "Aw, really? You still have to teach her how?" Muffet turned a boo-boo lip to the fire elemental which, frankly, Rin hadn't know to be physically possible. He nodded vigorously. "I understand." Muffet dropped her head with her many arms from the pleading position they'd been holding. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she walked the fingers on one hand up Grillby's chest towards his face like...well, like a spider. Grillby looked incredibly uncomfortable. "I suppose there will be many more beautiful summer nights to come. Now that you've hired help, maybe your schedule will be a bit more...flexible." Muffet turned and winked at Rin, obviously not caring about subtlety, then glided out the door and into the night.

You could hear a pin drop in the bar. After a moment, Sans broke the silence with a sigh. "And now you've met Muffet. She's less of a person, and more of...an experience." "No kidding." Rin honestly didn't know how to feel after the encounter. However she felt, she was pretty sure it wasn't good. ~~~ As soon as Sans spoke, Grillby went into damage-control mode. It had been a couple of weeks since Muffet's last performance, and it honestly hadn't crossed his mind as something he should warn Rin about. Seeing her downcast expression, Grillby really wished he'd thought of it sooner. He handed her the tablet with an apologetic smile. *Unfortunately, we need to check out the customers and close up for the night. Can we talk about this later? Rin nodded and seemed to bolster herself. "Alright. What should I do first?" ~~~ Sans was the last person to leave, but he kind of did that on purpose. He had called his brother to come and pick him up since his magic was gone. When he saw the headlights of Pap's car pull up to the bar, he got up with a groan. "Welp, there's my ride. I'd introduce you to Papyrus, but I think you've hand enough experiences for one night." He smirked up at Rin as she walked him to the door, but she wasn't really looking at him. She seemed worried.

"Rin." Sans stopped at the door until he got her attention. "I'm sorry if I made the Muffet situation worse than it had to be, but try not to jump to conclusions, alright? Muffet does that enough for all of us." Rin gave him a weak smile. "Okay, Sans. I'll try. Have a good night." He stepped outside and watched her smile fade as soon as she locked the door. Sliding into the passenger's seat, Sans had to admit that he hadn't felt this crummy in a long time. He'd hurt Rin. Sure, in was indirectly, but he'd made her sad. And as soon as that realization had hit him, he'd felt her sadness, too; as if it was his own. And that feeling worried him. No, not just that feeling, but all of them. How long had he really felt this way about Rin? He'd convinced himself that it was a new development, but that wasn't the truth. Sans thought back, trying to pinpoint the moment he began to fall for her. He was so deep in thought that he didn't even hear what his brother was saying at first. "...HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE WOKEN UP BY A RINGTONE THAT SOUNDS LIKE FRENZIED DUCK-QUACKING?!? I ENJOY THE OCCASIONAL PRANK NOW AND THEN, BUT WHEN THAT PRANK CAUSES SOMEONE TO HAVE A NIGHTMARE ABOUT BEING CHASED BY A FLOCK OF ANGRY FOWEL, THAT'S JUST..." It was the moment I saw her sitting at the bar. The day her car broke down. The very beginning.

Sans was really stuck between a rock and a hard place. He'd never been in a situation where he wanted something that he couldn't have; something that he shouldn't have. If Sans had ever wanted anything, he'd just turn on the charm or the magic and make it happen. Grillby is too important to me to interfere. That would break his heart...and Rin is so happy with him...just look at how much it hurt her to think that he'd choose Muffet instead. I can't do that to her. He looked down at his empty hands.

So, that just leaves me. Here. Alone. With these...feelings. "...MORE CAREFUL ABOUT HOW MUCH MAGIC YOU USE, YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO INCONVENIENCE THE PEOPLE WHO CARE ABOUT YOU. LIKE YOUR BROTHER, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WHO WAS SOUNDLY ASLEEP WHEN YOU CALLED. REALLY, SANS, IF YOU- SANS? SANS! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?" "'There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.'" Sans quoted under his breath. "I'm definitely the tired." "WHAT? SANS, NO ONE'S GOING TO UNDERSTAND YOU IF YOU KEEP MUMBLING LIKE THAT." Sans turned his sockets out to the passing scenery. "Have you ever read The Great Gatsby?" "WHAT'S A 'GATSBY'?" Papyrus stopped at a red light and looked at him incredulously. "Never mind. Hey, Papyrus?" "YES, BROTHER?" "What do you do when you have...a problem?" "A PROBLEM?" "Yeah." His eyes were back down in his lap. "What do you do if you have a problem and a bunch of feelings and you don't know what to do with them?" "WELL- actually, I run." Papyrus only ever lowered his voice when he was being incredibly serious. A humorless laugh crept out of Sans' throat. "So you run away from your problems, huh? I figured you to be the type to meet them head-on." "No, no, that's not what I meant." Papyrus shook his head. "If I have a problem that I can't find a solution for, I use the feelings as fuel. I take all the sadness, or anger, or frustration and push it through my legs while I run. I run until I can't run anymore. Then, if the problem isn't gone just by getting rid of those emotions, I can approach it with a clear head and think about it objectively."

Sans was stunned. "That was...very good advice, bro." "OF COURSE IT WAS! Just because I'm your younger brother doesn't mean I haven't seen my share of problems." He paused before he continued. "Are you okay, Sans? You've been a bit...moody lately, and you're drinking a lot more. I'm worried about you." Sans sighed and patted his brother's arm. "I'm alright. I just need to find a way to use these feelings as fuel." "You know, I was planning on going running tomorrow... Would like to come?" Papyrus asked. "You don't have to do it alone." Sans stopped himself before he shot the offer down. Sure, he was lazy. And no, running was NOT his favorite activity in the world. But he'd been ignoring his feelings for Rin longer than he should have. Maybe...maybe it would actually help. "Only if you're prepared to be a Drill Sargent. You know how much I hate exercising." "FEAR NOT, MY BROTHER!" Papyrus' face split into a grin. Sans was a little worried that his jaw would unhinge. "I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL BE THE MOST MOTIVATING DRILL SARGENT YOU HAVE EVER SEEN! WE'LL GET UP AT SIX AM, SHARP, AND EAT A HEALTHY BREAKFAST OF SPAGHETTI! THEN WE'LL SPEND THIRTY MINUTES DOING WARM-UP CALISTHENICS IN THE DRIVEWAY! ONCE OUR BONES ARE PROPERLY STRETCHED, WE'LL-" Sans rubbed one temple and chuckled to himself. He was regretting it already. But if it helps... He looked up at the stars twinkling in the sky above. They sparkled with every color of the rainbow; it wasn't just one green light blinking in the distance. I want to be the best friend anybody could ask for. To both of them.

***

Rin against the world, Rin against Muffet, and Sans against himself...! We've got aaaaall the conflict in this story, haven't we? Hopefully some of this will begin to resolve soon. Muffet seemed pretty set on fighting for Grillby...

Tune in next week for Chapter Seven!

Chapter Five

Chapter Seven

#undertonefic #grillby #fanfic #Undertale

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gothika666faerie · 7 years

Text

Thinking of You

Summary: This is an AU where the Beaumont brothers never went broke and Bertrand must marry given his responsibility as an heir after Savannah left. This is him remembering how it used to be with Savannah while he comes to term of getting married to a woman he does not love. Expect angst and plenty of feels.

Comparison are easily done

Once you’ve had a taste of perfection

Lady Arabella was everything that he should want. She was a lady born into one of the highest families in the Kingdom of Lykos bruised with raven hair that could have been ravishing but was sadly always plaited and pinned up into a stern chignon. Her carriage was that of a mystical swan; she walked upright with incomparable poise, her hands clasped in front of her as though perpetually in a strait-laced display of piety. There was nothing wild, unrestrained or vital about her. Bertrand mustered up all the etiquette he had been brought up with since young and took her hand, such a cold appendage, and kissed it.

“Lady Arabella, it is an honour to finally meet you.” The corners of her thin, serious lips quirked up only the slightest and the duke tried his best not to transform them into supple, plump petals the colour of raspberries in the height of summer. She would never be caught dead with her hair done up or wearing that uncomfortable, long sleeved gown the colour of widow’s weeds. High neck collars went out in the past century, did they not?

He tries to converse with her but she looks scared, pensive and far too self-conscious. She does not dare make flagrant eye contact with him and when he attempts to lighten the mood with a jest, she offers only the faintest of giggles and apparently, forces blood to her cheeks at the appropriate times. Bertrand clenched his fists tightly, his fingers fidgeting restlessly as he attempts to establish some form of connection with the woman he is to marry.

“You are the elder son, Bertrand and we expect you to do honour to the Beaumont house. Follow your duty, boy and never your heart.”

Like an apple hanging from a tree

I picked the ripest one

I still got the seed

She loved to go apple picking. He had snorted when she first invited him because that peasant brother of hers was either too lazy, too caught up with his duties as a stable hand or too drunk on pilfered whiskey to entertain her demands. Maxwell had insisted that he would not be able to tell a ripe apple from an unripe one so he would be useless. (The damn boy said this while attempting to keep a straight face; he knew.) Off they both went to the plantations that stretched proudly over the pasture surrounding the Ramsford estate and he kept behind, arms behind his back as he watches her flit forward, the straw basket slinging on her arm and her hair, the colour of coffee sipped on a sultry Moroccan morning, flutters behind her. (She would never wear it up; it is like syrup and would seep out with its excesses.)

She finds one that she deems appropriate. It is glossy, moist with fresh dew and so sinfully, delectably and stunningly red. The colour resonant in the new tint he could see in her mouth. She twists it off its stem with a deft spin of her wrist and before he knows it, she has pushed it against his mouth.

“Bite it!” He takes a generous bite and the intense tartness explodes upon his tongue. Echoing behind this crippling sourness is that dreamy ribbon of caramel and he closes his eyes in ecstasy as he masticates the bit and swallows it.

Then her lips crashes on his and all poetry about Cordonian rubies is replaced by the sensations of Savannah Walker. That twisting motion of her hand was telling of her other lesser-known skills. His neck and chest was smudged with that intoxicating scarlet. The taste of her is unsurpassed. Sugar was an insipid substitute.

You said, “Move on”

Where do I go?

She stands at the foyer of the Beaumont house, suitcases flanking her sides and tears that threaten to fall and leave marks on the marble flooring. It is the dead of night; the moon was becoming obscured by the thickening clouds above. In the distance, thunder tolled its warning. It was his death knell.

“Was it worth it, Bertrand? To you?” The doors are open. She could storm out when she wishes but she must twist the dagger in further just once more. She was going to be the death of you and now she truly is.

“I…I don’t regret loving you,” His voice, for once, has lost all imposition, all elegance and all attempts at feeble reservation. He finds that every breath he takes is like acidic gas scalding his throat. “I regret being helpless to you.”

“Farewell then, your Grace. May your estate and name be ever in your favour.” The echo of the slamming doors reverberates through the empty chambers of his house and his heart, hanging on a thread, plummets and shatters into a million pieces.

The king in his icy domain melts the moment she was gone.

I guess second best is all I will know

Lady Arabella feels awkward and stiff in his arms as he spins her out upon the dance floor before reeling her back in. She goes limp when he slides his hand down her abdomen as with the custom of the Cordonian waltz and later, she tells him not to do that again. It was scandalous to her. He hopes he does not receive the news while looking as though he just swallowed something disgusting.

She would have boldly taken his hand in that turn and angle her head upwards a little to catch his eye. That gaze would be a well of abundant promises taken to the sanctity of their bedchamber. For the next few hours of solitude and darkness behind a curtained alcove, he would remind her why she stayed even though it was hopeless. Her fingers lace through his thick black hair (would she do this to him?) as their bodies laced tightly into one another.

Arabella is not Savannah. It has become his mantra.

Cause when I’m with her

I am thinking of you

Thinking of you

What you would do if

You were the one who was spending the night

He misses most ardently the sensation of her lustrous hair, smelling of lilacs and summer wine as it spreads across his chest. Her supple cheek resting upon his heart to ensure it beats for her forever. The kittenish skittering of her fingers down the expanse of his abdomen. Her soft sweet lips that awaken him from his cursed life as a nobleman and let him feel, for one blissful moment, that he was a man behind the duke.

Oh, I wish that I was looking into your

Eyes

They were luminescent pools of melted toffee, highlighted by drippings of caramel and threatened to drown his being in their bittersweet lacquer. She was the most exquisite of delicacies. Commoner ala crème. He wanted to lick his plate clean and not leave even the merest morsel behind.

You’re like an Indian summer

In the middle of winter

Arabella and he stand on the pier, watching the boats and, to put it politely, are bored to death. His mind wanders as he takes in his yacht that Maxwell and that stable hand friend of his are taking out to dock. Savannah adored beaches. She runs up the wooden pier and throws her hands up above her, purring like the contented kitten she is as her copper skin absorbs the sun’s magnificence. She beams her own light. His eyes trail over the exposed flesh as she traipses around shamelessly in her white bikini decorated with miniature ice cream cones of varying flavours. Her breasts looked particularly lifted, her stomach a plateau he wishes to explore with his tongue and her rump daring any man to linger too long with his eyes.

Of course, she asks him to apply lotion on her. She trusts him. Little lambs are ignorant of lurking big bad wolfs in brown three-piece suits. Goose bumps break out on her supple calf as his hand traces up the soft hillock. Arabella would never wear a bikini much less tease him with her sing song siren’s song and bat her eyelashes.

Like a hard candy

With a surprise centre

“Oh, they explode in your mouth!” She squeaks after popping a gourmet éclair imported straight from her favourite patisserie in France into her mouth. Maxwell would not stop grilling him as to why he found it a necessity to get pastry catering from such a specific location. A withering glare and the boy finally stopped his interrogations…with a knowing smirk. He watches, breath hitched, as she crams a few more into that open, erotic mouth and bites down. Hard. The cream squelches out and it stains her glorious ruby lips. He is thankful that Maxwell is in his vicinity; his mere presence effectively wilted any growing desires.

Some of the milky substance ends up on her fingers and he is an enraptured witness, along with many other noblemen, as she, without shame, without qualm, sucks each of her digits clean. With a pop, she extricates each one, the plum nail glistening and Bertrand was certain the pained groan that echoes through the ballroom came from his mouth.

She lures him later on to their most preferred alcove and shows him just what else could explode in her mouth. Arabella would never conceive, nor attempt to fathom that this was how men and women could please one another, to be so free with their bodies.

How do I get better

Once I’ve had the best?

You say, “There’s tons of fish in the water”

So, the waters I will test

He strolls along the beach now, letting the wind roll upon him and closing his eyes, conjures up the apparition of her beside him, shyly attempting to take his hand. He seized it first, contrary to popular belief. The waves crash and erode away the pristine seashore and its ebb and flow reminds him of their romance. The fatal games they played; the way they sneered, they teased, they pouted and they fucked. Oh, the way they fucked. He faces the sea head on and releases a deep breath. His jacket is discarded and so is his sweater vest. His tie goes flying like a black message of rebellion in the wind and he pulls open his shirt and lets the breeze caress his skin. He reclines his head and lets the ocean take him. Its kiss is as light and capricious as her fingertips.

She kissed my lips

I taste your mouth

When Arabella eventually had to conquer her squeamishness to kiss him, it was extremely disappointing. She tasted of liquorice, black too, which he hated. There were hints of the expensive wine she would drink and residue from the filet mignon she consumed. The next few times they were meant to exchange polite kisses for the public, he conditions himself to taste nothing but warm honey tinged with cinnamon, the first bite into a juicy peach and the vociferous bite of a Cordonian Ruby on top of it all.

The taste of Savannah from both her lips.

She pulled me in

I was disgusted with myself

Arabella had too much to drink once during one of their many soirees and insisted, pleaded almost for her future husband to drag her upstairs. Bertrand was so starved for love, so parched for a woman’s caress since her departure that he decided to take advantage of this one indiscretion. He bites his lips till it bleeds, trying his utmost best not to scream her name as he thrusts into his fiancée, leaving her in mounting hysterics the entire night. She panted into his ear all manners of dirty things he never knew existed in her vocabulary. He imagined for this one luscious entanglement, Savannah had taken over her body.

Her first orgasm triggers his and he roars, collapsing upon her slight frame as his frustrations, his unfulfilled desires and his sufferings found release and relief for the moment. She plays with his hair afterwards and he just wishes the nails were longer and he hears her whisper.

“I could love you, your Grace.”

The urge for another form of relief strikes him unawares. Disengaging himself from her, his loins sticky with his weakness, he rushes for the bathroom and empties his gullet into the porcelain bowl. Arabella sits up, confused and understandably mortified as her fiancée unceremoniously vomits after consummation. She does not sleep next to him. He is satisfied with that arrangement. He lies in the wet patch in the middle of his vast, empty bed and he weeps. Stinking of bile and semen, he curls into a foetal position and melts against his satin sheets.

Cause when I’m with her

I am thinking of you

Thinking of you

What you would do if

You were the one who was spending the night

Oh, I wish that I was looking into your eyes

Every morning after they shared his bed (or the back of his limousine, or the hay bale in the stables, or the hall closet, or his desk, whatever fancied them), it was watching her wake up afterwards in the warm glow of post-coital bliss that truly got to him. To see her eyes open and gaze upon him with such tender, heartfelt love, it was no wonder the ice around his heart had melted away in an instant. He strokes her cheek and she takes his hand and kisses each finger, nipping at them with a kitten’s exploratory curiosity. That hand will slide past her face, down her neck, chest, abdomen and between her thighs.

Her mews too, oh how he lived for them.

You’re the best

And yes, I do regret

How could I let myself

Every time his eyes land on that spot where she stood the night when she was to leave him, he feels like banging his head against the nearest wall, preferably with a long litany of insults and obscenities directed at him. He could have grabbed her hand, pulled her against him and whispered with his pathetic, broken, pleading voice: “Please. Don’t leave me like this.”

Let you go

Now the lesson’s learned

I touched it

I was burned

Oh, I think you should know

“Hey, you nervous?” Bertrand’s response to that question was a baleful, stony glare. It clearly communicated that he was miserable, did not want to discuss it and just wanted to be left to his own devices. Maxwell sighed and reached over, rubbing his elder brother’s arm as a show of brotherly comfort and support.

“Bertrand, I know. I get it. I wish it was her too, you know. You should be happy on this day and…” His brother raises a hand to stop him before he lost his reserve, before the cracks in his icy exterior melted through and exposed the sniffling, heartbroken urchin underneath.

“Enough, Maxwell. There is no time for regrets. Not now. Not ever.” The wedding hall was resplendent with courtesy from Prince Liam and his parents that went all out to celebrate the alliance forged between Duke Bertrand Beaumont of Ramsford and Lady Arabella of Haerkel. His bride is bedecked in white lace, her doll’s face obscured by her veil. He hopes it is not too rude to wish she never removes it. They never did reconcile smoothly after that disaster of their first intercourse. She glares up at him now and he can only sigh in defeat; this was the fate of the nobility, to marry people they felt nothing for and have to endure the awkwardness, the coldness and the anxieties they came with it. They both face the priest who is ready to start the ceremony. Bertrand silently prays for a small earthquake to detract the festivities.

Cause when I’m with her

I am thinking of you

Thinking of you

What you would do if

You were the one who was spending the night

Oh, I wish that I was looking into your eyes

Looking into your eyes

The priest’s jabbering is as lucid as a bee’s incessant buzz and Bertrand lowers his gaze, closing his eyes and holding tightly, stubbornly onto the image of Savannah. Those eyes that struck chords in his soul, that drown him but also pull him ashore onto the pristine sands of the desert where they could make love till the stars faded away into nothingness. Her. It will always only be her.

Oh, won’t you walk through

And burst in the door

And take me away

No more mistakes

Cause in your eyes, I’d like to stay

He turns as the resounding slam of the doors swinging open startle everyone. Only Maxwell joins him in his delighted shock. There she was. Her eyes brimming with the tears that were in danger of spilling and soiling the red carpet of the aisle. Her hair loose and long as he remembers, thicker and still that evocative colour of the Moroccan heat. Her skin glows amongst the pearl and rose gold motifs of the ceremony. Arabella is aghast and her grip tightens on the lily bouquet, her cheeks red this time not out of any false pretensions of affection. Drake is astounded and he moves forward to greet his sister who whispers that she is fine and she will explain much later. Prince Liam gives her a welcoming smile and nods his encouragement.

“Savannah…”

“Do you really want to marry her?” He does not answer, his tears blurring the image of the most perfect angel before him and he pulls him against her, kissing her right in the middle of the hall and deafens himself to the deafening murmurs of the offended nobility, the enraged screams of Arabella and the confused gossip of the royal court. Maxwell’s victorious whooping however, penetrates because it is allowed.

“You still love me?”

“Sweetheart, all this time, the only person I could think about was you.”

(( This one is for @smartlillian and anyone else who has been keeping up with my Bertvannah trashiness))

��q�

#trr #the royal romance #bertrand beaumont #savannah walker #bertvannah #maxwell beaumont #thinking of you #katy perry #feels #angst #au

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cutegirlmayra · 7 years

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Hello, this is my first time requesting a story so I hope I am doing this right. What about a story where classic Amy's hammer or the golden bracelets turn her into a magical girl (modern Amy) and Sonic's reaction to her sudden change?

(x)

Absolutely! this idea sounds fun and way engaging! It’s just the right amount of silly AU I like! haha. Feel free to ask for prompts many more times in the future ;) If ever you have an idea, that is~

Prompt:

“Sooniic!!” Classic Amy hollered from far across the field, seeing Sonic struggling with his hands locked under a boss robot’s wires, as Eggman laughed at the sight.

“Dunk him, Arm-bot!” He lifted an authoritative hand up, moving the eggpod he was hovering in at an angle to get the point across.

Arm-bot, a basic circle with limps of flamethrowing wire shook them gleefully, beeping and booping in response to the command before throwing Sonic back and forcing him into the water.

Under the water, he kicked and squirmed, holding his breath and reaching out for a nearby air bubble, smiling when he could just reach it with his nose.

“No, no, no! You fool! Away from the air bubbles! What even is that? That isn’t physics!” Eggman threw a mini-tantrum as Arm-Bot looked up to his master.

Seeing him displeased, he moved Sonic with a waddle of his legs over with him to another end of the water’s edge, now the countdown was starting and Sonic began to kick more frantically. The outskirts of the water sprayed up with his futile attempts.

“WHOHOHOOO!!” Eggman laughed, leaning his head back to make the hearty sound, before something shimmered and caught his eyes.

He blinked, “Hmmm..??” Eggman spun around only to see Amy’s arm up, rolling her gloves bunched up area downward to swipe a beautifully shining gold bracelet onto them.

“You’re gonna be sorry for hurting my Sonic!”

“Whose the kid?” Eggman bent his head down, squinting from the reflecting light.

Arm-bot rotated his head to see as well, his face covered in water from Sonic’s frantic splashing.

“Miracle~” Amy cried out, as the bracelet shone.

“Destined love~” she held the bracelet up as she got the other one just in time.

“…What in the-?..EEEE!” Eggman saw a flash of a glowing light, and the light even had Arm-bot sway Sonic up and out of the water.

He coughed a moment, still trapped, before glaring a second and then having his face smooth out in surprise. What was going on over there?

“Power up-u!”

The light was now covering the entire area, as little bubbles trailed down along it’s dome like edges and the three were encircled in it’s warm glow.

Amy jumped up, her body suddenly shifting into more into a ray of light herself, making her look much older like a 12 year old. Her quills bendt down with ribbons trailing throughout them in criss-crossing fashions. Only 2 ribbons managed to trail out to her sides, creating a cute appearance as a new, brighter red with laced white and pink designs trailed it, a skirt fluttered on as she spun and swayed her hand over it.

The other hand moved upwards, as she jumped side to side backwards and each time her feet landed the new boots with ribbons appeared, blooping on with the light bubbles as her face now had longer eyelashes, her smile sprayed with a light pink lipstick and her eyeshade the same.

Her headband transformed to a beautiful adornment with a large ribbon, and then she posed, spinning and jumping up like a ballerina before bowing with a curtsy.

“Here to save love and rings! It’s…~ Amy! Haha!”

Amy then summoned her hammer, “Hammer that paves the shining road!” she spun it around her, before lifting it high above. “Save true love!”

“… Really?” Eggman’s mustache twitched up with his upper lip as he raised an eyebrow, then turned and shook his head disappointingly at Sonic. “THIS… is the type of girls your into?”

Sonic sighed, his eyelids dropping before looking back at Eggman, almost as if he was saying, Those are the girls who like ME.

He did notice though… the slight shift in height and… is she.. more slender now?

He blinked his eyes, trying to see through the water he couldn’t wipe off his eyes and that kept dripping from his head. That, and the lights were bright on the water too, so that was hard.

But she looked… almost… radiant.

He stopped and stared a moment, before making a scrunched up face, not liking the idea of being saved by someone else!

He stuck his tongue out, opening his mouth to show his disgust at thinking that about her and the situation at hand.

“Prepare to make up for your sins against true love, Eggman!” Her squeaky voice made him lean back in his chair, looking exasperated.

“Ugh… kids these days and their anime girls and lousy cartoon shows…”

She then rotated her hammer out in front of her, “Purging of a thousand hearts!”

As fast as lightning, the hammer turned into a rotating light force around her hand, her not even touching it anymore, as she skillfully placed a hand on her bracelet, holding her other one flexed out as a thousand hammers came spiraling out from her hammer-space.

Eggman suddenly leaned forward, his being shaking in fright. “What!? Crazy fan girl!” he lifted his eggpod up, but Arm-bot got nailed with all the hammers, flying off and being blasted as Amy turned and cutely gave the peace sign as the explosion happened behind her.

Eggman came back down, “What a freak show… hmm?” He looked over before getting nailed himself by a hammer to the face, and rotating away.

“Curse you Amy Rose!!! Defender of lo-ov-ov-ove!!!” he spiraled out of existence in a ‘ding’ of a star~

Amy, in her modern and older looking body, stylishly landed to the ground.

She ran to Sonic’s side, him coughing from left over water, and shaking it off, making her laugh a moment at his silliness.

“Hehe, Sonic my love, are you alright?”

She turned back to her normal appearance, but still in the outfit again.

This sudden shift was obvious to Sonic though, as he was still trying to get his bearings a moment from being knocked out of Arm-bot’s grip.

He gave her a confused look, almost as if not sure how to respond to her statement, before getting up and stretching.

He looked to the destroyed robot, then back at her.

“Oh? How did I do that?” she blinked, reading his eyes.

“Well…” she turned away shyly, blushing, and holding a closed hand over her ‘playing coy’ expression. “Love can give us amazing powers!”

He flopped over, his leg twitching at how completely cheesy that sounded. He shook his head, getting up, and put his hands to his hips. He tapped his foot a few times, showing he was impatient to those kinda gimmicks.

“Alright, alright! The secret is… I found these bracelets, and they allow me to summon a hammer.” She held her wrists up, palm facing towards him.

He looked down at them, then back at her.

“…The outfit and lights were just a stage set up.” she sweat dropped, as suddenly a light fixture fell from a nearby tree, and Amy revealed the body suit she was wearing that had reflected the light.

Everything but the thousands of hammers she threw was just a performance, as she even showed the multiple ropes attached to her that helped get the clothes on as if she was flying in the air.

He gave her a deadpan look, face-palmed, dragged it down and then sighed.

He drooped his arms down and shook his head.

“What?” Amy blushed, now both hands over her open mouth. “You mean.. I don’t need all these theatrics to be a heroine?”

He nodded, folding his arms.

“But… I did save you… so… did you think I was pretty with the outfit? Or before?” she looked like she genuinely wanted to know.

He flinched back a moment, sweating as he realized this was a trap.

He thought a moment before giving her a thumbs up and a wink, then removing the ribbon from her headband and placing it back in her hands.

He smiled, charmingly, before rubbing off some of the over-done makeup and cutsy-wutsy added ribbons form her hair.

Once done, he tossed it all to the side, clapped his hands off to get the stuff off his gloves, and then helped her up to her feet.

Once up, she teared up, nodding in glee. “I see. You like the natural beauty of the world, not some cheap gimmick.”

He nodded, smiling.

“Right!” She looked determined, “Then I’ll be beautiful and everything you could ever dream of! With or without flare!” She waved her hand up, as he again looked uncomfortable by her words.

So she just wanted to impress him?

He did almost drown though… so there was that.

He sheepishly nodded, before unsuspecting her to hug him like so, making him flail a little but not push her away.

He really should have seen that coming…

“Emmm~ MMM~~~!!” she dug her cheek into his, making the white’s of his eyes more apparent as his eyes shrunk at the closeness of it all.

“I shall do my best to get some respect from you, Sonic! But until then, don’t ever leave my side!”

He panicked, and after seeing a loosening in her hug, he took the chance to whip a leg out, and then dash off.

She blinked, before fully opening her eyes and looking to see him completely out of her grasp. Blinking dashed-lines of his silhouette were the only proof he had been their at all.

“AH!” she gasped, looking ahead as she saw the blue blur disappearing from sight.

“SOONNIICC!!!” she cried out, throwing her arms forward and racing off after him, “WAIT FOR-! AHHH!” she tripped on the ribbon of her boots, and fell flat on her chin.

She growled, before swiping her head back and then attempting to rip the ribbon off.

“Offph! Stupid! Grr..!!! Rafh! Sonic was right. But what he doesn’t know.. is that all this wasn’t cheap at all!!!” she leaned her head up, whining out the sad truth of how many rings she paid for the fabric and sowing the dress herself.

Something Sonic probably didn’t suspect, or even think about really.

However…

Sonic stopped a moment, remembering how much older she had looked before that final attack had shifted her back into the Amy he knew.

That other effect.. the older looking one…

He smiled a cheeky grin, his eyelids sliding down as he mused a muffled chuckle at the look.

Now she wasn’t so bad~ He wouldn’t mind being saved by a cutie like that!

Little would he know how ironic that thought would be…

(I thought this was funny and cute XD)

#sonamy #classic sonamy #sonic #sonic the hedgehog #classic sonic #classic amy rose #rosy the rascal #amy rose #sonic prompt #sonamy prompt #sonic au #sega #eggman #classic eggman #classic sonamy prompt

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wrath-and-regret-blog · 7 years

Text

VERY LONG CHARACTER SURVEY. ( FOR LOWELL )

RULES. repost; do not reblog! tag 10! good luck!

TAGGED BY: @luck-crowned

TAGGING: You.

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Prince Lowell Ophelian Ashwind

NICKNAME/S: ‘Lo’ (By his younger brother, Bastian),

AGE: 22 [ Verlethik years ] // 25 [ Earth years ]

BIRTHDAY: sometime in the late spring/early summer

ETHNIC GROUP: Ethleseeri

NATIONALITY: Ethleseeri

LANGUAGE/S: Old Verlethik, Ethleseeri, Norvangian, Ae’tarian sign language. Can learn new languages by passing through tears in the Otherland into other worlds. The Otherland is composed of memories, dreams and the dying thoughts of people. Passing through the very fabric of it bestows some residue upon the person who does so.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Homosexual, strictly sexually attracted to other men. And is kind of??? A total mess when he’s attracted to someone??? Trips over himself and babbles...He’s honestly ridiculous.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Also only interested in men. He’s honestly quite good at flirting, but once he feels like there might be something more there, you get the result listed above. Relationships are somewhat difficult for him to maintain, as he can’t bring himself to give up on his desire to learn, travel and understand as much as he can. He just can’t bring himself to settle down in one place, even for love, as he’d just be miserable in the end if he was forced to stay stagnant. Someone who would understand his wanderlust, or even go along with it, might be perfect for him.

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single

CLASS: He’s a prince. The third prince of Ethleseer. Sure, he’s not the most important prince, but he’s still a prince. He’s also a Soulwalker, which are of very high social class on their own. Every important family will have at least one member trained as a Soulwalker. Lowell’s family currently has two active Soulwalkers, including him, and one (his father), who is no longer able to Walk, due to illness.

HOMETOWN / AREA: Eshnal, capital city of Ethleseer, Also called the Forest of Spires for the way their buildings are built; densly bunched together, tower after sharp tower rising up as if to pierce the sky.

CURRENT HOME: Technically still Eshnal, as his family is still there and he can return whenever he pleases. He just...doesn’t tend to actually....do that.

PROFESSION: As the third prince, it would traditionally be his duty to command the Ethleseeri military. However, he willingly passed that title to his younger brother Bastian, who’s wanted it all his life, but, traditionally, the fourth children, or anywhere past, are meant to become the family Soulwalkers. They are often free to do as they wish, as long as they bond with enough souls to make them formidible in case of a threat towards their house, but Bastian wished only to become a knight and, eventually a commander their men could respect, despite his age. And so, since Lowell has very little prowess in war, they swapped, so to speak, and Lowell became a Soulwalker. Not to gain power in case of war, but to understand other peoples and beings in a unique way. Thus, he became the family “Ambassador”.

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Silvery white hair that falls in soft waves down to his collar bone, several locks usually woven into small braids, some is pulled back into a bun atop his head, but much of it isn’t bound, left to flow free. Very soft, clean and well taken care of when he has the time, but there have been times when he’s so wrapped up in exploring that he’ll forget treat it well. His hair has a very smooth textrure and does not tangle easily.

EYES: angular, expressive. A pale red color as a result of his albinism. Framed by pale eyelashes. He owns a pair of spectacles but only wears them when he’s reading or looking closely at something. His vision isn’t the best but he can get by, so he keeps his glasses in a pouch on his belt rather than wearing them all the time.

NOSE: sharp, slender, slightly upturned at the tip. A delicate feature that gives him an attractive profile.

FACE: A finely featured face with high cheekbones and a sharp, if slightly thin, jaw. Something of a squarish-heart-shaped face, usually kept cleanly shaven with a small amount of traditional Ethleseeri makeup, worn by higher ranking nobility and the royal family. His eyebrows are filled in black, his eyes are lined with a black ink-like liquid and a red pigment is smeared across his eyelids in a thin stripe (one on each eyelid, extending out into small wings)

LIPS: Soft, well shaped, rather kissable. Hasn’t gotten into many physical confrontations, but a punch to the mouth, courtesy of his oldest brother, caused one of the crown prince’s rings to cut flesh and leave a scar on Lowell’s bottom lip. He sometimes fidgets with and bites at this from time to time, when he’s thinking.

COMPLEXION: His skin has no pigment, leaving it an extremely pale color. it is smooth and has few identifying marks, aside from the places his veins can be seen more clearly (such as his wrists and ankles, which he keeps covered at all times) Albinism runs in many Ethleseeri families, but is seen as a symbol of misfortune. If an ‘ice-son’ or ‘ice-daughter’ is born to your family, it is said that they will bring a great tragedy upon your house. Due to his royal blood, the term used for Lowell is a bit kinder, calling him ‘Silver Prince’ as to not show any disrespect.

BLEMISHES: A few scars here and there. None, aside from the one on his lip, that are too noticeable. He has several brands burned on his body that don’t...look like normal burns. Spirit brands are the physical marks of a Soulwalker’s contracts. Each is unique and must be touched to activate that bond.

TATTOOS: None

HEIGHT: 6’1″

WEIGHT: Uhhhhh???? Like 170 lbs? Approximately? I have literally no idea

BUILD: Tall, slender, elegent. His arms, legs and core are strong, but his build is that of a dancer and not a soldier. He is trained in combat, though, and keeps himself in shape, but it isn’t a passion of his. Being a Soulwalker is both advantagous and dangerous, and so he has to keep himself on the proper level of physical activity. If he were to summon the soul of a warrior with boundless energy, they would direct his body but his limitations would still be in place, and they would still be his limitations. However, the soul doesn’t realize when the body is tiring. It is only due to expert communication and training that a Soulwalker is able to function.

ALLERGIES: Hazlenuts, most types of peppers native to Verleth, and a root called Feyrathala, purple in color and often used as an ingredient in most anesthetics. Due to this, he either had to find another painkiller that worked for him, or just build up a high tolerence. He chose the latter, as the former seemed too much trouble.

USUAL HAIRSTYLE: It is usually left mostly down, with four smaller braids, two on each side, woven into the snowy locks. Then, the top layers are pulled back and wrapped into a bun at the back of his head and held in place with an intricate hair pin or, when he travels, just a black ribbon.

USUAL EXPRESSION: He is all confident smiles and polite nods. He keeps an optimistic, open expression at all times, even when faced with danger or hatered. “It is most important that you smile, even at your enemies. They must never be allowed to see you falter.”

USUAL CLOTHING: Adventurer’s clothes, leathers and furs, along with plenty of red articles, such as tunics, scarves, sashes, etc. He may not fit in well with his family, but he does approve of their house color. He does enjoy formal wear, but has very few chances to wear any.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: Losing himself; failing those he should protect; his oldest brother and what he will do to their kingdom.

ASPIRATION/S: To learn as much as he can about as many worlds and cultures as he can. To find a place where he feels like he can truly belong.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Kind; Generous; Loyal; Reasonable; Attentive; Understanding; Trustworthy; Confident; Resourceful; Clever; Playful

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Eccentric; Irresponsible; Keeps a smiling mask up instead of expressing his feelings; Too curious for his own good; Unable to settle down; Sarcastic; Secretly bitter

MBTI: ENFP - CAMPAIGNER

ENNEAGRAM: Type 2 (The Assistant)

ZODIAC: Libra

TAROT: The Lovers

TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine

SOUL TYPE/S: Caregiver and Performer are almost tied (Caregiver winning out with one point)

ANIMAL: Swan

VICE/S: A deep wanderlust that takes precedence over all things. His curiosity is often treated as more important than his well being or any responsibilities he may have had. He avoids addressing his own problems and tends to run from conflict rather than face it.

FAITH: Open to considering all but intent in believing in none.

GHOSTS?: Hell yeah, he’s bonded to several.

AFTERLIFE?: He’s summoned beings from it and knows it to be existant, but has never seen it.

REINCARNATION?: Not particularly

ALIENS?: The very idea is incredibly exciting to him.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: As a member of the Ethleseeri royal family, his allegience should be to his family. And it would be, if it wasn’t for his father and oldest brother. His allegience is, instead, to his people, and while he is not the sort to lead a revolution against his own family, he will often go against the crown’s wishes for the benefit of the kingdom. He also does not like the noble families’ veiws that their Soulwalkers are weapons to be used, either in duels or in war.

ECONOMIC PREFERENCE: As a prince, money has never really been an issue for him. He always had some on hand but most would only be used in emergencies. He never liked flaunting his money and often prefers to live with the bare minimum when travelling. New places should be experienced, not gazed at from the window of a luxury room. He doesn’t really impulse buy, but he also doesn’t really need to budget himself.

SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION: He’s met so many people and heard so many different stories that the fact that some people are treated as less than others is something that he cannot understand. If those who believed themselves better tried to understand those they veiwed as ‘common’, they might think twice about that viewpoint. Everyone should be treated as well as the next person and money, physical traits or beliefs should not change that. However, he is a prince and speaking these opinions aloud bring powerful rebukes from the rest of upper society. His family has since drilled into him the ‘virtue’ of smiling and keeping his mouth shut.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Very high in all subjects deemed necessary for a prince and even in some that are deemed inappropriate for one. Can read and write in several languages, finds siences and magics fascinating, and is well versed in geography, cartography and the cultures of other peoples. Has NO SKILL AT ALL IN REGARDS TO MATH OF ANY KIND

FAMILY.

FATHER: Henryk - ( I’ve been told by Vega countless times that he was once a good king. I have yet to see that part of him, however, for all he did in my youth was rant and rave about the end of the world and now, he is too ill to do even that. I look in his eyes sometimes and I wonder if he even recognizes me...and if he even cares about what will become of his kingdom once he leaves the throne vacant.)

Vega Jayanta - ( My tutor, who is always infitely patient with me, bless his soul. He was only a teenager when I was a child, but he’s always seemed to know much more than someone his age has a right to. I’d say he could see the future if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d smack me upside the head if he heard me saying things like that. Regardless, he’s the one who truly raised me. )

MOTHER: Sila - ( Or, at least, I think that was her name. I never met her, not truly. She was the mother of myself and my two older brothers. Bastian was courtesy of father’s next queen. I was never told what really happened to her, only that I shouldn’t ask. She died, in bed, after I was born, still holding me. My older brothers were the ones who found her. They say they don’t know what happened...perhaps she was just sick. )

EXTENDED FAMILY: Bastian - ( Sweet little brother, I feel as if you’re the only person in this family who understands me. You’ll grow into that armor in no time. Metephorically speaking. Physically speaking, you’re twice my size already and if you grow any more, I’ll be furious with you. )

Ignace - ( You and I are the middle children, so shouldn’t we stick together more than we do? I know you’re afraid...I am too. But you can’t stop a tyrrant when you’re already under his thumb, surely you must see that. Surely you must want something more than to be his underling all your life. )

Renault - ( Ah, the crown prince...What to say about my dear older brother...I am not the one who will bring our house misfortune, Renault. It will be you who ruins us. )

SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): None, currently.

NAME MEANING/S: “Lowell” is derived from lou meaning “Wolf” and a diminuitive suffix. “Ashwind” means exactly what it sounds like. His family has it as a surname because of their funeral traditions. The dead of the royal family are burned and their ashes are scattered to the winds.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION: The Ashwind family has ruled Ethleseer for centuries, though in their earlier times, their house name was “Alaeleon” in the Old Verlethik language, and Ethleseer was simply a large tribe of people and not a country. Soulwalkers, as well are very prominent in history, particularly because they are still linked to it. Some Soulwalkers can bond with powerful spirits of people long dead. Lowell, in particular, has a bond with Rathina’Tara an Old Verlethik Queen, one of his ancestors. Upon activating that bond, her spirit melds with Lowell’s, she gains control of his body and he gains her far superior combat skills.

FAVORITES.

BOOK: He’s read many, but his favorite is likely this old book of epic tales that he found in the marketplace one summer. It was in poor repair, but it had all its pages and the words were all legible. Despite the broken spine, he read it quickly, and enjoyed the freedom he felt between the pages.

MOVIE: In his modern verse, he would love a good Fantasy/Adventure movie.

DEITY: He got Hermes. Listed qualities are: Rationality, easy-going, cleverness, cunning, playful, diligence, extroversion, down-to-earth, insecurity

MONTH: No preference.

SEASON: Spring or Summer, but mostly Spring.

PLACE: He loves anywhere that isn’t his home to be honest. He’s been so many places but if he had to choose, he’d say the beaches off the coast of Ae’tar, where the sea is warm and every color is vibrant. The people don’t speak aloud there, but employ a language of geastures instead and the music played in Ae’tar captures feelings that words could never hope to describe.

WEATHER: He likes the sunshine very much but can get overwhelmed on an exceedingly hot day. He prefers a sunny, warm day with a bit of a breeze.

SOUND: The rustle of pages, the strumming of stringed instruments, the crunch of the earth beneath his feet as he walks. Laughter, a pleasant singing voice, the low thump of someone’s heartbeat when his head is on their chest.

SCENT/S: Damp earth after a rain, the smell of the sea, ink on parchment...anything that reminds him of travelling.

TASTE/S: Spicy, sweet tastes. Things that are a bit of a kick to the mouth. He’ll try anything once but his favorite foods have strong flavors and a good amount of heat.

FEEL/S: winter furs, a warm hearth, a hand holding his, the first breath of air after leaving the Otherland.

ANIMAL/S: Canines mostly, and horses as well. Also deer and most birds

NUMBER: Nope. He hates numbers. No math. No numbers.

COLOR: He enjoys shades of red, as well as most metallic colors.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: He’s passably good with many weapons but is a master of none. He’s quite the dancer and is a skilled linguist. He’s also very good at translating things. He always wants to learn more and is skilled in gathering that information. Keeping calm in stressful situations, sMILING IN THE FACE OF DEATH

BAD AT: Staying in one place, taking on large responsiilities. Being honest about his negative emotions. Facing problems head on.

TURN-ONS: Trust, passion, confidence, curiosity, experience, affection

TURN-OFFS: Cruelty, controlling natures, unwillingness to listen or understand, being yelled at

HOBBIES: Dancing, wandering all over every god damn world he can get to, worrying the life out of Vega, sparring with his younger brother, meeting new people.

TROPES: Stepford Smiler (at times), The Champion (to Bastian), Shades of The Fool and The Idealist, Rebellious Spirit, The Heart, Heroic Albino, Red is Heroic, Rebel Prince

AESTHETIC TAGS: ;Aesthetic ( LOWELL )

#;Muse ( LOWELL )#SO MUCH STUFF #;long post

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