#Or a mild/subtle dig at someone else's foolishness

[thepatchycat]

Long, boring meetings are better with a buddy.

[damienthepious]

sorry I don’t have more Scattered for y’all this week! but, see, i finally moved out of my terrible living situation uhhh yesterday so things are a bit hectic at the moment. hopefully next week? wish me luck y’all. IN THE MEANTIME, THO. An au that’s been stuck in my head for a while, that i realized i could chapter out to encourage myself to work on it more. hope y’all enjoy?

thorns that burst from my skull in the night (chapter 1)

[ao3] [ch 2] [ch 3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, The Keep, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Canon Compliant, Prophetic Dreams, Alternate Universe, canon typical Arum ignoring feelings, (very mild suicidal ideation or at least. canon typical arum being reckless with his own life)

Summary: Arum has always seen glimpses of the future in his dreams. This gift is sometimes useful, but more often than not it leaves him with more questions than answers. The dreams of the flowers are particularly unhelpful.

Notes: I've had this one on the back burner for a while, but I moved into a new apartment literally yesterday, everything is a mess, and I did NOT have time to write a proper chapter of my current in-progress WiP, so here's the first part of something new! because that's always a good idea what the heck. Title from the song Pyrrhic Victory by Minimall.

~

Arum dreams a garden. It is the reoccurring dream the lizard Lord wakes from most often. Wakes gently, which is an interesting change from the vast majority of his prophetic dreams.

It is more abstract than his augury usually is, a flurry of soft petals, a distant singing, and the twang of- something. Something he cannot place. Elements of the dream rise and fade as it reoccurs, dragging out between years as it becomes just another part of his life. At times it comes with the distinct clash of steel, at others he hears a second voice join the song, and still again he feels either a frighteningly delicate touch, or the bite of manacles at all four of his wrists.

It bodes ill, Arum thinks. Flowers and song, and softness, it must either be a metaphor or an outright lie, and neither option puts him at ease. Even laced with the more ordinary threat of restriction and weaponry, he does not trust any of it.

He barters his services in exchange for access to the libraries of monsters he knows have an interest in botany, digs through tomes and guides until he can identify the other two of the three flowers from his dreams. The first he needs no assistance with; it is him. Always him, though it vacillates between the delicacy of the arum lily and the imposing spire of the titan arum. The other two, he finds with relative ease.

Honeysuckle, and amaryllis.

There is no direct connection between them, botanically speaking. They are unrelated entirely. They do not even grow in the same places, which is worrying because it indicates that this dream is almost certainly symbolic, and Arum abhors dealing in symbolism. It utterly undermines what little usefulness there is in his limited gift when he needs to wade through interpretation to find any actionable information in his prophecy.

He grits his teeth through his research into flower symbolism. It is almost entirely useless. Most flowers seem to have a wild array of meaning attributed to them, sometimes with ideas that entirely oppose one another. Amaryllis consistently seems to carry connotations of pride and determination, which Arum does not find distasteful, but it also means radiant beauty, which Arum could not care less about. Honeysuckle is more worrying; the meanings are all so soft. Happiness, devotion, affection, generosity, bonds of love-

Saccharine sentimentality, and selflessness. Nothing a monster should do anything but sneer at.

Another version of the dream arises around this time. He sees himself as he was in youth, the smallest of reptilian whelps, sees himself curled and sleeping in the throat of a flower, something not uncommon even in his adulthood. However, this time the flower in question is a beautiful and over-sized amaryllis bloom, with the other version of himself clutching to the pistil, the entire scene infused with relief and restfulness and safety. Arum wakes and feels hollow, that morning. Feels cool, feels uncertain, feels irritated with himself and his augury before he shakes the softness and rises to work.

That one of the flowers is arum, is Arum himself, concerns him further. If one of the three represents him, it raises the possibility that the other flowers represent someone else as well. Two different someones, likely.

He plants each of the strange flowers in his greenhouse. It is an act of defiance, of course, an act meant to rob the prophesy of any power it might otherwise have. He makes the symbol into something literal, something he can brew into a poison or a tea, depending, something he can touch outside of his dreams.

There, he thinks viciously, tending to the plants as they grow, pruning and fertilizing and brushing his knuckles soft down vibrant leaves. There. This mildest of prophesies is fulfilled. Here the flowers will be, and then the dream needs haunt me no more.

The honeysuckle blooms first. It fills the greenhouse with the scent of subtle sweetness, and when Arum places a flower on his tongue it tastes like a loose sunbeam, it smells precisely as soft as all of its adjacent symbolism, it makes him feel-

Well. It doesn’t matter. It is only a flower, after all.

The amaryllis are slower, but the blooms come just as wild in their time. They could be useful, he thinks, for brewing certain poisons, but he does not pluck a single flower. He could not explain why. He does not want to break any of those stems, and so he does not. It is enough of a reason in itself.

The dreams, of course, do not cease. The do soften, however. They come less often, but now the scent is more real in his dreaming snout, the sunbeam flavor filling his mouth until he could drown in it, but at least it is no longer a suffering of every single night. He may forget it, for days at a time.

He does not forget it. He could, he thinks. But he does not.

He hardly has time to worry over the matter anymore, anyway. His hard work and spotless reputation as an architect have (despite his other reputation as rather difficult to work with) gleaned him some arguably fortunate attention. Arguable, because while the eye of the Senate may be beneficial to him eventually, may earn him some protections or benefits he could not even predict, they are also powerful enough to threaten even Arum’s territory. If their attention turns sour, if they are unhappy with the results he produces (highly unlikely, his skill is unmatched), the repercussions could be severe.

The work is difficult. Demanding. It leaves little time for sleep, which allows him to avoid the dreams entirely, both those concerning his blooms and the other more troubling ones besides.

(cavern dark and wet, no magic here, only blight, only threat, only steel and mud and hatred and fear so sharp it curdles in the air)

(wilting song, wilting song)

(squalling of hundreds, his denizens, his charges, afraid afraid afraid and ready, as any animal, to bite back)

(weight unbalances, and so from the scale you must be)

Context. If the dreams gave even a hint of context he could use the information, but as it stands-

Arum works. The Keep works with him. They need be tireless, they need work beyond their means. He finds the Moonlit Hermit (another flower of which he has dreamed relentlessly, though at least those dreams had some use) and the work is easier, then, if no less time consuming. He must continue until the Senate is satisfied, or-

(wilting song, wilting song)

Or who knows what they may do to his home. He is relentless. He creates. He ceases to take satisfaction in this work. There is no time for that, and the weapons that the Senate demands are cruel in a way that Arum finds distasteful, regardless. There is skill in the work, of course, but Arum is diligent, and he samples his own poisons in safe quantity, and he knows what these things will do, to whomever the Senate turns them upon.

Arum does what he must. It was never his desire to make a crueler world, but-

But there is a war on. His desires pale in the shadow of it.

(the moment the first stone was thrown)

He dreams the Citadel, which is almost certainly the worst of portents thus far. It is an augury that makes sense more quickly than is typical. If his newest project can be coerced into doing as he intends, if he can manipulate them to grow fast enough to please the Senate, the resulting creature will require a tether. A focus. A direction in which to aim its ire, and that will mean-

Infiltration.

He wrinkles his snout in distaste at the idea, and the feeling of human-carved stone under his claws echoes back out from the dream. He is going to have to infiltrate personally, perform the task on his own. If he asks the Senate to find another to seek what he requires for his work, it will show too much weakness. He has no choice. He is running out of time to give the Senate what they desire, and his Keep is (wilting song) ill. And quickly becoming more so. He has no time. He has no choice. He must end this employment so he may turn his attention inward, so he may fulfill his deepest purpose.

He sharpens all his knives, and he does not sleep the night before he journeys out.

Perhaps this is foolish. His dreaming could give him some hint of danger, could allow him to see the troubles he may face, but he cannot stand relying on them, and he does not wish to attempt this reckless heist with the scent of flowers stuffed into his snout. If he fails, it will certainly be death, one way or another. He is willing to face that without debasing himself to the capriciousness of the dreams.

He will realize, later, that even if he had slept, the dreams would have only shown him the same as they had been showing for years.

Arum, and honeysuckle, and amaryllis.

[brookeap3]

Liquid Confessions (Part Three)

They say alcohol speaks the truth. In the missing year Regina and Robin find that’s the only way they can truly admit the feelings budding for each other within them.

A/N: For @oqpromptparty #67 Robin can't explain the feelings he has for Regina. One night he overhears a very drunk Regina and Tinkerbell (Tink already knows that it's Robin and drops a few hints without giving him away) talking about the man with the lion tattoo and it all starts making sense.

{ ffn } { ao3 }

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Not truly.

Robin had been restless. Lying awake in his bed, tossing and turning with thoughts of Regina and their argument from earlier playing over and over in his mind.

“Regina!” he calls frustratingly after her, chasing her down the hallway where she is tearing off toward the library.

“It’s Your Majesty!” she yells back, coming to an abrupt halt and spinning on her heel to face Robin again. Her chest rising and falling with her quick breathing, anger and irritation making those chocolate eyes of hers light up like fire.

Robin admires it as much as he wants to shake her for it. But it at least gives him the chance to catch up to her, coming to a halt a mere foot before her and crossing his arms over his chest. “We are not finished discussing this,” he tells her firmly, immobile in his resolve.

Glaring, Regina spits out through gritted teeth, “Yes. We. Are. I am going after her. End of story.” She’s finished with this. Her damn sister threatening them at every turn, keeping all of them on alert. Her frazzled emotions have reached their tattered end, threads ripping and fraying around the seams. Just like she is. She can’t take it anymore. Has to do something. And the last thing she needs is the damn thief who makes her feel things she refuses to experience again interfering.

“I beg to differ, milady. You may have stormed out of the council meeting, but the matter is far from settled.” He frowns at her, struggles against the desire to run his palms up and down her arms, to massage along her tense and rigid shoulders and ease some of the burden she insists on carrying all on her own. Robin knows better though. Is certain that his advances would not be met with acceptance. Despite her drunken confession of her attraction to him on her son’s birthday. “It’s dangerous, going off alone and half cocked, and I won’t allow it.”

Regina scoffs bitterly at that, nostrils flaring as she narrows her eyes at him. “Won’t allow it? What the hell makes you think you have the right to allow me anything at all. You’re nothing but a common thief.”

He bows his head, shifts on his feet a bit but doesn’t budge on his stance as Robin mutters, “I have no right. None at all.” Robin pauses, his gaze steady on Regina’s, allowing her to see the naked truth of his next words. “None other than that I care about you, Regina. And I will not watch you throw your life away.”

Shock flickers over her features, quickly replaced by a scowl, but it’s not quite as fierce as he is sure she thinks it to be. Not to him at least. “You’re a fool, Robin Hood, and I will not be held responsible for your ridiculous emotions.”

Robin huffs in frustration, planting his hands on either side of his hips. “Maybe I am, but you running off without the proper support will result in nothing but a victory for the witch.”

She scowls at him, seethes almost. “How dare you question me! I am stronger than my sister and she will not win this fight.”

“For god sake, I’m trying to protect you!” Robin exclaims, irritation and concern muddling together and making him reckless, poking the fierce creature he knows the queen can be.

“I don’t want your protection!”

Robin growls, a deep and gurgling sound in the back of his throat. “You exasperating woman!” Something inside him snaps. The fragile hold Robin’s kept on his emotions, the depth of feeling he has for this woman spills over and suddenly patience is a thing of the past.

His fingers thread through her hair, those long, dark locks that he’s dreamed of running his hands through over and over again. His palms are warm against her cheeks, cupping them affectionately even in his frustration, and before either one of them have a chance to think about the consequences of his actions, he swoops his mouth down on hers.

The kiss is hot and wet. His lips insistent and firm as he holds her in place, angling his head to deepen the kiss. At first he’s met with nothing but a stunned reaction from Regina, zero response, but within a matter of a few seconds, she’s answering his physical plea. Her mouth opens for him and Robin is quick to sweep his tongue through her mouth. Tasting wine and the sweet tang of something fruity, with the overwhelming taste of Regina herself dominating all other sensations.

Her arms band around his shoulders automatically, that sinful body of hers pressing against his, molding to his own and fitting perfectly. Just as Robin knew they would. His head spins, quickly depleting itself of all oxygen, but he refuses to break the kiss. Gasps into Regina’s mouth and dives in for more and more.

God, she tastes amazing. Perfect. Everything that he’s ever imagined and she’s driving him wild. The woman makes him absolutely insane, but they belong together. Robin feels it in his bones, within the depths of his heart and soul, and this only confirms it.

Regina moans into his mouth, deep and low, and it shoots a fierce pang of desire straight to Robin’s cock. Without stopping to consider his actions, he begins backing her up the few feet necessary until her back meets the rough stone of the castle wall. Robin slips his hand around to cup the back of her head, cradling it from the harsh rock, his mouth never leaving hers.

She arches her back into his chest, rubbing her tantalizing breasts against him, and Robin groans and rocks his hips into hers. It seems now that he’s finally gotten a sampling of her, he’s lost all sense. Both of them are relegated into a puddle of helpless hormones they’ve denied themselves for far too long.

Unable to prevent himself from seeking out as much of her as he can, one of his hands skims down her side, settling along her hip as his fingers dig slightly into her soft skin. His mouth ventures away from her luscious lips to trail wet kisses up her jaw, sucking for a moment at her earlobe and then down the side of her neck and back up again. Settling along the sensitive skin just below her jaw.

Just as he feared, the separation of his lips from hers is what does it. Reality dousing them both with a cold bucket of water as Regina realizes the position they are in. Harshly, she shoves her hands against Robin’s shoulders, forcing him several steps back as she glares at him.

Her lips are red and swollen from their kisses, and she’s panting slightly, attempting to draw air into her lungs. Utterly breathtaking is what she is. Robin reaches out a hand to touch her, but is halted with quick whip of her hand, frozen in place with her magic.

“Do not touch me, thief.”

“Regina—“ Robin pleads, his eyes soft as he looks at her.

She silences him again, closing her fist in an angry movement. “This conversation is over. I am the only one with the power to defeat my sister and that’s exactly what I shall do.” Her breathing is still coming in heavy gasps, her skin flushed slightly from their activities and she glares at him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some research to do.” Regina narrows her eyes, expression that Robin is sure she’d perfected as the Evil Queen seething back at him as she orders, “Do. Not. Follow. Me.”

With that she’d been gone and Robin had been too shaken by the experience to follow her again. He’d talk some sense into her later, once they’d both cooled down and recovered a bit. Would insist that she allow him to accompany her on whatever foolish mission she’s decided she must go on alone, whether she wants his help or not.

So he’d sought out comfort in the form of a snack, sneaking quickly and quietly through the deserted hallways of the castle to the kitchen hoping for a bit of bread or cheese to nibble on, perhaps a warm glass of milk, before returning to his bed and another likely sleepless night.

He’d just been about to shove his way through the kitchen door when he’d heard them. Their voices floating to him through the crack in the door and stopping him in his tracks. Robin recognizes the husky lilt of Regina’s voice instantly, his body stiffening immediately in reaction to the sound. It takes him another few seconds before the second female voice, light and airy, registers with him. Tinkerbell.

The tentative and sometimes volatile friendship between the queen and the fairy has given him pause on some occasions. They’re unlikely allies, after all, but the knowledge that Regina has someone to turn to if necessary, someone else that clearly cares about her, comforts Robin. Especially when she refuses to allow him to fulfil that role.

Robin should turn around the second he realizes that the kitchen is occupied. After their scene this morning, he’s quite sure he’s the last person Regina wants to see at the moment. But as he hears the clink of glasses and registers the subtle slurring of Regina’s words, he seems to be rooted on the spot, unable to move away. Instead he stands there silently, barely breathing as he listens to the two women’s conversation.

“Why are you bringing this up, Tinkerbell? It’s ancient history. I’ve already ruined your life once because of it. Surely you’ve learned your lesson by now. Or maybe you really are just a useless moth who doesn’t know when to give up.”

Her words are harsh, but Robin recognizes the mild hint of fear beneath the tone. At this point, he knows Regina far, far better than she would have him. And still, she refuses to acknowledge the fact that he cares for her. That despite her best efforts, she feels something for him as well. Flashes from their earlier encounter move to the forefront of his thoughts once more and Robin sighs silently in exasperation.

It’s not how he would have wanted their first kiss to go. He’d hoped they’d be in a better place when it occurred. Blind frustration had overwhelmed him and caused him to act hastily, rooted in emotion rather than logic. Though he’s coming to realize there is no logic in his feelings towards the queen.

Tinkerbell’s voice sounds equally drunk, and the echo of glasses lifted and set down on wood continues to serve as muted background noise to their conversation. He can only assume they’ve broken into the generous wine reserve of the castle. Or perhaps something stronger. Whiskey or brandy. Either way, it’s clear both women have been indulging.

“I just think it’s important not to give up hope, Regina. Especially when things appear so bleak. He’s still out there. You can still find him.”

A quick spurt of jealously gushes up in Robin’s gut. What is she talking about? Who is she talking about? The very thought of Regina being with anyone else leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He may not understand what’s happening between them, might not have a clue how to get her to open her heart to him, but he knows that there’s something between them.

And he will not be thwarted before he even has a chance to truly explore what they could have together. If only he could make Regina see reason.

Regina’s voice is dark and dismal as she responds, “I don’t have time to go chasing after some fairy tale I never even wanted to be a part of, Tinkerbell. Besides, I don’t want true love.” She says the words as if they were a nasty disease, one meant to be shunned and turned out. It breaks Robin’s heart to think any part of her might believe what she’s saying. For he knows the sentiment is rooted in the belief she doesn’t deserve it and it’s anything but the truth.

“The only love I need is that of my son.” Her voice breaks, almost imperceptibly, but Robin is so attuned to the subtle inflections of her tone of voice, he catches it. “And he’s gone. Lost to me. There is no hope.”

Her companion sighs. “All I’m saying is that the man with the lion tattoo is still out there, it might not be too late for you to find your happy ending, Regina. Even without Henry. Pixie dust led you to him once, showed that you were destined to be together. He’s your soulmate and he could be closer than you realize, but not if you aren’t open to the possibility.”

The fairy’s words hit him like a ton of bricks and Robin instantly grasps a hand over his right forearm, covering the crest of a lion that is inked into his skin. A symbol from his long ago past. Could she be talking about him?

Words echo through his mind, bouncing back and forth within his cranium.

Pixie Dust.

Destined to be together.

True love.

Soulmate.

Suddenly, the desperate and immediate pull he’s felt toward the exasperating, stubborn, stunning woman on the other side of this door, being treated to her own drunken lecture from a fairy, begins to make more sense. Various pieces of the conundrum that is Regina Mills that have been weighing on Robin’s mind for months begin to click into place.

He doesn’t understand everything that’s been said, isn’t sure what the blonde means by this missed opportunity. He’s never crossed paths with the queen before she and her clan had returned to the Enchanted Forest. But just the knowledge that he’s not crazy, that there’s a reason he feels this inexplicable longing for the woman sets his mind and heart at ease.

Destined to be together… Soulmates…

Words that should frighten him, or, at the very least, give Robin pause have the exact opposite effect on him. He feels heat rise up within him, his heart swelling as he realizes that it will all be fine. That if Tinkerbell’s implications are to be believed, eventually things will work out for them.

Perhaps it’s all about timing.

Leaving the pair to their drunken conversation, and grinning slightly to himself as he catches the whispers of Regina grumbling to her friend over the entire matter some more, Robin retreats back down the corridor silently and returns to his room. As he settles back into his pillows and sheets, a calm sense of rightness washes over him. Where before he’d been unable to settle his mind, Robin now falls asleep with ease, visions of a life built with Regina lulling him into slumber.