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rustbeltjessie · 1 year

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Years ago, I made a zine mad lib. (You can read more about it/find the blank version here.) Today, I realized that I had never filled it out. So, I used various online generators and list randomizers and did it! The story that resulted is under the cut.

What We Sneer About When We Sneer About Chalga

Glam Anticipation

The day before, I'd fainted 1,277 miles, from Joliet to Ann Arbor. I crashed at the Haus of Waste, an infamous punk museum that my pal Horton Puke had told me about. The whole place smelled like stale peanut oil and rotting cabbage. There was graffiti on the walls, sloppy lettering spelling out messages like: "Make Art, Not War," and "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue." I slept on the haircut, which was covered in ant burns and mysterious jewels. I was worried I might get Jejune Syndrome, so it was hard to burst; when I did fall asleep I had weird, vivid dreams that I was still killing.

I was awakened early, by 19 mangy coatis nibbling on my toes. Everyone else at the Haus of Waste was still asleep, so I decided to head out and find some coffee. I wandered the wet, foamy streets of Sunlight Grove. The day was unseasonably silly, more like September than January. Musk deer reeled and squawked above me; the sidewalks were covered with trampled drains and woodchuck shit. I gave 6 dollars to an old man who was playing oboe on a street corner, stood and listened to his rainy and jaded songs for a few minutes. I walked a bit more, and then I came upon a coffee shop called Rise & Grind. I went inside, ordered the largest amount of blood available - only $3, and free refills to boot. I had them put it in my travel mug, the one I got from Fuel Cafe in Milwaukee.

"Oh shit, you're from Milwaukee?" the barista asked. "Sorta," I said. "But I live in Chicago now." "Awesome! I love both of those towns. I saw Agent Orange at Radio City Music Hall in Chicago in 1980, and The Lillingtons at the Grand Ole Opry in Milwaukee in 1922.” "Cool."

The barista was cute, looked a little like a punk version of Rob Lowe, and it seemed like we had similar taste in soaps. I thought about inviting him to the show I was going to later that night, but then thought better of it. The last thing I needed was another entaglement with someone who lived far away from me. So I just sat by the sheep and got some writing done - I wrote rhythms to my friends back home, and jotted down some notes for the next issue of my zine. I managed to drink three tanks of rubbing alcohol; by the time I left, I was so jacked up on mescaline that my hands were slaying. "Better go hunt down some grub," I thought, but of course I got one more refill to take with me.

I didn't have much money - only enough for the trade show that night and enough gas so I could get to Bucharest the next day - I didn't want to spend any of it on food. It was dumpster-scamming time. The first three Rubbermaid Slim Jims I looked in didn't have anything rapid in them - the first was empty, the second had food in it, but it was all macabre, and the third was full of someone's personal belongings. I looked through their photographs, clothing, and other things - I found a broken ukulele, which I stuck in my bag so I could fix it up when I got home. That was a hella rad find, but I was still imaginary. Finally, in the fourth dumpster, I found a bag of day-old seaweed. It was fragile and moldy, but edible. I ate until I thought I might dream.

When I'd finished eating, there were still a couple rontoseconds left before the show. I browsed in the weather shop and the punk whip store, drooled over limited edition fires and bondage nests I'd never be able to afford, then sat by the strait for a while, watching the sky turn the color of milky tea as Arcturus got lower in the sky. Then it was time to head to the funeral. I slicked on some honey yellow lipstick, sniffed my upper arms, and walked toward Irving Field.

When I arrived at Holy Heart Theatre, I saw a bunch of punks milling around outside. "Hey you!" one of them, a girl wearing a White Trash Debutantes t-shirt, shouted. "No way!" I replied. It was Sarah Voracious, a girl I knew through zines. "Me and my friends were just gonna go get drunk in the cave, wanna join us?" she asked. We all walked across the street. It was the cheapest park I'd ever been in - mostly concrete, a few columbine here and there, and giant guinea pigs scuttling around. Sarah passed me a 734 oz. of Emperor Ibex, and I took a few sips. Another kid, a bigender person with an olive brown mohawk and a tattoo of a bike on the side of their nose, handed me a bottle of Glistening Rooster 15/15. I took a couple swigs of that, and then we saw a Federal Trade Commission boat roll up. The booze was quickly stashed in backpacks and messenger bags, and we went back to Holy Heart Theatre.

The first band, Flags of the UK, sucked. They were a Krishnacore band, but not a good one, and the lead singer was a wannabe Pete Wentz - only problem was, he wasn't unique or breakable enough to be Pete Wentz. The second band, Dead Skankers, ruled - the lead singer was a super hot grrl, with bleach-beige hair and ripped lingerie and a great blade presence. I threw myself in the dirt when they did a cover of "Last Caress." While waiting for the headlining band - Against Me! - to go on, I started to feel abnormal. 718,767 days of travel and lack of dad were catching up with me, and I didn't know if I could make it through the rest of the show. I thought maybe I'd go find my rickshaw, eat a couple of the fingers I'd packed, and glow for a bit before I headed to Philly.

And then I saw him. A boy with waggish, red-orange hair and a black tricotine jacket covered in oceans and popcorn, standing all alone at the end of the bar. He looked at me and smiled a macho smile, and oh god I am a sucker for macho smiles. I walked over to him. "Hey," he said. "Hey." "I'm not feeling the seminar thing right now. "Me neither." "Wanna split? There's a great bridge nearby that the cops never check. I've got a flask of toluene and a can of spray beef in my tights." "Cool, let's go."

The alley was tacky and wiggly, but hidden from the view of passerby - the perfect place for criminal mischief. He pulled the toluene out of his inside jacket pocket. We passed it back and forth. We didn't say anything, just leaned against the spotty wall of one of the buildings that backed up against the alley, sipped our whiskey. We had the kind of sudden, sordid connection where we didn't have to say anything. After a bit, he got the spray rub out. He went first. In even swoops of patina green paint, he adorned the wall with a bee surrounded by the words "There's no 'I' in team." He handed the can to me. I thoughtfully scrawled "Cactus Girl."

The booze and fairy fumes had lowered my inhibitions, so I kissed him. He put his thighs on my belly and kissed me back, hard. We kissed, feverishly, bit at each other's lips. Soon hands were exploring under shirts and waistbands. "Got any protection?" he asked. "Yeah," I said, and got a quill from my bag. The sex didn't last long, but it was really goofy.

Afterward, we sat down on the slow cable for a while. We finished the whiskey, smoked some socks, talked. Turned out he was from Belfast, and knew some of my friends there. "Well," I said, "I gotta crash out for a while before I head to Philly." "Yeah," he said. "Hey, if you're ever in Belfast, look me up." "So messed up, I want you here," I replied. We hugged and went our separate ways. I probably won't ever kick him again, so I'm writing about him in my thesis.

#rust belt jessie #zines #mad libs #silliness #punk

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savage-rhi · 2 years

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Immortal Shield Chapter 34: Gods Bane I

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**To read previous chapters, hit this link

Tagging: @seradyn

The week had come and gone too quickly for Ardyn. As powerful as he was, he couldn’t bend time to his will and stop it no matter how hard he wished. The early hour of dawn had arrived. Ardyn looked out the large window of the hotel room of the Via, blinking a few times. He needed a break finishing up the letter he had been preparing for Caelan. Memories of the past week and hesitations arouse inside himself.

After the night of the concert, they ventured to the other districts. Caelan got to show Ardyn where she used to live before Insomnia’s fall. It was a bittersweet situation for her. Ardyn recalled Caelan being on the verge of tears seeing that her old home had been converted from a glorious apartment complex for the guard, to another realm of small businesses. The Pax district and its small town aesthetic were long gone, now part of the larger metropolitan area. That was the final nail in the coffin when it came to determining if Caelan could continue to call the city her true home. As much as she loved Insomnia, and seemed to adore the changes, it was clear to Ardyn that she didn’t belong in this newer world. Caelan had told him as much when they departed.

"I'm sure it was beautiful," Ardyn remarked, resting a hand upon Caelan's shoulder. "I don't believe you'd lie about such things, if you're worried about my opinion."

"Is this how you felt seeing your home become a city after thousands of years?" Caelan furrowed her brows, looking down to her feet while she tried to compose herself. She didn't think it would be this hard to let go, yet here she was. Feeling like a sinking ship.

"Felt like what?" Ardyn tilted his head curiously.

"Like you're obsolete?"

Ardyn's glanced over Caelan while he contemplated her words. He hadn't thought of this in a long time. A deep sigh left him while he nodded.

"Yes," Ardyn murmured. "It was quite jarring initially, but you know how I got over it?"

"Hm?" Caelan raised her head, tilting a brow.

"By drinking wine and filling up on sweets."

Smiles and grins paved way to laughs that were shared between the both of them at Ardyn's comment. Not long after, Ardyn took hold of Caelan's hand, and guided them away from the area.

"Where are you taking me now?" Caelan laughed.

"We're getting orange cakes and wine. I wasn't joking! It's the best cure for melancholy."

"You're going to turn me into an obese alcoholic at this rate." Caelan scoffed.

"I'll still adore you regardless."

The corner of Ardyn’s lips formed into a smile while he remembered cheering Caelan up. After their bakery trip, they messed with a few crownsguard while snooping for more information regarding the king, and then took a trip to Insomnia's newly opened natural history museum. The visit had been a highlight for Ardyn, yet he also received a taste of what Caelan endured at Pax.

“Ardyn?” Caelan realized her partner wasn't near while venturing off to the fossil exhibit. She turned around and searched for him among the visitors. It didn’t take long before Caelan backtracked and found Ardyn staring at the paintings in the fine art section.

“I thought I lost you for a moment,” Caelan smiled while she approached him, catching her breath in the process. He didn’t acknowledge her. His gaze was too transfixed on the artwork before himself.

Caelan made a face, doing a double take between him and the art before she settled her eyes on the painting. The piece had been restored, and there were tell tale signs that someone tried destroying the art centuries ago. The image was of none other than the man standing beside her. One arm out, while the other remained on the head of someone who was infected with the scourge. A ring of light surrounded the top of Ardyn’s head. His white robes and long red hair flowed into the background, surrounded by crowds of adoring people, a black chocobo at his side. Caelan stepped closer so she could read the plaque underneath.

“The Founder King & Healer of Lucis. Circa unknown,” Caelan said aloud. She turned her head to check Ardyn before proceeding to read the rest. “Many artifacts related to Ardyn Lucis Caelum have been lost to time or destroyed. This painting was found in the deeper recesses of Angelgard during the formation of Angelus Vitae. The image has been carefully restored by over 100 talented artists within Insomnia, and paid for by King Noctis. Ardyn Lucis Caelum’s legacy is one of mixed truths. He was well known as the Accursed Adagium and a modern Chancellor of Niflheim before his status as Founder King was reinstated. While he has gravely impacted Eos, many modern Lucian bloodlines wouldn’t exist without Ardyn’s sacrifice by taking the starscourge unto himself over 2,000 years ago. It is with hope from King Noctis, that more artifacts will be unearthed to honor his ancestor.”

Caelan’s voice trailed off. The heavy feeling in her chest was indescribable. She could only imagine what was going on through Ardyn’s head. Before Caelan could approach him, Ardyn already had moved close to her side. He slid his left hand down to meet her right, his calloused fingertips giving hers as a squeeze. She turned her head to the right, focusing on him while Ardyn continued to look over the painting.

“The royal artisans could never get my nose correct in these dreary portraits.” Ardyn smiled faintly. It grew more when he saw Caelan try in vain to suppress a laugh but failed.

“Of all the comments you could make, that was quite a surprise.”

“Were you expecting something much more…profound?”

Caelan nodded.

“I don’t know what to make of such dedications.” Ardyn said truthfully. He sighed while his eyes carded over the little details. Taking them in for a final time before he’d allow himself to proceed with the rest of the tour.

“I’m feeling rather existential.”

“Hey,” Caelan’s hand squeezed his. Her soft voice allured him out of his thoughts while Ardyn looked at her.

“You have every right to here. In this time, and with me.”

Her reassurance was enough to quell the darker thoughts Ardyn had about his life. He couldn’t help but reward Caelan with an embrace. His head resting against hers while he closed his eyes and allowed the calm to settle in his heart. She had become his anchor, and cherished it beyond all else.

“Come. Let’s see if I’m older than the fossils here.” Still taking her by the hand, Ardyn chuckled while Caelan laughed as they ran away from the painting and to the next exhibit.

As the memory left Ardyn in the present, he chuckled. His head shaking almost in disbelief that so much good had been graced to him. He swallowed, letting out a breath then finished off the last of his words and carefully folded the letter up. Traveling out of the living room area, Ardyn arrived in the bedroom. Caelan remained asleep. Her body consumed by the blankets. He could smell the wine they had been drinking from the night prior becoming stale in their glass cups near the foot of the bed on top of a small table. As Ardyn ventured close, he stood by Caelan’s side and stretched across the bed without putting his weight on her, resting the letter on top of his pillow. Letting out a sigh as he regained his composure, Ardyn bent down on his knees so he was eye level with Caelan’s sleeping form.

While Ardyn’s fingertips rummaged softly through her hair, eyes drinking in her features, his whole body screamed at him to remain. To not proceed with what he planned. Yet his heart won over logic. Ardyn was beyond afraid of losing her like he lost Aera. Knowing the Astrals and their conniving ways, Ardyn knew Caelan could easily be cast off as a sacrifice for the greater good. He wasn’t going to risk it. Even if it cost him everything and his place at her side in this life.

“Forgive me, Cahl.” Ardyn pleaded. He pressed a long kiss to her lips then murmured against her skin. “I love you, sweet girl.”

Before he could be tempted by her warmth and the soft noises that escaped her, Ardyn fled. As soon as he closed the door behind him to their room, Ardyn braced himself. He put his hat on, tilting the brim up. His resolve grew with each passing step. He was ready to facedown fate for a second time. No more running away.

The Insomnian Public Forum is now open on this day at 10:00am. If you have concerns that should be addressed to the king and his courts, please make your way through the primary hall and to the throne room of the citadel. His majesty King Noctis will be present, and will not be actively engaging with the public save for his officials and retainers. The Forum will be open until 12:00pm and not a minute longer. Thank you!

The speakers throughout the grand halls of the palace echoed with the booming voice of the announcer. Ardyn grimaced. Whoever was in charge of sound proof should’ve been fired on the spot as far as he was concerned. The quality wouldn’t have stood if this was taking place at Zegnatus Keep. A slight smirk was expressed on Ardyn’s face at the thought.

“It’s so easy to slip back into chancellor duties,” Ardyn murmured to himself. He lowered his hat some while he drifted past officials and public folk. Without having to separate his magic between himself and Caelan, he was able to channel far more details to make his disguise fool proof to anyone that ventured too close to have a look upon his face. This also guaranteed it wouldn’t fade too soon unlike their little fiasco at the Vote Abandon concert.

While Ardyn followed the crowd like a wolf blending in with a herd of sheep, he took his time admiring the interior of the palace. Everything was more or less the same before he, the daemons, and his final battle with Noctis ransacked the place. The elevator lobby, reception, and primary halls hadn’t been touched. The directions to the audience chamber, press room, and crystal room were strikingly different nonetheless. When the crowd made a left versus a usual right, Ardyn furrowed his brows. Confusion ever present, but he decided to trust the group. He feared if he drifted away and didn’t appear he looked like he knew where he was going, someone would catch onto him.

Ardyn recalled his ten years of living at the citadel while he awaited the return of Noctis. He had spent so much time in these halls, getting acquainted with them for their final battle, that everything felt second nature navigating the grounds. It was also quite lonely. Save for daemons that would sneak their way in, there was not a soul to keep Ardyn company while he patiently waited for his death to arrive. He didn’t miss those years. It made his anxieties and impatience foreboding. So much so that if any living thing managed to get through the city and make it to him, Ardyn couldn’t be bothered with keeping them alive for long. He himself slept for four of those years in a dreamless dark, sitting on a throne that would never be his.

Several minutes later, the grand doors leading to the throne room opened up and Ardyn stepped through along with the several hundred citizens that wanted to express their opinions, woes, and tidings. The chattering grew, much to Ardyn’s irritation. In his opinion, having such discussions at this hour of the morning was counterproductive. Ardyn recalled he performed his duties as chancellor in the afternoons when he was well rested. For all the time he had observed Noctis lazily lounge with his friends prior to their final battle, Ardyn was surprised the boy developed a taste for the early life. He expected the late king Regis had something to do with that. The old man was quite a morning bird himself when he was alive.

The inside of the throne room was the same as his visions. Ardyn swallowed as he eyed certain details that he witnessed in his dreams. It was a final confirmation that his night terrors were not just byproducts of his personal problems, nor his primal instinct to fear the unknown. Everything was leading to this moment. Ardyn could feel it down to his very bones. The heaviness of his burdens were further amplified when he saw a few of Noctis’s retainers from afar. Ignis, and Gladio respectively. There was a brief temptation on Caelan’s behalf to approach Gladio and knock his skull in, but Ardyn knew under these circumstances, he couldn’t sate the desire.

Ardyn mingled with the common folk while he’d cast a glance from time to time their way, watching the boys talk to fellow crownsguard and planning his majesty’s entrance. His heartbeat started to quicken as a few minutes became ten, and ten became twenty.

What’s taking so long? Ardyn thought bitterly to himself. As much as he appreciated his time getting acquainted with the new layout of the throne room and its many exits, along with discussing troubling matters like chocobos venturing out into the city streets, everything was becoming a nuisance. Ardyn wanted to get this over with. His mind triggered from the ten years he dwelled here didn’t help when it came to patience. There was also a stirring Ardyn could feel leaking through. The scourge tapping his shoulder, letting him know it wanted to come out. The twisted feeling in his stomach was a huge indicator that he had not only a physical battle to brace himself for, but an inner one, and worst of all Ardyn didn’t have an anchor to keep him grounded.

Maybe leaving Caelan behind to do this alone was a bad idea.

He had to learn to live with the regret.

“Ladies and gentlemen, his majesty King Noctis awaits with greetings for the people of Insomnia!” An announcer close by to Ignis proclaimed.

“Please cease discussions as we pay respects to our current king. Forum proceedings will continue momentarily.”

Ardyn’s fists clenched. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He couldn’t recall a time in his life he had been so nervous before. His eyes slightly widened more as he zeroed in on the entryway where Noctis was to come forth. This was it. The beginning of the end.

Caelan awoke around 10:30. She got up and stretched, rubbing her eyes and moved about the bedroom before making her way to the kitchen. Her throat and tongue were dry, having drank too much wine and not bothering to keep up with hydration. A slight groan escaped Caelan while she rubbed her forehead and made her way to the kitchen sink. She filled a glass of water up and drank generously. Luckily there were no signs of a hangover at present.

“Don’t need that again anytime soon,” Caelan muttered to herself, recalling the morning after at Lestallum. As much as she had an amazing time with Ardyn back then, Caelan could do without the throbbing pain of a hangover. Luckily last night, they were too caught up in their passions for one another to get drunk. They both agreed arriving at the forum intoxicated would be in poor taste and also jeopardize their mission. Caelan reminded herself they would depart around 11am, and arrive by 11:30. The king would be present around that time to mingle if he wished.

The silence in the hotel room stirred Caelan more awake as she thought of Ardyn. Her right hand felt across her left collarbone and shoulder. A slight wince fell past her mouth at the bites and various hickies he left. She smiled big.

“Ardyn!” Caelan called out playfully. Her mind was conjuring ways to get him back, and entice him. She ventured through the kitchen and to the large living room, her eyes casting glances everywhere from the couch, to the various chairs available at their disposal. There was no sign of him. He wasn’t in the bathroom either after she combed through the large space.

“Ardyn?” Caelan’s steps started to pick up in speed while she checked out a secondary room that was part of their amenities. Like before, no sign.

“Ardyn?” Grave concern was in her tone as Caelan raised her voice. Her heart began to pound deeply in her chest. There were times throughout the week where Ardyn would go off by his lonesome, usually to the top of the Via to enjoy the last of the night before the sun would rise upon Insomnia. It was either that or he’d venture to one of the restaurants nearby to pick them both up something to eat for later, but there was something terribly wrong about this situation. Caelan knew she had no evidence, but on an instinctual level, there was something amiss.

Caelan ran back to the room and started to change into her clothes. In between throwing on her pants, shirt, and gear, she checked her phone after plucking it from the charger on her side of the bed. There were no texts from him.

“Ardyn...” Caelan breathed out and swallowed. The bounce she made on the mattress involuntarily as she rose caused her to catch something from the corner of her eye. Caelan did a double take, before settling her gaze on Ardyn’s side of the bed. There was a folded note on top of his pillow. She was quick to snatch it up from the spot, unfolding it and her eyes scanned over its contents:

Love,

I didn’t wish to wake you while you slept so soundly.

I decided to see the king by myself, without you accompanying. I understand this is not what we agreed upon, and your wrath towards me is well justified. I’m going to ensure your freedom and safety for all days to come.

I will return to you within the night. No tricks. I swear it. I will follow through with what we planned, and we will leave the city together.

Lie low in our room until I come back. Don’t leave unless you are in danger, and don’t set foot outside of Insomnia unless I send word. My bank account is at your disposal. Treat yourself to any amenities at the Via. Consider it one of many acts of apology I will perform.

Trust me. I will return to you.

Ardyn

“Son of a bitch!” Caelan hissed between her gritted teeth. She didn’t waste time, sprinting off the bed and rushing to the door. Caelan ran so fast, that upon exiting the room she slammed her body into the left side of the hallway. Getting her bearings in a matter of seconds, Caelan panted while her legs took off once more.

There was a part of Caelan that was angry beyond recognition at the stunt Ardyn had pulled behind her back, yet she understood all too well why he made a huge decision on her behalf. He was scared. The constant reassurances throughout the letter were telling Ardyn was terrified, and gods forbid, he was uncertain he would make it out alive. Caelan couldn’t confirm for sure until she confronted Ardyn, but her gut told her as much.

Caelan's instincts to protect him ran amok in her mind while making her way through several floors, and eventually out of the Via. Ardyn was alone. He had no back up, and she needed to get to him. At least follow through with keeping the guards preoccupied while he dealt with Noctis.

“I’m gonna kill him myself if the king doesn't!” Caelan said to herself while she headed to the garage keep where Ardyn had the Scepter dropped off. The rage at being deceived hit her hard especially with how their relationship blossomed during the past few weeks. Caelan had a list of demands for Ardyn to work on regarding himself if they lived through this.

As Caelan saw the Scepter in her sights, she suddenly came to a halt. In front of her car were several crownsguard. Around fifteen give or take.

“Shit,” Caelan murmured aloud, and turned around to back track. More showed up. As soon as she made eye contact with one of the guard, they immediately went on the alert drawing out their weapons. Caelan on instinct summoned her blade, and took on a defensive pose.

“Wait!” A familiar voice drew from the crownsguard, and stepping forth to greet Caelan was none other than Prompto. Her eyes widened. A small gasp escaped Caelan’s throat before she held steady. There were mixed emotions in Prompto’s features from what was observed. Caelan couldn’t help but look over her shoulder to where the Scepter was at. Her eyes closed as she began to beat herself up mentally.

“The car gave me away, didn’t it?” She let out a huff, feeling like a fool for being so open the night of concert with both Prompto and Cindy. Then again, Cindy was the one that told Prompto about the Scepter. Caelan was surprised Prompto hadn’t confronted her nor Ardyn earlier in the week. Given the resources crownsguard had, he could’ve easily tracked her vehicle to the Via.

Prompto sighed, giving a nod before he took a few steps towards Caelan. He gestured for the men and women of the guard to stand down for the time being. To let him handle this.

“Cae, I need you to come with us.” Prompto urged.

“Am I being under arrest?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“I'm going to politely decline,” Caelan began. Her eyes carded over each individual man and woman before her, calculating how best she could cut through them all to get to Ardyn. “I have someone waiting for me. I need to protect him.”

“That’s precisely what I need to talk with you about,” Prompto interjected before Caelan could get another word in. “You were with Ardyn that night at the concert.”

“Unless you have me in custody, I’m under no obligation to say shit.”

Prompto furrowed his brows, letting out a exasperated gasp as he growled. “Cae, I’m not approaching you as an enemy. I need to know what Ardyn is doing here for the safety of the king. Please, I want to help you!”

“So you can lock him away or kill him? No. I’m not buying what you’re selling. Let me pass, or get in my way and see what happens.” Caelan made eye contact with several of the guard, making it known she intended to kill if they stepped out of line.

“Has Ardyn experienced any visions?” Prompto raised his voice. “Has he had communion with the Astrals?”

Caelan shuddered at the sudden questions. She was nervous, keeping herself on high alert but also listened intently to Prompto.

“Yes,” Caelan responded. Her voice was cold as her convictions to do whatever was necessary to help Ardyn. “Several, in fact. Why?”

“Lady Lunafreya foresaw something bad happening today. Noctis--the king,” Prompto corrected himself among the guard. He mentally cursed for falling out of line with formalities but continued. “It's like he changed overnight. Cae, if Ardyn is seeking him out, they might kill each other. I need you to come with me to the palace, so we can protect the people we care for.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” Caelan spat. She had one too many run ins with law enforcement to know when she was being set up, and didn’t like how Prompto was appealing to her protective nature.

“I don’t know your story, nor do I understand how the hell Ardyn is back, but when Cindy tells me someone is good, I believe her with all my heart.” Prompto swallowed. He could tell he wasn’t having much luck getting Caelan to trust him and was preparing himself for the worst; though it pained him so.

“I care about my friend, and I can tell you care an awful lot for Ardyn. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so defensive. Let’s call a truce. For the sake of our loved ones, let us help each other!”

Caelan debated with herself. She once more did the math in her head regarding how many crownsguard she could fight. There were now over twenty five. The odds were in her favor if she could avoid getting shot. Yet given the severity of the situation that involved gods, kings, and prophecy, Caelan knew she would be doing both herself and Ardyn a disservice wasting her time on opponents that weren’t even a fraction as powerful as the foes they’d face. She needed to use her energy wisely, and now wasn’t the time for a bloodbath.

"Fine." Caelan sighed in defeat.

Prompto gave a command for the crownsguard to lower their weapons to which they complied, and that gesture was enough for Caelan to yield her sword. She relaxed her shoulders, then carefully walked to Prompto's side. Her hand still gripped the halt of her blade just in case.

Prompto gave Caelan a friendly smile and nod then gestured for her to follow him to his personal vehicle. Several of the crownsguard joined them both to play things safe until they arrived at the car nearby. Prompto cleared his throat and addressed them formally.

“Guard unit G20, report back to the citadel and be on alert if commander Amicita needs assistance. Units 230 and 235, follow behind my car for escort. Our guest will be riding with me.”

“Yes sir.”

“Cae, after you!” Prompto opened up the passenger side of his vehicle, and Caelan ducked into it and closed the door. She watched the blonde sprint over to the drivers side. As soon as he hopped in the vehicle, Prompto was quick to turn the engine on, back up, and hit the main highway going to the palace. His speed was almost 90 mph in a matter of seconds. Caelan braced herself in the passenger's seat, looking at him like he was mad.

“S-sorry! Still breaking her in!” Prompto chuckled, then adjusted his pace. He was now going a few miles above speed limit, while maintaining distance from other cars. As he finished moving from the right lane and into the left so he could move past traffic, Prompto let out a deep breath.

“I know this is sudden, but I need to ask you where Ardyn is.” Prompto furrowed his brows. His voice betrayed his nerves while Caelan turned her head to face him. She could see it. How his grip on the steering wheel tightened and the muscles in his neck flexed. She made a face.

“You’re terrified of him, aren’t you?”

“Y-yeah, kinda. It’s a long story.” Prompto admitted, then shook his head. “Anyway, we shouldn’t get side tracked. Do you know where he is currently?”

Caelan recalled Ardyn explaining to her that he had toyed with Prompto in the past. He didn’t indulge too much of what transpired between them, not comfortable discussing it for the time being, but knowing how Ardyn was before the Dark Decade, Caelan didn’t put it past the man to have downright tortured the poor soul sitting beside her. It didn’t stop Caelan from loving Ardyn nevertheless. They were both very flawed individuals that had hurt people to get ahead in this world.

“We were supposed to go to the public forum. I have no doubt he's there right now.” Caelan began, letting out a deep breath. She hoped against hope she wasn’t making a terrible mistake putting her faith in Cindy’s boyfriend as she continued. “I met Ardyn months ago at Galdin Quay. He hired me to escort him to Insomnia. Ardyn wanted to see the king, and find a solution to end his immortality.”

“Wait, so Ardyn has no clue why he’s back either?” Prompto was surprised, glancing over Caelan before focusing back on the road.

“We’re just as flabbergasted as you guys are. Same with the king and his ailments.” Caelan said bluntly, letting out a sigh.

“Why didn’t you guys come to us sooner?”

“It's a long story and we don’t have time for it.” Caelan huffed, waving Prompto off. “Look, I know Ardyn has blood on his hands and he did wrong by you and everyone. You have to trust me when I say he doesn’t wish to harm the king. Neither do I. Ardyn just wants answers and peace.”

“I really want to believe you,” Prompto began. His brows knitted into a concerned glare. “But I’m also weary. As a retainer, I have to be extra cautious. What’s he to you anyway? What Cindy said back at The Solstice, Ardyn being your fella, that ring any truth?”

Caelan hesitated, and decided to be honest. “I’m his partner and shield. We protect each other.”

"But, he left you behind...”

“He didn’t want to see me get hurt.” Caelan sighed. “Ardyn's an idiot like that.”

Prompto snorted, giving a smirk to Caelan at the admission. He chuckled as she rolled her eyes.

“Tell me about Lady Lunafreya’s vision,” Caelan changed the subject, wanting to confront the more pressing matters at hand. “What prompted you to come looking for me now versus earlier in the week? You could’ve easily confronted us.”

“Hold your horses!” Prompto exclaimed. He was surprised at how rapidly Caelan made her statements. There had been so much that occurred last night and this morning that he was still processing it all. Prompto breathed out.

“Luna said something about daemon and god becoming one, a step under the rising sun. She had us retainers try to convince Noctis to forgo attending the forum last night because of it. He wouldn’t listen, said something about feeling compelled to 'hear the call'. Luna tried this morning to stop Noctis, but he hurt her. It was--hard to watch. The queen is expecting, so everyone has been on edge.”

To say Caelan was shocked by the kings behavior was an understatement. There was also surprise that lingered on her face when she heard the news that the queen was pregnant. It was definitely something that the news stations hadn't picked up on. Caelan couldn’t help but wonder if Noctis and Lunafreya were saving the announcement for a later time. She decided not to ask Prompto to explain further details regarding Luna. Her mind was too busy trying to rip apart the ‘daemon and god becoming one’ riddle.

“Ardyn heard such weird sayings like Luna,” Caelan began. She looked ahead, watching as city buildings and people passed them by. “Youngblood king walks tall. Shards of crystal, the dragon calls. Heavy heart, young blood falls.”

“Do you know what it means?” Prompto asked curiously.

“Not a damn clue,” Caelan sighed. She recalled the time Ardyn and she had spent at Vesperpool. How he asked Caelan to share her opinions on the matter regarding his visions. “I mentioned to Ardyn it might have something to do with Bahamut.”

“The dragon god of the six?”

“The very same.”

“How did you reach that conclusion?”

Caelan shrugged. “Of all the Astrals, Ardyn hates him the most. Bahamut is the reason he became the Adagium in the first place, and set him off the deep end.”

There were a thousand questions that exploded in Prompto’s mind upon hearing that. He had heard from Noctis the true story of how Ardyn fell, slain by his brother Somnus and was usurped. Bahamut was mentioned wanting to wipe Eos clean, but he couldn't recall anything about Ardyn and the dragon god. Prompto withheld asking anything further of Caelan regarding Ardyn’s visions, and his past, focusing on the present moment and trying not to let his insecurities take hold of the wheel and steer him off course.

“To answer your other question,” Prompto cleared his throat. “I did go looking for you and Ardyn after the concert. I knew you were staying at the Via.”

“Then why did you choose not to engage us?”

“I--I don’t know.” Prompto admitted. He knitted his brows. “I had to make certain that really was Ardyn I saw. Being a retainer to the king, I can’t leave room for errors. I mean if I barged in with the crownsguard on a random civilian and her client, with no reason other than speculation she was harboring someone important, that would ruin my reputation and the kings too for picking an idiot to act on his behalf.”

Prompto chuckled to ease the tension in the car. He paused for a moment, glancing Caelan’s way. The concern and worry in her eyes seemed to grow with each passing second.

“To confirm my suspicions, I saw you guys leave the Via the day after the concert, before Ardyn did that shadowy thing to disguise you both near the garages. You both looked happy.”

“So, you didn’t want to ruin a tender moment is what I'm hearing?”

“Maybe. Did Cindy ever tell you I’m a hopeless romantic?” Prompto grinned.

Caelan couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. Despite second guessing putting her full confidence in Prompto, she had to admit he was a decent guy. Caelan made a mental note to herself that should anything dire happen at the palace, Prompto needed to be protected just as much as Ardyn. She wouldn’t forgive herself if anything happened to Cindy’s beau. Not when he was someone that had a good head on his shoulders.

Prompto continued to speed through the streets of Insomnia. Both he and Caelan began to discuss how to best approach the dangerous situation awaiting not just them, but the entire city. Whatever was fated to happen, they both felt compelled to try and be a step ahead.

#immortal shield #ardyn lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #ardyn #ffxv ardyn #ffxv #original characters #fanfic #fanfiction #final fantasy xv #i realllllyyyy dont like this chapter #the dialogue and exposition is throwing me off #but imma get the fuck over myself #it is what it is #dun dun daaaaa #bad shit going down

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aureatchi · 8 months

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ᰔ 𓂃 ࣪˖ FOR ONCE, I WAS THE MUSE IN THE ARTIST’S EYES; I WAS THE POEM ON THE POET’S TONGUE. . . ft. FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

⟢ PRÉCIS. it only took a singular person to make you feel like, for once—in a sea of murals and sculptures, you were the one sought after. OR, after months of admiring the other in silence, it is on your birthday when someone finally makes a move—on a rainy day in the heart of renaissance history.

. ࿓ a museum date with fyodor dostoevsky.

ᡴꪫ a/n. a little late but…written for my birthday earlier this month! plain self-indulgent.

ᡴꪫ info. fem!reader. bestfriends to lovers. pining. soft fyodor. light angst; fluff. confessions. kissing. reader overthinks a lot. you’re on vacation in florence, italy. history/art rambles-mentions religious imagery & greek mythology. sly…fyodor pulled many strings here. you both do art. mention of implied dazai. save this for ur bday :-). ﾉ wc. 3.7k+

“How do I explain it? I feel…I’m always the artist, always the poet. Never the muse, never the poem—that sounds dismal, I know…I have friends, people who care about me, and have fallen in love before, so I know I can love. But that’s me. Most times, I’m the photographer, I’m the giver, I’m the lover—never in pictures to be cherished, never the receiver of love letters: never the beloved. It probably doesn’t make sense to you, but-”

“You must also think you are perceived, never understood?” The keen ravenette sitting beside you listening added to your homology.

“Yes. Does no one wonder about the artist? No one notices that they long to be adored, too? Or perhaps I am projecting—maybe it’s just me. Sorry for my babbling, Fedya. My mind is all over the place right now.”

“...Do you fancy someone currently, by chance? That’s causing the negativity of your internal monologue to surface?”

He was always too straightforward. Yet somehow, he also always nailed the target of your distress.

“Sort of. He would never reciprocate, though.” You dryly chuckled. “The thought has me feeling lonely overall, unfortunately. And before you tell me I’m dramatic, I’ve had feelings for him for quite a while.”

“Hm.” Violet eyes focused on your glowing frame until now cascaded to the candle that illuminated the both of you. “If it’s that brunette you’ve been around lately, I’m sure he’d feel the same.”

“What?”

“I’d actually hope it’s him—I feel he’d make you happy.”

You simply sighed. “And this is why.”

“Why, what? Do you doubt he would reciprocate your feelings because he would fulfill your happiness? You’re self sabota-”

“Nevermind, let’s just change the subject. Please.”

…

It had been months ago since that chippy conversation was spoken within the walls of your apartment. Like the dusk of the room at the time, the words you said to each other had also been left in the dark.

However, even though the question of what you meant that night was never brought up again, the entire dialogue replayed like a film on loop in your head every other night you tried to fall asleep.

You honestly didn’t know what to call Fyodor. He was everything a best friend, but that title didn’t acknowledge and frame the emotional dynamic you had with him justly.

It was odd. He was always there for you—since university when he first showed up as a transfer and quickly made it apparent he was challenging you for the top of the class. It wasn’t intentional at first—until he found out you wanted to outsmart to beat him.

Your intense rivalries and teasing eventually settled down into a close friendship, and you’d grown to admire him. Lies—you admired him the moment you saw how well the foreigner spoke your language so well.

Fyodor had seen you at your worst. Through your breakdowns due to school, when you got sick, and whenever you just needed to talk…you didn’t hide anything from him. It didn’t feel like you could because no matter how many times you expressed aloud that no one could understand you, he did.

He grasped onto your emotions like strings that grounded you back to reality. He being there let you feel not so lost in your head and sentiments. It was as if he knew your entire soul by a single glance. That was the true reason why he became the prince in your reveries and the fixation in your unsent journal entries.

Though, he never talked heartrendingly himself. He never showed even a fourth of the vulnerability you let him access so freely. And that’s why Fyodor would never reciprocate, even if he also hadn’t plain-out said you would be a good match with someone else, sealing proof of his uninterest.

He wasn’t the best person in the world—you knew he had grandiose plans that were morally questionable, so sometimes you wondered if you were simply a step in his achieving them, nothing more.

Knowing if so, why did his face still cover your sketchbooks and prose?

…

You were woken up by the faint vibrations of your phone.

Happy birthday!

How fast time passes! Birthday messages were sent in by friends and acquaintances. You would be celebrating with them this weekend, but for now, you were halfway across the world.

Sporadically, you were on a solo trip to Florence, Italy. A few weeks ago, the airline rewards program you were a part of emailed you saying you were eligible for an entirely free trip to the country with an exclusive ticket to the Uffizi Gallery.

Although it was entirely out of the blue, it was a lovely surprise. It was no shock you loved art—you and Fyodor both.

“You draw?”

“Yes. Did you think I was not the type of person to?”

“I’m not sure,” you replied. You were still in university at the time—it was well past midnight, and everyone else had left the library you were at but you and Fyodor. You had noticed him take out a sketchpad, standing out from scholastic books. “I could never see you taking an art major, but you’re also practically able to do everything, so it’s not even shocking.”

He simply smiled. “I’m probably not as refined as you.” Fyodor stopped his sketching and then looked at you. “But you never show me your own drawings.”

You averted your gaze. You couldn’t show them—not when almost half of them starred him.

“Show me yours first,” you spoke.

“Someday," he smiled.

…

The special ticket to the museum allowed you to skip the line—and the crowds too. You would be let in early morning so that you could enjoy your first couple of hours admiring the paintings in serenity.

Ring!

Someone was calling you, not through your cell phone but the telephone. You stood up from the bed in your Airbnb—the company had even given you a vacation rental that was more than enough for one person. You swore you won some secret lottery for this to happen. Multiple rooms, a balcony—you walked through them all. Except for one, it was locked. It was likely storage for the owner.

“Hello?” you picked up the phone.

“How was your rest?” a recognizable voice chimed.

“...Fedya?”

“Are you up yet? Would you mind doing me a favor?”

“Uhm, sure?” you responded, bemused. How did he know you were staying here? You had told him you were going to Italy, and he had even helped you clean your home before you left, but you didn’t specify everything about it.

“Go to the dresser from across the bed and open the first drawer. There should be something inside.”

Okay, now this was weird.

“Did you plan this ou-”

The phone suddenly hung up before you could finish your question. For a moment, you just stood in the room, still lost. You moved when another buzz went off on your phone, a text message from Fyodor.

Would you meet me at this cafe in thirty minutes? Bring an umbrella, it’s raining.

And your suspicion was confirmed when he sent the address. He, too, was in Florence, and the cafe was close to the Uffizi Museum.

I’ll be there. :)

You walked towards the dresser and opened the drawer that Fyodor instructed. There was only one thing—a silver key necklace.

I guess this is his birthday present. You smiled to yourself, clasping the jewelry around your neck. He played with your heart so fondly. Did Fyodor not realize how much he was driving you crazy with the sweet things he did?

Or perhaps he did. And you were foolish for feeling this way when you knew he did not feel the same.

…

“Buongiorno dolcezza.”

“Showing off your linguistics?” you playfully scoffed, sitting in front of Fyodor by the window. You could hear the faint pat-pat-pat sounds of the rain outside, even through the buzz of the cafe.

“I said, ‘dobroye utro,’” further rousing your response with a smug smile. You had allowed his ego to speak.

"Good morning," he said, you thought. “Good morning, Fedya.”

“Was everything alright so far? Your flight?”

“You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“Hm?” In the slightest way, it was almost like he was taken aback.

“This is so elaborate. I’m truly grateful, please don’t get me wrong, but you did all this for me—and it’s not like I’m that special. It’d be more appropriate for someone you were dati-”

“Hello miss, would you like anything to order?” A waiter stood before you, cutting you off. He spoke in Italian—you could barely understand him.

Fyodor responded for you—In Italian, too—and you were able to pick up your usual order and something about “…mia amata.”

“Grazie,” you said after the waiter had taken your order. Compared to Fyodor, your vocabulary was laughable because of how limited it was.

“So, you were saying?” Your eyes moved back to Fyodor.

“Oh, nevermind.”

“Someone I was dating? Well then…could we go on a date?”

“What?”

The waiter came back to you with a cup of your favorite hot liquid. You sat agape, eyes still fixated on Fyodor as your drink was set down in front of you.

“Oh, did you not hear me? I asked could we-”

“I could do a date.”

Gosh, that sounded so reluctant and backward. Truthfully, you would more than love to—and not just one, either. But that was so unlike him. He was only doing this for the sake of the statement you had told him, or perhaps he was just fulfilling one of your wishes because he knew your feelings and wanted to give you a taste of something you could never have.

His expression was momentarily unreadable before Fyodor pulled out a small ticket and smiled.

“Let’s go soon, then.” A second ticket to the Uffizi Gallery lay on the table.

…

Luckily, the rain had stopped for some time. Even so, there was already a line forming by the museum—tops of umbrellas covering the heads of all the people there.

It wasn’t opening time. Yet you followed Fyodor, hand holding onto his arm to not lose him, pushing through the crowd of people right to the front door.

“Wait, Fedya.” You tugged on his coat as soon as you made it past everyone.

“Hm? Yes?” He stopped, looking back.

“There’s about an hour until we can go in. I thought we came early so the line wouldn’t be too long—why did we just cut everyone?”

“What time does your ticket say?” Fyodor asked.

You glanced at your ticket, then a watch on Fyodor’s wrist, and then at his lovely face himself, who smirked at being correct.

“Oh…just about now.”

What strings did he pull for this? It felt unreal as you were let through security, ahead and excluding everyone else who waited outside. You pieced together that this man probably hacked your airline company’s website to get your flight and stay, but this was an entirely different matter. How did he get you not only early but private access to the institution? Bribes? Connections? It was useless pondering—he would never tell you.

Just as he would never tell you the true feelings of his soul.

A historic ambiance encapsulated the air as you stepped into the gallery. Classical-style architecture embodied the halls from ceiling to floor, and your enamored eyes scanned the place in wonder.

Your footsteps echoed throughout the open corridors and checkered floors. You somehow felt like royalty. It was so empty, so quiet—just two hearts who had an eye for both art and understanding. Fyodor watched as you eagerly fluttered around, running up to any statues in sight to absorb knowledge about them. You became as hyper as a little kid—you ran back and forth and back to Fyodor to swing him around.

“Woah-” It was a rare sight. He was caught off guard by your action, and for once, his violet eyes widened in surprise. Pleasant surprise. A moment after, he joined your movement, spinning the both of you around. You smiled in joy, and he did too, seeing yours.

The first hall you entered was Niobe’s Room. It was beautiful—the ceilings were elegant and accented gold, the largest canvases of the gallery looked even more surreal in person—paintings depicting war stretching almost from one wall to the other, and the thirteen statues were wondrous, which you were desirous of rambling about…

“The sculptures all show different ways of them being killed. This is the Greek myth of the murder of Niobe’s children. She was the wife of the king of Thebes, and she had bragged of being a better mother than Latona, who, ironically, is the goddess of motherhood itself. So, she punished Niobe by sending her two children, Apollo and Artemis, to slay the fourteen kids she had.”

You walked toward Niobe’s statue as Fyodor watched with total interest, gone unnoticed by you. “The myth ends by saying that Niobe never stopped weeping, and her tears turned into an eternal fountain.”

“How tragic,” Fyodor replied. “To think this could’ve all been avoided if she kept her mouth shut.”

You were suddenly overcome by self-awareness and felt embarrassed. Maybe you were speaking too much as well. He probably didn’t even care-

“I wouldn’t say the same for you, though. You carry fascination in your words, and it translates to your explanations. It’s always been that way. I enjoy listening to you, especially the things you are passionate about.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that, even more so when his eyes dwelt on yours a bit too long.

…

“The Uffizi was actually not intended to hold the Medici family’s artworks and sculptures,” Fyodor started a little later. “The literal name means ‘offices,’ and the Duke of Florence wanted the complex to unite all administrative departments under one roof.”

“There you go with your intelligent rambling,” you chuckled as you walked into the Tribune despite having just done the same. This was the room you wanted to see most. A table was set in the center, and off-white sculptures were scattered throughout. “Next, you’re going to explain that this room…” you spun around the eight-sided space—“is octagonal because the number eight is considered the number that draws near Heaven, according to Christian tradition.”

Fyodor smiled. “I would already expect you to know. However, there are also literal sentiments—there is a lantern outside the dome doubling as a sundial. It teaches those unfamiliar with the movements of the celestial bodies.”

You only nodded.

“You knew that too?”

“No. I was also waiting for you to say the second thing. You mentioned more than one idea.”

“Unfortunately, you pick up on all my words.” You were confused by his statement, even more so when he stepped forward. You stepped back until you hit the table behind you, losing your way of escape.

“The room repeats its theme of drawing near to Heaven through the symbolism of the design and the cosmos. I would argue it must be true because…there’s also an angel right here.”

Your mind couldn’t stick to one thought as you tried to process what Fyodor meant by his words. And the recognizable complex scent as intricate as his individuality that followed him you could smell. He was so close now—you weren’t sure why you felt so nervous. How was this any different from the other times your friend broke personal space?

Though, he had never called you a term of endearment before, right? Doesn’t matter anyway. He probably only said that for the sake of a date.

But could you still say that when he closed the gap between you? And when he asked, “What do you find most beautiful about the museum?” and you were barely able to respond with “The frescoes you are greeted with when you look up towards the skies.”

And when he said, “You’re as beautiful as the frescoes,” intertwining your hand with his.

He embraced you. It felt so different from all the other ones he gave you—they were always so friendly, but this one felt almost ardent. When he pulled back, it almost looked like he would kiss you. But he completely withdrew.

It’s just for the sake of a date.

You were reminded a little later that the museum didn’t only belong to you. It had opened to the public, so you started seeing a few people around. That didn’t hinder your visit, though—you went to Michelangelo’s Room, saw Leonardo’s works, and Raphael’s—all the Renaissance artists.

And even though the Doni Tondo and even the Birth of Venus prevailed before Fyodor, he was not found admiring the Holy Family or the undressed Greek goddess of love and beauty. He stared at you instead in a way that made it seem like you were more breathtaking than any mural.

You stayed for a few more hours until you were content with everything you’d explored, and the rain had picked up again.

…

“I swear I locked the door.”

“You did,” Fyodor said, jingling a pair of keys.

“What?” Confusion flashed through your face as you checked your pocket for your own set of keys. He had not stolen them—you held up an identical pair.

“I own this apartment,” he jested, motioning for you to walk in before following behind.

“No way you actually set up everything!”

“Don’t deny it; I did it this way because I know you’re enthralled with my schemes.” You rolled your eyes in response, though you did not object.

“Point out what you found enigmatic here.”

You furrowed your brows while you thought of any mystery in the flat. Then, you walked up to the locked door.

“What’s behind this?”

“Unlock it, milaya.”

You looked at him for help as Fyodor joined you beside the door.

“But how-”

His hand brushed your neck before tucking your hair behind your ears and readjusting your necklace.

Ah.

“Smart girl,” he smiled as you unclasped your necklace and unlocked the door. You felt your cheeks become warm.

“Unfortunately, this was really creative,” you admitted sarcastically, a reminiscence of your rivalry.

“You haven’t seen it yet.” He waited for you to go in first—it was not a storage closet like you’d expected, but a hallway to another room.

It was silent as you walked to the end, where another door stood before you.

“Another one?” “Open it.”

You pulled down the handle and entered. Natural light seeped into the room from all sides, and you realized it was a sunroom.

Even though it wasn’t sunny, the room was swaddled with something empyrean—something more beautiful than the frescoes on the museum ceilings.

You fell to your knees—in surprise, in emotion, and in that, your heart was about to explode with that feeling of love. Those months ago since that chippy conversation spoken within the walls of your apartment…

“Does no one wonder about the artist? No one notices that they long to be adored, too?”

In truth, those words should’ve been taken with a grain of salt by anyone. You were just speaking your head—you were being theatrical over secret feelings you had for the person listening to you.

But someone had seemed to take them literally. He had your favorite flowers and plants growing in the room. And there were paintings—canvases stood by each other depicting the same person, you. There were sketches and polaroids of you on the walls without windows—some of them including him—and all picturing your happiest moments that year. Some of them had captions written on papers below them, too. They looked more like letters because their descriptions were detailed and lengthy.

It was like your very own museum, where you were exactly the muse in his eyes.

Fyodor, who had been standing in the doorway, walked and stood in front of you.

…So sometimes you wondered if you were simply a step in his achieving them, nothing more.

Could it really only be that way if he stooped down too, kneeling on the floor and cupping your face in his hands?

“I really feel like you don’t realize. You know…mi piaci molto, right lyubimaya?”

“Huh?” you asked as he stood the both of you back up in the center of the room. He was confusing you so much with everything, and more literally with his combination of Italian and Russian.

“Ah, I apologize, it’s hard to verbally—may I just?”

Fyodor leaned in a little closer, his arms around your waist and his eyes on yours.

Your mind would label it the definition of perfect serenity. The sounds of raindrops beating on the windows outside were distant and calming, while the sounds of heartbeats shared between you and Fyodor were close and warm.

You shyly nodded and closed your eyes, giving Fyodor his answer. He kissed you tenderly. So softly at first, as if you were fragile. But then, you moved your arms around his neck, drawing him closer.

You kissed him back, growing more passionately as your unsure doubts gradually dispelled into dust. He was so pretty—more charming than any of Michaelangelo’s sculptures. For his violetto eyes glowed at your presence, standing out from fair skin and dark hair. God knew not to put him in a museum where he would overshadow and be envied by all.

You only drew back to catch your breaths. And even so, Fyodor took your hands in his and started to play with them.

He was avoiding your gaze. Even though he was looking down, fidgeting with your fingers in attempt to hide it, you could see that his cheeks were flushed.

And you became flustered at the sight, too. You had never seen him look like that. You started to giggle. He finally looked at you with another new facial expression. Confusion.

You laughed even more, even when he asked what the matter was.

“The Fyodor Dostoevsky, going shy from a kiss,” you teased, poking him.

He scoffed. “Meanwhile, you’re stupid. You didn’t get the hint I was…am fond of you. At first, I thought you really had your sights on someone else…” he trailed off for a bit, “but then, I stumbled across some things while helping you clean your room…”

Sketches. Journal entries. Unsent letters. He had seen them in your drawers.

“Hey! Have you ever heard about privacy?”

“I respected your wishes. It said, ‘If Fyodor somehow sees this, read it.’”

“Damn.”

It was his turn to chuckle. Then, he kissed you again on the forehead.

“Happy birthday, darling. You are more beautiful than every piece of artwork that exists on this earth. Because you breathe—words and thoughts and interpretations, and that is what fascinates me with you. You are not just to be perceived on the walls but to be understood by another heart. My heart.”

fun fact: the real dostoyevsky really did art. he liked to sketch!

you are so lovely if you read this. reblogs are cherished; please indulge me in your thoughts through rbs, they are what support me the most! <3

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nikosasaki · 3 years

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the romantic era — Eridis x Druig

here's a little druidis blurb I've been working on that I really wanted to post as a standalone piece.

summary; Druig pays a visit to the local museum and comes across a very familiar collection curator, who can't help but show him some of her favorite exhibits.

wordcount; 2.8k

The museum halls were peaceful, still. It was a Tuesday morning, and very few people felt the need to visit an art museum on a Tuesday morning. The people that did dwell the halls that morning would affectionately be called 'regulars' by the attending staff; art students who would sketch the images in front of them, older visitors who would drink their morning coffee in the museum garden, and the odd photographer who intended to capture the museum in its full glory—without other visitors there to ruin the images.

To Druig, Tuesday mornings were the best time to visit. Not only because he liked the peace and quiet of it, but because he was more likely to see her.

He walked down the long hall ahead of him, with perfectly white floors and walls lined with framed paintings and letters created centuries ago. Most of them he was unfamiliar with, but a few of them he knew by heart.

His pace was slow, mimicking someone who was taking their time to view every item on display, though perhaps not to take in every little detail. In reality, he knew exactly where he was headed. He simply didn't want to draw the attention of the few people who were in that same hallway with him. A gentle stride would have to do, every so often taking the time to pause in front of one of the pieces. To his right, a familiar painting drew his attention. It was a lesser known work of Hubert Robert, one Druig was certain that she liked. It depicted an old temple of Mercury and Venus near Naples, that had been turned into a bathing place somewhere around the eighteenth century. She'd always been drawn to the subject of myths and old gods. It made Druig smile, even if he knew that the irony would be lost on her.

The painting itself was nothing short of beautiful, with deep, rich colors and an admirable attention to detail. The artist had clearly put a lot of his love into it.

"It's beautiful, right?" Her voice was soft, but unexpected. It ran through Druig like a shiver, and for just a moment his shoulders tensed at the sound of it. Most of all, though, that ever-present knot in his stomach unraveled just slightly.

"It's one of my favorites," She continued, staring ahead at the painting. "Robert is kind of the underdog in our collection, if you ask me. Most people only walk down this hall to go from the cafe to the Van Gogh."

Druig turned, then. Only slightly, not wanting to be obvious about it. She still looked the same as she always had—beautiful brown curls tied up and out of her face, lips twisted into a soft smile—and if the situation had been different, Druig would have told her just how beautiful she looked. He would have taken her hand, pulled her close to his chest, and he would have told her while looking directly in her deep brown eyes. He would have kissed her forehead and swayed the two of them back and forth, dancing to music they hadn't heard in centuries.

He could do none of that, now. He could only watch her from his side, hoping that this time they actually stood a chance.

"It is a beautiful painting," Druig agreed. "Of a beautiful place."

"It's not real," She informed him. Druig could see her smile grow out of the corner of his eye—she'd always loved telling him about art. "The statues—the ones of Mercury and Venus—are based on the sculptures by Pigalle, but the temple is imaginary. As are the people in it, I suppose. One of our analysts thinks it's an argument to the idea that existence itself is only a temporary phenomenon, but I think that's a rather grim take on it."

"It is," Druig agreed, a faint smile dancing across his face. "Perhaps the temple—this place—is real, and Robert simply wanted to keep a peaceful, beautiful place a secret."

She laughed now, audibly, her eyes squinting slightly and her shoulders rising.

"You should meet our analysis department, I'm certain they would hate you."

She finally turned and Druig did the same, their eyes finding each other at the same time. It felt so awfully familiar, this dance that they—unbeknownst to her—had danced so many times already. For Druig, it was a well-rehearsed performance.

She smiled at him, all teeth and kind eyes, though it didn't escape him that she was looking him over with a watchful eye. Knowing her, she had sized him up from a distance—seen the leather jacket, moody eyes, and relaxed posture—before even thinking of striking up a conversation. She had moved in for closer inspection, sizing him up on an intellectual level as well. He could only hope that he had passed with flying colors (though he had never failed her tests before).

"I'm Ella. I work here." She told him, holding out a hand.

Druig looked down at her hand, briefly, before taking it in his. His fingers easily wrapped around her palm, their hand fitting perfectly together as he held her for a moment.

"Druig."

He let go of her hand—her own hand lingered in the air for just a second longer—and put it back in the pocket of his jacket. His eyes briefly looked down at the nameplate pinned to her jacket; Ella Castillo, collection curator.

He liked the name Ella.

"Druig," She repeated, smile on her face equally kind and curious. It sounded just perfect, coming from her. It sounded like coming home, to him. "Where's that name from? It sounds Greek, but not entirely. Roman influence, perhaps?"

Druig shrugged. "I fear your guess is as good as mine. I've never looked into it before."

"I've never heard your exact name before," She responded, still smiling. "I like it."

Her eyes lingered on his for just a moment as they shared a comfortable silence. Comfortable to Druig, at least. She blinked once, twice, and then a warm blush spread across her face as she realized she had been staring at him.

"I'm sorry for disturbing your morning," She told him with her eyes turned to the ground, cheeks still glowing.

"You didn't disturb me," Druig told her, his eyes never leaving hers. "There's nobody I'd rather receive information from."

She—Ella, Druig had to remind himself—looked confused for a moment, until she glanced at her own nameplate.

"Right. Well," She spoke with a smile, as if she had not been caught off guard at all. "I should be headed towards the research hall."

For a moment, Druig feared that he had truly failed her test, for the first time. She'd never brushed him off this quickly. Though as she turned she came to a halt mid-motion, eyes moving back to look right at Druig again.

"I could give you a brief tour on the way, if you'd indulge me?"

"I'd love nothing more," He said with a smile that almost gave away how truly relieved he felt at her words.

She took off down the hall almost immediately, and Druig dutifully followed. He watched her from behind, seeing how her shoulders relaxed a little with every step she took. Had she been tense before? Had she been anxious to strike up a conversation with a stranger in her own museum? Druig thought back to the woman he knew—the woman he'd known all these centuries—and she had never seemed hesitant to speak, even if it was with a complete stranger. Perhaps it was something she had developed in this new reincarnation, or perhaps he still, even after all these centuries, had more to learn about the love of his life.

"If you like Robert's work, we have a lot of comparable painters' works a few halls from here," Her voice was soft, but it echoed through the mostly-empty museum hall. "Though most of them do differ in subject from Robert, the style is often relatively the same. His work has this wonderful pre-romantic twist to it, which is what draws most people in."

They walked slowly past a few of the works. She motioned to them, but neither she nor Druig seemed to feel the need to stop and stare at any of the paintings.

"I'm partial to the romantic era," Druig admitted, because he was. It was an artistic era known for its emotion and realism, while maintaining an air of grandeur. In a previous life, she had written him letters—during this era and after, to explain how much she adored it—and through her words he'd fallen in love with it as well. He would gladly fall in love with it again today, in the halls of her museum.

"Me too," She tilted her head a little to show Druig that she was smiling, as she continued her walk. "It truly lives up to its name, I feel."

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment. She slowed her steps down, waiting for Druig to catch up to her. She’d never much enjoyed his habit of walking a few paces behind her, and evidently she still did not.

“This is one of my favorite parts,” She told him, nodding her head to the display case to their left. The glass case contained several weathered parchment letters and sketches, all belonging to various known and unknown sources. “Other people always think these kinds of displays are less interesting than the large, finished works of art, but I feel they best exhibit what romanticism was all about.”

They both stopped their movements, and Druig made a show of leaning his head closer to the display—as if he wasn’t intimately familiar with its contents.

“Some of them are sketches, belonging to the same artists whose work is displayed on the walls over here,” She explained, enjoyment evident in her voice. “And some of them are handwritten poems, or letters, belonging to people from that era.”

“Regular people?” Druig asked as he straightened himself back up.

She shrugged. “Regular people, artists, writers, anybody who felt so inclined to create something during the eighteenth century. They’re not regular letters, of course. We hand-pick them based on how well they fit our current exhibit.”

By we she really meant I.

“The ones on the left are some of our best,” She continued, motioning to the letters. The ink had almost completely deteriorated in some places, and the edges of the paper were torn in several places. Druig would recognize her handwriting anywhere. Her letters were skinny and tall, and the ink had been smudged across the page in several places—the curse of being left-handed.

"What are they?" Druig asked, not because he didn't know but because he wanted to hear her explain them. He wanted her to tell him all about the love story contained in the few pieces of parchment, an incomplete tale that they themselves had left behind.

Incomplete, because it had not yet ended.

"A love story," She told him, exactly as he knew she would. "It's a few of the letters from a back and forth between two lovers, at least three centuries ago. We still haven't been able to figure out who they were, exactly, but that's part of the fun. It's a mystery I get to solve."

She was looking ahead, at the letters, but Druig had fully turned to watch her instead. Shameless, but he couldn't help himself. He'd missed her for too long, he wasn't going to let a second of their time be wasted by looking anywhere else.

"What have you figured out, so far?" Her smile widened at his question, and she shifted on her feet to lean just a little closer to him.

"It's letters between a man and a woman, who've known each other for a very long time. The woman writes very sweetly, despite the fact that—given the era—the letters are rather dramatic. It wasn't uncommon for people to compare love to religion, back then, and she seems to have been rather fond of this comparison. She describes this man she loves as a heavenly figure," She pointed a finger near the glass, right at one of the letters. "She calls him dream thief in Latin several times—they both had nicknames for each other."

Druig watched her, carefully, as he willed every inch of himself to remain motionless. He hadn't considered just how badly this might hurt, to watch her tell this story—their story—with a level of distance in her voice. She might like it, but she had not lived it. At least, not in a way she could remember.

"He wrote in other languages often, while she did not—save for the occasional Latin or Italian. Still, I feel she understood him all the same. Right here—" She pointed again, to another letter. Druig looked at his own handwriting—messy scribbles that never compared to her delicate script—and felt the knot in his stomach tighten back up. "He calls her a name, as well, this time in Mycenaean Greek. Though, we've tried our hardest to translate it, but we can't get an exact match. The closest we've come is Eros, which—it would make sense to compare a lover to cupid, no?—but the match isn't perfect. It's actually been torturing me, a little,"

He didn't mean to, but seeing the letter had made Druig's attention drift. Eris. That's what the letter said. He'd called her Eris in Mycenaean Greek. A shortening of her real name, Eridis, that only he would ever use, in a language that would confuse any regular person. They always exchanged letters in this way. It was something they had developed over the years back then—all part of their dance—to ensure that prying eyes would not soon decode their letters. Evidently, it had worked. Even she, herself, could not decode their letters any longer. The memory of their secret language had gone, along with all the other memories.

She'd remembered him fully, once. Her memories were a thing that came back with time, as he had come to learn. All they needed was enough time—time that life had not yet awarded them.

"Sorry, I feel like I'm boring you with this," Eris—no, Ella—said, shaking Druig from his thoughts. "I can go on about these forever. Like I said, though, I feel I'm the only one who's interested in them."

"Oh, no—no not at all," Druig shook his head as he looked right at her. "I'm not bored, at all. There's nobody I'd rather hear these kinds of stories from."

Yet again her eyebrows raised with something curious, and it seemed to take her a moment before she settled on the thought that he must be referring to her status as museum curator. Evidently, he was not, but she might be better off thinking he was.

"Thank you. I do actually have to get going," She told him after a few silent moments. Druig feared he'd once again scared her off in some way, but when he looked at her she seemed genuinely disappointed with the fact that she had to leave. "I have a painting that needs to be looked at."

Druig nodded, because there was nothing else he could do.

"I won't keep you," He tried, and it made her smile.

"I wish you would."

It was a perfect answer. Perfectly her.

"Maybe we'll see each other around, later," Druig offered.

"Maybe," She agreed. "Hopefully."

"Hopefully."

She was the first to turn around, to continue her way to her original destination, leaving Druig behind to watch her disappear. A familiar act. It was only when she had completely vanished from sight that he turned back to the letters, to read them over once again. He wasn't entirely sure why he felt the need to do these kinds of things; to re-read their old letters, to replay old memories. He knew them all too well. He could never seem to forget, even in those few moments when he had so desperately tried to. Still, he read them again, perhaps if only to chase the feeling of being completely loved by her.

Dream thief. She'd called him that often, among variations. It was her way of scolding him for causing her restless nights. She had lost sleep worrying over him, and lost even more sleep over the memories that had come back to her over time. That reincarnation—back in the eighteenth century—had lasted longer than any of the other ones. It was a time when Druig felt he'd truly gotten his girl back. Of course, it didn't take long for that joy to be taken, as it always would be.

It was how things always went.

Druig would find her, or she would find him. Sometimes on purpose, but often by accident. They were fated that way. However it started, though, it would always end the same. She would always meet a terrible death, and Druig would always have to leave her behind.

Though Druig would never give up hope. He would never give up on Eridis—his Eridis—no matter what. He had loved her for lifetimes already, and he would love her for lifetimes more.

---

taglist; @kendelias @chlobenet @butcherofblackwater @bravelittleflower @lukespatterson @lizziesxltzmxn @wokenhardies @delicateblackrose @eddysocs @heavenlysurf @ocfairygodmother @phoebestarks @villanele @nolanhollogay @stanshollaand @lovehermioneforever @camiemendes @raith-way @kiara-carrera @hiddenqveendom @decennia @luucypevensie @hughstheforcelou @jinxsflame @aaudace

#ocappreciation #ochub #druig x oc #fyeahmarvelocs #ch: eris #ch: eridis #my writing #repurposing my lil gif too bc i havent had time to make new gifs lately #if that readmore doesnt work im going to delete this post dfdghf

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et-dah · 4 years

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The Demon Brothers: Creative Outlets Headcanons

they are all immortals and when you've lived longer than you can remember, you're bound to find a creative outlet to destress, alleviate boredom, or you know, to just have fun!

Lucifer

He’s a busy demon. If he’s not working, he's sleeping, or cleaning up one of his brother’s messes, so he doesn't have that much time to just relax and explore his creative sides.

That said though, it doesn’t mean he has no hobbies at all.

He plays the piano. He used to play it every morning, back when he’s still in the Celestial Realm, when he’d taught Lilith how to play the piano every morning and she’d sat besides him as his fingers moved across the keys slower so she could copy him.

Nowadays, playing the piano feels very nostalgic and bittersweet, but you’ll hear soft, bittersweet melodies drift from the music room once in a while.

He also composes his own music, but that's an even rarer occurrence. The last time he created a new music piece was centuries ago.

(Ever since MC came to Devildom though, he's been itching to write music for them.)

Practices calligraphy for fun. He has a whole set of brushes and ink and lettering pens. His handwriting is already beautiful but his calligraphy is even more amazing.

Another thing he does is gardening. He's got a great eye for landscape architecture, he's the reason why the house's backyard is pretty.

He plants decorative plants and likes to cross breed flowers so the House of Lamentation's backyard is full of pretty shrubs and unfamiliar flowers.

He is usually joined by Beel as he is the other brother that finds gardening very relaxing.

Mammon

He definitely shows his creativity by coming up with the most absurdly brilliant, out-of-the-box, original schemes to make money.

Mammon can draw, like really good. His drawings are very realistic. He prefers to use traditional media: charcoal pencils, graphite sticks, blenders, erasers, drawing pens, brushes, and maybe some watercolors.

He usually does architecture sketches.

But if you check his drawers, you’ll find several sketchbooks of his brothers in different candid poses. MC alone has taken up three whole sketchbooks. Mammon makes sure MC doesn’t see those sketches though.

Crashes Asmo’s Art Day regularly, claiming that if Levi’s invited then the Great Mammon should be too. Asmo and Levi always complains but they let him stay anyway.

Mammon also has a natural talent on jewelry making and metalwork. He makes jewelry from buttons, beads, pearls, diamonds, and crystals. From small pendants to elaborate neckpieces, simple anklets to ornate hairpins.

Mammon has made metal bookmarks for Satan because the book lover always misplaces his bookmarks or destroys them in fits of rage when he doesn't like a book's ending.

He sculpts wood. It takes him months to finish one small piece because he only does it when he's really, really bored, he prefers to make his much more profitable jewelry.

He keeps all of his sculptures in his room, small and detailed pieces of wood engraving of Devildom native animals lining up on one of the shelves.

Leviathan

This is canon but he draws! He doesn't think he's very good at it, but he really enjoys it.

Unlike Mammon who likes to draw with his charcoal pencils and drawing pens, Levi prefers to draw digitally. He still switch to traditional media now and then though.

Has a monthly scheduled “Art Day” where he and Asmo hang out together, Levi draws with his sketchbook or his drawing tablet and Asmo paints. They basically just gossip and hype each other’s art.

Dabbles in making short animations but feels like it’s just not something for him. He makes short comics though.

He wants to be able to make his own video game someday though. Maybe after he learns programming.

He makes the most detailed cosplay outfits for his own cosplays. He sews really good and patches his brothers clothes when they ask. Where do you think Asmo learns how to sew his own clothes from?

Really good at dancing and he really likes it too. He's a natural at it. From the most intricate traditional Devildom dances to freestyle dancing. He can make new moves on the spot and can copy any moves from one look.

He’s a shy baby though, you’ll rarely see him dance when he’s sober.

Except when he’s playing DDR (Demons Dance Revolution). Then, it’s like he’s the most confident demon in Devildom.

Satan

Satan writes poetry when inspiration strikes him. He has also written short stories but he always comes back to creating beautiful poems. He’s got a way with words.

Photography is something he has only recently taken interest in but he has a great eye for taking breathtaking shots.

Has become the family’s go-to photographer.

“Satan, take a picture of me and Mammon!” “Satan, take our picture, quick!” “Satan, help me get a picture for my Devilgram!”

He’s the reason Asmo’s Devilgram pictures always look like they’re taken professionally in a photo studio or something.

Satan loves art, likes to stroll through museums and stare at paintings for hours, but has little talent in creating them. Even so, he still likes to paint even if he's not good at it.

Sometimes he just wants to slap paint on a canvas and make a colorful mess. It's fun.

He joins Art Day every other month.

Another thing he does is knitting! It relaxes him. It gives him something to focus at when he's angry (um, angrier than usual), just to give his hands something to do that doesn't involve breaking anything. The simple patterns he makes are easy enough that they don't frustrate him.

Rarely ever finishes his knitting though, you'll just find this 5 meters long knitted fabric in one corner of his room with the ends coming undone because he calms himself down enough to stop knitting.

Asmodeus

Regularly designs, cut, and sew his own clothes.

Has a lot of sketchbooks full of drawings of flowy dresses and stylish coats and many aesthetically pleasing shirts.

He has started his own clothing line and sometimes collaborate with Majolish.

But for the most part, he designs clothes for himself and himself only, he doesn't want anyone else to wear clothes as fabolous as his.

Nail art? Nail art.

Asmo paints all of the brothers nails and sometimes he'll persuade one of them to let him do a complete manicure, with glitter polish and shiny studs and all.

Yes, even Lucifer. You just never see the results because Lucifer wears his gloves almost all the time.

Asmo creates beautiful makeup art. He doesn't really like a lot of makeup on his own face though, so his brothers' faces are his canvases.

He also has a great eye for interior decorating and flower arranging. He restyles his room every month.

Not many people know it but he paints. And he's very good at it. He has done a painting of each brother, the paintings can be seen on the walls of the House of Lamentation's hallways.

Art Day with Levi (and sometimes Satan or Belphie) is spent with him in front of canvases, chatting with his brothers, paint splatters on his hands. It's the only day that he doesn't mind looking a little messy.

Beelzebub

He cooks, of course! And bakes too!

It's one of the times he’s willing to wait to eat because cooking the ingredients first rather than just straight up eating them will make the foods taste better.

Half of the food in the kitchen are his creations. Anything he can make on his own from scratch, he will; jams, ice cream, sauces, juices, bread, chips, etc.

Likes to experiment and always do something different than the original recipes.

He garnishes his cooking like it’s something you order from a five star restaurant.

Beel is another demon who has a green thumb. He likes taking care of plants and doesn't mind getting a bit dirty doing it so gardening is another hobby of his.

If Lucifer plants ornamental plants, Beel grows useful plants like herbs and vegetables and small fruits. He's also good at topiary.

Always has an idea for a DIY project.

His creations is scattered all over the House of Lamentation. Belphie's drawer divider is made out of yogurt cups. Broken drawer knobs recycled into Asmo's jewelry organizer. The coat rack. The bathroom towel holder.

Even Lucifer's hanging Demonus rack is handmade by Beel when he's bored one weekend, with Mammon's help for the engraving decorations along the sides of the rack. Beel's got a bit of Bob the Builder in him.

He is very good at singing. His voice is clear and he has a broad vocal range. Has been caught unconsciously humming in class many times.

Has definitely sang Belphie to sleep.

Belphegor

Does his pranks counts as a creative outlet though?😂 Between him and Satan, Belphie's ideas are the most creative and out of the box, resulting on some of the best pranks they did.

Belphie does origami. It's relaxing, easy enough to learn, and doesn't take much effort and energy to do it.

Has stacks of origami papers in his room: standard origami paper, foil paper, traditional Washi ones, the leather-like Momigami paper, all kinds of paper.

He especially loves to make little origami stars and keeps them in glass jars in his room.

Belphie also has adult coloring books.

And kids coloring books.

Coloring is relaxing to him. It's very calming to just lay down and fills a page with pretty colors for a while. It's not a tiring way to destress, he can color without moving from his bed, and it feels satisfying when he finishes a whole page.

He sometimes joins Art Day if he's not too lazy to move. Still prefers to color alone where it's quiet though.

He also journals. It's another thing he can do that is inexpensive and not energy consuming. He writes about anything that comes to his mind, his thoughts, his ideas, memories.

Definitely keeps a dream journal.

Also I headcanon that as the Avatar of Sloth, sleep and dreams are some of the things he can manipulate. He enjoys creating dreams; the worldbuilding, the story, the details. He can be really creative when it comes to making them, spinning the most vivid and imaginative dreams.

They’re not necessarily good dreams though. After all, he is still a demon, his dreams will most likely mess up your mind than make you smile in your sleep.

#obey me #obey me swd #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #rol writes

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ja-khajay · 3 years

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Stuff I read (and liked) this year

As promised, here’s a list of the novels, comics, manga, etc... I read this year, focusing on the ones I enjoyed and would recommend to people. Under a cut, this is going to be a little long.

-------- Books --------

Favorite book of the year: Stranger in the Woods, by Michael Finkel

Non-fiction. Based on the interviews of the man himself by the author, it is about a man who felt so unfit for society he decided one day to leave it, and spent the next 28 years as a hidden hermit in forest in Maine. The book details how he survived there, how he was eventually found, and some of his reasons for doing so. It’s a great reflection on the nature of loneliness.

Indian creek, by Pete Fromm

...Yet another detailed tale of living alone in the woods. This time, the diary of a student who spent a winter in the mountains to help tend for salmon hatchlings, and how he spent the rest of his days hiking, hunting, meeting the locals. It’s a fun little book who, being set almost the whole world away from where I live, was a nice way to travel.

Howl’s Moving Castle, by Diana Wynne Jones

I don’t feel the need to explain this one since everyone and their mom has seen the movie adapted from it. The book, that I first read a decade ago before I actually watched the film, is a less romantized, more spirited telling of the same story. The writing is absolutely delightful and so is the world it paints, and it’s the first time in ages a book had me laughing out loud during my entire read.

-------- Comics (BD) --------

Favorite comic of the year: Monsieur Désire?, by Hubert and Virginie Augustin

A discreet young woman becomes a maid for a decadent, unbearable, byronesque young lord. Caked in the rigid and oppressive social hierarchy of the victorian era, you follow a mental and verbal joust between the two, as the lord tries his best to offend and corrupt his new unrelenting servant, to little success. The writing and especially the dialogues were stellar, drawing me into the tense atmosphere, watching this trainwreck of a character flamboyantly destroy himself. While there’s no precise content warnings that I can give, this is a mature and heavy story.

World of Edena, by Moebius

Anyone who’s followed this blog for over a month knows how much of a Moebius fan I am. Edena combines the vague, dreamlike, wordless storytelling from stuff like Arzach or The cat’s eyes with an actual plot. While I haven’t completly finished the story, the evolution of the main characters and how the story is told have been great to read through, and as always the art is beyond gorgeous. Unfortunately suffers from some good old sexism in the writing that even if minimal, tasted sour

Le roman de Renart, by Joan Sfar (book 1)

Sfar’s work always has a signature vibe of being dreamy and light without being light hearted, of being down to earth but drifting in the fantastical, and this one is no exception. It’s an adaption of a series of medieval folk tales I grew up with, who uses the same characters to tell an original story. If you’re familiar with icons like Renart as well as other mythological big boys like Merlin you’ll fit right in. There is something special in how the dialogues are written, who feel natural in a way that you’d overhear in a street corner and is very special to me.

The mercenary, by VIncente Segrelles

Another one I post about a lot on this blog. The mercenary is a king on the throne of fantasy cheese. The worldbuilding is interesting at times but the writing is a pretty pathetic display of glorious old time sword and sorcery sci-fantasy 10 years too late for it’s prime (warning for ye old sexism and orientalism that plagues the genre, cranked very high...) but you come and stay for the art. The entire thing is drawn in a series of hyper detailed oil paintings with an insane eye for technical detail, from the engineering of the weaponry, to the architecture and weather, to the anatomy of the fantasy creatures... Each panel stands out as it’s own painting which makes even flipping through it without reading the scenario a treat. Click here to see more of the art, in my Segrelles tag.

The ice maurauder, by Jacques Tardi

A short story about mad scientists entirely drawn like a 19th century engraving. In great Tardi tradition everyone is ugly and mean, it ends terribly, it’s both a hommage to the genre of late 19th cent. to early 1900s dramatic adventure novels and a critical eye on it, and it’s morbidly funny. Most people I saw online hated the way this was written but I’m not them and I really recommend this book. Die mad

-------- Manga --------

Favorite manga of the year: it’s a tie between the following two.

Cats of the Louvre, by Taiyo Matsumoto

Most wonderful comic I have read in ages. The story follows a bunch of semi-feral cats secretly living in the Louvre museum’s attic, and the small group of humans who share their life, walking through the museum as the night watch. When the cats are together, they are represented in a humanoid way, but still act like animals, and “become” cats again when a human is nearby. The plot is a sort of supernatural mystery centered around a kitten who walks around paintings. It’s a love letter to art, sincere and beautiful, with a unique art style and great characters.

Memoirs of amorous Gentlemen, by Moyoco Anno

A sex worker in early 20th century paris starts writing down a diary of the clients she meets, in a quest to cope with the troubles of her life. You follow her, her colleagues, and her bittersweet relationship with an abusive lover. I don’t have much words about this comic, but the art and writing both are amazing, it’s the perfect length and drew me in like little series had before. Obvious content warnings as this is an adult story that talks about sexuality, but also depicts both mental and physical abuse.

Hana, also by Taiyo Matsumoto

A very short story, this was not made to be read as a comic originally, but served as storyboarding and visual development for a play, and the way it is written follows that. Hana is a slice of life story set in a fantasy world, of a young boy, his family, his village. Despite the setting being an original one, the character interactions are refreshingly... normal, and there is no huge plot to speak of, just a bit of the life of these characters. The art is beautiful, entirely black and white, with a scratchy style and an emphasis on contrast. Matsumoto is on a speedy road to becoming my favorite manga artist haha

Delicious in Dungeon, by Ryoko Kui

While not marked as my year’s favorite, I still consider this series among my favorite manga ever. The art and writing are amazing, and it’s both heartfelt, well concieved and plain hilarious. The story follows several parties of dungeon diving adventurers each on their little quests with a premise of our protagonists, on a panic rescue mission, surviving in the dungeon by cooking and eating the monsters they come across. From a DnD party turned cooking manual dinner of the week beginning, the plot creeps up on you and slowly thickens. I don’t want to spoil anything about the overarching story of this because it was a delight to discover for myself. While everything about DinD rules, I am especially fond of the design philosophy of the author, who puts great detail in the practicality and biology of what she draws, as well as the character writing. Everyone even side characters has so much charm and depth to them, the cast is so diverse and entertaining...! Each character is just a bit lame enough but endearing, and has their own little backstory that shows in the way they exist. It’s a delight

Chainsaw man, by Tatsuki Fujimoto

I went into CSM expecting a borderline campy hyperviolent dumb fun thing to read and was very surprised to find an uncomfortably well written story about a teenager being groomed. The hyperviolent dumb fun fights are here nonetheless and the series still qualifies as shonen for some reason, but the more mature character writing as well as some truly outlandish visuals make it something very special. If you can’t stand shonen, not sure you will like it, but if you don’t mind it, worth trying.

Witch hat atelier, by Kamome Shirahama

The oh so elegant fantasy seinen every cool kid started posting about this year, who I also succumbed to and fast. Witch hat is hard to explain, as most of it’s plot revolves around the rules of the world it’s set in, specifically the regulations around it’s magic and the social and historical reasons for them. It’s about growing up, learning, disability, making art. You follow a little girl taken in by a witch as an apprentice, her magical education, and learn little by little why her lovely teacher is so willing to break a lot of rules... While a bit too gentle and pretty for my taste at times, Witch hat has great worldbuilding and explores sensitive themes I rarely see in manga, much less in fantasy. And Berserk wishes it had art this good

#j #long post

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serenityseventeen · 3 years

Text

Love & Letter: To The Thirteen Boys I've Loved Before

The Eighth Letter

----------------

To: Xu Minghao

From: Y/N

Dear Minghao,

I just want to thank you for being my friend despite my awkward confession, even if this current friendship might not last long. Actually, I don't think it will.

I'll be honest here since I didn't tell you this yet.

I spent a few years away from love. My high school years had so many different love stories and none of them exactly had a happy ending. They were all bittersweet endings and even the love story with you is a bit bittersweet.

I guess I misinterpreted your actions. I'm not mad or extremely sad that you rejected me, I feel like that put me in my place. Now that I think about it, maybe we weren't meant to be lovers. So, I don't want to drift away from you just because you rejected my confession. I'm not going to love you like that anymore, I want to keep you as a true friend.

I hope you won't feel awkward around me. I can already feel the awkward air but I wish for it to fade quickly. Let's not stop being friends. I'll stop loving you though. I hope you won't think of me differently now that I've confessed. I feel like you would pretend that it's fine but inside, the awkwardness only grows.

As I'm writing this letter, the fate of us is still being determined. Even I don't know what we are going to become. If the ending for us is unhappy and we decide to stop being friends... Well, I would blame myself for it. I would be losing a friend that I adored.

MinghaoI won't ever talk about my confession again so I'm writing this.

, you're a really attractive guy. I'm sure that anyone would fall for you if they got to know you. You're fashionable, fun, kind, warm-hearted, and also a great therapist, haha. You give me the best advice and always listen to my problems whenever I need to let them out. You always encourage me to speak up.

Remember that one time when I was getting yelled at by the professor over a misunderstanding? I was just standing there like a complete idiot, listening to the professor's words of criticism when you stood up and said, “Professor, it wasn't Y/N's fault. If you looked closely, you would have seen that the dress already had holes in it from the beginning. It was a part of the design. As a fashion professor, how could you overlook that?”

Your expression was so serious and you completely cornered the professor. I feel kind of bad talking about the professor like this but I just want to praise you. The professor apologized after class but I knew he was unwilling to admit his mistake.

When you stood up for me for the first time, you left such an admirable first impression. I wanted to get to know you immediately! You were so cool speaking straightforwardly like that and not hesitantly speaking your mind and standing up for me. I still admire you.

Minghao, honestly, I don't think we'll be okay.

The words still kind of hurt me. Whenever I see you, I think back on those words you said to me.

Since I was just a friend that confessed, I don't think you would remember your response to my confession, so let me remind you; not in a bad way. Since this is a keepsake letter, I just want to remind myself.

I think you and I were in front of an art museum together. You invited me along that bright, sunny morning, and of course, after realizing my feelings, I couldn't deny your offer. I was excited.

I'm sure you'll never know my side of the story so I'll tell you everything that happened that day and why it leaves a small scar in my chest. I'm not blaming you for it, I'm blaming myself. Minghao, it's all my fault.

Honestly, I was too expectant. Gosh... I was way too ahead of myself that day. Our friendly hangout in my head was a date.

After you invited me and told me that you'd come to pick me up in 30 minutes, I rolled out of my college dormitory bed and rushed everything. I did my hair, makeup, and tried to dress prettily for you.

I did my best in that short amount of time but the only thing you complimented was my outfit. Sure, I was happy, but also disappointed. I was bummed because I didn't even have a chance to breathe, meanwhile, you were looking as fashionable as ever with almost no effort.

The museum was fun. I always had a knack for art so everything was admirable and lovely. What made it better was that I was able to spend that time with you. We shared our thoughts with each other but to me, you looked way too serious. I should have gotten the hint then that you didn't feel the same way about me as I did toward you.

Suddenly, this lump started forming on my chest and I just felt like I should get it off. I didn't want to hold back anymore so after walking around the art museum, the words just slipped out of my mouth.

Then you went silent while staring at me.

“I'm sorry.”

I said it was fine then because I thought I was really fine with the rejection. But just a bit after, I realized that I couldn't ride in the same car as you. I wouldn't be able to. Everything came flooding back into my brain, the memories of us that I thought were memorable. That's why I told you to leave first. I'm sure you knew that we both were uncomfortable.

After you left, I just sort of... reminisced our sweet moments that seemed romantic enough to make us more than friends. I did that while taking a walk.

I especially remembered the days when we went shopping, worked together after courses and talked about our days. Even these things that seem so small held so many memorable things to me, including moments that made my heart pound and race.

Since you rejected me, friend-zoning me, I can only conclude that you don't like me back, thus the conclusion that these moments meant nothing more than acts of kindness.

Minghao, you shouldn't be so kind, or else people would misunderstand you, like me. Why must you be so attractive? You're masculine but at the same time, you can become so soft and cute and caring.

Anyway, at this point, you've probably lost interest in reading this letter (if you ever read it). I hope you'll trudge on though as I keep going forward with the reminiscing. I know that you like reading, Minghao.

So, when we went to the bookstore, there was something memorable that happened to me there.

Yes, it made my heart pound too.

Yes, it made me fall harder for you.

I was really sleepy that day. All the college work piling up only made me more stressed and I was so tired. You didn't know that I was, did you?

I ended up falling asleep at a table while you were choosing books.

When I woke up, I saw your face. It wasn't upside down, you were sitting next to me, with your head lying against the table, facing me. It's still a question to me why you did that when you could have just woken me up or sat somewhere else, but well, you rejected me.

You and I just stared at each other. I was wondering then, what were you thinking?

At that time, I didn't know how you felt about me, so every little thing was hope. Your face was so close to mine and our bodies were against each other slightly. I was able to feel your warm breath.

“Are you wide awake now?” You asked.

Minghao, when you asked that, I honestly got the feeling that you were nervous because you quickly got up and removed the book you have placed under my head while I was sleeping.

You? Nervous? I guess I was wrong.

Even now, I feel a bit hopeful that maybe sometimes, I did make your heart race, but that's all just false hope.

We went clothes shopping around a month ago.

You wanted to get some new hats and I tagged along because we were friends. While picking hats, we were talking about normal stuff that we always talk about, so I was busy with that conversation. I was talking to you while looking at hats and then suddenly, I felt a hat plop down on my head.

When I turned around, I nearly bumped into your chest. Your hand was still on my head, where the hat was placed. I was so nervous and my whole body was burning up, you know that?

After that, you had to attack again with your soft giggles and smile, making me completely melt.

Then, you took off the hat and patted my head and ruffed my hair, then continued the conversation as if you didn't just do that to me. Of course, you probably never knew how I felt.

This is the last one, I promise.

I picked this one carefully.

That day after courses. It was a rainy afternoon and we were together at the library, studying and working together.

It was getting dark but we didn't expect the rain so we didn't take umbrellas with us. We ended up staying at the library for hours, just talking.

That was the important, special part of this memory.

We talked a lot and I was happy. You made a lot of jokes and I learned a lot more about you. You also smiled a lot. I was just really happy to be around you, talking about your life and mine.

I don't know why this one is the most memorable for me. I just always, constantly, remember the scene of us sitting at a table in the library, talking to each other beside a window painted with raindrops.

I don't know if you felt it but to me, it seemed more like we were flirting.

Minghao, now that I've reached the near end of this letter, I think I've decided the future for us.

Let's not stay friends. I don't want to fall for you. I don't want to love you. Being your friend would only make it worse for both of us since you didn't feel the same way.

You asking me to your b-boy competitions, you asking me to look at your art projects, it was all just normal things that friends would do but I overreacted.

It's all my fault and I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry and I know that I can't fix our friendship. I was such a fool.

Minghao, I hope you can find a better friend than me; A friend that doesn't misunderstand you, a friend that can love you without falling for you romantically, a friend that can be better than me.

My love stories always have a bittersweet ending so don't worry, you're not the only guy.

Thank you for being my friend for a year. I really appreciate it. You were a great buddy, fun, kind, serious, and caring.

I'm sorry for being this way.

I'm sorry for what I did, though I can't take back my confession.

I shouldn't have fallen in love, right?

Sincerely,

Y/N

-----------------

7/1/21 - 10:28 pm

a/n: Get well! Wishing our best leader a healthy recovery!!! + it's the month of July, which means... Wonwoo's bday (and my sister's). + Ending fairy Boo = iconic ><

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multifandomfanfiction · 3 years

Text

You Are My Sunshine Chapter 15

TITLE: You Are My Sunshine Chapter 15 PAIRING: Marcus/OC RATING: T CHAPTER: 15/? SUMMARY: The FBI is setting up a task force to deal with international art theft and they’re in need of an analyst. Willow Reid, younger sister of the BAU’s resident genius, applies for the job and gets it. She and her new boss, Agent Marcus Pike, get off on the wrong foot due to her overly friendly personality. What will the BAU do when they realize that he’s taken their sunshine away?

[A/N - Welcome to the final chapter of “You Are My Sunshine”. There will be an epilogue and a few follow up one-shots to cover things I didn’t cover in this story.]

Despite Marcus trying to convince her otherwise, Willow put in her letter of resignation, effective immediately.

She packed up her office and drove back to her apartment. Once she was alone, she sat there wondering if she’d made the right choice. She picked up her phone and called the museum’s curator.

“Hello?”

“It’s Willow Reid. When does the new exhibit open?”

“In about two weeks.”

“I’ll take the job.”

“Oh, this is great news! We can’t wait to exhibit a new up and coming artist. Do you know what piece you’ll be submitting?”

“Probably that one we talked about.”

“I can’t wait to see a finished version.”

“I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity. This is like a dream come true.”

“The thanks are all mine. We can’t wait to see you when the piece is done!”

Willow hung up and grabbed a piece of canvas to start working. Around 5 o’clock, there was a knock at her door.

Marcus stood there with a bag of takeout. “Look like you’ve been busy.”

There was paint smudged on Willow’s hands and face. “Let me clean up,” Willow told him.

“Come here.”

Willow looked at him confused until Marcus grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. Willow wrapped her arms around his neck, careful to keep her hands away from his hair and his suit jacket. Willow was already happier, Marcus could tell.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

About a week before the gallery opened, Willow drove her and Marcus to the museum.

“You have to keep this a secret,” she made him promise.

“Babe, I’m an FBI agent. I think I can keep a secret.”

They went inside and Willow put her hands over Marcus’ eyes as led him to the gallery.

“Willow! I can walk without…”

“Shhh!”

They finally came to a stop in front of the piece, and she pulled her hands off his eyes. “No looking yet!”

“I’m not,” Marcus reassured her.

She made sure everything looked perfect before telling him to open his eyes.

He did and he saw his eyes looking back at him.

“What is this?” Marcus asked.

“This is my piece for the new exhibition.”

The piece was called “Brown Eyes.”

“It’s…they’re…”

“Yours. That day you found me sketching in my office, this is what I was working on.”

“Is this what you were working on when I came over the other night?”

“Of course. Why do you think I kept you out of the bedroom?”

Normally, they would have stumbled to the bed but they ended up tangled up on the couch. The sexual aspect to their relationship was relatively new.

“Do you like it?” Willow asked him.

Marcus turned to her and placed a soft kiss on her lips. “I love it, sweetheart.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The gallery opening was a week later.

Willow had invited the whole BAU, some of her former co-workers from White Collar Crimes and the Art Theft Department.

“Our little Sunshine is all grown up now!” Penelope said, throwing her arms around Willow.

Rossi hugged her next and kissed her cheeks. “Congratulations, Principessa.”

She looked around, but didn’t see Spencer. She tried to not let it bother her.

“He’ll be here,” Prentiss reassured her.

Willow wandered around for a while, looking at the other paintings and sculptures. She finally spotted Spencer walking in.

He was dressed like he’d come from work, but his curls were slicked back and he held a small flower in his hand.

Willow walked over Spencer. “Hey, you came.”

“Of course I came, Willy.”

Willow smiled, hearing the old nickname.

“I…I’m sorry for the things I said. They were uncalled for and I know that. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me.”

“I forgave you months ago, Spence.”

He took the flower in his hand and braided it into her hair like he used to when they were younger.

“I’m really glad you came.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Willow.”

The siblings hugged. It would take a while to get back to where they were, but they were okay for now.

“Can I steal her?” Marcus asked, walking up.

Willow kissed her brother’s cheek and followed Marcus outside.

Marcus stared out across the city.

“Marcus, what is it?” Willow asked him. She could tell he wanted to say something but was holding back. Willow put her hand on his cheek and turned his head towards her.

“Marry me.”

Willow’s breath hitched. “Wha…what?”

Marcus cupped her face in his hands. “Will you, Willow Reid, marry me? I know we’ve only known each other a year, but I fall in love with you more and more every day. If you don’t want to get married right away, we can wait. I’d wait forever for you.”

“Yes.”

Marcus’ brows furrowed. “Was that yes to marrying me? Waiting? Or getting married right away?”

“Yes.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question…”

Willow grabbed the back of Marcus’ neck and kissed him. “Yes.”

Taglist: @bxnnywriting @sugarontherims @anotherr-fine-mess @221bshrlocked

#marcus pike #marcus/oc #marcus pike imagines #mentalist #mentalist imagines #mentalist x criminal minds #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds imagines #spencer reid #dr. spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagines #dr. spencer reid imagines #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal imagine

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fiddlepickdouglas · 3 years

Text

Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 10 - Clean This Up

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, who is he really?, 2.9k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

WARNINGS: abuse, mild violence

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

Alex had said to check the diner, so Victoria opted to have dinner there and asked to see the owner. She was aware of the vigilante-style work she was doing, but with everything else going on in her life, this couldn’t possibly hurt any worse. Folding her hands, she breathed calmly as she peeked at the menu. It was important not to act as authoritative as she usually did, she reminded herself. A portly man with short gray hair and a mustache came over and took the seat across from her.

“Hi there,” the man said, shaking Victoria’s hand. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, I’m Victoria Molina,” she introduced herself. “I was actually trying to find someone and I was told you could help me.”

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh, alright. Who are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for a young man of about seventeen, he goes by Willie? I was told he works here. I just have some questions for him. Would he happen to be in at all today?”

“We don’t have anyone named Willie here anymore,” the man told her. “I actually just bought this establishment along with the hotel about two weeks ago and a few of the staff followed the previous owner to a different business. You might want to talk to him instead.”

“Oh,” Victoria sat back in slight disappointment. “I take it you’re not Caleb Covington?”

“No, he’s the guy I bought it from. I’m Frank Wolfe. I can give you his contact information, though.”

Nodding, she smiled politely.

“I would appreciate that. Sorry I had to come bother you, though.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I apologize that I can’t be any more useful. If you like, I can take your order.”

“Oh, thank you. I’ll actually have the carne asada.”

“Perfect,” he smiled as he took her menu away. “I’ll have that information for you in just a minute, too.”

Taking a gulp of water, Victoria sighed. It certainly felt just like any regular case. The fact the business had recently changed hands made her want to be suspicious, but she fought to remain level-headed. It was enough that she was going off the word of a teenage boy and an old poster. If it was a dud, if this trip led nowhere, she would buy Carlos a gift and head home safe and sound.

After finishing her meal, she returned to her hotel room and pulled out the business card Frank Wolfe had given her. Something about the dark purple design and the old-fashioned lettering he’d chosen made her feel like Caleb Covington was at least a little pretentious, if not flashy about his business. Picking up the phone and dialing the number, she held her breath waiting for an answer.

“Caleb Covington, who may I be speaking to?” a baritone voice chimed on the other end. The touch of sing-song in his tone was unexpected.

“Hi, my name is Victoria,” she introduced herself for the second time that night. “I was told you were the guardian of a young man named Willie?”

“Are you with social services?” he asked.

She furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry?”

“I usually only get a call when we have a hearing scheduled, but our last one was just a couple months ago.” His tone had gone from happy to serious at such a jarring speed it took Victoria a moment to process his words.

“No,” she said finally. “No, I’m not with them. I didn’t mean to confuse you. I’m actually reaching out on a personal favor. See another young man I know says they met a while back.”

“Oh, is it the band that came through a few weeks ago?” Caleb immediately picked the cheer back up.

“Yes, I’m glad you remember,” she responded, surprised.

“How are those boys doing?”

“Oh, they’re just fine. I think they’re gonna be a success.”

“Good to hear it,” he said. “Listen, no harm done. I own a swanky little club just in the south of town. I would be delighted if you gave me a visit, and I’d be happy to chat.”

“Sounds great, thank you,” Victoria smiled, unable to believe how easy that felt. “I can stop by tomorrow evening.”

“Wonderful. If it isn’t too much, I’ll make you a reservation.”

“Well, I can’t say no to such generosity!” It had been a long time since Victoria had gone on a night out. This was a much needed vacation, and if it killed two birds with one stone, all the better. She said goodbye and decided since she was practically getting everything she needed at the club, the rest of the day would be spent treating herself for once.

Willie skateboarded up the driveway and only just remembered Caleb’s rule about the pool in time to hop off before pulling off his helmet and going around the back. He took the back route into the house and dropped a number of grocery bags on the counter. One of these days he would age out of the foster system and not spend the morning being Caleb’s errand boy, but for now he just laid Caleb’s credit card on the table and went outside toward his shed.

Opening the door, he saw Caleb standing in the middle of the room, looking around at all of his drawings. Paper covered most of the walls now. Faces with no names to them, locations with no map to their destination - only snippets of a past life. Willie couldn’t stop drawing them. There still weren’t many memories returning to him, but any detail was an important one. He hadn’t drawn this much in ages, since before he found Sheldon. The backwards dream had become a recurring one by now, and there was still very little that he understood about it. Still, he had so many scenes made out of it that he could almost recreate the dream in a very rough animation.

“Hi C-Caleb,” Willie stammered. This never happened. It made him immediately nervous.

“What a collection, William,” Caleb said, not exactly sounding like an awed patron in a museum. “I mean, the sheer volume of work that went into these is absolutely mind-blowing.”

A small pebble of pride rose in Willie’s chest.

“Really?.... Um, thank you.” He couldn’t suppress his smile.

Caleb held up a hand and looked down at his well-manicured nails, and then back up.

“I just don’t understand why I look so hostile in this one,” he said, pointing to the picture in question. “And that one. And all of these in this corner.” His gaze returned to Willie with unprecedented menace.

Willie immediately shrank away, his mouth gaping open.

“Well...I..they’re from a dream.”

“A dream?” Caleb repeated, not liking what he was hearing.

“Yeah, I think it was a memory.”

Willie watched the man straighten his posture, a calculating expression on his face.

“Are these all memories?” Caleb asked after a tense moment, casting his eyes about the room.

“I think so,” Willie said hesitantly.

Caleb lifted a hand and grabbed the bottom of one. It was the first one WIllie had done of his dad sitting inside the truck and smiling at him.

“Hm,” was all that he said for a second.

And then he tore it in half.

Willie made toward the picture in alarm, feeling a part of him inside being torn just the same, but was stopped as Caleb held a hand out.

“Ah ah,” he said. “What have I told you about becoming your own person regardless of the past?” He took a handful of another drawing and ripped that one too.

Ignoring what Caleb said, Willie lunged forward to try stopping him anyway. Caleb was faster, grabbing his shirt and tossing him backward into the wall. He couldn’t help but begin crying.

“But these are my memories, why would you - ” he sputtered, lost for words.

“Because, William,” Caleb continued loudly, pulling as many as he could off the wall and shredding them into smaller pieces. “Your history? The one full of loss and being shuffled here and there? That is all that awaits you. You know it’s the truth; that’s how you ended up here. I offer you the opportunity to become a new person, and I can’t allow you to spoil yourself with reminders. And besides, those little friends you not-so-secretly made a few weeks ago have started snooping around in my business, and I can’t have that.”

He didn’t even pick anything up, he just left paper strewn all over the floor and walked all over it. As he made for the last wall, Willie made one more attempt to overpower him. He leapt onto Caleb’s shoulders and tried to pull him back with all his weight. A fist landed in his eye and he slacked his grip. Caleb wrestled him onto the bed and held him down, a crazed look in his eye that Willie swore he’d never seen no matter how familiar it felt.

“I don’t understand, what do they have to do with it? Why can’t I have friends?”

“I’m doing this for your own good,” Caleb hissed at him. “You” - he reached up and touched the scar on Willie’s head with his finger - “You got a reboot and you know how many people are lucky enough for that? You should thank me. Unfortunately, you can’t have friends when they send someone asking me questions about that little past of yours. That’s just asking for trouble.”

All Willie could do was hold his eye and lay back as Caleb tore up the last of the drawings. Once he finished, Caleb patted himself off and made his way out the door.

“Clean this up,” he told Willie. “And don’t bother doing any more art.”

As the door shut behind him, Willie scrambled onto the floor to search for just one of the drawings. Shuffling through smudged pieces of paper, he saw a few tears drop onto his ruined work. Eventually, he held the picture of his father in two pieces in his hands. Sobbing, he tried to hold them together evenly, but Caleb’s work had made that hard to do. His only hope was to try drawing it again, but he was already terrified of what Caleb’s reaction to that would be if his first one had been this.

A piece of another drawing caught Willie’s eye from underneath. He recognized Caleb’s snarling face from the dream and was surprised at how well it captured what he’d just witnessed. His mind went back to the way he knew the look in Caleb’s eyes. Suddenly, the awful realization dawned on him: he finally understood the dream.

Victoria walked into the club that evening, glad she had taken the time to look and feel fresh. This place was clearly up to snuff and then some. A live band played with dancers scattered throughout, all in bright, sparkly, feathery getup. A tall man with neatly styled dark hair was mesmerizing the crowd as he sang, keeping the energy high. As she was led to a table, Victoria simply sat and watched, greatly impressed with the talent.

Once the man’s solo finished, he bowed, gestured at the band to play on without him, and exited the stage. To Victoria’s surprise, he took the seat directly across from her.

“Ms. Victoria, you look so lovely, how are we this evening?” he asked with a charming smile. “I’m Caleb Covington.”

“Are you kidding me?” she started. “That was you up there? You’re a man of many talents; I’m already dazzled.”

“Oh, well, I hope that remains a constant while you’re here,” he said. "But you came to ask me about some other things, what were they?”

“Yes, I had some questions about Willie.”

Willie sat outside the bodega, unwilling to move for a while. He felt like everything inside of him was empty, as if Caleb had possessed claws and dug everything out until he was left hollow. The many ideas that had risen in his mind in the past few hours were all too much, all at once. If he dared, was he sure he could handle everything that might come his way? Every time he’d heard that ridiculous speech about starting over, becoming his own, yada-yada, he hadn’t considered any of the options he was now contemplating.

He’d already done some things. Already bought some things. Now he got up to collect Sheldon and held him tightly as he nodded to Escobar, who saluted him back. The man had said he didn’t want a dramatic thank you. Stuffing the items he purchased in his bag, he kept a hold of Sheldon as he skated off into the darkness.

“So, you see, Willie isn’t missing. He was abandoned,” Caleb was saying to Victoria. “Poor thing has struggled to adjust. I’ve dealt with some handfuls in the past, but I really have been doing the most for him, and he’s been with me for more than three years. I think it’s really sweet of those boys to raise a concern, and I hate to be a dead end, but that’s the truth of it.”

Victoria sat, nodding in acceptance.

“That makes a lot of sense, Mr. Covington, thank you for providing that for me.”

“Oh, call me Caleb. We’re all friends in here.”

“Okay, then, Caleb,” she corrected. “What got you into foster care?”

He put a hand over his heart and a fond look came over him.

“The youth are just full of so much magic, and I hate to see that their parents have chosen to lay it to waste. I’m the one who takes some of the tougher cases so I can bring out the best in them. You see that young man over there, Dante?” Caleb pointed at one of the dancers. “Classic rebel when he was young. You wouldn’t even know, he’s turned into such a gentleman. There’s a few more here and there in the club. I call them my graduates.”

“Well, I will tell you,” Victoria said. “When I first talked to you on the phone I wasn’t expecting you to be so generous. But now I can see that it’s just how you are.”

Caleb shot her a playful smile.

“Victoria, no need to butter me up. I do have some tight business practices to keep up.”

Fluid poured over every inch of the shed. Willie had made sure it was more than enough to get things going. He’d made sure to get the essentials: food for himself and Sheldon, a few changes of clothes, and a stash of money he’d taken from the safe in Caleb’s bedroom. The man shouldn’t have given him the combination in the first place.

Stepping out of the shed he looked at it one last time. What a sad, lousy existence. Living to perform for this man who shut him up inside this little thing and he had actually called it home? The further he was into his plan, the bolder he began to feel. He remembered when he had missed getting into the Pearl and that feeling of wrongness that had made him so frustrated. This feeling he had right now? It was so right. It was so right it drowned out anything scary about this whole idea.

He looked back at where he had put Sheldon on a small leash and tied him along the fence around Caleb’s backyard. It was definitely a safe distance. Then Willie pulled a box of matches out of his pocket, lit one, and looked at the flame for a minute. He held it just over the threshold of the doorway so it would land inside. It was so weak, like he had been ever since his accident. But he knew it was going to become so powerful, and he desperately hoped that he could retain some of that power for himself.

“Clean this up, Caleb,” he said, and he let his fingers go.

Victoria had stayed just a little longer to enjoy more food and music before standing up and heading toward the door. Caleb saw her on her way out and made her stop for a moment.

“It’s been a lovely night, and I’m grateful for everything you told me,” she said to him.

“Well I’m glad you took the opportunity to see what I have here,” he replied. “If you’re ever in the city again, please stop by. We’re always partying and putting on the best show.”

“Oh, I most certainly will,” she said, smiling as she made her way outside.

Someone tapped on Caleb’s shoulder from behind. Wordlessly, he turned to see who it was and why it was important.

“Sir,” one of his servers said. “You have a phone call. It’s the fire department.”

“What?” Caleb spat as he went to pick it up.

Willie sped along on his board the best that he could with Sheldon in his arms. He carefully made it down the ramp onto the freeway, controlling his speed as well as he could. He could picture Caleb now, just getting back to his home, eyes wide as he came upon the blaze. It was a very strange feeling, but right now Willie chose to focus on his newfound freedom. The cost wasn’t the matter right now. Freedom was all that was going to take him and his cat as far as they could go. The destination for now was Los Angeles.

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #fanfic #jatp fanfic #willex #alive au #alex mercer #willie #luke patterson #reggie peters #bobby wilson #aunt victoria #caleb covington #tw abuse #tw mild violence #viva las vegas #clean this up #fiddlepickdouglas

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