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cuffmeinblack · 4 months

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A Man Of Ill Repute

Richard Jackdaw x f!reader

Summary: Richard has a reputation as quite the flirt; a scoundrel, even. But you can't deny your attraction to him, or the ways in which he surprises you.

4k words

A/n: What in the Bridgerton is this? Not intentional, but I love the thought of Richard being a complete flirt but actually never earning his scandalous reputation.

Period accurate underwear (?), definitely not period accurate sex.

Breakfast time was a somewhat boisterous affair; the gaggle of girls who crowded you now made for rather spirited company. The hour before lessons began was often filled by exchanging gossip, and today was no exception, though the appearance of the subject of much gossip himself had just entered the hall, only adding to the whispers.

Richard Jackdaw—charmer, layabout, devishly handsome despite his arrogance—was not just passing, but approaching your table. He walked with his hands behind his back, chest proud, strutting like a peacock, like he owned the place. No small wonder, when girls of all houses would swoon over his perfectly coiffed brunet locks and those lips to die for. Those lips had been on a fair few of your fellow students, no doubt, if the stories were to be believed.

Despite all this, you watched him in all his swaggering grace, wishing that you could drag your eyes away. Underneath that bluster you thought there might be something deeper worth exploring—or at least that’s what you had been thinking before he opened his mouth.

“Good morning, ladies. You look utterly divine this morning.” He let his dark eyes drift across the swathe of girls, eventually landing on you. As much as you wished you were immune to his charms, your gut twisted and warmth spread through your body to the very tips of your ears.

A few of your classmates giggled and batted their eyelashes whilst the other half rolled their eyes with distaste and returned to their breakfast. Richard blew an air kiss in your general direction and was off, probably to terrorise some other unsuspecting group of girls. Your cheeks were burning, and you suspected it had nothing to do with your cup of tea.

“What a rake, that Jackdaw!” your friend erupted as soon as he was out of ear shot.

“He is ever so handsome, though.”

“And ever so dim witted,” another added.

“He has a good mind for solving puzzles,” you interjected, idly spooning porridge into your bowl. The words had quite appeared from nowhere and earned you a few curious glances. Since when did you defend Richard Jackdaw?

“Yes, well, you still beat him at chess, did you not?” A fair eyebrow raised in your direction.

That you did, though it was a tough match and the Gryffindor provided ample distraction with his flirtatious gazes. Richard tended to float through life with not a care in the world, save for the riddles that perplexed most others. If it weren’t for his utter disinterest in typical scholarly pursuits, one might think him more suited to Ravenclaw house. He had an inquisitive mind when presented with the right interest.

“I don’t think he was very happy about it,” you said with a satisfied smile whilst stirring honey into your bowl, the amber liquid reminiscent of a certain rake’s eyes when they caught the light just so…

You shook that thought away.

Your presumption turned out to be accurate, however, when only a day later Richard approached you after your shared Charms lesson. Slightly ruffled from practicing weather charms (the gale he’d conjured had almost swept your professor clean off his feet), he caught up to you as you left the classroom bearing his signature charming smile.

“Jackdaw. What do you want?” you asked suspiciously.

“I'm offended you think I must want something in order to talk to you, darling.”

You halted just outside the doorway and rounded on him. “Am I wrong?”

“Well as it is…I wondered if you fancied a rematch? I've been turning our chess game over in my head, and I think I know how you bested me.”

“I bested you because I'm the better player, Jackdaw.”

His eyes glittered, amber and gold, captivated. His intense stare was unnerving in the best way. Was he trying to figure you out? Or was this simply another attempt at seduction?

“I'm afraid I have time booked in the music room to practice on the pianoforte,” you said, clutching your books tighter against your chest.

“Oh, you play? I knew there must be a reason why I find myself so drawn to you,” he purred.

“Yes, so I'm afraid our rematch will have to wait—”

“May I join you?”

The question caught you by surprise. There was no particular reason to say no; in fact the thought of spending more time with him wasn't entirely unpleasant.

“You want to listen to me play?” you asked, suddenly nervous.

“I thought I might accompany you. I play the violin. There are surely some sonatas that are suitable?”

Another surprising revelation.

“I…suppose so, yes.”

Barely ten minutes later you were settled in front of the pianoforte in the middle of the music room, with Richard quietly tuning his violin. The music you’d retrieved felt suddenly intimidating as you shuffled through the sheets. It was imperative you found the right piece, for this was another competition of sorts.

Something challenging, then.

“Any joy?” he asked, sauntering to your side to look over your shoulder, his hips swaying in your periphery. You licked your lips. From his vantage point he could no doubt see down your dress.

Rake.

“Sonata number eighteen in G major,” you replied primly. “You know it?”

“Who doesn’t know Mozart, my dear?”

You knew this piece well enough for your fingers to fly across the keys with little thought, muscle memory taking over. The notes on the manuscript before you held little interest compared to the man beside you. He played effortlessly, superbly. His fluid strokes were hypnotic, deft fingers stretching wide, flying across strings to create the most enchanting accompaniment to your own melody. His eyes were shut, lost to the music, giving you ample opportunity to watch him unashamedly.

There was something undeniably erotic about his performance; so enraptured he was with the sonata that every lilt came with a peak of his eyebrows, his lips parted as he moved and swayed along with the rhythm. He threw his all into his performance, and you could practically hear his heart thumping along with your own.

Fingers teased the strings, stroking with precision. The crescendo of the piece coincided with a lurch in your stomach, and his eyes flew open as his final vibrato rang out. A final chord, a slice of his bow and then the music ended; deathly silence filled the room. Your chest heaved as he held your gaze, breathless. You knew then that he felt the same agonising tension, the same magnetic pull.

He was the first to smile and break the silence. “We do make such beautiful music together, don't we?”

You blinked, but did not—could not—deny it. You wanted to believe that whatever this was had been special for him, as it had been for you, but you knew better, did you not? The thought made you quite ill.

“Is that what you say to all the girls, Jackdaw? Before you slip your tongue into their mouths?” you gasped, struggling to compose yourself.

“Wh-what?” He staggered back, looking wounded as his violin dropped to his side.

“Come now, everyone knows you've kissed half the girls in school!”

You stood up suddenly, stool scraping across the floor. Gathering your sheet music, you intended to leave then, to chastise yourself in private for having fallen for Richard's charms so wholly. How foolish to think that you had been special. Richard opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again, like a damned fish. Why was he so surprised that you'd figured out his game?

“Good Gods, no! Who said that?”

Richard made his way to your side, forcing you to look at him. If he had been anyone else you might have recognised hurt in his eyes, or confusion, even.

“Everyone, Richard!” you said shakily, still vibrating with whatever had passed between you only moments ago. He'd knocked you off-kilter, filled you with a warmth you recognised but ought to be ashamed of.

He reached out, faltering only inches from your hand. His voice dipped to a mere whisper. “All because I enjoy complimenting the fairer sex? That hardly seems fair.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “So you didn't accompany me here just to try to get your hands up my skirts?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn't say no to that prospect,” he laughed, but his smile faltered into sincerity. “I've had my eye on you, surely you've noticed? Just you.”

Your breath caught, hands stilling on the stack of music that had changed everything. Had you been mistaken? You thought back to every recent interaction with Richard. He had sought you out to play chess, held your eye when he offered his compliments, followed you here and played beautiful music with you.

“Have you?” you managed to ask.

“I can't quite forget how you so effortlessly bested me at chess.”

“Me neither.”

“And that…playing with you…”

You subconsciously parted your lips as he moved closer, drawn towards your quivering body that yearned for his touch. You must have sighed his name as he offered up a gentle ‘yes?’ before capturing your mouth in his.

Lips as soft as pillows pressed gently to yours, tentatively exploring how you fit together. Perfectly, as it was. He drew in your lower lip between his teeth as his hands finally found your waist, warmth unfurling in your abdomen at the slightest brush. You were as tightly wound as the strings that now strained under the hammer on the pianoforte, as you found yourself pushed backwards onto the keys. The almighty racket that ensued thankfully drowned out most of your whimpers, but not all.

To be caught now would cause enough scandal to last a lifetime. You would be shamed, ridiculed, cast out from polite society.

Then why couldn't you stop?

All reason had fled you. Only a primal desire to be ravaged by this man remained.

Richard seemed to be struggling similarly, his hands flexing against your ribcage in a poor attempt at control. His tongue glided across your lips seeking entry, and your gasp invited him in. Languorous swipes had you falling apart in his arms, your hands struggling for purchase against the instrument behind you as you felt your legs weaken. A clatter of chords and mismatched harmonies created a deafening cacophony, the only rhythm to be heard belonging to your straining heart.

That pulse settled firmly between your thighs, urging you to let Richard have his way with you—for that was where this was headed, you had no doubt. You felt his same desire pressed against your hip, stiff and unyielding. He held you against him in that same restrained way, fingertips bruising your hips through layers of cotton.

When you broke away for breath, Richard startled and almost fell against you, an arm bracing on the pianoforte, caging you in. His eyes were wild, his hair a mass of chocolate curls that fell over his eyes. Had you caused that? You'd been so preoccupied with his lips that you'd barely noticed your fingers curled in his mane. Your fingers wound tighter around the silken strands, trying to find the words to assuage your guilt.

“Promise me I'm not just another notch on your bedpost, Jackdaw.”

He grinned then, all dimples and flushed cheeks. “Darling you are the only notch, if you'll have me.”

“Oh. Yes.”

His lips crashed back into yours, Richard’s low groan speaking of his relief. The pianoforte behind you gave another almighty belch of clashing notes. Your hands grappled behind you to close the lid and it slammed shut. His lips curled in a smile as he maneuvered you backwards, hands shamelessly sliding underneath your behind to hoist you onto the wood.

Lips found your jaw, your neck.

His tongue laved the skin below your ear, hot and wet and insistent.

Every nerve ending was ablaze, the throbbing between your thighs growing almost painful. Richard had the enthusiasm you’d expected but the fumbling of your skirts and a clash of teeth told you that perhaps he did indeed have no more experience than yourself. It didn’t matter—the passion was enough.

Those nevertheless skillful hands soon wrapped around your calves, sliding higher and higher, far too slowly. You wobbled on your precarious perch, cracking open your eyelids to peer down at him. Richard had his lips still firmly glued to your neck, licking and sucking until you felt the sting of a blooming bruise. Your dress glided higher, over your knees now; an agonising ascent. Finally his palms skimmed your inner thigh and hesitated at the border of cotton and skin.

You were loathe to beg, but every passing second was torture without the contact you so craved.

“Please, Richard…”

He moaned against your neck as he slid his fingers to your centre, the slit in your undergarments providing easy access. That first press against your clit provided an explosion of pleasure, and the gliding strokes that followed had your back arching clean off the instrument behind you.

So distracted were you that you barely registered when Richard’s weight had disappeared from your body, the chill air of the music room suddenly shocking you back into focus. His head had dipped below your skirts, knelt before you as if in worship.

You blushed, furiously, gnawing at your lips. You hadn't expected this much attention. He surprised you at every turn, from his hidden talents (present situation included) to his willingness to attend to your needs first. He kissed your thighs, murmuring and moaning against your skin whilst his thumb—slick from your own arousal—rubbed exquisite circles between your folds. Any sort of worry about where you found yourself, who might walk in and how Richard saw you from his present vantage point simply melted away in a haze of pleasure.

He played you as expertly as his violin, teasing moans from your lips just as he coaxed forth beautiful melodies. Your fingers curled into his hair, gentle tugs that grew in urgency the closer you approached your peak—and it came on with such haste that you feared you might never be satisfied by your own hand again.

“May I taste you?”

The question came from nowhere, his thumb still gliding, teeth returned to the soft flesh of your thighs.

“Wh-what?”

“My tongue, can I use it—” he pressed more firmly against your clit, eliciting from you a whimper “—here?”

Without waiting for an answer—which you weren't sure you could manage to articulate anyway—Richard gripped your thigh and pressed it wider, higher, resting your leg on his shoulder. Your skin was burning now, being so exposed, laid so bare. You tried to tug your skirt down but he brushed your hand away, instead gripping it in his and locking your fingers together.

“Oh…”

Richard smiled up at you, before delving back between your legs. The first swipe of his tongue against your sensitive bundle had you squirming in surprise whilst your unrestrained moans filled the room. Richard squeezed your hand tighter as his tongue dipped inside you, gently at first, then more insistent. Deeper he delved, teasing you open until you began to relax around his muscle.

He was preparing you for what was to come.

You shuddered at the thought, a quiver of unbridled lust.

By the way he groaned, he seemed to enjoy using his tongue to pleasure you. You chanced a peek over your bodice to watch him, his hair in disarray and cheeks as flushed as your breasts. Then his eyes flew open as if sensing you watching, locking his soft chestnut gaze on you whilst he worked. You couldn't look away; his dishevelment was utterly captivating.

“You're…ever so good at that,” you gasped, your breath quivering.

Richard smiled in return and wriggled his eyebrows. He was flirting with you still whilst doing that! The most frustrating thing seemed to be that it was working. Your stomach gave an almighty lurch, butterflies caught in a whirlwind, all trapped behind your ribcage.

His tongue returned to your clit for the finale, sensing your climax by the shake of your legs and the increasing pitch of your moans. The bell in the tower above chimed as you came undone, masking your cries and muddling what should have been pure ecstasy. Panic mingled with pleasure.

Only once did it ring, then the gargantuan bell fell silent but for the waning hum as the pianoforte vibrated beneath you.

“No…oh Gods!” Still caught in the wave of your orgasm, you struggled to speak.

“What's wrong?” Richard asked.

“Ch-choir!”

His eyes flew wide as he understood your meaning, and suddenly he was over you instead of under you, your leg no longer supported. He caught you in his arms before you could fall, strong hands gripping your waist as your skirts fell back to the floor.

You felt the steady stream of saliva and your own juices run down your leg as you righted yourself, and what little shame you had left flared, muted by the terror of being caught. As you both ran up creaking wooden stairs, away from the approaching voices outside the music room door, you grinned.

What scandal—what a thrill.

Richard had hold of your hand, pulling you through the door to the bell tower stairs just in time as the Hogwarts choir bustled into the music room for their weekly practice. You practically fell into his arms in relief, huddled in the dank, dark store room, gasping for breath. You felt his heart pounding beneath your palm, the heat from his skin, and—to your disbelief—he was still achingly erect. These close quarters did nothing to quell your excitement, still buzzing with lustful want despite, or because of, the fear of your capture.

“What should we do now?” he asked, barely a whisper.

This store room was not ideal for a romantic rendezvous, nor even an illicit one. Dim light trickled down the stairwell to illuminate a square on the floor—a greyish patch of dust and cobwebs—and the little ambient glow was barely enough to see Richard's face by. But, it was enough. His plump lips, the shine of his chin, sparkling eyes and the curls that dusted his brow—you saw it all in soft contrast, and answered him with a kiss.

He returned it with fervour even whilst the students below crashed about and chatted loudly. Neither of you seemed to care; the reward far outweighed the risk.

Richard pressed himself against you, his cock impossibly hard against your hip, whilst his hands slid to your behind and held you firmly in place. His breath was hot and heavy, coming in pants between slippery swipes of tongue. All technique had flown out the window, and you threw your arms around him to press yourself flush against his chest. You wanted every inch of your body in contact with his, to feel the warmth beneath his clothes against your touch-deprived skin.

Stripping yourself of clothes might be a step too far, however. You would settle for what you could—and that involved him once again bundling the heavy fabric of your skirts around your waist whilst guiding you backwards until your thighs hit something solid. A box or chest, a crate maybe. Whatever it is would serve your needs—another perch for you to be defiled on.

You wrapped a hand around his cravat, pulling him between your legs as you shuffled backwards. You heard the pop of buttons as his breeches came undone, saw the pink of his head strain against the fabric until his erection fell into his waiting hand. Reaching out to stroke him, you felt the weight, the girth as your fingers curled around his shaft. Richard was blessed, that much was clear. Saliva pooled in your mouth at the thought of taking him, your core fluttering with need.

The din from below had dulled to a quiet murmur as the choir took their places and readied themselves for their first song.

Richard nibbled at your lower lip as he lined himself up with your entrance.

His cock twitched when you bit back.

The music began, and you knew nothing but bliss as Richard filled you completely. You wrapped your legs around his waist and leaned back, gaping in awe at where you joined. Even in the semi-darkness you saw what a mess you were, the fabric of your bloomers sticky and tattered.

The voices grew louder, beautiful and mesmerising to behold.

Richard withdrew with a low groan, and he pressed his palm down firmly on your abdomen before thrusting slowly back into you, even deeper than before. You tried to stifle your moans with your own fist, but what did it matter? You could be as loud as you wanted to be whilst the choir’s harmonies filled the bell tower.

He leaned into your ear. “Good girl. How do you feel?”

“Good…amazing…”

A twinge of pain made you wince as he bottomed out, and he held still, searching your eyes.

“Don't stop, Richard.”

“Godric’s heart,” he whispered barely audibly before pulling out and slamming back inside you.

You saw stars, perhaps even heaven itself as he fucked you into oblivion. Fingers bruised your hips, a messy clash of teeth and tongues, desperate moans into each other's mouths. It was everything you'd dreamed of yet nothing like the fantasies of a perfect night under the stars or a gentle romp in your bedchamber. This was raw and feverish and utterly glorious.

“I never want to stop,” he said. Or at least you thought that's what he'd said—it was hard to tell through the swell of voices from below. The choir approached their impressive finale, perfectly masking your sobs as Richard made you come again. You fell limp into his arms and gripped his back tightly, nose nestled into the crook of his neck as he pounded into you through the waves of your orgasm.

He smelled of ink, wood and musk. Heady, beautiful.

Your mouth spilled forth utter filth; expletives you'd dare not use around anyone. To your shame, you begged him to fill you, a testament to just how addled you were.

“I will. I'm going to fill you until you can't take another drop.”

Oh, Gods, this scoundrel of a man.

Richard didn't falter, hips snapping faster and harder. He moaned so loud you thought you'd be discovered after all, looking deep into your eyes as he came. His cock pulsed, a final hard thrust so deep you almost screamed, and his seed spilled inside you. His release came thick and fast, and you kissed him through it all, muttering his name as he did your own.

The warbling from below died, the song finished; and so too were you.

Clarity is a wonderful thing, when one is able to come by it. It had all but fled the moment his lips met yours, and was flooding back now.

Atop a dusty box in a store room, Richard Jackdaw had deflowered you.

Richard Jackdaw—notorious philanderer.

“I hope we can do that again—” he kissed you, so softly his lips were a mere whisper “—and again.”

You searched his eyes for any hint of a lie, but found none.

“The duet or the…other thing?”

“Both, preferably.” Richard peppered your cheeks with kisses, smiling in a dazed sort of way. He looked quite endearing like this. Vulnerable, even.

“That depends entirely on you, Jack—Richard,” you said, rather sternly, though the effect was rather ruined by his steadily softening cock still being buried inside you.

“On me? Then you are willing?”

“I want you to woo me, to court me, and to stop flirting with every girl in the school.”

“Tch, such demands!” he said, grinning. You swatted his arm, but he chuckled and kissed you again, harder this time. “Of course. How could I possibly want anyone else?”

Your breath hitched then, rendering you speechless.

Did you believe him? This man of such ill repute?

He kissed your hand as if you had all the time in the world to ponder the question. That smile, those lips—they were intoxicating. This could be a trap, and you an unwitting victim of his charms, but then again you could be wholly wrong about him.

Only time would tell if this rake was worthy of your heart.

#richard jackdaw #richard jackdaw x reader #richard jackdaw fanfiction

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moonstruck-stormy · 3 months

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Rook - (Nemesis) - Under the Cut is the reasons why I named him this, as I name all my FL OC's after birds in a way. He insists that he named himself NOT after the chess piece, and I encourage you to continue making chess jokes.

A highly intelligent bird who symbolizes an omen (whether or not they are a good omen or bad omen is up to you) The omen depends on context. For example, rooks deserting their rookery is a sign of ill fortune for the family nearby.

Nobles tend to like them because them nesting nearby is a sign of the family being of good character.

They are often seen with jackdaws (a type of smaller Corvid) which in this case are the Urchins, as he's a good ally, and he tries to be an older brother figure to them

Rooks, like Rook are considered pests. Nothing can deter the rook once it realizes there will be no true harm. You will have to kill him to stop him.

Juvenile rooks are often hunted. HMMM.

(source avibirds.com)

#fl ocs #fallen london #my art #oc: rook

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slytherin-paramour · 1 year

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Whew! Boy, this was meant to be a lot shorter than it is! This is a sad tale revolving around the Richard Jackdaw storyline, if it diverges from the actual story at all I don't care! 🤣🙏

(Thank you to @cuffmeinblack for the imagery of #aliveRichard lol)

💠▪️💠▪️💠

So I've started outlining a story in which you are Richard's best friend.

You grew up together, and now you are secretly in love with him.

You do everything with him, go exploring with him, keep his secrets, lie for him etc.

He constantly batters your ear with talk of Apollonia and how much he wants to court her and even though it's like a dagger to the heart you listen on with a smile and encouragement but secretly cry with despair when you are alone.

Apollonia knows how you feel and uses every opportunity to make you feel worse, flirting with Richard and stringing him along.

Eventually, Richard gets tired of chasing Apollonias unrequited love and focuses on adventuring with you again, and your heart starts to feel better.

You help him to store away random items and artifacts that he discovers, in a little enchanted cavern down by the lake. (He informs you that he'd stolen a few of these items in an attempt to impress Apollonia, which you frown upon and roll your eyes.

You spend a lot of time there in the lake cavern with him, chatting about anything and everything, playing wizards chess and trying to decipher old tomes.

One night, Slytherin are celebrating a quidditch victory over Gryffindor in The Three Broomsticks. Student's from all house's are gathered there, having a good time and drinking.

Richard and you are there, and this is the night when he finally gets acquainted with a pretty Hufflepuff named Anne Thisbe. Anne becomes besotted with him, and he is ecstatic at the attention. You'd seen her about the castle but not spoken to her-a year below you, you think. Your heart lurches as he chats animatedly with this girl. And so begins a tragic tale.

Richard starts to spend a lot of time with Anne, to your dismay. Because of this, you instinctively draw into yourself and away from him, throwing yourself into your studies.

You are surprised one day when he seeks you out-alone. He's noticed your lack of presence and questions you about it, to which you conjure up a lie of some sort to placate him. He sees the tired look on your face, dark rings under your eyes and is worried for you. You wave him off and swallow thickly, asking him about Anne. It's then that he mentions something about some ripped out book pages that he'd stolen from Peeves the Poltergeist, that included some sort of a map that he intended to follow in the next few weeks.

He shows you the pages, covered with cryptic imagery and symbols that aren't like anything you've seen before, and you can't help the bad feeling that runs through you as you brush your fingertips over the parchment.

You consider telling him about the bad feeling, but looking up at his excited face as he stares at the pages from over your shoulder, you lose the will to ruin his joy.

You think, and hope for a moment that he's going to ask you to go with him, as usual, but your heart drops in your chest when he starts to talk about leaving fun little riddles for Anne to solve, that he couldn't wait for her to join him on this exploration.

He falters as he witnesses your crestfallen face, mistaking your heartache for exhaustion as he brushes his thumb over your cheek gently. The touch sends sparks through you and you look into his beautiful brown eyes as he speaks.

"You don't look so well. You should try and get some rest."

There's an annual ball coming up in the next couple of weeks, and it's all the Hogwarts students can talk about. You don't think you'll go. Don't want to see Richard dancing with Anne. Whom you know that he invited. But then you are surpised by an unexpected invite by a boy in your year named Tobias Ashworth, a Gryffindor. He's handsome, you note, but a bit quiet. Likes to keep himself to himself, usually. Then he tells you that he's noticed you around the castle, in your quiet moments alone when you're in the library or tending your plant's in the greenhouse. He thinks that you seem like a nice person and would love to take you to the ball, get to know you better.

You think of declining, but then you think of Richard, and of Anne, and so you smile at Tobias and accept his offer.

The night of the ball is in full swing. Tobias is off getting you drinks. He looks very handsome in his tailored dress robes. You are wearing a fine gown of green silk and lace, long pearlescent gloves up to your elbows. You stand in a corner, watching. Looking out for Anne and Richard. You see them dancing at the far end of the Great Hall. You also see the seething glares of Apollonia Black as she watches the same couple, blatant jealousy shining through even though she had a good looking boy on her arm tonight. You roll your eyes, the action becoming a habit of yours.

Tobias returns with your drinks. You try and forget about Richard and focus on your date, accepting with a small curtesy when he asks you to join him on the dancefloor.

You don't notice the disapproving looks sent your way by your best friend, who although dancing with Anne, has noticed your presence and is quite disconcerted about the fact that you're dancing with a random boy that he's never met before. He also thinks that he's never seen you look this lovely before, noting the curves of your body in the pretty dress that you're wearing. He doesn't enjoy the fact that your dance partner is holding said curves and frowns, returning his focus to Anne when she notes his distraction.

Tobias presses his lips against the back of your gloved hand just outside the Slytherin common room, thanking you for a perfect evening and bidding you goodnight. You watch his figure dissappear up the stone steps behind you, a smile on your face. Turning to enter through the enchanted snake archway, you are shocked when a voice whispers into your ear.

"He seems...nice."

From nowhere, Richard appears, dropping his disillusionment charm and looking down at your scared form with a smirk on his face. You frown and reprimand him for sneaking up on you, before putting two and two together and realising that he must have been following you. You ask him as such to which he scoffs and looks away.

He informs you that he wasn't being creepy. He just wanted to make sure that Tobias' intentions with you were above board. He thinks that the other boy is a terrible match for you and that you deserve better.

You look at him incredulously, not sure how to respond to him, but silently seethe. How dare he? How dare he presume to have any say over who you decide to date? Who would be good for you? Tears fill your eye's and you turn to storm away from him, afraid you'll say something you'll regret. That is until you feel a hand wrap around your gloved wrist to yank you back. Your head snaps back toward him angrily, tears now flowing down your face. You tell him to go back to Anne. To leave you alone.

Richard is confused. Confused because he doesn't quite understand what he's feeling tonight. He thinks of Apollonia, the vile temptress. And then he thinks of lovely Anne, with whom he said goodnight to earlier before giving in to the jealous streak that made him follow you tonight. And then he thinks of you. That wonderful constant in his life. There through the best and worst of his times. He remembers the way that you danced with that other boy tonight, and the way the sight of it sent sharp tentrils of pain through his chest. Confusing.

He sees you now, tears streaming over flushed cheeks, angry azure eyes barely focusing on him, and he thinks that you are possibly one of the most beautiful, strong and smart girls that he's ever laid eyes upon. How hadn't he noticed that before?

Coarse fingertips gently brush stray hair from your temple, another hand cradling your chin as though your face were made of china. Chocolate irises gazed into your angry ones with intent. Your lungs struggle to take in a breath of air. When had he gotten so close? And then his lips, divine and soft, were brushing softly against yours, slowly and unsure. You barely had a chance to register before he was pulling away, forehead resting against yours as you both took deep breaths.

"I'm sorry."

He spoke the words and then shot away, down into the Slytherin common room and out of sight. You stood alone, trying to process what had happened, your fingers trailing over your lips as another stray tear fell to join the salty streaks on your face. You briefly wonder whether you are destined for heartache.

You don't speak to Richard for the next two weeks, only seeing him in classes and rare glimpses throughout the castle. You don't even see him in the common room. The distance makes you feel physically sick, the memory of his soft touch constantly replaying in your mind. You miss him terribly.

The few times that you do see him, Anne is predictably by his side, smiling her perfect smile as he laughs at something she'd said to him. Another blow to your tormented soul.

Tobias says hello now and then, if your paths cross in the hallways. Though you get the feeling that he too, is keeping his distance. You wonder if Richard has said anything to the poor boy. Likely.

You begin to regret not having a wider friend group. Days that were usually spent in Richard's company now reduced to a pathetic loneliness in his absence. You feel increasingly more hollow as the days pass by.

It's late one evening when you awaken in your dormitory bed, the girls that you share your room with are sound asleep. You wipe the sweat from your brow. Another nightmare. About Richard, and those damned pages of his. You can't quite recall the dream, but it was bad enough for you to wake up in a cold sweat. You wrap your night robe around yourself and walk as silently as possible out of your dorm and into the Slytherin common room.

Curled up on one of the plush, elegant sofas in front of the fireplace, you stare into the flames. You are unable to shake away the awful feelings that stemmed from your dream. This, along with your injured heart, causes twin tears to trail down over your face. You wipe them away, frustrated. Another tear. Then another. The deluge refuses to stop. You press your face into you knees which are tucked up against your body and sob. Your body shakes visibly from the force of your anguish.

An arm wraps around you. The sofa shifting as a body presses up beside you. Your face snaps to the left, shocked, embarrassed to be caught in such a state.

Richard's face is laden with guilt. He pulls you further in to him, burying his face into your hair and mumbling something that sounded like 'sorry' in a regretful tone.

You should be angry. You should be storming away from him and not looking back. You quickly realise that you could never do that, though. Not with him. Instead you press your sodden face into his neck, your arms winding around his broad form and you let him hold you, comfort you as you finally release your frustration.

After calming down somewhat, you ask him why he kissed you that night, to which he replied honestly. He has feelings for you, and is confused. He has feeling's for Anne as well, but his feelings for you had bombarded him out of nowhere. Smacking him like a bludger to the head.

After about an hour of reconciliation, apologies and emotionally charged conversation, you're feeling exhausted. Your feelings are still very much all over the place. Truths had been spoken but made thing's even more confusing than before.

Richard runs a hand through his soft brown curls and yawns. He informs you that he's planning on following his mystery map the next evening, with Anne hopefully joining him should she figure out the puzzles he'd left for her. He gives you a longing look before sheepishly asking if you'd like to join him.

You shake your head quickly, that feeling of dread curling down your arms and into the tips of your fingers. You grip onto Richard's shirt sleeves tightly, looking up at him with fearful, desperate eyes. You beg him not to go. To forget about the pages and the silly map. You even offer to go treasure hunting elsewhere with him, so long as he promised that he'd abandon this quest of his. He chuckles and pulls you closer to him so that your head is resting on his chest. He card's his fingers through your hair, a soothing motion that makes your eyes droop. You reach out to grip his hand, already half asleep, and press your lips against his knuckles.

"...Promise me...promise that you'll stay...I need you..."

His heart clenches as he watches your eyes finally flutter shut, his hand still clasped in yours. Leaning down, he presses his lips against your forehead, wordlessly asking you to forgive him.

You wake late into the day to the sounds of students bustling around the common room. You were exactly where you fell asleep in the early hours, the only difference being the lack of Richard by your side.

Your chest still tightened when you thought of him, and of Anne and your situation. You push the thought's to the back of your mind and head to the showers to clean up.

The day passes by uneventfully. You throw yourself back into your studies, feeling at least a tad lighter now that your emotions were laid bare and Richard was speaking to you again. You don't see him all day, which doesn't surprise you anymore. You hope you'll see him later in the common room.

Night falls. He still neglects to make an appearance. You think suddenly of the map and the book pages. That's where he was, you thought. He was off adventuring with Anne in the moonlight. You'd asked him not to go, but he'd gone anyway.

You close your eyes and stare out into the murky depths of the black lake. The tall glass windows shimmered with the motion of the water. The quiver of foreboding is present once more.

After a night and morning of practically no sleep, you are sitting alone at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. You pick at your food, chewing away at the tiny pieces. Your mind was on Richard, and how he had fared with Anne on their outing. Something wasn't sitting right with you though. A quick enquiry earlier had informed you that he hadn't returned to his dorm that night. Your instant thought was that he'd most likely slept in the lakeside cavern instead of disturbing his dorm mates. He'd probably taken Anne there too. You soured at the thought.

This hypothesis was thrown to the wind when none other than Anne herself approached your table, quietly asking you for a word.

She wants to know if you've seen Richard this morning. She informs you that she did not, in fact, accompany him on his venture last night. She found his letter and his puzzle, but being unable to solve it, decided not to go to him. Anne looks sheepishly at the floor. You begin to panic. You try to remember the landmarks on the map, but come up blank. You take off from the Great Hall, leaving Anne standing there dumbfounded.

It's hard to breath. The dread. The nightmares. They were trying to warn you of something, you just knew it. As soon as you were outside, you pulled out your retractable broomstick and extended it, hopping on and flying as fast as you could towards the one place you could remember from the map-the Forbidden Forest. You'd search the entire damned place if you had to, praying to Merlin that you would find your best friend.

Weeks had passed and you'd run out of tears to cry. Your searching had proved fruitless. The pain inside you was incomparable to anything that you'd ever felt before. You missed him. Missed his voice, missed his touch, missed his friendship. The school was aware of his disappearance, and Aurors were sent to investigate but even they came up short. It was as if he'd simply vanished.

You knew in your heart that something awful had happened to him though. And you were numb. If he were ok, he'd have come back to you by now.

You dreamt of him frequently, his fingers on you skin, a look of pure, unconditional affection shining in his eyes. And then you'd wake up, drenched in sweat with your face sticky from your tears.

It was one such night, lying in your bed, that you'd woken yourself up with your whimpers and snot ridden nose. Your hair stuck to your wet cheeks and you sobbed into your arm that draped over your eyes. You lay there in your grief, briefly considering casting muffliato, when an echoey yet familiar voice broke through the darkness of the room.

There, at the foot of your bed, stood none other than Richard Jackdaw. Or rather, floated Richard Jackdaw. Your hand shot up to clasp around your mouth, unable to handle the absolute agony of witnessing your best friend, your lost love...hovering before you as a ghost. A fresh flood of tears waterfalled from your eyes and you groaned into your palm.

Richard looked at you with despair, his ethereal form moving closer to you, as if to comfort you. He brought his wispy hand up to your face, but sadness befell him when his fingertips passed through you. You try to ask him what happened, through shaking breaths, but he can't remember how he died. He apologised for not listening to you and for being a terrible friend, to which you denied with a sob.

He begins to move away from your bed, at which you panic and whisper for him not to go, not to leave you again. He turns to look at you with a sad smile, his once vivid eyes now black and lifeless.

"I was in love with you, you know."

And then, he was gone, and you wouldn't see him again for a long, long time.

That night, you cast the silencing charm around you and screamed and cried until your voice was hoarse and you had nothing left to give. You cursed that map, and you cursed yourself for not being able to save him.

Fin.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fandom #harry potter #slytherin pride #hogwarts legacy oc #Richard Jackdaw #hogwarts legacy mc #Anne Thisbe #Apollonia Black

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ask-richard-jackdaw · 1 year

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Hello, Richard Jackdaw! I missed you so much since you helped me with those pages! Hope we can hang out more without any danger involved?

-R

My dear R,

Oh, I have missed you, where have you been and how have you been? I was able to find that Auror you told me about after you retrieved the pages, that lady who wanted to help Anne? I really have to thank you once again! You helped us right the wrong, and while I do not have anything I could give you in return, I believe that my company could be sufficient!

Let me know what it is you would like to do. I am sure you know how fond of puzzles I am. Perhaps some Merlin trials? I'm a ghost so I cannot really do those on my own and I would really appreciate some company! I've been eyeing a couple not far from the castle so it should be relatively safe. Or maybe perhaps you'd like to stay in the castle and play some chess? Even just a nice stroll by the Black Lake would work, really, I'd love to catch up!

Yours truly,

Richard Jackdaw

#richard jackdaw #hogwarts legacy rp #hogwarts legacy #R #asks

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ask-solomon-sallow · 1 year

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Solomon, buddy, hi!

We already know that you, Marge, and Jackdaw (and possibly Char?) gather for some Gobstones a few times a week. Surely, there are some more serious games your dead / dead inside club enjoys to play as well. What do you guys do when both you and Richard are ghosts that day?

- A curious anon

We enjoy a variety of games; on the days we are more corporeal, we want to play as many as possible.

Our favourite game to play when both myself and @ask-richard-jackdaw are ghosts is wizard's chess. It's much easier when you can just tell the pieces where to go and don't need to touch them.

Char's favourite game is Uno. I've never been very good at it.

-Solomon

#anon ask #ask solomon #char x solomon #rypnami x solomon #richard jackdaw

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antlerhymnals · 2 years

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pssst Auden, can you tell me more about TWG 👀 i'm very intrigued by Jackdaw and Finley and I want to absorb everything i can like a sponge (🌲)

absolutely I can!!! I'm working on this novel for nanowrimo (and it might become my thesis?) so here's a soft introduction for—

Reluctant worshipper of the goddess of thieves, liars, fugitives, rainbows, and assassins, Jackdaw Gray wants nothing more than to live his life far away from the prying eyes of the gods. Unfortunately for Jack and everyone around him, the gods have other plans.

THE WASTE GARDEN is a love letter to my teenage self. It has everything I would've wanted to read in a novel when I was 15 or 16 or so—the snarky thief archetype (which was in pretty much every book I read around that age!), a chosen one who doesn't want to be the chosen one, and characters who are afraid of love but still fall utterly and helplessly into it.

It's also a love letter to my teenage self in the sense that it blossomed out of the high fantasy novel I started writing when I was a teenager. It's something I would've needed when I was a teen (frankly it's a book I want/need now!) and it's changed with me. It's a hell of a lot more queer, a lot weirder, and unpacks a lot of religious trauma. It's not necessarily "high" fantasy anymore, in my head I refer to it as "weird" fantasy. But I love it so much.

tag: wip:twg

some more rambling fun facts under the cut

I have three epigraphs I keep at the top of my document for this project. They are as follows:

The whole place had the look of a picked-at body. But hot damn! What a beautiful corpse. – Tamsyn Muir, Gideon the Ninth

I feel like I could eat the world raw. – Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Babe, there’s something wretched about this / something so precious about this / oh what a sin. – Hozier, From Eden

( Jackdaw ) is a thief, a liar, a fugitive, and Left Hand of the Queen of the mountain country. He doesn't really believe in the gods—until his patron goddess appears and tells him he's the chosen one. Then things get a bit tricky.

( Finley ) is the rightful heir to the lowland country, but their uncle has convinced the nobility that their disability makes them unfit to rule. They're going to prove him wrong by stealing the Divine Right from the gods with the help of a charismatic, annoying, but ordinary thief.

Only problem is that Jack's anything but ordinary, and the gods might not be all they're cracked up to be.

Jack still thinks he can come out of this on top—until he falls in love with Fin. Suddenly the elaborate game of chess he's been playing with gods, countries, and crowns becomes something personal.

I'm obsessed with the voice of this project, which has taken me some work to figure out. It's snarky and a little bit stupid, which is fun, but I also get to flex my prose-y muscles every now and again.

(a snippet for example!)

[text ID: Light flooded Jack's senses, burning his eyes even behind his eyelids, and he groaned, throwing an arm across his face to block out the light. He wondered briefly if he was dead. Then an exasperated and unfortunately familiar voice said, "Enough, you're not dead. Who knew the chosen one would be such a drama queen." "Not you again," Jack said, without moving his arm from his face. "At most I am a drama prince." /end ID]

+ I'm currently creating a mythology for the world, which is also very fun. At the moment I'm writing a story about Odes (the nonbinary goddex of music, rats, poets, writers, and flowers) destroying a bizarre Godzilla-like beast with their music.

It's also interesting to write because Jack grew up "old religion" and Finley is from "the new religion," so they often argue over how the stories should go. Fin believes in the saints, for example, who ascended to sainthood by traveling to the gods' Sacred Mountain to be tested. Jack thinks that's a load of shit. (It's all fun and games not believing in the gods until you become the chosen one, after all.)

#i will do a real intro post for this eventually #wip:twg #my writing #my wips #( jackdaw )#( finley )#ask #pinespittinink #also thank you for the holy grail i will attempt to keep it safe o7 #sorry for the long post I got excited

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goldenchocobo · 5 years

Photo

I had to draw my new favorite bird

I’ve been begging for a crow for ages! yes- Murkrow and Honchkrow ARE crows... I wanted something crowy-er?

My out of the blue prediction: This is a second stage or first, with something involving a Rook and a chess theme being the next or previous evolution

#Pokemon #Pokemon Sword #Pokemon Shield #Pokemon SwSh #Pokemon Spoilers #GoldenChocobo's Art #I'm not great at drawing pokemon but I'm gonna try #the chess thing was an idea I had when I drew fakemon #I literally had a jackdaw pokemon that evolved into a crow that again evolved into a rook that was chess themed

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lovenikkiclothes · 6 years

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Based around the wings ‘Stone Bone Demon’. I challenged myself not to use them with the dress they originally came with!

#love nikki #frightened jackdaw #force of thunder #radiant return #snow scale stone #secret of star chess #swan of desire #war elite #elves’ necklace #bind of blood #aurora #horn of rebellion #frost dragon scale #stone bone demon #thunderbolt bats #clattering hoofbeats #new year ring bell green

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sussex-nature-lover · 4 years

Text

Friday 12th March 2021

The Sharks and The Jets*

Fun question.

Q. what is both a large black feathered bird of the Passerine family and a chess piece?

A. The Rook, although some people refer to the chess piece as a Castle too.

While I’m on the subject, here’s some technical info too

Passerine - the family classification which includes more than half of all bird species. Sometimes known as perching birds or songbirds, Passerines are distinguished from other orders of birds by the arrangement of their toes (three pointing forward and one back), which facilitates perching.

So now we know.

I’ve often mentioned our Jo and Joe Rooks (nicknamed after the English cricket captain Joe Root) It’s a bit of a stretch, but that’s how nicknames come about isn’t it. Fans will often greet or applaud Joe in his finer moments with the long and extended call of ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT, so the calling situation has its similarities. Anyway, as I said in an earlier blog this week the garden has, all of a sudden, been absolutely dominated by big black birds, or, as we refer to them, the Sharks and the Jets. That Westside Story reference isn’t because of any animosity, it’s all the posturing and choreography when they descend en masse. You have to see it in action to get it really.

It usually starts like this, just the one or two explorers gingerly finding their way

all nice and innocent

and quite mannerly at the feeding stations

although mastering the hanging feeders is challenging for them they persevere

Rooks differ from Crows by a pale, straighter bill with a bare grey base. They display 'feathery trousers' on their legs and have an oily, loose plumage compared to Crows. In flight, Rooks’ wings are longer than Crows’ and narrow towards the body. They also have a long graduated tail.

Rooks are highly gregarious birds and are generally seen in flocks of various sizes. Males and females pair-bond for life and pairs stay together within flocks. In the evening, the birds often congregate at their Rookery before moving off to the chosen communal roosting site. Flocks increase in size in Autumn with different groups amalgamating and birds congregating at dusk before roosting, often in very large numbers and in the company of jackdaws. Roosting usually takes place in woodland or on plantations, but a small minority of birds may continue to roost at their Rookery all winter, some of ours did. Adult males may roost collectively somewhere nearby. The birds move off promptly in the morning, dispersing for distances of up to 10 km (6m)

The male usually initiates courtship, on the ground or in a tree, by bowing several times to the female with drooping wings, at the same time cawing and fanning his tail. The female may respond by crouching down, arching her back and quivering her wings slightly, or she may take the initiative by lowering her head and wings and erecting her partially spread tail over her back. Further similar displays are often followed by begging behaviour by the female and by the male presenting her with food.

Wikipedia

Nest sites are chosen by the male bird and he will start building, the female joins in later and they finish off the nest together. The female Rook only lays one clutch of eggs, typically three to five - sometimes more, between March and April and incubates them for 16-20 days. The eggs are smooth, glossy and light blue, greenish-blue or green with dark spots and are about 40 mm long. Both parents feed the young after they have hatched.

The nestlings fledge at about 32 days and from what we see in our garden, they’re demanding and noisy children who are really demanding of their parents at the feeders.

You can see that the onslaught’s started and we’re bracing ourselves for a very noisy Spring and Summer. I think we used to find them quite annoying, but over time have developed quite a soft spot for them really. They’re actually very amusing company.

I’ll post the next set of photos separately as I took a fair few today and can’t choose between them.

WHAT DID I LEARN TODAY?

I’m not going to tell you, you have to read THIS article and warm your heart (outside link obviously)

#naturephotography #gardenbirds #rooks

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kireon · 4 years

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Store Bought Hero

x-posted from my writing account as well as my author blog.

If natural heroes didn't work, store bought was fine too.

At least, that's what you keep telling yourself. It becomes a mantra as you peruse the discount racks at your favorite clothing store that definitely does not start with 'K'. Setting aside the whole ‘escaped from the lab you were created in’ thing, you haven’t noticed any serious differences between natural heroes and the lab created ones ('store bought', as they say) except for the whole income disparity thing.

Oh, and the sponsors.

Everyone knows natural heroes shopped at Gucci and their sidekicks at Macy's, bare minimum, they simply must be outfitted with the best at all times if they are to be known in the world. You can hear the professor from the labs’ rant clear as day even fifteen years later. While you definitely like a select group of brand name items? You have bills to pay, mouths to feed, and a gigantic fucking load of student loans on your back.

No rich parents, tragic enough backstory, or sponsors for you: a 'store bought'.

With a sigh, you eye a sequined leotard and run your hand up and down the rough fabric. There is something satisfying about the way the colors shift from a too shiny silver to a lurid cherry red. You like shiny. You like shiny an awful lot, as a matter of fact, and that's how you got yourself into this entire mess in the first place.

"How was I supposed to know the stupid anklet was his downfall?" You grumble as you tear yourself away from the sequined nightmare. Restraint isn’t something that comes easily but you’ve had years to practice. A half-hearted paw through the racks of clothing marked at sixty-percent off or more reveals a pair of dark red pleather pants that might just make a good costume base.

"It's not like I walk around with my weakness in plain sight."

It wasn't even a decent anklet either; not even sterling silver or real diamonds or brand name. It was a cheap nickel plated piece of flash and the rash it gave you still itched even a week later. Some sort of curse for the unwary, or so the hero had claimed when you'd given it back to him a day later.

You neglected to inform him of your nickel allergy during the confrontation.

Well, maybe not wisely. You might have been able to get some sort of financial compensation outta him for the damage done to your skin. The rash and blisters did look really awful when he’d caught up with you and he looked horrified when he saw the results.

Heroes had that whole ‘do innocents no harm’ thing, after all.

You'd rather die than admit to anything so common as a nickel allergy, so you accused him of having a curse put on it. He ate up the accusation and used it to his advantage, as they all do. In exchange for falling for the good old fashioned sob story that was your life-- lightly embellished, of course--you had to become his sidekick as penance for your (petty) crimes. Also to completely remove the effects of this nonexistent curse.

After all, you were in ‘dire need’ of a good role model, yadda yadda yadda. You’d stopped listening to his moral prattling about the same time he tried to invoke the ‘daddy issues’ card. The last time someone had pulled that shit on you, they woke up woozy, confused, and completely unaware of the clown makeup as they walked out (pantsless) into the busiest part of the city. Waterproof makeup at that.

Just as a little extra “fuck you” to prove a point; you don’t like doing more than petty retaliation if you can help it.

You can be quite nasty, after all.

In the end, Hero McDadguy puffed up in his usual self-importance and gave you an entire fifty bucks towards a ‘basic’ costume and sent you on your way with a time limit. He was currently busy getting some frothy concoction at that one coffee shop just around the block. Far enough away that it’s a test of trust and boundaries but close enough he can close the gap and probably haul your ass in if he needs to.

The added caveat that you weren’t to embarrass him with your costume choice makes you want to do it even more. The only thing holding you back is the fact that you do have to wear the costume. In public.

Petty and spite take a backseat to pride and self-preservation.

Not like he was one to talk. He had that whole ‘90s cyberpunk meets Dad-on-Tropical-Vacation’ theme going on. Fanny pack, socks with sandals... the works. ��You’d rather go to jail than try to figure out how to replicate, keep in theme with, or otherwise find something to compliment that mess.

You mutter that very thing under your breath while you snag a few promising pieces-- and the leotard because fuck self-control you deserve something nice-- off the rack and head for the dressing room to start trying things on. Twenty minutes of posing in the mirror in varying outfit combinations later and you ignore the request for 'photo evidence' of you behaving and call your oldest child instead.

“Hey, what’s the name of that one bird that steals shit?” You ask as you shimmy into a pair of leather shorts with sequins on the ass. You’re definitely about ten pounds shy of ‘Juicy’, as the flashy hot pink word on your butt says, but this could very well be the start of something amazing.

“Maybe you wanna be more specific unless you want me to read descriptions for the next ten years?”

Nat is much like you; level-headed, brilliant in school but woefully under challenged, and has the same smart-mouth that had gotten you slapped through a wall once or fifteen times in your early life. You would never lay a hand on your kids regardless of how mouthy they get with you and so have to find other methods of curbing their attitudes when they get too out of line.

There’s a lot of yelling and someone sounds like they’re on the verge of tears in the background. A muffled Nat’s voice tells them to ‘calm the hell down, it’s fine’ before they come back on the line.

“What’s all that about?” You ask as you sift through the tops for something that would go with it. This opportunity might be a wash with how little luck you’re having. Might be time for Plan B- especially if there’s a problem with the kids. Your hand lands on a peacock blue-and-green number that doesn’t look bad but isn’t quite what you’re looking for. Ugh.

It’d clash with that highlighter orange from Mr. I Sweat Burberry Cologne.

Your middle child’s voice is loud and clear on the line now. “If you buy those shorts I am putting myself into the Child Relocation Program and you’ll never see me again.”

You consider it for a moment. Mortal embarrassment of your thirteen year old or being a slightly less fashion disaster than you feel. Tough decision, really. You feel yourself smile after letting Morgan sweat it out just long enough.

“Clean the kitchen and I’ll consider it.”

The quintessential teenage shriek of fury and angst comes loud and clear through the phone. “I knew you were going to say that! You’re the worst!”

Some parents prayed against having a child born with precognitive powers. While annoying to deal with, it’s also a lot of fun to use against them. It makes parenting interesting and more of a game to see just which future the kiddo wants to avoid- or get away with. “

You feel your smile widen at the range of futures said kiddo has likely foreseen. You’ll have so much fun with this particular set of visions and using it like baby photos against them. “So did you clean the kitchen?”

“Duh!” A most indignant tone.

You laugh. You can’t help it. “Put Nat back on the phone.”

“Promise me you’re not buying those first.” Stubborn and firm. A bit of desperation there too. Not quite ready to beg but not all that far off either.

The way they say ‘those’ makes you laugh all over again. “I’m not buyin’ ‘em, don’t worry.”

“And that weird guy isn’t buying them either?”

Damn it. “Nope. He won’t buy them either.” So much for that idea. Maybe you could-

“No stealing them either!”

Double damn it. “Fine, fine; the shorts stay in the store.”

“Thank you.”

The phone goes back to your oldest. “So, about that bird?”

“Jackdaw, Magpie, Corvids.” You hear scratching of pencil on paper. Homework? At, you check your phone, two-seventeen in the afternoon on a Saturday? Your eyes narrow suspiciously.

Who is it you’re talking to and what have they done with your child?

“Corvids? Like crows and shit?”

“Yup. And no, I’m not a body snatcher.”

A grin. “Sounds like something a body snatcher would say.”

Jackdaw didn’t have that something you were looking for. Didn’t roll off the tongue the way it needed to in your head when you imagined some Big Bad Villain spotting you mid-villainous speech. Corvid didn’t either. Crow wasn’t hitting any notes either.

Raven was absolutely taken by no less than eighty-three variations in your city alone.

Rook had some fun possibilities if you had actually bothered playing and learning chess. (You can’t; you can’t sit still or pay enough attention for that shit and you own that.)

Your eyes fall on the silver-and-red sequined leotard again.

You hear your prophecy cursed child screech in despair in the background and the younger two who have gathered to watch the show tell them to shut up.

Nat, ever patient and ever your child, smiles on the other end of the phone. “I think that’s the one, Magpie.”

Magpie... yeah, you like the sound of that one. Magpie it is. “It’ll make a good base; is Morgan--”

“McFreakin’ Losing It? Yep.” You can hear the sounds of pencil scratching against paper again. Curiosity overrules any possible ‘do not need to know’ that you and Nat sometimes stumble into.

“Okay, I’ll bite; what are you doing?”

“Fulfilling the prophecy as foretold by the ancients long ago.” if Nat’s voice were any drier, they’d be dust in a forgotten tomb. “I’m designing the rest of your costume so you’re not a total train wreck and Morgan can die quietly.”

“You’re my favorite.” You say as you gleefully stuff the leotard-- you’ve tried it on twice and know it fits like a dream-- back on its hanger and wiggle out of the shorts. A wiggle that almost ends badly for you, at that, and you can hear the brats laughing at you in the background as Morgan probably mimics how you just about bit it in the dressing room.

“Remember that when I inevitably try your patience in all of forty-five seconds.” Nat hangs up on you and you feel nothing but pride in the way these sassy children have grown up under your less than skilled thumb. You’ve not been the best parent or even the best role model. It’s funny what unresolved childhood issues and bad habits will do, but damn it you have given it everything you have up to and including your favorite line of ‘do as I say not as I do’.

That is your right as a parent, goddamn it, to use that line and they can pry that right from your cold dead fingers.

They’re all good kids. They’re going to end up heroes in their own right with or without superpowers. That, above all else, is all you want for them so that they’re twice as capable as you’ve ever been in your life. Lab created and thus ‘store bought’ or natural born; it doesn’t matter and it never mattered to begin with.

Heroes are heroes in the end and the world could always use another helping hand as it spins through another chaotic cycle.

Your phone beeps and you glance at the text message.

Black thigh high socks. Get two pair. Amazon sucks for deals rn.\

U r not my fave >:(

You scowl and wish the walls would burn as you unfold the crumpled bills at the register. You don’t need Morgan’s gift of prophecy to know what that text message says and yet, like a fool, you look down at it anyway.

There’s a photo of all five of your grinning children holding up score cards. All of them holding 10s.

All of them dressed in Hawaiian shirts.

You have never felt so betrayed in your whole life.

#my writing #store bought heroes #original fic

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thehangeddemon · 5 years

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Family Matters || Charleson, Xavier, Vincent, & Hamilton

Vincent: Vincent paced back and forth, reading and re-reading the texts between himself and Charles Xavier. Rather than continue with the confounded device, he disappeared, appearing a moment later within the Atlas manor.

He smelled food! A distraction if there ever was one. He headed to the kitchen with a delighted hum.

Xavier: In the kitchen, Vincent would find Xavier idly sipping coffee and reading a newspaper while his chef put the finishing touches on a platter of pastries.

He looked up when he felt Vincent's presence and was already smiling when the little raven entered the room. "Your ability to detect food is getting better and better, canary. Would you like a cream puff?"

Vincent: He smiled at the greeting, eyeing the person between the kitchen island and oven.

"Where's...Hamlecar? Hamlet? Hampton? I thought he was your chef."

A cream puff was taken and inhaled, then stuffed in his mouth whole.

Xavier: "Hamilton, and no, he's not the chef. That honor belongs to Christine. He's my butler."

The petite brunette woman decorating petit fours smiled at Vincent.

Vincent: "What does a butler do, then?" He smiled at the woman, just remembering to cover his mouth before embarrassing himself.

Xavier: "Tends to any guests, answers the door, manages the staff, assists the family. Things like that."

Vincent: "Do you need that? I just pop in. You don't need doors."

Xavier: "You do, most can't and are not allowed to. Most guests get stopped at the security gate--another of Hamilton's responsibilities--and have to get approval to enter my property."

Vincent: "Being evil is hard work," he smiled mischievously.

Xavier: He smiled. "So is protecting one's home. I've got precious things in here."

Vincent: "Have you been lying to me? I'm pretty certain you're a dragon."

Xavier: "I'm almost certain I was in a former life."

Vincent: "Maybe you were my dragon."

Xavier: "Perhaps so." He nodded in thanks when Christine brought a plate with a selection of pastries to the table and motioned for Vincent to join him.

"Have a seat and tell me what brings you here today, canary."

Vincent: "You know I'm not a canary." He took a seat beside the demon and reached for another pastry.

"I want you to meet someone. A special someone."

Xavier: "I know. You're far more powerful than any canary. Would you prefer another nickname?"

He arched a brow as he took another sip of coffee. "Oh? And who is this special someone? A new suitor?"

Vincent: More catlike than bird, he inclined his head curiously. "New suitor?"

Xavier: "Someone who has shown romantic interest in you."

Vincent: "Me?! No! No I - I have someone. I like that someone. No! This is a man named Charles Xavier."

Xavier: "Charles Xavier?" Why did that name sound vaguely familiar? "Who is this Charles Xavier and why do you want me to meet him?"

Vincent: "I think you'll find your interests peaked in each other."

Xavier: “I’m going to need a little more than that, my dear.”

Vincent: "Don't you trust me?" He gave his best pout.

Xavier: “You know I do. But you know I’m picky about the company I keep.”

Vincent: "I'm confident this will be a successful venture."

Xavier: “Vincent....” Xavier squinted. “Who is Charles Xavier?”

Vincent: "Why can no one just take my word? One's word is a thing of honor in my realm."

Xavier: “You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve had less than positive experiences with strangers. But I do trust you.”

Vincent: "I'm gonna bring him here for lunch next week. Maybe, if you'd prefer, lunch can be somewhere public."

Xavier: “I’m fine to do it here. Just warn me before you arrive so my wards don’t melt his insides.”

Vincent: "Alright." Another cream puff for his mouth. "Can we have these next week?"

Xavier: “Mhm. Christine?”

“I’m on it.” She had pulled a notepad from her pocket and was already making a note.

“What else would you like, dear? Actual food, not just pastries.”

Vincent: "But pastries are food," he pointed out matter-of-factly.

Xavier: “Pastries are desserts.”

Vincent: "Not all of em! And desserts are food!"

Xavier: “Cream puffs are most definitely deserts. Savory entree requests, please.”

Vincent: "Pastry! And...steak. All different kinds. And snails."

Xavier: “Christine, beef Wellington. We do not eat garden pests unless we’re in France.”

Vincent: "Garden pests?! They're delicious! They were my favorite before I was brought here!"

Xavier: “As you will. Christine, escargot hor d’oeuvres for Vincent.”

Vincent: "How dare you," he whispered, truly offended for all escargot enthusiasts. "Do you really not like em at all?"

Xavier: “I’ll eat them but I don’t see the mass appeal. They taste like buttery gummy worms.”

Vincent: "I am a bird." In case you needed reminding.

Xavier: Xavier chuckled. “That you are. You have a better reason to like them than most.”

Vincent: "Can a beer go with escargot?"

Xavier: “A beer can go with anything you like.”

Vincent: "I think he likes beer. Or wine. Or coffee? He definitely loves coffee."

Xavier: “We have plenty of all of them. Tea, as well.”

Vincent: "Thank you. I'll find a way to repay you."

Xavier: “Come now, Vincent, you know that isn’t necessary.”

Vincent: "I'm aware. I'm going to anyway."

Xavier: “If you must repay me, repay me with your company.”

Vincent: "Then I'll stay the night!"

Xavier: “By all means. I’ll have a room prepared for you.”

Vincent: A night learning to play chess and teaching Xavier a dialect of Elvish. He had hopes that this would somehow bring peace between brothers. He had a feeling the bridge would be created through the professor.

Next week, Vincent would appear as he always did, landing gracefully at Charles' office window with a chirp.

Charles: Charles glanced over his shoulder at the sound, offering the little bird one of his warm, crinkly-eyed smiles. He wheeled over to the window and opened it wide before turning back to his laptop. "Good afternoon, Vincent. I'm just finishing up a couple of emails. Please, make yourself comfortable. How are you?" His fingers were already flying over the keys.

Vincent: The jackdaw hopped in and ruffled his feathers.

"I'm full of flight and I'm starving." Nothing unusual for the familiar.

"Have you packed your things?" Better yet, "Does...Mason know?"

Charles: "There are snacks in the kitchen, if you're interested," he mumbled, distractedly putting the finishing touches on an email before hitting 'send'. "Pack?" And on to the next. "Exactly how long am I meant to be visiting this person?" He took a sip from his mug and pulled a face. Ugh. Cold tea. "Of course Mason knows. I haven't given him any details, mainly because I don't know them myself, but he knows. I'll have to tell him and the kids I'm going before we leave."

Vincent: "A night! Just in case kind of packing. We don't have to, but it's best to be prepared." He fluttered over to his host and settled himself on Charles' shoulder.

Mason knew only what Charles knew, and that was good. Charles had respected his mind and the secret remained. At least with Mason in the dark he couldn't be hostile.

"I can tell the little ones!"

Charles: He reached up to scratch at Vincent's head, even as one hand continued to type. "Almost... there... done!" He hit send once more and shut the laptop. "I'll tell them. I want to say goodbye." Already, he was making his way toward the door. "I'll throw together an overnight bag, as well. Just in case. It shouldn't take me long."

Vincent: "I'm going to ride your shoulder. Mind if I do? I'll sing to you, if you'd like!"

Charles: He laughed quietly, switching off the light and shutting the door behind them. "I don't mind. Sing, if it pleases you." He reached out for the familiar flares of his children's minds, and twitched a little smile to find them in the reconstructed playroom. When he reached them, Charles watched them play from the doorway for a moment or two, his expression impossibly fond. "Having fun?"

Vincent: He would sing the song of his people! Soft love songs to awaken the heart and unshackle the spirit. Songs which became stronger as he heard the children, wanting to gift them with something he was proud of.

Rory looked up from his argument with Dothan and beamed. "No!" Regardless of his smile! "I told - I said he looks like me!"

"You look like me! I'm older than you!"

Charles: "Gentlemen, please." Charles attempted a stern expression, but his eyes were bright with barely contained amusement. "I think it's fair to say that you resemble each other. And you each very much look like yourselves. No more bickering, please. Have you eaten lunch?"

Vincent: Dothan nodded. "We had pie. That's what the lady said. It was pie with meat and potatoes in it."

"I want a smoothie!" Rory declared. But then Vincent came into his view. The boy could not gasp any louder.

"Can I hold it?!"

The familiar's feathers puffed. I beg your pardon?!

Charles: "Ms. Hazel," he corrected, gently, and smiled. "Sounds delicious." Oh, dear. Charles bit down on a laugh. "Him. He's a... shapeshifter. A little like Aunt Raven. His name is Vincent. You can ask him if that's all right. Vincent?"

Vincent: "You have to be gentle with me."

Rory about lost his mind at the sound of a human voice from the little bird.

"Boy, you know me! I made you fly!"

"But you were tall."

Charles: "Yes, well, he can shapeshift, remember? Isn't that right, Vincent?"

Vincent: "I can become a giant! I can become as small as a mouse. I can turn you into a bird."

Well, now Rory - and a few other children - were looking to Charles with pleading eyes.

Charles: "Erm, no." His eyes had gone wide with the suggestion. He tried to look more understanding as he shook his head. "No, we won't be turning children into birds, today." Or ever. "Actually, Vincent and I need to leave soon. I've just come to say goodbye."

Vincent: Both children and bird wilted. Charles was right. They had much to do.

"Cynthia wants to know how long," Dothan said, his attention to his left by the window. Cynthia looked to the professor expectantly.

Charles: "Just until tonight, sweetheart. Tomorrow, at the latest." He still wasn't planning to stay, but it was far better to prepare the kids than to potentially lie to them. "Mason will be here."

Vincent: That seemed enough to reassure her. Her contentment had not been passed on to Rory.

"I wanna go!"

Charles: That was only to be expected. He quickly lifted the boy into his arms. "Oh, but everyone here will miss you! I won't be gone long, love. We can go swimming tomorrow, if you'd like. Or we can take the paddle boat out on the lake. Or both! Doesn't that sound like fun?"

Vincent: But the logic wasn't sound! "Tomorrow is forever from now!"

Even Dothan had to laugh at that; quick to cover his mouth as to not make it worse.

Charles: Charles, too, had to bite down on a smile. "Tomorrow will be here before you know it. Promise."

Vincent/Mason: Vincent thought this was all sweet, until he realized Rory looked on the verge of tears. Though he had not taken the brunt of trauma from his captivity, months with Mason and Charles in a protective environment had left him with a bit of separation anxiety.

Mason was home, and in tune enough to appear in the doorway at a moment's notice with old world wisdom.

"What is happening to your face? What is that? Ugh! Your face is gonna freeze like that!"

Rory wiped his eyes of non-existent tears. "Na-uh!"

"I've seen it! Frozen solid!"

Rory wriggled his feet. He wanted down. "I want-"

"Do you want to spend time with this old man? Why don't the two of us go play some ball."

A glance was given to Charles.

Charles: Instinctively, Charles held the boy closer to his chest. It was unhealthy, however natural, for the boy to be unable to stand even a few hours apart from his psuedo-parents. But that didn't stop him from wanting to protect Rory from the world. His sigh of relief at Mason's appearance was nearly audible. He returned the demon's look meaningfully. They'd need to discuss potential solutions, later. For now, he set a squirming Rory onto his feet and smiled tightly. "That sounds like fun!" Charles brushed gently alongside Mason's mind. 'Thank you. I won't be long.'

Vincent/Mason: Vincent wanted to widen the gap between himself and Mason, but remained silent and statuesque. Perhaps if he kept utterly to himself, the demon would not question the creature on his companion's shoulder.

'Is it not obvious where he's taking you?'

Charles: 'It's meant to be a surprise, Mason.' He nudged Rory gently in the demon's direction. "No more tears. There's a good boy. Go, play, and have fun."

Vincent: 'Hardly a surprise, except that you've been invited in the first place.' Rory traded one pseudo father for the other, tugging Mason with both hands towards the backyard.

'Do not forget your ring, should anything happen. Please, feel free to obliterate anyone's mind should they get too close.'

Charles: He rolled his eyes, but nevertheless spilt affectionate warmth into Mason's mind. 'Yes, yes. I'll be careful. I'll defend myself, if I must. And I always have my ring.' His fingers were given a pointed wiggle, the gold glinting bright in the afternoon light pouring through the window. 'I love you. Stop worrying.'

Mason: 'Don't you 'yes yes' me.'

Rory was placed on his shoulders. He was given a quick kiss to his forehead. Rory wanted to do the same, and Mason leaned forward to oblige.

'I love ya.'

Charles: He smiled at those three little words, as well as the kisses from two of his favourite people on the planet. He almost didn't want to leave. Almost. Curiosity and excitement churned into a heady mixture, and he was quick to hug the rest of the children before slipping out of the playroom. "Just going to pack a bag. It won't take five minutes."

Vincent: Vincent finally breathed when those demonic eyes disappeared around the corner. His weight would deaden on Charles' shoulder.

'How did you meet him?'

Charles: He made his way quickly to his bedroom, shutting the door behind them as he entered. "Make yourself comfortable wherever." Charles might not be the best perch, what with the way he had to dig through the closet for his duffle bag. The brown leather was soft and supple with age. "We met at a bar. He borrowed a cigarette. Took an interest in me." That was one way of putting it. He tossed his bag haphazardly onto the bed and grabbed a pair of trousers along with a black, summer-weight sweater. Was that his or Mason's? No matter. "And the rest is history, or however the cliché goes."

Vincent: No, of course he would not move! He was perfectly fine - maybe not with the leather bag. Maybe not with that thick wool sweater. Why? It was much too warm for such clothes!

The little bird coughed, leapt onto Charles' head, tangled in his hair, and hopped onto the comforter. What an ordeal!

"You smoke?" Never mind. He thought on his own relationship. "Four years ago, I fell in love with a giant bear, and slept in his fur. I will never love another.”

Charles: Ow. Well, that was uncomfortable. He gave the familiar a wry smile and ran a hand through his mussed hair. "Occasionally. Less than I used to." Socks and underwear joined the rest of his clothing in short order. An eyebrow rose at Vincent's confession. Never-ending bear love. Intense. "How lovely. I'm assuming this bear can transform into a person?" He disappeared into the en suite bathroom and returned a minute later with a small handful of toiletries. These, he dropped into a side pocket of his bag and zipped the lot shut. "All set."

Vincent: "The most handsome person," he emphasized with great pride. He was still caught up with the fact that Charles smoked. He could not smell tobacco on him, so it must have been rare indeed. The demon, on the other hand. He could still trace his scent across the mansion.

Unceremoniously, Vincent fluttered to the hard wood floor, reshaping in the instant into his human form. Much care was taken in stretching his muscles, especially his arms.

"Moving with me isn't as jarring as a demon, but you might get dizzy. There's more... gyration." It seemed the best word to describe what Charles was about to experience. As his hand was taken, the bedroom begun to spin, as though pirouetting. The direction twisted in reverse, then again, yet Vincent remained gyroscopically sound. He then stepped forward, into the sudden grass. The swirling kaleidoscope of reality righted itself in front of a dark chestnut and wheat mansion. A modest size in comparison to the school. A large fountain surrounded by roses blocked the sight of the double doors.

"We're here!"

Xavier: Xavier felt the new presence the moment Vincent and his guest slipped into the protective ward. He’d given his permission, of course, otherwise there would be quite the bloody mess to wash off the drive.

He adjusted his jacket in the mirror and sighed.

“Hamilton, the doorbell will be ringing in a moment,” he called to his butler.

Charles: Less jarring for whom, precisely? Though Charles nodded and smiled, he still braced himself for the lurch. He was forced to shut his eyes against the spinning, grateful when the world around him went still once again. Well. At least he hadn't gone faintly green, as was usually the case. He still preferred more human means of travel.

His gaze swept over the large house with its neatly manicured grounds. A far cry from Mason's Burtonesque aesthetic, the younger Atlas' home seemed almost welcoming in its familiarity. His mother would have approved. Hitching his bag more securely onto his shoulder, he looked at Vincent with a faint smile. "Lead the way."

Vincent/Mason: Mason would have taken feigned offense. His opinion was understandable. The house had been a safe haven; though the interior had been modified, the exterior left something to be desired. He'd never bothered to upgrade, and Lawrence found it charming. Perhaps the demon did as well, subconsciously.

Vincent smiled warmly, feeling right at home before ever knocking on the door. Though he could have appeared in the foyer, he thought the best impression would be made by ringing the bell and standing outside like gentlemen.

Hamilton/Lydia: The door was opened promptly, revealing an impeccably dressed butler and a lavish interior behind him.

“Good afternoon, Master Vincent, the lord has been expecting you.”

Hamilton stepped aside so they could enter. He offered Charles a pleasant smile just as a pretty and equally pristine maid appeared at his back. “May I take your bag, sir?”

Charles: Correction: his mother would have been overjoyed. Charles returned the smile kindly and slipped the strap from his shoulder. "Yes. Thank you." Too well-bred to gawk at opulence, he glanced politely from one costly furnishing to the next. If the rest of the house wasn't a veritable museum of wealth, he'd eat his bloody hat.

His heart ticked up ever-so-slightly in tempo. What if the man didn't like him? He felt like a teenage boy, meeting his girlfriend's parents for the first time. Absurd. He needed to relax. Still, he found himself smoothing his hair, and straightening the lapels of his grey linen suit, before they were taken to meet their host.

Vincent: Always one to try and shake Hamilton up, the little familiar stood on his toes to kiss the human's cheek. He and MJ Calloway had been scheming as of late. Both believed Fabian was in for a little pampering.

"Where is my demon!" he called, disappearing without his shoes left behind not-so-accidentally. Xavier would suddenly feel strong arms around his waist, a face buried between his shoulder blades. Were those legs around his thighs? Yes. He'd been caught.

Xavier/Hamilton: Hamilton took Charles’ bag, fully intending on telling him and Vincent that Xavier was waiting in the living room when the kiss to his cheek made him blush furiously and clear his throat.

This caused the maid behind him to smile to herself and step in. "Lord Atlas is waiting for you in the living room. Please, follow me."

This last was said only to Charles; Lydia was unfazed and unsurprised by Vincent's departure and abandonment of his shoes. She simply gathered them up and led Charles through a pair of heavy French doors just off the foyer and into the living room where Xavier was busy being attack-hugged by Vincent.

It was a far sillier first impression than the imposing one he usually went with, but even so it would quickly be painfully obvious that this man could not be more different from Mason.

Xavier Atlas stood tall and proud, clad head to toe in Armani, and reflected the extreme wealth that surrounded him. He spared no expense on his home or his appearance.

"My lord, your guest has arrived," Lydia said to him, setting down Vincent's shoes beside one of the couches.

"Thank you, Lydia." Another difference made itself known as Xavier spoke. His accent was polished and cultured, more indicative of having grown up in the poshest areas of London than in a working-class town in Yorkshire. "Tea service, please."

"Yes, my lord."

Charles: Oh. Oh. That flush was adorable. Charles was going to have fun with that one. He smiled, perhaps more brightly than was strictly polite, and thanked the butler. He turned the same grin on the maid and dipped his head. "Certainly."

Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly wasn't Vincent clinging to a tree of a man like a spider monkey. Leave it to the familiar to help loosen some of the tension in his shoulders. He muffled a small laugh with his forearm, feigning a cough. Xavier was tall and broad, and certainly would have cut an intimidating figure, if not for his new accessory.

Still, Charles' dazzling grin from earlier had faded into a smile that was almost shy. Was Vincent going to make an introduction? He could only stand there awkwardly in someone's parlor for so long.

Vincent: Vincent slowly climbed his way to the peak of this magnificent mountain of demon. What made one more significant than the other was purely selfish. He was aware of what this man had done to his mistress. Long ago he'd forgiven what he doubted Bronwyn MacAllister could. He made no excuses for the creature he clung to. He was wicked, but never was he boring. What's more, he believed in love, the same which resonated with the familiar. As much as he admired Charles Xavier, he could not comprehend why he resisted fate.

No matter! The two would find each other interesting, or they would kill each other.

"You smell good today. What is th - Professor! This," which he rested his chin on, arms now around his shoulders in a piggyback ride, "is Xavier Atlas. How old are you now? A thousand? Anyway. This is Charles Xavier. Isn't that humorous? You two should have met years ago."

Xavier: Much as Xavier wanted to smile at Vincent's antics, he refrained. Not that he stood frowning at his guest, his smile was simply not as easy as it would've been had he and Vincent been alone. It was polite and interested.

At least until he heard the name, and the scent clinging to the man finally registered. Then the interest turned to something he couldn't quite name. Trepidation? Anxiety? An impending sense of doom? Probably a combination.

"A gentleman doesn't speak of such matters, Vincent," he said, gathering himself and regally inclining his head toward Charles. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Xavier Atlas. Please, sit."

Charles: Charles' smile was big enough for the both of them, the sort of smile good manners forced out of him, when nerves threatened his careful composure. When he spoke, it was in an accent that rivaled the demon's, all gentle, Oxfordian refinement. "I assure you, Mr. Atlas, the pleasure is all mine."

His hand twitched at his side, itching to extend, but he did as he was bid, folding into an armchair with a frankly surprising amount of grace. "Thank you, for inviting me into your home. Or, rather, for allowing Vincent to invite me." A smile, softer, as his eyes met the familiar's. "I appreciate the introduction." Clearly, he was never going to get one from the elder Atlas. "I do hope it isn't too much of an imposition."

Vincent: With some reluctance, Vincent forced himself to his own two feet. He had no intention of leaving the two men alone in this room. Whatever would happen, he would play his median role to the best of his abilities. Hamilton and tea would also be used as balm.

"I have not planned past this moment. Spontaneity, I think, is the most honest method to learn someone." The bird took to perching on the back of the nearest chair with ease.

Xavier: "Not at all." Xavier took his usual chair by the fireplace. And it was true, having a guest was no imposition. Having this guest however...

"Well, in the spirit of honesty, may I ask how long we have until my brother arrives on his pale horse to rain Armageddon on me? I'd like to know if I have time for tea."

Charles: "Rain...? No." Charles shook his head, a mite too emphatically. "No, no, no. Mason won't be bothering you on my account. Not if I have any say in the matter. He knows where I am. Moreover, he's rather... preoccupied, presently. We've plenty of time for tea." Good lord, Mason. "I must say, I've wanted to meet you for quite a while, now. To put a face to the name, so to speak. "

Xavier: Xavier's brow arched. "Mason knows you're here? You're telling me my brother is fully aware of where you were going and still allowed you to come here?"

Hamilton entered the living room silently, making himself invisible as he poured tea.

"You'll have to forgive me, Charles, but I find it difficult to believe that one, your presence here isn't courting Mason's wrath and two, that the no doubt charming things he's probably told you about me made you want to meet me."

Charles: Charles laughed, though not unkindly. It was a bright, somewhat startled sound. "I think you've misunderstood the nature of my relationship with your brother. He does not allow me to do anything." Outside of the bedroom, anyway, but that was certainly an inappropriate topic of conversation. "I'm a grown man, perfectly capable of looking after myself. And a schoolful of children, for that matter."

He looked into Xavier's eyes, searching, though he didn't know the man well enough to read them as he did Mason's. "I can't speak to his present mood, but he seemed calm enough when I left him. In any case, I believe his respect for me runs deeper than... temper tantrums. You couldn't possibly know this, of course, but I'm not the sort of man who casts judgment a person I've never met. I don't form opinions based on someone else's beliefs. Even someone I love as deeply as I do your brother."

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a private smile. "Not that I've been given much to consider, regardless. He's my family. And you're his. That's reason enough for me."

Xavier: "I don't doubt that you are, Charles." Xavier accepted his tea from Hamilton. "And I do not doubt that he cares deeply for you and affords you respect. I'm simply extremely well-versed in my brother's opinion of me and I was under the impression that he'd rather chew on broken glass and rusted nails than accept my being near anyone he's close to or them being near me."

He waited while Hamilton handed cups to both Charles and Vincent.

"All that being said, I appreciate that you're not here with a torch and pitchfork." Although calling him and Mason a family was probably a stretch. At best they were grudging sharers of DNA.

Vincent: Vincent looked between the two men. Waited on bated breath for the very brother to appear in the middle of the living room. He knew he was allowed, as he'd seen him before, but as the subject continued to be revolved, the more he grew concerned.

"He might just fry me when neither of you are looking. Cook me in duck fat and serve me to unsuspecting - probably you," to Xavier.

Charles: He smiled warmly at the handsome one as he accepted his cup, scooping a few spoons of sugar into the steaming liquid and finishing the lot with a splash of milk.

"I do what I can." He took a small sip and hummed his appreciation. "I suppose only time will truly tell. I hope you won't fault my having a bit of faith in him."

Charles chuckled softly, looking to Vincent with a shrug. "Now, that, I'd consider a possibility. I don't think he's forgiven you for the library incident. Though, you're one of the handful of friends I have that isn't pubescent, so I think I can plead your case."

Xavier: "No, I don't fault you." He couldn't relate to the impulse, but he definitely couldn't fault Charles for it. That's what love was, after all.

"Mason wouldn't dare do such a thing, canary," said Xavier, smiling softly at Vincent. "To harm a single hair on your head would be to court the wrath of someone whose amulets you wear even now."

Vincent: "I don't know about that. They're-" he glanced to Charles. His penchant for gossip was weighted by his respect for the mutant. He bowed his head to him. Had the flight of a child really caused so much damage?

"I think my mistress would eventually forgive his sin. My master... probably not."

Charles: He smiled, warm and faintly amused. "I'm only teasing, my friend. If you think Bronwyn would ever forgive him, I'll take your word. I certainly wouldn't. He'd steal the moon for her."

Xavier: Steal the moon and commit arson. Probably best not to bring that up. Wouldn't want to taint the miraculously untainted opinion of him Charles somehow had.

"Indeed he would. Cake?"

Hamilton had seemingly produced a cake out of thin air and was already cutting Vincent a generous portion.

Vincent: His eyes brightened at the thought of sweets. More than just an expression; try were quite literally illuminated for a heartbeat.

"Hamilton, did you make this yourself? You beautiful man."

Charles: "Beautiful, indeed." His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I have a ruthless sweet tooth. I'd love a slice." He took another sip of tea while he watched Hamilton work. "You have a lovely home, Xavier," he began, apropos of nothing. Small talk seemed safer than pushing more on the subject of the estranged siblings. For the moment, anyway. "May I ask why you chose California? It seems a sharp contrast to England's grey skies."

Xavier: Hamilton smiled and shook his head. His cheeks flushed again but this time he did not deviate from his task. He just kept his head down and served. "No, Master Vincent, I did not. Christine made it." The it in question was chiffon cake filled with summer berries and chantilly cream.

"Thank you, Charles," said Xavier, giving his guest a more sincere smile as Hamilton worked. "I chose it for the weather. I don't really spend much time in England these days. My time is split between here, Italy, and France."

Vincent: "I like France best. Their pastries are worth more than gold."

So far, the atmosphere had remained pleasant. He didn't suspect a shift in tone, not with cake and tea. For now, his muscles had lost their tension.

Charles: Any cake with fresh strawberries was a ticket directly to the professor's heart. He accepted the plate graciously, but tucked in with a mite too much enthusiasm to be considered truly polite.

"Oh," he began, once he'd swallowed a large forkful. "How lovely. I think I'd miss the clouds. Nothing like an overcast day to calm the mind. It's been too long since I visited France. Mason and I have only just gotten back from Positano. It was a wonderful holiday, aside from a mild sunburn. Where in Italy do you live?"

Xavier: Xavier chuckled into his teacup, and not just because he couldn't imagine his brother vacationing in Italy.

"Positano," he said. How was that for an extraordinary coincidence? "In a villa on the coast." Time to up the wards on his vacation home, just in case.

Charles: His eyes widened slightly. Wow. The world was vanishingly small. "You don't say," he laughed, low and genuinely amused, not holding an ounce of a suspicion at the coincidence. "We stayed on the coast. Booked a hotel overlooking the ocean. I wouldn't be surprised if we walked right past your place without knowing. It's certainly a beautiful place. I might've entertained a fantasy or two of moving the school there." Not that he ever would.

Vincent: While Charles held no suspicion, Vincent's carried skepticism enough for all of the men in the house. Of course Mason must have known. How could he not?

"Spain in spring. All of the food and flowers. The children would love it. Most of them."

Xavier: Unless Mason had been doing reconnaissance on him, there was no way he’d know of Xavier’s Italian home. They didn’t exactly talk very often or chit chat about their lives and real estate choices.

“Oh you’d know. Or Mason would. Wards give off energy signatures.” He smiled at Vincent. “Anyone would enjoy Spain in spring. I personally favor Granada.”

Charles: "Do they? Fascinating." Charles had never felt them, though he'd been told that Mason's home was quite well-warded. He turned to Vincent with a twitch of a smile. "You may be right. Though, the lovely weather might distract them from their work. I think we'll stay put, for now."

Vincent: "Children? Work?" The familiar made a face. "Children shouldn't work until their twelfth year."

Charles: He chuckled softly and lifted a shoulder. "You'll have to take that up with the United States education system. Most children start kindergarten at five or six. Then there's preschool, for the ambitious parents."

Vincent: The bird was absolutely mortified! He looked to Xavier for confirmation.

Xavier: Xavier chuckled into his tea. "Yes, my dear, it's true. Small children attend school."

Vincent: "But they learn on their own in the woods and clearings and swimming! They must learn from nature and observation at home!"

Xavier: "Most are taught by underpaid public servants in public schools."

Vincent: "There is nothing to learn from strangers in a cold building."

Xavier: "I agree. Colleen will teach Devlin."

Charles: "I think there's something to be said for group schooling. Children develop social skills. They learn cooperation and independence from their parents." He took a small sip from his cup. "I do agree that the present system can use some improving. Public school teachers don't have the resources to do as much good as they could. Class sizes are entirely too large. That's to say absolutely nothing of mutants who manifest early," He paused. Smiled. It was a subject he was passionate about. "Anyway, we have our kids on a homeschool curriculum, for the time being."

Xavier: Well then. What a noble and dedicated man his brother had managed to find.

"For the time being? Do you have plans to change the curriculum?"

Vincent: Wasn't he just? Vincent liked him, regardless of this realm's obsession with brick and mortar buildings and lack of natural education. Charles was cut from a different cloth.

Now it was his turn to be quiet.

Charles: He took a bite of cake and chewed thoroughly, mainly to give himself time to think. It was a long story, but he'd be succinct. "Most likely. We offer classes for mutant children from seventh through twelfth grade. A little more advanced than public school, but we cover everything we need to. We've recently... taken on a group of elementary aged kids who have manifested early. We're not really equipped to handle their needs, so we're looking into other placements." And failing. Charles was particular. "In the meantime, it's a strain on our resources. Mainly staff."

Xavier: "Do you not have enough teachers to go around or are your teachers not experienced in working with younger children?"

Charles: "Bit of both. Our staff is the lifeblood of the school. They're remarkable, but they're overworked as it is. And teaching elementary aged kids... it's another world. They require much more direct engagement and supervision."

Xavier: "You should hire a nanny to help with the supervision portion of things. And the engagement."

Vincent: Vincent perked up, but only for a moment. He was back to stuffing his face in no time.

Charles: "It's an option. It would certainly do on a temporary basis. Ideally, I want each of them adopted into loving homes. Mason and I are in the process of adopting our two youngest. I'm acting as guardian for the others, in the meantime." He'd had nannies growing up. He'd loved each of them. But he had no intention of being a parent that even vaguely resembled his own.

Vincent: Wait... "You're adopting...with him?"

Xavier: Xavier slowly lowered his cup. Charles had successfully stunned him into (temporary) silence.

Charles: "That's the plan." His smile was warm, if somewhat amused by their reactions. "You've met Rory and Cynthia, Vincent. They're already ours, it's just a matter of paperwork. These things can take years, if you want everything above board." Which he did. No clever contracts, no greased palms. "We both knew it was what we wanted for a while, but it was Mason who finally voiced it."

Vincent: Well, now it was Vincent stunned into silence. He and the demon would have to take turns speaking up.

Xavier: "My goodness, that's...I'm astonished. In a good way, of course." Mostly. Perhaps. He never, ever thought Mason would want to go down that road again so to hear it was his idea to go through with an above board adoption of not one, but two small mutant children....

"How wonderful for you both."

Charles: "Thank you. We're both very happy with the decision. Rory and Cee are... they're great kids." He steadfastly refused to get emotional about the situation. He shoved a forkful of cake into his mouth. Classy.

Vincent: Well, he was happy for Charles, that much was true. "You should see them," he finally said to Xavier. "The boy has such a colorful power!" he laughed.

Xavier: Xavier caught Vincent’s eye while Charles wasn’t looking and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Not only was that not a good idea, Mason wouldn’t allow it in a million years.

But rather than allude to that in any way he said, “Does he indeed? Well let’s hope he reaches his fullest potential.”

Charles: "He does," Charles agreed, gaze flitting sparrow-like between the pair of them. "And you're right, Vincent. That's an excellent idea. I should've considered it myself."

Vincent: Oh. Well there. He didn't have to feel guilty now! He smiled at the demon and took another bite. He wanted to share Charles with everyone, and if this was the way to do it, so be it.

Xavier: "Mm." Xavier sipped his tea. These two were being entirely too optimistic about how that potential situation would go. "Perhaps one day. More tea?" Right after the sun exploded and it snowed in Hell.

Charles: Charles smiled sunnily. Did Xavier realize how like his brother he actually was? The telepath knew that dubious expression. He'd seen it a hundred times if he'd seen it once, albeit on a scruffier and more beloved face. Xavier wasn't yet familiar with Charles, however. His single-minded determination was something to behold, and his hooks were already buried deep within the idea. "One day soon. I'd love some, thanks."

Xavier/Hamilton: Hamilton appeared seemingly from thin air as soon as Charles said the word and refreshed his cup, then Vincent's and Xavier's.

"Let's see what the future holds," he said with a somewhat tight smile. Although he already knew what his future held and that was a great deal of unpleasantness.

Vincent: "Is Devlin old enough to play with Rory?" Vincent asked as Hamilton left the room. Was that man on the other side of the door listening? Vincent peeked over his shoulder.

Charles: He didn't flinch, but it was impressive. Was the handsome butler's readiness from fear? Loyalty? Or was the man simply good at his job? It was something to consider. He looked to Xavier with earnest curiosity. "Your son, yes?" Mason had mentioned a nephew in passing, but Charles had chosen not the press, at the time. "Rory will be six, soon."

Xavier/Hamilton: Not outside the door, but standing at attention just inside it, ready for any order Xavier might give. Hamilton took great pride in his work.

The tight smile remained in place as Xavier nodded. "Yes, Devlin is my son and as yet a bit too young to play with older children." Never mind that Devlin had recently turned five and was perfectly able to and frequently did play with older children from Colleen's village.

Vincent: Vincent looked between the two fathers. "He's quite big now," he muttered. He was not oblivious to what Xavier was trying to do. This was just a bird pecking at a lion.

Charles: Charles believed Vincent's mumbling, but he wouldn't push where the child was concerned. He was just as protective of his own kids. Trust had to be earned. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't extend an olive branch. "Ah. Fair enough. Well, my children love meeting new people. Rory most especially. Cynthia is... shy, but kind. I'm sure they'll be very curious about Mason's brother."

Xavier: Vincent could peck all he liked, Xavier would not be moved from his position. He was being reasonably cautious.

"Do they know he has one?"

Charles: "Not yet. I wanted to meet you, first." Said simply. He took a sip from his tea.

Vincent: Oh. Oh. Eyes darted between them, then back to Hamilton, then back to the men. "And you do now." Pause. "Yay..."

Charles: Charles snorted softly into his cup, quickly attempting to cover the sound by clearing his throat. "I have, yes. And I feel comfortable enough to let them know. Of course, I still need to speak with Mason." Just another hurdle to jump.

Xavier: "I'll be astonished if he admits it aloud," Xavier muttered, not bothering to hide his pessimism. If Charles was determined to have this happen then he might as well know what he was up against.

Vincent: More frantic eyes between them. It wasn't Charles he was concerned with now. Let's be honest. Most of his concern began and ended with the Atlas brothers.

"Maybe a middle ground? What if...what if the children met...where I live?"

Charles: "He's admitted it to me." The patented Atlas pessimism was nothing new. Charles was patient enough to wade through it. "It's kind of you to offer, my friend. If we come to that point, I may take you up on it. None of these decisions can be made without Mason."

Xavier: “Yes, I suppose he did. That makes one time then. Suppose that’s something.”

Nothing had been decided and Xavier was already beginning to brood; Vincent was right to be concerned.

Vincent: "Great! So now we talk to big-little brother, then."

Xavier: Xavier snorted. Big-little brother. Mason would hate that description and for that very reason Xavier loved it.

Charles: Charles bit his lip. It wasn't funny. All right, it was. Xavier was a bloody giant. But he was too loyal to chuckle. A sip of tea to collect himself and he pulled out his mobile. "I'll call him."

Xavier: “Lucifer help us all,” came another mutter.

Charles: He hummed quietly as he unlocked his phone. In for a penny. If there was going to be bloodshed, he'd rather it happen while the children weren't present. Baby steps. He pulled up Mason's number and sent the call.

Mason: He would be answered after a single ring. "Everything alright?"

Charles: Not surprising. He suspected Mason had been watching the time, phone in hand. The thought was exasperating, but it made him smile. "Better than, darling. We're having tea and cake. Vincent had a wonderful idea, and I thought we could discuss it."

Mason: Oh he did, did he? "N'what's that?" His tone was gentle; the kind of gentle Charles might recognize as his attempt at levelheadedness.

Charles: Oh, lovely. This was going to be so enjoyable. Pessimism from both sides. Not a surprise, but it had him turning up the cheer to practically exhausting levels. "He... we were thinking that Xavier ought to have a chance to meet Rory and Cee." He held his breath, braced for impact. Perhaps this was a conversation better held outside. He mumbled a quick 'pardon me' and started for the door.

Mason: Charles might want to reconsider roaming about. "Would Rory n'Cynthia have a chance t'meet their cousin?" A question asked after one second from Charles' suggestion.

Charles: "Mm." He paused, glanced back to where Vincent and Xavier still sat. "There's been some hesitation, in that regard." Charles couldn't say if it was himself, Mason, or the children that Xavier was worried about. Most likely some combination of the three. "I thought perhaps if their... uncle had a chance to meet them, that might change. I'm not in any rush, there."

Mason: "Seems a bit one-sided t'me. He gets my whole family. That's what he wants? I wanna hear him say it."

Charles: "He is your family, Mason. Someone has to take the first step. I think it can be us. But, fine." He crossed back to his chair, putting the phone on speaker with a quick swipe. "Ask him yourself. He can hear you."

Vincent/Mason: Well, fuck.

Vincent bit back a smile. Oh, he liked Charles very much.

By now Mason was pacing Charles' bedroom. He was angry. Not at Charles, but rather the situation itself. "Ya wanna meet my children, Xavier, or not?"

Xavier: This was a terrible idea. That was all Xavier could think as Charles walked off to talk to Mason and he thought it again when Charles returned and put the phone on speaker for some godforsaken reason.

“Hello to you, too,” Xavier deadpanned. “I am well, thank you. To answer your question, not if doing so is going to involve damage to my person.”

Mason: "Ya wouldn't dare hurt a child. Would ya, Xavier?" The deadpan was as much an Atlas trait as their snide and tense shoulders. There was no difference between their original bodies to these Deidrich men.

Xavier: Xavier’s jaw clenched. “That you would even ask that is insulting.”

Charles: Rolling his eyes, Charles cut in before anyone could further fan the embers already being stirred between them. "For the love of all that is good in this world. Mason is not going to hurt you for spending time with the children that are your niece and nephew, in all the ways that matter. And Xavier isn't going to hurt them, either. How long have I been here, hm? Have I been so much as threatened? Has Mason stormed in guns blazing? No. And clearly that isn't going to happen."

Vincent/Mason: Silence on the phone. Silence from the bird, now sitting on the edge of his seat like this was prime time television. Or in his simpler point-of-view, watching a dragon rage war with a town.

Xavier: He already had stormed in guns blazing, years ago. And no matter what Charles said or how much he reassured, Xavier would always believe that his brother was just waiting for an excuse to do it again.

And quite frankly, he’d just about had enough of this today.

If anyone was expecting him to be the bigger man, they would be sorely disappointed. His library was calling him and that was precisely where he was going.

Charles: Blue eyes narrowed at Xavier's retreating back. He could call it a battle lost, try again some other time. But something inside of him worried that he'd never have a similar opportunity. Jaw set and shoulders back, Charles followed in the demon's wake. Pride and temper had him wanting to lash out, but there was enough of that between the brothers without him adding his own fuel. "Xavier, wait." A deep, measured breath.

"Please." It was a level of politeness that Charles hadn't been shown, but he offered it regardless. "Clearly, a promise from me means nothing. Will you accept one from your brother? His word that he won't harm you?" Someone had to swallow their god-damned pride. "Mason, please."

Mason: He walked off, didn't he? He damn near asked but knew better. What froze his pace was hearing that Charles had followed. Was the man he loved in danger? Someone would have the good fucking sense to do something. He felt helpless, holding a goddamn phone to his ear.

"The...children...have a right t'know one another. I don't want violence 'round my babies. Of course not."

Xavier: It was just as well that Mason hadn't voiced that concern aloud; it absolutely wouldn't have helped the situation.

Charles was in no danger and wouldn't be, not today or any other day. Xavier just wanted some peace in his own goddamn house, was that so much to ask?

Apparently.

"I do not doubt that your promises are made with full confidence and the best of intentions, Charles, and they are appreciated. But you just heard precisely what my brother thinks of me. Even absent violence, there is open and palpable hostility. My son has the right to know his family, but I won't subject him to that. And I don't think you want to subject your children to that either. This will only work if Mason in his infinite wisdom can find it in himself to pretend he doesn't want my head on a pike and act like he actually tolerates my presence."

Charles: Far too much to ask from Charles Francis Xavier. "I could say the same for you." His tone was clipped, but controlled. Good breeding was all that he had in the face of his rising frustration. "From my vantage, if he wanted your head on a pike, it would be there. Trust isn't going to materialize from nothing, and you can't expect all ground to be ceded on his end. The hostility here isn't only coming from Mason, Xavier. You know your brother. Do you truly believe that he would behave like a brute in front of his own children? I know that if I believed that of him, we'd never have gotten this far."

He ran the hand not gripping his phone like a vice through his hair. "We're all adults, perfectly capable of civility."

Mason: "Fuckin' pot t'kettle." Charles was trying so hard. This was just going to be another reason he'd find him drinking in the study, or in their bedroom, or in the kitchen with a spare moment. He couldn't have that.

He would wait for a beat after Charles, waiting for something. When that something didn't come he said, "The children will never know a thing." Perhaps Rory would see a change in aura, but nothing outwardly.

Xavier: He had never longed for peace and quiet more than he did in this moment. This was meant to be his sanctuary, and barring divine intervention, there mere mention of Mason would always cause discord.

"Oh, I've extended my share of olive branches so believe me, I'm not the one who has trouble ceding ground or whose first instinct is to make insulting remarks."

Xavier took a careful, measured breath. He would not give either of them the satisfaction of making him lose his composure completely. "If the two of you would be so kind as to extend me the courtesy of allowing me to consider the matter, you'll have my answer in a fortnight. And Charles, because I am capable of civility, you may finish out your visit as planned. My staff will see to your needs. Now, you'll excuse me."

Xavier was going to his library and the door would be locked behind him.

Charles: His mouth tightened, at that, but he knew well enough to keep biting remarks to himself. Charles was not one to let his temper rule him. "Of course. Thank you." Consideration was far better than an outright 'no.' He'd take it.

For someone so confident in his own courtesy, Xavier seemed quick to shut the door in a guest's face. Another remark the telepath would keep private. He wouldn't stay. Clearly, his welcome had run its course, no matter what the demon had said. He'd be grateful for the mere inches they'd progressed, this afternoon, and return home to his children. He turned away from the door and started back the way he'd come, switching the mobile off of speaker and pressing it to his ear. "That went well, I think," he murmured to Mason, on the verge of bursting into inappropriate laughter. "I'll be home in a bit."

Vincent/Mason: Mason finally blew a breath and slumped against the wall. Holy Hell. That could have been a lot worse. As far as conversations went, Charles wouldn't have known how relatively peaceful that had been.

"Have the bird bring ya home already."

Vincent was following Hamilton around, buzzing his ear with questions of Leon and when, when was Hamilton going to learn magic?

"You're more than a pretty, pretty face. Come on. You need a cauldron!"

Hamilton: Hamilton didn’t mind, answering Vincent’s questions as he cleared up and made his way to the kitchen. “I don’t need a cauldron, Master Vincent,” he chuckled. “I have no magic.”

Charles: "Relax. I'm going to go find him. I love you. Bye."

With that, he'd return to the sitting room they'd been in earlier, searching for Vincent or anyone who might direct Charles to him.

Lydia: Charles would find Lydia at the foot of the stairs, where Hamilton had told her to wait. “Is there anything I can assist you with, Mr. Xavier?”

Charles: How convenient. Charles didn't miss his upbringing, but he could admit that having someone available to assist at any time was lovely.

"Yes, actually. Have you seen Vincent? I believe my visit is over, for today."

Lydia: The slender blonde maid nodded. “Yes, I believe he is in the kitchen. If you’d like to return to the drawing room, I’ll fetch him for you.”

Charles: "Of course. Thank you." Most convenient. He'd do as she suggested and return to the room, reclaim his previous seat and silently speculate on the likelihood of this ever getting any easier.

Hamilton/Lydia: Lydia nodded and went to the kitchen.

Hamilton saw her first. “What is it, Lydia?”

“Mr. Xavier is looking for Master Vincent. He would like to return home. He’s waiting in the drawing room.”

Vincent: Vincent turned to Lydia and pointed. "Do you know magic?" Seemingly ignoring everything said.

Lydia: She smiled. “No, Master Vincent, I don’t.”

Vincent: "You live with a demon!" exclaimed to both.

Hamilton: “He does all the magic,” said Hamilton. “Master Rohan does also.”

Vincent: Sigh. The familiar frowned to both mortals. He wanted more outlets. His finger raised, mouth open - he walked out of the room.

"Charles?" he called before entering the room. "You okay, friend?"

Charles: Charles grunted to his feet, smoothing down his clothes as he did.

"Perfectly well. Thank you, Vincent. But, if we can locate where my bag has been stowed, I'd like to go home."

Vincent: "I'll get it." He would only be a moment. "I've heard they can be worse," he said upon return. Not so much heard as he had seen via memories.

Charles: He nodded, taking his duffle from Vincent and slinging it over his shoulder. "That went better than I expected, honestly. Can't expect to tear down a century's worth of walls in a single afternoon. We might get somewhere, provided they don't kill each other first. Shall we?"

Vincent: "I don't think they will? They're a lot of bark with all gums." He hoped Xavier couldn't hear that; he liked visiting here.

"Ready?" After a beat, and a hand on Charles' wrist, both were transported back to New York, exactly where they had disappeared from.

Vincent placed his hand on the professor's chest as though to brace him from the zero gravity experience.

Charles: He laughed, the sound only ceasing when they were defying the laws of physics.

A smile, when he was on solid ground once more. "Thank you. For the introduction and bringing me home. Give Xavier my thanks and apologies for cutting the afternoon short, when you next see him." There was no reason he couldn't be polite. "I should go and find my demon."

Vincent: "And I'll go console my demon," he smiled. "Hey, maybe you should bring candied ginger with you on these trips. With anyone. Mistress says it helps stomachs."

Charles: "I'll give it a try. Whatever helps."

He gave the familiar's shoulder a pat, and would wait for him to leave before heading inside. "I'll see you."

#Family Matters chapter #askprofessorx #masonatlas #vincentcorvidae #fabianhamilton

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