#deva curl

[thirteens-earring]

there needs to be like a class action suit for survivors of the curly girl method

[yumjum414]

Echo's of a life lived

What did my father call me when I was younger?

As Arjuna plunged into the abyss, he heard his brother Bhima's voice calling out to him, the last desperate cry for him to hold on. His other brother did not even spare him a glance. The son of Yama merely uttered the cold truth- his most fatal flaw- and continued on his path to enlightenment.

The jagged edges of the mountain tore through his skin, each impact sending shocks of pain through his weary frame. Yet pain was nothing new to Arjuna; it had been a companion in every chapter of his life. Now, at the end, it felt almost like a solace door waiting to open, leading him to where his Madhav stood with open arms.

The spinning world came to a stop. His back lay against the unforgiving earth, and his eyes, tired yet unseeing, beheld the pristine blue sky above. The blues reminded him of the ocean surrounding Dwaraka, and the clouds reminded him of the waves Krishna had once commanded with laughter in his voice. The clouds hung still, like the frozen crests of those very waves.

Had I always been Arjuna?

No I think he had called me Krishnaa.

What was the name of the book that Sahadeva and I debated over a lifetime ago?

Among all his brothers, Sahadeva had been his quiet solace. Bhima and Nakula carried an energy that demanded attention, but Sahadeva was the stillness in the storm. The two of them, introspective in their ways, had navigated chaos with shared glances and unspoken words. Though, when the time came, they were the very sparks that ignited mischief.

Despite his calm demeanor, Sahadeva possessed a wit sharper than any blade. When Yudhishthira once sought his advice on moral dilemmas, he had responded, "Try not to gamble your kingdom next time." The entire hall had erupted into laughter- everyone except Yudhishthira, Of course.

His youngest brother, with unparalleled knowledge, is his gentle, kind Deva. He used to be the tiniest baby, with chubby hands always reaching toward his untamable curls. One smile from his youngest brother, soft and fleeting, like a timid ray of sunlight peeking through clouds, could melt Arjun's heart like utter softening under the sun's warmth. His brother carried the heavy burden of knowing the future

I hope we can still talk about your favorite poems and lament the foolishness of the world around us, just like we did when we were young- perhaps somewhere beyond this realm.

Nakul, have I ever told you that your laughter was enough to lighten the darkest of days?

Nakul, the charmer, the peacemaker, the one who never failed to make Arjuna smile even when grief held him captive. His younger brother was more than his renowned beauty; he possessed a rare kindness, an understanding of emotions as deep as Sahadeva's understanding of logic.

Perhaps it was why animals were drawn to him. The wildest of creatures-horses, birds, even stray dogs-flocked to his side as if they could sense his untamed heart, one free of malice. Bhima had once joked that Nakula could win wars simply by leading an army of beasts.

After Abhimanyu's death, Nakula approached Arjuna in the gentlest, most thoughtful way. He tended to small things, like polishing Abhimanyu's weapons or leaving food by Arjuna's side when he wouldn't eat. "I can't imagine your pain, Bhrata, but I do know this-Abhimanyu adored you. Every time he spoke of you, his eyes shone brighter than the sun. He would want you to keep fighting, to honor his memory. He'd never forgive me if I let you give up." Nakula's quiet, persistent care reminded Arjuna that he wasn't alone in his grief, even when words failed.

Thank you for always cheering me up. I hope you'll still be there to annoy me when it's my turn to join you.

Bhima's bear-like embrace- when was the last time I held him?

Bhima, his elder brother, his shield, his greatest rival and ally. They had turned everything into a competition: who could shoot faster, who could run farther, who could lift the heaviest weight. Bhima, who laughed the loudest, fought the fiercest, and loved the hardest.

Bhima, who always teased Arjuna when he won, saying, "Even the greatest archer can't outmatch my strength," and Arjuna would retort, "Strength is nothing without precision, brother."

On the battlefield, they had been an unstoppable force. Bhima would clear the path like a storm, and Arjuna would follow, striking with precision. Together, they had been a force of nature, their synergy unmatched. Yet Bhima, the mighty warrior, was also the one who cradled children in his arms, who told the wildest tales of war, exaggerating every detail just to hear the laughter of his loved ones. "The asura was as tall as three mountains!" I roll my eyes every time.

How could I have ever doubted the love in his heart? I would give anything for just one more embrace.

Jesth Bharata... I never meant those words I said that day.

When their father died, Yudhishthira wiped Bhima's tears, held Arjuna for hours as he wept, and consoled the twins as they witnessed their mother step into the fire. After that, he tended to the rishis, ensuring they were fed, and took on the immense burden of handling the funeral rites with a composure no child his age should have had to bear.

For years after, Yudhishthira was their father. The one who guided them, the one who worried over them, the one who bore the weight of duty so that his brothers would not have to. He smoothed their fears with his steady voice, his hands firm but kind upon their shoulders.

Arjuna wondered- had Yudhishthira ever been a child himself? Had he ever been allowed to stumble, to make mistakes, to cry without the weight of responsibility forcing him to wipe his own tears before anyone could see?

Perhaps that was why fate had been so unkind to him, why Dharma itself tested him in ways none of them could comprehend. Because Yudhishthira had never been allowed to fail and learn from it- he was expected to be right, always. A flawless king, a righteous man, an unwavering guide.

But Arjuna knew the truth. Knew that behind the wisdom, the patience, the seeming detachment, there was a man who had once been a boy- one who had carried too much for too long, whose heart had been burdened by expectations too heavy to bear.

And Arjuna, in all his righteousness, had failed to see it until it was too late.

Jesth Bharata, forgive me.

Abhimanyu, what did your smile look like, my son?

His dimpled face, radiant like the moon, the sparkle in his eyes that held boundless curiosity and mischief. He had smiled just like his mother- soft yet unwavering, with an innocence that belied the warrior's blood in his veins. His laughter had been the sweetest melody Arjuna had ever known, echoing through the halls of Indraprastha, in the courtyards where he trained, in the soft glow of evening when father and son sat side by side, speaking of battle, honor, and dreams of the future.

Arjuna remembered the first time Abhimanyu had held a bow. The boy had been so small, barely able to pull the string, but determined, nonetheless. "One day, I will be like you, Pitashree," he had said, his voice bright with conviction. Arjuna laughed, adjusting his son's grip, ruffling his curls. "You will be greater, my son," he had promised.

But fate had stolen him away too soon. His pride, his greatest joy, had been left broken, surrounded by enemies, trapped in a web of deceit and cruelty. And Arjuna- mighty, victorious Arjuna- had not been there to save him.

Would he be waiting for him, just beyond this life? Would he rush toward him, grinning as he always did, bow in hand, eager to show his father how much stronger he had become?

Or would he look at him with quiet reproach, asking the question Arjuna had asked himself every day since that cursed battle- Why weren't you there?

Subhadra, did I ever tell you that your smile reminds me of our son?

His wife, his fire, his fiercest the princess who had taken the reins of her fate as easily as she had taken the reins of his chariot that fateful day. She had not waited to be rescued, nor had she hesitated when he held out his hand. She had laughed, eyes alight with mischief, wind whipping through her hair as they rode away, her knowing smile promising that this was only the beginning of their story.

He could still see her as she had been that day, unafraid, radiant, free. And when Abhimanyu was born, Arjuna saw her again in their son- in the crinkle of his eyes when he laughed, in the tilt of his head when he listened, in the sheer, unstoppable will that burned within him. He had her fire, her stubbornness, her boundless warmth.

But had he told her enough? Had he ever whispered to her in the quiet of the night how much she meant to him? That beyond war and duty, beyond victories and losses, it was she who had given him his greatest happiness?

Did I tell you enough, Priye? That I loved you since the moment I first saw you? That I loved you even more in every moment after?

Panchali, my fire, my queen- how could I ever have deserved your love?

From the moment she placed the garland around his neck, he had been hers. Not just by fate, not just by duty, but by the quiet pull of something deeper, something undeniable. She had chosen him, and yet, had he ever truly been worthy of her?

His most beautiful, fiercest, wisest wife. The one who had stood unbroken through every storm, who had faced humiliation and war with her chin held high, who had been the strength none of them had deserved, the strongest amongst them all. She had loved him despite his absences, despite the distances between them, despite the battles that had taken him far from her. She had been his fire, his fiercest advocate, his harshest truth. And yet, how many times had he let her down?

He had won her hand, but had he ever truly won her heart? Had he ever given her all that she had given him? Did she know, in the quiet moments, when duty did not weigh upon them, that he saw her? Not just as a queen, not just as the mother of his children, but as his Draupadi- the woman who had laughed at his arrogance, who had met his gaze without fear, who had walked beside him, always beside him, even when the world had turned against her.

Draupadi, tell me my love- how can I ever be worthy of you?

Uttara, my child, my daughter in all but blood.

Did I ever tell you that you were the daughter I always wanted to have and so much more?

He had watched her grow from a bright-eyed girl who once looked up to him with admiration, calling him Guru, to a woman who bore the weight of tragedy with a quiet, unyielding strength. The day Abhimanyu fell, she had not wept before others. She had carried his child within her, and for his sake, for the son who would never meet his father, she had stood unbroken, even when the world around her crumbled.

You were barely more than a child when the war stole everything from you. I watched you stand in the ashes of a shattered world, carrying life within you while drowning in grief. And yet, you endured.

I should have protected you, should have spared you from this pain. But you, my brave girl, bore it with a quiet strength that humbled even warriors.

You were always meant for joy, not sorrow. If only the gods had been kinder.

Did I ever tell you how proud I was of you?

My sons- brave, noble, gone too soon.

The best of us lived in you. Prativindhya carried your mother's fire, Sutasoma had Bhima's fierce heart, Shrutakarma bore my own stubborn will, Satanika was Nakula's sharp mind, and Shrutasena was Sahadeva's quiet wisdom.

You were not just our children- you were the promise of a future we would never see. You fought like lions, defended your home like true Kshatriyas. And yet, you were slain in your sleep, denied even the honor of a warrior's death.

How cruel fate is, to take our brightest stars before dawn.

Pitamah... Did you ever forgive me?

The man who had once held him as a child, who had taught him to wield a bow before he could even walk properly, now lay upon a bed of arrows- his own arrows.

Arjuna still remembered the firm grip of his Pitamah's hands as they corrected his stance, the deep voice that guided him through his first lessons, and the rare smile that softened his otherwise unyielding features when his young grandson struck his mark. Bhishma had been a fortress, an unshakable pillar of Hastinapura-until the day he fell by Arjuna's hand.

Arjuna had always known this battle would come. But he had never imagined what it would feel like.

He had fired those arrows with trembling fingers, his heart screaming even as his duty commanded him forward. Each shot had been precise, each strike had been devastating. But no matter how sharp his aim was, nothing could dull the pain in his chest.

"Pitamah," he had whispered, kneeling by the bed of arrows. "I-"

Bhishma had only smiled, weary yet serene. "You did well, my son," he had said, as if none of it- none of the war, the pain, the broken family- mattered anymore. But Arjuna could not take solace in those words. He wanted to believe them, wanted to believe that Bhishma had truly meant them. But how could he, when the sight of his grandfather, his teacher, his elder: pierced and broken by his own hands, haunted him even now?

Did you ever forgive me, Pitamah? Even if you did, I do not know if I can ever forgive myself.

Acharya, Did I ever make you proud?

From the moment I first held a bow, it was your voice that guided my hands. Your lessons shaped me, your praise lifted me, and your approval became my greatest pursuit. More than a teacher, more than a master of warfare, you were like a father to me.

I gave you my everything. I trained until my fingers bled, until my arms ached from drawing the bowstring a thousand times over. I surpassed every challenge, met every expectation, and honed my craft with a devotion unmatched by any of your disciples. And in return, you called me your greatest student. You assured me that I was the best, that no one- not even your own son- could rival me.

But tell me, Acharya, did you ever truly mean it?

Was I your pride, or merely your sharpest blade? A weapon you forged with care, but never love?

I told myself it didn't matter. That your approval, your teachings, your guidance were enough. That your distance, your unwavering gaze fixed on your son, did not bother me. But on the battlefield, when I stood before you as an enemy, I saw the truth.

You looked at me not as a son, not even as a beloved student, but as a mere warrior standing in your way. And yet, when you fell, when you closed your eyes for the last time, I could not help but wonder-did some part of you, even for a fleeting moment, think of me as yours?

Acharya, you were a father to me. But was I ever a son to you?

Mata... did I ever tell you how much I missed you?

Kunti, the mother who shaped them all, the woman whose love was as fierce as the storms she endured. She was the first person to ever hold him, to ever whisper his name with pride, to ever soothe his childhood fears. He remembered the way her hands, calloused yet gentle, ran through his curls as she sang lullabies that carried the weight of ages.

He used to watch her in awe as a child- how she carried herself, how she stood tall even when fate stripped everything away from her. She never wept where they could see, never faltered where they could hear. Her strength was like the unyielding earth beneath his feet-always there, always holding them up, even when it cracked under its burdens.

And yet, he wondered... did she ever long for a moment of softness? A moment where she wasn't a queen, wasn't a mother, wasn't duty-bound- just Kunti?

She had raised them with fierce love but also with lessons that often tasted bitter. Her decisions had shaped their fates, made them stronger, but also left wounds too deep to ever truly heal. There had been times he resented her, times he wished she had chosen differently, times he wished she had been gentler with them. But as he grew older, as he carried his own burdens, he understood. She had done what she thought was right-what she had to do.

And then there was Karna.

Arjuna's breath caught in his chest at the mere thought of him. The shadow of a brother he never got to know, the warrior who should have been by his side but instead stood against him. The man he had hated, fought, and finally killed-only to learn the truth when it was far too late.

For years, anger had burned in his heart like an unrelenting fire. But now, as he lay upon the cold rocks, it was not anger that remained- only sorrow. Had Karna ever wondered, even for a second, what it would have been like to stand with them, to be one of them?

Would things have been different if Kunti had spoken the truth earlier? Would it have changed anything at all, or was fate too cruel, too unyielding to ever let them be brothers in this life?

The last time he saw Kunti, she had been walking away. Choosing exile, choosing to leave them behind along with Dhritarashtra and Gandhari. He hadn't understood it then, had barely spoken a word when she made her choice. But now, as he lay battered and broken upon the mountains, he understood. She had given everything for them- her youth, her happiness, her very being. And in the end, she had simply wanted rest.

Mata, did you ever find peace? Did you ever forgive yourself?

Because I forgave you a long time ago.

Madhav-was I ever truly Arjuna before meeting you?

You were my charioteer, my guide, my anchor when the world threatened to sweep me away. You were my laughter in moments of quiet, my wisdom in moments of doubt, my Sakha in every joy and sorrow. Without you, was I ever truly Arjuna, or was I just a shadow of the man you once steadied?

Do you remember, Madhav? The nights in Dwarka when we raced our chariots under the moonlight, laughing like reckless children? When we sat by the ocean, watching the waves kiss the shore, speaking of things too great for even kings and warriors to understand? When you stole my crown mid-battle, just to scold me for my pride, and I could only shake my head because, as always, you were right?

Do you remember, Madhav, that morning in Vrindavan, before the weight of kingdoms and war lay upon our shoulders? When I woke to the sound of your flute, its melody weaving through the golden light of dawn, and found you perched beneath a tree, eyes closed, utterly at peace? I had never envied anyone more than I did in that moment. You belonged to the world, yet you were entirely your own.

I had asked you, "Do you ever tire of always knowing more than the rest of us?"

And you had only smiled. "Do you ever tire of always striving to be more than yourself?"

I had scoffed, pretending to take offense, but we both knew the truth. You understood me better than I ever did myself.

Do you remember the battlefield, Madhav? When my hands trembled, my heart wavered, and you caught my wrist, steady as the earth itself? "I am here, Parth," you had said. And that was all I needed to fight.

And when you left- oh, Madhav, how did you expect me to stay? How was I to go on in a world where your laughter no longer rang in my ears, where your words did not pull me back from the abyss?

I have walked through fire, wielded my Gandiva against gods and men, lost my son, my kin, my very soul- but nothing, nothing, has ever undone me as much as your absence.

Will you be waiting for me at the end?

Arjun's breathing slowed, and he felt his strength all but vanish out of his once invincible body. 

But Arjuna had died long before his body ever fell.

He had died the day he placed his grandsire on a bed of arrows. He had died the moment he first saw his son's lifeless body.

Truly, he had stopped living the day his Madhav left him.

Because what was left for him in a world where Krishna did not walk?

Somewhere along the years, through war and bloodshed, he had always known- he would not die on the battlefield. Despite his name being synonymous with it, despite his life being defined by it, war had never been his final fate. His end was meant to be something quieter, something lonelier.

In the mountains, where he breathe his first, and now will breathe his last.

As he fell, the jagged rocks tearing through flesh and bone, his life did not flash before his eyes in a blur of bloodstained memories. No, instead, he saw the moments that had made life worth living.

The first time he held a bow, the wood smooth beneath his hands, his heart hammering with certainty: this was his calling. Pitamah's hand rested on his shoulder, firm yet gentle. "Steady, Arjuna. A warrior's hands must never tremble." And in that moment, with Bhishma's unwavering faith in him, he had never felt stronger.

"You remind me why I became a teacher, Arjuna," Guru Drona had said, resting a hand on his head, after the first time he struck the eye of a moving target. Just those words, simple and rare, had meant more to him than any title or prize.

The way Subhadra had laughed when she took the reins, wind whipping through her hair as they rode into the night.

The way Draupadi had looked at him that day in Kampilya- steady, knowing, fierce- as if she had chosen him long before she ever placed the garland around his neck.

The gleam of mischief in Nakul's eyes before a prank, the quiet steadiness in Sahadev's when he spoke truths no one else dared to say.

The warmth of Bhima's crushing embrace, the rare gentleness in Yudhishthira's touch when he wiped away his brothers' tears before shedding his own.

Abhimanyu, grinning, dimpled, bright as the sun itself, his little hands trying to pull the string of a bow far too large for him.

And then, there was Madhav.

Laughing beside him in Dwarka as they raced their chariots under the moonlight. Sitting by the ocean, speaking of things too vast even for warriors to comprehend. Catching his wrist in the midst of war, steadying him with nothing but the weight of his presence. His god. His very soul. 

He had been so tired for so long. 

His eyes fluttered open one last time. As the world around him blurred into light, a familiar voice, warm and teasing, cut through the silence.

"You just couldn't wait to see me again, Parth."

[dilly-dahlia]

I'd love to draw fanart of Cassandra if you ever post more about her heehe

my genuine reaction when i saw this ask:

i literally squealed i’m being so serious rn I CANT BELIEVE PEOPLE ARE INTERESTED!!! and the fact that you want to DRAW her??? dead. deceased. thank you so much omg

also i’m taking this as an opportunity to drop some lore and a fun fact about Cassandra Ramirez!

okay first the fun fact: she’s actually the oc i was originally gonna write into The Problem With Popularity before I decided to make it a reader insert! i literally have the whole first chapter written with her instead of y/n, so y/n’s personality in tpwp is basically a modernized version of Cassandra!!

but anyways! Cassandra has one younger sister (Julie) and is the heir to the lord position in Borobos! in the backstory i’m writing for her, she’s eighteen at the time she officially meets Gene, who is just a couple months older than her

she’s also really close with Dante! i’ve talked about it once before but Borobos is a village known for the high population of magic users it has. Dante, however, is magicless and got bullied a lot and Cassandra noticed this and started being by his side to save him from some of the ridicule he experienced (Dante actually credits her for teaching him to read later in his life). Cassandra is also very popular among her people because of the kindhearted and open minded approach she takes to everything she does, which she learned from her father

but also!! Cassandra is a very distant descendant of Esmund, so technically she is Garroth’s cousin. however the two are so far in relation that they basically don’t even share it—also Garroth is a direct descendant of Esmund but Cassandra’s bloodline can be traced back to Esmund’s sister, so not exactly Esmund himself. but because of this and Esmund’s prophetic abilities in my rewrite, Cassandra also has very minor prophetic abilities! she doesn’t exactly get visions, per say, she gets more of a feeling about things (which she is always right about) and has that “I had a dream about this” moment a lot more than others. Cassandra also has healing abilities, which she inherited from her mother

(side note but all of that was decided before i even learned about Cassandra in Greek mythology so I think it’s hilarious that I decided this)

she and Cadenza are best friends. the two visit each other in their respective villages very often and Cassandra has also admitted to having a crush on Laurance previously (I think in what I’ve written i’ve alluded to the fact that Cassandra and Laurance would’ve been together if it weren’t for the whole Gene thing)

flowers are her thing by the way!! she loves all sorts of flowers and her favorites are hydrangeas and to thank her for taking care of her son, Maria plants a flower bed for her every year. but flowers (of all kinds, but especially ones that express innocence or purity like daisies, baby’s breath, white lilies, etc) are what i associate with her! and the color white! it’s probably cliche but Cassandra is like the epitome of innocence and obedience in a way, which is part of the reason Gene is so attracted to her! it’s because he takes her innocence for naïvety (which it can be) and thinks she’s easy to manipulate.

i imagine her to have long, curly black hair. like romantic curls, ykwim?? and overall just a very soft look to her. the actress I think of for her is Deva Cassel so do with that what you will but imagine her however you’d like! this is the actress if you want some references:

okay that’s all i’m gonna say for now hehe. this ask made me feel so special anon omg if you end up drawing her tag me please i beg 🙏🏼

if y’all wanna know more about specific for her just drop and ask i’ll answer 🙂‍↕️

[aaatsuuu]

Deidara has definitely drawn all of the Akatsuki members at least once.

Tags: self explanatory, Deidara being an art and anatomy nerd lol

He definitely has a sketchbook, no question. I feel like he's drawn each Akatsuki member at least once, not necessarily because he likes them, but it's more just an artistic challenge for him. He would totally either do small portrait sketches or a full-body sketch just because. Most of the time, he'd do it when bored, or if he just wants an "out of memory" challenge. Here's how many times I think he'd draw a member/how he drew them:

Sasori: At least 3 times. At least. I feel like he definitely likes the anatomy of his puppets, but he would never truly admit it as he'd be like, "Hmph! My art is much more beautiful!" Or something, LOL. He's definitely and probably only drawn full-body, just a layout of Sasori's anatomy.

Kakuzu: Like twice. He would probably be curious about his tentacles and how they run through his body and his 5 hearts. One would probably be a portrait of Kakuzu's face, primarily focused on the stitches of his mouth and how his thread comes out of it. Another would be a full-body, showcasing his tentacle-like threads coming out of his stitches as well.

Hidan: Once. Nothing really too interesting about him beyond his skeletal markings. I feel like it'd just be a portrait of his face when he has the Jashin markings on him. (I seriously don't know what to call them besides that😭 you know, the state his skin gets after he licks blood smh)

Itachi: Once and reluctantly. He only drew a rough sketch of his face just to test his memory and practice. He ended up stabbing and ripping the paper with his pencil smh.

Pain: Honestly... I'm not sure. It's definitely more than once, though. I'm not sure if he'd draw all six paths, but he definitely drew the Deva path (Yahiko). I think it would be a full-body drawing, just focused on his chakra rods.

Konan: More than twice. I feel like he thinks her paper wings could be artistic, so he probably drew a full-body initially. For the second time, I dunno why, but I feel like he'd gift a small portrait sketch to her just cus. Idk, it's a hunch lol

Kisame: Twice, portrait only. Deidara is probably interested in his shark-like features or something like that.

Zetsu: More than thrice. Mostly because of the two halves/bodies, and also because he's fascinated by his plant structure. Always full-body, beside one sketch of his face with both halves present.

Tobi: Once, and it's a shitty doodle portrait, LOL. Tobi definitely harassed him to do it. "Ohhh, come on, please, senpaiii!?~ Make me look good, okay?~" Tobi would say as he's like pretending to curl his hair with his finger. LMAO.

[nidhi-writes]

CHAPTER - VI | HIS NIYATI

MASTERLIST

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven

"What the hell were you thinking, Bhalla?" Bijjaladeva's voice thundered through the room; his frustration was evident. His expression was confused and rage, as though he no longer recognized the son standing before him. Perhaps he didn't—not after what had spoken.

Why? The answer was simple: me.

I stood silently, my eyes shifting between father and son, but my mind was elsewhere. It spun back to yesterday's events, back to when Bhalla's lips had been on mine, claiming them with an intensity that left me breathless. His touch had been firm yet soft, his arms exploring every curve as if he had memorized the map of my body in a way that defied reason.

I had tried to keep my wits about me, tried to suppress the shivers of pleasure that coursed through me as his lips found the sensitive dip of my neck. When his teeth grazed the skin there, a gasp escaped me, followed by a moan I barely managed to stifle. My body betrayed me, responding to him even as my mind screamed for me to pull away.

I couldn't let this go on as I whispered, "Can I ask you something?" though the words sounded hollow against the storm of sensations he was making me feel.

He paused, his thumb gently brushing against my swollen lips, his gaze heavy with desire as it locked onto mine. "Anything," he murmured, his voice a husky promise as he leaned in to press another kiss to my neck, trailing heat down to my chest.

"It's about the wedding," I managed to say, though my words came out breathless as his hands slid around my waist. He pulled me closer, and before I knew it, I was straddling him, his firm grip holding me steady.

How did I end up like this?

Oh, I knew. The kiss I had foolishly allowed had quickly spiralled into this—a fevered entanglement that seemed intent on searing itself into my memory. His hands, his lips, every touch felt like a brand, leaving traces I wasn't sure I could erase. My heart and body were traitors, swooning under his attention, even as my mind begged me to resist.

"Anything you ask is an order", he echoed, his voice tinged with urgency. His lips found mine again, capturing them in a kiss so consuming that I felt myself unravel.

I had to push through and stop this before I lost myself completely. I pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss despite his protests.

"You're killing me," he whispered, his breath ragged as his forehead rested against mine. His fingers traced my jaw with tenderness, cupping it like I might disappear.

I almost forgot what I was about to say for a moment. Almost.

"It's just... I want the people from Kuntala to attend the wedding," I finally managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. His intense gaze never lowered, sending shivers down my spine as I continued, "And I want Baahu and Deva to be back for the wedding." There. I said it.

The moment the words left my lips, regret washed over me—not entirely, but enough to make me second-guess my timing. Perhaps I should have waited, had more control over the situation, or, honestly, over myself. But it was too late now.

Bhalla froze, his expression unreadable, before something dark and fiery flickered in his eyes. Was it anger? Desire? Or both? It was hard to tell, especially when we were still so intimately entwined, his touch lingering on my skin, the scent of our heated exchange still thick in the air.

I couldn't help but wonder: Was the fire in his eyes born from the intimacy we'd just shared, or had my lips uttering Baahubali's name in this vulnerable moment ignited something else entirely? A dangerous line had been crossed, and I wasn't sure which side I was standing on—or if I was even safe anymore.

"Baahu and Deva?" he finally said, his voice low and deceptively calm, though there was an unmistakable edge. His thumb brushed against my lips again, his touch lingering as if testing me, waiting for me to respond.

I nodded, my throat dry. "Yes. For the wedding."

His lips curled into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You make bold requests, little flower," he said, his voice whispered yet carrying something dangerous. His hands tightened slightly on my waist, pulling me closer. "Do you think I'll give you everything you ask for so easily?"

I swallowed hard, but I refused to back down. "It's important to me," I whispered, though my voice shivered. "Please."

His expression shifted—just for a moment—as if he were weighing my words, my resolve against whatever storm was brewing in his mind. Then, leaning in, his lips grazed the shell of my ear, and his voice dropped to a chilling whisper.

"Careful, my good girl. You're playing with fire."

A shiver ran down my spine as I felt his words' promise and warning. And yet, even as fear flickered in the back of my mind, I couldn't bring myself to look away from him.

He was sorely mistaken if he thought I would back down so easily. Yes, Bhalla was scorching hot, his whispers igniting sensations I couldn't ignore, but my mind remained stronger. I needed Baahu and Deva back—no matter what it took.

I pulled away from him, slipping off his lap as he tried to capture my lips again. Not this time. If he was the fire, then I was the oil, and I knew just how much to add to make it blaze or extinguish it completely.

"Hmm, is that your final decision?" I asked, meeting his smouldering gaze head-on. His smirk widened, lazy and confident, as he leaned back against the headboard, folding his arms behind his head. The movement accentuated his triceps and abs, blatantly displaying his physical power. I quickly averted my eyes, refusing to let him distract me.

Standing tall, I tilted my chin up. "Then I think you're not very serious about this marriage," I said, calm but deliberate. I watched his expression shift; his smirk vanished just slightly as my words hit their mark.

Before he could respond, I pressed on, my tone sharper. "You call me your queen, but what's the point if I can't even have a say in something that matters to me? If my words mean nothing to you, then maybe this..." I gestured vaguely between us, "...has no meaning either."

He shot up from the bed so quickly that it startled me. His presence towered as he closed the distance between us. Firm yet surprisingly gentle, his hands cupped my face, forcing me to meet his fiery gaze. His lips curved into a dangerous smirk that sent me shivers of fear and something darker through me.

"My love," he whispered, his voice low and intoxicating, "you are my queen. But don't forget—I am the King." His thumb brushed against my cheek, his grip tightening slightly as his tone hardened. "And we cannot overturn the decisions of the throne so easily. Baahubali left by the orders of the Queen Mother—my mother. Do you think even I can defy her wishes without consequence?"

His words sent a chill down my spine, but I refused to waver. "If you are truly the King," I said softly but firmly, "then act like one."

***

They say even the strongest men fall prey to the love they feel, and in Bhalla's case, that couldn't have been truer. Hours of my relentless stubbornness finally wore him down, but not without a condition—Baahu and Deva could attend the wedding but would have to leave immediately after.

It wasn't ideal, but I took it. After all, it was a start where I had managed to bring Bhalla, the great villain, to his knees. To see him trying to bribe me with gifts and lavish jewellery in exchange for dropping my demand was a sight I'd never forget.

But victory came when he finally gave in and promised to speak to the Queen Mother and his father. My heart fluttered with victory, and I decided to reward him. Leaning forward, I kissed his lips—not full-on, but enough to make sure my lips lingered, caressing his, teasing him just enough to set the fire ablaze.

When I felt him trying to deepen the kiss, his hands reaching to pull me closer, I pulled back, smirking. This time, I was playing the cards.

"Should leave something for after the wedding," I whispered, my voice low and coy, before stepping away. His expression was priceless—dumbstruck, frustrated, and burning with a need I wasn't ready to quench yet.

I didn't look back as I vanished into the gardens, but I let out a shaky breath when I was out of sight. My legs gave way, and I sank onto a nearby bench, my cheeks flaming.

Oh, my gods. I did it. I did it.

The memory of his stunned face brought a small, victorious smile to my lips, though my heart still raced in disbelief. Somehow, I had managed to outwit Bhalla—and I was beginning to realize how dangerous this game of hearts could become.

And that's how Bhalla ended up being grilled by his father, Bijjaladeva, while Sivagami loomed nearby, her gaze sharp and unyielding like a hawk. The tension in the room was palpable as I stood quietly to the side, my expression crafted into perfect innocence—like the good girl Bhalla so often called me. Good girls, though, know how to play bad when it counts.

"Stop!" Sivagami's commanding voice echoed through the chamber, instantly silencing the argument. She stepped closer to Bhalla, her sharp eyes analyzing him before flicking toward me, burning with intensity. "I am not sure how you made this decision," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "but I hope you've thought it through. After all, it's my future daughter-in-law's wish, and I want it to come true."

Her words left me stunned. Did I earn Sivagami's approval—or was this some calculated move of hers? She turned and walked away, leaving behind a fuming Bijjaladeva. His glare felt like a dagger aimed straight at me, anger and disdain practically radiating from him. If looks could kill, I'd already be six feet under.

But I held firm. Rolling my eyes inwardly, I kept the same broad, innocent puppy-dog eyes fixed in place while sensing Bhalla's gaze softening as it settled on me. His expression shifted, melting from irritation to adoration. My heart strengthened—this man was wrapped around my finger, and I intended to use it to my full advantage.

Without a word, Bhalla took my hand and led me away from the cold atmosphere of the council chamber to my room's privacy. There, he gently laid me down on the bed, his eyes warm and protective as he brushed strands of hair from my face.

"You're my queen," he murmured, his hand caressing my hair. Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to my forehead. His touch was gentle, his devotion clear.

As he stayed with me until I drifted into sleep, I couldn't help but smirk inwardly. It's a good thing Bhalla either loves me—or is utterly obsessed with me. Because I'll need every ounce of that obsession to ensure my plans become reality.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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[whimsiquix]

Quick Fic: Saints

TOW Deva tries to drown his sorrows, Varadha looks bomb in eyeliner and there's no actual alcohol involved cause they're both losers. [2017]

“What are you drinking?” 

Deva startles knocking over his glass instantly. 

Varadha just raises an unimpressed brow before indicating toward the bartender, turning away for a moment to let Deva look.

“Nothing major.” Deva says, his throat dry as a dessert. 

Varadha shrugs. “I figured you hadn’t developed taste in the time we’ve been apart.”

“I still like you do I not?”

“Yes, it is pretty tasteless to like someone who doesn’t like you back. What’s that like?” 

“Like a live-wire through my blood every time I look at him.” 

He turns away from the bartable to face Varadha. Varadha loved having the upper hand but he’s never managed to be so much as coherent when Deva got in his space. It’s a superpower Deva has always used liberally. He curls a palm around Varadha’s thigh, yanking him closer by it. 

Varadha, predictably shivers. Swallows. 

“You stopped the seal.” His voice is low and throaty. 

Deva presses his face closer to Varadha, grazing his lips over the arrogant curve of his neck. “There was a girlfriend involved. Not that you’d know what that’s like.” 

“Girlfriend? And here you are humping my leg. Not very good is she?”

“Very boring.” Deva promises, pressing a sweet kiss to Varadha’s collarbone. “Has a ridiculous foreign accent, makes me ears bleed.” 

Varadha snorts, curving his neck away to give Deva more access. “I didn’t come here to make out with you.” He says belying his actions. Deva huffs incredulously. 

Varadha turns around to face him. “Why did you stop my seal? I’ll have to kill you now. What a hassle.” 

“Hang until death? Boring. So many other ways for you to kill me. You can take off your clothes and get on your knees for starters.” 

Varadha laughs. “Darling the day I get on my knees for you will be your funeral.” 

Deva pulls Varadha up to his height by the silver coils wrapped around his neck, “You’ll mourn me?” He murmurs against his lips.

“Everyday for the rest of my life.” 

Deva kisses him then and as always Varadha falls into him, sweet and soft in his arms. It’s easy to tongue at his jaw, run his thumb worshipfully over the delicate fan of his lashes and the play of the club lights on his features. ‘You’re so beautiful it makes me ache’ he wants to say. Swallows the words down for all they feel like thorns down his throat. “I’ll never fight you. Your judgement is absolute.” He promises instead.

Varadha blinks at him, always, always caught off guard by Deva’s devotion even though he really shouldn’t be. A moment later, he smiles, a desperately sad thing that makes Deva hurt to his bones even as he tugs at Deva’s curls, a lost look in his eyes that Deva hates to see. 

Abruptly, Varadha stands up, as though ashamed of his own vulnerability. He turns away from Deva, the sheer little number he's wearing leaving little to imagination. “You should work on your own accent.” is all he says before breaking through the throngs of milling people and disappearing into the crowd. 

In Deva’s pocket, the familiar crinkle of a flight ticket for himself, mother and now Aadhya out of the country in Kansaar Kartha’s own private jet. As is customary, Deva tears them up and throws them into his beer jug. 

[alezangona]

The Sweetest of Nights

My Submission for #varadevaloveday!

Deva squints through one eye, focusing on the sapota that hangs from the tree’s highest branch, slingshot pulled back and ready to disarm. He hesitates for a moment, tucking in his lips as he moves his hand just slightly lower to fix his position. Then, taking in a deep breath, he releases the shot. 

The rock sails through the air, making its way to the mark, before missing it by a hair’s breadth. The rock tumbles to the ground joining its fellow fallen comrades in a small heap. 

Deva curses, irritation passing across his features and he runs his fingers through his thick curls, wanting nothing more than to tug them out of his head as the humidity smothers his dwindling patience. 

“Your curls are your money makers, idiot. Don’t go bald already, it’s bad for our reputation.” Deva huffs, turning around to look at his friend, unamused. 

“You try to spend fifteen minutes failing to shoot down fruit in this weather and let me know how you fare.” Varadha just smiles at that, plucking the slingshot out of Deva’s hand. He picks up a stone from the ground, throwing it up and down as he tests the weight. Seeming satisfied with whatever result he was looking for, he loads it into the shot and aims up towards the top of the tree. Within the blink of an eye, the rock disappears from his grip and the sapota falls to the ground, only to be picked up by Varadha.

“Here!” He places it into Deva’s waiting hand. 

Deva wants to look unaffected by it all. But seeing Varadha’s face breaking into a pleased grin at the thought of being able to do something that made Deva’s life easier stops him in his tracks. He doesn’t understand why that smile is so disarming, to the point that it has stopped his breath at times. Or why even just a hint of it makes him lose track of his thoughts, mind wandering instead to the flawless shape of Varadha’s lips that resemble the curve of Madhana’s bow. So, he looks down at the fruit in hand, peeling it as he tries to calm the pounding of his heart. 

“Here.” He hands Varadha half of the fruit, looking up at him once more. Deva didn’t think it could be possible, but Varadha’s smile deepens further at the gesture and he pops the fruit into his mouth, eyes closing in pleasure as the sweetness of the taste overcomes the humidity of the summer day. 

Nothing else needs to be said as they spend another hour among the grove, Varadha shooting and Deva peeling the fruits. Sometimes they’d stand together, watching as their mark would hit the ground. At other times, they’d sit under the shade, chewing leisurely as they discussed anything and everything, including how much they were annoyed by Rudra and his gang of miscreants.

“So…” Finally, Varadha turns towards Deva, wringing his sticky hands together. “My dad gave me money earlier today as a gift for doing well on last week’s exam. I was thinking, maybe you and I can use that today to go to the fair?” 

“I thought you were trying to save up to buy that game?” Deva’s brows pull together as he studies Varadha. “Why the fair?”

Varadha shrugs, his long face turning off to the side. Once again, Deva is overcome by the sheer beauty of Varadha’s profile among the light of the setting sun that bounces off the greenery of the grove, to which he could find no other comparison but the intricate sculptures that lined temple walls. 

“It’s your birthday tomorrow and I know your dad is going to be taking you and Amma out of town for a few days to celebrate. I just wanted to spend time with you before then.” 

Warmth spreads through Deva’s body like wildfire at the statement. He knows how important that game is to Varadha considering it’s the first thing he will ever gift his brother Baachi. He’d been saving up for months to buy the Chaturanga set by Rakhi, hoping to teach his younger brother all the strategies the way his father taught him. Yet, he’s willing to put his goal aside for a second just to what? Celebrate Deva’s birthday? 

“We don’t have to do that, Varadha.” Deva remarks as he nudges his shoulder, brimming with happiness at the implication of Varadha caring about him. For a second, Varadha’s face falls and his hand comes to scratch against the back of his neck. 

“You have other plans then for tonight?” 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying and you know it.” Deva tilts his head, gazing rather fondly at his friend. It always amused him how Varadha seemed to be the smartest boy he knew, yet the dumbest at the same time. Charming. “I’m saying that I don’t need to be at a festival with you to enjoy my birthday. I’m just as happy here as I would be over there. What it ends up coming down to is you, ra. There’s no need to go around doing something like wasting your money on me when you should be saving it up for Baachi.”

“You’re so thick-skulled sometimes.” Varadha shoves his shoulders, sending Deva tumbling towards the roots before springing back to his original place. “I’m asking because I want to do this with you, asshole. So, can we just go and celebrate before you disappear for an entire week?” 

Deva couldn’t possibly say no.

~*~

“It’s your birthday, Deva. I’m pretty sure I should be getting you something, not the other way around.” Varadha huffs as he tries to settle the giant toy Deva won him somewhere across his shoulders. Deva refuses to hold back his laughter at the sight of the big, orange monkey draped colorfully across the black canvas of Varadha’s lanky frame. At the sight of the laughter, Varadha replies with a playful push against his arm, almost toppling over when he forgets to balance out the extra weight of the stuffed animal. 

Deva catches him in the nick of time, pulling with slightly too much power that it brings him and Varadha chest-to-chest, so close that he could make out the fading details of a dark mark on Varadha’s cheek. He swallows tightly, not understanding the sudden constriction of his chest as Varadha’s gaze meets his, so open and tender, despite the annoying primate dangling behind him. 

“Learn how to be careful will you? I won’t always be around to catch you, you clutz.” Deva means for it to sound firm, but is almost embarrassed by how breathy it comes out of him. Varadha doesn’t seem to notice however as he steps away with a roll of his eyes.

“Please, there isn’t anything we could fight about that would break us up like that.” Finally, he ties the legs of the animal around his waist, a triumphant gleam in his eyes when it stays in place. “Hell yeah! Finally figured it out!”

“You know you also could’ve given it away or left it on the streets? It’s just a toy.” Deva laughs, catching up to him again.

“Are you insane? It’s mine now. I’m not parting from it for all the gold in the world.” 

They spend the rest of the night aimlessly wandering around the festival. Sometimes they play the games set up by vendors, winning too many prizes by the end of it all, that they end up giving them away to the smaller kids around them. They go up to the food stalls, ordering chaat and sharing it as they watch people go by, idly commenting on what must be going on in each of their lives. They hop on the roller coaster, pendulum, and wipeout in quick succession, taking a moment to soothe their stomachs by riding in a swan boat across the small pond. 

Finally as the night draws to an end, Varadha tugs a pleasantly tired Deva along to grab a bag of cotton candy that he insists they eat on the Ferris Wheel where they can get the best view of Khansar. They walk through the crowds of people, under the glowing canopy of lights, dragging the monkey and bag of cotton candy behind them as they make their way towards the giant circle that looms over the festival. To Varadha, it looks like it could almost be as big as his Shiva Mannar’s court. Though, that might just be because of the balmy buzz that was overtaking him this night as he spends time in Deva’s presence.

He hadn’t let Deva know, but Varadha has been on edge for days now as the family trip approaches. It’s selfish of him to want Deva near him at all times when he knows how much Deva looks forward to the outings since Dhaara is a busy man and can only spend so much time with his family. But when he is able to make time, he takes them to some of the most beautiful locations across the world. 

During a dinner at his home one night, Deva expressed his favorite place so far had been the Channakeshava temple in Belur, where he claimed the intricacy of the sculptures was so mesmerizing that he felt as if his eyes weren’t enough to take in the beauty. Dhaara meanwhile, explained to Varadha with pride how the temple took three generations, over the span of a hundred years, to be built, and despite how many times it was pillaged and plundered, it was repeatedly rebuilt and repaired and has lasted to this day. 

Then, Dhaara looked at Varadha, really looked at him, stating the history of the temple wasn’t quite so different from that of Khansar. That the beauty of this city too, came not only from its foundation but its ability to grow and thrive despite the toils it faced during its history. There was something about the conviction in his tone that shook Varadha to the core and he could suddenly understand why his grandfather had such a soft spot for this man. Then Dhaara’s demeanor changed and he was back to being a jovial man who’s charming nature was enough to light up the dim room they were sitting in. 

That night, as Deva walked him home, he handed him a picture he had taken of one of the sculptures with a shrug, stating how he didn’t have to take it. It was just something he saw that reminded him of Varadha. 

To this date, the picture was taped to the wall in his room, above his desk. Sometimes he’d catch himself looking at it as he finished his homework, wondering what exactly Deva noticed about it that reminded him of Varadha. In the end, all he could make out was a stunning sculpture with a sweet smile. 

Still, the small picture and the never ending trinkets lined up beneath it, always brought with them a deep sense of euphoria because it seemed that Deva too would think of him when he was away. It wasn’t just Varadha waiting for his return. 

It won’t be till years later, during Deva’s absence, that Varadha will come to understand his feelings. It won’t be till then that he realizes that he didn’t just love his dear friend, but that he was in love with him.

But for this night, he tried to set aside his anxiety surrounding Deva’s departure and let a glowing smile light his lips as they sat across from each other in the small compartment of the wheel, their knees brushing against each other. As they passed from point to point, they’d gaze out of their cart, letting the sweet candy melt against their tongues as they took in the bright lights of the city. 

“Thank you for this,” Deva murmurs once they get high enough that the sounds of the festival begin to dim. “I had a lot of fun.” Varadha shakes his head at him, getting up from his seat and plastering himself next to Deva instead.

“I feel like I remember telling you before that there’s no need for please and thank you between friends?”

“Yeah, yeah. But still. It’s been a lot of fun and I know it’s dumb to say since it’ll only be a week, but I’ll miss you when I’m gone.” 

Varadha doesn’t know how to answer, so he throws an arm against Deva’s shoulder and pulls him in closer. 

“I guess we’re both dumb then because I’ll miss you too.” At that, one of Deva’s arms comes up behind him, wrapping across his torso. They rest their heads against each other, young minds not being able to put a name to the feeling expanding between them, but content to be in each other’s company without seeking an answer. 

A clanging sound interrupts them and they pull apart in time to see the distant clock tower striking midnight, their cart coming to a stop at the top-most point. 

“Shit, Amma’s gonna kill me.” Deva shoots up in his seat, panic shutting off his ability to think. He can’t believe he didn’t notice just how much time had passed. 

“Rey!” Varadha grabs his arm and pulls him down when the cart begins to swing from the momentum. “Sit down will you! What are you going to do? Jump off?”

“I don’t know! Maybe.” Deva groans, burrying his face in his hands. “I already got in trouble last week for going home late after we went to the movies. She’s going to murder me, ra.” 

“Don’t worry,” Varadha peels his hands off his face. “I already talked to her and got permission to keep you out late today. She won’t kill you, not for this.” The tension melts off of Deva’s face, only for confusion to take over in its stead. 

“This late? Why?” 

“Na potti bangaram kosam (For my short gold). Happy birthday, ra.” Varadha playfully pinches Deva’s cheek and laughs when he shoves him away, face souring. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a short necklace, handing it over to Deva who observes the square pendant hanging from a black thread. “My mom helped me find it, she said it’s a charm for good luck. I just thought it looked cool.” Varadha shrugs, trying not to make it seem like too big of a deal.

Deva just swallows, looking intently at the silver pendant resting in his palm. It makes Varadha nervous enough that he grabs it out of his hand and pulls it over Deva’s head. 

“See! It looks great on you!” Varadha beams at the choker lying at the dip of Deva’s neck. “Mannarsi craftsmanship is unbeatable you know?” 

“I beg to differ,” Deva says immediately, but then his voice softens noticeably. “But yeah, this gift is hard to beat.” 

~*~

When they walk home that night, it’s in anything but silence. Varadha shares the story of how he happened upon the necklace and thought it’d be perfect for Deva considering how he keeps ending up in dangerous situations. Deva defends himself saying that he only gets roped into those things because of Varadha, to which he can’t argue. The words keep drifting from their lips even as they approach the intersection where they need to separate to get home. Yet, they stand at the street corner, bringing up the most redundant of tales in an effort to make the night last longer. 

Finally, they pull themselves into a bone-crushing hug, clinging to each other as the cool breeze brushes against them.

Unable to part just yet, they stay there for a while longer, letting time pass them by under the midnight sky.

~*~

Author's Note:

So sorry for the late post! Really tried to get it out by Valentine's Day but I was traveling and kept falling asleep as I wrote. But I've been having so much fun getting to see everyone else's work! Love the talent in this fandom!

A huge thank you to @rambheem-is-real and @deadloverscity for hosting this event!

[rambheem-is-real]

Snail Fic

varadeva, crackfic based on server convos

Kid Deva is afraid of snails.

-

1981

Deva runs over to his father, dutifully presenting the bundle of documents Amma had sent with him. 

Dhaara smiles down at him, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Look at my boy, so responsible.” Deva feels his chest puff with pride. “Six years old and already going on important missions for the tribe.” Dhaara pokes Deva’s cheek, and Deva giggles. 

His father takes the documents, glancing down at them before setting them on the desk, and then returns his attention to Deva. “Well? Didn’t your mother tell you to come back home once you’re done here?”

Deva doesn’t move, but his lips drop down into a pout. Dhaara chuckles. “Alright, alright, I did promise you last week that I would take you into the Shouryanga forges,” he says, and Deva bounces on his toes, giddy over the fact that he’d get to see where his father worked most of the week, when he wasn’t at home or in political meetings with the rest of the tribe council. “Follow me.” 

Dhaara reaches towards the documents on the desk, then stops. “Not again,” he sighs. “We’ll have to get new ones, chinna.”

Deva walks over to the desk, leaning on his tippy-toes to see the papers. He gasps when he sees that they look.. wet? He quickly scans the rest of the surface. The cup of coffee is on the far side, and there’s no way it would’ve spilled all the way over here. However, there seems to be a trail of wetness across a corner of the desk, the one that the papers were close to. “What happened?” he asks. 

“Snail,” Dhaara says. “Now come on,” he gestures towards the door, but Deva stays put. 

“What’s a snail?”

“It’s an animal,” Dhaara explains. “It’s tiny and when it moves it leaves behind a trail of mucus.”

Deva glares at the wetness. Mucus, Dhaara had called it. How dare this snail ruin Nanna’s papers! he thinks. He turns back to Dhaara, shaking his head. “There’s a snail in here,” he says, and as always Dhaara understands his son perfectly. 

He chuckles at the little boy. “What, you’re gonna stay here until you catch it?” 

Deva nods, imagining himself as one of the superheroes in the comic books Varadha had stolen from Rudra. 

“And then what? You’ll kill it?” 

Deva immediately deflates. He hadn’t gotten that far in his imagination. How hard would it be to kill a snail?

“Chinna,” Dhaara tries to reason with him, but Deva’s already turning his back on him, pushing a chubby finger through the mucus on the desk. 

Determined little wolf, Dhaara thinks affectionately. He’s going to be a great leader. Chuckling, he makes his way out of the office room. Dhaara’s halfway outside the door when he hears an ear splitting scream, and immediately races back inside, heart pounding. That had been his son.

Expecting Mannarsi soldiers, Ghaniyar spies, or a ferocious beast of an animal, Dhaara runs into the office to see Deva sitting on the floor, staring agape at the desk, clutching his left hand to his chest. 

“Deva?!” 

Deva turns to look at him, still shocked, and wails, “SNAIL!”

Dhaara has to fight to not immediately burst out laughing at the mental image of what must have happened. Oh my God, he thinks, he’s terrified of snails. His brave little wolf cub, who wasn’t afraid of the dark, snakes, spiders, Raja Mannar’s scowling face, or anything a typical child might be afraid of, was terrified of snails.  He gently approaches his son, trying his best to keep a straight face. “Did you touch it?”

Deva nods, and a tear slips down his face. “It was so sticky,” he whispers. 

Dhaara scoops Deva up into his arms, and Deva doesn’t protest, only curling around him and resting his head on Dhaara’s neck. “It’s okay, chinna. Let’s just go home.” He only hopes Deva doesn’t feel the way he’s shaking from keeping the laughter in. 

-

1985

“-and those wisps up there, they’re called cirrus clouds,” Varadha explains, pointing to said clouds. Deva nods, listening raptly. His Varadha was so smart. 

They’re enjoying a leisurely day in the meadow, both of them not having any clan-related duties for the time being. Deva had brought a blanket for them to sit on, and Varadha had brought some biscuits to snack on. They spent most of the morning chasing each other in the grass, until they got tired and laid down, Deva’s head resting on Varadha’s chest, as he talked Deva’s ear off about what he learned that week from his science tutor. Not that Deva had any complaints. It was cool information, and even cooler coming from his best friend. 

“The water cycle-” Varadha cuts himself off, but Deva just closes his eyes, soaking in the sun, the cool ground underneath, and the feeling of Varadha so close to him. This was bliss. 

“Oh hey, little one,” Varadha croons. He’s probably found another frog or something, Deva thinks. Varadha had a problem when it came to animals, always wanting to cuddle the ones he thought were cute even if it meant it might be dangerous. “You’re adorable. Rey, Deva, look at this!” 

Deva feels something dropped onto his chest, and figures it's the frog. “What should I name him?” He opens his eyes, aiming to only briefly glance at the thing and offer a suitable name for Varadha, before going back to relaxing. 

Deva’s met with an abomination of a creature, its white eyes staring Deva down from the V of its antennae. He immediately lets out a strangled scream, body jolting in terror. 

Varadha immediately turns to him in confusion. “Deva? What’s wrong?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Deva can’t let Varadha know about his fear. No self respecting ten-year-old should be scared of snails. Besides, it was usually Varadha being scared about something and coming to Deva for reassurance (that Deva would gladly provide), not the other way around. Varadha wouldn’t think Deva was cool if he ever found out about the snail problem. 

“Nothing, ra. Just thought I felt something.” 

“Oh, ok,” Varadha says, although he still sounds suspicious. “You’re alright then?”

Deva forces himself to look away from the beast’s horrific body, crawling around right on his chest , and towards Varadha, still worried. He plasters on a fake grin. “Of course! Never better! Absolutely jolly.” 

Varadha raises his eyebrow. “‘Absolutely jolly’? What the hell, ra?”

He’s gotta do something about this. Deva leaps to his feet, turning his back on Varadha, brushing away the snail as quickly as he can, shuddering at the wet sensation on his knuckles. 

“I think I’m just tired, I’m gonna go home and sleep,” he tells his friend. Go home and cry, more like, Deva thinks to himself. It was so wet-

“You dropped him!” Deva whips around to see Varadha lunge towards the fucking snail between Deva’s legs, cradling it within his hands as if it were some angelic being. Varadha smiles down at the way it squirms, not noticing the way Deva’s body is doing the same thing in the presence of the snail. “I think I’ll call him Deva Jr.”

Deva bites back all the swears he knows, which are honestly not a lot. “Ok, have fun with your snail. I’ll see you tomorrow, ra,” Deva calls back as he starts to speedwalk his way out of the meadow, determinedly not looking back. 

“Rey! Picchoda, you forgot your blanket!” Varadha calls out, and there was definitely suspicion in his voice. 

“Bring it to me tomorrow!” Deva shouts back. As soon as he’s out of the field and within the trees he starts running. 

-

Snails. Hundreds of tiny ones. They were slowly gaining on Deva, mucus trailing behind them. Deva backs up into a wall, eyes wide as he realizes there’s no way out. The snails crawl up his body, up his face, in his-

“Rey, wake up, Amma is calling!” 

Deva wakes up gasping. He stares at Varadha in his room, and Varadha stares back until he seems to realize he had something to say. 

“Oh! I’m here to return this,” he explains, and shows Deva the blanket, putting it on the foot of the bed before he scampers back to Deva. “Don’t have time the rest of today, I’m helping Thatha with the Bharghat negotiations!” Varadha beams at Deva, clearly excited, and Deva can’t help but smile back. His Vara was too cute. 

Something wet brushes his arm, and Deva yanks it out of the bedsheets. Both he and Varadha look at the white snail suctioned to Deva’s arm. He’s too tired to pretend he’s not scared out of his mind, he just woke up for God’s sake. Deva screams. 

He wiggles his arm around in the air, trying to get the snail to fly off, but the snail is sticking to him with the mucus. Varadha watches, eyes wide. “So THAT’s why you left so early yesterday?” 

Deva tries flicking the snail with his other hand, but that doesn’t do anything either. 

“You’re afraid of SNAILS?”

“NO I’M NOT,” Deva yells back, resorting to slapping at the arm. The snail crawls forward during a brief pause of Deva’s hand swatting at it, and Deva screams once again. 

“YES YOU ARE!” Varadha cackles.He gently grips the body of the snail and pulls it until the suction gives way. He grins at Deva, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “What were you even trying to do? You couldn’t have just told me?” 

Deva looks down at his hands, frowning. “You’d think I was a coward.”

Quickly, Varadha darts in and gives Deva a hug. When he pulls back, Varadha gives him a soft smile. “Rey. You’re the bravest person I know. Even now.”

Deva perks up at that. “Really?”

Varadha nods. “Of course. And the snail thing,” he grins bashfully, “just makes you cuter.” 

Deva feels his ears burning. Cuter. His Varadha’s voice calling him that is going to rattle around in his head forever. 

“Rey Deva, wake up, how many times must I yell?” The voice of Deva’s mother seems to bring Varadha back to reality. 

“Oh, I’m gonna be late. Bye, ra!” Varadha calls out as he runs out of the room. He peaks around from the door, shit-eating grin on his face. “Of course, you can visit Deva Jr. anytime you want in Kotagadi!” 

“Yedava!” Deva yells, throwing a pillow at his friend, and Varadha easily dodges, laughing as he leaves the hallway. Deva can’t help but smile though. 

Cuter.

-

[itslarsyouguys]

I got a deva cut for the first time yesterday and I’m really happy with how my curls turned out

[writingpandagoth]

These are the stories Hogwarts didn’t dare archive — the scandalous gossips, enchanted mishaps, magical crimes, emotional confessions, and glitter-fueled disasters left out of the official records from:

Sharp Tongues, Soft Hearts.

Summary:

In todays issue of "Whispering Quill: Hogwarts Most mysterious and Untraceable Gossip Scroll"

A cursed sugar bowl sparks an all-out prank war between the Chaos Coven and the Marauders. Glam hexes, diary confessions, enchanted cheese wheels—nothing is off limits.

It all ends at the Hogwarts Gala, where glitter rains, secrets explode, and reputations go up in sparkly flames.

Hogwarts is still in Shock.

A Duel Of Doom

Year: Seventh Time: Wednesday Morning (post all night Club House chaos) Location: The Great Hall

It starts like most wars do: with a prank in the Great Hall.

Sunlight filters through the enchanted ceiling, catching on floating owls and shimmering breakfast platters. The student body buzzes with low, sleepy energy — just enough life to butter toast but not enough for scandal. Yet.

You sit at the Slytherin table with your Chaos Coven.

Cassie is mid-lip-gloss application. Leona is silently judging every fashion choice in the room. Nyra drinks her coffee like it personally wronged her and Severus…

well, he’s brooding. Exceptionally.

Everything is normal.

Until the Marauders walk in.

They stroll past your table too casually — James Potter flashing that overconfident smirk, Sirius Black pretending not to look at Cassie, Remus looking guilty already, and Peter Pettigrew trying to blend in with the stonework.

You narrow your eyes at their behavior.

Then Leona reaches for the sugar.

The transformation is instant.

Her glam vanishes. Her hair frizzes out. A glowing, pink-smeared speech bubble hovers over her head and sings — yes, sings —

"I KNOW YOUR SECRETS AND I WILL SCREAM THEM!"

She freezes. You freeze. The table goes dead silent.

Nyra who bites into her muffin immediately morphs into a haunted porcelain doll. A smoky halo floats above her head. Lullaby music trails behind her as she eats in eerie, floating silence.

Cassie stabs a sausage with perfect precision when her robes shimmer and erupt into a screaming opera gown, complete with magical sparkles and a faint orchestral backing every time she blinks.

And Severus — dear, snarky Severus —  who reaches for a piece of toast becomes a walking Gryffindor PSA. His robes turn red and gold. His hair curls up and a badge appears on his chest that reads "Friendship First!" while his voice — horrifyingly chirpy — chimes:

"Let’s all study together and make friendship bracelets!"

You choke on air reaching to take a sip to calm your coughing reaching for your goblet but before you can take a sip the world ends.

Your hair explodes into bubblegum pink. A tiara lands on your head. Your robes sparkle like a cursed tiara commercial. And your mouth — your mouth — betrays you with:

"I’m just a silly girl who LOVES to gossip and cry during potions and maybe write Mrs. Y/n Snape in her notebook —"

The tiara detonates. Sparkles rain down like emotional shrapnel.

The Marauders are laughing. James is howling. Sirius looks like he’s about to cry from joy. Even Remus winces.

You all rise from your seats. Not shaking. Not screaming. Just seething.

“They want war?” you say, voice calm.

Your girls look up.

“Let’s give them one.”

The club house was always your sanctuary of chaos. Now, it’s your tactical war room.

You sit at the conjured center table, your fingers stained with ink and glitter.

Cassie lounges in a chaise, twirling her wand like a dagger.

Leona paces like a general mid-battle, muttering hexes under her breath.

Nyra sharpens her wand on a jagged rock she insists is “just decorative.”

Severus leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes cold, looking like he was planning an ambush… and possibly a funeral.

No one speaks.

Until Cassie flips her hair and says, sweet as poison, “I want blood.”

“We give them social collapse,” Leona replies. “Emotional devastation. Magical regret.”

“They turned me into a haunted Victorian toy,” Nyra murmurs. “I vote blood.”

You inhale slowly, let it out, and say: “No mercy. No warnings. No restraint.”

Severus pushes off the wall and steps toward the table. He isn’t even pretending to be neutral.

His sleeves are rolled up. His voice is calm. His soul? Vengeful.

"They will all fall."

Cassie strikes first — and Sirius pays the price.

Every mirror in Hogwarts is enchanted to scream "BAD DOG" when he walks by. Loud. Echoing.

His shampoo is hexed — filled with glitter glue and cursed to scream in Peter’s voice: "Sirius! Your hair is so pretty!" every time he touches the bottle.

His comb? It hisses insults. “Greasy!” “Try again, fluff-boy!” “Still not hotter than me.”

His robes bark — actual barking — and crack cheesy dog jokes during lectures:

“What do you call a dog wizard? A Labra-cadabra-dor!”

He goes to scream in the Prefects' bathroom.

Cassie sips her tea. Calm. Satisfied.

Leona turns her gaze to James Potter.

She curses his broom. Now, every takeoff is announced by the broom itself screaming, “OVERCOMPENSATION!”

Every book he opens whispers things like:

“You’d be smarter if you just shut up.”

His clothes are hexed — all pink, all singing. When Remus walks by, his robes serenade:

“Love is real! Love is true! Especially when he’s watching you!”

When James tries to talk to Lily, he breaks into spontaneous chicken dancing, complete with sound effects.

Worst of all? Every time he brags, he finishes his sentence with a magically projected voice shouting:

“I’M INSECURE!”

Even his favorite brush squeaks “Arrogant!” in five languages.

He is throwing a fit while throwing everything around within reach.

Leona just walks past him, flips her hair, and says, “Two down, Two to go.”

Nyra goes for Remus.

She enchants his planner.

Appointments begin to fill in magically:

“Snogging with the Bloody Baron – 12 AM”

“Dumbledore’s feet massage – 3 PM”

“Pet the Forbidden Forest spiders – Always”

His books start screaming when he opens them: “LIAR! LIAR! BOOK ON FIRE!”

They burst into harmless pink flames — but it’s enough to send him into a guilt spiral.

His snack stash turns on him. Every chocolate frog ribbits, “We’re disappointed in you,” and then hops into his face.

He gets tackled by Peeves in the shower.

His screams echoed through the whole castle.

Cassie asks how Nyra managed it. Nyra just smiles.

Severus and you team up for Peter.

You hex his food to cry when bitten. His sandwich weeps. His apple sobs.

His quill only writes romantic poetry about cheese in glittery ink: “Brie, oh Brie, how you comfort me—”

His socks insult him. Every step, a new roast. In multiple languages.

His inkwell explodes in his face, growling first.

You and Severus find him sobbing in a corridor. You gives him a sparkly sticker that says “Try Again Tomorrow.”

No one comforts him.

Not even the portraits.

That afternoon, the five of you stand at the courtyard balcony.

Sirius runs from a mirror shouting “BAD DOG.”

James fights with his robes, tangled into a heart-shaped knot.

Remus cradles a cursed book, muttering, “Why me?”

Peter is covered in cheese and rat traps, sobbing.

Severus stands in the center, arms folded. Cassie and Nyra on his right, smug and sparkling. Leona and you on his left, eyes cold and amused.

“They will retaliate,” Severus says.

“Let them try.” you reply smug.

The sun catches the glitter in your hair like fire.

Nyra murmurs, “It's 1:1. Bring it on.”

You thought the Marauders would sulk. Maybe lick their wounds, pull a silly stunt, and move on. You were wrong.

They hit back hard.

It starts subtly, like all betrayals do.

Leona’s glam bag—an enchanted masterpiece of organizational magic and aesthetic precision—betrays her. Her foundation bottle shrieks when opened. Her mascara audibly questions her life choices.

Her enchanted mirror—gifted, expensive, impossibly flattering—warps her reflection into a clown-faced parody. At breakfast, her reflection sobs in laughter.

Her lip gloss, traitorous and previously Cassie-approved, now explodes into glittery fireworks every time she lies.

“No, I hate Sirius Black—” BOOM.

“I’m not mad right now—” BOOM.

By lunch, she hexes a suit of armor. By dinner, she walks into the common room like a goddess returned from hellfire.

“They messed with the brand,” she says flatly. “This is war.”

Cassie’s robes flicker like a glitching portrait. They scream overly-enthusiastic House spirit slogans at inopportune times:

“Slaytherin Queen!” “Smile More!” “Perfection Starts with You!”

Each line is punctuated by a chirpy chime so nauseating even Flitwick flinches.

Whenever she talks the walls shriek: “Boooooring!”

Her shoes develop a mind of their own. They trip her. Launch her into spontaneous dances whenever she passes a professor.

Her textbook begins editing her essays with snarky commentary… in James Potter’s handwriting.

She stares at the ink until it bursts into flames.

She doesn’t speak for six hours.

When she does— every plant in the Herbology greenhouse wilts.

Even Professor Sprout leaves.

You don’t know how they got to Nyra. But when she walks into the Great Hall, something is... off.

All her clothes are pastel. Her wand trails glittery heart-shaped smoke. Her once-perfect eyeliner is now bubblegum pink with glitter accents.

Worst of all?

She’s renamed on the official class roll as "Nyra Sparkle-Muffin."

Whenever someone says her name—anyone—random students within earshot shout, "SPARKLE MUFFIN!"

She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t yell.

She calmly begins writing a scroll titled: "Curses I Will Not Regret."

Even her familiar, a sleek, intimidating raven, is transformed into a pink-dusted glitter pigeon.

The Marauders run when they see her.

Remus apologizes.

She smiles. "I forgive you."

She’s lying.

Then… they go after Severus.

His prized potion kit, meticulously organized and guarded like Gringotts treasure, is tampered with. Labels are swapped. Some ingredients replaced. When he attempts a basic calming draught, it explodes into pink glitter hearts.

His cauldron bubbles. Pops. And bursts into candy-heart steam. Each puff whispers: “Snuggle?” “Brew with me!” “Kiss Kiss!”

Later, someone changes his notes in his Advanced Potions book—his notes—into sparkle-inked love poetry.

That’s when it appears:

An enchanted banner all over Hogwarts titled: “Snivellus: The Baby Era Begins!”

His boots are charmed to squeak. His voice is altered to stutter whenever he says something sarcastic. His robes constantly emit the faint scent of strawberry sugar.

He says nothing. Not even when Sirius walks past and coos, “Aww, baby Snape.”

But his wand hand twitches and he smiles.

It’s small. Precise.

Terrifying.

You’ve seen that smile before.

People bleed after it.

And then—

They come for you.

You know something’s wrong the second Sirius Black smiles politely at you in the hallway. He’s never polite. And he’s never that smug.

You sit down for dinner with your usual plate, your usual spot, your usual chaos coven.

Cassie beside you. Nyra across. Leona sipping pumpkin juice like it’s expensive wine. Severus reading while eating, one hand already on his wand.

The enchanted table centerpieces flicker.

Then they glow.

Dozens of glowing, floating scrolls appear above the tables—projecting midair journal entries.

Yours.

Pages no one was meant to see.

Sometimes I think I’m too much for him. Too loud. Too glittery. Too me. He never says anything, but when he looks at me like that… I want to kiss him so bad. If I kissed him, would he hex me or kiss me back? No one tells you how terrifying it is to hope.

A final line blazes across the air in glowing script:

I think I love him.

Then: confetti hearts explode from the ceiling.

Gasps echo across the hall. Half the school turns to look at Severus. He freezes. Mid-bite. His eyes flick to you.

You stand. Slowly. Without a word. No glitter. No fire. Just raw, unfiltered stillness.

Leona rises with a click of her heels. Nyra cracks her knuckles. Cassie growls.

Their eyes lock on the Marauders’ table. They’re laughing.

Severus stands. His voice cuts the air.

“They will burn.”

Then the five of you leave.

Minutes later, you all enter the Clubhouse.

Cassie is pacing. Leona’s conjuring glitter fire. Nyra is calmly sorting through hex scrolls labeled “Emotional Destruction Only.”

Severus is already seated at the war table, sleeves rolled up, waiting. You walk in without a word and drop a scroll onto the table. Your handwriting is sharp. Your smile is gone.

“We end them. Loudly. Publicly. Permanently.”

Cassie nods.

“Gala?” she says.

 “Gala.”

Nyra speaks with her voice filled with venom “Complete ruination.”

You smile.

“No survivors.”

The Hogwarts Gala is supposed to be classy. That’s what Slughorn promised, anyway — a school-wide event to "rebuild inter-House trust" after the recent "minor" outbreak of enchanted revenge campaigns.

The Great Hall gleams with floating stars, soft candlelight, and charm-spelled string quartets. The floor sparkles. The desserts float. The mood is elegant, subdued, diplomatic.

Until you and the Horsemen of Chaos enter.

You don’t walk in.

You arrive.

Cassie is draped in inky black silk, jeweled clips in her curls catching every flicker of light like warning signs.

Leona glides across the floor in a velvet gown that trails judgment, her every step radiating disdainful grace.

Nyra wears glittering obsidian dust with a slit high enough to terrify authority, wand sheathed in a jeweled garter.

You are the night sky personified — floor-length midnight fabric with your signature sparkle catching every glimmer.

And Severus? He’s sleek, black, cold precision. No frills. Just menace.

You all move as one.

The room hushes. Then — it begins.

At first, just a flicker in the air. A soft ripple.

Then dozens of glowing scrolls unfurl above the dance floor, swirling midair. Glamoured into perfect legibility. Cursed into undeniable truth.

Each scroll reveal secrets of Marauders:

Sirius actually says 'mirror, mirror' unironically whenever he looks into a mirror. James still sleeps with his first broomstick in his bed. Peter calls his wand ‘Stabby' and kisses it every night. Remus wrote a love poem about Nyra. It sucked.

The laughter starts like a spark before it explodes.

Sirius spins, eyes wide. James lunges at the scrolls in horror. Remus turns a shade of crimson previously unknown to wizardkind. Peter tries to hide behind a potted plant. The plant levitates away.

Cassie clinks her champagne flute. You don’t even blink.

The Marauders step onto the ballroom floor.

Big. Mistake.

Enchanted runes beneath their feet glow bright with truth spells making them scream out Radom secrets.

“I only shower when Lily’s on patrol hoping she walks in on me.” screams James.

Sirius is next with a loud “I think about my hair more than my grades.”

Remus tries to keep his mouth closed but not a chance.

“Nyra terrifies me but at the same time she is fascinating and sometimes I write Her name just to see it.”

Peter was the last one to scream

“I once hexed my own foot. Twice and I cried both times.”

A violinist drops her bow. Filch faints. Slughorn chokes on his drink.

And then — their formalwear transforms.

Sirius’s robes morph into a swirling disco ball with "I NEED ATTENTION" flashing across the back.

James’s suit shifts into a patchwork of cringey love letters to Lily — his shoes blink “PICK ME” in bold red.

Remus is now wearing a parchment-textured suit covered in ink stains and checklist bullet points.

Peter becomes a literal cheese wheel.

A second of silence. Then someone snorts pumpkin juice. Then chaos.

And above it all, glamour and illusion magic swells behind the bandstand.

The Weird Sisters appear — projected by Severus’s enchantments — and begin to perform:

“You wanted chaos, But we are the storm. We hex with high heels And make vengeance form.”

The chandeliers pulse in time with the chorus.

Behind the band, a glittering magical slideshow begins:

Sirius running away from a mirror. James tangled in his own robes. Remus whispering "please don’t hex me" to thin air. Peter sobbing into enchanted cheese.

The hall erupts. Even the portraits are cackling.

The five of you turn in sync, the music rising behind you. Cassie blows a kiss over her shoulder. Nyra tosses a cursed flower into the crowd. Leona doesn't look back. Ever.

Severus places his arm over your shoulder pulling you close.

Leaving the place burn with chaos.

The morning after the Gala the Great Hall is eerily calm. Sunlight filters through the enchanted ceiling. Students speak in hushed tones, still traumatized—or thrilled—by last night’s carnage.

You’re halfway through your toast, still glitter-dusted and slightly hungover from magical vengeance, when they appear.

James Potter leads, dragging what remains of his dignity behind him. Sirius Black follows, looking like he’s aged ten years overnight. Remus Lupin offers a smile that might be an apology. Peter Pettigrew is pale, quiet, and very much on the verge of tears.

They stop in front of the Slytherin table.

Every conversation dies.

James clears his throat. "Alright," he says, voice hoarse. "We surrender."

You raise an eyebrow.

Sirius mutters, "You literally destroyed us."

Remus adds, "We’d rather not spend the rest of the term being hexed in rhyme."

Peter nods so hard his curls bounce.

Cassie doesn’t even look up from her tea.

You set your thats down. “Terms?”

James sighs. “We won’t prank you again. Or anyone in your... Glitter Death Squad. Ever.”

Snape narrows his eyes.

“And?”

“And we’ll write each of you a personal letter apologizing for the prank we pulled.”

Cassie lifts one brow. “And?”

Sirius groans, like a man surrendering his soul. “And we’ll publicly admit defeat in the Whispering Quill.”

A pause.

Leona folds her napkin. “Accepted.”

The Marauders walk away, heads down, shoulders slumped.

The girl gang—your coven of chaos—returns to breakfast like nothing happened.

Because some people fight with wands.

You? You fight with glitter, spite, and permanent reputation damage.

And you never, ever lose.

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

🕯️ Special Issue 🕯️   ❝Prank Apocalypse and the rise of the Five Horsemen of Chaos❞  

──────────────────────────────  

HOGWARTS BIGGEST HEX WARS HAVE BEGUN!

What started with a huge series of pranks turned into Hogwarts’ most unforgettable showdown. The Marauders vs. The Five Horsemen of Chaos.  One moment it was breakfast. The next, Leona was yelling confessions, Nyra turned into a creepy Porcelain Doll, Cassies Robes sang opera, Severus was chirping about friendship bracelets, and (Y/N) sang a love ballad to Snape with a tiara on her head. What followed wasn't a simple Prank war. It was glitter-coated, emotionally scarring, magical vengeance. And now, we bring you the full scandal.

──────────────────────────────

TRANSCRIPTED CHAOS ON HOW IT STARTED

Leona DeVine: Touched the sugar. ➤ Her glam vanished, hair frizzed, and a floating bubble screamed:   "I KNOW YOUR SECRETS AND I WILL SCREAM THEM!" Nyra Moonborn: Bit into her Muffin. ➤ Transformed into a haunted porcelain doll. Muffin hovered eerily. Background music: Lullaby. Cassie Fairweather: Stabs her sausage. ➤ Robes became an opera gown. Sparkled. Blinking triggered a dramatic orchestra.  Severus Snape: Reaches for the salt. ➤ Robes turned red and gold. Hair curled. Said cheerfully: “Let’s all study together and make friendship bracelets!” (Y/N) (Y/L/N): Touches her goblet ➤ Hair turned pink. Tiara landed. Sparkled violently. Said: “I’m just a silly girl who LOVES to gossip and cry during potions and maybe write Mrs. Y/n Snape in her notebook” Tiara detonated. Emotionally. Sparkles everywhere. The Marauders? Howling. And that’s when it began.

──────────────────────────────

TACTICAL STRIKES FROM THE CHAOS COVEN

SIRIUS BLACK: ➤ Every mirror now screams "BAD DOG" when he walks past. ➤ His shampoo bottle screams compliments in Peter’s voice. ➤ His combs hiss insults like "Still not hotter than Remus." ➤ Robes bark and tell dog jokes in class. He screamed in the Prefects’ bathroom. Cassie sipped her tea. Unbothered. JAMES POTTER: ➤ Broom yells "OVERCOMPENSATION" at takeoff. ➤ Every book whispers, "You’d be smarter if you shut up." ➤ Robes serenade Remus. Constantly. ➤ Tries to flirt with Lily Evans? Starts involuntary chicken dancing while cackling. ➤ Every brag ends with "I’M INSECURE!" ➤ Favorite brush squeaks "Arrogant!" in 5 languages. He threw a fit. Leona flipped her hair. REMUS LUPIN: ➤ Planner fills with fake appointments like: Massage Dumbledore’s feet, Snogging with the Bloody Baron. ➤ Books combust and scream “LIAR! LIAR! BOOK ON FIRE!” ➤ Snack stash attacks him while calling him out. ➤ Peeves tackled him mid-shower. (His scream echoed) We still trying to find out how Nyra got Peeves to join. PETER PETTIGREW: ➤ His food cried begging him for mercy. ➤ His quill wrote sonnets about cheese in glitter ink. (Iconic) ➤ His socks roast him. ➤ Inkwell growled at him before exploding. ➤ He got a glittery sticker from (Y/N) that read: "Try Again Tomorrow." He cried for hours.

──────────────────────────────

THE MARAUDERS’ COUNTERSTRIKE

LEONA: ➤ Her makeup screamed. ➤ Mirror showed clown makeup. ➤ Lip gloss exploded whenever she lied: “No, I hate Sirius Black.” — BOOM. (Yes we gasped too.) CASSIE: ➤ Robes flashed slogans: “Slaytherin Queen!” “Smile More!” ➤ Shoes made her jazz-hand at professors. ➤ Essays edited themselves in James’s handwriting. NYRA: ➤ Forced into pastels. Eyeliner turned bubblegum pink. ➤ Renamed “Sparkle Muffin.” Students would scream it in response whenever someone said her name. ➤ Her raven? Became a glitter pigeon.  ➤ She smiled. Wrote curses. Forgave no one.(Remus tried) SEVERUS: ➤ Potion ingredients swapped. ➤ Cauldron exploded with candy hearts. ➤ His notes turned into glitter poetry. ➤ Banners all over Hogwarts: “Snivellus: The Soft Era Begins.” ➤ Voice stuttered. Boots squeaked. He smiled. (It was terrifying) (Y/N): ➤ Her journal. Projected. In the Great Hall: Sometimes I think I’m too much for him. Too loud. Too glittery. Too me.  (you are not) He never says anything, but when he looks at me like that… I want to kiss him so bad. (We Know) If I kissed him, would he hex me or kiss me back? (He probably would combust) but the one that had everyone gasping!: I think I love him. Confetti hearts ended the whole spectacle.  The Coven got up. Left. No fire. No glitter. Just fury.

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THE CHAOS COVEN'S FINAL COMEBACK: THE GALA OF RUIN

The Hogwarts Gala was supposed to be peaceful. A night of diplomacy, star-charmed ceilings, and unity. Instead, it became the Chaos Coven’s masterpiece of magical vengeance. Dressed like doom in couture and flanked in all-black intimidation, the Coven swept into the Great Hall with one goal: total Marauder annihilation. ➤ Glowing scrolls unfurled midair, revealing scandalous Marauder secrets: Sirius’s mirror affirmations James’s bedtime broom ritual, Peter’s wand named “Stabby,” and Remus’s tragic poetry about Nyra. ➤ Truth runes lit beneath their feet, forcing real-time confessions: James Potter: “I only shower when Lily’s on patrol. Hoping she walks in.” Sirius Black: “I think about my hair more than my grades.” Remus Lupin: “Nyra terrifies me. I write her name sometimes. Just to see it.” Peter Pettigrew: “I once hexed my own foot. Twice. I cried both times.” ➤ Their formalwear turned on them: Sirius became a human disco ball labeled "I NEED ATTENTION." James wore a love letter patchwork suit. His shoes flashed “PICK ME.” Remus’s robes became parchment inked with stress lists. Peter transformed into a literal cheese wheel. ➤ The Weird Sisters appeared in a Severus-engineered illusion, singing a diss anthem with lyrics like: "You wanted chaos— But we are the storm. We hex with high heels And make vengeance form." ➤ Behind them, a magical slideshow aired: Sirius fleeing a mirror, James tangled in self-loving robes, Remus whispering “please don’t hex me,” Peter sobbing in cheese. They didn’t stay to gloat. They turned. Strutted out. Left the gala in ruins. And Hogwarts would never be the same.

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WITNESS TESTIMONIES & AFTERSHOCKS

 Flora Bletchley (Slytherin, 4th Year): “When James chicken danced when talking to Lily, I dropped my toast and clapped.”   Idris Ackerley (Ravenclaw, 5th Year): “Snape said ‘They will burn.’ I fainted in my oatmeal. I am still recovering”   Millicent Lowe (Hufflepuff, 3rd Year): “Leona looked at me during her glitter explosion and I apologized. I don’t know why.”   Iris Everhart (Ravenclaw, 6th Year): “Remus’s planner said ‘massaging Dumbledore's feet.’ I haven’t stopped laughing.”   Dorian Selwyn (Slytherin, 7th Year): “(Y/N) love confession! I wrote it a poem about her and Severus.”   Penny Clearwater (Gryffindor, 5th Year): “I saw Peter’s food cry and beg for mercy. I lost my appetite for a week.” Marvin Moon (Hufflepuff, 4th Year): “I spilled pumpkin juice from laughing too hard. And then I cried. It was spiritual.” Pippa Kettleburn (Ravenclaw, 6th Year): “When Remus confessed on the dance floor I screamed. It was art.” Orla Shunpike (Gryffindor, 7th Year): “Severus in a black suit?! That was a promise of doom.” Crispin Goyle (Slytherin, 4th Year): “The cheese wheel. I can’t. I need therapy.” Petra Moonstone (Hufflepuff, 7th Year): “Nyra Sparkle-Muffin is my Roman Empire.” Bexley Fawley (Ravenclaw, 4th Year): “They all looked like entering a Funeral. I still haven’t recovered.”

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FACULTY SIGHTINGS & REACTIONS

Professor McGonagall: “This is precisely why I ban glitter. It never ends well.” ➤ Status: Knows everything. Pretending she doesn’t. Secretly impressed. Professor Slughorn: “The fashion. The pageantry. The utter destruction. I’m obsessed. The Gala was exquisite! The sabotage, delightful! Such flair!” ➤ Status: Proud Head of House. Wants to host next year's Gala. Already designing the invitation scrolls.  The Coven is on top of the list. Professor Flitwick:  “Cassie’s opera gown was in perfect pitch. B flat minor. A triumph.” ➤ Status: Planning a choir tribute. Possibly inviting Peeves as guest soloist. Professor Sprout: “I had to re-pot three traumatized plants and save my whole Greenhouse with a spell. But honestly? the drama was worth it.” ➤ Status: Watering her cacti with firewhisky in quiet solidarity. Professor Trelawney: "The stars foretold glittery doom and emotional carnage. I am never wrong." ➤ Status: Convinced this was all a prelude to a romantic prophecy.

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ANONYMOUS COMMON ROOM COMMENTS

 tiarabreaker: “(Y/N)’s tiara exploded. So did my will to live.”  mirrortrauma: “Sirius’s mirror screamed BAD DOG. So did I.”  cheddarscribe: “Peter’s cheese poetry was disturbingly good.”  pinkchaos23: “Sparkle Muffin is Nyra’s villain origin. I salute her.”  emotionaldamageplz: “James bragged and shouted I’M INSECURE. I laughed until I cried.”   ravenhexer: “I want to be feared like Leona post-lip gloss explosion.”   snapeissoftconfirmed: “Snape looking ready to riot for (Y/N) while saying they will burn. My soul screamed.”   snackattack89: “Remus’s chocolate frogs told him he was a disgrace. That’s iconic.”   glamgothgrit: “Cassie sipping tea while Sirius screams is my Roman Empire.”   scrolls4scandal: “I saw (Y/N)’s love confession float above dinner. I believe in love again.”   snitchybizness: “The Coven walked in like a perfume ad and left like an earthquake.”   broomsticktrauma: “James’s broom literally cried. So did I.”   stealthypigeon: “Nyra’s pigeon made eye contact with me. it looked ready to murder. I ran.”   diaryspilled: “Y/n’s journal confession was BRUTAL. And Severus’s face??? Devastation.”   cursedmirrorclub: “Sirius’s mirror roast was the highlight of my entire education.” hexedinharmony: “That Weird Sisters song needs to be in the Hogwarts anthem.”   notawand: “Peter sobbing while a cheese wheel is the moment I knew magic was never gonna fail.”   glitterfangirl: "THE WAY HE PUT HIS ARM AROUND (Y/N) WHEN LEAVING THE GALA!?"   chaoschronicle: "The way the scrolls glowed when they exposed Remus’s feelings?? Peak Hogwarts."   frogspawnfiles: "If Severus and Y/n don’t end up married after that… I riot."

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CLOSING REMARKS

Glitter. Betrayal. Chicken dancing. The war escalated into magical legend. But it ended — not with a hex, but with a surrender. The morning after the Gala the Marauders officially surrendered and asked for mercy. The five Horsemen of Chaos accepted the surrender to the following Terms:  The Marauder will: - Never Prank the Chaos Coven Again (or how James called them 'Glitter Death Squad') -They will write each apology letters for the pranks they pulled - They will admit defeat officially to the Whispering Quill Of course we have that Statement right here for you dear readers: “We, the Marauders, formally admit defeat.  We underestimated the Chaos Coven.  We are deeply sorry, eternally humbled,  and would like our socks to stop insulting us” Signed (with a glitter quill): James, Sirius, Remus, Peter To which the Coven replied: “Forgiven. Never forgotten.” If any of you have more informations... Whisper it to the closest Portrait. May you never get in the way when the Five Horsemen of Chaos strike again. We’ll be watching. We’ll be listening. And we’ll be writing. Until next time, darling readers… We'll see you in the next scandal.

[obsidianpen]

Deva Cassel gives me Hermione Granger vibes in Blood and Gold, especially when she curls her hair

I can totally see that!

[allari-ammayi]

I just binge read "butta bomma" and I love love love it already! The banter with bhalla is so cute🥺. I'm so so excited for next chapters!

(I have my physiology exam tomorrow but I couldn't stop myself from reading the fic as soom as I saw the notifications!😭❤️)

Ahh, thank you so much, I'm so glad you're enjoying it!! 😭❤️ (Good luck on your exam if you haven't done it yet, and if you have, well done!!)

Butta Bomma

A. Bahubali x Reader x B. Deva

#7

The Etiquette Lessons

Synopsis: Following the events of the pooja, Bhalla has taken it upon himself to hire a royal trainer to aid Y/n with her Etiquette in hopes of making palace life easier for her. But when Y/n's etiquette classes go down in hell, Bhalla grows a soft spot for the girl and subconsciously assists her. Bahubali, on the other hand, guides her through the ins and outs of etiquette and openly encourages her, striking a pang of jealousy in Bhalla.

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As Y/n and Gowri strolled through the corridors of the palace, Gowri, her tone tinged with curiosity, asked Y/n, "How have your lessons been going, Y/n?"

Y/n sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Oh, you know, the usual. I've become a pro at curtsying and pretending to be fascinated by endless discussions about royal protocol."

Gowri chuckled, "It's not easy, but it's useful to fit in. You're doing well."

Just as Y/n was about to respond, a certain prince made his unexpected appearance, causing Gowri to discreetly step back and bow, giving the two some space. 

With a low bow, Gowri looked over at Y/n before scampering away from the two in a rush. Y/n, crand her neck and caught sight of her bad luck.

“Well, if it isn’t the bane of my existence.” She muttered to herself

Bhallaladeva's entrance was met with a cool, annoyed glance from Y/n, who was clearly not in the mood for idle chitchat.

With a smirk that hinted at his satisfaction in riling her up, Bhalla inquired, "How have your lessons been going, Monkey?"

Y/n's lips curled into a sarcastic smile, her annoyance evident in her response. "Oh, absolutely splendid," she retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "I can now curtsy with the grace of a swan and maintain a poker face during the most riveting discussions about tea ceremonies."

Bhalla couldn't help but find her snark amusing, and he leaned slightly closer, his gaze locking onto hers with an almost mischievous glint. "Ah, the essentials of court life. You're learning to blend in admirably."

Y/n's scowl deepened at his response, her irritation far from concealed. She quipped back, "Of course, because nothing says 'Mahishmati royalty' like mastering the art of politely nodding while inwardly screaming."

Bhalla shot back with a teasing smirk, "Ah, necessary evils, Monkey. Even Monkey princesses need refinement."

Princess?

Y/n, rolled her eyes and huffed, having had enough of Bhalla’s annoyance.

“You know what, I have better things to be doing right now, Your Royal Snarkiness.” Y/n spat, irritably, Bhalla arched a brow.

“Oh yeah?” He smirked, “Like what, Monkey? Climbing trees so you don’t fly too far from your roots?” Y/n glared at him, her eyes narrowing.

“No. Like practicing how to gracefully and formally kiss someone’s ass for my next class!” She yelled in a whisper.

With that, Y/n pivoted on her heel, her sari swaying with each determined step, and began to walk away from Bhalla, her annoyance propelling her forward.

Bhalla watched her retreating figure, his astonishment from her final retort evident in his features.

Then, as the seconds ticked by, Bhalla couldn't contain his laughter any longer. The chuckles bubbled up, and soon enough, he was outright laughing at Y/n's sassy retort.

The laughter lingered in the corridor even after Y/n had disappeared from sight, leaving Bhalla with a bemused smile. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Y/n's next lesson in the etiquette hall seemed like an exercise in patience. 

The instructor had lined up her students, which was a group of patient Mahismati children ranging from five to twelve years of age and one impatient ‘Mexico-ian’ of over twenty that stood out like a sore thumb. 

She ordered them to balance books on top of their heads while maintaining a perfect posture.

As Y/n struggled to balance the heavy books on her head, her eyes began to wander, seeking even the slightest distraction from the monotonous exercise. The instructor's voice droned on in the background, explaining the importance of grace and poise.

Unable to bear the tedium any longer, Y/n mischievously glanced around to check if the instructor was too engrossed in her lecture to notice. Seeing an opportunity, she decided to make her escape from the seemingly never-ending lesson.

With deliberate care, Y/n slowly lowered her hand to the stack of books on her head, one by one, gingerly removing them and holding them by her side. Her posture remained perfectly composed, but her actions were far from what the instructor intended.

Just as she successfully slid the last book away, Y/n tiptoed toward the exit of the etiquette hall, her eyes scanning for any sign of the instructor's attention shifting in her direction.

Amused by the audacity of her act, Bhallaladeva had been silently observing the scene from afar. His lips curled into a faint, smirking grin as he watched Y/n's escape.

Y/n's nimble footsteps and the quiet creak of the door echoed through the hall as she made her daring exit. She thought she had succeeded in evading the instructor's watchful eye, but little did she know that she had an audience of one.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Y/n found solace near an isolated pond within the palace grounds, the serene waters offering a moment of calm amidst her frustrations.

However, her moment of solitude was soon interrupted by the arrival of Bhallaladeva, who had tracked her down.

Bhalla, with a playful grin on his face and his tone teasing, asked, 

"What are you doing here instead of gracing your presence in the hallowed halls of education?"

Y/n, still harboring her earlier annoyance, responded with a defiant tone, "I'm doing what I want, so mind your own business."

Bhalla grinned at her feistiness and then added in a mockingly stern manner, "Ah, but remember, I am the prince, and I could have your monkey tail cut off for such insolence."

His words were laced with humor, but Y/n wasn't in the mood for jests. She shot him an irritated glance and turned her gaze back to the rippling water.

Undeterred by her annoyance, Bhalla took a seat beside her, his eyes still dancing with amusement. He inquired more sincerely this time, "Alright. What's bothering you?"

Y/n hesitated for a moment, weighing her options. She had grown accustomed to their banter, but something about Bhalla's tone and genuine curiosity made her reconsider.

"Why do you care?" Y/n responded, her voice a mixture of frustration and resignation. Y/n shot him a dark glare, “Besides, if you’re just here to poke fun at me, I’m not in the mood, Your Royal Snarkiness.” 

Bhalla's playful facade faded as he sighed, his expression softening. "I may have my moments of jest, but I genuinely want to know what's troubling you. So, please, tell me."

Y/n glanced down at the rippling pond, her reflection distorted by the moving water. Finally, she decided to open up about her struggles. 

"It's those blasted etiquette lessons," she began, her voice laced with frustration. "I'm terrible at all that formality and grace stuff. I’m the oldest in the class by roughly ten or more years, and all the others are better at it than me! 

A five year old! A five-year old passed the test and I didn’t! And we had the same thing! The instructor seems to have it out for me, and it just keeps getting worse every day. I can't figure out why."

Bhalla listened attentively, his eyes fixed on Y/n as she spoke. The mischievous prince had given way to a more thoughtful and empathetic Bhallaladeva, which was as rare as could be. 

He could sense her genuine frustration, and it tugged at something inside him. Something he’d never felt before.

After a moment of silence, Bhalla offered a sympathetic smile. "Formality and grace may not be everyone's forte, you know. And sometimes, instructors can be a bit... rigid in their methods. But you shouldn't let that bother you so much."

Y/n glanced at him, surprised by his understanding. "You think so?"

Bhalla nodded. "Absolutely. Being true to yourself is just as important, if not more so, than adhering to the rigid standards of etiquette. Besides, I've always admired your... uniqueness."

Y/n couldn't help but smirk at his use of the word ‘uniqueness.’ "Well, thanks for the pep talk, Prince Bhalla.” Bhalla gulped, a small tint of red starting to appear beneath his dark beard.

"Anytime, Monkey. And if that instructor gives you any more trouble, you know where to find me."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

One day, as Y/n struggled to execute a particularly challenging maneuver for her homework out of class, Bhalla, who to Y/n’s horrid luck happened to be passing by, couldn't resist offering his snarky insight. "Oh, look at that, Monkey," he quipped, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're almost as graceful as an elephant on roller skates."

Y/n shot him an exasperated look. "Well, you try doing this with a straight face."

Bhalla leaned closer to her, his tone still dripping with sarcasm. "I'm afraid I wouldn't want to outshine you, Monkey."

Y/n's brow furrowed in annoyance, but she couldn't deny that there was a glimmer of helpfulness within Bhalla's snark. "And what, may I ask, is your great suggestion?"

With a sly smile, Bhalla responded, "Simple, really. Just imagine you're gliding through a field of thorns while balancing a glass of water on your head."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Oh, thanks for that enlightening advice, Your Snarkiness. I'll be sure to use it next time I'm in a field of thorns."

Bhalla grinned, his amusement apparent. "You see, Monkey, you have to learn to find elegance in the absurd. That's where true grace lies."

Y/n let out an exasperated sigh, not realizing that Bhalla's seemingly snarky comments actually held kernels of useful wisdom.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Y/n's thoughts swirled with Bhalla's unexpected advice as she strolled through the palace corridors, her mind racing to decipher the hidden wisdom in his snarky remarks. 

Lost in her contemplation, she was taken aback when she collided with a sturdy presence. Before she could stumble, strong arms reached out to catch her.

Bahu's warm smile greeted her. "Y/n, why’s your head in the clouds today?" he teased, a twinkle in his eyes.

She let out a small laugh, her cheeks tinged with a hint of embarrassment. "I guess I've been preoccupied with these etiquette lessons, or rather, my apparent lack of grace during them."

Bahubali's empathetic nature immediately sensed her distress. "Ah, the infamous etiquette lessons. Don't worry, you're not alone in your struggles."

Y/n couldn't help but smile at his reassuring words. "It's just that I feel like I'm fumbling through a maze of unfamiliar rules and expectations. His Royal Snarkiness- I mean- Prince Bhallaladeva tried to help, in his own snarky way."

Bahu chuckled. "Ah, Bhalla and his snark. But don't be too quick to dismiss his advice. Sometimes, he has a peculiar way of shedding light on things."

She nodded, reflecting on Bhalla's words. "He did mention something about finding elegance in the absurd."

Amarendra Bahubali nodded thoughtfully. "That's Bhalla for you, mixing wisdom with sarcasm. But he might have a point. Sometimes, breaking away from convention can lead to true grace."

Y/n's curiosity was piqued. "Do you think you could show me, Your Highness? Help me understand these customs better?"

With a warm smile, Bahubali extended his arm. "Of course, Y/n. But first, let’s drop the formalities, I think we’ve been acquainted long enough to be on first name basis.” Y/n gaped at the prince, before quickly gulping and forming a small smile on her face. “Let's take a walk and discuss this further."

“Of course… Bahubali.”

As they walked through the palace's grand corridors, Bahubali shared insights into the kingdom's customs. He explained the significance of each gesture, each formality.

Y/n listened intently, her initial anxiety giving way to a growing sense of comfort with the way the younger prince explained it. Bahubali's patience made Y/n feel at ease. Something she hadn’t felt much of since she arrived in Mahismathi. 

She felt that she found a genuine friend in the prince, someone who not only offered her wisdom but also a sense of belonging in this unfamiliar world. Something Bhallaladeva clearly lacked. Y/n rolled her eyes at just the thought of him.

But despite his snark, Bhallaladeva’s guidance did not go unnoticed by Y/n, but it was Bahubali who watched her lessons with genuine curiosity. 

Unlike Bhallaladeva, he didn't hide his amusement when she stumbled through the intricacies of courtly behavior. Instead, Bahubali often found himself chuckling at her endearing mishaps.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Bhallaladeva wasn’t the only one who noticed the struggle that Y/n seemed to go through for these etiquette lessons. Bahubali, with his keen eyes noticed almost instantly when he saw the look in Y/n’s eyes after a lesson. 

As much as he admired the girl’s resilience, he felt the instructor was indeed being a bit much on her. 

Being the younger prince and potential kind of the entire kingdom, it wasn’t very hard for Bahubali to pull some strings, just to help Y/n out a little. 

He didn’t do much, simply requested her etiquette teacher to go a little easy on her, so when this news broke out to Y/n, Bahubali couldn’t have expected her reaction to play out the way it did. 

Y/n couldn't contain her happiness upon receiving the news of Bahubali's help. Without thinking, she threw her arms around him in a spontaneous hug. It was a genuine, unrestrained display of gratitude.

Bahubali, initially taken aback by her sudden embrace, chuckled warmly at her enthusiastic reaction. "You're very welcome, Y/n."

Realizing her lapse in formality, Y/n quickly composed herself and executed a playful but exaggerated formal bow. "Thank you, Bahubali, for your valuable help."

Bahubali grinned, "No need for such formalities, Y/n. Just Bahu is more than enough."

With a bright smile, Y/n nodded. "Of course, Bahu. Thank you again." She then bid him a hasty goodbye. "I'll put your help into practice right away."

As she turned and hurried away, Bahubali watched her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Her genuine enthusiasm left him both mystified and pleasantly surprised, and it brought a warm smile to his face as he continued on his way.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The entire kingdom of Mahismathi - and by the entire kingdom, just Y/n - held it’s breath as Y/n’s final day for etiquette played out. This would be it, all of the practice, hours and days spent practising etiquette would be tested that day. Would she do well, she would pass, one tiny mishap though, would result in her re-starting the entire course. 

Little did she know, she had two unexpected observers eagerly awaiting the outcome, just asmuch or even more anxious than her.

Bhallaladeva, despite his usual stoicism, couldn't help but feel a wave of nervousness wash over him as he anticipated Y/n's performance. His snarky demeanor had been replaced by genuine concern for her. 

He decided to sneak into the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and put his mind at ease.

On the other side of the hall, Bahubali also felt a sense of curiosity and concern for Y/n. He had provided her with some advice, and he was eager to see if she had taken it to heart. Bahubali, too, decided to quietly slip into the hall to observe her progress.

Y/n, oblivious to the presence of her secret observers, took the test with determination and focus. Her every move was executed flawlessly, and she demonstrated a level of grace and poise that had previously eluded her.

Y/n, drawing from the snarky but helpful remarks of both Bhallaladeva and Bahubali, tackled the test with newfound confidence. 

When the teacher informed Y/n that she had passed and was no longer required to attend classes, Y/n couldn't contain her excitement. In a moment of joy, she fist-bumped the air, her excitement for all to see.

Both Bhallaladeva and Bahubali watched Y/n's jubilant celebration from their hidden positions, their expressions shifting from surprise to pride. 

Before Bhallaladeva could make his way over to Y/n to offer his snarky congratulations, Bahubali had taken the initiative.

Bahubali felt a wave of pride wash over him. With a warm smile on his face, he quickly emerged from behind a collum and approached Y/n.

"Congratulations, Y/n! Truly unmatched," Bahubali said, his eyes filled with pride. "I always knew you had it in you."

Y/n's cheeks flushed slightly at Bahubali's kind words. His encouragement meant a lot to her, and she replied with gratitude, "Thank you so much, Bahubali. Your advice really helped me."

Bhalla watched from a distance, mildly annoyed that his brother had beaten him to it. He decided to wait and congratulate Y/n later when she wasn't surrounded by well-wishers.

But Bahubali's presence brought a genuine smile to Y/n's face, and she appreciated his support. 

However, she knew there was someone else she needed to thank. She turned to Bahubali and in a rushed voice, quickly said, "I’m sorry, Bahu, but I have to go."

With that, Y/n excused herself and left the hall in search of Bhallaladeva. She ran through the palace corridors, eager to find him and offer her thanks for his advice.

She finally spotted him nearby and sprinted up to him, her eyes gleaming with exhilaration.

"Bhalla!" she exclaimed, coming to a stop in front of him, completely forgetting all formalities in the excitement and calling him by his name. "Guess what?!”

Bhallaladeva turned to her, “Oh, so you’ve just decided to nickname the elder prince and ruler of this entire kingdom?” He tiled his head, “I’ll have you know the only two people who have called me ‘Bhalla’ and got away with their lives are my mother, father, and Bhaubali.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, caring little for the words that would have had her begging for her life had she heard them two months prior, “Yeah, yeah, sure, that’s great, you can do that later,” She dismissed his wrds with a wave of her hand before the excitement returned to her eyes like a glimmer. “I passed my test!"

Bhallaladeva's face lit up with feigned surprise. "You did? Well, that's quite an accomplishment," he said, his tone dripping with mock admiration.

Y/n couldn't contain her enthusiasm, and she raised her hand high, ready to high-five Bhalla. However, she quickly realized that the concept of a high-five might not be familiar to him. Bhalla looked at her outstretched hand with uncertainty, unsure of what to do.

With a cheerful laugh, Y/n said, "Oh, sorry, I forgot that high-fives are a… erm… my kingdom thing. We do this." She gently slapped her own hand with a demonstration of a high-five.

Understanding dawned on Bhallaladeva, and he eagerly followed her lead, giving her a light smack on her hand. "Ah, I see. Well done, Y/n," he said with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Y/n couldn't help but share a piece of her world with Bhalla. "Where I come from," she explained, "people high-five each other when there's good news or just when they're happy. It's a fun way to celebrate, and in this case, me passing the lessons."

Bhalla, ever the snarky prince, couldn't resist making a teasing comment. "Well, I'm surprised you managed to complete it," he quipped, "I didn't know monkeys were so good with etiquette, monkey."

Y/n's initial excitement waned as she scowled at Bhalla's comment. She wasn't one to back down, though, and she quickly responded with her own snarky remark. "Well, Your Royal Snarkiness, I may be a monkey, but at least I'm a monkey who can pass an etiquette test. Can you say the same?"

The two of them began walking together, their banter back and forth like a playful game of verbal tennis.

♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭➜ @vellipo-mellaga, @bitchy-bi-trash, @vijayasena , @sakhiiii , @celestesinsight 《If you wish to be part of the taglist, please let me know in the replies!》

[dilly-dahlia]

Hii!! I'm suchhh a huge HUGE fan of ur fan fictions, u were one of the few people on the aphblr page that really inspired me to post some of my art on here.

Anyways! I jst wanted to know how ur oc Cassandra looks like, what her hair type is, her hair color, her features and anything ur willing to tell me!! :DD

my heart just exploded. i’m so glad i was able to inspire you to post your own art and be more in the community that’s so. i need everyone to understand that any time i get an ask like this it’s so surreal and i throw flowers in the air

anyways!! I describe her some in this post but I’ll just repeat what i said and add some here!

Cassandra is a very soft personality and to physically reflect that she has soft features. she has the ingénue archetype so think characters like Juliet (Romeo & Juliet), Christine Daaé, Maria (West Side Story), Snow White, Johanna (Sweeney Todd). that’s where i drew a bunch of inspiration for her character and arc

but her appearance! she has long hair (i’m talking like waist length) and what I would consider romantic curls but that part is up for interpretation just know she has curls!! any time i look it up on pinterest though, Phoebe Buffay with her curly hair comes up and I would say that’s pretty close??

so like i’m really bad at describing faces lmao. all i can tell you is she has dark brown eyes however!! i have an actress for her and that person is Deva Cassel

and then other notable accessories and stuff of her appearance is lots of white, pearls, flowers, and a mantilla. I have followers of Irene following a very Catholic way of practicing, so Cassandra often wears veils or things like that except on days of rest

ermmmm i think that’s it. i might’ve missed something but oh well if you have any other questions feel free to send another ask!!

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 17: Lemon Boy

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: Sometimes you become friends with someone, even if you don't mean to, even if you very much try not to. Lemons are the sugariest fruit, and yet you can't taste a lick of it past the overwhelming sour. The Akatsuki and the host of the haunted house consider where they stand with one another, if anyone is really friends.

Author's Note: This chapter...is actually so long I stopped 3/4 of the way through and decided it needs to be split in half. I'm most likely going to be posting Lemon Boy (2) as the immediate chapter after this one.

The song for this chapter is Lemon Boy by Cavetown.

“Tell me...have I made a mistake?”

The question echoes both in the vast cavern and in the souls of two figures the Akatsuki leader has gathered here, their rainbow static outlines conveying a sense of agitation even with only eyes visible. It’s even more empty here on the fingertips of The Demonic Statue of the Outer Path when there’s only four upon the statues instead of a full ten. Hidan feels something akin to getting in a fight in elementary school. You and the kid who insulted your friend both have to sit side by side in the principal’s office. It doesn’t matter who was right, no matter how much you argue back; you are both in trouble. Hidan tries to justify himself anyways:

“Don’t ask questions like that! I had NOTHING to do with hurting her!” An accusing index finger points to the other shamed shadow without looking at the culprit. “It’s Kakuzu you need to kick out!”

The named man is obedient, as he knows better than to argue. At this point, his own words would condemn himself. He can only hope that Hidan’s won’t, either. Unwavering rings of orbit in Pain’s eye sockets stay perfectly still, somehow looking at them both while not looking at either in particular, lest one think they’re ahead of the other.

“You both have reason to be here,” he rebukes again, voice cold.

“I just was doing some friendly sparring!” Hidan’s shadow shrugs casually. “What, I can’t practice anymore?”

“I will not tolerate aggression that may put your objective in danger.”

“Come on, asshole, it’s HER fault she ran in like a crazy person—!”

“She is not aware of the extent of your abilities,” Pain butts in. The man-made god is one of the only people alive that can speak so commandingly that even the Jashinist can remain cut off and silent. “She is clearly not of a world of shinobi, nor chakra, nor jutsu— not even taijutsu. This ignorance must be accounted for.” He repeats himself from when she met his Deva Path, eyes widening:

“Vulnerability should be no sin.”

Hidan raises his hands palms up next to his shoulders in defeat. If everyone is sticking to this nonsense logic, he’ll play along. “We can teach her then, easy as that.”

“In time. Imagine,” he beckons. Orange eyes watch intently from his side, though it is not directed to her. “You’ve been raised into an existence in which the dangers you know are distinctly apart from these here; they are things you are keenly aware of. Take the dangers away that you know, and in turn present power beyond your comprehension.” A glitched hand raises in front of Pain, its fingers curling slowly one by one, as if counting the ward’s chances. “What, now, is possible?”

Magenta scoffs. “I was raised in grand ol’ Yugakure, the most pathetic shithole on the map! I think I know better than anyone what it’s like to not know what real shinobi are. Don’t fuckin’ lecture me on it.”

“And yet you became one.”

…

“Yeah? So what?”

“You had an idea of ninja. The opportunity to become one, no matter how lacking in resources the Hot Water offered. You thrived regardless. Shall I stroke your ego? Admit it means something you’ve managed to join the likes of us, despite your chances from birth?” Hidan narrows his eyes, but his leader continues. “Imagine,” he requests again. Perhaps it needs to put, somehow, even more simply for him to get. “A world with no shinobi at all. And see yourself in her shoes now that there are many.”

And somehow, despite his misgivings of his disciple’s origins, that’s enough for Hidan to chew on to keep him quiet while Pain directs his words more so to the eldest in the room:

“Kakuzu. You’re too seasoned to need to be disciplined, yet here we are.” Ah, how shame and anger alike boil in a horrible brew in Kakuzu’s throat, that he can’t make them into words. “Don’t think you needn’t listen to this. Consider again: Clearly—” Pain acknowledges, “—You are aware of her ignorance, her fragility. Effort needs to be made not just to shelter her. Give opportunity for her to absorb. And therefore she may learn.”

A very polite way of asking him to stop scaring her. It’s shameful, but he can read it as such.

“I sent you back because you’re in prime standing with this traveler to unlock her secrets, get us closer to the purpose of her arrival, of if anything with her own world may be done for ours. Tell me, was I wrong? Is your original care not enough to keep your standing in her household?”

Hidan’s answer is quick. “Motherfucker, of COURSE it is!”

“...Good,” is the level reply. But he is not satisfied. “Kakuzu.” Emeralds and galaxies lock unblinking. It is up to the masked man to choose his own fate. “Can it be done?”

The person in question closes his eyes, not to run away but to do something such a calculated fellow never takes time for these days: introspection. Living this long, seeing so much...you think you know yourself. You believe you can predict your own mind and actions and reactions as well as chess pieces on a board, sometimes as simply as the order in which someone counts to ten. The painful truth is that this is not the case; that is why she makes him so uncomfortable.

His unpredictability is now, itself, unpredictable. It only took a girl that walked into his life from another dimension to put new possibilities on the table.

So what is his choice? He opens his eyes. Three colors bore into him: Orange in curiosity, purple in wait, magenta in tension. But, as ever, it can only be green who can speak for himself.

And he won’t back down from the challenge of a lifetime.

“Yes.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There once was a bittersweet man and they called him, "Lemon Boy"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The stranger wakes up on her right side, curled fingers raised near her head feeling just a little bit colder than the rest of her since they peeked past the sheets. It’s nice. The birds twitter distantly, somewhere outside the window that shines the sun to warm her bed. The serenity of being half asleep is hypnotic, and so she easily closes her eyes again to perhaps continue to dream.

…

…

…

Wait a minute.

She sits up. Pillows and blankets that she twisted and turned in her unconscious state fall from her torso. Through messy hair, she blinks. Then she hums. And then she frowns. Ah, dammit. She didn’t mean to fall asleep!

...What’s more...she didn’t mean for someone else to put her to bed while in this state like she’s a little kid. Her cheeks sting with a flush at the image of the dark-haired man picking her up from the floor and tucking her in, she none the wiser.

Caw.

Her eyes slide over to the open window. In the passing moment, a black bird has perched at the wooden overlap between an inside world and an outside one. Is that a crow or a raven? She remembers the factoid that ravens are always bigger, but frankly crows have always seemed so big to her, too. Calmly, it speaks again:

Caw.

And it distracts her from an internal monologue long enough to recall the past day. Her heart reattaches the heft it had unchained in her sleep, having to pick up where she left off.

“Oh, Itachi…” she mumbles, watching the corvid gently prune its feathers as it sits on her sill.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He was growing in my garden and I pulled him out by his hair like a weed

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She steps one foot in front of the other, walking back to the attic she lives in to change clothes. Distantly, an open entryway frames her, almost like a movie as she walks from right to left to the person who views from afar. She’s barefoot, in a nightgown. As Kakuzu lowers his hands folded in jutsu, he decides that if fate really did exist then it has a funny sense of humor, showing the woman to him like this as soon as his scolding ends. Blessedly, she does not notice, especially as the way she’s garbed. He’s an old fashioned man; seeing someone in their underwear or pajamas is a bit flustering or childish, respectfully. As she glides by, it’s best he looks away. So she’s awake…

...How do we go about this, then?

He decides that in this precise moment, he must be approached instead of approach himself. Certainly the woman was terrified of him, a mere night since he wrapped his tendrils around to keep her in place as she was told, in no uncertain terms, she is deathly stupid. Let’s give her space. And so she slips away, past the frame and out of sight.

It isn’t too much later that she trudges by again in the opposite direction, exactly the same except in her typical dress and sweater. She stops right in the middle of the opening Kakuzu has down the house’s corridors.

“Aaaa…” she yawns, putting a hand over her mouth underneath sleepy eyes. Unsurprising if she had hardly slept at all. The bounty hunter absorbs this fact while lowering his gaze, hopefully just in time for her to not notice his staring.

“...Mm?”

Well, shit.

On her end of the corridor, this is a dilemma for her now, too. Though only just privy to the fact her reprimander is in sight, she still could have sworn he was looking at her...and if that’s the case, it’s now obvious as he sits in the library that he is pretending he did not. That means that he doesn’t want to interact...right? Her heart’s weight sinks deeper, making her frown and avert her own stare away. She has a lot to apologize for...but it can only be done when he seems prepared for it.

She leaves sight once more after the long pause, and Kakuzu realizes this is going to be a very, very long day.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

And like weeds do he only came and grew back again

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Thank you, Itachi.”

The performer speaks not a word in front of the others about the way last night ended up, lest it end up embarrassing or troubling out of context. Perhaps later she’ll ask about it, why he treated her in such a delicate way. For now, the plate of food he’s filled up for her breakfast has an aroma as intoxicating as liquor, so she needs to find a place to sit and eat ASAP, lest she do the thing where she begins thoughtlessly picking at it with her fingers instead of utensils when she gets anxious.

Itachi nods to her and returns to the countertop, leaving the woman to look out the next room or two like one does a cafeteria. Where should she sit? Kisame is the closest option, the one that’s actually sitting at the dining room table. Usually he eats on his own in his bedroom, so that means that the shark’s been waiting for her on purpose, even if he’s so pointedly staring outside instead of acknowledging the traveler’s arrival. On the other hand, Hidan is looking straight at her, nearly done with his meal as chopsticks shove bite after bite into an impatient face. It’s unnerving, to be honest, and she’s not sure what it means. And then Zetsu is in the corner— Wait, what the fuck? Okay. He wasn’t there before she got her food, but he’s not asking for anything with his expression so she’s going to leave him be.

Lots of choices make her lost in choices, and unwitting hands begin poking at her meal while the woman stands in the middle of the kitchen, mind wandering off and away.

“Gross, Takara-chan!”

Being caught red-handed makes her jump so hard she nearly drops her plate. As if he only arrives to do mischief, Tobi giggles behind her ear and leaves as fast as he came, disappearing around the corner. Before she can even sigh, someone else calls her name:

“Takara-hime.”

The choice has been made for her.

Hidan’s eyes follow her walk until she disappears just out of his sight, into the nook where Kisame sits. She approaches the blue Akatsuki and he smiles, as he often does, but the corners don’t reach his gills; he looks so guilty, like it makes him feel sick.

“...Is it too soon for me to apologize, princess?”

“...For what?”

Oh, bless her heart. This is going to make it so much harder for him.

His gaze alone begs her to not make him actually say it. She thinks in this gap, letting her mind wake up a little better. “...Oh,” she realizes, voice soft and low in memory. The way he didn’t listen to her, the way he wanted to fight, the way he raised his sword and was ready to swing...—

The way she was ready to stop him with her own body before it could hit Hidan’s.

“I…” It’s a difficult subject, yes, so she takes an easy route by answering the question literally. “..No, it’s okay. It’s better if we talk instead of let it stew.” Though she isn’t sure if the other fighter’s ears are still perked around the wall, if she’s so rudely speaking about him around him. Regardless, Kisame nods in agreement.

“I should know better.” The traveler forgot so easily that Itachi is right there, too, and it’s him that Kisame is more concerned with the opinion of; this apology is just as much for his partner, as well, to demonstrate he understands wrongdoing. He doesn’t want to get too far into his reasoning, talk too much about how deeply he stirs for violence and war, so he opts to just get the point across: “I should have listened to you.”

It’s such a rare position for her to be the taller of the pair, and it must be taken advantage of; through his fin of hair, Kisame feels an electric tingle down his neck that stops in the middle of his spine as she so gently pats the top of his head. It makes his heart skip a beat.

“It’s okay.”

Just as she said it before, after the festival where he misjudged her. She’s much too forgiving.

“Excuse me.”

A polite nod and she wraps around the corner of the room herself. Just as she’s gone, the smile drops off Kisame’s face. He knows who is right there, skulking in wait.

“Hidan—?”

There’s a small rattle on the table just as he drops his empty plate, the reaper’s back to hers as he leaves through the back door. No room to talk, not anymore.

The performer isn’t sure how she’s supposed to feel about this, space where he was now so poignantly empty.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So, I figured this time I might as well let him be

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You feel really small sometimes, you know? You feel like you want to curl up like a pill bug and wait for it all to be over, let the rain wash away and the dirt bury overtop your head until you’re gone from the light of day. But you can't. You're human. You're too big to hide, and as a fish once said, nor should you strive to even try. This old, dusty attic doesn’t see much use midday anymore, not since the routine of music practice stopped being necessary to upkeep a job. But today it is necessary. The space is dark, bar the single window so bright in comparison that you can't see properly outside unless you get your nose right up to the glass. The air is humid and sticky in the height of the Sun’s heat, a sensation she will tolerate in order to put her guitar on her lap and recall its familiarity, its wisdom. Shes neglected it too long, this sweet gift of the haunted house. Her first solace, a way that her fingers can help a tongue speak from the heart...even if it's just for herself to hear. Softly, remembering the chords, the homemade musician strums several strings at once.

Up....down...up...down.

There is something on the edge of her throat, the tip of her soul. But...but... What is it? What is it she even feels after such a mess? As she's about to close her eyes and find her way, a voice calls up the ladder: "Oi! Takara?" Well, that isn’t who she expected, not after the kind of breakfast that just went down. As she has before, the woman lays on her stomach to peer down the hole in the floor, finding the face that matches the voice.

Hidan.

He looks serious, eyes hooded and a frown firmly in place. "I'm not gonna apologize."

Ah, so that's why he left. He assumed she would expect that of him. But that isn’t the case, of course, so the woman shakes her head, sadness quickly shadowing her eyes as she savors the aftertaste of yesterday’s regret. "You don't have to... It was my fault."

...

The man glances downwards, muttering his appreciation. "Glad you realize that…" But it’s so clearly tinged with something; Hidan must be...unsatisfied, the way he’s gotten so quiet. Perhaps he needs a helpful nudge, if there’s something yet on the Jashinist’s brain. Surely he didn’t appear just to tell her what he doesn’t need. "Can I do anything to make it up to you?" Magenta eyes climb much like he did up the ladder he now leans on, going from the floor to the wall ahead and then finally up to her fingers gripping so close to his face— though just not yet up to her own eyes. "...Besides learning better? No. I'm...just..." It’s unlike him to stagger his words so badly. "...Glad I'm okay?" the performer tries to fill in. ... "Yeah,” he admits softly, “That." Almost as if he’s embarrassed to admit it. He gets a mere twinge, a wave of what Kisame feels as vastly and consuming as drowning in the sea: a desire to protect. It's foreign to the priest, makes him antsy. It doesn’t feel right. "Listen, angel...I'm comin’ up." "Okay." A few more creaks up the ladder and here he is on the same crowded floor as her, shoulders hunched as he barely fits under the angled ceiling. She’s opted to sit on the floor so as to not ache her back, but he won’t join her. The raised position is appropriate as he tilts his head, a pout on his lips and a gleam over his eyes. It’s only now that they’ll meet her own. "You didn't tell me about Kakuzu." The interrogations over this don’t end, do they? She bites the inside of the lip in concentration before she answers, tasting a bit of blood. "...It happened just before you left. Didn't really get time." "Yeah, but..." He shuts his mouth as he formulates words. "He told me about it. That he didn't mean to. Is that right?" She nods in the dark, hoping to hide any of the more recent feelings she may have about the masked man. "It is."

A pause. Awkward again, as is their way. Her breath holds until his own exhales, loud and sincerely. "Thank Jashin." His chin tilts up to stare at nothing in particular, not in this physical plane of existence. Ponderously, his mind wanders now that it has room to relax, to wade into thoughts that aren’t just the worst of possibilities. Oh huh...what’s that he finds…? He can only help but mumble it aloud to the disciple meant to decipher his ways:

“You know…” he trails, “Despite him being a heathen and all...I'm glad. I'm glad he's around.”

She has no choice but to back up and make space for Hidan as he chooses to sit right where he stands, finally. “He?”

“Yeah. Kakuzu,” Hidan clarifies. He blinks, slow and lazily, as his brain cards through strange rationals. “No motherfucker gets you like him n' me, right? Hell, you and him get me better than anyone. He just chooses to be a damn atheist anyways, for whatever goddamn reason. Asshole he is, it’d still be harder without him around. All of this.” And then he adds at a lower volume, almost sinfully as pinkish-purple hover back to his friend for confirmation. “...You sense that too?" Admittedly...yes. Despite his unwillingness, the masked man who glares is always there when he is needed. She nods and exchanges her own question for Hidan’s: "I've always wondered something... Why did he change his mind so fast? About me?"

“Ah?” Hooded eyes blink, lips parting ever so slightly as he uncodes her nonsense, a regular hobby at this point, really. Events pass through his mind’s eye like flash cards until one in particular comes up, the only thing she could be referring to. “It’s not obvious?" But the woman shakes her head no.

"I can't always read people well." "...That’s a fucking lie but alright,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I'll indulge. He likes you. Just like I do." That puts forth more questions than answers. "...E-excuse me? Just...out of the blue? Why? What’s the reason? I don't think I...did anything to make him want to help me like he has." Not so early on when they first met, at least. Indeed, from the beginning (excluding his threat about her not breathing around him or whatever), he did more than just tolerate her. Kakuzu helped. He went out of his way. And what did she do to earn his care? "Well, no,” Hidan agrees with a small shrug, “But...whatever happened when you guys were alone that day you wandered off… Well. I don't know. He started being different. It started then." Yet another shrug. That’s all he’s got. "Couldn't tell you why." "I...oh." The time at the stump… "Angel?" It takes a moment to register that this refers to her. As the woman returns to reality, the expression upon her confidant is grave once again; it’s always so disconcerting when a guy either so relaxed or so excited abruptly becomes stiff with sober verities. "Listen..." he repeats, giving a second of silence to ensure she follows through. "...Everyone is takin' your gimmick really seriously. I mean it. Really serious. They think you're important. And ya are! Just. Not in the weird way they're rattling on about. It’s fuckin’ disconcerting.” His brow knits, evaluating what sits ahead of him, the edges of her shadowed body haloed in light from the cracked glass behind her back: a girl, fantastic and bizarre and capable of killing but only if she has the help. Nothing otherworldly about her except for the way Jashin gave her to him, not one lick. Except…—

“Where'd you get all these crazy stories from?” he presses. “Moon walkers and telepathy—" He means instant messaging, perhaps, as alluded to in a lyric or two. "—And too much light in the sky. Is Hoshi really that fucked up? What the hell are ya projecting, here?" For everyone else...the performer just sort of lets them pick and choose to their liking what's real. It’s mortifying now that he is outright asking for her to give the plot up one way or another. Omission would now be lying. "Hidan…"

...Responsibility makes her choke too long for his comfort. Assuming she's frozen up instead of sifting through hefty decisions, he puts a ringed hand on her shoulder and gives it a shake. "Whatever it is...I got your back. Okay? Just...try not to get into deeper shit. I don't know what the head honcho has in mind."

There’s a slight quiver in her stare back as she contemplates every thing she could possibly not know, everything you think about thinking about thinking, how vast the likelihoods of things she could never account for, never control, never prevent. But this humid atmosphere is about as heavy as Hidan can tolerate without slashing something to destress. His tender yet firm grip falls, a thumb going over his shoulder in a gesture. "I'm going down. You comin?" A nod, but what she says contradicts it: "Just...give me a sec." …

Lead a horse to water and whatnot, Hidan supposes. "I'll be outside if you want me." "Okay."

There’s much that one does when in the company of friends they would never do otherwise, especially with the awareness that after being so open, you may as well continue. Thoughtlessly, as she would to others in a prior life in thanks, the woman states something he’s never heard, not genuinely, just as he turns his back to climb down and out of the attic:

"I love you."

The tone catches him off guard as much as the words. They echo in his ears.

I love you.

His eyes widen and his face pinkens, unseen by her even as he peeks over his shoulder to evaluate, to pick up the puzzle pieces and mash them together; she does not yet realize her mistake, and so she looks and sounds far too casual. And Hidan doesn't know how to say those words back , so he's left to just swallow them up and continue to go. She's going to wonder, later in this dark dank room all alone , if he heard her or not. How mortifying . But she means it, and therefore she cannot regret, even if she should have chosen her words differently as to be fully understood.

But she does love him, even too in a way she won’t admit to herself. Oh, she has no idea how abruptly she had just changed his life.

I love you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lemon Boy and me started to get along together

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So what on earth did Hidan mean by that? The woman tries to recollect what happened when she and Kakuzu were first alone together, just as the priest proposed it had gone down. She remembers being humiliated, being worried that somehow, some fuckin’ way, he had gathered in the few moments they were in civilization that she couldn’t read. She doesn’t even remember opportunity to read anything! That detail has always stupefied her, made her realize the bounty hunter is leagues ahead in terms of intelligence. She remembers that she tried to make up a name and it was, in fact, the dumbest on the planet, ever, and he made sure she knew it. Secrets one and two she had, so easily uncovered that day, so of course the performer remembers next her secret number three:

...The unanswered question of if he believes the Akatsuki leader about who “Takara” may really be.

Sitting cross legged, still in the attic, she puts a thumb to her lower lip and thinks. In her small opening of daylight she can make out a shape when she looks really close through the glass she leans onto, Hidan seeming so small as he lays with his back on the wild, tall grass of the lawn, stray blades leaning over him with his arms behind his head as he sunbathes like a cat, presumably dozing seeing how he’s closed his eyes. She has a feeling that this isn’t what he meant to be doing with his time; hopefully he wasn’t waiting on her to come down.

Unconsciously, though, the woman’s decided she can’t join until she decides out what she wants to do with his new information.

...What’s this? Another figure, donned in the black and red cloak steps out from the cover of the porch awning to approach the priest. Hidan’s mouth moves, though he doesn’t make effort to look back at the person. His wrist waves the attached hand in dismissal. She can’t hear anything, can’t make out the face of the newcomer, no matter how closely she squints through dusty glass. Hidan sits up, palms down in the green as he finally gives the person the time of day; his expression looks...earnest. A pause. His back facing her, she can only presume that the second man seems to be talking based on the silver haired man’s current silence, who in turn shrugs. A palm raises face up near the shoulders as if he’s explaining something...—

“Eep!”

She ducks just in time as Hidan points to the window, drawing Kakuzu’s attention to where she’s holed up. Oh dear. A choice is made. The performer is not one that likes to be found; she’d rather present herself first. The guitar goes down the ladder with her, strapped to her back as she heads to the inevitable.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I helped him plant his seeds

And we'd mow the lawn in bad weather

It's actually pretty easy being nice to a bitter boy like him

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

What’s the closest book in this damn place to whatever the hell the girl might like? Fairy tales, sure. Not to his taste and he’s heard them all, so no. Romance novel? ...Not for the best. Oh. Hm.

Well, it isn’t his choice for her, but Kakuzu can certainly pass the time with a geopolitical nonfiction. May as well…

Patter, patter, old yellow pages flip open. “...Hn,” he grunts in displeasure.

The first Hokage. Suppose it can’t be helped; most literature is rather Fire Country biased. Still, the memory of the Konoha shinobi gives Kakuzu a headache. He paws a couple more pages—

...But then fingers stop from turning one more.

Around the corner, the woman has her back to the wall, taking a breath before getting on metaphorical stage. This guy has heard her sing over and over. Kakuzu is, sincerely, the one constant member of her audience since the first performance. Don’t be so nervous! You do this all the time.

But the difference now is...he’s going to know this song is for him.

Kakuzu pretends not to notice the girl is there until she makes herself visible on purpose, standing awkwardly in the library nook’s entrance with the guitar over her neck. In the corner of his eye, her cheeks are bright pink. As tempting as it is since she’s already made this first move, to keep his promise of letting her approach means to let her continue— no matter how painfully— and not stop whatever the heck is about to happen.

“I...um…” Her voice is so small. It isn’t really in her favor to say ‘hey, Hidan told me everything! He told me you really care! I care about you too, and I’m sorry!’ No, not the most tactful choice. She has to open the conversation by stepping right in, no one to take responsibility for it but herself:

“I—...Talk?” Find your tongue, kid. “Is now a good time? To?”

It’s disheartening if the stammering is because she’s scared half to death, but a few words from their mutual friend/”friend” outside as he laid in the grass have made the hunter wiser than that. As always, she sees his face covered, all but the gemstones fixed in his skull, but they do look tired. “As good as ever.”

That isn’t a no, at least! She steps forward, presenting herself as if a newbie ready to audition. “I…” More stuttering. The girl must have a sixth sense because just as Kakuzu opens his mouth to tell her to spit it out, she beats him to the punch:

“No, let me. I got it.” Her eyes close and a palm raises, indicating he not interrupt as she digs inside for the right thing to say. Her shoulders slump with a sigh and she visibly relaxes, a detail carried out very much on purpose. Let go. Just talk.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” Abruptly much more complete, her language. Her eyes stay shut, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m sorry I put you in a bad position. I know it must not have been comfortable. You’ve done a lot for me when I didn’t ask for it. Frankly, I don’t even know what I’ve done to deserve it. But you’ve looked out for me and I should return your kindness better.” Her eyes open, soft yet determined. “I hope I can be better.” He stares up, unblinking; she cannot wait for his assurance, the truth still needs to be said. “And I forgive you for anything that may have possibly happened that you could regret.”

Ah, to not speak the obvious. She’s opened the gates, and since she’s making it so damn easy, now he’s walking in. “Are you certain of that?” Her nod is firm and immediate; he’s never seen her so serious.

“I forgave you as soon as it happened. I just missed you. That’s the only thing I felt.”

So, is she lying, he thinks? Is it pity? Or is she a fool? But something— always something— in his gut tells him she is most certainly not stupid. Perhaps that instinct makes him the idiot. Over one slow second, his eyes become hooded and his shoulders relax, too, as he exhales, weary and ready for rest from the whole emotional affair. He doesn’t like to accept kindness, nor be blamed of it, but he’ll do it just this once. Just so long as he doesn’t need to announce it.

“Sit down.”

The woman does as told, and she’s never been more relieved to be near him. The seat at far end of the couch becomes occupied. Part of him wishes she sat right next to him as before, when he pushed her away. That’s his own fault, he supposes. Yet another sigh falls from the back of his throat. So much unnecessary discomfort...it hasn’t been this difficult for him in years to simply exist. She bites her tongue, trusting they can both be adults and speak for themselves about her own feelings.

And damn, he’s going to try.

“You want to know why I care?” The musician glances at her toes for a second, down to where she’s set down her instrument ...She nods, confirming not her only her obvious desire to know but rather also the ability to withstand the answer. And withstand she must, as he raises the curtain on his mysterious ways:

“I don’t know.”

She blinks up at him. Did she hear him right? He’s always struck her as such a knowing, confident man, one that has a reason for everything. He won’t meet her eyes, his are glued to the pattern of books in the case ahead.

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “It’s something you do. I know it’s on purpose.” Guilty as charged, she glances away momentarily. It’s hard to say that’s not the case when she had a whole breakdown at Tobi’s feet over how that is very much the case.

“But.”

And but, she agrees, though she needs his lips to explain what she plays out. What does he have to say “but” about?

“But it’s...sincere. It’s damn on purpose because you mean it.” It’s a grumble he speaks; is he angry? But Kakuzu knows deep in his many hearts— each and every one— that he’s never held anger for her. An emotion that defines him, allows survival...it is lacking with her. That’s what the problem has been, the imbalance that’s thrown him so off. How do you navigate without something that has always guided your way, struck clear the path you haven't trod before?

Perhaps another emotion is needed, one she has plenty to spare.

“I think I’m allowed to make one silly decision for its own sake.”

A pause is allowed for it to hit her: this is a joke. She blinks once again, now curious instead of worried. “Silly?” she repeats. He grunts in affirmative reply. “Oh…” And then, like lighting a candle, she brightens slow but sure; perhaps they have middle ground after all. “...I’ve always thought life isn’t worth it if you can’t be a little silly,” she comforts.

What odd advice. He’s the last person to accept it. Perhaps that means he’s the first to need it. The man puts aside his sense of dignity to humor her, this relationship he has allowed to fester being his own fault:

“I think I’m too hardened for your philosophy...duckling.”

The word is arsenic on his tongue, poison that tastes sweet as it goes down the esophagus. Duckling. Duckling. Duckling. He’s never said it, not once since that second day together, but it’s echoed in his mind ever since. A nickname so ridiculous, so flagrantly dumb...that he could never forget it. That he can’t stop hearing it in the back of his head whenever she does something simply he cannot comprehend, from the way she moves her legs so far forward when she walks to how she smiles even when he's done nothing to earn it. Silly, silly, silly.

What is it that she’s thinking, the way she looks back so blank? Are her feelings hurt? Did he put to much emphasis on the sarcasm, the strangeness of it all? Oh no, no. Quite the contrary, the performer bursts into laughter, so suddenly he can feel her bounce with each shout even from his end of the couch. Never before has he heard her laugh much less like this. But the ugliness, the snorting and the wheeze stuck in the back of her throat and the way she covers her mouth...yes.

It is sincere.

Perhaps he’s not making a mistake, after all. Perhaps even briefly, it can be indulged without consequence. Her cheeks are still flushed with the color of roses, but it is in something closer to bashfulness than shame, even as he considers if it’s the latter Kakuzu experiences for himself. The woman he named, his silly little duckling…

The treasure he keeps so hesitantly, as if it’ll make him human again.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

So, I got myself a citrus friend

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[vishnavishivaa]

Prologue (Sambandham: War of Hearts)

As promised, back with the Prologue in a day!

*****

Kshithija Velan was shaking, the events of the evening finally sinking in. Her hair, generally neatly arranged in ringlets of long, silky smooth hair, a paradox in her point of view, was now in disarray, scrunched by what seemed like her own hands. The lower half, usually in waves with mild curls at the end looked like it had been tugged and pulled apart to an extent it had not been in many months.

Her dark eyes, usually wide with delight, sparkling with the golden sparkle that shone in light bulbs, the Sun and golden glitter was now dull, a fleck of dull gold flickering here and there, the whites of her eyes red, filled with sorrow. A sorrow that seemed to languish her heart, radiating through the very pores of her skinny body. She really needed to put on some weight, Kshithija mused in a distant thought, trying to push down the pain of her heart, which was slowly manifesting into something physical. Pain suddenly shot through her body and she stood up in shock, stumbling across the room and crashing into the floor, crying out.

But no one would come to her rescue. Not anymore.

Before, when she often hung out at the Chozha household, Arun or Adi Anna would help her, holding her palm. Arun would laugh at her clumsiness but would be caring in his own way, Adi would be nice and help, though not really bothering beyond that. She missed Deva something fierce, but pushed that pain down. She could not think of this anymore, she doubted that Deva would even come to visit her at London. No no, she could not think of this anymore.

"I do not like you romantically, Kshithija, I never have."

Those words, those piercing words caused an indescribable trauma in her, a pain she did not even expect. When she told him of her feelings, she had held on to the flame of hope, but had also been practical enough to know that if he did not like her romantically, he will tell her so. Yet the way Arun had said it triggered something in her.

Something that felt much older than the body she wore, a bond that started in a birth before maybe. A bond she had not accepted, preferring denial and a fresh start. Yet his words had awakened something that she had buried deep within her.

Something old, something they shared despite Kshithija trying for a fresh start. She closed her eyes, trying to capture the expression of calmness in Arun's eyes, the blank expression on his face, to try and get closure. And yet, she felt a sadness deep in her bones envelop her.

Idhu andhi baagama, yuga neela gaanama, nodi nera yogama, sakhi

She had to consider this as the end of her life with the Chozha family, one that she had considered her own, and one that had caused her both happiness and pain to an equal extent.

"Goodbye, oh family I once wished to marry into."

*******

Glossary:

idhu andhi baagama, yuga neela gaanama, nodi nera yogama, sakhi- Is this the last part, or the length of a long war, or is this a random chance of luck, oh friend?

This lyric/verse is from the song Oru Vezham from the movie Nitham Oru Vaanam

@thelekhikawrites @nspwriteups @whippersnappersbookworm @ragkee @chemicalmindedlotus @dr-scribbler @willkatfanfromasia @balladedutempsjadis @freeunknownwasteland @ramcharanobsessed @gemmusings @vijaysena @thirst4light @hollogramhallucination @chiyaanvikram @moon-880 @sakhiiii @thereader-radhika @ambidextrousarcher @celestesinsight @yehsahihai @thegleamingmoon @dumdaradumdaradum @rang-lo @ragkee @vijayasena Please let me know your thoughts!

I will return with Chapter 1 next week!

[whimsiquix]

not really a specific prompt exactly but quix a fic where they confess, talk out their feelings after varadha becomes kartha please and also perhaps including their first time?

The winter moon paints Varadha in beams of silver, curls whipping off his face as the wind kisses his skin.

"The crown suits you." Deva says leaning back against the balustrade as he looks at Varadha.

Varadha just grins. He doesn't deny it.

Deva loves him like this. Content and a little mischievous like he has all the time in the world.