#this whole idea was like a joke on the horrors of hosting during the holidays

[fellpyrean]

Advent Statement 10 - Hospitality

And here we are. The final one I managed to write, though I am pretty sure I only finished it on the 23rd or 24th itself and then promptly fell over dead. Unfortunately, the final intended chapter of this advent was never written, but who knows! Maybe I will write it as a silly goof this year. 

On to this one, I really had to keep beating ideas for the stranger out of the ranking, but they still ended up with two chapters, those showy bastards. They’ve just got such aesthetic, you know? 

This chapter contains a version of an OC of my partner and I’s, and we love him very much. Please, be polite to him. He’s an excellent guest. 

CWs: canon typical violence/peril?? 

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You've seen candles in the window, haven't you?

They're popular this time of year; little AA powered twinkling things, plastic and fake leaves of holly to make them pretty and fire-safe. Don't get me wrong - I like them. I think they're charming. I just never really thought of them beyond decor until recently. 

Never really wondered what a candle in the window meant until I put that candle in my window and… formed my contract, it would say. 

My guest.

It’s a welcome, the candle. A bright, flickering beacon at the end of a long, dark journey. An offering of food and shelter and, hah, hospitality. 

I should backtrack. 

The house used to belong to my uncle, but the one I got it from was an old family friend. I’d just gotten kicked out of my old place, so they’d decided it was as good a time as any to pass the place back on to me. And look, maybe it was a horror movie setup from the start, but the reality is, when someone gives you a house, you look past the colonial brick and woodwork and the included cellar and encroaching old-growth and any creepiness inherent and go hell yeah, I’ve got a place to live. 

It’s a lovely house. Sturdy and creaky all at once, with stone and real wood floors and a huge glass door - a much more recent addition - that looks out over the field between it and the forest out back. No ever-present sounds of traffic, no door-to-door salesmen because out there, odds are they’ll be met with a shotgun. It was peaceful and cozy, once I got a few rugs, and I was willing to coexist with whatever ghosts might have haunted the place as long as they were polite. Feels like I shot myself in the foot with that one, honestly. 

This began with a candle. 

I found it tucked away in the cellar, and ignoring the fucking foreshadowing of where I found it - literally behind a hole in the wall, where a piece of stone had been loosely removed and set back in - I was immediately charmed by it. It wasn’t new and neat; it was old and yellowed and rough, obviously hand-dipped, and the smell of clove came faintly from the slightly soft wax. I mean, it’s not wax, but that’s what I thought it was. It was tallow. Rendered fat. Yeah. You don’t need me to say the rest; you’ve already got an idea and so do I, but I never asked.

It sat in one of those old-fashioned metal candle holders with the dish and the little loop to put your finger through, with a little circle of melted ‘wax’ still in the tarnished base, and… And I thought it had an antique charm to it. It wasn’t all neat and perfect like something modern, and it just. Made sense to me that when it came time to decorate my home for the holidays, I put it in one of the windows. The front ones all had curtains but I’d not quite managed to scrape enough together to get curtains for all the ones in the back, so in the interest of fire safety, it went in the narrow little window next to that big, glass door facing the woods. 

No curtains, and I could see it from my usual perch at the kitchen counter. Seemed perfect. 

The sight of it there, burning bright and filling the room with that odd but not unpleasant scent made me feel warm. Cozy. Just old, orange flickering firelight lighting up the space, silhouetted against the black shape of the trees outside. 

A glittering invitation. 

He… it came the next night. 

All day, I was weirdly on pins and needles. I couldn't sit still for the life of me, and that antsiness manifested as the most cleaning that house had probably seen in a century. Even the baseboards got a scrubbing. I can't even claim that I had company coming in like a month, because I didn't; I only had the one couch and my dining table only sat two if you didn't mind personal space. Like hell was I offering to host. 

But it just seemed like something that needed doing. And when I was done cleaning and tidying, I started to cook. Beef and barley soup, if you must know. 

It had just really finished up when I… When I relaxed enough to look up and notice that it was dark - and the candle was lit. I hadn't noticed the scent of clove filling the room, threading through the rich scent of soup, until then. 

And then I noticed something much, much worse than a candle I didn't remember lighting. 

There was someone standing on my back porch. 

I almost screamed from that alone, really. I know I locked up for a moment, breath caught in my chest as I stood there with nothing but a wooden spoon in hand and stared at the barely illuminated… person? Standing just a few feet from the glass. 

It wasn't… wasn't quite shaped right. It was very tall, and the outline was all wrong. This was not helped by the fact that I could see what looked like antlers coming off its head, before I realized there was still a skull attached to those. 

A bare, yellow-white deer skull over its face like a mask. I could see the flickering candle light, the pale moonlight dripping down the prongs, glinting off the teeth. And then it slowly stepped forward. Its outline rustled as it moved, as it stepped closer and raised too sharp fingers and gently, carefully, knock-knocked on the glass. It… it sounded wrong. It wasn’t flesh that made its fingers, and I have never wanted to own a shotgun more than in that moment. 

But it just stood there. That hand still raised expectantly, its unseen eyes fixed on me. I did not move. I watched as it slowly tilted its head, watched something sway and clatter from its antlers, and it knocked again. 

I… I swear, when it. When it knocked again, when it stared at me with that skull’s empty eyes, I felt a sudden… sense of crisis. Like the candle smoke went cloying, like I could hear those… those claws dig into the glass, and abruptly knew that it only stayed behind it because it was being… polite. 

It was the most absurd thought, but in that moment, I knew that it was true and I latched onto that surety like a rope. 

I opened the door for it. 

My terror was probably tangible in the air as I did it, but I lunged over and unlocked the door and slid it open. I was close enough I could smell the scent of pine and dirt and smoke clinging to it, clinging to the… the pelts it wrapped around itself. I could hear the layers of dusty furs rub against each other as it nodded towards me and held out that pale, clawed hand towards me, until I took it. 

It shook my hand and my skin crawled at the cold touch and then it just let go and stepped inside. Each step clunked. I didn’t think about it too hard. 

All I did was close the door, listening to it clunk, clunk, clunk across the wooden floors, and heard it pull out a chair at my tiny dining table. 

I wish it had done something worse, but, no. 

I gave it soup and it wasn’t until it finished eating it with a mouth I never saw that my words came back to my tongue and I could ask who, what it was. 

And it just answered, in a voice deep and rough, “I am your guest.” 

It is the guest, and I. I am the host who invited it in. 

Nothing about it was human. Its joints moved wrong, like… like an animal. But it held the steaming mug of cider delicately in its… fingers that clicked against the ceramic and sipped it almost contentedly, and I just had to watch and host it with a smile as my fear simmered beneath my skin. The longer I saw it under the light, the more I realized just how wrong it was, and it was only with my nerves fraying and my fingers shaking that I guided it back to the door once it stood and thanked me for the meal, and just. Left. 

I watched it walk and slump back out across the field and vanish into the trees and only then did I let myself slide to the floor. I felt wrung out. Exhausted and jittery and I didn't move for a while. 

It was only when I realized I was watching shadows dance on the ceiling cast by candlelight that I found an outlet to act on. I snuffed the candle with fury and marched right back down to the cellar with it. That was really the first time I ever wondered why something so charming had been shoved into a literal hole in the cellar wall, but now I had a feeling. 

The candle called that thing inside. 

So, if. If the candle was in the cellar like that, there must have been a reason. Had my uncle put it there? Had he known? Was that why he'd passed off the house, why the person he'd given it to had never set foot inside while they owned it? I had no answers but I was pissed. Scared pissed. I'd had to sit next to that thing for an hour and act like everything was normal and like I didn't hear way too many things shift and clink-clunk together when it moved or wonder where the soup was going or whether the soup was what it was eating at all. 

I shoved the candle back into the hole, back into that dirty, dark little spot and I found the stone that was supposed to cover it hidden beneath the stairs and rankled at the idea that someone had set it up for me to find. 

All that mattered, I told myself as I hefted the stone back into place and pushed at it until it was more or less back where it belonged, was that the candle was gone now. It was gone and unlit and that thing wouldn't come anymore. 

I think that desperate satisfaction helped lull me to sleep; me telling myself I had fixed the problem. It had worked for the last person, so it would work for me. 

(The last person left. The last person never stepped inside the house again.)

Couldn't really afford them, but I bought the rest of the curtains the next day. I didn't want to see the field in the morning anymore, didn't want to watch the twilight and squint for owls and deer. I didn't want the thing in the forest to see me, to see any light spilling from the windows and take it as a welcome. 

Oh, and a shotgun. I kept it very close as I hung my new curtains and ate my extremely cheap dinner, and the thing did not come back. 

Not for a week. 

I watched every night for it. Jumped at every creak and thump outside, though I was very proud that I hadn't devolved to checking with my shotgun in hand. 

When I heard that heavy clunk on the back porch though, I instantly knew the sound. 

Clunk. Clunk. 

Silence. 

My heart thudded frantically in my chest as I dared not move. 

It was standing on the back porch again. I couldn't see it behind the thick, heavy curtains I had installed, but I knew with utmost certainty that it had come back and the candle was not lit. 

It did not knock. 

It stood there, and then I heard it laugh.

Low and raspy and rolling, and then I heard those claws drag against the glass. 

"Am I no longer welcome?"

The glass wailed. It shook. 

“You no longer wish for me to be your guest?” My shotgun was on the table. I went for it. I’d bought it for this. I ran, and the glass shattered. Something. Something snarled, something came running too fast, its steps disordered and heavy, and I refused to look. Not until I had my shotgun in hand and turned and it was. So, so much worse than I expected. 

It no longer resembled a person at all. It… it had too many limbs. All those pelts, writhing and shifting, too many limp paws and hooves all clawing forwards, all connected to that single, grinning deer skull. Bones and twigs and baubles jangled beneath, a horrid cacophony that howled as it barreled through my kitchen, as that deer skull’s mouth opened - I shot it. 

I don’t think I missed, but I. Didn’t dare wait and watch. 

All I know is that it didn’t stop, either way. I shot and ran and it laughed and cackled and snarled and I. I ran down. 

I don’t think I could have made it out the front door, or my car. I don’t think my car could have withstood it. Upstairs… I would have just been cornered. The only option I had was down. I’d be cornered, but it had… it needed to be my guest. I had to host it. At least until I could figure out some other way to deal with it, at least the candle kept me safe. 

The cellar had a good lock. Sturdy. I just prayed it would be enough as I barreled down the stairs and dropped my gun and scrabbled at that stone. It thudded against the wood. I heard the door splintering. I heard the things horrid hollow laughter, heard something too, too heavy for empty, writhing skins slamming again and again into the door as I struggled and pulled at the wall, swearing as it moved so, so slowly, dragging against old mortar - 

The door shattered. 

The stone slipped and cracked on the floor as I plunged my hand into that awful little hole and grabbed that too-soft candle in the dark and. And felt fur brush against my arms. Felt soft, supple leather draped across my shoulders and rasping breaths at the back of my neck. Cold, long-dead teeth pricked above my spine as I. Shivered. 

But it didn’t move either. 

So I. I pulled the candle out of the wall and didn’t look at the mismatched pelts, at the old claws that capped empty, grasping paws as I held it up. I licked my lips. 

“Can I invite you to sit down for dinner upstairs?” 

My voice was impressively even. I was… specific. As specific as I could be, with its teeth pressed to my skin. 

You can probably guess since I’m here that it worked. It… it didn’t let go of me until I lit the candle. That walk up the stairs was… one of the worst moments in my life, I think. The skins were so heavy as it clung to me. Cold bone on my neck, awful, nameless things jangling as I maintained my brittle smile and ferried my guest back upstairs to my dining room and dug for the matches and lit the damned thing. 

And then it waited politely, pelts shifting and rustling as it literally pulled itself back together into something person-shaped and I made more soup. 

The candle sat in the middle of the table. I watched it burn down slowly as my guest tucked in, content and docile, and ignored the cold breeze blowing into my kitchen from my shattered back door. It made the flame dance. The smoke coiled about the lights and wreathed the room and filled my lungs until it finally left again, glass crunching beneath its hidden feet as it pulled aside the curtain and vanished back into the night. 

I didn’t try to hide the candle again. 

Call me a coward, but I… I shot the fucking thing and it didn’t even slow down. Where would I even aim if I wanted to shoot to kill? The skull? Would I try lighting it on fire? Flames would probably work, but. But I was scared. I was scared and I could still feel the ghost of its teeth and claws pressed tight to my skin. I had a feeling that if I set it aflame, it would drag me down with it, and I… I wasn’t at that point yet. 

I kept the candle in the window and my guest came by, again and again. It brought me gifts, you know? Old pelts. They’re beautifully preserved. Said it was only polite to bring gifts to such a hospitable host. 

And every time it visited, I watched the candle burn. Lower and lower. 

It’s just a nub now. Maybe enough for a single night. 

That’s… why I came now. 

It’s supposed to snow this weekend, you see… It’ll be too cold for it to leave, the snow too deep. 

I can’t turn it out into a night like that. It has such old, weary bones. 

It’d make me a terrible host. 

[goldencuffs]

fake dating au part two

Whenever Laurent was overwhelmed, or feeling the kind of loneliness even a good cock couldn’t cure, he would sneak off into the library in the north wing of the Palace, where most of his mother’s official portraits were displayed.

Laurent loved all of them; Hennike was smiling in every single one, blonde hair curled perfectly, and teeth a stunning white. The colouring of her gowns and crowns were so bright, even painted, they seemed to shine in the dullest light. Laurent didn’t really know her; she had died three days after giving birth to him, but he had watched so many interviews and home videos of her, he felt like he had. She had been beautiful, well spoken, and everyone had been shocked when she had fallen for Al, because she had been betrothed to someone else.

Laurent liked coming down here to talk to her. It helped to have her listen to his dramatic tirades. He had started doing it when he was thirteen, when Auguste had enlisted in military training and left him alone, but had stopped a few months later, when Al caught him, his face ashen as he’d watched his youngest son babble to his dead wife.

After that, Laurent made sure to only come down in the dead of night, when he was absolutely desperate.

Which was clearly now; Laurent’s head had been spinning since the dinner at Heston’s. Even dessert hadn’t cheered him up — Heston, the absolute cretin, had served only four options of dessert and not a single one had chocolate in them. Not even one! It was like people intentionally went out of their way to put Laurent in a foul mood. Laurent had already drafted a wordy letter about Heston’s appalling lack of class and hosting abilities on the way home, and he was going to send it to the local tabloid first thing in the morning.

Laurent paced around the library, addressing his favourite portrait of his mother. It was her wedding portrait, and he loved all the detailing in it. The blush pink flowers in her bouquet matched her lipstick and her blush, and the tiara she was wearing had 588 diamonds in it. It was called The Laurent Tiara, and when Laurent had found out it had been Hennike’s favourite crown, he’d cried into his pillowcase for an embarrassingly long time.

“If I tell Al the truth now, he’ll kill me,” Laurent wailed at an appropriately low volume; he was very considerate of the sleeping guards when he threw his tantrums. “Or worse — get me married! Oh god, he’ll set me up with that idiot Torveld and I’ll have to spend the rest of my life hearing about his coin collection. Who even uses cash anymore? And what exactly is the point of having money if you can’t use it? And has Al even considered the aesthetics of our coupling? How are we supposed to wear matching outfits if Torveld looks rubbish in Egyptian blue and azure? Hello! Those are my signature colours!” Laurent sunk down on the lumpy sofa and buried his head in his hands. “Maybe death really is the better option.” He looked up at Hennike’s green eyes. “Is heaven overrated? Where would you personally place it on a scale of one to ten?”

She didn’t answer him, obviously. It was no use, anyway; Laurent was definitely not getting into heaven.

*

Laurent woke up irritated and unrested, and not for his usual, fun reasons. He hadn’t come up with any sort of solution to his dilemma and he had had a very strange dream where Damianos punched him while Al watched on. Then the scene had changed, and Laurent was on stage accepting his tenth Oscar for Best Actor, even though he had yet to star in any films.

“I’m thinking of becoming an actor,” Laurent told Al later that night during dinner.

Al’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a sharp line. “What?”

“I mean, I have the looks, obviously. And really, how hard is acting anyway? Clearly you don’t even need to be very good at it to star in a movie — look at Channing Tatum. I’m sorry, but it’s very obvious his height was the only thing that got him into Hollywood, and even then it’s not that impressive.”

Al put down his knife and fork. “Can we —” He sounded very strained, “have a normal conversation for once.”

Laurent considered this. “I don’t think we’ve had enough conversations to statistically find out what constitutes a normal one,” he said. Al went red, so he continued, “So you don’t think acting is for me? Shall I try directing then? Or maybe —” He sat up excitedly in his chair. “I could write movies! I have so many ideas! Why, for instance, has no one considered a gay version of The Princess Bride? What would that even be called? The Prince Groom? Ugh, no, that’s terrible. Oh, who am I kidding — with my face and my body I have no choice but to be on camera. Otherwise, it’d be such a waste.”

The vein in Al’s forehead was throbbing. If he had been wearing his crown, it would have gone unnoticed, but like this, it was rather unflattering.

Al said, “Laurent,” in a sombre tone. “I really hope you’re joking.”

“About The Prince Groom? Kind of. But the acting thing — would it really be that bad?”

“You are a prince,” Al said, teeth clenched. “If it is the glam and glitz you want, you have more than enough here.”

Laurent, uncomfortably, thought of his room, the only place in the Palace that was truly his, devoid completely of personal artefacts. He swallowed. “Yes, well.” He tried a smile. “Maybe I should borrow another crown from the royal archives. I don’t think I’ve worn one with emeralds yet.”

Al resumed eating. “Speaking of crowns,” he said, completely glossing over Laurent’s last statement. “I’d like you to wear the Crown of Naos when King Damianos arrives.”

Laurent’s mouth dropped open. “As if! Al, the gold colouring on that completely washes me out! Not to mention the fact that that thing weighs like, five kilograms!”

Al’s nostrils flared at the word Al. He said, “The crown is a gift from Damianos’ great great grandfather to yours. It will be an appropriate and symbolic gesture if you wear it.”

“But why can’t you wear it? Or Auguste?”

“I am not the one having an affair with the King of Akielos,” said Al.

Oh, right. Laurent had forgotten about that. But what was the point? It wasn’t as though Damianos would recognise the gesture. If anything, he might think of it as inappropriate.

Instead he said, “Well, gee, Al, I didn’t peg you as a romantic.” Laurent fluttered his lashes a little.

Al pushed away his plate. “I’m done, thank you.” A servant immediately came to clear away his food.

Al left the dining hall, his shoulders tight. Laurent wished Auguste would hurry back home already.

*

In the morning, on the way back from the stables, Jord said, “Looks like your wish came true.”

Laurent stopped dead. “Oh my god — is Pierre-Alexis Dumas here? Is he finally going to collab with me?”

“Who’s Pierre-Alexis Dumas?” said Jord.

Laurent whirled on him. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“Sorry.” Jord said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry. The audacity! “But look.” He pointed past Laurent, to the front of the Palace.

Laurent looked. There was a nondescript black limousine parked on the long, gravel pathway. Laurent would have dismissed it, if he didn’t spot sight of Jeurre, Auguste’s chauffeur, leant up against one of the doors, smoking.

Laurent gasped. He passed on his bridle to Jord, who fumbled to catch it, and ran inside.

Auguste and Al were in the plate room. Al was sitting on the large, velvet throne, a glass of whiskey in his hand. It wasn’t even noon! And he was baring his teeth in that weird way — smiling, as he called it.

Auguste was standing in front of him, hands behind his back. He had gotten very tan, and his hair was much darker, a strange golden colour that made the blue-green of his eyes more appealing.

They both turned when Laurent entered. Al’s mouth was already drooping at the sight of him, but Laurent only had eyes for his brother, whom he hadn’t seen in eight whole months.

Laurent wanted to hug him, which surprised even himself. Laurent was not a hugger. He wasn’t much of a toucher, either, unless it involved getting laid.

Auguste gave him a nod. He sometimes acted so much like Al, it disgusted Laurent; the only difference was that Auguste’s eyes were always kind.

Laurent peered at him closely, shocked. “What have you done to yourself? Are you having a mid-life crisis? Should we call Paschal for a yearly psych evaluation?”

Auguste laughed. “It’s a moustache, Laurent. It’s very fashionable in Kempt, you know.”

“It’s horrendous!” Laurent cried. He stared at the thick hair above Auguste’s top lip in horror. “Right. I’m officially ruling Kempt out as a holiday destination this summer if all the men are growing that.”

Al’s eyebrows furrowed. “I like it. It’s very refined.”

“Oh god, now we have to get rid of it,” said Laurent, which made Al frown and Auguste laugh. Auguste squeezed Laurent’s shoulder. He was always mindful of Laurent’s boundaries. “I think you’ve grown taller.”

“I haven’t,” Laurent said. He showed off his riding boots. “See? It’s three inches of heel.”

“Very impractical,” Al said under his breath, which was not a very Kingly thing to do.

Auguste was still smiling. “I like it. It matches the piping of your coat.”

“Yes, exactly!” Laurent was so happy in that moment, he leant forward and hugged Auguste. It was very short, but Auguste looked so pleased afterwards, Laurent wished he had prolonged it.

“Did you get me anything?” he asked, to cover the embarrassment following his sudden burst of affection.

Auguste raised an eyebrow. “I’m hurt, Laurent. You’re not going to ask me about my classes or my rather excellent Anthropology professor?”

Laurent scrunched up his face. “Are you stalling because you didn’t get me anything?”

Auguste smiled. “There’s about fifty boxes of Grand Cru chocolate in your bedroom.”

Laurent’s sound of ecstasy was too loud; Al spilled some of his whiskey onto his pants. Auguste clapped him on the back in commiseration.

As the servants laid out a small meal —  roses of smoked salmon on cucumber slices, macaroons, thin slices of cured meat and cheese, crunchy shrimp salad on crusty rolls, grapes and strawberries and mango and pineapple, individual strawberry shortcakes, that kind of thing — Auguste said, “Father tells me you’re having an affair with the King of Akielos.” He said it casually enough, but Laurent could see he wasn’t thrilled about the idea.

Laurent swallowed his last bite of sandwich and placed a hand on his heart. “Al! You should know better than to gossip, shame on you!”

Al just sighed, a long, suffering sound, and Auguste glared openly at him. “I thought you promised to stop disrespecting Father like that.”

Laurent’s stomach pooled with an uncomfortable tightness. Being told off by Auguste somehow was always worse than being told off by Al.

“Fine,” Laurent said shortly. He said to Al: “Oh dearest Father, Papa, Your Majesty, light of my life, the man who impregnated Queen Hennike, so I, your glorious creation, could be born to bring some joy to this bleak, bleak world: stop gossiping immediately.”

There was a very long pause. Then Auguste laughed. “You are such a shit.”

Al sighed again. “He’s becoming more and more insolent by the day.”

“Thank you so much,” Laurent said, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Auguste barked another laugh. Al sipped more whiskey; a very good sign. Laurent was going to take advantage of this; he wanted a new watch.

Auguste continued his questioning a few minutes later. “So. You and the King — it’s true?”

Laurent flapped a hand. “Oh, you know how it is. He saw those pictures of me from Aimeric’s birthday party where I wore those silk shorts that were just long enough to be tasteful and the poor darling had absolutely no choice but to slide into my DMs and woo me.”

“What’s a DM?” asked Al, and if the question had come from anyone else, Laurent would have found it adorable. He probably would have tweeted it as well.

“Texting,” Auguste said. He seemed contemplative. “Aimeric’s birthday — from last September? It’s been a bit more than a year.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. He tried to say it as wistfully as possible. “He bought me a Ferrarri.”

“Really?” Auguste sounded impressed. “The 1954?”

Laurent grinned. “Do you want to drive it?”

“Fuck yeah,” Auguste said, then quickly cleared his throat and looked at their father. “I mean, yes. Perhaps later in the afternoon.”

Al shook his head, but he didn’t say anything for the rest of the meal. Well, he didn’t say anything to Laurent. He really was in a good mood.

*

Having Auguste back had Laurent so distracted it wasn’t until a few days later that he realised how frantically the staff were cleaning the floors and walls and painting frames.

In fact, he became so relaxed doing less than nothing all day, since Al was too busy doing this and that, or fawning over Auguste, he didn’t comprehend why the chefs needed fifty boars delivered fresh on Friday morning, until Al told him before their weekly Council, “I want you to wear your red high neck blouse tomorrow.”

“Why?” Laurent asked, checking for any fine lines in the shine of the armour of one of the propped knights in the hallway.

“It is the colour of the Akielos banner. I am trying to seem as diplomatic as possible.”

Laurent went very, very still. With dawning horror, he said, “The — Damianos is coming tomorrow?”

Al’s expression turned thunderous. “Do not waste my time asking stupid questions, Laurent. You know how much I despise it.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” he said quietly, real fear settling into his bones. Damianos was going to murder him tomorrow. He would need to get a facial tonight, to ensure he was the most beautiful corpse the human eye had seen. And then something much more horrific occurred to him. “Wait! I can’t wear the red high neck with the Crown of Naos! Those colours completely clash!”

Al seemed to age a few centuries in a blink of an eye. With a shake of his head, he walked into the Chambers, leaving Laurent alone in the hallway.

Laurent frowned. One of these days, he was going to be the one storming out. It was only fair.

*

Things only got worse.

Laurent’s last minute facial broke him out, so he threatened to sue and smashed one of their stupid reclining chairs.

Laurent had honestly thought that was going to be the worst of it; the pimple along his jawline was easy to cover up once he got the local dermatologist to inject something in it.

But on the morning of Damianos’ arrival, Laurent was in a terrible mood. He hadn’t slept at all, worried about his pimple, his horrible outfit, and the fact that a man who was the size of a small house — Google said Damianos was 6’6”, but he was definitely way more, no arguments — was going to viciously kill him.

“Hurry up,” Laurent snapped at the servant dressing him, who had been pulling too sharply at his laces for the last six minutes.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he answered meekly, and continued fumbling about.

When a few more minutes passed, Laurent looked down at him. “Okay, seriously, this is ridiculous. You usually get me dressed in ten minutes or less. What is the problem?”

“I —” The servant looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Your Highness, the laces — I can’t do them up. It’s uh — it’s too tight.”

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, narrowing his eyes. “This fit perfectly a month ago.”

“Yes, well —” And his eyes slid over to the bed, where an empty, open box of chocolates was stacked against many other empty boxes of chocolate.

Laurent saw red.

It took three guards and then Jord and Lazar to keep Laurent restrained enough to not kill him. In the end, he yelled until his throat was hoarse and the servant broke down, running out the room with his face covered in tears.

Afterwards, Laurent attempted to do up the laces himself, because he was not fat, and he definitely had not gained weight; he was svelte and sexy and desirable.

In the end, he could only do his trousers up, and only just. If he let out a particularly deep exhale… well, breathing was overrated anyway, Laurent had always thought so.

“Oh, forget it!” Laurent howled, miserable and on the verge of tears himself. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t, Your Highness,” Jord assured quickly. Too quickly.

Laurent glanced at himself in the mirror. His ass was practically suffocated in these trousers — and that was his best feature! He ran a hand down it forlornly. “It’s too tight.”

Jord’s eyes followed his hand with avid interest. He was drooling.

“Could be tighter,” said Lazar, leaning against the bedpost.

Laurent flung himself on the bed. “No it couldn’t. I need to lose about three kilograms in the next —” He checked the clock, “half an hour. Oh god. Just tell Al I died. It’ll make his day, go on.”

“Orgasms help with weight loss,” said Lazar. “I could fuck your face.”

Laurent sniffed “Don’t be so stupid.” He looked at the clock again. “Obviously, riding you will help me lose more calories. Both of you get on the bed, quick.”

*

Laurent did not lose three kilograms in half an hour. As enjoyable as the sex had been, it had only made him tired and anxious.

Jord suggested that Laurent should just let the laces at the back trail, and cover it up with a coat, even though it was far too hot in the year to wear one. Laurent obliged anyway, knowing how difficult Al would be if he showed up wearing undiplomatic colours. He changed his trousers into a different pair, making sure it had an elastic waistband to stretch accommodatingly.

When the crown was placed on his head, he staggered a little. It really was unnecessarily heavy. His great great grandfather must have had a head the size of a watermelon.

Laurent walked unsteadily down the hall, towards the Palace steps where Auguste and Al were already waiting. His insides became so twisted with the thought of seeing Damianos, he had to make a detour and hide behind a tapestry to have a panic, but only a little one.

Outside, the sun was blazing. Auguste clapped him on the back in greeting, and Laurent winced, the material of his blouse sticking to his armpits. Al’s lips curled at his outfit, but Laurent couldn’t care. He hoped he looked beautiful enough — just enough — so Damianos would reconsider his murder. At the very least, Laurent hoped nothing happened to his face.

“Alright?” said Auguste. “You’re sweating.”

“Shut up,” said Laurent, mortified. He was a prince; he did not sweat.

Auguste’s response was cut off by the sound of the gates opening and rolling tires on gravel. Laurent’s heart was in his ears; he swallowed, but it made him feel more sick.

The sleek, black car was parked in the driveway. Several seconds later, Damianos stepped out, tall and handsome.

Laurent whimpered. It was one thing to see photos of Damianos on the internet, walking briskly down the street or shaking hands with Al, and it was another thing entirely to see him in the flesh as he walked down their driveway.

He was so tall. And he was built like a tree; all thick arms and chest and thighs. Laurent had such a weakness for thighs, they were really the best part of a man’s body, how they framed the groin and the cock and —

Laurent realised, suddenly, that he had not prepared at all for how he was going to greet Damianos.

Lovers kissed each other, yes? Laurent didn’t think he could do that without being punched but god, would Al think it was weird if he didn’t at least attempt to kiss Damianos? Maybe he could pretend to suddenly be shy, too coy to look into Damianos’ eyes in front of everyone — yes, yes that sounded perfect.

Damianos came up the stairs, smile wide and straight. His teeth were amazing. Were they fake? Laurent didn’t think so; he ran his tongue over his own, nervous, heart still thumping in his ears.

He greeted Al first. Laurent’s head was spinning. What if Al said something? What if Auguste did? What if Damianos said something that alluded to the fact that this was technically, the first time he and Laurent would be speaking to another?

And then Laurent couldn’t think of anything else, because Damianos was standing right in front of him.

He reached out, one large, dark hand to shake Laurent’s. Laurent staggered forward, into his chest, and closed his eyes.

*

When he opened his eyes again, Laurent saw the most beautiful angel.

“Wow, you’re hot.” Laurent poked a very hard, very strong bicep. “Heaven’s pretty cool.” He was dead, obviously,  because people this good looking didn’t exist in the mortal world.

“You’re not dead, Laurent. Can you sit up?”

Laurent thought about it. He wasn’t dead? That was good news. But he felt like he was dead because he couldn’t move his body at all.

“Here, can you follow my finger?”

“Hmm.” Laurent said and stared unblinkingly at what he assumed was a finger. It was quite blurry.

“I think he’s concussed.”

Laurent giggled. The stranger’s accent made it sound like he had said cock-cussed. It made Laurent want to suck cock.

He said, “If I’m not dead, I’d like to be. Jord, get me my blue Prada scarf. I want to be buried in it. Lazar, get your gun out.”

“He doesn’t seem concussed.” That was Al. The compulsion to die was suddenly much stronger.

“We should take him to the hospital,” the hot angel said. Laurent was in love.

He said as much: “I really love you,” he told the blurry figure. Then he rolled over onto his side and threw up.

[pythagoriantymek]

top 5 words, top 5sounds, top 5 stories, top 5 traditions (cultural or familial or anything), top 5 natural phenomena, top 5 flora/fauna, and top 5 tropes (answer whichever you wish, no pressure)

Oh boy, I will endeavor to do as many of these as I can. This is going to be a long post though, so I’ll put it under a cut

These answers would be different if I did them at a different time, also the rankings are going to be largely arbitrary, but here’s my best shot

Words:

5. Oqchban - This is the accusative word for orc in a conlang I made, which, maybe saying it is one of my favorite words is conceited, but I love the /k/ + /ch/ + /b/ cluster

4. Lacheism - The desire for something bad, even cataclysmic, to happen. From the dictionary of obscure sorrows, I really had a fixation on this concept for a while.

3. iqoqo - The Ndebele word for frog. The q’s are lateral clicks (|| for the ipa inclined) and I love the sound symbolism there.

2. Approved - Obligatory joke, but also, rarely do I see that word accompanied by bad news.

1. Sobremesa - Spanish for the conversation held around a table during and after a meal. This is also cheating, because this is one of my all time favorite things.

Sounds:

5. Plucking the metal strands of a particular table in the math lounge at my college - I discovered this oddly musical table freshman year and it feels like a beautiful secret in plain sight

4. Any sound deep enough to make my chest resonate (also deep sounds in general) - MmmmMMMmm yessss

3. The unvoiced alveolar lateral fricative ( ɬ )-  Call me a basic english speaking conlanger, but I can’t get enough of it

2. Train tracks - I just find the comforting

1. The sound that it makes when I hit the hollow metal tubes outside of my house - It’s impossible to describe, but they makes a beautiful noise

Stories:

5. The Legend of Drizzt - I, and this is not an exaggeration for effect, have read the Icewind Dale Trilogy over 20 times. Reading them is like visiting an old friend.

4. Instructions for a Help - A fun and creepy series. It plays with ideas that are cool and examines utopia as a concept in a more original way than most things

3. Frankenstein - Probably my favorite “classic.” I deeply related to this book in middle school, which, while dramatic, does make it one of my favorite books.

2. Fallen London - While I don’t really play anymore, I absolutely love the world of these games. Dark, gothic, vaguely steampunk, and filled with all sorts of themes I find compelling. 

1. New Albion - I’ve loved this set of albums for years and years, I admit it has flaws, but I love it nevertheless. Excluding Lost Hollow, sorry Paul, but they’re just not good.

Traditions:

5. My holiday playlist - From the end of Thanksgiving to my birthday shortly after Christmas, I get to listen to my holiday playlist, which is great.

4. Beverages in Poland - My mother told me that when you visit someone in Poland (where I’m from, but we moved before I can remember) they will offer you tea or coffee. My favorite part though is that if you say neither, the host will give you both, just in case. 

3. Walpurgisnacht - While the actual holiday is good, I mean the event that the Psi Phi club at my college does. It’s a good experience to stay up all night telling stories with friends.

2. Dia de Los Muertos - While I don’t celebrate it, I love this tradition. Death and mourning is something fascinating and really important to me, and the day of the dead is a really good cultural thing for it.

1. Eating dinner together - Just in general, I find that it makes for deep bonding and I rarely eat dinner alone. Always one of the most important and enjoyable parts of a day

Natual Phenomena:

5. The Bolton Strid - I don’t know if this counts as a phenomenon per se, but there’s a river in England with a  100% death rate; if you go in, you just die. It’s a combination of fast current, slippery rocks, and labrynthian underwater caves. It makes for a fun D&D inspiration.

4. When puddles freeze over and you step on them - Lov the crunch

3. Mycelial networks - I love that fungi make whole forests interconnected, like a wonderful, spongey internet. Also I live near the largest organism on earth, which is one such network in the Blue Mountains that is over 2 miles in area. Fungi are so cool

2. The kind of damp, fresh, open smell that happens sometimes around dusk in rural areas (or at least areas with a lot of plants) - It’s not quite petrichor, but it’s a similar thing and it’s a really good smell.

1. The combination of wet branches and a light source - it makes a really pretty effect and is a reminder of good times. 

Flora/Fauna:

5. Lilacs - They’re my favorite flower because they smell so good

4. The Gimpi gimpi bush - Favorite in that it is so riddiculous that if it was in a book, it would be mocked for being too over the top. Just brushing this thing is enough to cause months to years of pain bad enough that it drives people to suicide. 

3. Gastropods - I just find the really cute and sweet. 

2. Fungi - Mentioned above, they’re so cool and important. As fascinated by death as I am, of course I have a soft spot for these wonderful little decomposers. 

1.  Cephalopods, specifically octopi - This is practically required to be number one. They’re fascinating and I love them. 

Tropes:

5. Eldrich horror, but banal - I’m a big fan of cosmic horror, so it’s fun to treat mind rending beings as everyday, or, perhaps even better, have them just be regular guys, a shoggoth with a desk job. Ex. Welcome to Night Vale, The Norminomicon from Fable, certain SCPs.

4. Wise and caring mentor - Grandfatherly figures basically. Really, I just love uncle Iroh

3. Desperate grasping -> Bad situation -> Acceptance - I don’t know what to call this, but when a character is trying so hard to do something, they just can’t let go, and then they see everything and they do. Ex. Dolls of New Albion, Death of the Outsider

2. What must be done - Character struggling/grappling/negotiating with what they have to do, what they must become to do what they must. Ex. The Traitor Baru Cormorant, The Prince of Egypt, Ozymandias from Watchmen

1. Frantic resignation - When a character is there, trying their best to make something work, and again and again, day after day, it’s eating them alive, but they need to keep it working, for themselves, for those they love. Ex. the dad from Next to Normal, Moana at the beginning of the movie

Whew. Thank-you for the ask and for sticking around this long. Sorry for being so rambly.

[ninjakitty15]

Chapter 17: Bigger Fish, Doo Doo Doo Doo (Loki x OFC Pairing)

No matter how many times I visited Salem in the past, I never got tired of shop hopping every touristy store or authentic wiccan shop in the city. Of course with it being so close to All Hallows Eve, that wasn't what ended up happening when the streets were packed with street vendors and all their beautifully handcrafted delights. Under normal circumstances, I'd abhor walking through so many crowds of people but this was the only time of year I really felt strong and alive again, with the veil between worlds being so thin it was like Ned Flanders ski suit. Of course even before all the necromancy stuff I loved the holiday, there was nothing more liberating than dressing up as whatever the hell you want and no one judging you for it or making you feel less for doing so. Plus free candy, you can't go wrong with free candy despite all those urban legends about drugs or razors being mixed into that. Just don't go trick or treating to places/neighborhoods you aren't familiar with, it's common sense people!

"Steer clear of the fake psychics while we're here, they don't like me much," I warned Loki as he eyed a palm reader tent.

"Why, what did you do?"

"Called them out and made them lose clients, it's their own damn fault preying on desperate people who just want to talk to their recently deceased loved ones and capitalizing on it. For just this amount of money I can get them to talk to you, even make them solid so you can see em one last time. That's fucked up, you're giving them false hope and a bigger hole in their wallet. The real ones also charge you for it but they're not as over the top."

"Is there a way to tell a difference between them without being sucked in by their claims?"

"I can tell them apart, one is actually linked to the dead, the other is just greedy bastards. But I kinda doubt others can tell them apart and that's how they lure em in. Like an angler fish."

"Hideous beasts those creatures are from what I've seen of them, hope you don't go fishing for them like other big fish," Loki muttered.

"We tend to not go for deep sea creatures because as you said, the deeper they are the uglier and freakier they get and that's not remotely appetizing."

"You'll eat squid and those crustaceans though and they're not that pretty either."

"Because they're not deep sea and they're fucking delicious, I will fight whoever says lobsters especially aren't delicious, that's my favorite food in the whole multiverse."

"I have a strong suspicion you haven't even been off this planet let alone another universe."

I glared playfully at the cocky god and scoffed. "Minor details, it's still the bees knees."

We wandered and splurged till the evening and returned to the field by the sea while there was still sunlight, enjoying the quiet as vendors started to simmer down before the night festivities started up.

"You really wanna stay here? With me?" I asked him quietly as we watched the skyline.

"I take it you're surprised I've suggested such a long term commitment to someone I've not known that long and it's understandable your reaction but I meant it."

"You know we can't have a family, well I can't, apparently you can if those myths about you were true."

He gave me an unamused, pointed look, knowing full well that I knew they weren't true as he himself made that clear. "All I want is to be with you, in the end. What comes after that, whatever it is, we'll handle it together."

"Bring it on," I agreed.

"If you say so," a new voice interrupted.

I spun around just in time to feel something big and burning strike me right in the chest, knocking me back off my feet and several feet away from Loki who's face went from horror to furious and instantly went back to his preferred form of black hair and green Asgardian attire, a dagger in each hand. I scrambled to my feet only to be shot at, not by magic this time around but by rock salt, not just good against ghosts like in Supernatural. Black blood instantly spread from the chest wound and up my throat as I coughed to clear it, still stunned from the magic punch and weakened from the salt. "Motherfucker!" I couldn't see from where I lay which rat bastard of the traitors knocked me down but I could definitely see the Hydra agents closing in on us. I looked over to where Loki was and his eyes locked on mine and he instantly knew what I was trying to convey, we couldn't fight them when I'm down and out, and I didn't wanna fight them in my happy place anyway, we needed an out. He didn't hesitate on the idea and created a thick green smokescreen around us as he rushed to my aid, picking me up in his arms and teleported us away from the oncoming chaos.

We were suddenly in NYC, Loki still holding me in his arms, surrounded by buildings in one of the parks, probably Central.  

"We can't be out in the open," I gasped, turning my head away from him to spit out more blood.

"And we don't want to draw the Avengers attention either, I assume, so where?"

"Do you need an address? I don't know where exactly but I have an idea of where."

"Think of it and I'll get us there."

So I did and green magic took us into a set of apartment buildings in a rough part of the city.

"You sure this is a good idea?" he asked me softly.

"I just need a place to lay low till I can get all the damned salt out of my system, its hindering my ability to self heal."

Loki carried me to the first door we could find that I felt would be the safest bet and knocked on it softly.

"One second!" a familiar somewhat squeaky voice called from the other side before hurried footsteps were heard coming to the door and it was pulled open. "Mr. Loki! What are you doing here? Oh my God, what happened?"

"I got shot, can we come in, please?" I asked the kid in front of us.

"O-of course, man, it's a good thing May's out having a date tonight though, good timing there," he muttered. "Why here though?" He stepped aside to let Loki carry me in where I was gently placed on the couch, my head propped on a pillow propped on his lap while the host propped on the farther armrest.

"I needed a place to lay low and away from the Avengers, so you can't tell Tony I'm here, like at all, same for Loki."

"O-ok, but wouldn't he be able to help you, there's nothing I could do here, he'd have more experience and resources."

"None of which can help heal someone already dead, hun, all I need is a place to hide that's off the radar and seeing as none of your enemies know where you live, I kinda suspect your place is my best bet right now. I won't stay long, just gotta recover and I'm off like a herd of turtles."

Peter looked at me with an expression between concern and curiosity. "Who shot you? I thought you said most weapons don't work."

"Hydra are on my tail again and they have people, my people helping them track me down. Most weapons don't work on their own, I got hit by something else first that weakened my defenses down to a normal human's so I wouldn't be able to heal myself when I got shot after." I looked at Peter then, really looked at him, I didn't need ghost vision to see he was a good kid, insatiable curiosity and all. He worshiped Tony without question or hesitation, stuck to his morals, and did his best in all he could which couldn't be easy as for a kid, he could do a hell of a lot.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked me.

I wanted to shrug but pain didn't allow much movement. "What's good for flushing salt from a wound?"

"Water and foods rich in potassium, um sports drinks with electrolytes in them."

I wrinkled my nose at the last one. "Of all the choices Tony made, the one he made on you takes the cake. I think you need to submerge me in water, you do have a tub right?"

"Of course. Do you need help with that or...?"

"I've got her," Loki assured him.

"What he means is I'm about to get naked and he doesn't like sharing the view," I joked. "Ain't that right, babe?"

"Even when you're bleeding out, you still manage to tease me over this," he growled. "Maybe I should just drown you."

"You're welcome to try but I should remind you first that I don't breathe so that kinda won't work. Pete, lead the way and thank you."

I let myself sink to the cold porcelain bottom of the tub, staring up through the water at Loki who watched me worriedly as the water started turning dark with blood. To lighten the mood, I started singing Singing in the Rain like Alex in A Clockwork Orange, as after this bath I'd be cured alright.

Peter knocked on the door during one point, making sure I was doing okay without peaking in, being the little superpowered boyscout he was. While I was flushing out salt, he was nice enough to clean and dry my clothes for me at nearest laundromat which I was thankful for and also surprised he got out the black blood stains, maybe I should just wear black for the purpose of hiding blood but then it wasn't often people made me bleed my own blood. Once I was strong enough to move without crumbling, I allowed Loki to pull me out and dry me before he returned my clothes fresh out of the dryer and I sighed at the warmth before collapsing back on the couch as Peter insisted there was no rush to leave.

"What could've made your defenses that weak?" Peter asked.

"Not a whole lot actually, I wasn't brought back from the dead just to die by any ordinary means."

"It had to be mine," Loki murmured.

"What?"

"The color of the energy blast was green when it was fired at you and you flickered to your old form when you got hit by it. They must have gotten it from me while I was contained with you back there."

If I wasn't already unnaturally pale, I would be now. "They're getting smarter, those bastards, how the fuck did they figure that out?"

"Does it matter? They know I'm your weakness more than metaphorically now, while I doubt they can keep using what they got from me initially, as long as we're both still around they'll be after us."

I groaned and dropped back on the couch dramatically. "This is why I wanted more power to begin with, to stop being a target and level the playing field or wipe out competitors. Should've kept the receipt on that deal."

"There's always a bigger fish," mused Peter.

"Yeah well I was promised I'd be great white status and Hydra ain't remotely close to Megalodon so I shouldn't be dealing with them like I'm forced to."

"Megalodon?" questioned Loki curiously.

"The biggest shark to exist on this planet, could swallow the biggest animal easily if it were still around but it presumably died out with the other prehistoric monsters of earth. Could eat a whole pod of whales and still have room for more."

"Hold on, what do you mean presumably?" squeaked Peter.

"There's speculation they're just napping at the bottom of the sea somewhere, I mean it makes sense since sharks are still around when all other prehistoric beasties are out of existence, they're survivors. I mean yeah there's relatives of them walking around now but sharks stayed sharks, just smaller over time. Much like people, they too shrink with old age."

"Is that why you're so short?" teased Loki.

I opted to simply punch him in the arm but as I hadn't completely recovered, while the bleeding and flickering had stopped and the wound was closing, I apparently still had mortal strength and the very audible sound of fingers breaking happened as a result. "My me-time hand!"

"That shouldn't be an issue when you have me," Loki noted.

I scowled. "Yeah well that ain't happening anytime soon, my moral compass might not point north but I'm not shagging in a tiny little apartment as a guest, we'd destroy the place and the host's sanity and innocence in the process and then Tony will really be after us."

"Have it your way, oh wait you can't as your good hand is broken," he retorted.

"Peter, how strong are your webbings, could they muzzle a god for instance?" I asked the hapless kid watching us.

"I-I'm not sure that's a good idea, Nell. I think with you being injured and him being an actual god, he might actually be the strongest here."

"Nah, give him to Dr. Banner on a bad day and he's just like the rest of us. You on the other hand, you're young and super strong and can stop a speeding bus with your bare hands or hold a ferry together. I can see why Tony has such faith in you, you got some serious potential...don't fuck it up."

"I won't...and thanks."

"You're a good kid, Pete, with a big heart and a serious case of wounded puppy look, don't let anyone change you, you've no idea how rare someone like you is in this world."

"That's-that's really...are you okay? I mean, I kinda thought you didn't like me and now you're..."

"Nah you're okay, just before when you were at the compound, you were a fucking moment killer, pun intended and that insatiable curiosity can get on my nerves when I'm already in a mood by you ruining my good one so you kinda had it coming then but seeing as I interrupted you this time around, we good." My hand bones began to fix themselves as my body was slowly returning to it's dead stasis state of unbreakable but not alive either. I wiggled the fingers once they set themselves back properly and sighed happily. "It's good to be dead."