BEAUTIFUL MISCHIEF

(starters inspired by too many drinks, city lights, and the kind of honesty that only comes after midnight)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆

“You look like you could use another drink… or a bad decision.”

“Don’t tell me you came here alone.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m just—emotionally flexible right now.”

“One more round, and I might actually tell you what I’m thinking.”

“I didn’t plan on running into you here.”

“You’ve got that look—like you’re either about to confess something or start a fight.”

“You’re staring again. Should I take that as an invitation?”

“You ever think about how many bad ideas start with a shot glass?”

“You dance like you’re trying to forget something.”

“It’s way past decent hours—what are you still doing out?”

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆, 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓

“You can stop pretending you’re fine. Nobody believes it after their third drink.”

“I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“It’s funny—liquor makes you honest, but you still can’t say what you really want, can you?”

“You shouldn’t walk home alone. I’ll come with you.”

“You always talk like this when you’ve had too much.”

“You smell like smoke and regret. It suits you.”

“Let’s make a pact—we don’t talk about this in the morning.”

“You shouldn’t have kissed me. But I’m not asking you to stop.”

“You ever get drunk enough to think the world might love you back?”

“We’re both going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t we?”

𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑, 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? I’ll go first.”

“Tell me a truth—just one. The kind you’d never say sober.”

“You’re going to forget this conversation in the morning, right?”

“If I told you I missed you, would you blame the alcohol?”

“You keep drinking like you’re trying to forget something. Or someone.”

“I didn’t mean to call you. My hands just remembered your number.”

“Why are you crying? Don’t tell me it’s just the gin.”

“You said you don’t love me anymore, but you’re still here.”

“Do you ever wonder how we got this lost?”

“Sometimes, I think the night listens better than people do.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐖 — quiet streets, unspoken things

“I’ll walk you home. You can pretend you don’t need me to.”

“It’s too late for goodbyes, isn’t it?”

“We shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

“You can hold my hand. Just for tonight.”

“Do you ever wish you’d met me sober?”

“Don’t fall asleep yet. The world feels softer when it’s still spinning.”

“Stay until the city forgets our names.”

“You look different under the streetlights.”

“Promise me you won’t vanish when morning comes.”

“I don’t know what I’ll remember most — the taste of the drink, or you.”

He didn’t know.

Whether it was sickness or something else Mal could not be sure, but it stung to think that it wasn’t obvious. Shivering from the sprinkler’s cold spray, diaphanous shirt clinging and his hair already starting to curl, his doppelgänger looking similarly pathetic in clothes that he had distantly realised felt more like spider silk than polyester, he loosened a breath in hopes of steadying himself, trying desperately not to take it as a betrayal. Gaze flitting up to Saoirse, there was a trace of something pleading in his gaze.

“Saoirse, surely you can tell?” He implored. “Look at him — or it, I don’t know— it doesn’t care.” And yet, when he gave his double a dubious sideways glance, he saw some of the same hurt and sympathy in its own expression, like somehow deceiving them was suddenly infinitely more appealing than trying to escape into the night, a certain glint in its blue gaze. “I know what’s in his heart.” Not-Mal said, and the real Mal’s expression immediately ignited with indignant fury.

    The aforementioned people lie on the floor, too battered and winded to flee. The whirlpool swirls above them as some cover their heads with their arms. Some can only stare at the torrent inches above them. Beneath the resounding hiss, someone feverishly prays for mercy.

Just one.

At the time it hadn’t seemed like much to ask, and yet it seemed any hope of something so laughably mundane had been flung entirely out of the window — or rather drowned in a whirlpool of sprinkler spray, his double snatching back his hand as they were encompassed by that churning spiral of water and it realised that its chances of escape had been well and truly foiled. Through the torrent Mal could barely make out the gloom of the club or the people-turned-dominoes that had been toppled in the chaos, fairly certain that they probably wouldn’t ever be able to come back to this place again after all of this; unless, of course, they got lucky and people convinced themselves that this was all just some bad trip. Somehow the florist doubted it.

Glancing up at Saoirse with that deceptively blithe smile of hers, then at William, Mal swallowed around the lump in his throat and bid the panicked flutter of his heart to slow as he tried to search for the right words. Anything, to prove that he was who he said he was, even when it made him ache to think that neither William or Saoirse knew.

‘Why aren’t we interacting?’

😿 - I’m too shy to reach out

😥 - I’m a little intimidated by your writing length / style / formatting

😵 - I don’t know how to approach you

⌛️ -  You seem really busy

👥 - I don’t know which of my muses you’re interested in

📝 - It would help if you could fill my interest checker!

❓ - I’m not familiar with any of your current muses

📩 - I’ve sent you asks / written you starters, but you never replied to them

📤 - We have threads, and I’ve been waiting on your replies

💬 - I have a plot in mind for us, but I haven’t found the right way/time to reach out

💞 - I ship our muses, but I don’t know if you’re interested

✒️ - I usually interact through memes / open starters and you don’t post a lot of them

🥇 - You followed me first and I’m waiting for you to make the first move

🥰 - I’m following you because I love your writing and content and I just want to read your stuff

It seemed so quintessentially them that they were already dreaming up all the different ways that they might christen their new home once it was completed, enough that the florist couldn’t keep the bright, joyful smile from his face as Cenred continued to trail kisses down the column of his throat, eyes slipping shut in quiet bliss as he tilted his head back and savoured the brush of his lips — at least until his boyfriend pulled away and then mentioned yet another potential step in their relationship, albeit a slightly less significant one than buying a house together. “Are you sure you can handle Malus Alway with unlimited spending power?” He warned with a teasing smirk. “Because I will start shopping for things for this place at my earliest convenience.” The florist already couldn’t wait to begin, all the more so knowing that Cenred was generous enough to give him free rein.

The next free weekend the pair of them had, when Mal was not occupied with organising his new studio and Cenred had no daytime royal obligations, found them back at the cottage from dawn until dusk. Well, almost - they may have lounged around naked in bed in the palace for most of the morning.

“Trust me, I cannot wait to have this carpet gone. I think a little paint might even improve it.” Mal scoffed, wrinkling his nose at the garish chenille carpet underfoot as he pried open the lid of a paint tin with a screwdriver, beaming at the sight of the paint within. For their living room he had decided on a dusky pinkish terracotta, a warm, sun-baked shade that seemed to beautifully complement the feel of their new home. He could already imagine herringbone wooden floors in place of the awful carpet, a plush velvet sofa for the two of them to curl up on — as exciting as it was to be tackling the DIY themselves the florist was already itching to see the final picture, relieved that they would at least be able to get in some professionals for some of the jobs around the house. But, for the time being, they were on their own.

Still, he would not allow her to win. Not after everything he had endured in those past three weeks, and he stubbornly took Loki's outstretched arm. The warmth of his husband's body and his familiar scent were reassuringly real, and he was pleased when he did not flinch at all on the short journey across the room to the steaming bath.

It was with relief that he discarded his ripped and bloodied clothing on the floor of the bathroom. Undressed, the extent of Cenred's ordeal was evident. The healer had done an excellent job at fixing the worst of his injuries, but his chest and stomach was covered in lines of pink, fresh, newly healed skin and dark bruises remained over his ribs. Holding onto Loki's arm to stop himself from wobbling, he stepped into the enormous bath and quickly slipped into the water, a groan escaping him at the delightful warmth and he let his head full back against the rim of the bath.

It pained the dark-haired prince to see the true extent of Cenred’s wounds as he discarded the tattered remains of his clothing, usually sun-kissed skin marred by his own blood and the dungeon’s filth, littered with scars; each one filled Loki with yet further resentment for Morgause and what she has done to his husband, the fact that he had believed it was him inflicting every wound enough to make his heart ache within his chest.

Right as he drew breath to call out for the hound again the sound of thumping paws and panting breaths came echoing from down the hall and around the corner, Mal’s eyes widening in alarm as the soaking wet dog came barrelling it way towards them, eyes bright, only for Ada’s shaky command to send it careening to a halt before them, obediently plopping itself down on the damp flagstones. “That’s better.” He sighed, huffing his amusement as he offered the newly named Birch a couple of pieces of bacon as a reward, smile widening at the sight of his wagging tail. “Such a good dog.” Mal crooned, relieved that the commands the seamstress had offered seemed to be doing the trick. “Good boy, Birch.” Hopefully the name stuck.

Breaking off small pieces of crust and slivers of bacon to keep the hound entertained, a moment later there came the sound of hurried footsteps — and then a huff of relief as Hawthorn rounded the corner and realised that they had the rambunctious creature in their sights, a leather collar dangling from the faerie lord’s long fingertips. As Mal had observed the taller man was almost entirely drenched, burgundy tunic clinging and his long, mahogany coloured locks curling from the moisture, some of the irritation in his expression ebbing as he approached and promptly buckled the collar around the hound’s neck whilst it was still occupied with chewing on its treats.

“Must we keep it?” He drawled, though Mal could see the faintest glimmer of amusement in Hawthorn’s dark eyes now that the frustration of the chase had reached its end.

“Of course we’re keeping him.” Mal insisted, laughing as a long snout shoved its way into his hand, snuffling expectantly for more food. “We’ve called him Birch.” Hawthorn’s expression turned briefly exasperated, though to his credit he also didn’t seem particularly surprised that his love had gone and named the hound already.

“Birch.” His response was entirely deadpan, though the effect was somewhat diminished as Mal watched his lips begin to quirk at the corners.

“Yes. Like the bark.”

Thank goodness the dog had obeyed her shaky orders, though. It had barreled toward them with such speed she’d feared it would trample them. Her heart ached when she glimpsed scabs through the dog’s wet fur — remnants of wounds sustained in Arianell’s palace — but none appeared to bother the hound, and its limp was now barely noticeable.

Its warm eyes fixed on the bacon in her hands. It licked its lips, and sharp teeth glinted in its mouth. Ada’s fragile courage wavered. She silently passed her strips of bacon to Mal so he could feed them to the dog, too nervous to offer them herself.

Good boy, Birch. The hound gave no sign that it disliked the name. If anything, its tail wagged even faster. Its ears perked at the sound of the fae lord’s approach, but the treats held its attention. It happily chomped them down even as Hawthorn fastened the collar around its neck, then gazed up at the fae lord adoringly (expecting treats from him as well).

As the seamstress offered to lend a hand cleaning up the puddles that the dog had left behind Mal shot the seamstress a chiding glance, one which the faerie lord acknowledged with a wry curl of his lips as he sincerely pondered Ada’s helpfulness for all of a few moments and then dismissed it with an easy shake of his head. “Nonsense.” He drawled “You are our guest, I can have someone else deal with all the mess.”

“Food sounds wonderful.” Mal agreed, rather pleased that it hadn’t taken long for his queasiness over being stitched up to pass with the wound safely bandaged up. “We could get something to eat from one of the other market vendors, unless you’ve got a preference as to where we go?” He suggested, as easygoing about their lunch options as he was about most everything; the florist was hardly the sort to turn his nose up at the fare sold by the food stalls out in market when the aroma of spices and cooked meat lingering in the air often had him salivating in the midst of his work day. As was increasingly the case Pin’s pawing was quick to snare his focus from thoughts of their impending lunch, and Mal huffed a soft breath of laughter as those button eyes stared unblinking up at him, seemingly imploring despite their lifelessness.

“    y-   yes,    ”        he   answered,        “    um   .   .   .    ”        occtis   turned,   looking   over   the   various   vendors   as   they   passed   them.        “    yeah,   he's   comfortable.   he's   usually   on   my   shoulders,   most   of   the   time.   and   i'm-   um,   we   could   go   wherever.    ”

he   didn't   want   his   preferences   to   restrict   the   other.   but   that   was   the   good   thing   about   street   vendors.   it   was   easy   enough   to   stop   by   more   than   one.   occtis   spotted   a   cart   selling   what   looked   like   bowls   with   pieces   of   meat,   vegetables,   sauce,   and   more.

There would be playful questions later about just who he had been strolling about the marketplace with, Mal was quite certain of it — though friendly many of his fellow business owners were remarkably nosy, and there was no denying just how little evaded people’s notice in a place like this.

As Occtis’ gaze strayed to one of the food vendors Mal’s own expression brightened with interest, fairly certain his stomach might have growled at the sight of those bowls of richly spiced meat and vegetables. “There’s no need, I’m happy to try something from here too.” He assured, turning to the proprietor before his companion could stop him. “It smells divine — two bowls, please.”

It felt unbelievably foolish to get caught up in the fantasy of it all, to allow himself to be the cosseted little thing that Aednan described when it felt so unnervingly familiar, but it was only a week. Surely a single week of adoration would not spoil him altogether, after having spent years trying to stand on his own two feet again?

Lips still hovering close to Mal's, Aednan was ready to steal another kiss from him, but he found his endeavour thwarted in the most charming way when Mal's exhaustion made itself known in the form of a hearty yawn. Aednan pulled back with a little laugh. "So it seems." It had been a long day and Mal had had little too eat. He was tired and famished, and Aednan was the one responsible for it. "You're not too tired yet for a little modelling, though, are you? You promised me." Aednan knew it was a selfish request, but he'd been looking forward to seeing Mal try on the clothes he had purchased him all day long and the notion of having to put off his pleasure until the morning caused a note of anxiety to creep into the prince's voice.

Speaking of sleep, as Aednan pulled back to recline against the plush carriage seats and opened his arms in invitation, Mal felt his smile creep a little wider. It was sweet, truly, how the elven prince had proved so much more affectionate than he ever could have anticipated, and when he dared not risk seeing the sort of defeated, kicked-puppy look that he might wear if he turned him down the florist inched himself closer, oh-so carefully settling upon Aednan’s lap and making himself as comfortable as the carriage’s cramped quarters could allow, the other man’s arms cradling him like the branches of a tree as he used his shoulder as a pillow, the scent of lilacs and jasmine thick in his nostrils as he tucked his face into the crook of his neck.