chocolat à la folie !

A long-haired guinea pig peeked out from the young lord’s overall pocket. It whistled, demanding more food after annihilating an ungodly amount of string cheese and baby carrots. Earlier, the thrift shop owner had invited him to try some homemade pastries. “No thanks, I brought my own cheese,” was all he said. “Maybe this lil fella wants a nibble!” The guinea pig’s teeth chattered in annoyance and it ducked into the safety of Rook’s pockets. 

Rook paced around the shop, running his thick hands over woven textile and embroidered beading. The smooth slip of polished crystal felt pleasing when his palms curled around them. “I reckon if meemaw were here, she’d be goin’ crazy for these–uh, honey?” Rook twirled around, realizing his boyfriend was lost behind the tall racks and shelves of the shop. He peeked around a rack of expensive shawls and coats, and saw his boyfriend tall, beautiful, and tapping his foot.

“I really wish I could cast a Hold spell on you.”

“C’mon, sugar!” he grinned. “Lighten up a little, will ya? We ain’t never been to a place this fancy before.”

The owner – Ms. Recci, said her name tag – brought out glasses of champagne on a swanky tray. Rook’s jaw dropped as he shot a glance at his boyfriend and whistled: “Holy shit, this place feels out of our income bracket," he whispered. "I thought gettin' served champagne was for wedding dress shoppin' at someplace swanky. Think I should ask if they tailor suits? Gotta look sharp when I take your pretty little hand in marriage, ya know."

Losing sight of Rook Pendragon wasn't as difficult as others would think. In fact, all it took was one shiny glass orb sitting on a shelf to get Tristan's focus, and before he knew it his boyfriend was off aisles and aisles away.

Perhaps it was the emptiness in the orb he saw, or perhaps it was the strange atmosphere in the store, but Tristan felt like something was up. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Besides... Rook was being loud, too. Especially about the store being far too fancy for them. Tristan was about to lean over and whisper how he shouldn't be that loud about these sorts of things when the store owner walked up with glasses of champagne.

"Rook, you're sweet my darling but tell me, what exactly would we be paying with for a custom suit? Your card got declined at Denny's..." He muttered before turning to Ms. Recci with a smile, holding a hand up in rejection. "Ever so sorry Miss, he's got to drive later." ...Did he just see her eye twitch?

Rook’s voice twinged with a faint veneer of hope. “There’s always payment plans,” he said. “Like when I got us matchin’ Build-A-Bears for our anniversary. Four installments – interest free and everythin’. My tuxedo Cluck-Cluck married your bridal Platypus without havin’ to wait.”

Rook, being the people-pleaser he was, smiled apologetically at the owner. “Well, maybe a small sip won’t do no harm,” he said. “We’ll probably be lookin’ through the shelves for hours anyway, won’t we?”

He reached out to take a glass of champagne, only for his gaze to catch on a sparkling orb in the distance. “Honey, ain’t ya lookin’ for a new orb to ponder?” he said. “Sorry, I’ll have a sip after we take a gander at that orb.” Rook’s rough, thick fingers interlaced with his boyfriend’s hand and he pulled him to the other side of the store. Their faces were reflected in the orb, distorted like in a funhouse mirror. “Take it for a test run,” he urged. “See if it works.”

The curl on the top of his head sprung up like an antenna. It wouldn’t have been unusual for a wizard’s apprentice to have tested enchantments and charms on his belongings, then donate them. Handmade oddities popped up in the secondhand market all the time. Yet, Rook frowned and swore there was something slightly misleading about the magic embedded in this orb. Like a faint shroud, hiding its true nature within. If someone gave it a little push…

He shook his head. He was being too paranoid.

Not everything was tricked, not everything was cursed, and he had to stop perceiving danger where there was none or he would ruin their romantic weekend. Rook forced a his cheeks into his usual, freckled smile, but the cowlick curl wagged at Tristan in warning. 

The guniea pig in his pocket chattered its teeth.

Their spot was small. And uncomfortable, even with the pillow she insisted on bringing so that she could sit down without having to be in compromising positions, such as the one Scout was in that moment. She reached over slowly, index and middle finger gently pulling a dry leaf out of Scout's hair as it was anything but aesthetically pleasing. In truth, Domi should've been grateful that someone like Scout would take the time and resources to help her retreive her brother's long lost signet ring. And she would be. Once they've triumphed.

"Is Ser Benadryl a knight friend of yours? Has he got somnokinetic abilities? Where is he?"

She stiffened as the vampiress plucked a stray leaf from the mess on her hair. Scout could feel her cheeks burn, as well as the drive in her heart that convinced her doing very stupid, very dangerous things for a pretty lady was a fine idea. 

“Benadryl are these pink pills humans take when flowers make them sneeze,” she explained. “I stuff them down Tristan’s throat every spring. The side effects make you sleepy, especially if you’re a giant cluck-cluck who took bottles of the stuff.” The explanation stilled her rapid heartbeat. It was soothing, considering how accustomed she was to paring down descriptions for Rook’s benefit. Only instead of navigating confusion, it was for a woman whose vampirism shielded them from the silly world of mortals. If she thought too hard about how different their lives were – and how different they would continue to be – she might begin to feel sick. It would be better to push her feelings aside, and accept that they lived in two very different worlds. Retrieving a ring wasn’t going to change that. Still, Scout couldn’t help but bite her lower lip.

“You can taste it sometime,” she said. “Just to, uh, see what it’s like? I could take a dose, let it absorb in my bloodstream, and you bite–oh shit, I forgot you can consume things normally. Sorry, maybe normally isn’t the word. Um, ignore me.”

A sleepy sounding squawk echoed in the cave as the floor shook in a final thud. Their friendly neighborhood monster had flopped over, finally asleep. 

Picking up the pace, she hurries to her sister’s side and leans close to her ear.

“Don’tcha ever worry about your guards getting paid out?” she whispes “Like, and have them turn on you? Where’d you meet this hunk–I mean, uh, seasoned professional anyway?”

Her heels click onto the carriage. 

"My sister Lottie got these like, from overseas after her breakdown," she said. "If it could help her get over alleged murder, it can help you in the sky!"

Jean nibbled on the end of the pastry. The recipes could easily be altered. He had become skilled in the making of sauces and stocks of blood. The spiderlings hummed with activity, earning a sharp side-eye from him. Those little eight-legged ruiners of secrets! He loved them, but not when they knew of things he wasn’t ready to share.

Jean clung to rules, allowed strict routine to dictate his life. It gave him a sense of peace and normalcy he found lacking elsewhere. He could be harsh about the code he lived by. To some, they found his personality cold and merciless. But under the moonlight, his voice was soft and his expression thoughtful.

“Or the stovetop,” he added, after a moment’s contemplation. “They will lose themselves in the recipe steps. Lose track of time. Burn their meal.” 

He had been very observant of this so-called friend.

“I am visiting a friend later,” he admits, finally. “They are a terrible cook. So, I thought it does not matter much if I leave here full. I cannot eat anything they make anyway.”

Somehow, it sounded even funnier the second time. 

He laughed again, against all better judgment. It was a shocking sight, to those familiar with him. In fact, his sisters might go as far to say that this was the most he’s laughed all year.

Jean nibbled on the end of the pastry. The recipes could easily be altered. He had become skilled in the making of sauces and stocks of blood. The spiderlings hummed with activity, earning a sharp side-eye from him. Those little eight-legged ruiners of secrets! He loved them, but not when they knew of things he wasn’t ready to share.

Although maman pats the spot beside her, he takes his seat across the blanket. Keeping eyes on every direction would make it easier to avoid being snuck up on. 

Jean looks at the spread of food, unsure of where to start. He doesn’t mind eating his fill. Elia isn’t much of a cook, and it would take time to prepare a meal best suited to her tastes. (He wasn’t the fondest of using venison blood as a placeholder for chicken stock.)

“I am visiting a friend later,” he admits, finally. “They are a terrible cook. So, I thought it does not matter much if I leave here full. I cannot eat anything they make anyway.”

Somehow, it sounded even funnier the second time. 

He laughed again, against all better judgment. It was a shocking sight, to those familiar with him. In fact, his sisters might go as far to say that this was the most he’s laughed all year.

It is not just the moonlight making him pale. Jean’s cheek is gaunt where she’s pinched him, and he has been finding himself needing to catch his breath more often. It pains him to admit that mother knows best. 

“Alright,” he sighs. “Is it that noticeable? El–certain people have suggested I am still unwell.”

The spiderlings jitter with gossip when he almost slips up. Jean lobbies a small, scolding frown their way.

“Ah, the thermos,” he remarks. He sits across from her, fondly staring at the floral pattern. “I am glad you like it,” he says. “In truth, I did not expect you to keep it so long. I will bring you another from the mortal world. Soon.” 

Although maman pats the spot beside her, he takes his seat across the blanket. Keeping eyes on every direction would make it easier to avoid being snuck up on. 

Jean looks at the spread of food, unsure of where to start. He doesn’t mind eating his fill. Elia isn’t much of a cook, and it would take time to prepare a meal best suited to her tastes. (He wasn’t the fondest of using venison blood as a placeholder for chicken stock.)

The knight isn’t embarrassed, however, until his mother remarks on his love life. He is the eldest son and despite having endured centuries, it does nothing to protect him from the feeling. Whether thirty or three-hundred, it never stops being embarrassing for your mother to remark on your girlfriend.

“It is nothing,” he says, quickly. The hot flush to his cheeks says otherwise.

(Translation: Moooooooooooom. :/ )

It is not just the moonlight making him pale. Jean’s cheek is gaunt where she’s pinched him, and he has been finding himself needing to catch his breath more often. It pains him to admit that mother knows best. 

“Alright,” he sighs. “Is it that noticeable? El–certain people have suggested I am still unwell.”

The spiderlings jitter with gossip when he almost slips up. Jean lobbies a small, scolding frown their way.

“Ah, the thermos,” he remarks. He sits across from her, fondly staring at the floral pattern. “I am glad you like it,” he says. “In truth, I did not expect you to keep it so long. I will bring you another from the mortal world. Soon.” 

It was both the worst and best mistake he could’ve made. Worst because he’d nearly died. Bones crushed, blood slicked on the forest floor, his sword just out of reach. Best because he’d been saved. By a woman. Awoken in her cabin, nursed back to health, and perhaps a little smitten. 

What a mistake, failing to catch a beast but falling in love with another instead. 

Once he was strong enough for the journey home, he’d returned and carried a constant furrow in his brow. He was not sure what to make of it; a knight called The Cursed-Blood Slayer, finding himself trying to cook all manners of venison-blood stew for the exact creature he’d sworn to hunt. Jean had returned to her since then and even – much to the horror of a spiderling caught on his coattails – stayed the night. 

The knight isn’t embarrassed, however, until his mother remarks on his love life. He is the eldest son and despite having endured centuries, it does nothing to protect him from the feeling. Whether thirty or three-hundred, it never stops being embarrassing for your mother to remark on your girlfriend.

“It is nothing,” he says, quickly. The hot flush to his cheeks says otherwise.

(Translation: Moooooooooooom. :/ )

Dottie could count more stories of goblins than personal encounters. In the city, however, people rarely had kind words for mortal-hunters and cannibals. Her boots clacked against the marble as she followed along. Hands clasped behind her back, she bent forward and offered a compliment as an olive branch.

"Did you use heart berries for your hair dye? No wait, that shade of pink must be a tombmelon! Suckerstem? Oh wait, razorstalk!" she said, to the goblin. "Anyway, that color is such a slay. By any chance, have you ever heard of Olaplex? Not to brag, but I did go to cosmetology school for half a semester."

Picking up the pace, she hurries to her sister’s side and leans close to her ear.

“Don’tcha ever worry about your guards getting paid out?” she whispes “Like, and have them turn on you? Where’d you meet this hunk–I mean, uh, seasoned professional anyway?”

Her heels click onto the carriage. 

The moon illuminated her figure as she sat in the small glade in the woods, Astra's face was tilted upwards, conversing with the celestial body in rapid french as her fingers flashed quickly and delicately in her lap, manipulating spidersilk threads into an intricate pattern. It wasn't often she felt bold enough to venture so far from her home, her deeply interwoven alarm system, but the full moon hanging in the sky was calling to her and basking in its glow was something she knew was well needed. She was mid sentence, when her speech suddenly halted, head whipping round and fingers freezing in place, mid-stitch, as she scanned the tree-line for whomever- or whatever, had made a noise. "'Allo? Qui est là?"

It was both the worst and best mistake he could’ve made. Worst because he’d nearly died. Bones crushed, blood slicked on the forest floor, his sword just out of reach. Best because he’d been saved. By a woman. Awoken in her cabin, nursed back to health, and perhaps a little smitten. 

What a mistake, failing to catch a beast but falling in love with another instead. 

Once he was strong enough for the journey home, he’d returned and carried a constant furrow in his brow. He was not sure what to make of it; a knight called The Cursed-Blood Slayer, finding himself trying to cook all manners of venison-blood stew for the exact creature he’d sworn to hunt. Jean had returned to her since then and even – much to the horror of a spiderling caught on his coattails – stayed the night. 

"What if we danced and the dress accidentally slipped off your shoulders, huh? It ain't my fault if it ends up a heap on the floor!" he said. "Maybe I can yank it off. Lovingly yank it off."

Rook's hands trailed down, resting low on Tristan's hips. "I could hike up the hem and disappear under it." He pulled Tristan back ever so slightly, the bands of his rings digging into the apprentice's waistband. "Or I take it off gently," he said, softly. "Unwrap ya like a holiday present. So ya ain't too mad at me if I get called away to save the world?"

"No ripping. No yanking. Lovingly or otherwise." A soft laugh slipped past his lips, one he didn't mean to let out, but Rook was pushing all the buttons he needed for his benefit. And Tristan was letting him.

He was pulled back against Rook, and after having to take a step back he grabbed Rook's hands, pulling them up from his hips to his waist instead. "Your feathers are poking me through your clothes. Y'know you can't get out of this by trying to woo me... but yes. You may take it off gently. At the right time. You need to eat."

"Shut up," he said. "You're the one rufflin' my feathers."

Rook's eyes fluttered shut. His hands, short-fingered and clumsy, squeezed Tristan's waist. Tristan was a warmth that soothed his spirits, his skin soft to the touch and easily pinkened, and his aroma...

Rook exhaled in a low, shaky steam of breath. He wanted him by the handful, and his craving for affection grew in intensity with his mood.

"Gently it is," he hummed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. I do need to eat somethin'. And it's you."

His smirk lost its power, however, as his stomach grumbled. "Ah, the food. Well, I might've forgotten to have lunch," he admitted, sheepishly.

"At least ya like one of 'em. You'd be the spring goddess, of 'course. Hell, I don't care if ya wanna go as Cinderella and Prince Charming. It's an excuse to see you in a pretty little dress," he said. "And rip it off of ya later."

He rolled his eyes when Rook admitted to skipping lunch, one hand placing on the armrest before he stood up with a quiet groan. He should've reminded him. He should've made him take his meds that morning. Things would've been so much easier.

Tristan was about mid-turn towards the kitchen when Rook spoke again, and he froze, his stunned expression turning into an amused one before he turned back. "You're not allowed to rip anything." But the smile on his face told a different story about Rook possibly being able to convince him otherwise. "I dunno... I'm going to have to talk to Dottie. I think that Hades with an east-Kardian accent would be very attractive."

"What if we danced and the dress accidentally slipped off your shoulders, huh? It ain't my fault if it ends up a heap on the floor!" he said. "Maybe I can yank it off. Lovingly yank it off."

Rook's hands trailed down, resting low on Tristan's hips. "I could hike up the hem and disappear under it." He pulled Tristan back ever so slightly, the bands of his rings digging into the apprentice's waistband. "Or I take it off gently," he said, softly. "Unwrap ya like a holiday present. So ya ain't too mad at me if I get called away to save the world?"

Rook dropped the skull into the pumpkin pail.

He circled back towards the couch for perhaps the twelfth time that evening. It did look inviting with its plush pillows and patchwork quilt his grandma shipped from Kardia. But he buzzed with energy, and so he stood over his boyfriend with arms crossed.

"I'll be here the whole night," he said. "The manor will be on its best behavior! Better than a buffamoo on the harvest moon, I swear." His foolhardy grin didn't lend him much credibility. Still, he had worked hard on the wards. The feathers gathering by his woolen socks was a sign he'd overextended the limits of his curse.

"Our biggest concerns will be where to get a metric fuckton of candy...and how to snap a picture of Penelope's costume before we lose it to the void."

Our.

Of course he was roping Tristan into the planning.

(Whether he liked it or not.)

"And we'll need a couples costume," he said. "I was thinkin' we go as a plug and socket. Unless ya wanna get all fancy. Ketchup and mustard, peanut butter and jelly, string cheese and jerky, Hades and Persephone..."

He straightened again when he thought Rook would come and join him on the couch. To anyone that didn't know them it would seem as if the two of them were opposite poles of a magnet being attracted to each other whenever they got close enough. But then, Rook turned around, again, and Tristan leaned back, again.

"You'll be here the whole night until there's a special convergence of planets and some ancient cursed spirit awakens in the Denny's parking lot and you have to leave and save the world."

They seemed to be having such luck lately anyway.

"We don't need a lot of candy. We won't be having that many guests." Keep it real, Rook. Oh, but how could he?

He listened to the costume ideas, eyebrows raised at the first suggestion but noticeably swallowing down the question 'And which one of us will be the plug and which one the socket?' before he opened his mouth. "Those all sound awful. Why d'ya want us to be food so much? I could be partial to Hades and Persephone, though..."

His smirk lost its power, however, as his stomach grumbled. "Ah, the food. Well, I might've forgotten to have lunch," he admitted, sheepishly.

"At least ya like one of 'em. You'd be the spring goddess, of 'course. Hell, I don't care if ya wanna go as Cinderella and Prince Charming. It's an excuse to see you in a pretty little dress," he said. "And rip it off of ya later."