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Hey!! Yeah, I'm still here, my life took a couple of interesting and bad turns so I haven't. Really been creating content or posting so much for a while, but I do reblog stuff on my sideblogs a fair amount. But if you still wanna talk about fandom stuff I'm down and I still write fics and hcs albeit I'm kinda low on energy and time so not as much as I used to/I'd like
Summary: Audrey isn't meant to be this. She's meant to be the face of hope, the promise of a safe future of Auroria, the centre piece tying her family together. But she can't seem to ever live up to Anyone's expectations
AKA a solid amount of Audrey angst touching on her engagement with Ben, and the pressures of growing up knowing she's to be the Queen of Auradon and that she's the one Auroria is looking to for a better, safer future
~ Written for this week's drabble run on UF&C
Tws: Implied/referenced sex and cheating, engagement from childhood, and minor family issues
Read On AO3
Audrey pressed her back against the door, her head falling back and knocking hard against it. Her hands bunched in her skirt, pressing roughly against her thighs.
The pressure was good.
Grounding.
But there wasnât enough of it.
Her eyes drowned in tears, blurring out her vision, making everything a hazey mess of soft pink and blinding white. She could make out faint shapes- her bed, her desk, her board with photos pinned to it, the glittering chandelier- but she couldnât see anything clearly.
It was messy and unclear, a nightmare of uncertainties and wrong choices all bundled up in some pretty, innocent shade of pink.
A bit like her.
The tears gathered but they didnât fall.
She couldnât let them fall.
Dinner was at 6pm and her mascara couldnât run. Tears would ruin her eyeshadow, her blush, her highlighter. Tears would ruin an otherwise convincingly perfect image and they couldnât.
She couldnât allow anyone to notice.
Her heart caught in her chest, pounding and burning, the little bites and bruises that were once so pretty and fun turning rotten and deceitful. The marks of a cheat, a slut, a failure. The preppy song she and Chad had heard from behind the bleachers chased circles through her head- loud and heavy and overwhelming, a never ending headache.
She wasnât supposed to be like this.
Audrey had been engaged since she was born.
Every year there was a new engagement ring. A new shiny treasure that she would hold up to the sun and watch it shimmer, that she would exchange excited giggles with Ben over, that she would whisper secrets to and hold close to her chest.
A new ring that eventually went up on the display above her bed next to all the others, shimmering under the pink light of her bedroom. Blinding her through her tears.
It had been to keep her and Ben excited, she guessed. To keep them waiting for the day they would finally get married with joy in their chests and smiles in their eyes.
Itâd been to keep the media involved, too, probably. To keep the public encaptured with the prospect of a union, an alliance. The promise of a hopeful, stable future.
And maybe itâd worked when she was little- when the flashing cameras were an excitement, not a nightmare. What five year old didnât get excited about a big, gaudy ring with colourful jewels that reflected the night sky? What eight year old didnât want a heavy ring shaped like an owl, with large opals for eyes?
But the rings didnât excite her anymore.
Sheâd kept all the past ones up on display, a promise to herself as well as to the public, but it didnât make her warm or happy to look at them anymore.
They hurt.
All she was, all she ever had been, was a bargaining chip. The baby who would keep Queen Leah satisfied, the toddler that would keep Father at home, the child that would signify the beginning of a new era for the people of Auroria.
The princess that would secure Auroriaâs place in Auradon forever, that would marry the Beastâs son and keep their kingdom safe, that would make sure Maleficent was never brought off that Isle.
Never let near Mother again, never in the streets of Auroria again. Never let to terrorise and torture and pemanantly damage Auroria again.
Never let to bring out that side of Father again.
Audrey was hope. Audrey was new beginnings. Audrey was a promise to Auroria.
Audrey was a shiny gold coin to be bartered with until it lost value.
And had she lost value?
She closed her eyes, letting her hands curl tighter against her skirt.
She wasnât the three year old picture of innocence anymore. She wasnât as elegant as Queen Leah, or as pretty as Mother, or as strong as Father.
She was just a teenager with hair that wouldnât stay down without ribbons and hairspray no matter how many straightening products Queen Leah gave her. With unproportioned limbs that a carefully considered wardrobe could only mask so much, and teeth so crooked theyâd cost Father a fortune to fix and she would never stop hearing about it.
She was just a teenager a little too invested in politics and debating for a future queen of Auradon - a future trophy wife for the Beastâs son. A little too into cheerleading and school social committees, and not enough into embroidery and high class dinners. A little too loud and opinionated and not submissive or graceful enough.
A teenager with high collars to hide hickeys Father could never know about, never even suspect, and birth control bought in secret.
Because Audrey wasnât just a teenager. She didnât have the freedom to do what she wanted, she didnât have the luxury to do things for herself.
Audrey was the anchor for an unstable family. Audrey was the bargaining chip keeping Auroria in Auradon and Maleficent on the Isle.
Audrey was the face of hope and the dream of a safer Auroria.
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Summary: Claudine Frollo is possessed. She hears the demons everywhere, feels them in her soul and her veins. But no matter what she tries, they will not leave her
AKA claudine is convinced she's possessed, her father is an absolute dick, and this somehow ended up angstier than i had intended bon appetite
TWs: Suicide/murder [ : drowning, hanging, jumping off high places], believed possession, child abuse, religious trauma
Read On AO3
The lights from Auradon were beautiful.
Flickering stars that danced in the cityâs windows and glittered along twisting balconies. Swirling stained glass, colourful patterns traced onto a dark canvas of rich velvet. Silhouettes of sunset cities and fireworks that lit up the whole hopeless, voidlike sky.
It was beautiful.
Beautiful in the same way angels were beautiful. Soft, gorgeous, dainty, holy. All light curves and faint movements and silky smiles. Halos of golden stars and wings of downy white, pure and innocent and saintly.
Beautiful.
And so hopelessly out of Claudineâs reach.
No matter how far Claudine stretched her hand out, she could never reach it. Her fingersâ aching and her boneâs tensing, but it was always out of grasp. Even from the top of the schoolâs bell tower, even from the roof of her fatherâs church, it was too far away.
She couldnât even hear Auradon.
All Claudine could hear were the yells of kids so numb they couldnât cry. The shattering and collapsing of houses built on decaying wood and rotted ambitions. Threats and violence and broken souls and stained blood and lives damned before they even began.
Auradon was full of angels. The godly, the saintly, the holy. Souls of stained glass and halos of gold. Beautiful.
The Isle was full of demons. The dark, the damned, the lost, the forgotten.
Claudine was full of demons.
She couldnât see them, but she could hear them. She could hear their whispers at night as they taunted her and swayed her, tugging her in a direction she feared. Hear them as she walked the streets in the evening, drowning the world out into a hazy blur and leading her into the tainted fog. Hear them as she knelt by her bed, over the whispers of her prayers they promised a corrupting darkness that would lead her to power and the gates of hell. She could feel them turning the blood in her veins black and corroding her soul at its edges. Damning her for eternity.
Possessed.
Claudine was possessed.
Claudine was possessed and her fate was sealed.
Sheâd tried.
Sheâd tried so hard to save her soul.
Sheâd opened her wrists, stained the marble floors of her fatherâs church with her blood.
Let her father recite prayers over and over again as he held her down in the baptismal font. Drowned herself at midnight in the rough seas, bible clutched to her chest.
Sheâd starved them out. Sheâd whispered prayers as the blade had been drawn against her throat. Sheâd held a crucifix close as the rope tightened around her throat and the world snapped to hollow darkness.
But the demons never left.
They stayed in her veins, in her soul, in her blood. Always whispering, always clouding the world but never showing themselves. Always bringing her closer to her inevitable fate, step by unwilling step.
And here she stood. Again. On the top of the bell tower, her body shaking in the wind, her white dress stained with blood, her hair carefully pinned back but it still whipped in front of her face in golden whisps.
Holy water hung around her neck. Prayers burnt into the skin of her wrists and the back of her mind, already whispering hymns her brain wasnât registering.
The streets below her were empty, but too loud. The demons pushing her to jump, to bleed, to hurt. Taunting her, goading her.
Promising her relief, if only for a little bit, if she was an obedient girl and jumped.
A good girl.
A holy girl that did what was asked of her, even when it hurt.
Her fatherâs voice was perhaps the loudest of them all.
The lights from Auradon were beautiful. Holy, even.
She took a breath, letting the lights in. Hoping they could pierce through the dead ash that shrouded her soul, hoping the colours could burst inside her and free her. Scrub away the hands that stained her skin, the scars that marred her, banish the demons back to the burning lands.
Make her holy again.
The lights were the last thing she saw as she stepped off the tower.S
Summary: Claudine Frollo is possessed. She hears the demons everywhere, feels them in her soul and her veins. But no matter what she tries, they will not leave her
AKA claudine is convinced she's possessed, her father is an absolute dick, and this somehow ended up angstier than i had intended bon appetite
TWs: Suicide/murder [ : drowning, hanging, jumping off high places], believed possession, child abuse, religious trauma
Read On AO3
The lights from Auradon were beautiful.
Flickering stars that danced in the cityâs windows and glittered along twisting balconies. Swirling stained glass, colourful patterns traced onto a dark canvas of rich velvet. Silhouettes of sunset cities and fireworks that lit up the whole hopeless, voidlike sky.
It was beautiful.
Beautiful in the same way angels were beautiful. Soft, gorgeous, dainty, holy. All light curves and faint movements and silky smiles. Halos of golden stars and wings of downy white, pure and innocent and saintly.
Beautiful.
And so hopelessly out of Claudineâs reach.
No matter how far Claudine stretched her hand out, she could never reach it. Her fingersâ aching and her boneâs tensing, but it was always out of grasp. Even from the top of the schoolâs bell tower, even from the roof of her fatherâs church, it was too far away.
She couldnât even hear Auradon.
All Claudine could hear were the yells of kids so numb they couldnât cry. The shattering and collapsing of houses built on decaying wood and rotted ambitions. Threats and violence and broken souls and stained blood and lives damned before they even began.
Auradon was full of angels. The godly, the saintly, the holy. Souls of stained glass and halos of gold. Beautiful.
The Isle was full of demons. The dark, the damned, the lost, the forgotten.
Claudine was full of demons.
She couldnât see them, but she could hear them. She could hear their whispers at night as they taunted her and swayed her, tugging her in a direction she feared. Hear them as she walked the streets in the evening, drowning the world out into a hazy blur and leading her into the tainted fog. Hear them as she knelt by her bed, over the whispers of her prayers they promised a corrupting darkness that would lead her to power and the gates of hell. She could feel them turning the blood in her veins black and corroding her soul at its edges. Damning her for eternity.
Possessed.
Claudine was possessed.
Claudine was possessed and her fate was sealed.
Sheâd tried.
Sheâd tried so hard to save her soul.
Sheâd opened her wrists, stained the marble floors of her fatherâs church with her blood.
Let her father recite prayers over and over again as he held her down in the baptismal font. Drowned herself at midnight in the rough seas, bible clutched to her chest.
Sheâd starved them out. Sheâd whispered prayers as the blade had been drawn against her throat. Sheâd held a crucifix close as the rope tightened around her throat and the world snapped to hollow darkness.
But the demons never left.
They stayed in her veins, in her soul, in her blood. Always whispering, always clouding the world but never showing themselves. Always bringing her closer to her inevitable fate, step by unwilling step.
And here she stood. Again. On the top of the bell tower, her body shaking in the wind, her white dress stained with blood, her hair carefully pinned back but it still whipped in front of her face in golden whisps.
Holy water hung around her neck. Prayers burnt into the skin of her wrists and the back of her mind, already whispering hymns her brain wasnât registering.
The streets below her were empty, but too loud. The demons pushing her to jump, to bleed, to hurt. Taunting her, goading her.
Promising her relief, if only for a little bit, if she was an obedient girl and jumped.
A good girl.
A holy girl that did what was asked of her, even when it hurt.
Her fatherâs voice was perhaps the loudest of them all.
The lights from Auradon were beautiful. Holy, even.
She took a breath, letting the lights in. Hoping they could pierce through the dead ash that shrouded her soul, hoping the colours could burst inside her and free her. Scrub away the hands that stained her skin, the scars that marred her, banish the demons back to the burning lands.
Make her holy again.
The lights were the last thing she saw as she stepped off the tower.S
Summary: With Agrabah vulnerable and broken after the damage Jafar did as advisor, Aladdin has no choice but to sign King Beast's treaty for the United States of Auradon. Even though it puts the djinn in an uncomfortable situation
aka king beast sucks, aladdin has no idea how to be a sultan but hes Trying His Best, and the djinn isnt quite prepared to give up his new freedom
Read On AO3
âNu uh. No. No way kid,â the djinn leaned forward on the orange cushion, letting his golden earrings brush against his cheeks. âThere are many things Iâd do for you, most things, really, but this is not one of them.â
Aladdin sighed, leaning his chin forward on bent hands. Heavy shadows dragged his eyes down, his dark hair falling across his forehead, casting long shadows across his face and his white shirt crumpled. In two years he looked like heâd aged twenty.
He looked more tired than the djinn had ever seen him.
âPlease,â Aladdin whispered. âI did as much as I could. There was only so much I could bargain for.â
Aladdinâs voice was broken and hoarse, shaking ever so slightly. Like a puff of wind could knock it out of his body.
It was jarring.
The djinn raised his finger, breathing deep but the air wouldnât fill his chest. âWhy do you need to bargain? Why join their alliance? Why give up Agrabahâs independence?â
Aladdin laughed bitterly, gesturing lazily around the room.
The room itself was cool and crisp, the walls lined with lush green plants and the cushions that piled on the floor were soft and full. The air still smelled of dates and spices and perfume.
But just outside the window the streets of Agrabah were crawling. Dust kicked up into the air, shouts and yells and threats cutting sharp through the sticky warmth of the evening. Walls crumbled and stalls collapsed and children cried.
âJafar destroyed us. The people canât even say his name. I had to send him far away,â Aladdinâs voice got stuck in his throat. âI had to build up respectability in their eyes. We⌠we need the trade. We need the alliance. Agrabah isnât what it once was.â
There was something about Jafarâs name that turned the air colder, sharper. Hissing and whispering, like the shadow of a ghost tearing the walls apart.
âYou would give up Agrabahâs independence so Jafar was rotting in a prison that isnât ourâs.â
âNo. I mean. Yes. Technically, yes. Him being gone for good is a⌠relief. But thatâs not all of it,â Aladdin took a shaky breath, his shoulders tensing and shuddering under him. âHe took the country's wealth. He destroyed our schools and our resources and our cities and our pride. He forced the country to struggle and crumble as he smothered the wealth and prosperity we once had and now where are we?â
Aladdinâs voice broke and the calm illusion of the night tore apart. The tears and cracks in Aladdinâs voice shattered the djinnâs chest.
âDjinn, Iâm not a sultan. Iâm an orphan and a street rat and a thief. I grew up on those streets, in the poverty Jafar made. I donât know anything about being sultan. I donât know how to bring Agrabah back to its glory. Me and Jasmine, weâre building more schools, weâre trying to encourage trade with other nations, and build Agrabah back up to a centre of enlightenment and wealth, but itâs so slow and our people are hurting. I canât do this alone. I need your help. And I need the alliance and support the Beast has offered.â
âEven if that means my freedom.â
The words were heavy in the djinnâs mouth, leaving a bitter taste in the djinnâs mouth. They made the golden bands around his wrists feel too tight, digging into the skin. His robe was itchy, smothering, yet another prison he had to endure.
Aladdin closed his eyes. âWould you rather stay in Agrabah without magic, or be sent to the Isle.â
âWoah woah woah. Hold up. Go back. Rewind. Was that a threat, kid?â
Aladdin shook his head tiredly. âBeast wants you on the Isle. Says youâre too dangerous. Too wild.â
âToo wild,â the djinn parroted. âToo wild? The Beast King ran with the wolves and let his teeth stain red with the blood of deer and he calls me too wild? He snarled and clawed his way through a decade and scarred his future queen and I am the wild one?â
âI know. I know. But listen to me, please,â Aladdinâs hands shook. âHe wants you gone. Heâs already closed the border to the Moors, heâs threatened to send FG to the Isle, too. The only way heâll let you stay here is if you stay as my advisor. You can run, you can live out your life hidden away and constantly out of his reach. I will not stop you. I will not tell him where you are. But he will come down hard on Agrabah if I let you slip away like that.â
The djinn held up his hand, watching as the rings glinted in the lamp light. âIâve had my freedom for two years. Millennia spent in the lamp, at the command of whoever happened to wander by. Iâve had two meager years of freedom and you want me to give it up that easily?â
âItâs a big ask, I know-â
The djinn shook his head, letting his shoulders collapse. âItâs not a big ask, kid. Itâs a fucking massive one. Have you any idea what this would mean for me?â
âIf you want to run, I wonât stop you.â
Aladdin looked anxious, his shoulders shaking and his chest shuddering. His eyes were tired, weary, broken. And once again the djinn wasnât seeing the sultan Aladdin. Not the young man that had stood in front of Agrabah and made promises of glory that he planned to keep. Not the young man who had tricked Jafar and won the old sultanâs trust. But he saw Aladdin, the street rat.
Aladdin, the orphaned, broken kid. Betrayed and lost and hurt.
The djinn bit his lip, catching the breath in his chest. It hurt, it stung. Bitter air. Sharp, bitter, traitorous air. Promises of freedom that were broken, that were twisted, that turned stale. Like they always did.
He let the breath out, wrapping an arm around Aladdinâs shoulder and squeezing gently. âIâll stay, kid.â
He felt Aladdin relax slightly in his arms, still shaking. Breath and words still catch in his chest and throat, but now a little bit easier than before. Not quite calm, but not as rigid and sharp as before.
âIâll always stay,â the djinn promised, every last word tasting of bitter regret.
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B : percy is a skater in Theory. he has a skateboard, he visits skateboards, he watches videos of people skateboarding, his friends are all skaters and yet... every single fucking time he tries to learn to skateboard hes Constantly interrupted by monsters
C : percy can tell you how he got every single scar on his body. he plays it off a lot, makes a lot of jokes about âoh where did This scar come fromâ, but in reality he knows the events that caused every single scar. from gabe, to monsters, to training, to tartarusÂ
D : percy regularly wears a Shit tonne of eyeliner and jewellery and often looks more emo than nicoÂ
@hersilentlanguage thank you so so much for the prompt!!! This has Got to be the fluffiest thing I have Ever written
Read on AO3Â
Theyâd never had snow on the Isle.
Theyâd had hail, and rain, and frost, and that weird sludgy ice. Even some sort of rain with the texture of slugs, that one time. But never snow.
To be honest, Mal was surprised at how soft it was.
And how cold.
Evie had said it would be cold, and like an idiot Mal hadnât listened to her.
So now she was lying stubbornly in the snow, trying not to shiver from where the snow touched her skin through her fishnets and ripped leather pants, or where the cold crawled in through her tank top.
Lying stubbornly, and staring up in wonder at the full moon.
Sheâd never seen the moon before Auradon. Not really. Glimpses of it, on a good day, but it was always hidden by clouds or smoke or the broken, battered buildings of the Isle.
Sheâd never expected it to be so beautiful.
The way it bounced off the snow, shimmering and sparkling, dancing like oil paint across a canvas. It lit up the leaves of the evergreens like dozens of fairy lights, and made the now magicless Auradon seem almost magical again.
And with Evieâs warm hand rested in hers, snowflakes catching on Evieâs dark eyelashes and the soft moonlight illuminating her face, Mal knew why they were called snow angels.
Summary:Â Ghastly has been in better safehouses, but even the worst, most boring safehouse heâs ever been in canât stop his (incredibly immature) lovers from making things slightly more entertaining and maybe Ghastly loves these idiots a lot. Maybe [Otherwise known as: Ghastly is very whiney for 1.5k]
TWs: Swearing, alcohol consumption/mention
Read on AO3
Ghastly was certain the quality of safehouses was going downhill.
The first safehouse heâd stayed in, all those years ago, had been a cute little villa in France. The yellow walls had been covered with the cutest plants, and the wooden veranda overlooked the sea. It was well furnished, and there had been enough room for the Dead Men to not be constantly on top of each other. And the best part had been a kitchen with enough food to keep them satisfied for months.
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Summary:Â Ghastly has been in better safehouses, but even the worst, most boring safehouse he's ever been in can't stop his (incredibly immature) lovers from making things slightly more entertaining and maybe Ghastly loves these idiots a lot. Maybe [Otherwise known as: Ghastly is very whiney for 1.5k]
TWs: Swearing, alcohol consumption/mention
Read on AO3
Ghastly was certain the quality of safehouses was going downhill.
The first safehouse heâd stayed in, all those years ago, had been a cute little villa in France. The yellow walls had been covered with the cutest plants, and the wooden veranda overlooked the sea. It was well furnished, and there had been enough room for the Dead Men to not be constantly on top of each other. And the best part had been a kitchen with enough food to keep them satisfied for months.
But this safe house?
Ghastly wasnât sure if it even classified as a house, for a start.
It was less of a house and more of a singular room. A very tall, very cold singular room at that. The door had exactly 57 locks, of varying types and difficulties, and if someone miraculously got through that, there was a metal bar across it, and spikes on the floor in front of it. Ghastly was too scared to ask how they were supposed to leave.
The floor was too cold to walk barefoot, and made of a collection of multicoloured pebbles and shells and stones, designed to horribly clash with the birch wood walls. It was completely bare, and the only window was boarded up with planks more nail than wood.
And, because it had to be as much of a crime against humanity as possible, it had a balcony made of the same weird pebbles ringing around the inside walls. It was thin, with a tiny hole next to the wall, which presumably used to have a ladder in it so one could climb up onto the balcony. Now, the only way to get up was to scramble up the wall and hope for the best.
The entire place gave Ghastly a migraine just trying to imagine what could have possibly been going through the designersâ heads.
Safehouse service was apparently another declining business. Ghastly didnât even know where he was, or why they were holed up in the safehouse to begin with.
But Skulduggery had gone walkabouts only hours before they'd left, leaving him experienced soldiers that acted like children whoâd been allowed in a pool full of sugar.
He loved them, really, but they were almost as stupid as whoever had designed the safehouse.
Larrikin was sitting crossed-legged on the railing of the balcony. His suspenders were hanging by his waist in a way that was surely a safety hazard of some description, and he was stacking as many folded coats as he could on his head.
How he hadnât fallen off yet was a miracle.
Saracen and Dexter were on the other side of the balcony, chatting noisily, both bundled up in fur coats theyâd stolen from an excursion in Russia.
Excursion in the most dirty, sexual way possible, Ghastly was sure. There wasnât a mission that went by where Saracen didnât go into an impossible situation with nothing but a wink and a cocky smile, and leave successful with a new tally on his body count.
Theyâd somehow managed to make planes out of blankets, and were throwing them off the balcony to see which went the furthest.
Somehow, they never made it very far. It was a very surprising shock.
At least it was better than the spitting competition. Or the spontaneous rope-free abseiling.
Ghastly wouldâve liked to say Erskine and Anton were being more mature. Afterall, as a very mature human being himself, he would surely love other very mature human beings.
Unfortunately, the world is very rarely kind to Ghastly.
They were sitting in one corner, barricaded from reach by everyoneâs bags. At first glance, it seemed like a quiet, mature, conversation. The type of conversation Ghastly could applaud.
At first glance.
But Erskineâs whispers were harsh and fast, his arms flailing everywhere, and Anton seemed on the verge of giggles.
How, oh how, did Ghastly end up with the most immature people on the planet.
He, himself, was very mature of course. And he was proving it by writing a list of all the style crimes the safehouse was committing, and he planned on sending it to Deuce as soon as possible.
The absolute height of maturity.
Ignoring the shuffling and rustling and laughter of his incredibly childish friends, he focused all his attention on the list. This would be the best list Deuce had ever seen.
A list he could not possibly ignore. Or forget. Or âaccidentallyâ lose.
It would not be like the list about the sins of Serpineâs wardrobe.
âOi! Ghostie boy!â Larrikin called. âGet that juicy ass over here.â
All five of them were now sitting on the floor, far too close for any sort of personal bubble. Dexter was half in Saracenâs lap, the two of them wrapped up in the same fur coat. Erskine, however, was fully in Antonâs lap, though Anton seemed to have no idea where he was supposed to put his hands and was instead waving them about awkwardly. Surprisingly, Larrikin had the most space, despite him engaging in a feet war with Saracen.
As Ghastly walked over, Saracen waved the bottle of whiskey high in the air.
âCanât believe I actually snuck this through,â he laughed. âEven more surprised Skul didnât rat me out.â
âAh,â Dexter shook his head. âBetrayal is a very unbecoming trait. Even on our favourite skeleton, though he will not hear it.â
âWhere is our favorite skeleton,â Erskine asked carefully.
Ghastly could only shrug and snatch the bottle out of Saracenâs hands.
They fell into a rhythm of laughter, and stories told maybe a few too many times, and songs theyâd all forgotten the tune to. There were words exchanged through only glances, and smiles that were reserved for only moments like this.
It was jarring, sometimes, seeing them like this- an open bottle of whiskey between them, and wry smiles that shone far too bright in the darkness of the war.
A light in their eyes, that too many times Ghastly had seen cracked and broken and smashed.
It was odd, seeing Antonâs fond eyerolls, and amused smile he tried so hard to keep hidden. Itâd taken years for any of them to see that smile, and even now, Ghastly was far more used to the carefully grim mask he wore on the battlefield, or the tiredness that came after the gist or a nightmare.
There was a strangeness in Saracenâs laughter as he picked up the bottle, an unfamiliar lightness in his eyes as he took another drink. The last time Ghastly had seen Saracen drink theyâd been in the dark, with nothing but broken whispers and tears and shards of painful memories for company.
Erskineâs soft laughter fought battles with the still healing wounds that covered his entire body, all carefully hidden below bandages and cloth. It was strange, how someoneâs laughter could sound similar to their cries, and Ghastly found himself almost reaching out to Erskineâs side, trying to reassure him that he was safe with them, and far away from Nye.
It was still a shock for Ghastly to see Larrikin, sometimes. Itâd been months, but he was always expecting to see a skinny shadow with long dark hair and a careful demeanor, not the bubbly, freckled, ginger mess that was Larrikin. And though Larrikinâs laughter was frequent and his mocking so often it became obnoxious, somehow it was never quite as free as it was right then.
Dexterâs bright smile only highlighted the hollows in his cheeks. It was a tragedy, Ghastly thought sometimes. Dexter had come to the Dead Men young and handsome and confident. Now, he was just a shattered shell of who he used to be, carefully kept together by a facade that would snap when the weight got too much.
But as the sweet smokey taste of whiskey took over his senses and the sharp edges of the room faded, all Ghastly could think about was the good times.
About the blush that had covered Larrikinâs face the first time Ghastly had kissed his cheek.
About the gentle relieved feeling as Ghastly held Erskine in his arms after his death had been declared months ago.
About the first time Anton had complimented him- an offhand compliment about his colour choices on his outfit, barely even noticeable, but a compliment nonetheless
About singing around a burnt out fire with his closest friends- no, his lovers. About the morning heâd woken up in bed beside Saracen and thereâd been no strained conversation or rush to get dressed, just a gentle caring in the way their hands met. About the overcooked breakfasts and the fires theyâd had to put out and the laughters they couldnât contain as they subtly made fun of official people in meeting rooms. About how every time Ghastly had been in hospital, his lovers had been right there beside him the whole time.
And as they laughed and drank and played stupid games with rules that changed every time someone lost, Ghastly was happy.
The beds in Auradon were horrible for sleeping on. They were too soft, too big- and abyss that would suck Mal in and make her forget who and where she was. A fluffy mess of oversized pillows and blankets that were a little bit itchy and covered in holes- but they werenât holes like the ones in Isle blankets. No. These were intentional, stylish holes.
And somehow this made them appropriate blankets for Auradon. Unlike the blanket Mal had bought with her and had quickly been thrown out and replaced by Audrey. Without even asking and somehow Mal was in the wrong for breaking her nose.
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