pretty guardian

[cvtiehoney]

@clownpool​ | han; the first meeting

                    ------- 1984 -------

Nursing a black eye, he slouched on an air mattress dragged up close to the television. Home smelled like must and nicotine, the air crackling with the heat of an argument’s aftermath. The boy held a cold can of New Coke to his brow; the swelling would need to go down if he wanted to be in class on Monday. He liked second grade -- he especially liked his teacher, who kept snacks for him hidden in her desk drawer and had given him a pen that wrote with four different color inks. Gilbert didn’t want to miss her class. Whenever he did, the line between her brow deepened and her eyes widened in a strange way that made him want to cry. 

The movie airing was Superman II. Like any eight year-old, he enjoyed the standard superhero fare. But along came the scene where Christopher Reeves, without the aid of any special effects, transforms from Clark Kent to Superman. Gilbert sat straight as a pin needle. His good eye widened in shock. How did that man do that? How could he disguise himself without a costume? It was if that man had taken a breath, and on the exhale became a different person. 

From that day forward, he practiced in secret. He’d prop his knees on the toilet seat so he could see his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror, and steadied himself with one hand on the sink. He tried doing what the actor had done -- the thing with the shoulders, the posture, the voice, the mannerisms. Gilbert didn’t want to save the world; he just wanted to slip into someone else’s life. It had been the most miraculous thing he’d ever seen in his short and miserable life. So he practiced over and over again, like chameleons and actors, until he believed that he could instantly transform into someone strong enough to withstand all the hurt he could not. 

                   ------- 2020 -------

“This is their headquarters?” he mused. “They don’t want to know what I’d say if this were an episode of Love It or List It.” 

Gilbert mapped the room layout in his head: every broom closet, window, and unconventional exit. He looked disinterested with his bored, wayward way of peering down every corridor. But, it was all a mask for his intentions. That evening, he would draw a floor plan and memorize the page until he could navigate the building blindfolded. Dottie had skipped ahead, playing an air-headed fool as an added distraction.

She loved being the center of attention, while he was happy to disappear into the background. His aura was dimmed, as though one blink was all it took to lose him among the room’s furniture. Gilbert carried himself in a way that was unassuming and unimpressive, like the common salary man of villains. For thieves, this talent to disappear on command was more valuable than any mutant ability.

The crash of a ceramic vase made him jump. That had not been according to plan.

Gilbert overheard his colleague squeaking “whoopsie daisies!” down the hall, and wondered if his newest underling was that brilliant of an actress or simply an idiot. Either way, she knew how to keep things fun. He supposed that’s why he’d kept her longer than his previous partners, all of them now sordid strangers pronounced missing or dead. They’d taken things too seriously, and had wound up paying dearly for it. Thievery was a game, one where the player’s desire to live must be overpowered by the lust for challenge. The greed of satisfying one’s amusement is what made their actions so unpredictable, since they chased an end to their curiosity with the same passion they had for fine art and jewels.

The organization was completely unaware that he’d dragged a guest to their private meeting. Gilbert thought it’d be fun to advertise themselves as a package deal. Their reactions would provide greater insight on why they’d contacted him -- as well as, he hoped, a barrel of laughs. Their most recent diamond heist in Belgium was standard fair, something simple to get his rookie partner’s feet wet before they moved onto better things. It’d taken the media by storm, however, and there wasn’t a news station in the nation keeping silent about the missing jewels. 

“When’s the grand tour? Or if this is self-guided, can anyone point us towards the gift shop? We’ll just clean out and be on our merry way!” he said. They were an hour early for their meeting. What better way to make an entrance than with him picking every lock and her obscuring the cameras with her magic fungus powers? He slouched against the wall, hands hidden in the deep pockets of his navy slacks. Dot had gone quiet. A lopsided smile crossed his face, as he knew that was her tell for when she saw something that she really, really wanted. A candle, maybe? She liked stealing small stuff like that -- simple trinkets, mementos of their latest outing. “I hope you brought a big enough purse,” he sighed.

[cvtiehoney]

iisoyne​:

“ I made for four batches of cookies but I’m not sure which one tastes the best. They’re the same recipe just minor tweaks to the ratios of ingredients. If you’re not averse to cookies, would you like to try them? Honest feedback, please.”

“Me? Averse to cookies? I don’t think I’ve ever said no to a cookie in my life!” he laughed. North strode past his bookshelves, which brimmed with wooden animal carvings and magic texts yellowed from the passing centuries. Most of the books were unread. They served no practical purpose beyond taking up space and looking impressive despite a thin layer of dust. He’d tried culling them once, having every intention of passing them onto more scholarly types, but seeing bare shelves in his office made him uneasy. 

Being a man of instinct, he listened whenever a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him no. Sometimes, he wondered if he kept the books because their gold gilded spines reminded him that he was a winter faerie. North had been raised like a human boy, and he’d always assumed that’s where his predisposition towards human ingenuity came from. His heart was that of an inventor, only one whom through some birthright could infuse his creations with a pinch of pixie dust.

North’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “I like your style,” he said. Arms crossed, he leaned back against his desk. An sculpture sat upon it, a crystalline marvel of craftsmanship carved from fresh ice. Intricate ice loops wound through the air like frozen ribbons. A toy train, carved from the same block he’d carved the tracks from, chugged along and puffed cold air. “Bribing old man with sweets, huh? I was going to renew ice contract with you anyway. It’s good quality -- perfect for carving prototypes!”

The impish corners of his grin melded with his beard, which streaked more silver than brown in recent years. For someone who’d gleefully celebrated a second millennium anniversary with The Mrs., he thought they both still looked pretty spry. A picture of her, red hair tumbling over her sheriff’s badge, was displayed on his desk at all times. They made a great team, the Cossack and the cowgirl. “I was not so bad at extortion too, back in the day,” he teased, giving a pointed look to the plate of sweets. “But! Now I’m married to the law and have to be good year round.” 

[cvtiehoney]

rcinbcws​:

He donned washed silk, deer skin, and dark, jacquard and embroidered threads. His suit was luxurious and tactile with cashmere, silk, and barathea. It was expensive, a Brioni made to recall the colors of Rome. Warm neutrals, earthy browns, creams and tobaccos with sand accents of bright turquoise replaced his usual all-black ensemble. A gift, one of many that he’d received in compensation for his work, and an important piece in the puzzle of his latest assignment. 

After all, an expensive con-event called for expensive attire, did it not? 

For the most part, he stuck to the walls and stayed in the shadows when he could. It was better, smarter to remain hidden as much as possible, but when it came to a high profile event, blending in was still a part of the job description. Wade didn’t worry too much, he wasn’t out to kill today, only to observe and learn whatever he could about his target. While keeping as much of a safe distance as he could, he still mingled with guests who’d approached him and charmed his way through pretentious conversations about art as he observed his target throughout the night. 

“Pretty Amanita”. One of the many names the public had given her, it had been one of his favorites. He liked the way it rolled off of his tongue, and the way it sounded in his mixed in his voice. It would be a lie to suggest that he hadn’t been over-the-moon at the opportunity to work against her. Not only would it be a challenge, but it certainly was a breath of fresh air to escape the mundane routine of his normal kills. It had been fun to watch her in the moment. From listening to every lie escape her lips guiltlessly to analyzing her expressions and trying to guess what she was thinking as she mused about the fake art being presented. 

If Wade hadn’t been so confident in own abilities, he might have even said she was a force to be reckoned with. 

But still, time passed, the day went on, and his time of light-stalking was soon coming to an end. He takes her handshake as a cue and makes his stride towards the elevators, entering the first empty one he sees. It’s only after he’s pressed the worn-out lounge button and settled against the elevator wall that her voice catches him off guard.

Rather than jumping into a position of defense, he elected to remain the calm and charming character he’d played just shortly before. A playful grin finds its way to his lips, and his head drops to the side at her words. 

“I’m sorry sugar,” he begins, gesturing to the elevator buttons, “I’m not too sure what you’re goin’ on about, but if you need a specific floor, I’d be happy to oblige.” 

✨ LADY THIEF - 

Destroying this man would taste divine. 

She swipes her fingers over every elevator button, and they alight under her coffin nails like glowing checker pieces. Gilbert had always criticized her for being so vindictive -- it leads to impulsion, he’d say. He’d always tell her in that annoying way of his. It was almost like a super power to stand so infuriatingly quiet, staring for an eternity before he told you the truths you couldn’t tell yourself. 

Even now, she tried to reason with her flash of petty rage. Enclosed spaces were her chosen battlefield, after all. Dot told herself it was an advantageous move to give herself the upper hand, not a moment of spite where she sought to inconvenience this man. 

Her thin, painted lips were pressed into a humorless line. If Gilbert were here, she’d feel the weight of his silence as his brown eyes bore into the back of her skull. “Your impulses are going to be a headache to clean up,” he’d say. “But, it’s fun and that’s why I like you.” 

Dot mimicked that long, measured stare she despised so much and bore her gaze into Wade. If this man knew her alias, then surely he would know what she was capable of? And if he knew what she was capable of, then he’d know that trying to kill her in an elevator would be like shooting the heart of a smoke grenade.

They descended a floor. The doors opened to an empty hallway with a cheerful ding, and she stared out at them. Maybe the man wasn’t there to kill her. Maybe he was a detective or a rivaling thief -- or worse, one of those obsessives. Gilbert called them fanboys, as if he didn’t have scores of them clamoring for his attention too. To succeed in their line of work, one must have almost a perversion towards the art of thieving. It was an unbridled lust, a sickness of the mind that somehow charmed people. 

She’d once watched a true crime documentary about themselves that’d said as much, so it must be true.

“Did you rent that suit?” she asked.  

[cvtiehoney]

clownpool​:

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 & 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐚 || @cvtiehoney​

in all her 22 years of living, she’d never understood the essence of hatred and meanness in one’s heart. she knew there was a naughty list, and she knew there were evil-doers and she knew the slammer was put on the realms for a reason. she knew what magic could do to a spoiled heart, but she knew wonder and friendship could overcome that evil. she was as sure as a rooster at the crack of dawn that there was good in everyone, but it was hard to believe in that for the past couple of plagued weeks, was it? months? gosh, was it almost a year now that Noelle was gone? 

she’d look up up at her great uncle Merlin and squint her eyes as the stirrings of her once limp and slumberous father began to fill the room. it was a squint of a Don’t you dare leave me alone with this uncle Merls ! I’m warning you !! though the fae who helped so much was on his way it seemed. 

“That Xanax potion sure did a number on you, huh Papa?” despite how strong Merlin’s words told her to be in that jumbled mess of her mind, she could only remember the awful words her mama and papa spoke to each other. their anger had festered for long enough, but she was hoping and praying that finally she had her parents back. she was hoping too that that sister of hers could help her mend their once broken family. she willed the doubts and darkness all away with the last bit of wonder in her heart as she took a peak at now open black, coal eyes. 

instinctively, and out of fear that the dark magic was still him she’d pull her hands away from holding his. just in case, “You’re not still angry are you? I can give you more time to rest if it’s still not you in there. But, by golly, please for the sake of my own sanity please be you.”

⚔️ BANDIT OF THE NORTH   

What a strange spell it’d been, twisting the traits of his loved ones until he could no longer recognize them. It was a terrible metamorphosis where he’d grown to despise all the things he’d once found charming. Every freckle became a pockmark, and he’d soon lived alongside horrid creatures who did nothing but agitate him. He hadn’t been able to stand their laughter or happiness -- he couldn’t stand anything but having the world be miserable alongside him. 

Magic had used his grief against him.

“No!” he said. Kris sat up with the swiftness only a parent knows, an almost instinctual drive to stop his child from experiencing pain shaking off the potion’s effects. Merlin had given them an elixir to undo the spell’s damage, and then a tablet that’d eased his worries. His body felt heavy, but in a pleasant way not unlike being swathed in a weighted blanket. For once in his life, he didn’t feel a nervous need to check the nearest clock or calendar. And they were nearly in November at that! If he weren’t so concerned for Holly, he’d wonder whether that was the doing of the elixir or tablet. 

“Nobody’s angry,” he said. He wanted to embrace her, to hold her so that she’d know the nightmare was all over. Her hesitance, however, forced him to swallow that urge along with the broken pieces of his heart. “Nobody will be angry any more,” he said, gently. With his thumbs, he caught two tears before they finished rolling down his daughter’s face. Kris glanced at his wife, sound asleep and with her hair draped like a fiery waterfall over linen pillowcases. “Let your mother sleep,” he said, softly. “She deserves rest, and she’ll wake like the past weeks were just bad dream. Everything will be okay, my girl. Please...please don’t cry.” 

[cvtiehoney]

clownpool​:

𝐣𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐞 &  𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 & 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧 || @cvtiehoney  &  @emittingauras​ 

fingers pinched at little toes that were fussed over the moment she saw the baby without shoes. “Phil, yes you heard me right !” the yeti, would have groaned and spoken that god awful language she still hadn’t put her finger on, “I said baby socks. They’re in the chest under Noelle’s old crib !” 

she’d turn back to Arthur, a worry on his brow would mimic her own, though she was trying much harder to conceal the worry upon her face. “Merlin sure was a cutE baby, wasn’t he?” she’d stumble over her words, “Is– is a cute… baby.” she’d rub at her forehead as Phil’s footsteps echoed down the hallway. a wrinkle in her nose would disagree with Mr. Kringle’s words, as she spoke, “No, honey we can’t keep him. We have to change him back ! It’s a good thing you came here, Arthur. There’s bound to be something in that library of scrolls…”

she’d place knitted socks upon the bumbling baby as she looked between the two men in front of her. she was trying her hardest to take control of the situation. “Now Arthur, grab your fa– grab Merlin, but be sure to cradle his head. And… uh–” she’d look at Kris a curious fear in her eyes, “Sugarbear, grab those–” she’d point to a set of oven mits close to him, “Just in case Merlin decides to turn into a fireball. Arthur will need to wear those for safety. Now let’s head to the library okay.” 

.

It was cute seeing Jessica operate within her element. She was a natural with babies, whether they were orphaned polar bears or pesky faeries victim of a spell gone wrong. Kris spared a final, wistful half-smile before fumbling about for the oven mitts. “It’s very real possibility, dear!” he said. “In event he doesn’t change back, we will have Phil raise him as own.” 

“DWBARD URGHWETEE?” 

Kris laughed at the yeti’s protest, and dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. He was only joking, but the ex-bandits subordinates often had a hard time detecting when their boss was being a mere tease. The man, clad in his favorite red coat, then turned his attention to Arthur. “I’m only kidding, Arthur. We’ll find a way to turn him back soon!” he said. “In mean time...try not to drop him.” 

Suddenly, Merlin’s image flashed. In a puff of springtime clouds, he was gone and left behind nothing but the faint scent of April earth. The infant reappeared a moment later, tumbling down from the ceiling like it was his life’s mission to bang his head on the edge of the coffee table. 

[cvtiehoney]

 𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐜 & 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 || clownpool:  

“That– stranger, is perhaps a bargain I could settle if perhaps those gifts are honorable and worthy of the children’s judgements. They are quite of you and the horse out back. Everyday I hear a row over who’s feeding the steed. I’ve gained inquiries on your health from their families. I’ve promised the children you’ll be as good as new very soon, though I did hope to save them from the smell of moonshine and gunpowder…” 

hours had passed since the fellow had drifted in and out of sleep– hours had passed since Ombric had been saved from the bottomless pit that was the nightmare bear. the two had much to catch up on, yet his inquiries were guided by intuition. in between fussing over the children and this poor drunkard’s wounds, plenty of assumptions had been made. Ombric would start this catching up by speaking of what he knew, then assumptions could be confirmed. “I suspected fae by the tattered stubs that lay where those wings should be. They look like they healed very well, but only over time– it looks like it was a painful process, for that I am sorry.” he’d bow his head in sympathy, “I assume they were taken from you against your will, given your brute strength and courage. But having your wings taken from you–that does not make you rotten. That makes you a victim. In fact, I’d argue against those cruel words you speak of yourself. I don’t think anyone deserves to have their wing clipped no matter their offenses. It’s cruel.”

the enchanted roots of that little home would continue to move and shake as Ombric urged for a nice spot of tea. the kettle was brought first, then two mugs one for Ombric and one for North to take in his hands to sip his own tea from. it wasn’t moonshine, but perhaps it’d help with the headache; a nice spot of chamomile “Garden gnomes.” Ombric would chuckle as his mustache twitched through his playful grin, “I suppose they do look like garden gnomes now, or will be very soon, but I contest that I did nothing to turn them. That was their doing, and theirs alone. The Spirit of the Forest is a protector, of those who seek nothing but treasure, but the treasure I fear, lies only in the pride of my home and the home of these villagers. I wish I could give you an honest apology for their consequences.” the tea kettle would float and pour the steaming leaf water into the respective cups. “I suspected that you were one to follow, or perhaps lead, as the King of the Cossack bandits, yet I suspect you aren’t a bandit… No sir, Bandit you are not.” he’d tsk his tongue against his teeth, the sound would echo against the wooden walls of Big Root.

“I asked the Man in the Moon for help, and I suppose I should thank you for your valiant and brave actions.” he’d continue his grinning as he blew at the top of his teacup, “I suppose he thought the Bandit King would be a worthy adversary to the Nightmare King and an honored guest of Santoff Claussen.” yet the tea was still a hint too scalding. he’d place the china upon a saucer that was conjured along with a coffee table to separate the two in their seating. “ I was mistaken in thinking you were a bandit. I was mistaken in thinking you any less than the hero you are.” 

the broken staff, a victim of the nightmare bear had lain perfectly still atop that coffee table. the crack, right down the middle, still scared Ombric to his core. the possession could likely spark the same set of wonder in his eyes as that red coat did for North. “I suspect it’s more than the Man in the Moon’s choice. I suspect you are in search of something you lost. We could help each other, since I’m indebted to you, and since I know you are of pure heart, but again I ask your intentions. What’s led you here?” 

⚔️ BANDIT OF THE NORTH   

“Liar!” he spat. Oh, how he wanted to shatter the wizard’s tea set into a thousand useless pieces! Hands balling into shaking fists, he conjured memories of his wife in order to steady his impulsiveness. The hotheaded couple was equally stubborn, just like two mules digging their hooves into the mud. They’d learned to take turns being the voice of reason, being the guiding hand upon the other’s trembling shoulder. It helped a great deal, especially in situations where they’d been separated and relied on imagining what the other would say to keep them out of trouble. Kris imagined how Jessica’s hands would slide up his shoulders, fingers teasing the nape of his neck until a smile was coaxed out of his scowl. He was sure that during her own times of duress, she thought of him doing the same. 

“HA! You know nothing about me, old man,” he said, defiantly. “If you think nice words are enough to lower my guard, think again.” He crossed his arms. Without all the extra padding of his coat sleeves and their two dozen hidden knives, he seemed much scrawnier than the tales of his adventures implied. “You turn my men into...into ornaments, you live in house full of tricks and hocus pocus, and you’ve been plotting with moon boy,” he said. “And worst of all, you mock me.”  He’d gotten himself worked up now, excitement collaborating with bruised ribs to steal his breath away. A sharp pain akin to rolling in a bed of pine needles stabbed his sides. “I am...” he said. “I am the best bandit to ever breathe air!” 

He gasped, finally doubling over from the many stitches he’d just split open. Feeling woozy, he plunked down onto his seat. “When I’m healed...when I’m fully healed, you’ll see,” he said, sullenly. “You’ll finally understand who you’re talking to.” Having to hold still gave him a moment to inspect the floating teapot. It was easier to hide his curiosity, he thought, while he was wincing in pain. The wizard’s abilities amazed him to no end, but he was too full of pride to ask for help from the man who’d just insulted him. Furiously, he snatched the wizard’s teacup and downed its contents in a single swallow.

“AH, THAT’S HOT!” the bandit yelped. The scalding sensation traveled down his esophagus and forced out a weak cough. The teacup slipped from his fingertips, landing upside-down onto the coffee table where it trapped another of Ombric’s bugs. Gnathaniel cried for the wizard to free him from his ceramic prison of horrors. 

“Can’t you use your magic tricks to read my mind?” Kris asked, suspiciously. Still suffering from the boiling tea, he coughed once more and squinted from discomfort. “My intentions don’t matter anymore. I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m here, forced to choke on herb juice and listen to you insult me.” 

[cvtiehoney]

clownpool​:

there was a little girl running in. her red pigtails were beating against her shoulders, and the boots on her feet were echoing tiny little patters against the hardwood flooring of her father’s workshop. she looked younger than ten years old, but old enough to know that she shouldn’t be running in with invisible guns a-blazing. she was heading for the elves and she was heading for the nice pretty paper, because if anyone was going to be making pretty snowflakes it was going to be her !! 

Jessie watched as that little girl snatched the sparking invitation with eyebrows furrowed and her nose flared. her angry sheriff voice was in tact as she began to scoop that little rascal into her arms. she spoke with her haughtiest tone yet. “You dare try and outrun me Naughty Nessie?! Haven’t you learned your lesson? Or would you like to join your sister in the slammer !!!” her threats were, unfortunately for the invisible sheriff’s department, thinly veiled with love and adoration as she pressed her nose upon the much tinier one of Holly Kringle.  

Holly was kicking and yelping, and excited to try and read the glittering letters. she was sounding them out by moving her lips, but her words were not quite yet confident coming out. “For- for–” she recognized the Mr. Kris Kringle, having seen her fair share of Santa letters around the house, but this one was decorated much more fancier than the others. this one, she could recognize was probably just as important as the others.

Jessie was looking to her husband with a swoon in her eyes. with her daughter cradled at her hip she plainly explained, “Kale soup’s ready, papa bear. This one was supposed to tell you dinner was served about ten minutes ago, so if it’s cold, you have Nessie to blame.” a small witch’s chortle followed as her eyes scanned the object in her daughter’s hands.

“Mama, mama ! I’m going to make snowflakes, you see??” holly would take that glittering and sparkling letter and nearly cover her mother’s face with it. nevertheless, Jessie was able to read it clear as day. “The Winter Court? Holly let me see that, hold it steady, you hear?” she would finally read the formal address and explain, “I don’t think that’s for snowflake makin’, snowflake, give it here.” her eyes were suspiciously gazing over towards her husband as she finally set her daughter down, letter in her hand and an inquiry on her face. “What’s the Winter Faerie Court want with my husband?”  

“Donations?” he replied. Kris could only hope that the letter’s purpose was that simple. He couldn’t fathom a single, good reason the Faerie Courts would need to contact him for the first time in two millennia. Lifetimes had been spent living like a human, loving like a human, and dreaming like a human. Whenever one struck up conversation under the assumptions he spoke their language or knew their etiquette, he could do nothing but flush with embarrassment. 

Once again, his stomach knotted with unease. Wouldn’t it feel so much better to fold that pesky letter into a paper airplane, then send it careening into the fireplace? All his problems would be solved! He scratched his chin, lost in the thought of having all his worries travel up the chimney and into the arctic sky as a plume of smoke. Would Mother Nature have the clouds sneak a peek at its contents? She had dominion over the skies after all, even those at the North Pole, and she’d certainly gossip to Augustus about the letter first. 

“Aha, I’ve got it!” he said, suddenly. He struck his fist against his palm, just as an idea had struck him. “I cover letter in sardine oil, just like naughty lady from tiger documentary,” he said. “But then I throw it into polar bear den.” The elves lost their damn minds and began cheering, some to the point of foaming at the mouth. Considering Jessica’s love for critters, surely the idea would win her approval! Kris grinned, about to swoop Holly into his arms and rejoice. “We can do that right after dinner!” he said. “Speaking of dinner, it’s a good thing you came here! Papa lost track of time because of some very, very naughty elves.”

The elves grinned, reeking of smoke and singed eyebrows. Yet as their grins grew, their leader’s had faltered. The sight of Holly’s mechanical wing made him reexamine his feelings towards the letter. Was it fair for his daughters to grow up a world’s apart from the fae? He wanted to shield them from ever feeling out of place, from ever feeling like they didn’t belong in the magical world. Too magical for humans, yet having too much humanity for the fae had stranded him in the crux of loneliness. In his efforts to protect his daughters from feeling similar, however, wasn’t he robbing them of their choice? One day, they’d grow curious about the magic both surrounding them and living within them. Kris wasn’t sure what the right thing to tell them would be, nor was he sure what the right course of action was. But he did know that for better or worse, opening that letter would unleash the floodgates to a world of magic and mischief. 

“Well, we don’t want dinner to get cold,” he said, hurriedly. He gave his daughter a quick hug, which prompted a dozen elves to launch themselves at Jessica’s legs as if they were a pole. “Your mama worked hard on the kale gloop!” he teased. Kris gave his wife a mischievous grin, and hoped that escaping off to dinner would give him more time to mull over the letter.

[cvtiehoney]

𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐜 & 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 || clownpool:

“Heavens!” eyes would dart to the hand of the bandit, then to what was left of the swarm of gnats. his eyes would blink in a sordid and temporary sorrow as Ignatcio met his brutal and unexpected end. the cries of gnatalie could be heard as she buzzed off. he would have to remember to light a candle for her so that late in that night she wouldn’t be so alone. she’d have ombric to speak to. just as many of Santoff Claussens had.

he watched as the presumed fae rambunctiously awoke. there was movement, erratic yet sluggish hungover movement of a brut, yet young gentleman before him. there was an accusatory tone in the air as the other searched for his weapons, his clothing, and his bearings. Ombric would decide to conjure a barrier between them, just in case it was needed, as the missing coat seemed to have struck an electricity in the other.  those were his presumptions, of course, it likely could have been the missing weapons– bandits were unpredictable. but he was still under the impression there was more the to fellow. he wished for words. explanations, and yes apologies, “You and your men invaded our village.” 

his hand would remain parallel to the barrier as muffled sounds from the other side of the forcefield jar-bled in their inquiries. “Don’t you think that requires pardon? Are you seeking pardon? Or are you seeking jewels?” the barrier would then lift as Ombric conjured a single diamond shaped ruby.” it would float towards Kris for him to stare at, perhaps reach for, or even pocket. yet it would remain nothing but empty air. an illusion of mind tricks just as the one from before tricked his men.

“Your men, I’m sad to inform you, won’t be joining us this evening, but perhaps soon.” ombric, solemn in his tone hardly meant to convey a somber meaning to his words, yet was still slightly unapologetic to those thieves. though he had to ask, “Do you not remember what happened?”

ombric would motion for the other to take his seat, as he’d next conjure the illusions of Kris’s weapons. the sash of leather, pistols of gun-smoke and aromas of faint ammunitions, would perhaps keep the man distracted now that the veil and forcefield was finally lifted. “The jewels those grubby hands reached for were cursed. They were set as a trap to turn those men into stone. It’s temporary magic, but the effects are far more dire once they are worn off. But you, you… fae…” they were careful words as to not insult the other, “You didn’t choose jewels, did you? You chose to protect the children of the village. Do you remember that part?”

he’d lean over in his chair and rubbing his hands as an old and defunct back would curve his spine into even more horrible posture as he looked plainly into the face of the other, “Do you remember what you did to that enchanted bear? The villagers are calling you a hero. Perhaps I should too. Forgive my caution, but I must ask– what are you intentions?” 

finally he’d conjure the last item that would perhaps strike something in the other. the velvet lined coat, red in it’s glory and warm in its comfort, hung in the air before North. though, this time, Ombric hadn’t conjured an illusion. there were no fake diamonds nor fake weapons, just a silly old coat, hanging for him to take. “It needed a wash before returned to you. It was hard to remove the bloodstains, given the dark red velvet of the coat. Perhaps that was a wise choice– to wear red, knowing there could be stains that would be hard to remove…”

finally he’d turn his head, so that maybe the other could put the robes from the floor upon his shoulders– if not his red coat should do the trick of modesty.

⚔️ BANDIT OF THE NORTH   

The aggression lifted from his face like an ill-fitted mask. Curiosity suited him better, as if a delighted, wide-eyed look of wonder were his most natural state of being. “Floating jewels?” he said. Unlike other faeries, his uniquely human upbringing had made magic something of a rare commodity. He wagered that even the gnats tickling his ears spoke the language of spells and enchantments better than himself. 

His outstretched hands passed through the ruby. Kris jolted up in surprise, the jewel’s spectral nature capturing all of his attention. “Ruby! We have much in common,” he scowled, swatting at the jewel as he’d done the flies. “C’mere, you pesky little treasure!” Ombric’s questions flew over the faerie’s head as he seized nothing but air, over and over again. Was the ruby mocking him?

An urge to flare his wings struck him. It was as habitual as flaring one’s nostrils when angry, and he’d done it in many childhood tantrums. His back muscles tensed, but with no wings to flex he was reminded of his standing in magical society. Except for in nightmares, the frayed stumps on his back no longer burned from iron. Kris was removed from faerie customs, but he knew that he sat before the wizard a mutilated fae. There was no doubt that whoever treated his wounds had seen the torn tissue where his wings had once been. For humans to sever the wings of a being born to fly -- no, dwelling on the matter would only make him bitter. It was a burden he carried, and one best carried under the forgiving silhouette of his favorite coat. 

Kris’ flailing about like a hungover, ruddy-faced fool for some time until he finally gave up, plunked down into his seat, and crossed his arms. “So...you turned my men into garden decorations?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Ha! I always said their heads were so empty, you could hear rocks rattling in their skulls.”

Yet, a twinge of worry stained his bravado. The band of outlaws were some of the foulest men he’d ever met, but they were still his men. Kris slouched in his seat, posture no better than a schoolboy soured by the day’s lessons. Hadn’t it been his impulsive decision to raid Santoff Claussen? It didn’t seem fair that they were punished for his leadership. Sinking lower and lower, he held back a wince as he accidentally split a row of stitches. If anyone deserved to be turned to stone, he thought it ought to be him! Blood seeped past the reopened gash in his side, but stone-faced and stubborn he remained.

Wordlessly, he snatched his coat. His fingers dug into the fabric to make sure it was real.  The black, fur cuffs were as real as the wave of shame washing over him. He’d done a terrible job feigning humanity on his own, hadn’t he? Without Jessica’s guidance, he truly felt like--

“Rotten fae...” he mumbled. He supposed that he’d have to get used to the feeling. After all, he hadn’t been successful in getting Jessica to believe in her husband’s ghost. How could one convince their wife they still existed, even in a form no more stable than a bedside candle, when she’d seen him die? How could he get her to believe what she could not see? He pulled the coat close in thought, rather than his much needed modesty. If he supposed there wasn’t a better place to seek answers than a wizard’s home.

“Old man, my intentions are my own!” he said. “Would you lighten up if I say I brought gifts?” Kris finally broke into a cheeky, mischievous grin deserving of his fae appearance. He jutted his thumb towards the collection of imaginary weapons and the floating ruby. “Your ancient hocus pocus...what else can it do besides give me headache?” 

[cvtiehoney]

north & bunnymund |  @esoteriics

A white stallion tore across the greenery, springtime sun making the fine hairs of its gossamer mane shimmer like mist. Its thunderous gallops were loud as the laugh of the man holding its reigns. The sight of his tattered, red coattails sent and devilish grin the warrior eggs scattering. They knew this man, and that he tended to be nothing but trouble. “𝘉𝘜𝘕𝘕𝘠 !!!” he shouted. The stallion mirrored the energy of its rider with a piercing whinny. 

“Come on out, you man-rabbit!” he said. Kris hadn’t set his buccaneer boots on Bunnymund’s land in weeks. It was only his second time visiting the land of eternal springtime. Unfortunate circumstances had befallen his first visit to The Warren. One minute he’d tasted the best chocolate of his entire life and before the taste left his mouth, he’d been whisked away to the earth’s core to clash with Pitch. It’d been an adventure he wasn’t particularly pleased to have had, but at least the candy had been divine. Even now, he was hoping that there’d be some, ahem, chocolate souvenirs to take home to his cabin. Jessica didn’t seem to mind; she knew as well as anyone else that the only way to keep him from interrupting with excitable babble was to have the faerie chew on sweets.

“Don’t tell me you’re cowering in a burrow somewhere!” Noticing a crowd of warrior eggs scrambling for the hills, he ushered Petrov into a slow trot. He wasn’t sure where the eggs were headed, but surely they meant that Bunnymund wasn’t too far off! Dark eyes glimmering with mischief, he tilted his head towards the fleeing eggs. “If you don’t come out soon, I might just borrow some eggs to make omelet.”     

[meisterc]

Clang!

[cvtiehoney]

clownpool​:

𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐜 & 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 || @cvtiehoney​

ombric shalazar was typically a a wizard of halcyon demeanor. he wasn’t one to panic or blow a fuse even having spent his fair share of years both in and out of war. the children, all three williams, little jessica and a couple more were out back still fighting over feeding the horse of the man that lay still and dazed on the couch. though, ombric wasn’t certain the horse, nor the man would be staying any longer.

one look at the size of the man, one would assume that he was laying on the floor. it was obvious and rather clear that there was no room for a bandit nor his horse, for there was quite literally no couch to be seen through the snoring and lazing about. there was a faint smell of alcohol as well that ombric would have loved to hose down, though he didn’t wish to impede a rudeness on the other after having quelled with the bear. but perhaps it would have served him right for intruding on Santoff Claussen. nothing ever seemed to surprise ombric, until that man wound up in their village.

a tiny cluster of gnats surrounded the man’s head. a melody of buzzings would speculate amongst one another as the insects chattered their gossip. “I suspect it’s the moonshine that spoils his odor,” he’d correct, one of the flies. 

“Off with you now ! It’s time for a word or two. How should we wake him?”

ombric, for a moment wondered if a flick on the nose would do the trick, yet without so much as an answer from the flies he’d set a new pair of robes down for the man upon his face. covering the horrid mustache was a plus, “Stranger it is time you waken. We have much to discuss starting with your apologies for arrival.”

⚔️ BANDIT OF THE NORTH   --  

Only a truly valiant swordsman would risk his life to come to their aid. The children rejoiced, for who other than a hero would fight a possessed bear for their sake? Their parents nodded along as to avoid spoiling the children’s innocent interpretation of events. From smell alone, they knew that the man was more drunkard than hero. But whether his courage came from heart or bottle, he had saved the children. 

Clutching to their parents’ coattails, the children recounted the twilight’s tale: six fearlessly thrown knives as the man leapt into the fray, an epic battle where he’d sliced the monster’s claws into harmless nubs, and the final plunge of a sabre above the beast’s heart. Instead of death, shadows had spilt from the bear’s mouth. The dark cloud had snaked out between the creature’s teeth and advanced towards the children, only to evaporate from the first rays of daylight. Their bear -- their big, friendly, and lumbering friend of the forest! - had turned back to normal! They buried their faces into the bear’s coat, their fists holding onto its white fur as a child does when reunited with a pet golden retriever. 

In their excitement, they failed to notice how still their savior laid in a patch of reddening snow. But, their parents saw -- saw a broken body crumpled in a pool of blood. He’d been discarded like a shabby old toy, swathed in a patched coat far too big for him. Snow crunched underfoot as they stepped closer. Upon closure inspection, they felt the type of pain only parents are prone to feeling: this man had hardly left the confines of boyhood himself. He had a youthful face that lent itself to roundness, pointed years hidden under a cap, and a wedding band on a finger stitched with silver scars. “A faerie?” they murmured. Someone must have a similar band around their finger, right? He was young enough to be a newlywed, and they shoved away the thought it were possible for him to have children of his own. 

His life had just begun. Why would he risk his young life for children he didn’t even know? Had it simply been a drunken impulse? Nevertheless, Kris would’ve been happy. People could see him, and not out of fear he’d stolen their belongings. Living as a phantom for so long, he’d forgotten that he was more than the sound of drawn swords and wild laughter. Being seen by people reminded him of those human feelings, all foreign and warm. And that made him think of Jessica.  Luckily for him, his journey was not yet over. They took him to Big Root and through Ombric’s guidance, the village made quick work of his once-mortal wounds. Kris was in no danger beyond being bandaged, sore, and a hungover grump.

“Apologies?” he grumbled. “For what?” 

A thick accent -- thicker than his mun’s unplucked eyebrows -- that accompanied his scowl. He tore the robes away from his eyes. He leaned forward with a rumbling groan, only to lay back down as the sudden movement made the room swim. Where the hell was he? Inside a tree full of bugs? Their buzzing sounded like a dozen axes chopping at his skull. He swatted his hand and, unfortunately, crushed poor Ignatcio in a brutal death blow that left Gnatalie a widow.

“Where are my...my men?” he began. Kris faintly remembered finding Santoff Claussen’s famed treasure -- the woman made of jewels, spilling gold from her palms like a fountain spouts water. Faint cries for help had torn him away from the enchantment, and all memories of what happened after that were patchy. He pressed his hand against his temple, and registered the fur-lined cuff normally encircling his wrist was gone. “And my coat?”

He sat up.

It wasn’t just a coat to him. It was all of Jessica he had left to hold. 

Hands flew to his sash, but it and his pistols had been confiscated.  No scabbard weighed down his hip. The knives once hidden in his boots were gone, and there wasn’t so much as a whittler’s knife left in his torn socks. His toes poked out from them, so torn to shreds they were more akin to loose thread than footwear, but he had difficulty throwing them out. He’d died in those socks and boots before being resurrected by that bratty Moon Boy. The coat was the only thing he’d gone back for, hugging it to his chest as Jessica walked right through him and shivered. 

“Old man!” he said. Coal-like eyes glared, fists clenched the sheets, and he shook without a weapon to channel his rage. “The coat.” 

[cvtiehoney]

The Curious Case of It | @clownpool (and other mutuals!) 

Usually, the letters cycling through his workshop had sticker seals and return addresses inscribed with crayon. They were opened, read, and archived away during his nightly readings by the fireplace. One letter, however, had been left unread for more than a week. With its gilded envelope and rubber seal, It was unlike anything else ever addressed to Kris Kringle. It was so formal that it disturbed him, as though he were passing a cockroach in a tux each time he walked past his desk. 

Kris pressed a brawny hand on his shirtfront, trying to quell the uneasy feeling in his stomach. The envelope reeked of unfamiliar magic, and he wanted to forget it’d ever arrived. “Maybe the elves would enjoy fancy craft paper,” he mused. Sighing, he pinched the envelope’s corners with his index finger and thumb. It sagged -- a polite curtsy to its recipient. “Or I could use It as kindling.”

The office door slammed open. A yeti was growling at a troupe of trouble-making elves, the bells of their caps jingling as they were shoved inside. Kris nodded along to the yeti’s exasperation -- something was set on fire, a few Barbies had been melted down to pink putty, and the culprits needed to be reprimanded.

Kris turned around, an impish grin of his own on his face. “Don’t do it again, men!” he said, in near-perfect elvish. “If I catch you again, I’ll stuff you all like cloth bears.” It was a slap on the wrist, a weak reprimand that lacked his usual sternness. But, he had other plans for the elves who’d just singed off their eyebrows from playtime with matches. “In the meantime, make decorations,” he said. “Make paper snowflakes  -- look, here’s craft paper!”

The elves’ pudgy fingers were already stretched towards the letter. The gold ink crackled, the words: “Mr. Kris Kringle, Formerly of the Winter Faerie Court” flashing in the light of his office. Kris thought he’d gotten away with the crime too, until he saw a familiar face standing at the door. 

[cvtiehoney]

@rcinbcws​

✨ LADY THIEF -  the broker speaks the language of luxury, assigning brand name price tags to individual brush strokes. Plum-colored blazer sleeves sweep across the catalog pages and with an apex predator’s smile, the broker emphasizes a painting’s likeness to the early works of Edgar Degas. “Can you stand it?” asked the broker. “How can you stand it? The bold brushstrokes -- truly, discovering emerging talent like this is once in a lifetime.” 

Dot nods as if she’s not in cohorts with the conman who painted the ugly ass thing. Her voice today is low and breathy. “I want it,” she says. “There’s something soulful about the way this Arsène depicts the mundane of Parisian life. He’s going to be big.”  

The broker compliments her on having an artistic eye, a sense of creative vision so few clients supposedly have. But, there is no emerging artist named Arsène Affre. The paintings in the catalog are very real, but their early prototypes are mounted in a conman’s bathroom. 

“Gilbert really can’t paint for shit,” she thinks. 

Dot almost feels bad for the broker.

Both women conclude the consultation with a handshake that’s a clash of pearls and gold bangles. Dot muses that the auction will be interesting. If all goes according to plan, she’ll have an indulgent evening laundering money and tricking a jackass art collector into trading a priceless artwork for Gilbert’s finger paints. Gilbert is a fellow ‘gentle thief’ and ‘confidence man’, and he would be satisfied to end the con there. 

It's Dot who insists on going the extra mile. It’s Dot who insists it wasn’t enough to satisfy their lust for challenge. She wanted to remove the real, valuable artwork from a private collection and delivered to the family of the late artist to do as they pleased. Sure, they could always resell it at auction and have it lost to storage. But, Dot was an idealist who hoped they’d treasure their heirloom if no museum could take it off their hands.

Dot waves off the broker, counting down five minutes to give the woman a head start out of the building. They’d gone over the expected hour consultation time, and Dot had around fifteen minutes before the real owners of “her” penthouse showed up. Whoever owned the place probably wouldn’t take kindly to a stranger posturing wealth through their home.

Dot dashes down the hall. There’s a man ahead, striding towards the elevators. Her red heels click against marble tile, and she squeezes into an elevator just as it closes its maw. She may be a pretty little thing, but she’s no fool. That man had been tailing her. Pursing her ruby lips together, she takes a breath and puts on the fake voice from earlier. 

“Foul play? I should report you to the auction house.” 

[cvtiehoney]

outcastiids·:

“Yes.” Ezra said firmly, picking his jaw up off the ground as she pranced around the choking man. He looked at his phone and dialed 911, briefly telling the paramedics his hospital credentials. “Ambulance will be here in fifteen. I suggest he’s not still choking when they get here or we’re going to have a whole other problem on our hands.”

“Then let’s have a problem!” she said. Dottie spun away from the body as if the phone call had physically repelled her. “I’ll even let ya solve it on your own, Mr. Credentials!” she huffed. “You got fifteen minutes, don’t you? I’m not in the mood to help anymore. Especially not after, like, almost being blown to smithereens by this guy.” 

[cvtiehoney]

ofchrvnicles·:

—   OPEN STARTER

        with both his profession and his hobbies, cesar was no stranger to enemies and people that were out to get him. new york was a big place, and yet somehow he always found himself running into the exact person he didn’t want to see. this time around, it was a rather large gentlemen that he had beaten in a fight a couple of weeks ago. safe to say the man was somewhat of a sore loser. as cesar saw the individual round the corner and head in his general direction, he immediately swerved sideways on the street. seeing an innocent bystander, cesar seized the opportunity to make himself invisible. he turned, placed an arm casually on the wall beside the person’s head, and cocked out a hip, acting as though he had been talking to them. “ roll with it. ” he told them, watching the man pass by over his shoulder.

“What’s the matter, big guy? Got yourself into some trouble?” she asked. Dottie jabbed the blunt ferrule of her parasol against the man’s shoulders. A very fine, off-white dust fluttered down from its lace panels. Though her words were spoken sweet as her doe-eyed stare, she wasn’t gentle about the force she applied to the parasol. “If you’d just, like, give me some space,” she said. “I can totally fix your problem without having to smell what you ate for lunch.” Silken gloves tightened around the handle. She wasn’t afraid of the stranger, nor of his kingpin-like colleague with a palm easily the size of her entire skull. Dot simply preferred her space -- lest an accidental brush of skin or sneeze give her a reason to be afraid for them. 

[cvtiehoney]

blvckhvert​:

Antonio grimaced at the bright yellow jacket in her hands. “I can think of at least four reasons why I won’t wear it – two of them being incredibly valid.” Blending in with the shadows he manipulated would be impossible wearing while looking like a giant banana. Heaven forbid something go wrong and that’s the last thing he’s seen in. “Gotta be honest, I’m a little offended this color made you think of me.” Still, he reached out to take the jacket – there was no real harm in just trying it on.

“Hmmm…” He tilted his head to the side, acting as if he needed to think her question over. “I might’ve missed seeing you around.” He teased with the corners of his mouth finally tugging into a grin. There weren’t any hard feelings about her popping in and out of his life – it was something he was guilty of himself when it came to anyone outside of the Horsemen. “I happen to like my funeral home closet – it suits me.”

“You can dress for a funeral when I’m dead!” she declared. “But like, while we’re alive you should dress like someone’s about to be laid into a casket.” Dottie didn’t like thinking about the inevitable. She didn’t like thinking about one day -- and for her, it was sooner than average -- that her life would be over. The thought unsettled her, and she drowned it out by fixating on the brightest and shiniest material goods. 

“For the record, they better bury me in something hot pink!” she added. A growing, ruby-painted smile reflected the grin of the man. “I think you’re a lot more lively than you give yourself credit for,” she said. “What do I gotta do to get you into that jacket, huh? If you hate it, we don’t even have to take a little picky-pic for Insta!”

[cvtiehoney]

@cherrybvmbs​ | nico

She was too happy-go-lucky to be a runaway bride, skipping down the road in a veil and puffed sleeves of white tulle. “Do you have a phone charger or like, a spare battery?” she asked. Dottie smiled pleasantly, a coveted asset in a family of cutthroat businesswomen. “I just figured mechanics would have a toolbox of thingamabobs that could resurrect a dead phone! You must be so, so good with wires and stuff.” She stepped forward -- slowly, of course, as the mermaid dress restricted her movement. White kitten heels rapidly clicked against the parking lot: clickclickclickclick.

There were at least two personal managers tearing the city apart in an attempt to find her. All the while, they were no doubt being verbally torn to shreds by her mother. “She can’t even move in that dress! How could you imbeciles lose her?” It was a rare privilege to be screamed at by a furious Mahire Memet, awoken from her beauty sleep in Shenzen, China by a phone call that her only daughter had vanished from a photoshoot. 

Dottie shook her dead phone as if it’d release a moment of battery power. “I did that thing where your phone battery says 18% but you read it as 81%,” she explained. “I was using Google Maps to get around because I wanted to get the cutest little burger sliders on my meal break! But then I got lost and...um?”