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five-rivers · 8 months

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Dream Lantern Chapter 1

For Ectoberhaunt 2023 Day 5: Hunt.

The person who entered the small examination room wasn’t a doctor. They weren’t even human.

Danny, who had been hunched in the less-than-comfortable chair in the corner, waiting for the doctor to get to him, sprang to his feet. “You!” he hissed, green sparking from his fists and his rings snapping into place and sweeping outward to transform him. “You did this!”

At first glance, the person in front of Danny looked human, but that was only at first glance. The ridges of their eyes curved smoothly, owl-like, into the bridge of their nose. Their hair, too black, formed a widow’s peak so sharp Danny wasn’t sure it couldn’t draw blood. They wore a black suit that was about ten times too formal and old-fashioned to even exist in Amity Park.

But all of that could be brushed aside. Sometimes people just looked or dressed strangely. The real indicator was the eyes, which were red from lid to lid and faintly luminous.

“Yes,” said Nocturne, gloved hand touching their face as if to make sure it was still in place. “Did you think someone else could have?”

“Put them back!” demanded Danny. “Or I’ll–”

“Or you’ll do nothing,” said Nocturne. “They are hostages, boy. I’m sure you realize this already, or you would have attacked.”

Danny bristled. “What do you want?”

“Your help.” They laughed, showing off teeth that were both too white and too sharp. “You like that, don’t you?”

Danny scowled. He couldn’t deny the way his core had twitched at the word ‘help,’ but even full ghosts weren’t mindless slaves that could be programmed and activated by their Obsessions’ triggers. Besides, he had better people to help.

Like Tucker and Sam. Jazz. His parents.

They were elsewhere in the hospital, in comas so deep Danny couldn’t touch their minds at all. The doctors had kept Danny here, just in case he was about to slip into a coma, too, but knowing that it was Nocturne, rather than just suspecting it…

He wanted to fight. He wanted to force Nocturne to let them go, to wake them up.

But… hostages.

“With what?”

“With retrieving something,” said Nocturne.

“And if I help, you'll bring them out of their comas?”

Nocturne lazily raised a hand. “I swear it.”

“Fine. What is it and where is it?” If it was something dangerous, he could always sabotage it. He had experience with that kind of thing.

“Oh, you mistake me, child. I will retrieve it myself. I only need you to accompany me to do so. A being of your… nature is required.”

“What, a half ghost?”

“A creature neither alive nor dead,” said Nocturne. “I think you fit that requirement quite nicely.”

The way Nocturne leered at him made Danny’s skin crawl. He forced the ectoplasm swirling around his hands to recede and landed.

“Fine,” he snapped, again.

Nocturne reached out towards his face and Danny swatted their hand away.

“I’ll go there awake, thanks.”

“Very well,” said Nocturne, still smiling. They turned and opened the door. It no longer led back into the hospital. Nocturne’s form liquified, and they oozed through the door, gaining volume as they did so until they were in their massive usual form. The one that could hold and crush Danny in the palm of a hand.

Danny swallowed. He hadn’t realized Nocturne could make portals like that. He followed, and the portal shut behind him.

Nocturne’s smile grew smugger. They turned and made a sweeping gesture. “Behold,” they said, “the Plain of Dreams.”

There… wasn’t much to look at. There was a big island there, sure. One large enough that the other side vanished into the horizon. But the surface of the island was flat and gray, devoid of any point of interest except for size.

“You live here?” asked Danny.

“Once,” said Nocturne, almost wistful. “But there is no time for reminiscing. You have a role to play here.”

“Which is?”

“That of a lantern.” Nocturne reached into the invisible folds of their robes and pulled out a glittering, golden, jewel-studded cage, one shaped like a lantern and floored with rich, plush bedding. They pinched the door open and held it up in front of Danny.

“No,” said Danny. “I’m not getting in there. If you need my glow or whatever for your thing, well, guess what? I glow just as well out here.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” said Nocturne, circling him. Danny turned, trying to keep eyes on Nocturne’s face and hands. “You must be neither alive nor dead, awake nor asleep, willing nor unwilling. Caged, but uncaptured. Hungry, but full. Complaisant, but steadfast.”

Danny’s skin prickled again. He did not like this, and the fairy-tale-like phrasing was not helping his nerves. “I don’t know that I’d call myself complacent.”

Nocturne chuckled. “Different word, little ghost. Or… I can seek out more friends of yours. The girl in red, perhaps?” They switched directions so fast Danny couldn’t keep track of them. Their next words were whispered into Danny’s hair. “She still dreams of you, you know.”

Danny flinched away, glaring, but he couldn’t hold Nocturne’s gaze for long. He frowned at the cage instead. He did not like it. At all.

“I get to leave at the end?” he asked, knowing full well he couldn’t hold Nocturne to that in any meaningful way. Even Nocturne’s word that he’d let his family and friends go didn’t mean much.

But what else could he do? He’d already tried to wake them up himself, and he didn’t know what else Nocturne could do to them when they were in that state.

“Yes, yes, and I’ll wake your family. We have already discussed this. You are wasting time.”

“We hadn’t discussed this, actually,” said Danny. “We’ve barely ‘discussed’ anything.”

“I can send them deeper,” said Nocturne, voice low and dangerous. “Do you want that, child? Perhaps their doctors will notice when they stop breathing on their own. Perhaps not.”

Danny, core making an awful whining sound, raised his hands in surrender and flew into the cage. Nocturne, moving swiftly, closed it behind him.

The exhaustion he’d been holding back all day (or was it all week? All month? All year? Since he died the first time?) poured over him. Against his will, he sank slowly to the blankets and pillows at the bottom of the cage, clouds of golden dust rising around him as his weight settled. His eyelids fluttered, and his vision became blurred, uncertain.

Nocturne threaded their long, pointed fingers through the bars of the cage and pressed one against Danny’s chest, over his core. Inky, starry blackness flowed from Nocturne’s finger and into Danny. He could feel it being pressed into his core, and his core drank it in, growing colder. His aura flared out involuntarily, to a brightness that was almost painful. He groaned and tried to turn his head against one of the pillows.

“That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” asked Nocturne in a falsely sweet voice. It echoed weirdly, the words warping around their edges, morphing into other voices, other conversations. “A simple waking dream. Look.”

With some effort, Danny raised his head as Nocturne thrust the lantern-cage forward. For a moment, bright colors streaked dizzyingly across his vision, like fireworks and flowers, but then–

What lay before him was not the gray and featureless plain he had seen only moments before. Instead, ringed by the golden haze of dreams was a vibrant forest, decked with vivid colors and bright flowers, brighter and more numerous than they ever would be in reality. Or maybe jungle was a better word. In the distance, majestic mountains rose from the middle of the jungle, tinted blue and purple, glittering cities of gold and crystal built on their slopes. A flight of butterflies bigger than birds exploded from the near edge, and swooped around Nocturne and Danny in a rainbow whirlwind. Some of them had wingspans longer than his arm.

“What,” Danny might have said, aware that his words were slurred into unintelligibility, if they were spoken at all, “is that?”

“The Dream Wilds,” said Nocturne.

They reached into the cage again, adjusting Danny’s position so that he was halfway between sitting and lounging, hemmed in and supported by blankets. They might as well have been chains, and even as that picture developed in his mind’s eye, it developed in reality as well. Blanket twisted around his limbs and grew darker, the fabric taking on a metallic sheen. Pillows grew heavier… but also softer, pulling him yet deeper into the half-dreaming state Nocturne had forced on him.

He was, really, horribly comfy.

If it wasn’t for his hazmat suit and its boots, Danny could almost be convinced he was bundled up in his own bed. Then, he blinked, long, slow, and sleepy, and he wasn’t wearing his hazmat suit anymore. Instead, he was wearing a set of pajamas that, if he’d seen them in the real world, would have sent him into paroxysms of envy. They were a set, a button-down shirt and a pair of pants, the type of pajamas he liked the most. They also were sewn with tiny star-shaped sequins in the pattern of real constellations.

Danny knew they weren’t real. Unfair.

Nocturne chuckled and tugged on Danny’s newly-bare toes.

“Don’t,” mumbled Danny, sleepily, not coordinated enough to twitch away. “Let’s get this over with already.”

“Yes,” said Nocturne, gliding forward. “Let’s.”

The Plain of Dreams was only the greatest of the many places in the Ghost Zone where the ethereal and otherwise elusive energies of dream gathered. It had been tamed, once, and inhabited, brought to the kind of civilization only known in the dreams of visionaries. Crystal cities of philosophy. Hidden villages in perfect harmony with nature. Utopias of justice, science, and art.

But those realms were long gone. When the rulers of the Dream Kingdoms saw the approach of Pariah Dark's armies, they ordered the caged dreamers on whose dreams the foundations of the cities were built woken and released, and their cities faded back into the wilds, and the wilds themselves faded and sunk into slumber until only fragments and memories remained.

There were ways to navigate them, if one had the right tools. Ways to access the Dream Wilds where they slumbered, still beautiful, rich, and powerful. Even with those tools, however, the Dream Wilds were still immeasurably dangerous.

Even in the Ghost Zone, there were few places where one could be destroyed by their own passing fancy.

It had taken years upon years for Nocturne to find the lantern-cage, a relic from one of the Dream Kingdoms, traded to a traveler and sold on as a curiosity not long before Pariah took the throne. Cages not unlike this, but far grander, had held the forever-sleeping dream-architects who had made up the foundations of the great Dream Kingdoms. The only other Nocturne had ever heard of beyond the borders of the Dreamlands had been from their own collection, melted down to be reforged as part of the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.

The success of that plan had made the sacrifice worth it, but Nocturne still resented it, and the lost opportunities it represented.

All too often, Nocturne found themself dreaming of what would have been, if they had still had their own lantern-cage. If they had been able to travel back, to reach the Dream Kingdoms before they fell to ruin entirely, to enter the great halls with a dreamer, and once again let dreams be true.

But even dreams must bow to time.

The cage was not all Nocturne needed, nor the only preparation they had to make. Among other things, the cage was useless without the proper dreamer.

The Dream Kingdoms had, for the most part, used volunteers. Specially selected, educated, and prepared, quite literally pampered beyond the dreams of sloth, the dream-architects of old had been remarkable. But even they were unlikely to have had the qualities Nocturne sought.

And seek they did, searching high and low, throughout both the Infinite Realms and the human world. But no matter what dreamer they brought to the Plain of Dreams, no matter how long Nocturne wandered, their lantern did not light the way.

They had thought it must be a matter of power, and set to collecting dream energy from wherever they could, even going to the human world to gather it from living sleepers. That particular endeavor did not go well, and they returned to the Realms with less than what they’d started with.

But then they found that old record, and its list of odd requirements. Neither alive nor dead, awake nor asleep, willing nor unwilling. Caged, but uncaptured, hungry, but full, complaisant, but steadfast. A liminal dreamer was required, and not just any liminal.

There were only two liminals that Nocturne knew of. He could, with some effort force either of them to fulfill most of the other conditions. Waking dreams were well within his capabilities, the right pressure on an Obsession would have any ghost, full or otherwise, walking into a cage. Hungry but full was trickier, but the lantern-cages were designed to help regulate what their inmates absorbed, among other things that allowed their function of bringing dreams into reality. A glut of dream energy and a dearth of more traditional forms of sustenance would do nicely for Nocturne’s plans, and if the requirement was more metaphorical, they could adapt.

The difficulty lay in 'complaisant but steadfast.'

The elder half ghost was widely regarded as a coward, having fled from too many fights he himself had started. Even if he wasn't, Nocturne had tasted his dreams. Vlad Masters relished every bit of power he could hold over others, and resented any he could not subjugate or suborn.

The younger… Any being that could escape a dream crafted by Nocturne had to be described as both willful and strong-willed. Yet, while the child had dreamed of being recognized and praised for the service he provided, in the waking world he provided those services unasked and unrewarded.

It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. Nocturne wasn't about to make more of the creatures.

From there, their preparations were relatively simple. Phantom was young and brash, not stupid. He may have managed to defeat Nocturne once, but the circumstances had been vastly different. Then, Nocturne had been gathering dream energy and assessing the potential of dreamers. They had been spread thin, distracted.

trapping a whole city in slumber.

Which led to the present moment.

As during their first encounter, the boy was far more susceptible to dream sand than even ordinary humans. Nocturne could not recall at the moment whether or not Plasmius had fallen asleep as quickly, or if the weakness was unique to Phantom, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that he was working.

Where Phantom's aura fell, the Dream Wilds and all their flora and fauna became real, material, some might even say alive. The radius of the effect was miniscule. Nocturne could easily see beyond it, past the golden air and verdant leaves, to where the Plain of Dream was as drab and flat as ever. Phantom was not one of the great dreamers of old. Nor, Nocturne could already tell, would the masterworks once crafted by those dreamers be making an appearance. Phantom's conception of the Dream Wilds was too simple, too imperfect to support such complexities.

Butterflies. Really.

Even some of Nocturne's earlier dreamers had done better, reached further.

And yet… the texture, the depth of color, the quality of light… Yes, with Phantom as their lantern, he would reach the ruins at the heart of the Dream Wilds, and finally claim what they had sought for so long.

Lantern in hand, they glided forward, beneath the boughs of the great trees.

Danny had expected it to be dark under the trees. It had looked dark. Instead, every leaf, every branch, every flower, every crawling, flying, or running thing, every wisp of colored mist was illuminated by Danny’s own aura, which showed no sign of dimming. The shadowless quality of the surroundings added to their dreaminess, another layer of unreality on top of the haze, blur, and dazzle.

Danny slowly turned his head back towards the way they’d come from. The way he thought they’d come from. Already, the open Ghost Zone sky was entirely hidden from view. They could have been walking for hours, not… not…

How long had they been walking? Had it been hours? He couldn’t tell.

Danny really didn’t like this. But he couldn’t really do anything about it. He was in a cage, and Nocturne still had his family hostage. Plus, moving and thinking felt like swimming through honey. Soft, cozy, comfy honey that made him sleepy. The way the cage swung helped with that, a gentle, lulling, rocking motion that had him drifting, distracted.

He blinked hard, rousing back to the half-asleep state Nocturne had put him in. Being caged was one thing. Being totally unaware of his surroundings while caged by an enemy was something else.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Nocturne said nothing.

“Where are we going?” he repeated, adding volume in the hope that it would let his words carry more clearly.

Nocturne looked down at him contemplatively, clearly weighing options. Then they smiled, sly, smug, and indulgent. “We hunt the Beast of Dreams. A chimera with many forms and faces, it guards the way to our destination. Three times we must face them, and three times we must gain their tokens, else even your light will not shine on our path.”

“What if we, um.” Danny licked his lips, trying to recover the thread of his question. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “What if we can’t find them?”

Nocturne tsked at him. “What a terrible attitude to have,” they scolded. “It’s almost as if you don’t care about your family at all. After all, if you are useless, so are they.”

They stopped their glide and reached through the bars of the cage, touching Danny’s shoulder where it joined to his neck. Normally, with his hazmat suit, it wouldn’t even be exposed, but now Danny shivered as Nocturne pushed more energy into him. He whimpered as his aura burned ever brighter in response. His core hummed, high and strained, but his heart beat steadily, and his breathing stayed deep and slow.

“Guide me, little lantern, little light,” whispered Nocturne. “I seek the Beast in the guise of Falsehood, where it lairs at the Gates of Horn and Ivory. Show me the way.”

Danny had no idea how Nocturne thought he could navigate when he had never been here before and could barely see past his own aura. No direction seemed better or more notable than any other direction.

Finally, his eyes landed on a group of trees practically exploding with white and purple flowers. He twitched his fingers in their general direction.

Nocturne withdrew their hand and started moving in that direction at once. Danny let out a sigh as his core gradually returned to a more relaxed state.

They were looking for 'The Beast of Dreams in the guise of Falsehood.' What did that even mean? What did that look like? Some kind of animal? Like a fox? A snake?

"The being we go to meet is the very essence of the deception of dreams. It is that which makes you forget that you are dreaming, that which make you think the dead are living, and the living, dead, that which calls you late to events long past, that which casts you in a thousand roles whose lines you have never learned. It is illusion and confabulation, a fabulist beyond all others. He speaks truth only in service to greater lies."

Danny… understood some of those words. Maybe if was more awake, he'd know more of them.

“Even so, within the bounds of this, our trial, he will be forced to some measure of truth. He must set a true price for his token, when asked three times, and when that price is paid, he must hand it over. But even such a small honesty is one it despises, and it will seek to mislead us.”

“Mhm,” said Danny. Beast guy would lie, and lie a lot. Not much different than dealing with Nocturne themself. Must be a dream thing.

His eyes drifted to the trees and flowers outside the cage. Periodically, glossy leaves reflected his aura back at him, making him blink and wince. The trees here were really big, most of them towering even over Nocturne. Which made sense, if Nocturne was from here, and they had those huge butterflies to contend with. They’d fit their scale. It still felt weird to Danny, and didn’t help with his deepening sense of unreality.

He blinked again, and his blink must have been longer than he'd thought, because when he opened his eyes, they were no longer walking, but standing under a massive apple tree. Its branches spread wide and hung heavy with brilliantly red fruit. No other trees grew under its shadow.

To either side of the trunk, set into the hedge-like mass of greenery beyond the reach of the single great apple tree, were two tall gates made of pale materials. Flowering vines grew around them, holding them shut as effectively as any chain.

Speaking of chains… he shifted uneasily, and listened to the soft clanking of the blankets around him. Yeah. They were still messed up by… whatever was going on. It wasn’t as if Nocturne had actually explained anything, and–

Something in the tree moved. Danny startled as he realized that something was an immense snake. Patterned in poisonous green and red, it blended in almost-perfectly with the surrounding leaves and apples.

Normally, he wouldn’t blink twice at a giant ghost snake. He’d fought more than his fair share of them. Cobras, boas, vipers, rattlesnakes, you name it. But this ghost radiated power far beyond that of a normal animal ghost, and he felt himself shrinking down among the pillows and blankets in an attempt to hide.

He knew it wouldn’t work. He was glowing too brightly.

“Nocturne,” said the snake without moving his mouth. His was deep and smooth, and reminded Danny of Vlad and, oddly, Clockwork. “What an unexpected pleasure!” It extended its head down, beyond the lower branches of the tree, as if in greeting. “I see you have a new lantern with which to light your way. I wish you good fortune on your journey, and hope you gain everything you seek.”

Danny winced at the use of the word ‘wish,’ but Desiree didn’t immediately jump out of the bushes, so he forced himself to refocus on the conversation in front of him.

“Falsehood,” said Nocturne, “I come for your token. What price have you set for it?”

“Is that any way to greet a friend? It has been so long since your last visit, and you have not even thought to introduce your new friend.” The snake lowered itself partially to the ground, the end of his tail still hidden in the trees, and began to circle Danny and Nocturne. “He looks delectable. I would love to just gobble him up. That’s a joke, dear.” It twisted to look more fully at Nocturne. “I would never dispute your ownership of anything, after all. Much less the light you steer by.”

“Enough,” said Nocturne. “What price have you set for your token, that I might move forward?”

The snake shook his head. "Moving forward, my dear? Is that what you call this? I must congratulate you indeed. And in such a timely manner, too, for just the other night, another lantern-bearer came by, and took for herself the last of my to–"

"What must we pay to receive your token?"

"You won’t let me have even the smallest morsel of fun," complained the snake. "Your mother taught you no manners. But very well.” It turned away from both of them, somehow conveying the sentiment of sulking despite its body being a tube. “In exchange for my token, I require either a thing that is both true and false at once, one lie that will become true, or one truth that will become a lie.”

"Any one?" asked Nocturne suspiciously.

"The merchant cares not if you pay in gold or silver, only that he is paid."

"I want an answer, not a riddle."

"That is my sister's domain, not mine."

“Oh my gosh,” said Danny. “Just do it. If he doesn’t give you anything, then you know he lied.”

“Stupid child. What do you think he means by ‘will become?’ So long as even a fraction of this place is held in reality, he has the power to make it so, and his games are far worse than those of the jinn you play with.”

“I know the rules as well as you, if not better,” protested the snake. “I would not break them.”

“You would if you could.”

“I will not break them, then. It is the same. If you do not, perhaps I will assume you did come just to visit. There are so many things you have missed when you were away, dearest. It breaks my heart.”

“I doubt that. This place is an abandoned ruin, the merest shadow of what it was.”

“And many places are, since the reign of the Pariah,” said the snake, mildly. “Yet, even so, you have come here, dreamer in hand. Do you imagine that everything is where you left it, even as you say that this place has fallen? Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Nocturne shook their head. “I will not listen to your lies. You won’t trick me. Not again.” They hung Danny’s cage on one of the lower branches and started to pace, hands behind their back.

The snake sighed, and, to Danny’s alarm, wound around the branch he was suspended from to peer into the cage. His eyes weren’t like a normal snake’s. Instead of pupils, they had several spirals in varying shades of red, green, and black, and rotated slowly, hypnotically. Danny found himself unable to look away, his awareness of Nocturne and, indeed, the rest of the snake fading.

Until, that is, the snake spoke again.

“It is just as possible for a lie to be told for a greater truth, as it is for a truth to be told for a lie. I do not care for you, but my games, as you call them, are for the greater good of all.”

Danny blinked his eyes, which had begun to water, hard. Crap, that was scary. Not quite to the level of Freakshow’s staff, but scary. The only thing that kept him from trying to find a way out right now was that even if he escaped, his family couldn’t. He needed to stay here, stay strong, for them. He’d already tried everything he could do on his own.

“You will accept a statement that is both true and not in exchange for your token?”

“Yes. Or one truth that will become false, or one falsehood that will become true. I’m not terribly picky.”

“And you only want to hear this thing, not wipe it from my mind?”

“I don’t even have the power to do that.”

“I know for a fact you do. You only want to hear this statement, and you will accept that as payment?”

“Oh, are you asking me three times? It is almost as if you don’t trust me. That’s hurtful, after our long acquaintance.”

“Will you, or will you not, accept a statement both true and false as payment?”

“I will, I will!” The snake sniffed loudly, a sound Danny didn’t even think snakes could make… Then again, this snake was talking, a ghost, and maybe also a dream (Danny was unclear on that point), so, really, they were already far beyond that point. “I know you don’t consider me worthy of respect, but shouldn’t you at least respect the rites and rules? It will go much more smoothly. Quickly, too, if that’s something you’re after.”

Nocturne smothered a growl. They raised a knuckle to their lips, the starry blackness of the digit standing out starkly against their mask-like face. “Then my payment is this: the path I seek is the one that leads to the Crown and Cup of Dreams.”

The snake laughed, an odd, barking noise. “And you say I never taught you anything.”

Nocturne opened their mouth as if to argue, expression pinched and sour, but then closed it, thoughtfully. “You are trying to distract me. I have given you payment. I expect your token in return.”

The snake sighed long and heavy. It wound its way onto a nearby branch and pointed its nose at one of the apples. “Any of these apples may serve as my token.”

Nocturne quickly picked the apple the snake had indicated. Then, they flew to where Danny’s cage still hung.

In Nocturne’s hand, the apple was large. Big enough that it wouldn’t look strange if they tried to take a bite out of it. Big enough that if it was hollowed out, Danny could fit in it comfortably. But that wasn’t what Nocturne did. Instead, they brought the apple to the bars of the cage, and as it passed through them, it shrunk down until it could fit easily in Danny’s hands.

The perspective made Danny’s head swim. It didn’t work. But it did, and it was, and Nocturne was pressing the apple against his lips.

“Eat,” they said. Despite their earlier anger, that smug, teasing smile was once again bending the corners of their lips upward. “The purpose of these tokens is to ensure the lantern can light the way.”

Danny leaned away from the apple, squinting at it. "No," he said.

It wasn't as if Danny's parents had ever sent him to Sunday School (the Holy Spirit was bad enough. The Holy Ghost? You got the picture), but Sam had always been delighted to share the darker stories, and Tucker’s parents went to church on Sunday mornings, whether Danny was staying over or not. Plus, he did try to pay attention to literary symbolism in English, even if Mr. Lancer didn't think so.

A snake offering apples? Bad news.

Maybe if Nocturne was the one being told to eat it, or if Danny's friends and family weren't on the line, he wouldn't have said anything, because screw Nocturne. But they weren't and they were.

"This isn't your token. You're lying."a

The snake chuckled. "Clever child."

Nocturne snarled and darted forward, clawed hand closing around the serpent's neck. The edges of their form were flared out, like feathers or fur. The apple fell down and vanished among the pillows and blankets.

"I have paid your price. I fulfill every requirement to walk this path, and you have no right to keep it from me!"

The serpent evaporated and reformed deep among the branches of the apple tree. “You call me a liar, when you tell such untruths yourself! Every right is mine, and mine alone! Nor was I paid.”

“I gave you my statement, both true and untrue. You will not cheat me. Not now.”

“Did you?” asked the snake, clearly delighted by this turn of events.

“How dare you speak of rules and respect, when you desecrate this ancient rite? How dare you stand in my way, when I–”

“Indeed! Who else should stand in your way? My sisters and brothers? All those with a greater claim to this path?”

As it turned out, despite everything, Danny had been paying attention to the whole conversation, even if he hadn’t followed all of it. Nocturne had been sure the snake couldn’t lie if he was asked the same thing three times… so maybe he didn’t.

“If the token is for me,” he said, slowly, “is Nocturne the one who has to pay the price, or is it me? When you said ‘you’ earlier, you were talking to me, weren’t you? I’m the one who needs to say one of those three things?”

The snake approached again, and Danny hastily averted his eyes. "I like this one, Nocturne. He reminds me of you, when you were younger, and better behaved." He paused, significantly. "And smarter. Yes, little light, you are the one who must answer me, if you desire my token. Of course if you do not…"

Danny understood what the snake was implying, but he did, in fact, need that token.

He really hated hostage situations.

But if what Nocturne had implied about the snake’s powers was true, maybe he could use this. After all, nothing said the lie had to be his.

"Nocturne said they'd bring my family and friends out of their comas if I help them. Can I give you that as the lie?"

The snake started laughing. Danny, meanwhile, felt like his brain had been peeled out of his body and he was floating over his skin. The persistent misty softness had converged on him, and now he was floating.

"I had doubted before, but now I understand how it is that you were the one to defeat Pariah Dark. Nocturne, dear, he has to be able to take the token. I doubt keeping him like that will prevent him from vexing you, anyway."

“I can make him take it.”

“As you would. Now–”

“You have not been this cooperative before.”

“Perhaps I simply want you gone. You are, as I have mentioned, incredibly rude. And ugly. And I find what you are doing to be repugnant, as you yourself would, had you given it thought beyond your base desires. Not that you listen to me–”

“You’re going to try to pass off something random as your token again, aren’t you? And then you’ll claim it is because you didn’t give it to him, you cheat.”

“Me? A cheat? Never. Or only at card games. It is very difficult to play a hand when you don’t have any.”

“You aren’t even a snake. You only look that way because of how he’s dreaming you. But what I don’t understand is why you seem to want him awake. You’re never this transparent.”

“Are you sure I want him awake? Perhaps that is only what I want you to think. Ah, and now you’re tying yourself in circles. A shame. Once you were good at this. Or at least passable. And you wonder why you couldn’t even hold the dreams of a single human city, much less the power that passes through here.”

“I am the Master of Dreams, and–”

“Only because there was no one else qualified.”

There was a long silence, and Danny felt himself drifting back to the surface of awareness. That had been… strange.

“Give him,” said Nocturne, their voice gravely with suppressed rage, “your token.”

Danny noticed with some alarm that the snake was wound around the cage. When did it get so close? Why did it get so close? His scales flashed at him.

“Take two,” said the snake.

“What?”

“Take two of my scales. Together, they make my token.”

“And… am I supposed to eat them or something?” That… was that the right thing to ask? Everything was still a bit floaty. “Don’t laugh,” he said, crossly as the snake started to snicker. It did that a lot. “I’m serious. You wanted me to eat the other thing. The, um, the apple. Are you going to make me eat these, too?”

“Take them and find out.”

Danny glanced back at Nocturne, but they didn’t make any objection this time. Carefully and slowly, he crawled over the blankets to the bars of the cage. Because of the way the bottom of the cage was curved and how the pillows and blankets were ever so slightly higher near the outside edge, he had to hold onto one of the bars to stay in place.

“Any two?” he asked.

“No, the two you get by adding one and one.”

Danny glared at the snake for a moment, but quickly returned to looking at the scales. Each one was only a little smaller across than his palm. They glittered, and Danny blinked sleepy tears out of his eyes. He adjusted his grip on the bars and resisted the temptation to lie down.

He really didn't want to do this.

"It won't hurt you?" he asked. That wasn't his main concern, but… in the moment, it was a concern.

"No more than pulling free a hair."

Depending on the hair, that could hurt quite a bit. He reached out and grabbed a scale at random. It slid free with surprising ease.

Most of it was green, but the edge of it was vivid red, as if it had been rolled in blood. He tucked it quickly into the pocket at his breast, and reached for the next scale. This one was green all over, a smooth gradient from one side to the other.

He let go of the bar and slid back into the cozy nest in the center of the cage as if guided by an outside force. Even without Nocturne’s intervention, the blankets and pillows tucked themselves in around him. If anything, he felt even more secure than before, only head and hands free.

But he was sitting there, holding the scales, one in each hand.

In dreams, occasionally a dreamer is seized by knowledge or need apropos of nothing. They know that this is their grandmother's house, even though it's obviously the grocery store. They know they must hold the cards with only their left hand, or otherwise they'll lose, never mind what game they're playing. Sometimes, too, the dreamer simply acts. The impetus for their actions obscure, not originating from their own thoughts. Jumping from cars, yelling, fighting, eating, smoking, cheating on tests, being unable to stop.

Danny, not thinking about anything in particular, raised the scales to his eyes. They sunk into his skin without a trace.

At first, he rubbed his skin and eyes furiously, hoping to find a way to peel them off, but then…

He saw.

He could see.

Before, it had been difficult to keep his eyes open, impossible to see past his own aura, but now everything looked so clear, from the leaves, to the apples, to the grass, to the gates and the ruins beyond them.

"You see, now," said the snake, kindly. "The purpose of my token is to shield your eyes, so you can see. And, I suppose, better guide the one that carries you. Before, you burned too brightly for your own good, but now…"

Danny nodded as the snake spoke. Vaguely, he felt as if he shouldn't agree with him, but what he was saying made sense. He did see better. He saw more.

Most things were still misty, out of the corners of his eyes, but directly in front of them, they were clear and crisp. Sharp. Well defined.

He could even see the path on the forest floor, where it ran underneath them and to one of the pale gates - which didn't look nearly as overgrown as he had originally thought.

(There was something very wrong with that thought, with all these thoughts. But this thought, in turn, slipped away and disappeared.)

“Which way, child?” asked Nocturne. “We have wasted enough time here.”

Danny’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, so he pointed instead. It was strange that Nocturne could not see the path. Nocturne walked that way, lantern in hand. And when had he picked the cage back up? Danny was missing something.

“Nocturne,” called the snake. “I meant what I said.”

“About what?”

“All of it. Give my sister-self my regards.”

#ectoberhaunt #23 day 5 #23 prompt hunt #23 calendar science #eh23 #ectoberhaunt23 #danny phantom

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ay0nha · 6 months

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DEATH IS A MIRROR | N.K. (I)

GIF by voidshinya

SUMMARY: You’d told him once that you feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.

PAIRING: Nanami Kento x f!reader (anti-hero of sorts)

WORD COUNT: 3.2K

WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, ANGST, jjk canon-typical things, mentions of BLOOD and INJURY, mentions of dying, Nanami being a lil snippy, ANGST, depressing themes, bottom half is a dream/memrory, etc.

A/N: So, I actually hated what I wrote, so I rewrote it and added a lot more. Thank you in advance for your patience with me. I hope you enjoy again :)

TAGS: @khaleesihavilliard, @vee-ai, @killlerqween, @nokkoongie, @anti-heroism, @chimamire-ga @darkstudentsaladbakery @benzywenzymeowmeow @nanamin94

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED. PLEASE.

Prologue

When you were young, you threw things out of your bedroom window to learn how they would break. Many of them did not—the plastic dolls and plush toys landed safely on the grassy yard below—but the wooden toys did break, or at least they came apart.

One day, you found a snow globe. A winter village stood inside, with snow-covered roofs and chimneys shooting up into the domed sky.

This snow globe was the last thing you threw out of your window, not because your mother scolded you, which she did, but because this snow globe smashed so gloriously—an explosion of crystal, water, snow, and glitter, the village utterly destroyed —you thought you wouldn’t be able to replicate such destruction again.

It was bullshit then, and it was bullshit now. Moving on and letting go was never in the stars for you. Or the tea leaves. Or in the deep lines of your palm. You knew you were destined for destruction.

“You need to focus.” Nanami’s tone was sterile. It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise.

Your clothes clung to your frame, damping by the minute from the storm. Your eyes were closed as you tilted your head toward the stars as if they spoke to you directly. It was a language you could decipher, but Nanami could only interpret as foolishness.

“There may be special grades in there,” He continued, repeating everything Gojo had relayed. “We need to stick to the plan—

“It won’t work.” You looked back to him, safely tucked under his umbrella. Every stitch of his suit was dry, contrasting the way your eyelashes clumped together as if crying. “The plan is far too idealistic—impractical.”

You vetted his blank gaze for proper determination of his upset.

The cracks behind his exterior were so deeply concealed you hadn’t thought anything could slip between. Yet, standing before him, you alone were the ice-pick that’s pressure had shattered him.

“You’re walking into a trap, and yet, my plan is impractical?” Nanami ached with dissatisfaction.

The rain aided the facade of the building. It’s already dilapidated paint peeled under the weight of the water. The faint yellow hue of the streetlights highlighted its empty depth—you wouldn’t be surprised if its echo would swallow you whole. Even with the disarray of water droplets, cursed energy flowed steadily.

“Wait here.” You instructed, voice barely audible over the rain. You ignored Nanami easily, a plan he wasn’t privy to already set in motion. “It’ll only take a second.”

“We shouldn’t split up.” Nanami disagreed, body instinctively moving to block you. It was inevitable for you to stray from the path, you just did it sooner than he’d like.

You shook your head, half-heartedly listening to Nanami’s so-called advice. “You’re not the only one who can play the hero.”

“Don’t pretend that suits you.” He mocked your tone, trust nowhere to be found. “We have a job to do.”

It took convincing to draw you in, but the promised mystery surrounding the cursed object confirmed your involvement. The object was still unknown, just a rumor floating around begging to be found. There were already higher ups sent after it, Gojo included. With you in the pool, the game changed in his favor.

“Curses are quite sentimental when it comes to their things.” You let out a teasing hum, dirty shoes landing on the antique table. “What makes you think I want to help you?”

Although his eyes were covered, you knew Gojo’s gaze landed beyond you. Nanami was entirely ignorant of the implication. “Call it a hunch.”

Long ago, Nanami learned to not trust instinct as it almost never led to an obvious solution. Instead, emotion muddled decisions and tarnished everything it touched. But he craved to follow his gut, to loosen his tie just so he could breathe a bit deeper.

It was impossible with a plan so intentionally deceptive. Gojo was cryptic, leaning into riddles and half-truths. He relied on you and Nanami to read between the lines for the true instruction. The methods didn’t seem to matter anymore, as you were the first to come up with a means to an end.

“A job?” You scoffed. Everything correlated to work. “I’m here as a favor.” You drew in a breath, hoping to gain confidence with it to finally enter the abandoned home. “Keep your eyes on the door.”

Nanami would give you five minutes before stepping in. 300 seconds. The rain's pattern no longer mattered when he felt the pulse of the seconds travel from his watch through his veins. Every second counted attached to his discomfort.

He watched you run across the street, not bothering to check for traffic. Danger was never a fear-inducing concept for you, but rather a temptation. It was why he was waiting for your betrayal. It was the way you responded when things got hard and it was only a matter of time he’d be on the receiving end.

Four minutes left…

The rain grew heavier, challenging the effectiveness of the cheap umbrella Nanami held. He started to feel the water that had made it past his defenses seep through his jacket and make its way to his skin. It was an odd grounding for him, reminding him to stay still present.

Get in, get out.

Nanami crossed the street, being lured in by how the house groaned with an invitation. The lightening helped illuminate it’s silhouette and lead him to the door.The dust had settled on every windowsill and unbroken counter. The rats and pigeons had returned to their makeshift shelter, and the rain hadn’t stopped corrupting the wood Nanami stood on.

It was easy to follow your trail of wet footprints. Yet, it was the way you subdued your cursed energy, as if storing it—hiding it—made Nanami’s faith in Gojo ripple. The obligation made to Gojo, furthered Nanami’s stride.

He paused, hearing you speak with familiarity. Once he found a gap between the wooden beams, he saw your companion.

Three minutes…

“The girl without the heart seeks me out?” The cursed user responded—gurgled. You weren’t sure if the bile it excreted was its own or from what it had just devoured. “I’m flattered…”

“There’s something I’m trying to find.” Your voice was steady, knowing what stood opposite you sought for cracks.

No longer did it reflect something human-like, its body corrupt from using sorcery in the darkest corners. Every curse eaten, darkened its skin and removed whatever humanity remained.

“Ever the collector…” It tutted.

Collector, Nanami scoffed at the thought. You appeased what was across from you with teasing conversation. Dark inside jokes were exchanged that made Nanami’s heart drop to his stomach. The shared memories were vile and reckless, causes of messed he’d been sent to clean up.

Two minutes…

Between the gap, he watched how the cursed user reached for your skin. You hadn’t flinched, far too trusting in its presence. “And if I know where to start?”

“Name your price.” You were stoic. The nails of the cursed user scratched at your already bruising skin.

The position you were in was out of politeness, you wanted the object. Otherwise, the cursed user would have painted the walls already. It knew this, taking advantage of its luck misinterpreting that as power.

“You know what I want…” It purred. It’s hand trailed to stop at your neck, settling on the chain it found. It pulled at it until the pendent’s weight was no longer felt on your chest.

You didn’t pull back, but you were firm. “Not for sale.”

It hummed with discontent. The whine scraped against the walls, crying out like a child whose candy was taken. Nanami watched it’s overgrown nails dig into your jawline. Slowly, he reached back for his blunt blade. The grip on the handle soothed Nanami’s anxiety just barely as the seconds hand of his watch didn’t move fast enough.

One minute…

“There’s very little I want from you…” It tutted again, finding pleasure in the slight reprimands. “...especially when you come only to insult me.”

It’s smile was wicked, as if it had found your weak point. You felt it too; Nanami’s weight shifted ever so slightly, radiating concern revealing his concealed location. The cursed energy, even, from behind the rotted wall, doubled with preparation of expulsion.

You had to race the clock before Nanami destroyed everything.

“Kento.” You called out, eyes unwavering from the cursed user. Anger consumed your breath. “Go wait outside.”

“Kento…” The cursed user repeated his name like a lover would. The laugh released echoed poorly, becoming sharp and unsettling. “He’s yours, isn’t he?”

Nanami reached behind his back for a familiar leather handle. His grip settled comfortably on it in warning. All you saw was a threat. It spoke of your ability to read him and how exhausting it had been to interpret. You wanted a reason to let your vexation control your movements.

Your time was up.

He stalked toward you, tie loosening to wrap tightly around his forming fist. “You may have Gojo’s trust but—

Before he had the chance to finish, you darted.

Your movements looked evasive as if every twitch was purposeful for defense. Its fluidity was the distraction from its purpose; you came close to him just to deliver blows just shy of lethal.

“It wasn’t meant to happen like this, Kento.” You mused—teased. There was no struggle in your breath despite the speed you conjured. “I thought you loved orders. Why didn’t you just stay put?”

Guilt never found you as necessity ruled your movements. The cursed user’s eyes were on you steadily. Every choice and word exposed whose side you were on. For the time being, you and it were one and the same. The jujutsu sorcerer was simply a common enemy.

“Trust me, I was looking out for you.” You taunted again.

Although your voice was soft, it carried well. It crawled coldly up Nanami’s spine just to rattle him. However, your words caused him to hesitate; his glasses were discarded, most likely broken, and you watched his brow furrow with confusion.

“Trust you?” Nanami sucked in the air greedily, your blows playfully devious.

For the information you sought, you had to prove yourself and your alliances. Nanami was never a good liar and it was never an option to have him be aware of his position as a pawn. The less he knew, the better.

“Hey, Kento—” You called to him as he pushed off his knee to stand again. Waving a cloth-covered knife before you, Nanami hid his shock. He didn’t even feel you swipe his weapon. “Find me when you wake up.”

Nanami knew nothing in this world came easy. He knew love took practice and vowed never to put in the hours. He knew metamorphosis took danger and, most likely, pain.

However, with his vision disappearing, he welcomed the darkness that consumed him. He knew nothing any longer except that his subconscious seemed to reach for you.

—

2013…

Clear as a memory, the dream’s outline, dark and sticky, crept closer.

Nanami closed his eyes, a nasty habit he’d been taunted with.

Every step had been memorized that there was no need to question his stride. There were just shy of 40 steps from his desk to the elevator. From one of the top floors to the lobby of the building took only a few minutes. Then, roughly 5000 steps to the always-burnt-coffee diner a handful of blocks away.

The ritualistic nature of the journey happened every day. Although Nanami clocked out, his body hesitated to return home. He wasn’t sure where to fit this unorthodox routine. It was neither work nor pleasure, just perverse impulsivity. Every step was intentional, with the ability to retrace. Over and over, the routine was just shy of obsessive.

Nanami opened his eyes at the neon sign that flickered with age. Pushing through the door, the chime welcomed his presence, allowing the breath he held to be replaced with greasy air and soft chatter.

The leather booth creased against his suit as he sat in the darkest corner. Nanami counted the steps it took for the waitress to reach him—13 unlucky steps—to take his order. He noted the curses weighing at her ankles while she repeated his simple order: a cup of black coffee and the day’s pie.

His ears buzzed with indifference, manners on autopilot as the waitress offered pleasantries. Nanami missed her body growing rigid, eyes glazing over as if her sight wasn’t hers. Her stiffened hands dropped the pen, and on reflex, Nanami reached for it.

“Ever the gentleman, Nanami.” You hummed on his return. He hadn’t bothered to gasp your name or act surprised to see you opposite him so suddenly. If anything, your technique seemed to be a nuisance. “What? No long time, no see?”

Nanami’s disjointed relationship with sorcery met its match with you. “What do you want?”

The diner was warm with a knowing tension. It removed the chill from your skin and cradled you into a comfortable position. Your eyes flickered to outside. Decorations were starting to litter the telephone poles and people wrapped their thin sweaters around them tightly.

Nanami knew you hated the holidays as the hollow loneliness mocked you. When you were both still in school, he made it manageable and a little less loathsome. Yet, your adult lives festered creating a distance that was too dead to fully die.

“Did they find you?” Nanami pulled your eyes back to him. Your scowl confirmed his suspicion. “You know better—

“That’s not why I’m here.” You hissed. You weren’t trying to intimidate him, but you couldn’t help but pout at his lack of enthusiasm. You caved first. “...I saw something.”

Your left eye twitched, warning you your premonition was soon to be true. It was on the simpler side, a vision of dark shadows intentionally elusive.

When you were younger, you thought you were crazy, seeing apparitions or former lives. However, as years passed, familiar faces began to fill your vision, showing truths you became excited to fulfill. But they became warped with opposing desires and reverberating fear wreathed with vindication.

It made things sour and sore. It allowed trouble to seek you out just to be ill-prepared for your counter. It wasn’t bravery that energized you, nor was it skill. Pure spite drove you to be the worst of all.

“You think I’m evil.” You sighed, leaning into the booths corner. “You’re afraid of me because you don’t know—

“Coffee and apple pie for you—” The waitress balanced the diner's entire responsibility on and fluidly placed Nanami’s portion down. “—sorry, I haven’t taken your—

She hardened, body seemingly frozen under your gaze. You learned to move with vigilance to veil the constant fragility you felt. The defense mechanism became instinct and so you inflicted it on everyone.

“Don’t do that.” Nanami scolded you, releasing the waitress from your hypnotic ability. “I’d assume you would have learned to control that by now.”

“We all have our vices…” You mumbled, the heat of embarrassment swirling in your chest. It took focus to remain guarded, but your distraction quickly became destruction. “You’ve been counting again…”

You nodded to the way his fingers tapped in a pattern. The slight dig was telling of how well you could still read him. It was a comfort for Nanami, something mindless and reliable. However, you knew his tells and how the habit hurt when stress became all-consuming.

You looked warm, contrasting the winter beginning outside. A bubble was created that was becoming suffocating, but with you across from Nanami, it seemed just marginally bearable. Your hand flexed, skimming his, hoping to regain his attention.

“While I appreciate your concern, I am perfectly fine.” Nanami thought to sink back, but he chased the small contact. His voice was commanding, betraying his desperation. “Now, tell me what you saw.”

You had no dreams. At least ones you could remember. It was like your body was protecting you from seeing things that you shouldn't see. As if it were always on the tip of you tongue, a small semblance to let you know there was something there, just deeply hidden.

However, what you witnessed was the first clear thing you had seen in years and maybe even ever. It started off forgettable, a fantasy-like world that could be misconstrued for a fairy tale. But the fog in your mind started to swirl. The colors became deeper, more like shadows that soon transformed into familiar figures.

You recognized your own body from the anguish in your shoulders. Hunched over Nanami’s body as you held him tightly, that lump formed in your throat again. It was a quick image, one that would flash at inappropriate times.

It haunted you for weeks. It scratched at your subconscious and controlled your movements. There was no promise to when your premonition would come to fruition, but something felt off—different.

To soothe yourself, you kept your distance, following Nanami’s schedule. It was meant to be enough. Yet, you needed the tangible evidence before you. Your sentimentality was your weakness. Even your stubbornness couldn’t block the overwhelming flood of anxieties and longing.

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Every lie you tell incurs a debt to the truth.” Nanami knew you saw him. He could feel how you ached with dissatisfaction. “Sooner or later, that debt must be paid.”

Slowly, your control weakened. Things had shifted in your sorcery and rumors were spreading. The only truth they held was how deliberately unrestrained you were willing to be. There was no rhyme or reason behind it; at least you were close to convincing yourself of that. Regardless, it had gotten you far, the only thing you’d even consider reliable.

You stopped paying attention to the rumors the more embellished they became. To some, you were a thief, skilled a finding cursed objects and selling them well past their worth; to others, a frenzied psychopath who never lacked the upper hand.

“I know what I’m doing.”

You were far from convincing, but you refused to loose your agency. You relied on Nanami in the past. At one point, you would have considered him the only one that had the privilege. You thought he had understood that.

“You’re out of your depth.” He sipped at his coffee.

“Don’t you feel powerless living in another’s world?” You felt your heart beat against your tightening chest. You felt a needle of pain in your nose like you were near tears. “I used to think it was because I was special, destined for greatness…” You sighed. “I can’t pretend to be naive anymore—

“Then don’t.” Nanami cut you off. “You’re smarter than that.”

“Nanami…” Your tone caught his attention fully, a pondering thought left to float between you. A plead to allow things to settle just for now.

You didn’t want advice or forgiveness. All you sought from him was company. Nanami searched your expression, conflicted about whether to proceed further, but he knew his responsibility was to accept your form of worry on his behalf.

The pie he ordered remained untouched, and he doubted your habit had changed drastically enough to know you wouldn’t remember your last meal. Pulling at his tie, Nanami loosened considerably. In hindsight, he wished he took your image more seriously, not knowing it would be the last time he’d accept your unorthodox amity.

Yet for now, Nanami pushed the plate forward as a temporary olive branch. “Eat.”

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howyouloveyourdragon · 1 year

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Gold Rush

pronouns: she/her warnings: angst, mentions & depictions of alcoholism, car crash, fluff summary: Aegon didn’t like most people but he liked you until it tore him from the inside out. You’re perfect, his gold and shimmering light. The problem? He’s not perfect. He’s not even a third of what you will one day amount to and everybody knows it…even him. verrryyy loosely based on Gold Rush by Taylor Swift. dividers: firefly-graphic wordcount: 4,039 A/N: i hope my favourite aegon girlie @adelusionalwriter enjoys!

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Aegon’s eyes sparkle as they watch your figure embrace his mother. His suit is uncomfortably tight and he doesn’t understand why the collar is pointy but a sly grin spreads up his face at the sight of his sunshine…at the sight of you. His perfect golden girl, the one who lights the remaining warmth of his heart and strengthens his overworked jaw until he’s turned into a bumbling mess. His mother would argue that that is his natural state but even she can’t ignore the glow you permeate onto him when you are near. Every sunday she slides a porcelain plate, her muscle memory too deep to forget you. It hasn’t even been a year yet, he thinks to himself as his hands hesitate on the flute of champagne beside him. Only seven months by now, he’s sure. Gods, why does it feel like he’s known you all his life? He supposes that’s ridiculous, if he had known you all his life then perhaps he would not have been so miserable in his teen years. His touch lingers on the tall glass then snaps away. The heat of your memory turns into a scalding burn at the temptation. He tucks his hands into his pockets and smiles at you across the room. Your soft features turn up at him like the pour of glitter–smooth and sparkling. You make him feel like summer. As if summoned, the chandelier catches its outstretching beams and it feels as though it has changed nothing because there you are smiling at him. He thinks that you’re the only light he will ever need. You’re as kind as a gleam, reflecting his best qualities into him. He’s still Aegon but people enjoy his company now, seek him out even. His own father comments on it sometimes. That might be the only thing Aegon dislikes about you, how easily you collect the affection of others, faster than he, Aegon himself, ever could, you have garnered the affection of even his father. He wishes sometimes that he could keep you locked up in a little box to preserve forever but that would be selfish and he promised himself that this time would be different. It had to be. He will be good enough for you, he knows it.

So he dismisses the champagne and tentative curling fingers wave at you across the room. Gods, his heart starts thrumming gently again at the sight of your smile. When your feet patter softly in shining shoes, his arms are already outstretched and waiting. A soft giggle slips from your lips like the purest wine–the one that replaces his damnable urges–and your hands glide up his neck to wrap him in an embrace so tight, his breath catches. His eyes flutter like a dandelion loses its seed, alongside the flow of gentle wind; it’s with careful tandem with your own closing lashes. “My sweet girl,” He breathes as his lips dip his head of their own desperate volition. They coax your own so his tongue can sail at the seam of your silken lips. He drinks in your hot breath as if it’s the antidote to all ills and fuck, he thinks he’d be dying without it. He wants to drown in you, he decides, hands pressing so carefully on your hips as he draws you close. Aegon worries that if he presses too hard you will flow away into the air like dust. Your mouth coaxes him into a world beyond his own–instead of cruelty and pain, it is filled with replenishment and golden sunlight. He wants to conquer your lips in that moment or any part that you’ll give him, his brows scrunching in need and fingers rolling the rayon fabric of your dress back and forth between them. It’s not enough to have you in his arms, he wants to commit every part of today into his memory so he can replay it over and over in his mind’s eye until it fries like the computer his sister Rhaenyra fixed for you. He was embarrassed at the time that he couldn’t do it himself but his fears quelled the moment your darling tongue descended on his own.

Panic ebbs at him whenever you look at him like this, when your dilated pupils are so wide they consume him. A rosy blush invades his face; his nose, his cheeks, even his neck and ears are pink. He jumps when a firm hand lands along his back and shakes him out of this fantasy. It’s his brother Aemond giving him a pointed stare. Aegon caves in on himself as quick as a frightened rabbit though he is not so harmless. His blue eyes flicker up at him through shielding eyelashes, anticipating the worst. Instead, Aemond is reaching across to introduce himself to you, having missed the initial family hounding while on a business trip. His face is stoic as always with a straightened back and hair slicked back behind him so unlike Aegon’s messy brush of gilded curls. Unsavoury tastes climb up to his throat before stuffing his cheeks with foul-tasting cotton. “I apologise for our late meeting…” Aemond says, wet tongue gliding the words like prayer through his white teeth. Aegon swallows and looks at the floor. He doesn’t like who he feels like in his brother’s sight. An intruder. A ruiner. A failure. Oh Gods how he wishes for once in his life he could be like you. He wants to be your sunlight as much as you are his forever. But you don’t know this and he would never dream of tainting your sweet gaze for anybody nor any selfish emotions. You won’t be him, you won’t be him. Aegon reminds himself, determined to disrupt all of him if it means keeping you, of being a man you deserve. “I was otherwise engaged and my brother has seemingly ignored the pleasure of my company.” Suddenly a tunnelled light is all that he can see of you, and darkness circles his vision like a deranged tunnel. His fists dig sharp nails into his soft palms. His eyes squeeze shut briefly at the hum of your sweet laugh. A laugh reserved for him. He sucks in an unsteady breath but then your reassuring hand squeezes his bicep just as tightly before releasing with care. Even your hands feel like silk.

Helaena suddenly springs to your side with wide excited eyes and practically begs you to dance, which you eagerly accept even though no one is dancing at all. Aegon watches with a grin rivalling the sun’s bright intensity though he would not think such a comparison would be worthy of him. He’ll keep that reserved for you, for now. Aemond hums from beside him, tapping his fingers against the table. Aegon grinds his teeth. He loves his brother, he loves his brother, he– “A sweet girl, isn’t she?” Aemond asks to which Aegon groans heartily. Normally he’s the one bringing you up at any available opportunity but he knows this isn’t going to be a conversation he likes. Aegon clenches his jaw and remembers what his therapist told him, think of something else…the trees, the sun…her…her smile…her laugh. His lips twitch upward but then the blow comes full force and barrelling. “A shame she’s picked the wrong brother.” Aemond spoke with such vindication before slipping away to engage with another one of their grandsire’s businessmen.

It’s nine weeks later when the panic sets in again, he’s running around a supermarket frantically in search of a birthday card, clutching a (mostly) fresh bouquet of asters and anemone in his grasp. His breathing heavies, sweat collecting on his pale brows and desperately trying to hide his dilated pupils. His hands shake as he thrusts the card at the cashier–he can tell they’re slightly scared as they scan it with flickering wide eyes. “T-Two seventy five.” They inform him and he snatches it with one hand, the other casting coins at her hurriedly. He needs to be out as soon as possible. Aegon sprints faster than he ever did in cross-country and then shoots into his car with a relieved sigh. He checks his phone and smacks a hand over his forehead, groaning. 16:43 pm. He was supposed to be there at three. God damn it why wasn’t he there at three. His heart beats against the concrete wall of his skull. His hand clutch the steering wheel like a lifeline and his foot presses so low on the revs that he’s probably 20 miles past the speed limit. Of course this doesn’t end well, he rushes through a red light. A screeching alerts him first at what’s happening before the weight of a 2010 toyota prius smacks hard into his own car which is sent spinning across the road, hitting another car as it goes. Aegon is sent flying in his drunken haze across the car and burning shards dig through his skin but he doesn’t know what they’re looking for. His ears beat with a deafness he’s never felt, urging his mouth to spew vomit out of his broken window. Aegon’s already throbbing head strikes against the rough tarmac, blood seeping across the mud and dirt that infects his insides. A jagged wedge of glass rummages easily through his pale skin but he doesn’t have it in him to scream as his eyes drop shut. He feels like he hasn’t slept for days…he probably hasn’t as he lets the pain suck him into the dark void.

The flowers and their pathetic petals skid like an empty promise beside him–they infiltrate his nose like a lie.

You don’t like hospitals, you decide, as you try to stop the sobbing that gyrates your body as strong as a vice and as cruel as the wicked world around you. A warm hand is wrapped comfortingly around your waist but it’s awkward because as much as you love Helaena, you don’t want her. You want Aegon. You want your sweet stupid boyfriend who you’re not sure you’re going to ever forgive for making you love him this much. For making you hurt so badly as you sit desperately awaiting a doctor or nurse or someone. You didn’t even know you were his emergency contact until yesterday. Your weary eyes stand red and puffy as you finally settle. You can’t rest–no–you will not. Helaena sighs in relief when Alicent arrives with the coffee and takes her place beside you. The loud footsteps approaching are what snap your head up and send your coffee flying to the floor. A couple opposite you gasp but you ignore them, fixing interrogatory sights on the nurse before you. They lick their lips and you already know they’re hesitant. Their head leans slightly and double checks the papers. “Aegon Targaryen’s fa–?” “Yes.” You say instantaneously, playing with the ring you moved onto your engagement-finger. Aegon hasn’t proposed but you’re not about to let some half-pint tell you you can’t see the love of your life based on a technicality. Your tongue darts to wet your stark lips. “What is it?” For once you don’t have the time to be polite.

Aegon smiles weakly when you jog in, not even exposing his teeth like he’s trained since birth. His voice is drained and devoid of his vibrant heart. It’s quick when you latch your teeth on your lower lip, sucking it to soothe your ever-growing nerves. You hold back from launching yourself at him and instead settle for gently embracing him, tears collecting on that stupid itchy gown they forced upon him, as he says so eloquently. You can barely choke a laugh. Even now, he can’t be serious for too long, you should have expected it. You’re scared to look at him, instead burrowing your face into his smooth neck even though now it’s gash laced and a thick goo seeps from it. Dainty and beaten hands tremble as they try to guide through your hair but you hear the hiss that tears through his teeth. It’s reflexive when you jump away but he whines. “P-please, baby,” He simpers. You want to slap the stupid grin off his face, instead you tuck your hands beneath your chin and reluctantly let him try again but his eyes twitch and squeeze, veins jutting at even this. Your own face crumples at the sight and even more when tears wet his eyes, as overcoming as a tidal wave. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, breath hitches. “I tried, I promise, I-I-” You shake your head, fingers twitching to hold his hand but you force them away. “Sh, sh,” You soothe. “That doesn’t matter right now. I’m here to take care of you, nothing else.” He lets out a whimper and you swear someone has punched your intestines. “It’s not fair to you.” Aegon argues uselessly against himself. “This isn’t fair. If I wasn’t so fucking drunk all the time–” You shush him again but it doesn’t calm him this time, instead it only intensifies his inner guilt and turmoil. “No, stop, I don’t want to be coddled…Please. This isn’t good for you. I’m not good for you.” Your brows knit, your mouth parting but he slides a shaking finger in front of you. “No.” He repeats. “I want you to leave me.” Aegon sniffles now, trying hard not to let the wave win but he’s tired, so exhausted of trying. “I want you to go!” He spits like poison. You reel back as though he had stabbed you. “What? No.” You snap back but the dam has finally broken. “Just go!” “Just talk to me!” You plead, reaching to grasp him but he dodges like a cat in water. “Go.” He grinds out. “Please,” he sniffles again, vulnerability engulfing his tortured tongue. “I want you to spread those beautiful wings of yours.” You shake your head. “You’ve been doing better!” “Not better enough!” “I don’t care; we both knew something would happen and I’m here because I love you, not for what you can give me.” He huffs at the resolute tone flying through his ears at your voice. He refuses to look at you now.

Instead his eyes snap to the door where a familiar face stares back at him with concern embedded in his lone eye. You’ve switched places with him, this time you’re the one desperate for him. Unlikely but in truth , however, you both still move in perfect, infuriating tandem. He’s okay with dying if the cost of living is you remaining trapped in this little bubble of life beside him. He finally decides with the words of others ringing in his head. He can’t keep doing this, he won’t let himself. He can’t keep you if this is what it means. He wants you to fly–no–he wants you to soar, above him, above everybody. Always. His curled hand reaches to brush back your hair but he holds off the begging flinch this time as he rests his forehead against your own. He’s done trying. “I’m sorry.” he whispers to you before kissing your forehead. “I’ve already had you for far too long, as long as I could but I won’t keep doing this to you.” Neither of you care as chalked and decaying blood snaps from his wounds onto you. Selfish. Aegon Targaryen has always been selfish. That’s what he’s sure they will one day sear on his tombstone once his miserable life comes to an end. You’ll be there too, he knows it. His eyes lock on the flowered vase behind your head and which rests like a threat on the window sill. Begonias, he almost laughs aloud at the irony of it all.

When you leave, he expects to see that familiar smirk on his brother’s face but instead the expression is tight and not even a hint of guilty glee threads through his lips.

Your eyes glimmer when you embrace Alicent as tight as possible without cutting off her circulation. It’s been a month and four days and you still wake up with the sick feeling in your stomach before work. The dread that tears into your open wound because you can’t bring yourself to close it…not yet, it’s too soon. Instead you accept the sweet advances of your ex-boyfriend’s family. You move into Helaena’s apartment with her, you befriend her roommate and cousin, Baela. You start tutoring Daeron on the weekends. You even agree to meet Baela’s friends and go to the parties her girlfriend arranges every Friday. They mean well and so you agree. You want to feel better, you swear you do but everyone sees the look on your face when someone says his name. Part of you worries sometimes that he was a figment of your imagination at the sheer concern they express but you're moving on, you promise. Or at least trying to. It doesn’t feel enough because as always, you’re all or nothing. He liked that. Fuck, no. He doesn’t exist, just tell yourself he doesn’t exist. You take a deep breath and step out of the bathroom and into the blaring loud hallway. You jump when your head makes contact with a hard figure who struggles to keep liquid in his scarlet cup. The masculine voice chuckles and when you meet eyes, you remember why you came and give him a tight-lipped smile. “You enjoying the party?” CCregan Stark asks–the kind stoic boy in one of your uni classes. You lick your lips while taking in his dark curly hair and stubble, he brushes it out of his face awkwardly. You’ve replayed the story in your head a million times; his barber thought he said jaw instead of chin somehow so now it’s cut just a bit too short to comb behind his ears like he used to and prefers. You smile up at him but as you part your lips, he shakes his head softly. “You’re not, are you?” His playful voice rings in your ear.

Your laugh comes out forced but there all the same and nod reluctantly. “I hate it.” You answer, words spilling like leftover wine. He chuckles again and curses when his hand tilts his cup again. He steadies himself, rising back to his towering height. It almost feels weird that he’s not leaning over you, he’s like the empire state building or something. Your eyes lift up to his steel grey ones but they don’t sparkle like Aegon’s did. They don’t have the same warmth, he doesn’t give you flowers between classes, he doesn’t collapse on you in bed because he needs to know you’re still there, he doesn’t make false promises either though,…He doesn’t beg you to change your own mind about him no matter how many times you tell him you want him. “You okay?” Cregan asks, tongue darting to wet his cracked lips.You briefly recall the lip balm Aegon used to steal off of you at home–no. Not home. Not anymore. You look up at him, barely nodding with a jut of your chin. “Yeah. Perfect.” You let the poison slip over your tongue, the taste too bitter to ingest. It’s okay. So long as other people believe you then it’s alright. Cregan bites his lip and glances behind him then leans down to your ear. “You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.” Your face erupts in crimson embarrassment. He knows, of course he knows. You aren’t deaf to the whispers of class so why should he? “No one’s by the backdoor right now, I’ll pretend I gave you a ride home if you want to tell Baela. She’s worried but you don’t need me to tell you that.” He takes a sip of his cup and reluctantly you let out a suffocating breath.

You wish you could call Helaena. Instead you nod and thank Cregan quietly before sneaking outside and into the cold air but even that feels stale somehow. You feel sick. More sick than you’ve ever felt since seeing him in that stupid hospital bed, that stuffy room clutching you like a child does their barbie. When you finally stumble into your apartment again, it feels as empty as ever. Bare, stripped, motionless. You can almost trick yourself into thinking that it’s a photograph. In your mind you can pretend you’re on the sofa, the one that’s caked in memories and late-night conversations. “You’re so wonderful,” He had said the first time you visited, long before it had become your own. He had pressed soft, warm lips to each of your cold knuckles and grinned at the gentle laughter that poured between your own. You feel dizzy as you let your feet guide you through the door of your painfully new bedroom. You slip onto the covers, feeling too trapped to go beneath them. You don’t like this feeling, this loneliness. You want to feel those comforting arms again without the fear of waking up, of knowing what is awaiting you. It’s not healthy, you know that, but it still hurts.

Three months. You both wake up. You both lose your keys before letting them rattle between either palm. You both feel the dull ache when you turn around to call out a name you want to forget. Aegon swallows the words while you let them out with a mere breath. You both go to uni with a sour face. You’re walking through the lengthy hallway when you hear the collapse of the heaviest binder you’ve ever seen. Your head snaps up, expecting to see a first year or awkward collection of joking friends. Instead your eyes meet familiar watered pools of soft blue. His lips are tugging downward but his hair is styled and his sweater clean. He looks good. He looks like Aeg. You swallow but don’t lose eye contact and neither does he–binder forgotten. Neither of you move at first but then his hand twitches and instead of avoiding you like all the times before, he breaks out into a run and you eagerly meet his pace. His hands reach out, fingers spread and waiting to lock with yours, entangling once they do. They squeeze tight, refusing to let go as you breathe out in mutual relief. It’s been so long. Too long, too far, too much. Blood thumps loudly, hearts connecting. “Oh thank fuck.” Aegon chokes out. His breath stutters and he ruefully pulls away his finger to wrap one along your back and another in your hair. You look up at him, the students around you melting from your vision because nothing matters anymore now that you can see his rosy cheeks again. Your eyes roam his face. “You look good.” You whisper after about half an hour passes with him leaning against the wall with you head lost in his shoulder, your lips just barely ghosting his neck. He smiles but there’s a hardness in his face. Something beneath the irises of his eyes. “I wanted to be good for myself, for you, for my mum.” He says then gently shakes his head. “I didn’t want people to remember me like that, I want you to be happy when you see me.” He bites his lip then sighs. Your brows twitch and your hand carefully cups his face. “I just wanted you.” You respond, voice soft and lips curling. “I just want you to be happy…Are you?” Aegon swallows. “Mostly.” He whispers. His thumb runs over your palm. “I’m getting better but-” He wets his lips. “It’s hard. I’m gonna do it this time though, I promise.” He turns to press a chaste kiss to your palm and smiles. “Aemond’s been visiting.” Your brows shoot up. “Really?” He nods. “And he’s…?” “He’s actually helping.” He chuckles then breaks out into a grin. “Of course mum is, as well. She had to practically chain me down to get me to stop asking about you. Helaena’s sick of my shit by now.” He seems so much warmer now than he was before. He feels like Aeg. “Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Get this, I make tea now.” His stupid grin is like a beam of gold. “Tea!” Your giggles echo around the large now long-empty hallway.

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msfcatlover · 10 months

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OH BOY, GUESS WHO GOT CARRIED AWAY AGAIN!

Fuck it, I'm posting this one to AO3. It's self-contained and I'm proud of it.

For the record, ASL is Cass's primary (not body language) language in this. She uses her voice for emphasis, or for when people don't understand her signs and she wants to make sure they understand her (as long as it's cooperating. Words are hard sometimes.)

(Also, some sounds are just fun to say, but that's neither here nor there.)

----------------------

Dick doesn’t meet Cassandra Wayne until he’s been living with her for almost a year. He thought he did, because he’d seen so many different sides of Cass (lounging around the house in workout clothes, silent & terrifying by his side as Batman, the harsh teacher & the gentle sister, telling deadpan jokes that usually make Dick double-take before he nearly falls over laughing,) but he never met Bruce Wayne’s Daughter, Cassandra Wayne until the first time his school called her.

Fighting, of course. Because children are cruel, and Dick refuses to just lay down & take it. It’s worse now that Bruce is dead. Before, Dick was just Bruce’s latest acquisition in a long line of assorted foster children, and everyone knew he was there to stay. Now… Dick heard Duke arguing with his service worker to keep Dick at the manor, trying to convince her that Dick shouldn’t be moved to a different placement during such a traumatic time, that the manor & the people in it were still all vetted as a safe place for Dick, even if someone else needed to file for guardianship. Dick’s pretty sure the only reason he’s still sleeping in his own bed is the kind of publicity the Waynes could bring down if someone tried to take Dick away.

(The other kids know it too. Just like they know Bruce’s kids never asked to be saddled with Dick. Just like they know Dick is new, and difficult, and doesn’t belong. They’re happy to tell Dick about it, no matter how many times he shuts them up with his fists.)

Normally, it would be Duke who answered the call, since he’s the one most likely to be awake at any point during the day. Duke will walk in, all casual power & disarming snark, charm the secretaries, dance circles around the other parents, get Dick’s punishment lowered, and then take Dick out for ice cream. Sometimes it will be Damian, who comes in like an ice storm, fury painted across every line of his form, and who will spend at least 10min locked in the principal’s office yelling at people. After, Damian bundles Dick off to the car, and then just sits there with his forehead pressed against the wheel for a minute before even looking over. “Don’t repeat any of what I said in there, okay?” And Dick will agree, and then they’ll go to the park.

That’s what Dick’s expecting: one of his new "brothers," come to talk to the adults and get Dick out of trouble. He did not expect Miss Cassandra Wayne, in all her glory.

She opens the door like she’s disgusted she even has to touch it, pushing it away the second she can so that a soft open turns into a sudden bang. Her hair is slicked back from her face, product taming the usual messy fly-aways, giving a severity to her expression Dick’s never seen before. She’s wearing a suit with a tight pencil skirt that makes her normally loping stride into something short & clipped, amplified even more by a pair of silver stiletto heels so narrow you could probably stab someone with them. Dark lipstick draws attention to the annoyed press of her mouth, diamonds glitter at her ears & throat, and her eyeliner is sharp enough to kill a man. Dick hasn't seen her wear makeup since the funeral. He can't remember seeing her wear jewelry at all.

She doesn’t look at the principal. She walks right past them, past the parents & other children, to Dick in the far corner. Cassandra Wayne crouches down in front of him, her face softening. She lifts one hand to Dick’s cheek, wiping away a tear that isn’t there and brushing her thumb over an already blossoming bruise. With her other hand, she signs to Dick, asking if he’s okay.

Dick’s hands are shaking. If he lifts one to tell her he’s fine, everyone will see it. He nods stiffly instead.

Cassandra’s eyes narrow. “Who started it?” she asks Dick, still without opening her mouth.

What’s Dick supposed to say? He’s the one who threw the first punch. They deserved it. The things they said… Dick doesn’t know how to make people be better, but he can make them regret being shit. And it’s a lot harder to pronounce slurs with a split lip or bitten tongue.

Cass reads him. The shame in Dick’s shoulders, the still-simmering anger in his clenched fists & jaw, the fear in his small swallow & the way he won’t meet her eyes. When one of the others asks if they can get on with it, she sees Dick’s flinch and the way he fights not to curl in on himself, to not give them the satisfaction of seeing his misery.

“What did they say?” Cassandra asks Dick. He wouldn’t repeat it, even if he knew the signs.

“Some of us have work—“ one of the parents says, and Cassandra’s hand swings back, snapping shut in a “No” that you don’t have to know a single sign to understand; so fast & so sharp, it looks more like a closing mouth. (The parent does, in fact, shut his mouth.)

Cassandra brings her hand back around. “What do you need?”

Maybe Dick is going to cry. “I’m so tired,” he tells her, the hand movements tiny like a whisper, but his whole body sagging into the emotion. “I want to go home.”

Cassandra Wayne nods once and stands. She looks at the principal like he’s something she'll have to scrape off her shoe, and she's not looking forward to the experience.

“I don’t see what’s so complicated,” Cassandra Wayne says, voicing her words for the first time. “We have reported this bullying problem before. Many times. Too many times. My child should not be in this office twice a week because you—“ she points at the principal, “—can’t enforce your own rules.”

Several jaws drop around the room. (Dick's is very nearly one of them.)

“Mr. Grayson—“ the principal starts.

“Doesn’t mock his classmates for their grief or call their family slurs,” Cassandra Wayne cuts him off. “Anyone who can’t manage to enforce that basic level of dignity doesn’t deserve to be called a ‘teacher.’” Her eyes flick to the side, sizing up the other adults in the room. “Or ‘parent.’”

“My daughter has a black eye—“

“Richard has a fractured cheekbone. And a history of being verbally assaulted by the students at this school.” Cassandra Wayne tilts her head slightly. “If you want to make this a legal battle, go ahead. You won’t win.”

Spluttering. The parents appear to have forgotten English. Or any other language.

The principal stands. “There’s no need to bring lawyers into this. But we cannot have a violent child at this school.”

“Then you don’t.”

“What?”

Cassandra Wayne lifts her chin, somehow staring down her nose at a group of people who are all taller than her. “You don’t. Richard is no longer your concern. Focus on your bullying problem.” She holds out one hand towards Dick without looking. He scrambles out of his chair to grab on. “Other schools will be happy to have him as a student.”

“You can’t just—“

“I can.”

Cassandra Wayne turns her back on the principal and leads Dick out the door, parting the parents before her. Dick has to half-jog to keep up with her the whole way out of the building. Despite her speed, Cassandra never once tugs or pulls on Dick, and he’s gone faster for longer in training & patrol; by the time they reach the limo, Dick’s not even winded.

Cassandra Wayne opens the door for Dick, then follows him inside.

Cass half-flops onto the seat beside Dick, slamming the door behind her. “Bullshit!” she signs, blowing a raspberry at the same time. Dick giggles. Cass smiles at him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dick says, hand & voice at the same time. She knows already, but she still relaxes at the words.

“We should’ve pulled you out weeks ago. Those idiots!” Dick giggles again as Cass’s hand goes from gesturing at the school to thumping against her forehead.

“Probably,” Dick agrees with her. He kicks his feet. “Can you actually pull me out, though? Don’t you need Duke for that?”

“Duke will agree with me if he knows what’s good for him.” Cass huffs. “Anyway, we both signed the papers. You’re mine as much as his.” She looks very pleased with herself.

Warmth bubbles up inside Dick’s chest. “Oh. That’s good. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

Cass laughs. “We’re Waynes.” She finger-spells the name for emphasis.

Something about that, the casual inclusion, the ease with which she throws her name to him, cuts deep. Dick must show something, because suddenly Cass is turned towards him, facing Dick full-on so he can see her serious face. She speaks & signs at the same time, her voice slow & clear, hands measured & precise.

“Those people—" (She signs idiots again.) "—don't know our family. No one does. You're one of us, whether you take the name or not.”

Cass takes Dick’s hands in hers. “You’re my brother,” she says softly, earnest truth radiating from every part of her body. “We care about you.”

It’s a lot.

It’s too much.

Dick’s chest is doing something painful, Dick’s eyes are burning, and Dick can’t stop the tears from spilling out down his cheeks. Dick’s voice is stuck in his throat, his hands curl into inexpressive fists to uselessly wipe the tears away. He doesn’t know what to say—

Cass wraps her arms around Dick and pulls him onto her lap. She strokes his hair and shushes his sobs, ignoring the tears & snot ruining her best business suit.

(Cass isn’t quite sure if she’s said the right thing—tears can be good or bad, and Dick’s feeling so much right now—until she catches Alfred’s eye in the rear view mirror. He’s a little misty-eyed himself, and giving her the proudest smile she’s seen in years. Cass smiles back, then turns her attention back to Dick. It’s nice to know she’s on the right path.)

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marypsue · 7 months

Text

@mickeymagpie said: i thought you were making star and david 1880s murder siblings and mike the novelist they draw in

Since you mention it...

...

“Estelle,” Michael says, as he swirls the captivating, mysterious Englishwoman around the dancefloor. “Seems old-fashioned, for someone as young and as pretty as you are.”

Estelle, Lady Sharpe – is she due the title? If her father was a baronet? Michael’s not certain, but he’ll need to find out, if he intends to keep courting her – blushes a little at the compliment, turning her dark, liquid eyes from Michael’s face. But only for long enough to be appropriately modest before she catches his gaze again, looking up through dark lashes in a way that makes Michael catch his breath. “My brother calls me Star.”

The reminder makes Michael look up, scan the crowds around them for the baronet’s menacing presence, a smudge of dusty black against all the glitter and light of the McMichaels’ ball. There’s no doubt in Michael’s mind that Lord Sharpe is the only reason why his sister has not yet married.

“Star,” he says, deliberately, turning back to the woman in his arms. Focusing on the burning points where their bodies meet, the lit candle held precariously between their clasped hands. Testing the shape, the colour of the word on his tongue. Savouring its taste. “Yes, that suits you far better. Star.”

The way Star smiles up at him makes Michael feel a little dizzy, a little drunk. It’s a slow, languorous smile, her eyes catching the candlelight and sparkling with the light of a thousand of her namesake as they whirl through the dance so fast and smoothly that the flame they hold together barely even flickers.

So fast, so smoothly, that it almost feels like flying.

…

“Read it. You’ll thank us.”

Samuel looks down at the pamphlet the bookseller’s pushed into his chest, and then back up at the bookseller’s face. “You seem to have mistaken me for someone with an interest in penny dreadfuls.”

“Oh, you’ll find plenty to interest you in this one.”

Sam barely manages to suffocate a long-suffering sigh. He’s already regretting volunteering to run this errand for his grandfather. The trip into town, the temporary escape from the confines of the grounds, was certainly not worth this hassle. Nor, in his estimation, is the copy of the literary journal that his grandfather receives monthly. The old man never reads any of the books reviewed or discussed, anyway. Believes that reading the journal removes the necessity.

“You are the second Emerson son, aren’t you?” the bookseller continues, looking Sam up and down. It’s an insolent look, judgmental, especially coming from such a petty tradesman. Especially one who can’t be much older than Sam himself. Especially one with the dubious blessing of such a countenance. To say nothing of his attire.

It’s true that Sam’s family have had…difficulties, since the unexpected departure of his father for Italy without them. And that his mother’s faced some censure lately, been denied invitations, for entertaining Maxwell McMichael’s attentions while still legally a married woman. But still. Sam’s grandfather may never have been a true baron of industry, but he’s still well known and respected in Buffalo, if quickly gaining a reputation as something of…an eccentric. A reputation that Sam, unfortunately, can’t entirely deny he’s earned.

People will of course form their own thoughts, their own opinions, of his family. But they might at least make overtures toward refraining from so clearly revealing them to Sam’s face. Especially when asking for his custom in the same breath.

So, since the bookseller doesn’t bother trying to conceal his judgment, Sam doesn’t bother trying to conceal his irritation. “What is it to you if I am?”

“Your brother married that Englishwoman? The one who was here with her brother the Lord So-and-so for the last season?” The other man arranging stock on the bookshop’s cramped shelves answers Sam’s question with a question. He nods in the direction of the pamphlet his associate had pressed on Sam. “You want to read that.”

“I don’t think much of your sales tactics,” Sam says, looking down at the cover of the pamphlet. Varney the Vampire. Sensationalist, fantastical claptrap, just as he’d believed. He can’t imagine what possible bearing it might have on Michael, his new bride, and the Lord Sharpe. Or, if it did, what purpose it could possibly serve to have Sam, living an ocean and a continent away from his in-laws’ beloved Allerdale Hall, read the thing.

“For you,” the first bookseller says, “free of charge.”

Sam casts him a sharp look. “And the catch?”

“Your grandfather’s been a good and loyal customer of ours,” the second bookseller offers. “Take it for his sake.”

“Or for your poor lady mother’s,” the first bookseller agrees.

“You have some gall, to speak of my mother. Be grateful I don’t speak of yours.” Sam glances over to the woman slouched insensate on the shoulder of the man who must be her husband, a hookah pipe forgotten between them. “Although I’m certain there’s no need for me to add my voice to the chorus.”

The first bookseller holds out a hand to stop the second from advancing on Sam. He ignores the insult as though Sam hadn’t spoken, lowering his voice instead like a sepulchral warning. The boyishness of that voice mostly ruins the effect. “She’ll thank us, in the end. When your brother and his bride return from their European tour. You all will.”

Sam looks down again at the cheap woodcut illustration gracing the cover of the pamphlet. The skeletal form of a man, face distorted in a grotesque snarl, crouches bestially over a slender swooning lady. It’s nearly comical in its exaggeration.

Sam can’t quite account for the little chill that shivers through him.

“Oh, I’m quite certain my family will thank you,” he agrees, slowly. “For my grandfather’s literary journal. It has come in, has it not?”

The second bookseller makes a face as though he’d love to tell Sam off. But he retreats behind the counter and emerges with the desired journal.

When Sam leafs through it, in the carriage headed for home, careful not to dog-ear the cover in the way his grandfather hates, he’s unsurprised to find the vampire pamphlet with its grotesque cover slipped between the pages.

…

Not for the first time, Michael dreams of David.

The dream – though in truth, it might be better called a nightmare – is much like the others. Michael wakes, in dread, in fevered anticipation, his sweat chilled and tacky against his back beneath his nightshirt, the room black as pitch and freezing cold around him, the chimneys of this thrice-accursed hulk of a collapsing manor-house all wailing out their lost-soul song. He reaches for Star, for where she should be warm in the bed beside him. But the sheets are empty and cold.

And as his eyes adjust, as though coalescing from the shadows, he sees the baronet watching him, from the foot of the bed.

No words are ever exchanged between them. This vision of David has never once answered any of Michael’s entreaties, or, indeed, his screams. The most he’s done to acknowledge a word Michael’s said in any of these dreams is that low, self-satisfied chuckle at the few times Michael’s been naïve enough to try to utter threats.

No matter what Michael says, no matter what he does, the dream always ends the same way. Gloved hands pinning him effortlessly back against the bed. A solid, cold weight on his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. Clammy breath close against the sensitive skin of his exposed neck, raising the fine hairs below his nape and all along his arms, sending delirious thrills of quivering terror through every inch of his body.

Sharp teeth slicing effortlessly through his flesh.

When Michael wakes, heart pounding, a shout dying on his lips unheard, the fire in the grate is low, its ruddy embers casting the vast room in a hellish light. Shadows cluster thickly and in strange configurations around the little island of precarious safety formed by the bed.

Perhaps it’s only Michael’s imagination, or the caprices of the embers, that makes those shadows writhe like living things wracked in agonies of torment.

Michael pushes the coverlet back, shaking his head to try to clear it. The fog of sleep still lies heavily upon him, his heart still rabbit-quick in his chest. It had seemed such a good idea, at the time, to humour his new wife’s desire to share her ancestral home with him before she would be forced to part from it for a new continent. Now, though, he regrets ever setting foot within these moldering walls. The sooner they continue on to Paris, the sooner they continue their honeymoon tour, the better.

Preferably without Michael’s new brother-in-law haunting their every step.

Star lies peacefully slumbering with her chestnut curls spilled out across the pillow beside Michael. He reaches out a hand to clasp the ivory skin of her bare shoulder, reassure himself of its warmth and solidity.

But stops himself.

There are spots of something dark flecking the back of his hand. And his palm. And the snow-white cover of his pillow.

Star stirs, as Michael stares. “Mm. Michael? Are you all right?”

Michael doesn’t know.

He coughs, once, into his hand, and tastes blood, bright and metallic at the back of his throat.

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #crimson peak #this is mary's fic tag

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isfjmel-phleg · 1 month

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@inklings-challenge here's my contribution for today's prompt, "Chalk." This short story is set before Book 2, when Amarantha attended a day school near her home.

Solitary Sandpiper

As the last task of the day, Miss Brignsey had told Amarantha to copy the first three stanzas of “To a Solitary Sandpiper” from memory on the side blackboard. This she did, having practiced the poem all week until her father had begged her to recite it in the farthest corner of the house from his study because the poet’s style had infested his brain and he couldn’t write like himself anymore. The words were indeed beautiful, but being forced to cram them into her head so quickly had diminished their impact for Amarantha. She completed her task in her best curling handwriting, finishing off the last word with a long swooping line that somewhere along the way transformed into a delicate stick leg, suitable for wading. And before she knew it, another leg came along, and a whole oval body. No longer content to remain celebrated in word, the solitary sandpiper was manifesting in person on the blackboard in white chalk outlines as fast as Amarantha’s eager hand could glide.

She had spent longer than the schoolmistress deemed necessary gazing at the engraving of the sandpiper in her reader next to the poem during literature lessons, so she could recall the shape of the head, the way the beak tapered to a sharp point, the melancholy expression of the large white-rimmed eyes. Since the eyes were black, she simply sketched their outline in white and flecked a bit of a shine on them. Solitary sandpipers dressed in polka-dotted brown coats over pure white suits. Chalk didn’t come in brown. This sandpiper would have to be pink. A bit cheerful, perhaps, for such a solemn bird, but by now Amarantha understood her creation’s personality, and she felt that he would have one of those contradictory characters that insist on glittering like a peacock while sobbing in his soul.

With some yellow chalk, she outlined his feet and highlighted his beak, then added some gentle green lines for the water he was wading through. And after a few fussy little touches, she took a step back and surveyed the Solitary Sandpiper.

He wasn’t perfect—perhaps no drawing on a blackboard can be—but he was real somehow. She half-expected him to hop into the three-dimensional world and follow her home, where she would fill the bathtub for him for the night and introduce him to the river behind her house the next morning once he had gotten comfortable. She felt he would like it there. Perhaps he would be happy. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so solitary—at least, not whenever he didn’t choose to be.

She was in the middle of imagining untying her hair ribbon to use as a lead in bringing him home when there came a gasp behind her. Etha Wroot, who sat behind Amarantha during lessons, was staring at the Solitary Sandpiper with approval.

“He’s a dear!” she said. “But you’re going to have to erase him, you know. Miss Brigsney wouldn’t let you keep him up. She’ll say we need the blackboard for other things.”

Amarantha glowered at the eraser, wicked little instrument of death. “I won’t. I can’t.”

Etha shrugged and returned to her desk to retrieve her books. The school day was over.

As Amarantha left the room, she turned to let her gaze linger as long as possible on the Solitary Sandpiper, burning him into her brain. She could always draw him again, but he would never quite be the same bird. There would always be something about the original that she would never be able to capture again.

Silently she wished him goodbye, hoping he didn’t know he would be going to his demise before tomorrow, and headed home.

Everything went wrong the next morning. Amarantha slept too late and had to be awakened at nearly the last minute by her frantic father. The first pair of stockings she put on had holes, and it took her a few minutes to find new ones. Her fingers suddenly grew clumsy as she tried to button her frock in back. Her hair wouldn’t stay in plaits, she couldn’t find her satchel, and Mrs. Deffell had burned part of breakfast and left the rest sitting out long enough that by the time the tardy Amarantha got to it, it was cold. She ran halfway to school before realizing that she had forgotten her lunch pail at home and had to dash all the way back to fetch it. By the time she arrived at school, winded, exhausted, and cross, she was only a minute or two away from being late to the morning lesson.

She would have to return to that room and see the blackboard without the Solitary Sandpiper. And after the morning she had already had, she wasn’t certain she could bear it.

She had no choice. Ducking her head, she slipped in and darted to her desk. As she opened her satchel to take out her books, something caught the corner of her eye. Something colorful. Something pink.

There, on the side blackboard, as melancholy-cheerful as ever, remained her Solitary Sandpiper. Solitary no more, however. Surrounding him were an array of other birds, of all sorts and colors, amid nests and eggs and reeds and tree branches and flowers. Each new addition was the work of a different artist. None of them had the same level of skill, but the affection behind the work was unmistakable.

Puzzled, Amarantha turned to Etha Wroot and the other girls behind her. They beamed back. Their fingers still wore smudges of chalk dust.

“I see you’ve noticed our aviary, Miss Melbray,” said Miss Brigsney. “I had not intended an impromptu art assignment, but our young ladies showed such initiative that I will allow it. It can remain for the rest of the week. Now take out your readers and turn to page thirty-nine.”

#the chesterton challenge #The Blackberry Bushes #The Blackberry Bushes short stories #Solitary Sandpiper #my writing #Amarantha Melbray #the solitary sandpiper is a real species of bird #they are cute little guys #I stumbled across the name in a list of English birds while trying to name the poem Amarantha has to copy out #and thought it was quite poetic

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kndrules · 2 months

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What fashion types would Sector V have? Going beyond "core" type stuff. What would they feel most comfortable wearing? Bonus if it's for both causal and "going out"/fancy.

I definitely have thought about this a lot let's see

Nigel- Well, Nigel is weird because his canon clothing choices are baffling. But you gotta respect it. Shorts in the winter?? Sure. I think Nigel always leans towards looking "put together". Even his most casual outfits will have a clean, sharp quality to them. I definitely subscribe to the idea that he wears leather jackets as a teenager, but as he gets older his style becomes more like "library employee". Sweater vests and always an ironed pair of slacks. Cozy but classy sweaters.

Here's some examples from raverly cuz this is how my brain works now I guess

Another important point about what Nigel wears is that he converts to Judaism as an adult when he marries Lizzie. So throw in some cute fair-isle kippahs.

I always imagined Nigel prefers muted colors, of course leaning towards warmer palettes.

Nigel's formal and casual outfits definitely overlap, but we see in the show that he enjoys dressing black tie given the opportunity (though, notably with a bowtie, not a necktie haha). So in a very formal setting, he's breaking out the James Bond style suits.

Hoagie- I had to rethink the way I make Hoagie dress after my gender headcanons changed for her rather dramatically. But in high school, it's the same because she's not fully out yet. She relies on button down shirts with fun patterns and ironic graphic tees so that she doesn't have to spend much time thinking about what she's wearing, and during this time in particular, I imagine she had a somewhat emo-lite style going on (a lot of black in that waredrobe).

After she starts dressing in a way that's more comfortable for her, I like to draw her in loose, comfortable blouses. I think she still prefers pants over skirts so that she can move freely. And a comfortable pair of sneakers or loafers with added support is important.

This is again a circumstance where casual and formal outfits can overlap. I could see Hoagie not being very good with dressing very formal, preferring to be comfortable. I need to play around with all these ideas for her though.

Kuki- Big, oversized, comfy!!!!!! and CUTE!!!! She loves skirts and tights, not a huge fan of pants but will wear shorts if she has to (shorts with thick leggings underneath if it's cold out). She likes her clothes to be roomy for sensory reasons, and she loves to flap her long sleeves. Another sensory thing is texture- the clothes that touch her skin gotta be soft. I project a lot of my sensory particularities onto her, so she hates denim and any thin, plasticy feeling material. She won't wear something if it's not cute. Bright colors are preferred.

She loves dressing up as a teenager. Knee-length prom-style dresses with frills and glitter are fun!

As she grows up, she has to dress more refined. She still doesn't wear pants, preferring dress suits instead. She doesn't actually like wearing dress suits, but she has to for work. The second she gets home, the comfy clothes come on. There's always a little trace of her personality still on her work and formal clothes as an adult- a little hint of color or something.

Wally- This kid barely gets any new clothes through his adolescence. His sweatshirts and pants are all old, worn out, dirty and gross. This is partially because his parents can't afford much, but he's also resistant to change like that. He likes the clothes he has, they're comfortable and worn-in. He doesn't like the idea of new stuff. Wally likes oversized clothes, too. Baggy sweatshirts and baggy blue jeans. His jeans either have to be hemmed shorter by his mom or they get all muddy and ripped up at the bottom, because they're too long for him. He doesn't care about looking "good", he only cares about looking "like a boy" (based on his own definition of what that means).

Don't bother asking him to dress nice for a formal event. He's just gonna show up in one of these:

In med school and as a doctor, he has to conform to some degree. I've always had this ridiculous headcanon that in med school he starts wearing polo shirts with popped collars, like a classic douchebag. He starts caring about his clothes getting ruined, because clothes have become a status symbol thing to him, and also because he's not used to the idea of "just buying new ones". His clothes still stay comfortable as much as possible, though. He will wear jeans and a t-shirt any time he can. And of course, scrubs are a must. As an adult, he can get through a formal event, but only just barely. He will never know what he's doing in that regard.

Abby- She's a stud, this is so important to my version of her. Her style is kind of "butch-athletic", with relaxed jeans, big t-shirts, jerseys and jackets. And nice sneakers.

(images from pintrest)

(Note that unlike these images, Abby doesn't wear makeup)

A good real life style reference for Abby is the musician Syd

Abby also prefers to keep her hair in protective styles as much as possible, for ease. Since she can't keep her hair like that all the time, in-between styles she still keeps it gently out of the way.

Her style is always pretty casual, but it's easy to dress it up with smart blazers! As an adult, she leans towards casual-ish pants suits. Blazers with regular undershirts and relaxed slacks.

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assassinmidnight · 1 year

Text

Long time, no see!

N meets up with his long time crush after a few months of them being away.

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N x GN!Reader

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Warning: A few swear words, two people sucking at communication and emotion.

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“N!”

The young trainer turned around, looking across the crowded terminal, eyes searching for a familiar looking ponytail. It had been 3 months since he’d last seen them, they'd asked if he wanted to join but he wanted to give them a chance to see the world without having a man with a criminal record next to them. But now he’d see them again, hopefully he’d be able to convince them to travel again.

He turned around after he felt a poke on his back. “Long time no see,” they’re smile was just as radiant as he remembered. He took them in, the shorts and shirt had been replaced with a patterned dress, which had definitely been bought in Alola, the place they were coming back from, still the vest had stayed.

Gripping his arm they started walking, telling him everything they'd done in the past months, listening to them talking about it all, the beautiful architecture of Kalos and the lovely food they tasted in Alola. The historical monuments they researched in Hoenn and Johto, the strange people that were scattered around the world, telling them stories of old.

“Alola was definitely the best place to end my journey but my favourite place to visit was Sinnoh. I met with Cynthia again and she told me about some new finds they’d made in the past year, all from finding a grave. It was on the top of mount coronet hidden away behind a secret door, it had no name but all around it, it was amazing- N am I boring you?”

He shook his head, “No its just nice to see you again and hearing you talk about your adventures, did she let you see the grave?” he smiled and took a big sip from his coffee. They were seated at a coffee shop close to the terminal.

“Yes, it was amazing. The walls around it had writings etched into them, Cynthia is trying to decipher them right now, she managed to decipher what the words on the grave said but the name had withered away. “The Hero who fell from the sky” that's what it says. The ground around it had flowers blooming, despite it being hidden away from the light and the high altitude of its placement. There were some drawings too, a trainer, we assume its the hero, playing a flute and Arceus looking down on them.” They let out a big sigh, seemingly lost in the memories of it all. “Now what have you been doing N?” They smiled, looking expectantly at him. He felt blood rush up his cheeks, “I haven't done much, I’ve mostly been trying to get used to living like normal people, I got a small house in Anville Town and I’m still trying to find a job that suits me, right now I just do what people need from me. Helped Cheren by being a substitute teacher at the school a few weeks ago, he said that I did well,” he had avoided their eyes but when he met them they were just as sweet as always, glittering with awe.

“It sounds like you’ve done a lot, N. Could I come and see your house?” The look in their eyes, if N was correct, was complete and utter amazement and admiration. “Of course,” he smiled.

}Fancy time skip{

The trip to Anville Town went by smoothly despite the huge luggage Y/N had to carry everywhere. They didn’t mind it though, any time with N was a blessing, even if it was when they had to fight his adoptive father.

His house was small, only two rooms, the living room/kitchen and his bedroom. The decor however, is what made it truly N’s. The walls were covered in bookshelves and if there wasn't a bookshelf there was a small Pokemon bed with a toy in it, they looked handmade. His room only had one bed, his own but it was clear that Zourua was sleeping there too, the walls of his room had pictures and frames.

“Oh those are the postcards I sent you,” Y/N looked up at a wall close by the window in his room. It was postcards they’d sent him, most of them had a picture of themselves with something behind them. The Sinnoh one had a temple behind it, the Kanto one had them next to professor Oak and the Kalos one had the Lumiose city tower. Y/N’s smile dropped however when they looked at the postcard from Johto, it was the only one that wasn't a picture of them, it had been bought from a store in Ecruteak City, they hadn't thought about it when they bought it but looking at it now. It was a picture of the Ecruteak City theatre with the Kimono girls in front. It left a strange feeling in their belly, the thought that N had seen these girls, did he compare them to those dancers? Did he think they weren’t as pretty and elegant as the kimono girls?

“You miss Johto?” N’s question brought them back from their spiralling mind, it doesn't matter what N thinks of those dancers, because N would never consider them in that light.

“A little bit, the weather there was very nice and so were the people. I met someone I think you’d get along with, he’s also a loner,” they laughed, only slightly catching the muscles in his jaw tense. “His name is Silver, he used to be a bad person, especially towards his Pokemon but he changed,” Y/N looked over to N, who seemed irritated by the mention of a trainer who used to be bad to his Pokemon.

The two remained in silence, having moved back to the living room for more comfortable seating, until Y/N Xtransceiver rang. “Hi!! Y/N I heard you just came back, we need to meet up ASAP, how about tomorrow? I need to finish this paper for the Professor tonight, we can go to that little bar in Castelia, the one with the guitarist. Oh I gotta go now, see you tomorrow.” Bianca's voice rang out before the click that signalled hanging up came.

“Still the same Bianca,” they smiled. Looking over at N, who’d been watching them, noticing their attention he questioned “Are you meeting up with Cheren as well?” “No? I don’t think so, unless Bianca is planning a reunion. It would be nice to see him though, I got them both souvenirs- damn I forgot to give you yours.” They scrambled towards their suitcase, but they didn't open it, rather they opened their hand luggage. “I didn’t want it to get damaged,” they handed him a warped object, unwrapping it he saw what it was, a Zourua statue. It was made from wood and hadn’t been painted, “The seller said it would make a great gift for someone that you really care about,” blood rushed up their cheeks.

“I love it.”

#pokemon n x reader #natural harmonia gropius #n harmonia #pokemon #pokemon black and white #reader insert #gender nuetral reader #fluff

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multimilfs · 1 year

Text

Artemisia x Fem!Reader: Unspoken

Summary: Artemisia + 42 — “How have you survived this long by yourself?”

AO3

Prompts found here!

A/N: I love Artemisia but writing for her after such a long time was definitely a bit of a challenge. That being said, I hope I was able to capture her character well enough!

Full Ficmas List

Tag List: @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @multifandomfix @escapetodreamworld @evil-feather @elenaguarnieri @imtrashinflames @nonbinary-cryptid-baby

Warning(s): Blood, Minor Violence

“Miss, miss, what about this? A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman.”

A richly colored dress is shoved in your face and you reel back, only the hand on your back keeping you upright. The vendors are nothing if not eager this year.

You walk past without acknowledging him and he moves on to the next woman who seems naive enough to suit his tastes. The goods are of fine quality, but the prices are enough to make even you balk. Perhaps your Father wasn’t so remiss in sending you with a companion.

“Do you intend on making a purchase, Princess?” Artemisia asks slowly, “Or will we circle the market again?”

You thought being so close to the water would bring her comfort, but she’s been antsy all morning. The market on the east dock is hardly the worst place she’s accompanied you to and her behavior gives you pause.

“Impatient, Commander?”

“Those willing to do you harm can do so easier if you follow a predictable path.”

“That’s what you’re for.” You offer a pointed look.

Normally, you wouldn’t take so long at the market, but you’re looking for a gift; for your very own companion, coincidentally enough. She would be leaving again in a few moons and you wanted to send something with her.

Jewelry was off the table; she had no use for it and it would only serve as a hazard when she fought. You’d briefly considered a new sword, but knew she was too fond of her current weapons. Going down the weapons route, you decided a small, concealable dagger would serve her well. The problem was finding the right one.

Every weapon you’d seen this far was too ornate. The hilts were made of heavy material or inlaid with a dozen gems that’d impede the point of being concealed. You need something functional that you can adjust just enough to make personal while still serving her well.

“Be that as it may, we shouldn’t tempt them just because I’m capable of defending you.”

“Why not?” You grin, admiring a stall of delicate chains in gold and silver, “I thought you liked spilling blood.”

Artemisia says nothing.

You chuckle and shake your head.

Your eyes catch a stall with a large man hammering metal in the center of countless weapons. It lays tucked behind everything that glitters, simple and cold in its nature. This is your third time around the market and only now do you notice it; it’s the only stall not shouting to draw attention.

Drifting towards it, the stall runner perks up. His eyes trace over you with interest. You can feel Artemisia follow close behind. She’s hardly ever far.

“Ah, a woman of taste. Come, come, let’s see—“ He peruses his selection and holds one out to you, blade first, “Try this one.”

Raising a brow, you reach out, only to find your wrist gripped. Artemisia glares at the man while hissing in your ear, “How have you survived this long by yourself?”

You’re shoved roughly behind Artemisia’s form. She rips the blade from the vendor’s hands, not blinking at the blood it draws from her palm, and holds it out to you. Her eyes pierce the vendor and he seems to tremble where he stands.

Taking the dagger from her hands carefully, you turn it over, inspecting it. It’s beautifully crafted, with a simple hilt and sharp, but ultimately doesn’t stand out to you. There’s an inscription along the blade that you try to read. You fail, coming to realize it isn’t a language you know.

“Use it.”

You look up, trying to place the voice. Artemisia is still glaring at the vendor, while he looks at you, but neither of their lips are moving. Turning, you find no one behind you either.

“Did someone say something?” You ask softly.

Artemisia turns, frowning. She shakes her head. The vendor doesn’t acknowledge your question, only stares, like there’s an answer he can’t understand without you. It makes your skin crawl.

“Kill him.”

Neither of their lips move. But you hear the voice all the same.

You want to drop the dagger from your hands, but you can’t. Your fingers are wrapped around it and unmoving. It’s like your body is reacting independently of your mind, refusing to respond to basic commands, the desire and bloodlust so strong it feels like it’s all you have.

The vendor's eyes light up.

Every warning in your mind is going off. Something is very, very wrong here. But you step forward and turn the dagger blade out. You want to scream, but can’t open your mouth. All you can do is watch yourself pull back with the intent of burying it in his chest.

Artemisia grabs your wrist before it sinks into his skin. He hisses and spits a curse at her, but she only rips the blade out of your hands, throwing it down at his feet.

“Come on, Princess.” She says.

When you don’t budge, eyes glued on the dagger, she takes matters into her own hands. You’re hefted over her shoulder. The action breaks you from your trance, shock overwhelming you.

“Commander, put me down.” You demand. When she continues to weave through the crowds as if she doesn’t hear you, you growl, “Commander!”

The Commander puts you back on your feet and shoves you backwards into an alley. Grabbing a couple of scarves off of the last stall she can see, she wraps one around your head. She uses the other to wrap over her own hair. You stare wordlessly up at her.

You’re pushed into the shadows and she leans against a wall. Her eyes are focused on the main path.

“Where did you go?” Artemisia murmurs, “When you held that weapon?”

“I don’t know…” You admit.

Her gaze turns on you. It’s dark and sharp, “You were going to kill him.”

“I was. I wanted to, but it wasn’t… me.”

She nods as if she knew all of this already. You can see her mind working a mile a minute, all while keeping a hard eye trained on the path. Dozens of people pass by before she looks away.

“Why did you stop me?” You whisper.

“You didn’t want to kill him.” She says simply.

“But how could you know that?”

“I know you, Princess.”

Artemisia says it like it’s the most natural thing to admit. You’ve never met a soul the Commander bothered to know. It warms you from the inside and makes a smile bloom on your face.

You lean up and place a kiss on her cheek. She stares at you and though she doesn’t say anything, you can feel the confusion radiating from her. The simple truth is that like Artemisia has never bothered to know anyone, you’ve never had anyone bother to know you. You’re a stepping stone to your brother or father in the eyes of the court or people; but not to the Commander, it seems.

How odd.

How lovely.

“Kiss her,” Comes that voice again and you freeze, “Claim her.”

When you look into Artemisia’s eyes, something clicks. You smile and grip the edge of her garment to pull her closer. The unyielding armor beneath her dress grounds you, stabilizing your mind while your heart races.

“Artemisia.” You whisper.

“Princess?” Artemisia asks automatically.

“Will you kiss me?” You ask, “Will you claim me?”

There’s a spark of recognition in her dark eyes. Her hands come up to rest on the wall behind you, arms bracketing your head as she does just that; claiming your lips and body and heart without having to say a single word.

#artemisia #artemisia x reader #artemisia 300 #300: rise of an empire #300: rise of an empire imagine #300 x reader #artemisia imagine #wlw #wlw imagine #dec2022 #multimilfswritings #multimilfsficmas2022

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dotster001 · 2 years

Text

Enemies to Lovers part Seven out of however many it takes for my coworker to Love Vil

Summary: You go to an awards show with Vil.

A/N: the next one will be out in a couple days, and I'm excited to see what people think 😊

Chapters: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 8. 9. 10. Epilogue.

You had dressed up in the red outfit, promised Grim you would grab him snacks if there were any at the rewards event, and gone off to Vil's room for final makeup and hair touches.

He already looked fabulous in his suit, and his shimmering red makeup look went well with your outfit.

He did your makeup and hair, and pulled out his magic pen.

"I'm putting a glamour on you. The people who know you will recognize you, but everyone else won't. That way you can avoid paparazzi, even after being my plus one for a night," he said, as glitter rained down on her from his pen. You looked in the mirror. You couldn't see a difference, but then again, you recognized yourself, so it probably wouldn't work on you.

"There," he placed his hands on your shoulders, and looked at you through the mirror. "You look beautiful. The people are going to love you."

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead he patted your shoulders one more time, then held out his hand to help you up.

"Shall we?" He asked.

….

The first part of the event was constant photos and posing as you worked your way down the red carpet and into the venue. Luckily for you, Vil was able to answer any questions the paparazzi had, including a backstory for who you were and why you were there.

Eventually, you made it into the venue, where it was quieter except for various actors and nominees mingling.

Suddenly, a woman with silver hair, and a purple gown, was hugging Vil tightly.

"Claudia," he choked.

"Vil baby," she said as she pulled back, still holding onto his arms, giving him a flirty pout that made your stomach churn.

"You promised you'd consider that role I got for you." She said, drawing shapes on his arm with her pointer finger.

"I told you, Claudia, I'm not acting again until I get my degree," Vil made eye contact with you over Claudia's shoulder, but you had no idea how to save him.

"I know, but it's not fair that you always get to act with Neige, and you never act with me, it's starting to feel personal," she whined.

"Speak of the devil," Vil muttered, as Neige himself spotted them across the room.

"Vii! Claudia! Hi!" He said happily, hugging them both. "Claudia, congratulations on your nomination!"

You had finally come up with an excuse to save a now tense looking Vil.

"Uh, Vil, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to sit down, my feet are killing me."

"Of course!" He said rather loudly. "If you would both excuse me, I need to see to my plus one's needs." He said, pretending to press a kiss to the back of your hand. Even though it was fake, you still felt your face warm from it.

As you walked away, Vil whispered into your ear, "Thank you apple blossom, I owe you one."

"I'll hold you to it," you whispered back with a smug smile.

….

The rest of the event had gone off without a hitch. And now you were back at Vil's house, finishing your packing.

Vil had told you that you could keep the outfit, and anything else he had given you and Grim over the summer, so you were leaving with more than what you arrived with.

The night before you were to take a mirror back to NRC, you were walking around the house, making sure you had everything, when you saw Vil sitting on one of the balconies.

You stepped outside, and asked, "Mind if I join you?"

He nodded at you, and you took a seat in the chair next to him. After a couple moments of painful silence, you couldn't take it anymore.

"Are you excited for your internship?"

"Mhmm." He said, clearly not going to continue the thought. "Are you excited to be back at NRC?"

"Yeah." You said.

Another moment of painful silence. You were just about ready to spill your confused thoughts and feelings to him, when he turned to you, and said, "If you need more help with potions feel free to reach out to me. But I have total faith in your abilities. After all, I am an excellent tutor."

He gave you a playful grin, and you rolled your eyes in response.

"You're not that great a teacher. I would have figured it out eventually," you muttered.

"I'm sure you would have," he laughed. He stood up and stretched. Even his stretching was graceful. The moon lit his features as he turned to you with a melancholy expression.

"I'm leaving early in the morning, so in case I don't see you before you leave," he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, holding there for a second before pulling away, his lavender and vanilla scent remaining a second longer. "Thank you for taking care of me this summer. Make sure to take care of yourself this year, my apple blossom."

He left before you could gather your thoughts enough to respond.

….

That morning, Vil was in fact gone before you and Grim left. He had left you a snack bag by the mirror portal that had opened for you to go back to NRC.

Grim happily took the snack bag and rushed through the mirror, as you took one last look at Vil's house, before stepping through the portal yourself, saying a silent goodbye to summer, the house, and Vil.

....

Tag list- @stygianoir @shytastemakerthing @da-disappointment @iruiji

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit #twst vil

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justsleepyrune · 7 months

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@fallenlondonficswap @tales-from-the-neath

In which a tailor’s shop has dubious customer service and a child preaches the virtues of slugs. Did my best to capture Nyx’s personality.. Writing them was a lot of fun! For the group swap!

General rating | Éadaoin Blank, Nyx Darkhelm, Arlen Blank | 1369 words

The tailor’s apartment was a cramped little thing, nestled between a soup shop and a millinery, crouched low underneath Veilgarden’s eaves. It was two stories, one built atop the other, with shuttered windows carefully peering into the darkness. A faint light flickered.

Nyx Darkhelm stood in front of the shop, smoothing a fold of their suit. The amber hued light woven into the dreamlike linen glittered, casting a soft glow. Behind them, a hansom cab rattled, shuddering as it stumbled down the clumsily paved streets.

Their friend had recommended the place. Surely it couldn’t be too bad.

The fox took a deep breath, their ever perfect posture stiffening further, before they knocked twice on the blue painted door. It swung open, a girl watching them curiously. “It’s too early,” she said, eyes narrowed. “We aren’t open yet.”

Nyx paused. “I must have been misinformed, my apologies,” they muttered. They glanced about the streets, considering where it would be best to wait. “I wanted to get a gift for a friend.”

She waited for a long moment, studying them. She was young. An urchin? No. She was dressed far too nicely, stood far too tall to be an urchin, even if she leaned against the frame of the door as if she had an army to back her up, as if she had no reason to be afraid, despite the late hour. “Oh, fine,” she snorted, shaking her head. A dark curl had escaped from her arrangement of hair, a few stray pins trailing. She must have been midway through disassembly. “My father won’t mind opening a little early.”

She stepped away, beckoning them into the entry hall. Someone had been drawing on the walls, scribbling in a dizzying amount of fonts. Scraps of poetry or doodles on higher levels, a childish scribble on the lower, nearest to the floor. “Interesting choice, coming here,” she called, deftly stepping over a discarded dolly faceplanted on the floor, little ribbons wrapped around its arms a colorful contrast to its dark skin. “My father isn’t known for practicality.”

Nyx paused, already halfway down the hall, considering what Alisha would like. “It doesn’t have to be practical.” It likely should be. Still, they weren’t above pushing their friend a little.

She laughed. “Your loss or luck, I suppose.” She offered no further explanation. “What’s your name?”

“Darkhelm. Nyx Darkhelm. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss..?” They trailed off, waiting for a name. A flash of their teeth in a smile, sharp rows.

The girl laughed. “Marie-Suzanne. I stick with Suzy, typically. This way.” She pushed aside a curtain of purple fabric, streaked with orange like some distant memory of a sunset sky.

They stepped inside, nearly stumbling back when the curtain fell into their face again, but braving it despite. They grinned nervously, gleaming teeth showing. They stepped inside.

The tailor’s shop was sectioned off by more curtains, making a maze out of what could have been simplicity. Holes had been cut into the sides of scattered lanterns, allowing scattered light to slip out in strange shapes and shadows. A few strips of fabric lay half sewn on a table. A mannequin wrapped in a cape of arms stood amongst a pile of tiny painted blocks.

“I’ll go tell him you’re here,” Marie-Suzanne told them, already ducking behind a curtain of sharp blue. Her footsteps trailed away.

In an instant, they were abandoned.

Nyx hesitated, fidgeting with the golden rose on their lapel, tail swishing back and forth. Doubts were beginning to swirl in their mind. Still, they were nothing if not adventurous on occasion.

“A gift?” The voice came from behind another of the curtains. “Right, of course. I’ll need specifics, of course.” The man who emerged had a child on his hip, one with Naples yellow eyes and a pale blue bow in her curly hair. He set her down and she toddled forwards, eyes focused on Nyx. They weren’t sure who to look at, with the disdainful gaze of the man, the wide eyed scrutiny of the child.

Finally, they settled on the man. The tailor, they assumed, leaning on a dragon headed cane. Strange patches of rippled material trailed up his neck, down the arms exposed from his sheer sleeve. Almost reminiscent of glass.

“Nyx Darkhelm. I’m in the process of acquiring a gift for a friend.” Another grin, their tail flicking back and forth.

“Of course,” he smiled back. It was not a kind smile. “Call me Blank.”

The little girl stomped forward, reaching for Nyx. They froze, looking down at her. Without hesitation, she bumped her forehead into their leg, then looked up at them with a wide small-toothed smile. “Hello!”

They looked down at her, then back to Blank. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing, taking a seat beside the scrap covered table. “Er, hello,” they said, standing a bit stiffer.

The little girl blinked. “You’re fluffy,” she observed, with a peculiar brand of solemnity. Her little hands formed clumsy signs as she spoke, little gestures that they did not understand. “An’ your suit glows.”

“Ah, yes. It does.”

“That’s kinda nice.”

They nodded, considering. “Yes, I do find it quite nice.”

“You should wear some purple. I like purple. It’s the color of slugs Like Bijou! Bijou is yellow an’ purple an’ my best slug ever, but I gave him away because he wanted to go do more adventures. Now I don’t have a slug, but I do have a teeny tiny snake.” She took a breath and did not stop. “I think snakes are kind of good, but slugs are better. Slugs are all small and squishy, but snakes are too tricky and say mean things. Bijou didn’t say mean things. He said nice things. Slugs are always very nice, it’s in their,” a pause and a soft mumble as she sounded out the word, “in their nature.”

They tried to look back, think of if they had ever met a slug, one that was particularly purple or named Bijou. Nothing came to mind. “I see,” they said. They, in fact, were lying. “I am not purchasing anything for me, however.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it is a gift?” They glanced to Blank again. He made no movement to do much of anything, just watched his daughter. “A gift for someone else,” they thought it best to clarify.

The little girl thought about this, taking a seat on the ground and looking up at them, before nodding. “Okay.” Before they could open their mouth, continue their conversation with the tailor, she continued. “Do you have a name?”

“Ah, yes. Nyx.” They offered a shallow bow. Éadaoin did not bow back, just sat on the floor and began to pick her nose.

“I’m Éadaoin. Are you a fox?” Behind her, Blank’s faint smile grew, his gazer sharper than there was right for. They had the feeling they were being tested. They just didn’t know what they were being tested on.

“Ah. Yes, yes, I am.”

“Huh. Okay. I’m not a fox.” She squinted up at them.

“Yes, I could tell.”

“I like your flower. It’s shiny.”

“Ah. Thank you.”

Finally, Blank saw fit to cut in. “I think that our guest may wish to place their order before my scheduled client, little one.” He pulled himself up again, a few short gestures being directed towards Éadaoin before he offered Nyx a gloved hand to shake. His smile was genuine now, if no less sharp. In some way, they had passed. “We can discuss details, payment, and time restraints, of course. If it’s a fitted garment, I’ll need some sort of measurements. We have not technically opened yet, despite Suzy’s decision otherwise, so you have approximately a half hour until my client arrives.”

They took his hand, glancing down to the little girl who had already begun to lose interest, wrapping the pale blue ribbon that had sprung from her curls around her fingers in curving loops. “Wonderful,” they nodded. “I have nearly assembled an idea.”

“We’ll work together then, complete that thought,” Blank nodded. “I believe you’ll find that I am quite skilled in making simple ideas reality.” For some reason, they believed him.

#oc: blank #others ocs #fallen london fic swap #rune writes #does blank make every potential customer interact with his kids to judge whether they're worthy of taking on?#not In Court obviously but now he has a little more freedom to judge #i hope you enjoy!!!

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theboysfanfic · 1 year

Text

Red Roses Part 9

RED ROSES PART 9

Pairing: Homelander x Female reader : RED ROSES AU

Warnings: 18+ only. Sex, smut. Fluff.

Words: 1.4k

SUMMARY: Homelander flies you to Paris.

Author's Note: Change of POV again. It is what it is. This was written a while back and I had to post it.

Credit: Dividers by @firefly-graphics x. feedback/18+ banners by @maysdigitalarts

MASTERLIST | RED ROSES SERIES MASTERLIST🌹

Homelander is pulling you in with his megawatt smile. He takes off his gloves, his strong masculine hands are bathed in warm golden glow, he reaches out his arm to you. The backdrop magnificent, him on the edge of the plaza over looking the Eiffel tower in the night. ‘Come here’ he says. Poised and regal, shoulders back and golden hair swept back. He smiles softly as you approach him, taking slow steps and never leaving his face.

‘You know,’ he says with a slow rumble, ‘When you saw me, watched me that day, from my trailer’, he pauses to laugh look down then continues. ‘When you told me you were, well when I made you tell me,’ he smirks, ‘I was..before I even got to you.’ He draws you closer. ‘When I asked you, no, told you that your heartbeat is rising, I was just as turned on.’ ‘Oh like now?’ I tease and swipe over the front of his crotch, taking a few steps closer, feeling his erection appearing. He laughs. ‘Oh yea.’ He takes your hand in his. You shimmy up close backing up onto the his thigh. He slowly lifts his knee and places you on it. He’s cradling you on his thigh and holding you securely by your waist as he rises up in the air up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. You can almost reach out and touch the metal frame of the tower. Homelander slows and grips you on his knee, hovering, watching the sights. Pressing you closer for warmth. The lights of the Eiffel Tower glitter, spinning and sparkling as a clock strikes the hour. His cape swooshes in the wind, and you're both high enough not to be blinded. ‘How did I even find myself in the sky with you. I can’t believe it. How did we get here?’ he says. Homelander’s face is so angelic right now, the mix of awe and admiration he emanates looking at you. The Paris glitter bouncing and illuminating both of you. ‘I’m thankful you were ever in my trailer thinking dirty thoughts about me.’ ‘We must look so regal up here. You think they can see us?’ you ask. His hand snakes behind your neck, gently, firmly and his sparkling eyes don’t leave yours. ‘Oh they can, but they can’t see you like I can.’ His smile is almost frighteningly sweet. Teeth on display, ear to ear. ‘You, are my beautiful goddess.’ He says. Coming down to a soft smile but never taking his eyes off you. You lean your weight on his thigh as you’re sitting on him, sliding slightly over the fabric of his suit but wrapping your arm tighter around his shoulders. His eyes haven’t left yours yet. They never leave yours. You smile at his compliment, dipping your chin, maybe out of slight embarrassment. ‘What babe?’ he says. He is joyous, amused at your reaction. ‘Don’t you be like that. It’s the truth. Mine, my goddess.’ He lifts his chin in a superior way. You are wanting to rub yourself on his leg to get the friction you crave. Your eyes go sultry. He smirks, adjusts his leg higher to give you more balance. You lean up to his asymmetric lips, his smiling lips, delicious in the Paris sparkle, on this romantic night. The warmth of them is welcoming, what you need, but you also need that friction. You pull back from kissing him, he has that puppy dog mischievous smile on. ‘John can we..’ ‘Can we what?’ he asks in his deep voice. He’s teasing. ‘Hmm’? What do you want babe? I won’t know if you don’t tell me.’ He lets out a laugh, his perfect teeth shining. He angles his leg to help you. You slip against him, rubbing yourself on the top of his thigh. ‘Mhmm? What does my girl want?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘John, can we? Can we fuck here, I don’t care if anyone sees. I want you.‘ You re grip his shoulders and then look up at him. He is laughing, rubbing his nose over yours, eyes crinkling he whispers in your ear, ‘I can do whatever the fuck I want. And I can do you right here if you want me to, he strokes your hair obsessively. ‘Do you want me to?’ Another glisten in his eyes. ‘Ohh, he strokes the back of your neck smiling wide. Now you’ve changed your mind?’ He massages his fingers in your hair. You go against the grain of his short undercut, attaching to his lips, slipping just a bit more, writhing on his knee as he holds you firmly. ‘I want..’ You whimper. He winks at you and you’re done for. ‘But I don’t want my girl to be freezing her ass off, so, lets go.’

He wraps you tight in his arms, flies away from the Eiffel tower towards your hotel. Approaching a balcony with capital city views it’s the most romantic thing you have ever seen. He lands you right on the balcony, he strips the top of his suit then with his eyes on you, with a devastating look like he’s gonna kill, or fuck you senseless, gets a key from his suit and flings open the French balcony doors, an automatic light switches on, curtains billowing. He strips the suit from his hips, naked under it. Standing in profile in the golden light of the hotel, framed by the Paris night decked in Christmas spirit, Eiffel tower glimmering, Homelander’s ass is perfection and anyone looking in would see him slowly cornering you, trapping you onto the bed. You ride his thigh with your clothes off. He’s face to face with you, his nose on yours, his mouth open looking ravenous. ‘So. Do you want me to?’ He continues firmly, but asks the question slowly, drawing out the syllables. He grips his hand into the back of your head, pulling abruptly. ‘You’re mine and no one can have you’. He snaps. An anger in his voice not suited for a romantic night. But this is John. His teeth snap and grind. He pushes his naked skin to yours. You try to grab his perfect hair and he evades your reach, growling in response. He wraps you in his embrace nipping at your neck while telling you you're his over and over. ‘Mine.’ Scraping his teeth and when he lifts his head you see that feral look in his eyes, from under his brow. He tells you he’s going to fuck you like you wanted. Like his life depends on it. ‘It can’t be anyone else, only me. Tell me again how you want me. Tell me again. You want me, You need me. I could have ripped off your clothes out there and you would have let me, you want me that bad. It’s only me. And you.’ ‘John stop!’ Pushing up against him, wrapping your legs around him trying to pull him down on top of you, but he resists as he tells you again and again that you’re his favourite woman, his beautiful goddess, made for him and only him. And it’s daylight when you fall asleep. For hours you’ve felt his hands drag you down, his bodyweight pinning you and not letting you free. You wanted this. You told him you need him. ‘John..’ you begged. 'John I need you. John...now. John…stop!’ He’s forceful and broken. He wouldn’t stop claiming you as his, coaxing the words out of you as he battled with his own insecurity. Broken and unfolding. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted this. For you to be here. Thank you.’ He says in the morning light. His legs intertwined with yours, sheets sticking to skin, tangled up in him. You can see it in the change in his eyes. Unfolding, but when? And he’s gone without a moment’s notice. Do you dare bring up the doubt again? No he’s coming back. And just as you think, just as you might start to spiral, a knock on the door, silverware, a platter, a giant bouquet of red roses. Fresh. Sweetly scented. Magnificent. And then a folded letter: ‘To my Goddess, You will never go without. I couldn't tell you, I had to leave, but it’s all for you, you will understand. Wait for me. Yours, John.’

#homelander x reader #homelander fanfic #the boys fanfic #antony starr fanfic #homelander

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the-masked-ram · 10 months

Text

Reaching for the Ceiling- Chapter One

CW: nsfw, horror, food shortages, scifi, semi-public sex, slow burn, oc cross dresses --- Chapter One: Hands On Darkness surrounded him, black filled with dots of light and pockets of milky white, dancing just at his fingertips. When Daiki bent down, allowing his board to drift, he could drag his hand through the nebula that he cut his way through. If he stretched up, his hands knocked down the drifting clumps of shimmering motes onto his body.

The silver stardust glittered starkly against the black and red of his suit, surfing always covered him in the platinum powder. Not exactly the cleanest sport, but Star Surfing was what Aomine lived for. The shine of the stars, the light of the moon, and the bright gleam of his plasma board beneath his feet; it all reshaped his entire world in these moments.

The deafening silence stretched on, only when he shifted his foot against the pedal for the thrusters did any noise manage to cut through. His pulse filled his ears as he glided through the left-over waves of pressure from the star that had burst. It hadn’t been a violent explosion, ending up as nothing more than a practice run for agility and technique.

For now, it was just him and the infinite expanse of space. That is until the annoyed voice of Momoi crackled through his com device and shattered his peace.

“Daiki! You aren’t supposed to be out without a spotter right now!”

He felt the answering sigh to the tips of his toes, “Ugh, c’mon. I needed a damned break. It’s too noisy in the station.”

“Get back inside, now!” she screeched, and he grumbled as his heel pressed down to kick the thrusters back on and his hand rotated the sail to catch the wave of movement.

“So annoying,” he huffed.

He hadn’t even found a good place for a nap recently. With the station in an uproar about the coming sports festival, he’d been shit out of luck with finding quiet inside. So, he’d taken to his fall back plan, solace in space even if it meant putting in effort.

Swirls of purple and pink grasped at his body as he cut through a cloud of nebular material to reach the others faster. The colony station loomed before him, comprised of glittering loops of metal and dark windows. It was large enough to house thousands of people but currently only a few hundred lived in it and it was the only home Daiki had ever known.

Each time he came back it felt strange, almost suffocating as he stepped aboard the container that led to the air lock. He kicked his board into stasis, and paused, glancing over his shoulder as he left the only place that he felt truly complete. It would have been too easy to stay out, stay until hunger gnawed too strongly at him, until thirst made his throat dry like sand, but that was asking for death in the stars. So, he came back when the others called him.

As the airlock closed behind him and gravity came back on, Daiki felt the pain radiate through his knee and his shoulder. Drawing in a hiss and squinting against it, he forced himself to walk straight, keeping his stroll lazy and loose, normal. Momoi couldn’t know he had aggravated his injuries again. He’d get an earful otherwise.

When the door lock opened to let Daiki into the station. He tapped the button of his helmet to retract the visor, immediately regretting it as he got a full face of Momoi’s fury. Her voice taking on the typical whining tone that meant she was annoyed.

“Aomine I swear to God, you know you aren’t supposed to be putting unnecessary stress on your body!” she fussed.

He dug around in his locker and rose a brow at her over his shoulder, “So annoying.”

He began to change, each movement slow and precise, trying not to wince as his shoulder and knee screamed. Sadly, he stumbled while changing his pants and then of course thanks to his dumb luck, his leg gave out in the process. The jar of the impact snapped his teeth together and cut into the soft skin of inner lip. A splash of iron burst against his tongue and he glared at the textured metal sheets beneath him, as if it was at fault for his poor decisions and failing body.

“Shit,” he growled.

“Daiki!” immediately the fear encroached on Momoi’s voice and the lecture ended.

He snarled, throwing out a hand to stop her from touching him, “I’m fine.”

He was lying, his teeth gritted harshly against each other as his knee screamed from the searing pain. With muscles jumping and twitching, Aomine had no hope of standing on his own.

“I’m going to get the doctor,” she whispered, fists pressed against her mouth.

He didn’t argue, he couldn’t in fear of biting his own tongue when a shock of agony traveled up his leg again. His hand scrabbled futilely against the titanium coating on the ground, and he groaned, a sound he felt tremble deep in the bones of his chest. Eventually his body gave out completely and he fell to the side, against the bench, gasping in shock when his shoulder took the brunt of the force.

“Well damn, today sucks,” he choked out.

At least he was finally going to get a nap, he mused as darkness flickered at the edge of his vision. ---- When he came to there was light flashing insistently in his eyes and something tapping his cheek. Daiki never wanted to bite something more in his life. Instead, he narrowed his gaze and let everything shift back into focus. A wisp of a thing sat in front of him, all sweet faced and brow furrowed with concern. Their body was tiny, short in stature and nothing quite leaning one gender or the other.

“Can ya stop with the light already, fuck,” he snarled, lifting a heavy hand to push away the glaring white blob in his face.

“Sorry,” she said, tucking the pen light away. “Had to check you pupils, concussions and all that jazz. Can you tell me your name? What Station you are on?”

She blinked slowly, and Aomine sighed as he shifted his weight, “Aomine Daiki, Station number 112 of the Helix group.”

She tilted her head, “Hm ok, seems like most everything is in working order cognitively.”

“Question is why are you here? You’re not the doc I usually see,” Aomine’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

The smile that spread across her face was bright, “I’m just helping give the physicals to all the competitors, I happened to be free when Momoi came in. Name’s Astin Messere, nice to meet you. Now do you think you can walk, or do you need some help getting to the infirmary?”

Daiki balked, “Why do I need to go to the infirmary?”

Momoi piped up then as the doctor sat back, “Because you passed out? And seem to be in pain.”

“Nah I’m fi- Ow what the fuck!” Aomine twisted in away from the probing fingers of Astin as she frowned deeper and shook her head.

“Infirmary, now,” even with the way her voice dropped and the annoyance clearly in her eyes, Aomine had ever desire to stick out his tongue. --- @crowned-peony

----

If you want early access or special privileges to my original works check out my patreon: Link

#aomine x fem oc #afab oc #fanfiction #knb #kuroko no basket

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des-lune · 2 years

Text

Pairing: Xyx(Bloomic) x MC (fem) reader

Word Count: 1569ish

Warnings: Death, the resurgence of my Vocaloid phase, and my incompetence at royal hierarchies.

AN: The last time I wrote fanfic was in highschool so please forgive me if I am a bit rusty. This is for the robo is bored raffle. <3

The clicking of the heels of his shoes matched the rhythm of the clock. As the clock ticked, each second got closer to midnight. Just as he reached the top of the palace staircase, the clock chimed, booming with a quiet authority over its inhabitants. His heartbeat slowed to match it as he formally greeted the man who introduced the guests. A fellow member of the resistance, they nodded in mutual understanding as Xyx paused to be properly “introduced” to his fellow members of high society.

“Announcing Duke Avery of Cendrillon.”

Tick, tock, tick, tock

His eyes strayed to the floor of the ballroom and met the crowned princess's tender yet distant gaze as his mask started to slip off the bridge of his nose. He stopped to push it up further. He saw her face soften as he turned in embarrassment.

His breath caught, but just as quickly as it left him, he regained control and moved toward the dance floor.

The ballroom lights held an eerie, dreamlike quality to them. Each marble column, an imposing giant. Not unlike the ones in the fairytales he would hear the worried mothers of the village recite to their children. The palace served as a somber reminder of how detached the royal family had become to the needs of their people. The sparkling diamonds embedded into the walls with precious metals, the likes of which he had never envisioned, not even in his wildest dreams. Such disregard only strengthened his resolve as he moved deeper into the heart of the ballroom.

Tick, tock, tick, tock

He looked among the crowd at the bottom of the steps once again in an attempt to find her. She, however, was nowhere to be found. Xyx continued to look for her from the sides while dancing with a few other partygoers, including a tall mage with pink hair who served as her father’s most trusted advisor.

He stopped for a moment to rest when he heard raucous laughter coming from the entrance to the gardens. Once more, his green eyes caught hers. She was standing with NightOwl, crowned prince of Nocternia, a neighboring kingdom. Trailing behind them was her guard. An imposing knight whose past was shrouded in mystery yet entrusted with her safety. Her eyes softened as she saw Xyx walk closer towards her.

Nightowl immediately noticed the tension between the two and gave Quest, who was tense from Xyx's arrival, a knowing glance.

“Excuse me, your royal highness. May I have this dance?” He extended a gloved hand in her direction. He smiled softly. NightOwl gave her a little nudge as she curtsied, her face flushed.

“Yes, you may… sir….?”

“Xyx. My name is Xyx.” She nodded in response as she placed her own hand in his.

The orchestra started to play a lively tune almost immediately, which allowed the couple to blend in with the crowd without drawing too much attention. The pair started dancing to the music.

Her dress glittered like the palace she resided in. Yet unlike the palace her eyes remained dull and glassy. Like a…

“Doll?”

Tick, tock, tick, tock

“What?” She looked at him confused.

“It’s just ‘your highness’ doesn't really suit you.” He says fighting the urge to turn and run.”You don’t fit in with all this pomp and circumstance.” She seems less offended and more melancholic by his sudden declaration.

“How about tonight we forego the titles?” She suggests, her grip softens as they continue to sway to the music. Once more Xyx tenses before staring down at her warmly. His tight grin relaxes into a genuine smile.

“I’d like that,” He says, twirling her once more to the music. Yet the blade stowed away in his jacket told another story.

As she stopped dancing, the crown on top of her head started to fall. Xyx grabbed it with a flourish and placed it gently on top of her head before it could hit the ground. Endeared by the act she moved closer to him. Placing her head on his chest she listened. Hearing the steady yet rapid beating of his heart beneath her.

The pianist started to perform their song as the orchestra's melody started to fade.

Tick, tock, tick tock.

“You seem troubled.” She says in a hushed whisper. “Do you want to stop and talk about it?”

The way she asks him made him want to spill all of his secrets to her, it makes him want to abandon his mission and bare his heart as if she alone could solve the ache in his heart. But the very idea made him shake his head in disbelief.

“It’s nothing to trouble yourself with your highness.”

“I thought we agreed to drop the titles.”

“My mistake. But if I may ask. Why are you so insistent that we drop our titles?”

“Perhaps it’s for the same reason you reject yours, Lord Avery.” She says as she seizes the opportunity to gain the upper hand and spins him into a dip.

His face flushed. In that instant it dawned on him, he had completely forgotten about his cover story. He slipped up and she knew it. He can only stare slack jawed at her as he catches a glimpse at the time.

11:51.

His mind begins to race as he looks everywhere for a way to escape. The words thundering in his mind once again.

“By midnight tomorrow night. You must take this blade and plunge it into the heart of the princess.” The command echoed in his mind like a chant. The spell would carry out regardless of whether or not he was in control. But maybe. Just maybe he could prevent it.

Tick, tock. Tick tock.

He turned to leave, fighting back tears as struggled to look her in the eyes.

11.52

“Let me go.”

“What’s wrong?” Her face panicked at the tears forming in his eyes.

“I have to go. Please.” She took her gloved hand and wiped away his tears.

“Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Tick, tock.

11: 55

He felt vulnerable under her gaze. For a moment time seemed to stop as she held his face in her hands. Concern draped over her features like a veil. She looks like a bride.

Tick, tock.

He wonders if in a different life would they have been together? Would they have met in a better time, unburdened by life’s problems? Would she have comforted him in the same way? Would he have opened up in that life or would he have allowed her to slip away like the tears that escaped his eyes?

Tick, tock.

He doesn’t know. But all that he does know is that in that moment, he’d never felt more vulnerable yet more guarded.

He doesn’t remember picking up the knife. He does remember the shout of the guard that was with her earlier in the night, who’s watchful gaze remained on her throughout the night. He sees the prince drop his glass of champagne all over the ornate floors. He sees the blade pierce her tender flesh as she slumped to the ground.

12:00

The screams of the attendees sent the palace into a frenzy. Just as soon as he did it, he felt all his senses return to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He says, clutching to the princess in desperation. He tears the sash of the uniform he was wearing, pressing it down on her open wound. Desperately trying to stop the bleeding. But to no avail.

“Shh. Shhh it’s ok. It’s alright Xyx. Please don’t cry.” Her once dull eyes began to brighten with a warm glow. A sharp contrast to the frozen gaze she had mere hours prior. How cruel was it that he only saw this warmth as her life was fading away.

She once again took his face into her hands. She wiped every tear to no avail, as the tears kept flowing she could do nothing to stop them or help them subside. Her murmurs grew softer until they ceased completely.

Xyx felt her hand drop from his face with a silent thud. Cradling her cold form in his arms he buried his face into her shoulders as he wept. He heard the solemn steps of someone outside his field of vision before his world went dark.

Xyx woke up with a start. He heard the sounds of music from the living room. He groggily groaned and forced himself out of bed, slipping on a pair of crocs.

“How long have you been playing that game?” He asked, leaning against the door frame.

“But xyx… honey. I’m —this— close to getting a perfect score on this song. It’s only been like four hours.” She says gesturing towards the tv screen with her controller. On the tv screen is the song Cendrillion, a quick glance reveals that the level is set to easy.

He rolls his eyes before looking at the state of the living room. On the nightstand where her can of yellow edition red bull is, is also a cd being used as a makeshift coaster for said redbull and a denim shirt. It goes perfectly with the photo from the skydiving trip they took over the summer. He strides over to the couch before gesturing towards the controller.

She hands it over to him as he plops down onto the couch.

“Here, let me show you how it's done.”

#robo is bored #blooming panic #bloomic #bp xyx

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