#I will be richer than any men in my house without their help

[queendynamight2001]

Something broke inside a 12 year old me when i had to beg to be in scouts but my family refused because I was a girl but my 2 brothers getting enrolled immediately even when they didn't even know what that is because 'boys should participate in such activity'. Fast forward to today, I'm 21 years old. I have been begging to get involved in my dad's family business. He doesn't want me to join so i get ignored alot, but he keeps on insisting my little brother to join and take care of the business cause he is the future handler even when he doesn't want to. 🫡

[kckt88]

Imzadi IV

Summary:

The Lord of the seven Kingdoms arrive in Kings Landing and the heir to the Iron Throne is chosen.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Jealousy, Language, Marriage, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Oral Sex, Fingering, P in V, Knotting, Abandonment.

AEMOND x O.C NIECE

ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA DYNAMIC

Word Count: 5400

A.N - 'Imzadi - Beloved'

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @zenka69 @aemondsbabygirl @aphroditesblunt @iamtoriasworld @persephonerinyes

Aemond leaned against the stone railing of the balcony, his single eye narrowed in displeasure.

His fingers gripped the cold stone tightly, the tension in his jaw so severe it ached. His gaze never wavered from the pair walking among the carefully tended hedges and blooming flowers—Lucaera and him.

Cregan Stark.

The Lord of Winterfell had arrived earlier that day, having made the long journey south for the Great Council set to take place in two days’ time. He had barely stepped foot inside the Red Keep before requesting an audience with Lucaera.

No doubt the northern Alpha was curious about the only Omega of House Targaryen, since Queen Rhaenys, or perhaps the notoriously honourable Lord Stark had heard the whispers that spread like wildfire through the realm.

Lucaera Targaryen. Presented, mated and married. In that order. To him.

Perhaps Cregan simply wished to hear the truth of it from Lucaera herself rather than entertain idle gossip.

But Aemond’s Alpha Prime did not care for reason. It did not care for the diplomacy of men.

It cared only for her.

And it did not like the way that northern dog stood so close to his Omega.

Aemond had always been possessive of Lucaera, but over the past few days, his instincts had sharpened, his protective nature becoming nearly unbearable.

Her scent—apples and cinnamon—had drawn him in, but now, it consumed him.

It was stronger, richer. And this morning, as he had buried his face against her neck, pressing a kiss to her soft skin, he had caught something new.

The faintest trace of milk. His Omega was carrying his pup.

The realization had sent a deep, primal satisfaction curling through his chest. He had pupped her. His sweet Omega. His mate. His wife.

And now, she was down there, standing too close to him.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, his fingers tightening against the stone. The desire to swoop down there, to pull her into his arms, to make it clear to the northern lord that she belonged to him, burned like dragon fire beneath his skin.

A voice beside him broke his dark thoughts.

“You clench your jaw any harder, brother, and you’ll break your teeth.”

Aemond growled, his eye never leaving Lucaera.

Aegon leaned lazily against the railing, peering down with mild amusement before laughing.

“Ahh, so that’s why you’re so agitated.”

Aemond said nothing. His mood only darkened as Cregan spoke again, his deep voice carrying in the still afternoon air.

Lucaera tilted her head, listening intently, offering the Lord of Winterfell a polite smile.

Aemond’s blood boiled.

“I cannot help it,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I do not like another Alpha so close to her.”

Aegon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, brother. They’re just talking.”

Aemond growled again, his unease festering like an open wound.

Aegon, wisely choosing to shift the conversation, let out a dramatic sigh. “I see our dear uncle, half-sister, and her whelps have yet to make an appearance.”

Aemond smirked, his tone edged with cold satisfaction. “Good. The less time I spend around her and her brood of Strong bastards, the better.”

Aegon huffed a laugh. “You do realize who you’re married to, right?”

Aemond turned his sharp gaze on him, growling. “I know very well who I married too but she’sdifferent-”

“Because she’s an omega?”

“No.” Aemond’s voice was quiet, but there was something dangerous about it. “She’s different because she never teased me. She never laughed at me. She never made me feel inferior for not having a dragon. And she never gave me a pig.”

Aegon’s smirk faltered. He shifted uncomfortably beside him. “You know that was just a joke, right?”

Aemond rounded on him, his eye blazing. “Some jokes are not funny.”

Aegon raised his hands slightly in a placating gesture, but Aemond was far from finished.

“You were my older brother,” he snarled. “You were supposed to protect me. And yet, you humiliated me. Do you have any idea how much that hurt?”

Aegon’s expression flickered with something almost foreign—guilt. “I’m sorry, brother,” he muttered. “I didn’t realize how deeply it affected you.”

Aemond scoffed. “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy drowning yourself in wine and whores.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened. “I tried to include you,” he said, his tone laced with something defensive. “I took you to—”

“Don’t mention that place-” Aemond’s voice was sharp as steel, his eye flashing with something dangerous.

Aegon sighed, shaking his head. “Easy, brother”

But Aemond was already turning back toward the gardens—only to find that Lucaera was no longer focused on Cregan.

She was looking up at him.

Her gaze was filled with concern, no doubt having felt his anger—his sadness—through the bond.

Aemond’s chest tightened. He couldn’t stand to be near his brother a moment longer.

With a sharp breath, he turned on his heel and stormed away from the balcony, leaving Aegon standing alone.

Aemond stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, his boots striking hard against the stone floor, his long strides fuelled by barely contained rage.

 He couldn’t stay within these suffocating walls a moment longer, not when every fibre of his being screamed at him to beat the living shit out of Aegon.

The moment he stepped into the courtyard, he spotted a nearby stable hand saddling a black destrier.

Without a word, he seized the reins, ignoring the startled yelp from the boy.

“OPEN THE GATES” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the courtyard.

The guards hesitated only for a moment before rushing to obey, knowing better than to question the prince in his current state. Aemond swung himself into the saddle, yanking at the reins, and with a sharp kick, the horse took off at a gallop.

Wind whipped through his silver hair as he thundered through the city streets, the sounds of King’s Landing fading behind him as he pushed the horse toward the open fields.

The great she-dragon lay curled upon herself, her massive form rising and falling with each deep breath.

Even at rest, she was an awe-inspiring sight, the last remnant of the Conqueror’s time. Aemond dismounted the horse without ceremony, his boots hitting the earth as he strode towards her.

Curled up near her immense bulk, like a great bronze mountain, lay Vermithor.

Aemond slowed his approach slightly, watching as Vermithor’s molten-gold eyes cracked open, regarding him with mild curiosity.

For a moment, his wife’s dragon held his gaze, his chest rumbling.

But then, with a lazy yawn, Vermithor stretched his massive bronze wings before tucking them back against his body, exhaling a deep breath of hot air before settling back into sleep.

Then as he reached Vhagar, Aemond began his climb up the rope ladder, with practiced ease,  his hands steady despite the storm within him.

The moment he settled into the saddle, he commanded, “Sōves.” (Fly).

Vhagar let out a thunderous growl, her massive body shifting as she lumbered forward. Then, with a mighty leap, she opened her colossal wings and surged into the sky.

The force of take-off pressed Aemond against the saddle, but he welcomed it. As they ascended higher and higher, slicing through the clouds, he felt his pulse steady—but the fire in his veins remained.

Vhagar, attuned to his moods as always, snapped at a passing flock of birds, scattering them in all directions.

"Lykirī, uēpa riña" he murmured, running a gloved hand over the thick leather reins (Be calm, old girl).

Vhagar let out a deep huff but obeyed, levelling out as she glided effortlessly through the clouds.

Aemond exhaled, the cool air biting at his face. Maybe flying while angry wasn’t the best idea, but he had needed to get away.

He was the dutiful prince. Rider of the mighty Vhagar and Alpha Prime.

His father barely acknowledged his existence, lost in his favouritism to Rhaenyra. His mother tried, but often, she felt more like a woman he had grown up with rather than a mother who had nurtured him.

Aegon was a drunken whoremonger.

Helaena, sweet, dreamy Helaena. Sometimes, Aemond thought she had been born into the wrong family. There was something too soft about her, too untouched by the fire and blood that ran through their veins.

And Daeron—his youngest brother was a stranger. Sent away to Oldtown so young, gone as if he had never existed. Now he was only spoken of or seen when it was convenient.

Aemond exhaled heavily, shaking his head. His mind drifted to Lucaera.

His mate.

His heart stuttered, warmth flooding through his chest at the mere thought of her.

Vhagar trilled, a soft, almost affectionate sound, as if she sensed the shift in his emotions. A stark contrast to her earlier aggression.

Lucaera was the light in his dark world. The piece of his heart he never knew was missing until the moment they had mated.

He had never truly understood love. Never known it. But he was sure now—this warmth, this fluttering in his chest whenever she smiled at him, the peace that settled over him when she kissed him—this was love.

She was his last thought before sleep and his first upon waking.

Aemond allowed himself a small smile, only for it to disappear just as quickly when a realization struck him.

He had stormed out of the Red Keep in a blind fury and left his Omega behind.

In the company of another Alpha.

His Alpha Prime growled at his foolishness.

With a firm tug on the reins, Aemond commanded, “Ivestragī's bartos arlī” (Let’s head back).

Vhagar let out a low grumble but obeyed, banking left to turn back towards King’s Landing.

As they soared over Blackwater Bay, Vhagar suddenly growled again, her attention locked on something below. Aemond followed her gaze and felt his stomach tighten.

A lone galleon cut through the dark waves, its sails adorned with the red-and-black sigil of House Targaryen.

Aemond’s lips curled into a sneer.

Rhaenyra. Daemon and her bastard whelps.

He had known they were coming for the Great Council, but seeing their ship sent a fresh wave of rage through him.

How easy it would be. One command, one word, and Vhagar would bathe the ship in dragon fire.

A simple solution to rid himself of the ones who had mocked him, belittled him, and abandoned his sweet Lucaera, leaving her devastated.

Vhagar let out another growl, her massive wings flexing as she felt his anger.

Aemond closed his eye, taking a slow breath through his nose.

No.

He could not hurt his wife like that.

Even if they deserved it.

He forced himself to turn away, pulling on the reins to direct Vhagar elsewhere.

He would not let his anger make a kinslayer out of him.

Aemond strode through the halls of the Red Keep, his long strides filled with purpose as he made his way back to their chambers. The flight with Vhagar had helped him clear his mind, but his thoughts still burned with frustration over Aegon being complete twat and the looming decision of the Great Council.

But more than anything, he wanted to see Lucaera.

Upon his return, Aemond immediately noted that she was no longer in the gardens with Cregan Stark.

Instead, she sat curled in an armchair by the fire, a book resting in her hands, the warm glow of the flames illuminating her delicate features. His tension lessened at the sight of her, something inside him settling.

She was here. She was safe.

Hearing the door shut behind him, Lucaera looked up, her book instantly forgotten as she rose to her feet. She crossed the room swiftly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders without hesitation.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly, her concern evident as she held him close.

Aemond let out a quiet sigh, leaning into her embrace. “I went flying with Vhagar.”

Lucaera cupped his face, her touch gentle as her thumb traced his scar. “I was worried.”

Aemond turned his face into her palm, pressing a lingering kiss there before murmuring, “I was angry with Aegon. I just needed to clear my head.”

She nodded in understanding, then buried her face against his chest, inhaling his familiar scent of leather and ash. Aemond wrapped his arms around her, grounding himself in her warmth, in her presence.

They stood like that for a long moment, neither speaking, simply existing in each other’s embrace.

After a while, Aemond exhaled and asked, “So, what did you and Lord Stark talk about?”

Lucaera lifted her head, her expression composed but thoughtful. “He was enquiring about my well-being.”

Aemond furrowed his brow, pulling back slightly to look at her properly. “Why would he feel the need to do that?”

Lucaera took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. “It appears my mother or Daemon, for that matter, has been trying to sway some of the lords to their side by telling them that you mated with me against my will.”

Aemond stiffened, his entire body going rigid as fury ignited in his veins. His jaw clenched, his eye dark with rage. “They what?!” His voice thundered through the room, filled with barely restrained fury.

Lucaera whined softly at the sharp scent of his anger, the distress in her sound immediately pulling Aemond back from the edge of his wrath.

Sensing her unease, he tightened his grip around her, his hands rubbing soothing circles against her back as he fought to calm himself.

“I assured Cregan that our mating was entirely of my own free will,” Lucaera murmured, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “I told him that you treat me well, and I feel safe with you as my Alpha.”

Aemond closed his eye, inhaling deeply before releasing a slow breath. He had expected opposition, but to go as far as to claim he had forced her it was beyond contempt.

When he opened his eye again, his gaze remained sharp, his voice quieter but no less intense. “What else did Stark say?”

“He apologized for his eagerness in wanting an audience with me,” Lucaera replied. “But he had to know the truth before casting his vote.”

Aemond sighed heavily. “I knew this wasn’t going to be straightforward, but actually going as far as to spread that lie is beyond the pale.”

Lucaera nodded. “It’s desperation. They know there’s a good chance you will emerge victorious in the vote, and they are trying to sabotage it.”

Aemond scoffed, running a hand through his silver hair. “Makes you wonder who else they’ve spun their lies to.”

“I know it’s frustrating,” Lucaera said gently, “But have faith that the lords will vote in your favor.”

Aemond studied her, the unwavering trust in her gaze easing some of the tension from his shoulders.

After a moment, he nodded. “I need you by my side during the vote. I don’t think I can do it without you.”

Lucaera gave him a soft, reassuring smile. “I will be there every step of the way.”

A rare smile touched Aemond’s lips before he cupped her face and captured her lips in a passionate kiss.

She melted into him, the warmth of her body against his igniting a fire in his blood. He groaned against her lips, his grip on her tightening as he whispered, “I need this. I need you.”

“Fuck,” squeaks Lucaera as she grasps at the back of Aemond’s head, her fingers digging into his hair, holding him in place.

“You’re so sensitive. Are you going to come already?” asked Aemond smugly.

“Y-Yes. Oh gods right there” whimpers Lucaera.

Aemond alternates between using his fingers and tongue to bring his sweet wife to her peak.

Lucaera arches her back as she comes, and Aemond gently sucks on her pearl as she rides out the euphoria of her peak, rolling her hips against his face.

“Is that you done my sweet, or do you want more?” asked Aemond playfully, his chin shining with her slick.

“M-More, please” gasps Lucaera as Aemond reaches forward and presses a singular kiss to her pearl before he quickly wipes his chin with his hand and putting his fingers in his mouth.

“A-Aemond” gasps Lucaera her cheeks tinged pink.

Aemond smirks as he removes his small clothes, his hard cock slapping up against his abdomen, he then moves in between Lucaera’s open legs, taking his cock in hand and rubbing the head over her wet entrance.

“P-Please. Don’t t-tease m-me”

Aemond pushes in slowly and pausing to give her a moment to adapt to his size.

After pressing a gentle kiss to Lucaera’s lips, Aemond pulls out slowly and slides back in, his pace gentle and steady.

“Oh, please-please Alpha fuck me hard” mutters Lucaera.

“You want it?”

“Y-Yes. I want it. I want all of you” whines Lucaera.

Aemond lets out a pleased grunt and slams into Lucaera hard, smiling as she lets out a scream of pleasure.

The pace he sets is brutal, his hips slapping against hers.

Lucaera moans desperately, as she moves her hips to meet his, attempting to allow his cock to reach deeper within her.

Aemond gets the hint, and quickly lifts her legs over his shoulders, using the new angle to drive himself even deeper than before.

“Tell me how it feels” demands Aemond.

“It’s good, so good-yes-yes, don’t stop-Alpha-Alpha-”

Lucaera’s praises sets something off inside Aemond as he continues to pound into her, the headboard banging against the stone wall from the force of his movements, he can feel his knot beginning to swell.

“Aemond, please, I’m close-”

Aemond moves a hand down to where the two of them are joined, and rubs Lucaera’s pearl in quick circles, dragging her closer the edge of the precipice.

“I never want to leave this sweet cunny–fuck,” groans Aemond as he marks each of his words in tandem with a rough snap of his hips.

Lucaera comes with a loud, scream, her body shaking underneath Aemond’s as his thrusts grow sloppy, his knot expanding further.

“J-Just a little longer-fuck I’m going to-” groans Aemond as he slams into Lucaera, forcing his knot inside her before reaching his own peak, spilling rope after rope of seed inside her.

After a few moments, Aemond gently moved Lucaera’s legs from his shoulders, his chest heaving with every breath he takes.

“I-I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?” asked Aemond.

“No. I-It was wonderful Aemond truly-” exclaimed Lucaera, her body shaking slightly in the aftermath of her pleasure.

As they waited out Aemond’s knot, the two of them exchanged sweet kisses and gentle caresses.

Aemond nuzzled Lucaera’s mating mark and inhaled her scent, apples and cinnamon tinged with the slight edge of his own scent of leather and ash, but underneath there was the scent of milk.

Eventually Aemond’s knot softened, and he slowly pulled out, his singular eye fixated on the drops of seed that spill out.

He takes a finger to Lucaera’s opening and pushes his seed back inside, delighting in her moan of surprise.

He leans over to press a gentle kiss to her lips, before bringing his finger to his own mouth and sucking it clean.

Aemond laid down on the bed and pulled Lucara to him.

“Not tired, are you?” asked Aemond curiously as Lucaera laid her head on his chest and began running her fingers through the sparse hair that graced his chest.

Lucaera looked at him and smiled as she slowly shook her head.

“Good, because I plan to have you many times this night-”

The chamber was dimly lit, the glow of the fireplace casting soft shadows across the walls as Aemond and Lucaera lay entwined beneath the sheets, their bodies covered with a sheen of sweat from their rounds of love making.

His arm was wrapped protectively around her, his fingers tracing slow, absent-minded patterns along the bare skin of her back.

For a while, they simply lay in silence, content in each other’s embrace, but then Aemond spoke, his voice quiet yet firm.

"When I was out flying with Vhagar, I saw your mother’s ship sailing into Blackwater Bay-"

Lucaera stilled against him. She didn’t speak right away, only inhaled slowly, as if gathering her thoughts. Finally, she whispered, "Thank you for telling me"

Through the bond, Aemond could feel the weight of her emotions—sadness, unease, longing. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head.

"Do you wish to speak with her?" he asked gently.

Lucaera sighed, curling in closer to his chest. "I miss her and my brothers more than anything," she admitted. "But I'm scared, Aemond. What if the council votes for you? Then they will hate me forever."

Aemond’s grip on her tightened slightly. "How can they hate you for wanting something to be fair?"

"They can hate me for helping to take away my mother’s birthright and that of Jacaerys"

Aemond exhaled, his fingers ghosting over her arm in slow, soothing strokes. "But it’s not your decision to make," he reasoned. "It will be the lords of the realm who will cast their vote-"

"I know," Lucaera murmured. "But I—I miss my brothers. I know Lucerys hurt you, and what he did, what he took from you is unforgivable, but he’s my twin. We were together before we were even born-"

Aemond’s chest ached at the sorrow in her voice. He wished he could take away her pain, but there were no words that could change the past.

"I know this hurts," he said softly. "And I wish I could make things right for you, but I don’t know how"

Lucaera let out a quiet breath, her fingers clutching lightly at his skin. "I know-" she whispered.

Aemond nuzzled against the spot where his mark lay, inhaling deeply. Her scent filled his senses—warm, comforting, intoxicating. His lips brushed over the mark, and he groaned, his voice low and raspy.

"You smell so good"

Despite the lingering sadness between them, Lucaera smiled, the heat of his breath against her skin sending a small shiver down her spine.

Aemond’s hand drifted lower, trailing over the curve of her waist.

Lucaera tensed slightly at the motion, and then, after a beat, she exhaled shakily. "Y-you know, don’t you?"

Aemond nodded, a small smirk curving his lips. "You smell like milk”

Lucaera let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "I should have known I couldn’t hide it from you”

Aemond shifted, propping himself up slightly on his elbow so he could look down at her. "Why would you want to?"

Lucaera hesitated, then admitted, "In case the vote didn’t favour you,  I thought the news of a pup would lessen the blow a little"

Aemond exhaled slowly, his expression softening. "I understand," he murmured. Then, his hand splayed protectively over her stomach. "But let’s not think of such things right now. Let us celebrate the news that you are carrying my child—a piece of you and me, together."

Lucaera smiled, her eyes shining with emotion. In that moment, Aemond thought she had never looked more beautiful—her long, dark hair spilling across the pillows, her cheeks still tinged pink from their passion, and the soft scent of milk surrounding her, a sign of the life growing inside her.

A life they had created.

The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them.

"I-I love you, Lucy-"

Lucaera’s breath hitched slightly, her expression turning tender as she whispered, "I love you too, Aemond”

Aemond smiled, cupping her cheek before pulling her into a deep, lingering kiss.

Later that night, the King had requested that the entire family dine together.

Lucaera, ever polite, had declined the invitation, citing that she was feeling unwell.

Aemond, on the other hand, had outright refused, making no attempt to mask his disdain for the forced gathering.

Even when his mother tried to convince him- he still refused, he did not wish to sit there and break bread with Rhaenyra, or her bastards.

Instead, he opted too spent the night in bed with Lucaera, reading one of his favourite books to her in high Valyrian.

Lucaera purring contentedly as Aemond rasping voice spoke the language of their forebears.

The following morning, Aemond decided that him and Lucaera needed to get away from the Red Keep for a few hours, so he had arranged for the cooks to prepare a picnic, ordering only the finest meats, cheeses, and fruits, along with a selection of sweet pastries he knew Lucaera enjoyed.

Once everything was packed, the two of them took to the skies, soaring over the land on the backs of Vhagar and Vermithor.

They left the suffocating walls of the Red Keep behind, following the coastline until they found a secluded beach, untouched by the politics of King’s Landing.

It was peaceful here—just the crashing waves, the salt-kissed breeze, and the distant roars of their dragons as they hunted whales over the vast, open water.

Lucaera exhaled softly as she settled onto the sand, leaning back against Aemond’s chest as they ate.

The food was forgotten halfway through their meal, and instead, they simply held each other, letting the moment stretch on.

It felt good to get away.

The Red Keep had become unbearably crowded, the halls overflowing with the lords of the realm who had come to cast their vote.

And for Lucaera, there was no escaping the whispers and the stares—Alphas watching her with curiosity, some with open desire, as she was the only Omega to present since Queen Rhaenys. It was exhausting and suffocating.

Aemond’s Alpha Prime instincts had been heightened in recent days, his need to protect her a constant, nagging thought in his mind—especially now that she carried his pup.

But here, on this quiet stretch of sand, he allowed himself to relax, his fierce protectiveness giving way to something softer. He whispered words of love and devotion into her ear as they lay together, his hand resting on her stomach, claiming what was his in the way only an Alpha could.

But reality always had a way of catching up to them, and they knew they had to return to the Red Keep sooner rather than later.

As the sun began its slow descent, they mounted their dragons once more, their laughter carried by the wind as they soared high above the waves.

It was Lucaera’s idea to race, and Aemond had indulged her.

Vermithor surged ahead, his powerful wings cutting through the air with remarkable speed. Lucaera’s victorious laughter echoed through the sky as they neared the Red Keep, while Aemond scowled in mock irritation.

“We won!” Lucaera grinned, triumphant as she dismounted from Vermithors saddle.

Aemond huffed, as he climbed down the ladder attached to Vhagar’s saddle “We let you win-”

“You did not-”

“I did. Vhagar could have bested your Bronze Fury easily” replied Aemond his arms folded across his chest.

“Excuses, excuses-” Lucaera teased.

Aemond smirked, but there was nothing but warmth in his gaze as he reached for her.

They mounted their waiting horses and had a leisurely ride back to the Red Keep.

When they arrived back, Aemond helped her down from the horse’s saddle and he slid his arm around her waist as they walked back to their chambers, exchanging quick kisses and whispered words, entirely wrapped up in each other.

Neither of them noticing Cregan Stark standing in the shadows, his expression unreadable as his eyes followed the couple’s retreating forms.

Aemond and Lucaera stood in a side room in the Dragon Pit, their fingers entwined, his grip firm yet reassuring.

Beyond the door, the fate of the realm—and his own future—was about to be decided.

Lucaera exhaled softly, feeling the tension radiating from her mate through their bond. The weight of this moment was immense, and in a matter of moments, everything could change. Aemond's entire life had been spent in the shadows of others, overlooked, undervalued—until now.

The door creaked open, and a herald's voice rang through the pit.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen and Princess Lucaera Targaryen”

The moment Lucaera crossed the threshold, the weight of a hundred gazes settled upon her. She could feel them—all watching her with varying expressions.

Some with curiosity, some with desire, and some with something far deeper-almost reverence.

She was the only Omega in the realm. The men of the court had only ever heard whispers and fabled tales of what an Omega truly was, had only imagined what it might mean to stand close to one, to breathe in her scent.

And now, here she was, walking amongst them.

She held her head high, refusing to cower beneath their scrutiny. She knew the sight she made— her hair had been braided with care, intricate twists woven together and adorned with delicate dragon-shaped pins of obsidian and rubies

Her gown was crafted of black silk with shimmering silver thread embroidered in the pattern of dragon scales.

The neckline cut low enough to reveal the bite mark that branded her as Aemond’s Omega.

A symbol of their bond.

A claim no one could dispute.

There was a power in being the only Omega, and for all their whispered admiration, none dared to even step too close.

Aemond felt their stares too, and his grip on her hand tightened, his Alpha Prime instincts flaring at the attention she drew.

His scent sharpened—a warning, a claim in its own right.

She is mine.

The Dragon Pit was packed with lords and banners from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, their sigils illuminated by the sunlight filtering through the dome above.

The space was vast, yet the atmosphere was suffocating.

Highborn men who rarely left the comfort of their castles now stood on ancient dragon-hewn stone, the sounds of the dragons housed below could be heard, their low rumbles vibrating through the stone floor.

At the top of the stone steps, Viserys sat upon a makeshift throne. His breath was laboured, his body swathed in heavy robes to ward off the chill, yet his presence still commanded authority.

As they approached Lucaera’s gaze flickered towards her mother and Daemon.

Rhaenyra’s expression was unreadable, but the moment their eyes met, she looked away.

The rejection was a blade to the heart, sharp and cold, yet Lucaera did her best to swallow her pain.

Aemond felt it, though, through their bond. His grip on her hand tightened, grounding her in silent support.

They took their places as Viserys began to speak, his wheezing voice filling the air.

“I thank you all for attending this Great Council-”

Aemond barely listened. His jaw clenched as his father droned on and on about fairness and duty, speaking of what was best for the realm.

Fairness. The word was laughable.

Viserys wouldn't know the meaning of the word fairness, even if it came up and walloped him right in his rotten mug —not when he had spent years favouring Rhaenyra above all else and being blind to her obvious discretions and flouting of duty.

If it were truly his choice, there would be no council, there would be no vote. He would name Rhaenyra his heir as he always had, and in his ignorance, the downfall of House Targaryen would be set in motion.

But it was not his choice.

Lucaera had ensured that much. The realm would decide.

The doors at the side of the Dragon Pit opened once more, and two figures entered, carrying a wooden box between them.

The air grew thick with anticipation, the tension nearly suffocating as the box was placed before the King.

An age seemed to pass as Viserys lifted the lid. He reached inside, retrieving a single scroll. The parchment was thick, the seal unbroken.

He took a slow, rattling breath before breaking the wax seal and unfurling it.

He stared at the parchement, his expression unreadable.

But then, his voice rang out, echoing through the silent Dragon pit.

“It is declared by all Lords Paramount and Lords Vassal of the Seven Kingdoms that Prince Aemond Targaryen be made heir to the Iron Throne”

TBC.

[ladyinrainbowglasses]

My logically considered pro-choice position:

What we are arguing is that no one has the right to force a human being to function as a living life support system against their will.

No one has the right to force a person to continue being pregnant if they do not want to be pregnant.

Sometimes things don't work out in pregnancies, and a wanted pregnancy is either going to kill its mother before it becomes viable or a wanted pregnancy is never going to become viable.

Sometimes a wanted pregnancy has physical problems so severe that it *could* survive outside its mother, but the parents and medical professionals involve all agree that the quality of life would be unacceptable to the point of active cruelty. This fetus may survive as a baby, but only through continuing heroic intervention, which is expensive and painful for a stop-gap solution.

Sometimes a wanted pregnancy does not miscarry fully, but it is medically apparent that it cannot be prevented from dying. Not performing an immediate abortion puts the mother in extreme danger.

Sometimes a pregnancy is not discovered in a person who could not consent in any way until later than we would prefer. A child under 14 needs abortion care as a matter of course - her body is in no way developed enough to mitigate the worst dangers of pregnancy, which would also cause harm to the potential child. She should not be forced, which would be a further violation of her body, but it requires destigmatization. Sometimes the pregnant person was in a coma. Sometimes the pregnant person is physically an adult, but mentally a child or even an infant.

All laws around abortion exist for is the idea that women need to have their bodies rigidly controlled by men through legal means, because we are not smart or logical or moral enough to be trusted without special laws.

Every law around abortion exists based on the fundamental principle that a fertile uterus is the legal property of the state where the human carrying that fertile uterus resides.

They are able to sell people on such a clearly absurd and stupid position by also selling a false security, by appealing to the innate human drive to attempt to control the world through casting magic spells.

You can say this isn't casting magic spells, but I can think of no other logical parallel for attempting to control something as complex as human pregnancy by writing down words in a legal code. You may as well want a law on the books outlawing the treatment of cancer, concluding that by forbidding treatment, cancer will realize it has been ritually banished. No one will get cancer if we make it illegal to treat cancer! No one will ever have a major pregnancy complication if we just make it illegal to treat such a thing!

It took me a long time to realize the position I had been brainwashed into was completely illogical, hinged upon magic spells working, and required me to behave as if I believed the average sexually active woman was stupid, cruel, and evil. I realized that I was behaving in a way at odds with observable reality and to do what? What good was being accomplished? What was better because I took an interest?

I have lived right above poverty most of my life - there are so, so many poor people who could USE HELP! Instead, we get the organizations that are commanded as a matter of religious doctrine to help the poor and the sick bullying poor women into having babies they don't want and can't afford. It is not just NOT HELPING, it is giving people who desperately need help a kick in the teeth instead. Churches suck up energy and money protesting abortion and are richer than ever. Food and housing insecurity are at their highest level since the Great Depression. Thousands of Americans die each year because they can't afford medical treatment. Yet the people who believe a literal god commanded them to take care of others do nothing but try to pass magical laws against abortion.

It's a scam to keep you distracted and bound up in a war that can't be won, so you will never focus on your fellow humans that are here with you now.

[ewingstan]

☕ So, one issue I have with alot of urban fantasy (and fantasy in genral, though more pronounced in urban), is this idea of magic being something you are born with, which has some shitty undertones. So I'm interested in you take on Pact's take on the magic/mundane, like the fact that any human can become a practitioner, the fact that the unaware are called innocent instead of muggle or normal or mortal ect. Ppl like Laird being very connected to mundane society. The fact that that the masquerade, and the practice is an entirely artificial thing made by solomon, or any other thought on the worlds relationship with Innocents

This is a really interesting question! There's definitely a fair amount to go into on how the masquerade in Pact functions less as a separate society and more as an invisible aspect of regular society. Those who had power and influence as practitioners tended to have power and influence in "normal" life, sometimes even for the same reasons. Laird was chief of police as well as a favorite for lordship of Jacobs Bell; and used his symbolic position his profession gave him to increase his sway with the spirits. Rose Senior was a rich heiress both in her house/material possessions and in the respect Demons pay to the Thorburn name. We see in the Fell History that Conquest absorbs men of great social stature as his vessels. The Elder Sister’s secret society is half a magic coven, half a buisness organization to help get members into good employment.  Isadora was a professor with a nepotistic streak, selecting favorite playthings to induct much as real professors take a shine on certain students and fast-track their careers.

All this to say, rather than magic society in Pact being separate from "innocent" institutions, they are intertwined such that those with social advantages can gain magical advantages and vice-versa. Much like how crypto was promised as a great equalizer ("anyone could mine with the right hardware!") but became just another way for the rich to get richer in ways the poor couldn't hope to (having the funds to get ever increasing hardware+the power costs, transaction fees, etc), magic in Pact is something that anyone could theoretically excel at, but in practice only those with something already significant to bargain, level or sacrifice could come ahead—at least without resorting to something dangerous and self-destructive like diabolism.

On the subject of anyone having the potential to be a practitioner: I don't think it's necessarily always the case that a story which uses magic as something inherent to a person has to have shitty undertones. It often does, don't get me wrong, but it doesn't have to, and depends a lot on the framing. For instance, I've talked already here about how Mob Psycho 100 treats psychic powers as inherent, but actively mocks the idea that psychic powers makes people "special" or "better." By the same token, media that depicts inherent powers as curses/aspects of an overall raw deal tend to avoid this problem. Those that fall prey to it most are those which treat magical ability as a mark of (positive) exceptionalism and speciallness, rather than a neutral trait, which is especially common in works with few non-magic important characters. Those types of works also suffer generally from not exploring a neat corner of the world: how do the non-powered act when they get in the know? Learning more about the Thorburn cousins through how they dealt with all the crazy magic shit happening was one of my favorite parts of Pact, and stories that don’t draw from that well tend to be the worse for it.

[bitchesgetriches]

Hi bitches, I'm a bit nervous to ask this but I'm being genuine I promise. I don't want you to think I'm some biggoted old fool.

Could you please help me understand how sex work isn't exploitative? I hear a lot of people saying "it's just the same as normal work, it's better than my job at Amazon/target/wherever and no one is calling that work exploitative" or "well you wouldn't do YOUR job if you didn't have to either" but like, checkout work IS hella exploitative??? Most work IS hella bullshit that only exists to feed the capitalist machine. I DO fight for a world where work is a choice. I understand why The Right would love onlyfans, but why is The Left lining up to defend it?

Sex work - especially things like onlyfans - is overwhelmingly done by the poor or as a way to escape poverty ("I was being paid shit in my previous job, now I can afford an apartment" is something I hear a lot). But in doing so it transfers all the risks to them, it's essentially turning sex work into the gig/hustle economy, isn't it? You end up on a zero hour contract with no union, health, benefit, maternity protection, in a job that can be hella dangerous and have serious emotional repercussions and requires huge emotional labour and/or disconnect and I don't really understand why we're just cheering this along?

I don't object on moral grounds. Sex is sex. Consenting adults do what you want. People are well within their moral and legal rights to choose to sell sex, (or the emotional labour that comes with it), or photos, or whatever they want - just like they are free to go work for target. I absolutely understand the need to - and support - decriminalisation of sex work, the need to make it safe and secure for sex workers, but I just can't see why ~the world at large~ sees huge numbers of young 18 year old women being herded and encouraged into joining Onlyfans - in several cases with people saying "can't wait for you to turn 18 so you can have an OF" so the patriarchy can pay £3-4 a month to see their tits and people cheer this along? One or two get rich, I'm sure, but who is getting REALLY rich? It's the old white men that own onlyfans and take a 20% cut, as always. It's the patriarchy working as it always has. Allowing one or two women to succeed while holding the rest down for exploitation. Except now it's mixing with the worst bits of 21st C capitalism, too. Surely all OnlyFans is is Uber for Sex work, using the gig economy to de-unionise and isolate workers, strip them of benefits, make them into independent contractors and profit off them?

Sure, it's a step up from kidnapping girls from Romania to have them do porn, but is that really the bar? Can we maybe just stop for a second and imagine a world where rich white men don't get richer off the emotional and physical labour of women? Where the other available work options aren't so shit that a zero-hour career with no employment protections, a limited lifespan, in a dangerous industry doesnt look like heaven in comparison? Sure, you can work for three years, sell your emotional labour, and pay for college. But why are we cheering that instead of asking why this has to happen in the first place? We're fiddling around the edges of the system, giving it a makeover, and rebadging it "female empowerment" instead of actually changing anything fundamental. Poor women sell sex. A few are allowed to break out. Men get to leer at naked women for pennies a year. Rich men get richer. Plus ça change. Not even to mention that because of the ~emotional~ connection that onlyfans gives beyond porn, we're embedding the idea that women are "money in, girlfriend out" machines. I know several girls that won't even *talk* to men in any situation without a minimum $50 fee. And apparently the fact we also have a crisis of men so lonely they're willing to pay this isn't a problem either? Where's our luxury communism dreams bitches?

Bitches, I trust you. What am I missing?

I don’t think you’re a bigoted old fool. Nor a prude! I think you’re incredibly enlightened about the dangers of unfettered capitalism and labor exploitation.

Almost all of the issues you highlight about exploitative sex work can be said about exploitative labor in any industry. Poor people taking shitty jobs that don’t pay enough and enrich capitalist, patriarchal corporate overlords? That happens all over the world in industries from meat packing to clothing sweat shops to, yes, sex work. The exploitation of a person’s body for labor is an ethical stain on our culture at large. It’s why we’re so in favor of labor rights advances including a higher minimum wage, unions, and humane work environments. 

Raising the Minimum Wage Would Make Our Lives Better 

Are Unions Good or Bad? 

Coronavirus Reveals America’s Pre-existing Conditions, Part 1: Healthcare, Housing, and Labor Rights 

Sex work is not unique in that it opens desperate and poor people up to labor exploitation. It’s not even uniquely dangerous to the bodies of workers--John Oliver did a bit on the US meat packing industry recently that made me faint with body horror. 

So we agree that labor exploitation is bad. And it’s something that we should work towards ending in every industry. But I can see why some people would view exploitative sex work to be a different kind of bad. Because sex is sensitive! It can be used to punish and hurt. See revenge porn and the way synonyms for “sex worker” are stigmatized and used as insults throughout society. 

Now, a few clarifications. When I refer to sex work, I’m not just talking about cam work on OnlyFans. There are lots of other outlets for many different kinds of sex work. And I’m also not just talking about women sex workers. People of all gender identities and sexualities do sex work, and we should advocate for fair labor practices and safety for all of them. I am firmly pro- decriminalizing sex work so that the industry can be made safe, regulated, and destigmatized in an effort to reduce exploitation. I want sex workers to have the power of collective bargaining! I want them to be protected by law enforcement and our justice system, instead of targeted by it! I want them to pay taxes and have the privileges associated with all tax paying workers! I want them to have the power and protection of a regulatory industry that will purge abusive and violent clients from their field!

I also disagree with the characterization that choosing sex work freely, even out of desperation, is a “step up from kidnapping a girl from Romania to have them do porn.” Human trafficking is not sex work. It’s slavery and torture. Even when the choice is between making $7.25 an hour working at WalMart and making $7.25 as a cam girl, there’s still a choice involved, even if it’s a shitty one. There’s consent. Trafficking victims have no choice, no consent, only violence. 

I honestly don’t want to start a debate here. We’re all on the same page that labor exploitation is bad. So I’ll just end with this: not all sex work is inherently exploitative. Which I guess is your real question!

I’ve mentioned before that I have friends who are former sex workers. Specifically strippers and a specialty dominatrix. As with any job, they had their ups and downs, their good nights and bad nights. But they all agree that they freely chose the work not out of desperation or a lack of other options. And they even enjoyed the work in some cases. If someone prefers sex work, thrives in giving that emotional labor to others, I’m not going to judge and I’m certainly not going to tell them they’re being exploited. It would frankly be insulting, condescending, to tell someone that their choice of work (when it truly is a choice) is bad for them. 

It’s a fine line, but the line does exist. Sex work CAN BE exploitative. But it is not inherently exploitative, as far as I’m concerned. 

[gloryofluv]

Order Up! (Coffee Shop AU) Chapter 5

Well, I guess Alex is going through the motions. I am really starting to love how well-rounded this is getting. Flirty fics are fun, but they always need heart and perseverance!

Chapter

1 - 2- 3 - 4

Fuck. Why did she do that? Alex wanted to toss her phone but knew she couldn’t afford a new one yet. Memories. Social media keeps track even if you don’t. She was bundled on the ground of the bathroom she just cleaned and sobbed.

All she wanted to do was look at this real estate agent that Lucifer texted her. She glanced down at the picture of her and her mother while she was getting dressed for prom. Would she be upset that she was thinking of selling their home? Would she be proud? She felt so fucking alone.

There was a knock at the bathroom door, and she stuttered on a breath. Fucking get it together, girl. She wiped her face and nodded. “I’ll be out momentarily,” she said in a cheery tone.

Breathe. Stand up. Bitch, buck the fuck up, you’re at work. Alex listened to her inner dialog, turned on the water to the sink, cleaned her hands and face, and fixed her makeup. After she was satisfied, she picked up her tool tote and walked to the door with a plastered smile.

Solomon was on the other side of the door. “Hey, Alex,” he said with a curl to his lips.

“Hey, Sol, how are you doing?” she asked.

“Not horribly. I’m a bit stuck on this formula, but it’s bound to come to me,” he voiced while walking in step with her.

She rocked her head and shifted at the entrance to the counter. “Let me just go put this away and clock out. We can chat a minute after I’m off the clock.”

He rocked his head and leaned on the wall nearby. “Want to take a walk with me?”

She tilted her head and hummed. “Maybe.”

“Good, I’ll order, and we’ll head to the park.”

“Oh, good, we’re taking a walk to the park?”

Alex glanced over to see Satan wander over with his tea and pastry bag. “Oh, hey, Satan. I didn’t see you there.”

He tilted his head and gestured to his messenger bag. “I was grading pages.”

Solomon crossed his arms before touching his chin with his fingers. “You want to join us?”

Satan rocked his head. “A little fresh air would be great.”

“Okay, let me just go finish up,” Alex smiled and walked to the back of the shop. Well, it was quite the variation, but after how interesting her Sunday had been, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. She turned to the computer after putting the tote away and clocked out. Shaking out her body and taking off her apron and hat, she rolled her neck.

There was something to be said about the smears on her uniform. Alex stripped off her overshirt and straightened her purple tank top, and pulled out her ponytail. After checking her face in the mirror and reapplying a few touches on her eyeliner and lip gloss, she was ready.

Better. Alex smiled and collected her bag before marching to the front again. Solomon and Satan seemed to be in a discussion about the book in Satan’s hand. Their hand gestures only confirmed the estimation as Alex walked over to collect her drink.

“Hey, babes,” Jess hummed. “Do you think you could do me a favor and take my Friday shift, and I’ll take your Saturday one. It's closing, and I have a date.”

Alex rocked her head. “Yeah, I can. You never ask me to trade, so they must be pretty hot,” she teased.

Jess smirked and rocked her head. “Yeah, Mr. Macchiato, who comes in the evenings.”

“Nice, well, I hope you have tons of fun. Text Jordan and let him know, alright?”

Jess beamed and blew a kiss. “You’re a lifesaver for my social life, hun.”

Alex waved and met up with the two intellectuals holding their beverages. “I’m just saying that Dickens wasn’t as extraordinary as we make him out to be,” Solomon huffed.

“Oh, no, we’re on about Charles again?”

Satan laughed and shook his head as they walked out the door. “Just Solomon’s primary dagger.”

“Solomon, do you just enjoy debating?” Alex asked.

Solomon smiled and shifted his head from side to side. “Occasionally, but so does Satan, so we have a mutual understanding never to take it to blows.”

“I think the Brontë sisters are probably a staple for every woman,” Alex added to the conversation.

“And men,” Satan nodded.

“Very true, but we need to selectively decide what mannerisms are dated in order to value the interpretation,” Solomon voiced.

Alex smirked and raised her hand to her chest. “'Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? And can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart!'” She paused after the quote and laughed. “Imagine declaring equality to a man who was higher in rank and stature than you in that time. The dated behavior is only setting.”

Satan let out a stream of hearty laughter. “Oh, Alex, I would have loved to have you in my class today. There was a sexist animal who was definitely in need of a strong female to set him straight.”

“My little Jane isn’t very plain,” Solomon chuckled and waved his hand.

“No, she isn’t,” Alex laughed before sipping her iced tea.

“I was referring to you,” Solomon hummed.

Alex smirked at him and shrugged. “I do pretty well, I suppose.”

Satan cleared his throat, drawing Alex’s attention to her left. “So, you realized that half your customers are my brothers.”

Alex rocked her head. “Yes, I was informed of that by Belphegor in a rather creative way.”

“I heard,” Satan laughed. “We all live together.”

“So I’ve heard,” she smiled.

“Interesting dynamic,” Solomon voiced. “All seven of them together.”

“They also throw some ridiculous parties,” Alex said and then waved her free hand in a circle. “From what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I know you live across the street,” Satan snorted with a smug smile. “I’ve known longer than Lucifer.”

Alex gasped as they walked on the sideway in the park. “What?”

Satan chuckled and rocked his head. “Yes, I knew from Jordan. I was the one to buy his motorcycle.”

She shrieked and gasped. “Oh! That’s why I’ve seen it around the cafe.”

Satan wagged his eyebrows. “So yes, I’ve known for about four months. He pulled it out of your garage and brought it over. When I asked why he moved, he told me about your circumstance and why he was torn, but family comes first.”

“It does,” Alex smiled. “His mother was great to me when my parents died. She practically lived with me for the first six months. Then Jordan moved in, and he got me a job at the cafe. He’s always been like my big brother. So when his dad got injured at work and couldn’t work, I told him to move home to help.”

“How did you both meet?” Solomon questioned.

“Oh, that’s a funny story, actually. So, in middle school, he was a grade above me, and I was super shy. He saw me being harassed by some asshole. He stepped in and smoothed the situation. I was so shocked he was able to do so without violence. Jordan took me to the bathroom, cleaned me up, and told me that the only bitches in our life are the beautiful bitches we can be, so I needed to learn to walk like it. From then on, he just started pulling me into his antics,” she explained and laughed while shaking her head.

“You were shy?” Satan questioned.

Alex stopped drinking her tea and nodded. “I actually am in general. I took his advice to heart. I’m friendly and enjoy people, but I don’t have very many people I consider close with.”

“Is this why you aren’t dating anyone?” Solomon questioned.

Alex narrowed her eyes at him and smirked. “Yes.”

“Liar,” Solomon smiled.

“Wait, I really find this fascinating. You aren’t close to any family?” Satan asked.

Alex shrugged and hummed. “My aunts and uncles all live in different parts of the country. I was an only child, and now that my parents aren’t here, the only people I see are Jordan and his parents. Jordan’s sister left for a university across the country two years ago. I see them probably once a month.”

“You live alone? Like no one ever comes to knock on your door or calls your phone?” Satan questioned with a scowl.

“Well, I won’t be living there much longer,” Alex sighed. “I have to sell the place, so I’ll have to clear it out in the next couple of weeks. The financial officer, my parents, left in charge, said that the funds wouldn’t cover the expenses this next year, so it would be a good idea for me to sell.”

“Hm,” Solomon murmured. “I could help.”

“No,” Alex shook her head. “It’s time. I don’t need handouts, Sol. I appreciate it, but no.”

“Why do you feel like you have to do everything alone?” Satan asked as they rounded the outside of the park.

Alex breathed and shook her head. “It’s such a long story.”

“Your parents?” Solomon voiced.

This analysis was cathartic in a way, and Alex felt this heavyweight being pulled from her shoulders. “Well, yes and no. I was telling my mother before she passed that I was thinking of taking a year off to go with my boyfriend at the time to travel the world. She was so supportive, even though it would put my education in jeopardy. When they died, he bailed with some other girl, so I kind of just stopped relying on others.”

Satan tutted and exhaled. “To be an idiot teenager who couldn’t handle grief. I’m sorry you had to go through that, especially at such a young age.”

Alex smiled and shrugged as they made their way back to the cafe. “I’m pretty good. I have a degree. I’ll have a decent nest egg to pay for my schooling for an even better education and my best friend. I’m doing pretty well.”

“I have an intrigue before we conclude our adventure into your life,” Solomon hummed.

Alex tilted her head as she grinned at him. “What’s that?”

“You are strong without someone, but it makes it so much richer to share your heart with others,” Solomon declared.

“Says the man who has done his fair share of that,” Satan snorted.

Solomon rolled his eyes. “Satan, don’t cast stones in glass houses.”

“You have been married three times now,” Satan snorted.

News. Alex raised her eyebrows. “Three times? Aren’t you like barely forty?”

“I resent that,” Solomon scowled. “No, I am not. However, marriage and love are difficult measurements in a formula very few understand. I’m difficult.”

“I actually like that about you,” Alex laughed.

Satan scowled as they stopped at the sidewalk near the cafe. “You enjoy that he’s difficult, but you won’t text me?” he questioned with a sly smile.

She puffed and pulled his phone from his bag’s pocket. It was sticking out and available. Alex then went to his keypad, dialed her number, and pressed the call. Her phone soon rang, and she hung up.

“Now, you have my number. Stop trying to make me do all the work, you pushy professor,” she snorted and handed his phone back.

Satan was grinning as he pocketed his phone. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Solomon handed her his phone, and she groaned but did the same exact thing. “If you both call me all the time, I will block your number,” she teased.

“If you need any help with your house, please tell me,” Solomon nodded. “I am quite organized.”

“I will,” Alex smiled.

Solomon tossed his cup in the trash and smiled before walking to his car. Alex watched him wave and climb inside before driving off in the silver vehicle. Satan shifted and tilted his head when she turned back to him.

“Did you want to have dinner with me tonight? I’ll cook,” Satan offered.

“Just because we’re temporarily neighbors does not mean I’m a booty call, understood?” Alex questioned.

Satan snorted and straightened his shirt. “You’re far too interesting to blow on a booty call, Alex.”

“Just had to make it clear. I would take your offer for dinner, but I’m actually exhausted. Diavolo came in for a coffee tasting, and I hosted it. Since then, I’ve just been drained.”

Satan rocked his head. “Well, I’ll ask tomorrow then,” he smiled and shrugged. “You’ll eventually say yes,” he chuckled and walked over to the motorcycle.

Alex smiled and observed as he slid on his helmet, waved, and climbed on the bike. Bad boy, professor. Pretty sexy. That tickled her to no end. He pulled out with a roaring shift of gears and headed in the same direction she needed to go. Home. Even if it was just for now.

@rsmrymnt-tea @otome-scribbles

[hermits-that-craft]

Powers Au - Nurture

Foolish and Eret walk the streets of the city - L’Manburg, if they remember correctly. The pair of them don’t speak, Foolish’s blue-grey cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Snow falls to the ground, and Foolish shivers slightly. It’s been a few years since either of them had been in a place that has snows, though Eret’s always been able to cope with it better than Foolish.

Eret takes off her red cloak, pulling it around Foolish’s shoulders as they climb a fence. The building is derelict, abandoned, and has big red signs reading “WARNING: ASBESTOS. DO NOT ENTER” but beggars can’t be choosers, and the two orphans can’t afford be be mugged again. They can’t even afford to eat.

Foolish jumps over, following Eret into the decrepit building. He still shivers, but Eret’s cloak is soft, and retains the warmth that Eret put off. They always ran hot, suppressing their powers.

Both of them repress their powers. They know what would happen if someone found out what they can do. They’re only 12, they don’t want blood on their hands.

“Home sweet home.” Eret mumbles as they find a room, covered in old painting tarps. The door shuts and the window is boarded up, so Foolish pushes the rotting chest of drawers in front of the door, a temporary lock to keep them safe.

Foolish turns, looking at Eret as his ears twitch. Eret’s made a bed out of the paint tarps, smiling brightly. Foolish sighs, getting into the middle of the tarps. He takes the twin cloaks off, lying down. The cloaks work well as blankets, and the pair fall asleep.

---

Foolish ducks out of the abandoned house, looking for the richer suburbs. He never should have let Eret out by himself, they can’t afford the buy the bandages needed to mend Eret’s arm. They can’t afford to be separated either, so a hospital is a no-go. Who knows what would happen if the two orphans showed up?

Foolish follows a group of three with quiet steps. One has long, pink hair and a shirt that Foolish knows Eret would love, and he walks close to the road. He has a deep voice that screams arrogance. The one closest to the wall has a guitar over his shoulder and a yellow jumper on - even though it’s the middle of summer. The one in the middle, however, screams “power”. The man holds himself strongly, a pair of crows wings on his back. His suit is well made in a deep, forest green, and he carries a cane with gold on it. The cane alone would get Foolish some bandages for Eret, and enough food to last them a solid two weeks - maybe a month if they sell it instead of pawning it off.

The trio turns down an alleyway, and Foolish scurries after them. He ignores their conversation, reaching his hand out to grab the cane-

“Owch!” Foolish yelps, his arm twisted by the man with pink hair.

“What do you want?” The man growls, pulling Foolish away from the blonde one.

“My friend’s hurt, we need that cane!” Foolish struggles to get out of the mans hold. “He’s going to die! Please.”

“Techno...” The blonde one mumbles, glancing over Foolish. 

“Who cares about some kids friend, the parents should be able to look after it.” The guitar one rebuts. “C’mon Phil, we’ve been here long enough. Tommy’s waiting at home.”

“Let the kid go, Techno.” Blondie - Phil, aparently - orders, and Foolish is shoved to the ground. “Run home kid, you don’t want to get mugged, do you?”

Oh, Foolish realises, his brain finally catching up, these are criminals.

Foolish dashes out of the alley, listening to the men laugh. He can’t - he refuses to be caught, to be mugged and killed in an alley because of a cane.

Foolish never looks over his shoulder, never turns his head to make sure he isn’t followed as he dashes through tight corners and over dingy bins. He quickly finds the asbestos house that he and Eret squat in, jumping the fence with practiced ease. Foolish shoots up the stairs and into their little bedroom, the door slamming open.

“You would not believe the day I’ve had.”

---

Wilbur leans against the door, looking over the pair of children sleeping on a dirty tarp. The little thief that attempted to steal from Phil is curled up around a small kid with a clearly broken arm.

“Are they orphans?” Techno asks, his hand on his sword. 

“Probably.” Wilbur shrugs, “Why’d Phil send us here.”

“Something about the kid’s eyes.” Techno shrugs. “Welp, I’m going to put them out of their misery.”

Techno walks over to the pair, his sword out. They were told to bring the thief alive, but the other is fair game. After all, they can’t have any witnesses, and any movement is going to make that one wake up. Techno’s sword touches the kids throat, and silver fire melts the sword, the kid suddenly awake.

Wilbur makes eye contact with the child, and sees that their eyes are pure white, glowing in the dark night. The thief wakes up as the fire spreads to Techno’s arm, and Wilbur feels paralysed, but if it’s fear or the kids powers he doesn’t know.

Techno’d dead in seconds, but those few seconds is enough for the thief to calm his friend down. The thief then walks over to Techno’s body, and Wilbur watches as golden water pours out of the boy’s eyes. The water - that’s way too much water what the fuck - surrounds Techno, and Wilbur’s twin shoots up, a strangled shout falling from his lips.

“Eret we talks about this.” The thief mumbles, though he keeps his back to his friend. “We promised no more of this.”

“He was trying to kill us.” the kid - Eret - mutters, glaring at Techno. “Is that the pink man who you tried to steal from.”

“I am.” Techno growls.

“Foolish, you promised you weren’t followed!”  Eret says, panic in his voice.

“How do you two feel about a job?” Wilbur asks, putting some of his power into his voice. Gold eyes glaze over, and Eret’s white eyes go glassy. 

----

“Get up.” Foolish spits out blood, holding his chest as Techno looms over him. “How do you expect to survive out there if you can’t win a simple fight.”

“I don’t need to survive ‘out there’.” Foolish snaps back. “I’m twelve. You said that we’d be going home. Why would ‘home’ be dangerous?”

“Because you and Eret are far too powerful.” Philza says, leaning against the door. “And anywhere you will settle will be dangerous. Eret’s undergoing similar training as well.”

“If we’re ‘too powerful’, than we should be able to just fight using our powers.”

“And be forced to kill and revive people?” Philza snaps, and Foolish flinches back, his eyes wide. “You haven’t even shown us what your powers can do. You both are holding out on us. We will get answers. Start again.”

Foolish stands, holding his arms up weakly. He’s not going to win. Not unless he snaps.

---

“Are those children?” Puffy asks Sam as the pair of them watch the Syndicate escape.

“Looks like it.” Sam turns to face his friend, before sighing. “Puffy, they look about Dream’s age, maybe younger.”

“Younger?”

“Puffy, calm down.” Sam puts his hand on her shoulders. “I’m sure that they’re fine.”

“It’s the syndicate. They’re being manipulated.”

“I’m not saying that they aren’t.” Sam agrees. “But you have to understand - we can’t save everyone, we have to wait for them to come to us.”

“I never want to fight children.”

“You used to.”

“Because I was one.” Puffy points out. “And you’re no better! You started younger then me, the only reason we aren’t in prison for vigilantism is because we were kids!”

“If they’re arrested they’ll be forgiven.”

“They won’t, Sam. It took years for Dream to be forgiven and he was nine.” Puffy points out, and Sam sighs.

“I’ll try and find the two so you can help them, okay? Stop being a mother hen.”

---

Foolish and Eret wander the streets, finally being allowed out without a handler. Well, it’s less that they’re allowed out, and more that the three men who could actually stop them have to attend a meeting, so they jumped out of the window and ran.

They aren’t running away, they know what happens to those who run. They’re just going back to their old house. They just want to see what’s happened to it.

If Foolish has to repeat that to Eret a few times, well then, that’s their buisness.

“Hello.” A woman says brightly. She has brown hair with blonde bangs, and a kind smile. “Are you two lost? You look confused.”

“We’re good.” Eret says, stepping in front of Foolish. The woman frowns, giving them a once over.

“Well, I’m Niki.” The woman sticks out her hand. “If you ever need me, I’m just in the bakery. I’ve heard the syndicate is around, I’d hate for you both to be kidnapped. There are rumours...” Niki swallows, giving them a nervous smile. “I lost my younger brother to them, I’d hate for anyone to loose you both.”

Foolish and Eret exchange a glance with eachother, before Eret gives Niki a large smile.

“We’ll keep that in mind.”

---

Foolish screams as he watches Eret get hit again, the sickening crack of the cane breaking Eret’s legs and Eret’s silent sobs rips the teens chest apart. Phil stands over Eret’s limp body, blood on his cane and dress pants. Phil lifts his cane again, and Foolish screams, struggling in Techno’s grip.

“You shouldn’t have run.” Wilbur says as Phil’s cane hits Eret’s already broken legs. “This is your punishment. We told you that this would happen.”

“Not them!” Foolish begs, golden tears falling from his tear ducts. “Please, hurt me, not them.”

“Watching is your punishment.” Wilbur shrugs. “Do you think she needs to get hit again, Dad? I’m thinking another ten hits for Foolish’s outburst.”

“No, please, no more.” Foolish begs, his legs giving out underneath him.

“Twenty.” Phil says, his cane hooking under Foolish’s chin. The Syndicate’s leader lift’s Foolish’s head up to look him in the eyes. “If you loose count, we start again.”

---

“I’m sorry.” Foolish repeats, bandaging Eret’s legs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“We need to leave.” Eret mumbles. “Niki. We need to escape. You need to escape.”

“Not without you.” Foolish swears. “Never without you.”

“They’re using you for your powers.” Eret wipes the tears from Foolish’s eyes. “You go. Get out. I’ll wait for you.”

Eret takes a small pendant out of their pocket; a little gold, winged angel with emeralds for eyes; and presses it into Foolish’s hands. Eret called it his ‘totem of undying’, the only thing her parents left her. Foolish’s eyes widen, tears forming.

“I can’t-”

“Live for us.” Eret begs him. “I’ll see you soon. Live for us, Foolish. I’ll wait for you. You know that.”

Foolish presses his forehead to Eret’s. A gold streak forms in Eret’s hair, and silver coats Foolish’s forehead. Foolish opens the window, a silent promise on his lips as the life drains from Eret’s body, and Foolish disappears into the night.

----

Puffy sits in Niki’s cafe, her head on the counter. The store is closed, but Puffy sits, coffee in her hands, groaning into the bench.

“One of those nights, huh?” Niki asks quietly. “I thought you had today off.”

“Dream’s at Schlatt’s.” Puffy mumbles. “He told me to ‘have a date night’, like i have someone to go on a date with.”

“Well, I’m always free.” Niki winks at the woman, a bright red blush coats the heroines face.

“Shut up!” Puffy says, throwing her mask at Niki. 

The pair laugh for a moment, the air relaxed, before a crashing noise shatters their carefully manicured peace. The door to the cafe is open, a teenager sprawled on the floor. Niki gasps, quickly jumping the counter to get to him, as Puffy recognises the boy.

Though his forehead is an unnatural, metalic silver, and his eyes fading from gold to emerald green, this is undoubtably one of the children that Puffy had seen with the Syndicate. And now he’s lying on the floor, gold tears and red blood staining his body.

“They killed her,” He gasps, looking at Niki. “Please miss Niki, they killed her.”

“Who did?” Niki asks, and Puffy’s heart lodges itself in her throat.

“The Syndicate.”

---

The next few months passed by in a blur. Eret wasn’t found, and no statement or taunt was released by the Syndicate, so if Eret truely died that night, Foolish wouldn’t know. How many times does Eret have to die for him?

Ponk says that he’s in shock, and that since he had just escaped what is basically a kidnapping, he’d be in limbo for a while. Puffy and Niki both seem to recognise that limbo is actually just ‘a mental hospital because his mind is shattered beyond repair’, but Foolish doesn’t want to believe it.

Sure, he knows it’s true but he doesn’t want to believe it.

So when Callahan, one of Puffy’s friends, comes in carrying Eret on his back, the shock alone is enough to break Foolish from his trance. Eret’s legs are bent at an odd angle, and they’re covered in blood, but they’re alive.

The gold is cut from their hair, and there are bruises on their face, but they’re alive.

Niki follows Callahan in, a dangerous look in her eyes and blood on her shirt. Foolish can tell it’s not Eret’s, so he doesn’t pay it too much mind.

“Niki are you-”

“It’s the Syndicate’s.” She says blankly. “Fix Eret, Ponk. I don’t want to see that kid hurt again, so fix him up.”

And then Eret is gone from Foolish’s gaze, though Callahan and Niki stay. The deer hybrid lies down besides him, and Niki holds his hands as they wait.

Foolish doesn’t know if he likes being aware.

---

“You promise we’ll be allowed to see each other?” Eret asks, his hand clutched in Foolish’s, and Puffy’s heart shatters. These kids, these children have been hurt so much, and are so dependant on each other, that the idea of seperating them hurts.

“Of course.” Puffy promises, and Callahan nods. “We won’t seperate you, but the therapist says that the pair of you being so co-dependant is unhealthy. That why Callahan and I aren’t having a custody battle at the moment.”

What does that therapist know, anyways, Puffy grumbles to herself. These two shouldn’t be seperated.

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Puffy nods, and the pair relax. They hug for a moment, lingering as though that moment will be their last, before Callahan and Eret hop into their car, and drive away from Puffy’s home.

Hopefully Dream will like Foolish.

---

Foolish likes Dream. He’s a fun older brother to have, if he’s completely honest. And his friends are strange, but fun. If Foolish had to be honest, though, he wishes that he didn’t have to cover for his brother so often. There are only so many times Foolish can distract Puffy before she eventually realises that he other teen is up to no good.

Not that Foolish thinks the woman is fooled, but still.

Foolish watches as Dream spits out blood, leaning on Foolish’s bedroom door, and the teen knows this is something he has to tell Puffy.

“Don’t you dare.” Dream warn, but Foolish just grins nervously.

“MUM! DREAM’S HURT!”

“You bitch!” Dream groans, but Foolish doesn’t feel bad, turning back to his computer. Foolish listens as his mother runs into the room, fretting over her eldest son.

Foolish gives Dream a once over, and he spies the relief on his brother’s face as their mother looks after him.

---

“Mum, come on.” Foolish complains, leaning dramatically on Puffy’s side. “You promised we’d leave in an hour”

“That was 15 minutes ago.” Puffy rolls her eyes. “You’re not going to be late to see Eret if we leave in 45 minutes.”

“But what if they’re early, or there’s traffic.” 

“It is the middle of the night on a Wednesday. There’s no traffic.” Puffy laughs. “And we’re picking up Eret, too.”

“C’mon, Fool.” Dream says, pulling on his jacket. “Just cause you want to see your partner-”

“I don’t like what you’re implying there”

“-Doesn’t mean that we have to leave right now.” Dream finishes, pinching Foolish’s cheek.

“Eret and I aren’t dating.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

“So, you and George are?” Foolish quips back. “I mean you like him more than I like Eret.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, Mum needs to take us to the light show!”

“Boys! That’s enough!” Puffy says, laughing. “Okay, we’ll go now.”

---

Foolish watches as the fire licks at the apartment building, Eret and he having decided to go for a walk. They don’t dare step any closer - villains who set buildings on fire are dangerous to be caught by.

“Foolish,” Eret gasps, his hand over his mouth. “that’s Dream.”

And Foolish’s heart shatters, as he watches his brother put a sword through their mother’s stomach.

---

Foolish refuses to leave Puffy’s side, and Eret refuses to leave his, for the entire duration fo Puffy’s healing process. Cold anger washes over Foolish at the mention of his brothers betrayal, the betrayal too close, too personal. As though it had happened before. As though Puffy didn’t pour her heart and soul into making sure that Dream and Foolish were better people than the men who moulded them into weapons.

It takes Eret reminding Foolish that he’d become everything he hated to stop Foolish from hunting down his parricidal brother and killing the traitor himself.

Puffy and Callahan talk, Callahan’s hands moving too quick for Foolish to keep up with, and Puffy’s voice too quiet for him to decipher. He wants to know, Eret wants to know what the parents are talking about, but they have to ‘be patient’ and ‘not eavesdrop’.

The pair have vastly improved on the patience front since they were adopted.

Puffy walks into the room, Sam and Callahan - when did Sam arrive? - walking behind her.

“As I think we all know, you’re both aproximately seventeen, right?” Puffy begins, nervously looking to Sam and Callahan for support. “I want to give you both the opportunity to become heroes. I’ve spoken to our boss, he’s willing to let you both join early if you want to. It’s a free ride through university and you can live in the tower or here and-”

“What Puffy is trying to say, is that you’re both good people, and we want to give you access to the opportunities we had.” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

Eret and Foolish exchange glances, smiles on their faces.

“We’d love to.”

[a-flower-lover]

Aunt Alicia Didn’t Prevent The Apocalypse

Hello, @phandom-phriend! Here’s your Christmas Truce gift! I hope you like it :3

Word Count: 2680

Summary: When there is an explosion at the Nasty Burger, killing almost her entire family, Aunt Alicia handles it.

It took a good week for Alicia to hear the news. It took only one more for her bags to be packed, the plans laid out, and her trusty lawyer to be prepared for a call just in case. Then she was in Amity Park, for the first time in years and years, only it was not for any good reason. 

The first thing she did after checking into her hotel had been to drive herself to the funeral. 

There were so few people in attendance, it was… Stunning, to say the least. But Alicia hadn't known her sister to have many friends, and Jack even less… regardless she thought at least a few would arrive. Maybe even some family, from Jack's side of course. And the little she had talked to her nephew during the arrangement, made it seem he knew people that she hadn't, and that Jazz would have some people coming for her side of things. 

There was practically no one. No one there to comfort her nephew while she hadn't been there for him, no one to make sure he wasn't blaming himself for it all. Hell. His entire support network had been wiped out in one go. He needed people who cared. Who would share in his grief. 

Alicia was too busy during the service to do any of the comforting. She doubted she even could. She lacked the gentle touch her sister had learned when dealing with children, and she was a mite too rough to handle a kid who witnessed the death this one had. 

Poor kid. 

After the service, she made an attempt to talk to him about the custody matter. She doubted the courts would allow it, given her record, but she did want to keep an eye on him. She doubted he'd be happy in the woods she loved, but she'd be willing to move wherever he wanted within reason. She had the money. You marry a businessman, you get money. If you live off your own land, you get to keep it. She could afford whatever Danny needed, if he asked. 

She knew of a godfather existing. The dick hadn't shown up to the funeral, but she knew he existed. She was told he lived in Wisconsin, was a high n’ mighty CEO of multiple corporations. A single rich billionaire who lived in a mansion no one visited, who was more likely than not gonna be a terrible influence on a hurt kid. But he'd have more of a legal claim on Danny than her. 

She'd already lost a child, the courts were not likely to give her another. Even if she promised to move out from the woods.

But Danny's choice was all that mattered for her. If he wanted her to, she'd fight tooth and nail for him. She'd tear the world apart to help the last remaining family she had left, if he wanted her to. 

Alicia was not good at affection. She was not good at showing she cared. She was stubborn, aggressive, and she'd been hurt in her life. She was not the person Danny needed, who would be endlessly understanding and gentle. She was one of the only options he had. 

So after the service was over she asked him. Did he want to live with her, wherever he wanted to go, or did he want to go with his godfather. Originally he had been confused. He had a godfather? He had a choice? She explained what she knew, and he only seemed to grow more confused. Said he'd met the man, but hadn't known he was his godfather. Said he'd have to think on it more. 

Alicia knew it meant he wouldn't pick her. It wasn’t a surprise when she was proven right. (She was practically a stranger, to Danny. The few times they’d interacted she was sure didn’t leave any semblance of a good impression.)

The legal processes after a death were lengthy, at least when Alicia had to work with Masters. After the courts had said he'd get custody of Danny, he had "helpfully" decided to put his nose in the work Alicia was doing for the inheritance. Not that it was all too confusing for her to handle; everything was being left to Danny, if she had anything to say about it. One would think the man who'd be caring for the child would agree, but you'd be surprised. 

In addition, any time she wished to talk to her nephew she'd first have to undergo a sort of interrogation from Masters, about what she wanted to see her nephew for, or she was simply turned away from the door without another word. She had never seen the Fenton house so dark, and empty, and cold, as she had the month after their deaths. She couldn't imagine any reason Danny would want to stay cooped up in there, especially not on his own, but Masters kept her out and she had no standing if she decided she didn't like being kept out like she was. 

So if she wanted to ask if Danny wanted any of his inheritance readily accessible, or what if anything he wanted sold, or if he wanted the FentonWorks business to be given to Masters or if he wanted to shut it down, any of that sort of stuff was impossible for her to get answers for. Masters thought he could try to play a game of telephone with her, telling her what Danny wanted for Danny, often without asking, but Masters was a stupid bastard if he thought she'd let a businessman speak for her nephew. 

So between attempts to contact Danny before he moved to Wisconsin with Masters, Alicia instead focused on her own personal project. 

After learning the parents of Danny's late friends we're not planning on letting him attend their funerals, because the bastards blamed him for the deaths that day like immature pricks, Alicia had worked out a deal to allow him to attend without being harassed. If he wanted to, anyhow. That was another thing Alicia had yet to ask him. But giving him the choice was important to her. So she had agreed to the deal. 

She was going to foot the bill for a statue the Manson's had planned, to honor their dead daughter, and the Foley's were going to have their son part of the statue as well.

Of course, if they were getting their statue of their losses, Alicia was going to get a statue of hers. (She was not going to lie and say that adding the Fentons to the statue was one of the things she was doing for Danny. She was doing her best to make this loss easy on him, but she knew a lot of her best was neglecting her own grief. If she was going to be forced to commission a damn statue for his sake, she might as well kill two birds with one stone by adding in elements for her sake. The funerals were going to happen before even the statues pedestals were done, let alone the statues themselves, so if the assholes who blamed her nephew didn't like it they'd be too late to do anything about it.) 

So the project was the oversight of the clearing of the Nasty Burger explosion site, and the construction of the pedestal and base for the statues. Thanks to the richer Manson folk, and even Masters after Alicia told the bastard what she was doing the thing for, the statue's plans and location had been legally settled right in time for construction to begin. 

The first few days of it were normal. Just Alicia, the hired construction men, and the occasional terrible reminder of what they were cleaning up as a chunk of metal covered in dried brown markings passed by her eyes and was tossed into the dump truck. 

It was the eighth day, she thinks, when she started seeing the ghost. 

The ghost was familiar. She had chatted with Maddie about a ghost matching this one's description, the last anniversary of Alicia's divorce, between moments of frustration as she tried to tell her sister that leaving a man too stupid for her was a positive. (Alicia. Regretted, that. Not that Alicia was a woman who regretted many things, but. Her last memories of her sister were of getting a nice divorce anniversary party, after being what many would describe as an ass simply because Maddie loved her husband more than he was stupid. Not everything that works for Alicia works for others. Hadn't Maddie said that? At least something like it, surely.) 

Snowy white hair. Black suit. Green eyes, but she couldn't say they were glowing. If they had at one point, they didn't now. Looking incredibly familiar, a face she was reluctant to place because she didn't know what it could mean. But matching Maddie's description anyways. 

He sat, just far enough away from the site that he was out of the way, but close enough that Alicia could see the tremors wracking his body, and the slight shine on his cheeks. 

Ghost or no, that was first and foremost a kid. A kid who looked mighty like another kid Alicia knew. And even if the familiarity was only surface level and coincidental, she could use the practice. Practice comforting someone, she meant. But it took a few more days of the ghost appearing for her to actually approach, as caution overruled empathy. 

"You look a mite troubled, there." She said, hands in her pocket as she approached the figure. It didn't move, hardly acknowledging her. Perhaps it didn't think she was talking to it. "I'd ask what's wrong, but I reckon I already could guess." She crouched down, reaching out to touch the specter on the shoulder, but it was quick to scoot itself out of reach, though she took that to mean that now it acknowledged her. Good. A start. 

"Wh-?" It stopped before it could really start talking back. Alicia took that as her queue to keep going. 

"My apologies. Jus' saw a kid needin' help, but I can leave you be if you really want." She said, and the ghost started to shake it's head vigorously. "Then I'll be glad t' listen to your troubles, kiddo."

"Um, but why?" It said. "I'm not a kid. I'm a ghost."

"You sure don't look a day over twelve, ghost or no." Alicia pretended not to find the responding scowl humorous. Just another small thing, proof it was just a child.

"I'm fourteen." The ghost said. Alicia held back her response. This ghost really was familiar, wasn't it.

"Well, then. Fourteen. Certainly, much much older." Alicia snorted, shaking her head. "No, no, I wasn't here to rag on ya. What's the matter? I doubt your eyes we're shinin' cause the cleanup is so beautiful." The ghost, who had for a moment been distracted from the sight, immediately turned back to it, and a very dreary expression bloomed on its face. 

"'s my fault." The ghost mumbled, almost so quiet Alicia didn't hear. It pulled its tail up to its chest and wrapped its arms around it, resting its chin on them. Not once losing sight of the remains of the Nasty Burger. 

"Now I really doubt that." A week in the town had told Alicia that the Phantom ghostie Maddie so despised was revered as the town hero. While Alicia was of the opinion that most city folk were brainless sheep, she had never bought the idea Maddie got from Jack that all ghosts and similar sort were evil. If they were, then that meant all people were evil, because ghosts came from the dead. Alicia was pessimistic at the baseline, but she'd got nothing but kindness from the neighbors when the worst had happened to her and everyone else was blaming her for it. She couldn't believe they'd turn out any different had they died. So believing this ghost could be a town hero was nothing of a stretch. 

"I did, though." The ghost whined, a sound bordering on animalistic, a clear distress call. Alicia wondered if another ghost would come to answer. "I had a fight, here, days before the explosion. I was the one who damaged the vat, and caused it. I even-" The words broke off into another whine, louder and sadder than before. Tears ran down the ghosts face, tinted green and glowing. 

"Now you couldn't have known what would happen." Alicia said, but the ghost didn't react. "And I bet it wasn't a fight you started." The ghost still didn't respond. "Honestly, you and my nephew. Kids always blame themselves for things out of their control." She sighed, shaking her head. This got a reaction out of the ghost, a small flinch, that if Alicia hadn't been paying close attention to and trying to see she would have missed. 

"Danny’s a good kid. I don't know why he blames himself, but I know it wasn't his fault. I may not know you, but I feel it's the same for you." Alicia said, and she paused. Would it be bad to continue? The ghost was only looking more and more upset, especially now that she mentioned her nephew. 

"It's not the same for me." The ghost eventually said, after a minute of indecision. "If it's not… not your nephews fault, then it has to be mine." The ghost said. 

Alicia frowned. That was a stupid way to reason this. There was no one at fault for this, except maybe the people who decided a Nasty Burger must be prepped to self destruct at any moment. 

She would have said so, too, if the ghost hadn't've disappeared as soon as her mouth opened. 

After that, the ghost kept appearing. To watch the clearing process, and to watch Alicia. But any time she'd try to get close to talk to the other again, it'd disappear. It was a touch frustrating, but nothing to be done. She wasn't gonna go chasing ghosties. That was never and will never be her place. 

She was generally spending less time at the site after that, too, which was another factor in not talking to the ghost any more. Danny had finally started to answer the door instead of Masters, and Alicia was better able to talk to him. While he started to avoid questions any time it got around to how he was feeling, he didn't seem too off. Or, not really any more off than he would be after what happened. 

He attended his friends' funerals, and said that no one gave him a hard time. He worked out what he wanted to keep, and what he wanted to get rid of. He wanted to keep the building, and keep FentonWorks. Masters would keep track of it until Danny was older, of course, but Alicia was fine with Danny's decision. 

He came with her only once to watch the site clearing, to watch the last batch of shrapnel and debris be hauled away, leaving only the broken shell and sign of the old building. When Alicia explained that they weren't planning on rebuilding at the moment, Danny didn't seem to care. After that it was time for him to leave, to meet Masters at his new home. 

Masters had left a week before, looking troubled, but putting on a show of ease when Alicia approached to ask why he was leaving Danny behind. He had a lot to prepare, was his excuse. Bullshit. But Danny had been fine with it. Said he even asked the man to. So Alicia, though it made her unhappy a great deal, left it alone.

Alicia took one last month in Amity to settle affairs, to see the completion of the statue, and to rest flowers at each of her family's graves (yes, even Jacks). The time during which she didn't see the ghost again, to her disappointment. 

Then she left and went back to her home in Spittoon, Arkansas. Alone.

[thebountyfucker]

Kyuzo/Phatrong Headcanon Masterpost

I created a post similar to this on my main blog @kyuzan-queen years ago and wanted to give it a refresh!

Included in this post:

Kyuzan biology (does include NSFW elements) Culture: Clothing, Music/Art, Religion, Familial culture, Politics, and life of Phatrong

Kyuzoni biology:

The Kyuzo are an omnivorous (carnivorous-leaning) reptilian species. They sport a mouthful of sharp fangs and a long tongue. While they are reptilian, they are warm blooded and do not lay eggs. Because of Phatrong's inconsistent weather, Kyuzo evolved to be able to maintain and regulate their own body temperatures. Their bodies can accept a shift in temperature of about 20 degrees Fahrenheit before it starts to affect them. They, like cold-blooded reptiles, do enjoy sunning/basking. It's good for their mental health and other bodily processes!

Kyuzos also evolved to carry pregnancies and give live births, also because of the weather. The process of Kyuzan pregnancy is awkward and painful, though, and mortality rates for mothers are quite high.

Kyuzo skin is rough, but not scaly like Trandoshans. Skin colors can range anywhere from green, to yellow, to blue and in between. However, those who are purely yellow or blue have a common pigmentation disorder. Their health is not negatively affected because of this, although people might treat them differently depending on where they live.

All Phatrongi Kyuzo are born with honeycomb eyes, that can be any color. Their eyes tend to glow in the dark, and they can see in the dark better than most humanoids.

Other than having slightly wider hips, cis females are very similar to cis males. Cis females do not have breasts or any noticeable secondary sex traits. While cis males tend to be a bit taller and wider framed, its not uncommon for cis females to have those traits, and vice versa. Intersex Kyuzo are common. Gender is very fluid among the Kyuzo, as parents tend to raise their children without a defined gender; when the child is of age, they get to decided what their gender is. Thus, being trans or nonbinary is prevalent.

The Kyuzo can be up to 7′6″ tall, with most falling in the 6′ to 6′6″ range. They tend to have larger frames than humans but are considerably more agile.

The weakest part of the Kyuzo is their lungs; if there is too much moisture in the air, they can easily contract pneumonia. Too little oxygen in the air and they’ll suffocate. Thus the reason they wear masks off planet.  

Kyuzo, beyond that, are an incredibly hearty species that can live upward of three hundred years. After reaching sexual maturity at around young adulthood, their aging slows down. Whatever kills them before old age is usually attributed to their lungs or more physical means. They can contract other diseases, but they are usually nonfatal. Usually.

They have an amazing amount of stamina and can run at speeds that are hard for most humanoids to attain. They, unfortunately, have high pain tolerances and a hard time receiving fatigue messages to the brain, and this generally spells out problems. Kyuzos have been known to run themselves to death - literally. It’s not uncommon for families to find the bodies of missing members hundreds of miles away from where they were last seen. They have to make a very conscious effort to stop, or they won’t.

Kyuzo are much stronger than other humanoids, and can jump higher. Most outsiders confuse them as force sensitives for this reason. Kyuzos can be Force-sensitive, but it's rare to find Kyuzo Jedi.

Kyuzan cocks are long, with a tapered head. Most cocks have ridges or nodes on the top that would expand when inside a Kyuzan pussy. These nodes would help to anchor the cock inside. However, when fucking a near-human, these nodes/ridges tend to only work as extra sensation against the g-spot and a-spot.

Culture:

Clothing:

Most feminine presenting Kyuzo wear headwraps/headdresses. Other than displaying wealth and covering cold heads, there isn’t much of a reason that they wear the headdresses. It’s not required, but most feminine presenting people wear them because they grew up seeing other feminine presenting people wearing them. If one is wealthy, their headdresses will tend to be large and elaborate; it’s not uncommon for one to wear a headdress that is pounds upon pounds of metals, jewels, and cloth. Poorer feminine presenting people generally just wear cloth, or nothing at all.

Kyuzoni clothing is colorful and flowy; people wear very similar clothing, no matter what gender they are. Dresses and skirts are very common, and people will generally go topless. While most colors are okay to use, there are certain colors that are not used in everyday clothing, such as purple, light blue, gold, and white; the Kyuzo place sacred meaning in some colors, so they are only supposed to be used for special events.

Phatrong’s army/police force wear loose, non-restricting clothing with a leather-like armor covering their chests. Their family’s crest is painted upon the armor, in case that the warrior is killed in action. Their clothing is trimmed in gold, which represents bravery and wisdom.

Light blue cloth, specifically headwraps or shirts, signify that a wedding is approaching. Purple is a wedding color, as it signifies prosperity and commitment; wedding clothes are trimmed with silver. White is only used for funerals or births, as it signifies both death and the innocence of new life.

Music/Art:

Music on Phatrong generally revolves around stringed instruments and percussion instruments; they don’t generally listen to music for leisure. Music is only played at festivals, and generally tells the stories of ancient heroes and gods. The Kyuzo also create dances to these story-songs, to make things more dramatic.

Art varies around Phatrong. By the oceans, it’s mostly glass-work like beads and giant stained glass windows. Those Kyuzo that live by the rivers create pottery. Richer families will paint large murals that will cover the walls of their homes. These murals tell tales of their gods, but more often than not they are used almost like photographs that capture small moments in the lives of the family. Jewelry making is also common.

Religion:

The Kyuzo believe in a polytheistic system; the most prominent goddess is Vohaoya (Vo-ha-oy-ah), the mother of the gods and creator of worlds. She represents women, fertility, life, and nature; she is described as having a mostly Kyuzoni appearance, with three eyes and four arms. Often, she is shown in art or statues sitting cross-legged, cradling Phatrong in her lap; her arms are either pointing toward the sky, or she is making gestures with her hands. Her bottom arms are often portrayed as laying flat against her legs with palms upturned - this relays openness. Her left top arm is often resting on the planet, which portrays her protective nature. And her right top arm is often pointed upward, her pointer finger curling in toward her palm while the rest of her fingers are outstretched; this is a symbol of love for the Kyuzo. Her statues are mostly made out of gold, but are painted with the likeness of galaxies; some people swear that the stars shift in the right light.

Other more minor deities include Ixpi, the goddess of peace, and her brother Echting, the god of war. Because the Kyuzo like to believe that they are a peaceful race, Echting is often described as a villain. Ixpi is described as a small, rainbow-colored being that floats rather than walks; besides being the goddess of peace, she is also a patron of happiness, sunrise, and the LGBT community on Phatrong. Echting is also the god of destruction, mayhem, and storms; he is often described as a fiery being too bright to look at. He is surrounded by lightning and is easily angered.

There are temples, wherein these gods can be worshipped. The temples are all large and ornate, made usually of marble or wood. The temples for Vohaoya and Ixpi are run exclusively by priestesses, and though men can worship there, men cannot serve the goddesses. Men can work at the temples of Echting, but not many do, given the god's bad reputation.

Legend has it that Vohaoya created the Warriors of old to protect the gods from those that wished to harm them. They were created from the rich soil, and they were considered divine beings. In the modern era of Phatrong, it is still considered one of the highest honors to be a Warrior.

Life on Phatrong:

The Kyuzo tend to live in large villages or the few small cities around the planet; those who are born into the more obscure villages often never leave the villages.

Villages are generally comprised of thousands of people, all of which are extended family members. Separate families can have more than twenty-five members, all living in one house. Villagers take turns tending to the communal farm, which produces most of their food and fibers for clothing; to supplement the farm, they also forage, hunt, and fish.

Village born Kyuzo are very secluded, only working with neighboring villages to marry off their children. Because of their seclusion, they are the more suspicious and less educated than their city counterparts. Knowledge is passed down through the generations as those born in the villages don’t have access to teachers. At most, they know Kyuzoni and basic math: they are instead taught more practical skills, like sewing, cooking, cleaning, and animal husbandry.

There are two ‘real’ cities on Phatrong, Shutalo and Shouji; Shutalo (Shoo-tah-loh) is the capital city, to the north. Shouji (Show-zhee) is a large industrial city in the southern hemisphere. Any outside trade is limited to these two areas.

Kyuzo that live in the city tend to have smaller families, with about six members at the most. The Kyuzo in the cities have actual jobs, but they don’t make money; they are given items of use instead. (Think of bartering, almost. If they work at a textile store, they are given cloth, which can then be traded for food, etc.) Villages that have produced too much food or are in need of other items will sell food to the city folk.

City Kyuzo have better access to education, although it’s still not the best in the galaxy. Most city Kyuzo learn things like writing, higher levels of math, and an objective look on the planet’s history. Kyuzo that wish to learn beyond that must travel off planet.

It’s extremely difficult for Kyuzos to speak Basic, just because Kyuzoni and Basic are so different. It can take years and years just to get the verbal language down, and that doesn’t count how long it takes for them to learn to read Aurebesh. If the Kyuzo do manage to figure out how to speak Basic, they have thick accents that are often hard to understand, thus making them vulnerable to mockery.

Politics:

Politics on Phatrong are strange as the government actually doesn’t do much. The senate, located in Shutalo, is a group of Kyuzo (and a few Kataline) from various villages and cities that are there to set basic laws so that they can have a seat in the Council of Neutral Systems. Really, the various villages will set their own rules, and as long as it doesn’t interfere with the senate, they’re generally alright with it. (A law would include: Murder is punishable by death. But their definition of murder is loose and up to interpretation.)

Kyuzo children (generally young men but it’s not limited to males) learn to fight from the moment they can understand. The Kyuzo, although a generally ‘peaceful’ race, train their children to become a quasi-army/police force. The most promising fighters are then shipped off to various academies around Phatrong to train with masters to hone their skills. Many children, as a result of poor quality of life at the academies and dangerous fighting practices, end up dying. It is rare that the academies are punished. The children that make it then must complete a three-year stint as an active warrior; those who passed but are not necessarily promising are sent to protect sacred temples. Those who show a certain level of finesse can continue to climb the ranks until they are high-ranking military officials. They act more like a police force than a military, but they have the training just in case.

Marriage and Family Life:

Kyuzo children are often promised to each other at birth; throughout their childhoods, they get to meet and connect with their betrothed. They generally marry at eighteen, with a week-long festival preceding it. Certain wives -ones that are ordained from birth by priestesses- are considered sacred embodiments of the Goddess Vohaoya, and are limited to bearing five children; superstition says that having too many children will thin out the wife’s existence. Daughters are vitally important to carry on their mother’s bloodline.

Because Kyuzo value large family, a husband will take a wetzandi as well; a wetzandi, or birth maid, is a younger woman who births the rest of a man’s children. A wetzandi is someone who is generally caught bedding out of wedlock, or has committed some other small crime against the goddesses. Unfortunately, they are not valued by most, and are treated as little more than breeding stock.

[eikhos]

[GIFT]  his colors.   [Laszlo Kreizler x Original Howard Character.]

[FOR MY DARLING WIFE @lovie-barnes xxx i love you. ]

Rating : K.

Fandom : The Alienist. 

Characters : Original Howard Character,   Laszlo Kreizler, Sara Howard,  John Moore,  brief appareance of Stevie and original character.

“The strings of her corset tightened sharply,, making the air from Alice's lungs get  brutally expelled, she clenched her teeth as her maid bent down to put the folds of her petticoat back in place. Red, bloody red that was married to black, her maid -Miyanda-, smiled at her and slowly slipped the pendant that formed a gold heart around her neck, Alice thanked her maid while checking that her hair was incapable. The youngest of the Howard family had spent several years in France, taking care to learn the language of the country while launching body and soul into her passion, painting. For many people it wasn’t a real job, but her sister, Sara, had always told her that she had a real gift. Already small, her parents found her asleep, paint staining her face and her clothes, making her mother sigh. She grabbed the pocket watch - which had belonged to her father before the accident -, and noticed that it was already seven fifty-five, Sara had given her an appointment at eight o'clock at the mysterious Doctor Kreizler’s  house even though he was not that mysterious, she had read the press, he was the Alienist, often hired as a consultant by the police to help them solve pretty sordid cases. She sighed, she had never met him and it twitched her stomach, was he going to search her soul to reveal her darkest secrets? Swallowing her saliva with difficulty, Alice stepped outside after slipping her arms into a light jacket, her coachman was waiting for her, the horses seemed slightly restless tonight.

The way to Doctor Kreizler's house was peaceful, Alice watched the childrens playing in the streets, collecting stones and taking care not to be pushed around by some men who seemed badly tipsy, Sara had advised her never to go out on her own at night, at least without a weapon. She shook her head before the coachman pulled on the reins of the horses which stopped protesting, the coachman growled under his beard before descending to help Alice down, she thanked him with a smile and approached the front of the house. Doctor Kreizler's house.

There was absolutely no doubt that the Alienist was definitely richer than half of New York. Cautiously going up the few steps to the door, Alice felt her heart leap, she knocked  lightly several times  on the heavy door, she heard voices, one of which seemed to belong,  to a young boy.

-Good evening ma'am! My name is Stevie. Are you here to see the doctor? the young boy asked with a jovial smile.

- Good evening, yes…. I -.... My sister, Sara, invited me over for the evening.  Maybe she has already arrived? Alice stammered hard, feeling her anxiety growing.

-For sure, ma'am! Miss Howard is already present as well as Mr. Moore. Oh, how stupid am i, it's not very hot and you're outside, the Doctor clearly wouldn’t  appreciate that sort of rudeness, please forgive me, the young man sighed as he let her in.

She smiled as she stepped inside, she looked around, inspecting the walls curiously, everything seemed perfectly cleaned and tidy although it would surprise her that someone like Doctor Kreizler did his daily housework himself. Young Stevie escorted her to the living room where the discussions were going well, Sara smiled and hugged her, Alice returned the hug awkwardly before smiling at John who did a bow in front of her,  making her blush. 

Leaning against the wall, a figure seemed to be absorbed in the darkness, it made her frown slightly before Sara rolled her eyes, looking vaguely annoyed, her sister glanced at John who shrugged as he grabbed a box made of wood which contained cigarettes. He lit one of the cigarettes, offered one to Alice who refused, not wishing to damage her lungs. She chatted for several minutes with her sister who asked her absolutely all the details of her trip to France, it had not been as exciting as expected but at least she had visited a country.  Alice jumped as the shadowy figure passed into the light, Doctor Laszlo Kreizler's piercing eyes fell on her, Alice bit the inside of her cheek.  His  hair was neatly groomed, his beard was trimmed to perfection, he  was wearing a very simple black suit and a waistcoat with dark gray arabesques and gold buttons. He walked over to her and gently grabbed her hand before placing a frail kiss on it.

-Laszlo, this is my sister, Alice Howard. My sister has an artistic streak, she is a painter, to the great regret of our father. -Miss Howard, a pleasure to finally meet you, Sara never ceases to brag about your talents as a painter. -The pleasure is entirely shared, Doctor Kreizler, Alice smiles softly. I have followed your work extensively over the years, I find your approach to the human mind absolutely fascinating. - Thank you, Miss Howard. Many do not share your opinion.

This made Alice smile slightly,  she nodded, continuing to observe the Alienist, she had often taken care to get all the papers that mentioned him. And now, she was in front of him, she thought as John poured four glasses of excellent scotch. She continued to nibble her lower lip mechanically, a twitch of nervousness. Alice jumped as the Alienist's fingers caught her lip gently to pull it out of her teeths. 

 -You are extremely nervous, Miss Howard. I assure you that your lower lip has nothing to do with it and biting it will not reduce your current anxiety in any way, the Alienist pointed out. Could I know what worries you so much? Would you happens to have social issues ? 

-I'm sorry, Doctor Kreizler. Since I was a child, being around other people has always been a huge source of anxiety for me. I still feel like some odd specimen put in the middle of a room full of people from other ranks, Alice sighed, gently scratching her right wrist. 

He nodded slightly, listening to it patiently before taking her right wrist in his hand, the alienist's fingers trace whitish lines that seemed encrusted in the skin, it didn't take a genius to understand the meaning of such traces. She bit her tongue delicately, Laszlo Kreizler's fingers browsing the whitish lines.

-You are an artist, Miss Howard and many think that art is a form of madness, but I do not share that opinion. You should be able to be comfortable with other people. I would love to be able to admire your works if possible, of course? Kreizler asked.

Alice's eyes had shone at that moment, she had seen the shadow of a smile on the Alienist's lips. Her heart was pounding in her chest, she almost felt like it was about to pierce her envelope of  her skin soon. There was something reassuring about the Alienist, she felt good, calm. The usual panic in her from being in the presence of mens wasn’t there. The evening went off without a hitch, Laszlo and John insisting that Alice taste the new liquors from a famous American distiller. She stopped after two glasses, she was caught by the Alienist when she almost fell, he clumsily supports her and reinstalled her in the armchair, kneeling down to check her reflexes, she had a sorry smile, Laszlo advised Sara to take her home.

Alice painfully opened her eyes the next morning, she rubbed her eyes with her hands and then yawned, vaguely remembering the events of the night before, a pair of chocolate eyes seeming to invade her thoughts. She washed and changed, walking to the kitchen where Miyanda had already made her usual breakfast, Alice glanced at the huge oak clock, it was ten in the morning. She quietly ate her buttered bread and her grilled bacon with two eggs whose yolks were still runny when cut.

- Miss Howard, a gentleman called, I dared not to wake you up. He said his name was Doctor Laszlo Kreizler, I remember reading about him in the papers. He would like to convey the message to you that a package will be waiting outside your door after nine-thirty, but I heard no one, Miyanda announced with a slight smile.

It took a while for Alice to register the information then she leaped like a beast from the chair she was sitting in, rushing to the door to open it and find a huge wooden box, she frowned and  lifted  it with difficulty, wincing before heading to the living room, setting the box down on her table before finally opening it carefully. She slid the thick wooden board that was on top of the box before her jaw almost dropped to the floor when she discovered the contents of the box: tubes of gouache from a prestigious brand, perfectly sharpened and aligned pencils. , chalks whose different variations of the same color made her hold her breath and there was also a little box with a beautiful silver  pen and black ink. She nodded before noticing that there was a folded note with her initials delicately written, she took the paper gently before unfolding it.

“Miss Howard,

Your sister whispered to me that you had lost a lot of your precious drawing materials that you had saved so much during your childhood. I could not bring myself not to offer you a material worthy of the name, from the best craftsmen in the country. I hope you will put it to good use, you have aroused my curiosity about your art, the praise of your sister confirms me in the idea that you are undoubtedly gifted with great talent. Would you agree to accompany me to the opera and then have dinner at Delmonico’s on Saturday night? My contact details are written on the back of this letter.

Cordially,

Doctor Laszlo Kreizler. “

[swan--writes]

Beetlejuice’s Big Halloween Party

I thought about writing a Dewey Halloween, but let’s be real, there ain’t room for the both of these boys in this here holiday.

And listen, it is 2:30 AM and I just finished writing this. I wrote it all in one go. I’m not editing it. Please reblog though! Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain!

Warnings: elements of horror, blood mention, eyeball mention

Words: 3,070

You screamed.

“Beetlejuice!”

Your demon laughed at you from the rafters of your barn. Ever since you had moved out to your farmhouse, Beetlejuice had been hanging around. Sometimes literally. Normally you found you didn’t mind the demon’s antics – he kept things lively when there wasn’t much going on out where you lived. Sometimes he donned an old sheet and floated around the house. Sometimes he went out into your backyard and howled at the tree line. And sometimes he dropped live bats from the rafters of the barn, directly onto your unsuspecting head.

Frantically, you waved away the little menace. All you could see were glimpses of a wrinkled snout and long teeth. It seemed to be flapping its wings as fast as you were flapping your hands, and by the time it managed to fly off, Beetlejuice was hanging upside-down in midair and cackling.

“Wow, what a jumpy breather,” he said, wiping a thick black tear from his eye. You thought you heard it sizzle as it fell to the worn wooden floor.

“Knock it off, Beej.”

“Yeah, sure I will.”

“Seriously!” You shook your head, fighting off a shiver. “There’s gonna be screaming hordes of children here in, like, an hour. I cannot still be cleaning up your messes when they get here. So, lose the bats and the bugs and the…whatever else you’ve got.” You narrowed your eyes at his tattered suit jacket.

“Relax, babes, I got it all under control.”

Without thinking, you took a step back as he righted himself in the air. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

“Hey, take the help or don’t. I’ll be here all night.” With that, he zoomed up to the rafters, dropping beetle carcasses in his wake. You shrieked and leaped back. “Beetlejuice!” you complained, only to hear his laughter.

It had been less than a year since you moved into your creepy old farmhouse. You still weren’t entirely sure if the creepy old dead guy had come with the property, or if he had followed you there. But when you found his name traced over and over again in the dust of every reflective surface in the house on the first night, you had almost left.

In the end, it was one of the movers who had summoned him. You had had two burly men helping you move your things inside. One of them had remarked on the odd name, Betelgeuse. The other had just happened to be an amateur astronomer. Before any of you knew what was happening, lightening was striking, thunder was rolling, wind was blowing, and the two big, strong movers were scrambling back to their truck. Thoughtfully, they did hurl the last of your furniture from the vehicle as they peeled out of your shaded, and winding driveway. Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse…

“Okay, Beetlejuice, fine! Yes! I do need help.” You grumbled the last to yourself, trying and failing once more to move a heavy wooden table. It had been half an hour since the bat incident, and almost all of it had been spent on this table.

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Beetlejuice.”

“I’m getting kinda tired, y’know…”

“Beetlejuice!”

“A’right, a’right, fine! Taskmaster, jeez.” The demon floated down from the rafters, snapped his fingers, and the table you had been struggling with walked itself over to where you had been trying to move it – against the wall, centered under a window.

The barn was a decent size. Average by northeastern standards, but tall as hell. Or, the Netherworld, you supposed. The structure of the thing was entirely wood, worn down and lightened with time. The posts were a richer color than the floor, which was covered in scratches and the occasional hay straw. There were windows all around, installed sometime within the last half-century, and the sun shone in brilliantly when it was up.

Now it was dark, even at 5:00 PM. As you watched, the decorations you had strewn haphazardly across the space leapt to attention. Miniature pumpkin lights snaked their way around the rafters and posts, along with actual snakes. A layer of fog coated the floor so thickly you could no longer see your own feet. What looked to be a hundred flaming tealights sprung up from every table – some with black flames, others green. The overhead iron-wrapped pendant lights dimmed and aged noticeably, some flakes of rust falling to the floor and becoming lost in the low gloom.

The jack-o’-lanterns you and Beetlejuice had carved the day before lit up abruptly. Paper bats and bloody eyeballs on strings dropped down to hang from the rafters. A soft, eerie music began floating through the room, and when you looked up you saw a greenish gray skeleton manning the DJ setup on a slightly raised section of the floor. It gave you and Beetlejuice a thumbs-up, its other decayed hand on a headphone positioned just a few degrees south of where its ear might have been.

“Thank you, I think--whoa!” Before you could finish thanking your demon, you heard a loud BANG. All the window shutters slammed shut.

“No problem, babes, but what are you gonna do for me?” Beetlejuice waggled his eyebrows at you.

You rolled your eyes. “Politely ask you to open the shutters back up, please? It’s a full moon, we should be able to see it.”

Beetlejuice bent backwards unnaturally far and groaned. “Fine.” A flick of his wrist and the shutters swung open meekly. A few thick, black tentacles with a faint green sheen slithered in at the corners of each window, not breaking the glass but rather bending it open around themselves. The demon dusted off his hands and fixed his tie. “Happy?”

“Very.”

“How’d you get roped into doing this, anyway? I thought you hated kids.”

“I don’t hate them, I just don’t like them. One of the community theater guys asked me to.” You started for the barn door. Beetlejuice followed you, the tips of his shoes dragging the fog.

“Why?” He wrinkled his nose.

“Because the new, mysterious stage manager has a big, scary house in the middle of nowhere that no-one’s ever seen, that’s why.”

“Huh. Is he gonna be here too?” You didn’t have to look at Beetlejuice to know he was grinning.

Before you could warn him not to do anything dangerous, you opened the barn door to find your first chaperone. You weren’t sure if it was a state rule that a gathering of kids under a certain age needed adult chaperones, but knowing Beetlejuice, you were happy to have the help. This one was a theater mom. You barely knew her, but she said she would bring cupcakes, so you had shrugged and given her your address.

“Stephanie, hi,” you said, only mildly startled to see her so early.

“H--oh. Uh, hi,” she replied, now openly staring at Beetlejuice.

“Hi.” Still grinning.

“Um, who is this?” she asked, barely containing her horror.

“I’m–”

“Oh, this is, uh–”

“I’m her, uh–”

“Lawrence!” you said rigidly. “Lawrence…Beetleman.” You pulled at the demon’s arm and he dropped to his feet, stumbling to your side. You knew you should have rehearsed this.

Beetlejuice held out his left hand stiffly. “Nice to meet ya.” You elbowed him as surreptitiously as you could, and he dropped the hand, holding out his right instead.

Stephanie cautiously met his hand, then dropped it immediately. “Oh, I uh…you too, Mr. Beetleman?” Beetlejuice flinched and gagged noticeably.

There was a long silence.

“So…” you tried.

“Right! Yes, I, um…well, I came to help you decorate, but it seems like you have it all taken care of?” Stephanie glanced around you, coming away looking somehow even more horrified.

“Oh yeah, we got it covered, Stevie.” You tried to elbow Beetlejuice again, but he dodged. Moving forward, he took Stephanie’s arm at the elbow and led her into the barn. “Here, lemme show you where to put those cupcakes.” He nodded to the box she was carrying.

“Oh, okay. It’s Stephanie, by the way,” she said nervously.

“Sure.”

“Beetleman,” you cautioned haltingly, frowning at him.

“Don’t worry about it, babes. Don’t you gotta go put on your costume?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Stephanie spoke first. “It’s fine, I’ll just, um…”

“Yeah, she’ll just um. Go on,” Beetlejuice cajoled. Tightlipped and wide-eyed, you turned and stalked out of the barn, leaving the door open behind you just in case.

Surprising yourself, you managed to get into your costume in under thirty seconds. The makeup, on the other hand, was more of a challenge. There was something about the creaky sounds of wood settling and the draft through the second floor of your house that was making it more difficult than usual to keep your hands steady. But then, you had never been much of an artist.

So, you headed back to the barn in your broken shoes and your torn clothes, perfecting your shamble as you went. The door was still open. Stephanie had her back to you and seemed to be sizing up the tentacles on the far window, but Beetlejuice caught your movement as you tentatively stuck your head into the barn. You motioned for him to come towards you. He followed your lead.

Once you were both just outside the barn door, you turned fully to face him. “Hey,” you whispered.

“What’s up, babes?”

“I’m having a little trouble with my prosthetics. Could you do anything to make me look a little more…” You searched for the right word. “…horrifying?” Seeing Beetlejuice’s eyes light up, you held out a hand. “Without killing and/or maiming me.” You paused. “Or making the children cry.”

The demon gave you a look. “What, on Halloween? Huge cliché, what do you take me for?” You raised your eyebrows, but said nothing. He snapped his fingers and within an instant, you could feel your face and sections of your clothing stiffen with what you hoped was fake blood. “There: instant zombification.”

“Great, lemme just go check–”

“Sweetheart, trust me, you could strike terror into the hearts of any ghoul.”

“Do ghouls have hearts?”

“Whatever you do, never ask a ghoul that.”

You gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Mr. Beetleman.” Almost compulsively, Beetlejuice gagged again. You laughed and led him back into the barn. Stephanie turned to greet you, then turned away again. Your demon gave you a sidelong, self-satisfied look. You shook your head at him, but couldn’t force the smile off of your face.

The kids started showing up minutes later. Stephanie’s wife brought their two sons, then the community theater director came with his daughter, and on and on. Before 6:00, the barn was full. Nearly half of the children had entered the costume contest, which you had begrudgingly appointed Beetlejuice head judge of.

It wasn’t so much that you had invited Beetlejuice as it was that you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep him from staying. Short of banishing him, he would not be left out of your Halloween activities, and the last thing you wanted to do was banish the demon. He could be awfully cranky when he felt ignored, worse when he felt betrayed. Best to keep a close eye on him and leave it there. Shockingly, though, he seemed to be on his best behavior.

That wasn’t saying much, but you appreciated the effort.

He kept the live animals to a minimum, only ate one of the eyeballs hanging from the ceiling, and judged the costume contest as fairly as he could. Fortunately, there was a clear winner: a young zombie whose costume rivalled your own. The judge committee gave him a small skeleton trophy and a candy medal, took some photos with him, and you privately wondered if he had his own ghost-zombie at home to help him with his makeup. Then you shrugged it off and watched – half-mortified, half-impressed – as Beetlejuice summoned a few dead cheerleaders to sing a surprisingly smooth rendition of Time Warp. You were fairly certain a few of his bones came loose during the dance, but you let it slide. The kids were duly impressed, the parents were a suitable distance that they hardly noticed.

It wasn’t until 11:00 PM that all of the adults in the room realized that Beetlejuice had removed the clock that had previously hung on the wall opposite the barn’s door. It took the better part of a half hour to corral the kids to their parents’ respective vehicles, and most of them insisted on hugging you. Warily as ever, you eyed the ones who tried to hug ‘Mr. Beetleman,’ but he somehow managed to turn all of their affections into a high five. Despite yourself, you found yourself smiling.

Once everyone was gone, you turned from the door to assess the barn. It was a disaster. The jack-o’-lanterns had remained lit, as had the candles, but those were the only decorations at thirteen-and-under year old level that had remained undisturbed. The bottles you had placed on the tables, with their faded potion ingredient labels, were toppled over. There were drink puddles and food stains on the floor and half the fog had dissipated. Some of the eyes and bats had come down, others were tangled with the lights on the posts. Somehow, even the pendant lights were flickering slightly.

Beetlejuice did not need sleep. Maybe he could get tired, maybe he couldn’t. You certainly could, and by the time the party was over, you had maxed out your entire energy reserve. So, when your demon told you he’d clean up the next day, you agreed and gave no thought to the fact that it would take him all of two seconds to clean up that night.

Once you had seen off the last of the kids and all of the parents, you trudged back up to your big, scary house. All the light in the barn went out behind you, but you paid it no mind.

Somewhere between the barn and the house, Beetlejuice disappeared. Again, you ignored it. It wasn’t uncommon for Beetlejuice to vanish without telling you, and on Halloween night you imagined there were a hundred more fun things for him to be off doing than watching you get ready for bed. Especially when you caught sight of yourself in your entryway mirror. It was the first time that night that you had seen yourself fully zombified beyond a brief glance at your dim reflection in a darkened, tentacled window.

Your face alone had several large patches of what looked like gaping wounds, and you could see more peeking out from your formerly white collar. You had been going for Proper Academic Zombie, and you looked like you would need a degree in showering to get all this gunk off of yourself. At least you could reuse the costume, maybe disrupt a seminar or two.

Shaking your head, you flicked the light switch beside the front door to turn off the overhead light. Instead of just that light going out, however, the table lamp under the mirror went out as well. So did the hall light over the stairs to your left, the kitchen down the short hallway in front of you, and the living room light beyond that. You tried flicking the switch again. Nothing.

Suddenly, a slam. Several slams all at once. All the shutters you could see swung closed forcefully. From the sound of it, all the shutters on the house closed.

You cleared your throat hesitantly. “Okay, very funny. Beej, that’s you, right?”

Silence.

“Beej?” Though you couldn’t yet hear your heart, you could feel it struggling against the walls of your chest. There was a slight ringing in your ears – the ever-present remnants of your teenaged years. Outside of that: nothing. You took a step, and the creaking of the wood seemed to echo through the whole house. For a brief, crazy moment, you thought about going out to your car. But it seemed the porch light was out too, and being inside a dark house was better than being outside on a dark night.

So, you took another step. Then another. You cursed your shortsightedness in leaving your phone in your room. You reached the stairs. You climbed them, you turned the corner. The wood settle beneath your feet with a deafening creak each step of the way.

There must be a short circuit. There had to be, somewhere. There was no reason for you to have simply lost power. When you reached your room, you saw that your alarm clock was still lit and showing the time, and it was plugged into the same wall outlet as your dark lamp. The box was in your basement.

No way were you going into the basement.

You reached out for your phone. It was dead. You looked over to one of your windows. Of all the windows you’d passed, this seemed to be the only one whose shutters hadn’t closed. Slowly – more slowly than you had moved all night, you crossed the room to look outside. You could see the full moon in all her red-orange beauty. Then, you let out the breath you had been holding. The moon wasn’t going anywhere, even if all the other light was gone.

You should have known better.

A shadow dashed across the moon then, but not at the surface. Through the air. Close to your window. Very, very close.

There was a muffled thud somewhere behind you. You jumped and whirled around to look. When you noticed the light from the moon fading, you slowly turned your head back and saw the shutters swinging closed. Before you could reach out to even open the window, they were completely shut.

Another noise, closer this time.

You couldn’t move. Your heart was racing. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t breathe. You thought about jumping for your bed, some childish thought of pulling the covers over your head before the whatever-it-was could reach you running through your head, but even in your fear you knew it was foolish. It was too late – too close. Your stomach dropped, your hands shook, your legs felt like splintering wood.

Yet another noise. You heard the hinges of your bedroom door waver. It was pitch dark in the room. All at once, a ragged breathing rushed at you across the squeaking floor.

You screamed.

“Beetlejuice!”

.

.

Seriously, please reblog.

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[owlespresso]

Tremble, Duck & Weave . V

At last. Also on my ao3, which can be found here. If you’re interested in supporting my work or ordering your own, my commission terms can be found here and my ko-fi is here. Before we begin, please make sure all cellular devices are off. Thank you, and enjoy the show.

If Aymeric were to afford his late father one compliment, it would be his impeccable organizational skills. The perfection of each neat, abet packed drawer and cabinet makes it much easier to toss out items and documents he has no use for. He disposes of letters and paperwork and gauche items that only serve to take up space, skimming through texts and wrinkling his nose at every lie he sees. If nothing else, the archbishop kept his story straight, consistently assuring local leaders of his virtue and desires for a simple peace.

Never does he betray his wretched greed, nor does he betray earthly desires, nor does he disclose the truth of his earthly relationships.

“Never would I forsake my sacred oath for the sake of such petty indulgences,” one letter insists. Aymeric, without even processing it, reads it in his fathers voice and hears every lofty intonation, feels the faux passion oozing from every word. “The Scion of the de Borel family is not my flesh and blood.”

Aymeric’s lips curl into a deep frown, cold fingers tensed on the parchment. Another fruitless attempt to deny him of his true heritage, another desperate attempt for the archbishop to preserve his saintly image. Aymeric doesn’t know what’s more pitiful, the ceaselessness of his father’s denial or the fact that he had to interact with this man every day.

A loveless man, Aymeric thinks, crinkling the paper. There’s no reason to linger on a man long dead, not when he’s already resolved to be different, to be better.

His brows pinch into a firm scowl, lips pursed in a deep frown. His tumultuous thoughts near split his head, every letter and possession an unfortunate reminder—

A knock breaks the stifling quiet and forces his spine rigid. As with every spontaneous visit he receives, he schools his demeanor into something friendly and relaxed, something unemotional and civil.

“Come in,” he calls mere moments later.

The tall, dark doors open. Zephirin’s form, adorned in rich blues and gleaming white, stands out stark against the darkened shadows of the hall. He cuts across the tiled floor, greaves clanking with each long step.

“Pardon the interruption, my lord,” Zephirin regards him with trademark impassiveness. “I have information of the utmost importance to share with you.”

The prompts Aymeric to raise a brow. Long has he worked aside the men of the Heavensward, but never has he grown confident in his abilities to read Zephirin. However, he has always been sure that his father kept an array of secrets, any of which could pose a threat to himself or Ishgard. Due to the recency of his ascension, he made the bold choice to not yet question any of the ward. He would attract more flies with honey than with vinegar. Giving them time to adjust, know and trust him would bear richer fruits than pressuring them to spill his father’s precious secrets. Perhaps that patience is finally paying off.

“You may speak,” Aymeric nods, fingers pressing the papers on the desk flat to the polished wood.

“My lord, I assume you are privy to the existence of the Ascians?” Zephirin’s inquiry nearly makes his brows raise, yet he keeps firm hold of his expression, a face of practiced, steady neutrality.

“I am.” Immortal creatures who were a source of strife to every nation and settlement, known for inflaming local beast tribes into summoning deadly primals. “Why, pray tell?” He wouldn’t put it past his father to break bread with some of the world’s most notorious troublemakers, and he knows better than to hope otherwise.

The migraine blossoming behind his forehead thuds into the foreground. The very last thing Ishgard needs is pressure from another faction. Not whilst they’re in the middle of a transitional period. He knows that change must be introduced slowly for the people to accept it. He already has the Dravanians clawing at the wall every chance they get, and the alliance still knocks on the city’s gates semi-regularly. Aymeric is not an easily agitated man, yet there is only so much he can take before his hinges rust and his temper runs out.

“Before the Archbishop’s untimely death, they approached him offering an alliance,” Zephirin is watching him carefully, closely, measured in his words and demeanor. The timbre of his voice is neutral and passive. “He accepted with the intent of ascertaining their true goal and betraying them when his plans reached fruition. It is my full belief that he never intended to truly ally with them.”

Of course, Aymeric says to himself, Thordan would keep such a crucial secret from him. He wonders if the wretch he barely called a father is laughing at him from the hells below, for now he will surely be expected to continue this trite charade with the Ascians. It is likely that they will approach him openly, expect him to break bread with them despite their transgressions against the star as a whole.

He fancies himself a man with a long fuse, but the sudden revelation makes his fingers curl. He leans forward with the weight of sudden news, flattening his hands against the desk.

“It is a pity he did not disclose the details of something so completely crucial to the future of our nation,” Aymeric takes in a deep breath and sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “The Ascians are not to be easily trifled with. Regardless of his ability to to predict and handle them, I should have been informed much, much earlier.”

“My sincerest apologies, my lord,” Zephirin begins, the barest hint of apology seeping into his otherwise blank expression. “The Knights of the Round—”

“No. I am not in the mood to entertain trite excuses,” Aymeric replies, tone clipped as he restrains himself. There’s much he wants to say, but Zephirin needs not to be the target of his misplaced aggression. “Go. There is much that still has to be done before the day’s end. I will see to the Ascians this evening. Go about your normal duties until you are needed.” A newfound tension sweeps over his entire body and mind as he returns to the long road ahead. Perhaps some of his father’s files will shed some light on the situation.

- - -

The morning descends upon you with firm vengeance. Though your wounds have for the most part aided by Ishgard’s finest astrologian, the aches and phantom pains still wrack you. The plush blankets that curl around your body make up a warm nest you never hope to leave. The mattress is soft and gentle on your back. Still, it is a comfort most difficult to enjoy whilst there is so much work to be done.

Thus, you tumble out of your nest and barely catch yourself on your feet. Your morning routine is scarcely different from the one you had before your ejection from Ul’dah, yet the pain slows you. The cold claws settled within your muscles and bones make it difficult to move with your former swiftness. Climbing out of the shower is pure agony. Even though you’re inside, Ishgard’s vicious climate thwarts you at every turn. Only when you’re clothed are you at last at ease.

The Ishgardian garb is made of lush cottons that loosely swaddle you, easy on the body and meant to avoid aggravating your skin. Your hands duck into your sleeves, absentmindedly playing with the fabric as you descend the stairs.

Artoirel awaits you at the bottom, leaning casually against the banister. He sweeps out from his resting position with a smile at the sight of you, expression warm and welcoming.

“Good morning,” he says. His posture is casual, but his gaze is searching as it rolls you up and down. Curious, explorative. “How are you?”

“Good morning.” You withdraw into yourself ever so slightly, doing your best not to wilt underneath his gaze. “I’m well.”

“Haurchefant is tending to his duties today, but I do hope I can measure up to him in the realm of being pleasant company. Would you grace me with your presence for today’s breakfast?”

And to that, you have no objections. Artoirel cuts an intimidating figure, physically, but his gentlemanly attitude softens his sharp features. He’s something you’d expect from a wealthy prospective suitor in a romance novel.

Breakfast is a wide array of Ishgard’s finest dishes—foods hearty and rich in nature. It’s a struggle to not scarf down your portions, but easy conversation with Artoirel helps you space out your bites.

It’s all pleasantries at first. He attempts to dive beneath who you are outside of your status as the Warrior of Light, asks about your skills and your hobbies, what you enjoy doing outside of slaying gods and monsters alike. He’s picture perfect. Even the bites he takes of his foot are petite and polite, not a crumb to be seen on the corners of his lips. His expression flexes, the space between his eyebrows wrinkling. He looks like he’s grasping for words, lips pursing as he stares down his remaining food.

“Have any of the nobility made a bad impression on you?” he asks out of the blue, a piece of bacon perched atop his fork.

“No. Not yet, at least,” you look down at your potatoes, eyeing the way the chandelier light bounces off the silverware. It’s a surprising line of conversation to go down, but his concern touches you.

“Full glad am I to hear that. I would hate for any of my more… judgmental peers to sully your experience,” his voice is soft and delicate, a type of gentility that makes your heart squeeze. “However, I must encourage you to be cautious. Ishgardian high society can be… especially brutal to the few foreign guests we receive. Should you encounter any hostility, do not hesitate to inform me. I cannot guarantee any consequences for those in rival houses, but be assured that we at House Fortemps do not share the same sentiments.”

It’s reassuring to hear him so concerned with your reputation and well-being. You’re a new stranger to Ishgard, and there’s no doubt that everyone from the high borne to the lowly of the Brume can tell. Being thrust into such a foreign environment after what you endured has made you feel lost and overly dependent on your connections here. And… perhaps you are. But Artoirel’s devoted sentiments soothe you against your better judgment.

You don’t think much of it now, nor do you think much of it when you’re called down for lunch. Or dinner. It’s only right for the count to call all the residents and guests in his home for meals.

Emmanellain joins you for dinner that night. His eyes glint cleverly, his very presence incessant in its curiosity.

“To think, the champion of the ixal could be felled so succinctly!” he crows after you recount your deadly battle with Garuda. “Ah, I remember Haurchefant arriving home with stars in his eyes, that night. Word of your grand exploit was all he wished to speak of—well, besides your form… and the lovely curves that adorn said form.”

Ah. Long have you been aware of Haurchefant’s growing… intrigue in you, but never has it been so plainly observed by another. How much had he said about you? Your cheeks warmed as you thought over the possibilities, distracted from the raise of Artoirel’s voice as he reprimands his brother.

Haurchefant doesn’t return. Artoirel helpfully informs you that he’s seeing to his very last post at Camp Dragonhead before he returns to fully join the Heavensward. His absence leaves you feeling emptier than usual.

And when you cannot sleep, you occupy yourself with studying Ishgardian history. Much to your frustration, you can’t lift more than four of the tomes at once without your arms and shoulders screaming in protest, so you begrudgingly settle for three. You read throughout the night and find that the founding of the city state alone is enough to cover two-hundred or so pages.

A few hours before dawn, you dim the light and settle back against the pillows, filtering in and out of consciousness until you need to use the bathroom.

You eat breakfast with Artoirel again that morning, and promptly decide you need to take a walk for your own sanity. Manor Fortemps is a splendous place to live, but you can only stand being cooped up for so long before you lose your mind. You make sure to throw on a scarf and some knitted gloves that had been fetched for you, all bundled up and equipped as diligently as possible against the merciless cold.

Though you still don’t have a handle on the city’s layout, you believe asking for directions will serve you just fine. The manor is practically a landmark. Any local worth their salt should be able to point you in its direction. You assure yourself as you make your way towards the grand double doors.

“Oh, are you taking a walk?” Artoirel’s voice pipes up, the lord’s head peeking out from behind a nearby corner.

“Yes. I just wanted to get some fresh air, is all,” you inform him with a small shrug. He steps fully into view, his gaze soft and his smile sweet as he regards you.

“Ah, I was just about to head to the astrologicum. Would you care to accompany me?” He tilts his head ever so slightly as he inquires, leaving you struggling for an answer. On one hand, you likely should visit. If you weren’t mistaken, the man who treated your wounds is an astrologian. On the other… your entire stay in Ishgard has been a procession of well-meaning individuals constantly fretting about and crowding you. Even a moment outside alone would help combat the ceaseless, crushing sense of helplessness it has left you with.

Before you can even answer, Artoirel glances past you, gaze sparking with recognition as he spots one of the housekeepers.

“Ah! Adrienne, the Warrior of Light and I are about to take a visit to the astrologicum. Should Emmanellain return before us, kindly to tell him that the tarte tatin is to be shared. I will not have a repeat incident of last week.” His voice carries a firm edge to it at the end of his sentence, exasperation barely kept from breaching the surface. He shakes his head the housekeeper says an affirmative and scurries off, turning back to you with a sheepish smile.

“My apologies. The last time our chef prepared tarte tatin, he sneaked in and pillaged the entire share before dinner even started,” Artoirel shook his head with a sigh. “At times, I can’t help but think Honoroit is more suited to his position than he is… but that’s nothing for you to worry about.” He dismisses the matter with a wave of his hand as he throws his coat over his shoulders. A shame. The nosier part of you wishes he had continued. It’s no secret that his younger brother is a divisive subject among the family due to his immaturity and habitual slacking off, but you’ve heard quite little of the boy who follows him around like a lost puppy.

“I have an acquaintance at the astrologicum who was hoping to meet you.” Artoirel, for the most part, seems genuinely oblivious to your internal monologue. He holds the door open like the truest of gentlemen and sticks close to your side as he swans elegantly down the street. Even his walk is refined, long legs sweeping nimbly over the concrete.

You try to keep your crestfallenness hidden as you follow, hoping Artoirel’s insistence is simply him overcompensating in an effort to be a good host. You’re in no shape to deny him at the moment—he’s the count, and he’s so graciously allowing you to stay in his home. Should he decide to shove you out the front gates, you’ll surely have nowhere to go.

You don’t know how you haven’t realized the potential danger in that until now.

- - -

You accompany him to the astrologicum to placate him.

You try to take your leave after dinner, hoping he’ll be too busy finishing off dessert to notice you slinking towards the living room. He does, of course. And he continues to do so. Every attempt you make to leave on your own winds up inevitably thwarted underneath his watchful gaze.

He accompanies you on walks, and you accompany him on small errands whenever he offers, figuring fresh air with him is better than none at all.

“Foot traffic is high this time of day, especially after the archbishop mandated a longer break time for the construction workers down at the lower Ishgard. I dearly hope the noise has not kept you from your sleep.” Artoirel sighs as he accompanies you through the crowd, a palm flat to your lower back.

“Forgive my intrusion, but I cannot help notice that you have been favoring your right leg. Perhaps it would be a better idea to remain inside and rest? I imagine Urianger will be quite cross with Haurchefant and I if your recovery is hampered in any way.” Artoirel says imploringly, his eyes sweet and his lashes long as he bats them.

“We have a gazebo in the gardens if you would like somewhere to enjoy a spot of fresh air,” he informs you passively over the dinner table. “Not much grows out there these days, but it has been swept down and cleaned up for your use.”

It doesn’t reassure you. The next two days are fraught with uncertainty as you await Haurchefant’s return. Conversations with Alphinaud and Tataru are a brief reprieve from the blossoming paranoia, but you deign to not tell them the truth. There’s no doubt that Alphinaud will march straight to wherever Artoirel happens to be and demand answers.

If this is all some massive understanding, you don’t want to risk jeopardizing your relationship with your host. You keep Artoirel’s suspicious insistence on keeping you cooped up a secret, even as the stress it invokes worsens your condition.

However, you are nothing if not resourceful. The balcony door to your room has remained unopened throughout your short stay. Exiting from the second level had been beyond your capabilities given your current status, but desperate times call for desperate measures. (And trapped creatures often make irrational decisions.)

Your muscles strain under the pressure of holding yourself up as you lower onto a conveniently close ledge, and then onto a trash can nestled against the brick wall. The loud rattle of the metal lid against the can makes you flinch, but the side street is blessedly empty.

Just like that, you’re free. The phantom pains grip you tight and dig into your ilms of muscle, causing you to buckle. One of your hands finds purchase against the textured brick wall, gasps rattling in and out of your lungs as you struggle to steady yourself. Spikes of frigid pain lash out at your head, the space above your eyes throbbing as you attempt to reign it all in. Your thick gloves keep your nails from grating along the brick, something you find yourself suddenly grateful for as the pain begins to clear.

You focus simply on pulling the breath in and out of your lungs, the cold air drying your throat. The rest of the world dims as you refuse to focus on it, the agony ebbing away into blissful nothingness. Only then are you able to straighten up, gaze clear as you look down the long alleyway. Ishgard’s steep spires and long roads suddenly seem to curl around you, the prospect of navigating them alone somehow intimidating.

Weeks ago, you would have been fine with exploring without a chaperone.

You’re only going on a short walk, you rationalize. Your body moves accordingly as you urge it forward, heading out of the alleyway and onto the streets proper. Each step forward is another to be proud of, you try and tell yourself, but the words ring feeble and hollow in the void of your consciousness.

- - -

Estinien, for better or for worse, has grown accustomed to traveling near exclusively via rooftop. The streets below are littered with strangers who are able to perceive him. It’s daunting in ways he refuses to admit to. The stench of raw Ishgard rubs foul against his nose when he mingles among the masses, an affront to his sharpened senses. At least the beast inside of him knows it does not belong.

Powdery snow drifts from the grey sky, dotting his hoarfrost lashes, threatening to blur his vision as they nearly melt on impact. Here, legs perched upon the thin ledge of a building’s high spire, he can comfortably separate and spectate the writhing populace. Idle people-watching has become a disturbingly frequent indulgence in between his missions and tasks.

It helps distract him from the red vines that curl around the tall buildings, from the patches of disembodied flesh that decorate the cobblestone ground. Features of Ishgard only he can see—the beast trying its hardest to convince him to leave.

Perhaps it is the human part of him that remains that enjoys this passtime, desperate for a vicarious taste of old normalcy. Of belonging. He despises it. He is no longer soft flesh and natural composition. He is hard edges and scales, branching horns and gnashing teeth all wrapped neatly under the illusion of humanity. If his glamor were to be dispelled, they would surely throw rocks and knives and weapons of every sort in his direction despite all he has done to protect them.

So he broods, and he is willing to admit that he broods. He consumes the crowd beneath him with wide sweeps of his piercing gaze.

An old woman hands over a coin purse in exchange for a pair of mittens. A child in the middle of a game of tag slips on a patch of ice, tumbling onto his knee. He hears the resulting yelp, despite his distance. The beginnings of warm, childhood nostalgia creep up on him. His jaw tightens as he prepares to beat it back—oh.

He notices someone decidedly different from the rest of the crowd. A figure that stands fulms and fulms apart, one he has seen before. The Warrior of Light. You look decidedly healthier than you had the last time he had laid eyes upon you, sheltered in the cloistered bookman’s keep. You had been crumpled by your injuries, a mess of an individual dragged in, hanging onto life by a mere thread.

You’re walking around, at the very least. Still a tad gaunt. The bags underneath your eyes are new, but he supposes you have plenty to lose sleep over after everything you have been through. He is no stranger to loss. He knows how it can rip a person’s core out, make them a shell of their former self. He sympathizes.

He dismounts his perch, climbs across roofs and spires as he follows you along, glued to the shadows. No one regards him, his armor stained deep grey with the intent of better camouflaging him.

There’s a noticeable stagger to your steps as you visit different merchants, not bothering to actually head inside any of the storefronts. Perhaps the cold is harsh on your injuries. Why, then, are you not inside? He imagines Haurchefant would be on you like a mother hen, though he recalls that the youngest Fortemps child has been sent to Camp Dragonhead for the next few days, overseeing the change of leadership.

A pity, then, that he is not able to stop you as you aimlessly float from stand to stand. With each moment your movements become more labored, more encumbered despite you having nothing on your person. It’s easy to follow you from his position so high above. Eventually, you split off from the crowd, your eyes wide and your arms drawn tightly to yourself. You stumble up the stone steps, across the street and into one of the thin alleyways, thoroughly closed off from the rest of the populace.

It is not sympathy or concern that makes him dismount his perch. The frozen air whips through his long locks and lashes at his eyes as he descends, body instinctively contorting to stick a perfect landing.

It is a curiosity that plants him so firmly before her, a need to know the woman so vaunted and pursued for himself. You, who have so immediately commanded the adoration of Ishgard’s most coveted and quiet astrologian.

You startle as he lands, the sound of the impact ricketing up and down the otherwise empty alley.

- - -

Fatigue jolts up and down your anguished limbs as you trudge through the crowd. Initially, it hadn’t been so bad. Sure, you had been a tad tired after your escape, but your condition quickly snowballed down the slope. Ishgard’s cold seeps into your body even though your thick, cushy clothes. Your capricious escape leaves you in a poor state by the time you reach the marketplace.

Hells, you wouldn’t be surprised if you managed to exacerbate your wounds in the process. Still, you flutter from stand to stand, half-heartedly looking over merchants’ wares until the whimsy to move on strikes you. It helps distract from your new, pounding headache.

One of the most appealing booths has little puppets that are hand-sewn. An array of cute, fuzzy characters is lined up atop the wooden table, alongside some plain stuffed animals. Had you actually brought your coin purse, you undoubtedly would have purchased something. One of the aforementioned plushes is a grey-pelted fox wearing a stone-faced expression, something about it reminding you of ser Aymeric.

Unfortunately, the pain grows too great. Its bitter grip ensnares you, making your breath shorten and your body tremble as you continue your trek. You’ve overstayed your welcome. You should return home. To Manor Fortemps.

You split from the crowd, heading in the direction you believe is right. It’s difficult to keep your full mental faculties whilst so distracted, so you stumble down the alley and hope for the best. The dark brick walls make the path thin and constricting.

It’s by pure chance that you manage to see a flash of red above you before it lands. It’s a fluid blur of motion, a figure descending from the heavens that you don’t quite comprehend until it lands.

Brilliant plates of red armor wrap the broad figure’s body tight. The odd pikes that extend from its form and the angular nature of the sculpt let you know this is a dragoon, albeit unlike anyone you’ve ever seen before. The helmet is absent, allowing you to fully view the individual’s face.

He possesses hardened, sharp features. A cut jawline and a nose with a high bridge. His eyes are narrow, irises a shade of icy blue. It’s the whites of his eyes that take you off guard—stained a deep crimson. Long strands of snowy hair frame his face and brush against his jawline. All things that catch your attention for a fraction of the moment, but what draws your alarm are the two, blackened horns that arch from his skull, curling backwards slightly, raised to the sky. His cheekbones are adorned with glimmering, black scales. They gleam red where the light catches off them.

Sickly, red lines akin to veins scatter across either cheek from his eyes. It’s nothing you’ve ever seen before.

You don’t see it as much as you feel it, waves of inky black void that roll off him like fog or flame. He is the picture of everything Ishgard fears all at once, the corruption of their own people by the dragons who have kept them in stalemate for hundreds of years.

Your breath stalls in your lungs, every muscle in your body seeming to tense as you struggle to comprehend his visage. Upon closer inspection, his form is absent of the gauntlets most dragoons wear. Another thick layer of scaling coats his arms from the elbows down, the tips of his fingers curling into sharp claws.

“The Warrior of Light,” he addresses you contemplatively, but his expression belies disappointment. “I had not expected to see you out of your sickbed so soon—though it looks like you’ve flown the nest before you were ready.”

“Who—what are you?” you stammer, coherency returning to you in staggered stages. You hunch against the cold, brick wall, eyes near the size of saucers as you stare him down. You don’t dare shift your gaze away from him.

The droll disappointment that colors his features vanishes, giving way into momentary surprise. One side of his mouth quirks into a crooked, shark-like smile. Even his teeth are refined into sharp points, better for ripping into flesh and chewing bone. He barks a cold, humorless laugh.

“So you can see me,” he remarks idly. The edges of your consciousness begin to burn and fray. The inky splotches that swim at the edges of your vision threaten the view you have of him. “You have truesight yet the first thing you see with it is this wretched form. I almost feel sorry for you. Aymeric was correct in his assumptions about you, though that’s for better or for worse,” he remarks as you feel yourself start to sway. Your hands grow numb. A slow tingle takes your fingertips and strokes down to your palms, sweeping to the rest of your arms.

Any panic that you might feel is swept under the growing void, too exhausted to muster even a drop of emotion.

The last thing you hear before you take the plunge is the clanking of his greaves against the stone ground.

[rosy-wooyoung]

Husband series [2/8] | Seonghwa

Word count: 3.8k Pairing: ex-husband! Yunho x single mom! reader x boyfriend! Seonghwa Genre: mostly fluff, kinda cliché af?? A/N: Second work out of the eight that I’m not really proud of... as usual, the gif doesn’t have anything to do with the fic :’)

You sighed as you looked for your child in the store, worryingly pushing strands of hair out of your eyes. Two minutes of inattention were enough for him to walk away, carelessly wandering around the shop. He was still quite young, but he was able to walk without your help, freeing him from any restraint.

“How could we lose him?” your boyfriend Seonghwa exclaimed as he looked around him, brows knitted. You were on the verge of tears and abandoned the trolley in a corner. Seonghwa gently caressed your back as you started searching for your son again.

“Minwoo? Minwoo, baby, where are you?” you said louder, starting to imagine the worst-case scenarios that could have happened to your son. You hurriedly trotted through the store, earning side glances from the rest of the shoppers, sometimes meeting Seonghwa at the end of an alley, only to find him alone. Your son was the most precious thing you had in your life and you couldn’t see yourself without him. It didn’t matter if you lost your boyfriend, you had already lost your husband by the past, but you’d kill to keep Minwoo by your side. You neared the fish counter and noticed a small boy next to two tall men, who were showing him the living sea animals in the huge tanks next to the fridges. You recognised the dark blue jacket your mom knitted for Minwoo and felt a weight flying away from your chest. However, you didn’t recognise the men next to him, so you ran towards your son.

“Minwoo!” you almost screamed and rushed to your son, grabbing him from behind, not paying attention to the men next to your son. “How many times did I tell you not to leave my side when we grocery shop! We were worried about you with Seonghwa!” you said in one breath, your hand cradling his head on your shoulder. “But Daddy,” you heard your son said and you froze. “What do you mean, “Daddy”?” Minwoo looked up from your shoulder and you recoiled as he pointed to one of the men. The man you didn’t recognise was none other than your ex-husband, Yunho, accompanied by Mingi, his best friend. After seeing his face, you noticed that he hadn’t changed, even after years of divorce. His hair was a bit shorter, but his facial features were the same as when you parted ways. He was wearing a suit and tie, an embarrassed smile drawn on his face. Your eyes widened when Minwoo made grabby hands at him, happy to meet his dad. “Hi Y/N,” Yunho managed to say, rubbing his neck, “I didn’t expect to meet you there,” you clenched your teeth and awkwardly smiled, not really knowing what to say. “Ah, Y/N, you found him,” you pursed your lips and closed your eyes as your boyfriend arrived, ready to take you and your son in his arms. He took a step back when he noticed Yunho and Mingi. Minwoo, who was in your arms, did everything to touch his father. Mingi, behind the two of you, took a step back and waited a bit further away to clear things out. He knew your situation since he was also a good friend of yours, your divorce preventing you from hanging out with him.

“What’s happening here?” Seonghwa said and none of you answered. You stared at Seonghwa, feeling sorry that he had to witness this awkward encounter. You could see his brain working, his eyes going from you to Minwoo, then to Yunho and his eyes widened when everything clicked in his head. For some reasons, you couldn’t talk, and the three men around you noticed that. You were frozen on the spot. Yunho cleared his throat and extended his hand towards your boyfriend. “I’m Yunho, Y/N’s ex-husband and… Minwoo’s father and, that’s Mingi, a good friend of mine,” he said, gesturing to Mingi, who nodded with a dull face. “I believe that you’re her new partner?” Seonghwa shook his hand without a word, his eyes never leaving your ashamed ones. He detached his eyes from you and looked at your ex, shaking his hand with such force that his digits turned white. “Exactly, I’m Seonghwa,” He said and his eyes darkened, suddenly remembering the reason why you divorced.

Of course, you had told him by the past the reason why you parted ways with your ex-husband, and he was mad. He was mad that your husband acted like a complete coward, scared of his parents. Yunho was someone from the high class. His parents owned an immensely powerful company and he fell in love with you the minute he saw you entering one of his parents’ restaurants. It was a place that your friends didn’t usually go to, but she wanted to celebrate your well-deserved promotion and went there, lucky to find a free table at rush hour. He immediately introduced himself as the son of the restaurant’s owner. Your friends were impressed, you were quite too, but you didn’t show it. You treated him like an ordinary person, with respect, but you didn’t admire or glorify him as your friends did. You beamed and nodded at his jokes, making him feel weird not to have everyone laughing and smiling like everyone did when he was around. He found you hard to get and Yunho loved challenges. At the end of your meal, he boldly asked for your number and you gave it to him without really thinking about it. However, when he was in private, he was way calmer but still very flirty, charming you with his sweet words and actions you exchanged until your first date.

After two years of life together, he introduced you to his parents and it was one of the worst nights you’ve ever had. You put a lot of efforts for your appearance, going to the hair and nail salon, buying an expensive, chic dress with heels. You almost chickened out at last minute but Yunho comforted you and you walked out of his car. But now, in hindsight, you shouldn’t have ever entered this mansion. The dinner was tense, even Yunho could sense it. His parents made zero effort to welcome you in their family, both of them shook your hands with such strength that it made you whine when they turned around. You kept your head high the entire dinner even if they put you down, subtly telling their son that you weren’t good enough for him. They even suggested in front of you that he should get married to someone richer and more influential. You swallowed your pride and feelings when you were in front of them, but you let everything out as soon as you entered your home. Yunho apologised for his parents’ behaviour but it didn’t make you feel better. The only thing you wanted to do was breaking up with him and get away as fast as possible from the two sharks that were his parents. Yunho begged you to stay and promised that he’d make everything to keep your relationship alive. And you believed him.

After months of struggle and rebellion, his parents reluctantly let him date you. On the other side, your parents were happy and proud that you were with Yunho, even if his parents were mean to you. It was sounded better to have their daughter dating a son from a rich company than being happy with someone from your social class. Sadly, showing off was something really important for your parents. They were even happier when Yunho proposed to you during one of your trips abroad. You had said yes without really thinking about the consequences with his parents, and it created many, many problems. You had to hide the ring every time your future mother-in-law randomly paid a visit to her son’s house. One night, she was there and Yunho was about to enter the house, but you pretended to go grab a bottle of wine from the cellar, grabbing Yunho by his tie and pulling him here. Yunho was thinking about something else as you untied his tie knot and unclasped his thin golden chain, your promised ring hung from it. You took off your ring from your finger and hid it behind a wine bottle, grabbing another one as you quietly explained the situation to your future husband. He nodded as he redid his tie, acting as you ran into him as you went out of the cellar in front of his mother.

One night, seeing your distress, Yunho offered you to marry him in secret. You were very against it at the beginning, worried about his parents and their power, but he promised to make everything work. He invited only your family and your closest friends and celebrated this wonderful day in a small group. You were a bit anxious to see his parents show up unannounced, but fortunately, they didn’t. 

One day, as you slid your key into the slot, you realised that the door was unlocked. You first thought of housebreaking since Yunho’s house was big and filled with different kind of luxury items, silently making your way to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. Someone was upstairs and rummaging through yours and Yunho’s stuff. You instantly sent a text to Yunho about the current situation and took off your shoes, easier for you to climb up the stairs without making any noise. Through the poorly closed door, you recognised his mother, raging mad, searching through everything. You hid the knife in the bathroom next to you, scared that she might kill you when she’ll find out the truth. When she saw you, she yelled, hurriedly pacing towards you. 

“You filthy bitch!” she said as she went to grab your blazer, but you pushed her away, feeling the rage boiling in your body as well. “What is wrong with you, what do you want?” you yelled back, making eye contact with her. “How can you enter your son’s house like a burglar?” “Oh,” she exclaimed, eyes shooting bolt lighting towards you, “you dare to call me a burglar when you are the biggest gold-digger out of all my son's girlfriends? You’re only dating him for his money, his fame and power we have in the city. I won’t let you ruin our reputation by dating and marrying my son! A silly cow like you doesn’t deserve to get a taste of luxury,” her behaviour truly shocked you, each word spilling out of her mouth sending daggers to your heart and pride. You gulped and started to walk back, noticing every item around her that could serve as a weapon. “Now, where do you hide it?” she spat and furrowed your brows. What was she talking about? “The ring, you bloody foul, where do you hide it, hm? You can’t deny anything, I found the wedding ring bill in Yunho’s desk drawer. Tell me where it is!!” she screamed, and you thought that she was going mad. You clearly didn’t want to fight or hurt her, knowing that she’d take you to court for your acts, so you avoided her as much as possible. Hoping that Yunho would come soon, you heavily inhaled and remained silent. “I’m going to ruin your life if you don’t tell me where it is.” “Mom!” Yunho yelled from downstairs and came up in a blink, shielding you from his mother with his body. “Get out of my way, son.” She said through gritted teeth but Yunho didn’t move. “Get out of my house first. How dare you coming in like a robber?!” he forced her to walk down the stairs by pushing her with his body, and you shivered when she looked at you. She squinted her eyes and pointed her finger towards you. “You,” she whispered, ignoring her son, “don’t think that you’ve won. You don’t know me, I’ll fucking destroy you.” Yunho pushed his mom out of the house, closing the door and locking it.

Three months after this incident, you discovered that you were pregnant with Minwoo. You were happy but his parents were the only fly in the ointment. During the time of your pregnancy, Yunho and you decided to live in a smaller house in the countryside, an unknown place for his parents. Yunho worked from home as much as he could and so did you, your maternity leave coming way sooner than you expected it. Those nine months flew by and you almost felt like breathing again, without being constantly feared that his parents would show up. You even had nightmares of it at the beginning of your pregnancy, but Yunho was here to protect you. However, a week before the scheduled birth date, you went back to your house and Yunho changed the door locks, preventing his parents from breaking in as his mother did. 

A night where you were alone, Yunho paying a visit to his parents, labour had just begun, your waters just broke. It was very painful, yet you managed to call your husband to announce him the news. Yunho was stuck, he couldn’t leave his parents so suddenly without arousing suspicions about your pregnancy. He excused himself from his parents, but they didn’t let him go so easily and you started screaming in pain in the phone, his mother instantly understanding everything. She grabbed her son’s phone from his hand and threw the cellular on the floor. You were still on the line, but you were starting to be weak, not able to call for Yunho anymore. You were about to hang up to call someone else, but you heard his mother’s words.

“You divorce with this witch immediately or we’re disowning you. I’m calling our lawyer.” You hung up and called Mingi, knowing that he’d help while Yunho fixed the situation with his parents. His friend was terrified and concerned, but he managed to drive you to the hospital before you gave birth. Before falling asleep from exhaustion with your newborn son on your chest, you begged Mingi to look after you and he promised, allowing you to rest.

Yunho never came to see you. You learnt from a nurse that he still came and signed the birth certificate, but he never came to see you and his child that you carried for nine months. Mingi and his mother came to visit, taking care of you like her own daughter-in-law. They understood you because they weren’t the same as Yunho’s family, Mingi's parents worked hard to allow their son to work in this company, yet they were still mad that Yunho never came to visit. Once you could get out of the hospital (you had to stay a few more days because the doctors found that you were exhausted and dehydrated), Mingi and his mom took care of Minwoo while you drove back to Yunho’s house. When you entered the house, you had to lean against the doorway when you saw boxes filled with your clothes and other belongings.

“Yunho?” you called with a small voice, eyes filling with tears. You heard footsteps coming from upstairs and the tall man appeared, tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes. He ran downstairs with a devastated face. “I’m so sorry Y/N,” he said, and you shook your head, understanding that it was too late. You swallowed and refused Yunho’s embrace, starting to drag the boxes outside, putting the maximum in the trunk of your car. In less than a month, you were homeless, a mother and divorced. When you closed the car trunk, you sighed and Yunho grabbed your wrist. He placed a set of keys linked to a tag, an address messily written on it. “I bought this apartment for you, I’ll come to visit when the situation will quiet down a bit.” He closed your palm on the key and you opened his other palm, putting your wedding ring in it. “Thank you, but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t risk my life, Minwoo’s and yours just because of your parents. I’ll put the keys of this apartment in the mailbox once I’ll find something else I can afford.” You said as you cried, starting to walk to the driver seat. “Please Y/N,” “No Yunho, we can’t. I can’t do it anymore. You didn’t even come to see me and our child. You didn't even ask why he's not with me right now. Everything stopped here for me. Our years of relationship, our marriage, it all ended. Thank you for the wonderful memories but it’s over. And deep down, you know that it’s already over, your parents probably forced you to sign the papers anyway. Goodbye Yunho.”

He sent you one last text that night, telling you that he was sorry and that they sent him in America, for “business matters” and it was the last time you heard from him. It took you months to move on and start again. You had found a place to stay which was smaller but closer to your workplace, a day-care centre only a block away from your apartment. Minwoo grew up and started asking for his father and you quietly explained to him why he didn’t have a father. You kept a picture of the two of you framed next to the door, showing it to your son every time he asked for his father. At first, he cried, but he slowly understood that you were still loving him and trying your best even if you couldn’t give him a father. You had also tried to date again, but you were so worried about your son in day-care that you never enjoyed any of them. It was hard to be a single mom, feeling worthless and unlovable each time you came home from an unsuccessful date. You knew that your son loved you, but it wasn't comparable to the love you could get from a caring man.

Since your work was closer, you privileged the public transports over the car. You entered the bus and your son suddenly started crying for no apparent reason. You tried to feed him, give him his cuddly toy, but nothing changed, he was crying at the top of his lungs. You were so embarrassed that you barely looked up, profoundly apologising to everyone around you, nearly in tears due to exhaustion and shame. The man in front of you looked around your age and his gaze on your son was tender. He tried to catch your son’s attention by grabbing his plushie, waving it in front of his face, the cries slowly fading as the man in front of you portrayed a funny sweet voice while talking to your son through his toy. Minwoo was now mesmerised by his talking plushie, laughing, and hugging it close to him while looking at the man in front of you. You rested your head against the window, and you sighed along with a few other people around you, relieved that your son had stopped crying.

“Thank you so much,” you said to the young man and he smiled. “It’s nothing, I couldn’t let this little man embarrass his mother,” he chuckled, and you started talking to each other until you had to get off the bus. He was named Seonghwa, and came with you to your workplace, distracting Minwoo from crying. You thanked him again and went to work, feeling more peaceful. Meeting Seonghwa on the bus had become your daily routine. He was an interesting and smart man, bringing you entertained until your stop, looking forward each time to see him the next day. Bus rides turned into dates, smiles turned into kisses, closeness turned into caresses and tenderness. You fell in love with him, hard, and you were scared, but he reassured you. You had almost forgotten your ex-husband and his tormenting family, hoping to never see them again. You were doing well. Until tonight.

You cannot lie, Yunho looked happy and surprised to see his son for the first time, but Seonghwa didn’t agree. You noticed the two men menacingly stare at each other and the atmosphere was tense. You couldn’t let them start a fight in the middle of the shop, so you grabbed Seonghwa’s hand, quickly bidding goodbye to your ex-husband, as well as Mingi and left the fish counter as quickly as possible. Once everything was in the car trunk, you sat Minwoo in his seat and went to the passenger seat, Seonghwa waiting for you to go home. You took big breaths during the journey home, expecting your boyfriend to leave you or not talk to you for a while. Why did you have to run into your ex-husband when you were with him? Why did it have to happen? You got out of the car as soon as it stopped in the driveway, taking in a big bowl of fresh air. You shook your head in defeat and opened the car door, unfastening your son’s seatbelt, carefully carrying him to your apartment and put him to bed. Seonghwa was tidying the grocery around the kitchen when you came downstairs, taking a glass of water along with a pill for headaches. Your boyfriend closed the fridge door and observed you, noticing that you were on the verge of tears. He walked towards you and took you in his arms, shushing you as you quietly cried on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry-” “I know the memories and scars are still vivid, but you need to move on. I saw how sad and upset you looked when we met him, but I won’t let this ungrateful bastard destroy what we built together. You were doing fine so far, we managed to make you forget him and I won’t let you dive back in your sorrow. You’ve been strong for so long, it’s not the time to give up. Do it for your son, for yourself, and for us as a pair. You need me, I need you, Minwoo needs healthy parents and I’m ready to take this role. Forget about this man, I promise that you will be better and healthier without him and his family.” Seonghwa whispered and worked his fingers through your hair, “I wasn’t so sure about bringing up a child who wasn’t mine, but I realised that I love you too much to let you down.” His words made you burst into tears and he shushed you, his fingers working in your hair. “I’m sorry that we had to see him, I swear it wasn’t planned.” You whispered and Seonghwa exhaled at your words, realising how guilty you felt. “No need to swear Y/N, and it’s okay. Let’s forget that for a while, shall we? You look really tired.” Seonghwa kissed your temple and you nodded, letting your boyfriend carry you to your bedroom.

Seonghwa made sure to kiss you on the cheek and dry your wet tears, his arm circling your waist before you both fell asleep in one breath.

[gordvendomewhore]

BULLY OC MEME [HOLLIS FRENCH]

yo yo yo i meant to post this literal months ago but. yeah i didn’t AKNZKAKS

so i have two bully ocs, chris kato and hollis french! they’re girlfriends!!! they’re actually from my original story but i transferred them on over to bully for fun lmao

have fun reading!! and feel free to ask any questions about hollis if there are any lmao

[INFO]

Name: Hollis French

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Lesbian

Clique: Preps

Personality: Persuasive, stubborn, two-faced, analytical.

Weapon/fighting style of choice:

- Hollis will avoid fighting if possible, since she isn’t strong enough to win against anyone outside of the Nerds and Non-Cliques.

- She’ll usually just sic Chris on anyone who bothers her.

- Her fighting dialogue mainly revolves around taunts, warnings to back off, and hints that she’s actually, well, scared.

- In a fight, Hollis prefers to use a wooden paddle.

[DIALOGUE]

Greetings:

- James, it’s lovely seeing you.

- Hello!

- Hopkins! Care to spare a minute of your day to talk?

Saying Goodbye:

- I’d love to talk longer, but my girlfriend is waiting for me. Toodles!

- I must bid you adieu, Hopkins.

- My presence is needed at the Harrington House, but hopefully we can talk at a later time?

Chasing:

- Don’t try to escape me, Hopkins!

- I don’t have time for games of cat and mouse!

- I thought you would be brave enough to face me!

Out of Breath:

- I’ll...have you whimpering...like a suckling puppy...once I catch you!

- ..Oh, heavens, this is what sweat is?

- I’ll just...ask Christine to hunt him down later...

Walking around talking to themselves:

- I wonder when Daddy will import me more paint.

- Men are disgusting, but Christine’s boyish charm is incredibly endearing....

- One day, Bullworth will have an entire museum dedicated to my work.

- [Under her breath] She’s lucky I can pay for all her pyromaniac madness.

- Perhaps staying in an airtight room with pernicious oil paints for several hours isn’t such a good idea...

- Another day of being absolutely gorgeous.

- Van Gogh wishes he could have my talent.

Conversing:

- Daddy says that I’m set to take over the company, and I’m not even the eldest child!

- Derby doesn’t seem at all interested in Pinky, don’t you think?

- I feel bad for Hopkins; Getting himself involved with that Garfield kid was a dreadful mistake on his behalf.

- Anyone willing to model for my next piece? [Response if someone agrees] No, no...not you.

- That Hopkins seems to be stirring up quite the ruckus.

- Does your girlfriend win you meretricious, polyester carnival prizes? [Silence] Hmph, I thought so.

- Do my glasses make me look like a nerd? God knows I don’t want be be associated with those scum.

Conversation Response:

- Disgusting.

- Okay? And what do you expect me to do about it?

- Mm, yes, that does sound delightful.

- God, no, never.

- Of course!

- How dreadful.

Complaining:

- I wish Christine would stop smoking. My pretty pink lungs could do without the second hand smoke.

- Derby‘s just fussy because I’m a natural blond and he has to rely on the bottle!

- What was Aquaberry thinking with a collection dedicated to polka dots of all things?!

- The paints Daddy got me were worth $300 by the tube instead of $400!

- Where’s Christine? I need attention!

- This wretched place is draining me of my talent.

Unknown/Cut Dialogue:

- It’s bad for my complexion to be around people so...poor. [Shudders]

- My life is going to be reduced to nothing but day drinking and a cubicle desk! I’ll be nothing but a younger, cuter Galloway! [Sobbing]

- Retribution has never been so sweet.

- My little firebug!

Starting fight with Cliques:

[Bullies]

- Step away, you lowlife!

- If you allowed me to break your nose, it’d open up the wonderful opportunity for a little work to be done!

- Don’t you have better things to do?

- Is this some perverted fantasy of yours?

- Pervert!

[Greasers]

- Aw, you’re just upset that my socks cost more than your shack.

- I hope you have health insurance!

- You bitch, did you just get your grease on my Aquaberry?!

- Touch me and that’s a lawsuit!

- Did that grease in your hair finally leak into your brain?

[Nerds]

- It’s adorable how absolutely unfair this fight is!

- I’ll make sure to donate some money for your hospital bills.

- Are you even trying?

- I’ll pay you to break your own leg.

- Aren’t there books on how to fight properly?

[Jocks]

- D-Don’t you think it’s a bit immoral to hit a girl?

- Lay a single finger on me, and my girlfriend will break all ten!

- ..Please avoid the face.

- If you break my limbs, could you at least avoid my left arm?

- [Nervous laughter] Oh, no...

[Townies]

- Keep your hands off me, trailer trash!

- Go back to the dumpster you belong to!

- You filthy bitch!

- Just take my Aquaberry; You’ve already contaminated it.

- Aw, do you need directions to the animal shelter? I hate to see malnourished strays moping around the streets.

Requesting an errand:

- You’ll do me a favor, won’t you, Hopkins?

- James! Mind running a quick errand? And don’t even try humoring me by pretending to decline my offer.

- Ah, Hopkins, what a pleasant day to help your favorite girl in need.

Friendly Comments:

- I see you’ve finally learned how to dress yourself, James.

- Ah, Hopkins, you look worthy of my respect today!

- You look amazing! Derby would be jealous.

- Ooh, you seem richer today, James! Did you rob a bank?

Unfriendly Comments:

- Your daddy forget to wear a condom?

- Your mommy forget her birth control?

- I’ll be happy to provide you a map of directions to the local orphanage.

- Just looking at you is lowering my IQ.

[EXTRA]

Demanding flowers:

- A pretty girl deserves pretty things, doesn’t she?

- My love isn’t a charity, James.

- There comes a time where you realize that my love, like all things in life, is not free.

- I’ll tell you a little secret: You can buy love!

After receiving flowers:

- Aw, my girlfriend doesn’t usually take interest in cutesy things, but she’ll love these!

- Oh...Hopkins, you shouldn’t have. No, really, you shouldn’t have.

- You need more practice with your floral arrangements.

- Thank you, James, the Harrington House was in desperate need for a pop of color.

Before kissing:

(No matter what, Jimmy can’t actually kiss Hollis)

- My heart belongs to another, James.

- O-Oh, Jimmy, you’re so...handsome! Yeah, no, I can’t even fake it.

- What do you take me for, some measly escort?

- Don’t you think I’m a bit, well, out of your price range?

@video-space the second half of my lesbians.....4 you.

[talesofphantombandits]

JJ One Shot ~ Always Believe in you.

So this is my second time writing this Intro and the last part of this story because while I went off for one second to find a photo to use, my tab decided to refresh.  So I lost everything.

NOT HAPPY.

Here we go again. So I just finished Outer Banks, AMAZING. Must say the first few episodes I struggled with but then when I got on episode 4 that’s when I started really getting into it and from then on I was hooked. At the start my first impression of JJ was ‘dam this dude is so handsome’ then it turned into ‘Jesus this boy has issues’ and ended with ‘OMG PROTECT THAT BABY AT ALL COSTS’ So yeah......

There might be a second part with these two, I had another idea for another scene. But we shall see how this one does first. 

Pairing: JJ x Reader. Warnings: Mild language.

Summary: Y/N was forced by her parents to go to Italy to see some family, the only hitch her phone was taken off her after landing and put in a safe so she couldn’t talk to anyone back home. Safe to say your parents didn’t approve of you dating JJ and hanging out with the rest of the crew. Seen as they only told you this after landing, snatching the phone right out of your hands at the airport you didn’t have time to tell them you wouldn’t be able to communicate, they probably thought you’d forgotten them. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what JJ though. Safe to say he wasn’t very forthcoming when you saw him again.

(I will look over this tomorrow for mistakes, I’m just so angry right now that it was ready to post and then It didn’t save. So sorry if there is mistakes)

I’d been in Italy for the past few months, my family had decided that sometime away would be good for all of us. 

I hadn’t had any communication with the guys during the stay in Italy, which meant JJ too. I’d been cut off, “They were bad for you.” That’s what my dad told me but I loved them they were what true friends, true family was made of. It had broken my heart to leave JJ alone he’s been through hell and still going through it, but it was a little relief to know that he had John B, Kiara and Pope looking out for him. 

We were coming home for the Midsummer's party, It happens every year but my family insist on being there. To ‘keep up appearances’ they just wanted to keep their social status.

We arrived back home at about 7am, the only thing on my mind was raced up to my bedroom to take a nap. God I were exhausted, what I really wanted was to go straight to see the guys but that was impossible my parents weren’t letting me out of their sight. 

I woke up about 4pm and decided now would be a good time to take a shower and get ready for the party. I knew that Kiara would be there so that gave me a sense of hope and  motivation to look my best. I picked out a dark green velvet dress, deciding to do some darker makeup and curly my short shoulder length hair. When I was satisfied with the look, I got the black platform heels out of the bottom of my closet and sat on my bed while strapping them.

“Hey you ready?” Mum stood at the bedroom door putting in her earrings. 

“Yeah, as I’ll ever be.” I sighed rolling my eyes, I got up from my bed, heading to the door.

“You behave tonight.” My dad passed a kiss to the top of mums head on his way pasted, pointing his finger at me.

“No promises.” I said under my breath.

Walking down the stairs I waited in the front room on my phone until everyone was ready to leave.  My mind wondered to JJ, I wondered what he’d been up to and how he was coping with his father. My eyes started to brim with tears, I felt so bad leaving him without no contact but it was hardly my fault. I’d feel better when I could finally escape and see him.

Arriving at the party the first person I saw was Kiara looking extremely bored, sipping her drink leaning on the wooden railing outside.

“KIE!” I screamed, running as fast as my heels would take me.

“AHHH! Y/N!!!!” She screamed back and held her arms open wide.

She gave me a bone crushing hug. “God I’ve missed you!” I whispered in her ear. 

“Me too! why didn’t you call or text? We were all starting to worry that you were never coming back!” We, we were starting to worry. I gave her a sad look.

“Yeah about that, I was cut off.” She looked at me sympathetically. “They locked my phone away, said I needed to keep away from you guys.”

“You better tell that to JJ when you see him.” 

“What, why?” I said confused.

“He erm kind of thinks you’re ignoring us, and abandoned him.” She said looking at the ground.

“Why would he think that? I said breathlessly. The thought of JJ thinking I abandoned him broke me.

She just shrugs. “Who knows what’s going on in that head of his. We tried to tell him that it was probably your parents stopping you but.” She gestured off.

“He doesn’t listen.” We both chuckled softly.

“I’m glad you’re back, I know you’ll be able to sort it out with him. I’m glad you can be here to help me cope with this party.” She smiled sweetly at me patting her hand on my bare shoulder.

“Me too.” I smiled back as we went to sort out drinks for ourselves.

A few hours had past and Kiara told me that her and Sarah had sorted their differences out, that they were now friends now. I was very surprised at first but happy because that meant that there would be no awkwardness when I started dancing with Sarah and her sister on the dance floor.

This was the happiest I’d felt in a while, just dancing and loosing myself in the music.

Just then a arm came over my shoulder, I looked at it then at Sarah who stood in front of me confused.  She inspected the note in the hand. “From Vlad.” I knew that voice! Sarah took the note, smiling into it and rushing off.

I turned to come face to face with JJ. He was wearing smart black pants, a crisp white top and a strange coloured bow tie. He stared me dumbfounded, I looked down to his chest.

“That bow tie is horrible.” My eyes snapped to his face as he scoffed at me. When I finally studied his face I could tell he wasn’t happy, and I finally noticed the scratches all over his cheeks and the bust lip that looked all swollen.

My smile fell. “ JJ your face, what happened.” I raised my hand to cup his cheek but he slapped it away. I looked at him shocked, It wasn’t violent but there was enough force in it to make me flinch. 

He looked angry now, he step backwards then shook his head and turned to leave.

“JJ!” I stepped to follow him but my dad caught my arm, pulling me to go chat with his friends.

“Y/N I want you to meet someone.” My dad introduced me to a tall dark haired preppy boy, he looked my age. He also looked very familiar.

“Hi.” I said uninterested, my mind still on JJ but mainly the state his face was in. 

“I’ll let you two talk, you both have a lot in common.” That snapped me out of the daze at the words of my father, was he seriously trying to set me up with this tool? and how did he know what likes I had, I don’t think he knew me at all.

I looked up to the guy next to me, he was smirking down at me. It made me feel sick.

“Look sorry to disappoint.” I patted him on the shoulder. “But I’m already seeing someone.” 

I went to walk away but he called out. “That’s not what your dad says, So either you’re lying to me to get me to go away. Or you’re dating someone daddy wouldn’t approve of.” 

I turned giving him an unimpressed face. “What’s your name?” 

“Rafe.” I scoffed.

“As in Sarah’s brother?” He just nodded at me enthusiastically.  I just laughed. “Yeah no chance in hell.” 

I walked off to find Kiara. 

___________

I was speaking with Kiara and her family when JJ frantically entered the room being pushed around by a security guard, he was screaming and shouting. Me and Kiara just looked at each other concerned.

“What the hell.” I whispered under my breath. “Hey! Let go of him.” 

The security guard didn’t let up and pushed him further towards the porch. 

“It’s okay everybody, do not panic leave it to the men and women in uniform.” Everyone had slowly turned to look at who was making and fuss. Me and Kiara had slowly started to move towards the centre of the room.

“What is he doing?” I said to Kie.

“I have no idea.” She looked at me concerned.

“You can’t just boot him!” Kiara shouted to the guard. 

“I invited him here.” I said.  JJ turned to look at me but rolled his eyes, deciding to focus on Kiara instead.

I looked at him then turned slowly to look at Kie.  Both our parents where telling us to back down and shut up, but we weren’t going to take that.

Suddenly he’d pushed the guard away and turned back to Kiara. “Hey, mandatory power hour at Rixon’s, Kie.” 

He didn’t even look my way. 

“Pope, you as well. All right?”  He turned to leave off the porch still shouting at Kie and Pope to follow him. 

Kie grabbed my hand, I looked around confused but decided that JJ probably wouldn’t want me to follow. I told her I couldn’t, she stopped dead for a bit looking at me sadly. Her mother and father started tugging at her so she had to get away leaving me standing there staring at them all run off happily into the distance.  I sighed and decided to leave, clear my head. 

“I’m going for a walk.” My parents tried to get me to stay but fat chance that was happening, I didn’t want to be at this stupid party in the first place.

___________

I just let my feet lead me, I must have been walking Idly until I stopped at the smell of burning wood. I looked up to find my feet had carried me to John B’s house, If the others where going to be anyway they were going to be here. I sighed deep and prepared myself for the argument that I didn’t want to have but it was killing me that I had been home less than a few hours and I hadn’t touched JJ yet.

I walked around to the back where the smell was richer now, I looked to the left to find all four of my friends by the campfire. I walked over trying to think of something to say when a twig snapped under my heels.

They all turned quickly to look at me.  “Y/N!! You’re back! why did no one tell me she was back.” John B rushed to me and tackled me into a hug.

Least someones happy that I’m back.  He carried me in our hug the short distance to the fire and set me down beside Pope, who already had his arms outstretched for a hug.  I just smiled at him and gave in. 

“We’ve missed you! how come you didn’t call?” John B patted my thigh.

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Yeah about that-” 

“What are you doing here?” I’d only heard the cold tone JJ was using when he talked about his dad. I never knew one day it would be directed at me. “I thought you’d get the message not to follow us when I didn’t call your name at the party.” 

“JJ.” Kie warned.

“What is wrong with you?” I could feel the lump forming in my throat. “I’m going to explain everything.” 

“I don’t want to hear it.” He stared at me with such malice, a sharp pain shot through my chest.

I stared at him but his face just seemed to harden more.  Finally I broke contact when I felt the first tear fall. 

“Fine.” I said quietly, I hoped no one would hear the crack in my voice. Luckily it was dark enough that I hoped no one noticed the tear flowing down my cheek. 

I got up and walked away without a word. I heard Kie call JJ a dumb ass as I turned the corner. When I got back to the road I bent over, my hands on my knees trying to catch my breath. Tears were free flowing now, I looked down both directions of the road. I could go home or go to my secret spot on the beach.

I decided that the beach would probably be best, I could cry it out and regain myself then go back home like everything was okay.

_________

I’d finally calmed myself down when I heard someone climbing up the dune to my right.  What I wasn’t expecting was to see JJ’s face pop up. 

“Hey.” I said quietly, a massive contrast from earlier. 

I just stayed silent, looking straight ahead to watch the moon reflect off the surface of the water. It always looked so beautiful and calming to me, that’s why I came out here when I was mad or upset. 

He came and sat next to me but not too close.

“I’m a jerk I know.” I just scoffed.

“That’s a big understatement.” I’d stopped crying a while ago but I could still feel the breeze making the tear stains cold.

“Kie told me.” I could see him mindlessly playing with the sand. “I should have heard you out, I’m sorry.” He dipped his head low.

I sighed deeply, the marks on his face are obviously a sign that his dad had beaten him again. they where fresh as well. I wanted to be so mad at the way he treated me but I just couldn’t bring myself to be mad anymore. 

I turned to look at him and reached for his hand. “What happened to your face JJ.” I whispered as if not to startle him.

“My dad.” He sniffed and interlocked our fingers.  I turned to fully face him, putting our hands on my lap. 

“Me and Pope did something stupid, Pope was going to get arrested for it but I couldn’t let that happen. He has a scholarship to look forward to, and a future I don’t. So I took the fall for both of us.” He looked at me now, tears brimming in his own eyes. “Dad came to bail me out, then proceeded to beat the shit out of me in the car.” 

I shut my eyes, my lip quivered.  When I opened them his tears had began to fall. I scooted towards him cupping his face and wiping away the tears pooling on his cheeks.

“Hey, It’s okay. I’m here.” He leaned forward in to me and put his face in my neck. He started sobbing now, I could feel the wetness on my collarbone.

All I could do was sooth him and rub his back. 

When he’d calmed I lifted him to sit up straight.  “You never have to hide from me JJ, I’ll be here supporting you forever.” 

He just smiled reaching up to turn strands of hair from my face that the breeze had blown everywhere. 

“What would I do without you?” He leaned in, I met him half way. Our lips met in a sweet kiss. “Now that’s how I should have greeted you at the party.” He smiled closing his eyes to savour the moment, leaning our foreheads together.

“Would have been a better greeting.” I just laughed.

I grabbed his hands and pulled him up with me, Slowly making my way down the dune.  “Where are we going? You’re not going to kill me are you?” 

“Maybe.” I said absentmindedly, he stopped short dragging me back until I crashed into his chest. 

“Ouch, why’d you stop.” I looked up at him.

He looked down at me dumbfounded. “You just told me you’re taking me to murder me.” 

I huffed. “Babe, it was a joke. I just want to walk along the beach, at the edge of the waves with you.” laughing at him now with his cute little pout.

He leaned over me, snatching my heels out of my hand. “lets go then.” 

The silence was beautiful, it was dark and the only sounds were waves crashing against each other.  This had always been my favourite past time with JJ, this is when the boy who had the most chaotic energy was the most calm. I thought it was a simple treasure that only I got to see this side of him, let alone that I was the only one that could bring out this calm in him. 

He stopped again, but this time he hugged me from behind. His head leaned on top of mine as we just took in the sea and the moon.

Things were definitely going to get worse before they got better, little did I know just how bad they’d get.

[rokutouxei]

you are still the sun that shines for me

part 8 of atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo van gogh/mc | G | 3030 | [ao3 in bio]

Life couldn't get any better. You enjoy what you do here, spending your life without regrets with the person you love the most. That is, until you meet her. The woman who still loves Theo.

CHAPTER 1

maybe love stays / maybe love can’t / maybe love shouldn’t. When Love Arrives, Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye

A sight that would change the life of everyone who sees it. That was what one of the head sponsors of the gallery called the show when you and Theo finally showed them the results of months of long work. An extraordinary compliment, to say the least. Standing there under the bright lights seeing the works of your new-artists-and-also-close-friends there for the world to see… all you can do is grin in delight.

Theo can do anything.

Great with his words, even better with his actions, hardworking to a fault and with a persistence and endurance that’s extremely admirable. Then, under all that, a heart that’s molten gold, filled with nothing but love and passion. The fact that he’s so also strikingly attractive, his eyes piercing, is also bonus points on anyone’s book, for sure.

You’re so glad to be able to help him out with his dreams.

You walk around the gallery to mingle with the artists and congratulate them with the success. They throw the compliment and the gratitude back to you and Theo, and you fall back into a comfortable kind of banter. For a moment, you dream of the future: little family of artists and art dealers, standing up and rising towards a new tomorrow for art.

You turn towards where Theo is across the room, and the both of you share a smile at each other when you make eye contact. He’s currently talking to some patrons, and while you’re lucky that you’ve met a lot that aren’t as backward, there are still high-paying ones with great influence that are, at their very core, still rather misogynistic, so Theo had said he’d take over this discussion himself.

He’d asked you to enjoy the exhibit, have some of the food, ask the guests of their thoughts in his stead. (“You say that as if it’s hard—that’s the fun part!” you’d told him.)

While watching the coming and going of people, for a reason you don’t understand at that moment, you’re drawn to a particular pair of guests: a young boy, maybe in his pre-teens, fumbling awkwardly in his suit, and a woman in her late 30s, walking with him. A mother and her son, perhaps. They seem to be having a lively conversation with each other with every painting, discussing it with an intensity that probably mimics yours and Theo’s.

Perhaps they’re patrons of the arts too?

You get an odd urge to come up to them. You don’t fight it, knowing fully well you still have a job to do—again, check on the guests—so taking a sip out of the champagne you’re nursing, you approach them.

The boy steps into the next section of the gallery before you can get there. Well, you’re not really as good at kids as Theo—so that’s probably for the better.

“Bonjour, madame,” you say with a short bow. “Enjoying the exhibit?”

“Very much so, yes,” the woman says. “Are you perhaps one of the artists?”

“Oh, no, just an organizer.” The woman looks surprised, but oddly pleased—maybe she does this sort of work, too? You beam. “How are you finding it?”

“Brilliant, I have to admit,” she answers you. “The curators really had an eye for the style. Not the usual—no, near scandalous, but beautiful. Hard to take one’s eyes off the canvases.”

The two of you fall into a rather lively discussion, one topic flowing into another. What started with a rather sharp analysis of the painting you’d found her in front of (“the intimate brush strokes even at the tiniest of details really is what makes it so much more… dreamlike.” “I agree! All those little things in dreams that doesn’t seem to make sense, but make it all the more true in that moment.” “Exactly. It adds a personality to it, and with these colors—“ “These colors!”) slowly evolved into a quick back and forth about art, aesthetic, and culture. You get so into the discussion you almost don’t notice the young boy having finished his rounds at the gallery, now standing behind his mother, listening intently at the discussion.

“It’s so lovely to have someone as invested in this that’s a woman as well,” you finally comment, your champagne flute empty and your confidence soaring after an exciting conversation. “Sometimes I still get stared down when I talk to clients.”

She nods, a little sadly. “I can only imagine. I was not born of money, really, but I have a bit on me, and that’s really the only way I can get most of the influential powers to listen to what I have to say.”

“Oh?” That piques your curiosity. “Do you run a gallery or an artist workshop too, madame?”

She waves you off. “Nothing of the sort. I’d just inherited a grand array of valuable paintings—beautiful, yet, like most of these kinds of art, very much still misunderstood and looked down upon.”

“A consideration of the style, perhaps?”

“Yes, very much so,” she says. “They’re… intense, to say the least. But just because it is not understood now, doesn’t mean it will not be of importance in the future. So I’m looking forward to connecting with galleries, like this one, perhaps, and museums, bring his paintings out into the world.”

His paintings. Oh, how much like Theo. “That’s a remarkable goal.”

“Rather absurd for but a woman like me, I’d say,” she comments, a dry laugh at the end. “This wasn’t my mission, just one I have to continue. Besides, they’ll do better in galleries like this than hanging in rows in my kitchen.”

“Someone once told me the best art in the world is still hidden, waiting to be found,” you say. It was Theo who had told you that.

She nods. “For sure. And you’re doing your fair share of searching, if this exhibit is any clue.” She turns away from you for a moment, and then her eyes widen at the sight of something. You’re about to turn around to peep what it is when she turns to you abruptly. “I’m sorry, but I have someone I must talk to, so I’ll go ahead.” She turns to the boy. “Lieveling?”

“Can I stay a little longer with her, mama?” the boy asks. You’re… surprised, to say the least, considering he’s just been listening quietly the whole time.

Mama. Had you misheard that, or was that not exactly French in sound? Wait… what did she call him?

“As long as you’ll behave,” the woman says. Ah, the woman! You hadn’t even gotten to ask her name! You’re about to ask when she turns and—“I’m sorry, I’ll come back for him really quickly. You may leave him if you have somewhere else to go; he’s a big boy, he can handle himself.”

This time, with annoyance. “Mama.”

“Yes, yes.” The woman bows and starts to walk away, off into a corner where you saw the shadow of a few of the richer patrons disappear into much earlier.

Perhaps she’d recognized one of them? Maybe it’s related to the paintings she was talking about earlier—perhaps she’s about to reach out. You silently wish her good luck in your head as you turn to the boy in front of you.

Not knowing where to begin, you say: “How old are you, can I ask?”

“I just turned ten,” he says. “Being ten is great. I don’t want to be treated like a little boy anymore.”

You take note of that and straighten your back. He’d probably hate if you crouched to meet him eye to eye—not that you’d need to do much of it, considering he was pretty tall for a ten-year-old boy. “Ten is a fun age to be. Well, what does the big ten-year-old want to ask me?”

“Can you talk about the paintings a little more?” he asks, refusing to look you in the eye, looking around the exhibit pensively. “You and mama… really understood each other, and I can’t keep up with her…”

You narrow your eyebrows. So the expression you’d seen from him earlier was less of excitement, but more of… confusion? Asking questions to his mother about what he couldn’t understand, and less of enthusiasm of the artwork? “Your mama made it sound like you live in an art-filled house.”

“We do,” the boy admits. “And that’s why it’s hard. I’m ten now and sometimes I still don’t understand what she’s saying. I get it, they’re pretty, but… then what? Machines—those make more sense to me. All the art and feelings… I don’t get it. They’re like magic to me.”

A boy with a passion for art who hasn’t found his footing in it yet, the words to brace himself with, the road to walk. You used to be just like that too. This is a great way to pay it forward, you tell yourself. “Well, I’d love to talk to you about the art pieces, mon apprenti. But first—I’ll have to know your name.”

You introduce yourself with a bow in French, thinking a little roleplay won’t hurt. This is still a child, after all, and you want to be at least an enjoyable tutor. He plays along, taking your hand in his in a little formal bow.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle. Je m'appelle Vincent Willem van Gogh.”

Something inside your chest squeezes.

The little boy finally looks up, granting you the full strength of his gaze for the first time that whole day.

Deep, striking sea-blue eyes, just like Theo’s.

-

If Theo were to be completely honest, he would say he hated dealing with these patrons in particular. Misogynist and backwards, he couldn’t even bring you with him to discuss with them because they would just end up spending more time slandering your skills and knowledge about art than actually working out a good deal. But connections are things to be made, not broken, in this trade, and so with a half-hearted smile and a kiss from you to his cheek, that day at the gallery, he’d sent you off to enjoy the art while he talked with the stuck-up rich old men.

At least they have some interesting thoughts about art and money to entertain him, he thinks, as he nurses a glass of whiskey (“Just one! You’re not going to make me carry you home!” you had reminded him, jabbing at his lightweightedness, so he was taking his sweet time with it). He sure would rather have better, deeper conversation, the likes that stimulated the mind and kept him asking for more, but he can’t be picky in a place like this when he–

“Monsieur Theodore?”

A small voice that sends ice down his spine. He steels his features, but he can’t do the same to his heart.

He turns around and something deep inside of him, one that he’s long kept in dark sealed boxes in the shadows of the labyrinth of his mind, breaks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, a small, elegant curtsey. “Je suis Johanna van Gogh.”

The part of him that’s human, the one he says has long died, the one that he’s buried, comes back to life in a searing flash of regret and pain. She looks older now–well, a near decade since he’s up and gone–the lines around her eyes deeper, but she also looks finer, more mature; the small blossom he’d left so long ago has now bloomed into a beautiful flower. Oh, his sweet Jo.

He tries his best not to look if she’s still wearing the ring he gave her on her left hand.

He doesn’t hear himself reply, as he tries not to bite down the words. He doesn’t know anymore if he’s lying when he says he is pleased to meet her. “It’s nice to meet a fellow van Gogh.”

She laughs, a little awkward one that’s full of pain. “Yes, a real interesting coincidence.” A beat; Theo sinks into familiarity. That hesitation, the way she pulls quickly backward into herself to rearrange her composure when confidence quickly fails her. She turns away for a moment—which Theo uses to step closer—before she faces him once more, her gaze making him feel small.

“I’m sorry for asking, but… have we met somewhere else before?”

And Theo wants to say yes, because besides the more obvious signs a decade leaves on a human body, Jo looks the same as Theo has kept burned in the backrooms of his memory. They’ve met before—he recognizes her. Her lovely, dark brown hair ever so impeccably styled practically and yet with a subtle kind of charm. The dimples on her cheeks, so deep he used to joke with her and poke a finger into it. The golden caramel color of her eyes, so wide and eager and passionate.

Jo had always been rather plain, and that’s what’s made her really beautiful. There was no need for excesses with her: everything was just exactly as was needed. And it seems that the years haven’t changed that in her, either. Her deep blue dress is fashionable but not extraordinarily so; her smile calculated for politeness but with enough genuineness in it to be truly lovely.

She’s exactly the same, and that’s why it hurts, that’s why Theo wants to say—

Yes. “I don’t believe so, no.”

She continues to look into him and it takes all his strength to not look away.

“I’m sorry, it’s just–my late husband was named Theo as well, and just–”

“I’m sorry to hear,” Theo fills, doesn’t want to hear the rest of it. There’s a knot in his throat and he’s trying not to think about it.

Why did he have to look so different? What curtain of reality is hiding him from the woman he loved most, in that past life? Why didn’t she recognize that it was him she was talking to?

Did he want her to recognize who she was talking to?

“Thank you,” she smiles. “I heard that this entire exhibit wouldn’t have run up without you. Congratulations.”

“I wasn’t alone,” not alone, not alone, not alone, “this was the hard work of the artists and my business partner.” Partner, partner, partner.

“It’s excellent work,” she comments, then pulls back. “Not–I’m not trained, of course. But my husband, he was an art dealer too, loved his career, it rubs off.”

“Art is a good thing to lose yourself into,” he finds himself saying. Theo doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. He’s choking on the inside and he doesn’t want it to show. Who is he to tell her what’s good for her? When he’s the one who’s left all those wounds on her by leaving her? “It’s a beautiful thing, it grows.” Fills the empty spaces. There’s a thorn in his chest that’s becoming more prominent by the second.

And it hurts only worse when she beams. “Yes, that’s absolutely right. I have much to learn, he’s left me so much behind–aha, maybe one day I’ll ask for your help–and there’s so much I want to do.”

“You’re a passionate woman, Madame Johanna. You would surely make him proud.”

You will. You do. You always have.

She smiles. A steady, confident smile, the one that had made him fall in love with her what seems like a million lifetimes ago. “Thank you, Monsieur Theodore. Excuse me if it may seem rude, but it’s so hard not to think of mijn Theo when I see you.”

“I hope it’s not the sort that pains you.”

“Well, there is only so much time one can spend waist-high in mourning,” she says with a sweet smile. “He’s given me all that I can ask for, now it’s just a matter of getting to work.”

Theo wants to say something but his conscience holds him back. Jo has turned her gaze to the rows of paintings in the gallery, a smile filled with nostalgia on her face. Like she’s returning to a place a million years ago. Perhaps to the same place Theo is in as well, in his head.

She turns back to him slowly, the look on her face unearthing hidden wounds that suddenly feel still-too-raw. “I may not be able to do much, but you, sir—I think the both of you have the same kind of heart…I hope you get to continue what he only got to start.”

Theo feels helpless, left with nothing more to say, even if he knows there is so much left to tell. He doesn’t feel like he has the right to be part of this conversation anymore—a right he’d forfeited the day he’d left this life without second thought, blinded by the darkness of revenge.

Look at all this, Theodorus, he can hear Gauguin say in his head, the voice of the secret phantom who still lives in his unconscious, even if this was so long before, was it worth it? Has it ever been worth it?

Johanna, once his beloved Jo, does a curtsey, a quick excuse me as she finally sets off to leave. Theo tries to say a goodbye, a nice to have spoken to you, a see you again soon, but he doesn’t know if any of it has made it out of his mouth. Instead, he follows her away with his eyes, taking a sip at the whiskey that burns in his throat.

Was it worth it?

Sees her greet you of all people, and you nod at her with an indescribable look on your face.

What did it cost?

Theo’s gaze is glued onto the young boy Johanna van Gogh guides out with her, with his mother’s hair, the same sea blue of his father’s eyes.

Of Theo’s eyes.

Have you ever really ever known how much you’ve lost?

The cool tendrils of dread begin to fill him.

Across the room, you send the mother and child away with a heavy, empty gaze.

---

you are still the sun that shines for me is a 5-chapter fic that will be posted from October 25-28! catch what else is in the atelier later on in this fic. :)