#banshees writing

[bansheeoftheforest]

I see you are asking for oneshot requests! Might I offer; truth serum but Jekyll isn't drunk this time, and the Lodgers have to deal with the guilt of their founder actively panicking as he spills his secrets. (Bonus: Jekyll trans reveal + Ito loudly stating her support of him/him reconciling with the Lodgers)

!!!!! I am DEFINTIELY Rusty and realized now that I am finished that I could have probably moved this in a different direction, but I hope the wait was worth it and that you'll enjoy this oneshot!! :D

also pls tell me if there are any mistakes because I've been trying to read through this a million times and I've forgotten how to post fics- help-

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Title name: Secrets To Be Found

Wordcount: 4989

Summary: As Virginia Ito tries to keep her mentor calm during a day of anxiety, Dr. Ranjit Helsby and Mr. Seward Griffin decide that it is time to get some truths out of their founder.

Relationships: Robert x Jekyll (mentioned), Morcant x Jekyll (mentioned)

CW: Unconsenting drug use, internalized transphobia, transphobia

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Helsby was up to something. 

  The man was a gossip, and by extension, he was always in someone else’s business, trying to find out more and more in an almost deliberate attempt to get his curiosity killed. Dr. Jekyll had never liked it, never liked it when the older man would smirk and grin, like he knew something you didn’t, which he often did. It was uncanny already, but this time... He did not like what his gut feeling was telling him. 

  He had tried to wave it all off, when it first started happening earlier this week. When Helsby would throw smug glances towards Griffin, as if silently communicating. He did not have any capacity to care much about either of them, he would not have cared if Griffin was the target of Helsby’s plot, yet he knew that that wasn’t the case. Griffin was a recluse even among the Lodgers, his temper and chronic migraines often kept him from forming any sort of positive connection with any of them, and so his sudden friendship with Helsby was... Concerning. His own suspicion was not quelled when a handful of days passed and their dubious behaviour only seemed to get worse.

  Safe to say, Dr. Henry Jekyll was nervous. 

  He forced himself to ignore this -probably imaginary- plot, and yet he had woken up with a horrible feeling within his very bones. He wasn’t really sure what it was, something within him was just... Jittery. Something was crawling inside of him but it was nothing he could put a finger on. He was almost certain that it wasn’t Hyde, as he had, in his own way, been quite calm and genuine the last few days, at least not seeming like he knew what was up with Jekyll or their body. He was not a stranger to anxiety, of course; but his anxiety normally came from something, it hadn’t come up without a reason in years, and that thought alone almost made him more nervous. Perhaps there was a reason, but really, why would he be nervous if Helsby and Griffin simply had a little prank planned? He could almost be certain he would not be at the receiving end, and yet...

  The anxiety had only worsened during the day, perhaps solidified by a familiar, nauseating feeling within his body; a dysphoria in which everything within and regarding his body felt wrong, no matter what he changed or how much he had convinced those around him that he was a perfectly normal man. Deep down, he felt- or perhaps knew- that he wasn’t. His jaw was not angled enough, his waist was too thin, his hips were too wide and his hair was too long- otherwise obscure details to his appearance which now felt like tell-tale signs of his biological sex. Perhaps that was what had caused the anxiety; the very fear that someone, at some point, would find out, and especially so when he knew- or assumed- that Helsby and Griffin were sniffing for vulnerable secrets. It wasn’t like he only had one skeleton in his closet, either. There were a myriad of things which someone could find out about him, which would inevitably ruin his life, and his imperfect body was merely one of those. 

  Regardless, the physical signs of his illness had manifested quite early and throughout the entire day. By breakfast, his hands had been shaking, and his cup of tea had slipped right out of his grasp and shattered onto the floor, making him jump as his heart practically galloped out of his chest. Before noon, another one of Luckett’s fires had gotten a bit too close to the chemistry lab, and while it had been nothing but a minor explosion, with minimal harm to equipment and no harm done to any of the Lodgers, it had still been enough to scare the doctor out of his boots and leave the anxiety in a thick lump in his throat. After noon, yet another bill came, another one that would be put in the “overdue” pile before the end of the week. Safe to say, Jekyll couldn’t wait for this day to be over. 

  It was evening now. The Lodgers had clearly noticed their founder’s jumpiness. They had asked, of course, but Jekyll didn’t have answers. He didn’t know why he was like this today, all he knew was that he had slept and he had not consumed anything out of the ordinary, he did not drink anything remotely caffeinated and so he could not have made himself into a pile shaking bones through overconsumption. Whether or not the Lodgers believed that was an entirely different question. He was just happy that Robert was not here to see him like this. He was not necessarily ashamed of his irrational nervosity, but he knew that Robert would worry and, quite frankly, not leave his side until he had gotten him to calm down. 

  ... 

  Perhaps that would have been a good thing, actually. 

  But it was too late now. Ito seemed to have sensed his nervosity, regardless. She was often a quite strict and stoic lady, but she could never help but to worry for her mentor, she seemed to sense his distrust and paranoia and had stayed close for most of the day, after the little explosion in the chemistry lab. Jekyll could get no work done today, and Virginia could not focus on her own work when her worry clouded her brain, and so they had spent the majority of the afternoon in Jekyll’s office. He laid down on his couch, one arm covering his eyes to block out the light in an attempt to rest, while Virginia stayed by his desk and looked through some of his old notes. Notes which he knew were safe, notes that she would be studying, as his junior. But it was getting late now, and Ito knew that Jekyll’s anxiety would not be made any better on an empty stomach. He had been reluctant, of course; he felt safer in his office, but Virginia did not want him to eat alone and there wasn’t enough space for the two of them to dine in here, so Virginia helped him up and linked their arms together as they left the office in search of the dining hall, where Rachel would have prepared today’s dinner. Jekyll could not help but look around in every corridor, as if afraid that someone was watching, or that something more would go wrong when he least expected it. He, of course, told Ito that it was just his nerves, and it was. It was not a lie, she knew it wasn’t a lie, but it sure as hell did not make her any less nervous. 

  They came right by rush hour. The dining hall was filled with chattering Lodgers, all behaving perfectly normal and no one seeming out of the ordinary. Mrs. Cantilupe and Miss Lavender met them with sympathetic ‘how are you feeling’s, and Luckett once more apologised for the day's mishap. The alchemists sat down by their own table, a bit further away from the rest. 

  Jekyll didn’t have an appetite. How could he, when his stomach was riddled with knots? The mere sight and smell of the food got him to feel full, but Ito had none of it, and left the table to get them both something to eat. She knew what her mentor liked and what would be good for him, after all, and she would make sure that he ate what he could.

  But then again, this also meant that she left Jekyll alone. 

  His hands rested on the table. One grabbed the wrist of the other, thumb against his veins where he managed to feel his own rapid heartbeat, and he continued to look around. As he was turned away, he soon felt the chair next to him move, and as he looked back, he was met with the grinning face of none other than Dr. Ranjit Helsby- possibly the last person Jekyll wanted to see today.

  “My good fellow!” he greeted, “how’s it going?” 

  Jekyll blinked, confusion already evident.

  “I... I’m sorry, did you need something?” 

  Helsby waved him off. He grabbed the teacup that was neatly placed by Jekyll, pulled a teapot into view from vaguely under the table and poured tea for the other doctor, before giving him back the cup.

  “Nothing at all! I just wanted to see how you were feeling, good sir.” 

  Jekyll squinted. Helsby -sarcastic, dramatic or not- never called Jekyll “Good” or “Sir”, and certainly not both in succession. Helsby was not quiet about his general dislike for Jekyll, or perhaps dislike was a strong word. He often thought that he was a toff, and he very clearly did not like the direction to which Jekyll was moving the Society, but that didn’t have to mean that he actively disliked him. Still, Henry did not trust his newfound politeness, and yet he also knew that it would only be terribly rude of him to dismiss the diplomacy which was now offered. He noticed that Helsby already had a cup of tea for himself, and as the other doctor raised his in a silent ‘cheers’, Jekyll had no choice but to smile politely and do the same, before taking a sip. As the liquid went over his tongue, he winced, doing his best to not cough up the metallic fluid right afterwards- what on earth was this abomination of a tea? He tried not to gag, really- it was absolutely foul-... He recognised it, he recognised the metallic taste and the sour smell- but from where? 

  He felt someone moving towards his right, soon Griffin slammed the palms of his hands against the table quite aggressively, making Jekyll jump and successfully gaining the attention of the Lodgers by the nearby tables.

  “Well well, Jekyll,” He said, smugness evident, “You would not mind telling us a few things, right?” 

  His grin left little to the imagination, less like a human smile and more like baring teeth, more like a threat. Jekyll almost sank back into his chair, his heart beating and beating like it was about to crack through his ribs. Still, he tried to act calm, and pressed out a forced smile. 

  “Whatever do you mean?” 

  By this rate, or perhaps by Griffin’s loud movements, the rest of the hall had fallen silent and the Lodgers’ attention was now on the three men. Virginia, who was just on her way back, quickly placed the plates with food down at the nearest table and rushed towards her mentor. It was in this moment that Jekyll recognised the liquid which had practically been forced upon him, and he felt the panic take hold of his body.

  Truth serum.

  But it was too late.

  “Jekyll, what are your biggest secrets?” 

  Something within Jekyll stirred, an involuntary feeling which was not unlike the one which rose when Hyde took over control- his tongue began to move, and the words began to spill from his lips faster than he could process what he was doing. 

  “I was born a woman.” 

  The men’s expressions were unreadable, yet Jekyll continued, spellbound.

  “I’m bisexual and I’ve been in love with Robert Lanyon for over 15 years.” the words practically tumbled out of his mouth, he barely processed what he had said as the next confession slipped out, “I was in an unhealthy relationship with an ancient werewolf named Morcant.” His heart continued to thrum, he could feel how his breathing quickened, “I don’t think I’m good enough for anything and I fantasise about throwing myself off of the cliffs of Dover but I’m way too busy to even entertain such a thought” He attempted to struggle, to shut up, but he was as paralyzed in his chair, until his last confession finally came out, “I’ve been hallucinating my minds most horrifying creatures for weeks and I am Edward Hyde.” 

  …

  Silence. 

  He was hyperventilating, now. Jekyll’s mind was an absolute mess, trying to process what had just happened- and yet the Lodgers around him just stared, mouths agape. He tried desperately to speak once more- any explanation, hell- any anger which he could throw towards the perpetrators- and yet he couldn’t. His vision- he hoped it was just panic- started to blur, and before he knew it, he had already pushed the chair away from the table, as he quickly got up and just ran, out of the room, into the corridors. 

  He heard yelling behind him. He heard rapid footsteps of Lodgers who tried to follow him. He was not sure where he was going, but he would rather be anywhere but near the Lodgers- his dear Lodgers to which he had split all his secrets, and Griffin and Helsby, who had drugged him and forced him into this. He had been drugged- just like that- His heart pounded within his chest, like a hare with a heart attack. Before he knew it, he was back in his office, slamming the door closed behind him and locking it from the inside, before the exhaustion took hold. His legs gave in, and he sank back against the door. He could barely process the footsteps that ran after him now stopping in front of the very office he hid in.

  “Jekyll? Henry! Henry- Please, open the door!”

  It was Virginia, banging on the door in hopes that he would, in fact, open up for her. He heard more footsteps as more Lodgers arrived, he could hear their various voices through the door. He pulled his knees up to his chest, attempting to hide his face despite there being no one to see him.

  “You BASTARDS!” 

  Virginia seemed to turn her attention away from the door. He could hear shuffling and high-pitched yelps.

  “How DARE you do this to him?! WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELLS WERE YOU THINKING?!”

  “We didn’t think he- or she- or- whatever- was going to have THAT many secrets!” 

  “HE. Don’t you DARE call him by any different-” 

  “Hello? Did NO ONE hear that he confessed to BEING Hyde!?”

  As the third voice spoke, the commotion stopped, briefly, like they all started to properly think about the things he had said. Soon more Lodgers began to speak. 

  “...Well- he also said that he is a bisexual!” 

  “Yeah, but is anyone even surprised by that?” 

  “Should we not focus on the fact that he said he wanted himself DEAD?-”

  “Fantasising about jumping off cliffs is not the same!”

“Then what the HELL is it?” 

  Oh, God...

  He could try to escape. He could take the HJ7 and jump out of the window like he usually did, escape into the night and not come back- well... Not come back until he thought the Lodgers had calmed down, that is. At the same time, he felt paralyzed. To think that he had freely and openly admitted his deepest regrets to the Lodgers- Lodgers, who were now arguing about the severity of what he had said. At the same time, his mind was only filled with the shame of his very first and last confessions; he had not been a woman in multiple decades- if he ever was- but his body was itching by a need to practically pull off his own skin in an attempt to rid himself of what made him unmanly and a monster, of what made him the abomination he is, the horrid thing which the Lodgers now knew about. That was to not even mention that he had just told them everything- from his shameful love for Robert and his horrid affair with Morcant- he had told them that he created Edward Hyde. Why could he not have simply been allowed to forget it all? Why did they have to dredge up the past- could they not have let him keep his secrets? They had no right, yet they had taken that liberty, unaware or uncaring about the damage they had done. 

  His mind was a mess, still trying to grasp what had happened. He couldn’t help it when a sob broke free. He could barely hear the Lodgers outside quieting down, destroying any hope that they weren’t hearing his anguish.

  “Henry... Please, open the door. Griffin and Helsby are gone, we just want to help you.” 

  He didn’t believe it. He knew Virginia just wanted to help, but he did not believe for a second that the rest of the Lodgers wanted to. The others... He could barely imagine what they thought. Were they going to mock him? Or were they upset over the lies he had led them to believe? Would they blame this on him? Or perhaps some were already on their way to tell Frankenstein about what they had heard?

  He felt something push against the door, and then the sound of something sliding down. On the other side, Virginia mirrored his position.

  “Henry, I’m not leaving until you open the door. I can stay here all night if I need to.” 

  Through his tears, he couldn’t help but snort. As a Lodger, he only believed that she was staying to force more truth out of him, to shake out every last secret until he was nothing more than a sack of skin, but as his junior… Deep down, he could perhaps believe that she did care. It was confusing, yet a pleasant thought. He had no doubt that she would stay, she had always been stubborn, he couldn’t deny that. Whatever her true intentions were would, seemingly, not be revealed until he opened the door, but he was sure she wouldn’t stay that long...

...

He wasn’t sure how long they had stayed like this, now.

  It was darker outside. He was certain it had been at least a few hours since the mishap in the dining hall, the serum should have worn off by now. He had not dared to show himself since, he had not moved from his paralyzed place against the door, but he was quite sure Virginia hadn’t either.

  It was stupid, all of this. 

  He began to wonder if he had overreacted. Or perhaps underreacted. Griffin and Helsby had violated him in a way few could have managed… But he had no real choice, now. It was getting late, he had to open the door eventually and until then, he would be barricaded in his office, alone with nothing but his thoughts. He just wanted all of this to be over, even if it hurt. 

  He took a deep breath, and with shaky legs, he stood up and unlocked the door. 

  The sound of the lock and the push against the mahogany seemed to be enough to get Virginia to jump up and get away from the door, making Jekyll able to actually open it. She was ruffled, but she had indeed not left. He barely managed to fully open the door before she threw her arms around him.

  “Oh, Henry.” She murmured, her arms going tightly around his neck. She was not much shorter than him, but she still had to stand on her toes to be fully able to reach him. He could not help but melt against her, his own arms going around her waist as he buried his face in her shoulder. They did not often hug- he was her mentor, after all, and she did not like people touching her, but this felt... Nice. 

  After what felt simultaneously like too little and too much time, they parted, and Virginia placed her hands on Henry’s cheeks. Behind her, he could see the faces of various other Lodgers, who also had stayed, although he wasn’t necessarily sure why.

  “You don’t have to talk about anything, if you do not want to, but please, do not run away from us again.” 

  She didn’t necessarily sound heartbroken, but he knew her well enough to know that she most likely was. He couldn’t help but feel incredibly guilty.

  “I’m... I’m sorry. Please, forgive me- for everything.” 

  She scoffed, shaking her own head in a gesture that seemed to only be aimed at herself. “I don’t think you have anything to apologise for”, she said. Her hands moved to straighten Jekyll’s cravat and waistcoat, equally ruffled from his stay on the floor. “What is important is that you are fine. Yes, there might be things that need some explaining, but that can wait. I have no doubt that you have good explanations for everything. ” 

  Jekyll took a deep breath, and looked around at the group of Lodgers- his Lodgers, who had waited for him. He wasn’t really sure how to feel about it, truly. He was not sure of their intentions, but today’s constant panic had left him... Indifferent, stoic. Like every emotion had been squeezed out of him. Yet, as he looked over the gentle faces of his Lodgers, he couldn’t help but furrow his eyebrows.

  “...What happened to Griffin and Helsby?” 

  He glanced back at his apprentice, and watched as her expression hardened. Her eyebrows furrowed, but she forced herself to not get aggravated once more. 

  “I made sure they are now at the mercy of Rachel, after what they did to you.”

  Jekyll winced.

  “Good god.” 

  “Mmhm. Serves them right.” 

  The other Lodgers seemed to nod in agreement. They seemed unanimous that what the two men had done in the dining hall was violating and horrid, no matter if it just so happened to be Jekyll and not one of them. It was… Surprising, and yet comforting, almost. But he sighed, moved forward a little, before closing the door to his office behind him. Mirroring his previous actions, he sank back down to the floor, expecting this conversation to take a while. 

  “I... Guess you’d like some explanations.” He said, exhaustion and hesitance clear.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I do. You all already know and I... I want to be able to explain.” 

  Virginia didn’t seem convinced, but accepted his stance. She sat down next to him, and the other Lodgers resumed their positions on the floor. 

  He began to explain Hyde; presumably his darkest secret. He did not want to dwell on it, he did not want to confess to the deprecation he had found himself in which had led him to Hyde’s creation, but he had to. And so, he explained, to the best of his ability; He is Hyde, but they are not the same. Hyde was everything that Jekyll thought wrong or imperfect with himself personified, yet he was his own person, with his own desires. He reiterated that they were separate multiple times, so none of them would think that they had been secretly talking with Jekyll, when they thought they were talking with Hyde. He stuttered and paused and had to regain himself multiple times, and through it all, the Lodgers just... Listened. Patiently. They simply let him finish his explanation on his own terms, without being forced. 

  Finally, as he quieted down, the silence remained for a few seconds. They understood, of course; what Jekyll had been feeling back then couldn’t have been easy, and while they were not entirely convinced of his reasonings for not telling them, they accepted it, and told him as such. They could especially comprehend his hesitance now, as they had not been particularly understanding of him and his situation lately, having been too busy admiring Frankenstein’s every word... At least Jekyll could feel happy that he did not have to dwell more on the fact that he didn’t feel like he was good enough, or the fact that he wanted to throw himself off of cliffs, as they seemed to have grasped that from his monologue about Hyde. 

  After a few seconds, Miss Lavender spoke.

  “Wait- did you not also say that you have been hallucinating? Was that also Hyde?” she asked, confusion evident. Jekyll grimaced. 

  “Ah- well... Yes and no.” he started, scratching his neck a bit awkwardly, “after Moreau, Hyde and I fought, and, well... I wouldn’t necessarily say that he created the hallucinations, but he certainly kicked them out the door. It was mainly because I hadn’t slept in almost a week, though. They disappeared soon after I actually did so.”

  “Was that why you looked constantly terrified a little while ago?” 

  “... Was it that obvious?”

  “Well, yes, we thought you were suddenly terrified of everything and everyone- even Ito and Lanyon!” 

  Jekyll winced, although he tried to get out an apologetic smile. He desperately hoped that this was all of it, that he was done with explanations and could be satisfied with a neutral reaction from the Lodgers. He took yet another deep breath.

  “Any-” he coughed, “any other questions?” 

  The Lodgers looked between themselves, then shook their heads.

  “Nah, we already know that you like men, and we don’t mind if you happened to have been born a woman” one of them said, making Jekyll’s cheeks burn red as he realised what he had missed. “Although, like- are you and Lanyon dating or..?” 

  Jekyll attempted to cough out the ball in his throat, to no avail. He felt himself sinking down further against the door as he attempted to hide his face, clearly wishing to escape the conversation.

  “I... We never... Dated, so to speak. We had a... A fling when we went to university, but he broke it off. And... I guess I haven’t moved on as well as I thought.” 

  He removed his hand and watched as the Lodger grimaced, Jekyll wasn’t sure if it was out of sympathy or because they thought he was pathetic, at this point it very well could be both. 

  “And the werewolf?” Sinnett spoke up, and promptly got nudged by Luckett.

  “... Once, back in university still, I went on a vacation with Lanyon, to his family’s cottage. We came upon an injured werewolf and I insisted on nursing her back to health... I- I was young, and easily manipulated. I don’t... Like to talk about it.” 

  Sinnett looked apologetic, and Ito began to rub her hand against Jekyll’s arm in an attempt to comfort him. God, he was exhausted. Considering it must be past midnight by now, it certainly wasn’t hard to understand why.

  “Well...” Ito began, “I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we are... Sorry. We did not know about Griffin’s and Helsby’s plan, we were definitely not in on it- and at the very least I am sorry for what you have been through, then and now.” 

  Jekyll closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the door. Still, he smiled gently.

  “I know. I’m sorry you all had to bear witness to this.” 

  “I... I’m also sorry for... The Frankenstein situation,” Miss Lavender continued, “I didn’t know you were hurting so much.”

  Jekyll opened his eyes, and watched as the group of Lodgers nodded in agreement. He normally would have simply snorted, it was awfully convenient that they were so sorry after he had a break about it, it really was. Water under the bridge, sweep it under the rug, whatever they wished to call it- but he was too tired to think about how genuine they were, or how convenient it was for them now. He just wanted all of this to be over.

  “I accept your apologies.” he said simply. God, he just wanted to go to bed...

  He wondered, for a moment, if the perpetrators would apologise, later. Or if they would double down and state that they didn’t see what was so wrong with what they did. It was wrong, so incredibly wrong and violating, they had to know that, too. But whatever would become of them would be the topic of another day, for now, Dr. Henry Jekyll was absolutely drained. If he was lucky, he could end the day and tomorrow would be perfectly normal, no one would mention or talk about the fact that he had spilt the contents of his heart and soul for them, unwillingly at that. He doubted that that would be the case, but he could always hope. 

  A soft sigh escaped his lips. He was just about to stand up and state that he would be turning in for whatever remained of the night, when he heard his own stomach grumble. He felt how his cheeks once more flared up in embarrassment.

  “How about we see if Rachel has any food left in the kitchen, eh, Henry?” Ito suggested, “then you can sleep- and I will make sure you get no disturbances tomorrow.”

  He thought about it for a second, but was interrupted by yet another grumble. He couldn’t help but crack a sheepish smile at his dear apprentice. “You’ve convinced me.” 

And so Ito grinned, as she helped Henry stand up. The various Lodgers parted, some deciding to tuck in and others deciding to come with them for a late-night snack. It felt oddly anti-climatic for all of them, Henry especially, yet he was almost relieved. At least he could only be happy that his secrets had been... Accepted. Perhaps it all had just been his paranoia. Or perhaps it was fate, divine intervention- no, of course not. But his truths were told and his soul was bared, perhaps this was the beginning of a stronger foundation within his relationships with his Lodgers. At the same time, he couldn’t help but be curious. Of course he knew that he had been the target of Helsby’s and Griffin’s little plan, in some way he was glad that he was, so no other Lodger would have been at the receiving end of this treatment... 

  And yet.. he couldn’t help but wonder; if it had been someone else, what would they have said?

  After all, who knew what secrets you might find, if you only knew where to look?

[starry-bi-sky]

"Uhp-uhp-bup-bup." Danny says loudly, cutting off the crime lord bleeding all over his living room. He presses a finger to his lips, despite knowing that Red couldn't see it, and stifles his rage behind a playful smile.

He's lucky he's facing the kitchen, his back turned to Hood. He can see the fury green of his eyes reflecting back at him in the chrome of the sink, he's threatening to crush the rag in his hands. His vision is futzing out in the corners of eyes.

"We don't speak the 'J' name in this household." He says in almost a sing-song, because if he doesn't, then the Gotham oil sitting, boiling, behind his teeth and coating his tongue will spittle out and Danny's already haunting his apartment just by his mere presence. He doesn't want to haunt it more.

He can hear the whine of the lightbulbs, threatening to burst like a popped balloon. He turns the water off and and rings the rag out tighter than he perhaps should.

"You don't like the clown?" Hood asks him, and Danny's not sure if he's mocking him for it. There's a knowing lilt in his voice that throws back Danny to their first meeting on that balcony. If he were anyone else, Danny might've just punched him.

His heel turns sharply towards him, a tight smile on his face and an even tighter look around his eyes. At least he knows that the green has faded because the pounding behind his eyes are gone, his grief-born, death-made rage sizzling back beneath his veins. "I think you already know why, Ridin' Hood."

A grief like this don't stay buried, after all.

[banshees-martin]

thinking about… daryl coming back to alexandria with a pretty little necklace for his girl, probably has his initial on it too. sigh. i love him so much. could i perhaps get a little drabble involving something like that?

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT!

tysm for the request anon! :)) im not the best at writing drabbles or one shots but enjoy anyways, sorry this took a while but i love this idea sm! 🎀

You and the group had arrived at Alexandria and just about finally settled in, after being on the road for so long normal things like hot running water for showers and baths was considered luxury. So it took a while for everyone to settle in, especially for your boyfriend daryl..

It took him time to get used to it all but he's slowly easing up. He had the job to recruit people for Alexandria with Aaron.

It does worry you since he's gone for days but you know he can take care of himself.

You were in your guys room folding clothes when daryl walked in biting his thumb nail almost nervously? "hey, you okay?" you asked him softly walking up to him wrapping your hands around the back of his neck giving him a quick kiss.

"Yea.. i uh gotcha sumthin" he said pulling a beautiful gold necklace that had a fancy little 'D' in cursive on it out of the inner pocket of his vest"y-ya don't gotta wear it though. jus' thought it'd be nice i dunno.." he said sheepishly scratching the back of his neck the tip of his ears were red.

You smiled. "i love it" you held it gently in your hands "help me put it on?" you asked moving your hair to one side and looking in the mirror letting him clasp it on you.

"i love it Daryl..thank you" you said while turning to face him holding the little d, "eh it's nothin" he grinned.

You had his initial on a chain around your neck :))

[trialsofsaint14]

mini acrylic charm designs

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - masterlist.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! the timeskip between driftmark and lucerys' inheritance hearing is now about ten years. there will be some major canon differences here!

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot.

this will be a semi-long fic. i am not sure how long exactly, but it is my goal to make it long enough to book bind it at the end of the year. enjoy! all links under the cut!

shera tag shera and aemond tag story playlist shera's voice claim banshee's lament art tag new valyria: modern club au

act one: chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 chapter 6 chapter 7 chapter 8 chapter 9 chapter 10 act two: chapter 11 chapter 12 chapter 13

posting schedule: tbd

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

obsessed with the idea of seelie faerie prince gojou, as charming and as tricksy as all fae are. his snow-white hair eye catching and his azure eyes like gems pressed into his flesh

seelie prince satoru whose very birth shook faerieland as foretold by the stars red, blue and purple stars that soared through the sky the night of his birth

seelie prince satoru who is much more observant than his penchant for revels and merrymaking belies

seelie prince satoru who relishes in obnoxiously getting under the skin of the gentry of his court with his radical ideas that challenge the traditions that have been established for centuries

seelie prince satoru whose court is filled with political strife between three major families- the gojou, zenin and kamo. and it's really just his look this particular luck that he's bleeding out after a particularly harrowing attempt on his life. must have been that petty bastard naoya but in this particular moment, numb from poison and with a bloodied torso it really isn't going to do him any good trying to figure out who sent the now dead assassin after him

he won't die from this, he's been developing an immunity to poison. but even so, this is tough on his body as he sits in a misty forest waiting for the poison to wear off on his body with the scent of iron strong in the air

that's when he sees something that any faerie would consider the worst omen ー he sees you.

faeries are immortal folk. unless someone goes out of their way to kill them, they never die. it's what makes them stronger, far further creatures than humans with their insect-length lifespans

seelie prince satoru who even with his eyes, it's difficult seeing you clearly with poison muddling his senses but he sees the tell-tell white hair and gray skin and he knows you're a banshee

seelie prince satoru who chuckles humorlessly as he accepts that apparently, his luck has run out

he's sure of this as you slowly come closer and closer until he sees you much more clearly. your eyes are bloodshot, as to be expected of your kind. but your eyes might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. they're a pale lilac and your pupils are a ghostly white, shockingly light against the reds of your eyes but even that looks beautiful. he never cared particularly for the color red before but in this moment he can understand why red caps crave the color so and satoru thinks that if he is going to hear those damning cries that will seal his fate in this instant, he's glad it's you

banshees were human women that died in grief, right? that died tragedy before the grace of the gods turned them fae. death is a beautiful look on you but he wonders what you'd look if you were still colored in the shades of life that once blossomed over you like spring blooms

and so you part your lips... but rather than wail and scream, announcing to the headless riders of faerie that death is near, death is coming for gojou satoru your eyebrows knit in worry and you ask

"are you alright?" as you kneel by his side, reaching for his wounds carefully. your voice is honestly akin to hearing birdsong in the night, a juxtaposition he wasn't prepared for. "here, let me help you"

apparently the seelie prince's luck is greater still. death won't come for him yet. instead, he's become a hypocrite. an unintelligent hypocrite but he can't quite seem to make himself care in this instance when he is tended to by your cold but gentle touch and your lark-like voice drips like honey from your lips.

whether it's folk or mortal, satoru likens love to a curse that makes those around him stupid. a curse that leads to betrayals, war and frankly too much strife he desires to deal with

yet in this moment, that very curse seemed to course through his veins

stupid is as stupid does, seelie prince satoru's lips part and he asks you as if enraptured in a spell "please marry me and i'll love you more faithfully than any man, fae or otherwise"

as for you... you're simply a banshee who just happened to be in this forest when you spotted an injured elf in the distance and decided to see if he'd accept your help if he didn't outright lose his mind in fear at the sight of you. you think he might have considering the words that left his mouth

it must be the blood loss talking

unfortunately for you and much to the aggravation of suguru and kento, seelie prince satoru's most trusted advisors, satoru was very much serious and fervently keeps referring to you as his future queen when you haven't even accepted the proposal

seelie prince satoru who insists you stay in his palace, at the very least until after a revel in a few moons time he wishes to throw in your honor. as thanks for treating his injuries which are still healing, might he add. anything could happen, what if a banshee needs to herald his death and one isn't around? he would also like the time to woo you over. please? just until then

seelie prince satoru who ignores the ardent whispers that it is bad luck for a banshee to be so close the prince. that insist that death fae are like roaches. surely if one appears, there will be more banshee and dullahan that follow

seelie prince satoru who coldly states that any such insult toward the woman who saved his life will find those who said them hearing the chilling cries they so fear sooner than they'd enjoy

[kimwxlers]

And with the war almost over, I think there'd be work for ya here. Because there's nothing for you on Inisherin. Nothing but more bleakness and grudges and loneliness and spite and the slow passing of time until death. And sure, you can do that anywhere. So come, Padraic. Leave there.

Kerry Condon as Siobhan Súilleabháin

THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN (2022), dir. Martin McDonagh

[anonymitie]

[jethrowest]

i’ve been dead and i wanna come out…

- afraid by sarah fimm

Hood, with you, trying to live a slower-paced, easier life. How he deals with it. How you both do. How you love each other and express it.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: mental struggle/anguish, mentions of trauma, hurt/comfort, angsty sex. 18+

—

He hides among the hollow of your breast, whimpering into it like a wounded dog. You smooth your hands down the muscles lining his spine, soothing him with repetitive motion. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. Fall into me. I’ve already caught you. There you go…”

He nuzzles against you, tears seeping into the burn of his cheeks. He draws you so close to him, squeezing your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his yearning for a simpler life, like you’ll stay behind and be consumed by the flames of his past.

“I’m so proud of you,” you continue, kissing the top of his head, your lips brushed by the concentrated points of his buzz cut. “You’re a good man. A good man. And I love you more than I’ve loved anyone or anything.” You grip his face and lift him up. Knotted brow, dried tears, wet lashes. A fresh one rolls into the angle of your thumb, stroking along his ignited skin.

He slackens his jaw and stares deeply into your eyes. He hates coming undone like this. His heart beats rapidly in his ears.

Releasing you, he gathers the shirt you’re wearing- his shirt- and hastily removes it. You sit naked upon the counter, your hair messy from the fabric pulling it upward. His mouth opens briefly, taking you all in before drawing you into a desperate kiss. He moves harshly against you, squeezing his eyes shut and scooting you toward the edge.

You taste his salt on your tongue. Experiencing it fully, his hands on your aching hips- aching from his intense emotions forging a home within you, becoming yours as well- makes you cry with him. Quietly, softly.

This is what he does. Breaks others down. Destroys. Why should you be any different?

He decides, suddenly, that he needs to be inside you. His thumb strokes your clit and you moan into his mouth. He twitches in his sweat pants, his need for a distraction, to pour all that he has somewhere else, making him throb uncomfortably.

When he’s sure you’re aroused enough, he hooks his fingers beneath you and you simultaneously wrap your limbs around him as he carries you to the bedroom.

He’s so warm, a sharp transition from the constant chill of the kitchen’s countertop. You wonder what’s brought this on, but you don’t question him. You’re both in survival mode, even when it comes to what others might deem simple. As commonplace.

When things settle and relax, neither of you are able to follow that pace. You’re never fully at ease.

But it’s all you want. It’s all you can think about. It makes you tense further. You should be able to move like everyone else. You shouldn’t be stuck. But you are.

You unravel together. Somehow, somehow. Two irreparably damaged people discover ways to fit their broken pieces together. Find solace among your individual suffering.

Despite his evident impatience, you are placed upon the tangled sheets with care and consideration. You can’t help but search his tender yet violence-ridden expression, caress his hard cheekbones, taut jawline. He slides out of his loungewear and positions himself in front of your parted center. You’re open to him. More than you’ve ever been with anyone, including yourself.

You both gasp when he enters you, your lower half pulling him as close to you as possible. His hands are on either side of your head, and for what feels like an eternity, he can’t look at or touch you. He simply loses himself inside your heat; your inviting, comforting body, swallowing thickly as he increases his rhythm.

He loves you so much. Why does that lead him to dragging you into his impossible, opaque depths? Why won’t he release you to the light? Why does he keep you here, trapped within his pain? Surrounded by yours as well?

Why won’t he release you?

With a strangled groan, a sound that causes your concern for him to rise along with the stimulating sensations he provides- a sound that twists and wrings your insides out like a wet rag- he holds your hips down, thumbs digging into your vulnerable flesh. He’s too fast now, all-at-once. Skin slapping skin, raw, unyielding

You should be free. He should set you free. But he forces you deeper into his chaos, into him. He forces you to believe you’ll be in a better place some day. You’ll be happy.

You’re starting to hurt. It’s not what it might have began as.

Again, you take his face in your hands, trying to get him to look at you, to focus, and you squeeze. “Slow… slow down, honey, please, I’m not… going anywhere…”

Hot tears collect in the corners of your eyes. But he slows. For a few seconds, it doesn’t seem like he will. Like he’s too far gone.

You wish you could read his thoughts. What he’s truly reacting to, reaching for. Is being here enough?

Past the blood roaring in his ears, he is able to hear you. Attuned to the slightest of your shifts. He falls into you like you told him he could. He shudders from the sobs that suddenly overtake him. And he affixes himself to you, still inside. You keep him there. You don’t move away from his firm, distraught embrace.

You tip your head back as far as it will go. You pulsate, unsure of what will happen next. You know he doesn’t want to hurt you. You know he endures enough as it is. You know this is a break, a flood; that this is something you can mend and love as if it’s yours.

He’s held your burdens just as close to his own chest.

Your fingers flow across his back, like before. You pause when you return to the tops of his shoulders. You soak him up, gather him to you. Let him do what he needs to.

Finally, he lifts himself. His movements are uncertain, but they encompass a specific kind of strength. His breaths are hot, panting against your neck. You feel his tears seep into your skin. What previously formed in your eyes also escapes, moisture eventually disappearing back inside you.

His gaze is heavy when it meets yours.

He wants to speak, you can tell. You’re in no hurry, no rush. So you stare at each other, feeling him gradually calm, his heart beat a steadier rhythm.

Your throat is dry, nearly closing. He kisses your nose, your cheeks, your jaw; your lips. His tears stick to you.

“You,” his voice wavers. “You looked so peaceful.” A small, watery smile flickers over his mouth. “You made me breakfast.”

You laugh gently, a little strained from the amount of emotions that tore through you these last few minutes.

“I promise I didn’t burn it.”

He laughs now, tickling the tepid tips of your features.

“I didn’t mean… I-” You press your index to his lips, tilting your head. He exhales, smile fading into a sincerity you’re not sure you’ve seen before. He grasps your wrist and rests your open palm to the curve of his cheek.

“No apologies. Just… show me how grateful you are. Who knows. Might earn you a lifetime supply of breakfasts.”

His mouth twinges, floating between a perplexed and hopeful grin.

Hopeful, he realizes.

“We’ll, uhhh…” he rasps, clearing his throat, “-be here all day if I show you how grateful I am. Won’t even get to enjoy the meal you cooked.”

You smile, the mood change a slow burn as opposed to a devastating burst of flames. Your fingertips are gentle but firm at the nape of his neck. You pull him in for a sweet, lingering kiss. He still tastes like salt.

The hands that hold you no longer dismantle. They might tear and rip at the smallest sign of normalcy. But they won’t bleed you out in the process.

You can bleed together. It won’t kill you anymore.

You choose to live.

Starting with breakfast.

[bansheeoftheforest]

Would you believe me? [Ghost Au]

This is officially my 20th fic! Of course I had to celebrate with some hopefully humourous Ghost Au :) Originally I envisioned this as a first part of a series of different au oneshots, all with the basis of "no one believes Henry" but now I'm not quite sure if there will actually be something out of that. Regardless, I hope yall enjoy <3 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wordcount: 5807

Summary: Dr. Henry Jekyll meets an unfortunate end after escaping the sewers. Too bad not many seem keen to believe his little predicament.

CW: Gore (I consider it to be quite light/nondescriptive but just in case!)

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

So... This is how it all ended.

  He stared at the mangled thing that used to be his body. He stared at the cracked skull, the blood that had already stopped seeping, and the dirt and mud which had further sullied the appearance he had so often sought pride in. You could barely see the green vibrancy of the waistcoat, or the rugged shape of the cape which had gotten stuck and torn by the carriage wheel. To think that this had once been a human being- once had been him- to think that this once had been Hyde, just moments ago, desperately attempting to escape through the sewers... But not anymore. There was no life behind those crushed eyes, no air within those lungs, no blood within that heart. 

  And yet, here he was. 

  Still conscious. Still watching.

  He did not look like the man on the ground, the one who would now be reduced to nothing but mere maggots and dirt. No, around his waist was his normally red- albeit slightly paler- waistcoat. Around his neck was his cravat. He was not the corpse in the too-short clothing or even the familiar younger, blonder man, no, he was the man he had always been. 

  He was Henry Jekyll. 

  Huh.... How strange. 

  He had not really expected any of this. Truly, it was almost cruel. To have fought so hard for survival, for dominance over the mind and body he shared, and yet it didn’t matter, now it was all gone, and so was Hyde. 

  ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘how unfortunate.’

  But it was over, now. He knew that it was. Perhaps he should be glad- after all, his soul seemed to be whole once again, if it ever had been. But that did not change that his life- his own, unhappy, miserably comedic life- was now over. No last wishes, no last actions, no goodbyes- it was just... Gone. Just like that. Taken just like that, by accident, not even deserving of an active attempt of someone who truly wished him dead, no, all there had been to it was the exhaustion, the weary eyes, the seemingly empty road and a speeding carriage... The coach, in panic, attempting to wake him, and as he had died in his arms, he had decided that this stranger was not deserving of a funeral, of justice, and had dragged him into an alleyway, before escaping the scene of the crime, into the everlasting night. 

  He had not even screamed. He had gone quietly, gone along with his lot in life, like he always had. 

  Oh well, how unfortunate indeed. 

  At least, he was quite sure that he was gone, now. 

  He looked pretty solid. Perhaps a bit worse for wear, a bit ruffled- perhaps, if someone looked a bit too long, they would see right through him, metaphorically and literally. Perhaps they would see the way his limbs could not grab ahold of anything solid, the way it melted into the bricks of the building he had attempted to brace himself against, as he had moved away from the tether of the body. Or perhaps the darkness of the night would hide it, disguise it, conceal the death and become the new corpse he inhabited, until the break of dawn, where the sun would shine right through him without warming up his cold body. Or perhaps he would not be seen at all. Perhaps he was stuck, now. Not even deserving of purgatory. Of neither Hell nor Heaven. He could not blame God, of course, if there was one. But at least an eternal punishment in hell would be better than an eternity of unrecognition, a limbo of observation as the world moved on without him. 

  So, what now, doctor? 

  Well, perhaps he did not have to stay and stare at his corpse all night. But... What else? 

  He squinted. He was dead, now, so what could he possibly do? Wait for his cadaver to be found, walk around London’s endless streets? Attempt to gain contact, try to go home? Nothing seemed appealing- or possible, for that matter- but he was a scientist, was he not? Was the impossible really that unreachable?

  He took in the sight of himself and his sorry state one last time. Then, he turned on his heel, and walked out of the alleyway, following the traces of blood, a trail of a body and the footsteps. Perhaps it would not have been so unusual in the grimy streets of London, where butchers threw remains as they pleased, but perhaps the hand sticking out from behind the boxes would get someone to realise what had happened. 

  Or perhaps the maggots would be faster. 

  He walked down the streets. His steps felt easy, like a weight had disappeared from his shoulders, which it quite literally had. All that was left of him was, of course, those seven grams. It was a funny feeling, having the wind breeze right through you, but it wasn’t unpleasant or unwelcome, it was freeing, like a cold glass of water in the middle of the night, or a breath of fresh air after weeks in the industrialised London Districts. Who could have known how limiting the physical body could be? He knew, oh, he knew- he would grieve. He would grieve the air which no longer stayed within his lungs, he would grieve the silent pulse of the heart he no longer had, he would grieve every laugh line, smile line, grey hair, wrinkle and blemish which would no longer grace his skin, a testament of his time on this earth. He would grieve the life he used to live, he would grieve the man he used to be, he would grieve the life which had been ripped out of his hands and he would grieve everything he had never achieved. He would grieve, oh, he would grieve, but now, nothing mattered. After all, he was nothing but a corpse, now. He was nothing but another memory, another corpse for the cemetery and another pile of food for the maggots.  

  He tried to touch every street lamp, every wall he walked past, tried to feel the cool touch as his fingertips went through the metal and bricks, as his new form took shape and hold and as his conscience stayed within his very soul. But his little walk, his little dance among the cobblestone paths was soon at its halt. 

  He was not at the Society, no, instead his little odyssey had led him towards a more discreet building- or perhaps discreet was a bad word. More humble than the bombastic residence of science that so many called home, he now stood before the Scotland Yard Police Station. 

  It looked abandoned, yet he knew it was not. It was not like crime stopped at night, no, and some lights were still lit. Through the windows, he saw the main office, where Sergeant Enoch Brokenshire currently resided. The closest he could ever get to a policeman who trusted him. 

  He did not bother to open the doors. He slid right through them, and luckily for him, no constables were lingering in the dark hallways. He doubted they would have seen him- but if they had, they surely would have gotten quite the midnight scare. The thought almost got him to laugh. 

  He arrived in front of the door, neatly and simplistically labelled “Sergeant Enoch Brokenshire”. He raised his hand to knock, attempted to make contact with the wood, and only realised his little problem as his hand simply went through- not deeply, mind you, but enough to get him to sigh. Instead, he attempted to call out.

  “Sergeant? Sergeant Brokenshire?”

  His voice- he heard it, but it sounded... Quiet, airy, like a loud whisper to the wind rather than the steady, unshakable voice of Dr. Henry Jekyll. Perhaps that was because he simply did not have a voice box, who knew? But he heard shuffling behind the door, footsteps, soon the door swung open, and he was face to face with the man in question. 

  The Sergeant- weary, tired, having been awake and working for multiple more hours than he should- had to take a moment to recognise the man in front of him, Dr. Henry Jekyll, a man normally tall and proud, now dishevelled. He squinted. Was there something wrong with the doctor?

  “Dr. Jekyll?” he finally spoke, “why on earth are you awake at this hour?” 

  Something within Jekyll seemed to light up, a spark of hope at being seen, of being recognised, of being heard and understood- but Brokenshire did not know that, of course, he might not even have noticed, what with the overtime looming heavy over his head. Yet he moved, away from the doorframe, back into the office, inviting the doctor to follow him. Jekyll did so, despite the others' confused look as he left the door open.

  “Well, Sergeant, you see, I seem to have run into a bit of a problem”. 

  He did not take a seat- as the seat, most likely, could not be taken- and instead stood close to the corridor, as if on the move. The room was dark, only lit by a single, lone candle upon the Sergeant’s desk. It did not take long for Jekyll’s nonexistent brain to piece together that the other seemed to be in the “migraine” stage of his overworking, a symptom which the doctor had been all too familiar with in the life he once had. Perhaps that's why the Sergeant did not manage to look closer, to notice a certain unfamiliarity, something wrong. Yet the furrow in his brow only deepened as the doctor spoke.

  “What’s the matter, Doctor?” 

  He thought it over, for a moment, attempting to find a way to explain.

  “Well, Sergeant,” he started, “would you believe me if I told you that I was just run over by a carriage, and that my soul may be slightly detached from my body?”

  “... what?”

  “So that’s a no, then.” 

  The doctor shrugged, a bit to himself, as the cogs in the Sergeant’s brain turned and turned. 

  “Well then, Sergeant, I think you best come with me, and I will explain when we are there.”

  The Sergeant blinked.

  “What? I’m sorry- what is going on?” 

  Jekyll did not respond, he simply turned around and walked out of the room again. He barely let the Sergeant grab his hat and coat, as he tried to catch up. 

  “Dr. Jekyll- what on earth is going on?” 

  “I think you will understand once we are there, sir.” 

  He slowed down slightly, just enough for Brokenshire to get to the entrance door first, masking the fact that he could not open them himself. Perhaps Brokenshire did notice it, perhaps he did notice the soft glow which seemed to follow the doctor, the lightness in his steps and his speed, but perhaps the late night was enough to make him question himself, rather than the state of the doctor.

  They continued onwards. They did not speak. Jekyll felt as if pulled, or perhaps called, towards the cadaver which was currently rotting away in that fated alleyway, and Brokenshire had no choice but to follow. The officer couldn't help but wonder if this was all some sort of joke, or a trick by God, but if something truly had happened, what manner of man would he be if he simply ignored the doctor? No, perhaps he had no choice. And so he followed, down the streets, past the crossings, through the back alleys and various grimy shortcuts the doctor seemed to know. They continued onwards, yet they did not speak.

  Suddenly, as they continued down the avenue, Jekyll stopped them. He put an arm out to keep the man behind him from continuing, a completely useless gesture as the Sergeant would have simply gone right through him, but it worked regardless. They turned towards the alleyway. Jekyll stared right into it for a moment, Brokenshire tried so as well, but could not see anything. Perhaps that’s when he noticed the dark, crimson trails upon the cobbled ground. 

  “Dr. Jekyll-” 

  “Come, in here.” 

  Jekyll continued inwards, slower than his steady pace here had been. Brokenshire- alone in the dark, with nothing but a gentleman and his baton- could not help but feel a bit nervous. The doctor continued and then stopped behind a few old boxes, rotten and with faded labels .

  “Here we are, Sergeant.”

  Brokenshire continued forward. Slowly, the subject of this odyssey came into view- first the hand, crushed and bloodied. Then the arm, twisted and broken. Soon the head, turned against the ground with large portions dented and missing. A freezing cold sensation washed over him, a horror slowly dawning, as he realised the sight before him.

  “Oh god-” 

  He felt sick, sick to the very core of his body, and yet Dr. Jekyll just stood there, emotionless. 

  “Turn it over for me, will you?” the doctor suddenly spoke, breaking the Sergeant out of his shock… Slightly.

  “I- What?” 

  “Turn the corpse over.” 

  Brokenshire just stared at Jekyll for a moment, trying to process what he was asking. Finally, he kneeled down next to the cadaver, took out his baton and carefully nudged it, until the face became fully visible.

  The face of Dr. Henry Jekyll. Slack-jawed, eyes half-lidded, nose broken, eyes crushed, teeth knocked out. The Sergeant jumped back, eyes wide and stare evident- this- this could not be, could it? This could not be Henry Jekyll- no- no of course not- Dr. Henry Jekyll stood right in front of him-

  “I was run over.” 

  The Sergeant blinked. Jekyll continued.

  “A carriage- could not necessarily see who it was, but I suspect he did not properly see me in the dark. When he realised what he had done, he panicked, and dumped me here.” 

  He said it all so casually, like it did not matter to him, like he just expected Brokenshire to understand what he was telling him. It was incomprehensible, truly. 

  “...What?” 

  Jekyll had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. 

  “I’m dead, Sergeant. Killed. Murdered, even. I am showing you my corpse.” 

  Yes, Brokeshire was definitely hallucinating, he was sure of that. 

  “Sergeant, are you listening to me?” 

  He was definitely not listening to him, way too busy staring at the mangled dismemberment that used to be Dr. Jekyll. 

  “This… This can’t be…” Was all the copper managed to get out. Jekyll actually did roll his eyes now.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Dear God, man, pull yourself together.”

  “I pull myself together?! You- you’re the one claiming to be dead!”

  The doctor groaned, frustration evident. 

  “Alright, listen; go home, get some sleep, whatever you wish- then come back, see the corpse in broad daylight, and realise that I was trying to tell you the truth, alright?” 

  He thought about it for a moment- he was sure that this was all some sort of fever dream, a hallucination, a trick of the light- but really- what could he do? If it was real, should he just leave the corpse here? In the alleyway? For anyone to find? 

  “Alright,” he said, “good evening, Dr. Jekyll.”

  And with that, the Sergeant spun around, ignored his own confused thoughts telling him to stay and figure out what was going on, and left the alleyway. 

  Dr. Jekyll grumbled.

  “Typical.”

  What now, Doctor? 

  Well, he couldn’t say that he was particularly keen on staying out on the street all night, ghost or not. He was not sure what time it was, the night might be eternal for all he knew, and so, he once more took one last look at his body, before he left as well.

  This time, he made his way towards the Society, not much further than the police station had been. He felt a tinge of melancholy, yet nostalgia as he watched his proud building come into view. His home, which no longer would be as such. He could not help but wonder what would become of him now; an eternal wanderer? Or perhaps a simple restless soul, bound to his corpse, or perhaps the life he had once lived? Would he be free once his body was buried, would he descend into Hell like he had resigned himself to? He did not know, for the moment he did not care, so as he stood in front of the portico of the building that had once been his pride and joy, he spared no thought as he silently walked straight through the doors.

  He could go to his office, although he had nothing to do there. After all, he could not touch anything, so what would he do? Stare at the uncorked wine bottle, the open window which Hyde had escaped through? Ha, no, he had to make himself known somehow. Perhaps he could find a Lodger, tell them about his little problem, hope they would believe him more than Brokenshire. Or perhaps he could simply act as normal, perhaps they would not notice that something was deeply, awfully wrong with him. Or perhaps they would, perhaps they would not care. He couldn’t say that he did. 

  “Oh, my- Dr. J! Why on earth are you awake this late?” 

  Rachel, of course. It must be early morning by now, although the night was still abysmal and everdark, so it should come to no surprise that she was awake by now. Then again, he was well aware as to why she looked to be in such a worse state than usual; her cheeks seemed red and puffy, and the bags under her eyes were severely darker. Yet she smiled, as if nothing was wrong. She was carrying baking sheets, presumably having raided Doddle’s room for her own supplies which he had stolen, seemingly needing to get her mind off of the previous night as fast as possible. 

  “Would you believe me if I told you I was run over?” 

  Perhaps not too different from Brokenshire, Rachel did not seem to realise that he was telling the genuine truth. Instead, she just laughed softly. Either she did not believe him, or her mentally exhausted mind could not grasp it just yet. 

  “Well, you certainly look worse for wear!” She said, as if she was not aware of her own state, “Did you even get any sleep? Was the banquet that fun?” 

  Ugh. 

  “Sure.” 

  “Well, I’m glad you are back home! Give me a few minutes and I will get you something to snack on, alright?”

  “Rachel, I can’t eat.”

  “Oh, nonsense! Not with all the alcohol Robert must have gotten you to consume- now, tut tut!”

  And with that, she continued onwards. Well. At least he tried. 

  With Rachel gone, he continued upwards. Perhaps a Lodger was awake, he frankly doubted any of them would believe him, or perhaps they were smarter than Rachel and Brokenshire- but regardless, he wanted something to do before Brokenshire would start his morning shift and hopefully return to the cadaver. He knew that some Lodgers most likely attended the now-raided bazaar, and could potentially be back and awake by now, as he doubted any of them had gotten caught. He also knew certain Lodgers were quite the night owls, perhaps the reason for why so many of them often did not show up until late afternoon the day afterwards, so he had quite a nice chance to find someone to pass time with-

  His thoughts were quickly interrupted by a loud ‘BANG’ from one of the laboratories. 

  Good God...

  Despite being dead, and therefore not really being responsible for the Lodgers anymore, Jekyll let his instincts and his curiosity get the better of him. His near-floating footsteps hurried towards the lab where the noise had been heard. Helsby’s lab, of course. 

  The door was locked, typical. No sense of lab safety. Jekyll just rolled his eyes and went straight through it. 

  Inside, the room was clearly lit. Turns out the loud “bang” he had heard was caused by Helsby’s pet kraken having knocked over its own ‘sleeping’ tank- which seemed to not have shattered, but had spilt water and all the different aquatic paraphernalia which had resided within it. The kraken moved like a kicked dog from the scene of the crime, while Helsby- wide awake and frantic- tried to figure out how to solve the problem. It did not take long until a dishevelled Bryson ran in, still trying to button on a shirt as to not be totally immodest. His eyes seemed to scan the scene, yet his attention was quickly caught by Dr. Jekyll, still standing indifferently by the doorway.

  “Oh- Dr. Jekyll-” Bryson stopped, and blinked. Helsby turned his attention from his labmate and to the aforementioned doctor, “How did you get in? The door should be locked.”

  “I’m dead.”

  Helsby sneered.

  “Don’t be dramatic, it isn’t that bad- Nicholas- Help me lift, please!” 

  How two men of their stature could lift a tank of that size was beyond Jekyll, yet he simply watched as they managed to get it back up. At this point he was glad that the floor was made out of stone and marble, otherwise convinced that it would already have begun to rot and mould by this point. 

  The two men panted heavily as they rested against the now upright tank, already dreading actually having to clean up the waste. Jekyll simply remained by his spot at the door, watching. The kraken cowered away from him. 

  “Could’ve at least offered a hand, Doc.” Helsby continued, “or are you scared to ruin your pretty little suit?”

  Jekyll continued to stare blankly, then stuck his entire arm through the still-closed door. 

  “So what, some potion of yours backfired? Big deal. Now, please get out.” 

  He could almost guess that Helsby wasn’t in a particularly nice mood. Oh well. He shrugged and walked straight through the door. Seemed like he would have to find another way to spend the last few hours until morning. 

  He continued to walk around aimlessly. As usual, he did not to bring any more attention to himself, perhaps because no one seemed to be around. Despite that, he had a sort of… Gnawing. Like he wanted to do something- slam a door, flicker with a light, break something… He knew that he did not get a sudden cat-like need for mischief simply because he was now a ghost, but he also knew that, since he was newly noncorporeal, it would take quite a while before he could actually manipulate objects. At least he knew that he should be able to do so, eventually. It seemed like listening to Maijabi paid off. So, really, he did not have much more to do than to find someone that could keep him company.

  It did not take long until he found his way to the alchemical laboratory, in which Ito was currently the only resident. Speaking of the Devil, his apprentice seemed to currently be working on something in the lab, as he heard movement inside. This time, the door was unlocked, but that did not really help him as, once more, he could not open doors. He quickly decided to simply glide through it instead, in hopes that his apprentice could entertain him for the remainder of the night. 

  Ito was, as expected, turned away from the door, slightly hunched over one of the tables and seemingly quite concentrated on the task at hand. He did not make any noise, but he doubted that she would have heard him regardless. He moved closer, until he was practically looking over her shoulder. Ah, that’s the problem; she was trying to decipher his own horrible handwriting on some notes he had previously given her. 

  Virginia stopped, seemingly feeling a light sensation by her side, turned towards said direction, and then proceeded to jump away and let out a small scream. 

  “OH- God- Dr. Jekyll- I’m sorry, you scared me- I- what on earth are you doing in here at this hour?” 

  Jekyll smiled gently. 

  “I was bored, and noticed that you were awake.” He replied, more matter-of-factly than he normally was. Ito- still trying to catch her breath- took a moment to process his words. He guessed she had been awake longer than she should. 

“I... Okay, alright.” She attempted to straighten her dress and her hair, which were more messily put up than usual. “I was just trying to follow your notes on-” 

  The door opened. 

  They turned, and by the doorway stood none other than Dr. Maijabi, their resident ectoplasmic pathologist. He looked surprisingly well-put together for this hour of the night- or perhaps morning. 

  “I’m sorry, I happened to walk past when I heard Virginia scream, is everything alright?”

  Virginia began to blush, embarrassed. Yet she attempted to explain the very simple situation- although she quickly noticed that Maijabi’s eyes were fixed on Dr. Jekyll, who stared back, as if he was challenging him. Virginia looked between them, confused.

  Finally, Maijabi moved the eyepatch. His paler spirit eye was now focused on the younger doctor. 

  “Henry,” he said, calmly, “Why are you dead?” 

  Virginia blinked. Had she really heard him right?

  Jekyll just shrugged. 

  “Carriage.” 

  Maijabi looked at him for a second, then nodded. 

  “Understandable, then.” 

  Jekyll grinned.

  Finally, Virginia seemed to process the conversation that had happened right in front of her. 

  “.... What?” 

  The two men looked at her, perhaps as if they had forgotten that she was right there. Maijabi simply closed the door behind him and moved towards the two of them.

  “Henry is dead”, he said, “what we are seeing of him now is nothing but his spectre, a ghost.” 

  “No-” she said, “no- that cannot be-” she turned to Jekyll, and looked at him- the ceiling light was turned on, the only obstacle to the truth was her own exhaustion. She stared at him, examined him. Finally, an expression of utter heartbreak graced her face. “Oh- Henry- Why did you not tell me?” 

  “Well, I did not get a chance to. Also, I did not think you’d believe me. I mean- I tried to tell Brokenshire, Rachel, Helsby and Bryson- neither of them believed me, so...” He shrugged, like it was the least bothersome thing in the world. “I mean, I kind of expected it.” 

  “I would have believed you!” she blurted out.

  “Would you?” 

  She hesitated. She tried to reach out, tried to touch him, but let her hand recoil as it simply went straight through her mentor’s shoulder. She did not believe it now, either. It was late, she had been awake for God knows how long- perhaps this was all just a very bad dream she would soon wake up from... She was brought out from her thoughts by Maijabi, who had pulled out a chair, and attempted to get her to sit down. She complied quite easily. 

  Henry decided to try to explain the situation to his two favourite Lodgers- of course not mentioning anything regarding the scuffle with Hyde, the meeting with Queen Lucy, nothing of such- simply that he had found himself out late at night and had gotten run over by a stray carriage. Quite unbelievable, the streets of London were neither that dark nor crowded so late at night, but it was, in synopsis, what had happened. If he was lucky, no one but the coppers and the morticians would get to see his corpse and the clothes he wore, so there was no need to explain anything else, and especially so when Hyde seemed to be... Gone? 

  Virginia did not seem to grasp how nonchalant Henry was about all of this- after all, what was he supposed to do? Cry, scream, or perhaps beg God for a second chance? Ha! God is just as dead as he and even if He wasn’t, he would not care. All Dr. Jekyll could do was to accept the state he now was in. After all, he had an eternity to grieve, he did not need to do that now. Maijabi seemed to understand his stance quite better, even if he did not seem particularly happy over the noncorporeal state of someone he once- still did- consider as his own son. 

  ...

  They tried to converse, but quickly fell silent. Time passed, and dawn began to break. Neither of them were quite sure how long it had been, after all, two of them had the inevitable fog of night clouding their brains and the third would no longer be able to understand the concept of time at all. But dawn broke, and Sergeant Brokenshire should be here soon. Perhaps to try to meet the doctor, try to convince himself that the supposed dream he had was just that; nothing more but a dream, or perhaps to inform the Lodgers of the find in the alley. Or perhaps he would still not believe him, and Jekyll would be forced to find him again, and attempt to convince him of the truth. 

  Virginia had, at some point, fallen asleep against the table. Maijabi and Jekyll did not say much, after all, what was there to say? It wasn’t like either could console the other, offer condolences, grieve- it was simply a new matter of existence which they both now had to get used to. Maijabi had eventually offered to go and make tea, but had quickly realised that Jekyll could neither hold nor drink yet, although the man himself found that blunder quite funny. 

  Finally, by the time the grandfather clock in the alchemical laboratory read five in the morning, there was a knock on the door, startling Ito awake from her slumber. In came Rachel, looking weary. 

  “Dr. Jekyll? Sergeant Brokenshire is in the southern foyer, looking for you.” 

  She seemed hesitant, worried, nervous- Jekyll could not help but grin. Perhaps not at her emotions, but more or less over what might soon take place upon the stage that was their Society. He followed her immediately, Maijabi and Ito following close behind. 

  As they arrived in the southern foyer- or more colloquially, the back entrance, they noticed a handful of Lodgers already gathering, the few early-birds the Society had, or some which might have gotten woken up by the commotion. They stood wearily by the balustrade which looked down upon the foyer, a similar scene to the arrival of Frankenstein and Moreau. Down the staircase stood Brokenshire, a few constables which Jekyll recognised, and a single stretcher with something covered by a white sheet. 

  Jekyll’s grin stretched further. 

  Rachel seemed to get even more nervous by the sight, perhaps Brokenshire had not quite packed up by the time he had asked her to find the Doctor. Henry couldn’t help but wonder about the state of the Sergeant’s mind right now- did he believe what had happened the night before, and knew that the Doctor’s spirit was still not-quite-alive and well? Or did he perhaps hope that Rachel would have found the actual doctor, to prove that whoever now laid upon the stretcher was nothing more but a coincidence or a doppelgänger? Had he asked her just to see if there would have been a doctor to be found? Had he even asked, or was that simply what Rachel said, having panicked at the sight of the Scotland Yard? 

  Well, whatever it was, as Dr. Henry Jekyll and his entourage descended down the stairs, Sergeant Brokenshire turned even more pale. He opened his mouth, as if trying to speak, yet only a slight stutter came out. 

  “My dear Sergeant!” Henry cut in instead, “You did well and listened last night, I presume?” 

  He came close, very close. Maijabi, Ito and Rachel stayed by the staircase. Henry’s hand ghosted over what used to be his own leg, covered under the sheet. 

  “I- Yes, Doctor.” 

  Oh, this was going to be fun. 

  If he turned around, perhaps he’d see distraught expressions upon the faces of Maijabi and Ito. If he turned around, perhaps he’d see the overwhelming anxiety dawning upon Rachel, a fear that the body upon the stretcher was her own Edward Hyde. If he turned around, perhaps he’d see the confused and perplexed faces of the rest of the conscious Lodgers. But he did not turn around, no, he simply gave the Sergeant one of those brilliant smiles he had trained into perfection. 

  “Sergeant,” he said, “would you be a dear and remove the sheet?” 

  “You- I- I mean- are you sure?” 

This was not necessarily standard protocol. Then again, it was not necessarily standard protocol for the Scotland Yard to drag a corpse to its place of work instead of straight to a coroner. 

  “You heard me.” 

  Brokenshire looked back at his constables, who looked as weirded out by the request as he was. Finally, the Sergeant took a deep breath, grabbed the end of the sheet which faced the back entrance door, and pulled it off. 

  A hush fell over the room.

  Indeed, the corpse of Dr. Henry Jekyll laid now in full display. The broken skull, crushed facial features, dirtied hair, broken bones, limbs stiff to their very peak, green waistcoat and ragged cape. 

  The ghost of Dr. Henry Jekyll was, however, too busy examining himself to look around at the horrified faces. 

  His hands rested- perhaps more figuratively than literally- against his waist as he leaned over, inspecting himself. Soon one of his hands came up, placing his index and thumb against his chin.

  “Oh my- whoever positioned me did excellent work! You would barely be able to notice the way I laid in before- especially with the rigour mortis!” 

  He laughed, so lightheartedly, like it was a funny little anecdote. 

  Brokenshire had often said that the doctor could be quite scary when he wanted to be. He now realised that he had severely underestimated how scary he could be when he was seemingly not even trying.

  Henry could not help but to wish that Lanyon would walk right in now and see the sight before them. 

  Finally, he turned around, back towards the crowd. It was almost laughable- their expressions of pure horror, pure terror, pure disgust, pure disbelief. Perhaps it was a bit unfair for him to laugh at them, but then again, it was a bit unfair that he was dead. Still, he smiled, and faced his dear Lodgers. His dear Lodgers, who might now question the demise of their leader. His dear Lodgers, who might question the clothes upon his beaten body. 

  His dear Lodgers, staring down at him from the balustrade.

  Yet his smile never faded, oh, no- the answers would come later, but for now, they had to believe him.

  “What?” He finally said, “You all look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

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

[starry-bi-sky]

No.

No, no, no, no, NO!

He's shaking. His heart is burning in his chest, pounding like a jackhammer against his ribs, and there's a trembling, aching rage building beneath his tongue and pressing against his teeth.

In his hands, his fingers tense and wrists locked, the article reads in big, black font: JOKER LOCKED IN ARKHAM ASYLUM AGAIN!

Danny shouldn't feel so angry about this, this is a good thing. Gotham doesn't have to deal with him for another few months at the least. He should feel relieved, a little more at peace.

He is not.

He cannot swallow the fury thudding behind his eyes, the burning white heat searing a deeper hole in his chest. A searing green filling static in his ears in the way only the rage of the restless dead can have.

How is he going to kill him now?

Arkham may be the only asylum in America made entirely of tissue paper, but it's still an asylum. There are cameras, guards, other patients resting inside. Danny can think of a million different ways to sneak in and kill Joker, but someone will hear his screaming.

It'd have to be rushed.

He doesn't want it to be rushed.

It's a cruel thought. Cruel and cold and merciless, but Danny doesn't feel an ounce of shame, not an ounce of guilt, for it. He wants to be alone with the Joker when he kills him, that's all he wants. In Arkham, you are never alone.

He forces his anger to bubble back down into his chest, stuffing it between his heartstrings and his ribs like a blanket you're trying to bunch up into a corner. It sizzles and burbles. The static begins to fade out into a high-pitched ringing; it sounds like distant screaming.

Danny is still trembling, but he can think a little clearer now.

He can wait.

He can wait. He can wait. He can wait. He canwait. Hecanwait. Hecanwait.

He can wait.

He's waited five years for this. He can wait one more week. One more month. One more year. However long it takes for the Joker to break back out, Danny can wait.

And when the Joker does, inevitably, break out.

Danny uncrinkles his fingers around the edges of the newspaper, loosens his limbs just enough so he can pay for it.

He'll be waiting.

The dead, after all, have all the time in the world.

[leviathansyearning]

(wip) woe outsider angst be upon ye

[huramuna]

new valyria - one shot.

aemond x shera stark, modern. 18+, minors do not interact or you will be smited. a banshee's lament au.

new valyria, the hottest club in town, is owned by the Targaryen family. it is themed in the style of Valyria of old with towering pillars of ivory and gold. the dress code is strictly red and black and their signature drink, a fruity and spicy blended brandy, is called 'the Balerion'.

i might do more one shots in this au heehee.

word count: 5.5k

content: smut (specifics below cut), angst, shera being a mess, aemond = whore?, aegon has rabies, helaena x shera agenda

ain't it fun - paramore • hard times - paramore

warnings: thigh riding, oral (f receiving), shera has a praise kink, aemond targaryen has a tongue piercing, semi public sex (they're in an alley)

“Sher, please don’t be a buzzkill, it's one night— just one!” Cregan exasperated, hands held out in a pleading fashion. He was pacing back and forth in front of his sister, perplexed. 

“It’s seriously not my scene, Cregan. I mean… loud music, flashing lights and intoxicated individuals everywhere? You really think that’s a good place for me to be?” Shera retorted, lazed back in her fluffy couch, glancing at her phone every once in a while.

“It’s really classy, trust me. There are tables to the side where you can sit away from the action.” 

“Why am I even going if I’m going to be ‘away from the action’?” she punctuated air quotes in his face. 

“When was the last time you left the house except to go to the post office? When was the last time you socialized with anyone who wasn’t me, Moongeist or Helaena?” 

Shera went silent, brow knitting together. She folded her arms over her chest defensively. “Low blow, make fun of the girl with an anxiety disorder and agoraphobia.” 

“I’m… I just want you to experience life! You’re young and spry— you should be out in the world trying everything while you still can! But instead, you insist on staying at home, wearing glasses that make you look like a librarian, and making soap. You already act the part of a grandma.” 

“It’s… I just don’t want anyone to see me, I don’t want to be perceived, Cregan. I don’t want people to look at me, to… to,” she gestured fervently to her eye, hands shaking slightly. She had a scar that ran the length of half of her face, bisecting her one eye into a milky-blue blindness. It was from a childhood accident, which was more or less a hazy nightmare to her now. “Y’know.”

“No one will see you, Shera. It’s… dark and low lit, that’s part of the experience.”

“Thirty minutes. I will stay approximately thirty minutes before I call an uber and go home. And… you have to do my laundry for… a month. No, two months!” Shera exclaimed, pointing out two fingers at him. Moongeist whined on the couch, giving a low warbling noise. 

–

Two hours later, she was dressed. She opted for a lacy baby-blue lolita style dress at first, but Cregan had protested immediately. 

“You look like a scary Victorian doll. Pick something from this era, please. Plus, there is a dress code of black and red.” 

Shoving a rude gesture in his face, she begrudgingly changed. She opted for a red satin dress. It had a scoop halter neckline which was certainly not her usual style. Glancing in the mirror, she wholly considered bailing out of the situation entirely. The snug fabric hugged her curves, her thighs rubbing together as she walked. She felt… exposed, all of the little dips and divots of her body on display— she wasn’t sure if it was even flattering. 

A small frown tugged at her lips as she fiddled with the plunging front of the dress, trying to get it to stay at a point where her breasts didn’t look like they were about to burst out and start kicking ass and taking names. Isn’t there tape made for this sort of thing? As self conscious as she was about the whole situation, there was something… liberating about getting dressed up with (almost) the sole purpose of being ogled at. While her face was something of a sore point, she would hope that at least one person in the club could find her body desirable. She was a ‘short-stack’ as Helaena called her, who worshiped her curves and soft spots like they were the second coming of a messiah. Shera squeezed her thighs together at the thought– if she didn’t get a hookup tonight, she would need to call Helaena. Some itches could only be scratched on your own for so long.

Pressing double-sided adhesive tape, that she used for her soap orders, to her chest, she somewhat successfully kept the satin in place. Giving another look and not quite on board with what she saw, she hid herself in an oversized puffy faux furred jacket. 

Just thirty minutes. It’s just thirty minutes, Shera. You can do this… just… chill out. 

Despite her lackluster words of affirmation and the subsequent panic bubbling in her stomach, she grabbed her purse. Her breathing was uneven and she took a hit from her emergency inhaler, hoping to the Gods at play that she wouldn’t have an asthma attack in the middle of the club. 

Shera imagined, somehow, dancing with some attractive number and getting hot and heavy (as if!) and then having to pull out her inhaler. Lung health is not cute. Oh, yeah, my airways get blocked sometimes by mucus and I can’t breathe. What do you mean you don’t want to stick your tongue down my throat? 

Myriad of issues aside, she pushed out of her room, head held not quite high, but just enough so she could see. 

Cregan nodded in approval (as if he was some sort of fashion expert) and they were off. The drive was quiet and Shera realized he never told her the club name. He always referred to it as ‘the club’. She somewhat understood the need for a dress code at an establishment like a lounge, but color coded? How pretentious. Shera and Cregan didn’t even really look good in red— they were more akin to monochromatic and cool toned blues rather than red. 

Red and black reminded her of… something. She couldn’t quite place it.

They pulled up to the building, which didn’t have a sign or anything. It was wedged in between two other buildings, but its architecture was vastly different. While the adjoining facilities were modern, the club looked like it was from ancient Greece. It had towering ivory pillars, etched in the simplistic but still somewhat complex design of corinthian filigree, the individual chips of the sculptor’s chisel still apparent— they were handmade, hand carved. The inside of the building emanated a foreboding and very deep red. 

Shera suddenly wondered if she was about to enter Mount Olympus— or maybe the underworld, as the sickly maroon color reminded her of the River Styx. 

The bouncer, a burly man who could easily bench press Cregan (an impressive feat, considering her brother was a hockey player built like a brick shit house) stood at the door. 

“Name.” the makeshift Charon grunted. Shera half expected him to start brandishing a wooden paddle. 

“Stark.” Cregan replied, hands in his pockets. 

Not-Charon looked at his list, then at the pair of Stark siblings, back and forth for at least thirty seconds. 

“S-T-A…” Cregan began to spell out their last name in irritation before the ferryman held up his hand in pause. 

“You’re on, go in.” 

Entering the club, to which Shera still didn’t know the name of, was certainly like entering the gates of Hell. She felt like Dante, entering the first circle, guided by Virgil. It was dark, the low boom of bass ringing in her ears. They were guided by a path of red floor lights. What is this? An amusement park? It was a weird mix of trepidation of entering the unknown— which to Shera, could either be the actual entrance to Hell, or the entrance to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney world. All she was sure of is that she wanted a turkey leg and to go home. 

And yet, some part of her brain, as small and withered as it may be, pressed on for adventure and excitement. They approached the end of the path and it gave way to a large room, still painted in that deep saccharine hue. The roof was high-vaulted and curved inward– it was like stepping into the Pantheon, the coffered, domed ceiling seeming to go on forever. The club was set up in a circular manner, as the room curved around. The bar itself was in the middle, hugging a large stage platform. On the stage was a singular grand piano and a DJ station. All surfaces were decorated in ivory, accented by red velvet. 

The music playing was a mix of the piano and the DJ, working together to create a surprisingly exuberant melody that made Shera’s skin rise in goosebumps. 

“Let’s get drinks, Sher,” Cregan steered her to the wrapping bar quickly, his sights set on something or someone in particular.

Shera didn’t feel much like drinking– she had no taste for alcohol, only trying it a few times in her life and never enough to even get a buzz. She didn’t find the point in choking down liquid that tasted like poison only to feel like living death the next morning. She slipped into one of the velvet bar stools, her feet dangling under her.

“Just cranberry juice, please,” she murmured to the barkeep, who returned her request with an eyebrow raise. 

Cregan began whooping and hollering behind her and she turned to see someone she hadn’t seen in a long time: Jacaerys Velaryon. 

Once upon a time, Shera and Cregan had been extremely close to the Velaryon and Targaryen kids, growing up in the same social circles, they were all an unstoppable and very tight knit little group of hellions. 

But that was years ago– she didn’t talk to any of them anymore, except for Helaena, who she had stayed best friends with throughout the years, and may or may not be in a casual on and off situationship with.

She tried not to remember the fact that, at some point, she had been attached at the hip to Helaena’s brother, Aemond. They were like peanut butter and jelly, like cookies and cream, like macaroni and cheese, and any other iconic food (or maybe not, she was just hungry) related duo. Thick as thieves, they were. Until… the ever creeping monster of puberty and hormones and all the things related to growing up split them apart. Shera developed her terrible anxiety disorder, while Aemond flourished in academics and moved through the social ranks at school. They hadn’t spoken since they were sixteen, when Shera inevitably withdrew from physical school in favor of at-home, online school.

Shera approached him warily, seeing him laughing and joking with his friends that were just… so out of her atmosphere, she couldn’t even imagine having a conversation with.

They hadn’t been close in a few years but… it wouldn’t feel right just up and disappearing from school without telling him, right? 

Some stupid, childish part of her thought he might ask her to stay, ask her what’s wrong, ask her anything, really. 

But as she got closer, she felt all of their eyes on her, their lips pulled into sneers. It's irrational, it's irrational, it's irrational, she tried to reason with herself and her bubbling anxiety in her stomach. They aren’t laughing at you, they aren’t, they aren’t. 

But it… it feels like they were. Aemond’s blue eyes zeroed in on her, one slightly off-color than the other. They had both been involved in a childhood accident, leaving them both blinded. But, looking at the two of them, one would only be able to notice Shera’s glaring scar. 

Aemond’s eye and subsequent scar had been mostly covered up with extensive cosmetic surgery and other procedures, at his mother’s behest, and on his father’s dime, which was seemingly an endless well. His eye, which he lost, was replaced by a near perfect replica. No one who didn’t know him closely would ever notice.

At the time of the incident, Shera’s family was going through a transitional period– namely, her and Cregan’s father passing away while they were both underage, the following legal battle over inheritance with their uncle and just things that no kids should go through. It was the catalyst of Shera’s subsequent anxiety and myriad of following issues.

She didn’t even approach him further that day in the hall. She said nothing to him, merely turning on a heel and leaving.

That was eight years ago.

“Jace, my god,” Shera gaped, eyes wide. He certainly wasn’t a kid anymore and had put on some muscle mass– she assumed from playing hockey with Cregan (even if he was still dwarfed by the absolute unit of her brother). He had those unruly chocolate colored curls, oh-so reminiscent of his rumored father, Harwin Strong. But that was a touchy issue within itself and best left unsaid. 

“Shera!” Jace went in for the hug right away, squeezing the poor girl tight. “You look fantastic.” It felt like an obligated lie. 

“Thank you… um, what are you doing here?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Oh, I’m always around this place most times or another. I DJ on the side when I’m not on the ice. Mom made a spot for me.”

Mom? What did Rhaenyra have to do with this?

She must have looked visibly confused. “You know this… is my family’s place, right? New Valyria?” 

It hit her like a train– a freight train that smacked into her and kept on going until there was nothing left of her but Shera-shaped dust. “Oh.”

“Cregan didn’t tell you?”

Her brother scratched a hand behind his head, looking somewhat sheepish. It was a weird look on him. “I… may have not. I wasn’t lying per say–” 

Shera opened her mouth to say something more, but was interrupted by a cup being slid her way by the bartender. Without looking, she lifted it to her lips and took a deep gulp. It was, in fact, her cranberry juice– but it had been mixed with vodka. Heavily. She suppressed the urge to spit it out and looked back up. “I asked for just juice.”

“It was sent from the gentleman over there,” the bartender pointed to a small alcove adjacent to them where none other than Aegon fucking Targaryen was sitting, legs splayed out like he owned the place (well, he did in some capacity, she supposed) and a lady on each arm. He had the biggest shit-eating grin she’d ever seen, staring right at her. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she put a hand on her forehead. “I’m leaving, Cregan. I don’t give a shit about the deal anymore.” 

“Shera, we’ve been here for five minutes–”

“Five minutes. It took five minutes for someone to somehow recognize me in this stupid red lighting– and not just someone, no, one of my childhood friends who hasn’t spoken to me in eons and is looking at me like I’m his next meal. Not to mention, my shithead brother didn’t mention that the club he is forcing me to go to is owned by said childhood friend’s family. I should’ve fucking guessed it with the red and black dress code, fucking pretentious. No offense, Jace,” she murmured, taking a breath. “I’m done.” she gathered her purse, slipping off of the seat. That vodka must’ve gone straight to her head, as she’d never been so adamant about something. Fuck it. She threw back the remainder of the glass of vodka cranberry (regretting it immediately) and flipped her brother another rude gesture.

She was so blinded by red– not just the color scheme, but the rage she felt bubbling as she rushed to the exit. The rage and anxiety was a more powerful cocktail than anything they served at the bar as she pulled out her phone with trembling hands, trying to call an uber. She didn’t look up the whole time, somehow managing to almost reach the gate to salvation– before she ran head first into a very hard body. A very hard body with a pointy fucking necklace on that stabbed her in the forehead. The force of her stumble was catastrophic, for her, as she fell to the ground on her ass. The hard body stayed upright, only shaken a little.

A heavily tattooed and, ahem, large calloused hand reached in front of her. She took it, half expecting to pull her own weight up, but was easily lifted to her feet. The hand was warm. Unnaturally warm. The smell of cigarette smoke and… sandalwood blew out her senses. She could feel his breath on her face as she swayed slightly into him– he was looking down at her directly, pupils boring holes into her. The heat of the situation rose into a fever pitch as they were practically pressed together, his hand straying to the small of her back so she wouldn’t fall over again. It felt terribly intimate.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry— I… the… I’m sorry,” she stammered, trying to get out some sort of explanation to why she’d accidentally used this person as a springboard, but it just came out in a string of unintelligible ramblings. Her heels clicked on the floor, stumbling back and forth.

“It’s fine,” he replied. The voice sounded familiar, but still somewhat faraway in her mind. “Are you alright? You seem… unsteady.”

 She wouldn’t be surprised if she had given herself a concussion from face planting into… she glanced up, eyes trailing the body before her. He was tall with expensive Italian leather shoes and impeccably pressed slacks. His shirt was red and only half buttoned, leaving a small patch of sheer white-blondish chest hair. His hands, which dwarfed hers, were inked in tattoos that seemingly stretched his body, peeking out on his exposed torso. 

The offending pointy necklace revealed itself; a golden pendant of a Seven-Pointed star. Her stomach dropped into her feet as she realized exactly who it was. 

Fuckfuckfuck. Meeting his gaze, it was none other than Aemond Targaryen. Her former best friend, companion, partner in crime. She expected his face to twist into a sneer like it had before at school and she wanted to vomit. I have to get out of here. 

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed to her forehead where she had consecrated herself with his pendant. A bit of blood was trickling from her skin. 

That is what he has to say? You’re bleeding? No hello Shera, hi Shera, I recognize you Shera? A frown made home on her face as she realized he might not even remember her. 

“Um, it’s… it’s fine,” she wiped the blood away with the back of her hand, feeling it being replaced with new droplets. “Sorry for running into you, sir.” Sir? What the fuck is wrong with you, Shera? 

“At least let me help you get cleaned up, yeah?” Aemond pressed, tilting up her head to most likely observe her wound– but it also felt like he was sizing her up, checking her out. “Only if you call me sir again.”

She made a garbled noise of surprise at his last comment, her mouth opening to try and spew out some half-assed cheeky reply. “I… I guess,” she murmured. She really just wanted to go home and cry and never leave the house again— but that stupid and childish part of her brain that hadn’t resurfaced itself since leaving school was nagging her. It felt sickly euphoric to her to see him again. She hated to be objectifying, but he had grown up to be, quite frankly, gorgeous. “S-... sir,” she squeaked out lastly, finally thankful for the gaudy lighting– without it, Aemond would’ve seen her face lit up like a tomato. 

He nodded with a ‘hm’ noise, leading her down a hallway to the far side of the Pantheon. It was lit up normally with sconces on the wall giving clear white light. It was obviously a staff-only path. 

Okay, Shera. Breathe. You can get through this. Let him put a bandaid on your head and hopefully not recognize or remember you and you can be on your way. You always wondered what he grew up to look like and now you know! Here is your little Aemond fix to mend the Aemond sized hole in your heart. Then you can move on and totally not wallow over this for weeks.

The office was nice– it was his, she knew instantly. It had tall bookshelves filled with different philosophers and big named authors, no doubt some of them first or second editions worth thousands. Shera felt like she was intruding, like she didn’t belong. She didn’t, really. Swaying side to side, she awaited further instruction.

“Come,” he said, not so much asking. He seemed to lack some manners these days– Alicent must be aghast.

She shuffled and took a seat in one of the chaise velvet seats in front of the desk. She fluffed into her coat, wanting to just hide, her muddled mind replaying the way he spoke. Come, come, come. Christ, I need to get laid– maybe I should call Helaena. The lights, still a bit low, weren’t a scathing fluorescent color like on the club floor. He could most certainly see the scar running down her face– and the fear she held in her eyes. 

Even though it was plain as day, he didn’t say anything. He opened a first aid kit, dabbing her forehead with peroxide soaked gauze, his expression watching her every movement. His gaze was almost snake-like, unblinking as he observed.

She hissed at the sting of it, gritting her teeth slightly. He only gave an answer of a slightly knit brow. 

It was silent— save for Shera’s quiet and slightly wheezy, squeaky breathing. Her hands were clenched on her knees, her dress riding up her skin, which she was constantly tugging downward. As he shuffled closer, one knee knocked between her two shaking ones. Was that an accident? The creeping heat only seemed to grow.

The soft beat of the music from the club coupled with the blood rushing in Shera’s ears made her want to scream. Everything seemed in slow motion as Aemond, still apparently a painstakingly asinine perfectionist, took his sweet time to patch her up. This gave her time to watch him in turn, focusing mostly on the way his lips were upturned, cupid’s bow taut. Flicking back up to his eyes, they were looking back and forth from her lips to her own gaze. The air around them seemed to go stagnant. Holy fuck, does he want to kiss me or do I have something on my face? 

Her eyes must’ve read confusion, panic, elation and all the things in between that go with wanting to kiss an almost stranger in a club– but he wasn’t exactly a stranger to her. But, she supposed she was to him. His fingers tilted her chin upward and his lips curled into a smug grin, auto completing her thoughts. 

He pressed a bandage to her forehead, mouth open to say something, like he was going to do something, but he was caught off guard by the door to his office slamming open. Shera didn’t even look to see who it was— she was more focused on the fact that Aemond goddamn Targaryen had a tongue piercing. She felt like she was going to melt.

“Hey Aem, that fuckin’ slag bit me— do you think I should go get a rabies shot or something?” a slightly slurred voice drawed. “Ohhh, shit.” Aegon stumbled into the room, leaning on the doorframe. He was, in fact, bleeding from his neck, some very prominent bite marks marring his skin, coupled with vicious looking hickies. 

“Busy,” Aemond grunted, focusing his gaze back on tending to Shera. 

“Like busy or… busy? I don’t see your hand up her skirt or anything, so you can’t be that busy.” 

“Fuck off, Aeg,” he continued, gritting his teeth in annoyance. “Seriously.” 

“Well, Criston wants to talk to you ‘bout throwing that girl out— since it is your management night, eh?”

The smallest breath of annoyance slipped from the younger brother’s lips. “I’ll be right back.” 

Aegon still loomed in the doorway after he left, staring at Shera. “You didn’t like my drink?” 

“I don’t really drink.” 

“And yet… you’re at a bar where they serve alcohol.” 

“I’m trying to leave,” she sniffed.

“Not hard enough apparently,” Aegon flicked open a lighter, taking a drag from a suddenly lit cigarette. “You look like a lost pup, Shera.” 

“You remembered me.” 

“I may have the IQ of a golden retriever but I’m not that stupid. I couldn’t exactly forget your bird’s nest of red hair or himbo of a brother. Seriously, all those body slams from hockey must’ve damaged his brain.” 

Shera snorted a little laugh. “Aemond doesn’t even seem to recognize me— or, he hasn’t said anything.” 

“He’s got his head too far up his own ass to recognize anything other than cunt. He’s more of a whore than I am these days,” he took a deep drag, puffing smoke out into the hall. “Don’t be surprised if he fingers you before he even asks for your name.” 

An unfamiliar feeling churned in Shera’s stomach. “I… I gotta go.” she huffed, grabbing her purse and walking past Aegon. She was biting down so hard on her lip that it started to bleed, the metallic taste savoring like lead on her tongue. 

She makes her way through the throngs of people, everything around her a blur. It seemed that Aemond didn’t remember or recognize her– fine, that was fine. She didn’t expect him to– who would, really? Her eye unwillingly caught a glance of his figure again on the outskirts of the club. He was talking to a woman dressed in a sparkling red dress, looking like Jessica fucking Rabbit. His hands eclipsed the woman’s hips as they were leaned close together, clearly in some sort of heated conversation. 

 Her throat felt slightly constricted as she pushed out of the exit door into the alley. Has she misread his signals? They were totally about to kiss before Aegon came in, right? 

He’s a bigger whore than me these days.

Fat tears rolled down her face unwillingly as she leaned on the brick wall of the alley, fumbling for her phone again. Why did it hurt? It was stupid, she was stupid– they hadn’t seen each other in eight years and he didn’t even recognize her– so why did it sting to see… that? 

She texts for an uber rather than calling as her emotions are in no place to talk to someone. She drops her phone on the concrete several times by how much she’s shaking– she doesn’t even hear the door of the club close with a creak behind her.

“You left. I wasn’t done patching you up,” Aemond slunk around into her line of sight, head bowed low to try to look at her face.

She swiveled to the side to hide her expression and distress in her phone. “... had to go, sorry,” she whispers, trying her best to sound like she wasn’t crying.

“I didn’t mean for him to interrupt us– my brother’s an idiot,” he was chasing her face. “Let me see.” he put his hand on her cheek and turned her face to him again. She let him, forever putty in his hands. If only he knew. If only he really cared.

His thumb wiped away some of the tears. “It doesn’t hurt that bad, does it?” he whispered, getting close to her once more like they were in the office. “I can always kiss it better, hm?” 

It felt like an invitation, the opening of a letter of acceptance to some grandiose college she could never afford, never fit into– but for one moment, she decided to bask in it. Let the hurt come later; it always comes later. He had been interested in some capacity. Not in her, not really her, but for some anonymous club fling. 

Fine.

“Why don’t you, then?” she returned, eyes half lidded under his heavy gaze.

It was all the consent he needed– their lips melded together, all tongues and teeth. It was borderline obscene, like they were attacking each other. His hand threaded through her hair, tongue tracing the outline of her cupid’s bow before tangling into her mouth. She felt the ball of his tongue piercing meld against her. He tasted like coffee and cigarettes– on anyone else, Shera would find it unpleasant, but she was so intoxicated on the idea that Aemond’s tongue was in her mouth, she didn’t care. She even would say she liked it.

Heat kindled between the two of them, coming to a roaring flame as he slotted his leg between her legs again– before must have just been a prelude, as he didn’t give any indication that his knee pressed against her clothed core was an accident. No, it was pure intention. He lofted some of her weight onto his leg, encouraging her to chase her pleasure, hand riding up her dress to grip her bottom firmly. 

She gave an experimental roll of her hips, finding her arousal and ever growing wetness to only increase, whimpering a small moan into his mouth. He, apparently liking that, pulled her back from his face by her hair, staring down at her like he wanted to commit her expression to memory.

“Come on,” he growled, voice husky against the shell of her ear. “Ride my fucking leg.” Aemond’s lips connected with her skin again on her neck. 

It felt like a lightning bolt struck her right in her core, making her toes curl and tingle. Her mouth was open as she pleasured herself on him, using him– she was approaching her end almost embarrassingly fast as he angled his leg a bit more upward, pinpointing all the pressure onto her clit, which at this point, was barely even guarded behind her panties. Aemond’s hand on her bottom slinked the elastic of her underwear until he reached the front, two fingers swiping down her soaked folds. 

“Soaked for me, are you?” he asked, parting her underwear to the side to rest against her thigh, her bare cunt now in direct contact with his clothed leg. She was surely making a mess on his expensive slacks, she didn’t even have to look. He quirked a brow and laved his tongue over one of the fingers that had just slid through her wetness, testing the taste. 

Her brow furrowed and the building heat, the harp’s string right in her core, came undone with that. She wanted to moan his name– she almost said it. “A–,” she cried, burying her face in his shoulder as she rode out her orgasm on his leg. 

“That’s a good girl,” Aemond praised, his words of affirmation going straight to her core. She did, unfortunately, have a praise kink. “Can you stand?” 

“Mmh– y-... yes,” she replied as he took away his leg– but not before sending her into slight overstimulation with a cheeky bump to her clit. 

“Good, stay there, love,” he pressed a kiss to her forehead (which felt strangely familiar out of this supposed random club hookup). “Wanna taste you now. You can give me one more, can’t you?” 

Her legs wobbled as he got down on his knees in the back alley on his no doubt designer pants (now painted with a souvenir from her) to eat her out. She could barely speak, just nodding.

“That’s right,” he hummed, squeezing into her thigh as he spread her legs. She was dripping right into his mouth as his warm lips made contact with her– he teased her slightly by blowing on her bare skin, chuckling as she squirmed and whimpered. “You’re too cute.” his tongue flattened and laved over her cunt, not letting a drop of her arousal go to waste as he went to town. He continued his teasing by edging just around her clit, making her chase his mouth slightly as he moved to suckle just outside of that spot.

It was torture. Sweet, sweet torture as he edged her for a good two minutes while she was already on the edge again. The coolness of his tongue piercing sent chills up her spine as he finally, finally began to zero in on her pearl, the ball of the piercing dancing around it, stimulating her to a delicious peak. 

“P-Please, please, please,” she whined, fisting his hair. 

He had the audacity to look up at her, face first in her thighs, and wink at her. All remnants of teasing were gone as he began to feast, focusing solely on pulling out her second orgasm. It didn’t even register to her, as she was clenching around nothing, tears welling in her eyes from the sheer intensity of her peak, that he hadn’t gotten off yet– she had hardly touched him. He was focusing all on her.

She went boneless for a moment as she came down from her high, almost moaning his name again. He held her until she came back down to earth. 

Her hands fiddled to his belt, she desperately wanted to return the favor– 

“Your uber’s here, love,” he murmured, helping her out of the alley to the car awaiting. She looked down, realizing her phone had been unlocked on the uber ETA screen. 

She was spinning still, reeling from the entire interaction. Next thing she knew, she was sitting in the back of her uber as Aemond stood, door in hand. 

“Bye, Shera.” he grinned, closing the door.

He knew the whole time.

[marxalittle]

I have the dumbest fucking idea and it's only getting larger in my notes app SO:

Hanahaki disease is a magical illness.

Forsaken are immune to diseases of the living: those which require a living body to afflict, feed from, or grow within. They are not immune to curses, afflictions, spell plagues, or magical illnesses.

And while it's true that the Dark Lady was raised with her body intact as it was at the moment of her death, including the injuries she had sustained immediately before, resulting in some physical tics and strain; it is also true that when she suddenly developed a cough, someone was going to notice.

It can't kill her, because she doesn't need to breathe, but an impossible passion for Jaina Proudmoore has given root and rise to Hanahaki disease, a most inconvenient affliction for the Banshee Queen.

[avirxy]

me 🤝 werewolf lore

[keeps-ache]

pals and other things :D