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rieamena · 4 months ago

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everything i wasn't and everything you were.

day 15 of inotober'24

fem aligned/intended reader

riea's comments: writing this made me cry bro

"please…" your voice came out strained and raspy from crying a few moments before, "come back safely."

"for you?"

"not just for me," you shook your head and drew attention to your extended arms. your brother's white and black wrapped weapon was sitting in your hands; his luxury watch atop it, twinkling slightly, "for him too."

takuma just stared down at it, frozen in shock. he knew what it meant, he just didn't want to believe it. "it's kind of funny, you know," you attempted to break the deafening silence although the tears welling up in your eyes betrayed you. "when he brought you to the shop for the first time, he told me that if anything were to happen to him, his watch and weapon would go to you." the man, only a few years younger than you, tore his gaze from the items, looking at you instead. your cheeks glistened with dried tears, new ones forming in milliseconds. "at first i brushed him off, my brother? nanami kento? the best sorcerer i know, bested by some curse? m-maybe he should've become a fortune teller instead of a sorcerer, maybe then t-this wouldn't have…" the memorabilia in your hands shook as you held your head down, the tears dropping onto the concrete below.

takuma dug his nails into his palm to stop himself from crying. he hated to see you like this, so broken, disheartened, and weak. and yet, nanami would know that there's still a mission to complete. that there's still people to protect. you to protect.

"ino, i know you." that's how his superior started, taking a sip of his chamomile tea afterwards. the cafe was homely, polished wooden tables and cushioned booths filled the space. the overhead lights hung low enough that if nanami jumped directly below one, it would hit his head. "i know that you're not the best at keeping things under wraps." he set his cup back down on the napkin, not wanting to possibly create a mug ring on the table itself. taking a deep sigh, the man intertwined his fingers and stared at his junior. takuma felt his hands get clammy and sweat run down his back. he doesn't even know what he's nervous about until nanami spoke up again, "you're dating my sister."

"please." you begged, wrapping your arms around him, eyes wetting his black crewneck. "please, takuma. stay alive." the man in question held onto his mentor's watch and weapon as he hugged you back tightly. "please. don't do something you'll regret and—" you continued, choking on your sobs, and that's when takuma felt himself break. he didn't care about being strong anymore, he let himself cry. to feel his grief and to understand your own.

"i will be back. nothing will stop me from coming back to you." he pressed his lips against yours in a gentle and sweet manner, wanting to convey just how much you meant to him. you kissed him back instantaneously with so much affection and force, hand slipping up his neck and under his beanie, fingers intertwined with his hair. you both pulled away and takuma kissed your forehead endearingly, rubbing your shoulders.

"i love you," were the last words he said before rushing into battle, and you didn't even get to say it back.

all that could be done was to wait, so you waited. hours turned into days. days turned into weeks. weeks to months. and months to years. sometime between then, you received word that takuma would be shipped off to the states for more advanced testing and healthcare. you still weren't able to see him. in the beginning, shoko would update you from time to time on how he was doing. you couldn't go and see for yourself though. he was in a high security hospital, no visitors allowed. shoko's updates got less and less frequent and the last time she contacted you was to say that he would be entering surgery soon.

you'd be lying if you said you moved on. on the day of kento's funeral, you stayed back and sat on the rain beaten grass, talking about whatever came to mind. you laughed at the irony of it all. it was always like this, you talking your brother's ear off and him occasionally saying something in response. he would always be less stoic around you, sometimes he'd even make a joke once in a while. you sat there for hours, talking to his gravestone, your heart anticipating a response but your head knowing that you'll never get one again.

the grass crunched under your shoes as you made your way through the cemetery, basket full of bread in hand. you made it a habit to visit your brother at least once a week, always making sure to bring something special, something that he loved.

"you're probably wondering about ino, huh?" you started, taking out a slice and spreading his favorite topping on it slowly. "i lost him too. don't get me wrong, he's not dead—at least i don't think he is—but i haven't heard from him since the day he went into the fight. i can only hope that he's safe and healthy or in the process of doing so—here's your slice." you set the bread on the stone, reaching back in the basket to start on your own. "i just wish i knew more about everything. you jujutsu sorcerers always kept things so secret…"

the crinkle of a bouquet of chamomile flowers against your brother's freshly cleaned marble gravestone made you jump. the bread and butter knife in your hands fell right into the basket you carried upon hearing a voice.

"keeping secrets isn't my thing. i'm sorry for making you wait so long."

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novaursa · 22 days ago

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Caught by Fire (the daughter)

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: the princess

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The chamber was quiet, save for the crackling of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Alicent Hightower shifted in her seat. She sat opposite her father, Lord Otto Hightower, in one of the more private sitting rooms of the Red Keep. The firelight cast a warm glow over the polished wood of the table between them, its surface cluttered with scrolls, a decanter of wine, and two goblets.

Alicent studied her father carefully. He sat rigid, as always, his posture betraying no sign of weariness despite the hour. His eyes were fixed on a letter before him, though Alicent doubted he was truly reading it.

Clearing her throat delicately, she broke the silence. “Father?”

Otto didn’t look up. “Yes?”

Alicent hesitated, her hands clasping the edge of her gown. “I’ve heard… talk.”

That drew his attention. He set the letter down, his gaze shifting to her with an air of patient expectancy. “What kind of talk?”

Her cheeks flushed faintly, but she pressed on. “About the princess—Daemon’s daughter. They say she… fell from the sky.”

Otto’s expression tightened ever so slightly, but he masked it quickly. “Do they now?”

Alicent’s brow furrowed. “So, it’s true?”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and reaching for his goblet. Taking a measured sip, he finally replied, “The princess did indeed have a mishap while riding her dragon. She fell. I happened to be… in the way.”

“In the way,” Alicent repeated, her tone tinged with disbelief. “That’s how you describe it?”

“How else would you describe it?” he countered, setting the goblet down with a soft thud.

Alicent leaned forward, her voice lowering as though she feared someone might overhear. “You mean to tell me that the daughter of Daemon Targaryen—a dragonrider—fell from the sky, and you, of all people, were there to catch her?”

“It was hardly a matter of choice,” Otto said, his tone clipped. “She fell. I caught her. End of story.”

But Alicent wasn’t so easily deterred. “And the fortune-teller? Was that part of the story too?”

Otto stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I see the court has been busy gossiping.”

“I’m not asking as part of the court,” Alicent said softly, her gaze steady. “I’m asking as your daughter. Is it true?”

He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he relented, his voice low. “The fortune-teller said a woman would fall from the sky into my arms. Yes.”

“And then she did,” Alicent said, her tone laced with awe. “The gods… they—”

“They played a cruel joke,” Otto interrupted, his voice sharp. “One that has caused far more trouble than it’s worth.”

Alicent frowned. “How has it caused trouble? From what I hear, the princess is unscathed, and you’ve been the subject of courtly amusement. It’s hardly a scandal.”

Otto leaned forward, his tone measured but firm. “You don’t understand, Alicent. This is not some harmless jest. This is Daemon Targaryen’s daughter we’re speaking of. The very idea of my name being associated with hers is enough to stoke the fires of suspicion and enmity.”

“Father,” Alicent said gently, “the court already talks of you and the princess. Surely you know that. Would it not be better to address it rather than let it fester?”

“To what end?” he asked, his tone laced with frustration. “Shall I proclaim that it was mere coincidence? That the gods have no hand in it? Or should I play into the prophecy and risk inflaming Daemon’s wrath?”

Alicent studied him, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps you underestimate her.”

Otto raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“She is not Daemon,” Alicent said simply. “Yes, she is his daughter, but she is also her own person. From what little I’ve seen, she is intelligent and willful. Perhaps even… different.”

“Different,” Otto repeated, his tone skeptical.

“Yes,” Alicent said, her voice gaining confidence. “She may surprise you.”

Otto stared into the fire, his thoughts churning. “Surprises are rarely a boon, Alicent. Especially when Targaryens are involved.”

Alicent smiled faintly, a spark of amusement lighting her eyes. “And yet, you caught her.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “It was reflex, nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, her tone teasing. “Or perhaps the gods did have a hand in it, whether you wish to believe it or not.”

Otto said nothing, his gaze fixed on the fire. Alicent watched him for a moment longer before rising to her feet. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her expression soft.

“Whatever you choose to do, Father, remember this: the gods may be cruel, but they are rarely wrong.”

With that, she left the room, her gown trailing softly behind her. Otto remained seated, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy cloak. The flames in the hearth crackled and danced, their light casting flickering shadows across his face.

For the first time in many years, Otto Hightower felt uncertain. And he loathed it.

The gardens of the Red Keep were a rare oasis amidst the endless stone and politics of King’s Landing. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, dappling the cobbled pathways and flowerbeds with golden light. Birds chirped in the hedges, and the faint scent of roses lingered in the warm air. You sat on a stone bench beneath a sprawling lemon tree, the breeze teasing strands of your silver hair. Beside you, your younger cousin, Princess Rhaenyra, was sprawled inelegantly on the grass, plucking petals from a daisy.

“You’ll ruin your dress,” you remarked, though your tone lacked any real reproach.

Rhaenyra shrugged, tossing a handful of petals into the air and watching them flutter down. “It’s only a dress. Besides, it’s too warm to sit properly today.”

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the bench. “You’ll find any excuse to shirk decorum.”

“And you sound like a septa,” she shot back, though her words carried no heat. She rolled onto her side, propping her chin on her hand. “Why are you always so serious?”

“Someone has to be,” you replied, smoothing a crease in your gown. “You certainly aren’t.”

Rhaenyra grinned, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. “That’s because I have you to do it for me.”

Before you could respond, a commotion echoed from above—a crash, followed by raised voices. You both looked up in time to see a flurry of parchment spilling from a balcony above, the sheets fluttering like oversized snowflakes as they descended toward the garden.

“What in the name of the Seven…” you muttered, rising to your feet as the papers began to land around you.

Rhaenyra laughed, catching one of the documents as it drifted down. “Well, this is new. Do you suppose it’s a sign from the gods?”

You snatched the paper from her hands, scanning its contents. The neat, precise script and the seal at the bottom were unmistakable. “These belong to Lord Hightower.”

“Hightower?” Rhaenyra sat up, her curiosity piqued. “What’s he doing, throwing his precious documents into the gardens?”

You glanced toward the balcony, your brow furrowed. “It wasn’t intentional.”

At that moment, the sound of hurried footsteps reached your ears. Lord Otto Hightower appeared at the edge of the garden, his usually composed demeanor fraying at the edges. His cloak billowed behind him as he strode forward, a mixture of irritation and urgency written across his face.

Behind him trailed Lord Lyonel Strong, looking slightly sheepish, and a Kingsguard knight who was busy dusting himself off. The culprit was clear—a servant boy scrambling to gather himself off the floor of the balcony above, his face pale with dread.

Rhaenyra nudged you with her elbow, a wicked grin on her lips. “Oh, this is going to be entertaining.”

“Behave,” you murmured, though you couldn’t entirely hide the amusement tugging at your own lips.

Otto’s keen eyes scanned the garden until they landed on you and the scattered papers. He drew closer, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Princess Y/N.”

“Lord Hightower,” you replied, holding up the document in your hand. “I believe this is yours.”

He stopped before you, his gaze flickering between you and the papers strewn about. For a moment, he looked as though he might say something sharp, but he took a deep breath instead. “Thank you, Princess Y/N. It seems fate has a cruel sense of humor today.”

Rhaenyra, ever the provocateur, couldn’t resist. “Fate does seem to take a particular interest in you, doesn’t it, my lord?”

Otto’s jaw tightened, but he ignored her comment, bending down to retrieve a nearby sheet of parchment. You stifled a laugh as you knelt to gather another, holding it out to him. “I trust this is all of it?”

“Perhaps,” he said curtly, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the paper. “Though I imagine it will take some time to ensure none have been lost.”

“Well,” Rhaenyra said, standing and brushing off her gown, “it’s fortunate my cousin was here to save your precious documents. Imagine if the wind had carried them into the Blackwater.”

“Indeed,” Otto replied, his tone dry. “The realm would surely have been plunged into chaos.”

Rhaenyra grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort, but you stepped in to smooth over the tension. “I hope nothing too important was damaged, my lord.”

Otto glanced at the papers in his hand, his expression softening slightly. “Nothing that cannot be rewritten, though it will cost me hours of labor.”

“Then perhaps you should thank the gods it was only hours lost,” you said lightly. “It could have been far worse.”

Otto’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, his usual mask of indifference faltering. There was something unreadable in his expression, something that made your heart skip unexpectedly. But then he straightened, his composure firmly in place once more.

“Indeed,” he said, inclining his head. “Thank you for your assistance, Princess.”

You nodded, stepping back as he turned to leave, his cloak sweeping behind him. Lord Strong followed, casting a quick smile in your direction, and the Kingsguard knight trailed after them, muttering apologies under his breath.

When they were out of earshot, Rhaenyra let out a low whistle. “I think you’ve just saved the Hand of the King from disaster.”

You gave her a pointed look. “And you enjoyed every moment of it.”

“Of course,” she said with a grin. “Though I must admit, I’ve never seen Otto Hightower quite so… flustered.”

You shook your head, suppressing a smile as you glanced toward the retreating figure of the Hand. Fate, it seemed, had an odd way of crossing your paths.

The royal solar was filled with the lingering smell of wine and roasted meats, remnants of the king’s late supper. Viserys I Targaryen sat in a high-backed chair by the hearth, his tunic rumpled, a goblet of wine in hand. Across from him, his younger brother Daemon lounged with his usual careless grace, his silver hair loose around his shoulders, a dark cloak draped over his chair. The faint hum of activity in the Red Keep buzzed just beyond the closed doors, though it was muted here in the king’s private quarters.

Viserys took a long sip of wine, his gaze flickering toward Daemon, who had returned earlier from what was undoubtedly another night of debauchery in the city. The king chuckled softly to himself before speaking.

“You know,” Viserys began, his voice warm with amusement, “Rhaenyra has been in a better mood these past weeks. I think having your daughter around has done her good.”

Daemon’s expression darkened slightly, though he kept his tone light. “She’s always been fond of Rhaenyra. I told you years ago she would make a fine companion for her.”

“It’s more than that,” Viserys said, setting his goblet down on a nearby table. “She seems… steadier. Less hostile to the court, less prone to mocking words and sulking. Your daughter has a way of grounding her.”

Daemon smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “Grounding? My daughter? I don’t think that’s a word I’d ever use for her.”

“Perhaps not,” Viserys admitted, chuckling. “But she’s had an effect nonetheless. Even Alicent remarked on it.”

The mention of Alicent brought a flicker of annoyance to Daemon’s face, but he said nothing. Viserys continued, his tone growing more thoughtful.

“Of course,” he said, “it’s not just Rhaenyra who’s taken notice. The court’s been buzzing with talk ever since… well, the incident.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed. “What incident?”

Viserys gave him a knowing look. “Don’t play coy, brother. I’m referring to your daughter’s… dramatic descent. Falling from her dragon and landing—of all people—on Otto Hightower.”

Daemon’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as his eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “You’re enjoying this far too much, Viserys.”

“Can you blame me?” Viserys said with a grin, reaching for his goblet again. “It’s not every day that the Hand of the King is caught off guard in such a spectacular fashion. The poor man looked as though he’d swallowed a lemon the size of the Stepstones.”

Daemon leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t want to hear you mention my daughter and Otto Hightower in the same sentence. Ever again.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his brother’s reaction. “You’re being dramatic, Daemon. It was an accident.”

“An accident that the entire court is now gossiping about,” Daemon growled. “Do you think I don’t know how these things spiral? The rumors are already flying, aren’t they?”

Viserys shrugged, his expression turning serious. “The court will always find something to talk about. It’s harmless, Daemon. No one actually believes—”

“Doesn’t matter what they believe,” Daemon snapped, cutting him off. “The fact that anyone is even talking about it is an insult.”

Viserys sighed, setting his goblet down again. “You’ve always been protective of her, but you can’t shield her from the world, Daemon. She’s a Targaryen. People will talk no matter what she does.”

Daemon stood abruptly, his cloak swirling around him as he began to pace the room. “I won’t have my daughter’s name tied to that man. Not in jest, not in rumor, not in prophecy. Otto Hightower is a snake, and he’ll twist this to his advantage if he can.”

Viserys frowned, watching his brother’s agitation. “Otto has his faults, but he’s loyal to the Crown. And to me.”

Daemon turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Loyal to you, perhaps. But don’t think for a moment that he wouldn’t hesitate to use her against me—or you, for that matter—if it served his interests.”

Viserys waved a hand dismissively. “You’re seeing shadows where there are none.”

“Am I?” Daemon retorted, his voice cold. “The man despises me. He’s never hidden it. And now, by some cruel twist of fate, my daughter literally falls into his arms. Do you think he’ll simply forget about it? That he won’t seize the opportunity to play the dutiful savior?”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “Daemon, you’re letting your hatred for Otto cloud your judgment.”

“My hatred is well-earned,” Daemon shot back, his voice sharp. “And if you value your Hand’s life, you’ll make sure he keeps his distance from her.”

Viserys’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he held his temper. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“Perhaps,” Daemon admitted, his tone hardening. “But I’m not wrong.”

The brothers stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them thick with tension. Finally, Daemon turned away, his voice quieter but no less resolute. “She’s my daughter, Viserys. I’ll not have her tangled in the webs Otto Hightower spins.”

Viserys said nothing as Daemon stalked toward the door, his boots echoing against the stone floor. When the door closed behind him, the king sighed heavily, reaching for his goblet once more.

The gods, it seemed, delighted in making fools of them all.

The Red Keep loomed around Daemon as he stalked through its corridors, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls. The hour was late, the halls mostly deserted save for the occasional servant or guard who wisely stepped aside as the Rogue Prince passed. His mood was foul, and his thoughts churned like a storm-tossed sea.

Viserys’s words echoed in his mind, feeding the fire of his frustration. The idea that anyone—least of all Otto Hightower—would dare to even think of his daughter in any capacity infuriated him. The man was insufferable, always lurking, always scheming, and now the court was buzzing with the most ridiculous gossip.

Daemon’s lips curled into a sneer as he turned a corner, the dark crimson of his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. His boots struck the floor harder than necessary, his simmering anger evident in every movement. He clenched his fists, wishing he had something to strike—or someone.

His unspoken wish was almost granted when he turned another corner and nearly collided with the man occupying his every ireful thought.

Otto Hightower.

The Hand of the King was walking briskly toward the Tower of the Hand, his expression as composed as ever. He carried a stack of documents under one arm, the weight of his duties evident in the furrow of his brow. He stopped short when Daemon appeared before him, their eyes locking.

The air between them was charged, heavy with unspoken animosity. For a long moment, neither man moved, each sizing up the other in silence.

“Prince Daemon,” Otto said at last, his tone cool and measured. He inclined his head slightly, though there was no warmth in the gesture. “Out for an evening stroll, I see.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a mockery of a smile. “If I’d known the Hand of the King would be gracing the halls, I might have chosen another path.”

Otto raised an eyebrow but didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s fortunate we crossed paths, then. It saves me the trouble of seeking you out.”

“Seeking me out?” Daemon drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm. “I wasn’t aware you enjoyed my company.”

“I don’t,” Otto replied flatly. “But there are matters of the realm that require your attention. Despite your… reputation, you remain the king’s brother.”

Daemon took a step closer, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Careful, Hightower. That tongue of yours is cutting, but it won’t save you if you test me.”

Otto didn’t flinch, though his grip on the documents tightened ever so slightly. “My tongue, Prince Daemon, serves the realm. And the realm has no time for threats or childish antics.”

Daemon let out a humorless laugh, the sound echoing in the empty hall. “Childish antics? That’s rich, coming from the man whose court is aflame with gossip about my daughter falling from her dragon. You must be thrilled, Hightower. The gods themselves have handed you the perfect jest.”

Otto’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—in his eyes. “The court will talk, as it always does. I have no control over idle tongues.”

“Don’t you?” Daemon challenged, his voice a low growl. “You’ve never been shy about wielding words as weapons. Tell me, Hightower, what’s the plan this time? How will you twist this to your advantage?”

Otto met Daemon’s gaze evenly, his tone calm but firm. “I have no plan, Prince Daemon. Your daughter’s unfortunate mishap was nothing more than that—an accident. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to entertain such absurdities.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his anger barely restrained. “Stay away from her.”

Otto tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Your concern for your daughter is commendable, but misplaced. I have no interest in her beyond ensuring the stability of the realm.”

“You will stay away from her,” Daemon repeated, his voice deadly quiet. “Or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Otto studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly. “If that’s what it takes to put your mind at ease, consider it done. But I’d advise you to save your threats for those who warrant them.”

Daemon’s hand twitched, as though he was tempted to strike the man before him, but he forced himself to stay still. Instead, he took a step back, his dark violet eyes blazing. “You’d do well to remember who you’re speaking to, Hightower.”

“And you’d do well to remember where you are, Prince Daemon,” Otto replied evenly. “This is the king’s court, not the Free Cities. Your antics have limits here.”

With that, Otto turned sharply and continued on his way, his boots striking the stone with purpose. Daemon watched him go, his fists clenched at his sides, his anger barely restrained.

When Otto disappeared into the shadows of the Tower of the Hand, Daemon let out a slow, frustrated breath, his mind racing. He didn’t trust the man—he never had, and he never would. The thought of his daughter being anywhere near Otto Hightower was intolerable.

The Rogue Prince turned and strode back the way he’d come, his cloak billowing behind him. If the gods thought they could toy with him and his family, they were sorely mistaken. He would protect what was his—no matter the cost.

The morning was crisp, the air unusually clear for King’s Landing. Otto Hightower strode through the courtyard of the Red Keep, his boots clicking against the cobblestones as he made his way to the Great Hall. The day's council meeting loomed ahead, and his mind was already occupied with matters of the realm: disputes over grain shipments, unrest in the Riverlands, and the latest schemes from the Free Cities.

He adjusted his cloak, pulling it tighter against the faint chill, when a sudden commotion caught his attention.

A stablehand came darting out from the direction of the training yard, his face pale with panic. He tripped, scrambling to his feet, before shouting, "My lord Hand! Loose horse—coming fast!"

Otto turned just in time to see the beast—a massive, dark-coated destrier—bolting toward him. Its reins trailed on the ground, and its hooves pounded the stones with ferocious force. He instinctively stepped back, his hand gripping the hilt of his dagger, though it would do little good against the animal’s sheer momentum.

Before he could act—or even think further—a blur of silver and red streaked into his vision.

You.

You darted out of nowhere, your silver hair streaming behind you as you cut across the courtyard with astonishing speed. With practiced grace, you seized the reins of the horse mid-stride, your boots skidding slightly on the cobblestones. The destrier reared, its powerful legs kicking out, but you held firm, your voice sharp and commanding.

“Easy, boy!”

The horse snorted and stomped, but your steady grip and soothing words worked their magic. Within moments, the destrier calmed, its frantic energy dissipating as it stood still, sides heaving.

Otto could only stare, his heart pounding—not from the near miss with the horse, but from the sight of you.

You turned, brushing a strand of hair from your face as you led the horse toward him. “It seems even the Hand of the King isn’t safe from mischief in his own courtyard.”

Otto blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. When he finally found his voice, it came out more curtly than he intended. “That was reckless.”

You arched a brow, a hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “Reckless? I just saved your life.”

“I would hardly call it that,” he replied, though his tone lacked conviction. “The horse—”

“Would’ve run you down,” you interrupted smoothly. “You’re welcome, by the way. We are even now.”

Otto inhaled sharply, forcing himself to regain his composure. “Yes, well… I suppose thanks are in order.”

You handed the reins off to the sheepish stablehand who had finally caught up, then turned your full attention to Otto. “You suppose?”

There was something in your tone—a teasing lilt, playful but not mocking—that made Otto’s heart skip a beat. He cursed himself for the reaction, for the way his gaze lingered on the way the sunlight caught the silver of your hair, or the faint flush on your cheeks from exertion.

“It was commendable,” he admitted, his voice softening slightly. “But dangerous. You could have been hurt.”

You shrugged, brushing off the concern. “I’ve dealt with far worse than a loose horse.”

“Perhaps,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, “but that doesn’t mean you should seek out trouble.”

“I didn’t seek it out,” you countered, a mischievous glint in your violet eyes. “It seems trouble has a way of finding you, my lord.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sounds of the courtyard—distant chatter, the clinking of armor, the faint rustle of leaves. Otto’s pulse quickened, though he couldn’t quite explain why.

“Perhaps it does,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before.

Your smirk softened into a small smile, and for the first time, Otto noticed something beneath the surface of your playful demeanor—a warmth, a depth that caught him off guard.

“Well,” you said, taking a step back, “try not to get trampled before the council meeting. I’d hate to see your carefully worded letters go to waste.”

He almost smiled at that, though he quickly masked it. “I’ll take that under advisement, Princess.”

With a graceful nod, you turned and began to walk away, leaving him standing in the courtyard, the destrier’s hoofbeats fading into the background.

Otto remained rooted to the spot for a long moment, his thoughts in disarray. It was absurd, he told himself, to feel… whatever this was. You were Daemon Targaryen’s daughter, a young woman of high station and fiery temperament. You should have been nothing more than a fleeting annoyance in his already overburdened life.

And yet.

His hand unconsciously brushed against the fabric of his cloak, where the faintest touch of warmth still lingered from when you had handed him the reins.

“Gods above,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he resumed his walk toward the Tower of the Hand. “Are they punishing me… or rewarding me?”

The thought unsettled him, but he couldn’t deny the flicker of something he hadn’t felt in years—something he wasn’t sure he wanted to name.

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #house targaryen #house hightower #caught by fire #hotd otto #otto hightower #otto x reader #otto x you #otto x y/n #x reader

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theunholyvirginemilyprentiss · 7 months ago

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The BAU as children:

EMILY ‘LITTLE MENACE’ PRENTISS

Emily was always outside, climbing trees or catching frogs, and the parade of nannies and Au Pairs she had as they moved from place to place found her to be hilarious, but utterly uncontrollable. She was wild-spirited, full of life, and laughed at everything—especially when she wasn’t supposed to—and was a devious prankster who knew how to curse in at least 4 different languages. Her favourite shows were ‘Flash Gordon’ and ‘Where in the World is Carmen Santiago?’, but she’d sneak out of bed late at night to watch ‘Cagney & Lacey’ from the staircase whilst her parents sat in the living room, thinking she was asleep. She had always had an advanced reading age, but the extent of her intelligence became abundantly clear as she was devouring books like ‘Moby Dick’ and ‘The Lord of the Flies’ as young as 11. Her mother would dip her fingertips in vinegar, but she never did shake the habit of biting her nails. She had many a nickname. Sparky. Spitfire. Beasty. It was ‘Little Menace’ which stuck.

JENNIFER ‘JJ’ JAREAU

JJ was an angelic child. She always sat up straight in church, never got her dresses dirty, and didn’t have to be told to wash her hands before meals. She made daisy chains and paper fortune tellers, and burned through crayons like matches. She wore flowery pinafores and loved having her hair brushed, even more so when her older sister Roslyn braided it for her, although JJ had always been much more interested in Roslyn than Roslyn had been in her. She loved ‘Sesame Street’ and the ‘Peter Rabbit’ books. JJ was a dream, but even she had a naughty side. She was a very light sleeper, and often crept downstairs to sneak snacks, leaving the evidence in her bedsheets in the form of crumbs.

SPENCER ‘DOC’ REID

Spencer seemed to have been born in a tweed vest and reading glasses. He had the demeanour of a tiny businessman, and had bow ties to boot. He was his mother’s little gentleman. She would read to him, and he to her: Dickens, Kant, Dostoevsky. He was prodigious on the piano, and at the maths chalkboard. He had such a beautiful mind crammed into that tiny head of his. That said, it took him eight years to learn to tie his shoelaces. He drew the conclusion at one point that there was a correlation: as his mind expanded, his mother’s faded. But at least there was love.

PENELOPE ‘PENNY’ GARCIA

Penelope was a little performer. She was sassy and confident, and she didn’t walk—she strutted. She had always been hopelessly glued to screens. She would ‘borrow’ her brother’s Gameboy, do ‘important work’ on her father’s boxy office computer, and sit glued to the TV every morning before school, eating Lucky Charms and watching ‘My Little Pony’. She was always sure to do her chores, because if she did, her father would give her a handful of nickels and send her off to the arcade—but he was never best pleased when she came home with a stray cat in her arms begging, “can we keep him!”. When she wasn’t on screens, she was helping her mother bake in the kitchen. She loved the smell of rising cupcakes, and licking the bowl.

Check out my Masterlist for more BAU scenarios

#they were all so damn cute #they are siblings your honor #this would be a cute fanfiction #they would be besties #if they met in childhood #criminal minds #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #spencer reid #penelope garcia #headcanon #bau team

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cocoacat323 · 1 year ago

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Scum Villian Fic Recs

So, I've been reading fanfiction for a long ass time, longer than I've been on Tumblr and have always loved fic recs, and now I realize I can make my own(yay!), so here it is. None of these are explicit or anything, but they are super good.

A Transmigrator and a Time Traveler Walk Into The Bamboo House Summary:

Over a year after Shen Qingqiu's death, Luo Binghe consults his servant's servant, concurrently his disgraced martial uncle, for a way to bring the love of his life back. Shang Qinghua sends him in the direction of a certain time-traveling artifact, which supposedly brings one to the day they first met their soulmate. Odd, though, that the artifact ends up missing the destination by just a few years…

A story in which post-Abyss Luo Binghe relives his disciple days, while juggling his secrets, traumas, and some unexpected revelations about the man he loves on top of that.

Unveiling The Imposter Summary:

While tracking a suspicious fortune-teller, Shen Qingqiu falls unconscious. The fortune-teller extracts a glowing orb from his body, telling Luo Binghe and Liu Qingge that this Shen Qingqiu is an imposter, and they can see for themselves if they don't believe it.

Alternatively, the Demon Lord and Peak Lords watch Scum-Villain's Self-Saving System.

Characters Watch the Series fanfic. Post-Canon.

High Mountain, How I Long Summary: Shen Qingqiu, after enduring his trial, is placed into Luo Binghe’s custody at Huan Hua Palace.

meta madness Summary: Looking at SVSSS through the eyes of the universe left behind when Airplane and Cucumber died. (Note: Not a fic, but a series, but every fic in it is so good so definitely check it out.)

it's only shameless if you had any shame to loose in the first place Summary: They have not told anyone about their marriage, and at Shen Qingqiu's request, they will only do so once the wedding preparations are done. No one will have time to nag!

But in the meantime, Luo Binghe, demonic lord or not, is only an alpha. He must do something to show off his claim or he'll go insane, he really will. He'll qi deviate terribly, see if he won't.

Fortunately, as thin-faced as he is, his Shizun does not care much for proper dynamic etiquette...

love's worth running to Summary: “Shizun,” he purred, darkly calm despite the anger oozing out of his mock-respectful smile. Luo Binghe's grip on Xiu Ya's blade tightened, and he realised with belated horror that his blood was running down the sword and dripping by Shen Qingqiu's feet. His sword had to be held at an upwards angle now, to reach the place where he pierced him back then.

Shen Qingqiu felt sick. There was something wrong in this dream.

“I ask you again. Do you regret it, Shizun?”

Shen Qingqiu can't answer whether he regrets betraying him. Luo Binghe wants his Shizun to understand how he suffered, and drags Shen Qingqiu into his dreamscape of the Endless Abyss that night.

The only problem: Shen Qingqiu isn't waking up.

We Are Not Wise Summary:

When Shen Qingqiu drew Shen Yuan’s soul sword, it felt like being burned from the inside out. The fire wasn’t cruel, but it was still fire—hot and destructive, searing the softest pieces of him.

When Binghe’s fingers touch the hilt, he is ready for pain.

Transmigrated into a version of Proud Immortal Demon Way where cultivators manifest their own souls into spiritual weapons, Shen Yuan finds himself sort of kind of…accidentally blackmailing Shen Qingqiu into taking him on as a disciple before Luo Binghe joins the sect.

That should give Shen Yuan plenty of opportunities to make sure nothing goes wrong for his favorite protagonist, right? RIGHT!?

A story of twists, turns, hope, despair, and soul swords. Written for the Bingqiu Reverse Minibang 2023, illustrated and conceptualized by the incredible Suzu!

The Cultivating Force Summary: In which a Master and a Padawan run into a Shizun and a... Sith?

and judgement is just like a cup that we share Summary: The blob finished rotating into place in a way that wasn’t quite compatible with geometry as Shen Qingqiu understood it, and cleared a throat it didn’t seem to have.

“Greetings,” it said, somehow clearly addressing him in particular more than the room as a whole despite its total lack of features other than blueness and translucency. “I’m here on behalf of the Hyper-Celestial Peace and Order Enforcement Bureau. Crime scene secure, proceeding to interviews. Beginning with Subject One: You are Shen Qingqiu, formerly Shen Yuan, also known as Peerless Cucumber?”

"Proud Immortal Demon... Protection Squad?" Summary:

[ REWRITTEN 2023 ]

in which shen qingqiu, the nation's scum villain, doesn't perish from a qi deviation and instead, after dying tragically in his pathetic, sickly, 20 year-old body because he ate some definitely rotten yogurt he mistook for cream cheese like the absolute knob that he is, shen yuan wakes up to find himself in the body of a child, in the middle of a forest, and with absolutely no clue what world this shitty system had dropped him into. he decides to just go with the flow, one step at a time.

what could possibly go wrong?

(the answer is: everything)

(Shen Yuan Might Die Often but His) Old Habits Die Hard Summary: When Luo Binghe asks about his spiritual veins in the Holy Mausoleum, Shen Yuan's chest feels so funny that a lifetime of being chronically ill and reassuring his loved ones that, actually, he's fine kicks in. It is fine, really, because every problem in Airplane-bro's world can be solved by something that's penciled regularly into Shen Yuan's schedule at least eight times a week now.

Except the cure for Without a Cure doesn't work, and Shen Yuan's unlucky enough that Airplane-bro's plot device for winning over a tsundere via 'walking a mile in each others' bodies' hits him before he can figure out an alternative to telling Binghe that actually his five years of rebuilding Shen Qingqiu's spiritual veins diligently failed to cure him.

Luo Binghe is, of course, less than impressed to discover through personal experience what Shen Yuan, with his pain scale so skewed by years of chronic pain, never did during all his time poisoned: that, actually, having spiritual energy forming blockages and blood stagnating in your body hurts like hell.

Anyway, that's all that I've got for now. I hope that if you do take my recs you enjoy them, and remember to read all of the tags. Have fun reading!

#fic recs #fanfiction #svsss #bingqiu #luo binghe #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #danmei #shang qinghua #mobei jun #moshang #the scum villain's self saving system #the scum villian’s self saving system fic recs #svsss fic #shen jiu

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cillyscribbles · 3 months ago

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initially started a ficlet, drew this to accompany it, then took 3 months to finish said ficlet. joys upon joys! ☺️

When the little ones suggested she get the best of her old dancing wardrobe and throw together the costume of a fortune teller, Cassandra had initially thought it’d be a fun spin on her usual Halloween get-up – which was, admittedly, not much more than buying a sack’s worth of candy and putting on a witch hat whenever the doorbell was rung.

In spite of feeling a little breezy in the cold October evening and swiftly abandoned by her gaggle of sworn companions, she turned out to be quite popular among the neighborhood kids. Few could – or would – resist the show she made of looking mysteriously about an old, overturned glass bowl. She was slow and deliberate in her choice of candy to present to them, and did so with an air of utmost importance, delighting in the way they would accept it as carefully as one might a glass dish.

As the sky darkened and the evening went on, the littler ones began to be drawn back inside, and she had less and less cause for her playful routine. Still, for a while, she remained, exchanging candy with some and thanking others for their compliments of her costume. Finally, once she’d received a couple comments about being too old for this from a few of those sorts of people, she figured she’d fish the last of the candy out of her bag at last and go back inside; evidently, the folks who thought they were too good for playing a little dress-up were beginning their portion of the night.

Just as she tied her bag closed, though, she lifted her head – and just there, on the edge of the pavement as though they’d risen right out of the asphalt in the street, stood two – grown adults, from what she could tell, and watched her point-blank. And as soon as she locked eyes with one of the figures, they smiled identically uneven smiles and made their way to her bench, as though her acknowledgement had been all they’d been waiting for.

As they stepped under the light of the streetlamps, Cassandra found their smiles weren’t the only thing identical about them; in fact, she found it hard to differentiate between the two at all, with only perhaps half an inch of difference in height. They were dark cats, though spotted, with their fur clipped short and rounded at points. Entirely orderly, and, as far as she could see, woefully underdressed for the occasion.

It did not impede the apparent enthusiasm she could read out in their faces. They seemed, for a reason she couldn’t be certain of, delighted.

“Do you seek the future or fortune?” A quiet, fairly low voice came from them – one of them, Cassandra realized, was a queen, and so it took her a further moment to register that she was asking a question.

She cleared her throat – and, half-to prompt them again, asked – “Beg pardon?”

“When you look into the glass, do you watch for the broad strokes of a future?” the queen asked again, and the one next to her imitated the snapping beak of a bird with two fingers.

“Or do you pick at the thread of only a single person’s path?” He was a tom, if she was to go by the voice, but both of them were a proper enigma.

She cleared her throat again – it stung, this time – and fidgeted with the bowl and the bag, trying discreetly to get a better look at them without meeting their still-peering eyes.

“Oh, I’m not sure which way I’m supposed to do it,” she admitted – they seemed odd enough for her to wonder. It would’ve been just her luck to meet a pair of genuine fortune tellers the one day in her life she was out masquerading as one. Sheepishly, she explained – “This is just a costume, I don’t really...”

“There is no wrong way to do it,” the queen interrupted, and glanced with some restrained excitement from Cassandra to the tom, whom Cassandra thought would’ve been strange to assume was anyone other than her brother.

“No such thing as a wrong way,” he seconded – and they sounded alike, too, in an uncanny, complimentary harmony.

Cassandra raised her eyebrows and looked down at the bowl she held on her legs. The bowl, which was indeed only that, did not offer any crystal ball-worthy advice for the situation. She wondered what was behind the question; what was the difference – what did it even mean?

“I suppose I’d focus,” she guessed, carefully, and looked up at them. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

The queen only smiled wider, and, as her brother nodded his head in that strange manner people did where they may have been better off just shaking it, she said, “Oh, no, not at all.”

“On the contrary,” the tom agreed, and Cassandra hummed in what she hoped was polite listening. They certainly took it as such, and the tom gestured with fluidity as strange as the rest of them as he explained: “To crystalize meaningfully the path of a chosen individual is grueling work.”

“You must blow away the fog of uncertainty... and pick out a reflection from the puddles it leaves behind.” The queen was nodding, now, but at least she had something to nod about, Cassandra thought. The queen brushed her hand against the tom’s with some intent and added, thoughtfully – “It is thankless.”

“Agonizing,” the tom said, and they twined their hands together without so much as looking at each other.

Cassandra chuckled – she’d expected most of the things that happened throughout the evening, but this was quickly and unequivocally taking the cake. Still, she looked at them, gazing down at her with smiles brighter than the lamplight, and felt just a little embarrassed at her whip-stitched costume and her faded bowl. “Perhaps I should go with a theme I’m better-versed in, next year.”

“No, no, it wasn’t our aim to heckle you,” the queen said quickly, and glanced at her brother, whose expression had been suddenly tinged by worry at her words.

“We don’t mean to upset. We only so rarely get to discuss this.”

“Few will listen for even the time you have,” she said to Cassandra, who, at her appreciative tone and gentle expression, felt less soothed and moreso a little touched. Suddenly, though, the queen’s expression shifted – she looked as though she had remembered something, and touched the tom’s arm with some insistence. “But we have trapped you.”

“Yes, we will go along, leave you to a lovely evening,” he agreed, covering her hand with his own before they both let go as though coordinated. As she turned, though, he stayed her decisively with a hand against her stomach, and his smile widened at her curious expression; it seemed the first time, to Cassandra, that they were not so eerily in sync. “Would you consider reading my sister’s fortune, beforehand? Since you prefer it.”

Before Cassandra could remind them that she didn’t really prefer anything of the sort, and was indeed woefully inexperienced in the field they seemed so well-versed in, the queen all but gasped in quiet joy and scratched at her own chest with short-trimmed claws.

“I’d be ever so delighted to have it read; when was the last time?” She looked at the tom for confirmation. Cassandra had, without too much surprise, apparently assumed correctly in the two being siblings. “We were nine...”

“We were nine.” The tom smiled at her, very fondly, and here his expression was quickly mirrored again. Cassandra hated to disappoint them, truly, and they seemed quite sweet, but there was not much she could offer them.

“I can make something up, if you like,” she said, a little helplessly, and tapped at the sides of the bowl idly with the tips of her claws. She stopped when the sound made them both scowl, even as they refrained from saying anything about it and fixed more pleasant expressions back onto their faces before she could react. She chuckled to herself, glanced down again; she wasn’t even doing anything yet, and apparently she was already doing it wrong. “Again, I don’t know the technicalities of this.”

To her surprise, the queen nodded eagerly, and took a step closer to the bench – just one small, restless step, followed immediately by her brother. “Yes, that is, of course, a way to do it as well.”

“No false manner of doing it, none,” he assured her, and she wondered if they did any horoscope writing in their free time. Then she felt a little mean about it. “It is through unconscious association.”

“The things your mind sees before the eyes do,” the queen said, a little dreamily, and Cassandra nodded along. No, they had to have been writing horoscopes in their free time. “You don’t have to be clairvoyant.”

Something in her expression made Cassandra feel a little too perceived. She shifted to meet the tom’s eyes instead, only to find there, predictably, exactly the same sharpness to the sensation as he seconded his sister – “Simply observant.”

Everlasting – she hoped thought-reading wasn’t a part of their repertoire. She would’ve been terribly embarrassed if they were to learn from her that they sounded like the folks that wrote horoscopes.

To be fair, clairvoyant or not, bills needed paid.

“All right, well,” she said, finally, and, with one last burst of fiddling with the bowl, she lifted it from her lap and put it on the bench beside herself, looking up at where they stood expectantly. “You could show me how to do it? And then I could try myself.”

They shifted quick, and looked between each other. Cassandra tried not to crack a smile at the clear mortification that passed between them, albeit she wasn’t sure why that was.

The queen turned first, nodding as seriously as though they’d broken some untouchable rule of etiquette. “Ah – that would be most polite.”

“Yes, we overlooked our manners again,” he said, a little as though he was already used to it and so did not overthink it; he urged his sister forward gently, touching at her back. “Tantomile would read your palm.”

Tantomile, Cassandra thought. Before she could think anything else – anything other than That’s a really nice name, or, Wow, I’ve never heard that one before, Tantomile saved them both the embarrassment with the quickness of someone more than used to it – “It is my favourite. Coricopat’s is cards.”

“And dice,” Coricopat added. The name – fit him, she supposed. He looked like a Coricopat. Perhaps because neither of them looked like anyone else. Except each other, Cassandra noted. Naturally.

”And dice,” Tantomile conceded, and gestured lightly to the space beside Cassandra. “If I may sit beside you?”

“Right, yes.” She was moving out of the way before Tantomile had finished her sentence, her smile quirking up sideways as Tantomile lifted her tail to sit down. Cassandra glanced at Coricopat, and, surely enough, found his tail raised carefully as well, even as he stood still. She hummed, “I feel like you’re better suited for this spot anyway.”

”She is,” Coricopat said for her, and, when Tantomile raised her head, they looked wordlessly between themselves for a reason Cassandra could only begin to guess. They broke their gaze together, but Coricopat’s was the first to return to Cassandra, along with his smile. His sister, with no time to waste, took Cassandra by the hand. “But this is the night to play pretend. We can hardly pretend to be that which we truly are.”

”It would be silly,” Tantomile agreed, and, after casting just one exploratory glance at Cassandra’s palm, chuckled herself. Albeit Cassandra would never have known what for, Tantomile did not seem bothered by her confusion. She only idly patted her on the wrist and she glanced up for a moment before focusing on her palm again. “See – you’re a natural, Cassandra.”

She traced gently the lines in Cassandra’s skin, and Coricopat watched closely, and they treated her as carefully as they might a statue of glass. As Cassandra laughed, the wind carried away some of her inhibition – and, among other things, even the quiet, prodding thought that she had never told them her name.

#cats the musical #AUGUST 9TH....#jellicle cats #cassandra cats #tantomile #coricopat #cassamile #???#i very much am thinking lesbian thoughts about them

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lenaffin · 3 months ago

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A more complete introduction of Circe, my Vesper (mc) from Obscura.

I designed her a mask and I’m really happy with the result. I like the default red mask, so I built on it and I think it suits her. I also drew some quick thoughts on the outfits she wears over the course of chapter 1!

For some backstory explanation, Circe used to be a singer, but the stress of the social climb, elitism and perfectionism of the music industry, as well as multiple less than good experiences and backstabbings led her to leave the scene and her home, and found a job as an unassuming fortune teller under the tutelage of a “master seer”. Her trained talents to read peoples’s hearts and intentions have helped her on her job and journey. She’s been away from home for 10 years, and doesn’t plan to go back on stage.

#obscura mc #vespersona #obscura game #obscura oc #obscura vesper #my art #my ocs

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winxanity-ii · 3 months ago

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SCARLET CHAINS, GOLDEN RIDDLES

ship: kurapika x fem!sphinx!reader warnings: non-explicit ( kinda angsty/sad, but it does have a bittersweet romance, so… win?) word count: 5.3k a/n: I know i said i wouldn't do it now, but i couldn't help my self, loloo. also this piece was inspired by a tweet from Kayla Ancrum (@KaylaAncrum), where she wrote about a man who falls in love with a sphinx and solves her riddles daily. I just had to explore that dynamic with Kurapika and a Sphinx reader! Let me know what y'all think! 🖤✨

★·.·´🇭‌🇺‌🇳‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ × 🇭‌🇺‌🇳‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Revenge doesn't always bring peace; sometimes it leaves behind something far more haunting.

Kurapika had fulfilled his mission, dismantling the Phantom Troupe and retrieving the Scarlet Eyes that once belonged to his kin. He should have felt victorious, perhaps even a semblance of peace, but instead, he felt hollow, drifting aimlessly in the vastness of the world.

The weight of his chains was gone, but the burden on his heart remained.

In restless strides, he wandered the lands, searching for something he couldn't quite name—purpose, healing, or perhaps a way to finally let go of the rage that had kept him alive for so long.

The bustling city streets did little to distract him from his turmoil.

Kurapika walked among strangers, his eyes scanning the faces that passed by, not really seeing them. The chatter and noise of life around him felt distant, a muffled echo that never reached his ears.

He just got off the phone with Gon, a short conversation that was filled with concern on Gon's part. Kurapika assured him he was fine, though the words tasted like lies even as they left his mouth.

The city was filled with countless distractions—stalls selling exotic wares, street performers drawing in crowds—but Kurapika moved through it all like a ghost.

It was only when he came across a particular stand filled with unique, almost mythical items that he found himself pausing.

There were trinkets, stones carved with symbols he couldn't recognize, feathers from birds that didn't exist in any book he'd ever read, and even vials of shimmering liquid.

Something about the stand drew him in, perhaps the promise of the unknown, the mystery of it all.

As Kurapika stared at a curious amulet shaped like an eye, a voice broke through the haze of his thoughts. "You look like a young man filled with woes."

Turning, he found an old woman seated just beyond the stand, her eyes rooted intently on him.

She was small, her back slightly hunched, with eyes that seemed to look right through him. Her wrinkled hands rested on a small table, a crystal ball sitting between them.

Her presence was almost otherworldly, and Kurapika couldn’t help but feel as if she had been waiting for him.

"Your heart is heavy," she continued, her voice soft but firm, like the rustling of ancient leaves. "You have found what you sought, but now you are lost. Seeking something else, aren't you?"

Kurapika frowned, his first instinct to brush her off, to walk away. He had no time for fortune tellers or their vague prophecies. But something in her gaze held him in place.

Maybe it was the fact that she was right—he was lost, more lost than he had ever been.

Before he could respond, the old woman reached beneath her table and pulled out a worn piece of parchment. She handed it to him, her eyes never leaving his. "Take this map. It shows places where you might find what you seek. A journey is ahead of you, young man, one that may finally bring you peace."

Kurapika took the map, his fingers brushing against the rough surface. He hesitated, staring down at the faded ink and the strange symbols marking various locations. "What kind of journey?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

The old woman smiled, a mysterious curve of her lips. "One that will lead you to the answers you need, not the ones you want. Follow the map, and you may find more than you ever hoped for."

Kurapika glanced at the map again, the markings seeming to shift under his gaze, almost as if they were alive.

He had nothing left to lose.

With a nod, he folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket, a small spark of something—curiosity, hope—lighting within him.

His travels took him far from the crowded city, into remote villages and forgotten paths.

He heard tales whispered in the dark corners of taverns—rumors of a remote island untouched by time, home to creatures that should have only existed in myths.

The locals spoke of a sphinx—a creature of immense power, wisdom, and mystery. She was said to guard an ancient temple on an isolated island, her riddles a fatal test for any who dared approach.

She could devour the souls of those who failed or offer wisdom to those who succeeded.

It was said that she embodied both mercy and cruelty, bound by the ancient rules of her riddles.

Kurapika's interest was piqued. Perhaps this creature held the answers he sought, or at least the challenge he needed.

Something to pull him out of the hollow void that had settled within him.

The island was not marked on any ordinary map, but the worn parchment he carried seemed to lead him there, the strange symbols aligning with the whispered directions he gathered from those who dared speak of the place.

And so, Kurapika found himself standing on the deck of a small fishing boat, the salty wind tugging at his hair as the island came into view—a shadow against the horizon, shrouded in mist.

He felt a strange pull, a sense that whatever awaited him there might finally give him the closure he needed. He had faced monsters before, both human and otherwise, but something about this journey felt different.

As if, perhaps, it wasn't just about finding answers—but about finding himself.

The island loomed closer, and with it, the promise of riddles, danger, and maybe, just maybe, a way to heal the wounds that revenge had left behind.

Kurapika spent the first few days exploring the island, his feet carrying him along unfamiliar paths, his eyes scanning for clues hidden among the dense forest and crumbling ruins.

He learned the lay of the land—the twisting vines, the rocky cliffs that overlooked the endless ocean, and the small creatures that scurried away at his approach.

The island seemed to breathe, its secrets waiting just beneath the surface, and he was determined to uncover them.

After days of exploring, Kurapika made his way back to the nearby village, his supplies dwindling and his body weary.

It was night by the time he arrived, the village bathed in the soft glow of lanterns, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets.

He found a small tavern at the edge of the village, its warm light spilling out onto the street, the murmur of voices inviting him in.

Kurapika entered, the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread filling the air. He made his way to an empty table in the corner, ordering a simple meal and a drink.

The tavern was lively; villagers and travelers alike gathered to unwind, their laughter and chatter a comforting background to his solitude.

He ate slowly, savoring the warmth of the food, the taste of something other than the dried rations he had carried with him.

As he ate, he noticed a small crowd beginning to gather near the fireplace at the center of the room. The voices quieted, replaced by the expectant hush of an audience waiting for a story.

Kurapika's gaze shifted, his interest piqued as an elderly man stepped forward, his hands worn and his eyes twinkling with mischief. The storyteller cleared his throat, a smile playing on his lips as he began to speak.

"Gather 'round, gather 'round," the old man said, his voice carrying easily through the room. "I have a tale for you tonight, one of mystery, of danger, and of beauty beyond imagination."

Kurapika leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he listened.

The old man spoke of a creature, a sphinx, who guarded a temple deep within the island—a temple known as the Cave of Mysteries. He described the sphinx as both beautiful and terrifying, her eyes holding the weight of ages, her form a paradox of grace and danger.

The crowd leaned in, captivated by the tale, their faces reflecting a mix of awe and fear.

"They say the Cave of Mysteries holds treasures beyond belief," the old man continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that had the crowd hanging on his every word. "Riches enough to buy an empire, secrets that could grant unimaginable power. But the sphinx, ah, she is not easily bested. Many have tried, and all have failed—her riddles are a test of wit and courage, and the price of failure is steep indeed."

The old man finished his tale, the crowd breaking into murmurs, some laughing nervously, others shaking their heads as if dismissing the story as mere legend.

But Kurapika knew better.

He finished his meal, his mind already turning on how to find the temple and to the mysteries that still lay ahead.

The island held more than just danger—it held the promise of something he had never thought he needed.

So, driven by curiosity and the need for a challenge beyond revenge, Kurapika set off to find the temple, unperturbed by the locals' warnings of danger.

And he intended to see it through, whatever the cost.

The whispers of forgotten creatures and the hint of ancient wisdom called to him, a voice that spoke directly to the hollowness he now carried.

His feet followed the clues, ancient symbols etched into rocks and trees, guiding him deeper into the dense forest of the island.

Each step took him further from the familiar and into the unknown—a test he desperately needed.

The journey was arduous, the air thick with the scent of wild vegetation and the distant echo of creatures unseen.

Kurapika's senses were heightened; every sound, every rustle in the underbrush kept him alert.

Anticipation built within him, a sense that something lay ahead—something that might offer answers, or at least a distraction from the gnawing emptiness left by vengeance.

Finally, he stood before it—the temple, a structure both majestic and haunting, half-covered in creeping vines, its stone surface carved with the same symbols that had guided him here.

The temple seemed almost alive, its golden exterior shimmering in the fading sunlight, the intricate carvings depicting stories of ancient gods and creatures long forgotten.

The entrance was framed by towering pillars, their surfaces etched with worn inscriptions, and the air was thick with an aura of both reverence and dread.

The massive doors of the temple were slightly ajar, revealing only darkness within, as if daring anyone to enter.

But at the base of the stairs sat you—the Sphinx; a creature of paradox, you embodied both grace and danger.

Your powerful form rested elegantly, your tail waving languidly in the air, each movement deliberate and filled with quiet confidence.

Your form was powerful, the body of a lioness with muscles rippling beneath golden fur, yet your face held a beauty that was almost human, framed by a mix of a wild mane and intricate braids that shimmered under the fading sunlight.

Your claws were sharp, glinting with an almost metallic sheen, a reminder of the threat you posed to anyone foolish enough to challenge you.

There was an ethereal quality to you, a faint outline of wings that shimmered in the heat, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost unreal, giving you an otherworldly glow.

Your presence exuded power—a quiet intensity that Kurapika could feel even from a distance, a force that seemed to pulse with the very energy of the island.

The power you exuded was palpable, a quiet but overwhelming force that made even the strongest foes Kurapika had faced—the Chimera Ants, the Phantom Troupe—seem almost mundane by comparison.

There was something about you—something far more enigmatic, a blend of wisdom and danger that set you apart.

But it was your eyes that captivated him most.

As those golden orbs landed on him, they shifted, narrowing into sharp, cat-like slits, assessing him with an intensity that made Kurapika's breath hitch.

They were a deep, haunting shade, filled with the weight of centuries, and they seemed to pierce through him, seeing the parts of himself he tried to keep hidden.

In your eyes, he saw a depth of knowledge that surpassed anything he had ever known, and yet there was something else—a loneliness that he understood all too well.

Intrigued and cautious, he stepped forward, his heart steady, his mind sharp.

You watched him approach, your gaze unwavering, your posture regal.

Silence stretched between you, thick with tension and curiosity. You had seen many travelers before him, men who came seeking glory or power, only to fall before your riddles, their bones now part of the island's forgotten past.

But this one was different. He moved with purpose, not arrogance, his eyes holding a quiet determination that piqued your interest.

Your voice broke the silence, echoing through the empty landscape, carrying with it the weight of ages. "Young man, why do you seek me?"

Kurapika paused, considering his words carefully. "I seek answers," he said, his voice steady. "Answers to questions I cannot yet name. I seek something beyond vengeance. Perhaps you can help me find it."

A small smile tugged at your lips—cryptic, almost amused. "Answers come at a cost," you replied. "And only those who prove themselves worthy may proceed."

Without another word, you issued him a riddle, your voice carrying an authority that demanded his attention.

"Boundless am I, beginningless and endless, forever yet never the same. I am the river that flows and the sky that fades; I am possessed by none, yet present in all. What am I?"

The riddle was complex, woven with layers of meaning that had confounded countless before him. You half-expected him to falter, to hesitate as so many others had.

But he didn't.

Kurapika listened, his eyes never leaving yours, his mind dissecting each word, each nuance. His answer came calmly, confidently, his voice unwavering even in the face of your sharp claws and powerful presence. "Time," he said, as though the riddle was a mere puzzle, a challenge he was born to solve.

For the first time in a century, someone answered correctly.

Surprise flickered in your gaze, quickly masked by your stoic demeanor.

You studied him, this young man who had dared to approach you, who had not flinched under your scrutiny. There was something about him—an emptiness, a need that mirrored your own.

You had been bound to this place for so long, your existence woven into the riddle game, your only connection to others through the trials they failed. But this one had succeeded, and by the ancient rules, he had earned a boon.

"What is your request?" you asked, your voice softer now, curious.

Kurapika thought for a moment, his eyes drifting to the temple behind you, then to the sands around your feet. "For my boon, I wish to stay here," he said finally. "To rest beside you, under the stars, and awaken unharmed. Just for a night."

Your breath caught, an unfamiliar feeling tingling down your spine. The request took you by surprise.

It was such a simple one.

Men usually asked for riches, power, or freedom. But to simply… sleep by your side?

Against your better judgment, you found yourself agreeing. Slowly, you nodded, granting him this boon.

"Very well," you said, gesturing to the smooth sand near the temple steps. "You may rest here tonight, beside me. But know this, wanderer—come dawn, the the wheel of fate turns once more and the ritual will begin anew."

Kurapika nodded, a faint smile touching his lips.

As the two of you lay down, he moved closer, settling down on the warm sands beside you, the night sky stretching endlessly above. The stars blinked into existence, one by one, as silence fell over the island once more.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you felt something shift—a connection, fragile yet real, formed between two lost souls seeking solace.

As the night deepened, you watched him, the quiet resolve in his features, the way his eyes softened as he gazed up at the stars.

The silvery light of the stars reflected in his gray eyes, making them seem almost ethereal, as if the heavens themselves had taken refuge within him. A slight, warm breeze rustled through the air, catching in his blonde hair and ruffling it gently, giving him an almost boyish charm.

As he drifted toward sleep, you kept a close watch, noting the softened lines of his face, how the quiet moments seemed to ease the burdens he carried. His breathing slowed, the tension in his shoulders melting away.

There was a peace in the silence between you, a sense that perhaps, in this fleeting moment, neither of you was truly alone.

But you stayed awake, keeping watch, your mind racing with questions. What kind of man asks a creature like you for something so simple, so intimate? Why didn't he fear you, not even a little?

As dawn crept over the horizon, he stirred beside you, stretching slightly before his eyes blinked open, sleepy but clear.

When he saw you watching him, he didn’t startle or flinch. Instead, he smiled—a small, weary smile that tugged at something deep in your chest.

"Thank you," he said, as if he hadn't just put his life in your hands.

You narrowed your eyes, leaning closer. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

He paused, thinking over his answer. "I've met monsters before," he said quietly. "I've even become one, in a way. But I don't see a monster when I look at you."

A flicker of irritation sparked within you, though it was dulled by something softer. "You don't know what I am capable of," you warned, voice low.

He only tilted his head. "Maybe not. But I'd like to find out."

And so was the beginning of something neither of you could yet name—a bond forged in riddles, silence, and the unspoken understanding of what it meant to be lost.

Each day, Kurapika worked tirelessly, studying the clues you left behind, learning the nuances of your mind through each challenge in your riddles, each more complex than the last.

Each evening, as the sun set and bathed the island in a warm, golden glow, he appeared again at the temple, his determination unwavering. His intelligence and wit kept him alive, his answers keeping him just close enough to be spared as he engaged in a battle of wits with you.

And each night, he solved your riddle with a grace and precision that began to feel almost routine.

Sometimes, he even looked�� amused. As if he enjoyed matching wits with you, as if your challenge was something he relished rather than feared.

You were unused to companionship, your existence long defined by solitude and duty. Yet you found yourself anticipating Kurapika's arrival each day.

You began crafting riddles with a new purpose—not simply to guard, but to challenge him in a way that would make him think, to make him understand you. You dug into old tomes, dusted off forgotten phrases, anything to see if you could stump him.

"I am born of light, yet fear its touch. I dance on water, yet drown in its embrace. I am the silent whisper, the unspoken thought. I am the dream, the hope, the despair. What am I?"

"A shadow."

And yet, time and time again, he would answer correctly, and each time, he seemed to edge closer to you—not physically, but in a way that felt far more profound.

Slowly, you allowed him into your world, seeing in him a spirit kindred to your own.

Nights became more intimate, and not simply because he rested beside you. As the stars blinked into existence above, he would sit by your side and speak of his past—of his clan, his grief, the hollow emptiness that followed his revenge.

You listened, silently absorbing each word, drawn to the depth of his pain and the resilience that had brought him here. You saw the weariness in his eyes, the way they sometimes stared at nothing, as if the world held no color for him anymore.

In return, you began to share cryptic stories of ancient times, tales woven with wisdom and longing, fragments of yourself that had remained hidden for centuries.

Your voice, though calm, carried a weight that Kurapika seemed to understand instinctively. He saw through your cold facade, sensing a deep loneliness that mirrored his own.

And so, night after night, the two of you spoke, your conversations shifting from the guarded tension of strangers to the shared musings of two souls seeking meaning.

You spoke of life, of death, of purpose, and in those moments, you realized how much you had missed the simple act of talking, of connecting.

Your dynamic shifted from hostility to mutual respect, and then to something deeper.

The more time he spent with you, the more he began to see you as something beyond a “monster.” He saw you as a being who was as trapped as he was—bound by duty, by the need to protect something, even if it came at the cost of isolation.

The nights spent under the stars became something precious. You both developed a quiet, profound romance—one that transcended physicality, one that was born out of the fragments of yourselves that you shared with each other.

Now, as he rested beside you, he no longer simply lay in the sand, separate from you. Instead, he was practically nestled against your side, his head resting on your flank, his fingers sometimes absently tracing patterns in your fur as if you were a mere cat.

It was a sight that would have been inconceivable to you not long ago—someone finding comfort in your presence, in the warmth of your body. And yet, there was a peace that settled over both of you in those quiet hours, a comfort that neither of you had known in far too long.

Though, despite your growing bond with Kurapika, you were still bound by your nature to defend your territory from outsiders.

When other travelers occasionally arrived, driven by greed or ignorance, they foolishly attempted your riddles. And when they failed—as they always did—you showed no mercy.

You devoured them with the ferocity of a true predator; the golden sands stained a deep crimson with the aftermath of their foolishness, soaking into the sand until the ground seemed to pulse with the memory of their folly.

But instead of recoiling in horror, Kurapika watched silently, his gaze calm and understanding. He never turned away, never judged you for fulfilling your duty.

Instead, he would place a gentle hand on your hide, his touch soothing as you carried out what you must, a silent guardian beside you.

This side of him fascinated you—the way he accepted you, both the monstrous and compassionate facets of your being.

There was a shared acknowledgment between the two of you—an understanding that you were a creature bound by your instincts and duties, and he was unfazed.

To him, you were not simply a monster, but something more, something deserving of compassion and acceptance.

Together, you formed a duo unlike any other—a pair, a bond between a man who understood darkness and a creature who embodied it.

Time passed as if in a dream.

Kurapika came back, night after night, even as the seasons changed. You watched his hair grow lighter, faint threads of silver weaving through the golden strands. His face, once so sharp and intense, softened with age.

The lines that creased his brow told stories of battles fought and challenges faced, but in the quiet moments with you, those lines seemed to ease.

The way he answered your riddles, too, became more thoughtful, less sharp-edged, though he still never faltered. His intelligence remained, tempered now with the wisdom of age rather than the fire of revenge.

One night, after he'd answered another riddle and claimed his boon by your side, you saw him hesitate, his brows furrowing, lips parting as if he was searching for the right words.

His eyes lingered on you, and there was a sadness in them that you’d never seen before. "Do you ever wish… for a different life?" he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned away, not wanting him to see the flicker of longing in your own eyes. "A Sphinx does not wish. A Sphinx exists. That is all," you replied, your voice steady, but there was a tremor beneath the surface, a crack in the armor you had worn for so long.

He didn't respond right away, but you felt his gaze on you, warm and understanding in a way that made your chest ache. "Even monsters can wish for more," he whispered, as if confessing a secret.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with unspoken words and shared pain. You knew that he understood your longing, just as you understood his.

Though you had tried to keep your heart distant, you found yourself more attached with each passing night, each shared breath under the vast expanse of stars.

As the years passed, you noticed his struggle. His occasional lapse in memory, the way he would pause, his brow furrowed as he searched for a name that seemed just out of reach.

The way his body moved slower, the once fluid grace of his steps now tinged with hesitation.

You realized you were growing attached, and in your quiet moments, you wrestled with the strange pull he had over you, your love for him subtly guiding you to keep him close.

The realization was both terrifying and beautiful—a feeling you hadn’t expected to know.

In response, you modified your riddles, the challenges that had once been a fierce contest of intellect slowly transforming into something softer.

You wanted him to succeed, to stay by your side.

You crafted simpler riddles, designed to fit his weakening mind, riddles that spoke more of memory and heart than of cleverness. They took on a painful simplicity: "Do you remember who I am?" and "When is it not sunny out?"

You watched him wrestle with these questions, a tragic yet beautiful contrast to the man he once was.

His eyes, still filled with determination, would meet yours, and he would smile—a gentle, tired smile—as he answered.

You treasured his presence, savoring each answer, each memory shared, knowing that time was slipping away. The silver in his hair grew more prominent, his steps slower, but still, he came to you, night after night, until even the simple act of walking to the temple steps became a laborious task.

One night, as he rested against your side, his head nestled against your golden fur, you lowered your head, nuzzling him softly.

He looked up at you, his gaze tired but content, and whispered, "Thank you... for keeping me." His words were filled with gratitude, a warmth that spread through your chest, and you knew, in that moment, that you would never forget him.

Even as the inevitability of time loomed, you stayed by his side, guarding not only the temple but also the fragile, precious connection you had built.

He was no longer just a challenger, no longer just a man seeking answers—he was Kurapika, the one who had seen you for who you truly were, who had brought warmth and meaning to your existence.

One night, you posed a riddle, your voice as steady as ever: "I know not life, yet I bloom and spread; I am sightless, yet your darkest hour, I shall guide you to light. What am I?"

His answer faltered. His eyes, now clouded with age, stared at you, his once steady voice weak and trembling as he began to speak. "I... I think..." He paused, blinking, his brows furrowing in concentration, trying to grasp the answer that seemed just out of reach.

His body had grown frail, his hands unsteady, and he blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the words that had always come so effortlessly before.

You could see the confusion in his gaze, a flicker of fear that he had never shown before—a fear not of you, but of the inevitable weakness that was overtaking him.

Your heart pounded, an unfamiliar rhythm that resonated with something deep and instinctual, your animalistic side recognizing this as a cue—the beginning of the end.

A pang of sorrow cut through you, sharp and deep, as you sensed the end drawing near.

You hesitated, torn between your duty as a guardian and the emotions that had grown within you, emotions you had never imagined you were capable of.

The silence stretched between you that night, heavy with the weight of what was left unsaid, and you pondered, thinking up a riddle so simple that he could answer it even in his sleep.

Something that would remind him, and perhaps even you, of the bond you had shared.

"What is your name?" you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper, carrying the tenderness of the years you had spent together.

Kurapika blinked, and then his eyes softened, recognition flickering back into their cloudy depths. A faint smile curved his lips, tired and gentle. "Kurapika," he answered, his voice cracking, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the night.

He lay down beside you, his body settling into the warm sands, and as his breathing slowed, he reached out, his hand curling into your golden fur. You felt his fingers tighten slightly, a silent reassurance, and you lowered your head, resting it beside him.

You curled your body around him protectively, your tail wrapping gently over his legs, holding him close as if shielding him from the inevitable. The warmth of your form surrounded him, a final comfort as he drifted into the stillness of sleep.

You stayed with him, your gaze fixed on his face, watching as the life slowly faded from his eyes, his final breath a soft sigh against your skin.

The night seemed to hold its breath, the stars above flickering like distant memories, and when the sun finally began to rise, you held his body close, feeling the weight of solitude return, colder and heavier than ever.

You stayed by his side, the warmth of him slipping away, replaced by the coldness of death.

It was a pain you hadn't known was possible for a creature like you—raw, deep, and unending. And when the sun rose fully above the horizon, bathing the island in its golden light, you knew what you had to do.

In a macabre but loving ritual, you devoured him piece by piece as a way of keeping him close forever. Each bite was filled with sorrow, each fragment of him a reminder of what you had shared.

You would honor him, keep his bones, bleach them under the sun until they were as pale as the sands, and decorate yourself with them.

His ribs became part of your mane, his finger bones woven into the braids of your hair, a token of the only man who ever dared to love the monster.

Days came and went, the seasons changing once again, but you felt the emptiness like a hollow ache, a void that nothing else could fill.

The silence was unbearable, the absence of his presence echoing through the temple, through your very soul.

Beneath the temple's golden arches, you remained, gaze fixed upon the endless horizon. You waited, as you always would, watching for any soul who might bear even a glimmer of the quiet strength and resolve he had shown you.

And even though you knew he would not return, even though you had consumed his body and held his memory within you, a part of you still hoped.

Hoped for the impossible, for a presence that could bring warmth to the cold emptiness left behind.

Because as a wise person once told you, monsters, after all, could still wish.

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battymommastuff · 2 years ago

Text

The Loop [Save it for Later]

Batmom x Batfamily

Prompt: Why is this happening? Why won't it stop?

Masterlist Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

TW: DARK THEMES AND DEATH

It was sitting right there. That object, the cause of all of this. It was right there, but why couldn't they get to it. They could all see if from the corner of their eyes, but something kept them from getting close to it. "We were all touching it the first time. The first loop, we all touched it." Stephanie said as she glanced at it.

It looked like a creepy item you would find in a fortune teller's shop. A hand holding up a crystal ball. It didn't seem too threatening when they took it from the league, but now they wished they hadn't. "What about Constantine? Before we all passed out, he was talking to...it." Jason said then shivered. That voice was bone chilling. It was nothing like they've heard before.

"The only way we will know is if we summon him again." Damian said and went to get the paint that was in the same spot as it was the previous day. As usual, you were oblivious to what was happening in the Batcave.

After they quickly drew the symbol, John wasn't far behind. Instead of his previous attire, he was wearing nothing but his underwear and bunny slippers. "Now what the hell is this? You couldn't wait for me to put on my coat?" John asked as he tapped his foot. Each tap caused the slipper to make a little squeak.

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After briefing John on what's happening, Bruce led him over to the computer where they watched you move around the kitchen for what felt like the millionth time, "So she has no clue at all. She's the only one besides Alfred who is unaware of this loop?" John asked as he tightened the robe that he was given.

"She figured it out the third time, but it didn't help." Bruce said and painfully relived the nightmare of watching his plane explode with his wife inside of it. He didn't think he would ever be able to get over this.

Unlike the Batfamily, John was able to look directly at the object. He knew what it was, and he knew what was real and what wasn't. He's seen this kind of object before. In Hell, "Well what you have here is a demon, mate." He explained, and walked over to the object, "This bastard is trying to kill you by making you relive your most terrible fear. It seems you all share the same fear." He said with a small smirk.

"How is making us witness Ummi's death going to kill us?" Damian asked while crossing his arms. This should have been impossible to believe, but after everything they've been through...it was quite easy to believe.

"That's the fun part, you should all be dead by now. After seeing her get killed the first time, you would have slowly lost your minds and..." John ran his finger across his throat then winced, "Someone else is making you relive this day over and over." John knew it was possibly him doing. He just didn't know how.

"Tell me more about this music box."

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Upstairs, you were humming softly while setting up the dining table. As you set the plate of pancakes down, you let out a soft scream when you saw your hands covered in blood. Then you felt sharp pains in your chest. As if you were being stabbed.

"Ummi?" You turned around quickly thinking Damian was behind you, but you saw nothing but a wall. What the hell was that? You looked back down to your hands and saw nothing. You slowly backed away from the table and hugged yourself. That felt too real. You could feel the wetness of the blood, and how warm it was. You heard Damian's voice as if he was right behind you. He had to have been...

Then a sickening laugh echoed through your head, and you felt your entire body tense up.

"Mrs. Wayne? Are you alright? You are as pale as a ghost." Alfred said as he walked into the dining room to join the family for breakfast. He made his way over to your side, and rested a hand on your back in case you lost your footing, "Would you like me to fetch Master Wayne?" He asked, growing more and more worried for you.

"N-No. I'm fine. I guess all the cooking made me feel a little warm." You said and gave him a small smile. Alfred looked at you unsure, but helped you sit down in your seat at the dining table, "Give me a minute, I'll be alright." You mumbled and let Alfred pour you a glass of water. Alfred wasn't paying attention or he would have seen your head drop for a moment before you sat up...oddly straight.

"I'm going to get Bruce, and the children." You said and stood up. It felt like something was guiding you to the Batcave.

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"My darlings, it's time for breakfast."

John was the first to make eye contact with you, and he could tell something was off. Your posture was too...perfect, and the smile on your face wasn't a normal smile, "No one leaves this cave." He said and held his arms out to stop anyone from getting close to you, "They're not hungry love. Why don't you pack it up for later?" He said, and watched your smile drop.

"It's time for breakfast, they need to eat. You need to leave." You said and stepped closer to the group. John kept himself between you and your family, "Leave John, there's nothing for you here." John chuckled and his hands started to glow softly.

"Why don't you let Mrs. Wayne go, and show us your ugly face? Or are you too afraid? They know what they have to do to stop you. I know I'm the one keeping them in this loop. It must piss you off." John could see your face contort into one of anger.

"They'll never get the chance!" Your body then dropped...and you were dead. No stab wounds, or bullet holes. No signs of heart attack. You were just gone.

"Listen, you have to destroy the crystal. That demon will take her body again, and the next loop, she'll stop you from getting to that ball." John said and made his way over to a table where the music box had suddenly appeared, "Whatever you do, don't let her stop you. Stop this madness." John said as he started winding up the music box. He watched each Batfamily member drop to the ground.

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"Again, you lost them again?"

"This time was intentional. It's pissed."

"Duke, make sure we're ready to handle any medical emergencies."

"On it."

"Once more. Once more..."

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TAGLIST

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