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m-y-fandoms · 4 years ago

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COMMISSION: Joker/Akira/Ren x Reader Part 3

This fic assumes Mishima isn't a confidant, the reader is the Moon arcana instead, keep this in mind.

word count: 6.3k words, SFW

- Admin Myah

Over the next few weeks spent with Akira, or… Joker, as he seemed to be called when the situation demanded, you learned that the world was much more complicated than you ever could’ve dreamed. Sure, you praised yourself for being a little less of a sheep than the idle-brained teenagers of your everyday life who thought of nothing but gossip, status and appearances, but now you felt insignificant, like you’d been asleep all this time until Akira, Ryuji and Ann had placed six symbolic hands upon you, and shaken you to life. Layers upon layers, he explained the subconscious world that lay beneath, which ached to be revealed, only to those who’d open their eyes.

＊

It’d been a rush, your first time in the Metaverse. You’d insisted to Akira, though he protested, that you wanted to see what all of this near-unbelievable nonsense he was explaining was all about. He’d never taken non-Phantom-Thief confidants into the Metaverse, and he was hesitant, silent for a long while before deciding that your help was worth the risk. After all, he’d already told you everything, and they had no way to erase memories… yet.

You remember Akira taking your hand, the skin on skin contact. Up on the school’s rooftop with Ryuji and Ann flanking you, Akira had told you it was a precaution, to make absolutely sure that you transferred into the Metaverse with them and landed in the same place. You had to be touching one of them, for your safety, and he’d eagerly volunteered. With the cat in his bag seeming to smile at you over his shoulder (an occurrence which made you feel like you were going looney already) he tapped an app icon on his phone, some scary red little square, and with that, your body lifted, began to float, or so it seemed. Red completely consumed your vision, red and black ink like those blobs you’d seen the Phantom Thieves appear from when this all began. You gasped, stumbling back a step as if you could escape the all-encompassing wave, and Akira, sensing your trepidation, squeezed your hand slightly.

The rooftop faded, and you felt like a character from a videogame fast-traveling to their destination. Almost as fast as it appeared, the trippy red and black sludge subsided, and before you sat a dark, dreary scenery. A castle, one that obviously belonged to a malevolent ruler sat amongst a purple sky and the smell of despair.

“What the…” your mouth hung agape for a second, taking in your surroundings before letting your eyes trail down to where your hand met Akira’s. Assuming you no longer needed it, you shook him off gently, not even sparing a glance his way, and his eyebrows creased just the smallest amount, not that you noticed. You were too focused on the giant cat before you, knee-height, with a round, bulbous head. “Is… are you-?!”

“Much more handsome and dashing in this form, wouldn’t you say?” Morgana - now confirmed - gave you a sly look as you leaned down to his height to run your hand along the fur on his head.

“Wow… so cute!” You cooed.

“Hey! Stop it! Stop it! I am a warrior and to be taken seriously!” he whined, shooing away your hands, his fur on end.

“Ha!” a sharp laugh rang out behind you, and you turned to see that Morgana wasn’t the only one who’d made a drastic change. Ryuji was now clad in some kind of leather pirate’s uniform, his demeanor far more fearsome and a skull mask across his face. Ann donned a skin-tight body suit and cat mask, and Akira wore a lavish long coat, red gloves, and a masquerade mask. He looked like a magician from some fairytale, or perhaps the leader of some band of Robin-Hood-inspired band of vigilantes… although you supposed that was kind of what he was now… either way, he would make amazing source material for your main protagonist. Such swagger, a commanding presence… he didn’t seem to exactly be the same Akira you’d met earlier.

＊

The trip to the Metaverse was almost completely uneventful… almost. Just once, when you’d begged Akira to press forward and show you the inside of the castle, something called a “shadow” attacked, and you got to see the band of thieves in action. It was shocking, leaving chills running down your spine. Here were your classmates, people your age with ghost-like spirits materializing at their backs, flipping through the castle’s corridors, shooting guns and slingshots and magic at terrifying beasts. It was all so fast-paced, so stunning, that your body locked up witnessing the battle. A shadow spotted you in the background, defenseless and clearly not part of the Phantom Thief entourage, and taking the petty opportunity only a sore-loser on the ropes would take, struck out against you. You shrieked, your hands uselessly coming up to defend your face as if it would help. Akira’s eyes widened, his reflexes so much faster in this realm, and turned on his heel, diving in front of you to deflect the blast of frosty energy swirling toward you. It bounced off of the side of his large steel dagger and ricoheted back at the shadow. After assessing the situation and asking if you were okay, Akira decided it was time to return you back to the real world. It was too dangerous for someone without a persona to wander here. The thieves would return later, once you were safe at home.

＊

Anyway, now you believed him, you knew everything he was saying, about Kamoshida and his fucked up mind, about confidants, personas and metacognition was real and very much a serious matter. Now all that was left was to decide just how you could help them, what kind of deal you could strike with the clever leader of the Phantom Thieves. Of course, he didn’t expect you to get something and give nothing.

It was decided that you’d offer your knowledge as a writer to help with negotiation and charming shadows in the Metaverse. You’d turn those golden lines you wrote on the pages into real-life lessons, and Akira would learn to seduce shadows, to out-smart them, to persuade them to give up everything they had: their money, precious belongings, even their very selves. He would flirt, threaten, intimidate, any honeyed word or silver-tongued method he could use to make deals with shadows go along more smoothly. Perfect. It would help him out immensely. But, what did you want, he’d asked again.

It felt embarrassing, now that you were put on the spot, forced to disclose it, but although those “golden words” translated well into lessons for others, you found that you couldn’t as easily take your own advice. You struggled with human interaction in your real life, especially of the romantic kind. You could write a healthy relationship out on paper, create the ideal love interest from scratch for a story, but stumbled along words like some socially incompetent fool once it came time to apply that knowledge. As much as you hated to admit it, these days even getting true, realistic romantic moments down on paper was a struggle. The well was drying up, writer’s block, as you’d explained it to your online friends. It was near impossible to make something from nothing, and you had nothing. No real romantic experience. You couldn’t help but think this was the route of the problem. Your writing, your precious romance novel would flourish, if only it’s author wasn’t completely clueless.

“Date me…” You mumbled, surprised out how your long moment of pensive introspection had accumulated into this clunky statement.

“What?” Akira let out a breath he’d seemed to be holding the entire time, just watching you think on what method of reciprocity was worth your help. Losing your nerve at the incredulous tone of his voice and the raise of his brows, you shrunk back a bit, ready to defend your words.

“W-wait!” You held a hand out between you. “Not really. I mean…” how to word this…? “Like, fake!” He looked even more confused than before. You released a noise of frustration. “What I mean is, you take me on dates - fake ones - stupid little stuff couples do, for my writing, of course…” You looked toward the ground, suddenly extremely interested in your shoes.

“How does that benefit you in any way?” He smiled, a bit forced, a blush dusting his pale cheeks.

“Well I- I’ve been having writer's block lately. I mean sure, I can give you lines and lessons from my previous works, drabble and things I’ve learned, written down in the past, but I have no fresh material. Stagnation is every writer’s downfall, but I have no experience, I need more to go off of… and then maybe I can even transfer what I discern from our… interactions - er… dates I mean - to you. Does that make sense?” You looked up at him hopefully.

“Uh… no,” Yeah, you knew it didn’t, but that’s all you had for him. His hand shook, much less confident as Akira than Joker, and he shoved it in his pocket.

“It’s hard to explain, I just… that’s my deal. Will you take it?” You clutched your bag a little closer to your body. “We don’t even have to tell anybody. I just want to experience it… going out… with someone…” It sounded a little more pathetic now that you were actually hearing yourself. You both stood in silence, Akira contemplating your words. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you as a person… it was just… complicated…

“Give me a day to think about it,” he spoke quietly, giving you a polite send off before parting ways.

That night, anxiety set in as you rolled around in your bed restlessly.

Did you sound like a creep? Were you being unreasonable? Was this asking too much of him? Does he think you’re crazy? You’ll probably never hear from him again. He’d probably rather find a way in that crazy Metaverse to erase your memories so he can forget the awkward exchange ever happened. Maybe he’ll kick your shadow’s ass one day.

You debated going to school the next day.

＊

Akira’s night, though not as horrendous as yours, was not a peaceful one. Like so many nights, he found himself awoken to the clink of a ball and chain, dressed in striped rags as he stood and walked to the bars of his cell. The twins were waiting, as always, anger in their eyes.

“Look alive, prisoner!” Caroline spoke.

“Our master would have a word with you!” Justine chimed in. Akira looked up, meeting Igor’s large grin.

“You’ve forsaken a bond, Trickster. One must ask, why?” Igor’s hands splayed over a deck on cards on his desk.

“Huh…? What do you mean?” Sleep lingering in his mind, and confused as to why he was here this time, Akira replied.

“I’ve told you, the bonds you strengthen over time and the new bonds you form, they will be what wins this fight. You can only complete your mission, save all that is, through the support your confidants provide, so why have you abandoned this bond?” Igor’s fingers folded together, hands clasped, a show of disappointment. “Now is not the time to not try hard enough.” Was that a hint of frustration in his tone? If so, he didn’t show it.

“...I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Akira rubbed one eye lazily.

“You’re not trying to understand, worm! Wake up!” Caroline’s fist banged down across the bars, startling Akira slightly. He looked to Igor again, who held up a single card between two fingers. On its face sat two wolves, both howling up at a glittering moon.

“The Moon.” Igor stated plainly. “Illusion, fear, anxiety, intuition, uncertainty, complexity, secrets, the unconscious mind. A friend, a possible lover, someone unsure of themselves and others. Creativity, shadowed by doubt. Someone who supports others but not themselves.” As he spoke, images of your face flashed in Akira’s mind. Igor threw the card into the air, catching it upside-down, letting the wolves fall into the moon, swimming in its glow. “Reversed: release of fear, repressed emotion, clarity, misinterpretations overturned. Someone who can fix what was upright. But you’ve passed over the opportunity.” Igor swipes his free hand in front of the card, and it disappears.

Scenes play out in Akira’s head. Confrontation with shadows, confrontations with real people, but these aren’t real… or rather, haven’t happened yet.

He receives clarity.

The Moon has more to offer than lessons on charisma, seduction, trickery, persuasion. His intuition will grow, his ability to perceive things before they happen, the ability to read and understand people, and be understood in return. Other bonds will grow, empathy will grow. More friends, closer friends, a flash of blue hair, white uniform, red hair, headphones, then a tidy uniform, a Shujin uniform, gloves, a beige jacket, and finally bouncy curls and a soft, high pitched voice. With your help, the Phantom Thieves can grow. Bonds will strengthen. Complexity, Igor had said. More than meets the eye. Was there more to you? You weren’t too bad, obviously intelligent… a bit odd, but kind enough, and he did find you cute… but pretending, a fake relationship? How could a fake bond strengthen

The card reappears, as if out of thin air, and Igor points to one upside down wolf.

“Me.” Joker whispers, as if guided by an unseen force. Igor points to the other wolf.

You.

He awakens with a start, nearly knocking Morgana off the bed. He has an answer for you now.

＊

He finds you at school the next day, huddled in the library and not where you’d said you’d meet him. You’d been dreading this, waiting for the rejection, your hand trembling slightly on the book in your hands. He sits across from you, a look of determination on his face. Waiting for him to speak was torture.

“I’ll do it.” He holds out a hand, waiting for you to shake it, seal the deal. A contact has been signed.

＊

Your first date with Akira is clunky, unpracticed, unprecedented of course. He doesn’t know much about what to do, either, so he takes you to Le Blanc for dinner. Some coffee and curry, maybe a soda and some conversation on the side? It couldn’t be too bad, right? That’s what dudes do, he thought, bring their... pretend sweetheart somewhere for dinner, right? Sojiro is teasing, of course, wondering who this new person was, why Akira was holding their hand. He smirks like a dad proud of his boy, and Akira, too embarrassed under Sojiro’s scrutiny now to sit down and serve you curry, rushes you upstairs.

After being dragged by the hand up rickety old stairs, you end up in Akira’s room alone. You look around, taking in his sparse decorations, humble belongings. It then strikes you that you are, in fact, alone. Alone with a boy in his room, for the first time in your life. You didn’t know how you got here, and so fast. Maybe you were in over your head. Maybe you just needed to calm down. This was part of the process, right? Real couples did this, to get to know each other. He beckons you over, gestures for you to sit on his bed with him. You’re hesitant, but Akira isn’t making a big deal out of it, and you’re not really alone, with Morgana right there, so you sit, as far from him as you could be on the surprisingly soft bed. Struggling for words and new to dates himself, Akira decides to treat you first and foremost like his friend. That makes this all easier.

He spends the next hour or so describing Mementos, his mentor Igor, the twins. He wants you to know everything, and it surprises him. His other confidants, save for the actual Phantom Thieves, don’t know anything about the hidden world their bonds are healing. He describes the arcana to you, the tarot, the way his soul resonates with The Fool, Ryuji The Chariot, Ann The Lovers. His doctor friend is Death, Sojiro the Hierophant. Morgana here is the Magician, and proud of it. He explains how he feels a bond with them, as he now does with you. They make him feel like he can do anything. You’re included in that now. You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. How could he say that so casually? It wasn’t like it was a love confession or whatever, but you had trouble seriously telling your online friends you appreciated having them in your lives without adding a joke or meme in there somewhere. Why did he even need your help? He seemed well spoken. You said so, voicing these opinions aloud.

“Huh.. you know, I actually don’t usually talk this much,” he smiled. “Must just be you.” He was only half teasing. You looked away nervously, feeling the need to change the subject.

“S-so, what am I?” You began to stroke Morgana’s fur, and this time he didn’t seem to mind.

“You mean your soul?” He scooted a bit closer.

“Yeah.” It didn’t go unnoticed.

“The Moon.” He replied softly.

He spent the rest of the night explaining the levels of Mementos, and some of the wicked people whose hearts he’s had the displeasure of seeing inside, but the absolute pleasure of changing. You say you aren’t surprised so many people are walking around so hurt inside or eager to hurt others. When the “date” ends - neither of you having even gotten that promised coffee or curry downstairs - you’re touching, sitting shoulder to shoulder looking at the moon outside his window with Morgana on your lap. The room seems a little warmer, a little less humble. Akira mentions with a sheepish grin that it’s getting late, and offers to walk you home.

Rank Up!

＊

You sit in your bed that night, Akira now having returned to Le Blanc, and think about if this will make good writing material or not. You had to have learned something, right? There was something to be gained from every experience… but you can’t help feeling like you’ve warmed up to the thought of Akira a bit more… not too much, however. You smiled to yourself at the thought of The Fool, tricked into dating the Moon, for all it can offer him.

He’d been so awkward at your front door when he dropped you off. You could tell he had no clue what to do. He was frantically looking around. People in movies kissed their date at this point, cheek or lips, depending on how the date went, right? He confessed that he’s one of those people who truly don’t know anything about romance, like you’d mentioned earlier in one of your conversations. You tell him it’s fine, that you didn’t expect anything, that you just met the other day. He thought he was being clear, dropping hints that he might want to peck your cheek, just a quick gesture to kick off your fake relationship, but maybe he wasn’t as slick as he thought. The hints seemed to go over your head. Maybe he really did need help.

＊

Your second date comes in the form of you begging to go back into the Metaverse for some inspiration. He fights you, bringing up the last time a shadow attacked you, but you are persistent. He gives in, taking you to the highest rung of Mementos, where the shadows are weak and he can keep you safe adequately on his own. It is a date, after all, no Phantom Thieves tagging along. Mementos is a bit more frightening than Kamoshida’s Palace, you mention, and he eases your fear, promising to protect you here, always. You take in his Phantom Thief uniform in more detail as you walk the long corridors of the realm of the subconscious and decide he looks quite handsome in it.

You watch him battle a demon that is the personification of lust, a succubus-like creature dripping with temptation and love, or so it thinks. Joker uses all that you’ve taught him so far, which isn’t much, and cons the false idol of love out of their money. It was quite comical yet a bit sad to watch the shadows expression fall from a cocky to a defeated one, but preformative love you’ve decided, is doomed to lose. The irony flies over your head.

From this experience, watching Joker fight with speed and grace, you settle on a genre for your novel. It will be a high-fantasy romance. Joker will inspire your main character, of course, but the love interest… was still undecided. You started drafting her to look like Ann, act like Ann, give off the energy and power Ann does. Ryuji was an option at first as well to inspire the love interest’s personality, but he was a bit too brash. You wanted someone strong, but soft and elegant at the same time. These characters were loosely based on the Phantom Thieves, anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

＊

When you leave the Metaverse, though Akira is a bit exhausted, he takes you to a local casual restaurant to make up for the last time at Le Blanc. There, sitting across the counter from you two is an older gentleman. Yoshida, Akira whispers, is a friend of his, another confidant. The Sun. Yoshida makes small talk, asking politely if you’re with Akira, and you feel your stomach clench. You knew this was fake, the agreement was clear, but hearing it aloud, the awkward ‘we’re just friends’ that was coming made you sweat. It still felt like rejection anyway. When Akira confirms that yes, you are in fact dating, your eyes widen, the coil in your stomach releasing. He smiles, taking your hand. This has to be an act, a show to play up the relationship. He’s just performing his duty, his role, holding up his end of the deal in order to simulate a real relationship and give you worthwhile source material… right?

Either way, you appreciate not being publicly humiliated, and smile back. That night, you write down everything, and what it’s like to not be alone.

Rank Up!

＊

Days pass, Kamoshida coming and going, justice being served, and you spend more and more time with your fake boyfriend. Your parents let him come over, and in your room you let him read some of the old poetry you’ve written, some lame pining drabble from your younger years, and some more recent things you’re proud of. He scours your room, digging up old hobbies and photos. You tell him all about them. He tells you he enjoys learning these things about you. You simply smile. It doesn’t seem to be the reaction he was looking for. Not liking the small frown that adorns his features, you pick the conversation back up, asking if he thinks you’ll ever have a persona. He smiles, maybe someday.

Rank Up!

＊

The Phantom Thieves are gaining fame, only more fodder for your writing. The more you hang out with Akira and his friends, the more real it feels. Your online friends can feel it, too. They sense you changing, talking less of writing and more of Akira. They tease you, of course, but they don’t get it. He’s just a main character… just a muse.

This time, Akira walks home to Le Blanc alone, wondering if he should tell you how he feels. He doesn’t like it, holding up this pretense of a fake relationship, pretending the glances and touches don’t matter. He wants to tell you…

...that he’s slowly falling.

You receive a little gift in the mail the next day. It’s a deck of tarot cards. The return address is blank. You call him to tell him all about it, and end up discussing the pros and cons of each card all night. What a coincidence that you should receive your own deck all of a sudden.

Rank Up!

＊

There are moments where you’re afraid you may be falling, too. There was the time that a blue-haired young man stalked you and your friends through Shibuya, turning corners when you did, always on your trail. When Ryuji finally got fed up and confronted the weirdo, asking why the hell he was following you guys, he’d revealed that his name was Yusuke, a student of a painting master, and that he was simply following inspiration where it lead.

“Your friend there, I was drawn to them,” he points elegantly, like some manga bishounen, past Ryuji and toward you. “I beg of you, allow me to paint your form. Something about your normalcy stands out. What I mean is, there is beauty to be found in not standing out, a silent grace in being so plain.” You could tell Yusuke meant no harm, that he simply may be a bit socially inept with his words, as well, but the way he was talking about you set something in Akira on fire. He stood in front of you, shifting until his body blocked yours from Yusuke’s sight.

“They aren’t plain.” He spoke with a dangerous edge to his tone, and you felt your heartbeat speed up. The hint of jealousy in his voice at Yusuke’s request for you to model for him, and anger at him calling someone he found so fascinating plain was evident.

＊

Yusuke seemed to be in denial in the coming days. Though your little troupe seemed to constantly be bumping into him, offering him sound advice and trying to awaken him to the mire of corruption that was the truth behind his mentor, Ichiryusai Madarame, he refused to see reason. He dove further into his art, but you could tell he was hurting. You used your time with Akira these days to teach him how art, much like film and literature, can reflect false truths and influence people. The deception, corruption and shallowness of the media extended to the art world, as he learned after one or two gallery visits with you.

It was then, in a gallery displaying Yusuke’s work, as you sat in a secluded corner alone discussing ways to take down Madarame, that Akira started to flirt incessantly.

He takes your hand, bringing up romantic tropes in movies he’s seen that seem so forced, one-sided, cliche, uncomfortable. He mentions that he would’ve done better, explains how those scenes would’ve played out if he had any say.

“Is that so?” Your brow raises, amused by how animated this usually quiet boy could be when he was passionate about something.

“Yeah! Of course! What, you don’t see me doing that?” he laughed breathily, going on about how the male lead of some high-school romance film Sojiro rented for him was clumsy, forceful, and didn't give his lover time and space to think about their feelings. “I would’ve treated them much, much better… “ his words trail off, as if lost in thought.

“...Is that so?” You ask again, studying his face and asking yourself how you didn’t notice before how beautiful the hue of his eyes were. You sure as hell were noticing now… steely grey, sharp, deep, purposeful. You’d have to write that down… for research purposes of course. When you pull yourself back to reality, no longer lost in the swirl of his irises, you realize he’s staring at you, and has been for some time.

“Do… can I-” he speaks, throat dry, and scoots himself closer. “May I kiss you…?” His voice is soft, so soft, scared.

“...Yes.” You answer, naturally, impulsively, voice just as soft. When Akira leans forward, and softly presses his apprehensive lips to yours, you feel like you’ve been set on fire. Your mind begins to go crazy, while your body is frozen. It’s not that you didn’t like it, some part of you did. You wanted more, but it felt wrong. This wasn’t real. You didn’t truly like him… right? This kiss was fake, for research purposes… to cure writer’s block…

...right?

You were frozen more from guilt than nerves. Weren’t first kisses supposed to feel like little butterflies in your stomach? Did he think he owed you this? Were you taking advantage of him at this point? Did he feel forced to kiss you to keep up his end of the bargain?

Akira deepened the kiss, a hand on the back of your neck, guiding you, begging you to reciprocate. When you didn’t, lost in your own head, he pulls away, a small frown tugging at his lips.

“W-we… we should head home. I’ll walk you…” he sighs. You both stand, make your way back onto the main street from the museum, and are silent the entire walk home.

You think he’s silent because you’ve forced him to think he needs to kiss you, and now regrets his decision. He thinks you’re silent because he’s just forced a kiss upon you, just like some Chad from a movie who can’t understand boundaries. Neither of you know your silence is for the exact same reasons.

Akira drops you off at home with a quiet ‘goodnight,’ and walks home, clearing his head in the cool night air.

“Stupid… jeez… fuckin’ stupid,” he huffs, repirmanding himself. This wasn’t real. You’d stated that from the beginning. This relationship was to benefit your writing, to help him in the Metaverse, nothing else. Nothing else.

Nothing. Else.

It was his fault he let himself develop real feelings. He has no right to be sad, to blame you, to get upset. You’d stated the terms from the very start…

Maybe he really was The Fool.

Rank Up…?

＊

The next few weeks are awkward.

Both of you think it’s your fault.

You go on dates like usual, but they are strictly business. You get writing material, he gets advice, no touching, and certainly no kissing. Yusuke joins the group. Things are great… friendly… strained, tense. Akira wonders what the hell he’s doing, if this bond is even worth it. Weeks pass. He feels your bond with him growing, but not in the way he wishes. It felt like all of his other confidants: visit, gain, rank up, gain power, learn. He wonders if he can keep this up. His heart aches. He wants to touch you more, but can’t, wants to tell you more, but won’t let himself.

＊

One rainy night, he calls you, like he often does when you can’t meet up in person, and tells you he can’t do this anymore. You lie, and say you agree. The guilt won’t let you tell him the truth, that you want to end the farce, move onto something more real. You can sense your feelings for him growing stronger each day, and it’s not fair to him. Without fighting, without the big “it’s not you it’s me you” you’re used to reading about in books, you tell him you respect his decision, and it’s over. When Akira hangs up, he finds himself a bit angry inside. You didn’t even try to fight for the relationship. There was a tiny little part of him that hoped you felt anything for him, that maybe it meant something to you. He cries that night, for the first time in a long time. They are angry tears, frustrated ones.

＊

In your bed, you find yourself sitting upright, dead inside, unfeeling, empty. You feel like a part of you is gone, but can’t pinpoint why. You don’t even notice the tears sliding down your own cheeks as you sift through the pack of tarot cards that mysteriously came into your life. You find The Moon, and play with it, twisting it between your fingers before sending it flying across the room like a paper dart. Did this mean you couldn’t hang out with the Phantom Thieves anymore? Were you losing your only in-real-life friends and… boyfriend(?) all in the same day?

You sifted through the cards and gently set aside the Emperor, the Lovers, the Chariot. Then your hand drifted over the Fool. You held it out in front of your face. A dancing man looking up at the sky with a jesters cap perched upon his head smiled back at you.

The start of a great journey, freedom from constraints. Each day is an adventure. Courage, anything can happen. There is a need to experience new things, to let yourself experience the love you deserve. Be willing to take risks.

A sad, thoughtful smile crosses your lips. You turn the card upside down.

If you disregard the repercussions of your actions, you are the Fool. You cannot see the position you’ve put yourself in. Is everything what it seems to be?

A breath catches in your throat, a wave of nausea hitting you. You scramble for your phone, and dial a number.

Silence, ringing, silence.

“...Yeah…?” Akira sniffles. He’s been crying???

“I want… can we talk… can I come over?”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not, we came home way earlier than usual. You’re just using that as an excuse.” You were feeling a little braver than usual, the spirit of the Fool within you. You heard him thinking, a sigh that came through as static.

“Yeah… fine, I’ll be waiting.” Relief washed over you.

＊

When you knocked on the door after speed-walking to Le Blanc, Sojiro let you in with a warm smile. He obviously didn’t know about your falling out with Akria, yet.

“He’s upstairs,” he gestured, exhaustion evident in his voice. You rushed past, thanking him with a small bow of your head. Only now was the inevitable fear starting to sink in. Akira heard footsteps creaking on the stairs. Sojiro never came up unannounced, and with that realization, his back stiffened. Morgana picked up your scent, excusing himself, passing you on your way up the stairs. He could take a hint.

He stood immediately, stepping toward you, stopping halfway. You shrunk into yourself, unable to meet his eyes.

“Akira… I wanted to talk…” you muttered.

“You said that… about what?” He was more than a little pissed, but he was always one to hide his temper well.

“Can we sit…?” You gestured to his small sofa. It didn’t feel right to sit on the bed. He hesitated, before shuffling over and sitting next to you. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” Oh, there were so many things, but he wanted to know what you thought was worth apologizing over. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, he dialed back his attitude a tad.

“For… making you enter into the agreement in the first place. Someone’s affections, their love, their touch and body… it’s not something that can be forced. It should never be pretend.” You felt like the biggest hypocrite ever right now. His head shook a bit in disbelief, blinking hard.

“I wasn’t pretending!” His hands flew to his hair, mussing it. “That was the problem.” He sighed heavily.

“What?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“I wasn’t being forced… are you… you must be the most oblivious person I’ve ever met.” He laughed cynically.

“But-”

“Wait, wait, why did you think I ended our” he put air quotes up, “ ‘fake’ relationship.” He needed this clarification, now. For closure, for redemption, to fix things, whatever may come next.

“Because… because I was forcing you to date me! You were uncomfortable?!” You could feel your voice begin to break, tears clawing to escape. You’d never felt so disgusted with yourself as you did right now.

“Are you serious?” He took both of your hands, looking you in the eyes. You nod. “Answer truthfully. Do you have feelings for me? Real ones?” You bit your lip, that feeling of selfish guilt creeping like bile up your throat. You nod again. “This whole time?” Another nod. He releases you, turning away. “Sheesh, maybe I’m the oblivious one here…” he spoke more to himself than to you. You both sat in tense silence, not sure what to do, what to say.

“Akira…”

“It was real to me,” he moved closer, trapping you against the end of the couch.

“Really?” Your heartbeat was going crazy, and he leaned ever so slightly closer, his hand on the back of the couch for support. “I broke up with you because it was hurting me to pretend I didn’t have real feelings for you, and to think you didn’t want me back, not for real. I thought… that you’d always think of me as just some character for your book.”

“No… Akira… had I known you felt this way…” He leaned in further, your noses bumping slightly, clumsily. This time, he felt no discomfort, no hesitation from your side. His heart fluttered in excitement. You could feel his breath on your warm cheeks.

“May I kiss you?” He asked again, a secondary, unspoken question sitting beneath his words.

“Yes.” Your voice was shaky, but you were sure, for once, of what you wanted. His hand went to your back, cradling you into his chest to lay down flat against the couch. With a passion he’d been holding back, he pressed his lips to yours without reservation. You sunk into the warm, plush feeling, tilting your head at a better angle. He kept the kiss soft, shallow, low pressure, looking for you to give him the signal to stop. When your arms reached upward, snaking around his neck and pulling him harder down into you, he groaned softly, barely audible, before passing his tongue over your lips a single time. You parted your lips, allowing him access, and his hand, pale and trembling, came up and found its way under the hem of your shirt, splayed nervously against the smooth skin there.

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2tired2study · 4 years ago

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hi! i’ve recently finished the picture of dorian gray so let’s go over my favorite quotes (in order from the ones that appear in the book first to last)

if they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat

being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose i know

and as for believing things, i can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible

when our eyes met, i felt that i was growing pale. a curious sensation of terror came over me. i knew that i had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if i allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself

he, too, felt that we were destined to know each other

laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is by far the best ending for one

a man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies

i like persons better than principles, and i like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world

every day. i couldn’t be happy if i didn’t see him every day. he is absolutely necessary to me

he is all my art to me now

it is only the intellectually lost who ever argue

and the mind of a thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing

there is no such thing as a good influence, mr gray. all influence is immoral; immoral from the scientific point of view

he becomes an echo of someone else’s music

but the bravest man among us is afraid of himself

nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul

some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires,you will feel it, you will feel it terribly

man is many things, but he is not rational

examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. if a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him

behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic

there was something fascinating in this son of love and death

really! and where do bad americans go to when they die?... they go to america

well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth

all i want now is to look at life. you may come and look at it with me, if you care to

punctuality is the thief of time

it is only the sacred things that are worth touching

when one is in love, one always begins by deceiving ones self, and one always ends by deceiving others

there is always something infinitely mean about other peoples tragedies

how different he was now than the shy frightened boy he had met in basil hallwards studio! his nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way

it is personalities, not principles, that move the age

people are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves

he lives the poetry that he cannot write. the others write the poetry that they dare not realize

human life—that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating

to note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—to observe where they had met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at discord—there was a delight in that! what matter was the cost? one could never pay too high a price for any sensation

with his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. it was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. he was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir ones sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses

the senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade

all that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sun we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy

it often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves

the joy of a caged bird was in her voice

she was free in her prison of passion

i love him because he is like what love himself should be.

he was like a common gardener walking with a rose

he had the dislike of being stared at, which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace

to be in love is to surpass ones self

my wonderful lover, my god of graces

i wish i had, for as sure as there is a god in heaven, if he ever does you any wrong, i shall kill him

whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives

i don’t want to see dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect

we are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices

and unselfish people are colourless. they lack individuality

you are much better than you pretend to be

of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are

he is not like other men. he would never bring misery upon any one. his nature is too fine for that

but i am afraid i cannot claim my theory as my own. it belongs to nature, not to me

no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is

there was a gloom over him

he felt that dorian gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past

any one you love must be marvellous

it is not good for ones morals to see bad acting

there are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing

you taught me what reality really is

you had made me understand what love really is

you are more to me than all art can ever be

there is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love

a faint echo of his love came back to him

we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities

when we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us

i cant bear the idea of my soul being hideous

one can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing

nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner

it is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion

you were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world

of you wish me never to look at your picture again, i am content. i have always you to look at

from the moment i met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. i was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by you

i grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. i wanted to have you all to myself. i was only happy when i was with you

i only knew that i had seen perfection face to face

i grew more and more absorbed in you

you are made to be worshipped

in every pleasure, cruelty has its place

but it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of life that is itself but a moment

out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. we have to resume it where we left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it nat be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance of even joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain

yet, as had been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself

he saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart

art, like nature, has her monsters

is insincerity such a terrible thing? i think not. it is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities

and mind you don’t talk about anything serious. nothing is serious nowadays. at least nothing should be

i am tired of myself tonight. i should like to be someone else

sin is a thing that writes itself across a mans face

you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite

that is the reason why i want you to be fine. you have not been fine

you have a wonderful influence. let it be for good, not for evil

i wonder do i know you? before i could answer that, i should have to see your soul

my god! don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and shameful

so you think it is only god who sees the soul, basil? draw that curtain back, and you will see mine

each of us has heaven and hell in him, basil

you are the one man who is able to save me

don’t speak about those days, dorian—they are dead... the dead linger sometimes

lord henry, i am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked

life is a great disappointment

i like men who have a future and women who have a past

moderation is a fatal thing. enough is as bad as a meal. more than enough is as good as a feast

you always want to know what one has been doing. i always want to forget what i have been doing

his soul, certainly, was sick to death

he was prisoned in thought. memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away

ones days were too brief to take the burden of another’s errors on ones shoulders

it is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things

to define is to limit

to be popular one must be a mediocrity

romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art

i am searching for peace

the appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists

sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself

horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart

how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms

he had a wild adoration for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art

when you and he ceased to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist

if a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart

art has a soul, but that man had not

the soul is a terrible reality

to get back my youth i would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable

but a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play—i tell you, dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend

life has been your art

the books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world it’s own shame

the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. the curves of your lips rewrite history

it was the living death of his own soul that troubled him

as it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painters work, and all that that meant. it would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would be free

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kaitoujokerscans · 3 years ago

Text

The Night the Silver Cape is Set Ablaze CH2

<2> First Advance Notice

In the Sky Joker's living room, Hachi handed Joker an advance notice written on manila paper.

"W-What are we gonna do?" Hachi looked up at Joker with a worried gaze. Hachi, who wore an aqua-colored hood snugly over his head, was a descendant of ninjas. He had met Joker by chance when trying to steal a treasure and had pleaded with him to become his apprentice. He was now Joker's trusty right hand, and not only did he help with his work, he also handled all the household chores.

With Hachi's eyes on him, Joker read the old-fashioned notice.

I humbly inform you that I will be taking the Crimson Crystal you stole tonight. I will arrive post-haste. Be prepared for me.

—Phantom Thief Noir

"How'd this get here?"

"When I went outside to collect the laundry earlier, Hosshi found it stuck to one of the sheets."

"Hosshi!" exclaimed Hosshi next to Hachi.

Hoshi was a small, squishy, orb-shaped, cat-like creature that had been living with Joker and Hachi since they found him at a site of ruins. The shining yellow stars on his cheeks wobbled as he smiled and bounced cutely around Hachi.

"Hmmm..." Joker studied the advance notice. Locating the Sky Joker while it was in the air was a difficult task. After all, given his line of work, he couldn't let his hideout be discovered easily. This person had sent advance notice right to the Sky Joker, and also knew that Joker had just stolen the Crimson Crystal. This "Phantom Thief Noir" was no amateur...

"But I've never heard of anyone who calls themselves 'Phantom Thief Noir'."

"You're right, I haven't heard of them either. Joker-san, did you make an enemy somehow without realizing?"

"Excuse you. I'm upstanding and gentlemanly, nobody's got any ill will against me!"

"Since when! You said before that there are so many people who hate you that you can't keep track of them all." Hachi gave him a dubious look. Kaneari, whom he had just stolen from, wasn't the only one. Shadow and plenty of others were hounding Joker.

"We may not know who Noir is, but shouldn't we come up with some measures against them?"

"Measures? Naaah, too much work," said Joker as he threw himself onto the sofa.

"Joker-san?"

"Ahh, Shadow was there too, so I'm worn out. Hachi, can you make dinner early?"

"Are you sure you can be so lax about this?"

"I mean, there's nothing to do until this Noir guy gets here, yeah?"

"There's plenty that you could do! Like hiding the treasure, setting up some traps, formulating a plan... Kaneari-san does all sorts of things when he gets a notice from you, Joker-san!"

"But despite all that, has Kaneari ever once protected a treasure from me?"

"Eh... well, no, but..."

"See? Ultimately, getting treasure all depends on the skill of the would-be thief. Doesn't matter how much you set up in advance. It's a match where you have to read each other's minds," Joker said, before taking the Crimson Crystal out of his pocket and letting it catch the light. The crystal gleamed as it reflected the light from the ceiling. The globular surface of the crystal diffused and scattered the light like a prism. Joker was captivated by its beauty for a while.

"I get why he wants to steal this... but!" Joker sat up. "He's not getting it easily!"

"Hm, now that's the spirit," came a voice from the dining room suddenly.

"Eh!?" Joker and Hachi turned around in surprise to see a boy sitting on a chair in the dining room. The boy twisted open a glass bottle with a hiss and took a swig of the beverage inside.

"Spade!"

At Joker's exclamation, the boy called Spade turned to face him. "Hi, Joker. Happy to see me again?"

"I'm not happy! Where'd you come in from!?" Joker gnashed his teeth and glared.

Spade was, like Joker, a phantom thief. He wore a violet scarf and snowy white coat. His long azure hair cascaded over it, and a crest of golden hair shone over his forehead. He was a well-groomed, handsome youth.

"Settle down. This Riviera is exquisite when chilled, Dark Eye."

"Yes, Spade-sama." Standing beside Spade was Dark Eye, whose head was wrapped in bandages. They opened a bottle of the beverage as well. Dark Eye was Spade's assistant, who was female under the guise.

The Riviera which Spade was drinking is a popular drink all over the world, and both Joker and Spade loved it. As Joker said, it was the perfect drink to have after a difficult caper.

"But I must say, it's much more soothing at my own home. This place is always so raucous and dusty," Spade said, clearing his throat deliberately.

"If you're gonna complain, then leave!"

"I came here to ask you about Phantom Thief Noir."

"Wha-!?"

"Spade-san, do you know about Phantom Thief Noir?"

Joker and Hachi leaned forward and gaped at Spade.

"Did you get a notice too!?"

"Notice...?" Spade looked puzzled for a moment.

"You didn't receive an advance notice?" Hachi asked.

Spade answered jitteringly, putting the pieces together.

"Y-Yes, right! That was an advance notice. Will you show me the notice that arrived here?" he asked, holding out his hand.

Hachi handed Spade the notice, which Spade examined closely. "Hm... It's the same type of paper as the slip I received. This tells us a lot about this man calling himself Noir."

"It does?" Hachi asked, to which Spade responded ponderously.

"Hm... Noir seems to be much older. He's naturally left-handed, but has corrected himself to be right-handed. He lived in France at some point, and he likes popcorn..." Spade waved the notice and listed out each point.

"Kyo kyo. Impressive, Spade-sama," nodded Dark Eye with admiration.

"Don't make stuff up," Joker said wearily, but Hachi ignored him.

"How do you know that?"

"Simple. When this notice is held up to the light, you can see that it has a watermark written in French. This paper was produced by a maker in France. But that company went under over thirty years ago, so this paper is no longer on the market. Therefore, the fact that he was able to buy this proves he's up there in years. His letters angle upwards, which is a quirk commonly seen in corrected southpaws. And this oil mark has a residual smell of salt and butter, so it must be from popcorn. He must like it considerably if he has it around even when writing an advance notice." Spade rattled off his reasons.

Hachi was wholly amazed. Spade had gleaned so many traits of the sender from just a small piece of paper. "Huh! You're incredible, Spade-san! It's like you're a detective!"

Spade slipped down a little. "Ha ha, you could say that," he laughed. "Deductions aren't exclusive to detectives. Phantom thieves have to be able to deduce, too. Of course, Joker already knew all of this, yes?" he said, bringing Joker back in.

Caught off-guard, Joker went along with what he was saying. "Huh? Y-Y-Yeah, 'course I did! I figured that all out yesterday!"

"The advance notice hadn't arrived yet yesterday."

"Shush!"

Then Spade sighed. "Really now... why did Noir send advance notice to you, of all people?"

"Kyo kyo, it's a mystery..." Dark Eye's shoulders dropped, and so did Spade's.

"Shut up! What did you come here for, anyway!?"

"I just wanted to discuss this man called Phantom Thief Noir with you."

"I've got nothing to discuss with you. I bet you just had your treasure targeted by Noir and started second-guessing yourself, right?"

"S-Say what?"

"Ever since way back when, you've had trouble getting anything done on your own!"

"HUH? I came here out of the goodness of my heart. I knew that instead of speculating on Noir's identity or formulating a decent plan, you'd try to come up with something random on the spot!"

"Oh yeah!? Well that's my style!" Joker argued as he scowled at Spade.

"He's got a point there, Hosshi."

"Hosshi."

Hachi and Hosshi murmured to each other. But the pair weren't done bickering yet.

"Besides, I don't need a plan! A phantom thief's battle starts when he shows up, that's what makes it interesting!"

"And how much trouble do you think your lack of preparedness has caused me!?"

"When did I ever give you trouble!?"

"Plenty of times!"

"Then be specific! What year, month, day, hour, minute, and second!? What planet, country, region, prefecture, city, ward, block, address, and room number!?"

"That childish attitude of yours is the issue!"

"Shut up! If I'm childish, then so are you!"

"I'm more mature than you, at least!"

"Someone who's mature doesn't shout like that!"

"You're the one shouting so loud!"

"I'm what!?"

"Got a problem!?"

Their foreheads were pressed tightly together as they snarled at each other with vehement looks.

"Cut it out!"

"Kyo kyo, please stop!"

Once Hachi and Dark Eye intervened as usual, Joker and Spade finally pulled away from each other and simultaneously looked the other way with a "Hmph!"

"We're leaving, Dark Eye. It seems Joker has no need of my generosity," Spade beckoned to Dark Eye, and he started walking toward the door. Joker jeered from behind him.

"Yeah, go ahead and leave. I don't need your stinking 'generosity'. I don't trust you in the first place!"

"Likewise," he said, turning back around. Joker and Spade glared at each other once more.

"Don't come back!"

"Who would!"

Spade placed a hand on the exterior door. "It was quite a displeasure..." Spade said, and jumped out into the open. Dark Eye hurried after him.

"Bleh! That's what I wanna say!"

After watching Spade's airship, the Twin Thunder Shark, fly away, Hachi turned back around to Joker. Joker was grumbling and taking out his anger on a cushion. His temper was worse than usual this time...

"Joker-san, you went too far."

"Hmph! I went just far enough for him. The way he's always so patronizing and tries to tell me what to do pisses me off." Joker lay back down on the sofa.

Is that the truth? wondered Hachi. Maybe Spade had come to visit Joker because he was worried. The two of them may have been rivals, but they had once lived together under the same roof. Perhaps Spade had wanted to talk to Joker about Noir, as an old friend... If Spade had received an advance notice as well, he was definitely at least a little uneasy. And if he came to consult with Joker, who might have also received a notice, then...

Hachi remembered how Spade had looked a little desolate from behind when exiting. Joker had calmed down a little by now and was lying down with his back turned, sulking. Hachi sighed, when...

Suddenly, lightning flashed outside the window, and a loud tremor shook the Sky Joker...

#kaitou joker #light novel

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agent-cupcake · 4 years ago

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Garreg Mach Café Episode Two: Lucky Seven (Yuri x Reader)

The first thing you learned about him —one of the very few things you knew about him— was that he liked sugar. A lot. You didn’t work the counter most of the time, you just made the drinks. So, you didn’t know who had ordered the heart attack inducing Ruined Sky Strawberry Frappe, only that someone was looking for a cavity. Vanilla bean coffee, three pumps of vanilla syrup, and strawberry puree with ice blended and topped with whipped cream, hazelnut drizzle, strawberry drizzle, and red sprinkles.

The second thing you learned about him was his name. Or, more accurately, his lack thereof. People regularly used dumb names. It didn’t really bug you, there was no shame in entertaining someone who thought making a barista call out a drink for Phun E. Monki was the peak of modern entertainment. Not so surprisingly, you saw a lot of hipster and nerd traffic through the café so references and jokes weren’t at all unheard of. Really, this one wasn’t even that bad. Comparatively.

“Ruined Sky Strawberry Frappe for Arsène Lupin,” you called, turning around.

“That’s mine,” the waiting customer responded. Shockingly, it was not the top-hat wearing gentleman thief who stood at the counter waiting for his drink. Neither was it the dweeb you expected. Your Arsène Lupin —that is, the man standing on the other side of the glistening lacquered wood countertop— certainly wasn’t normal, but not in the way you had initially assumed.

The third thing you learned about him was that he was disarmingly beautiful. He stood casually; his arms crossed with one of his hands resting lightly on his chin as he watched with a half-smile that you would have sworn had a mischievous glint. Waiting to see if the little joke got a reaction, you figured.

Well, who were you to deny him that? Pushing down the instinctual nerves of talking to someone who belonged more in the technicolor light of your two-past-midnight Instagram escapades rather than the academia chic café, you smiled back. “Here you go, Monsieur Lupin.”

That made his lips twitch in amusement, which shouldn’t have been as gratifying as it was. “Thanks,” Arsène said warmly, wrapping his fingers around the cup. It wasn’t like you were intentionally trying to notice, but his fingers were long and thin, the nails neat and manicured. Pretty hands. Attractive hands. You wondered if they were soft, or as strong as they looked, or what they might feel like-

Nope. No. You needed God.

Or Tinder

“I hope you enjoy,” you said, trying to act like you hadn’t just committed some obscene thought crime. He was supposed to leave after that. People got their drinks and either sat down or left. But he didn’t, meeting your eyes with an even gaze. Their violet coloring was striking, drawn out by the purple eyeshadow smoked out over his pale eyelids. The makeup should have been off-putting, you were less than uninterested in the pierced hoard of e-boys that had saturated the modern alternative dating market, but it wasn’t. Not on him, at least.

“This is a cute place,” Arsène said. But he wasn’t looking around the cafe, he was staring directly at you. Which… you weren’t sure if you were to buy into your ego telling you he was flirting or your paranoia that he was laughing at you. “Is it usually this busy?”

Flirting was better, for your sanity’s sake if nothing else, so you smiled, doing a quick check to make sure you weren’t missing any customers. The guy working the register was looking at his phone under the counter.

“You know, you shouldn’t pick such an obvious pseudonym when you’re canvassing a business,” you said playfully. “Charm will only get you so far.”

That made him laugh, his appraising eyes sparkling with amusement as he stabbed a straw past the whipped cream of his drink. “In my experience, charm will get you anywhere.”

“For you, maybe,” you allowed, feeling a little more emboldened by that response. Lowering your voice slightly, you leaned in as if to conspire. “I guess the real question is what you’re stealing, Monsieur Lupin, hearts or jewels?”

“Jewels, usually,” Arsène told you without missing a beat. “I have no need to steal the hearts.” He shrugged one shoulder carelessly, casually. “I collect enough of them as it is.”

A corny, over-confident line like that should have made you laugh. Unfortunately, you kind of believed it. So you raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That goes against the spirit of being a Phantom Thief, doesn’t it?”

“Why, do you want me to steal your heart?” Arsène asked. He didn’t sound serious, exactly, but neither was the question joking enough to keep a flush from crawling up your cheeks.

“Baristas don’t have hearts,” you told him theatrically, rejecting your silly reaction. “It’s a void of caffeine, student debt, and the disappointment of our parents.”

Arsène was about to respond when you heard the door jingle open. You turned, looking over your shoulder at the customers who had stepped up to the register. “It looks like you’re needed,” he said, following your eye line.

“Yeah,” you said, feeling a strange stab of disappointment. Which was dumb. A little bit of banter with a handsome stranger was nice, but it shouldn’t have been anything else.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” Arsène said, smirking in a way that made you think he’d seen your dismayed reaction. “Thanks for the drink.”

He raised the cup like a toast goodbye, and you wished him a good day. It was completely ridiculous, but that quick and strange interaction played on loop in your head for the rest of the day. You went from embarrassed, to amused, to insecure, and back again dozens of times. By the next day, you weren’t sure what to think about it and you hated to think that you were watching for him, but-

Well, you were.

The fourth thing you learned about him was that he had a schedule, a specific time slot that seemed to be allocated to getting an overly sugary drink at your little cafe.

“Noa Fruit and Caramel Macchiato for Mr Pink,” you called, already expecting to see his smile based on the name alone. Not that the preparation did a whole lot in lessening the effects. Today Arsène, or Mr Pink, wore a dark striped button up tucked into black pants. The top buttons were undone, showing off the elegant column of his neck and the framing lines of his collarbones. His skin was so pale, like it had never seen the sun, the color perfectly even and milky.

“That’s mine,” he said. Redundantly. Of course it was his.

To think that you’d done your makeup with more care than usual today was embarrassing, but you were glad for it as you passed the drink to him. “Reservoir Dogs, right?” you asked, forcing yourself to not be flustered.

“Very good,” he said in a voice that was borderline condescending.

“You thought I wouldn’t know? I serve coffee in downtown, knowing Tarantino is practically a job requirement,” you said. Arsène laughed warmly, a sound that was somewhere between amusement and mocking, a sound that invited a mess of fluttery nerves to dance around in your stomach which you covered with a smile. “Mr Pink, though… he’s a long way off from being a gentleman thief.”

“Let’s just say that I’ve fallen from grace,” Arsène said, his smile an odd combination of mirth and mystery. “Lupin is... more of an ideal. Reality is hardly ever so romantic.”

“Cheers to that,” you said wryly.

“Although if I had to emulate one of them, I’d far prefer it to be the gentleman,” he said, dropping a few dollars in your tip jar. Cheeky. “Thanks for the treat.”

“Oh… Yeah,” you said, not even thinking to point out that it was your job. Unless he wasn’t talking about the coffee, which was even more baffling. “Have a nice day.”

After that came a lineup of sugary drink orders under the names of famous thieves. Some references you knew immediately, others you had to google later. And always, always, he just about made your heart stop with that smile.

It was… Maybe a week later? Your Arsène had become something like an expectation. Which was ridiculous. And stupid. But it was true, and he hadn’t been in the day before which affected you far more than you dared admit. Seeing the familiar purple head in the lineup of waiting customers was more relieving than it should have been.

A Vanilla Wyvern Wing Latte for Danny Ocean, this time. Unfortunately, there was a swath of customer’s orders that needed filling so you couldn’t give it to him personally, sliding it across the counter before rushing back to the blender. That kind of disappointed you, especially since you hadn’t seen him the day before, until you realized that he had taken a seat along the bar, writing something in a notebook and sipping on the creamy white latte.

Waiting for you? Pushing down the spark of excitement you felt about that, you finished up the orders. After that, you took a breath, grabbing a rag to at least seem productive as you inched towards him.

“You’re awfully far from Vegas, Mr Ocean,” you said. Although you called him that, you still thought of him as Arsène Lupin. Your Arsène.

He looked up from his notebook, the end of his pen pushed against his lip in a distracting way. They were so pink. And shapely, his top lip curved by a perfectly symmetrical cupids bow that no amount of lip kits could falsify. And… And you were staring. Again. He obviously noticed, what with the way he grinned when you forced your eyes up to his, but he gracefully didn’t point it out.

“Casinos are nothing more than a party trick,” he told you lightly, flipping his pen through his fingers before letting it drop to the paper. “I’ve got my eye on something far more valuable.” His eyes were burning into yours as he spoke.

That was the fifth thing you learned about him. Arsène could make anything sound like a double entendre. You thought of yourself as being somewhat difficult to ruffle, but even the most innocuous of comments from him could make your cheeks warm. It was the tone of his smooth, lovely voice. Always speaking under his breath, or low enough that you found yourself leaning in.

“Jewels, right?” you asked, playing it cool because you refused to fall prey to what you knew was a purposeful attempt to throw you off balance. “I heard there was an exhibit coming to town.”

“I’m not really interested in that sort of thing,” Arsène said with a little wave of his elegant hand. “You know the reprehensible means they use to get them, don’t you? So beautiful... but stained with blood. Not too dissimilar from myself, I suppose.”

That momentarily tripped you up. He sounded so genuine, even with the little quip of a joke. Most people couldn’t pull off saying something so nakedly edgy. Maybe it only worked because he was pretty, and you were a fool. So you just smiled. “You really ought to work on this whole subterfuge thing.”

Arsène’s eyes met yours. So intense. “And how would you recommend I do that?”

“Misdirection,” you told him, refocusing on wiping up the counter to avoid his gaze. “The names are bad enough. You’ve gotta at least pretend to be an upstanding member of society, right?”

“Do you think I’m not?” he asked lightly, his head falling to the side, hand braced against his cheek casually. “And here I thought I was perfectly amicable.”

“Oh,” you said. Did he sound offended? You quickly backtracked. “I didn’t mean to imply that I don’t think you are, it’s just that what you said-”

“I’m kidding,” Arsène said, the slightly concerned expression slipping from his face like an easily discarded mask.

You winced, internally kicking yourself. “Ah, sorry.”

“Don’t worry. That was cute,” Arsène said with that oddly infuriating unreadable grin and shutting his notebook to stand up.

“You’re leaving?” you asked, almost confused that he’d wait only to cut the conversation short.

“Haven’t you realized? I’m a wanted man. As much as I’d love to stay and chat, I’ve got things to do,” he said. “Speaking of that, I hope you didn’t miss me too much yesterday. This project is more difficult than I anticipated.”

“That’s fine, it’s not like I expect you to come by,” you said. You lied.

“No?” Arsène asked. He didn’t believe you, that much was obvious. “Fine, then. I’m not afraid to admit that I missed you. I’ll definitely see you tomorrow, though.”

“Can’t wait,” you said. And, despite the half-sarcastic affect you tried to put on, you meant it.

It only settled after he’d already left what he really had said. Missed you. Not for the first time, you toyed with the idea of giving him your number. Then again, maybe you were misreading the situation. After all, you didn’t even know his name.

Still, true to his word, he came around the same time the next day.

This time, it was a Cinnamon Dust Frappe for Garrett. Arsène, or Garrett, was wearing a sweater today in a nod to the rainy weather. Just like everything else he wore, it was entirely in service of his allure, a dark knit with leather elbow patches. White clips kept a section of his hair out of his face, which was curling at the ends. From the humidity? Or perhaps he usually straightened it?

“It took me a minute,” you admitted as you handed him his drink, “Garrett. That’s Thief, right? I have to be honest; you don’t really strike me as the gamer type.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he responded. After a moment, he added, “I haven’t got much time for games these days, but I have some fond memories from when I was a kid.”

“Probably why you’re a criminal,” you said.

If you weren’t mistaken, his eyes widened for a fraction of a second in something like surprise before that was composed into something else, his laughter driving it away. “You might be on to something with that. Video games do make kids violent, after all.”

“So, tomorrow, will it be Ezio? Or Corvo… He’s got a bit of thievery under his belt.”

Arsène scoffed. “I’d never do the same trick twice.”

That made you smile. “I look forward to it.”

After he left, you realized that you’d learned the sixth thing about him. It was such a small and mundane detail, but there was something charming and oddly intimate to imagine Arsène as a kid playing video games.

The next day, you were working register while helping to train the newbie in making drinks. It was cold. Slushy snow half-heartedly sprinkled down outside, and the heater was desperately trying, and failing, to keep the cafe warm. The repairman wouldn’t come until the following morning. All in all, your mood was rather poor.

Until the door opened and a familiar face stepped up to the counter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you up here,” Arsène said.

“Desperate times,” you said with a shrug. He smiled at that, looking up at the menu contemplatively.

“I’ll have…” he said, “a Mockingbird Mocha Hot Chocolate. Medium.”

“And who might you be today?” you asked professionally, the Sharpie point poised over the side of the cardboard hot drinks cup.

“Prometheus,” he said without hesitation.

You blinked, caught off guard for a second as you tried to figure out the reference. That was… clever. The original thief. You couldn’t help but shake your head in amusement as you scribbled that on the side of the cup. The newbie already knew how to make the drink, leaving you with nothing to do. The cafe was quiet today, a rarity. It was the poor weather. People dropped in to get hot drinks, but you didn’t blame them for not sticking around. Arsène was dressed for the cold, wearing a white cape coat that was either incredibly trendy or strangely fringe. Of course, it worked perfectly on him. He looked ready to hop into a new age fashion catalog for outerwear.

“From gentleman thief to a gangster to god… Moving up in the world, are we?” you asked to fill the silence.

“On the contrary,” Arsène told you “There’s no power in being a god nobody believes in.”

“I’d definitely believe in you if you could warm it up in here,” you told him. “I’ve been freezing all day.”

“I’m sure I could think of a few ways to warm you up,” Arsène said, smirking, his eyes dancing with mischievous amusement. “After all, I’m the one who stole the first flame.”

A shaky exhale left your mouth, becoming something like an awkward laugh because he definitely had you going for a second and you knew it was on purpose but still. “That’s what you meant. Right.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What did you think I was talking about?”

“Here you go,” the newbie said with absolutely perfect timing, handing Arsène his drink. At least your blush was keeping you warm.

“Thank you,” Arsène said, meeting her eyes. You were pretty sure you saw her swoon, which made sense. That was the most practical response to him, after all. He looked back to you. “Try to keep warm, I’d hate for you to be calling in sick.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said. He grinned, wishing the both of you a good day. And you did warm up. By thinking of all the ways he could keep you warm. At this point, even God Himself probably couldn’t do much about your sinful thoughts.

The next day was another cold one, meaning that it was slow. Because of that, your boss had decided that only one person was needed, and you didn’t mind if that was you. Paid hours were always welcome. More than that, and you hated yourself for it, you hoped to see your Arsène. You’d been scrolling on your phone under the register when the door opened. Winter rushed in like it had been chomping at the bit for the chance, called forth with the jingling of bells. Arsène had arrived right on time, wearing that white cloak coat and tall white heeled boots. Snowflakes shined in his hair, quick to melt in the warmth of the repaired heater. By now, you should have been immune. But you weren’t.

“Alone today?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Eerie, isn’t it?” you replied, gesturing to the empty cafe. “Not that I mind, now that the heater is fixed… What will you be having today?”

“A medium Caramel Leclair Latte,” he said.

“And your name…?”

“Yuri,” he said, which you scribbled onto the cardboard.

“All right… Just gimme a second,” you said. The drink was oddly tame for him, and a lot easier to make. You were pretty sure you could whip up a latte in your sleep. He waited without saying anything, but you could feel him watching. The music was too quiet to be a distraction and you were incredibly aware that it was just the two of you which was stupid because the counter practically put you in a different realm of reality, but-

You forced your thoughts to focus on something else, considering the name he’d given you. It was oddly unassuming, at least by the standards of other names he’d given you. You couldn’t recognize it as anything in particular, either. It was Russian. Or Japanese. It being the name of a Russian thief probably made the most sense contextually, but you were drawing a blank as to the specific reference.

“I can’t figure it out,” you admitted when you finished the drink and set it on the counter between you, “who are you impersonating today?”

Arsène blinked, a second of confusion passing before his lips quirked up just a bit. “Myself, actually. I figured it was time to give you my name. You can call me Yuri. Yuri Leclerc, to be precise.”

That was the seventh thing you learned about him. Your stomach clenched. Out of nerves or excitement or happiness, you couldn’t tell. You smiled, feeling something giddy fuzz in your head. “Well... It... It’s good to meet you, Yuri Leclerc.” Yes, you liked that name. It was better than all the others, even better than Arsène.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Yuri replied smoothly.

“So… Is there a reason for this momentous revelation?” you asked.

Some of the mirth drained from his eyes as he slid two of the little coffee straws into the lid. “I’m leaving town.”

The disappointment that struck you was beyond silly, it wasn’t like you had any claim to him. You’d only just learned his name for God’s sake. “Did the police finally catch up with you?” you asked with a smile, trying to be playful.

“Not yet,” Yuri said. “I prefer to leave before they catch wise.”

“I can never tell if you’re joking or not,” you told him, shaking your head. Sure, he was smiling, but, well, he smiled a lot. It was always unreadable. Amusement at something. Life itself, maybe.

“For your own sake,” Yuri said, his eyes fixing on yours, “you should always assume I am.”

Because that really cleared it up. You decided not to worry about it too much. “But you are leaving, that’s not pretend?”

“Yeah.”

Your heart sank all over again. Stupid, stupid. At least you finally knew his name.

That made for seven things you knew about him. That was enough, wasn’t it? Lucky sevens and all that? Without thinking too hard about it, you grabbed one of the embossed café cards and a pen, scribbling your name and phone number on the back. “If you’re ever back in town or whatever, this is me,” you told him, handing it over. “Or I dunno, I get vacation time. Maybe it’d be fun to take a trip to Almyra or Albinea or wherever gentleman thieves go until the heat dies down.”

Yuri looked at the card for a long moment before tucking it into his wallet, smiling. You felt like you could read this smile, it was warm and friendly. More real than his others, the emotion catching in his eyes, too. “I wonder, do you mean that?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I might.”

“Then I do,” you said with a shrug, like it was easy as that and unsure exactly how much of what you said was strictly playful. It didn’t really matter because it made Yuri smile all over again and the look was fond enough to make your heart seize.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “Until then, do you by any chance watch the news?”

“The news?” you asked, confused by the shift in topic. “Not if I can help it.”

“Well, you should, at least for a few days.”

“Am I gonna turn it on and see your mugshot slapped all over some headline about a bank robbery or something?” you asked, mostly joking. Mostly.

“What would have ever given you the impression that I’d do something like that?” he asked, feigning a tone of offense.

“Steal something?” you asked.

“Get caught,” he corrected.

You laughed, thinking of something clever to respond with. Unfortunately, the door opened to admit a trio of bundled up students, killing the moment before you spoke.

“That’s my cue,” Yuri said, picking up his coffee. “Don’t miss me too much until we meet again, yeah?”

“Only as long as you promise not to forget me,” you told him.

“It’s a deal, then.”

“Goodbye, Yuri.”

“Goodbye,” he echoed, his eyes meeting yours and voice gentle. Intimate, almost. Then he was gone, a flash of violet and white disappearing into the winter cold.

It was silly, but you kept an eye on the news like he told you, curious to know if anything would come of it or if you’d just fallen for a cute guy’s ruse. But, no, something did happen. A huge theft. The jewel exhibit that had been about to roll out downtown had been robbed. Such a feat was meant to be impossible, there was seemingly no way it could have been done. But it had and there were no suspects, no public leads. And, not surprisingly, no mugshots.

#fire emblem three houses #fe3h #yuri leclerc #yuris leclair #fe yuri #yuri leclerc x reader #yuris leclair x reader #fe yuri x reader #YOU'VE BEEN HIT BY #YOU'VE BEEN STRUCK BY #ive had this idea in my head for so long #admittedly i'm not sure it turned out the way i wanted but i can't tell why #iS thIs a pERsoNa rEFeRenCe? yes

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lordoftermites · 4 years ago

Text

The Fox & the Thornbush | Part 3

Pairing: Roiben x Kaye Rating: M for violence and bleedy bits Summary: This is it. The Undersea Attack. Maybe eventually I'll go back and do more with it but. This took... a lot to write and honestly I can't even write a summary for it. I'm sorry in advance.

part 1. // part 2.

Faerie is a deadly place, he had told her once.

Kaye hadn’t believed him then—or, more despairingly, she had believed him, and was just far too willful to listen.

Even after the coronation in Elfhame, when Balekin had slaughtered near to every member of the royal family in a coup to usurp the throne, Kaye had persisted. She left her coffee shop, her dreams, abandoned her life in the light of the mortal world to live with him in the damp darkness of the Palace of Termites.

For her sake, Roiben had tried to convince himself that it would be a good change. That it was true—he had grown weary of having to steal away like some thief in the night to see her so sparingly, only to come back to a cold bed under a cold hill, alone.

After a while he began to believe that, perhaps, now that Kaye was at his side, within his reach at all times, that the frigid ache in his chest would abate—that he could finally be content.

Perhaps faeries couldn’t speak a lie with their own mouths, but Roiben had been telling himself untruths for longer than he could remember.

Kaye rolls over onto her side, burrowing farther beneath the coverlet. Her wild hair splays in lush, green tangles over the pillow. She sleeps soundly, verdant lips parted, once in a while letting out a small sigh here or near-inaudible word there. Roiben watches her from his place on the bed—their bed, he reminds himself—as though if he were to look away, she might very well disappear with one of those sighs.

He’s been awake for hours now, ripped from yet another nightmare, his chest heaving, his stomach threatening to upend the acrid bile in the back of his throat, while morbid death stares burned behind his eyes. They were the spectres of his sins, reminding him the blood on his hands has not, and shall not, wash away.

At least, this time, there had been no screaming.

A lock of deep green hair lies across Kaye’s face. It flutters slightly when she exhales, only to fall back against her lips. Her nose crinkles in her sleep, disturbed and perhaps dreaming of something else. Roiben reaches to brush it away but stops himself short, his fingers hovering mid-air. He ought to let her just sleep, he knows.

Yet, before he can convince himself not to, he’s leaning down, brushing the hair back with his mouth instead.

Kaye stirs and makes a light, disgruntled noise, until she seems to realize what’s happening. Then she’s lazily kissing him back, pressing her lips against his, parting just enough for him to sweep her mouth. One of her hands comes up to rest on the nape of his neck, her long fingers tangling in the hair there. Roiben sighs against her lips at the feeling; it’s light and comforting, warming that chill in his bones she alone has ever been able touch.

As often as he scorns himself for giving in to her decision to stay here permanently with him in Faerie, it’s selfish moments like this that he wouldn’t have her anywhere else. He can face the demons waiting in his nightmares—so long as she’s with him.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Kaye says drowsily, black eyes fluttering up to his, lidded with sleep and something else. Roiben hovers over her, grinning. “What was that for? I mean, not that I mind or anything.”

He shakes his head, still unused to the lightness of his newly-cropped hair. “A compulsion, I suppose,” he answers, and lowers himself again to bury his face in the crook of her neck, breathing deep the scents of moss and clover. He can’t quite bring himself to admit aloud that it was more to solidify her presence—to give himself physical reassurance that she isn’t part of a cruel trick his mind so often played on him.

Kaye strokes the back of his head gently, as if she already knows, as if perhaps she too needs the reminder that neither of them are made of phantoms and longing. Roiben kisses the column of her green neck, an arm curling under her, pulling her closer and yet still not close enough. She tilts her head with a soft hum of encouragement. “Whatever it is, I could get used to waking up like this.”

Her hands slide over his shoulders, down his bare arms, along his spine. Roiben shivers and shifts his weight, caging her body beneath him. His mouth drifts along the line of her clavicle to the base of her throat. One of his hands slips under the coverlet to the silklike flesh of her thigh, drawing it up to bracket his hip, while his lips brush against the flushed swell of her chest. Kaye’s hushed sighs as he arches against her spark a flame behind his navel, galvanizing him into urgent desire.

What he wouldn’t do to just simply stay here with her forever, to revel in her touch, her warmth, her love. Let the crowns decay. Let the duties and the demands and the courts crumble to nothing; let him be only a knight and a man again, to be content. Unburdened.

As if the fates decided he needed reminding of his reality, a light rapping at the door to his chambers breaks through their intimate solace.

Roiben ignores it at first, tells himself whatever it is will go away. Surely a herald, one of his knights, or even his chamberlain can handle it—not every small thing ought to be a king's concern, especially not when his council members are already far more inclined to do his duty for him. He doesn't cease his kisses, and instead channels into them the denial of obligations and the desires of his soul. His fingers grip Kaye's thigh tighter in desperation, attempting to tether himself to her and this moment alone. Leave us, his mind pleads. Find another doorway to darken.

But the knocking comes again, this time carrying a touch more confidence and urgency.

Suddenly furious, unfulfilled, and ultimately defeated, Roiben growls against Kaye's skin before pushing himself up. She watches him with heady eyes, seeming just as exasperated at the interruption as he. Her hand lingers on his arm. "Just tell them to fuck off," she suggests, though it's half-hearted. She knows as well as he does that it's very seldom anything he can simply wave or wish away.

"If we're fortunate," he sighs, bending down to give her one last kiss and then forcing himself to rise from the bed, "it will be nothing but our breakfast.” In a moment, he’s crossed the room and wrenched the heavy door open. Ruddles himself is there, hand raised as though he had just been about to give another, less-timid knock; he lowers the hand, and himself before Roiben, bowing low enough that his nose might brush the floor if given another half inch.

“My King,” the hob greets in his usual rasp before straightening. He seems to realize his king’s half-naked appearance and forced even breathing, but carries on. “I apologize for the disturbance at such an early hour, but I assumed you would want to be informed we’ve had a messenger come and go without our receiving him.”

Propping an arm against the door, Roiben barely suppresses a roll of his eyes. “It is not an uncommon thing for a courier to go missed.“ He knows his tone is clipped, but he doesn’t bother to correct it. “Why does this time require my chamberlain coming to my private rooms, when clearly whatever message left was not of enough import to be received in the first place?”

That seems to bristle the hob, who takes a rather deliberate, offended breath through his sharply-pointed nose. “Because, the message was left while the entire hill slept,” Ruddles answers gruffly. His brows are furrowed as if there really is something to be worried about, and his sovereign is, as usual, too unconcerned. “No one saw the messenger arrive, nor did they witness his departure.”

It’s Roiben’s turn to frown. That couldn’t be right: since the rebuilding of the Palace of Termites, they had sentries posted through dawn and dusk, and as many guards patrolling the hill. Surely someone ought to have seen this phantom envoy. Foreboding gnaws at his gut; he doesn’t like mystery, and he likes even less when that mystery involves his playing the part of the ignorant fool.

“What was this message? Did you bring it with you?”

Ruddles shakes his tawny head and wrings his hands. “It was a parcel, a large one, addressed to the Lord of the Court of Termites. We left it where it was found—” he pauses, the troubled expression on his face doing nothing to quell the rising uneasiness Roiben feels—”in the throne room… more pointedly, on your throne.”

A deliberate act, and a bold one. The thought of it sets Roiben’s teeth on edge. “I see,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, deliberating.

From behind him, Kaye yawns. Roiben turns back to look at her, where she’s stretching and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, green hair falling over her shoulders. Just the sight of her, wrapped in his spider silk coverlet and little else, makes him ache with longing. It takes everything he can muster not to bolt the door in Ruddles' face.

She squints at him, as if attempting to focus her vision or read his thoughts, tilts her head in a question. Roiben tries a casual smile and holds up a finger, before turning back to his chamberlain. “Gather Dulcamara and Ellebere,” he instructs. “See if either of them know anything. I’ll meet the three of you in the throne room presently, and we’ll see just exactly what gift our shadow messenger has left us.”

The hob gives a shallow bow and backs away before turning on his heel and setting back off through the corridor. When Roiben closes the heavy wooden door, he leans against it momentarily, breathing a long sigh that does nothing to relieve any of the pressure in his chest.

How exhausted he is of intrigues and suspicions, of forging treaties that seem as stable as a thread stretched above a candle flame. Roiben himself feels like that thread—fraying at both ends while trying to hold his kingdom between his teeth, at any moment about to burn up with the burden of it all.

Take this from me, he had once thought, after his coronation as the Unseelie ruler. I do not want to be your king.

Now, he had two crowns, each heavy as a boulder on their own. Together, they are a mountain, and may very well crush him beneath their weight.

“What was that about?” Kaye’s voice calls from the bed. Roiben moves from the door and crosses the room to sit beside her. When he goes to kiss her cheek, he takes a selfish moment to breathe in the smell of her again, something to take with him. “I’m not entirely sure,” he replies, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I expect nothing but trouble, as usual. But I won’t be gone a moment—” he leans in again, grazing his lips against her neck with a promise—”and when I return, we can forget them all again.”

Before he can lose himself, Roiben pushes off of the bed. He pulls on a fresh set of clothing—a simple black tunic with trousers to match, and a pair of boots. From the chair beside his bed, he takes up his curved sword and straps it to his waist. Its weight is one he is used to, cold and secure at his hip.

With an apologetic glance back at Kaye, who shoos him with a small wave before shuffling back under the coverlet, he slips through the door.

Dulcamara is perched on the dais when he arrives in the throne room, clad in her beetle-black armor, polishing a dagger while her pink glare remains fixed on the throne. She stands when Roiben enters, however, and gives him a small bow of her head; as reverent a gesture as he likes, if he must be revered at all. “The hob is off searching for Ellebere,” she tells him in her gravel-scraping voice. “Must we wait for our curiosities to be sated?” Her head bobs in the direction of the throne.

As proficient a knight as Dulcamara is, her impatience often wills out, even when it comes to the one she serves.

Roiben shakes his head with a snort. “I suppose it isn’t a requirement,” he admits, stepping up onto the dais. “Though I doubt Ruddles will be much pleased when we solve the mystery without him.” Even so, eyeing the parcel, Roiben finds himself every bit as curious as he is wary.

As Ruddles said, what’s been placed on his throne is no small thing: it covers nearly half the seat itself, dome-shaped and wrapped in a cloth of deep blue velvet, tied together at the top with golden string. It certainly looks like a gift. Yet, as Roiben reaches out to take the small slip of folded parchment resting beside it, his title addressed in a dark blue flourish across the front, an icy dread seeps into his bones. When he opens the letter, he has to clutch the arm of the throne as the dais pitches up to meet him.

From behind him, Dulcamara’s voice seems distant, distorted. “What does it say?” Without turning, Roiben holds the note out to her, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow—or tear his gaze from the parcel. His hand trembles as he reaches to undo the string, to look upon what he already knows lies inside the elaborate wrapping.

“‘Let us see how easily you unwind the wire of your own cage’,” Dulcamara reads. “What sort of riddle—”

“It is no riddle.” He's clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. His hand goes to grip the blade at his hip. “It is a threat.”

Unwrapped and glinting in the candlelight, just as he remembers, is the gilded birdcage that once held his friend and subject, Lutie-Loo—the very one he freed her from in Balekin’s office less than a year ago. Roiben had made a fool of the would-be king then, promising fealty when he’d already sworn to Prince Dain. Now it would seem his trickery is finally being repaid.

“Dulcamara,” Roiben starts, whirling around, “we need—”

An eruption of sound outside the throne room cuts off whatever order might have given. Before either of them have time to move, Ellebere barrels into the hall, sword in one hand, the other covering his side. Blood and dirt streak his pale face, only adding to the intensity of his frantic expression. “The Undersea,” the knight stammers, “they’re here. They’ve been here.”

Ruddles’ words echo dully in Roiben’s mind. No one saw the messenger arrive, nor did anyone witness his departure.

As Ellebere clambers up onto the dais, Roiben is reminded with a turning in his stomach of the last time he saw the knight in such a state, when Silarial made her move on the court. They had nearly been destroyed because of his underestimating and overconfidence. Has he once again brought ruin to his people? To…

“Kaye.”

The brugh swirls around him. His breath is trapped in his lungs.

As a swarm of bodies pours into the hall, the sharp clashing of metal against metal resounding through the hollow hill, Roiben can see none of it; only Kaye’s face, bloodied and lifeless.

Dead, because of him.

Something solid shoves into him, nearly knocking him to the ground before his legs catch him. Jolted back to the present, he jerks his head up just as Dulcamara brings her blade down in an arc across the front of an advancing selkie; the faerie crumples at her feet, black blood spilling onto the already gore-stained floor of the dais. It had gotten that close, and Roiben hadn’t even seen it. Dulcamara whips around to look at him, pink glare ablaze. Before she can scold him, he shakes his head and grips the sword he can’t remember drawing.

“I have to get to Kaye,” he shouts above the skirmish, already retreating down the other side of the dais, cutting through another Undersea soldier as it hurtles toward him. He is already charging down the hall before she can protest or follow, fear propelling his steps and his blade.

The battle seems to be more focused on the throne room, thankfully; Roiben is stalled only once, by a selkie warrior wielding a longsword of shark bone. Though he takes a slash to the thigh, the other faerie is not nearly as fortunate. He falls to his knees, clutching the gaping hole in his chest when Roiben withdraws his blade.

Biting through the searing pain in his leg, Roiben pushes on, repeating silent pleas that he not be too late.

As he comes to the door of his chambers, a fresh wave of glacial panic seizes him; the door has been thrown wide open and is hanging from the hinges. From the other side he can hear crashing, breaking. A struggle, and then a scream.

Kaye is screaming.

Roiben never feels himself move. He sees nothing but the flash of his sword, slicing through the gray-blue neck of an Undersea knight; hears nothing but his own cry of wild rage, his own deafening heartbeat in his ears. In less than breath, both Kaye and her attacker lie on the floor in a pool of mingling black and crimson.

It has happened, yet Roiben cannot shake the fog of unreality that strangles his breathing, weakens his legs, clouds his vision. His sword falls from his hand, and he collapses to his knees beside Kaye. He stares down in horror at the deep red gash from her throat to her sternum. Someone is sobbing. Blood streams from the wound—too much. There is too much blood.

He pulls her into his lap, holds her gently, covers what he can with a trembling hand. Dark, ruby warmth spills through his fingers and over his wrist. “Kaye,” he chokes, reaching to touch her cheek. His fingers are wet with blood and he has to brace against the sick twisting of his stomach.

Her black eyes are wild and unfocused, but she finds him. Grasps his arm desperately, gasping. She opens her mouth to speak, the beginning of his name on her ashen lips, but it comes out a fearful, small sound, and she doesn’t finish. Roiben strokes her hair and hushes her softly, bringing a kiss to her cool, damp forehead. When he pulls back, the unhinged terror in her eyes burrows like a dagger into his heart. “It’s...“

It’s going to be alright, he tries to tell her. The words will not form.

He cannot force back the sob at realizing why he can't say it. It could be a lie, and Kaye might die right here, in his room. In his arms. Dead before their life together had barely begun. Dead because he hadn't been fast enough. Because he had allowed it—because he had caused it.

Roiben can console himself no more than he can console her.

Faerie is a deadly place, he had told her once.

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omegasmileyface · 3 years ago

Text

some distant tommy ghoulatta backstory :)

[HLVRAI Danny Phantom AU]

warnings: death mention

words: 2299

AO3 link

===

Feb 1965, Wagon Mound, NM

G-Man looked at the dry, historic town around him as he pulled his truck into the parking lot of a church. He was staying in a cheap hotel a few towns away, where he had first seen all that supernatural stuff as a kid. He had come back to ask around for local stories and try to get some semblance of research done himself, and he was lucky enough to hear about a guy in this town who was supposedly obsessed with ghosts. After getting his address and name — Benjamin Fischer — from a local at a diner who was intrigued by G-Man's search, he set off immediately.

Fischer's house was close to the church, so G-Man got out there and walked the rest of the way. It was uncomfortably hot with his jacket on so close to the desert, but he knew how quickly that could change.

The house was small and modern, with an unkempt yard and a cross visible in the blinded window. After G-Man knocked on the door, he investigated the porch. Despite the lack of attention to appearance everywhere else, lush bushes were kept in pots by the door. They bloomed with deep, pinkish-red rose-like flowers despite the time of year.

A man, presumably Benjamin Fischer himself, opened the door.

"Hello. I've heard you've been doing some research on spirits and the supernatural?" G-Man said, quelling the slight intimidation he felt with the confidence of a man on a mission.

Fischer raised his eyebrow. "Who are you, exactly?"

Aw, crap. He was so excited he forgot to introduce himself. "Sorry. You can call me G-Man. I'm looking to do some research myself, and I need a better jumping off point."

Fischer looked amused, but didn't stop frowning. "Do you have a real name?"

"I've been going solely by G-Man these last few years."

The older man smiled wryly. "Well, boy, I try to keep my research to myself. I can give you some advice, but that's about all."

G-Man's brow furrowed, and he forced his face back into a more neutral expression. "Advice would be wonderful," (though he doubted it was anything he hadn't heard before), "but why don't you share your research? The more people know about what's out there, the more we can be equipped for it."

Fischer looked to the side and scowled. "There are people here who think I'm crazy, or better yet, some kind of Satan worshipper. I'm sure they'd like to see what I've found and make all sorts of trouble for everyone in town trying to 'disprove' it. Hell, there are people who'd take what I've done, use it against me, and then take it for their own."

"Ah... could I help you with your research then? I have no intention of letting anything found by either of us into the wrong hands."

"Sorry, kid, not looking for an assistant at the moment. You'll have to look somewhere else. And that advice, before you go — ghosts are more than just the impressions of people who used to live. Trust your instincts, they're closer to spirits than your brain."

G-Man frowned and thanked the man before reluctantly walking back toward the church. He could probably spend the night searching for anything supernatural in this town, but he'd have to go back by morning. Maybe he'd come by some other time and pester Fischer again.

---

June 1967, Wagon Mound, NM

In two more years of searching on his own, G-Man had learned some more about the supernatural, but not as much as he'd wanted. He'd gathered from books that all spirits had a central energy made out of pure passion that held them together, that they had physical forms but they didn't align quite right with the living world, that they were connected to some spirit world — all understandably but frustratingly spiritual and speculative. The only thing that seemed to be consistent was that a European flower called blood blossom, the flower that was blooming outside Benjamin Fischer's house, distressed spirits enough to ward them off.

He was in New Mexico again to visit his old spots, trying to see if he could find a ghost fresh enough to talk to him somewhat coherently. A waitress at a diner in Wagon Mound had recognized him and told him that Fischer had died a few months ago and it may not be best to try to visit his house.

Of course, that's just what G-Man did.

Clearly, Fischer had lived alone, and the house looked untouched. The yard was colder than the rest of the town, though it was night, and from the way the hairs on the back of his neck spiked, G-Man was sure it was due to a paranormal presence. Either an effect of Fischer's studies, or he was haunting the place. If G-Man's research was correct, ghosts newer than a few years didn't have enough of a presence to really do anything, or even be conscious, but they tended to hang around where they had lived and affect the atmosphere there.

Following his instincts just the way the man had told him to before, G-Man walked around to the back of the house. There was a back door, the sort that might connect to a kitchen, but a small broken window revealed that the room inside was nothing of the sort. Instead it had metal tables like a lab, surfaces covered in books, and metal boxes lined up against the walls. Some boxes and jars in the room seemed to glow when he looked away from them, including a Florence flask which was knocked over on an otherwise clear table, spilling some translucent liquid which had yet to evaporate.

The closer G-Man got, the more the chill picked at his skin. He could tell he wasn't wanted here, but the dried blood blossoms in his pockets should keep anything too bad from happening. It was worth it for the knowledge he could — would — gain.

He climbed through the window. It was too small to be a comfortable fit, but the door was locked and he didn't want to break anything that wasn't already broken. On the way through, his hand picked up a small static shock. Strange, since the window frame was plastic, but stranger things still have happened during G-Man's studies.

A workbench directly across from the door caught his attention. In front of stacks of books was a torn piece of paper, stained by whatever substance was in the spilled flask. Wild but legible handwriting read:

The items in this lab are not to be moved without the utmost dedication to their protection. I am dead, but my findings are still not to be let out of my sight. Intruders will be faced with my ghost. The security of my work is likely the death of me, be prepared for it to be the death of you.

It was signed by Fischer, but the corner of the paper was smudged unreadable by the liquid, leaving just "Ben".

It was certainly very passionate. Confident, even, from the assumption that his ghost would be around in the time it would be needed. But Fischer knew more than G-Man, if nothing else, he could be sure his ghost would stay with any stolen items until it could punish the thief. G-Man was weary to open any books or boxes knowing this, but stepped back to at least look around the room. Perhaps something could be gained that way.

In his inspection, G-Man noticed one of the faded glows becoming brighter. Suddenly, it coalesced into a figure. Directly in front of him, Fischer's ghost hovered, dark blue eyes piercing despite the overall unsure translucency of his form. He was angry, as fiercely protective of his work as the note had implied. He was also... startlingly solid. This was the closest G-Man had ever been to a ghost, but he was sure that they were not usually so defined at the edges. This ghost had slightly wrinkled skin, and his chest was moving as if he were breathing.

In fact, G-Man was certain that in order for a ghost to collect enough ambient energy to cast a form, stay visible, and maintain a consciousness, their essence had to remain for several years. Even in a place of highly concentrated paranormal energy like this little lab, it would take a year or more for just the emotional consciousness to draw together into a spirit. For what was clearly Fischer to be here so soon, and so unusually solid as well... something was clearly wrong. G-Man's investigative curiosity was almost enough to overpower his instinctual fear.

As the spirit's eyes focused onto him, the air in the room grew drier. It started to pull at the moisture in his skin and made his fingertips feel hot. Every luminescent stain and vial grew brighter until they appeared to occasionally arc between one another. Tiny discharges of hot energy.

There was no way G-Man was getting out of this without at the very least explaining himself. He steeled his nerves to the best of his ability and looked directly into the ghost's eyes, willing himself to ignore the dark lifelessness of the pupils. "Do you... remember me?"

Fischer's head tilted to the side, less like he was trying to remember so much as like he was weighing whether to admit something. "...I do not know you." He looked unsure, questioning, even though behind his firm protectiveness was a layer of desperate honesty. Especially so soon after his own death, he had to be terribly confused, with a sense of purpose but no information as to why it was so.

...Of course, unless G-Man has been misunderstanding something major, and he remembered his life just fine.

Still, assumptions lead to danger when it comes to the supernatural, so he decided to test the waters.

G-Man pointed to the smudged note. "So, Ben..." He avoided calling the ghost by his full living name. For all he knew, there was some ghostly cultural taboo against using someone's old name. The most literal form of a deadname, he supposed. The note said "Ben" at the end, so perhaps if the ghost had no memory of his life he'd understand why G-Man would think that's his name.

Fischer growled. Alright, then, bad move. "That's not it." He was looking pointedly at the note, eying the staining almost as if scared. Wait, was he questioning the cut-off? He must not have been used to going as just "Ben" in life.

"...Not your whole name?"

Fischer shook his head harshly. He looked as though if he weren't fully invested in keeping G-Man away from his findings, he'd be curled up on the floor in frustration.

"Maybe..." started the ghost, "maybe it was... Ben... 'ri'? Benry?"

G-Man had to hold back a startled laugh. Maybe he was thinking of "Benji" or something similar, because as far as he was aware, "Benry" was nothing close to a name. That being said, he wasn't going to bring up the possible confusion. He was on thin ice as is.

"Well. Benry, sir, my name is G-Man. I'm a paranormal researcher, just like... just like the man this lab belonged to, and I've spoken with him before to share findings. I was hoping to make some observations of this room for my own research and leave. I promise not to harm you or anything in here. May I please take a look around?"

The spirit (Benry?) stared back at G-Man with a renewed fury. "NO! The research in this room stays here. If it gets out, they'll take it for their own uses, all they want is-"

"I promise to keep it away from the government!"

It was a fight-or-flight response, really, G-Man just blurted the first thing he thought Benry might want to hear. Honestly, he had no reason to assume what he didn't want was government involvement, that's a bit of a stereotype when it comes to rural areas, right? Just because G-Man was afraid of the government after getting the cops called on him for a ritual last year didn't mean every paranormal researcher was. And interrupting the ghost wasn't any way to earn his trust, God why wasn't his fear enough to shut him up? I mean, even if he didn't react violently — it would be respectable, considering G-Man's bold act — making a promise to a ghost? Aren't they like the fae? What if he's bound to it? He wasn't planning on sharing anything with the government, not by a long shot, but what if something came up?

Benry's eyes widened and bored directly into G-Man, expression unreadable. Then he softened. Almost literally, his harsh glow lessened and a degree of moisture returned to the room. "You promise."

It wasn't a question, but it didn't feel like a command either. It didn't need to be. An expression of relief. "We protect the research together. You can build on it. Without the findings, there's nothing to protect. We must keep it from the wrong hands."

G-Man was shocked. The shock didn't lessen when Benry, and the note, faded from view. Was he... trusted to keep this research?

After standing still for a minute and feeling the room come back together, he let out a weak, belated "thank you." He approached a closed book on one table. If nothing else, he had to come away from this with some new knowledge.

When he touched it, the pages hummed with the same dry spark as Benry's glare. ...Haunting equipment was a good way to stay close, G-Man supposed. It seemed he had not only Fischer's findings to help his career, but his own defensive spirit, odd as it may be.

#gman is like 20 in this. hes still calling himself gman though its a pseudonym #makes him feel more confident in his research and he doesnt want to associate with his past life i guess #idk i just didnt want to come up with a name for him lmao #tommy ghoulatta #this ones backstory ;)#my writing #hlvrai #its a crossover but it also stands as just... hlvrai ghost au i guess lmao #bloodblossoms on the front porch hell yeah #maybe the g in gman... stands for GHOST #anyway and then he took home the equipment and the samples and the journals and it properly kicked off the better part of his research car #eer wahoo !!#danny phantom #because you guys get to see it too even though its barely even dp related :)#hey remember how i finished 90% of this in one day and then said id post it the next and then it was another month? yeah

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emptymasks · 4 years ago

Text

Finding something worth taking

Pairing: Erik / Raoul de Chagny

Words: 7401

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Read on Ao3 @ emptymasks (can’t link it or tumblr will block this post)

Notes: Prompt from an anonymous asker in @fallenidolandfalsefriend ‘s askbox. I do not know who you are but thank you for the idea. And thank you Fi for giving me your blessing to use a prompt you got.

Summary: "Well, what do we have here?" The man had to bend considerably to fit through the doorway of the carriage, neck bending harshly against the ceiling as he towered over Raoul. "Such a pretty little thing all alone so late at night. Some little lord? Surely nothing more important with no one here to protect you-"

"A Vicomte, thank you very much. And I need no one's protection other than my own," Raoul was retorting before he could stop himself.

"Someone with some spirit. How... refreshing. Well, little Vicomte. What do you have for me?"

(Alternate title: 5 times Erik robbed Raoul's carriage, and 1 time he got more than he intended to steal.)

Moonlight flickered in and out between the barren branches of the trees that lined either side of the road, light cascading against Raoul's cheeks in small glimpses before being snatched away again. The wheels of the carriage rolled smoothly against the dirt road, only occasionally bumping over some small stone.

It was quiet. Perhaps too quiet.

The lack of birds and wildlife scurrying about and crying was not unusual in the winter months, but even still...

"I know it's a shortcut you seem most fond of gazing at when it's in bloom, but Raoul I would caution you about going down that way. The cold tends to bring out all sorts of vagrants and miscreants," Philippe, his older brother, had warned him before he left.

Raoul felt a little awful for it, but the idea of some danger only had made him more intrigued. He had no death wish, of course not. But as a child he'd been so drawn to stories of fantasy, of pirates, of vigilantes on horseback. He remembered his uncle telling him stories of the famed highwayman Dick Turpin after Raoul's parents had gone to bed and the two of them would sneak downstairs and sit by the fire.

The curiosity was starting to twist a little in Raoul's stomach as they continued down the road. It would only be a minute or so before they would turn off the wooded lane onto a more open road and then another few minutes more until the horses would be clattering against cobblestone and there'd be streetlamps craning overhead. Just a few minutes more.

Moonlight once against vanished from Raoul's face, but this time seemingly with a gust of wind as something seemed to fly right past the window. He slid against to the edge of the bench where it met the wall and pressed his cheek against the glass, straining his eyes as he tried to see to the front of the carriage. But he couldn't see anything. His blue eyes almost glowed with his blonde hair a dusty halo as the light glinted across his face.

Then all of a sudden a whiny broke out and Raoul wondered if one of his horses as the carriage came to an abrupt stop. He was about to rush out of the door when he heard the thud of something, or someone, landing on the ground. Perhaps Nicolas, his driver, was sorting out whatever had happened. Maybe there was a fox in the road.

But Raoul knew those footsteps were too quiet to be Nicolas'. It was as if the owner almost was skirting along the dirt, maybe billowing it up around his feet.

Raoul slunk back away from the window to the middle of the bench, his heart unsure whether to start pounding in his chest, or freeze like a stone.

The door to the carriage swung open to fast it almost swung all the way around and crashed against the outside wall.

A thing leg clad in a heavy black boot clacked against the wooden floor of the carriage. Then another one. And then a tall back mass slunk into the room, a great black cape billowing around him as he raised his arm to show the barrel of his gun. He had a black hat tipped against his head and an equally dark mask covering his entire face. There was something draping down the back of his hat that looked too odd to be hair. Fabric, that's what it was, an extra precaution to protect his identity?

He moved slowly, almost methodically, across the carriage. His long thin limbs cut darkness across the now moonlit full carriage as he craned his head around.

"Well, what do we have here?" The man had to bend considerably to fit through the doorway of the carriage, neck bending harshly against the ceiling as he towered over Raoul. "Such a pretty little thing all alone so late at night."

A gloved hand reached out and pressed itself harshly against Raoul's skin as a thumb griped his chin, index finger digging into the hollow of his cheek. Raoul could smell that the gloves were made of leather and the velvet voice that came from behind the dark mask made Raoul's heart finally decide it wanted to speed up.

"What are you then? Some little lord? Surely nothing more important with no one here to protect you-"

"A Vicomte, thank you very much. And I need no one's protection other than my own," Raoul was retorting before he could stop himself.

"Someone with some spirit. How... refreshing. Well, little Vicomte. What do you have for me?"

Raoul blinked up at him. Forgetting for a moment as the man withdrew his closeness what the man would want with him. He soon remembered how to move though as the man rolled his shoulder and his cape moved allowing the light of the moon streaming through the open door to catch against the silver of its cylinder. Raoul recognised the model of gun; A Chamelot-Delvigne 1873 revolver. It was the gun issued to all members of the French army, and back at home Raoul had hidden own slight variation of it from his time in the Navy.

If only he had brought it with him. Philippe had asked why he never carried it around with him and Raoul had said it was just a bit of a hassle to fit under his clothes. That had been a lie. Philippe would have called Raoul too sensitive and told him to grow up if he's replied with how his hands shook at the idea of having to hold that gun again.

Raoul slid his hands into the coat that was cast aside on his seat as the man sat down opposite him. He fumbled blindly to find his coat pocket, not wanting to take his eyes off the man, before finally clutching his coin pouch. The man seemed to perk up at the noise of the coins clinking together and quickly outstretched his hand. Raoul hesitated for a moment before dropped the coins into the stranger’s palm.

He watched as the man took the coins out, counting them and inspecting them.

"They're not fake coins," Raoul said, indignity.

"Oh forgive me," He could hear the man's smirk. "I didn't mean to offend your delicate pride." He chuckled and pouch vanished beneath his dark cloak.

"Anything else?" The man leaned forward, perching his elbows against his thighs.

"I'm not some pretty maiden with a neck full of pearls and jewels."

"Not a maiden no... But who knows what you'd look like draped in pearls."

"Must you tease me as well as steal from me?"

"It's hard not too when you flush so much. People either fear me or hate me, and yet you sit there talking back to me but making no attempt to stop me, with such a dusting of pink across your nose and cheeks."

Raoul didn't know how to respond to that. It surely couldn't be true and yet he could feel the heat on his face. Maybe it was just the excitement or adrenaline. Maybe he could make believe that it was, since it was unlikely he'd ever see this man again.

Oh god and what would be tell Philippe? He really didn't want an 'I told you do' talk when he arrived home. He could just not tell Philippe? And maybe he could convince Nicolas not to tell? They wouldn't want to worry Philippe, of course.

Lost in his worried thoughts, Raoul didn't notice how the man had gotten up.

"Wait, what's your name?" Raoul blurted out, causing the man to freeze, one of his feet already out of the door.

"Why," He snarled. "So you can try and report me?"

"I have would have very bad luck with that, considering I have no idea what you look like. I'm simply... curious."

"About my name?"

"About you."

The man blinked. Raoul could tell as the moonlight caught against the man's eyes as they tried to hide away with the mask, but they glowed almost golden. He looked all at once not like a fearsome thief, but a confused cat being offered a plate of milk as it sat shaking in an alleyway, pondering and pondering about what possible ulterior motive this could have.

"Erik," He said at last.

And before Raoul could respond the man hoped out of the carriage, shut the door behind and in mere seconds was riding back past the window in a flurry of shadow

-----

Nicolas had promised not to mention last week's unplanned stop to Philippe, worried that it might put him at risk of losing his job. But he hadn't been able to hide the fear from his eyes when Raoul asked them to go back down that road on his return from his next trip to the opera.

"But Monsieur what if he is there again? I've heard others talking. They call him The Phantom, for how he seemingly appears out of nowhere and disappears back into the night. They say his body is made of pure shadow."

"He won't harm you Nicolas, the worst he'll do is take my coin, and I have plenty of it to spare. I assure you he's just a mad made of flesh like you and I"

Nicolas had looked at him strangely, but knew Raoul well enough to not fruitlessly try to change his mind.

Raoul wondered if Erik would recognise the carriage. He'd seemed to have found Raoul strange, not that Raoul could blame him as he had been acting a little out of sorts but... he'd just been so intrigued, he couldn't explain it. But perhaps Raoul had embarrassed himself too much last time that Erik wouldn't approach them.

They were only half way down the road when Raoul felt the carriage come to a stop and his heart started beating harder in his chest.

The door opened delicately and Raoul's heart sank as he thought surely it must be Nicolas. But his vision was clouded in black and as the shape settled Raoul saw Erik's cape fall about his shoulders as he sank into the opposite bench.

He started at Raoul for so long Raoul wondered if he was being dared to speak first. Maybe Erik wanted him to explain himself. Well, he would have to wait then.

Eventually, which was really just a minute or so, Erik crossed his legs, annoyed and agitated.

"Why are you here again, little Vicomte?"

"Well," Raoul shifted in his seat. "I always prefer to take this route. It's more scenic. And it is technically a short-cut for me, so..."

"You forgot about me so quickly then," Erik said it with a tone of jest, but underneath Raoul sensed that thought it was true.

"No, of course I didn't forget you."

"Then why are you back here on my road? Did you think after one robbery I would let you pass a second time?"

"Actually I... What if I hoped that you would...?”

"That I would let you pass? Foolish boy-"

"No, I meant... I meant what if I hoped that you would show up. That we would meet again."

The black mask stared at him as two tiny pinpricks of gold vanished and returned.

"Why would you want that? Not taking pity on me, I hope. I'm not some sort of charity."

"Oh not at all. I have a feeling you wouldn't have any fun with that."

"What makes you think I'm having fun now?" Erik stood and lent over Raoul, his cape swinging down around them both.

"Well," Raoul's gaze flickered from between Erik's hand and his face. One of Erik's hands was pressing against the bench in the spot between his legs, his other hand supported against the wall next to Raoul's head.

"You haven't left yet," Raoul breathed out, as he remembered breathing was a thing he was supposed to be doing.

"I'm just waiting for my prize," Erik's voice was deep and Raoul swore he could feel hot breath from where Erik's mouth would be.

Oh god Raoul could feel himself swallow hard, hyper aware of where Erik's hand was and how close it was to his thigh even as Erik seemed to lean in closer. What prize was he talking about... For surely he couldn't mean...? He had called Raoul pretty last time, but that had surely been a jest? But he seemed to still be getting closer.

Raoul blinked as a jingling sound rang out at the side of his head. Oh. Right. The money. He could feel Erik's grin as Raoul shifted awkwardly, pulling on the bottom of his honey yellow waistcoat. His eyes shifted down.

"Your gloves have a hole in the thumb," Raoul said absentmindedly, eyes drawn to the pale skin peeking out from the dark leather.

Erik drew his hand back from the seat as though he was ashamed. "Erik tore it, he didn't mean to..." He muttered, voice becoming something almost childlike, as if he thought Raoul were scolding him. He seemed to realise it himself and his eyes flashed with anger.

"What is it to you anyway?" He hissed, yet still hiding his hand from Raoul's view.

"Nothing, I'm only..." Only what? Was he just curious? Or concerned?

Why was Erik reacting like that anyway? Raoul was only trying to be polite. Kind. Was that odd? He supposed in his line of work Erik wasn't used to kindness. The only people he interacted with would be those who he robbed and why would they show him kindness. So why was Raoul showing him kindness.

It was unexplainable. There was something about Erik that Raoul just felt drawn too. Perhaps that was unhealthy, for him to find the danger exciting. Erik had a gun for Christ's sake. How could he say he had a feeling Erik wouldn't use it.

How many other people had Erik shared his name with though? He had given it on their first meeting and yet... No one else seemed to know it. Maybe no one else had asked.

He thought to apologise, but for what? Erik's back was already turned.

"Good night, monsieur," Erik said before he hoped out of the carriage, back into the night.

-----

"What is it that you want from me?"

Erik stood in doorway of the carriage, one foot pressing inside and the rest of his body hunched and twisted to try and look at Raoul without having to actually come inside.

"Three weeks in a row, twice already I have robbed you, and yet you keep coming here?"

"Where else would I find you?" Raoul said with a look of ease but inside felt slight nerves.

A week had passed in agony. Every nightfall with the knowledge Erik was out here on this road had started to drive him mad. It was pure madness and nothing more. To be intrigued by this man, this Phantom, to desire him. With every evening Raoul felt it more and more and had to come to terms with the realisation that it was not some mere thrill of danger he felt in Erik's presence. There was no childhood boyish fantasy about meeting a highwayman, or evening joining him on an adventure. It was the reality of realising that less than romantic reality of Erik's tattered clothing, the thinness of his bones, the unfamiliarity with basic human kindness, paired with that mystery, those eyes, that voice which teased him so, that made Raoul's skin grow hot as he laid in his bed.

"Aren't you going to come inside?"

Erik lifted the weight off his foot that was inside the carriage, before pressing it back down. He rocked back and forth as he contemplated to himself, before planting himself across from Raoul.

An awkward silence filled the air as Erik shuffled among the seat.

Finally he turned his head and folded his arms over his chest. "So, what do you have for me?"

"The same as always," Raoul tossed his coin pouch at Erik. "Oh, and these."

He reached out his hand for Erik to take the items from him. Erik was cautious, as if somehow this could be a trap, before grabbing the edge of the fabric and sliding them out of Raoul's hand. They were turned over and back again as they were inspected.

"Gloves?"

"Yes, gloves," Raoul nervously bit on his lip. Why should he be feeling nervous?!

"These seem too large to fit you."

"Well, yes of course. They wouldn't make a very good gift for you if I bought them in my own size."

Raoul hadn't thought it possible the night could get any quieter, and yet...

Oh he wished he could see what Erik's face looked like behind his mask. His entire body had frozen on the spot, not even blinking. Was he shocked? Was he disgusted? Was there a flush across his cheeks? Raoul knew he could feel his own burning up the longer the silence progressed.

"A... gift?" Erik choked out.

"Yes, they're a gift, Erik. I noticed last time that yours had a hole in so I thought..."

"That you would bribe me away with fine leather gloves?"

"What? No, not at all. I just thought, well I just hoped that... you'd like them."

Erik squinted at him, and Raoul felt a little pleased at being able to make out some emotions Erik conveyed. He leaned over Raoul, slightly raising from his seat, as he seemed to be trying to wring out the truth from Raoul with just his glare, and then his eyes widened as if seeing and daring to believe Raoul was already telling him the truth.

He sat staring down at the gloves that hung limply over his hands. Raoul sucked in a breath and slowly, as if approaching a deer that might spook, took a couple of steps across the carriage and quietly as he could fell to his knees in between Erik's parted legs.

Erik didn't seem to realise he was there until Raoul tentatively reached up and brushed his hands against Erik's own. He tried to recoil but Raoul gripped his hands, stroking his thumbs against them until Erik seemed to calm down enough for Raoul to peel the aged and falling apart gloves off his hands.

As the leather peeled away Raoul stared at Erik's hands even as they twitched. Out of nervousness perhaps? That was... a little adorable. What a strange word to use to describe such a man. Raoul chuckled slightly to himself as he became distracted by running his thumb down the length of Erik's long, rather elegant looking fingers.

Clutching at the fabric of his trousers, Erik tried to pull away again. "You laugh at Erik's skin."

Raoul blinked in confusion. Was that something Erik was insecure about?

"If you must know, I was actually thinking they were quite beautiful. I only laughed at my own oxymoron of thinking of your demeanour now as almost adorable contrasted with your usual imposing one."

He looked down again at Erik's hands again as he once again felt Erik's eyes staring at him with such confusion. As Erik slowly unclenched his hands, Raoul could now see harsh lines of scars that began at the backs of Erik's knuckles and disappeared up his sleeves. Of course... no one with a happy upbringing would probably find themselves in this line of work. But then Raoul thought of the high collar, the mask... Was all of Erik's skin covered in such scars?

Raoul took the new gloves he had bought, something of far better quality than Erik could ever afford, and slid them up Erik's fingers. He did the same with the other hand, not before indulging himself and placing a kiss to the back of Erik's hand, his pink lips plush and soft against the hard and cold skin.

He looked up and felt as though Erik's eyes were burning into him. The second glove slid up Erik's hand and Raoul maintained eye contact as Erik's fingers twitched and caught against his chin.

"I hope they're comfortable," Raoul's voice was quiet, not wanting to shatter the moment.

The leather crinkled as Erik flexed his fingers, screwing them up into fists and then straightening them out again. Raoul wanted to say something more, he wasn't sure what, but he wanted to open his mouth to speak again but the words lost themselves as the carriage suddenly rocked to the side and the moment was gone.

"Cesar, no," Erik made to get up.

Raoul had the dreadful shameful feeling that they'd been caught by some companion of Erik's. But as he turned around he heard a strong puff of breath and the carriage rocked as a beautiful white horse rocked into the carriage, his head already peering through the door. Erik fussed over the stallion, shooing him outside and seemingly giving him a stern talking too.

Trailing behind them into the cold night air, Raoul stared at this strange tall skeleton of a man draped in nothing but black talking to horse or pure white as though it was a badly behaving dog.

Both of them turned to Raoul as he started laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Erik seemed almost flustered as he brushed down his cloak and fiddled with his hat. Outside the carriage was only slightly brighter, but Raoul could make out a little more clearly the layers of cape and coat and waistcoat,. He could see the line where Erik's boots laid against his trousers just below the knee. He could see how the mask wasn't some cheap piece of cloth and was something sculpted as it sat neatly against Erik's face. Had Erik made it himself?

"Doesn't a bright white horse make you stand out a little?"

"It wasn't really ever in my plan," Erik huffed. "But Cesar is a good boy. Loyal. And his previous owners were not too kind to him. I suppose I saw some of myself in him."

Erik's voice trailed off somewhere farther away as he seemed to forget himself, then he quickly and effortlessly pulled himself atop Cesar.

"Good night. Your home is not too far away, no? You might be lucky enough to get back before the rain starts."

"You didn't follow me home one night, did you?" Raoul laughed and then stopped as Erik turned his head. "Erik?"

The cape nearly hit Raoul in the face as Erik swung up onto Cesar. "Good night, Vicomte de Chagny. Safe travels."

The bastard had the audacity to tip his hat before he rode away.

-----

"I wonder what your driver must think. The young Vicomte de Chagny fraternizing with a common thief. Surely someone is wondering what is taking you so long to get back home?" Erik said as he stretched his legs out, seemingly content to start treating the carriage like a sitting room.

"Nicolas wouldn't tell anyone. And if he had the inkling too, I can appease him as I appease you."

"Is that what you do? Make a habit of paying people to get what you want."

"Of course not," Raoul snapped. "If I were to slip him an increase in his wages it would only be to protect the both of us from any scandal."

Erik sat up straighter. "I meant no offence... How strange you are, little Count, to think you must protect me from others and not the other way around."

"My name is Raoul," Choosing to avoid answering Erik's probing statement as he didn't really want to think of the moral implications of any of this, Raoul blurted out something he'd been mulling over for a while. "You knew though, probably, I mean you already figured out who I was so... But I just meant that, well, you can call me Raoul. I always call you Erik."

"I didn't give you any other name."

"Something tells me perhaps you only have the one."

"Something did?" Erik perched his elbows on his legs and lent forwards to rest his chin on his hands. "So there is some perception going on in there. What exactly makes you think that?"

Raoul felt all of a sudden embarrassed. "I don't rightly know... And I don't mean to offend, I just... You seem not like someone who doesn't have a home, but perhaps someone who has never had one. And orphans don't usually have surnames."

"You could not offend me."

"You say that as if you aren't easily offend."

"Oh, unlike you?"

Letting his back hit against the wall, Raoul conceded. "Will you tell me if I was right?"

Erik shifted his in his seat, his fingers on one hand rubbing up at down the other's knuckles. "I was not an orphan."

"Oh?" Raoul wasn't going to be surprised if he had been wrong about everything. He was very well versed with people from lower classes so everything he said could have been wrong. It was mostly ideas drawn from lone wanderers from tales he had heard growing up, granted they were works of fiction.

"But," Erik continued. "You can take some pride in thinking I'd never had a home. I'd at least never been in a place that felt like one."

Oh well... Pride wasn't really what Raoul was feeling now. He thought if he worked things out about Erik, or Erik began to like or trust him enough to tell him, that he would feel joyful. But he supposed the reality of growing up alone, or at least feeling alone, wasn't something that should be romanticised.

Erik seemed to not know what to do with himself as he kept shifting and when he coughed Raoul thought he was going to ask for Raoul's money, but he simply went quiet again.

"You don't have to sit over there, you know," Raoul's heart fluttered in his chest. This was it. He was going to find out Erik's true intentions. "There's plenty of room on this bench."

"And this one is equally comfortable."

"Oh the great Phantom of the roads, afraid to sit next to me."

"I'm not afraid," Erik snarled.

"No?" Raoul raised an eyebrow up and smiled cheekily, a smile that only widened as Erik got up and grumbled under his breath.

"Insistent boy. I have half the mind you'll be the death of me," Flicking his cape up so it did not get as caught up underneath him, Erik sat next to Raoul with a huff.

"Oh, how so?" Raoul turned, sliding a little to close some of the distance between them and hoping Erik wouldn't notice.

"You keep letting yourself get robbed so often, people will think you're an easy target."

"Well then people will have the misfortune of finding out quite the opposite."

Erik laughed. "Oh will you fight them away with your feistiness, my little Vicomte."

"I'll have you know I was in the navy," Raoul puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders. "I could take a robber or two if I had the mind too."

There was silence as Erik started at him.

"Then why haven't you?" He asked, his voice soft all of a sudden.

"Why haven't I what?" Raoul furrowed his brow.

"Had the mind too."

Raoul's mouth went dry. Erik seemed impossibly close and he wasn't sure when or if either of them had started sliding down the seat.

He wondered then what it would feel like to have those leather clad hands pining his own wrists against the wall behind him. What it would feel like to have a leg shoved between his own, as Erik bore his weight down on him. Maybe both of his wrists would be captured in but one hand, long fingers grasping him like a rope, as Erik would grab his chin and tilt it upwards to claim his mouth. Would he have to tell Raoul to be quiet less his driver hear them? He wouldn't want a scandal, would he? He'd let himself fall open on the seating as Erik would remain swathed in black, undressing him and claiming another prize for himself.

Or would Erik let himself be pushed back. Raoul thought about the previous week as he had knelt between Erik's legs to put his gloves on and how Erik had seemed so unused to the touch. Would he let Raoul guide him backwards, limbs tangling in the small space, as he let someone take him apart for the first time? Had anyone ever touched Erik in that way?

He reached out, mind running with scenarios, and traced his hand over Erik's, giving him the opportunity to turn away. But Erik stood still as a statue. Raoul grew bolder, his fingers skimming along Erik's shoulders, until they reached under his jaw and slid under the edge of his mask.

That seemed to snap Erik out of the moment as his hands were suddenly around Raoul's wrists, squeezing painfully like a vice.

But Raoul did not want to give up. Erik's panic only fuelled Raoul's curiosity. He seemed far too fearful to be solely worried about his identity being discovered. Raoul thought back on the scars he'd seen along Erik's hands.

"I won't be scared," Raoul whispered, his fingers tracing lightly against the dry skin he'd managed to find.

"You will be horrified," Erik's voice echoed against the mask now longer pressing taut against his mouth.

"Then, just a little..." Raoul pressed still, half expecting to be thrown across the carriage, but half not caring. If Erik would give him this little leeway.

He pressed the mask up just enough to see Erik's mouth, stopping as he saw what would had had to be the start of Erik's nostrils, but Raoul saw no dip of flesh between them. He let his hands rest of the mask there, simply holding it up but not pushing it, until Erik realised Raoul meant that he would reveal no more of his face. The grip on his wrists loosened, but the hands did not leave, for they could not trust Raoul to keep his word.

Raoul traced his thumbs up the pale skin of Erik's sunken cheeks, they were hollowed out and yet Raoul could sense the strong cheekbones above. His skin was dry and cold, not soft but not rough either. His thumbs drew closer together as he found paper thin lips set in a hard line, but they trembled as Raoul touched them.

Having found his mark in the darkness of the carriage, Raoul slide his hands back against Erik's cheeks, brushing against the fabric that was drawn down over his ears. The skin around the back of Erik's head was smooth, the only hair catching on Raoul's nails being nothing but tiny wisps.

Erik gasped as Raoul kissed him, as if with Raoul so close he still didn't expect it would happen. Raoul was suddenly struck with the question of whether Erik had ever been kissed before and the idea of this being his first made Raoul want to make it all the more enjoyable. His hands slid against Erik's skin as he moved his lips slowly, parting them for a second before kissing Erik again. And then again. And again and he wanted to keep going but felt that Erik's hands had slipped from grabbing his wrists to clutching at the fabric of his sleeves as his whole body shook.

"Erik, I'm sorry, was that..." Raoul panted as withdrew. "Was that alright?"

He could see Erik's chest heaving and Raoul's hands pulled themselves back forwards and couldn't resist a final slide across Erik's lips, now slightly slick and wet.

His fingers pressed down despite trying to have some self-control and Erik jumped, head almost knocking against the ceiling, as he scrambled to pull his mask back down so quickly that Raoul's' hands were almost trapped underneath it, oh to be forever trapped between parted lips and porcelain.

"Erik, wait-"

But Erik had already pushed himself away and flung himself out of the carriage and as Cesar's white hide flashed past him Raoul felt the weight of his coins safely nestled in his pocket.

-----

The road was quiet as always and Raoul's heart pounded over and over and over again in his chest. It was as though the sound of it was the only thing he could hear. It seemed to rise and fall as the carriage finally turned onto the road, but as they got further and further down it... Raoul's heart only sank lower and lower.

Had he scared Erik off? He'd kissed Raoul back so... He wanted Raoul too, hadn't he? Wouldn't Erik be pleased to see him again?

But he had also run off right afterwards. Was he ashamed? But Raoul could give him so much. He could give Erik safety and security. Wouldn't Erik want that? He wouldn't have to stalk about in the cold and the rain. Or they could continue this? Whatever this was? Raoul only knew that he hadn't wanted to see anyone else this badly before.

They were past the middle of the road now, and there was still no sign of Erik. The night air seemed dead and stale as the wind blew shadows of gnarled fingers across Raoul's cheeks. Raoul didn't know what to do. They'd be at the end of the road soon, leaving Erik's domain, and he didn't know what to do.

He could just shout out of the window and ask Nicolas to stop... But he was already counting on Nicolas for his trust with enough of these visits. If he did that, how long should he wait? How embarrassing would it be if he stopped and Erik was out there just standing and laughing at how pathetic he looked and never approached the carriage at all?

Raoul pressed his hands against the window, peering out at the nothingness. And he said nothing, letting Nicolas take the carriage straight home.

-----

Raoul stayed up tossing and turning, before giving up on trying to sleep at all. He couldn't stop thinking if he'd made a terrible prideful mistake. He was so worried about what Nicolas would think, and what Erik would think, that he'd just let Nicolas drive on. What if Erik had been somewhere else and hadn't shown up yet? What if he'd thought Raoul just hadn't shown up?

Though what kept his stomach twisting was the idea that he'd read everything completely wrong and that Erik wasn't interested in him at all.

Pale sheets slid of his body as Raoul's feet padded against the cold floor so he could fetch his dressing gown. The deep maroon fabric kept him warm as he opened the doors to the small balcony window and let the wind chill his bones. He wondered if he should pick up smoking like his brother as he imagined doing anything other than just standing staring at the moon. Not that it wasn't a beautiful sight. But it wasn't going to bring him any comfort.

Sighing with resignation, Raoul shut the doors behind him and flopped down onto his bed. He'd not closed the curtains to the balcony, letting the moon shine down on his face. The light might keep him awake, but it wasn't as though Raoul thought he'd get much sleep now anyway. He closed his eyes and wondered if he could imagine being laid back against the seat in his carriage, the moonlight flickering in and out of view from behind his eyelids.

That... was only meant to be in his imagination though.

His entire body tensed as he realised he couldn't see the moonlight anymore.

He tried to keep his breathing as quiet and slow and consistent as possible as he started to slid up to his elbows. He knew if it was some burglar it was safer to act like he was asleep. But what would be the chances of a random burglar picking his bedroom window of all of them. Hadn't Erik followed him home one night? Had he followed him again and watched Raoul come to bed after they'd kissed?

As slowly as he could he turned his head to the side and opened his eyes.

Behind the glass doors was a tall shadow, a silhouette that was unmistakable with its long cape and hat. Raoul turned and sat on the edge of the bed, not breaking eye contact with where he was guessing Erik's face was.

The shadow didn't move. But neither did Raoul. No, Erik needed to be the one to decide here, Raoul was not going to chase him. There was... perhaps... the chance that Erik was here to kill him... That... hadn't even been anything he'd slightly considered. For all he knew Erik had killed before. And if he felt like he'd let Raoul see too much of himself, then Raoul was a threat to his secrecy.

Wood screeched as the balcony doors were slowly pushed open. It was like an ink etching from one of those books, this pure black shape standing out there as the curtains billowed out as the doors opened, the moonlight behind everything... Raoul held his breath.

"Why did you come back again?" Erik's voice seemed to rumble.

"So you were there!" Raoul shot to his feet. "Then why didn't you come over?"

"You answer my questions first, little Vicomte," Erik stalked a couple of steps towards him. Raoul swallowed as he realised the two of them had never been stood this close, only sat, and it allowed him to take in Erik's height more as he looked up at him.

"Why wouldn't I have? I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

"Erik, for God's sake I kissed you," Raoul hissed the words out as he noticed himself getting louder. "Why would any man do that to someone?"

"Maybe you thought it could spare your purse forever more. Maybe you thought it would make me soft you."

Raoul closed all the distance between them, almost stepping on Erik's toes.

"Aren't you already?"

Erik didn't reply and Raoul wanted to keep pressing.

"Aren't you, Erik? Erik? How many people have you shared that name with? How many people have you let get that close to you? How many people have you let have any slight peak under that mask?" Raoul's hands came up and hovered by the sides of Erik's face and watched as he flinched. "You want me."

"You're a vain, foolish little boy," Erik's voice slid out of his teeth as Raoul pushed the mask up once more, until he snapped, pushing Raoul's arms out of the way and tearing the mask of himself. His hat went fluttering to the floor.

Raoul gasped as he stared at Erik's face, but he steeled himself not to look away. His cheeks were not the only part of his face sunken in. His cheekbones and his temples stuck out, and down under his brow bone Raoul could barely tell where Erik's eye sockets started. Those eyes that had seemed black with pinpricks of yellow, were really a deep brown. Quite a pretty colour. But his skin was so dry it almost looked as though it had been sucked tight against his bones, and his nose... Or whatever was left of it. A little way down from between his eyes his face just seemed to opened up onto this hole that stopped where ones nostrils would. His mouth Raoul had already made himself quite familiar with.

"Is this what you wanted to see?!" Erik tried to shout out the words but with Raoul still gazing up at him they seemed to get stuck in his throat. "You can now say that curiosity of yours is satisfied and leave me be."

"No!" Raoul gripped his hands down without thinking, right against Erik's cheeks.

"No? Did you want a closer look?" Erik snarled, his hands starting to make fists in Raoul's dressing gown.

"My curiosity isn't satiated. Erik I... Won't pretend this isn't... shocking..."

That was a little bit of an understatement. Raoul had suspected something was wrong with Erik's face, though he'd thought scaring at worst. This was... Raoul didn't even know how to describe it... And yet he couldn't take his eyes of Erik. Was there something wrong with him to find something handsome in that face, even still? And it didn't change who Erik was.

"It... will take some getting used to," Raoul said. "But it's just a face. And a face that happens to be on a man I'm very interested in."

Erik gazed down at him, the hands clutching Raoul's robe were trembling. "Even still?"

He said it as if he dared not hope. But the fact that he'd said it at all, rather than shoot Raoul down with another insult or scream... That was progress.

"Even still."

Raoul pulled Erik's face down against him and as he kissed Erik again he felt Erik's tears sliding against their cheeks and he pulled Erik harder against him, slowly giving him the confidence to explore Raoul back. And slowly but surely, Erik's hands unclenched themselves and began to move and slide around Raoul's waist, brushing over his hips, until Erik's lips moves and pressed harder against him and Raoul felt himself tipping as Erik pushed him down onto the bed and knelt over him, their lips still connected.

He didn't know what they parted, but they had too eventually, less they suffocate one another. Raoul breathed out a laugh as he pulled himself up his bed, trying to aim his head to land on his pillows, and groaning as Erik just let himself go boneless on top of him. For such a slim man, he still had a fair bit of weight to him.

But he let Erik lie there, afraid that if he were to disturb Erik this would all shatter. That Erik would fly out off the balcony, into the night, and never to be seen again.

So he let Erik lay there, bony hips pressing awkwardly against Raoul's thigh, until Erik felt comfortable to say something.

"You should leave your driver behind next time."

Raoul laughed and shook his head.

"Ah and already so sure they'll be a next time. What should I do? Will the horses to go the right way with the power of my mind?" He mockingly pressed his fingers against his temples and Erik huffed, lightly slapping at his hands.

"You do know how to ride, don't you?"

Raoul sat up. "You expect me to ride out all that way on my own?"

"I'll protect you."

The words ran up Raoul's spine with a pleasant shiver.

"Well, at sweet as that is and as thrilled as those words make me, it doesn't change the fact you wouldn't be with the whole time. I'm not wishing for anyone else to start robbing me," Raoul paused and lent back against the headboard. "Though... You are right. I can't exactly keep making Nicolas an accomplice to this... Whatever this is... And I don't know how much longer he'll want to keep his mouth shut. Although, you know what?"

Erik rolled so that his stomach was pressing down over Raoul's outstretched leg. "What?" He asked, already sounding pessimistic.

"Well I have been making Nicolas stay out awfully long hours, it's not very fair to him. He can drive me around all day as much as he pleased, but perhaps... Well for the sake of not overworking the man, perhaps I could employ a new driver? Just for very late evening appointments?"

Sliding up to his knees, Erik's eyes blinked at him. "Would this new driver be paid?"

"Oh, quite handsomely. Though I would hope, there'd be other things he found enticing about the position rather than just the coin?" Raoul couldn't help the slight hint of a question leak out in his voice.

"My little Vicomte," Erik slid up his body, black fabric pooling everywhere and sinking against Raoul's cream bedspread. "It has not been just about the coin since you asked me my name."

And Raoul let himself sink into the bed with all that fabric, as he tried to the ties that kept it all together.

"You know this does not mean Erik is quitting his regular job?" Erik panted between their mouths.

Raoul grinned, knowing it was wrong. "Well, I always did fancy someone stealing my heart."

#rerik #phantom of the opera #Raoul de Chagny #poto #potoedit #mywriting #mine #poto highwayman au

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recurring-polynya · 4 years ago

Text

Today’s AU suggestion comes from Tumblr user @missdramaqueensworld We had a bit of a back-n-forth, and I hope you don’t mind that I mushed a couple of your suggestions together into a Lighthearted Superheroes AU! Byakuya has always given me Big Bruce Wayne vibes, what with his extensive wealth and his flair for the overdramatic and his propensity for collecting orphans. I think I got the spirit of the thing (and, of course, the opening line!) I hope you like it!! (Note: I didn’t include the original prompt because it was very detailed and I didn’t want to give everything away, but please give credit to @missdramaqueensworld for all the good ideas and me for all the terrible superhero names)

Read on ao3 or ff.net

🦸 🌸 💥

“Hisana,” Byakuya called, as he contemplated the secret niche that was hidden behind the rear panel of his ancillary special occasion shoe closet. “Where is Senbonzakura?”

“Where’s what?” his beloved wife’s voice rang back.

Byakuya gritted his back teeth. “The mystical sword that has been passed down through twenty-eight generations of my family that allows me to fight crime as the mysterious hero Captain Sakura?”

Hisana leaned up against the doorframe of his closet. “Haven’t seen it. Where’s the non-mystical, yet very expensive tuxedo that allows you to escort me to the charity benefit that I’ve been planning for three months?”

“I am not joking, Hisana, I have a responsibility to the city!”

“That’s right, you do! You’re a charming and handsome philanthropist who is helping his beautiful wife raise piles of money for underprivileged children!”

Byakuya tried to rack his brain. Where could he have left the thing? “You know very well what I mean. The city is under attack by dark forces. Dark forces, Hisana!”

Hisana put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you have sidekicks for this?”

“They do not like being called sidekicks, they are allegedly adults now. Besides, you are the one who told me to stop bothering them so much. They have their own lives now, you said.” Which vehicle had he used last? The Sakura Bike? The Sakura Jet? He didn’t think it was the Sakura Jet-Ski, but honestly, all of last week was just blurring together.

“They can have their own lives on nights when I don’t have a charity benefit,” Hisana hissed.

Wait. He’d had that unfortunately team-up with the Great Desert Brothers (or were they calling themselves Phantom Thief NelDoPe again?) and he’d had to spend a great deal of time cleaning “Infinite Slick” off of Senbonzakura afterwards. The sword was probably on his workbench down in the Sakura Cave. Byakuya turned and attempted to exit his own closet, only to find his way blocked by the one opponent he had never truly bested: his 4’11”, stunningly beautiful and amazingly brilliant wife. “Excuse me,” he said.

“Excuse you?” Hisana asked, her eyes wide with false innocence. “You are not going down to the Sakura Cave.”

“I am going to the Sakura Cave.”

“You’re going down to the Sakura Cave because you’re going to drive us to the charity benefit in the pink Lambo, right?”

Byakuya regarded her. “The Sakuramobile is for official Captain Sakura business only. You are welcome to take the Aventador or the Huracan if you like.”

Hisana threw her hands out at her sides. “Byakuya. Look at me.”

Byakuya looked. Respectfully, of course. His wife was clad in a form-fitting navy blue sheath that flared just below her knees. From the front, the neckline was high and modest, but he knew for a fact that it swept low, exposing nearly the whole of her back. Her hair was swept up into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck. An array of tiny diamond hairpins shone like stars among the night sky of her tresses. Her makeup, as always, was impeccable, from her silvery smokey eye to the kissable red of her lips.

“Imagine!” she wailed. “Me! Walking through those huge doors at the Museum of Contemporary Art. By myself! To my own fundraiser!”

“I can imagine it,” Byakuya agreed. “You will turn every head in the room. That cad, Kuchiki, they will say. The fool. He knows not what he has.”

Hisana narrowed her eyes at him.

“The most beautiful woman in Seireitei City, for once, away from the overprotective glare of her impossibly handsome husband.”

Hisana rolled her eyes.

“You will have the undivided attention of every man in the room and more than a few of the women. They will be elbowing each other out of the way for the merest crumbs of your regard. And you, being you, should no doubt be able to spin these tragic circumstances into a positively dizzying pile of donation checks. That should make the orphans very happy, yes?”

Hisana’s face was screwed up into a lovely scowl, as her desire for his company warred with her love for parting cretinous billionaires from their walking-around money. Byakuya didn’t blame her, of course. She was a very patient and understanding woman to so frequently part from her charming and debonair husband in the best interests of Justice. Nevertheless, the city needed him at this desperate hour.

“And I promise,” Byakuya continued, lowering his eyelids seductively, “that I shall sweep in before the night concludes, to rebuke those fools who would ever doubt my devotion to you.”

The tip of Hisana’s nose twitched. He had her.

“You have to show up at the dedication of the new community center.”

“Of course I would show up--”

“In the costume.”

Byakuya’s jaw tightened. “Hisana.”

“Captain Sakura is the third most popular superhero among children aged 7 to 12.”

“Third! I used to be second!” Byakuya had an angry suspicion whom he had been overtaken by.

“Used to be,” Hisana replied. “Maybe you should think about making more personal appearances. And flex more. I hear that children love flexing.” Dammit, this further confirmed his suspicions.

Byakuya heaved a sigh. “Fine. I will show up and charm the little rapscallions. I will not ‘flex.’ Please, may I go now?”

Hisana gracefully stepped to one side. “Good luck. Stay safe.” She touched his arm gently as he swished past, and went up on her tiptoes to bring her face closer to his. “And check the umbrella stand in the front hall. That’s where your magic sword was last time.”

Captain Sakura alighted on the rooftop of Metropolitan Bank with the grace of a drifting flower petal. A large hole cratered the bitumen and the smell of C-4 hung unpleasantly in the air. Below, police sirens wailed and sirens cast blue and red reflections. Also, there was bickering.

“Are you sure he can breath in there?”

“I am a professional, of course he can breathe! You don’t believe me? I’ll trap you in a block of ice!”

“I never said I didn’t believe you, I just-- hey, look who’s here! Good to see you, Captain!”

Byakuya crossed his arms over his chest. “Yuki-onna. Sakura Boy.”

Yuki-onna, Mistress of the Ice and Snow, groaned. “You know very well he goes by Red Ronin now.”

Sakura Boy looked very much like he was biting his tongue as he tapped his massive whip-sword on his shoulder.

“Who was the perpetrator?” Byakuya asked, squinting inside the block of ice.

“That toothy bastard, Preying Mantis,” Sakura Boy supplied.

“He is one of the Ten Espada, you know, they often travel in--”

“We caught his dweeby sidekick downstairs, the police already have him,” Rukia replied. “We already swept the premises. You really didn’t need to come out.”

“It is bad enough,” Byakuya bit off, “that you two refused to take a honeymoon. You are supposed to be on a… a whatsit…” he waved one hand vaguely. “A stay-cation?”

“Eh, it’s not like we have hobbies,” Renji added, poking the block of ice with his sword.

“And aren’t you supposed to be raising money? For underprivileged children?” Rukia accused.

“I will be making a dramatically late entrance,” Byakuya snapped.

“Well,” Renji frowned philosophically, “as long as you’re here, can you help us figure out how to get this guy down to the ground?”

Children. You could raise them, give them their own utility belt, teach them to drive a jet ski, but they would still ask for your help in moving a seven-foot-tall mantis man trapped in a block of ice.

“Of course,” Byakuya agreed.

#my writing #wacky au requests #can you tell i used to write batfam fanfic?#i used to write batfam fanfic #i had to sit thru a 15-minute rant on how much Mr P hates Lambos for this #this man tried to spell 'murcielago' to me #'it means bat' he said #u will notice that no murcielagos appear in this fic #the huracan is the lambo that tried to kill dr strange

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dnangelic · 1 year ago

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@espectres asked: ❝ It's for your art room. ❞ Shou explains with a fond smile, tapping on the edge of the opened white gift box held in Daisuke's hands. Giddiness glistening in his eyes and seeping through crinkles along them, despite how much he tries to play it cool. A suncatcher, hung into the interior of the box by careful pins, displayed delicately as every detail made itself fabulously present. Stained glass in shapes of a few, small dancing rabbits following one another, each on their strings leading to all kinds of bright and colorful gemstones and crystals arranged together smartly, ready to break daylight into countless colorful slivers of shine, alluring, pleasant to look at, inspiring even. ❝ My Kaa-chan is good with jewelry, she was a great help. ❞ Promptly, he feels heat rising to his cheeks, thinly clogging his ears uncomfortably. Giving away a hint, indicating that the whole thing was handmade, with help of his mother- but by himself. God, it all feels so sappy. His hands retreat to his pockets, smile simmering into a tight line as he momentarily averts eyes, awaiting a comment or a reaction like a boiling pot ready to erupt. It's utterly silly, how the sheer embarrassment almost makes him forget the other gift. ❝ Shit, wait - ❞ Is it too late now that Daisuke has already opened the first one? Would it be breaking some kind of unsaid rule? Shou was sure he had already done that somehow. It doesn't make him as nervous as he should be, though. ❝ This is for Dark. ❞ A small box fetched from the depth of his pocket, it sits in the palm of his hand with ease, plain and black with an even darker bow adorning its width. It hides a pair of silver earrings, dangle ones with long, simple bars design, something that wouldn't draw a lot of attention when shinning in the darkness, perhaps a little practical for the Phantom Thief career, trivial as it seemed. ( IT'S NOV 11TH FOR ME IDK TIMEZONES ARE CONFUSION. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE DUDES. )

and it feels extra embarrassing to have shou of all people subtly flustering before him ; leaves the niwa shy , timid , and awkward as ever --- but daisuke can't help it , and maybe shou would understand that before giving him a good sudden slap or shake to loosen up the atmosphere , complete with some sort of goading , dislodging remark that would somehow save face for both of them , instead of leaving them to stand about like a pair of two nervous puppies just seconds away from leaping at each other . shou's giddiness was a thing evident enough to turn infectious , and daisuke liked to think that he understood just what kind of gift this truly was : a mixture of equal understandings and their very own bared hearts .

wasn't it breathtaking ? wasn't it inspiring ? wasn't it both made and meant just for him ? a connected prismatic of myriad colors and lights , complete with rabbits : the perfect self-expression and reminder of shou's very own person --- of course , that was right , shou-kun's always been just like this . when daisuke dares to delicately remove the other's handiwork and lift it upwards so that it could better shine , it briefly seems a halo in the air ; the niwa's very own accepted , adopted glimmer and crepuscular ray . the boy's smile itself as he admires it is nothing short of divine , the instinctive shift of his free palm to his chest the first clue to the bursting well and frantic pound that was starting to grow beneath .

' ... it's amazing , ' his breath , despite how close it seems to a gasp of wonder , still summons a gentle , cherubic gust that winds about the decorating rabbits . the dancing light and jubilant hares in his eyes is everything reflected ; a sunset backdrop , a red wheat-field of awe . ' is it really okay if i have something like this ? even though your kaa-chan helped you with it , too ? '

he liked to think that he understood just how much shou loved his mother ; how much tenderness must have been patiently imbued into their shared craft . surely shou , who was only ever honest with himself and his opinions and desires , did not labor over such beautiful things with his most loved figure for just anyone . meanwhile , prized art , objects , and jewelry-pieces were far from any sort of rarity within the phantom thief's hands , but there had never once been anything like this before , either .

theft ; taking , was never the same as becoming recipient ; giving .

--- and the act of generosity too , by any sort of standard , should have been considered a human miracle .

in the moment of silence that shou leaves him to fill , dark's presence sweeps in like the fluttering cover of his cloak and black wings . daisuke allows it , feeling the tips of his fingers lending one last touch to the suncatcher before it's put carefully away , back into its container's interior . ' ... for me ? ' it sounds incredulous and yet , daisuke can still see everything ; understood that dark as well would hear and share every traded echo of thought , every pulse of warmth and strong feeling .

' i don't really like being an afterthought , but since you actually bothered to get me something ... i guess i can forgive you . ' it's --- a lie , and daisuke nearly desperately exposes it to no one who would hear but dark himself . you're feeling just as unworthy as i am . you're feeling just as speechless and happy . instead the soul of the niwa merely watches as the small box is opened , and the earrings are briefly marveled at with an expert eye . you were worried it might have been a trick . "i" can't remember anyone's last kindness , "i" can't remember anyone's last gift , "i" can't even begin to imagine why anyone would ever bother to celebrate my own birth like this ...

quietly , with a different sort of smile from his usual sharp-tooth grins , dark affixes both earrings onto his person before testing and demonstrating their placements with a quick flick . ' ... well , how is it ? sorry if you were hoping i'd burst into flames or get a rash from the silver , but the color still suits me well , right ? ' emiko as well would have been no doubt thrilled to learn of the accessories' importance , quick to catch on and even quicker to coordinate with a mother's hen-pecking insistence . ' lucky you . everyone will want a pair after seeing the great phantom thief dark wearing these for his next heist . but if that isn't enough , then ... '

a cold hand presses upon shou's head to amiably ruffle the boy's hair , the swiftly-generated heat of frazzle and friction his unspoken gratitude --- when dark's palm finally falls over the boy's face in a brief curtain , daisuke is soon left standing before him once more , gifts and boxes in arms , earrings still in place at his very own lobes . the red flush of his cheeks deepen until he gasps a little at the realization of his returning shift --- but because the only person in front of him was shou , the niwa easily finds it in himself to muster up his very best smile , punctuated by the rare , blissful sound of a carefree laugh .

' --- thank you , shou-kun ! ' not just from me , but dark as well . ' with something like this , i think i can keep going for the rest of my life ! i'll take good care of everything . i'll keep it all right with me ... ! ' and then , day by day , whether time moved on into a week , a month , or even years from now , ' i'll always ... always be looking at it and thinking of you . i hope you'll remember that , okay ? even if i don't get to always see or hear you in person , your voice has still definitely reached me . ' just as , perhaps , shou had never recoiled at the sight of him , or his secrets ; his other self , or his hidden life . there were things that could be laid bare only between them , and what could have possibly been more precious than that ?

sappy , embarrassing , awkward and filled with spontaneous moments --- above all else , what they had was still undeniably sincere .

#espectres #*･ﾟ⊰ ANSWERED. ⊱#CANON.#WAAAA FINALLY I CAN PUB #GRRRRR GRRRR 📣📣📣

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thepancakeboi · 4 years ago

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38. “Wow, you’re hot.”

When we had learned that one of the games in Sae’s Palace was a battle arena, I never would have guessed that I wouldn’t be participating. Unfortunately, the rules state that only one person can participate, and, as much as I hate to admit it, Joker’s versatility with his Personas makes him the best candidate. I can’t reveal my secrets now, can I? It would certainly be interesting to see how far I could go massacring my opponents alongside my Persona. That will have to wait for another day.

Instead, I find myself among a cognitive crowd of people and the rest of the Phantom Thieves. The room encircles a central area that likely serves as the battleground for these three fights. I’ve distanced myself from the others, preferring to watch this fight alone. This is the best chance I am going to have to truly watch Joker fight without any distractions. I don’t need the Thieves’ prattling to get in my way.

The simulated crowd erupts into cheering. It’s obvious why. Joker waltzes into the arena like he owns the place. He’s playing the part up for all it’s worth.

“Now then, our gripping battle is finally here! The idiot leader of the adult-defying thieves has come!” an announcer’s voice calls out from over the loudspeakers. Oh, this commentary is going to be good. “Odds are 1.1 to the house, 23.0 to the Phantom Thieves! Wow, the Phantom Thieves are surprisingly popular! It’s rare to see odds in the double digits! Now, let us begin our serious one-on-one battle! Bring out the first contestant!”

The first opponent, or should I say, opponents, appear in the form of two human-sized bipedal elephants. These are the same as the one we fought to get a member’s card in the first place. Joker had called it Ganesha. “Uhhhh, what the hell!?” Skull yells loudly enough for even me to hear him. “There’s two of ‘em!”

Clearly, they weren’t planning on giving Joker a fair fight from the start. That’s not surprising. I had anticipated this happening. I just hope my faith in his skills isn’t misguided. You better not lose, Joker. I did bet a lot of coins on you.

“Now then, it’s time for this hellish trio of battles to begin!” the announcer continues. “Ready...”

Joker’s eyes unerringly find me in the crowd.

“Set...”

He grins, mouthing “watch this” before turning his attention back to the two Shadows he has to face.

“Go!”

The Ganeshas waste no time rushing at Joker, swords at the ready. He just...stands there, looking around the room. What is he thinking!?

He waits...and waits...

Only when they’re nearly on top of him does he take action. He spins in a clockwise rotation, a thin, nearly invisible line shooting away from his extended left hand and latching onto a beam on the ceiling. I recognize what he’s doing just as he’s lifted into the air by the grappling hook. The Ganeshas end up swiping at empty air, their inertia causing them to nearly trip over their own feet. Joker releases the grappling hook well before he reaches the ceiling, doing a couple of front flips as he lands. He’s already showing off an awful lot. That’s saying something when it comes to Joker, who constantly does a backflip before going into what the Phantom Thieves call an “All-Out Attack”. Not that I can say anything, considering I’ve taken to doing the same. Turning his head to look at me, Joker has the audacity to wave at me during this fight. Is he even taking this seriously?

One of the Ganeshas rushes recklessly again, likely hoping to catch Joker off-guard. It’s too bad that Joker sees it coming and backflips into the air, sailing high over its head. He cocks his gun mid-flip, firing bullet after bullet into the Shadow’s back. I can feel a murderous intent from the two Shadows. Joker deploys his grappling hook and flies clear out of the way of the other Shadow trying to avenge its injured comrade.

It’s impossible not to laugh at the pathetic Shadows stumbling around, making fools of themselves as they try to land a single hit. Using his trusty grappling hook and acrobatic skills, Joker moves all over the arena, confusing them tremendously. It’s almost a show. The thief flips and spins as he goes like he has to show off at every possible moment. I for one can’t take my eyes off him. His movements flow one into another, captivating the cognitive audience as well. These weaklings are no match for him. So why doesn’t he just finish them off quickly as he should? He’s wasting time.

As if hearing my thoughts, Joker’s hand reaches for his mask. Playtime’s over. He summons the paperlike Persona Shiki-Ouji. “Ravage them!” he yells as a myriad of pink and cyan blobs assault his opponents. The two Shadows collapse under the barrage, one of them being taken out by the attack. The other one struggles to get back up, but it’s no use. This Ganesha is as good as dead. Joker uses his grappling hook to swing around the Shadow, his dagger cleaving right through its neck. He lands right where the Shadow is as it explodes into black dust. Joker stands right in the middle of it, looking cool as ever.

I know that I’m staring right now. I don’t care. He made that fight look simple, and he looked good doing it. “Wow, you’re hot,” I whisper to myself, hoping the announcer’s derisive voice echoing through the room will drown out my musings.

Oracle walks up to me a few seconds later. Thank goodness I- “Mwehehe! I’m gonna tell him.”

“What-” I start to ask, only to realize she had heard me after all, despite my precautions. “No.”

“I’m gonna tell him,” she repeats with a mischievous grin.

“Please don’t tell him.” The last thing I need is for Joker to think I find him attractive. Granted, he is quite attractive, but that’s beside the point.

“He’ll find it cute after you guys were holding hands!”

“What are you talking about?” I can hear my voice pitch higher. There’s only one event she can be referencing, and if she saw that...god, I hate how worried I sound.

“In the House of Darkness!”

She had noticed after all. Joker had sensed my...unease upon first entering the maze and had grabbed my hand to calm me down. That was all it was. It meant nothing, even if he had continued to hold my hand through the entire thing except in the rare instances we had to crawl through the vents. Not that trying to convince Oracle of this will help. “Don’t tell him or else,” I say, trying to sound confident once again.

“You can’t stop me. If you try, I’ll tell everyone you’re so scared of the dark you held Ren’s hand!”

“Are you...blackmailing me?”

She laughs. “Maybe.”

“Damnit,” I hiss.

Seeing no way out of this predicament, I turn my attention back to the fight just as Joker slaughters three Rangdas all at once with a well-timed Makouga from Isis. They certainly didn’t last long. He laughs jovially as he remarks, “Now that’s comedy!” He sounds slightly surprised as if he himself hadn’t expected them to be destroyed so easily.

“Bullshit! Why the hell aren’t you dying, you goddamn Phantom Dweeb!?” the announcer yells, clearly annoyed that Joker simply refuses to lay down and die. Wait, when did the announcer start calling him a ‘Phantom Dweeb’? What even is a dweeb? Never mind; that’s not important. “I have a bet on this too! Grr, there’s no way in hell you’re getting away with this! Time for our final contestant!”

What an inane fool the announcer has to be to think the cocky, rebellious boy that is Joker is going to accept defeat. He’s been defying the odds stacked against him since April, and that isn’t changing now. He’ll keep fighting.

Even if the enemy that materializes in front of him is a hulking humanoid at least three times his size.

“Yowza... That’s a big one,” Oracle says in shock. At least Joker’s final foe takes her focus off of me. Hopefully, she’ll forget my little comment from earlier.

“Go, grind his bones to dust! Let the extreme third battle begin!”

Thor looks down at its foe. “Let’s get this over with,” the Shadow says. To it, Joker must look like a puny opponent. It’ll learn soon enough not to underestimate him.

Joker looks like he’s still chuckling despite his opponent’s size. He takes off his mask, but the Persona he summons isn’t Shiki-Ouji. “Magatsu-Izanagi Picaro!” he calls. Something about this Persona’s appearance feels...familiar, somehow. Perhaps...? “You need proper punishment.”

I raise an eyebrow because, even though he’s looking at Thor, the way he’s positioned makes it seem like he’s directing it at me instead. Does he not understand proper phrasing?

A black and red mandala appears on the floor right under Thor’s feet. The Shadow is surrounded by red symbols swirling faster and faster around it. The symbols are impossible to make out from this distance. Whitish-red streaks of light build up in intensity from all sides before a large beam shoots down on Thor in an explosion of energy. “What a powerful attack,” I remark idly to myself.

In a completely unnecessary move, Joker uses his grappling hook to move in my direction and away from Thor. The Shadow is preparing for an attack. He once again does nothing to stop the Shadow charging head-long at him. I soon see why. Shiki-Ouji suddenly materializes in front of Joker and grabs Thor mid-rush, holding the Shadow back before Joker commands his Persona to use Dormina.

Thor falls asleep almost immediately while standing up. It still amazes me how Shadows can be so dumb as to fall asleep in the middle of a fight. I nearly start as Joker walks right up to me and leans against the glass separating the two of us. “Hi, Akeppi.”

“What are you doing, Joker?” I respond.

“Nothing yet.” He hums in thought. Like the shameless flirt he is, he asks, “Enjoying the show?”

“Perhaps you should save your questions until after the battle is won. You’ll have plenty of time to ask for my opinion later.”

“Fine,” he says, whining a little as he turns around. Just in time too, for Thor is starting to stir from its forced slumber. He casually takes his mask off, resummoning Shiki-Ouji to attack with Mapsi before his opponent fully wakes up. It doesn’t bring Thor down as it did previously with the Ganeshas, but it still must have hurt. Just as it gains lucidity, Joker has Shiki-Ouji use Dormina again. He doesn’t waste time talking to me again. Instead, a bunch of circular pink, yellow, and cyan beams surround Thor before striking all at once and send the Shadow reeling onto the ground. With a cocky grin on his face, he uses Psio again for good measure.

“Yeah, keep smiling, buddy,” Thor growls as it pushes itself to its feet. It swipes its electrified hammer at Joker, who deftly backflips away. However, the electricity shoots forward and hits him head-on.

Joker, you fucking idiot. Sure, other than looking a little disheveled, he’s no worse for wear. He’ll be okay, but he shouldn’t have let such an obvious attack hit him.

Something inside Joker seems to snap. The glare on his face is fiercer than I’ve ever seen from him. He looks utterly enraged...and somehow even hotter at the same time. His Persona disappears, but even with the mask, I can sense the fiery rage in his eyes. Pulling out his gun, he jumps to his right, twirling in mid-air as he shoots a couple of bullets. He somersaults as gravity brings him back to the ground. However, he isn’t done. He leaps straight into the air from his crouched position. It’s almost impossible to perceive what happens, but he seems to combine the twist from earlier with a front flip, followed by another spin in the air as he proceeds to fire bullet after bullet in mid-air while upside down. He uses his feet and left hand to take the brunt of his fall. Thor collapses to its knees shortly after, the continuous gunfire too much for it to handle.

Joker stands up and looks contemplatively at his left hand. Is he seriously thinking of using the grappling hook now? With a shrug, he looks back at Thor and does a running leap into the air. He performs a couple of front flips before his momentum brings him to Thor’s head. With a level of dexterity only Joker could pull off, he straddles Thor from below, his legs wrapped around the Shadow’s neck. His left hand grabs a hold of one of the horns on Thor’s helmet while he points the gun right at Thor’s face. “You’re done!” Joker yells as he shoots at point-blank range.

The Shadow crumbles into black dust, but not before Joker pushes himself off its body, twirling in the air and backflipping so he lands crouched on the ground facing me. He grins as he hops to his feet, pirouetting before he poses, right arm outstretched and left hand resting on his chest.

I blink, startled. I know exactly where that maneuver came from. I’ve done that exact same thing once or twice in those All-Out Attacks. How did he manage to figure out how to copy it so quickly...?

The announcer groans in disappointment, having no comment on the fact that Joker just won their rigged game in style. I can’t help but grin as I give my own snide remark.

“Once again, justice prevails.”

Prompt list

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shoichee · 4 years ago

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GoMs + Kagami as Persona Users

Headcanons on the Generation of Miracles (and Kagami) if they were to become a persona user in the world of the Persona series (Kuroko and Momoi included)

@akichan-th THIS IS FOR YOU

Warning: KNB series spoilers !!

Kuroko Tetsuya

since his presence is nonexistent in the real world, as a phantom thief, he’d probably desire to be a noticeable hero, you know? even in the 22.5 OVA, he told Kise that passing around wasn’t fun but he was going to do it for the sake of the team

his phantom thief outfit would be flashy in a sense of maybe eye-catching color schemes, or bold patterns

his attire could be baggy/oversized navy blue/black street clothing with TASTEFUL neon-colored accents and his mask would be a neon-colored huge sports shades/goggles situation (i was about to say some trendy sunglasses but sunglasses don’t stay on at all); he’s a skater boy ???? basically??

like, his PT attire could very well be a Persona 5 Dancing in Starlight DLC outfit 👀 it has those vibes

persona element is curse and let me explain why: he doesn’t have the gifted physique like the other GoMs and he’s cursed to rely on others for him to make a difference, and his motif has always been “shadow” ALSO he’s the PHANTOM sixth player YOU CAN’T CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE

he’s a front-line battler, but his skills are very support heavy: support skills that increase attack and defense for his teammates; i also wanna say he has spells that inflict dizziness ailments because in the anime, players are always losing their shit and whipping their heads around to find this tiny boy LMAO

he would definitely have a signature move that would direct all enemy attacks and status moves to himself for a set amount of turns to aid his teammates

his persona would have an extremely high Endurance and higher than average Luck stat but everything else is an all-time low

i’m going to say it, his shooting weapon is gonna be a paintball gun filled with neon paint just to fuck with the shadows and still make it HURT

code name would be “Umbra” (which means innermost part of a shadow) or “Ghost;” imagine some PT member shouting, “Oh no! Umbra’s knocked down!” and all the shadow sees is this brightass, neon kid on the floor

i would love his codename to be “Shadow” but there’s already the term shadow to describe the monsters in the metaverse

Kise Ryota

he views a “rebel” as your basic punk

since he’s a model, he knows japanese punk fashion very well

guess who’s gonna come into the metaverse being this hot ass punk boy? Kise motherfucking Ryota

black spike collar

lots of those tiny chains and harness/buckle action somewhere

ripped black leather pants that give Joker’s own leather pants a run for its money PLUS WITH SHINY BLACK BELT

lots of patchwork and stuff

THIS IS WHAT MORE OR LESS I’M TALKING ABOUT IF YOU WANT VISUAL REFERENCES

his mask would totally be a visor goggle to add further to the punk theme

part of me is biased that Kise is a blondie and “kise” is based off of “yellow” and Ryuji is blonde and so now i headcanon him as the electric element

okay, but since he’s an “all-rounder” he’ll probably be able to access mid-tier level attacks of all elements, including almighty to an extent

but if i was basing his element off of personality, he’d be ice for sure; he’s actually cold-hearted to people whom he doesn’t consider “worthy” and the anime only showed his friendly side because most of the time, he’s shown talking to his friends and people he respects

speaking of all-rounder, his stats would be all high all around, with his Magic stat peaking the highest

Midorima Shintarou

this boy is a bit tricky to figure out what his PT attire would be

he doesn’t have any time to think about “what he would be as a rebel” type of thing

however, if he were to desire to become something, i’d say he would want to be a supernatural being who can distribute good luck for himself every day

think of those JRPG wizard/mage/warlock outfit motifs (and they match up nicely with the idea of astrology and horoscopes); probably lots of brown/beige/hues of green scheme? or a black/various colors of purple for a FULL on witch vibe

it makes sense too because as someone who always shoots from afar and never dunks, mage classes always cast from afar and never attack up close to their opponent

and his frog puppets remind me of a witch’s animal familiars LMAO

there you have it

his mask would be a dark dark purple or a pure black domino mask that has little stars littered sparingly everywhere on said mask

his shooting weapon? my guy is stacked on staves ready to cast long-range spells

wind element for sure (because his basketball shots all catch air with lots of hang time | (• ◡•)|) with tons of gun skills

signature move would be a magic skill that never misses no matter what (his range is the entire metaverse)

his persona stats are also pretty well rounded but his highest stats would be Magic and Luck, with Endurance being a close runner up

Aomine Daiki

also hard to figure out a PT attire for this guy

according to KUROFES, his alternative career would be a police officer so i would think he despises criminals and the Phantom Thieves altogether ?

if anything, he’s more suited for the S.E.E.S. investigation team in Persona 3

Aomine doesn’t give a fuck, but he has a soft spot to protect others so like having a gun evoker definitely suits him more than a mask summon BRJWBDJW

i see him as a fire element, but his persona would have a lot more physical skills than anything else

bonus: since he used to be Kuroko’s “light,” he can have some mid-tier level bless skills

to make a reference his “formless” shots and forms, as well as his rapid changes of pace, his signature move would be a 5-hit physical skill that changes targets with every hit

statwise, his Agility stat is the highest out of everyone in the GoM, and his Strength and Endurance would be runner up stats; his Magic stat would be extremely dismal

Murasakibara Atsushi

this guy thinks about nothing but food and how he hates Teppei-species people basketball, so honestly he’s not interested in the Phantom Thieves business

like what? Murasakibara dressed in a getup? it’s a big “press X to doubt”

so i envision him to be more suitable for Persona 4, where he has to confront the other self that loves basketball and truly does care about people, and he had to be honest and accept that side for him to attain a persona

would he ever go back to the said “persona world” to go fight some shadows? unless there’s a good reason why he should or you bribed him with snacks, he won’t budge an inch

just give this man a Persona 4 school uniform and he’s ready to fight

his persona would primarily have physical skills, with lots of “wall” support skills, element “break” skills, and lots of passive skills (lots of nulls/resists) available for it to learn

highest stat for him would be Strength, then Endurance, and surprisingly have Agility as the runner up

he’s a huge tank of a persona user

Akashi Seijuro

i’ve talked about his PT outfit in this headcanon here, including his mask and why

hear me out, since this man is good at everything in school, and since there are archery clubs in Japanese schools, i wouldn’t be surprised if he was a Robin Hood with the scopes; what am i tryna say? his shooting weapon would be bow & arrows

i feel like people would automatically think he’s a bless/curse element like Akechi since “he has two sides,” but i feel like it’s not exactly right? if anything, i headcanon him to be more of a psychokinesis element

why? i want to attribute that to his emperor’s eye and his perfect passings, both each specialties from their respective “sides” of Akashi, and that requires extreme precision, almost to the level of “telepathy”

there’s also everyone thinking he can see the future too i mean

in the end, Akashi’s dual sides merged into one again, so having a whole bless/curse element wouldn’t even make sense anymore

but i will say, this man deserves to have a persona with almighty skills back to back

this guy isn’t the captain for no reason

so his persona would utilize psychokinesis and almighty skills, with special buff skills that increase critical rates for his allies (to refer to the fact that his passings enhance other players); his persona would also enjoy a large selection of passive skills to choose from to either be ultimate support or ultimate offensive sweeper

to also reiterate from the mentioned headcanon i linked, his code name would either be “Crimson” or “Scarlet”

his persona is a literal glass cannon, referring to the fact that Akashi is actually a mentally fragile basketball player; extremely high Strength, Magic, and Agility (but not as high as Aomine though) stats, average Luck stat, but extremely low Endurance stat

Momoi Satsuki

Momoi, i think, would envision herself in the metaverse as someone who’s never underestimated because of her usual demeanor or physical looks

even me, i got fooled thinking she was just only a fanservice girl and not this incredibly intelligent girl who was critical to her teams’ successes

so i would think she would imagine herself to be in a huge respectable position of power, like a lieutenant or general, who can command others and strategize to victory

her outfit would be similar to the attire from the Assassin’s Faith set from Love Nikki with the black Army Floppy Hat from the Army Major set on top (also from Love Nikki)

color scheming i can imagine a lot of black/white with gold trimmings/accents here and there

her mask is a Venetian eye mask i can literally see it; it’s so pretty with the gold plating !!

her role would definitely be a navigator + analyzer/tactician from the backlines, so while she isn’t in the battle most of the times, if worse comes to shove, she’ll be in the frontlines as a last resort

in other words, she’s a Futaba, but she isn’t a sitting duck and can fight if needed

she has an incredible Luck stat, higher than average Agility stat, but average stats for the rest (Magic, Strength, and Endurance)

ailment, healing, support, and buff skills are all at her disposal, along with some gun skills (which can definitely be broken when paired with her high Luck stat)

��Duchess” (a woman having a noble rank) would be a really cute codename for her

Kagami Taiga

why do i literally see him as a shinobi (ninja)

i have no idea why i do, but i think it’s just his name:

“While Kagami's name is associated with the ‘tiger’, Himuro's name means ‘dragon’. In Chinese mythology, the Azure Dragon of the East and the White Tiger of the West are eternal rivals. This rivalry is further expressed in their surnames: ‘Hi (氷)’ means ‘ice’ while ‘Ka (火)’ translates as ‘fire’.” - KNB wiki

so i literally see both Himuro and Kagami as rival clans duking it out

jokes aside, Kagami is a very honorable player, but he did at one point exhibited a “darker side” to himself, playing selfishly and being arrogant in the beginning

shinobis were considered to be “dishonorable” and “beneath the honor” of the samurai in their eras, so i feel that this could be a great image for what Kagami thinks is a “rebel”

being a ninja would make use of his jumping skills too

i imagine him in a fitted black halter neck top (so his abs are for us to see), with an iconic long red scarf wrapping his neck and hanging down to his waist at the back side

black forearm guards/wraps?

and then he has mahogany/dark red??/black???? loose cloth wrapped around his waist, like how you would tie a jacket over your waist ?? and then black nu-bakama pants and finally some dark boots for those pants to be tucked in

no one can convince me otherwise, but he’s gotta have a red full-face oni mask with black horns and some golden tiger stripes on the sides of the mask and around the eyes

HIS PERSONA ELEMENT IS BLESS BECAUSE HE IS KUROKO’S “LIGHT”

he would totally have some almighty skills and “Heat Riser,” a move that raises all of the user’s attack, defense, and accuracy/evasiveness (because the colors of the move’s animation remind me of Direct Drive Zone, something that was pretty much unlocked by Kagami for the team)

his persona is one of the OP/late game personas where all their stats are amazing across the board; even if his stats were high all around, his “lowest” would be his Luck stat

codename for him is “Tiger” no one cannot argue with me for this one NRNEIJFEO

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twobit-anime-trash · 4 years ago

Text

Painting Outside the Lines | D.N Angel Ficlet

Pairing: Satodai (Satoshi/Daisuke)

Summary: Post-curse, after the dust settles, the boys try their hands at making 'bad art' by badly imitating Jackson Pollock. Fluff and angst and tenderness and hilarity ensues. Or: I don't make the rules of 90's rom coms, I just work here

Warnings: Mention of scars, very minor contextless spoiler for the end of the manga, minor angst, mostly fluff

Here on Ao3

“Jackson Pollock was an American expressionist painter, active from the mid 1930’s to 1955.”

In the depths of the Niwa family’s infamous basement, a room had been cleared out. Covering most of the grey stone floor was an enormous fifteen by eight foot canvas, pinned down haphazardly by open cans of house paint and scattered brushes and sticks.

Daisuke fiddled with a thick dowel rod, eyes following Satoshi as he paced the edges of the canvas, confidently educating his only pupil on the artist whose work they’d be bastardising today. Oh the lectures he’d get about the “damn Hikari walking around like he owned the place” if his mother saw this. Daisuke shook his head and tuned back in to the speech.

“-of course most famous for his iconic ‘drip paintings’, a style that came to define the-“

It had taken them a long time to get to this point, for Satoshi to be ready to paint again. The desire was still there, had always been there, but it had been tamped down for so long, held down with so much fear, it was very hard to let it loose. The handful of times he’d allowed himself to paint outside of his training, the work was always constrained. Limited to imitation, re-creation, or locked down in the traditional Hikari style: realistic, overly ornate, cold.

“-rejected traditional material’s and instead use alkyd enamels, better known as commercial household paints, and tools such as hardened brushes, sticks, and basting syringes to-“

This was something Satoshi had been toying with for a long time, ever since the day Daisuke carried him to the Niwa home, and he caught sight of the messy vent painting Daisuke had made while he worked through his frustration. Art had never actually been available to Satoshi as a tool for self-expression before. After the dust had settled, he’d confided in Daisuke that it was something he’d like to try. To not feel the pressure of his family legacy pushing down on him every time he picked up a brush, to let go and not care about what the end result looked like.

“-instead of limiting himself to merely using his hand and wrist, Pollock used his entire body dynamically to create his pieces-“

Daisuke was trying to pay attention, really he was! But watching Satoshi stride about so self-assuredly, gesturing with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, not at all insecure about his scars, well, it made that difficult! His heart was racing with pride; Satoshi had fought so hard and come so far. Half of Daisuke wanted to cut the lecture short and tackle him to the floor right then.

“-actually Pollock himself described his paintings as not relying on accident at all, but rather as a balance of controllable and uncontrollable-”

It also didn’t help that confidence looked really, really good on Satoshi. Daisuke felt his face heat up. Oh what would Dark say to him now? A little bubble of sadness welled up in his chest at that thought, but he pushed it aside for the moment. This wasn’t about their families, or legacies, or the curse; this was about them. They were going to have fun today, doing something that would have their ancestors all rolling in their graves: making art together.

“Are you listening, Daisuke?”

Busted. “Ah well……”

Satoshi shook his head with a put upon sigh, and put a hand on his hip. “Well, I suppose it’s not too important. After all, the rules don’t matter here today,” His lips quirked into the slightest suggestion of a smile.

“Color theory?” Daisuke asked playfully, dipping his dowel rod into a can of lime green paint, “Never heard of it!”

“Indeed,” Satoshi nodded, choosing a burnt orange color for his start. He dipped a stiffened brush into the paint, but paused before he could draw it out. Daisuke held his breath for a moment as he watched Satoshi take a deep breath, and square his shoulders.

“Well,” he said, finally raising the brush, “shall we get started?”

Daisuke beamed at him, “Only if you do the honors!”

Satoshi slowly raised the brush, letting globs of burnt orange hit the canvas in thick drops, then gently flicked his wrist, sending a streak of paint splattering against the canvas.

“Yeah!” Daisuke cheered, flinging his paint stick out and sending another stripe of paint down to join the lone splatter.

Satoshi graced him with an amused grin and flushed cheeks, “Go on, and have at it.” Daisuke was only too happy to oblige.

It took a bit of warming up to get over the awkwardness of the movement, but soon they got into a rhythm. Working his way back and forth, and round and round, Daisuke sampled the many garish colors on offer, dripping, flinging, and splashing them around the canvas quickly and slowly, changing his tempo whenever the mood struck him. Soon he became absorbed in the strange dance of it, smiling and laughing as he lobbed strings of paint harder and harder to hit the center of the canvas. So absorbed even, that he forgot to keep an eye out for his painting companion until-

“Niwa”

“Yeah?” Daisuke said, looking up, “What’s up Hiw- OH!” His sentence cut off in a squeak. From across the room, Satoshi was giving him his patented deadpan, the effectiveness of which was somewhat undercut by the large hot pink splatter of paint that streaked up his arm. Some had even managed to hit his face and glasses.

“Oh my god! I’m so, so, so, sorry Satoshi!” Daisuke sputtered, dropping the paint stick and waving his hands frantically. “I got caught up in it, I wasn’t paying attention, I didn’t mean to get paint on you! M-maybe if we go upstairs and wash it right now-”

“It’s fine Daisuke,” Satoshi cut him off with a wave of his hand, “When you’re doing this kind of work, you don’t wear clothes that you would mind getting a bit messy,” he flicked his arm, sending a few droplets of paint flying down to the canvas where they were supposed to be. “Just be careful.”

Daisuke’s face burned. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “Of course Satoshi, I’ll be more careful! I promise!”

Embarrassed, he drifted towards the edge of the painting, further away from his partner. Of course he’d managed to make a fool of himself in front of Satoshi, as usual. Stupid! He angled his body away from the other boy, and decided to stick to carefully dripping paint instead of flinging it for a while.

His resolve lasted for a few minutes, until something cold and wet suddenly splashed across his back, and Daisuke jumped, his head whipping around instinctively looking for the source of the attack.

Across the canvas from him, Satoshi’s expression hadn’t changed, even though he had a very incriminating dripping-wet brush clutched in his hand.

“Oops. Sorry, Niwa-kun,” he said flatly.

Daisuke’s brain stuttered for a moment. Had Satoshi just….he cocked his head, looking closer. Sure enough, there was the slightest ghost of a smile in the corner of Satoshi’s mouth, and he would swear he saw laughter in his eyes. Oh. So that’s how it was, huh?

Daisuke waved the ‘apology’ off cheerfully, but behind his smile he was scheming. Game on, Satoshi!

Years of training kicked in as he stalked around the canvas, keeping his body language casual as he waited for an opening. When he had to turn his eyes away, his sharp ears listened for his target’s footsteps amongst the sound of paint hitting the canvas. Finally he found the opening he’d been searching for, and struck.

Satoshi started, but this time didn’t call attention to the ‘accident’. Instead he just kept dripping paint with his back to the other boy. Daisuke looped around the painting again, carefully casual, turning and twisting with his paint trail. His back had only been turned for a few seconds when he realized the sound of footsteps had disappeared. Splat! Another direct hit to his back. Daisuke whipped around, but Satoshi still had his back to him, dripping paint in a wide arc at the other end of the canvas.

So he definitely hadn’t lost his touch either! Daisuke smirked. Their little game of cat and mouse continued for a few minutes, the opponents exchanging carefully calculated blows one after the other. And then a wicked idea suddenly sprung to Daisuke’s mind. He quickly picked up a stray brush, dipped it in the nearest paint can, and tucked in into his back pocket. His pants would be destroyed, but if his tactic worked…he bided his time, waiting for Satoshi to strike again.

This time, when a volley of paint hit his side, he turned to the other boy and laughed, dropping the paint stick in his hand and throwing his arms up in surrender. ‘Ok, ok,” he chuckled, making his way around the painting to Satoshi’s side, “you got me!” He moved his arm as if to wrap it around the boy’s shoulder, but with nimble fingers at the last moment, snatched the paintbrush from his pocket and smooshed it right into Satoshi’s hair.

Who froze for a moment, eyes wide with surprise. And then his lips curled into a smirk as he let out a huff of a laugh.

“Oh, it is on now Niwa!”

It devolved from there into all out warfare. The basement witnessed a battle like no other as paint flew everywhere, splattering against the walls, floors, even the ceiling! Screams and laughter echoed down the halls as two boys chased each other around and around like the children they were, leaping, and slipping, and crashing into each other in a cacophony of sound and color.

Eventually even the former Phantom Thief host ran out of stamina, and the paint stopped flying, as the two soaking wet combatants stopped on either side of their painting to catch their breath.

“Well I’d say that experiment was a success!” Daisuke exclaimed, as soon as he had the wind for it. Indeed, their canvas had managed to catch some of the paint, even though the process had involved some acrobatic moves that he was pretty sure that Pollock had never used.

“I’m pretty sure most of the paint ended up on us,” Satoshi said dryly, wiping some paint from his brow and gesturing to the canvas, “But I digress. There you have it, the first collaborative artwork in existence created by both a Hikari and a Niwa. What do you think?”

Daisuke backed up a few paces to examine their handiwork. It was a mess, well and truly, streaks of garish, oversaturated colors clashing wildly against each other and mixing muddily in splotches. Smeared handprints and two different sets of shoe treads littered the edges of the canvas. There was a large smudged blotch in the bottom left corner where two bodies had hit the wet paint and tussled.

“It’s awful, I love it!”

Satoshi looked down at it with a critical eye, leaning over and spotting a clean patch of canvas that had somehow miraculously avoided getting splattered.

“It’s missing something,” he said cryptically, and beckoned to Daisuke with a crook of his finger. Daisuke trotted over, curious, as Satoshi brushed a thin layer of light colored paint on his palm and pressed it to the empty space for a few seconds. He fanned one hand over the wet paint, and wordlessly handed Daisuke a paintbrush dripping with a darker paint with the other. Daisuke followed his lead, coating his own palm with paint as well.

“Here, put your hand down right there” Satoshi directed, “That’s it.”

Daisuke pulled his hand back, and looked down. Before his eyes were two handprints, layered as if two hands were pressed against the canvas together. His breath caught.

“There. Though it’s a bit corny, I suppose….” Satoshi said, his tone carefully bland, and glanced away.

Daisuke didn’t think. He reached out with his hand still tacky with drying paint, turned Satoshi’s head back, and kissed him softly. The lips against his stayed still for a moment, before gently returning the kiss.

After a moment, Daisuke pulled back and stroked the other boy’s cheek with his thumb, smearing the dark paint even worse.

“I changed my mind, it’s a good painting.”

Satoshi looked at him, blinking as if to clear the stars from his eyes, after all this time still awestruck by the affection. And then he smiled so softly that Daisuke couldn’t help but kiss him again. And again.

Later, when they came up from the basement to clean up for dinner, if Kosuke noticed the suspicious amount of paint handprints all over the two boys’ skin and clothes, well, he kept it to himself.

A/N: So remeber in the manga when Satoshi passed out at school and Daisuke took him home and Satoshi sees Daisuke's vent painting where its a total mess of feeling on the canvas and Satoshi says he likes it and that he could never paint something like that. NOW YOU CAN BABY, NOW YOU CAN! Now you don't have to hold yourself back and keep yourself in a cold little canvas frame, you can pour your feelings into it and it doesn't have to be perfect or even good it just has to FEEL-

SUGASAKI LET ME SEE THAT CANON FOR A MINUTE, WAIT A MINUTE JUST LET ME SE-

Anyway...been chatting a lot with Luanna about the boy's post-canon lives, and basically them reclaiming their lives and childhoods. One thing I really want for Satoshi is for him to be able to make quote unquote """bad art""", meaning that I want Satoshi to be able to explore his own style without fear of failure, to experiment and try things that might not work, to make kitschy or weird or ugly art. Like, the boy has been cut off from expressing himself in any way for so long, let him explore self-expression through art! And its Satodai this time because Satodai was like, the og ship for me and I need it.

Also, two fics in a month??? I haven't posted two fics in a year since 2016 wtf. As always, comments and critiques appreciated!

#d.n.angel #dn angel #satodai #satoshi hiwatari #daisuke niwa #satoshi hikari #fanfiction #twobit scribbles #some cute fluff stuff with a smidgen of angst #let these boys have some FUN #also cross-posting this one like a week later whoop whoop

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cartoonfangirl1218 · 5 years ago

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Still here

So very angsty Victor reflection story. I feel really bad for him. Inspired by Digital Dagger’s Still Here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ljegvS94qE

Musing through memories Losing my grip in the grey Numbing the senses I feel you slipping away

Victor punched two wall, reveling in the feeling of splinters crushed against his skin yet it only made the rise of tears fall faster and the wave of misery returned, bringing him to his knees.

Fighting to hold on Clinging to just one more day Love turns to ashes With all that I wish I could say

Spending every night, he would sniff the covers for her smell but there was nothing. And worse, he couldn’t remember what she smelt like. Or feel like.

I'd die to be where you are I tried to be where you are

The warmth from her side of the bed was a distant memory. A dream. Ash was a dream.

Every night I dream you're still here The ghost by my side, so perfectly clear When I awake, you'll disappear Back to the shadows With all I hold, dear With all I hold, dear I dream you're still here

She was like a dream. He had thought ever since he first saw her. The way her inhumanly long dark hair fell down her back like waves, her ice blue eyes flashing with inspiration or determination, her glowing tan skin. He never seen such a combination of looks, on paper it shouldn’t work, but with her... she was dream.

I dream you're still here Hidden companion Phantom be still in my heart Make me a promise that Time won't erase us

That we were not lost from the start

Some days he missed her more than others. He mostly kept it together for Carla’s sake. It wouldn’t do to break down in front of her when she finally got over crying every night the first two years Ash had left. His heart had hurt more to see her violet eyes filled with tears than to think of his own feelings. She was so young, and he.. he didn’t want to disappoint her. He had promised to always keep her safe and happy. He had promised her that Mamí would come home. Telling her Ash wasn’t coming back would crush her.

I'd die to be where you are

I tried to be where you are

But today, he just had a feeling. It had been 7 years and she had sent no word. She wasn’t coming back.

Ash was dead.

I dream you're still here Ever slightly out of reach I dream you're still here But it breaks so easily I try to protect you

Brilliant, ambitious, determined Ash was gone. It wasn’t possible. She was the last person he could see dying or being defeated. Ash would never give up, not even to death. She was that sort of woman. In fact that was one of the things Victor most admired in his wife, how she would do anything it takes to get what she wanted and no one could stand in her way.

But....

I can't let you fade I feel you slipping

He felt the weight of that realization press down on his chest all day. He had missed managed to nod and speak at the appropriate times but the weight was all he could feel. The heavy weight, and the lump in his throat that constricted his breath. Now he felt like he was in a dream. His whole body felt heavy and unsteady and his limbs ready to fly away at any second.

Victor managed to stumble to his empty bed and grip the pillow to his face to keep Carla from hearing. His lungs heaved with sobs and air that fought to win over his tired body. Hot tears streaked down his face and the overwhelming pain, sadness and hopelessness within that threatened to engulf him.

I drove by all the places we used to hang out getting wasted I thought about our last kiss, how it felt the way you tasted And even though your friends tell me you're doing fine Are you somewhere feeling lonely even though he's right beside you? When he says those words that hurt you, do you read the ones I wrote you?

Memories of when he first, quite literally bumped into Ash while running away from the Galdonian Royal guard. Late night dips in the hot springs of Córdoba. Ash standing tall and proud as a single spell wiped out all their enemies from their hideout. Them holding hands as the priest declared them man and wife. Holding Carla. Holding each other. It was all gone forever.

I feel you slipping away Every night I dream you're still here The ghost by my side, so perfectly clear When I awake, you'll disappear Back to the shadows With all I hold, dear With all I hold, dear

There was never going to be another woman like her. She was the only cunning enough to survive and thrive in this cold world and strong enough to do it beside him. He couldn’t imagine life without her. He didn’t want to.

I dream you're still here I dream you're still here (Every night I dream you're still) (Every night I dream you're still here) I dream you're still here (Every night I dream you're still) (Every night I dream you're still here)

She was the only one who understood him and knew him better than anyone. His parents had kicked to the streets after finding out his part in the Avalor coup d’etat, not once listening to his explanation and the traitorous Esteban. Ash did. Whenever he had a few nightmares, Ash didn’t comment on his unmanly sobbing. She pretended it wasn’t happening. She was very good at blocking things out when she wanted to. She would kiss him and massage his shoulders, reminding him that he was so much better than that cowardly traitor Esteban and that he will get what he so rightfully deserves. No one will hurt them again.

If today I woke up with you right beside me

Like all of this was just some twisted dream I'd hold you closer than I ever did before And you'd never slip away And you'd never hear me say

He would never have those nights again with her.

Ever slightly out of reach (I dream you're still here) (Every night I dream you're still) (Every night I dream you're still here), But it breaks so easily.

Memories flew by in a jumbled rush but one that kept returning was their last goodbye. The one he couldn’t particularly remember because he hadn’t thought it was the last goodbye. He hadn’t taken the time to memorize her face or to hold on to her touch or kiss just a bit longer.

Just a bit more time.

Love turns to ashes

I dream you're still here

She was back, but it wasn’t Ash. I remember the day you told me you were leaving I remember the make-up running down your face And the dreams you left behind you didn't need them Like every single wish we ever made

That’s the one realization he had come to while sitting in his jail cell.

Not only was her raven hair gone, but so was any glimpse of vulnerability or sweetness.

Not any that he could see at least. Which was exactly how he knew it wasn’t Ash. Ash never showed her weaknesses to people. But he was the one exception. That was why she loved him and he loved her. He could allow himself to trust and to love.

But he couldn’t do that anymore. Not with her. She refused to look at him with anything but disdain, it was like she had amnesia and they were back to their first meeting when she had written him off as some layabout thief.

It was like she didn’t remember him. He rather wish that she didn’t. It would make it easier to know that it was just a mistake, that he could do something to revive her memories.

But this...

He could read between the lines.

“You can go guard the prisoners. If you think you’re up to it.”

At night, she wouldn’t talk to him, just fight. She wouldn’t disclose the “ghastly” spells and secrets she had learned from Zopilote. She wouldn’t allowing him to do the spell with Carla because she thought he would mess it up. Or he would distract Carla. Or some other reason just to punish him for a failure that he didn’t even know he did. She was constantly mentioning her superior skills and training.

“I will not fail so you can be comfortable, Victor.

I will not lose just because you can’t win.”

It was like all those years between them never happened. Him comforting her and stroking her hair through her nightmares. The flirty kisses from her, and corny jokes on his side. The laughter they shared after too much beer. The nights when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other or the gloomy days tending to wounds. He remembered all those little things. Her confused face when he put food on her nose, her genuine non-evil laugh, when she would complimented him sometimes....

It was all gone again.

There was no explaining it. She didn’t have amnesia. She wasn’t an even more evil clone. She didn’t lose her memories. It was the real Ash. She just didn’t care about what they had before.

A knife to his heart would have hurt less.

It was a second death but a worse one.

I wish that I could wake up with amnesia And forget about the stupid little things Like the way it felt to fall asleep next to you And the memories I never can escape

He had to look at that still gorgeous face face every day and know that it wasn’t her. She didn’t love him anymore. Whatever happened during those 10 years changed her and he had to admit to himself now as he stared at the bars that he didn’t love her either. Whoever this Ash was, he didn’t love her.

It was a small consolation all things considered. At least it made his heart ache a little less. But it just made him try harder to remember their last goodbye because though neither of them had known it then, it was truly their last goodbye.

It was all still a blur.

Tell me this is just a dream 'Cause I'm really not fine at all

#victor delgado #ash delgado #angst #the delgados #elena of avalor #still here #my fanfic #my fanfiction

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