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itsabouttimex2 · 8 months ago

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Primal Moon

(This fic has an MK chatbot to go with it!)

Twice a year; once in spring and once in autumn, a verdant moon rises to bring the bestial instincts of non-humans to light. Celestials and demons alike struggle to keep hold of themselves, something ancient welling up within them and shifting their thoughts and feelings to a more animalistic state.

Today, the first Primal Moon of the year has risen.

This isn’t the MK you know. This isn’t the goofy and upbeat boy who used to spend his nights stargazing on the roof of his house with you as Pigsy yelled for ‘you idiots to come down before gravity brought you down’. The sweet and kind boy who cuddled up under a blanket with you during each winter, pointing out each far-fetched figure he could find in the nimbostratus clouds.

The person sitting next to you is not that boy.

The river below you has a pleasant vibe to it, the water a dark blue in the moonlight. The current flows gently, moving at a slow, steady pace. The water is clean and crystal clear, and a light layer of fog drapes the surface. It remains undisturbed, untouched. As far as streams go, this one is soothingly peaceful. You’d enjoy it more if your dearest friend didn’t have his hands knuckle-deep in your hair.

The demon- and he is a demon, you’re sure of that, even if he insisted on ‘mystic monkey’- slowly picks through the contents of your messy tresses, examining your scalp closely. He doesn’t hesitate to eat the bits of leaves and twigs he finds, a sort of kindness that you might appreciate if he was in the right state of mind. His tail winds around your ankle, a safe-measure to prevent you from falling from the tree you both sit in.

This is more a display of dominance than kindness, a show of power. Proof that he can do whatever he wants to you, and all that can be done is to play along politely.

His fingers hit a snag, causing the monkey demon to chuff triumphantly. From your hair he pulls a massive bug, a squirming caterpillar so large that it winds around his pointer finger three times over. The sight of it makes him salivate- and he’s clearly considering eating it right in front of you.

And then the demon takes a closer look at you. Scared eyes. Quivering lips. Shaking form.

“…you can have it, Rookie.”

With a mote of protectiveness surfacing inside him, he chooses not to down the grub on the spot. Instead, MK pushes it towards your lips, smearing them with the creature’s wet body. Under the influence of the viridescent light cast from above, this is kindness- feeding his pack before himself.

You gag at the slimy sensation and try to pull away, but MK’s tail tightens around your ankle to keep you close. “Eat,” he says, growing angry and firm. “Eat, Rookie. Don’t get sick.”

Short and blunt language, a sign that he’s losing himself further to the moon’s sway. Anger loosens MK’s grip on himself, sending him further into a bestial mindset.

MK looks down at you expectantly, canines exposed and threatening. He’s waiting for you to obey. He expects this. He knows how this goes- or how it would go, if he were a base animal. Every demon and celestial knows that once the moon reaches a verdant peak, one’s primal instincts come to the fore. It’s been like this forever, time and time again for millennia.

But you wait just a second too long.

With incredible speed, he grabs your leg and throws you out of the towering tree, tossing you down to the ground.

Before you fall more than a few terrifying feet, his tail snags your waist to keep you dangling in midair- he could easily let you plummet, if he pleased. With the moon to cloud his mind, MK’s aggression is a hundredfold. The world around him seems to become a shade more vivid, and he stares at you with unbridled rage in his animalistic eyes.

“I’ll eat it,” you shriek in terror, clinging to his lithe tail as you sob. “Please, I’m sorry! Don’t drop me, please! MK, please, please, I’m sorry, please!”

He chuckles at your desperate pleas, amused but severely displeased and unimpressed. Still, the boy hauls you up and brings you to his chest.

Once you’re safe in his arms, MK presses his sharp canines into the delicate flesh of your neck, showing how easily he could tear your throat out if he really wanted to. This is intended remind you just how powerless you are against him, and it proves his point quite well. His arms squeeze you tight against him, rather painfully. “Be good, Rookie. Or gravity will discipline you before I do.”

Oh, that hurts. It’s like something that Pigsy would say. No doubt that the fatherly pig is someone that MK cherishes even now, calling on his words subconsciously. And honestly? You want him right now. You want the chef to wrap you up in his warm arms, to hold you against his chest and thump your back just a little too hard. What you wouldn’t give to have a bowl of his home-made noodles.

But all you’ve got now is a sizable caterpillar and a set of canines threatening to tear.

Slowly, he looks up to meet your eyes. In return, you awkwardly chatter your teeth, the proper display of submission when being looked at by a higher ranking monkey- you’re just one little human, and it doesn’t come to you as might him or one of his ‘troop members’.

But it’s good enough for MK. He takes the opportunity to finally stuff the bug into your mouth, pulling his teeth from your vulnerable neck. You cry a little harder with every crunch and chew, nausea and newfound trauma bubbling inside you. But under the threat of being tossed or mutilated, you manage to swallow.

Finally, he’s appeased. A little bit of softness resurfaces in his eyes, a hand moving to brush your hair back.

“Want me to take you down, Rookie?”

A little too choked up to respond, you wordlessly nod instead. He swipes your tears away with a fluid hand, then you’re on his back as he clambers down the tree.

You’re deposited somewhat gently on the ground, MK dusting your back off before he sends you on your own way.

You don’t have to look far for something interesting- near the river a few dozen feet away is a beaten-up monkey demon, one you recognize as a former foe of your friends.

He’s been watching you, it seems.

Macaque beckons to you with a gentle hand, his golden eyes unusually soft, most likely born of unexpected sympathy. You’re both at the bottom rung of this ‘troop’, though he barely edges you out for a still pitiful ‘second-to-last’.

Though you’ve never had much interaction with the demon, the lunar cycle amplifies the innate desire most living creatures have to look out for their young and family, for their troops and packs. It’s an instinctual urge that’s difficult to keep suppressed for any person, no matter what the species. The only problem is that who is and isn’t family or friend tends to blur severely under the verdant moonlight.

It shifts your thoughts and feelings, your wants and desires. Macaque has never had children, never wanted them- but something unnatural and overwhelming is telling him to take you as his own.

Macaque is careful not to hurt you as his deft hands pull you close, oddly gentle about the process.

“You- you…” Come on, say something. Anything. Talking is better than crying. Maybe it’ll help you calm down. “You don’t… you don’t have six ears.”

Macaque grins, starting to untangle your hair knot by knot. It seems like he was hoping for a distraction too.

“But everyone stills calls me the Six-Eared Macaque, yeah?”

“Yeah. Tell me why? Please?”

He doesn’t miss the pleading note in your tone. It seems you’re both in need of company and distractions.

“It’s a reference to an old saying, kiddo. ‘A secret is not safe between six ears’, you know? Two ears for person telling the secret, first. Another pair for the person they’re telling, obviously. And you know who the sixth is?”

“…you?”

“Exactly. Well, anyone who’s listening without permission, I guess. The book- you’ve read Journey to the West, right? The book gets a lot of stuff wrong. It’s told by outsiders who were watching, not the actual people in it. They got a few things wrong here and there, kid.”

Hesitantly, you lean into his chest. Usually you’re more guarded around strangers, but today has been long and hard- you both need and want comfort, even if it comes from someone you hardly know.

Macaque suddenly locks an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. His touch is powerful, but he’s putting a lot of effort into keeping it gentle.

“Play dead,” he urgently hisses. “Breath, but don’t move. Do not flinch.”

Too scared to ask for context, you slump against his chest like you’ve fallen asleep, steadying your breathing against his fur.

“Is my cub doing well, bud?” The tone is sickeningly sweet, belonging to none other than the illustrious Sun Wukong, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. He leans in close until his fur rustles on your back, playing with your hair.

Macaque lifts a finger to his his lips, his elbow coming to rest heavily on the back of your neck so he can force your head down further.

“They just fell asleep.”

Wukong moves his hands from your hair to Macaque’s fur, beginning to groom through it as MK had done to you. As uncomfortable as it had been for a human like you, none of the monkeys minded- their fur was built for it, after all.

“Let me have them,” the Great Sage says. His word can’t be denied- he’s in charge here, and what he says goes, no matter what. “I want to hold my cub.” There’s no harshness or cruelty present in his voice, just a simple command. He says it with the urgency of telling someone to shut your door or turn off your light before they leave.

And Macaque knows he should. His rival won’t hurt you, wouldn’t dare lay even a single harmful finger on you- you would be entirely safe from harm, coddled by the king of Flower Fruit Mountain.

And he can’t stop Wukong from taking you. Macaque had challenged the ginger simian for command over this temporary troop just a few hours ago, and gotten beaten to the ground for it.

He had been forced to accept comfort afterwards, fed with sweet fruits and gently held as his bruises slowly faded- the Monkey King was not an unkind alpha. The worst he had done was snap a power-limiting seal onto Macaque to prevent any further challenges or a potential runaway scenario.

No good can come from holding onto you like this. Macaque knows that he needs to bite the bullet and give you up.

But… he just doesn’t want to.

Sun Wukong frowns, watching his rival’s hesitation with disapproval. Perhaps the unusual lunar cycle also makes demons impatient- his body thrums with the need to lash out, to take and break and command; all impulses one usually suppresses with their own iron will. He leans forward and hisses softly into Macaque’s ear, a warning.

“They might wake up if you move them,” he weakly argues, holding you just a bit tighter. “And cubs need their sleep to grow.”

The bubbling animalistic urges inside of Wukong die down, appeased by Macaque’s sound reasoning. “We can lie together,” he offers, nestling into the grass. “Without moving them too much.” The king pats the ground beside him, but it’s not really an offer- just another command.

Macaque does as told, laying on his right side with you in his arms. And right before Wukong can move in to cage you from the left, MK slides between you both, sandwiching himself between the king and you.

For the most part, Wukong is unbothered. He squishes himself closer, stretching his arms out to envelop MK, then snagging his tail around your arm. Macaque’s tail winds around MK’s legs, MK wraps his around your waist.

And you are so perfectly trapped by this furry tangle of love that you have no choice but to drift into darkness.

Suddenly you’re awake and morning approaches, a few birdsong chirps adding themselves to the list of nocturnal sounds. Their cheerful voices slowly grow louder with the approach of the sun. The sky gradually shifts from dark blue to a soft pink, slowly growing brighter as dawn approaches. With the rising light, the forest grows less and less peaceful, the chirps and calls of the various forest life growing ever more frequent. Yet, despite the added noise, the terrain remains safe and quiet. The wind blows through the branches of the trees gently, almost like it's speaking silently.

One day down.

Six to go.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere MK #MK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Sun Wukong #Yandere Macaque #Macaque #Monkiefam #Primal Moon

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novaursa · 2 months ago

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Of Gods and Men (resurgence)

This is Dune/GOT/HOTD/FAB/ASOIAF crossover AU that you've voted for. If you always wanted to see House Targaryen in space, I got you. Please note how some of the lore of both universes is bent to blend in both worlds. This is my original idea that I've been cooking for at least two years. Be gentle with my work, and enjoy the ride.

- Summary: House Targaryen survives their ancient exile after being overthrown by House Corrino and the Bene Gesserit. Fleeing to the unknown planet Albiron, the Targaryens build a hidden civilization powered by drakaon crystals, reviving their dragons and creating advanced technology. Millennia later, whispers of their survival begin to surface as the Bene Gesserit confront a mysterious Red Woman on Arrakis, who warns of a coming Prince That Was Promised destined to challenge their control. The Targaryens secretly prepare to return, ready to reclaim their legacy.

- Paring: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

- Note: For more details about House Targaryen and their technology, please check out the masterlist.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous chapter: the gift

- Next part: hope

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

The massive Targaryen starship, named Aegon's Flame, descended through the blood-red atmosphere of Albiron, its sleek black hull glistening as it approached the primary city, Val Anogar. The city was a marvel of Targaryen architecture, built around the towering, dormant volcano that had given birth to the land itself. At its center stood the largest pyramid on the planet, the seat of House Targaryen—a symbol of their dominance and enduring legacy.

The city's pyramids stretched toward the sky, connected by intricate networks of bridges and pathways that hovered above the jungle below. The rich mineral atmosphere bathed everything in hues of dark amber, and the bloody bodies of water reflected the light from the ship as it made its descent onto one of the many landing platforms scattered around the base of the pyramid.

As the Aegon's Flame touched down with a soft hum, the ramp extended, and you and your brother, Aelor, stepped out into the familiar warmth of your homeworld. The air, thick with the scent of rich foliage and volcanic minerals, was a welcome change after the cold and unforgiving landscape of Arctis. You took a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs as the towering pyramids of Val Anogar loomed around you.

Waiting at the foot of the ramp was your father, Dragonlord Aenys Targaryen, his regal figure standing tall in his black and red armor. Beside him stood your twin, Maelor, and your mother, Aella, Aenys' sister-wife. Aenys’ presence was commanding, his pale blond hair falling past his shoulders, and his piercing violet eyes fixed on you and Aelor as you approached.

"Welcome home," Aenys said, his voice deep and authoritative as his eyes swept over you and your brother, studying your expressions carefully.

Maelor, always the more reserved of the two of you, gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment, his own lilac eyes flicking between you and Aelor. Beside him, Aella stood quietly, her face as beautiful and serene as ever, though there was a hint of curiosity in her gaze.

"Father," you said, bowing your head slightly in respect. "We bring news from Arctis."

Aenys' eyes sharpened with interest as he motioned for you both to follow him. Together, you, Aelor, Maelor, and Aella walked toward one of the grand halls within the pyramid, its walls adorned with carvings and tapestries depicting the ancient conquests of your House. The cool stone beneath your feet was a stark contrast to the volcanic heat that emanated from deep within the pyramid.

Once inside the private chamber, Aenys took his seat on the high-backed chair, his eyes never leaving you and Aelor. "Tell me everything."

Aelor spoke first, his voice steady and composed. "The mission to Arctis was successful. The Harkonnen base has been destroyed, and their forces scattered. However, we were not alone in this effort. We fought alongside House Atreides."

At this, Aenys raised an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued. "Atreides? I did not expect to hear that name."

You stepped forward, adding to Aelor’s report. "Yes, father. Duke Leto Atreides proved to be a valuable ally. His forces fought with precision and honor. Together, we eliminated the Harkonnens, and the orbital strike we initiated ensured their defeat."

Aenys sat back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest as he considered this. "The Atreides have always been honorable… but also cautious. For them to ally with us so easily is unexpected."

Aelor nodded in agreement. "It was a temporary alliance, but effective. The Duke, however, is a man of interest. He did not inquire too deeply into our affairs, but he is no fool. He understands that our presence on Arctis was significant."

Aenys’ eyes flickered with something unreadable, a mix of pride and concern. "And what of the Atreides? Did they ask about our technology?"

You shook your head. "Not directly, though they were curious. I left them with a… gift of goodwill, to ensure their cooperation in the future. A token, nothing more."

Aella, who had remained silent until now, spoke softly, her voice filled with quiet strength. "It seems House Atreides may be a useful ally for now. But we must tread carefully. The Imperium is full of vipers."

Aenys nodded, his gaze shifting between you and Aella. "Indeed. We must remain cautious, especially now that the Targaryen name has resurfaced in the galaxy."

At that, Maelor stepped forward, his voice calm but resolute. "Father, if our presence is now known, the other Houses will take notice. It’s only a matter of time before the Emperor himself becomes involved."

Aenys’ expression darkened slightly at the mention of the Emperor, his eyes narrowing. "Let him notice. We are not the weaklings he believes us to be."

There was a brief silence before Aenys rose from his seat, his eyes fixed on you and Aelor once more. "Our starships will be ready to depart soon. You both did well, but now we must prepare for what comes next. Ready your dragons for transport. We leave when the time is right."

You nodded, stepping forward. "Vexiae is already boarded and ready, father. She just needs time to recover from Arctis’ harsh climate."

Aenys’ gaze softened slightly, a rare moment of affection crossing his features. "Good. Rest, both of you. We have much to prepare for. The galaxy will soon know that the dragons of Val Anogar still burn bright."

With that, the council ended, and you and Aelor turned to leave the grand hall. The weight of what was to come hung over you both, but for now, there was comfort in being home—within the ancient walls of Val Anogar, surrounded by the heat of the dormant volcano and the legacy of your ancestors.

The dragons would fly again.

The waves outside Duke Leto Atreides' study crashed against the shores of Caladan, a sound that usually brought him peace but now only deepened his contemplation. Alone in the dimly lit room, Leto sat behind his heavy wooden desk, his fingers lightly drumming against its surface. The room was filled with ancient tapestries and books, the warmth of the past surrounding him, but his thoughts were elsewhere—far away, as they so often were ever since the encounter on Arctis.

He had sent his official report to the Emperor about the skirmish with the Harkonnens, carefully leaving out the most crucial details. And yet, no response had come. No inquiry, no reprimand. The silence from the Imperial throne left a bitter taste in Leto's mouth. It was unlike the Emperor to ignore something of such significance, and Leto couldn't help but feel that this silence was more ominous than any direct accusation would have been.

The dragon egg, the gift left to him by Daenys Targaryen, was safely locked away under strict guard. Only a select few even knew of its existence. It was a symbol of something far greater than just the Targaryens' return. It represented a link to a power long thought extinct, a legacy that could either strengthen or destroy House Atreides.

Leto’s thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of the door opening. He didn’t turn immediately, but he knew who it was. He could sense Jessica’s presence even before she spoke. There was an unspoken tension between them, one that had grown since his return from Arctis.

“You lied to me,” Jessica’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—an edge of betrayal.

Leto remained still, staring at the papers on his desk as though they held answers to the questions he couldn’t voice. He had known this moment would come, but he had hoped it would be later. He had hoped to find the right words, but now, faced with Jessica’s calm fury, those words seemed impossible to grasp.

“You never lied to me before, Leto,” Jessica continued, stepping further into the room. Her voice softened, but the hurt was still there, laced with suspicion. “But ever since you returned from that frozen planet, you’ve been… different. And now I know why. You’ve hidden things from me. You’ve hidden the truth.”

Leto’s fingers stilled on the desk, his shoulders tightening, but he still did not face her. He knew, with certainty, that the Bene Gesserit and the Emperor were already aware of much more than they let on. Whether by Harkonnen whispers or some other hand, the knowledge of what had transpired on Arctis had spread.

“You encountered something on Arctis,” Jessica pressed, her voice lowering to a careful tone. “What did you find there, Leto? What has been weighing on your mind so heavily?”

Leto finally turned to face her, his expression unreadable, his eyes shadowed with the burden of half-truths and decisions he had yet to fully reconcile. “We fought the Harkonnens,” he said simply, his voice calm, but there was a tension in his words. “They had established a base on a planet that falls under Atreides jurisdiction. Nothing more.”

Jessica’s face tightened, her frustration clear. Leto could see the shift in her eyes, the subtle tightening of her jaw, the way she held herself perfectly still. She had trained for years to read these signs in others, and now, even without her training, she could sense the lie in Leto’s words.

“You’re still not telling me everything,” Jessica said quietly, but there was steel in her voice. “I know you, Leto. I know when you’re keeping something from me. And I know that you encountered the Targaryens on Arctis. You allied with them. Why?”

Leto’s gaze flickered for a brief moment, but he refused to budge. “I made the decisions necessary to protect our House.”

“And yet you refuse to tell me the truth,” Jessica said, her tone accusatory but controlled. “You’ve never hidden things from me before. Why are they different? Why do they deserve your loyalty, so much so that you obscure the truth from me?”

Leto’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. The Targaryens had been more than just an ancient power—they had been a revelation, a living link to something far older and far more dangerous than the politics of the Imperium. And Daenys… she had left an impression on him that he couldn’t quite shake.

Jessica took a step closer, her voice softer now, but no less urgent. “You know what this could mean for our House, for our family. You know the dangers. And yet you hide this from me?”

Leto’s silence was answer enough, and Jessica’s frustration bubbled to the surface. “The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam will be arriving in two weeks,” she said sharply, her tone firm now. “She is coming to test Paul.”

The mention of Paul made Leto’s eyes flicker with concern, but still, he said nothing. His thoughts were elsewhere—still with the dragon egg locked away, still with the memory of Daenys and the weight of the alliance that had been formed in the cold of Arctis.

Jessica turned to leave, her movements brisk. But before she stepped out of the room, she cast one final glance back at Leto. “The Bene Gesserit are watching, Leto. And so is the Emperor. Whatever game you are playing with the Targaryens… I hope you know what you’re doing.”

And with that, she was gone, the door closing softly behind her, leaving Leto alone once more with his thoughts.

He stood in the silence for a long moment, his thoughts drifting back to the locked vault where the dragon egg was hidden. His mind swirled with the implications of what had transpired, with the choices he had made—and the ones he had yet to make.

His fingers lightly traced the surface of his desk as he whispered into the quiet, “What have we started?”

But even as the words left his lips, he knew that the answer to that question was far more dangerous than he had anticipated.

The air in Duke Leto Atreides' study was calm, the soft sounds of the sea outside filling the silence as Gurney Halleck and the Duke spoke quietly. Gurney, as always, had a warmth about him, even when discussing matters of importance. His baliset sat on the desk beside him, and for a moment, Leto allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile at the familiar presence of his trusted friend.

It had been several days since his last conversation with Jessica, but the weight of her words still lingered in the back of his mind. The Reverend Mother was due to arrive soon, and the tension between the Bene Gesserit and the events on Arctis gnawed at him, ever-present.

As Gurney continued talking about troop movements and preparations, the door to the study opened, and Thufir Hawat stepped inside, his usual stack of daily reports in hand. Hawat’s face was calm, but Leto could always detect the subtle intensity behind his Mentat’s eyes.

“My Lord,” Hawat began, his voice even as he placed the reports on Leto’s desk. “The daily reports, as always. But there’s something else that may be of interest.”

Leto looked up from his conversation with Gurney, intrigued. “Go on, Thufir.”

Hawat’s eyes flicked between Gurney and Leto before he continued. “There have been whispers circulating in the Landsraad. Rumors that Arrakis may soon be taken from the Harkonnens.”

The room fell into a brief silence, the weight of Hawat’s words sinking in. Leto’s brow furrowed in confusion and interest. “Arrakis? Taken from the Harkonnens?” He leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. “Does this have something to do with their invasion of our territory on Arctis? Or the events there?”

Hawat gave a small shake of his head. “It’s unclear. These are only whispers for now—rumors that have yet to solidify into anything concrete. But I will continue to keep an ear to the ground. If there is truth to these whispers, it could change much.”

Leto sat back in his chair, his mind working through the possibilities. Arrakis, the source of spice—the most valuable substance in the known universe. If the Harkonnens were to lose it, it would be a crippling blow to their power. But why? What had sparked such rumors?

“I want to know if there is any movement on this,” Leto said firmly. “Arrakis falling into the hands of another House would change the balance of power in the Imperium. And if the Emperor is involved…”

Hawat nodded, his expression sharp. “I will keep you informed, my Lord.”

Before they could delve further into the matter, Gurney broke the silence, his tone lighter but carrying a hint of nostalgia. “You know,” Gurney said, shifting in his chair, “that Targaryen lass—she never had a chance to sing for us after the battle.”

Leto’s expression changed ever so slightly, a subtle shift that only those close to him would notice. His gaze flicked away for a moment, as though the mention of Daenys Targaryen had pulled his thoughts somewhere else, somewhere far from the reports and politics of Caladan. It wasn’t the first time Gurney had brought her up in conversation, and each time, Leto’s response had been the same—a brief pause, a distant look.

Hawat, ever the observant Mentat, caught the shift immediately. He had noticed it before, the subtle changes in the Duke’s demeanor whenever the Targaryens were mentioned, particularly the young woman who had fought at his side. There was something there, something that had become a habit for the Duke—a habit of quiet reflection, of thinking of what had passed on Arctis and of what had been left unsaid.

Gurney, seemingly oblivious to the deeper implications, chuckled softly. “I suppose it was too much to ask for a song after everything. But still, I can’t help but wonder what the voice of a dragon sounds like.”

Leto’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps another time, Gurney,” he said softly, though there was a weight to his words that hinted at more than just the missed opportunity for music.

Hawat, standing quietly at the edge of the room, made a mental note of the exchange, just as he had done all the other times before. The Duke’s mind was often elsewhere these days—drifting back to Arctis, to the Targaryens, to the dragon egg locked away under strict guard. It was not unlike Leto to carry the burdens of his House, but this… this was different. There was something personal about it, something deeper.

But for now, Hawat said nothing, filing the observation away for future consideration. There were more pressing matters at hand—Arrakis, the Emperor, and the Bene Gesserit’s looming visit. The time for reflection would come later.

Leto rose from his chair, his expression hardening once more as he looked over the reports in front of him. “We’ll keep an eye on these whispers about Arrakis. But for now, we focus on the task at hand. The Emperor has been silent for too long, and that silence is more dangerous than any accusation.”

Gurney nodded, his playful demeanor fading as the weight of their responsibilities returned. “Aye, my Lord. We’ll be ready.”

Hawat bowed his head slightly, his sharp eyes still flickering with the thoughts he did not speak aloud. “I will ensure we remain vigilant.”

The thick, acrid air of Giedi Prime hung heavy in the dimly lit chambers of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. The stench of industry and decay permeated the fortress as the Baron sat at his massive desk, the weight of his corpulent form causing the chair to creak under the strain. Before him stood his Mentat, Piter De Vries, the cunning and cruel man who served as the Baron’s most trusted advisor. Beside him, Feyd-Rautha leaned casually against the wall, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed malice.

The moment had come—one the Baron had been expecting, but not quite so soon.

Piter stepped forward, a small, intricately designed cylinder in his hand, embossed with the sigil of House Corrino. He placed it carefully on the desk before the Baron, his expression a mask of cold efficiency. “A message from the Emperor, my Lord,” Piter said, his voice smooth and calculating.

Baron Vladimir Harkonnen scowled, his bloated fingers grasping the cylinder with surprising speed. With a flick of his wrist, the seal broke, and the message unfurled in front of him, displaying the imperial writ in cold, precise words.

As the Baron read, his face darkened with fury. His beady eyes narrowed, and the veins in his forehead pulsed with barely contained rage. Feyd, watching from the side, could already see the shift in his uncle’s demeanor. The message was not what they had hoped.

Finally, with a low growl, the Baron slammed his fist onto the desk, causing the cylinder to roll onto the floor with a metallic clatter. Feyd straightened, intrigued by the sudden display of anger.

“The Emperor,” the Baron hissed, his voice trembling with anger, “has seen fit to remove House Harkonnen as the stewards of Arrakis.”

Feyd raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smile. “Remove us? He’s giving Arrakis to House Atreides?”

The Baron’s eyes flicked to his nephew, the fury in them unmistakable. “Yes, Feyd. To House Atreides.”

For a moment, there was silence in the room, save for the faint hum of machinery in the distance. Piter De Vries, ever observant, stepped forward cautiously. “This was the plan, my Lord, was it not? To lure the Atreides to Arrakis, to make them overconfident, and then strike?”

“Yes,” the Baron snapped, his voice sharp with impatience. “That was the plan. But it’s happening too soon.” His beady eyes narrowed, the wheels of his mind turning with increasing speed. “Something has accelerated the Emperor’s timeline.”

Piter tilted his head, his sharp mind already calculating the possibilities. “Perhaps the events on Arctis?” he suggested. “Our reports of Duke Leto aiding the Targaryens have reached the Emperor. It would make sense that Shaddam sees both Houses as a growing threat.”

The mention of the Targaryens made the Baron’s expression darken even further. The ancient, forgotten House had reappeared far too soon, disrupting their carefully laid plans. The Emperor’s sudden decision to strip House Harkonnen of Arrakis and hand it to the Atreides was not just a trap—it was a reaction born out of fear.

“The Emperor is afraid,” the Baron muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Shaddam feels threatened. He knows House Atreides is gaining power, and now, with Targaryens at their side, he fears they will grow too strong.”

Feyd smirked. “So, he hopes to deal with the Atreides first, before the dragons become a bigger problem.”

The Baron leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he considered the situation. “Yes,” he growled, his mind working through the Emperor’s plan. “Shaddam wants them out of the way. He needs one threat removed before the other arrives.”

Piter nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. “Arrakis is the bait. He gives it to Duke Leto, hoping to weaken both Houses in the process. If we fail, the Atreides will grow stronger. But if we succeed… the Targaryens may become his next target.”

The Baron’s face twisted into a sinister smile. “Shaddam is playing a dangerous game. But so are we.”

Feyd chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Then we play along, Uncle. We let the Atreides take Arrakis, and when the time is right…”

The Baron’s smile widened, his bloated form shifting with barely contained glee. “Yes, Feyd. We crush them. And when the dust settles, we’ll be the ones standing.”

The tension in the room dissipated slightly, though the lingering threat of the Targaryens remained like a shadow over their plans. The Baron knew that they had to tread carefully, for the dragons were no mere legends—they were a living, breathing force that could change the balance of power in the Imperium forever.

But for now, they would focus on the task at hand: Arrakis.

And the fall of House Atreides.

The Baron’s laugh echoed through the chamber, dark and malevolent, as he leaned forward in his chair, already plotting his next move.

“Prepare the forces, Piter,” the Baron ordered, his voice low and dangerous. “The game is in motion.”

As Piter bowed and left the room, Feyd stepped closer to the Baron, his grin never fading. “Do you think the Atreides will see this coming?”

The Baron’s eyes gleamed with malice. “It doesn’t matter if they do, Feyd. By the time they realize what’s happening, it will be too late.”

Outside, the industrial machines of Giedi Prime continued their endless work, the smoke rising into the darkened sky.

The Landsraad summit was held on the neutral planet of Sardalon, a world known for its vast halls and towering spires that stretched toward the sky like the fingers of ancient gods. The great assembly chamber, where the most powerful Houses of the Imperium gathered, was packed with delegates and dignitaries, all murmuring amongst themselves in low, hushed tones. Duke Leto Atreides stood among them, his posture tall and composed, though his mind was far from at ease.

The whispers of the Atreides' impending stewardship of Arrakis weighed heavily on him. While there had been no official word yet from the Emperor, the rumors were swirling through the ranks of the Landsraad. Leto knew it was only a matter of time before a formal announcement was made, and the eyes of the Imperium would turn to his House. The Harkonnens would not take this loss lightly, and the political storm that followed would be fierce.

Beside him, as always, was Thufir Hawat, his sharp eyes scanning the room, assessing every conversation and movement. The Mentat could feel the tension in the air. Every House present seemed to be watching Leto with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, waiting for the inevitable confirmation that the Atreides would soon control the most valuable planet in the universe.

Leto’s own thoughts were interrupted as he noticed the Emperor Shaddam IV himself seated at the head of the chamber. Despite his regal composure, there was something unsettling about the way Shaddam held himself today. He was fidgeting, his eyes darting toward the entrance of the hall as if expecting something—or someone.

Leto’s gaze narrowed as one of Shaddam’s commanders rushed to his side, leaning in close to whisper something urgent in the Emperor’s ear. Whatever the message was, it made Shaddam’s face drain of color. The Emperor shot to his feet, alarm flashing across his features.

A ripple of silence washed over the summit as the grand doors at the far end of the hall began to open slowly. The noise of conversation ceased entirely as all eyes turned toward the entrance. Leto felt his heart skip a beat, an inexplicable sense of foreboding settling over him.

Through the open doors, a party stepped forward, dressed in colors that made Leto’s blood run cold. Black and red, the unmistakable colors of House Targaryen, emblazoned with their three-headed dragon sigil. The sight of it seemed to suck the air from the room, and Leto could feel the collective intake of breath from the gathered Houses as they recoiled in shock and surprise.

At the head of the Targaryen delegation was a figure Leto did not recognize but immediately presumed to be the patriarch of the family. His presence was commanding, his silver hair flowing over his shoulders, and his face a mixture of regal authority and barely concealed disdain. He walked with purpose, his steps echoing through the now-silent chamber, and behind him followed two others—Aelor, the young man Leto had met on Arctis, and another younger man who bore a striking resemblance to Daenys. And then, there was her. Daenys herself—you, the Targaryen woman who had left a mark on Leto's mind, stood beside her family, her face calm but unreadable, her eyes sharp as she surveyed the gathered nobility.

Behind them came a full delegation of Targaryen attendants, all dressed in the black and red of their House, each one carrying themselves with the same air of quiet power that the Targaryens had always been known for.

Leto’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the Targaryens approach the center of the hall. He hadn’t expected this—not here, not now. Beside him, Hawat stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation, no doubt calculating the political ramifications of the Targaryens’ sudden appearance.

The silence in the room was broken by Emperor Shaddam, who, unable to contain his anger and confusion, shouted across the hall. “What is the meaning of this?” His voice echoed off the stone walls, his composure shattered by the sudden, unexpected arrival of the long-lost dragons.

The Targaryen patriarch didn’t falter. His gaze, cold and unyielding, fixed on Shaddam as he strode forward with deliberate steps. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried a weight that silenced even the Emperor.

“The seat of House Targaryen on these gatherings,” he began, his tone firm and unwavering, “has been empty for far too long.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber, the gathered Houses exchanging stunned glances. No one had expected this. The Targaryens had been thought extinct, their power diminished after their long exile beyond the reach of the Imperium. And now, here they were, standing in the very heart of the Imperium’s political structure, reclaiming their place.

Leto’s mind raced as he processed what was happening. The Targaryens were no longer hiding in the shadows—they had returned, and they were making their presence known in the most public and dramatic way possible. The implications of this were staggering.

He glanced at Hawat, who remained as still as ever, though Leto could tell from the slight tightening of his lips that the Mentat was already calculating every possible outcome of this development. “This complicates things,” Hawat murmured, his voice low so that only Leto could hear.

Leto nodded, his gaze still fixed on the Targaryen patriarch as he stood before Shaddam. “Indeed it does.”

The Emperor, now visibly shaken, glared at the Targaryens, but it was clear he had been caught off guard. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he seemed unsure of what to say. The authority he usually wielded so effortlessly seemed to falter in the face of the Targaryens’ return.

The Targaryen patriarch held Shaddam’s gaze for a long moment before continuing, “House Targaryen demands that its rightful place in the Landsraad be restored.”

The anomasity in the room was palpable, and Leto could feel the eyes of every noble in the chamber turning toward Shaddam, waiting for his response.

Leto’s heart pounded in his chest. This was no ordinary political maneuver.

You stood beside your father, Aenys Targaryen, watching him as he strode with measured steps toward Emperor Shaddam IV. The suspense in the air was oppressive, almost suffocating, as every pair of eyes in the room fixated on your family. It was clear that your father relished the effect of his presence—the ancient House Targaryen, thought to be long dead, had come to stake its claim in the heart of the Imperium.

The hall was vast, lined with banners of the great Houses of the Landsraad, but the air felt stifling, and beneath the stony silence, you could feel the panic rippling among the assembled nobles. This was not how they expected the summit to go. Not with dragons in the room.

Your father’s presence dominated the space as he approached the Emperor. His pale blond hair, much like your own, seemed to catch the light as he moved, his armor glinting with the red and black sigil of House Targaryen. Shaddam’s expression was unreadable at first, his shock barely concealed. But as the Emperor’s guards reacted, moving to step forward, your father remained unimpressed, his expression one of almost casual disdain.

You could see it in his eyes—he saw the Emperor’s guards as nothing more than posturing lions just like the Corrino sigil. They could roar, but in the presence of dragons, what use was a roar?

"Speak like a man, Shaddam, if you have something to say." Your father’s voice cut through the silence, deep and unwavering. He wasn’t here for pleasantries, and the challenge in his tone was unmistakable.

The guards hesitated, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons, but they knew better than to act rashly in the middle of the Landsraad chamber. Shaddam, for a moment, seemed to struggle to find his voice, his composure cracking under the weight of your father’s commanding presence. You could sense it—the Emperor’s fear. It wasn’t something he wore openly, but in the way his fingers trembled just slightly at his side.

Finally, Shaddam spoke, his voice colder than before, but the edge of uncertainty remained. "Your House was not invited, Aenys. The seat of House Targaryen was removed from this council long ago."

Your father scoffed, the sound reverberating through the chamber. He looked around the room, his eyes sweeping over the gathered nobles, as if to gauge the reactions of the assembled Houses. You could feel the unease growing, like a living thing crawling beneath the surface.

"Removed," your father repeated, his voice laced with sarcasm. "But that was long ago, wasn’t it? And yet, here we are. The dragons are not so easily erased, Shaddam."

You felt a surge of pride, your heart pounding in your chest as your father’s words echoed through the hall. He had spent decades preparing for this moment—waiting for the right time to reveal your House to the Imperium once more. And now, here you were, standing before the Emperor himself, reclaiming the seat that had been taken from you.

"We are staying," your father declared, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. Without waiting for a response from Shaddam, he turned and gestured for your family to follow him toward the available seating in the chamber.

As you moved, your brother Aelor leaned in, his voice low but laced with a hint of amusement. "The Duke of Atreides is here," he murmured, his eyes flicking toward the far side of the room where Duke Leto Atreides stood with his entourage.

Your gaze followed Aelor’s, and sure enough, there was Leto, his face a mask of composure, though his eyes were focused sharply on your family. His presence stirred something in you, a memory of Arctis, of the battles fought side by side. You had left him with a token of goodwill—the dragon egg. And though your paths had diverged since that moment, you couldn’t deny the quiet connection that still lingered.

Your twin, Maelor, caught your gaze, his expression unreadable. He had always been the more observant of the two of you, and as his eyes flicked toward Leto, you could tell he was studying the Duke carefully.

"Interesting," Maelor mused, his tone soft but thoughtful. "There’s more to him than meets the eye. His House is… rising. You can feel it."

You didn’t respond, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Maelor was right. House Atreides was on the brink of something momentous—just as your own House had returned from the shadows.

The nobles around you whispered among themselves as your family took their seats, the weight of your presence still hanging over the chamber like a storm cloud. The Landsraad summit, meant to be another ordinary meeting of the Imperium’s elite, had been irrevocably changed. The dragons had returned, and the balance of power was shifting.

The Landsraad chamber had erupted into a low murmur of voices, the once still and solemn atmosphere shattered by the arrival of House Targaryen. Emperor Shaddam IV remained rooted to his spot, his face frozen in shock and frustration. The neutral ground of the Landsraad summit had tied his hands—he couldn’t act against the Targaryens here, not in this hall, where every noble House was watching. The weight of indecision hung heavy in the room, as none of the gathered Houses knew how to react to the sudden return of the dragons.

At the far side of the chamber, Duke Leto Atreides stood with Thufir Hawat and the rest of his delegation. The low hum of conversation around them did little to ease the intent gnawing at Leto’s mind. His fingers absentmindedly twisted the ancestral signet ring on his finger, the red hawk in flight carved into the metal catching the light of the hall. It was a nervous habit, one he didn’t even realize he was doing, but Hawat noticed.

“You’re fidgeting, my Lord,” Hawat said quietly, his sharp eyes catching the subtle movement. “That’s never a good sign.”

Leto’s gaze flickered toward Hawat, but his thoughts were elsewhere—focused on the Targaryen patriarch, Aenys Targaryen, who had just taken his seat. The tension between them had yet to break, and Leto felt a pull, a quiet sense of urgency that he couldn’t ignore.

“I need to speak with them,” Leto said, his voice low but firm.

Hawat’s brow furrowed in concern. “My Lord, approaching them now will only draw the Emperor’s gaze even more toward us. You know how dangerous that could be. The Targaryens may be a powerful ally, but Shaddam will not take kindly to you aligning yourself openly with them, especially after what we’ve heard about Arrakis.”

Leto nodded, fully aware of the consequences. The Emperor’s sudden decision to strip the Harkonnens of Arrakis and give the planet to House Atreides had already set events in motion that could lead to disaster. Any further association with the Targaryens would only amplify the tension.

“I know,” Leto said quietly. “But this is something I have to do. I can’t explain it, Thufir, but there’s something here that goes beyond the politics of the moment. I must speak with them.”

Hawat observed the Duke for a long moment, calculating the risks, the possibilities. He could see the determination in Leto’s eyes, the quiet resolve that had driven him to make decisions like this in the past. Leto was a careful man, but when his mind was set, there was no stopping him.

“Very well,” Hawat said with a sigh. “But be cautious. The other Houses are watching, and so is the Emperor.”

Leto gave a small nod of thanks before stepping forward, his heart pounding in his chest. The crowd in the chamber parted nervously as he made his way toward the Targaryen delegation, his tall frame cutting a path through the sea of nobles. He could feel the weight of their stares, the curiosity and unease that rippled through the room as they watched the Duke of Atreides approach the dragons.

Hawat and the rest of Leto’s delegation followed closely behind, their expressions tense but professional. As they neared the Targaryens, Leto stopped for a moment, his breath catching in his throat as Aenys Targaryen locked eyes with him.

For a brief moment, time seemed to still. The patriarch’s gaze was powerful, sharp, and calculating. His silver hair gleamed in the light, and his presence commanded respect. But there was something more—something in his eyes that radiated both power and ancient wisdom. Leto felt a flicker of fear, a primal instinct that warned him of the danger of approaching this man, but alongside that fear was an undeniable respect.

Leto took a deep breath and continued forward, his resolve firm. When he finally reached the Targaryens, he bowed slightly, his hand resting over his chest. “Duke Leto Atreides of Caladan,” he said, his voice steady. “It is an honor.”

Aenys studied Leto for a moment before nodding in acknowledgment. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and calm, but there was an underlying strength that made it clear why he was the head of his House. “I know who you are, Duke Leto. My children speak highly of you. They tell me that you were of great assistance on Arctis.”

Leto’s breath caught slightly at the mention of Arctis. His mind immediately went to the battles they had fought there, the Harkonnen forces, and the alliance that had formed in the cold of that frozen planet. He felt Aelor’s eyes on him, and then… you. He couldn’t help it—his gaze flicked to you for just a moment, catching your eyes before he quickly refocused on Aenys.

“It was my honor to fight alongside your House, Lord Aenys,” Leto said, his voice quieter now, more personal. “The Harkonnens are a plague on the Imperium, and it was… refreshing to have allies that fight with such skill and honor.”

Aenys’s expression softened slightly, though his face remained unreadable. “Your House, too, fought with honor. I thank you for that.” He paused, glancing at his son Aelor, then at you, his daughter. “They speak highly of you, Duke Leto. Both of them.”

Leto resisted the urge to glance again at you, though he could feel the intensity of your presence beside your father. The weight of your House was felt, and it was not lost on him that you had left an indelible mark on him since Arctis.

Aenys took a step closer, his voice lowering slightly so that only those nearby could hear. “But you should know, Duke, that the game we play is far more dangerous than any skirmish on a frozen planet. The Emperor watches us all, and the power that we wield is a threat to him.”

Leto nodded slowly, his gaze steady. “I know, Lord Aenys. But some things… must be done, regardless of the consequences.”

Aenys’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. “Perhaps you and I are not so different, after all.”

The room around them was still heavy, the nobles whispering among themselves, unsure of what to make of this exchange. The Emperor’s gaze was surely upon them, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. Leto had made his move, and the path before him was clearer than ever.

As Aenys stepped back, Leto caught one last glance from you. Your eyes met his for just a moment, and in that brief exchange, something unspoken passed between you. An understanding, perhaps. Or maybe something more.

As Duke Leto Atreides and his delegation stepped back from the encounter with House Targaryen, the uncertainty in the Landsraad chamber remained visible. The murmur of voices swirled around them, carrying a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and thinly veiled anxiety. The unexpected return of the Targaryens had left everyone off balance, but Leto felt a different kind of unease creeping up his spine. He had just crossed an invisible line by speaking openly with the Targaryens, and he knew the Emperor’s gaze would be on him even more sharply now.

As Leto moved through the throngs of nobles, he caught sight of two figures cutting a path toward him through the crowd. Serus and Xyla, representatives of House Ix, moved with a quiet confidence, their expressions guarded but their interest unmistakable. Leto had dealt with the Ixians before—they were known for their technological prowess and their inscrutable nature. But their presence here, at this moment, sent a ripple of unease through him.

Serus reached Leto first, offering a polite nod, his smile thin and enigmatic. “Duke Leto,” he said, his voice smooth. “It seems we find ourselves with… common friends these days.”

Beside him, Xyla offered a smile of her own, though it was as calculated as her brother’s. “Yes, we couldn’t help but notice your conversation with Lord Aenys. The Targaryens are quite an intriguing family, wouldn’t you agree?”

Leto studied the two of them carefully, his expression guarded. The Ixians had always been skilled in the art of speaking without saying much at all, and their sudden approach was far from accidental. “They are… certainly not what one expects,” Leto replied, keeping his tone neutral. “But I don’t believe that’s what you’ve come to discuss.”

Xyla’s smile widened ever so slightly, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “You’re right, Duke. We are always open to mutually beneficial exchanges. Should you ever find yourself interested in a… deeper conversation about matters that concern us all, House Ix would be more than willing to accommodate.”

Serus inclined his head, adding, “The Emperor’s attention is rarely focused on any one thing for long, after all. Discretion can be valuable in times like these.”

With that, the two of them turned and drifted back into the crowd, leaving Leto with more questions than answers. The offer was clear enough—House Ix was offering to be a potential ally, or at least a partner in whatever schemes might unfold in the shadows. But there was something unnerving about the way they had delivered the message, a sense that the Ixians saw far more than they let on.

Leto exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the sense of unease. He turned to Hawat, who had remained close by, ever the watchful guardian. “They make it sound like they want to be friends,” Leto murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But somehow, that only leaves me feeling more exposed than before.”

Hawat’s expression tightened into a knowing smirk, but he said nothing about the Ixians. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice low and deliberate. “If you truly wish to speak with the Targaryens under less scrutinizing conditions, my Lord, it would be best to do so on their departure from this planet. Less chance of prying ears and curious eyes.”

Leto nodded slowly, his mind already turning over the possibilities. If he could arrange a private meeting with Aenys and his children—especially you—he might gain some insight into what the Targaryens truly wanted, and why they had chosen now to reveal themselves. But there was also risk in such a meeting, a risk he could not ignore.

Before he could dwell on it further, Leto allowed his gaze to drift back across the room, seeking out you one last time. You stood beside your brother Aelor, your expression composed but your presence as striking as ever amidst the sea of noble delegates. Leto couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of anticipation, a connection that tugged at him despite the chasm of your circumstances.

As he turned back to face Hawat, he caught the faintest hint of amusement in the Mentat’s eyes, a rare crack in his usually stony demeanor. Hawat, of course, had noticed the direction of his thoughts, but the old man said nothing. He merely raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk still lingering at the edges of his lips.

Leto straightened his shoulders, casting off the moment of vulnerability. “Make the necessary preparations, Thufir. If we are to speak with the Targaryens again, we will do so on our terms.”

Hawat nodded, his smirk fading back into his usual stern expression. “As you command, my Lord.”

And with that, the Duke of House Atreides turned his focus back to the gathering around him, the weight of the day pressing heavily on his mind. He knew that whatever path lay ahead, it would be one fraught with danger and intrigue. But as he thought again of the Targaryens, of the dragons that had returned to the Landsraad, he couldn’t help but feel that this was a risk worth taking.

The docking bay of Sardalon’s spaceport was a cavernous expanse, its ceilings stretching high above the bustling activity of noble delegations and the mechanized whirring of starships. The air was filled with the low hum of engines, the clanking of cargo being loaded, and the murmurs of dignitaries exchanging parting words before they left the neutral world behind.

Duke Leto Atreides moved through the bay with his delegation, Thufir Hawat close at his side, ever watchful of the surroundings. As they walked, Leto’s gaze caught sight of a starship that stood out among the more familiar crafts of the Landsraad nobles. The sleek, black hull of the Targaryen starship, Aegon's Flame, gleamed under the harsh lights of the docking bay, its design unlike anything else in the Imperium. It was a vessel of shadow and flame, a stark reminder of the ancient power that the Targaryens represented.

The presence of the Targaryen ship had clearly made an impression. Nobles either stared at it in thinly veiled fascination or kept their distance, their expressions tinged with fear. Whispers spread through the bay, the tension from the summit still lingering in the air like the aftershock of a thunderstorm.

As Leto’s gaze moved across the scene, he spotted you—Daenys Targaryen—standing near the boarding ramp of the ship, your family gathered around you. Aenys was deep in conversation with Aelor and Maelor, giving them last-minute instructions before their departure. Your brothers turned and ascended the ramp, disappearing into the shadows of the ship, followed closely by other members of the Targaryen delegation.

Just then, as if sensing his presence, you turned and met Leto’s gaze from across the bay. Your expression shifted, curiosity mingling with recognition, and you raised a hand to halt your father, who paused mid-sentence, his eyes following your line of sight.

Leto took a deep breath, glancing at Hawat. The Mentat’s gaze was steady, offering a subtle nod—his way of signaling that everything had been arranged as planned. Hawat had made contact with the Targaryens earlier, ensuring that this meeting would occur away from prying eyes. Leto, needing to avoid attracting too much attention, adjusted his pace and approached separately from his delegation, weaving through the bustling nobles and workers.

As he neared, you remained by your father’s side, your expression still guarded but curious. Aenys, ever the formidable presence, turned to face Leto fully, his pale eyes narrowing with interest as the Duke of Atreides came to a stop before you both.

“Duke Leto,” Aenys greeted him, his voice a deep, measured tone that carried easily above the noise of the bay. “You approach us again. I take it you have something of importance to discuss before we depart?”

Leto inclined his head respectfully, catching his breath as he took in the sight of the Targaryen patriarch and his daughter standing before him. The presence of Aenys was as commanding as ever, but he could feel your eyes on him as well, watchful and discerning.

“Lord Aenys,” Leto replied, his voice steady. “Lady Daenys. I apologize for the abrupt approach, but there is much that remains unsaid between our Houses, and little time to speak of it here. I would ask for a few moments of your time before you depart.”

Aenys studied Leto for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Behind him, the Aegon’s Flame loomed like a shadowed sentinel, its ramp still extended as if waiting. The nobles in the bay continued to cast curious glances toward the encounter, their whispers rising as they tried to discern what business the Atreides Duke might have with the newly returned dragons.

Finally, Aenys gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Very well, Duke Leto,” he said, his voice carrying a note of curiosity. “Speak, then. What is it that weighs so heavily on your mind?”

Leto hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing at you briefly. There was a flicker of something in your gaze—something unspoken but not unfriendly. Then, he turned his attention fully to Aenys, gathering his thoughts before speaking.

“I came to speak of what lies ahead,” Leto began, his voice low, but with a sense of urgency. “We find ourselves in a time of shifting alliances and dangerous currents. The Emperor may believe he holds the power, but I sense that both our Houses see the truth of the matter—that House Atreides and House Targaryen have become… focal points in a larger game.”

Aenys’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes gleamed with a sharp intelligence. “The Emperor is a creature of fear, Duke Leto. He fears your House because you have gained the respect of many. And now, with Arrakis to be transferred to your stewardship, his fear only grows. But you are right—there is more at play than the Emperor wishes to admit.”

Leto nodded, encouraged by Aenys’s willingness to engage. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to ensure that only you and Aenys could hear. “What happened on Arctis—the alliance that formed there—was more than just a temporary arrangement. I believe there is potential for something greater. House Atreides is on the brink of new responsibilities, and we cannot face what is to come alone.”

Aenys regarded him with a thoughtful expression, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of his cloak. You stood beside him, your presence a steady reminder of the battles fought on Arctis, the shared struggle that had forged an unspoken bond between your House and the Atreides.

“Your House faces a dangerous path, Duke Leto,” Aenys said finally, his tone contemplative. “As do we. But alliances are forged through trust and necessity, and it remains to be seen whether our goals align. Why should I believe that the ambitions of House Atreides are not like those of every other House, seeking power and advantage in the shadows of this Imperium?”

Leto hesitated, then glanced at you again, as if seeking some hint of your thoughts. The brief look you exchanged seemed to hold a world of unspoken questions, but he turned back to Aenys with a steadiness that belied the uncertainty of the moment.

“Because,” Leto said, his voice quiet but firm, “I believe that your House, like mine, understands the need for honor in the face of treachery. And in these times, I think that understanding is worth more than any crown or title.”

Aenys considered this, his expression softening slightly as he measured Leto’s sincerity. Then, he glanced at you, a silent question in his eyes that you understood without words.

You nodded subtly, a decision forming in your mind, though you kept your face calm and controlled. The encounter might be brief, but it was clear that the Duke’s words had left an impression, and that this was not the last time your Houses would cross paths.

Aenys turned back to Leto, giving a slight incline of his head. “Very well, Duke Leto. When the time comes, let us see if your House holds true to its word. Until then, we have much to prepare for, and you have much to consider on Caladan.”

Leto bowed slightly, sensing that the conversation was coming to an end. “Thank you, Lord Aenys. Until we meet again.”

With that, Aenys turned back toward the ramp, signaling for you to follow. But just before you did, you caught Leto’s gaze one last time, offering a slight, enigmatic smile that lingered in his thoughts long after you had disappeared into the shadows of the Aegon’s Flame.

As Leto rejoined his delegation, Hawat met his gaze with a raised eyebrow, his expression a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “You made quite the impression, my Lord. I trust it was worth the risk?”

Leto let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his mind still turning over the words exchanged, the possibilities that lay ahead. “It was, Thufir. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it with our eyes open.”

The ramp of the Targaryen starship retracted, and Leto watched as the Aegon’s Flame began to rise from the docking bay, disappearing into the skies above Sardalon. He couldn’t help but feel that this was only the beginning—that the threads of fate were weaving a new tapestry, one that would bind House Atreides and House Targaryen in ways neither could yet foresee.

...

The booming hum of suspensors cut through the noise of the bustling docking bay, a sound that had become all too familiar over the years. It was the sound of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, a presence that few could mistake or ignore. The hair on the back of Duke Leto Atreides' neck stood on end as the deep, sneering voice of the Baron echoed through the cavernous space, stopping Leto in his tracks as he made his way back to the Atreides starship.

Hawat, ever alert, stiffened beside Leto, his hand instinctively moving to the knife hidden beneath his cloak. The Atreides soldiers, stationed around their Duke, tensed, ready to defend him. But Leto held up a hand, signaling them to stand down, even as his own pulse quickened. The Baron might have approached alone, without his usual retinue of Harkonnen brutes, but his presence was no less dangerous.

Baron Vladimir Harkonnen drifted closer, his bulk supported by the gravity-defying suspensors, a twisted smile spreading across his face as he took in the sight of Leto and his men. His beady eyes gleamed with something like amusement, as if the entire situation was one of his private jokes.

“Well, well, Duke Leto,” the Baron’s voice rumbled, thick with mockery. “You and the Targaryens certainly know how to put on a show, don’t you? Not unlike what you pulled on that frozen ice ball, Arctis. Quite the performance, indeed.”

Leto turned to face the Baron fully, his expression carefully neutral. He would not give the Harkonnen the satisfaction of seeing his irritation. “Baron,” he greeted curtly, his tone cold. “If you have something to say, then say it. I have no time for games.”

The Baron chuckled, a low, menacing sound that reverberated through the air. He drifted closer, until the distance between them was uncomfortably short, and Leto could smell the metallic scent of the Harkonnen’s suspensor mechanisms. Hawat shifted slightly, ready to intervene if necessary, but he kept his stance carefully measured.

“What I want?” The Baron’s voice dropped, adopting a more sinister tone as he leaned forward slightly, his shadow looming over Leto despite the suspensors that buoyed his mass. “What I want, Duke, is to remind you that you are playing a very dangerous game, one that could see your House burned to ashes if you’re not careful.”

Leto’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice even. “You come to me with warnings, Baron, but I see no reason to heed them. Your House has already lost much, and you’re clinging to what little remains of your power. What could you possibly threaten me with now?”

The Baron’s smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth. He glanced over Leto’s shoulder, toward the distant Targaryen starship that was slowly ascending into the sky, its sleek form disappearing into the red-hued atmosphere of Sardalon.

“Oh, I have my ways, Duke. You may have the favor of the Emperor for now, but that could change in an instant. And as for your new friends, the Targaryens…” His eyes gleamed with malice. “I couldn’t help but notice the way you steal glances at the Dragonlord’s daughter.”

Leto’s face remained impassive, but he felt a sudden surge of anger, a cold knot tightening in his chest at the Baron’s insinuations. He forced himself to stay calm, refusing to let the Harkonnen’s words rattle him.

Baron Harkonnen continued, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. “Oh, I’ve seen that look before, Duke. It’s always the same with men like you, always thinking they can charm their way into places they don’t belong. But I’d be careful if I were you, hmm? Feyd-Rautha has a… particular interest in that girl. He’s a persistent sort, my nephew.”

Leto’s expression darkened, his gaze locking with the Baron’s, but he refused to take the bait. “If your nephew wishes to challenge the Targaryens, he’s welcome to try,” he said evenly. “But I imagine he’ll find dragons far less forgiving than you, Baron.”

The Baron’s smile faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered, letting out another oily laugh. “Such bravado, Duke Leto. But remember, the Imperium is not kind to those who step out of line. And neither am I.”

Without waiting for a response, the Baron drifted back, his laughter lingering in the air like a dark cloud as he turned and floated away, his suspensors carrying him back toward the shadows of the docking bay. Leto watched him go, his fists clenching at his sides, every fiber of his being resisting the urge to draw his blade.

Behind him, Hawat moved closer, his voice low and urgent. “My Lord, the Baron is growing desperate. He wouldn’t have approached you like this unless he felt cornered. But we must tread carefully. He knows about your interest in the Targaryen girl, and he will use that against you.”

Leto took a deep breath, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he forced himself to focus. “I know, Thufir. But I won’t let him intimidate me. Not now, not ever.”

Hawat nodded, though his gaze remained watchful, his mind clearly racing with the implications of the Baron’s words. “We should leave this place, my Lord. The Targaryens have departed, and the longer we remain here, the more attention we draw.”

Leto spared one last glance toward the skies where the Aegon’s Flame had disappeared, and then turned back to his own starship. The encounter with the Baron left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he knew that the game they were playing was far from over.

As he boarded the Atreides starship with his delegation, his thoughts lingered on the Targaryens—on Aenys, on you, and the storm that was brewing within the Imperium. Whatever came next, he would face it head-on, just as he always had. And he would not let the shadows of the Harkonnens or the threats of the Emperor dictate his path.

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satureja13 · 2 months ago

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Next day, the Boys and Rubyn were busy until noon, but then - finally - the setup was complete. Including a brand new high range parabolic antenna, sitting on top of the highest tower of Mos Verdantis. Rubyn started the scan, this would take a few hours. They have no idea where Tiny Can might have fled to, so all worlds needed to be scanned. But after that, they will have a crystal clear signal of the little piece of junk. Sai can't wait to dismantle him and stomp his filthy circuit board into the ground...

The Boys thought they could help Rubyn around her workshop and house in the meantime, to keep the costs low. And Jack told Sai he and Kiyoshi would make a short trip to the Magical Realm to catch a fish for the Grim Reaper. Since Future Jeb's weird message, Sai is always worried to separate them: "Alone? What about helping us here? And how will you get there anyway?" Jack: "Don't worry, Kiyoshi is still Kojin's demon, he will take me there. I really think we should do these favours for Grim. I'd like to rely on his help should you really kill me ^^'" Sai: "You heard that, huh?"

Jack: "I'm a werewolf, I can hear everything, Mr. 'I want you so bad, Jeb' hahaha!" Sai: "RUN!" Jack: "Now, Kiyoshi!"

Sai yelled after him that he's gonna be the one who will hang in that net instead of that poor droid! But Jack just laughed. Sai will have already forgotten about it when they come back.

And then they were gone. How embarrassing. Sai had no idea what had come over him last night. Even though he knew his friends were in the tents next to them, he wasn't able to stop throwing himself in Jeb's muscular arms... Saying stupid things.

Kiyoshi and Jack landed just in view of the tree where Kiyoshi had spend 6 decades. Reflecting - and longing for Jack. Jack thought that might be a bit much for him: "Will you be ok?" Kiyoshi: "I will. In hindsight it brought us back together again. That wouldn't have worked out if we hadn't both grown, hm?" Jack hummed his agreement and they angled in silence.

They finished their quests quickly and returned back to the others to help them. But time passes faster in the Magical Realm. And just as only a few months had passed in the mundane worlds while Kiyoshi sat 60 years under/inside that tree, already a few hours had passed in Oasis Springs until Jack and Kiyoshi returned with their new rewards.

Just in time for dinner! Perfect!

And just when they were finished doing the dishes and cleaned up, the signal came in! Rubyn looked at the interactive map. An uneasy frown on her face. Sai: "What? Is it far?" Rubyn: "Eh, no. In fact just the contrary. The last signal from Tiny Can comes from here - Oasis Springs..." Sai already turned around to head for the exit: "But that's good, isn't it? Let's go!"

Rubyn stopped him: "Wait! It would have been good if it weren't that place. One does not simply go there." Sai: "What's wrong with... eh - that place?" Rubyn buried her face in her hands and sighed: "A few years ago, I was still unexperienced in servo constuction, I happened to create a - uhm... monster. RoDri6ue2-B was striving for world domination and tried to bring his minions among my neighbors. I stopped him and send him to the Moisture Farm nearby, as a punishment. I thought the hard work would, kind of, purify him. But he's still up to no good. The last signal from Tiny Can comes from this farm, and it's old." Sai: "Argh, we wasted too much time! I knew it!" Rubyn: "No, much older. We're talking months. It must have been sent shortly after you left home and went beyond the Veil to study. There is no newer signal of Tiny Can across all the worlds - and I'm not sure what that means. Did RoDri6ue2-B destroy Tiny Can already? Or did he supress his signals and made him his servant? Anyhow, we can't just walk over and ask about Tiny Can's whereabouts. And RoDri6ue2-B shouldn't see any of you either. He might take you prisioners and sell you to the Council, or worse!"

It took Sai and the others a while to comprehend - and they still wondered what exactly happened after they left broken Tiny Can. Sai: "That's so weird. How had he been able to repair himself and steal that money in such a short amount of time?!" Rubyn: "I have no idea. But I will sneak over there tonight and find out. Alone."

'Well, if you told me you were drowning, I would not lend a hand I've seen your face before, my friend, but I don't know if you know who I am Well, I was there and I saw what you did, I saw it with my own two eyes So you can wipe off that grin, I know where you've been It's all been a pack of lies'

In the Air tonight - Phil Collins

From the Beginning 🔱 Underwater Love 🔱 Latest

Current Chapter: starts ▶️ here Last Chapter: 'Here comes the Sun' from the beginning ▶️ here

📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 23-28

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universitypenguin · 1 year ago

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Chapter 17

The Princess & the Lawyer

Summary: Elliot reveals what ‘Mercury’ referred to, unleashing a flood of bittersweet memories in Lloyd that lead him to re-explore the darkest parts of childhood and uncover evidence of a devastating betrayal. Meanwhile, Princess deals with the aftermath of her near death experience and grapples with doubts about the true identity of her stalker.

Masterlist

Word Count: 6,021

Warnings: Contains descriptions of child abuse, memories of being buried alive, description of taphephobia - aka, the fear of being buried alive, vivid description of a panic attack - written in a manner intended to draw the reader into the physical experience of a panic attack. Contains content related to police corruption, murder, criminal behavior, police investigations, a scene involving emergency room care, and stalking. Minor foul language. Only appropriate for 18+ readers. No minors allowed.

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

Chapter 17

Lloyd skirted around a thicket of weeds and ducked under the branch of a towering giant hogweed, scowling at the unwelcome intruder. The disrepair of the property grated on his nerves. He added another mental note to his to-do list for tomorrow: call a weed removal service to clean up the invasive species his father had allowed to thrive in the backyard. They rounded the thicket and the beam of Elliot’s flashlight fell on the dilapidated garage. It was halfway hidden in the woods behind the house and screened from view by the untrimmed weeds.

“What are we doing here?” Lloyd asked.

“Hang on,” Elliot said.

He pulled on the garage door handle and to Lloyd’s surprise, it swung easily into the rafters. Elliot flipped a switch on an extension cord by the door to turn on the overhead lights and Lloyd stared, speechless.

“This is what ‘Mercury’ was referring to,” Elliot said.

“A Mercury Cougar… my mother’s car,” Lloyd murmured.

“Yep. Your Dad asked me to restore it last year. She turned out gorgeous. The keys are inside, if you want to take it for a spin.”

His throat felt thick as he stepped forward to inspect the bright metallic blue paint on the 1971 Mercury Cougar. He knew every inch of this car, from the cassette player his mother had installed in the dash herself, to the buttons on the radio dial, the white leather bucket seats and the fold-down rag top with squeaky hinges. He ran his hand over the glossy paint.

“It’s beautiful. You did a great job.”

“So, you remember this car? I think she must have had it before my time,” Elliot said.

“Yeah. I don’t think I was in school yet when she was driving the Mercury. She’d let me sit on her lap and pretend to drive when we drove into town. I remember she put the cassette player in the dash by herself… She was always listening to music…”

The rush of memories startled him - crystal clear and bittersweet, they grabbed him by the heartstrings and twisted, sending a painful bolt of emotion through his chest.

Elliot shuffled his feet. “Anyway, this was where Holbrook thought I’d stashed the drugs. Everyone in town knew I was working on it all last year, so it was only logical.”

His cousin cleared his throat awkwardly and reached for the flashlight he’d set on a tool chest. “Know what? I’m gonna head in for the night. See you tomorrow.”

When there was no one around as a witness, Lloyd bowed his head and let the emotions sweep through him. He waited, expecting tears, anger, something, to come out of him… but nothing came. He felt empty. Cold. Alone.

… Abandoned.

The joyful memory of riding on his mother’s lap while she drove only stirred faint echoes of anger. It mostly dragged up a raw feeling of pain, the kind he had little experience handling. The emotion burned in his belly like whiskey and he swallowed hard as his mind replayed the scenes from the past. Even decades couldn’t wash away the smell of her heavily perfumed hand lotion as it reached across time to fill his head with its musky scent. He could remember the exact shade of her nail polish - Kelly Green - and the softness of her hand stroking his hair. Even perched on her lap, he hadn’t been tall enough to see over the wheel.

Lloyd turned away. He shut the garage door and started back to the house before the thought of Elliot waiting for him made him pause. Company was the last thing he wanted right now. He was a riot of conflicting emotions, which was exactly the state of mind Dr. Blair recommended he should avoid. Odds were, Elliot was locked in a bathroom, either shooting up or smoking meth. That wasn’t a confrontation he needed to have right now so he changed directions and headed for the barn.

It was a bad idea, but he couldn’t stop himself.

In the barn he checked on the sick calf and gave Jane a bag of oats. His mind mechanically ran through tomorrow’s to-do list, as if on autopilot. He needed to call the gravel company about repairing the washed out road and coordinate the pick up of the sick calf with April. He’d have to help her load up Jane, along with what remained of the fresh hay. The horse would board with her for a few days before her new owner came down from Coeur D’Alene on Wednesday. Then he needed to contact a weed removal service about the Giant Hogweed in the backyard and… take his cousin to rehab.

Lloyd sighed, rubbing his eyes. Yeah. He needed to do that more than any of the rest of the final chores. April had asked him to help Elliot. He had, but the job wasn’t finished yet. The decision settled his nerves, and he moved down the aisle, ready to initiate the confrontation.

Then, a chill ran down his spine.

He hadn’t realized where he was standing. He was in the middle of the barn, equidistant from the back exit and the front doors, in the center of the aisle facing the east wall. Straight ahead was the half open door of the tack room. Goosebumps raised on his arms and crawled up the back of his neck as the chill wrapped around his lungs and spread into his heart. He dragged his gaze away, but it was too late.

It was cold. It was so very, very cold.

His hands were shaking.

He watched the shaking spread to his forearms and felt it rattle through his chest. His muscles clenched and shuddered. He grit his teeth against the wave of dizziness and reached out to brace himself on the wall, but missed. Numbness came after the cold. He recognized the fumbling reaction and knew it meant he’d entered the phase where his sense of spatial awareness disappeared. Fighting for breath, Lloyd panted. He had the presence of mind to drop to his knees as the room tilted, and then he was down on his hands and knees, trembling.

He tried to move but it was as if the force of gravity had quadrupled. Lloyd groaned. It came out like a whine. He needed to get out of here. Pressure built in his chest, discomfort and then a sharp pain. It ripped through his sternum and sliced into his back, climbing up his neck. This feeling was why he’d thought he was having a heart attack when the first panic attack struck him in the middle of the night, when he was alone in his cell in France.

His muscles were rigid as the attack rocketed through him. When it eased, they went limp and Lloyd slumped to the ground. There was no point in trying to move - he’d been through enough episodes like this to know. His head was swimming, his throat hurt, and nausea roiled his stomach. Gradually, the symptoms eased, and he was able to sit up with his back to the wall. The position had him facing the tack room door.

The events that had occurred inside the tack room were known only to three individuals. One of them was dead and of the two who remained alive, Lloyd was the sole person at liberty to speak. Joe was the one who was dead and Dr. Blair was bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, and Lloyd… He was constrained by the same intangible force that had kept him muzzled for over thirty years. In therapy, Dr. Blair had resorted to hypnosis to help him shed the gag that choked him. The treatment helped. Afterwards he’d been able to talk about it, at least in his therapy sessions, but never anywhere else. Never to anyone else.

He’d painstakingly translated the ugly memories into words and then repeated those words, over and over, until he could recite them as if reading from a script. He’d written them down and burned the pages. Dr. Blair’s approach was to expose him to the memories until he could dominate them, instead of the other way around. Lloyd hated it, but it worked. The boiling temper that had been his constant companion all his adult life eased to a simmer. A few months later, the panic attacks stopped. Except for flare-ups brought on by acute stress - which only seemed to happen at night - they’d disappeared.

He hadn’t been naïve enough to think that years of therapy could overcome the effect of being confronted with the physical reality of the tack room. That was why he’d tried his best to avoid this place all week until his inability to grieve had drawn him to it.

What if he went inside? Would it help?

Just the thought of it made his guts twist with the urge to vomit. He could go inside, Lloyd told himself. His father was dead. Joe was dead, and maybe going into the room as an adult would give him some sense of victory.

Victory? He doubted that was possible. Maybe closure was a better word. You would probably use a word like closure to describe what he was hoping to achieve. He didn’t know if he believed in closure. For people like you it seemed to work, but people like him held onto things, especially negative things.

Lloyd inhaled sharply through his nose, huffing the alfalfa scented air in an effort to calm his racing heart. Having a high level of self-awareness was a major downside of prolonged therapy. He hated knowing what was wrong with him, but being unable - though, perhaps ‘unwilling’ would be a better adjective - to change. Whatever it was, inability or unwillingness, he couldn’t embrace ideas like closure. He needed the hatred and rage foraged inside of this barn because it had built a nuclear reactor inside of him that powered his every waking moment and kept him alive. That reactor was still alive inside of him, there was just a better containment system for its toxic fumes.

None of his justifications made much sense, and he knew it. But he also knew the unhealthy coping mechanisms worked, and that was why he couldn’t let them go. He held onto the irrational belief that if he let go of the hatred, he’d turn into dust, like Lot’s wife. She glanced back at Sodom and Gomorrah and had become a pillar of salt. He imagined himself in a direct inversion of that tale - if he didn’t look back, then he too, would crumble.

Lloyd used the wall to help him climb to his feet. His chest heaved with effort. The half open door taunted him. He’d already gone inside once, on his first day here, in the middle of a sunny morning, to gather up Jane’s tack. He hadn’t stepped foot in it since and had even gone as far as avoiding looking at the room. This wasn’t a good time for this showdown. It was dark, and that was a problem. Acknowledging that fear made him feel like a child, but it was too strong of a compulsion to ignore.

Lloyd moved toward the opening, feeling as if he was being sucked into a black hole. The rational part of his brain screamed at him to turn around, but something more powerful than rationality drew him forward. He stared into the dark until his eyes adjusted. There, mounted on the wall, was the bull whip his father had beaten him with. You’d think he’d be covered in scars, but that wasn’t how Joe used the whip. He’d tied Lloyd’s hands to the upper saddle rack and shoved a bandana into his mouth so no one in the house would hear.

There was a slim chance that Ingrid or Josephine would be bold enough to come down to the barn if they heard the noise.

Joe never whipped the girls - just Lloyd. When he was strung up, his father would unfurl the whip and double it over. He swung it like a billy club and stuck Lloyd in the back. He held the thin part of the whip that would have broken the skin by coiling it around his fingers. Then he’d use the thick part to cover his son in bruises. The bruises were deep because his father was a strong man with bouts of temper like a hurricane. Lloyd could take almost any beating without a sound by the time he was five. That’s probably why Joe had to think up a worse punishment. Lloyd couldn’t remember a time before the worse punishment, so he figured he must have adapted at an even earlier age than his memories could reach.

Without needing to turn on the lights to find his way, Lloyd stepped into the tack room. His feet took him to the far corner behind the lower rung of saddle racks. It was too dark to see his hand in front of his face on this side of the room, but regardless, his fingers immediately found the latch. He raised the lever and opened the small trap door. His heart was racing as the scrape of the hinge triggered an unexpected rush of adrenaline.

He was nine years old all over again. His back burned, his legs stung, and blood dripped down his temple. Of course, he didn’t cry - that would only make things worse.

The stoicism had stayed with him, a permanent feature of his personality. There was no undoing it - the abuse had carved it too deep. Even now he couldn’t offer a genuine reaction to his most intense emotions if his life depended on it. Intense emotions, except for anger, which was a different matter altogether, had an unusual effect on him. When those feelings came, he felt as if he were shoved into another room where they couldn’t reach. They still existed, but weren’t a part of him. That mental space was like Schrödinger’s box - there was something there, something brewing; it was neither real nor unreal, because he was inside the box and everything else was outside. He liked that frame of mind. It could last for hours sometimes. Lloyd wished it was permanent, because it felt blissful, like the mindset people aimed for when they were meditating.

At present, he couldn’t draw up the stoicism or enter that calm, peaceful mindset that usually protected him in moments like this. He felt panic swarming up, but even so, he just couldn’t stop. He raised the trap door and found the lip of the cover underneath. It moved like a pocket door and slid out of the way. He pushed it into the recessed compartment under the floorboards to reveal the box.

The box was cut into the floor. It was approximately the size of a coffin, but deeper than a typical coffin would be. Its thick oak boards were double wide and sealed with linseed oil. Lloyd swung his feet down, one, then the other. He tried to stand up and his knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the box and realized he was panting.

Unlike in Singapore, there was no smooth hardwood floor to assure him everything was okay. You weren’t here, just a room away, where all he’d have to do was cross a threshold to reach the comfort of your presence.

Instead, it was hot and the tack room was stuffy.

The box was double walled, so no one could hear him scream. Joe had always shoved him in the box after beating him. Spans of time in the box varied, but he’d recalled that he’d spent three days in it once. When he was younger, he’d tried everything to get out, expending every ounce of his energy until he was exhausted. That changed as he grew older. By the time he’d gone to kindergarten, not pre-school, there was no pre-school in these parts in those days - he’d known how to handle the box. He knew to lie still and count his breaths. To cry silently, because when he was silent, Joe would let him out faster.

Lloyd’s vision blurred. It was still too dark to see, but he felt around, searching the floor. This was where he’d hidden the pouch of rocks and arrowheads he and Ingrid collected in the woods. He remembered stashing them in here the summer after he’d passed five-foot four and had officially outgrown the box. When he couldn’t find them, he considered using the light on his phone, but decided against it. This place wasn’t meant to be seen. He could feel Joe’s ghost breathing down his neck as he ran his hands over the floorboards.

There was no leather pouch in the right upper corner, where he remembered putting it. On the chance he was mistaken, Lloyd reached into the far side of the box. His hand brushed something metal and he felt around its contours and realized it was a square metal container… no, rectangular. It was about the size of a tackle box.

Had Joe re-purposed the torture chamber as a hiding spot for drugs? It would be just like him…

Lloyd climbed out of the recessed grave and slid the lid closed, then shut the trap door. He carried the box into an empty stall and turned on the overhead light.

It was a tool box. He recognized it by its unusual teal color - his mother had kept it in the trunk of her Toyota, a vehicle Joe had bought her after the Mercury broke down. He pried open the rusted lock with his pocket knife and found a leather pouch in the top tray. Lloyd unlaced the leather ties and found the polished treasures of his childhood. They were nearly in perfect condition, if a little dusty. He rubbed one on his shirt and held it up to the light, admiring the shiny chunk of obsidian. It was a rock he’d spent hours polishing. He sorted through the pouch and recognized several pieces. A jasper stone, smokey quartz, an agate nodule, and the prize of the collection - trio of star garnets.

Lloyd lifted the tray and found a pile of cassettes. On top of them was a blank envelope, which he opened to find a couple wallet-size photographs. The first was of a little girl with pale blonde hair. She was missing both of her front teeth. He’d been the one to persuade her to tie a piece of floss around the second front tooth and fasten the other end to a doorknob. He’d even helped her slam the door to remove that final stubborn baby tooth. Josie had screamed and bled and rightfully blamed him for the painful ordeal for the next three weeks. The second photo was of a girl with sable hair. She had high cheekbones, dense eyebrows, and a full mouth. Ingrid bore such a strong resemblance to their father that it was almost hard to look at her. His eyes misted, and he felt a spasm in his chest. Anger rose as grief sliced through his soul.

They’d vanished. There had been no warning to allow him a chance to prepare for the blow. It had wrecked him. He could still remember the agony and confusion in the following days. He hadn’t known what to do with himself in the time between their disappearance and Joe’s return. At first, he’d figured they’d come back. Then it clicked - she’d really done it. His mother had snatched his sisters and taken off and they had left him behind. That moment of comprehension was when the grief set in and overpowered the anger.

He couldn’t tolerate staying in the big empty house alone, so he’d packed a backpack and headed into the woods. The following days were filled with denial. He’d pretended he was a wild boy who lived in the forest and didn’t have a family and that his sole connection with the big ranch house in the clearing was that sometimes he’d watch the people who lived there. He told himself he was only sad because the family who occupied the house was on vacation in California and he missed watching them.

He’d loved them.

He’d loved his mother, even with her psychotic episodes, because she’d loved him. The memory of riding on her lap in the Mercury proved it. Despite her erratic moods and the uncontrollable outbursts that had scared him, there’d been a level of awareness, even as a child, that she couldn’t control those things. He’d loved his sisters, too. He’d loved them more than anything in the world. If they were still alive, he still loved them.

There was a piece of paper at the bottom of the envelope. Lloyd fished it out and recognized the tri-fold pattern of a letter. It had a small piece of tape holding it shut and when he turned it over, he found his name written on the back in a looping scrawl. The handwriting was instantly familiar, though he hadn’t seen it in thirty years. The handwriting revealed the identity of the person who’d left the cassettes, preserved his rock collection, and chosen this tool box to store them in.

His mother hadn’t left him without a word. She’d left him what appeared to be the entirety of her cassette collection, a few pictures of his sisters, and she’d written him a letter.

By themselves, the items were innocuous enough but placing them in his torture chamber… that was an arrow to the heart. It was proof that she’d known what Joe was doing to him. He’d often wondered if she had a clue about what he was going through in the barn, but until now he couldn’t be sure. There was a part of him that questioned if it was possible for her not to know, but he’d always given her the benefit of the doubt. Now, there was no benefit left to give.

His mother had known Joe buried him alive under the floorboards of the barn. She’d known that he was down there, breathing in the thick, humid scent of earth that still reverberated through his nightmares today. Lloyd could forgive her for allowing the beatings. Hers were just as frequent, if not more so, than his. But the fact that she’d known about the box…

He crushed the letter into a ball.

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

An emergency room doctor who looked as if he’d witnessed enough history to make textbooks jealous, splinted your wrist. You accepted his referral to an outpatient clinic and promised to schedule a follow up next week. Detective Diskant was in the waiting room with Zach. He took your statements and asked lots of questions you didn’t know the answers to.

By the time Zach unlocked the door of Lloyd’s townhouse, you felt like a zombie. The combination of adrenaline crash and pain medication was a potent one. Landon showed up with a duffle bag for his boss and they both grilled you on the finer details of Aiden’s text messages for two more hours. You tried your best to be helpful, but it was useless. They were clearly questioning whether Aiden was behind the messages and the other incidents. While you saw their point, you couldn’t think of an alternative suspect. You agreed with Zach that you should reach out to Mr. LeDoux in the morning and that you would work from home one Monday.

Lloyd was due back Tuesday. That would be a hard conversation and you weren’t looking forward to hurting his feelings, but you’d made your choices and still considered your actions to be in his best interest. Landon left at midnight and you checked that the downstairs guest room had fresh sheets and stocked the bathroom with towels before going upstairs.

Ten minutes later you were in the shower, crying.

It was so unfair. You’d only dated Aiden for a few weeks. Why would he do this? Did his bruised ego really demand such disproportionate retribution? What if he wasn’t your stalker? Who else could it be? The last two questions nagged at you, especially considering your recent confrontation with him. He’d had you alone, and he’d been free to harm you, just like the text messages threatened. The exchange with Aiden had been belligerent, but not overtly threatening. Maybe it wasn’t him.

In its overwhelmed state, your mind couldn’t tolerate that version of reality. With so much uncertainty already hanging in the air, the one fact you’d come to terms with was the identity of the threat. Knowing Aiden was your stalker helped you understand his motivations and respond accordingly. If it wasn’t him, then what? What options did you have to fight a shadow?

Your mind swung briefly to the Nguyen case, and the missing identity of Julia’s “sister.” Her identity was even more shadowy than your stalker’s and that was another question you needed to tackle. First thing tomorrow, you promised yourself. Right after you and Zach called Mr. LeDoux. The thought of calling him made your stomach pitch. Tears came even harder as your imagination took flight, bringing up questions and asking you to consider possibilities you didn’t want to think about. What if you’d accused Aiden prematurely? What if he was innocent? Then, you cried because of how miserable crying made you feel, and because of the whole horrible, rotten situation you were in, and because you were scared that it wasn’t Aiden who was stalking you after all.

You finished showering and were in the middle of your skincare routine when your phone rang. Lloyd’s name flashed on the caller ID. Sobs were still shaking your shoulders, which caused you to watch the phone ring for a moment. You worried about his reaction if you answered in this state, but he’d been so busy that he hadn’t called much this week and you needed to hear his voice. Swallowing back your tears, you answered.

“H-h-hello?”

“Princess?” The sound of his silky baritone eased the painful tension in your shoulders.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“What’s wrong?” Lloyd asked.

“I… uh… I’m watching Marley & Me.”

Silence. “You refuse to watch that movie because you know the dog dies in the end. What’s really going on?”

“I had a fight with my sister,” you lied.

“About what?”

“A lot of things… we just sort of… got into it.”

“Are you okay?” Lloyd asked.

“I’ll be fine. How are you? How’s the ranch?”

“I sold the last of the cattle, but I’ve got a sick calf in the barn. And two days ago, this evil bitch tried to kill me.”

You giggled. “Was the evil bitch an actual bitch?”.

“She was a blonde.”

“You pissed off a golden retriever?”

“Think bigger. She was a Charolais heifer with the longest horns I’ve seen on that breed. My father clearly wasn’t trimming their horns these past few years. Of all the chores to miss…”

“What did she do? Try to trample you?”

“I had a plan to get her into the trailer, she had a plan to resist, and then seized an opportunity to try and gore me.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it sounds awful. What happened?”

“I roped her.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

“It seems some skills come back under pressure. I haven’t roped anything since I was eighteen.”

“Lloyd, were you a cowboy?”

He laughed. “Every ranch kid is a cowboy, honey. It’s not that remarkable.”

“Well, I think it’s remarkable. Can I see your cowboy skills sometime?”

“If it would cheer you up, I’d give you an in-person tutorial.”

You perked up. “Will you bring your lasso home? I can think of all kinds of uses for it…”

Lloyd wasn’t amused. “I don’t think you realize what a lasso is made out of. It’s meant for animal hide, it would shred your skin.”

“What about chaps? Spurs?”

“It’s too hot for chaps in August, and if you need spurs, get rid of the horse.”

“Seriously? You’d just get rid of the horse?”

“That was my father’s philosophy. He liked his horses like he liked his people - well trained.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Lloyd, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Not really. My cousin got into some trouble, and I helped him out of a jam. He’s here with me now and… Joe’s funeral is tomorrow. I don’t think I’m going to go.”

“What kind of trouble is your cousin in? Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I took care of it. We aren’t close or anything. He’s my father’s sister’s kid; she died, and he grew up in foster care. The only place I ever saw him was at school.”

“That’s so… sad.”

He chuckled. “That sums up my week. I spent Friday hunting down the last of the cattle and ended up hip deep in a mud puddle.”

“How did that happen?”

“I was chasing a cow. She figured out that the only place she could go, where I couldn’t - at least not on horseback - was a giant mud puddle.”

“Did you rope her, too?”

“Yes. And don’t ask me how I got her out, because it’s a four hour window of time I deeply want to forget.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, fighting back laughter.

“On a totally different subject, I’m bringing home 800 pounds of beef…”

“Lloyd!”

“After what she put me through, I’m damn sure going to eat her.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s called the food chain, baby.”

“I’m not eating any beef you serve me for the next two years,” you said.

Lloyd snickered. “Hippie.”

“You’re really going native on me aren’t you?”

He laughed, but it sounded tired.

“Have you been sleeping well?” you asked.

“I can’t sleep. I miss you.”

Tears filled your eyes, then spilled over. You sniffled.

“Princess? Are you there?”

“Yeah…” your voice came out as a half sob.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I’m not having a great day and the last thing I want to do is dump it all on you. You’re already handling so much.”

“Don’t worry about me. Tell me what’s going on.”

You stared at the splint on your wrist, and thought about what could’ve happened if Zach hadn’t been with you tonight. You thought of your confrontation with Aiden and the photo left on your car on Friday night. Lloyd would get on a plane if he knew what was going on and because of you, he’d miss the chance to attend his father’s funeral tomorrow. While you understood his hesitation about going, you wanted him to at least have the opportunity to go. If there was even a tiny possibility that putting his father in the ground would help him lay his demons to rest, you needed him to have it.

“Princess?” Lloyd asked.

You took a deep breath. “I’m having some problems with… Aiden. He’s… um… you know, this isn’t a conversation we should have over the phone. When you get back, I’ll tell you everything, okay?”

“Zach would be more than glad to rearrange Aiden’s face, if you asked him to. He’s been itching to do it since he met the kid.”

Your laugh was watery. “Hey. I could totally do it myself. Landon and Jake gave me a self defense lesson.”

“Because of Aiden? Why? What did he do?”

“He’s probably harassing me. Zach found out today and confronted me about it. By the way, he’s staying in your guest room tonight.”

Lloyd grunted. “Good, and you didn’t answer the question. How is he harassing you? When did it happen? Does Jake know? Nevermind, of course he does. He was probably your first call.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought I could handle things and it turns out I was wrong.”

“I’ll be home by Tuesday afternoon, maybe sooner,” he said.

A day and a half. You could make it that long.

“You know, this is the longest we’ve ever been apart,” Lloyd said.

You blinked. “It is?”

“Yeah. Since we started working together, we’ve never been apart for more than five days in a row.”

“What about when I had the flu? I was out for a whole week.”

“I brought you soup and medicine that Friday night.”

The memory made you smile. You hadn’t been working for him for very long and opening the door to a scowling Lloyd had been quite the surprise. He’d carried a pharmacy bag under one arm and a carry out container from his favorite restaurant in the other. The soup was vegetable noodle, with extra broth.

“I remember it now. Did you know you’re an amazing friend, Lloyd?”

“It was probably weird of me to show up out of the blue, but I had to do something. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I couldn’t cope if I lost you.”

The pain in his voice worried you. He was hurting and you wished you could stop it. Tears filled your eyes again.

“Do you need me to come out there?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve tied up all the loose ends.”

The catch in his voice made you frown. “Lloyd, what happened?”

“I had to take care of a few things with the less than legal side of my father’s business. He wasn’t just a rancher and I had to motivate some local thugs to… move to a different scene.”

“Ah. I see. Should I find a lawyer in the area, or do you have someone on retainer? I’m only asking in case your methods attract the wrong attention.”

He grunted. “Local law enforcement is a bit tied up at the moment, but just in case, there’s bail money in the safe. The passcode is 917889 - if you can’t remember it, tell Jake it’s my three favorite Super Bowls in order. He’ll understand.”

You rolled your eyes. “I tend to forget they play the Super Bowl on a yearly basis.”

“I can help you out with that. We’ll watch my favorites together when I get back.”

“Can I take an Ambien first?”

He laughed, and the line fell quiet. You wondered if you should tell him exactly what was going on, but figured plenty of people knew already. You’d filed the official complaint with the police and Detective Diskant was putting more resources into the case tomorrow. Besides, in thirty-six hours, Lloyd would be home.

“Lloyd? I’m glad you called. It’s nice to hear your voice.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I am, I just need some sleep.”

“Don’t work too hard,” he said.

“You’re the one who spent the last week playing cowboy. How’s your back feeling?”

“I’d rather not say because it would make me feel old.”

You giggled. “If it helps, I’d be out of commission within an hour if I tried that kind of work.”

“Princess, you don’t like your shoes getting dirty in the rain. You’d shrivel up and die at the amount of dirt and mud out here. Especially if you saw the amount of it I’ve tracked into the house.”

“I can imagine it, and it’s not pleasant. But if you need me, I’d be there in an instant. You know that, right?”

“It goes both ways. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

His words were spoken so tenderly that a lump the size of a golf ball swelled in your throat.

“I know.”

“Shit, I made you cry again.”

You wiped your face, laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess, but I wanted to talk to you.”

“You never told me what Aiden did. Did he call you? Show up at the office? Your apartment?”

“It’s not important. Zach is downstairs and I’m safe. We can talk more tomorrow, just come home safe.”

“Alright. Sleep tight, Princess. I’ll be home soon,” Lloyd said.

Your heart fluttered. There was a wealth of affection in his voice that wrapped around your heart, and though it wasn’t spoken, his words held more love than any explicit confession could convey.

“Goodnight. I love you.”

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

Next - Part XVIII

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Masterlist

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Taglist:

@denisemarieangelina

@before-we-get-started

@buckysteveloki-me

@patzammit

@badassbaker

@meetmeatyourworst

@whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@thiskindahotkindamusic

@jesgisborne

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@amiets2

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@fangirl-and-doctor-help

@jesevans

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@lizzzaaaaaaaaaaa @thegirlnextdoorssister @ladygrey03 @cynic-spirit @rosedpetal @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @bambamwolf87

@yiiiikesmish @lavenderx0 @calwitch @peachiestevie @texmexdarling @here4thefanfics @rogersbarber @spikeluv84 @dear-fifi @crayongirl-linz

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esther-dot · 1 year ago

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Any thoughts on Sansa saying she wants the Great Sept burned? Is she a witch?

Dontos nodded. "He made a great pyre of the trees as an offering to his new god. The red priestess made him do it. They say she rules him now, body and soul. He's vowed to burn the Great Sept of Baelor too, if he takes the city." "Let him." When Sansa had first beheld the Great Sept with its marble walls and seven crystal towers, she'd thought it was the most beautiful building in the world, but that had been before Joffrey beheaded her father on its steps. "I want it burned." "Hush, child, the gods will hear you." "Why should they? They never hear my prayers." (ACOK, Sansa IV)

No, I don't think she's a witch, but there is something to her wishes coming true:

I hope he falls and shames himself, she thought bitterly. I hope Ser Balon kills him. When Joffrey proclaimed her father's death, it had been Janos Slynt who seized Lord Eddard's severed head by the hair and raised it on high for king and crowd to behold, while Sansa wept and screamed. later -> Morros dropped his lance, fought for balance, and lost. One foot caught in a stirrup as he fell, and the runaway charger dragged the youth to the end of the lists, head bouncing against the ground. Joff hooted derision. Sansa was appalled, wondering if the gods had heard her vengeful prayer. But when they disentangled Morros Slynt from his horse, they found him bloodied but alive. "Tommen, we picked the wrong foe for you," the king told his brother. "The straw knight jousts better than that one." (ACOK, Sansa I)

Now, he didn't die, but I still think that's the beginning of a fun little pattern.

Across the city, thousands had jammed into the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya's Hill, and they would be singing too, their voices swelling out over the city, across the river, and up into the sky. Surely the gods must hear us, she thought. [...] ...toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him. later -> Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from her mind. Please don't kill me, she wanted to scream, please don't. She could feel him twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears. Gentle Mother, font of mercy, [...] She had forgotten the other verses. When her voice trailed off, she feared he might kill her, but after a moment the Hound took the blade from her throat, never speaking. Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. "Little bird," he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps. later -> "It's done! Done! Done! The city is saved. (ACOK, Sansa VII)

Twofer! The people are saved and the Hound's fury/assault ends in him weeping.

Not sure if we should count this one, she did want to kill Joffrey back in AGOT and she thinks about praying for Margaery's protection from him, but I can't remember a specific wish in ASOS:

Sansa followed unresisting. I could never abide the weeping of women, Joff once said, but his mother was the only woman weeping now. In Old Nan's stories the grumkins crafted magic things that could make a wish come true. Did I wish him dead? (ASOS, Sansa V)

Martin is even playing this game in TWOW!

This time her eyes met Harry's. She smiled just for him, and said a silent prayer to the Maiden. Please, he doesn't need to love me, just make him like me, just a little, that would be enough for now. later -> “I hope you joust better than you talk.” For a moment he looked shocked. But as the song was ending, he burst into a laugh. “No one told me you were clever.” He has good teeth, she thought, straight and white. And when he smiles, he has the nicest dimples. She ran one finger down his cheek. “Should we ever wed, you’ll have to send Saffron back to her father. I’ll be all the spice you’ll want.” He grinned. “I will hold you to that promise, my lady. Until that day, may I wear your favor in the tourney?” (TWOW, Alayne I)

The guy is charmed. Oops, I almost forgot the best example:

Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. "Life is not a song, sweetling," he'd told her. "You may learn that one day to your sorrow." In life, the monsters win, she told herself, and now it was the Hound's voice she heard, a cold rasp, metal on stone. "Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants." (AGOT, Sansa VI) later -> much later -> much much later -> Janos Slynt twisted his neck around to stare up at him. "Please, my lord. Mercy. I'll … I'll go, I will, I …" No, thought Jon. You closed that door. Longclaw descended. (ADWD, Jon II)

I understand that politically, it would be a mess for Cersie to blow it up a la the show, and she'd lose all support blah blah blah, but I think the Sept will burn. Maybe that's later during Dany's great kaboomb of KL, but I'd kinda hate it if it was burned as part of everything and didn't get singular focus. Martin so frequently references Ned's death on the steps of the Sept we have this feeling of it being a place of horror and great injustice, and I'd like it to be a real moment. I would find it rewarding if it was Cersei, because she’d unwittingly be carrying out a wish of Sansa’s, a form of justice for the Starks. Also, we have that whole scene of her being enraptured by the tower of the hand burning, she has her own trauma tied to the Sept now, and in her scene of shame, she sees Ned and Sansa, so it’s all very present even as late as ADWD. And we know Martin is prepping another wish coming true in TWOW:

👀👀👀 Regardless of when/how, I do think Sansa will get her wish regarding the Sept and Harry (although I’m sure that one will upset her, she’s very soft-hearted!)

Again, not because she's a witch, because of the author's interest in justice and also, part of his series long project of unwinding simplistic beliefs and notions to replace them with a much more complex truth. Not to say people are dumb to believe in the first place, but more of an examination of faith and how prayers being answered can be the mystical explanation for a something that someone does for us, or we might even do for ourselves. As in, it was Sansa's longstanding kindness to the Hound, the relationship she built with him as well as her treatment of him in the moment that saved her from him.

#dot chat #sansa stark #asoiaf speculation

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chameleonspell · 4 months ago

Text

HTDC commentary - 2: labels

[Looking back at HTDC after nearly ten years: comments on lore, character notes, influences, art, whatever. May contain spoilers for later chapters.]

chapter text: 2: labels

Another chapter where I made no concessions to anyone who hadn't played Morrowind! It's just an extended riff on the character generation questionnaire. I think I simultaneously felt like I had to include it, but also thought it was boring and obvious to narrate gameplay mechanics everyone knew about, so I just... made Ire say a lot of silly things about licking sugar off boys, rather than have him answer any of the questions properly. Oh well, at least it's established that Ire hates his ma. Also that Iriel likes sugar, but that fact will soon become apparent.

Really, though, while this scene is played for laughs, it's true that this is the first conversation Iriel has had in more than a year where what he says actually matters, and he is expected to act like a normal person, exercising concepts like social propriety. He is pulling his entire personality out of mothballs, having not used it for a very long time. This was how he survived jail - depersonalisation, entering a state where he could say or do anything he liked, because it wasn't real, he wasn't real. He calls it madness, here, and later says of it:

"It’s a funny old place, jail. In odd ways, it frees you. From shame, for example. Shame is for people with something left to lose, somewhere further to fall."

Freedom means personhood. Freedom means that Iriel has to deal with shame again, and now he's gonna get hit full force.

This is purely a psychometric test, designed to illuminate character.” Iriel immediately looked five times as terrified as before.

Personhood... feels bad. Feels dangerous and embarrassing, like he's trying to smuggle a ferret made of Semtex and razor blades through customs, inside his vest.

Iriel is frantically scrabbling to regain control of what information he is revealing about himself to others, failing utterly, and convinced that everything about him is awful. The fact Socucius is being nice to him only makes it worse, because that means the point where he turns angrily on Ire is still to come! Guilt as inherent personality trait, because your entire personality is something to feel guilty about.

Speaking of Personality, as an illusion mage, Iriel technically had a very high Personality stat, in-game. In this scene, we establish that this is not because of any great beauty or charismatic facility with speech on his part. No, Iriel gets people to help him through the sheer, pleading, pathetic power of his big, wet, puppydog eyes. Clearly, this is why he has to sit under tables - because he's too tall to look up at people, now, so he needs to crawl down low, and blink owlishly up at them.

Ire was wrinkling his nose. “No, no, I heard you. I just can’t picture myself choosing any of those options. If you’d ever met my mother, you’d understand.”

For the non-Morrowinders present, there is a chargen question about what action you would take to save your mother from being hit by a burning pipe. There is no option to answer "I would cheerfully let my mother get hit by a burning pipe, because we have the sort of relationship where that is my idea of a good time."

I still don’t understand why you reject the label of “mage” or “sorcerer”, when you were a student of magic both at the Crystal Tower in the Summerset Isles and the Arcane University in Cyrodiil."

Absolutely intentional choice on my part to choose to write a scholar, because it gives me free rein to make them say silly academic vocabulary, and generally indulge my love of that sort of character voice. Not yet, as Ire's still regaining his mind, but definitely later on.

Iriel keeps it grounded and proves he's actually common as muck with the constant, reflexive swearing, which I just thought was funny. My previous TES writing project had been PG and in strict lore-compliant limits, so I wanted to let elves say "fuck", now. Saying "fuck" is cool, actually, and makes you sound really grown-up.

Anyway, what's Iriel got against labels? Well, a label's what you use to broadcast information about yourself, which is clearly a horrible idea.

Iriel twisted a strand of his hair. It was a nervous habit, but one he was secretly happy to regain, since they had shaved his head - under screaming, sobbing protest - on admittance to the Imperial Prison, and on a monthly basis, thereafter.

This was not just Iriel being a dramatic baby. It was a massive and traumatic violation to him, and would have been for most Altmer. I think long hair is very important to Altmeri cultural ideals of beauty, regardless of gender, but most of all, it's hugely tied to social status. Having short hair is not merely common, it's gross. It's like having fleas, or a skin condition - you understand some people can't help it, but it's still awful to contemplate. Iriel explains this, much later:

Hair is a very serious business, where I’m from. It’s a sign of class, position, lifestyle. Nobody above merchant caste would ever cut their hair voluntarily, it implies you’re not in a position to take proper care of it. Or your occupation involves tasks so unbearably practical that even braiding isn’t enough. My pa cut his hair - too much wind and seawater not to. Ma wouldn’t let him cut mine. She wanted better for me.”

Hands you felt safe in. I don’t have hands like that.

Iriel's belief that there are two kinds of people, safe ones and unsafe ones, this is inherent and predetermined, and he is not one of them. Very Altmeri of him: goodness and badness is in the blood, there's nothing you can do to change it.

In more practical, narrative terms, healing magic is such a get out of jail free card, in a story. It was so much easier for me to bring the drama, if I made sure that Iriel was very bad at it, and couldn't be splashing it around all the time, to solve his problems.

There had been instructions about duties, but by that stage, Ire had regressed back into the disconnected state he privately called “the numb”, and it had all washed over him meaninglessly.

Established: reason we're gonna totally ignore the main quest for as long as possible.

He stared at the damp little village before him. Buildings. People walking about. Turning around. Looking at him. He clutched the bag to his chest and tried to concentrate.

All right, Ire. You need supplies and directions. Get yourself oriented. Talk to the locals, find a shop, get used to how things work here. You can do this.

More people began to notice him and send him curious glances. A Bosmer man smiled encouragingly, and seemed on the verge of coming over to initiate conversation.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do any of it.

Ire made a small, despairing noise, pointed himself in a random direction and walked straight out of the village into the swamp.

So, this is kind of where my original Morrowind playthrough stopped being me playing the game like a gamer, and became a character exploration, instead. When I started, I was just going to play Morrowind, do all the quests, go wherever seemed fun or useful, based on my extensive knowledge as an experienced player. I was in Seyda Neen, so I would go through the standard motions: sell the limeware platter, give Fargoth his ring, buy some spells and equipment, all the usual things you do in the starter town, to set yourself up for the game.

But when I stepped out of the Census Office, I was already far enough into Iriel's head that I could only feel his sense of being totally socially and sensorially overwhelmed, something that was very familiar to me, and I realised this was going to be a very different kind of playthrough.

This was my reply to a question asked of me by pigeonfancier on tumblr:

What inspired you to write the fic this way?

It started out because I needed to. I was suffering from intermittent bouts of mental horrible, my social anxiety was getting unmanageable and I kept fantasising about invisibility. Worse, I kept losing words. It felt like my brain was disintegrating.

Morrowind is my favourite game, my comfort zone, my happy place. I started a new game, and put some of my stresses into the character. And when he refused point blank to talk to anyone in Seyda Neen, and just ran off into the swamp, I thought, maybe this is a story. And maybe if I write it, I can put lots of words into it, so that I don’t lose them. And maybe I can explore ways to survive in a world that often seems very frightening.

next: 3: breathe previous: 1: numb

#htdc-comment

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totkdaily · 9 months ago

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Day 59: Tarrey Town

I ride down the hill in sheeting rain to pray at the Spring of Power. The Goddess statue asks for Dinraal's claw because the Mother Goddess Statue in the Forgotten Temple has fallen down - it's a good thing I risked life and limb earlier.

She gives me a ruby for the claw, and implores me to visit her sisters. In fact, I could return to the Spring of Wisdom now. The weather might be better there.

It isn't. But the statue gives me a sapphire.

Now, where was that last one? Spring of Courage… is it in Faron, near those dragon ruins? That'll take me a while, if so.

Where next?

I'm minded to visit Zora's Domain - it feels like I've been circling it for a while. I had planned to go to Tarrey Town though, before I got incredibly distracted. Tarrey Town first. I'll visit Sidon afterwards.

The Purah Pad takes me back to Ulri Mountain tower. I use it for lift, and land on an island with a flux construct… I should really take those things more seriously.

Much more seriously.

But I am eventually victorious, and I dive on down to Tarrey Town.

I put on a more respectable outfit than my battle gear, and go looking for Hudson and all the rest of them.

Fyson is still running the general store - he sells monster extract, which I think I wanted to cook something for the Hateno schoolkids. Pelison works with him now, detaching fused items from one another. I might have some work for him.

There's a couple of kids running around - Hunnie and Mattison. Mattison's a Gerudo, and with a name like that… did Hudson have a kid?? I should come here more often.

Kapson is running the inn - I guess he did finally retire from marriage officiant.

I ask the goddess statue for a heart container.

There's two elders - Monari and Moggs. Moggs says the town's growth is thanks to President Mudson. Does… does he mean Hudson? Ah, yes - Monari agrees with me. She points me to the construction office across the way.

Ruli says Hudson's in conflict with Rhondson right now, something about their daughter Mattison - I was right about her! But why are her parents arguing?

I find the couple at the office - it's got to do with Mattison leaving.

It takes Rhondson a second to remember me - she thinks I'm here for a dream home, but that service is closed right now anyway.

I follow Hudson to find out more. Mattison's going to Gerudo Town soon - because she's Gerudo, she can't be around men until she comes of age. Hudson's finding it hard to let go. And in the meantime, they're both so busy.

I head inside to find Mattison practicing her Gerudo language. She wants everyone here to learn Gerudo too, so she's teaching Granny Monari. I follow her - to find that the real reason she's teaching the language is so Rhondson won't be lonely when she leaves. Oh, kiddo. She wants to help Hudson with his work so he's not so busy, to help him out as well before she goes.

Mattison heads to the railcar to join Hudson at the jobsite - is that what's on the lake shore? I wonder what he's building down there. But some guy called Hagie is extorting everyone for railcar rides. I wonder if I can distract him…

I stick a plank of wood in front of his face so he can't see, and Mattison rides on down.

Hagie's got a shrine crystal, and he wants 20 rupees to ride the railcar. He took the crystal from the jobsite, and now he wants 100 rupees for it - or at least 80. Clearly hasn't heard the parable of the lion and the wolf.

Ruli overhears him, and says 50 rupees is more than fair. I'll come back for it at some point. I want to check that Mattison is OK.

I glide down to the jobsite - and spot a device dispenser! The researcher checking it out, Pulcho, doesn't have a clue what it does. I demonstrate. He says there's another in Kakariko Village - I've seen it - and another at Digdogg Bridge, apparently.

There's a couple of buildings down here, but it's mostly ruins and Zonai devices. I spot Hudson and Mattison by a balloon.

He's made it for her so she can get to Gerudo Town safely - and he wants to paint it yellow to make it like the sun. He wants ten sundelions to dye the canopy. I've got 29 - he can have some of mine. It takes him the rest of the night to build it.

#totkdaily #day 59 #totk #loz #zelda #legend of zelda #Mattison's got so much on her plate and she deserves to have a chill time

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ikeromantic · 1 year ago

Text

Alice in College pt 1

An IkeRev Central characters AU! Written for my IkeRev 1K Celebration, a boarding school AU was the poll winner. Approx. 2700 words. 1/6

On Being the New Kid and Other Horrors

Alice looked up at the soaring towers of Cradle College, her neck tilted back uncomfortably. They were impossibly tall, and looked needle thin. Pennants fluttered atop them, their colors too distant to determine against the steely gray of the sky. The clouds above were heavy with the threat of a coming storm. “Figures,” she sighed.

There was nothing for it but to go in. She knocked once at the large, wooden entry. A smaller door set into the giant gate swung open. “There you are.” The voice that came from the shadowed threshold was warm and gentle. A moment later, Alice had a face to go with the voice as a young, bespectacled man stepped out. “I’m Blanc Lapin. And you must be our new Alice.”

“Yes, Mr. Lapin.” Alice felt flustered under his rose-gold gaze. He was beautiful in an almost fragile way, with his pale hair and complexion, thin frame, and elegant hands. She found it hard not to stare, and when she did, iIt felt as if he saw right into her heart. His playful smile and wise eyes said they knew every thought she had as she climbed the steps to meet him.

“Please, call me Blanc.” He took her hands in his and gently squeezed them. “Welcome to Cradle.”

Alice let herself be led inside.

The courtyard was old, overgrown with thick, verdant vines. Ivy and roses over crumbling statues, arches, and stone walls. She didn’t have time to really look at any of it as Blanc set a fast pace. He opened the door for her and shepherded her into the entry hall. Alice had just enough time to gawp at the floating crystal chandelier above them before she was herded into another room.

“Here we are.” Blanc came to a sudden stop, and Alice nearly collided with him. “You’ve arrived just in time for afternoon tea.” He smiled at her wistfully. “Go ahead and grab a tray. You’ll find the food here is quite good. I recommend the carrot cake.”

“The . . . carrot cake?” Alice blinked at him.

“Yes. Though the strawberry and caramel creme are also very good.”

“Stop flirting with the new kid. Nobody wants to see that.” A child’s high-pitched voice interrupted before Alice could say anything else.

She turned to see a small boy with a ridiculous top hat marching toward them. His green jacket and matching bowtie were pressed and formal and far fancier than the simple blue dress and white pinafore Alice wore. The boy looked much too young for college, she thought.

“Oliver, did you come to introduce yourself?” Blanc smiled at him with the same gentle expression he’d show Alice.

“No.” Oliver crossed his arms.

Alice wasn’t sure how to react, but Blanc was giving her an encouraging look so she took a breath and held out her hand. “Hi, Oliver. I’m Alice. It’s, um, nice to meet you?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like a question but his frown and lowered brows made her uncertain it was nice.

“Wonderful.” Blanc put his gloved hands together. “I’m afraid I have somewhere else to be, but it looks like you’re getting along just fine.” He gave Alice one last smile and then left.

She stood there awkwardly, glancing between Blanc’ retreating form and Oliver’s bored expression.

“Ugh. Come on.” Oliver rolled his eyes and turned on his heel.

Alice reluctantly followed after. “So. You must be pretty smart to be in college already, hm? What are you studying?”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m not some stupid kid.”

“Oh. Ok. I - I didn’t mean to?” She took a breath. Clearly the kid was touchy about his age. She didn’t try to make any more small talk as he led her to the snack table. There were pastries, savory and sweet, and a large samovar full of hot tea.

“Metaphysics.”

Alice was just reaching for a plate when Oliver spoke, and nearly dropped it in surprise.

He reached out, grabbing her hand to stabilize the plate. “Great. You’re clumsy too.” Oliver sighed. “Anyway, get what you want and then find somewhere to sit.” He let go of her and turned to go.

“Thanks?”

“Just try not to drop anything.” He took a step and then paused. “You can sit by us, if you want. Not that I care.” And with that, he left her alone.

Alice frowned after him for a moment. “No thanks,” she murmured. She didn’t think she could handle any more kid-sass. Not today anyway. She filled her plate, grabbed a mug of tea, and found an empty table.

The cafeteria looked like it was meant to house a lot more students than it currently did. Large, round wooden tables dotted the room, with six chairs at each. Only a few were occupied. No one looked over at her arrival, which was fine. It wasn’t her first time being ‘the new kid’ and it would take time to get to know people.

She picked up a strawberry pastry and took a bite. It was quite good. As good as anything the sweets shop she worked at in London might make. Alice finally started to relax as she sat there, sipping tea and people watching. Despite the magical nature of Cradle, the students here really weren’t that different than -

“You look so beautiful when you’re enjoying yourself.”

The voice caught Alice offguard and she spilt her tea on her skirt as she made a slight jump and turned towards it. Her eyes were met by a pair of wide, grey-blue eyes and a bright, friendly smile.

“Sorry, did I startle you princess?” He didn’t look sorry at all as he gave her a mischievous wink. “Here, let me help you with that. It’s my fault, afterall.” And then he knelt, leaning into her lap to dab at the spot of tea on her pinafore.

Alice felt completely tongue-tied, her face going instantly hot from the sudden, unexpected familiarity. She took a moment to find her voice again, though it was a little squeakier than she liked. “Who - who are you? What are you doing?”

He laughed warmly and tilted his head to look up at her. “Ah, there I go, jumping right in without even introducing myself. I’m Dalim, and it’s really a pleasure to meet you, Alice.”

She blinked at him uncertainly. He at least looked like he meant it, even if he was entirely too close for someone she just met. His hand was still resting on her leg beside the stain. “N-nice to meet you too. But. Could you . . .”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry about that. I suppose I just got a little carried away. I feel bad I just met you and already made a mess.” He drew his hand back slowly, the warmth of his palm stroking her through her skirt.

Alice wasn’t sure how to respond. People were just not this forward where she was from.

“You’re really freaking her out, Dalim. You should give it a rest. Don’t you have enough girlfriends already?” Another interruption, welcome this time.

She turned her head to see a pink-haired youth a step behind her chair. His shaggy bangs almost covered his oddly colored eyes, one scarlet and the other a tawny gold. He had on a hoodie with cat ears, and fitted t-shirt that said ‘Free Hugs’ in a bubbly yellow print.

He saw her looking at him and broke into a smile. “Hi Alice. I’m Loki. And I’m rescuing you from this guy, ok?”

“Ok?” Alice echoed him, which was apparently the wrong response because as soon as she spoke, Loki grabbed her hand and pulled her along with him toward the door.

“W-where are we- hey, what-” She tried to get her question out but before she managed, they were surrounded by a bright light and then she was standing someplace else entirely. The dining hall was gone, replaced by a small balcony on one of the school towers.

The wind here was cold and the rain felt like tiny needles on her exposed skin. She clutched the balcony railing, trying not to panic as the expanse of the school grounds spread out below her.

“This is one of my favorite places to escape to.” Loki’s lips brushed her ear as he spoke, and she felt his arms slide around her. “Here, you can lean against me if you’re cold.”

Alice gave him a withering look. She was tired of being teased and manhandled. “This is not a rescue. This is a kidnapping! I was perfectly fine. Enjoying pastries and some cute flirty guy. And now I’m freezing to death on a balcony while you try to - to -” She stopped her tirade as she saw his expression shift from glee to hurt.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his lips forming a perfect little pout.

She took a breath and got control of herself. “Look. Loki. It’s fine. I’m just really cold out here. And I wasn’t expecting this. Plus, I don’t know that I like being hugged when I’ve barely met someone.”

He considered for a moment and then nodded. “Alright. I’ll wait until we know each other better before I hug you again. Now come on. Let’s get out of the rain.”

Alice half feared he would magic them someplace else, but instead he turned around and opened a hidden door on the roof that led onto an upper floor of the school library. The walls here were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Magic crystal lamps hovered in the air over long tables, low-slung couches, and private reading booths.

After a moment, she located the ladder that led up to this level and clambered down. Her hands were so cold she had trouble holding on. Loki, on the other hand, looked none the worse for wear, other than being a little wet.

“This way,” he gestured for her to follow him through the maze of shelves and reading spots. Alice wasn’t sure she ought to trust him, but it was that or wander off on her own with no idea which direction to go.

Loki stopped at one of the private reading nooks, a big grin on his face. “Alice. Look,” he whispered.

She leaned forward to see what was in the nook and her eyes landed on a strange-looking man. He had dark hair and wore some sort of small, metal mask. His visible eye was closed in sleep, head resting on a huge, open tome. “Loki. He’s sleeping. Let’s leave him be.”

“Nah.” Loki gave her a wink and then pulled a feather from thin air. He reached forward to tickle the sleeping man’s nose.

Alice grabbed at the feather, but missed as he pulled it out of reach. She swiped at it again as he wiggled it toward the peaceful face of the sleeper. As Loki yanked it away again, she lost her balance and tumbled straight onto the man.

He didn’t yell or jerk awake. His eye opened quickly though, and slid to the side, taking in the woman now draped on top of him. In a strained, quiet voice he spoke. “Could you. Please. Get off of me?”

“Sorry. I - I fell. And. Um.” She pulled back and stood straight, flushed to the roots of her hair with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to. You see. Loki - he -” she pointed to him and found the spot empty. In fact, the little pink-haired trouble maker was nowhere in sight.

“He got away.” The man sat up and ran a hand over his hair, trying to pat it into shape. He was failing spectacularly, as clumps stood straight up on the side that had been pressed to the book. “It’s fine.” He sighed. “He does this sort of thing.” He gave up on his hair and held out a hand. “I’m Harr.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Harr. I’m Alice.” She shook his hand. “Sorry I woke you like that.” She couldn’t help but notice he was blushing and wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Not your fault.” He took a breath. “Why are you soaking wet?” At her long-suffering sigh, he smiled. “Ah. Loki. Right. Well. Do you know where your room is? You should probably change out of those wet things.”

Alice shook her head. “I assume Blanc - Mr. Lapin - was going to show me, but, I think I’ve lost him completely.”

Harr stood. He was, she realized, very tall. Was he a teacher? A senior? She couldn’t say. “Let me show you.” He rummaged in his bag and took out a plain black notebook. He handed it to her. “This has a map of the school and another of the grounds. And you can take notes in it.”

“Oh, umm. Thank you. You really don’t need to -”

“I don’t need it. And you do.” He smiled and it was the first time he really looked directly at her. It was such a nice smile that she felt almost stunned by it’s sudden appearance. Then it was gone and he was walking away, his long legs taking him further from her with every step. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder.

She clutched her new notebook in hand and hurried after him, happy for a guide, even one as shy and mysterious as Harr. In fact, she was watching him so intently that she didn’t see the student about to step into her path until the moment they collided.

“You idiot! Watch where you’re going!” The dark figure she’d run into nearly spat the words as they stood up and straightened their clothes. Black hooded shirt, dark pants. Purple scarf. A strand of pale hair, and a pair of furious amber eyes. He bent down to pick up his books.

“I am so sorry! It was my fault entirely.” She set her notebook down to help him collect his things. It was a pretty big stack of books, notebooks, and loose paper. Tight, scrawling cursive covered nearly every page in tiny, chaotic lines of text.

“It was absolutely your fault.” He paused to get a good look at her. “You’re the new Alice.” He said the words with even more venom, surprising her into dropping what she’d picked up.

“Yeah. Sorry about that too, I guess,” she snapped.

He bent and picked up the rest of his things, snagging her notebook as well. “You should be.”

“Right. Hey - that’s mine though!”

He glanced down as she snagged the black notebook from his hand.

“Alice?” Harr had stopped a few meters ahead and turned back to check on her. His eyes widened. “Amon?”

The rude guy - Amon - frowned fiercely before hurrying away. He didn’t say anything as he left, but he did spare her one final glare before turning into another doorway.

“Who was that,” she asked Harr as she hurried to catch up to him again.

“Amon Jabberwok.” Harr paused before he went on. “You should be careful around him.”

“Why?” Alice tried for more information, but Harr clammed up and said little else as he practically jogged down the hall and down some stairs.

Alice was doubly glad she had a guide when she realized how ridiculously tangled the halls and stairways of the school were. Even with a map, she knew it would have taken her awhile to find her room.

“Your bags should be inside already.” Harr finally spoke up again. “When you’re cleaned up, you should speak to Dean and Blanc about your class schedule.” He gave her a nod and then turned to go.

“Wait!”

He stopped. “Did you need something else?”

“No. Just. Thanks. For the help and the - the notebook.”

Harr nodded. “You’ll need it. And . . . if you . . . have questions, I’ll be around.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll see you then.” And with that, she was alone. Alice opened her door and stepped into the quiet room. Her’s, until the end of the school year. It was pretty nice. Light blue curtains framed a window with a view on the courtyard, and her bed had a nice heavy quilt to chase away the winter chill. There was a small fireplace too, though the flames that danced inside were no normal fire. They threw a light purple glow over the room as they flickered between shades of white and violet.

Peace. And warm, dry clothes. Alice took a breath, realizing that college here was going to be nothing like London. Nothing at all.

#ikemen revolution #ikerev #ikerev au #ikerev blanc #ikerev Oliver #ikerev Dalim #ikerev Loki #ikerev Harr

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shadowreader23 · 6 months ago

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Final Fantasy Replay fanfic part 1

i currently have final fantasy brainrot and wrote this on my lunchbreak.

_____

He was sat on the throne. He could feel his life slipping away being claimed by the crystal. It wasnt fair first hed lost 10 years of his life and now it was going to end. Hed missed so much and was going to miss so much more. But at least they would be safe. Everyone would be safe turning to look at his friends he gave them a small smile and drew his last breath. ------------------- The chocobo song was playing. The alarm clock blaring at him that it was time to wake up. The sun shone through the windows. Anf he was in his bed? What was going on? Was this it? his aftrerlife was just a replica of his old room? At least it was comfortable. With a groan he turned off the alarm and stood up realising something. He was shorter than he had been when he died putting his hands to his face he coukd feel no stubble. Making his way to the bathroom attached to his bedroom he swore when he saw himself in the mirror. He looked just how he used to.... back at the begining before anything was this the astrals cruel way of taunting him. Reminding him of the life he'd had?

"Noctis? are you awake?" A gentle voice called through the door. That voice. It was Iggy! Please dont let him have died as well Noctis begged the astrals as he approached the door and opend it. He did a double take. Iggy. He was like he was before. Young healthy happy and.... and he could see! Ignis could see again! Without realising what he was doing Noctis grabbed ignis and pulled him in for a tight hug.

"Im sorry Ignis.... im so so sorry its my fault" Noctis wept into his friends jacket.

Ignis wrapoed his arms around Noctis. He had no idea what had occured to cause the prince to act like this Noctis wasnt really one to wear his heart on his sleeve like this or seek out comfort. He was worried.

"Noctis whatever is troubling you, you can talk to me about i promise i will listen"

"Thank you Specs" Noctis sniffled

"Hurry up we are going to be late" Gladio walked into the room in all his former young glory Towering above Noctis even more now than when he had died.

"Gladio you're here too?" Noctis choked out. Astrals had they all died when he did? Was he the reason they died? Did it not work did his death mean nothing and the scrouge and the Deamons still plauged the planet? He hadnt realised he was shaking till Ignis gently guided him to sit on the floor. "Is he sick or something?" Gladio asked Ignis looking at Noctis concerned. He hadnt seen his prince like this before.

"I dont know he was like this when i arrived"

"Thats not good we need to get going we dont want to miss our boat it woukd be typical of Noctis to be late for his own wedding. Gladio frowned

Wait his wedding? Did Gladio not remember? Judging by the looks on their faces neithier of them did. What was going on? Pulling himself together he forced the tears to stop and weakly stood up walking out the door the other two close behind. He was met with daylight and a fully intact and busy Insomnia.

Thats when he blacked out.

Gladio lunged foward and caught Noctis before his head hit the ground.

"I'll fetch the car he needs to see a doctor" Ignis went to fetch the car as Gladio stood cradling the unconcious prince in his arms. Something definitley wasnt right here. Noctis was fine yesterday and for whatever this was to come on so suddenly.... had someond poisioned him?

Ignis parked the car and Gladio climbed in the back seat buckling Noctis into the middle seat so he could support him during the journey.

"You'll be ok Noctis" Gladio said placing a hand on the Princes forhead checkinf for a tempreture as Ignis put the car in Gear and drove towords the hospital. ___________________ "Awaken king of stone" Noctis knew that Voice. His eyes flew open and he stood up finding himself in a place that reminded him of inside the crystal. A blue glow appeared before him and Shiva appeared in all pf her glory.

"Shiva what's going on?" He asked her

I have decided to intervene Young king. Last time it took to long and though your sacrife cleansed most of the Scrouge it did not clear it completley. I have decides to grant you another chance to fufil you mission" The astral informed him

"Go through ot all again just for me to lose 10 years of my life and die once more? No way" Noctis decided he couldnt. He wouldnt go through all of that again. "You misunderstand me king of stone. This is an opporunity to do it right. Try reasoning woth Ardym he was a good man once maybe he is still in there" Shiva finished

"Ardyn a good man?" Noctis didnt believe it

With a wave of her hand Shiva showed him what had occured between Sommus and Ardyn and how Aera had paid the ultimate price. Noctis hadnt known that.

"This is what i offer young king. You get another oppurunity to make this right finish your mission quicker this time and if you can convince ardyn to aid you against the scourge the two of you may yet survive"

"What happens if i dont?" Noctos asked

"You will die young king"

Noctis took a deep breath. Another chance to do things rightn to save everyone he could orevent ignis from going blind he could save Luna!

"I acept"

"Good i will send you back now, you will remember this encounter and to save you some time i will grant you acess to the arminger you had in your final battle with ardyn. Save you from having to find all those royal tombs"

With a wave of her hand Noctis felt power flow into him then she was gone. ___________ The Doctor hadn't found anything wrong with Noctis he had no idea what could have caused this to happen in the young prince. It wasn't poision or anything physical. So maybe it was magical? Using a device to read magic levels he held it over Noctis. There was nothing. Looking at Gladio and Ignis who were just as suprised as he was the Doctor scanned again still nothing.

Had Noctis lost his magic? How was that even possible? What would they do now? Could Noctis even recover from this?

Deciding to scan one final time the device let out a shrill beep and shorted out as Noctis sat up with a gasp a wave of his magic shooting through the building.

The Doctor was dumbfounded havig no clue what may have occured.

You have to act like your old self. You can do this. Noctis thought to himself

"Hey Gladio, Ignis why are you looking at me like that?" He said woth false confusion in his voice.

"You had us worried there Noct can you tell us what happend to you?' Ignis was now sat on the edge of the hospital bed.

"What do you mean what happend i went to sleep last night then the next thing i know im waking uo to you and gladio looking at me like im crazy specs!"

"He doesnt remember" Gladio realised

"It is indeed odd however it looks like he's fine now. We'll continue to monior his condition the the way to Golden Quay" Ignis told the doctor as Noctis got out of the hospital bed and put his boots and jacket back on.

"Wheres prompto?" Noctis asked trying to sound casual. He needed to see prompto he needed to know his closest friend was ok

"We sent him on a quick supply run hes going to meet us at the gate this afternoon luckily we should still be able to leave on time"

Typical Ignis sticking to the shechduel. With a nod Noctis walked out the hospital room and down the stairs to where the Regallia was parked. He could do this. He was going to do this. He would get it right this time.

Sure enough just like last time the regallia broke down and they had to push it to hammerhead. Noctis was planning his next steps as they rested in the haven that night. He didnt need to get the royal arms thank shiva for that it would save a lot of time they didnt beed to go on a quest for thst reporter as he already knew what he needed to know so they would save some time there as well. Could he save gladios dad? Could he save his own? They were to late last time but what if thdybturned back forst thing in the morning. No that wouldnt work they werent strong enough to strand uo to the forces yet howrver... he could send a message. He pulled out a pen and paoer and wrote an urget letter one to Iris. One to gladios father and one to king regis. He sent them as soon as he woke up in the morning. They would reach insomnia in time. What they chose to do with his warning was up to them. Hopefully it would make enough of a difference. They rescued the person from the Shed and cindy repaired the regallia. They ate food in the crows nest and prompto took some photos. He and gladio sparred and they spent a night in the caravan. It was nice to be back here. He hadnt realised just how much he had missed the simpler days. --------- Something was off with noctis and ignis was worried after the whole incident which he and gladio had informed prompto about Noctis hadnt had anymore breakdowns or memory issues but there were other things. It was almost as if Noctis was not used to his body or couldnt feel it right. He stumbled bumped into things and was clumsy not to the point of severity but he bever was before. His magic felt different as well bigger more vast and powerful. Was there some issue with hia magic? Was it what was causing the problem. He thought back to the doctors scan and how Noctis hand no magic for a while there was this a side effect of that? Did his body need to adapt to his magic once more?

_____ End of part 1 i havent played the game for over a year so im rely on memory here. Hope you like it.

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cloudyzues · 2 years ago

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Prompt: curse

@addicted-to-wolfstar @wolfstarmicrofic

word count: 436

Remus Lupin was feeling particularly down that evening. He had been spending most of his time in the Hogwarts library, trying to find a cure for his lycanthropy. But no matter how much he searched, he couldn't find anything that would make his life easier. It seemed that he was doomed to live as a werewolf forever.

As he was walking back to Gryffindor Tower, he heard someone call out his name. He turned around to see Sirius Black, his best friend and secret crush, running towards him.

"Remus, wait up!" Sirius said, catching up to him. "I was hoping to catch you before you got back to the tower."

"What's up, Sirius?" Remus asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Sirius would never see him as anything more than a friend.

"I was hoping you would come with me," Sirius said, taking Remus' hand. "I have something I want to show you."

Feeling a sudden rush of excitement, Remus allowed himself to be led by Sirius to an empty classroom. Inside, he saw a strange object that looked like a small crystal.

"What is it?" Remus asked, intrigued.

"It's a cursed object," Sirius said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "One of my cousins stole it from the Ministry. Apparently, if you touch it, you get cursed with the desire to kiss the first person you see."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "That's a pretty silly curse."

"Maybe, but it'll be fun," Sirius said, picking up the crystal. "Are you ready?"

Remus hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Sirius touched the crystal to Remus' hand, and immediately, Remus felt a strange sensation wash over him. He looked up at Sirius, and for a moment, he saw him in a different light. Suddenly, all he wanted was to kiss him.

As Remus stared into Sirius' eyes, he couldn't resist any longer. He leaned in and captured Sirius' lips in a passionate kiss. It was like fireworks exploding inside him, and he felt the intensity of his feelings for Sirius in every fiber of his being. Sirius responded eagerly, and their kiss deepened until they had to break apart, gasping for breath.

As they pulled away from the kiss, Remus couldn't help but smile at Sirius. He had never felt happier or more alive. "Sirius," he whispered, "I never want to let you go."

Sirius chuckled. "You don't have to, Remus. I'm never leaving you." He leaned in and kissed Remus once again, feeling the curse lifting and the weight of his past life lifting with it. They stayed in each other's arms, lost in the moment, knowing that they had each other to face any challenge that came their way.

#wolfstar #siriusxremus #sirius black #remus loves sirius #remus x sirius #remoony #remus lupin #remus lupin is a werewolf #gay dead wizards #dead gay wizards #writing prompt

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glamphantasm · 1 month ago

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OMxWhumptober 18

Y'all - this one is one of... two or three upcoming that kind of go into depersonalization type episodes. makes me wonder what the hell my brain is scraping through some days. One of the longer ones. Everything with these two and angst goes long.

The past has always been elusive. It’s like trying to remember the details of a dream long after you’ve woken, and no matter how hard you hold on, it slips further away until you question whether it was ever real. For Kai, it felt like the only thing he had left.

Standing in the dimly lit hall of the mansion, his breath was shallow, his heartbeat erratic. The towering structure seemed even more suffocating tonight, its ancient walls crawling with shadows that whispered like old friends. His hand trembled as he reached for the door handle to one of the many rooms. His fingers stopped just short, hovering. He didn’t trust himself anymore.

Everything he could remember of his past felt wrong, disjointed, a puzzle with pieces forced into the wrong places. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the memories he clung to – the ones guiding his every step – weren’t really his. He felt sorry for whoever’s they were.

His knuckles went white as he gathered the nerve and twisted the handle.

The creak of the door echoed down the hallway, thick with tension. Inside, there was nothing unusual at first glance. Just a simple room. Same as it has always been. Heavy curtains were drawn, casting everything in the kind of dim gloom that swallowed up details. His eyes swept across it, heart hammering, as if he expected something to leap out of the shadows.

Memories surged forward, unbidden. Mammon’s loud laughter, Asmodeus’ teasing remarks. Leviathan’s reluctant smirks. The image of Beelzebub sharing snacks in the quiet after a long day. Satan looking up from a book with a cutting quip. Each memory tugged painfully at his heart, but something about them felt…wrong. No. Not wrong. It wasn’t that they were wrong; they just weren’t his.

He knew these faces. He knew the voices and the laughter. But they felt like reflections of a life he’d only observed, not lived. He was an impostor in his own skin.

"Kai?"

The voice startled him, and he spun to face the figure at the door. Lucifer stood there, his usual air of command softened as he reached out, hesitated, let his hand fall to his side again. The soft light of the hallway cast delicate shadows over his face, making him appear almost too serene, too composed. Too perfect.

They’d once been so close that they shared the same breath. Now, the gap between them felt like a chasm Kai couldn’t cross if he had a dozen lifetimes to try.

"You’re lost," Lucifer said gently, stepping into the room. "Aren’t you?"

"Lost?" Kai repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. "No. I know exactly what I’m doing."

Lucifer’s gaze was too knowing, and it only fueled Kai’s anger. Who was he to stand there and look at him with such calm? He didn’t understand. None of them did. He wasn’t lost – he had a purpose. He was going to take back what was his.

"Kai," Lucifer’s voice was quieter now. "You’ve been drifting, slipping away from who you were. Can’t you see that?"

"I see perfectly," Kai mumbled bitterly, more to himself than to Lucifer.

Lucifer frowned. "This isn’t the path you want. You're not yourself."

"What does that even mean?" Kai snapped, stepping toward him, his breath coming quicker. "I am myself."

But that was a lie. Wasn’t it?

Lucifer held his ground, his voice as steady as ever. "We’ve known each other a long time. You’re not…this. You’re lost in it’s grip."

"Why do you care?" Kai’s laugh was jagged, sharp as broken crystal. "It’s not like you’ve been around."

That wasn’t true, and Kai knew it. Some part deep within him recoiled as he said it, begged him to take it back. Lucifer had been there, in the background, always watching, always protective, but never invasive. That was his nature – commanding but never overbearing unless he had to be. There had been something between them, but it was like dancing on the edge of a knife, too sharp, too dangerous to acknowledge. They had spent so long avoiding it, pretending that they were fine without words.

And now? Now, it felt like everything unsaid was a noose slowly tightening around Kai’s neck.

Lucifer’s shadowed scarlet eyes narrowed. "Don’t push me away. We’ve been through too much for that."

"You don’t understand," he spat, stepping back. The walls of the room seemed to press closer, and the memories – those half-formed, fractured memories – swirled like a storm inside his head. "None of you do."

"I understand more than you think," Lucifer said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle – soft. "You feel like you’re losing yourself. Like everything you were is slipping away, but that’s not something the Devildom controls. It’s something you have to confront."

"Confront?" he echoed, the word bitter on his tongue. "I’ve already lost myself. Or did you forget what happened?"

"I haven’t forgotten anything." Lucifer’s voice had regained it’s familiar steel, covering the tone he only used when he was truly worried. "But you’re not the only one who’s lost pieces of themselves, Kai. We’ve all changed during our time here."

"Not like this. Not like me."

Lucifer took a step forward, his stride creating a crisp staccato echoing off the walls. "Not like this? What makes you think you’re any different from the rest of us? We’ve all felt it – the way the Devildom warps us, pulls us apart and remakes us. But you’re still here. I promise, Kai. You’re still you."

Kai shook his head violently. His thoughts raced, flashes of faces and moments twisting into something ugly. Something that couldn’t be real. He reached for the wall, seeking a sense of balance long since lost.

"Am I? I don’t even know who I am anymore. Everything feels wrong. And you – " Kai gestured at Lucifer, his hand trembling, voice dripping venom. "You let this happen."

Lucifer’s expression darkened, frustration, guilt, flickering behind his sharp eyes. "I didn’t let anything happen. I couldn’t protect you from everything. Not when you hid. Not from yourself."

The anger flared again, hot and fast. Kai lunged, his body moving before he could think. His hands collided with Lucifer’s chest, shoving him back, pinning him against the wall. The demon didn’t fight back. He didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, watching Kai with that maddening calm. Letting the boy scream into his face.

"You let me fall apart!" Kai’s voice cracked under the strain, his grip tightening on Lucifer’s coat. "You stood by and watched while I lost everything!"

Lucifer’s hands came up, but not to fight. He placed them gently on Kai’s arms, his grip firm but not forceful. "You didn’t lose everything."

"Then why does it feel like I did?" the rage turning into a broken sob, a raw, painful sound that hung in the air.

Lucifer’s expression softened, the usual stoic mask cracking. "Because you’re fighting against it. You’re clinging to what was, and it’s tearing you apart. The past is gone, Kai. But that doesn’t mean you are."

He stumbled back, letting go of Lucifer, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The room felt suffocating, the weight of his memories – his fractured memories – pressing down on him.

"I don’t know who I am anymore," Kai whispered, his voice barely audible as he slumped in Lucifer’s grasp.

Lucifer closed the distance between them, his movements slow, deliberate. He reached out and placed a hand on K’s shoulder, his touch grounding in a way that was both familiar and foreign. "You’re Kai," he said, his voice low but certain. "You’re still you, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now."

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he’d lost. “I feel like a ghost wearing the wrong skin.”

"Because I know you," Lucifer replied, his gaze unwavering. "I’ve seen you. At both your best and at your worst. You’re not lost. You’ve never been lost to me."

He wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that somewhere, beneath all the confusion, the terror, and the anger, he was still the same person. But the past felt like a distant dream, twisting, slipping further away with each passing day.

"Everything’s changed," Kai said, his voice hollow, looking up into the demon’s eyes. "I’m not the person I was when I first came here."

Lucifer nodded, his grip on Kai’s shoulder tightening slightly, offering support. "You’ve changed. We all have. That doesn’t mean you’ve lost yourself. It just means you’re becoming something new."

"But what if I don’t like what I’m becoming?" Kai asked, the question hanging heavy between them.

Lucifer grimaced before his eyes softened. "Then we’ll figure it out together."

Kai’s throat tightened, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt the tension in his chest ease, just slightly. But something still gnawed at him, deep in his bones.

"Lucifer," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Do you still love me?"

Lucifer’s gaze met his, the lost time, the distance, the memories hanging between them. He didn’t hesitate. "I’ve never stopped."

The sincerity in his voice made Kai’s breath hitch. It was the truth – he could feel it. But the question that lingered, unspoken, between them was far heavier.

"I don’t know if I can ever be the same as the one you loved," Kai said quietly, his voice trembling. "I don’t know if I even want to be."

Lucifer’s grip tightened just slightly, fingers digging into Kai’s shoulders. "I don’t need you to be the same. I just need you here. With me."

Kai closed his eyes, the weight of everything crashing down on him.

The memories blurred at the edges, slipping like sand through his fingers. Lucifer's words floated in the air, but they felt distant, too soft, as if meant for someone else. Kai wanted to believe them, wanted to trust the steady presence beside him. But something inside him was fracturing, and no matter how much he tried to hold on, he felt himself slipping further away.

Lucifer's hand remained on Kai's shoulders, his grip firm, almost too tight. "You’re still here," Lucifer said, his voice controlled, though a tension flickered beneath the surface. "You're still you."

But Kai could feel it. The subtle strain in Lucifer’s tone, the faint tremor in his fingers. Lucifer was holding on to him as if by sheer will, but he wondered – was it for his sake or for Lucifer’s? Did either of them truly know anymore?

His throat felt raw, every breath burned. "I don’t feel like me," he admitted, his voice quiet, hollow. "Everything’s fallen apart."

Lucifer’s eyes darkened, his gaze steady but filled with something that twisted in Kai’s chest – regret, guilt, something deeper, too personal to dare name. "We can fix this," Lucifer said, though the words sounded like a plea. "We can find a way to bring you back."

"Back to what?" Kai whispered, his chest aching with a hollow emptiness. "I don’t even know who I was anymore."

Lucifer’s jaw tightened, a flash of something tortured crossing his face before he cleared his throat and smoothed it away. "You’re still you. I can see it," he said, the slightest edge to his voice. "You have to trust me."

Kai stared up at him, feeling the weight of his words, the desperation behind them. He wasn’t the only one struggling. The longer Lucifer held him, the more he could see the cracks beneath the surface – the tightness in his posture, the way his eyes never left Kai’s face, like he was searching for the person he used to know but wasn’t sure if he’d find him.

"What if I don’t come back?" His voice broke, the words hanging heavy between them. "What if this is it? What if I’ve already lost too much?"

Lucifer flinched, barely noticeable, but Kai caught it. The unshakable demon, always so controlled, was crumbling too. He could see the pain lurking in his eyes, the shared silence pressing down on him.

"Then I’ve failed you," Lucifer said quietly, and the vulnerability in his voice sent a cold shiver through Kai.

He blinked, his breath hitching. "You didn’t fail me. You never failed me."

Lucifer’s grip tightened just a little more, his fingers digging deeper into Kai’s shoulder, like he was trying to anchor him to reality, to whatever part of him was left. "Didn’t I?" Lucifer’s voice was low, strained. "I was supposed to protect you. And now, look at what’s happened. Look at what I’ve let happen."

Kai’s heart twisted. Lucifer had never spoken like this before, not to him. The facade was cracking, just like he had. He hadn’t realized how much weight Lucifer had been carrying, how much guilt he harbored.

"You couldn’t have stopped this," Kai said, his voice barely above a whisper, though the words felt like an echo of something he wasn’t sure he believed. "This was... always going to happen."

Lucifer’s expression hardened, his eyes flashing with anger, despair. "No. I should have done more. I should have seen this happening to you. But I... I let you fall apart, and now..."

The silence between them was deafening. Kai wanted to reach out, to touch Lucifer, to offer something – anything – that would ease the torment he saw in his eyes. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure he had anything left to give. He wished he could understand the ache, the blade of pain lancing through his chest.

Kai took a step back, out of Lucifer’s reach, feeling the cold seep in as soon as the contact broke. The distance between them felt suffocating, an invisible wall rising up, and he didn’t know how to tear it down.

"Lucifer," Kai whispered, his voice trembling as his eyes shone with unshed tears. "What if I never find my way back?"

Lucifer's eyes followed him, sharp and pained, his control slipping. "Then what am I supposed to do?" he asked, snapping to hide barely concealed anguish. "What do I do if you’re gone, Kai? What do I do if you’re not you anymore?"

Kai’s throat closed up. He had no answer for that. He didn’t know what Lucifer could do, or what he himself would become. All he knew was the slow erosion of everything that had once anchored him to reality, to himself. Every step felt like drifting further into a place where he didn’t belong, a place where even Lucifer couldn’t reach him.

"I don’t know," Kai shook his head, the words barely audible. "I don’t know if there’s anything left."

Lucifer stepped toward him, but it was hesitant, cautious, as if he were afraid that Kai would vanish if he got too close. "Don’t say that," Lucifer said, his voice rough with something raw, something horribly broken. "You’re still here. I won’t – "

His voice cut off, like he couldn’t finish the sentence, like even he couldn’t bear the thought of what might come next.

He could see it in Lucifer’s eyes – the fear, the helplessness, the crushing guilt. He wasn’t the only one haunted by the thought of loss. Lucifer had been watching him unravel for weeks, months, and now he was standing on the edge of losing the one thing he’d never been able to admit mattered most.

Kai’s voice shook as he said the words he had been avoiding. "Maybe... I think, maybe I’m already gone."

Lucifer’s breath caught, his eyes darkening with something he couldn’t place – rage, sorrow, desperation, pain, all tangled into one. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at Kai like he could will him back, like he could force reality to bend in his favor.

The silence was too loud. Too final.

Kai took another step back, the distance between them growing wider, and this time Lucifer didn’t follow.

He felt nothing but a slow, inevitable fade, like a shadow disappearing in the deeper twilight.

"Maybe it’s too late," he whispered, the words barely reaching Lucifer as he turned.

Lucifer’s eyes locked onto Kai's back, the ache reflected within them clear, but he said nothing. He didn’t move. He didn’t fight. And for a moment, Kai wondered if Lucifer had finally realized – maybe there was nothing left of him to fight for.

The past felt so far away now, a distant echo of something they had never said. As he turned away, walking deeper into the shadows, he could still feel Lucifer’s gaze on him, heavy with everything they had lost and never dared to claim.

Maybe he was already lost. Maybe he had been for a long time.

Lucifer’s voice broke the silence one last time, barely a whisper, filled with a pain that flayed both to the bone. "Please... don’t go."

Kai kept walking, the once familiar halls wavering at the edges. He didn’t look back.

#whumptober2024 #no.18 #loss of self #obey me month #lost #obey me fic #obey me oc #obey me lucifer #memory loss #depersonalization

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rullakebu · 2 months ago

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Foxey Lady (F/M, tickling, fur, JoJo's)

I finally finished this story based on JoJo's Bizarre Adventure.

I want to thank Goddess Youko for letting me use her for this story. This story is dedicated as a tribute to her.

Some of you might not know what a "Stand" is. They are manifestations of their users' fighting spirits. They can interact with people, but people cannot interact with them. Only other Stand users can see Stands. They are invisible to regular people.

The protagonist is Jean Pierre Polnareff and his Stand Silver Chariot.

This is Youko's Stand. She is called Foxey Lady, as in the Jimi Hendrix song. I am aware the name is already in use in Steel Ball Run, the seventh part of the series. However this name was too perfect to pass up, not to mention this takes place in the original universe. You'll get to learn what she's capable of in the story ;).

Jean Pierre Polnareff, the silver-haired Frenchman, breathed in the warm, tropical air of Singapore. Fresh off his victory against the sinister Devo the Cursed and his treacherous Ebony Devil, the fierce wielder of Silver Chariot felt a rare moment of peace. His tense muscles finally relaxed as the vibrant city buzzed with life around him. The dazzling skyline of Singapore beckoned him to indulge in its nightlife—a well-deserved break after the intensity of battle.

After informing Mr. Joestar of his plans, Polnareff was pleasantly surprised when Noriaki Kakyoin, ever the enigmatic companion, expressed interest in joining him. The two shared a knowing smile. Beneath the calm surface of their friendship lay the shared weight of the journey they'd undertaken not so long ago, but tonight, they intended to let that burden slip away—at least for a little while.

As they made their way through the neon-lit streets, Polnareff’s mind wandered, the sounds and smells of the city creating a welcome distraction from the battles yet to come. “Here, Kakyoin! Look at all these food stalls!” Polnareff beckoned, feeling his hunger grow by the second.

Kakyoin, calm and composed as always, crossed over from the other side of the street with a slight smile. “Singapore is renowned for its food culture, Polnareff,” he explained, a glint of appreciation in his voice. “To Singaporeans, food isn’t just sustenance—it's part of their heritage. A symbol of unity, diversity, and passion.”

Polnareff grinned widely, clearly less focused on the cultural insight and more on the endless variety of dishes before him. “Heritage or not, I’m ready to try everything!” He approached a nearby stall, seeing the food being cooked right in front of his very, famished, eyes. Wiggling his fingers, he reached for an unguarded meat skewer.

Kakyoin, a bit irritated, quickly slapped Polnareff’s hand before he could touch the savory treat. “Excuse him, mister. We’ll take two of those!” He informed the cook, lifting his index and ring finger up, signifying the order.

Polnareff rubbed the back of his hand, pouting slightly. “You didn’t have to hit me, you know. I’m just hungry!”

Kakyoin sighed, shaking his head but unable to suppress a small smirk. “It seems you’re always hungry, Polnareff. But some of us like to show a bit of restraint before digging in.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Polnareff dismissed with a chuckle, brushing off Kakyoin's scolding. Without a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed one of the skewers and took an exaggeratedly large bite, savoring the smoky, grilled flavor with a satisfied hum.

After finishing their meal, Polnareff stretched contentedly. “That was great! But now, I need a drink to wash it all down. How about we find somewhere a bit fancier, Kakyoin?”

Kakyoin smirked. “A change of pace? Fine by me.”

They made their way to a sleek, upscale bar nestled between towering skyscrapers, its polished glass exterior glowing with a soft, amber hue. Inside, the ambiance was refined, the air filled with smooth jazz, and the soft clink of crystal glasses. Polnareff’s eyes sparkled as he took in the luxurious décor—velvet booths, low-lit chandeliers, and bartenders expertly crafting cocktails behind a marble bar.

“Where’s the guy checking IDs?” Kakyoin asked, scratching his head as they entered.

Polnareff waved him off with a grin. “I don’t know. And I don’t care,” he replied, already eyeing the bar. “Don’t worry about pointless things, Kakyoin. This is a night to relax, not to play by the rules.”

Kakyoin shook his head but smiled at Polnareff’s carefree attitude. “Relaxing seems to be your specialty,” he muttered as they made their way inside.

Polnareff patted his friend in the back. “See? You’re getting the hang of it already.”

The duo approached the bar, and Polnareff ordered a whiskey on the rocks while Kakyoin opted for something a bit more refined—a cocktail with an exotic name neither of them could pronounce. The drinks arrived with a flourish, and Polnareff raised his glass in a toast.

“To battles won, and drinks well-earned,” he declared, clinking glasses with Kakyoin.

After a few sips, Kakyoin set his glass down and stepped back. “I think this is where we part ways for the night. I’ve got some things to take care of,” he said with a casual wave, but there was something in his tone that suggested he had more on his mind.

Polnareff raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Don’t go getting yourself into trouble, Kakyoin.”

Kakyoin smirked. “That’s your job, Polnareff.”

With that, Kakyoin turned and slipped out of the bar, leaving Polnareff to enjoy the evening on his own. As Polnareff nursed his drink, his eyes wandered around the bar, taking in the elegant patrons and the soft glow of the chandeliers.

As Polnareff took another sip, the seat next to him shifted, and he turned to find a striking woman slipping into the booth beside him. Her dark hair fell in soft waves, and she wore an elegant black dress. Finishing her ensemble was an enormous silver fox fur coat, cascading down her form and shimmering under the bar’s lowlights. Her presence was magnetic, commanding the room without effort.

“Enjoying your night?” she asked, her voice smooth and sultry. She was Japanese by the sound of it.

Polnareff, ever the charmer, flashed her a wide grin. “Even more now. Jean Pierre Polnareff, at your service.”

“Youko,” she introduced herself as her red lips curved into a smile as she glanced at him sideways. “Such flair, you’ve got,” she murmured, her fingers gently tracing the rim of her glass. “And what brings you to a place like this?”

Polnareff leaned back, clearly pleased with the attention. “Just enjoying a break from my travels. A bit of adventure, a bit of relaxation,” he said, trying to keep his composure.

She chuckled softly, her gaze steady. “Adventure, you say? It seems you have a knack for finding it, wherever you go.”

Polnareff’s interest piqued. “Oh? And what makes you say that?”

She adjusted her fur coat, its hairs wiggling in the air slightly as she set it back properly. Youko’s eyes twinkled with mystery. “Just a hunch. Sometimes, the most intriguing people have stories that go beyond what meets the eye.”

Polnareff saw a glimpse of skin as she adjusted her coat. Her shoulders were tattooed, one having flowers and butterflies and the other something scaly, resembling a snake or a dragon. He felt a flicker of caution from her words but couldn’t help but be drawn in. “You’ve got me curious. What kind of stories do you think I have?”

Her smile deepened, enigmatic. “The kind that might involve unexpected challenges…or perhaps encounters with interesting characters.”

Polnareff leaned forward, captivated. “Interesting characters, you say? I can certainly relate to that.” He gestured to the bustling bar around them. “Just look at this place—full of stories waiting to be uncovered.”

Youko tilted her head, considering him thoughtfully. “And yet, it seems you’re the most intriguing of them all. There’s a certain energy about you, Jean Pierre Polnareff. It’s hard to ignore.”

He chuckled, trying to play it cool despite his nervousness. “What can I say? I’m a man of many adventures.”

“You might say that,” she replied, her voice lowering slightly, drawing him in. “But every adventure has its shadows, doesn’t it? Challenges that test our limits.”

Polnareff nodded, a more serious note creeping into his tone. “True enough. But it’s how we face those challenges that define us.”

She leaned in closer, her eyes locked onto his, revealing a flicker of something deeper beneath her playful facade. “And what defines you, Polnareff?”

He hesitated, the weight of her question settling over him. “I like to think it’s a bit of everything. I’ve faced my share of darkness, but I always find a way to fight back.”

Youko’s expression hardened slightly, as if she recognized the exact meaning in his words. “A fighter, then. I admire that. It takes strength to stand tall against the odds.” She said, a hint of insincerity in her voice.

“Strength, courage, honor and a bit of luck,” he added with a wink, trying to lighten the mood. “What about you? What’s your story, Youko?”

She smiled, but there was a flicker of something shadowy in her gaze. “Ah, mine is still being written. Let’s just say I’ve had my share of unexpected turns as well. But tonight, I’m more interested in your chapter.” Youko’s attention sharpened, her demeanor shifting slightly. “Sometimes, the past has a way of catching up with us. Just be careful who you trust, Polnareff.”

His instincts kicked in, and he followed her gaze, the playful banter momentarily forgotten. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh no, not at all,” Youko said, her demeanor suddenly brightening. “Just a little intuition, that’s all. I’m the curious type, and sometimes curiosity can lead to exciting stories.”

Polnareff studied her, sensing the shift but still feeling a flicker of caution. “Exciting stories, huh? Is that your way of saying trouble might be on the horizon?”

“Not trouble, just… possibilities,” she replied with a playful grin. “Life is full of unexpected twists. Isn’t that what makes it thrilling?”

He couldn’t help but smile back, drawn in by her infectious energy. “You certainly have a way with words, Youko. But I’d prefer to avoid any actual trouble tonight.”

“Oh, come on! Sometimes a little trouble can lead to unforgettable experiences,” she teased, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You might even find it enlightening.”

Polnareff raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Enlightening, you say? What do you mean by that?”

Youko leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s just say I have my own way of exploring those ‘unexpected twists.’ Some might even call it… a profession.”

“Profession?” Polnareff echoed, curious yet cautious.

“Yes,” she said with a sly smile. “I’m a dominatrix. I explore the boundaries of desire and challenge people to embrace their hidden sides.”

Polnareff blinked, processing her words. “Well, that’s certainly unexpected! You’re full of surprises, Youko.”

She laughed lightly, enjoying his reaction. “And you’re not the least bit intimidated?”

“I am, but also intrigued,” he admitted, the thrill of the night growing. “So, what kind of adventures do you have in mind?”

Youko leaned in, brushing Polnareff’s cheek with the sleeve of her fur coat. The soft hairs of silver fox fur caressed his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. He felt a rush of warmth and excitement at the intimate gesture, a spark igniting within him.

Youko saw him squirm slightly and chuckled to herself. “Do you like fur, Polnareff?”

His cheeks flushed, and he cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure. “Well, I can’t say I dislike it,” he admitted, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

Youko leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. “There’s something enchanting about it, isn’t there? The softness, the feeling…” She brushed her sleeve against his cheek again, the fur gliding slowly, teasingly.

Polnareff felt his heart race, a mix of excitement and arousal bubbling within him. “It’s definitely… captivating,” he managed to reply, his voice a touch breathless.

“Tell me how it feels… How does the fur feel?” Youko asked, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

Polnareff swallowed, his pulse quickening. “It feels… incredibly soft,” he began, his voice steadying as he leaned into the moment. “Like a gentle caress against my skin. It’s warm, almost inviting. It almost tickles.”

Youko’s smile widened knowingly, her eyes squinting in mischief, almost looking triumphant. “Tickles, you say? Tell me more,” she urged, leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “How does it tickle?” The closeness of her presence sent a rush of warmth through Polnareff, and he felt a thrill at the intimacy of the moment.

He swallowed, trying to keep his composure while his heart raced. “It’s the way it brushes against my skin,” he began, his voice shaking slightly. “It’s light and teasing.” As he spoke, he could feel the electric tension between them, the air thick with unspoken possibilities. The warmth of her breath mingled with the softness of the fur as she let it trail along his arm, heightening his senses in a way that felt intoxicating.

“Would you say you’re ticklish, Polnareff?” she teased, her tone laced with curiosity, as if waiting for a cue. He could feel his cheeks flush as he contemplated the implications of her inquiry, wondering if this was her way of pushing boundaries, enticing him further into a realm of playful intimacy.

“Yes,” he admitted, the word slipping out with a mix of vulnerability and a hint of daring. There was something exhilarating about the admission, as if he was letting her in on a secret. The air between them thickened, charged with tension.

A smirk played on Youko’s lips. “Good.” But just as the thrill of their playful banter hung in the air, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Without warning, a loud crash echoed through the bar as glass shattered, shards flying in every direction. The playful tension dissolved in an instant, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. The customers and bartenders quickly evacuated the venue, startled by the transpiring commotion.

Polnareff’s instincts kicked in, and he instinctively stepped back, his body tensing as he prepared for the unexpected. He could see Youko’s expression shift from playful seduction to fierce determination. She rose from her seat, adjusting her glimmering silver fur coat once again.

A radiant glow enveloped her as a Stand materialized beside her, an imposing sight that commanded attention. It resembled a feminine figure, its tones a mesmerizing blend of dark and silver, shimmering as if woven from starlight. Around its arms and shoulders floated what looked like a long, thick, double-sided fur stole, its luxurious texture giving the Stand an air of elegance and danger.

“Meet Foxey Lady,” Youko announced, her voice imbued with pride and challenge. The Stand moved with a fluid grace, every gesture exuding predatory elegance, its presence both captivating and intimidating. Polnareff felt a rush of adrenaline, the atmosphere thickening with the weight of the impending confrontation.

“You’re a Stand user,” Polnareff stated, his voice steady despite the surge of adrenaline coursing through him. “What’s your Stand’s ability?” He focused on her, trying to read her intentions, but the playful glint in her eyes suggested she relished the mystery of her powers.

A mischievous smile danced on Youko’s lips as she regarded him, her confidence unwavering. “Let’s find out together, shall we?” The challenge hung in the air like a taut string, ready to snap at any moment. Foxey Lady moved with an almost hypnotic grace, its sleek form a testament to Youko’s own allure, and Polnareff felt a thrill of apprehension mixed with eagerness.

With a firm resolve, Polnareff summoned Silver Chariot, the familiar rush of power surging through him as the armored figure manifested by his side. Its gleaming blade caught the light, reflecting the intensity of the moment and igniting a fire within him. He felt the connection with his Stand, the bond forged through countless battles, ready to take on whatever challenges lay ahead.

“Silver Chariot!” Polnareff cried out, sending the knight-like Stand forward with a powerful thrust. The air crackled as Silver Chariot surged into action, its movements fluid and precise, darting toward Foxey Lady with the speed and grace of a skilled warrior.

Before he could realize, Foxey Lady launched the fur stole toward Silver Chariot, the strands weaving through the air like a serpent, aiming to ensnare Polnareff’s Stand. He slashed toward the fluffy accessory, but it evaded his attack with ease, twisting and gliding just out of reach. In a blink, Foxey Lady sprang forward, passing Silver Chariot’s right side, then snuck behind him in a blur of motion.

Suddenly, he felt an unexpected sensation as Foxey Lady began scribbling her nails into Silver Chariot’s armpits. Polnareff burst into laughter, unable to keep his composure amidst the sudden ticklish onslaught. The moment caught him off guard, and he realized that Youko had taken the battle in a direction he hadn’t anticipated.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! WHAT THE—” he exclaimed between fits of laughter, but his words were cut short by the sight of the fur stole flying toward his face. Before he could react, the soft stole coiled around his head, enveloping him in its plush embrace. The velvety texture teased his skin, and his laughter became muffled as the stole constricted slightly, obscuring his vision.

Polnareff's hands shot up instinctively, grasping at the fur with growing frustration. But his fingers passed through it as if it were smoke, unable to grab hold of anything solid. Panic flashed through his mind as he realized this was no ordinary fabric—it was a manifestation of Foxey Lady, a part of Youko’s Stand, and as such, he couldn’t physically interact with it. His inability to touch the Stand made him feel powerless, a sensation he rarely experienced.

“DAHAHAHAHAMN IHIHIHIT!” he cursed through his predicament, the sound barely audible beneath the thick stole. The tickling sensation continued to play havoc on his senses. His body still trembled with lingering laughter, but his mind was racing, desperate to find a way out of this trap. He couldn’t call Chariot back, alas he was under Foxey Lady’s ticklish barrage.

Youko’s voice cut through the haze, playful and taunting. “You seem to be in a bit of a bind, Polnareff,” she cooed, her words dripping with amusement. “How does it feel, being wrapped in such softness? Quite luxurious, isn’t it?”

Polnareff felt his knees buckling beneath him as the impossibly soft fur stole tightened its grip around his face. The plush fabric pressed closer, almost suffocating in its embrace, as if every fiber was designed to tease his senses and drain his strength. He could feel the fur stroking across his skin in waves—warm, soft, and maddeningly delicate.

“Give in, Polnareff,” Youko’s voice came, soft and insidious, weaving its way into his thoughts like the fur around his face. “There’s nothing more you can do.”

He fell to the floor in an exhausted crash, the impact jarring but not enough to snap him out of the daze clouding his mind. His vision blurred, the plush fur tightening around his face, making each breath a struggle. “No! No, I can’t lose here!” Polnareff screamed inwardly, desperate to fight against the encroaching darkness. He couldn’t let it end like this. Not smothered by some cursed, luxurious fur. Not humiliated by this seductive trickster.

Before he knew it, Polnareff fell into a deep, involuntary slumber, the overwhelming softness of the fur wrapping around him like a weighted blanket, pulling him down into unconsciousness. It was as if the very fur was seeping into his thoughts, wrapping itself not just around his body but his mind, draining his will to fight back.

Snap—Polnareff’s eyes shot open, his heart racing as he gasped for air. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The familiar plush velvet of the bar was gone, replaced by a dimly lit bedroom that stirred an unsettling sense of familiarity within him. Confusion hit him like a wave as he sat up, glancing around.

"Where am I?" he muttered to himself, his voice feeling unusually strained. Instinctively, he brought a hand to his throat. "Whaaat!? Why is my voice so... squeaky!?" He yelped, a squeal escaping his lips, shocking him into silence. He jumped to his feet, darting his eyes around the room, searching for any clues that could explain his predicament.

It was a small room, furnished with floral bedding and lacy curtains. Polnareff's eyes finally locked onto a wall calendar. He squinted at the year printed in bold letters: 1982. His heart skipped a beat.

“I’m 18 again?!” Polnareff exclaimed, his voice still annoyingly higher-pitched than he remembered. Panic gripped him as fragments of a long-buried memory began to resurface. He knew this room. It belonged to his friend’s mother, a woman who had always treated him with a warmth that felt maternal. A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled what had happened before this bizarre twist of fate.

“But wait! If I’m here then that means…” Polnareff recollected, as he saw the bedroom door open.

Creak!

The door swung open, and in walked his friend’s mother, draped in a luxurious golden island fox fur coat that glowed under the soft light and swayed elegantly with her movements.. Her presence filled the room with an unexpected mix of warmth and authority, her heels clicking on the floor as she entered. Polnareff’s heart raced; he was caught in a moment he had hoped to forget.

“Jean Pierre! What a surprise to see you here,” she said, her voice disappointed yet teasing, and laced with that unmistakable maternal tone. “I didn’t expect to find you in my room, of all places.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she caught sight of the magazines strewn about, the very ones that had piqued his curiosity moments before.

Polnareff’s cheeks flushed crimson as he stammered, “I—I was just looking for something!” He knew full well he had been caught red-handed, and there was no escaping the consequences of his actions.

She closed the door behind her, the sound echoing ominously in the small room. “Oh really? You know it’s not polite to snoop, especially in a lady’s personal belongings,” she chided, stepping closer. The playful glint in her eyes made him feel dread. He knew exactly what this was.

Before he could react, she lunged toward him, her fingers wiggling with a teasing intent. “Let’s see if I can teach you a little lesson about respect!”

She pinned him down on her bed, straddling him and her fingers finding his sides and beginning their relentless assault. “No! Not this again!” he gasped, laughter bursting forth uncontrollably. “HAHAHAHA! STOHOHOHOHOHOP! HAHAHAHA!”

She only laughed more, clearly enjoying his predicament. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she reached over to the nearby nightstand and picked up a pair of handcuffs. “How lucky I am that my husband is a police officer!” she mused, twirling the cuffs playfully.

Polnareff’s heart raced as he felt a rush of panic and embarrassment. He couldn’t resist as she clicked the handcuffs around his wrists, securing them above his head and around a pillar of the bedframe. The cold metal sent a shiver down his spine, making him acutely aware of his vulnerability.

“Now you’re really in trouble,” she teased, leaning down to meet his gaze, her face inches from his. “Let’s see how long you can last without begging for mercy!” Her fingers danced teasingly over his sides, reigniting the tickle torture.

The tickler’s fur coat cascaded around Polnareff’s legs, wrapping him in a soft, plush cocoon that heightened his sense of vulnerability. It felt as though he was ensnared in a fluffy trap, each strand of fur teasing his skin and adding to the sensation of helplessness. The combination of the intense tickling and the enveloping warmth of the coat sent shivers coursing through him, making it nearly impossible to focus.

“IS THIS? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! FOXEY LADY’S ABILITY? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Polnareff screamed out, the realization hitting him amidst the whirlwind of laughter and sensations.

“That’s right,” Youko’s voice appeared suddenly, like an ethereal echo. “This is my Foxey Lady’s ability. It takes you into your most intense and excruciating memory of tickle torture and makes you experience it for as long as I desire.” Her words dripped with playful malice, a reminder of his helplessness.

Polnareff’s laughter intensified, desperate. “YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS! YOU’RE GOING TO KEEP ME HERE LIKE THIS? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” he gasped, struggling against the cuffs, but they held firm.

“Oh, but I can,” she replied, a teasing lilt in her tone. “And I intend to have my fun. You see, the magic of Foxey Lady is that it amplifies your sensations, making everything feel even more intense. Every tickle, every brush of fur—it’s all heightened. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“NO! HAHAHA! THIS IS TORTURE!” he cried out, laughter erupting uncontrollably as he squirmed beneath her playful onslaught. “YOU’RE JUST GOING TO KEEP ME HERE FOREVER?”

“I told you I’m a dominatrix, Polnareff,” she informed him, her voice smooth and dripping with confidence. “I utilize my Stand in my profession. It works on non-Stand users too; they just believe they’re hypnotized. I control every aspect of my Stand—how intense the tickling is, slight adjustments to memories, and how long the tickling lasts.”

His mind raced as he processed her words, a mix of disbelief and dread washing over him. “THIHIHIHIHIS IS INSANEHEHEHEHE!” he thought, the laughter spilling uncontrollably from his lips.

“Usually I stop in time with my submissives, but with you I’ll make an exception, darling.” Youko teased, adding to Polnareff’s dread. Her Stand materialized partially, glowing slightly over the figure of Polnareff’s tickle torturess. “I am going to keep tickling you as long as it takes. To stop your heart, that is…”

Polnareff’s blood ran cold at her chilling declaration.

“I am going to tickle you to death, darling.”

Panic surged through him, mixing with the laughter that threatened to spill out again. “NO! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! HAHAHAHA!” he gasped, desperation creeping into his voice as he squirmed against the bed.

“Oh, no, but I can, darling. DIO is paying me handsomely for this, my weak little tickle slave,” Youko replied, her voice dripping with mockery. “To think one of you is going to die to something as ridiculous as tickling. Isn’t it deliciously ironic?”

His heart raced as he processed her taunts, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “I WON’T LET THIS HAPPEN! HAHAHAHAHAHA! YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH THIS!” Polnareff shouted, though the laughter spilled forth uncontrollably, betraying his resolve.

“Aww, darling,” she teased, her fingers expertly dancing over his sides, reigniting the relentless laughter that bubbled up from his core. “Every gasp, every plea, only fuels my desire to keep you right where you are—helpless and utterly at my mercy.”

Foxey Lady's fingers traveled up Polnareff’s sides, traveling up his sides towards his vulnerable armpits with ruthless precision. Her nails moved like a blur, skittering over his skin with untold speed, creating an barrage that felt like a sandstorm of relentless tickle torture. When Foxey Lady arrived at Polnareff’s armpits, she unleashed a flurry of tickling that sent him spiraling into fits of laughter.

“Tickle, tickle, Polnareff~” Youko teased, her voice playful and mocking, as if she were serenading him with his own helplessness. Each stroke of her Stand’s fingers sent electric signals of ticklishness throughout his body.

“SILVEHEHEHEHER CHARIOHOHOHOHOHOT!” Polnareff cried out, between gasps of laughter. He felt as if he had manifested his Stand, but it was nowhere to be seen. “WHAHAHAHAHAT? WHEHEHEHEHEHERE IS IT? WHEHEHEHERE IS CHARIOHOHOHOHOT!?”

“Oh, sweet Polnareff,” Youko cooed, her tone dripping with mock sympathy, “your Stand can’t help you now. Foxey Lady has you trapped in your own memories, where I hold all the power.” Foxey Lady leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear, being a part of the stand. “Just let go. There’s nothing you can do but laugh. Tickle, tickle!”

The laughter poured out of him, a reaction he couldn’t suppress, his body betraying him to the soft, relentless tickling that consumed his senses. “I won’t give in! I’ll find a way out of this!” he thought desperately, even as the ticklish sensations clouded his mind.

Suddenly Foxey Lady stopped, as Polnareff saw the figure of his friend’s mom turn around, still straddling him. The fur of her coat brushed against his chest, soft, luxurious and teasing, obscuring his vision and heightening his helplessness. “Remember this, Polnareff? It’s really about to tickle, darling!” Youko exclaimed. As her Stand’s nails skittered along his suddenly vulnerable feet, he felt a fresh wave of laughter bubbling up inside him, pushing against the walls of his resolve.

“NO! HAHAHAHA! PLEASE, NOT AGAIN!” he gasped, laughter spilling from his lips as he writhed beneath her. The feeling was maddening—he was trapped in a world where laughter was both his punishment and his prison.

The soft golden fur brushed and teased against Polnareff’s face as he squirmed under the coat, covering him in a cocoon of warmth that felt both inviting and suffocating. The duality of comfort and torment was overwhelming, and he could feel the edges of his sanity blurring. In this moment, every tickle sent jolts of dread coursing through him, forcing him to confront not just the laughter but the memory of his own helplessness. He couldn’t escape, and the laughter continued to pour from him.

“Does it tickle, Polnareff? I can keep this up as long as I want,” Youko taunted, her voice oozing with evil delight. “You’re completely at my mercy. Just imagine how long I can prolong your laughter.” The playful menace in her voice only intensified the sensation, and he could feel the weight of her words pressing down on him like the plush fabric surrounding him.

Foxey Lady’s nails found their target, skimming over Polnareff’s ticklish arches with a relentless precision. The delicate yet ever-so-intense touch sent him into fits, his body reacting involuntarily as the sensations overwhelmed the nerves in his feet, spreading up his legs and throughout his whole body. Each skimming tickle was like millions of feathers, light yet insistent, dancing across his skin in a manner that felt both maddening and strangely intoxicating.

“Tickle, tickle, darling,” Youko purred, her voice a sultry tease that echoed in the plush cocoon surrounding him. “How does it feel to be so utterly at my spell?” Her Stand continued its exploration, fingers deftly weaving between his toes and tracing the sensitive contours of his feet. Polnareff squirmed beneath his tickler, laughter bursting forth uncontrollably as he tried to pull his feet away, but the restraints held him firm.

“I can only imagine how much it tickles, Polnareff,” Youko teased.. “Do you like the way her fur coat brushes against your face? Is it soft, teasing?” The words struck his psyche like a rapier, amplifying his embarrassment.

Foxey Lady’s fingers continued their relentless dance, the soft fur brushing against him creating a cocoon of overwhelming sensations. “Admit it, darling. You’re done, nothing to do, nowhere to go,” Youko purred, watching him squirm, enjoying the torment played across his features. Each giggle and squeal only seemed to encourage her, pushing her to prolong the ticklish torment that held him captive.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you finally succumb to the tickling,” Youko said, her voice dripping with a mix of amusement and sinister delight. “Just imagine it—seeing your life ebb away as you laugh your last laugh.”

Polnareff’s heart raced, a mixture of fear and exhilaration coursing through him. “YOU CAN’T! I WON’T LET IT END LIKE THIS! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” he shouted, though the desperation in his voice was undercut by another fit of uncontrollable laughter as Foxey Lady’s nails found a particularly sensitive on his soles.

“You can’t escape, my tickle slave,” she continued, reveling in his torment. “Each giggle brings you closer to the end. Just let go and embrace it. There’s nothing left but laughter now.” Her fingers danced with renewed fervor, drawing out every bit of resistance he had left.

“Think, Jean Pierre! Think!” he urged himself, struggling to clear the haze of laughter clouding his mind. “There’s got to be a weakness!” He could feel the tickling sensation overwhelming him, but amid the chaos, a flicker of determination sparked within.

“My Stand has no weakness, Polnareff,” Youko taunted, her voice laced with confidence as she continued her relentless assault. “Her ability is to exploit every inch of your vulnerability, and you’re far too caught up in your own laughter to even think of escape, I’m afraid.”

But in the depths of his mind, Polnareff was fighting back. “There has to be something!” he thought fiercely, gritting his teeth against the ticklish sensations that swarmed over him. “Even the strongest Stand has a limit.”

“Let go, Polnareff. Nothing you do can stop Foxey Lady. The tickling is so overwhelming. Can you feel your heart? The way your lungs ache?” Youko's voice was a seductive whisper, dripping with satisfaction as she pressed her advantage.

Polnareff’s heart raced, not just from laughter but from the determination within. “I won’t give in!” he shouted defiantly, though the words felt weak against the storm that bombarded him so ticklishly. Each touch of Foxey Lady's nails sent shockwaves through his body, making it hard to think clearly. He felt himself teetering on the edge, the line between surrender and defiance blurring with every passing moment.

“Do you think the demons in Hell are watching? Do you think they’re waiting for you? Do you think they’re going to keep tickling you forever and ever, never letting up?” Youko's voice dripped with mockery, each word laced with an enticing malice that only fueled his despair. “Imagine it, Polnareff. Being tickled forever, knowing you cannot die? That your reality is tickle torture… forever?”

He could almost picture the demons and succubi, cackling as they reveled in his helplessness, their sinister laughter mingling with his own. The very idea was maddening, and he felt the edges of his sanity fraying as the laughter spilled from his lips uncontrollably.

“Come on, Jean Pierre! You have faced worse than this!” he urged himself, his mind racing as he sought a way to turn the tide against the merciless tickling. “There has to be a way to break this cycle!”

Foxey Lady let up the tickling on Polnareff’s feet, granting him a brief moment of respite. The figure of his friend’s mom faded away completely, in her place, Foxey Lady materialized fully, her ethereal form shimmering with a seductive allure. The fur that had previously obstructed his vision no longer clouded his sight, allowing Polnareff to take in the full majesty of the Stand before him. He noticed that the fur stole that had accentuated her was no longer there.

“Actually, I feel like I’m getting impatient, Polnareff…” Youko mused, her tone playfully mocking as she surveyed him with a smirk. Polnareff's heart raced as he watched in horror as Foxey Lady transformed, sprouting two extra arms, making a total of six. The Stand’s presence intensified, each arm moving with an unsettling grace, fingers poised for a new wave of torment, wiggling menacingly.

“Tickle, tickle! Time to die!” Youko declared, her voice playful yet chilling. Polnareff's heart raced as the six arms of Foxey Lady advanced, fingers wiggling like a swarm of playful serpents, each one eager to find its target.

She struck with precision, her tickling fingers darting into his armpits, his sides, and his hips simultaneously. Polnareff erupted into a chorus of laughter, the sound echoing off the walls like a desperate plea for mercy. The sensation was overwhelming, each touch igniting a fire of ticklish agony that spread through his body, rendering him completely vulnerable.

“Is this really how you want to go out, Polnareff?” Youko taunted, her voice laced with mock sympathy as she watched him squirm. “Tickled to death, all while begging for it to stop?”

“NO! HAHAHA! NOT THERE!” he howled, squirming beneath the relentless tickling. Every stroke felt like a jolt of electricity, a reminder of his utter helplessness. The laughter poured out uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face as he writhed under the merciless onslaught.

“Give in, Polnareff! Just let it happen,” Youko taunted. “You’re only prolonging the inevitable.” The six arms moved with a terrifying efficiency, ensuring that there was no escape, no relief from the laughter that consumed him. The tickling was all encompassing, complete, overwhelming. It was the pure definition of tickle torture.

“Think! Why can I feel my Stand manifest? Where is Foxey Lady’s stole? There has to be something!” Polnareff shouted inwardly, desperately searching for a way to regain control. As the relentless tickling continued, he felt the familiar energy of Silver Chariot stirring within him, its presence reminding him that he still had power, even in this bizarre dreamscape.

Suddenly, the chaos of laughter and torment began to crystallize into clarity. He recalled how Foxey Lady’s fluffy fur stole had enveloped him earlier, a key component of her Stand's ability to trap him in this memory. If he could break the connection, perhaps he could turn the tide.

“She mentioned something about hypnosis…” Polnareff thought, a flicker of realization igniting in his mind. Then it clicked. It was all an illusion. “HAHAHAHAHAHA! YOU’RE DONE, YOUKO! YOUR STAND ABILITY IS HYPNOSIS! HAHAHAHAHA! IT’S PURELY VISUAL! AND THE THING KEEPING ME IN IT IS YOUR FUR STOLE!” he yelled, his laughter now infused with defiance rather than despair.

Youko's victorious attitude faltered for a moment, surprise flickering across her features as Polnareff's laughter turned from helplessness to determination. “What are you talking about?” she retorted, though a hint of uncertainty crept into her voice.

With renewed vigor, Polnareff focused on the fur wrapping around him, visualizing it as a barrier rather than a prison. “I can break this illusion!” he declared, channeling the energy of Silver Chariot. “HAHAHAhAHA! IHIHIHIHIT’S JUHUHUHUST A TRIHIHIHICK! I WON’T BE TRAPPED IN YOUR GAMES ANY LONGER!”

As he gathered his strength, he imagined Silver Chariot materializing, cutting through the fabric of the illusion with the same precision it wielded its blade. He could feel the connection between himself and his Stand strengthening, a tide of energy rising within him, ready to shatter the confines of Youko’s hypnotic grasp.

“SILVER CHAHAHAHAHARIOT! CUT THEHEHEHE STOLE AWAY!” he cried, his voice ringing with newfound determination. In that moment, he felt Silver Chariot respond, the familiar rush of power surging through him, igniting a fierce resolve that overshadowed the laughter.

With a swift, decisive motion, he envisioned Silver Chariot’s blade slicing through the illusions that bound him, severing the connection to Youko’s fur stole. The air around him shimmered, the fabric of the dreamscape rippling like a mirage.

Foxey Lady stopped dead in her tracks, staring blankly for a moment, her multiple arms frozen mid-motion. The atmosphere around them crackled with energy as Polnareff's command took effect. Then, in an explosive burst of ethereal light, Foxey Lady shattered into a cascade of shimmering particles, the remnants of the illusion scattering like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind.

Polnareff rose to sit, scratching his head in a daze as the remnants of his bizarre experience lingered in his mind. The bar was a mess, shattered glasses and broken bottles littering the floor, evidence of the chaos that had unfolded. He glanced around, expecting to see Youko, but she was nowhere to be found. The air felt heavy with the aftermath of their confrontation, and the chatter of patrons resumed, oblivious to the battle that had just occurred.

“Where did she go?” Polnareff muttered to himself, his heart still racing. He felt a mix of relief and frustration; he had escaped her grasp.

Gathering himself, he stood up, carefully stepping over the debris scattered on the floor. As he made his way to the bar, he couldn’t help but replay the encounter in his mind—the way her Stand had toyed with him, the soft, teasing nature of Foxey Lady, and the chilling realization that he had nearly succumbed to her power.

“I need to be more vigilant,” he thought, determination solidifying within him. “But I trust she will not try any of us again, since the secrets of her Stand were so easily uncovered.”

Polnareff scanned the room, contemplating his next move. “I need to warn the others,” he thought, remembering the bond he shared with his friends. They needed to be prepared for whatever came next.

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