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troublesomesnitch · 8 months ago

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The Devil You Know

Aemond x Septa!Reader - Pt. 2

Little follow-up to this, but hopefully works OK on its own! There might be a third and final part also.

Contents: Book!Aemond, filth and depravity. Coercion, manipulation, power imbalance, dubious consent, medieval fuckboy Aemond. Just the tip...

Words: 3200

Full disclosure - possibly a bit unpolished because I wanted to get it done before S2.

You left the grand sept just days after your investiture.

At noon on the first day of the new month, a royal courier came to fetch you, loading your meagre belongings onto a cart to bring both that and yourself to the castle. To your new home and abode: a chamber with one bed, one table and one little chair, one sconce and one seven-pointed star on the wall. Naturally in the servant’s quarters, but on the highest floor, along with the ladies’ maids, far away from the damp cellars and busy kitchens.

The queen’s household is large, and you are somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy; expected to follow orders, but able to give them, too. You are a septa now, a woman grown, and for the first time in all of your life you have no Mother Superior to answer to, no Septon Alester, and no other girls sharing your bedchamber - which is both a blessing and a curse. It is nice and quiet to be by yourself, free of prying eyes and Sister Sybella’s snoring. But no one pays notice when you slip out at night, and if you run into a maid or steward, they naturally assume that you are headed towards Her Grace or Princess Helaena’s chambers.

Luckily, Prince Aemond’s rooms are in roughly the same direction.

When others are near, he is perfectly honourable. Really, his performance is quite impressive. Not too eager, not too distant, perfectly measured when he greets you in the halls, or sits with his mother in her solar. But at night, at night he is different. When the hour grows late and the royal family say their goodnights, he will find a chance to strike, to brush past you and squeeze your wrist, or run his fingers over the small of your back to let you know that he wishes to see you. That he wants you to come to him tonight.

To his chamber, to his bed, to his arms.

It is a humiliating plight, and you climb the steps of Maegor’s Holdfast with all the enthusiasm of a convict walking to the scaffold. Weighed down by the guilt of your actions, terrified that someone should know. And resentful, of the prince for making you dishonour your vows, and of the gods for cursing you with beauty - had they made you ugly, Prince Aemond would never have spared you a glance, and you would not be in this predicament. You would not be forced to indulge his lusts and endure the liberties he takes with your body.

But most of all, worst of all, you feel ashamed. Of all the things you do together, and of the fact that you cannot deny it does sometimes bring you pleasure, too.

You have permitted him to kiss your mouth, your throat, your chest. Wrapped your hands around his member and stroked it while he fondled your breasts. Let him lie on top of you and rut against you, still fully clothed, pressing hard between your legs until both of you were sweaty and panting. And once, only once, you let him slip his hand up under your skirts and touch you there, and it felt more wonderful than anything else you have ever experienced. So wonderful that you have not allowed him to do it again, for fear that it should corrupt your soul and spirit. That you will always crave it, the warm press of his fingers, and the way your body suddenly shook and tightened with a pleasure so exquisite you could not help but cry out in ecstasy.

But he has never had you. Never put any part of himself inside you, never even seen your naked body. It is the strangest thing - there are surely many ladies who would give themselves to him, wholly and fully, yet for some reason, he wants only you.

And he does not waste time with any sort of pleasantries. The joys of night are short, and he can only keep you for so long - you must be back in time to rest, and at the very least before the scullions and kitchen maids rise. You have hardly latched the door before he wraps you in his longing arms, laying you on his bed and parting your legs. The sheets are soft against your back, and his leathers are smooth and cool, and you do not protest when he lays on top of you. You have grown used to the feel of his chest against yours, the heaviness of him, and the hard and lean lines of his body, so different from your own. You have grown used to his kisses too. You like it when he pecks gently at your lips, and when he slides his tongue into your mouth and curls it around your own. When he strokes your body in all sorts of ways, to see what darling little noises he can coax from you this time.

“Have you ever been touched like this before?” he breathes - a silly question, since he knows the answer well enough already.

“No,” you whisper. “Never.”

“Say it again,” he commands, closing his eye and breathing in deeply, pressing his nose to your sweet-smelling hair.

“No other man has ever touched me - only you.”

It arouses him very much, hearing those words, and he groans softly when he takes your hand and guides it down between your bodies. Knowing what he wants you to do, you hike your skirts up, just enough to run your own fingers along the folds of your womanhood and hold them up for him to taste. Which he does with the most fervent passion, sighing as he licks them clean of any trace of you. He has asked many times to be allowed to taste your sweetness from its source, but you have staunchly refused, appalled at the mere suggestion. He should not press his mouth to such a dirty place. He should not lick something that serves only the body’s most revolting and shameful functions.

Usually, once he has kissed you like this for a while, and pressed and rubbed against you, he will either reach his end from that alone, or he will make you pleasure him with your hands. But not tonight.

“Let me feel you,” he pants. “Just this once let me put it inside - ”

“It is a sin,” you gasp, mortified, but nonetheless shivering when he pulls at your sleeve, exposing your shoulder to cover it with kisses.

“As is this,” he whispers. “And this, and this - ”

His mouth is lovely and warm on your skin, and his teeth are gentle when they scrape along your throat, nibbling softly above your neckline, and biting down hard below it. Making your breathing uneven as you struggle to string your words together.

“But it is different - you know that it is, please don’t make me do it…”

The prince lifts his head to look at you, propped up on his elbow.

“It is the movements that are the most sinful part of the act - is it not?” he says, cupping your face and stroking your cheek in the tenderest of ways. When you nod, he adds, “and if I were to not perform them, would that not be a lesser sin?”

His tone is innocent enough, but you know that wicked look in his eyes, the self-assured draw of his mouth. He knows that he is right - it is the movements, not the insertion itself that makes the act of coupling so sinful. And if he showed restraint and did not move in any such manner, then you suppose it would be a lesser sin. Although they did not mention such possible circumventions in your training, naturally. And there are other issues, still.

“But my maidenhead…” you mutter, looking bashfully to the side when the prince touches his nose to yours.

“I will be gentle,” he breathes. “I will be so very gentle - my angel, my love - let me at least have you this way… ”

It never really is your choice to make. To be alone with the prince is to balance on a precarious ledge - you can deny him some things, but only so long as you can offer something else that might appease him. And though he never makes overt threats, you are painfully aware that displeasing him could have dire consequences. That he could hurt you in a multitude of ways if he so wished.

You squirm under his gaze, riddled with so many conflicting emotions; fearful of his intentions, yet blushing at the terms of endearment. Who would not want to hear such lovely words from a prince?

“Just this once,” he whispers, his voice soft and amorous. Just this once…

All you give him is the faintest nod, a slight incline of your head, and his hands are already pushing at your skirts, bunching them up over your parted knees. His breath hitches at the sight of your womanhood, your most intimate parts that you have never bared to him before; wet and inviting, framed by soft curls. Lovelier than he had ever even imagined, that rosy colour of your innermost lips, that little pearl you will not let him touch. And most of all your maidenhead, the delicate tissue that partially covers your entrance, and that he will earnestly try not to damage beyond what is necessary.

For reasons he could not say, you have quite enchanted him. So much so that he has lavished more patience and tenderness on you than ever before on a woman, and that despite seeing so little return on the investment. For weeks he has contented himself with just your hand and your reluctant kisses, the mere feel of your body beneath him. Many times, he could have taken you by force, and many times he wanted to, yet somehow he could not bring himself to do it, could not bear the thought that you should hate him for it. That your delicate limbs should be hurt in trying to fight him off.

He has waited long for this, and he does not want to give you time to change your mind, so he only quickly shrugs off his doublet and unbuttons his breeches to free his manhood. Which is painfully hard and in dire need of relief.

It still looks so strange to you, that unholy appendage, with its swollen shaft and its fat, fleshy head. Like the poisonous mushrooms that grow in the Kingswood, though you always keep that thought to yourself - you doubt the prince would appreciate such a childish comparison. He strokes it slowly while his other hand disappears between your legs, brushing over your womanhood and spreading your folds to reveal your little opening. Untried, uncharted by anything or anyone.

You grit your teeth when the tips of his fingers are replaced by - something else.

Slowly, steadily, he begins to ease himself inside of you, and you feel your muscles instantly and unwittingly tensing up, startled at the sensation. At the pressure, and at the sound the prince makes when the tip of his member is enveloped by your body, the tight rim of your entrance squeezing its sensitive head. The rest of him will not fit, but he spits into his palm and strokes it along his shaft, and that makes things glide a little better, as do your slow, deliberate breaths.

It hurts, it really does, only not in the way you expected. You do not so much feel like anything is being torn or ripped - rather, you feel stretched, forcibly split apart and opened far beyond what should be possible. Your insides burn from it, and you wince with pain when he adjusts his position, spreading your thighs wider and driving his hips forward. Pressing in until he is fully seated.

And he moans from how perfect you feel around him. So soft, so tight. His seeing eye closes and his breathing is hoarse, strained from how badly he needs to move, needs to thrust; his arms trembling by the sides of your head as he struggles to hold himself still. It is a bizarre thing to do, you think, just laying together like this, one on top of the other, completely motionless. Your legs raised over his hips, his chin resting against your forehead. His manhood swelling within you, throbbing with need. You can only hope it means that he will finish quickly and release you from this chore, from the searing pain that scorches your core, and the feeling of being so trapped, so tethered. Much like one of the many-legged creatures on Princess Helaena’s wall; splayed out and nailed down, held in place by a foreign object piercing your body.

But the prince likes it. You have never heard such heavy sighs from him as just now, never seen such utter bliss on his face. His forehead is damp with sweat, his brows drawn together, his upper lip subtly twitching. One of his hands trails up the back of your naked thigh, lifting your leg to curl it around his back, and he moans from that too, as the slight shift gives him a brief feeling of movement. It is not at all comfortable for you, but you are distracted when he seeks your lips, claiming your mouth with slow, deep kisses. His tongue rolls over yours, pulling back to lick along your lip before plunging into your mouth again, over and over, in a strangely repetitive way. A rhythmic way. As if he is making love to your mouth, since he cannot make love to your body.

It feels lovely, so lovely that it makes your insides twitch. Which in turn makes the prince curse, and a violent shudder run through his body.

“Do it again,” he moans, and like always you do your best to please him. Clenching your muscles, squeezing tight around him, then releasing again. Very slowly, and each time feeling his breathy gasp against your face, and the thrum of a heartbeat inside of you - whether his or yours, you cannot say. It is painful with your already sore muscles, and it must be a poor excuse for what it is supposed to mimic, but it is still better than nothing, judging by how the prince moans. How he bites his lip and furrows his brow as your insides twitch and contract, so tight and slick and warm.

How strange to think that now you have become one. Now you are as close as two people can ever be. Closer still when the prince slithers his arm underneath your body, pressing you hard against him and cradling your head. Your fingers are clenched in the damp material of his shirt, and he unfurls them gently to wrap your arms around his neck, around his shoulders; wanting you to hold him, to embrace him as a woman should her lover.

It makes your discomfort somewhat more bearable, having something to cling and anchor yourself to. The closeness, and the intimacy of it, how his face is right above yours, your noses touching and breaths mingling. He drags his mouth against your own, from side to side, his lips brushing over yours, then over the rest of your face; your chin, your cheekbones, your temples. So, so gently, and like often before, you are stunned that he can be both so cruel and so tender with you. So selfish, and so soft.

He has had countless chances to force himself on you, yet he never did. Even now he is keeping his promise, holding back, fighting hard to not succumb to that most powerful and natural instinct of a man, this urge to thrust, to copulate. You can feel that he is shivering with the force of his need, gritting his teeth, unable to keep completely still - there is a gentle, almost imperceptible swaying of his body that he cannot help, an impossibly slow rocking with each of his ragged breaths.

He really is beautiful, you think, with his striking eyes and thick, silvery hair; pink lips parted in a breathy sigh. You could not say what possessed you to be so bold, but you find yourself reaching up to place a wet, lingering kiss underneath his jaw, right on top of the constellation of freckles that adorns his neck, swiping your tongue across it and tasting the sweat of his skin. To an almost immediate effect - at the feeling of your timid caresses, the prince curses loudly, clenching his fingers in the sheets, arching his back -

“No!” you exclaim, “not inside me, not inside - ”

But it is too late; he has already shuddered once, and his manhood is already pulsing and spurting when he manages to withdraw from you. So stiff that it flops up against his stomach, a grotesque thing to look upon, the way it just hangs there, squirting out semen as he groans and gasps. At the very end of his rapture he grasps it with one hand, stroking it hard all the way from the base to the tip, as though wanting to squeeze out every last bit of fluid. And once he is spent, he rolls off of you and onto his back, completely unceremoniously. Leaving you raw and hurting inside, and with the sticky feeling of his semen trickling out between your thighs.

“If it catches,” you whisper, afraid to even speak the words. “If I should be with child…”

The prince runs a hand over his face, panting and still too lightheaded to be thinking clearly, because he stupidly tells you that needn’t worry, he will have a tea brought to you -

“No! please no,” you shriek, panicked. “They would know I broke my vows - ”

“Then I will bring it myself,” he snaps, but rather than reassure you, his harsh tone only makes you tear up.

At the sigh of your quivering mouth, his face softens, and he reaches out to pull you into his arms, hold you against his chest, stroke your hair and rock you gently. Say forgive me, forgive me, I quite forgot myself, you mustn’t cry, my love -

“Why must you torment me,” you sob. “Sooner or later someone will know, they will shame me and ruin me - “

“They wouldn’t dare,” he says. “I would not let them - I will cut off any hand that hurts you - “

You press your ear to his chest to drown out the sound of his voice, for he has said these same words many times before, and with the same fervour and poignancy. He adores you, he reveres you, he will cut off any hand that hurts you, any eye that ogles you, any tongue that slanders your name.

You haven’t the courage to tell him - the only hand that hurts you is his own.

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @ladythornofrivia, @blackswxnn, @hightpwer, @toodlesxcuddles, @arcielee

@targaryen-madness, @qyburnsghost

And thank you @aemondsbabygirl for being a great one-woman focus group!

#aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond smut

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thesimline · 1 year ago

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1500s WOMEN - PART 1

The 1500s was a century of innovation when it came to hairstyles, with the introduction of both metal hair pins (1545) and wigs (1572). These pins were used to hold wires and pads in place that essentially acted as scaffolding for the shaped hairstyles popular during this period. The religious modesty of previous centuries was cast aside for the first time, with young married women now uncovering their tresses. The ideal hair was curly and fair or red, a fad influenced by British monarch Queen Elizabeth I. CC links and reference images under the cut.

You can find more of my historical content here:

1300s ✺ 1400s ✺ 1500s ✺ 1600s ✺ 1700s

1 - Queen of Curls by Teanmoon

2 - Beatrix by Sims to Maggie

3 - Mary's Braid Bun by Birksche

4 - Circle Braid by Simverses

5 - Rose Braid by Simverses

6 - Marzia by Talented Trait

7 - Princess Hair by Nightingale Songx

8 - Ethel by Buzzard's Bits and Bobs

9 - Rhaenyra by Sims to Maggie

10 - Queen of Quaff by Teanmoon

11 - Hilda by Birksche

12 - Gaia by QICC (Curse Forge)

13 - Ally Afro Puff V1 by Sheabuttyr

14 - Winifred by Simduction

15 - Betsy by Sims to Maggie

16 - Phaedra by Simple Simmer

17 - Verity by Birksche

18 - Rirrier by Carol Forest

19 - Twisted Bun by Birksche

20 - Nora by Buzzard's Bits and Bobs

21 - Gytha by Buzzard's Bits and Bobs

22 - Gentle Hair by Kiara Zurk

23 - Long Hair Braid by Birksche

24 - Isabel by Sims to Maggie

25 - Judy's Half Braids by Birksche

26 - Sunshine Braid by Kiara Zurk

27 - Wrap Around Braid by Leeleesims1

28 - Duna by Buzzard's Bits and Bobs

29 - Becca by aharris00britney

30 - Lucrezia by Tekri

With thanks to some amazing creators: @teanmoon @simstomaggie @simverses @talentedtrait @nightingalesongx @buzzardly28 @sheabuttyr @simduction @blogsimplesimmer @leeleesims1 @aharris00britney @tekri

#ts4 #ts4 cc cas #the sims 4 #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #ts4 cc hair #ts4 historical #ts4 history challenge #sims 4 history challenge #sims 4 historical #1500s #historical cc #tudor #16th century #ultimate decades challenge #hair collection #renaissance

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divinegrey · 2 months ago

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ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴡɴ ʙʟᴜᴇ / ᴊɪɴx x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

sorry for the wait everybody!! been writing other things in the meantime, arcane hasn't been my sole focus. also i have homework and exams. but here's something to appease all of you!! anon, i hope i did this prompt justice!

prompt: I'd like to request a Jinx x Fem! Reader. I like the idea of the reader being a follower of Jinx, as I think the dynamic could be fun. I think it could be cool to explore a follower of Jinx getting to know her and realizing that she's more than just a symbol. She's a multifaceted individual.

words: 1585

warnings: none

It started when she caught you tagging the side of a building. With her face, no less.

With all the shit going down in Zaun in the wake of Silco’s death and every gang leftover fighting for scraps of power, it was only time before Jinx caught up to the fact that while yes, her face is plastered everywhere on wanted posters, there are about a dozen more spray-painted graffiti tags of her over them. Which was the goal of what you were doing when she dropped down from a building and walked to your side.

All she did was look at the statuesque version of her face, washed in shades of blue, and say, “My nose doesn’t look like that.”

And she was right.

Of course, with time, you got better at it. The wanted posters did a mean disservice, honestly. The only thing they got correct were the pink eyes, pink eyes that followed you when you went to your shitty box of an apartment and flopped onto a mattress flattened by years of use. You’d go to sleep, wake up, grab your paint duffel, and head back out again. The nice thing about Zaun is that there’s always an empty spot just waiting to be tagged.

Somehow, Jinx always finds you.

“You know people see you as a leader, right?” You say, shaking a can of neon pink, the ball rattling around inside the canister. You glance over your shoulder to where Jinx sits on some pipes connected to the wall, her braids dangling and the gold bullet casings wrapped around reflecting the faint light that falls through the fissures. With a gesture to your own head of hair, dyed an insane hodge-podge of bright colors, blue included, you continue, “Silco’s gone. Whole world down here has turned upside down. But for the first time in a while, we’ve got hope. Cuz of you. Cuz of what you did to those fuckin’ Pilties.”

“For all the good it did,” Jinx remarks, a dryness to her tone you’ve come to know and love.

“I’m serious. C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t know the reason why I keep painting you? Why a dozen other taggers I know keep painting you? Why the color blue is nearly sold out in every damn shop?” You kneel down, arcing a curve of pink paint along the grey brick wall, moving quick and precise. Overthinking it makes it worse. “I’m not wearing spray-painted clothes in your colors for nothin, Jinx.”

She turns, peering at you. In the shadows, her eyes seem to reflect some more, glowing like a cat’s would. “Because y’all have some weird, deluded sense that I’m a leader, or somethin’.”

“You are. To me. To us.” You point at the other tags in the alleyway, some of them copies of the same mark you’ve seen a dozen times around town. Jinx’s name, sigils of BOOM! and explosives doodled about. You twist and take a seat on the scaffolding, your legs dangling off the side of it. “I didn’t know you when I first started drawing you. I heard what you did, and I thought damn, there’s someone out there willing to actually do something. In a single day, you did more than Silco ever did in years. Sure, we might be going head long into a war, but dying free is better than living under someone else’s boot.”

Jinx hums. She leaps off the pipes, crossing the gap between you and her with ease, landing on the wooden scaffolding. She straightens up, gazing at the half-finished tag you’re working on. With a hum, she turns to you, and puts something in your hand. Before you have the time to look down and figure out what it is, Jinx says, “Nozzle control. Quality on some of your cans are shit, no offense. Slap that thing on it and you won’t have an issue after that.”

“Oh, thanks—”

“Don’t mention it!” Jinx steps off the scaffolding, landing on the ground below with a THUD. “And for the record, I ain’t the kinda person to follow.”

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that to convince me!” You call down, grinning from ear to ear. Her brows furrow together, then a small huff, a hint of a smile on her own face. She walks away, off to do… whatever it is that she does when she’s not hanging out with you.

It isn’t for some time that you see her again. You’d say you’re worried, but you pass through the crowds hearing whispers of Jinx sightings. Every day, it seems another head of blue hair appears, the quiet signs of revolution brewing in the heart of Zaun as the enforcers grow more and more strict, searching anyone and everyone for some hint or clue to find the one that destroyed the Council Chamber in Piltover. You’ll never say a word.

You walk into your apartment. Work was… work, boring and mind-numbing as it always is. You wonder if you can handle another day of it, but another day will bring another chance of seeing her out there, so you decide not to fly off the handle just yet. You shrug off the soot-stained work clothes, and where you reach for your paint-splattered jacket, it isn’t there.

Instead, a note.

Never had anyone believe in me quite like you. The Hound’s statue, midnight. Come and get it.

With the pink lettering and the doodles of monkeys and bombs scribbled across the page, it doesn’t need to be said just who left this note. You snatch it off the wall, utterly beaming; Gently, you fold it into fourths, tucking it into your shirt. Thank god for the late shift— less waiting!

Any of the weariness you might’ve felt before is gone as you race through the streets, taking any and every shortcut you know. The night is quiet, what with the enforced curfew put up by the Pilties to discourage wandering, not that they’ve done a good job of it. Zaun is Zaun, and the cogs down here will always keep turning, whether Piltover likes it or not.

When you arrive at the open plaza where the statue erected to Vander, the Hound of the Underground, is, your mouth drops in shock to find the entire plaza covered, every square inch of it, in neon paint. Sigils upon sigils that you have seen time and time again, glowing in the dark. It reaches all the way to the statue, pink highlights in Vander’s hair and blue accents along his metal jacket.

Sitting on the shoulder of the statue, paint can in one hand and your jacket in the other, is Jinx.

“Shoulda known you’d be a little early. Good thing, I work fast,” Jinx remarks. She crooks a finger at you to come closer, and you do, taking care to step over the paint lines on the stone. You’re a little in awe of the work she’s done— how has nobody taken notice? Come to think of it, you heard there was a scuffle a few blocks away. The logistics don’t seem to matter anymore the closer you get to her.

You arrive at the base of the statue. “How’d you even know where I live?”

“Sweets, there are a lot of things I know about you. And a lotta things you know about me. Things that might drive other people away, but not you,” Jinx says, something like an angel as she looks down upon you from the statue. In the flash of a second and the trace of neon light left in the sky, she’s standing in front of you, your back pressed against the statue. The beam of moonlight that breaks through shines on her, her shimmer-pink eyes locked onto your frame. “You keep sticking to the inside my brain, can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Could say the same for you,” you reply, a little breathless. “Why’d you do all this? Get my jacket and bring me here?”

“Cuz you showed me somethin’ important. That people, for whatever crazy reason they got in their head, believe in me,” Jinx says. She holds out your jacket to you, and you take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves and fixing the collar so it stands upright. Her eyes go from bottom to top, taking her sweet time. “I wanna show em what I can do. Give those people with my blue in their hair a reason to keep going. To keep fighting.”

“You have me. All the way, Jinx,” you say, putting a hand over the front of your jacket, where a pink heart has been painted. “So what do you wanna do? Other than all this?”

“Right now?” Jinx cocks a grin. “I wanna kiss you.”

What? You blink, wondering if you heard that right, but her taking a step closer to you only confirms that yes, you did hear it right. You swallow the nerves, finding your cheeks hurting from how hard you’re smiling. “And then what?”

“And then, we show Zaun all the fun we have to offer, and we tell Piltover to shove their Hextech where the sun don’t shine,” Jinx finishes, her hands grabbing the lapels of your jacket and pulling you in. Your lips touch hers, something you never thought would happen, not in your wildest dreams.

But here you are, arms wrapped around Jinx as she kisses you in the streets of Zaun, the cry of revolution soon to come.

~~~~~

A/N: thank you for reading!! comments are always appreciated <3

#jinx x reader #arcane jinx x reader #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane netflix #arcane #arcane imagines #arcane jinx imagines #jinx imagines

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sorceresssundries · 18 days ago

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Flesh and Bone

Pairing - Emmrich x Fem Rook

AO3 link

Warnings - smut, talk of death, oral sex, vaginal sex, erm, sexy bone talk?

Words - 2.6k

A/N - I wanted to explore what physical intimacy and a sexual relationship could possibly look like between Bone Daddy Emmrich and Rook. Have I convinced myself to let Emmrich become a Lich because of this? possibly.

Comments and reblogs as always are much appreciated. If sex with a skeleton has made you as unhinged as it has made me, please let me know so I know I'm not out here all alone. Skele-fuckers unite.

“I’m surprised this is still here.”

You sit on the bed and skim your fingers over sheets of finest nevarran silk. A deep red that shimmers in the veilfire light. It looks like spilled liquid. Like you are sitting in a pool of blood.

You thought the lighthouse would have taken Emmrich’s secret room away. That it would have pulled it back into the fade by whatever flicker of etheric consciousness granted it in the first place. Surely a bedroom was no longer required for the being who would never rest again.

“It knows you are still in need of sleep, darling.” his familiar voice hums “And it knows I am still in desperate need of you.”

His voice is still his. Mostly. Words spoken just as lovingly, but though they had echoed across from another room. You long to be in the same room.

A tear slips free, darkening the silk beneath it.

You have made love countless times in this bed. You suppose you will never do so again.

How would it work? Emmrich had been a partner who luxuriated in the sensual, and you had delighted in each of his mortal intimacies. His slow unravel by your hands, mouth, words, cunt - all of you. Every part given, fully, for every part of him. The laxity of his muscles, the slick of his sweat, the sounds he made—so animal and desperate they could have been dredged up from a time when words had not yet been assigned meaning.

You had touched him everywhere, every way. Around him. Against him. Inside him. Until his human heart pumped blood hard and fast around his body from exertion and undeniable want. Jaw slack, eyes lidded, hair mussed. Soaked and shaking. Yours. You had found the softest, hardest, most hidden recesses that only you were allowed to uncover and uncovered them. Explored and then worshipped them with all the devotion of a doomed sinner granted absolution.

What would that even look like now?

With no nerve endings to spark, how could you ignite him? Even if not for sexual gratification, but purely for devotion and acceptance, how would you show it?

You could wrap your hands around his gold-plated ribs, stroking the arch of each one and reach inside his thoracic cage to where his heart once beat, and press your hand flat against his spine. The scaffolding that had many times bent over and beneath you now fully exposed.

What would he taste like if you kissed him? His flesh had been hot musk and salt, but surely his bones would be cool. You imagine pressing the flat of your tongue to his clavicle, his patella, running it down each and every vertebrae.

There would be no tongue to meet yours, no scalp for your fingers to scrape. No half-hard cock to coax into fullness, to take into the warmth of your wanting mouth until it was rock-hard and aching.

But could you slot yourself between his hips? Feel the curve of his pelvic girdle supporting you? Could you grind against his coccyx, seeking friction? Could you take his phalanges and guide them into the soft, wet heat of your body?

Would he feel it?

No skin, no nerves, no raging synapses. But perhaps, somewhere deeper—in his marrow, where he is still soft - would he feel something?

Would you?

“You have questions,” He says, reaching out with a hand wrapped in linen. The gold that still adorns it is somehow a comfort. He seems to hesitate, unsure, and abandons his instinctive reach and settles for distance. There feels like so much distance.

You finally look up, to the sockets where hazel eyes had been replaced with pitches of veilfire.

“Can you see me?” you ask.

“More clearly than ever, my love”

You feel small in your lack of understanding, in your need for answers you may not be prepared for.

You lift your hands to push the pads of your fingers against the exposed bone of his once-handsome face. To hold his skull in your palms.

“Can you feel me?”

“More deeply than you could possibly imagine.”

“But not the same as before?”

“No, not the same as before.”

Your hands drop and he kneels before you—the eternal lich-lord of the grand necropolis, brought to his knees by his mortal lover.

“Could you explain?” you ask. “Could you show me?”

You need to know. Need to be sure that, even though the desires of his flesh were obliterated along with his poor, cherished body, his soul still burns for you. That he loves you. That his love is even a sliver of what you feel for him.

His hand lifts to cup your face, the cold press of metal cold against your flushed skin.

“I can show you, darling. For a short time, at least. No mortal can stand it for long, even one as indomitable as you.” You hear the warmth in his words, and you nod.

The green fire in his skull shifts—gold, silver, blinding white. Every colour. No colour. Shades and tones streaking with luminescence that have no name, known only to stars and gods.

The room disappears, reduced to a pinpoint, and you to a dust mote within it. The air you gasp for is ancient, and has been breathed by countless lives across countless worlds. Stars blaze, and the world spins ever onward.

“Focus on me, love. Deep, slow,” he says, echoing words he once spoke. Weeks ago? Years? Seconds? Words he has said, will say, is saying.

Ripples become waves, dust becomes desert.

In Arlathan, the trees sing. In the Necropolis, the grieving howl. The Veil creaks, and the Fade whispers. Countless mortals are born, die, laugh, and weep—

“Too much,” you say, voice trembling. “It’s too much.”

“Here.” He places his other hand on your cheek. “Look at me.”

You do, and it is him. Neither undead nor alive. Neither mortal nor other. Simply him. Emmrich.

The colour of summer changing into autumn. The first crackle of a much-needed fire. Tea leaves steeping. A song, half-remembered, slipping back into memory. Fingers brushing along the spines of books. Gold. Curiosity. Warmth. Joy.

The Fade swirls around him, patterns shifting like dust caught in sunlight.

He laughs—a soft sound, and it is here, in this room, with you. You breathe it in, let it settle within you, until it is no longer just his laughter but yours as well.

And you feel what he feels: joy. Joy that he is here and so are you. That you love him, and he delights in it. That he loves you, eternally.

Other feelings ripple through you: curiosity, patience, calm, apprehension, relief. Fear—not of his death, but purely of yours. And something else, a feeling with no name.

The moment just after sleep but before waking.

And—

Oh.

Desire. Still there, waiting. Changed, but present. Brand new and ancient all at once.

“I didn’t think you could still feel... that you would...” you say

“Of course I do, dearest. Of course.”

“Me too,” you admit, your cheeks warming, a blush spreading as though you’re uncoiling some hidden truth. You feel inexperienced—like a virgin, your palms and tongue aching but uncertain of how to use them, every inch of you yearning and unsure.

The desire - his desire, yours, both - blooms at your confession, pulling at your chest like a string of heat tethering you to him. It doesn’t just simmer within you; it coils around you, around him, entwining you.

And you understand—it’s obvious. Your pleasure is his pleasure. He can feel it. Taste it. Indulge in it.

His hand trails down from your shoulder, brushing along your arm with such featherlight grace that it makes you gasp.

“Would you like me to stop?” he asks softly. “We do not have to—”

“Keep going, please,” you breathe, almost desperate.

His hands settle at your waist, as he eases you down onto the silken sheets. His legs nudge yours apart, and he kneels above you, towering and tender.

“How could you ever doubt me, my darling?” he murmurs, voice low, steady, and unwavering. “That I would no longer love you? No longer want you? The stars themselves could burn to cinders and fall from the sky before I am ever done desiring you.”

There is a crackle, a spark. The room is alive with static.

“Do you think I need to be built of flesh and blood to grant you absolute pleasure?”

From his hands gripping your waist comes a sensation unlike anything you’ve known. A vibration with no movement. A hum with no sound. Pulses of magic and heat throb beneath your skin and behind your eyes, winding through you like molten threads of ecstasy.

Your back arches, your toes curl, and your breath leaves you in a gasp.

“Do you think I need a tongue?”

And then it fills you—a memory so vivid it bursts across your senses. You taste it, smell it, live it again. His desk beneath you, your legs spread wide, his face buried between your thighs. His hands grip you, fingers biting into your skin to keep you still as you tremble, his moans vibrating through you as he drinks in your pleasure. You are shaking, undone by the force of your orgasm, even as his arousal presses against the confines of his trousers, desperate to be buried inside you, to—

The same pulse he felt then thunders through you now, the magic igniting your nerve endings and burning you alive with sensation. The lich-lord hums above you, satisfied, as you writhe beneath him.

“My darling,” he says, his voice molten with indulgence, “I can unravel you with naught but words and salacious intent…”

Another wave crashes over you, another memory. The Cobbled Swan, the din of the pub swirling around you in a haze. You’re in a shadowed corner, barely listening to the sultry croon of the singer. Emmrich’s lips brush your ear as his hand works its way under your skirts, his fingers stroking the slick heat between your thighs.

His whispers are wicked, hedonistic. Somehow eloquent and obscene in equal measure. His words pour into you, their meaning rippling through your body. He’s telling you to stay quiet, to keep still, and the tension coils tighter as you try, your breaths shallow and ragged. You can feel his fingers moving, the heat of his mouth, the intimacy of his whispers.

Now, in this moment, his voice fills the room as if it’s being said anew, a loop of memory and magic merging. You come apart beneath him, your body and mind unable to tell the difference between the past and this overwhelming present.

“There is ecstasy to be found beyond the confines of mortal flesh - whatever pleasure exists, whatever fulfillment, I shall pull from the world of the living and the fade and anything that exists beyond and in-between. It shall be yours, as I am.”

A final memory... no, more than that. A hope, a dream, a pinnacle. You are in the bed you lay upon now, with Emmrich above you as he is in this moment. His skin is warm against yours, his thumb stroking your cheek, his lips brushing against yours, parting only to let your tongues meet in a rhythm as familiar as breathing.

He moves inside you, slow and deliberate. Between heated kisses, he pulls back to stare into your eyes. His gaze is a mixture of unending love and fierce desire, as if he is seeing every part of you - body, soul, thoughts - all at once.

A strand of his hair has come loose, falling against his brow, and you reach up to brush it away. Your touch lingers, your fingertips tracing his face. His breath hitches, and yours follows suit.

There is a build within him, a cord tightening, coiling, that matches your own. You can’t tell which is yours and which is his; it is all the same now. His pleasure courses through you, your pulse racing in tandem with his.

Then and now. Past and present. Man and Lich.

There is no separation, no boundary. Just the two of you, suspended in a moment that stretches to eternity.

Stars burst behind your eyes as the threads pull impossibly tight, and then everything shatters into golden light. Wave after wave crashes through you, a tide that refuses to retreat, frothing and roiling within and around you. It is exquisite. It is unbearable.

“Too much,” you gasp, the words tearing from your throat, raw and desperate.

Immediately, his hands leave you, the connection severed with a suddenness that leaves you aching. The tidal wave recedes, and the world rushes back into place. You are on the silken sheets once more, in the confines of his bedroom. Mortal. Spent.

The vibrant, pulsing energy of a moment ago is gone, leaving the air still and heavy, yet your body hums with its lingering echoes. It all feels grey now in comparison to the brilliance you’d just glimpsed. The technicolor vastness he now inhabits is out of reach once more.

“Are you alright, darling?”

You nod, swallowing against the rush of sensations that still ebb and flow inside you. Words elude you for the moment, but he doesn’t press. He waits, ever-patient, until you prop yourself up against the pillows, and only then does he move to join you. The weight of him laying beside you is a comfort.

“I wanted you to feel it,” he murmurs, warm and intimate “Even briefly. To know how deeply I burn for you, even now.”

The soft glow of veilfire reflects in the curve of his skull, casting an otherworldly light on the contours of his form. You want to curl up against him, the way you used to, but are unsure how. His body is devoid of the pliant comfort you once took for granted.

Instead, you settle for his hand resting upon your stomach, his thumb moving in gentle, slow circles against your skin. You close your eyes for a moment, focusing on that simple motion, letting it calm the ache in your chest. The yearning for what once was softens, replaced by a quiet appreciation for what remains.

You place your hand over his, lacing your fingers, marveling at how perfectly they still fit together. Nothing else matters. There is only him and you, and the flame that burns eternal.

“Could we…” Your voice is tentative, “Could we do that again sometime?”

The sound of his laughter fills the room, rich and familiar. The laughter of the man you knew - and still know. The way he has always laughed for you, unguarded.

“Of course we can,” he says, the corners of his voice soft with a smile you feel even if you can’t see.

You push yourself up, pressing a kiss where his teeth gleam in place of lips. He makes a sound like a sigh, a tender exhalation that warms you as you lay back down, shifting onto your side to face him. He mirrors you, his empty gaze impossibly full of affection.

“I have more questions for.. ” A yawn steals the rest of your words away.

“I know, but sleep now,” he murmurs. His hand brushes lightly against your cheek. “We shall talk more in the morning. We have many mornings in which to talk, I promise.”

You lay there, sleep tugging your thoughts into fragments, a haze of gratitude and happiness settling over you. He is still yours, and you are still his. Yet, as your eyes grow heavy, one more memory surfaces: how nice it used to be to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the rhythmic cadence of his breath carrying you both toward the promise of tomorrow.

#emmrich volkarin #lich emmrich #emmlich #emmrook #emmrich fanfic #emmrich nsft #emmrich dragon age #datv #dragon age the veilguard #BONE DADDY

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balrogballs · 1 month ago

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The Clean Break

a little take on Aragorn and Elrond’s final meeting, a removed scene from Cast in Stone (no context required; it’s canon compliant) that I liked too much to toss.

Aragorn was Estel when he broke his wrist, somewhere between five and six years old. It was a perfectly ordinary break, which happened for a perfectly ordinary reason: he had been running about on a wet floor, slipped, and crashed over a threshold. Elladan and Elrohir had come running at his wails, picked him up and took him to Elrond.

He remembers how Elrond explained to him that it was a clean break, and a very small one — it would stop hurting in a few days if he kept it still. The twins, those ardent connoisseurs of broken bones, had kept up a steady stream of joking patter to distract him whilst their father slowly applied a pain-relieving poultice and began to wrap up the wound.

Estel had been sobbing and sobbing, regardless of how mild the injury truly was. He was only five years old, and was more frightened than hurt, because he had never broken a bone in his life and he did not understand what everyone was doing, did not understand why his arm was being covered in white cloth, and it did hurt quite a lot, so he wailed.

And at some point in the process, he remembers looking up and realising that his father was crying too. Elrond hadn't made a sound, but his cheeks were awash in silent, indecipherable tears. Aragorn remembers how his expression didn't change at all, blank and beautiful in the white afternoon light: wrought from stone like a weeping statue, a quiet miracle, a promise of faith.

He remembers Elladan's tense, barked-out "Ada! What is it? What is wrong? You said it’s a clean break!"

And Aragorn remembers how Elrond had sat back on his heels and smiled, the motion pulling his features back into familiar lines. He remembers sitting silently, watching the last tears fall down the marble face, as Elrond said: "hush, my boy, you will scare Estel. Nothing is wrong, it is only a clean break. He will be fine tomorrow."

"Then why are you in tears?" Elrohir had asked, equally worried.

"Oh dear, am I? Aha, I am. Truly, it is only because he is," Elrond admitted sheepishly, sniffing. He had stroked a lock of hair back from Estel's face, laughing self-consciously, and his voice shook only a little. "I hate seeing him in pain. It breaks my heart seeing him cry so ceaselessly, even for such a small cause. It is only that, Elrohir, do not worry."

At the time, the twins had laughed, teased their father for his softness as they often did, made so many jokes about it that even little Estel, who didn't really understand the fuss and at the time had just probably assumed Elrond had a broken wrist too, was laughing alongside the three of them for absolutely no reason at all. It was casual, domestic, completely ordinary and commonplace as far as his childhood went: there were funnier incidents, sadder scenes, happier conversations.

But for some reason, this one is Aragorn's first real memory. The day he broke his wrist is the scaffolding he built his life atop, the day he looked at his father and found something sacred within him.

________

"I thought for a very long time," Aragorn says, on the tallest tower in Minas Tirith, their final meeting. "About what I could give you as a parting gift."

"If it is anything extravagant," Elrond warns him, raising a finger. "You know as well as I that I will take it to mean you are offering me a bride price, and I will take deep offence."

Aragorn grins, winks: "it's actually less than worthless, financially speaking" and cackles at how Elrond actually looks somehow more offended at that option.

"And what is this less than worthless thing you are donating to the one who raised you all your life?" he raises his eyebrows, a smile playing on his lips. "What castoff hand-me-down do you deign to bestow me with?”

"I know you must be weary of rings," Aragorn gestures at Vilya, winking away on Elrond's finger. "But perhaps this one may restore your faith in them."

"I am of a race that thinks nothing: jewels, lives, wars, is eternal," he continues, hair drifting over his face. "Of an old jewelry box my mother had, many trinkets were lost to time, some earrings were without a pair. And such loss of heirlooms never grieved us. After all, they were not ours to grieve."

"The oddest thing in the box was an old, battered golden ring. When I was first given the collection, I was only twenty yet already that ring was far too small for me. I thought that it belonged to a petite woman, perhaps a sister or a mother. Yet more recently, I was thinking of it and it confused me — why would a noblewoman own a cheap, plain ring? The other stones in the box were all precious, valuable, true heirlooms. When my mother died, she told me to pass them on to my children, and I will: but with this ring, I intend to disobey her."

"It was only some weeks ago, as Arwen showed me her own rings, that I realised something," said Aragorn, fishing around in his collar. "That this trinket I carry was no woman's ring, it was made to be worn by a child. You had given me one of these too, if you recall, as per tradition — on my sixth begetting day, a flat gold ring like this with my name carved into the inside. That was when I looked closer at this one, at the inscription on the inside of its hollow."

He unfastens the clasp on the chain, slips a small ring into Elrond's palm. He watches as all the blood leaves the elf's face only to be replaced by a harsh, terrible expression.

"Nothing is eternal, Ada," repeats Aragorn. "But some things should be."

"You are — you are giving me this?" Elrond's voice is strangled, eyes wide. "It —"

"I am. It is not mine to grieve."

Elrond does not say a word, does not even look at Aragorn, instead turning away and walking towards the far side of the balcony where he stood silently, ring clutched tightly in a shaking fist. Aragorn allows him to hold on to dignity.

Dignity, and a small, burnished gold ring.

It was rather battered, some of the plating rubbed off, a groove carved into it from all the times its owner tied it to a string and used it to tease cats with. It had a small dent in the frame, warping it slightly, and if you looked closely you could make out a little tooth mark, as though someone had a habit of gnawing at it. It was less valuable heirloom, more solid proof that the ancient king Elros Tar-Minyatur of Numenor, had once been a messy, careless little boy.

A few minutes pass, in which neither of them speak.

"I had nothing of him," Elrond tells him quietly after a while. "All my life, I had nothing of him at all. It had felt wrong, you see, sailing off to Numenor and demanding his possessions from his grieving children. So for five thousand years, I had nothing of him."

"But I never told you of him," Elrond's voice is searching, harsh and confused, trying to find a justification for the gift. "I had never told you of him, and yes, you had known of him from your lessons but I had tried so hard never to speak of him to you lest you, for one second, thought that I only loved you because you were the heir of Elros. You had no reason to know how I loved him, how fiercely I missed him, how I had nothing of him at all."

Elrond sounds almost angry, wrenching the words through gritted teeth like a scolding, his back still turned to Aragorn: "who made you so kind, Estel? Who made you so selfless — that you — that you give me this without ever being told — that you thought of it — who made you, boy?"

Elrond is breathing in deep, clarifying breaths and Aragorn stands there silently. He does not answer any of the fevered questions. It was Elrond, after all, who once told him over a chalkboard: stupid questions did not deserve answers.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Ada," says Aragorn at last, when only a sliver of sun is left behind in the sky. "Not for a moment. That is why I had… I had… that is why I had hoped we could have a clean break. I just didn't want to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," Elrond says, half-smiling as he turns back, composed again yet not entirely unruffled. "But I would rather it hurt in such a way, than it not hurt at all."

"Would you?"

"Of course," Elrond tells him, unconsciously running a finger across the flat, golden surface of the ring he had slid onto his smallest finger. "After all, the most treasured things in the world are only so valued because of how debilitatingly painful it would be to lose them."

Aragorn cannot speak. He has dawdled and delayed, pushed this parting to a cliff-edge, given gifts and made jokes, all the while waiting for a clean break that would never come for those who love like the two of them. He walks forward in a daze, and Elrond takes him into his arms and Aragorn is five again — building a life atop the scaffolding of the heart Elrond offered to him.

"I do not know what divinity made you this way," his father's voice is rough as he repeats his earlier question, but it does not break. "I do not know which of the Valar wielded the knife that carved you out of kindness. But I am glad, Estel, so glad that I know you."

Aragorn stays pressed in that embrace, shaking. He fights a sudden, absurd urge to laugh and roll his eyes, to say don't ask stupid questions, to say who made me kind? oh, I don't know, perhaps the one who loved me so wholly that he beheld a five year old's silly, childish tears, and wept that I shed them at all.

Still, he does not move: he does not want to see Elrond's face, does not want to see his own, not at this moment. Time passes, strains like molasses through linen, slowly and with great reluctance. At last, the king draws away and takes in this final image, the one who raised him standing before his son with an inscrutable expression on his face.

When he was younger, Aragorn used to think it might make it easier for his father to bend with the marred world if he learned how to be as cruel as it was, instead of taking each slap in the face as a surprise. But he understands now that whilst he wasn't looking, the marred world had bent itself to Elrond's gentleness; that it is a strength, an honest one, to be kind when the world not only abides by cruelty but insists upon it.

Aragorn cannot bring himself to turn and leave, wanting to brand Elrond’s face into the back of his eyelids with knife-hot tears. It is anything but a clean break.

“I cannot bring myself to turn,” he admits, the moonlight limning the silver in his hair. “Because when I turn, you'll be gone, and it will be the end of everything. Is this the end of everything now, Ada? Are we done now, you and I?"

Elrond smiles, looking at Aragorn in the same way he had always looked at him, every day since the moment he was put in his arms: eyes bright with unconditional adoration, unashamed pride, and a constant, total faith in him. He shakes his head.

"You and I will never be done,” he says softly; resolute. It is the only oath he ever makes.

#lord of the rings #elrond #aragorn #lotr #tolkien #lotr fic

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

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Title: A Departure.

Commissioned by the very lovely @ohsotearful.

Pairing: Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 1.3k.

TW: Spoilers For Sumeru's Story Quest, Unhealthy Relationships, Mentions of Physical/Psychological Abuse, Themes of Forced Codependence, and Maladaptive Coping Mechanisms.

You arrived at the door of his shrine with no less than a dozen guards in tow – an even mix of Fatui soldiers and Akademiya matra. The most brazen among them attempted to follow you inside, but you dismissed them with a quick shake of your head, a pointed look to the more senior members of the mismatched legion. This was a well-trodden routine, by now, although one you never dared to come with the same entourage more than once. Your husband’s recent distance had not softened his jealous edge, and although you weren’t fond of those most complicit in the newest stage of your captivity, no mortal crime could be worthy of the wrath of such a violent god.

Your footsteps echoed – clipped and solitary – against the bare walls of the stone chamber. The architects of his divinity have already been sent away for the night, leaving you alone with the half-finished mess of wires and metal that was your husband’s fixation. The Shouki no Kami, you could remember the Doctor calling it during his first visits to your estate. A ridiculous name for a ridiculous machine that would only serve the ego of a ridiculous man. Bile rose into the back of your throat at the sight alone, but you swallowed your anger. He’d never been able to react to your rage with anything but his own.

You paused at the monstrosity’s feet, and his voice came to you – reverberating in the back of your mind like the final tones of a chapel bell. “Beloved,” he whispered in the back of your mind, sending a pang of pure agony through your skull. “You aren’t supposed to—”

“I will not hold a conversation with a mumbling voice.” You cut him off swiftly, teeth grit and eyes narrowed. “Either I will speak to my husband's face or I will not speak to him at all.”

A moment passed without a response. Then, stiltedly, one of his monstrosity’s hands tore free from its scaffolding, lowering itself to the ground beside you. With some reluctance, you stepped into his palm and allowed him to raise you to the frontmost panel of his abomination. You refused to call it a face, because to call it a face would be to admit it was his face, which would be to admit that this strange machine was in any way an extension of him. The metallic panel raised and disappeared into some unseen cavity, revealing the hollow, unit chamber behind it. Revealing your husband.

Or, rather, revealing the mess he’d made of himself.

He had never been the pinnacle of beauty, but his pale skin now seemed bleached and colorless, his lithe form limp and crumpled. Glass tubes filled with a pulsing, violet substance had been drilled into the nape of his neck, the base of his spine, the curves of his shoulder bones, and the smile he paid you as he came into view was labored, a fight against some artificial exhaustion. Before you could think better of it, you stepped out of his palm and into his chamber, falling to your knees beside him and wrapping your arms around his neck. “You are,” You pressed your lips into his temple. “the biggest idiot,” Then again, into his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “I have ever met.”

He let out an airy chuckle, melting into your chest. “It used to take a vat of water and thirty minutes of electrocution to make you kiss me like that.”

You ignored the phantom rope that coiled around your lungs at the reminder of the first decades of your relationship. You tried to think of it as little as you could, but his vision had always been more rose-colored than your own. “Can’t I show my husband affection?” You raked your fingers through his hair, resting your lips against his forehead. “It’s not as if I’ll be able to kiss the metal coffin you’re locking yourself inside.”

Another laugh, this one more labored than the last. “You could, if you wanted to. Just wait until it’s finished. It’ll be more glorious than you could possibly imagine – a vessel befitting of the most powerful archon this wretched world has ever bowed to.” He attempted to straighten, only to collapse under his own weight. “It’ll be an improvement to this form, at least.”

“I quite like your current form. It’s only a shame it has to house such a rotten personality.” You looked outward, to his empty shrine. At the time of your last visit to Inazuma (meaning, at the time of your last successful escape from your husband), his creator had still been locked inside a similar cage, or so another yokai had told you over bottles of sake and a game of cards. That visit had been one of your shortest. He knew you too well, by then, and it’d only taken him a few weeks to realize you’d run where you always would - home. “I suppose I’ll be left in the care of your doctor, when you’re finished.”

His response was immediate, purely reactive; a sudden snarl paired with a flash of bared teeth. “Dottore should be thankful to so much as breathe your air. You’ll be the paramour of a god.”

“I’ll be left alone while you turn yourself into a monster.” Your voice was hollow, distant. Even now, months into his transformation, it was difficult to describe the flavor of your devastation. He’d taken you from the place where you belonged and kept you as a trophy. He’d denied you any companionship aside from himself and cut away parts of your world until it revolved solely around him. He tucked dried flowers into the letters he wrote you near-obsessively whenever he couldn’t be at your side. He carved open your skin then demanded you keep your own mutilation out of his sight. He used to read you myths and fairy tales for hours every night, when human language was still foreign to your tongue. He was the closest thing to a friend you’d ever had.

And he was leaving you.

You wondered, briefly, if this was how he felt whenever you tried to get away from him, but discarded the thought quickly. It was your heart that ached the most in the wake of his betrayal, and your husband never did have one of those.

“I can’t remember the last time I was on my own,” you admitted, a pained smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I won’t ask you to stop. It’s just, when you’re done, I—” The air snagged in your throat. You inhaled sharply, then rested your head on his shoulder. “I’d like your permission to return to Inazuma, my lord.”

Silenced lapse, thick and heavy, between you. He was the closest thing you had to a friend, which meant he knew just how where to plant his knife and, more significantly, just how to twist the blade.

“No.” Stern, stiff, unyielding. Rather than softening over the centuries you’d spent together, he only seemed to grow more callous. “There’s nothing for you, there. You’ll stay here, with me, and I will rule this rotting land with you at my side.”

You opened your mouth, prepared to protest, to argue the way you hadn’t since the first years of your imprisonment, but closed it just as quickly. You buried your face in the crook of your neck, and your husband let you, eager to soak in the touch you so often denied him. Fire, despair, anger bit and thrashed inside of you, but it was all you could do to hold him, to keep him near.

It was all you could do to think of what you would become, after he was taken away from you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #yandere scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #yandere wanderer #wanderer x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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gildedphoenix · 9 months ago

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Fire Escape - Dead on MAYn Day 1

Prompts uses: -Courting rituals -Flickering -Dinner interrupted by a fight -“Are they gone yet”

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Not beta read. 6k words. Jason has a stressful day and shares dinner with his downstairs neighbor, Danny. The following week, Danny leaves something for him. A courting ritual between busy, stressed disasters.

AO3: Fire Escape Dead on MAYn Blog @deadonmayn

Fire Escape

Life as a vigilante was stressful. Their world was not always easy. Cases did not always wrap up nicely in thirty minutes with everyone skipping off, hand in hand.

This was definitely one of those bad days.

A child trafficking case, after dragging on for the last 3 months, ended horribly. The head of the ring got away before Hood and Nightwing could to box him in. Most of the kids were already gone, whisked away to another location while Jason and Dick were fighting to reach them. And the kids they were able to find? Jason took a deep breath. This wasn’t a night he would be able to forget anytime soon.

He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight so after Dick left, Jason cooked. He made chicken and bacon stuffed shells with a creamy marinara sauce. The recipe always took forever but it was a welcome distraction. Jumbo shells, chicken, bacon, broccoli, cheese, and sauce and a dozen other components to prep and cook. No time to think of anything else.

Two hours later, Jason was still wired, but he had stuffed shells. Enough for his whole family, if he was honest with himself. Enough to feed those kids who didn’t make it. Enough to fill the stomachs that hadn’t been full in so long but would never be hungry again.

Jason was broken out of his despair by a noise on the fire escape. His gun was in his hand without conscious thought. Slow, steady steps took him closer to the window until he could see the potential intruder.

Jason's shoulders dropped back down as he spotted his downstairs neighbor outside their window. It wasn’t unusual to see Danny out on the fire escape, one level down. Nothing unusual. Nothing to be concerned about.

Jason reupholstered his gun before Danny spotted him and turned back to the kitchen. They’d introduced themselves when Danny moved in a few weeks ago at the beginning of the fall semester but hadn’t interacted much since then.

Grabbing the casserole dish and an extra plate and fork, Jason stepped out onto his level of the scaffolding and called down to Danny.

“Hey, you want some food? I made too much and can’t possibly eat it all.” Jason set the dish down between himself and the stairs and started in on his own plate.

“Oh my god, Yes! I haven’t had food all day! You are a life saver. A knight in shiny armor.” Danny made his way up the stairs and peeked his head just above Jason’s level. He reached slowly for the extra plate and serving spoon while watching Jason. Jason motioned a little ‘go ahead’ with his own fork and Danny’s face lit up as he scooped a modest portion of shells onto his plate. “I was stuck in meetings all day. The council just wanted to drag everything out and every issue solved spawned two more. And it’s not even like they listen to me,” he stopped, eyes wide and he put the serving spoon back in the dish and looked intently at his own plate. “Not that they would. You know. I’m just a,you know, just an intern. I’m not even paid. Just an unpaid internship. Yep. I’m just there to take notes and get college credit. I’m an engineering student at Gotham U.” He glanced over at Jason, eyes a little panicked as he tried to sell his obvious lie. “But I don’t wanna bore you. You probably have a real job with real stress. I’m just an intern student. Aaaaaaand I’m gunna stop rambling now and go eat. Yep. Thank you.”

Danny clammered back down the stairs (and Jason could swear he missed that last step based on the noises) before settling down against the wall next to his window. With a chuckle, Jason took another bite of his food. “You’re right, my job is stressful. That doesn’t mean you’re day can’t be stressful too, though. Stress is relative. We all handle it differently. It’s how I ended up making too much food. I’ve got a big family and I just went on autopilot and before I knew it I’d made enough to feed them all, even though none of them are over tonight. It’s still a nice way to decompress. I’ll give them a call tomorrow to see if any of them want some but this dish is better fresh.” He leaned back against his own wall, eyes closed, taking in the steady constant noises of the city. The chatter of Crime Alley and the more distant rumble of Gotham. It was several minutes before Jason heard Danny call up again.

“This is amazing. I don't think I’ve eaten anything this good since….Actually never. I definitely can’t make anything like this and my parents didn’t really do home cooked meals.”

Jason glanced down through the grates and Danny was scraping the sauce off the plate onto his fork. Jason decided to show some mercy before the poor guy started licking the plate. “Feel free to grab more. I’m not gonna eat this all and my siblings should have clairvoyantly known I was cooking if they really wanted any.” Jason chuckled a bit but it also didn’t seem that unrealistic.

“Thanks! I’m going to be full for a week after this.” Danny popped back up the stairs, his face lit up in joy, as he pulled the dish over to him, spooning out a full plate of shells this time. “I guess their loss is my gain.” He went back down to lounge against his own wall.

An easy silence fell. The noises of the city a distant juxtaposition to the bubble they had created. Just two people enjoying food. Enjoying a little down time. Enjoying peace.

****

A few days later, Jason came home to a surprise. He didn’t expect to really hear from his neighbor again beyond the occasional waves and hellos they had previously established. Just the coming and going in the stairs or passing on the street. But there on the outside of his window was a sticky note. Black with tiny nebulas, Jason’s name was scrawled with silver glitter gel pen and an arrow pointing down.

He opened the window and looked down to see if Danny was out, Jason spotted a ziplock bag full of cookies and a thermos. With Danny nowhere in sight, Jason inspected the note again and on the other side was more writing.

“I can’t cook anything near as good as what you made, but these are my favorite cookies from the bodega by campus. I like them with cardamom tea.”

Jason opened the bag and caught a whiff of the cookies. He had fully intended to run them through a spectrometer but the enticing scent of ginger snaps and some urge deep within his soul overrode his caution. He took a small bite. And they were delicious. The spices were deep and warm. The molasses earthy. Setting them aside for a moment, he opened the thermos and took a tentative sip. The tea was still warm and lightly sweetened. The sharp spices of the tea playing well off the warmth of the cookies.

He’d never had anyone leave him offerings like this. The thought stopped him for a moment.

Gifts. Not offerings, gifts. He shrugged and grabbed a book from his TBR shelf. Settling in with the cookies and tea to relax before he had to go out for patrol. His mind was distracted by stray thoughts of what he might be able to leave his neighbor in return.

****

Danny hated his teachers. He hated this city. He hated his creaky apartment. Though he didn’t mind the eye candy of his upstairs neighbor when they passed on the stairs. And if Danny turned around once in a while to watch Jason go up the stairs and enjoy the view? Well that was just the payment he deserved from the universe for the elevator always being out. There were other perks too, Danny decided thoughtfully. He and Jason had been leaving each other little offerings on the fire escape and it had become the best part of Danny’s day. It wasn’t every day, maybe more like once a week. But the joy he got when there was a little package outside his window? Unparalleled. As if matching Danny’s galaxy post it note energy, Jason left notes with his gifts on stationary that looked like old parchment paper, quotes from classic authors printed along the bottoms. Just a little explanation of what the gift was and where it was from. Or sometimes, if it were a homemade dish, Jason would include where he’d got the recipe from. Danny was on the look out for a larger notepad that was still space themed. He found he was running out of space on his post its and using two seemed like trying too hard, as if going out and buying all new stationary wasn’t also trying too hard. But Jason didn’t have to know it was new. Danny could have already had this.

To Danny’s joy, there was a take out box outside under his window today. No Jason to be seen, but they rarely made it outside at the same time. Their schedules rarely lined up.

“I found a new korean place over off Vermont St. I got you some char sui pork buns. I hope they help tonight while you’re studying for finals. The things you’ve left for me have always made my evenings better. -Jason”

And at the bottom, the little book quote read “‘Why did you do all this for me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.’ ‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte. ‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.’” -Charlotte’s Web

What had started as a simple shared meal from Jason making too much food after work had become the best part of Danny’s week. And it seems like Jason might feel the same. A lovely give and take of food offerings. A courtship. Or at least, Danny liked to think of it that way. But even just simple friendship was a welcome feeling. At least now he knew Jason also liked their little dance and this wasn’t out of some misconstrued obligation. And Jason even remembered that he was a student and that it was finals week. That extra thought had Danny blushing as he took the buns to his kitchen counter and stuck the note on his fridge with a comet shaped magnet. Danny kept all the notes Jason left. Luckily the fridge couldn’t be seen from the window because otherwise Danny would die (again) of embarrassment. As it was, he simply enjoyed his dinner while rereading Jason’s words.

****

“Wait a minute” Dick interrupted Jason’s story description of Danny’s most recent gift of curry and boba tea. “So you and this guy-” “Danny,” Jason corrected. Dick nodded, a conspiratorial smile growing. The kind of smile your brother gets when he stumbles across potential blackmail material on you. “So you and Danny” Jason did not like that tone, “have been leaving gifts outside each others windows.” Jason nodded, “Every week, or MORE,” Dick looked pointedly at Jason for confirmation, to which Jason nodded again. “And you FINALLY tell him that his gifts ‘make your day better’ and you use the page with a quote from Charlotte’s Web about FRIENDSHIP?”

“What’s the matter with that? It’s not like I picked it specifically. It was just the next page.” Jason was beginning to regret sharing this joy with his dick of a brother.

“Ok, So.” Dick threw his arm around Jason’s shoulders, “We need to either work on your delivery, or get you some stationary with better quotes. You’re clearly over the moon about this guy-” “Hey, what makes you say that? I just- It’s- I…”Jason stuttered, trying to gather his scrambled thoughts. “Having something to look forward to after I get off patrol is nice. And having someone go out of their way to do that for me…”

Dick really looked at his brother. It wasn’t often that Jason managed to look small these days. But there he sat, shoulders hunched, fingers fiddling with Danny’s most recent note. It wasn’t a sticky note size, but a small half page. Very much like Jason’s own notepad with the quotes from famous authors. He was absentmindedly folding the paper back and forth, making lines from star to star among the constellations decorating the page. “Jason,” Dick dropped his teasing tone and waited for his little brother to look up. “It sounds like you’ve got a good thing going here. I wouldn’t want you to mess it up by being impatient. You laid out your cards, in a small careful way, and you received something in turn,” he nodded to the creased note. “Keep taking those steps. I can see how happy this has made you, even as simple as it is. Keep finding things you think he’ll like. Keep leaving your little courtship gifts. And maybe just flip through your stationary and pick the quotes a bit more deliberately,” Dicks eyes glinted dangerously, “You lit’ nerd.” Dick quickly flipped backwards from sitting into several handsprings across the training mat, his maniacal laughter echoing across the cave as he tried to escape the very predictable ire of his younger brother.

“Oh that’s it! You’re in for it now!” Jason rolled up onto the mats to chase Dick, joy in his heart and violence on his mind. Danny’s note settled to the floor, waiting for Jason’s response. “I hope you like curry! I got a medium spicy, but eat it with the naan if it’s too hot. Your gifts are the highlight of my day whenever you leave me something.” And then, hand written at the bottom of the page where Jason’s stationary had quotes, “With all the stars in the sky, and all the people in the world, I’m glad I ended up in a constellation next to you.”

****

“Guys, I’m going to die.” Danny declared and then promptly face planted into Sam’s couch. They were having their monthly catch up dinner and hang out. Sam was attending Metropolis University for Law with a minor in environmental studies. Her parents weren’t happy with her obvious post grad plans, but she was fulfilling their terms of getting a traditional, respectable degree, so they were footing the bill. That included her off campus apartment because no daughter of theirs was about to live in those dingy college dorm rooms.

Tucker was attending MIT while also building a name for himself in the hacker community. Two streams he was desperately trying to keep from crossing, lest MIT expel him on ethics.

Danny, of course, was attending Gotham U for aerospace engineering and astronomy. Their schedules made it hard to find a common evening once a month that they were all free. Danny’s ability to make portals (thanks to a new set of powers and abilities that came with being Ghost King of the infinite realms) made it slightly easier to get everyone in the same room once they found the time. Danny’s muffled voice drifted up from the couch cushions.

“What was that Danny? I couldn’t quite get that through the literal couch in your face.” Sam sassed.

Danny lifted his face from the fluff and whined, “I left Jason the sappiest note and by the time I came to my senses, he had already taken iiiiiiiiiit! And now he’s read it and he hates me and he’s never going to talk to me again or leave me homemade cookies or anything else ever again and it’s all because I read too deep into a quote from fucking Charlotte’s Web!” He flopped onto his back and then slowly melted off the couch, thumping to the floor when Sam pushed him to make room to sit down with her pho bowl.

“Come on man, I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Tucker said. “Tell us what you wrote.” “No.”

“Don’t make me check the security footage. You know we’ve got HD cameras on your place.” Tucker, horrible friend that he was, was already pulling up the footage. The cameras had been installed as a valid security measure but were mostly used to retrieve blackmail footage against Danny by his friends. Danny had a tendency to glow and float as he stargazed on rare clear nights in Gotham and Sam and Tucker gave him no end of shit about it.

“Did you find it?” Sam asked excitedly, crowding closer while holding Danny off with a boot to the face.

“Yep! Let’s see, ‘Hope you like curry,’ blah blah blah, oh here. ‘With all the stars in the sky, and all the people in the world, I’m glad you ended up in a constellation next to me.’ You’re right.” Tucker declared solemnly. “It is bad. He’s never going to talk to you again. He’s gunna move states. Dye his hair. Change his name! You’ll never find him again and you’ll never find love.” Tucker lost his deadpan demeanor and dissolved into laughter.

Danny glared at him and phased the couch out from under him. Tucker hit the floor still laughing and didn’t stop.

“Captain Chuckles can stay on the floor, but please re-solidify my couch. I like it to exist in this dimension.” Sam nudged Tucker ever so gently out of the way so that the couch could exist again.

“But really. Was it too much?” Danny asked Sam, since Tucker was clearly just going to be useless.

“I think it was honest and forward. I think if you guys had been going on traditional dates, then it might be too much.” Dannys face fell and his shoulders slumped. “But!” Sam interjected quickly, “That is not what you guys are doing. For better worse, you have some archaic courting ritual going on. You’ve only been exchanging words and gifts. Small offerings of your heart and soul. To give less than your full self in this situation would be disingenuous. I don’t think it was too soon, especially since he initiated the sentiment. Sure, writing down undying love,” Danny and tucker both chuckled at the ‘undying’ part and Sam kicked them both for it, “Would have been too much. But directly stating that you enjoy the little dance you have going on? And that you like him? Nah. I think you did good. Especially since he’s clearly a literary nerd.”

“Yeah” Tucker chimed in, “He matches well with your space nerd!”

“Oh that’s it! You’re in for it now!” Danny rolled off the couch and chased Tucker around Sam’s spacious apartment, promising to freeze him to the ceiling once he caught him.

****

Jason decided to take a night off patrol. Nothing major should be going on tonight. The Alley could do without him being a helicopter parent for one evening. He wanted to make a more involved meal for Danny. There was a good chance that they would see each other tonight. Jason had connected some dots and realized that Danny, the beautiful face and soul that he was, liked to stargaze on clear Gotham nights. This would be the first clear night in weeks and there was no way that Danny would miss the opportunity.

So Jason got started early. Rissoto didn’t look fancy but it took skill to get right. The results, when done right, were amazing. Jason had also picked up a bottle of wine. Call it wishful thinking, but he hoped Danny would share it with him and they might sit down and really get to know each other. That would be nice.

****

As Jason stood, stirring his hopes and risotto, Danny was one floor down trying not to burn the entire building down. This was his fourth night trying to make the same thing. He’d watched so many videos. So many tutorials. All of them said this could be done by a beginner cook if they just followed the steps. None of them really sold how difficult it was though. Someone needed to start a cooking channel where an average person tried to follow these recipes.

The first attempt, several nights ago, ended in him realizing that he could not melt sugar on top of a creme brulee in a plastic ramekin. Fire plus plastic is bad. That was the first batch ruined.

The second batch didn’t set in the oven. Which didn’t make sense because he’d done everything the same as the first batch, which had turned out fine.

The third batch, he turned the oven up just a but realized while he was cleaning up egg shell that he’d never actually put eggs into the second batch. By the time he got the third batch out of the oven, they were horribly over cooked.

For the fourth batch, he laid out all his ingredients, portioned and in order of use. Set his oven back to the right temperature and gave an offhanded prayer to Clockwork for proper timing.

The timer dinged, the custards wobbled ever so slightly and Danny about collapsed with relief as he got them safely removed from the oven and set on his counter. He took a moment to contemplate how he’d ended up cooking the same dessert four nights in a row. These were way too complicated for him. But he’d done this to himself. He’d looked up “impressive desserts to make for your date” and Creme Brulee topped half the lists. Last step was to toast the tops with a micro torch after they cooled.

Danny returned to his homework while he waited.

****

Jason opened his window, two servings piping hot seafood risotto plated and ready. He’d heard muffled cursing from downstairs, so he knew Danny was home. Most likely cursing one of his professors. Jason left the bottle of wine just inside his window. He was hopeful that the evening would go well but no sense in being presumptuous. He wasn’t even sure if Danny liked wine, or drank at all!

Starting down the fire escape, Jason was surprised to see Danny already out. He was peering into the eyepiece of a telescope muttering to himself. Danny did talk to himself a lot now that he thought about it. Not wanting to startle him, Jason waited on the upper level of the fire escape and simply watched. Admired the object of his affections these past months. It was odd to think how much they’d both put into the relationship so far for how little time they’d actually spent together. Danny sat on the stairs in his Nasa hoodie and some Justice League pajama pants, which caused Jason to chuckle quietly to himself.

Sitting next to Danny was an open notebook, Danny’s chaotic handwriting scattered over the page along with some very precise charts. Jason almost didn’t believe they were hand drawn except that they were penned in the same aggressively bright neon green sparkly gel pen as the chicken scratch writing. What a strange dichotomy. Next to the notes sat a tray with two ramekins of creme brulee. As Dannys hand moved down to make some notes Jason noticed several bandaids with burns peeking out from under them. Had Danny made the creme brulees himself? He’d mentioned a few times that he was hopeless in the kitchen. Had he gone to all that trouble and apparently pain, to make something for Jason?

For no particular reason, Jason needed to clear his throat, which startled Danny of his concentration trance. “Oh! You’re here!” Danny said. He capped the eyepiece and looked around. “I made you something. You’re always making things for me and I’ve just been buying things so I wanted to put more work into your gifts. So I made these. For….For us. I was hoping you’d eat with me? I waited out here for you. Also it was a great night for some stargazing so I was just doing that while I waited, of course, because sometimes you come home really late. Not that I’m watching you!” Danny’s hands came up defensively, a blush coloring his cheeks as he rambled. Eyes darting away, he started clearing off the stairs for them to sit. Moving his notebooks and the creme brulees. Jason just smiled at the disaster he was already half in love with. He couldn’t wait to learn all of Danny’s quirks and habits. Would he always ramble on or was this just jitters? Would Danny’s face light up the same way every time Jason came home from patrol? He hoped so. He wanted to make this work. He wanted to come home to that face.

“I’m actually really glad you’re out here,” Jason said, saving Danny from himself. “I’ve seen your telescope and noticed that you like to come out on clear nights. I was hoping you’d have dinner with me again. I made seafood risotto. It’s shrimp and muscles. Would you like some?” Jason presented the plates to Danny as he came down the stairs.

“Yeah. I’d love to have dinner with you. I like any food that doesn’t try to eat my back. I don’t think I’ve ever had risotto. Let me just finish moving my junk.” He smiled as he set everything off to the side in a pile.

Jason settled down and handed one of the plates and a fork over to Danny. “How has school been going? I think you mentioned you were going for engineering?” Danny nodded. “What made you pick Gotham U? Most people are trying to leave the city, not come here.”

“Oh, that’s easy. But two reasons really. First, Gotham U has the Wayne Tech scholarship program and the great internship programs. I’ve also heard hush-hush rumors about some great job opportunities that recruit from Wayne Tech. If it’s true, I want to be here.” Danny gazed up longingly at the sky. Wayne Tech of course had partnerships with NASA but that was a well known connection. It wasn’t hush hush. The only thing Jason could think of that Danny would be alluding to would be jobs on the Watchtower. They did hire civilians, but the Justice League hand selected the best of the best. Bruce and Lucius kept their eyes out for those people. Not that he supported nepotism, but Jason wouldn’t mind making sure Danny’s name got added to the hat once he was ready.

“The other reason,” Danny said, breaking Jason out of his future planning, “is that Gotham is the only city I could find with even half the amount of crazy as Amity, my home town. We had some crazy super villains and after growing up with that daily madness, I can’t settle down in a peaceful city.” He took a moment to savor the food, bliss coming across his face. It made Jason want to make more food for him. Jason wanted to bring him that joy again. To provide for Danny and take care of him. “This is really good! I love your food. Best thing I’ve ever had every time. I just hope what I made doesn’t give us both food poisoning.” “Hey, I’m sure it’s great. Did you burn your fingers making that? I saw the band aids. Even if you need chaos, I’m sure you don’t need to make more by burning yourself making dessert. Just walk through the alley in the daytime and I’m sure you’ll get enough excitement.”

“Nah, Muggers are small potatoes.” Danny contested. “Most exciting thing that can come of that is Red Hood showing up. And I’m typically not out while he’s patrolling. Hood keeps most of the rif raf out of the area, so I generally feel safer here than the rest of Gotham.”

“Hmmm. So Hood is doing better than the bats and birds? I’m sure Batman would love to hear that.” Jason bumped Danny’s shoulder playfully. “Since you’ve been here for a few months now, do you have a favorite bat or bird?”

“Red Hood.” Danny said quickly and decisively. “Definitely Red Hood. Not only does he have his area on lock down, so much so that even the other Bats stay out. Black Mask? Nope. Traffickers? Gone. Most violence? Low level. I know some of the bigger name rogues will ignore all the boundaries but they’re really not known for following the rules so they don’t really count. And also he’s….” Danny stopped abruptly, a blush coming over his cheeks. “But what about you? You grew up here. Who’s your favorite?”

“That’s a hard choice. I remember when it was just Batman and Robin OG. So I would say it was original Robin, then Nightwing, but then he abandoned us for Bludhaven. Now It’s probably BlackBat. Though the current Robin is also doing a great job. He gets a lot of shit for being so young and violent but what do people expect? Of course he’s violent. Being Robin is not easy. It’s- And now I’m rambling on.” Jason chuckled. “BlackBat. She’s my favorite. For now.”

“Hmmm. I haven’t heard a lot about her. It makes sense since what I have heard is that she’s the stealthiest of the bats.”

Some time during the conversation they had relaxed, no longer holding a strict gap between their bodies. Forks clinked as they sat shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip on the narrow fire escape staircase. A peaceful silence fell around them like a cozy blanket.

“Can I try one of the creme brulees?” Jason asked, having finished his food already. “I would hate to see all your hard work, pain, and suffering go unappreciated.”

“Sure, but you’re taking your life into your own hands. Just do me a favor and lie to me about how good it is.” Danny passed one of the desserts and a small spoon over to Jason. Their hands touched and they both paused, but neither pulled away.

A gentle smile grew on Jason’s face as a blush returned to Danny’s cheeks but still neither pulled away. The world seems to pause around them, allowing them this moment. The soft light coming from the windows flickered….and then went out.

“Um…What just happened?” Danny asked, looking around. The ambient glow of Gotham still loomed in the distance but most of the closer lights had gone out, just street lamps remained. Down at the end of the street, a red glow flickered. The glow of fire. “I gotta go.” They both said at the same time. Their eyes met in the dim light. Shadows made masks on their faces and sudden understanding lit their eyes. A mutual epiphany.

“Be safe.” Danny said to Red Hood. “You too.” Jason responded before darting back up the stairs and into his apartment.

****

Danny’s mind was reeling. How could he not have noticed? All the clues were there in hindsight. The late nights. The tired days. The various bruises and scrapes. Even the vague half answers and glaring lack of personal info in their brief conversations. But in that moment of calamity, Jason’s entire demeanor shifted. His shoulders squared and resolution threaded every fiber of his frame, and what a great frame it was. On the plus side, Danny felt less conflicted about staring at Red Hood’s ass while courting Jason. They were the same ass. The same thighs. The same broad shoulders that Danny had way too many private thoughts about.

Focus Danny!

Once he got into his closet, he transformed. While he no longer shouted “Going Ghost” at the top of his lungs (He was young, leave him alone), he didn’t have any way to dampen the bright flash of light his transformation gave off. So into the closet he went.

Flying through his apartment walls and over the battle zone he quickly assessed the lay of the land. There seemed to be two groups shooting at each other from opposite corners of the street. Behind every available place of cover and down every alley, people were hiding. Sneaking into the intersection from their apartment was Red Hood, also assessing the situation from the ground. His eyes raked over both factions, the civilians, the fire escapes and windows, and even the rooftops. Danny was impressed because few people thought to look up. Danny allowed himself to pop back into the visible spectrum as Jason’s gaze passed over the rooftop Danny was hovering over. Nobody else was looking up. Nobody ever looked up.

Danny pointed at Hood, then at the violence. Then after a pause, pointed at himself and circled his hand around to indicate the surrounding area. He hoped Hood would catch that Danny was going to take care of the civilians and general crowd control. Jason nodded and took out two of his guns, checking the safety and loads before focusing on the task ahead. Danny faded back to invisibility and looked around for the most vulnerable of the civilians to get them out first.

****

The firefight took much longer to handle than Danny expected. He was used to one on one or maybe himself versus a group, but never a gang war like this. Never with so many people. So many combatants. So many innocents in the line of fire.

The noise in the streets had been like listening to a bag of popcorn. Shots overlapping. Echoing endlessly. A constant incomprehensible cacophony of gunfire. As Danny got more civilians to safety, the density of noise began to wane. Little by little the gunfire spread out as Hood disabled the shooters and their weapons until it went from constant noise to just isolated pops to silence.

Danny allowed himself to become visible atop the same roof as earlier when he noticed Jason looking for him once more. Danny held his fist out, thumb to the side, head cocked in question. Red Hood returned the thumb out fist and turned it up briefly, before pointing with his thumb over his shoulder back towards their apartments. Danny turned up his thumb to match and nodded before disappearing and leaving Hood to the mercy of the converging Bats. Danny didn’t even remember them showing up. He was so focused on getting people to safety. He was glad Jason had help though. He sped back to his own apartment to wait. To pace restlessly and hope that Hood hadn’t been hurt.

****

Jason was annoyed. Bruce was annoying for trying to act like he was in charge while standing in Jason’s damn apartment. Tim was annoying, standing off to the side while silently judging Jason’s lack of coffee choices. Oracle was annoying for sending Bats his way when she heard him get winged by a stray round at the beginning of the firefight. He was even annoyed with himself for somehow missing that Danny was apparently a vigilante? Or maybe a rogue? He needed them to leave. He needed to check on Danny. There was clearly some kind of powers involved but nothing to say that Danny couldn’t be hurt. That he wasn’t hurt. He’d seen Danny peek his head around the window frame three separate times before literally disappearing from view each time. Clearly waiting until Jason was alone again to talk.

“Look.” Jason interrupted whatever Bruce was saying. “I’m tired. I was already in for the night before that clusterfuck even began. I need you both out of my place because I have a date with a cup of tea and possibly a shot of whiskey.” Jason stalked over and opened the front door in clear invitation to leave. “Out. And tell O to mind their own business and butt out of my feeds.” Jason continued to motion out the door. Gentleman that he was, he even waited politely until their capes were all the way out the door before slamming it behind them. Jason took a deep breath and turned around as he felt the air shifting.

“Are they gone yet?” Danny asked. His inexplicable white hair from the battlefield was gone but he was floating a couple inches off the floor.

Jason wondered if he knew he was doing it as he walked over to retrieve the bottle of wine.

“Yeah. They’re gone for now. Let’s talk.”

#dead on main #dpxdc #danny phantom #jason todd #red hood #my writing #deadonmayn24 #Not beta read #we die like our boys #courtship rituals #flickering #prompt fill #the word count got away from me #Fire Escape

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fashionbooksmilano · 1 year ago

Text

Nomata Minoru / Continuum

Joseph Constable, Nomura Shino

Cooperation White Cube

limArt Co Ltd, Tokyo 2023, 182 pages, 22,5x28,5cm, ISBN 978-4-991313806

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Over the past four decades, Minoru Nomata has developed a lexicon of imaginary architectonic and topographical forms to create paintings that transcend specifics of time and place. This book presents a grand overview of his visionary works, which combine the familiar with the mysterious and the heroic with the haunting. It is especially the forms of construction – structural beams, frameworks, tarpaulins, and netting – that are the hallmarks of these fantastical architectures. Notions of the picturesque and sublime combine in Nomata’s later paintings, where the structures seem increasingly fragile, with reduced material volume, greater height, or wrapped in tendril-like scaffolding.

20/02/24

#Minoru Namata #imaginary architectonic #topographical forms #art books #japanese artist #lim Art publisher #designbooksmilano #fashionbooksmilano

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purplealmonds · 7 months ago

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🧧💊👹Paper Talismans in Relation to Kusuriuri and Hyper's Evolving Powers

The paper talisman's primary function is to detect and ward off mononoke. Kusuriuri and Hyper have the unique ability to telekinetically manipulate them. Let's break down that ability further.

Manually sticking them to surfaces one by one is rather tedious and I bet less initiated medicine sellers may need to resort to that tactic.

Buckle in, this is gonna be another long one. (I nearly maxed out the 30-image upload limit)

Part 1: Talisman Deployment

Kusuriuri is capable of deploying multiple talisman at once. Though, in his early Bakeneko days there's no rhyme or reason in his arrangements.

At least he has enough precision to accidentally stick the talismans on the humans. Though he should really work on his tact.

Hyper doesn't deploy talismans in this arc, but he does summon a shield created from his golden markings which has a similar warding properties to the talisman. Not to mention, it uses the same sound effects as activated talisman if you listen closely.

From a meta animation production standpoint, making Hyper have the same talisman-deploying abilities as Kusuriuri instead of his own unique shielding abilities is more efficient and narratively consistent.

For a lore standpoint, this leads me to believe that there's a connection between the Hyper's golden markings, Kusuriuri's crimson ones, and the red glyphs upon the paper talisman.

Later, in the Umibozu and Nue arcs, Kusuriuri deploys them in a less wasteful manner. Note how they no longer overlap one another.

Tact is still not his strong suit.

Hyper once again doesn't use talisman in Umibozu, but in Nue he finally takes a page (heh, paper puns) from Kusuriuri's books. To illustrate his raw, yet controlled power, these talisman are nigh impenetrable by the Nue, and are manipulated into an organized grid-like enclosure floating in thin air which only the exorcism sword can destroy:

Naughty mononoke go into the exorcism box

In the Zashikiwarashi arc, which in the manga adaptation implies takes place after Umi Bozu, takes this precision even further.

Note how Kusuriuri brandishes them in this iconic (and marketable) pose and how they're arranged in a neat row instead of an ungovernable masses on the walls:

Hmm, the innkeeper and her assistant may be freaking out, but at least Shino (the person he's protecting) isn't. Character development, hooray!!

Although he has the capability to deploy more of them, he's now internalizing the economical "less is more" method.

It is not to say he's incapable of deploying huge amounts of them. In the Nopperabou arc, he is capable of:

1. Deploying not one, but eight rings of talisman at once:

2. Wrapping the talisman around an organically shaped object (the fox mask):

3. Constructing an entire-ass enclosure out of thousands of them - without using walls or other flat surfaces as scaffolding.

That's an insane amount of control. I'm actually a little sad that we don't get to see an evolution of Kusuriuri's ability in the final Bakeneko arc.

Hyper does technically deploy them at the very end. At first glance, it doesn't seem to be a creative improvement of his abilities. He's able to deploy large amounts of them in two neat sheets to ward off the Bakeneko's angry foot stomp, big whoop:

It almost did not occur to me that these talismans are deployed not in the mortal realm, but in the metaphysical domain of the Bakeneko. Although Hyper's not nearly as creative a Kusuriuri in using the talisman, that's one hell of a level-up.

Part 2: Object Manipulation

A less commonly discussed ability is that these talisman act as an extension of Kusuriuri. Objects with talisman adhered to them can also be telekinetically manipulated by him. A classic example of this is the fusuma screens from the first Bakeneko arc and Nue arc.

Sliding screens are relatively lightweight objects to manipulate. But the paper talisman - and by extension Kusuriuri - are capable of manipulating much heavier objects. Case in point, the barnacle-encrusted lid of the utsuro-bune in Umibozu which the combined efforts of most of the humans on the ship were unable to crack open:

So far, only Kusuriuri has leveraged this object manipulation ability. This makes sense, since he's connected to the physical human world while Hyper deals with the metaphysical one. But if Hyper does eventually use this ability, the implications are pretty damn massive.

If Kusuriuri's strength is enhanced from his normal white talisman, what would Hyper be capable of? In a pinch, if, say, the exorcism sword is knocked out of his grasp, could he then deploy some talisman to yeet a building, nay, an entire-ass mountain at a mononoke? The possibilities of badassery are endless!

Part 3: Manipulation of Sentient Entities (!?!)

Note that I did not say "humans"

In theory, it can be quite the useful ability. Stick a talisman on a human. If a mononoke stalks near them, it is repelled. If they wander into harm's way, you can yoink them to safety. If they try to attack or restrain you, you can yeet them so hard that they fly Team-Rocket style into the sunset.

Self-agency morality implications aside, I think there's a good reason why Kusuriuri takes care not to plaster talisman all over a human's body.

Consider the talisman's stuck on Shino's pregnant belly in the Zashikiwarashi arc. Look what happens to Shino when she removes a single seal:

When the seal's protective properties are activated, removing it abruptly takes a dangerous toll on a sentient entity.

Shino was "lucky". She was not the direct subject of the talisman's protection; the mononoke living within her was. Yes, not her unborn child. A mononoke, whose creation were the twin triggers of the potent emotions of the Zashikiwarashi residing in the former brothel and Shino's fear of not being able give birth to her unborn child. A mononoke which she met and bonded with prior to Kusuriuri sticking the seal on her:

Even before the seal was removed I believe the seal was already tearing Shino's Zashikiwarashi apart from the inside. It is simultaneously trying to ward it off from Shino's body and "protect" it from the Zashikiwarashi existing outside of the womb. This is why, despite her apparent "miscarriage" of the Zashikiwarashi, her actual child seemed alive and well at the end of the story arc:

I'm pretty sure if she didn't misplace the good luck doll around her wrist, she wouldn't have been infected by a mononoke in the first place. But then the assassin would have killed her and her child so I guess this traumatic mononoke encounter was her best case scenario?

If applying a seal indirectly to a Mononoke can kill it, what toll would it take if the object of its protections is a human body?

I believe that originally, the seal's protective properties are derived from small but potent fragments of the Medicine Seller's influence. When that influence is destroyed by a mononoke, the seals disintegrate:

Since this Kusuriuri is aligned with wood (see my theory regarding eye colors and elemental alignments here), I think the destruction of his influence manifesting as paper burning to cinders is apt.

However, when applied to a sentient being, I theorize that the seal begins sapping that being's life force to sustain itself. If that being remains in constant danger, a negative feedback loop forms and the talisman becomes increasingly parasitic in nature.

There's also one more incredibly obvious example of this. Remember how I said in the beginning of this analysis, that "there's a connection between the Hyper's golden markings, Kusuriuri's crimson ones, and the red glyphs upon the paper talisman?"

What are Kusuriuri and Hyper, if not the paper talismans in humanoid form? The talisman's abilities, after all, are an extension of their powers.

And when Kusuriuri, this humanoid talisman, seeks to protect the (mostly undeserving) humans in the first Bakeneko arc...

Yeah, he's not doing too hot. I think this equates to the state of the talisman when the glyphs become dyed blood red to ward off the the mononoke.

And when he further overextends himself...

If he didn't stop shortly after this, I think the damage would go far beyond the rupturing of superficial vessels and rapidly coagulating blood dribbling like tar out of aforementioned vessels.

What if those blood clots start forming in his lungs? His heart? His brain?? This is a very, very dangerous line for him to walk which could result in irreparable damage to his.

I theorize that if it ever gets to that point, the markings emblazoned on his face will spread like bruises and envelope his failing body - similar to how the paper talisman turns fully dark crimson before dissolving.

Kusuriuri's desire to protect these humans is destroying his body. Paper talismans would sooner disintegrate into a pulpy mess than allow the objects of their protection to be harmed a moment sooner. Thankfully, our medicine seller knows when to give up.

This is why after the first Bakeneko arc, we don't see Kusuriuri overextend himself like this again. Seeing his partner go through this near-fatal ordeal, I can also understand why Hyper decides not to use his built-in shield too.

They found creative ways to use those paper talismans, which are a less risky way of offering similar, albeit less potent protections. The tradeoff is worth it. After all, they can't continue to sleuth and slay mononoke if their bodies are permanently out of commission.

#mononoke 2007 #medicine seller #kusuriuri #モノノ怪 #薬売り #paper talisman #analysis #purplealmonds #2024 #🔕

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