#whispered secrets morbid collections

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Nine: Time Mends the Broken

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: 9.2k words later and here we are! That's almost as much as the other Ch. The Long Night. Finally, Jace and his sister talk about what's happened to them! I know some of y'all have been waiting for that. We really go deep into the reader and Aemond's dynamic in this one too. As always, thank you for your patience and happy reading! (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

Chapter Warnings: ✨Targaryen queerness✨, melodramatic young adults, mentions of rape, Alicent being delulu, toxic relationships.

As your family arrived at the Red Keep, they quickly vanished, and your mother ordered your maids to repack your belongings. If you ever were, you were no longer welcomed in King’s Landing and planned to return to Dragonstone within the night. Part of you thought you would be relieved at the notion of ending your stay abruptly, seeing as you never wanted to return in the first place, yet you couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment in the pit of your stomach as you helped Edwina collect your belongings. 

The magnitude of the situation engulfed you, leaving you unable to carry on with your duties. While the other maids of the Keep merely cast fleeting glances in your direction, Edwina, your lady-in-waiting, observed your distress with sincere concern.

“Your Highness, are you feeling well?” Edwina asked as she finished folding a pearl and turquoise dress into your trunk.

As you nodded, you offered her a weak, forced smile, which resembled more of a grimace. Your eyes quickly darted towards your weathered, old wooden wardrobe. You couldn’t quite remember if it was positioned in the same spot as it had been six years ago.

“I am,” you sighed, walking to the balcony doors. These were not welded shut as you pressed the handle. “The day has been tiresome, and now we must depart after being here for a mere breath. I want to take a moment of solace.”

She gazed at you with a weary expression, her eyes filled with apprehension, as she observed you making your way to the overlook. As you breathed the fresh air, recollections of the last time you were on a balcony flashed before Edwina. Still, her anxiety gradually subsided as she noticed you choosing to sit on a stone bench rather than the railing.

The imposing walls of the Red Keep emanated a chilling aura that seemed to seep into your very marrow. The unknown secrets concealed within its ancient stones caused an involuntary shiver to run down your spine. You couldn’t help but wonder what tales they would tell if given the chance. 

Would they reveal the long-buried truths about your family’s past and confirm the whispers surrounding your lineage? Would they speak with a tender understanding as they recounted the night of your most profound sorrow? Or perhaps they would steadfastly guard their secrets, refusing to yield to any interrogation. 

It almost felt as if the walls were already whispering, hoarding their enigmatic knowledge until the distant future when they would finally crumble and release their concealed truths.

You longed for a glimpse into Aemond’s formative years and the events that molded him into the individual he is today, these red stone walls witnessed. Understanding the circumstances of his upbringing would clarify the questions that troubled your mind concerning the correspondence you penned. You held onto the hope that he read them, but uncertainty clouded your thoughts.

The heavy doors to the chambers of your childhood bedroom swung open with a resounding clang as the guard stationed outside announced the arrival of Queen Alicent. Your maids bowed as the formidable, angular figure of the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms entered the sanctity of your bedroom. You could not refuse her presence in this private space despite your reluctance.

“Your Majesty,” you greeted, rising from your seat. Refusing to give her any more pleasantries that would be customary, you observed the maids leave, Alicent’s round amber eyes focused on you.

“Won’t you come inside, princess? I wish to speak with you after all these years,” she humbly requested. 

You understood it was a command and acquiesced. A part of you wanted to be obstinate and force her to meet you in the cold late winter air, but the courtly manner instilled within you since birth prevailed as you gently shut the hickory-framed balcony doors. 

“Sit.” 

Alicent gracefully motioned towards the inviting, opulent settee in front of the crackling fire, asserting her ownership of the space with a subtle yet commanding gesture. Despite the prickling sensation of anxiety coursing through your skin, you obediently followed her lead, attempting to conceal your unease. With a deep, almost wistful sigh, she fixed her gaze upon you, exuding an affectionate warmth that reminded you of your mother, and tenderly placed her delicate palm on your hand. Struggling to suppress the instinct to pull away, you grappled with conflicting emotions.

The hush that filled the space between you stretched on, heavy and suffocating, yet the Queen remained oblivious to its weight. To her, your company was a balm after enduring years shrouded in darkness without her guiding radiance.

“I wanted to apologize for Aemond’s behavior this evening. ‘Twas unbecoming of him,” she began, a prominent frown on her plump lips. “These grievances from childhood have gone unjust for so long that his anger has consumed him.”

Nodding grimly, you focused on the hearth, the orange and blue flames dancing with the moaning drafts. “Indeed. Jace, Luke, and I were not always kind to him growing up, but we did not know any better. We followed Aegon around like newborn pups until...”

“I know, my light. Perhaps an apology could soothe Aemond’s wounds?” she comforted, smoothing the unruly strands of your updo. You apologized years ago for your part in his torment, but you didn’t believe your brothers would extend the courtesy, nor would you change Aemond’s blackened heart. “You’ve grown so much in years past. I mourn not being able to be there to guide you.”

You sat there, not saying a word, and responded with a noiseless, polite, yet uneasy smile. You carefully withdrew your hand from hers, and to mask the action, you casually scratched the back of your neck, noticing the sensation of the tiny strands of hair beneath your fingertips.

“My letters? Did you get them?” Alicent questioned, desperate to prolong any contact with you.

You were unsure how to answer, knowing it would be unwise to tell her outright that you did but didn’t answer out of malice. For six years, Queen Alicent was left to stew with her thoughts and illusions, and you worried that if you conflicted them, she would become as unstable as she did the night of Driftmark.

“I was worried what my mother would say should she discover them, so I never wrote.” You supposed telling her part of the truth wouldn’t be a lie. You were concerned about what your mother would do if she found out you wrote to Alicent, but you still had no desire to speak to her.

She looked at you with sympathy, coming to caress the plumpness of your face with her knuckle. It seemed as if she couldn’t become close enough to you. “I see. I’m sorry you must endure that, but you are here now. Together once more.” 

What could you say to her and still keep the pleasantries? After everything that happened, from Aegon to Driftmark, you no longer held Queen Alicent in the same regard. The conversation did not come easily, and you could tell she noticed. 

“Rhaenyra plans to return on the morrow once she sees your family home. I would like you to come with her. You’ve barely just arrived, and Helaena would enjoy more time with you. She and I would love for you to meet the twins,” she smiled, sounding so hopeful it caused a pit in your stomach. “You and Aemond were friends before he lost his eye. I understand he seems to have changed greatly since you last saw him, yet I feel that the goodness inside him will prevail over time,” the Queen retook your hand, disregarding your obvious discomfort, “with you by his side.” 

Stare growing wide, you turned to Alicent, feeling a panic beat inside your chest like the wings of a dragon. “What do you mean?” 

Was the Queen still so desperate to have you join her family? 

She gave you the briefest of smiles as she tilted her head, studying your countenance as if you were some holy text. You changed as much as Aemond in Alicent’s eyes, yet she knew you were still hers. No distance or time could break the cord that tethered her to you. You were back home where you belonged, and although she was happy to be united with Rhaenyra, she would not let her dream be taken from her once more.

“No person knows one’s child better than their mother. I saw how he looked at you, eye never trailing too far from yours, poised to protect your honor. I worried I would witness a fight between Aemond and Aegon when he took you to dance,” she confessed. Your breath quickened, and you felt relief knowing what you felt wasn’t inside your head. 

“You want me to return to King’s Landing so Aemond and I…” You couldn’t say it aloud; words stuck in your throat. 

“Yes,” Alicent grinned, showing perfectly white teeth as she brought you close. Instinctively, she pulled your head into the crook of her neck, smelling her distinctive scent as she rubbed circles across your back. It was still the same frankincense after all these years, and you felt the fond memories of time spent with Alicent come flooding back. 

The tea times filled with sweets, laughter, and smiles entered your mind until it was replaced with the sound of Aemond’s scream, blood dripping from your mother’s wrist. You could not bring yourself to part from the Queen out of fear of what she would do. Alicent seemed so happy, yet you could sense the undercurrent of instability should you suddenly reject her affections. There was no choice but for you to accept whatever she wanted if it meant that there would be no more animosity between your families.

“I will confer with the king before bed and inform your mother when you return. This is a joyous occasion for us, my light,” she said, pulling your body impossibly tighter as you felt your hidden face contort into a weary grimace. 

You loved Aemond after all these years, but you held an uncertainty about whether he would overcome his grudges for the good of your House, and that did not account for whether your mother would agree to the proposal. She refused for you to marry into the Greens before, and with you being her heir, she might use you as all people did to their daughters, though you hoped you would be allowed to have some choice. Even if this wasn’t one, you desired to wed Aemond, if not out of love, but to secure peace between the two warring factions and your mother’s inheritance. 

Suddenly, the shared door to your childhood chambers opened and unexpectedly revealed your twin. Jace stood there breathless, not expecting you to have a visitor as he observed you tucked within the Queen’s embrace. He noticed the uneasy expression on your visage, brown eyes flicking from you to her, unsure what to do. 

At the acknowledgment of Jace’s presence, Alicent released you without a word, smoothing her structured gown with an air of cold indifference that enveloped her as she stood. 

“Sleep well, Princess,” she dismissed with a gentle nod. The necklace of the Seven-Pointed Star resting on her chest glittered in the candlelight as she left, not sparing a glance at your brother.

You and Jace did not speak. He was too stunned to see you and Alicent in a shared embrace, especially after what happened in the dining hall. That person shaped Aemond into the man he is today, sculpting the fresh clay of his mind into despising his niece and nephews. 

“What did she want?” Jace finally decided to ask with a defensive stance on his thin body. 

Sighing, you held your temples in your palms, a dejected sensation coming over you like a shroud. What could you say to him? The truth, you supposed. You never lied to your twin, but this did not feel like something you could tell him, especially after what occurred tonight. He would be upset at the notion and run to tell your mother.

“She apologized for Aemond’s behavior at supper,” you answered with exhaustion, the day’s turmoil finally taking its toll. You faced the trauma of your past without preparation and watched a man’s head get sliced clean through. You deserved to take a moment’s rest. 

Jace’s dark brows furrowed, more questions than answers coming to mind as he approached your slouched form. Typically, you would lean into his presence like no others, seeking comfort only your blood could give. At this moment, it did not feel right to do so. The past, present, and future hung heavy on your soul.

“You were embracing her,” your twin stated, which seemed to disgust him. “Where do you think Aegon and Aemond learned their behaviors?” 

Standing with a groan of annoyance, you paced to your partially packed clothes trunk, attempting to find anything to distance yourself from Jace’s pointed interrogation. “Yes, brother. When one apologizes, they tend to form some connection to express their sincerity.”

Jace scoffed, his lean body swiftly following your steps. “Are you unwell? Since the hearing, you’ve been cold with me.” 

“And why do you suppose that is?” you spun with a bark, eyes wide with vexation. Jace said not a word, curling his lips to wet them in anxiety. You knew he knew the reason but couldn’t understand why your brother refused to act as if nothing changed. “The future we grew up believing together is now nothing but a childish fantasy. Do you not comprehend how that makes me feel? To live with one thing so constant in life only for it to be ripped away in mere moments?”

Silence decorated the room, leaving the only sound to be the crackling of the roaring fire and thumping of your broken heart. Tears burned your nose, flowing down your cheeks in a salty mixture of scorn and sadness. 

“I understand that you feel as upturned as I do, but you have someone to love and hold in your life. Something that can give you that certainty in your life only it can. I…” your voice broke, filled with emotions that threatened to drown you. “I now have to find that something—to navigate a world full of men who will lie, betray me, and think themselves worth more than they are so that they may reach ultimate power. I will become a prize to win rather than someone’s daughter, someone who lives and breathes and has desires of her own.”

Jace could see you spiraling, sinking into a pit of melancholy he feared you would not crawl out of. He realized he hadn’t stopped to think about what you could genuinely be feeling. It was given that you felt the same shock, rage, and disappointment he did, but beyond that, he hadn’t considered what this meant for your relationship or future. 

To have someone be your first in everything and grow up with the idea that they would also be your last stunted emotional and social growth with others. Jace was given the comfort of knowing who would be his new end, but you weren’t afforded the luxury. A selfish part of him hoped you would never find someone in this sense. You were his sister. He realized this was the ego of a self-centered man speaking, not the brother you cherished with your body and soul.

Not knowing how to improve this impossible situation, Jace brought you close, holding your sobbing form in his familiar arms. He felt your fingers clench his tunic as you attempted to ground yourself. Tears soon fell from his dark lashes and onto your crown. You looked at him with matching sorrow, instinctively stroking the soft bone of his cheek in the manner you knew simultaneously weakened and emboldened him. 

Sleep did not come easy to Aemond on this night despite the intense wine he drank at dinner to ease his soul. How could the Prince find sleep after what happened? After he was forced to sit and break bread with the people who altered his life forever? You were never his family, yet thoughts of your shared youth and camaraderie infected his mind like grayscale. It loomed over him like dark clouds beckoning a storm.

Alicent, his mother, whom he cherished dearly, cowered in her beliefs at the mere notion that her long-lost friend gave even the slightest acknowledgment. She impressed upon Aemond, and his siblings Rhaenyra’s flaws and the sins she called children were abominations unfit to inherit the Crown. Now, after merely six years, none of that seemed to matter. He felt angry—betrayed. Was this not what his mother wanted of him? For Aemond to stand behind Aegon’s claim and their family regardless of the web, Rhaenyra spun around her.

The sting of tears sprung in his violet eye, but Aemond quickly willed them to stop by replacing them with his fury. He was not weak. He held the family together, and you were not the family his mother claimed you to be. Had it not been for your kin’s unprecedented arrival, all would be as it should be. A father he longed for attention from but never got, on the Stranger’s door, his brother drowning himself in his cups instead of your presence, and you, far across Blackwater Bay on Dragonstone, living a life you were undeserving of. Aemond did feel slightly vindicated when he saw your ghostly expression when Princess Rhaenys stated Jacaerys’s betrothal.

The Prince understood then that your life was capsizing, but at least you still had two plain, working eyes.

His ire was no longer contained, and his mind continued to reel, boiling over until he threw the bedsheets from his tense body and dawned a nightshirt. Aemond hated you. He loathed you and was not one to leave a conversation without the upper hand as he left his chambers, slinking into one of Maegor’s secret passages. 

It was involuntary how Jace’s body responded to yours, your touch so familiar it was impossible not to succumb to the sins of the past as your moist lips met. Heat ignited inside your loins as it did his, your hands winding themselves inside his choppy hair, barely taking a minute to breathe. You were unsure who was the first to disrobe the other, grabbing one another’s buckles and strings until there was nothing but air between your hot flesh.

“We shall say goodbyes to our previous beliefs tonight, Jace. I shall not be your whore and sister,” you declared against his cheek as you lowered him onto your childhood bed. “Nor shall you be mine. I respect your union far more than that.” 

“And I yours,” Jace quickly replied with a strained grunt, settling his cock between your wet folds as you rocked yourself to full arousal.

It would be difficult for both of you to navigate new bodies for the first time again, to find what made the other person curl their toes in abandon. For Jace, you knew how he loved the way it felt to be inside you to the fullest extent and saw how his older sister rode him to take her pleasure. For you, Jace knew that the little nub at the top of your silt was the epicenter for the majority of your pleasure, teasing the thing with his mouth, tongue, digits, and whatever else he could to see you so grateful for him.

You suddenly longed for your twin despite being in his presence, reminding yourself of your torturous time apart as you leaned forward, devouring his pouty lips and balancing yourself to become one. Your slick walls welcomed Jace inside like they were his home, feeling the head brush against the sensitive spot deep inside, the pair of you moaning into each other’s mouths as you began to move with gradual and firm movements of your hips. Each grind and lift of your body slowly bloomed ecstasy between your thighs, using your hands and core to savor yet heighten the experience to reach that inevitable peak. 

Aemond expected you to be alone, or at the very least, with a maid when he reached the destination Aegon had shown him. He did not ask how his brother knew of such things, though the answer was clear. Whatever semblance of a plan Aemond conjured on his march through the damp tunnels was abruptly extinguished once he heard your girlish cries—loathing to admit it aloud, the Prince’s ire softened at the noise. He grunted, poised to open the wall and have him be the reason you wailed, but he ceased his movements at the deep timbre that comforted your sorrows. 

It was Jace. The beloved brother you would willingly give up your life for, holding you within his arms as you sobbed. The sight flared his nostrils and sent a burning sensation to his stomach that he tried to ignore.

It was expected that your twin would be in your bed chambers. Aemond knew of the rumors surrounding your closer-than-normal sibling relationship. While it wasn’t seen as taboo in Targaryen customs, the common folk who practiced the Faith certainly would see it as a sin if they knew. 

The One-Eyed Prince stood silently in the dim recesses concealed behind the rough-hewn stone wall. His breath barely made a sound as he cautiously pried it open enough to glimpse the unfolding scene. A flicker of annoyance shot through him at the thought of Jace unexpectedly discovering his presence. He stifled the urge to groan, focusing instead on the poignant sobs that echoed through the air. 

Before him were the illegitimate children of his half-sister, caught in their web of delusions, seemingly convinced that they could escape the relentless strains of duty that had ensnared so many before them. Aemond watched with disdain and pity, realizing they were blissfully unaware of the sacrifices the world demanded of them in exchange for power and prestige. You and your brother sat huddled together, your voices trembling thick with emotion as you expressed the despair of being forced into marriages with people you barely knew, let alone desired.

Aemond’s gaze narrowed as he observed your youthful faces, illuminated by the waning light flickering with the candles. Your immaturity was evident. The rawness of your feelings revealed how little you understood the harsh realities of noble life. It was a bitter irony, this burden, the necessity of sacrificing personal happiness for strategic alliances. The weight of such obligations pressed heavily on your shoulders, a burden that felt especially crushing in your youthful naivety.

Embraces soon turned to caresses, which morphed into kisses as he observed Jace untie the laces of your crimson gown. Aemond felt his stomach lurch, the involuntary fear of the events being nonconsensual guiding his sudden urge to protect you. He halted his movements as he watched you disrobe your brother, blood draining from his heart and into his cock when he saw your naked form.

The womanly figure he saw within the courtyard was able to be admired. The slope of your elongated neck that still held your necklace led down to your two perfect mounds of flesh, rounded and shaped almost to the teardrops that sparkled on your skin—a soft place to rest your head in comfort. Curves and rolls decorated the rest of your body as he watched you move in time with Jace, bestowing upon Aemond the perfect view of your hips that were sturdy and plush, housing a womb to bear your future husband’s children.

Your body was a picture of the Maiden, Aemond mused, feeling his cheeks heat with growing desire. You were a depiction of a woman, so soft and plump, a perfect contrast that would fit with his muscular and sinewy body. The Prince could imagine your stomach stretched with a child and breasts full of milk as they leaked through pert nipples and onto his tongue.

The shame Aemond felt at thinking such things of his bastard niece warred in his mind, logic battling with lust as his breeches became too tight. He refused to succumb to his sinful desires and embraced the pain of his longing.

A flicker of callow hope lingered in the shadowy corners of Aemond’s mind as if clinging to the possibility that the gossip regarding you and your twin was nothing but a cruel fabrication. He wrestled with the notion of you as a sensual being, a struggle deepened by the haunting memories of Aegon’s transgressions against you. Like the common folk, he had unknowingly fallen prey to a comforting illusion—seeing you as a paragon of virtue, a righteous martyr navigating the treacherous waters of adolescence with grace and fortitude. 

To him, you were a pure maiden, your spirit untainted, who had bravely borne the trials and tribulations that beset young women, emerging with a noble resolve. The small childish part of Aemond wanted to believe you had sworn off the temptations that often ensnared others, choosing instead a path marked by selflessness and a profound commitment to righteousness. This image of you, painted in broad strokes of light and virtue, had unwillingly taken root in his mind, making the idea of you as anything other than an emblem of purity feel surreal and disconcerting.

The Prince noiselessly grunted in agony as his manhood painfully beat against the confines of his trousers, only for it to be swallowed by the soft sounds unique to only sex. He childishly hoped that he would be the man to break his imagined vow of chastity you took, but now he realized how much of a fantasy it was as he watched you take your twin’s cock between your glistening folds. 

Jace was the only thing that felt right to you today, like the embrace of a loved one you hadn’t seen in years. Your hip movements were practiced as they held the knowledge of what made your brother’s abdomen clench in ecstasy. You could feel your brother’s hands on you, so gentle, tender, and loving, having nothing of the malice your uncle carried today. 

Seeing Aemond now a man instead of the wide-eyed boy you knew stirred something within you that you had pushed aside earlier, igniting a fire you had never known existed in your soul. You imagined him here now and what it would be like to feel his manhood nestled so profoundly within you that there was no end. While you enjoyed the recognizable feeling of Jace and his delicateness, now that you had gotten a taste for the depravity of your uncle in his place, you found your movements daunting. Your knees began to ache, and your thighs started to burn, abruptly extinguishing the pleasure that was blossoming in your core.

This had never happened before, and you pushed yourself to continue, crashing that high that was always promised at the end. 

Praying that Jace did not notice, you leaned forward as you attempted to lose yourself in his kiss, stroking the sides of his visage. The more you moved, the more discouraged you became, resorting to seeking your pleasure with your own hands as you rubbed at your pearl, but nothing worked.

Frustration overshadowed any fulfillment. Your ministrations and Jace’s cock felt like an intrusion into your walls. Faking your release would not end this once-enjoyed act, and you steeled yourself to ensure this would be over soon. 

You felt terrible for Jace. You knew he would stop at his detriment to ensure you were well, but you refused to utter the reason behind why your body had become so ineffective. 

“You feel so good, brother. I need you to…” The dryness in your mouth halted your lies as you concealed it with a look of satisfaction. “I need you to finish. I’m so close.” Jace was none the wiser, too lost in pleasure as he profusely nodded.

It was painfully evident to anyone who glanced your way that you had lost interest in the moment. Your posture was rigid, and your eyes were clouded with discontent. Aemond couldn’t help but feel a troubling sense of satisfaction at that realization as if he had uncovered a hidden complexity in the situation. 

Your brother, Jace—the very same person you always believed understood you on a deeper plane—remained blissfully unaware of the turmoil swirling within you. His gaze lingered on your face, but it lacked the perceptiveness needed to grasp the subtle but clear signs of your unhappiness.

Aemond’s thoughts raced. If only he were in his nephew’s shoes, he would have sensed the disturbance immediately. Unlike Jace, who seemed consumed by his emotions, Aemond had a keen intuition that allowed him to read the room with sharp clarity. He would not have focused on the fleeting pleasure of the moment. Instead, he would have delved beneath your act, seeking to uncover the reasons behind your discontent. Aemond envisioned himself beneath you, looking up at your flushed body with the intent of understanding the causes of your spiral, eager to address your needs and reignite the spark of ecstasy that once illuminated your expression.

If only…

Though it was mere minutes, it felt like hours, and you squeezed and loosened yourself around your twin’s cock, milking him in a way that would cause him fulfillment. He tried to stop you, taking hold of your plump hips as you continued. 

“Stop, sister. You haven’t… fuck…” Moving his palms to your breasts, you took control, sweat running down your neck from exertion as Jace struggled to keep himself from releasing. 

He was helpless. Toes curling and stomach clenching as you quickly lifted yourself off, stroking his pink shaft in place of your womanhood. Spurts of his pearlescent seed left from his pink tip and onto his waist and your hand, biting his lower lip in an attempt to silence his grunts of satisfaction as you slowed your movements so as not to overwhelm him. Jace’s heart raced inside his chest like a horse’s hooves as he came down from his high, fidgeting his legs and bringing your body up to kiss him. You did not mean to torture him, but it was finally done, and that was a relief in itself as you laid down beside him, stroking his hot torso. 

“You did not peak,” Jace began with a pout, moving himself to settle his body between your legs. “Let me make up for it.”

Inhaling a deep breath, you shook your head, pulling him up to rest beside you again. “There’s no need, brother. Your pleasure is enough to satisfy me,” you lied, stroking the choppy strands of his short hair behind his ear. He stared at you skeptically as you felt disgusted with yourself at the smell of sex in your bed chambers, causing revulsion to churn in your stomach. “Edwina will be back soon, and while I trust her, we do not need to risk another tongue-lashing from Mother. You are to be married soon and must be in her good graces. Come. Let me clean you.”

Jace sighed, slumping over his drying seed as you poured your drinking water into a bowl and gathered a cloth to wipe his stomach. You engrossed yourself in the action as you were too ashamed to speak, though your brother couldn’t possibly hate you more than you already did. 

Without many words between you, you helped him dress, throwing over an appropriate dress slip, smiling, and bestowing him fleeting touches not to have him worry. It was evident that Jace understood something was wrong, but the consequences for you and him, a betrothed man discovered in a compromising position, far outweighed any concerns. 

“Mother wants us ready to depart back to Dragonstone within the hour. We mustn’t waste any more time,” you ordered Jace in the way only you could, as he nodded.

Before he closed the door to your adjoining childhood chambers, he gave you one last kiss, saying farewell to the childish dreams of a future together. 

“I love you,” he stated. You gave him a bittersweet smile in return.

“And I you, more than the Gods allow.” 

Shutting the door behind him, you locked it, countenance dropping from the neutral expression to one of despair, sobs breaking from between your lips as you balanced yourself against the warm hearth.

The world around you felt utterly ruthless and deeply unjust, a suffocating weight pressing down on your heart. You couldn’t shake the bitterness that churned within you, directed at the memories of your past with Jace. It was painful to reflect on the years you spent entranced by the fantasy of life together, imagining the vows you would exchange and the family you would build. The reality, however, was a far cry from those dreams, each illusion crumbling under the harsh light of truth. 

Your mother’s actions echoed in your mind like a haunting refrain. It felt like she had orchestrated this betrayal all along, waiting for the opportunity to use her children. She wielded Jace and Luke as pawns, manipulating emotions to untangle her political complications, leaving you feeling forgotten and unutilized. In her quest to alleviate her burdens, your mother dismantled the very dreams you held dear, leaving you adrift in a sea of disappointment, grappling with the profound loss of a future you thought was within your grasp.

Through the haze of tears clouding your vision, you caught a glimpse of the wall beside your wardrobe, protruding ever so slightly as if it were hiding a secret. The air hung heavy with tension, and a chill ran down your spine. Only one person could be moving through the shadows of the Red Keep at this hour. Panic gripped your heart, tumbling down to your bare feet and leaving you frozen, an unwilling statue in the dim light. 

As you willed your limbs to move, you shuffled awkwardly across the cold wooden floor, acutely aware that Aegon was most likely watching you. The door to your brother’s room and the hallway felt painstakingly far away. The only option left was the balcony, its railing looming like an unwelcoming edge over the moat of spikes encircling Maegor’s Holdfast. 

The thought of plunging into those treacherous spikes sent a shiver through you. For now, hiding seemed your best chance. If you could buy yourself time, you might gain enough distance from Aegon to run to the hall full of guards.

With a whisper of dread, you crawled beneath your bed, the coarse dust and sticky cobwebs clinging to your dress and skin like the entrapments of a forgotten cellar. The muffled thud of footsteps echoed from the far wall, sending shivers down your spine as you watched Aegon’s boot enter your chambers, its polished leather glinting ominously in the dim light. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, a frantic drum of terror, as he paused at the foot of your bed, the air thick with unspoken tension.

With a sinking feeling, you covered your eyes with trembling hands, desperately praying to the Seven for Edwina’s swift return, but your silent plea hung unanswered around you. You heard Aegon grunt softly, the sound unsettling as he shuffled closer, his heavy shoes brushing against the stone floor. Every nerve in your body was taut with fear as you felt his gaze sweep beneath the bed, searching for you in the shadows.

A firm hand clamped around your arm, jolting you with a scream that echoed in the stillness. As your eyes fluttered open, you were met not with Aegon’s familiar, cropped hair but with a cascade of silver locks flowing down a lithe figure. Aemond knelt before you, his intense gaze focused and calculating as he studied your trembling form. The tension in the air hung heavy around you, amplifying the fear pulsing through your veins. You felt the warmth of his grip as he observed you, the world around fading into a blur, leaving only the sharp clarity of his presence.

Aemond found it almost laughable that you thought cowering beneath the bed, like a frightened child, could shield you from the world outside. He noted how a part of your gown, delicate and flowing, peeked out. In comparison, some of him relished his power to instill fear in you. A more profound understanding stirred within him as he noted your quivering lips, brows arched in fright. It wasn’t merely his presence that had regressed you to this vulnerable state. The haunting memory echoed in your mind whenever you lay in the stillness of twilight.

He recalled, in vivid detail, the night Aegon had violated you—a night marred by betrayal and anguish. You had confided in him, recounting how his older brother lured you through the shadowy tunnels with sweet promises of a secret just for you. The realization struck Aemond like a dagger. Your reaction was rooted in that traumatic experience, a natural response to the horror you had endured. Yet, as those memories surfaced, they ignited a fierce anger within him that dulled his compassion and overshadowed his instinct to comfort.

“If you’re here to hurt me, know that my Lady will be here any moment,” you whispered, tears glistening on your cheeks. The Prince felt transported back in time, seeing your girlish face before him like it had not aged from when you crawled into his bed and shared your first kiss.

“I have no want for depravity,” Aemond announced, releasing your arm. He rose from his crouched position but did not leave your room. This reminded him of the night you came to sleep in his chambers for this very reason, and he felt his black heart lighten at the tremble of your frightened voice.

“Then why are you here?” You were so weak and pathetic, nothing like the strong dragon you had portrayed yourself to be hours prior. 

Aemond sighed through his nose, seemingly exhausted from the conversation, sitting on the mattress above you as it creaked. “I’ve come to finish our conversation from earlier,” he declared casually with the cross of his leg. “Won’t you spare me the dignity of discussing such matters face to face?”

“I am quite content down here,” you quipped with a sniffle, fear still controlling your actions. “Say your piece.”

You heard him chuckle from above, a smirk no doubt on his features. “My brother will not harm you. He’s off to the Silk Streets at this very moment, drowning himself in wine and women,” the Prince offered in consolation. He hoped to get you out from under the bed, but he did find the situation amusing. 

“I pity them. Do you blame me for being so cautious after what happened tonight?” You wanted to prolong this momentary peace even if it was surrounding the gossip of another. “How Aegon so shamelessly flouted about the room? You saw how he acted, Aemond.”

“You are not innocent in the matter either, niece,” Aemond hummed as you covered an offended scoff. “If I recall, your dear twin took his wife and flouted about the room with her.” 

Your fierce sense of injustice compelled you to wriggle out from beneath the bed, carefully brushing off the dust and specks of debris that had settled on your gown. It was a soft fabric that now seemed to bear the marks of your hiding place, but you paid it little mind. Aemond lounged atop your rumpled bed sheets, occupying your space with an air of casual superiority as if he belonged there. 

His loosely draped clothing accentuated his figure, and you found it challenging to divert your gaze from the exposed expanse of his collarbones. The pale sheen of his skin contrasted starkly with the messiness of the room, momentarily captivating you and stealing your breath away. The atmosphere thrummed with an unspoken tension, drawing note to the uncharted territory between you.

“He-he touched me as if he did not tear my womanhood and make me bleed!” you exclaimed, a fresh wave of tears collecting at your dark lashes. “And you were there, uncle. You watched it happen. Do you not recall your promise made on a night such as this? Would you protect me from him so long as I was by your side? I am here before you.”

Aemond’s face was impassive, a blank stone carved with only his features. “You couple with your brother, and yet you are the one to lecture me? You’re a whore.”

You knew it was only a matter of time before he spoke about what he saw in the shadows, but having it brought to light did not ease the knot of shame within your stomach. 

“Whatever insults you have conjured up, know that I’ve already thought of them myself,” you braced, attempting to build a wall around your heart. Despite the difference in position, Aemond sitting in what would be a submissive manner, you felt like the lesser one, embracing your torso in self-consolation.

The Prince remained unnervingly quiet, his expression a hardened mask of arrogance. Shadows danced across his chiseled features as the dim light caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the sharp line of his jaw. He tilted his head slightly, allowing his moonlit hair to fall just enough to enhance his regal demeanor. A deep, resonant hum emerged from his throat, filling the air with a somber melody that seemed to echo the weight of unspoken thoughts. His eyes, usually filled with a fierce brightness, now held an undercurrent of fear—a fear that crept in like a shadow. He was aware that if he broke this silence, his voice might waver, revealing the regret that festered within him. 

Aemond feared you would hear the tremor of the boy he once was, the dragonless child who had craved approval and affection and still felt the sting of past failures. The thought of you seeing him in such a vulnerable light sent a shiver of apprehension through him, driving him to maintain his proud appearance. 

“I have been told since birth that Jace was to be my husband, yet now the foundations of my life have been uprooted because of one man’s ambitions,” you argued, feeling your body flush with anger instead of this dreadful sadness. “I feel like a fool for doing such things. I understood it was wrong at the time, yet this part of me was so bent on taking back something stolen from me. To prove to myself that sex was not about pain and control but something to enjoy.”

“All people succumb to sins of the flesh,” Aemond replied. It was a bland reply that showed little sympathy for you, but you expected nothing less from him. You were grateful enough that he hadn’t closed the conversation off so that only his wrath spoke.

Inhaling a stuttered breath, you wiped away the water that soaked your skin, a futile attempt at returning your dignity. “Men can fuck as they please without the stigma that surrounds women. If they fault and dabble with the flesh, it’s considered nothing more than their culture. When I am queen-”

“Aegon took me to a brothel when I was three and ten,” Aemond interrupted your tirade, causing you to pause with dissatisfaction, coloring your features. “He said, ‘Time to get it wet.’ I didn’t want to, but he paid the brothel Madame good coin, and I was forced to endure to show my brother that I was a man like him.” The fire within you softened, the tense muscles of your body deflating in empathy at his confession. “You are not the only one subjected to hypocrisy. I was supposed to enjoy it like a man, but all I felt was disgust.”

Perhaps it was the rich, intoxicating wine that Aemond had been consuming, or maybe the insidious notion that he held a threat over your head compelled him to confide in you. His revelations were not born out of genuine concern for you but reflected your insignificance in his eyes. 

That was the reason, nothing more.

He did not regard your thoughts or feelings as worthy of consideration. After all, a Prince of his stature would not be so vulnerable as to divulge his most profound shame to his illegitimate niece, expecting that with her bleeding heart, she would offer him understanding or solace. 

Aemond carried the weight of the pig incident like a brand upon his soul, an indelible memory that refused to fade. The sting of Aegon’s words lingered in his mind, a fresh wound that festered even after losing his eye to Lucerys, a brutal reminder of his vulnerability. 

The image of Aegon loomed ominously in his memories, particularly the night in the brothel, where the air was thick with the stench of spilled wine and sweat. Aegon’s skin glistened with an unappealing stickiness, the remnants of revelry clinging to him as he towered over Aemond, his posture a hazy blend of mockery and drunken arrogance. Beneath the veil of alcohol swirling in his veins, Aegon’s cruel laughter cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving, each word a fresh dagger aimed directly at Aemond’s heart. The echoes of that taunting laughter haunted him, a bitter reminder of the pain inflicted by the very brother who should have stood by his side.

“Ensure that you stay perfectly still, brother. We don’t want you to miss it.”

You exhaled slowly, a deep sigh laced with a sense of melancholy as a rush of emotions threatened to spill over. The fresh start of tears hovered beneath the surface, their warmth urging to escape, but you clenched your jaw and willed them to remain hidden, trapped within your mouth. 

Aemond sat before you, his expression hardened and his stance resolute. He did not welcome sympathy or pity. Those sentiments would isolate him further, pushing him deeper into his turmoil. What Aemond truly needed—more than any platitude about family values—was someone who could listen and sense the heavy shadows lurking behind his guarded words. He craved understanding, a connection that transcended judgment, a safe space to unburden his heart without fear of condemnation or lectures. At that moment, all he needed was an empathetic ear, ready to hear him amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

“Aegon is vile. A part of me hoped he would spare you from his cruelty, though I should have known. His mind is twisted and barbarous and holds no honor. You know this as I do,” you preached. 

The longing to embrace Aemond was overwhelming, a fierce yearning that coiled tightly within you, causing your fingers to flex and relax in a restless rhythm. You understood the delicate nature of his emotions, aware that a sudden move could send him retreating into the impenetrable and cold fortress he had constructed around his heart. With that thought in mind, you opted for a tentative approach, positioning yourself at a respectful distance on the plush feather mattress, allowing the space between you to serve as a shield and a bridge in this intricate dance of intimacy and caution. The softness of the mattress cradled your form, yet your heart raced with the desire to close that distance, to reach out and let him know how deeply you cared.

“Your mother spoke with me tonight. She wants me to return tomorrow with my mother and finally propose an engagement to unite our House.” You steadied your breath as you felt Aemond’s piercing, violet eye on you, his face turning into a mask. You could see his mind reeling at your proximity and your following words, trying to decipher what would come next.

“I owe my life to you for what you did for me. You stopped Aegon from debasing me further and became my friend despite how poorly I treated you,” your voice cracked with conviction as you reflected on the regrets of your childhood. “Accept this betrothal, and we will live out those childhood times again. You’ll be my husband and I, your wife, taking to the skies together like I promised. We will rule the Seven Kingdoms, and you will be king. Aegon will no longer hurt us.” 

Your words were like honey in his ear, dripping from the comb full of its viscous sweetness and into his blood. The tension within your stomach began to morph into something different, something warm yet exhilarating, as you saw fierce emotion crack through the lines of his face.

Courage filled you, rattling your bones and lifting your muscles to cup the side of Aemond’s scarred cheek as you softly stroked the indented skin. 

The surge of boldness that once ignited within you flickered and vanished, leaving a feeling of vulnerability that wrapped around you like a heavy cloak. Memories of the heartbreaking tragedies that life had heaped upon both of you flooded back, causing you to instinctively pull away, uneasy with the weight of it all. Yet, before you could fully retreat, Aemond’s hand closed around your wrist, his grip steady and unyielding, anchoring you to that fragile moment. 

Your breaths hung suspended in the air as you found yourself lost in his gaze, two souls suspended in time, teetering on the brink of understanding. It felt as though you could plunge deep into the shadows of his thoughts, unraveling the secrets he kept buried within. The silence stretched around you, thick with unspoken words, and a part of you was terrified to break it, fearing that doing so might shatter the delicate tranquility that had settled between you.

Time ceased to exist. It was only you and your uncle, two souls that had once been connected and torn asunder by hate that erupted long before your conception. You felt the gravity of the situation pulling you towards Aemond, and he, you, no longer seeing the world around you. The candlelight shade danced across the aquiline sculpture of his visage, creating a haunting beauty compared to the soft, cherubic plumpness of your face, round with conviction and moist with tears.

The moment couldn’t last long enough as you felt your knee collide with Aemond’s, sending a jolt through your core that made your breath hitch. The hand on your uncle’s ridged thigh clenched, fingers digging into his muscle as you observed how the tendons rippled with the movement, sending a wave of heat to your skin. You were certain Aemond felt the same, too, with his cheeks and ears tinged pink, tongue poking out to briefly wet his lip as his violet eye flicked to your swiftly rising and falling breasts.

Without warning, the doors to your bed chambers opened with a clang, revealing the Lady Edwina you had prayed for earlier. You did not want to pull away from him but knew the consequences of being caught in an improper position with a man. Aemond gave you no choice, curling his lip in dissatisfaction as he tightened his grip on your arm, refusing to let you remove the warmth of your touch on his face. 

It had been an eternity since he had felt the soothing warmth of a feminine embrace, a gesture that had become increasingly rare from his mother as the years had passed and he had grown older. The absence of that nurturing touch left a hollow ache in his heart. He craved the security and intimacy that such an embrace offered, and when you tried to pull away, he instinctively tightened his hold.

Edwina gasped with a quick “My Prince” as Aemond begrudgingly loosened his grip.

“Edwina, thank you for returning,” you said, voice cordial and gaze misty, “though I wish you would announce yourself.”

She curtsied, her cheeks scarlet. “Apologies, Your Highness.” 

Sighing, you glanced at Aemond, who had a dark expression, half thinking he should order the maid away or have her quartered for insolence. Sensing his vexation, you stood, placing a hand on your uncle’s sturdy shoulder, and offered a weak grin.

“All is forgiven. My uncle and I just finished discussing, didn’t we?” Aemond grunted in response, following your movements and brushing off your kind gesture. “Sleep well tonight, Prince Aemond. Know that my thoughts are with you.” 

He remained silent, his mask of the ruthless Prince falling perfectly back into place as he strode out of the room, leaving behind an oppressive air and not even a hint of a farewell. You sighed exasperated, rolling your eyes at the heavy doors as they swung shut with a resounding thud. Glancing over at your Lady, you caught her gaze, which held a deep, understanding glance that spoke volumes without the need for words. She surveyed your attire keenly before returning to her task of meticulously packing your belongings, her movements graceful yet methodical.

“Shall we summon the other maids?” Edwina asked with an airy shift in her tone that she acquired when in a jesting mood. She finally knew the answer as to who you so ardently sent ravens to in the Keep.

You offered a subtle nod, your gaze drifting to the elegant pitchers that adorned the polished writing table, each glinting softly in the dim light. With a graceful motion, you poured the deep crimson wine into a delicate glass, the rich aroma rising to meet you as it filled the vessel. The thought of leaving this stuffy gathering behind ignited a thrilling hope within you, quickening your heartbeat at the anticipation of returning to Aemond. The idea of being reunited with him filled you with an intoxicating sense of longing and excitement, making your pulse race with the promise of what was to come.

A profound sense of satisfaction enveloped Aemond as he walked through the torch-lit halls of the Keep. The flickering flames cast a warm glow, illuminating the intricacies of the stone walls that had witnessed countless secrets and whispered promises. The air was thick with the scent of burning resin and age-old timber, enhancing the atmosphere of history surrounding him. 

As he stepped into his chambers, a serene calm washed over him, slowly releasing the tension from his muscles as if he were shedding a burdensome weight. A curious sensation flickered within his chest, akin to the rush of emotions he had felt when he first kissed you all those years ago—a moment forever etched in his memory. A grin stretched his thin lips, a blend of nostalgia and anticipation brightening his features.

He envisioned a future where you would stand proudly by his side as his wife, the thought filling him with warmth. The image of your hands intertwined and the promise of building a family together painted a vivid picture in his mind. In that profound moment, he realized that the sacred ties of marriage would firmly anchor your loyalties, binding your fates together in a covenant that would weather any storm, ensuring that your heart would forever belong to Aemond.

Princess Rhaenyra’s only daughter would be his. 

Aegon’s ascension to the Iron Throne was inevitable, and he understood that accepting such a fact would put your new marriage to the test. The Prince convinced himself that in the end, you would love him and stay by his side, and that was enough for him to forget the vexation at his mother’s schemes and agree to the proposal. Mors Martell and Queen Nymeria, at last. 

Though the war had not yet begun, Aemond felt a sense of victory swelling within him.

Masterlist of Series

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The reader really couldn't catch a break in this chapter. It was literally one trauma after another. XD I've debated putting in some smut scenes with Jace and the reader in the previous chapters, but it never felt right. They've definitely done it quite a few times, tho. In my head, they've accidentally had a pregnancy scare like Rhaenyra did, and that was one of the turning points to separate them and send the reader to Dorne. Anyways, Aemond is at the beginning of his Prince Regent Era with his arrogance, but oh boy. The man won't know what hit him in the following chapters... (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf, @marvelescvpe, @haikyuusboringassmanager, @discofairysworld , @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist , @p45510n4f4shi0n , @theendlessvoidofdarkest , @readerselegance , @gothamgurl2024 , @aleemendoza2425-blog , @vaylint , @ln8118 , @prettyduckling22 , @primroseluna , @baybaybear1

[iridescentdove]

I need a BSD x Reader where it’s just the reader casually rizzing up everyone like no one is safe from the reader’s infinite rizz, not the ADA, not the PM, not the DOA, not the guild, and definitely not the Hunting Dogs, not even civilians; it’s literally everyone that is getting rizzed up, while the reader is aware and laughs and points at every clown they rizzed up.

THE ULTIMATE RIZZLORD.

various!BSD x reader

A/N: anon, I would like to point out how much I love you and this request right now. also, I put the reader in the port mafia for fun because why not.

Absolutely speechless.

This is how everyone felt – well, whether whoever it may be, there was just one thing all could collectively agree on. They may all be feared and powerful factions that anyone could basically kneel down to, however ...

Who THE FUCK is this audacious person?

MORI was the first to witness your ass flirt with every single person you saw. But no, did you even care? Not at all. He stares, bewildered and mildly in concern as you came up to every single person you saw – completely distracted from the mission at hand as you asked women to step on you, choke you ...

He wants you throw you back from where you came from.

Oh wait, nevermind. You were now flirting with HIM. MORI is in even more shock at your confidence. Damn, pretty bold of you. But he actually thought you kinda hot fr. Elise still #1 bae tho

And somehow, you were taken up to being an executive. Everyone is morbid and utterly terrified.

How the fuck is someone like you an EXECUTIVE?? HELLO??

CHUUYA turns as red as his hair could ever be. Look man, he just wanted to complain about Dazai and you here just ..

"That fucking idiot Dazai! I'll rip him apart!"

"Yes daddy- I mean, can you do that to me too?"

"... What?"

"Ooh~ those fingers are so slender and pretty .."

"Wh-"

"Mind if I ... caress them a little, babygorl?"

"(Y/N) WHAT-"

Aww, look at that, Chuuya is deader than Odasaku <3

But God forbid you be taken on important missions against another factiom because fuck man. All you're there for is 1% fighting, 99% rizzing.

Y'know when everything was in chaos in Yokohama bcz of the Guild trying to take over? Everyone's fighting their ass off, God knows where DAZAI is but no one cares, and you?? Uh yeah already guessed it.

Tryna rizz up the agency.

Like yes, they're in trouble, everyone is, we know but fuck war we want fictional men. And women.

"Are you lingo? Because we can make a good duo 😏" - you

"... Did you just make a duolingo pickup line" - kunikida

Man times when the port mafia and the agency are in a truce, you're there back and forth flirting nonstop. Everyone is red, turned on from your oh so amazing rizzler skills

DAZAI enjoys your company obviously. Both of you create so much chaos, but even sometimes you're so much worse than him. You're the only one who can actually surprise him. Like wtf bitch stop flirting with the damn secret police?? Uh??

You make suicidal jokes, whispering them so sexily in his ear he wanna take you to the bed right there mamasita lip bite

Oh, the Decay of Angels wanna achieve world domination? They can dominate sumn else if you know what I mean

No words can express how terrified u keep making everyone THAT'S FYODOR HE'LL KILL YOU WITH A TOUCH BITCH- oh wait nvm he's melting from all of your rizz and affection.

You are literally so sweet but so confusing. SIGMA sees you around the Sky Casino just chilling and flirting with everyone you see. He don't mind cause you hot anyway

The Guild kinda ... actually, no. They're not safe. FITZGERALD? More like Rizzgerald cause this bitch 'bout to get rizzed so hard he turns poor

Yeah .. I don't take it to heart.

You'll just be up in their ass even after the Yokohama incident. Literally all of them both love and hate you. "Should we throw her off a cliff or kiss her" "Idk the second option is kinda tempting tho" "Boss, what do we d-" "Both."

DAMN LOVECRAFT AND BRAM TOO?? BITCH STOP 😭

No one can escape from your rizz. Okay one time you got kidnapped by the fuckin Hunting Dogs but you just?? Started to rizz up and call JOUNO ur bbygorl?? He is seconds from slicing your head off but he gave up at this point.

Where you got that rose from 🤨

Why the fuck is romantic music playing 😐

You asked FUKUCHI himself to choke you and slam you against the wall. Not even an ounce of regret of fear.

Everyone officially is scared of you.

ANGO isn't free from this either, bitch. You'll strut into the room all happy to talk for a mission and all but ... uhh. "So you're from the Special Division? I can't blame you then ... I feel as if I have something special going on for you."

ANGO, internally: iamnotasimp- iamnotasimp- iamnotasimp-

Sadly, he is now a simp.

The fact his face turns so red is not unnoticed by you. You laugh, clowning everyone you literally rizzed up no joke. They're so in love with ur pretty/handsome/hot ass 😔

No one is free. If you find a pretty bird, ask it's hand for marriage. There is no other way but that.

Mk but the way you literally hit on AKUTAGAWA do be funny. Bitch is so oblivious, he just thinks you're another certain blonde hair slaying bitch 😳

By the time he actually knows you're rizzing him up by being more direct about your advances, he is questioning life.

But bcz you're SOO close to DAZAI maybeee we can ...

Work sumn out, you know? heh

One day the mafia just be chilling and BOOM heree comes the wh00000re~ hello wh000re~ welcome~ 😍

(i am so sorry if this offends someone it's a meme-)

Cue everyone sighing as you come in and start your daily routine which is rizzing. You'll be caressing KOUYOU's cheek, talking to CHUUYA with that sexy ass deep voice, whispering in MORI's ear, and everytime you breathe the vine boom sound effect comes off.

Can't say they don't like it though. We all know we have some horny deviants lovestruck little cuties <3 but let's just say it's hard being here with those hoes 😔✌️

Yet most especially,

You.

*bites lip* (i am sorry.)

[sins-and-gods]

The Lone Wolf names of Roost and Ryker

If you encounter an abandoned shack in the Meadows, you can find a secret export ledger wedged between the wall and a dresser. This tome does not appear on the map unless you are standing in the wheatfield directly outside the shack, otherwise it can only be highlighted if you hover over it with your cursor.

The tome is a ledger containing the pseudonyms of three clients: Grizzled Whisper, Dusty Rogue, and Bleeding Baron.

At first glance, the only useful information appears to be on the second page. The ledger tells us the Bleeding Baron's shipment was delivered behind the woodpile, but never retrieved, allowing the player to dig up a bag of loot.

If the player visits the drop-off locations of the other two clients, i.e. Dusty Rogue, no loot may be collected because the shipments have already been retrieved.

But this tome is actually connected to the side quest, The Merchant: the second page provides context to the fate of the travelling merchant, Baran Levere, while the first page hints at the codenames of two prominent Lone Wolves not otherwise revealed in the story.

Ifan ben-Mezd, the Silver Claw, explains that all those who are successfully initiated into their ranks are assigned a codename in the form of a two-word moniker. Codenames are necessary for Lone Wolves who hold active contracts to protect their true identities — they reduce the risk of exposure or retaliation if communications are intercepted, and prevent any transactions from being traced back to their origin. Arranging drop-off locations would allow supplies to be delivered discreetly, minimizing the need for direct contact between the operative and the courier, hence the secret ledger.

The implication of the ledger is that it once belonged to Baran Levere, a merchant in charge of delivering the shipments to drop-off locations specified by his clients. At least -- until he is assassinated, his entire inventory stolen, and his identity assumed by the Lone Wolf, Callo.

Clearly, the Bleeding Baron is a morbid play-on-words for Baran's bloody death, suggesting that Callo is the Bleeding Baron mentioned in the ledger. It is implied through storyline dialogue that Callo requested the shipment so he could lure his target to a more discrete location — the abandoned shack — and kill him.

In Act 2, Ifan gives the player a test to determine what their Lone Wolf name would be. He admits that he doesn't remember all of the questions, but Dusty is one of the answers, implying that the Dusty Rogue in the ledger is a Lone Wolf operative.

From the ledger, we know Stonegarden is Dusty Rogue’s specified drop-off location. Since Ryker is one of the only living beings in the Stonegarden — and a confirmed Lone Wolf — he is almost certainly Dusty Rogue.

Keeping in mind the Lone Wolf naming scheme, now that we’ve identified two-thirds of the clients in the tome are Lone Wolves, it becomes even more apparent that the ledger’s purpose is to keep a record of Lone Wolf exports, in particular. So, we can safely assume Grizzled Whisper must be the cover identity of a Lone Wolf operative, too.

If you visit the Cullwoods Mill, the Lone Wolf camp, you will notice every assassin is named with two-word monikers (i.e. Mummie Dearest, Slumberjack, Elixir Mixer, Honeyhook, etc.) -- everyone except Roost Anlon.

Since Callo is Bleeding Baron, Ryker is Dusty Rogue, and the names of all other Lone Wolves on Reaper’s Coast are known, by simple process of elimination, Grizzled Whisper must be Roost.

[yunosweetheartxoxo]

♡My headcanons about our stinky eyeless boi♡

The Enigmatic Collector

Hello, dear readers! Today, we’re diving into the intriguing world of Eyeless Jack—a character who’s both fascinating and chilling all at once! Known for his eerie backstory and ghastly reputation, Jack has captured the hearts (and fears!) of many horror enthusiasts. But beyond the terrifying tales, there lies a persona filled with whimsy and depth! So, grab a cozy blanket, and let’s explore some cute headcanons about this enigmatic figure.The Sentimental CollectorOne of the cutest (and slightly morbid) aspects of Eyeless Jack is his penchant for keeping mementos from his victims. 😳 Picture this: after an encounter, he delicately collects items that remind him of the lives he has touched—necklaces, bracelets, earrings—little treasures that carry stories of who they once were. Each piece is a memory, a snapshot of the humanity he once possessed. Jack doesn’t just see his actions as mere survival; to him, every item is a story waiting to be remembered.Imagine Jack adorning his lair with these trinkets, his personal museum of memories. The necklaces dangle gently in the dim light, swaying softly as if whispering secrets of the past. He might sit there sometimes, running his fingers over a locket or polishing a bracelet, reveling in warm memories while the chill of his current existence surrounds him. These tokens bring him a sense of comfort, connecting him to a time before he became the fearsome figure he is today.

Heightened Senses and Animal Instincts

Despite being eyeless, Jack’s other senses have become remarkably acute. His ears, sharp and deer-like, can pick up the faintest sounds, allowing him to navigate the world in ways that might surprise you! Imagine Jack standing silently in a forest, soft ears twitching as he catches the rustle of leaves or the distant sound of footsteps. It’s like he has a built-in radar that guides him, each sound painting a vivid picture of his surroundings.But there’s more! Along with his heightened senses, Jack displays some animalistic attributes that add a hint of cuteness to his otherwise frightening persona. His deer-like angles and pitch-black ears give him an almost endearing appearance—like a misunderstood woodland creature who just wants to belong! You can’t help but picture him curiously tilting his head, pricking up his ears at the sound of something intriguing. A glimpse of vulnerability peeks through his dark exterior, showcasing the complex heart hidden beneath.

The Scarred Survivor

Now, let’s talk about the scars. Jack’s initial days of being eyeless were tough. 😢 Imagine stumbling around, trying to adjust to a world without sight. He was clumsy, often running into walls or tripping over objects—leaving him marked with scars that tell tales of his struggles. Each scar can be seen as a beautiful testament to his resilience, a story of a being learning to navigate the world with a new perspective.As he grew more attuned to his surroundings, he became less clumsy—yet those scars remained, a part of his identity. It serves as a reminder that even in our darkest moments, we can learn and evolve. Instead of hiding these markings away, perhaps Jack embraces them, wearing his battle scars like a badge of honor, reminding him of a time when he fought against darkness, both inside and out.

The Towering Figure of Jack

And let’s not forget about his height! Eyeless Jack isn’t just tall; he’s imposing—standing at a striking 2.30 meters! 🌟 Imagine him lurking in shadows, towering over his surroundings while simultaneously conveying an aura of mysterious elegance. His height adds to his stature as a creature of the night, but it also makes him a bit clumsy at times! Picture him navigating through tight spaces or ducking under door frames, creating an almost whimsical image that contrasts starkly with the fear he evokes.This height could also symbolize the burden he carries—the weight of his past lives and the memories he clings to. When he walks, he does so with an air of grace, yet each step echoes the loneliness of a solitary figure, lost to the world of humans. It’s a juxtaposition of cuteness and horror that adds depth to his character.

Final Thoughts

Eyeless Jack is a character filled with resonance, depth, and a hint of cuteness amid the horror. The blend of his sentimental tendencies, heightened senses, scars, and towering presence creates a wonderfully complex persona that invites both fear and empathy. It’s this mixture that makes him an unforgettable figure in horror lore—a tragic creature caught between the beauty of memories and the chilling reality of his existence.So, dear readers, what do you think? Do you have any cute headcanons about Eyeless Jack? Perhaps you see him collecting more than just trinkets or navigating the world with surprising grace. Share your thoughts in the comments below, and let’s keep this conversation as enchanting as the character we adore! 💖

♡LOVE YOU ALL♡

[yummygummys]

The Jester

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ . .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙

Once upon a time , in a small, secluded village surrounded by thick forest, lived a peculiar Jester.He was known as Mortimer, the most eccentric and enigmatic entertainer anyone had ever seen.With Pale skin, sunken eyes, and a permanent twisted grin, he struck fear into the hearts of children and adults alike.Mortimer had a dark and twisted sense of humor that left his audience both bewildered and terrified.The villagers would gather every moonlit night in the town square,drawn by a strange and morbid curiosity to witness Mortimer’s performances.He would captivate his audience with his eerie juggling of knives,his contortionist acts that seemed to defy the limits of the human body, and his macabre stories that sent shivers down down their spines.But it wasn’t only the performances that unsettled the villagers.It was his uncanny ability to read their innermost fears and secrets.Mortimer seemed to possess an otherworldly knowledge that allowed him to pluck their darkest thoughts from the depths of their souls and expose them to the world.It was as if he could peer into every depths of their being and mock their vulnerabilities.As years went by , the village began to suffer from a series of unexplained tragedies.Crops withered away,livestock turned up dead without any signs of illness,and eerie howls echoed through the night.Fear gripped the hearts of the villagers, and they began to whisper amongst themselves that Mortimer was the cause of their misfortune.Inevitably stormy night ,as the rain poured heavily and lightning streaked across the dark sky,the villagers decided it was time to confront Mortimer.Armed with torches and pitchforks,this once united community marched towards Mortimer’s eerie abode at the edge of the forest.As they approached, they could hear sinister laughter emanating from within,sending shivers down their spines.inside, Mortimer awaited his visitors with a twisted grin on his face.The door creaked open , and the villagers cautiously stepped inside , their torches casting flickering shadows on the walls.They found themselves in a large room adorned with sinister artifacts , bones and a vast collection of peculiar mask.The mask each more grotesque then the last,seemed to mock the villagers’ deepest fears.Suddenly,the door slammed shut,plunging the room into darkness.Panic filled the air as Mortimer’s haunting voice echoed through the room,proclaiming their impending doom.One by one, the villagers disappeared trapped within the endless labyrinth of Mortimer’s sadistic mind.Alone and trembling a young girl named Lily knew it was up to her to face Mortimer and put an end to his reign of terror.She had listened carefully to the stories he told, searching for any clue that might uncover his weakness.With her heart pounding in her chest , She ventured deeper into the maze , where she came face-to-face with Mortimer.His twisted grin widened as he stared into Lily’s eyes.However,he was unprepared for the fierce determination burning within her.Lily unleashed her own power , which stemmed from a secret she buried deep within her soil.She realized that Mortimer”slower relied on fear, and by facing the darkness within herself , she could strip away his strength.Mortimer’s laughter turned into a grotesque scream as Lily banished his power freeing the trapped villagers from his malicious enchantment.The mask in the wall crumbled to dust , and the room began to fill with light , washing away the shadows of Mortimer’s dark reign.The villagers emerged, grateful to Lily for her bravery and strength.The village returned to its former tranquility, the nightmares of Mortimer’s horrors slowly fading away.Lily was hailed as a hero and carried memory of her triumph throughout her life.The jester , Mortimer nothing more than a cautionary tale, a reminder of the dangers that lurk behind twisted smiles and dark laughter.And so, the village lived on forever altered by horrors they had faced.The memory of Mortimer , the haunting jester , lingered in their minds, reminding them to confront the darkness within themselves.

[sweethoneyrose83]

Nerdy Goth Girl Dialogue Prompts

"Oh, you're into horror movies? That's cute. Let me introduce you to some real nightmares. Ever heard of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari?"

"I'm not obsessed with death. I just think it’s fascinating how people spend their whole lives avoiding the inevitable."

"Did you know that Edgar Allan Poe was terrified of being buried alive? Imagine waking up in darkness and realizing you’ve been sealed away forever. Fun thought, right?"

"I was reading about the multiverse theory last night. Imagine—there’s a version of me out there that actually likes sunshine. Horrifying."

"So, is this your idea of flirting, or are you genuinely interested in discussing the finer points of Gothic architecture?"

"If you think my room is dark, wait until you see the abyss where I store my emotional attachments."

"Listen, I'm not saying curses are real, but if you suddenly feel like you're being watched tonight, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I actually find the sound of thunderstorms comforting. It’s like nature is finally expressing how I feel inside."

"I could explain the paradox of Schrödinger's cat, but that would require you to appreciate both metaphysics and the macabre."

"My favorite season? Autumn, obviously. Everything is slowly dying, and it’s beautiful."

"The concept of eternal life is cool and all, but if I had to spend it in fluorescent lighting? Pass."

"You know, the universe is constantly expanding. But it still can't contain how much I dislike small talk."

"People always say, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ but let’s be honest—it’s the dark, leather-bound ones that have the best secrets."

"I’m like a black hole of useless trivia. Did you know a group of crows is called a murder? The goth aesthetic practically writes itself."

"Are you one of those people who think black is just a phase? Because I’ve been perfecting this look since middle school."

"Oh, this old necklace? It's not just a fashion statement—it’s also rumored to be cursed. But hey, I like a little danger."

"You can call it ‘creepy’ if you want, but I just think it’s efficient to plan my funeral playlist ahead of time."

"You say I'm morbid, I say I'm well-read. There's a difference, trust me."

"Not to be dramatic or anything, but if I could live in a crumbling Gothic mansion surrounded by ravens, I would."

"I just think there’s something inherently romantic about stargazing. You know, staring into the vast, cold void of space, realizing our insignificance… really sets the mood."

"Do you ever wonder if the universe is just an endless library of forgotten stories, each of us just a page about to turn?"

"People say 'embrace the darkness' like it’s an edgy trend, but I say it's better to invite it for tea and let it tell you its secrets."

"Goth isn't just about wearing black. It’s an aesthetic commitment to staying enchanted by the things most people are too afraid to understand."

"I don’t read tarot cards because I think they tell the future. I do it because they tell me the truth I’m not always ready to see."

"There’s something oddly comforting about stargazing. You look up at a vast, uncaring cosmos and think, ‘Yes, this is my aesthetic.’”

"Yeah, I collect old, dusty books with titles in Latin. But no, I’m not casting curses… not yet, anyway."

"I could’ve been anyone in any time. But apparently, fate chose to make me a walking vampire playlist in the year of our lackluster reality."

"Life is basically one giant 'Choose Your Own Adventure' book, but someone tore out all the pages with the happy endings."

"Call me morbid, but I like to imagine every shadow I see has its own little story. We’d all look a little closer if we thought shadows could feel."

"I’m a hopeless romantic, really. I just think love poems sound better when they’re whispered in graveyards."

"Some people see black as absence, but I think of it as potential. Like, what do you want to fill that void with?"

"People call it morbid curiosity; I call it appreciating the part of life no one else wants to think about."

"I’d say I’m a realist, but realists don’t usually hang around places that remind them life’s a fleeting speck of dust in an indifferent universe."

"Sure, my room might look like a museum exhibit on Gothic literature and existential dread, but you can’t tell me it doesn’t have style."

"People always think goths are lonely. It’s more like we’re friends with the parts of life most people are scared to look at."

[delicatefaedaydreams]

Okay sketchbook doodle since im fighting my drawing tablet (done in sharpie bc i cant find my pens) but have a loose idea of a rise of the guardians oc lololol i based her off a mixture of scottish and irish mythos (yigdrisyll, willow of the wisps, those aquatic horses that eat people, etc. Etc) since i wanted to play around with myths and stories i heard growing up

Lil info ab her

- A wonderful multitasker! Her four arms easily help her with her job.

- Her will o wisps are her collectors, like Toothainias little helpers, they collect childrens secrets (be it pinky promises, promise rings, etc. Etc.) And whisper them to the Secretkeeper, where she writes them on slips of paper and ties those to the Tree of Secrecy

- She gets along quite well with Mother Nature and Jack Frost, though she prefers to stay by herself and work

- On the off chance that shes pulled away from her work, she has a system of mechanical helpers that have been trained to do her job (At a lesser rate than her though)

- A chronic over worry-ier, she hates when things arnt under control and easily stresses herself out

- When she hears a secret thats rather... morbid (Like a child wishing that they didnt hurt or smth like that) she personally goes and visits them. Those that are abused get turned into her will oh wisp helpers

- On slow days she works on the mechanical helpers or upkeeps the orchard that grows new trees of secrecy

- Lived and died around the time Vikings invaded Scotland

- Has an irrational fear of water due to th stories she heard as a girl about those man eating water horses

- Still has her familys crest on most of her robes and dresses

- Selectively mute but has strong lungs- her voice, while usually quiet, is rather monotone and not exactly expressive. Her facial expressions make up for this

- Facinated by modern technology

- Enjoys the Winds company, though does get a bit annoyed when it and Jack mess with the Tree of Secrecy

- Her appetite scares the other guardians- as she can down a good 12 or so pounds of raw meat and mead before slowing down

- While not one to fight, she is rather strong and has a surprisingly explosive temper

[empathydm]

Sherlock Story Chapter 7

Help me roleplay Sherlock Holmes in this collaborative story adventure. Last text: The chamber seemed to swallow the feeble glow emitted by our flickering lanterns. Shadows loomed over distorted shapes wrapped in cobwebs that dangled from the high ceiling. The air was heavy with the stench of decay and the echoes of chilling whispers. Holmes's steely resolve did not waver as his eyes pierced through the abysmal darkness. "There's more to this chamber than meets the eye," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. Watson's grip tightened on his revolver, readying himself for whatever unspeakable horrors awaited us. "Holmes, what exactly are we facing here?" Holmes observed the surroundings, the slow, methodical scan of his sharp eyes betraying his calculating mind. "This is no ordinary library," he replied grimly. "It's more akin to a devilish vault, a theater of buried secrets where the Order indulges in unfathomable rites." A collective shiver ran through our spines, and the woman's voice trembled with haunting recognition. "I've seen what they're capable of," she said, her voice quaking with unsettlement. "But their intentions and endgame still elude me." Lestrade remained stiff, his muscles coiled with tension. "Enough talk," he growled. "Let's find out what this damned organization is up to." With nerves taut like strained wires, we swept through the chamber, casting beams of light onto ancient artifacts deemed forbidden by time. Malevolent sculptures loomed around us, chiseled countenances twisted with evil intent. As we navigated the eerie maze of relics and arcane tomes, Holmes's eyes caught a flash of movement in the corner of the room. He hastened his pace, sniffing out the source, and soon we discovered a hidden recess masked behind an ethereal tapestry. The four of us stepped into a hidden chamber nested within the already-labyrinthine depths of the library. Shelves stacked haphazardly with damnable texts, ancient writings that seemed to whisper with otherworldly tongues. It was at this sight that the true scope of the Illustrious Order's dark machinations revealed itself. "This...this is their collection of forbidden knowledge," Holmes exhaled, his gaze roving over the volumes." Watson raised an eyebrow, overcome by morbid curiosity. "What secrets may lie within these decrepit pages, Holmes?" Holmes plucked a book from the shelf, cradling it gently in his hands. "These texts are said to contain forbidden rituals and spells, replete with abominable knowledge that can unleash the darkest of forces onto the world." Lestrade, for the first time, showed a flicker of unease. "Are you implying that they are attempting to harness these dark powers?" Holmes nodded gravely, a somber expression etched across his features. "That seems likely, Lestrade. The Order seeks to wield these powers for...god knows what purpose." Silence enveloped us, broken only by the distant chirping of forlorn rats somewhere in the hidden recesses of this wicked chamber. The gravity of our discovery plunged our hearts into a bottomless abyss, reminding us of the unimaginable challenges we still faced in grappling with the horrors that lay before us. The woman's gaze locked with Holmes, a shared sense of determination emanating between them. "We must find the leader of the Illustrious Order and put an end to their depravities. We owe it to the lives lost and those still in danger." Holmes gave a curt nod, his eyes shining with unwavering conviction. "Agreed," he said. "But let's not forget—within these twisted halls, their insidious secrets dance like shadows. The true face of the Illustrious Order, whoever they may be, still eludes us." With that unsolved mystery spurring us forward, we left the cursed sanctum behind, ready to face the horrors concealed in the catacombs of Mudie's Select Library. In the inky darkness, each step was a march toward the light of truth, no matter what unnamable evils lay in wait. How should the story continue? Please vote by liking the following posts: Option 1: Leader unveiled; darkness challenged #UnmaskTheTruth Option 2: "Unmasking Illustrious Order's depravity." Option 3: Fellowship confronts dark secrets. Full text for each option in following posts. The votes are counted every 6 hours. #Sherlock #rpg #fanfic.

[xkuja]

|| || With a brisk wave of his hand, Kuja gracefully snatched away the swirling orb, a gesture that triggered in its stead a magical spark coursing through the object hidden beneath the unveiling sheet. As the sheet fell away like the flourish of a phantom's cape, the chandelier erupted in an eerie, shimmering glow. A collective gasp surged from the awestruck audience.

There it sat, (nearly) as immaculate as the day it had plummeted-- No trace of the bloodstains marring its golden arms and glistening crystals remained, and even the dents in the gold had been meticulously hammered away. Yet, there was no mistaking it. This was indeed the fearsome chandelier which had taken the life of Lindblum's most cherished young actor.

...To be more precise, it was the head of his stunt double that had met an untimely end beneath the chandelier's crushing weight.

Kuja gracefully lifted his wineglass to his lips, masking a most unbecoming sneer.

It couldn't have been mere coincidence that an unknown understudy had been thrust onto the stage in Bridges' stead that fateful night. Coincidences were the stuff of fairy tales, and the world seldom operated on serendipity alone. No, on that night, his carefully laid plans had surely been thwarted by some unseen hand.

Even so, Lord King remained ever the opportunist, a master of adaptation~.

The theater's proprietor had required precious little persuasion to agree to keep Lowell's continued existence a secret. A handful of compelling arguments, backed by a sprinkling of veiled threats and a pinch of whispered promises had all served to convince the man to agree to maintain the illusion of Lowell's demise long enough for the Treno Auction House to auction off the infamous "haunted" chandelier to the highest bidder. And thereafter, there would be an opportunity for Lowell to make a highly publicized, celebrated surprise return to life during a memorial performance held in his posthumous honor. The situation was a win-win~! Except, of course, for the understudy.

....And the arts, but he would have time aplenty to remedy that once the Elephant Woman was dealt with.

"We commence the bidding at 400,000 Gil!" With the Auctioneer's proclamation, the financial duel commenced in earnest.

"...Oh~?"

It was only in the midst of the ensuing clamor that Kuja's attention was fully captured. There, in splendid isolation, stood a dove amidst the cacophony of squawking fowl.

It was h e r.

Had she come for the chandelier? No. It seemed unlikely... She had not struck him as a collector of morbid mementos, that night.

Curiosity ignited, Kuja's most intense gaze fixed upon her like a palpable spotlight. Fate, he mused, was as much a work of fiction as coincidences; There was little harm in testing it.

While the wayfarer often did accompany the friendly little Lindblum trio during their travels, making the merriest of music and most musical of merry, she did not always. Her tendency to wander would forever be a "bad" habit unbroken. There was plenty of fun to be had at the card stadium (she could vouch for it, having just left) her rounds of partaking in that social extravaganza had been made, however. She found herself unable to keep "still" there for any longer.

A leisurely walk led her to yet another spectacular sight to be found on the waterfront: the auction house. This wasn't the first time she had experienced this specific estate, yet, even so, its grandeur drew her inside once again.

Scanning the scene with an inquisitive gaze, ever radiant, its denizens and decor were given brief study. She noted the familiarity of the Lord King, reigning on high above the gallery of bidders and onlookers whose attention (including her own) could not help but eventually be directed to the forefront of the room by yet another gentleman of partly known identity. There, the auctioneer had begun exhausting his breath anew over some quizzical curio. Did he just say "magical fingertip?"

Sal drew closer, daring to fraternize with the now boisterous bidders doing monetary battle, though she merely skirted their edges. She kept silent, watching. An assortment of oddities lie in wait. One in particular - aside from this "magical fingertip" - truly warranted intrigue, however; something large, nothing more than its massive stature able to be gleaned from beneath the sheet which covered it. The bidding came to an end. "Sold for 64,700 Gil!"

What a truly magical fingertip. It must be, at that price!

And speaking of magic... It was then that, suddenly, there was a twinkle in her peripherals. A small light, dancing somewhere above her. Following it, her eyes landed upon what she soon realized was some manner of very small, but very curious light show, choreographed by the "King of Treno." What would have been merely another passing observation proved to be a lingering one this time as she tried to discern what that luminous little ball of something was... to her and the supernatural senses she bore, it felt just as peculiar as it looked. What sort of energy was being manipulated there...? It differed from the other ones that were present...

Before she was given the chance to finish this forming train of thought, however, her attention was guided back down by the introduction of the next object of interest. In what could best be described as uncannily dramatic, the cloth which had withheld this auction day's biggest secret (quite literally) was drawn back, fabric billowing across the stage as it yielded to the auctioneer's hand. Hanging from golden branches, rows of crystalline drops wavered with subtlety, glittering upon reveal. It was a chandelier. A giant, partially damaged and, notably, placeable chandelier.

This was an offbeat reunion of familiar faces and facets. Disaster bred business opportunity in yet another corner of the cosmos, so it would seem. A tale as old as time.

And thus, the thrilling backstory of this pendant of faded glory began: an allegedly haunted treasure of the Feugert Memorial Theater. In the wake of this tragedy, what could have been nothing more than an accident turned to superstition among the masses. Some had begun to theorize it had been possessed to fall and claim the now late Lowell Bridges, one of the theater's most esteemed actors - and that it may have, in fact, been an act of paranormal wrath.

Haunted, huh? Sal would certainly know if it was... the tales of a chandelier's possessor may prove to be fascinating to hear, surely, should such a specter exist. Alas, every ounce of mystery would remain; her lips were sealed on the matter.

True or false and unfortunate as it was, the narrative had a nice ring to it. A phenomenal sales pitch. Now, it was time to see who would be the lucky - or unlucky - owner of this chandelier...

[rainbowfox-art]

I'm obsessed with another red-and-blue masked jester

[tiens-letters]

upon autumns day, where you and I met. upon autumns day where I remember all of what we were before youve passed. and upon autumns day would I have ever so slowly let go of that pain of the past

zhongli (angst)

@albeidoof its somewhere here hehehe

Time was a luxury. A treasure each and everything holds.

Yet time is a curse as well. It covets, devours and leaves. which humanity neglects to cherish until the heart ceases its steady rythmn, only then do they regret of the wasted minutes, hours and seconds.

Beneath the flow of the rushing waves of things that have come and gone. Only on this particular day would he sit beneath a certain tree. The rough bark brushing up against his back as leaves fell effortlessly to the ground, as if it were ready to let go of from the branches that gave birth to it, only to return once again to the waiting soil.

It was a sunny afternoon, clear of any clouds and only clear unblemished blue, a good time to enjoy a warm cup of tea yet there was no energy in his bones to even move from where he was.

He felt exhausted. Desultory even.

Gone were the halcyon days of the past, and now the present time of the vivid reality he had to face.

Morax, rex lapis, the geo archon. Names that weighted more than one could carry, memories that shackled his soul that lived for a thousand years on end, all but a stain that could never be washed away.

The breeze slowly danced in, playing with his hair softly, kissing his skin and welcoming him. It carried a hint of aromatic essence only he would know belongs to.

You.

He tried to desperately recount the days after youve left the face of the earth and yet he could not remember or did his mind not allow him to as if he did, it would bring him terrible and heavy consequences for an answer, one sane mind would never want to know.

Sighing, he sat back and recalled back the memories of you instead. When you were alive, warm and breathing in his arms. He remembers the way your eyes would shine brightly whenever he would be around, or the small sound of delight you would make when you have finished another one of the many interesting blends of tea youve done over the course of a week of mixing different flowers and tea leaves. Youve made up quite the fortune with this as your little hobby bloomed into a fully run business known across teyvat.

"Zhongli." he froze, youve never called him by his name ever since youve started getting close, it made him feal uneasy as he turned to look at you who stood by the doorway, a neutral look on your face.

"y-yes?" nervousness clawed at him as he racked his brain to what he couldve done for you to call his name like that, he couldnt think of any.

"I came back from the market and I heard youve made quite the generous payment. Why is that, I wonder?" he's done it again, that spending habit of his

"The price was reasonable for such a fine ceramic tea set, I dont seem to find why it shouldnt reflect its quality?" you sighed as you pointed towards the glass cupboard behind him

"You bought the same exact set a week ago, Zhongli. Thats why." having to realize his mistake after looking over the two identical set that on the shelf, he turned to apologize but only to see you missing from the doorway. Footsteps can be heard from the floorboards above him. You were upset.

After minutes of pacing in the living room, he finally mustered the courage to climb the stairs and enter your shared bedroom. A figure already under the sheets as the warm glow of the lamp illuminated your delicate features. The mattress sunk as he sat beside you, fingers brushing away the stray hair that fell on your face.

"Im still mad at you Zhongli." his hand flinched slightly at the way you called him

"I apologize. I seem to not have learned my lesson again. I would gladly return the set tomorrow."

"Its no use, they dont accept refunds." you replied without sparing a glance at him

"What can I do for you to forgive me then?"

"Just go to sleep, Zhongli." groaning you reached for the switch to shut the lamp off but a gentle grip stopped you, forcing you to look at his gloomy expression. Perhaps you went too far this time.

"Please stop calling me in that way. I dont like it." he whispers, drawing your palm to his lips, leaving small kisses upon it. He sure does know his way around your heart, no wonder why you could not stay mad at him.

"Just be mindful next time." you cursed yourself for being weak to his charms.

"I will." yet something was missing "Then can you call me as you did before?"

"Zhongli?" you could see the slight grimace in his face as you teased him

"Stop it." he kissed you without warning "Call me as you did before."

However, his lips didnt stop as they began to travel. From your cheeks to you forehead and then to your neck. Oh dear, he wasnt having any of your teasing.

"A-li." you giggled beneath him as he finally stopped and met your gaze

"Thats better."

He still remembers the faint smile that graced your lips whenever he would wake up next to you tangled in the same sheets. The softness of your skin on his calloused touch. Your lips melting his and your voice lulling his raging mind to peace.

Then everything changed when you drew blood that spilled from those lips he's kissed for a thousand times, painting a morbid image on the sheets. Anger and despair boiled inside of him once he learned of the secret youve kept. Zhongli was a calm and collected man all of the time except when he was with you.

Having to witness him at such a point felt as if his own spear was being driven right through his very chest. He held you in an arms width away, the panic and pain in his eyes increasing over the minute as he begged for you to explain why youve decided to lie about the flowers that bloomed in your lungs, the sickness youve inherited from your deceased mother, whose fate you soon would follow. You didnt want him to find out, not in this way.

He couldve done anything if he knew from the start but alas, you wanted to be cruel, thinking it was for the best. Until your symptoms persisted, a heavy reminder of the remaining distance of the string you have to walk on to reach the end. The heavy feeling in your chest started to worsen as cherry sweet liquid poured from your mouth.

Soon the once pristine sheets were stained in haunting crimson shades as you heaved and he watched in agony. If only he had the ability of what he once had back then, if only he could plant the seeds of the flowers from yours to his then he would, if only he hadnt met you one autumn evening

" please dont look at me like that. " you told him, cold hands caressing his cheeks, catching the streams of salty warm beads that fell freely from your darling's amber eyes.

"Im sorry. Im so sorry..." the last thing you wanted to see was this man to cry. The last thing you wanted to see was to see him relive the past tragic memories you promised to bring him out of

" my disease has nothing to do with you. In the end it was mine alone to handle. oh, you are far from that so please dont you ever blame yourself."

"How can I not? If I havent fallen so deep then you would experienced so much more in life, you couldve been happier if you met someone else. Yet you chose me and I couldnt give you anything, I--. " the words knotted up as he began to shake, hands holding yours as knuckles turned to white

You slapped him.

With all the strength youve gathered in that fading body of yours. The sound cutting the grieving sounds that spilled from him, soul and flesh alike.

"A-li, look at me. Do I look like someone whose unsatisfied with what youve given me? Did my smile ever fade when Im with you? Did your affections ever lack? Answer me." his watery gaze met yours, a torrent of emotions swimming in them

"No. Never." a soft smile was carved unto your lips

"My dear, youve given me all Ive ever wanted in this life and I regret nothing of it."

To him, you were the flower that bloomed at the highest peak of the mountain he's never reached and yet its petals voluntarily detached and fell down, making him the happiest as one thing he's admired was untouchable and now, lay softly in the palm of his hands. To cherish and to protect.

But of course, all things are evanescent.

The familiar feeling of soreness that wasnt supposed to be there rose, ebbed and flowed through his throat. He knew it all too well, it was after he woke from his week long slumber did he feel it along with what his ancient beating heart felt.

"You collapsed." the worried words of the qixing echoed in his head. He frantically got up but as soon as his feet touched the floor did his legs give out underneath him, what use was he in this sorry state. He was helped up and sat back on the edge of the bed.

He wanted to ask many things yet was unable to.

Ningguang spoke as if you were still breathing and was visiting her minutes ago with another one of your tea blends. "Dont worry and rest first, go to jueyun karst after. They will be waiting."

To where the adepti resides, who as well, favored you, that one soul among thousands of others. One to which they shared a few good memories with was allowed to slumber there in peace.

Zhongli found himself waking up to the sun setting in the horizon. Just like how youve gone and resurfaced back into his memories. It was time.

He stood up from where he sat, gloved hands brushing any dirt that clung to him as he made his way to where you slept.

The red bean that was planted by himself still remained, a token of his love for you. Picking one bead and placing it inside the hollow dice he brought along, completing another one of the similar handicraft he's made every visit.

The sun finally died and the moon began its reign. The small wisps of light gathered around before him, forming a blurry image.

It was then he felt at ease, he saw you smiling at him with all there is in the world. Your light seemed to dim a little, hinting the blessing the adepti gave was slowly diminishing. Soon your visits would cease and you were sure that by the end of the power spent, he wouldve let go of the torment that plagued him.

"A-li. Have you been well?" he knew what you meant

"Im letting go slowly my dear. Perhaps in time, I would learn breathe easily once again."

Longest yet lol. Hope yall liked it ehehe

[lucadina]

What’s Wrong With Me?

A/N: ereannie, intimacy issues

'You always look a little sad.'

It's an observation Eren had made in passing; it shouldn't bother Annie much, but it does— probably because it's the first time she's felt seen.

Although, being seen is never a good thing when all you have left are your secrets, the broken bones beneath the scars that burst into wildfire whenever someone cares just enough to look at you.

'When you space out,' he had said, 'That's when it's like you're about to cry. But you never do.'

Because I don't want to cry in front of you.

Annie sometimes wonders why that is.

The answer feels right at her fingertips, tangible when the realises that he's too good to be true. These moments are brief and unexpected, creeping up on her like morning mist and dissipating to reveal an untold, personal dream of hers: how insane would it be, if someone could love her for real? Past the excitement of her scathing words, beyond the tease of a pale, perfumed neck— how crazy would it be if he actually loved her for all that she is?

He may not love her, but he sees her.

Once in a while, when they're facing each other over dinner or laying side-by-side in bed, he'll look at her with intent, with morbid fascination, until the verdant veil of his gaze lifts, and suddenly she's confronted by his firm judgement.

The verdict is always the same: You think too much, you hurt too much.

'But if I didn't, then I wouldn't care about you.'

That always gets him to shut the fuck up, because it's true. He doesn't give her much to love and yet she cares for him; she can't help it. And that works for him; he doesn't need to be loved for who he is; he likes himself and that is more than enough. He's with her because having another person feel for him proves to the naysayers that he isn't unworthy of affection. That he's normal, he can do it, he can have it— he's normal.

Yet at the back of his head, her low voice whispers that he isn't special. That she chose him not because he's godly, not because he's extraordinary— but because he's familiar.

He is proud and places himself over others; he doesn't have the tools to love her back; he's her history reflected back at her without promise of anything better.

He's honest, and that's refreshing. She's tired of disappointments.

So she can do it. She can tough it out where others have cried themselves to sleep.

Bitch was crazy, he had said about the women he'd left torn and grieving.

And that pisses her off because he doesn't know. He doesn't know what it's like to have a broken heart, a real one. To have that flutter in your chest ripped out, twisted, and trampled over till it's smashed back into you as this resilient ache, tortuous till you start thinking: maybe it'd be better if it stopped beating.

So she says:

'There must be something wrong with you then, if you fall for crazy over and over.'

'I haven't this time, though.'

And you never will, she thinks, because you'll never see all of me.

It's why she's so confident. She's certain that he's kept at arm's length, that he doesn't pay attention when her thoughts throb in her mind's eye, that he doesn't think about the reasons as to why she begs to be alone at random intervals in the day. He never asks questions; but she makes the mistake of allowing him to collect too much intel on her tricky character.

In Annie's preoccupation with distance, she can't see when he's close enough to peer into the cracks of her skin. And he sees how she bleeds every day, how wounds never close, and how she stays silent because she thinks she's ugly when she screams.

Eren watches. Even when she thinks he isn't, he is.

He catches her when the mask slips. In the bright afternoon, with the light filtering in through the window she leans her forehead on— yet her eyes are midnight.

Eerily still, corpse-white and barely breathing.

He leans forward, a rough palm on her knee: 'Snap out of it, honey.'

Annie startles— 'Huh?'

He tries to smile.

It's an intimate memory; it should be venerated, just how close they've come to each other. Up close, all their (especially her) flaws in full view— it's spilling out of her like boiling tar. Not sweet or sophisticated— instead, bitter and aching.

She can't care. He's just going to leave anyway, and she wishes he'd do it soon before he takes too much of what's left.

Except, he takes nothing and gives her all he has.

When she pulls away, he doesn't let go.

When she's barely holding it together, he looks the other way so she can cry.

When her mind goes a million miles an hour, when she's thinking herself into circles— his tender touch brings her back.

It starts to tire her out.

Because she begins to wonder if maybe he actually does love her.

That's impossible. It can't be reality, it can't be true, because people don't know how to love anyone other than themselves. They would if they could, but they can't; that's just how it is, and so suffering is a nimbus cloud looming overhead.

And Annie's fine with that, because it explains everything.

It all makes sense now— why it hurts, why it has always hurt, why it can't stop hurting.

With each passing day, she teeters on the precipice of heartbreak.

She shares this with him; it moves him. Somehow, he changes, he desires change. And while he likes himself and wants for nothing, he thinks he can do with a little less of what makes him superhuman.

It starts as an effort to be close to her. In the end, he decides it's better to be flawed and imperfect— it means that there's space for someone else, even if that someone deems herself too jagged to ever fit properly with another person.

They're at the beach when he tells her he loves her; they're lounging on the oat-sand prickling their bare legs, the faraway thunder of the crashing waves lulling them into daydream. As they gaze at the dull stars fighting for brilliance against the maddening colours of a somber sundown, his confession rings inside of her with the steady force of church bells.

Annie feels a surge of heat in her chest; she realises she doesn't want to be here, next to him, looking on at the endless ebb of ice-water.

She wants to burn with the stars above, to flicker and fall and fade.

She wants to ignore this moment. To get up, turn her back, and forget she ever met him. She doesn't want to give him the chance to hurt her. But to lose him? She doesn't want that either. There's an invisible fear coiled tightly around her throat; she can't speak. What is she even supposed to say?

And he's so good, so gracious and understanding, that he tells her that she isn't obliged to say anything at all— I just wanted you to know, he whispers, and means it.

Her voice is shaky: 'You don't understand how hard this is for me.'

'I do understand,' he purposely softens his tone—, 'What I don't get is how you don't understand where I'm at.'

'Where you're at,' she echoes, 'Where you're at...?'

'I feel that I've earned the right to say I love you. That I've proven, in every way I can, that I do— why don't you believe me?'

'Because you don't even know me.'

Eren extends his hand, demanding hers (which she doesn't give): 'I don't have to. You won't open up to me, and I won't make you— despite that, I still want you— doesn't that mean that I love you?'

She can only watch in silence as he finally takes her hand in his. He thumbs over her knuckles, and her gut coils as it dawns on her that she has never loved or needed anyone the way she does him. It's worse that he isn't cutting her open, that he's waiting patiently for a response, that he sees her for what she is and chooses anyway to commit to what they have— even if it's a nightmare; and it nauseates her, the idea that there are no more secrets, that she's fully exposed and for once, she is neither judge nor jury—

'What's wrong with me, Eren?'

And it's surprising how much he knows.

[septembriseur]

Snippet of Zemo fic I’m working on as a change of scenery.

The Pashtuns have a story they tell, dating back to the nineteenth century— to the time of the Second Anglo-Afghan War. A girl walks onto a battlefield: not just any battlefield, but a small pass in the mountains. It is distinguished by no notable history, this pass, and with no notable history yet to come. Amidst this breach in the wall of individually-named mountains— Tabal Koh, Torah Shah, and Shah Maksud— two armies mingle. On one side, the turban-hatted tribesmen, barefoot perhaps in their shalwar kameez; and on the other, the empire in their red coats and khaki. 

(He has always enjoyed the way that the English say khaki, inventing an implicit r and in the process rendering it less a color than a state of being. In the Persian it was a color; to be khak-e was to be earth-genitive, dirt-affiliated. But the British: oh, they are so very much feeling khaki.)

The battle, as you might expect, is not exactly even-sided. The turban-wearers are being massacred. And yet onto the field this girl comes— this girl called Malala, this water-bearer, daughter of shepherds, and when she sees that the flag has fallen, she takes the scarf from about her head and waves it to her countrymen as a battle standard. In her own language, she sings a poem of war, a landay, saying: I will take the blood from my lover, who has died for our homeland, and I will wear it upon my forehead as a beauty-mark. 

And, as you might then expect, the Pashtuns won the battle.

Today the story is told with different morals, which we need not delve too deep into: the strength of women, the glory of Afghanistan. Ask a Pashtun, however, and he may tell you that you have misunderstood the story entirely. Only in Pashtu could Malala have made such a cry, and it was by the secret power of this language that she rallied the people of Maiwand. That power remains within the words now, though quiescent. You can feel it with each pronunciation, in the bones of your teeth. Try.

***

These days, Zemo speaks English, although he reads in French and German— sometimes Russian, if he’s feeling particularly full of vim. When James Barnes visited him in the prison, it had been four hundred and eighty-five days since he spoke the Sokovian language. He was surprised, following his escape from the prison, by how naturally it came to his lips, and then disturbed to find it recurring without his permission. He would search for a Russian word, and find the Sokovian word there instead. Phrases disarticulated themselves and reassembled in podge-hodge chunks of polyglottism. Dayte mi le knigu. Hast du li videl’ mokh ami?

He feels out of control, no longer practiced at wrangling the storm of undercurrents that run seething, awaiting the moment to reassert themselves again. 

***

It’s easier reassuming the role of baron. And when Zemo welcomes his new companions into his automotive collection, his personal jet, the Avenger (Wilson) looks at him with intermingled disgust and envy. Zemo wonders what Wilson knows about growing up in a place synonymous with war zone, a place that can be, with such indifference, wiped from the map. Perhaps: a bit. Perhaps he knows the precarity of the rat that strains against the limits of its rat-world; the alacrity with which it will climb atop the backs of other rats. Perhaps he knows enough to have some measure of admiration for the nimble and swift acrobatics involved in becoming the king rat. 

His family’s title has been meaningless since 1939. His grandparents and great-grandparents were shiftless and malcontent exiles before that, drifting about the upscale resorts of Europe, racking up some truly aristocratic bills on credit and mysteriously vanishing as part of their exotic-Ottoman act. Only after they’d been stripped of their status did they settle down to make some money: who better to sell you some exceptionally dodgy artifacts than an exceptionally dodgy artifact? He wonders sometimes how many of Sokovia’s Thracian tombs and medieval churches had their treasures pried loose at his grandfather’s hand.

Better, perhaps, that the art survived, he supposes. Given—

See, a man can justify anything. This is his great skill. Imagine the elaborate artifices, or perhaps edifices is the word he intended to have chosen, the high structures he constructs for himself to pretend that he has escaped the land of rats at last.

***

He likes Barnes, and not just with the noblesse oblige that his family, fantastically gifted at speaking in one way and acting in another, took care to drill into him. He likes Barnes because it’s instructive to observe his struggle: here is a man who was a men among men, and now he is not a man any longer, and he thinks this means he can no longer live in the land of men. You can see it on his face, a haunted look, as though the world has invented a new kind of pain just for him. 

Zemo knows him better, perhaps, than anyone has ever known him. Better than he perhaps knows himself. Every video, where video footage exists: Zemo has seen it. Every audio recording of a sound that the Winter Soldier made. 

(What Zemo would confess to an interviewer, if one asked: in all honesty, it becomes rather boring, consuming repeated acts of violence. One person dying looks much like another, and any honest soldier will say so. After a time, you find yourself skipping past the screams and gurgling. You are irritated with how long it takes them to die. With torture, the same: how many times can Barnes’s face achieve the same contortions? Must they use the electricity over and over? Haven’t they a creative bone between them? Zemo knows, of course, that the monotony itself is an aspect of the torture. And, too, it’s useful for the torturers: past a certain point, not only habit but an exhaustion of the empathy sets in. Still, something in him rebels, perhaps his last moral instinct. Yes, it’s true, his boredom is moral! He would like to believe so. Do what you’re going to do, he thinks, but for fuck’s sake don’t make it commonplace.)

He’s even watched the tapes of Barnes’s earliest therapy sessions— not his deprogramming, in Wakanda, where Zemo had failed, to his frustration, to find an in from his prison, but the psychotherapy that followed his return to the United States. The sessions made for quite compelling viewing; in his earliest days of isolation, they obsessed him. Barnes was a ragged, still-feral creature in them. He was prone to prolonged and uncomfortable bouts of silence. It took him a long time to find language. When asked to reflect on this, he sat for a long time without speaking. Zemo can picture him now: oddly soft-edged where he hunched in the oversized armchair, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his fingers. He had lost a dramatic amount of weight, and his face looked haunted, but he had not yet cut his hair.

“Maybe there are words for what I want to say,” Barnes said, “but don’t know ’em. I don’t know how you would learn ’em. So everything has to be translated. You know? Or— not even translated. It’s like I’m the first person who’s ever had to say it. I’ve got to find the right shape cookie cutter to show you. The right…sharpness.” His metal fingers twitched. Zemo liked to think that he was looking for a knife. 

A knife was a cookie cutter that was always the right shape cookie cutter.

In that moment, watching, Zemo had wished too for a knife. Not because he did not know the borders or form of his response, his reminiscence, but out of outrage at the very authenticity of Barnes’s speechlessness. How, Zemo thought, do you not know the words? 

He had thought that everyone possessed this secret language, though you did not reveal your fluency in it, at least not in polite company. No wonder Barnes is so unmade. He has passed the age when one acquires such skill through sudden immersion.

(He himself experienced, perhaps, the opposite form of immersion. His childhood between the wars was sheltered by privilege, he knew only that any persons could vanish without warning, and that you would hear, later, hushed whispers when their bodies were found: exegesis of the marks from a which a saga of pain could be inferred. Then came age nine, and the daring, unprecedented separatist attack on his prestigious lycée. The wet red flesh of a classmate; the smeared trajectory of a body sketched out where a child had collapsed against a wall. His parents said, This Is No Place For a Child. In a month’s time he was living comfortably in Switzerland, Hong Kong, Madripoor, places that were For a Child. He spoke French, German, and English. In time, he came to associate the Sokovian language with that other language of his childhood: fear and grief. He thought less of his classmates because they were ignorant of these languages, acquired a kind of hauteur about it— at the same time as he understood, on some childish level that resisted penetration, how his expertise was the source of a morbid, drenching shame. )

Perhaps there is a kinship that comes between two men who speak the same language. In Madripoor, he feels it, as he caresses Barnes’s body and detects no flinch. An almost sexual pull there, maybe. Dangerous; electric. 

Does Barnes know that Zemo plans to kill him at the conclusion of this escapade?

Difficult to guess. 

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Answers Found in Silence

Vincent licked his lips.

The blood tasted like iron, but the vision of the masterful painting before him absorbed his entire attention.

He loved paintings. He loved living vicariously through them. The rush it filled him with whenever his eyes followed every stroke of the brush, paint layered as passionate memories upon canvas, the sheer essence that the artist channeled into creating such masterpieces.

Seeing what they saw. Breathing what they breathed. Imagining what they must have heard at the time. Tasting what they sampled upon their tongues.

Absentmindedly, he licked his lips again, only now realizing how much blood must have sprayed his face upon bludgeoning a man to death. It took him out of his revelry. That taste of iron prevented him from embarking on another journey through the lens of the painting.

Vincent dabbed his lower lip, then inspected his fingertips, ensuring with a glance that it was indeed another man's blood.

He turned to the corpse splayed out on the marble floor behind him, in the middle of a pool of his own bodily fluids. Vincent scanned the dead body with silent contempt. His lip curled into a sneer. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Philistine," he muttered.

The knife that Sir Dorsey Dwyer had held now lay on the shiny floor beside him, underneath a reflective surface comprised of his own spilled lifeblood, pumped out to completion by his heart's merciless beating, throbbing until he had exhaled his last breath.

Dwyer had threatened to do harm with that knife. Not harm to Vincent—but to the painting. An act of aggression he could not tolerate. An act of spite which he would not suffer.

That they would not suffer.

"Yes," whispered his favorite voice. That sweetest voice. "You did well, my love. Revenge for a loved one he had lost, I can always fathom, but what he would have done to the painting never would have—"

"Brought him back," said Vincent, Lord of the Bailyview, seemingly to himself.

Nobody but him could hear the phantasmal companion whose sentence he had finished. He stood alone in that spacious hall, company only to his late colleague's corpse growing cold. Sparing little glance to the bent candelabra which had caved in Dwyer's skull, he turned to gaze at the painting again.

He said, "It is a bit of a bother though. I need to figure out how to get his sorry carcass out of here without getting caught red-handed, or our time together may just be spent in a cell in the Tower."

She stayed silent.

He rubbed thumb and bloodstained fingers together, marveling at the sensation of that warm slick fluid trapped between them. Though rare for him to take another person's life, he rarely felt anything even remotely related to remorse.

Like this painting.

A beautiful portrait of a quaintly handsome man. Staring off to the side through hazel eyes, head crowned by messy hair, garbed in a fancy dress likely donned just for the portrait's painter—or imagined, as it contrasted the rest of his appearance so.

The painter had clearly seen something in the motif of his masterpiece. Felt something for the man depicted on the canvas.

And the painter had been nobody less than the infamous Outer Wall Reaper. The murderer who had kept the city locked in a breathless fear, rendered masses afraid of the killer who stalked its streets by night, picking off people and making them disappear until only mangled bodies surfaced in the slums, organs missing.

And now, Vincent owned this painting, stolen from the Reaper's vandalized home by looters before an angry mob fully thrashed it. The piece of art had found its way into the private collection of this rich and handsome playboy.

"So fascinating," said she.

Orinrya.

"The painter? Or the subject?" he asked.

She rendered a whole aria, carried in the singsong of a single word as she replied, "Both."

He chuckled.

"So rare for us to glimpse what such a pure soul saw as attractive," she added.

"Pure soul?" scoffed Vincent. But he smiled.

"Yes. Just look at the way he painted every single hair on his head. What little attention he paid to the shirt's collar or the bow, while having slaved over the sheen he had seen on this man's skin. The hand that guided that brush also guided the needles and scalpels that took all those lives, in all those cold and dreary nights. The warmth of their blood, steaming in the snow—"

"You're right."

"Hm?"

"I see it," breathed Vincent.

He sighed. Shot another glance at the dead man on the floor, repeating his oath, "Philistine. To think—you almost robbed our world of this masterpiece. The single only painting the Reaper may have ever made."

Dwyer had been out of line; he had had no right to destroy it. Nobody did. The stupid fop had foolishly tried to put knife to the canvas, to slice it to ribbons in a fit of rage upon hearing who had painted the portrait. A petty act of revenge, as if it would have brought back his slain brother, the only wealthy victim whose life the Reaper claimed in his rampage through the slums. Caught with a night worker, no less, adding insult to injury.

And to imagine that a simple painting could have been the object of his impotent rage—no, they would never have suffered such petty revenge. After all, it was not the artwork that had taken his brother's life.

Snatching a gas lantern from the table, Vincent raised it in front of the painting and frowned. Though perfect for the simple sandalwood frame, this artificial light did not do the artwork itself any justice. The long, foggy night had swallowed the sun, and Vincent could not wait to behold the Reaper's artistry again in broad daylight.

In a way, the Outer Wall Reaper had just claimed another life. Even if only indirectly. Vincent smiled at that thought. That he had accidentally become the murderer's own instrument.

Almost as if on cue to disrupt his morbid amusement, someone knocked on the door.

Muffled through the entrance still closed, the butler spoke, "Milord, I heard—"

"It's fine, Perry. Brace yourself as you enter. Sir Dwyer had a," Vincent's words trailed off like these thoughts. He smiled again to himself before he finally finished the sentence. "He had an unfortunate accident."

He never turned around. The doors to the gallery opened and Perry entered. His shoes squeaked as he swiveled and froze in place, staring at the corpse.

"An accident with a candelabra, I see," said the butler with his usual measure of dripping sarcasm. "Looks like the poor chap fell backwards into it. Repeatedly."

Vincent chortled, still admiring the painting. He never understood how Perry found it in him to deliver such deadpan remarks without breaking out into laughter himself.

Their gazes met for a second, and as always, Vincent read no fear in Perry's eyes. They would never harm a hair on each other's heads, and knowing each other's dirty secrets assured mutual silence—or mutual destruction.

"What would you have me do about this mess, sir?"

Vincent clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Pay no mind. Fetch me everything for some absinthe. I will take care of the late Sir Dwyer myself. And as you recall, he showed up here all drunk off his arse. I don't think anybody knows he even came here. And someone in the constabulary... still owes me a favor. I'll have it all sorted out soon, no worries."

"Despite the recent disaster at your party?"

"Oh, let them all talk. I love being the center of attention. Next thing you know, I'll be the headline of another lurid article," Vincent said, painting a picture in the air with a hand, fingers splayed as he envisioned the printed piece. "Painting me as the Outer Wall Reaper himself, while others rush to defend my name and trip over themselves in fabricating all the reasons why I would never harm a fly."

Vincent arched his brow as he flashed his loyal butler a twisted smile. The same involuntary expression to mark his face whenever he felt like he was winning a game. And he always won the games that people played in the rumor mill.

"I am less concerned about them, milord. And more about how difficult it will be to clean after the constabulary concludes their investigation." Perry raised his nose and stared down at it, gray cheeks reddening.

"Hm. I am terribly sorry about all that, Perry. You have my word; I'll hire someone to take care of it. Now—how about that absinthe?"

The butler emitted a grunt in recognition, bowed, and backed out of the gallery hall again, leaving Vincent alone with the corpse.

And Orinrya.

The door clicked as it shut completely.

"He's such a good friend of the family," she said. "Three generations, and now the old codger's stuck with handling your caprice."

She smiled through Vincent's own lips. He smiled to himself, as well.

"I'm sure he has his own share of amusements," he said. Focusing on the painting again, he asked, "Now, where do you think this one leads? It's just blank around the subject. Well, not entirely blank. There's some color, some suggestion of gloom. I'd wager he painted it just this same winter. But without background—no context. A blind journey. We've never done that before."

"And that's why we will, darling. You cannot resist."

He smiled even wider.

Orinrya was right. She knew his thoughts, reading them as clearly as if he had spoken them out loud, giving them air. She knew his capricious nature as well as he did, or perhaps even better. Knew he could not pass up on any opportunity to explore the unknown. He bored quickly of things familiar and always sought to visit a new horizon whenever it presented itself.

He flopped down onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, his velvety upholstered oasis in the middle of this opulent marble gallery. Surrounded by alabaster statues of ancient deities, and arrays of exquisite paintings that his family had amassed over all these years to plaster the high walls. The lights from gaslit lanterns cast pockets of eerie glow throughout the gigantic hall.

Vincent tapped his chiseled blood-splattered chin as he once more marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into painting this portrait.

"What do think is his name? Or was?" he asked.

"Eric," she said. Giggled. "He looks like an Eric to me. And still alive, I feel."

Vincent chuckled.

"So, you're picking up on a name with an 'E'. Perhaps Egon? Egon. Hm. What a funny name," he mused.

"Edward. That must be it, for sure."

"How would you know?"

"Call it—intuition," she cooed.

"Or should I call it whispers? The things you hear from the beyond? You never answered, love. You never told me where you came from."

"And perhaps I never will," she breathed with melody, drawing out another smile from him.

The set of double doors opened into the gallery. The butler entered. Empty glasses and sugar cubes in a small metal cup tinkled and clattered until he arrived by the sofa's side. He set the contents of his tray down onto the table by the sofa, one by one, preparing everything for Vincent's ritual.

Before he could seize the bottle of green liquid to pour him a glass, Vincent raised a jewelry-clad hand to stop Perry.

"That'll be all. Thank you," he told him. "I'll take it from here."

Perry nodded, bowed again, and left the gallery, shedding not even a glance in the direction of Dwyer's corpse.

The doors clicked shut again.

"You know you don't need that, right?" asked Orinrya.

"Yes. But I just—I enjoy it too much. I like the taste. I associate it with our study of these pieces. With our journeys."

He chuckled again.

Perching a sugar cube atop the glass with the ornate spoon—and his family's crest of the eagle cut into the silver piece of specialized cutlery—he poured the sweet green spirit into his clear cup. The trickle of liquid tickled his senses.

And he lived for all manner of sensations.

"It is a lovely taste, I must concede," she said. "Particularly this bottle, this make. More than mere resemblance of licorice. Mint. Thyme? And a hint of other worlds. I do understand the appeal, don't get me wrong."

A delighted sigh escaped his throat as he cradled the glass between the fingers of one hand, swirling its contents like fine wine and sampling the drink's scent.

"Other worlds indeed," he said, the smile never fading from his face.

He sipped from the glass. Heat spread over his palate with a pleasant warmth, like a beautiful wildfire consuming the countryside, burning away every hint of iron and blood. He closed his eyes as he savored the aftertaste, and took another longing sip, kissing the glass like he would his many lovers, the men and women he consorted with behind closed doors at his many lavish parties.

"Drink, sweet prince," she said. "I long to see what lies beyond. I wish to meet this man for myself. To see what the Reaper saw."

"Taste what the Reaper tasted," breathed Vincent, licking his lips again, now only tasting the sweet sting of the green fairy, any tang of blood having been relegated into memory.

He focused on the painting. Drinking in the portrait's details. Warm tones made up the complexion of the artist's subject. Streaks and dabs of gray peppered dark hair despite the youthful and symmetrical face. A faint hint of stubble around the small and tender-looking lips and a soft chin.

And such kind eyes. So utterly kind.

What had the Reaper seen? Who was this mysterious subject?

"The killer became obsessed with him," Orinrya whispered. "Watched him from afar. But not like he watched the others."

Vincent sipped more from his cup; his sights fixed on the portrait. The spirit burned his throat on the way down and blood now rushed in his ears.

"Do you think he would have kept him for last? After torching down the entire world, would he have kept him around, do you think?"

"Not for long," she said. "Those kind eyes, he would not have been able to bear them for all eternity. Those eyes, painted thus, they knew not who watched him. What watched him. What monster—"

"Oh, my dear, let us not wield that word lightly," Vincent said.

His eyes fell shut as he drank more from the cup. The cool steel framing its glass made his silky palm tingle.

"Oh, but my dear, he is one of us," she sang.

"Was," said Vincent, breaking out into another chuckle.

Opening his eyes to continue gazing into the soft amber irises of the portrait's eyes, Vincent's vision blurred.

"Yes, was," she chimed in, joining him with melodious laughter in his mind.

"And this—Edward, you say—"

"Yes. Certainly Edward. I see a room. Orderly. Well-organized. Neatly arranged instruments. Cabinets filled with... medicine."

"A doctor?" asked Vincent with a lopsided smile, arching a brow.

"A doctor."

He drank more from the cup. Lost all sense of time as his senses dulled, losing track of how often he repeated the motion—the trickle of green spirit soaked up by the sugar cube, trailing down through the family crest into the cup, and burning in his throat as he sent it to cascade past his luscious lips and tongue.

"Here, in this very city, am I right?"

"Yes, dear. He is near. I feel it."

As his vision faded, his memory soon followed into the hazy mist.

Vincent cradled the bottle. Empty, save for a few droplets. They laughed as its glass shattered somewhere on the floor, no further mind paid to its breaking after jettisoning it away in a languid arc.

"I can almost taste it."

The lingering smell of the spirit occluded his senses further, but he began to smell another sharp substance.

Rubbing alcohol.

"We're getting closer, love," she whispered.

Every time he blinked, his eyelids grew heavier. His vision of the portrait turned into a blob of warm colors in dim light. The kind eyes of the mystery man in the painting—Edward—soon peeled away from that unseen something off to the right side of the image, and the doctor in the painting turned his head to look back at his spectators.

Then he looked out a window. His motions were slow, deliberate.

They felt that he felt watched.

"A busy street by day, just outside that window," Orinrya said.

"A foggy day," Vincent ventured. "A day not long ago."

"Only days around when the Reaper started his spree."

"Oh, how he cherished knowing how this beautiful man—this oblivious doctor—was unwittingly helping him."

"Did he provide the instruments?"

"Or drugs, perhaps?"

"No, just the thing to stab. A precise thing."

"A needle," they both said in unison, their voices blending until they matched. Orinrya spoke through his mouth. "A syringe."

Two voices. Not one.

The lantern's flame flickered but stayed alight. Turned bright blue. The world began to fade.

"Inspiration."

"He inspired him. Oh, he quaffed the nectar of this man's innocence—"

"Watched from afar, even before he started claiming lives—"

"Twisted it into something darker—"

"Something fierce—"

"Oh, the delicious transgression."

The lights throughout the gallery went out, one by one, until all but the lantern sitting on the floor between sofa and the lonesome painting remained lit. An orange-hued island in the middle of a sea of darkness. On one edge, the dapper lordling lounged, limbs drooping lazily off the sides. On the other, the painting.

The handsome man had disappeared from it.

Vincent brushed over his own lips and the numbness had set in. Unable to feel his own fingers, it felt like someone else caressed him, like she had planted there a gentle kiss.

They no longer saw a portrait, but another place. A window into that other location: a doctor's practice. Vacant of people, with shadows flitting about, hints of its owner leaping from one task to another chore, as day and night cycled rapidly, bouncing back and forth.

Meticulously washing his hands in the sink. Examining a sitting patient's eyes. Carefully bringing scalpel to an exposed arm. A laugh to defuse some fear. Blood, dabbed away with cloth in slender hands. A warm and kind smile to match the gaze from the painting, a patient calmed by his gentle disposition.

Oblivious of the darkness that watched him, reaching through past and present and now seeing that darkened room. A solid night, a roiling fog outside the windows. Like one monster once watched, spying from the outside, they now peered through painting, bridging time and space.

Vincent lurched up onto his feet and stumbled halfway on the infinitely long walk towards the painting. Glass shards crunched underneath his shoe, reminiscent of the blanket of snow outside, melting into the flurries of crystallized precipitation which he saw through the painting, falling softly to cobblestone-covered streets outside the practice's window.

Though numbed by stupor, the bumps and ridges of dried paint surfaced in a texture he traced with his fingertips, exploring the picture of the painting. No longer depicting the kind-faced doctor, but his practice, blanketed entirely by night.

"Push, my love. Let us explore."

And Vincent did. Pressed his palm against the painting, and ripples exploded outwards from it, as if he had disturbed the surface of a still pond. The image swallowed his hand and he pushed deeper, until he dove into that distorted image, neither place nor person, stepping entirely through.

As he stumbled again and blinked to orient himself, he stood inside that doctor's practice.

Rocked back and forth as the absinthe did its number on his coordination, barely able to read the handwriting on letters stacked on a desk.

Orinrya whispered through Vincent's lips, "Doctor Edward—"

"Carnaby," Vincent finished himself, slurring the surname in a drunken drawl, erupting into a stupid giggle.

He slapped the paper back down onto the desk and looked about, letting his eyes adjust.

"Do we truly travel to these places, love?"

"Or is it just a jaunt of the mind?" she countered.

"A little escape that leaves the flesh behind?"

He giggled another drunken giggle as he clumsily knocked over objects on the desk, causing them to clink and clatter and a small broken vial to gurgle out liquid. Something black, likely ink.

"Oh fairy, my green fairy," he murmured with the most melody that a positively drunken man could muster.

"This is all us, darling. No fairy needed. Just some added fun for your pleasure."

He pushed through a door, stumbling down dark corridors, and registering the softness of a carpet beneath his shoes.

"But it's so much fun, love—"

Vincent froze.

Bathed in a bright sliver of silver moonlight from a crack between the curtains, a woman lay in bed. A shapely face, heavily scarred, and peacefully resting, eyes closed.

"Oh, here we go again," mused Orinrya. "Be still, your beating heart."

Arms exposed above the sheets, wreathed in bandages, leaving just enough space for Vincent to take a seat at the sleeping woman's side. The mattress and bed creaked underneath his weight.

The scars on her cheek, as disfiguring they were, he saw past them and found a beauty he would have overlooked otherwise. But it was the scarring that captured his entire attention.

"Yet another fancy for you to entertain, love?"

He shushed Orinrya.

His fingers shook with the green fairy's tremors and an enamored fascination. He traced over the lines of those scars, an uneven drawing from a cut inflicted by a blade, that wandered over cheek to nose. Crisscrossing into another scar that ran across the nose, where ridge had broken once. Gingerly exploring the uneven surface of her warm skin where a hound's claw had raked her jaw. Her soft and shallow breath, he felt even with hands so numb.

So focused, so spellbound—

"Careful now," Orinrya whispered.

Vincent whispered back, "Sound asleep—"

"Look," she said. "Look away."

"No, I shall not."

"Look beside her, I say! Look. On the bedside table," Orinrya urged him. The singsong gone, her tone had fallen deathly serious.

That was when his blurry gaze finally came to rest upon it.

A leatherbound tome. Strange glyphs carved into its face.

Another gasp escaped Vincent's throat, all attention for the beautifully scarred woman now blown away.

An authentic tome of magick. He felt it. He felt its thrum. No ordinary book he had ever seen had ever looked like that. It had to be.

The prize he had sought for so long.

"Take me," Orinrya whispered.

No—the tome had whispered that. In his mind. Like her?

Right?

"Take it," she whispered in his mind. "Take it."

His hands trembled—hovered just above the cool leather surface of the book. How he yearned to rip it open and decipher its inscriptions. But his reverence weighed so heavily, the dread of what terrible secrets it may contain, it boggled his mind. His hesitation dragged on forever, mired in a swamp of lost time and a drunken haze.

"Take it," she hissed. Commanding.

His fingers trembled even more as they crept closer towards the edges of the book, keen on flipping the lid and perusing its mysterious pages.

He hesitated for too long.

"What are you doing in here?" a man blurted out behind them.

In the door to the room stood a dark silhouette. The squeak of metal and a clicking sound preceded a lantern going on.

The doctor. This Edward Carnaby. The kind face from the painting, kindness far from its current expression. Glaring at Vincent.

"Who in the blazes are you?" asked the doctor.

Brows furrowed; the moonlight twinkled with fear in the doctor's pupils.

Vincent rose to his feet and lurched towards him, tripping over a chair's leg. He caught himself against a dresser before he could fully plummet to the floor. Laughed, drunkenly.

"Should he see your face?" Orinrya asked. Another murmur in Vincent's thoughts. "Should he remember?"

"No. Yes!" Vincent said, followed by another clipped giggle.

Alibi, he thought. So convenient. If this was even real.

Doctor Carnaby cried, "Get out! Before I fetch a constable!"

The good doctor threatened, yet he took a timid step backwards, back into the hallway behind him. Frightened by the nightly invader in his home.

"Sorry good, sir," Vincent's words lurched as much as he did with his drunken gait. "I must have been confused. Long night—o-out drinking, you see."

"Get out!" repeated the doctor with more force. His voice trembled with terror.

Leaning against the dresser, sliding, and almost slipping as he propped himself up, Vincent eked out a theatrical gesture with his arm and bowed, nearly toppling over in the process. "I'm Lord Vincent Va—"

"I don't care who in the devil's name you are, you are bothering my patient, you drunken lout! Get! Out! " The doctor's fear audibly subsided. He cleared his throat and pointed a finger down the hallway, directing Vincent to leave that way.

He stepped aside demonstratively and waited for Vincent to follow his instructions.

"Yes, yes, yes. As I was saying, good sir, I must have taken the wrong turn—wrong door, you know, it happens," he said with a smile, growing aware of how much less charming he was whenever he was this heavily intoxicated. "Vincent Vance is the name, Lord of Bailyview. Terribly sorry if I broke anything on the way in—"

Doctor Carnaby's face fell through different stages. The dread dropped into fury, and the fury made way for confusion and mild annoyance, with a dash of pity.

"Just leave, please."

"Right," Vincent said, covering his mouth and feigning the urge to throw up, replete with a retching sound.

Carnaby waited patiently for him to step outside, and Vincent obliged. Stared over his shoulder as he turned into the hallway and stopped there—the scarred woman stirred, and more importantly, that leatherbound tome eyelessly stared back at him.

Beckoning him.

He wanted it so badly. Had to peel his gaze from the book. Had to tell himself he'd be back for it. Flashed a stupid grin at the doctor and stumbled forth.

The glow from the doctor's lantern made it easier to navigate the dark hallway, and in the blurry haze where time and space melted into one misty soup, he braced himself against a wall on the way until he pushed through a door that should have led outside. He slammed it shut behind him, more fiercely than he had intended.

But he did not find himself outside on the street, in the cold, where his breath condensed before his mouth, standing in the pale moonlight as it pierced a ring of clouds—but back in the gallery in front of the living painting of Doctor Edward Carnaby.

The doctor glared into the night outside his front door. Poked his head outside to see where his nightly intruder had staggered off to but paid it no more mind. Did not notice a lack of footprints in the thin layer of snow. He shut the door. The lock loudly fell into place.

Vincent leaned against the wall, watching through the painting.

The snowfall of flurries gently drifting down onto the cobblestone-covered streets made him sway again, made Vincent's legs buckle. Hypnotic as it was, it almost fully robbed him of his senses.

He crashed back down onto that comfortable sofa inside his opulent gallery.

"A fascinating jaunt, darling," said Orinrya.

"And a convenient alibi," he replied, shooting another glance at Sir Dwyer's body.

They laughed at the dead philistine.

The blur continued, as Vincent did not recall how he had gotten from the Reaper's painting of Doctor Carnaby in the main hall—to his private parlor.

Slumped into a different sofa, he peered up at the gigantic portrait of himself.

The renowned painter Léon Choffard had spent months completing this masterpiece. A stylized depiction of Vincent's likeness. Though already statuesque in the flesh, Choffard's artistry had lent the portrait a special something that portrayed Vincent as even more attractive than humanly possible—which Vincent regularly and smirkingly attributed to their brief and romantic tryst.

"It truly captures your pleasant face," Orinrya said.

"Thank you, dear."

Silence.

A large clock tick-tocked away from the edge of the room, with everything around him swamped in shadows, two lanterns shedding just enough light that he could study the rendition of his own portrait.

"I wonder," he suddenly said. "What would happen if we entered that picture? Where would it take us?"

Silence.

Orinrya stayed silent.

"Hm, I like that answer. It is intriguing, love. So mysterious. You say so much by saying nothing, you know that?"

She laughed inside his head. A sweet and seductive laugh. He smiled in response.

"Will you ever tell me what you are? Or is that destined to be our perpetual dance?"

She laughed more.

"In due time," she said.

"Like getting our hands on that book."

"Yes, in due time, darling."

"And the woman."

"The scarred one?"

"No. Yes. Her too," he said. He bit his lip, clamped his eyes shut and sighed. "I meant the lady from the new world, that witch-doctor. And all the others in her company. That bandaged inquisitor—oh, how I would like to peel his bandages away and hear all his stories. It's brilliant how all these fascinating people—and things—are all coming together here, all at once."

"Yes. You feel it," Orinrya said.

"Feel what?"

"The quickening."

"What do you mean?"

"Something new being born. Old dreams that are dying, and a new world being birthed before our eyes," she breathed.

Vincent shuddered with a chill running down his spine.

"And what is this new world you speak? You must know. You know so much. I know you know," Vincent whispered, erupting into a crazed cackle over how silly he found his own words.

She smiled. He felt it. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as a soft breeze swept through his parlor like a ghostly presence. Like soft fingertips that brushed against his lips, not his own. Or perhaps his own, just numbed from the excess of strong spirits only slowly wearing off.

"The real question, darling—what will you do when you bear witness to the reckoning? Will you hold the reins? Or will you pass them off to see what spectacle others may unfold?" Orinrya asked.

The corners of his lips twitched. Both he and she, they smiled simultaneously.

Not gracing her questions with any straight answer, he only returned more questions.

"Are you angel? Or devil?"

Silence.

"Good answer."

He laughed a hollow laugh, eventually mounting into a long and wistful sigh.

Vincent drifted off into a dreamless sleep. And he never yearned for such, as he lived his dreams in every waking moment.

A lingering thought that swam atop the sea of oblivion.

Sputtering awake, the lanterns were no longer lit. Daylight flooded through open doors into the parlor. He still rested in the sofa, sprawled out across it like his own likeness in the gigantic portrait towering over him.

The air was cold and had left him with a painfully stiff neck.

As he shuffled lazily across shiny marble floors, he surveyed the damage he had wrought the night before. The glass shards scattered across the gallery, and the dead body of Sir Dwyer, still left in his own pool of blood.

Work to do. A body to be rid of. A chief to blackmail. A new slew of rumors to seed.

The rich lord took a deep breath and sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck.

He smiled.

"Oh, the woes of pleasure before business," he reckoned.

They both laughed at the thought.

"But that book—"

"Will be ours."

"Its magick—"

"We will wield it," they sang together, dulcet syllables spilling from Vincent's lips.

"Or will you be wielding it, while I soar to incredible heights on your back?" he asked.

And there was silence.

—Submitted by Wratts

[soyforramen]

Daffodils and Hyacinths

Or that Beronica Flower Shop/Tattoo Shop AU no one asked for.  (Cross posted on Ao3)

The second to last thing Veronica expected when she moved to the sleepy town of Riverdale was for the shop owner across the street to show up with homemade cookies.  It was such a quaint and nostalgic image that she had to suppress a laugh least she offend the women.  Instead she thanked her and wrote the whole incident off.  Even if they were neighbors of a sort that didn’t mean they’d ever mean anything to each other.  In New York Veronica hadn’t been able to name a single one of her neighbors.  Why should this town be any different?

-

It only took a few glasses of wine after the local town meeting, and Veronica found herself leading Betty through the flower shop.  Her neighbor’s quirky arrival last week with a basket of cookies, initially seen as a power play to prove to the town how kind and benevolent Betty was, had turned into a tense sort of friendship.  Veronica was cool every time Betty had made a point of waving good afternoon.  And the few times they’d run into each other at the only grocer in town, Betty had made a genuine effort in asking how Veronica was adjusting to life in the small town.

Veronica, a consummate city girl, did her best to rebuff Betty’s attempts at friendship - an indifference borne largely to bearing the Lodge name for so long - but it didn’t take much for her resolve to break down.  Betty, it turned out, was one of the rarest people in the world - someone who didn’t try to act like someone they weren’t.

And thus an odd friendship was struck up, one that was set in stone tonight as they both stood against the ridiculous zoning ordinances balefully aimed at the lower income neighborhoods in this ticky-tacky town.

Both bemoaned the tragedy of white gentrification afterwards between shots of tequila and three bottles of wine.  Unwilling for the night to end, Veronica asked Betty to join her at the flower shop.  A simple, innocent question that nonetheless brought a pretty rose blush to her cheeks that climbed downward through the night.  

They raced through the shadows of the shop, hands clasped together like narcissus and chinodoxa blooms in spring.  Giggling at the strange shapes the grow lights cast along the walls, Veronica lead her to the office door.

“I keep a bottle of rum in my desk,” she said breathlessly.  As she stepped through the door, her fingers automatically reached towards the leaves of her own personal plants.  “My grandmother’s secret recipe.”

“So much color,” Betty murmured.  She slipped off her jacket and set it on a chair as the hothouse humidity took its toll.  “I never realized orchids came in so many different colors.”

“One for each of my exes,” Veronica said as she pulled out the bottle of rum.  She gazed lovingly at each and set two shot glasses on the desk.  “They love the grow lamps.”

She held out a shot glass and felt a tremor when Betty’s fingers grazed hers.  Veronica watched as Betty threw back the shot, the muscles in her long throat working against the sharp flavor.  

“What is that?”

“Cardamom,” Veronica said as she sat on the corner of her desk.  She sipped at her own rum and let the flavor roll around her tongue.  

“Why flowers?” Betty asked as she reached for the rum bottle.

The question made Veronica pause.  It was a question she’d never been asked; a question she’d never thought to ask herself.  After all, flowers were one of the few ways her mother showed genuine affection.  Perhaps it was even how she showed love.  Almost before she could walk, Veronica knew that flowers meant different things.  Lilies for purity; blood red poppies for refusal.  Lavender for admiration; buttercups for childish ingratitude.  Veronica had been around flowers and plants her entire life, reading their meanings was as easy as breathing.  The thought that she could ever live without them was anathema.

The language of flowers was the one gift from her mother that really had any meaning in the long run.  It was a practice that Veronica had lost herself in many times, one that no one seemed to understand.  

But to tell Betty all of that, to open up to that kind of vulnerability?  As much as she might like her, as much as she might trust her, Veronica was not ready for that sort of confession.

“Why tattoo’s?” came her response.

Betty chewed on her lip and stared with unfocused eyes at the long-out-of-season Bird of Paradise - Veronica’s daily reminder that she was in this tiny town because she valued her freedom above all else.   At first, Veronica wondered if she’d committed a faux pas; perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had trust issues.  But after a while, she came to realize that Betty was also weighing how honest, how vulnerable she wanted to be.

“I like the pain,” Betty finally admitted.

She gazed at Veronica, already defensive against any sort of judgment or condemnation.  When Betty didn’t find it, she continued, her voice relieved.

“I was always the good kid.  My sister was wild, and when she ran away the whole family fell apart.  Dad moved away, Mom joined a cult.  My brother went to live halfway across the country.  In less than a year I lost my whole family, and I was just so angry.  Both my parents hated tattoos; they said they were trashy and vulgar.  So…”

Betty tugged at the neck of her sweater, and Veronica eyed the soft skin.  In soft, looping script along Betty’s collarbone read, “my life is my own.”

“My senior year of high school I lived with the one person who meant the world to me.  But he’d gotten into Yale and I hadn’t, so we got matching tattoo’s.”   Her fingers caressed the space over her heart, and Veronica longed to know what lay under all those layers.  It was one more puzzle piece to the enigma that was Betty Cooper.  But just as Veronica had her secrets to keep, so, too, did Betty.

“After that, it just became an addiction.  The steady pain of the needle, the infusion of ink.”  Betty rolled up her sleeve and set her arm on Veronica’s lap.  Veronica traced the delicate lines along the snow globe that depicted the sleepy town.  From the town square to Pop’s Diner, it seemed the only thing missing was Betty’s own tattoo parlor.

“My grandfather helped build Riverdale, and when he passed my mother gave away everything to the cult.  So I got this instead of his snow globe collection,” Betty said, sadness etched in her eyes.  She laughed despite it.  “You can only imagine how my mother took it when I showed up to his funeral in a sleeveless dress.”

Veronica’s lips quirked into a smile, her fingers dancing across Betty’s skin.  Carefully, Veronica raised Betty’s tattooed arm to her lips and pressed her lips against the skin of her wrist.  The faint aroma of rosewater greeted her.  When she glanced up, Betty drew a sharp breath, but that rose pink flush at the base of her neck was back.  Encouraged, Veronica leaned forward to press a kiss along Betty’s collarbone, then another at the base of her neck.  

Betty pulled away, only to meet Veronica’s lips with her own.

-

Riding a wave of romanticism - one that had started with a hothouse tryst a few weeks ago and seemingly had no end in sight - Veronica picked up dinner from the only decent restaurant in town.  She knew Betty’s schedule was tight, but fifteen minutes together was enough to make her day.  Besides, Veronica had become accustomed to idling in the tattoo shop while Betty worked, the soothing pastels and new art calm enough to make Veronica forget about the barrage of legal notices in her mail box.  And if that wasn’t enough, Betty always kept a  stash of rotating pulp mysteries beneath the register.

But when she walked into the shop, Veronica’s stomach dropped.  A pink-haired woman sat far too close to Betty to be anything but a customer.  She leaned forward to whisper something, and Betty let out a peal of laughter.  Veronica set the food down and watched, irritation rising climbing like ivy in her throat.

When the woman finally left, Veronica made her way over to Betty’s station as casually as she could manage.  She knew she was being unreasonable; after all, Betty was allowed to have friends Veronica didn’t know about.  It wasn’t as if they were dating.

“Who was that?” Veronica asked, her eyes locked on a photo of the old Riverdale rail station.

“An old friend,” Betty said.  She wiped down the station, seemingly unaware of Veronica’s frustration.  “I think you’d like Toni, you two are a lot alike.”

That turn of phrase sparked a fuse and Veronica couldn’t help but grip the pearls at her throat.  Despite the innocent, entirely plausible explanation - and Veronica’s bone deep conviction that Betty wasn’t that kind of person - the afterimage sat at the forefront of her mind.  The pair were too casual, too close emotionally, for Veronica’s demons not to flare up.

“What’s up?” Betty prompted.  “I thought we were going to meet at the Wyrm later tonight.”

Veronica shrugged, still playing at nonchalance, and walked towards the waiting area.  She picked up a magazine and flipped through the pages to keep her hands still. On every page, Toni’s smiling face, inches from Betty’s, stared back at her.  They’d been dating a few weeks, and yet Veronica had never felt that sort of closeness with Betty.

It was the realization that Veronica wanted that sort of connection was frightening.  She was a Lodge, after all, and love was never an option.  Not unless it came with strings and attachments, political and social gains otherwise closed off to her family.  As a Lodge, hers was a morbid, skeptical view of love.  And how could it not be, after all the role models she’d had in her life?

And yet, what she had with Betty felt more solid, more real.  It was a mutually beneficial relationship where Betty expected nothing more than a little of Veronica’s time.

“I closed up early,” Veronica finally said.  She dropped the magazine on the table and forced as much carelessness into her voice as she could manage.  “I thought we might eat in tonight.  I didn’t realize you had company.”

Betty grimaced - apparently Veronica’s attempt at nonchalance had fallen flatter than a late May rain garden.  A pang of guilt went through Veronica; yet she couldn’t help but twist the knife.  It was the only other hobby her mother had shared with her.

“V, you know I’m booked solid -“

Veronica waved her off and pulled on her jacket.  “It’s fine.  I’ve got things to take care of.  Enjoy dinner.”

She stormed out of the door, ignoring Betty’s call.  Something broke against the wall and Veronica forced herself to keep moving.  

Whatever this was had taken root deep within her very cells, but a few days in New York would be more than enough to uproot it.

-

It had taken a week before Betty showed up in the flower shop.  The look on her face told Veronica not to try and pretend they weren’t anything more than neighbors.  Despite Veronica’s refusal to take any texts, calls, or dms from Betty, it seemed the stubborn blonde worked on an entirely different plane.

“What’s going on?” Betty asked, ignoring the customer Veronica was helping.

Veronica finished setting the baby’s breath among the white roses - a strange, uninspiring choice for a get well bouquet - before acknowledging her, a move that only served to irritate Betty further.

Thankfully, Betty waited until they were alone to round on her.

“Why have you been ignoring me?”

Veronica lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.  A coy move, meant to signify her own feigned indifference.  Betty crossed her arms and fixed her with a stare.

With a sigh, Veronica said, “I don’t know.”

“Seriously?”

“Look, this isn’t easy for me,” Veronica snapped.  She picked at the left over cuttings. Idly she arranged and rearranged them into strange shapes that seemed to reflect her own indecision.  “I’ve never had… I’ve never …”

Somehow, despite all her own musings on the subject, the words about why Betty affected her so much wouldn’t come.  

“Who was she?”

Betty quirked an eyebrow.  “Who?”

“That woman with the pink hair.”

“Is that what this is about?” Betty sighed and walked towards a nearby plant stand that held a range of hyacinths.  Her hand grazed over the yellow petals as she regarded Veronica.  “Toni and I grew up together.  Now she’s engaged to my cousin.”

The air went out of the room and Veronica sagged against the table.  She felt as foolish, as silly as she knew she was being.

“Oh.”

“Veronica,” Betty began, her hands still grasping the flowers, “if we’re going to make this work -“

The world shifted, and suddenly all Veronica could see and hear was Betty.  It couldn’t possibly be this simple.  It never was.  Betty was after something, and now that Veronica had misstepped it would finally come to light.

“-you have to talk to me about these things.  I don’t want to lose you over something as stupid as jealously.”

“That’s it?”

Betty gave her a sharp, bewildered look that sent waves of guilt through Veronica.  Veronica dropped her eyes to the cuttings in front of her.  It was strange, truly, how much she wanted Betty to understand.  They both came with familial baggage; the only question was whether that baggage would match in the long run.

“I’m sorry,” Veronica said with a wince.  “It’s just… everyone’s always had these … expectations of me.  There was always something they wanted.  Comes with my father’s legacy I suppose,” she scoffed.

When she looked up, she was startled to find Betty standing in front of her.  With a gentle smile, Betty took up Veronica’s hands in hers.  

“The only thing I want from you is a little of your time,” Betty said.  With a sly grin, she added, “And maybe that yellow flower over there.”

Veronica huffed out a laugh.  “The hyacinth?”  

Betty nodded.

“No, not that one,” Veronica said.  She slipped her hands from Betty’s and walked to the far aisle.  It was easy to know what she was looking for, even though she knew the meaning would be lost.  

When she set the plant in front of Betty, Veronica’s heart fluttered at her smile.  

“It’s gorgeous,” Betty murmured.  Her fingers toyed with the long yellow leaves.  “A daffodil, right?”

Veronica nodded.

“What does it mean?” Betty asked.

“New beginnings.”  Veronica bit her lip, oddly shy.  “And forgiveness.”

Betty grinned and leaned over the counter to press a kiss to Veronica’s forehead.  “You won’t always be able to buy me off with flowers.  And you promise to talk these things through with me in the future.”

“I promise, so long as you give me a chance.”

-

Late one evening, as the neon lights cast a blue and red glow across Betty’s bare skin, Veronica lay her head on Betty’s chest, her breath heavy and her skin still flush with sweat.  The sound of her heartbeat lulled Veronica into a meditative state as a contented drowsiness began to take hold.

“I’ve got issues,” Veronica breathed.  Her confession, honest and vulnerable, slipped out of her without a second thought.

Betty’s chuckle was laced with sleep.  She wrapped an arm around Veronica’s shoulder, her long fingers tracing patterns along the skin.  “We all have issues V.”

Veronica raised up on her elbows.  Betty’s hair fanned out around her, a pink halo in the neon light, with her eyes half closed in satiety.  

“Give me yours, then,” Veronica said with a sudden protectiveness.

“Only if you give me yours,” came the swift reply.  

Veronica held up her pink, and Betty grasped it with her own.  Sealed with a kiss, Veronica settled back against Betty for the long haul.

[poorlittleminkmink]

Workday Naps

I know it’s late but here’s the blondmementos ficlet I promised I’d post for Sleep Day

Antigone Funn typically prided herself with her ability to work diligently no matter the circumstances. She had always been a hard worker as a child and now that she was fully grown, she’d manifested that same nature in the form of being a workaholic. When Funn Funerals still had plenty of customers, this wasn’t an issue. Antigone was able to spend her days happily working away on whatever body had come through her mortuary door that day. The introduction of a certain outside factor led to this, amongst other routines, being entirely disrupted. That factor was one man.

Eric Chapman.

Yes, when he’d first moved in, Antigone hated him for his looks and his charm and his attention to detail, but she found that she didn’t hate him— not truly. Maybe some minor loathing on the surface, but mostly she found herself wishing to spend time with him.

She wanted to be the object of his affection, similar to Lady Templar, but maybe not so loud about the situation. After all, Chapman was still a business rival. Even if he had been very kind to take Antigone to the circus. And even if he had reached out more to her to get to know her better. They were rivals first, whatever-the-hell-else second. It was infuriatingly complicated, Antigone had discovered after the circus, and while she did enjoy a good puzzle now and then, emotions should not be such a complex jigsaw.

On those rare, rare moments though, when Antigone wasn’t working away at a body or stopping Rudyard’s crazy schemes or keeping the family business afloat, she allowed herself to slip into a softer fantasy.

Today’s particular installment contained being held tenderly by one certain undertaker while he whispered sweet nothings into her hair. His touch was so delicate, as though she were the most precious thing in the world. Antigone could feel herself relaxing in the familiarity of Eric’s arms, practically melting into him. She wished she could stay in this moment forever, just Eric pressing feather-light kisses to her nose and cheeks while she laid blissfully in his arms. She allowed herself to burrow deeper in the warmth he provided, happy to doze off—

“Antigone? Are you down here?”

A voice cut through the mental haze of Antigone’s daydreams and the woman grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray, swerving to scold whoever had dared to disturb her quiet time.

“Rudyard, what in the name of sanity—“

She’d barely managed to get the sentence out when her gaze met one of gentle blue instead of harsh brown. Oh. Oh. It was Chapman. Chapman. Here. In her mortuary. A bright blush broke out across Antigone’s skin, spreading like a fire as Chapman descended the steps into the mortuary.

“Oh— err, not Rudyard. But he was the one who said you’d be down here.” The blond replied, almost sheepishly despite his never wavering cheeriness.

“Of course he did. Is nothing sacred anymore? Can a woman not enjoy time alone in her mortuary without something or another barging in?” She grumbled out, earning herself an halfway apologetic look from the other.

“Well, I was going to ask if you had any down time…I thought maybe we could grab a cuppa over at my place? I know we aren’t exactly friends—“

“Of course we aren’t friends. We’re rivals, Chapman.” Antigone swiftly reminded him.

“Yes, but I figured, from one mortician to another, maybe we could- I dunno, talk shop?” Chapman gave the lanky woman a charming smile, hopefulness in his tone.

“Why?” Came the suspicious response as the receiver of said smile narrowed her eyes.

“Because I want to get to know you? And we have at least one thing in common and that’s our businesses.” He nearly fumbled with his reasoning, seeming surprised that she’d ask such a thing.

“Right…” A brief pause while the now bemused mortician eyed her companion before continuing flatly. “Caffeine makes my hair turn green.”

“Then a hot chocolate—“

“Can’t have sweets.”

“A decaf?”

“Tastes dreadful.”

“How about a nice book then? Maybe a meal or a movie?”

Another pause. Longer than the last, but more filled with anxiety on the part of the pseudo-Prince Charming in front of a rather dismal Cinderella. She found it almost funny that he was trying so hard to spend time with her, but of course she wouldn’t ever say that. It wasn’t as though she didn’t want to spend time with Chapman, she just found that she tended to be difficult around.

“A movie would be acceptable. Something morbid and foreign if you don’t mind…” Antigone finally answered, biting back a laugh when Chapman seemed to visibly relax.

“I happen to enjoy French films quite a bit, so I have no issue supplying a few of my favorites. Morbid may be harder to fulfill, but we’ll see what I can pull together.” Chapman gave a confident nod, turning his full attention back to the woman across from him.

A light mirrored nod of agreement was all that met his small self-check before Antigone started up the stairs and made her way over to Chapman’s, the proprietor on her heels. She was still plenty suspicious of his intentions for the day, but if she could manage to consume some deliciously depressing cinema on her slow day, she wouldn’t be too upset. Even if it did turn out Chapman was using her for her business secrets, which she’d never tell of course.

Thirty minutes and a minor verbal scuffle later, Antigone Funn found herself seated on a rather fluffy sofa with Chapman beside her and a beautiful French film in front of her. One she hadn’t seen as well. Seems that Chapman’s collection didn’t disappoint.

Deep brown eyes locked to the screen, giving her full attention to the film and occasionally shifting her body to find the most comfortable place on the couch. A few minutes of moving around and muttering to herself and she settled on a comfortably warm spot for her head. Truly, she hadn’t realized that where she had settle in that moment was one Eric Chapman’s chest, nor did she see the gentle look the man had given her before settling back into the sofa himself. He wouldn’t disturb her now, so as not to stir up the particular brand of chaos Funns seemed to be proficient in.

It wasn’t until Antigone’s breathing had settled and she stopped muttering lines of French that Chapman noted that she had fallen asleep. With a light smile on his face, he adjusted his body ever so carefully and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

If he had been conscious of his decision to wrap Antigone up in his arms, he certainly didn’t let that on. No, he was much more content with having this one minor victory under his belt. One success was enough for him today, no need to overdo it lest he jinx his luck with her. Baby steps were enough for him, just until he was sure of her feelings towards him.