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antihero-writings · 5 months

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The Uninvitation

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Summary: Shelly's funeral was very nice. Everyone said so. Break isn't so sure. As he stands at her grave, an unwelcome visitor shows up. Written for the Pandora Hearts Month 2023 Prompt: "Grave."

It was a very nice funeral. Everyone said so.

As if funerals can be nice.

Sure, the sun was shining, the snow was sparkling. Maybe that made it nice. But should the “niceness” of funeral be measured in the kindness of the weather, and the youth of the flowers?

Then again, of course it was nice; Sheryl had spared no expense; the ceremony, the food, the flowers, the decorations were each extravagant in their own ways. Shelly surely wouldn’t have cared about pomp and circumstance, but nice plates and vases were all Sheryl had, so the rest of them weren’t about to stop her.

Sheryl always stood tall, but one day Break found her hunched over Shelly’s things, holding tight to one of her dresses, smiling softly, weeping. When he sat beside her, even though he didn’t ask, she told stories of when she was a child, murmuring old proverbs about how mothers shouldn’t have to bury their daughters.

So, no. They weren’t going to stop her.

And as she sat telling him stories, she had had the audacity to pause, look up, and ask, “Xerkkun, how are you faring?”

He smiled and said, “Don’t worry about me, Sheryl-sama.” in the most nonchalant voice he could manage.

Even though they both knew she had more than one reason to worry.

On a normal day, she would have pressed him on the matter. That day, she nodded, and looked away. They both knew talking about it would only be the hammer that smashed their fragile forms into bits.

How was that ‘nice’?

…Then again, of course it was nice; Reim had insisted on organizing it, he and Rufus shouldering as many of Sheryl’s burdens as they could, (though she still insisted on carrying more than her fair share). Rufus could be heard barking about how the roses were supposed to be red, and how the table was supposed to go over there, and the banners were all misaligned…

Break would never admit it, but he was grateful.

Then again, of course it was nice: the speeches everyone gave were full of the prettiest words.

The officiant said some generic adage about the Abyss one always hears at these things, and how she would be back to this world before long, which made everyone put their hand over their heart, and their kerchief at their eyes.

Sheryl told stories about when Shelly was a child, and liked to steal her shoes, and when she was an adult and liked to steal her duties, interrupted by those proverbs she iterated earlier, until Rufus had to take her, sobbing, off the stage.

Even Rufus, with his flowery, old words made a speech that was nice enough. Break had rolled his eyes about his turns of phrase, and profuse tears, but…even then.

It was nice.

Sharon told them all she wanted to say something, and they feared she wouldn’t get beyond the first sentence. They feared this was too much weight to put on a little girl who had lost her mother, even if she willingly took the weight on herself. But she stood tall at that podium, and voiced her speech and her stories with pride and eyes that shone with both joy and sorrow, and the crowd breathed a sigh, knowing she was far braver than they realized.

She’d make a wonderful duchess some day.

And yes, Break couldn’t deny, that was altogether nice.

They even asked Break if he wanted to say something. And maybe he did—he wouldn’t start sobbing halfway through—but…somehow he knew, if he started speaking about the woman who saved his life in more ways than one, then the words just might gush out of him until he was yelling, and cursing, and laughing like a madman. So he said something about how it would be ridiculous for a servant to speak at a noblewoman’s funeral, and bit his tongue.

He laughed to keep from crying, and he was sure they thought he was crazy. And maybe he was. He had never been someone particularly likable at first glance, and had heard gossip for a long time—about red eyes, bloodstained pasts, and underseved blessings—and wasn’t about to start caring what the world thought now.

He didn’t cry. No one would fault him if he did—it was a funeral after all. Still, he didn’t intend to.

Maybe that made him strong. And maybe that made him afraid.

Afraid he’d live up to his name.

Maybe it was something about caring. Crying meant showing he cared, cared a lot, cared too much. And caring meant losing. And crying meant a little girl and coffins and snow and “Don’t leave me!” and “Do you want to change the past?” and “They were the most important people to you, and you couldn’t save them.”

And that wasn’t very nice to think about.

He always carried candy in his pockets, and the funeral was no exception. Some people probably thought he was insensitive, but it was all he could do to keep from biting his tongue until blood was all he could taste.

They were all fakes anyway. He didn’t want to waste his words or his tears on them.

Maybe the ‘niceness’ of a funeral is measured in how much sobbing one can hear. True, there was rather a lot of it. Even if they didn’t know her, and were only crying on general principle, rather than any specific memories, and later they would go about their days with dry eyes, and forget the nice funeral, and the nice woman.

Did that still count as nice?

The Nightrays were there; Gilbert had said he was sorry (sounding as if he thought it was his fault) and he meant it. Vincent, toeing the ground and playing with his hair, said it was all very sad, and hadn’t meant even that. (And Break would have done something violent and stupid if it wouldn’t have caused a scene). The other Nightray siblings bowed, and respectfully offered his condolences. The Vessalius’s were there too, or at least what was left of them. Oscar had tried to make them all feel better with words of encouragement, and beverages to cleanse the soul, and Ada had bawled, even though they never met.

Sure. Maybe that was nice.

Shelly was a ‘Kind girl.’ A ‘Strong woman.’ A ‘Wonderful duchess.’

Maybe that’s why they thought it was nice; they all had very fond memories of the woman who was nice.

They didn’t even know the half of it. The sunlight, the, smiles, the salvation.

He opened the box, and she was waiting for him there at the bottom.

What happens when she fades into he wind too, like all the shadows?

Despite the strength in her speech, Sharon had wept silently into his coat. He ran his hands through her hair softly, all the while praying this nice funeral would end soon.

And even then, even when she had been crying so much, for so long, even then she had the strength to stand up straight, to give sorrowful smiles, and bittersweet words to all the porcelain nobles who told her how sorry they were, what a shame, and what a nice funeral it was, and if she needed anything, don’t hesitate to send for them.

Well, she definitely had her mother in her.

Three queens on the chess board. How did he end up with them?

They all offered their condolences. With fake words, and fake sympathy, and fake offers to help.

They didn’t really know her.

As the funeral ended, Reim asked Break if he wanted a drink. It was appealing to have a quiet drink with a friend, who knew Shelly, and knew him, and wouldn’t fill the air with empty platitudes. But, if there were ever a day he wished he could drink to forget, it was today. So he laughed and said he was thinking of staying and talking to her for a while. But he knew his laugh didn’t sound quite right.

Reim nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and walked away.

Break decided to stay. To stay, and talk, alone (at last, alone,) to her grave. His words weren’t for the masses…but he’d spare a few for a stone.

When he finally stood alone memories—the good, the bad, and the beautiful—came like a flood, and he found himself at a loss for what to say. All the ‘Thank you’ and ‘I’ll miss you’s seemed worthless in the face of a name and a date on a headstone. The end of a life.

Is that all a life is? Some wordy flowers, some flowery words, a tear or two, a date on a headstone, and a nice funeral?

The last time he stood at a headstone everything was wrong with the world. Grief wasn’t a heavy, sad thing. It was a writhing, hot, angry thing. It came with a desire for vengeance, not against those who took them, but against time. And maybe, today, after the forward march, time was still unjust tyrant, and still needed a sword run through him. Or maybe Shelly lived the best life she could, and she wouldn’t want him to to be mad—in emotion or in mind .Would rather he hold flowers than a blade.

He still had the sword beside him. Just in case time came knocking.

And standing here, trying to think of what to say, and how to say it, his eyes stung with water. He sat there silently thinking until the silence filled up his lungs.

Today, grief was a heavy, sad thing.

And in this moment, alone, at the grave

Reality broke.

It cracked, and the pieces fell. Were stolen away. Something bore into it, and two red eyes shone through the hole.

“Do you want to change the past?” Asked the shadows in a deep, discordant voice.

And Break paused, eye widening, the red shimmering, swimming in itself.

See? Crying meant the Abyss.

Then…a smile crept onto his face. A spreading, stretching, stained, disdainful thing.

“Where might you be from?” He asked in the most nonchalant voice he could manage.

“I’ve come from the Abyss to help you. I can change your past, if you let me.”

Break looked down, still smiling, scoffing. “That would be a lovely thing, wouldn’t it?” He chuckled. “Make it so she didn’t have to die. Not that day at least.”

The hole grew bigger, pieces of reality falling off.

“Maybe,” Break continued, looking at the ground, “there’s another strand of time in which everything's alright."

“Yes, yes, exactly! I think we can help each other!”

A hand reached out of the hole. Cotton and lies.

“Maybe.”

Crying meant the Abyss.

And caring meant “Promise me you will keep living your life with everything you have until the very end.”

His staff clicked.

“Or maybe you're ruining a perfectly nice funeral." He chuckled. "You should find a better source of sustenance than human souls."

When he turned around to head back inside, reality refused, and only ash remained.

#pandora hearts #phmonth23 #xerxes break #sharon rainsworth #reim lunettes #Rufus barma #sheryl rainsworth #pandora hearts fic

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antihero-writings · 5 months

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The Uninvitation

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Summary: Shelly's funeral was very nice. Everyone said so. Break isn't so sure. As he stands at her grave, an unwelcome visitor shows up. Written for the Pandora Hearts Month 2023 Prompt: "Grave."

It was a very nice funeral. Everyone said so.

As if funerals can be nice.

Sure, the sun was shining, the snow was sparkling. Maybe that made it nice. But should the “niceness” of funeral be measured in the kindness of the weather, and the youth of the flowers?

So, no. They weren’t going to stop her.

And as she sat telling him stories, she had had the audacity to pause, look up, and ask, “Xerkkun, how are you faring?”

He smiled and said, “Don’t worry about me, Sheryl-sama.” in the most nonchalant voice he could manage.

Even though they both knew she had more than one reason to worry.

On a normal day, she would have pressed him on the matter. That day, she nodded, and looked away. They both knew talking about it would only be the hammer that smashed their fragile forms into bits.

How was that ‘nice’?

Break would never admit it, but he was grateful.

Then again, of course it was nice: the speeches everyone gave were full of the prettiest words.

Even Rufus, with his flowery, old words made a speech that was nice enough. Break had rolled his eyes about his turns of phrase, and profuse tears, but…even then.

It was nice.

She’d make a wonderful duchess some day.

And yes, Break couldn’t deny, that was altogether nice.

He didn’t cry. No one would fault him if he did—it was a funeral after all. Still, he didn’t intend to.

Maybe that made him strong. And maybe that made him afraid.

Afraid he’d live up to his name.

And that wasn’t very nice to think about.

They were all fakes anyway. He didn’t want to waste his words or his tears on them.

Did that still count as nice?

Sure. Maybe that was nice.

Shelly was a ‘Kind girl.’ A ‘Strong woman.’ A ‘Wonderful duchess.’

Maybe that’s why they thought it was nice; they all had very fond memories of the woman who was nice.

They didn’t even know the half of it. The sunlight, the, smiles, the salvation.

He opened the box, and she was waiting for him there at the bottom.

What happens when she fades into he wind too, like all the shadows?

Despite the strength in her speech, Sharon had wept silently into his coat. He ran his hands through her hair softly, all the while praying this nice funeral would end soon.

Well, she definitely had her mother in her.

Three queens on the chess board. How did he end up with them?

They all offered their condolences. With fake words, and fake sympathy, and fake offers to help.

They didn’t really know her.

Reim nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and walked away.

Break decided to stay. To stay, and talk, alone (at last, alone,) to her grave. His words weren’t for the masses…but he’d spare a few for a stone.

Is that all a life is? Some wordy flowers, some flowery words, a tear or two, a date on a headstone, and a nice funeral?

He still had the sword beside him. Just in case time came knocking.

And standing here, trying to think of what to say, and how to say it, his eyes stung with water. He sat there silently thinking until the silence filled up his lungs.

Today, grief was a heavy, sad thing.

And in this moment, alone, at the grave

Reality broke.

It cracked, and the pieces fell. Were stolen away. Something bore into it, and two red eyes shone through the hole.

“Do you want to change the past?” Asked the shadows in a deep, discordant voice.

And Break paused, eye widening, the red shimmering, swimming in itself.

See? Crying meant the Abyss.

Then…a smile crept onto his face. A spreading, stretching, stained, disdainful thing.

“Where might you be from?” He asked in the most nonchalant voice he could manage.

“I’ve come from the Abyss to help you. I can change your past, if you let me.”

Break looked down, still smiling, scoffing. “That would be a lovely thing, wouldn’t it?” He chuckled. “Make it so she didn’t have to die. Not that day at least.”

The hole grew bigger, pieces of reality falling off.

“Maybe,” Break continued, looking at the ground, “there’s another strand of time in which everything's alright."

“Yes, yes, exactly! I think we can help each other!”

A hand reached out of the hole. Cotton and lies.

“Maybe.”

Crying meant the Abyss.

And caring meant “Promise me you will keep living your life with everything you have until the very end.”

His staff clicked.

“Or maybe you're ruining a perfectly nice funeral." He chuckled. "You should find a better source of sustenance than human souls."

When he turned around to head back inside, reality refused, and only ash remained.

#pandora hearts #phmonth23 #Xerxes break #sharon rainsworth #reim lunettes #Rufus barma #sheryl rainsworth #pandora hearts fic #pandora hearts fanfiction

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antihero-writings · 5 months

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Lucid Remembrance

Fandom: Once Upon a Time

Summary: "You're so worried about you. You know what I've dealt with? Every night for more years than you could know... the last thing I see before sleep is the image of you—You and me over that pit, your hand... wrapped around mine. And then you open your grip. And as I fall away, all I can see is your face. Choosing all...this...crap over me. Letting me go." The first night's always the worst. (Written for Tale Foundry's prompt "The Monster of Your Stories.")

Baelfire lie beneath a tree, hugging his cloak tighter around himself, feeling cold, and hungry, and lost. He shut his eyes, trying not to shiver, trying to fall asleep.

The stars were different here.

The leaves barely protected him from the rain…but, for now at least, it was better than being in that village. It was too loud, and too bright, and too strange.

He thought, without magic, this world would be simpler, gentler. But this world was too much. Too much to bear.

Too much to bear…alone.

If he’d had his father with him, he thought he could handle all the loud noises, bright lights, and strangeness.

But he didn’t.

So he couldn’t.

His father was the entire reason he came here. This world was supposed to be a cure for the disease of magic. A rescue from the monster inside his heart. Here, Papa could be himself again.

Here, Bae was cast away into a strange, callous land without magic. Alone.

His father chose to stay sick, and captive, and a stranger.

A hand wrapped around his, tight. The portal pulled on him, weighing him down like rocks tied to his feet.

His papa wouldn’t let him fall. Not alone. They had a deal. He promised they would fall together.

But…his father’s other hand gripped this world equally tightly.

Papa looked at him.

And the look in his eyes…

Bae knew in that moment.

He was going to fall.

Papa was choosing magic. Choosing darkness. Choosing pain. Over him.

Rumplestiltskin. The coward who ran. The Dark One who gained power to save his son.

Only to save his son.

Right?

The monster, who never broke a deal. And killed you if you tried.

After everything. After gaining this magic to save him. After he promised. He was choosing magic.

For so long the people in his village called his father a coward. Bae was certain they were wrong. That they didn’t have the full story.

Now?

Pain swirled in him, pulling him down with far more force than any magic.

“YOU COWARD!” Those words he’d fought so hard to disprove wrenched their way out of his mouth now. “YOU PROMISED!” His young voice cracked and broke, like a sturdy tower falling to ruins. “DON’T BREAK OUR DEAL!”

His eyes…gods, the look in his eyes.

His eyes said, lamentable though it was...he would give it all up.

“I have to!” Soft went the words. Soft and yellow.

And Papa’s fingers. They loosened.

Just slightly.

And Bae

slipped.

And the world

fell away.

He wasn’t sure he fell asleep at all, but he shot up, breathing heavily, heart hammering, his clothes clinging to him—with sweat or rain, he wasn’t sure anymore.

He always thought his father was a little messed up, a little misled. Maybe a lot. But he was still his father, and could still be saved. He could still be the good man he was before. If he could just get away from magic.

Now…an angry thing curled its way into his chest.

All those stories. All those rumors. All those words he thought were lies, and half-truths, and fearful wonderings. All those stories about how his father was a monster.

When Bae sat for dinner with his father—and Papa was gentle and kind—Baelfire had always been sure the stories weren’t true. That dagger hadn’t stolen his heart completely. When his papa kissed him goodnight, he did not see a monster. Deep inside, he knew he was a good man.

At least, he was once. He could be again.

Now?

He was starting to think he was every bit as horrible as the stories said.

******

Rumplestiltskin walked into his house, reflex sending a word rising to his lips, before reality killed it.

A word. A name.

What’s in a name, anyways?

The house was so quiet.

Nothing here but a few pots and pans, and beds, and tattered curtains.

Once he came home to a wife. More than once he came home to a son. A family. Him, and Milah, and Bae.

Now, it was just him.

Everything was taken from him.

No. More like he gave it away.

Wasn’t brave enough to fight for her.

Wasn’t brave enough to jump with him.

It didn’t feel like home anymore. Not now that he had nothing to come home to.

He tried not to look at the other bed as he passed by.

He looked at the other bed as he passed by.

Something irrational in his mind told him he’d find a boy lying there. Blinking sleep from his eyes, saying he could stay up a little longer. That he’d kiss him goodnight, and he’d say he was sorry, and they’d go about their days, their lives, as they always had. Not perfect, but happy, at least. Together.

Just empty sheets.

He swept past the bed, and went about preparing dinner for himself.

No one else.

Not even a maid to help. Not anymore.

Blood on his shoes.

“She was mute! She couldn't tell anyone!”

(Maybe he did go too far.)

No one to talk to. No one to laugh with. No one to kiss goodnight.

No one to remind him he was more than just a coward, or a monster.

“YOU COWARD!”

The plate fell to the floor and shattered.

He didn’t bother cleaning it up.

Food tasted like ashes anyways.

Funny how emptiness can be alive; every second that passed, the emptiness of the place crawled deeper into his heart.

Sometimes he wondered if it would be easier to just take it out.

He tucked in for sleep too soon, and turned away from the other bed, shutting his eyes tighter than he needed to.

No one to whom to say goodnight.

A swirling of light. A whirlpool of pure magic, dragging him to a world without.

He didn’t want to drown.

He looked at his son, so small and so beautiful, and so worthy of every affection. Longing and fear warred in Bae’s eyes.

Could Rumplestiltskin walk onto the battlefield and make the fighting stop?

Or would he take a mallet to the leg and hobble his way home?

In that moment they both knew.

“YOU COWARD!” His son’s voice. The words Rumplestiltskin had fought so hard to keep Bae from believing rended the air now, louder than the portal’s cries. “YOU PROMISED!” Gods, his voice. It was the sound of something irreplaceable breaking. “DON’T BREAK OUR DEAL!”

Something cold and sharp went through his heart at that.

How could he refuse him? He had made a deal. He couldn’t go back on it now.

But, what Bae asked of him…it was too much. Too much to bear.

Even together.

How could he leave all this behind? His entire world and everything in it? For a world without magic, where he’d be no one, nothing. Not the Dark One. Not the man who stopped the war. Not the imp who never broke a deal. Not the monster who’d tear your heart out for a minor insult. Just a man. Just a coward who ran. Just a sniveling wretch who couldn’t save his wife, or his son.

“I have to!” The words came out twisted and tiny, but certain.

Ever so slightly,

he released his grip.

The moment he did, the feeling of his son—his treasure, the only person left to love him—slipping through his fingers was like the sands of time running too fast, and the sight of the portal closing was worse than if someone had stabbed him in the chest with that dagger. The one with his name on it.

He wasn’t certain he actually fell asleep, but he shot up, breathing heavily, sweat sticking to him. It was somehow worse with the Dark One’s corrupted skin.

Or maybe he was just reminded that he had it, stronger than yesterday.

Yesterday, he’d still felt human.

He thought the emptiness was a creeping, clawed thing. That was nothing to the regret breathing fetid air down his neck now.

He knew the rumors. The stories.

The Dark One. The villain. The monster.

(Better than a coward.)

(Oh but you’re still a coward. Your son said so.)

But he wasn’t a monster. He was just a father trying to do what was best for his son.

Right?

And…he gave it all up.

Magic has a price. And keeping magic…had cost him the one he loved most.

“There is no escaping it. You will have a son, and your actions will leave him fatherless.”

The memory was a poisoned arrow.

Back then, he’d thought he was going to die. He’d thought he could escape his fate. He ran to save his life, to save his son's future.

And, in saving his own life, he’d condemned his son's future.

The future has a wicked sense of humor.

He’d thought he would die to the ogres, then. Now, he couldn’t die. To anything. Anything but his own name.

He wasn’t sure which fate was better.

He sat up, running his hands over his face. He wasn't sure what he planned to do, but anything was better than laying in bed with his thoughts, and no one to talk to.

There was that butcher in the village who hadn’t delivered on his promise just yet. Maybe he could give him a little encouragement—

“Papa, you’re getting worse.”

Or…maybe not.

It wasn’t what Bae would want, at least.

'It wasn't what Bae would want'? No. He shouldn’t think of him like that; like one might think of the dead.

The word gripped at his heart. What if he was? Would this world without magic be the end of him?

No. He couldn’t believe that.

He would see him again.

There were no other options. He would make sure of it.

Standing up, he thought of what he could do to take his mind off it: take a walk, or read a book, or—

He didn’t make it past the other bed, slumping on the edge. Sitting there, like he used to when—

“Tell me a story, Papa. I can’t sleep.”

The grimace tugged at his lip. Or maybe something more.

Would he ever hear his voice again?

“Are you really that unhappy, Bae? I conjure anything you desire. Name it. What do you want?”

“I want my father.”

“All I want is your happiness, Bae. If you find a way, I'll do it.”

“Good. The deal is struck.”

He could still feel his hand, firm and hopeful, and too small.

He’d made a deal. And, all the while…he’d thought Bae would never find a way.

Rumplestiltskin. The imp who never broke a deal.

Except one.

He fell into the cold sheets, clutching at the blankets, trying to hold onto anything that smelled like Bae.

And he knew. He knew he was every bit the monster they said he was.

“I’m so sorry, Bae,” he sobbed with every last bit of humanity in him. “I want to come with you. I want to come with you. I want to come with you.”

#once upon a time #rumplestiltskin #baelfire #Neal cassidy #ouat rumple #ouat #ouat fanfiction #ouat fic #ouat fandom

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antihero-writings · 8 months

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Learning to Walk

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Summary: Hiccup and gravity have been enemies for as long as he can remember. Most people have to learn to walk only once, but, many times throughout his life, Hiccup has had to learn what it means to stand on his own two feet. My fic for the @oncethereweredragonszine!

The world was too big. And Hiccup, a year old, was too small within it. Could he stand it? Stand in it? He wasn’t sure.

After all, there were dragons out there.

Surely a weak thing like him couldn’t survive the heat of flame, the prick of teeth, so maybe he shouldn’t try to stand.

The Earth quaked when he attempted to get to his feet...and that was before the flames and the teeth came.

Night came with a fury that sent water to his eyes.

He cried…a lot. He cried when the big man—“dad” was his name—left to fight the teeth and claws. He cried when the house burned—it did so rather often. He cried when he was hungry, and thirsty. The world turned too fast.

Too big. Too fast.

Perhaps, greedy thing, he ought stop asking for so much.

“That’s it, just a little bit further!”

He didn’t have many enemies just yet, but he considered gravity one of them. For every bit of progress he made, gravity sent him tumbling to the ground.

Perhaps, defenseless thing, he ought just give up the fight.

“Take your time, son.”

But he was stubborn.

And he wasn’t going to let gravity, or a little bit of fire get to him.

He was going to get up and start walking.

So when “dad” held out his hands and said come, he—tiny, maybe doomed, maybe destined, thing—was going to come to him. No matter how many times he lost the duel to gravity in the process.

*******

They were just fragments, flashes.

Flame. Teeth. And claws.

Pain in his leg.

He was wrapped in the night’s wings, then his father’s arms, and both felt like home.

But before he was aware of where he was, or what was going on, pain pulsed through his leg.

Something nudged his face repeatedly, and he opened his eyes.

“Hey Toothless.” He said to the pair of green eyes staring back at him.

The dragon bumped him more adamantly.

“I’m happy to see you too.” He cupped the dragon’s face.

As Toothless tried to get as close as possible, smothering him in slobbery kisses, the dragon ended up stepping on his stomach.

“OW!” Hiccup shot up. “What?!—Ah!”

—(But the worst pain wasn’t in his stomach, it was in his leg...Why? Why did it hurt so much? Why couldn’t he feel his toes? Why couldn’t he feel—?)—

As he looked around he saw—

“I’m in my house.”

He swiveled his gaze to the dragon as if playing which-of-these-things-doesn’t-belong.

He couldn’t be home… Because there was a dragon in here, hopping around like an excited pet.

“You’re in my house.”

Toothless jumped onto the column, then over the fire, then up to him.

The problem was that he was not a pet. He was a dragon, and dragons are not house-sized, and thus prone to knock over things, and destroy wooden objects in the vicinity.

“Does dad know you’re here?!” Panic crept into his voice.

If his dad knew there was a dragon jumping all about—(and potentially destroying)—the house he’d kill them both.

“Oh, okay!” As Toothless nose came close to him again. He held up a hand. “Okay!”

Toothless didn’t get the hint: he looked curiously up into the rafters and jumped on the beam.

“Toothless, no. No, Toothless. Toothless!”

The direness of the situation was catching up to Hiccup, he held out his hands as if he could stop the dragon from the ground.

Toothless peered at him from the rafters.

“Oh come on!” He nudged his body to the edge of his bed—

His throat snared his breath and heartbeat.

What had been an aching unsurity before was now a piercing certainty.

Toothless quieted sharply, like Hiccup’s silent realization had cut the air, and hopped down.

Up until now Hiccup had been telling himself it was just a paranoid notion, that his leg had fallen asleep, or broke in the fall, but a horrible realization pulsed through his heart like a plasma blast.

…He didn’t have a leg.

In its place was something reminiscent of one made of metal and wood.

The dragon lowered his head to sniff it, then raised those apologetic eyes to meet Hiccup’s.

(Was this what you felt like? Hiccup thought. When I broke you apart?)

Was he still breathing? He wasn’t sure. In fact, Hiccup was eighty percent sure his lungs were full of water.

It was just gone. Just like that. A whole part of him, taken away, as if stolen by trolls.

Another breath. It probably followed the first, but he was sure he’d been holding his breath for hours.

He was expected to just walk, like this piece of wood and metal was the same.

...But he was stubborn.

He cast his gaze forward. This was how things were now. He did want to know what was going on. What was out there. Why a dragon was in his house. This wasn’t going to stop him.

Putting his hands on the bedpost for support, he placed his normal leg on the ground, raising his new leg and taking a deep breath, and a step.

But the feeling of nothing against the ground, and pain against the stump halfway through caused him to fall onto Toothless’ head, grimacing.

Gravity and Hiccup had been on good terms for a while, but his old nemesis resurfaced.

Toothless set him up straight, though Hiccup kept his hands on him for support.

“Okay...Thanks bud.”

Together the two managed to stave off gravity enough to make it to the door, neither entirely whole until they leaned on each other.

*******

Not much fazed Stoick. He'd fought bandits, and villains, not to mention dragons, since he could crawl, for gods’ sakes.

But this made his chest ache.

He’d watched Hiccup learn to walk, long ago.

Hiccup was so small, then. Always had been. That tiny form could barely hold his own tears or laughter without breaking.

He stood all the same. Stoick always knew he would.

But...Aren’t people supposed to go through that only once?

Watching his son stagger to his feet a second time, watching his still-small form battle gravity once again, when he’d already won ages ago, was far more difficult than fighting a man or dragon.

Losing a limb to a dragon was a badge of honor to a viking, and Stoick knew he’d be stronger for it...but Hiccup had ended the war...Did the price of peace have to be so high?

As Hiccup began to fall Stoick’s heart fell with him; he reached out to catch him. At the same time the dragon did too.

It still made his skin crawl to see a dragon in his house…but this was Hiccup’s dragon, and he was going to try his best to like him.

“I’m okay, guys. I got this.” Hiccup leaned back on his normal leg.

Stoick and Toothless shared a skeptical glance, but released their grip all the same.

Hiccup took a deep breath. “Okay, okay.” He raised the metal leg, put it down.

Repeat with normal leg. So far so good.

On the third step the fake one betrayed him.

“I don’t got this! I don’t got this!”

Stoick—and Toothless—reached out and caught him.

As hard as this may be for him to watch, Stoick could tell how much more frustrating it was to Hiccup.

After regaining his balance, Hiccup tried to smile, but it erred on the side of ‘grimace.’

Stoick knew how desperate Hiccup was...but he also knew he probably wasn’t going to be able to walk normally for a while.

After numerous falls, taking a break wasn’t optional.

Stoick let Toothless outside to play, and turned to Hiccup, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He stepped over and sat beside him, the bed shifting under his weight.

“These things take time, son.”

“Yeah, I know but…I was able to walk the other day. ...Everyone else is out there with their dragons and-and what? I-I can’t even walk?”

Stoick’s eyes crinkled with sympathy.

Hiccup had changed the world...for the price of being able to walk in it.

“Do you remember the time you joined the other kids in that boar-catching contest?”

“...I seem to recall it being equally disastrous.”

“Everyone else caught them in minutes, but you just couldn’t get the hang of it. You’d stop short, or they’d slip from your hands, or drag you along.”

“Thanks, dad, I feel sooo much better.”

Stoick put his hand on Hiccup’s back. “Do you remember what you did? You tied a rope to a tree, and tripped them so you didn’t have to catch them yourself, and you ended up catching more than anyone else!”

“And then I got disqualified because we weren’t supposed to use props!”

“Still,”—He laughed—“I was so proud of you. You got frustrated, but you didn’t just give up.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Even though things are frustrating, in the end, you’re going to come out on top. You’re thinking too much about what everyone else is able to do, and not what you can do.” He poked him in the chest. “It’s more than you realize.”

Hiccup looked up at his father, and it really was a smile this time.

This may be difficult, but Stoick knew he was going to succeed against gravity. He’d watched him overcome impossible obstacles more than once.

After all, he was stubborn, like all Vikings should be.

*******

Hiccup’s head hung on his shoulders as he trudged to the house on the hill.

His legs felt tied with bolas, weighing themselves down and tripping themselves up.

The blue glow had faded from Toothless’ scales, and, as he walked beside Hiccup, his head hung low too, his eyes big as they glanced to and from the new chief, as if unsure the good he’d done that day outweighed the bad.

They should have come home in triumph, in more ways than one. And there were many victories that day. But once the adrenaline dissipated from their veins they became chains beneath their skin; a soreness of more than just the muscles.

This house was always…well, home. This sturdy thing, warm, and welcoming. Always there to come back to, always safe. It burned down more than a few times, but it came back stronger.

‘Stoic’ was the word.

It never looked so lonely before.

What was once a refuge, was now a beacon with no fire left inside.

Knowing he’d walk in and there’d be no warm meals or laughter, no jokes or even arguing…knowing it’d be just him and Toothless in a hollow shell…he wasn’t sure he wanted to go inside.

But he forced his tangled legs to move, one at a time, up the hill, pushing open the door.

At the sight of the dark living room something wriggled into his chest and stole what breath was left in there, until his lungs sat empty. Hollow...but so heavy.

The living room, where they played games. The kitchen, where they made meals, and spoke of dragons, and of mom.

The absence was something solid filling up the space.

Gravity was a greedy thing, wrapping tentacles around his ankles, attempting to drag him to the floor with every step. It probably took minutes, but he was sure the journey upstairs took hours.

...Had his legs been trembling this whole time?

After much effort he arrived at his room. His bed, once a life-long friend, was a stranger to him. Still, he collapsed into it’s embrace all the same, his bound legs promising he wouldn’t be getting out of it for a good while.

The night came with a fury far stronger than any teeth or flame.

As he attempted to coax sleep from its hiding places, the house complained against the wind, louder than he remembered; the barren wind a howling beast scratching to get inside.

When the morning came—and he wasn’t quite sure if he’d slept at all, or just shut his eyes for a while—gravity’s tendrils were wrapped tightly around his whole body, crooning in his ear sweet, bitter words about the worth of staying in bed, and the lack thereof in going out there...and it had some good points.

Because going out there meant talking to people. Going out there meant having responsibilities. Going out there meant being Chief, for the first day of the rest of his life.

Going out there meant being Chief...because the old Chief was gone.

But chiefs weren’t allowed to get up late. They weren’t allowed to lay in bed fighting back the sorrow nagging behind the eyes. Chiefs didn’t have time to fly with their dragons.

Chief’s had to get up early and solve the rest of the world’s problems.

He attempted to get out of bed, but gravity seized him, shoving him onto the floor, before leaning down to hum in his ear a soft, sour lullaby.

Toothless, hearing the disturbance, perked up, and pattered over to check what was wrong.

“I’m okay, bud.” He brushed him off.

Toothless took that hand and used it to help him sit against the bed.

Hiccup held his head in his hand, and when he turned to his dragon, the sympathetic look in Toothless’ eyes whispered: Of course you’re not.

He didn’t realize until then just how much gravity was sitting on his eyes too. He wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been cast into the sea, that he wasn’t beneath the waters now.

He used Toothless’ nose to try to help him get up, but his other side was missing the support, and he fell back.

Toothless’ nostrils flared a few times, as he stared at him, his eyes seeming to say: It’s okay to hurt.

And...I’m sorry. You can even hate me if you want.

He wrapped his arms around Toothless, and finally lost the battle, letting gravity send the sorrow down his cheeks.

*******

The world was too small.

Was gravity always this strong? He wasn’t sure he felt so pulled to Earth before. If he tried to make any move towards the sky he was sure gravity, like a dragon trapper’s net, would tangle him in its grip and send him crashing to the dirt, crying for help.

Once the world was bigger, and he—surrounded in his best friend’s wings—was able to outrace gravity’s clutches.

Was that why they flew so fast, so far, so much? Were they just racing gravity and time?

Now that the world shrunk down...Could he stand it? Stand in it? He wasn’t sure anymore.

After all, there weren’t any more dragons out there.

Walking proved more tedious than it had been before...and he was altogether too aware of just how alone he was.

The questions came like poison darts, whispered in his ear by this force ever taunting him:

How can you walk after you fly?

After spending your whole life with a friend, how can you get through it alone?

Surely a weak thing like him couldn’t survive all on his own, without the teeth and flames to protect him. So maybe he shouldn’t try. Perhaps, greedy thing, he’d been clinging too tightly to life. He was nothing from the start. Nothing without Toothless.

Though he and gravity were enemies, when he had Toothless, he was never afraid to fall.

Now falling was all he dreamed about.

He sat up on his bed, throwing his legs to the ground with little respect. When he did, his gaze lingered over the metal one.

It made him think of other missing things.

It made him think of a lonely boy who stole a dragon’s tail for the world’s praise. Of a dragon who stole a boy’s leg to save his life.

He could never see one without thinking of the other.

Each time he took a step the Earth was too solid.

Whenever his mind absently looked for Toothless, or felt his name rise on his tongue, and there was no one there, no one to call, the ocean surged within him.

Once, every night—or close to it—the sound of flames and talons gnawed at the roof. Then, after that, joyful roars and chirps fluttered about the air each morning.

Now, the silence clawed at the walls worse than any nightmares.

When he had trouble getting to his feet, they didn’t rush to catch him. In the midst of the night, or on the darkest mornings, no one was close enough to say softly: These things take time or It’s okay to hurt. So he wasn’t sure he could stand after all.

The fight between dragons and humans may have ended, but, in the end, there was only gravity, and this relentless war.

He cried...a lot. More than he cared to admit. He cried on those lonely nights, and too unlonely mornings. He cried when he saw a scale on the ground, or the old tail against the wall—(the one that said: I’ll only fly if it’s with you).

His scent remained for far too long. He smelled like those cool, cloudless nights that are just wide enough to taste freedom.

He missed the sky.

Stuck on the ground, the Earth turned too slowly.

The world, without the sky. Too small. Too slow. Too solid.

Perhaps, human thing, he was doomed from the start.

Perhaps.

But he was stubborn.

He’d deemed gravity an enemy for as long as he could remember, and at some point he understood that gravity considered him the same. At first he thought this was just a continual cosmic joke; he was weak enough for gravity itself to single him out.

It took him far too long to realize it meant the opposite:

You only consider someone your enemy if they’re strong enough to defeat you.

#how to train your dragon #httyd #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #hiccup #hiccup & toothless #hiccup angst #httyd2 #httyd3 #toothless #stoick #stoick the vast #httyd stoick #hiccup and stoick #hiccup and toothless #httyd 2 #httyd fanfiction #httyd zine #zine fic

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antihero-writings · 8 months

Text

If Everything Breaks

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Summary: Break doesn't like to dance…but maybe just this once || A tale of Break as he grows accustomed to his life with the Rainsworths. My fic for the Chained Pandora Hearts Zine! Written to go alongside @paraffinegg’s art!!

For a while I’ve had some headcanons on how Break picked his new name, and I thought, what better time to write about it than my zine fic!

When Kevin opened his eyes, the light was too bright. No…not eye-s. Just the one. The other’s empty socket throbbed like mad.

As said eye adjusted, vague shapes became clearer: the bed he was on, the tables and chairs around him—(too lavish a room for him)—and finally a person.

“My name...is Alice.”

He shot up, knocking his head against the headboard.

She laughed...an oddly bright sound.

Framed in sunlight, a woman was smiling at him.

“Where am I?” he demanded, voice hoarse.

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s rude to address a duchess’ daughter so informally, you know.”

His eye widened. This unassuming lady was a duchess’ daughter?

“I am Shelly Rainsworth. ...You showed up at our door covered in blood. ...Quite an entrance, I must say.”

The Rainsworths? He searched his brain but couldn’t find record of the name.

“And you are?”

No one had asked his name in a long time. And if he had told them, well…he would’ve had to kill them.

“You killed so many people! What a fool you were!”

Best not pronounce his identity just yet. For her sake.

“You don’t want to tell me.” There was no question, nor distrust there. “That’s fine. But I need something to call you.”

Her smile was not wicked, nor pitying.

It had been a long time since anyone treated him like more than a monster to be feared, or a toy to plucked and prodded—his important parts ripped out; broken like all the promises of a better world—

“...keep breaking just like that…

If all the people break, and the world breaks…

and everyone and everything goes mad…

Then I can be normal...right?”

He looked away, reaching for his left eye, finding bandages and blossoming pain where sight was supposed to be. He grimaced before answering softly:

“Break. Just…Break.”

********

A world bathed in golden light, music coiling in the atmosphere. With its cues feet glided, hands entwined, and dresses fluttered just above the ground like broken butterflies’ wings.

A cacophony of meaningless noise.

It’s all mad.

Kevin stood by the stairs as if painted there.

It wasn’t that he disliked balls…okay, no, he did; balls, banquets…gatherings of any kind, really. But, this was the Rainsworth’s party, so attendance was mandatory.

Too bright lights, too loud music, gossip picking at his skull, and, well…people. It all blended together to create a painful buzzing in his head.

The crippled butterflies flew in the other direction around their cage.

“Come on, Cheshire, let’s dance!”

The dancing was the worst part. All those moves to remember, so much to get wrong...and for what? A good show? He had no talent for it, but hopping around, without stepping on anyone's toes—a trained monkey to someone else’s tune, and an uncompromising paradigm—held no appeal for him anyways.

Count the seconds. How many left?—

What do I have left to lose?

“Be it my arms, my legs…I grant you whatever your heart desires!

So please…change the past for me!”

Count the steps. Trace the sequence.

So many wasted moments in pursuits of stillborn dreams, the pattern already predetermined.

“It’s that man.” The hiss came from the side of the room.

He knew who they were talking about; whispers were his loyal familiar.

Kevin wasn’t looking, but he could feel her eyes burning holes in him, like she was trying to snuff out a cigarette.

“The one the Rainsworths took in.”

A second burning hole. His thoughts would surely catch fire.

He shut his eye, his knuckles white on the staircase railing.

“Have you seen his eyes?”

He silently refuted her statement: Nope. Just the one, Dear. The other was stolen away. Apparently they’re a precious commodity to little lunatics in the center of the universe.

“I know right? Red.”

Fingers shoved into his eye socket, pain boring through the hole left…

Screaming rending the air—was it his voice? His throat was burning—

“Fu-fu It’s beautiful.”

“They make him so creepy!”

“I still don’t understand why they took him in.”

“Don’t they know how to take out the trash?” Laughter like venom.

He leaned back, putting his hand on his forehead, trying not to let it travel to his socket.

The words wove around his inner works, pulling taut. He tried not to think of death—(theirs, or his own)—as an excuse, or escape. But too often his mind drifted to a darkened room full of coffins, and a little girl begging him to stay.

Was it his fault, then? Was all of this…inevitable?

“Break!”

The word was a crack in reality. Another, better world, reaching out to him.

If there is such a thing.

He looked up, as if at the bottom of a mineshaft, to see Shelly on the staircase above him.

The thing about being in a high position is one gains the luxury of indifference; those in power rarely care for those below them. They can afford not to.

She caught his eye and motioned for him to come up to her.

...The Rainsworths were different.

“Come quickly, there’s a man covered in blood!”

Dare he? Surely he must stay against the wall, he was plastered there after all.

This room shone gold. Yet the Rainsworths were brighter; they were a kind of light those in the room knew nothing of. So bright were they that those in the dark dare not touch them, for fear of being shown in the sun for what they really were.

She put her hands on her hips.

...He dare not disobey.

And what was becoming of him? He didn’t feel brighter since meeting them. What if it was the other way around? With each step closer he swore he could hear the pieces of his shattered heart jangling in his chest, and wondered if instead he’d leave them all bleeding on those sharp edges.

A blur went by, closely followed with—

“Dance with me, Reim!” Little Sharon came pelting after.

Reim hid behind Sheryl’s chair on the floor below, and Rufus proceeded to scold them.

Laughter like sunshine breaking after rain.

He looked at Shelly, who raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in perhaps…ever.”

He was smiling? Better wipe it off.

“So…something tells me you don’t feel like dancing.”

“I never cared for it, Shelly-sama.”

“Let’s see, you don’t care for;”—She counted on her fingers—“people talking to you, people looking at you, people…aaand dancing now.”

He rolled his eye. “I mean it. I really can’t.”

“What do you say to a lesson?” She held out her hand.

He stumbled back.

Was this some punishment? He tried to think of anything he’d done to deserve this.

“It would disgrace a lady such as yourself to be seen dancing with a servant.”

“We could use a good scandal.”

“I—” he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d step on your toes.” He was running out of excuses.

“I don’t doubt it.”

What wasn’t she getting about this?

Shelly bounced her hand persistently.

No. He couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t. Dare touch her. Surely he’d infect her. Why was she bothering with him? Pestering him, like she always did. Like everyone always did. Treating him like a lost puppy, when they should just leave him in the rain to die.

The request was soft: “Please dance with me, Xerxes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “…What did you call me?”

He never spoke of his past, but he knew those whispers, ever at his heel, were indication enough of something dark in his ill-conceived adulthood.

“Well, I figured if you’re keeping a fake name, you’ll need a second. Or, in this case a first—Break sounds better as a surname, don’t you think? And I thought Xerxes was rather fitting.”

“How?” He snorted. “Isn’t it a name for ancient kings and heroes? I fail to see how I fit that.”

How could a knight wear the name of a king? How could a villain bear the name of a hero?

“That’s why I picked it.”

He backed up, his eye widening.

He didn’t understand what she was, or why she ever spoke to him. All that light was sickening...yet…

This woman saw him, not as a monster, or a toy…but as some sort of hero. How was that possible?

The name didn’t fit right. But she smiled at him, and though the light was sickening... it was oddly warm.

“Break might not like to dance, but tonight we are not Break and Shelly. I am the Queen of Hearts, and you are my Mad Hatter.”

“...Who said I was mad?”

She grinned.

“You must be, or you wouldn’t have come here.”

He could choose to turn away, leave this place, believe the whispers snaking through him. Reject the name, her kindness, her light.

He sighed, averted his eye—

Just this one.

And took her hand.

#Xerxes break #pandora hearts #break pandora hearts #kevin regnard #kevin legnard #pandora hearts break #pandora hearts fic #pandora hearts shelly #shellly rainsworth #shelly pandora hearts #sheryl rainsworth #sharon rainsworth #reim lunettes

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antihero-writings · 8 months

Text

The Crownless Prince

Fandom: Tangled the Series

Summary: Edmund is sure baby Horace will grow into a big, strong prince one day. On the day of his and Rapunzel's wedding, he comforts him that that's exactly what he grew up to be. (My fic for the Wind in my Hair Zine)

He was the most beautiful thing Edmund had ever seen. With those big blue eyes, and that goofy smile. Edmund was sure he’d never seen anything more exquisite in his life. He wanted his son to know that.

The king knelt down beside the crib, folding his arms along the edge and looking serenely at him. He reached down and picked up a rattle from his son’s feet, jiggling it over him. The baby prince reached for it in vain, smiling all the same, and his father returned the expression.

“Hello Horace.” He said softly, then in an almost joking way, “It’s me, your dad. You know me, don’t you?”

The baby cooed.

“I’ll take that as a yes!”

Edmund let him have the rattle, looking out the balcony at the darkening sky.

Once he had the rattle safely in his grasp, the infant prince became disinterested in it, and began reaching with all his might for something else.

Edmund looked around, trying to find what might have caught his eye but, after a moment, realized it was something on his person. His first guess was the shiny, purple pendant around his neck, which he held up between his thumb and forefinger. “Is this what you want?”

This was clearly not his desire; he stared at him, and promptly spit up.

“Drat, guessed it wrong. Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out!” Edmund paused, thinking hard for a moment. “Ah, I know now! This must be it!”—He reached up and took off his crown. The baby reached more emphatically as he placed it into his hands, and relaxed when it was in his grasp. “Now be careful with that, Horace, it’s got lots of pointy edges! Wouldn’t want you to get hurt!”

The baby kicked it in circles with his feet, looking up at him as he did so, as if directly defying his orders.

Edmund chuckled. “That’s gonna be yours one day. You know that, don’t you?”

The baby gave a sound that may have been a giggle, or may have been a burp. Edmund picked him up as he tried to gnaw on the aforementioned pointy edges.

“You’re big aren’t you? That’s right you’re a big, strong boy! But you’re gonna grow up even bigger and stronger one day! Mm hmm!”

The baby looked up at him with unknowing eyes, his lip hanging limply around the crown as his attention divided.

“You’re gonna be king someday. Just like me. Well…” He paused, and for the first time something sad entered his eyes. “Hopefully not just like me.”

A raven sitting on the balcony railing squawked, bringing him back to the moment.

He bounced the baby up and down. “Yes, I was just getting to that, Hamuel!

“You’ll be strong enough to take down all the bad guys! With my good looks”—He put his hand to his chin appraisingly—“and your mother’s spirit, you’ll make for a very dashing prince!” His son pulled on his beard, and Edmund laughed.

He bounced him over to the mantle above the cozy fire, and picked up a book with an example of one such dashing hero on the cover sitting on the edge.

“Just like Flynn Rider!” he held up the book so the baby could see.

The prince pointed. “Goo.”

“Yes, that’s right!” Edmund kissed him emphatically on the head, then paused a moment, admiring the cover.

“Your mother always loved these stories.” His tone shifted from jovial into something more somber. He trailed off, dragging his fingers along the cover, trying to reach something beneath the pages. “She thought he was a handsome, swashbuckling rogue. I never saw it myself; I thought he was a bit of a show off, but, eh.” He shrugged.

He dragged his fingers along the cover as if he could reach something beneath the pages, trying not to let the thing lurking behind his words make its way to the surface. He opened his mouth, intending to change the subject, yet found himself talking about her even so;

“You know what she said about you?” He looked at his son. “When you were in her tummy,” He patted his own stomach for good measure, “You once kicked her so hard you gave her a bruise! Not even born yet and you here you were, already too strong for your own good!” He laughed. “She said: ‘Edmund, he’s a fighter!’” He brandished the book as if spurring soldiers to battle. “You’re going to be a brave prince, I just know it!”

He held up his son, nuzzling his nose.

Their son. The last living thing left of her.

As he trailed off that creeping thing behind his every word made its way to his eyes, and broke through the windows. He found himself standing there, tears tracking down his face, not really sure where he was, or what he was doing there.

The baby prince cooed again, reminding him of reality. Edmund shook his head.

“Yes Horace? ...You’re right! Let’s go eat some lunch!”

*******

When Edmund went to check on his son he found him in a heated debate with a mirror.

“You can do this Eugene. You can do this.” He chanted and pointed to his reflection. “It’s just a walk through the throne room—You’ve done that before. And you’ll stand in front of the girl you love—you’ve done that before too. And you’ll tell her you love her…in front of the entire kingdom. You’ve even done that before! Except, well…that time you were rejected. But you’re not”—He pointed at the mirror—“gonna get rejected this time! Nope! You just need to tell the woman you love how much you love her and want to be with her. You do that like every day already! ...I mean...right?”

Lance and Varian couldn’t tell if he was asking them or the mirror.

“I’m not gonna say ‘I do’ and then have her go ‘I don’t’...right? Nah, she wouldn’t do that. She loves me! She was even gonna propose to me!

“Everything will be fine. No one’s like...gonna object.” He scoffed, chuckling, then his face blanched.

“Oh god.” he put his hands on his face, turning around to his compatriots, saying like they knew the whole time and should have told him, “Someone’s gonna object! I mean, someone’s gotta, right?” He said like this conclusion was inevitable. “People won’t want their princess married off to some lowlife!” He gestured to himself,

Lance held up a finger, about to object to the idea of an objection, but he stopped to contemplate it.

Varian stood up, “Eugene—”

Lance’s face changed to match Eugene’s, “You’re right! Someone’s gonna object!” He gasped before Varian could speak, his voice going up multiple octaves. “I mean who would want you to marry the princess?!” He put one hand on his friend's shoulder, and bit his nails with the other one. “I mean, frankly, you’re a hoodlum!”

“I know!” Eugene’s voice cracked.

“Guys!” Varian tried to shout, almost laughing, “Everything’s going to be fine! No one’s going to object!”

“The whole wedding’s gonna be cancelled!” Eugene was gesturing with his hands now, not even looking at his friends. "We’re gonna have to get a refund on the cake, and the party, and Christmas is gonna be ruined and—!” He slid his hands down his face.

“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself, son?” Edmund stepped in.

Eugene shrieked and jumped into Lance’s arms, staring wildly around the room like he had suddenly materialized out of thin air.

“Dad?! Whja?! Howdid?! How long have you been standing there?!”

Edmund paused in thought. “It seems like he does not want me to have been standing here long, so I will say ‘just a moment, son!’”

Eugene’s eyes lidded, as Lance let him down, the shock giving way to exasperation. “Soooo, the whole time then. Great. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“Score one for team Edmund!”

Eugene rolled his eyes. Edmund walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You seem to be suffering from some pre-wedding jitters. Don’t worry, I had those. I thought this might happen, so I made sure to bring my trusty—” he rummaged in his pockets, ”my trusty—!” He stammered, delving into his bag in more determinedly, “Where is it?”

Hamuel circled above before landing on his Master’s shoulder, and promptly hacking the desired object up into his hands.

“Ah, thank you for your service, Hamuel.” He said like he was a servant who had handed it to him on a pillow with a low bow. The King cleared his throat and held the unidentifiable, bird-spit-covered object up, exclaiming, “It always brings me good luck!”

Eugene stared at his father with an expression of what can only be described as stark and utter horror. Though he spoke calmly, “No, no, dad…” he waved his hand, backing up, “I’m fine. Really really fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Edmund shrugged, putting it into his pocket.

Edmund took a look around the room—all of the boys were wearing their best suits for the occasion—then gave a small, knowing chuckle, and walked up to his son, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“You’re going to do wonderfully son. When I was going to marry your mother I was so nervous I threw up on my best man!”

“…Was this supposed to be an encouraging pep talk?”

“You’re right... There was a point to this, I know it…Ah! People don’t like it when you throw up on them! No that can’t be right…Everyone’s nervous on their wedding day! That was it! I venture to guess every man doesn’t think they deserve the woman they’re about to marry. Even I thought that, and I was a king! Speaking of which, you’re not some lowlife or hoodlum!” He clapped him hard on the back. “Did you forget that you’re a prince?!”

“Yeeaah, it’s kinda hard to remember when I spent most of my life as an orphan thief—but, eh,” He waved with his hand, “water under the bridge.”

“You mother and I knew before you were even born you’d grow up to be a strong, handsome prince someday—Well with my looks was there any doubt?” He put his hand to his chin and grinned. “And you have your mother’s spirit too. Her tenacity, her propensity for running into trouble. She was right.”

He put his hand on his cheek and leaned down to kiss his head.

“Thanks, Dad." Eugene smiled.

“Anytime, Son.” Edmund smiled back.

“And you’ve found—not just a princess—but an amazing woman to share your life with!” Edmund proclaimed.

“Yeah, well, she is pretty great.” Eugene chuckled. “Really—aside from the handsome part“—He gave the same grin—“she’s the only reason I became all those things.”

Edmund clapped him on the back. “Don’t sell yourself too short!”

His son had grown up into the dashing hero his wife had once promised he would. Sure, maybe not in the way he expected.

But when he saw him standing at the front of the throne room, he knew it was true. It may not be his throne, but it was a throne nonetheless. And it may not be for a coronation, but he would be a prince after all. And they were going to put a golden ring, not on his head, but his hand.

And this woman he was standing with, she was a bold, spirited hero too. It was because of her they had found each other again.

Individually, they were each the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. How astounding it was, then, how much more beautiful they were together.

As they stood there—the dark prince, and the sun princess, in a wedding that wasn’t even arranged, both lost and found again—their light outshone the stars.

He knew his son had found an amazing wife. He knew they would have a wonderful life together, and he hoped it would be a long one, for both of them.

He hoped they would stand over their children’s cribs one day, telling them how they would be heroes too: how they would be big and strong. …But these two taught him there was something more important than that: that they would be selfless. Just like their parents.

#tangled the series #eugene fitzherbert #rapunzels tangled adventure #flynn rider #rapunzel #tangled #tangled the series fic #varian #lance strongbow #king edmund #tts #rta

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antihero-writings · 2 years

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hi, i don't know if you still take prompts but i was wondering if you mind writing some hurt/confort between Adrian and Trevor. It is hard to find gen fanfic with them

Hi!

I don’t know if you meant to send the ask twice, but I appreciate that you did! XD Because it means I can chat before writing anything.

Ive been taking a break from fanfiction lately, and have also been quite busy, so I can’t promise I’ll actually succeed at finishing something. However, I absolutely love your prompt, (and it seems doable as something short), so I’d love to try! You're right, there isn't a whole lot of gen fics for them, and I'd be happy to provide, if I can!

I was wondering, do you have any more details? Is there are specific scenario in which you want the hurt to occur? Or would you like me to just roll with wherever my brain takes me? XD

(You can send another anonymous ask if you have more details!)

#castlevania #prompts #ask #adrian tepes #alucard #trevor belmont #castlevania fanfiction

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antihero-writings · 2 years

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Hiya, I hope you and your loved ones are doing well 🐥 your writing is 🤌 Im just in love 💛 I was wondering if there is any updates on ‘Before it Kills You Too’, I’m just sooo addicted to it 😅 I’ve red it like 31 times 🥲 Anyway my lovely, just know that I’m appreciating you works or art and take care of yourself 😘

Hi! I'm so sorry this response is so goshdang late. I haven't been looking at this blog much in the past few months.

As such, I've been kind of taking a break from Fanfiction lately. So...unfortunately I don't have any updates for you. (At least, not since this one.) However, I do intend to finish it. Just not sure when that will be, hehe...

I'm just struggling a bit on how to finish it. I want to end it on a happier or neutral note after Zeus has been taking care of her but...it's hard to figure out how to get the piece there/what scenes specifically to write, besides a short summary of him nursing her back to health. (Do let me know if you have any ideas of your own!)

But anywho! I'm so very happy you like the fic so much!!! These are such huge compliments!! Thank you so much for the support!! I really really appreciate it!! <3 <3 <3

#lore olympus #zeus #before it kills you too #lo zeus #lore olympus zeus

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antihero-writings · 2 years

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So I’m watching My Little Pony Friendship is magic (I watched through S4 when I was a teenager but stopped, and I’m finally getting around to watching more, just started S5) and…I was wondering, was anyone else disappointed with both Discord’s reformation, and Twilight’s turning into an allicorn? (I think those were the end of S3).

Don’t get me wrong, I really really like the premises of both. I absolutely adore the idea of Fluttershy being the one to reform Discord, and Twilight finishing Starswirl’s last spell is a neat idea, as is everyone’s cutiemarks being switched.

But twilight becoming a princess and Discord being reformed are huge events for the series as a whole, and I felt like both were super rushed. If any season finale should be a dramatic two parter, it should be the one where twilight becomes a princess. The two premises don’t really fit together but I almost feel like both are two-parter-season-finale material.

Anywho. The reason I’m posting this on my writing blog is I’m contemplating writing fics rewriting those two episodes—either as separate episodes/ fics, or combining the two episodes somehow.

And I was wondering, does anyone have any ideas for things I might change or include to improve those episodes? Anything you wish was included yourself?

Right now all I can think is “slow both down” but that doesn’t really give me a lot to work with. I can pretty easily make Discord fight the reformation for longer, but I also need a more satisfying catalyst for him to realize that Fluttershy’s friendship actually matters to him. And I think I can expand on Starswirl’s spell and how it works, and make it a bit harder to finish but…I’d love some suggestions on more specific things I could add, subtract, or change.

(Also, I might make both episodes a little darker so don’t hesitate to suggest some darker things too)

(My apologies if this has been done before, I’m super duper new to the fandom)

#my little pony #mlp fim #mlp #my little pony friendship is magic #discord #discord mlp #mlp discord #twilight #twilight sparkle #fluttershy #mlp twilight sparkle #mlp fluttershy

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antihero-writings · 3 years

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The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch11)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: Alright everyone I'M BACK ...And I'm so so SO sorry that I took so long to update. Over the past few months I took my first real break from posting fanfiction overall in a long time.

Before I posted this chapter, I actually ended up heavily editing some of the previous chapters, which I'd like to inform those who read the originals about first. (Currently only the Ao3 version, and the reblog version of this fic with the picture on top are up-to-date.)

* I made Tom overall more polite. I was of the belief that his politeness was not an innate trait, and without memory, he would be a bit more unpleasant, and then we could see him grow with time. I do still believe it's not an innate personality trait, but a couple things made me realize he really should act differently in my fic. * I made Snape treat Tom better in the interrogation chapter. Both at the beginning and end. I liked the ending with the Levicorpus spell, and I do kinda miss it, especially because it informed Harry's reactions, but I think it was just too mean, especially because of something I'm going for later. * I added a conversation with the other boy in the hospital wing. (By the way, if you go back to read that and can think of more things they should talk about, don't hesitate to let me know!)

...I think those are all the big things! Feel free to offer feedback on the changes if you read them!

I'm so sorry to everyone who was hoping for faster updates. I truly do appreciate your comments and support deeply, and hope that you will continue to read and still enjoy it. I would still love to hear what you think!! <3 <3

Chapter 11: The House of Books

“The summer? With you? And Harry Potter?”

Tom had been examining the objects Snape had brought him—objects which had apparently once belonged to him—and blinked, raising his head to look at him.

“Believe me, I am not thrilled about it either.”

“No, it’s not that—well, it is—it’s just…” He paused, running his fingers along the clothes laid out on the bed before him, then squinted up at Snape. “I’m trying to discern why this is a good idea.”

Snape looked away, seemingly wondering that himself.

“I think, with time, you’ll find that our headmaster has a very unique sense of what is good for others. He believes uncomfortable situations often serve for people’s betterment.” He looked off to the side and muttered, “Whether or not they agree.”

“What sort of ‘betterment’ does this serve?”

“I suppose he would like the three of us to…”—He exhaled—“get along.”

Tom raised an eyebrow a second time, as if to say Us? Really?

“Futile though it may be,” Snape added.

Tom bit his lip, internally assessing the situation as he also returned to assessing the objects.

It wasn’t ideal—that didn’t need stating. Tom had a difficult time fathoming why Dumbledore—who seemed to bear him no ill-will—would want him to live with one person who had a rather insurmountable grudge against him, and another who didn’t seem to like him much better. He wanted them to ‘get along?’ `Surely that couldn’t be it. There had to be more to it.

Was Dumbledore really so naive as to think they’d grow closer instead of hate each other more? Not that he quite understood why they hated each other in the first place.

“Is there a reason I can’t stay here over the summer? I wouldn’t mind.”

Clearly Snape would have preferred that as well.

“You no doubt heard at the Feast that there has been some question as to whether Hogwarts is entirely safe. The Board of Governors likely wouldn’t approve of a student staying over the summer until they are able to deny these suspicions. Also, the headmaster wants you to learn magic over the summer, and due to few teachers possessing a proclivity to stay at Hogwarts during this time, we must make other arrangements.”

Tom’s breath bated at the reveal that he’d be learning magic, his mind beginning to buzz. He tried not to let his excitement leak into his voice:

“You’ll be teaching me magic?”

“Do keep up.”

“So…” He sat back. “What’s Harry going to do?”

“Mister Potter will be…taking up space as usual, I presume.”

Tom stifled a laugh; he hadn’t been expecting such a response from a professor.

“You don’t like Harry, do you?”

“I’m not…particularly fond of him.”

“Is it too forward of me to say it doesn’t appear you’re particularly fond of me either?”

“I pains me to say you’ll have adequate time to learn there aren’t a great many things I feel an extensive amount of fondness for.”

Tom could already see it now.

“Consider it a trial period, of sorts.” Snape swept around the room as he altered the direction of conversation. “If you are able to succeed over the summer, you may continue your schooling at Hogwarts when the next year begins. How much you learn, and how quickly, will determine the year in which you are placed. That is, if you’re placed in any year at all.” He looked down his hooked nose at him like that was both the most likely option, and the most preferable.

Tom could tell hidden behind his words was the idea that this ‘trial period’ was about more than just how adept he was at magic. He’d didn’t need telling that he’d have to be careful in more ways than magical.

“Do you have any other business to attend to before we leave?”

“Wait, we’re leaving now?”

“I don’t come to the hospital wing for pleasant chats if that’s what you’re asking.”

Tom bit his lip. In all honesty he would have liked to stay and explore the school more, but he could tell Snape wasn’t the kind of person one could negotiate such things with.

He turned back to the items that were supposed to be his.

“Is this really all I have?” He asked softly.

Sure all the essentials were there: clothes, books, toiletries and the like, but nothing more personal. No pictures for his nightstand, or even a keepsake to remind him of home, of family. Nothing that could tell him a little more about himself.

Snape paused a moment before he replied: “All of which I’m aware.”

Tom didn’t say anything. Merely put everything back in the trunk and followed Snape to the door.

“Don’t you have anything to bring home with you?” Tom asked.

“Don’t you think a skilled wizard such as myself would have methods of sending it to its proper location?”

They spent the walk across the grounds in silence, which could probably be considered steely, though Tom didn’t mind. The grounds around Hogwarts, and what little he saw of the castle, were altogether beautiful, and empty conversation would only have dulled his enjoyment. He turned around, walking backwards, a smile creeping upon his face upon at the sight of the castle in its full glory. He came to find this wasn’t a school, this was a palace, a haven.

A—

The word home rose to the surface of his chest.

It occurred to him this was the first time he’d smiled since he lost his memory. Really and truly smiled.

The feeling wasn’t half bad.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You like it?”

Tom cleared his throat. “It’s nice I guess.” But he couldn’t stuff the smile down, couldn’t quite figure out what this feeling was.

He must be a student, surely. Otherwise, why would he feel such fondness for the place?

He didn’t think Snape would reply, and was surprised to hear, barely audible, “I always thought as much.”

They arrived at a wrought iron gate with winged boars on either side—(really living up to the name, Tom supposed. All they needed was a decent amount of warts on them). Once they had passed through it, Snape stopped abruptly and held out his arm. It seemed he was expecting Tom to take it.

Tom wasn’t quite sure why he ought to do this, (and was rather offput by the thought of touching this man). Still, he did as he was told and—

He felt like he was being pigeonholed through a pipe. When the journey ended he was in an entirely new location, and wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t feel sick.

"Apparating for the first time can often make one feel unwell,” Snape informed the doubled-over Tom in a way that didn’t signify he really cared.

As Tom regained his bearings, he thought for a moment, in the same way he quite liked the walk along the grounds, he probably would have rather enjoyed traveling across the countryside. It struck him, that, while this sort of travel certainly got the job done, if wizards had a type of travel more like flying; allowing one to see the view, but also get where they needed to go quickly, he would like to learn it.

The new location, however, was far drearier and less pleasing to the eyes. Rather than an enchanting (and probably enchanted) forest, bordering sunny grounds, and a castle whose majesty was unmatched (at least in his current memory), this was a grimy, cobbled street, like a dull pencil: grey, disappointing, and without its sharpness.

He was almost certain the place was non-magical in nature. He couldn’t believe anyone magical would allow their cities to collect this much grime and…boringness. Identical brick townhouses lined those streets, their chimneys spewing smoke into the air, causing a low cloud of what could be either smog or fog to hang over the place, making the air warmer and more humid than necessary. Snape’s house was the last in the row, (at least, he assumed it was Snape’s as it was the one they were heading towards), and across from it he could see a black river winding through the mist.

Snape flicked his wand, unlocking what was presumably his front door.

Often houses have a certain, indefinable smell to them, but when Tom stepped inside this one, he found it wasn’t so indefinable: parchment, and old shoes, and maybe a little bit of neglect.

He could have fooled himself into thinking he’d walked into a bookstore. The walls were lined with books, the sofa and armchair in the corner creating a false sense of coziness—(‘false’ because nothing about this man said ‘cozy’). It had the air of being one of those spaces that is cluttered, but to call it anything but ‘neat’ would be an insult. Like a library of a devout scholar: cluttered with knowledge, yet, despite the fact that the shelves are puking pages, it all seems somehow perfectly in place.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Snape said in a tone that told him he didn’t want him to be comfortable at all. “Take care not to touch anything that isn’t yours.”

Tom’s eyes lidded. “So…don’t touch anything at all?”

“You’re catching on.” Snape smirked.

Tom rolled his eyes, not entirely sure Snape was joking.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

The words ‘your room’ were clipped, like the thought that it would belong to him for even a summer was repulsive. Though Tom could tell that before they arrived.

He opened a small door in the wall, which Tom would have thought another room, or perhaps a closet, but turned out to be a set of stairs.

After journeying up them, a hallway whose wood was in dire need of staining, dusty portraits whose stern eyes followed him as he walked by, and a decorative table with an empty vase upon it, greeted him.

The advertised room was small, and a bit stuffy, and a few of the floorboards creaked, but something told him he’d slept in worse conditions before.

Though it was a small house, they were able to keep to themselves. Snape was busy resettling into his house, and disinclined to give him a tour, and Tom, not having much to get settled in the first place, spent the time exploring his new surroundings.

He wandered around the library that was the downstairs, and the dingy hallways that were the upstairs. He took care not to enter what he assumed to be Snape’s room, as well as a few other locked rooms. He didn’t want to get on his bad side…if he even had a good side.

He quickly found he didn’t mind being around books. He had affinity for them, especially when their contents had to do with magic.

“Are these all about magic?” He asked Snape when he passed by.

“Some of them. It may surprise you to find most of them aren’t.”

“May I read them?” He asked, remembering Snape’s warning not to touch anything, as well as the fact that this was a ‘trial period.’

“If you cannot find ways to entertain yourself.”

“I’m sure I can. But you seem like the kind of man who appreciates silence.” He put his hands behind his back and smiled too pleasantly.

Snape pursed his lip.

They spent their time regarding each other as wolves encroaching on each others territories: they weren’t happy to be sharing the same space, but they couldn’t do anything but growl low until one of them made a move.

Later, when Snape made dinner, the action drew his attention from his book. Tom watched with fascination as Snape waved his wand with ease, and the ingredients floated and melded together of their own accord, like Snape’s wand knew what to say to them.

“Will I be able to do that?”

“A whole world of magic and you want to be able to make dinner?”

“Well—” Annoyance flared in Tom. “Of course I’d prefer to know much more exciting, dangerous things…but yes”

“Children are not allowed to use magic outside of school until they come of age…but, yes.”

The word ‘children’ in that condescending tone didn’t make him feel less annoyed.

“How come I’m able to do it, then? You’re able to teach me during the summer.”

“Dumbledore has his ways.”

Tom could tell he wouldn’t get any more information than that.

While they ate, Tom chanced a few more questions, and was surprised to find that it tasted quite good, and he thought he remembered someone once telling him good food does wonders for the soul.

He was glad to find that, despite Snape’s obvious distaste for him, and seemingly all things his age, he was cordial enough, and he certainly didn’t mind keeping to himself.

Tom was just thinking about asking when he’d start learning magic that evening, when a stack of books almost as tall as him landed on the table.

Flicking his eyes across the titles, he saw that each and every one of them something to do with magic.

“I expect you to have these read before before Potter arrives. Only then will I start teaching you magic.”

Tom leaned to the side to look at Snape and tried not to smirk.

“You sure this is everything? It doesn’t seem like quite enough.”

#harry potter #tom riddle #Severus snape #Harry Potter fanfiction #the boy with the unspeakable name #hp #hp fanfiction #hp fic #hp fanfic

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antihero-writings · 3 years

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My fic for this prompt on my ph & vnc blog, as well as @phmonth2021's vnc countdown, Day 2: Misha | Mikhail and/or Luna!

(This might function as my Day 1: Vanitas fic too...I don't really have any fic ideas for him right now. Might do art instead, if I have time. If you do have Vanitas fic ideas, send em over!)

Here was the original prompt:

"Can I also request vanitas & misha please. But from misha’s pov...Maybe something on misha liking that vanitas has long hair even though misha hated having long hair. and misha playing with vanitas’s hair. It can be during their time at Moreau’s? Some fluff during the angst."

Misha never had any brothers. No sisters, or a father, or even friends, really. Just him, and his mom, and the men who came and went. He wasn’t quite sure what friends or brothers, or all those sorts of people were made of. And what that made Number Sixty-Nine. As he sat next to him on the bed, Number Sixty-Nine leaning his head back against the wall, Misha wondered:

Were they friends? Were they brothers? Were they…what was that word again? Quaint-something? Were they merely two bodies to be broken and tampered in this lab? Were they just numbers after all, not just to the doctors, but to each other? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he was made of. But he did know he was the only warmth after the cold tables and needles, the only quiet after the screaming, the only smiles after the tears. He knew Sixty-Nine was the sun and the stars to him, and that must make him at least somewhat special. He was the first person who actually cared if he got hurt. Not just cared, tried to stop the hurt. He didn’t know there were people like that. He was softer and warmer than the pillows he fell into when his mother hit him. He wasn’t sure what mothers were supposed to do, but he never liked it when his mother hit him. Did all mothers hit their children? What that what mothers were made of? Bumps and bruises, and shouts, and being cut and shaped into what she wanted you to be. That’s what his was made of, at least. He never liked hiding under the bed. He never liked hearing his mother moaning in the night. He never quite knew what the noises above the bed meant. She sounded like she might be in pain. But she told him never to get up when she had one of her men over. She was in pain. Then afterwards, she gave that pain to him. Only the vampire made her happy. And he never liked having long hair. Though he didn’t like the doctors either, he did like that they offered him that small kindness. Though they may strap him to tables, and put strange things into his body, and make him hurt too, that small kindness always made his body feel a little more like his. Not some imitation of a girl. Not some imitation of what his mother wanted him to be. His mother who hurt him. No. Sixty-Nine. Who tried to stop the hurt. He never liked having long hair, but taking strands of Sixty-Nine’s hair between his fingers, like dark water across his skin, he found he didn’t mind it on him—(whatever they were to each other). Sixty-Nine noticed him staring, and raised an eyebrow at him. Misha gave a little giggle. “Say, do you like having long hair?” Sixty-Nine raised his eyebrow further at the question. “I’ve never really cared much.” He looked away. “I suppose I must…since I’ve kept it this way.” “Well, I like it!” Misha threw up his hands. “I like it on you, at least.” No. Sixty-Nine looked a little embarrassed at that, he moved his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Thanks I-I guess.” “May I play with your hair?” “Uhh...Sure I guess.” Then he murmured under his breath, “I guess you don’t have much else to play with.” And Misha knew he was talking about things he didn’t understand again. Misha began taking the strands of Sixty-Nine’s hair and tossing them over and under each other, braiding them together. His mother often braided his hair, but it was something she’d made him learn too. He never liked doing it in the mirror. But it felt nice now. “Say…what are we?” He asked after a pause. “What are we?” He looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “We’re human. Why is that a question?” “I know that, Silly! I mean what are we to each other?” “Huh?” “I’ve never had friends before—I don’t think. Are we friends?” He curled a strand around his finger. “Are we…what was that word? Quaint-aunts-es? Are we lovers?” And this last one caught in his throat a little: “Are we brothers?” “We’re not lovers, I can tell you that much,” he snorted. “And it’s ‘acquaintances’. I—“ Sixty-Nine sighed. He always seemed so tired. He either seemed so tired, or energy burst out of him. There was an anger to him, he knew. Though he didn’t know why, where it came from. (Not that he ever knew. He didn't really get angry much himself). An anger that was different from his mother’s. It wasn’t an aspect of him, a piece of clothing he wore that Misha wished he would take off, something that made him hurt others sometimes. It was like the anger was written in his very being. And he never hurt anyone. “I don’t know. I guess we

can be whatever you want us to be.” “Well…what’s an acquaintance?” The braid wasn’t looking quite right, so he brushed it out and restarted. He sighed. “An acquaintance is someone you know, but not well. Someone you know casually, or met once or twice. Like…a friend of a friend.” “Well we must not be acquaintances! We’ve met much more than twice!” He chuckled a little. “Fair enough.” “What’s a friend?” “A friend is someone you do know well. Someone who you enjoy being around, and want to be around and talk to often. Someone you’re close to.” “That sounds like us!” “What’s a lover?” Sixty-Nine scoffed. “I don’t really know. I won’t say I’ve ever been one, but a lover is someone who you love more than a friend. Someone who you don’t just want to be close to, but you want to be close to constantly.” He stuck his tongue out in disgust. “Oh, that sounds like us too! I want to be around you all the time!” “You don’t love me,” there was an ice to his words, a bite to the cerulean gaze now directed at him. “Not like that.” Misha ignored this. He was reaching the bottom of the braid. “Well anyway, what…” his voice grew quieter now, and he sat back on his knees. “What’s a brother?” “A brother…a brother’s a little more complicated. A brother is generally someone who you’re related to. Someone who is also a child of your mother and father, but… isn’t you. There’s also half-brothers who share either your mother or your father but not both. It’s a bond closer than that of friendships, or even lovers, in a way. Your parents blood runs through their veins so, in a way, your blood does too. It’s like you’re…pieces of a whole. You’re family. You live together, you eat, and sleep, and cry, and laugh, together. “But, at the same time…you can call someone your brother, even if you’re not related, if they’re as close to you as a brother would be. If you’re family. If you live together, eat, sleep, cry, and laugh together. Or perhaps better yet, if you go through something together that makes you closer than you are to your friends. Something that makes you... pieces of a whole.” Misha finished the braid, but he had nothing to tie it off, so he simply admired it for a moment, then released his grip, and let the bottom fall loose. “I think I get it now,” Misha grinned, meeting his gaze, “Brother.”

<-Day 4: Chloé and/or Jean-Jacques

P.S. Here's the link to another fic I wrote for another Misha-and-Vanitas-at-Moreau's-lab prompt!!

#vnc #vnc misha #vnc mikhail #vnc vanitas #vanitas #vnc moreau #vanitas no carte #vanitas no carte anime #vanitas no carte fanfiction #case study of vanitas #les mémoires de vanitas #vanitas no shuki #the case study of vanitas #vnc fic #vnc fanfiction #vnc fanfic #vnc countdown

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antihero-writings · 3 years

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For @phmonth2021's vnc countdown, Day 4: Chloé and/or Jean-Jacques/Gevaudan!

A little poetic-prose Jean-Jacques character-study piece for you!

I might try and write something longer/more of a scene for this/him later, but this was what I came up with for now! I hope you like it!

His parents loved him. At least…he thought they did. They had at one point.

Then he was rewritten.

Vampires didn’t turn humans into vampires. Some humans thought it happened through a bite, but it didn’t.

It wasn’t a bite, or a poison, or a curse, or a blight, it was…chance. Wild, unmerciful chance. One didn’t get turned by a vampire, rather one started out human and then were rewritten from the inside because Fate made a choice. Perhaps she frowned upon you. Perhaps she liked you. You’d never know. Being a vampire wasn’t all bad…and it wasn’t all good either.

You wouldn’t notice you were being rewritten, not at first. You’d just be…you. And then one day your eyes would start turning red, and your teeth would start getting longer, and you’d realize you could, sometimes, see the fabric of the world.

But at some point you’d start to notice. You’d start to realize… that’s what it felt like. It felt like you were a sweater, and that one thread holding you together, that one thread that made you human, was being pulled by a the naughty, mischievous child that was Fate. Then she restitched you, piece by piece.

No one tells you being rewritten hurts.

It truly does feel like needles going into you over, and over.

Jean-Jacques was rewritten.

He didn’t hate himself for it, and he didn’t mind the taste of fangs.

But his parents stopped loving him.

Others had been rewritten by now, and they knew full well Fate had only one other species-selection for those she rewrote.

It was a silly mistake, really. He didn’t know what he was doing.

His mother screamed.

His father shouted, and he…

That was the first time he hit him.

Why? He was still their son, wasn’t he? He was still the same person, just in a different color, or with a few pages missing. They could have been chosen to be rewritten just as easily. Didn’t they know that?

(Why weren’t they chosen too?)

And well, when your mother doesn’t look at you, and your father hits you, that’s about the time you start looking for a witch in the woods.

She was a fairy tale, a myth, a bedtime story his grandparents told him, during those times his family still loved him.

He wasn’t looking for some magic potion to fix his vampirism. He wasn’t looking for some spell of revenge on those who hurt him. She was a kind witch. A witch who never harmed anyone. He knew too few humans like that. He was looking for…a friend. For someone like him. Someone to say he didn’t have to be alone.

The stories didn’t say she was a vampire, but witches and vampires ought to get along, right? The heretics oughta look out for each other.

They may be heretics, devils, but when he looked up and saw her fangs, it was like he was seeing her angel wings.

He’d never met a vampire other than himself, and her presence wordlessly told him You’re not alone. You’re never going to have to be alone again.

He didn’t yet realize that his presence said the same to her.

<-Day 5: The Chasseurs

#jean jacques chastel #chloé d'apchier #vanitas no carte #vanitas no carte anime #vanitas no carte fanfiction #case study of vanitas #les mémoires de vanitas #vanitas no shuki #vnc vanitas #vanitas #the case study of vanitas #vnc #vnc fanficiton #vnc fic #vnc fanfic

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antihero-writings · 3 years

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For @phmonth2021's vnc countdown!

So this technically started as my Ruthven piece for Day 6: The Royals, so even though this also fits for today, Day 4: Chloé and/or Jean-Jacques, since I have another fic for Jean-Jacques, I'll count this as my day 6 fic XD

A little character-study piece for you all, based on Chloé's potential thoughts during chapters 31 and 32!

Something in August was missing. Not just his eye. He’d lost his sight too.

A part of him had been hollowed out, stripped away. Chloé could see it from the moment she found his shadow stumbling in the library. Something about the way he walked, the way he held himself—(or rather wasn’t quite able to hold himself)—the way his other eye—which has always been so bright and full of hope and zeal—had been shadowed, like a cloud across the sun.

August. The name had always felt so fitting. He was like summer days. The best of summer days, with a nice breeze carrying flower petals upon it, whispering sweet words that everything would be alright in the end. He could be...a lot at times, but he was altogether sunny, and warm, and wonderful to be around.

But when you take away the breeze, and the wonder…August is just heat. Sweltering, agonizing heat.

August is ending. August isn’t just the summer, it’s summer ending. A last hurrah, and a last word, and a last sigh.

She missed the summer. The breezes and the flower petals, the small vacations she took from her safe and lonely castle.

When she met Marquis Machina, she was afraid. Afraid for what had happened, and what it had done to August. She missed him then. She wanted to see him, to know he was alright.

She missed him more seeing him now.

When he spoke, his words were like glass cracking. Beneath them, a tremble, and a low groan. A barely-contained madness, a simmering I am about to break.

And she was even more afraid. Not afraid of him. Afraid for him. For what he had become. For what they had done to him, ripped away from him…and if he could ever get himself back.

She wasn’t sure she could help.

Sometimes he would tease her, as if she were as young as her body betrayed, but it was all in jest, and good fun.

When he grabbed her face, and lifted her into the air, pressing her against the bookcase, it was the first in a long time she truly felt like a child. Powerless and confused. She didn’t even really know what was happening at first. ...It’d never happened to her before.

She…never really noticed his fangs before.

He was the only other vampire she’d ever met. She knew of vampires, because, well, she herself was one, and she knew of vampires from books, and stories, and warnings. She knew that they had fangs, and liked to bite people. Humans seemed to think this a terrible thing, a sign of violence. But it wasn’t something Chloé herself needed, and it was never a thing of darkness, and violence, and predatory instinct.

She’d never been bitten by a vampire before.

She never really noticed August’s fangs before. She knew he was a vampire, but that was almost more of an instinct than seeing any clear evidence. He was a vampire, and that was that, and she didn’t notice much if he had fangs or not.

When a vampire grabbed her, pinned her against the wall, and bit her neck, without permission or pretense, she understood. She understood those stories, and the humans' fears. She understood this could be cruel, and this could be vicious.

And when he did this she knew this wasn’t August. Not the one she knew. The August she knew was soft, and warm, and bright. This vampire was sharp, and his fangs were cold, and eyes were dark. August was full of hope, and love, and a desire to create peace. This vampire had been filled to the red line with hatred. This vampire was broken. And he wanted to cut her on his pieces.

And it hurt to be bitten. To be prey. To be—

She didn’t know what was happening at first. The feeling, the sound of him drinking her blood was violating. Like watching vultures peck at a corpse, except the vultures were your once-friend, and the corpse was you. It sent shudders and horrors through her too-small form, and all she could do was grab at him feebly, say feebly,

“N-No! No, don’t! Stop it! August!”

All she could do was call his name, and hope August was still in there.

And his words were hissed, and his words were not words, but rather the things witches mutter to themselves when they’re stirring potions alone in their cottages; the thing church-goers proclaim when they want you to know you are a heretic, and God may be love but he doesn’t forgive everyone; the thing that heretics shout at the sky when they don’t know what else to do with their remaining words.

To be eaten. To be used. To be cursed.

No. She may be small, and weak, and unknowing of the world, but she knew at least wasn’t going to be used or cursed. She knew her family’s research, and that didn’t belong to the outside world. If nothing else, she would give herself that.

She wasn’t sure she could help. But she definitely wasn’t going to let them all be hurt. Because she may not know much about the world…but she knew from stories at least, that handing broken people the keys to the universe is a very bad decision. And handing over something that meant everything to her personally, to a vampire that wasn’t in full possession of his mind—(though it pained her to think it)—wasn’t something that interested her in the slightest. The research was for him to respect, and peruse. Not to steal away.

She was his friend. Not a thing for him to consume--and worse, control.

She didn’t know why he fell to his knees. Why he said such strange things. It scared her. Yet, it almost gave her hope for a moment, hope that this wasn’t him talking after all, hope that she could get through to the August that was kneeling on the floor crying out for help.

It almost sounded like he was going to say he was sorry.

He left.

And sometimes that’s all it takes to end a friendship. The failure to finish the word ‘sorry.’

But it’s a little different when it’s your first friend. The person who was once her only friend. The only person who shares your affliction, who understands you.

And maybe it was because of that, maybe she was naive, but…

She forgave him even so.

But she knew, even if she forgave him, she had lost him. They wouldn’t be able to see each other again, because the only thing he would want from her now was the ability to change the world. She had lost her August. The August who would come to see her, for fun, for her sake. Who would enjoy reading about her family’s research for curiosity, for its sake. He’d died in the shell of whoever this was. Summer must end at some point. She had hoped this one wouldn’t end so violently.

“In other words…you’re telling me to be careful of you, you mean.”

She knew she had lost him. She lost him before he even walked in the door.

<-Day 7: The de Sades Day 5: The Chasseurs->

#chloé d'apchier #lord ruthven #vnc #vanitas no carte #the case study of vanitas #les mémoires de vanitas #vanitas no shuki #vnc fanficiton #vnc fanfic #vnc fic #vanitas no carte fanfiction #vnc countdown #vanitas #august ruthven

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antihero-writings · 3 years

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WOOHOO IT'S CHASSEUR DAY!!

This is a fic I started for this prompt on my ph and vnc blog, which I finally got around to finishing today for @phmonth2021's vnc countdown, Day 5: The Chasseurs!

Since the prompt helps explain a bit of why the story is the way it is, I'll include it here!

"But I also agree, Roland & Olivier are two characters that would be really fun to explore. What are they doing when they break out of chasseur mode? I find it amusing that Olivier is so popular with the ladies but can't be bothered by all that. Heh!"

Thank you @adriisamused so much for this prompt!! <3 <3 And once again, I'm sorry it took so long.

I'm honestly really proud of this fic, and I had such much fun with it!! I really hope you all like it!! I'd absolutely love to hear it if you do!!

Lastly, if you enjoyed this, please please don't hesitate to send me more prompts/asks--for anyone in vnc or ph, but especially for these two!! I love writing for them. You can either send them here, or to my ph and vnc blog @this-idiots-left-eye.

Thanks so much for reading!! Reblogs and comments are especially appreciated!! <3

Olivier was having a perfectly satisfactory morning. His coffee smelled just the right shade of black, and was scalding hot—just as he liked it. He brought a book he’d been hoping to read for a while, but hadn’t had the time for recently. He lit a cigarette, and—whatever anyone else said—the smoke was as decadent as any sweet treat from a pastry shop. He was just opening up said book, just bringing the mug to his lips when—

“OLIVER!”

Oliver didn’t jump. Didn’t shout or otherwise react in surprise at the sudden disruption to his morning. Instead, very slowly, he closed the book, very carefully he set down his coffee. He lifted the cigarette and took a long drag, blowing out a substantial wisp of smoke.

And he silently regretted (for what was probably the eightieth time) telling Roland where his favorite coffee shop was.

Roland presently was running up to him, dragging behind him a dazed looking old man, and successfully made it to him by the time he finished his drag.

“Olivier! This poor man has lost his parakeet! He’s looked everywhere and he just can’t find Monsieur Butterbeans! Code blue! Code blue!

“…You know that’s for hospitals, right?”

“Well red just didn’t seem high enough! The situation is dire!”

Olivier blinked, eyes lidded. “Go look for it.”

“Oh Olivier! This simply isn’t a two person job! Two sets of eyes isn’t going to be enough! We simply cannot scour all the skies by ourselves!”

And he was having such a good morning.

“You think I want to spend my afternoon giving myself a crick in the neck?” Olivier asked.

Roland leaned in closer. “I think you want to spend the afternoon helping one of God’s lambs who is in need.” When Olivier stared at him Roland sighed. “If you help...I might just be inclined to work extra hard tomorrow.”

Olivier leaned to the side to look at the old man, who was staring up at the sky, not seeming too bothered. “Where did you lose it?”

“He lost her at the docks!” Roland jumped in—(quite literally jumped in front of him)—and answered for him.

After taking an extra second to try to calculate why a parakeet called ‘Monsieur’ was a ‘she,’ he spoke, perfectly monotone, “So go to the docks.”

“You think we haven’t already tried that! We searched everywhere! She was nowhere to be found!”

“Well if you’ve already searched everywhere—” He began to take another sip of coffee.

“Oh come now, Olivier!” Roland took his arm and shook him, making him both spill some coffee on the table, as well as cough coffee. “What kind of Chasseurs would we be if we gave up helping one of God’s children after one measly search? We’re more determined than that!” He curled his hand into a fist, his eyes sparkling. “Remember the story of the lady and her coins?” He was practically dragging him out of his chair now.

“I don’t think Jesus was talking about parakeets.”

“It’s a parable Olivier, it can be about parakeets if it’s applicable!”

Rather than arguing with him (like he was very much inclined to do) Olivier took another drag from his cigarette and sighed out smoke. “Let me finish my coffee.”

“But Olivier, Monsieur Butterbeans could be halfway up the Seine by now!”

“Let me. Finish. My coffee.” Olivier enunciated each word, staring intently at Roland as he lifted the coffee to his lips.

Roland sighed, and sat down across from him, gesturing to the old man to sit next to him, he obeyed diligently, like he was a pet himself.

Roland folded his hands on the table, and stared at him, with big, imploring eyes, the entire time. Others would have found this more than mildly intimidating, and incentive to drink faster. But Olivier drank his coffee at an ordinary pace, if a little slower than usual. After he was finished he set it down, paid, and left.

If this day was going to be as long as he thought it would be, he wanted to experience it on a full head of caffeine.

They indeed spent all the noon, and half the afternoon searching for her. Olivier tried his best not to look up too much (due to the aforementioned neck-crick potential), but with Roland taking the opportunity every few minutes to slap them both on the shoulders, then point upwards, and shout at shadows, and oddly placed light fixtures, and decorations, “IS THAT HER?!” he couldn’t help looking up.

It was never her.

At one point he was convinced she was nesting in a lady’s hat.

That was also not her.

They had decided to go by the park, and Olivier was just asking why the old man deigned to call a female parakeet “Monsieur” and before the old man could respond, Roland shouted:

“THAT’S HER!”

Olivier, sure it was another false alarm, turned his head with an exasperated sigh building in his throat.

But there was indeed a pretty little parakeet sitting there.

This whole time they thought they would find her nestled in the rafters of some house, or perched on a shop roof, or sign. They had been hoping she wouldn’t find herself too high for them to even see (though Roland had made them climb up building staircases and onto their roofs more than twice).

But there she was, nestled comfortably, not in a tree or on a roof, but on the shoulder of a woman.

More accurately, a mime.

Monsieur Butterbeans was sitting on the shoulder of a mime, and seemed to be having a perfectly pleasant time (ignore the rhyme).

“I mean that simply must be her, right?!” Roland turned to the old man.

The old man nodded vigorously.

Roland’s whole face lit up (though his face was always lit with a sort of angelic glow, so this was a bit of a Moses-and-Mt-Sinai situation) and he was running towards her before they could say a word.

“Salut, Mademoiselle! May I say, you are looking lovely today!”—She waved her hand as if to say, ‘oh stop’—“I simply must thank you!”—She gave an over-exaggerated expression of delight—“That parakeet on your shoulder? She belongs to my friend over there!” He pointed a finger at the old man with the speed and rigidity of a compass needle. “He lost her early this morning!” Roland turned around and was about to march victoriously back, “So thank you so much for—!”

She pretended to make a lasso and swing it around Roland. Even though it was made of nothing more than air, Roland was pulled back.

Olivier put his face in his palm.

He didn’t like mimes on the best of days. They were quiet, which would potentially be a nice quality... if it weren’t for that quietness being, not a means for peace, but rather something to make their interactions with normal-human-beings all that much more frustrating and difficult to discern. And their games with empty air seemed but another reason to disrupt the days of normal natural-world abiding people. They were like vampires…except they couldn’t actually see anything beyond this world, and couldn’t actually alter anything, and they were much more annoying to deal with.

And this one was proving, (as mimes generally did), unable to let them get away without participating in her little farce.

He had a theory that mimes weren’t really there to entertain normal people, rather normal people were there to entertain mimes.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Roland asked.

She held her hand up, and bent her fingers a few times as if to say she would like payment.

“You want a reward?” Roland seemed more than slightly affronted at this. The thought that anyone wouldn’t do a good deed out of the goodness of their heart was nothing short of diabolical to him.

The mimette made several hand motions which, while confusing at first seemed to be her way of conveying that she wasn’t asking for much (Olivier thought that would remain to be seen).

She pondered for a moment with a hand to her chin and squnched up face. Her eyes grazed over the old man, (who had his hands clasped in front of him in a pleading motion), and Olivier (who had folded his arms over his chest, and decided to look away when she looked at him). When he looked back, she was pointing at him.

She pointed at him, then she tapped her finger to her cheek.

Olivier didn’t need an interpreter to understand what that meant.

He recoiled, his voice going low and tense, “I would…prefer another method.”

It’s not like he didn’t know how to kiss a woman, (he’d done a lot more than kiss more than one woman), but this was just—

“Oh it’s just one little kiss, Olivier!” Roland waved his hand. “Do it for Monsieur Butterbeans!” (Monsieur Butterbeans decided to take this opportunity to do the important job of pooping on her shoulder).

Well someone ought to do it.

The mime did the lasso trick again, this time with Olivier. Olivier decidedly did not play along, but she was clearly well-versed in the ways of unparticipatory students, and happy to use the invisible rope to pull herself towards him. (Roland looked delighted with the show).

She got uncomfortably close, put her hands behind her back and presented her cheek.

Olivier looked away, his arms still folded.

Roland still found a way to get in his line of sight, and gave him the thumbs up.

The mimette stood on her tiptoes and blinked her eyelashes repeatedly. She might have been pretty, but who could tell under all that disgusting makeup? ( …Which Olivier did not want on his lips).

“This is ridiculous.” He grunted. “There are other ways to—”

“It’s just one little kiss Olivier!" Roland repeated. "She seems a perfectly nice lady! She deserves it!”

Olivier was not going to humiliate himself for a parakeet, who seemed to rather like this mime anyways.

“Remember, I might just be inclined to work harder tomorrow!”

Olivier sighed, still not looking at her.

“Fine, if you can’t do it, I’ll kiss her!” Roland stepped forward.

“No, no, I’ll do it!” Olivier pinched the bridge of his nose. ”She clearly likes me.” Olivier peeked open an eye to see the mime blinking more profusely, apparently not the least bit offended at his obvious disinterest. (Only more evidence for the normal-people-are-entertainment-fodder-for-the-mimes theory)

“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem like you’re going to do it. It’s really fine if you want me to!”

Olivier took a rather long moment to gather himself, and all the dignity that he knew he was about to lose. He kept his eyes firmly shut…and gave her a peck on the cheek.

…Except, when Olivier opened his eyes, he came to find—(to his absolute horror)—that in the moment he had taken to muster his courage, Roland had decided that Olivier wasn’t going to do it, and went in to kiss her other cheek. The mime recognized this in perfect time, (and in perfect mime fashion), stepped out of the way. So the person who he had kissed was actually….

Olivier jerked away with what almost sounded like a horrified squeak, his hand flying to his mouth. He then turned sharply away, sticking out his tongue, and hacking like a cat who had a hairball.

Roland simply blinked, then began to laugh mirthfully, like he didn’t find the situation the least bit awkward. “Well played, Mademoiselle!” He applauded her.

The mime bowed with a flourish of her hand, and as she lowered herself Monsieur Butterbeans flew off her shoulder and into the hand of her owner, who he then brought up to his own cheek to nuzzle gratefully

“Olivier, your mouth tastes like an ashtray.” Roland remarked as they began to leave—waving his hand and sending an extra thank you towards the mime. “I really hope you don’t smoke before you kiss women. It doesn’t make me want to kiss you again you know.” Roland put his hand on his shoulder.

Olivier flinched violently, snapped equally violently, “Don’t touch me!” and said low, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost I dearly hope it doesn’t.”

Roland just laughed.

“If you even think about mentioning this to anyone—” his glared at him, hoping his eyes were as sharp as he intended them to be.

“I really don’t know what the big fuss is about! It was just a silly prank! And a rather clever one on her part!”

Olivier stuck his tongue out again, feeling like he was going to vomit. “It was a disgusting prank.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll feel insulted! I hope my mouth didn’t taste half as bad as yours did.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Your mouth didn’t taste like anything, because that didn’t happen and we are never talking about it!”

“Well, nothing to complain about is good news I guess!”

“Stop. Talking. About it.”

They had been walking a good way, and the sun was setting over the city, when the old man stopped in front of them, holding Monsieur Butterbeans in front of him, looking down at her lovingly.

“Thank you for helping me find my dear Monsieur Butterbeans,” the old man spoke. (Olivier tried not to shout in surprise at the reveal that he could actually talk). “The Church really does help those in need, doesn’t it? You’re good boys.”—(Olivier would have preferred ‘men’ but)—“I would like to repay you somehow.”

“Oh no, we simply couldn’t accept!” Roland burst out, stepping forward. “A good deed is its own reward! ‘Anything you do for the least of these’ and all! Although, you’re not the least of course! It’s just a verse you know! Well no verse is just a verse, but—”

“I feel I must do something for your…trouble.” (Olivier curled his nose at the slight snicker there was behind the word ‘trouble.’) “At the very least, I have some rather nice vintage wines in my cellar—“

Before Roland could say once again that that-really-wasn’t-necessary, Olivier shot his hand in front of him and said, a little too loudly, “We will gladly accept.”

******

The next day Olivier was leaning back in his chair in front of a rather large stack of paperwork, massaging the crick in his neck when Roland burst in, a little girl hiding behind him.

“OLIVIER!” He panted. “Olivier, this poor girl has lost her favorite doll! We simply must help her!”

Olivier shut his eyes, rubbing his temple, his voice shaking. “You told me you would work harder if I—”

“I will! I will! But this is urgent!”

Olivier sighed. “Astolfo!” He yelled.

After a few moments, a boy with red hair came in.

“You sent for me?”

“Roland has a job for you...(however ridiculous it may be)," he added under his breath. "Will you help find this girl’s doll?” Olivier marched forward, his footsteps ominous on the stone floor, and grabbed Roland’s wrist a little too tight, dragging him into a chair, “Roland here has work to do.”

As Astolfo obliged, Olivier muttered, more to Roland than anyone else, “And he’s not getting out of it this time.”

Roland pouted, plopping down in the chair to properly do his Chasseur work.

...And Olivier couldn’t help but feel like he was having a perfectly satisfactory morning once again.

<-Day 6: The Royals

Day 4: Chloé and/or Jean-Jacques->

26 notes · View notes

antihero-writings · 3 years

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Little Domi and Noé fic @phmonth2021's vnc countdown day 7: the de Sades. And also this prompt over on my ph & vnc blog!

*Aggressively spams the Domi needs appreciation button*

Noé’s brow was creased, his hand to his chin,

“If you keep thinking that hard, your thoughts might decide to start walking out of your head.”

“Sorry, Teacher.”

“No need to apologize,” his teacher laughed, more than anything at Noés mundane reaction at such a strange statement, “I just thought your head might appreciate a little relief. Come now, let’s look at the options over here!“ He beckoned him to the next part of the store. “What do you think?”

Noé observed the dresses towering above him, trying not to think too hard this time. He didn’t want to say he didn’t like them till he gave them a proper think over.

Then he turned to the side…and saw it.

A dress of brilliant gold, with flowers, butterflies and bows—though nothing too terribly lavish, just perfect little accents.

Noé’s eyes became stars, and his hands became triumphant fists at his sides.

“That one.” He pointed like an explorer who’d found land.

His Teacher raised an eyebrow, lifting his head to find the object of fascination. “Ah! You have taste, my dear Noé! A fine piece!”—He called for assistance—“Our dear Dominique will look lovely in that.”

He agreed. Even with her hair like that, and her eyes all sad, she would look beautiful in this. He could only hope she would be able to see it too.

Noé sat in a chair in Dominique’s room, swinging his legs back and forth, waiting patiently, but determinedly.

Domi came in what might have been minutes, but felt like hours later. It still made him sad to see her hair so short, and her eyes ever glazed. Gold looked better when it was allowed to shine.

She was still wearing Louis’ waistcoat.

Noé shot up at her arrival and Domi’s eyes widened upon seeing him there.

“I have—!" He fumbled with the box, almost dropping it, but managed to regain composure, holding it out to her. “I have something for you!”

Domi didn’t say anything. The curiosity in her eyes was almost imperceptible beneath that glaze, but it was there. She took the lid off the box and observed the article within. Her eyes widened, and she looked from it to Noé.

“Domi, would you please join me for dinner tonight?”

“Huh? We always have dinner together.” Her voice was low and soft.

He smiled, though there was something sad in his eyes at hearing her voice. “Yes, but tonight’s special! I know this request might seem a little strange, but I would like you to meet me in the woods later!” He pulled a badly drawn map of the forest out of his pocket and pointed at an over-exaggerated X on it. “At this location!” He looked up at her, and the look in his eyes told her she couldn’t refuse. “Will you?”

Domi’s brow furrowed. “You haven’t lost it have you, Noé?”

“Please let me know if I have! Teacher says if I think too hard my thoughts might walk right out of my head!”

“He was just saying that.”

“We can only hope, but I still don’t want to chance it.”

Domi’s thoughts frayed as she looked at herself in that golden dress. Like a rope that isn’t quite sure it can hold onto anything.

It was Louis. It was supposed to be Louis.

Why did they pick her? Why? Why was he cursed, and she blessed? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair they had to choose. Choices were for ice cream flavors, and what book you wanted to read, not for brothers and sisters.

Not for twins.

That word gummed up her mouth, even when she didn’t say it aloud.

Twins. She and Louis, twins. Part of her still couldn’t believe it, and the other part of her could only believe it.

That word had one benefit. With her hair cut, and wearing his clothes, she could pass for him.

Which was surely what everyone wanted. All as it should have been.

She could pretend to be Louis. And pretending to be Louis was…better that truly being Domi…wasn’t it?

So…why did Noé want her to wear this dress? Didn’t Noé prefer her looking like Louis?

“I like it when you have your hair long too. It feels so much like you’re Domi, then, and…I really like it.”

Or perhaps…

Would he like that? Would he really?

She looked at herself in this dress and she thought in some far-off part of her brain that, perhaps she was beautiful. And perhaps he picked this dress because he knew she would like it, and he knew she would look nice in it.

But she would have looked better in it if her hair were longer.

Noé was so glad to have Domi.

He missed Louis, and he wanted Louis back, certainly. But he was glad to have Domi, and he wanted Domi to be, well, Domi. She was no pale imitation of her brother, and didn’t deserve to be treated as such.

It made him so sad to see her cut her hair, and put herself in Louis’ clothes. It made him so sad that she thought that’s what she was, what they all wanted.

He had to show her he appreciated her.

He waited in his chair at the table with equally determined, yet barely simmering excitement.

Noé had once read a book Teacher brought from the human world in which a group of mad characters had tea in the forest. Noé thought it was rather fantastic idea, and asked Teacher if they could accomplish such a thing. The table had to be long, and the tea had to be all over it, with lots of cakes too. Teacher laughed, saidWhat an amusing notion, and that he was sure he could set something up.

Noé wasn’t sure exactly how, but when he and Murr entered the forest, was delighted to find it almost exactly as he’d pictured. (Okay, not exactly. There was more substantial dinner food than tea, and not nearly enough desserts, but still.)

When Domi came through the forest Noé stood up, like she was a princess who deserved respect. And he wouldn’t say she didn’t look like it; he had made the right choice. The short hair looked kind of nice with it.

“You look great!” He pumped his fist at his side again.

Domi looked at the ground, but brushed her hair behind her ear.

“Why are we doing this?” She asked, but her eyes scanned the table and the dishes with that barely perceptible curiosity.

“It’s for you!”

“I mean what are we celebrating?”

“Uhh, we’re celebrating you, then, I guess!” Noé continued determinedly, pulling out a chair for Domi, as Teacher poured some blood into her goblet.

“But it’s not my birthday.” She continued looking at the setup as she sat down.

“Why does it have to be for us to want to celebrate you?” Noé sat down in another chair next to hers.

Domi’s eyes widened, and her eyes changed as she observed the table, becoming more awed, with an almost tearful shimmer to them.

When she turned back to look at Noé, for the first time since Louis’ death, he thought he really was really seeing Domi.

<-Day 8: Noé and/or Murr Day 6: The Royals->

#noe archiviste #Dominique de sade #vnc fanfiction #vanitas no carte fanfiction #vnc fic #vnc fanfic #vnc #vanitas no carte #vanitas no carte anime #vanitas no shuki #les mémoires de vanitas #noé archiviste #vnc countdown #louis de sade #vanitas #the case study of vanitas

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antihero-writings · 3 years

Text

Little ficlet for @phmonth2021's VNC anime countdown, day 8: Noé and/or Murr

Noé found the cat wandering through the woods by the manor. His fluffy white fur was matted, dirty and disheveled, and the look in his multicolored eyes was one of great disgruntlement.

And he did not want a bath.

Noé had always been rather good with animals. Well, not so much good, just that he thought he was good with them, and that was enough. Once he found a wild raccoon, said “Look Teacher, a cat burglar!” and ran up with hands outstretched so it could receive its helping of pets.

This cat, however, was less keen on pettings than the raccoon.

He did not want to be petted or stroked, he did not want to come inside for a bath, or be otherwise relieved of his dishevelment.

Noé was determined, and did not halt in his pursuit. “Giving up” was never really in his word bank.

After Noé spent far more time than most children would chasing him, this cat came to realize that he was not going to win such a battle against a determinedly kind and loving vampire—(who had become extra fond over the course of the chase)—and so ultimately found himself (much to his chagrin) arriving at the front door of a manor in the little vampire’s arms, his legs flopping down, revealing his fluffy belly.

How humiliating.

Noé grinned, and asked Teacher if he could keep him. Teacher, leaning down to observe the cats expression—(he made a noise at him that sounded like a warning; not a growl, not a meow, and not a purr, something in between)—said that the question was indeed could. If he could keep him, then he may as well.

Both Teacher and Louis—(“Look, Louis! Look what I found in the woods today!” “Mmm. You really are so weird.” Louis folded his arms and looked away, determined not to betray the fact that he rather liked cats)—leaned against either side of the bathroom’s doorframe as Noé tried to wrangle the creature into bathing. He’d recruited Dominique to help, but even together, and even though the cat knew he wasn’t escaping, they made little progress, and received a lot of scratches.

After a good half-hour of scratches and struggling, (and Teacher and Louis chuckling in the background), Louis sighed, abandoned his post at the doorframe, and walked up to the trio. The cat stared at him, sizing him up, making that grumbling meow-growl-purr sound—(meow-purr...'Murr,' perhaps it could be called?)—once again.

"You are going to have a bath, or you’re going to [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. So, which’ll it be?”

Noé and Domi bristled in horror at this, too stunned to even berate him.

The cat seemed to have somehow understood him, for when Louis calmly and brusquely reached out to wash him, (however reluctant), he sat and let him do so.

Domi and Noé collapsed onto the bathroom floor, feeling exhausted and betrayed—(by the cat, or by Louis, they weren't quite sure).

As Teacher wrapped bandages around his scratches, he looked into Noé’s face and asked gently,

“Are you really sure you want to keep him, after all this?”

But Noé nodded, looking towards the cat and Louis. He had decided the moment he saw the cat in the woods—wild and stubborn yes, but also lost and abandoned, (and furthermore he knew that there really was a little prince in there)—that he belonged to him.

“Well if you’re going to keep him you ought to give him a name.”

Noé smiled like he was hiding food in his cheeks. He already had a name picked out.

“Murr.”

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antihero-writings · 3 years

Text

Before it Kills You Too (Ch2 Snippets 1, 2 & 3)

Fandom: Lore Olympus

Chapter Summary: When Hera gets into a car accident after a fight, Zeus has a moment to ruminate on their relationship. Written using the song “Wait” by Maroon 5 as a prompt.

Character Focus: Zeus

Please note!! This is the previous Ch2 snippets I posted + a new snippet (the new snippet starts with “I would venture to guess she was driving too fast.”)

I’ve been having trouble with this chapter for a very long time, so I’ve decided to post it snippet-by-snippet, because that seems like the only way I’ll successfully finish this fic.

While this should be as close to the final version as it can be, anything in this snippet is subject to change when the full chapter comes out. (And, hey, to that end, if there’s anything you think needs to be edited here, please kindly let me know!!)

Im really excited about this snippet!! Definitely one of my favorite parts of the chapter!!

Thanks again SO much to those who support this fic and want to read more!! The fact that you want to read more really does mean the world to me!! I appreciate your kind comments so much!!

I’d really appreciate it if you could leave a comment and/or reblog!!! I’m not kidding when I say that makes my week!!

Tagging some folks who’ve shown interest!! @jayyy007 @autumnmoon21 @sunsetsofanemoia, @lynnie51 @what-the-fuckaroni @masquejj

And please do let me know if you’d like me to add you to a taglist for this fic, or message you when new snippets/the next chapter come/s out!!

Chapter 2 Snippets 1, 2 & 3:

Hera was standing in the crowded meadow, surrounded by her friends, laughing that girly little giggle full of sunshine that just about made Zeus’ heart ooze in a puddle out of his chest.

Her blue dress made her eyes look like two shimmering sapphires.

“Have I seen her in a dress that color?” Zeus inquired excitedly from behind the bushes.

“How can we know what you’ve seen?” Aidoneus muttered. “With you creeping around, you might have seen her naked for all we know.”

Zeus punched him in the arm, (lightly).

“I don’t think she’s worn a dress that color!” Posiedon bubbled.

“Thank you, Posiedon. At least someone can answer a question.”

“I think she looks like the sea on summer day.” He put his hands on his face, them sliding slowly.

Zeus eyed him. “Alright, keep it in your toga, Little Green Man.”

“Should we really be here?” Aidoneus muttered. “We weren’t invited.”

“Oh come on,” Zeus stood up, putting his hands on his hips. “Who wouldn’t want to see the King of the gods here?”

Poseidon grinned and stood up behind his brother. “No one!”

“Hestia, Demeter… assorted sane people.” Hades muttered as he stood to follow.

“If that’s sanity I’m glad I’m insane.” Zeus trilled as he strutted up to the entrance.

A cute pink nymph—(rather well endowed in the chestal region—not that he noticed!)—greeted them at the archway.

“Oh! Zeus!” She flushed and bowed. “It’s an honor. Welcome!”

“Why it’s an honor to meet you, my lady.” He kissed her hand, and she giggled. “See?” he turned to his brothers. “They’re delighted to have us.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling.” Hades muttered.

Hera was closer now; she smelled like summer, and she looked like it too. Poseidon was right about the ocean thing; she practically shimmered as she spoke with her friends.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.”

“Wait—!” Hades was soon swallowed by the crowd.

Zeus scooched behind her at lightning speed. One by one her friends began to take notice, their eyes widening.

Hera took a step back and would have tripped in surprise if he hadn’t caught her.

“Careful there, you might fall, Birthday Girl.”

“Oh, Zeus!” She looked up at him, the back of her head hitting his chest, “hi!”

That golden smile.

“I made you something!” As she spun to face him, he produced a little carving of a bird from his pocket. (And, no, he didn’t make it).

“Oh!” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, gently taking it from him, “It’s beautiful!”

All his responsibilities and stresses melted away with the sight of that smile, and he forgot there was anyone else at the party…in the world.

(…He wished he saw that smile anymore.)

Zeus’ chair was spinning empty at his desk before his assistant could say another word—

And Olympus wept, distant peals of thunder rending the sky into pieces.

Lightning crackled and cackled through his hair, creating violet tracks through the air, as Zeus sped through the sky.

It was freezing, and people were staring, but he didn’t care.

All that mattered was getting to his wife.

“My you look stunning.” Zeus sidled up behind his wife, running his fingers gently along her arm. “Is that a new dress?”

“New as that girlfriend of yours.” Hera grunted.

His eyes widened with shock, his voice with an indignant undertone to it. “Is something wrong?”

She paused a moment. He could see words fluttering behind her lips—(like they did so often, too often)—the words Yes you did something wrong, how can you not know?

He knew she wouldn’t believe him when he said he didn’t mean to hurt her.

“You weren’t invited,” she said softly.

“Not invited? Me?” He put his hand to his chest, like the thought of him ever not being welcome to somewhere was absurd. “To what?”

“The party, you nitwit!” She whirled around, her hair nearly whipping him in the face. “You just came barging in like you owned the place!”

“Well…to be fair—”

He stopped short at the look in her eyes, like two blue-hot flames.

He knew it was taking her a great amount of effort not to slap him.

“Do you know how long I’d been preparing for that?! How long it took me to get everything just right? I told you, but you never even listened, did you? And then you just barged right in!”

“Why are you so upset? What’s so important about a party?!”

“They were my friends.” Her gaze softened, and her tone became more serious. “They were—” Until she cut herself off, and her expression hardened as she whirled around, her hair billowing behind her.

“Bunny, wait!” His tone was softer too.

He wished she’d just turn around. That he could say sorry.

Was it really so hard? He should have started there.

Had he ever apologized for that?

He was always doing that; barging in where he wasn’t welcome. The world was his, yes but…he had to concede there were some parts of it he ought not just barge in on.

When he burst into the hospital, however, they wouldn’t dare tell him he wasn’t invited, wouldn’t dare tell him he couldn’t see her.

“Where. is my. wife?” Lightning slammed into a lamppost just outside the front door, shattering its glass box, and making the light spark, the rain pounding at the window like rabid dogs.

The desk clerk looked like she was about to pee out of sheer fear.

“Sh-sh-she’s not out of surgery yet, your majesty...I understand you want to see her, but I can’t let you…until-until they’re finished.” She was practically vibrating. “I assure you the moment she gets out, we’ll notify you.”

Surgery? He wanted to demand. She’s the queen of the gods, how could she be in surgery?

Electricity sparked in his eyes, trailing throughout his hair. He could say I demand you let me see her. He could say I don’t care! She’s my wife, and I’m not waiting! She’s fine! She’s the queen—she’s my queen—she won’t be hurt from a little car accident!

But there were some places he ought not just barge in on… and the surgeons room was probably one of them.

The lightning let out a sighing crackle, before he closed his eyes, his hair falling back upon his shoulders. It was then that he noticed he was dripping wet from head to toe. He sighed himself before muttering something like a garbled “I understand, thank you.” And turning to sit in the lobby. Behind him the desk clerk’s coworker held her to keep her from fainting.

He snapped his fingers, drying off, so as not to get their nice, barf-colored carpet all wet. Once he sat down in a chair—(the cushions didn’t have any cush to them)—a kid in the chair across from him scooched away.

He could have that kid lightly charred if he wanted.

Instead he settled for a nice glare, and reached over to pick up last month’s—(or maybe it was a few months ago)—issue of “Goddess weekly” listening to the rain die down to a drum.

The same old gossip. Usually if he picked one of these up he’d check for any news he ought to be aware of. You know, as the king. Not to mention the ladies weren’t unappealing. Now he flicked through without seeing any of it.

Speaking of ladies, there was a nymph sitting across the room from him, her skin blue, her ears down, and a cute little half smile. She surely wasn’t in here for anything serious. She kept glancing from her own magazine to him—but not in a nervous way. If he wasn’t mistaken, she wouldn’t be opposed to a session of hide-the-German-sausage.

If he wanted he could take her there in a darkened closet in the hallway. It wouldn’t take long—(if it didn’t need to…or it could take all night). That would be a nice way to relieve the stress bubbling in his body.

—Someone was laying next to him, her skin smooth, practically glowing. There was rather a lot of it exposed.

She turned over, her eyes fluttering open, a small smile creasing her features as she rolled onto his chest, tickling his chin with her fingers.

“I had a wonderful time,” she twittered, and he practically purred, staring into those big blue eyes, glittering like river stones.

He pushed her green hair behind her ear.

“Is that all? I’d like to think a night with the King of the gods would be more than merely ‘wonderful.’”

She giggled. “No no, it was much more than wonderful! It was spectacular! Mind-blowing!” She threw her arms in the air.

“That’s more like it.” He grinned—

When was that again? Two years ago, or two days ago?

It could have been either.

Had he apologized for that?

Would it have mattered if he had? Would she have forgiven him? Would he have stopped?—

Bile rose in his throat, and he dove his nose so hard into the magazine he almost smacked himself with it.

His wife was bruised and bleeding, and potentially worse in a nearby room, at the mercy of some quack holding a scalpel and a few comforting words…and here he was thinking of betraying her for the…

How many times had it been now?

He threw the magazine back on the table and sank in the chair till his head was nearly on the bottom cushion, his lip flapping his he blew out a breath, making his hair fly up a little.

The kid and his mom got called, and seemed glad of a reason to leave.

After a healthy dose of moping he pulled out his phone. After checking fatesbook and playing a few games he decided it was time to open his messages.

He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted some sensible and non-conjugal company.

He scrolled through and clicked on a name.

A number of old conversations sprinkled the page, often detailing Zeus asking about getting together and the correspondent saying they were busy.

He thought a moment about what to say—(a rare occurrence for him)—before deciding any vague requests would probably get ignored, so he simply decided the boldfaced truth:

Hera’s been in a car accident. She’s in surgery.

“WHAT?!” The word was spoken aloud—and very loudly at that.

Hades was standing in front of him. If the king being here wasn’t enough reason for weird looks, this outburst had sent more than a few eyes their way.

Zeus did a finger wave at the nymph, before he grabbed his brother’s arm, whisking him off to a less crowded hallway.

The only thing here was a vending machine, and a few overly picturesque pictures of trees.

“How did this happen?!” Hades shout-whispered.

“I would venture to guess she was driving too fast.”

“I could have gathered that myself, thank you very much!” Hades was clearly trying not to shout. “What was she doing?! Where was she going?!”

Zeus rolled folded his arms. “Does it matter?”

“Sure it matters! Well at least it’d be good to know!”

“…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?! What do you mean you don’t know?! She’s your wife—!”

“I said I don’t know!” he kicked the vending machine.

The air shattered and reformed itself.

Zeus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, his voice softening. “I…I don’t know.”

Two sides of him warred. One wanted to shout at Hades. He expected him to know where she was at all times? Oh yeah, that would go over well with her. What kind of helicopter husband would he be then?

And yet, it felt wrong for him not to know. Like some sort of failure. She was his wife. Shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t he have asked? Shouldn’t he care?

Hades’ gaze softened.

“I upset her.” Zeus murmured. “We got into a fight.”

Hades leaned against the wall. He was probably resisting the urge to say he could have gathered that too.

Zeus leaned his head forward onto the glass of the vending machine, his hair falling to the side, his reflection vaguely eyeing him.

“We got into a fight and she…I hadn’t even realized she went for a drive.” He paused, observing the chocolate and chips sitting in neat rows in the machine. “Do you think she liked Twyx?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think she liked Twyx?”

Hades pondered it a moment. “Probably. She tends to like things with caramel in them.”

Zeus smiled wryly. “See? I didn’t even know that.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to ask her all your burning questions about her favorite candy flavors very soon.”

“That’s not the point.” Zeus whispered.

Zeus was feeling a little off-kilter.

He nearly fell into a three-thousand drachma vase.

Okay, make that a lot.

The sound of heels on the staircase. The white one they’d painted for that one event…what had they been celebrating again?

His hazy gaze made her glitter even more than usual.

“Have I ever told you that you’re like the sea on a summer’s day?” Zeus’ voice came out blurry. He put his hand in his hair, trying to look sexy, you know, like the kind of guy you’d wanna forgive.

This was met by her hair slapping him in the face as she walked by him. She paused a few steps below him, turning.

“Is that alcohol I smell on your breath?”

“I may have had one—“ He hiccuped, “or five, appletinis.”

“And this is what? An intelligent conversation you’re trying to have?” She folded her arms over her chest.

“Actually,” he held up a finger. The action made him feel off-balance so he leaned against the railing, trying to land in a sexy pose. “There is something I wanted to say.”

“You’re barely coherent when you’re sober, at least spare me until then.”

He rolled his eyes—(and made himself feel even dizzier).

She turned to go back up the stairs.

“Wait!” He shouted.

She stopped, looked over her shoulder, eyes narrow as a cat’s. “What?”

“I-hic!” He covered his mouth as if embarrassed. Clearly emotion was dangerous. “I wasn’t trying to get wasted! I just-hic!-needed more than three or four to say this.”

“Oh yeah? Spit it out Grape Sorbet.” She folded her arms over her chest.

“I’m…” he held on to the railing for support. “I’m sorry.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“You…You were right.” He took a step closer.

“About what?” Her breath bated.

“I just…I didn’t want to admit it. I couldn’t…” He looked away. “I couldn’t tell you sober.”

“About what?” The words had a rough edge to them, her chest heaving with breath.

Ah. She knew. She knew what he was going to say, even before he said it.

“I…I did cheat on you.”

“Wh-What?” Her eyes tinted red…but there was so much hurt in the word.

Fear and shame rose in tandem like ocean waves, threatening to bowl him over, and he realized that the truth wasn’t going to help at all. But all he could do was let it pour out of him.

“You-hic-You asked if I was with-hic—”

“Stop.” She covered her mouth as if to keep the worst words from spilling out, tears welling in her eyes.

“But I—”

“I said stop!” Her voice rang through the room like something shattering.

Maybe something was.

Her heels against the stairs, fast and sharp, and away.

“Wait!”

Turn around please, let me apologize, let me explain, I won’t do it again.

He threw up in the vase.

“Daddy? What was that all about?” The small voice made his blood run cold. “What did you cheat at? Were you playing a game?”

Zeus turned, horrified, to see Ares, hiding behind a crack in the door.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at her.” He breathed. “It was stupid, really.”

Hades put a dollar in the vending machine and punched in a number.

“People say all kinds of things when they’re angry. Doesn’t mean you’re bad, just means you’re people. Which…” Hades looked him up and down, adding under his breath, “I wonder about sometimes.”

“...You must think I’m a terrible husband.”

Hades grabbed two chocolate bars and handed one to his brother.

“I think you need something sweet, maybe a little hydration, and some rest.”

Zeus unwrapped the bar and took a bite, not really tasting anything.

After a moment Hades sighed.

“It’s not so simple as that.” Hades said between bites, “I don’t necessarily think there’s such a thing as a ‘terrible husband’ or ‘the best husband.’ I…I don’t even think there’s such a thing as good and bad people. There’s just…people. There’s just husbands. But there are rules that come with being a person, and/or being a husband and…” he paused, trying to choose his words carefully, “you don’t always follow those rules.”

Zeus fell back against the wall, looking at the floor, denials dying in his throat.

It was raining.

No, actually it was pouring. And thundering. The lightning was like cracks in a collapsing sky, and Zeus’s gut was twisting like the snakes on the head of a gorgon.

“What? You-you think you can just undo this?!” Hera’s words were biting. “It’s done!” Her laugh was wry and sardonic, like an ache in her throat, red tainting the blue of her eyes. “You can’t just fix something like that! Once someone cheats at the game no one else just keeps playing!”

“It was a mistake! One stupid night!”

“One stupid night, huh?! Then how do you explain this?!” She held up his phone. The pictures. The…Oh Gaia.

The snakes in his gut bit down, and he bit his lip looking away. He hadn’t known she knew about that.

“You’ve got it all wrong! That was just—!”

“I thought you were different!” She bit off his excuse, the anger cracked, and the pain was bleeding through, and he wasn’t the only one making it rain: A tear fell down her face, then another, her mascara running black along her cheeks. “You made me smile, you made me laugh! You saved your brothers from your father. And I thought we could make a kingdom—a world—together!” She shook her head, grimacing, trying and failing to keep more tears from falling. “I thought we could be something!”

“We are! We have! I just made a mistake! I—!”

“No, Zeus.” There was a finality to her tone.

Tears streamed down her face now. He hated it when she cried. She didn’t do it often, and whenever she did he was ready to smite whoever hurt her but…he’d hurt her worst of all.

“I thought you were different. But you’re—“ the words were like an antique vase, riddled with cracks. “You’re just another bad guy.” She punched him in the arm, and the vase broke, the defiance into pain. She punched him in the arm…but it was weak and far too soft, and that’s how he knew she was really hurt; she could bring the sky down on him if she wanted.

She looked down at her hand, twisting her wedding ring with a finger.

“I’m staying with a friend tonight.”

Her wedding ring tinkled on the floor.

As she turned and walked away the word rang out like he was hoping his voice alone could rewrite his sins and bring her back:

“Wait!”

She didn’t stop, didn’t turn, didn’t make any indication she’d even heard him.

“Please…Please just wait.” These were soft.

He fell to his knees on the marble, scooping up her wedding ring and enclosing it in his fingers, holding it to his forehead, and trying not to bring the sky down upon himself.

He’d seen her angry. He’d seen her sad. But this? Seeing her break for him…was so much worse.

It reminded him too much of another time. Of a scar on her stomach. How she broke herself just to be his.

—(And he wondered, for a fleeting moment, if it would have been better if he had been the one to break.)—

“There you are!” Said a voice. “You can come see her now,”—a cleared throat— “your Majesty.”

Notes: Aright, so this chapter had a few things I was unsure about I thought I’d ask about here!

1. Does anyone have any other clever play-on-words for candy brands? I feel like Zeus would know that she likes caramel in general, so it’d make more sense if Hades said “she likes [X similar candy] so she’d probably like Twyx.” But Twyx is all my brain came up with and I don’t even know that it’s all that good XD

2. I’m aware that the gods don’t call each other “people” they call each other “beings.” However, Hades’ lines don’t have as much impact with “beings.” Did the fact that I used “people” stick out too much? Should I change it to “beings”?

3. I know Ancient Greek wedding ceremonies are different from ours, and they might not even have wedding rings. But that image was so impactful for me I decided to use it. Should I remove it? Or did you find it impactful?

Please let me know if there’s anything you felt was inaccurate to their characters!!

Thanks so much for reading!! 💕💕

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