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spacedace · 8 months

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Reluctant War AU Part 2

Part One

...I ended up writing more for that Reluctant War AU...Like. Wrote this before work and started on part 3 with plans for part 4 more.

this was supposed to just be a brain worm what happened (also thank you @catastrophic-crow for the AU name <3 <3 <3 Also, also: welcome to the cult of Ancient of the Speedforce Elle! Membership includes nonsense, shenanigans and chaos haha)

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Every corner haunted by death and tragedy.

Every street stained red at least once in its many years.

Every dark shadow holding the faint shadows and shades of the dead.

Gotham was, before all else, a grave yard.

Jason had known that his entire life. Every kid born and raised in the Alley did. Death came fast to Gotham’s streets. Especially for those the rest of the city turned its back on. He did his best to lighten the reaper’s load when it came to the people that called Crime Alley home. Well, mostly. He’d certainly added names to old Death’s list before, when the occasion called.

When the armies of the dead descended upon Gotham, the only surprise Jason could feel was that those white wearing pieces of shit had dared to try and hunker down in his city.

It was a sentiment shared by most of Gotham’s fine citizens. By the city itself - herself? Something to ask later, if there was a later - even if the impossible, living shadow that rose up out of Gotham’s many dark corners was anything to go by. He knew, almost instinctively, that the entity - skin of cracked pavement, mouth a bridge suspended too wide across the face, eyes of CCTV camera lenses and body built brick by grimy, bloody brick of the sharp skyline - was Gotham. Not a ghost but something bigger, greater. Something awfully, terribly alive in all its horrible, noble glory. His city, manifest in the shape almost human beneath the green glow of the torn apart sky above.

Phantom’s armies arrived without warning as they had everywhere else, and their enemies poured out in unforgivably unmarred white suits to meet them. Horrible and garish against the Gotham streets. How they’d ever managed to slink by unnoticed while being so blatantly, clearly not of Gotham Jason wasn’t sure he’d ever know.

If either side thought this would be like the battles they fought before, they were mistaken.

Gotham was a place for Ghosts.

A place the dead piled up, lingered well beyond their deaths. A place where the rules were different from everywhere else in the world. Where crime was rampant and chaos reigned but at the end of the day people said their thanks that they were born to this hellhole and not so cursed to call anywhere else in the world home.

The dead came to fight

And Gotham, a thing so alive it was sickening to look upon, rose up to fight right along side them all.

The agents were ready and prepared for the incursion of the dead. It’d been two weeks since the first volley of attacks. Two weeks spent shoring up defenses and ramping up weapons and strategizing ways to kill what was already dead. They were, as best as they were able to be considering how endless the armies that came for them, prepared.

They weren’t prepared for Gotham.

Weren’t prepared for the city itself to rise up and take spectral, eldritch shape. Jagged building spire and shattered glass teeth bared in a snarl that spanned miles. Screaming rage in a voice made of gunfire and the concussive boom of explosions and the shrieks of a furious crowd.

Weren’t prepared for its people to ignore the gentle ushering of the dead trying to push them away to safety and instead press forward to fight shoulder to shoulder with the ghostly armies.

Weren’t prepared to have brick and bottles and trash and debris rain down upon them from the jeering living. Weren’t prepared for dirty faced children with hard eyes to light up rags stuffed into chipped beer bottles filled with gas and kerosene and throw them with more speed an accuracy than any professional baseball player. Weren’t ready for Gotham’s motley crew of terrifying Rogues to band together with the citizens they so often accosted and worried and bring down wave after wave of chaos and Goons.

Weren’t prepared for Red Hood to swap out his rubber bullets for the real deal and start mowing the fuckers in white down, his own crew at his back, the rest of the Outlaws on their way.

The Justice League was trying to find a peaceful resolution. Trying to play go between to the US Government and the infinite dead. Too wound up in US politics to side with the dead outright, too disgusted by what the American government had done to ever want to stand with them. All it had gotten them was spun wheels and confusion and the slow creeping realization that the time to try and play negotiators had well passed.

Red Hood wasn’t a member of the Justice League.

He had no obligation to try and find a way to talk things out.

What he had was a grave he’d dug his way out of, enough ammunition to arm a sizable country, and a burning need to make things right.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts, and Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

Haunting the streets he’d survived as a child, the city he protected as Robin, the family he’d loved and lost a thousand and one times before and after his death.

The sky cracked open above his home, and it was not an invading army that came rushing out but a native one. Friends, neighbors, strangers on the street you caught from the corner of your eye. The people of Gotham knew their own and fought for them. Only Gotham was allowed to fucked with Gotham and they’d been screwed over enough by the government themselves to know what side they were on.

He lifted his guns and fired, teeth bared in vicious satisfaction beneath his helmet as white was splattered bright red.

A hissing electric whine of a weapon, a flash of green from the edge of his vision.

“Down!”

He was thrown bodily to the cracked and ruined street beneath him, the body shielding him warm and living as one of the agent’s weapon fired a blast of energy right where he’d been a second before. He’d seen that same weapon reduce one of the raging dead to dripping green and screams of agony the dead should not be capable of making.

Before he could shove himself up and respond in kind, the body above him was in motion and the air above him cracking with the snapping-popping-roar of a gun of a much higher power than even what he had. The fucker in white that had shot at him dissolved into a mist of red viscera, body seizing and shuttering in the briefest moment it had before it was obliterated completely.

“Watch yourself.” He looked up - and up - and wondered at the lovely, fierce face he found staring down at him. “Even without shooting at them you’re Liminal enough to trip their sensors.”

She was tall enough to be an amazon, six inches in height on him at least. Body strong beneath the pitch black armor she work - as deep and dark as the depths of space, etched with starlight, a familiar crest upon her chest in the dizzying burst of a supernova - she held herself with confidence. Strands of hair the color of a warning sunrise escaped out from beneath the helm she wore, bright against her pale skin, warming the glass-sharp teal eyes that had pinned him in place.

The hand not holding the gun she’d just used to delete the asshole that had just tried to shoot him - a strange, impossible thing that made him taste lightning at the back of his throat to look at it - stretched out to help him up.

He accepted it.

Something pulsed to life in his chest. A piece forgotten where it’d been left behind, half buried in grave dirt and broken pieces of a casket he’d clawed his way out of. It burned like a hot coal in his chest, froze him with the same aching cold of a blizzard, crackled his nerves to life with lightning even as his brain popped and fried with the same sizzling energy.

On his feet, hair on end and body and Core pulsing with the need to fight, to rend and tear and scream for all done to him, his people, his home, he met the eyes of the woman before him. Her cool gaze softened, just a moment, just a second as she seemed to realize what had happened. Her hand, lighter than the armor she wore should allow it to be, tightened on his just a moment, mouth tilting from determined frown to soft understanding.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

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Part Three

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #jason todd #jazz fenton #GIW #reluctant war au #ghost zone goes to war #ghost king danny #liminal jazz #halfa jason #sorta kinda #he's waking up alright #anger management #if you squint but if i do end up writing even more of this it'll be a thing lol #spirit of gotham #gotham spirit #eldritch gotham spirit #tw death #tw violence #implied gore #gothamites take one look at the GIW and are like: yup time to fuck some bitches up #the entire city has been itching for a chance to fight the US government after all the times they got cut off after a disaster #ghosts are trying to evacuate them and they're like: Nah we're good #Gotham Girl Scouts get badges for making molotov cocktails and knife fighting you can't convince me otherwise #Outlaws are gonna show up to find Jason has somehow collected yet another tall red head that can kick his ass #They're convinced he has the world's most specific meta ability with how many he ends up running around with #Bruce in mid convo w/ Waller trying not to kill her suddenly has his *one of my kids is Up To Something* senses go off

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jujoobedoodling · 2 months

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Haunting.

Phantom of the Opera Spire anyone? Jaina is once again the nerdy skeptic just can't let the ghost rumours go. She finds more than she bargained for - namely, a hot and broody elf named Sylvanas Windrunner.

inspired by this femslash february prompt list

#world of warcraft #sylvaina #sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #minifemslashfeb2024 #mine #also im hiding this in the tags do not mob me ive literally never seen any adaptation of it ive only heard That One Song #this was an interesting...thing #the mask was inspired of me i must say #jaina: vereesa you never told me it was your fucking sister i thought it was something way worse from the way you described it?#jaina: also you never told me she was still ALIVE #vereesa: where's the fun in that? also you never believed she was even real #jaina: that's not the point.#vereesa: it's a great prank jaina admit it. plus she likes keeping busy with the spire it gives her something to do #jaina: i'll give her something to do.#vereesa: what.#jaina: what.

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kaimeioneclipse · 4 months

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A Dark Wedding of Misery

Pairing: Wednesday x Male Reader

Summary: They said you two would never make it this far but you did. Y/N and Wednesday Addams are getting married. From Nevermore Academy to the Alter

WordCount: 1.3k words

WARNINGS: Kissing

The moon hung low in the midnight sky, casting an ethereal glow over the sprawling grounds of the Addams mansion. It was a night of foreboding, yet one tinged with an unusual excitement. Wednesday Addams, the somber and enigmatic daughter of the Addams family, was on the precipice of a life-altering event—an unholy matrimony that would defy the boundaries of the living and the dead.

The mansion, with its ivy-clad walls and twisted spires, exuded an otherworldly charm as Morticia, the epitome of Gothic elegance, supervised the final touches of her daughter's wedding gown. The dress, a masterpiece of darkness and grace, clung to Wednesday like a second skin, its midnight-black fabric cascading around her like a shroud.

"I will need some more black ash for the rest of your dress, Possibly your grandmothers would suffice. I shall return" Morticia says as he scurries out the room.

Wednesday scoots herself over to the dusty mirror in the Library that the family turned into a fitting room for the occasion. She looked at the black dress and felt it unsettling that her time was coming.

Wednesday looked at THING who was working on some dead flower arrangements and for the bridesmaids to hand out to them later.

"Thing" she called to him

Thing stopped his task and moved his hand body in her direction

"Find Enid, I wish to speak to her" Wednesday requested

Thing saluted and scurried off.

Wednesday waited for a few moments and then went towards the door and checked if the coast was clear. She picked up her black dress and began to run down the eerie hallways of the Addams Mansion towards the other wing.

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In a distant wing of the Addams mansion, where shadows played upon the walls like phantoms in the night, Y/N prepared for the unholy union. The air hung heavy with a sense of anticipation, and the dimly lit room seemed to echo with the echoes of centuries past.

Y/N, adorned in a suit as black as the void itself, stood before the ornate mirror. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he adjusted his tie, and his eyes, a mix of excitement and nervousness, reflected in the polished glass.

Ajax Petropolus, a towering figure with a beanie on his head stood behind Y/N checking themselves to make sure they looked good. He observed Y/N with a subtle nod, understanding the gravity of the moment. Eugene Ottinger, with his mop of unruly hair and penchant for the bizarre, fidgeted with the boutonnière, offering a lopsided grin. Beside them, Xavier Thorpe, with his piercing gaze and enigmatic aura, stood as the voice of reason.

Ajax: (In his deep, resonant voice) You'll do just fine, Y/N. It's not every day you get to marry into the Addams clan.

Eugene: (With a mischievous smirk) Remember, weddings are just like funerals, only with better food!

Xavier: (In his calm, soothing tone) Relax, Y/N. Tonight is a celebration of the unusual, and you, my friend, are stepping into a realm where the extraordinary is the norm.

As the trio provided reassurance and prepared Y/N for his impending union with Wednesday, the mansion's eerie silence served as a stark contrast to the bustling emotions within.

Once the boys left, Y/N stood alone in the room, the weight of the moment settling upon him like a heavy shroud. He looked at his reflection, contemplating the path that had led him to this peculiar crossroads.

As he ran his fingers through his hair, a knock echoed through the room. Y/N turned, expecting one of the boys to return with some last-minute advice. However, when he opened the door, there stood Wednesday—a vision of darkness and mystery and soon Y/N Wife.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Y/N, the time is nigh.

Y/N: (Nervously) Yea it is, Wednesday. The boys were just helping me gather my composure.

Wednesday: (Observing him) Composure is overrated.

Without another word, Wednesday took Y/N's hand, leading him through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion. The moonlit hallway cast an eerie glow as they approached the entrance to the backyard—a gateway to the dark forest that concealed secrets untold.

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The forest, with its twisted branches and shadowy depths, beckoned them into its enigmatic embrace. The rustling leaves and the distant hooting of an owl added to the mystical ambiance as Wednesday and Y/N ventured into the heart of the darkness.

Wednesday: (Stopping at the forest's edge) We stand on the precipice of eternity, Y/N. Tonight, we embark on a journey that transcends the mortal coil.

Y/N: (Nervously) Yes, Wednesday. I…

Wednesday: (Interrupting) Nervousness becomes you, Y/N. It is an emotion as genuine as the shadows that cloak our existence.

Y/N's gaze met Wednesday's, and in that moment, the moonlight revealed a vulnerability beneath her stoic exterior—a vulnerability mirrored in Y/N's own eyes.

Y/N: (Softly) I never thought I'd find someone as extraordinary as you.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Extraordinary is subjective. Tonight, we become a tapestry of darkness and peculiarity, woven together in the moonlit dance of fate.....But I'm content that I've met you

Y/N, captivated by the haunting beauty of the dress, stood in awe of the enigmatic figure before him. The moonlight played upon the black fabric, casting an ethereal glow that accentuated the mysterious allure of Wednesday's presence.

Y/N: (Breathless) Wednesday, you're… breathtaking.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Brevity suits the moment.

As those words hung in the air, Wednesday reached for Y/N's face with a gentle grace that belied her typically stoic demeanor. Her cool fingers traced a delicate path along his jawline, an intimate touch that transcended the shadows around them. In the dim moonlight, her left hand emerged, adorned with a striking black obsidian ring—a gem as dark as the night sky.

The ring, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, held an otherworldly allure. A seamless integration of black obsidian and silver, it seemed to absorb the moonlight, casting a subtle, mesmerizing glow. Etched into the obsidian was an intricate pattern reminiscent of ancient symbols—a visual ode to the peculiar legacy they were about to deepen.

As Wednesday caressed Y/N's face, their eyes locked, and in that shared gaze, they found solace and understanding. Their intertwined fingers, now adorned with the weight of the black obsidian ring, rose together, and they turned their attention to the moon, hanging high in the velvet expanse of the night sky.

The moon, a silent witness to their journey, bathed them in its silvery glow. In that moment of quiet reflection, they let their minds drift back to their time at Nevermore Academy—the place where their paths first crossed.

Y/N: (Softly) Remember the nights we spent beneath the moon at Nevermore? The laughter, the secrets shared?

Wednesday: (Nodding) Nevermore was a chapter, and tonight, under the same moon, we begin a new one.

Y/N: (Smiling) I never thought this would be my ending.

Wednesday: (With a hint of mystery) Endings are illusions, Y/N. This is but the beginning.

Their hands tightened in a silent agreement, and in the tranquil moonlit glade, they kissed—a union of darkness and passion that spoke of a love destined to defy the ordinary. As they embraced, the moon bore witness to the promise of their unholy matrimony.

With the moon as their guide, they turned away from the clearing, fingers still entwined, and made their way back to the Addams family mansion. The shadows welcomed them like old friends, and as they crossed the threshold, the doors creaked shut behind them, sealing the pact of an eternal love that echoed through the haunted halls of the Addams legacy.

And so, beneath the watchful gaze of the moon and within the enigmatic embrace of the Addams mansion, Wednesday and Y/N embarked on a journey that defied the boundaries of time and tradition—an odyssey into the unknown, where each step marked a new beginning in the tapestry of their peculiar love. They walked hand in hand, ready to be officially married and embrace the darkness that awaited them—a love story destined to be inscribed in the annals of the Addams family's peculiar history.

(Author Notes)

Hey Everyone it's been a while. I know I've been away and I haven't finished ALOT of stories. I kinda fell off with writing, especially with content creation and work. Life be LIFEING! But we are back and I got inspired to write again due to the picture above. It was nice to write more Wednesday fanfics hopefully the fandom isn't dead but if you enjoyed it let me know and we can work on more stories.

Check out my MASTER LIST!

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whocaresimnothere · 2 months

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Echoes of Obsession: Yandere Alastor x Reader

The air in Hell was heavy with the scent of sulphur and decay as you made your way through the labyrinthine streets, the shadows of twisted spires casting ominous silhouettes against the blood-red sky. Despite the oppressive atmosphere, you carried yourself with a sense of purpose, your steps echoing against the cobblestone pavement.

It was on one such night, amidst the flickering glow of dimly lit lanterns, that you caught the attention of Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon. Clad in his signature pinstripe suit and adorned with a devilish grin, he emerged from the darkness like a phantom, his crimson eyes ablaze with curiosity.

"Ah, what have we here?" Alastor's voice cut through the night like a razor, his words dripping with charm and intrigue. "A lost soul wandering the streets of my domain. How delightful."

You regarded him with a mixture of caution and fascination, drawn to the enigmatic aura that surrounded him like a shroud. Despite the warnings whispered in the dark corners of Hell, you couldn't deny the allure of Alastor's presence, the promise of adventure and danger beckoning like a siren's call.

"Forgive me if I seem forward, my dear," Alastor continued, his grin widening into a predatory smile. "But I simply couldn't resist the opportunity to make your acquaintance. After all, a soul as captivating as yours is a rare find indeed."

Despite the warning bells ringing in the back of your mind, you found yourself unable to resist Alastor's charm, his words weaving a seductive spell around you. With a hesitant smile, you accepted his offer of companionship, unaware of the dark path that lay ahead.

Little did you know, your fateful encounter with Alastor was only the beginning of a twisted courtship that would plunge you into the depths of obsession and despair, where the shadows of Hell would close in around you like a suffocating embrace.

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As days turned into nights and nights into a seemingly endless cycle of darkness, your interactions with Alastor grew more frequent, his presence becoming an ever-present shadow in your life. At first, his attentions were flattering, his words honeyed and his gestures seemingly innocent. But beneath the surface, a darkness lurked—a darkness that threatened to consume you whole.

"You're quite the fascinating soul, my dear," Alastor would murmur, his voice dripping with honeyed charm as he gazed at you with a predatory gleam in his crimson eyes. "There's something about you that simply captivates me."

Despite the warning bells ringing in the back of your mind, you couldn't deny the allure of Alastor's presence. His charisma was undeniable, his charm a potent elixir that left you intoxicated and craving more.

But as Alastor's behavior grew more erratic and possessive, a creeping sense of unease began to gnaw at your insides. His once-charming demeanor gave way to bouts of jealousy and rage, his affections bordering on the edge of madness.

"You belong to me, and me alone," Alastor would declare, his voice laced with a dangerous edge as he watched you with possessive eyes. "No one else can have you. No one else will ever have you."

At first, you attempted to brush aside your growing unease, chalking it up to the peculiarities of Hell's denizens. But as Alastor's manipulation grew more insidious, you couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of dread worm its way into your heart.

The shadows whispered secrets of Alastor's true nature, warning you of the danger that lurked beneath his charming facade. But try as you might to resist, you found yourself drawn deeper into his orbit, unable to break free from the gravitational pull of his obsession.

"It's for your own good, my dear," Alastor would soothe, his voice like silk as he reached out to caress your cheek with a gloved hand. "I only want what's best for you. Can't you see that?"

His words were like a siren's song, luring you deeper into the abyss with promises of love and protection. But deep down, you knew that Alastor's affections were anything but pure—that his love was a twisted reflection of obsession and possession.

It wasn't long before Alastor's possessiveness turned into outright manipulation, his every word and action designed to keep you tethered to him like a puppet on a string. You found yourself trapped in a twisted dance of desire and deceit, your own emotions playing against you as you struggled to untangle yourself from Alastor's suffocating grasp.

Yet amidst the chaos and despair of Hell, a glimmer of hope remained—a flickering flame of defiance burning bright in the darkness. With each passing day, you resolved to break free from Alastor's clutches, to defy the shadows that threatened to consume you whole and reclaim your autonomy in a world ruled by madness and obsession.

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In the depths of Hell, where shadows twisted and whispered secrets of madness, you found yourself ensnared in a deadly dance of deception with Alastor, the Radio Demon whose obsession knew no bounds.

As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into an eternity of darkness, you struggled to maintain a facade of compliance while plotting your escape from Alastor's suffocating grasp. Every smile, every touch, every whispered endearment was a lie—a carefully crafted illusion designed to keep you tethered to him, to feed his insatiable hunger for control.

But beneath the mask of obedience, a fire burned bright—a flame of defiance that refused to be extinguished. With each passing moment, you honed your cunning, biding your time until the opportunity presented itself to break free from Alastor's clutches and reclaim your freedom.

Yet amidst the chaos and despair of Hell, Alastor's hold on you only seemed to tighten, his manipulation growing more insidious with each passing day. His words were like poison, seeping into your mind and clouding your judgment as he whispered sweet promises of love and protection.

"You're mine, my dear," Alastor would murmur, his voice a seductive melody that echoed in the recesses of your mind. "Forever and always. There's no escaping me."

But you refused to be caged like a bird, your spirit burning bright with the fires of rebellion. With each passing day, you plotted and schemed, laying the groundwork for your eventual escape from Alastor's clutches.

And then, one fateful night, as the shadows danced and the echoes of madness filled the air, the opportunity presented itself—a fleeting moment of weakness in Alastor's carefully constructed facade.

With a heart pounding with adrenaline and determination, you seized the chance, slipping away into the darkness like a phantom in the night. Behind you, you could hear Alastor's enraged screams, his promises of vengeance echoing in the empty corridors of Hell.

But you paid them no mind, for you were free—free from the chains of obsession and manipulation, free to forge your own path amidst the chaos and despair of Hell's eternal night.

As you disappeared into the shadows, a sense of liberation washed over you—a feeling of triumph amidst the darkness, as you vowed to never again be ensnared in the deadly dance of deception with Alastor, the Radio Demon whose obsession knew no bounds.

"You cannot escape me, my dear," Alastor's voice echoed in the darkness, a chilling reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. "I will find you, no matter where you hide. And when I do, there will be no mercy."

But you paid his threats no heed, for you knew that you were stronger than the darkness that sought to consume you—that no matter what horrors awaited you in the depths of Hell, you would face them head-on, armed with nothing but your courage and the knowledge that you had escaped the clutches of a yandere's obsession.

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In the wake of your daring escape from Alastor's clutches, the air in Hell crackled with tension and anticipation. Every shadow seemed to whisper his name, every echo carried the echo of his rage as he searched for you with a relentless determination.

But you were not afraid, for you had faced the darkness head-on and emerged victorious. With each passing moment, your resolve grew stronger, fueled by the fire of defiance that burned bright within your heart.

And then, one fateful night, as the echoes of madness filled the air and the shadows danced in the flickering light of torches, you came face to face with Alastor once more.

There he stood, his crimson eyes ablaze with fury, his form wreathed in the darkness of his own making. But despite his formidable presence, you did not falter, for you knew that you had already won the battle for your freedom.

"You thought you could escape me, my dear," Alastor's voice echoed in the darkness, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked in the shadows. "But you were wrong. You belong to me, body and soul. And I will not rest until you are mine once more."

And with that, your world went black.

#alastor x reader #yander alastor x reader #x reader #yandere #hazbin hotel #radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel

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powdermelonkeg · 8 months

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Assorted Post-TotK Spirit Tracks AU thoughts:

The main technology you use is the Robbie Rucksack—mirroring the Purah Pad, Purah did most of the designing, but Robbie got to name it. Turnabout is fair play.

It gets upgraded as you go with more and more features, like a grappling hook, paraglider wings, a dowsing rod, etc.

Its most important feature, though, is the ability to switch tracks (hence locking Link into a specific rail until Zelda joins his side).

Link is piloting the first ever engine in the modern day, the Sheikah Engine. The tutorial segment is him driving it to Lookout Landing Station, so Zelda can name him Hyrule’s first official engineer.

The cannon you get later is actually a guardian laser.

The Railway Tower is the central hub for the rails that spread across Hyrule initially. Purah runs it.

Beneath it, in the Depths, Josha (now 16, eagerly talks about taking a trip to Mt. Lanayru on her birthday) has excavated what looks to be some kind of seal. Onlooker in the ZST crowd seems unusually interested and lavishes Link with an absurd amount of praise.

Shortly after the ceremony, Josha rushes in and says there’s an emergency. Right then, something BURSTS out of the ground beneath the tower, shattering it to smithereens—Purah barely escapes. The stone tower dwarfs the other rail towers around Hyrule in size, reaching from the Depths all the way up to the Sky. Link has to use it to switch his train between map layers.

Calling it the Spirit Spire. It’s full of Phantoms and poes.

Zelda gets her body stolen (expected)

Link gets the Master Sword stolen (NOT expected; snuck up on by Byrne a la Ganondorf vs Sonia). After all, a king revived deserves a fitting weapon.

At the bottom of the Spirit Spire, in the Depths, Link gets the Phantom Flute. Various functions of the tower are enabled by flute song.

Zelda’s spirit can be seen by the Sages, Impa, and Link—nobody else. But she accompanies you and comments on a LOT

Phantom Zel is scared of Keese (same way ST Phantom Zel is scared of rats, reference TotK first battle)

Phantom Zel can go anywhere in the Depths, but she loses her armor in the light.

Spirit form Zel can also take control of certain mechanisms, unlock things for you, phase through walls, etc.

Bringing Zelda to a bargainer statue has the statue reject her soul. It would disrupt the balance of the afterlife to take a soul while the body still breathes.

Tracks in the sky due to Spirit Spire

Remlit sanctuary > Rabbit sanctuary

References to other Zelda games like DLC outfits/items are accessed by playing those games’ songs. Stone walls have the song notes, you’re not taught them outright.

Opening scene is Link in his Tarrey Town house, getting woken up by Zelda who’s excited to see him drive.

Working title: Rails of the Realm

#zelda #loz #botw #totk #spirit tracks #concept #rails of the realm

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violettduchess · 4 months

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A/N: Vincent won the poll and with it, this kiss fic!

"This sadness will last forever" were supposedly Vincent Van Gogh's final words.

WC: 470

Trying to describe how it feels when Vincent kisses you makes you wish you were as talented with words as Dazai or Arthur. How can you possibly describe the feeling that floods you when he tenderly cups your face in his hands, eyes as blue as eternity, and leans down, softly pressing his lips against yours?

You are one of his beloved sunflowers, cacophonous and bright, baring your soul to the radiant blue sky, joy beaming from every corner of your heart. You are the strong branches of the almond tree in spring, riotous with pink and white blossoms, each petal a happy sigh that escapes you. You are the black spire stretching itself up up up into the expansive starry night, reaching with your whole soul for the stars.

Vincent parts your lips, delving deeper even as he tenderly pulls you closer, wanting to feel your solidness against him. Sometimes you wonder if he is afraid you are nothing but a phantom that will disappear if he opens his eyes, a creature of mist and dreams that will dissolve under the bright rays of sunlight. Your arms wind around his neck, your body presses closer, reassuring him that yes, you are real. You are solid. And you are unconditionally his. He is warmth and gentleness, golden as wheat fields in summer but he is also fiercely protective, a strength easily overseen and underestimated due to the tenderness of his nature, the boyishness of his mien. You know the truth. You know there is no shoulder you would rather lean on, no hands you would trust to hold your heart more than his.

Oh, those hands. Those beautiful, talented hands move over your skin like a paintbrush on canvas. With every caress he decorates you in his desire, his love, his dedication, his admiration and you? You feel beautiful. You are a work of art, a masterpiece, glowing with each stroke of blazing adoration along your body. There is nothing that lifts his heart more than the content sighs you whisper against his mouth, the ardent press of your fingers into his shoulder when your body lights up with yearning.

And if he pulls back for a moment, just a heartbeat in time, he can look into your eyes where he sees something unbelievable. He sees himself reflected there, in a way he never could imagine, despite the numerous self-portraits he has done. In the depths of your gaze, those windows to the naked essense of your heart, he sees himself as someone beautiful. Someone whole. Someone worthy of love.

Your name falls from his lips and just before he is utterly lost in the winding, sunlit path of your want, the hills and valleys of your body, he has a singular, sublime thought:

This love will last forever.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @fang-and-feather @bubblexly @kiki-tties @justpeachyteastea

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp vincent #ikemen vincent #kiss fic #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfic #violettwrites

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c-e-d-dreamer · 5 months

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When We Howl, the Moon Will Cower: Chapter 1

A/N: Listen, I know this chapter is like super expositiony, but I need to set everything up, okay? Trust the process! Nessian will proper interact at their wedding next chapter, I promise 😉

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Nesta

The Moonstone Palace looms tall before them, the white stone somehow glinting and sparkling like it was truly made from pieces of the silent giant above, even despite the heavy gray clouds shrouding the moon. Moonflower vines creep along the walls and the spires, purple bleeding from the centers and through the blooming white petals. Despite the sweet scent floating toward them on the breeze, Nesta can’t help but shudder.

No matter how beautiful it looks on the outside, Nesta has never particularly cared for the palace that the vampires call home. The blacked out windows and heavy curtains make it seem as if there may be someone watching at all times, an unseen gaze grating across her skin, and the whole building just screams of the wealth the vampires have acquired through their near immortal years. It doesn’t help that they always only visit this place in the dead of night either.

“I better not hear a word out of any of you tonight,” Elinor reminds her daughters, lifting up her skirts enough to lead the way up the front steps.

“Yes, Mama,” Nesta agrees quietly, speaking for both her sisters as well, and following their mother up the steps.

“I mean it,” Elinor clips, pausing just in front of the door and turning over her shoulder to glare. But those icy, blue eyes aren't pinned on Nesta. It’s Feyre on the other end of their mother’s ire.

Even with the distance between them, Nesta can see the way her youngest sister’s jaw clenches, the way her fingers twitch in the skirts of her own dress. Despite their mother's efforts to beat that defiance out of her youngest daughter, it's clear it still thrums just beneath Feyre's skin. But it's faint and dimmed. The black gossamer fabric twisting down Feyre’s arms hides the bruises Nesta knows have bloomed across her upper arm, remnants from the most recent lesson with their mother.

“I’ll be on my best behavior, Mama,” Feyre confirms, dropping her gaze away from Elinor. “I promise.”

“You better be,” Elinor says, turning back around and raising her hands toward the large, arching front doors with a flourish. “You all have no idea how important tonight will be. The future I am building for us all.”

With a flick of Elinor’s wrist, magic sparking across her fingertips in the dark, the large doors slide open, the old wrought iron hinges creaking. There’s a near echoing boom as the doors settle, and they all step inside, into the large room that makes up the front entrance. Towering pillars line each of the walls, stretching higher and higher toward the domed ceiling above. The heavy curtains that live there have been pulled aside, allowing milky pale light to filter through the stained glass and paint patterns across the marble floors.

Elinor strides forward with practiced ease, down the long halls covered with thick rugs and dotted with the occasional lush plants. Almost every single one is some sort of variation of a night blooming flower, thriving and green despite the shadows that shroud the whole palace. Various open doorways lead to other sitting rooms, dining rooms, and work areas, gossamer curtains swaying in an almost phantom, magical breeze dividing them from the main hall, but they all seem empty as they pass by.

The hall finally opens at the end into a massive dining hall, a large dark oak table taking up the majority of the space at the center of the room. And sitting around the table, already gathered, are the various leaders and their immediate circles. Nesta supposes she shouldn’t be too surprised that their family is the last to arrive for this meeting. She swears her mother feeds off the way all the chatter in the room dies as they step inside, the way every set of eyes turns to them.

With her shoulders back and head held high, Elinor continues forward to the remaining open chair around the table, but as Nesta follows behind, settling at her mother’s shoulder, she eyes the others in attendance, everyone in attendance for this meeting.

The Vanserra coven sits immediately to the right. It seems strange to see Eris Vanserra sitting front and center, the exact details of what happened to Beron Vanserra one of the coven’s best kept secrets. Still, the eldest seems to have stepped into the new leadership role quite seamlessly. He has an almost bored expression on his face, but Nesta doesn’t miss the way his amber eyes dart toward the dark shadowed corners of the room.

Two of Eris’s brothers stand at either of his shoulders, his second and third. Nesta recognizes the youngest of the Vanserras, Lucien. Even with his long, red hair hanging around his face, the scars around his eye are stark in the low light of the room, the result of a spell gone wrong that also killed two of the other Vanserra boys.

The vampires have claimed the seats directly across from Nesta and her family, Rhysand lounging casually in a high backed chair as though it’s a throne. His violet eyes flit around to everyone gathered, straying just a moment too long on the Archerons. Nesta almost thinks she imagines it, the shift in his eyes, dancing across his expression, before his attention turns to picking a piece of lint off his sleeve.

His second and third sit either side of him, the two vampire women completely different. The one sitting on his right has short, black hair, cut in a harsh bob right beneath her chin. Her gaze practically dares anyone to try and say a word to her, not an ounce of shame on her face as she drinks from a goblet filled to the brim with blood. The other woman, sitting on Rhysand’s left, has long, blonde hair running down her shoulders and back, brown eyes bright but no less threatening.

And to the left, taking up the final end of the table, are the wolves. The alpha of their pack, Cassian, sits at the center of their group, the dark curls of his hair pulled away from his face and piled atop his head in a bun. His arms are crossed over his chest, drawing emphasis to the width of his shoulders, the bulge of his arms, the span of his hands that come with being the quite literal top dog.

A man stands just to Cassian’s left, shaggy brown hair falling forward into a pair of brown eyes, and to Cassian’s right sits a woman, dark hair braided down over her shoulder. Surprisingly, her gaze is already pinned on Nesta. Nesta's spine straightens as the woman's eyes sweep up and down over her frame, and she can do nothing but watch as the woman leans over, clearly talking about her as she speaks quietly to Cassian.

Whatever is said, it has the alpha's eyes snapping to Nesta too, the hazel of them burning golden beneath the candlelight. For a moment, the breath hitches in Nesta's throat, having that attention solely on her. She wonders if he can hear it, the way her heartbeat starts to thud a bit quicker, wonders if he can see the way her pulse flutters in her neck, with those keen wolf senses. But Nesta refuses to back down. She raises her chin that little bit higher, daring to look down her nose at him.

“Elinor,” Rhysand breaks the silence, drawing the attention back to him.

“Rhysand,” Elinor offers back, her tone cold and face neutral.

“We all know why this meeting was called. The Cauldron is missing.”

“It was stolen,” Elinor corrects, her blue eyes narrowing across the table.

“Right from under your nose, it seems,” Eris sneers, earning a snicker from one of his brothers.

Elinor’s attention snaps to her right, and Nesta shifts uneasily as magic starts to spark at her mother’s fingertips. “If you’re going to accuse me of something, then do it.”

The atmosphere in the room turns tense and stifling, as though all of the air has been sucked out. It claws at the back of Nesta’s throat, scraping across her skin. Everyone around the tables seems to be holding their breath, seems to be bracing for the worst. Nesta swears she sees the vampires’ lips part, a hint of fangs peeking through. Swears she sees claws beginning to extend from the wolves’ fingers. It has her instinctively and protectively moving closer to her sisters.

“I’m merely commenting on the fact that the Cauldron was under your family’s protection, and yet you didn’t know it was even gone until the next morning,” Eris offers idly, arching a single, red eyebrow.

“I’ve warned you all for months about the threat Hybern poses, that their King’s strength is in spellwork, and now, suddenly, you’re all surprised? Questioning it?”

“No one is questioning or accusing anyone,” Rhysand cuts in, ever the placating host. “But Elinor, we all remember the Archeron’s reticence to the Accords, your family’s hesitance to sign the Treaty.”

Elinor scoffs at the vampire’s words, but it takes all of Nesta’s willpower to swallow down her wince. She still remembers overhearing her mother’s and grandmother’s words when she was a girl. Her grandmother's sharp, cutting words toward the vampires and wolves, at the idea of having any sort of Accords with them. The agreement from both matriarchs that working with the other factions was beneath the purity and power of the Archeron line. The criticism that the Accords makes their family weaker, not stronger.

“You’re right that Hybern is a threat,” Rhysand continues, his violet eyes dancing around to the others at the table before cutting back to Elinor. “But if we want to stand any chance against their King, if we want to find and return the Cauldron, it has to be together.”

“So what? You called a meeting just to scrutinize and ensure my dedication to the Accords?” Elinor asks, her tone derisive and mocking. “Was your spy not able to glean enough information? Where is your Shadowsinger hiding, anyways?”

“He’s not relevant right now,” Rhysand fires back, his own tone beginning to dip with annoyance.

“Honestly, Elinor. Your mocking questions aren’t helping your case here,” Eris adds, the frown tugging down his lips betraying the bored tone of his voice.

Elinor rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’d be more than happy to prove my family’s commitment if that’s what you’re after.”

“How?” Cassian speaks up to ask, his first words all night.

Nesta swears she sees the flicker of a smirk twitch up her mother’s lips, but as soon as she sees it, it vanishes like a trick of the candlelight. Elinor settles back in her chair, stretching her arms out either side of her.

“My daughters,” she answers the alpha’s question simply. “What better way to demonstrate than to offer a blessed union with each of them.”

“You can’t be serious,” Eris comments, something like surprised laughter coloring his voice.

“You all know how powerful my daughters are. You can’t deny that such unions would strengthen your own factions and strengthen the Accords.”

“You’d really force your daughters into marriages? Just like that?” Cassian asks.

“Force? My daughters would be more than happy to further solidify this alliance between us all. In fact, I’ll even let them choose.” Elinor turns over her shoulder, meeting Nesta’s gaze, but Nesta is all too familiar with that look, the fake smile and cold, burning eyes. “Nesta. You’re the eldest.”

Nesta’s entire chest feels tight, dark claws sinking into her lungs until she has to force air in and out. How long had their mother been planning this? Was this what she meant when she explained how important the night would be? No wonder she’d taken the time earlier to make sure all her daughters were in their best dresses, to ensure that Feyre swallowed down her defiance and kept her mouth shut. And now here they all stood, perfect little future wives on full display.

But what happens if she denies her mother’s suggestion, if she says no? Would the other factions oust the Archerons from the Accords? Loath as she is to admit it, Nesta knows that Rhysand is right. The only way they can defeat the King of Hybern and his magic and troops is as a unified front. Her family, her sisters, will only be vulnerable without the Accords. And the Mother only knows what Hybern would do if he got his hands on three of them.

This is the only solution. No question of if, but merely a question of who.

Nesta feels Elain practically shaking like a leaf beside her. Perhaps, she can have it so Elain ends up with the Vanserras. Ever since the accident and Beron’s death, there have been less stories of cruelty being whispered, and going from one coven to another, being around other witches, might be easier for her sister.

Nesta chances an accessing glance toward Feyre, but she finds her youngest sister already in some sort of glaring match with Rhysand. It seems the turn in conversation has solidly piqued the vampire leader’s interest and even more so, drawn his interest toward the youngest Archeron. But Feyre looks to be seconds away from slipping a shoe off her foot and throwing it at Rhysand’s head. It’s clear Nesta’s sister can hold her own, but that just leaves…

The wolves.

Swallowing hard, Nesta turns her full attention toward Cassian, refusing to balk as she meets his hazel gaze head on. “It would be an honor to join your pack.”

~ * * * ~

Cassian

Cassian sighs, pacing once more across the length of the room and digging his fingers up and through his hair. He still can’t quite wrap his mind around the events of the night, everything that’s happened. Every attempt to sort through it all feels like moving through a thick forest on a new moon’s night, like trying to navigate around trunks and brambles in shadowy darkness.

Ever since he’d heard the news of the Cauldron being stolen, he’s had his suspicions, his theories. Hell, there had always been something that hadn’t sat right with him, something that made his inner wolf’s hackles rise, even if he wasn’t confident whether it was merely witches or the Archerons specifically that stoked his wariness. And he’d known the Accords meeting was going to be a disaster, but he’d never expected this outcome, couldn’t have predicted how the meeting ended.

Marriage.

Of course, Rhys had all but jumped at the suggestion. Even Eris had agreed; although, he’d decided it would be his brother rather than the witch himself that would marry the middle Archeron daughter. Cassian still isn’t sure what Elinor Archeron gets out of this. Why she would suggest this or why her daughters would agree. He especially doesn’t understand why the eldest daughter would choose him and his wolves.

Cassian sighs again, pausing his pacing and settling his hands against the table, leaning heavily against his palms. “That had to be the stupidest decision that counsel has ever come to.”

“Hybern is a threat,” Baz reminds him, leaning casually back in his chair, feet propped up on the table. “A very real threat. And now their King has the Cauldron.”

“And this is the answer?”

“We all know the prophecy. ‘The gods will bow before the strength of three,’” Emerie offers from her own seat. “Having one of the Archeron sisters forever linked to the Pack might just be our best defense against whatever is coming.”

“And she’s the eldest too,” Baz adds. “We all know the eldest wolves tend to be the strongest. Perhaps it’s the same with witches.”

Cassian wants to laugh, shaking his head with a quiet huff. “A witch in our Pack…”

The notion feels absurd. Just speaking the words aloud has Cassian feeling like he’s stepped into another reality, an upside down world. He’s heard the demeaning whispers, seen the scornful looks, through the years. Since he rose through the ranks and took over as alpha, and even before then too. The comments, the pretentious expressions, they colored his childhood just as much as they trail and haunt him now.

It’s clear how everyone else views the wolves. They don’t have the money and wealth that comes from centuries of living like the vampires. They don’t have the power that comes from the magic pulsing through the witches veins like a raging, stormy sea. They have the strength everyone seems to want when conflicts arise, but nothing more. They’re the bastards of the factions. They’re expendable. Nothing but grunts and brutes.

“This really is a terrible idea,” Cassian mutters, pushing up to his full height again and rubbing a hand along his jaw.

“At least it’s the hot sister that wants to marry you,” Emerie comments, her brown eyes practically glinting in amusement as she smirks at him.

Cassian knows she’s just trying to lighten the mood, the remark drawing an easy laugh out of Baz, but Cassian still rolls his eyes and shakes his head. His second had made a similar observation at the meeting when the Archerons had first arrived, and though Cassian will never admit it aloud, he couldn’t deny it then and he can’t deny it now.

Witch or not, Nesta Archeron is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen.

Her face was all high cheekbones and cutting lines. She had her hair pulled up into an intricate braid style at the meeting, but the strands had still glinted like burnished gold under the candlelight, and Cassian had certainly been curious how it might look tumbling down along her back. How it might look threaded between his fingers. She’d held her shoulders back and her head high, a haughty witch certainly, but a warrior in her own right too, armor firmly in place and daring anyone to go toe to toe with her.

And her eyes. They’d been a stormy blue-gray, a fire burning within them as she met his gaze head on, as she refused to back down or look away. Something had sparked within Cassian then. Something had sat up and demanded attention, whispering and goading in the back of his mind.

“Perhaps, you should marry her instead then,” Cassian says, clearing his mind of the memory and offering Emerie a teasing smirk of his own.

“I’m sure Cresseida will appreciate us getting another wife,” Emerie drawls dryly with a roll of her eyes.

Baz chuckles quietly. “And a witch too.”

Emerie hums, shrugging her shoulders, but then her face turns serious again. “Rhysand and his vampires and the Vanserras have already agreed.”

“That doesn’t mean we automatically have to agree too,” Baz points out, turning his attention fully back to Cassian. “It’s ultimately your decision what we do.”

Cassian knows that they’re right. He knows that he could reject this proposition if he wants. But he also knows the prophecy, knows the stories that the Archeron witches are descended from the Mother herself. If Hybern and the threat their King poses is on the horizon, then how can Cassian deny giving the Pack the best fighting chance? He swore to always put them first, to always protect them.

Even if that means putting his own feelings aside.

Even if that means letting a witch into the ranks.

“Well, then… I guess I’m getting married.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #When We Howl #my fic

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squidwen · 2 years

Text

🐙 Tentacle Trapped 🐙

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Summary: After having a hand in destroying all of Azul’s contracts, the dorm leader blames you for his downfall and snatches you up in his tentacles.

You struggle to get free as your friends fight the overblot phantom, but Azul won’t let you go so easily. He plans to keep you restrained long enough to witness your friends’ defeat before turning his unique magic on you.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Azul’s life work lay in a million pieces at his feet. A decade of blood, sweat, and tears – gone. There was now no difference between his contracts and the dirty silt on the seabed. Just something for people to walk all over and disrespect.

Just like him.

Leona cracked his knuckles, releasing the tension built up by King’s Roar. Azul snapped to him, his eyes murderous, but despite the lion being the one that had done the damage, Azul had rage for everyone before him.

Ace and Deuce’s relieved grins were grotesque. They combed their hands through their hair and revelled in not feeling the anemones. Jade and Floyd stood idly beside them, watching Azul as if he were some spectacle. His eyes pleaded for them to do something, but they stayed firmly rooted to the spot.

And then, there was you.

Cradling your putrid cat monster, you looked almost innocent. But the way your head was tilted down in shame gave you away.

Azul was no fool. The interest you had shown in finding his childhood photograph; the fact Grim had been a debtor; the favour Leona owed you for helping him with his overblot. All the pieces were there.

You had orchestrated this. You sly, cunning little mastermind.

•~•~0~•~•

“Gone…” Azul murmured. “Gone. Gone! GONE! IT’S ALL GONE!” He gripped his face like the reigns on a wild horse, his tendons bulging through the gloves. Breaths turned to panicked rasps. In and out, in and out as if his lungs had shrunk to half their size.

You had to look away. Admittedly, you felt bad but not guilty. Azul had threatened to evict you from Ramshackle. He had enslaved your friends. Was it wrong to protect what was yours by playing him at his own game? It had been him or you.

“Do ya have to scream, Azul?” Floyd whined. “You’re being super lame.”

“SHUT UP!”

Just then, an Octavinelle student passed by - unaware of what was happening - and Azul grabbed him by the collar. Before the boy could protest his talents were torn straight out of him. A hideous shriek ripped through the water as he fell to his knees, eyes glassy and jaw slack.

“Azul, stop!” Jade barked, reaching for his magic pen. “Your unique magic needs to be regulated with a contract. You know what will happen if you keep doing this.”

But all Jade got for an answer was a twisted grin. Darkness shrouded the glistening conch spires of Octavinelle, and the familiar tang of ink stroked the back of your throat.

•~•~0~•~•

London’s smog at the height of the Industrial Revolution couldn’t compare to the haze around Octavinelle. The sea was pitch black. Would the breathing spell hold in these conditions? You, the Tweels, Leona, Ace, and Deuce, moved into a tight circle, huddling with your backs to one another so you could see in all directions. An attack could come from anywhere.

“Duck!” Deuce suddenly cried.

Your body went on autopilot. Adrenaline forced you to the ground as what looked like a giant black trident swung at your heads. The weapon cut through the miasma, sending wreaths of dark ink spiralling in its wake.

A figure stood in the clearing it had made.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Azul was almost unrecognisable. His pale skin had turned to lilac, and in place of his legs were thick tentacles. The only thing to distinguish him was his shock of white hair, made even whiter against the hideous overblot phantom towering behind him.

Grim wriggled out of your arms and looked to you for guidance, but you were stunned. This was your fault. This overblot…was your fault. The Tweels stepped in front of you when they saw your frozen form. Their faces were flat, but it must have done something to them to point their magic pens at Azul.

“How dare you defend them!” Azul shrieked. “Traitors! Liars and thieves! All of you!” His eyes fixed you as you cowered behind the twins’ legs. You. The object of his hatred. The common denominator. The one that pulled the strings.

Azul snapped his fingers and the overblot phantom thrust one of its tentacles into the twins. Floyd leapt out of the way, but Jade wasn’t so lucky and the impact sent him rocketing through the water. You lunged to grab him, but the tentacle flexed back on itself and snatched you up.

“Y/N!” cried Ace and Deuce.

The tentacle wrapped itself once, twice, thrice around your body like a gelatinous anaconda, its suction cups gasping as they glued themselves to your skin.

Deuce aimed his pen at it, but Ace stopped him. The risk of hitting you was too great. Even Leona seemed reluctant to attack Azul while you were hostage.

Sensing his advantage, Azul commanded the phantom to fling you towards him. You’d make a perfect human shield, and while the phantom dispatched your friends he could take his time making you suffer for what you’d done.

The tentacle drew you back and swung you forward. You sailed through the water like slingshot amo, spreading your arms to slow yourself. But your speed didn’t waver. Water dragged your head back, threatening to give you whiplash.

Azul drew nearer.

You had to use your momentum.

Instinctively, you balled your hands into fists and reeled back to strike - but Azul was faster. His own tentacles wrapped around your wrists and pinned them behind your back. You shuddered at the coolness as they climbed up to your elbows, seizing complete control of your arms.

Panic wracked you. Desperate, you twisted and slammed your shoulder into Azul’s side. The merman grunted and lost his balance, giving you an opening to thrust a kick at his stomach.

The heel of your shoe lightly grazed his chest before he regained his composure. Frustrated, the tentacles around your arms slammed you backwards into the seabed - a little rougher than was necessary - while another quickly slithered over your torso. Its girth bound you from your waist to your knees like a firm blanket. You bucked your hips but Azul had your core, effortlessly restraining you against the sand. Against the contracts you’d destroyed.

All it took was one harsh squeeze and the fight was forced out of you.

•~•~0~•~•

Azul threw his head back, pausing to catch his breath. You could feel the blood pumping through him the tighter he held you. It was frighteningly quick. Like his heart could give out at any moment.

“Azul…” you panted. “I’m…sorry. I didn’t want this to happen…I didn’t– I didn’t want– I didn’t want you to lose everything. I just didn’t want you to take what was mine.”

Azul snapped back to you. The rage in his eyes had been replaced by indignation. “So you took everything from me before I could do it to you? Is that it?”

You weren’t sure. You wrestled with an answer. Yes? No? You’d struck first, but didn’t want things to go this far. This hadn’t been part of your plan.

The tips of the tentacles binding you started drawing small circles on your skin, seemingly to coax an answer out of you. You grit your teeth to keep from squeaking. Azul smirked at your discomfort.

“Y-You’re a professional, remember?” You tried to appeal to his morals. “Surely you didn’t need a contract to become that. Not all is lost. And you can make more contracts. Just…don’t do this. This is overblot, Azul. Don’t do this to yoursel-hmm!”

A tentacle slapped over your mouth. Your eyes bulged as suction cups tugged at your cheeks and lips.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Prefect,” Azul hissed into your ear. Your breathing quickened. “Being professional hasn’t done me any favours in the end, has it? And I don’t care if you didn’t mean for this to happen. I’ll drain your friends of every last detail that makes them themselves.” You screamed, begged, pleaded, but it all came out muffled. “And then I’ll drain everything from you.”

You started struggling again. Azul didn’t seem to care. He controlled every aspect of you and still had limbs to spare. If you wanted to tire yourself out you could be his guest. Hot tears pricked your eyes. You could hear Ace and Deuce shouting commands to each other, followed by cries of pain.

You had to get out!

Perhaps if you could shirk the suction cup off your lips you could open your mouth wide enough to bite? Or, if you could shift the tentacle on your thighs just a little higher, you’d have enough movement to kick. Hard. But that was all just wishful thinking. Azul had wrapped you up like a Christmas present. Your body, your words...all of it was useless.

•~•~0~•~•

Just then, you felt the water disturb around you. You moved your head towards where you’d felt it, prompting Azul to do the same. Then it came again.

Something was circling you. Azul tensed. His breathing became laboured, wary. Something was hiding in the murk. Something that would put an overblot on edge. Movement came from behind you, then to the left. Azul was pulling you here and there as a shield until BAM!

Azul cursed as he was knocked to the ground. The first thing you did was shift onto your front and hit your chin against the seabed. The impact released the tentacle around your mouth. You saw a flash of grey, a stoic face – bruised but still handsome.

Jade was straddling Azul in his eel form.

While his tail pinned the octopus down, Jade clawed and tugged at the tentacles around you. Azul acted as you had, bucking and twisting to get free. With each tentacle peeled away you regained your control. You were eventually able to free yourself while Jade kept Azul busy; a harsh kick sending the last tentacle tumbling off.

As soon as you were free Jade grabbed you and swam off back to the others. Azul reeled. Open and vulnerable, he called his phantom back to him.

Ace and Deuce analysed you as you were set down, checking for wounds. Aside from the small red circles from the suction cups peppering your skin you were unscathed. Grim ran to you and brushed himself up against your legs. The harsh glimmer in his eyes told you he was ready to fight.

“YOU OWE ME EVERYTHING YOU’VE TAKEN!” Azul screamed.

Facing him, you still felt awful for having a hand in what had happened. But if Riddle and Leona were anything to go by, defeating Azul was the kindest thing you could do. And perhaps you could make it up to him later on.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Author Note:

Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary finery, I give you…ANGST.

I feel like we don’t have enough fan fictions of octopus Azul. His design is honestly so cool! I know he doesn’t like to show off his octopus form (which would probably explain the lack of content on it) but I cannot, as an Ursula fan, NOT write it.

I’m considering writing a sequel/aftermath piece to this where MC earns Azul’s forgiveness and helps him get over his self-consciousness about his octopus form. Something fluffy to balance things 😂😂

Lemme know your thoughts.

As ever, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #squidwen #twisted wonderland x mc #twisted wonderland x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul x reader #twisted wonderland azul #twst azul #Azul ashengrotto x Mc #Azul ashengrotto #reader x twisted wonderland #reader x azul ashengrotto #cecaelia #overblot #fanfic #twst fic

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years

Text

Younger Gods: V

Younger Gods Master List

Chapter 4

Morpheus x fem!reader

There's more than fear in the wind chimes' song, and there's more to the little storm god's dreams than the team is prepared for.

Warnings: curse-induced violence, language, rushed editing

Question: should I wait til I've finished this fic and the one-shots before sharing the first chapter of the next Morpheus x reader/OC fic, or should I be a reckless whore of an author and throw everything I have into circulation as I finish it?

Chapter 5: More than Enough Reason

Taliesin recognized the honor of being invited to the Dreaming’s library for what it was. Few walked the endless tiers of literature and life stories in their waking hours, and as far as he was aware, he might be the first outsider to properly visit since the Dream King’s return from his imprisonment.

He left his rain cloud with tea, toast, and instruction to rest before he stepped outside. Morpheus had left him a tiny bottle of sand. Nothing to keep and not enough to harm him in the short time he would keep it, but enough to bring him to the palace gates. He poured the bottle over the grass, and a raven’s cry caught his ear as the golden grains stirred to life at his feet. Matthew sat on the garden wall, ensuring Taliesin saw him just before the sand pulled him away to the gates of the Dreaming.

His little friend had a watcher, someone to keep her safe until he returned.

Although she may feel differently, Taliesin appreciated the gesture. It tamed a fear or two, soothed the fresh dread that she’d disappear when he wasn’t looking, and left space for joy. Excitement. He smiled into the blue sky between the palace spires with bared teeth and naked enthusiasm as the sand faded away.

The Guardians expected him, and not a one commented as the bard strolled into their master’s home.

He remembered the way to the library.

It wasn’t his first visit. Once upon a time, when he was a younger immortal, he’d begged and flirted his way in. Dream humored him then for his own amusement, granting the bard permission to study in his library until he fell asleep. The Endless expected it to last a few days, but Taliesin kept himself awake. He had a trick where he balanced his chair back on two legs, and without careful attention, the precarious arrangement sent him tumbling back. Eventually he slept, and he moved on to other adventures, full of new knowledge, still hungry for more.

He returned as an expert, called on for his perspective and ideas after the Dreaming’s lord scared his little friend away from rest. Strange how things came full circle.

The library organized itself for him, pointing him in the right direction to the place prepared for him with brightly lit passages and darkened corridors. When he saw the librarian herself leaning over a table half-buried in leather-bound tomes, he threw open his arms and shouted – in a voice entirely inappropriate for a library – “Lucienne!”

She peered over her glasses, judgement stomping down the glimmer of fondness lingering in her shrewd gaze as he stepped up to the table.

“Bard. Should I be worried for the chairs?”

“Oh, I’ve missed you.” He leaned across the table for a squeeze, but she pulled back, and he embraced an armful of air instead. Undeterred, he hugged what he had, closing his eyes with a smile, pretending to rock the phantom in his grasp.

A put-upon sigh forced his eyes open, and he chuckled at the reluctant amusement quirking Lucienne’s stern frown into a milder expression. “I think there are still scratches in the floor from your last visit.”

“Well.” He pulled out one of the chairs, sitting respectfully, keeping all four legs on the ground. “I was a much younger man.”

Lucienne looked at him like she’d only just noticed the grey in his beard, the silver threading his curls. As she came to terms with the evidence of his experience, he looked over her stance, her fresh confidence. Time reshaped them both since his last visit. He was more than the curious young man with too much in his head for one lifetime. She was more than the Dreaming’s librarian. Responsibilities squared both their shoulders.

Nodding, he asked, “Is this where I’m supposed to be?”

Lucienne blinked, adjusted her glasses, and straightened the nearest pile of books. “Yes. Lord Morpheus is attending to business in other parts of the Dreaming, but he will return soon, and bid me help you with any research you feel… necessary.”

“Thank you.”

Taliesin brushed his fingers over the titles before him. A few jumped out – treatises on fae magic, powers of the ash tree in ritual, and his own dream log. He pulled the last and flipped it open to the desired page on his first try. His records were unusual, one of a few in the library that grew its own pictures. He was a bard, after all, and his dreams changed when he first tasted knowledge. Literally. His dreams – memories and fantasies alike – wanted to share themselves.

The image he wanted set his course. It reminded him what he was doing and why. A full moon hung over a rich, green place, and his storm cloud’s little face looked up at him through the bars of an old gate. He saw the night she escorted him to the edge of her captor’s grove, her fingers twining through the metal, hopelessly close to a freedom she’d never have as she bid him goodbye, preparing herself for unimaginable pain to pay for his escape.

Lucienne came around the table to look over his shoulder.

“Is this the demi-god Matthew met?” She looked at him. “Your… ward?”

The collar almost glittered on the illustration’s neck. Running his fingers over the page, yearning to comfort a memory of a woman he knew was safe and sound in her own realm, he shook his head.

“She is not sister, daughter, or wife. She is my friend, and that is more than enough reason to love her.” Emotion roughened his voice, and he swallowed back tears before savoring a deep, steadying breath. “Do you have paper and ink, by any chance? It may help Lord Morpheus if I can write down some of my thoughts for him.”

“Of course.” Lucienne stepped away, then paused. “My lord.”

Dream’s bottomless voice filled the library. “Lucienne. I see you’ve welcomed our guest.”

“Yes, lord. I was about to fetch him something with which to write.”

“A good plan. Please, do not let me distract you.”

A lanky shadow draped itself into the chair beside him, and Taliesin bowed his head. Not for long, but low enough to prove he knew whose library they sat in. “Dream King.”

“Bard.” Morpheus ran his hand over the books much as Taliesin just had, though his eye wandered quickly to the open volume on the table.

Taliesin still had his fingers resting over the illustration’s hands, and he pulled away only a little self-consciously. The king knew the story. He’d lived it through his rain cloud’s eyes. Surely an entity as long-lived as an Endless would understand the kind of wishes men grew from regret.

He cleared his throat.

“Is there trouble at the borders?”

Beside him, Dream shifted. They had an alliance, but Taliesin knew the King of the Dreaming would never share anything that may compromise his realm.

He added, just to assure the monarch where his interests remained, “Her realm is very close to yours, and if there’s something prowling the Void, I’d appreciate a warning.”

Dream tugged the open book closer. He studied the scene, plucking out Taliesin’s fears and anxieties, the stuff his nightmares were made of: the girl in the sacred grove he owed so much, the one he could offer nothing when she most needed his help. The girl who, a few days ago, flirted with the point of no return, alone and afraid all over again.

“You worry for her.”

“Always.”

The Dream Lord pursed his lips, and though his eyes continued to rove the paper, his thoughts clearly wandered farther afield. Taliesin gave him time to decide what to share. Rushing kings never ended well, even if the barest hint of a threat made his feet itch to abandon the grand library and run back to his little friend.

“When I returned,” Dream said slowly, “I found not only the Dreaming itself but its borders weakened, damaged, and in my quest to reclaim my tools I reminded several powerful entities of their dislike for me and mine.”

He looked up from the book to meet Taliesin’s gaze.

“Deimos and Phobos have been stirring up nightmares and antagonizing dreams, looking for the foundations of a war. At the very least, their influence on the dreams and nightmares of my realm may inspire the mortals under their purview to violence.”

Taliesin accepted the news with a soft breath, at once relieved and concerned. Danger came with life. He’d grown to accept it as inevitable. Life meant breaking things. Losing people. It tickled the darker side of his sense of humor that the friend he should be least afraid of losing – the little storm god – came so close to so many kinds of trouble.

“While I doubt my friend or I could be of help,” he said, “we’re nearby if you need us.”

Dream accepted his intent, but Taliesin knew the offer would be rejected before he even voiced it. One of the Endless would only accept help from an immortal bard and a demi-god if his realm were crumbling around his ears. Maybe not even then.

“Thank you, bard, but they are only an irritation, not a threat.” He returned his attention to the dream log, turning several pages until an illustration of the storm god grown up, wearing a scarf rather than the collar, looked up at them. “I tested your theory. The collar drains her energy, even in dreams. I must confess, I am not sure how this is possible.”

Ah, at last they’d reached the meat of the matter.

“Could it be feeding off her dream in particular? I’m curious if it would behave differently in the Dreaming itself.”

“I will explore that possibility. If she is willing, I would also like to examine the curse by hand, though I have no doubt it will hurt her should I try.”

Taliesin reminded himself that this was not so different from an invasive medical procedure. To heal her, to break the curse once and for all, they’d have to try some unpleasant measures. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t experienced before.

Still, the king’s consideration bolstered Taliesin’s faith in his intentions.

“Thank you. I don’t believe I’ve said that enough in recent days, and regardless of what inspired you to help my rain cloud, it matters that you’ve chosen to help her at all.”

A strange expression rolled over Dream’s face, and Taliesin watched carefully as a laughing smirk curled his pout into a friendlier shape.

“Well.” His voice rumbled with dry mirth. “We are neighbors, after all.”

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

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Hands still full with her work, she looked over her shoulder. A raven sat on the windowsill, and when he caught her watching him, he pecked the glass again.

Tap, tap, tap.

She settled the mortar and pestle on the table – freshly reorganized and re-cluttered with five new projects – and went to let the bird inside.

Matthew rushed through in a cacophony of croaks and rustling feathers, settling on the back of her work chair to survey her mess. She could feel the judgement, but also his curiosity. He looked around the space, noting changes since his last visit, and she waited, arms crossed, wondering if he’d forgotten how to speak.

“There’s a poem about this shit, you know.”

Matthew cawed, fluffed up, and shook his plumage back into place with a shudder, sending rain water flying.

She jumped to shield her work.

“Hey, be careful.”

“Sorry.”

She’d more or less fallen back into her seat to keep her tools safe, and Matthew clattered along the back of the chair for a better view. “Good to see you in one piece, by the way. Got a little concerned when the boss brought you back here all limp and unconscious.”

Her hands froze over the wort she’d been about to grind. When had she been unconscious in the Nightmare King’s arms? It must’ve been after she fainted, between sliding down the wall of her rented bedsit and waking on the cottage couch with Taliesin smiling like she’d come back from the dead.

Goosebumps pebbled her skin.

But it was nothing. Nothing at all. He hadn’t hurt her. And if he’d carried her home in his arms… it didn’t matter.

“I’m fine, Matthew.”

“You know,” the bird mused, “I used to be a man. I wasn’t the always the sharpest, but I know when a woman says she’s fine, it means something’s wrong.”

“I’m okay.” Her hand remembered how fingers and tendons worked, so she threw the yellow flowers into the green paste and picked up the pestle. “And I had a whole conversation with your boss without running away. He didn’t even threaten me.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” The raven hopped onto her head, dissatisfied with his field of view. “Whatcha working on? Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

“It’s the poultice I used to heal your wing. If I don’t do it today, I’ll have to wait another month.”

“Why?”

“Something about the moon.” Her mother taught her the practicalities of witchcraft but very little theory. This potion needed three moons – from new to full – to reach potency. If Taliesin wanted to bitch about it, he was welcome.

“Whatever you say, witch.”

“Not really a witch.”

“She says as she makes a potion.”

Rolling her eyes, she decided to ignore the pricks of his claws on her scalp. He had the occasional question – “What’s that? What do those do? How do you know it will work? Why do you need this thing, anyway?” – and eventually she’d done all she could. Before she went to sleep, she’d combine the various elements in the dark of the new moon.

She had the rest of the day to sit in the cottage and stare out the window. Normally something she enjoyed, actually, but Taliesin had her on bed rest, and she wanted out. His field trip to the Nightmare King’s library presented a golden opportunity, feathered babysitter or no.

As she stood up to gather her coat and mud boots, Matthew flew off to the back of the couch. “I can’t help noticing there are no beds in here.”

“I never liked sleeping,” she reminded him, tugging on the left boot. “I didn’t see a need.”

“Yeah, but you sleep now.” The bird had a point.

“And you’re hosting the bard here, too, right?” The bird had two points.

The timbers in the ceiling groaned as she stomped her right boot the rest of the way on, and although there was nothing as dramatic as falling plaster or cracking glass, she knew growing pains when she heard them.

“Time for a walk.”

She held open the door, and Matthew obliged, flying out to the wooden gate in the stone wall. As she trudged in his direction, he watched the house, twisting to give one eye a chance to make sense of it before turning to give the other eye a go.

“Is your house… feeling… okay?”

She shrugged and continued past him. He’d catch up when he finished ogling the mess. “You convinced me it needed something, so it’s growing.”

“That is really weird.”

“And you’re a talking bird.”

“Right. Okay.” He circled overhead as he spoke, his voice growing louder and softer as he shouted to cover the distance. “I still don’t have a name for you.”

“You have to give me one,” she called back.

“You’re trusting me to name you? What if I called you Stormy? Or Tammy? Or Jessica? Charlotte?”

She stuffed her hands in her pockets, aiming towards a cluster of trees that deepened into a little wood at the foot of the next hill.

“Your name for me is only your name for me.”

“What?”

Shouting, she decided, was too much effort, and distant thunder kept interrupting her anyway. He might not even hear her if she answered.

When she entered the trees, the canopy held back most of the rain, and Matthew swooped in close to enjoy the shelter. Only then did she reply.

“Names are gifts, but they’re also power. I never want anyone to have power like that over me again, but I still enjoy exchanging gifts with people I like. So, everyone gets their own name for me. It’s only a fraction of a true name’s power, but it grounds our connection.”

“You saying you like me?”

She snorted. “I’m saying I carried your feathered ass for the better part of a day and went to the realm I feared most to get you home safe.”

“Great. I like you, too. And don’t worry, I won’t call you Stormy. That’s a porn star’s name.”

“Thanks.”

“What about Stormcrow?”

Hollow murmurs of wooden windchimes twined through the trees to greet her, giving voice to the wind and stray drops of rain that slid down from the highest branches. If her soul had a sound beyond thunder and lightning, she liked to think this was it. A rough shelter of woven saplings kept a patch of forest floor dry, and she stopped to rest and listen as she laughed over Matthew’s suggested name.

“You know that’s what they call, like, prophets and soothsayers, right? Has nothing to do with literal storms.”

“Maybe.” Matthew shook out his feathers, giving his tail an adorable flutter at the end. “Sounds badass, though.”

Pulling her sweater over her hands, she bobbed a vague affirmation. “Taliesin calls me his storm cloud. Or rain cloud.”

“Stormcrow is so much cooler. That’s what I’m calling you from now on.”

She relaxed into the chime’s song, and she might’ve been content to drift away from their conversation if the bird wasn’t so determined to keep it going.

“What do storm gods do, anyway?”

She gestured outside the shelter. Fat drops still found their way between the trees, and the faintest rumbles assured her lightning forked somewhere in the ever-present cloud cover.

“No, but I mean like the trick you did with the lightning,” Matthew insisted. “Teleportation or whatever. That was awesome. Can you do other things like that?”

The forest had lulled her into a comfortable state at the edge of sleep, the place where she used to get most of her rest. Maybe the bard wouldn’t be so grumpy over her work if she came home refreshed.

“Mmn. That would be telling.”

“I’m asking, though.”

She opened one eye to squint at him, and he stared back with all the brazen confidence in his hollow-boned body.

“I’d be so boring if I told you all my secrets.”

They surrendered the conversation to the chimes, and even Matthew folded himself into a happy – quiet – ball of feathers for a moment. The moment stretched, companionable silence growing, and Matthew sighed, content.

“This is nice.”

How dare the dumb bird make three good points in one afternoon?

Still. He wasn’t wrong.

Without realizing, she’d given the music of the rain time to cleanse the last, sour notes of fear from her time in the waking world, fleeing the Nightmare King. Her usual tension lingered, but it didn’t torque into anxiety. The muscles along her shoulders didn’t bunch, and pull, and ache. Until she was as free in her dreams as she was awake, she’d always watch the world through the eyes of a hunted beast.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy herself. Find peaceful moments in a safe place with a friend at her side.

A wind stirred their corner of the world, rattling leaves and clattering through the wooden chimes.

“It is, isn’t it?”

But nothing, especially peace, could last forever.

“There you are!”

Taliesin waded through the trees, failing to find the easiest path, but making his own way and finding adventure as he went. As always.

And he’d brought company.

Droplets of rain clung to the Nightmare King’s disorderly hair, glittering like stars in darkest space. She might’ve found it beautiful if the thrill of fear up her spine didn’t distract her. Her heart didn’t try to leap out of her chest. No tremors shivered through her hands. Her terror was growing into something more like reasonable caution, and she’d accept that for the victory it was.

Didn’t explain what he was doing in her sanctuary, though. Again.

“Hey, boss!” Matthew called. “What are you doing here?”

“I invited him.” Coming to a stop in front of the woven shelter, Taliesin’s eyebrows lifted. His mouth didn’t turn up into a teasing smile. His eyes only grew fractionally wider. She recognized his preparatory face – ready for whatever reaction his news would inspire, waiting to feel and show the right thing. He always said the worst things with that face. “We need to discuss the plan with you. And why aren’t you resting?”

From her cross-legged seat on the forest floor, she looked around, feigning confusion. She peered up with her best, biggest, most innocent eyes.

“I am resting, though.”

Matthew cawed. “She was working on a potion earlier.”

“Tattle-tale.”

“And the house is growing,” Taliesin scolded.

“You know I don’t have control over that. It just… happens.”

The bard pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He could spiral into making tea and tucking in blankets faster than she could blink, and the fact that he was holding himself back made her uneasy. “Yes. Well. None of that matters right now. We need to-”

“I would speak with you.” The Nightmare King’s voice cut through the rain, the chimes, and Taliesin’s explanation like a knife. It demanded her attention, and when she turned from the bard, the Dream King’s focus swallowed her.

She knew they weren’t alone, even if she felt like it. She could touch Taliesin or Matthew if she wanted to, and the Nightmare King stood furthest away, but none of it mattered. He hunted her from the moment they met, and she’d planned her life for nearly a year around the barest hint of his shadow. Their stories ran side by side, at least for the moment, and there was no escape from the interest of an Endless. It lingered. Demanding.

She didn’t think he meant to be frightening. Not just then, at least. Old experiences and the overwhelming sense of him plucked on instinct, though.

“What must be done must be done in the Dreaming.” He read the uncertainty in her eyes, and it lent his voice a new gentleness. Still the voice of a king. Of something much bigger and scarier than she could ever be. But this monster didn’t want to swallow her whole.

He held her eye to ensure she understood. “You and I will be alone.”

And therefore he would explain it alone. This was practice. He wanted to see if she’d raise her hackles and snarl like she had in the last dream or if they could move forward, find answers to set her free together.

Was she ready? The only way to know if her fears would run away with her again was to test them, to rise on shaky legs and step away from the safe people she could touch, to stand at the side of the Endless waiting as inevitably as the dark behind closed eyes.

So she did.

He walked deeper into the woods, and she followed until they were out of earshot of both raven and bard. When they’d reached a distance he liked, the Nightmare King slowed, encouraging her to come closer. She closed a few feet between them, but as they continued, he stole a few more, and he kept uncomfortably near as they made a wide circle around the shelter where Taliesin had swooped in to take her place beside the bird.

A stumble would send her into his shoulder. If her arms swung free, her knuckles would brush his coat, so she held her wrists under her sleeves, letting the cuffs touch to make a perfect circle. Her scarf’s tail wriggled in the breeze, sliding over the king’s long peacoat. He didn’t comment on it, so she kept her apologies to herself.

His low voice filled the spaces between their steps. “Tonight, when you sleep, I will take you into the Dreaming, outside of your own dreams. I need to understand if it is you or your dreams the collar feeds from.”

He paused, glancing her way, and she nodded. She got it. She was okay with it. It didn’t sound so different from what they did before. This couldn’t be what had Taliesin so worried.

“After that, I need to examine the collar.”

The wind swooped low between the trees, and she buried her face in the folds of her scarf, burying the phantom pain.

The Nightmare King stopped, and she followed his lead once again as he observed her poor attempt to hide.

“You will have to be very brave.”

Just the thought of someone else touching the collar, of what it would do to her, conjured a glassy film of tears she rushed to blink away.

“Before I attempt to touch the curse – to remove it – I wanted to remind you, you have no reason to fear me.”

Oh, she had plenty of reasons. They just weren’t as strong or valid as they once were.

“I’m not – well, I am – but much less than I was.” She forced her feet to move, and he mirrored her, still attentively watch her battle her distress. “I’ve come a long way since your shadow tried to – uh – eat me. When we first met.”

“Eat you?”

She jerked around, surprised by the levity in his voice. Amusement livened his dour pout into an actual, honest to gods smile. His eyes practically twinkled with surprised mirth.

“Is that what you thought I’d do?”

Heat crawled up her neck, over her cheeks, into her ears. Looking at her feet, she muttered, “Maybe.”

His smile’s warmth lingered between them, and it brightened in his words as he indulged in teasing out something besides fear from his companion. “You need not worry. I do not eat little storm gods.”

“Good to know,” she squeaked.

Who knew the Nightmare King had such a nice smile?

Ah.

Actually, on that note…

“Is there anything you prefer being called?” Her eyes kept to the forest floor as she addressed him, still recovering her sense of dignity. “You have so many titles, and I’ve thought of you as the Nightmare King for so long, I’ve realized it might not be particularly helpful.” She risked a glance up at him, and though he wasn’t as somber as he’d been when they started this little walk, serious consideration had eclipsed his humor. “Since I need to, you know, trust you.”

He let his gaze pass to a windchime as they walked by, and a thoughtful frown puckered his face. He probably had even more names than she knew, so she resigned herself to wait while he decided.

“You may call me by any of my names or titles that would ease your fear,” he said at last. “But, perhaps, Dream best suits your needs. I am Dream of the Endless. It is my name as well as my function.”

“I can work with that.”

“And what should I call you?”

The question caught her off-guard, and she hunted for the easy answers she’d given Matthew.

“That’s – well, uh.” It rarely bothered her, going nameless. But standing beside an entity with so, so many left her feeling plain and young. “You’d have to give me one.”

He angled his head, studying her face as well as her suggestion for some subtext. She’d rather he smile again.

“Taliesin calls me his rain cloud. Your bird wants to call me Stormcrow.”

Not a smile, but a tiny smirk rewarded her efforts.

“I will not steal my raven’s name for you, then.”

They worked their way back through the trees, and she clung to the light note at the end of their conversation. The King of Nightmares had become Dream, and he wouldn’t eat her.

Even if she dealt with horrors in her sleep, she wouldn’t be alone. Someone she may be willing to trust, even with her pain.

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

She was a cat again.

Big eyes drank in the starlight, comfortable even without the moon to guide her as she pattered along. She passed through a scene better than any hidden garden, prettier than a national park brochure. The wildflowers embraced her as she crept under their long stalks, dusting her with a thousand colorful scents her sensitive nose called cornflower, poppy, violet, and daisy. All the green, growing things called her to explore, to rest, to discover. Morning glory bloomed in the dark, and she imagined the earth smiled under her paws.

In the distance, a great waterfall thundered into a glassy pool, deep and dark enough to reflect each star, and on a boulder at the edge of the pool, Dream waited in his great cat shape. His luminous eyes marked her progress, but he didn’t leap down. He waited, giving her the opportunity to come to him for a change.

She had no real power in dreams, especially when she shared them with him, but she still had choice, and she chose not to keep Dream waiting.

Reaching the base of his impromptu throne, she sat and curled her tail over her feet. Warm, soft, and safe – it felt like her favorite sweater. She could almost be in her woods, having another conversation under the hush of rain.

Dream, with his voice like swelling with the force of the waterfall, rumbled, “Welcome to Fiddler’s Green. Are you ready to begin?”

“I think so.”

“Then follow me.”

He turned and leapt off the rock, out of sight, in a single fluid motion. She dithered over the best course for a heartbeat – around the boulder or over it? – and by the time she scrambled around to the far side, he was a distant shadow.

She’d learned a thing or two since their last chase. No matter how fast she ran, she’d never catch him if she ran headlong into the shadows like before.

She tried to guess where he was going rather than simply following the path he set. But she never seemed to gain ground, no matter how hard she pushed herself, and she kept having to stop to catch sight of him again.

When she lost him the fourth time and stopped to hunt for a vantage point, the massive beast sprang out of the bushes. She sprang straight into the air, yelping as her heart kicked in her chest. When she came back to the ground, she sank her claws into the dirt to keep herself from running.

“You’re pacing yourself. I need your heart to race, little dreamer.” His ears twitched, and his long tail flicked back and forth. “Perhaps I should do the chasing. You do have a talent for evasion.”

Oh, her heart was already racing. It tried to climb up her throat as he approached, moving with the intent of a confident predator. If she couldn’t catch him, she surely couldn’t escape. Not in his world. Not in the waking world, either, for that matter.

She sank low, taking little steps back without breaking eye contact. Her ears stayed pricked up, alert.

“I will not hurt you,” he said, a final assurance before the game began in earnest. “But you should run.”

He lunged, and she blasted into the trees, carried on the wings of sudden adrenaline. She’d lived with fear so long, she fell into its arms effortlessly. The smallest part of her recognized that this was a dream, that its master wouldn’t really hurt her. Everything else saw the danger and ran screaming.

While she had little hope of escaping him anywhere, she might stand a better chance in the thickets and brush in the forest. He’d be on her in two bounds if she stayed in the open.

Running on four feet worked very differently than racing on two, but for the first time since she’d dreamed herself a cat, she forgot her gracelessness. She stretched into a streak of motion, perfectly balanced, negotiating the rules of gravity as she flew between branches and under knotted roots. Quick and sleek as a moonbeam.

A very startled moonbeam. With a much larger and more aggressive moonbeam on her tail.

Dream kept close, appearing in the corners of her vision, jumping overhead, breathing down her neck. He granted no illusions of victory and no quarter for rest. He wanted her lungs to strain, her blood to pump hot and fast until she collapsed. She had no doubt he’d chase her all night if he had to.

The adrenaline pushed her past the point of tired. Past the point of fatigue and exhaustion until she tripped over her own feet and tumbled out of the forest and into the grass. As she lay there, sides heaving, Dream approached – stalking pose banished, standing straight and regal and calm as ever. Like the chase never even began.

“It is not the dream that feeds the curse.”

He laid down beside her, giving her time and space to recover. She didn’t have energy to be scared of him again.

She heaved a mighty sigh and sat up. No longer a cat.

Her human hands looked right. Felt right. But she still knew how it felt to race through the trees on all fours, what it was like to have a tail, and as her lungs gradually regained enough air to spare for speaking, she muttered, “Huh.”

Dream, also returned to his usual shape, considered her. Fiddler’s Green still felt warm and alive around them, but they were still alone, just as he’d said they’d be, and his scrutiny belonged to her and her woes entirely.

“It is all so strange for you.”

He wasn’t wrong, but –

“Not a bad strange.”

He accepted that with a warm hint of pride in his eyes.

Crickets chirred, out of sight but all around them. A few fireflies glimmered in the tallest trees, and she hugged her knees to her chest as the dream calmed and stilled in the wake of the Dream Lord’s game.

“Do you feel well enough to let me examine the curse tonight?”

She closed her eyes and wished she could find a peace that lasted more than a moment, a shared quiet cherished only for what it was, not as a tool to prepare her for worse trials. If he could get the collar off once and for all, though, maybe she could have that. In dreams and in waking. A life free of ghosts. Entirely her own.

“I’m willing. Yes.”

He nodded, and the shadows deepened. Every star sharpened, and she saw them in his eyes as he reached for her, suddenly close, and laid her back down in the grass. His hand supported her neck, urging her to give him control, to let go and let him assume the danger, the responsibility. The world thrummed with his presence, and she bit the inside of her cheek as she surrendered, falling into his hold as he hovered over her, his cloak spreading to swallow the meadow.

Had they left Fiddler’s Green? Dream’s eyes swallowed her vision, and she fought to lie still in the cool silence as her fear remembered itself.

This would hurt terribly. The collar did not like to be touched. It did not suffer threats.

Dream offered no pretty lies to counter what she knew, and his hands rose to her neck without preamble or apology. Sand whispered between his fingers, creeping into the gaps between branches, trying to create space between metal and flesh.

The collar seized like a fist, and she coughed for breath. The sand caressed her skin, keeping her grounded as the gold pressed tighter and sharper. A whine, trapped in her chest, betrayed the cracks in her courage. Dream’s eyes kept her, held her as she shook, and she stared into the Endless with growing desperation.

Fingers traced her throat, and for an instant, the collar relaxed. She gasped, jaw hanging open like she could swallow all the air she’d been denied, but the relief was a cruel taunt. Snapping tight, leaving her just enough space to scream, the curse speared thorns through her scars, and she keened, grabbing for the collar between Dream’s fingers.

The Dream King came closer, nails looking for secrets hidden from his eyes, sand caught in dripping blood. His persistence cost her.

Biting, crushing, the curse wound tighter and tighter. She spasmed, fighting and pleading for mercy from someone.

The pain went deep, poison threading into her heart, into something beyond the dream.

Her grip seized Dream’s wrists. She was far beyond words, but she screamed with every thought, every piece of her soul. And he understood.

“Something is wrong.” He released her, and the collar pulsed, stabbing her again for good measure even as the threat removed itself. “This dream is over.”

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

She sat up in her cottage, wheezing, face hot with tears.

Although Taliesin had a bedroom now – so did she, technically – they’d found themselves on the couch. She’d been afraid to dream, and he’d been eager to protect her as far as he could. He held her hand to the edge of sleep and then taken a chair. As he’d waited, he’d fallen asleep, and her waking hadn’t disturbed him.

She covered her mouth, sobbing over the dregs of her agony, and wrestled to ground herself. A cold sliver of the floor peaking between throw rugs chilled her bare foot, and a storm raged outside. Torrents of rain ran down the window in sheets, shining in pulses of forked lightning as thunder boomed, loud and near.

Her scarf was wet. How much did she cry? It was a good thing Taliesin didn’t stir – he’d be beside himself, and she couldn’t bear to fall apart in front of anyone else tonight.

She dragged herself to the bathroom, wondering if she should try a warm bath or a cold shower to banish the remnants of her dream. Her hand fell over her scarf, ready to start undressing, when she caught her reflection out of the corner of her eye.

The scarf wasn’t supposed to be red.

Shaking like a leaf in a stiff breeze, waiting to be torn away and thrown into the void, she pulled it away from her neck. It unwound to reveal a horror show of torn skin and deep bruises.

The collar’s work.

But she was awake. She was in her own little world where nothing was supposed to find or hurt her. Taliesin held her hand and Dream said she didn’t need to be afraid…

She heaved, sick to her stomach as words crawled up her throat.

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

She tried to wipe it all away, dragging her palms over the angry marks, smearing the blood and sparking fresh spasms of pain.

It was wrong, it was wrong, it was wrong – and she had to get out. Something put its teeth in her, and she had to get away from the mirror, and the house, and anyone who might see her and tell her she was awake.

It had to be a dream. It had to be. This was a mistake, the collar hadn’t…

She floundered through the living space, groping for escape as she threw open the door and sprinted out into the storm.

Chapter 6

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