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rulerofthenightmarerealms · 2 years

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Child of the Endless: Chapter 6 - The Prisoner

A/N: I know there’s he/him pronouns for Desire here, I will fix that later. I was having issues writing him into the story with they/them just because my grammar brain was yelling at me that it was wrong. I’ll fix it once I have finished the story; I had to rewrite the last few chapters so I am working on that now. Also, we’re pretending that Hob knows who Morpheus is. Masterlist * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Present Day . . .

A particularly interesting quirk about living in a palace her whole life was that Rowan could navigate it better than anywhere else. As mischievous as she had been as a child, she didn’t like being confined to the natural ways of perusing the building. Instead, she found secret passages, some that were permanent, some that only opened when her father was in a particular mood. The castle around him reflected his emotions sometimes. Once, when Morpheus was angry, the marble floor in the throne room phased to liquid gold, scalding hot and deceptively beautiful, while several upstairs corridors disappeared behind spontaneously appearing brick walls. On a day when he was content, bundles of Sleep Thorn sprung up on the windowsills, and one time, a much younger Rowan was awoken by a small gaggle of baby geese pattering their way out of her closet. She was unsure which of her father’s emotions had brought that on, but she had squealed in delight and dropped to her knees beside her new friends, immediately naming every one of them right there on her bedroom floor and proceeding to play with them until her father came to fetch her.

And so, due to her diligence in mapping her home, it was almost nothing for Rowan to weave her way out of the castle. First, she stopped by the sand room and snagged a nondescript bag of sand. The sand inside it was normal brown, but she didn’t have time to hunt for anything else and could only hope this would do. Then, instead of taking the front door to the bridge and risking being caught by the army of soldiers guarding it, she bolted up the stairs and into one of the tallest towers in the castle. Several holes lined the walls, large enough to peer through but not much else. Rowan could see everything through them, from her vantage point — the nearly-empty town; the mountains far in the distance, shrinking with each passing day; the river that had turned brown with sludge instead of its usual crystal blue. In the corner of the tower, though, there was a set of olive green curtains. Rowan yanked them open to reveal a window, with smudged glass and framework inlaid with faded bronze. It seemed like nothing in the castle was left unscathed by Morpheus’ absence.

Below her, a yell made her jump. “I don’t care how she got out! Find her!”

Lucienne.

Rowan pulled the window open and clambered up onto the sill, dropping her gaze down the wall of the tower. Cracked emerald vines slithered up the sides of the tower like the tentacles of a squid. At the bottom of the tower, a large expanse of browning lawn stretched from the castle to the dried-up river’s waterline. And on the grass, grazing even though their food was mostly dead, were horses, most of them with their heads upturned towards where she was halfway out the window.

They weren’t traditional land horses, like the ones seen in the human world. These were tulpars, Turkish mythological equine creatures with sets of wings that could carry them high into the clouds. They looked like pegasus in all ways except a few — two pairs of long, sharp horns emerged from their spines instead of horse hair, one set of horns just below the ears and the other halfway down the neck, and they had a strip of scales down their back, between their wings. They were mostly docile, at least where Morpheus was concerned, and Rowan had walked among them a few times, but she had never done what she was about to desperately attempt.

Choking back her fear, Rowan slid out the window and placed a foot on one of the vines pressed into the wall of the tower. The vine held as she slowly applied her weight to it, so she started the descent. The plants creaked a little, but she kept going. She didn’t have time anymore. Stalling about ten feet below the window ledge, she wrapped an arm around one of the vines to steady herself, raised a hand to her mouth and whistled, loud and sharp.

“Rowan!” Above her, Lucienne appeared in the window, her face horrified. She turned her head to look behind her. “Pull her up! Now!”

Two more Minotaur guards materialized above Lucienne’s shoulders, reaching thick hooves down towards Rowan. They didn’t have the reach or the dexterity to grab her, though.

“Get back up here! Your father would never approve of this!” Lucienne’s voice called out.

Rowan’s blood boiled at the statement. “He’d also never approve of his realm falling apart, and look what’s happening!”

Lucienne glared at her. “Get back in here this instant, child.”

“Go back to your books, Lucienne,” Rowan snarled.

And she jumped.

The fall made her stomach lurch into her throat as she momentarily went weightless. Above her, Lucienne cried out in anguish. Then the air filled with the frenzied scream of an animal, and suddenly, one of the tulpars who had been grazing on the grass swooped into view, and Rowan fell directly on its back, her bones jolting with the force of her landing.

Tulpars were fiercely loyal creatures, particularly to the royal family. Rowan had grown up around them, and as such, they saw her as a being that needed protecting, like semi-equine surrogate parents. The tulpar that had swooped in to rescue her from her fall banked to the left, whinnying, and shot like an arrow over the now dried up river towards the decayed forest. Rowan gasped with each change in direction, clinging to the horns on the animal’s neck like a lifeline. She knew there weren’t enough guards to capture her now, and that they had about as much chance of getting the rest of the tulpars to carry them to her as they had of fixing the realm without Morpheus.

As for Rowan, she needed to find her father. And according to him, the only way to do that was to find Roderick Burgess.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days later, and Rowan was in England.

When the tulpar landed in a field just outside London, Rowan hadn’t really known what to do. The tulpar could glamour itself to look like an ordinary horse, so she had stayed mounted on its back, and it carried her to the outskirts of London. Of course, this was no longer eighteenth century London, as she had seen it last on a trip with her father, and horse-drawn carriages were nowhere to be seen. Rumbling cars swarmed the streets instead. Sighing in irritation, Rowan had directed her tulpar back to the forest, where she dismounted, ordered it to return to the Dreaming — it listened, much to her surprise, vanishing into thin air — and walked back into the town on foot.

However, London was useless. Rowan headed for the documents first, deciding to raid the local library to see if it had any knowledge on the town’s inhabitants. But it had no record of Roderick Burgess. The only thing she found was an old battered storybook that talked about the Sandman, who came and sprinkled sand into the eyes of children to make them sleep. Rowan had snorted and shoved the book back on its shelf.

As for files — at police stations and hospitals — human archives were even more pitiful, in the sense that they held no real clues to anything she wanted. This Roderick Burgess person didn’t seem to exist in any book or file or paper she read, but then she wondered, were the writings of human beings even the answer?

Rowan glanced down at the notebook she held, with any important notes she thought could be useful. She had crossed almost the entire page out. After abandoning her search in books and papers, she had turned to the townsfolk of Wych Cross, a town about thirty miles south of London. She knew that usually, the inhabitants of larger towns — London included — didn’t pay much attention to their surroundings, preferring to bustle about and deal with personal business without any worries but their own. But smaller towns, like Wych Cross, were full of people who had their minds open wider than their eyes. And so, Rowan had started flitting amongst the townsfolk, inquiring about the elusive Roderick Burgess. So far, nothing had proven fruitful.

What Rowan had not anticipated was how hard it would be to converse with actual people. She had not been allowed to leave the Dreaming on her own since she was born, and had never interacted with a human being face to face. Nonetheless, she tucked her notebook firmly into the pocket of her coat, where a hastily-stuffed bag of sand still sat since Lucienne had failed to frisk her for it, and strode for the nearest building — a pub called the New Inn, with a brick exterior and a sign on the wall proudly claiming to have been there since before the 1500s.

Biting her lip anxiously, Rowan pulled the creaky door open and went inside.

There weren’t too many people, and it was quiet, which she appreciated. Simple wooden tables with uneven legs were scattered about the place; marks on the wood floor showed where they had been dragged by centuries of patrons. The bar was clean and fully stocked; a burly man in a white apron wiped off glass mugs and lined them up neatly on a shelf. A different man planted himself on one of the stools before the bar and slapped bills on the counter. The bartender smiled and filled the last mug with a rather large draft of ale before handing it to the man.

Elsewhere, a server was bringing a tray of food out of the swinging silver doors in the far back corner. He moved to a table and started distributing the food amongst the people sitting there — a large pot of what looked like stew, a bamboo bowl filled with tortilla chips, and two smaller soup bowls in bright colors. The patrons thanked the server and began dishing themselves their meal.

Rowan felt out of place, suddenly. How was she supposed to navigate this? She didn’t even know where to start. Did she grab the first person she saw and start jabbering about a missing parent and Roderick Burgess? Would they even believe her? She knew she needed to be discreet, but even so, she had to do something.

“You lost?” A man popped up beside her, looking down at her with a smile. He was at least a head taller than her, wearing a white t-shirt and a burgundy jacket; his long hair framed an equally long face.

“Um . . . no, I’m just looking for information,” Rowan said, unsure. How did one interact with humans? Were there protocols to be followed, like when she spoke with Lucifer?

“Well, I might be able to help with that,” the man said kindly, then he seemed to examine her face. “You look somewhat familiar, have we met before?”

Rowan shook her head, letting out an awkward laugh. “No, I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me . . . ”

She took several steps away from the man and started towards the bar. If the bartender was there every day, maybe he had seen something.

“Wait!” A hand grabbed her arm.

Rowan’s heart slammed, and she whirled, shoving the Long-Haired Man back. Unfortunately, she caught a chair leg with her ankle at the same time, and it twisted with her movement, causing her to tumble against the nearest table — its occupants squawked — and collapse to the ground in a shower of cutlery and dishes. She lay there in shock for a moment, feeling everyone’s eyes in the entire pub turn towards the commotion she had caused, and her heart beat even faster in her chest.

Hadn’t the whole point of this been to not make a scene?

“It’s alright, just a fall.” Long-Haired Man was there suddenly, grasping her arm and tugging Rowan to her feet. “It’s been a long time, kid, good to see you!” He started ushering her towards the rear of the bar, towards a booth that already had a bottle of scotch and several glasses sitting by it. “Just work with me, kid, I won’t hurt you,” the man mumbled in Rowan’s ear. “Just pretend to be friends for a moment longer.”

“She can’t drink here, Gadling, you know that,” the bartender called after them. “She’s too young.”

“She’s not drinking, she’s just my friend’s kid; she’s meeting me here for homework help,” Long-Haired Man replied.

Homework? The strange word rattled in Rowan’s scrambled brain.

Rowan didn’t even know how to react to anything, but her feet were moving on autopilot, pacing in the direction she was being swept in. The patrons around her had started drinking and chatting again, like nothing had happened. She felt a strange sort of relief to the man who was now pushing her gently into the corner booth.

‘Gadling’ parked himself across from her and smiled, then dropped his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make a scene there, I just had to cover your tracks so you don’t get thrown out of here.”

Rowan regarded the man for a moment. “Um . . . thank you, I suppose.”

“My name’s Hob,” the man said softly. “Hob Gadling. And what’s yours?”

Rowan’s jaw clenched. She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not stupid enough to think that giving a stranger your name is in any way a good idea.”

Hob nodded. “And that’s a good philosophy to have. Really. Lots of creeps and weirdos in this world. But I think I know who you are already, and I’d like to help you, if I can.”

“Yeah,” Rowan scoffed. “I doubt you know the first thing about me.”

“I know when you were younger, you liked to play in the snow your father made for you,” Hob said simply. “I also know that you made him a bracelet from what he called ‘Sleep Thorn’? Truly a beautiful little trinket, I have to say.”

Rowan felt her mouth fall open, and hastened to close it. “H-how do you know about any of that? Only my father . . . ” The only possible answer hit her like a dousing of cold water. “D-do you know my father?”

“Morpheus? Yes, I do,” Hob said. He raised his half-empty beer bottle in Rowan’s direction. “He’s talked about you many times, Rowan — not in depth, but he’s quite fond of his little girl. Now, where exactly is he? He missed our last appointment.”

Rowan felt her heart warm at her father’s unending care for her, and she leaned forwards against the table in spite of herself. “Appointment? You speak with him often?”

“Oh yes, every hundred years,” Hob nodded. “I was made immortal by his sister Death, some time ago. It was a bargain, to see if I could handle endless life; I did used to brag about thinking I would live until I was hundreds of years old. I’ll admit, the first few centuries were hard, but I’ve come to make peace with it. Besides, your father and I have appointments every century, at this same bar, to talk and catch up.” He leaned forward. “He claims not to be lonely, but tends to need people anyway. Did you notice that too?”

“He’s, um . . . stubborn,” Rowan sighed.

“Are you the same way?” Hob asked politely.

Rowan scowled. “What do you mean by that?”

Hob burst out laughing, scooping his beer off the table again; a ringlet of condensation seeped into the wood where it had been. “Well, that answers my question! You’re a spitting image of the man, too. How old are you, if I may ask? You look sixteen, but if your father is any indication, you’re probably much older.”

Rowan huffed and crossed her arms again. “I’m four hundred and seven. Are you going to ask all the questions here? Clearly you know something about my father and he’s been missing for some time, I need to know what you know.”

Hob’s laughing cut off abruptly, and his face paled slightly. “Missing? How long has your father been missing?”

“Almost a century.”

Hob set his bottle down slowly. “So . . . so it’s not just me? He didn’t leave because of what I said?”

Rowan was curious despite herself. “What did you say?”

Hob winced and his attention turned back to his beer. “We, um, had a sort of fight, the last time we saw each other. We originally met in 1389, at this same pub. That was when I made the comment about living forever; the same day, his sister saw fit to give me that gift. Which means every hundred years, I am here, waiting for your father so that we can have our . . . centennial meeting. Your father is very proud, if I may say that. Or he used to be, when I knew him.”

“Yeah, that’s nothing new,” Rowan said quietly.

“The last time we met, in 1889, I said something that upset him. I insinuated that sometimes immortal . . . beings, or whatever your father is, need friends. He seemed to think the opposite, accused me of insulting him, and left.” Hob fidgeted with the napkin now placed beneath his beer bottle.

Rowan sighed. She knew why her father had done that. He was always distant to humans, poking around in their dreams and nightmares, controlling their sleep habits, but never able to connect with them. She had thought, as the conversation went on, that maybe Hob Gadling was the exception to the rule. Maybe it still was. But her father still had a pride that was solidified by ages of solitude, even before he vanished; it made him seem a bit less human, in some aspects.

“I . . . I’m sorry for my father’s behavior.” The words felt strange in Rowan’s mouth. “I don’t think he meant to not return, though. He’s been missing for over a hundred years, now. If he had abandoned you on purpose, then he would have done the same to me and his entire kingdom, and I don’t think he has it in him to do that. No matter what happened to him.”

Hob reached a hand out and gently placed it atop hers. “Have you heard anything from him since he left?”

“Yes,” Rowan nodded, then she became abruptly aware that she was speaking to a human, removing her hand from his. “But it might not make any sense to you.”

“Try me, kid,” Hob said. He pushed his empty bottle away and fixed her with an encouraging stare.

“He spoke to me in a . . . vision, sort of,” she replied, dropping her voice to not be overheard by other patrons. What words would mortals understand? “We have a connection. He said he’s being held captive somewhere, and has been there for over a hundred years. I couldn’t connect with him until recently because my powers were not fully developed. But his kingdom is falling apart, and there is a Sleeping Sickness that’s spreading across the world, and I need to find him before his absence causes anymore damage.”

Hob looked startled. “His kingdom? The . . . what did he call it . . . the Dream-thing?”

“The Dreaming.”

“So the Sleeping Sickness isn’t a sickness, it’s what happens when Morpheus goes missing?” Hob clarified.

“Not necessarily missing,” Rowan said, furrowing her brow. “Something is cutting off his power. The Dreaming is Morpheus; they are one and the same. If something happened to him, it would cause consequences, not just for him, but for all the dreamers in the world, and the Dreaming as well. It’s all connected to him.”

“Is there anything that you might know that might help us find him?” Hob asked. He pulled a pad of paper out from his jacket pocket and brandished a pen, clearly ready to take notes.

Rowan shrunk back. “To help us find him? I’m going in alone; you can’t come with me.”

“You’re his kid, I don’t think he’d be pleased with you coming into harm’s way to save him,” Hob reasoned. “But if you’re going to do it anyway, which I can see you are, it couldn’t help to have some back up, would it?”

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with here!” Rowan hissed, suddenly losing a little bit of nervous temper. “If Roderick Burgess is smart enough to capture my father, he can do a lot else. There are very few spell books in this world that have information on how to capture an Endless and heaven knows what’s in the one Burgess has.”

“Roderick Burgess? The man with the devil in his basement?” Hob asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Th— What?”

Hob put his pen down abruptly, his eyes clearing of any confusion that may have been there before. His eyes widened a bit. “There were rumors that Roderick Burgess had the devil locked in his basement. Nothing concrete, and no one has seen anything, but then again there are guards at his mansion at all times. The only people who get in are for the parties his son seems fit to host every few weeks or so. I wonder if . . . ”

“Has anyone been down there, other than Burgess?” Rowan breathed. Could it be him?

“I don’t know, but then again, I’m an ordinary human who would never get time with the ‘demon king’ Burgess, let alone get inside his house,” Hob scoffed. “The demon king has many friends and is known for many supernatural things. But I think, given what you’re telling me, and the rumors that have been floating around the past century, that there might be something most definitely non-demonic in his home.”

“My father.” Rowan’s voice was small. She had thought that a lead like this would make her feel on top of the world, but it only made her stomach fall further. Someone had captured him, and that someone obviously knew what they were doing if they had the ability to ensnare an Endless. Getting to Morpheus was going to be impossible, she knew; he was so close, yet so far out of reach. Burgess’ home was most likely a fortress.

“Roderick Burgess himself died in 1947, but his son, Alex, still lives in that home with his husband,” Hob said. He was rolling a paper straw wrapper in his fingers as he mulled something over in his head. “Alex owns the estate now. That’s as much as I know about the family, but I do know that the parties are not small affairs. Everyone who’s anyone gets in there. People like me would never stand a chance getting through those doors.”

“When’s the next party?” Rowan asked, the new information flooding her head with ideas.

“Tomorrow night,” Hob said. He squinted a little in thought. “There’s posters all over town and on social media. If we want to get in there, we need to look rich. Wealthy, famous — any or all of the above. And a backstory would not be the worst plan.”

“I can do that,” Rowan nodded. She wasn’t sure if she could. She glanced out at the rain that was now trickling down gently. “My father was able to create things from thin air. I’ve been practicing. I don’t think I can make anything from air, yet, but . . .” Her eyes caught on a shop across the street. It was a tailor’s place, with fresh black suits hanging in the window. Next to it, a quaint dress shop displayed gowns for all occasions. “I . . . might be able to alter things to fit my needs . . .”

Rowan turned back to Hob to see him throw a five dollar bill onto the mahogany table. “Well, why don’t we go shopping, then? We have to look our best when we rescue dear old dad, right?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

One hundred and nine years ago . . .

Age: 597 years old

“Who is my father meeting again?” Rowan asked, tugging another dress from the rack in her walk-in closet.

“His sibling Desire is popping in to visit from his realm,” Lucienne called back. Rowan could hear the tinkle of metal; the advisor had brought a box of jewelry to her room, saying Morpheus had wanted her to have it. “Your father wants you to be present. He wishes for you to observe how to handle certain aspects of the kingdom.”

“Mmm,” Rowan hummed. She held up a new dress, short and yellow with amber buttons down the front. Sometimes random bits of clothing appeared in her closet without her knowledge, a strange little quirk of the castle. This one was a little . . . ostentatious. Rowan pressed her lips together in distaste and replaced the dress on its hook. “What does Desire want from my father?”

Lucienne briefly appeared behind Rowan, sweeping past the open closet doors. A moment later, the bedroom door snicked shut and locked, Lucienne sealing off the room so Rowan could change. “He claims he wants a word. Which probably means that he plans on holding something over your father’s head to try and gain a favor.”

“Why can’t people just ask for help instead of being snakes?” Rowan muttered. She pulled another dress from the closet, a flowing floor-length number in forest green. Its thick straps slid over the collarbones and wrapped around the chest modestly, holding the small bodice up, and they fell over the shoulders to twist and criss-cross over the back. The cascading fabric was sleek and almost melted to the ground. Small white diamonds trailed in a double-line down the chest and stomach of the dress, halting at the seam of the skirt. The same line of jewels rose up to stop on the dress’ shoulders. It wasn’t something Rowan was able to wear often — in truth, she preferred to wear anything but a dress — but a small part of her thrilled in the ability to actually look the part of the princess she was supposed to be. Especially since some of the Dreamfolk still did not quite cozy up to the idea of her eventual ascendancy to rule next to their king.

“I’m sure your father’s appointment won’t take too long,” Lucienne said. She appeared behind Rowan, cradling a pair of far too tall black heels in her hands.

Rowan sighed. “I’ll break my ankle in those and you know it.”

“I don’t think we have anything else that will match your attire,” Lucienne replied, critically eyeing the dress like it was an art project.

“I do,” Rowan replied. She made her way to the closet and ducked inside, where she found a pair of black flats hiding beneath a fallen hat. The closet was almost sentient, usually providing whatever Rowan needed whenever she needed it, but sometimes the odd bits and bobs would appear just to confuse her.

After a bit more tinkering with her appearance, while hating every second of it, Rowan deemed herself ready. Her hair was still unruly, though gelled in place a tad to keep it from making any unnecessary movement, the spiked ends glistening. The dress was untouched, though it did make her skin look paler than usual. She wore makeup, like she usually refused to do, just a tiny bit of kohl lining her eyes, and the smallest necklace around her neck — a tiny black diamond she had gotten from her father.

Well, she supposed she could pass for a king’s daughter. If only for this moment.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Rowan sighed, turning to face Lucienne.

“You look lovely, princess,” the librarian gushed, clasping her hands together.

Rowan pursed her lips. “I’ll look even more lovely when I’m no longer in this ridiculous body suit. Let’s just go see my father.”

They found Morpheus in the throne room, pacing back and forth with a book open in his pale palms. His king’s vestments were swathed about him — a long coat that was an even deeper shade of black than Rowan could imagine, open to a silver stitched waistcoat and open-collared shirt, the flaps closed in just below Morpheus’ sharp jawline. His trousers were black to match. To anyone else, this could have been his everyday attire as King of the Dreaming. But Rowan knew these were his formal clothes, things he only deemed necessary to don when something incredibly important was happening. Rowan felt a flash of nervousness.

“Sir,” Lucienne said, “when is Desire due to arrive?”

“Any moment,” Morpheus said, closing the book abruptly.

The librarian took the book from his proffered hand. “Do you have any idea what’s happening, my Lord?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure it can’t be good. My sibling seems especially adamant about meeting with me, so it could be anything.”

“Very well, sir,” Lucienne said. “Your daughter is prepared as well, for whatever this meeting entails.” She shot a smug glance at where Rowan stood patiently.

One thing she always noticed first about her father when he entered a room was his eyes — they betrayed every emotion, whether he wanted them to or not. They could harden to be firm as obsidian, the blue ringing his pupils cracking like ice, whenever he was furious. Unease usually meant his eyes swum a little, not sure what emotion to settle on. But the moment he glanced at Rowan now, in a dress fit for the princess she was, there was no ice or stone, just twin lakes of blue. A smile started to lift the corners of his mouth as the Soul Bond flooded with love.

“Sire, I am not sure that you not having any guards for the throne room while Desire is here is the best option,” Lucienne piped in.

“Are you suggesting my sibling will attempt to attack me in my own realm, where I am decidedly stronger than he is?” Morpheus rebutted, voice layered with warning.

“No, sir,” Lucienne sighed. “I just want to make sure you both are safe.”

Rowan spoke up. “Desire can do whatever he wants, he’s still not going to be powerful enough to defeat the Dream Lord in his own palace. My father’s right — Desire knows where he stands when he’s in someone else’s realm. His powers might as well be nonexistent for all the good they’ll do him here.” She gestured at the throne room around them.

Lucienne’s lips pursed a little. “I’m not sure you understand what another Endless coming into the Dreaming means, Rowan, I — ”

“You know just as well as I do that the Dreaming literally is my father, Lucienne.” Rowan cut her off abruptly, irritation crawling up her spine at the insinuation that she was unknowledgeable about these things. “The moment Desire steps foot here, he forfeits his right to the upper hand. That’s all there is to it.”

Despite her constant gushing over how Rowan would be a fantastic ruler, Lucienne never liked it when Rowan showed any form of independence; she seemed to be under the impression that a princess needed to do each and every thing that was told to her, even if she was going to rule someday. It didn’t make much sense to Rowan. Did Lucienne just expect Rowan to stand behind her father and whisper suggestions into his ear until the end of time? Right now, Lucienne was trying and failing to hold back a sour-lemon look at being shot down.

“I’ll be in the library if either of you need my assistance,” she said, giving a stiff bow and turning on her heel to leave the room.

“I’d say what you just did was rude, but I think her questioning your intelligence may have deserved some backlash,” Morpheus said to Rowan. He gently placed a hand on her back and started walking her towards the twin thrones at the rear of the room.

Rowan wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel about what just happened. She shoved the irritation at Lucienne down and glanced at her father, who was smirking at her. This was the smirk he wore whenever Rowan was being particularly recalcitrant; she knew that he enjoyed when she showed an unexpected flare of independence and irritation with a world trying to shape her.

Rowan shrugged her shoulders. “I know she means well, but I’m not an idiot. I’m well beyond old enough to know how things work.”

“A notion you proved quite well, just then.” Her father looked her over appraisingly. His soft expression was back. “You look beautiful, Little One.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said quietly. She was definitely no longer little, but she never corrected him on that. The name was as familiar and comforting to her as he was. She focused her mind on the task at hand. “So, you really have no idea why Desire is coming?”

Her father opened his mouth to reply, but he froze abruptly at the dais his and Rowan’s thrones were perched on and looked up, his eyes almost unfocused. Rowan knew that the Endless needed permission to enter one another’s realms, and in such, they each had tokens from each of their siblings that allowed them to communicate and travel between one another’s realms. It appeared that someone was holding Morpheus’ token now.

After a moment, he relaxed a little, speaking to the air around him. “You may come through. You are most welcome, here in my halls.”

A brief moment passed, and suddenly, an androgynous-type figure appeared by the double-doors Rowan had just entered through. Desire was male, that much Rowan knew, but he carried himself like he was anything and everything in between. His eyes were big and dark, lips painted a cruel red. He wore a long black catsuit with feathers sprouting from the shoulders; feline ears perched atop a nest of blond hair. A matching black tail swayed behind him.

“Good to see you, big brother,” Desire purred, slinking forward. “And little niece, I swear you look more like your father everyday.”

Anything that came out of Desire’s mouth sounded like it was veiled in trickery and deceit. Rowan had used to think that Desire was supposed to be more . . . physically seductive. However, she came to realize that not all human desires were physical. Money, power, fame. Anything they could get their hands on, really. It was sort of repulsive, if Rowan was being completely honest, but the Endless were created because of human emotions and impulses.

“Welcome, brother,” Morpheus said calmly. He paced the few steps up the dais beside him and folded his long form into his throne, looking every inch a king. Rowan settled into her own seat, trying and probably failing to look as intimidating. “I hear you’d like a word?”

“Yes, just a few,” Desire said, coming to a swaying stop before the dais. “I have heard rumors that some magic users in the mortal world have managed to open a portal into hell. Have you heard anything such as this?”

The statement made Rowan blink in surprise. Human magic wielders were not uncommon; sometimes bloodlines crossed and tangled with angels, demons, and the like to create new things. Necromancers; sorcerers; occultists — some of them with the blood of otherworldly creatures. She had heard that most of them kept to their own devices, but occasionally, one or two of them would go off the reservation and make their own paths, which often did not bode well for the mortal world or any worlds outside it.

“This is new information,” Rowan’s father mused, seeming to consider something. “Are any of them part of the Constantine bloodline? His descendants have long since been able to perform rituals like the one you speak of.”

“Not that I can tell,” Desire said. His cat-like eyes rolled. “Although, I can’t imagine Lucifer will be particularly pleased with interlopers. I received a message from a delegate I sent to hell a few weeks back — ”

“You sent a delegate into Lucifer’s realm, brother?” Morpheus interjected. “Why?”

Desire shrugged, the feathers on his shoulders shifting. “I have my reasons. Dealings done with Lucifer are easier to handle on his own turf. This was not anything you need to concern yourself with, just picking up a long lost trinket.” He sighed at Morpheus’ imperious look. “But an occultist landed in Lucifer’s realm by accident; this man apparently had been dealing with sigils and things to attempt to enter my realm. Nothing to be overly concerned about, really, since he did it all wrong.”

Morpheus did not look particularly happy with the statement. Rowan knew that once Desire returned to his realm, her father would immediately send a raven to hell to see what Lucifer was up to and to be sure that the ruler of hell was not bringing occultists into his realm on purpose. The Endless knew that deals with hell were fragile things, and most of them avoided the place when they could. But humans meddling in dark magic were dangerous, especially when they did not know of what they toyed with.

“This hell-traveler you speak of,” Morpheus continued, eyeing his sibling with something just short of consternation, “have you seen him?”

“No,” Desire admitted. “Lucifer has him in the deepest pain pits he can place him. But I am . . . spreading the word, so to speak, so that we all may be a little cautious to guard ourselves against the idiocy of humanity. We may serve them, but our existence must remain a secret, otherwise our reigns may not last long. Even Death’s.”

Rowan felt a slow shiver trace her spine. Desire always had some form of ulterior motive, at least most of the time, but today he didn’t seem to be interested in anything of the kind. It was unsettling, to say the least.

“Thank you, brother,” Dream said, after a weighted moment. “I will be most cautious and heed your words. Was there anything else you wished to speak about?”

“Not today, Dream,” Desire sighed. “If you do happen to come across any magic wielders in your travels, though, I would firmly suggest you walk the other way.”

What had happened with Lucifer had apparently concerned Desire enough that he was actually giving Dream advice. This was new — the Endless mostly kept to themselves, staying in their own realms unless something worrisome happened. Magic users were mostly incompetent, especially since there were so few rituals to get into other realms from the human world. What else they were capable of, Rowan was unsure, but she found herself wondering what else these sorcerers were after.

“It was awful nice to see you, Rowan,” Desire said, turning a lipstick wrapped smile in her direction. “Keep your father out of trouble for me. And Dream, should you ever need me, you know where to find me.” He turned and sauntered towards the spot he had appeared in, abruptly vanishing as if he had never existed at all.

In the silence that followed, Rowan examined her father’s profile for his reaction to his sibling’s abrupt arrival and departure, as he ha abruptly closed their link off the moment Desire entered the room. He was glaring at the spot Desire had vanished, his long fingers curled around his jaw. Brooding was definitely his strong suit. Rowan kicked her flats off and rose, carefully lifting the bottom of her dress so she wouldn’t tread on it. She padded over to her father’s throne.

“Mortals don’t normally try and enter other realms, do they?” she asked, perching herself on the arm of the throne and placing a hand Morpheus’ shoulder.

“There have been many who have tried different rituals to do many things,” Dream replied. “Most of them are searching for wealth or happiness. This is something new.”

“Do you think anyone else out there knows how to get into hell? Or . . . the Dreaming?”

Morpheus thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. There are too few ways to enter an Endless’ realm, most of those documents are buried texts from ages ago, back when the great human empires existed. The Incans; the Mayans; even the ancient Greeks had philosophers that came remarkably close to entering Destiny’s realm once. Those texts were burned and buried by me and my siblings.”

“So . . . what if they weren’t trying to get into other realms?” Rowan’s gaze was drawn to the ceiling of the throne room, which was covered in thick blue mist that was rolling like waves on an ocean. Faces appeared and vanished, both having form and completely formless at the same time. Dreamers. “What if they were just looking for power beyond their own understanding?”

“Humans are never pleased with their lot,” her father said. “They pray to gods both true and false; they spend their lives seeking things that are not theirs to possess. It’s the unspoken curse of humanity, to want more than what is in front of them. I have yet to see a single one of them be truly happy with what they already have.”

The mist continued to shift above them. Rowan leaned against the backrest of the throne, crossing one leg over the other to watch it comfortably. “I suppose some people just have to build their own happiness. And sometimes, they try too hard to do it.”

#sandman #netflix sandman #dream #dream of the endless #morpheus #fanfiction #fic #chapter 6 #i think i know what i’m doing #maybe #we shall see

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anthonyed · 4 years

Note

stevetony + no. 99 (“I fell in love with you, not them.”)? only if you want to, of course. no pressure! :)

ive said this before: i LOVED writing this. hopefully you like cats ♡

-//-

Tony says it started like this:

One afternoon, Tony barged into Pepper’s office because he conveniently forgot how to knock and caught her rolling a miniature lint roller up her suit sleeve.

She startled with her high pitched, “Oh my god, Tony!” But, Tony was too fascinated by the lint roller that he kept advancing with a singular focus.

“What is that?”

Pepper bristled, “It’s a lint roller. Why are you here? I told you I don’t want to see you for at least four hours.”

Oh. Right. She was still upset about something Tony did during the board meeting. Menial stuff, unimportant, anyway -

“I know what it is, what I meant is, why are you using that in here?”

At this point, he’s close enough to catch the very fine blonde hair stuck on the roller. “Are you trying to bury the evidence of your boyfriend, Miss Potts? Because while that is very thoughtful, I have a feeling he’d be -,”

“It’s not a boyfriend,” Pepper rolled her eyes. “With you as my boss I don’t have such time -,”

Tony on the other hand, while Pepper was talking, snagged the roller from her hand, “This is - This is not - Ah CHO!”

Pepper winced.

Tony’s jaw dropped.

“Miss Potts,” he asked, deadly calm. “I thought you read and signed all the clauses when you agreed to be my personal assistant.”

“I did, Mr Stark.” Pepper's lips thinned.

Tony dropped the roller on her table; the miniature thing completing two circles before stopping in front of her.

“Then why are there cat hair all over you?”

Despite what Tony likes to think, according to Pepper it started like this:

"Who is that?" Tony asked, low whisper, eyes like hawk fixed on the blonde man with a pink cap -

"Oh!" Pepper exclaimed, leaning sideways and waving to catch the guy's attention. "That would be my lunch."

From the cat cafe, Pepper didn't say. Instead, she hurried out of the room to meet the delivery staff before he could enter; didn't want to risk putting the man responsible for her paycheck in close contact with the one thing he's allergic to: cats' fur.

Now, Pepper doesn't know exactly what Tony thought that day, but when she reentered the room after shoving a 20 dollars bill into the guy's hand, she found Tony to be in some kind of… stupor.

She stopped where she stepped in. The door closed behind her and she asked, "Tony?"

Tony startled. "Is that your boyfriend?"

"What? No!"

"Is he single?"

"Tony -,"

"Who is he?"

Pepper paused. Then she promptly decided to play hard - because secretly she is a menace and Tony is right. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Fast forward the next day; she saw Happy exiting her beloved cat cafe and entering the limo he drives to drop Tony off at work.

She didn't even hesitate; she pulled open the passenger door and slid into the empty seat.

"Fancy seeing you here," she cocked her head, smiling syrupy sweet.

Tony Stark stared wide eyed, like he'd been caught red-handed with a cookie jar.

"Ah HAH!" Pepper pointed at him.

No matter how much Tony denied: "It is not what you think it is!", don't believe him.

It was exactly what it was. In fact, that was how it started.

But Steve never talked to Pepper as much as he talked to Tony. So he obviously thought what Tony claims is right.

That the reason the wildly famous Tony Stark started frequenting Bucky's cat cafe is because he loves cats, and the moment he learned his PA had been hiding this cafe’s existence from him, he bribed her with fancy shoes to get the address.

Happy would say, bullshit.

But as it is, Happy works for Tony and Tony bribes him with a free sandwich of the day every time they visit the cafe to keep his trap shut.

(What can Happy do in the face of excellent sandwiches and delicious Caramel Macchiato? They do say it’s hard to get the caramel swirls on top of the whipped cream right, and whoever makes his drink does it perfectly each time. So at least for the love of that talent, Happy keeps his mouth shut.)

So, when Bucky taps the caramel bottle on the counter and grumbles, “Are you gonna ever ask him out?” - Steve blushes the deepest shade of pink and pries his eyes away from Tony.

“Why would I ever do that?” He busies himself with… nothing.

“Uh, I don’t know Stevie, maybe the fact that he keeps coming back here asking for this vile shit," he pauses to press the cap delicately over the large Caramel Macchiato. "Or that he’s giving you pathetic googly eyes all the time?”

Bucky glares at Steve then he directs that glare at the drink he loathes making the most with all the venom in the world.

“Wherever he’s putting this cursed thing into," he shoves it at Steve. “Here. Go call for your knight in… whatever the fuck he’s wearing.”

Steve turns to look at where Tony’s sitting; in the far left corner in the back of the cafe; in his pinstripe suit and daisy dotted tie paired with white, also daisy dotted, sneakers and a pair of orange-tinted glasses.

Alpine - Bucky's white Turkish Angora - sits pristinely on the table in front of Tony looking like she’s giving him a lecture on something - like father, like daughter - while Tony stares right back at her challengingly.

Liho, who’s Natasha’s favourite kitten (no matter how fervently Natasha denies having a favourite at all) is lounging next to Tony, tail draped lazily over his lap. Mrs Berry in all her tortoiseshell glory, is licking her butt on Tony’s left. Grey Mr Goose is sniffing Tony’s shoes and rubbing up his shin.

Behind the cash-counter, Steve sighs like the hopeless man he is. Bucky’s bemused gaze bores into him steadily.

Steve bristles, “I don’t see what’s wrong with what he’s wearing.” Because as much as Bucky’s wrong about Tony being interested in Steve in any way, he is right in assuming that Steve is.

As a matter of fact, he’s balancing precariously between sanity and lovesick insanity and with every visit from Tony, he’s tipping dangerously towards the latter. Fantastic.

“Idiot,” Bucky snorts, turning to the kitchen. "At least ask him to change the fucking order. For fucks’ sake.”

Which leaves Steve alone with Tony, since it’s 8.30pm on a Tuesday and the cafe would never see a slower business hour than that.

Heaving out a heavy sigh, Steve puts the drink on a tray and checks his reflection on the microwave’s shiny surface - courtesy of Phil, their clean-freak coworker - before he moves.

It’s both scary and amazing how each time he makes his way to Tony, his heart would pitter patter and trip in its running behind his ribcage. So is the way he’d inhale sharply, lashes fluttering when they lock eyes and Tony smiles and -

Steve could just die right then and there.

The first time Steve talked to Tony; he vividly remembers it being a horrible day.

Everything had gone wrong from when the alarm went off that morning - A series of misfortunate events, and he’d just bribed Clint with a promise of dinner from his wallet in exchange for his extra shirt because an idiot on the freeway had driven through a puddle of rainwater soaking Steve dirty and wet.

Then, he’d stepped behind the cash counter for his turn at taking orders when a rich-looking asshole in a gaudy get up started yanking on Steve’s already frayed nerves. The man, with his stupid beard and flashy glasses rattled off what he’d probably thought an impossible order.

But Bucky was the barista for that hour and Steve had never come across an order Buck couldn’t whip up till this day. Right then though, he was calmly speckling cocoa dust on a mocha, letting Steve face their new customer who had evidently walked in to test their capability.

Unfortunately for all parties involved, it was just not Steve’s day.

“Do you want anything else?” He’d asked, after dotting pointedly on the cup.

Tony had leered at him, saying: “Maybe a little smile for the service,” and Steve fucking snapped.

“I’m sorry. But we don’t serve that for assholes.”

He could see Bucky freeze next to him. Tony, on the other hand, looked fully offended. “Excuse me?” he started, peering above his purple glasses, gearing up for a fight and Steve wasn’t going to back down either - putting the empty cup aside as he inhaled and squared up his shoulders.

But Bucky broke it off before it could even begin.

“Rogers, go make sure Barton is not ruining my sourdough,” he spoke up, flat toned, and he squeezed Steve’s arm warningly before offering his best smile to Tony. “I’m sorry, sir. We just ran out of cardamom so if you don’t mind excluding that from your order, I could whip it up for you just fine.”

The sudden professionalism was so jarring for both men that they each stuttered out an affirmative response and that was that.

Steve went into the kitchen, finished his shift, put an end to his awful day and he forgot all about the asshole customer. Until a week after when he returned.

“One caramel macchiato with perfected caramel swirl for Happy Hogan,” Steve places the tray in front of Tony.

Alpine hops down and leaves, bringing her gang with. Tony’s eyes trail after the number of swishing tails, as well as Steve’s.

“They really do like you,” Steve tells him, turning back to Tony with a teasing glint in his eyes; cheeks straining hard to keep a happy smile inside. "Nobody gets that much attention all at once."

Tony snorts, leaning forward in his seat, and he looks up from the rim of his glasses. "Pretty sure it's an intimidation tactic," he squints his eyes at Steve.

"Whatever for," Steve chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and he looks down at his feet before looking up at Tony. “Are you gonna stay here longer? I was wondering if I should make yours to go or to have here.”

“Oh,” Tony glances at the tray, “So that’s why my drink is not here then,” he grins at Steve.

“You didn’t even notice.”

“Too busy noticing you.”

Steve blinks, “What’s that?”

“To have here,” Tony declares loudly, his eyes flicker as if they’re hiding something, and his next words come out softer, “If you don’t mind having me here for long, that is.”

Steve’s pretty sure he’s blushing; at least his ears must be the shade of tomatoes in the Spring. At least. “No. I - Of course not.” Could have said, stay forever please but luckily for Steve even his self-deprecating tendency has mercy on him. “Shall we?” He signals.

Tony’s eyes go wide as a saucer. “You’re letting me watch you make it?” And there’s excitement in there, Steve could taste it, even if Tony is trying so hard to keep it contained.

“I mean, we’re not busy now,” he shrugs and the doorbell dings, seeing the only couple who was there out. “And we’re closing in fifteen minutes so…” Steve turns back to Tony, mouth stretching slowly into a smile, eyes twinkling and he could see Tony’s face wearing his reflection as he stands up.

“Lead the way, fine Sir.”

Changing opinions is not an easy thing to do; especially those cemented so strongly from first impressions.

Seeing Tony the second time immediately made Steve’s spine tense up. But he’s been on this job for a very long time and he knows how to keep feelings away from his profession. He looks Tony straight in the eyes and beamed at him like sunshine.

“Hello! Welcome to Purricano, what would you like to have today?”

Steve distinctly remembers Tony’s eyes going saucer shape wide that day; two rapid blinks and a slack jaw which required Steve’s arched eyebrows to work. (If you ask Tony, of course he’s going to deny that.)

“You’re smiling today,” he squinted. “Why are you smiling? Do I have something on my face?” His eyes flashed towards the nearest reflective surface and Steve swallowed a bubbling laugh.

“Except for your fashionable pink sunglasses, I assure you, there is nothing on your face, Mister,” (and your stupid goatee), Steve kept smiling creepily.

Tony’s eyes grew narrower, and he glanced over his shoulder once - making sure no one else was waiting in line - before leaning close to the counter. He beckoned at Steve with one elegant finger, and he hushed, “Do you really think it’s fashionable?”

And the first bubble of laughter escaped out of Steve’s chest that day.

Never stopped ever since.

Tony makes him happy. There’s no denying in that.

It’s probably why Bucky keeps pestering Steve to ask him out; because it’s been years since Steve last laughed. Genuinely, and this loud.

“Oh god,” he clutches his stomach, wiping tears from his eyes.

The horrible latte art Tony attempted stares back with ugly googly eyes when he looks down and he bursts into another fit of laughter.

He could feel one of the felines’ tail curling around his ankle curiously, and a pair of large green eyes peer up at him longingly with an accompanying pitiful meow.

“Not,” Steve tells her.

None of the cats are allowed on the counter; even Alpine doesn’t get the pass. But she likes to try the most out of them all. The rest are already settled for bedtime, and Steve briefly thanks his quick wit to flip the sign close on the front door before he starts showing Tony around.

He turns to him with aching cheeks, tingling skin but the remnant of his grin dies when he sees Tony’s face. Something else takes residence in his belly instead; wings flapping neurotically, lifting to fly away.

“What?” he asks, lashes fluttering, breath sticking like glue on the lining of his throat. Because Tony looks dazed, like he’d just witnessed something divine but got no vocabulary enough to describe what was that.

He shakes his head, inhale sounding sharp, and he tries to bury his words under a chuckle but Steve hears him this time. “You’re beautiful.”

Loud like a Church’s bell, echoing even after and Steve’s heart stutters in his chest. Hope, blossoms like Queen of the Night; rapid and shy. Would die with a single ‘no’ from Tony, would probably never bloom again after this, but the hope is heavy as well as pretty; pushes Steve to ask Tony, “Did you mean that?”

Tony’s eyes snap up and Steve could see the same hope growing in them. “Are you kidding me?” he asks, voice high with a nervous tremor and it comes out like a breathy bark. His shoulders come loose, all limbs as well, and he reaches out for Steve before he stops himself.

Can I? His eyes ask, and Steve takes a step forward. Of course; his gesture screams. Of course, you can.

Tony's hand touches his cheek and Steve thinks maybe this Queen of the night would live to see daylights.

He shudders, full body. Closes his eyes tight and wills those butterflies in his belly to calm down. He smells Tony before he hears him; spice and a spilled can of cinnamon from just now. "Shh," Tony tells him. "Shh," and Steve sighs into his palm.

His thumb drags a stripe under his eye, and Tony says, "God, Steve… Can't you see how bad I want you?"

The truth is no. Steve didn't see it. He shakes his head.

"Why'd you think I keep coming back," Tony asks, so close now that Steve swears he could hear the rumble in his chest even if their bodies are not touching. Yet.

Feeling somewhat more grounded, he guesses, "For the cats?"

And Tony laughs.

Not just a little but a full hearty laugh that makes him wheeze.

"Oh no," he splutters, trying to gather himself apiece while Steve's surprise slowly shifts into a scowl.

"No, no, no," he chants, reaching for Steve again, catching his face with two hands, cupping and Tony's so bright with joy when he presses their foreheads together.

"Steve, Steve, Steven," he breathes. "Honey, I can’t go near a cat without popping twenty antihistamines."

"I'm allergic to them."

"What?" Steve pulls back. More shocked than surprise now. "But -,"

"It's you," Tony cuts him off, pulling him back by his hips, and he butts his head into Steve’s breastbone. Buries his next words in there; "I fell in love with you, Rogers. Not them.”

And he sounds almost whiny but Steve can see now, why; can’t believe Tony’s been inhaling allergy medications to see Steve -

“Jesus Christ.” A little frustration seeps into Steve’s own voice as he buries his fingers into Tony’s hair. “I can’t believe you’re allergic to cats.”

A betrayed meow sounded from below and both of them look down to find Liho, gazing expectantly at Tony. “Meow,” she says again.

“Think you got some explaining to do,” Steve smirks, looking at Tony. As if on cue, Tony sneezes so hard that Liho jumps a foot in the air before scrambling away in fear.

“Oh uh,” he cups his mouth and nose, blinking at Steve, lost.

And Steve knows it’s bad to laugh, but he couldn’t help it. At least he saves himself with a smooth invite when he’d calmed down. “Wanna wait outside? Let me close the shop and we’ll…”

“Dinner?”

“Definitely.”

“Great!” Tony grins at him so prettily and Steve, with his heart fluttering in its cage, leans in and kisses him sweet.

#stony #stevetony #mine #prompts

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gabba-gool-cool · 3 years

Text

Remembrance

Chapter One: A flash

Notes: This is a new DabiHawks thing im starting, and yes it will be ChildhoodFriends!AU because that is adorable, cannon can bite me :) Enjoy the story!

Warnings: Yelling, mention of death (not a character in the series), and mention of not eating food (skip this post if you need to, i promise its okay, be safe!)

this work is also posted to my Ao3!

Not many people know this, but Dabi loves to read. He almost always has a new book with him, he rips through them so quick. Ever since he was a little boy, he loved getting immersed into his favorite author’s universes. His favorite as a child were the Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. He always wondered what turkish delight tasted like and always checked every closet in his house every day as a child, just to see if maybe, just maybe... Nope, just mom’s coats.

He must have read that series a million times by the time he was eleven years old. His mother loved this about him, and she loved to ignite his fire for reading by suggesting new books and taking him to the book shop every other Sunday afternoon. Her favorite shop to take him to was called Philosopher’s Phosphor. It sold many books, old and new. The little shop also sold homemade jewelry by the two old women who ran the place who Dabi’s mother referred to as Janice and Edith.

The shop was always the perfect temperature, not too hot and not too cold. All around the shop there was comfortable seating. Pillows and blankets, books all over. Everyone who came it would always stay for at least an hour at a time, just sitting reading, and if you asked nicely, Janice loved brewing homemade tea, at no cost, of course. You could choose to sit and read every book in the shop if you wished, or you could buy and bring home the books, it was up to you. Janice and Edith would always accept any and all book donations, and always marked down their book prices so anyone could buy. And to answer your question, why of course all of the jewelry is handmade, beautifully made by Edith, they are having a sale, would you like this ring? It would match well with your beautiful skin tone.

Dabi loved asking the old women questions about books like, how were they made? How did they get to the shop? How did you pick which books to put on each shelf? However, his most common question was “what should i read next?” Which would lead to the two old women getting up and taking Dabi’s little hand through the warmly lit shop. They would show him to fantasies, mysteries, thrillers, adventures, and even some graphic novels. He loved everything the women showed him, he would always come back with his mother, every other Sunday without fail, to see the little old ladies that would show him a whole new universe to fall into.

They were always holding hands, and always so gentle to one another, as well as all of the customers, but... that was a long time ago. That shop was burned down, the old ladies aren't there anymore, and Dabi hasn't been to that shop in probably... how old was he again? He doesn't know. However, what he does know is that right now Shigaraki will not stop talking... as always.

“Well maybe he wouldn't have had to die if he didn't have had the audacity to be a little bitch!” Shigaraki’s voiced strained. Shigaraki was stood up, hands out stretched to really make his point. He was talking, of course, about a man he decided to murder on a whim just last night. It wasn’t apart of the mission, the man was just walking home, and the poor soul ended up accidentally bumping and slightly tripping the leader of the League of Villains.

“Tomura, he was crying because he was about to die, most people don't like the idea of dying. Shocker! I know...” Spinner rolled his eyes. He respected Shigaraki, but only because Stain did as well. This doesn't mean that Shigaraki cant get on his nerves sometimes. It bothered Spinner how easily Shigaraki could just up and kill someone for seemingly, no reason. If it wasn't for a good cause, if the person wasn't in your way, if the person wasn't the target, then what was the point of killing them? Its honestly just cruel, and in Spinner’s head, kind of disgusting.

Everyone in the League of Villains has, will, and would kill, but not all of them have the same boundaries or rules they go by. This can and has led to many arguments, just like the one that was about to ensue between Spinner and Shigaraki. As the voices of the Stain fanboy and Handyman began to rise, so did Dabi’s body from his stool at the bar. Dabi was sure that the argument wouldn’t end in a casualty so he didn’t have any need to be here.

Dabi hated yelling anyways, it always got on his nerves. Whether it be him yelling or someone else, he hated it. Not that he really could yell too much himself, his voice nowadays became hoarse and worn by simply talking too much. That's why his normal speaking voice was actually quite soft and generally pretty quiet. He didn’t mean for his voice to be that way, but years of smoking and over usage of his quirk kind of completely destroyed his vocal chords. Either way, he saw no point in yelling. You can get any point across just fine without yelling, sometimes you just need a weapon, but that of course depends on the person and situation he supposed.

The old floorboards in the back of the bar slowly creaked under each of Dabi’s steps. From the bar, there was a side door, which led to a hallway, which led to some stairs, which led to a basement living room, which led to everyone elses rooms. Well, at least the core members of the league’s rooms. It was nice, having a space for himself. The last time he had a room to himself was probably when he was still a little boy.

Dabi opened his bedroom door.

The whole house was very traditional, so in turn, so was his room. He didn't have many toys, so his favorite thing to do was play pretend with his brother and his sister. He would set up whole scenes with his siblings. Sometimes the scenes were from tv, and some were completely from his and his sibling’s imaginations.

His sister was always the doctor or the nurse, she loved Recovery Girl. In fact, Dabi remembers how every time Recovery Girl came on the news, she would always make a little squeal and her little feet would pitter patter in one place in excitement. He always found it funny how his brother ended up being the doctor in the family, now that they were older. His brother, meanwhile, loved being the villain. He loved making up a cool bad guy name and backstory, sometimes even costumes if Mom got involved. His brother would make up impossible, evil machines that could rearrange your guts or make you super tiny, or even super big! Dabi’s brother was always very creative.

This left Dabi playing the hero, and he loved it. He would put on a cape, and save mom from his brother’s evil clutches alongside his sister who would give him magic healing and strength “potions” that was actually just little jars filled with handsoap and sometimes random cleaning supplies that was on the cleaning lady’s supply cart. The chairs would become big rocks to jump from, the couch would become a “safe zone”, and the bathtub would become the ocean. The whole house morphed into their own imaginary world. It was wonderful, until...

Dabi’s room now was barren. It has a bed, a bookshelf and a desk. It’s all he really needed, he supposed. The shelf had three mystery books that he picked up on a mission a couple weeks ago. They were “okay” in his opinion. He hated how quickly he called the so-called “plot twists”, but least the characters were somewhat entertaining. However, there was a slight romance in one of the books, which was very poorly written, it got to the point where he ended up just dropping the book entirely.

The book in his jacket was one of the Dark Tower series by Stephen King, the book series was different from King’s other works in that it was less of a horror novel than it was an adventure series. It reminded him slightly of the books he read when he was younger. He used to prefer adventures and fantasy, but now that he was older, his favorite genre was mysteries. He did indulge in horror novels whenever he happened by one though, he liked a good thriller.

Turning on the light in his room, it gave off a dim light. He needed to change the blub, but he sure it would be fine for at least a little while. Then, it flickered, oh no... and then again, please dont... and finally, with a low buzz and a pop, the light was out.

“Fuck... okay.” he slowly murmured to himself. Slowly dragging his hand down his face in frustration.

He had no idea when he would be able to replace that lightbulb. He had no cash, and he knew for a fact that the league didn't just have some extra lightbulbs laying around, not to mention extra food.

Damn... his stomach rumbled slightly. Dabi doesn't remember the last time he ate an actual meal, and he doesn't want to remember either. So, since he couldn't get food now or for awhile, he decided to distract himself, as he always did.

Slowly he stalked over to the small window that peeked outside the base. The walls were tall and thick, and he was pretty sure he was the only one with a window downstairs, as tiny as it was. He slowly took off the little tapestry he had hung up to cover the window for privacy. Of course, he couldn't imagine any one peeking through a little basement window so low to the ground, but you never know. Also, Dabi quite enjoyed his privacy, thank you very much. The tapestry blended red, to purple, and then blue in the background with a black silhouette of a dolphin and waves in the foreground. It was an odd little thing, but Dabi enjoyed it nonetheless.

As he gently folded the tiny piece of fabric and set it on his desk, he looked back into his room. Surprisingly, that little window let in quite a bit of light. He silently thanked the window as he plopped down on to his mattress that laid on the ground. Then, he pulled out his book from his big inner pocket on his long jacket, and finally began to read, feeling the thoughts of food slowly drift from mind.

It could've been hours, minutes, or even seconds, Dabi doesn't really know, until he finally snapped his head up from his book and looked to the window. He quickly shot up and went up to the window. He looked left, and then right, and then over again. Huh... that's odd... he could’ve sworn he saw a flash of red right outside of his window.

#dabi #touya todoroki #touya #hawks #takami keigo #dabihawks #hawks x dabi #keigo x touya #keigo #shigaraki #spinner #league of villains

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onlycags · 3 years

Text

It’s Christmas!

Word Count: 865 Warnings: kids...not much else. Enjoy! xx

- - -

You and Çağlar had gone to bed a little past two after a crazy night. Because it was Christmas Eve, the twins Ayla and Ender wanted to stay up as long as possible to try to catch Santa. Ayla wanted to make sure that Santa ate the cookies she and you had made earlier in the week, while Ender just wanted to find out if the legend of Santa coming down the chimney was really true. It had been a chore just trying to tire out the two of them, leaving you and Çağlar exhausted by the end of it.

“Why did we ever think we’d be able to get them to go to sleep at a normal time tonight?” You’d whispered to Çağlar as you handed him one of Ayla’s perfect, Santa-wrapped gifts.

“I don’t know,” he whispered back, placing the gift under the tree. He held out his hand for another and you placed Ender’s new Star Wars-themed sheets - wrapped of course - in his hands. “But I’m just surprised we got them in bed before ten.”

“Seriously.” You smiled slowly, leaning over to give him a kiss. “Who knew you could be so scary?”

Çağlar laughed and shook his head. “Sometimes you just gotta lie to a couple of five-year-olds and tell them that Santa won’t come if they’re awake.”

“But you didn’t have to get all Lord-Farquaad crazy on them like that!” You whisper-shouted, smacking him lightly on the arm.

“Would it help if I promise not to be so...forceful next time?” He asked, grinning at you.

“I think that would be best,” you said, nodding as your own grin broke out on your face. “C’mon, let’s finish getting these gifts under the tree so we can go to sleep.

Between quietly getting all of the gifts out of their hiding places and trying not to make a sound while putting the gifts under the tree, you and Çağlar didn’t finish until almost one. The two of you were yawning and so ready for bed by the time you were done, you almost forgot about the cookies.

“Çağlar! We have to finish the cookies and drink the milk!” You said, grabbing him forcefully by the arm as you passed the tray on your way to the bedroom.

He cursed in Turkish, running a tired hand over his face as he sighed. “Do we have to?”

“Yes, we have to!” You giggled, shaking your head. You picked up a gingerbread man, holding it under his nose until he reluctantly took a bite of its leg.

“That’s actually pretty good,” Çağlar commented, reaching for another bite. You shot him a grin as you brought the cookie to your mouth and bit off its head. “Hey! I want another bite!”

“Get your own cookie...Santa,” you retorted, smirking as you quickly finished the cookie.

“Don’t make me make you drink the milk,” he teased, picking up the glass.

“That milk is hours old! You know I don’t drink fresh milk, let alone this!”

“Does this mean we can pour it down the drain then?”

“Please do. But don’t rinse the glass - we want the kids to think Santa actually drank it.”

“Ooh, good point.”

The two of you were practically sleep-drunk by the time you crawled into bed. “Mutlu Noeller, Çağlar,” you mumbled, kissing him softly before drifting off to sleep.

“Mutlu Noeller, Tatlı cadı.”

***

You and Çağlar heard your two kids before you saw them. Their little patter of onesied-feet alongside Aslan the Chow were sounds you thought you were dreaming, but soon realized you weren’t.

“Please, no,” Çağlar murmured beside you, reaching over and pulling you into his arms. “It’s too early. Protect me, please!”

“Çağlar, no!” You giggled, still trying to wake up as you squirmed in his arms. “I’m not gonna be your human shield!”

Before either of you could form a plan of attack, Ayla and Ender were jumping up and down on the bed. “It’s Christmas!” They shouted over and over again, Aslan chiming in with barks at the kids.

“Get up, Mummy!” Ayla shouted, jumping on top of you. You let out a grunt of pain but let her try to pull you up out of bed with her surprising five-year-old strength.

“Yeah!” Ender chimed in, pulling at Çağlar. “Let’s open presents!”

“But it’s early!” Çağlar complained, staring up at the kids in disbelief. “Don’t you two want to sleep?”

“No! Santa came!” Ayla replied like Çağlar was an idiot.

“We want presents!”

You and Çağlar looked at each other and groaned, sharing a reluctant smile as you both climbed out of bed. “Alright,” you said, grabbing your fleece robe and putting on your slippers, “let’s go open presents.”

The kids screamed in delight, racing out of your bedroom with Aslan on their heels. Çağlar caught your wrist right before you walked out the door, pulling you in for a kiss that left you breathless.

“What was that for?” You asked, trying to catch your breath.

Çağlar grinned, pointing upwards where he’d hung some mistletoe before bed last night. “Merry Christmas, my love. Now, let’s go downstairs and open those presents before our kids go kill us.”

#cags originals #cags writing #25 days of cags christmas

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amuseoffyre · 5 years

Text

October Prompts - 26th

Prompt - Graveyard shift

There was something soothing about the patter of raindrops on the roof above him.

Aziraphale always found rain a pleasant reminder of the first encounter he had ever had with the angel currently nestled in his arms. Crowley had never once hesitated to shelter him, not even when he should have considered him the enemy. It had certainly given Aziraphale’s perceptions a good hard shake.

Crowley made a sleepy sound, shivering.

Not a bad shiver, for a change, but one of cold. Aziraphale reached down, drawing the thick woollen blanket further up to tuck him in more snugly. It was a ridiculous monstrous patchwork made by Crowley’s legion of excitable children. He had taught them to knit and, in turn, they had gathered up colourful mismatched squares they created and turned them into a blanket.

Crowley shed joyful tears when they presented it to him for Christmas.

For some reason that Aziraphale had never understood, the angel adored textiles, especially home-made ones. He had a peculiar selection of them stored neatly in the chapter house.

There was one so old and worn and faded that it was barely more than ragged scrap of cloth. It had always been folded up beside the couch where Crowley slept and when he added the bed to his home, it had been relocated to the bedside, though Aziraphale had never seen him touch it. A security blanket, he’d called it, and got so embarrassed that Aziraphale showed mercy and didn’t ask any more questions.

It was so quiet in the darkness of the chapter house.

Occasionally, there was a flicker of light through the windows on the lower level when the moon managed to fight its way through the burgeoning black clouds, but most of the time, there was only silence and it was good.

Well, not entirely silence.

Crowley still snored quietly.

The angel had one arm and one leg flung possessively across Aziraphale’s body, his face buried in the comfortable padding of the demon’s chest. He had his fingers curled into Aziraphale’s pyjamas – a fine plaid pair, which the angel had presented to him with great delight – and he was, for the first time in… well, in an awfully long time, sleeping peacefully.

Aziraphale continued to gently card his fingers through Crowley’s hair. The angel liked that quite a lot, found it soothing enough that it often drew him to sleep even when he insisted he wasn’t tired. And Aziraphale took equal amounts of pleasure in both providing the soothing comfort and in indulging his millennia-held desire to bury his fingers in Crowley’s beautiful thick hair.

It was the boon of his demonic nature that he didn’t need to sleep. It meant that he could be awake and attentive and see the moment when Crowley relaxed utterly in his embrace, the lines of his face softening until they all but vanished. Sometimes, in the dark stillness, he could see the angel smile.

Yes, there was still the eternal fear and anticipation of the moments those lines returned and carved deep in the seconds before the angel cried out, but they had been diminishing night on night, and Aziraphale could not deny he was waiting for the coming of dawn with bated breath.

A night without terror and screams and bruises raked into his skin. A night without shaking the angel awake, drawing him back to a reality where he had not watched Aziraphale dissolve in Holy Water or struck asunder with searing flames or Falling.

The dreams of Falling were always the worst for him. One or other of them Falling. Himself, reaching out, trying to catch Aziraphale. Or worse, the ground of Heaven giving way under him and Aziraphale watching impassive from the sidelines as he Fell, screaming and burning, away from everything he knew and loved and built his world on. He had clawed Aziraphale’s back open in terror in the worst of them and had refused – could not comprehend the possibility – of letting go of him for almost seven hours afterwards.

One could talk away their deaths. They were both clearly alive, after all.

Falling, though…

Falling was still a possibility, no matter how infinitesimal.

Tonight was… good. Tonight was progress.

As the night crept onwards, the angel shifted and squirmed and eventually rearranged himself on top of Aziraphale, his head tucked under the demon’s chin, his arms looped under Aziraphale’s arms, reminding Aziraphale of a tiny monkey clutching at its mother. It had the unfortunate side effect of pushing the blankets down, but when he shivered this time, Crowley grumbled against Aziraphale’s throat and with a floomph, his wings erupted around them, a dark, warm shelter against the winter’s chill.

“You silly little sod,” Aziraphale murmured fondly, curling his arms around the angel’s body, spreading broad palms on his back. “Look at the state of you.”

Perhaps, somewhere in his slumbers, Crowley heard him. He nuzzled his face even closer and sighed, the warm gust of air rippling delightfully across Aziraphale’s throat.

“Bastard,” Aziraphale murmured happily, stroking his back.

Minute by minute, hour by hour, time ticked inexorably on.

Once or twice, Crowley stirred and tensed, but Aziraphale hummed softly, catching the tenor of the familiar mood quickly and turning it. Warm wings, warm hands, warm comforting sounds, and Crowley subsided, settling as if he had never stirred in the first place.

On and on it went, until the first blades of sunlight cut through the windows below. And still, he slept, and Aziraphale eyes were burning with relief and happiness as he hugged the angel closer.

With a surreptitious snap of his fingers, he cleared the table below, replacing everything on it with Crowley’s rare favourite treats from cafés and restaurants scattered in the four corners of the earth. It was a victory and as such, it merited a worthy celebration.

Only when he knew Crowley would get cross with him did he allow the scent of rich Turkish coffee coiled up from the table, the only scent he ever used to gently draw the angel back to the land of the caffeinated. For a moment, there was no reaction, then Crowley snuffled against his throat. His face was so close that the flutter of his lashes whispered against Aziraphale’s skin.

“S’it morning?” he mumbled.

“Mm.” Aziraphale stroked his back. “Slept well.”

“I…” With effort, sleep-muzzy and yawning, the angel sat up over him. “Yeah… think I did.” He beamed drowsily, planting his hands on Aziraphale’s belly, his wings settling across the bed around him. “Don’t remember any bad dreams.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, untroubled and glowing and ebbing with warmth. “Not one, my love.”

Honey eyes stared at him and blinked as if Crowley couldn’t quite grasp what Aziraphale was saying. “Eh?”

Aziraphale stroked a hand down Crowley’s bare thigh and smiled with absurd happiness and pride. “Not a single nightmare, my darling. You slept peacefully all night.” And, because one cannot be too soft, he added, “Aside from the point when you decided that I was your mattress and pummelled me into your position of choice…”

Crowley was still staring at him. “No nightmares?”

“No nightmares.”

“Really?”

Aziraphale pushed himself up on his elbows. “Not even one.”

Crowley’s eyes brightened and he pressed his clasped hands to his mouth, a sound half-laugh, half-sob, escaping him. “No nightmares!” His voice broke and he was laughing, reaching down to pull Aziraphale up to hug him tightly. “No fucking nightmares!”

Aziraphale wanted to give him words of celebration and pride and relief, but they all died in his throat and the best he could do was hold the angel close and press mute kisses on his bare, freckled shoulder.

Crowley’s fingers sank into his hair, drawing his head back, and kisses were pressed instead all over his face between happy laughter and happy tears and Lord, what sentimental soft baggages they were proving to be, salted smiles all over their faces.

They were both breathing hard when Crowley broke the damp kisses, pressing his brow to Aziraphale’s. “Thank you.”

“Oh, do be quiet, angel,” Aziraphale grumbled good-naturedly.

“Nope. Never.” The angel kissed away the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Thank yourself, darling,” Aziraphale protested, pinking in the cheeks. “You did it. You were the one who fought them off.”

Crowley considered him, then licked the end of his nose.

“Eugh! Angel!”

“Take my gratitude or I’ll do it again,” Crowley threatened, laughing.

“Angel!”

He darted in and licked him again.

“Stop that!”

A sloppy lick to his cheek this time.

“I’m not an ice cream!”

Another cheek firmly and soggily licked.

“Fine! You’re welcome!”

Crowley sat back in his lap smugly, eyes dancing. “And you got me coffee. I should thank you for that.”

Aziraphale squeezed his waist. “Is this what a good night’s sleep does for you?” He teased, his heart welling up with delight. Lord, it had been so long since he had ever seen Crowley so happy. “Makes you insufferably gracious?”

To his utter astonishment, Crowley scooted even closer, until his lovely naked pink body was utterly flush against Aziraphale’s tartan pyjamas. “Among other things,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows and then his hips. “I’ve been keeping you up all night for months. Maybe I should… keep you up all day instead, eh?”

That was the moment that Aziraphale, demon of the pit, creature of Hell, and Fallen Angel, fell in love all over again.

#fic: inverse omens #october prompts #angel crowley #demon aziraphale #reverse omens

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auckie · 4 years

Note

i love your turkish delight posting. it makes me really happy to see someone talk about confections :D

Oh! Confections! Little morsels, delights so aptly named!!! Powdery and chewy and into my mouth they go! Petitfours and candied nuts and sweet danishes with fruit goodberry and sweet milk!! Fruits of the earth made just for me to eat! my it goes heart pitter patter! Makes me dewy eyed just thinking of all the tasty treats that exist out there, I look into a bakery like a fat little white blonde boy with a propeller hat and rosy cheeks and big day long lollipop 🤢🥺

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lonelypond · 5 years

Text

Moonlight Becomes You: Apocalypse Midnight Dance Party, Ch. 4: Dropping In For Brunch

Love Live, NozoEli, NicoMaki, KanaMari, 3.2K, 4/?

Summary: Maki's in town, Eli's still out of it, Mari's not everybody's favorite person, and You and Kanan make time for a chat. Plus, Nico and Nozomi both have a severe case of Ayase on the mind.

Dropping In For Brunch

Maki Nishikino marched up to the desk. She knew her direct off the Paris runway Loewe fringed t-shirt, jeans and bucket hat screamed first class, private penthouse suite, don’t even blink when this woman is speaking to you to anyone who made a study of style and today, today, she was going to use that. The staffer at the desk looked up, adjusted her posture, lowered her eyes briefly and then Maki spoke, hand solidly connecting with the wood of the counter, “Where is Nico Yazawa? She’s expecting me.”

There was a giggle behind her, “Oh, Maki, don’t scare my employees Unless you’re actually going to accept one of my job offers.”

Maki turned, a perfunctory nod to the desk clerk. Mari Ohara stood there, slouching, amused, in a three piece white suit, long jacket, with bright black and yellow smudges scattered. Maki recognized Akiko Aoki. Not her style at all. Too flashy.

Mari winked, “Can I interest you in a suite? Or running a nightclub.”

Getting drawn into a conversation with Mari was stepping into a mire. Simple demands were best. “You can take me to Nico.”

Mari raised an eyebrow, “Oh, you’re very focused.”

Maki shrugged.

Mari sighed, clicking her tongue,“Ki Ki…one after another and we all have to cope. Your friend doesn’t understand trust.”

“I’m sure Nico is doing what she thinks is best.”

Mari turned and tossed her hand up in a gesture that brought Maki back to the Italian clubs she’d toured last year. So many cultural cues mishmashed so ruthlessly in one blonde bulldozer. Maki was too jetlagged to snap any patter or be polite so she just pulled her sling bag strap tighter and followed Mari.

###

Nozomi missed home, the way the room smelled, how the fabric of the drapes fluttered gently, but mostly she missed the comforting security as the atmosphere opened up and enveloped her. But here she was, again, somewhere else, with her oldest Tarot deck, at a new coffee shop with a different view, one of people rushing to jobs, and auditions, and brunch meetings. Was Eli one of them? Or had Eli stopped by for a taste of her past and be disappointed not to find Nozomi around...no texts since midweek, since that exchange that ended so flatly. Was Eli all right?

Nozomi sighed. Hanamaru would laugh at her and probably point out with a smirk that no matter where Nozomi took her cards, she also took her heart. Closing her eyes to let her mind open into a memory, Nozomi pictured Eli, sitting across from her, bright eyes morning dark with worry, lips a nervous line. Breathing in three times, Nozomi dealt out three cards. That was the simplest spread and one that seemed to suit Eli. Page of Pentacles...very solid, charismatic, not that Nozomi needed a reminder of Eli’s charms, what it meant would depend on what next...but its position in the past indicated that Eli might be living with the consequences of her own choices. Next card, reverse Page of Swords...Nozomi tensed...danger, confusion, difficulty communicating, powers out of your control threatening. Nozomi hurriedly flipped the third card, another pentacle, another reversal...another concerning clue...whatever was cutting into Eli, she would need patience to resolve it and to let go of the thought that there might be an ideal solution. Would Eli listen to advice? Last time....when Nozomi had offered some, Eli had abruptly ended their text chat. But Nozomi couldn’t stop remembering the last time she’d seen Eli, the eager gleam in those bright eyes when she’d announced it was ‘time for a fresh start’, the firmness of her handshake. Surely someone as careful, as grounded as Eli seemed would be relieved to be advised patience? Nozomi picked up her phone, leaving the cards out on the table, pentacles and flipped sharps staring at her as she thought back to the Five Of Pentacles she’d drawn for Eli the last time. Reach out a hand. She swept to Eli’s contact info. Maybe just a hello? To remind Eli she wasn’t alone.

###

After Eli had been distracted by the huge raw steak Mari had acquired, Nico had let Kanan talk her into sitting down for a bagel and fresh fruit and a HUGE sweet caramelly bucket sized latte shipped in from somewhere. Nico didn’t ask how or why, she just chugged the caffeine and sugar boost as she shifted in a chair, still trying to stretch out the kinks in her legs from sleeping curled up in front of the door to Eli’s room. Kanan had attempted some conversation but Nico just let the chat die, as she wondered what to do with Eli if she didn’t change back...that was too complicated, so Nico shook herself and decided fresh mango slices would be a nice bagel follow up.

“Nico?” Maki’s voice, very nervous, very tight, and as Nico glanced up from the fruit bowl, Maki started to step into the breakfast nook, then Mari, blonde and brusque and way too touchy, like all those women in the photos, took Maki’s arm and swept her into a seat. The fringe on Maki’s branded, Luxury™️ t-shirt swayed and Nico caught a glimpse of abs as toned as the arms Maki’s usual muscle tees had given her ample opportunity to view. Hadn’t Maki just flown over night? How did she look so fresh, with a hat that would look stupid on anyone else tilted at a cute and perfect angle, frowning, but her amethyst eyes still luminous...and here Nico was, hadn’t even brushed her hair, same clothes she wore last night, which Maki was taking too close a look at.

Maki shrugged off Mari, scowling over her shoulder, “Don’t touch me.”

Nico nodded in agreement, not that she needed an excuse to frown at Ms. Mari Ohara, but she added touchy around hot redheads to her growing list.

Nico finished biting into the mango slice, “You look good. How do you do that after flying all night? Nico wants to know your secrets.”

Maki’s eyes met Nico’s and then she ducked her head, flushing, “Are you all right? You look terrible.”

Confirmation Nico didn’t need, but Nico had other charms. “Nico was a hero and a human obstacle in front of Eli’s door last night.”

Mari stomped, tossing her hair back. “Hero? Che palle! She insisted on having le mani in pasta when we could have had everything under control. For one so tiny…”

“Basta, Mari.” Kanan stood, wrapping Mari up in a hug from behind that pulled her away from the table, “Let’s check on our other guest.”

Nico started a bit guiltily at that from her latte sipping, staring at Maki daydream, but Maki smiled and Nico couldn’t hear anything from the room Eli was in so maybe, just maybe, this was an actual minute she and Maki could have crisis free.

###

Nico’s voice? Eli was curled up into a tight ball on something softer than her futon mattress. Shaking, she opened an eye. Completely strange room, large brush paintings of sea scenes on the wall, a huge window leading out to a balcony with a view of the ocean. Still in Santa Monica? Eli sat up, every muscle sore, her head pounding. Naked. She grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around herself. What had happened? It was well into the day. The sun was too bright for early morning. Surely she’d heard Nico. Why was Nico here? Frowning, squinching her eyes to force memories through the painful wall of her headache, Eli searched for her last awareness. She’d been standing in front of the window in the rehearsal space, watching the sun dip closer to the rolling waves. She was itchy again, prickles pushing against her skin, distracted, two straight days of rehearsal had worn her through to weary and although Kanan still had a few things to work her through, Eli had enjoyed the challenge. It had been a rare moment of solitude, sipping tea, eating a Pryaniki from the stash she’d brought to treat herself. She’d loved the honey swirled through it...the honey had a different, sweeter tang mixed in with the Russian spices...Eli remembered thinking of her grandmother’s kitchen, then there were footsteps coming down the hall, and with a fast turn…snarling, a raw throat, the pressure headache where her brain tried to come out her forehead...Eli shook herself as a mood closed in, dangerous, blinking her eyes as she forced herself to stay in the brightness.

Eli tried out a sound, “Hello?” and her voice was a bare shadow of full volume, a scratchy mumble. A puff of s breeze was blowing curtains around and everything seemed very quiet, the roll of the ocean dominating the soundscape. What day was it? Eli didn’t see a clock or her phone.

She was going to have to get up to learn anything. Shakily, swinging her legs to the hardwood floor, sheet gathered around herself, she shuffled past to the door, cracking it open. Definitely Nico’s voice. And Maki?

Eli managed to make it through the office section and then Nico spotted her, jumping up to run and grab her in a hug that nearly knocked Eli back to horizontal, “You’re all right!”

Eli shook her head, trying not to tear up at Nico’s affection and familiar confidence. It was hard not to think Nico was here, everything would be all right, but as she glanced up to see Maki watching both of them out of the corner of her eye, one hand turning a coffee cup, the other arm crossed over her chest. Eli took an unconscious sniff of the room’s atmosphere and immediately realized Maki’s aloofness was some concern but mostly...resentment, probably at Eli interrupting their conversation. Eli couldn’t blame her, but she felt her own frustrations rise. Nico was there for her. Maki hadn’t woken up in someone else’s...Eli glanced around, taking in the art, the Turkish rugs, the fresh flowers perfuming the natural salt of the sea air, the elegance, the lived in comfort of casual affluence...someone else’s home.

“I’m a little shaky.” Eli raised her arms, bringing Nico’s attention to the blue and tan quilt patched blanket she swaddled in, “And underdressed.”

“You need to wash your face.” Maki stated sharply, swiping at the corner of her own mouth with a clenched hand.

“Oh yeah,” Nico somehow managed to make this sound like Eli had just woken up from a post pancake brunch nap, “Kanan’s wife got you a huge steak.”

Eli reddened, not wanting the quick skim of her memory to happen. Could she recall anything from last night, pull any images before waking up into daylight? Were the barriers natural or learned? Her grandmother had continually encouraged her to lock out any thoughts or urges that might originate in the non human part of her and Eli had become an expert at denying them any power over her waking awareness. She wavered, but Nico was still there.

“I’m so tired, Nico.” Yep. Crying. Eli saw Nico glance to Maki, and the redhead’s glower softened infinitesimally.

Nico was a cheerful blur of coping. “Well, Nico will tuck you back into bed, find your phone and shoes…”

Maki cleared her throat, “Maybe if Eli’s going to sleep…” she hesitated as Nico’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and the rest of her words came out in a rush, “we could get coffee or smoothies and sit in a cabana while Eli rests.” Maki frowned, then nodded, her eyes bright, “I want to talk to you, Nico,” the voice softened, and Eli tried not to start filing all the voice, body, and scent cues she was still sensitive to, “and out there, we won’t disturb Eli.”

Nico glanced back to Eli, who was rubbing her eyes, sickened by the discoloration under her fingernails. First, Eli told herself, she was scrubbing herself all over, BEFORE she looked into a mirror.

“Cover the bathroom mirror, Nico. Please. I want to wash up.” Eli slumped.

Maki stood, her voice kind, “I’ll do that while Nico finds your phone and stuff.” Resolute purple eyes met Eli’s, “We’ll be right outside. Don’t worry.”

Eli stopped a snarl. How did her life get so out of control that strangers who wanted to captivate her best friend were now patronizing her. Maki smiled encouragingly and Eli’s fists clenched, dirty nails digging into her palms, a growl rising and then Nico’s voice was a slap.

“Eli.”

Eli glanced down. Nico shook her head, a quick motion, lips pressed together in a frown. Eli closed her eyes and opened her palms.

“You’re okay,” Nico stated. “Just relax for now. You need rest.”

Eli knew that was the truth.

###

You was pacing the lobby, totally not dressed for the Ohara aesthetic in a polo and well worn nylon running shorts. She’d expected Kanan to be at their usual balcony table, but no, and after a half an hour and no response to any of her texts. You had been forced to ask the assistance of the hotel staff. And now she was waiting.

“You!” Kanan was rushing toward her, in leggings and a cropped sweatshirt, “I’m so sorry. There was an emergency last night and…”

All You’s danger tells went off and she stepped to Kanan’s side, her voice hushed, confidential, “Are you and Mari all right? What happened?”

“Let’s go outside.” Kanan led You through the lobby, to step out in view of the beach. It was either a slow day at the hotel or Mari had somehow made all the guests be occupied elsewhere. Mari had some kind of inherited hotelier hospitality magic that You thought made her more of a magical creature than many of those attending CRAAVI meetings, but it was a magic You avoided messing with. Give her the depths and shape changers and tentacled dangers, not hangry guests and thirsty vacationers.

Beach in front, pool behind, random wanderers on the wooden boardwalk, no one around the pool, easy to spot if anyone was approaching, Kanan stopped and fixed her ponytail, “I really need a run.”

“Not a swim?”

Kanan grimaced and gestured with her cast, “I’m tired of extra layers.”

You nodded sympathetically, “yeah, I bet you miss…”

Kanan cut You off, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night. There was an emergency. Eli, the dancer I’m working with…” Kanan hesitated, “became ill and then her roommate…” Kanan chuckled, gaze distant as she remembered Nico right in Mari’s face, not impressed, not backing down a centimeter.

“Sounds exciting.”

“Too exciting.” Kanan sighed and decided to drop dramatically into a chaise, “Plus, that DJ Mari’s been after forever showed up this morning. And wasn’t completely focused on Mari.” Kanan rolled her eyes, her non injured arm across her forehead, “and you know how my wife HATES not being the center of attention for all the pretty people in the room.”

“I do.” You dropped into the next chair.

“So why’d you call?”

“Check the LACryps hashtag sometime.”

You had spit sourness as she spoke. Surprised, Kanan pivoted on her hip to stare.

You kept staring at the sky, eyes nearly a matching blue, her facial expression and tone back to a carefully cultivated neutral, “Someone’s stirring up rumors, I had to warn Bo to stay off shore, but most of her group are with the whales this season. Yoshiko hasn’t heard anything yet, but she rarely dives into the internet.”

“No, that’s what she has you for. Inside information. Advance warning.” Kanan frowned, picturing Yoshiko frazzled, static electricity tightening her hair into curls, juggling her phone, brow furrowed as she kept her glamor carefully dulled, trying to organize the physical index cards she writes CRAAVI agendas on. So they can be more easily burnt when she was done with them. Yoshiko held too many secrets to live an online life. Kanan let her voice drop most of an octave, “Your godless technology burns at the touch of one who has swept the glory of Heaven’s dome with her wings.” Kanan stretched out arms, enjoying You’s amusement at the mockery, but then practical Kanan was back, “Has Hanamaru even learned to use that mini iPad you got her last year?”

You winced, “I might have seen it, next to her F L I P phone last time I stopped by. I think Yoshiko was using it as a coaster.”

Kanan blew out a long breath, “Let’s hope the fate of the world doesn’t rely too much on them.”

“Yeah.”

The waves and swooping gulls let both women exhale their worries as they sat in friendly silence.

###

The cabana was nice, Maki had to admit, with a breeze, a blueberry mango smoothie at hand, and Nico leaning in with the curtains drawn and no one watching and…

“Maki?” Nico, sounding worried.

Maki forced herself out of a fantasy, smiling, “I missed you.”

“You seemed busy.” Nico’s scrunched up grumpy face was as cute as the rest of her expressions, Maki decided, eager to catalog them all.

Maki leaned back, running both hands through her hair, hat tossed aside, remembering the relief she felt when Aya confirmed all her gigs were cancelled through the end of the month, “I was glad to be heading home…” She couldn’t say “to you” yet, they’d barely had any conversations that didn’t involve the words Eli, or cryptids, or werewolves…

“Nico could have handled Eli.” Nico sounded annoyed.

Maki sighed. There was that word. But then she glanced over and Nico was leaning even more forward, her eyes watching Maki’s fingers as they snagged on a tangle of curls. “I don’t mind.” Maki slid a finger through the condensation on her glass, “It seems like a lot though. You’re a good friend.”

Nico huffed and repeated, “Nico can handle it.”

Maki needed to make a quick detour away from the wall of exasperation she was about to SMACK into so she sat up and leaned forward, nearer to Nico, but not yet as near as she'd been dreaming about, “Want to take a walk? And get lunch?” A chuckle as Nico almost smiled so Maki dared to say what she’d been rehearsing on the drive from LAX, “I’ve been wanting to take you out since I met you.”

So much earnestness in the eyes that suddenly wouldn’t look away from hers. Nico felt her frustration and worry over Eli fade as new feelings took over, curiosity, longing, heat..the air seemed to close in, a tingle, electricity raising the hairs on Nico’s arms, wind picking up to tumble Maki’s curls with a restlessness that Nico wanted to tame, but before Nico could close the gap, a huge gust of wind slapped the curtains against her back, forcing her forward into a startled Maki as a scream arced over the roof of their cabana.

Something large splashed into the pool.

A/N: Right ho...and we merrily roll along. I am working my way back to 'Can't Get Started', but we have reached the fiddly bits of this one, where attention to detail must be paid.

Don't forget to tip your hat and say 'howdy' ; )

#NozoEli #NicoMaki #KanaMari #YohaMaru #Ayase Eli #Tojo Nozomi #nishikino maki #yazawa nico #Watanabe You #Matsuura Kanan #Ohara Mari #beach #werewolf #LA #cryptids #Moonlight Becomes You #etcétera #enjoy #Apocalypse Midnight Dance Party

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