#and I just kind of want to carve my self awareness out of my body like a cancerous growth

[lucyvaleheart]

.

[theresattrpgforthat]

I'm looking for TTRPGs that have... for lack of a better way of putting it, mechanics where like, your character is under a profound amount of stress, and if they don't manage it and additional stress that comes in, they'll break or snap and do something horrible and then have to deal with the consequences. So something that mechanically 'forces' your character to do something they'd normally never do due to external stressors.

THEME: Stress Clocks.

Oh this is my shit. Get ready for a Hall of Fame style of recommendations from me this week (as well as a bit of self-advertising)!

Also a note: this was (mostly) a chance for me to get very excited about a number of games that have specifically inspired me, and I am aware that it means that I’ve kind of neglected certain houses of design as a result. For this post especially, I encourage anyone who can think of a game that fits this request that isn’t listed here to give it a shout out in the reblog and the replies!

Mothership, by Tuesday Knight Games.

Mothership is a sci-fi horror roleplaying game where you and your crew try to survive in the most inhospitable environment in the universe: outer space! You'll excavate dangerous derelict spacecraft, explore strange unknown worlds, exterminate hostile alien life, and examine the horrors that encroach upon your every move.

Mothership inflicts Stress upon you with every failure, and hitting your Stress cap reduces your most relevant Stat or Save, thereby consistency reducing your chances of success with every roll. That’s not all though - your Stress cap also makes it harder and harder to stop your character from panicking, by representing the threshold you must beat every time you make a Panic Check. If you roll less than or equal to your current Stress rating, you must take on a new Panic condition.

You make Panic checks whenever you roll a critical failure, but also whenever you witness something traumatic. These conditions don’t necessarily force your character to do anything, but they represent the toll that being in a constantly hostile environment takes on your mind and body. You have to work harder and harder to prevent your character from attacking allies, giving in to the demands of whatever is haunting their psyche, or going straight-up catatonic.

You can also try to mitigate this stress and panic by resting and doing something that helps relieve the pressure - having sex, taking drugs, praying, etc. There’s even a Shore Leave mechanic for long-term games that allow your character to turn their stress into a character improvement.

In some respect, these conditions remind me of the Morality and Clarity tracks of Chronicles of Darkness and Changeling: the Lost, but with less of the errant language around mental health. The dice rolls also make the consequences much less predictable, so if you want to be surprised by what exactly causes your character to snap, I recommend Mothership.

Urban Shadows, by Magpie Games.

The streets bleed shadows as the supernatural politics of the city threaten to swallow you whole. Will you die a hero—a savior for those who have never had enough—or live long enough to become the villain? Will you fight the darkness…or give in for power?

The choice is yours. 

Urban Shadows is an urban fantasy tabletop roleplaying game in which mortals and monsters vie for control of a modern-day city, a political battleground layered just under the reality we think we know. Vampires, faeries, hunters, and wizards fight to carve out a piece of the streets and skyscrapers, ready to make deals with all those who have something to offer. 

The ‘consequences’ track for Urban Shadows is called Corruption. Each character playbook in this game has a couple of special moves called Corruption Moves, and when you start playing, you start with two Drama Moves the tie into this. The Drama Moves describe specific situations in which your character must mark Corruption. If you fill your Corruption track, you take a Corruption Move. Corruption moves give you special powers that are super-effective, but fill up your Corruption track faster. You can only fill your Corruption track so many times - fill it one too many and your character must be retired, because they’ve just become an antagonist.

I really like how this feels like a slow descent that speeds up the more you lean into it. Your character is consistently tempted to give into their darker sides in order to keep themselves afloat in this unforgiving city - but lean too far and they become exactly the kind of person they were hoping to stop.

Antiquarian Adventures, by acegiak.

Antiquarian Adventures is a pulpy tomb raiding and treasure hunting Blades In The Dark hack in the style of Tomb Raider, Indiana Jones, National Treasure, and The Mummy.

So Antiquarian Adventures is a pulp game. It’s not grim dark in any sense of the word, but I think it introduces a unique use of the Blades’ Stress mechanic in a special “ability” that happens when your character uses up all of their Composure (this is the “Stress” of this gam). Once you’ve used up all of your Composure, you cannot resist anything that comes your way and your dice pools are reduce to 0 until you do something (specific to your playbook) that usually invites a new consequence.

For example, The Veteran’s version of this is called “Not As Quick As I Used To Be,” which hamstrings the character until the player allows themself to be left behind or separated from their comrades. This kind of mechanic has directly inspired one of the projects that I’m working on, and I think that if you tweak the amount of Composure your character has, or makes the reaction harsher, you could absolutely make it work for a game that’s a bit grittier than Antiquarian Adventures.

Last Fleet, by Black Armada Games

The last of humanity are fleeing across space, pursued by the implacable inhuman adversary that destroyed their civilisation. They're outnumbered and outgunned. Supplies are running low. The actions of a brave few could be all that stands between humanity and extinction.

Welcome to the Last Fleet.

Last Fleet is a PBTA tabletop roleplaying game where you play brave pilots, officers, engineers, politicians and journalists struggling to hold the human race - and themselves - together under unbelievable pressure. The game focuses on action, intrigue and drama in this high-stakes situation. You'll fight space battles, search for enemy infiltrators, tackle supply shortages and navigate faction politics. You'll strive against your own self-doubt and sometimes crack under the stress.

Last Fleet has something called a Pressure Mechanic, which can be used as a player resource, but also activates when you take weather harm or get called out on your shit. Hit your cap? Clear your Pressure and take a Breaking Point action, which often puts you at odds with the other characters, making the situation worse. The whole situation is a designed to act as a pressure cooker, making the situation harder and harder to bear until you finally pop. I love it, and it’s also a direct influence on one of my games.

Apocalypse Keys, by Rae Nedjadi (@temporalhiccup)

Unmask your feelings, uncage your ruination… The Doomsday Clock is ticking down and emotions run high as you and your team of DIVISION agents struggle to find the Keys before the villainous Harbingers unlock the Doors of Power and bring about the apocalypse.

As an Omen class monster, you are the only thing capable of holding back the apocalypse. Combat occult threats and investigate supernatural phenomena alongside your team of supernatural agents working for the shadowy DIVISION. But in a world that shuns monsters like you, only your deepest, most heartfelt bonds can grant you the power to stop those who seek to unlock Doom’s Door.

Taking cues from Urban Shadows, Apocalypse Keys gives you a Ruin track to follow as your monsters try to stop the world from ending. The Ruin track gives you a Ruin advance every time you fill it, unlocking Ruin Moves, permanently marking character conditions, and eventually forcing your character to turn into a Harbinger if you let it. Your Ruin moves are powerful and dark, generating even more Ruin when you use them, and in some cases (like with the Hungry’s "Only Hunger Remains" move), your character can actually halt the current mystery as they get close enough to becoming a Harbinger that the entire party will have to work together to stop you from ripping the world apart.

Protect the Child, by Mint-Rabbit (that’s me!).

Humans have always been protective of their young, sometimes overly so. Humans have also always feared that which might make their young strange or different, and so insist that only humans can raise their own young. Monsters cannot raise human young. This is known.

You have a human baby. You cannot find its parents. What is even worse, is that this child has powers, powers that others covet, and so everyone wants it. If you want to prove that you’re not the heartless monster that everyone says you are, that means you’ll have to raise it, at least until you find someone who is better suited to it than you. 

You are creatures of fur, scales and fangs. You have claws that can rend flesh, faces that can crack mirrors, howls that can cause ears to bleed. 

And your charge wants a blankie.

Protect the Child is a Forged in the Dark game about monsters caring for a young human, a human who contains strange and mystical powers that make them a valuable asset in any monster crew. The setting and factions present in this game are flexible: you might be aliens in a far-flung future galaxy, fantasy monsters from rival kingdoms, or even everyday wild animals that fear human society. 

Alright, so this is my baby and I can tell you exactly how to push your character towards some really unhealthy coping mechanisms. In Protect the Child, your character is constantly battling the stress of being a parent. Stress, like in other Forged in the Dark games, is a player resource, but it’s also inflicted on you when you resist consequences, and when the kid has an emotional breakdown.

Should your stress clock fill up, you’ll have to take a reaction from the list attached to your playbook before you can take more Stress, and these reactions range from doing something for selfish gains to lashing out to your fellow monsters to being fully monstrous at exactly the worst time. Your tools to manage this stress are also limited - you have to be willing to confront your fellow monsters and be honest about your relationships with each-other if you want to stop your emotional kettle from whistling all of the time. If you want a game where building relationships is the only way to deal with the pressures of monster-parenting, then check out Protect the Child!

[brokebackmonastery]

self insert intro finally WOOHOO!!

did not have any great art of him. oh well. in any case this is luna-myr eisner (transmasc + any pronouns! you'll usually see me using he/they but anything is alright)! and while he is to a degree a self insert he's also very much like. an OC. because i like to write and that's just how i do self shipping i suppose. anyways further details below :3

(proship/comship DNI)

self insert but also what you would call a bylethsona i suppose. definitely not exactly like canon byleth as you will see. comes paired with custom route i have deemed seafoam star

was sort of half-conscious growing up until sothis awoke. capable of feeling emotion, but cannot truly express them and experiences everything through somewhat of a haze

only people he really had growing up were jeralt (who is his dad ofc) and whatever animals hung out wherever they were staying. was generally not around people his age and even when they were nobody wanted to engage with him because of his "odd" behavior. even adults were put off by him

autistic. who would i be if i did not make my SI autistic

quite merciful for a mercenary. capable of being brutal, but it is reserved for the truly deplorable; for example, often lets thieves trying to steal from well-off folk to keep themselves or their loved ones alive go in secret. does not see these acts of survival as worthy of punishment. wishes he could help them more. however, people are generally not aware of this and are more likely to have heard about the aforementioned brutality.

though they didn't have much choice in taking the monastery job, he was generally okay with it, if not confused. It was their first time in a setting surrounded by so many people his age consistently. understood why seteth did not trust him.

time powers work more in-depth than with canon byleth. can of course use divine pulse, but this also comes with an unusually acute perception of time and the occasional ability to have visions of the past and possible futures. since his body is still technically mortal, these visions often make him feel faint if not entirely pass out. These visions can be shared via touch.

genuinely does not understand what the hell is going on, particularly early game. people seem to think he does or that he's hiding something — he is not. they are just learning to express the confusion they feel.

drawn to claude right away. erm...?

more visibly nabatean than canon byleth after fusing with sothis. pointed ears and reptilian pupils come alongside the green hair. possibly has a few scales here and there on his body as well. claws (and i'm talking CLAWS not just long nails) and fangs. dragon form that he is entirely unaware of until much later. the sort of "transformation" into being more visibly nabatean was like. Painful and lasted roughly a week

teaches all three classes and has a significant connection with them all, but is the homeroom teacher of/is the closest with the golden deer (think like... the teachers rotate who they teach basically. but each have a homeroom they are tied to/spend more time with)

did not even have a chance to choose a side between edelgard and rhea. would not have killed edelgard at rhea's request regardless and approaches her about it before the imperial attack on the monastery to ask if there is any other way. rhea was upset by the idea that he did not side with her unconditionally. they did not want to kill either of them

loves rhea, but does not trust her. Very confused by her actions and only wants the truth from her. Sees her as somewhat of a motherly figure, ironically.

likes drawing, creating jewelry (usually out of bone), sewing, and carving (usually sets of dice). like sitri, loves flowers and will be delighted to see unusual ones. his favorites are any kind of lily. has an affinity for stuffed animals as well

big fan of moths especially luna moths if that was not apparent. goes to see them out in the wild yearly in the short span of time that they are active

also bonus dragon form where he's a weird horsemothlizard as well as a better demonstrarion of the fact that they have straight up Claws. that's all i've got for now. cheers

[thesightstoshowyou]

~ Three, Two, One…. ~

Lochlan (lok-lin) Smith

A Sight’s Slasher OC

“My friends call me ‘Lok.’ You will call me that too.” Dumbly, you nod, quickly stilling when you realize what you’re doing.

Age: 29

Pronouns: He/him

Location: East Coast

Language: English

Sexuality: Bisexual

Profession: Job-hopper. Whatever pays the bills and funds his “hobby”

Slasher type: Self-aware sadist

Weapon of choice: Anything and everything

Skills: Persuasion, hypnosis, stealth, blending in, silver tongue

(Warnings below: Mentions of violence, suicide, hypnosis, murder, gore, torture, noncon, and supernatural elements)

🕜 Appearance:

Height: 6’0

Weight: ~180lbs

Hair: Copper red, short on the sides, longer on top

Eye color: Green

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Notable traits: His hair and piercing gaze

Body type: Athletic

🕥 Personality:

Lochlan is a chameleon. He will adjust his personality to compliment those with whom he interacts. He can be charming, funny, quiet, boisterous, or whatever you need to feel comfortable. He can blend seamlessly into any group or situation and he always has something clever to say.

Lok knows his name is silly. He doesn’t care. In fact, he kind of likes it. It makes him seem less threatening. Go ahead, crack a joke about it. He’ll laugh with you. You’ll let your guard down. Now, he has a way in.

Lok is much different in private. He’s a condescending bastard with a god complex. He is a true sadist; he never feels more pleasure than when he’s hurting someone. To Lok, people are things to mould and destroy as he chooses.

🕚 Method:

Lok loves to people watch. He’ll search a crowd and single out someone who looks impressionable. The more susceptible you are to hypnotism, the easier it is for him to talk you into a trance.

He’ll follow you for a few days, when he has the time. He’ll learn your schedule, formulate a plan, find an opening.

Next, he’ll put himself in your path. Maybe he stands behind you in line for coffee. “I noticed your pin. I love that band! What’s your favorite song?” Isn’t it a coincidence it’s his favorite song too? And what are the odds he has the exact same coffee order as you?

When Lok speaks, you find yourself almost compelled to listen. When your eyes meet his, your mind becomes just a little fuzzier. You can’t help but relax, letting the sound of his voice fill your head. His words are so calming. What’s that, he wants you to follow him? Yeah, that sounds nice. His car? Yes, you’ll get in. You are feeling pretty sleepy, after all. It will be nice to sit down.

When you wake, you’ll find yourself restrained in a small room. The walls will be littered with tools and other evil implements. You won’t know how or why you’re here.

This is the extent of Lok’s planning.

Now, he can chase whatever ideas come to him in the moment. Should he rip out all your teeth? Break your fingers? Carve away flesh? Dissect you and fuck the wounds? He’ll figure it out as he goes and he’ll do whatever makes you scream the loudest.

However, his favorite past time is playing with your mind.

🕣 Background and Hypnosis:

Lok has always been persuasive, even as a child. It seemed as though—if he concentrated hard enough—he could talk his classmates into doing things they would never normally do. Once, he convinced the kid bullying Lok about his hair to stick his finger in the pencil sharpener and crank the lever.

A year later, at 8 years old, he would convince his mother’s boyfriend to blow his brains out all over the bathroom walls. Technically, this was his first victim, but he wouldn’t kill someone with his own hands until he was 17.

When Lok was 12, his mother took him to a family event downtown. It was some kind of fair organized by the local businesses. Because it was free, they could go, he remembers her saying.

There was a magician. Lok remembers the stupid card trick he’d flubbed. None of the other kids noticed.

Next up was a hypnotist. Lok assumed it would be another fool in a cape, but this man proved him wrong. He was self-assured, smooth, and practiced. When he counted backwards and placed audience volunteers under his spell, Lok’s eyes grew wide in astonishment. The man made them cluck like chickens and pretend to bob for apples! He could make them do whatever he wanted….

Curiosity turned to obsession. Lok spent months at the library, studying different hypnosis techniques and reading testimonials. Hypnotherapy piqued his interest in particular. Imagine what things he could learn from someone in a trance, things he could hold over then once they were lucid.

As Lok grew, so did his skill. Using hypnosis, he could force victims to say and do things no other hypnotist in history could manage. To Lok, this meant he was a prodigy, a genius, far superior to the average man.

But, unknown to even Lok himself, there is an explanation for his unnatural talent.

Lok possess an inkling of supernatural ability. An inhuman ancestor, long ago, passed down abilities through the bloodline. After hundreds of years, only small traces remain. In Lok, this manifests as persuasive skill beyond the realm of natural human ability.

“You’ll like it, when I bring you down. All the way down. But when you come back, I’ll be waiting right here. And I make consciousness hurt.”

~~

(Read my first fic starring Lok here)

[kaddyssammlung]

Give - Analysis

Video:

Same thing as text:

“You take the dark and carve me out a home”

This is very beautiful. But why would you want to be living in the dark?

“I picture you when you are all alone”

This makes me think about “I want to have you to myself”. I guess he means Sleep?!

“I know how we got here”

That makes one of us. I would still like to know how and where they met. I mean him and Sleep. Was is in the dream world? Does he mean the astral?

“I am the shadow, you're a passenger”

This makes me think about Carl Jung and his research. I did dive into his work thanks to the lyrics. You can find a lot about his work on YouTube. With the shadow Carl means something that we once knew or were aware of but then have forgotten about it. When you compare Carl's journey and also what we know about Vessel with this whole “Sleep thing” you will find a lot of similarities between them. I could write a whole article / do a whole video about it. I will just leave it at that for now.

“I am the intake of breath so sharp and I know you better just want to know you better”

This makes me think about taking deep breaths. It is something that I do quite often. I find it calming.

I really like doing one particular mediation from Dr. Joe Dispenza at the moment where you have to take a deep breath and then squeeze certain body parts really hard. It's in order to activate your pineal gland. For some reason I have this connected to this.

“If you want to give then give me all that you can give”

I really like this. It reminds of the all the sentences starting with “show me” in Jaws. It feels like he wants someone to be truthful.

“all your darkest impulses”

This makes me think about Carl Jung and his teachings again. Maybe he means the “shadow self” again.

“I'll tear the fibre from the filament I'll be the limit of your light again”

It makes me think about something that “Master Eckhart” said. He was someone who lived in Germany in the 12th century.

He says that the eye through which we can see God is the same eye through which God sees us. He means the pineal gland.

I said this many times that Vessel probably knows about the powers of our pineal gland. It's emphasized on all of his masks and on the new “choir masks” also.

For some reason I have this connected with this.

“I want to taste you better”

As usual, it's self-explanatory but who could he mean.

And also why taste? It makes me think about “Vore”

“I will be watching for your enemies to let them know that they contend with me”

I find this really interesting yet I don't know where to place it. Putting down the roses picking up the sword?! Does he mean Sleep? If so then this would be even more interesting because what enemies could Sleep possibly have?

“I want to know you're out there”

Is this something or someone totally different? Someone protecting Sleep? Or Vessel? I have no idea! Sometimes I do think about my relatives who have already passed away and think about where they might be. It kind of reminds me of this.

“In this open warfare I won't fight fair No, I won't fight fair”

He calls it a warfare. It makes me think about the “war allusions” from Higher. I still have no idea what he could mean. I mean I do have a lot of ideas but I don't feel like putting everything in here. It could mean too many things.

“And in your waking moments I will be there”

I still don't know. He says this many times but I'm still not sure what he means.

[ectogeo-rebubbles]

for the wip ask game:

"decorate her bones"

Thanks for the ask!

(for this WIP ask game)

This one's also for a Sapphic Summer prompt (also the prompt was actually "decorate my bones" but I guess I misremembered it when titling my document lol), and also has the same tiny word limit so the hard part is making it short enough. But anyway, it's angsty messy Kira/Keiko (Kira POV), with lots of weird vague feelings about pregnancy and bodies and the Prophets. For some reason it's first person POV??? And kind of in present tense?? Honestly the POV and tense is maybe the weirdest thing about this fic (jk, the fic is actually VERY WEIRD, BEWARE). Anyway, this is the whole draft, I still need to cut like 50ish words, and idk which precise ones lmao (and I want to add more!!! bc some parts still need better flow!! like I know there's parts that suck!!! but they are still IMPORTANT, you know???? if I can't figure it all out by the end of that event I'll just let it be the length it wants to be and post it, lmao).

Snippet (well, whole entire draft this time actually) under the cut:

When we first met, you defined yourself based on your disbelief in the Prophets, and I couldn’t imagine ever getting along with you. You—not just you, but all of you—represented a less self-aware version of the Cardassians, here to extract as much from us as you could. (Though my perspective shifted somewhat when my own religious leaders threatened you and your students with violence.)

And then… You carved a hollow into me and planted a piece of yourself within, pushing my organs prettily out of the way to make room. You didn’t mean to, but it happened: somehow, I was carrying your child, whether by accident or fate. Our blood mingles, now, in the veins of the baby named after me. 

I still haven’t moved out. I can’t quite leave, not until you’ve kissed me enough to make up for every wound you’ve inflicted. Because we’re burrowed deep into each other now. Fingers trace where our shapes have changed, where our skin stretched too far, our shared scars of motherhood. My tongue pushes past soft lower lips covered in hair and you ride hard on the ridges of my nose until you’re shaking, until you’re all I ever want to taste…

When you’re done, you bury yourself between my thighs. You’ve made analogies before to sea anemones and ferns to describe what I look like to you, but the Terran references are lost on me, so I prefer it when your mouth’s occupied as it is now. 

It bothers you when I cry out, praising the Prophets, but I’m not changing the way I express my joy. So we hold each other, hot and breathless. Knowing it won’t last between us, knowing all we’ll have left someday are our names carved into each other’s bones.

[revoltinggirl-urethra]

growing pains are an interesting thing to consider, especially since i've always been a bit of a late bloomer. and i don't mean the literal kind necessarily, moreso the emotional and social sides. sure, the first puberty results in a ton of new physical sensations and shifts, but you can also see a grander sense of self arise as well. except middle schoolers don't quite have the practice at being a capital p Person yet that comes from years of having this social awareness under their belts. so they're bumbling, awkward, brash, shy, and so on.

i am going to do my best not to ramble too much. each time i go to start a new sentence i think of three things i want to say simultaneously and its resulted in a number of meandering paragraphs with no purpose (like this one ;p). i trust anyone who reads this (if anyone even does (not that it really matters)) to be able to do so without my millions upon millions of disclaimers and elaborations and vain efforts to contain the entire scope of my thoughts as well as their infinite addendums that strive to acknowledge the depth of discussion that i am not engaging with, because if i didn't allow myself to just fucking say the thing i would be here typing until the heat death of the universe. holy fucking shit dude that's all only three sentences. physically restraining myself from deleting that entire post-intro preamble and MOVING ON

so. i was a late bloomer. i've always struggled with this. the people around me seem to move through life at a pace i'm not quite capable of. i remember anxiously waiting for hair to finally start growing on my body years after my friends had fallen prey to voice cracks and gangly growth spurts. between this and my short and scrawny body i've always had a bit of a complex about my masculinity. it felt like something that others found very natural and yet i was constantly having to work to maintain mine. i once got very upset at a girlfriend who would not stop calling me cute. i wanted to be handsome, i wanted to be hot, i wanted to be desirable and respected as a Man. cuteness reeked of femininity and emasculation, of a debasement that felt awfully validating of my inkling that my grasp on manhood was tenuous at best. it's bad enough to think it, but now other people thought it too, and worse, they Liked it

as i got older i approached this issue by carving out a niche into masculinity that felt more comfortable for me, as opposed to trying to live up to an ideal that i didn't fit into. i began taking pride in looking bad. i grew out my facial hair despite being very aware that it was sparse and scraggly and unseemly, clad myself in garish, loud and clashing clothing, and played up my voice cracks for comedy. being me became a comedy performance, and it was around then that i think my fixation on finding social acceptance through humor really blossomed. i found that if i discarded my shame and made myself a spectacle purposefully, it became a kind of confidence that many people were attracted to.

this isn't to say that i didn't find genuine happiness in these things, whatever "genuine" means in this context. making people laugh made me very happy! it's satisfying, and almost nothing on this earth compares to a strong audience reaction to a piece that is honed as closely to perfection as possible. i took to theater like a fish to water because i think that i carried that infamous fourth wall with me anywhere i went. i was content to plop it down wherever and whenever i felt and make myself into a kind of show. behold!! an iconographic class clown, the ever-watched ADHD wonderboy! David himself is democratically constructed in the purest fashion! go ahead dear audience member, cast your vote with nothing but a laugh, and see as your pleasure becomes flesh manifest.

i'm getting pretentious. i'll back off it a little. the point is that i've spent a very long time struggling incredibly hard to figure out who the fuck i even am. i am obsessed no longer with an ideal of masculinity for my fixation is now one on an ideal of the self. as i say that i think that they are the same hunt, merely with different labels. it just so happens that i've found masculinity no longer essential to defining who i am as a person.

my egg cracking feels very similar to that middle school awkwardness. i can see in my younger brother, who is about that age now where he has begun to conceptualize the world in firmer terms than however the fuck a four year old does it. i watch him fumble about and play at a burgeoning sense of style (inspired by the perceived men around him, including me, funnily enough. i've lent him shirts and accessories of mine a number of times now) as well as dig deeper into what he wants out of life at large. his future career is no longer a mild dream but a goal to be worked towards, and with that comes both self-actualization and the growing need to define a goal to fulfill.

i also am going through the hell of puberty once again, even though the hormones haven't come yet (working on that though, fingers crossed on my HRT consultation going well and my anxiety not making me shit myself to death about it all). but even then, isn't that the norm for me? to experience that social awakening and then have to wait for my body to catch up? i'm a bit of an old hand at this song and dance, which one would hope means i'm more adept at it than otherwise. that doesn't really seem to be the case, however, hence the growing pains in question. i've become once more painfully conscious of my body and voice and self and expression and the way that the world interprets all of that and paints a picture of me in response.

it's.... harder now, even. maybe that thought is born of the distance between the me now and the me who yearned to be a proper Man, but in this case i am striving to break out of both that masculine box and the box that i've constructed myself independently to cope with it. there's a russian doll of eggs to crack here and they only become more intimate and raw and tender as i make more progress. instead of this threshold crossing becoming one in which discomfort is assuaged by the crafting of a persona, it is one in which i escape the comfort of falsehood and attempt to come down from my stage and be "me". how terrifying! what does that even mean!

there's a concern in the back of my mind now. one that wonders if chasing femininity now is not just another side step into a box. even now, on the eve of being twenty years old, i have not really figured out what it means to be content or happy with something. it's hard for me to conceptualize joy and to recognize it as it happens. or perhaps i can recognize it, but acknowledging it is what is hard. because it is true and real and things that are true and real are a little foreign to me. i'm making strides to remove the performative filter and in doing so exposing myself to a world of sensations, and well, it's overwhelming.

it would be easier to stop. it would be easier to sink back into this role and play the part of David the Man.

but just as much as i hope becoming Lily will be "good" for me, i must consider that remaining David will be "bad".

it's aggravating that there is no real way to quantify this, but that's just sort of how the cookie crumbles i guess.

but for now i am Lily. my name is Lily. my friends and family all call me Lily. i am a girl, even if i don't look the part yet, even if the painting that the world constructs based on the input i give it contradicts this idea. because that painting has always been wrong anyways. it's always been subject to my own manipulations and i am well within my power to separate my Self from it, because that's how it's always been anyways.

[verycharmingmonsters]

Billy Pilgrim

It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever. (Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five)

Is it 2023 for you?

It is not always 2023 for me. For me, sometimes for a second, or a spell, or a stretch, it is once again April 17, 2016, or it is a fragment of 2018 that I can't quite place on a timeline, or it is a jumble of moments from 2019, or it is no time at all.

Do you ever think about how you experience time? How it is that you have a sense of things proceeding along in a forwardly direction? How your perceptions and sensations arise into awareness, slip away like a falling tide, and then are tucked neatly into the orderly narrative of your life? I used to know time this way. Now, I have a new kind of time. I have yesterday, and today, and yesterday-today, and now-not-now, and now, and sometimes I am free falling, and sometimes I can't find tomorrow. Sometimes, I have to make an effort to remember when I am.

In my living room in March 2023, I open social media. I see photos of my friends smiling, laughing and dancing at an event. I swipe through the next photo and the next. I am happy for my friends. I mildly regret missing out, but I look forward to the next time.

I swipe through to the next photo. It is him. It is him among my friends, in the one small, safe place I thought I had carved out in this city.

I am ripped out of 2023. I am frozen. My heart is pounding. There is an immediate, urgent, real and present danger. My muscles tense up. If I had been hungry, or if I had felt nature calling, I do not feel these things anymore. It is 2019 and I need to run away, but there is nowhere to run. The threat is inescapable. It is everywhere. Now, I am in a new apartment. It is October. My friends are his champions; they tell me I am having a bad breakup and I just need time. They remind me that my relationship had good times, as if I didn't know. These are not really friends, but I don't understand that yet. I swallow. It is August and I am gasping for air between heaving sobs, bracing myself over a pedestal sink in a sweaty, moldy wet room in rural Vietnam, while he screams at me that I am insecure, weak, sniveling, insane, just like my mother. There is nowhere to go. I am trapped here. I see my face in the mirror. There is clear, sticky snot running down my face, dripping off my chin. Is there a mirror? Or am I outside myself? No, here are my hands, gripping either side of the cold, white sink. But why can I also see the curve of my back? Now I am curled in the fetal position on musty grey sheets. How did I get here?

This moment does not know its place in history. It fell off the timeline. It is whenever it wants to be. I force myself to breathe in-two-three-four-five. I pause. I am drifting out of 2019. I breathe out-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight. Pause. Again-two-three-four-five-pause-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight. I count five things I can see, four things I can hear, three things I can touch, two things I can smell, one thing I can taste. I keep breathing. I am intently focused on my breathing. It is 2023, and I can see my phone in my hand. There was danger, but it is not here in this room. Not right now. My body is catching up with my breath, but it is protesting. Are we safe? Are you sure we're safe? I'm not sure how to answer that.

I will spend weeks trying to persuade my recalcitrant body that we are safe and firmly planted in the here and now. It has been a while since we fell out of time like this. I use the tools I learned in 2021. Breathing. Self talk. Gentle, slow, mindful movement. Healthy foods. A full night's sleep. I reach out to a women's support centre and schedule calls with a support worker. She tells me to try tapping my thighs, my shoulders. Try hugging myself. We talk about EMDR and somatic release practices. I tell her the things that scare me. We talk about "lethality assessments". She has concerns. We talk about prioritizing my safety. I schedule appointments with my therapist. I tell friends that I need to take a time out to focus on myself. They want to help. I don't know what to tell them. I'm apologetic. I'm embarrassed. This again, this again. I don't want to bring this up. I want to forget it, too. I want to be okay. I want to be in the moment. I want the past to stay in the past, just like it does for you. It is hard to explain why it will not.

Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.

[here2bbtstrash]

birthday drabble 5 - jhs

@hopeandspriterecs asked: 100 and 141 please <3

pairing: hoseok x reader contains: smut!! fuckbuddies/honestly kind of a dick appt., hobi is a fuckboy and a mean dom (or is he 👀👀), a smidge of thigh riding, spitting, spanking, fingering (actually just clit stim but shhh), he doesn't put a condom on - don't be stupid like hobi, dirty talk, jealousy????, prepare for whiplash summary: you swear this is the last time you're doing this.

want more? check out all my birthday drabbles here! requests for these are now closed 💜

You know that Hoseok is bad for you.

You know it when you get that trademark late night text from him, nothing but a string of explicit emojis, and you wonder why you haven’t blocked his number yet.

You know it as you drive to his house, not even needing to put the address in your GPS anymore, because you have the route memorized.

And you know it when you knock softly on his front door and are immediately pulled in and slammed up against the other side.

“Hi baby,” he purrs. You wonder if he remembers your name.

Hoseok loves to chat, probably one of the things that lured you into this trap in the first place. The way he asks you about your life like he cares is dangerous for the part of you that still struggles with untangling sex from love. You know very well that this man can only give you one.

“How was your week?” He asks, slotting his thigh between your legs. Your body responds instantly, grinding into the firm surface he’s provided you with.

Your usual reaction is to demure, say it was fine, maybe bitch a little about work or the weather. But you’re annoyed with yourself tonight. Annoyed that you keep saying yes, keep crawling back to this man who can’t give you everything you want. And all for what? Some dick?

So you decide, fuck it. You’ll tell the whole truth. Tilting your chin up, you meet his gaze with a coy smile on your lips. “I went on a date.”

Hoseok’s eyes flash with something indecipherable, his mouth stretching into a wide grin. “A date, huh? Well, it can’t have gone that well.” You almost laugh. At least he’s self-aware.

“It was actually great,” you correct him, and it’s true. Hence why you’re so pissed off at yourself for even being here. “I’m going to see him again next week. I think I like him.”

“Aw, baby,” Hoseok coos, and in one swift motion he pulls your shirt up and over your head, bringing his mouth to your neck once it’s off. His voice is dripping with sarcasm as he speaks against your skin. “Don’t tell me you’re breaking up with me.”

You shrug, bumping into him with your shoulder. “I don’t know. This might be the last time. I want a boyfriend.”

You’re surprised to hear him make a soft ‘tut’ noise, kissing the back of his teeth with his tongue. “You say that now, but I know you’ll miss a few things about me.”

Against your better judgment, you’re feeling sassy tonight. “I can’t think of anything,” you say flatly, and his fingers dig so hard into your hips you expect to see bruises tomorrow.

“You know what happens when you talk to me like that,” Hoseok warns, his voice drained of all playful emotion, now low and deadly serious. “Is that what you want?”

You level your gaze on him, feeling dangerously invincible. “I didn’t come here to talk, Hoseok.”

It feels like you don’t even get the words out before his hand is gripping the back of your neck, hard. You inhale sharply at the feeling. With the smile fully extinguished from his face, you can admire the severe, perfect lines of his beauty: straight and clean, like he was carved from marble.

“Open your mouth,” he instructs, and you do it instantly. The hint of a smirk returns to his lips. “Looks like you’re still mine tonight.”

When he spits in your mouth, you moan a little despite yourself. He knows just what to do to you, always has.

Hoseok applies a little more pressure to the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze as you swallow hard. “Yeah, you fucking like that.” His thigh is pressed tight into your center now, enough that you can feel the ache of your cunt throb through your whole body.

“So needy,” his voice is nearly chiding. “We’re not even gonna make it to the room, huh? You need to get fucked like a whore right here? Is that it?” He’s got you flipped around and pinned up against the door before you can even answer the question. He already knows he’s right.

“Strip,” Hoseok barks, and you can’t get your clothes off fast enough.

You hear the jangle of his belt and pants hitting the floor, and when you return to brace yourself against the door, he’s on you instantly, one strong arm pressing firmly on your back until you’re arched and presented for him the way he likes.

The head of his cock teases your entrance, and you lose any ability you had left to pretend you don’t need him.

“Hoseok, please.” You have to stifle a yelp when his hand cracks down hard over your ass.

“Don’t ask me for shit,” he growls. “I’ll fuck you when I’m good and ready. Until then, you’re gonna stay just like this.”

You’re wincing already in anticipation of another slap, so it takes you by surprise when he brings his hand up to cup your sex instead, long fingers sliding through your drenched folds. It’s impossible to hide the effect he has on you.

Hoseok’s voice is close now, purring in your ear again. “You’re dripping on my floor, baby.” The pet name makes you shudder, and it’s paired with a heady moan as his fingers start to circle your clit.

“Fuck,” you breathe, and it only encourages him to work faster, falling into a steady rhythm. With your hips kicked back and your legs spread wide for him, you can feel the arousal he works up as it runs down your thighs. You’re sure his view of it must be obscene.

You have to rest your head against your forearm as your mind spins with pleasure. You were so prepared for pain, or at least a rougher touch, that this is sending you to the edge alarmingly quickly.

“Feels good, huh?” Hoseok’s voice is just barely above a whisper.

Your stomach flips. If he works you all the way up like this and then denies you release at the last second, you don’t think you’ll survive. Your legs are already trembling with how badly you need to come.

“H-Hoseok,” you can barely choke out his name now. His touch is unrelenting, dizzying.

“Could he make you feel as good as I do?”

Your breath catches at how sincerely he asks the question, not a trace of his cocky attitude to be found. “N-no,” you whimper, because it’s the truth.

His cock is suddenly teasing your entrance again, and your knees nearly buckle. He presses the tip of it flush with your core, and when you hear him groan a little, you realize he must be able to feel the way your walls are starting to flutter.

“Hoseok,” you gasp. “Please don’t fucking stop.” Something like terror rises in your chest now that you’ve said it out loud. You’ve given him a perfect punishment, should he choose to use it. You think you might cry if he does.

But you feel his other hand move over your hip, and his touch is so gentle. “Not gonna stop, baby. Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

And then he thrusts into you all at once, and your orgasm rips through you. It takes everything you have to stay upright against the door as you pulse around him over and over, crying out at the overwhelming fullness of him unexpectedly inside you.

He groans at the way you squeeze his length so tightly, and then he withdraws from you just as quickly. You look back at him with a soft whine at the loss; your cunt is still quivering, clenching around nothing as your climax subsides.

“Bedroom. Now.” Hoseok orders, eyes darkening as he brings a hand to his cock to slowly stroke himself. “I’m fucking you until you forget his name.”

[orange-plum]

So I was commissioned by @andrastesassets to write about the scene in “Satan and Me” where Satan gives his wings away for Natalie, but from his POV. This was kinda a big turning point as a wake-up call in the series for him, as you’re probably aware if you’ve read past that point and seen him be more open with his feelings and such. Anyway, it was a fun little thing to explore (yes, this is canon thoughts of his). I never expected to be commissioned to explore deeper into a canon of my stories that hasn’t been put into words before with the images alone of the updates, but I’m def open to that in the future!

Without further ado, here you go.

The looming presence behind him paled in comparison to the disorienting lurch his stomach gave as he kneeled on the unwelcoming cement floor. Keeping his gaze down, concentrating on the little tremors of his arms holding him upright, Satan struggled to properly see through the fog of stress clouding his mind. Clouding his judgement.

Fuck, this wasn’t the right thing to do, was it? Was he being too hasty? Should he spring up and sprint out the door before he followed through with something he couldn’t come back from? This was definitely one of his more impulsive and reckless decisions he’d ever committed to. Nothing could truly be worth this kind of –

Satan’s hand twitched, starting to rise as nerves got the best of him, when a blur of orange and maroon hovered on the edge of his peripheral. For a brief moment, he found himself vaguely wondering what the smudge of color was in the expanse of drab brown walls and muted trim. 

Reality came crashing against him like an unforgiving tide for what seemed like the tenth time this morning. Sweat gathered at the base of his neck and he swallowed.

Satan returned his palm flat against the cement, locking his joints and muscles into place so that he would not stand up. His stomach did another discombobulated lurch.

Right. This was for Natalie. Natalie, who had no right looking so gray, Father, she was like a corpse.

She is a corpse! His mind howled the confirmation at him, leaving his breaths shallow in his welling panic.

Yes, that was true. It had been true for hours now, yet, somehow, the complete depth of what that really entailed eluded him in his denial. How could she be dead when she had talked to him only moments ago? Human’s lives had always felt fleeting, but had any ever felt quite this temporary before? 

Less than a year they had been together . . . How had she burrowed this deeply under his skin? When? Satan tried to conjure a memory to pinpoint the exact moment Natalie had become a constant in his life as he bore his back to Death and Pestilence. In the end, it was fruitless. Between his ears remained endless static.

The tension in the air was suffocating. His arms trembled, but he kept his jaw clenched.

He would give them no further satisfaction when taking the last bit of value he still possessed of his former self. They would not see him fall apart at their feet. That could come later, when left in the privacy of this cold, dreary room, where he could lick his wounds and recover in peace.

He was still Lucifer, the Morning Star and omen of destruction to all who opposed him, wings or not.

But, fuck . . . Father, he would prefer to keep his wings.

Somehow, boneless and lightheaded from the trauma of the morning, Satan noticed, with a small sense of intrigue, that his back actually felt heavier now that it was empty. How was that possible? 

The long gashes where the trunks had been swiftly carved open spewed boiling trails of lava down his skin, soaking into the hem of his robe and pooling Great Lakes onto the floor. Energy had left in his limbs the moment the numbing kiss of Death’s blade breached his muscles.

On wobbling legs, Satan rose in his shock and joined Natalie at her side. He carefully reached toward her, gliding the tips of his fingers against her ashen cheek, almost afraid to touch, because she looked exactly the same. What the hell? She looked no different than when she had been splayed out like a weathered ragdoll amongst her bedsheets at sunrise, goddamnit. 

Before he could garner enough strength to turn on his company and spew venom and vitriol from his lips, Satan froze. Warmth wafted over his fingers under her nose as he lowered his hand. Closer inspection revealed the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The nauseating cramping in his stomach abated so suddenly, he almost keeled over right then and there.

“Give it a few minutes,” Death commented over his shoulder, as if reading his mind. There was no longer a smile in his voice, his face a neutral mask as Satan glanced at him with gritted teeth, the sight of his former pride being folded up and collected like loose laundry too much to bear. “It takes a little while for a soul to acclimate into their body after death. I assure you, her color and liveliness will rekindle when she wakes up.”

Through the haze, Satan vaguely realized he must’ve been making some type of suspicious face when Death suddenly snorted and shook his head, his eyes gleaming. “For all we’ve been acquainted, Lucifer, you should know I’m not one to break my word. Give my regards to little Natalie when she rejoins the land of the living, won’t you. As always, it’s been a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you and your brother again when the time comes for your big day.”

With the room empty, peppered only with the soft sounds of Natalie’s breaths and the distant echoes of Death’s laughter down the desolate hallway, the elephant in the room was no longer avoidable. Satan slumped against a wall, transfixed by the rise and fall of the chest beside him. Even more so as the rosiness began to fill Natalie’s cheeks the longer she breathed life into her form.

His previous adrenaline had left him a hollow puppet, now that there was no longer the turbulent cocktail of anxiety and doubt weighing on his shoulders. Satan allowed himself to drift to the floor, lying beside the only person he had ever met who had compelled him to do something so utterly foolish. Jesus, her daredevil stunts to ground him at his lowest points seemed to have rubbed off on him, and likely not for the better.

Satan’s wounds throbbed at the edges, a constant reminder of the magnitude of what he had just done.

Don’t think about it, his mind lethargically reminded. What’s done is done, so don’t start regretting it now.

“Prophecy child, huh . . . ” Satan muttered, his arm leveraged under his head like a makeshift pillow. The light cascading through the windows almost seemed to light up Natalie’s hair in its luminescence. Amongst the carnage splattered around them from his sacrifice, she was ethereal and without blemish.

He had found out about the Child of Prophecy by chance, becoming enraged at the notion of being kept in the dark so late in the game. Natalie’s existence had changed from an everyday annoyance to one of unbearable burden.

She had the power to sway him? To sway his empire and everything he worked for? A being like that, who would steal his autonomy or cast him spellbound, was too dangerous to fraternize with. There was just too much on the line to risk throwing away for some goofy, loud-mouthed human without an ounce of self-preservation.

And so Satan had done the only logical thing he could think of at the time: He ran away, leaving her with that pitiful, crumpled face as he rejected her in that inconsequential Oregon town. The less time he spent with her, the better off he’d be.

Only . . . That had not played out as he’d hoped. Watching Natalie disappear over the side of a bridge had been like a bolt of electricity coursing through his body. That she would see him as the monster that he was, a grotesque monstrosity that even Michael had recoiled from, and attempt to help him, regardless? Well . . . Perhaps there was more to Natalie McAllister than he had originally considered. He’d cradled her close and winced while he repaid her kindness by accidentally boiling her alive.

Oregon was a wake-up call.

Natalie had piqued his curiosity, her smiling reassurance that she didn’t befriend monsters jumpstarting the heart in his chest that he had presumed stopped functioning centuries ago. Not only that, but he had no way of knowing he would soon find out that running toward the very man attacking her and her cowardly little friend, despite the blatant terror in her eyes, was only the tip of the iceberg.

“Oh,” Satan muttered, something foreign flooding into his chest, emotion catching in his throat as he stared at Natalie’s slumbering form.

Silencing Hell for him at the cost of her soul . . . 

Calling him her guardian angel. Crying, not for fear of Hell, but for fear of being separated from his company . . . 

As much as he wanted to deny it, the fondness in Natalie’s eyes as she smiled at him was undoubtedly genuine. She really did seem to look at him like he hung the stars above her head.

“I love you, Lucifer. I’m glad I got to meet someone like you.”

Satan trembled, unable to properly sort through the sensations overflowing from his chest as Natalie’s eyelashes began to flutter. Champagne bubbles tickled his stomach, and though not required to breathe to live, he felt so remarkably breathless at once.

So that’s what this is, Satan distantly thought, watching pale eyelashes finally parting to reveal a cognizant gaze, blinking against the trickle of sunlight warming her cheeks. When meeting Natalie’s eyes, he couldn’t keep the smile of relief from his face.

Satan understood that he had never experienced this before, but he somehow knew what to latch onto in his jumbled mind with unquestionable conviction.

I love her.

[typhoonvash]

'Okay. Cool and collected. Calm down, Stampede.'

Vash clears his throat as his eyes drift back up to Wolfwood's face.

'Be normal. He's just in a towel. No big deal. Oh fuck—his back is just as attractive—no, no, we're fine. We're cool. Stop. FLEXING. You're really just gonna trust the knot like that—?!'

His thoughts explode in his brain like the finale of a fireworks show. He can't control the rapid-fire impulsive thoughts as they make it through his awareness without a filter. There's a long, slow blink as he tries to settle his heart down.

'Why is he staring at me like that, what am I—?'

Self-consciously, he looks down at himself in the blazer and tugs on the sleeve.

"... Sorry, I can, uh, take this off if you want. I just thought it'd be funny, since you left it behind, and... you know. But, um, I think I look good in it, kinda! Maybe I should get one of these," his hand reaches to scratch the back of his head—his nervous tic, "I think I'd need to keep the turtleneck on underneath though. Don't think people would wanna see my chest like they would yours."

His chest is definitely something worth looking at when it's in the blazer; now that it is out of the blazer, revealing pierced—cold—piercings and plenty of body hair to accentuate his... features... it may as well be what artists talk about when looking for a muse.

Vash hasn't yet picked up any kind of art skills. Maybe he should start.

This thought brings his mind back to the wooden carvings in his—Wolfwood's—pockets. He's a bit of an artist if he's doing that.

The blond sets the brown bag on the floor, starts removing items from it, and places them on the small table. It's a lot of food, but Nicholas probably worked up an appetite with his job. The job that Vash said he'd join him to do. Oops.

And then.

And then.

"Why, you want me in your pants so bad? Go on, get us started."

He freezes in the middle of picking up a container of soup, and looks up at him—which is a terrible idea from this angle. Though his big blue eyes reflect a kind of innocent wonder, his mind is anything but.

"Yes?"

Vash just about drops the soup right there, immediately flusters to correct himself.

"I—I mean—I have pants you can wear, if you really want to—or need to—you can, uh, do whatever you want to in the room, no judgement here!"

'Whew, just move on like that didn't happen just now. Yep.'

His face can't get any redder, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"The uh, um, the food is all out on the table now! So we can 'get started' now, aha..."

Wolfwood lingers just outside the bathroom threshold. No limn of steam follows him, and cold-cold water has a certain tightening effect that even the most enhanced of physicality cannot escape, especially around the stark glint of silvery metal, just like the cross on a chain hanging against the damp-curled hair of his chest.

One hand clasps the knot of the white towel wrap, just beside the dark trail descending from his navel. The other, with easy flexes of arm, rubs and ruffles the smaller terry atop his head, leaving him with a tousled fringe of shaggy cowlicks. Enough not to drip, at least.

Vash struggles. He struggles and he looks.

And he's still wearing the blazer. Buttoned up over the taut black turtleneck. The jacket is big around the chest but he fills the shoulders perfectly and there is something about black on black, loose-tailored over tight, that draws the eye. And it does. It does draw the eye.

It draws eyes left undefended. Nick left his sunglasses back on the sink to dry, and there is nothing to conceal any part of his face, and this was a mistake. Right? Wolfwood is perceptive, even as he holds himself at arm's length and all the wisdom (or lack thereof) jams up in the back of his brain and snares on the tattered remnants of his filter.

"Yeah."

What is he affirming? Clothes?

A beat of pause, a tic of a swallow and bob of Adam's apple, and he turns around to toss the hand-towel back into the bathroom, peering at the open shower curtain. Something puckish, impish, sees him rolling his shoulders and flexing just a touch - contrapposto with a dimpled back and the glaring white of brand-scars stretching out below his nape. Movement. Cording and easing of muscle beneath tawny skin.

Vash is looking. May as well show off. Stupid. It's stupid. He's feeling stupid. Maybe he got too much sun. Maybe the taste of sugar stuck to his tongue. He braces against the door frame, perilously leaving the towel unclasped though the knot holds. There he leans and stretches, snatches his lighter, cigarette pack, and sidearm harness off of the back of the commode.

"Nah. Soakin'. Gotta keep the Sunday best for tomorrow."

Whatever that entails. Nicholas is not known for carrying many spares. At least Vash has spared his jacket the sweaty fate it would have had otherwise.

"Why, you want me in your pants so bad? Go on, get us started."

With food. Probably. Right. He gestures on a pivot back around, meandering his way closer to drop his harness on the bedside table.

[pleasantanathema]

Pray to Me

Pairing: Shinsou x Fem Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Gods!AU, Rough Sex, Too Many Norse Mythology References

Word Count: 8.5k

         The frigid waters were laden with blood and ice, the salty waves licking the bows of long boats as they accosted the shores. The dark waters of the bay looked black against the fresh snow, churning oars sending sprays onto the docks as warriors returned home.

           You stood among the crowds, whips of snow billowing past your reddened cheeks, your arms crossed in protection across your chest. Despite losing the men within your family to raids and battles long ago, you always came to welcome back those who were fortunate enough to receive homecoming. Upon the sails of the ships was the symbol of your earl, dancing proudly against the winds of winter as the men and women beneath them hailed their successes from summer and autumn.

           High upon the prow of the leading ship was a carved figurehead, meticulously crafted in the image of Skoll, the wolf who hunts the moon. The wolf’s jaws were wide and within his wooden tongue was an etching of a crescent moon; the wolf with his prey in his maw was a symbol of Ragnarok, a symbol of the return of chaos. And upon the prow was a man you had never seen before.

          The man was all shades of violet and violence. His hair was the color of crushed mulberries, the long strands pushed back and wet from the sea, so deeply purple that it looked as if you were to touch him, your palms would stain with color. Blood, russet and old, crimson and fresh, was splattered across his cheeks. A warrior’s tattoos stained the expanse of his chest and arms; the thick, blue lines were heavy and sprawling from the wood ash buried within in pale skin. And his eyes, they were purple and bright, painted with black kohl. The dark smears ran down his impressive cheek bones and curled up from his eyes, appearing catlike. The curious orbs resembled the farthest stars that lined night sky.

           You expected murmurs from around the docks, but it was as if the man belonged there, towering over all the rest, hands pulling at the mouth of the wolf within the wood. He was silent power within the snow, lean and muscular, body on display as if the storm did not touch him. You felt drawn to him, like he was looking for you high upon the prow. Your feet moved before you could think. You wanted to be closer, to have those violaceous eyes upon you.

           You moved in front of the crowd, standing by the edge of the water, sand and ice crunching underfoot, but when your eyes darted to find him, he was gone. There was no trace of slick purple hair within the throngs of people. Disappointment settled into your spirit and wearily you traveled home to rest.

           For weeks you dreamt of him, saw shadows of him within the corners of your vision; illusions of a dark cat in your windows, a tawny owl upon barren branches.

            Some nights you dreamed you were sinking into a vast violet sea, trying to swim upwards to break against the surface, to breathe air into your lungs and call to Odin to rescue you. But you were stuck, some unknown force pulling at your ankles and keeping you in a watery, nebulous purgatory just below the surface. You would always give up, allow yourself to float within the celestial unknown of the eerie, mauve waters, allow yourself to feel weightless and accept that you were no longer in control. The undercurrents would push you, bring you into strong, waiting arms, and you would awaken, breathing in and feeling like for a brief moment you were whole.

           No one you asked had seen the purple haired man, save those who returned from raiding in the East. One warrior told you that the man you saw upon the prow of the ship was a land spirit, brought with them from the Balkans after blessing them with the gift of fire and aiding their struggles to survive as the weather turned bleak. Another relayed that the man was a spirit of the Wild Hunt, a straggler from the ghostly procession that attached himself to the fleet and brought the callousness of winter with him. No matter what they believed him to be, they had all seen him, the man with violet hair and violent eyes.

           You knew that the sisters were calling to you from The Well of Fate, whispering the future that they had laid before you. Something about the purple haired man, whether he be man, vestige, or spirit, made you believe that you were fated to meet him again.

           Nearly a full moon cycle passed before your curiosity could take no more. In the dead of night, you wrapped yourself in your cloak, ignoring the shadows and wisps of eyes in the dark as you made your way through the sleeping village.

You found yourself before the Seer, ancient and decrypt, asking for him to translate the gods’ wishes and intentions for your life.

           “What questions do you have of me?” His voice was as rickety as the bones that adorned his hut, rattling from stray winds. He had lived hundreds of years and now dwelled between life and death, an interpreter between gods and man.

           “Wise one, I desire to know the gods’ plans for me. I have dreams.”

           “What dreams have come to you?”

           “I dream I am drowning within the bay, and that a man saves me, but only after I stop fighting the currents.”

           There was a pregnant pause between you. The Seer considered your words. Your thumbs fiddled within your lap, and you felt heavy, like you were under the gaze of more than just the ancient one.

           “A precarious quest awaits you, one that will take you between worlds, to the land of the gods.”

           “But I do not understand. I do not adventure, nor travel. I am only a simple healer. What kind of quest could await me?”

           Below hooded eyes you watched a black tongue escape his mouth, worrying across dry lips as he pondered your words. Only a few times in your life had you visited him, well aware that fate was already the master of all, even the gods, as even they were subject to fate just like any and all other beings.

           “You shall go past where the fence separates us from the place of self-willed beasts, finding refuge in that which is chaotic, anarchic, and wild.”

           “But, Seer, I do not—.”

           “Yes, child, I know you do not understand. But such is the way of prophecy, only to be understood when it has happened, and it is too late to change it.”

           You stood to leave, seeds of fear sprouting within your spirit.

           “But do not forget there is order within the chaos.” His voice crackled like fire, calling out to you as you left his home, forging a path through the snow to your own.

           The foresights of the Seer lingered within your disposition, the cryptic words reverberating through your mind and taking hold in your daily life. You started to fight the currents in your dreams, only to wake gasping for breath after monstrous beings pulled you into the abyss. The warm arms of your illusory savior felt farther away than ever before. The murky glooms in the crevices felt stronger, grimmer, the oppressive eyes of darkness following you from every corner, every winter shade.

           Your hands began to slip as you tended to the wounded, your thoughts becoming absent as you crafted medicine or supper, often burning yourself over fires or forgetting ingredients. You felt lost, abandoned by the gods, but still yet you prayed.

           Winter continued to rage on, with the moon living within the sky at all times of day and bathing the world in a constant dusk during the desolate midwinter. Every night before you made for bed, you trekked behind the village to the isolated temple to the gods. No one was ever there. The summer raids were over, the men safely returned with riches aplenty, which, along with the great harvest, had left many believing that the gods were in good spirits and were bestowing ample blessings upon their dedicated supplicants.

           But you, you felt no love from Asgard, felt no promise of Valhalla waiting for you.

           The temple was hardly a sanctuary at all, just a hut overrun by dormant vines and overgrown with dying grass, with an altar for blood sacrifices tucked away against the back wall. Despite being a devoted village, most saved their prayers for their pilgrimage to the great temple in Uppsala, but you had become desperate. You needed to feel closer to the gods, to find the place beyond the fence that was foretold to you.

           You knelt upon a broken stone, obedient hands upon your knees as you began to pray.

        “Odin, all-father and far-wanderer, may you grant me wisdom, and    courage,

         Thor, grant me your strength, wield your hammer to break the barriers that hold my mind,

         Baldr, the beautiful, beloved by all, please bestow upon me joy and light,

         And Freya, mother of beauty, the völva, help me to discern my fate—.”

           Your prayer faltered as you heard steps crunch upon the grass. But the sound wasn’t of footsteps coming towards you, more like someone shuffling, shifting their weight within the temple.

           You were not alone.

           All your instincts began to fight one another. Your mind wanted to flee, to spring your legs and send you running to safety, but your heart felt like you needed to stay, to speak into the twilight for answers. The conflict led to you staying still and being silent. Your hands fisted upon your thighs, your eyes closing tightly. Whatever was there would go away, whoever was there would leave. Maybe there was nothing there at all, only the spirits playing tricks on you again.

           “And why haven’t you called out for me, little one?”

           The voice sounded like vibrations from within the deepest ocean; deep, unfathomable, and a little wicked.

           He was there, before you, arms across his tattooed chest that was on display under emerald linen and violet head cocked to the side. He was grinning, like a cat would upon discovering new prey. His purple hair was arched into wild plumes, his skin rubbed clean but the kohl still upon his cheeks and around his eyes. He was handsome in the firelight, fiendishly so.

           “Who are you?” Your voice was a whisper, so light and airy it floated away into the darkness.

           “Who am I?” He laughed, leaning against the sacrificial altar, a blatant disrespect for the gods.

           “Who am I…” he repeated it, drawing circles in the dirt with his toe. He shifted his weight back and forth for a moment, eyes closing as he picked up an imaginary rhythm.

           “A creaking bow, a burning flame, tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake…”

           Your breath caught in your throat, fingers twitching in your lap. You recognized the pattern and knew what words came next. It was an old saying your mother used to whisper under her breath, a chant for the old women and those who held superstitions. It was a warning, a rhythmic song to help children remember to stay safe, to avoid perils.

           Your mouth opened before you could stop it, finishing the proverb for him.

           “The sons of a king, an ailing calf, a witch’s flattery. No man should be such a fool as to trust these things. For they are the trickster in disguise.”

            “Aha, so you do know me, girl. Yet after all this time, I’ve never heard you pray to me. Why is that?”

              He crouched down to your level, his startling, devilish eyes gleaming like amethyst. He was too close and you felt yourself leaning away, back arching and neck aching as you tried to pull yourself from his gaze.

             “No one prays to you, trickster god.”

              He merely shrugged, a strong hand reaching for you. Rough fingers found your chin, pulling you closer as his eyes danced across the planes of your face. You began to shake, overwhelmed by being in the presence of perhaps the most dangerous god.

            “And how do you know I am he?” he laughed, thumb running over your lips, “I could be Heimdall, sent by Odin to watch over such a devout and…fascinating little creature.”

           “Because you’re so…” you paused as you looked for the words. You felt like you were drowning within his gaze, falling to the ground even though you hadn’t moved since he appeared.

           He stood quickly, turning on his heel and smirking.

           “Because I’m so what? Handsome? Charming? Surprisingly muscular for a god who uses wits and magic to seduce his subjects?”

            He pouted at your silence, wanting more of a reaction.

          “What if I told you I could be beautiful instead? Would that hex you?”

           This time he didn’t give you an opportunity to respond. Within a haze of smoke, he transformed.

           A languid, sensuous body appeared between the mists. Voluptuous breasts met your eyes, smooth thighs peeking from beneath an exquisite olive dress. Long, violet tresses fell down the woman’s back, curling so perfectly she looked to be unreal. But his eyes stared at you from the feminine face, dark lavender and sinister upon high cheekbones.

          “Hmm,” she sighed, holding her hand out for you to take.

          You took the soft hand outstretched to you, surprised at the strength behind the grip as she pulled you to your feet. The goddess was tall and slender, and she gazed at you while she pondered whatever was on her mind.

          “Still not as beautiful as you…” her voice was melodic as she looked over her own body, swaying within the graceful skin for a moment before catching your gaze and stopping. You stood still, heart pounding in your chest as you gazed at the hermaphrodite before you. Her lashes fluttered as a familiar smirk spread across her features.

          It was as if she was floating when she neared you again, purple hair uncontrollable and suspended within the air. Her tender hands came to your cheeks, pursing your mouth with her thumbs.

         “No…nothing is as beautiful as you, little servant.” Her supple lips overwhelmed your own. You gasped, hands flying to her chest to stop her, only to have your fingers sink into the luscious valley of her breasts. A chuckle fans across your face, more masculine than feminine, and the mixture of the voice had shivers of excitement and pleasure racing down to your toes. You were too shocked, too scared to kiss back, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her lips moved against yours gently, pleadingly, only becoming more active when the delicate hands upon your cheeks converted to thick fingers and rough calluses.

           Before your eyes the god shifted again, returning to the fetching masculine figure that he was before. You could smell him now, taste him, like smoke from smoldering coals and the residue of rain from within a summer’s forest. Your hands were still upon his chest, your fingers brushing against the skin that was on display between the open buttons of his tunic. His kiss was intoxicating, a hum of magic upon his lips as he drank you in.

           “You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckled, licking your lips wantonly before pulling away.

           “Why have you been haunting me?” You demanded between heavy breaths, emboldened by his kiss.

            “Haunting you? No, no. I’ve been watching you. Observing you. You looked so…sinless among the throngs when I sailed in all those weeks ago. I must say I am very pleased by the things I have seen.”

            “And what have you seen?” Your voice snapped; tongue sharp.

            His hands caressed your upper arms, eyes glancing across your body as if he was admiring a pattern within runes that he had seen a thousand times before.

           “You serve…everyone. The gods, the people in this village, you tend to the weak spirited and the broken bodied, you serve everyone but yourself.”

            The god grew quiet, leaning forward to inhale the sweet scent of your hair. His lips pressed to your temple, thumbs stroking your arms through the thin fabric of your clothing. His breath fanned into your hair and you suddenly felt your heart begin to beat more slowly. It was as if his presence alone, his touch, could calm the raging turmoil within your mind.

            “Now, I want you to serve me.”

            “Yes,” you said too quickly, a knee buckling as you prepared to kneel, “of course, anything for a go—.”

           “Shinsou.” His hands held you in place, kept you from bowing to him. He watched as your head tilted and your brow furrowed, obviously wanting to please him. “Shinsou is the name my friends call me, and as shall you.”

          “Shinsou.” You tentatively said the name back to him. Your people knew him as Loki, but to know a more intimate name made tingles of warmth spread across your chest, like he was entrusting knowledge unknown by mortals into you.

           He became violet and beautiful as you said his name, a warm smile decorating his striking face. The safe feeling of your dreams washed over you. These arms, his arms, his hands and his body, were the safety you had been dreaming of that saved you from the tumultuous seas. You stared at him for a moment, hands feeling a heartbeat within his chest. He looked so human, felt so real, yet still an otherworldly air swirled so poignantly around him. Everything inside of you wanted to fall into him, to feel enveloped by his spirit.

        “I’m going to take you away,” he whispered it, hand trailing from your arm to your face, tucking hair behind your ear in a most affectionate way, “you’ll never have to come back here, unless you want to.”

        “Take me away? To Asgard?” Your breath hitched as you said the name of the haven of the gods.

          He laughed, the sound like honey dripping across your soul.

         “No, little one. I am of the giants; don’t you remember the ancient stories? To Jotunheim we will go.”

          Your brow lightened, remembering the words of the Seer. Jotunheim, your brain wracked over the word, letting it roll within your thoughts until it revealed what you were looking for. Útgarðr, you realized, the name of that same place given by your ancestors. It meant the world outside your own, the world of chaotic wilds that surrounded Midgard. The place beyond the fence.

         This Loki—this Shinsou—was indeed fated to you after all. You felt the connection from the moment you saw him sailing in the winter winds, felt it even more profoundly as he held you before him in the temple. For some reason, the trickster god had chosen you, or perhaps he was merely following fate, testing you for all this time to see if you were truly the human girl destined for him. He was a sign of change, his hands wrapped around the prow of the ship that was carved into a symbol of Ragnarok, the end of the cycle of this world. He was proving to be a carrier of the end times, at least the ending of your own mundane life. And just like Ragnarok, you had a feeling that with this end would come a new beginning, that Shinsou was taking you away but leading you to a new life, a new destiny, far beyond what you could ever imagine.

          “Take my hand,” it was a polite command, his words weighty but light enough to promise that you could decline.

            You felt something between his fingers, a quietness, a wickedness you could not quite name. It was like a dull thrum of lightening humming between your skin and his. Billows of smoke weaved between your bodies. Just as quickly as he transformed into a woman, Shinsou had you whisked away, transported so rapidly you felt dizzy. You clung to him, your godly refuge, light flashing as your feet found new purchase upon what felt like a floor.

            For a moment, you thought the room was a mirage. It was unlike anything had ever seen before, so lavishly decorated with lush furs, viridian curtains, polished stone and warm fires. Books lined every wall and the air smelled of perfumes and incense, even a fountain sprung from stones in the far corner. It was truly unearthly, but his arms around you felt like home.

           His head rested upon your shoulder from behind, his palms flattening on your chest to feel your heartbeat as you took in the sights around you.

           “This is…this is your home?” One of your hands gripped a muscular forearm.

            “Mhm, more like a home away from home, a safe haven.”

             He uncurled himself from you, a stout hand pushing at your lower back to urge you to explore. You padded around the room, fingers caressing the spines of books along the walls, finding many in languages unknown to you. Between many of the tomes were vases and trinkets, some glowing with mystic hues, humming with magic well beyond your comprehension.

           “What will you have me do here?” Your breath caught as you turned to find him. He seemed so large and ominous within the space, like was the commander of the room and the only ornament to be admired within the vast collection around you.

          “You haven’t figured it out? My, and I thought you were keener than most mortals.”

            He rolled his shoulders, sighing with content as he removed his tunic, tossing it into the air to only have it dissipate before your eyes in a bright flash of magic. His tattoos seemed darker in the dim light, like the blackest earth pressed into his skin. A serpent trailed down one of his impressive biceps, his other arm decorated in a swirl of runes and etchings of a wolf and a horse, his chest covered with a dark, ethereal depiction of Yggdrasil, the world tree, it’s branches spreading across strong pectorals and its roots weaving between the hard muscles of his stomach.

         “Come,” he motioned to you with his fingers, “come back and touch me.”

          You had no hesitation, coming to his call like a pet would their master. It felt safe to be back in his arms again, to have your fingers running over the indigo lines of art upon his handsome skin. He proudly showed you his arms, eyeing you with great interest as you admired him.

         “Your children,” you mused softly, tracing the pictures so marvelously stretched upon his musculature.

        “Yes,” he laughed softly, “my children. Call me sentimental, if you must.” The enormous snake was no doubt Jormungand, the serpentine dragon that encircled all the oceans, all of Midgard. Then there was Fenrir, the ferocious wolf that was chained away somewhere from all humanity and gods alike, in wait to break his binds and eat the world as the end began again. And then there was Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse that bore the weight of Odin in all of his battles. They were all wild creatures, the offspring of the unfathomably powerful god before you. They were all beasts of anarchy, yet they looked so beautiful upon his skin, so harmless within the ink.

       “Order within the chaos…” you whispered, echoing the words of the Seer.

       “I want you.”

       His powerful voice rumbled from within his chest. It startled you, caused your wandering hands to cease upon his arms and become still before him.

       “Why?” Breathless. You felt breathless.

        “I have traveled every inch of the nine worlds, regarded every corner for fascinations and enthrallments, yet it was in the homeland where I found what I wanted. You are the most beautiful, pliant little create I have ever beheld, and I want you within my bed.”

       “No, you can’t! I’m nothing, no one of importance, you…you can’t.”

        He left you then, smirk adorning his features as he sauntered to his bed, waiting for you to follow. And you did, an unspeakable urge to touch him, to follow him, to feel him, to be overwhelmed by him, drawing you to him like a fox to its den, to its safety.

        “Well, if you don’t want me, my brother Katsuki would give up his fates in order to have such an alluring woman within his sheets.”

       “Katsuki?”

        He paused, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, that playful grin still upon his lips.

         “Thor, if you rather. We all have many names, but I only want mine to come from your tongue. So many nights I waited to hear you pray to me, call out to me within your dreams, but I tired of lingering. So now I will have you say it, scream it, for me, little servant.”

         He pulled you into his lap, hands greedy upon your flesh, pulling at your thighs and sinking between your ribs. He looked untamed upon the bed, hair almost purposely unruly and muscles rolling and ready to hunt what he wanted to take.

         “Do you think you can do that for me? Pray to me? Call out for me like you need me?”

           Thick fingers gripped at your cheeks; violet eyes hazy like storm clouds above the ocean. You were reminded that he was a devious deity, a shapeshifter, a trickster, the one thing that your elders warned you about as a child. A burning flame, tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake, he was all those deceitful things and more. He was the epitome of chaos, yet he had chosen you, desired you, and you knew that deep within your spirit you wanted him as well. He was handsome beyond compare, but his physical splendor was not all that had you holding onto him. Behind those eyes was a promise of release from every woe, a chance to experience pleasure like you had never known before.

         “Yes, Shinsou, whatever you desire.”

          “So devoted to the gods,” he whispered, bringing you flush against his body, “now I’ll make you feel like one.”

          Slowly, he ran his hand downward, finding the intimate, remarkably soaked place between your legs. He could feel your wetness from beneath your wool coverings and a satisfied groan builds within his throat as his lips curl even more sharply, devilishly.

         “So wet for me already,” he chuckles, wrist flicking and sending your clothing away.

         You gasped, feeling the threads peel away from your body by what felt like imaginary hands. Just like his tunic before, your shirt and trousers were gone, whisked away to perhaps another dimension never to be seen again.

        “Look at you,” he boasts, keeping one hand tucked between your slick thighs as the other rakes across your curves, pinching, pulling, teasing at your flushed skin, “not even the goddesses compare to you. Mhm, thank the All Father for breathing life into you, I must thank him for creating such beauty.”

         Your mouth could barely stammer a thanks. You were beguiled, stunned within his lap, your legs stretched over gloriously muscled thighs. You almost felt shameful to be on such display for him, but the hunger in his eyes and the hardening cock underneath told you just how pleased he was to have you.

        A deft finger began to circle your most sensitive spot, making you bite your lip as a groan burned within your throat. He was slow and deliberate with his movements, gaze catching every breath you made, every shift and roll of your body. You felt hot, unbearably so, as his finger toyed with you so languidly.

       His other hand found your breast, cupping it and testing its weight within his giant palm. His thumb grazed your nipple, circling it at the same pace and movement as your clit. He grinned as he watched you slowly come undone, felt your walls and insecurities crumbling away at his touch.

        Shinsou then took your sensitive clit between two fingers, rolling it so perfectly that it sent sparks of pleasure racing across your nerves, surging from your thighs to your toes and back again. He kept going, stroking sensually, purposely, with such expert skill that you felt you could cum just from his slightest touches. Is this what being with a god felt like? Like you were constantly on the edge of euphoria, every touch and stroke like the gift of life within your body?

      Your head tipped back as you moan, giving in to the overwhelming pleasure. He watched with glee as the column of your throat was on display for him. He took a moment to press his hot mouth against your flesh, sucking roughly against the side of your neck like he was taking your pleasure for himself. You could only moan again, the sensations already drowning you in such bliss you were surprised your inner coil of pleasure hadn’t broken for him already. He was an expert in giving pleasure just like he was the art of manipulation and sorcery.

      All too easily he moved you below him on the bed, his impressive body now hovering over your own, mouth still biting at your neck, fingers still circling your nipple and caressing your pussy.

     “Tell me what you want,” it was a soft command against the slick skin of your neck.

       “You,” you breathed in deep, breasts pressing against his tattooed chest with your inhale, “please, more.”

       “More of what? Of this?” he pinched at your nipple, tugging it and twisting it so wantonly that you couldn’t help but to shriek in pleasure for him, “or this?” his two fingers danced along the lips of your pussy, sliding between the wet folds before returning to your aching clit, swirling against it so proficiently that you felt your inner muscles clenching and begging for release.

        “All of it, I want everything.”

       “My, my, you are a greedy little thing.”

        All at once, he ceased his motions, easing the pressure upon your body and leaving you wanting, burning, begging for more. But he is not gone from you. His fingers, coated in your slick, tauntingly trace over your clit once more, so light it’s like the kiss of life just barely brushing over your delicate flesh. You began to writhe in response, needing more friction, needing more of his touch, but he moved his weight upon your body to suppress you. He was teasing, purposely neglecting to give you the stimulation you so desired.

         “Any time you want more, you say my name, little one. Say my name and I can give you everything you desire.”

         “Shinsou, please.”

          He groaned, he himself coming undone at the sound of your voice. He couldn’t even begin to explain how gratifying it was to hear his name come from your lips. He was no fool of a god, he knew no one prayed to him, but he wanted you to pray to him more than anything he had ever desired before. Your songs of praise would fill him in ways a mere mortal could never fathom; your prayers, his name from your mouth, was more intoxicating than any substance Odin had ever created. To have you, a devoted child of the gods, calling his name while he stole your faith away from every other god and claimed it all for himself, fulfilled him beyond measure.

        His touch trailed lowered, finding your puckered pussy pulsing and waiting, ready for him. He entered a single finger, a heavy moan of approval ghosting against your neck as your inner walls contracted around him, pulling him deeper into you.

        “So fucking tight,” he lifted his head, finding your eyes closed and pretty mouth agape, “I can’t wait to have my cock in you.”

          Waves of pleasure rocked over your body as he moved his finger within you, curling it to massage the fleshy walls, quickly finding a sensitive spot to stroke against. His palm pressed against your clit as he buried another finger into you, the two digits working in tandem to spread you, spear you onto his thick fingers, pushing them far into your depths. Every plunge had you gasping, bursts of bliss spreading across your skin like flames.

         His mouth returned to yours as he fingered you, hot and heavy, but his kiss felt controlled, like he was holding back. You reacted quickly, pushing up into him with all your strength, arms circling his neck and pressing him for more. You wanted what he can give, all of it, and you showed him with your actions. Your hands fisted into those vivid purple plumes of hair, tugging as your hips began to match the speed of the hand working within you. You moaned, loud, desperately, your tongue prodding his lips. He graciously accepted your tongue, opening his mouth and wrestling against you. His tongue licked your own, slow and wet, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness.

        “Shinsou,” it was a murmur against his mouth, but he heard it, soaked it up and began to thrust and curl his fingers faster than before. You cried out at the pleasure, mouth falling from his.

         “You like it a little rough, hm? You’re so easy to read, my dear. I am going to make you cum so hard you’ll be begging for all that I have planned for you.”

            His words had your cheeks and ears burning with a blush. He only grinned, choosing to prop himself onto one arm so he could watch you. With every flick of his wrist, every move of his fingers inside of you, he watched your face. He watched how your lips curled, how your jaw clenched. He felt your hands twist in his hair; felt how you would pull on the violet strands in desperation when he touched the perfect spots. His eyes scanned your body as well, watching what made your breasts bounce, your stomach clench, your walls tighten around his fingers. It didn’t take the god long to discover exactly what made you tick.

          He rapidly increased his pace, using his newfound knowledge to make your body feel like it could explode at any moment. He touched you just right, plunged his fingers so perfectly as to keep you on the edge of your euphoria for as long as he could. Truthfully, he could’ve kept you in suspense forever, but Shinsou was not a god known for his patience. He wanted to watch you cum, wanted to see your face when you came around the fingers of perhaps the most reviled deity. One even you wouldn’t dare pray to.

        “You ready?” He called your name, making your eyes flutter open to see him. He saw the lust within your brilliant irises, your dilated pupils, and that sight alone had his cock harder than it ever had been before. He was no longer sure he could keep his composure as he watched you come undone.

        He leaned down closer, close enough to catch your breath within his mouth. He would’ve expected you to kiss him had you not been so far gone, so close to otherworldly release that your lips could no longer form words.

        “Cum for me,” that wicked tone of voice was back, his fingers now slamming into your body, “cum for a god, little mortal.”

         His thumb returned to your clit, showing it no mercy as he rubbed tight, fast circles against it. His words, his fingers, his body, his breath, it was all too much.

        “Sh-Shinsou!”

          You reached a high you had never felt before as you came for him. Your head felt dizzy, like you were back to drowning within your dreams, waves and waves of euphoria crashing over you so roughly you felt like you were sputtering for air amidst the onslaught of pleasure. Your walls clenched and unclenched around his unceasing fingers, your chest tightening, your core exploding, heat blooming from every patch of skin he had dared to touch. You screamed. Over and over, the bliss felt never ending, and he baited you for even more.

       “That’s right, cum all over my fingers, just like that, just how I want you.”

        It felt like he was drawing your orgasm from your body, pulling everything he could from you. His thumb still stroked your clit, fingers still buried deep within your body as you quivered around him. Your thighs clamped around his thick forearm as you finally began to descend from your high, body loosening and sinking into his bed.

         He finally stilled his movements. He merely smirked as he watched your chest heave with breaths as you basked in the afterglow of your pleasure.

         “Good girl,” he cooed. In the haze you realized how much you wanted to hear those words again, recognized how much you wanted to please him. You wanted more of those encouraging words, more of his admiration, wanted to know how much of a good girl you really were. Your spirit suddenly craved even more, despite the world-shattering orgasm still lingering within your muscles, your blood, your soul.

        You felt empty when his fingers left you, but watched in shocked delight as he brought the digits to his awaiting mouth. He sat up before you, sucking at his skin and cleaning your slick from his fingers with a very greedy tongue. He looked wild, uncaged, like the wolf Skoll had finally eaten the moon and brought the world to end.

       “Fuck,” you whispered in awe, scrambling for purchase against his sheets as you propped on your elbows to watch him.

       He quirked a brow as he slid his tongue between his fingers, relishing your slick as if it was the sweetest honey.

       “I’m sorry, did I make the pious girl curse?”

        “I’m not pious!” You countered, feeling flustered, shaking your head and pouting as he only laughed.

         He smirked as he finished cleaning his fingers, crawling up the bed and pulling you into his lap.

         “I dare not argue, not after those delicious sounds you just made for me.”

          Shinsou quelled any words that were forming in your mind with a kiss, his lips tasting of you. You moaned against him, feeling his arms snake around your back and hold you to him. His cock was hard and heavy, now prodding against your still pulsating pussy.

         “Mhm, how will I take you?”

          It was a pondering to himself, but the words still made you tremble. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your nipples hardening as they brushed against the downy hairs of his chest. His strong hands found the flesh of your ass, lifting you to hover over his large, throbbing erection. You held in a breath, waiting, expecting him to take you hard and fast and now, but he merely teased your entrance.

        “This way?”

          The head of his cock began to spread your lips apart, warm and silken and making you drip even more than before. He sat there for a moment, using the strength of his arms to lift and drop you just ever so slightly onto his cock, each little movement making you gasp.

          But then the anchors of his arms were gone, sliding down your thighs as he laid you back on the bed. So easily he moved on top of you again, one hand gripping your thigh, the other slithering up your body to wrap around your tender, kiss bruised throat.

        “Or perhaps like this?”

         He held you against the bed, cock still hard and waiting between your spread thighs, sliding ever so gently against your pussy. His fingers flexed against your throat and he watched how your eyes flashed with want, with need.

          “I could always take you as a woman. You fell so easily into my kiss when I transformed earlier, hm? Would you like that?”

           He could feel your gulp underneath his palm, shaky and deep.

          “No,” he was smirking, plotting. His deft fingers took your hip into his hand and flipped you over, both hands skimming down your body and pulling you up onto your knees. With a stern hand he kept your breasts pressed into the mattress by applying pressure to your shoulder blades, positioning you just how he wanted. You felt even more exposed than before, your pussy open and wanting and waiting, spread before his hungry eyes like a meal ready to be devoured.

          The head of his cock was back at your opening, prodding your lips apart and slowly sinking into you with agonizing slowness. You held your breath, hands fisting into the sheets. He continued to open you more and more, his cock thick and hot. His hand on your hip constrained you securely, keeping you locked into place. The hand on your back did the same, his hold strengthening as he felt you writhe before him.

        “Yes,” he purred, cock easing into you, “this is how I want my little servant.”

          But the rocking of his hips stopped, the head of his cock now barely pressing inside of you. You breathed heavily against the sheets, sweat trickling down the back of your neck in anticipation. Without being able to see him, face him, you could only feel him. You felt his fingertips press deeper into the curve of your ass, as if readying himself, or perhaps attempting to use restraint. The hand on your back was steady, keeping smooth pressure on your skin. His thighs were solid and strong against your own, his breaths even, his cock so fucking hard.

        You cried out in anguish, your aching pussy clenching around the head of his cock.

       “Please, Shinsou!”

       “Pray to me.”

         His tone was nefarious, teasing, almost inhuman in how deeply it reverberated from within that broad chest. You closed your eyes and imagined how the sound must have climbed the dark branches of the world tree upon his skin.

      “Pray to me like you did to the other gods in the temple. I want to hear that pretty voice beg for me to fuck you.”

        That breathless feeling returned. Your heart began to race, mind rolling around too many thoughts at once that couldn’t be comprehended within your lusty haze. You hastily mulled over words within your head.

         “Shinsou…” you began, feeling his fingers begin to mark crescent moons into your flesh, feeling the tip of his cock throb within your core, “wielder of cunning, god of mischief, I beg of you, please bestow upon me great joy and pleasure, take my body as this offering to you, so that I may serve you and grant you the indulges of the flesh—!”

         With your final praises tumbling from your lips, he slammed his cock deep inside of you, stretching and spreading you and making you feel like he had set your body alight with magic. Your body lurched forward, nearly toppling over from the power of his thrust, but his strong hands kept you in place, allowing him to begin a brutal speed. Your ass bounced forcefully against his hips, breasts jostling with every thrust. One of his hands curled around your waist to your lower stomach, and he groaned when he realized he could feel his cock bulge from inside of you. He became heedless then, impaling you with reckless abandon, eager to feel your belly swell from the onslaught of his cock.

        The forcefulness of his fucking left your muscles aching and your lungs breathless. You were now moaning with every plunge of his cock, as with each stroke he lit a fresh burst of pleasure that rippled across your entire body akin to the streams of enchantments you had seen him wield.

         You felt like you were slipping away, having to fight to keep your thoughts alive as he brought you up the mountain of euphoria with just the heavy strokes of his cock.

        “Don’t fight the currents. Let go for me.” He grunted the words between thrusts.

         You allowed ecstasy to fully wash over your body, allowed his hands to guide you, hold you, take you to far beyond what you once thought the limits of pleasure entailed.

          Shinsou moved the hand from your back to your shoulder, using the leverage to pound your body back against his. You could only moan at the feeling, of being so full of his cock, of hearing his groans join the chorus of your own. You clung to the bed with what strength you have left, allowing him to completely take the reins of control and have his way with you.

          With each and every thrust, he pulled you back at different angles, trying you, testing you, watching you, seeing which way he fucks you makes you react the most. He listened for sharp cries and deep moans. He felt for your walls to flutter, your abdominal muscles to tighten, learned your body and fucked you with a chaotic yet controlled force.

         He leaned over your back, hand moving to your neck, pulling your face up from the sheets. This position has him somehow deeper, head of his cock kissing where the curve of your cavern meets your cervix, farther than any had ever gone before. He filled you to the brim, stretched you so wide you felt you could burst, the intense pleasure of it all bringing tears to the corners of your lashes.

         He brought your face closer to his, so that he can kiss your cheek as he fucks you, feel your hair against his chin, watch your breasts bounce so unabashedly from his force.

         “You like this, hm? Serving me? Letting me fuck you like this?”

         “Yes, yes!”

          He squeezed the hand on your stomach, making you moan as you felt the massive cock from inside of you press against your belly.

        “You like being so full of my cock? No mortal could ever fuck you like I do!”

        “Yes—fuck—you feel so, so good, Shinsou!”

         You could feel sweat on his skin, feel his heart beating like a caged raven within his chest. He felt so human, felt so real, but the euphoria he brought you was transcendental.

        “You’re such a good girl, such a dirty girl, for me, only me.”

         His powerful words were becoming whispers within your hair, vestiges upon your skin. You could only nod, the plowing of his cock into your core now leaving you more breathless than before. You could feel your release nearing, the flames being fanned by every stroke of the head of his cock against your walls, every push of his hand against your belly.

        Your slick was dripping down your thighs, pussy so wet that every time his cock assailed your core your ears were met with the sinful sound of drenched bodies meeting one another in animalistic rut. You were climbing the orgasmic ladder again, aided by the sublime feel of his crushing hands upon your neck, your stomach, his vast chest against your back, rough lips pulling your face into him, and his thick, repetitive cock drumming into you.

      Your mind was on sensory overload, your body uncontrollably bucking against him, begging for another otherworldly release. You could feel your walls clenching around his cock, your body pleading on its own. Pleasure was singing down your body, bringing pure delight and bliss with every pulse, every push of his cock. You were so close, so fucking close, all you needed was for him to allow you to go over the edge. You had submitted to his currents and knew only he could bring the ebb and flow of release.

     You began to chant his name in prayer.

    “Fuck yes, little one, just like that. Oh you’re so good, aren’t you?”

    “Yes, yes,” you choked out, nearly sobbing for relief, “so, so good for you!”

     “Then cum, cum for me!”

      He roared the words against your cheek, his command overwhelming you and sending you spiraling as the waves of euphoria returned, crashing over your body like a tumultuous sea. Your body crumpled underneath his and he held you, the violent tightening of your body sending the god himself over the edge. Hot cum poured inside of you, making you cry out at the magnificent feeling of being completely filled by him. Your snug walls struggled to flutter around the girth of his cock, prolonging your orgasm and making you feel suspended within his arms, gasping for breath and reveling in every dull thump of his cock inside of you.

     He held you for a long moment, hand against your belly, hand around your neck. It was his turn to bask in the afterglow of sex, to feel wholly spent and satisfied with the girl he had handpicked for himself. You were perfect in his arms, hands fisted into his sheets, lips swollen, his seed dripping from where he was still lodged within your depths. You’d let go, allowed him to have you, to take you, and there was no way in the nine fucking realms he was ever letting you go.

     Shinsou kept you within his embrace as he collapsed to the bed, inked chest heaving and Jormungand curling around your back to hold you against him.

    “Mhm, all the scheming I had to do to get you here, in my bed, filled with my cum.”

    “Scheming?” You asked into his chest.

    “What, you didn’t think all those dreams were coincidence, no?”

     You sat up to look at him, all tussled violet hair, kohl on his cheeks smeared, grin upon his lips.

     “And the cats? The owls? All those eyes on you in the dark? All that time spent waiting for you, little one. I even had to whisper my indecent plans to the Seer. Can you imagine that conversation? At least he put it into fun little riddles for you to decipher.”

    “I—I can’t believe you would do all of that, for me. You could’ve just taken me.”

    He snorted at your remark.

     “I did. My hand was forced to interrupt your fucking daily prayer time and beguile you away.”

     You nestled back to him, sinking into his skin, his touch.

     “Well, I am gleefully bewitched.”

      “And to think,” he chuckled, curling a finger under your chin and bringing your eyes to his, “all you had to do was pray to me.”

      You were far too tired for rebuttal, choosing to instead settle with a kiss. He had chosen you. And for that you were filled with adoration, filled with a need to please far greater than you had ever desired to find the veneration of any other god. It was all for him, for a god who had no doubt tricked you into his bed.

__________________________________

This was written for the Citrus Dome writing collab.

[cozycryptidcorner]

To Train Up a King, Chapter 1/5

Note: For this story, I'm going to do something a tad different. Instead of a full 10k multi-chapter story or a single oneshot, I'm going to do about five episodic 1.5k chapters that capture very short snippets of these character's lives as an experiment. I'd like to see if I can pull off full character arcs with that kind of restriction. There will be smut chapters that are longer (I think, I have them planned anyways), but the bulk of their relationship will kind of be like tv show episodes. 

Prince Naga/Assassin Reader

Chapter content: sfw, no warnings besides some innocent breaking and entering, and one decapitated head :)

He’s just as beautiful as the songs say.

This isn’t the first time you’ve crept up onto Shahira al-Malik’s balcony, flush with vines and florals, just to catch a glimpse of the famed bastard prince, but you’ve never done so intending to reveal yourself. Tonight, he’s hunched over a large, intricately carved and gold-gilded chest, silver-blond hair billowing out with the night breeze. You think he might be asleep, his scales glittering in tandem to the stars as you shift your view in the moonlight.

His room could easily swallow the entire apartment you hovel up in, large, sweeping ceilings with jeweled mosaics covering the floor and walls. Despite its majesty, you know it barely holds a candle to what the rest of the palace offers, a biting commentary to just how little he is valued in the family. Despite the bed being large enough to host a variety of characters, he seems to be satisfied with hunching over that chest, made of simple wood, an arm crossed over the top to keep his head off the distorted surface. His tail lays limply on the floor, twisting and crossing at odd angles.

Creeping around the capitol as natural to you as breathing, so even though you stand in full view of the room, he has yet to notice your presence. The bag hanging from your belt is heavy, you are careful not to drop it as you unstrap it from your waist, and even though your fabric rustles and your boots scrape at the floor when you shift, he still doesn’t raise his head.

Awkwardly, you clear your throat, and that catches his attention, head jolting up, body tensing. When he finally spots you looming over him, bag in hand, large, wicked knife at your hip, he slithers back, mouth opening to shout for help. Calmly, you raise your hand, showing you hold no weapons, and press two fingers to your mouth as a gesture of silence.

“Who are you?” He asks, but still loud enough to get attention from the guards he still thinks are posted at his door. Despite the low light, you can tell that he must have been crying, lips swollen, nose and the crescents beneath his eyes a deep purple.

“Do not be afraid,” you say, hoping to soothe his nerves with a neutral tone, “I am the assassin one of your brothers hired to kill you.”

His viridescent eyes widen with fear, his chest quaking as the idea of his shortened mortality reverberates through his soul. There are strange marks on the underside of his wrists as he raises his hands outward, as though trying to give you some wordless order. Instead, though, he’s yelling, “guards!”

He’s scared, you think, satisfied. His brother, the cocky thing, didn’t show the same fear even at his very end. “Your guards have been removed from duty for the night.”

He knows that you hold his fate in your hands, back pressing up against the chest as his tail folds itself out in front of him, as though trying to keep his vital organs guarded. As you watch him, letting him steep in that fear for just a moment more, he seems to accept the fact that he’s about to die. No whining, no pleading, a grim sort of terror keeping his body still, despite the fact you’re so much smaller than he, almost as if he’s well aware that you are so much more than your size and strength.

Satisfied that you place a healthy amount of fear in his mind, you throw the bag, and he flinches as though it might explode.

Keeping your tone soft and gentle, as though speaking to a child, you prompt, “go ahead. My gift to you.”

You don’t know what he might think is in there, but judging from his trembling fingers as he undoes the ties, you suppose that he might consider his death is inside. The moment he pushes the thick fabric open, though, his eyes widen and his chest heaves. Slowly, unsurely, he pulls his brother’s large head out from the bag, features so similar to his it could almost be like looking in a mirror.

His voice trembles as he asks, “why?”

“He wouldn’t give me what I wanted,” you say, taking a step back. “You can.”

“And what do you want?” He’s trying very, very hard not to allow his voice to hitch.

You pause for a moment, wondering how you’ll be able to put it into words. It’s a complicated thing, your desires- for you have many, and some are of greater importance than others.

“I will tell you later,” you promise, taking another step back. “This will not be the last time we meet.”

“Wait!” His voice trembles, traces of panic thick in his mouth. “How do I know this isn’t a trick? I- I could be the one to fall for his death.”

Ah, so his mind decides to start working again. You suppose you don’t blame him, you did catch him at his weakest, and you almost owe him some reassurances. Ensuring your movements are nothing like your usual quick and off-putting cadence, you tug at the scarf around your head and mouth. Just below your left eye, you have a large, gaping scar that almost looks like a cartoonishly drawn teardrop from a time when your reflexes weren’t as quick, and your sneaking skills weren’t as honed.

“How-” he starts, but you’re quick to interrupt.

“A knife,” you say, holding out your hands. “I will rid you of the head. The body will be found in the desert, plundered by bandits.”

It’s almost like a burden has been lifted from his shoulders, one much more severe than the thought of death. You know that his path to the crown is that much clearer; though the second prince would put up more of a fight than the first, it’s still one less that he has to worry about. When you take the bagged head back, he’s staring at your face, intently, though not just at the scar.

He’s trying to commit a murderer’s face to memory, you tell yourself, even though his quizzical expression looks more confused than focused.

As your fingers brush together, though, he blurts out, “you’re my age.”

You blink, almost taken off guard. “How do you know?”

“Your face,” he says, eyes roving over your features. “And voice. You’re not much older than I am, aren’t you?”

Everyone knows how old the princes are; even a crowned bastard like him gets fanfare and feasts when his birthday comes around, the bells in the mosques and cathedrals chiming once for every year he has been alive. You know you’re roughly his age, but your birthdays come and go without you even knowing the precise day, no fanfare, no gifts.

“I suppose,” you say, strapping the bag back to your hip, “though it doesn’t matter.”

“Everything matters,” he says, retreating back to a safe distance as though unsure of how much longer his good fortune will last. “I should thank you for not killing me.”

“You should,” you say, “that would have been the easier thing to do.”

“Then, why didn’t you?”

You pause for a moment, not entirely sure of how to put into words why you didn’t. Defiance, maybe, you never did like how pompous and sure of himself the first prince acted. It is definitely not self-preservation; this is possibly the most foolish thing you’ve done since you broke into that knife-obsessed banker’s house.

Finally, you settle on a simple enough statement: “I’ll tell you later. Goodnight, my prince.”

You hear him follow you as you leap from his balcony, watch him search for you in the shadows. From your perch among the trees and stones, pressed up against the outer walls of his small garden, you wait until he retreats back into the safety of his room.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

The timing of this whole thing with the campaign is pretty amazing, as it turns out. In the middle of absolute work hell and attempts to sort out my general apartment/living situation, a little while ago I entered a fic into the /r/CurseOfStrahd second annual fanfic contest. It was one of my attempts to kind of write out and process the way our own run through the module went, stretch out some poor, suffering, unused writing muscles, and it was also super duper self-indulgent. So I'm very, very proud to say it won first place amidst some really great competition, and super happy to rep my best girl Ez.

Summary: In the aftermath of Strahd's destruction and the not-quite-loss of her mentor, Ezmerelda d'Avenir sets out to tie up loose ends and lay some ghosts to rest, and continues carving out a path for herself in the Domains of Dread.

Word count: 9999, as there was a 10k limit. I had fun.

Rating/Warnings: T, with canon-typical violence, and dealing with death and loss in a general gothic horror setting. Spoilers for the Curse of Strahd module.

---

The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

Being a compendium of successes, failures, tricks, and warnings relating to detecting, tracking, fighting, and ultimately destroying undead, fiends, lycanthropes, and assorted monstrosities.

-

1.1. Introductory remarks

Their ride back to town is a quiet one. The silence is broken only once they are sitting, their hunting and travelling gear half-unpacked and strewn about, in the library just above van Richten's herbalist shop.

"Were we in any other profession, this would be a cause for celebration," van Richten's lips twist into a bittersweet wisp of a smile, and he pushes a warm cup of tea into her hands. "A demonstration of pride in an apprentice's first job well done, for all to see and revel in."

Ezmerelda tries to look up at him and meet his gaze properly, but her shoulders, her head, her eyes all feel too heavy. A leaden weight seems to have settled on every bit of her. She is tired, bone-deep, but the very thought of lying down and closing her eyes to attempt to sleep fills her with disgust and no small amount of dread. She knows exactly what she will see. The man, just on the cusp of middle age, entirely unremarkable at first... features quickly twisting into a mask of monstrous hunger, then to wide-eyed horror, and, finally, resorting to desperate pleas for mercy as the stake hits home and his screeching form dissolves to ash. 

It feels like the ash still coats the back of her mouth. The tea smells of strong herbs, with just a whiff of something even stronger that van Richten must have snuck in from the liquor cabinet. Her hands clench around the cup, and a burning need to justify and defend herself drives her to finally speak up.

"I was ready," she insists. "I am ready."

"I know," van Richten replies, softly, sadly.

The tea scalds her tongue, but she drinks it anyway.

---

Getting up from the damp, cold floor of the tomb again feels like an impossibility. She can barely keep her head above the ground, eyes stinging with a mixture of blood and sweat and the glare of pure, magical sunlight. The clawed gashes on her ribcage burn with every weak, hard-won breath, and a metallic taste coats the back of her tongue.

But she is not done yet. She has one last lightning bolt left in her, and Strahd and his dusk elf lackey are so beautifully, perfectly aligned. Ezmerelda can't keep her lips from curling up into a smirk as she raises an arm and mutters her incantation, feeling that familiar tickle of static rising all around her.

She holds on, builds it up as much as she can, teeth grinding together, ears buzzing - until she can hold on no longer, and the energy flies from her, the flash near-blinding, the roar of accompanying thunder ringing in her ears.

She sees it hit home, the first traces of foggy vapour swirling around Strahd's convulsing form, and a beautiful satisfaction fills her. 

Then, she lets herself go.

An instant or an eternity later someone is shaking her into jarring and painful wakefulness, jostling her head against the rough floor. Her mouth is filled with the bitter aftertaste of a potion, and she grimaces as she feels the familiar residue on her lips and chin.

"Fine, fine, old man, relax, I'm up," she manages, slurring the words, struggling to blink her eyes open and into focus. "I'm awake. Stop it."

But it's not him.

It is Ireena, wide-eyed gaze somehow growing wider still at her words. The reason for this becomes abundantly and agonisingly clear as she points to somewhere behind Ezmerelda... to where Rudolph van Richten lies, very pale and very still, a greater and more profound calm upon him than she has ever witnessed.

"No."

She didn't even see him fall.

"Why didn't you help him?" Ezmerelda knocks the empty potion bottle away, and it clatters loudly against the stone, finally finding rest near a streak of dark ashes. "What are you waiting for, what--"

"I tried. It was... it's too late," Ireena whispers, "I'm sorry." 

Ezmerelda feels shame flood her immediately at the misaimed anger. "No. No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I'm sorry. I just-- wait." Awareness of just where they are and what they were in the middle of doing suddenly overwhelms her, and she feels panic crawl up her spine. "Is it over? Did you stake that bastard once and for all?"

Ireena nods, mouth curling in visible distaste. "I did, just like you said to. Your last hit - it was enough to force him to turn into mist, and then, when... when he reformed in the coffin, I did it."

The relief Ezmerelda feels at that is so bitter it burns. "I missed it, then," she murmurs, and feels ridiculous immediately afterwards. Ireena shakes her head, and helps her sit up.

She allows herself a few precious moments of rest against the cold, damp wall of the crypt, eyes painfully locked on van Richten's still, still form. As soon as she feels half-capable of moving, she all but drags herself to his side. Feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything at all to help her disbelieve what is plainly before her eyes.

She finds no such thing. He's dead, and it feels like a stake through her own heart. After all her efforts, after getting into Barovia just to get the damned foolish old man off his self-destructive warpath and out, only to lose him now, to fail right at the end...

A pale shimmer falls over the scene before her, like a curtain right before her eyes. Ezmerelda blinks and shakes her head, but can't make it go away. She reaches up, and--

Erasmus all but swoops down to be face to face with her.

It takes her a moment to properly grasp what she is seeing. Erasmus. Somehow still there, his ghostly form hovering over his father's body. Gesturing at her wildly, pointing down at something, and, finally, using his ectoplasmic paint to draw... a circle within a circle, hanging in mid-air.

She follows his wordless instructions to the best of her current ability and, with some painfully suppressed reluctance, looks down at van Richten. And there on his finger is a ring that was certainly not there before.

Erasmus seems insistent and quite unusually agitated, so Ezmerelda takes the ring, trying not to register the coldness of the hand it was on, and puts it on numbly, feeling utterly beyond thought.

Suddenly, cutting through the fog that seems to have descended upon her mind, bubbling up like an idea from her own consciousness, a thought - a voice. A familiar voice.

'Ezmerelda? Ah. I see. Well, that could have gone decidedly better.'

She feels tears welling up in her eyes, an unstoppable burning in her chest. She wants to laugh until she can't breathe, or sob her lungs raw. 

Instead, she sits back against the cool stone wall. As the adrenaline wears off, she becomes more aware of the extent of her injuries: the sting where foul claws raked across her midsection and upwards; the burns of magical fire on her palms. She fishes out the last potion from her pocket, and downs it in one greedy gulp. The relief is near-instant.

Her faculties at least somewhat returned to her, she opts for a laugh as she recognises the ring for what it is. Ireena looks at her with some concern, but Ezmerelda waves it away.

"A ring of mind shielding. Protect the mind, and store the soul, should the worst happen. Of course you of all people would come so prepared."

Ezmerelda twists the ring on her finger, marvels at the detailed engraving.

"Should I... we could... there's ways. To get you back. I mean..." 

She trails off, and there is a brief pause before the voice in her mind pipes up again. 'No. No, I think, at long last, it is time for me to stop. And rest.' 

Even though her entire being wishes to rail against this, to insist on the need for Rudolph van Richten to exist, and protest the injustice (just when she'd gotten him back!), Ezmerelda manages, barely, a soft, "I understand." 

'There is still some work to do before that, though, no? Loose ends for us to take care of before, well...' 

That, she feels far more comfortable with. It almost comes as a relief. "Yes, of course. First order of business, we will sit down, and we will work out a plan. And we will stick to that plan." 

There is a soft chuckle in her mind. 

"What's so funny? You love plans." 

She imagines, in better, happier days, the old man - only slightly less old - shaking his head at her with a long-suffering smile. 

'Thank you for humoring me, is all I'll say. Now, go handle things here properly and finish up, while I think of a list of priorities for us. Miss Kolyana is waiting for you.' 

-

1.2. A brief reflection on personal experience

Ezmerelda is pulled into a room, hand clamped over her mouth. The door slams shut, and she almost stumbles as she is suddenly released.

"What in all the realms are you doing here?" The colourful half-elf carnival master hisses at her in a voice decidedly unlike the one he was just using in the downstairs taproom. Now that they are close, she can see the magical disguise of the Great Rictavio is utterly impeccable, but the eyes... the eyes are unmistakable. 

They are also flooded with the closest thing to panic Ezmerelda has ever seen in them.

"I'm here to help you. You don't stand a chance on your own."

"How did you find me?"

Ezmerelda shrugs noncommittally, and doesn't look behind him. "I have my ways."

He shakes his head. "That isn't good enough. If his agents - and there are many, I assure you! - catch even a whiff--"

She finally glances at the ghostly form of Erasmus, just barely visible over Rictavio's shoulder, unable to be perceived by the one man he wishes he could reach out to and reassure. He meets her eyes and holds his finger up to his lips.

"I recognised your horse," she says, at long last. 

"Dear Drusilla? Oh..." Rictavio seems to almost deflate at that, though his nervous pacing doesn't slow. 

Erasmus' visage shows what has to be gratitude, or relief, or both. Then he closes his eyes, seemingly tired, and the shimmering remnants of him disappear from view. 

"Damned stubborn, foolish girl..." Rictavio moves deftly around the small room, securing the shutters on its single window, locking the door from the inside, gaze darting around wildly. Then he reaches up and removes his hat, and Rudolph van Richten, looking more old and more worn than Ezmerelda was perhaps ever prepared to see, stands in his place.

"I had a plan, you know," he sighs, tossing the hat onto the bed. "One that I can now no doubt forget about entirely."

"There's no time for your endless preparation and planning. Any waiting game we try to play is a losing one. There's a young woman who desperately needs our help, a legendary weapon to be found, and there's a monster to hunt, feeding on an entire land. I've been to the castle, scouted out--" 

"You've done what?" 

Ezmerelda doesn't look at him and chooses to pace a small circle around the room herself. "The castle. Ravenloft. Getting in was a breeze - getting out was the hard part." She suppresses a brief shudder at the memory of her invisibility spell running out and Strahd's eyes boring directly into hers, as if he'd known she was there all along. "But, well, I managed. And more importantly, I found a way into his crypt."

Van Richten sits down on the bed, rubbing circles into his forehead.

"Ezmerelda, you can't be here." His voice sounds pained, almost. "You know you are not safe near me. My curse--" 

"Sincerely, fuck your curse," Ezmerelda spits. "After all these years, it can wait a few days before striking. Can't be worse than what will happen to both of us and anyone involved if we can't manage to work together on this. We have to. I tried, by myself, but..." 

She tries not to dwell on the terribly brief confrontation, the bite of the cold, cold grasp that seemed to steal the very life out of her, and her rather desperate escape.

"Ezmerelda," van Richten starts again, then pauses, and just looks at her - a long, heavy look. "Why?"

"There are still people who care about your well-being," she replies simply and softly, "no matter what you may believe." 

Then she straightens her shoulders and allows the steel back into her voice. "So listen to me. We are going to stake that devil in his lair, and we are going to get out of this cursed land. Together."

For once, he doesn't argue.

---

Their lord and master may be gone, but there are plenty of foul things still crawling around Castle Ravenloft - and occasionally crawling out of it as well.

How lucky for the Village of Barovia, then, to have a monster hunter visiting.

"...so I think that should do it for that particular area of the barracks," Ezmerelda flicks a stray bit of zombie gunk off of her bracer, then casts an apologetic look at Ireena. "But who knows what else he has buried under there."

Ireena Kolyana, the girl haunted, hunted, and tormented by the vampire, deciding she's had enough of running, turning on him and wielding a sword of pure sunlight against him. Poetic justice, if Ezmerelda fancied herself a poet.

Ireena Kolyana, looking exhausted in a very different way, now caught up in burgomaster duties, barely finding time in her overstuffed schedule to hear about the results of Ezmerelda's latest expedition to the castle.

"You know," Ezmerelda begins, eyeing the stacks of papers and growing chaos on the desk between them, "if you ever get really tired of this, and miss life on the road..." she nods towards the window, and the wagon just outside it. "I have room for one more. And could always use a deft hand with a sword." 

Ireena smiles, but the sadness underpinning it is palpable. "I can't, not now at least. There is too much to take care of here. And without Ismark..." a shadow falls briefly over her face, then she visibly forces it back. "Some day, maybe. I would honestly love to." 

Ezmerelda nods, then moves to stand up, and holds out a hand expectantly. "Come on, you have time for a walk. A minute to escort me out and say goodbye, at least."

Ireena chuckles quietly and shakes her head, but pushes away from the desk and takes the proffered arm. 

The sunlight is bright, tempered only by a wisp of white cloud here and there. Ezmerelda feels a light pull on her arm as Ireena stops on the threshold of the house for just a fraction of a moment. The hesitation is brief, barely noticeable, but the pause as if needing to catch her breath and the subsequent dawning joy - pure, almost radiant by itself - as the sunlight hits her skin--

Ezmerelda realises she's staring, blinks, and makes herself look away.

Their stroll is indeed brief, and as soon as they turn the corner and reach the parked wagon, Ireena sighs and stands half-ready to hurry back to her office and her duties.

"Hey," Ezmerelda puts what she hopes is a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know you can handle all of this. Never doubt that." 

This wins her a sincere smile. "Thank you."

Knowing there's no more point in delaying, Ezmerelda pulls away, moves to arrange her things around the wagon and prepare to leave. 

"The offer stands," she says as she climbs into the driver's seat. "Keep it in mind."

"Maybe next time," Ireena replies with another sad smile. But then she pauses for a moment, almost as if thinking something over. Then she darts in quickly, and kisses Ezmerelda's cheek.

"Don't stay away too long," she says, quietly, then draws away again. Ezmerelda nods her agreement, and takes up the reins of her conjured horses.

Ireena waves her goodbye, and stands, looking on, bathed in sunlight. 

And then the road turns, and she disappears from Ezmerelda's view.

'Well.'

"Shut up." Ezmerelda can feel her face burning. "Absolutely no need to read into things." 

'You know I mean no offense. I only want the best for you.' 

"I am perfectly fine," Ezmerelda grumbles. "Besides, this is the last thing she needs right now." 

'You don't know that. Ask her sometime, perhaps, to tell you herself. Too many people have assumed too much about that young lady, I think. Myself included.' 

"Oh, what do you know..."

There is a distinct sensation of stinging grief, never quite healed, as the voice comes again. 'You seem to forget I was young once. In love once. More... than once. And though it never ended well, like few things in my life did, the only thing I have ever regretted was not acting sooner. And regret is...' 

"... the enemy of progress. I know." Ezmerelda sighs, the old man's oft-repeated saying rattling around in her mind as she snaps the reins and takes them down the road westward. "Maybe next time."

-

1.3. Materials and methods, an overview

Her balance is off still, but the past few weeks have brought incredible improvement. She flicks her rapier upwards, then lunges - back, forth, back, forth, fully and properly bearing weight on her right side in the training yard for the first time in months. The new prosthetic is truly a work of art and a masterful display of craftsmanship. Ezmerelda feels almost giddy at the sensation of ducking and weaving under the wooden limbs of the training dummy, feinting deftly, ignoring the burn in her arm and shoulder. The maneuvers are not yet close to her peak speed and fluidity and elegance, not after the long, arduous recovery she is only now reaching the end of. But it is all so very, very promising.

It also brings to mind - because how could it not, when for the better part of the past half-year she has had more time to think, and remember, and reflect than in her entire life? - van Richten's drills. He was always far more of a theoretician than practitioner of swordfighting, but he was certainly no slouch with a blade. The precision and perfection of form he insisted on instilling in her initially seemed to clash with her more free, improvisational, off-the-cuff approach, but ended up blending with it to great effect in ways that occasionally surprised them both.

She goes through attack patterns he's drilled into her and realises she misses him, the cantankerous old man and all his frustrating ways, and suddenly finds herself fervently wishing she wasn't doing this alone. She spares a moment to imagine the amount of fussing over her he would likely have insisted on, with his overprotective bedside manner that she used to chafe and scoff at whenever one of their hunts went badly for her. She thinks of all the lovely, fleeting drawings Erasmus would have made for her.

Her next step is careless, thoughtless, distracted, and as a result only a little off. The lunge is misaimed, unbalanced, and her knee twists unpleasantly. For the briefest flash of a moment she could swear she can feel the teeth sinking in again, and the horrible tearing.

Ezmerelda winces, fingers clenched around the rapier's handle, knuckles white. Her teeth grit as the wave of pain subsides so very, very slowly, but doesn't quite go away. She remembers, belatedly, that she has an audience.

"Ah, almost there," she calls back to the artisan eagerly awaiting her feedback, voice forcefully kept steady, without turning to face them, and taps her rapier on the metal plating running up from the heel. "We'll need to make another slight adjustment to the ankle joint, I think. But this is definitely and by far the best one yet. Let me get some more practice first, and we can go over the details in the afternoon."

Ezmerelda doesn't wait to see if her words are acknowledged. She hefts the rapier back up.

---

Before she reaches the first crossroads west of Vallaki, she turns the wagon south and into the woods.

"I have some unfinished business of my own to settle first," Ezmerelda states very matter-of-factly, preempting any interrogation from the ring's general direction.

The wagon trail to the top of the hill is easier to navigate than ever, and the camp is abuzz with activity, as it usually is. But this time the feel of it all is a bit different.

Ezmerelda knows it well; the air of a caravan packing up to leave.

Arabelle sees her weaving through the horses, strolling towards the large central tent, and darts towards her immediately, then freezes not three feet away. Ezmerelda can tell plain as the new Barovian day that she is torn between looking dignified and throwing herself at her in a hug.

So she crouches down and opens her arms first, and is almost knocked over when Arabelle rushes in. 

"I want to show you something I've been practicing," Arabelle whispers conspiratorially, "but you'll need to lend me a dagger."

Ezmerelda's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she obliges the girl after only a moment's contemplation, still crouched down and one arm around her narrow shoulders.

The dagger is one of the smaller ones she usually keeps concealed, but even so it seems far too large in Arabelle's hands. Nevertheless, in a few surprisingly dextrous motions with only a couple of moments of hesitation, she seems to make it disappear - then produces it again as if out of thin air.

"Huh. Impressive. Did your uncle teach you that little trick?"

Arabelle nods, but her pride is palpable. "Papa was so mad! He says that both him and you are a bad influence and I am far too young to be handling blades."

"There's no such thing," Ezmerelda scoffs, but motions for her dagger back and tucks it away safely. "Where is your father? I wanted to speak with him."

"Luvash is busy," another voice cuts in cooly, and Arrigal steps out of the fading, scarce shadows, somehow slipping under her notice even with the bright streams of sunlight all around. "But you can speak with me."

Ezmerelda stands up slowly, and can see him sizing her up.

"Run along now, Arabelle," Arrigal says in a much warmer tone of voice, but without taking his eyes off Ezmerelda for even a moment.

Arabelle gives her one last look as she turns to leave, and Ezmerelda tries to give her a reassuring smile - but then she realises Arabelle doesn't seem concerned or reluctant or... anything at all. She seems supremely calm, and not seven years old at all.

Arrigal steps forward and, even as uncannily quiet as he always is, it startles her back into the moment. Then, he reaches out a hand.

Ezmerelda meets his gaze, steps forward, and takes it. The handshake is firm, and she smirks. "Looks like you backed the losing side, cousin."

The term of address rolls off her tongue with some bite of irony in it. Arrigal inclines his head in acknowledgement. "You can't say it wasn't a fairly sure bet. A matter of survival, of course. We do what we must to keep our people safe. But," and he draws a bit closer, as if letting her in on a secret. "I'm glad he didn't send me after you."

Ezmerelda nods, and decides she isn't in the mood for a debate. "You know, so am I. I would have hated having to kill you. Instead, here you are, in an excellent position for a little introspection, changing your ways... much better this way, isn't it?"

He shakes his head with a grin, and finally lets go of her hand. "You are a menace. But we follow the traditions, and you have a place here. Where are you going?"

"Borca," she says, and pointedly doesn't elaborate further.

Arrigal laughs. "Off to more of your grim business right away! Well, one has to admire your tenacity. You can stay, of course, and leave with us tomorrow. We will share the road at least part of the way."

So Ezmerelda stays, and exchanges news of recent caravan routes and planned Mist-traversal with Luvash. The fire roars to life as the sun sets. Tales are told, and she contributes some of her own.

"Regale us, cousin," Arrigal says, grinning wolf-sharp, arms open wide as if to encompass the entire camp, "with the story of the fall of the devil Strahd." 

Arabelle is a delight, as always. The truce with Arrigal, if it can be called that, is uneasy, but holds. The ring is quiet.

Arabelle insists on riding with her in the morning ("You did fish her out of that lake... brought her back to us," Luvash grumbles. "I suppose there's no harm... I'll have none of that monster-hunting nonsense, though!"). Her delight at the summoned magical horses is palpable, even as she tries to hide it. Ezmerelda gives her the reins until they need to enter the Mists, and is only slightly surprised to see her managing well, with just a few pointers here and there.

The whole way, Arabelle demands stories of her and van Richten's exploits very matter-of-factly - interrogates, almost, at times. Her eyes are large, intent, focused, as Ezmerelda obliges, for hours. 

"I knew you would win," Arabelle says at one point, breaking a rare longer stretch of silence between them. "Uncle didn't want to listen to me, but I knew."

Ezmerelda looks at her, matches her seriousness. "I hope he will learn to listen, one day soon."

-

1.4. Common pitfalls

Ezmerelda inches back to consciousness more than wakes, and hisses as she almost reflexively tries and fails to sit up. She recognises her own bed in the former guest room above the herbalist shop, but the details of how she got there are fuzzy at best, completely absent at worst. She is, however, very aware of a merciless pounding in her head and that she has most certainly just pulled some fresh stitches.

A swirl of colourful ectoplasm greets her when she next opens her eyes, Erasmus' fleeting but always lovely and cheerful greetings hovering above her.

Well. Ezmerelda forces a pained smile at him, knowing that if he is here, his father cannot be far, and--

Ah. Familiar footsteps on the stairs, and the distinct creak of the second one from the top, as Rudolph van Richten enters the room with uncanny timing. 

He doesn't seem to be surprised to see her awake as he gives her a quick look-over, even as concern and frustration clearly war on his face.

"I thought we had reached an agreement," he begins at last, very deliberately calmly.

Ezmerelda doesn't reply.

"I thought," he continues with that same calm tone, "that we had made a plan. That was my distinct impression of our last conversation."

Ezmerelda clenches her teeth, then grinds out, "I couldn't just stand by and let that beast--"

"You could have voiced your disagreements with the plan and brought your concerns to me, instead of running off on your own in the middle of the night," van Richten is clearly struggling to keep his voice level. "You almost died."

"Fine, I am voicing my disagreements. We know it's a wereboar. Just go at it with our silvered weapons, set up an ambush where we found its lair... why wait? Why give it more chances to hurt people?"

"To be absolutely certain we have all the information. That we have looked at it from every angle, that we have not overlooked a crucial detail. Minimise its chances to hurt us."

"But by then it might have mauled half the village to death, or worse!"

Van Richten's gaze on her is sharp. "And if we get ourselves pointlessly killed, are the villagers any safer for our hasty, brash, ill-thought sacrifice?"

"Hasty, brash, and ill-thought. Fine, if that’s how it is, how you think of me," Ezmerelda throws her hands up, and wishes she could march off, slamming a door shut behind her for good measure, as childish as the thought makes her feel.

Van Richten sighs deeply, and pulls up a chair to sit next to her bed. Ezmerelda recognises it as one from downstairs, and feels a small stab of guilt at the thought of him setting up a vigil at her bedside.

"We can't go rushing in on half-checked information," van Richten begins, after a brief silence, looking down at his hands. "We can't, because... because I have done that, in the past. And people - good, brave, dedicated people who chose to stand against evil, people who trusted me - died as a result."

"I have been wrong," he continues, still not looking up. "I have followed faulty sources without the due diligence of thorough enough vetting. I have overlooked things, and I have lost many. I will not and cannot allow that to happen again. We have to be careful, patient, and vigilant, always."

"I'm not advocating for blindly rushing in," Ezmerelda protests, "I'm merely--"

"I won't have you on my soul as well. I have far too many already."

"And I won't have any more innocents on mine! We had all the relevant information two days ago. Four people could have been alive today if we had acted on time. We were right."

"And what about when you aren't, Ezmerelda? What about when you aren't?"

Ezmerelda looks him right in the eyes, steely. "Then I will make sure I am the one who pays the price for my own mistakes."

"Oh," van Richten smiles sadly, "If only that were possible."

---

The letter arrives just as she is preparing, to her great relief, to leave Port-à-Lucine for good. It is hand-delivered by an ostentatiously dressed man in a stylised fox mask, entirely - and Ezmerelda feels her lips curl in annoyance - unassuming and usual for the land of outrageous pretense that is Dementlieu. The way he seems to disappear in the moment it takes for her to glance down at what he has thrust into her hands is also something Ezmerelda finds hard to marvel at anymore.

Overjoyed to be able to return to the relative privacy and safety of her wagon, she tosses away her old harlequin mask in the sincere hopes of never having to put the damn thing on again. Then she throws herself on the bed and focuses on tearing into the sealed envelope, absorbing its mysterious contents.

After she reaches the end of the letter's brief text, she stays very still for a long while.

'Not a name I thought I would see again, if I am to be honest,' van Richten's voice comes slowly, sounding very wary.

Ezmerelda breathes out a frustrated sigh, an unidentifiable jumble of feelings warring in her chest and burning up her throat. She tries to reply several times, then stops, and closes her eyes. Collects herself, at least somewhat, and decides to focus on the practical. "How do we even know this isn't a forgery, or some sort of trap?"

'We don't. But it is a loose end I, for one, am not prepared to simply overlook.'

"She's tried before, but I never... I don't have time for this right now, I--," she throws the letter and the shredded envelope onto the chest at her bedside, and runs an annoyed hand through her hair, again, and again, and again. Thinking, or at least trying to. 

'We have time. You and I both know it's not time that is the problem.'

They are nearing the end of their planned journey, finishing up their business with Alanik Ray and Arthur Sedgwick's latest investigations and bidding farewell to Dementlieu. And then it was supposed to be on to Mordent, to call in at the Mordentshire shop briefly, and afterwards to Darkon - to Rivalis, and the villages surrounding the old Richten estate. Some ghouls to fight off, wraiths to purge, ghosts to lay to rest, to help the villagers out, before... well. They'll come to that when they do.

Ezmerelda can't deny the detour would only be a brief one.

"A 'loose end'," she huffs. "Really."

'I am just trying to help you. Don't waste years of your life like I have, either bitter or wondering or fleeing. Confront your - our - past, at least this part. Lay it to rest, if you can.'

"The past does not lie behind us. It is part of what we are, and part of what we always will be," Ezmerelda recites, then sighs again. "Old Vistani saying."

A moment of silence. 'Make sure it is a good part, then.'

-

Ezmerelda's memory of her mother feels... not fuzzy, but perhaps a bit tweaked and twisted over the years, more by feelings overtaking it than by any fault of recall. The images of what she remembers and what now stands before her don't match, but have a strange, dissonant overlap, leaving visible in the centre a woman Ezmerelda could almost, almost imagine seeing in the mirror. One she hoped to never see again after that night of wordless parting, many years ago. 

Years of imprisonment seem to have been surprisingly kind to Madame Irena Radanavich. She has wormed her way into some kind of favour with someone powerful here, no doubt, as has always been her utterly unscrupulous way. The cell is clearly a formality, more of an office than anything, a parlour for receiving agents and lackeys, as well as bosses. There is even a chair - a worn, old wooden frame with faded red upholstery - placed a little ways away from the bars, facing them. Ezmerelda also gets a distinct impression that the guard standing in the corner is not there for any visitor's safety or protection.

The woman in the cell seems to light up the moment she sets eyes on Ezmerelda strolling into the cell space with a pretense of casualness.

"My, how you've grown! My, and yet-- oh, darling," concern seems to flood her face and voice, and - there, a subtle, wry twist - Ezmerelda thinks she catches a false, even mocking undertone to it. A flash, and it’s gone, and perhaps she merely imagined it, or even wanted it to be there, an ache for some semblance of simplicity to box this woman in. "There's both more and less of you than last time I saw you." 

"Really?" Ezmerelda scoffs, and almost wants to laugh. "All those tales I've heard of your vicious, clever, insidious scheming, and that's the best you can come up with?" She crosses her arms, and clicks her metal heel against the floor loudly. "Not an angle you can use against me, I'm afraid. Try again." 

"You wound me!" A dramatic hand placed over her chest. "Treating your own mother like that, who has never had anything but your best interests at heart. Who you've never even come to visit."

Ezmerelda slips the opened letter through the bars, letting it land on the hewn stone on the other side. Then she moves to sit down on the solitary chair.

"I'm only here because I got your letter."

"Oh! Good. My dearest Ezmerelda, I was--"

"I am here to tell you I want you to leave me alone," Ezmerelda continues, acting as if she hasn't heard a word. "For good. Forget I exist, preferably. I want nothing to do with you, and I never will. And the only thing I might want to do with your plotting and scheming is foiling it, so it is in your best interest to leave me out of it all. And van Richten..." 

The saccharine smile dips down, almost into a scowl. "And here I'd heard you'd finally seen sense and parted ways with that old fool." 

"You hear much, I see," Ezmerelda replies, cooly.

"I have my ways. My sources. People loyal to me, who have yet to abandon me."

Ezmerelda feels the swipe like an airy almost-cut of a dagger that just barely misses. "Well, here's something new for you, then. Something your little web-weaving spiders seem to have missed. You'll be happy to hear he's dead." 

"And right away you come back to me! Time to end your silly games, eh, Ezme? Good, good. A start--" 

"You have no right to call me that," Ezmerelda cuts her off, rapidly losing her will to restrain herself.

"Come now, dear. That's no way to talk to your mother, your own flesh and blood. It's about time we set all this nonsense aside, don't you think? Your family--" 

"You're no family of mine." 

"Please," she scoffs loudly. "You sound like an angry child. And... oh, really, what kind of name is 'd'Avenir' even?"

"My name," Ezmerelda replies, perfectly matter-of-fact, and refuses to even entertain further discussion of the matter.

"I wonder how you'll do," Madame Radanavich smiles, but this time the threatening edge is obvious, pretense briefly abandoned, "all alone. Playing your little games of pretend with your make-believe name. You'll come crawling back to me yet." 

Ezmerelda finds herself thinking of Erasmus, and almost believes she can see him, out of the corner of her eye. Tries not to think of what this confrontation might be bringing back for him. Thinks of the Martikovs welcoming her with open arms and offering shelter even in the darkest and dourest and most dangerous of days; thinks of Ireena with the sunsword and an entire wealth of feeling tangled in a tired, relieved smile somehow brighter than the blazing sunlight itself. Of nights around the fire in the camp outside Vallaki, and little Arabelle pulling on her coat, extorting promises of lessons in both swordfighting and divining. Of Arthur Sedgwick and his honest, caring eyes, and his patient instruction in properly using a flintlock, as his husband gleefully offers detailed scientific explanations of the weapon's workings from the side. She twists the ring on her finger.

"I'm not alone," Ezmerelda says simply, and feels resolute steel pouring back. She stops to consider her next words more carefully.

"I watched your actions and your curse destroy a good man's life. But I want you to know that you wanted to take from him, and in the end you took from me, the daughter you profess to care about so much. And now you crow at me about flesh and blood and expect me to, what? Beg you to let me come back? Back to what? A mouldy cell and as short a leash as the current master feels like giving you?"

"Bold words for one given to following an old wretch around like a sad pup, even as he keeps trying to kick you away," Radanavich sneers, then shifts back to sad pity in the blink of an eye. "Oh, yes, my dear, it's so very tragic... I've heard it all. Look at you - you're wasted on him."

"Oh?" Ezmerelda raises an eyebrow cooly, clamps down on the sting to her pride and the deliberate scrape against old wounds, and almost wanting to scream you are the reason he feared that daring to care about someone would be a death sentence for them. "And what would you prefer to be using me for?"

"How dare you! After all I've done for our family, while you throw your lot in with the man who killed your brother and imprisoned your mother!"

Ezmerelda feels suddenly tired, more than anything. "You know he did no such thing. And I've done very well for myself, despite you." 

"Have you, now? What price have you paid for your... profession? What has it cost you already?" 

"Nothing I wouldn't be ready to pay ten times over if it meant ensuring the safety of an innocent, or beating back those such as you. You still don't understand," Ezmerelda just smiles sadly, allowing only the slightest undercurrent of danger. "I'm neither lost, nor settling for anything, nor desperately grasping at a chance, nor tragically misguided. This is what I want. This-- this cause, this fight, this is exactly what I was meant to do. And I am very, very good at it."

"Oh, Ezmerelda, if excitement and adventure and glory is what you are after, I know of much that you could do! So many causes that your... talents... would be an excellent match for. You do have a certain reputation, and I know several highly influential actors who'd know exactly where to put your skills to use, no matter how they were acquired. You could do so well for yourself! Rise right to the top of the ranks in the blink of an eye, become truly great."

Ezmerelda shakes her head, and sighs, and moves to get up from the sad, solitary seat. 

"Ezmerelda--"

She quickly turns towards the bars and leans in, baring her teeth and grinning widely. "I killed the devil Strahd," Ezmerelda smirks at the look of shock she gets in response. "I think your petty schemes are a little below me, don't you?" 

She turns to leave, not waiting for a response. The guard leans back in his corner as she moves away from the bars, waving him off.

"Oh, do feel free to let your masters know," she tosses over her shoulder nonchalantly as she makes her way out. "Though I have to say I haven't really looked into whose lapdog you are nowadays." 

Ezmerelda hears a frustrated growl behind her as the sickeningly sweet, pleasant mask falls for good. As the door slams shut behind her, she doesn't look back.

She lets the noise of the city drown out her thoughts as she slowly makes her way back to her wagon, more than ready to be on her way elsewhere. Until, after a while, a familiar voice comes swimming up through her mind.

'How do you feel?' 

"I don't know," Ezmerelda murmurs, after a long silence. "Ask me tomorrow."

-

1.5. Notes on useful classification and categorisation

As she finishes rattling off the information she's gathered on a series of apparent annis hag encounters that van Richten asked her for, he looks-- well, 'impressed' is the only word Ezmerelda can think of to describe it.

In the ensuing moment of quiet, he takes off his spectacles, fidgets with them briefly, polishes off a smudge with his handkerchief. Then, he looks her right in the eye. "You, girl, are a veritable sponge."

Ezmerelda flashes him a smug smile, then remembers the other matter she wanted to bring to his attention. She clears her throat, and begins, with uncharacteristic hesitance. "I've also been looking into some... other things. Another way I can contribute, I think." 

The only reply is a raised eyebrow, so Ezmerelda steels herself and decides to go forward with her planned demonstration. She quells the nervous fluttering in her stomach, and instead focuses on the points of her own fingers as they trace well-practiced patterns in the air. With a final flick and a quick mutter of the incantation she's quietly recited so, so many nights in her room when she was supposed to be asleep, the very air around her right hand shimmers with heat. A few tense moments later, a small mote of flame appears in her palm.

Ezmerelda bites back an exclamation of joy at the success, tries to keep her expression fairly neutral, and looks to van Richten expectantly.

His eyebrows are, very amusingly, trying to climb into his hairline. "Where in the world did you learn to do that?"

She lets the little flame dance between her hands, casually skip from one to the other, flickering giddily, and feels an odd sense of relief wash over her.

"I saw it in one of your books. Almost by accident, and it... it just made a lot of sense to me, even just skimming over it. So I thought, why not? If I could get a handle on a few of the spells, I could complement your arsenal quite well. Bring more to the fight."

Van Richten nods, but there is a wary undertone to his words. "As long as you aren't making any ill-advised deals and pacts - which, I'll remind you--"

"-- are all of them. I know. Don't worry. I'm only interested in things I can glean by myself."

"Well, I'm not much of an arcane practitioner, though I am quite familiar with a lot of theory. I'm afraid I won't be able to provide any elaborate training or instruction--"

"That's fine," Ezmerelda rushes to say. "I can continue like this. The research, the books - it's..." 

She trails off, not quite knowing how and what to explain. Arcane magic is fascinating, surprisingly enjoyable, and strikes a deeply satisfying balance between being hard-won and feeling like it comes naturally to her. 

It also feels... hers.

"It's very engaging material," she finishes after a little while. She moves to close her fist and extinguish the tiny fire, but something stops her at the very last moment.

"Indeed," van Richten replies simply, and gets up from his seat. "Well, I do need to go tend to the shop, but rest assured we will discuss the tactical applications of this later today." 

Just as he is out the study door and about to start down the stairs, he pauses, and turns back to look at her, a bright and sincere smile on his face. "Very well done, Ezmerelda."

The flame flickers, ready to fly from her fingers, bursting with potential.

"Thank you," she murmurs long after he is gone.

---

It is deep nighttime when Ezmerelda shakes off the last tendrils of the Mists and sets eyes on the cliffs of Mordentshire. The wagon's wheels clatter over rain-slick cobblestones as she navigates the still-familiar streets of the seemingly unchanging harbour town. The cold sea wind makes her tighten her coat around herself, to very little avail. 

She can't say she's missed the weather.

By the time she spies the sign neatly painted with the words Herbalist - Dr. Rudolph van Richten, she feels soaked through and entirely miserable, and spends only a moment giving the place a quick look-over.

The shop is in fine shape - if she didn't know better, Ezmerelda could easily believe its owner closed it up for the night and left just yesterday. The wolfsbane and garlic in the planters underneath each window are flourishing. She makes a mental note to make her first order of business in the morning calling in on the neighbors and discussing further arrangements with Mrs. Polk, in whose capable hands van Richten has been leaving things for years.

In the meantime, she fervently hopes for dry clothes and a workable fireplace.

A quick rummage between two bushy wolfsbane plants - the second and third one on the right - produces a spare key, and Ezmerelda remembers with mild amusement her shock at this mundane weakness in van Richten's usually impeccable and overthought defenses, years ago.

"Keys," he'd looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, "are hardly a problem for things that truly want to harm me."

The little bell chimes as she opens the door. Catching a glimpse of herself in the very precisely placed full-length mirror just opposite the entrance, she wastes no time before going upstairs. The second stair from the top creaks its old, familiar reassurance.

Ezmerelda enters the room that used to be hers, in between harrowing hunting trips and trying adventures, during her years training with van Richten. It doesn't seem to have changed much - nor does it seem to be in use as anything but spare storage space.

She does her best not to think about how empty and quiet the house is, or how she's never truly been alone in it. Instead, she hangs up her coat, rolls up her shirt sleeves, unpacks some of her things, and, by the time she gets a proper fire going, realises sleep is the very last thing she feels like doing. Her eyes alight on the small desk in the corner, and she instead decides to do something she hasn't in a while.

She sits down to write. 

First, Ezmerelda takes off the ring and sets it aside, muttering a quick good night, Doctor under her breath. Then she takes out some of her collection, observations accumulated over the years - jotted down on everything from thick parchment to old wrapping paper. Combining it with the wealth of van Richten's remaining material and into something eventually coherent will no doubt be a challenge, but a challenge is not something Ezmerelda d'Avenir has ever shied away from.

It is just haphazard, quick notes on anything of consequence that comes to mind at first, carried by an odd nervous energy. A more systematic approach will have to come at some later point.

While knowledge is a key weapon in any hunter's arsenal, honing one's body as well as mind is absolutely necessary, she writes, tapping her foot on the wooden floor in a way that often drove van Richten to distraction. Many of the creatures of the night become, in their cursed states, inhumanly strong, and in such instances one must be particularly careful of engaging them in close quarters, for even the greatest strongman would be at a disadvantage.

However, not all of these encounters need be solved by violence. Many ghosts 

She pauses, pen slowly dripping ink onto the half-filled page before her, and sees Erasmus out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head to face him, and for once in their long and unusual life-and-afterlife-spanning acquaintance, she finds she can't quite read him.

Many ghosts are held in their in-between existence due to unfinished business. Tethered to some regret or incomplete task from their mortal lives, they seek resolution and closure. Many hauntings can thus be resolved by investigation, and what I must term a primarily sympathetic approach. Of course, one must also always be wary and on the lookout for deliberately misguiding spectres who seek to play upon one's pity.

The first signs of dawn creep into the room by the time she has moved on from ghosts to wraiths to trying to sort out her notes about creatures that lurk underwater - old notes that have been, to her chagrin, very appropriately and unsalvageably waterlogged.

Ezmerelda manages to light another candle just before her current one sputters out, and rubs at her tired eyes. Then she pauses, gazing idly at the ink stains on her fingers.

She reaches over for a new page, setting her current work aside. There is something else she wants and needs to write, something other than dry facts or hopefully helpful guidelines. The first few sentences come in fits and starts, but soon enough she finds them flowing out of her pen almost of their own accord.

What I would like to make clear is that this is not an inherently bad place. The lands themselves can be beautiful - wondrous, even. Worth living in, and worth fighting for. And the people who live in them do not deserve to live in fear. I, and many others, could simply leave for some better, tamer prospects, yes - but then what? Nothing is gained if we merely surrender an entire world, a collection of lands so fantastically varied and so full of promise, to a cruel, merciless, hungry night. It can't all be abandoned as collateral damage in a great punishment intended for a horrible few. I can't, and won't, allow this to happen.

Maybe the foes are overwhelming, and the fight endless. But a life saved is a life saved. A victory is a victory. One innocent snatched away from a grim fate, one tendril of darkness beaten back - that is enough. But only if we persist at it, day after day after day. And evil may be impossible to ever completely destroy, but it is far weaker and less widespread than it could and doubtlessly wants to be, in at least some small part thanks to our continued efforts.

A dour prospect? Perhaps, for some. Ezmerelda smirks to herself, and gazes down at her veritable manifesto, and thinks back to that cell in Il Aluk. 

What better life is there to lead? None, for her.

I, for one, don't intend to give up anytime soon. I hope that in you, dear reader, I can find one of like mind. And perhaps one day we shall find ourselves standing together.

She lights another candle, and continues.

-

1.6. Conclusions and remarks on future work

She clenches her hands as she steps into the sitting room that morning, decisions made after a long, sleepless night of contemplation. As if fate is conspiring against her, the first thing she sees is Erasmus, hovering over his father's shoulder. He turns to face her as soon as he notices her, a bright smile he saves just for her on his pale, ghostly face. She knows what a struggle it is for him to manifest this way, how much it takes out of him. The thought of his precious few minutes today being this... 

It takes immense effort to speak up, interrupting van Richten's apparent focus on the post strewn about the table in front of him.

"I think... I think it's time for me to go."

"Go? Where?" He blinks, looking up from his papers.

Ezmerelda swallows, but hesitates only for a moment. "I don't know," she answers, chin tilted up, almost proud. "But I know we can't go on like this. I don't want to go on like this."

They butt heads and scrape against each other constantly. Chafe and grate and, and, and. She can't remember the last time they agreed on even the most cursory thing. It has reached a level where she fears his presence will become intolerable, and anything binding the two of them together become irreparably soured and tainted.

She refuses to allow this to happen.

Erasmus has drawn a coin. Two sides. He indulges in a small, semi-teasing pantomime, pointing at the two of them as his shimmering, ectoplasmic drawings hover briefly before vanishing like so much smoke, and Ezmerelda shakes her head sadly.

"I don't want to come to resent you, that is all. I don't think I could bear it if I did."

"If you think it for the best, by all means," van Richten says simply, and leaves it at that. He never turns to fully look at her. There is an undercurrent to his voice Ezmerelda can't quite place - something deeply tired, and far more complicated than plain sadness.

It rains heavily that morning as she sets off, as if the world itself wants her to rethink this. The muddy road squelches almost threateningly under her horse's hooves as she leads him forward.

Van Richten doesn't come out to see her off.

"I'll miss you," she breathes to herself, and half-hopes it somehow reaches both of the companions she is leaving behind. But she has only the rain and her horse's steady trot on the trail for company. 

It is quiet.

---

Finally, the familiar mists of Darkon, and the countryside of Rivalis, lie before them. The inevitable, at a familiar estate fallen into quite a state of disrepair. 

'No, leave it be,' van Richten said, at her hesitantly presented idea of including returning Richten House to at least some of its former glory on their list of unfinished business and loose ends.

Still, this is where he wanted to come. At the end.

Ezmerelda never saw it in its prime. She was a mere child then, kept well away from her family's machinations. Until she was (inevitably, irrevocably) drawn in, her fate forever entangled with that of the van Richten family. But even now, in all its disrepair, rich traces of what the gardens, the orchard, and the house itself used to be permeate the atmosphere, like ghosts themselves.

She walks across the hills of the grounds, all the way around the mansion to the family cemetery. She slows as she moves up to the two most recent graves, so easy to find, and thinks, briefly, of the body van Richten insisted on being burned before they left Barovia, just in case. 

Just in case, she agreed, knowing all he knew about what foul magic and foul intentions could do to physical remains in the wrong hands, and built him a pyre.

The headstones before her are simple but elegant, as is the tidily engraved lettering on them.

Ingrid van Richten

Erasmus van Richten

'Well, here we are.' For a disembodied voice softly projecting into her mind, almost as through a mild haze or over some great distance, it is one of the heaviest things Ezmerelda has ever heard.

'A few words, if I may,' van Richten's request comes, gentle, and she nods, finding herself oddly wordless.

'I am so proud of you,' he begins, and the ferocity of it almost startles her. 'I hope you know this, always. If I have ever made you doubt this, as I pushed you away - I am sorry. I regret many things in my life, as one does, no matter what I like to say - but most of all I regret that I didn't tell you this sooner. 

You are the best of my life. But more than that, you have grown far beyond me, into a finer person than most could dream of being. And I am sorry I wasn't there for you, that you had to do so much of it on your own. But know that when I see you... I couldn't be happier, or more in awe.' 

There is a very brief pause, and then the voice softens again.

'I love you as my own, and am deeply honoured you would consider me, and that I get to consider you, family.' 

Ezmerelda swallows once, twice, struggles, then finally lets her tears fall freely. 

'Look at you. You don't need me anymore. And I can only hope your legend will far surpass anything I have ever done - there is so much ahead of you! Your light stands so very bright against the darkness. But I am glad, so very glad - selfishly, perhaps - that we were there together, at the end.' 

"So am I," she manages a whisper. "Love you too, old man." 

'Now I suppose it is time for me to go.' 

Erasmus looks at her, bittersweet pouring from him in waves, and he gives a small nod. His form flickers, and then disappears, and Ezmerelda knows she will never see him again.

She knows how the ring works, too. The soul within it can choose to depart whenever it wants to. She knows she doesn't need to do anything - that she couldn't, even if she wanted to. It brings with it a strange sort of peace. 

Ezmerelda inclines her head. "I hope you see them soon." Tell Erasmus I'll miss him, she wishes she could say. 

She spins the now-inert ring around on her finger, a habit she will need to break. She wants to tear it off, and throw it as far away from herself as she can. She wants to never take it off as long as she lives. 

A soft rain starts up, and Ezmerelda feels oddly grateful for the feel of it on her face, even as she knows there is no one here but her.

It is quiet.

---

With gratitude to the notes and tutelage of the esteemed Dr. Rudolph van Richten, whose guidance and wealth of knowledge have proved invaluable on countless occasions, and whose friendship changed the course of my life more than once.

[damselofblueroses]

The Name of the Rose, Chapter 3

Summary: Your study-buddy Doh Kyungsoo comes with you for a long-awaited trip to Tokyo, Japan. There is a tension between you, however both of you decided to build a friendship instead of a relationship.

Chapter Summary: Kyungsoo made a mistake on his delicate relationship with the reader, then he could not find a way of apologizing. Reader made his life harder than he could imagine. They accepted that they mutually have some feelings however they could not name them. Catastrophy begins with Kyungsoo’s acceptance of reader’s interesting and unexpected offer.

Content: Unestablished relationship, AU, Hurt/Comfort, Anger, Slight Violence, Emotional Complications and Healing.

Warnings: Well, the story contains NSFW/Smut, please minors do not continue.

Note: This story was inspired by D.O.’s album, Empathy, the album of 2021 in my opinion. It is an ongoing mini project, I planned to write it as a one-shot when I started, however I realized there are a lot to say about Empathy Era and I cannot stop shut my mouth, or prevent myself from writing… So, here we go.

Chapter Word Count: 5.7k

Series Masterlist

Prettier than Roses

Perhaps Kyungsoo was still punishing himself even after all this time, whether he was aware of his regrets or not. But he was punishing himself, for not being vocal about his feelings for you. He burned for you, he followed you just as a bloody puppy dog tail, but he always kept his heart’s desires in his chest.

He was resisting the urge of confessing, the dire need of being more than a friend for you as he was performing all roles of a friend, but God, he hated his role in your life. Even though he strongly believed that he did not have a chance with you, not even in the slightest, not after he played his role very well, more than he wanted and resulted in being your very dear and close friend. A friend, but nothing more nothing less. He hated so much, if he could, he would change everything in the blink of an eye.

He knew that he had to take you back to the safety of your room immediately. Before he was going to lose his shit. Before he was going to make a mistake. Before he was going to fuck the things up so bad. He was determined to take the cab and keeping you away from himself.

He did not want any distraction, shit he fucking dreamed of ripping that bloody dress off you during the dinner, he did not wish anything but managing to lock himself inside of his room before doing something stupid.

His clenched his fists in order to focus on a different thing. When he saw the cab coming to your direction, he was on the verge of praying.

However, when he turned to you, he just lost his shit.

You were looking at him with you big-doe eyes, a pout on your lips. The city lights were painting you with a dim yellow shine, multiplying your summer rose vibe. To Kyungsoo’s dismay, the wind carried your floral fragrance to him.

He remembered what you asked him.

He remembered what you requested.

Kyungsoo would do it right, he would touch you rightly and correctly, goddamn, he was fucking dreamed of how he could touch you since years. He was not better than the men you went out with, he was fantasizing a lot about you, he felt bad since he did not have your permission, fucking hell if he would ask your permission, but at the same time he knew that he was just helpless when those thoughts about you popped up in his imagination.

Unfortunately, all those dreams were so vivid.

You were like an island to him. A place for self-isolation, a place of happy utopias, a place of loneliness, a place of joy and fruitful ways of living, a place of exile and a place of connection. You were his island, his harbour and he needed to make you his, only his.

Since the day you were asleep on his shoulder in the bloody library, Kyungsoo wanted nothing but you.

Since the day you jumped in front of Kyungsoo out of nowhere with your fucking Cheshire cat grin, Kyungsoo only wished for being able to stick to you till the end. He did not care if he was torturing himself by dreaming of you when he knew he could not have you.

Your scent was too good.

Kyungsoo did not think what the heck he was doing, his mind could not catch his actions. His breath caught in the center of his throat like he was thirsty since ages, he could feel all dryness. He watched himself out of his body, he reached to you and dragged you into the cage of his arms.

Your smell was something else and Kyungsoo was immediately drunk in your scent.

“It is okey, Kyungsoo.” he heard your sweetest voice.

Kyungsoo did not need anything more to hear. The cab just disappeared into the darkness he caressed your face.

“You are so beautiful.” the words he was desperate to say finally fell from his tongue, mingled with the air. Your eyes slightly widened, and he heard your little gasp, that was the nail of Kyungsoo’s coffin. “Goddamn, you are fucking beautiful.”

“Kyungsoo” you literally moaned his goddamn name, and if there was still a kind of sanity left in Kyungsoo’s mind, your moan unconditionally destroyed it.

He kissed you and it took your breath away, both of you.

He kissed you enough to empty your lungs, and made your mind go to mush.

You were the one who broke the kiss in order to catch your thoughts. Your mind was scattered all around. You leaned over to your shaking knees and held them tightly.

“This… This…” you were panting, trying to find an excuse in the book in order to justify the kiss he gave to you.

“This means nothing.” Kyungsoo muttered but he could also reject to his claim with two reasons. First, It definitely did not fell like fucking nothing, and he never want something more than kiss you.

“Well, it means a lot to me.” you could not help but spill the beans. “Where in the hell you learned how to kiss like this?”

“I told you that you never have a proper taste of me.” Kyungsoo tensely chuckled, hell, he was aware of he was doing everything in his not-to-do list, but the spell you put on him made him impervious to anything except you.

“If you kiss every girl like this,” you hesitated to tell what you wanted to say, then you just gave up. JesusfuckingChrist, if he did not want to hear, he would better not to kiss you. Since he turned your brain into mush, he had to listen. “There is no surprise they are chasing you every day.”

“I do not kiss every girl first and foremost.” Kyungsoo’s eyebrows were furrowed. “If they want to chase me, what can I do?”

“And now you are bragging about yourself.” Your mood quickly changed into a less pleasurable and preferrable situation. “Can we go back?”

“Yes, of course.” he nod but you knew that you just destroyed everything was building between you in the blink of eye. You bite your upper lip so hard, preventing you from crying. Not now. Not before you were going to be under your blanket.

That kiss, that fucking kiss, it was all Kyungsoo’s fault.

He gave you a proper taste of himself, and you just wanted to cry, you were deeply sad because of you were not able to have him, you could not have him. He would not come to you as he boldly stated that the kiss meant nothing.

You were angry.

You were sad.

You were disappointed of yourself.

You just wanted to go back to the safety of your room and being able to talk with Chanyeol. He would understand. You knew that Baekhyun would give you a lot of advice in order to seduce Kyungsoo, but you did not want even to hear them.

He told you the kiss meant nothing.

Hell, if you could agree with this shitty statement, you would be lying your ass off.

Fuck off, you bastard you thought. You were fighting with your tears, trying to send them back. You were a big, strong girl and you could control your feelings.

You always were extremely strong, and you were famous for your self-control. You were not going to let Kyungsoo to destroy your inner peace or seeing you in tears because of his fucking rejection. You thought Kyungsoo would do it better, kissing you better, making you feel good, but the only thing he did was dismantling your foolish dreams.

He put you in your place, he gave you a lesson about your place in his eyes.

Nothing.

Kyungsoo could not look at you while you two were in the cab, going back to the hotel.

He knew that he fucked the things up so bad and he could not think a way to claim back from the pit he fell down by himself.

He kissed you, goddamn, it was the best kiss of his whole life, then he just said it meant nothing.

He cursed himself, he wished for the earth cracked like an egg and swallow his worthless presence. He made you upset, that’s why he could not look at your face. He knew what he was going to see, your eyes were going to mirror his mistake.

He lost in the moment, and while he was trying to give you a justification of that kiss, he just irrevocably ruined everything.

When you arrived at the hotel, you paid for the cab without saying a single word to Kyungsoo and directly walked to the inside of the hotel.

Kyungsoo was dying to grab you and apologizing on his knees, but your face telling him not to dare touching you.

He did not enter the hotel, he just sat on a chair in the garden. He was lost in his self-hatred, dreadful overthinking that had his skull feeling stuffed and a lifeless gaze washed all his feature.

He expected nothing but long days where the minutes bled into hours, hours into days and the inability to differentiate one day from the other. He mentally prepared himself for more than self-hatred, he knew that depression, isolation, and numbness were on their way to finish him, to eat him alive. Your face expression when he told you it was nothing was carved behind his eyelids, whenever he closed his eyes.

Kyungsoo was ready for flashbacks and nightmares, disturbing recollections that would render him for the following days.

Comatose, Kyungsoo thought. It was going to be a comatose for him.

How could he think he was better than those guys you went out? They did not destroy your expectations; they did not blend your self-confidence as Kyungsoo did in the seconds.

You did not know but there was a reason why Kyungsoo hopelessly tried to spare you from his kiss. You did not know but Kyungsoo heard a conversation between you and Chanyeol for once, when Chanyeol was telling that Kyungsoo was different for you, Kyungsoo was caring you more than anyone else, Kyungsoo was always there for you before anyone else just like he forgot how to shut his mouth as he continued. Chanyeol was the one who told you about Kyungsoo’s feelings.

And you just giggled of disbelief as Chanyeol went on about everything Kyungsoo wanted to tell you. Open your eyes to the facts.

You just laughed at his feelings coming from Chanyeol’s mouth and you told him it was impossible, you declared that there was nothing could be happened between Kyungsoo and you. You told Chanyeol, Kyungsoo was a good guy, but you did not think he was for you.

He wanted to save you from an unwanted situation which Kyungsoo could put you in by kissing you. It was sake, telling him to teach you, and Kyungsoo stupidly fell for it.

Till now he preferred to hide in the shadows, dancing around the subject than jumping onto it.

But this logic that his mind was following did not change how much he hated himself right now.

He had no regrets on kissing you, god knew that. He still could taste your velvety lips under his lips, he knew that moment was going to live with him till the end of his life. That kiss was grounding but inebriating, he was feeling sane while bringing both of you to the edge of insanity, your lips burned him like a fire.

When you touched him, you marked his skin, your touch stayed on him.

But he hated himself so much, enough to made him feel suffocating.

He found himself standing up and heading to your room before he could understand what the heck he was aiming for. The deep rumble of his chest that he could almost feel vibrate through the air as he walked through the way coming to you, helped him to prepare himself to face with you.

What could it be? he asked to himself. You could tell him get the fuck off, but he was not going to obey to your wish this time.

It was going to be a rumbling, he knew your possible reactions when you were sad, Goddamnit, you were extraordinarily upset with him, but he did not let this fact to disheartened him. He was not a coward; he was going to fix his mistake.

Kyungsoo raised his hand to knock your door, but before doing it, he heard your voice. As he thought, you were talking with Chanyeol or Baekhyun, he was not sure. He came closer to the door as much as he could, and did not give a shit to the rightful concern what if someone saw him while he was leaning on a single woman’s room like a stalker pervert?

He did not care.

He only cared for hearing your words after the incident.

Your voice was cracked, and he could not hear you properly, your voice was coming and going like a goddamn ancient radio. He could hear some words but there was no consistency or no chance of building a logical sentence of your words. He could perceive his name, with couple of words which Kyungsoo hoped not to be used with his name again, some broken lines on how disappointed you were, and he caught your oh-god-fucking-damn-it type of annoyance against Kyungsoo.

He gave up and knocked your door.

Twice.

There was no sign from you, and Kyungsoo was tired of patiently waiting.

He did his waiting. Seven years. In a fucking friendzone he put himself in.

He aggressively knocked on your door, and he did not stop until you gave up and opened the door.

“Shit.” he cursed when he saw your face. “You look horrible.”

Oh really? you thought.

After leaving Kyungsoo, you did not spend a single second to lock yourself in your secure and lonely room, then you just pressed the right numbers to make a call. Chanyeol was there for you, he listened your rambling and gibberish without a sign of inconvenience. He let you to curse Kyungsoo as much as you wanted, he joined you for the little party of swearing at Kyungsoo and he was generous on his vocabulary.

But you cried even when Chanyeol managed to put a broken smile on your face by telling you maybe Kyungsoo was not interested in girls, otherwise he had to be on his knees for you.

You cried for Kyungsoo more than anything made you cry till now.

Your sadness caught you off guard, even you did not expect to be upset with him like this, your feelings were like a blunt blade, it was turning in your heart over and over, using your own blood to be sharp again, then continuing its spinning in your heart. Pain made you numb; you could do only cry.

Your eyes were puffed and literally red. Your cheeks were red. Your lips were red.

Of course, you looked goddamn horrible as Kyungsoo, this asshole, proudly observed. Applause time for him for his greatest deduction.

“Nothing can escape from your eyes, Sherlock.” you murmured. “Couldn't you pay your attention on the fact that we already passed the midnight? Why are you here?”

“May I come in?” Kyungsoo kindly asked but something in his eyes were telling you to be on your toes and careful.

“No.” You congratulated yourself because of your refined answer. You were an idiot for sure, instead of playing with him and showing that he had no impacts on you, you chose to manifest how much you were broken by him. Good for you.

Transformation started in his eyes. Those chocolate brown and very warm eyes, reminding the deer’ beauty, perfectly shaped as almonds turned into crescents, and it was a bloody indicator of his mood was shifted into something dangerous. He was always quick to switch the moods, but he had never looked intimating at this level. You really could not believe what the heck he did, he just grabbed your fucking wrists, dragged you inside of your fucking room without your permission and pressed you on your fucking wall.

“Kyungsoo, fuck off!” you hissed at him, trying to save yourself from his iron grasp, swallowing hard.

“Tell me just one thing and save both of us from misery.” he whispered; his low-pitched voice gave you goosebumps which you really tried to take no notice of, but your traitor body willingly has been taking everything if the giver was Kyungsoo. “Why did you cry?”

“What if I do not want to tell you?” you lifted your chin, you needed to distance yourself from him, he already ruined the progress just a couple of hours ago. His statement clearly taught you whatever your friendship was not the best way to build a new kind of relationship, and you strongly opposed to be friends with benefits or those kinds of agreements. You would not go for them, you wanted Kyungsoo as your lover, not as your fuckbuddy.

“Do me a favor,” he enunciated each syllable and moved his right hand to your shoulder, pressing you into wall just like he wished to ground you right there. “Tell me.”

He leaned on you, his palm made contact with your shoulder, sliding up to your neck and staying there. His touch was heavy again, hotter than before.

He was goddamn close.

When you tried to save your body from him again, Kyungsoo’s hips rutted against yours.

Well, now you could feel more than before.

“Stop fucking moving!” he grunted, surprising you with the sudden and macho voice tone. He looked like very uncomfortable. “You and your idiotic behaviour!”

“If you do not like it, let me go!” you hissed, but you felt a knot was forming in the pit of your stomach. You were afraid of his impacts on you, especially after that fucking kiss. He had you over there as melted like a chocolate under heat.

Even while you were fighting to free yourself, your eyes unconsciously gravitated along his features, all you could do was thinking of him all the time you had spent with him. Those piercing brown eyes and those plump, smooth and heart-shaped lips that are always set in a witty line, the smallest moles and a couple of freckles all around his tiny nose and rosy cheeks, his long eyelashes, and that bloody soft hair of him, caused you to desire running your fingers through.

He was driving you fucking crazy, and you hated his power on you.

“Oh, believe me if I do not like even your idiotic side,” he leaned forward, closed the little proximity between your bodies and you felt the air left your lungs with your sanity. “I would not kiss you, damn woman.”

You were lost for words, you were run down, the only thing you could voice was an exasperated huff. Kyungsoo stared at you, refusing to loosen his grip around your body, instead he held you for his dear life and his gaze was nothing but absolutely penetrating.

You turned your head, trying to find something else to fix your eyes upon while you had been seeking the meaning of his words about liking your idiotic side.

Did he convey his feelings? Did he really stand for liking you, if he liked even your idiotic side, did it indicate that he liked all of you?

If he kissed you because he liked you, did that kiss imply more than nothing for him?

If yes, why he told you it meant nothing?

“Look at me.” his left hand cupped your face gently, on the contrary of his eyes, burning with fires, you could see the red was invading chocolate brown circles. “Do not avert your eyes.”

You blinked and shut your eyelids tightly. Suddenly, the silence in the room was more palpable than it was before, drowning both of you in a foggy swamp of riddles.

You were pissed off, broken and now, thanks to his complicated words, you were more than confused.

Kyungsoo was pissed off, broken and now, thanks to your complicated reactions, he was more than confused.

“If you were so keen on trying to convince yourself that I meant that kiss was nothing,” his jaw flexed, and his eyes were clouded. “I was trying to make amend for my fault. I should have not kiss you.”

You shivered, despite it was a very hot summer night, and Kyungsoo’s warm body made your temperature skyrocketed.

“Why?” you asked. “You do not make any sense, Kyungsoo.”

“Look, who is talking?” he rolled his eyes back. “You never make any sense about our fucking relationship since the beginning. I told you many times, pay your attention.”

You should be warned to follow the signs. Collect them and find the hidden meaning. Kyungsoo was sure on his patience, he could wait for you as much as you wished, he could give you time as much as you needed, but he had no patience to hide in the shadows anymore.

He knew that his constant shifting between one side to the other surprised you, hell it surprised even himself, he did not think about any of this, but since that kiss happened between you, since Kyungsoo got a taste of you, since he could touch you… Everything was changed.

He did not want to let you go.

He could not let you go.

He was aware of you did not belong to him, maybe you did not perceive Kyungsoo as a man, but he could not be your friend anymore. He wanted to tell you how much he adored you more than before. He wanted to kiss you more than before. He wanted to see your face when he woke up, he wanted to cuddle you when he was sad, he wanted to lean on your shoulder when he was broken, he wanted to cook for you, he wanted to sing for you, he wanted to make you happy, he wanted to make you feel good, he wanted to be your harbour to shelter from the stormy seas, your rock to build your home.

He wanted to live his life with you. He wanted to share even the smallest detail of his fucking life with you.

“I told you that I even like your idiotic side,” he clarified. “And you still avert your eyes from me.”

That ignited the fire of your soul.

“Hell, excuse me for my idiotic side but if I remember correctly and my memory never fails me, I told you that it was fucking okey just before you kissed me, after I shared my catastrophic first kiss experience with you,” your voice was not trembling anymore. It was firm, fuelled by your anger. “Then, all you could say was that kiss stands for nothing. What do you expect me to say?”

“Even if you are upset with me, talk to me!” he frowned. “I ask nothing but your words, truly and fully. Is this too much to expect? Hell, you were the one who said that I am a good guy but not made for you, why you are so upset with me because I made an excuse for that kiss?!”

It was your turn to froze. Kyungsoo finally let you go, he stepped back, and his arms crossed over his chest, but you froze to death. You could not move but looking at his unchanging expression like an idiot he just named it correctly.

“Yes,” you took a deep breath. If Kyungsoo said this to your face, it meant that he wanted you to face a revelation. He wanted you to know that he heard your words about him, the words which you vividly remember as you said them to Chanyeol without knowing that Kyungsoo was able to hear them. If he heard them, you owed an explanation to him. Maybe you were just searching an excuse in the book, but you gave up. You were going to tell him what you think of him. “It was me. I still have the same observation. You are damn good for me, if I would say the opposite, I would be lying my ass off.”

Kyungsoo’s face went blank.

What did you say to him? He wanted you to talk truly, however right now he was nothing but almost regretful what he had said to you. Kyungsoo hoped for you did not mean that for real, he wished it was just a gibberish.

Were you a goddamn fool?

He knew the low level of your self-confidence, but your statement was nothing but the shittiest one he has ever heard.

“What?” he murmured. “You think I am good for you?”

“Yes.” you nod. “Look at yourself, Kyungsoo! You are damn good at everything you do, you are clever, hard-working, funny, firm and always trustable, I even do not go for your physical quality, it is fucking obvious, you are handsome as fuck. Of course, I could not say anything different, you were not made for me.”

Suddenly, your hands became the focus of your attention, you fixed your eyes onto them instead of looking at Kyungsoo, who took his time before registering and recording your words in his brain. Then, his hands started were smashed together unintentionally.

“And during all this time,” he heard his own voice trembling, as if being blown by the brute force that he was trying to contain inside of his chest. “I thought you are the cleverer one.”

“Ha?”

“I really do not understand why I think you can follow the signs I have been giving to you like a bloody idiot.” he could not help but growled at you. “In my opinion, you are the only girl who deserves to feel fucking good, and if I can be that one to bring you to such a high, I would willingly do it.”

“I do not un-

“Because you do not want to see!” Kyungsoo could not control himself but go ballistic because of your blockheadedness. How could a woman be clueless at this level? What should he do, continue to scream at you about his feelings or should he bring a testimony that was approved by lawyers?

Didn’t you understand how much he cared for you?

Didn’t you see his almost tangible desires for you?

Everyone could sense his love for you, but you could fucking not, and Kyungsoo was burned out because of your total ignorance.

“Are you,” your whisper reached to his ears. “Are you interested in me?”

Kyungsoo decided that, on the contrary of your academic success, you were literally a retard.

“Why do you think I follow you everywhere like I am your dog tail?” he clenched his fists. Quickly, he walked towards you, but stopped just in front of your trembling body. “What do you think of me, do I look like a lost puppy?”

“No.” you were offended by his words. Dog tail? Puppy? He was not that much cute at first place with his level of being witty and shitty! However, after one look at him, you were not sure anymore, even he was clearly pissed off, he was fucking gorgeous and cute. “Shit, Kyungsoo, you are annoying.”

“You are the damn annoying one.” Kyungsoo started to question himself, he wanted nothing more than to fuck this attitude out of you right there, in your double sized bed. “All I did was finding an excuse which can make you relaxed with me, and I accepted my failure. I should have neither kiss you nor lie about it. But I did, and I apologize for my misbehaviour. Let’s look at you, you are just asking goddamn questions and ignoring my answers. Who is the annoying one?”

You whipped your head around; your eyes were glistering with a layer of tears, forming in the edges.

“Are you interested in me, or not?” you cried. Kyungsoo glanced up, he registered the sudden stiffness in you, and how you consciously averting your eyes away from him. He remembered that same stiffness invaded your posture when you wanted to learn what happened to your dad while he was in emergency, or you were hopelessly driving into Busan when you received after the news of Chanyeol’s motorcycle crash.

He finally understood what you needed to hear.

You wanted his words.

You wanted him to say those words.

“I have always been interested in you.” he gave up. Your heart jumped into your throat at his blunt answer, you did not know how you feel about this information, having a place in Kyungsoo’s head was something you always hoped for, but never believe it could be real. Half of you thrilled with a delicious excitement, while the other half wanted to run away because of fear.

What if he was going to fuck around with you then ditch you?

What if he was going to try being with you then decide to leave you?

What if he was going to pour happiness into your life, you even could not dream of, then disappear?

Your dilemma was in your head. Carved into your mind, body, and soul.

Your biggest fear was losing Kyungsoo.

“I hate this eerily silence between us.” Kyungsoo cut you off before you could dig yourself into a deeper hole. How could you tell him he was everything and more you wanted from this life? How could you make him to understand how much you devoted yourself to him unconditionally? You watched him with darkening eyes, darkening with your fears, with your concerns, with your worries. Your eyes were dark as the pitch-black. “I am sorry to disturb you. See you tomorrow morning if you want to have a breakfast with me.”

Every layer of privacy and secrecy that you desperately tried to build till now in order to keep your weakest point from him were dissolved when he directly headed to the door. You did not even realize but threw yourself in order to stop him.

“Do not go.” you let the tears fall then and held his toned arm for your dear life. You could not let him to leave you behind, otherwise you would be damned. “Do not leave me, before you really have to do.”

“Why should I have to leave you?” Kyungsoo turned back to you. You saw the hesitation of his moves, he wanted to caress your face, but he was holding himself. “I cannot do it, even if I want to. You are too precious for me, bookworm.”

Your face was softened by his rich baritone voice and the nickname he gave you. Calling you as a bookworm was reserved to Kyungsoo, he beaten the shit out of even Baekhyun when he also called you like Kyungsoo.

“One day you will, Soo.” you were lost in your nightmares, mulling over horrendous scenarios your subconscious had been giving you in a fucking row. “One day someone will steal you from me, one day you will fall in love with a girl and leave me behind.”

Something told you that you should have been keeping this logic to yourself, but you were extremely emotional at the very moment. Your expectations, dreams, fears, hopes, everything was mixed up and conjoined with the amount of sake you just consumed.

You were talkative tonight, something very rare for you and Kyungsoo was happy for that. Even though you had been going through a hell of a night. He was also oversensitive, his mind was clouded by his own dreads and doubts, however when you sharply deducted on his not-existed-because-of-you love affairs, he could not help but chuckled.

“First, I have to see the girls.” his throat was like a sandpaper as he swallowed. The rosy tint on your cheeks was obviously growing, invading your skin, and heading to the south. He hardly took his eyes off your neck and the rest of the direction. “Excuse me, but I have eyes only for you.”

“You cannot say that!” you winced, by fanning your face with your hands.

“Then enlighten me.” he defended himself. “How should I say it? Sorry, but I believe in monogamy.”

Your knuckles paled as your grip around his arm tightened.

How could you name the hunger that driving you into crazy? How could you tell him even looking at him, even if you have not a single clue what was going to be happen, riling you up? You supposedly liberated yourself from Kyungsoo, but tearing his gaze away was impossible for you.

You wanted him. So, fucking bad.

You wanted his hands. His lips. His body.

You wanted his soul. His heart.

You were starting to pull him to yourself without noticing, Kyungsoo’s eyes were widened when you took the initiative to your hands.

Literally.

“Do you remember what I asked to you?” you whispered.

“About?” Kyungsoo exhaled with your unexpected shifting between moods. He did not trust his voice, not now, not when you were so close to him, enough to feel your breath on his lips.

His throat was like the deserts of Egypt right now.

“About teaching me.” you murmured into his fucking ear. “When it comes to touch someone?”

“Yeah.” he swallowed very hard, biting a tsunami of cursing back.

“Will you teach me?” your hands wandered around his arms to his chest and stopped there. “For the future references?”

“If I were you,” he groaned. “I would not think about future references.”

You rolled your eyes, taking your hands back off his body. Kyungsoo caught your hands and put them back on his chest, while he was aggressively dragged you into his arms.

“I am going to teach you.” his eyebrows were furrowed. “How you should be touched.”

Kyungsoo was never going to forget how your eyes glowed after his words with excitement.

He was not sure but it seemed like you wanted him almost like how he wanted you.

Desperately and fucking needy.

He carried you to the bed.

[capitainelevi]

For @pufferssss, happy late birthday!! ❤️

Waiting for sunrise

Words: 2968

The first and last time Levi visits Petra`s grave.

Levi arranged his cravat again, self-conscious at the thought of visiting her for the first time. He stood frozen in place, with a bouquet of orange lilies in his hand. Her favorite flowers. Just a mere coincidence, not an effort on his part, of course. He never imagined he would visit her here so early on. Staring at the newly carved headstone, he tried to set aside the nagging thought that the earth underneath it only held an empty coffin.

What should he say to her?

“Your dad came to see me after the mission, and I had to tell him that I don`t even have a body to bring back home to him”?

“I failed in getting justice for you and the guys”?

“I miss your tea”?

The only words he could spurt out were “Hi, Ral.”

He groaned at his awkwardness and settled on presenting her with the flowers he chose for her. He could feel his hands getting sweaty from anxiousness, much to his confusion. He had nothing to be nervous about. It was just Petra in front of him. His subordinate. Petra, who fought by his side for years. Who swore to devote her life to him. Just his Petra.

Levi sat on the ground next to the gravestone, unconcerned about the dirt he would have to clean out of his clothes at the end of the day. “I hope you can hear me, wherever you are. I like to think you`re listening.” He never spent much time concerning himself with death and the life that supposedly followed it, but ever since losing them as well, he found himself wishing they were happy. He knew that those brats would be wasting the rest they earned to look over him, no matter how much he objected.

“I hope you like the spot I chose for you. It`s sunny, but you also get some shade from the tree. I thought you`d like listening to birds singing." On their free days, he could always spot Petra with a book on her lap, under the shade of the oak tree in their yard. He never dared to bother her, worried he would disturb the angelic aura of the image, content with being fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of it. He never dared get so close to the sun.

"I`m going to bring some flowers we can plant next time I visit. I know you had a green thumb.” Levi omitted in letting her know it only took a month for the plant in his office that she cared for years to wither away in his care. Or maybe it just knew Petra would never be back.

Levi closed his eyes, lulled to sleep by the quietness around him and the feeling of the afternoon sky on his skin, considering if someone would bother him if he moved to the tree trunk to nap. He craved some peace.

“I`m sorry I didn`t get to come earlier. You missed a real shit show in Sina.” He took a glance at his wounded leg and sighed. “It`s not as bad as it looks, no need to mother me.”

Without raising his eyes from the ground in front of him, Levi admitted to her in a hoarse voice- “I kept calling out orders for you, and Erwin had to remind me that you`re not here anymore. Like I could ever fucking forget.”

Despite the emptiness in his chest, he went on- “Eren misses you. I really wish you could help me manage that brat. You always knew what to say to him. Hange misses you. I… everyone misses you.” They left a hole behind that he doubted he would ever patch.

Levi cleaned off some dust from her headstone before promising her he would be back as soon as he could.

As promised, the second time Levi visited her, he got her some daisies to plant next to her resting place. After wiping his hands clean on a rag, Levi sat down against the tree trunk to admire his work. He was sure Petra would be proud of the progress he made regarding gardening. He had even gotten a new plant to replace the one on his desk.

“Tch, not talkative today, are we? That`s alright, you know I always talk a lot.”

Visiting her calmed his restless spirit. His anxiety over the plan, his worry over Erwin`s wellbeing, his longing to have his old squad by his side again, they were all pilling up for the last few days. Levi found himself losing even more sleep lately. But he would never tell her that since it would most likely end in another one of her scoldings.

“You`re missing it, the final push. The brat`s finally going to do it, he`s going to seal the Wall.” Levi hoped that they would be able to carry out the mission. That his squad`s sacrifice to keep Eren alive would not have been in vain.

“You`re not being fair, are you? You already know what we will find in the basement, and yet you keep it all to yourself. Tch, be like that.” Would it all be worth it? The pain, the countless sacrifices, and the lives lost along the way? He wished Petra could answer that for him.

He never wanted to upset her, but Petra always encouraged him to let others help him carry the burden. Levi took a deep breath before speaking again- “I think Eren misses you. He`s been going on about how he wants to visit you again. Bring you flowers. To help me maintain this place clean." Levi rolled his eyes again and the memory. "Like I would ever need his help with that.”

Levi took the ribbon out of his pocket and started fiddling with it, ignoring the slight pang of guilt at how he came into its possession.

“I hope you won`t mind I took that.” The first night he spent without them, Levi found himself roaming the empty corridors of the castle. When his steps took him in front of Petra`s door, the urge to hold on to something physical to remember her overtook his sense of shame. He was aware that her belongings would go back to her parents in the next few days, but he hoped the red ribbon Petra used to tie her hair with would not be missed.

“I took your patch at first. I was going to keep it in my breast pocket. To have a reminder of your sacrifice. But when I saw that kid eaten up by guilt, I knew what I had to do. I knew what you would have wanted me to do with it.” He had no regrets about that. It was the perfect way to honor the kindest soldier the Survey Corps ever had.

When the light began to fade, Levi got up from his spot and left without saying another word to Petra. He did not want to say goodbye to her. Levi felt no need for it since death could be in his cards the next day. And he could get to see her again sooner than he thought.

The third time Levi visited her, it was not with a flower bouquet in his hand but with a bottle of cheap alcohol he found on Moblit`s desk. That night, Levi allowed grief to consume him.

"Erwin died. But I have a feeling you know that already, don`t you?" Levi wiped his nose with the back on his hand, too absorbed in his anger to even care about the disgusting habit.

"Are you mad at him? Are you mad that he chose to sacrifice your life?"

But only silence greeted him.

"Are you mad that I didn`t even question it?"

No answer again. The rage burning inside him overtook him, and Levi smashed the bottle against the headstone.

"Shit. I`m sorry, I shouldn`t have done that." Levi crouched down and collected the pieces of the bottle into his handkerchief. The grief, the anger, and now the shame for denigrating her place of rest were eating him alive.

"We found out the truth, you know? It`s a shitty world out there, Ral. But I have a feeling not even that would have cut off your wings."

Levi found himself craving touch. Her touch. And for the first time in his life, he felt the need to be comforted. He smiled to himself bitterly. How cruel must the deity who created him be for making him desire the impossible?

The fourth time Levi visited her, he brought a special gift for her. A small, odd thing that Armin called seashell.

“We saw the sea today. Just a big old pile of saltwater. But you would have loved it.”

Seeing the brats play in the water with carefree smiles on their face made him yearn for a glimpse of amber hair in the picture. He missed them all dearly.

“I would have to pull you out of it by the collar of your shirt, I bet.” For as devoted and strict as she was, Petra always seemed to cause him distress. Not that he minded it, of course. Levi found himself wishing to hear her timid knocks on his door again, even in the middle of the night. He longed for those times, where she shyly approached him after needing his help in whatever problem she found herself stuck in again.

While that was not his intention when he first came to her, his heart was heavy with words he never said to her. "The world hates us, Ral." He could never imagine how someone would ever detest someone as kind as Petra just for the blood running in her veins. But if he had to be true to himself, a part of him hated Petra as well.

"Maybe I hate you too."

Petra broke his promises to him, after all. Two years ago, when death was imminent on an expedition, and Petra put down her swords in acceptance, Levi fought with her. He made her promise she would make it to the end. That she would be by his side the day they kill the last titan.

"Do you remember your promises to me? Such bullshit. Never thought you were a liar, Petra."

But Levi knew she would have never left him had she had a choice. That she would have fought for even just a second more by his side. But it never dulled the pain of losing her.

With a heavy heart, Levi said his goodbye for the evening, guilty for blaming her for things out of her control.

The fifth time Levi visited her, it was snowing outside.

It was always a wonder how someone radiating light and warmth could be a winter child. But Levi was sure he memorized the date right. It was an important one for him, after all. Levi fought to make sure he had enough time to get ready for celebrating her birthday. She deserved nothing more than a perfect day. Hange had been more than understanding, the wound left by losing Moblit still fresh in their heart.

Levi put the bouquet of twenty-two golden roses on the frozen ground. “Happy birthday. Twenty-two, huh? You`re turning into an old woman, Ral.” The irony of his words made a slight pang of guilt rise in his chest. The passing of time would never touch her again.

“I have your favorite”- he said, lightly shaking the box containing a small vanilla cake. Sugar was a rarity, but getting a cake was an unspoken rule in his squad. Their lives were too short to worry about the money. The first thing Levi noticed about Petra was the faint flower smell emanating from her. The first thing after setting his eyes on her clean nails, of course. On her first birthday that they celebrated as a squad, Levi gifted Petra a bottle of scented body lotion. And some high-quality cleaning rags, of course. But she did not pay attention to that. She and the rest of the Survey Corps never knew how to appreciate the finer things in life. But Levi did not miss the way her face lit up when he noticed something she enjoyed.

“I could never understand your sweet tooth, but today, I`m going to have a slice of cake.” Levi always refrained from indulging in this vice. Having grown unaccustomed to sugar, the idea of sweetness was unappealing to him. He always felt bad for disappointing her each year when she sat in front of him, with a small piece of cake she had cut for him. “Or two slices. Two is more appropriate anyway. If I get cavities, it`s on your ass.”

The ground was too cold for him to sit down on, and Levi made a mental note to build a small bench close to her headstone. He opened the box and eyed the cake wearily, considering if he should change his mind. He took a small bite of the cake, and he almost choked on it. “Oi, this is so damn sweet. How the fuck could you eat so much of it?” But it did not stop him from finishing his slice.

Levi expected to find some flowers lying in the snow or at least some tracks leading up to her grave.

“Does your old man still come around? I`ve never crossed paths with him since the expedition.” Sometimes, when he closed his eyes at night, he could still recall Mr. Ral`s pained expression when he realized there was no one left for him to wait for.

“Maybe it`s for the best. I bet he doesn`t want to see me again.” To see the face of the man who was supposed to protect his daughter. The face of the man his daughter wanted to devote her life to. The man who could not even bring him a body home to bury.

“I`m a shit. Ruining your birthday with talk like this.” Levi was never good at this. In his spot, Eld would have teased Petra about her first expedition. Tell her how now that she was a big girl, she ought to refrain from soiling herself again. Petra would turn red from embarrassment and elbow Eld in the ribs. Gunther would point out that despite their age, they are still children. And proceed with teasing Petra himself. Oluo would try to defend Petra`s honor to gain her attention, which would make him the target instead. Levi gave a small smile at the thoughts. He missed them dearly, more than he would ever care to admit.

Levi crouched down and cleared the layer of snow covering her headstone. He ran his finger alongside the letters of her name, wishing he would have had more opportunities to write it down.

“Happy birthday again, brat.”

The last time he visited her, Levi had company. Gabi and Falco did not give it another thought before offering to help him see her again before they would all leave for a new life. A better life, he hoped. But without her by his side, it was never going to be perfect. Gabi set down the flowers before they gave him privacy. While they never asked him about who she was, they knew Levi must have cared for her a great deal.

"Hi, brat. It`s been a while."

He had so much to say to her, and yet, he did not know where to start. A part of him expected to join her during the last battle, but fate always had something new in store for him. Levi was uncertain if it was luck by his side or a curse to watch everyone he ever cared about die. But life was looking brighter, and Levi promised himself he would never lose anyone again.

"Are Hange and Erwin with you now? How about the guys?" He wished for nothing more than to be there by their side. But Levi knew they would never forgive him if he did not try to live the remainder of his life to the fullest. And for them, he would try.

"Does Oluo still bite his tongue? Did he try to flirt with you again? Is Eld still teasing you? Does Gunther still treat you as a little sister?" Levi chuckled at the memory of their antics. He learned the hard way that he never appreciated them enough before he lost them.

"I hope there is an afterlife. I hope it`s peaceful. You all deserve it. Such a shitty end..." He closed his eyes and sighed at the words coming out of his mouth. "I`m sorry, I didn`t mean it. But you already knew that. I was always an open book to you."

Levi felt guilty for leaving the home they bled for behind, but if he were truthful, it had not felt like home to him for years. With no one left by his side, nothing was keeping him in Paradise anymore. While neither of them voiced it out, he had dreamed of a future with Petra by his side. And for her, he would try to live a long and happy life. Before he got to be with her.

"I`m sorry... for the future I never got to offer you. The one you deserved. I`m sorry for the house I never got to build for us, for the vows we never got to take, for the brats that will never play in my backyard." Levi knew Petra would encourage him to find love, but he never would again. He could never imagine a future by someone else`s side.

Levi glanced back at her grave for one last time before he set out for the remainder of his life- "I`ll see you soon. Wait for me."

ao3