#but every time I am I know I’m lying through my suffering teeth

[hup-hah-hop]

every day I’m hustl—crying

[tziporarosen]

Delicate Flames

CHAPTER II : Sevika recounts a series of events leading to her father's death and her family's downfall. Y/N learns of their family's role in causing Sevika's suffering, including the loss of her mother and Sevika's own mutilation as punishment. Struck by guilt and remorse, Y/N offers restitution, but Sevika rejects it, harboring deep-seated resentment and refusing to forgive. As the tension dissipates, Y/N seeks to understand Sevika's pain, prompting Sevika to share her story of injustice and loss. Through their conversation, a fragile understanding begins to emerge between them, hinting at the possibility of reconciliation amid a backdrop of betrayal and privilege.

MEN AND MINORS DNI

You didn’t get the chance to breathe as your heart fell to your stomach, completely taken aback by the sudden change, her tone, mixed in with your vulnerability as you laid beneath her, completely defenseless. She pulled her fingers out as she got up, standing still as she watched your face go from flustered to ghostly white compared to the yellow musked cement walls. 

“How- I uh, I can explain” you stumbled as you pulled your knees forward as you sat up, shielding your bare chest as your hands trembled discreetly. 

“You don’t have to” Sevika stated coldly, her grin growing as she sat down on the wooden chair facing the bed. “Now I genuinely believe that you were lost, but what I don’t understand is why you had this sewn into your dress” she inquired as she pulled out the dagger from the back of her belt. 

Your brows wrinkle together at her question as you try to process the fast shift in atmosphere. “What do you mean? It’s a family heirloom” you explain unsurely. 

“Family heirloom? Really?” She scoffed out as she stood up before treading back to the side of the bed. Gulping down the harsh lump in your throat, you retreat in fear of the reality in front of you, your fate now locked in her fingertips. “Last time I checked, this was my fathers. He gave this to me, so unless we’re cousins, one of us is lying, and I’m not a liar, "Sevika conceded as she grabbed your ankle, pulling you closer. 

You let out a yelp as she placed the blade under your chin with her hand still gripped on your ankle, trapping you as she leaned in closer. “I’m not lying, my father gave this to me on my 10th birthday” you defend in a stammer, your body frozen at the imminent threat laying above your throat. 

“Are you calling me a liar Y/N?” Sevika asked calmly as she pressed the blade flat under your chin. 

“No ma’am” you mutter, her features blurring as you hold your breath, fearful of moving even a hair. You whimper quietly as her metal hand lets go of your ankle, her eyes never leaving yours. 

“You think your fancy dresses and tea cups hide the evil that you guys commit to the people beneath you?” She badgered in loath, her teeth locked in as she watched you shake your head carefully. “Use your words, Princess,” Sevika taunted. 

“No, it doesn’t” you mumbled, your body cooling down the longer you remain undressed. She remained still on you as she watched you crumble into a silent weep, your confidence completely evaporated. “I’m sorry for what my father did, I really am. We can fix it” you barter softly.

She let out an audible scoff of disbelief as she leaned down to get to your eye level. “You can bring back the dead now? bring back my arm, my family? My reputation? I’d rather burn my other arm off then take your help” she spat clearly, every single word digging a deeper cave in your chest. 

“N-no of course not, but we can do something, I’ll pay” you offer desperately. You didn’t know the full story but you realize how naive you were until now, worshiping the ground your father walked on when he stomped his way to power. The way she is glaring at you makes you want to dig a hole through the bed into the deep cement ground and bury yourself within. 

“Pay? You’ll pay for what? Just so you can shut me up like you shut everyone up that goes against his dictatorship, ruining people’s lives when they are just trying to survive?” She snapped as her eyes flashed into a dark gray, the glisten that usually resided now completely gone. Your features wrinkled as you tried to understand what she was saying, her anger seeming harsh from your perspective. “You have no idea do you?” She snickered as she removed the dagger from your neck, drifting it down to your shoulder. 

“Tell me, so I can do something. I can bring you back, get him to apologize, I’ll give you a title, respect, money, whatever you need to fix it” you sputtered out before you winced in pain as she grazed your skin. 

“You’re not listening, I don’t want anything from you or your scum of a family” she spat between clenched teeth. “What you did, can't be fixed with words, and fancy titles” Sevika commented with a lift of her top lip, scowling at her mock of your promise of status. 

“Then tell me, what did we do?” you rebuked in a plea, hopeful of finding a resolution, even if it's merely leaving with your life. 

“You really want to know?” Sevika questioned sarcastically as she pulled the knife away, yet part of her was surprised, taken aback that someone like you is actually interested in knowing what happened. 

“Yes, I can't find a solution if I don't know what happened” you urged softly, though it came out helpless, as if you needed her to tell you. 

Sevika tapped the heel of her foot on the ground as she sat in the chair opposite you, her bottom lip in between her teeth as she contemplated actually telling you what happened.

****

“Are you insane? Why would you do that?” Sevika whisper-yelled at her brother as she crouched down on the cold concrete floor, her whispers echoing into the hollow brick. 

“They deserve it! You know what they did to father, and now mother is dead because of them” he rebuked in a croaked shout, his words muffled by Sevika's pinching his leg. 

“So you wrote a letter threatening to kill the king?! That’s treason and you knew that!” Sevika snapped, angry that she’s about to lose him as well when she promised to keep him safe. 

“I didn’t do anything though, they’re still alive and well” he defended as he leaned his head to face the ground, realizing his royal fuckup. 

“That is not the point. Now we’re both to be executed before noon” she revealed as she let herself fall back on her rear, glancing up at her younger brother in rage. It’s been only a week since they lost their father after he failed to deliver the swords the king ordered in time, causing him to lose his life under the blade he crafted himself. The pain and anger was still so raw, it hadn't even processed in her mind. Her mothers suicide 3 days ago made it simple for a quick funeral, the couple together for eternity as their offspring’s waited to join them. “Whatever you do, do not say a word. Let me speak'' she warned as harsh footsteps approached the cell, loud keys clinking against each other as they stood up. 

Sevika's heart fell to her stomach as she saw the king standing behind the guards, his shadow appearing as the guards created a path. Biting down her pride, Sevika leaned forward in a bow, quickly pressing on her brother's lower back to force him into a bow. 

“I don’t usually come to visit my enemies, but this is a particular scenario. A whole family, vanished in 7 days, all because their father couldn’t deliver.” He started flatly as he rounded the bowing sibling. “And now, this boy threatens my life, the king that has offered your family a home, food, everything you could ever ask for” he spat as he lifted her brother's chin, scanning his sharp features. 

“Your Majesty, if I may” , Sevika spoke up gently, urging to plead for her brother's life. The king paused his analysis of the boy and turned his attention to the tall Sevika, his height almost reaching hers. Almost. 

“Go on” he permitted in curiosity. 

“What he did is unforgivable and foolish, he’s just a heartbroken boy. He means no harm, and definitely doesn’t pose a threat to your throne or well being. I will punish him, he was acting out of the grief and anger of a 15 year old boy. I beg of you, Your Majesty, please spare his life” she pleaded clearly, each word spoken with sincerity and fear, not of him, but rather the consequences she’s being accustomed to. 

His head tilted in intrigue as he pondered over her words as if, for the first time, he was being challenged. “Let me ask you this, the late king, my father. Do you know how he died?” He questioned calmly. 

Sevika swallowed down as she breathed out harshly, “yes, Your Highness” she muttered. 

“I’m glad you do, now would you like to let your brother know how the late king passed?” he asked with a little grin, reveling in the inevitable unravel. 

“He was assassinated” 

“That’s right, he was assassinated by a man, who was angry, and sad, just like your little brother here. So, why should I risk my life and throne? To spare the life of a scum” He interrogated as he shifted his attention back to her brother, disgust lingering in his tone. 

“He’s a child, he did not mean it” Sevika persisted, her voice gruff with frustration. 

“He didn’t mean to write, ��I will cut your throat the way you cut my fathers’? Tell me serf, would you spare him if you were in my position?” He inquired, his insult locking Sevika' s jaw. 

“Yes, I would.” Sevika admitted firmly, hoping to use any tactic to save herself and her brother. “I would make an example out of him, show the people that you're not merciless as they see you” she explained, her words trailing off as the king stepped back, allowing his guards to step forward. 

“It's a shame you’re not king” he remarked as Sevika took notice of the change in atmosphere, rapidly stepping in front of her brother. 

“Don’t take him, he's just a child” Sevika pleaded as she let her knees hit the ground beneath her, kneeling for his life. 

“Place her in another cell, it's time” he ordered as he walked away, leaving a fighting Sevika behind, using all her restricted force to fight the guards off, but it was to no avail. Her screams held no power with her hands chained as she echoed her little brother's cries in the distance, fading into the early morning execution. 

****

You inhaled harshly through your nose, betrayal seeping through your veins as your fathers image cracked in your eyes, his gentle eyes no longer holding its delicate lullabies. Sevika's hand instinctively soothed her metal arm as she remembered the pain from that day, the physical hardly compared to the hole in her heart that remained. “He took my arm, said it was so no one in my family can ever threaten him again, made it seem like he was doing me a favor by keeping me alive” she murmured. 

“I- I’m so sorry, I had no idea” you whispered, unable to come up with anything else to say to such an admission. 

“Of course you didn't, how could you when all you could see was luxury and privilege?” Sevika remarked as she glanced down at the dagger on her lap. 

“Did your father make that?” you questioned as your eyes followed her fingers over the dagger. You could feel the danger slowly fade away as she opened up, the room returning to its previous quietude. 

“No, my grandfather did, my father gave it to me when I was old enough to hold a weapon” she explained as a little smile crept up, her smile quickly faltering once you returned a sympathetic grin. Your understanding seemed to hold an opposite effect as she stood up and shielded the dagger in the back of her belt before stepping back. “Storytime is over, get some sleep, I'll bring you back home in the afternoon” she asserted as she pulled the wooden door open. 

Your heart felt as though it could beat again at those words, knowing that she wasn't here for revenge or to harm you, she just needed someone to know. “Thank you” you trailed as she caught one last glance of you before shutting the door gently, leaving you to dwell in your new found truth. 

                  

Your heart jolted at the sudden creak of the door opening, too deep in thought to have heard Sevika’s approaching footsteps. You spent the past few hours thinking as you listened to the banging and shuffling of Sevika’s work, her closeness calming your meltdowns. 

“Let's go” she instructed as she placed a fur cloak on the foot of her bed, her figure casting a shadow over you. Steadily, you raised your body and leaned forward, a sharp pain in your core, pulling you back down on the bed. “What's wrong?” she questioned, a glimpse of concern lingering beneath the nonchalance. 

You groan at the unfamiliar pain before you freeze at the realization. “Fuck” you mumble to yourself. 

“Oh, the princess swears” Sevika taunted as you knocked your head back into the pillow. 

“No, I can't go home like this,” you explained as you scanned your body, purple and red marks trailing all down your chest, and you're assuming up your neck. 

“Oh that, I guess you’ll have to deal with the new tarnished name” Sevika stated with a raise of a brow, the reality of your new found dilemma was beginning to seem like good karma, delivered right to her doorstep. 

“No, you don't understand, I'll never be able to marry, and I can forget the throne while I'm at it” you expressed in slight panic, pondering over your options. 

“No, I understand, trust me” Sevika uttered with a scoff as she raised the fur cloak. “ Now let's go, I have a lot of work to do and I can't work when you're here” she motioned as she watched the panic in your mind seep through your expression. She knew you didn't deserve this, but part of her finally felt in control of her relationship with power, finally holding the upper hand. 

You could feel a sweat reach the hairs on your skin as you glanced up at Sevika, hoping she would change her mind and spare you some pity you certainly don't deserve. “One week, please, I promise I will stay out of your way, I can't go home like this. Sevika, please” you pleaded as you sat up. You could see a glimpse of contemplation in her eyes before it returned to its gray-tainted snowy eyes, denying you of mercy. 

“No, I am not harboring a princess in my house, it's suicide” Sevika justified as she pulls a brown cigarillo from her pocket, lighting it aflame as she nudged your foot. 

“No one will know, please” you pleaded, your brows crunched in desperation. 

“I said no, I'm not going to say it again. Put your coat on or I'll drag you out of here naked” Sevika asserted, her patience slipping into frustration. Part of Sevika was so tempted to let you stay in her bed, having you laid out for her to admire was the temptation whispering in her ears, but she knew that came with a price she was not willing to pay. 

You gulped down the tears that were meant to appear next as you submitted to her request, sliding the warm cloak over your slip dress. Silently, you walked to the front of the barn as she followed behind, contemplating her decision over and over, wondering if she was making a mistake by letting you go.

its been so busy lol, hope you like it, sorry there is no smut in this one since i am also a sucker for a little angst, i hope you are too lol

taglist:

@lesvii

@sevsbaby

@thesevi0lentdelights

[ask-the-clergy-bc]

I seen that your HCs are open and it literally couldn’t have come at a better time, I’m getting my wisdom teeth removed next week and I have been having sleepless nights over it. For someone who’s DEATHLY scared of anything medical/dental this is such a big deal- plus I have to go through it whilst awake because I’m not able to have the anaesthesia. I’m almost 30 so am often made to feel humiliated about my fear so was wondering how papa iii or Copia (my favs) would comfort someone going through this for some sort of escapism if you will- I adore your blog too much sweetness 🖤

Oh man, I hope you had an easy procedure!! This definitely came late, but I hope you enjoy it none the less!

As someone who had their wisdom teeth out, it's never fun! There is no reason to ever be ashamed of being scared!!

Throwing in a minor trigger warning tag for medical procedures, medical instruments, shots, and other unfun things!

Papa III and Papa IV/Copia Comforting an S/O Terrified of their coming Medical Procedure

Papa III:

~The night before he does everything he can to take your mind off of the next day. That way you aren't stressing yourself out and can actually sleep that night! Takes you out to dinner, makes sure you are doing something fun, and even going out for gelato! Anything to keep your anxiety at bay!

~Papa has a wonderfully brilliant way of downplaying the procedure for you. "Oh that? That's NOTHING! You can do this in your sleep! That wouldn't hurt a fly! You'll be in and out in no time! WHY, I bet I'll yawn ONCE, Amore, and you'll be done!" Papa is very good at talking it down, and you're grateful for it!

~If the procedure/medical facility will allow him, Papa would 100% be in the room with you and annoy most of the staff. He has no problems holding your hand as tight as you need during! Papa is all about that moral support and comfort! The best part? You can feel his thumb brush the top of your hand to remind you that he's there.

~If it's something like a dental surgery, where you can't talk, Papa ends up talking the entire time. You listen as he just fills the entire room with stories and other topics he finds interesting. At first the staff working on you is super annoyed, but soon even they want to know what happens next! The sound of his voice and listening to his story ends up calming you down and taking your mind off of everything happening.

~You both love and hate that he asks so many questions of your doctor. He's genuinely curious about what's going to happen! Your doctor and Papa, thankfully, don't mention any part that involves getting shots or getting cut open. It ends up being an educational time for your both. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy the almost child like curiosity Papa had!

~If you have something removed (like wisdom teeth) Papa INSISTS you should be allowed to take it home and keep it in a jar! You have to put a stop to it immediately, unless he actually leaves the facility with your removed body part like an oddity display!

~Provided that you are coherent enough (and not on TOO STRONG of pain meds), Papa will take you to get a surprise after! Anything you want! Shopping, ice cream, dinner? Just name it! You DESERVE it after such a tough day!

Papa IV/Cardinal Copia:

~Unfortunately, Copia might just be as worried as you are! Strange coming from the man who was completely fine getting recreational plastic surgery! Copia is just unable to watch any of his loved ones go into medical procedures- most of all you, his partner! Copia HATES seeing you suffer or need any kind of treatment! He tends to get a bit dramatic about it out of worry, but he's been getting better at keeping it to himself. After all, this is about YOU needing comfort! Not him making it worse!

~Something Copia does that helps you be less scared about your coming procedure is researching every aspect of it. Copia by nature loves research. The more he knows about a topic the more in control he feels. With your permission he can info dump about everything that's going to happen during your procedure! That includes instruments used, recovery times, and even how they will stitch you up after (if needed.) While it makes him better, he understands if it doesn't make you feel better.

~Somehow, Copia managed to swing taking the day off to go with you to the medical facility! Copia wants to be there in person to comfort and support you! He knows how nervous you'll be! (Also how nervous HE will be if he doesn't have a constant update on you.)

~They allow him in the room but he is forced to sit on the opposite side of the room. Why? Because he keeps hovering over your doctor to make sure you are alright. That and he has knocked over the table for the instruments when he first got into the room. It makes you laugh, but the staff is less than amused. Copia will consistently ask if you're alright through out. He sighs in relief whenever you give a thumbs up.

~Like Papa III, Copia will hold your hand if allowed. He loves to kiss it and whisper encouragements and reassurances to you. You're going to be fine, he promises! He's here for you! Will even sing for you gently if it keeps you calm.

~After everything is said and done Copia will bother your doctor for a status update! You go ahead and let him because it makes you laugh and a bit flattered that he's so involved! The doctor forces him to sit down and lets you both know how everything went. The doctor pre-emptively has the front desk print out a pamphlet of how to take care of you post-procedure, knowing Copia will hound them about it.

~Copia will be happy to get you anything you want after, but INSIST you must stay sitting or in bed! He will happily run and get it for you! Just worry about recovering! Copia would give you a giant diamond if it made you happy and resting easier! You're not sure whether to be amused or shocked that he got himself this worked up! He finally calms down when you tell him that HE needs to settle down. Copia doesn't want to stress you so he happily complies!

[r1999-transcript]

Worn Teeth And Old Marks 03 - Rearview Mirror

John: Mom!

John’s Mother: John! Why did you … Are you …?

Tooth Fairy: Nice to meet you, ma’am. You may call me Tooth Fairy.

The new car was still marvellous … How could a child who looked and really was malnourished ever damage it? From the motel to Mare Town, it took only three minutes driving, and it didn’t even need to be at full power. Despite the name, it’s a stretch to call this place a town.

John's Mother: Hiss … *cough* … John, help me up …

Tooth Fairy: No, don’t bother … just lie down, ma’am.

A few families scattered in the wilderness. The cracks in the wooden doors were once filled with layers of sand and gravel, and turned into a board of pinkish yellow. On the way here, John told me about how the family was stricken with poverty. Indeed, it’s not difficult to tell from his figure.

John: Mom! Look, my tooth fell out!

But the reality was still much worse than I thought.

John: You sit here, next to Mom!

The house was not bigger than the stables I had seen. Lights were the only electrical equipment. Time seemed to cease here. John’s mother was lying on the only furniture in the room, like a solitary raisin on a plate.

John’s Mother: If John did anything wrong, I am very sorry …

Tooth Fairy: No, ma’am. I should be the one to apologise …

John: Ms. Tooth Fairy is a doctor. She’s also an arcanist, just like Grandma Susie! There’re a lot of flying grannies in her jar …

John’s Mother: John.

John: Okay, Mom … I’ll go get some water!

Tooth Fairy: If you don’t mind, please allow me to do a few simple checks for you. Please don’t worry … I am an arcanist, and also a medical student.

John’s Mother: You … *cough* … Okay. *cough* … Good, good …

Tooth Fairy: If you feel painful, please do not hold back.

John’s Mother: …

Disease is cruel. It takes the unfortunate by the throat without distinction of any kind, and gradually squeezes the necks of the weak.

John’s Mother: Uh … ah ah … it hurts … ah ah …

Then the pain was there to deprive them of the dignity … making their decrease more naked than their birth.

Tooth Fairy: Ma’am, please close your eyes, and open your mouth.

No need for more professional instruments. The shape of death is clearly palpable in the horrible surroundings and through her descriptions. For the incurable diseases, death is never the most frightening part.

Tooth Fairy: John … Come here. Hold your mother.

The boy was swift and experienced. His behaviour revealed a sense of indifference that he himself barely knew. … Children were not supposed to be more of an expert of these than toffee. During the whole day there, almost all the tooth fairies I brought were consumed.

…

Tooth Fairy: Your mother is sleeping for now.

John: Well … It’s not just today … She suffers like this every day. In the evening, especially late at night.

Tooth Fairy: … I’m sorry.

John: Is there nothing you can do either?

Tooth Fairy: John, doctors aren’t omnipotent. … Nor are those little things with wings. No delay, adequate dosage, and no complications … All three are equally important. I think your mother probably knows about her illness better than me … and she knows you better. That’s why she allowed me to do the checks for her.

John: …

The sunset glow tinted the sky with a pinkish hue that matched the colour of the rock. The temperature varied greatly in Texas and was often difficult to adapt to. The heat of the day had long faded. The breeze with silver sand even felt a little chilly.

John: Can you wait for me here?

Tooth Fairy: No problem. I will sit here until the sun goes down.

The boy returned much faster than I thought.

John: This is for you.

Tooth Fairy: This is …?

John: I traded two packs of Toto’s hair for it from Grandma Susie. She said it was the tooth of a rare beast. And she also said … if you prayed to it devoutly, all requests would be granted. I prayed to it every night for my Mom to get better … But it must be because I caught the beetles twice and didn’t pray … so it didn’t work.

Tooth Fairy: Well … This is a Ropen’s tooth.

John: A Ropen’s tooth …?

Tooth Fairy: It’s indeed very rare. Ropen is a type of pterodactyl that inhabits the rocks of Umboi Island, with a long beak and sharp claws.

John: Whoa …

Tooth Fairy: They also have huge wings, and will glow like phosphorescence at night …

The Ropen’s tooth that the boy held possessed a rough enamel and an abnormal size. Apparently it’s an artificial toy. However, even if this is real, it’s impossible that all requests would be granted. It’s probably just a psychological comfort to a child given by a kind senior.

…

John: Have a safe trip, Ms. Tooth Fairy!

I saw the boy’s figure in the rearview mirror getting smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared into the exhaust. That fake Ropen’s tooth is still a treasure among my collections. Even for a while after that, it was worth more than anything else.

[writer-akihiko]

Hi! If that's okay could i request some angst for the first years (+Grim, Crewel and Crowley? Platonic only for them)

MC/Yuu runs away from NRC due to all the shit they've been put through because of Crowley not doing his job, they do finally find them some days later but MC refuses to go back to NRC and tells Crowley that they despise him.

Reactions?

First Years + MC Running Away [+Plat!Crewel & Crowley]

I love the angst for this, and planning the emotions that they would feel! The dorm leaders also make a cameo in Crewel and Crowley's part. Cut for length.

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of Emotional Manipulation, Curse Words, Wounds and Mild Violence. Please read at your own discretion.

"I'm not going back."

"Wh... What?" He was astonished. "YN... I've looked far and wide for you- please-"

No words left his mouth as you stepped away from him, tears in your eyes and you were going to make a run for it again.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek was in a dilemma. He wanted to go back to NRC because of Malleus, but you refused to. You still meant a lot to him of course, but he still wanted to stay in NRC. He reached out to you, holding you in place with his Fae strength.

"YN, we have to go back. Please don't be unreasonable," He begged. There was no way he wasn't going without you.

You shook your head, trying to tug against Sebek as much as possible. There was no way you could fight against him, and you wouldn't want to hurt him either. "Sebek... Sebek just let me go. I'm just a human and..."

The moment was ruined with Crowley showing up, yelling at Sebek to bring you back. You mustered as much of your voice as you could. "No! Don't take me back!" You screamed at Sebek, who was holding you in a lock. "I hate him! I hate him, don't do this to me Sebek!"

His grip almost loosened at you saying you hated Crowley. Actually, he thought it was directed at him. It took a lot of effort for Sebek not to cry because he knew. He knew how much you didn't deserve the things you faced. The Overblots, the treatment and sheer alienation from other students, Crowley's neglect... He knew.

He blamed himself for getting so caught up in what his Master was doing that he forgot to care about you. When he found out that you ran away, he felt as if he deserved it. He pulled you in, tucking you against his chest and allowing you to cry.

He didn't bring you closer to the others, neither did he bring you away. He kept you close to him, as your tears stained his perfect uniform. Not a word came from him when you cried into him. It was kept that way, as the half-Fae dared to growl at Crowley and anyone else that took a step closer to you.

"YN... You're safe with me, alright?"

Ace Trappola

He told himself that he wouldn't get mad, but your refusal just rubbed salt in wounds as he remembered the sleepless nights of trying to find you. Beneath all of it, he was scared. He was scared that he lost you to some one else. He was scared that this world never suited you, and you finally went to your own, leaving him alone.

"What do you mean you're not going back?! YN, stop screwing around with me!" He screamed, throwing his magic pen to the ground. At this point, he was pissed about anything relating to magic. Magic was useless when it came to finding you.

"I'm not going so leave me alone Ace..." You told him, tears nearing at your eyes. "I don't want to. I don't want to. I'm done with Crowley's shit and I'm done with NRC."

You took a running start, but Ace caught you, pushing you to the ground. His expression caught you off-guard. He was crying, eyes puffy and tired as his face was pale, as if he hadn't gotten enough sleep.

"You're done?! How could you... I..." He didn't know what to say. You were right. You had dealt with enough. You never deserved it... If it weren't for him and his troublemaking ways... Maybe you wouldn't have to suffer...

"I'm sorry..." He coughed out, his voice strained. He kept you pinned on the ground, as his tears flowed with yours. "I'm sorry for being an idiot. I'm sorry for dragging you into trouble. I know you don't deserve it but I'm an asshole that does anyway..."

"Ace..."

"But!..." He went on, his eyes glossing over as he admired you once again. Oh... you were beautiful to him, even if you were crying in his arms. "But I'm selfish. I didn't want to let you go so I went after you instead... So hit me if you want, scream or punch me... I don't care, just don't leave me."

He sat up, pulling you into his lap, his chin under your head. "I was so lonely without you YN..."

"Godammit I love you..." He choked out, his tears never-ending. You both sat there, hugging each other as if it were your last days. You didn't dare to let go of him this time.

Deuce Spade

He didn't know how to respond. All he knew was that he had to hold onto you before you ran away from him once again. "YN... Wait... Don't leave!"

He wondered if he even made the right choice to stay on the side of bringing you back. From just the look of you, he knew you were tired. He knew those responsibilities were never yours. Your suffering just proved to Deuce how powerless he was. Maybe that's why he wanted to bring you back... as proof that he could do something for you.

"YN... I'm sorry..." He said, holding you close to him. There wasn't a thing he could do for you. All you went through... It was Crowley's irresponsibility. He did this to you. Deuce's grip tightened on you, as he though of what it could've done to your psyche. "YN... YN... I'll make sure he doesn't touch you. I'll make sure that he never comes near you again... YN, you trust me right?"

For all the times he wasn't with you, he was determined to make up for it. Deuce wasn't going to let you suffer through this alone, even if it means he gets hurt. It was better for him to get hurt than you, even though he was so desperate to ask Crowley to find you.

You nodded, hiding into Deuce's chest. His heart was beating so fast, most likely from the never ending search for you. You never regretted running away, but you missed Deuce and your other friends, and Grim too. The one thing you regretted was accepting Crowley's offer to stay here.

"I don't care what you do to me," You told him. "Just don't take me back. I don't to go back. I don't want to go back to NRC..." Your body trembled at the thought of moving back to NRC, but all thoughts of it were abandoned as you saw Crowley approach you.

You screamed, but he never touched you. Deuce stood in the way, as he shielded you with his own body. He pushed you back, as he grabbed tightly onto his magic pen. Abandoning all morals of propriety, he glared hard at the principal.

"...Don't touch her."

Jack Howl

He wasn't going to let you run away this time. "Don't move."

Jack couldn't believe that he found you so quickly. No, that wasn't it. He couldn't believe that you were still here. Despite him having a scent on you, you could've been miles away without him knowing. He thought you went back to your own world. He thought you hated him, but by the way you hugged him, it reassured him of any thoughts he had.

There was not single part of you that did not tremble when Jack told you he wanted to take you back. Your sheer refusal turned into an argument quickly, as you listed all the sufferings you went through. It was confusing and agonising for Jack to listen to you. He knew you needed this, but some of the things you said sent shivers down his spine.

"I…"

"It's okay YN. You don't have to go back," He whispered to you. Jack's ears flattened as yours tears made your eyes puffy. He got flustered since he didn't know how to comfort you any further, busying himself with wiping away your tears instead.

Jack was sharp. He knew Crowley was out to get you, even if you didn't want to. He wanted the easy way out, but Jack wasn't going to give him the chance. There was no reason why Jack shouldn't help you… but he'd be lying if he weren't scared of what would happen if you both were caught.

You and Jack had the same train of thought, so you shook your head. "No Jack… I have to…" You told him, your voice raspy. "You already found me and there's no use. You… You can't outrun him with me…"

Jack growled, baring his teeth at the person who caused you such misery. His claws were out, as he hid you behind him. You didn't make a sound, paralysed by the very person that pulled you in this hell. You only met eyes with Crowley for a moment, as the world swirled around you.

"I know I can't… But I'm sure as hell am going to try…" Jack ran away from the principal, with you tightly in his arms as he made a run for it.

Epel Felmier

He was more than angry. He never understood why you and him but now it was evident. It was because both of you were stubborn. You both always tried to grasp what you wanted, and in the light of attaining it, you both always made a run for it. For him it was power… and for you, it was freedom.

"Damn it!..." He cursed underneath his breath, quickly removing his jacket and covering your head in it. You were probably hungry and tired. You were probably scared. What was he supposed to do?...

How did it come to this? He was supposed to be the one that supported your desires, no matter how big or small as you did the same to him. But now, with him using Crowley to get to you… What was he doing? This was hurting you, not helping you.

He moved away from you, ripping off the magical tracking device off of him. "You damn liar!" He screamed. "How dare you hurt her like this… Do you think I'm some stupid puppet?! Like hell you're gonna reach her with my help!"

Epel stomped and tore the device apart, grunting at every time the magic deflection hit him. He didn't stop, ripping further into the grass as he cried for your sake. He never meant to do this to you. He got up, taking you by the wrist and pulling you much deeper into the forest.

"YN… YN we have to go. They were tracking me and they- they might…"

You stopped in your tracks.

"YN?"

You hugged Epel, holding him tight. He snapped out of his delusions, turning to panic about your well-being. "Are you hurt? If you can't walk I'll carry you, but we have to get away-"

"Stop Epel," You said, taking his hands into yours. "Stop… It's okay… I'm okay… I can't make it any further and I don't blame you… I just… wanted it to not hurt for a bit."

He broke down in your arms, as you both collapsed to the ground. Filled with exhaustion, you could only grip to his hands weakly. Before your eyes darkened, you remembered his last words.

"I'm sorry…"

Divus Crewel

He's horrified at your state. All his emotions were bottled for the time being. There was no reason for a puppy like you to be exposed to such horrid emotions from him. He shrugs off his fluffy coat, covering you in the coat, as he carries you in the coat.

Dire was quick to catch up to him, but alas, all that Divus had for him was disappointment. Even from teacher to teacher, no… even from magician to magician… all respect for Dire that he had vanished. The dorm leaders caught up with the principal, and from the looks of it, they were horrified.

"For this puppy to end up like this…"

No, he couldn't get angry now. He had to be the example to other students. Rosehearts, Al-Asim and Ashengrotto were in tears, while Draconia and Kingscholar were murderous. If it weren't the difference of authority, Divus would bet those two would maul Dire where he stood.

"Draconia. Schoenheit. Take YN away and treat her wounds," He commanded. Still wrapped in his coat, Malleus brought you to the others, as Vil observed for any of your wounds. Divus signalled the other students away as he took off one of his gloves, glaring at Dire. "I need to talk with the principal."

Dire was still, as Divus delivered a clean punch across his face. There was no need for further violence. It'd be an insult to what you suffered. Divus grabbed Dire by the collar, almost sneering at him. "Did you realise what you've done to that puppy? She's scared, she's suffered all because of you."

He left Dire alone. It's what he deserved. There was nothing to be done. If he further pummeled the crow man, he might just kill him right then and there. Divus, for now, had to be by your side as your father figure and welcome you back safely to NRC as you were meant to be. Before leaving, he picked up his sullied glove from the floor, saying his last to Dire.

"You don't deserve to be her father."

Dire Crowley

He was ashamed to use his magic on you, but he had to prevent you from running. It was a necessary measure, but the real thorns were your words that pierced through his heart. You yelled insults, curses and cusses at him as if you were held at gunpoint, your lungs exhausted from the constant shrieking.

"No no! Let me go," You begged. "I hate you, I hate you I hate you!" You chanted it as if it were a spell. "I wish you never took me in. Don't touch me!"

The words were enough for the magic to weaken, granting you your escape. Dire was not swift enough, but the Dorm Leaders were. They heard everything, every complaint you threw at Dire and every insult you had for him. Malleus caught you, but as soon you knew it was him, you pushed him away.

"No… NO! I am NOT GOING BACK!" You cried, holding your head in your hands, crouching into a ball. Leona quickly knocked you out. If you went on, you would've hurt yourself and the injuries you sustained from running away was concerning enough.

Against all odds, those seven turned to the principal, with faces of betrayal. All you had been through… They did not realise what burden Dire, and subsequently, they placed on you.

"Crowley… you were never gracious."

Dire was hopeless. He couldn't comfort you, he knew he couldn't be forgiven. He stood in his place, accepting his fate at the moment. He couldn't ask for your mercy nor forgiveness, and perhaps that was his fate. To be cursed by whoever he neglected.

"Please, take care of her for now."

[glowingbadger]

So many thanks to my lovely followers who helped me come up with this concept! Arranged marriage has been the vibe with some of y'all lately and I am here for it.

Dimitri x Reader arranged marriage

AFAB reader ('wife', but no pronouns)

NSFW 18+

You lie in bed beside your husband- your Lord Husband, you should say -and there seems to be no cure for the anxious restlessness that's made a home in your heart. It had been like that since the moment you'd learned you had been betrothed to the infamous Boar King. A man of legendary strength and rumored temper. A one-eyed titan who had struck down countless foes with untold brutality. Yes, he and his allies had unified the continent. But great deeds can certainly be done at the hands of monsters.

He'd hardly touched you. Hardly looked at you, at first. You believed he must be disgusted by you, by this whole arrangement. But the need for an heir would be of even greater importance in the wake of the recent war, and so the most suitable arrangement (which turned out to be you) had been hastily made the moment the treatise had been signed. And so you'd come to live with the Boar King, and even to share his bed- though not yet in the fullest sense. It had taken a week for him to meet your gaze directly. When that bright blue star leveled on you, you expected to feel aggression, the rage that common folk told tall tales of in taverns. Instead, you felt hesitation. Sadness. Remorse. And a whole host of other things you didn't have names for yet.

By week three, he had tentatively taken your hand to help you off of horseback. That was the first time he ever touched you. You remember that he held you like fine parchment a little too close to a flame. After that, things had come a little more easily. You shared meals, and even a few polite words and the occasional briefest physical contact. He asked about your comfort in the castle. He assured you that anything you should need could be called for. Now, lying next to him in your bed- the bed you would share for the rest of your life -there's a geometrically perfect space between you two. A gap, seemingly exactly calculated to ensure that your bodies were unlikely to meet in the night.

"Ngh..." He groans, his body twitches and tenses. You've learned that the King suffers from nightmares, though of course you haven't let on that you've noticed. Tonight seems to be worse than the others.

"No..." he growls through grinding teeth, "Stay away... go... no-!" his fists grip the sheets so tightly you worry for the fabric. Then, you're not sure what madness prompts it, but you move closer to him. Just a little at first. Inching towards him as though approaching a frightened animal.

"My Lord..." you whisper, and your fingers just briefly graze his arm. He's warm, his body is firm and strong. You'd never allowed yourself to really look at him in his nightclothes before, but the relaxed collar of his shirt reveals defined collarbones and fair skin, but also a cross-hatched web of old scars. Some part of you had known all along, but for the first time, you truly, fully realize that he's actually strikingly handsome.

You lean over him a bit further. His head turns toward you, but he's still in the throes of his nightmares. Panting breaths cause his chest to rapidly rise and fall beneath you, and you can't help but feel the ache of sympathy in your heart. Gently, carefully, you bring a hand to his face. You can feel how tightly his jaw is clenched.

"Your Highness," you speak louder this time. His eye bolts open. His hand seizes you by the wrist hard- too hard. It hurts, and you flinch, but keep your voice down. For a moment, you fear the inevitable retribution that will surely follow. But then, he exhales, and he releases your hand.

"I- I'm sorry- I didn't realize-" he stutters out, and in this moment, he looks softer and sweeter than you've ever seen.

"You were, uhm... having a nightmare, My Lord."

He nods at you, then sighs deeply. You're at a loss for what to do. Shouldn't the King's wife comfort him in such a situation? Would he even accept any comfort you might offer?

That shock blue eye meets you, and you can tell he wants to say something. All he manages is,

"Why do you call me that?"

"I... I'm sorry?"

"'My Lord', 'Your Highness.'" it's too dark to tell for certain, but you almost think that you see a pink flush across his face.

"You're my King." you say meekly.

"I am your husband." he replies, and his eye narrows. It's not quite scolding, but there's definitely frustration there. Truly, it's impossible to tell exactly what he means by saying it, but you can't help the warmth building inside of you. He raises a hand to your cheek, and you're not afraid, though your heart races much the same. His hands are large and calloused, the hands of a man who has created miracles and atrocities, and now it's gingerly brushing your hair from your face. You move closer to him on instinct, and you notice with some relief that he doesn't shy away- not this time. Then, you open your mouth to speak, and nothing comes out at first. You sigh, and try again,

"My- My Lord Husband, you should sleep. I didn't intend to bother you, only to make sure that you were-"

He sighs once more, and his eye closes.

"Sleep will not come, I already know. Not on a night like this."

You certainly don't know what to say to that. Anything you can think of would be meaningless platitudes and hollow assurances. You don't know the man well enough to know his demons, but you're certain there are plenty. The two of you are quiet for a time, and though his breathing has steadied, he shows no signs of regaining sleep any time soon.

And so you do the only thing you can think of to do for him.

You lean forward and press your lips to his. He breathes in sharply, and you feel his frame tense beneath you- but he doesn't pull away. Your hands cradle his face as you place gentle and tentative kisses to his lips, which are far softer than you'd dared to imagine. And as you carefully move atop him to straddle his hips, you feel his hand tightly grip your thigh.

"What are you-?!"

"I thought that I would... perform my wifely duties to you, My Lord Husband. If you'll have me." you add, a slight tremor sneaking into your voice.

His pupil is wide and this time, you're certain that you can see a charming crimson flush across his cheeks. He speaks your name almost incredulously, though his hand hasn't left your body.

"You- you are under no obligation-" he stammers, and when you try to assure him, he presses on, "you're a prisoner to this marriage, don't you understand? I have no right to ask anything of you- much less that you give your body over to me!"

He seems to have completely forgotten that the entire point of this union was to produce an heir.

"I certainly wouldn't force myself on His Highness if I'm not pleasing to you..."

"That is absolutely not what I mean to imply," he says, almost laughing as he scoffs away the very idea, "I desire you as much as any sane person would, of course, but to think that you would be made to do such a thing merely to placate me-"

"I want this." you say, surprising even yourself with the strength of your words. You sound even more confident than you feel. But every word the King says to you peels away at the wall of anger and fear that you both had been content to keep between you until now, and you feel strongly about your decision. Still, he pauses a moment longer, as if waiting for you to back away from your claim. And when you don't, he draws you down to him and kisses you deeply. You can already feel his manhood rising between your thighs, but soon enough it's just one more piece of information amidst a whirlwind of sensations.

His strong arms wrap around you and his kiss travels down your neck to your chest. He fumbles awkwardly with the front of your nightshirt, so you remove it for him and he wordlessly returns to sucking gentle love-bites to your skin. Shy and curious moans and sighs surround you both in the dark of your bedchambers as you eagerly explore each other. His hands are rough, but he's trying so dearly to be delicate with you. You're more direct, your fingers tangled in golden hair and your body flush to his, creating an intoxicating friction between you.

Your lower body shifts more firmly against him, grinding his now quite stiff member between your thighs. He growls against your skin, and you feel his fingers drag down your back.

"I... ought to do more for you..."

Ostensibly, he means in terms of intimacy, but you have a strange feeling that he intends this to be a more general statement. You rest your forehead to his and murmur,

"I want you, My King."

"Dimitri." he says as his hands trail down to help remove your underclothes, "Just Dimitri, I beg of you."

And soon enough, he's pressed hot at your slick entrance, and you cling to him as he begins to push inside. He's thick- it hurts just a little, and you think for a moment that he was probably right that you both should have done more to prepare. But now he's filling you inch by inch, stretching you out around his cock, and your mind is numb to every thought except one- this is my husband, my lover.

"Dimitri..." You moan into the evening air around you as he bottoms out deep within you and the tinge of pain begins to fade into pleasure. He gives no reply other than the potent throbbing of his cock, rubbing against your inner walls as you both begin to move. You're surprised by how easy it is to fall into a natural rhythm with him. Your hips sink down onto him as he thrusts up towards you, and each pass sends a jolt up your spine. Dimitri buries his face in the crook of your neck, panting softly, holding onto your hips as you squeeze tightly around him.

Your nails dig along his muscled shoulders as you feel your climax winding tight at your core. He doesn't seem to mind- you're not sure if he even notices. His pace picks up. Briefly, his hands ease their hold on you, as though offering a means of escape. You have no need for such a thing. With a whimpering moan, you press yourself as far down onto his cock as you can until his tip hits your core, then sway forward, grinding his length into you until, with a gasp of his name, your body slacks into his arms.

He whispers your name in turn with something like awe in his voice. With his cock now coated in your climax, Dimitri loosens his restraint, and begins fucking into you in earnest. While your thighs tremble and you can hardly keep yourself supported above him, you manage to meet his gaze and smile warmly, then press a tender kiss to his parted lips. He grits his teeth, and he holds you to him with such strength that you no longer even need to support yourself. Then, he swells, twitches, and his pleasure is spilling out deep inside of you, filling you and warming you through.

You moan happily as you feel his release, then relax your body to lay comfortably against his sturdy frame. He's panting harshly still, but neither of you rush to separate from one another. Once he's just barely composed himself, he lifts your chin and kisses you with a sweetness that you never thought you'd find in a man, let alone the Boar King himself.

Though, once you've eased his spent manhood from you and laid your head against his chest, you hear his heart beating, still just a bit too fast and fluttery. You think for a moment that, yes, your husband is the legendary, ruthless Boar King. Your husband is also Dimitri, a man who looks at you with sincerity that makes your heart ache. A man you don't know well- not yet -but who you find yourself opening to more and more each day.

"I... don't wish to keep you awake terribly long..." he says, with a stilted nervousness to his voice, "but, if you're not overly tired, I- I'd like to... talk for a little while."

You smile a warm, but private smile, then say,

"I'd like that very much, Dimitri."

[unohanadaydreams]

This was originally an ask I answered quite a while ago that I’ve gone back and edited. It went from 1k to 1.6k words so it’s been significantly reworked, so much so that if you’ve read it before, it’s enough of a new piece that you’ll hopefully enjoy reading it again! I’ve edited the original ask to reflect all changes, but believe me--it’s been through a transformation.

But, yeah, I’ve gotten quite a few asks for hurt/comfort Ukitake so this is an offering for all of you!! He only suffers a lil bit. <3

so close and yet so far from death [1.6k]

Jushiro Ukitake x Reader:

Falling to her knees, Kiyone pressed her blubbering face against the thin door. “He won’t tell us! Not a thing,” she said, like she was struggling to contain a sob.

Sentaro’s arms circling around her waist, he tugged her to a stand.

“We tried our best.” Despite his eyes holding yours, it seemed more a reassurance for the down trodden Kiyone leaning against him.

Your smile was soft when it lifted.

When had they ever failed at keeping their captain first in their hearts and minds?

“Of course, you did,” you said, trying to infuse your thanks into a tender tone. “Thank you for your efforts.”

Relieving them from their post with a squeeze to Sentaro’s shoulder and a ruffle of Kiyone’s hair, you pressed on.

And immediately crouched to the floor, your fingers smoothing over the warm knit blanket tossed in the entry way, your heart squeezing.

Oh, Jushiro.

You smothered your face in the blanket. Breathed in his scent. Desperate to collect yourself with arms full of buttery soft yarn. You waited, crouched and tense, for the knot of tears that pricked at your throat to loosen and dissolve away.

The growing sadness only made the tears spill. How hypocritical of you--wishing  Jushiro would see more than pity in your actions, while you paused here…pitying you both.

With a soft determination, you nodded, brushed tears from warm cheeks.

“Right!” Using the momentum of your renewed hope, you hoisted yourself up, wrapped the blanket around your shoulders, and toed off both your sandals. Your thoughts of ‘poor Jushiro’ left in the doorway with them.

The blanket hugged you, warm and comfortable as you padded across the tatami mat to the backyard. You might have paused longer without the yarn-spun shield--near dead, with Fall smoothly moving to embrace Winter, the garden looked unwelcoming.

The chill of stepping outside slapped at your exposed face in uneven bursts of wind, but you persisted, fingers foisted in the blanket.

You seemed to spot him all at once, as though the slump of his frame had camouflaged him. His bleak mood folding him into the similarly blanched surroundings.

He was without his captain’s coat. The thin, faded kimono he often wore to bed was all that shielded him from the wind’s bite. Strands of his long, bone white hair lifted, like the wind was a mouth, tugging.

You kept your feet steady despite the worry, unsure if the deep concern you felt would cause him to flee; a deer bolting at the first crunch of underbrush.

“Jushiro,” you said. Your voice tensed his shoulders, caused his head to jump as though roused from thought.

Your arms de-tangled from the wool and draped it over his shoulders before you sank beside him. “Your lieutenants are sulking like puppies, you know.”

“Hm. They should be used to it by now,” he said in a melancholy tone that you struggled to hear. Jushiro never spoke about the silly tag team who constantly trailed him like that.

‘Patience be damned,’ you thought. Groaning loud and forceful you smacked your cold hands against your equally frost licked cheeks. “I can’t do it!”

Jushiro finally turned to you, eyebrows raised.

“I can’t stand seeing you so down on yourself,” you carried on, the steam of your outrage warming you, causing your breath to puff in white clouds. “And I’m not leaving until you talk to me!”

He winced, a bitter twist raising his lips at the sight of your hand grabbing for his. “I couldn’t get through the proposal.”

“It was just bad timing.”

His gaze retreated, moving to track flashing scales of sluggish, well-fed koi instead.

“Yes, exactly,” Jushiro croaked. “What if it’s always bad timing? Will you be so understanding when it’s our wedding day that I’m coughing up blood at?”

Your hand tightened around his, rubbing at his pale, thin fingers. “Of course,” you said, trying to contain your frustration. “Jushiro, I love you. I love all of you. Not just when you’re healthy or when life is easy.”

His dark brown eyes met yours for a breathless moment before his hand squeezed back and he laced your fingers together. “You deserve someone like that, -chan. Someone healthy. Who makes life easy.”

You couldn’t have shaken your head with anymore force, wishing you could smash your forehead against his and force every ounce of your feelings through his thick skull. Jushiro’s determination to upend your point tightened your throat.

“No,” you said, voice quivering in frustration. “I deserve the man who proposed to me because he loves me so much he wants to spend his life with me!! I--”

His arms were tugging at your back before you could speak further. Your deep, shuddering breath sucked the cotton fabric against his chest to your lips as you began to cry in earnest.

There was nothing to do but say it once more--”I love you, Jushiro. I do.”

“Oh,” he said, so mournful in his regret. “My dear.”

“Am I?,” you sobbed. “Then why can’t I be your wife, too?”

His hair tickled at your ears as it cascaded over you, his chin sharp against your scalp. “You are--oh, you are.”

He called your name, then again, and again, each utterance more bare than the last. “It’s just like me to forget how far pride forces you from others, isn’t it.”

Jushiro’s lips pressed to the top of your head, the chill of his own tears pooling between the kiss. The proof of his hurt did nothing to satisfy you. But your crying slowed, your arms hugging him, hands meeting behind his shaking back.

“Yes, but you understand now, don’t you? You’re not a sickness I need shielded from.”

Arms almost crushing, he held you tightly, for long minutes that were marked only by soft crying and whistling wind. “Thank you,” he managed after his body had grown steady.

Your tears wet his kimono in a warm pool of relief as he rubbed firm circles against your back. Your hands clutch at his sides, pressing to feel the warm of his body.

“Forgive me, please. I’m just so used to...”--Jushiro grappled for words and you waited for him to wrestle the correct ones down--”keeping it hidden. Only being sick behind closed doors, away from everyone, and coming back when it’s through. There doesn’t seem to be any room for that kind of separation in marriage.”

“No,” you agreed. “I wouldn’t want there to be.”

Tentative, almost too low for you to hear anything but the vibration of his chest, he said, “I don’t want it to be that way either.”

“So, if you understand” you sniffle, muffled by fabric and skin and salty tears, failing at light-hearted. “Are we still getting married?”

Jushiro pushed at your shoulders until you felt the wind drying your tears in a cruel chill. His thin hands cupped your face, thumbs swiping at the damp tracks trailing your cheeks. You did the same for him. “-chan,” he sighed, tender and reassuring. “Would you marry a silly man like me? Through all my sickness and little bits of health?”

Puffs of visible warmth formed between your faces as you chuckled in pathetic, wet hiccups. “Yes. For the second time, yes.”

Jushiro relaxed fully in one large breath as he leaned forward to kiss you, both of you unbothered by the mingling tears wetting your faces or the briny taste of them shared between your tongues.

His hands cradled your back and pressed you fully against him as he deepened the kiss, his head canting to the side. The blanket fell from his shoulders. Tumbling from your reach as you locked your arms around his neck.

Your lips detached from Jushiro’s as a thump sounded from the porch, Shunsui’s voice registering seconds after.

“Well, what did I say, you two?”

Quick enough to bring spots to your eyes, you turned to see Sentaro’s body lying prone against the wood, his fingers shielding a blushed face. Both he and Kiyone looked mortified, yet unable to look away as Shunsui glided toward you.

“C-captain we-we just,” Kiyone said, her teeth chattering in anxiety as she squashed her face with clutching hands, fingers wide enough to allow her eyes an unobstructed view.

“We came to celebrate the newlyweds,” Shunsui interrupted, smoothly raising a large, elegantly decorated bottle of unopened sake. “But don’t let us interrupt you just yet. Sake’s always sweeter with a view, after all. And something tells me it was just getting good.”

Jushiro inhaled deeply as he hugged you close again, but his brown eyes were light, twinkling with humor. “I should thank you to keep that particular gaze away from my future wife.”

Freeing your head with a twist, you eyed Shunsui with a dramatized sniff, your own arms tight around Jushiro’s body. “Sorry, but that was the end of whatever show you were hoping for!”

Shunsui flopped boneless to the porch. With a wink, he began pouring booze into large drinking saucers and you couldn’t help but grin. “Maaa. Just my luck.”

“We’ll be going now, captain!” Kiyone bowed dramatically, tugging at Sentaro’s uniform with enough force to tug it loose from his obi, as she backed away. “We’re so happy for you!”

“Congratulations, captain! I’m the happiest I’ve ever BEEN for you!”

“Everyone’s going to be so excited!!”

“Kiyone! How dare you?! I would NEVER spread this information without our captain’s permission!”

“Wha--no! Captain, I meant when they find out! I would hate even MORE to spread your private information around.”

Your laughter warmed everything inside you. Jushiro’s arms holding you helping just as much.

Thanking them, you and he dismissed them with fond smiles that they took with them, their bickering explosive with relief.

As Jushiro pressed his lips to your cheek and led you to the porch, you were glad for both his and Shunsui’s hand helping you to kneel. Your soul felt so light, without them, you’d surely float away.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Scandal Ch. 1 - Loki x Reader

Summary: After your child is born a Frost Giant, your husband accuses you of infidelitiy, unaware about his own heritage...

Warnings: Pregnancy, Childbirth, Angst, Mild Cussing

Noteable: Takes place before Thor 1, Asgardian Fem! Reader

Words: ~1800

I Story Masterlist I General Masterlist I

It was as if your anchestors wanted to deliver a warning, for Asgard had never faced a storm matching this fateful afternoon.

The thunder swallowed all of your screams and cries, every curse you spoke with each contraction as the baby made it’s way into this world. All this time, your precious husband would never leave your side, letting you squeeze his hand as much as you needed.

“Only a little bit more, my Lady!” the midwife shoutet from between your legs, her tone calm yet cheerful. “I can already see the head!”

“I’m right here. You’re doing wonderful, my petal.” Loki was softly petting your hair, pressing a wet kiss into your forehead. “You are incredibly strong, Y/N. And I love you so much!”

Remaining collected was using up all of his energy at that very moment, you knew that much. Yet not even the God of Lies could hide all the helplessness and excitement stirring in his head at that very moment.

Being with the Prince of Asgard was just like in a dream.

Once you get to know him, that troublesome arrogant lone wolf turned into a smart, caring - and especially charming - prince. And hel, Loki treated you like a Queen.

All this pain you were experiencing right now would ultimately lead to the greatest bliss imagineable - just like it was with Loki.

Oh, how dearly you had fought, suffered, yearned for him, only to be rewarded with heartbreak and frustration. In between his feverishly chase for the throne and his rivalry with Thor, there was just no room for a loving relationship to grow.

The crushing weight of thinking himself unworthy for affection had made him cold and bitter over the millenias, telling himself the comforting lie that he was above all, born for a glorious purpose.

For the God of Mischief, whose kinsmen had always made him feel out of place or under-appreciated, the process of trusting had always been one step forward, three steps back.

But through your compassion, and with a great deal of patience and understanding, you slowly but steadily melted the ice around the prince’s heart.

Because deep inside, you always knew that it was worth it.

And today would be the peak of your romance: Your child would forever remind the Odinson that he belonged somewhere - right here, with you.

“It’s a boy!”

“A heir?!” Loki exclaimed, smothering your face in kisses. “Well done!”

You smiled weakly at his excitement, in between choked sobs. All that your exhausted self was able to process was the fact that your child is born - and you already loved him beyond reason.

“Where is he?!” you whimpered, unable to realize how the air in the room had shifted - for when the midwife touched the infant, she began to scream in agony.

“What’s wrong?!” Loki’s eyes were narrowing at the midwife that almost dropped his newborn, detecting some sort of burn wound on her palm. Quickly, she had covered the boy in a towel, aware that if any harm came over that baby, she was to die at the God of Mischief’s hands.

A flash of lightning was brightening the whole room, which had only been flooded by dim candle light until now.

Another one of the midwife’s screeched in terror, almost stumbling as she frantically erscaped your bedchamber. The adrenaline from birth and worry about your child sharpened your senses, yet concentration was almost impossible.

Still, the words she was yelling as she ran down the hall send a shiver down your spine:

“It’s a monster.”

Your head was spinning as you rushed into an upright position, with two nurses pressing you onto the bed again. “Milady, you need to rest! It’s still too early!”

“What is wrong with my child?!?” you desperately screamed, kicking with your legs to free yourself from their hold. “Give it to me!”

Their expressions were too much to bear. Your head was spinning, seeing pity mixing up with disgust and anger in their eyes.

“Enough!” Loki finally broke his own silence, his mind having been occupied with all the horror scenarios one could think about.

Walking up to the midwife carrying the infant, he demanded seeing it. “Your highness, don’t-” yet the midwife’s beg was for naught.

Yes, everything will be alright. Loki will take care of it, like he always does. After all, he’s your savior, your hero, the love of your life...

Gently and insecure, your husband cradled the newborn in his arms - a sight to behold. And the baby’s strong cries assured you that it was at least alive.

However, as soon as he dared to unwrap the towel, revealing it’s face, Loki’s heartbeat completely stopped for a second. His trembling lip began to shake, mouth widely agape as he took in the child’s form.

For a brief moment, his mind was completely blank. All emotion dropped from his face before taking in a complete different demeanour.

“Wha-” you wouldn’t dare ending that sentence when your husband’s furious eyes met yours.

The air was so thick, you thought not even Thor’s hammer could break it. Clearly ritten on Loki’s usual unreadable face were so many emotions at once:

Aversion, fury, incredible sorrow...all directed towards you? The child?

Impossible.

Loki Odinson loved you more than anything in this world, this was the only thing you had always been sure he wasn’t lying about.

“From all the people I expected to betray me...” His voice was hoarse, as if the ache in his heart was wrapping around his throat. “Why did it have to be you?”

You could feel the horrendous aura, a wave of sadness and despair coming from your husband. Seeing him like this was like torture.

“What- what do you mean, darling-”

“Don’t fucking call me that, you harlot!” That was surely not the first time your lover had raised your voice against you - he could be a bit difficult at times, obviously.

But this time was different somehow. It sounded so...ultimate.

And the Loki you knew would never use such harsh words against you!

“Please, I beg of you...just let me see my baby!” Everything was just too much for you, almost to the point of passing out. 

And the man did as you pleaded, almost shoving the child into your arms. “There, have your bastard! And make sure to never show your filthy faces to me ever again!”

With that, he stormed out of the room, leaving you with those strange nurses looking at you like you’ve just commited an unforgiveable crime.

There was no use in overthinking this. He’ll come back like he always did. You can work this out, whatever it is - even if you are gonna be mad for a very long time, making such a fuss and then disappearing instead of taking care of you, the mother of his child.

Out of a whim, you decided to finally observe the little being you’ve been waiting for all those months.

A loud gasp escaped your mouth as you realized just why everyone was so worked up about that little boy. Yet the sound you made was solely surprised - not a hint of fear or rejection laced your voice.

It was a beautiful baby boy, little fists balled to the air as if he was searching for the warmth of his parents - though his skin was in the shade of a dark blue. When you dared running your hand over the deep lines and ridges on his body, the stinging pain of frostbite immediately stung your fingertips. His eyes snapped open, looking at you with black irises through red scleras.

You knew the meaning of this, even though you didn’t understand how this was possible: This child was a biological Frost Giant. A small one, but nonetheless.

A curse? Was someone trying to play your family dirty? No. If that was the case, the child wouldn’t also have actual powers together with the appearance.

Just how long have those tears been running down your cheeks in thick streams already? You wouldn’t know.

Only one thing came as clear as daylight to you: You loved this baby, more than anything in this world. And no matter the hardships that came along with it - you would protect him, no matter what!

“He’s magnificent...” you sniffled, pecking some quick kisses onto his small body before the cold could hurt you. “I love you so, so much...!”

Not minding the judging looks of the nurses, let alone wondering about the consequences, resolve was starting to give you new strenght.

The boy got a grasp on your finger, and instead of your skin freezing off as expected, your magic allowed him to the boy to finally disguise itself as one of you. How was this even possible? Well, this is probably the first time something like this ever happened, so no one could prepare you for what to expect with this child.

They all say that birth was an impactful event - but nothing could’ve prepared you for everything that you had to endure on this day.

Yet nothing could’ve stopped you from believing that this child was the greatest blessing that ever came over you.

Now you only had to convince your husband of that very fact...

“Y/N Y/L/N!” the guard wouldn’t even bother adressing you with your full title as his harsh voice woke you up. When had you drifted away into slumber anyway? You were probably way more worn out than you wanted to admit...

Your eyes immediately snapped open, heart skipping a beat until you saw that your son was still sleeping soundly right next to you. Stroking his cheek as he smiled up to you, it almost made you forget about that burdensome situation.

“Hey!” Protectingly, you were holding onto your child for dear life as the guard approached both of you. “I have an important message to deliver!”

You scowled, almost like an animal mother protecting their offsprings with baring teeth, even though you knew in that state you would be completely and utterly helpless. “Why now? What could be more important than the well-being of my child?”

The answer let your blood run cold:

“I am here to announce that Lady Y/N Y/L/N has to face a trial in front of the Allfather. The following crimes she is being accused of: Infidelity, collaboration with the enemy and trying to sneak one of them into our glorious kingdom.”

[merakiui]

Frostbite

yandere!childe x (gender neutral) reader art credit - GNSN_FA on twt cw: yandere, blood, minor gore (lacerations), unhealthy behaviors/relationship, mentions of death/hypothermia, fighting

It’s borderline animalistic, the way you cling to warmth and life like a starved, neglected hound. Your fingers stiffen in a vain attempt to flex—to successfully grasp your sword like a true warrior. The furs that were once draped over your body are ragged, torn to shreds from a dangerous battle between the elements and him. There’s no mistaking the excitement that lights his every nerve like bulbs hanging from a Christmas tree, coated in the maddening swell of potent bloodlust. If surrender was an option, you would have done it long ago.

Even then, you’re certain he wouldn’t give you such a benevolent chance no matter how hard you were to beg and plead.

Your breath materializes like a phantom in front of your face, a cruel reminder that you’re still breathing in a battered body. Your fingernails are chipped, blood running down the tips from an icy struggle, but you refuse to succumb to the cold. Instead, you allow yourself to be swept up in his electrified stare. 

“What’s the matter, comrade?” There’s a wry smile pulling his chapped lips apart, showcasing flawless teeth aligned in a perfect face. Despite the brutal wear of this current fight, he’s still handsome. And that makes you sick. “I thought you said you’ve gotten stronger. If I wanted a real battle, I would’ve challenged one of my subordinates and that’s nowhere near as fun as this!”

Keeled over in the snow, your lungs burning with each rattled inhale, you struggle to meet his eyes. The deathly chill of the Snezhnayan climate claws at your exhausted form like the porcelain fingers of a skeleton. You might as well surrender to the freezing temperatures. After all, the frostbite is far kinder than the fighting machine looming over you, the toe of his boot nudging your trembling self. 

“I... I am strong,” you manage to say before the dangerous wind pierces your throat like a dagger. Like the icicle Childe’s wielding, a happily convenient reaction between Hydro and Cryo elements. You cough and crimson paints the snow. “Strong. I’m strong.”

“Then get up.” There isn’t any warmth in his tone. Cold like ice and devoid of his former playfulness. Under all of that nonchalance, a fierce, chiseled warrior lies in comfortable wait. When his eyes trace your hunched form and he spots the blood that dribbles past your lips, practically freezing as soon as it makes contact with the frigid air, those dull hues widen. Surely he’s hit a weak spot, a vital organ or something close to a fatal blow. He wonders for a brief moment if you’re afraid of death. “You’ll freeze if you don’t move.”

A flash catches your attention and then there is the flow of suffocating water. Sharpened blades of ice surround you on all sides, nearly scraping your arms, so you force yourself onto unsteady legs. Internally, you’re searching for a way out—for a way to give up before you bite off more than you can chew. This sparring match wasn’t your request, but you had been a fool to accept, having been so certain of your strength and wit. But you aren’t accustomed to Snezhnaya, whereas Childe has spent years of his life here: training, learning, and fighting until he was worthy of the Tsaritsa’s praise. 

With sloppy movements, you cut through the ice as if it’s butter, eternally grateful for the sharpness of your trusty sword. You can’t tell when this fight will end, but you hope an opening with present itself. As soon as it does, you’re running as far as your frozen legs will take you. Like a feral beast who fights desperately against the unfair hands of the Grim Reaper, you stumble forwards, slashing blindly at your target. He’s thoroughly amused with your struggle, having seen this sort of desperation many times before on the battlefield.

It’s a depressing thing, knowing you’ll be destined for failure and yet you still push onwards. As if that will turn the tide of this battle in your favor. Childe almost admires your persistence, but it isn’t all that special. He’s seen it all before but not quite in the way you portray it. Your despair is far more delectable than that of any low-ranking Fatui soldier. Childe could bask in this for eternity and he’d never grow bored. To have you by his side as his punching bag—it excites him just a little too much. 

Naturally, the more he spars with you, the more he’ll grow accustomed to your attack and defense patterns. A strategy is only worthwhile if it rakes in victory. No matter the cost. No matter how many fall and grovel, begging for their pitiful lives. In a way, his moral compass is rather skewed. He supposes that makes him a bad person, but he’s never been one for the hero role. 

Childe taps your shoulder and you whirl, slicing upwards with your sword. The blade cuts the air, not the torso of the man who jumps back with such deadly precision. The expression he’s wearing haunts you: a wicked smile, pupils blown wide with the thrill of life and death, and a blooming bruise from where you managed to hit him in your earlier scuffle. In any form, he looks good, be it blue and purple, red and pale, or even frozen stiff by the very ice that reacts to his Hydro abilities. You can’t stand your weak heart, as you’re well aware of the face he’ll bear tomorrow. Friendly and disarming, a total opposite to the grinning madman twirling water-turned-ice blades like they’re circus batons. 

Like always, you’ll return his kindness because you’re a fool. Because you like the soft, wholesome Childe that cares lovingly for his family—the side he’s displayed in rare instances that glimmer beyond the gilded portrait of a battle-hardened soldier. 

You fall hard on your back, landing in the thick snow with a wheeze. There is no warmth on the battlefield. Only pain, suffering, and the certainty of death. You push yourself to get up, but your muscles won’t move, too heavy and sore. You know you’re strong—you’ve faced many opponents before and you’ve lived to boast of your successes. You can beat Childe. You have to if you intend to avoid fights with him in the future. 

“Well, this is upsetting.” He’s frowning now, idly tapping the crystalized water while he circles you like a sharp-toothed predator. “Didn’t expect this to end so quickly.”

Liar. You already know I can’t beat you, you want to say, but the words escape you. Not yet, anyways.

A sneer splits your dry lips and blood trickles down your chin like a woeful river. You don’t need a mirror to witness the damage. 

“Teucer won’t like this,” you say, staring up at Childe with dead eyes, hoping to prod at his weak spots. If the mention of his brother affects him, Childe doesn’t let it show.

“He doesn’t have to know,” he retorts, brushing aside such a possibility with ease. 

Right. Because you expect me to put myself back together like a toy. Of course, almighty Childe, the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya. 

“Well.” You pause to exhale and pain shoots through your side. Through your bleary gaze, you can see a deep laceration. Blood stains what’s left of your attire, and you move your rigid hands over the wound to prevent anymore blood loss. “Congrats. You won.”

“You’re giving up?” Bewilderment flashes across his face for an instant before it melts away into an emotion you can’t place. Anger? Sadness? Is he unhappy with this win? 

“What does it look like? I can’t possibly fight with these injuries.” 

It hurts to speak and you wish he would just stop. If he could accept the outcome of this battle, this wouldn’t be such a problem. You’d be able to patch and heal yourself up before your condition gets any worse. With the chill seeping into your open cut, harshly kissing slick, wet blood, you doubt you’ll make it inside before passing out. Vaguely, you recall the unfamiliar stages of hypothermia. At worst, if you stay out in this fatal weather, pinned like an entomologist’s butterfly under Childe’s monstrous gaze, you’ll freeze to death. At best, you’ll escape, build a fire, and warm up to the best of your ability. Weighing your options, you’d rather lose a finger or a toe as opposed to your life. 

“You can fight.” His blade is at your throat, the pointed tip niggling into your jugular. It’s more of a threat than a warning, a means to spur you into action. “You’ll never get stronger if you’re always running away, comrade.”

Your life has some value; Childe just can’t see that. In his eyes, a fight should be seen through to the very end, even if it’s marred in death and destruction. Yet here you are, choosing to abandon your pride. That must have some strength in itself, right? You hate his face, his childish nature, and the fact that his everything is making you reconsider. You’re doomed to fail if you continue to push your frostbitten body past its natural limits. 

“I...” The blade slices along your throat, a mere surface wound. You can’t feel the sting or the sticky blood that spills out like flowing tears, having become as numb as a fish-eyed animal near extinction. “Childe—“

You don’t want to hurt him and he knows this. It twists his insides like a knife in flesh, turning and turning until organs pop and leak into soupy conflict. The blade leaves your throat and another harsh wind blows between the two of you, glacial and prickling. He distances himself, tracking your form in case you happen to move. You’ve stopped shivering at this point, lying flat on your back and staring up at the dark sky. Snowflakes cling to your lashes like the hands of death, pulling you closer to an invisible grave. 

“You can fight.” Is that desperation in his voice? You almost laugh at the idea. He’s not a desperate man; he doesn’t need to be when he has it all. “Get up, comrade.”

“I think...I’ll stay here,” you whisper, your heartbeat irregularly slow. You’ve never counted the beats before, but now it makes for a fun distraction. “Good job, Childe. You’ve definitely...”

Gotten stronger.

You possess strength, just not the type Childe wants to experience firsthand. He has no use for a lonely, unseeing corpse. And when your eyelids flutter, closing upon a face that reflects frozen death, he releases a sigh. His blade falls at once, landing in the snow with a thump, and he bends down to gather your fallen frame in his arms. Somehow, whenever he spars with you—whenever he’s within touching distance—he feels alive. As if you’ve breathed meaning into his frostbitten soul, warming the cold beast that lurks and pounces at the sight and smell of fresh bloodshed. 

If he’s learned anything, it’s that there’s always going to be room for improvement. You just need to train more, and he’d be over the moon to fight you until it’s your blade slicing through his skin. In the meantime, though, he’ll have to kiss color and life back into your monochrome world of death and despair. 

As the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya, it’s only fair if he repairs the damages done to his favorite toy. Break, repair, and repeat. A cycle befitting a messy relationship and an even messier slew of choices. Rinse and repeat, like waves licking up a carcass bound to the shore. 

Come morning, you’ll be shiny and new, ready to sit by his side for another leisurely ice-fishing outing. Childe isn’t known as the greatest toy salesman for nothing, and you’re just barely scraping by with each battle scar and bandage—courtesy of such an illustrious, experimental toy salesman. 

[author-morgan]

"I won't let anyone hurt you, you're safe with me" with eivor please... Maybe he rescues reader from the order after they had been used for different experiments or something

i am so sorry for how long this took, but I had to come up with the right plot bunny to pair with the prompt for some angst(tm). here you are, i hope you enjoy and don't mind the touch of Havi and Frigg, or in which Havi makes a promise to his sweet Frigg and keeps it even in the next life.

m!Eivor x fem!Reader

SÝNIN CIRCLES IN the clear sky above the longhouse of Ravensthorpe, and then you know your husband is not far now. Soon Eivor Wolfsmal will be back in your arms, where he belongs. The raven descends, coming to perch on your shoulder, nudging his beak against your temple —as much as you’ve missed Eivor, you’ve missed Sýnin in equal measure. Things could get surprisingly lonely without a tetchy raven around to croak at all hours of the night, steal your hairpins, and beg for treats. Reaching up, you scritch the blue-back feathers on his belly and are rewarded by a low, gurgling croak. “Have you been behaving yourself?” Sýnin bobs his head, but you have a gut feeling he’s lying for the chance at a few extra treats.

Taking to the docks, you watch along the river bends for the sail and masts of the longship. The blue-and-back sail and shields turn from the west —squinting, you can see him standing on the curved scorpion tail, looking onward to home. With a nervous smile, you rest your hand over your belly, knowing soon it will start to grow. You’ve much to tell him since he’s been gone the past weeks, building alliances with Saxon nobles across England.

“Eivor, my love,” you call, meeting him at the edge of the dock as he steps off the longship. His smile is tired but relieved when he looks upon you with Sýnin perched upon your shoulder —the best ‘welcome home’ he could ask for. You open your arms, embracing him as the crew disseminates among the settlement. Eivor pulls back, his hands —rougher than you remember— cupping your cheeks.

There’s something different in your expression, a new glow surrounding you that he cannot place. Regardless of his racing mind, he leans forward as you urge him down with a hand at the nape of his neck. It’s been weeks, and he sighs against your mouth, the burdens of the world washed away by your touch and kiss. “Walk with me?” You ask, holding fast to his hand. He nods, offering his arm. Word of the recently secured alliance can wait; he has been parted from his wife too long.

You lead him past the longhouse, the people of Ravensthorpe smiling as they see Eivor has returned and know what it is you’re going to tell him. Once Valka confirmed your suspicions, it hadn’t taken long for word to travel by way of two mischievous children.

Everyone is happy; and happy for you and Eivor, knowing you two had tried to conceive many times. Stopping beneath the great tree past the Seer’s Hut, you turn with a smile —hand settling on your middle. “I’ve good news to tell you.” Eivor lifts his brow, and your smile only widens as you reach for his hand, pressing it against your belly. He sucks in a deep breath, heart thudding in his chest and ears as he looks to you, his clear blue eyes wide with joy and surprise. You nod, resting your hand over his. “I am with child.”

Eivor is silent for a moment, gathering his words and emotions. He looks down at your belly, then back to you —overjoyed and uncertain. This is a moment you’ve only ever talked about; that he’s dreamt of when the gods were kind enough to let him have a good dream. “I’m going to be a father?” Eivor breathes, though it sounds more like a question. You nod again, eyes gleaming with tears as he rests his other hand on your stomach too. His smile too large to be hidden under his shaggy golden beard. There’s another moment’s pause, then Eivor slips his arms around you, bringing you into a tight embrace —his face tucked into your neck.

You lose track of how long Eivor holds you in his arms as if it all is only a dream and he may wake at any second. Stepping back, he takes your face into his rough hands, brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. Eivor dips his head down, his nose brushing against yours before your lips meet —gentle and loving but still burning with fervor from the weeks of being parted from one another.

“You’ve made me the happiest man in Midgard,” he admits. You lean into him again, taking another kiss before he settles onto one knee in front of you, level with your belly. Eivor rests his forehead against your front, his hands loosely holding onto your hips. “Rest easy, little one.” Smiling, you brush back his golden hair —half-unbound from his warrior’s braids and knotted. “I will protect you and your mother.” It’s a promise.

“EIVOR,” RANDVI CRIES as he enters the longhouse, tears still fresh on her cheeks. She should not have let you go riding outside of Ravensthorpe alone, especially knowing you were with child. He clasps onto her shoulders, steadying her so she can gather her senses. “It’s Fulke.” The script is fresh in her memory, having read it a dozen times over to be certain of the ill-boding tidings. Randvi shakes her head, unable to meet her friend's concerned gaze. “She’s taken more than just Sigurd.”

“No,” Eivor breathes, but Randvi presents the scroll as proof. He skims the words —his worst fears coming to fruition. Not only did Fulke hold his brother captive, but now the conniving bitch had stolen you away too. You. His wife. The mother of his unborn child. He’d sworn to protect both of you with every breath in his lungs, and now it is an oath broken.

The sudden anger boiling under his skin is so hot it burns the fear freezing him, turning to determination. Eivor crumples the parchment, his expression twisting —no god can save you now, Fulke. “Send word to our allies.” Randvi nods, stepping back to the writing-table at the edge of the map room. “I will burn all of Wessex if I have to,” Eivor grits out, hands turning to fists at his sides as he leaves the longhouse to gather his men —a part of him feels as though he has walked this path before.

HAVI STRIDES THROUGH Fensalir with a deep sadness in his heart, but his agony cannot compare to that of his sweet Frigg. For three days and three nights, his queen has asked for solitude, and though it pained him to keep away during such times, he and the others respected Frigg’s wishes. Though Havi would not leave his dear wife to grieve alone, sending Huginn and Muninn to keep a watchful eye over the Queen of the Æsir. The two ravens are perched upon a stone bench at the edge of the fen. Thor glances over his shoulder at the approaching footsteps —his expression is weary and grief-stricken as he looks upon his father.

Gently, your son releases you from his tight embrace and rises, stepping back with a silent promise to return soon as he greets his father with a solemn nod before leaving. Havi pushes back his hood, seeing the white flowers spring from the earth with your tears. Baldr will be remembered —in deeds and songs and the blossoms brought forth by his mother’s tears. He kneels, reaching for your hands, and slides the bloody sprig of mistletoe free from your grasp. Through weary eyes, you look upon your husband —his expression twisted into the same display of forlorn grief. It makes your heart ache even more to have pushed him away, for he too lost a son. “Frigg,” he sighs.

“Havi,” you cry, falling into him. He swathes you in his black cloak, tucking you against his chest and holding you tight —a vow of retribution on his tongue. Loki would be punished for this crime. For all the realms felt the bitter void left by Baldr’s absence, and all wept, save for a giantess whose unshed tears doomed your son to Hel. The grief and anger simmering in his blood turn to something else —determination. He will not have his sweet Frigg endure this pain again; his one-armed embrace tightens as he cradles the back of your head. “I will not let another of our children fall,” Havi swears, lips brushing over your temple. “Not until our twilight has come.”

HE TWISTS HIS hands into Fulke’s leather-and-cloth armor, throwing the madwoman to the muddy and blood-slick ground. Fulke spits blood, pulling herself away from Eivor Wolfsmal on hands and knees only to find herself surrounded by his men and allies. All their weapons drawn, trained on her. The price for taking the Jarl of Raven Clan and Eivor’s wife is one to be paid in blood, and there is nowhere for her to run. She will have to suffer the wrath. “Where is she?” Eivor roars, kicking Fulke onto her back. He kneels, knee pressing into the bloody gash on her side, one of his throwing axes withdrawn and held high above his head —ready to strike.

There is no fear in her eyes, only bliss. Her work in this world now complete. “You made a choice,” Fulke laughs, choking on blood, “you chose Sigurd.” She coughs, blood-tinged spittle spattering against Eivor’s face, washed away by the pouring rain.

He roars, teeth bared and eyes burning hot with the rage of the gods. Lightning splits open the sky, thunder cracking like a great whip against the earth. “I will flay the skin from your bones and feed your eyes to my raven,” Eivor hisses.

Her smile is bloody —victorious. She knows you are leagues from here, and now the only ones who know are dead or dying. Eivor Wolfsmal could search the land for years and never find the seaside cave on the shores of Cent. “You’ll never find her,” Fulke says. One final victory before relinquishing herself to darkness and her wounds.

Eivor rises, his shoulders heaving and expression twisted. There is no time for a reunion when Sigurd limps from the fortress —clutching the stump where his hand and wrist once were— reinforcements from Wincestre draw nigh. The cry of war horns and drums echoing above the storm. He turns to Dag and Hrefna, eyes flitting over to his brother, unfit to fight in the coming battle. “See him back to Ravensthorpe,” he tells them before shifting his attention back to his allies. The day is not won yet, and Eivor will not rest until he has his beloved back in his arms.

ABOVE THE BREAKING waves of the sea, there is a whisper on the howling wind. Eivor looks to the sea below, then to Basim —his scouts working tirelessly since the siege of Portcestre nigh a fortnight ago to find leads. The culmination of their work leads him and Eivor to the southern edge of Cent to a cave guarded by Fulke’s acolytes. Eivor knows the gods are with him this day, as plain as if the Allfather whispered the affirmation into his ear.

The echoes of battle fill the air, and through the slivers of light above, you see shadows moving and hear the unmistakable cry of a raven growing closer —Sýnin. Rousing from uneasy rest, you clamber to the upturned bucket at the cell’s center, dragging chains behind you. Trembling, you clutch your swollen belly, then step up onto the bucket, fingers finding purchase on the metal grate above, slick with blood and excrements. Sýnin appears at the edge of the grate, his beady eyes staring down at you in the darkness, tilting his head this way and that. He hops up and down —talons clinking against the metal— before squawking wildly.

Eivor’s focus shifts from the dead littering the beach when he hears Sýnin inside the cave, and for the first time in weeks, you hear your name in his voice —a desperate plea. “Eivor!” His name is only a soft, airy rasp, not strong enough to carry with the raven’s calls. “Eivor!” You cry, this time louder, but your voice is broken, throat raw from days screaming and crying at the hands of Fulke and her enforcers. Sýnin’s squawks grow louder, mingling with footsteps.

The wave of relief almost shatters him when it hits and washes over his body and mind when he sees you —alive. Eivor reaches through the lattice, his fingers brushing against yours. “I’ve got you now,” he breathes, the torchlight showing the tears glistening in his clear blue gaze. You nod, smiling with cracked lips —thanking Frigg and Freyja that your prayers did not go unanswered. Eivor urges you to step down and aside, and when you do, he rears back, slamming the butt of his axe against the rusting lock, breaking it. With a sharp cry, he throws open the grate, sliding down into the darkness with you.

Hands trembling, he unlocks the manacles around your wrists and the shackle around your ankle. Each has left your skin red and raw beneath. Eivor gathers you in his arms. “Let’s get you out of here,” he says, lips brushing against your temple. You nod, eager to be rid of this damp and foul hole in the earth. Sýnin takes to your shoulder as soon as you are free, nudging his head against your temple and cheek. With a tired smile, you lift a hand to scritch the dark feathers of his underside as Eivor pulls himself free of the cell.

Eivor kneels, reaching for your hands, his thumbs brushing just above the broken skin on your wrists, and as you lean toward him, he swathes you with the coarse wool of his cloak —forehead pressed against yours. He feels the dampness on your cheeks as you press your face against his scarred neck. "I won't let anyone hurt you again,” he vows, “you're safe now.” One of his hands settles on your stomach, and you cover it with yours, holding him tightly with the other. “You’re both safe,” he whispers, and it’s only when he feels a light twitch against his hand that the realization breaks him. “I’m so sorry, my love,” Eivor chokes.

You draw back from his embrace, seeing the tears streak his face and the guilt clear on his expression. “Don’t blame yourself,” you plead, cupping his scarred cheek. “Please, don’t.” Eivor nods, though guilt still weighs heavily on his heart and will until he sees you safely returned to Ravensthorpe and tended to. He turns farther into your hand until his lips brush the center of your palm —a soft kiss, another promise.

Sýnin croaks, splashing in a puddle, and breaks yours and Eivor’s trance, reminding you both that you’re still in a cave, far from home and where you belong. He slides his arms beneath your knees and around your shoulders, rising with you. “You’re safe,” he repeats, more for himself to hear than you. Eivor breathes a deep sigh when he steps onto the beach, holding you close in his arms. Sýnin flies overhead, as do a pair of ravens — the same pair Eivor has seen in dreams of late. He smiles as he sets on the path carrying you up the cliffside, knowing Havi and Frigg had both heard his prayers.

[taglist:  @angstygunslinger @vanillabeanlattes @withered-poppies @ananriel @itseivwhore @maximalblaze @dynamicorbit @theelvenvalkyrie @xxdearlybeloved @elizabethroestone @elluvians @letsloveimagines @finick94 @wallsarecrumbling @kitkitvm @thedragonqueenfan @callmemythicalminx @edelae @darkravenqueen98 ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Eivor taglist, just let me know!

[fruitcoops]

can we get a part 2 to caps panic attack? like an outside perspective (not caps) maybe loops or like a cub or something ?

Y'all thought I was lying when I said I'd have Alarm Bells 2: Electric Boogaloo out soon, didn't you? Please ignore the fact that it's been juuuust under four months since the original fic, and enjoy draft #4! This is the longest I've spent on one fic! SW credit goes, of course, to @lumosinlove <3

TW for mentioned panic attacks

The door closed with a dull thud. Choking silence fell over the entire room before a cold, brittle, furious voice asked, “what the hell was that?”

Arthur swallowed around the dryness of his mouth and shook his head.

“What the hell was that?” Remus repeated. His temper was rare—Arthur had never seen him truly angry, but the tic at the edge of his jaw told a different story.

“I’m sorry,” he managed as he picked his clipboard up off the floor. “To—to all of you, I’m sorry.”

“I respect you a lot, Coach,” Dumo said, cutting Remus off before he could continue. “But that was out of line. Tonight’s game was bad. We all know that, especially Cap. That doesn’t excuse putting the blame on one person or throwing things.”

“You’re right.” He swallowed again and looked around the rest of the locker room; every other player stared at the ground, avoiding his gaze. Bitterness tinged his teeth—he was acting like the coach he had always promised he wouldn’t be. “I’m disappointed in myself for tonight’s game, and I took it out on all of you. Pascal is right, that wasn’t fair. I hope you can accept my apology and forgive me for losing my temper like that.”

“We’re not the ones you need to ask, though, are we?” James said from his stall without sparing him a glance.

Arthur suppressed a wince. He had been so preoccupied with his frustration at himself that he didn’t even notice the growing tension in Sirius’ body, nor the way he began leaning away as Arthur ranted. The same mask of fear, false control, and misery had painted Sirius’ face as when his mother—god, he looked at Arthur like he looked at that horrible woman—came to forcibly trade him to the Snakes. “You all deserve an apology,” he corrected. “But you’re right.”

“Excuse me for a minute,” Remus muttered as he stood and headed toward the door. They watched him go without a word.

“How can I make this up to you?” Arthur asked.

Finn’s shoulders sagged. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.” A door down the hall creaked, and he prayed Sirius wasn’t suffering alone anymore.

“Apologize to Cap,” Dumo said.

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t—” Leo faltered, then pressed his lips together. “Don’t tell us we all share blame as a collective, then make Cap take the weight. That’s a shitty thing to do.”

Arthur’s throat tightened. “It is. I never should have done that to any of you.”

A few beats of quiet passed before Kuny raised his hand; Arthur nodded to him. “Don’t yell when angry, please. Very loud. We already know when you are upset.”

“I’m sorry, Evgeni. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Same as Kuny.”

“Can you give us specifics about what we did, next time?”

“Please don’t throw your clipboard.”

“I’ll stay another hour to go through tape, if that’s what it takes.”

“Try not to interrupt us, please.”

For the next five minutes, Arthur noted down every single suggestion he heard; several were followed by murmurs of agreement. “Anyone else?” he finally asked. The boys shook their heads. “Thank you for telling me. I promise I’ll do better in the future, and—”

The knock on the door was soft, but it echoed throughout the room and sent a bolt of nervousness through Arthur’s heart. Remus poked his head in a second later. “Coach, can we borrow you for a second?”

Arthur set his clipboard down and headed into the hall without hesitation.

Sirius…if he was being honest, Sirius was a wreck. His eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks were pink; a tissue was crumpled into little more than atoms in his fist. Still, he kept his chin up. Arthur hated the idea that Sirius thought he needed to brace himself with faux confidence.

“I’m sorry.”

Sirius’ lower lip wobbled once. “Thank you.”

“You kept them going out there even when they were ready to give up. We didn’t win, but we kept playing because of your leadership. Thank you.” He received a curt nod in response and pointedly ignored the tremor in both of Sirius’ hands. “I took my frustration out on you, which was wrong for many reasons, the least of which being that you don’t deserve to be talked to like that. Sirius, I truly am sorry for everything that just happened in there.”

“Apology accepted,” Sirius said. His voice was rough, but steady. “The guys didn’t deserve that, either.”

“I know. I apologized to them as well.”

“Good.” He sniffled once, then held his hand out for Arthur to shake. “In that case, I forgive you.”

“Thank you.”

Remus waited by the locker room door with an entirely neutral expression that would have unsettled Arthur if it didn’t melt into something soft and tired when he wrapped an arm around Sirius’ waist. “Ready?” he asked quietly.

The gentle buzz of conversation vanished as they entered again; Arthur sent them on their way with wishes for a good night’s sleep and a promise to talk more in the morning, and they trooped out in a tight group. As soon as the last of them disappeared down the hallway, he sat down in the nearest stall with a heavy sigh.

“That was impressive,” a voice remarked from the door. The bench creaked as Moody sat down next to him with a huff. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

“Figured. Cap forgave you?”

“Thankfully.” Arthur rubbed his eyes until he saw spots. “Christ, Alastor, I sent him into a panic attack.”

“Asking what you can do to be better was a good move for all of them. That’ll serve you well in the long run.”

“I’m just grateful Loops didn’t break my kneecaps,” he laughed humorlessly. He stared down at the clipboard and the notes crammed into the margins for a long moment. “How did I fuck up that badly?”

Moody shrugged. “You’re human. You got upset. Don’t do it again. While you were in the hall, they were all saying how you didn’t seem like yourself, so I’d take that as a sign you’re doing something right. Just pay attention next time, and take some deep breaths.”

“You sound like Molly.”

A heavy hand landed on the back of his shoulder and gave him a light shake. “She’s a smart woman. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure my candy jar isn’t empty again. You have a team of locusts, Weasley.”

Arthur smiled at his retreating back. “Yeah, but they’re our locusts. You know you love ‘em.”

Moody’s glare was nothing but fond.

[paperpocalypse]

significance.

50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts: 26. Cuddling in comfortable silence before murmuring “I love you” + 47. “I’ve been in love with you for years”

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4,118 words

Warning: Swearing, violence

His head feels like it’s been split open, the rest of his body feels like one giant bruise and the Handler’s daughter has her fancy leather boot on his fucking throat.

Five couldn’t be less surprised by his luck.

“Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”

He forces in just enough breath to answer her. “Eat shit and die …!”

The reaction is worth it. Lila lets out a furious cry, gritting her teeth and bringing her foot down even harder – and in doing so, changes her center of gravity. Opportunity. Five digs his nails into that damned shoe and pushes upwards. The sudden force sends her flying, and he can breathe again.

Fighting the ache in his bones, Five stumbles to his feet as she does the same. “Come on,” he pants, readying his stance as the woman turns to face him again. “What are you waiting for? Let’s finish this thing.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she whispers, sniffling. “This isn’t gonna be quick. You are going to suffer for what you did.”

Suffer? For Christ’s sake – Five scoffs and drops his hands. “Lady, I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Ronnie and Anita Gill.”

“Mean nothing to me.”

“1993, East London.” Lila continues to stare at him like he knows what the hell she’s talking about. “You hog-tied them and you shot them in the head.”

Five narrows his eyes; it’s very possible that she’s just bullshitting him. But despite the rationality of just ignoring her and going for the kill, he searches his memories anyway. 1993, East London. Hog-tied. Tables overturned, the pleas of a couple inside a tiny flat in the middle of the night. Yes, wait – he does remember. 1993, toys strewn everywhere – he told you to close your eyes but you didn’t – East London, two quick shots –

“We had no choice.”

“I know. But …”

“The flower merchants,” he murmurs. Five looks at her with wide eyes. “They were your parents …!”

“And they never did anything to anyone. They didn’t deserve to die like that.”

The Handler ordered him to kill Lila’s parents. Lila, who has powers like them. That couldn’t have been a coincidence.

Absorbing this newfound information, Five attempts to talk the woman down as he fills out the rest of the picture. “You’re right, alright? I killed them. But I killed a lot of people over the years. It was all just a job. Alright? That was never personal.”

At that, Lila laughs. “‘Never personal,’ my ass,” she sneers. “Yeah, I’ve killed – it’s always, always personal.”

“That’s why you’re not cut out to be an assassin.”

She yanks a knife out of her boot as soon as the sentence leaves his mouth. “Bet your life on that?”

Right then, a shadow moves in the doorway to the barn. Five immediately knows who it is, and his heart seizes in his chest.

“Lila!” Your voice is firm and taunting.

Shit. Shit!

Without hesitation, Five lunges for the knife, only to find himself grabbing at air as Lila reappears behind you. The blade is pressed against your neck before he can even shout your name.

Five clenches his fists as he meets your eyes. Your expression is stony, hands stiffly grasping at Lila’s arm. Jesus Christ, just a little energy to blink – nothing –!

Fucking shit!

“Let her go.”

—

The bearded man smiles. “Sorry, no can do.”

The alley is frigid and dark, the air damp and rotting. He doesn’t move a muscle. In front of him, you breathe steadily, in and out, not saying a word. The steel barrel pressed flush to your temple mirrors the one against his.

“Just hand over your valuables and that briefcase, and we can be on our way.”

“Sorry,” you say, voice steady and cold. (It makes him proud.) “Everything stays with us.”

He looks at you. You blink.

Within the next half-second, he’s knocked your captor to the ground and the two of you are aiming the guns at their previous owners. They raise their hands almost immediately. Exactly like the exercise from his youth.

Another half-second, and both of you pull the triggers.

Five stares down at the corpse now lying on the ground. Then he straightens his tie and turns to you.

You’re still pointing the gun at the other target. His frown softens.

“[Y/n].”

Putting a hand on your arm, he notes how you stiffen, snapping out of whatever zone you had been in. You meet his eyes and breathe in sharply, then relax.

“We’re done.” You frame the question as more of a statement as Five takes the former thief’s gun from you.

“For the night,” he affirms, holding your gaze curiously. “You good?”

You wet your lips and tuck your weapon away. “I’m okay,” you eventually reply. He raises an eyebrow; your mouth twitches. “I just – well, you’re taking this whole assassin thing a lot better than I am. Pointing guns and shooting and killing for real, and – and all that pizzazz.”

“I was a member of the Umbrella Academy,” Five points out dryly. “Thirteen more years of formal training and being able to spatial jump gives me somewhat of an advantage.”

“… That’s true.” Still, you seem unsettled. “Five, you’re okay with this? We’re … killing people.”

“No. But we have no other option,” he says. “It’s only until I figure out how to get us back, alright?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Alright.”

The pair of you leave the alley, leaving the targets there to be found by the police. The fact that they had a gun pointed at your head should make him feel better about it. They were already criminals, too. Self-defense instead of cold-blooded “corrections.”

There’s still a bitter taste in his mouth anyway.

“You hold your own pretty well,” he murmurs after a while, trying to distract himself.

You grant him a small, knowing smile. “Thanks,” you say, taking his arm as the pair of you walk the rest of the way to the motel. “I had a good teacher while I was stuck in the ruins of the apocalypse.”

He hums. “Weren’t you lucky?”

Your hand tightens around the sleeve of his tailored suit.

“The luckiest.”

—

He’s going to kill her.

Teeth bared, Five starts toward her, only to stop short when Lila presses the blade harder against your throat.

“Not another step, Five,” she warns him, her grip tightening. “Or you’ll both regret it.”

“She’s not responsible for what happened. I was the one who killed them!”

“But she didn’t stop you, did she?”

Five struggles to control his rage. The knife is sharp and black underneath your jaw, ready to draw blood at a moment’s notice.

You inhale shallowly. “Lila,” you rasp.

“Don’t speak.”

“Look,” Five forces out as evenly as he can, catching the woman’s attention again. He can’t take his eyes off that goddamn knife. Five can almost feel the edge cutting into his own skin. “You wanna blame someone, blame the Handler, alright? She faked the kill order.”

“Bullshit! I saw the kill order. AJ Carmichael ordered it, and you and [Y/n] carried it out.”

“Lila, listen to what I’m telling you, alright? The Handler gave us the kill order. She came on the job, which she’d never done before.” He unclenches his fists with unwilling, trembling fingers. His mind is reeling. “You’re Commission. You know execs never go on jobs, but that day in London, she was there. Ask yourself why –”

“Stop trying to muddy the waters.”

Five swallows, pulse racing. He rips his eyes away from your neck to gauge Lila’s expression. Doubt is beginning to bleed into it, and he manages to keep his tone level.

Focus on completing the picture. No sudden movements.

“Think about it, Lila. It all makes sense.”

Lila’s grip on the knife relaxes by the smallest amount. She hesitates for a moment before speaking. “What?”

“She never cared about your parents. She was looking for you.”

What little is left of her anger melts off Lila’s face. For the first time, the girl looks completely vulnerable. And it’s not a farce.

“Why?” she whispers.

Come on …

“‘Cause you’re one of us.”

Lila whips her head around when Diego cuts through the silence, holding you even more tightly against herself. Five’s gaze snaps back to the knife again and he swears internally.

Dammit, Diego, you better have a plan!

“The Handler stole you, Lila. Just like our asshole father took all of us,” his brother explains carefully.

“No. It’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right. Because he didn’t have our parents murdered.” Diego approaches her, staying low to the ground, hands outstretched. “Listen to me, Lila. You were born October 1, 1989, the same day as all of us.”

The rest of his siblings close in on Lila, slowly, warily. The movement sends her into a panic, and she cuts a little into your neck. You let out half of a gasp and swallow the rest of it, but it’s enough.

Five sees red.

“Get your fucking hands off her!”

“STAY BACK!”

“Five! Back off!” Diego shouts. Chest heaving and blood roaring in his ears, Five looks at him and then at your sweaty, frozen face – and against every fiber of his being, he listens and backs off, glaring venomously as his brother then turns to Lila again. “Lila? Lila, stop. Let her go.”

She turns her head from side to side, knuckles white as she keeps the knife against your throat. “No,” she chokes. “Diego, you don’t understand. They killed my parents. They took my life away from me.”

Five seethes. “For the last time, it was nothing personal –"

“And it was wrong. I know.” Diego’s eyes flit to Five’s, silently reprimanding. “You want to make them pay for what they did. But killing [Y/n]’s not gonna bring your parents back. You know that.”

“It’s not about bringing them back.”

He nods once, softly. “You’re right. It’s about justice. Honoring their memory.” Diego’s voice is gentle. “Trust me, Lila, I get it. I lost someone to the Commission too. She wasn’t family, but she was my friend, and I cared about her. She wasn’t supposed to die. She didn’t deserve to die. But she did.”

As Diego continues talking, Five keeps his guard up on the other side, watching and waiting for a contraction of a muscle, a single forewarning of violence. If another drop of your blood stains that blade, shit, he’ll kill the woman with his own two hands, Diego’s feelings be damned.

Tightening his jaw, Five shifts on his feet as he looks at you. You stare back with calm eyes – just like that night in the alley, but this time, with no signal for him to make a move.

Goddammit, they should’ve gotten you to safety by now!

“… Just think about whether taking another life would honor their memory. [Y/n] deserves a chance to start over, live a peaceful life with people she cares about. And so do you.”

Lila’s trembling. Yet, she refuses to budge. “If it weren’t for her and Five,” she whispers, “I wouldn’t need that second chance. I would have been all alone if Mum hadn’t found me that night.”

“But there’s a reason she found you. She’s using you, Lila. The Handler.”

“You’re wrong. She raised me.” Lila pauses, then asserts, “She loves me.”

“She’s dangerous,” Diego emphasizes. “And you’re scared of what she’ll do with all that new power. That’s why you dragged me to the Commission. Because I know what it’s like to love dangerous people.”

—

“Oh, my.” The Handler puts a hand on his shoulder, hovering behind him. “One hundred and forty-three kills on the simulation? That’s a new record. Very, very good, Five.”

Five bristles at her closeness, but he doesn’t move away, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of unnerving him. “Thanks,” he says tersely.

“Tell me, Five. From what I’ve seen during your training, you’d be a lot more efficient in the field if you were a one-man team. Working alone is when you work best.”

“I’m partnering up with [Y/n].”

“And you’ve filled out the paperwork and everything, I know. I know. But I implore you to think about it logically,” the Handler tells him, leading him down the hallway. “[Y/n] has highly marked assessments, but frankly, they’re nowhere near your level.” She raises her eyebrows at him and blows out a stream of smoke. “Forgive me for assuming, but perhaps this is less about a partnership that would benefit the Commission and more about your personal … relationship.”

Five smiles thinly at her. “With all due respect, we’ve worked together for years. Almost forty years, in fact. I can assure you that our partnership will deliver more than satisfactory results.”

The woman just hums serenely, eyebrows still raised and cigarette holder between her lips as he faces her. Behind her, he sees you approaching.

“Excuse me,” he says politely.

As he sidesteps the Handler to meet you halfway, your shared employer calls out to him, voice ringing through the sparse crowd of Commission drones. “You’re a dangerous man, Five,” she drawls, “and this is a dangerous job. If you want to protect someone, we won’t stop you, but don’t let it endanger this opportunity we’ve so generously provided. To the both of you.”

“Duly noted,” Five replies over his shoulder, walking away with you. He can hear the Handler’s heels click against the floor as she goes on her way as well.

“She’s suspicious about us partnering up, isn’t she?” you ask him lowly.

He frowns. “I would be too if I were her. But we have to stay together.”

“Well.” You reach up to adjust his hat, tilting it slightly. “In any case, I’m pulling my own weight in the field. Just like in the apocalypse. No one-sided protection.”

“[Y/n], this is different from the apocalypse. We’re not dealing with food shortages or bad weather – we’re dealing with people.”

“All the more reason for you to trust me.” Despite your usual controlled tone and mien, he sees the way that your eyes glint. “I’m kinda dangerous myself, Five. Especially for the people I love, and I’ve been in love with you for years.”

Five sighs.

“You’re so sappy, you know that?”

(Nevertheless, he finds himself mumbling those four words, just loud enough for only you to hear.)

—

“Difference is …” Diego glances around at their siblings, then looks down, “they love me back.”

“Shut up.”

“The only thing she loves is power. Now, the minute she can’t use you, she will turn on you, and deep down, I know you know that.”

She tilts the knife against your neck. Five sucks in a breath, his heart pounding.

“You don’t know me, Diego.” Lila’s voice is hoarse.

Diego steps closer. He lifts a hand to cover hers over the knife.

“Don’t I?” he whispers. “I know that we can be your family. If you just let us.”

Lila’s eyes are glossy with unshed tears. Hesitantly, she turns her head to look around at his family, and in that moment, Five has a cautious inkling that Diego’s words actually got through to her. She doesn’t resist when Diego pulls her hand gently.

When she releases you, he almost feels weak with relief.

Five murmurs your name as you stagger over to him; you grab his arms, and he raises his hands to hold your face between them.

“Shit,” he breathes, “[Y/n] –”

“I’m okay,” he hears you say, but his ears are ringing and your skin is cold and shit, your neck – delicately, Five tilts your head back, and you attempt to brush his hands away. “Five, it’s – it’s just a scratch …”

His fingers brush against a wetness on your skin. You wince, almost imperceptibly. He draws back to look at his hand, and when he sees the blood on his fingertips, your blood, the wave of relief crashing onto him abruptly morphs back into rage.

Before you can pull him back, Five lunges at Lila.

Gunshots echo throughout the barn.

—

You’re smiling.

—

He wakes up, gasping for breath.

“Oh, good! You’re still alive,” the Handler says, looming over him. Her lipstick is bright red through the dizzying blurs. “Lucky you. You got to see how this all played out.”

Grappling for air, Five tries to speak – tries to give one last word, to finally tell the damned snake to fuck off as he stares into the barrel of her automatic. But it hurts to breathe and he can’t. Fuck, it hurts. It hurts. His tongue feels like lead and his throat is closed up. All he can do is look.

But before she can pull the trigger, he hears gunfire.

Bullets rend flesh that isn’t his. Five’s eyes widen, stunned; the Handler gasps sharply. She turns. More gunfire.

She falls.

Shit, that could only mean.… Five struggles to lift his head, almost blacking out from the pain as the gunman approaches, crushing straw underfoot. A shadow falls over him.

The Swede silently tilts his gun down at his face, and he realizes: they are both the last ones. Everyone else is dead. The Swede’s brothers. The Handler. Lila. His siblings. You.

This is the end.

(This doesn’t have to be the end.)

… Five blinks, numb.

(You’re the one who got us stuck here.)

Unless …

(Seconds. Not decades.)

Seconds.

His lungs burn. Hope blooms in his chest.

(C’mon, Five.)

Concentrate. Hands clenching sluggishly, Five focuses on gaining back the feeling in them. Seconds, not decades. A familiar, electric buzz thrums through his bones, warm, crackling with energy. His hands begin to glow. Blue envelops them like they had so many times before.

It happens slowly, time reversing itself like molasses oozing back into a jar. The Swede lowers his arm and retreats. Bodies begin to rise. Five feels himself getting pushed up, and his feet touch the ground; he presses forward, running, refusing to look back. The sharp pains recede to a singular ache.

Seconds.

Seconds.

He breaks through behind the barn door with a gasp. Air fills his chest, full and crisp.

Immediately, Five looks back at you and everyone else, standing and breathing, and pats himself just to make sure.

Holy shit.

Spotting movement outside, Five leaps at the Handler just as she walks in, seizing her weapon and turning it on her. His finger curls at the trigger. She raises her hands in surrender, lips pursed.

Got you, you son of a bitch.

“It’s true, isn’t it? What Five said,” he hears Lila ask. He doesn’t dare look away from her mother, meeting her poisonous glare with an equally cold one. “Answer me! Is it true?”

The Handler takes in a breath. “Well –”

Before she can finish her sentence, blood sprays out from her chest. She collapses. Dead.

The Swede. Five stares at her body, gun lowering. There’s a pregnant pause, void of any air – and then in his periphery, Lila shoots forward.

Luther charges after her. “The case!”

“No!”

Diego tackles him to the ground. Lila disappears in a flash of blue.

One dead, one missing. Neither of which are you or his siblings. There might be hope for them yet. Rolling his shoulders, Five turns his attention to the rogue assassin, cocking his gun and pointing it at him. The Swede reciprocates.

Nobody utters a word, for fear that it may be their last. But as Five feels the weight of the automatic in his arms, he wonders, suddenly, just how much he has in common with this man. A forgotten humanity. The death of their families. The force of a person with nothing to lose.

Except in the Swede’s case, he has no chance of gaining back what he had lost.

This is the end.

Five takes his finger off the trigger, then after a brief hesitation, lets go of the gun.

“Enough,” he says.

Nothing happens at first. The only sign that the man heard him is how he looks away from Five, surveying the rest of the barn’s occupants.

Five returns his gaze firmly, muscles tense, when he meets it again. The Swede regards him for another moment, then finally speaks.

“Inte mer.”

He drops his weapon. No more killing.

—

After Vanya helps the kid and calms him down, she goes with him and Sissy to help them pack up. Everyone else exits the barn as well to rest up and say their goodbyes before leaving, save for Diego, who talks to Herb and Dot with you and Five before joining the rest of the group at the house.

As soon as everything seems like it’s on track, Five brings you straight to the bathroom before you can protest.

“Five, it’s just a scratch.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

In a familiar turn of events, you’re sitting on the edge of the bathtub, sulking as he cleans the rest of the dried blood from your neck. Five scowls as he inspects the thin, rough scab underneath your jaw. For shit’s sake, it’s more than a ‘scratch’ – but at the very least, the cut wasn’t deep enough to cause too much bleeding.

Obviously, he’d have preferred it if you hadn’t gotten cut at all.

“She could’ve killed you.”

“I know,” you murmur. He glares at you softly, and you reach over to hold his hand. “Sorry for worrying you.”

Five scoffs, shaking his head. “Worrying me? I was damn well past worrying when she –” At that moment, he makes the mistake of seeing the guilt in your eyes, and he sighs. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You shrug quietly as he opens a large Band-Aid. “That I had to do something to keep you safe.”

“At your expense?”

Your miniscule smile changes into a grimace for a split second when he sticks the bandage on, but it returns immediately after. “You would’ve done the same thing, Five.”

All he can retort with is a displeased huff.

Silently, you stand up and turn him around, urging him to sit down this time as you pluck another hand towel from the stack that Vanya had given the two of you. Five sits still, mouth shut and eyes watching, as you start cleaning his face. Your expression is tender. A familiar feeling wells up inside of him.

Suddenly, you chuckle.

“What?”

“It’s just – if I didn’t know any better,” you say, scrubbing at a particularly grimy spot on his cheek, “I’d think that you were a schoolboy that just got into a fight and lost.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, good thing that you do know better, because I obviously would’ve won.”

“Obviously.” Your eyes glint, like they have so many times before.

—

“How bad does it hurt?”

Your hand is soft in his as he glances at his wrist, propped up on a stack of books, then into the small fire burning a few feet away. “Not that much,” he answers. “Thanks for splinting it.”

“Thanks for talking me through it.” You breathe in, head on his shoulder, testing the words on your tongue before you continue. “I was worried. I’m glad it’s feeling better.”

A wrist sprain is nothing to write home about, figuratively speaking. It’s more of an inconvenience than an actual concern; Five figures that the injury will heal in a week, a week and a half at the most. Frankly, he’s more concerned about how much longer it’ll take to complete daily tasks in the meantime.

… You, on the other hand – well, he wonders if you’ve ever gotten anything more than a few cuts and scrapes growing up. The closest he had ever seen you get to panicking was after he fell today, and you’ve been wandering around with him for years.

In a strange way, Five thinks, he was glad for it. He is glad for you. Glad for your presence, your level head. He is glad for the way you hold his hand and talk to him during the day and after dark. And he is glad, secretly, that you want to protect him just like he wants to protect you.

“I love you.”

The words slip out, rough and unbidden.

Five holds his breath when they echo in his ears. You stop tapping your fingers over his skin. Perhaps that’s a bad thing. It was not a mistake, of course, and he isn’t going to take it back, but if that wasn’t what you were saying this whole time – shit. He lets go of your hand, his throat scratchy and strangely closed up.

But then – your fingertips brush his face. He swallows.

“I love you too.”

[whump-tr0pes]

WIJ: Hope

Content warning: food and water deprivation (self-inflicted), internal dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun, theoretical broken bones, misunderstanding whump, metaphor of animals being hurt, thoughts of death, knives, past torture

~

The demon didn’t know how long it had been hiding at the bottom of the closet. Its bones ached from lying in a ball for so long. Its throat felt hot and raw, a familiar burn that it thought could mean it had gone without water for three or four days. Its hips were bruised where they had pressed into the hard floor, shifting endlessly, trying to find a position that hurt the least.

Truly, this was nothing. Sleeping on a cold, hard floor was nothing compared to what waited for it if it left the closet.

It had attacked a virtue. A virtue. It had snapped its vicious teeth at her hand and growled like an animal at her. It had tried to hurt a virtue. It knew that it deserved whatever punishment came to it. It knew that. But still, some small part of it wished it had chosen a hiding spot with windows, so it could have crawled through, perhaps dropped from the roof and broken a leg, crawled away to a dark hole somewhere and tried to mend itself before it was caught again.

It was better that it stayed. It deserved the punishment. But it could not bring itself to leave the closet to face it. The very thought of it made the creature’s gut go cold with terror.

There was the creak of a floorboard, out in the hall. The creature gasped and shifted against the floor, eyes wide in the dark, pupils huge and round and reflective. Its gums pricked and its mouth watered. Its neck strained and it caught the tail end of a conversation.

“…can’t keep doing this,” a woman’s voice sad.

Not a woman. Dara. The virtue the creature had attacked. Footsteps shifted against the floorboards.

The creature’s throat made a high-pitched whine, even as it shoved its hands over its mouth in a desperate attempt to be quiet. It curled tighter into itself and shivered against the floor. Tears pooled in its eyes and slid down its nose, smelling faintly of sulfur.

“But… Dara, wait…”

Ilya. Ilya’s voice. The creature bit down hard on its lip. Its stomach flipped and its heart ached. Of course they would take part. Of course. Of course.

The door to its bedroom creaked open. The creature’s whine only grew louder, higher, more desperate. The sounds it was making didn’t sound human.

It wasn’t human, and it must never, never forget.

“Dara,” Ilya said, their voice murmured behind the closet door. “Don’t… you’ll scare it…”

“Yeah, well,” Dara grumbled. The creature could smell the ozone coming off her from here. “It needs to learn.” The closet door swung open.

The creature flinched back so hard it banged its head against the wall behind it. It was no longer whining, but nearly shrieking, sounding like a dog being torn apart. It held out its hands in front of it, light filtering through the bent and broken fingers, eyes burning at the sight of the shining angel standing over it.

Mercy. Mercy.

“Ilya. Call it,” Dara murmured.

Ilya stepped out from behind Dara with a look of disgust on their face. The creature looked helplessly to them, eyes pleading, desperate. “It’s not a dog, Dara,” they said, crossing their arms over their chest. “I can’t just—”

Dara clenched her jaw. “Just… get it out here. Please. I don’t want it suffering like this.”

The creature squeezed its eyes shut. It had wondered when the others would kill it. It could almost feel grateful that it was time. No more pain. It would not return. It would not exist, not if they did it right. But she didn’t say exorcise. She didn’t say send it back.

She must mean kill.

The creature’s shrieks quieted and it pressed its forehead against the floor. Terror left it empty and shivering. It waited for Ilya’s call.

There was a shift, a slight change in the air. “Hey,” Ilya said softly, their voice closer to the ground now. “I don’t know your name, but… can you come here? Dara… she won’t hurt you.” The creature opened its eyes and looked out at Ilya. They were crouched in front of the closet, hand held out, empty. “She won’t hurt you.”

That was the best the demon could hope for: a quick and painless death. It whimpered as it struggled to its hands and knees, then crawled across the floor to Ilya’s side. It slumped to the floor at their feet and lay still, tears streaming, waiting for the final flash of pain, the nothing after.

Gentle fingers landed in the creature’s hair. It sobbed weakly, reaching out one hand, fingers splayed against the wood. Ilya was so kind. They were so kind.

“Hey,” Dara croaked. The creature flinched. “Hey, de— can you sit up, please?”

The creature nodded, not even considering disobeying. Its arms shook under it as it pushed itself upright, shuffled onto its knees in front of them both. It tilted its head back and forced itself to meet the virtue’s gaze. Her eyes glittered oddly, and she slowly sank to a crouch in front of it. Then she shifted onto her knees.

That wasn’t right.

“I need you to look at me,” she murmured, her golden-brown eyes hypnotic, entrancing. “Look at me, and trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

The creature swallowed hard, and obeyed. It held the virtue’s gaze, even as it wanted to shift its eyes away and cower at her feet. She was beautiful, devastating, unearthly… but it wanted to be looking at Ilya. It wanted to be looking at Ilya when it died.

As Dara brought her hand to her hip, the creature realized for the first time that she was wearing brown leather gloves – and the creature flinched back, frozen at the sight of the knife at her belt. Its voice broke as it started to whine softly again.

“No, shhh,” Dara murmured as she drew the knife. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. I keep my word. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The creature couldn’t tear its eyes away from the angel’s knife. It shimmered oddly in the light, seeming to give off a glow of its own. The blade itself was wickedly sharp. The creature knew – oh, it knew – that the blade was only a few atoms wide at its sharpest edge, capable of slicing through skin and flesh and sinew with a flick of the wrist. It knew.

At least its death would be quick.

“Hey,” Ilya soothed, reaching out and cupping the creature’s cheek. It blinked tears out of its eyes and pushed into the touch, finally bringing its gaze to Ilya’s. “She promised. She won’t hurt you. We don’t… d-do that here.” Ilya’s voice hitched. Their eyes swam with tears.

Out of the corner of the creature’s eye, the angel shifted. It flinched as her hand closed around its wrist, and cried out as she wrapped its hand around her knife – and forced the edge against her own throat.

The creature keened softly, trying desperately to yank its hand away so the blade would not be at the virtue’s throat. It was holding – the virtue was forcing it to hold the knife to her throat. It let out a shriek of distress, knowing somehow that this would only make the punishment worse.

It never wanted to hurt anyone. It never wanted to hurt the angel. It only wanted to protect its friend.

Through the ringing in the creature’s ears, it realized the angel was talking. “…listen to me, demon,” she said. “Be still. Listen.”

Its mouth was pulled wide with terror, eyes running tears as it scrabbled against the floor, desperate to pull away.

“Be still and listen, demon,” she commanded. The room shook with the brassy sound of trumpets, shuddering around the demon like an earthquake. It instantly went still, its eyes wide and staring right at her.

She wet her lips, and for the briefest moment, the creature swore she was trembling.

“I am not afraid of you,” she murmured, holding its gaze. It was powerless to look away. “I am not angry for what you did. I understand. I understand it was a mistake, and I understand why you reacted the way you did. You’ve been hurt. You’ve been wounded, demon. And I…” She took a slow breath in, blew it out between her lips. “I am sorry for that. My b-brethren should never have—”

She clenched her jaw shut, eyes blazing. Her hand felt warm, then hot against the demon’s skin. It whimpered softly, watching the blade tremble at her throat.

She blew out another slow breath and continued. “But you do not have to fear punishment in this house. Not ever. Not from Ilya. Not from their parents. Not from Evangeline. Not from me. Do you understand?”

It blinked, searching her face, looking for a sign that this was a test. A lie. Its dry throat clicked as it swallowed hard. It saw only light in her face. Only truth. It nodded slowly, trembling with disbelief.

“Good,” she huffed. She released its hand and tucked the knife back into the sheath at her belt. In one graceful movement, she got to her feet.

The creature shivered and looked to Ilya. They reached out and took the demon’s hand, fingers gently squeezing. It blinked and made a questioning sound.

Ilya lurched forward and pulled the creature into a hug. It melted into the embrace and sagged against its—

Its friend.

“Why don’t you come downstairs?” Dara murmured, holding out a hand towards the demon. “We’ve got lunch made. Let’s get you some food and water.”

The creature’s stomach rumbled. Ilya released it from their embrace and slowly, hesitantly, it took the virtue’s hand. The leather was so soft, and shielded it from the burn it knew her touch could bring. Her dark eyes were softened a smile.

The creature barely dared to hope as it looked to Ilya. Ilya – its friend – smiled at it, so wide that their eyes crinkled at the corners and their cheeks dimpled. They wound their arm around the demon’s waist and took its weight as the three of them headed downstairs. The creature’s head swam, near-delirious, as it leaned on its friend. It wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t tied down, screaming, forced to confess its every sin.

It was free. It was breathing.

Maybe it was safe.

@whumpmasinjuly

[jiminniethemarshmallow]

Wait For Me (M)

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: smut, pwp

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: yikes switch!reader, switch!Jimin (but mostly dom), needy!Jimin, horny-ass-mf!Jimin, masturbation, dirty talk, ruined orgasm, post-orgasm torture, dirty talk, overstimulation, 69(?), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, dirty talk, creampie, pet names, begging, dirty talk, omg so much dirty talk I’m going crazy

(A/N): Am I the only one that’s into dirty talk like this? Maybe. But did I enjoy writing this? Absolutely. Kinda for Jimin’s birthday but really just me needing an excuse to be a sl*t in writing.

“Please, (Y/n)?” Your boyfriend whines from his spot on the bed, the tent in his boxers already pitched to full height behind you.

“No! Wait until I’m finished.” You huff in frustration, trying your hardest to focus on the words in front of you. It’s a stuffy Sunday night like any other, you sitting at your desk doing your homework at the last minute and Jimin reclining on your shared mattress doing whatever the hell he wants. Except, tonight all he wants to do is you. You’ve been prancing around the house in nothing but his shirt and a pair of panties all day, teasing him playfully and laughing whenever he would get worked up. You thought it was funny how easily you could get him hard without trying, but it doesn’t seem so funny now when he keeps begging to fuck you while you’re desperately trying to complete your homework.

“You promised we would fuck tonight!” His pout is evident in the tone of his voice but you refuse to look at him. If you do, you just might give in.

“We will, but I have to finish this assignment first. It’s due at midnight, so I really need to get it done right now.” It’s your fault for waiting until the night of to work on this, but you wrongfully assumed that Jimin would understand and let you work in peace. All you have to do is complete a short reading and take a 10 question quiz and then you’re free, but what should have been a 15 minute endeavor has now turned into an hour and a half of arguing and rereading the same 3 sentences over and over. It’s getting ridiculous.

“You said you wouldn’t take long, but I’ve been sitting here ALL NIGHT waiting for you.”

“That’s because you won’t shut up!” You snap, glaring at him from the corner of your eye. His mouth falls open before he frowns, puffing his cheeks out cutely for no one to see. You think you hear him mutter something under his breath, but you don’t question it and instead take his momentary silence to speed through a page.

The silence continues for a couple of minutes and you swear you can feel his eyes burning into the back of your seat. There’s some shuffling on the bed, more silence, and just when you begin to think he’s found something useful to do instead of bothering you, you hear a groan. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

He’s closer than he was before— probably sitting on the edge of the bed facing you now— and it almost feels like he’s breathing down your neck with how clear his voice sounds now. You scoot your chair up slightly to escape him. The sound of friction fills the space of the room, the image of his hand wrapped around his dick floating around your mind even when you refuse to look at him. He pumps fairly slowly, his eyes still glued to your back.

“Mmm, I’m so fucking hard, baby.” Jimin moans to you, trying to coax you into turning your head to see him. “I’ve been hard all day because of you and now you won’t even look at me? Such a bad girl.” You roll your eyes, tuning him out as best you can. Yet, you can’t seem to ignore the wet squelch that fills your ears when he rolls over his head. He moans louder this time. “Since you won’t look at me, I guess I’ll just have to tell you what I’m doing. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on anything.”

At your sigh, he chuckles, the sound dark and mischievous in a way that makes you ball up your fists. “Jimin,” You warn, but he knows the threat holds no real substance.

“My cock is so red right now, just aching to fuck your tight little pussy, princess. It’s leaking already, can you hear it? All that precum just for you.” You close your eyes, envisioning the sight you’ve seen so many times, but your eyes snap open when you remember your objective and turn the page of your book. “I want you so bad, want you to lick it all up and take me into your throat. Fuck. My hand feels nothing like that hot mouth of yours.” His strokes are longer now, dragging breathy, rhythmic pants from him.

You’d be lying if you said his voice wasn’t making you wet, but you won’t let him know that. He’ll be at this for a while, you know how much he likes to tease himself, so you try your hardest to get used to his rhythm and make it background noise as you progress through the reading. But the words on the pages don’t seem nearly as interesting as the words he feeds you from his plump lips.

“My head is so sensitive, princess, I can barely even touch it without almost cumming.” He grunts, gasping every time his hand nears his tip. You lick your lips, shifting in your seat, an action he catches onto. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Seeing me cum all over myself while fucking my hand? Calling your name as I make a mess all over myself and our bedsheets?” The bed squeaks and you can only imagine that it’s from his hips bucking into his fist, picking up speed as he speaks. Your clit throbs annoyingly, and before you can stop yourself, your hand slips between your legs to rub over your panties. Thankfully, he doesn’t see this, probably because his head is thrown back as he lets out a series of moans.

You’re sensitive. More sensitive than you realized. And you almost let out a sound of your own when he curses. And for a brief moment— a split second— you contemplate abandoning your work and indulging him just to end your suffering. But no, you can’t give in that easily, you have less than a half hour to do your assignment. You’ll keep your hand where it is, however.

“Feels so fucking good,” Jimin lets out a drawn out moan, slowing his pace and working his hand again so you can hear it slapping against the skin of his abdomen. It’s loud and wetter than before, making you gush in your underwear at the thought of how worked up he’s getting. “I know how much you like playing with my balls,” You hear the grin in his voice. “So I’ll play with them a little for you, baby.” The obscene moan that falls from his mouth makes your eyes roll, the material of your panties completely soaked now at how desperate he sounds. You can’t help but to rub yourself to him, willing yourself not to turn around. “I wanna feel that tight little pussy bouncing on my cock, princess. So wet that you drip and cream down my balls as you ride this big cock til you cum, and beg me to cum deep inside your hot cunt. Will- oh shit- will you let me cum inside you tonight, baby? Let me cum deep inside and fill you up so you’re dripping me for days?” His voice is heavy with lust, it’s tone dipping deeper as his moans pitch higher. You assume it’s a rhetorical question so you don’t respond. “Hmm? Are you wet thinking about my cock and cum filling you up, (Y/n)?”

“No.” You lie through your teeth, voice surprisingly stable despite how your fingers move rapidly over your clothed clit. You can feel your wetness through the fabric now, and you just know there will be a stain on your chair when you get up, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“No?” He asks teasingly. “You okay over there? You haven’t turned a page in a while.” Damn him for being so observant. You almost forgot you were reading, the words all jumbled up on the page as your focus is pulled away by the pleasure. Fuck it, you’ll just take the quiz now to get it over with and accept whatever score you get. Jimin watches  in amusement as you turn to your laptop, clicking open the quiz hurriedly and starting the questions, zooming through the first 5. He lets out a short laugh at that. “You better hurry, I’m getting close.”

Sucking in through his teeth, you hear him speed up again, spitting onto himself to make the glide smoother, and your core clenches in want. You read question #6 four times before you comprehend what it’s asking, your body betraying you as it yearns for you to look over at your stubborn boyfriend who curses out your name.

“Listen to that sound, princess. That’s what it would sound like if I was fucking you right now. God, I should just bend you over that desk and take you right here for making me wait like this. Make you take every inch of this cock and see if you can ignore me then.” He nearly growls this, an inaudible whimper squeezing from your throat. You would love that. He’s done it before, pushed you up against the desk and had his way with you when you thought it would be funny to give him a strip tease after he ordered you to get on the bed one wine-laced night. But he doesn’t deserve to have you like that after torturing you like this.

Only 3 more questions left and he’s getting more needy, the whiny quality of his voice letting you know how close he is before his words. A noise that you’re all too familiar with fills the air and you freeze. It’s quick and sloppy, the sound of his hand focusing directly on his tip at an inhuman speed that not even you could reproduce. His moans follow the pace, each one getting longer and pitchier, and you can almost hear how his hips lift off the sheets.

“You better not cum.”

“You want me to edge? But I’ve been on edge all day, baby.” He complains. Against your better judgment, you whip your head around to look at him. There, he sits naked on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide as he leans back on one elbow, one hand tangled in the sheets, the other stroking slowly at his thick cock upon your request. It’s red and leaking just like he said, the glistening tip causing your mouth to water. Jimin’s head is thrown back to expose his sweaty neck, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, eyes shut in pleasure. But once he realizes that you’re looking at him, he snaps his head up to meet your gaze and sends you a shit-eating grin at the flushed look on your face. Then, he resumes working at his head, arching his hips up in the most erotic sight you’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. That’s the last straw.

“Don’t you dare fucking cum!” You growl.

You click random answers on the last few quiz questions, hitting submit and slamming your laptop shut before stomping over to him, slapping his hand away as you clamber up onto the bed, pushing him down aggressively and throwing a leg over his chest to face his erection. It jumps at you, so painfully hard that you almost feel bad for him. But Jimin doesn’t deserve your pity right now. Not long after your hand finds him, your mouth fits over the soft tip.

“Fuuuuuck.” He grunts, hands finding your ass instantly. The crotch of your panties are soaked all the way through, the dark spot causing a smirk to cross his lips. “Why did you lie to me, princess? I thought you said you weren’t wet?” For some reason, hearing him say this makes you even wetter, and you suck in a breath through your nose when his fingers come up to touch your core, a deep hum vibrating through his body that ends in a chuckle. “Absolutely drenched, baby. Were you touching yourself over there? Your clit is so swollen I can see it through your panties.”

His voice hitches at the end of his sentence as you sink all the way down on him, pushing yourself to take him all the way into your throat just like he wanted, the tip of your nose resting at his balls. It’s partially payback for his teasing, but you adore the response you get from him as he nearly chokes on air from the sudden stimulation. You bob a few times, a delightful lightheaded feeling overtaking you as you hold your breath and force yourself to keep him in your throat. Your reward is that you finally shut him up, Jimin now at a loss of words beneath you and shaking with the effort it takes to not fuck into your mouth. Smirking, you pull off of him, dropping your ass down a bit until your core grazes his lips, and he gets the hint immediately. Always the eager lover, he pulls the crotch of your underwear to the side, groaning at the strings of arousal that cling to it. The sight makes his mouth water, his tongue lurching forward to lick a long stripe up your slit, gliding back down to suck at your engorged clit.

Your moan is muffled around him, working the top half of his shaft while one hand accommodates the rest, and your jaw is already starting to hurt from his size. Although he’s generally a small person, Jimin’s cock is anything but. Your jaw fell to the floor the first time he dropped his pants, the girth surprising you pleasantly. He’s got an impressive width that left you sore for a few days and a length that is well above average. His balls always seem plump and heavy, ready for you to milk them dry, and you can’t stop yourself from reaching up and grabbing them, massaging the plush sacs for your own amusement.

“Oh f- you’re so good at this.” He cuts himself off with a gasp, kissing the inside of your thighs and biting hickies into them as his mind becomes cloudy. He’s close— if the slight movement of his hips is any indication— and an evil idea pops into your mind. His hips thrust upwards at a particularly hard suck at his tip and you gag at the sudden depth, Jimin nearly yelling out at how your throat closes around him. “Yesss, baby girl, choke on my dick.” You preen at his praise, but keep your composure.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Your hips push back into him, covering his mouth with your lower lips, and he continues his work enthusiastically to distract himself. You’ve switched to using just your tongue now, licking up and down the solid shaft and circling around the head, providing just enough stimulation to inch him closer to the edge but no longer giving him what he wants. What he wants is a hard and fast orgasm. You’ll make sure that’s not what he gets. His groans increase in volume and frequency as you work your magic tongue, flicking over that sensitive fold of skin where his tip attaches to the rest of him, and it’s not long before he’s trembling.

“(Y/n),” He mumbles out a shaky warning, and you have to push down his hips with one hand when they begin to lift off the bed, your other hand jerking steadily at his base while you tease over his slit with the tip of your tongue. The pressure builds, his balls lifting in preparation for his release, and you coax it out of him with a few gentle sucks. “Ah!”

Jimin lets out a high pitched groan sounding almost in pain when you pull off of him, squeezing at his base so hard that only a few short spurts of cum make it out. Your mouth has been completely removed from him, it’s only connection being the long strand of saliva hanging from your lips, and he bucks up frantically in search of stimulation to complete his orgasm. Still rock hard, he practically begs you to move your hand, to give him anything as the few lonely globs of semen sadly skid down onto your hand like tears from his one-eyed monster. His mouth is covered by your pussy so you can’t hear his pleas, but the vibrations they send to your core are absolutely delightful. Once you’re sure he’s finished cumming, you begin your evil plan.

It starts with a few slow pumps, lubed by his own semen from his length that’s still twitching in your hand, but it quickly escalates to firm and steady strokes that have him squirming under you. You aren’t even going that fast, but the sensitivity makes him thrash and cry out prettily as you hold him down with your body weight. Jimin’s into all kinds of freaky shit, so this isn’t the first time you’ve indulged in post orgasm torture, but it’s somehow very different when he’s not expecting it. Your hand moves at an unyielding pace, unbothered by the way his legs open and close only to be smacked apart by the hand that still holds his balls.

“I’ll stop when you make me cum.” You state, unsure if he can even hear you. But his tongue dives in with renewed vigor, flicking relentlessly at your clit as you grind down on him. It won’t take long to reach your peak, his technique is flawless, licking wide circles around your bud with the flat of his tongue and then raising up to plunge his long muscle between your walls. Your essence dribbles down onto his face, wetting his chin and cheeks as he eats you like a man starved. You haven’t been this turned on in a long while, you didn’t think you’d be so into seeing him suffer in pleasure like this— his body writhing under yours and cock still so insanely hard in your hand just from the light hold you have on him. His hands claw at your ass, pulling you down and spreading your cheeks apart, fingers bruising the flesh in his haze of sweet agony.

You moan for him and bite your lip, closing your eyes as he edges you closer to your peak, your hand starting to stutter on him. It’s easy to get lost in him and grind down into his mouth, the feeling of his tongue between your folds heavenly, the feeling of his lips even better. But what sets you over the top is when his fingers snake into your opening, first two, then three. The stretch causes you to throw your head back, and you go flying head first into your orgasm when he curls into that one spot, tongue still on your clit and fingers wiggling inside you as your walls spasm around him. With one last groan, you lift away from him, finally moving your hands to his thighs to grip the muscles as you try to catch your breath. Jimin does the same, relaxing into the mattress as a few more ticklish waves flow through him.

“Was that okay?” You spin around until you’re laid on top of him, chin on his chest looking up into his dark chocolate eyes. He cracks a brief smile at your cuteness before flipping you over, capturing your lips sweetly. But the sweetness ends before you can even enjoy it when he bites down on your lip, a whimper falling from you.

“You can’t ask for my consent after it’s over.” He points out, trying to hide his giggle in the crook of your neck as he sucks dark marks there. “But, yeah, that was fucking hot.” The tip of his erection prods at your ass cheek, nudging the fabric of your soiled underwear. Without pulling away, Jimin hooks his fingers into your waistband, snatching them off and chucking them across the room, next comes your shirt, which he damn near rips in his haste to get it over your head. He growls. “So fucking sexy. And all mine. Right, princess?”

“Yes, Jimin, I’m all yours. Do whatever you want with me.” In an instant you switch roles, dropping the momentary dominance to cower in his presence. There’s a hunger in your boyfriend’s eyes that you provoked, the product of the teasing he faced all day, and you drip down your ass at the thought of him taking you however he wants. You suspect he’ll be eager to finally fuck you, but you underestimate how petty he can be. The tip of his cock runs through your wetness, but when he sees the way you jump when it rolls over your sensitive clit, his eyes narrow, seeing an opportunity to get his revenge. Dipping down briefly to collect more of your wetness, he glides the slick underside of him over your bundle of nerves, using his thumb to press down and add pressure, then he grinds his hips ever so slowly back and forth over you, forcing you to feel every ridge of him bump against you. “Oh fuck!” You gasp out, spreading your legs wider and lifting your hips into him. His length is hot, still burning and hard from not getting a full orgasm.

“You like this, baby? You like how my cock feels between these soft lips, rubbing that cute little clit?” He grins when your eyes roll back, thighs already starting to tremble. “Maybe I should just fuck you like this. Make you cum without ever even entering you.”

“No! No, please, Jimin.” Your eyes pop open in alarm at the thought of him not fucking you tonight, though you know he’s far too wound up to deny both of you that. Still, he persists his humping, groaning along with you as you feel another orgasm creeping up embarrassingly fast.

“Hmm, seems like you’d like that though? I mean, you look like you’re about to cum again already.” The patronizing tone of voice he uses would piss you off in any other situation, but you’re not in your right mind currently. As he picks up pace you feel your mind slipping away, your clit throbbing and your empty walls clenching almost painfully around nothing. You try to hold back and prove him wrong, you really do, but your body betrays you and with every nudge of his tip you can feel yourself falling. The most you can let out is a desperate whine. “If you want something, use your words and tell me.”

“P-please...”

“Please what?” You can feel his eyes on your face, but your eyelids are sealed shut and your head is tossed back into the pillows. It takes everything in you to muster the strength to form a coherent sentence and push it past your lips.

“P-please fuck me, baby.” Your voice hiccups at a particular stroke, the hood of your bud now pushed back for more direct stimulation. You aren’t sure how long you’ll last like this.

“You want me to fuck you?” He coos, twitching against your lower lips.

“Yes please, I need your cock.” Asking in the sweetest voice you can, you peel your eyes open to bat your lashes at him, but they snap shut once again when he suddenly pushes inside your velvet walls, shoving you off the edge unexpectedly.

“That’s my good girl,” Jimin sighs once he’s bottomed out, hands roaming your torso as you shake uncontrollably. “So desperate for my cock that you came right when I put it in.” He clicks his tongue, but if you were cognizant at the moment you would have noticed his satisfied tone. You clamp down on him as your orgasm washes through you, and he rides the waves with shallow pumps of his hips and his fingers tweaking your nipples, grunting at the way you pulse around him.

He pushes in deeper as you start coming down, the sensitivity kicking in with every drag of his member inside you. He pays no mind to your whimpering and reaches around your back to lift you up, seating you in his lap with your heels on the tops of his ass. And your hips start moving immediately despite the tingling that shoots up your spine.

Though his body screams for release after his incomplete high, Jimin can’t help but guide you into a sensual pace of grinding and rocking, the intimacy soothing him. With your arms around his neck, you fall into a comfortable rhythm as you slide back and forth against his length, adding a swivel of your hips just to hear him groan. Your weight on top of his feels like the most natural thing in the world and he wishes you could stay like this forever. Running his hands up and down your back, he allows you to mark up his neck and collarbones for everyone to see. He always wears your love bites so proudly. Relishes in the slight tickle of your tongue and nip of your teeth that whisper to him ‘you are mine’. Rose petals bloom on the surface of his skin all the way up to his ear lobe where you nibble.

“Your cock feels fucking amazing, babe.” You whisper in that sultry tone of yours, noting how his hips twitch beneath yours. You’d never say it out loud but you’ve been thinking of this all day. Waiting to hold him close and just love one another. His lips plant a few stray kisses to the side of your neck before trailing downwards, capturing a pert bud between them. You lean back on your hands to give him more access, grinding down just a bit harder when his hips lift to meet yours to make sure you get every inch he has to offer. With your head thrown back like this Jimin can reach that delicate spot deep inside you with ease, humming at the shaky moan you let out. His lips curl into a grin when you begin to bounce with desperation, planting your feet behind him for leverage.

Jimin’s eyes peer up at you as you ride his dick, your breast bouncing in his mouth as he switches to the other to suck. Sweat has now accumulated on your forehead and neck, the droplets glittering against your complexion. Your eyes are screwed shut and the prettiest flush has overtaken your cheeks and chest as you work for your next high, lips bitten and eyebrows squinted together. Truly, you are gorgeous. It makes him impossibly harder to see you like this, his length already throbbing within you, but he holds back as much as he can simply because seeing you fall apart is almost more satisfying than experiencing it himself. It should be surprising that you’re getting close already, but it’s always been easy for you to cum quickly after your first orgasm, the sensitivity and connection you have with your lover making you as explosive as a lit firecracker.

“You’re so needy tonight, princess, is it because of how much you teased me all day? Did you like watching me suffer?” You don’t answer because, frankly, yes. You loved it. And it’s too embarrassing to admit, but Jimin already knows. “Well, let’s see how much you like it when I destroy this cunt until you can’t walk.” The gruffness of his voice makes your eyes roll, the tenderness he’d shown not even a minute ago gone completely as he lets his teeth scrape over your nipple.

Bringing you flush against his chest again, he hooks his elbows under your knees and starts pounding into you in earnest, your hands flying to his shoulders for stability. His core strength is a sight to behold, supporting almost all of your weight while sitting upright, pulling you onto his cock as though you weigh nothing. And all you can do is hang on for the ride, gasping and crying out at the way he repeatedly slams into your spot. Tangling your hands in his hair, you pull him closer and rest your face on the crown of his head, feeling your limbs go weak from the pleasure.

He grunts below you when you tug, bucking up harder when your walls start to squeeze. Wetness streaks down your ass, a string of curses tumble out of your mouth to accompany the lewd sounds of him pushing through your arousal. Each stroke is calculated, and you find yourself teetering very close to the edge.

“Please, Jimin, I’m so close. Please can I cum?” You mumble, barely coherent.

“My baby girl wants to cum again?” He coos into your collarbone, the ticklish skim of his lips sending a shiver through you. ‘My baby girl.’ That one word has you shaking.

“Yes!” You wail as his hands tighten on your ass, palming the globes harshly to slam you down on his length. You can just imagine how sexy his arms look right now, the muscles and veins bulging in his forearms and hands from how tightly he holds you, his biceps and shoulders on full display and glimmering with perspiration. His voice rumbles against you in that thick Busan accent and you almost cream right there.

“Beg for it.” He looks up into your eyes and you see something dark, a heady lust that lowers his eyelids and makes you feel like you’re looking at the definition of sex itself.

“Please please please let me cum, baby!” Your voice shakes with each jolt of your body against his. “I’m so greedy for your cock, I wanna cum for you. You make me feel so good!” Pleased, Jimin gives you permission and moves a little faster, pressing you down against him so your clit rubs against him every time, and you nearly scream from the feeling. You sing your praises into the room knowing how it motivates him, but you couldn’t stop even if you tried. Skin slicked with sweat, you let yourself fall into another breathtaking high, clinging onto your boyfriend who grinds you on top of him to savor the way you clench and throb around his tip when it’s buried deep inside you.

“Fuck,” You both swear at the same time, taking a brief moment to catch your breath as Jimin kisses his way up your neck, releasing your legs and squeezing you close with his arms wrapped tight around your back. Exhaustion dances through you and you sit limply in his hold, eyes closed and basking in his sticky heat. But the moment is soon over when you feel him twitch within your sensitive walls, growling as he shifts his weight until your back is pressed into the mattress with him kneeling over you.

“Keep those eyes open, baby, I’m not done with you yet.” You gasp when his hips begin to move again, your nerves rubbed raw and swollen from the three highs he’s already pulled from you. Still, your eyes roll in delight when he starts ramming into you again, pushing your legs as far apart as they will go and holding you open. “You didn’t think I would let you off that easy, did you, princess? You still need to be punished for today.” He coos, voice gentle despite his hard thrusts. You whine loudly and attempt to close your legs when he touches a sweet spot deep within you, the pleasure almost too much, but it’s like you’re addicted to him, unable to get enough even when your body begs for reprieve. “Shhh, I know you can take it, baby. I know how much you love it when I overstimulate this greedy pussy, so be a good girl and take it.”

He’s absolutely correct, you love the overstimulation and the twinge of pain and overwhelming pleasure that comes with it. And you know this is his payback for the post-orgasm torture you gave him earlier. You’re still incredibly wet, new arousal dripping out of your entrance every time he plunges in, the mess of your juices and his precum dripping down the crack of your ass and onto your bedsheets. Looking up at Jimin’s face, you see how entranced he is by the sight before him, eyes trained between your legs as he watches himself disappear inside you and re-emerge with a new coating of slick covering his shaft. Smirking, you reach your hands down around your ass and pull your lips open wider for him, biting your lip at the way his eyebrows crease together and his mouth drops open at the sight. His pace slows slightly, his breathing labored as he begins to slowly unravel for you.

“Fuck, that’s so sexy! God, you always take my cock so well, princess.” He hisses, licking his full lips when your clit throbs at his praise. He can see and feel when you tighten, his tip finding that spot again that makes your back arch off the bed.

“Jimin,” You mewl, your thighs shaking in his grip and fingers clawing the sheets. Tears build in your beautiful eyes. It feels so good, but would you be able to handle a fourth orgasm tonight? Your body feels pushed to the limit, but your lover says otherwise.

“C’mon, baby girl, cum for me one more time.” You shake your head in desperation, pleading with him with your watery eyes. “Yes you can. Just relax for me, baby, I got you. I want you to cum one last time, just one more, and then I’m gonna fill you up.” He encourages softly, yet you don’t miss the dominant undertones that tell that this is a command. With a huff from his nostrils, he pounds into you harder while fighting off his own release, staying deep right up against that spot making you cry out. His hands reach for your breast and you place your hands over his for comfort, moaning as he squeezes the bouncing mounds as you toss your head back.

“I- I don’t think I can...” You whimper, unsure if you can get there with your nerves feeling numb and worn like this. But Park Jimin is nothing if not determined, so he takes your statement as a challenge. Slipping one hand away from you, he presses his thumb to your lips, staring down at you intensely before you open.

“Suck.” On command, you swirl your tongue around his digit, coating it in your spit before he slides it out with a pop. Suddenly, he’s pressing against your swollen clit in tight circles and those special tingles shoot up and down your spine at the feeling. He hums at the sounds you make, eyes sealed shut because of the blinding waves of bliss coursing through your veins, building you up almost frighteningly fast. He feels you pulse, your jelly legs trembling on either side of him as they attempt to close, but his praises fall on deaf ears as you chase the sensations of his skillful hips and fingers, rocking into him with the last of your energy until you reach the brink.

“Oh my god-!” You shudder and shriek as you finally tense up around him. Your walls clamp down repeatedly as Jimin continues flicking your sensitive nub, and the tears that had been welling up finally spill over. He stops only when your breathing turns to pitiful snivels, wiping away your tears with caring hands and loving eyes. His hips are still fucking you through the aftershocks as he kisses his way around your face, planting his lips firmly on yours until your breathing evens out.

“I’m gonna cum soon,” He whispers out, resting his forehead against yours. “Will you let me cum in this pretty little pussy, baby?” You nod against him, staring right into his coffee colored eyes. “Mm, I want you to keep it inside all night, okay princess? So I can fuck it out of you in the morning. Will you do that for me?”

“Fuck, yes.” You moan. You can feel the way he gets just a bit harder, how his muscles start to shake just slightly, and you know exactly how to push him over the edge. Your fingers lightly caress the velvety skin of his balls, causing a surprised moan to leave his lips. “I want your cum so bad, Jimin. I promise I’ll keep it inside, I’ll be a good girl for you. Please fill me up.” Knowing how much your words would affect him, you use your sweetest voice and lock your heels around his back. His head swims with desire and his voice strains.

Sitting up a bit, his hands clamp onto your hips to stroke into you in earnest, face contorted in the sexiest of expressions. You want to shy away from his intense gaze but you can’t pull your eyes away from him, drinking up the sight of his clenching abs, sweaty chest and neck, and the pure hunger that overtakes his features. “Good girl. Don’t move. Enjoy the feeling of my cum filling you up.” With a few more grunts and groans, he allows himself to release into you, shuddering almost as hard as you were from the feeling of the full orgasm he had been waiting for all day. Spurt after spurt of his release covers your walls, and your inner muscles suck it in as if on instinct, throbbing around him to milk every last drop. You let him collapse onto you as he finishes, cock still throbbing while he gasps and pants into the crook of your neck. You can feel it already starting to leak out around him, but he won’t be too upset about it since he’ll likely have fun fingering it back into you later.

There’s a comfortable silence as you both catch your breath, pressing sleepy kisses to each other’s damp skin with rosy cheeks and smiles on your faces. Jimin moves first, groaning when his muscles scream out in soreness when he sits at the side of the bed to pull on his boxers. You giggle, commenting about how you were supposed to be the one unable to walk, not the other way around. He snorts passing you a pair of panties and helping you stand so you can make it to the bathroom.

Once you’re both cleaned up, you get ready for bed, grumbling about having an early class tomorrow morning. Which reminds you of the homework quiz you took tonight. Opening your laptop again, you check your score, only to have your face drop at what you see.

“50 PERCENT?!” You whip around to face your boyfriend, who was back to reclining against the headboard, the scene similar to the beginning of your night. “You owe me for this, Jimin.”

He waves you off. “Those quizzes aren’t even worth that much, you’ll be fine.” But you disagree because you’ve already missed 2 of them and only the lowest 2 scores are dropped at the end of the semester. He rolls his eyes when you tell him this, cutting you off with a dramatic groan. “Babyyyyyy, stop talking about school and come to bed.” His pout is unmatched, so you easily relent and shut down your laptop, huffing and puffing the entire time.

“You owe me cuddles and breakfast tomorrow morning.” You grumble as you climb in next to him, fitting your body with his.

“And shower sex.” He winks at you and you snort, turning out the bedside lamp.

“Goodnight, Jimin.” You laugh, snuggling up to his chest in the quiet of your stuffy room.

...

“So no shower sex?”

[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.

[kiki-shortsnout]

21. Listening to someone's heartbeat? From the intimacy prompts, With Loki/Tony, please? 💜

I could've written a whole story with this prompt! As it is I struggled to keep this near 2,000 words! Thank you for the prompt!

~~~~

Where is this place? What is this place? Loki asked himself for about the millionth time, glancing around the room and trying not to fidget on the hard-backed chair he was sat on. He stretched his neck from side to side, trying to relieve the irritating itch he felt from the collar chafing his neck.

He’d suffered through worse. He could endure this.

‘If looks could kill,’ Mobius mocked.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Well, let’s start with a little cooperation.’

This man knew nothing about him, and Loki had already formulated a plan about how he was going to escape from here, possibly killing him in the process. However, that plan began to unravel the more they spoke, this TVA agent able to strip back every façade, every mask that Loki had constructed around himself.

Only one other person had been able to do that, strip Loki bare and see his vulnerable, true self beneath.

And that man was currently shining on the wall that was playing the movie of Loki’s life.

Loki didn’t react at seeing Anthony again, didn’t give away what they were to each other, feeling himself seethe as an image of them kissing after a battle was revealed.

His greatest secret.

‘A secret Avenger lover! How did you guys manage to hide that? I don’t know which is worse, a hero falling in love with the bad guy who murdered his people…’

Loki clenched his teeth, refusing to speak. It was no one’s business about how he and Anthony had gotten together, what drew them together in the first place. He knew what Mobius was trying to do, but it wasn’t going to work. He was going to escape, find the Tesseract, and convince Anthony for once and for all that they needed to leave their worlds behind.

‘Or the man who fell in love with the enemy, giving up his mission for glorious purpose because of a pair of pretty doe eyes.’

Pushing himself up and away from his chair, Loki paced the room, mind trying to think of a way out of this, to protect Anthony, find a way back to him while eliminating whatever threat this was to them both. If the TVA knew about the relationship, something Anthony had taken great pains to hide, then Loki needed to eliminate this threat.

‘What exactly is it that you want?’

‘I want you to be honest about why you do what you do,’ Mobius answered, still calm despite Loki’s growing agitation.

‘Liar!’ Loki called him out.

Even as Mobius gave a passionate speech back, something about wanting to understand him, Loki paid him no attention, gazing at the hideous orange panels on the wall, feeling the squeeze of the collar on his neck.

‘What makes Loki tick?’

The man reached out and tapped the orange ball on his desk, revealing more moments of Loki’s life, the invasion of New York, his shame, his weakness that he’d nearly harmed the one he…cared about in some misguided quest for glory, his true intentions warped by the Scepter.

He needed to get back to Anthony, to explain it hadn’t been him, that he had been beholden to some trick.

That he wasn’t the monster Anthony had needed to stop, led away by Thor in chains and a muzzle until an opportunity presented itself. Loki was forced to witness his shame again from an outsider’s perspective, the haze of blue in his eyes as he’d forced the Midgardians to bow before him.

Had Anthony known that wasn’t him, that he had been controlled? Why hadn’t Thor seen it?

‘I was... I am on the verge of acquiring everything I am owed, and when I do, it'll be because I did it. Not because it was supposed to happen, or because you or the Time Variance Authority, or whatever it is you call yourselves, allowed me to.’

That wasn’t quite the truth, what Loki truly wanted mingling with the aftereffects of the Mind Stone’s influence, his impatience to get back to Anthony and set things right overriding his rational mind.

Please don’t allow this to change your feelings for me. Please, beloved, please realize it was not me who acted.

‘Honestly, you're pathetic.’ Who was Loki speaking to, the TVA agent before him, or himself?

‘You're an irrelevance. A detour. A footnote to my ascent."

‘If you hadn't picked up the Tesseract, you would've been taken to a cell on Asgard.’

What sorcery is this?

‘What is this? This is nonsense, more tricks. This never even happened.’

‘Not to you, not yet. Look, the TVA doesn't just know your whole past, we know your whole life, how it's all meant to be. Think of it as comforting.’

All his thoughts, his arrogance, his plotting fled as he watched his mother die. For the first time in his life, he was speechless, his desperation making him babble.

‘Where is she?’

‘You lead them right to her,’ the man said, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

‘I don’t believe you. You’re lying. It’s not true.’

He couldn’t be responsible. This was a trick, it had to be a trick.

‘It is true. That's the proper flow of time and it happens again and again and again because it's supposed to, because it has to. The TVA makes sure of it.’

‘Where is she?’ Loki demanded.

What if they have Anthony locked up in his place too? What tricks are they playing on him?

‘Now why don't you tell me, do you enjoy hurting people?’ The man asked again, his voice increasing in volume, making Loki feel as though his chest was being squeezed with overwhelming pressure.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Loki paced in agitation.

‘Do you enjoy killing?’

‘I'll kill you,’ the words were hollow, and they both knew it.

‘Like you did your mother? Like how you attempted to kill Thanos and left your lover alone to sacrifice himself?’

His rage that had been steadily building the whole conversation suddenly dissipated, leaving him lightheaded at the swing between the two emotions, a cold fear now scrabbling up his throat, chasing away the burn of his anger.

‘What happened to Anthony?’

‘Who?’

‘Anthony! Tony Stark! What happens to him?’

‘Does it matter? I mean I know he was your secret lover, but he was an Avenger, an obstacle in your-’

‘Tell me!’ Loki screamed, feeling the furious tears burning his eyes, the onslaught of his emotions frightening him.

He’d shown his hand, exposed his feelings for the two he cherished. Loki had known this would happen, that emotions would make him fragile, defenseless. Now he had no way of saving either and had given the TVA what they needed to blackmail him.

‘You care for him that much?’ All the bluster and posturing from Mobius was gone, a genuine curiosity in his face as he watched Loki.

‘I love him,’ Loki admitted, words he’d never uttered to anyone, not even Anthony. ‘Please, I know you have no reason to trust me, that I’m everything you say I am, but please, let me see what happens to him.’

Sighing, Mobius reached into his pocket and pulled out a separate tape, revealing he held it all along. ‘Here…he was a great man, your Tony Stark. I’ve watched how you interact with everyone around you, your enemies, and the ones you pretended not to care for… it was hard not to be moved by Tony Stark.’

Loki wasn’t listening, trying to fumble with the machine, almost snapping his teeth at Mobius when he reached over to take the recording from him and set it up in the machine. He watched the film, waiting for the moment where Anthony’s life had twinned with his own, when Thor had first been banished and Loki had faced the man of iron for the first time.

Their secret meetings Loki initiated because he’d been intrigued by this morally gray Midgardian, their first kiss, their first tumble into bed. Loki treasured those moments, and now they felt tainted with Mobius’s scrutiny, his gaze leaving grubby fingerprints over their memories.

There were other moments, a future Loki still had to discover. The moment Loki finally confessed his feelings, the heartbreak of betrayal Anthony felt from Captain America (Loki threw the chair across the room at that). He watched as the Hulk creature passed on news of Loki’s death, the way Anthony’s sorrow hardened and was reborn as fury, the catalyst for why he launched himself into space after Thanos’s minions.

And then the end, the blaze of glory, standing alone and proud against the Titan, his beautiful mind destroyed under the effects of the Infinity Stones. Loki couldn’t breathe, his chest trying to move in short sharp pants, his teeth gritted against the pain.

No. Not like this.

He couldn’t see past the agony, couldn’t keep his heart beating with the vile poison of the truth. He could feel a hand on his back, a voice trying to call to him.

‘Please, let me go to him,’

‘Loki, I can’t-’

‘Please. You’ve brought me here for a reason. Whatever it is you want from me, I’ll do it without question. I won’t escape. I won’t betray you, whatever it is you want, but please…’ Loki trailed off, unable to speak past the emotions webbing in his throat.

‘In all my studies of you, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you beg, not sincerely anyway.’

‘You know my…my love for him to be true, that I would not jest about this. Please, Mobius, you have my word, my vow, just please… let me see him.’

‘Ten minutes, that’s all you get. No messing around with the timeline, no giving cryptic warnings. You do anything to divert the timeline Stark is in and I’ll send in a team to prune him and the branch you’ve created, understand?’

Loki didn’t know what pruning meant, but he made an educated guess it had to do with those glow sticks the TVA agents wore and the way they disintegrated the people they stabbed them with.

Nodding, he offered up his hands in a silent plea, sniffing back the tears. Mobius reached out to clasp his hands for a moment, before pointing towards a glowing doorway in the room.

‘Ten minutes and then I’m pulling you out.’

Anthony was asleep in his bed when Loki stepped through, and he rushed over to his bedside, crashing down to his knees as a wounded sound spilt from his lips.

‘You foolish, idiotic mortal, what were you thinking!’ he hissed, the words barely forming sound, not wanting to wake Anthony up or inadvertently cause his destruction. ‘I knew your self-righteousness would be the end of you, that you’d sacrifice yourself in some heroic deed.’ Loki brushed Anthony’s bangs back, leaning forward to press their foreheads together, trying to keep his tears at bay.

He glanced around the room, recognizing it as Anthony’s house in Malibu, no sight of the Avenger Tower. This had to be before New York, before his carnage of Anthony’s homeworld.

‘Lo?’ Anthony suddenly whispered, voice thick with sleep, hands sliding from the bed covers to reach for him. ‘You said…busy…’ he yawned, not entirely awake.

‘I know, dear one, but I made time.’ Loki slid into the bed beside him, taking care to rearrange himself so he could curl around Anthony, protecting him while trying to keep him asleep. He rested his ear directly over the arc reactor, his hand on Anthony’s chest. He could hear the thrum of energy beneath his ear, felt reassured by its continuous sound, knowing it was keeping his mortal alive.

He could feel Anthony’s heartbeat under his palm, never as strong as he liked it, but reassuring enough that Tony was here and alive.

‘I’m sorry. By the Norns, Anthony I am sorry.’

Anthony shifted in his sleep, hugging Loki close and kissing the top of his head.

‘Bad dream, honey?’ he whispered, still sleepy, but trying to comfort him.

‘Something like that. Go back to sleep, darling,’ Loki soothed, hiding the pain in his voice.

He knew what he’d promised Mobius, and his promise to help him stood, but Loki knew he’d twist the intentions of his help to suit his own purposes. He’d find a way to meet these Time-Keepers and bend them to his will. He wasn’t going to lose Anthony to Thanos, would save him from his fate and be together like they deserved.

For now, Loki focused on the sound of his heartbeat, the reassurance he was alive, committing the sound to memory for the next eight minutes.