#but we have to love a girl clawing her way out of her own coffin and also having a sword

[you-are-my-neverland]

guess who actually finished the prologue!

[cainache]

more butcher than man ♱ rockstar!eddie munson (reader goes by cady brocks, it’s her middle & last name!)

He'd known you weren't that bright the second he met you at that party in the hills six months ago. And no, he doesn't mean bright in the way you think. You’re smart, so damn smart. He means bright in just the way that you are. You're not a very happy girl.

Anyone who knew your insides could tell. If they’d taken the time to slice you open and personally talk with your organs, they’d know. You repulse at just about everything you do, and it makes him kind of sad. But he doesn't know how to tell you that—tell you that you’re the best and he kind of cares about you. No, he does care about you crazy, he just doesn’t know it yet. It’s so out of character for him, being serious with one girl.

He’s not going to tell you. He definitely won't. He has a reputation to uphold.

He's big bad Eddie fucking Munson.

He's been around the scene since he was twenty two—clawing his way out of Indiana with two guys he called his best friends, he's almost twenty seven now and has just about seen it all and more. At this point, it's like Corroded Coffin is never going to die.

He hopes they won't.

There's five of them now. Gareth, he's grown out his baby face, finally, has gotten ridiculously taller and more lean. Jeff, the tallest of them all, which hadn't been the case back home, his jaw as sharp as butcher knives. And Eddie, he’s everything and everywhere. He’s as quick as those butcher knives. Eddie likes to joke that all the drugs they did made them grow up all big and bad. They’re fucking rockstars.

The ones who didn't come from home, Tatum and Brooks. They're cool guys. Tatum's everyone's fuckin’ heartthrob, him and Eddie's names are always clashing in magazines at who's better with the ladies and occasionally guys. But it's Eddie, only because Tatum's got a chick who's been a soft secret for the last year and a half. They wonder, the media, what Tate's been doing recently. Why he’s been so silent with his night rendezvous that just randomly stopped. He doesn't give a minded fuck, he's keen on making sure the world doesn't dig its nails into Stella. She's a real sweet girl, Eddie knows, she's almost too sweet for Tate. Brooks is a different story, he's as loose as they come. He doesn't pick fights, he plays his music—get his job done, does the drugs, has the girls, and still manages to be at sound check early. Eddie doesn't understand how he does it. Really.

Crystal wishes he'd take some notes from Brooks.

Crystal's a dear. Corroded Coffin's all too dedicated manager, a woman who couldn't have kids and somehow ended up with five too old son's. Eddie loves her, she reminds him of his own before she passed.

But all of that’s besides the point. Right now is about you and how you’re a ticking time bomb he’s been trying to disengage for months now. He likes to think he’s made some progress.

Brooks thinks he’s stupid as fuck for getting caught up in a girl like you. But Eddie’s stop listening to Brooks around year two. So…

You play the guitar in a girl band called Bitten Lace. The names a bit much for you, but you didn’t have a say in it. It’s a four women show, one that makes you feel queasy and really silly. This was a stupid high school thing you guys did for some extra cash to get out of high school and into college; Boston wasn’t fun. But at one particular, silly, wedding—an all too rich man from New York was there and he liked what he saw.

You weren’t ready to pick up and leave, your little sister was six and your mother worked too much at the hospital—and your college essay was almost done. But Mave, a too powerful lead singer was persistent, full of guilt trips and gaslighting. Cady, c’mon! We’d be nothing without you! Don’t do this to us, we need you. With two pleading girls behind her, Trixie and Adina, what were you supposed to do.

You left home, with them.

You weren’t even sure if they really would’ve needed you to get by as a band, but your manger, Summer Lovewell, has said otherwise. You’re good at what you do, even if it’s not what you wanted to do.

It’s why Eddie notices you so quickly the night of that party. Everyone looked more than pleased to be there. Sex on walls and couches and unknown beds. Drugs on skin. Music in ears. It was his scene, his favorite fucking scene.

But staring at you on the balcony by yourself with a sparkling water down by your small kitten heels made his chest feel kind of funny.

Why were you alone?

Of course he knew who you were. You were younger than him and the media loves younger things. You, twenty two and new to fame. Cady fuckin’ Brocks! Beautiful and a little too soft by the media’s words and digs, they were awfully mean to you.

Bitten Lace had popped up like a firework and repeated sending colors to the sky. You guys were fuckin’ good. You were fuckin’ good.

He doesn’t remember what he said to you that night, too coked out. Sometimes, when he simply observes you—he wishes he had been sober that night. He wishes he remembered talking to you. He’s not even really sure how it escalated from there, but now, your like this all too big scarlet secret he’s trying his very hardest to keep away from flashing cameras and attention seeking tabloids.

He knows you, but he wants to know you better.

“Eds. Do you think I look silly in this?” Your voice is soft and your sitting on the hotel floor of Eddie’s room. He’s on tour, again, in Chicago—Bitten Lace happens to be here for press on a new world hit single.

He’s just gotten off of a show, shirtless, jeans a little too big in the waist, black socks, smudge makeup, and a bit of a smell.

He can’t find the wipes to get the glitter and black liner off his face. He’s still a mess. “Silly in what?” He asks with a mumble as he goes through another black book bag. Unlike his band mates, he doesn’t fuck with suitcases. He travels the world with three Jansport book bags that have kissed hell and back about six times. You tease him for them.

“In this..?” Like he’s supposed to know what you’re talking about, he doesn’t even know what you’re looking at—but he let’s you talk. He can’t find the damn wipes— “I don’t know, I didn’t like the shorts. They’re too tiny and the top was even smaller. Like I get it, we have an image, but the image only seems to look decent on Mave. I don’t have strong muscles in my stomach like that.” He hasn’t looked back at you but he gets what you’re talking about now.

He pauses with his bag and looks at you from over his shoulder. Your peering down at Blitz Magazine, Bitten Lace making the cover and a pretty thick section in the pages. The photoshoot for that had been agonizing. Mave’s judging looks to get your shit together and stop tweaking and Adina’s complaining was enough to have you crying in the shower after you’d gotten back to your small apartment. Trixie is much kinder and actually a friend. She’d been pretty silent throughout the whole thing, saying her thank you’s and giving her kind smiles when she needed to. You had tried to follow that method, but it hadn’t stuck.

You guys are big now, a year and a half in and Mave would kill someone if you guys started to slip in relevance. You’re tired and this isn’t what you signed up for in the slightest. But you don’t complain, you send your mother too much or your money, one might think, so she can work less and you call your little sister way too much. It’s really all you can do from here, where ever that is at the time. You don’t get a lot of free time to head back to Boston every now and then and see them. Eddie knows it bothers you. Unlike you, he hates going home and hasn’t been in four years. Hawkins does not need him. Plus, Wayne just likes to chat on the phone. Letters are cool too.

Eddie’s forgotten about the wipes now. His eyes on you as your fingers drag over the photos of the magazine. He hadn’t even been aware you were going to be in it, you hadn’t told him, of course you hadn’t. Brooks had, smacking the article into his chest after the show an hour ago—check out your chick, Munson. Goddamn. It had been moments before you arrived. He hadn’t even been able to look at it yet or give Brooks shit for his foxy words and tone.

He’s standing before you and looking down at the page, he spots you instantly. You are in tiny clothing. You’ve got white and tan cowboy boots on, small-small denim shorts that are tight in the waist and loose around your thighs. There’s a silver chain around your left thigh with a heart charm, it’s cute, Eddie thinks. Your shirt is indeed even tinier than the shorts, tight to your skin and flattering. It’s knitted and triangle shaped around your breast. It’s a nice tank top. You’ve got jewelry everywhere, much more than he’s ever seen you wear. Your hairs blown out and looks lighter—has your hair gotten lighter? He hasn’t seen you in almost two months, this shoot was almost a month ago.. His eyes drag to your hair now, pulled back in a very loose ponytail, you’ve got strands falling and framing your face. Your hair does look lighter. He wonders why you hadn’t brought it up? He kind of wants to kiss you.

“You look killer,” he says softly. He means it.

Your eyes flicker up to his, your chin now aimed up at him. You look so clean. Your lips are parted. “Seriously?”

Eddie smiles and sticks his hand out for you, you take it instantly as he yanks you up too aggressively. You slouch into his chest a little as he leans down to snatch up the magazine. He has a hand still on your arm and the other is holding up the pages. “I think the outfit is fuckin’ cool.” And he’s not just saying that too make you feel better, he really does means it. You look good and it’s all flattering, despite how you see yourself.

“Are you yanking my hair?” Eddie rolls his eyes at your weird phrases and drops the magazine on his made bed. “No. I am not yanking your hair. You look hot, killer.”

Your rolling your eyes now, shoving away from him as your cheeks go all red. He beams like a schoolboy at your sweet reaction.

You’re a slice of heaven.

You slouch into his bed, the sheets creasing under you. Your face is lined with his waist now. You lean forward and let your head meet his bare lower abdomen. It flexes for a second before a hand of his gently cups the crown of your head. “The wipes are by your first bag, by the way. You’ve missed them twice now.”

Eddie scoffs and laugh a little mean, he messes your hair. It is lighter. They’ve add more highlights to you. “You’re so mean.” He says as he pulls away from you to get the wipes, sticking out from under his first bag.

You smile and slide back onto his bed. “I’ll make it up to you and take off the glitter for you, rockstar.”

Eddie smiles, it’s faint and he’s glad you don’t see it. Not very metal of him. “Deal.”

[mayybirds]

I mean relevant to the story so far! It’s nice reading something without knowing what’s coming up :)

Mini-Essay it is lol! I'll restrict myself here to songs relevant to the story so far, and if anyone has specific questions about other songs on the playlist they're welcome to ask and I'll answer separately (and more vaguely without dropping major plot spoilers)--so that anyone else looking to avoid any risk of mild vibe spoilers can do so.

Some songs on the playlist honestly fit multiple portions of the story, especially some songs that I associate with Mia and Ethan, but I'll honor my song order here and speak specifically about the chronological portion of the playlist we're in so far.

Under a read-more for people's sanity lmao.

1) Go Tell Aunt Rhody, RE7 Soundtrack. This is like...the quintessential song to include in any RE7 playlist right? Like. It's canon and it just...is so good. It's an obvious inclusion. That said, this song is super close to my heart and super important to me for this fic. It speaks to my feelings on Eveline and why she's a tragic figure because the lyrics fucking know how fucked up her story is. To me it's never read as the song of a villain...it's the song of an unbelievable tragedy that started in evil--not Eveline's actions, but her creation. This song defines how I view Eveline, and how I viewed RE7. Period. Like...I literally heard it before I played the game. It's what got me to play the game. I heard this song online and fell so fucking in love with it that it (re-)introduced me to Resident Evil and kick-started my obsession with it (I knew of the franchise before then but primarily through watching older cousins play when I was a kid). TtVtL could not exist without this song lol.

2) Woke Up Dead, Blood on the Harp. This is another one of those songs that's both about the fic and about the game itself for me. It's the perfect "Ethan in the Baker House" song for me. This journey of slowly feeling like you're losing your sanity and your humanity as you descend into the darkness because you're dead, everyone's dead, nothing will ever be the same again. It's a song for a descent into madness (and if you think RE7 didn't drive Ethan at least a lil crazy idk what to tell you...it absolutely did), as you're surrounded by even further, deeper, darker madness. You are literally seeing through the eyes of the dead. And the sound is...perfect. It's country as fuck and gothic as fuck and dark as fuck and I love it. It's a song for the launch of TtVtL for me as we arrive in a familiar story and then take that initial turn from canon. Ethan having dragged himself through all this insanity and clawing his way to survival and then being confronted with that request--kill the girl, free everyone. And then the darkness reaches out and he reaches back and... well, you know what happens lol.

3) Prayer Factory, Florence + The Machine. This is the song of the void, the stumbling and running and fleeing, and then...the decision. Ethan's absolute fear of his past and his own self, his true self, and of the truths he's been confronted with. How trapped in his own mind is as he flees the bunker and oscillates between what he's supposed to do and his own instinctive knowledge it's not right. And how that instinct wins out, in the end, despite all that repression--"all the the things that I ran from I bring as close to me as I can." Ethan realizes he can't keep running from who he is, and what it means for him. He kills monsters, not people. He cannot kill Eveline, and to save her he must begin to embrace who and what he really is.

4) Build Momma a Coffin, Blood on the Harp. God, I love this song so much. It's one of the Big TtVtL songs for me, to the point where I think I even mentioned it in one of my author's notes on the fic itself. This is the first Ethan & Eveline song for me--their running away song. The song for saying "fuck it. and fuck dying here" and running and packing themselves into Lucas's car and driving the fuck out of the Baker estate. It's the song for burying their dead things, abandoning the thing they found safety in for so long. Eveline leaving the Baker Estate behind--her sanctuary, her tomb. Ethan leaving behind...Ethan Winters, in a sense. He's abandoning Mia (abandoning the whole reason he came here), and the life he lived until now where he played pretend at who he is and where he came from. He's giving up something safe and comfortable to do the right thing. They're burying Mia, burying the Bakers--building that coffin--and swearing off the lives they had previously.

5) Evelyn, Tim Killman & Silent Films. This is, probably predictably, an Eveline song lol. It's a tricky one to find the lyrics to so I'll just link them. I got recommended this song by an Anon and I fell in love with it. It's a great early!TtVtL Eveline song. Especially the imagery about decay--the lines "I've seen decay// Give way to growth // And make the most // Of nearly nothing" are gorgeous and very fitting. It's important to remember Eveline is still in a really dark place in the fic right now. She's only just left the Baker Estate, and still has a lot of work to do to begin to fully understand both her own humanity and the humanity of others. Her empathy is stunted and shattered in favor of self-preservation, and there will still be a lot of work left to Ethan to teach her that there's a difference between protecting herself and killing/hurting others when there's other options. But, this Eveline is already starting to trust Ethan. She's going to start that process of reflection, of questioning, of growth. She can become more, and she will become "preoccupied by what [she] could be."

6) Little Lies, Fleetwood Mac. Lmao the start of what is a very big Fleetwood Mac fixation with this fic. Fleetwood is Ethan's band. His favorite. Some of the Fleetwood songs in this playlist will definitely literally be referenced to in the fic itself. Because Ethan copes through music and will definitely be introducing that to Eveline. Little Lies is the song for Ethan & Mia's relationship history. That little thing inside both of them that knew the other was hiding something that they smothered out because they loved each other so much. And then the realization of the secrets, the lies, as it all spills over--first for Ethan, and then Mia when she realizes he's left her behind. There's still so much love there, and denial. A wish to go back to how they were and hide away, but the knowledge they can't.

7) Go Insane, Fleetwood Mac. This is kind of an...Ethan & Mia & Eveline song? It's about Ethan & Mia's relationship, but also Eveline's initial suspicion of Ethan and her knowledge that Mia lies and always has (and the realization that Lucas was also a liar). It's about that suspicion and lack of trust compounded by trauma and secrets and realizations. You're alone and you can't trust anyone and you go insane under the pressure of it and the lies you've been fed because insane is better than dead. It's like...the encompassing song for RE7 and the first four chapters of the fic through to Mia's breakdown. Ethan knows Mia is a liar and it broke him (but also saved him long term?), Mia knows Ethan is a liar and is shattered and grieving, Eveline knows Mia lies, and Lucas lied, and Everyone lies--is Ethan lying too? She doesn't know. She doesn't know. But she'll destory him if he is.

8) Savages, Marina and the Diamonds. This is the song for the last chapter of TvTtL, the current one I'm writing, and a little onwards. It's a song for Chris, Ethan, Lucas, and Eveline. "Underneath it all, we're just savages. Hidden behind shirts, ties, and marriages." It's something they all believe deep down--just in completely different ways. These are all characters who have seen the worst humanity has to offer and has come to expect it from almost everyone. Chris is this resigned, exhausted, bitter character--two steps from drawing his gun at all times because fuck if everyone else isn't as well, in his mind and in his world. Eveline's almost the most similar to him...she trusts no one, deep down, and she's full kill or be killed, still. Ethan has seen so much himself and is in some ways just as grimly Aware of the truths of what people can and will do to each other...but he's not resigned in the way Chris is, he still wants to try. Meanwhile Lucas...he knows and has seen all the same types of shit. The difference is that he revels in it. You've got four characters who inherently believe on some level everyone is capable of animalistic violence and have come to expect it from others when confronted--combine them and put them in conflict with each other, and it's gonna get messy.

[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.

[ashayatreldai]

His Face - Fic

Find this on AO3 or read it here.

Among Su She’s effects is found a bundle of sketches of Hanguang Jun, which inspires a lifetime of exchanges between Wei Wuxian and his husband.

***

Wei Wuxian yawned, barely remembering to cover his mouth with the back of his hand. It wasn’t as though Lan Wangji minded; he still marveled at his husband’s calm acceptance of his less than perfect behavior. And it wasn’t as if he were really tired. They’d been back in Cloud Recesses only a handful of days and most of that time Wei Wuxian had been able to rest, to wander the back hill, to play with the rabbits, to tease Sizhui and Jingyi, to play Chenqing to the birds and the rainbows the sun cast in the light mists of Gusu’s waterfalls. No, he supposed. He yawned because he was warm, well-fed, secure and safe, and in the best company a person could desire, let alone have all to himself.

Lan Wangji sat on the other side of the desk, and in spite of the hour was still working through the backlog of mail which had accumulated in his absence.

“What’s this?” A bundle of papers caught Wei Wuxian’s eye, and on impulse he reached and drew them out of the stack.

Lan Wangji looked up. “After the events at Gyanyin Temple, members of the Lan Clan disposed of the bodies, sealed the coffin in which Red Blade Master and Jin Guangyao are buried, and otherwise put the site in order. Among these activities, Su She’s body was searched and his personal effects catalogued. A quiankun pouch was found, containing an assortment of items. This bundle of papers was also in the pouch. I assume it was forwarded to me because I am the subject.”

Wei Wuxian leafed through the pages. It was a collection of sketches in a variety of media, all of Hanguang Jun’s face, mostly sketches of his eyes. They weren’t half bad: the artist had captured the micro-expressions which concealed everything but hid nothing of Hanguang Jun’s thoughts. But as he examined the pile, he experienced an increasing sensation of wrongness.

“I wonder what he was trying to capture. I mean, here’s ice, here’s anger. I think this one is arrogance or being haughty; and this one has to be indifference. And this,” he huffed out with a half smile, “has got to be ‘you are the scum beneath my shoe’.” That was a micro-expression Wei Wuxian had seen often on Lan Wangji’s face when they were young, as he kept poking and prodding until the carefully cultivated mask his friend wore finally slipped. He spread out the pictures, his eyes searching for the clues he knew he’d find. “Why would he want to draw these things and exclude others? I know a lot of people are afraid of you, Lan Zhan, because you look cold and imperturbable. But anyone who knows you and watches closely can see that there’s so much more to you than that.”

“Su She was cast out of the Lan Clan because he betrayed our secrets to Wen Xu. He was known for being desirous of imitating me – poorly. We can only speculate as to his motivations otherwise,” Lan Wangji commented quietly.

“Mmmm,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “He hated you, but he also idolized you. Who’s to say what came first? Whatever,” he said, shaking his head. “The fact he captured your eyes with these strong antagonistic expressions suggests he hated himself, and perhaps wanted to make you the one who hated him in his own mind. It’s easier to hate someone than to live with the pain of feeling rejected or not even noticed.”

“I never hated Su She.”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever known you to hate anyone, Hanguang Jun.” Wei Wuxian felt a surge of protective affection for this dear man. “Not even those who deserve it. Su She unfairly judged you and didn’t know you at all. Still, when you think about what people say about me, the scary deranged Yiling Patriarch, anything’s possible in terms of what people do to themselves to justify hatred. Blargh!” He made claws with his hands and pulled a terrifying crazy Yiling Laozu face.

“Wei Ying.” There was amusement dancing in Lan Wangji’s eyes. “You do not scare me.”

Sometimes Lan Wangji could abruptly light a fuse in Wei Wuxian and leave him smoking. He laughed and crawled around to Lan Wangji’s side of the table, climbing into his lap to sit with one leg either side of Lan Wangji’s waist. His husband’s hands came up to support his lower back. He put both hands loosely around Lan Wangji’s neck.

Lan Wangi had removed his silver coronet and tendrils of hair that usually were wound up to hold the headpiece in place trailed either side of his face, making him look softer and younger and so much more vulnerable.

For some time they sat simply looking at each other. Wei Wuxian took in the flawless face, reaching one hand to trace Lan Wangi’s eyebrow, feeling the soft hairs brush beneath his fingerpads. He gently followed the line of an eyelash, delighting in the butterfly kiss as his husband blinked. Out over the swell of zygomatic bone, cupping around his perfectly shaped ear – he really was like exquisitely carved jade, warm, living, and here. He cupped Lan Wangji’s cheek, his thumb finding the hollow between nose and lip and the soft breath of life it held. And those lips, now quirked in a loving bow.

He pulled himself up to kiss the forehead ribbon, to plant gentle brushes of his lips over all the places he’d touched. When he came to Lan Wangji’s mouth, he finally let go, giving all his worship as they joined tongues, teeth, desire, losing themselves in each other.

They released the kiss, and held each other, Wei Wuxian’s head on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Between them energy sizzled – it would be sated later, but it was sufficient for now to enjoy the beatitude of the moment, the closeness, words unnecessary to communicate the depth of heart each held for the other.

***

Wei Wuxian was traveling. His absence itched acutely just under Lan Wangji’s skin, a constant worry. He rued the duty which pinned him in his current dual roles: Chief Cultivator and Acting Sect Leader, keeping him grounded at Cloud Recesses instead of off night hunting with his husband.

It was necessary, he knew, for Wei Wuxian to move; the whole man was a study in movement, in ceaseless energy. He knew the staid and stable pattern of life at Cloud Recesses felt like a box to Wei Ying, and while he could endure for a season, he needed more than what life in Gusu offered, even with rabbits and a back hill to wander for hours.

But oh, he missed him. And he worried too: who would defend him when he had so little sense of self-preservation?

This journey, Wei Wuxian had set off to attempt to mend things with Jiang Cheng before making his way up to Lanling to see Jin Ling. One of the highest values for the Lan was family, and Lan Wangji understood the deep need his husband had for those connections – had encouraged it.

It was just as well Wei Wuxian had mastered the butterfly talisman (and enhanced it). Morning and night he would wait for the silvery wings to alight with Wei Wuxian’s messages of love and thought to whisper through his qi. Sometimes they were profound, poetry. Sometimes playful; sometimes just a kiss. Lan Wangji came to depend on those messages, and on being able to send some back himself: I love you, I miss you, come home soon.

He sighed. This morning had grown tedious. Today was the end of the accounting period for Clan matters, and while there was staff to manage the minutiae of bookkeeping, as Acting Clan Leader LanWangji was examining the records before tomorrow’s visit from the auditor. Not for the first time he lamented his brother’s seclusion, necessary though it was. Dealing with finances was the part of the role that least appealed to Lan Wangji; he felt a headache brewing and was contemplating taking a break when there was a knock on the door.

“Hanguang Jun, mail has arrived,” the disciple said, handing him a bundle.

“Thank you. Please ask the kitchen to send me some lunch,” he requested, taking the pile.

The disciple departed, and he began to sort the items: those about Clan matters, those for the Chief Cultivator. One letter stood out, a simple scroll tied with a red thread. Putting all the other mail aside he carefully opened the scroll and took a breath.

It was an ink painting of his eyes, creased ever so slightly in an expression of amusement. On his brow the forehead ribbon glinted silver, his hair loosely framing his cheeks. He instantly recognized the artist, tracing a finger over the brush strokes as if that touch could unite him with the hand that had made them.

“Wei Ying,” he said, infinite fondness filling him.

Throughout the rest of the day he kept the picture on his desk, glancing at it from time to time. And when it was time to turn his attention to other things, he gently placed the picture in his sleeve to take back to the jingshi.

Every couple of days another picture would arrive. This too became something Lan Wangji expected, an important and significant marker in his day, each picture a symbol that he was one day closer to seeing, holding, touching, tasting Wei Wuxian again.

***

300 years later

Clan Leader Lan Shuoxiao had come to the Forbidden Room in the Library Pavilion seeking a book she’d known had been here years earlier. Back then she’d been a mischievous girl seeking a way to prank Shufu, and she vividly remembered the green cover. Lan filing methods hadn’t changed in hundreds of years, so that wretched book had to be here somewhere.

She moved a pile of dusty scrolls, cursing under her breath when she knocked a stack of bamboo books which went tumbling over the floor. Patience, she told herself strictly. Breathe and control.

Feeling a little more composed, she bent to restore the mess to order. A red cover caught her eye on one of the lower shelves. She’d not seen that before, and she was sure she’d have recognized it if she had. It was quite distinct, a deep red, tied shut with of all things a Clan ribbon.

Intrigued, she opened the volume, carefully untying the ribbon and leafing through the pages. Page after page were pictures of a handsome man’s eyes: crinkled in delight, weeping with sorrow, dancing with affection, on and on they went. Sometimes the whole of the man’s lovely face was shown: in some he wore the elaborate silver coronet her ancestors had favored, in others his long tresses floated around his face, and the artist had clearly captured a treasured, private, and vulnerable moment.

Around half way through the volume the pictures changed: a spritely young man in black, his underrobe a vivid red (the same colour as the cover of the book, as it happened – and she wondered whether it was indeed cut from the same cloth), a red ribbon in his hair, holding a black dizi. This array of pictures had a different hand, a more understated eye which captured the young man’s energetic aura, as well as pensive moments – the youth had clearly been to hell and back, and Lan Shuoxiao could almost feel the immense love with which the person who’d drawn these pictures had made each stroke.

There were so many! Page sized varied: a compendium gathered together of odd scraps. The last page bore an inscription:

In loving memory of my parents, Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang Jun, and Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian, Yiling Laozu. The true faces of both, in their own hands. Love letters sent to dearest him who was, alas, away. Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui, Chief Cultivator.

Clan Leader Lan Shuoxiao’s heart thumped wildly in her chest. Clan records declared Hanguang Jun’s partner’s name to have been Lan Ying, Lan Wuxian. How had they never made the connection before that “Lan Wuxian” was in fact the infamous Yiling Patriarch? Given that the two had Lan Yuan, Lan Sizhui’s name inscribed under theirs as offspring, Lan Shuoxiao and many others had assumed Lan Wuxian to be female.

She looked closely again at one of the pictures of the young man in black and red. He didn’t look like the evil dictator of legend. He looked mischievous and full of life, an impression caught in the laughing smile, and so… youthful.

Not that demonic cultivation was these days the issue it had been for her ancestors; these days cultivation was emphasized to be about harnessing the yin of negative energy and the yang of positive energy, holding them in balance and using each appropriately. She doubted the people who had so feared and hated the Yiling Patriarch would be able to recognize as righteous the way all cultivators now practiced as a matter of course.

As for Hanguang Jun… She flicked back to a picture in which his whole upper body had been captured as he played guqin, a study of someone completely caught up and focused on the music, almost in ecstasy. Another private moment revealing something about the essence of the man. He was so beautiful, captivating. And such a contrast from all the other images she’d ever seen of him. Hanguang Jun had a reputation even now, 150 years after he had Ascended, for being cold, somewhat forbidding, distant, just, merciful and benevolent, untouchable, unrivalled in almost all fields. That was how he appeared at the Gate of Gusu, carved of jade, opposite his brother, Zewu Jun, the famous Twin Jades of Gusu Lan now its guardians, their representations inscribed and infused with talismans and ward tethers. Rumor was that no evil could come to Cloud Recesses as long as the Twin Jades stood at the gates. How was anyone to reconcile that formidable image with this? This picture of a very human, vulnerable, gentle man, who was clearly so very much loved by the artist who drew him.

Lan Shuoxiao found herself on the edge of tears. It felt like an injustice, looking at these intimate sketches, that history had forgotten Wei Wuxian as little more than a footnote. And that the righteous Hanguang Jun had been immortalized as a stiff, cold and distant deity rather than someone’s beloved whose heart beat wildly in his chest in longing, and whose blood was warm and red and thrummed with reciprocated affection. She wondered how they had found one another, wondered about the history in which they must have been caught up: how did it affect them? What trials had they passed through before they finally found their way to each other’s arms?

She reverently closed the volume, her original mission in coming here put aside. Thoughtfully, she collected up the scrolls and bamboo books and reordered them, and then closed the Forbidden Room.

***

Several months later a new scene was depicted on the climbing path around the residences of Gusu: a beautiful, crowned Lan sat cross-legged in the back hill meadow, covered in a blanket of rabbits. His loving gaze was fixed on the figure opposite him under a peach tree in full bloom, who was standing and playing a dizi. The legend beneath read: Hanguang Jun and his cultivation partner Yiling Laozu, Lan Wuxian.

 FIN

[thewritingstar]

The Sun Sets With You

Pairing: Blossutch 

Fandom: Powerpuff Girls 

Rating: T

Word count: 6k 

Warnings: Major Character Death. 

Note: I am so excited to finish this fic! Thank you so much to @creativecilla for commissioning time and time again. She asked for a sad and angsty fic so I hope I delivered! (She also asked for a happy fic so dont worry that's coming soon)

Don't worry there will be a little bonus after this so don't come for my throat too hard.

Anyways, I hope that you enjoy this because I had the time of my life writing it while crying.

Thanks for reading <3

(the italicized is flashbacks just in case ya confused :) 

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

“Your love is like a sunset, the longer I wait, it slowly fades into the sea, making a beautiful distraction, As loneliness and despair creep from behind like the shadow of the night.” -Albion Gremory

✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

The gate waits patiently for her to cross. It's black and shiny as if it were polished just for her. She has been here for almost an hour and yet she hasn't moved an inch. The bouquet of flowers she spent just as long picking out are starting to get annoyed by her lack of movement and although they don’t have a voice or emotions, she can tell they are growing weary too.

She doesn’t understand. Why couldn’t she simply walk forward and make this easy? She was a trained assassin, a spy at the very core where nothing could challenge her except for this field of grass. Grass that is bright green and thriving yet underneath its healthy roots, is a minefield of bodies. It's odd to think about. The care and water used to make sure that the green is at its brightest and the stone looks nice but in reality, it won’t matter.

Nothing matters anymore.

Her grip tightens on the poor flowers. A frail red ribbon holds them together instead of being wrapped in her ginger hair where it belongs. The last time she wore it was the day...it's been a while.

The cemetery has a familiar feel to it. She’s been here before. She has been here many times and has even memorized the grounds. However, this time is much more...intimate. A much more personal experience.

It was never personal because in her line of work, this was normal and happened often. You would come into the office and hear about the poor sucker that got shot, stabbed or blown to bits, grab a hopefully fresh cup of coffee and make sure that you don’t end up the same as them. It was all a part of the job to join the unavoidable circle of life.

Before it was just people whose identities changed day in and day out to avoid this particular outcome. To avoid becoming worm food and having fresh flowers at the bottom of your name. Death never meant anything to her but an end we all have to face. It never meant to stop and think about your life because she didn’t have one to live.

There was no glory waiting for her back home as she finished another mission. There was no dream to achieve because she plagued those of her mind years ago. Warmth and desire from others could not be tolerated. It was dangerous to have anyone close to you but hurt even more when they were gone.

Her dreams had been swept into the night and burned like a fallen star. They were meant for rare quiet days where she could close her eyes and have a glimpse of another chance at life and then it would be over and she couldn’t allow anyone to hold her back. But just as there are dreams, nightmares will surface too.

This was a nightmare only for her eyes. It was common for members of their work to come and pay respects if they got time but for this, she asked that she would be the first. And only then was anyone else allowed.

The months that ate away at her aching heart caused her to be the opposite. She said she had gone, said her dues and the rest followed. Her lies now corrupted her normal life, if you could even call it normal.

So she became the last person and perhaps that's for the best. Even in death, she keeps him waiting. But unlike the other times, he couldn’t leave or say anything about it. The silence of the coffin was enough for her to know that she might get the last words like always but she doesn’t want them.

She would rather keep her words to herself, her mouth stapled shut than utter the last words. She also knew that he would rather listen to her all day than have a moment of silence.

So here she is. A little black dress that poofs out gently at the bottom just above her knees. It was the same dress she had worn on their mission in Italy years ago. It had ended up on the hotel bathroom floor much sooner than expected, however this time the smell of sandalwood and pine had been washed out.

She feels like a housewife ready to see her lost husband coming back from the war in the form of a corpse. The only difference is her vision won’t include the golden bands. Her thumb grazes her ring finger feeling nothing but bare skin and it pains her to think that she was so close. So close to a dream.

She inhales and exhales. Her ability to control her emotions is unlike anyone else. If she chooses to be a stone wall, then nothing will make her crumble. For years she had seen bloodshed and violence. Encountered dangerous people and never once had a hard time sleeping.

Steps take her closer and she feels herself start to decay brick by brick.

Every breath comes out colder and slower and she doesn’t have to look to know she's right in front of it because all the oxygen surrounding her has left and replaced with a frosted void she's grown used to over these past few months.

“Hello.” Her voice is firm and polite.

Formal. She’s too formal and she can practically feel him rolling in his grave to tell her to die it down. Die it down. She hums at that thought and complies with the request that wasn’t even asked but she knows him.

Her feet slip out of her heels, the ones he had bought randomly. The ones she had danced in as he spun her slowly. Her toes feel the dew on the grass. She hates the feeling, her exposed skin starts to itch and irritate her but that just reminds her of her beating heart. So she forces herself to rest on her knees but keeps her eyes shut. Bravery was never something she lacked.

But being brave with her vulnerable emotions had never come easy.

“Just open them.” She scolds herself. No one is around but she feels like the entire world is staring at her.

This isn't work.

This isn’t a mission.

This is him.

Slowly her eyes flutter open to reveal the truth she tried to conceal. The wall inside of her has fallen. There's a suffocating way about this all. She's a woman of logic, a see it before believe it kind-of-person. It's a crumbling mess that turns her into ruins.

And that's when it hits her.

Like the fall of Rome, there are no survivors. There is no happy ending here. Everything leads to Rome...everything leads to heartbreak eventually.

Tears overwhelm everything else. Blossom Utonium has cried for a fallen coworker but never once had she had to grieve and take in the burden of her heart growing dark and heavy.

Her fingers clench the soil. She didn’t want to cry. Didn’t want to sob, not at the risk of seeming weak, but to actually force herself to come to terms with it. To see it written in stone as literal as it comes.

Butch Jojo is dead.

There’s no other way to put it. No soft angle to come at. No lessening the blow because she was there and saw it with her own eyes. No one had to tell her because she relieved it every time her eyes closed.

How was she supposed to go on? He was the piece of her puzzle that fit so neatly and perfectly. She didn’t realize that the picture became indecipherable the moment he was removed. She clawed at that table trying to put back all the pieces. Trying to figure out where they all go but she's left with segments that don’t seem to fit any longer.

He was her sun and moon, the day and night and every other cliche slapped onto an overpriced Hallmark card. He was it all, and now he is gone. Gone too soon and she barely had him in the first place.

The gravestone itself is simple. It's the only one on the lot that isn't decorated by a three foot high statue or a giant cross. It's as basic as they come yet the man it was for was far from it. There was no luxury of filling the coffin with a body. So every bit of him was taken physically and metaphorically from her.

His name is in an elegant cursive and his birth name. Something most people didn’t know. Usually spies and assassins change up their name to make their identity untraceable. She had known him as many different names, but Butch was the only one who she cared about. The only one to ever make her feel like herself.

Her fingers hover above the engraving before setting on the coldness and tracing it with the tip of her index finger. It takes her breath away like an old candle finally burning out.

She wonders if a cruel joke is being played on her as she stares at the curls of the cursive. It was the same font she had chosen for their makeshift wedding invitations the moment she realized that he was the one. Of course he would have had comic sans or some heavy metal font on his tombstone if he was given the chance just to spite everything and everyone.

She's sure that this was already made far before his death. In fact, she's convinced that everyone already has a grave with their name stored somewhere in the back for fast and easy access. Hers is probably waiting and collecting dust.

“Hi.” She utters, less formal than the first time and that felt like ages ago. “For the first time, I’m speechless.” She confesses. “I’m not quite sure what to say.”

For days she sat underneath her flickering desk light writing a speech for a funeral that no one would attend.

The words never came into place even though she deemed herself a thoughtful writer. But what do you say when the person who gave you a reason to speak is gone? Was there anything worth uttering when she couldn’t bring herself to do it?

But she wrote. She wrote everything she had felt and ended with a flood of pages on her desk. Pens with tired ink cartridges littered her desk and endless chicken scratched papers were tossed away. It needed to be thoughtful and inviting but in reality, it just needed to be the words she never said.

The moment she finished writing them, she threw them into a box to never see the light of day. But when she finally had the courage to come and pay her respects, she became drawn to them. Her mind fought with her hands to take them even if she decided to keep them in her purse.

Her purse opens and she takes out a few pages. The ones that made her heart ache the most and that are decorated with stains of dried tears. She clears her throat. “The first time I met you, I thought nothing of it. It was in front of the coffee maker at work, you had just joined our firm and you walked by, glanced at me and then you were gone into the other room. That was it. That's what we were meant to be. A simple meeting of the eyes and then we don’t interact again.”

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The coffee drips way too slow, she thinks. A state of the art facility full of lasers, guns and cars and they couldn’t be bothered to get something just slightly better. The mug finishes filling just in time for her patience to run out. She grabs it and turns to look out towards the rows of cubicles that make it seem like a simple office.

Instead of a bored coworker looking tired at a computer, she's met with green eyes and an emotionless face. For a second she saw his lips turn into a smirk. It's quick. A match striking the box with a flame igniting on impact. And then it’s dropped in water and out just as fast. He's gone by the time she blinks next and even though it was nothing, those eyes fueled a fire she wasn’t sure she had.

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“But then I kept seeing more and more of you.”

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“You clean up nice.” Blossom turned to see a guy. She recognized him from last week, a new transfer who she only caught a glance at. He was in a highly expensive tux and was adjusting the equally priced watch on his wrist.

“I assume you must be my new partner.” She said as she mentally analyzed him slowly. Slicked black hair, looks as if he goes to the gym quite often, hands looks steady for a firearm. Green. Forest green eyes.

He smiled. “Must be.”

“You can call me Amanda.” Her fake name suited her fine as she checked the time. “I hope that you read over the files of our mission.”

“I tend to skim and wing it.” He winked and that irked her. “Matts fine for the evening.”

Blossom, or Amanda for now, kept her eyes from rolling and walked to him and wrapped her arm around his. “You might be my husband for this mission but if you fuck up, you better be thankful this isn’t legally bounded.” She finished with a flutter of her eyelashes and a smile before pulling him along.

She didn’t get too far before he pulled her back and her bright pink eyes met deep green ones closely. “I take my job very seriously. But I wouldn’t dream of making you mad at me. But on the other hand, I admire strong women.”

She didn’t know why she didn’t smack him in the face. Usually every partner who has tried to flirt or mess with her learned the hard way that is a no no. Yet, even after moments of knowing him, there was something genuine about him that she couldn’t quite understand but became interested in.

“Glad to see we are on the same page Matt.”

“Of course Amanda.” Butch replied and held out his hand. “After you.”

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The trees nearby moved in the breeze without a care in the world. They had nothing to care for except for their leaves changing in the fall and losing them in the winter. But leaves always came back, they always blossomed and started a new life and were the same tree no matter how many times the seasons passed.

She wondered if those trees ever felt heartbreak or if it was easier to lose something when you know it will come back to you with time. She envied those trees. Envied the way that they can continue their lives just growing and flourishing and it felt like her leaves were turning to dust as she was being cut down.

From her purse she pulled out a thermos and two plastic cups. She nestled one into the ground as she poured the wine into the cup and then one into hers.

“I never cared for this brand of wine before I met you.” She smiled softly and took a sip. “Never cared for a lot of things. Yet this was your favorite and everytime we had a mission, I could always find you relaxing with a glass. I guess it became an acquired taste over time. You became my taste.”

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“Care for a glass?” He asked her as she sat in front of the fireplace.

Due to them working together for more than a year, the agency decided that personal rooms weren’t necessary and if anyone were to see them leave together and follow, it would fit with their stories.

Blossom looked up from the book she just pulled out. A dissatisfying glare focused on the bottle in his hand. “No thanks, that stuff is garbage.”

Butch, or well, Sebastian for the evening, scoffed. “Garbage?” He exclaimed dramatically. “This is some of the finest wine in the world.”

“I’ve had better.”

“It's from Italy!”

“I prefer local or even cheap box wine to that.” Blossom scanned her book.

Butch only huffed again but still proceeded to pour two glasses and joined her on the floor.

“I said I didn’t want any.”

“I think you just haven’t had it with the right company.” He smirked and offered her the glass.

She rolled her eyes and took the glass, her book forgotten now. Blossom brought the glass to her lips, took a sip and tried her best to hold back a grimace. “It's fine.”

He only shook his head and drank his own glass, the small smile on his lips never leaving. “Butch.”

She turned the glass in her hand then glanced at him. “What?”

“Butch. That's my name, my real name.”

Her heart started beating quicker. “Why are you telling me this? You shouldn’t be.”

It was a common understanding. You might know the face of your partner or colleagues but a name and identity was off the table. The only thing anyone needed to track down someone was a name. And the moment it's out there, you can start counting your days.

Butch shurgged and downed the rest of his wine. “Not sure. Never told anyone before. Well anyone who I didn't know beforehand. But there's something about you. I don’t think you fully trust me. I get it of course. I don’t trust people at all.”

“So why tell me?” She questioned.

His eyes met hers. Seriousness washed across his face and any hint of amusement was gone. “I have no one in my life who knows me as Butch anymore. Only myself and my thoughts. And after years in this shit business-you’re the only partner I’ve had that I trust with my life.”

Her fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. Her poor heart is beating much faster; she's sure he can hear it. She’s never had a partner like him. Never met a person who she blindly trusted like this.

“Blossom.” She blurts out. “My name is Blossom.”

And that smirk returns and his eyes soften. She's seen him kill a man before and yet he looks so incredibly soft and honest.

“That's a pretty unique name.”

“My father told me it was because of cherry blossom trees.” She smiles at the memory. She reaches and takes the brown contact from her eyes. Her main defying feature that no one but the higher ups knew about.

Her eyelashes flutter as she places them in the contacts case. She looks back at Butch and prepares for the intergation look.

It never comes.

Instead he's looking at her as if she's the most interesting thing in the world. Pastel pink eyes greet his own and he's taken back and tries to keep these emotions down.

“Its weird I know-

“You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met.” He interrupts. “And I swear I’m not drunk.

That flicker resurfaced. The match struck the box but the flame was held much longer this time. Her reaction surprised the both of them as she laughed and her smile reached her eyes, something they haven’t done naturally in years.

She controlled her laugh and hummed bringing the glass to her lips and taking another sip. It wasn’t as bad as the first. “And you are very-”

“Charming? Irresistible?”

“Interesting.” She finished.

The bottle poured more wine into his glass and he tapped it to hers. “I’ll take it for now.” He winked.

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Her glass is empty now. She pours the glass for him into the soil, hoping to give him one last taste of what he loved.

“Over the years I forgot myself, you have to.” Blossom tells him. “I forgot my passions and hobbies. The simple pleasures of life were taken from me when I joined this path.”

The books on her shelf at home had collected dust over the years. The pages stuck as the days passed but only recently did she find herself opening them, even to just a random page and basking in the tiny shred of warmth it gave her.

“I felt those pleasures rise with you. Even buying a simple candle because you said you liked the scent brought me a joy I hadn’t noticed was missing. I was missing everything in life because I didn’t have a light to guide me.”

She bites her lips hoping to stop another sob. How many tears can a person shed in a short amount of time? When do they stop and allow the body to rest?

“That first time you kissed me.” Her voice cracks. “That's when I started believing that life could be more than what we were conditioned to do.”

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Her feet ached. Her heels were in her hands and she was tired from another successful work day. After six months of locating and sniffing out an underground drug market, they finally caught the group of men.

She glanced at her shoes and dress, irritated that the blood ruined another perfectly good outfit. She wanted to just get into her room, take a bath and pass out on her bed and to not be distrubed for at least seventy two hours.

She got to her hotel door and started to search for her key.

“Oh shit.” She grumbled. Her purse was nowhere in sight.

“Here.”

Blossom turned to see Butch holding the desginer bag.

A sigh of relief left her lips as she took it and fished out the key card. He leaned against the wall, clearly tired and wanting to rest like her. Two years they had been partners. The longest partnership she’s had and she wasn’t complaining. Usually they shared a room on missions but they had separate rooms this time.

“Tired?” She glanced at him.

“No, I'm fully awake.” He said sarcastically. “I feel like I got hit by a freight train.”

“I’m sure those guys thought they did too when you punched them.” Her door clicked open but she didn’t move.

“Oh please, you did most of the heavy lifting. I mean who takes down a giant dude with a high kick in heels.” He was practically beaming with pride from the memory. “Badass stuff Bloss.”

She was sure there was a blush on her cheeks. Shaking those thoughts from her head she smiled and opened the door. “Goodnight Butch.”

“Night.”

…

..

.

“Isn’t this the part where you walk into your room?” He raises a bow that is answering the silent question she asked.

She straightens her back. “Shouldn’t you be walking to yours?”

He moves closer to her. Brushing the hair on her shoulders off and there's a buzz throughout her as his fingers graze her shoulders.

He's closer now. Their lips only inches apart and although her body is killing her and aching, she can’t help but let her mind wander.

“I prefer the view right here.” He says in almost a whisper that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand. “And possibly even the taste.”

His lips press against hers. They have kissed many times in front of people on missions but it's never been like this. Never a sign that everything she had been feeling, wanting could be hers for the taking.

It's not fast and heated. It's slow as if he's testing out the waters that he can glady swim in. It's a sign that they know they shouldn’t be doing this but for once, she's playing by a different set of rules.

They break apart. The kiss wasn’t very long but the sparks linger and scorch through her body. She's afraid to look at him now. Afraid that rejection and everything she had told herself not to want, can’t be hers. The ground should just swallow her whole now.

She feels a hand softly touch her cheek and she looks up at him. This look on his face, she can't describe it. She can see the gears turning in his head, wondering if this was a mistake just as she thought.

But rejection never comes. He doesn’t pull or push away.

Instead his lips turn slightly up. “I know we fight for the greater good, but I’m starting to think I have a different purpose.”

“What?” She questions.

“You.”

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She could have sworn it's only been a few minutes but the sky’s blue had morphed into a dusty pink. A wonderful sunset that she is surprised she can still find beauty in. She knows she’ll have to leave soon. She is afraid that when she does, she might not come back.

One of the final happy moments with him was weeks before his death. Five years they had known each other and it was all washed down the drain.

Her head turns towards the sky as she basks in the sunset. “I hope that wherever you are there are still skies like these.”

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Sunsets in Hawaii were much better in person than any photo could capture.

“Another successful mission.” Blossom giggles as she takes a sip of her mai tai. Her feet are swaying above the water and the breeze flows through her hair. She hasn’t remembered being this peaceful but she could get used to it.

“Yeah.” Butch says as he downs his drink.

Five years she's known him. Every action and mannerism he's done is burned in her memory. It's the most priceless information she has, the most important because it's all hers.

He seems calm, she admits. But something is on his mind. He's not thriving in the glory of another mission or running around crazy and jumping into the ocean like the days before. He seems to be in deep thought. Something she's not quite sure she likes.

The horizon catches her eyes. “The sky is pretty.” She adds.

“Runaway with me.”

The movement of the waves stops. The breeze halts and her eyes widen.

“What?” She turns towards him. “Runaway?”

He nods. “Runaway from this place and all its madness. We could get married, travel the world, anything you want.” He took her hand. “I don’t care where we go. I just want to be with you.”

“With me?” She's practically speechless.

Butch cracks a smile. “Only you. Imagine this.” He scoots closer to her and wraps his arm around her shoulder. “A house on private property, hell maybe even a beachfront. You have your own little library and I’ll even get you a nice espresso machine. A garden with all the flowers you could imagine and even a baby grand piano since I know how much you love to play.”

The images flood her mind. “That sounds lovely.”

“And you wanna know the best part?” He asks.

She nods her head. “Tell me.”

“I would get to wake up each morning with you in my arms.” He smirks and kisses her softly.

“That would be the best part.” She hums against his lips. Her stomach then drops. “But we can’t.”

“Three good reasons.”

She tried to think. How could she leave the agency she's been in since she was a kid? How could she throw everything away? These feelings she had were all muddled into a mess that she didn’t know how to get out of. That vision he told her sounded like a dream.

That's what this was. A dream. Something she wasn’t allowed to have. But she wanted it.

Butch sighed. “I guess it's easier for me cause I’m selfish.” He smiled softly at her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Whatever choice you make, as long as I can still be by your side, is fine by me.”

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Blossom looks at the notes in her hands then back to the stone.

“I’m sorry Butch.” She cries and crumples them. Tears overwhelm her once again but she doesn’t wipe them or try to stop it. She is a dam that's been holding it all for too long. Holding her emotions for years and she was tired.

“Everyone told me to come here to get closure, but I don't want that. I want to feel the emptiness and shallowness. I want to cry myself to sleep and wish I could hold you again. It's torturous and cruel to think like that but it means that it was real. And that it was mine. This-” She beats her fingers against her chest, against her heart. “This is yours.”

“I am sorry Butch. I vowed to never let my heart act over my head. And that is something I regret deeply. You were right. You always have been. You wanted me without hesitation and I’m sorry I was guarded. But I swear when I was with you I wasn’t.”

The laughter and joy he brought her. She felt like she was breathing for the first time around him and even in the most serious situations there was still an element of peace.

“I had hoped that I would never have to say this. Never had to face this reality because it's too painful. I tried to deny it all, even though I watched it happen. Maybe if I had never let myself be charmed by you, I could avoid all these feelings but we both know that you were just so-’ She bites a laugh. “Irresistible.”

Her voice got louder as her sobs grew. “Every single moment was worth it. Your eyes and your smile. The way you knew what I was thinking even though no one else could ever know. I treated it like our job but the truth is, I wanted you to figure me out so I could finally tell myself it's okay to be happy. That's what you were Butch. My happiness.”

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This can’t be happening, she thought. Never in her entire career had she been kidnapped and captured. She was careful and guarded but they got the best of them this time.

The gag in her mouth was doing its job and her wrists were bound behind her back. The cold chill ran up her spine as she watched the men drag him in front of her. He was a few feet away and his face was covered in blood and bruises.

“Only one of you makes it out alive.” The man said.

She tried to pull against the restraints but felt the cool metal touch the back of her head.

“No moving sweetheart.” She heard behind her.

She watched as they removed Butch’s gag and he choked on the air before his hair was pulled and he was forced to look at her.

Those dark green eyes met with frightened brown but he knew that below the color was a brilliance of magenta that he adored.

He should be scared and terrified. And he was. But looking at her even in this state, he felt a sense of happiness wash over him. Everything he never thought he could have was right there in front of him.

Tears fell from her eyes as she watched the man stab him in the stomach. The knife plunged into his flesh and Butch let out a horrifc cry as she screamed into the gag.

“Dying words buddy?” The man laughed as he pulled out a gun and held it up to head.

Even through the pain shooting through his body, he looked at her with tears in his eyes.

His lips turned into a smile, even with blood coating his teeth. “Blossom-” He coughed.

No.

No.

Please No!

She wanted to scream and tell him that she takes it all back. She wanted her dress and the ring. She wanted their own house and a piano where she could play for him.

Everything. She wanted everything.

She wanted him.

“I love you.” He says. 

BAM!

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Her breath catches in her throat as she sees it. The blood and the life leaving his eyes. It replays and she tries to stop the memory.

“Could you ever forgive me?” She sobs. “Forgive me for not telling you?”

Her hand presses against the gravestone. She's not sure what she's hoping for but it's cold.

“You said it moments before your death and I couldn’t even let you die with that. Yet through that you smiled at me. You fucking smiled as death was taking you faster than I could realize because you knew. I couldn’t say it. No matter how much I wanted to tell you, I was afraid that the moment I did, this would happen. I wasn’t prepared to lose you. I wasn’t ready to face a life where I would spend every waking moment wondering if waking up next to you was truly real or a dream.”

Anger rises in her. Anger at the world and the men who killed him. Angry at the agency who turned the other eye when he died. There was nothing for her there anymore. She realized it way too late that she was robbed of everything from this life. Robbed of having him because she was afraid.

“I don't get it. How did you make me want that so bad? How you took my heart and made it beat faster than ever before. You told me to be selfish so here it is. I want you. I want you back and alive so that I can go and buy that white dress. I want everything you said.”

The anger bubbling shifts. It lingers but she takes a deep breath. It won’t help her to be angry or to bring him back. That sorrow takes its hold over her again. It's sad but calming as she tries to reason with herself that he is gone. She knows closure won’t come but she's okay with that.

“But that's not the reality anymore. I can’t change the past but I won’t change the future either. I am deeply and madly in love with you Butch. You gave me a glimpse of what a normal and fulfilling life could be and I thank you for that. Thank you for giving me slices of happiness and making me feel like I was worth loving.”

She reaches into her purse one last time and pulls out a letter and a box. “I resigned and I bought myself a ring.” She opens it and slips on the silver band with a small opal. “It's silly I know, not even a wedding ring. I hope you don’t mind. I stole one of the gems from your watch to make it.” She cries.

“They took all your stuff you know.” Her hands quiver as she stares at her ring. “They took every part of you like it was nothing, like you didn’t exist at all. The watch was all I could get.”

The sun is now setting and the breeze picks up. She's not cold anymore, and can't feel anything.

“They’ll kill me, I'm sure of it. That's what happens when you leave. And when they do, I better see you on the other side. A place where we can watch the sunset and have our little home. A place where this emptiness inside me can be whole again. I just want a place where I can love you.”

The glasses and letters go back into her purse. The flowers lay with her ribbon at the base as she stands and dusts off her dress.

She finally wipes her tears and forces a wonderful soft smile. “You were the most charming and wonderful man I have ever had the honor of working with. But most importantly, you were proof that dreams could come true.”

She touches the stone one last time. Feels the coolness but it's not as frightening. She's not afraid anymore. Blossom takes a step back and her eyes dance over his name one last time. She slips on her heels and grabs her purse.

“Goodbye my love.” She says and makes her way across the grass to the black gate.

​​✼　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　 ҉　✼

I hope you enjoyed! 

[ilikemesometaetaes]

Don’t Hold Your Breath ~ jjk

Chapter Five (M)

•••> Author: @ilikemesometaetaes​

•••> Summary: As the CEO of an international government security company, you have the world at your fingertips. Living life lavishly and extravagantly has become the norm. Behind closed doors, however, you host a past that renders you lonely and, quite frankly, miserable. It’s only a matter of time before your past comes back to bite you right in the ass.

•••> Pairing(s): Jungkook/Reader, Taehyung/Reader (slight)

•••> Inspo: This fic is inspired by the song “SAVAGE ANTHEM” by PARTYNEXTDOOR. Thank you to @dariangarcia​, @btssmutgalore​, and @junghoseokit​ for supporting my work. To my mamas, Kaitlin, Adora, Lauren, Lanie, Lu, and Sher.

•••> Word Count: 6.54k

•••> Rating: 18+

•••> Tags: angst | smut | ceo!au | rockstar!au | CEO!Reader | Rockstar!Jungkook | AU!BTS | Exes to Lovers

•••> Warnings: angst, infidelity, oral (m receiving), heartbreak, cursing, pining, depression, breakup, mention(s) of therapy/counseling, arguing, drug use, alcohol use | Warnings are written specifically to chapter.

Copyright © 2020 ilikemesometaetaes. All Rights Reserved.

Taglist: @dariangarcia​​ @apurpledheart​​ @itsgottabeyoo-ngs​​ @hytibm​ @namjinsbaby​ @ggukkieland​

If you’d like to be added to the taglist, say so in a comment to this chapter or the DHYB Main Page, or send me an ask!

NAVIGATION: Chapter Four (M) <- | -> Chapter Six (M) -> Mini-Masterlist -> Series Masterlist

•••> Official Playlist

~#~

“Is it something we discussed now? The truth got you in disgust now, ‘cause I’d rather we just fuck now.”

THEN.

Sitting at your desk at work never felt so somber as you remembered how it all changed. The chain of events that led up to your fight with him the previous night were too hard to ignore anymore.

You remember fighting for him- for the both of you.

The tears flooded your eyes and, thankfully, blurred your vision from the scene before you.

Jungkook sat on a couch placed in the corner of the club, completely inebriated and high out of his mind. But that’s not what hurt you.

What completely ripped your heart from your chest was the woman draped across his exposed lap with her hair held in one hand while she used the other to wrap around the part of his dick that she couldn’t reach whilst she closed her lips over it.

Blinking your tears from your eyes on instinct allowed you to see that another set of eyes was looking at you. And they weren’t Jungkook’s.

Taehyung’s scowl, paired with furrowed eyebrows and sad eyes, was another image from that night you couldn’t get out of your head. There was no shock nor surprise on his face- he was expecting you. Taehyung knew that you would see. He didn’t try to deter you from coming to the club and he didn’t send any warning texts. He was the one who invited you in the first place.

The scene was an unforgettable one.

You should have taken Taehyung’s word for it from the start. He had given you hints that you simply couldn’t bother yourself to pay attention to.

While you possessed the knowledge and evidence that Jungkook cheated on you that night, you couldn’t bring yourself to properly address it. Each time you got around to speaking with him about it, you ended up brushing it off for another time.

Finding an excuse for yourself to defend him was easy.

The drugs and alcohol were the problem. You saw it yourself that night. He was in a completely different world when you saw him doing the deed. His eyes were glazed out with beautiful lips agape in complete, drug-induced ecstasy, unknowing of what he was doing. There was no way he was aware of what was actually happening or even what day it was.

But then came the day that it got so bad that you asked him to go get help. You were willing to forgive his negligence if he was willing to get it fixed.

It was the cause of your final fight.

“I’m not going to fucking rehab, Y/N.” He laughed spitefully. “There is nothing wrong with me. I’m a fucking rockstar. This is what rockstars do.”

“They also cheat on their girlfriends?” You sarcastically asked.

Jungkook chuckled darkly while looking at the floor. After a moment, he met your eyes in a cold gaze before he opened his mouth.

“Rockstars don’t have girlfriends.”

The weight of the statement pressured heavily on you in realization of what he was implying, pushing all of the air from your lungs. You were struck silent with an invisible smack offered by his words. No sound could escape your mouth as you stared back at him in a silent question: did it mean what you thought it meant?

“Yeah.” Was all he said in the deafening silence to answer your unspoken query, looking at the ground awkwardly. He was quick to add another few words to finally hit the nail on the coffin. “But if you still want to fuck, I’m down.”

“But- but I…” Your voice trembled weakly, feeling your eyes ache with incoming tears, but you fought them with every ounce of will that you had as your abhorrence was built up by his last words. The ground was swallowing you up and you were trying to claw your way free. “I waited for you to get better. You told me things would get better once you took off.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Y/N.” He laughed heartily.

Your heart was no longer beating. Not in your mind, anyway.

You felt as the life was torn from your lungs with the most simple and practical words; your world taken from you and all air seeming too thick to inhale. 

Awfully, you couldn’t seem to listen to his words this time. You didn’t want to. Breathing seemed much too difficult as you felt him snatch the light from your life with one swipe.

There was no chance that you would let him watch you cry- no way he was going to watch the pain he delivered onto you take physical effect. You were disappointed and neglected- a pawn in the game he played. You were sick of playing now.

Instead, you turned around, grabbed your purse off of the kitchen table-

And left.

Sitting at your desk with all of the sadness that Jeon Jungkook brought into your life, you decided that it was finally time to leave. You needed to leave Korea. You needed to move on to bigger and better things.

Your hand was reaching for your phone before you could stop yourself from doubling back. It’s about time.

Googling for a moving company- any moving company- only took you a few seconds and you pressed the call button with a new sense of conviction.

“Good afternoon! Thank you for calling Team Wang’s Moving Company! What can I assist you with today?”

Making sure your voice was level and controlled, you spoke, “I’d like to schedule a move of items from a storage unit here in Korea to another country. Am I able to do that?”

“Of course, ma’am! We can get started on preparations for that right away! What was the location that you were referencing? We are limited on the countries we can ship to due to certain regulations.”

Without any further hesitation or pondering over the past, you settled on it.

“Italy.”

Jungkook

He sat in his room for a while with an empty lyric journal, letting the high slowly fade from his body as regret began pumping through his veins. Jungkook had put up the act for Taehyung, but after he saw his brother angrily storm out the door and he was left alone to the ever familiar havoc in his mind, the fight to maintain his mask was easily lost.

What the fuck did he do?

Seeing you cry was common for him; Jungkook had made you cry too many times to count, but that didn’t take away from the way it ripped apart the sinew in his chest every time he saw that look in your eyes as tears streamed down your cheeks.

He managed to convince himself of the belief that it was impossible for you to care that much anymore. You just couldn’t. Not when he had fucked up the first time. He had broken your trust and he didn’t trust himself enough to try and earn yours back, fearing that he would just fuck you up past recovery- like himself.

Jungkook was beyond rejuvenation and beyond any form of succor. Nothing could help him silence his demons except the cold and dark embrace of death. Even now, sitting in silence in his bedroom to let the remorse for you distract him from the torment of the empty organ beating in his chest, he felt them begin to criticize him.

Jungkook’s parents and brother died young, victims of a drunken asshole who decided that it was a good idea to get behind the wheel to try and get home to his girlfriend. What a fucking prick.

For some reason, Jungkook decided that it would be a good idea to stay home and worry about the girl that he liked at school, making little sketches to slip into her lunchbox once lunch came around. 

Of all days he could have stayed home, it just had to be that one. He should have gone to the grocery store with them. He should have been in that car with them.

The voices in his head began three weeks after the funeral- when Jungkook reached the ripe age of twelve. Constantly battering him down, twisting his heart, and suffocating his head, he recognized that it was his own voice and his own psyche attacking the sanctity of his soul after he watched the three coffins sink into the cold ground. 

It just had to rain that day, water filling the nice dress shoes his father bought for him a few months prior as mud covered the black leather.

He reached adulthood much too fast. Even under the care of his parents’ friends, he was forced by his own will to become independent. They tried to shower him with the same love and support that his family had, but it was no use- Jungkook was alone. No one could fill that gap in his heart once it was made empty.

He’ll admit, he was a bit more dramatic back then.

He was approaching his seventeenth birthday when he smoked for the first time, turning it into a habit by the time he graduated high school. He had been dragged out to an end-of-the-year school gathering by Taehyung, a senior who was much too silent like himself- who understood that Jungkook preferred the quiet due to the mayhem in his mind. They had formed a tranquil and mostly unspoken bond over the months that they studied together.

“Is it safe?” Jungkook muttered while looking at his older companion of the silence curiously.

“I’ve done it a few times and I was fine. Just take it slow at first. Try two hits and then wait like twenty or thirty minutes.” Taehyung’s contralto voice was somehow comforting to Jungkook, a beacon in the chaos that was the kickback they were currently separating themselves from. “If you don’t want to, that’s cool. You don’t have to.”

“Nah,” Jungkook’s desire to break out of his shell was a little spurred by Taehyung who seemed to aid him in the most odd yet unobtrusive way. “I’ll try it. Might be cool.”

The only two at the campfire while the rest of their year mates drank and danced to music in the house, Jungkook and Taehyung shared their first high together.

Then, the voices stopped.

Jungkook was shaken to his core, gripping the arms of the camping chair he sat in until his fingers ached and his knuckles turned white. For the first time in six years, his head was blanketed in silence.

Slightly panicked at the new sensation, he turned to Taehyung for help, only to find that his friend was sitting back with his head craned up, gazing intently at the stars. Jungkook followed his stare and struggled to see them past the glow of the flames in front of him, only to grow enraptured by the gorgeous twinkling of each small dot in the midnight sky once his eyes adjusted. Strangely, he was hit by a sudden burst of inspiration.

“I could write a song right now.” Jungkook told the sky confidently.

“You write?” He saw Taehyung turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Meeting his friend’s observance, he let a smile lazily grace his face for once as he replied.

“I do occasionally. I always wanted to be a singer when I was younger.”

“Me too.” Taehyung chuckled with a sense of wistfulness, fixing his stare on the small inferno in the fire pit. “Well, I wanted to be a bassist really bad. Maybe sing a little.”

Overcome with the emotions of maybe not being totally alone, Jungkook’s inner sageness spewed from his mouth without falter, wholly due to the graceful and relaxed feeling that he received from the high.

“We’re still young.” He reasoned. “We can still do it.”

“I’ll be studying music in university after my military service is over. My most realistic dream now is to become a studio bassist for some record company.” Taehyung laid his head back again, closing his eyes.

“Hey,” Jungkook called for his friends attention and the older boy looked at him with slightly bloodshot eyes. “We can do something with this if we really want to. I’ll follow you to university. Never really had a solid plan for where I wanted to go to anyway.” Jungkook stuck his hand out in a silent offer, hoping that his proposition wouldn’t be crushed.

Taehyung smiled mellowly, taking his younger friend’s hand with his in a handshake. “Sounds like a plan, my friend.”

After Taehyung graduated and enlisted, Jungkook completed his senior year with a new hobby- well, two new hobbies: writing and smoking.

With the impending date of his enlistment, he knew that he had to give it up as he was going to get drug tested. For two years, he kept up with himself without the help of the self-administered psychoactive drug therapy.

Service was a good distraction from the voices. Having things to do to keep him busy and writing in any free time he had, he was kept delightfully aloof from the dark corners of his mind. It also helped that he enlisted into the same garrison that Taehyung was assigned to.

Taehyung welcomed Jungkook into university with open arms. Now, at the age of twenty, Jungkook was a seasoned and trained man. The voices still loomed over him, but they were pushed to the back of his mind as he learned to deal with the emptiness.

He had highs to suppress his demons, he had his songs to communicate himself to others, and he had Taehyung.

Although it wasn’t nearly enough to fill his empty glass, it was empty no longer.

Jungkook lay in his bed as he watched the violet sky turn midnight blue, the already-set sun pulling the rest of its light away from his side of the earth. 

Naked and vulnerable under the scrutiny of the world, he lay in the sheets with his head turned toward the window, presenting the sorrow brimming in his eyes right back to the invisible gaze of the universe. With no form of judgement in response to him, he was left to ponder over the things he had done.

Because even now, with a slight high from the drugs, he realized that he could still hear them- the whispers, murmurs, and dronings of impugnment continued to poison his mind. He found it funny that he was always pressing the voices away, yet whenever confronted by the menace that was his emotions, they were his safety blanket. 

Pulling the sheets to his body while he curled into himself, Jungkook realized that he felt completely bare and exposed without the voices.

He’d keep them back to the point of a whisper so that he could call on them to protect him with a roaring intensity during bad times. There was never a time that he wasn’t manually suppressing them if he wasn’t high anymore.

With a shaken mind, he realized the only true way they were silent without true effort now. The drugs had stopped suppressing them a long time ago. There was no way he was able to have silence unless he was actually enforcing the lack of sound onto himself.

Not unless he was with you.

You provided light and hope and everything good to him, You gave him the things that were snatched away from him all those years ago- the things that he forced himself to live without. Unlike Taehyung, who gave him the sense of having a brother again, you gave him the love of everyone he lost. You acted like a sibling, gave him the comfort like a mother, and gave him the stern challenge and teachings of a father- if that made any sense.

Without you, he felt like his family; Jungkook felt lost and alone. Even as an up-and-coming rockstar with thousands of fans scrambling to get to know him, he felt like he was the last man on the planet who kept himself back while everyone else moved on to a better world.

The night at the club still haunted him, the truth of what happened chilling him to the bone- even if he didn’t exactly remember any of it.

Shit. Maybe he needed help after all.

NOW.

Sitting with his back to the door, staring at the night of New York City, Jungkook did not hear Namjoon enter the room with both of his bodyguards in tow.

“We’re staying another few days.” His older brother informed him, breaking him from his trance-like gaze.

“Goody.” Jungkook sighed, setting his empty glass down on the table in front of him. With a huff, he stood and stretched. Namjoon uttered a quick ‘give us a second’ to his men before the shuffling of feet and the door closing behind him signaled the beginning of a serious conversation.

“You know she’s still here, right? It’s not too late to go and talk to her.” Jungkook could feel the man’s eyes on his back, pity dousing the information that Jungkook was already aware of.

But Jungkook didn’t need Namjoon’s pity. It was enough that Namjoon saw his feelings on paper. Nothing more needed to be shared.

Still, he respected his brother’s wisdom and he remembered the words of his counselor. ‘Accept the silence. Then, do the talking from the inside. The only one truly speaking, inside and out loud, is you.’

“I know. I already spoke to her. Some things…” Jungkook’s volume died down for a moment, unsure of how to put it, as he turned his head to look at his brother in a silent plea for assistance. “…happened the other night. She came and saw me again today,”

“-I didn’t know what to do and I acted like a dickhead.” He looked back down and chuckled spitefully to himself, wisps of a shadow materializing back into the depths of his mind once he stopped speaking.

Namjoon exhaled after not realizing that he was holding his breath following his own comment. Carefully, he approached Jungkook so as to not trigger him into closing himself off. Despite having received professional assistance and counseling for two years, Jungkook was still as fragile as fine china.

The older man placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder before slightly forcing Jungkook to face him.

“Tell me, Jungkook,” Namjoon looked into his eyes, prying into the windows of his soul, to capture a glimpse of the storm clouds brewing in his brother’s brown orbs. “Do you still love her?”

Jungkook didn’t know how to answer at first.

The voices began permeating Jungkook’s mind ever so slowly as an automatic reaction to being emotionally jabbed. He didn’t like addressing his feelings; the voices were all he could fall back on when he felt threatened, deafening volume drowning out the possibility for anything to reach into him too deep. They gave him the things- the bad things- he needed to say in order to protect himself.

As he sifted through the past two years, however, looking back on the help he had received and the exercises he went through that allowed him to no longer fear the natural silence- to embrace it without the drugs- he knew that no one was threatening him and no one was going to hurt him. Jungkook was asked if he still loved you and he couldn’t have the negativity surrounding him if he was going to answer that question, so he moved his trepidation out of the way to see what was left for you.

Behind it all- the fear, meaningless women, music, loss- lay a withering yet ever-present being, its wings tattered and flayed at the edges. With its first glances of light, with no smog to block it, it beat its tiny appendages with potential and came to life upon Jungkook’s realization of what it was.

His arrant and perennial love for you.

Jungkook briefly remembered the meadow- your meadow- and all of the tiny butterflies that were living out their lives in the beauty of the world that day. A butterfly adorned with blue and black splotches of color on its wings had managed to land on your head for a split second when he adjusted your hair. The particular memory and the events that followed on that day relocated as the tiny butterfly inside his mind fluttered upwards.

Jungkook’s heart soared with newfound beginnings- a second chance.

“I do, hyung. I do.” He whispered, voice wavering under the force of the emotions that came bubbling up from his chest. Tears filled his eyes, prompting his older brother to pull him into an embrace.

Jungkook’s body racked with cries at the feeling of comfort and warmth, unable to stop himself from feeling the raw emotions he had delayed for too long. Instead of needing to push the darkness out of the way, it came pouring out of him in radiating waves much too intense for him to handle alone.

“Hyung! I love her! I love her!” He chanted into his brother’s shoulder. “I hurt her! She was all mine and I tossed her away!”

Namjoon, although shocked by the psychological state and emotional outburst of his usually stoic bandmate, held him with care and waited until his brother’s breathing calmed before suggesting his next move. “Then go and get her, Kook.”

“She’s-” Jungkook had to swallow to wet his dry throat. “She’s with Taehyung right now.”

“Then wait until morning. From what Jin-hyung said, she’ll be here until the end of the week.”

So, wait is what Jungkook did.

He woke up at eight the next morning and called your personal assistant, finding his number easily on your company’s preliminary email to everyone in his organization for the whole UN ordeal. After two rings, the man answered.

“Halo! This is Brian Morena, representative and PA to Ms. Y/N Y/L/N. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“Jeon Jungkook.” Jungkook stated his name lowly and unsurely, cautious as to how to approach asking him about your schedule.

“Ah, Mr. Jeon! It is a pleasure to speak with you! I’ll just verify your phone number really quick. It will only take a moment.” The line went silent for a few seconds and Jungkook waited on the edge of his bed with a bouncing knee and a fingernail between his teeth. After a few more seconds, the man was back on the phone. “You’re good! What can I do for you today?”

“I was just wondering if I could possibly get my hands on Ms. Y/N’s schedule for the day.” Jungkook heard how weird the request sounded the moment it flew from his lips. Quickly, he came up with a lie to soothe the request with reasoning. “She left her jacket in the elevator and I wish to return it to her- personally.”

Jungkook added the last part, knowing that the man would just tell him to give it to an employee of your own building, and Jungkook couldn’t have that. He wanted- no, needed- to see you.

“I see.” Brian responded thoughtfully. “Well, in that case, I’m unable to disclose her whereabouts due to security reasons.” Jungkook’s heart dropped a little at the notion of being unable to speak with you while his heart was still flying open. Then, Brian spoke again.

“But if she is in her hotel during her free time, she will be in her penthouse and I will assign you a temporary elevator key so that you can get to her door. It won’t unlock the door, but it will get you in front of it. Does that sound alright, Mr. Jeon?”

Jungkook smiled triumphantly. “Yes, that sounds lovely. Thank you, Brian.”

“It’s no problem, sir! Though, I do suggest you move quickly because she only has the next two and a half hours before she has her first scheduled event of the day. Your key will be ready for you in the next ten minutes. Have to wait until your status change goes through properly.” Brian was busy clacking away at his keyboard while he spoke, but Jungkook couldn’t be more overjoyed that he had succeeded in his plan thus far.

Things will work out. I’ll get her back. However much and however long it takes.

He dressed casually and indiscriminately with a mask over his face so as to not draw attention. After searching for it on google and exiting the hotel onto the street, he hailed a cab to take him to the first flower shop he could find to order you a bouquet of white tulips- obviously, he had to google that too. Jungkook had no idea what the best flower for apologies and hopes of new beginnings was. He was no botanical genius and that was a fact.

Once he had the flowers in his hand after a grueling wait, he stopped by the closest coffee shop to buy your favorite coffee- with two creams and three sugars if he remembered correctly. Despite the amount of time the florist had wasted, he made his way back to the hotel on foot so that he could properly practice what he was going to say to you. If he was going to make it right, he needed all the practice he could get.

Take off the mask. Don’t be a dick. Take off the mask. Don’t be a dick.

Jungkook let the incantations fill his head so that the haze of negativity didn’t have a chance to snap back into place over his single, delicate emotion. He was vulnerable and fighting the mental pressure with everything he had so that he could bare himself long enough to at least get back on good terms with you.

By the time he was back in front of your hotel building, it was a quarter to ten and he was left cursing the florist for taking so long. He stood awkwardly on the pavement, allowing himself a few breaths before he decided to enter the glass doors. Jungkook knew that he would be attracting attention by standing in front for so long, yet he couldn’t help but need a moment to send a prayer to whichever god was watching over him.

Closing his eyes, he craned his head up and took one last inhale whilst sending a silent plea for things to work out. To see you smiling and happy again. To hold you in his arms and hear you silence every one of his demons once and for all.

What he didn’t expect was one of his prayers to be promptly answered.

As he opened his eyes to look at the late morning sky, he caught sight of you immediately, sitting on the restaurant balcony- laughing and smiling. But you weren’t laughing and smiling to yourself.

You were giving your joy and happiness to Taehyung whose hand was covering yours above the table, grinning endearingly and adoringly back at you.

Jungkook’s hands grew numb, warranting the flowers and coffee to slip from his grasp onto the sidewalk, as he drowned in smog once again.

NOW.

You

“He never wanted you to leave.”

You sat, dumbfounded for a moment, as Taehyung said the words. You didn’t let the shock last for long, knowing that what he said must have been a lie.

“There’s no way.” You chuckled scornfully. “He told me himself, Taehyung. He didn’t want me anymore.”

“Y/N, take it from me. I loved you. I wanted to see you happy.” He grimaced briefly, most likely from the personal statement, while turning his eyes down to place his gaze on his empty plate in front of him. “But I knew that he made you happy even though he made you sad. He made you happy in a way that I never could. And he wanted to see you that way- happy.”

“I’m sorry, Tae. I- I should’ve-” Your heart ached for a moment as you tried to find the words to say, wishing for the first time that you had been in love with him instead.

“Don’t apologize, Y/N. You can’t force feelings like that and I sure as hell was not going to force you into anything that you didn’t want.”

A question burned behind your eyes, tugging your heart to remember the past.

“Then why did you let me see?” Your eyes turned cold. The drop in your tone nor the change of your mood were directed at him, but they were caused by him nonetheless.

“Because I was young and thought you had a chance to find that happiness elsewhere.” He sighed, taking the opportunity to place his hand over yours on the table while his words distracted you. “And for that, I’m sincerely sorry. I know that friends are supposed to help each other out, but that was a situation that was out of my hands and not mine to handle or get involved in.”

“I’m not blaming you for my relationship issues. I never did and I never will. So don’t apologize.” You looked down at the way his hand covered yours. “I just wanted to know.”

Taehyung pat your hand in an attempt for you to look at him again. When you did, he continued his sentiment.

“Jungkook didn’t want you to leave at all. He has this… thing. It’s not really my place to say anything, but I’ve been friends with him for years and he’s had it a bit rough. I know that he’s a dick- believe me, I know-“ You quirked an eyebrow at his expression. “But he’s got something he keeps hidden behind that thick skull of his that you should probably know about.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” You asked, curious as to what he could be alluding to.

“Because you guys still need to talk. He was never good at talking to you about things.”

“I’m never fucking talking to him ever again.” You deadpanned.

“Please do it for me, Y/N.” His eyes begged with his plea, pulling you in.

“Oh? And why should I do it for you, hm?” You joked with him to steer the conversation away from the heavy subject, a small smile playing upon your lips. “I think you were the one apologizing to me.”

“Well, all I can say is that I’m sorry. I was supposed to be there for you- when you needed a shoulder to cry on and when you needed someone to binge watch TV shows with.” He smiled with his attempted joke that you couldn’t help but laugh at.

“You’re the best TV show buddy.” You giggled and looked down at your joined hands again, rotating your own so that you could hold his. To be friends with him after all this time… is it possible?

“Oh, I know I am!” He laughed loudly again, prompting you to quickly look around the restaurant area and the street below you, mild panic setting in once more. You tilted your head in confusion and pity at the sight of a few white flowers lying on the pavement next to a splattered drink.

“Poor flowers.” You muttered to yourself. “They’re so pretty.”

You watched Taehyung turn to look where you were staring from the corner of your eye. “Oh yeah. Would you look at that? Such a waste.”

Instead of taking any more time, you stood and straightened your blazer to remove the wrinkles. “We should probably get out of here. I have a security meeting in a little while.”

“How long is a little while?” Taehyung asked as he stood and pressed his hands to his own coat. You made eye contact with Jay who was already stood and ready to go, nodding to him as you answered Taehyung’s question.

“About an hour and a half. Why?”

“Damn. That’s not enough time. Maybe tonight then?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, lips forming into a thin line.

“Enough time for what? What’s happening?” You grabbed his elbow when he began walking away without answering your question.

“What time are you going to be done for the day?” He asked.

“Taehyung,” You warned lowly. “What’s going on? I won’t tell you unless you give me something to work with here.”

“Oh, nothing.” He smiled and removed your grasp from his arm. “I’ll just ask Brian again. I’m sure he’ll be upset if you dodge your schedule.”

“Brian?” You watched as he walked away through the tables while hooking his mask back onto his ears. You wanted to get to the bottom of the situation fast- so you quickly followed him. “You’ve been speaking with him?”

“Of course I have! Isn’t that right, Jay?” Taehyung turned to the man in question.

“Of course, Mr. Kim. You’ve been very in touch with the staff.” Your bodyguard, once he joined you and Taehyung walking together, let a small, smug grin pull at the corners of his mouth. What a traitor. A slight sense of mock-betrayal filled you.

“What?” You asked. “Why?”

“For research purposes.” Taehyung deadpanned, grabbing your hand in the process. “Now come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“I have to go back to my room and get ready for my meetings.” You said quickly. Taehyung only chuckled lowly.

“Alright. Then let’s go!” He tugged you towards the exit. “I’ll take you to your door.”

You had no option but to stumble behind him while you stressfully surveyed the area, careful of onlookers.

~∞~

“YOU ALMOST LOST IT?” Kate’s voice was shrill and slightly distorted as it burst through the speakers of your phone at an ear-splitting volume.

“I’m sorry!” You briskly apologized. “It wasn’t my fault, I swear!”

“I spent weeks- weeks!- planning and making that jacket for you! I-” She bleated weakly before her tone leveled to nonchalance. “Wow. So this is what being chopped liver feels like.”

“Kate! You are not chopped liver, I swear.” You rushed the statement as you sat back in your office chair, glad to have a conversation that wasn’t work-related after a long and grueling day.

Your friend only grumbled in response. “It sure feels like it.”

“Well, you aren’t. I swear on my job.” You said.

“Oh wow. Holy shit. Okay, yeah that means a lot.” She stuttered playfully. “But something tells me you didn’t call me just to tell me you almost lost one of my most prized works of art- which, by the way, is my best seller. So, what is it?”

“I- uh…” You didn’t know how to word it. You had spent the entire work day using security updates and board meetings as a distraction from the open debate in your head, so now that your day was over and you had nothing left to do, the thoughts came back. It’s why you called Kate; you needed a third opinion.

If what Taehyung said about Jungkook was actually true, then maybe you should talk to him so that you could hear his side of the story. The bad bitch part of you told you to fuck off and forget about him, but you couldn’t help the softer and more curious side of yourself that begged to hear him out.

Realizing you had gone silent for a moment too long, you blurted out something random. “I’d like for you to design a hat for me.” A hat? Really? That was the best you could come up with? At least ask for some pants or something.

“Bullshit,” She chuckled in response. “But I’ll take that until you’re ready to tell me what’s actually going on.”

You heard her rustling some paper in preparation to take down design ideas, triggering panic to rise within you. You didn’t want her to put in work for an imaginary hat that you really had no desire of having.

“Hypothetically!” You shouted before she could get into it.

“Okay…” You heard the hesitation in her voice, clearly weirded out by your outburst. “Hypothetically what?”

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that you had an old flame who broke your heart and acted like a dick years ago, but you just recently learned that there were, maybe- I don’t know- some other things going on that made him act that way. Would you want to talk to him about it?”

“Hell no.” Kate laughed. “Just because you’re going through some stuff doesn’t mean you can act like a dick to other people. There’s no excuse for being a shitty person.”

“That’s what I thought.” You replied strongly. In your head, however, the war within you was brewing, weakening your composure.

“You’re not one to usually think about things like this.” Kate added. “What’s going on with you?”

“Just dealing with some stuff from the past. Nothing huge.” You didn’t want to overshare and Kate understood, knowing that she could never ask you to tell her about your past. She would wait until you were the one sharing it with her.

“Just let me know if you want me to come over there. I could definitely use some quality time with a quiet person for once. These idiots are so loud.”

You laughed in response. “I will. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. We can watch movies or something and eat pizza and drink wine.”

“Oh my. That sounds like the perfect date!” She squealed. Her giddiness was infectious, spreading a soft smile across your lips.

“Won’t Brian get jealous?” You jab at her playfully.

“Not at all. He’ll probably end up attached to his video games anyway.” Kate snorted. “Shit! Speaking of! I need to call him! I’ll talk to you later?”

“Of course. Talk to you later.” You sat up in your chair.

“Bye!” She chirped.

As you sat alone in your office, building lights dark and the lights from the city the only form of illumination in the room through the window, you let your friends’ words rifle through your head.

On one hand, Kate catered to your stone-cold side, encouraging you to forget all about Jungkook and move on. Despite not knowing the situation and understanding all of its facets, her opinion was unbiased.

Taehyung, on the other hand, encouraged you to speak with Jungkook. He was aware of both sides of the story and understood what you and Jungkook- whatever the hell it was- were going through. He supported the side of you that was eager to understand and desperate to love again.

The decision was, ultimately, yours to make. What were you going to do?

The thoughts in your mind weighed heavy on your heart while you prepared to leave. You stood, packed your brief case, and made your way out of your office and onto the sidewalk to hail your driver so that you could go back to your hotel.

You couldn’t worry about it for long, though, because your phone vibrated three separate times as three notifications lit up your screen on your way back. Taehyung texted you.

Kim Taehyung (BTS)

Wear thick socks.

And a coat.

With gloves.

You stared at your phone in confusion, trying to figure out what he was getting at. Just what in the world was this boy planning?

~#~

Sorry this took so long, everyone! Please remember to like/reblog and comment if you want. I’d like to know what you guys think!

Don’t forget to check out the Series Masterlist if you want to read the oneshots that I have published.

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

gently rings a little bell in your ear My fic updated with two new chapters when you weren't paying attention! but now i am tilting your chin up with the point of my sword, forcing you to look. its very villainous and cool. this is part three of an increasingly convoluted story, part one can be found all the way over here but if you just want the high school romance stuff and don't care about found family, that's fine, i guess, but like, what's your deal

The weekend is a welcome relief from everything at school. He’s tired of feeling like shit, so Saturday, annoyingly bright and early, he startles Lydia awake by flopping on her bed. It causes her to bounce, and she groans, pulling the dark purple blanket further over her head. “Beetlejuice…” “I was thinkin’, today we should spend th’ whole day outdoors, in th’ park or somethin’,” he grins, and she lifts the blanket just barely, to glare at him. “You only want to play outside because all your stuff was taken away,” comes her accusation, and she’s not exactly wrong, but he just wiggles a hand under her blanket and gives her nose a poke. “Let’s go get lost, somewhere. Come on, Lyds, please?” She tries to hit him with a pillow but her grip is tired from sleep, and all she manages to do is shove the thing at him.

Twenty minutes later, she’s dressed and ready, bouncing on the balls of her feet, as he mulls over which button up to wear, the highlighter yellow with purple bugs, or the dark green with orange bones. They’re two equally ugly shirts that kind of give him a headache to look at, and both are favorites. “I can’t believe you woke me up at eight so I could stand around watching you go through your wardrobe.” “This is important.” He settles on the bugs, finally, and pulls it on before turning to Lydia, but she’s gone. He blinks, and sticks his head out his door, in time to headbutt her as she comes back in. Both siblings reel back and hold their heads. “Beetlejuice…” she groans. “Lyd-eee-uhhh,” he mimics her. She huffs and throws what she’d gone to her room to retrieve at him. He catches it, then stares. It’s his hoodie, his ruined one from that disastrous Halloween. He can still see that faded dark copper stain in some places, but it's better than it was. Also, the holes slashed in the arms have been very sloppily stitched with a thick, black embroidery thread. He looks back at his sister. “You seemed like you were having a hard week,” Lydia says, shuffling her feet. “I never sewed anything before, I’m sorry it looks kind of messy, and I tried really hard to get the bloodstains out...” He slips his familiar stripes back on and feels much more at ease. “It’s cool,” he tells her. “I like messy.” He holds open his arms and she falls into them, pressing her face against his stomach. It's a nice moment, and for once, he doesn’t feel inclined to ruin it, just pats his little sister’s head. “Love you.” “Love you too.”

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````` Charles, ever an early riser, is surprised to see his children in the kitchen this bright eyed and bushy tailed on a Saturday. He’s pouring two coffees, one for himself and one for Emily, who is sitting at the table, head propped up on her hand, and still functionally asleep, when Betelgeuse and Lydia come bounding in to raid the fridge. “And what are you two getting up to today?” he asks, and the siblings pause to look at him. “Goin’ to th’ park.” “You think so?” Betelgeuse’s shoulder slump. “Seriously? You take all my stuff away an’ now I can’t even go out?” “You’re still in trouble. Why should you be allowed to go out and have fun?” “Cause that wasn’t specified!” Betelgeuse tries, and then turns to Emily. “Ma, tell him!” Emily mutters in her sleep, and Charles wordlessly sets the coffee down in front of her. The smell hits her nose, and robotically, she lifts the drink to her lips, eyes never opening. “Let BJ go do stuff,” she manages, maybe not as eloquent as she normally speaks, her voice gruff from sleep. Betelgeuse grins up at Charles. His father sips his own coffee, and then pats his son’s head. “Home before dark. No fire, no demon nonsense, no taking drugs from strangers.” “Home at midnight, commit arson, summon Satan, enjoy stranger candy. I gotcha.” Both his children receive a kiss on the head before stuffing Lydia’s little black coffin bag with snacks, and heading out.

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````

It’s a big city, and there’s not a loss of things to do, especially with his powers, and there’s no adult supervision today. They find a café and enjoy a big breakfast, then he turns them invisible and they sneak away before the check comes, only reappearing a block later, Lydia grinning wildly. “Food tastes better stolen!” she says, and he pats her head. “There’s my little criminal.” They sneak into a movie, next, some horror thing Lydia had wanted to see that even Emily, the fun parent, had said she was too little for. It’s absolutely a gore fest, but not especially good, and they throw popcorn at the screen and cheer whenever the killer scores another victim.

“I think you’d die early in a slasher,” she says after, scattering their uneaten popcorn on the pavement in front of the theatre. She gets the attention of a whole flock of pigeons, which land and begin pecking at the kernels. “What’s your logic, there?” “You die on screen early and then the twist is you faked your death and were the killer.” “Ohh, classic. I love it.” “I’m a total final girl,” Lydia turns the half empty bucket upside down, much to the joy of the starving sky rats. “And then at the end, it’s like, I knew you were the killer the whole time, and I was just acting. Cause we’re in it together. You know, partners in crime.” He picks her up, slings her over his shoulder. “Always.”

He takes them to Central Park, next, holding her hand behind the theatre and apparating, accidentally, up a tree. She gasps and clings to him, and he digs his claws into the bark of the tree to steady them. “No worries, no worries. I just gotta..” They appear on the ground below, and Lydia looks dizzy. “Feels weird when you do that,” she tells him. “Like riding a rollercoaster, except your limbs are all asleep. But.. Kinda not that, at the same time.” It feels normal to him, but he regularly eats tin cans, so what does he know about normal to begin with?

Lydia takes her camera from her coffin bag, and readies it. It’s a little instamatic she got for her birthday, a few months ago, and she’s going through film like crazy, taking some pretty shitty pictures. He’s not that blunt to her face, though. It’s not like he was a rockstar on the ukulele when he first started, and she’s got a lot of enthusiasm for taking photos. He’s not going to be the one to squash that for her.

Also, he’ll bite off the hand of whoever tries.

“You think this can take pictures underwater?” she asks, aiming her camera at a random woman jogging by. The jogger makes a face, which seems to be what Lydia expects, because she snaps the picture as the woman continues on her way, and the little photo pops out the bottom. Lydia gives it an aggressive shake.

“I’m gonna guess no. Besides, it’s too cold for you to take a swim.” “So let’s go somewhere warmer. I’m thinking Hawaii.” “Good idea, genius, an’ how do you think we’re getting there?” “You can teleport us.”

He actually has to stop and think about that. “I don’t think I could do it in one straight shot,” he says at last. Lydia has moved to a different kind of voyeurism, because she’s on her stomach on the grass, following the movement of a trail of ants with her lens. “I’d probably have to do little distances, an’ get tired and need a nap in th’ middle.”

“Maybe through a mirror? Like Sam?” She adjusts the optic, an entirely useless motion, because this camera doesn’t have any kind of zoom feature. But she’s seen people do it in nature documentaries. “Never done mirror travel before.” He mulls that over. “I’ll practice when I get home, an’ see if I can even pull you through.” “You’re not allowed to go to Hawaii without me,” she gets what she considers her perfect shot, and then stands, brushing off her dark red dress. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They go bone hunting next, Lydia’s camera still at the ready, his keen nose leading the way. It’s easy to find owl pellets, and she breaks one open with her bare hands, as he teases her.

“Ew ew ew, Lydia gross, you’re touching it!” he pitches up his gruff voice to sound like a tweenage girl, and she rolls her eyes. “No skull in this one,” she frowns, wiping her hands on his hoodie.

“Maybe there’s a bodiless mouse head around here, livin’ it’s best life.” She looks doubtful.

Another, different smell hits his sensitive nose, just then. It’s death, new and fresh. His pupils dilate, and he follows it, her trailing after him, assuming he’s on the scent of more animal bones. What they find instead is an old man propped against a tree. He’s still warm, but the color is draining from his face, and rapidly. He doesn’t look hurt, he’s not bleeding. It’s like he sat down for a rest and died.

Lydia doesn’t get it, not right away. Death is a funny punchline in an overly gorey movie. She’s never seen the real thing, before. “Should we wake him up? It’s cold to be sleeping here.” He lifts the man’s arm, and it flops bonelessly back down. Her eyes go wide. “I doubt he’s gettin’ back up, kiddo.” She lifts her camera and takes a picture.

“Hello?” He hears a voice, and turns. The old man is standing next to himself. He looks back at Lydia, but she’s staring in fascination at the corpse, so he leaves her to it. “Hey,” he nods to the man, who looks relieved. “Can you call my grandson? My phone battery died,” he says, not seeming to understand the position he’s in. Betelgeuse tilts his head to the side. “You’re dead,” he says, a bit unkindly, and Lydia, who has been kneeling by the body, poking it, looks up at him. “I am?” “Wh- No, not you, Lyds, th’ stiff.” He gestures to the ghost, who has seemed to notice “himself” laying there. Lydia looks at her brother, confused. “There’s no one there.” “Sure there is. You just can’t see ghosts.”

“That’s me,” the old man says, not that anyone’s listening to him. “Should we tell someone about this?” Lydia asks him, and Betelgeuse shrugs. “Why? Someone will find th’ body eventually. You know. When it starts smellin’ like shit.” “I don’t want to leave him out here.” “Please, don’t leave me out here!” “I wouldn’t want to be left out here.” “Lucky for you, you’re never gonna die. You even try it an’ I’ll shove your soul back down your throat, if I have to.”

He smells the netherworld, and grabs Lydia, pulling her back, in time for another ghost to appear. A guide. The guide doesn’t even take a moment to look around, just instantly busies herself with getting the newly dead situated, and Betelgeuse picks Lydia up and carries her away. “That’s so sad,” she says, taking one last picture of the body from atop his shoulder. “I guess.”

They find the next official looking person they see, someone cleaning up trash, who doesn’t believe them, clearly, until he sees one of the photos Lydia took. The deathly pallor of the old man convinces him to go looking. Thirty minutes later, that part of the park is crawling with breathers, and the two of them are stuck on a bench, being talked to by cops. It’s a whole, boring process, and it’s drawing a big crowd. “Told ya, we shoulda minded our business,” Betelgeuse nudges his sister. Lydia is looking overwhelmed. Neither sibling ever gets this much attention. There’s even a news crew, though he can’t imagine what for. It’s just one old dead guy, and it’s not even a murder. Someone with a microphone tries to approach them, and he turns their mic into a black and white striped snake, forcing them to fling it away from themselves in a panic, and then he grabs Lydia.

They blink from existence and appear a ways away, and Lydia’s clutching his hand harder than she needs to. “Hey, come on.” His grating voice is soft, for her, as he kneels to her level, and she throws her arms around his neck. “How are you so calm? Doesn’t it make you sad?” she asks, softly, and he gives her an extra squeeze. “Happens to all breathers, Lyds. But it’s not somethin’ I gotta worry about, ever. So… no, not really.”

“Will you be sad when I die?”

He scoops her up, holding his little sister in his arms, and stands, her still clinging around his neck. “When you die at a hundred and twenty,” he tells her, carrying her along the path. “Wherever in the netherworld you end up, I’ll go too. Won’t even have time to be sad, me an’ you’ll be too busy causin’ trouble, even then.” She seems satisfied with that answer, and he doesn’t mind carrying her, so they enjoy the autumn leaves like that, her in his arms, as he follows the winding pathways of the park.

They don’t tell Charles and Emily, when they finally do get home, the sun just barely still peaking over the horizon. It doesn’t seem like a good idea, and Lydia doesn’t especially want to talk about it anymore. She pins her new photos up on the twine strung between the tall bedposts in her room. There’s a couple nice ones, and she lets him eat the ones she decides she hates. “Does it count as part of being grounded if you watch my tv?” she asks, and he grins. “Let’s find out.” She pops in Coraline, which he has to assume she’s got fucking memorized at this point, but they also talk through most of it. By the time the tasty looking bug furniture is on screen, her eyelids are drooping. “I dunno why they make her eatin’ bugs so evil. I wanna try beetles from Zanzibar,” he complains, and she just snorts in response “I’ll get you some fancy beetles, for your birthday.” “Kay. Sounds good.” She falls asleep on him a minute later, and he waives a hand, snuffing the lights, but lets the movie finish playing as he settles next to her, and sleeps.

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````` That next week is boring, but normal. Adam’s in the library every day, despite his earlier insistence that he had better things to do. Betelgeuse honestly just wheels the cart along and lets Adam shelf the books, now, which the nerd seems to unironically enjoy. He’s all smiles as he gets to put things away neatly. It’s embarrassing how endearing and cute Betelgeuse finds that. It’s Tuesday, Barbara isn’t there that day, at least, not right at that moment, so Adam is babbling about her. “Barbara and I aren’t really performers,” he’s telling Betelgeuse, returning a stack of history books to their proper places on the shelves. “But we thought it would be fun to try theatre together, and then we really enjoyed it, so we’ve been in the last two productions. She can really sing, she does this high note, and it’s-” “Angelic, I bet.” Both boys give a stupid, love sick sigh. Adam pauses, and nods, and then studies the other teen. “So.. You.. You like her?” “Yeah,” he says easily. “But that doesn’t mean anythin’.” “What do you mean?” “I mean,” he clarifies, flopping across the cart, stomach first, and laying on it, staring down at Adam, who is crouching to reshelf some more books. “That despite me being a hot piece of ass, I’m probably not her type. I imagine she goes more for…” he studies Adam, trying to think of a nice word for boring, plain and vanilla. “More stable guys,” he lands on. “Like you. I bet she even likes how cute your butt looks in your khakis. I know I do.” Adam flushes. “You think so?” “It’s a good butt.” He nods, and Adam goes redder. “I meant, you think Barbara.. Might like me?” “Well, don’t push your luck, or nothin’, but you probably got a better chance with her.”

“You’re not entirely unlikable,” Adam offers. Betelgeuse lets out a guffaw that’s too loud, because someone in the next aisle over shushes him. “You already forget what I told you Friday?” he rests his head on his hand, tone condescending. “I know no one wants me around.”

“You’re setting yourself up for failure, with that attitude.”

“You think so, huh? Think I just need to hold hands round th’ campfire and sing kumbaya with all you breathers? I don’t think anyone would even take my hand. Probably couldn't get away from me fast enough.” There’s a pause. He doesn’t realize what he’s said until Adam is repeating it. “Breathers?”

He doesn’t get a chance to reply, because he feels a push on the cart, and turns to see Barbara, hands on the handle. “You’ve completely given up even trying, haven’t you?” she says, and he thinks she means about the books, and smiles. “No point. Adam’ll just do it for me.” “I mean with talking to people. With making friends.” His smile falls quickly into a scowl, and he runs a hand through his wild mess of green hair. “Lay off me, Babs. I’m bein’ friendly right now, aren’t I?”

“Sure, it’s plenty friendly, letting Adam do your work. But you don’t try, and then you get your feelings hurt when no one does it for you.” That’s not laying off, and it’s irritating him. “You can’t imagine anyone being nice to you, so you’re rude and push everyone away the first chance you get, in case what? In case you make a friend? Kevin probably needs you, right now,” she presses, physically too, making the cart he’s still lying across lurch forward. “I told you what happened to his dad, and you just said he wasn’t even your friend, when everyone knows you spent the last few months holding hands and making googoo eyes at him, and only talking to each other.”

“S’none of your business,” he tugs at his hair, pulling a tuft down to watch the color. Still green. He’s okay, but he keeps it there, in front of his eyes, focusing on it and not having to look at Barbara. “I’m making it my business. What are you so afraid of? What’s with the barrier? I saw you with your sister, you’re normal and nice, to her. So it’s other people you’re afraid of?” “M’not,” he growls out, standing up off the cart. “Afraid of anythin’.”

“You are,” she says, letting go of the cart and stomping to stand in front of him. She’s got him cornered, his back pressed to the bookshelf behind him. He keeps his eyes on that green tuft, biting his bottom lip. “You’re afraid of rejection, so you don’t talk, or you’re a jerk to people. You’re so afraid of other people, you make yourself sit alone every day, even when there’s an empty seat next to someone else.”

“No one wants me around!”

God, that hurts. He can see purple forming in the tip of his hair.

“You think I haven’t tried?” he rasps at her, letting his hair go, and finally looking directly at her. “You think I like sittin’ alone, bein’ the weird kid in every class, not havin’ anyone to talk to? It sucks!” he hears himself being shushed again, and he expends a burst of power in that direction, knocking books off the shelves to hit the person who can’t mind their own business. The sudden noise makes both Adam and Barbara jump. “You ever noticed that anytime I’ve tried, people can’t get th’ hell away from me fast enough? I’m tired of bein’ alone, but every time I try, somethin’ goes to shit, or I'm ignored! So maybe it is easier to just be a jerk an’ not worry about gettin’ hurt, than to keep tryin’ and ache all th’ time.”

It’s the most honest he’s ever been, out loud. Barbara clenches her fists, but doesn’t say anything. He sees Adam push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

Lunch isn’t even close to over, and he’s just made more work for himself by knocking those books off the shelf, but he doesn’t care. He grabs his backpack from the cart and pushes past the two of them, and he storms out, forcing the library door to slam, even though it’s a soft close door. It feels more final, that way.

He spends the rest of lunch invisible, to avoid any more trouble with adults, and slumps into his customary seat in the back of every class, for the rest of the day. No one talks to him. He doesn’t try to talk to anyone. It’s a system, it works. Stupid Barbara. What does she even know? Like she can somehow understand anything he’s going through. She’s pretty, and cool, and has a ton of friends, he thinks, absolutely bitter. She doesn’t get it.

He trudges to the drama room after school, and pushes open the door with his shoulder. The seats are in a circle, again, and he chooses a random one, pointedly, away from Adam and Barbara, between two other people. He sits there, silent, and after a moment, the two kids both move seats. How miserably predictable. Come on, he wills himself. No purple, no red. Just stay green. You can go home and freak the fuck out, but just stay green, he begs his hair.

He wipes his nose hard with his hoodie sleeve, and focuses on that, on the texture of the fabric and the way he rubs hard enough for it to hurt. Pain is as close to relief as he can get. Then the chairs next to him are scooted closer, and he blinks, and realizes that Adam and Barbara have settled on either side of him. He doesn’t.. Get it. He can’t understand, but then both of them reach a hand out, and take one of his, and give it a squeeze. It’s grounding. He takes a breath he doesn’t need, and then a couple more, shaky and painful, and he gives their hands a squeeze back, like he’s making sure they’re real. They are.

When the club starts, he tries, very sincerely, to focus on what’s being said, and not the bright hot feeling blooming like a flower in his chest. Read the rest here!!

[bugabash]

Cursed Past - Chapter 4 preview

Summary: 10 years before current events, Ladybug and Chat Noir have finally intercepted Hawkmoth, and discovered the extent of his crimes and his torture. How will they react?

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10 years ago

Ladybug and Chat Noir stood tall, they were bloody and bruised, but they had won. They pounded their fists and faced the man they had been fighting for years, he was on his back, his staff broken and a look of defeat on his face.

“Hawkmoth, your reign of terror has come to an end!” Ladybug exclaimed, “Hand over your miraculous.”

“Go to hell, you stupid teenagers.” He spat back, “I would rather die than willingly give up my miraculous to you.”

“I’m sure I can arrange that.” Chat murmured back with a disgusted snarl, his claws glowing green.

“Easy Chat.” She shifted and limped over to Hawkmoth, kneeling. “Last chance before I sic my kitty on you.” He glared at her before he actually did spit at her, recoiling back and wiping the spit from her face in disgust.

“That’s it.” Chat Noir boomed, walking over to the man and grabbing him by the tuft of his shirt, lifting him up with ease and snarling at him. “My turn, and I don’t ask nicely, I don’t ask at all actually.” Chat’s eyes glowed green, pupils in slits and full of rage.

Ladybug walked over and looked at the butterfly pendant, she had been after the missing miraculous for years, and there it was, right in her hand. “Time’s up, Hawkmoth.” And with that she pulled it off, purple light filling the room and Nooroo fell to the floor, eyes wide. The two superheroes blinked the brightness away before they both froze. Chat Noir dropped the man and took two huge steps back, his eyes wide and his face paling.

Infront of them lay Gabriel Agreste, his face bruised and his clothes filthy. He glared at the two of them, Ladybug stared in shock, eyes darting to Chat Noir in worry. Was he ok?

“G-Gabriel Agreste?” She stammered, blinking. Adrien… Poor Adrien, his father…

“How… How COULD YOU!” Chat Noir exploded, he looked more furious than she had ever seen, he looked like he was out for death. “How could you do this to your son?” He stormed over to Gabriel, punching him in the face.

“Chat!” Ladybug grabbed his arm and pushed him back, getting between the two. She placed her hands on his chest, looking up at him. His heart was thumping under her hands, tears glistening his eyes and his mouth was in a snarl. He looked like he was ready to kill Gabriel. “Calm down… Hey.” She placed a hand on his cheek and made him look down at her, their eyes met and his features softened. “I got this, call the police. Get them here.”

“No! Not here! They’ll take her away, Adrien should at least get to say goodbye to her.” Gabriel exclaimed, trying to sit up, coughing up the blood in his mouth. They turned and looked at him in confusion, following his eyesight to a glass coffin hidden in vines and butterflies.

They stood in silence, their minds racing. It was Chat who stepped towards it first, slowly. Ladybug watched him as he did, his face was full of fear as he walked painfully slow to the glass coffin. And then he gasped and covered his mouth, turning away and suddenly vomited. Ladybug ran over to him and pressed a hand against his back, her heart beating fast. He shook his head, puking again as his shoulders shook.

Ladybug turned to the coffin, her eyes widening. She knew that face… She was Adrien’s mother, she looked like she was asleep but… she was pale, almost grey. How long had she been down here? Marinette knew she had disappeared 4 or 5 years before, no traces, no leads, no death certificate and no body. And here she was… all this time.

“What… What did you do?” Ladybug asked in horror, turning to Gabriel and gripping onto Chat Noir who was still bent over, trembling more.

“I was trying to save her.” Gabriel replied, “but you two wouldn’t let me. So now she will die.” He glared at them, “now my son won’t have a mother.”

“He hasn’t had a mother for years…” Chat Noir groaned out before retching, “you’re a monster.”

“How am I a monster? I was trying to save the love of my life!” He snarled back.

“You can’t save her, if she is gone then you cannot bring her back, even with our miraculouses. The price-”

“I already had someone’s life to trade, don’t worry.” Gabriel coughed and leant against the bars. “Monster is a very loose term.” He laughed, “I would call your little feline a monster, even you a monster, some would call the police monsters, call teenage girls causing problems in school monsters. Everyone is a monster in their own way.”

“No! She wasn’t a monster, no one is as big a monster as you.” Chat straightened and glared at the man. Ladybug looked at him with worry, he looked like he aged years in a few minutes. “You will never see the outside world again, you will rot in jail. I will make sure of it.” Chat turned and called the police as Ladybug gulped and stroked Nooroo’s head as they rested on her shoulder.

“We will make sure you never leave your cell.” Ladybug said with a disgusted look.

Soon the police arrived, they arrested Gabriel and escorted him out, Ladybug watched as they took him, the feeling sweeping over her like cold water. It was over… They got him. They finally got him. So why did it feel like they lost?

She looked over at Chat Noir who was standing at the base of coffin, staring. Something was wrong with him, she didn’t know what it could be but she knew it had something to do with the person who hid behind his bravado and his black mask. She walked over to him and stood next to him, staring at Emilie.

“Why… why does it feel like it isn’t over?” She whispered, her expression sad, her body aching, and her heart sore. She looked up at her partner, seeing the pain on his face, tears wet on his cheeks. He didn’t say anything, just stared. She watched as blood slowly trickled from the cut on his eyebrow, mixing with the wetness. He looked… broken. She took his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers and rested her head on his shoulder, feeling him grip onto her hand and leant his head against hers. “We won… but… Their son, he…” She had her mouth open, but no words came out, a tear falling. “He just lost everything.” Chat’s grip tightened and he sniffed, wiping his nose with his free hand.

“He won’t be missing much with that piece of shit gone, I think seeing his mother will… that will be him losing a lot.” Chat murmured, his eyes dark.

“Chat… Are you okay?” She asked softly.

He didn’t say anything, letting go and walked to the coffin, pressing a button and watching it open. A smell of lavender filled the air, Ladybug sniffed and felt her lip tremble. Her heart broke, she couldn’t even imagine what Adrien will be like when he sees his mother like this. Ladybug watched Chat with worried eyes, walking next to him and then stared at the woman. She heard a voice in her head whispering something, telling her to take the comatose woman’s hand. So she did, walking to her side and took her hand.

Staring at her beautiful face, she looked so much like Adrien, she looked peaceful, a small smile on her face. Chat took her other hand, tears streaming now.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you, Emilie.” Ladybug whispered, causing Chat Noir to gasp and look at her, eyes wide. She didn’t look up, eyes on the woman’s face. “You would have been so proud of your son,” Chat stared at her again, eyes wide, she didn’t see but she felt his gaze. “He is amazing, I haven’t seen anyone overcome what he has, and now with what I know I am even more amazed by him. He has become a man you would be so proud of and someone you would be so privileged to know. I feel privileged to know him.” She glanced up at Chat who had gone white, staring as his tears flowed more freely. “He is nothing like his father, I knew that before I knew who he was. Adrien overcame his father’s abuse and his neglect, and still has a heart of gold.” She reached over with her free hand, stroking her hair. “You can rest now, we will look after your son. I will look after him. I promise.”

“Ladybug…” Chat whispered softly.

“Thank you, Emilie. For giving us Adrien, and I am so sorry he has suffered and that he is about to suffer even more. And I am so,” her voice broke and she sobbed, “I am so sorry I didn’t find you sooner.” She dropped her head, her loose hair falling around her, it had fallen out in the fight. “I failed you, but I won’t fail your son. I swear to you, as the guardian, I will fix this. I will heal the hurt Gabriel Agreste has caused.”

Chat was about to speak when he gasped, Ladybug’s head snapping up as she stared at her partner. Then she saw it, what he was gasping over. His ring was glowing, but he was looking at her, she felt tingling in her lobes, and assumed hers were glowing too. They locked eyes for a second, something was happening, and she felt her heart start to race. It was like she was seeing him for the first time. Her body filled with love, warmth and… power.

That was when it happened, they both looked down at the woman and saw she slowly started to glow a golden glow. Chat’s eyes were wide, as were Ladybugs, and that’s when she felt it, the words slipping out of her mouth. “Miraculous Ladybug…” She whispered, her lucky charm across the room bursting into her magic ladybugs, swarming all around them, but they had a bright green aura around them. Marinette blinked and watched as they twiled around her and Chat, their hair blowing around, their wounds healing. Chat and Ladybug stared at each other, the world freezing. She saw him, his mask gone, as was her, but she didn’t see anyone but Chat, and she knew all he saw was Ladybug. She never saw a civilian, or recognised him, she saw the face she knew that was her kitty. And then time unfroze and the ladybugs swarmed around Emilie, both the heroes letting go and they were blown back, Chat somersaulted and landed on his feet, one hand on the floor. Ladybug landed on her back, coughing slightly as she did, still in shock.

She opened her eyes and saw the green and red ladybugs were swarming around Emilie and had lifted her into the air, they shone bright, so bright Ladybug had to shield her eyes, seeing chat standing and staring. And as quickly as they came, they were gone, Emilie slowly floating back down into her coffin. They ran to her side, and stared at her then each other. Their eyes snapped down as they heard her groan, Ladybug gasping and clasping her hands around her mouth.

“What… M’lady what happened?” Chat asked softly, staring at the woman.

“I… I think we just… our miraculouses, they healed her.” Ladybug said softly, stepping back and looking around for help. She saw two EMTs crouched by the now fixed entrance, “Help! She’s alive!” They ran over and were calling into their radios, soon they were pushed aside by the first responders, they got Emilie onto the gurney and they were gone. Ladybug watched, eyes wide and she took a deep breath, feeling like it was her first breath in years.

Then everything crashed internally, and her legs gave way, collapsing to her hands and knees, sobbing freely. Everything she had been through for four years, all the stress, the responsibility, only confiding in Alya, keeping secrets from Luka to the point they argue constantly, her sleepless nights, her injuries, the people who have suffered, the numerous battles, the numerous times she lost chat in a fight. Everything. It was over.

“Ladybug!” Chat cried out and ran to her, scooping her up and holding her to him, hugging her tight. “What is it? Are you hurt? Are you okay?” He asked frantically, pulling back and looking her over.

“I-I-I’m fine.” She blubbered, “it’s over,” she managed, “we did it, and we-we-we,” She sobbed, “we got him his mom back too!”

Chat sighed in relief, and laughed softly, “don’t scare me like me that!” He dropped his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and she sobbed, arms snaking around his neck and gripping on. “We did it, it’s over. You didn’t just save Paris tonight, you saved a woman who has been lost for years, you just saved that boy’s life too.”

“I should have found her sooner, I failed her and Adrien.” She sniffed and curled her fists up. She heard their beeps, panic setting in.

“It’s okay, hey, it’s okay. We can stay here as long as you like, just keep your eyes closed, okay?” He whispered, his soft breath warm against her face. She nodded and closed her eyes, resting her cheek against his, tears making their skin stick together more. Their transformations fell, and they clung to each other, their kwamis digging around between them to find their respective foods.

“Chat?” Marinette asked softly, nuzzling into her partners neck, Chat shifting under her and sitting Marinette on his lap, leaning against his shoulder, arms around her protectively.

“Yes, m’lady.” He answered, his voice different, softer, their disguises gone and their magic with it to keep their identities a secret. She recognised the voice but didn’t want to think like that. “You… sound different.” He spoke softly before she could talk, “your voice, its more… musical.”

She chuckled, “you sound different too.” She replied, “Chat, what do we do now?” She asked softly.

“What do you mean?” He asked, stroking her back gently.

“If it’s truly over… What do we do.” She opened her eyes, staring at the black colour of his shirt, seeing the blonde hair in the corner of her eye. “What do Chat Noir and Ladybug do?”

“Well, we patrol, we protect, and… we look after each other.” He responded with a sigh, kissing the top of her head.

“You won’t leave me?” She asked softly.

“What?” He exclaimed, “Never! I will never leave you!” He gripped her tightly, “I promise.”

Marinette sighed and snuggled into him, “Thank you.”

“No… Thank you. I can’t explain why, but you have… You have done so much today.” She closed her eyes, and smiled, not answering and breathing in his cologne.

"We did it... We... We did it." She sobbed a laugh, gripping his shirt.

"You did it."

[alexiessan]

Never alone - Chapter Twenty Two - Soulmate AU

AO3

Previous - Here - Next

Master List

Alya apologized to Marinette and Damian the next day. Her apology to Marinette was genuine, but to Damian, it was mumbled and barely heard, but the youngest Wayne — known as Grayson to their classmates — didn’t say anything and gave her a pass.

The designer was happy that her boyfriend was willing to let this one slide, but she had a feeling that it would be the only time. If the reporter did something like that again, he probably would tear her a new one.

Alya had asked her if it was ok if Claude and she switched placed so she wouldn’t have to sit with Nino, as it was too awkward to do so. Selfishly, the Eurasian girl told her no. She enjoyed sitting next to Claude, and if Alya wanted to be friends with her ex-boyfriend in the future, it would be better that she didn’t let things be awkward for too long.

The journalist protested a little, but seeing that her friend wouldn’t change her mind — and because of the glare that Damian sent her way — she relented.

At the end of the week, Alya confided that it was a good thing that Marinette refused because while it was awkward, Nino and she talked things through and agreed that they wanted the other in their life. They decided that they would work things through and do their best to be friends.

The dark-haired girl was happy to hear that and apologized to her best friend for being selfish in the first place, but the bespectacled girl waved her off.

“You’re allowed to be selfish from time to time, you know? Plus it’s not a big deal, and it ended up helping us in the end. Not to mention, I was selfish first when I asked you to sit somewhere else so I could sit with Nino.”

They left it at that and while the Ladyblogger obviously hurt, she showed that she was willing to move on and be happy for her ex-boyfriend.

Meeting one’s soulmate was a happy moment, after all.

Working with Chloé was, surprisingly, pleasant.

Marinette remembered the Chloé from middle school, who made Sabrina do her homework for her and wouldn’t lift a finger and help them.

This Chloé was different. When they met, the blonde greeted her with a smile — a genuine one, not the smirks she was used to back in the days — and went to work immediately. She had a list of different topics they could work with that was in theme with what they picked, and even had some in common with her own.

They quickly agreed on a topic and, still having a lot of time ahead of them because they were so efficient, started doing their research.

They talked a little too, learning to know each other despite having been acquaintances for years now.

At the end of their study session, Marinette could say, and believe, that she and Chloé could be friends if they put enough effort into it.

Marinette lay on the bed next to Damian, exhausted but with a smile on her face, happy that this time, their… activities didn’t get interrupted.

At least, in the Wayne’s apartment, no one could barge in uninvited, and Dick respected them enough to knock and wait for an answer before coming in.

He didn’t want to see things that could scar him for life, he told them.

Marinette closed her eyes and smiled as Damian brought her closer to him, kissing the crown of her head. They were silent for a bit, enjoying each other’s presence when her soulmate cleared his throat.

“Have you seen Chat Noir since our last discussion?”

The blue-eyed girl pouted, not wanting to talk about business when they were relaxed like that, but knew that they had too.

Readjusting herself so she could see him better, her hand found its way on his chest and traced an invisible path.

“No, I haven’t,” she sighed, watching her hand move on his chest. “And I can’t seem to catch Adrien in school either. Max told me that he was in class, except when he has photo shoots scheduled, but when he’s there, he’s distant with everyone and keeps silent unless the teacher asks him a question.”

“It doesn’t look good,” the green-eyed boy — no, man — admitted, his hand rubbing circles on her back. “I hope he’s not going to turn on us.”

“I hope not,” Marinette breathed. “Did the voice correspond with Gabriel?”

The youngest Wayne nodded, and the French girl deflated.

“I see. So I was right all along. We could have stopped years ago.”

A hand on her chin forced her to look up into Damian’s eyes.

“Hey, now. It’s not your fault. You didn’t have any proof, and it’s not like you can barge in the man’s house without any evidence, hero or not. You didn’t have the means to look into it like we could. Don’t blame yourself,” he said and kiss her forehead to comfort her. “We’ll talk about a plan to take him down once we finally get hold of Agreste Son.”

Marinette chuckled at his unwillingness to call Adrien by his first name.

They stayed silent for a few minutes.

“So, you’re leaving at the beginning of May,” the fashion designer broke the silence, a sad smile on her lips.

“Yeah,” he breathed, cupping her jaw, “but I won’t be gone for long. I plan to go to University here, in Paris.”

The petite girl perked up. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but I still need to go back to take the tests and for graduation. And I need to make arrangements with my father since Robin won’t be there for a few years.”

“Graduation, huh?” she beamed, “It’s a pretty big deal in the US, right? With speeches and all the families, the students on the stage to receive their diploma and the gowns?!”

He chuckled. “Yeah, all that. How is graduation here?”

Marinette shrugged. “Eh, you know. We take the Baccalauréat, the, when we get the results, we go back to school, sign a paper and they give us our grades from the test and that’s it.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? I mean, I know we make a big deal out of it, but it seems anti-climatic.”

“I know, right?” she exclaimed, then looked at him. “What about prom?”

“It’s around the time of the test. I wasn’t planning to go.”

She gasped. “What? Why? It sounds amazing. In the movies and TV shows, there are always so many events, it makes me so envious.”

Damian frowned. “You don’t have a prom?”

Marinette shook her head. “No, we don’t. Some schools put a little something together, but not a lot. You know school is just that: school. No clubs, no sports teams, no big graduation, no prom. It’s boring.”

Damian smirked at her. “Well, I wasn’t planning to go to my prom, but now that I know that you won’t get to live it, I might just take you to mine.”

The black-haired girl laughed. “And how would we do that? You know I’m not supposed to use the Miraculous for personal reasons.”

“Not even just once?” he asked, smiling at her.

“Alright, maybe just once. But can you even take someone outside of school?”

He nodded. “I just have to fill in some paper.”

She smiled at him. That smile that she knows makes him weak. “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course.”

“Alright, then! I would be happy to go to prom with you!”

They kissed, long and deep, and started their earlier activities again, Marinette’s giggled filling the room.

It was after they got dressed and decided to watch a movie in the living room that Tikki appeared in front of them.

“Marinette, Chat Noir is trying to call you,” she said, looking serious.

Not waiting another moment, Marinette transformed and stood in front of the white wall so that she could have a neutral background.

“Hey, Chat. Haven’t seen you in a while,” she greeted him when she answered his call.

Chat looked so tired at the other end, it made her heart break at the sight.

“Ladybug. I need to talk to you. Alone, if possible.”

Ladybug could see Damian frown from the couch, not liking the demand.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

The cat-themed hero sighed. “I would rather not tell you over the phone. Meet me at our usual spot.”

With that, he hung up, not giving her a choice.

“You’re not going to let me go alone, right?”

Damian scoffed. “Of course not. I’ve texted Grayson. We’ll go with you but we’ll stay out of sight.”

Ladybug sighed. “Alright, then.”

For the first time in a long time, Ladybug’s instinct failed her. She had no idea what was waiting for her when she would meet with her partner.

Adrien hadn’t slept well in a week now. How could he, after what his father showed him?

His mother, his sweet, beautiful, and kind mother was in a coma, lying in a coffin of glass.

Just like Snow White. Except, here, a kiss from her husband won’t wake her up.

Apparently, the damaged Peacock Miraculous was what put her in a coma.

But why, in the first place, did she have the Miraculous? And what was she using it for?

But this was why his father became Hawkmoth. Why he wanted the Cat and Ladybug Miraculous. So he could make a wish and had his family whole again.

It was everything Adrien ever wanted.

But, was he ready to take the risk? Who knew who would pay the price for their selfish wish? What if Ladybug fell into a coma to make up for his mother’s awakening? What if something even bigger happened and not just once, but hundreds, thousands of people paid the price?

Adrien wouldn’t be able to live with that.

But… His mother.

His mother that he loved so, so much and that loved him back as much.

Tears slowly fell out of the model’s eyes as he put his Miraculous back on his finger for the first time since he took it off a week ago when he went to confront his father.

“Kid, what’s wrong?”

Adrien let out a sob and didn’t try to contain his tears.

“It’s him, Plagg. My father is Hawkmoth.”

The black Kwami has never looked so sad. Floating to him, he squeezed himself between his chosen’s neck and shoulder, silently bringing him comfort.

Only when Adrien cried himself dry did he break the silence.

“What are you going to do.”

The blonde’s face lost all trace of confusion and insecurity, leaving a determined boy.

“I know what to do. I need to contact Ladybug for that,” Plagg’s eyes widened in fear. “Plagg, claws out.”

When Ladybug arrived on their spot — the rooftop of a warehouse a little bit outside of the city, away from the prying eyes of curious civilians — Chat Noir was already there, humming a song to himself.

“Chat Noir?” she called, catching his attention.

Chat Noir turned around, smiling at Ladybug.

Well, if she could call that a smile. It was more a grimace, to be honest.

“Hi, Ladybug. Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

He stood up from the edge of the roof and made his way to her. Slowly, he took her hand in his, giving it a little squeeze.

“You and the birds were right, bug. Hawkmoth is Gabriel Agreste. But he’s not just that. He’s my father.”

Ladybug didn’t say anything, sensing that he wasn’t done. His hand squeezed hers a little harder, but she kept silent.

“He… He’s doing all that for my mother. To bring her back. She fell into a coma years ago and… And he’s taking desperate measures to bring our family back together,” he said, catching his breath. Ladybug could see him tear up.

“I… I want my family back together. I love my mother so much, you have no idea.”

She didn’t like where this was going.

“I want nothing more than having my family as a whole.”

The red-clothed hero took a step back, but Chat Noir’s hand brought her back closer to him.

“But,” he started, releasing her. “I’m not sure I could leave with the consequences of the wish,” he admitted.

And then, he took his ring off.

“I’m sorry, Plagg, Ladybug,” he said, crying silently as he petted Plagg for the last time. “But I can’t be Chat Noir anymore. I can’t promise that I wouldn’t turn on you one day. I’m too weak. So I’m giving you my Miraculous back, so I can’t give him the power he needs.”

He put the ring in her hand, closing it in a fist.

“And I know you will have to take him down. That I’ll have to live without my father. And it’s alright I understand. I forgive you, even if there is nothing to forgive, but I don’t want you to beat yourself over it. My father is a criminal, and he needs to face charges like every other criminal.”

She opened her mouth to speak but he raised his hand, silently telling her to stay quiet.

“I’ve always imagined that we would take Hawkmoth down together. That we would then reveal our identity to each other. But then, I always imagined us to be soulmates, and we’re not. I… After that, I don’t want anything to do with the Miraculous. It’s what put my mother in a coma in the first place, and it gave my father the power to terrorize the city.”

He took a deep breath.

“It’s better that I never know your identity,” he smiled, wiping his tears.

This smile was real.

“This is goodbye, My Lady.”

She opened her mouth to protest but he put his hands on her mouth, not letting her say a word.

“Please, don’t speak. I’ve made up my mind. Nothing you could say would change anything. Don’t make this harder for me, please.”

She nodded and he stepped away, to the edge of the building where a ladder was for easy access to the roof.

“Goodbye, then.”

And he left.

Ladybug let a shaky breath out, not realizing what just happened. The ring in her hand seemed to weigh so much and to burn.

A hand on her shoulder startled her, and she turned around to see Robin, a grim look on his face. Without a word, he took her in his arms, letting her know that he was there for her.

The heroine wanted to cry. It has been so long since she allowed herself to feel strong emotions that weren’t positive.

But Hawkmoth could still take advantage of her, and she wouldn’t let him.

So she just hugged Robin tighter, nodding at Nightwing that stood behind the vigilante.

She would cry later.

Tag List: 

@bigpicklebananatree​ @animegirlweeb​ @crazylittlemunchkin​ @northernbluetongue​ @cutechip​ @justafanwarrior​ @iloontjeboontje​ @resignedcatservant @maribat-is-lifeblood​ @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff​ @toodaloo-kangaroo​ @mikantsume​ @dast218​ @amayakans​ @zestyzealot​ @lunarwolfspn​ @corabeth11​ @marinettepotterandplagg​ @olynix​ @aestheticnpoetic​ @hot-neighbour-nextdoor​ @thehufflepuffranger-blog​ @k-poplunardreams​ @tis-i-beanbandit​ @bluesimani​ @laurcad123​ @notmycupoftea26​

[5wordsorless]

buffy seasons ranked by how much buffy needed therapy, least to most

TW: mental health issues, suicide, assault

Season 4: yeah there was the Parker thing and some residual Angel trauma and also the Faith thing and general interpersonal tensions and her professor tried to kill her, but for Buffy, that’s honestly not that bad. 5/10 should go to therapy for personal growth but would probably be okay without it

Season 1: some bad and traumatizing things happen like finding out her crush is a super old vampire, voluntarily going to her own death, switching schools and having to make all new friends, etc. Also presumably this was not long after her forced hospitalization. But she says “Giles I don’t wanna die” which is a good sign, doesn’t have a death wish yet. 5.5/10 should really consider therapy but things could be worse given she’s the Slayer and at least she has a good support system

Season 3: okay, shit is hitting the fan. Serious identity issues around Faith and her own identity/future as the Slayer, and she’s acting out because of it. Her father figure secretly drugs her for a bit. Trauma of killing her bf and then having him make a comeback from hell. Both her bffs and her mom are kidnapped over the course of the season. Everyone is a dick to her when she comes back from LA. Never dealt with Season 2 trauma in a productive and healthy way. 7/10 girl really needs help but somehow this still isn’t as bad as it gets for her

Season 2: clearly super traumatized from dying/fighting the Master in Season 1, and it shows in how she acts in “When She Was Bad.” Has sex for the first time with someone way older than her who immediately turns into a monster and spends the rest of the season psychologically tormenting her. Her life is in imminent danger, even more than usual, in some way for most of the season. Her mom kicks her out of the house and basically disowns her right before she has to go kill her ex and for a hot second she’s a wanted fugitive. 8.5/10 this is so messed up but she’s handling it surprisingly well

Season 7: the collective trauma of all the past seasons, especially of Season 5 and 6, has added up and it shows. She also now runs an army who kicks her out of her own house and also her dad tried to kill her new boyfriend. 9/10 she’s hella emotionally repressed and clearly Not Good but also is doing a p good job of keeping it together anyway, we love a resilient queen. But also please go to therapy and learn coping mechanisms that aren’t repression

Season 5: she suddenly has a sister! her mom is ill! she drops out of school! her bf leaves her! her mortal enemy decides he’s in love with her and kidnaps her about it! her mom dies! she’s the guardian of her little sister who didn’t even exist till a few months ago! she might have to kill her little sister!!! she’s even concerned about herself and goes on a vision quest thingy instead of seeing a mental health professional. 10/10 for the intense catatonic state she goes into near the end of the season and the end of “The Gift” which is lowkey maybe suicide

Season 6: name one moment in Season 6 where Buffy didn’t desperately need therapy I dare you (the part where she was Joan and had no memories doesn’t count). Anyway to recap: pulled out of heaven and thus incredibly depressed/borderline suicidal and at least initially, kinda feral. Broke as hell and now needs to support a household where no one seems to be paying rent AND raise a kid, as a 21 year old. Sleeps with her mortal enemy to cope. Violent and unstable sexual relationship with said mortal enemy. Almost r*ped. Almost killed. Her friend dies. Her best friends’ lives are somehow almost as messed up as her own. Her father figure abandons her again for most of the season. Works a nightmare customer service job. Her ex shows up with his hot new wife. Multiple demons mess with her perception of reality. Still hasn’t dealt with losing Joyce. 100000/10 this season was incredibly dark and Buffy wasn’t blameless in all of it but literally everything she did was pretty understandable given she had to claw her way out of her own coffin at the beginning of the season 

In conclusion Buffy deserved so much better and she really needed to see a mental health professional about her issues but literally the closest she ever got to that was some comforting conversations with Tara rip

[beyondtheciouds]

.29.

Part 1 of 3

Heavy rain descended from the sky swallowing up the last ounce of hope. The black clouds were staggered; swollen red from the heat of the day. The world outside is flipped upside down; black is white; white is black and all is red.

Her head aches with the shift in color; the logic of her accommodations rather painful. She gasps, her throat hoarse and still raw from screaming for hours on end. Tears slide down off the bridge of her nose and she can't close her mouth fast enough. A salt lick of a tear hazardly grazes her tongue; the clear liquid tasting like bottled anguish.

In her mind, she remains back at the Institute with her family. She braces and steadies herself for the worst.

The cold, steel manacle around her neck chokes her and makes it difficult to breathe. Chains, wrapped around her lithe body curl around and over her; tucking her away between their links.

The rusted chains rattle as she moves from left to right in a rhythmic sway; an attempt to crash through the door.

Velocity. Volume. Vantage.

Her nostrils flare with determination then deflate with defeat when her body doesn't pick up immediate speed.

Her long brown hair is loose from it's tight chignon; the ribbon torn in half. Dirty and tangled; the snarls of her hair half drag across the dusty floor of the tin can coffin.

Hanging upside down from the ceiling in her undergarments is Tessa. Her hands are behind her back held together with simple, normal rope. The rope is knotted in several places with sailors knots and elegantly tied to the rope around her feet. Both ropes are linked by a chain that is attached to the manacle around her neck.

Tatiana smiles vicious and hateful watching Tessa struggle. She enjoys the fact she can literally see the blood rushing to her enemy's head in the whites of her eyes. "Moving only makes the blood run quicker."

Tessa grimaces, a wave of dizziness and nausea washing over her. "Now you tell me."

Tatiana smiles that heinous smirk and shrugs. It lasts only a second, but something about the casual confident roll of her bony shoulder reminds Tessa of Gabriel. In the shift of a second, Tessa sees a glimmer of the person Tatiana used to be; a Lightwood-- confident and capable. This was the person Tatiana had been long before Rupert was murdered and her world broken.

Tessa allows the moment to pass; her regret left unsaid to the woman who perhaps could have been if not a friend an ally in another life. The moment clears the way for another idea. Tessa is willing to take a risk. Watching Tatiana closely, she feels she might be able to manipulate Tatiana into releasing her.

The door of the metal shack creaks open, a squeak of a mouse echoes as the bright red light becomes a beacon in the darkness. Ghostly fingers begin their smoky dance; the ghosts beckoning Tessa to join them in the afterlife.

Belial's silhouette becomes visible as the smoke dissapates. He is slouched precariously against the wall. He reminds Tessa of a criminal with his arms crossed over his chest. The red cherry of a cigar is a pulse beating in the dark. Tessa can't take her eyes off it.

"Are you ready to behave, my dear? Or should we continue with the torture?"

Tessa struggles, her fear turning into fury; refocusing. "You will never have James and Lucie at your side no matter what you do to me. You may be their grandfather, Belial but you are not family."

"Oh, love how foolish you are." Nate says and steps out of a dark corner. " I thought after living like one of them," He hisses the word as he crosses the room. "you would start acting like one." Nate flashes an unlimited amount of teeth at Tessa before briefly stepping into the beacon of light.

Tessa's heart breaks. She wanted Nate to look like the boy she'd grown up with. The brother she loved. The shock reverberates in her veins that Nate is now only a decaying mass of flesh and teeth; silhouetted and hollow like long dead bones. He should be burnt and buried.

Tessa had turned her eyes to the sound of his voice. She tries to turn her head but her neck is stiff; shackled in place. "Nate, please." She begs, her body rocking then swinging.

Nate stands in front of Tatiana and even she recoils, pushing herself away from him. His face is clawed; red streaks spiraling disease sporadically and oozing with infection. One clear blue eye pulses like a noncompliance heart; beating rapidly and out of rhythm. The next minute the eye is springing out of its socket; the other drooped and distorted what was left of his face.

The wooden chair creaks and scrapes the floor as Tatiana is dragged backwards into the darkness.

Belial smiles, his teeth twisted twinkling stars. The smoke from the cigar curls around his silhouette; mysterious and inviting in his hand. "Oh, my darling Theresa. How foolish you are indeed. I am not after your precious gifted children. I am after your only grandchild." Belial laughs quietly and whispers, "Quod sanctum puerum. De Trinitate."

Tessa gasps, her anger surfacing like a forgotten shipwreck. "NO. NO. NO."

Belial laughs again, louder as the soles of his boots step into the cold darkness. "Quod aurea puer. Et trifecta spiritualis vitae pertinent."

Tessa's eyes are wide as she whispers, following Belial's cruel smile. "The trifecta. Angel. Demon. Fairy."

Belial grins.

Tessa's face is burning.

The color of Belial's eyes changes, glowing red in the shadows as he inhales and exhales the smoke into the shadow of a child. "My ticket to freedom."

****

The ride to Fairchild Manor had been far from interesting, at least from James's point of view. The carriage was not his own, but a hansom cab for starters. The quarters were musty smelling and too cramped to get comfortable. Cordelia was seated closely beside him and he could smell the scent of rosewater on her skin. The weather was cold and the elbows of their heavy coats touched and their hips grazed one another when the road turned bumpy.

Cordelia had been quiet for some time with her nose stuck in a book. Her dark eyes swept across the page; darting under her long lashes along every romantic line of Pride and Prejudice. James had to smile to himself as his gold eyes finally settled on Cordelia as she drifted away in her story. Sometimes he forgot how much alike they actually were; how compatible compared to others.

For weeks he had tried not think of her as his sister's best friend but as his bride-to-be.

The boys were right and James was hesitant to admit the situation was serious. The specific runes; the sealing vows were sacred and similar to that of a parabatai. A bond between two people that was not easily broken.

He glanced down at the silver circlet around his wrist; Grace's bracelet. The metal burned the inside of his wrist. He imagined the bracelet imprinting the Blackthorn moto on his flesh tying him to them.

James frowned. He felt this tremendous impact on his chest that he thought meant that he owed Grace.

Was he making the right choice? Only time would tell. James couldn't think straight and despite his lack of sleep, it wasn't the girl he was looking at who was in his thoughts.

Another girl was on his mind. Thomas had warned him that morning Grace was up to something devious and devoted to destroying Lucie.

Cordelia had told him as much the night before. Still, James couldn't help but think that Thomas's caution might be mistaken for paranoia. He also detected that Cordelia was overly jealous.

James didn't disagree outloud, but he didn't believe Lucie was in danger. Not for a second.

The only person who he believed was in danger was his mother. Will was vigorously and vigilantly working to save her and James wanted to be there when his father did.

The only thing James could do to help right now was be at Lucie's side and get her through. All either could do was wait.

Wait for life; wait for death.

Christopher and Thomas sat across from them, each preoccupied in their own space.

The former had spent most of the ride untangling a scientific equation that James decreed was the equivalent to opening a glass jar.

When Christopher speaks, there are crickets--dead silence in the carriage and even Cordelia glances up from her book. "What are the odds that we could send Matthew a message by launching a bottle into the sky?"

The latter is a wanderer. He is daydreaming and James can tell that Thomas is filled with anxiousness; categorizing his own neurotic suspicions under the guise of appearing somber. "Like a cannon?"

James blinks, his inky eyebrows furrowed. "A cannon?"

"No. More like a message in a bottle attached to a...a...something. Then we launch the something into the air by striking a match to a series of ropes soaked in kerosene."

James's interest peaks, "Kerosene?"

Thomas turns away from the sublime serenity of the Idris countryside long enough to crook an eyebrow at Christopher. "Are you proposing another exploration of explosions?"

"Gunpowder. We're going to need a lot of gunpowder." Christopher says excitedly, his lavender eyes wide. The gears in his head start turning.

"No gunpowder," James says, shaking his head. He has to be the voice of reason with this crazy idea because it is obvious that Thomas is not listening. "and no explosive devices."

"I know...no. No, well I..." Christopher trails off, his thoughts unraveling like the blueprints to his inventions. Henry would have understood, he reminds himself.

Thomas huffs, unhappy with Christopher's idea. He turns back towards the landscape, silent. He doesn't glance over at Christopher or James. None of them say a word.

James finally sighs, placing his hand on the seat close enough to graze Cordelia's gloved fingers.

The carriage would be at Matthew's front door by nightfall and James was not ready for the confrontation. For the first time in their friendship, James had no idea how to approach his parabatai on a subject as sensitive as fatherhood.

As they passed a lone cemetery, he closed his eyes and prayed to Raziel that they were not too late.

***

The clouds gathered overhead, the sky a darkening gray. A stray dog barked in the distance and Lucie pulled the wool coat tighter around her docile frame. "Why are we here Grace?"

The two girls are in the snowy cemetery; sitting upon a cobblestone hill facing a vast expanse of headstones. A cardinal flutters in the tree branches above; red in a world of white.

Grace is understanding in the quiet; almost complacent and comfortable among the dead. "Shhh. The sun is going down."

On the horizon, placed before them like a slice of golden fruit was the sun slipping into the snow capped hills.

Lucie is the opposite of Grace. Her powers hum inside, keeping her on edge with her instinct wavering. She glances nervously around and feels the priceless prickle of despair crawl into her heart. "Can we go now Grace?"

Grace shakes her head. "Not yet."

A carriage rolls by and Lucie catches the shape of a dark haired boy in the window.

She hopes it is James.

[lunarthedragon]

Demon!Jaskier Part 5

Previous Part: here | Ao3: here

+++

He doesn’t remember where he started. Or where he ended.

He stands in the middle of a glorious-unending-miserable-fascinating existence with no brackets on either side.

He thinks his earliest memory is of a cave - or is it his last? - with a child crying and bleeding and dead-but-not, hurt in a way that can only be inflicted by others.

The child cries to the cave and the cave answers. “You poor thing,” it says, pity and sadness rolling out like tumbling stones. “They have hurt you, those monsters. Those humans.”

“They won’t stop,” sobs the child. The child’s eyes are not older than their body like so many poems claim they should be. They are just abused and hurt and begging for answers that can never come.

“They won’t… But I can make you greater.”

His first-last memory, and he does not remember if he was the voice in the cave or the child.

+++

“How often does that happen?” Geralt asks when they set up camp a few miles away from the mountain. He’s been quiet in a way he’s usually not. Considering. Worrying. Restraining.

Jaskier looks at him from across the fire, confused as to what the Witcher means. “Does what happen often?”

“Earlier,” Geralt says, then hesitates. He swallows. His discomfort feels like an itch that can’t be reached, deep under the skin, turning red. “On the mountain.”

“Have I been yelled at by an idiot before? Yes,” he drawls, expression bland, and Geralt flinches and looks away. There is still a tsunami coming, Jaskier refuses to be it, but he is still allowed his retribution.

“After that…” Geralt says lowly, looking at the fire and not Jaskier.

“When I was upset?” He clarifies, finding himself surprised, and furrows his brow. Geralt nods. “You’ve seen me upset before…”

“Not like that.”

Cracking. Ripping. Screaming without noise. Bleeding from a heart that doesn’t want to beat.

“Ah… that…” He looks to the fire too. “Do you feel worried?” It would just be his luck that after so many years, after taking a step towards healing, Geralt would start to look at him like all the others have before.

“Should I be?” Geralt asks, leaning forward just a bit, his eyes narrowing. “Are you hurt?”

“What?” Jaskier looks over at the Witcher, surprised, because what does his wellbeing have to do with this?

Unless that’s exactly what this entire conversation has been about and he was blinded – tying the cloth over his own eyes, ignore, flee, don’t be a fucking hypocrite – and he feels like a complete idiot.

Geralt worries. Worries about Jaskier when he doesn’t have to. Never has to. But he does. Jaskier should be used to it by now but it still sends his insides churning. Burning. Fluttering. Collapsing.

“No, Geralt,” Jaskier says, a smile, sad but honest and loving, growing on his face, “I’m not hurt.”

He pauses, making sure he has Geralt’s eyes, his attention. “Not anymore.”

The stutter that twitches around Geralt’s edges is sudden and shocking, surprising both men, until sunlight curves through the new cracks like rays through a canopy.

Jaskier recognizes it as relief and so, so, so much love it puts his own songs to shame.

+++

Sometimes Jaskier flickers, twitches, and is yanked to a new corner of the universe. He doesn��t know what causes it, if it is himself or something else, but he doesn’t question it anymore.

It is common. Every few centuries classifies as a normal occurrence for him.

He tells Ciri that, once, and she giggles. She doesn’t giggle much after she lost her parents, but Jaskier has helped regrow the response in her lungs. Cultivate her happiness and love and cover her in affections royals are often denied.

Calanthe makes a point of telling him off, in front of other important – posturing, selfish, egotistical, cruel – people, but afterwards the guards mysteriously begin turning a blind eye to the bard that appears in their halls.

“What kind of places are you pulled to?” Ciri asks eagerly, her big eyes twinkling in interest, her dolls momentarily forgotten.

“All kinds,” Jaskier sighs wistfully, putting on a dramatic show of his exploits, “Sometimes forests. Sometimes plains. Sometimes oceans. Always for a reason.”

“What reason?”

“I don’t know until I’m done,” he replies, tapping his chin.

“How do you know you need to do anything, then?” Ciri looks confused and pouty, like she doesn’t really believe Jaskier, but he just smiles back at her.

“Sometimes all we have is a feeling. Deep in our gut. In the back of our skull. Hovering over our shoulder. We can’t see it, we’ve never heard of it, it has never been felt before. We must follow it, though, so that we may one day give it a name. Have you ever had these feelings before?”

“I… think so…” Ciri says hesitantly, her tiny face turning downward, her whole essence, so sharply radiant, dimming to shivers-fear-anxiety-deep breath after deep breath. Too tiny a response to too large a girl. “They get scary…”

“Do you fear your fingers and toes?”

“What?” Ciri looks up, blooms of lilies in her surprised smile. She is the smell of flowers on a breeze and Jaskier hates for it to sour. “Of course not!” she giggles, the breeze making windchimes jingle.

“What about your joy? Your laugh?”

“No!” Ciri keeps giggling, finding entertainment in the bard’s seemingly random, ridiculous questions.

“It’s such a silly thought, isn’t it?” Jaskier smiles to the music of the little girl’s laughter, “To be afraid of a piece of yourself? So, then, why fear the thing you have yet to name?”

Ciri pauses, a twitch of her face, and then she is pouting again. Thoughtful. Like a scholar but not quite.

“Do not fear a piece of yourself, even when it is new. Learn it. Understand it. Give it a name,” his fingers twitch, black under the fingernails, “And move on.”

+++

When Nilfgaard makes a move for Cintra Jaskier feels it. He feels it like a surge, cracking and tumbling levies so carefully constructed by the hearts of man. Boarders, unseen in the earth but respected nonetheless, shatter and crumble to dust, obliterated under the war drums and thunderous rage.

Manifest destiny thrums through the army, tasting of bitter weeds the doctor claims are herbs. A placebo for their righteous arrogance.

Jaskier’s seen it so many times before and his hackles rise, teeth bared on armor-clad throats, his fury personal and unbiased all in one.

The army is like the nail in the coffin that splits the wood. The final judgement for something that already came and went. Opening the box for Schrödinger’s cat but the box is already empty.

They are like a tsunami, Cintra’s army going out to meet them like the receding tide.

He screams, blood in his teeth, frost in his claws, and he is gone.

+++

“What are you doing in here?” Jaskier asks when he stands in front of the bars of a cell. The thrum above him is familiar – thin spaces for him to hide in, squeeze through, smelling familiar and alien with grief – and he doesn’t know how long he’s been gone.

“You’ve been gone a while,” Geralt says, eyes shut in meditation despite his mind snapping straight, like a soldier, the moment Jaskier reappeared.

And… apparently, he’d been gone for “a while.” Lovely, Geralt, thank you very much.

“I felt the Cintran army move where they shouldn’t,” he replies honestly, glancing around. No guard has noticed him yet.

“Fuck,” Geralt curses, opening his eyes and standing. He is agitated but not surprised. Disappointed. It hangs in the air like moss cracking the foundation of his bones. It always makes the base of his ribcage hurt, the muscles tight.

“They will die. I can feel it,” he continues. The void that feels like him is large as a chasm, opened under the feet of the soldiers, but they are too distracted by purpose to notice. A tear rolls down his cheek, staining his skin like soot, as the vibrant twin stars of Calanthe and Eist are engulfed.

“I have to find the princess,” Geralt says urgently, stepping towards the bars of his cage. Wrong. Wrong. A wolf does not belong in a cage. In a prison. It makes Jaskier’s chest hurt for a different reason. “Can you get me out of—” Geralt reaches to grasp the bars, likely to lean towards Jaskier, but his hand finds nothing and he stumbles forward into his freedom.

Jaskier raises his hands, grasping Geralt’s arms to steady him even though it isn’t needed.

Geralt blinks back at the cell, freed of the metal confinements, then looks back to Jaskier. “Do you just pick and choose when you help me?” he asks blandly.

“Depends,” Jaskier replies, voice thinned by the grind of his misery, the urge to rip out the pain in his gut a tempting pull, but he swallows down stones to keep moving. He is distant, but he is here.

“Ciri is in her room,” he says, “Hold your breath.”

They are there, and then they are not, and then they are there again but somewhere else. Geralt stumbles, hands flying up to grasp his own head, pain like a ringing bell trilling out his ears. Jaskier lays a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the startled cries around them.

“Sorry. It was quickest,” he apologizes to the Witcher.

“That’s what that feels like?” Geralt groans in disbelief, the tumbling of an avalanche in his stomach that wants to come up, up, up.

Geralt gags once, then swallows, and forces himself to stand straight and not glare at Jaskier too hard.

“Jaskier!” comes a gleeful voice and the bard swings around, arms already out, to catch the laughing princess as she runs at him.

“My favorite princess!” Jaskier replies just as gleefully and for a moment he fills into his own cracks, fitting back together again, but only for a moment.

“Geralt…” Mousesack says thinly, standing just behind the princess and eying the Witcher nervously. “You’re here.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, not sounding pleased at all, and giving the druid a glare that screams, ‘no thanks to you.’ Jaskier should know. He speaks Geralt’s facial language.

“You’re not stopping us,” Jaskier says firmly, stepping away from the princess just enough to look at Mousesack.

“She needs to be protected,” Geralt says, his voice holding more natural authority than Jaskier’s, which is helpful. “I can protect her. I should have done so much earlier.”

“What’s going on?” Ciri questions, looking around the room for answers before settling on Mousesack, her eyes confused and desperate. There is a tang to the air, sharp and bitter, left in the wake of the army’s departure, and it sits especially heavy on Ciri’s back.

A presence without a name.

“Princess Cirilla,” Mousesack begins slowly, anxious, and Jaskier tilts his head, his eyes turning black and veins bleeding under his neck and fingers.

“Tell her,” he bares his teeth – too many teeth, too sharp – and Mousesack and the nearby guard stutter, falter, retreat without moving. “You all should have told her so much sooner.”

“You had just as much an opportunity to say something,” the guard, only mildly familiar, like a face in a dream, says vindictively.

“That was not my duty.”

A heavy hand lays on his shoulder and he takes a breath, loud and long, until the room tilts and he stops. He raises his own hand to pat Geralt’s, like the eye of a storm, calm amidst the turmoil.

“Too many fingers,” Geralt says lowly, before releasing him and stepping forward. Jaskier looks down at his hands, counts eighteen, then shakes them out. When he counts ten, he thinks he’s got it right.

The conversation has been continuing on around him and he looks up, pulls the words that have already been thrown into the silence into him so he might understand what he missed, and steps forward. Ciri looks shocked and lost, but there is so much worse under her skin. Hidden under a poorly placed rug.

“We have three days,” he says abruptly, feeling how the void closes in and changes course. A crack is forming under the city and he knows it will be next.

“Take a day to do what needs to be done,” Geralt says, looking to Mousesack, no longer asking. “After that we can at least be two days ahead of Nilfgaard.”

Mousesack looks to Ciri, clearly torn, pulled between his duty and his knowledge-belief-morality. Ciri looks back, pulled between her duty and her anger-confusion-anguish.

Jaskier looks between them and knows how this must end, and they all know too. Cintra is already lost. The only thing they can do now is minimize their losses.

“You know what needs to be done,” Geralt says lowly, mostly to the druid, while Jaskier’s eyes flicker to Ciri, her body stiff as her insides shatter.

“In the meantime,” the bard says, stepping up and hooking his arm with Geralt’s, his eyes back to blue and a gentle smile on his face, “We will wait in the guestroom down the hall. Sort through this as needed. You have some time.”

He pulls Geralt out of the room grudgingly, swift steps against sluggish minds. The beginning to the end to the beginning.

+++

“H̵e̵l̶l̷o̷,̶ ̴D̵u̶n̷y̵,” he greets on an echo, standing in an office while armies clash vassals and provinces away.

The man, well-groomed and well-dressed, behind the desk looks up. He is familiar but not. Not quite right. Not quite wrong. He doesn’t flinch at Jaskier’s sudden appearance, as if he’s had a few years to get used to it.

”Did you know everyone thinks you’re dead? Buried under the waves with Pavetta?” the bard continues, a bit more solid, a bit more himself. He stands in the corner of the room, dark and larger than the space he occupies. There is no gleam of eyes or shimmer or pale skin. He is darkness, absence, void.

He is furious.

“I am ‘Duny’ no longer,” says the man, voice aristocratic and booming. Like a toddler in a cathedral. “I am Emhyr var Emreis. White Fla—”

”White Flame of Nilfgaard. Yes, yes, I know. Spare me.”

Duny, because Jaskier refuses to call him anything more, straightens up, eyes thinned. “Careful, demon. Cintra may have disregarded me, but here I am seen as a proper king.”

“I preferred you as a hedgehog,” Jaskier twists, like a tilted head without the head. The shadows in the room grow longer, reaching for the torches and pinching them out like candles. “Or dead, for that matter.”

“I know your weaknesses, demon,” Duny continues, confidence where intellect should be. “I know what will draw you short. Years in that castle and you did not expect me to take something from your visits and stories?”

Another torch is pinched out and Jaskier spreads, poison in the veins, madness in a crowd.

“I could snuff you out with a snap of my fingers,” Duny continues and from the depths of the shadows teeth are bared, thinned into a smile. And then another. And another.

“I could snuff you out with less than that,” he says just beside Duny’s ear and finally the monarch jerks, startled, and stands. He glares back at the shadows, uncertain which are real and which are scripted.

He bares his teeth, blunt and rounded, and hot coals fueling his justice shake, uncertain. “Nilfgaard brings prosperity to these people.”

“Nilfgaard brings death,” Jaskier huffs, unimpressed, voice resounding through the room, everywhere-but-nowhere, wrong-but-right. A hand slowly creeps onto the top of the desk, black as night, staining the wood like ink. Then another. And another.

A hand wraps around Duny’s ankle and he seizes back, eyes wide, and the shadows surge forward. A massive, crumbling, broken face presses towards the monarch, only vaguely reminiscent of a human. A mirror. Cracked and honest.

“I allow you to live today only for what you once were,” he says, massive jaw moving, unhinged and broken, dripping onto the floor. ”But if we meet again, if you do not make a change, I will not hesitate in plucking every bone from your body like feathers from a chicken. Your arteries will be my strings and you can finally, properly, play the part of puppet to your predecessors.”

Duny stares back at him, blood run thinner and thinner, skin beginning to sag, cartilage turning brittle. Decaying where he stands.

The massive face tilts, morphing like a smile, and the laugh that bursts out shivers the walls like cold on skin. Dewdrops form like goosebumps. “Ah, did you hear that alliteration at the end there? I didn’t even do that on purpose! How lovely,” and then he’s releasing the man, retreating and compressing back into the corner, a thing so unknown his shape has no name.

“There must be rules,” Duny suddenly says, moving forward, leaning against his desk until his weight creaks the bones. Something shifts the way it shouldn’t and he straightens up, clutching his hand as pain, pain, pain thrums out of his throat.

”Oopsie,” Jaskier sing-songs, smirking with no mouth but too many as well. “Feeling fragile there?”

“There must be rules,” Duny repeats, clutching his hand, then falling back into his seat when his legs threaten to crack and bend. “Something as ancient as you… There must be rules against interfering with our politics. Our history.”

Finally, the dictator was understanding just how much of a threat he was under. How little chance his armies stood if the entity before him, around him, within him, actually decided they should be eradicated.

Jaskier takes a step forward, pushing out of black, inky shadows like mud, his eyes pitch black.

”Oh, my dear rodent,” he says, lips unmoving, purring like bug wings. ”It is because I’m so ancient that I don’t waste my time with rules in the first place.”

+++

When Queen Calanthe returns to Cintra it is to empty streets and houses. Barren walkways and stores. Buildings frozen in their last moments of life.

The city is a whisper in a vacant corridor.

Soldiers bring the injured queen up to her chambers, castle a skeleton of its former glory, where Jaskier stands alone.

“Your people have been evacuated,” he tells the queen as she is laid out. He looks up at the soldiers. “You should leave, too.”

“We will not abandon Cintra,” says a man in a captain’s uniform.

“Then you die for nothing.”

“Cintra will fall…” Calanthe heaves and Jaskier sets a hand on her stomach. A wound opens on his own center, bleeding black and red, pain taken from the powerful woman momentarily. He cannot heal this wound. It is already filled with void and death and endings. He cannot remove himself.

“Cintra will fall,” he agrees.

“But the people live on,” the Queen ripples, a stone into a pond, and her pain turns to relief. She orders the last of her soldiers to go after their people and live to fight another day.

“Mousesack leads them,” Jaskier explains, almost conversationally, dripping with Calanthe’s pain alongside her.

“And Cirilla?”

“Geralt has her. I will join them after. We will not allow her to fall.”

“Keep her safe,” Calanthe orders, weak and strong all at once, and dewdrops form in the corners of her vision. Jaskier reaches over to wipe them away. A strong woman allowed her weakness. “Keep her laughing.”

“We can do that.”

Silence. A thunderous wave in the distance. Closing in.

“I will fall with my city,” Calanthe says when the drums can be heard. Jaskier releases a breath and it comes out shaking. The Queen reaches up a hand to wipe dewdrops from his eyes in return.

“Yes,” he says, looking to the window, pinpricks of torches amidst the swarm on the horizon. “But so will they.”

A wicked, vicious, vengeful smile pulls at Calanthe’s lips and her hand flops back down.

“Good.”

+++

When the army fills the empty streets of Cintra, blades aloft but bloodless, the final, manic laughter of Queen Calanthe fills the air. A surge for the castle marks their end.

Hands, black as shadows, large as mountains, stretch across the sky. Earth shatters like glass, buildings tumble like dominos, and the city falls, crumbles, cries.

The hands press down against screams, loud like an explosion, roaring like a fire, and crush.

The tsunami comes and goes and all that is left of Cintra is a fissure, a crater.

A void.

+++

He stands on the edge of the destruction, death licking at his feet and charring the grass brown.

There is nothing left. No army. No city. No castle. No queen.

The pain that blossoms has him reaching for his chest but he stops short. He wants to crush his heart, demand it stop this torture, but he can’t. Not when he holds a soul in his ribcage, dragged inside before she perished, before she was pulled somewhere not even he could reach.

A chance at another life. A promise at another attempt. Another cycle.

“I will only do this for you once, your majesty,” he says lowly, weak in every piece of himself. The essence flutters, strong as an ox and stubborn as a weed. If he isn’t careful she may even take root in his ribs.

He reaches out, searching for an empty vessel just as he does for himself, and releases her upon latching onto a stillborn little girl in the far, far eastern lands across the sea.

A new beginning. A new chance. Separate from this anguish and—

He cries out when something comes slicing through his hand.

He falls, black ripples pulsing out of him so violently his body tears and falls apart. Clutching his hand, an agony so racking it sends his screams into a new octave, the trees dying, pillars of magma erupting around him.

The earth bleeds with him, screaming and crying, clouds spiraling like vultures.

A glowing, white arrow pierces all the way through his right hand, burning out, out, out, the light as sharp as its tip.

A holy arrow.

No…

He scrambles, trying to rebuild his hands, collapsing and crashing, rippling and spiking with every pulse of torture like a heartbeat.

He cannot pull out the arrow, he simply falls apart around it. He sobs, the pain still tearing through him, and he can’t remember what eyes are, what hands are, what bodies are.

“Hello, J̷̖̯͎͍̗̐̉̑̈́á̸̛̮̠̫͇͒̑̕͘͜ș̵̨͈̲͖͔͖̄͑̆̿̒̀̀̍͐͝k̵̡͈̩̮͚̆ȉ̷̡̧̫̘̼͓̱̥͠e̷͔̖̍̾̊͌̈́̕̕͠r̸̛̞̙̀̅̾̔̌͛̒,” says the entity behind him and he looks, twists, forces himself into a reality he does not belong.

A single figure stands in the center of the crater that was once Cintra, yet his voice sounds as if he is right beside Jaskier. Or Jaskier is right beside him. He wears armor, black, with a helmet like a bird. In his hand is a bow and on his back a quiver, filled with arrows that glow as if forged by dying stars.

A snarl ripples over the decimated landscape, deep as the churn of the abyss. Jaskier rises, pain making him spark and jolt but fury making him burn.

He pulls at the other, tears and rips until he finds the name for the body it now possesses. Severs it from the silence.

“C̷̘̦͇̣̟͚̦͗͐̊͊̚͘a̶̖̖̰͙̭͎̝̾ͅḧ̷̫̹͈́i̵̡͖̗̦͈͖͛ͅr̵̹͇͆̔̓̈͊͑̊̔̌̚,” he booms. His brethren. His enemy. Himself.

Death – Death come to collect – Death weeping – Death free of its bonds – Death hungry, hungry, hungry – Death – Rebirth – Death –

Black eyes stare back at him.

“How dare you wield that weapon against me,” Jaskier rattles, gnashing teeth. He remembers teeth. He needs more teeth. He makes more teeth until they dig into the earth, sparking new spurts of molten stone.

”Times are changing,” replies Cahir, a cold whisper, frost inching across the ground towards the rushes of magma that still crack and bleed around Jaskier. ”There are no new challenges in these worlds and I am bored.”

”Bored of constant change? Of life?” Jaskier argues back, stepping forward, leaving a print on the ground that glows hot. It isn’t human. He doesn’t know what it is.

”It is time for an end. For all of us,” Cahir sighs, wistfully, and raises his bow. He takes an arrow, the smell of burning flesh and sulfur sparking through the air where he grasps the holy weapon, and notches it.

Black eyes take aim and Jaskier surges back, searching, latching, and pulling.

The arrow is released but he is gone before it can make another landing.

+++

When he tumbles into the gathering hall at Aretuza he gags and vomits out black. His hand, and it is a hand again, glows like fire from the hole that goes straight through it, stinking of sulfur and blood and the vacuum of space.

There are cries around him and he pulses, trying to retake his shape, rebuild himself, and he thinks he might be close but not entirely right. Cracks cross over his face, chest, limbs, glowing like the wound in his hand, like the earth beneath him.

“Jaskier!” comes a familiar voice by his ear and he clings onto Yennefer when she crouches beside him. He must be a sight if even she sounds so frightened. That’s usually Geralt’s job.

”I’m sorry,” he sobs, the black tears falling from his eyes burn against his skin, like ice shards. ”Couldn’t let Geralt or Ciri see me like this… Please… help…”

“What is going on?” comes another female voice, powerful as Yennefer’s but not her. Jaskier is too exhausted to pull out her name.

“Your hand?” Yennefer asks him, then lower so only he can hear, “A holy weapon?” He nods, at least he thinks he does. His awareness slips away like water, oil staining his insides, unable to be rid of.

“I need to help him. Move!” the sorceress orders, the strength in her voice, power in her presence, returning like a crack of thunder.

“Hold on just a moment,” comes a male voice and, unfortunately, Jaskier does know who that is, memory of the man bleeding on Geralt’s mind, loud and miserable.

”Fuck you, Stregobor,” he hisses, high as a kettle, vicious as a beast, before his consciousness comes to an abrupt stop.

+++

Let me know what y’all thought! Hope you enjoyed!

[its-sixxers]

OC Interview - Briar Mary

Doing this both to flesh her out, find a voice for her, and also let you peeps learn a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ about her.

name ➔ “Mary. Jack started calling me Briar Mary, but people only really call me that to tease me.” Self consciously, she touches the strange spurs growing through her shoulder like needles. “Maybe that’s why people called him Smiling Jack. I don’t know.”

are you single ➔ A belabored sigh and a long suffering look is cast to the interviewer. “Don’t be cruel.”

are you happy ➔ “Not really. But I can’t complain. Could be worse.”

are you angry ➔ “I look like a Brujah to you?” She raises the brow that isn’t pierced. “Nah. I keep my Beast collared.”

are your parents still married ➔ A frown, lost in thought. “No. They were divorced. I can remember that, but not their names or faces. Weird, huh?” A fragile smile, showcasing her array of mismatched and yellowing fangs. She doesn’t seem bothered.

NINE FACTS

birthplace ➔ “Detroit. Moved to the west coast when I got married. That was... more recent. Things get fuzzier the closer they get to when I was sired. I’m told it happens if your sire’s got blunt fangs - it’s trauma, or something.”

hair color ➔ She barks with laughter. “Oh, these aren’t personalized! That makes me feel better. Means you aren’t mean.” A wag of a clawed finger, playfully scolding. “Like the rest of my clan, I’m pretty clean cut. Prefer it - Mitnick told me about this guy who had hair, but just little weird wiry strands sticking out of boils and- oh, I’m not making you nauseous am I?”

eye color ➔ Mary flutters non-existent eyelashes, placing a hand under her chin. “Why don’t you tell me?” White irises gleam faintly in the gloom, her left eye caged behind her piercings.

birthday ➔ “It was sometime in April, I think? It always rained. I remember that.” A light shrug. “I was sired October 22, in 2004. Pretty hard to forget that. I guess that’s the closest thing our kind have to a birthday.”

mood ➔ “Thirsty.” She bares her fangs playfully again, flicking her tongue against the front ones. “I’m just teasing.”

gender ➔ “Nosferatu.” she snickers. “I used to be a woman, don’t know if that still applies since I’m not really human anymore. Don’t know if it matters.”

summer or winter ➔ “Winter. Longer nights. Summer’s a nightmare. Can’t get anything done once June hits.”

morning or afternoon ➔ Another barked laugh. “You ghouls are funny. What if I said sunrise was my favorite, huh?” A wink. “Very early mornings, if you want to get all technical. 4 AM’s nice - pretty quiet, most Kindred are back in their beds or coffins or whatever but there’s still a little bit of time to enjoy the silence before you have to worry about sunlight. Although people tell me you stop doing that the older you get.”

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE

are you in love ➔ “I said don’t be cruel.” This time, there’s a trace of sadness to her eyes instead of resigned annoyance.

do you believe in love at first sight ➔ “I know a couple of thin bloods who provide compelling evidence.” She tilts her head. “Um. Sure.”

who ended your last relationship ➔ Her brow furrows, as it does whenever she tries to remember what living was like. “Me. I did. Ran away. I think it was bad. But I wasn’t married when I got sired, so I think I made it to better pastures.”

have you ever broken someone’s heart ➔ It’s strange, how laughter and crying can sound so similar. Mary makes a noise split between the two. “I don’t know. Don’t really care. It was before, if it ever happened. I think my rejection now could only be a relief.”

are you afraid of commitments ➔ “In general? Or the romantic sense? Either way - if I play my cards right, I’m going to be living pretty long. Any commitment’s kind of a big one, in the uh, vow sense. But for a good cause? Nah. Not scared.”

have you hugged someone within the last week? ➔ “I get within six feet of anyone and they wrinkle their nose. Fuck no.”

have you ever had a secret admirer ➔ “If I have any they’re probably secret.” she muses aloud. “You’ve got to be a sick fuck to want to get down with this.”

have you ever broken your own heart? ➔ “Jesus, that’s heavy.” Another frown. “It’s heartbreaking looking like this, I’ll tell you that much. You get used to it, but I’m not a big fan of mirrors.”

SIX CHOICES

love or lust ➔ That look of tired resignation returns. “Love.”

lemonade or iced tea ➔ “I can’t really drink either. I can smell them, that’s kind of... the same... tea’s nice.”

cats or dogs ➔ “Cats don’t seem to mind me. I scare dogs. And some cats.”

a few best friends or many regular friends ➔ “Regular friends tend to have shifting loyalties, and that’ll get you killed, cupcake. I keep my circles of trust very, very small.”

wild night out or romantic night in ➔ Mary snickers now. “Wild nights out are all I do. Not the kind you’re probably asking about though.”

day or night ➔ “Day! I love burning to death. It’s on my bucket list.”

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS

been caught sneaking out ➔ “Nosferatu don’t get caught. You have to see us first.” She winks.

fallen down/up the stairs ➔ “I fell down stairs, but only because the stairs fell first. Fuck the Ocean House Hotel, by the way.”

wanted something/someone so badly it hurt? ➔ There’s a little flinch in her face, but her smile hastily returns. “Blood, of course. You’re a ghoul, you probably know a bit of the feeling. You get low, and it’s one of the worst feelings in the world. Never piss off whoever’s running the local blood bank. Just a tip.”

wanted to disappear ➔ “Wanted to? More like can.” She wiggles her clawed fingers for emphasis. “I’d demonstrate, but I’d need a few sips to make it worth it. I don’t think you want me chewing on your neck.”

FOUR PREFERENCES

smile or eyes ➔ Another baring of her mess of fangs. “I’m going to have to go with eyes, boss.”

shorter or taller ➔ “I’m pretty small. I’d like to be taller. Oh, you mean in-” Understanding dawns on her features. “I mean, if I was still... into that whole thing... tall is nice.”

intelligence or attraction ➔ “I’d be a fucking hypocrite if I said anything other than intelligence. Lucky for me, it’s true. You start saying you’d prefer a pretty face over a smart mind and you’re going to have one of my people coming to make an example out of you.”

hook-up or relationship ➔ “Uh.” she scratches her temple. “I remember sex, and it wasn’t that great. Maybe I was missing out. Either way, no chance of that now. No chance of relationships either, but a girl can dream, hey?”

FAMILY

do you and your family get along ➔ “From what I remember of living - fuck no. It’s why I got married quick and ended up in LA. I’d call the Anarchs my family now, and we get along alright. The newbies like to talk shit until they realize who I am, then they’re real polite.”

would you say you have a “messed up life” ➔ “Hah! Messed up unlife is more correct. It’s been interesting at least.”

have you ever ran away from home ➔ “Oh yeah. It’s um. A habit of mine, I guess.”

have you ever gotten kicked out ➔ “Before? Probably. After? Almost, after that blood hunt mess. Christ. That was terrible.”

FRIENDS

do you secretly hate one of your friends ➔ “A few of them are pains in my ass, but I wouldn’t say hate. Then they’re not friends. They’re frenemies.”

do you consider all of your friends good friends ➔ “Well, yeah.”

who is your best friend ➔ A thoughtful hum. “Mitnick’s been the nicest. Knox is a sweetheart. You mean who I trust most though, probably.” She swallows, eyes darting around nervously. “Nines owes me enough and has enough of a sense of honor that I’m pretty sure he’ll never fuck me over. Let’s go with him.”

who knows everything about you ➔ “Can I say my entire clan? Because that’s probably the truth. If there’s something to know, they know it - and I’m not very mysterious. Keep that in mind if you decide to ask them these questions, cupcake. Maybe edit a few. I’m one of the nice ones.” A wink.

[theravencawsatmidnight]

Just My Type... pt Two

Summary. Kuroo is a vampire and just wants to spend time with you without your vampire hunting dad finding out.

As soon as Kuroo disappeared your father knocked and walked in with a wooden stake in his hand. He was a little bloody and angry. “Y/n. It's best to stay in tonight, i just had a run in.”

You shrugged sitting on the bed pulling the blanket up to hide your neck. “Okay father. Tomorrow i'm going with Kiyo so ill be home the day after”

“Going where?”

“...to the new museum that just opened , it's about hunting.”

He went over rubbing your head . “Sounds nice , be safe. Take your necklace with you y/n”

“Yes, dad.”

He left you alone and you jumped up to pack up a backpack with clothes, bandages, and shoes and anything else you thought you needed.

Meanwhile Kuroo was strolling along in the woods minding his own business watching the animals all run around when Kenma fell out of a bush holding his arm. Kuroo picked him up and dusted off his friend.

“Someone was not careful, I see.”

“Soo.. i was.. distracted..” the boy said a little tense.

“You gotta look after ya self Kenma, i wont be here in the morning.” He shoved his door open helping Kenma in and laying him in his coffin.

“Oh?.. where will you be?”

Kuroo smirked . “With my blood packet I adore so much.” He closed the coffin and went to his own to get some rest.

In the morning Kuroo woke up early to a dark house and Kenma was still asleep. He stretched and went to the kitchen humming to himself . “I wonder whats for breakfast,” he whipped the fridge open to see juice boxes filled with blood. “Ah, my favorite.” He teased and grabbed a bunch dropping them in his backpack. He put on his pretty sun hat and went outside to his car, driving to the meet up area.

Kiyo picked you up in the morning and headed for the station.

“Sooo, what cha gonna do?” Your friend teased

“Kiyooo”

“Oh cmon y/n, not everyday a vampire takes interest in us mortals.”

“I know, it's just a little difficult with my father around”

Kiyo pulled up to the station and grabbed her friend's arm before she got out. “I'll cover for you just don't get to bit up”

“Har har.”you got out closing the door waving. Kiyo waved and drove off leaving you there. You tossed the necklace on the ground your father gave you and soon enough Kuroo drove up .

He got out sipping a juice box and opened your door for you smirking, showing bloody teeth. You walked over staring at his hat with a raised eyebrow. It was a sun hat with flowers in it.

“Kuroo what is on your head”

“It's a sun hat and no you can't wear it.” He grabbed your backpack throwing it in the back seat and you hugged him tight.

“Hmm???”

“I'm just happy to spend time with you”

He smirked, picking you up, setting you on the hood of the car to kiss you. “Me too blood packet” he sipped his juice box.

“..are you going to do that the whole way?”

“Yep!” He picked you back up putting you in the car and climbing over you to the passenger seat.

“Kuroo!!”

He put a long straw in the juice box so he could drive and hold your thigh at the same time.

•••

It wasn't a long ride, just out of the woods. He pulled up to a cabin and gave your cheek a bloody kiss. “We have arrived”

“Is this your cabin?” You got out and grabbed your backpack .

“Yeeee… up.” He picked you up running inside kicking the door in and shut and dropped you on the bed getting on top of you kissing your neck.

“Kuroo!!” You fussed around pushing him up to see his pouty face.

“Maybeee i killed who owned this place. But I did it out of love for my blood packet.!!!”

You rolled your eyes pulling him back down to kiss.

Kuroo had pulled your shirt and bra off within minutes and was kissing all over your chest and moaning on it. He bit your left nipple and rubbed his knee into your core in an up and down motion.

You dug your fingers in his hair when he bit your nipple , hissing from the pain that surged from it . You kissed at his neck panting as you tried to talk. “Get me out of these jeans already”

Kuroo sat up on top of you pulling his shirt off throwing it elsewhere before moving down to unhook your pants and yank them down along with your panties, your slick connecting to your pussy and your panties. “Dirty dirty girl.” He took his pants and boxers off and laid down on you to kiss again.

••

Kuroo was a little rough with you and after it happened a few times you started to think he was not aware of it. Every few thrusts he went a little too far inside you and you had to tap his chest to get him to relax. You knew he was stronger since he was a vampire but god damn. It sounded like the bed was gonna fall apart.

“ kuroo..”

“Y-yes?!”

“Slow down ok..?”

“Oh.” His pace weakened and you let out a soft relaxed moan.

He leaned down to kiss you . “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. We know now. Here let me on top.”

Kuroo pulled out and took over your spot with one hand behind his head .

You slid down on his cock and couldn't help but smile. “Fuck your so nice Kuroo..”

he grabbed your hip digging his claws in . “Ride me, my little blood packet.”

You placed your hands on his legs riding him well into the afternoon.

••

You had bite marks all over your body, some were even bleeding and Kuroo wouldn't let you get cleaned up. Instead he would lick up your blood and kiss the mark he made.

Kuroo had cummed inside you but everytime you got upset he just waved his hand around. “It's fiiiine”

“Kuroo!! What if i get pregnant and the baby eats my insides?!?”

“.....it's fiiine.” He pulled you into his arms bringing you to the restroom. Before he could step in he looked down and saw you actually upset. He set you on the sink . “Blood packet. If you are gonna have a little vampire baby growing inside you then we need to turn you too. “

“I'm scared.”

“It only hurts for a second” he kissed you gently.”I'm not going anywhere, your father does not scare me.”

“ o-okay..”

He picked you back up and got in the shower to gently wash you up with a soft rag, being careful of the bites he littered you with. After he was done he sat you down in front of him between his legs so he could wash your hair and have you close to his chest.

••

You were tucked up in bed asleep with an ice pack wrapped on your arm. It was a deep bite mark but not deep enough to turn you. He sat on the roof of the cabin, legs dangling over the side . He watched the moon , a werewolf howl breaking his nice moment.

••

[takeiteasypeasybaby]

Save Me: Chapter 21 - You Loved Me

~Hey Guys! Chapter 21 is out ❤️ Molly and Negan come to terms with their separation while conflict with Rick escalates...I hope you all enjoy and chapter 22 will be out on Wednesday! Love you all and stay safe 🤟����~

Molly and Negan are overwhelmed by their memories of each other as they both face difficulties since their separation, both of them wrangling with their 'weakness'.

Negan's POV//

'I swear to fuck, if you don't hurry the fuck up Doc, I will feed you to Lucille' I yelled in frustration.

He was taking way to fucking long to patch me up.

The bullet hole was clean but I would need stitches, at least she had done me that kindness.

I clenched my jaw at every stitch, every ounce of pain brought her flooding back to me.

Every week, I got checked over by the Doc to see if I was healing right.

But every time he peeled off my bandages, I saw her, she was walking through the main hall, smiling when she looked at me, like an angel.

I had had that vision for many weeks since she left me, always the same and every time I ran to her she vanished.

When did I become so soft? Was it her? Did she do this to me?

I scowled as I dazed, Carson now frantically finishing up with my wound.

'All done sir' he said meekly, this snapped me back into the present.

Simon now stood in the doorway, 'Negan, we're going on a supply run today. We can find Molly for ya?' he said confidently.

'No, it's a waste of time. We have to focus, because Rick, the Widow and Dreds are teaming up. So, I think it's time we pay another visit' I said smiling at him.

He scowled at my response, 'There's another thing...the girl who broke in last week, what's the plan?' he said.

'She's got guts, I like that. Keep her alive, she's valuable' I replied sternly.

He started to turn around when I stopped him, 'Oh and Si, I'm now in need of a new right-hand man' I said sternly.

'It would be an honour sir' he replied.

I faux smirked at him as he nodded and walked away.

Simon's POV//

I nodded curtly at his response. He's weak.

I walked out of Carson's office and headed down to the main hall to gather up some guys.

Fuck his plan, it's time we had real leadership.

I grabbed Keith and told him to instruct the other guys that Negan wanted them to find Molly and kill her or they would be killed.

He nodded nervously and marched hastily over to the other guys who were in agreement.

She was a threat to all of us, everything we had built. Everything I had built.

I wasn't gonna let that bitch ruin what I had.

She made Negan weak and as long as she was dead, I would be safe.

I had everything back in my grasp.

Molly's POV//

The bike had ran out of gas, so now I had to go on foot.

My thigh still ached, but I had found a house a while back which had a needle and thread which I used to sow up the wound.

I now walked through seemingly endless fields, I couldn't see anymore houses and I was low on canned food.

Suddenly out of the trees came four walkers, all snarling and leering towards me.

I felt no fear, in fact it felt strangely comforting to be back to my normal.

I grabbed my knives out of their cases and waited for the walkers to come closer.

I stabbed one in the head, while another came round to my side.

I ducked and tripped it over and plunged my knife into its skull.

I pushed the other one onto the other, they fell backwards against a tree.

Slashing my knife at their skulls, which were lined up and it plunged through both of them.

It hadn't hit me until all of them lay there, lifeless on the grass that waves of guilt and sorrow swarmed through my body.

I broke down, my knees weakening as I fell to the ground.

I could barely breathe, visions and memories of Glenn and Abraham invaded my mind.

I had never felt like this, weak and vulnerable. He had made me weak.

I grasped at my chest to steady my breathing, when my hand made contact with the metal chain around my neck.

My locket, I turned it over to reveal my initials M.C.

I thought of Tara instantly, I couldn't give up or lose faith. That place had weakened me but not broken me.

I smiled weakly as I thought of her, tears rolling down my face. I sighed deeply as the sun started to set. I needed to find shelter.

So, I carried on.

I walked for hours, until I decided to stop next to a tree.

I was weary, my energy draining out of me as I slid my back down against the tree, sinking to the ground.

There was no one around me so I rested my eyes for a few seconds.

I drifted in and out of consciousness when I heard a faint snarl coming from behind me.

When the realisation hit, my eyes opened wide as I spun around to see a walker lurching over me.

It gargled and snarled and fell on top of me as I struggled underneath.

I held it just off my face as it snapped at my cheek, its arms trying to claw at my neck.

As I tackled it and threw it off me, I straddled it and reached for my knife.

It grabbed at my necklace which was dangling in front of me as I stabbed it in its head.

I grabbed my rucksack and ran seeing a hoard of walkers approach from out of the trees.

Not even realising that I had lost my locket.

I walked a couple more miles until I saw a small village in the distance. My heart lifted.

Thank god, I thought.

All the shops and houses looked virtually empty, I doubted that there would be any useful supplies but it was safer to be inside at night.

I picked the closest one, it was the smallest beige one so it probably had less stuff but also less walkers inside.

I peeled open the door, keeping my gun steadily in my hand. I checked over every room, including upstairs.

Nothing. No walkers in sight and a cupboard with a few cans of dog food.

Memories of that cell came flooding in. I shuck it off and opened one.

I struggled to keep it down but it was better than starving.

There were papers everywhere, with torn sheets and cracks in the windows.

I placed my rucksack under my head and curled myself up.

Tears rolled down my face as I thought about him.

His warm soft bed, cuddling up with him. It felt like someone had torn out my heart.

I pushed those thoughts out of my head when I thought of Maggie. This was my fault.

What if I had said something which made him kill them? What if I was nicer to him in the beginning? I couldn't face her.

I wanted to be there to comfort her, but how could I knowing what I did?

Maybe I couldn't go back home. Maybe I never would.

A couple days later...

Negan's POV//

'All points are covered. Every contingency is already met. I come armed with two barrels of the truth. A test is upon you, and I'm giving out a cheat sheet' Eugene bellowed into a megaphone as we rolled up.

Eugene spoke to Rick first.

'H-Hello, I come salved with the hope that it is my dropped knowledge that you heed. Options are zero to none. Compliance and fealty are your only escape. Bottom lining it, you may thrive, or you may die' Eugene continued.

I sat back, scanning the people at the gates. Tara was there, but not her.

'Where's Negan' Rick yelled.

'I'm Negan' he said worriedly. I smirked at his loyalty.

Rick ducked down suddenly, they tried to fucking blow us up!

Rick tried to reach for his gun but the trash people beat them to it. They had betrayed them for us.

They opened the gates and I stepped out with Simon and the others.

I smirked at Eugene and flung an arm around him. My boy!

I stepped out in front of Rick, smiling at him.

'You ever hear the one about a stupid little prick named Rick, who thought he knew shit but didn't know shit, and got everyone he gave a shit about killed?' I yelled.

I pointed at him saying 'it's about you Rick!'

'You're all gonna wanna put your guns down now' I said sternly.

I still scanned over all of them, checking to see if she was there. What if she hadn't made it?

'No one drops anything' Rick said weakly.

'We had a deal' Rick whispered to Jadis, 'Tamil came for the boat things. Followed ones who took. Made a better deal' she replied.

I'd tried so fucking hard to save them and this is how he repays me?!

'You push me, and you push me and you push me Rick! You just tried to blow us up right? I mean I get me, my people. But Eugene? He's one of yours, and after what he did - he stepped up' I bellowed.

'You people...are animals, universe gives you a sign and you just shove your finger right up its ass!' I said while flipping off Rick.

Daryl glared at Dwight.

'Dwight, Simon, chop chop' I shouted pointing at the crate. They went over immediately and unwrapped it.

Oh boy did they have a surprise coming! They would be getting back one of their own!

They brought out the coffin and placed it upright. I looked over to see Tara, she must have thought it was Molly.

I scowled at her memory.

'So you don't like Eugene anymore. You guys gotta like Sasha! I do too' I said smiling and tapping on the coffin with Lucille.

'Got her right here, packaged for your convenience, alive and well. Now I brought her, so I wouldn't have to kill all of you, and not killing all of you could get complicated. See, I know theres a lot of firepower left in there Rick! So I'm gonna make this simple, I want all the guns you've managed to scrape up' I smiled at him.

Then scowled at his brief upper-hand, 'yep, I know about those too'.

'I want every last grain of lemonade you got left', I continued, just wanting an excuse to see if Molly was in one of those houses.

'I want a person, of your own choosing for Lucille!' I said as I pointed to her.

They now looked scared shitless.

'Daryl, ooh I gotta get my Daryl back!' I said looking at him and smirking.

How in the hell did that prick even escape?

'I see you' I said smirking while pointing to him. That would break Rick even more.

'The pool table and all the pool cues and the chalk, and I want it now or Sasha dies! Then all of you...probably' I said standing next to the coffin.

Rick was silent still.

'C'mon Rick, just because I brought her in a casket doesn't mean she has to leave in it' I said.

He didn't respond.

For fuck sake. I sighed and rubbed my forehead in frustration.

Molly already hated me, she would hate me even more if I killed anyone else. But I couldn't be weak.

'You know what? You suck ass Rick, you really do. I don't wanna have to kill her, but thats exactly what you're gonna make me do' I yelled.

Rick stepped forward, 'let me see her' he replied calmly.

'Alright, just give me a second. I might have to get her up to speed. Can't hear shit inside this thing' I replied.

I whacked Lucille against it, 'Sash, you're not gonna believe this crap' I said as I opened the door slowly.

She growled and snarled at me as she came out.

'Holy goddamn!' I said as she pushed me off the truck. She fucking killed herself.

I heard gunfire all around me.

They were taking out the trash people and some of mine.

'Ah, honey. Goddamn it!' I said as I struggled to get her off of me. She snapped and tried to bite at my face.

Jeff managed to pull her off of me but got bit in the process.

So, I grabbed Simon and retreated behind the truck.

'Ahhhh! Plan B it is!' I said as the trash people managed to wound Rick as I grabbed Carl.

I didn't want to do this, he had potential.

I knelt him down as my guys surrounded him. Jadis brought Rick over to me.

'Hello again' I said as I took Lucille from Dwight. Jadis made him kneel next to the boy.

'Well, shit Rick. You just couldn't stick with us, huh?' I said slightly amused at his efforts.

'You had to go with these filthy garbage people? No offence' I said now looking at Jadis.

'Deal is for twelve, yes?' she said.

'Ten. People are a resource' I replied.

'Twelve' she argued, she reminded me of Molly. But she wasn't.

'Ten' she conceded. I smirked at her subservience.

I sighed, 'Rick. This is just gonna make you sad. Broken. You're gonna wish you we're dead. I like having fun, I do. Maybe you think that the guy who did what he did to your friends wasn't me, like that was some sort of a put-on' I said, now moving round to Carl.

A part of me wished that wasn't me.

'Oh shit. Maybe this is on me. Maybe this is all on me. I gotta make it right. I guess I gotta start all over again' I said sternly, now looking at Carl.

'I gotta tell you Rick, if I had a kid, I'd want him to be just like your kid', sadness twinged in my gut as I said that.

'You're not gonna win' Carl said looking up at me, 'Carl, It is over' I said warningly.

'Why don't you point your one ball up the street and take it all in? I said crouching beside him.

Suddenly, there came a scream as a woman fell off one of the buildings. The look on Rick's face, he must have known her.

'Oh, wow. You just lost somebody important to you, like just now. Jesus, that is timing' I said crouching now in front of Rick.

He was shaking and tearing up.

'Well, Rick...you chose this. I truly don't know what more I could've done to warn you. This isn't a warning, this is punishment. I'm gonna kill Carl now' I said scowling at him.

'I'm gonna make it one nice hard swing because I like him. I just want you to put that in your brain and roll it around for a minute. I'm gonna kill Carl, and then, Lucille here, she's gonna take your hands' I said holding her up in front of his face.

He looked unaffected by what I just said.

'You can do it right in front of me, you can take my hands. I told you already, I'm gonna kill you, all of you. Nothing is gonna change that, nothing. You're all already dead' he whispered in my ear.

I scowled at him harder now. He had guts, I'd give him that.

I started to smile and then chuckle at his threat.

'Wow, damn Rick. Okay' I said as I got up and went round to Carl.

I plucked off his hat and swung Lucille into the air, saying 'you said I could do it!'.

Suddenly, a tiger jumped out and wrestled one of my men to the ground, killing him.

A fucking tiger!

I flung myself backwards and retreated away from it. Gunfire now ensuing.

Simon and Dwight followed me as people from the Kingdom came in on horses, including the Widow.

'End these Saviours and there accomplices! Alexandria will not fall, not on this day!' The one with the dreds shouted.

Fuck, we we're outnumbered!

We moved round to behind a car, 'they've got a goddamn tiger!' I shouted as I pelted them with bullets.

'You taste that Simon? That is the taste of shit' I said as I ran out of ammo and ran round to another car.

We needed to retreat.

The trash guys set off smoke bombs so we could escape. We climbed into the truck and drove out of the gate as I flipped Rick off in the mirror.

Once we got back, everyone was on high alert.

'You say the word and we're ready to go' Dwight said nervously, I just looked out of the window onto the courtyard.

Looking at the spots where Molly used to stand. My eyes started to well up thinking about her.

'That's good' I replied.

Eugene was still standing behind me. I spun around and pointed Lucille at him.

'How the hell do you think she wound up dead in that box?' I said angrily.

'My, um best possible posit fingers the tarp. That sealed up said box good and tight. She ran out of air' he said with sadness in his voice.

I was sceptical. I walked towards him, my eyes still glistening.

'Maybe' I said looking over him.

I sighed and turned around to walk out onto the balcony.

'So...we are going to war!' I shouted to my people who were cheering below me.