#i need to draw more scarlet hollow again

[itsmewahoo]

he did not in fact fck off

first doodle of 2025 and its of this freak

[winxanity-ii]

SCARLET CHAINS, GOLDEN RIDDLES

ship: kurapika x fem!sphinx!reader warnings: non-explicit ( kinda angsty/sad, but it does have a bittersweet romance, so… win?) word count: 5.3k a/n: I know i said i wouldn't do it now, but i couldn't help my self, loloo. also this piece was inspired by a tweet from Kayla Ancrum (@KaylaAncrum), where she wrote about a man who falls in love with a sphinx and solves her riddles daily. I just had to explore that dynamic with Kurapika and a Sphinx reader! Let me know what y'all think! 🖤✨

★·.·´🇭‌🇺‌🇳‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ × 🇭‌🇺‌🇳‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Revenge doesn't always bring peace; sometimes it leaves behind something far more haunting.

Kurapika had fulfilled his mission, dismantling the Phantom Troupe and retrieving the Scarlet Eyes that once belonged to his kin. He should have felt victorious, perhaps even a semblance of peace, but instead, he felt hollow, drifting aimlessly in the vastness of the world.

The weight of his chains was gone, but the burden on his heart remained.

In restless strides, he wandered the lands, searching for something he couldn't quite name—purpose, healing, or perhaps a way to finally let go of the rage that had kept him alive for so long.

The bustling city streets did little to distract him from his turmoil.

Kurapika walked among strangers, his eyes scanning the faces that passed by, not really seeing them. The chatter and noise of life around him felt distant, a muffled echo that never reached his ears.

He just got off the phone with Gon, a short conversation that was filled with concern on Gon's part. Kurapika assured him he was fine, though the words tasted like lies even as they left his mouth.

The city was filled with countless distractions—stalls selling exotic wares, street performers drawing in crowds—but Kurapika moved through it all like a ghost.

It was only when he came across a particular stand filled with unique, almost mythical items that he found himself pausing.

There were trinkets, stones carved with symbols he couldn't recognize, feathers from birds that didn't exist in any book he'd ever read, and even vials of shimmering liquid.

Something about the stand drew him in, perhaps the promise of the unknown, the mystery of it all.

As Kurapika stared at a curious amulet shaped like an eye, a voice broke through the haze of his thoughts. "You look like a young man filled with woes."

Turning, he found an old woman seated just beyond the stand, her eyes rooted intently on him.

She was small, her back slightly hunched, with eyes that seemed to look right through him. Her wrinkled hands rested on a small table, a crystal ball sitting between them.

Her presence was almost otherworldly, and Kurapika couldn’t help but feel as if she had been waiting for him.

"Your heart is heavy," she continued, her voice soft but firm, like the rustling of ancient leaves. "You have found what you sought, but now you are lost. Seeking something else, aren't you?"

Kurapika frowned, his first instinct to brush her off, to walk away. He had no time for fortune tellers or their vague prophecies. But something in her gaze held him in place.

Maybe it was the fact that she was right—he was lost, more lost than he had ever been.

Before he could respond, the old woman reached beneath her table and pulled out a worn piece of parchment. She handed it to him, her eyes never leaving his. "Take this map. It shows places where you might find what you seek. A journey is ahead of you, young man, one that may finally bring you peace."

Kurapika took the map, his fingers brushing against the rough surface. He hesitated, staring down at the faded ink and the strange symbols marking various locations. "What kind of journey?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

The old woman smiled, a mysterious curve of her lips. "One that will lead you to the answers you need, not the ones you want. Follow the map, and you may find more than you ever hoped for."

Kurapika glanced at the map again, the markings seeming to shift under his gaze, almost as if they were alive.

He had nothing left to lose.

With a nod, he folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket, a small spark of something—curiosity, hope—lighting within him.

His travels took him far from the crowded city, into remote villages and forgotten paths.

He heard tales whispered in the dark corners of taverns—rumors of a remote island untouched by time, home to creatures that should have only existed in myths.

The locals spoke of a sphinx—a creature of immense power, wisdom, and mystery. She was said to guard an ancient temple on an isolated island, her riddles a fatal test for any who dared approach.

She could devour the souls of those who failed or offer wisdom to those who succeeded.

It was said that she embodied both mercy and cruelty, bound by the ancient rules of her riddles.

Kurapika's interest was piqued. Perhaps this creature held the answers he sought, or at least the challenge he needed.

Something to pull him out of the hollow void that had settled within him.

The island was not marked on any ordinary map, but the worn parchment he carried seemed to lead him there, the strange symbols aligning with the whispered directions he gathered from those who dared speak of the place.

And so, Kurapika found himself standing on the deck of a small fishing boat, the salty wind tugging at his hair as the island came into view—a shadow against the horizon, shrouded in mist.

He felt a strange pull, a sense that whatever awaited him there might finally give him the closure he needed. He had faced monsters before, both human and otherwise, but something about this journey felt different.

As if, perhaps, it wasn't just about finding answers—but about finding himself.

The island loomed closer, and with it, the promise of riddles, danger, and maybe, just maybe, a way to heal the wounds that revenge had left behind.

Kurapika spent the first few days exploring the island, his feet carrying him along unfamiliar paths, his eyes scanning for clues hidden among the dense forest and crumbling ruins.

He learned the lay of the land—the twisting vines, the rocky cliffs that overlooked the endless ocean, and the small creatures that scurried away at his approach.

The island seemed to breathe, its secrets waiting just beneath the surface, and he was determined to uncover them.

After days of exploring, Kurapika made his way back to the nearby village, his supplies dwindling and his body weary.

It was night by the time he arrived, the village bathed in the soft glow of lanterns, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets.

He found a small tavern at the edge of the village, its warm light spilling out onto the street, the murmur of voices inviting him in.

Kurapika entered, the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread filling the air. He made his way to an empty table in the corner, ordering a simple meal and a drink.

The tavern was lively; villagers and travelers alike gathered to unwind, their laughter and chatter a comforting background to his solitude.

He ate slowly, savoring the warmth of the food, the taste of something other than the dried rations he had carried with him.

As he ate, he noticed a small crowd beginning to gather near the fireplace at the center of the room. The voices quieted, replaced by the expectant hush of an audience waiting for a story.

Kurapika's gaze shifted, his interest piqued as an elderly man stepped forward, his hands worn and his eyes twinkling with mischief. The storyteller cleared his throat, a smile playing on his lips as he began to speak.

"Gather 'round, gather 'round," the old man said, his voice carrying easily through the room. "I have a tale for you tonight, one of mystery, of danger, and of beauty beyond imagination."

Kurapika leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he listened.

The old man spoke of a creature, a sphinx, who guarded a temple deep within the island—a temple known as the Cave of Mysteries. He described the sphinx as both beautiful and terrifying, her eyes holding the weight of ages, her form a paradox of grace and danger.

The crowd leaned in, captivated by the tale, their faces reflecting a mix of awe and fear.

"They say the Cave of Mysteries holds treasures beyond belief," the old man continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that had the crowd hanging on his every word. "Riches enough to buy an empire, secrets that could grant unimaginable power. But the sphinx, ah, she is not easily bested. Many have tried, and all have failed—her riddles are a test of wit and courage, and the price of failure is steep indeed."

The old man finished his tale, the crowd breaking into murmurs, some laughing nervously, others shaking their heads as if dismissing the story as mere legend.

But Kurapika knew better.

He finished his meal, his mind already turning on how to find the temple and to the mysteries that still lay ahead.

The island held more than just danger—it held the promise of something he had never thought he needed.

So, driven by curiosity and the need for a challenge beyond revenge, Kurapika set off to find the temple, unperturbed by the locals' warnings of danger.

And he intended to see it through, whatever the cost.

The whispers of forgotten creatures and the hint of ancient wisdom called to him, a voice that spoke directly to the hollowness he now carried.

His feet followed the clues, ancient symbols etched into rocks and trees, guiding him deeper into the dense forest of the island.

Each step took him further from the familiar and into the unknown—a test he desperately needed.

The journey was arduous, the air thick with the scent of wild vegetation and the distant echo of creatures unseen.

Kurapika's senses were heightened; every sound, every rustle in the underbrush kept him alert.

Anticipation built within him, a sense that something lay ahead—something that might offer answers, or at least a distraction from the gnawing emptiness left by vengeance.

Finally, he stood before it—the temple, a structure both majestic and haunting, half-covered in creeping vines, its stone surface carved with the same symbols that had guided him here.

The temple seemed almost alive, its golden exterior shimmering in the fading sunlight, the intricate carvings depicting stories of ancient gods and creatures long forgotten.

The entrance was framed by towering pillars, their surfaces etched with worn inscriptions, and the air was thick with an aura of both reverence and dread.

The massive doors of the temple were slightly ajar, revealing only darkness within, as if daring anyone to enter.

But at the base of the stairs sat you—the Sphinx; a creature of paradox, you embodied both grace and danger.

Your powerful form rested elegantly, your tail waving languidly in the air, each movement deliberate and filled with quiet confidence.

Your form was powerful, the body of a lioness with muscles rippling beneath golden fur, yet your face held a beauty that was almost human, framed by a mix of a wild mane and intricate braids that shimmered under the fading sunlight.

Your claws were sharp, glinting with an almost metallic sheen, a reminder of the threat you posed to anyone foolish enough to challenge you.

There was an ethereal quality to you, a faint outline of wings that shimmered in the heat, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost unreal, giving you an otherworldly glow.

Your presence exuded power—a quiet intensity that Kurapika could feel even from a distance, a force that seemed to pulse with the very energy of the island.

The power you exuded was palpable, a quiet but overwhelming force that made even the strongest foes Kurapika had faced—the Chimera Ants, the Phantom Troupe—seem almost mundane by comparison.

There was something about you—something far more enigmatic, a blend of wisdom and danger that set you apart.

But it was your eyes that captivated him most.

As those golden orbs landed on him, they shifted, narrowing into sharp, cat-like slits, assessing him with an intensity that made Kurapika's breath hitch.

They were a deep, haunting shade, filled with the weight of centuries, and they seemed to pierce through him, seeing the parts of himself he tried to keep hidden.

In your eyes, he saw a depth of knowledge that surpassed anything he had ever known, and yet there was something else—a loneliness that he understood all too well.

Intrigued and cautious, he stepped forward, his heart steady, his mind sharp.

You watched him approach, your gaze unwavering, your posture regal.

Silence stretched between you, thick with tension and curiosity. You had seen many travelers before him, men who came seeking glory or power, only to fall before your riddles, their bones now part of the island's forgotten past.

But this one was different. He moved with purpose, not arrogance, his eyes holding a quiet determination that piqued your interest.

Your voice broke the silence, echoing through the empty landscape, carrying with it the weight of ages. "Young man, why do you seek me?"

Kurapika paused, considering his words carefully. "I seek answers," he said, his voice steady. "Answers to questions I cannot yet name. I seek something beyond vengeance. Perhaps you can help me find it."

A small smile tugged at your lips—cryptic, almost amused. "Answers come at a cost," you replied. "And only those who prove themselves worthy may proceed."

Without another word, you issued him a riddle, your voice carrying an authority that demanded his attention.

"Boundless am I, beginningless and endless, forever yet never the same. I am the river that flows and the sky that fades; I am possessed by none, yet present in all. What am I?"

The riddle was complex, woven with layers of meaning that had confounded countless before him. You half-expected him to falter, to hesitate as so many others had.

But he didn't.

Kurapika listened, his eyes never leaving yours, his mind dissecting each word, each nuance. His answer came calmly, confidently, his voice unwavering even in the face of your sharp claws and powerful presence. "Time," he said, as though the riddle was a mere puzzle, a challenge he was born to solve.

For the first time in a century, someone answered correctly.

Surprise flickered in your gaze, quickly masked by your stoic demeanor.

You studied him, this young man who had dared to approach you, who had not flinched under your scrutiny. There was something about him—an emptiness, a need that mirrored your own.

You had been bound to this place for so long, your existence woven into the riddle game, your only connection to others through the trials they failed. But this one had succeeded, and by the ancient rules, he had earned a boon.

"What is your request?" you asked, your voice softer now, curious.

Kurapika thought for a moment, his eyes drifting to the temple behind you, then to the sands around your feet. "For my boon, I wish to stay here," he said finally. "To rest beside you, under the stars, and awaken unharmed. Just for a night."

Your breath caught, an unfamiliar feeling tingling down your spine. The request took you by surprise.

It was such a simple one.

Men usually asked for riches, power, or freedom. But to simply… sleep by your side?

Against your better judgment, you found yourself agreeing. Slowly, you nodded, granting him this boon.

"Very well," you said, gesturing to the smooth sand near the temple steps. "You may rest here tonight, beside me. But know this, wanderer—come dawn, the the wheel of fate turns once more and the ritual will begin anew."

Kurapika nodded, a faint smile touching his lips.

As the two of you lay down, he moved closer, settling down on the warm sands beside you, the night sky stretching endlessly above. The stars blinked into existence, one by one, as silence fell over the island once more.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you felt something shift—a connection, fragile yet real, formed between two lost souls seeking solace.

As the night deepened, you watched him, the quiet resolve in his features, the way his eyes softened as he gazed up at the stars.

The silvery light of the stars reflected in his gray eyes, making them seem almost ethereal, as if the heavens themselves had taken refuge within him. A slight, warm breeze rustled through the air, catching in his blonde hair and ruffling it gently, giving him an almost boyish charm.

As he drifted toward sleep, you kept a close watch, noting the softened lines of his face, how the quiet moments seemed to ease the burdens he carried. His breathing slowed, the tension in his shoulders melting away.

There was a peace in the silence between you, a sense that perhaps, in this fleeting moment, neither of you was truly alone.

But you stayed awake, keeping watch, your mind racing with questions. What kind of man asks a creature like you for something so simple, so intimate? Why didn't he fear you, not even a little?

As dawn crept over the horizon, he stirred beside you, stretching slightly before his eyes blinked open, sleepy but clear.

When he saw you watching him, he didn’t startle or flinch. Instead, he smiled—a small, weary smile that tugged at something deep in your chest.

"Thank you," he said, as if he hadn't just put his life in your hands.

You narrowed your eyes, leaning closer. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

He paused, thinking over his answer. "I've met monsters before," he said quietly. "I've even become one, in a way. But I don't see a monster when I look at you."

A flicker of irritation sparked within you, though it was dulled by something softer. "You don't know what I am capable of," you warned, voice low.

He only tilted his head. "Maybe not. But I'd like to find out."

And so was the beginning of something neither of you could yet name—a bond forged in riddles, silence, and the unspoken understanding of what it meant to be lost.

Each day, Kurapika worked tirelessly, studying the clues you left behind, learning the nuances of your mind through each challenge in your riddles, each more complex than the last.

Each evening, as the sun set and bathed the island in a warm, golden glow, he appeared again at the temple, his determination unwavering. His intelligence and wit kept him alive, his answers keeping him just close enough to be spared as he engaged in a battle of wits with you.

And each night, he solved your riddle with a grace and precision that began to feel almost routine.

Sometimes, he even looked… amused. As if he enjoyed matching wits with you, as if your challenge was something he relished rather than feared.

You were unused to companionship, your existence long defined by solitude and duty. Yet you found yourself anticipating Kurapika's arrival each day.

You began crafting riddles with a new purpose—not simply to guard, but to challenge him in a way that would make him think, to make him understand you. You dug into old tomes, dusted off forgotten phrases, anything to see if you could stump him.

"I am born of light, yet fear its touch. I dance on water, yet drown in its embrace. I am the silent whisper, the unspoken thought. I am the dream, the hope, the despair. What am I?"

"A shadow."

And yet, time and time again, he would answer correctly, and each time, he seemed to edge closer to you—not physically, but in a way that felt far more profound.

Slowly, you allowed him into your world, seeing in him a spirit kindred to your own.

Nights became more intimate, and not simply because he rested beside you. As the stars blinked into existence above, he would sit by your side and speak of his past—of his clan, his grief, the hollow emptiness that followed his revenge.

You listened, silently absorbing each word, drawn to the depth of his pain and the resilience that had brought him here. You saw the weariness in his eyes, the way they sometimes stared at nothing, as if the world held no color for him anymore.

In return, you began to share cryptic stories of ancient times, tales woven with wisdom and longing, fragments of yourself that had remained hidden for centuries.

Your voice, though calm, carried a weight that Kurapika seemed to understand instinctively. He saw through your cold facade, sensing a deep loneliness that mirrored his own.

And so, night after night, the two of you spoke, your conversations shifting from the guarded tension of strangers to the shared musings of two souls seeking meaning.

You spoke of life, of death, of purpose, and in those moments, you realized how much you had missed the simple act of talking, of connecting.

Your dynamic shifted from hostility to mutual respect, and then to something deeper.

The more time he spent with you, the more he began to see you as something beyond a “monster.” He saw you as a being who was as trapped as he was—bound by duty, by the need to protect something, even if it came at the cost of isolation.

The nights spent under the stars became something precious. You both developed a quiet, profound romance—one that transcended physicality, one that was born out of the fragments of yourselves that you shared with each other.

Now, as he rested beside you, he no longer simply lay in the sand, separate from you. Instead, he was practically nestled against your side, his head resting on your flank, his fingers sometimes absently tracing patterns in your fur as if you were a mere cat.

It was a sight that would have been inconceivable to you not long ago—someone finding comfort in your presence, in the warmth of your body. And yet, there was a peace that settled over both of you in those quiet hours, a comfort that neither of you had known in far too long.

Though, despite your growing bond with Kurapika, you were still bound by your nature to defend your territory from outsiders.

When other travelers occasionally arrived, driven by greed or ignorance, they foolishly attempted your riddles. And when they failed—as they always did—you showed no mercy.

You devoured them with the ferocity of a true predator; the golden sands stained a deep crimson with the aftermath of their foolishness, soaking into the sand until the ground seemed to pulse with the memory of their folly.

But instead of recoiling in horror, Kurapika watched silently, his gaze calm and understanding. He never turned away, never judged you for fulfilling your duty.

Instead, he would place a gentle hand on your hide, his touch soothing as you carried out what you must, a silent guardian beside you.

This side of him fascinated you—the way he accepted you, both the monstrous and compassionate facets of your being.

There was a shared acknowledgment between the two of you—an understanding that you were a creature bound by your instincts and duties, and he was unfazed.

To him, you were not simply a monster, but something more, something deserving of compassion and acceptance.

Together, you formed a duo unlike any other—a pair, a bond between a man who understood darkness and a creature who embodied it.

Time passed as if in a dream.

Kurapika came back, night after night, even as the seasons changed. You watched his hair grow lighter, faint threads of silver weaving through the golden strands. His face, once so sharp and intense, softened with age.

The lines that creased his brow told stories of battles fought and challenges faced, but in the quiet moments with you, those lines seemed to ease.

The way he answered your riddles, too, became more thoughtful, less sharp-edged, though he still never faltered. His intelligence remained, tempered now with the wisdom of age rather than the fire of revenge.

One night, after he'd answered another riddle and claimed his boon by your side, you saw him hesitate, his brows furrowing, lips parting as if he was searching for the right words.

His eyes lingered on you, and there was a sadness in them that you’d never seen before. "Do you ever wish… for a different life?" he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned away, not wanting him to see the flicker of longing in your own eyes. "A Sphinx does not wish. A Sphinx exists. That is all," you replied, your voice steady, but there was a tremor beneath the surface, a crack in the armor you had worn for so long.

He didn't respond right away, but you felt his gaze on you, warm and understanding in a way that made your chest ache. "Even monsters can wish for more," he whispered, as if confessing a secret.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with unspoken words and shared pain. You knew that he understood your longing, just as you understood his.

Though you had tried to keep your heart distant, you found yourself more attached with each passing night, each shared breath under the vast expanse of stars.

As the years passed, you noticed his struggle. His occasional lapse in memory, the way he would pause, his brow furrowed as he searched for a name that seemed just out of reach.

The way his body moved slower, the once fluid grace of his steps now tinged with hesitation.

You realized you were growing attached, and in your quiet moments, you wrestled with the strange pull he had over you, your love for him subtly guiding you to keep him close.

The realization was both terrifying and beautiful—a feeling you hadn’t expected to know.

In response, you modified your riddles, the challenges that had once been a fierce contest of intellect slowly transforming into something softer.

You wanted him to succeed, to stay by your side.

You crafted simpler riddles, designed to fit his weakening mind, riddles that spoke more of memory and heart than of cleverness. They took on a painful simplicity: "Do you remember who I am?" and "When is it not sunny out?"

You watched him wrestle with these questions, a tragic yet beautiful contrast to the man he once was.

His eyes, still filled with determination, would meet yours, and he would smile—a gentle, tired smile—as he answered.

You treasured his presence, savoring each answer, each memory shared, knowing that time was slipping away. The silver in his hair grew more prominent, his steps slower, but still, he came to you, night after night, until even the simple act of walking to the temple steps became a laborious task.

One night, as he rested against your side, his head nestled against your golden fur, you lowered your head, nuzzling him softly.

He looked up at you, his gaze tired but content, and whispered, "Thank you... for keeping me." His words were filled with gratitude, a warmth that spread through your chest, and you knew, in that moment, that you would never forget him.

Even as the inevitability of time loomed, you stayed by his side, guarding not only the temple but also the fragile, precious connection you had built.

He was no longer just a challenger, no longer just a man seeking answers—he was Kurapika, the one who had seen you for who you truly were, who had brought warmth and meaning to your existence.

One night, you posed a riddle, your voice as steady as ever: "I know not life, yet I bloom and spread; I am sightless, yet your darkest hour, I shall guide you to light. What am I?"

His answer faltered. His eyes, now clouded with age, stared at you, his once steady voice weak and trembling as he began to speak. "I... I think..." He paused, blinking, his brows furrowing in concentration, trying to grasp the answer that seemed just out of reach.

His body had grown frail, his hands unsteady, and he blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the words that had always come so effortlessly before.

You could see the confusion in his gaze, a flicker of fear that he had never shown before—a fear not of you, but of the inevitable weakness that was overtaking him.

Your heart pounded, an unfamiliar rhythm that resonated with something deep and instinctual, your animalistic side recognizing this as a cue—the beginning of the end.

A pang of sorrow cut through you, sharp and deep, as you sensed the end drawing near.

You hesitated, torn between your duty as a guardian and the emotions that had grown within you, emotions you had never imagined you were capable of.

The silence stretched between you that night, heavy with the weight of what was left unsaid, and you pondered, thinking up a riddle so simple that he could answer it even in his sleep.

Something that would remind him, and perhaps even you, of the bond you had shared.

"What is your name?" you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper, carrying the tenderness of the years you had spent together.

Kurapika blinked, and then his eyes softened, recognition flickering back into their cloudy depths. A faint smile curved his lips, tired and gentle. "Kurapika," he answered, his voice cracking, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the night.

He lay down beside you, his body settling into the warm sands, and as his breathing slowed, he reached out, his hand curling into your golden fur. You felt his fingers tighten slightly, a silent reassurance, and you lowered your head, resting it beside him.

You curled your body around him protectively, your tail wrapping gently over his legs, holding him close as if shielding him from the inevitable. The warmth of your form surrounded him, a final comfort as he drifted into the stillness of sleep.

You stayed with him, your gaze fixed on his face, watching as the life slowly faded from his eyes, his final breath a soft sigh against your skin.

The night seemed to hold its breath, the stars above flickering like distant memories, and when the sun finally began to rise, you held his body close, feeling the weight of solitude return, colder and heavier than ever.

You stayed by his side, the warmth of him slipping away, replaced by the coldness of death.

It was a pain you hadn't known was possible for a creature like you—raw, deep, and unending. And when the sun rose fully above the horizon, bathing the island in its golden light, you knew what you had to do.

In a macabre but loving ritual, you devoured him piece by piece as a way of keeping him close forever. Each bite was filled with sorrow, each fragment of him a reminder of what you had shared.

You would honor him, keep his bones, bleach them under the sun until they were as pale as the sands, and decorate yourself with them.

His ribs became part of your mane, his finger bones woven into the braids of your hair, a token of the only man who ever dared to love the monster.

Days came and went, the seasons changing once again, but you felt the emptiness like a hollow ache, a void that nothing else could fill.

The silence was unbearable, the absence of his presence echoing through the temple, through your very soul.

Beneath the temple's golden arches, you remained, gaze fixed upon the endless horizon. You waited, as you always would, watching for any soul who might bear even a glimmer of the quiet strength and resolve he had shown you.

And even though you knew he would not return, even though you had consumed his body and held his memory within you, a part of you still hoped.

Hoped for the impossible, for a presence that could bring warmth to the cold emptiness left behind.

Because as a wise person once told you, monsters, after all, could still wish.

[ohdorothea]

This tournament is being run by and for queer fans so please keep that in mind! Homophobes will be blocked on sight <3 More polls here and more info here! Lyrics for the songs and FAQ under the cut!

Maroon lyrics

When the morning came, we

Were cleaning incense off your

Vinyl shelf 'cause we lost track of time again

Laughing with my feet in your lap

Like you were my closest friend

"How'd we end up on the floor anyway?"

You say

"Your roommate's cheap-ass screw top rosé

That's how"

I see you every day now

And I chose you

The one I was dancing with in New York

No shoes

Looked up at the sky and it was

The burgundy on my t-shirt when you splashed your wine into me

And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet, it was

The mark they saw on my collarbone

The rust that grew between telephones

The lips I used to call home

So scarlet, it was maroon

When the silence came, we

Were shaking blind and hazy

How the hell did we lose sight of us again?

Sobbing with your head in your hands

Ain't that the way shit always ends

You were standing hollow-eyed in the hallway

Carnations you had thought were roses

That's us

I feel you, no matter what

The rubies that I gave up

And I lost you

The one I was dancing with in New York

No shoes

Looked up at the sky and it was maroon

The burgundy on my t-shirt when you splashed your wine into me

And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet, it was

The mark they saw on my collarbone

The rust that grew between telephones

The lips I used to call home

So scarlet, it was maroon

And I wake with your memory over me

That's a real fuckin' legacy, legacy

(It was maroon)

And I wake with your memory over me

That's a real fuckin' legacy to leave

The burgundy on my t-shirt when you splashed your wine into me

And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet

It was maroon

The mark they saw on my collarbone

The rust that grew between telephones

The lips I used to call home

So scarlet, it was maroon

It was maroon

It was maroon

🫶🫶🫶

Vigilante Shit lyrics

Draw the cat eye sharp enough to kill a man

You did some bad things, but I'm the worst of them

Sometimes I wonder which one will be your last lie

They say looks can kill and I might try

I don't dress for women

I don't dress for men

Lately I've been dressing for revenge

I don't start shit, but I can tell you how it ends

Don't get sad, get even

So on the weekends

I don't dress for friends

Lately I've been dressing for revenge

She needed cold hard proof so I gave her some

She had the envelope, where you think she got it from?

Now she gets the house, gets the kids, gets the pride

Picture me thick as thieves with your ex-wife

And she looks so pretty

Driving in your Benz

Lately she's been dressing for revenge

She don't start shit, but she can tell you how it ends

Don't get sad, get even

So on the weekends

She don't dress for friends

Lately she's been dressing for revenge

Ladies always rise above

Ladies know what people want

Someone sweet and kind and fun

The lady simply had enough

While he was doing lines

And crossing all of mine

Someone told his white collar crimes to the FBI

And I don't dress for villains

Or for innocents

I'm on my vigilante shit again

I don't start shit, but I can tell you how it ends

Don't get sad, get even

So on the weekends

I don't dress for friends

Lately I've been dressing for revenge

🫶🫶🫶

The question is which song is queerer to you! Queerer can mean whatever you want it to mean; you might consider a song queer because you think it was written that way, or because of Swiftian lore. It might be queer to you because of how you relate it to your own life. Maybe you think from a purely literary standpoint the lyrics have queer themes; maybe you're just thinking about vibes!!!

If you’d like to send in interpretations or propaganda for a specific song you can send them to my inbox! All interpretations are welcome and let’s be open and kind in response to all interpretations <3

[copiousloverofcopia]

Hey Ghesties!!! I have another commission down! only 2 more to go before those are caught up and I can start up chapters and asks again!!!!

This one featuring a friend's OC named Scarlett and her lover Cardinal Terzo ❤️‍🔥

Thank you so much to the person who commissioned me for this for their friend.

Someone For Who I Belong

Definitely NSFW below the cut

Also available HERE on AO3!

It was bittersweet quiet to be had within the chapel. Amidst the pews sat a sullen sister. Seeking refuge from the prying eyes of others as the stirring of the Abbey continued just beyond the large oak doors. Her heart, still a fragile and broken thing, from a past full of sorrows. An anguish now settling in its roots while a dark entity lay dormant within her. It was only her love for her Cardinal that kept her from shattering to pieces. 

“Cara mia?” a voice came from behind her. A soulful and honeyed tone, one she knew all too well. She turned to face him, Terzo—her beloved Cardinal, as he continued his trek down the aisle. His eyes, never leaving hers. “Scarlet, I have been searching for you all afternoon. What are you doing here?” he asked as he sat down beside her. 

“I’m sorry to have troubled you Cardinal… I…I just needed some time.” she sniffled back. Pretending that she hadn’t just been crying—but the smudge of mascara from her thick lashes, now coloring the apples of her cheeks, gave her away. 

“Time?” he asked her, the softness of her cheek held gently in the hollow of his palm. Her gaze, turning up to face him. The pain in her eyes, heartbreaking and great. Terzo wanted nothing more than to take it from her. To make her whole again, with him forever by her side. 

“I needed to think. I can’t seem to shake things. My past, the things that have happened. What resides within me. It's too much. I feel trapped in these thoughts Cardinal. Knowing that I will never be the innocent person I once was. That the blood still stains my hands and that my life is forever changed.”

“It is.” Terzo replied, much to Scarlet’s surprise. He rose up from his spot on the pew, reaching out his hand towards her. Waiting for her to take hold as he began to speak again. “Allow me to free you from the cage of your mind amore, help you to find the infernal peace that only HE can give.”

“What…what is it you planned to do?” Scarlett asked him, wiping away the tears, now freely flowing from her eyes, and taking his hand. He lifted her up, pushing back the streak of white hair behind her ear, as brought his lips painfully close to hers. A hair short of touching—his breath hot and heavy against her skin.  

“We shall become one amore. A sort of binding spell, a ritual. Let us sacrifice a bit of ourselves in his name so that I might be called to you when your mind becomes tainted with these thoughts…thoughts I will no longer allow to imprison you while I still draw breath.” Terzo vowed, determined and ignited with a fiery passion that Scarlett had yet to see before.

“You mean this? You truly wish to be bound to—to me? I am not—”

“Shhh…” Terzo said, pressing his finger against Scarlet’s pouty lips, his body against hers, with the evidence of his adoration held heavy against her thigh. “I will hear none of that from you sorella��do you understand?” he asked. Scarlett could see his sincerity and his annoyance at her self doubt. He truly loved her beyond words, a love that would stand not only the tests of this world, but of the next as well.

“Of course Cardinal. I understan—” Before she could finish, his mouth was on hers. Tongue gliding with hers as his hands traveled down her sides. Her habit gathered up into his fists until he could feel the radiating warmth from her thighs. Terzo let out a moan, his lips parting and forehead pressed against Scarlet’s. Yearning and bring his hand closer, allowing his fingers to slide into her core. Only stopping short when realizing that he wanted to make this right.    

“Wait…wait—not here. Come with me cara. I must take you on the altar.” Terzo explained, his breathing heavy and both their hearts pounding loudly in their ears. His words struck Scarlett inside, her need for him overtaking all her thoughts. She could no longer think of anything but the way her lover felt pressing against the inside of her thighs. The way she felt when his finger traveled to the precipice of her most intimate flesh. A space he had yet to fully claim as his own. 

Tonight would be the night. Two lovers, coming together as one. A pledge made between them to forever be bound in love and lust. Terzo could hardly contain himself, rushing Scarlett towards the altar and lifting her up to be seated upon the cold stone slab. A stark contrast to the blazing heat of desire that now throbbed between her legs.  

She sat in amusement, watching Terzo rummage around the credence table drawer. His raven locks falling into his face the more flustered he became until he found the desired object. A dagger, pulled hastily from its sheath. Handle of gold and encrusted with countless opulent jewels. Most prominently that of rubies and emeralds, their colors sparkling in the light from the chapels almost spent candles. The blade was inscribed with ancient text, words otherwise lost to time, that Scarlett was unable to discern. This was a sacred artifact of the church and one Terzo would use for the most supreme of sanguineous rituals. 

“What's that for?” Scarlett asked, her heart beating away and eyes pinned to the glint of light coming off of the blade. 

“This is for us cara.” He explained, briskly walking back to her as he placed the blade carefully between his teeth. His fingers, nimbly working their way through the buttons of his shirt until his shirt was untucked and chest was fully exposed to the cool chapel air. Scarlett nodded, accepting whatever plan Terzo had in store. When he reached her, he took her hand and turned her wrist, facing her palm to the sky. He could feel her tense, the anticipation of what was to come beginning to affect her and the nervousness she felt—unable to be hidden. 

“I—ah…ah…” Scarlett stammered, trying to find the words that would explain how she was feeling.

“It’s ok amore. Do you trust me?” he asked her, his eyes fixed on hers. She could see in his, what she could find in no other. A love felt so deeply it permeated the soul. 

“Yes Cardinal.” she replied, sucking in her bottom lip as he sliced through the soft flesh of her palm. The blood, instantly beading up along the cut as Terzo went to do the same to his. 

“Do you accept me Scarlet?” he asked her, his words delivered even more serious than before.

“I do.” she assured him, swallowing back hard the knot in her throat and pressing her thighs tightly together as she burned for him to touch her. 

“Do you accept me as your friend, your lover—your infernal protector? All in the name of the Morning Star?”

“I do…ah!” she cried as Terzo grabbed her palm with his own, the blood spilling out between their grasp as he pressed his wound against hers. A blood pack, now made between them, sealing their intentions.  He pulled away his hand a moment, using his finger to draw out more blood from his cut and drew a grucifix on Scarlet’s forehead, urging her to do the same to him. 

“I know it hurts and I’m sorry…” he smiled, holding pressure against Scarlet’s wound to stop the bleeding. She smiled down at him, the warmth traveling up inside her, through her wrist and into her arm, feeling like a fire burning from within. The magic between them, now taking hold. 

“It’s ok…I am just glad that it's over.” she sighed, bringing her lips to kiss him once more. 

“Over? Oh it’s not over dolce.” Terzo mused, a mischievous grin donned proudly on his face. Scarlett, pulling away in confusion to face him. 

“What?”

“You don't think I’ve been undressing for nothing.” he laughed, dropping his eyes to his pants. His cock stiff against the fabric of them, leaving nothing to the imagination as Scarlett looked down at it. She let out a moan, feeling his hand traveling up her thigh, leaving a trail of crimson along her skin. He kissed her harder, fingers delicately tracing the edge of her panties when she felt compelled to speak. 

“Oh Terzo…” Scarlett moaned, her lover’s fingers slipping with ease between her wet folds. She widened the space between her legs, her body blooming with Terzo’s expert touch.  

“Tell me what you want amore.” Terzo commanded, breathy and hot. 

“I want…I want you to make love to me.” she hummed, Terzo buried his face in the curve of her neck. His tongue tracing up and then leading to gentle kisses along her jaw which sent heat straight to her core. 

“Then I shall.” he grinned, wasting no time in dropping his pants. His cock, heavy and dripping. The need for her, more than evident, as he pulled her closer to the edge of the altar. An edge that just so happened to be at the perfect height. 

“I need you.” she purred, taking Terzo’s cock gently in her hand. Working him in long strokes between them as Terzo pushed his fingers deep inside her. 

“Mmm…fuck…stop stop.” Terzo moaned, quickly losing control to the feeling of her hand sliding over his shaft. Thumb, rolling over the head, coated in his precum before she could respond. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

“No…no the opposite quite frankly. I need to taste you, savor you cara mia before I take you, right here before Lucifer himself.” he growled, removing her hand from him while pulling his own from her. Licking off the fluids eagerly, as he dropped to his knees before her. Scarlett rose up on her elbows, watching as Terzo’s face disappeared below her habit, his tongue drawing attention to her swollen clit as he took a swipe of it. Teasing her and returning his fingers to fill her inside. 

“Oh my! Terzo!” She mewled, feeling them sliding around inside and pressing against her most sensitive spot. His tongue lapping at her clit in passionate synchronization. He said nothing, only delighting in the noises he pulled from her. His mouth inching her ever closer to release. Scarlett arched up off the altar, her sticky skin peeling from it as if it was vinyl on a hot summer’s day. Her insides squeezed down hard around him as she moved herself on Terzo’s two fingers. Cumming hard against his hand and filling his mouth with her satisfaction. 

“Il sapore di te sulla mia lingua è... Mmm... così delizioso amore mio." Terzo remarked, standing up between Scarlet's still quivering legs. The sweetness of her cunt, still lingering when he took her lips back on his. His need to take her, growing—a feral need that took everything in him to wait for her command. Scarlett needing only to say the word and they shall be made one.

"Cardinal…please." She moaned, watching as Terzo's eyes crawled over her. 

"Habit off. I take you as Lucifer intended." He growled. Scarlett did as she was told, pulling off her habit. Her breasts bounced down before him, releasing her sensitive pierced nipples to the coolness of the room. Nipples that were pert for him as Terzo quickly drew one into his mouth. His tongue rolling over the barbell and his hand stroking his aching cock as he sucked and licked. 

"Terzo now please… I can't take it." She mewled.

"Mmm…ok…tutto ciò che desideri sarà tuo." He mumbled with her nipple still in his mouth. Terzo pulled back, saliva stringing from his lover's breast, as he lined his cock up with her entrance. The head pressed against her—slowly pushing past her lips and inside. His girth, filling her tightly all around as he inched his way inside. Scarlett squirmed, her body begging for him to take her harder, faster. While Terzo willed himself to wait until he was fully seated inside. 

"From this moment on cara mia, you will never be alone again." He vowed as he met with the deepest part of her. Scarlett let out a string of needy moans and cries. Terzo went to grab hold of her thighs, helping her to wrap them around him as he moved himself inside. Slowly, back and forth as Scarlett writhed beneath him on the altar. The two of them, eyes locked and mouths fallen open, as they savored the feel of one another in the most sanctified of rituals. 

“I love you.” Scarlett cried as Terzo began moving faster. His thrusting, more intentioned and precise. His determination to make her see what lay beyond this mortal realm.

“I love you. Now cum for me Scarlet. Let us offer up not only our blood, but this to HIM as well.” Terzo growled, raising up on his hands to pound harder. The wet sounds of sex filling the room. Lascivious noises that echoed off the stained glass windows as he took her. 

“Yes please! Terzo I think I'm going to—” Scarlett yelped, her mind so awash in pleasure she could barely get out the words. 

“That's right amore! Cum for me! Cum for your Cardinal in the name of Satan. Che il nostro destino sia segnato per sempre insieme al nostro sacrificio. Il sangue delle nostre ferite e il fluido della nostra lussuria!” Terzo cried, burying himself inside her over and over as the softness of her walls began to tremble all around him. 

“Oh yes! Yes! Yes!” She screamed, her juices overflowing between them as Terzo came hard and deep inside her. Her own orgasm, meeting with his—causing an explosion between them. Stars now dancing in her vision as she fell from the heavens. Her body overcome from the bond forged between them this night.

Terzo collapsed on top of her, breathing heavy and both their bodies languid from their endeavors. The magic felt coursing through their veins, a sign of true love. Terzo kissed her gently. Scarlet’s eyes filled with tears as he held her in his arms. “Oh no no no amore. Why are you crying? Have I hurt you?” Terzo asked, panicked that he had done something wrong.  

“No…no it's not that.” she smiled, sniffling back and squeezing him tightly against her. 

“What is it then?” he asked, his chin tucked against his chest as he took in the scent of her skin. Relishing the moment of post climactic bliss held between them.

“I'm  just happy is all. I have somewhere…someone for whom I belong.” Scarlett managed to say, Terzo's embrace  even more tight than before. 

“You belong to me cara that is true…” Terzo began as he lifted his head to look at her. His face was filled with the happiness and love he felt for her so deeply. Knowing that his lifetime and the next would never be enough to show how much. Scarlett scrunched her face, tears slipping out as she urged him to continue. 

“But know…that I too will always belong to you too.”

Notes:

Il sapore di te sulla mia lingua è... Mmm... così delizioso amore mio.   -The taste of you on my tongue is...mmm...so delicious my love.  

tutto ciò che desideri sarà tuo-everything that you desire will be yours

Che il nostro destino sia segnato per sempre insieme al nostro sacrificio. Il sangue delle nostre ferite e il fluido della nostra lussuria-Let our fates be forever sealed together with our sacrifice. The blood of our wounds and the fluid of our lust

[doomedandstoned]

England’s URZAH Charges Out of the Gate with Astonishing Tour de Force

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Yes! This is what I needed to get my week revving. An explosion of color, energy, and rage. Pure mayhem. This is URZAH from Bristol. With a mix of post-sludge and metalcore, the band has whipped up a frenzy in 'The Scorching Gaze' (2024), their debut full-length following two brutal EPs in 2020 and 2022.

Drums pound with guitars, bass, and vocals from the team of Ed Fairman, Tom McElveen, Les Grodek, and James Brown. The form a great onslaught of synergistic motion for opener "I, Empyrean." A song of cosmic proportion, Empyrean was said to be the abode of God, higher than the highest heavens, a place of burning glory. "We’ll meet again, two worlds reborn, this scarlet crown, thou shalt adorn," sings frontman Ed Fairman.

"Lacrimare (Misery's Shadow)" hits you with a barrage of incendiary arrows hoisted through the air in unrelenting rhythmic fashion, erupting into a firestorm without mercy. The song speaks of unbearable loneliness ("hollow and numb") borne of chaos and grief. "Lacrima" is the Latin word for "tear," so a lacrimare can only be a life torn apart again and again, both in reality and in heart.

Next up is "Immateria Noir", a 7-minute behemoth, which heralds a "bold sun burning." One can hardly look at the sun, much less stare at it. It is a witness to this world of confusion, hurt, and loss. We will be one with the solar giant when the earth is one day consumed by it in "sunlit obsidian." It is indeed the "essence of omnipresence," as we cannot escape the sun's gaze (explaining why our forebears worshiped it). The song feels like a sanguine messenger of doom, with hints of tragedy and regret along the way in the guitars especially.

After a surreal interlude, dissonant strumming and unrelenting drums bode an ominous warning as "A Storm Is Ever Approaching," a track which speaks of "doomed enterprises" and "divided lives." The guitars are the star of the show here, with head-banging deft and booming low-end.

Reprieve from the ire of the tempest comes with "The Aesthetic," featuring the lovely, reassuring strains of guest singer Eleanor Tinlin. It's short but sweet, with hints of tensions rising in its waning moments.

"Of Decay" is next, with more apocalyptic overtones in the lyrics. "Shadows surround me," Fairman barks, "baptized in ashes, frozen in time." Guitars swirl with grooves, while the rhythm section rumbles forward like the approaching hand of Death itself. "The dream is over," the vocalist declares, as the drums thunder with an air of finality. The downtuned low-end is nothing short of intimidating in the last minute of the song.

The final two songs concern Thera, which may be an allusion to an ancient abandoned settlement which sits atop a limestone hill on the Greek island of Santorini. It was abandoned, I believe, due to volcanic activity in the region. While I may be missing much of the lore behind this, "Thera I: Sea of Flames" catches us up on its symbolic meaning to the band. Guitars wind, wallow, and wisp with damning doom chords, underscoring lyrics that speak of "sacred pillars" that "spire high" and then "fields of fire," "plumes of smoke," and "inferno" that bring about the once proud city's ultimate desolation, promising a "molten rebirth."

The record draws to a close with "Thera II: Embers of Descent," which combines with the previous track to form a 15-minute epic. Guitars meet out buzzing repeated notes that have the feel of a languishing journey through ruins of smoke and brimstone. "Dreams in slow motion," Fairman cries, "Edge of the abyss." Screeching guitars at 3:22 sound like the haunting echoes of some long forgotten human drama, accompanied by chugging guitars and drums that pummel the soil. Bittersweet guitar passages soar above the desolation, but are soon swallowed up by it.

The Scorching Gaze is loud, brash, and in your face, but a great compliment to your speakers and headphones thanks to the work of Josh Gallop in Bath's Stage 2 Studios. Tom McElveen's guitars are captured with crisp clarity and great emotion.

Look for Urzah's new LP on Friday, May 3rd, released by APF Records on a limited run of cassettes, as well as on compact disc (pre-order here). Stick it on a playlist with Cult Leader, Elder, Converge, Gojira, and Cave In.

Give ear...

Urzah · THE SCORCHING GAZE

SOME BUZZ

APF Records' latest signing URZAH deliver a powerful and gargantuan storm of savage riffs on their blistering debut album THE SCORCHING GAZE Post/progressive sludge metal newcomers URZAH present their fiery debut album THE SCORCHING GAZE. After only a few short years of actively recording and gigging, Urzah have set Bristol's stacked heavy underground scene ablaze and captured the attention of Manchester's beloved APF Records, home of Desert Storm, Goblinsmoker, The Hyena Kill, Video Nasties et al. Through a commanding and captivating album of complex and wildly fluctuating songs brimming with sharp melodies, Urzah deliver a barrage of dynamic and intricate riffs boasting influences of post-metal, sludge, metalcore and moments of pure surprise.

From the second you hit play, opening track and leading single 'I, Empyrean' entices the listener and grabs them by the throat, kick starting a sprawling web of chugging guitars, soaring leads, stabbing bass and commanding powerhouse drumming. Progressive and lengthy cuts such as riff workout 'Immateria Noir' sit comfortably alongside the sheer face-melting gut-punch attack 'Of Decay'. The Scorching Gaze isn't without brilliant and daring curveballs, including the sweetly nested ballad 'The Aesthetic', lead by contemplative clean guitars and guest vocalist Eleanor Tinlin's expressive singing.

The Scorching Gaze by Urzah

The Scorching Gaze is a record guided by thought-provoking lyrics and titles, inspired strongly by both the cosmic horror writings of HP Lovecraft and more directly, the late Cormac McCarthy's novel The Crossing. Akin to these works, Urzah's songs channel a narrative of inward cerebral odyssey -- life's cycles through desolation and joy, triumph and pain, violence and beauty, as well as the permanency of choice and consequence. All of this culminates in Urzah's grand finale, the fifteen minute two-part 'Thera' suite, where the quartet go balls to the wall, slowing down to a sensational sludgy pace and confronting us with their heaviest and most crushing onslaught of all.

In order to capture more density, texture and sonic space in their sound, Urzah recorded The Scorching Gaze with producer, engineer and Phoxjaw guitarist Josh Gallop at his own Stage 2 Studios in Bath. This has resulted in a thickened and balanced soundscape across these winding and complex songs that are always evolving and changing.

The quartet have brought in key additional players into the studio space, with Eleanor Tinlin of Choir Noir (who have performed live and recorded with Bring Me The Horizon and Frank Turner) providing dreamy clean vocals, as well as cellist (and bassist of stoner metallers Froglord) Luke Clemenger to lay down sorrowful strings.

Topping everything off is the vibrant cover art by the talented Indonesian gig poster and album cover illustrator Putra Satria Nugraha, expertly evoking the tapestry of layers, depths and mysteries that this album holds. The Scorching Gaze is a brightly ambitious and rewarding listen that reveals new layers and intricacies through repeat listens, boldly striding its maze of blistering riffs, dynamic song structures and flaming intensity.

Follow The Band

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[astrxlfinale]

Was he the one being too tensed in this moment? Seeing how she could at least gravitate towards a touch of lighter subject matter felt like a malleable trait in his mind. The topic stuck hard in his own, and it was often due to when struggles were unleashed either by his hand or from the tales of others, it ran deep.

"Zarina." Her name found itself given a taste for the first time, it feels sharp, but in the same vein it feels like a name that was graced with affection. That show of good will would be returned as a gloved hand sought her's, securing upon it briefly as they'd break down this moment with a handshake. Despite how measured she kept it, age old experience in his profession told him of strength.

Not that he needed such upfront proof. To keep your back held straight after these trials was enough of a testament.

A promise. Such vows were by no means unfamiliar, and in this day where honor holds a stronger stance, it's taken with the utmost seriousness. (Whether simply getting a lost balloon recovered for a kid, or delivering tales of grim news.) A low hum signified that he's following along, etches of his imagination working to paint an imaginary picture of what this HSO chief pushed through.

From his eyes, what he sees is that survival in itself is both the boon and price. Hollow Special Operations is an organization, even well before his days in Calydon he's run across a few times. Many saw potential in this upcoming mercenary, others, the wiser, saw how that fine lined potential found itself igniting one too many warning signs all the same. The desire to create a name led him to refusing such offers.

What Zarina lists is a very raw collection of what forms her inner tapestry. Raw emotion, the scale of people she finds important, a need to see this future persist even if it means having only obscurity and disdain as her only companions. Obeying the motion of her hand, he keeps silent despite some growing impulses to speak up.

"Heroic. Now that's the joke." Nonetheless, to see that instant of brevity changed the more lamentable weight settled around this bar counter.

"I meant what I said. But, who am I to deny some extra benefits it gives you?"

With the rawness displayed, being requested of a similar vein briefly stills him as his hand immediately draws to the scarlet cloth in his hand. Warm memories found themselves working to keep that cold, dissonant abyss at bay. Lighter wasn't someone who hides the depth of value that people bring. "My group, my new home, those who decided I was worth a chance compared to rotting away."

Drawing the scarf from its perch, for an instant he glances firm at a segment of it, hints of lively flame seemingly glows in a glittering dance through the article. That warmth is what makes him face Zarina gilded gaze once again.

"Nobility is nice to consider, but the real, unbridled result of what drives you I say is the brightest flame you can light. Understanding that my old group, even their very families wished for me to not be a walking specter is what helped kick my ass into gear. --At least in ways that count."

"The rest? The Sons of Calydon. Despite being a symbol of sorts, it's been made of my own volition, a key cog in that untamed order in the Outer Ring."

Even now, images like Burnice's energized smile to Caesar's bold, brave declarations helped stir an inspiring light in his chest. "My biggest lesson by far is learning how I live. People are pushing me, living and dead, all because I dared to mean something to them. Bit by bit, I want to learn more about that Lighter."

"That very person they found to be worth so much. I owe it to them to understand that firsthand. Their pride is my own, and vice versa."

"That's why I believe that trying matters the most. Yours and mine."

“You cannot fill a void left by a human life,” she absent-mindedly adds, hollowness taking over her for a moment. Eyes gleam in the reflection of her drink before she decides to fully finish it so her own face does not stare back at her. Better not seeing herself for a moment while talking to the Red Scarf. Her mind recalls all of the information on the gangs here, what’s been allowed and what she found out through commissions and requests done… and also from Hollow data. The people who travel within don’t understand the footprints they leave.

Something that others don’t understand... yet.

The silverette studies the biker next to her, not looking away from him when he fixes his sunglasses and when he speaks. Heaviness in his tone reflects the equal, if not bigger, heaviness in his mind. She notices the way his body reacts. Trained build, shielded gaze, heavy clothing, Red Scarf title, and battle records. She does not show how much she knows, there is no need to show her cards and speak on knowledge when she decides to show something else. Instead, she remains quiet and waiting while he continues. 

Call it selfishness… It almost makes her laugh. He gives her enough to understand where he’s coming from. Building a profile is as easy as her knowing how PubSec works these days with their undercover agents. Psychoanalyzing becomes an essential part of survival. HSO has enough rats and snakes in its own cast. 

“I thought chivalry and nobility were dead. It’s good to be reminded it’s not,” an off-handed comment is given to him, cynicism bleeding from each spoken word like an old wound that refuses to close. She pats her jacket pocket to see if she has her cigarettes, but when she feels nothing, Selene sighs and returns to her attentive listening.

Her eyebrow raises in an inquiry when Lighter finally asks her his question. 

The memories echo in her head at that moment. 

[What is your reason for going on?]

Blood, scream, a purple flame, a gloved hand extended, a multiple words spoken, a promise made, a handshake, a―

Lighter. His name. 

Ah, right, they haven’t introduced themselves to each other ‘officially’. She bites the tip of her tongue to not say ‘I know’ or ‘I’m aware’. Instead, she offers him a calm smile and a hand to shake. 

“Zarina Sokolova. An ex-HSO chief of previous Section 1 under the code name of [Selene]. As you must’ve heard the man already called me that,” she shrugs at the last sentence but does not move away her hand to see if it’ll be shaken or denied. “You can call me Zarina.”

Shaken hand or not, there is still a question to answer.

“To answer your question…” She thinks for a moment, eyes glancing at the cane by her side and then at the exit before returning to Lighter. Her expression remains thoughtful and unworried, not a single showcase of tension or internal rush of memories crashing like a wave against a rock solid wall. “...I made a promise.”

But before anything can be said or asked, she raises her hand to ask for a moment. 

“I made a promise to someone who helped me survive in the Hollow Zero. Specifically, to not die with the knowledge I have and to support those who come after me,” she explains a bit more, but not diving into the details of her promise or what she’s seen. “Since I’m no longer a part of HSO as a retired operative, let’s just say I’m quite delighted with keeping my promise with how Section 6 is doing.” Another shrug, index finger tracing the ceramic lip of her cup. “I also cannot allow the sacrifice of my team to go to waste. If I keel over and die, then everything they’ve done will get swallowed in the Hollow. Partial anger, partial promise, and partial wish to see how far potential of the current generation can go. Sprinkle a bit of pure petty spite in as well towards those who thought I'll break after I retired.”

Her reasons are not wholly noble. They are not sweet and tender, they are not all heartwarming. But they are hers, personal and even bitter. It’s not everything, but diving deeper into her wish to test the current set of possibilities can stay in the back burner for now. 

“Also, really? One more to burn it onto? With your red scarf, hot weather outside, and your flaming heroic persona? I would think you’re trying to make me smile with those,” she chuckles, finding it just a bit comedic. Maybe her sense of humor also got messed up after everything. “Regardless, my reasons are not so noble. A promise is, but what comes after it in addition? Not so much.”

She leans forward on the bar counter with her elbows, placing her chin on her open palm while looking at Lighter. 

“What about you then? What keeps you going? Maybe I can learn something from you.”

[mianavs]

the meeting

In Lima with You part 1

a/n: sequel to Falling in Stockholm :) I also suggest reading the prologue, Fixation, for background info

tw: nsfw-ish

wc: 1.4k+

Falling in Stockholm  In Lima with You 

Warmth.

There was nothing you craved more than the warmth only another body could provide and Dabi was more than equipped in that department.

He gave you heat.

It filled you up and trickled down in excess. It clouded your mind and put you into a daze that left you incapable of coherent thought. It pressed against your skin until it burned and left marks all over it. Dabi’s heat was comforting until it turned painful, painful until it turned into pleasure, and pleasure always melted into a warmth that lingered for hours.

You opened your eyes to a stream of warm sunlight that painted your sheets a bright yellow. It’d been almost a month since Dabi moved you into this small condo after you gained his trust. Untangling your limbs from him with care, you swung your legs over the edge of your new bed and poured yourself a glass of water. You dug into your nightstand until you found the almost empty plastic sheet of small white pills and took one out. Ever since Dabi stopped injecting you with quirk inhibiters, he brought you some birth control and explained that the inhibiter had also been laced with contraceptives.

Your musings stopped when you heard a distinct low groan followed by disfigured hands that tugged you down into bed. Dabi’s face took over your field of view with his cold cerulean eyes, marred burgundy flesh, and little grey staples that held his face together. He was the picture-perfect definition of a monster but instead of screaming or fighting against him, you pressed a chaste kiss on his mouth before falling back onto your shared bed and looking at him with pure adoration—he was your savior after all.

“Good morning,” you greeted him with a shy smile.

Dabi’s mouth curled into a grin before bringing you into his arms and maneuvering your body so your back was pressed against his chest.

“Morning, beautiful,” Dabi slurred, his hot breath against your ear drawing out a gasp from your lips. “You’re running low on your pills aren’t you?”

You nodded wordlessly as Dabi’s hand snaked over your chest and started teasing your nipple.

“Good thing I got you some more,” he mused as he continued pinching and rubbing your hardening nub. “Even though it’d be nice to see you carrying my kid.”

The thought of carrying Dabi’s child sent a cold shiver down your spine as his other hand splayed against your bare stomach. You found the idea revolting and your body reacted accordingly. Then as quickly as the disgust came it left and panic replaced it when you remembered your painful re-education and the man who put you through it.

Dabi stopped his ministrations on your body and you knew he’d noticed your reaction. You held your breath waiting for the familiar pain from his quirk but his arms merely tightened their hold on you.

“Do you not want to have my kid?” He hissed sharply and you furiously shook your head.

“N-no! Of course I do, Dabi. I love you!” You cried and squeezed his hands for effect. “I just think we should w-wait until we accomplish the Mayor’s goal. Besides, I doubt Shigaraki would approve of me becoming pregnant.”

Your heart was in your throat as you waited for Dabi’s response praying your reasoning was enough justification for him.

“You’re right,” He mumbled nuzzling against your neck. “We need all the manpower we can get to bring down the heroes.”

Melting into his arms, Dabi started kissing down your neck while his hand traveled south to the apex between your legs. You shuddered remembering the intense sex from the night before but spread your legs anyway. He’d only started stroking your clit when his phone suddenly started vibrating. With a groan, Dabi’s hands left your trembling form and answered the call.

Just from the annoyed expression on his face, you could tell it was your leader, Tomura Shigaraki, on the other end. They exchanged a few words but Dabi’s eyes shifted to you halfway through the call. The warry expression in his haunting eyes put you on edge as you wondered what Shigaraki had told him to make him react that way.

“Get ready,” Dabi stated as he hung up on your boss. “There’s a meeting today and the boss wants you there.”

Shigaraki didn’t trust you and, as a result, few members of the league did.

He told you so himself during your first meeting with him. It’d been just the two of you in his office to Dabi’s displeasure but there was nothing he could’ve done—Shigaraki was the boss after all. It was in that dingy office where Shigaraki gripped your neck with four fingers while his thumb lingered over your pulse point.

“As a former hero, you’ll have to work that much harder, Y/N.”

Ever since that exchange, you were always cautious around him. During the few missions you went on with the league, you protected Shigaraki as best as you could alongside Kurogiri. You risked your life time and time again to keep him safe but only so you could return to Dabi. Shigaraki was merely an annoyance you had to deal with until the Mayor’s objective was complete. The disgruntled man-child could drop dead afterwards for all you cared.

What you cared about was Dabi and his trust in you. It was your lifeline and without it you were as good as dead. So as you walked closely behind your savior into the dark compound of the League of Villains, apprehension ate away at your composure as Dabi’s cold gaze remained imprinted in your mind.

Your gut told you this wasn’t a regular meeting when you walked past the other members whose faces were darkened with a negative emotion you couldn’t pinpoint. The tension in the air was suffocating but you continued walking until Dabi stopped in front of Shigaraki and another person you never thought you’d see again.

Keigo Takami stood calm and collected next to Shigaraki while you felt as if you were going to pass out. You stood frozen as your blood ran cold and all you could hear was your heart thumping erratically in your chest. When your eyes turned away from the red-winged hero, you noticed other pairs of eyes on you and watching with mixed emotions.

“HAH! Just look at her face!” Shigaraki sneered, taking a menacing step towards you. “Don’t tell me the two of you know each other.”

The question was more like an accusation and you wanted the earth to open and swallow you whole. You opened your mouth to speak but the words you desperately wanted to scream wouldn’t come out. Your eyes turned to the man next to you hoping he’d say something—anything—that would get Shigaraki off your case but Dabi’s eyes burned with anger as he stared you down.

That was when you realized that Dabi knew more than you’d hoped.

“Yes, I-we worked together once,” You stammered. “He’s practically the HPSC’s poster boy so I don’t get why he’s here.”

“To be a criminal like his dad. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, eh Takami?”

Dabi’s mouth contorted into a hideous smile as he stared at a surprised Keigo. You wracked your brain trying to remember a time when Keigo talked about his father but you only remembered hearing about his mother, Tomie.

Gold eyes flickered to you and your heart began to ache when you saw the hollow pain in Keigo’s eyes. It was a pain you were more than familiar with and, for a second, you wanted nothing more than to comfort your old friend.

Just when you were about to take a step towards Keigo, a deformed hand gripped your own and held it in a crushing grip. You gasped but didn’t fight it when you saw the bone-chilling expression on Dabi’s face. To anyone else watching, he looked amused but his painful grip and clenched jaw were dead giveaways to the fury the burned within him.

“Since you brought him in and your little pet is oh-so well-acquainted with him, you’re in charge of watching over him, Dabi.” Shigaraki stated as he sauntered over in front of Dabi. “So if he ever betrays us it’ll be on you.”

He spoke to Dabi but his scarlet eyes remained fixed on you making the meaning behind his word’s crystal clear—he’d punish Dabi by eliminating you first.

[baronesscmd]

@anubis-005 has graciously allowed me to continue writing her sinfully delightful Nene’s Inferno Au, so I bring you the next installment. I hope you enjoy, and thank you. And go check out all her artwork; its absolutely amazing and deserves all the love!

AH! DISCLAIMER! CONTAINS SCENES OF SEXUAL INNUENDO/REFERENCES/SITUATIONS!

 He dropped himself to the ground, pulling her flush against him. One hand curled around her arm as the other caught her chin, bringing her gaze directly to the smoldering golden stare that was attempting to burn her alive. 

Nene's face flushed as he leaned in, tongue flicking over the sharp fangs in his mouth as he tipped his head so the heat of his words brushed against her lips. 

"You won't be needing those clothes."

**

“EXCUSE ME?!!”

Nene felt her pulse stutter and pick up double-time as the demon leaned closer, claws pricking at the soft curve of her cheeks as her whole body burned from his implications. She tried to push away, tried to get as much space between her and the demon before her; he wasn’t having it. The hand on her arm slid around her waist, pinning her tight against his chest as he smirked. 

“Oh yes, my sweet little Angel; that uniform just has to go.”

She felt those claws curl into her sash and tug, and before she could even make a sound, before she could try and push herself away; he moved. His hand slid from her waist to cup her bottom and squeeze, and she shrieked as he hauled her up and over his shoulder. 

He spun on his heel, whistling as he headed deeper into the maze as she tried to get loose. Nene beat her fists against his back and kicked her legs, trying to ignore the sharp curve of his shoulder as it pressed into her belly.

Harder to ignore was the hand hooked around her knees, and the thumb that was making tiny circles against her thigh. Worse than that though, was the hand still on her butt. She struggled harder, flushing as he patted the soft curve of her cheeks. 

 "PUT ME DOWN! AND DONT TOUCH ME!"

Nene let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a scream as the demon chucked, pinching her as he nipped at her hip through the fabric of her dress.

"My my, aren't you a feisty one! You'll be great fun. I can already tell. But you have to behave, my Angel, or your new Master will punish you.

"And while I can guarantee you will not enjoy it, I shall have a delightful time."

She continued to struggle against him until the band around her finger began to burn. She yelped and folded, her chin bouncing into his back as she curled her hands together. 

It hurt, more than anything she had ever experienced. Like something was trying to claw at her soul, to tear her open and lay her bare. She watched through her tears as the demon's tail looped around her wrists, and as suddenly as the pain had come on, it vanished.

"Ah, fun little bit about that Bond, my Angel." 

She stiffened in his grasp as he drew a claw down her thigh before his fingers crept back up to pinch her.

"You cannot disobey me."

Cold stole through Nene's limbs and she went still and silent. The demon laughed, the echo of it reverberating through her own chest in a hollow imitation of joy. The tail squeezed her wrists, and she swallowed back her tears. 

Beneath them, the grassy maze gave way to cobblestones, and she planted her hands against the small of his back as he spun around. 

"Welcome to your new home, Angel."

Nene lifted her head, biting back a gasp at the palace before her; she had not expected something so elegant of a design in Hell. It rose from a tangle of wild roses like a crouching beast, sweeping up into the skyline like nothing she had seen. 

In Heaven, the buildings had been white, and gold and silver-toned. It had felt like walking through a dream, with open shutters and friendly hellos as she passed. This was quite the opposite. 

This was a nightmare of brick, wood, bone, and glass. Shadows hung from the twisted black iron of the balconies like discarded clothes, the stained glass depicting demons in different throes of lust. 

Ivy twisted it's way up the cracks of the black stones, twisting around marble statues carved in obscene positions. She averted her eyes as they passed a set of skeletons, entwined together, forever frozen in the moment of completion. 

And the arch of the grand doorway, before the demon carrying her turned on his heel to march her under it, was carved in stark white bone with the twisted limbs and slack faces of those who had given in to the Sin of Lust.

The inside was as hauntingly beautiful as the exterior, with dark walls and black marble floors. Golden lamps spilled light in fleeting puddles, and Nene saw more than one alcove with the entwined forms of sated bodies. 

He hauled her through the dining hall, whispers rising as the few demons who happened to be awake caught sight of them. Painted mouths disappeared behind razor-tipped nails as she knew they began to gossip, and more than one pair of hungry, hooded eyes raked over her form, leaving her feeling filthy. 

Nene tried to remember the twists and turns he took so she could attempt an escape, but when they passed the same low table with a couple half-concealed beneath it again, she knew he had purposely misled her.

Each path was more confusing than the last, some with high, vaulted ceilings that the light could not illuminate, and others with low curving beams that pulled the shadows close enough to touch. 

And the paintings! Nene could look nowhere and find a patch of wall that was not hung with obscenities. Even what she assumed were flowers, painted in soft brush strokes, resembled a part of her own anatomy that the demon's hand was much too close to.

He took them down a long hallway, the doors at the beginning doing little to conceal the moans and cries of the pleasure-seekers within. She flushed and tried to raise her hands to cover her ears to block out the sounds, but the tail held her fast. 

They turned again, and this hallway was silent but for the echo of his footsteps. His hand stroked from the curve of her waist to the back of her knee before he kicked a door open. 

Nene watched with increasing panic as the heavy wooden doors fell shut behind them, lock sliding into place as her heart sank. She was trapped, completely and utterly. 

She had no time to admire the room, richly decorated in swathes of black and red satin as the demon fisted his hand in the back of her dress and dumped her onto a bed.

It took her a second, as she was consumed by tangled scarlet silk and plush pillows as dark as a raven's wing, that she was not in just any bedroom, tumbled onto a sinfully soft bed. 

Nene was sprawled across the sheets in the bed that belonged to the Lord of Lust, locked in this den of depravity and debauchery. 

She watched with horror as he set a knee to the bed and dragged her closer, pinning her beneath his lithe form as she tried to get away, even though she knew it was useless. His mouth nipped at her throat, tongue sliding up her skin before he sucked a bruise into the tender flesh as he groaned. 

"You taste like innocence and divinity. And I am going to enjoy corrupting you."

He shoved her knees apart and settled against her, and before he could side his hand from her waist to her breast or between her legs, Nene threw her arms against his chest with a cry. 

She wasn't sure who was more surprised as he was tossed back, his black eyes lightening to amber as they both watched the pale gold band form around his tail. She scrambled from beneath him, not getting far before he hooked his hand around her chubby ankle. 

He didn’t draw her back to him, which she found odd, but he seemed more preoccupied with the sharp flicks he made to try and fling the ring off. The swing of it was rather hypnotic, and Nene gasped as his claws bit into her skin as he yanked her down the bed. 

She drew her knees up as he loomed over her, and she watched as his eyes flickered rapidly over her face, as if there was something hidden in her own gaze that would explain what had happened. His mouth split into a wicked smile and he hauled her up, locking one arm around her as she thrashed in his hold as he snapped his fingers. 

Seconds later, three scantily clad demonesses hurried through the door, all wearing the same outfit of a black and white maids uniform, and dipped into deep curtsies. Nene paled as he shoved her forward; the tallest demoness, who had ripped the front of her blouse so that her very generous bust could be seen through the heart shape, caught her by the arm before she could hit the floor. 

“Dress our little Angel in her new uniform; she’ll be joining you in your duties starting today.”

Nene whipped her head around as another of the demoness’ hurried away, the ruffles of her dress barely touching the top of her thighs. He couldn’t really mean to put her in something so revealing, but the sly smile as their eyes met showed that he absolutely did. 

She shrieked as the demons pulled at her uniform, trying to bat their hands away to no avail. The taller one unsnapped the buttons on her collar as the other pulled her sash free, and she could do nothing as the third came back with her arms full of fabric. 

They stripped her quickly and efficiently, though their touch lingered on her skin like a burn. She clung to her thin shift as they tried to pull it off, even as they knocked her off balance to remove her sandals. They couldn’t take her shift, she’d be naked; no one had ever seen her naked. The demoness caught her hands in a bruising grip and bunched the fabric in her free hand.

“Let her keep it.”

They all froze, turning to the Demon Lord reclining on his bed. His grin was as filthy as it was seductive, and Nene tried to draw her hands down to cover herself as his eyes raked over her, his tail flicking lazily against his thigh. She may as well have been completely bare before him with the way his gaze smoldered. 

“Yes, M’Lord.”

She didn’t struggle as they pulled the fabric over her head and harshly tugged her braids free of the collar, didn’t comment as they shoved her into the neat black shoes, muffled a gasp as they tied the bow of her apron with enough force to nearly drive the air from her lungs.

The demons hurried out as he snapped his fingers, one poking back in briefly to drop a mop, broom, and bucket inside the door with a cruel grin before it closed behind her. Nene kept her eyes shut as he crossed the room and curled his hands around her hips. 

There was nothing she could do as he twisted her from side to side and then turned her, trailing his claws across her belly as he pressed his face into her hair. She could feel the curve of his smile against the shell of her ear before he pulled away.

“You might as well look, my little Angel. You’ll be seeing yourself in it for the foreseeable future. Unless you’d like to clean in the nude.”

Nene snapped her eyes open as heat flooded her cheeks, and was surprised to find herself in a uniform that, while still inappropriate, covered much more than she was expecting. The puffed black sleeves left her arms bare, and the dark ruffles of her skirt at least came to her knees. It was actually cute, with the frilled overskirt and pink and white heart over her chest. 

“By the grace of providence we had one in your size.”

She glared at him as he chuckled as he floated behind her, magicing the bucket, mop, and broom into her hands. Providence, as if; more like limitless lechery, she thought as he adjusted her headband. She truly was stuck here, this wasn’t just an elaborate nightmare. 

Nene jumped with a scream as his hand smacked her bottom, cleaning supplies flying as he caught her up in his arms. That damned tail wound around her leg as if it had a mind of its own as he pinned her hands to his chest so he could twirl the ring around her finger. 

“And, my little Angel; a few more things.”

He bent her nearly backward as he slid his knee between her own, the tension in her spine the only thing keeping her from sprawling back over the bed. The ring on her finger seemed to burn with the same intensity as the one tapping against her thigh.

“You will be my personal attendant; you will wake me, bring me meals if I do not dine in the hall. When I do dine in the hall, you shall serve me. Ah ah, I’m not finished,” his finger pressed against her lips to silence her protests, “You will help me bathe, and dress, and cater to any of my whims.”

His hand slid down her back to cup her bottom and bring her hips flush to his. The hard lines of his body settled against the soft curves of her own with a familiarity that made her flush. 

“And I shall allow you to keep your innocence; for now.”

The press of him to the intimate place between her thighs made her whimper and tremble, and he only smirked. 

“Also, you shall address me as “My Lord” or “Master” when you speak to me; is that clear, my Angel?”

Nene dipped her head and mumbled as he shifted against her, his tail tightening around her thigh like a demonic garter. 

“I didn’t hear you, Angel.”

She lifted her head, meeting those blazing eyes with her own as she curled her nails into his chest and watched him wince. 

“Yes, Master.”

He dipped his head, mouth a breath from hers as he pressed their bodies closer together. Heat flooded her at every point they met, and she let her eyes flicker down to his lips worriedly.

“Good girl.”

And then he was gone. 

Nene sank onto the edge of the bed as he swept his hand out and the cleaning supplies disappeared with the spilled water. He pulled open the door of his room and gestured into the hall.

“Come along, unless you wish for me to take you now.”

She shot up from the bed and hurried to the entrance, shuttering as he laid his hand on the small of her back to guide her. 

“You have much to see before you help me tonight, and I don’t tolerate tardiness.”

Nene felt despair sink into her soul as he led her back down those twisting halls. There were more demons now, peeking from doorways and corners as they headed to the servants quarters. Eyes followed her every step, and the whispers hung in the air like a death sentence. 

The Lord of Lust had an Angel for a plaything, and wouldn’t he have fun with her? 

Her master’s hand slid lower as his tail lashed against her with every step, and she bit back her tears. This was her own fault, she had gotten herself into this mess. And she would have to be the one to get herself out. There would be no Divine Intervention to save her; the Angels did not listen to the cries that rose from Hell. 

If Nene wanted to escape, she’d have to do it herself.

And @anubis-005 Thank you SOOO much for this again! It is, as always, an honor and pleasure to work with you!!! <3 :3

[justimajin]

Til Death Do Us Part ♜ Pt.5

➟ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

➟ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut

↳ (4.5k), Arranged Marriage AU

➟ Summary: If someone told you that you’d be marrying the Kim Namjoon, you would think you were being lied to, or worse, that you were hallucinating. However, fate seems to have it’s own ways of making the impossible possible and before you even know it, the title of Mrs. Kim is bestowed onto you. There’s just one problem: you’re not sure if Kim Namjoon is the person he says he is and the truth of your own identity is dangling by the strength of a mere thread.

➟ Warnings: 18+ rating, nightmare depictions, discussions surrounding death 

gif credit.

➟ Previous Parts: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

➟ Next Update: Tuesday, January 19 

The room is pitch black. 

Your feet are submerged within a pool of translucent water, a light breeze nipping at your features. Taking a cautious step ahead, your eyes hesitantly glance around. 

“Hello?” You call out, your voice morphing into an echo that faintly bounces off the walls. You turn to look behind you with no avail, “Hello?” 

Silence greets you once again. A deep frown marrs your features as goosebumps begin to rise on your skin. Your hand comes up to hug your cold arm, and it leaves a red handprint in his stead. 

You involuntarily flinch at the sight, but that’s when your eyes narrow below you and you finally notice the water contaminating with red.  

Nearly stumbling back, it splatters all over your pearl dress, drenching it within moments. No matter how much you splash around and kick it away, it caresses your feet, like a hand clasping onto your limb. 

“W-What?” Your breathing grows thin, a hard knot constricting around your throat. A flash of red passes by the corner of your eyes, and your gaze snaps up, only to be struck by horror. 

Taehyung is clad in the colour, his back facing you. Although you can’t catch a glimpse of his face, the eerie feeling curling in the pit of your stomach is telling enough. 

“T-Taehyung…?” He doesn’t turn to face you, but you still plead, “W-Where am I?” 

“Why are you asking him?”

You whirl around in an instant, knees on the verge of giving out. 

Eunjoo stands before you in the sea of crimson, but unlike you who's been tangled in it, she’s completely drenched. There’s a familiar butter knife in her hands and you dryly swallow, chest tightening. 

She reaches out, as if wanting to hand you the knife. You viciously shake your head, your trembling hands raising in defense. 

That’s when you catch sight of them, eyes transfixing on the drenched nightmare in the flesh. 

“No….” You whisper, desperately attempting to rub away the scarlet residue from your hands. It clings uncomfortably close and despite all your efforts, it’s tainted your skin permanently. 

“N-No, please…..” An overflow of tears accumulate in your eyes, voice cracking. You glance up petrified, orbs practically begging for help. 

Eunjoo stares back at you with hollow pupils, disappointment crossing her features. 

Your body quivers in fear as the scarlet begins to only spread, bleeding through your skin and consuming you entirely. 

Eyes flashing open, you wake up in bed with a sharp gasp. Your chest is heaving, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat uncomfortably clinging to your body. Placing a heavy hand over your racing heart, your irises carefully roam around, dawning upon you that you were simply in your bedroom and not on the verge of drowning. 

You swallow hard as your trembling hand fists the material of your shirt. You wonder how many times it’s been now, how many times those images have managed to enter your head and threatened to split it in half; a familiar wretched scent wafting through the air as sanguine hands ultimately tug you back. 

Slowly sliding off the bed, you wipe away the excess water that’s collecting in the corner of your eyes, and dart your vision over to the large couch in the corner of the room. 

Eyes shut and arms loosely crossed, Namjoon carries a peaceful smile on his lips through his unconsciousness. It contradicts the horror that’s been replaying in your head, keeping you awake even in pitch black and willing to drive you insane. A tired sigh passes by the seam of your lips, gripping the sheets underneath you as your brows snap together. 

Despite your desperate attempts, you’re not even granted a lick of sleep during that night. 

***

Time is an illusion. 

It would pass slowly within the walls of the Kim household ‒ that much you knew ‒ but now it was playing with you, deluding your thoughts into thinking that the loss of it was natural when in fact, you can’t even recall the last time you’ve gotten a decent night of rest. 

The days flow by too quickly. The nights take too long to end. And you are dangling in between them, waiting for the nightmare to be over. 

A low yawn leaves Namjoon’s lips, and he forces himself up with a grunt, rubbing his parched throat in dismay. Rising from his makeshift bed, he nearly stumbles in his attempt to leave the room, hoping to retrieve something to ease his thirst. 

That’s when he hears it, so faint but enough for his keen ears to pick up on. 

He spins around with a frown, tired eyes suddenly widening at the sight of you twisting around and convulsing in bed. 

Approaching cautiously, he notices the way your shoulders are quivering and the deep breaths that escape your lips by the minute, almost as if your lungs were on the verge of giving up. 

Namjoon lowers himself onto the bed, whispering in a soft tone, “Y/N…” 

You continue to shift around, sweat forming at your temples. Namjoon places a hand against your shoulder, gently shaking you. 

“Y/N….” Your breathing abruptly escalates, and he tries again, this time quicker, “Y/N‒” 

You suddenly grab onto him and Namjoon jolts back, eyes completely awake. Fisting the material of his shirt within your hands, a handful of broken words leaves your lips. 

“P-Please….” Voice wavering, water begins to form within the corners of your shut eyes, “Please....j-just leave me alone.…” 

“Please….” You plead again. Namjoon takes your hand that has a hold of him and carefully loosens your grip. However the moment he does, you nearly slump down into arms, appearing exhausted beyond belief. 

A deep crease resides between his brows, and he peers behind him, staring at the bedroom door. After a prolonged pause, he turns back to you, a pang of distress beginning to spread through his irises. 

With a swift tug, your blanket is raised, and it’s not long before he nestles himself in, keeping his arms wrapped around your quivering form. Your head rests against his chest, faintly hearing the soft rhythmical beats of his heart. 

Gazing at you once more, Namjoon places his head against the pillow and closes his eyes, plunging into a deep sleep. 

***

As if caught up in the middle of a daze, you wake up the next morning with empty irises and a pale complexion. You barely pay any attention to how the blanket covering you has been ruffled and messy, or how there’s a  light layer of warmth that emits from only one side of the bed. 

You spend the rest of dawn aimlessly eating breakfast, something you quickly scraped together. Lingering in the kitchen for too long has your hands trembling, so you opt out for taking your meal in your bedroom as familiar whispers echo around you. 

You’re in the midst of consuming your food when the door creaks open. The sound of light footsteps, shuffling cautiously against the ground doesn’t instantly register with your ears and it’s only at the second call of your name with a jerk to your shoulder that you jolt. 

The food splatters onto the ground, creating a mess that ultimately breaks you out of your stupor. 

“O-Oh, my bad.” A light chuckle leaves you, but it’s too strained. “I-I’ll clean up.” 

You aimlessly glance around, all while Namjoon’s gaze doesn’t leave you once. There’s something indecipherable brewing in his eyes as he remains kneeling in place, before he rises immediately, striding over to you. 

His hand clasps around your wrist, halting your actions.

“Leave it.” 

You peer at him puzzled, but it doesn’t take him another second to intertwine his fingers within yours, heading towards the door. Reluctantly following behind him, you nearly stumble when he swings by one particular corridor, before reaching a certain door. 

It’s one you recognize right away, one that offers a gush of wind when it’s opened, an ocean of flowers welcoming you instantly. 

The scenery draws perplexment out of you, yet the open breeze spawns effortless air into your lungs, making you almost feel like you can finally breathe again. Your eyelids are on the verge of fluttering close as your shoulders drop, but you keep them astray once a lingering question conjures in your thoughts ‒ the very reason you’re here. 

Whirling around with furrowed brows, you’re taken aback by Namjoon’s heavy gaze, wide eyes recognizing the scrutinizing manner his orbs take up. 

You flush from the immediate attention, “W-Why did you bring me here?” 

Cautiously peering up, you’re baffled at how something seems to ease within his irises, the familiar warmth you were accustomed to spreading through. 

“You looked like you needed some fresh air.” 

You tilt your head to the side with a frown from the comment, wondering why he would have such a thought.

A deep silence washes over, the sound of the wind simply echoing as you peer above the sky and Namjoon surveys the flowers beneath his shoes. You’re not quite sure if you should say something in rebuttal or as a counteract, but you don’t ponder over it for long.

Namjoon is the first to clear his throat, disrupting the lack of words. 

“Why….” His voice is low, close to a whisper, “Why don’t you go back?”

Your head snaps around to face him, eyes wide, “W-What?” 

He clarifies, louder this time, “Why don’t you go back home?” 

“I-I….” You struggle for an answer, one question only spilling, “Why?” 

For a moment, Namjoon hesitates. You catch onto it right away, the reluctance evident on his features. 

“The burden of my future rests on your shoulders because of our marriage…” 

He sucks in a sharp inhale and at this point, your heart is beginning to viciously thud against your ribcage. It worsens when Namjoon abruptly glances up, staring at you flat in the eyes. 

“And you don’t seem to be happy.” It’s not an observation, but a mere fact. 

“I‒….” 

“Think about it. For as long as you want. And if‒” 

There’s an ocean of distraught lingering in his pupils, “And if there’s a need to divorce..... Then let me know.” 

His brows knit together, and his jaw tenses, lips settling into a firm line. He appears to be patiently waiting, waiting for you to speak up about your thoughts. 

You dip into a brief silence before answering and when you do, your voice cracks. 

“I-I can’t go back…” 

Namjoon’s brows shoot up, “What?” 

A somber smile surfaces on you, “My parents, my family,” You quickly clarify, “They won’t let me come back.” 

Namjoon still looks just as baffled, “What? But how can they‒” A lightbulb immediately goes off in his mind, voice falling into a whisper, “The union….”

You robotically nod and it finally dawns to him that what has occurred between the two of you isn’t a simple marriage. 

It is a union of two families ‒ two families that would have otherwise been at each other’s necks hadn’t it been for some type of peace offering. 

And if you were to go back, it would mean the delicacy holding this union together would ultimately crumble, creating chaos unlike no other. 

Namjoon scowls as he spits out the cutting words. 

“Of course it’s about the union at the end of the day.” 

The sudden change in his tone results in your head snapping up, a gasp nearly leaving your lips. Namjoon meets your gaze, suddenly very aware of your eyes on him. 

“Do you remember how you told my parents the reason that you didn’t want to get involved in your father’s business?” You nod at the abrupt inquiry, and Namjoon sighs, a bitter smile lining his lips, “I don’t think I ever told you the reason why I got involved.” 

Namjoon chuckles at your instant curiosity, “You’d be surprised, it’s quite on par with the reasoning behind our marriage.” 

“When I first found out about my family’s business, from my father, my view of it was similar to yours,” He gestures to you, “Indifferent, apathetic, but at the end of the day, what I thought didn’t really matter.”

“I sort of fell into it initially,” He explains, “Some of it because of interest, some of it because of skill, but a lot of it was because of obligation.”

Your eyes meet his silently. 

“I was given the title of heir even though I just wanted to help out my family, an opinion I still believe to be my first mistake.” 

“They’ve convinced me that this business needs me to survive and prosper, but ultimately,” He laughs, but it isn’t out of amusement, “I'm just a tool.”

Your heart rate nearly stops, breathing stilling completely. 

Namjoon peers in your direction and you attempt to paint an attentive expression onto your features, but it’s harder to do so this time around. 

Instead, there’s a certain anguish in your eyes that reflect his own, almost as if he were gazing into a mirror. 

As the breeze picks up, he eventually leads you away from the garden once you’ve had your ample intake of fresh air. Heading back into the house, you silently follow behind, sight glued to his back.

In the midst of your hushed trailing, the words vividly return back to you. 

"You're a tool now, Y/N. From here on, you must follow our every instruction and order."

***

Namjoon stands outside of your bedroom door, patiently waiting for you to finish walking up the stairs. The moment you’re on the same ground level as him, he warmly smiles. 

“I have to head work now, urgent duty calls….” 

You solemnly nod, “‒But I’ll be back before night falls, in case y-you know....uh, you need me….”

Your eyes instantly light up, like a deer caught up in headlights. Namjoon teeter totters from side to side, a rapid flush suddenly rising onto his skin. You ponder over its cause, but the thought immediately dissipates once he cups your cheek with his hand. 

If your eyes were wide before, then they were tremendously wide now. 

Namjoon leans forward, pressing a soft kiss right at the centre of your forehead. You are completely frozen during the interaction, mouth falling agape as he takes a step back. 

You’re once again his mirror, but alongside the rapid hue of scarlet dusting on your cheeks, you have the addition of your skin tingling from the contact, breaths becoming caught within your throat.

His flush has deepened considerably, and he laughs, as if trying to ward off any lingering embarrassment. He lingers for a moment, like he was debating on whether or not to leave, before ultimately remembering that he was supposed to be at work soon. 

As Namjoon departs, your vision remains on his back, following his descent down the stairs. Once he’s clearly gone, you spin around, hands finding the steel knob of your bedroom’s door. 

You freeze for a moment, staring down at the door handle for what seems like an eternity. Reaching up, your other hand softly touches the tip of your forehead, right where his lips brushed across. 

For some strange reason, it’s like someone had released a bundle of butterflies and they were all fluttering around in the pit of your stomach. 

***

The room is murky, a large shadow casting itself over the lavish bed. Soft knocks resonate from one particular corner, the plastic container balancing within your hands as you remain crouched down in position. 

You patiently wait for a moment, the correspondence going silent. An exhausted sigh escapes your lips, legs beginning to slump down and spread out across the ground. 

There no longer seems to be a spark of urgency in your actions anymore, obligation taking over more than necessary. You wonder if it’s because you’re simply tired, tired of running away from a nightmare that has become your reality. 

For a brief moment, your head comfortably lulls back against the wall and you allow your eyes to flutter shut. 

Static echoes immediately. 

You jolt up in alarm, vision dazed until it lands upon the box. You lift it in your hands, freezing for a moment. 

Be on guard. 

The corner of your mouth twitches and you unplug the cord within an instant. The static dies out and you bring your knees closer to your head, fisting your dangling locks with your hands. 

Although the words seem to carry concern and distress, you know you’re not far too naive to understand the underlying implication. 

You need a plan. 

But the problem is your mind is completely void of anything. Clouds have overtaken the place where there should be buzzing electricity, the task being as easy as knowing the back of your palm. 

For a split second ‒ you ponder if you actually have it in you to figure something out to get back on track. 

Fisting your hands into balls, you slowly rise from the ground, taking a second glance at the container before packing it away. A heavy exhale escaping your lips, the dismay rooting deep in your eyes. 

***

You slide down the layering staircase, the mute atmosphere of the residence making you fidget your hands around. Vision landing onto a nearby window, you peer outside, noticing the white flowers getting drenched by the heavy rain. You sight lands beneath them, pools of translucent water beginning to slowly collect. 

You avert your eyes immediately, hands slightly quivering. A shaky deep breath escapes and your lips press into a tight line, down-turning into a frown. 

The front door comes slamming open. 

You spin around, shoulders instantly spike up and a hand pressing against your chest. Namjoon stands before you, nearly drenched from the downpour outside. 

However, that’s not where your sight lands. It’s the frightful expression he holds that draws your attention more. 

Swallowing hard, you take careful steps towards him.  

“Y-Y/N…” His hands latch onto your arms right away, eyes rapidly flickering. 

You tilt your head to the side, appearing as puzzled as you can. Yet that’s easier said than done, and you hope Namjoon doesn’t notice the way your hands are trembling and how stiff your shoulders have become. 

 “I-I…..” 

You faintly touch his shoulder, “Namjoon, what is it?” 

Namjoon’s gaze meets yours and you hold your breath, attempting to brace yourself as much as possible. 

“....Taehyung’s been killed.” 

Your heart rate shoots up to an alarming rate, and you fight back the urge to cower away from him. There’s no excuse for you to be reacting this way since after all, the information he presents isn’t new knowledge at all. 

You’ve been waiting for this. 

Eunjoo has been reported missing, and Taehyung is nowhere to be found either. 

The latter was presumed to be occupied with business, on an urgent trip of some sorts that led to his absence. 

But you know that such a tale can’t be woven with evidence. 

The next question that sits on the tip of your tongue makes your heart want to burst, yet it has to be asked regardless. 

“W-Who would do such a thing?” 

“I’m not too sure.” He presses a hand against his temples, “They found the corpse nearby here, but it was barely identifiable...almost like he was set aflame.” 

You swallow hard. 

Namjoon deeply sighs, shaking his head, “An investigation has opened up so hopefully we’ll be able to find out soon.” 

You visibly relax, shoulders slumping down. There’s a crease between his brows, and he appears lost in thought as you glance at him in confusion. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“It’s nothing, just‒” He shrugs and fumbles around, “Eunjoo went missing around the same time Taehyung was killed, so I’m just wondering if there’s a possibility of the two instances being connected.” 

Your eyes immensely enlarge as you morph into a block of ice, pupils fixated on Namjoon. He was an extremely keen thinker based on his profile and you wonder if that particular trait of his was going to ultimately be the one following your downfall. 

Namjoon turns to you, “That brings me to another matter‒what do you think about hiring someone to replace Eunjoo for the time being?” 

“H-Huh?” You blink, noticing him waiting for your response. A hard knot is starting to restrict around your throat and the longer you stand beside him, the more your chest has begun to painfully tighten. “Uh, sure‒yes, that’s a good idea.” 

Namjoon nods with a smile, patting your shoulder before heading into a room on the ground level. The moment he’s out of sight, you escape right away, entering your bedroom within seconds. 

Once the door is tightly locked behind you, your trembling hands reach out to cover your face. Hot tears roll down your flushed skin, your knees giving in as you slide down the wall, collapsing against the wall. 

***

Sunshine floods into the house past the curtains, a bright piercing light that only seems to sting at your swollen eyes. You descend slowly down the stairs, careful not to succumb down to fatigue and stumble on your way down. 

The moment you reach the bottom, your eyes widen and transfix with horror. 

Namjoon is seated on a couch, the remaining three shareholders surrounding them. They seem to be in some sort of deep conversation until Namjoon catches sight of you, a warm look residing within his eyes. 

“Did you sleep well?” He wonders as you draw near, pupils sweeping through the shareholders expressions. They hold an air of both distraught and somberness, but there’s something brewing underneath that nearly has you staggering back. 

Anger. 

Motionlessly, you nod in response and Namjoon gestures for you to sit down with him. No one speaks a word against him for your inclusion and for a moment, you wonder if it’s worse to have it that way. 

“Taehyung left during the night after you returned from escorting Y/N to your driver.” There’s a sheet of paper in front of Yoongi, containing a range of scribbles and bullet points that have obstructed circles and multiple question marks around them. It gives you an inkling to the conversation that was being held before you entered, unease stirring within the pit of your stomach. 

“He had a gun with him.” Hoseok explains, brows intensely furrowed as his eyes scrutinize all over the notes, “Or at least, that’s what the servants at his mansion said.” 

“Why on earth would he need a gun?” Yoongi whispers, shaking his head at the information. You uncomfortably shift in your seat, hands beginning to fist the soft cloth of your skirt. 

“Do you think it’s because he thought someone might try to kill him?” Jungkook immediately says, glancing back and forth with wide eyes. 

“Or maybe because he needed to kill someone.” Namjoon darkly retorts, locking eyes with Yoongi in an instant. Something sparks within his irises, and he rapidly scribbles down on the sheet of paper. 

It’s almost like someone has wrapped their hands around your throat, cutting off your air supply with every word they pronounce. You attempt to keep a face of naivety and confusion on, acting more like an innocent doll than anything. 

Yet there’s murmurs of your hands tightening on instinct, or the way your eyes can’t help but dart around manically ‒ simple things that glitch out the more you try to repress them. 

As Namjoon and Yoongi ponder over if Taehyung has made any new enemies recently, you decide it would be best to look for a route of the situation, something meek that you can excuse yourself with and that Namjoon wouldn’t even bat an eyelash over. However that’s when your eyes come into contact with foreign ones, and the glitches are on the verge of magnifying by tenfold. 

There’s a face before you that you haven’t encountered beyond, round with a wise smile and eyes kind that reflect the desire to be useful more than anything. Your breath grows thin within an instant and the urge to stagger away hits you. 

“Did you want something to eat, Miss Y/N?” She tilts her head to the side, humbly offering her services. “I can make some tea with tarts for you if you’d like.” 

The fabric beneath your fingers is tightened until your knuckles turn white and you remain frozen, simply staring at her as if her words made no sense. 

Hoseok suddenly speaks to Namjoon and the sound of their interaction jolts you back, mind running in alarm as you hurriedly rise from your seat. 

There’s a bittersweet smile on your lips, “No thank you, I should be fine.” 

She nods understanding and then bows, but you easily catch the look of distress she holds from your refusal. You pay her no mind as you scramble away, heading straight into your room. 

From afar, you notice the look in the corner of Namjoon’s eyes as you scurry away, a linger of concern painfully radiating in his irises. 

***

Namjoon has completely lost track of time. 

He can’t recall moments his mind wasn’t preoccupied with Taehyung’s investigation, the reminder of the day sending him through a loop as he constantly tried to come up with conclusions with Yoongi, Hoseok and Jungkook. Even when he offered to temporarily halt their actions and look at the case with fresh eyes later, his suggestion was shot down and refused nonetheless. 

He pinches his eyes together with his fingers, a deep sigh slipping out from the seams of his lips. Blinking a couple of times, his sight lands on the door to your shared bedroom, thoughts immediately arising about you. 

He hasn’t seen you all day, and the new maid tells him that you’ve been in your room for hours since he encountered you this morning. The news about the entire mayhem is already too much for him, so he can’t help but wonder what’s swirling in your mind about it. 

Entering the room carefully, he already notices you lying asleep on the bed as he quietly heads towards the couch, prepared to collapse down at any second. 

The sound of sheets ruffling immediately catches on to his keen ears. 

His head snaps up, gaze landing on your shaking form. Drawing closer, he notices the sheets have been considerably tousled, and that your breathing is coming out alarmingly erratic, as if you were struggling to breath. 

Namjoon doesn’t hesitate to occupy the side of the bed opposite to you, his arms wrapping around your form like it was second nature to him. However in the midst of his actions, he doesn’t notice that your eyes have fluttered open, freshly awake from the ongoing nightmare. 

To his complete surprise, you roll over and tug him closer. 

[cucuxumusu]

@gizaart you started this. @the-bitchking-of-angmar thanks for the recs.

"Have you done this before, Kurosaki?" Grimmjow asked, his big body hovering over Ichigo and trapping him against the bed. Ichigo frowned, his face felt burning, his whole-body pulsing with nerves. This was bad. They shouldn't be doing this, after all he was still a shinigami and Grimmjow a hollow. They shouldn't get involved in this kind of way...or in any kind of way. "That's none of your business?" He snapped way too defensive to even his own ears. It made Grimmjow smile. The crazy smile that showed too many teeth. He lowered his face even closer to Ichigo making him even more tense and uncomfortable. He was already straddling Ichigo's body on hands and knees, did he really need to get any closer? "So that's a no." The espada concluded amused. Ichigo wanted to punch him. Hard. Right in his knowing smirking face. Of course he had never touched himself. There had been wars, and rescue missions and then even more wars. He knew it was normal for teenagers to do this kind of thing, but he had never had the time nor the privacy. Dear god, Rukia had been living in his closet until a week ago.

The way Grimmjow was looking at him however was making it seem like a sacrilege, as if he was missing something fundamental. He pushed himself a bit up the bed, trying to get away from the looming Espada and the weird feeling of betrayal he was having. Grimmjow however only followed him right up not letting him escape even an inch from under him. He had found him right as Ichigo was about to go to sleep and the weird conversation had begun. It was ridiculous. He turned to snap at him once more so he would leave him alone, but the other spoke first. "Do it." Grimmjow said, his eyes tracking Ichigo with way too much intensity for just a joke. "Jerk yourself." "What?!" Ichigo said, his face again burning even hotter. "Of course not!" "I will teach you." Grimmjow said as it that explained everything. "I don't need any teaching!" He snarled. This was getting out of control. Grimmjow however didn't let go, he just leaned down even more into his personal space, his body hovering over his as Ichigo laid down even further into the mattress. He was all muscle and heat and raw power. A tingling sensation spread over Ichigo's body, his heart rate increased in his own ears. Fuck. He looked away mortified. Why this happened to him? "Don't you?" Grimmjow again taunted. "And what does a virgin know?" Ichigo bit his lip. This was a bad idea, a very very bad idea. He should punch the asshole unconscious and return to bed. "C'mon, Ichigo. Do it, Ichigo." The other repeated, his voice growing softer, almost a rumble. Ichigo's trembling hands lowered to his own pants. He was wearing nothing fancy, just a pair of pyjama pants and an old shit, but suddenly it seemed as if he was naked under Grimmjow's sharp gaze. Blood pounded on his ears, his face flaming as he slipped a hand into his pants and gripped his cock. He closed his eyes, not daring look at Grimmjow like this. "Good." the other purred against his mouth however still with that soft tone. "Now move it up and down, Ichigo, you know how. Yeah. Not that fast. Savour it." Ichigo trembled under the instructions. He knew in general how this was supposed to be done, but Grimmjow was right, he had never ever attempted it or even wondered about it. His mind had always been elsewhere to indulge in this kind of fantasy. He stroked himself. Slow like Grimmjow had said. His fingers gripping loosely around his hot dick and moving in an even rhythm that tented his pants. Up to the round tip, and down to his navel. Again and again. The tingling increased all over his body, his stomach muscles tensed, and he spread his legs a bit apart under Grimmjow so he could have a bit more space. "L-like this?" He said mortified. "Yeah." Grimmjow hovered over him, his elbows beside Ichigo's head and his knees bracketing his own. His weight moved over the bed for a second, changing position as if he wanted to see this better. But he never touched him.

Ichigo could just feel his breath on his neck -calm compared to Ichigo's own-, or the heat his body pulled off above him. It kept distracting him and making the tingling worse, and his skin clammy.

"How does it feel, Ichigo? Any good?" Grimmjow whispered against his neck.

"I...I don't know." he answered truthfully. The tingling was increasing, but he didn't know if that was what he was supposed to feel. "It just feels weird."

He moved on the bed, pulling his head back on the bed, and showing his neck to Grimmjow in an unconscious move.

Grimmjow snarled harsh and loudly. Ichigo flinched and opened his eyes surprised. His dick twitched and hardened in his hand suddenly. He swallowed. Oh dear.

"Harder." Grimmjow said between clenched teeth. "Grip yourself harder. And move faster."

He doubted. "But you said…"

"I know what I said, now do it!"

Ichigo frowned at the tone but obeyed. He closed his fist more firmly around himself, and then he moved it faster, pumping himself quickly. And as if summoned by magic pleasure surged all over him. He bit his lip again to contain his sudden gasps as his whole body tensed. His hips begun to move on their own, trusting shyly up into his own fist despite his best effort to keep still.

This was weird, it felt different than before, more intense and good, something begun building in his lower back, the tension increasing. He looked at himself, at his own hand touching himself under Grimmjow's gaze, at the obscene moves and his own sound and almost moaned.

"Yeah, that's it Kurosaki, hard and fast, just as I know you will love." Grimmjow sneered against his mouth, making him feel even dirtier. "Keep on, trust your instincts, you are doing so well."

Something wet dripped from the tip of his cock, helping the whole process, making his moves slicker and easier. Maybe this was an orgasm. Following Grimmjow's words he gripped himself harder, almost painfully, as he desperately wanted and kept going. He moaned this time. Closing his eyes and finally pulling his cock out of his restricting pants to make this easier.

Grimmjow again growled.

He opened his eyes and found a vibrant blue staring right at what he was doing. This was so dirty. So wrong. Yet he couldn't even feel embarrassed this time as he kept on pumping himself, he felt...there was too much...something was coming, but he didn't know if it was what he wanted, it kept on building and building in his belly, and he didn't know what to do.

"Grimmjow…" he whispered, panicking.

"Use your other hand too." the other instructed, as if reading his mind.

Ichigo's body moved on its own. He whimpered as his other hand joined the first making the friction increase to perfection, the tightness, the pace, this felt so fucking good. How had he missed this? His body arched against the mattress, almost pleading under Grimmjow, and he sobbed trying to contain it all, trying to understand all that pleasure.

"Fuck god, Kurosaki, if you are like this just with..." the other cursed above him, his eyes kept roaming over him with something dangerous in them something that made his cock twitch even more.

"Please," he called again, needing a moment, needing to stop, but not daring pull his hands away should this end. "just…"

"Yes?" Grimmjow said again, moving until he hovered over his exposed face. Still not touching him in the least. Why wasn't he touching him? "What does your body want, Kurosaki? How does it feel?" "It...it feels good." he said. "Are you enjoying touching yourself?" "Yes." A smirk. "How much?" "A lot." he confessed shamelessly, thrashing on the bed a little. "I love it. Just, please...something is...I don't..." Grimmjow chuckled mockingly, lowering his face to his neck. His breath hovered so close to his heated skin it was causing him chills. "Reaching an orgasm so fast?" "No, I.." "It's okay, you have done pretty well," Grimmjow grumbled. "Now let go, and come for me, Ichigo." And he bit him.

Hard and deep, drawing blood from his neck. Ichigo saw white. The pleasure and pain mixing into something cataclysmic. The tension that had been mounting snapped, and he felt something wet paint his hands once and then again. His toes curled on the sheets, his breath stopped in his throat.

He felt into the purest pleasure.

When he breathed again his body felt numb and lax. More relaxed than it had been in years. than it had ever been. He turned to look at Grimmjow feeling groggy, still confused.

"You bit me." He accused, and he probably should attend to the wound by its throbbing pain.

Grimmjow smiled. Smug. His eyes falling to that would for a second and seeming satisfied. Asshole. He was still hovering over him. Not having moved an inch since the beginning. As if he enjoyed crowding Ichigo's personal space, and staying there.

But after what had happened Ichigo just couldn't complain about proper social distance. Dear god, he had jerked off in front of Grimmjow. With his help.

"How was your first jerk off?" The Espada said, still smirking, digging deeper on the injury.

Ichigo wanted to punch him again mortified. He wanted to run away and hide from this man for a while. blackmail material, this was just blackmail material and it was all his fault.

Instead he just stared Grimmjow right in the eyes, and with a bored face, he rose his dirty hand and wiped himself clean on Grimmjow's face, over his mask and even on his hair. Served him right.

The other grew dead still above him, then rose a sarcastic eyebrow. "Kinky."

Ichigo turned scarlet. He should have punched him. Of course, he was a pervert. However, before he could do anything Grimmjow just lowered his head and kissed him.

And Ichigo had another mental breakdown just like that.

Grimmjow was kissing him. The sexta espada and one of his stronger enemies was kissing him after he had jerked off in front of him.

Holy shit!

Dumbfounded he tried to kiss back, pressing his lips against Grimmjow firmly, but before he could try much more, Grimmjow rose again with a frown.

"You haven't kissed much either, have you?"

Ichigo just stared at him speechless. And hot, and hella confused. He frowned out of spite. "Shut up."

Grimmjow smirked and lowering his head once more he nuzzled his nose and check with his own in a fond gesture. Ichigo again short circuited. Fond? Grimmjow? What was happening today?

"I wonder what else I could teach you today?" Grimmjow said against his mouth.

[aboveallarescuer]

Daenerys Targaryen's tropes - Rule of Three

Sometimes called trebling, the Rule of Three is a pattern used in stories and jokes, where part of the story is told three times, with minor variations. The first two instances build tension, and the third releases it by incorporating a twist.

Three is the smallest number required to create a pattern, so it's especially common in storytelling.The third of three siblings succeeds after their older siblings each failed. The protagonist is given three tests and receives the prize after the third. It's almost unusual to find a folktale that does not incorporate the Rule of Three in some form. This may be an artifact of the oral tradition, in which the stock formula of the first, second, and third attempts makes the story easier to remember.

[...] Sometimes, an event needs to be shown three times to establish that a variation to the norm is happening. The first time the audience sees this event, they see it happening a certain way, but they don't yet know that this is typical. The second time they see it, it is the same as the first. This establishes that this is the standard way that things always happen. The third time they see the event in question, it is different, so the audience knows that this is a deviation from the norm. 

Dany's story is deliberately filled with Rule of Three examples. This trope is so significant to her character that GRRM even had her acknowledge it:

Her bell rang softly, and Dany found her thoughts returning to the Palace of Dust once more, as the tongue returns to a space left by a missing tooth. Child of three, they had called her, daughter of death, slayer of lies, bride of fire. So many threes. Three fires, three mounts to ride, three treasons. (ACOK Daenerys V)

Examples where the third time breaks the norm

1) Dany was the third of three siblings and became/will become everything that they couldn't be - conqueror, queen and savior

Dany had only been conceived when Aegon and his sister were murdered. Their father, her brother Rhaegar, perished even earlier, slain by the Usurper on the Trident. Her brother Viserys had died screaming in Vaes Dothrak with a crown of molten gold upon his head. They will kill me too if I allow it. (ADWD Daenerys I)

2) Dany has three dragon dreams, with the third happening just before she births her dragons

There are no more dragons, Dany thought, staring at her brother, though she did not dare say it aloud.

Yet that night she dreamt of one. Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked, clumsy with fear. She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. He struck her again. She stumbled and fell. “You woke the dragon,” he screamed as he kicked her. “You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon.” Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon. It turned its great head slowly. When its molten eyes found hers, she woke, shaking and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. (AGOT Daenerys II)

~

Yet when she slept that night, she dreamt the dragon dream again. Viserys was not in it this time. There was only her and the dragon. Its scales were black as night, wet and slick with blood. Her blood, Dany sensed. Its eyes were pools of molten magma, and when it opened its mouth, the flame came roaring out in a hot jet. She could hear it singing to her, She opened her arms to the fire, embraced it, let it swallow her whole, let it cleanse her and temper her and scour her clean. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away, could feel her blood boil and turn to steam, and yet there was no pain. She felt strong and new and fierce. (AGOT Daenerys III)

~

Wings shadowed her fever dreams.


[...] Ghosts lined the hallway, dressed in the faded raiment of kings. In their hands were swords of pale fire. They had hair of silver and hair of gold and hair of platinum white, and their eyes were opal and amethyst, tourmaline and jade. “Faster,” they cried, “faster, faster.” She raced, her feet melting the stone wherever they touched. “Faster!” the ghosts cried as one, and she screamed and threw herself forward. A great knife of pain ripped down her back, and she felt her skin tear open and smelled the stench of burning blood and saw the shadow of wings. And Daenerys Targaryen flew.

“... wake the dragon ...”

The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings. She could smell home, she could see it, there, just beyond that door, green fields and great stone houses and arms to keep her warm, there. She threw open the door.

“... the dragon ...”

And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. “The last dragon,” Ser Jorah’s voice whispered faintly. “The last, the last.” Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own. (AGOT Daenerys IX)

3) Dany wakes up three times from fever dreams and gets up in the third attempt

She woke to the taste of ashes.


“No,” she moaned, “no, please.”


“Khaleesi?” Jhiqui hovered over her, a frightened doe. (AGOT Daenerys IX)

~

After a time—a night, a day, a year, she could not say—she woke again. The tent was dark, its silken walls flapping like wings when the wind gusted outside. This time Dany did not attempt to rise. (AGOT Daenerys IX)

~

When she woke the third time, a shaft of golden sunlight was pouring through the smoke hole of the tent, and her arms were wrapped around a dragon’s egg. It was the pale one, its scales the color of butter cream, veined with whorls of gold and bronze, and Dany could feel the heat of it. Beneath her bedsilks, a fine sheen of perspiration covered her bare skin. Dragondew, she thought. Her fingers trailed lightly across the surface of the shell, tracing the wisps of gold, and deep in the stone she felt something twist and stretch in response. It did not frighten her. All her fear was gone, burned away. (AGOT Daenerys IX)

4) Dany attempts to birth the dragons in three different ways: sleeping alongside the dragon eggs, putting them on a brazier and placing them on Drogo's funeral pyre. The third attempt works

“Please, bring me one of the dragon’s eggs.”

Irri fetched the egg with the deep green shell, bronze flecks shining amid its scales as she turned it in her small hands. Dany curled up on her side, pulling the sandsilk cloak across her and cradling the egg in the hollow between her swollen belly and small, tender breasts. She liked to hold them. They were so beautiful, and sometimes just being close to them made her feel stronger, braver, as if somehow she were drawing strength from the stone dragons locked inside.

She was lying there, holding the egg, when she felt the child move within her ... as if he were reaching out, brother to brother, blood to blood. “You are the dragon,” Dany whispered to him, “the true dragon. I know it. I know it.” And she smiled, and went to sleep dreaming of home. (AGOT Daenerys IV)

~

Was it madness that seized her then, born of fear? Or some strange wisdom buried in her blood? Dany could not have said. She heard her own voice saying, “Ser Jorah, light the brazier.” “Khaleesi?” The knight looked at her strangely. “It is so hot. Are you certain?” She had never been so certain. “Yes. I ... I have a chill. Light the brazier.”

He bowed. “As you command.”

When the coals were afire, Dany sent Ser Jorah from her. She had to be alone to do what she must do. This is madness, she told herself as she lifted the black-and-scarlet egg from the velvet. It will only crack and burn, and it’s so beautiful, Ser Jorah will call me a fool if I ruin it, and yet, and yet ...

Cradling the egg with both hands, she carried it to the fire and pushed it down amongst the burning coals. The black scales seemed to glow as they drank the heat. Flames licked against the stone with small red tongues. Dany placed the other two eggs beside the black one in the fire. As she stepped back from the brazier, the breath trembled in her throat.

She watched until the coals had turned to ashes. Drifting sparks floated up and out of the smokehole. Heat shimmered in waves around the dragon’s eggs. And that was all. (AGOT Daenerys VI)

~

She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but the brazier had not been hot enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought. Mirri Maz Duur had fallen silent. The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and children learn. (AGOT Daenerys X)

5) Dany births three dragons. She bonds with and rides the third one

She heard a crack, the sound of shattering stone. [...]

And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. [...]

Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.

The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world. (AGOT Daenerys X)

~

Daenerys Targaryen vaulted onto the dragon’s back, seized the spear, and ripped it out. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot, glowing. She flung it aside. Drogon twisted under her, his muscles rippling as he gathered his strength. The air was thick with sand. Dany could not see, she could not breathe, she could not think. The black wings cracked like thunder, and suddenly the scarlet sands were falling away beneath her.

Dizzy, Dany closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she glimpsed the Meereenese beneath her through a haze of tears and dust, pouring up the steps and out into the streets.

The lash was still in her hand. She flicked it against Drogon’s neck and cried, “Higher!” Her other hand clutched at his scales, her fingers scrabbling for purchase. Drogon’s wide black wings beat the air. Dany could feel the heat of him between her thighs. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Yes, she thought, yes, now, now, do it, do it, take me, take me, FLY! (ADWD Daenerys IX)

6) Dany sends her three bloodriders to look for a safe place to go and the third (who had followed the comet, strongly implying that it was indeed showing her the way) returns with news of Qarth, which is where she ultimately goes

“I have need of you. Each of you is to choose three horses, the hardiest and healthiest that remain to us. Load as much water and food as your mounts can bear, and ride forth for me. Aggo shall strike southwest, Rakharo due south. Jhogo, you are to follow shierak qiya on southeast.”

“What shall we seek, Khaleesi?” asked Jhogo.

“Whatever there is,” Dany answered. “Seek for other cities, living and dead. Seek for caravans and people. Seek for rivers and lakes and the great salt sea. Find how far this waste extends before us, and what lies on the other side. When I leave this place, I do not mean to strike out blind again. I will know where I am bound, and how best to get there.” (ACOK Daenerys I)

~

Rakharo was the first to return. Due south the red waste stretched on and on, he reported, until it ended on a bleak shore beside the poison water. Between here and there lay only swirling sand, wind-scoured rocks, and plants bristly with sharp thorns. He had passed the bones of a dragon, he swore, so immense that he had ridden his horse through its great black jaws. Other than that, he had seen nothing. (ACOK Daenerys I)

~

Aggo was back next. The southwest was barren and burnt, he swore. He had found the ruins of two more cities, smaller than Vaes Tolorro but otherwise the same. One was warded by a ring of skulls mounted on rusted iron spears, so he dared not enter, but he had explored the second for as long as he could. (ACOK Daenerys I)

~

Jhogo was gone so long that Dany feared him lost, but finally when they had all but ceased to look for him, he came riding up from the southeast. One of the guards that Aggo had posted saw him first and gave a shout, and Dany rushed to the walls to see for herself. It was true. Jhogo came, yet not alone. Behind him rode three queerly garbed strangers atop ugly humped creatures that dwarfed any horse.

They drew rein before the city gates, and looked up to see Dany on the wall above them. “Blood of my blood,” Jhogo called, “I have been to the great city Qarth, and returned with three who would look on you with their own eyes.” (ACOK Daenerys I)

7) The third fire that Dany must light is to (rather than for) love

The whispers became a swirling song. ... three fires must you light ... one for life and one for death and one to love ... (ACOK Daenerys IV)

8) Dany conquered three cities and ruled the third one

This dragon queen who wears her name is a true Targaryen. When I sent ships to bring her home, she turned toward Slaver’s Bay. In a short span of days she conquered Astapor, made Yunkai bend the knee, and sacked Meereen. (ADWD Tyrion II)

~

“Meereen is not Westeros, Your Grace.”

“But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city? [...] I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I’ve freed all over again.” She turned back to look at their faces. “I will not march.”

“What will you do then, Khaleesi?” asked Rakharo.

“Stay,” she said. “Rule. And be a queen.” (ASOS Daenerys VI)

9) Dany is given the option to leave Meereen for Westeros three times in ADWD and only chooses to do so in the third time

“You turned north when you should have continued south and west, across the Summer Sea, but with my gift you shall soon be back where you belong. Accept my galleys with a joyful heart, and bend your oars westward.”

Would that I could. “My lord, I will gladly have those ships, but I cannot give you the promise that you ask.” She took his hand. “Give me the galleys, and I swear that Qarth will have the friendship of Meereen until the stars go out. Let me trade with them, and you will have a good part of the profits.”

Xaro’s glad smile died upon his lips. “What are you saying? Are you telling me you will not go?”

“I cannot go.” (ADWD Daenerys III)

~

“Your Grace, I must entreat you. My father’s strength is failing, but his devotion to your cause is as strong as ever. If my manner or my person have displeased you, that is my sorrow, but—”

“If you would please me, ser, be happy for me,” Daenerys said. “This is my wedding day. They will be dancing in the Yellow City, I do not doubt.” She sighed. “Rise, my prince, and smile. One day I shall return to Westeros to claim my father’s throne, and look to Dorne for help. But on this day the Yunkai’i have my city ringed in steel. I may die before I see my Seven Kingdoms. Hizdahr may die. Westeros may be swallowed by the waves.” Dany kissed his cheek. “Come. It’s time I wed.” (ADWD Daenerys VII)

~

You took Meereen, he told her, yet still you lingered. “To be a queen.”

You are a queen, her bear said. In Westeros.

“It is such a long way,” she complained. “I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl.”

No. You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words.

“Fire and Blood,” Daenerys told the swaying grass. (ADWD Daenerys X)

Examples of three instances without a twist

1) The dragon has three heads (refers to the prophecy, to House Targaryen's sigil and to the Conquest Trio)

“There must be one more,” he said, though whether he was speaking to her or the woman in the bed she could not say. “The dragon has three heads.” (ACOK Daenerys IV)

~

“The dragon has three heads,” she sighed. “Do you know what that means, Jorah?”

“Your Grace? The sigil of House Targaryen is a three-headed dragon, red on black.”

“I know that. But there are no three-headed dragons.”

“The three heads were Aegon and his sisters.”

“Visenya and Rhaenys,” she recalled. “I am descended from Aegon and Rhaenys through their son Aenys and their grandson Jaehaerys.” (ACOK Daenerys V)

2) Dany is given three handmaids

Her brother Viserys gifted her with three handmaids. Dany knew they had cost him nothing; Illyrio no doubt had provided the girls. Irri and Jhiqui were copper-skinned Dothraki with black hair and almond-shaped eyes, Doreah a fair-haired, blue-eyed Lysene girl. (AGOT Daenerys II)

 3) Dany has three bloodriders

She turned to the three young warriors of her khas. “Jhogo, to you I give the silver-handled whip that was my bride gift, and name you ko, and ask your oath, that you will live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm.”

Jhogo took the whip from her hands, but his face was confused. “Khaleesi,” he said hesitantly, “this is not done. It would shame me, to be bloodrider to a woman.”

“Aggo,” Dany called, paying no heed to Jhogo’s words. If I look back I am lost. “To you I give the dragonbone bow that was my bride gift.” It was double-curved, shiny black and exquisite, taller than she was. “I name you ko, and ask your oath, that you should live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm.”

Aggo accepted the bow with lowered eyes. “I cannot say these words. Only a man can lead a khalasar or name a ko.”

“Rakharo,” Dany said, turning away from the refusal, “you shall have the great arakh that was my bride gift, with hilt and blade chased in gold. And you too I name my ko, and ask that you live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm.”

“You are khaleesi,” Rakharo said, taking the arakh. “I shall ride at your side to Vaes Dothrak beneath the Mother of Mountains, and keep you safe from harm until you take your place with the crones of the dosh khaleen. No more can I promise.” (AGOT Daenerys X)

4) Dany is the mother of three dragons

And my dragons, never forget. In time, the dragons would be her most formidable guardians, just as they had been for Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters three hundred years ago. Just now, though, they brought her more danger than protection. In all the world there were but three living dragons, and those were hers; they were a wonder, and a terror, and beyond price. (ASOS Daenerys I)

5) Dany is met by three representatives from Qarth at Vaes Tolorro (who are a deliberate reference to the Three Wise Men visiting Jesus after his birth)

One of the guards that Aggo had posted saw him first and gave a shout, and Dany rushed to the walls to see for herself. It was true. Jhogo came, yet not alone. Behind him rode three queerly garbed strangers atop ugly humped creatures that dwarfed any horse.

They drew rein before the city gates, and looked up to see Dany on the wall above them. “Blood of my blood,” Jhogo called, “I have been to the great city Qarth, and returned with three who would look on you with their own eyes.” (ACOK Daenerys I)

6) Dany receives three prophecy visions: she will light three fires and ride three mounts and know three treasons

Her own heart was beating in unison to the one that floated before her, blue and corrupt ... three mounts must you ride ... one to bed and one to dread and one to love ... The voices were growing louder, she realized, and it seemed her heart was slowing, and even her breath. ... three treasons will you know ... once for blood and once for gold and once for love ... (ACOK Daenerys IV)

7) Dany is called the child of three and is given three titles contextualized by multiple visions - daughter of death (because three men died so she could become who she is), slayer of lies (because she will reveal three assertions to be false) and bride of fire (because she will take three husbands).

Then phantoms shivered through the murk, images in indigo. Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth. A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him. Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman’s name. ... mother of dragons, daughter of death ... Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow. A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. From a smoking tower, a great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire. ... mother of dragons, slayer of lies ... Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. ... mother of dragons, bride of fire ... (ACOK Daenerys V)

~

Child of three, they had called her, daughter of death, slayer of lies, bride of fire. (ACOK Daenerys V)

8) Illyrio sends Dany three ships

“It is so, Your Grace,” Arstan Whitebeard said. “The great cog Saduleon is berthed at the end of the quay, and the galleys Summer Sun and Joso’s Prank are anchored beyond the breakwater.”

Three heads has the dragon, Dany thought, wondering. “I shall tell my people to make ready to depart at once. But the ships that bring me home must bear different names.”

“As you wish,” said Arstan. “What names would you prefer?”

“Vhagar,” Daenerys told him. “Meraxes. And Balerion. Paint the names on their hulls in golden letters three feet high, Arstan. I want every man who sees them to know the dragons are returned.” (ACOK Daenerys V)

9) Three suitors outside Meereen are attempting to reach Dany in ADWD

When Victarion opened his hand, his palm was red with blood. “I’ll go to Slaver’s Bay, aye. I’ll find this dragon woman, and I’ll bring her back.” But not for you. You stole my wife and despoiled her, so I’ll have yours. The fairest woman in the world, for me. (AFFC The Reaver)

~

That was before Prince Doran had summoned him to the Water Gardens. And now the most beautiful woman in the world was waiting in Meereen, and he meant to do his duty and claim her for his bride. She will not refuse me. She will honor the agreement. Daenerys Targaryen would need Dorne to win the Seven Kingdoms, and that meant that she would need him. It does not mean that she will love me, though. She may not even like me. (ADWD The Merchant's Man)

~

“...It does make for a splendid story, and the singers will make much of your escape once you take the Iron Throne … assuming that our fair Daenerys takes you for her consort.”

“She will. She must.”

“Must?” Tyrion made a tsking sound. “That is not a word queens like to hear. You are her perfect prince, agreed, bright and bold and comely as any maid could wish. Daenerys Targaryen is no maid, however. She is the widow of a Dothraki khal, a mother of dragons and sacker of cities, Aegon the Conqueror with teats. She may not prove as willing as you wish.”

“She’ll be willing.” Prince Aegon sounded shocked. It was plain that he had never before considered the possibility that his bride-to-be might refuse him. (ADWD Tyrion VI)

Speculations

Considering how the Rule of Three was so important to Dany's story so far, it's only natural that people also use it to speculate on her future.

1) Dany is the third Daenerys that we get to know of and the one that will get to rule

While the three Daenerys’ don’t have anything close to similar lives, each of the Daenerys’ of the past seem to intentionally have call backs or call forwards to the canon era Dany. Both of them seem to foreshadow Dany’s current and future storylines with pushes for social progress and her future as the reigning Queen of Westeros. (x)

2) Dany's story is illustrated by the three walls of Qarth. It has three phases marked by her time with the Dothraki, by her actions in Slaver's Bay and, later, by love (read more about this in this meta)

Three thick walls encircled Qarth, elaborately carved. The outer was red sandstone, thirty feet high and decorated with animals: snakes slithering, kites flying, fish swimming, intermingled with wolves of the red waste and striped horses and monstrous elephants. The middle wall, forty feet high, was grey granite alive with scenes of war: the clash of sword and shield and spear, arrows in flight, heroes at battle and babes being butchered, pyres of the dead. The innermost wall was fifty feet of black marble, with carvings that made Dany blush until she told herself that she was being a fool. She was no maid; if she could look on the grey wall’s scenes of slaughter, why should she avert her eyes from the sight of men and women giving pleasure to one another? (ACOK Daenerys I)

~

Most of the "firsts” seem to relate to the beginning of Dany’s journey and her life with the Dothraki, just as the first wall of Qarth.

[...] Most of the “seconds” of the prophecies seem to relate to moments of war or moments in Slaver’s Bay, just like the second wall of Qarth is full of scenes of war. 

[...] And Dany’s third prophecies seem to mostly relate to love. Fire to love, mount to love and treason for love. (x)

3) Dany embraced fire and blood in two moments that marked the end of the first and second phases of her journey and will either do so again or reject it towards the end of the third phase

No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don’t you see? Don’t you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children. (AGOT Daenerys X)

~

You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words.

“Fire and Blood,” Daenerys told the swaying grass. (ADWD Daenerys X)

4) Dany had/will have two brief and unhappy marriages with her first two husbands (Drogo being represented by the silver, Hizdahr being represented by the corpse). Her third husband (Jon being represented by the blue flower) will finally allow her to enter a long and happy marriage (which the vision itself suggests since the blue flower "filled the air with sweetness")

Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. ... mother of dragons, bride of fire ... (ACOK Daenerys V)

~

The blue flower in the wall of ice is without doubt Jon. And this comes during the bride of fire prophecy, and it’s the third vision of the prophecy, meaning that it will happen during the third phase of Dany’s story, the one that is focused on romantic and sexual love. (x)

5) Dany had her first child killed and miscarried her second child. Her third child (with Jon) will live

She could feel the heat inside her, a terrible burning in her womb. Her son was tall and proud, with Drogo’s copper skin and her own silver-gold hair, violet eyes shaped like almonds. And he smiled for her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth the fire poured out. She saw his heart burning through his chest, and in an instant he was gone, consumed like a moth by a candle, turned to ash. She wept for her child, the promise of a sweet mouth on her breast, but her tears turned to steam as they touched her skin. (AGOT Daenerys IX)

~

When she woke, gasping, her thighs were slick with blood.

For a moment she did not realize what it was. The world had just begun to lighten, and the tall grass rustled softly in the wind. No, please, let me sleep some more. I’m so tired. She tried to burrow back beneath the pile of grass she had torn up when she went to sleep. Some of the stalks felt wet. Had it rained again? She sat up, afraid that she had soiled herself as she slept. When she brought her fingers to her face, she could smell the blood on them. Am I dying? Then she saw the pale crescent moon, floating high above the grass, and it came to her that this was no more than her moon blood.

If she had not been so sick and scared, that might have come as a relief. Instead she began to shiver violently. She rubbed her fingers through the dirt, and grabbed a handful of grass to wipe between her legs. The dragon does not weep. She was bleeding, but it was only woman’s blood. The moon is still a crescent, though. How can that be? She tried to remember the last time she had bled. The last full moon? The one before? The one before that? No, it cannot have been so long as that. (ADWD Daenerys X)

6) Dany is the third of the three queens (after Cersei and Margaery) that Littlefinger is referring to

“...What little peace and order the five kings left us will not long survive the three queens, I fear.”

“Three queens?” She did not understand. (AFFC Alayne II)

7) Dany is the younger more beautiful queen that Cersei is afraid of, which is only fitting since she will be specifically the third of the three candidates (after Sansa and Margaery) that Cersei will suspect

“I will be queen, though?” asked the younger her.

“Aye.” Malice gleamed in Maggy’s yellow eyes. “Queen you shall be ... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.” (AFFC Cersei VIII)

8) Dany couldn't trust the first two Qartheen envoys, only the third

“I have been to the great city Qarth, and returned with three who would look on you with their own eyes.”

Dany stared down at the strangers. “Here I stand. Look, if that is your pleasure ... but first tell me your names.”

The pale man with the blue lips replied in guttural Dothraki, “I am Pyat Pree, the great warlock.”

The bald man with the jewels in his nose answered in the Valyrian of the Free Cities, “I am Xaro Xhoan Daxos of the Thirteen, a merchant prince of Qarth.”

The woman in the lacquered wooden mask said in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, “I am Quaithe of the Shadow. We come seeking dragons.” (ACOK Daenerys I) 

[thanatosangels]

Good

a three part Matthew Fairchild fic

part two and three coming soon.

TRIGGER WARNING: alcoholism, suicidal feelings, self injury

tags: @princesslucretia @churchthecatismyspiritanimal @booksandbeanbags @tyisthebestshadowhunter @simon-lewis-is-a-skinny-legend @truth-lies-hidden @abigneignenn @oscar-fairchild @themostawesomehuman @cecilyfightwood

1901

Matthew stood in the doorway of his dining room.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The grandfather clock marked the seconds dripping away into nothingness.

His mother was upstairs, in her bed, resting. 

Recovering.

Recovering from the ordeal she had been through the day before.

Matthew balled up his hands, digging his nails into his palms.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

His father was at her bedside.

Matthew knew, without seeing him, that his eyes were ringed with red.

He also knew that there were new lines, of worry and grief, on his father’s face.

He’d seem to age five years in a day.

Matthew opened his hands, looking down at them. 

He half expected to see them dripping scarlet blood, like Dorian Gray’s painting, but there was none. Just eight indents of white crescent moons. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He lifted his gaze towards to drinks cabinet under the window.

The late afternoon sun, low in the sky, shone through the crystal decanters which fractured and broke the light, scattering it across the floor like the pieces of Matthew’s heart.

He could hear his mother’s sobs, floating down from her bedroom.

He closed the distance between him and the cabinet.

Tick.

He reached for the middle decanter, the one with the pale amber liquid. 

The one that his father only poured very little amounts of, on very special occasions.

Tick.

With a trembling hand, he removed the stopper from the bottle.

A sweet, fiery smell filled his nose. 

It burned.

Tick.

Matthew brought the bottle to his lips, and swallowed.

His body wanted to choke, to spasm, to spit it out, but he would not let.

He was in control now.

He felt as the whisky branded his throat and made its way down to his stomach. 

It hurt, but he needed the pain. Any pain at all.

He needed to hurt like his mother.

Like his sister.

It seemed to cauterise the throbbing, bloody slashes across his soul.

The world swam at the edges. He felt lighter, like he could float.

Like nothing was real.

He took another swig. And another. And another.

_______________________

The worst part was his mother trying to comfort him.

She sat him down a few days later, in their drawing room. There had been none of the usual tidiness Matthew associated with his mother: the bags under her watering eyes were a deep purple, her brown hair was escaping the braid on the back of her head, her old tea dress was creased and slightly stained in places, with tea and jam. She looked so tiny, so fragile, a china doll that should have been wrapped tightly and kept in the box to save it from shattering. 

She reached out across their rose printed sofa, her delicate hand covering Matthew’s. Somehow, she looked older than she ever had, yet so heartbreakingly young at the same time. Matthew could not look at her. He kept his back straight and his eyes trained on the glowing embers of the dying fire in the hearth.  He wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him. He wanted her to scream at him and slap him and hit him and throw him out on the street for what he’d done to her, but he knew she would never. 

He knew what she did not. 

Matthew’s stomach lurched as he felt her take a breath, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the anxiety that was gnawing at his heart or the brandy he had been drinking just before she had come in. 

“I’m sorry, Matthew,” She said in a very small, shaking voice. “I’m sorry you will not get to meet your sister. I want you to talk to me, if you need anything. I love you, and I wish for us to get through this pain together. As a family.”

He shut his eyes so tightly it hurt, bowing his head as the tears began to fall. She was apologising to him. His poor, sweet, innocent mother. She was the strongest woman he knew, for here she was just days after her own tragedy asking to comfort him. 

If only she knew, he thought, who was truly causing her this pain.

He opened his mouth to tell her, to let the words tumble out. I did this. I did this to you. But no words came, just the air escaping his lungs in a hollow groan. She reached out and put her arms around him, pulling him to her, as he whispered over and over again “I am so sorry. I am so sorry, Mama, I am so sorry.” into her shoulder, apologising for an act she had no true knowledge of. She too was crying, her tears tumbling into his messy blonde hair as she stroked it gently, as gently as she had done when he was a child awoken by nightmares. 

He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, breathing in her familiar scent of paper and fresh lilies. Nausea rose in his stomach like a tidal wave, his guilt as bitter as bile in his mouth. Now he knew for sure that it was his close proximity to his mother doing this to him, not the alcohol bleeding through his veins. He buried his face into her hair, grasping at any last wisp of a childhood that was now gone. 

That day, with the grey clouds hanging over London like a shadow and the wind making the windows howl in its wake, was the last time Matthew Fairchild ever held his mother.

_____________________

It had been two months. 

Matthew had found a way to numb the pain, and it lived in his father’s drinks cabinet. 

Everyday, he drank a little more of whatever he could get. He told himself it was only until the pain lessened, until it stopped feeling like pouring gin into an open wound, but he was not sure he entirely believed himself.

His mother was preparing to go back to work. His father was anxiously looking after her, or experimenting down in the basement. Matthew did not care where Charles was.

Matthew was making his way back to his room, his throat still burning from the sweet whisky, his flask half-full to keep him going throughout the day. He was refilling his father’s liquor bottles with water and apple juice, and though his family did not drink much, he knew this could not last. He did not now what he would do when they found out.

His vision was slightly blurred, every light just a little too bright, so he did not see Charles hurrying down the corridor towards him until it was much too late. The two collided, someone’s feet on someone’s toes, heads knocking together, Matthew’s open flask sloshing onto Charles’ white shirt.

“By the angel, you bloody idiot! This shirt was new!” Charles wiped his hands down himself, a look of disgust on his face. He looked so disgruntled that Matthew let out a small giggle.

“What, you think making me look like a slob is funny? What the hell is this anyway? It stinks.” Any amusement Matthew derived from the situation evaporated like water in the sun as Charles brought his hands to his face and sniffed. The anger on his face was chased away by confusion and then replaced by disgust. “Is this whisky?”

Matthew gulped, refusing to meet his brothers eye. He felt like his legs might give way.

“You disgust me.” Charles took a step towards Matthew, a finger prodding his chest. Despite their similar heights, in that moment Charles seemed to loom over him, his face thunderous. “Mother and father have been through so much already and you think it’s wise to drink yourself away?” He scoffed. “If they weren’t so grief-stricken I’d go and tell them what a little lowlife you are right now, but I don’t think you want to break their hearts any further, do you?” The question sent shockwaves through Matthew. He knew that there was no way Charles knew what he had done, but his heart still skipped several beats all the same. Charles brought his face very close to Matthew’s and, snarling menacingly, flattened his hand against Matthew’s chest and gave a small shove, which cause him to stumble backwards until he fell into a table near the end of the hallway. 

Charles rolled his eyes and turned on his heels. “Selfish brat. Go and pour that down the drain right now.” He called over his shoulder. “And don’t ever do it again.” 

Matthew leaned back against the table, his hands and legs shaking uncontrollably. He fought to control his breathing. He took a sip from his flask, which seemed to calm his nerves slightly. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

Matthew was always very careful after that.

[queen-scribbles]

Things Best Unsaid

I didn’t intentionally write this for DA2′s birthday, but the timing did work out pretty well. :D Thus, ~3k of Fenris POV from Sigi dueling the Arishok + the aftermath.

---

“I accept.” 

Fenris’ heart squeezed in his chest as Hawke’s voice rang out, unflinchingly confident. She flung the words back at the Arishok as if she were the one issuing a challenge.

From the Arishok’s satisfied smile, it was clear how he expected this to go. A lone human woman, no matter how respected, no matter her reputation, seemed no match for the towering qunari leader.

Fenris could count the beats of his pulse hammering in his ears as he and the others herded the surviving nobility up to the balconies, out of harm’s way. He ached to draw his sword and demand to fight instead, but he knew he could not.

The Arishok would not allow it-- Hawke alone was basalit-an.

Hawke would not allow it--she hated when others tried to fight her battles for her.

So he stood with arms crossed and shoulders hunched between Sebastian and Isabela, tried to ignore Merrill’s quiet fretting, and kept his gaze fixed on Hawke.

If she was at all worried about the duel, it didn’t show in her stance. She stood with the same casual wariness that marked the outset of any fight; ready for whatever came but content to let her opponent make the first move.

And the Arishok obliged. He barreled toward Hawke with a roar, large blades sweeping in tandem arcs.

Hawke waited until the last possible second to dance out of the way, her own hooked axes now in hand. She pivoted as the Arishok’s charge carried him past her and dug one deep in his back below the shoulder.

The Arishok spun with a snarl and swung at her again, the way one might bat at a stinging fly. She dodged the first strike, but the second caught just at the edge of her shoulder.

Fenris sucked in a sharp breath watching her stumble and scramble back out of range, crimson spreading down her arm. Isabela nudged him reassuringly--or, he assumed that was the intention--but he didn’t even glance her way.

Hawke was retreating, eyes on her opponent as she darted backwards. She’d never seen shame in running away, especially when she could use it to make her surroundings work in her favor.

Even as the Arishok pursued her, she dodged around a pillar to gain some distance putting her superior agility to use.

“Ebost issala!” he spat, nostrils flaring and one blade rising as he charged again.

Fenris’ jaw clenched, heart lodged in his throat, despite his familiarity with Hawke’s skill in battle.

She dodged under the swinging blade and slashed open the inside of the Arishok’s elbow, then let their momentum carry them away from each other. She wove between the pillars again, clearly anticipating another bullrush from the qunari leader.

It came only a few seconds later, and the throne room seemed to shake when he missed and slammed into a wall. “Ashkost kata!” the Arishok snarled as he wheeled to charge her again. His battleaxe was extended in front of him, prepared to skewer this human who had the temerity to defy him and survive so long.

Again, he bore down on her. Again, she waited to dodge. Again, fear clawed the breath from Fenris’ lungs.

And this time she was just a little too slow. 

While Hawke managed to spin away from the main thrust and avoid being impaled, the blade did gouge through armor and flesh both. A collective gasp rose from all the onlookers--save one. Fenris’ teeth were clenched so tightly it made his ears ring, fingers digging into his arms as he struggled to hold himself back from joining the fight.

She can be as furious at me as she likes, if it means she survives.

But Hawke kept her feet, though staggering, and grinned fiercely at the Arishok even as his eyes blazed with fury. “Come on, then,” She goaded, circling like a panther even as the bloodstains on her armor grew.

Part of Fenris wanted to call encouragement, show his faith in her. Part longed for her to be more cautious. Part knew better than to distract her, and all of him was too tense to get the words out if he had settled on a course of action.

The Arishok was too enraged to do anything but succumb to Hawke’s prodding. He bellowed as he charged toward her once more, swinging one of his blades in a brutal arc meant to end this--and anyone in its path.

Hawke ducked, and the fearsome blade lodged in the pillar behind her instead. She swiped at the Arishok with one of her axes and opened a shallow gash across his chest.

The Arishok gave another bellow and yanked on the trapped weapon, swinging his other battleaxe at Hawke as he worked to free it. The point rattled and rasped as it scraped over the front of her armor, but she’d backpedaled far enough it did no real damage.

She leapt up, stepped on the trapped blade, pushed off that and then the Arishok’s pauldron to propel herself away. She faltered slightly on the landing, one hand flinching toward her wounded side as she grimaced.

Despite the way his heart pounded, Fenris couldn’t help a small smile when he saw her mouth a silent curse before zeroing back in on her opponent.

The Arishok finally yanked his battleaxe free, leaving a large divot in the pillar, and whipped around to face Hawke. He launched himself toward her with a roar.

Hawke gave her axes a flourishing twist and darted aside. She didn’t entirely avoid the attack--one blade grazed her thigh and Fenris bit his lip when the wound blossomed scarlet--but it did far less damage than intended. And before the Arishok recovered his balance, she was behind him, hooked axes plunging into the hollows of his collarbone. He snarled and tried to jerk free. She dug the blades deeper with a savage yell.

The Arishok swayed, then wrenched around and grabbed her by the hair. He growled as he flung her into a tumble across the room, her axes clattering to the floor. 

Fenris bit his lip harder to keep her name from spilling out.

The Arishok’s shoulder heaved in great, angry breaths as he glared after her, his back to the balconies. And then his weapons clattered to the floor as Hawke pushed up to a crouching stance. A murmur rippled through the air, uncertainty shifting to hope.

Snarls of red-brown hair hung in Hawke’s face now, blood trickled from her lip, but she still looked every inch the predator. Her hand darted to the small knife at the back of her belt.

The was a rasp growing in the Arishok’s breath, a wet snarl escaping as he stumbled to one knee. “We... we shall return-”

Hawke’s hand flashed forward, the deftly-thrown knife snapping the Arishok’s head back when it slammed into his eye socket.

“Excellent shot,” Sebastian murmured approvingly, and Fenris smirked as the knot in his chest started to loosen.

Hawke staggered to her feet as the qunari leader  fell splayed over the steps.  “You won’t,” she panted, raking hair out of her eyes to stare down the remaining qunari.

They did not look happy with the outcome, but after a protracted moment glaring back, the ashaad nearest Hawke jerked his head toward the door and his few brethren followed the wordless command.

Fenris took what felt like--and may have been--his first full breath since the Arishok issued his challenge watching them go. His arms were stiff with lingering tension when he dropped them.

The movement caught Hawke’s eye and she flashed him a smirk. Despite her bravado, her posture was tense, hands balled into loose fists,weight balanced subtly on her uninjured leg. He moved like a wraith through the crowd of milling nobles, skirting the banister and rushing down the stairs with Merrill and Sebastian in his wake. His gaze remained on the departing qunari, wary even though he knew they would honor the Arishok’s terms.

Jangling armor broke the breathless silence, Meredith and Orsino slowing as they entered the room. Meredith’s sword came up at the sight of qunari, and they reached for weapons in response--

“Don’t.” Hawke’s voice rapped through the air. “It’s over.”

“Over?!” Meredith demanded glaring at the qunari though she addressed Hawke.

“Over,” Hawke repeated. “We had an agreement.” She jerked her chin toward the slain Arishok. “They’re leaving. Without further bloodshed.”

Now Meredith wheeled to aim her glare at Hawke, her gaze rife with arguments.

“For the good of the city,” Hawke said firmly, glaring right back as the nobles clustered and spilled down the stairs. Fenris shifted closer to her.

The women held each others’ gaze a long, tense moment as the qunari filed out. Meredith didn’t relent until the last one had gone.

“Very well,” she ground out, and sheathed her sword. She took in the scene; the Arishok’s corpse, Hawke’s injuries, the near-rapturous way the nobles were eyeing the battered woman before her and nodded with grudging respect. “It would appear Kirkwall has a new champion.”

The tension finally, fully drained from the room as the nobles erupted into cheers.

Hawke indulged their relief for a few minutes, her hand resting on Fenris’ arm when he stood next to her, but the set of her jaw made it clear pride and determination were just about all that kept her on her feet. In short order, she gave a final wave of acknowledgement to their accolades and headed for the door with a just noticeable limp.

Fenris followed close on her heels, was there to catch her arm when she swayed just outside the keep. “Hawke-”

“That went well,” she cut him off, inhaling a sharp breath as she leaned against the wall. “Considering.”

“I’ll get Anders,” Merrill volunteered, starting for the steps.

“No,” Hawke ground out, even as she clutched her wounded side. “People will need him with... with all this.” She gestured at the rising smoke and what destruction was visible from the courtyard.

“You need him,” Fenris growled. Damn her stubbornness, anyway.

She shook her head, brown eyes flashing. “No. None of these are deep enough to need magic for healing,” she said through gritted teeth. “Stitches will do.”

“Then allow me to assist.” The words escaped before he could stop them(not that he could swear he would have).

The beat of hesitation, vulnerability flickering through her eyes, cut deeper than any physical blade. Even if he understood. Especially because he understood.

But then she nodded, once, a brittly sharp motion. “Long as you know what you’re doing?” 

He heard the layers, knew what he risked tearing open, for both of them, beyond the confirmation of ability. “I do.”

I should have stayed. But it was too late for that now. The most he could do was help.

“...Alright.” Hawke pushed away from the wall, froze, and one hand jerked to her belt. “Shit. My axes-”

“I have them, Hawke,” Sebastian assured her, holding out the weapons.

Hawke took them with a grunt of thanks, her movements stiff. “I’ll be fine.” She nodded toward the burning city again. “See what you can do to help.”

“Aye,” Sebastian nodded, in the same moment Merrill piped up, “We will, Hawke.”

“Good thing my house isn’t far,” Hawke commented as she watched them depart. “You won’t have to help me long.”

“It would be no trouble,” Fenris said softly.

Hawke sighed and flashed him an inscrutable look as she leaned on him.

They made their way to her estate in silence, exhaustion giving an excuse to mask any awkwardness. Hawke refused to accept much help besides the stairs, and Fenris struggled with the urge to just carry her every time she bit her lip or her fingers dug into his arm.

Grizzly greeted them with enthusiasm as soon as they opened the door, which Hawke returned with head scratches and cooed praise for protecting her house and its occupants.

Orana peeked out of the library and gasped. “Oh, mistress, you’re hurt!”

“Orana, I’ve told you-” Hawke cut herself off with a sigh and shake of her head. “Could you- Are Bodahn and Sandal with you in there?”

Orana nodded, eyes still wide as she stared at the blood. “Bodahn’s trying to get his boy to sleep, mist-- Hawke.”

“Damn,” Hawke sucked her teeth a moment, swaying into Fenris’ shoulder.  “Could you please bring supplies for patching up to my room?”

Another nod, steadier, as Orana clasped her hands in front of her. “Of course. Will you need my help, mistress?”

One side of Hawke’s mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. “No.” She glanced at him. “I have all the help I need.”

For some reason, the words made his gut clench even more than watching her fight the Arishok had, and Fenris didn’t really want to dwell on why. He nudged her toward the steps. “Hawke...”

“No need to coddle,” she muttered.

Irritation spiked, but he bit his tongue as she started up the steps. Her fingers were white-knuckle on the banister a third of the way up. By halfway, he could hear her breath hissing between her teeth.

“Enough of this,” he growled, and scooped her off her feet.

“Fenris!” She glared at him, hand balled into a fist as it pressed against his armor. “Put me down! I’m injured, not an invalid, I am capable of walking!”

“If you do not let people help you, injured may turn into being an invalid,” he shot back. 

Hawke glared at him a moment longer, jaw clenched, before relenting. “Fine.”

It didn’t take long to reach her room, and he gingerly set her on the bed.

“I’m not made of glass, Fenris,” she grumbled as she tugged off her gauntlets.

“But you are injured, as you yourself pointed out,” he said, a knot snarling in his chest at how cautiously she moved. He shucked his own gauntlets and set them on the bedside table next to hers. “And I’d not cause you any unnecessary pain.”

Beyond what I already have.

Hawke was quiet a long moment, jaw working as she swallowed at least one sharp comment. “Then... could you help with my boots? Please?”

“Of course.” Fenris bent and helped slide off her boots, then wordlessly moved to the buckles of her armor.

She stiffened, staring at the wall, but didn’t fight him. A sharp breath escaped her when she raised her injured arm out of his way, and Fenris hurried so she could lower it again.

By the time her leathers were removed and piled in a chair, Grizzly was curled on the rug to keep watch and Orana had brought the requested supplies; warm water, rags, salve, bandages, catgut thread and a needle. 

Fenris glanced at the supplies, then Hawke’s injuries. “Which one first?”

“Shoulder,” she said without hesitation. “Hurts like the bloody Void.” With only some difficulty she worked off her shirt, tugging the fabric away from injuries with ginger fingers. Her head snapped up to meet his gaze when he started to protest. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He shut his mouth with a click under the challenge of her tired, whiskey-brown eyes. “As you wish,” he finally murmured, and set about cleaning away the blood. Up close, this one was surprisingly nasty and it did seem wise to tend it first.

Silence filled the room as he worked, broken only by the crackling fire and occasional huff from Grizzly as he shifted position. Exhaustion, uncertainty, and a myriad of other things made the prospect off conversation a daunting one, and neither was eager to open that jar of worms right now.

So Fenris focused on the stitches, keeping them secure and even, pretending he didn’t see her grip tightening on the edge of the bed with each stitch. Hawke didn’t emit as much as a whimper as he worked. Her gaze never left the wall until he’d tugged the last stitch into place and reached for the salve and bandages.

“You do know what you’re doing,” she commented, upon peeking at his handiwork.

His lips twitched toward a smile as he gently spread a layer of salve over the stitched wound. “I would not have offered otherwise.” He nudged her arm up with the back of his hand, heard her breath catch in the same moment his heart skipped a beat, pushed through to begin winding bandages around her shoulder.

Hawke bit her lip as she watched him. “When did you learn?”

“After I... ran.” The Fog Warriors had imparted a few things, and he’d gotten practice in a variety of places. “It is something you pick up quickly when you are... unsure who to trust.”

“I imagine so,” she said softly. “Leg next. This one’s not as deep.” Her fingers flexed against the rag she held to her midriff. “You can just cut or tear the trousers, they’re beyond repair anyway.”

From the amount of blood that had soaked the fabric around this wound, he had to agree. “Very well.”

She leaned back against the pillows, swinging her leg up on the bed as he cut away the pant material. After a moment’s internal debate, Fenris surrendered to the inevitable and knelt next to the bed for the best angle stitching this one. Again they were silent while he worked, though Hawke did suck in a few harsh breaths as he progress up toward her hip.

He didn’t dare wonder if it was pain or something else to blame.

Finally all that remained was the gash on her stomach. It was, as she’d claimed, not as deep as the other two, and had largely ceased bleeding. It was still the most difficult to tend, for reasons quite aside from skill.

They both caught a sharp breath when his fingers brushed her side. Fenris swallowed hard, saw her do the same.

It’s fine. I am simply helping a friend. Never had his thoughts seemed such blatant lies. He hesitated, and Hawke shifted.

“I can have Orana-” she began, but he shook his head.

“No.” He raised his head to meet her gaze, saw the walls barely holding... everything at bay in her eyes, and returned to the freckled skin around this last wound. “I said I would help, and I shall.”

“If you’re sure.” Hawke voice was rough and her posture still tense.

“I am.” He took needle and thread in hand, loosely rested his other hand on her hip to steady them both.

These stitches were less even, though no less secure, and his hands trembled  as he carefully wound the bandages. Tight enough to protect, loose enough they wouldn’t cause further harm.

“Thank you,” Hawke whispered as he stood. “I appreciate you... your help.”

He stood there a moment, many things he wanted to say warring for release, but none succeeded. “...You are most welcome,” he said instead, unable to resist tucking her hair behind her ear. A bruise was blossoming on her cheek. Hawke’s eyes fluttered closed and he withdrew his hand swiftly. “Is there anything else you need?”

She flashed a smile that was plainly forced, even with its brevity. “Just fresh clothes and sleep. Orana can help for those, though.” Her jaw tightened and she stared into the fire. “You don’t have to stay.”

I want to. The words made it to the tip of his tongue before they stuck, caught on pride or remorse or something else. He’d given up that right. It wasn’t his place, by his own choice. A choice he was no longer certain had been the right one. But it was the one he’d made, the one he’d needed to make, and he would accept what that meant. For both their sakes.

So he nodded, heart squeezing when her shoulders slumped just perceptibly. (Or did he imagine that?) “Sleep well, then, Hawke. I...” This much he could say. “I am glad you are alright. Relatively speaking.”

She laughed softly at his deadpan addendum and finally met his eyes. “As am I.”

With too much and no more to say, Fenris gave another nod and collected his gauntlets, pulling them back on as he headed out into the street. At least the chaos there he could do something to fix.

[edspageds]

kyle im gonna bother you again bc i have my notifications on for you 😘😘😘 sorry im annoying 🙇‍♂️🙇‍♂️🙇‍♂️ but i have to give you a prompt im so sorry i just love your writing so much. it's the "did you at least think of me when you were having sex with her" i love you 😘😘😘🥰🥰🥰

Prompt: “did you at least think of me when you were having sex with her ”

Ship: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier - Reddie

Rating: E

Word Count: 2.3k

CW: notSFW, affairs, basically Eddie is having an affair with Richie and it’s good for neither, but they can’t keep themselves from each other.

I may have gone slightly off the rails with this one, but I hope you still enjoy! You’re never a bother, and I love hearing from you!! sorry this took as long as it did!!

Send me your prompts! <3

Richie licked a strip up the column of Eddie's throat, savoring his shuddering breath, his fingers tightening on his biceps. Eddie trailed his hand up, splaying one across the jut of his chin, the other digging into his scalp, carding through his hair. 

He never wants it to stop, Eddie's hands drawing him closer, heated skin pressed together. He can ignore all the signs; the pale band on his finger where his wedding ring normally sits, the secret meetings in far off private locations, the distance spanning between them in the light despite their tender embrace in the dark. 

It's not hard for him, pretending that is. Lost in the bliss of Eddie's throat, peppering little kisses and love nips. Eddie arching against him, his hard cock rubbing against his thigh. His pulse racing, the thud of his heart roaring through his veins. 

He can pretend it's all for him. That he's not sharing.

That Eddie's heart belongs is his alone, encased snug in the spot where Richie's used to be. Because he gave his to Eddie months ago. 

If he were any more of a romantic he might even say he gave it to him that first night they met. Dim lights and booming music forcing them close, Richie leaning toward the bartender, and into Eddie's space to order another drink. 

He didn't notice him at first, but he tugged on his sleeve. Richie turned to him, and almost swallowed his tongue at this gorgeous man, blurry, but glowing under the neon beer maid sign hung above the bar. He scrunched his nose, the stench of alcohol strong on Richie's breath, but he didn't move away.

Eddie reached into his bag, and offered him a Listerine strip, still entranced in the bob of Richie's adams apple. 

"You need it." He said it matter of fact, maybe even a little snootily, and Richie was smitten. 

Like a gradual heat, spreading from the base of his neck outwards to the very tips of his fingers and toes, his fondness for Eddie grew. It happened so slowly, he didn't even realize what he'd given away, until he laid in bed, watching the sun tickle across Eddie's cheeks. His chest aching where his heart used to be, that he even realized he'd given it away. 

And he likes to think Eddie's given him his. In between lingering lips, and sweet nothings fucked out of his throat, he belongs to him. Stretched on his cock, holding Richie still so he can take in the slight sting, pleasure racing up and down his spine. 

Their breaths mingling, only thinking of each other. Richie can pretend, lost in Eddie's enchanting brown eyes. 

He can pretend that his heart beats only for him, and that beyond this room he can hold his hand, whisper love into his lips until his cheeks are a bright cherry red, and have those eyes reflect it right back.

He's drunk on them, the lies he's built up to fool himself. But, in this room he can. Because here, here it's them. Just them. So, Richie can lie, can pretend, as long as he has this. 

As long as he has Eddie. 

(He tells himself that, every day, and every day, the words ring a little more hollow.)

Richie presses against him, savoring his name rolling off his tongue in pleased hums. The head of his cock smearing cum across Richie's abdomen. "Richie, Richie…" whispered in the night like the sweetest, saccharine promise. His nails scraping down the expanse of his back lightly, tingles spreading like ripples in their wake. 

He thrusts in little movements, savoring the drag, and briefly wishing he could feel him without a condom on. It's safer this way (safer for her anyway). Bubbling deep beneath the surface, in the pits of his mind, he wonders what Eddie would do if he took it off. Felt the blunt head of his cock nudge against him, weeping in white across his rim. Would he shudder in want, tugging Richie closer? 

Mindless of anyone else but them, a sign of his true desires. He doesn't, because he respects the other man's wishes too much, and because he's afraid of what might happen if Eddie tries to push him away. If the beast hiding away under his flesh, just past the subcutaneous tissue, will lunge out not caring past its hunger, past its craving for Eddie, whole and completely. A beast that's been fed on jealousy and envy gnawing away at its gut, and only knows want. 

Eddie tightens his legs around him, breathlessly whispering "Harder" into his ear as if he can feel the beast slumbering inside him, howling out for relief! Like he knows Richie, can see that part of him, and wants just as much. 

Richie adjusts, getting his legs under him, thrusting into Eddie in a harsh, quick snap of his hips. The slap of skin on skin just as rewarding as the quick pants of his name spilling out in each thrust. Pure primal lustful fucking, the kind he can never get from her, and the kind Richie won't let Eddie soon forget. 

He fucks an impression of himself into his body, in place of the love he wants to cradle him with, because at least there's that-at least she can't touch him like this, have him like this, make him moan like this, Richie's name slipping off his tongue like a prayer. 

Eddie pants harshly, fingers scrambling for purchase traveling from Richie's hair to his shoulders, to his arms and back again, arching into each trust. As if he can't get enough of Richie, as if being balls deep inside of him isn't close and he wants even more-everything Richie has to offer, only Richie has to offer. 

Richie strangles a moan in the column of Eddie's throat, pumping the other man’s cock as he cums grinding into his prostate, a glow of devotion in Eddie's half-lidded brown eyes. 

Eddie follows right after him, beautiful climaxing crescendo playing through every muscle, as he clings to Richie just as tightly. Both panting, muscles loosening with every breath. 

Eddie tugs at him insistently, and Richie meets his waiting lips with his own. A wet, messy slide of tongue, spit dribbling into Richie's beard. Every cell in Richie's body yearning for the other man, screaming with each press of his lips 'I love you, I love you, I love you' but he doesn't say it. 

Barely holding the words clogged in his throat, too scared to admit it first, because of what Eddie might choose over him. But, looking in his eyes now, the dim light of the moon split in ribbons across his face, Richie can't imagine he'd pick anyone else. 

It might be the confidence the afterglow gifts him, it might be foolish, it might be reckless, but he can't stop the tide bubbling out, the words right there, right there on the tip of his tongue because Eddie… "Eddie, I-"

It's barely a whisper, just a hint of a ring muffled by distance, but it's familiar and shatters the illusion built up in Richie's mind. Eddie scrambles out from under him, shoving his shoulder and barely paying any mind to him in his pavlovian conditioning to answer that fucking phone.

The conversation is hushed, Eddie at least having the good grace to huddle into the on-suite to spare him listening to whatever bullshit he tells his wife to keep up the illusion of a happily married straight man. The sound of the tap running as he cleans off the evidence of his affair. Platitudes of affection dribbling in half-truths, her name on his lips like he wasn't just singing Richie's while getting railed on his cock. 

He doesn't bother removing the condom, letting his limp dick rest against his leg, semen seeping out just because he knows it'll piss Eddie off. He grabs a cigarette from the bedside table, the nicotine barely soothing the bitter jealousy spooling in his gut. 

It's not long, but it's enough for the distance between them to grow like years in the yawning distance of the bathroom to the bed. 

"You could clean up, Richie."

He blows a smoke ring at the other man, flicking ash to the floor. "And you could be less off a prissy shit."

Eddie scrunches his nose at the stale smoke lingering in the room, but his eyes also don't leave Richie's body which should say enough about his hypocrisy. Richie's not being fair, he knows he isn't. The unnecessary cruelty clenching his heart might have made him bite his tongue, apologize, but he already gave that away to the man hallowed by the bathroom light.  

In its place, resentment festers.

Eddie scoffs, gathering his clothes. "I don't have to stand here and listen to you be an asshole. I have a perfectly good bed at home that isn't being occupied by a gargantuan man baby."

"Yeah, it just has your gargantuan wife, Eds." It's a joke, but it's said as an insult, the words leaving his mouth like molten garbage.  "How is she by the way? You know, she's got a lot of cushin' for the pushin'. Bet her pussy feels real nice around your dick, huh? Or can she even feel it, like a tiny prick in the hay."

"Don't fucking talk about her that way, she doesn't deserve your shit!"

"But, she deserves you coming here getting your brains fucked out, while you simper at her. Yeah, real chivalrous of you Eddie-bear." Eddie's face is scarlet, sputtering indignantly even as he stands naked in the face of the truth. 

Because that's it, the simple truth of the matter. Eddie's willing to get fucked within an inch of his life, but fuck if he can be honest about it. 

"What the hell has gotten into you, you know why we have to do it like this." He hesitates a moment, eyes flickering between his gathered clothes and Richie spread out glowering at him. Internal debate, clear on his face. 

Maybe he should leave, quit this endless cycle they've found themselves in. 

Instead of backing away, Eddie comes closer perching on the edge of the bed, hand resting right by Richie's foot. "What will my job think, my mother- and I can't just leave her and run off with you in some happily ever fucking after! Like we're some Sunday lifetime special. I can't-"

Richie smiles sardonically, taking the cheap shot. "Be honest? Yeah, kinda got that already."

He scoffs, but it's not hurt in his eyes. He looks at Richie like he understands, like he knows what he keeps asking, and how much it hurts every time he walks out that door and pretends they don't know each other. Pretends like their relationship is this dirty little secret to stay shoved away in the dark. 

"Fuck off, you know I would if I could. You know that." He implores, lightly brushing Richie's ankle, but that gentle touch isn't enough to stem the tide of dark, possessive jealousy that spills from the aching pit in his chest. 

"Do I? Because what I know Eddie is that I have to meet you in far off dive bars just to have a conver-fucking-sation. What I know is you're too afraid to even text from anything other than a burner phone for fear of your wife finding out." Richie feels sick, the words coming out cutting, but he can't stop the muck from bubbling over out of his mouth. He's not loud, barely speaking above a whisper, but Eddie recoils like he's screaming in his face. 

"What I know is that you're more than willing to sell your shit to her for a few more minutes riding my cock. But, you want to know the thing I don't know Eds? The one thing I'm really dying to know?"

Eddie's fists open and close, refusing to meet Richie's eyes, but steeling himself nonetheless. Richie, for a moment, wants to take it all back. He can't stand hurting him, can't stand the person this is turning him into. Twisting into his guts, serrated knife kissing his intestines. Can't recognize himself from the ploppy shit that floats down in the sewers. 

He can deal with it, pull him close regardless of the hurt festering away, because isn't the lie more beautiful than the truth? Isn't it better to have him, have this, then nothing at all? 

Eddie looks at him then, defensive eyes and a haughty tilt of his head looking at Richie like he's the scum of the earth. 

And maybe he is, to hurt the person he loves most. "What? Do I still love her? That's what this is about isn't it. You're so fucking pathetic Richie."

But, Eddie's hurt him too. 

He doesn't move suddenly, doesn't seem even slightly rushed as he puts out his cigarette on the bare bedside table. Eddie furrows his brow, clearly a lecture quivering on his tongue, but he holds it in as Richie lazily slides closer. 

He lightly brings his hands to Eddie's cheeks, the other flinching, before leaning into the warm touch sighing in comfort. 

Richie smiles like a predator, cruel and all bright white teeth. "Do you think of me, when you're fucking her?" 

Eddie's breath hitches, startled gulps, but Richie doesn't give him a chance to catch it. He crashes their mouths together hot and heated; pouring in all his hatelove hatelove hatelove, teeth clacking harshly. Eddie grips his shoulders, blunt nails digging into his skin as they jam their lips together till he tastes blood, either his or Eddie's doesn't really matter at this point. 

Eddie presses closer, clambering into his lap as Richie yanks him, the mess leaking from his condom between them in a disgusting sticky mess. It's harsh and heated and says everything and nothing it needs. Eddie tugs on the hairs on the back of his neck, kissing him like it's the last time. 

But, holding him close, primal and near violent intensity sparking in flames, the biggest lie is that he could ever let this go. 

[wordynerdygurl]

Sweetness and Light

Author’s Note:  Hi everyone!  This is the last of my 500 Followers Request stories and I’m so happy to be sharing it with you!  As I was working on it, I saw a challenge from @peterman-spideyparker​ and took on one of the quote prompts, “I am in love with you and I’m terrified.”  It just flowed into this story so well!   Thank you @brokenthelovely for the amazing request!  Enjoy! Summary/ Request:  I’d like to request a Loki fic.  The reader and him have feelings for each other but he won’t make a move because he thinks everyone will be against it and he isn’t good for her.  She starts dating some guy and he tries to let her go but everyone eventually calls him out for letting her go and of course he realizes he was an idiot and then wins her back and they all live smuttily ever after! Pairing:  Loki x Female Reader Warnings:  Some fluffy smut at the end, a little angsty and Loki being mischievous!

Why did you always have to look so good?  That was the thought crossing Loki's mind as you flitted past, one arm wrapped around Bucky, the other around Natasha.  Laughing, your scarlet lips a daring contrast to the emerald dress caressing you in ways that made Loki jealous of satin.

He was always so aware of you.  Without conscious thought, Loki would, inevitably seek out your soft figure.  Relaxing only once he knew you were in his line of sight.  

His ear, normally attuned to classical music or epic poetry, could pick up your sugarcane sighs across a crowded room.  The lilt of your voice, dropping to a whisper in order to tell a bawdy joke, seemed to float above the hollow ringing guffaws of everyone else.  To Loki you were a songbird, glorious of plumage, spellbinding in sound.

It was a nightmare for the fallen prince.

A being as lovely as you lived in the light.  Sunkissed and radiant, you had this annoying habit of drawing everyone into your orbit.  Even the historically stoic, your Bucky Barnes or Bruce Banners, found their withered roots spreading in the enchanting glow of your attention.

Natasha Romanoff wasn't immune either.  Just yesterday she had smiled at Loki.  A genuine  smile, something he had never experienced before, which set off a chain of events leaving the young God spooked.  

“What?  You're smiling at me… It’s eerie, quite frankly.”  Snarky sarcasm laced each syllable as Loki sipped from his espresso's miniature cup, Natasha's ever watchful eyes on him. “Come on, Loki.  You know…"  Waiting for his response, impatient and searching, she cocked her head.  "He has to know right?  Right?”  Turning to Captain America, his nose in a book, Natasha shook her head in disbelief.  

Searching through the assorted granola bars, desperately looking for a dark chocolate almond wrapper but coming up empty, Loki was only half listening.  "Damn, all out."  Meeting Natasha's glare, "I have to know what, exactly?" "I… I can't.  Not today.  Not with you, Loki"  Spinning on her heel, steaming tea in hand, Natasha left with a wide eyed glance at Steve.

"Not that I truly care, but what exactly is her problem?"  Biting into an overripe pear, juice running over his fingers, Loki spared a look at the doorway before The Captain could answer.

You again.

Coasting into the room, bubbling and bright, whistling to yourself, "Hiya Stevie!  How's the book?  You like it?"

Smiling at you in a way that made Loki's blood boil, Steve sighed, "It's so good.  Like, speaks to my soul, good."

Shooting a wink his way, "I told you!  The part where she goes to the farm?"

"And she sees the truck!"

Scooting into the seat next to Steve, your hand resting on his bicep so casually, "I know!  Oh, it's so good!  Wait until you read the ending!"

Wishing he was sightless, Loki really didn't want to see anymore.  Watching Steve grin at you, your easy connection with the super soldier visible to everyone, turned Loki's stomach sour. The wholesome display of you and the Captain, discussing some novel, made Loki nauseous.

As it was, you were practically perfect, Steve was actually perfect.  Together you were All American, teeth crackling, sweetness.  It was blinding, the beautiful brilliance of the pair of you.  Sunshine and pretty teeth, foreheads nearly pressed together, seemingly lost in a private world.

"Have you ever read it, Loki?"  Your voice changes.  He notices because it's not as warm or friendly as before.  It cools just a bit, freezing your intentions, confusing the hell out of Loki.  

You haven't looked at him once, a thing Loki wishes he didn't notice.  Even now you're focused on the cover of this wonderful book and not the God of Mischief.  Turning to the sink, Loki answers you over his shoulder.

"Drivel, I suspect.  Midgardian garbage.  Melodrama and kitsch… no thank you."  Focusing on washing the pear from his hands, lest he get sticky, Loki's features are unreadable.  His voice though, that oozed disdain.

"I like it… so far."  Steve defended, trying to correct the conversation.

Your mysterious voice went soft, "Well, can't win 'em all I guess.  Thanks for teaching me about your literary tastes now, Loki, rather than after the wedding!"  

He stiffened at your teasing comment.  His back was to you, gripping a paper towel, drying his hands.  Wedded to you?  What a ludicrous thought.

Tossing his towel into the trash, Loki sees you rifling through the snack bin, "Dang!  No dark chocolate almond granola bars?  That's why I come down here!"  Plastering on a pretend pout, you pass behind Loki and suddenly you are that bobbing band of gold again.  "Drink some water, Loki!  It's good for you!  See you later, Steve!"

A hurricane was less destructive.  In a matter of minutes you had blown in and out, leaving Loki in the wreckage of your touchdown.  Even Steve was different after your visit.

"Man.  Natasha is right.  I never noticed it before… but, holy moley."  Chuckling as he returned to the much adored story, Steve looked at Loki over the pages, "You're crazy in love with that girl."

"What?  How dare you!"  Feeling the hot flash of anger flood his face, Loki instinctively went for his daggers, ready to silence the impertinent Avenger in front of him.

Lifting his hands in a sign of surrender, Steve was still laughing, "I take it back.  I take it back.  I won't tell her that you like her."

"I don't know what you're talking about.  Like her.  Like her?  What's to like?"

Steve closed his book and crossed his arms over his chest, "Everything.  Loki, she's just a great person.  And for some reason she likes you.  A lot."

"No.  Not me.  You maybe, but not me."

"Wrong.  It's you, buddy.  And… I think you like her too."

Those words had taken root in Loki's head.  Sprouting branches of thought that he would have never considered possible even hours ago, Loki tested the strengths of Steve's accusation, the validity of his claims.  Could it possibly be true?

Loki denied it.  What a silly idea, really.  To think that some little earthling might tempt the rightful King of Jotunheim, Prince of Asgard, son of Odin and God of Mischief.  Hardly.

And yet… He couldn't help the niggling feeling that there was something about you that deserved his attention.  

Was it in the way you seemed surrounded by music everywhere you went?  Either singing or humming, whistling a tune or blaring your playlist, it was rarely quiet in your presence.  Annoying.  But also, rather charming.

Or perhaps it was your turn of phrase.  "Yes, sir Drill Sergeant!" was a favorite whenever someone asked for your help.  "Put some pep in your step, a little glide in your stride, a little dip in your hip!"  With quips and quotes for all occasions, it seemed to Loki that you had a ready answer for everything.  No situation ever caught you off guard.  You were funny, unflappable and light.

Then there was your physical form.  Curvy.  Soft.  Deliciously feminine and daringly female.  

You wore short skirts with canvas tennis shoes.  Vintage band t-shirts with wide legged trousers and suit jackets.  You rolled up your jeans and sloughed around in ancient wooly cardigans.

Patterns got crossed, like plaids with polka dots.  Colors collided.  But you always pulled it off, an avant garde runway model for a post-modern haute couture design house.  

In short, you were the essence of cool.  Effortless.  Easy.  

"Oh gods… I do.  I like her."

It was that thought that kept Loki awake all night.  When sleep tried to claim him after an hours long workout with Thor, your voice pulled him back to wakefulness, the message relayed through the compounds AI.  "Hi everyone!  Don't forget!  Tonight is the annual scholarship fundraiser hosted by our favorite philanthropist, Tony Stark.  Tuxedos and gowns kiddos!  See you there!"  Even recorded you sound chipper and cheerful.  It delighted and disgusted Loki in equal measure.

At the fundraiser, tucking himself into a shadowed corner, Loki pretended not to watch you and your emerald gown.  Nursing a cocktail, chatting only when absolutely necessary, his plan was to forget his wayward thoughts and yesterday's conversation with Steve.  If you kept away, he might get through the night.

An hour in and Loki's restless with need.  What he wants to do is march over to you, take you in his arms and press that pliant body of yours to his.  Feel your crimson lips, taste your singing mouth and discover if it's as warm as he imagines.  

His tumbler hits the bar with a heavy thunk.  Running his hands through his dark hair, tightening the knot of his tie, Loki exhales once.  With renewed purpose, crossing the floor, he’s stalking towards you.  Nothing will distract him now.  He is a man of action going after the thing he wants most.  You.

Just a few steps more, Loki thinks.  Your profile is illuminated in the dim lights of the hall.  You're laughing.  You are always laughing, it seems.

Watching as you swing your head his way, Loki's certain that you've spotted him and his intentions.  Wanda taps your shoulder, directing your focus back to her as she points into the crowd, giggling in your ear.  A man, broad and strong, strides into your circle.

Loki's step falters as his excellent hearing picks up your joyful squeal of delight.  This person, this interloper, puts his hands around your waist.  Swinging you into a possessive bear hug, kissing you at the same time, he makes a show of literally sweeping you off your feet in front of everyone at Tony’s gala.  

You’re a blur, the motion of it making Loki dizzy.  He is also frozen in place.  Questions buzz like angry bees at the familiar way this person is handling you.  It's not right.  It's not proper.  And it's all because those are not Loki’s hands on you.

"Loki!  Hi!  I want you to meet my boyfriend Marcus!  Marc, this is Loki!"  

A beefy hand extends your way, attached to an equally beefy person, with an overeager smile.  "Loki!  I've heard so much about you.  You're good with knives, right?  Maybe we can train together sometime?"

Loki, noticing how Marc's hand rested possessively on the swell of your hip, thinks, Yes.  I would love to throw daggers at you, Marc.  Instead, with a charming chuckle Loki answers, "Well, our girl is too kind.  It was nice to meet you, Matt."

"It… it's Marc."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!  Marc.  Right.  Apologies!  Please, enjoy your evening!"  Plastering his smile on permanently, pride stinging, Loki slunk away to nurse his wounds in the solace of his room. 

You were with Marc now.  He was too late.  And there was no good excuse beyond pride for Loki's inability to see the plain truth.  You were pretty wonderful, something Loki had always known, deep down.  Now, you were someone else's.

In truth, it took Loki two days to square with the fact that you were with a lesser man.  You were beautiful and clever and a constant delight, but you were with Marc.  There was no changing that fact, right?

Wrong.  The reason Loki didn't surface during waking hours for the next week was because he had a plan.  He would win you, do the work, make you realize that you belonged with him. 

Yet, each plan failed in one way or another.  

When Loki accidentally on purpose cancelled your dinner plans at a trendy new hot spot, Tony had called in a favor.  You and Marcus had dined in the private wine cellar, met the chef, and walked back into the compound holding hands.  Loki stormed away before you could tell him all about your wonderful night. Overhearing Marcus brag about a weekend away, bathing suits and a boat, Loki asked Thor for help.  “It’s the weather.  You see, I need it to rain.  I need thunder and lightning.  And all those wonderful things that you control.” “Brother, I am the God of Thunder, not the God of Weather.” “Can you please, just… do this one thing for me?  Please?” Whether it was Loki‘s manic sincerity or his desperation that convinced Thor, Loki would never know.  What he did know was that your seaside sailing excursion had been cancelled due to unprecedented storms.  However, Wanda had helped Marcus with booking a hotel room for two nights instead.  You had a couples’ massage and drank champagne.  Loki sulked. Feeling like a cartoon coyote, Loki knew the surrender was near.  Always pragmatic, and resourceful, he had realized that as much as he might want to woo you, it was possible that you did not want to be wooed.  At least, not by Loki.   So, the handsome prince, with a gloomy face, once again strayed from the others.  Not content to make small talk when his heart knew such hurt, Loki slept during the day and moped around at night.  He avoided everyone as much as possible.  When interaction was inevitable, it was brief and direct.  Loki had no energy for games.  He was played out. He was also hungry. Which is how he found himself in the kitchen at 3:00 am, spooning cherry jell-o into his face, thinking about you.  He was so wrapped up in the idea of you that he could swear your voice was playing in his head.

“But, I don’t understand.  Marc?  That… that’s not fair.  I told you.  I told you how the job was… what I had to do… how it might be hard sometimes… But I thought?  Oh.  Oh…”  

Pausing, Loki realized that you weren’t an illusion.  You were at the compound, and tonight you weren’t laughing.  In fact, Loki was fairly certain that he heard a sniff, something that you did when you were crying.  He remembered hearing it when the gang watched Old Yeller.  You had sobbed over the fictional pup.  It was adorable then, now, not so much. “Well… if that’s what you really think… Wow.  Ok, Marcus.  You made your point. Goodbye, I guess.”  Loki had heard you cry before.  Over the old yellow dog in that movie, because of a missing classified document and once due to Clint's awful singing.  Tonight though, there was silence.  Expecting to hear your sobs, Loki, surprised by the quiet, risked a peek around the corner to check on you. Probably, because you thought you were entirely alone at the inhumane hour of three in the morning, you let yourself sink down to the floor.  Bathed in the blue light of the Avengers “A”, resting your head against the textured wall with your phone still cradled in your palm, one fat tear rolled down your cheek.

Later on, Loki would tell you that everything that followed was because of that tear.  Something about that shiny track of sadness had hit the jokester right in his heart, watering the shriveled seed of his love for you.  It made him want to hold you, to keep the hurts of life away, protect you from the kind of sadness that had forced your happiness into hiding. Unhappy didn't do your current mental state justice.  More silent tears joined the first.  Another failed relationship, and if you were honest the water works weren't for Marcus.  They were for you.  

He was a handsome distraction, for sure.  And his reasons for dumping you?  Valid.  True.  

Canceled dates, long nights at work, the constantly ringing phone.  All things that you found more important than Marcus.  He was absolutely correct when laying the blame for this failure at your feet.  You did not want your partnership with Marcus to thrive, survive.  You had been killing time with him and that wasn't fair.

Not when there was someone else on your mind all the time.  

Marcus had been a paltry replacement for the man you really wanted.  Even though you had tried to deny it, fight against it, every time he touched you, you ached for the nimble fingers of a demigod.  Each kiss from Marc made you hungry for the flavor of Loki's mouth.  You hated yourself for it but stopping those thoughts had proven too difficult to manage.  In response, avoiding your boyfriend had become an easy habit to cultivate.

Which was worse, you sat on the floor wondering.  Having the wrong man or having no man?  Lusting after one while leading on the other?  Being desired by Marcus but faking your interest in him?  Wanting Loki but not being wanted by him in return?

You closed your eyes, breathing deeply, mad at yourself.  There was no way to know Loki was watching you fall apart from the safety of the kitchenette.  Awash in self anger, almost alone, you struggled to pull yourself together.

Instead of second guessing himself, taking a deep breath, Loki swiftly rounded the corner and slipped down next to you.  His bony knee brushed against your own, "Some might give you a penny for your thoughts… but I'm afraid I only have a dark chocolate almond bar."  "Loki…"  Sighing with a small chuckle, barely surprised at his presence, you grabbed the offered snack, "My thoughts aren't worth this much."

"That's where you are wrong, dove.  I would pay this and more to have a better understanding of you."

Snorting derisively, "Really?  Most days you can barely be civil to me."

Loki's fierce gaze locked on your watery one, "Yes… well.  For that, I apologize.  You… You are a very nice person.  I, unfortunately, am not."

Swiping at your wet cheeks, smiling, "You are too!  Or, you can be… if you want to be."

"No, I leave chivalry to my brother.  Kindness to Captain Rogers… Sweetness to, well, you."

Turning toward him, your leg folded under you, "You're here now, and with my favorite snack, no less!  That's pretty nice, Loki."

Shyly smiling, "About that… I know you like them.  I keep a small stash in my room, in case Stark runs out."

"What?  Really?"  It's hard to believe that Loki would be so secretly thoughtful.  Playing with the wrapper in your hand, you raised a glance to the studious prince beside you, "That's… that maybe the sweetest thing anyone has done for me."

"I doubt that.  I'm sure your friend, Marcus, has done kind things for you."  Just saying the name made Loki's heart leap, worried that it might spook you.  Or, and this was worse, that you'd defend him because Marcus was the one you wanted.

"Don't play coy, Loki.  You know he just dumped me.  It's over… it's been over almost since it began."  Resting your warm hand on Loki's arm, the zing of your touch scorching his cool skin, distracted and disoriented him for a moment.

Whispering, almost timid with wanting to know, "Did you love him?  Do you?"

Slumping forward, your shaggy hair covering your face, "Nope.  Not even a little bit."

"Really?"  Loki fought against the swelling of glee that surged through him at your admission.

Snapping your head up, searching his face, "You sound surprised.  You shouldn't be… See, Loki,  I'm not as nice as you think I am."

"Oh yes you are… even now you feel bad about all this.  You wish you could have loved Marcus, eased his hurt, regardless of your own unhappiness. "  

Shaking your head gently, shrugging, "It would be easier, I think.  Less painful.  And I wouldn't be alone… again."

Loki betrayed nothing in his voice, but his mind was in a tailspin.  In a husky hum, he asked you, "Is that all you want, dove?  Not to be alone?"

Flashing your floormate a small smile, it faltered when you realized just how close you and Loki were.  He hadn't moved.  You had.  Near enough that you felt his body's heat melt into yours.  

"No… but it's a good start, don't you think?"

Instinctively, Loki reached out, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.  "I think I am in love with you and I'm terrified."  

Hanging in the air between you, Loki's words, uttered so casually, expanded to fill the following silence.  Raising his hope filled eyes to yours, Loki offered a half smile, "Come on dove, if I have even half a chance, then for Odin's sake, tell me."

First your body went cold, shocked at Loki's revelation.  Next, a flush of heat rolled over you, flaming your cheeks.  It settled into your lower belly as a throbbing ache, an unscratched itch, needy and raw.

Murmuring, stunned, "You like me?"

Tossing his dark hair, "No… no, little one.  I love you.  And I am truly scared that you don’t feel the same way."  Loki shifted, mirroring your posture, your folded knees grazing against each other.  Leaning into your space, Loki's hands cupped your face.  Brushing his lips across your forehead, he kissed down the bridge of your nose and over your heated cheeks.  

His thumbs stroked along your jaw, tilting your chin up, as your lips parted.  Wasting no time, Loki pressed his firm mouth to yours, kissing you sweetly.  You felt his fingers tangle in your hair, drawing you deeper into Loki's arms, his tongue licking into your warm mouth.

Happily swallowing your sweet sigh, Loki's lips asked for more of you and you obliged.  Your hands gripped his shoulders, enjoying the firm muscled man beneath your hands, savoring the taste of Loki's tongue.  He pulled away first, groaning, "I have wanted to do that for a long time."

"Me too."

Picking up your hand, threading his digits through yours, "But… my leg is falling asleep sitting here on the floor."

Laughing out loud, "Me too!"  You moved to stand, but Loki tugged you back down again.

"Before we go… I wanted to ask you out for a proper date.  Dinner, a movie… dancing, drinks… whatever.  You name it!  I want to do this right, you see."

Nodding, you bit into your bottom lip, "I will let you wine and dine me, Loki.  I promise.  But… if I'm honest with you, I have been thinking about kissing you for months now… and I don't want to stop."

Loki stood taking you with him.  Once you were on your feet, your tall god wrapped his arm around your waist, snuggling you into his chest.  "I was afraid I had missed my chance.  That someone else had taken your heart."

"It's always been yours, Loki.  I’m in love with you too."

Your body melded to his.  Those lips were on your neck, making you gasp in rapture, as Loki's hands cupped your bottom.  Draping your arms over his broad shoulders, feeling the tensing muscles underneath the fabric of his dark tee, had you panting.

"Gods, you are incredible!"  

Like a purring cat, you rubbed your cheek into Loki's chest, "I could say the same about you."

Swallowing hard, still keeping you close, Loki studied your expression.  "Come on, dove.  Let's go."

Confusion crowded your features, "Go where?"

"I'm taking you to bed!"  Loki scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, as if you were a distressed damsel.  Squealing his name, you threw your head back, happy in Loki's capable hands.

In his apartment, naked on Loki's bed, you let his mouth devour you.  Starting with your full, round breasts, Loki licked and sucked your nipples under they were painfully taut.  Then his fingers found your peaks, pulling and tugging, until you were mewling for more.

Loki's tongue traced a line down the center of your body.  When he reached your glistening core, Loki used his thumbs to part your lower lips, blowing gently over your aroused flesh.  "Stop wiggling, dove!"

"But Loki!  I need you!"  As the words left your mouth, Loki's tongue licked through your silky skin, circling your clustered nerves.  You cried out when he sucked the sensitive nub between his lips while still licking against your sex.

With shaking thighs, your body released hard while Loki drank down your nectar.  Kissing back up your body, you tasted yourself when his mouth met yours, your tongues colliding.  Reaching down between your bodies, your fingers found Loki's significant size and you smiled wickedly.

"Easy kitten!"

"Oh no, I want you, Loki.  Hard and fast.  Please?"  When he tipped his head, agreeing, you gave his length a gentle squeeze.  Loki rested his forehead to yours as your lovely little hand directed him to your velvet core.

Once there, Loki's mouth found yours, tenderly kissing you as he gently burrowed into your slick satin skin.  Taking more and more of you, claiming your body with his deep thrusts, Loki's hips rocked into you.  Each plunge pushed you closer to completion.  

Your walls tightening, gripping Loki, had him moaning your name.  "I'm close, dove… so close."  

"Me too, Loki!"

His clever fingers dropped to your cleft, rubbing your engorged button, as Loki drove into you once more.  In a flash of supreme pleasure your bliss roared through you, stealing Loki's climax at the same time, as you clung to your man.  Shivering from the intensity of your passion, you refused to let Loki go, keeping your arms firmly around him as your body moved mindlessly in delight.

Loki kissed away the happy tears that spotted your cheeks.  Brushing the hair back from your face, he whispered tender words like "love" and "beautiful" and "darling girl" until slowly your tense muscles relaxed.  Loki gently withdrew from you, rolling you to your side to face him, wrapping a protective arm over you.

Satisfied beyond reason, you looked at your raven haired lover, eyes heavy.  "You should sleep, dove." "Hmm… yes.  But you'll stay with me, right, Loki?"

"Of course.  You're my sweet girl."

Scrunching into his side, snuggling under his quilt, you smiled.  “That’s me!"

The next morning Loki stirred some sugar into his tiny espresso cup, a secret smile turning up the corners of his mouth.  Steve sat at the counter, a newspaper spread out in front of him, mug of coffee nearby.  From down the hall, your whistling reaches the room before you do.

"Hiya Stevie!  Any good news in there today?"

Tearing himself away, "Not that I've seen.  How are you?  You seem… happy.  Happier than usual."

You lock eyes with Loki, grinning from ear to ear, "I am.  Things are good… great even."

Hopping up on the island, looking through the bin of snack bars, Loki steps between your knees.  "Looking for this?"  

"Yes!  My favorite treat!  And my favorite you!"  Throwing your arms around his neck, you draw Loki into a deep kiss, his hands running up your sides.

Understanding lit up Steve’s face, "Whoa!  Wait!  Is this real?  Did it finally happen?"    

"Yup!  So, uh… tell Tony we're taking the morning off, ok?"

"Actually, Steve, please tell Stark that we are taking the rest of the day off.  Don't call.  My sweet girl and I will be too busy to answer."  With that Loki grabbed you by the hips, wrapping your legs around him as he marched you out of the room.

Sweetness and Light, that’s what you were and that’s just what Loki needed.   ----

Tags:  @brokenthelovely​ @iamverity​ @just-random-obsessions​ @jamielea81​ @archy3001​ @jessiejunebug​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @thefallenbibliophilequote​ @mizfit2​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @rorybutnotgilmore​ @procrastinatinglikeabitch​ @lots-of-loki​

[whump-town]

Criminal Minds AU: Zombie Apocalypse

Warnings: Amputation outside of a hospital, Whump, Hotchniss but you really have to squint, Hurt Hotch :(

Despite David Rossi’s thick walls and a floor’s difference in location, Hotch’s pained screams echo through the house. The noise cuts through Reid’s palms. No matter how hard he presses, his knuckles going white and skin hurting, he can still hear the hitch in Hotch’s voice. The way his breathing falters and breaks. Reid rocks his body, muttering to himself in hopes to drown out the sound.

Until the screams stop.

“This is exactly why you have the gun.”

Hair plastered to his pale skin, arm raised above his head, and lethargic with fever those were the last words spoken to any of them. Hotch had already succumbed heavily to the infection running through his body but the conviction in his tone as he’d reminded Reid that there was a reason they do things the way that they do. 

Dave swings an ax. Derek has a crowbar. JJ has a bedazzled crossbar. Emily and Hotch have bats.

Spencer gets the gun. 

The others can handle hand-to-hand combat. They’re stronger than they look and even if they aren’t someone always has their back-- that’s why Hotch never lets them leave without a partner. Zombies are dangerous, he reminds them like somehow they’ll forget, but they need to be reminded. Morgan has too many close calls and Emily won’t leave a man behind.

But they fall into routine and routine in the apocalypse are unnervingly dangerous. 

“No, splitting up.” Hotch’s voice is raised just above the sound of the lightning cracking across the sky. “No, going back.” His eyes scan across them, eyes pinched as the scent of death becomes waterlogged and the strong summer wind sends the scent wafting past them. “You do not stop. No matter what.” He’s really talking to Spencer and Penelope. 

He’s seen the damage JJ and Emily can do. Derek is relentless, Dave fearless… What he knows is that it’s going to be impossible for all of them to make it out. And, as long as he can help it, they will make it home. Even if that means he doesn’t. 

He rises to his feet, door hinge knees creaking as he’s reminded he’s getting too old for this. The scent of death is thicker the higher his head peaks up and as his eyes land on the undead around them, he pulls in a shuddering breath. They’re surrounded, a death sentence-- if it were anyone other than his team of federal agents. Well, they’re not federal agents anymore but it’s the thought that keeps them together.

“Hotch?” If she’s being honest, Emily’s feeling a little unnerved. “If--” she bites her lip, correcting herself. “When we get back… wanna have that smoke?” As a part of her reckless, we’re all gonna die anyways mentality, Emily had picked up smoking. On more than one occasion, usually a little tipsy or more sleep deprived than normal, Hotch would pick one of her cigarettes up between his trembling fingers and ask her to remind him to try one of these one day.

Now, facing death in the face… he can’t help but smile. He ducks back down, his blood aching at the sound of the growls around them. “Emily--” that’s how they do things now. No last names. Last names and formalities are for the other world-- the living world, “-- have one waiting for me?”

She smiles back at him, “you got it boss.”

He lets the rain overhead wash the smile off his face. Leaving behind his thundering heart. “If we don’t…” his voice deepens with the thick emotion swelling in his voice. “If we don’t make it out of this,” his eyes trail over each of their faces. Forcing each detail to remain present in the back of his mind. In the initial outbreak, there was a medical examiner with a theory about the way the infection was spreading through families. “I want you to know that you're the closest I’ve ever come to family. I-I-” 

Infected mother’s and father’s were not killing their children. Some even seen herding them along, hunting and gathering food for them long past the point of present mind. Now, as Hotch stands before them, the only thing separating them from death, a thin wall, he hopes that if  death comes to him, he’ll remember.

Even dead. He’ll know they’re family.

JJ reaches out, squeezing his fingers. “We know,” she promises. “We love you too.”

Hotch nods his head, lowering his eyes to the soaked ground beneath his feet. 

Emily chuckles, a deep dark sound. The kind of morbid humor that they’ve all acquired. “So,” she smacks her hands together. “We gonna do this shit or not?”

It’s now or never.

It would be an epic battle in the rain if they could let out battle cries as they race into the street. Noise draws out more of them, though. So as Hotch approaches the edge of their protective wall, hand raised over his head in a clear stop, fingers spread like a high-five. His jaw clenches, they radiate that energy. Fist clenching around their weapons. With a nod he closes his fist. 

Go.

Training and reflexes, it’s what keeps them alive. 

Common sense helps too. 

Hotch keeps up a moderate jog as he leads them. His legs are longer, meaning he travels the ground faster. As he squints through the rain, blinking blood and water from his eyes, he glances back for them.  

A man, face actively rotting off with the rain, comes running at Hotch. With a grunt, Hotch swings his bat up into the underside of his jaw. There’s a nasty crack, the man’s mandible falling off onto the ground. Before the man can even gain his footing, Hotch finishes him. Bringing his bat down on the man’s neck, cracking his head open against the ground. 

He doesn’t so much as blink at the corpse on the ground. The corpse whose blood has splattered across his clothes. 

He makes eye contact with Emily across the street, sharing a bloodied smile with her. 

A piercing scream pulls their attention away.

“Spence!”

Reid jerks, caught off guard. He looks up from the floor, brushing his sleeves across his wet face. “I-I’m-” he forces himself to his feet. His knees shaking beneath him. “Wh-What? Did he- Did he make it?” His eyes track every moment in JJ’s face, looking for any sign of a micro expression that might break the news to him now rather than later.

But this life has hardened them in ways that are incurable. 

“He’s alive,” JJ tells him but he knows that’s not forever. For right now, amputation has slowed the infection. With something more than luck-- be it Dave’s God or Hotch’s stubborn ass-- the infection might be stopped. No Hotch Zombies, yet. 

Reid sniffles, rubbing at his eyes again. “What- What can I do?” His eidetic memory has never been more helpful. When the outbreak first occurred, they would bring back books with the food they scavenged. Reid is as close to a medical doctor as they have. 

Although, Emily’s stitches are clinically even. Unmatched.

“Emily speculates jaundice,” JJ’s voice is even where it once trembled. “His eyes…” her head shakes as she finds herself unable to communicate the medical garbage explained to her before. Just like in their previous life of crime fighting, they each have things that make them valuable. Things they know.

Emily and Spencer have steady hands and are sponges to water with medicine. Their impromptu medical team. Derek is a fast learner, good on his feet. He scavenges. Dave’s ability as a team player makes him Derek’s right hand man. Old or not, in the field, he and Derek are precise and merciless. As technology around them dies away like the humanity in their bones, Penelope feels desperate. She needn’t worry about her place on the team. 

There are days when they come home-- home to Dave’s house, to each other-- covered in blood with hunger in their eyes. They’re not even human anymore. They kill. They scavenge but they are not human. 

Penelope. She is human. Her brightly colored butterfly clips in her hair and the way she laughs without abandon. 

She is human and they are not. 

It’s how there was no thought, no hesitation when Hotch turned back.

“Penelope!” His voice is a crack of lightning, his rage streaking across the sky. He raises the bat high above his head, height ever the advantage as he runs back into the carnage. Someone calls out his name but he has no fear. It’s just rage. “Move!”

The kills come naturally, blood sprays and he doesn’t so much as blink. It’s merciless, it’s nasty. 

“Go!” For a moment, Penelope sees a flash of her old boss. The man who wore suits and red ties. He’s gone with a swing of his bat. Replaced by the man who’s seen too much. She loves him, irregardless, but she wishes the pain came for less. 

He pulls her to his feet, eyes scanning for injuries. “Run,” is the last thing he says to her. 

It takes half an hour to find him again. Soaked to the bone in blood and gore, Emily smiles shining white teeth at her old boss. “Any bites,” she asks, with a nod of her head. Before she steps closer, she makes sure they’re clear. Her back to the wind.

Exhausted and sick with the feeling of the infection spreading through his veins, Hotch raises his right hand. Dying is… it’s so fucking cold. “One,” he answers, showing her the necrotized skin on his forearm. A death sentence.

A scarlet letter.

Emily steps closer. For anyone else, she would never be so naive. Minutes after the first bite the victim becomes deadly. A killer. But this is Hotch and she does and always has trusted him with her life. She presses the back of her hand to his cheek, feeling his burning body. He’s fighting the infection. “Can you stand?” 

He nods but his throat is too dry to say much more. There’s a plan. A promise. She’s supposed to kill him. Press the barrel of a gun to temple and--

With a barely contained cry she forces him to his feet. They shuffle. 

“Aaron,” Dave finds them next, a hollow inflection in his voice. Hotch will be the first loss. 

Reid curls his nose as he enters the room, swallowing thickly against the scent of cigarette smoke. 

His mother did her best to raise him. As far as life goes, Emily and Hotch have taught him a lot. They’re old enough to be his parents, they could be his parents and in many ways have been. So to see the two of them sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on a bed sharing a cigarette is both strangely familiar and weird.

“JJ said you needed me.” 

Hotch’s hand trembles as he pulls the cigarette away from his pale lips. Emily takes it, not even commenting before placing it between her own lips. Under their shared scrutiny, his heart thunders in his chest. “You broke protocol,” Hotch’s voice is softer than normal. No strength behind the words that are accusatory and should pack heat. He’s too weak to be mad.

It’s because of this-- knowing that Hotch isn’t actually mad-- that Reid can nod. Confirming. “Yes, sir.” His hands are pushed down into his jeans, his eyes on the floor. It was his idea but he didn’t do it. 

Reid’s eyebrows pinch as he comes to a conclusion that seems too good to be true. “The infection,” he says dumbly, recalling the red sharpie outline Emily had drawn around the infection upon finding Hotch. When Emily nods Reid knows his eyes haven’t deceived him. “It’s a snake bite,” he tells them, “in theory.” In the 1800s, aside from treating the wound with  ammonia, the only other treatment was to cut around the wound. Cut the infection out.

“You want to cut his arm off,” Derek crosses his arms over his chest. 

Reid nods.

There’s a rumble of disapproval and all around unease. Emotions get in the way and right now that’s not something they can spare. They’re working on borrowed time and it’s beyond luck at this point they haven’t lost more. But Reid is right. 

Emily nods her approval, “then we’ll cut his arm off.” Her conviction is so strong that the attention of the room goes from heated and aimed at Reid to confused tension. She shrugs, “ does it matter? We leave his arm on, he dies. One of us has to kill him.” And that’s not a job she wants but if that’s what it comes to it’s the job she’s getting. “We cut his arm off, we kill the infection or maybe we just slow it down but that gives us time.”

A chance.

Emily Prenitss is tired of losing people she loves.

Derek raises his head from where he’s staring a hole into the ground, knowing the answer to his question before he even asks. “Who’s going to tell him that? Who’s going to cut his arm off?”

Emily just looks at him and Derek understands. 

He nods solemnly, resigned. 

“What if--” Garcia’s voice trembles, her eyes red and puffy. “We don’t have blood transfusions or-- or medical equipment!”

Emily nods, “we don’t.” She shrugs with a shake of her head, “but it’s this or…” zombie Hotch. No Hotch. Ever. 

No grumpy grunts as greetings in the hall. 

No more thick and dry jokes that take them by surprise, causing choked laughs and tear stained eyes.

No heavy hands on their shoulders, the silent reassurance that he’s there. He has their back.

“What if…” Reid feels the sudden burden of his plan settle on his sternum as dead weight. “What if he doesn’t forgive us?”

Dave, who had left them to debate in favor of sitting at Hotch’s side, grunts as he comes down the stairs. There’s an odd cut off laugh falling from his lips as he shakes his head. After all this time and they’re still a mystery to one another. He settles a crooked, sad smile on Reid. “Son,” he whispers, affection dripping from his mouth like blood. “He wants to die. A part of him is already dead but he’ll forgive you.” His voice softens, his tone shifting. “Forgiveness is all we have left.”

But, as the past few years have proven, you can never be certain. 

Emily and Derek cut Hotch’s arm off. They tied him down. Secured his legs to the sides of a pull-out cot, strapped his chest down with rope, and shackled his left above his head.

The whole time, hallucinating from the fever, Hotch had talked them through it. Reminding Reid over and over again that it was okay. Everything would be okay. 

Reid was by his side when Emily cleaned her saw, the same saw Hotch uses every winter to cut down branches from trees for firewood. A simple carpenter’s tool. By the time she drags it across the joint in Hotch’s right shoulder, Reid is downstairs. Hands over his ears as Hotch’s agonized screams tear through the walls.

Mercifully, as she tore through the back of his arm, his eyes had rolled into the back of his head. The screaming stopped. 

Now he’s leaning into Emily but, for the most part, sitting up. The bloodied stump of his right arm is covered in thick gauze and topped off with old t-shirts. His face is still pale, recovering from the blood loss is going to be hard, but the pain is agonizing and as long as he’s awake he won’t allow anyone to sneak out of the house in search of painkillers. 

“Thank you,” he rasps. He looks bad, like the living dead and he very much is, but as far as Emily can see, as far as any of them can see, there is no more infection. 

Reid looks to the floor, he can’t handle compliments but it goes beyond that. He needs Hotch alive. He can’t lose anymore people. 

“Knock, knock--”

Reid turns, and behind him at the room’s door, is the rest of the team. They’ve got dinner, it looks like what Penelope calls Everything Soup-- it’s exactly what you think it is. The room fills, everyone pilling up on the bed until no one’s standing but Reid. 

Hotch looks queasily at the bowl offered to him. 

Emily shakes her head at the bowl offered to her. “I just cut off my friend’s arm,” she reminds the room, with a smirk. “I’m not all that hungry right now.” Her face breaks out in a contagious smile as she starts losing her shit, bending over herself with hysterical laughter. It’s like she’s lost her mind.

“What?” 

“What is it?”

Emily shakes her head, covering her mouth as she snorts. Finally she manages, choking on her laughter, “I just thought about job recommendations and-and-” She bends back over herself, shaking the bed with her laughter. “Hotch how would you rate my skills? Enough to still write me a recommendation letter?”

Hotch rolls his eyes with a huff. He’s feeling dizzy and cold, the after effects of his blood loss. “Emily,” he admonishes, softly, shaking his head in disbelief.

The world as they know it can come to an end. She can perform a medical procedure outside of a hospital with tools not equipped for surgery. They can survive countless Zombie attacks. A sentence, he should never have to think let alone know is true and yet…

Emily Prentiss still tells bad jokes.