#it's bleak it's bleak as fuck people are starving here

[feluka]

the sisyphean task of explaining egypt's military rule to foreigners every time something happens to a monument that's famous enough for the rest of the world to care about while we have to deal with this shit on a daily basis

[eldritch-spouse]

How would the TCE boys hold up in a zombie apocalypse?

Putting aside the fact that Krulu and Miara would never let that happen.

[A zombie apocalypse setting is very intriguing, because you have to ask yourself a series of questions here. Are there only human zombies or monster zombies too? What properties do monster zombies have in particular? What has started the apocalypse? How does it spread?? It'd take so incredibly long to piece this all together coherently. So I'm going to go with something quite generic.]

TW: Mild gore; Unsanitary acts; Mild angst.

Morell has a very unique skill in this bleak scenario. Provided the zombie isn't too old, Morell can probably cook it in a way that still provides some type of nourishment and doesn't infect you. Or maybe it does... Just a little bit at a time. Maybe that's why he's been a little more bloodthirsty and twitchy lately. Is that a dark patch spreading around his cap? Zombies have began to avoid him, perhaps because he's a freak even to them. A zombie that eats zombies...

Grimbly is not having fun. But for one reason only mostly. Undead blood doesn't taste good, and it hardly sustains him. Depending on the scope of the invasion, he may die of starvation, or simply have to target survivors. Otherwise, he'd likely have an easier time avoiding zombies due to his speed, and killing them likely isn't that big of a hassle either. Grimbly could make a living wiping out groups of zombies for people and getting paid in blood.

Gallon would move to water bodies and mostly remain there. Zombies are sluggish in water generally. Slimes can remove nutrients from a surprising amount of things, so his biggest fear Iis only getting distracted enough to get bitten, and that the infection starts rotting his slime too fast for him to regenerate in time. He's so alert he's going vastly insane and extremely murderous towards most.

Santi is... Existing. He fucked a few zombies, don't judge him! Some of them are entertaining and clean, others just kinda... Well. He doesn't really find them to be ideal meals. Especially when he has to crush their jaws and break limbs so they don't infect him during coitus. He doesn't exactly feel threatened, but he does feel lonely and always a tad hungry. He's waiting to attach himself to someone and gain a steady stream of food, preferably someone weaker so he can act as their guard dog. Please he's so tired of limp zombie dick and lumpy pussy. They can't even suck.

Vinnel is getting a little too silly with it. Zombies can't pierce his suit, it was made by a God, after all, no rotted teeth and claws can ruin it. So he just floats around, picks some of them up and performs for absolutely no one but himself. The jester has put clown makeup on at least five zombies. They have names and they're his best friends! Except Pogo, the little shit keeps tearing the tutu off. Ungrateful fuck. Not everyone has the privilege to look good during the apocalypse, Pogo. Vinnel is also always starving to a degree. He doesn't kill survivors anymore out of desperation for genuine conversation. Most people just run from him.

Nebul, as an undead, has nothing to worry about. He will actually weaponize large hordes of them using his abilities as a wraith. Nebul is a creature to be feared during an apocalypse. He's likely the mastermind behind organized zombie attacks. His goal? To establish control of sizable portions of land and inflict total submission on those living he comes across. It may devolve into an apocalyptic cult. He's having a grand old time really! You may find him walking around with several bare humans in leashes crawling by his side. Somehow, someway, Purpur can eat zombies and be perfectly fine.

Patches, likewise, is not a target. Except he's less preoccupied with domination and more so trying to fight his instincts to put the living dead back into their graves. It's strange, his dullahan instincts don't usually react like this to other undead... He's holed up somewhere like a hermit, trying to study the source of the infection and keeping Stitches from exhausting himself in an effort to kill all zombies. Curiously, the sound of his yelling as a dullahan causes great confusion and fear in these particular types of undead. He has succeeded in controlling at least one zombie, but killed it shortly afterwards.

Belo is devastated, like any angel ought to be watching the Earth get populated by corruption that Dorem ought to have fixed. He kills most zombies he comes across and cannot be infected as far as he knows. Zombies avoid him, actually. Belo spends his time finding groups of survivors and attempting to help them fortify their bases. After all, they're all that's left... Even if they're demons, anything is better than those rotting husks. In a way, Belo feels as if he's been abandoned a second time, his existence is vastly miserable.

Sybastian is having a strange time. The zombies that have a fainter sense of smell don't pick up on him when he mimics them, the rest do, forcing him to be very careful. He's not having an easy time considering his method of dispatching zombies is very physical and he could get bitten in zones of his body that he fails to harden. Sybastian has lost many a mimicling to the apocalypse and lives mostly to protect the remaining ones, who have managed to survive alongside him. He too wants to find a group, in spite of adult mimics not being pack species.

Fank-e is having a... Boring time, mostly. He's not a target, in fact, he's loud and grating enough to drive zombies away. He doesn't need food or water. But he does need maintenance, so it's imperative he finds someone who can work in robotics minimally well or he'll perish eventually. Truth of the matter is he can't exactly die from battery loss, he may just lie dormant collecting moss and dust until someone with enough resources finds him. It's just as likely that he'll get torn into pieces and reused as armor or plating for other important machinery.

[cosmicjoke]

Winter

Winters in the Underground are bleak.

It’s the drafts, Furlan knows, coming in through the holes in the caverns roof, the ice melt which sinks down through the sewer grates, and flurries of fat, freezing flakes of snow. There is no sun to melt it as it carries on the strange currents of wind which suck down like a vortex into the open space, blowing endlessly through the dark tunnels of their world.

Isabel hates it. Complains constantly about how cold it is, shivering and shaking as she tries in vain to warm herself by their pitiful firepit.

Levi bears it like he bears everything. In silence, grim faced and unreadable.

Though, sometimes, Furlan catches the tremble in his small hands.

This year is worse than usual.

There’s a famine up above, apparently. No rain during this last spring resulting in fields of dead crops.

It’s well hard enough getting food down here, even when things up top are thriving.

But people struggling for food on the surface meant people starving to death in the Underground.

It’s been hard for everyone, even the three of them, who usually did a descent enough job staying afloat, thanks, mainly, to Levi.

But these last, few weeks, they’ve had to take to scrounging through the gutters in hopes of finding some tossed out and molding piece of bread, or wilting, days old vegetables, just to get by.

There’s no food. The merchants from the surface willing to come here, few and far between as they are, have all packed up their stalls and left, and whoever’s left has nothing to sell at all, stands left bare and empty, their owners gone and out of sight.

Levi had managed to hit one of the fleeing merchants about a month back now and steal a sizable sack of dried goods from him, and they’d been living off that ever since. But, between the three of them, even with Levi skipping meals and leaving the bulk to Furlan and Isabel, much to their dismay and protests, they’d finally bled the haul dry, and now they had nothing.

Each new day was weighted with uncertainty, then, as to whether they would eat or not.

They all knew what starvation felt like. They’d all been through it.

That didn’t make bearing it any easier.

It didn’t make the pain, or the fear, go away.

And the cold was only making things so much worse.

It was fucking freezing, even holed up in their little space as they were, clinging to each other for what little warmth they could share. Levi has his arms around both of them, drawing them against his sides as they hunch with their heads together in front of their meager fire, and Furlan can feel Levi shaking just as violently as he and Isabel.

Through the thin material of Levi’s shirt, Furlan can feel his ribs and the ridges of his spine. He’s lost a lot of weight, from skipping so many meals these last weeks.

“… I’m gonna’ die, ain’t I?” Isabel’s voice breaks the pressing silence, dried and cracked and barely more than a whisper.

Furlan feels Levi stiffen.

“Don’t be talkin’ like that.” He scolds her, his own voice barely seeming stronger. “You ain’t gonna’ die.”

“… B-but I’m so hungry, B-Big Bro, and… and I’m cold. Oh, God…”

“I know. But ya ain’t gonna’ die, Izzy. I wouldn’t let that happen. Alright? You trust me, don’t ‘cha?”

“Y-yeah Big Bro. Yeah…”

Levi’s arms squeeze tighter around them, and the room goes silent again, but for the pops and crackles of the fire.

Furlan squeezes his eyes tight and bites the inside of his cheek ‘till he tastes blood.

He knows Levi means it. He means it when he says he isn’t gonna’ let them die. Knows Levi would give his last damned breath to keep both him and Isabel going. But… strong as Levi is, it doesn’t amount to much when there just isn’t any food to be had.

Shit… they might have to resort to trying to catch rats soon, if things don’t improve.

Furlan doesn’t think Levi would eat a rat. He doesn’t think Levi could bear it, twitchy as he is about disease and filth and the like.

Something to do with his mother, Furlan thinks, who Levi told him died from disease when he’d been a child. He hadn’t said more than that; Levi rarely spoke about himself at all. But Furlan can guess at the ugliness of the thing.

“… I’ll go out and look for somethin’ to eat. You two stay here.” Levi says after a while, and he starts to stand.

Furlan is slow to react, his energy sapped almost to nothing, and it takes too long for Levi’s words to process. By the time they do, Levi is already wrapping his cloak around his shoulders.

“Levi, wait…” he starts to protest, beginning to stand. “you can’t go out there now. It’s too cold. You’ll…”

“Stay here Furlan. You and Izzy keep holdin’ each other, try to stay warm. I’ll be back soon as I can.”

“Levi, please, you could die out there…”

Levi just shakes his head, starting for the door.

“I’ll be alright. I’m strong Furlan. You know that.”

“Y-yeah, but…”

“I’ll be fine. Stay with Izzy. Don’t leave. Don’t come after me neither. Alright? I’ll be back, soon as I can.”

Before Furlan can lodge any more protests, Levi is gone, the shabby wooden door creaking shut behind him, and Furlan feels what’s left of his energy drain outta him as he sinks back to the floor. Isabel throws her arms around him, burying her face against his shoulder.

“H-he’ll be alright, won’t he Furlan? Big Bro’s the strongest, s-so he’ll be alright. Yeah?”

Furlan puts his arm around her, laying his cheek to the crown of her head and holding her tight against his side.

“… Yeah.” He promises, and wishes he felt as confident as he forces himself to sound. “He’ll be alright.”

//

Levi doesn’t come back ‘till almost four hours have gone by. Isabel had fallen asleep, somehow, and Furlan had been grateful for it, because he’d been starting to grow sick with worry, more and more convinced with each second that past that something horrible had happened to Levi.

He didn’t know what they would do if something happened to Levi.

He didn’t know how they would survive.

But then Levi walks in through the door, carrying a heavy looking sack over his shoulder.

Furlan stands immediately from where he’s still sat by the dwindling fire, stumbling forward a step, before coming to a halt partway, eyes wide.

Levi’s got blood on his face, a thick smear of it coated across his brow, over his eyes, running from what Furlan can see is a large gash, just a little above his left temple. Gaze dropping to his hands, and Furlan sees Levi’s cut up and already swelling knuckles.

He’s been in a fight, then. A bad one, from the looks of it.

Furlan can’t help the words which spring unbidden to his tongue, a tight, sick knot in his gut.

“What happened?”

Levi looks dolefully back at him, silent.

It wasn’t that Furlan was surprised.

Levi was rough stock. He came from some kind of hardship extreme even from down in this place, and for a long time, violence was his only friend. The only thing he could depend on to make it from day to day. Furlan knows that. He knows. Even though Levi rarely spoke about his life before he met him, or Isabel. You could hardly miss the scars littering the kid’s hands, or all over his body. Knife fights, long, gnarled ropes of raised, white skin, some clean and straight, some jagged and twisted, like whoever’d done the cutting meant to make it ugly as possible. There were starburst shaped patterns of raw, too smooth skin on his chest, parallel in place on his back, and Furlan knew those to be entry and exit wounds from bullets.

Yeah, Levi was rough stock, and he’d made his way before mostly through fighting.

That was the thing down here, in this place. Predators picked off the weakest looking prey, and Levi was small. Just a tiny kid. The top of his head barely reached to Furlan’s chin. Hell, Furlan knows, when he’d first seen Levi, he’d thought like everyone else. Short, scrawny looking kid, should be an easy mark, even though, by then, there’d started to be talk of a scrappy little midget who could take down men twice, three times his size, even. And like everyone else, Furlan had wanted to see if the rumors were true.

Well… Levi was rough stock. He was fucking terrifying. Stronger than any man Furlan had ever seen. He’d felt it, one time. How strong Levi really was. One time, when a guy from a rival gang had come charging at Furlan, ready to sink his knife into his back, and Levi had caught Furlan by the arm and jerked him outta the way before it could happen. In his panic, Levi’d grabbed him hard, harder than he’d meant to, Furlan knows, and the power in his hands, in his grip, had stolen the breath right outta his lungs. He could break bones with his bare hands. Furlan knew it then sure as he knows his own name. And then that’s what he did. He took hold of the man who’d tried to put a knife in Furlan’s back, and he’s crushed his hand. Mangled it, ‘till he couldn’t hold a knife, or any other kind of weapon, ever again.

You didn’t fuck with Levi.

That’s what kept Furlan and Isabel safe. Because everyone knew. You try anything with them, and it was Levi you’d bring down on your own head. And you didn’t fuck with Levi.

Unless you were the MP’s. They fucked with Levi all the time, ‘cause they fucked with everyone, down here, and ‘cause they knew Levi wasn’t fool enough to kill no government workers. That’d draw attention. That’d get people from up above involved. And Levi was always telling him and Isabel, it was best not to get people from up above involved, ‘cause they had money, and money gave ‘em power, and they could take everything from them. Levi was always saying. They could take everything.

Furlan’s eyes catch on the sack over Levi’s shoulder. It’s one of those stitched potato sacks, starched white, and printed out in bold, black letters across the front, are the words “Government Property”.

Well, shit…

“Levi… what happened?” Furlan asks again.

Levi slides the sack down, lying it gentle onto the floor.

He doesn’t say anything as he kneels down on one knee, starts undoing the tie round the bags end.

“Levi… did you kill military police?” And even as the words leave him, Furlan feels a dizzying horror in his head, threatening to black out his vision. If Levi killed police, then…

“… I didn’t kill ‘em. Just roughed a couple up. They ain’t dead. Just socked ‘em, some.”

“Levi…”

“They did me first. I… I tried talkin’ to ‘em Furlan. You know how I ain’t good with no words. But I tried talkin’. I told ‘em I could do stuff for ‘em, if they was willin’ to spare some ‘a their food. They got… all this food, Furlan. More ‘an they need. It ain’t fair. It ain’t right, down here, what you got people starvin’ to death, droppin’ dead in the streets from starvin’, and cold. I told ‘em Fur… I said…”

“Levi, alright. It’s alright.” Furlan says, keeping his voice even and level.

Levi got like this, sometimes. He got emotional, like this. He kept himself so even keeled most of the time. Was most of the time so reserved. He only got worked up like this when he was real upset about something.

Levi sniffs, wipes the back of his hand against his nose, and keeps working at the bags tie. He gets it open after a minute, and starts pulling what Furlan can see are dried goods, mostly. Crackers, standard military rations, some cans of beans. Stuff like that.

Levi’s hands are shaking.

“… What did you tell ‘em you could do for them, Levi?” Furlan asks, even though he doesn’t want to.

Again, Levi says nothing, just keeps pulling the goods from the bag.

There’s a lot.

Enough to last ‘em several weeks, Furlan thinks.

Their lives are saved.

“Levi, you didn’t…”

“I said, ‘cause, like… you know.” Levi cuts him off. “I said I could do ‘em some jobs. If they needed anything, like… like, I could steal stuff for ‘em, or what. You know how good I am at that stuff Furlan. You know, ‘cause I’m small. I can sneak into any place. You know it, right?”

Furlan nods.

“Sure do, Levi.”

“Well, but then they got to laughin’ at me. And one of ‘em says, he says, what I could do for him is suck his dick, ‘cause I’m… ‘cause he says, I’m the perfect height for it. And they were laughin’ at me Furlan. And I got mad. So I beat ‘em up, and took a bag. They got dozens ‘a bags, Furlan. They won’t miss just the one.”

“… Okay.”

“They were laughin’ at me Furlan. They… they used to laugh at Mama like that. I remember. They used to laugh at her just like that. I got mad.”

“Okay.” Furlan feels his heart sink.

“But I didn’t kill ‘em. I just socked ‘em good.”

“… What happened to your head?” Furlan tries, and Levi blinks at him.

Furlan points to his own head, near his temple, and he sees understanding come into Levi’s eyes.

“… Yeah. I socked the one who said about my height, and the other one came in and hit me with his billy. Caught me good too. I almost went down.”

“God, Levi…”

Levi shakes his head.

“But I kept my feet. Kenny says to me, you gotta’ keep your feet, no matter. No matter what they hit you with. So I kept my feet, and I socked him too. I just knocked ‘em cold Furlan. I didn’t kill ‘em, so you don’t gotta’ worry none about that. Don’t worry none. Only, maybe we’ll have to move soon, in case anyone comes sniffin’ around. Them MP’s don’t like to be stolen from. You ask me, they’re the ones stealin’. There’s people starvin’ to death in the street, Furlan. There’s little babies dead out there in the cold.”

“I know, Levi.”

Levi looks at him, and his eyes are, for a moment, so damned hurt, that Furlan has to look away.

Fuck…

“Well, I gives some ‘a what I stole to some poor lady, ‘cause she had a baby, Furlan. I lied, before. I’m sorry. I took more than one bag. I… I took a couple. And I gives one to some poor lady. Don’t be mad, Fur. We gotta’ eat. You know that. We gotta’ eat.”

“I ain’t mad Levi. God, I ain’t mad at ya.”

And he isn’t. He can’t be.

Fuck, Levi just had too much feeling in his heart, and Furlan couldn’t ever be mad at him for that.

It got sometimes so he could hardly stand to look though, for all the hurt Levi had in him. All the hurt he had for everyone else.

People didn’t know, ‘cause Levi was rough stock, and he grew up learning to keep it all in, pressed down so nobody could use it against him. He kept it all in, usually. But when he got like this, there it was, plain as anything, all that feeling and hurt he carried around inside him for everyone else, and sometimes Furlan could hardly stand to look.

He couldn’t imagine what that felt like, to be carrying around all that hurt, keeping it all inside like that.

“… Yeah? Well, alright then.” Levi says and starts up emptying the sack again.

“Say, Levi, that can wait ‘till later. I should clean up that gash you got on your temple. Okay? Fix up your hands too.”

Levi keeps unpacking the canned goods for a moment, before he stops, rubbing at his nose again.

“… Okay.” He finally agrees, and Furlan feels an almost dizzying relief.

He has Levi sit down along the bench in what they’ve designated the living area of their small hovel, and tells him he’ll be right back, going to fetch a bowl of water and some clean rags.

They’d filled a couple wooden buckets with water a few days ago, when the ice stopping up the well a little ways from their place had final broken enough apart, but they were gonna’ have to get more soon. Assuming the well hadn’t frozen over again. It probably had. Furlan tries not to think about it. Getting drinkable water down here was almost as hard as getting food, now.

He sees Levi’s removed his cloak, finally, as he makes his way back towards him, and he’s got his arms crossed against his chest, his hands stuck in the pits of his arms. He’s shivering, and Furlan knows he must be freezing, though Levi won’t ever complain about it.

Furlan knows better than to make a fuss about it either. Levi never liked anybody fussing over him.

Instead, Furlan just takes a seat across from him and sets to work, cleaning his wounds.

The gash along his temple is pretty bad. Might even need stitches, Furlan thinks, frowning to himself. He tells Levi as much, and Levi huffs, but doesn’t otherwise protest as Furlan gets up to set the bowl of water to boiling over the fire and fetch a needle to sterilize. He needs to add some kindling to the fire to make it hot enough, and Isabel tosses and turns in her sleep, mumbling incoherently to herself, dreaming.

“She alright?” Levi asks as Furlan comes back.

Furlan shrugs.

“Sure. Good as she can be, I suppose. She’ll be happy to see you’ve got us food.”

“… Yeah.” Levi says, and goes quiet again.

Furlan doesn’t say much as he sets to cleaning and stitching Levi’s wound, good as he can, and Levi doesn’t complain, sitting stiff and still, mouth pulled tight at the corners.

“Hands.” Furlan orders after, and Levi dutifully holds them out for him.

There’s scar tissue all over Levi’s knuckles, the skin split and bleeding now. It must hurt, but Levi gives no indication of it as Furlan works, trying to be gentle as he can.

“Alright.” Furlan says when he finishes, letting Levi’s hands go.

“Thanks, Fur.”

Furlan smiles tightly back.

“No problem.”

Furlan packs the materials away, leaving the used rags in the bowl of water to soak for a bit. He’ll have to clean them later, or Levi will get upset.

Levi busies himself by storing away the food items he’d nabbed, and there’s a heavy, comfortable silence which falls over the place.

Furlan wants to ask Levi if he really thinks they’ll have to move again soon, but he knows Levi will let him and Isabel know if they do. If he’s anything, he’s cautious, and keeps his eyes open and ear to the ground. He’ll know if their spot’s been compromised.

Furlan rummages around in their pile of wood bits they’ve been collecting for kindling, throwing a few more pieces on the fire, stocking it and building the flames back up.

“Levi, you should rest.” He calls to the smaller man after a while, watching Levi move restlessly about the space. He’s got his duster out, aimlessly waving it at different surfaces. Even from half the room away, his face looks gaunt, pale and too thin. The circles under his eyes are like dark bruises. He must be exhausted.

Levi stops, but he doesn’t turn to face Furlan, just stands there, staring at the ground.

“Come on, Levi. You can lay by the fire, try to warm up a little. You need rest.”

“… Okay.” Levi at last relents, placing the duster down and making his way to where Furlan and Isabel are lying together. Furlan scoots some to the side and holds his arm out, inviting, as Levi settles down, nestling against him.

They’re quiet for a while, and Furlan stares absently at the ceiling above them as Levi turns, pressing his face against his shoulder.

There’s a thousand and one things Furlan thinks he wants to say to Levi. He wants to beg him to stop doing this. Going out and putting himself in so much danger like that. He wants to thank Levi for it, for taking care of him and Isabel, even at the expense of himself. Wants to find a way to show Levi how much he appreciates it, how grateful he is. Wants to understand why it is Levi seems to care so little about himself in turn. Why he… treats himself like a tool to be used, instead of a person who matters.

Maybe it’s his fault, Furlan thinks dismally. Maybe, because when he first met Levi, that’s all Furlan saw him as too. A tool. Somebody he wanted, so he could use him to move up in the Underground gangs. Somebody who’s strength he coveted.

He was still using Levi for that, in a way. Even though Levi was their de facto leader, he let Furlan make all the plans, let Furlan, ultimately, call all the shots. He didn’t have to. If Levi wanted, he could rule their gang with an iron fist, and there wasn’t anything Furlan, or anybody else, could do about it. But Levi only ever leant his strength to make Furlan’s plans reality, only ever did all the hard stuff, the dangerous stuff, and Furlan let him.

He thinks he shouldn’t.

But he does, and he knows it’s because it’s comfortable for him, this way. Because he’s too selfish to try and change their setup. Because his plans, he knows, wouldn’t even be possible if he didn’t have Levi backing him up.

So he says nothing now, just curls his arms tighter round Levi and Isabel both, lets the silence settle over them as the night deepens outside.

[cerebralinvasion]

february yandere event!!

yikes! i just realized i haven’t posted here in like a month! soooo partially as an apology but mainly because i decided it’d be fun, we’re gonna do a little event! every day of february i’ll write a little bsd x reader drabble for you from this prompt list! with the twist being that all prompts are yandere inspired hehe… i don’t assign characters to a prompt until the day of so feel free to request characters for any day you want! one character can even have multiple slots!! okay that’s all for the notes!! list of prompts below!

1. “Aw, are you gonna cry? Go ahead, it’s not gonna change anything.” (kouyou)

2. “Please be good for me. I don’t want to hurt you.” (atsushi)

3. “I’m doing this for you! Why are you trying to stop me?!” (ranpo)

4. “My life is so bleak without you.”(dazai)

5. “I don’t care if your eyes are filled with love or hate, I just want you to look at me.” (higuchi)

6. “Did you really think you could escape?”(dazai)

7. “I’m all you have left now.”(mushitarou)

8. “What do they have that I don’t?!” (akutagawa)

9. “One more chance! I’m giving you one more chance to fucking stop resisting!” (chuuya)

10. “This might sound weird, but I like it when you’re sick. Because then you let me take care of you.”(yosano)

11. “Sweetheart…where are you hiding? I know you’re here. Come out, come out, wherever you are. I’ll find you anyways, I can hear your breathing.” (jouno)

12. “I don’t mind being a monster as long as I’m your monster.”(akutagawa)

13. “Listen, I’m giving you two choices. Either you start eating willingly or I’ll force you. There’s no way I’m letting you starve yourself to death.”(chuuya)

14. “Why…why do you keep resisting me? That’s not fair! Don’t I deserve to be happy too?!”(akutagawa)

15. “Love is patient. I, however, am not.”(mori)

16. “I just want to protect you. Nothing wrong with that, is it?”(jouno)

17. “Silly little thing. Don’t you realize that this is all your fault?” (fyodor)

18. “These people are stupid! Can’t they see that you’re mine?!” (ranpo)

19. “Good morning ~! Sleep well? I hope the bindings aren’t too tight. Did you know you’re quite the restless sleeper?” (dazai)

20. “hopeless? You think I’m hopeless? Sweetheart. Pigeon. Dove. Don’t you see that you’re the one caged here?”(nikolai)

21. “those bruises… did i do that…?”(chuuya)

22. “oh, you aren’t that drunk, don’t worry. i just drugged you.”(dazai)

23. “i keep pencils you’ve chewed on, pictures i’ve printed of you, clothes i’ve stolen from your room… you think i’m a creep, don’t you?”(poe)

24. “want to escape? tell me, what other person would ever love someone like you?” (fyodor)

25. “I know how fucked up this is. It’s just―there’s no other way I can keep you safe.”(chuuya)

26. “you don’t know how much i hate being this way- but i can’t change.” (tetcho)

27. “Don’t you dare fucking try it. You know you can’t outrun me.” (chuuya)

[trishacollins]

Birthday ODNLB

GiftFic for Anarchist Gang Server

*~*

He watched the clock click over into midnight, arms wrapped around his knees.

He was sitting against the windows, head pillowed against the glass.

So close to freedom, so far, far away. How many times had he darted through these same windows without a thought for what it would be like to have them closed against him? How wild and reckless had he been, wasting the finite time he had with his friends – with her – and now. Now, he was alone again.

“Happy birthday, kid,” Plagg said softly, tucked against his shoulder.

Midnight.

He was officially eighteen. The gateway to adulthood.

Nothing would change.

He would still be under his father’s thumb; he would still perform on cue. A good little trophy, a perfect, obedient son.

His phone chimed with a message. Nino. Wishing him a happy birthday. Last year, his phone had been going off nonstop for the first hour.

But he had burned those bridges now to protect the people he loved.

“Thanks, Plagg.” He whispered, clearing the notification on his phone.

It was better for all of them if he wasn’t involved. If they stayed as far away from him as possible.

‘You’re thinking loudly.’ Felix’s complaint was soft in the corner of his mind.

‘Sorry for interrupting your sleep.’ He returned, phone pressed lightly against his knee.

Felix’s sigh was felt, not heard. An impression of air leaving his lungs. ‘Are you going to be maudlin the entire day?’

Adrien felt like his silence was sufficiently pointed.

‘The party will be fine, and then you can go back to hiding away from everyone.’ Felix’s faint amusement leaked between them. ‘I am sure you will only need to dance with Lila once.’

‘Is Kagami going?’

Embarrassment over the link was an interesting sensation, as though Felix’s presence in the other half of his mind heated up.

‘She has been invited, as have many others. Chloe assured me she would be.’ Felix replied stiffly.

‘Right. No wonder you are looking forward to it.’

He massaged his forehead, eyes closed as he thought about it – the party was his father’s. Every part of it planned, every part of it a presentation.

With Adrien at the center as a guest of honor.

Just another part of his life sentence.

There was a soft thump on the other side of the window, and he jerked on reflex, looking up.

Ladybug was standing there, studying him. She looked – different than he remembered. Carved from stone that looked to weary and bleak until she smiled at him, tentative and quiet.

He opened the window – it was stupid choice, but he opened the window for her and she stepped inside and a part of him wanted to scream a warning at her, to beg her to go, while the rest of him was turning towards her like a plant starved of sunlight. “Ladybug?” He whispered.

Her smile was smaller than he remembered it, the mischief gone, but she still smiled at him. “It’s your birthday.” She said, quiet, intense.

“Just now.” He waved his watch.

“Happy birthday, Adrien.” She pulled a small package from behind her back, offering it to him.

He took the wrapped package carefully, heart in his throat.

If Lila knew – if his father knew – if anyone knew she was here.

But he couldn’t send her away.

He couldn’t make himself send her away.

“Thank you.” He whispered, caressing the paper with hungry fingers. It probably smelled like her. It was still warm from the yoyo.

His eyes burned with tears, but he didn’t want to cry with his lady right there. There were words crowded behind his teeth, begging to be said, explanations she deserved.

“Open it.” She prompted.

He found a corner of the paper and tenderly unwrapped it, careful not to tear the wrapping. Her cheeks went faintly pink, but she didn’t move from the window.

Inside was a soft, hand-knitted sweater in a deep blue. A smaller package held macaroons.

“Passion Fruit. My favorite. Are these Tom and Sabine’s?” He asked.

Fuck. He wanted to throw himself at her feet and beg for forgiveness.

Her smile was quiet. “Only the best in Paris.”

“Thank you.” He put as much earnestness into his voice as he could manage. "Do you want one?" He opened the box of the forbidden treat, holding one out to her.

Her lips twitched, a faint hint of something warm and familiar settling over her face as she took it. He picked up another and gently bumped it against her cookie before taking a bite, letting it linger in his mouth, savoring it. "They're as good as I remember.

"It's been a while for you?" She takes a small, careful bite. No crumbs fall - not that anything would really ruin her costume. They're practically indestructible. But she's neat and careful. There is no careless joy to her movements, no argument that ends in messes.

He nods but says nothing. They finish the cookies in silence. His yearning for her only puts her in danger. It would be better to say nothing, to close this door too. But he can't.

“I hate my birthday.”

“Why?” She blinked, sinking down to the window. Their feet touch. It's a ridiculous thing to notice.

He had seen her like this a thousand nights before, and yet he had never seen her like this at all.

“It’s always a big production my father puts on. It’s never….it’s not….” He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “It makes me wish for things that can never be.” His mouth still tastes like passion fruit and sweet, crumbly cookies.

Ladybug nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He longed to touch her but knew he couldn’t, or he would break in ways that could never be repaired. “I remember Hawkmoth made an Akuma out of one of your friends.”

“Nino.” He closed his eyes, a breath leaving him.

Doors were closing and being closed all around him. At the end of it, he would be nothing. All he would ever be allowed to be was a perfect doll that followed orders.

He hated that most of all.

Hated the leash that held him back. “He’s away. For an internship.”

“International?”

“Mhm.” He stroked the soft yarn of her gift and knew he would probably never be able to wear it out of the confines of his bedroom.

But she had given it to him, this soft, hand-knitted sweater.

He wished he could smell it to determine if it did smell like her.

“So it’s just going to be you and…”

“And the whole of Paris. The valuable ones.” His voice was bitter, and he lifted his eyes to her as well. “This means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

“I know what it’s like to be alone.” She said softly, after a moment of studying him. “Even with so many people around, the ones you truly want to be there are gone.”

It felt like a knife in his soul, and he held her gaze for only a moment before dropping away.

“I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Happy birthday, Adrien.”

“Thank you, Ladybug.” He whispered.

She touched the back of his hand, and stood.

He wanted nothing more in the world than to follow her out the window. But he can’t.

Chat Noir is dead.

His father made sure of it.

And Ladybug – unknowing, kind, perfect – is his enemy now.

“I hope you have a little bit of fun.” She offered quietly, and was gone.

“That could have gone worse,” Plagg muttered from his shirt. “Kid?”

He finally gave into temptation and brought the sweater to his face, inhaling deeply of the scent. Floral and spice, warm.

His lady.

‘Someone gag me.’ Felix muttered in his head.

@wackus-bonkus-maximus

@paracosmicat

[beerecordings]

The Other Monster - Chapter 1/4 so far

From my Graceling AU - Based loosely on Kristin Cashore’s Graceling books, this is a magic-medieval setting where Jameson is a child who’s been raised by Anti - a Monstrously beautiful assassin and abuse survivor who's come to see the world as evil. As Jameson starts to question his brother's perspective, he discovers another Monster in need of his help: Marvin the Magnificent, who's been abducted from his home and sold to the highest bidder.

Previous fics in this world: One l Two l Three

Next Chapter

For more context, I'll add that Anti and JJ are Gracelings (beings who have a supernatural ability of some kind). Anti is capable of Persuasion, and JJ is still discovering his power. In the books, all Monsters have a kind of Persuasion, but I didn't give that power to all Monsters, only Anti.

And let me be real upfront before we get started: this fic is never explicit in any scene, and absolutely never fetishistic, but it involves Anti continuing to process severe child sexual abuse, including incest, and Marvin being trafficked, held prisoner, and sexually abused. There is no pressure to read. I will tag carefully, but be aware these themes continue throughout. That being said... it's a story about healing and loving people anyway. Because a lot of us are all processing some stuff of our own too.

Okay. Let's go. And let me know if you want to see more <3

.

He dreams of Chase.

“Keep up, slowpoke!”

Running through the grass with their hands clasped together, turning to heave the child into his arms when the mud reaches his little brother’s thighs, making him shriek with laughter as he swings and rocks him through the muddy valley in mid-spring, blowing blubber kisses into his fat toddler tummy.

He dreams of Jackie.

“Keep quiet, keep quiet! You have to stop laughing.”

Sneaking through the hallways of the castle one at a time, beckoning for each other when the coast is clear before darting into the kitchen to steal lemon poppyseed muffins and jam bakes and a jug of apple cider each, causing trouble and then retreating as fast as their teenage feet could carry them to their rooms in the high tower or the swaying tree house they built for themselves in the arms of the old oak tree beyond the courtyard.

He dreams of his cousin.

“You study too much, come on, come play with us.”

Slamming cards and chess pieces down against the table as they played games at rapid-fire speeds, their eyes sparkling with a shared enthusiasm for the fond competition between them, exchanging insults in a half-dozen different languages, gossiping about everyone they know and laughing for the fun of it, curled up in front of the fire with mulberry wine and Henrik’s company to keep him warm through the winter time.

He dreams of his family.

“Where are you?” he whispers to the shadows. “Why haven’t you found me yet? You said you’d keep me safe, please… I know I act like I can take care of myself, but I’m scared. I’ve never been this scared in my life. I don’t want to be sold.”

A slam against iron like the striking of swords jolts him from his sleep with a scream. He grabs his own shoulders and shoves himself back against the walls of the cage, staring in terror up at his captor, who looks back with bleak blue pelican’s eyes, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Age?” he asks, holding up a pad of parchment.

Marvin breathes hard, staring around his cell, blinking.

“Still surprised to find yourself in here? You been in here three fucking days, start adjusting. Age?”

“What?”

“How old are you?” asks the man, enunciating his words slow and mocking. “How many years do your parents say you are when your grandpappy asks?”

Marvin squeezes his eyes shut, flushed with humiliation. “I – I’m twenty-six.”

He writes it down, unperturbed. Marvin wraps his arms tighter around himself, shivering in the cold. “Can I have something to eat?” he croaks out. “I’m starving.”

“Better if you’re thin,” answers the man blandly. “Maybe in a couple days. What’s your name?”

Marvin clutches his knees to his chest, staring at the filthy floor in front of him, his eyes flickering back and forth. “Fabian,” he whispers after a moment, hearing the frailness of his own voice. His whole body is giving out on him. His mind too, he expects. He closes his eyes. “I’m Fabian.”

“Good,” says the man, scrawling on his notepad. “You’ve already learned to lie about it. No one cares about your old name. No one cares about your old life. Forget it. You’ll never go back to it.”

“My family would pay a lot of money to have me back,” cries Marvin. “And my brother is a Graceling warrior! You ought to let me go before he finds me, or I swear to God that you’ll regret being born!”

“Glad to see you’ve resorted to threats instead of biting and screaming like that first day,” grumbles the man, shaking out the wound on his hand that Marvin gave him.

“You deserve it!” Marvin screams. “You and everybody’s who’s trying to steal me away! I’ll kill you like I killed the first one who grabbed me! If he didn’t have his fucking friends there – ”

“Any health concerns?” asks the man, staring down at his clipboard.

Marvin breathes hard, tears dripping down his face, holding himself in the middle of his cold cell.

“Well?”

“I… I’m allergic to walnut,” Marvin whispers, shrinking in on himself and closing his eyes.

“Great,” says the slave trader. “I’ll mark that down.”

He turns and walks away.

Marvin stares at the floor. The tears dripping onto it humiliate him. Everything is a humiliation. Everything is a threat. Everything wants to use him. To hurt him. To take him away.

He remembers being rebellious as a child when his parents would shave down his hair and make him wear coverings in public or hide him away during state dinners, never letting anyone but Jackie and Chase and Henrik see him, sometimes even telling guests they had only two sons to keep him a secret. He complained about being a prisoner - isolated, guarded, not allowed to grow up like a normal kid. At the time, the pain of his being hidden away from the whole rest of the world felt like something that would destroy him. It makes him want to laugh now, but all that comes out is a quiet sob. He should have been more careful. He should never have gone into town with Chase. He’s thirteen now and old enough to get anything Marvin needs from the city without him. What Marvin wouldn’t give to be back in their little summer cabin right now, making pancakes or swimming in the lake with him. With no one staring at him or touching him. With food in his belly and a friend at his side.

But the one upside to this hunger and the cold and the grief are that they keep sending him back to sleep. Back to dreams. He drifts off once more soon enough, chewing on a strand of his hair like he’s a five-year-old again, rocking himself against the stone walls on his every side.

He dreams of his parents, and his childhood.

“I don’t want to go to bed yet, Momma.”

“You don’t have to just yet, baby.”

He would like to be a child again, rocking on her lap, curled up between his parents by the fire. Jackie would be on the floor, looking up at him with his big child’s eyes, just a couple years older and protective from the start. Watching over him. With everyone close. With everyone holding him. He would like to be safe again.

“I don’t want to go just yet,” he whispers, pressed into his mother’s arms. Jackie would struggle up onto the enormous bed and squirm his way into his mother’s arms beside him, landing soggy child kisses on his face and reaching out to be held by their father, patting his chubby hands against his shoulders when he’s picked up and snuggling down against them both, the four of them sandwiched together in the warmth.

“You can stay,” his father would say, stroking his hair, blue as the galaxy, shining like its closest stars. “You can stay, my little son. No one will take you away.”

They had made him this promise time and time again. Even before he was old enough to realize it, his parents understood the curse that he was born with. No one, they said, will take you away. Even if we go. No one will take you. Jackie will protect you. Won’t you, Jackie?

And Jackie, from the time he was three years old, had nodded and promised with more intensity in his Graceling eyes than any child should ever have to muster.

“Yes, Marvy. I will protect you.”

He’s spent his whole life protecting Marvin. He’s given him everything he had. It wasn’t his fault. Marvin knows that. Their parents should never have made him promise. Their parents should never have promised him they could keep him safe. No one can. No one ever could. He should have known.

“I’m just a Monster,” he whispers, when consciousness comes to hurt him again. The walls of the prison cell stare back at him, wide-eyed and silent. “The whole rest of the world knows that this is where I belong.”

Forget that old life. You will never get back to it.

Marvin realizes that this might well be true. Up until this moment, he never knew it was possible to be this afraid.

“Please, Jackie… please hurry. Please find me soon, my brother.”

.

It's always so strange, watching the spiral his brother goes through before his birthday.

He doesn't think Anti knows that he notices, but it's been happening for years now. Anti starts out overenthusiastic at the start of the month, but as the days go on, he grows quiet, deflates. He's never liked the idea of Jameson growing up. He doesn't think he was supposed to notice that either.

He knocks on the door of Anti's study, waiting for a rumble of an answer before he comes inside. Or tries to. The door is locked. He hears his brother get up and come to the door, unlocking it and letting him in.

"You're locking your study now?" Jameson asks.

Anti scowls. "You never know who might come in."

Sure.

The fortress where they live is all cold stone and locked doors, always has been. Jameson knows it's not normal for the serving girl to have only one hour a day when she is allowed to clean one room at a time, and even stranger for her to be blindfolded when she serves them dinner.

But he also knows why they do it.

"Come sit," says Anti, patting the chair across from his desk before he goes to sit back down. Jameson notices a new patch of dried blood on one side of the cushion. Who did his brother kill here, and for what? A business deal gone wrong, an insult he couldn't abide by? Or did someone catch a glimpse of him, and figure out his secret?

Anti tucks away some papers on his desk, and Jameson studies the lines of his brother's face. He knows how rare a privilege it is to be allowed to do so. Rarer still for Anti to look back at someone without suspicion. With warmth. Sometimes, Anti even lets Jameson touch his face. Scratch his small nails along the rough texture of his beard.

His brother was born a Monster, not that Jameson will ever understand the word. Even after all these years, he's so fond of his brother's appearance. The skin is clear and smooth, no matter how little he cares for it, and even the scars seem artful, charming, intriguing. His mismatched Graceling eyes burn with color, green and blue, each competing to be brighter than the other, and the dark beard and waves of emerald hair are so familiar to Jameson. He remembers the first time he met him, when Anti came to his room to save him. He remembers asking his brother if he was an angel.

Not an angel. More like a demon. Always a Monster. But never to him.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Jameson signs, and Anti's quick to turn his head from his work. He swore to him years ago he would never ignore his signing, and he's not sure the promise ever leaves the front of Anti's mind.

Since he's about the only one who understands him, Jameson's grateful.

"You done with lessons for the day?" Anti asks.

"Yes."

"And you took care of Bertrand?"

"Of course I did."

"Good." Anti finishes shutting his drawers and gives Jameson his full attention, looking at him keenly from across the desk. "I need your help with a mission."

Jameson's stomach turns over. "I don't want to watch any more dying, Anti."

He sees his brother bite back on a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, and Jameson squirms in his seat. They've talked about this so many times, he knows what Anti's going to say before he says it.

"You have to learn how to kill someday, Jameson. I'm trying to get you accustomed to death. But if you're not ready yet, we can wait. It's okay for you to be a kid a while longer."

Right, thinks Jameson flatly. That wonderful conundrum of Anti wanting him to be fully grown and tiny forever at the same time.

"That's not it, though. I just need you to wait outside while I storm a building. A girl will come out and you can take her somewhere safe. Then I'll come get you and we'll go home."

"That's it?" asks Jameson suspiciously. "I just have to wait outside a building? Won't the girl wonder why I can't talk?"

"I'll tell her you can't. Just lead her away. To that big church nearby that you like. It will be easy."

"But can't some of your... minions help? Or Anja or someone?"

Anti starts laughing. "Minions, is that the sign for that? No, James, I can't trust lackeys with this, and partners even less so. Anyway, Anja is in Loughlin. You'll have to come with."

"Somebody tried to cheat you, then, and you're punishing them."

His brother pauses for a moment, looking him over. "No," he says. "They don't know me. But the girl is innocent and the rest are not. So you'll wait outside for her. Tomorrow night, okay? So get done with everything you need to do before then."

Well, it doesn't sound so terrible. "Okay, fine. I'll do it."

"There's a good kid. Come on, darling. You ready for some dinner?"

"Yes, let's go!"

He loves when Anti takes the time to eat with him. His brother puts a hand on his shoulder as he leads him out of his study, locking it firmly behind him, just like the rest. "And maybe we should talk about your birthday coming up," adds Anti.

Jameson looks up at him, surprised. It's not a topic they bring up, usually: Jameson getting older. He doesn't understand why, but he knows his brother's never liked it, knows celebrating his birthday is always something Anti has to force. It's like a secret they keep, at times - one of many.

"What about it?" Jameson asks.

"Like what you want to do and get for presents," says Anti. "You're going to be ten, after all. That's a milestone."

"What? No, Anti, I'll be eleven."

Anti stops short and looks at him, mouth curved down.

"I'll be eleven," Jameson repeats. "I was ten last year. Do you remember?"

"Ah," says Anti, and for a long moment, he's quiet. "Of course you were. I do remember."

And then, softer still, "you'll be eleven."

"Maybe you could stay home with me all day," Jameson offers. "And we'll go for a ride with a picnic, and we can have the beef with gravy I like for dinner?"

But Anti's doing that thing now, that thing that he does around his birthday. A sad thing, Jamie thinks, or maybe a mad one. He can never quite tell. But he looks at Jameson, and then right through him, and it's like he stops seeing him completely. He wonders what his brother sees when he looks at him like that.

"Of course we can," says Anti, but Jameson doesn't think he understood him at all.

It's happening more and more, lately.

Jameson puts his arm around his brother's waist and hugs himself against his side. Anti can give him missions and lessons and duties if he wants, and that's okay. But his real job is always going to be this: taking care of Anti, like Anti takes care of him. After all, if he doesn't do it, he knows there is no one else in the world who will.

Next Chapter

[raxistaicho]

Ronan the Philosopher! Edelgard in Thracia, chapter two

On to chapter two, my fellow Red Lady fans!

It gets worse.

Before we start,

DO NOT FUCKING GO PESTER REYNA IN HER COMMENTS SECTION. I DON'T WANNA SEE PEOPLE COPY-PASTING MY ARGUMENTS HERE IN COMMENTS TO HER EVER AGAIN.

Anyways, I figured it'd be useful to give a brief rundown on the setting in which this story takes place, because not a lot of people will have played Thracia 776, I imagine.

So, first, the story takes place on the Thracian peninsula:

It's split between the north and the south.

North, once an independent coalition of kingdoms known as the Munster District, was subjugated years before this story began and is now under occupation by the Granvalle Empire and has been renamed the Kingdom of North Thracia. Duke Bloom of the Granvalle ducal family Friege is the appointed governor of the Imperial territory, making him king of the northern half of the peninsula. The north used to be a federation of smaller kingdoms, including Leonster (the former head kingdom, and the one which Leif is the heir of), Munster, Ulster, and Connacht. Ulster now serves as king Bloom's capital.

South, AKA the Kingdom of Thracia, ruled by king Travant. A mountainous, barren country inhabitated by wyverns, which the Thracians fly into combat. Formally they're independent of and at peace with the Granvalle Empire, but Travant is ambitious and desperate to save his starving kingdom by conquering the fertile north. Its capital is also called Thracia.

The border between the north and south is a roughly diagonal line that slithers between Tahra and Meace on the map above (Tahra in the north, Meace in the south). Though the peninsula is collectively called Thracia, usually anyone called a Thracian is specifically a southerner.

Now that we got that out of the way, on to the chapter itself:

Edelgard's helping out around Iz to keep her mind off of things. For some reason they're calling her Edie, even though that's... a very weird nickname for a bunch of peasants to call someone. It's explicitly the same nickname as the one Dorothea uses.

Because of her Crest she's super strong, as she herself says:

But everyone was treated that way; she simply stood out more because of her strength. (Serios's strength, that – that beast's strength, not hers. Not her family's-)

Edelgard never considered herself inhuman or beastly because of her Crest, Reyna. Definitely not her Crest of Seiros, in any case.

We then get a moment of Reyna trying to portray Edelgard as out of touch:

And the labor was ceaseless in Iz. In the weeks she'd first arrived in this strange place after her death(?), while she'd been recovering, Edelgard had thought it a little odd that she almost never saw Ronan and his mother sitting down to play a board game, have a snack and talk about something frivolous, read a book or play games with the locals.

Because it makes total sense for the woman who started a rebellion to give the lower class the same opportunities the nobility enjoyed to expect peasants to live a life like that of nobles.

Oh, and, this is coming from the canonical workaholic whose most furtive desire is to just be able to enjoy a day off.

That said, Reyna does a really nice job painting the kind of bleak and toil-filled life a medieval peasant would endure:

There was never time to be sitting idle; there were always repairs that needed to be done, always food that needed to change hands, always wood that had to be collected to keep the houses warm, animals that needed to be wrangled, baskets that needed weaving, fish to be caught, and that was just the more important chores. Edelgard had lost count of how many times she'd had to trek to the wells and draw up buckets of water over the past few months; there wasn't a single house in the village, including the church, that had a running water system. Washing clothes for the house was another hours-long chore that started before the sun rose and ended late in the afternoon at best; without the soaps and wheels Garreg Mach had, it stunned her how much more effort such a basic and necessary chore took. The town hadn't known anything about the relation between keeping their streets clean and keeping sicknesses away; when Edelgard had impressed the importance of it on them, she'd created another job that caught her flat footed with the time and energy it demanded. She would return to the guest room that belonged to her now and crash into it, unable to think, and fall asleep knowing she would have to do much of it again the next day. Food was always in short supply. The villagers all took a tough man attitude on the matter when she asked why they had so little, about how they were no nobles who would die of starvation if they didn't have three course dinners with cake included; but Edelgard had gotten alarmingly used to skipping her morning meal so Ronan and Contessa always had even the crumbs of a meal in their too-bare cupboard.

Unfortunately, this is not leading to, "I was right that we should have improved society somewhat," but, "this is only because of Arvis's occupation and I did the same thing to Fodlan :(((("

How was it that she was living a rougher life here, in a town where she was welcome and accepted, than when she'd been reduced to an exile living on King Lambert's charity by her bitter stepmothers? How? How was that possible?

So much to unpack in one little paragraph.

First off, "living on King Lambert's charity." She wasn't mooching in Faerghus, she was kidnapped (it's implied Arundel did it to keep her safe during the Insurrection, but still) and living there against her will.

Secondly, there's nothing to support the assertion that she was living in Faerghus because of Ionius's concubines.

Thirdly, no, Edelgard's time in captivity underneath Enbarr is not going to be mentioned, why the fuck would it be, Reyna has a narrative to push!

She wants to make us think of Edelgard as some spoiled little princess who doesn't know anything about a hard life. Because Edelgard detractors have this notion in their heads that Edelgard knows nothing about the lives of the commoner-class so as to convince themselves that her ideals are built on shifting sand.

We're skipping ahead a little bit in which Edelgard delivers some wheat to the local baker, and she pauses a moment to worry about,

what the village might think of her if they found out she was a born and bred noble.

I'm sure this is leading up to some shocking twist in which they're fine with nobility, so that Edelgard can look foolish and ignorant again. Anyways,

She'd tried to learn about the history and geography of this country, Thracia. Oh, she'd tried. But the village's lack of means had stumped her at every turn

It shouldn't, you're in a fishing village out in the sticks, probably everyone here is illiterate. Much like in Fodlan, which Edelgard would be aware of. Hell, Christopher fucking Paolini got this right, Reyna!

only the church had a map or two along with anything resembling historical texts, and the priest had ruefully explained he'd been forced to bury books that were less than complimentary to the current regime.

...Why? Iz is in Thracia (as in, the Kingdom under Travant) judging from FE4's map, and there wouldn't be any kind of new big shakedown by Travant's soldiers.

But anyways, the reason why is Reyna's gonna paint the picture of an authoritarian anti-book regime and then probably suggest the same thing was happening in Fodlan under Edelgard. Even though. You know. The church was doing that themselves. They were literally burying the books, when you consider that the Shadow Library is underground!

Thracia was a land divided by the tragedy of the crusaders Nojurn and Dain

Njörun and Dáinn, Reyna. Look, I know Jugdral has big Spell My Name With an S problems, but the wiki is right there! All these names are official now! (Njörun and Dáinn were the crusader siblings - think the Ten Elites but genuinely heroic - who founded Leonster and the Kingdom of Thracia, respectively.)

Nojurn wasn't even a past fan translation of her name!

sister and brother who's conflict had accidentally resulted in the death of Nojurn's husband and the splintering of their people along that bloody line

Njörun's husband was fighting Dáinn, Reyna. Njörun herself was not said to be part of the conflict. Njörun accidentally killed her husband while trying to stop the fight, killed herself out of grief, and then Dáinn died mysteriously a few years later. The whole tragedy of Gáe Bolg was because Njörun used it (it being the weapon tied to her bloodline) to strike her husband down accidentally.

Several years ago, this historical tragedy had repeated itself when King Travant of Thracia, descendant of Dain, hunted down Prince Quan and Lady Ethlyn of Leonster – son of Nojurn and his wife – and slaughtered them in a brutal ambush, stealing their lands for one shining moment… only to be promptly subjugated by the Empire of Granvelle with barely a few months to enjoy his ill-gotten gains.

There was a lot more to the Munster District's (the northern half of the Thracian peninsula) downfall at Travant's hands, but that's more or less the long and short of it. Reyna's retelling implies Grannvale also took over the Kingdom of Thracia but they most certainly did not. Thracia is one of the few countries to remain independent throughout Arvis's reign, up until Seliph rolls on in.

“I hear Travant spoke a lot of pretty words about giving us food and honey that Leonster were hoarding from us in their lush and fruitful lands,” She told Edelgard over dinner when she'd asked about it.

I'll take, "something Travant would never do," for 500, Alex!

Now to give some credit, Thracia 776 smoothed out a lot of Travant's... unsavory portrayal from Genealogy of the Holy War, and his motive is really just to re-unify the peninsula to end the starvation in the south, but I just can not see him going to the commoners and pretending he's going to make everyone's lives better.

This is just a bit of mischaracterization so Edelgard can be erroneously compared to Travant.

“Well, I lived through that war and the Empire's arrival and I and my boy are still struggling. I'd say nothing has changed, but it has – for the worse." The densely populated land that she was introduced to were nominally under the control of a single ruler – the Emperor of Granvelle, Arvis.

It'd be under Bloom's rule, technically, though Arvis is obviously Bloom's superior. Yeah, don't expect much acknowledgement of Bloom, since he's not useful for the narrative Reyna wants to push in which she'll be comparing Edelgard and Arvis (and he doesn't appear in person in Thracia ever so she might genuinely have forgotten about him).

Edelgard committed the former kingdom names to memory – Chalphy, Yngvi,

Those are dutchies, not kingdoms. Houses Chalphy and Yngvi (for fucks' sake, she gets Njörun wrong but she gets Jungby's fucked up official translation right???) are two ducal houses of the former kingdom (now empire) of Grannvale. Sigurd hailed from House Chalphy.

Leonster, Augustria, Silesse, Verdanne, Issach,

Those are (or rather, were, thanks to Grannvale invasion) all kingdoms. Of them, only Leonster should be important to this story.

along with a few minor principalities like Darna.

Dahna's just a fortress city in the Aed Desert, there's no known prince there. These words have meaning, Reyna.

Then there was the Loptous Religion – cult, it was a cult, the priest told her not to confuse them with a normal religion. He told Edelgard that the head of the cult, a man named Manfroy, had taken advantage of the crown prince going mad after his mother's murder to become emperor in all but name, pushing Arvis to the side. Then he'd plunged Jugdral into horror and darkness the likes of which was only spoken in legend, of the time before the Crusaders.

This is gonna be compared to the Agarthans later on, even though Edelgard canonically had a much tighter lid on Thales than we ever see from Arvis with Manfroy.

I also can't imagine rando people out in the middle of nowhere knowing much about Manfroy.

Is it gall, that she still feels righteously outraged at the stories of a cult with a dead dragon at the helm bringing harm to humans?

I'm pretty sure the people of Jugdral didn't know that Naga, her companions, and Loptous were all dragons. They would have just viewed them as gods, much like how the people of Archanea ended up warping Naga into a giant human warrior.

And in any case, as I've said before, the word "dragon" does not appear to exist in Fodlan, so these commoners calling Loptous a dragon would have about as much impact on Edelgard as someone calling Satan a Smyrp would have for us.

I mean I know what Reyna is doing, Edelgard needs to have her Come to Seiros moment in this fic and part of that involves her realizing Dragons Good, Actually, but that Reyna has to warp Jugdral and Fodlan's established setting to get her message across demonstrates how poorly-applied it is.

Oh, but anyways, no that is not gall, Edelgard, it is normal.

She'd been so confident that she could be a hero and bullrushed head long into being that cult's pawn.

She was not anyone's pawn but yours, Reyna.

Why is she clenching her fists in rage and planning how she'd defend the town if minions of Loptous came calling?

Because Edelgard just kinda be like that: a protective, compassionate woman who can't stand to see innocents victimized. Anyways, Edelgard catches up with Ronan, who was out hunting. She ponders going to the closest village - implied to be Fiana, where Leif is secretly living in hiding - but Ronan tries to warn her off going.

The naked care for her, audible in his voice, makes Edelgard wince a little. It had been like this ever since they'd met months ago, and she's still not used to it.

Edelgard's just so unused to people being nice for the sake of it! In the hands of a better writer this could be a sad demonstration of Edelgard having lost the ability to trust thanks to all the suffering and betrayals she's endured in her short life, but since this is Reyna this is probably just her not being familiar with the concept of compassion in general.

There's so much I haven't told you about me. If you knew, you would reject me like you reject Travant and Manfroy. ...How she would even tell him, she doesn't know, but... the knowledge that Ronan thinks she's something she's not...

Oh, Edelgard, you siwwy, these people love the Good Nobles! Ronan suggests they go skip stones, which they've evidently done enough times that Edelgard has a reputation for being better than him. I thought these people had no time for leisure, Reyna? You wrote several paragraphs about that earlier in this same chapter!

Anyways, Edelgard asks whether Ronan's ever considered leaving in search of a better life, and we get this:

Ronan hesitated for a moment; Edelgard stood up and tossed her rock out. It skipped several times before vanishing beneath the water. “I do want better for us,” he confessed. “But… I mean, even if we managed to make the trip across all that water, there's no guarantee that things will be better wherever we land. Isn't it better to fight for the home you have than run away and just hope for the best?”

We did it, boiz!!!

This is literally just, "we can't risk making things worse in our attempts to make them better," liberalism. And it doesn't even work within the context of either Thracia 776 (because Lief... you know... he starts conflict to better the lives of his people...) or Three Houses (because Edelgard was literally fighting for her home, that home being Fodlan itself and not just Adrestia).

Edelgard points out how nobody seems to have the guts to fight with Ronan. Ronan then gets distinctly un-provincial.

“Yeah. It's true a lot of people are too scared to fight… or don't have the balls to.” He grimaced, glaring at the horizon. “But it can't stay like that forever. At some point we're either going to stand up in fight, or lie down and die. There's no point in surviving under the boot of monsters like this, with no one willing to uphold justice.”

Yeah, that's how a medieval peasant talks, dipping into abstract concepts like justice!

Then we get,

“Didn't the Emperor Arvis call creating this very Empire justice?” Edelgard prodded pointedly. Ronan snorted like a bull. “Of course he did; he had to pretend it was, after massacring Lord Sigurd and every other heir to Judgral who was in his army. And what was his 'justice'? Handing all of us over to the cult of Loptous, who he cozied up to in the first place to even get the crown.”

Who the hell handed Ronan the Genealogy of the Holy War game script? How would he know all this? I've mentioned he lives out in the sticks, now it's time to show how far away he is:

Ronan would be living right around where I circled there. Unlike Fiana, where Leif lived, Iz doesn't even have walls:

Like seriously? How does he know all this? Traveling bards spreading the word? Reyna's just twisting the world this story takes place in so she can have Ronan unknowingly blame Edelgard for unleashing terrible wrongs upon Fodlan.

“Justice to me is the food being hoarded at Belhalla and Travant's palace being distributed among people who actually need it.

I very much doubt Travant is hoarding food, at least not for himself. Famine is Thracia's biggest problem. Also, again, Ronan would probably be more likely to complain about Bloom hoarding food at Ulster, not Arvis at Belhalla (the capital city of the both the Kingdom of Granvalle and the Granvalle Empire).

Here's the thing. Arvis is so far removed from the wrongdoing at Thracia. In Thracia 776, the vast majority of the Imperial forces you fight are specifically the armies of House Friege, which, as I mentioned, is Bloom's ducal house. But that doesn't work for Reyna's narrative, because Arvis has several comparisons to draw with Edelgard and Bloom has none.

Justice is the children being taken by the hunts being returned home unharmed and the monsters participating in those sick games all being hung.

This sure does sound like something a medieval peasant would say. Also notice how Ronan's grammar and punctuation got a lot better?

By the way, this is how Ronan's dialogue is written in the newer fan translation:

Ma, I can't stay outta this any longer. I'll go and fight alongside— Oh, you must be with the Freeblades! I want to join y'all! I'm good enough with a bow and I can get around pretty fast. I won't hold you back none. That don't matter none! Every battle is somebody's first, right? Guess this'll be mine. I mean, maybe you can stand holing up in here an' waiting to die, but I sure can't!

Anyways, getting back to the more inexplicably well-read Ronan:

Justice is us actually getting all those pretty things Arvis promised us; education and safety nets and better roads and soldiers who aren't just thugs in armour protecting us.

Whatever Arvis actually promised is really vague - text limitations from the SNES days n'all - but this is so comically twisted to be similar to what Edelgard might've talked about that it's funny. Reyna has all the subtlety of a flying hammer.

Justice is getting back the families that actually cared for us and kept us safe, like Leonster and Chalphy.

"We want our good nobles back, please >:("

Dimitri needs to be validated in his belief that both sides have a point in the commoner vs noble divide. Now, obviously it does make sense that Ronan would want the families that didn't cause chaos back, but it's still such an unsubtle dig at Edelgard's "let's remove the nobility!" ideals.

Edelgard brings up the rumors that Leif's still alive, and Ronan remarks he'd join up with him in a heartbeat. Edelgard tries to warn him off jumping into war so eagerly - this is supposed to be her having second thoughts about war, guys! :D - but before the conversation can go very far, Lifis's pirates appear over the horizon to raid Iz.

This is very likely going to coincide with the events of Thracia 776's second chapter, in which the Fiana Freeblades - which Leif is not the leader of by the way, we'll see if Reyna gets that right - while marching to Munster to rescue the kidnapped Mareeta and Nanna, reach Iz as it comes under a raid by Lifis's pirates.

I'm not sure I'm ready to see what Reyna does with Leif, folks.

Anyways, that's the end of the chapter, so on to the author's notes!

Edelgard is interesting to write here at the beginning; I think that in a world where she survived past losing, she is very very subdued in the best case scenario.

There's a very good reason she asks for death, by word or by knife, in all three routes where she loses.

...

Please tell me Reyna doesn't think Edelgard was trying to kill Dimitri when she threw the knife at the end of AM.

Her ideals ruled her, and if they were broken by her war being a mistake and a failure,

Failure yes, mistake no.

she doesn't have much else at all. This is a broken Edelgard, who's going to rebuild herself upon being attached to a new cause.

The cause of coming to Seiros!

That process shall be…interesting.

I say "painful", but that's just me.

And to conclude, here's a couple choice takes from the comments.

From someone other than Reyna:

I really like the detail of Edelgard slowly learning how starkly different "a hard day's work" means for noble vs commoners: Garreg Mach gave a taste of that through chores, but it could never really replicate what it means to have to work day-in and day-out to scrap by during hard times.

"Hard times", being "all the time" when you're a medieval peasant.

Plus, her using her Crest enhanced strength for everyday labor is really great! It really lets her get a feel for just how helpful a power like that would be for commoners, while also letting her help the little guy out directly.

Yuuuuuup, you know where this is leading! "Crests good, actually!"

Reyna herself replies:

I'm glad you like it!; there really is no comparison. It always annoyed me how Edelgard claims in 3H proper that she's saving the 'oppressed' when it becomes so incredibly clear she has no idea what their lives are like -

"But Dimitri knows! Dimitri knows!" Except not Reyna's Dimitri because he never had that arc, but it's okay: he evidently just wanders around Faerghus, helping people with his super duper Crest strength. Because the sole living heir who almost died once when the king was murdered would be permitted to do that.

she hadn't even considered making free education available to them, given how startled she is when Ferdinand suggests it in their supports.

(weak laughter)

Of course Reyna buys into the "Edelgard didn't think of something that didn't exist until around the 1800's IRL, stupid girl!" argument.

And yes, her Crest strength is incredibly useful for things like this!

Edelgard didn't even CONSIDER the value of Crested laborers! What a foolish, short-sighted girl!

There is a reason that the exultation of Crests lasted for a thousand years; they have a tangible affect on people's lives.

Dimitri's criticized for being out of touch when he says this for a reason, Reyna.

Also the reason Crests were exalted for a thousand years is because the church decreed it so. The vast majority of Crested nobles would never use their Crest powers to directly better the lives of the people.

From another non-Reyna:

Regarding my stance on Edelgard, I like her, same with all the Lords and Rhea, but unfortunately, her stans who keep on white-washing the bad stuff she does on all the routes ruined her and her routes for me, like, I prefer those who straight up admit "yeah, my white-haired gurlboss is a war criminal, whatcha gonna do?" instead of the "my female anime waifu will never do anything bad.", despite the devs and the game itself stating that non of the lords are literal saints.

I love the ones who are all "I like her as a villain, why can't her stans admit she's a war criminal? :)"

Yeah, get back to me when Dimitri fans stop having a chronic issue with trying to excuse or downplay literal torture.

That's all for today! Later people!

[motheatenscarf]

Garlemald is uh

BLEAK.

Like... I knew it would be bad, but I did not think it would be "90% of the country has been tempered, and those who remain are slowly freezing and starving to death because the infrastructure that made life possible here has crumbled to ruin.

There is not a single building left standing in the capital city.

It's just devastation as far as the eye can see.

Uh.

I think every single person Talia knew in her life before this, neighbors, friends, nuisances, crushes, no one is left alive.

Also her mom is uh, definitely dead.

And like... it's probably been 8 or so years since she left by this point, and she hasn't seen any of those people in ages, but she just kinda assumed they would be living their lives without her. And maybe they did... but there's not a chance in hell any of them survived all this.

What.. what the FUCK did Zenos and Fandaniel do??

[hesitationss]

i don't even know how to describe how fucking bleak it looks like in north america. everyday there is more and more bigoted violence, because of course this was where online bigotry would always lead to. the police feel more and more at liberty to kill whoever because now they know they can get away with it even while living in such surveillance states, and even the few that end up in prison are well protected just like any other *actual* criminals like white supremacists or pedophiles who rarely end up in prison. there have always been targetted harassment and attacks here, but the u waterloo stabbing is such a blatant ideological act that tbh many of us have been warning about and we are just ...waiting? for institutions to describe this violence as mental illness? and the masses will eat it up? idk like we are already in a fascist police state and the rich are starving us... like idk how long the people can stand to live like this 100+ years of anti-communist propaganda has done so much damage to the collective political

[edwardteachs]

bad. every tw under the sun ⬇️

I still feel like I'm not at home in my body. I don't look like how I envision myself, at all. I miss my hair so much. I've gained more weight and i feel awful about it. I dont fit into my favourite clothes. I feel bloated and too large for myself. my bf hasnt called me pretty in weeks.

i know how bleak this is. but I've always felt like I'm just too weak and cowardly. too scared to kill myself too scared to cut deep enough too weak to starve myself properly. too undisciplined to make anyone believe me. too much of a coward to mean it.

because I still feel like I dont mean it. like I'm faking it. I feel like if I really meant it I would've done something by now that ANYONE would notice or care about.

but maybe they just don't care. maybe no one is waiting for me. I can't talk to my family about any of this obviously, and I just KNOW my mother is gonna find a way to make a comment about my weight. I'm the only one of my siblings to not be skinny and tall and beautiful. my body hurts every day and no one gives a shit.

I'm losing myself again. worse this time. I regret every choice I've ever made since I was 14 that led me here. I am no one and I could easily disappear without anyone really caring. I may just have imagined myself.

it feels manipulative to ask for people to care about me. I feel like a gaslighting abusive asshole for saying how I feel. even making this post feels like I'm a terrible person.

I relapsed again this week. and I feel childish and stupid for that. because I shouldve grown out of this by now.

I've been suffering for my entire of my life. I can't remember my childhood. I can't remember my passwords, my old friends, my life. I can't do anything. I've never been able to do anything right.

maybe I would like to be the best at something. anything. maybe once I'd like to be the prettiest or the most skilled or the most anything other than annoying. maybe once I'd like to be someones immediate first priority. I never have been. is that so fucking much to ask for

[thegratitudelisting]

I'm in a middle of a personal growth and I'm proud of myself for it.

A year ago, you would find me sitting at home, resenting every wins I saw on the internet, probably thinking "I deserve that better than --"

Glued on my phone, depressed and moody.

Today, I sat on a desk, typing on my laptop, pretending to be productive.

But with lots and lots of growth.

Wow.

I wouldn't imagine how bleak my life was before.

And I'm so glad I didn't give up and I kept moving.

I'm so happy I made a decision to leave my country.

It's one of the most stressful, life-changing event I faced heads on (no gear)

When I first got here, I have to starve myself because I don't to spend 8 RM on meals.

I have to drag my hungry ass to Sam's Groceria, buy myself a 4 RM Nasi Lemak and drink the bottled water I stashed at Scott Hotel.

Geez, that was life 3 months ago.

When my hotel stay was about to end, I met up with lots of housing agents for an apartment.

I was appalled to know the rent prices and how "2 month-deposits" work.

The rooms were lovely.

But I chose a simple room at Taman Paramount station because I felt it was home.

It was by the way. At least that's how I describe it in front of my friends.

When in reality, I picked that room because it was the cheapest.

Sometimes, I ask God why He puts me in situations where I have to suffer all the time.

Isn't my rough childhood enough already?

In the middle of my divine resentment, I remember the brick workers in Pakistan.

So yeah, I'm still blessed. (I know how to gaslight myself)

Anyway, why am I suddenly sharing this?

2 things.

My story fucking matters

this is a reminder that I'm not a weak ass bitch and I am strong that I can manage things that I'm wise that I know how to budget that whatever comes in my way I'll figure it out.

So yeah, if you're still reading this, I want to appreciate you for your time.

I'm glad you're here.

And no matter how ordinary your life seems to be, it's ok.

We're all ordinary people.

Trying to be extra.

[levicanpunchme]

AAAAAA I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCHHHH SYEGHQYEHW can i request something where the reader tries to persuade levi to take a break from his paperwork?? aaaaaaa i literally love u some much jagduwyshdsj thank you<3333

AAAAAA, I LOVE YOUUUUU 🙈 thank you so much for the kind words 🥺 I’m sorry this took a while but it’s finally here~! And thank you for requesting babe <333

——————————————————————

Levi X Y/N

Genre: Romance/Fluff/Angst

Sharing Your Exhaustion

The hallways were eerily quiet, presumably because the members were drained off after hectic training; they couldn’t help jump into their dreams before they had to head back for more painful training. You took nimble steps towards the captain’s room and rushed to open the door, knots forming in your stomach in bustling excitement. Yesterday, Levi was so busy with paperwork, you had chose not to visit him, not wanting to disturb him. There were days when you had to ignore your feelings because you were in a relationship with none other than Captain Levi, the strongest solider who shouldered the burden of humanity’s right to existence.

As you stepped in, you realised the room was lighted up, which was foreign because by this time, Levi would be waiting for you in bed with lights off. Your gaze sauntered from the empty bed to the wooden desk next to the window and caught sight of your raven haired boyfriend, seated before his desk with a pencil in his grip as he sharply wrote something down. You frowned, staring at the clock for reconfirmation.

It was one am. By this time, Levi would have tidied up his messy desk, taken a shower and waited for you to come over-sometimes even making personal trips to your room to get you.

You lightly shut the door behind you, taking light steps towards your hardworking boyfriend. Despite making zero to no sound, you caught his attention immediately as if he sensed you around; his bleak eyes seemed to warm up like the moonlight, his thin lips morphing into a tiring smile.

“How was training?” His gentle voice already calmed your nerves. “Tiring,” you muttered with a generous smile and made your way to his chair.

“Tch, don’t work so hard, brat,” he gruffly muttered, his voice etched with concern.

Nearing him, you noticed the blue lines of fatigue on his pale skin carved under his eyes, his forehead creased from tension, posture seemingly uncomfortable with his back positioned away from the chair, probably from leaning down to observe papers. An awful feeling arose in the pit of your stomach. Your judgment stood corrected as you observed the stack of parchments bundled on the side of his table. Just looking at it gave you a headache.

You instinctively stepped closer behind his chair and snaked your arms around his neck tightly, recompensing for the time away from him. The smell of him on the shirt you were wearing was nothing compared to his actual embrace. The shower you had taken before had helped your nerves ease after practise but Levi’s embrace completely sucked every last drop of ache out of your body.

A breathy sigh escaped his mouth as he eased into your hold, his breathing calm against your frame. For a moment, it was only you and Levi in your own bubble; nothing else existed. Two aching souls finding peace in one another. And then a moment later, the bubble bursted.

“Y/n, turn the lights off and get some sleep. I’ll need to stay working,” he put his hand over yours which were resting on his chest and nudged his head against yours, encouraging you to go to bed.

You frowned, your chest tightening.

Ever since the commander’s announcement for a new mission outside the walls, the workload was piquing- especially for the captains. The pile of documents needing Levi’s attention were still toppling his desk and he hadn’t even moved an inch from the worktable since before yesterday night. You didn’t see him at practise, lunch, dinner or even in the meeting with Hange. He seemed to have disconnected entirely from human interaction, determined to get his work done.

“Levi, you’ve been here since the whole day,” you muttered, expressing your discern with a frown. Your arms only grew tighter around him worriedly.

He shook his head, giving your hand a tight squeeze. “It’ll take me one more night and I’ll be done.” You peeled yourself away from him and stared at the man with desperation. You had come to a realisation that Levi coped in different ways in tense times. When the atmosphere became grim, he spent days drowning himself with papers and refused to take breaks- as if he was punishing himself. Even when he came back from expeditions, you wouldn’t see his face until a week after. He stared at words for so long that they probably haunted him.

“Levi, you’re overworking yourself to the bone. You need sleep,” you argued, scowling at the lack of concern in his narrow eyes.

“I’m perfectly fine, don’t worry. Now, go and get some sleep. You must be exhausted,” his words were stern, commanding you and his gaze indifferent, holding no room for debate. His eyes remained cold but you could tell he felt apologetic as he softly caressed your cheek with his palm, stroking them. He limply smiled, then nodded at you and motioned towards the bed, implying you leave him alone.

You stared at him distraught. How could Levi expect you to turn away and conveniently slip into bed while his red-rimmed eyes were starving for rest as he pushed himself more and more? Again an unsettling feeling arose in your chest; even his fingers were inflamed from gripping the pencil for too long; he rubbed the back of his neck occasionally which meant he had been craning it for too long to read the goddamn papers.

Your fists clenched in despair as you bit back the curses you wanting to ensue; dating a workaholic man with zero awareness was a pain in the ass. You sighed sympathetically at the man you loved and then stepped closer to the desk, in front of him. You grabbed one large pile of his documents and brought them with you to the bed.

“Hey-hey! What’re you doing?” He immediately sprung out of his chair, and it made you want to cackle because it was probably the first time his leg muscles contracted since he sat down with these documents on that damned chair.

“I’ll help,” you explained as you sat cross legged on the cold sheets of his bed, picking up the first stapled document.

“No,” he rasped. “You are doing no such thing. Get to bed, right now,” it wasn’t a suggestion but a chilling command; Levi’s tone was dangerously low, making your stomach knot up with nervousness.

You glanced up and regretted it immediately because it magnified your anxiety: his misty eyes were staring down at you scornfully, burning your skin; his chest heaved impatiently and his fists were clenched like he would pounce at you any second.

“Levi—“

“Every-fucking-one is beaten after today’s practise, I know that. Just because I wasn’t there, it doesn’t mean I don’t know shit. Hange informed me about your pathetically long training,” Levi’s voice was oddly rough but the coldness in his eyes melted. His face was scrunched in distress.

You loved this man so much with every part of you. How could he be worrying over you when he was literally starving and sleepless from the work pressure? Your nose burned, and you felt your eyes welling up, with overwhelming emotions, but you didn’t let him see that or he’d lose his sanity and flip the world over to know exactly the reason behind your tears.

You stepped out of the bed and walked close to him, edging to him until his nose was brushing yours conveniently since you both were the same height. At close proximity, his almond shaped eyes were tired-red and sully but there was also a strange glint of warmth in the dull grey clouds, reflecting the effect you have on him. His breathing was unsteady as he stared directly at you.

“If you’re too exhausted, we can share the exhaustion just like we share love, Levi,” you whispered, your lips meeting the corner of his mouth and landing it with a kiss. Jitters ran down his spine and his mouth tingled.

We can share exhaustion just like we share love. The words reverberated again and again in his head, tugging at the strings of his heart. At that moment, he wished to throw you into his bed and kiss your exhaustion away. He forcefully stepped back, his insides twisting in misery, desperate to have his way with you. You were always so understanding. Levi could never wrap his head around how you were so transparent and loving. You stood by him in miserable times, struggling to heal his endless wounds. Your selflessness ate at him because in this big, relentless world, he only wanted you to be selfish.

“I’ll arrange these documents, so you’ll know which ones merely require signatures and which need proper attention. It’ll decrease your workload and reading time to a great extent.” You were already on the bed, reading through the document with vitality.

He surveyed you for a moment, his heart drumming faster against his chest. “Come on, get going. We have a lot to do.” Levi timorously stepped back, watching you.

You already got to work and started assessing papers and reading through files. You almost threw in the towel by your fifth document but continued working, determined to help him. You mentally praised Levi’s great work ethics, his neat textura script making you smile.

Levi, on the other hand, stood frozen in his tracks; his chest felt strange as he watched you work on his documents. No one had ever done this-not that he ever wanted it. Hell, he was the strongest, most independent man, who never let his guard down which is primarily the reason why people didn’t bother with him. He alone equated to the strength of a thousand army of titans. He created this headstrong image for the world, Levi Ackerman, the hope of humanity, as he filled in gaps of weaknesses left in his trails.

Why did you see him? You knew he could take it, then why didn’t you let him be, like everyone else? Why did you want to shoulder his burdens by sacrificing your peace?

His head began pounding.

Before he saw you today, he was perfectly fine with his negligent ways: he didn’t feel his stomach rumbling from emptiness, his mouth as dry as the desert, his back aching from distress or his eyes stinging from sleeplessness. Now, when he saw you rubbing your red eyes, squinting them to read the documents and massaging your template in soft circles, he recovered his sanity.

As if he regained his humanity, his body which was numb from the moment he sat with those papers, collapsed into a surge of emotions.

He couldn’t bear it.

He treated himself inhumanely. But not you. God no, never you. You didn’t deserve it. He couldn’t treat you the way he treated himself. He’d rather throw himself off a cliff than give you a taste of his pain. Feeling overwhelmed, his vision blurred as he took heavy steps towards you. You looked up from the paper, hearing him moving towards you and your breath ceased.

Silver eyes were shadowy with a thunderous wave of agony, and a deploring frown weighted down his lips as his steps faltered towards you. You immediately stood up, your hackles rising in concern. You had never seen Levi look so defeated and beaten— not even when he came back from outside the walls. Your stomach twisted in despair. Maybe you had hurt him in your attempts to stick beside him. You felt tears choking your vision as you waited for him to throw you out of his room.

He was an inch away when his body fell against you, a squeal leaving your mouth. His arms were clasping around your waist as he pushed his weight down, causing your knees to buckle against the bed and you both fell. He was on top of you, his body completely attached to you like he were a part of you. Your heartbeat escalated as Levi looked at you, his red eyes drunk with exhaustion staring into the depth of your orbs.

Inside your dark eyes, he only saw himself. Only himself. His breathing hardened, mouth watering at the sight. He couldn’t take it anymore, his love for you triumphing over the last shred of common sense left in his brain. Drained and disillusioned, he found solace within you.

He attacked your mouth like a starved beast, every ounce of his being wanting you to feel the love bustling in his veins. Your toes curled in pleasure, the warmth of his mouth creating an euphoric sense of stability in your soul. You gripped his hair softly, running your fingers through his scalp and his eyes screwed shut in comfort. His lips kissed to your jawline and in the crevice of your neck, trailing downwards, marking your skin as his.

Your moans and his heavy breaths filled up the silence in the room.

“I love you,” he whispered and you swear you felt a wet droplet fall against your skin. Your stomach clenched; It was his first time telling you he loved you. You tried saying it back but no words left your mouth, just a stream of sobs.

Before, you felt him love you through his own unintentional ways but nothing could counter these three words falling off his lips just for you.

And then he rustled against the sheets, laying beside you and pulled you on top of him, your head resting against his chest. His heartbeat vibrating against your frame caused your tense body to ease in his hold. The documents sat on the edge of the bed, neglected. Soon slumber overpowered both Levi and your senses. Even though you both had to wake up within the next-six-hours, It was the best damn sleep Levi had ever gotten.

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

hear those bells ring: chapter 3 (a deaf!bakugo x reader fic)

Summary: Bakugo wakes up with his hearing and a bunch of questions.

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader; Katsuki Bakugo x You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, descriptions of gore, and adult language.

A/N: Sorry for the wait on ch 3, I had to work over the weekend. Anyway, hope you enjoy! 

~*~*~ No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

Ao3 Link: Here

Ch 1 Tumblr Link: Here

Ch 2 Tumblr Link: Here

Bakugo woke up confused, disoriented, and pissed off. 

He bolted upright, the taste of smoke and ash still on his tongue, but when he whipped his head from side to side, there was no fire, no burning asphalt, no villain, only the empty, dark expanse of his apartment. 

But something was still tugging at him, fucking incessantly, and it took him a moment to realize it was his phone alarm. 

Red eyes flicked to the device on his bedside table, and even though its continuous siren was like nails on a chalkboard, Bakugo found himself unable to move, unable to stop it. 

Because he could hear the alarm. Clearly. Loudly. 

He hadn’t been able to hear his phone alarm in weeks, not really. It was nothing more than a muffled tone that petered out toward the end as it rose in pitch and frequency. Thankfully, Bakugo’s internal alarm got him up most days around the sun, but he’d been late to morning patrols a handful of times. 

But now… 

Numbly, Bakugo finally reached out and tapped his phone. His ears rang slightly in the ensuing silence, but it was barely perceptible, nothing like the perpetual buzzing he’d been living with, like a hive of bees had taken up residence in his head. 

The quiet, after so long, was almost… unsettling. 

And it was all because of that woman. He was sure of it. 

Bakugo pressed his lips into a thin line as he thought about you, the memories of last night flooding back. The blurry image of your face, crouched over him, splattered in a thin mist of red blood and dusted with white plaster. He couldn’t remember much from right after he blasted that villain into the fucking dirt. He remembered the feel of glass breaking around him, and pain, a lot of fucking pain, but then it was black until you appeared. When he’d opened his eyes and met yours, he recalled thinking he should be in more pain, but then you spoke to him and derailed all coherent thought. 

Because he’d heard you. Clear as fucking day. 

That immediately drew his attention, and so did the blood all over your hands. 

There was a lot of it. Way too fucking much for nicking yourself on some glass or whatever bullshit excuse you gave. And Bakugo knew it was bullshit. You weren’t a convincing liar. Well, maybe to some idiot extras you would be, but not to him. He clocked the way you stuttered, the way you fidgeted and averted your eyes. And when you looked at him… fuck, your face was so goddamn guilty. 

Why, he had no idea. 

But he did know one thing. 

You had a healing quirk. There was no other explanation. 

Even if he hadn’t just miraculously recovered the hearing that a doctor told him he would never get back, there were a lot of other little discrepancies. His left arm, for one. Bakugo remembered how it felt when the villain’s asphalt wrapped around his limb, the burning, scalding agony of it. But now, the skin was just pink and barely blistered in some places. 

Then there was the blood. 

When he’d gotten home after ditching the crime scene, Bakugo had immediately beelined for his bathroom to take a shower. But, when he stripped off his hoodie, he realized it was heavier than it should be right before he noticed it was dripping onto his floor. Dripping blood. Without thinking, he’d wrung the hoodie out on the bathroom floor, and a fuck ton of red liquid seeped out of it. 

He had immediately dropped the jacket and started scanning his body in the bathroom mirror, but besides the shallow gash on his abdomen, the burned arm, and a few other minor scrapes and bruises, he was uninjured. 

But… his back was coated in red, and so were the seat of his dark jeans and boxer briefs. It was almost like… he’d been lying in a pool of blood. 

So, you had to be a healer. You just had to be. 

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to confirm this since the cops had been circling you like vultures. He also hadn’t wanted to be bitched at by any more heroes, or the fucking media, so he made himself scarce. 

But he needed to see you again. Needed to hear the truth from your own mouth. 

And maybe he could coax you into a deal. 

The doctor Bakugo spoke to yesterday obviously hadn’t known what the hell he was talking about. He had made it sound impossible to fix the blond’s ears, and yet you’d somehow done it easily, in the middle of a fucking battlefield. 

With that kind of power, Bakugo wouldn’t have to worry about going deaf or designing stupid hearing aids with some company. 

With that kind of power, Dynamight would become Japan’s Number One Hero in no time. 

But first, he had to find you. 

Resolved, Bakugo shoved the covers off and slid out of bed, but before he could make it to his bathroom, someone started knocking on his front door. 

No, not knocking. Banging. It sounded like they were trying to break the fucking door down. 

“Bakubroooooooo!” 

“Gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Bakugo grumbled as he padded to his front door. He was only dressed in boxer briefs, but that’s what the idiot got for barging over so early in the damn morning. 

The banging persisted, growing louder and more fervent. 

“I’m fuckin’ comin!” the blond shouted just before he undid the deadbolt and wrenched open the door. 

Eijiro Kirishima, dressed in his Red Riot costume, blinked on the other side of the threshold, his fist still raised to knock. 

“What the fuck, bro?” he asked after a moment of just staring at Bakugo. 

The blond immediately scowled. “That’s my fuckin’ line. What are you doing breaking down my door at six in the damn morning?” 

“Excuse me?” his patrol and agency partner scoffed. “I’m obviously coming to check that you’re not dead since you’ve been MIA for over twenty-four hours.” 

“What?” Bakugo frowned. “I saw you yesterday morning for patrol.” 

“Noooooo,” Kirishima drawled like Bakugo was a particularly stupid child. “That was two days ago, bro. Then that night, I see you all over the damn news, and no one could get ahold of you all day yesterday. I would have come to check on you sooner, but I’ve been having to play damage control with the media because someone decided to blow up a residential neighborhood.” 

“Two days?” Bakugo echoed with a furrowed brow. He’d slept that long? 

“Have you been passed out this whole time, dude?” Kirishima groaned as he shouldered his way into the apartment. “I guess that means you got none of our messages?” 

“Our?” the blond grumbled as he closed the door and followed the redhead to the kitchen bar. 

“Yeah, Denki, Mina, Sero.” Kirishima waved his hand dismissively, marching over to the counter where Bakugo kept the fruit and selecting an apple from the wire basket. “I even asked Izuku to message you, just to see if he’d actually get a rise and response from you.” 

“I don’t need stupid Deku knowing about my problems, Shitty Hair,” Bakugo growled before he stomped over to his fridge to see what he had to eat because he was suddenly starving. 

“Well, that would imply I know your problems, Oh Great Lord Dynamight,” Kirishima snorted and took a bite of apple. “So, what the fuck happened the other night?” 

“I blew up a residential neighborhood,” the blond deadpanned as he turned on his stove, cracking a few eggs into a skillet. 

“Yeah, I saw that. I was more wondering about what led up to it.” 

“What the fuck do you think led up to it?” Bakugo snapped, rummaging through his cupboard for seasonings. “I was walking home from getting a drink, and a damn villain just popped up in front of me.” 

“From what I heard, there were other heroes there, too,” the redhead mumbled around another bite of apple. 

“Yeah, fuckin’ useless extras,” Bakugo sneered as he started to whisk his eggs with a pair of chopsticks, throwing in some leftover white rice and a bit of nori. “They obviously weren’t getting anywhere, and the bastard was tearing up the street, so I stepped in.” 

“To finish destroying the street?” Kirishima cocked an eyebrow, chewing noisily. 

“Fuck off,” the blond said with an eyeroll. 

Internally, though, Bakugo knew the redhead was right. He’d been sloppy, careless, probably still borderline drunk. But he’d just been so angry about the doctor’s appointment, his fucked-up ears, his bleak and silent future. He had just wanted to break something, hurt someone, consequences be damned. 

Except now the consequences were catching up to him. 

Fuck, he didn’t even want to think about what his citizen’s approval rating must be now. 

Silence stretched between the two pro heroes for several long minutes, in which Bakugo finished making his breakfast and Kirishima finished gnawing on his apple core. The blond quickly shoveled a few bites of eggs and rice into his mouth, but his scarlet eyes kept flicking over to the redhead. 

“How bad?” he finally asked. 

Kirishima, to his credit, had learned how to translate Bakugo’s curt grunts years ago. 

“Actually, if I’m being honest, it’s not that bad,” he sighed, tossing the apple core in the trash and scratching at the back of his head. “Could be worse. From the reports I read, most of the damage—besides the road—is superficial. Broken windows, charred and peeling paint, a few busted cars that we’re still trying to figure out if our insurance or the city’s will pay for. It also helped that you saved two people. That definitely softened the blow.” 

“Two?” Bakugo mumbled around one of his last bites. “I just remember the stupid extra on the street that I shoved out of the way.” 

As the memory flashed through his mind, Bakugo frowned. He’d shoved that extra out of the way and got snatched by a giant asphalt hand for his troubles. The blond’s red eyes dropped to his pink and blotchy left arm and then trailed over to his chest. He recalled the sensation of his ribs snapping under pressure, but now only a mild soreness lingered after he took a deep breath. Yet another inconsistency… 

“Yeah, two,” Kirishima said and drew Bakugo out of his thoughts. “Do you seriously not even remember your own heroics? And that girl had such nice things to say about you, too.” 

“Girl?” Bakugo snapped his head up. “The girl whose… apartment I fell into?” 

“Crashed into, dude,” the redhead snorted, but then he narrowed his eyes as a sly smirk tugged at his lips. “But yeah. Sounds like you remember her, huh?” 

Bakugo didn’t like the smug look on his friend’s face. 

“I remember her fuckin’ yellin’ at me.” The blond scowled. “Like I wrecked her place on purpose and didn’t just save her whole block from a lunatic.” 

“I mean, to be fair, if you crashed into my house, bro, I would have yelled at you, too.” Kirishima grinned. “But don’t worry, she’s fine. In fact, when she called the agency yesterday, she asked for you specifically.” 

“She did? Why?” Did she want to confess her healing quirk? Fuck, were there side effects Bakugo didn’t know about? 

“Bro, seriously.” Kirishima rolled his eyes. “You’re Japan’s Number Two Hero, and you saved her life. And, like Mina keeps telling you, you’re not as ugly when you stop scowling.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” Bakugo flipped him off before he went to dump the dishes in the sink. 

“Yes, dear.” The redhead smirked. “But, in all seriousness, she called to figure out how to file a claim with our insurance. Or at least that’s what she said, but she also asked how you were doing, and she actually sounded genuinely worried.” 

Worried that a random side effect was going to kill him? Or worried that he would say something about her quirk? She’d obviously hidden it for a reason, tried to lie for a reason. 

And Bakugo was determined to find out just what that reason was. 

“Yeah, well, I’m fine,” he grunted as he rinsed off his plate and put it on the drying rack. “Just a few scrapes and bruises.” 

“I can see that,” Kirishima said as he eyed the butterfly stitches stretched across the gash on Bakugo’s abdomen. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t find you dead in a pool of your own blood. That woulda been a real bummer way to start the morning.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugo muttered before he averted his eyes to the living room window across from him. “So… what did you tell her?” 

“The girl?” 

“No, you’re fuckin’ mom,” the blond scoffed. 

“Oh, speaking of moms, you might want to text Mitsuki. I called her last night after you ignored my billionth text, so she’s probably going crazy wondering where you are.” Kirishima grinned and then immediately dodged out of the way as Bakugo hurled a fork at him. 

“You bastard!” Bakugo hissed. “Now, I’m going to have to see that hag this weekend or she’s gonna fuckin’ barge over here.” 

“Maybe you should turn the ringer up on your phone.” The other hero shrugged, ducking again when Bakugo chucked an apple in his direction. 

The blond scowled at his friend, but he didn’t reply. 

If you and your quirk were the real deal, Bakugo wouldn’t have to worry about missing a call ever again. 

When Kirishima realized the projectiles had stopped, he popped his head over the back of the couch and smirked. “But to answer your previous question, I told the girl we would handle the insurance claim on our end if she sent us her info. And I didn’t really have anything to tell her about you since, like I’ve said, I thought you were dead. Kinda. I was at least thirty percent sure.” 

“Have you filed the insurance claim?” Bakugo asked. 

“No.” Kirishima shook his head. “She hasn’t sent in the info yet.” 

“Well… we should go get it from her.” 

This caused the redhead’s eyebrows to shoot up into his hairline, and the surprise on his face quickly made Bakugo backtrack. 

“I just… want to get this shitshow over with,” he grumbled as he averted his eyes again, but he could feel a traitorous heat crawling across the bridge of his nose. “The longer her apartment’s all fucked up, the longer the press is gonna rake me over the coals. The hero ranking’s aren’t far off, and I’m not going to lose to Deku again over some stupid broken windows.” 

“Righttttt,” Kirishima drawled, but his tone was mocking. “Okay, well, I know the hotel the police have set her up at. After we swing by the agency, we can head that way… to get her insurance info.” 

He still sounded unconvinced and like he wanted to needle Bakugo more, but the blond changed the subject quickly. 

“Why do we have to go to the agency?” Bakugo asked, and he frowned as he glanced back at his partner. “Even if I lost yesterday, my next scheduled patrol isn’t till tonight.” 

“Oh, I know.” Kirishima nodded solemnly. “But Nao wanted to have… a word with you ASAP, if I confirmed you weren’t dead.” 

“Fuckkkkkkk,” Bakugo groaned as he dropped his head back. If there was anything Bakugo hated more than the press, it was his actual PR manager. That old hag was good at her job, which meant she was always up Bakugo’s ass about something, and he knew she was going to have a field day with this shitfest. 

“Yeah, I’d recommend coffee and preemptive painkillers before we head in,” Kirishima said. “Plus, some putting on clothes. Maybe we can stop on the way and get her something sweet as a bribe.” 

“No amount of sugar is gonna make that bitch nice to me,” Bakugo grumbled before he spun on heel and started marching to his bedroom. 

“Maybe flowers then?” the redhead shouted after him. 

Bakugo slammed the door in response. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“This is fuckin’ ridiculous,” Bakugo growled around his cargo, kicking his foot out at Kirishima. “Why did I listen to you? I’ve had to go shopping twice today now.” 

“Come on,” his friend laughed as he dodged the blow, which made the bags in his arms crinkle. “You can’t deny the flowers and cookies sweetened ole’ Nao up.” 

“To you,” Bakugo muttered, shifting the package in his arms a bit. “She still yelled at me for fifteen minutes.” 

“Well, you kinda deserved i—yow!” Kirishima yelped as Bakugo kicked him squarely in the ass this time. “This isn’t helping your image, bro!” 

“No one even knows it’s us,” the blond hissed. 

“Yeah, I guess the hoodies and sunglasses help,” the other pro hero mused. 

“And the fact that we’re carrying all this stupid shit.” 

“It’s not stupid.” Kirishima frowned in that earnest way of his, which made Bakugo roll his eyes. “It’s thoughtful to bring gifts to people who are having a difficult time. Especially when you made that time difficult. You basically kicked her out of her house, dude, not to mention her shop.” 

A wave of guilt actually washed through the blond, which he didn’t like. It made his throat feel tight and his stomach churn, and he glanced away from the redhead with a scowl. 

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue. “It’s not like we aren’t gonna pay for it.” 

The excuse felt flat, even to him. 

“Still,” Kirishima said as he shifted the bags in his grip, pulled out his phone, and consulted the map. “It must be stressful. So, we’re going to be nice to her, alright? Which starts with the gifts.” 

“And how is a fuckin’ fruit basket supposed to help?” Bakugo asked as he glared around the overflowing mound of crinkling plastic and bright fruit that he held against his chest. 

“Uh, one, it’s practical. Her apartment’s all fucked up, the power’s probably still out if not inconsistent on the street, and she’s been living in a hotel for two days, so she probably hasn’t had some nice fresh fruit in a while. And two, it looks nice!” 

“We coulda just left this shit at the hotel,” Bakugo grumbled. “She has to go back there eventually, right?” 

After old Nao chewed his ass out, Bakugo and Kirishima had gone to the hotel the police said they’d put you up in. Except you weren’t fucking there, and the number you left with Kirishima when you called the agency was going straight to voicemail, so here there were, fucking trekking through the city with a bunch of useless shit. 

Bakugo just kept reminding himself it would be worth it when he got the truth about your quirk out of you. 

“Nope,” Kirishima said and drew the blond out of his thoughts. “The city only pays the first two days after an emergency, unless the villain caused all the damage, but, uh, that’s not the case here, so we’ll be accommodating her until her apartment gets fixed up.” 

“At the agency?” Bakugo asked as his red eyes clicked over to his partner. 

As the Number Two and Three Heroes, the two of them had built a solid agency together. Bakugo still didn’t care for a bunch of extras riding on his tailcoats, so they had few sidekicks, all of whom reported to Kirishima and left him the fuck alone for the most part. But they owned a nice, sleek building in a nicer part of town, and one of the floors was dedicated to individual rooms with beds and other amenities. They were usually used when Bakugo, Kirishima, or the other sidekicks wanted to crash after patrol instead of going home—which Bakugo did more often than not—but they’d never had a civilian stay on the premises. 

Until now. 

“Yessssss, at the agency,” the redhead drawled as a shit-eating smirk crawled across his face. “So, you’ll be seeing a lot of her for the next couple weeks.” 

“Wipe that stupid look off your face.” Bakugo scowled and shouldered past the other hero, who snickered as he jogged to catch up. 

“Take the next left up ahead.” 

“Shut up!” the blond growled, but he followed the instructions. 

This was good news, though. Bakugo wouldn’t have to trek to this shitty part of town more than he had to. 

And he’d have a healer just down the hall. 

They marched along in silence for a few minutes, keeping their heads down, but there wasn’t much foot traffic. Bakugo was lost in his thoughts, planning out the questions he was going to ask you once he could distract Kirishima, but the redhead suddenly stopped in front of him. 

“Hey,” Bakugo grunted as the fruit basket crinkled against the other hero’s back. He hadn’t even notice Kiri get in front of him again. “What’s the damn hold up?” 

“Holy shit, dude,” Kirishima muttered, staring out at the road he’d just turned onto. 

“What?” the blond grumbled, shoving past his friend, but then he stopped, too. “Oh… yeah.” 

The street in front of him looked much worse in the bright light of midday. The road was a torn-up mess, more patches of dirt and gravel than actual asphalt. Most of the large-scale debris had been hauled away, but black scorch marks covered the sidewalks in long, dark smears. The walls of several businesses also bore charring along the facades, but most of the damage was focused in the center of the street. A crater nearly six feet deep was carved into the middle of the road, and the buildings on either side were blackened, their broken windows gaping voids. 

And then there was the hole in what Bakugo remembered as your second-floor apartment. A tarp hung over the wound, but one of the corners had come undone, flapping in the wind and giving split second glimpses into the darkened room beyond. 

Guilt crept up on him again, but Bakugo shoved it down, hunching over the fruit basket and nudging Kirishima. 

“Come on,” he muttered before he started moving forward, and a moment later he heard the crunch of boots on gravel as the redhead followed him. 

There were more people on this street than on the last several, but Bakugo could immediately tell they weren’t customers just passing through. People swept sidewalks, clearing away the last of the rubble and glass in front of their shops. Then a few old ladies stood under one awning shaking their heads, their hands laden with containers of food or gifts. 

Guess Kirishima hadn’t been wrong with this stupid idea. 

Then Bakugo realized some of those people were starting to look back at him, so he ducked his head further behind the fruit basket, grateful for his hoodie and sunglasses. 

But then suddenly he was there, standing in front of your ruined shop. His red eyes immediately flickered upward, but if there was a sign there before, it was gone now, burnt to ash. 

“What kinda shop did you say this was?” the blond asked under his breath as Kirishima paused beside him. 

“I’m… not sure,” the redhead said with a furrowed brow. “I don’t think she said on the phone. No time like the present to ask, though.” 

Before Bakugo could stop him, Kirishima shifted the bags in his arms, lifted one hand, and knocked on the charred metal frame of the front door. 

“Hello?” he called through the broken windows, followed by your name. “Anyone in there?” 

“Shit!” The squeaking voice was followed by a crashing sound somewhere in the shadows of the store. 

Bakugo didn’t speak a lot of English, but he did know curse words, and the sound of it made his lips twitch in amusement. 

“Are you okay?” Kirishima called out. “Can, uh, we come in?” 

“Yes, I’m fine!” the voice answered back in flustered Japanese. The words were fluent, though, with barely the hint of an accent. “And, um, I-I guess you can come in, but—” 

That was good enough for Bakugo. 

The blond shouldered past his partner, boots crunching over glass as he ducked into the darkened shop, and Kirishima sighed as he followed. 

The interior, if possible, looked worse than the outside. The room itself wasn’t very big, but it was a mess. Two metal rods had been embedded in the left and right walls at odd angles, obviously caused from the explosions, though Bakugo couldn’t tell what they used to be. Several pieces of blacked mannequins were scattered through the debris, and one wall was a charred mess of shelving and fabric, spots of color peeking through the black ash here and there. 

In the back, left corner were the remains of a tri-fold standing mirror, the ones where you could see yourself from different angles. Large shards of glass were missing, though, so the image of Bakugo and Kirishima standing backlit against the street was fractured. 

Last but not least, in the rear, right corner of the store was a counter that was half collapsed to the floor, behind which stood an empty doorframe that Bakugo assumed led to the back of the shop and upstairs. 

And it was from behind this broken counter that you popped up with a dustpan in one hand and a tiny, handheld broom in the other. 

The first thought Bakugo had was your face was rather plain… but in a somehow pleasing way. Like if his eyes had scanned over you in a crowd, something about the line of your jaw, the slope of your nose, the delicate quirk of your mouth would give him pause. 

His second thought was that his first one was stupid. You were just some extra, of course you would be plain and unmemorable. 

But his third thought was something about the color of your eyes was captivating, in a way that was damn fucking annoying. 

“Sorry, I was just… cleaning… up,” you said, slowly trailing off as your eyes met Bakugo’s. 

He saw the recognition flare in them immediately, followed by fear, and he couldn’t help the frown that twisted his face. 

Why were you afraid of him? 

“No, we’re sorry for barging in here like this,” Kirishima barreled on, oblivious to the stare off the other two occupants of the room were engaged in. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Oh! I’m being so rude. My name is Eijiro Kirishima, or you might know me as—” 

“Red Riot,” you breathed, finally tearing your eyes from Bakugo’s, and you flashed the redhead a half-smile that trembled along the edges. “We spoke on the phone.” 

“Yes.” Kirishima grinned, pointed teeth flashing in the dim light of the shop, before his gaze flickered over to the blond beside him. “And this is—” 

“Dynamight,” you finished once again, and you looked like you were trying desperately to maintain eye contact with the hardening hero, but then your eyes clicked back to Bakugo. You didn’t flash him a smile. “We’ve met.” 

“Oh, yeah, right,” Kiri chuckled awkwardly, and his arm jerked like he was going to rub the back of his neck, but the bags in his hands crinkled and stopped him. 

“What… do you have there?” you asked, frowning at the bags and the fruit basket the heroes were carrying. 

“Gifts!” the redhead declared as he hefted his arms up, and then he shuffled forward over charred fabric and glass and extended the bags to you. 

You blinked at him for a second, but you set the dustpan and handheld broom on the counter, where they promptly slid to the floor since the whole surface was slanted. You winced at the loud clatter and tried to cover it up by taking the bags from Kirishima, which crinkled loudly again as they transferred hands. 

Bakugo would be annoyed if he wasn’t more grateful that he could actually hear the innocuous little noise. 

“O-Oh, um, you shouldn’t have, really,” you started as you peeked into the bags, and then Bakugo swore he saw your eyebrow twitch once you saw what was inside. 

“It’s not much,” Kirishima said, and he was finally free to rub the back of his head and neck as his smile turned a little sheepish. “But, what with the state of your… apartment, we thought you might need some new clothes! And comfy clothes are the best after stressful days. These especially are super soft, we made sure of it. And, if you don’t like them, you could always sell them for a good chunk of change.” 

The redhead winked at you, not in an overly flirty manner, that was just how he was, but your cheeks flared as crimson as his hair, and your eyes dropped to the floor. 

Bakugo took the split instant to get a better look at you and noted you were wearing patched, faded jeans, solid boots, and a bleach-stained orange sweatshirt with some English writing he couldn’t read. Usually, he didn’t really see what other people wore because he couldn’t give less of a shit, but somehow he found your obvious cleaning clothes… endearing. The orange looked good on you, too. 

Fuck, maybe you didn’t heal him as well as he thought. He had to be hemorrhaging into his brain to be thinking this stupid shit. Or maybe it was a side effect of your quirk? 

He needed to get you alone and get answers. 

“Well… thank you, this was very thoughtf—oh, wow, that is soft,” you murmured as you partially drew a sweatshirt out of the bag. 

Bakugo instantly recognized the forest green and orange color scheme, and apparently so did you, because your face twitched, and you dropped the garment back into the bag and traded it for fuzzy socks with Red Riot’s signature gears stitched into them. 

“These will definitely come in handy, my feet are always cold,” you said with an awkward giggle. Then you cleared your throat to cover up the sound. “Thank you, um, Red Riot.” 

“You can call me Eijiro, or Kirishima, whatever you’re comfortable with,” the redhead said with another easy grin. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, after all. Oh! We also got you a fruit basket, and I think there might be a few other sweets tucked in there.” 

Kirishima nudged Bakugo forward, and your face rippled through a range of emotions, like your brain was taking a second to catch up to everything the pro hero just spewed. First, flustered embarrassment colored your cheeks, then confusion buckled your brow, and your eyes widened before they looked at the fruit basket Bakugo was extending at you. 

“Oh, you can just put it down… um…” you trailed off as you turned to the counter and remembered it was half destroyed. Then your eyes jumped around frantically for some kind of flat surface, but the ruined shop didn’t offer any solutions. 

“Told ya we shouldn’t of brought this shit,” Bakugo grunted, shooting a scowl at Kirishima. 

“Yeahhhhh, we probably could have just delivered it to your room at the agency, my bad,” the redhead laughed. “But don’t worry, we’ll carry it back for you, along with any of your other things.” 

“My… things?” you echoed, sounding out the words like a child, and a frown marred your face. “I-I think I must be misunderstanding you, I’m sorry, I’m American. But did you say my room at the agency? As in… your hero agency?” 

“You’re American?” Kirishima asked with wide red eyes. “I wouldn’t have even guessed! Your accent is almost perfect, I thought you were maybe just from like the countryside or something.” 

“I thought you said we were supposed to be nice to her,” Bakugo snorted at his partner like you weren’t in the room, and he saw you frown at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Oh, shit, no, that wasn’t what I meant!” Japan’s Number Three Hero immediately began waving his hands in front of his face, his mouth moving twice as fast. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I really think your accent sounds nice! It’s very cute!” 

Now, not only did your cheeks flush again, but the red hue traveled down your throat and across your collarbones, peeking out the stretched collar of your orange sweatshirt. 

Bakugo found himself half distracted by the sight, but the other half was wondering why he suddenly felt irritation flare up in his gut. 

“Okay, you don’t have to take her out on a date now,” the blond snapped, shifting his burden of fruit and plastic. 

“I-I think we might have gotten off track,” you stuttered as you clutched the bag of Dynamight and Red Riot merch to your chest. “You said something about your agency.” 

“Yes, right.” Kirishima cleared his throat. “We would have mentioned this in our follow up email after you sent in your insurance info, but—” 

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” you cut him off with a grimace, and you actually dipped your head and shoulders into a bow. “I meant to send that yesterday, but my laptop is broken, and my cell service isn’t great—” 

“No, no, it’s fine!” the redhead interrupted this time. “You obviously have a lot on your plate. I just meant that this might seem kind of sudden, but—” 

Fucking hell, this was taking too long. 

“You’re staying at our agency until we can pay for the repairs to your apartment and shop,” Bakugo said bluntly. If he didn’t step in, the two of you were just going to stammer circles around each other all day. “Starting tonight. We have rooms with beds and shit, so pack whatever clothes or crap you need.” 

Your mouth fell open as you gaped at Bakugo. “I… what?” 

“You deaf or something?” The words rocketed from his mouth before he could stop them, before he could even think about what he was saying, and he saw the way the question struck you like a physical blow. You flinched, your cheeks paling, and he saw dawning, guilty horror glint at the back of your eyes. 

He’d been right. You did do something to his ears. 

“Bro, you were just talking about being nice.” Kirishima frowned at Bakugo before he turned back to you. “Ignore him. We’re really sorry about the inconvenience this whole… incident has caused for you, but we’ll take care of everything you need until your shop’s grand reopening, so you don’t have to worry about a thing, okay?” 

You continued to stare at the two heroes in shocked silence, your wide eyes clicking back and forth between the two of them as you clutched the bags to your chest like a lifeline. 

“That is… all so generous,” you finally breathed, your tone rising in pitch like you were growing increasingly flustered. “It’s, um, a lot to take in.” 

“Of course.” Kirishima nodded fervently. “What else can we do to help?” 

“Could you leave?” 

Bakugo blinked in surprise and then had to stifle his snort. 

“Oh, no, I’m sorry!” you quickly followed up when you saw the redhead’s falling expression. “I didn’t mean… I just meant, could I have some time to process this? Um, alone? L-Like Dynamight said, I need to pack a few things, a-and there are some people I need to speak to before, uh… well, is it okay if I tell someone where I’ll be? Like, at your agency?” 

“Yessss?” Kirishima said with a confused frown. “Why wouldn’t that be okay?” 

“O-Oh, I just don’t really know how the whole hero and media thing works here,” you quickly lied, and Bakugo clocked the way you averted your eyes, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed thickly. “I-I wasn’t going to post on social media or anything, I barely use that stuff anyway, but one of my customers, Mrs. Kojima, would be upset if I disappeared without saying anything.” 

“Aww, that’s sweet.” The redhead grinned before he glanced at the shadowed ruins around him. “What kind of shop is this by the way? I don’t think you mentioned.” 

“A-Alterations,” you said, ducking your face in embarrassment again. “My grandparents were a tailor and seamstress. I inherited this place from them.” 

“I thought you said you were American?” Kirishima asked, but not in an accusatory way. He was just too curious for his own good and didn’t possess much of a filter. 

Bakugo usually didn’t care for small talk, fucking waste of time if you asked him, but he found himself focusing intently on you, awaiting a response. 

“I am.” You nodded. “My parents were both born here, but they moved to the States after they married, and I was born there. After my grandparents passed, my dad was going to sell the shop, but I was looking for something… new, so I decided to move here instead about a year ago.” 

Bakugo pursed his lips at this new information. If you had a healing quirk, why were you patching up clothes in some little shop all the way across the world from your surviving family? Could it be because your quirk was dangerous? 

“Wow, that’s cool,” Kirishima said with an impressed expression that quickly turned sheepish. “Except about your grandparent’s passing. My condolences.” 

“Thank you,” you muttered, a small smile tugging at your lips, but then you quickly shook your head. “I-I’m sorry, didn’t mean to give you my whole life story, I tend to talk when I’m nervous.” 

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Red Riot laughed like he did when he was meeting shy little kids on the street, flashing his sharpened teeth jokingly and winking in an overexaggerated fashion. “I promise, we look scarier than we are.” 

“Speak for yourself, Shitty Hair,” Bakugo scoffed, which made you jump, like you’d forgotten he was there. 

And that rubbed him the wrong way for some reason. 

Kirishima merely smirked before he partially covered his mouth with his hand and lowered his voice into a stage whisper directed at you. “All bark, no bite, I’m telling you.” 

“Stop making me seem lame, you bastard!” the blond growled, but the effect was kind of ruined by the fruit basket crinkling in his hands again. 

This actually seemed to startle a giggle out of you, and the two heroes whipped around, one with a grin and the other a scowl. 

“See, you don’t need to be nervous,” Kirishima said before he slung an arm around Bakugo’s shoulders. “But we’ll get out of your hair for now so you can have some time to pack and everything. Don’t worry about picking up too much, though, we’ll have cleaning crews in here before we start the remodel, and we don’t want you to get hurt in here. If there’s stuff up in your apartment that you don’t want to bring with you to the agency but don’t want thrown out, make a list, and we’ll be sure to keep everything safe.” 

“O-Okay,” you said, still standing there with the hero merch clenched to your chest and a dumbstruck expression on your face. “T-Thank you again, Red--, erm, Kirishima.” 

“Of course!” He grinned. “I have patrol tonight, but we’ll send a car to pick you up—” 

“No,” Bakugo cut in as he locked eyes with you. “I’ll pick you up. What time?” 

The blond could see Kirishima shoot him a look in his peripherals—probably because they both had patrol tonight—but Bakugo ignored his partner, maintaining eye contact with you. 

You, meanwhile, squirmed under the explosive hero’s intense scrutiny, your face paling and flushing in turns. “I… no, you don’t have to do that, I can take the train—” 

“I insist,” he interrupted again, narrowing his eyes so you would realize he wasn’t going to back down. “Like Shitty Hair said, we caused this… inconvenience, so I’ll pick you up. What. Time?” 

You swallowed thickly, your throat audibly clicking. “S-Seven?” 

“I’ll be here at seven sharp,” Bakugo said. “And you better be out front or at least answer your phone this time.” 

You better not run, he didn’t say, but by the look on your face, you understood. 

“Seven sharp.” You nodded, biting your lip as a resigned expression settled over your features. “Got it.” 

“Great. See you then.” 

With that, Bakugo turned on heel and crunched his way out of your store, leaving Kirishima stuttering apologies in his wake. 

But that didn’t matter. 

All that mattered was, tonight, he’d finally get you alone and get to the bottom of your damn quirk.

[your-highnessmarvel]

From Bleak to Bright - Part Twelve

All other parts on on my masterlist, link provided below.

AN:  To the nonnie who suggested a line, it’ll be in part 13 :) I THINK YOU GUYS WILL LIKE THIS CHAPTER! i’ve stopped being rude to our poor loki ;) More to come this week yall. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Warnings: angst, language, SMUT (18+ ONLY)

MASTERLIST - SERIES MASTERLIST

PART TWELVE

“I’ve had it,” you said, pushing away your dinner. 

“Yeah, me too,” Bruce sighed, eating the last fry and leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “I don’t get it. Why give this big ass meal if no one has ever finished it?”

“It’s not called the Impossible Plate for nothing, Bruce,” you mumbled, toying with the hem of your shirt.

“Still,” he mumbled, yawning. “I’ll have to sleep for days to digest this.”

You laughed, watching your brother, who’d grown a white hair or two in the last years, bend over an eating contest you’d both known you’d never be able to finish. 

But at least you were spending time with Bruce, not wallowing around in your apartment, waiting for the sun to set, for a certain someone to climb out of the shadows. 

“So,” Bruce said, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Did you and Nat find any cute boys the other night?”

You rolled your eyes, panic rising in your throat because no, both of you had returned home beau-less, but you’d recently found someone else. And you were not about to let Bruce know. Not now. Not ever. 

But truth is, you hadn’t seen Loki since the night he came back, and your tummy was a turmoil of panic and butterflies. Had he left once again? What was he doing? Where? With who?

You gulped down the terror rising in your throat as you smiled tightly at Bruce. “No, well, you know how it is,” you said awkwardly. “They all wanna talk to Nat so I kind of awkwardly step to the side.”

Bruce nodded. “Well, Nat is a very beautiful woman,” he sighed.

“Ew, Bruce stop.”

“But some men like women like you too.”

“What, ugly?”

“Oh my God, Y/N, stop it,” your brother grumbled. “Half the men in here swiveled their necks when you walked in.”

You wanted to hide in your hands. 

But then Bruce’s face changed and you knew what was coming. He always did this. Always. As if he just had to make sure you were miserable, just for the sake of the planet’s safety.

“I need to tell you something,” Bruce said with a frown. God, you hoped he was fine. But something in the lines of his face made worry climb in your belly. “There’s news from... from Asgard.”

It was as if that word was poison to you. “Loki,” you mumbled, throat raw.

“Thor delivered some news yesterday,” your brother continued, toying with his fingers, a nervous habit of his. “Loki... Loki died.”

You frowned, your head snapping up to meet Bruce’s warm brown gaze. “Dead?” you asked.

That was impossible. Just two days ago, he’d been standing in your apartment. He’d been... You gulped.

Bruce put his elbows on the table, initiating his Big Brother Stance. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he whispered. “I know it must be terrible news for you.”

You dipped your chin, searching your last moments with Loki, trying to decipher if he’d given you a hint. This made no sense. How could Loki, the God of Mischief, be dead?

“How?” you asked. 

Bruce sighed. “Thor broke him out of prison to help him cure Jane of the Aether, and well, Loki was killed in a battle.”

You were frowning so hard it hurt. 

“I am so sorry, little sis,” Bruce murmured, reaching across the table to touch your hand. You immediately jerked it away, regretting the harsh movement as you saw hurt crossing your brother’s features, but not caring at the same time. How could he be dead?

You stood, the chair scraping on the wooden floor. You grabbed your bag, heart pounding, breath roaring in your ears.

“Y/N,” Bruce said, eyeing you with worry creasing his face. 

“I’m gonna go,” you mumbled, not bothering with the bill or politeness or the fact that you were running out of a restaurant. 

The street sounds were a blur to you as you all but ran out, bumping into people, muttering excuses. You walked by habit, heart a sore muscle, thoughts jumbling. How could Loki be dead in two days? Had Thor delivered the news a few days ago? Or today?

You were vaguely aware of your phone buzzing in your pocket, but all you could concentrate on was Loki’s presence. He’d been in and out of your apartment for weeks, repairing this or that, and it was only two days ago that he’d been in your apartment, kissing you. 

He just couldn’t be dead. 

It was late evening as you rushed up the stairs of your apartment complex, blood roaring in your ears, breath panting as you burst through the door. You didn’t bother locking it. Rushing to the curtains, you ripped them closed, ushering in more darkness. He only seemed to come to you in the dark. 

Standing there like an idiot, panting, silence filling your ears, you called out to him. At first, it was weak. A raw attempt to conjure him as if he was a ghost. But then the anger got to you, sweeping in hot against the inside of your rib cage, and you balled your fingers into fists. 

“Loki, fuck!” you exclaimed, feeling your cheeks warm.

The shadow behind you spoke. “Love hearing my name like that.”

You whirled, watching him melt from the shadows as if he’d been there all along. Black long sleeve cotton sweater, black trousers, boots to match. His hair had been cut since the last time you’d seen him. The long strands now short just below his ears, pushed back unevenly. 

He glowed, looking healthier, more like himself than when he’d been begging you never to let him go. 

“I thought you didn’t want me,” he said, pouting his lower lip. As he moved across the living room floor to stand before you, he put a hand to his heart. “Wounds me.”

“Are you really here?” you asked, resisting the urge to slap him for his arrogance.

“Why don’t you come and find out, beloved?” He opened his arms wide, a smirk tugging at the treacherous corners of that delicious mouth. 

You walked right up to him and clocked him in the jaw. His head snapped back, smirk wiping off his face, arms falling to his sides. When he looked back at you, standing close and seething, his left brow rose slowly. “I do not believe I’ve ever deserved such treatment.”

“Thor’s been saying you’re dead,” you accused, looking up at him from under your brows. 

The smirk slowly came back. “I may have helped spread that rumor,” he admitted, reaching out the touch the lapel of your coat. You inched back, but he snapped his hand closed and pulled you closer. “You must understand, Y/N, that this little lie I’ve shaped up allows us to be together.” He dipped his chin, eyes boring into yours. 

He was so close that you could feel the heat of him through your clothes. He’d been so cold the other night.

He licked his lips, inching slightly towards your mouth. “When you’re a powerful God and sorcerer like me, faking your death is like breathing. Easy.”

Your eyes widened, but the hurt you’d felt in your heart seemed to evaporate. If he’d faked his death, that meant he was really here. Unburdened. No one even knew he lived and breathed. 

His hands went into your coat, swiftly sliding it off your shoulders. You watched him, memorized the lines of his face. 

“It’s just you and me now,” he murmured, your coat hitting the floor with a deafening thud. “We can go wherever we please.”

His hands found home on your hips, burying his face in your neck and inhaling, the scent of him invading your senses. He gently wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you against him, flush, like two puzzle pieces. He was warm, oh so warm. He smelled like wood fire and something unique to him that made your body feel... safe. 

“Say something, baby,” he mumbled against the flesh of your neck, sending shivers gliding down your back. His warm, big hands slid against your waist until he held your ribcage. Surely, he could feel just how hard your heart was beating. 

“I thought you were dead,” you murmured. 

You felt him chuckle against you as he straightened, his hands cupping your cheeks. “I can show you how very much alive I am,” he whispered, his voice thick. 

You gulped. Something in you fizzled, dripping thick, honeyed want into your belly. 

But Loki cocked his head. “I could take you here,” he said, eyes faraway, as if he was talking to himself. “I could... Gods, stop looking at me like that.”

He brought his mouth to yours, kissing you so fiercely that you forgot his whole “pretending to be dead” thing. The way his mouth molded to yours stole the breath from your lungs, driving you mad with the need of him. He was so soft, yet so rough, a restraint in him only felt as you grabbed onto his taunt shoulders. He was keeping himself controlled. 

You wondered what it would be like if he didn’t. 

He said your name through kisses, pushing onto you until the backs of your knees found the edge of the couch. “I’ve been starved for two years,” he mumbled, biting onto your lower lip. “Bled out.” Another breathtaking kiss. “All I wanted was you.”

You briefly remembered the way he’d looked that first time you saw him: disgusted, and how ironic was that now. He was bound to you so fiercely you felt it in your bones, and he was on his knees, wanting you more than anything. More than his own life. 

“Loki,” you murmured, breathing him in, kissing him back with as much heat as you could muster. You took ahold of his shirt with courage that seemed to pour in the more he ravaged you with his mouth. Pulling him back, you brought him down onto the couch, straddling him with ease. It really was like fitting two puzzle pieces. 

He huffed, his eyes searching your face with a look you could only chalk up to awe. His hands delicately treaded along your waist, skimming your hips as you lowered yourself flush against him. You could feel him through his pants, warm and hard, and the thought that just the sight of you got Loki so aroused made you bite your lip. 

He looked up at you, caressing your ribcage. “I could have you like this,” he whispered, his other hand skimming your belly and up, until he toyed with your nipple through your shirt. “I would have you how ever you want, Y/N,” he said, reaching for your mouth.

You dipped your fingers into his hair, grasping, bringing you against him until instinct took over and you rolled your hips, feeling his teeth nip you through the kiss. A low rumble came from him, his hand grasping your hip. “Careful, love,” he warned, nipping at your neck, your hands gripping the strands of dark hair. “Or I’ll be in a hurry.”

You smiled. Genuinely smiled. It was the first time in what felt like ages that the stretch of your lips felt real. You’d been living a lie for two years and now, straddling this dark prince of Gods, you knew this is where you belonged.

He brought his mouth back to yours. “Runaway with me,” he said, splaying both hands down the length of your back. “Please.”

You closed your eyes, kissing his jaw, down his neck, rolling your hips until you knew just how much of him you’d be dealing with. That low rumble came back, his hand snapping out and gripping your neck. With a hiss, he brought you back until you could meet his eyes. 

You gulped, but you couldn’t help the knot of arousal coiling in your belly. “Don’t play with me,” he warned, eyes dark in the dimly lit room. 

The left corner of your mouth tugged up and you barely saw him move. You knew he had superhuman strength and speed, but you’d never seen him use it before. And now, one moment you were straddling him, the next you were on the floor, Loki poised menacingly between your legs. 

When you looked up, panting, the pressure of Loki’s hand around your throat, his eyes were hooded. 

“Touch me,” he said. 

You felt the heat pouring into your face, but the hand around your neck eased until it grasped onto yours, guiding it to Loki’s arousal. He was so warm, so hard as you pressed your hand against him, eliciting a low groan from him. 

You watched him as his head bent slightly, eyes shutting, grasping him through his pants. He seemed to tremble, both hands in fists either side of your head. And then he let out a low groan, his mouth brushing yours. 

“The things you fucking do to me, love,” he whispered against your mouth before kissing you so hard you saw stars. 

He grabbed onto both sides of your jeans and tugged, making you lose touch with him and sliding softly on the floor. He smiled, kissing your neck down to the swell of your breast until he was face to face with the apex between your legs. He tugged again when you slowly rose your hips from the ground, watching him, seeing the way his eyes drank you in like a drug. 

Your jeans hit the ground and you instinctively closed your legs, but Loki’s long fingers on your knees pushed them apart as he settled there, his mouth finding home on the flesh of your neck. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to,” he mumbled, fingers playing along the inside of your thigh, “but you can stop me if you want.”

Something akin to awe swelled in your chest and you grabbed onto his face, bringing his mouth back onto yours. He grunted, moving until your left leg was wide open for him. 

His fingers delicately pushed your panties aside, his mouth nipping at yours. You trembled, not because it was cold, and he sensed the way your bones seemed to flutter. “I got you, baby,” he whispered, two long, warm fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, tentative circles that made you arch your back. 

Loki dipped his chin, grasping a nipple in his mouth through your shirt. You’d stopped wearing bras since the last time you’d seen him.

A whimper left you as Loki continued his ministrations, the pressure just right, the circles so languid. You lost yourself to the rhythm, rolling your hips into his hand, his mouth kissing up your neck and leaving a trail purely his. 

“Yeah?” he whispered in your ear, the pressure on his fingers increasing and you mewled, grasping his hair. “That’s a good girl, huh.” You flushed, lost in the storm of his words and the way his hand felt so fucking good. 

The pressure on your nub left momentarily, replaced by a long finger easing into you. Loki let out a low groan. “Gods, you’re so soft and wet.” His voice was like pure sin as his thumb found your nub and he gently rubbed, finding the perfect rhythm for you.

You arched your back as his finger found that soft spot in you, a cry passing through clenched teeth. 

“That feel good, love?” he muttered against your neck, kissing and biting. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you moaned, the combined pleasure of his thumb and finger in and on you making you a complete puddle. 

He chuckled, something dark seeping from him, as he slowly started to lower himself until he was face to face with you. A blush crept up your face and he watched what he was doing to you. 

“So pretty,” he mumbled, and you saw him lower his mouth until his tongue made a bold swipe, replacing his thumb, and you all but cried out, chest arching off the floor. “That’s more like it,” his breathed against you.

And then he all but made you toss yourself off the edge. His tongue was a gift sent from the Gods, and the more he sucked and swirled your clit, his finger easing in and out of you, the closer you got to a real precipice. 

There was a knot in your belly, and whenever Loki’s tongue pressed ever so slightly against your core, you swore you almost broke. 

“Loki, I’m... oh God.” You reached down to grasp his hair. 

His pace seemed to quicken ever the slightest, his tongue working wonders against your clit until your insides felt like lead and that knot threatened to erupt. When he added another finger, so easily, you gasped, a broken moan clenched in your mouth, as the edge came and you toppled, Loki’s name on your tongue.

You were vaguely aware of Loki as he kissed the inside of your thigh, wiping his mouth onto your flesh. You were a puddle, breathing erratic as he loomed over you. 

“Runaway with me, Y/N,” he whispered, kissing your neck, your jaw, claiming your mouth and forcing you to taste yourself. “Come on,” he murmured, hands skimming your ribcage. “I could have you cumming for me like this every day.”

The thought made you smile. 

He grabbed your hand and kissed your palm, tugging until you could sit up and meet his gaze. 

“I’m begging you,” he continued, his voice so low, so thick as he kissed your hairline. 

You breathed in. “Okay.”

AAAAHHHHHH = me writing smut always. PART THIRTEEN ALREADY IN THE WORKS!!!

tags: @subtlemalice @yallgotkik @buckyandlokirunmylife @kaz11283 @legolas-bromance @shylittlemountain @tofeartheunknown @feelmyfckngsoul @kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay @caffiend-queen @tomhollandsslilslut @lady-loki-ren @nathan-no @rosaline-black @abundanceofcarolines @my-own-oracle @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream @marvelouslovely @drbaureid @bored-as-hell-666 @youhavemyfantasticbeasts @theinfinitenerd @toe-vind-ek-jou @ink-and-starlight @blank-bakabane @sunshineonloki @holaamishamigos @palegoopbearlight @heyarely16 @pleaseexecuteme @athalahild @help-i-need-a-social-life @tapismyforte @coloursforyourportrait @celestialstarshadow @fukyouthink @lust-for-pan @thic-thor @winchescumberholland @morganmofresh @dazedkrosupreme @postsbyjenipeo  @blblabalabla (couldn’t work bb) @copper-boom 

[alwaysdaenerys]

The consequences of King Bran

I had this sudden thought about the end of Game of Thrones, in comparison to the theorized end to ASOIAF, in regards to King Bran. I’m not a huge fan of this ending, and yes this is obvious because of my username, I’m aware! But at least in the show, it was lackluster and not foreshadowed in the slightest. Things may be different in the books in any case, though this is not truly what I want to put on the table for others to discuss and analyze. 

I’ve read and talked about with other fans about how making Bran king at the end of the book series may be advantageous, because the realm is healing from the significant massacre of its citizens during the Long Night. And if this is the case, the showrunners and writers missed a huge opportunity to kill more people. I’m not necessarily saying more main characters—though this is another problem I have with the show—but actually more smallfolk, more un-named or lesser lords, etc. The fact that D&D decided that the War for the Dawn was only going to last one fucking night is preposterous for many reasons, but the main one is: the Others and their wights would have never tired because they don’t need food for water or rest, and could have totally swept through the weak and depleted Riverlands, Reach, Stormlands, Crownlands even, with ease.

And because the writers did not extend the Long Night, because they didn’t kill half the humans in Westeros like the Others had the means to do, there are so many contenders left for seats of power. There is a logical argument in saying that Bran may be a good leader because there is literally no one else to take on the mantel; I will concede to that. But there are SO MANY CHARACTERS LEFT AT THE END OF THE SHOW. Bran has no army to defend him from all these people who command thousands of noticeably-alive soldiers. Who, if they were in character in the last season, would have had more to say about this tiny kid who they just met today being king of the fucking world. 

And because he just hands the North its independence without asking anyone else if they’d like to petition the same thing, it will snowball out of control quite quickly.

Yara remains: the Iron Islands have a long history of coveting independence and now that their last liege, Daenerys, is no longer living, it won’t take them long to realize that they have no opposition on the high seas, or the battlefield. Who cares if land is not their strong suit? It will be against, you guessed it, an army of Tyrion and a wheelchair-bound Bran. Yara will raise her men, who, once again, are not walking dead, and they secede from the mainland for good. And Bran cannot do a thing because his faction has neither strength at sea nor land.

Dorne and its unnamed prince: another example of a region in Westeros that was continuously on the outs with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. They were not truly “conquered” until the Daeron II married a Martell princess. The dragons were never able to hold Dorne on the battlefield so what makes anyone think that Bran Stark and his lack of dragons will? They’ll be the first to go, in my opinion, because at least Yara had a previous somewhat-working relationship with the Crown, whereas the unnamed Prince of Dorne has no obligations to a single person at that Great Council. 

Edmure and the Riverlands: this region, in the show and in the books, is always the most affected my war. If the Others would have made it past Winterfell, the Riverlands would be next. The smallfolk suffered during the War of the Five Kings and Edmure knew it and wanted to help. I always thought it was clever of GRRM that he chose Edmure Tully to be one of the only lords that actually cared about his people, because of his region’s proximity to the conflict. Yes, Ned Stark may have cared for his people as a whole, but we never see him do anything as protective as Edmure is by letting the smallfolk into his keep, for the poor of the North. And in the show, since the Others did not even glimpse Riverrun and its vassals, the Tullys have the army they do at the end of season 6. Edmure won’t like that he was insulted by the Queen in the North, and will take his next move from Yara.

The Stormlands are a toss-up for me: Gendry owes his legitimization to Queen Daenerys, not Bran. So either he will be overthrown and/or killed by the other Stormlords immediately upon entering his keep, or they will persuade him to secede as well. Arya jilted Gendry and if we are to believe she plans to never see him again, there’s a pretty good chance Gendry won’t care about the consequences of his actions because he has nothing to lose. It seemed pretty obvious that he didn’t want to do all this lord stuff without the love of his life, so it’s not much of a leap to assume he wouldn’t care about the trappings of royalty anymore. Storm’s End is nearly impregnable and Bran has no army to besiege the castle like Mace Tyrell did during Robert’s Rebellion. I have no doubt that with or without Gendry, the nobles or the Stormlands will not be appreciative of Bran or Tyrion. Maybe they haven’t flirted with independence quite as much as others have since Aegon the Conqueror, but it will feel monumentally better than watching all the other kingdoms secede and stay silent.

The Eyrie seems to the most realistic example here, as far as what the regions will be like after the defeat of the Others: the Knights of the Vale participated in the War for the Dawn, therefore the fighting force has been depleted. And I would argue that they have a very similar situation to the Stormlands; Rhaenys was only able to bring the Arryns into the fold by flying her dragon to the castle. Once again, without dragons, I don’t see how Bran is going to be as successful. Robin Arryn doesn’t know Bran; he was all in for Sansa. But since Sansa decided to leave him in the lurch to declare independence, I don’t think he and his advisors are going to stay besties with her. Sitting out the War of the Five Kings makes it even easier for me to theorize that they would be just fine on their own.

The state of the Reach is the most embarrassing thing that happened on Game of Thrones: the fact that we have to watch Bronn of the fucking Blackwater sit in the Queen of Thorns’ seat of power is a travesty. I always liked him on the show and in the books, but this, I cannot forgive. He is woefully ill-equipped to be lord of a keep, let alone Highgarden, and putting him on the small council as MASTER OF COIN when he can’t read or understand loans was beyond lazy. As far as the state of the Reach, they are pretty depleted from the sack of Highgarden, but even so, it seems painfully obvious that his lack of support from the other lords in the region will be his downfall. Maybe they weren’t 100% supportive of the Tyrells either, but there’s no way any of them will allow some up-jumped sellsword who’s best friends with Tyrion Lannister to lead them. Since Bronn has no army of his own, he’ll be dead soon enough and someone who was decidedly not killed during the Long Night, will take his place and give a middle finger to the Iron Throne, just like Olenna.

The Westerlands are the weakest of the remaining Six Kingdoms, I think: they don’t have much of an army after the Battle of King’s Landing. I think they’d be the only support of Bran after he is crowned, and that’s because Tyrion is the Hand. After Daenerys took Casterly Rock, most everyone bent the knee or died, so Tyrion doesn’t even have a suitable army to defend him, let alone the castle. I can’t imagine the soldiers remaining after all this would be enough to take on all the rebellions that are destined to occur after the secession of the North.

Lastly, the North: how will Bran react when his home region is starving and begging for aid? They have nothing to feed their people in the cold, white North. Yes, a lot of people died in the war, but there are plenty who didn’t participate and since it didn’t get past Winterfell, only those involved in the Battle—and the Umbers—were affected. Will the new king give it, even though they have no right to ask for it? Will he defy the laws of the realm for his sister? Because as far as I’m concerned, the North cannot sustain itself without the help of the other kingdoms. It’s not warm enough for farming, while the livestock trade was probably diminished when the Boltons were Wardens. Sansa would rather be in the Queen in the North than actually take care of her subjects; because by choosing independence, she has doomed everyone. Nothing changes for the smallfolk; it’s just another feudal overlord.  

In conclusion: if Bran becomes King, there would have to be an apocalypse for it to be successful. There definitely wasn’t on the show, therefore several events will cause his coronation to be all for naught before Tyrion’s ten years are up. As GRRM has stated, the Others are the focus of the story and who sits on the Iron Throne is a secondary plot to distract from the actual horror. I’m not usually someone to ask for more horror, but when it comes to the future of Westeros under King Bran, things are looking terribly bleak without more of it.

[endlessymphony]

in another lifetime, i will love you again.

harry potter x reader

summary - (based on a request that i altered) reader unfortunately is injured and passes away in the wizarding war— but before they do, harry reminisces on all the memories he has with them

warnings - tw for death, injuries, war, blood, existential questioning, loss of a loved one, heart wrenching pain.

a/n - i am going to bawl my eyes out. (update; i bawled when it was finished.)

the air was thick, heavy. the smell of sulfur and smoke seemed to linger whilst the nearly black storm clouds swirled up above. the sky, or at least what was visible of it, was grey and sunless. the dark mark no longer hangs heavily amongst the clouds, as the death-eaters had long retreated, but not without leaving a mess first.

you had always been apprehensive about hogwarts, ever since your first day of first year. a bad gut feeling, some would call it, but you ignored it the best you could and learned to call the castle a home away from home, perhaps even a sanctuary. but all you felt now was the stone ground beneath you, the cool breeze nipping at your exposed skin.

your breaths were shaky, unstable. hot tears pricked at your eyes as you stared up all the bleak sky, the voices around you muffled by the high-pitched ringing that tormented your ears, head feeling heavy- full, like you were weighed down with rocks. wreckage filled the courtyard in the form of stray bricks, broken glass, and bodies- your’s soon to join them.

blood steadily dripped down the side of your face, pooling underneath you, starting to dry in your hair- but that wouldn’t matter soon enough. you had been crushed by falling debris, pinned down by what used to be the west wall of the courtyard. from that moment on, any person would understand, and accept, that it was likely their time to go.

you wonder if anyone knew you would all be saying goodbye for the last time? you didn't wake up this morning thinking that you would be laying in a pool of your own blood, but you suppose that life works in mysterious ways. death would be sweet relief, a kiss that would take away all the pain and take you by the hand far, far away from here.

“humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.”

we live for destruction, devouring any chance to be in power like a pack of starved dogs. children build sand castles just to knock them down, and men start wars to quench their thirst for blood. they think they’re running at each other, but they run directly into the face of death. what does death look like? not a skeleton, or a tall figure with a scythe and a void for a face, instead- death looks like all of us, as we are all capable of it.

the ground rumbled underneath you, footsteps, was the best guess that you could come up with. “y/n! oh, fuck. fuck!” that was harry’s voice, full of panic. well, guess the situation was a lot worse than you originally thought. he dropped to his knees beside you, trying to dig you out from the wreckage, bruising his hands in the process. “harry.” your voice was hoarse, he turned to with fear in his face, eyes already filling with tears.

you gave him a sympathetic look, “my love.” your throat was dry, you tried to swallow, wincing in pain- your saliva tasting metallic. you coughed, whole chest rattling as harry scooted over to rest your head on his legs, brushing hair out of your face. “y/n…”

“that’s my name, don’t wear it out.” a weak smile made its way onto your face, “i don’t think i’ll make it, harry.” a tear slips down the side of your face, finding a new home in your hairline near your ear. “you.” he started, struggling to find the words. “you can’t say that, no, you can’t say that.” he looks around, frantic, trying to see if he can wave someone down to help.

“harry. look at me.” you tried to laugh, but just ended up sputtering and coughing into your arm, blood dotting your sleeve. “i can’t feel my legs, merlin, i can’t feel nothin’.” you reached up to grab his face, hands shaking as you smoothed your cool fingertips against his hot face. a teardrop ran down his cheek, the first of many that would follow.

“but you need to survive.” harry began to sob, “what… what am i supposed to do without you?” his words were slurred. sentences seeming reduced to just one long, unintelligible word. “live.” you reply simply, attempting to bring your arms back down but harry holds your hands in his, keeping them against his cheeks. “you live, harry, for me.” “but what is life without you? all my best memories include you.”

“tell me…” you cough again, blood staining your lips a deep crimson. “can you talk about those memories? help me relive ‘em?” he nodded, chewing at his bottom lip.

“the first time i saw you, y/n, i was dumbfounded. you had me absolutely speechless, i knew i loved you then and there.” he smoothed over your cheek with his thumb, brushing away some of the dirt. you stifle a chuckle, “don’t give me an ego.” “i’m not kidding!” harry protests, “truly, you were the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen.”

“let’s see what else… the yule ball. merlin, you looked incredible. we had such an amazing time dancing, i bet we looked absolutely ridiculous- but that was the best time that i ever had.” he chuckles, looking down at you. you had shut your eyes, listening to his voice- it was like liquid morphine, coursing through your veins and removing the pain. “can you tell me about our first date?”

“yeah, yeah.” he stumbled over his words, putting your arms back down to cross over your chest, so that you weren’t wasting energy holding them up. “i think that was the nicest weather that hogwarts has ever had, don’t you agree? or maybe it was just you who made the sun shine brighter, and the breeze a little sweeter.” harry leaned over to press a kiss to your temple, “it was the perfect day to lounge by the lake, getting sick off of sweets and laughing until our stomachs ached so badly, we could barely stand.” you struggled to keep your eyes open, every moment a fight against the darkness, and you were finally beginning to lose.

“harry, do you think that we’ll meet again in another life?” you were curious- childlike innocence dripping from your lips like venom, making it all the harder for harry to understand that he would no longer have you, or hold you. “i think we will, y/n.” he sniffled, finding himself awfully choked up as he attempted to hold back the tears again. “maybe.. maybe we’ll be married, have kids, be a family. what do you think?”

“you know i love you, y/n, right?”

“i love you too, harry.”

and that was it. the world fading to black. there was no longer a fight, only the sweetness of relief. death had embraced you into its arms, holding you, you found home- the one that had been waiting for your return since the moment you were born, counting down the years. months. days. hours. minutes. seconds. and it welcomed you home with open arms. there was no blinding light, no guardian angel sweeping you off of your feet and carrying you away, just nothingness. a comfortable nothingness.

why are people so afraid of death? is it just mostly a fear of the unknown? humans are curious by nature, and most can’t help but wondering ‘what comes next?’, sometimes the answer is not entirely clear. it’s murky, and distorted, almost like looking at your reflection in a puddle. if you are always afraid of death, you will never learn to live.

your body went limp, eyes stuck half-lidded as you made your ascent to the afterlife. harry sobbed violently, whole body shaking as he screamed to the sky, begging the universe for you back- another chance, another lifetime, an alternate timeline where the two of you could still be one. his throat felt raw, air tasting metallic- just as you had tasted earlier.

the universe did not listen.

it did not bring you back, no matter how hard he begged, nothing could.

he cradled your head to his chest, your voice ringing through his head.

‘i love you too.’

“in another lifetime, i promise we’ll make more memories, y/n. and, i promise that this time i’ll actually protect you.“ harry’s chest shook with each sob, shoulders hunched over and tense, your blood staining his shirt, and the ground below you.

“in another lifetime, i will love you again.”

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