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drabbles-mc · 1 year ago

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Fresh Start

Gabriela Castillo x Nacho Varga

For the loveliest @hausofmamadas as part of the Rare Pair Exchange!

Warnings: 18+, language, blood/injury, light angst

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: I just really really love that I got to write these two together. I love them. I adore them. No one can take them from us, Kay. The braincell is alive and well. 😌

Niche Crossover Taglist: @narcolini @garbinge @withmyteeth @justreblogginfics @cositapreciosa

He’d driven until the car gave out. Then he walked until his legs had done the same. He had no idea where he was—somewhere in California he was pretty sure based off all the license plates he’d seen while he was on the road. Where in California? He couldn’t even hope to guess. Everything looked the same in the dark anyway.

He hadn’t shown up to the diner because he was hungry, although underneath all the pain and exhaustion he was sure that hunger was there somewhere. But it was one of the only places that had lights on, one of the only places that seemed like it was open and also maybe even a little bit safe.

He collapsed before he got his hand on the door, crumpled right into a heap on the sidewalk. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, fighting even harder to try and say something, maybe even call for help. It was like his voice had stopped working, and he didn’t know if that was because everything in his body was shutting down, or if it was because he’d gone so long without speaking that he’d nearly forgotten how to.

When she appeared in his narrowing field of vision, he was certain that it meant he was dying. There was no way that she wasn’t an angel sent there to take him to whatever was next for him. He could just barely register the warmth of her hands on his face. He saw the way her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she was actually saying. He tried to look at her for as long as he could before his body gave into the exhaustion and everything went black.

Gabriela knew better than to try and patch up a man who needed far more than just bandages and stitches from her. She knew so much better. That was the whole reason she found herself at the complete opposite end of California from where she’d started just a few short years ago. And yet, when she saw him go down outside the door of the diner, she couldn’t stop herself from rushing to his side. If she didn’t try, then what was the point of any of it?

Once she took in the sight of him, she knew that it was going to be more than just a caring act from a good Samaritan if she helped him. There was a familiar knot in her gut that told her that this man, whoever he was, whoever he ended up being, didn’t just turn up outside the diner because he got lost on a long drive.

Pressing her ear to his chest, she listened intently for a heartbeat, relief coursing through her when she heard it. She managed to get him back to consciousness, but barely. He was beyond out of it, not that she expected anything better than that.

“Come on,” she said, her voice quiet but strong, “we have to get you help.”

If she had still been the same woman she was a few years prior, she would’ve called 911. But she wasn’t so naïve anymore. Some things, she’d learned, you just don’t call the cops about. And even though she didn’t have all the details, or any details, really, she had the feeling deep in her gut that this was going to be one of those things.

Going through motions that felt far too familiar for comfort, she draped his arm over her shoulders before looping hers behind his back. He was able to contribute just enough to the efforts to get himself off the ground, but Gaby was doing most of the legwork once they were up. It wasn’t pretty, or graceful, but she managed to get him to her car and somehow into the passenger seat.

He was fading in and out the whole time, still half-convinced that the woman in the driver’s seat beside him was some manifestation of the grim reaper, there to usher him into the next life by speeding down backroads in her beat-up coup.

When she got him into her apartment and laid out on the couch, he passed out again. She expected that, just glad that she didn’t have to try and half-carry him anywhere else for the time being. He had one arm dangling off the edge of the sofa, the backs of his knuckles resting against the floor. Both his legs were on the cushions, but barely. She looked at him, trying to see past the dirt and dried blood. She was looking for anything fresh, anything that could actively be killing him.

Taking a deep breath, she ran her hands back through her hair before starting to carefully undo the buttons of his shirt. Most of the blood on it seemed dried, but she wanted to be sure. When the shirt fell open, she saw the white a-tank that he had on beneath. There was more blood staining that, but it still looked like most of it was dried. She lifted the bottom hem of the tank top, just enough to confirm that any injuries that he was dealing with, any cuts or gashes, were old enough to have begun to scab over.

She frowned as she looked him over, all the bruises that littered his abdomen. There was nothing fresh that she could see, so her assumption that what got to him was the exhaustion. Whatever blood he lost combined with the fact that he probably hadn’t stopped to rest or eat or drink much of anything in longer than any person should’ve.

There wasn’t much more that she could give him at this point. She thought about getting a cloth with some warm water and soap to start at least cleaning off his face. As she looked at him, it crossed her mind that it probably wouldn’t wake him up. There wasn’t much that would cause him to stir at this point.

Her movements were gentle, the way that they always were. She dragged the washcloth across his forehead, his cheekbones. Each swipe took away another layer of dirt, of sweat and blood that had dried and tried to etch itself into his skin. The small snake earring dangling from his ear moved each time the cloth cleaned away another layer. The frown on her face softened the more she cleaned him up. She knew that she shouldn’t build out a life for him before she’d even heard him speak, but her mind couldn’t help but to wander.

When she’d cleaned off his face as best she could, she stood up and pried herself away from him. She tossed the rag straight into the trash, the sinking feeling that no matter how much bleach she used, she would never see it as clean again. She took a quick shower, just enough to feel like she’d rinsed off the day. She threw her clothes into her hamper, pulling on an old t-shirt and shorts to sleep in. Part of her knew that she could just sleep in her bed and that she would most likely wake up before the man passed out in her living room, but it felt wrong to try and do so. Grabbing a pillow and the blanket off her bed, she went back to the living room and curled up on the chair beside the couch, the one that was usually reserved just for reading.

The sun hadn’t fully crept up over the horizon when Gaby came to. The light coming through her apartment windows was minimal, gray. She didn’t even want to check the time, didn’t want to involuntarily do the math to see how little sleep she’d gotten.

Then she realized what had pulled her from slumber so soon. The events of the night before all came rushing back to her, her eyes widening slightly as she turned and looked over at her sofa. She was expecting to see the man still passed out, but he wasn’t. He was sitting upright, looking just about as confused and unsettled as she felt in that moment. His hands gripped tightly onto the edge of the couch cushion as he watched her.

“Hi,” she said, her voice soft from sleep, but it also had the caution someone would use when trying to soothe an injured animal. Anything to make sure that they didn’t get hurt if it tried to lash out.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t know where to bring you,” she started to explain. “You…you passed out at my job last night.” She twisted her fingers into her blanket as she nodded towards the bloodstains on his clothes. “I, um, I didn’t know what happened, so I didn’t call anyone.”

He looked down at himself, brows knitting when he took in his actual state. “Right. Um. Thank you.”

“I’m Gabriela.”

His eyes wandered back up to her face. “Nacho,” the name came out before he could think better of it.

As soon as he heard what he’d said, he closed his eyes, chin tucking down towards his chest. He knew better than that, but the name rolled off his tongue before he could think of it. It was hard to lie to someone who had a face and eyes as kind as Gaby did. It was too late to take it back now. Trying to fumble and recover somehow would only put himself deeper into the hole he’d just dug.

There was a tiny lift to the end of Gaby’s mouth as she looked at him. There was something vaguely familiar about him even though she knew for a fact that she hadn’t ever met him before. Maybe it was just the look in his eyes. Something that reminded her of a life that she’d left behind.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, a small air of amusement in her tone.

It was just enough for Nacho to be able to catch it, enough to get him to look back over at her. He wanted to make some remark to the effect of, “It might be too soon to be saying things like that,” but he was painfully aware that he wasn’t in the position to be shooting down any spare kindness that anyone was willing to give him.

“You too.”

Nacho kept meaning to leave. He knew that he should. Whoever this girl was, whatever life she’d had for herself before he came tumbling into it, he knew that he didn’t deserve to be any part of it. The hours ticked by and it turned into a day. One day turned into two. After four days he forgot to keep counting. But he meant to leave. He really did.

Gaby never did get around to asking him where he came from, what had happened to him that landed him in a heap on the sidewalk outside the diner. Sometimes she wanted to. When she would see him freeze up at headlights coming in through her apartment windows, when his head would snap towards the sound of someone knocking on the door of the other apartments that she shared a hallway with. People didn’t end up like that because things for them had gone well. Sometimes when things were quiet, and good, and he was helping her cook dinner at the end of a long day, she thought about asking him about all of it. But it just never felt right enough. Maybe that was the lingering strands of naivety that she hadn’t managed to grow out of.

There was never a conversation about him leaving. There was never one about him staying, either. He just did. That first night after they’d introduced themselves, Gaby made a comment about the fact that the couch pulled out into a bed, and that was the end of it. She’d come out in the morning and it would be restored to its former glory, blanket and pillows stacked at the very end of it. Neat as they’d ever been. But they never talked about it.

Most of those first couple weeks were just them existing together in surprisingly comfortable silence together. That, or Nacho would listen to her talk about what happened at work. She’d get home late from her shifts at the diner, but he was almost always still up.

“I had to give him stitches,” she said with a shake of her head, wrapping up a story about one of the cooks slicing his finger open.

“Stitches?” Nacho repeated back. “You know how to do that?”

She chuckled softly as she got a glass of water for herself. “Of course I do.” She walked over, taking a seat next to him on the couch. “I used to be a nurse.”

The explanation didn’t do anything to sate his curiosity. “Used to be?”

That was the first time he saw real sadness cross Gaby’s face. It felt like it sent a real, physical pang of hurt through him to see her like that. He wanted to take the question back, tell her to forget that he ever asked. But it was too late—she was already telling him what happened. Honest in a way that he could never even hope to be.

“I used to live on the border,” she said, looking down at the glass of water in her hands, “and then I moved to Lodi for nursing school. I worked there for a little while after I graduated. Things got…bad, dangerous. The person I cared about the most wasn’t who I thought he was.” She shook her head as she thought back on it all, memories she tried so hard to push from her mind. “So I left. Moved again. Started over again.”

“I’m—”

“It’s okay,” she cut him off. “I’m used to it.” She laughed softly but it was more of a sad sound than anything else. “I’m good at it now.”

“Would you ever go back?” He paused. “To nursing, I mean.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Taking a sip of her water, she finally forced herself to look Nacho in the eyes again. A tiny smile worked its way back onto her face. “Lucky for you though, hm?”

He chuckled, nodding. “Very lucky.”

“If you’d gotten to me sooner you might not have scarred so much,” she said, nodding towards his torso, the scar running across his stomach covered by the t-shirt that he was wearing.

“Too bad I didn’t know where I was going.”

It was the perfect time for him to finally say something, tell her at least the good parts of his life before all of this. He knew now that she wasn’t ever going to bring herself to ask him. Whether it was out of respect or something else entirely, he didn’t know. He wanted to tell her. Part of him wanted to tell her everything, lay it all out on the table. Each night went by and he tried to figure out if the risk was worth the reward—telling her everything and having her accept him regardless would send him clean over the moon. But telling her everything only for her to decide that she wasn’t going to let him be the reason that she would have to start over again wasn’t something that he was ready for, wasn’t something that he thought he could handle.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. “Really think the scar is that bad?” he asked, humor in his voice as he lifted his shirt up enough to expose it.

She let out a real laugh at that. Shaking her head as she playfully swatted his hand, causing his shirt to drop again. “Cállate.” She finished off what was left in the glass before standing up to put it in the sink. “Plenty of girls love it. You’ll be fine, hermoso, don’t worry.”

The smile that spread across Nacho’s face was involuntary, as was the warmth that went through his chest at her words. He found himself shaking his head, just as much at Gaby as at himself. He was still on the brink of chuckling to himself when she turned back around to face him.

“What?” she asked, still smiling.

“Nothing,” he replied, not sure how to answer with the truth of what he was thinking in that moment.

She raked her fingers back through her hair, pushing it all behind her shoulders. “I’m going to bed.” Walking through the living room to get to the door to her bedroom, she rested her hand on Nacho’s shoulder for a moment as she went by. “Goodnight, Nacho.”

He almost lifted his hand to place it on hers, but he stopped himself. “Goodnight.”

He watched her disappear into her bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her. The warmth that lingered in his chest was battling it out with the pervasive thought that he didn’t want to be another person who made her start over. He couldn’t be the next man who cost her something like that.

It was a few days later when Gaby walked out into the living room, her phone pinned to her shoulder as she spoke to Nacho. “Do you think you could help my cousin at his shop today?”

Confusion flooded Nacho’s features. “What?”

She shook her head. “It’s just him and one other guy right now and he called out.” She saw the way that he was still very clearly lost. “Cars. He’s a mechanic.”

“Gaby, I don’t—”

“You got my car running last week.”

“I’m not a mechanic. I know a little bit, but—”

“I’ll owe you,” she said, clearly desperate to help her family.

Nacho sighed, knowing that there was no way the conversation was going to end with him not helping. Nodding, he gave in. “Okay. Yea. I can try to help.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”

Nacho watched and listened as she got back onto the phone with her cousin. There was something comforting about listening to the two of them converse. He could only hear one half of the conversation, but even so, the sound of her laughing, of her going back and forth with him in Spanish, it was heartwarming and heavy all at once. He thought about his dad. He could only imagine what the man would think about the situation Nacho was in now, what he’d have to say about it.

Trying not to get lost in the thoughts of it, he pushed himself up off the couch so he could grab his boots and get ready to leave. He didn’t get far before Gabriela came back over to him, throwing her arms around him in a hug.

“Thank you,” she said, speaking more into his chest than anything else.

It took some doing, but he finally let himself hug her back. “It’s fine.”

Pulling back, she beamed up at him. “He’s excited to meet you. I’ve told him all about you.” She laughed when she saw the panic flash across Nacho’s face. “Don’t worry, hermoso—I only told him the good things.”

It became another one of those things that they never really talked about. One day never seemed to stay just one day with them. His whole adult life Nacho seemed to constantly find himself getting in over his head, landing himself in situations that snowballed no matter how much he tried to fight it. This was the first time it felt good, though. For once the spiral felt like it was going upwards instead of down. Instead of accidentally landing himself in a mess that he couldn’t get out of, it almost felt like he was starting to build something resembling a life for himself. One that had a very pivotal centerpiece to it.

He got home one evening and she had beaten him there. She had her music on loud as she moved effortlessly around the kitchen, pulling something together for dinner. Her hips swayed and even though he couldn’t hear her, Nacho was almost certain that she was singing along with the words that played.

When she turned around and saw him standing just inside the door, she gasped. The shock on her face quickly faded, nerves dissipating as she laughed and turned the volume down just slightly.

“I tried to say hello when I walked in,” he came to his own defense, a smirk on his face as he toed off his boots.

She chuckled, the lid to a pot in one hand and the other on her hip. “I’m sure.”

Walking over, he scanned over everything that she had on the stove and the countertops. “Can I help?”

She gave him a once-over. “You can go clean yourself up,” she suggested with a laugh. “I don’t want motor oil getting into my tamales.”

Nacho chuckled and shook his head, but he didn’t put up any real fight about it. “I’ll be right back.”

She hummed in acknowledgment. “I’ll be here.”

He only got a few steps out of the kitchen before she turned the music back up. Looking back over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but to watch her for a few more seconds as she went right back to dancing and cooking.

The air of intimacy between them was unlike anything Nacho had ever experienced before. And he didn’t even think that Gaby was even going out of her way to create it. That’s just how she was—soft, inviting. The closest he’d ever physically been to her was when she hugged him. Once. He’d spent years weaving in and out of relationships and situationships with other women, but none of them had ever felt so comfortable. All of that and he was still spending every night on the couch.

“Here,” he offered with a quiet chuckle as he reached over Gaby for plates on a shelf that was nearly out of her reach, “I got it.”

She laughed, letting her head drop in mock shame as Nacho reached over her. “Thank you.”

They navigated their shared space so easily. Brushing hands and arms, soft laughs crossing in the air between them. He wondered if Gaby felt it too. Wondered if she was like him, not saying anything about it for fear of shattering the fragile bubble around them.

“Thank you,” Nacho said as he was cleaning the dishes after dinner.

Gaby tilted her head slightly a smile on her face. There was a hint of confusion in her expression as she said, “I should be thanking you.” She laughed. “It’s nice not always having to be the one to do dishes all the time anymore.”

One end of Nacho’s mouth tugged up into a smile for half a second. “No, I mean, thank you. For,” he took a deep breath, “all of it.”

Recognition flooded her face. Walking over, she leaned back against the counter that was beside the sink. Even if Nacho was having trouble looking her in the eyes, she didn’t share the same hesitation. “You’re welcome.” There was a long pause between them, Gaby waiting for Nacho to finally say whatever was on the tip of his tongue, Nacho waiting for her to switch topics or walk away so he wouldn’t have to say it all. Then Gaby continued. “I’ve never asked, because I know what it’s like to try and leave everything behind. It’s not easy.”

Nacho chuckled before he could stop himself. “No, it’s not.”

She waited for him to look over at her for a moment before saying, “Maybe it’s too late for me to ask. Maybe I should have asked weeks ago. But do I need to be worried?”

He shook head. “No.”

She studied his face closely as he said that. That was a promise that she’d heard before and she still had to watch her whole life crumble down around her. “You promise?”

“Promise.” He meant it. He felt like he was as safe as he was ever going to be existing in the little universe they’d created for themselves. But he also knew that if he even heard so much as a murmur, felt even the slightest change in the wind, he’d leave. He owed her at least that much.

She let the word hang between them for a moment before nodding. “Okay.” Reaching over, she rested her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for the dishes.”

The smile on his face was small, almost shy after all of that. “You’re welcome.” He let her get a couple steps away before he spoke up again, mouth acting independently from his brain. “That first night…”

The silence that took over the apartment was suffocating. It lasted for a few agonizingly long seconds before Gaby’s soft footfalls could be heard, slowly making her way back over to him. She didn’t say anything, just finding her place against the counter once more. Her eyebrows lifted, a silent invitation for him to keep talking.

“That first night,” he started again, hoping to get the full sentence out this time, “when I saw you, I thought I was dying.” He couldn’t stop the bit of a chuckle that found its way into his voice as he ended the sentence.

Gaby, despite herself, had to smile a little at that too. “I thought so too.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a nod. “But, when I thought I was dying,” his eyes were focused intensely on the plate that he was washing, “and I saw you, I swear I thought you were an angel or something.”

Gaby laughed. It wasn’t the first time that she’d heard something like that. When she worked at the hospital, tending to people who were in crisis, fading in and out of consciousness and some of them very much on the brink of dying completely, there had been more than one patient who said something to that effect. She always took it in stride, and she did this time too, but it felt different hearing it from Nacho. Maybe because it was the first time that either of them spoke about that night at all.

“Not quite,” she told him, her voice soft.

“I don’t know,” Nacho shrugged as he set the dishes in the drying rack, “I think I had it right.”

She rolled her eyes but she was still smiling. “You’re sweet.”

“You saved my life.”

“I don’t think you were dying,” she countered, her voice still light. “I think you were exhausted and dehydrated.”

“No, I mean,” he shut the sink off and dried his hands, “the rest of it, too.”

She smiled, not quite sure how to respond to what he was saying. So many times over the previous weeks she thought about bringing it up, but it never went quite like this when she played it out in her head. She watched him closely as he leaned back against the counter right beside her.

“I’m glad that you found me,” she said, giving him credit where he truly felt that none was due. He turned his head to look at her and she added, “And I’m glad that you stayed.”

The only way that Nacho could explain what he felt at the sound of her words was saying it was as though his heart had tripped over its own feet. The beat got knocked off-kilter, nearly tumbling down a flight of stairs as he let himself feel the weight of what she’d said.

“I’m glad too,” he finally forced himself to speak, his voice coming out as barely a whisper.

They stood there beside each other for a moment. The outsides of their arms pressed against the other’s, contact running all the way down to where the outsides of their feet were just barely touching. There was something in the way that Gaby hardly ever seemed to shy away from looking him, or anyone really, in the eyes. Sometimes Nacho thought it was because she had nothing in the way of shame resting on her shoulders, nothing that would make her feel like she shouldn’t meet someone’s gaze. He wondered what that was like.

His eyes averted from hers, but just for the briefest moment as they wandered to her lips. She had a soft smile on, something that seemed so constant and natural for her. It was far from the first time that Nacho looked at her when she was like that and thought about kissing her, wondering what it would be like to be able to taste that kind of softness and comfort.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind, but it was the first time he made a move to do something about it. Reaching over, he cupped the side of her face before he could make himself stop. His thumb grazed along her cheek, eyes studying every aspect of her face, like he was admiring but also looking for any sign that he should quit while he might’ve still been ahead.

She didn’t pull away. There was no doubt or hesitation present in the way that she gently leaned into the contact, pressing cheek to palm. Her eyes shut, a little too long to be a blink. When she opened them again, looking up at Nacho through her eyelashes, he thought that he was going to sink clean through the floor beneath them.

His voice trembled slightly, sounding like a man that he didn’t even recognize as he whispered a soft, “Gaby…”

She reached up, threading her fingers with his. “Mhm?” she hummed.

He didn’t know if he actually had words ready to say in response, but if he did they all fell to the wayside. Leaning in, he carefully pressed his lips to hers. It was soft, tentative, nervous in a way that he hadn’t been around a woman in a long time. Part of him was still expecting her to pull away, but she didn’t. She leaned into him, her hand moving to rest flat against his chest. The erratic beating of his heart thrummed against her palm, and he could feel that same warm smile curl her lips as she continued to kiss him.

It was everything he could’ve ever wanted it to be and more.

He was keenly aware of everything about her, the way her hands slid to interlock behind his neck, the way she gently pulled him so that he was in front of her, putting her between him and the counter behind her. Nacho’s hands dropped to her waist for a moment before sliding up, fingers splaying across her back as he fought the urge to grip onto her shirt and pull her tighter, like she was at risk of slipping away from him.

She felt it, too, the tension that was beginning to rear its head as his lips moved against hers. She pulled away, not far, just enough so that she could look him in the eyes and make him look at her.

“Hey,” she brought her hand to his cheek, “you’re okay.”

His shoulders sagged in relief as she voice washed over him. He let his forehead drop to rest against hers, eyes drifting shut for a moment as he tried to soak it in, not just feel what she was saying but actually believe it too. Her fingertips were so soft as they trailed down the side of his face, pads of her fingers as they roamed over the stubble that was beginning to grow in again.

Tilting her chin up just slightly, she kissed him again, tender and quick. Nacho smiled, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d started to hold. He pulled her closer, not out of fear, but because it just felt like the small span of space between them was too much. Gaby melted into him, hands on the sides of his neck, the tips of her fingers just barely interlocking behind.

“Come on, hermoso,” there was gentle laughter in her voice as she pushed against him, separating herself from the counter so she could start pulling him out of the kitchen, “let’s go to bed.”

It was a strange moment when Nacho realized that the couch wasn’t going to be bed. His eyes only drifted away from Gaby for a moment, looking back at where his blankets and pillows were all still stacked so neatly at the end of the sofa. But then he felt the way her fingers trailed against his palm and all of his attention went back to her.

He let her pull him across the threshold and into her room. He didn’t even have it in him to look around, his eyes fixed on her and her alone. As she flicked on the lights of her bedroom, the only thing Nacho could think was that he hoped that, just like everything else about them, this wasn’t going to be just one night.

#nacho varga #gaby castillo #gabriela castillo #ignacio varga #better call saul #bcs #mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #mayans au #better call saul au #nacho varga x gabriela castillo #gabriela castillo x nacho varga #rare pair exchange #rare pair #rare pair exchange 2023 #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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cursed-domain · 3 years ago

Text

Experiments

Mahito x Reader, WC ~3.9k

Mahito’s been testing out his powers for a while now. He wants to do something different with his latest victim. Something a little more... human.

warnings: NSFW and Dark Content - NONCON if that is not your thing do not read any farther. You have been warned. Also fear, tears, kidnapping, possessiveness, oral sex, biting, slapping and uh. Mahito. I think he deserves a warning of his own.

You stayed out just a little too late last night. And you walked home alone. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew that was a bad idea, but - the bar was right down the street from your apartment building, and your friends were - well, they were scattered, and they were hard to find, and you were sure that you could walk straight if you only tried. Your heels were only a couple inches high.

Maybe you’d somehow fallen right down a drain in the sidewalk last night. Maybe it was too dark to notice, and you were more tipsy than you thought. But that theory doesn’t fit with your last memory aboveground. It doesn’t explain the presence you felt behind you, the feeling that something heavy and hateful had manifested right over your shoulder.

Most importantly, there are no scratches or scrapes anywhere on your body. You can’t have fallen. You were brought here. Hidden away beneath the street into a tunnel you had no idea existed. And your host has been kind enough to keep you in perfect condition. You’re not even dirty from where you’ve clearly been crumpled on the floor - somehow, the stone corridor is perfectly clean.

As you sit up, all these thoughts run through your head in a matter of seconds. Your shell-shocked stream of consciousness doesn’t give way to panic until a hand from behind you lands on your shoulder. Its owner doesn’t even let you scream - he claps his other hand over your mouth before you have the chance to open it, and leans down so that you feel his hot breath in your ear. “Boo.”

You strain against his hand when you hear his voice. It doesn’t sound - well, you’re not quite sure what you expected a kidnapper to sound like. Maybe a lower voice. Certainly a sinister one. But he just sounds excited and mischievous, like a child who’s gotten away with a prank. So lighthearted in what is, for you, such a dire situation - it sends a shiver up your spine to imagine his grin.

You don’t have to imagine for long. His hand slinks from your shoulder up your neck, taking root in your hair and yanking your head back so you’re forced to look up. It is dim in the tunnel, but you see his face clearly. You register, in a far-off place in your mind, that it is pretty, almost feminine. Your impression is that his face is far too fine compared to the coarseness of his mouth and his hands, even with the strange scars stitching their way across the unnaturally smooth skin.

“Don’t look so terrified. Or do. I kinda like it.” Your eyes stretch even wider. “Yeah - I really like it, actually. Stay just like that.” When he speaks for longer, you notice the eerie quality of the cavern - the way it causes sounds to echo and reverberate down its walls. Farther down, you hear the drip-drip-drip of dirty water hitting the floor. But here - not even a drop. It’s as if the space has been cleared of its usual filth, just for you. “Okay,” he says, “I actually wanna hear you, too.” He doesn’t wait for a response before taking his hand from your mouth and letting go of your hair.

Your heels - they must have fallen off. Or he took them off. In any case - you can run. You know it’s pointless as soon as you stand up. You know even the time you take to rise to your feet is enough for him to grab onto you again. But you have to try. So you do. You’re surprised to get any distance at all. You’re shocked to have made it ten paces - twenty - thirty. Even sprinting with the adrenaline-spiked speed of someone who fears for her life, this shouldn’t be possible. But you find yourself starting to hope. You’re fast, and maybe he was caught off guard. Maybe, just maybe, you can make it to the light you see shining at the mouth of the tunnel. It’s not that far away. And once you’re out there, on the street, he won’t be able to do anything. You’ll make it home and forget this ever happened. Even now, you’re wondering if it’s all a dream. If you’re going to wake up once you hit that light - closer now, so close - snug in your bed, wondering how you managed to make it home last night but relieved that you did. Yes. That has to be it. This isn’t real, and you’re going to escape it so, so soon -

A rush of cold air streaks past you, and your captor appears in front of you, grinning as he blocks your path. You try to step to the side, but he’s already there. Back the other way - he beats you again. You feel your will collapse in on itself as he steps forward and snakes his hand around your waist, laughing unabashedly as you struggle. “Not bad,” he says. “Of course, I gave you a pretty big head start. But still. You run pretty fast for someone who could barely walk the night before.”

You’re so close to him that you’re sure he must be able to hear your heart pounding. Despite your best efforts to hold yourself back, you find yourself looking up at his face again. His eyes are pretty, too. But they’re mismatched - one is a light gray and the other is deep blue - and unblinking. Seeing them up close only makes his presence more unnerving. He grins crookedly as you make eye contact with him, staring back without saying a word.

“What - why -” you break eye contact, choosing instead to stare at the ground where his bare feet are nearly on top of yours. “Please. Let me go.”

“Nuh-uh. No way.” He pushes you back at arms length and leans over you, his face coming so close to yours that your eyes unfocus trying to look at him. “Haven’t even done anything yet.”

“Done…”

“Mhm.” He takes your shoulders and turns you around, giving you a light shove to get you moving. You shudder - your dress has an open back, so his hand didn’t just touch your clothes, but your bare skin. And it’s so short, too. He’s probably staring as you walk, tracing your curves with those unnatural eyes. He looked down when he had you pressed up against him. He didn’t even try to hide it.

“That’s far enough.” You stop, not even daring to turn around. He slithers around you instead, dragging his hand over the back of your dress again as he passes, keeping a hold on you and pulling you close again. “You’re gonna help me out with some things today, alright?”

When you hesitate, his long fingernails tighten against your skin. He’ll draw blood if he presses any harder. “What…what do you want?”

“I’ve been doin’ some experiments down here.” His nails drag down the curve of your back, only stopping at your hips. “Been learning what I’m capable of. I’ll show you the other test subjects if I have to but… I think I’ve already convinced you to cooperate, right?” He tugs on the hem of your dress, sliding his fingertips underneath the edge of the thin fabric. “You don’t seem ready to meet anyone right now, anyways. Not as if they’re really in a state to talk to you.”

You stare blankly, resisting the urge to squirm as his hand trails up the back of your thigh. Not for the first time, you wonder if you’re going to be leaving this place alive.

“Lots of room down here,” he says. “Plenty of dark corners. But I think I’m gonna keep you right here.”

“Please..” you say.

“Hmm?” He smiles a second later, once he understands. “Please don’t kill you, right? Don’t mutate your pretty body and then throw you somewhere no one will ever find you?” Your mind amends mutate to mutilate. The intellectual victory does nothing to comfort you. “Don’t worry. ‘m not gonna do that. Not yet, anyways.” His nails are scraping very high on your thigh, now, and the other hand is weaving its way through your hair. His fingers seem to bend strangely around you, as if they have no set form at all, as if they’re molding to best fit your body as he claims it piece by piece. “You’re just gonna help me out a little, okay? “You’re gonna help me figure out what else I’m capable of.”

He grips the top of your head and forces it up and down, mimicking a nod, laughing impishly as you glare up at him. “So sweet of you. We’ll take this one step at a time, alright?”

You don’t understand until he leans over you, running a fingertip across your lips to part them slightly before meeting them with his own. You try to recoil, but the hand toying with your dress runs up your back and presses you forward, forcing you deeper into the kiss instead. It’s unexpectedly gentle, at first, but as your body is forced flush against his it becomes more messy, more hungry. He shoves his tongue against yours and grips your hair tight enough for it to hurt, only drawing back for long enough to bite your lip and watch a string of drool drip across the faint indent he’s left behind. You gasp for breath until he swallows up your mouth again, using his tongue to reach every place he can.

You stay in place even when he relaxes his grip. He only stops to speak once he has, it seems to you, tried every kind of kiss he can think of - fast, slow, shallow, violent, hungry, sloppy. “You’re doing good,” he says, flashing the same smile as before. “Good start. Amazing, really…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear his thoughts, and the softer smile is replaced by a cold grin. “Take your dress off.”

“Wh -”

“Take it off. Take off whatever you have underneath it, too. I don’t care about seeing it.”

“But -”

“But - but -” He laughs again, practically giggles as he mocks your faint protests. “You don’t wanna die, either, do you?”

Mute, you shake your head.

“Actually…” He turns you around again, and you think you hear him sigh faintly as his hips snap against yours. “You’re taking too long. I’ll just do it myself.” He gives you no time to react before tugging on the zipper of your short dress, so violently that it hitches on the teeth and nearly breaks off. Only the second time does he do it right, pulling it all the way down in a smooth motion. The dress only covered from your lower back to a few inches down your thighs, anyways, and now even that protection is stripped away. The front of your body is exposed, too, as he tugs the thin garment along with your panties down to the stone ground beneath your feet.

Every muscle in your body tenses as his own bare skin collides with yours, his worn pants pulled down to rest alongside your dress. “Didn’t even wear anything beneath the dress up here,” he mutters. He reaches from behind you, groping your tits with no regard for the way you whine and squirm. “Making it so easy for me, aren’t you?”

“No,” you gasp. “Didn’t wear anything there. I should have -”

He claws his nails over the delicate peaks of your breasts, and you bite hard on your lip to keep from crying out. “Interesting. That’s a sweet spot, huh?” You shiver as he clamps down on you again. “You got any more I should know about?”

“No…” You lie, as if anything you say now will help you. He’s tracing every inch of your skin already, down your stomach and hips and up your thighs, squeezing and pinching when you least expect it, mapping you out like you’re the first person he’s been this close to in his life.

“You sure?” He taps his fingertips along the creases that connect the tops of your thighs to your body, pressing close against you and breathing hot in your ear. Making sure you hear and feel his excitement. “We’re gonna test that out, too. So spread out your legs. They’re getting in the way.”

You clench your fists tight and do as he says, shifting on either side to allow him easy access to every part of you. Still, you reflexively pull your hips back as his fingers climb their way towards your cunt, cringing when your sudden motions make his cock pulse against your skin.

“What’re you doing that for?” He cups his hand between your legs, ending your desperate attempts to squirm away. “Not like you’re going anywhere, right?” He pulls his hand back, showing you the wet sheen that’s rubbed off on his fingers. “I don’t think you would even if you could. But if you want, I’ll let you run again. Give you ‘til the count of ten before I start chasing you. Maybe even twenty or thirty. Maybe I’ll let you see the street before I drag you back here.” He lets go of you, grabbing your arms and using them to turn you back the way you ran before. “We’ll do it now, actually. Run! I’ll be not-quite-right-behind you.”

You shake your head.

“Come onn. It’ll be fun. Or - well, I’ll have fun.” Your feet stay rooted to the ground. He looks genuinely disappointed, for a moment, as if he actually expected you to take him up on his inane offer. “Fine.” He shoves down on your shoulders, and you follow the motion, crumpling down to your knees with no resistance. “You can entertain me this way instead, then.” Now that he’s in front of you again, you look for the first time. You’re equal parts curious and repelled by the stitch-like markings that continue down the rest of his body. If you were thinking clearly, you’d wonder if they were perhaps tattoos, and why anyone would choose to do something like that to themselves. But the crisscrossing lines guide you far too quickly down the length of his frame, forcing your curious eyes down below his hips before you have the sense to close them.

He tilts his head, sizing up your expression before flicking his eyes down your body and then back up to meet yours. “You’ve definitely done this before. So do it right.” Your eyes are almost as wide as your mouth as he closes the last inches between you and him. “Make it feel how it’s supposed to.” You nod blanlky as you wonder how you’re supposed to fit him all the way in your mouth. Maybe you won’t have to. He’s so obviously inexperienced, so eager… maybe you can end this quickly.

You drag the tip of your tongue up the underside of his cock, forcing yourself to look up at him as you give the same slow treatment to the sides and the tip before taking the shaft in your hand. He stares back, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth as it works over his cock. He’s breathing harder already, less than halfway into your mouth, almost letting the breaths tip over the edge into moans as your tongue flicks up his length again. It takes a concerted effort not to close your eyes, to not let your resolve crumble.

It has started to happen already. He was right in his crude assessment of you - you do know what you’re doing - but you’ve never been so terrified with a cock in your mouth, never felt like your life depended on your ability to please the man in front of you. Your strokes become sloppy as you let panic edge into the corners of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans. Your one free hand clenches into a fist as he grabs you at the nape of your neck and thrusts forward, holding you still as he forces his cock back into your throat. “Fuck.” You feel him writhe in your mouth just as his fingers did in your hair, molding himself to the contours of your throat as he fucks your face over and over, only becoming more frantic as you start to struggle against his hand, more frenzied as you gag and drool around him, until finally - finally - you’re tugged forward one last time, your lips pulled taught as hot liquid spurts down your throat. He keeps you there as you continue struggling for breath, sliding his thumb over your bottom lip and smearing your drool across your face.

When you’re finally allowed to pull back, you wrap your arms around yourself, shrinking inwards as you whisper, “Please. May I go now?”

“Huh?” He crouches down until his face is level with yours, crossing his arms over his knees as he sinks to the ground. You try to keep your eyes on his face - it’s practically glowing, his eyes wild and bright, their contrasting colors even more apparent. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart. Just taking a little break.”

You freeze for a second before scrambling backwards. It’s absolutely stupid, but - he said he wanted you to run. So he won’t get mad at you for trying one last time. And maybe it’ll work this time. Maybe you’ll get out. Maybe he was lying and he’s actually ready to see you go. Maybe seeing you run naked and sobbing onto the street will be enough to satisfy him, and he won’t chase you any farther.

He gives you five paces before pouncing, pinning you to the ground with one hand wrapped tight around your throat, turning you over so he can see the fear written on your face. “Guess what?” He whispers it into your ear before sinking his teeth into your neck, nearly hard enough to split your skin open. You feel something hard pressing into your stomach, swelling as you cry out in pain. “Break is over.” He drags his tongue over cheek and traces it down your jaw before kissing you right where the bite mark still glows red on your skin. Using both hands to pin your wrists down at your sides, he drags his way down your body, running his tongue over your breasts, your navel, around the triangle between your thighs. “I usually don’t care much about what’s fair, but - I really think I should return the favor.” His eyes flit down to your legs, squeezed tightly together. “Try to relax. This is supposed to be fun, right?” He works two fingers between thighs and prys them open.

You hold back a whimper as he dives into the space between, dragging the flat of his tongue voraciously over your hot cunt. He’s sloppy, ignoring the way your eyes are glued to his face as he tests and probes your cunt, teasing the opening and forcing his tongue inside, giving no pause before swallowing the sheen left behind. You have to squeeze your eyes shut. You have to tell yourself not to give in to the heat sweeping through your core, not to accept even a tiny bit of pleasure from the man defiling you, but - it’s so, so difficult. So strange to feel someone so obviously selfish pleasing you, even if it’s by accident, even if it’s just for his own enjoyment - you can’t stop yourself from pushing your hips shamelessly against his mouth. Can’t stop yourself from moaning as his fingers find your clit.

He pulls away, laughing at the whine that escapes from your mouth. “Tastes better than I thought,” he says. “But you - you’re reacting just like I thought. It’s like your mind’s melting away.” He pinches your clit between two fingers, and your eyes nearly roll back into your head. “You’re being controlled by this now.”

You just manage to shake your head. “No - no. I’m still - I don’t -”

He pounces on top of you again, thrusting his fingers into your open mouth. “Shhh. You don’t have to talk. That’s not what you’re here for.” He grinds against you, his cock already pushing at the entrance to your cunt as he fucks your mouth with his fingers, nearly making you gag as he pushes relentlessly into your throat. “You’re here to help me out, right? And you’ve been doing so good. So good for me.” You don’t want your stomach to flutter at the praise. Not here, not from him. You try your best to ignore it, tell yourself to close your eyes as he all but fucks your thighs.

When you try to screw them shut, though, he puts his pinky right on your eyelid and drags up, forcing it to flutter open again. “Ah-ah,” he says. “Keep your eyes open. I wanna see how this makes you feel.” He presses his hips hard against yours, guiding himself nearly all the way inside you in a single motion. “Fuck.” His eyes nearly close as he savors the feeling of you tightening around him, but he keeps them open just wide enough to see your lips open wide, forming an O around the fingers still scraping against your tongue. “I’m keeping you here forever. Understand?” The drool from his fingers smudges across your cheek as he grabs the sides of your face, squeezing as he shoves farther inside you, over and over again, only spurred on by the sloppy noises he hears every time the two of you connect. “Gonna be - gonna be my fucking toy forever. I’ll keep you on a fucking leash if I have to.”

All you can do is whimper and blink back your tears. He brushes his tongue across your face, licking them away as they overflow. “You look so scared. So mad.” He’s slowing himself down, now. Making it last. “It’s cute. Stay just like that, okay?” He presses on the corners of your mouth, forcing it deeper into a scowl. “So fucking cute.”

Your eyes match the anger he’s forced onto your mouth. Somehow, this moment feels worse than everything that’s come before. He’s playing with your face now. Trying to make it his, just like your body. And something about that - it breaks your daze. And your arms aren’t pinned anymore. There’s nothing you can do to make him stop, but. You feel the overwhelming urge to do something.

You reach up and slap him. Right across his pretty face, turning it sharply aside just as his cock buries itself all the way inside your cunt, reaching farther than you thought anyone ever could. His eyes widen, and his grip on your face tightens to a vise. You think that just once, you’ve managed to shock him.

Your faint sense of victory fades when you feel his cock pulse unmistakably inside you.

“Oh -” he sighs blissfully as he releases inside you, and you go limp as he collapses into your shoulder. A moment later, he turns his head and whispers in your ear. “Very interesting.” You can practically feel his grin radiating against your neck. “I’m definitely keeping you, now. So many things to try…” You squirm as he shifts on top of you, his face hovering right over your own. “And you’re gonna help me with every single one.”

#▪️new content▪️#jujutsu kaisen #mahito #jjk #mahito x reader #mahito smut #dark smut

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shiiko529 · 3 years ago

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first

The overly abrasive blaring of the alarm abruptly yanked him back to consciousness. He was warm and extremely comfortable and the sudden noise was a very unwelcome reminder that he had to get up and go to school. But he knew, of all days, this was not the one to miss school, not after what had happened the previous night.

Ryou groaned, simply wishing for the alarm to stop wasn’t working. Except when he started to reach for the alarm, it wasn’t just a matter of not wanting to move, the arms around him were downright unyielding.

“Why do you have to be so strong?” Ryou grumbled as he struggled in his attempt to free himself. ‘...and muscular,’ his mind added when he finally managed to sit up and hit the snooze button.

He felt his face grow hot as his brain registered that he was staring, appreciatively, not just at the dark and scarred, yet quite handsome face, but also the very visible arm and chest muscles; and was grateful that the former spirit was somehow still sound asleep. ‘...and I just spent the night happily sleeping with my face against his bare chest…’

He was almost glad when the alarm went off again, distracting him from his current train of thought and reminding him that he had things to do. Things that did not involve staring at his roommate’s half naked body, even if that body was currently in Ryou’s bed.

He had to close his eyes to resist the urge to look back as he forced himself from the room. Maybe, just maybe, something genuinely interesting would happen at school and give him something else to think about.

Maybe it was because Ryou was paying more attention to everything in an attempt to distract himself that he noticed there was something slightly off about the way Atem was acting when they gathered for lunch, though he couldn’t quite figure out what.

“What do you remember from last night Ryou?” He wasn't trying to be accusatory, but he wanted to know how that particular situation had developed. He needed to know if it had been an attack targeted at a former Millennium Item holder, specifically at Ryou himself, or just a random attack of opportunity.

“Huh? Did something happen?”

He looked down, letting out a small sigh before answering both the Pharaoh and their blonde friend, “Well, I was on my way home, and 3 or maybe 4 unfriendly looking guys surrounded me and someone hit me on the back of my head.”

“That must’ve been right before Touzou-san called us.”

Ryou was visibly in shock; despite knowing Yugi wouldn’t lie to him about something like this, he still couldn’t believe that the King of Thieves had willingly called his hated enemy. “Wait, he called you?”

“Maybe he was hoping that you were with us? He sounded really upset,” Yugi offered, confused by his friend’s reaction.

Atem refocused the conversation, asking, “So you don’t remember any of them saying anything about why they were attacking you?”

The pale boy shook his head, “The next thing I knew, you were leaning over me and Kura was shouting ‘PENALTY GAME!’”

Once again Jounouchi interrupted, “Wait, ‘penalty game’ as in…”

There were solemn nods from both Ryou and Atem.

“The hell?! That guy has magic?!”

“Using it really tired him out. He was still asleep when I left for school,” the long haired boy said, as if the cost of the thief’s magic would somehow placate the taller boy. Yugi had already answered one of his questions from the previous night, and maybe the pair of shorter boys could help him answer more. “It’s weird, last night he was so mad, it felt like I could feel his anger.”

The Pharaoh didn’t seem surprised by the information. “I’ve been able to feel Aibou’s emotions the same as when I was in the puzzle. If I’m right, the Millennium Items weren’t just destroyed- they were used to create our new bodies. Which would explain, not just our access to magic, but why we're still connected.”

He was glad that the group, even Jounouchi, had been understanding of his desire to go immediately home after school and check on the former spirit; though Honda had simply remained silent.

He was a tiny bit disappointed, but not surprised to find the thief in almost the same exact position as when he had left that morning- curled around Ryou’s pillow. He reached a hand out toward the potentially asleep figure, softly calling the older boy’s name, “Kura?”

A sleepy eye cracked open, “Mmm?”

“I made dinner. You should eat something. You’ve been in bed all day.”

“Mm.”

They ate in relative silence, with the Egyptian eating significantly slower than at the last meal they had shared. As much as Ryou wanted to ask him questions and see if Atem’s theory was right, Kura just looked so exhausted that he made himself wait. It wasn’t the same as the heavy, uncomfortable silence that had been between them just a few days earlier, this was a patient, understanding quiet which wasn’t broken until the darker boy stood, having finished his meal.

“Are you going back to bed?”

“Yeah.”

After cleaning up in the kitchen and getting ready to sleep, he found Kura fully sprawled out on his bed. It was actually somewhat impressive that the older boy, who was most definitely, even if not by much, shorter than Ryou, with slightly shorter arms and legs, somehow managed to take up far more space on the bed. A bed that was large enough for two average sized people to sleep in at the same time without feeling crowded. Or at least if neither of those people was the King of Thieves.

The pale boy grabbed his pillow, sighing to himself, ‘I guess I can sleep on the couch.’

There was a thwump and the rustling of sheets as he started to leave that made him turn back, seeing Kura now on his side and a dark arm raised toward him.

“Eh? You’re awake?”

A moment later Ryou found himself crawling under the beckoning arm and spooning against the thief's chest. His fingers slid between darker ones as Kura's arm tightened around him and he wondered, ‘Was he waiting for me?’

--------

Ryou & Atem are both so relationship-stupid

next -> ?

i knocked this one out fast! (prob helps that theres a fair amt of dialog & its only 1k words instead of 1.6k words that was mostly descriptions/action)

dunno what my schedule is gonna look like for may yet, but i seem to be on an upswing so imma knock out as much as i can before i crash again, or get busy w/other things

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storytellerofuntoldlegends · 3 years ago

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an icarus and his sun: chapter 11

A/N: bit of a shorter chapter this time, so i was able to get it out quicker! scott pov again :)

Warnings: injury, fever, unconsciousness, mild amnesia, corruption/infection, self-blame, self-worth issues, talk of death

AO3 Link - Tumblr Masterpost

Scott drifted in and out of consciousness, unsure of what was happening. He didn’t even register where he was at first, just heard faint but familiar voices. Then he was being lifted up, his head gently tucked into the crook of someone’s neck, and someone else’s delicate touch supporting his wings. Then some innumerable amount of darkness later, and he registered laying on something soft before there was a hand on his arm and a yelp. The yelp had sounded like Gem- had he made it to her empire? More murmuring voices, and Scott drifted out again.

The next time he drifted towards a more semi-conscious state, he was instantly filled with relief. He hadn’t really realized how warm he felt until something cool was placed on his forehead. If Scott had the energy to, he would have let out a grateful sigh. Then a hand gently ran through his hair, and Scott just about melted- in a good way this time, instead of the fever-warm kind. He must have made some sort of reaction, because he heard a half amused, half relieved chuckle from above him.

“I think the compress is helping,” the owner of the chuckle said- voice so devastatingly familiar but Scott’s brain was too fever-addled to remember who it belonged to. Inexplicably it made him think of slimeballs and glimmering scales, but he didn’t have the slightest idea why.

“Or playing with someone’s hair is the cure for corruption,” another voice teased. There was an indignant reply, a laugh from the second voice- but Scott sank into darkness again before he could decipher who either of the voices were.

Scott was shivering the next time he came to some semblance of awareness. Something soft was pulled over him, and whatever was put on his forehead before was adjusted. The hand in his hair was gone though, and he managed to make a distressed sound at that. There was a soft murmur, some comforting words that Scott couldn’t quite make out, but then there was a hand in his hair again and Scott sighed in relief. He managed to blearily blink his eyes open, and met the gaze of a pair of soft brown eyes wide with surprise and concern. The owner of the eyes had a mess of blond hair on his head, and somehow that felt wrong to Scott. The eyes he knew, but the hair… he felt like it was something he shouldn’t be seeing. But at the same time he felt he had seen it before, on a night with shimmering bronze details, dancing, and betrayal. But Scott couldn’t place why he remembered those things when looking up at the person gazing down at him.

“Easy, you’re alright. Let’s try and get some water in you, maybe a health potion too,” the devastatingly familiar man said. He shifted away from Scott, causing a distressed sound to leave his lips. The man chuckled.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Just gonna help you sit up a bit,” he murmured, doing just so and letting Scott lean on him when he couldn’t stay upright by himself. His wings reflexively stretched out, and Scott let out a relieved sound at the ache in his wings lessening slightly. An amused giggle came from somewhere on Scott’s other side.

“Guess we should probably make sure he’s not resting on his wings too much, huh?” the owner of the giggle said in a teasing tone. That got a semi-flustered nervous chuckle from the man holding him, who had started to gently prod Scott out from where he had been tucked into the crook of his neck. Scott made a displeased sound, trying to nuzzle into the man’s hold further. Another giggle sounded.

“Gem, stop laughing at me and help, he’s being clingy,” the man pouted. Wait- Gem? Scott knew that name. Why did he know that name?

“Don’t act like you don’t like it, Jimmy,” the other voice- Gem, apparently, teased back. The name Jimmy definitely sounded familiar, it sparked butterflies in Scott’s stomach and reminded him of teasing banter and cocky smiles. The man- Jimmy- sighed and finally got Scott out from his hiding place in the space where Jimmy’s neck and shoulder met. His head was tilted back, and something cool was pressed to his lips. He eagerly drank down the water, earning him a gently reprimanding “slow down” from Jimmy. But soon the water was gone, and despite it helping him feel much better than before, Scott found himself incredibly drained of energy as he slumped back against Jimmy. He made a distressed sound as he felt darkness tugging at him again.

“It’s alright, you can rest. I’ll be right here, I promise. I won’t let you go, ever again,” Jimmy said with gentle determination. He wasn’t sure why, but Scott felt relieved at the assurance. His eyes slipped shut, and he dimly registered a hand smoothing out his feathers as he let the darkness claim him once more.

Scott’s next semi-coherent moment was one full of pain. It felt like there was fire spreading out from his forearm, all the way up to his shoulder and down to his fingertips. There was something pulsing and squirming beneath his skin too, in tandem with the pain in his arm. He let out a choked scream when someone touched his arm, the pain intensifying so much that Scott felt like he could barely breathe. Someone took his other hand, and there was a hand gently running through his hair. Scott relaxed ever so slightly at the familiar reassuring touches, even as tears of pain started streaming down his face.

“It’s okay, breathe Scott, you’ll be alright. Squeeze my hand if you need to, it’ll be okay. I’m here, I promised you I’d be right here, remember?” a voice said- and Scott wanted to remember. He wanted to remember this person’s reassurances, wanted to remember why this person’s voice inexplicably meant so much to him- but all Scott could do was scream as the pain intensified again.

“We have to stop, this is only hurting him,” another voice said, cool and collected with an undertone of worry. The pain stopped, and Scott sobbed in relief, his hand loosening the tight grip on the other person’s hand- when had he started clutching at him so tightly? His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his already blurry vision darkening at the edges.

“You’re alright, sorry about that, we thought maybe that would work. We’ll figure something out, I promise,” the first voice said, running a hand through his hair. Scott wanted to ask how this person was so confident that everything would be okay, but he passed out again before he got the chance.

The last time Scott woke up, he thought he was dead. This was the most coherent he had been in a while, but despite that, he somehow saw Jimmy sitting beside him, eyes closed with his cod head nowhere to be seen and a hand loosely clasped over Scott’s. Surely this had to be a dream, or some sort of bizarre afterlife where he saw visions of Jimmy actually caring about him. All those hazy memories from before, of someone Scott now definitely knew was Jimmy soothing him and reassuring him? That couldn't have been real. Why would it be? Scott had betrayed Jimmy. He shouldn't want anything to do with Scott… but that didn't mean Scott didn't want to enjoy the fantasy while it lasted.

Jimmy suddenly stirred beside Scott, hand gripping his own a bit tighter and causing his heart to flutter. Soft brown eyes blinked open, hazy for a moment before they registered Scott staring right back. An elated, relieved grin came over Jimmy’s face, and Scott really must have been dead or dreaming to earn a look like that. No way that the real Jimmy would care about him that much after everything that Scott had done.

"How are you feeling?" Jimmy asked softly, and Scott could only blink in confusion.

"Am I dead?" Scott blurted, voice hoarse from such little use. Jimmy let out a nervous chuckle at the outburst, shaking his head fondly.

"It was admittedly looking pretty bad… it's still not looking great if I'm honest- but your fever's finally gone down. So you're alive," Jimmy gently explained. Interesting. So maybe this was a fever dream then? But if this was real, and Scott really was going to be okay… he had so much he needed to say to Jimmy. He needed to explain himself, properly apologize for what he had done. He had to take this chance, even if it wasn't real so that Scott could at least finally live with himself- if he was even going to live at all.

"Jimmy-" Scott started, but was cut off with a choked gasp as pain suddenly flared in his arm, shooting all the way up to the top of his spine. It felt like there was something clawing inside him, trying to latch onto him and pull. He was suddenly gasping for breath, hands clutching at the sheets and at Jimmy’s hand.

"Scott? What's wrong, I'm here- Gem!" Jimmy called, standing up but still tightly holding Scott’s hand as he leaned over him with a worried expression. Scott was shaking now, trying to hold back whatever the hell it was clawing up towards his head. Tears sprung to his eyes as he gasped and shuddered, a death grip on Jimmy’s hand.

"I'm sorry," he managed to gasp through the pain. "Sorry" didn't even begin to cover it, there was so much more that Scott wanted to say- but the whatever it was suddenly latched onto Scott’s mind, like claws digging into his skull and forcefully pulled. His body seized one last time with a cry before going limp, his hand loosening his hold on Jimmy’s as well, and his eyes fluttered shut.

And then Scott saw nothing but red.

Taglists below! Ask to be added or removed!

MCYT General Fic Taglist: @corazon10000 @damiensaidno @franticfandomfanatic @gattonero17 @hetapeep41 @space-ace123 @vyeoh

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#empires smp #scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #geminitay #flower husbands #mcyt #aiahs #sage writes

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narukoibito · 4 years ago

Note

“Am I your lockscreen?” “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Am I Your Lockscreen?

Summary: Harry misplaces his phone.

AO3 | FF.net

Note: This took absolutely forever (months!), but here it finally is. Thanks for the ridiculous prompt Anon. This is complete, unadulterated fluff. It’s ridiculous, and I just can't. Haha, I hope you enjoy!

Harry was in the middle of stifling a yawn when he heard the rumbling downstairs.

Must be Fred and George, he thought, stretching his arms over his head. He let them fall back on the cot, with a content, food coma induced sigh. He was thinking about taking a little kip when Ron stirred on the bed beside him.

“Sounds like Ginny’s home early,” Ron grumbled.

“Ginny’s home?” Harry perked up, only to cough self-consciously at the strange look Ron gave him. Right, best mate’s little sister, he reminded himself. Except she was so much more than that. As if on cue, he heard the tinkling of her laughter below.

“Oh, I guess that’s nice,” Harry said casually, leaning back into the cot and pretending to go back to napping.

After a moment, Harry sneaked a peek. Ron had returned to fiddling with his phone. Texting Hermione probably.

Good save, Potter.

Unable to stop himself, Harry reached into his pocket to protectively touch his phone. Only to come back empty-handed.

His eyes popped open.

He straightened and immediately began to pat the blankets around him, his hands searching with a growing franticness.

“Mate?” Ron asked.

“Have you seen my phone?” Harry looked under his pillow and the sheets, on the verge of panic. He always, always kept his phone with him, especially —

“Er, no?” Ron sat up, confused. “Let me call you.”

Harry waited with bated breath as Ron dialed his number. He glared at the rumpled sheets pooled around him, willing them to start ringing.

Finally, there came his tell-tale ring! Only it was…

Shite. Shite, shite, shite!

It had been a moment of weakness. At her last football game, he had snapped a photo right when she’d made the winning shot. Then, like the idiot he was, couldn’t resist saving it as his lockscreen.

“Harry?” He heard Ron’s cry of surprise behind him as he moved, wrenching open the door. He bolted down the stairs, taking two, then three steps at a time, racing toward the ringing.

Just as he rounded the corner to the kitchen, Harry saw Ginny. Even in the midst of his panic, he couldn’t stop the way his stomach swooped at the sight of her standing there in her football training kit, with her long hair tumbling over her shoulders, her freckled skin that glowed, her pale fingers that he longed to hold.

And then, as if in slow motion, he watched as those very fingers reached toward the dining room table.

Fuck.

“Whose phone—?”

“Argh!” Without thinking, Harry launched himself into the air.

His fingers triumphantly curled over the phone.

Sweet relief coursed through him as an invisible audience cheered him in his head. Safe! He was safe!

Only of course his foot caught on something, and Harry went tumbling headfirst onto the floor. All those years of football training meant he automatically rolled, protecting his head, even as he crashed against the cupboards.

“Harry! Are you okay?”

He blinked away the spots in his eyes to see Ginny looking down at him, her brown eyes bright with concern. She leaned in, her face tantalizingly close.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he croaked, his face flooding with color and not only because he was upside down.

And he was fine, despite the spinning room, because Ginny was here, smiling down at him. The fluttering in his chest mixed with the squeeze of relief that she wasn’t looking down at him in disgust or, worse, pity at having uncovered his secret.

“I see you haven’t lost your flair for dramatics,” she said wryly.

“Constant vigilance,” Harry said, pleased when she laughed at the reference to that ridiculous counselor from that summer camp their parents had enrolled them in as teens. Counselor Moody used to do all sorts of mad things to scare them, like popping out of the bushes. Harry and Ginny used to catch each other’s eyes and laugh about it back when she was nothing more than his best mate’s little sister.

Harry’s eyes couldn’t help but wander from her face, only to flush and snap his eyes upward. She certainly wasn’t so little anymore.

“Let’s get you right-side up, and then maybe you can explain why you were pulling a Moody.”

His stomach curled into knots at her proximity as she helped him. He tried to think of something charming to say, which was hard when she was dusting him off and unintentionally sending goosebumps up his arm.

“I was testing your reflexes,” Harry blurted. “I’m still faster than you.”

“Oh, like that really counts when you suddenly shout and fling yourself at me.”

Why was it that the challenging look on Ginny’s face only made his heart skip a beat?

“Element of surprise.” He reached up to adjust his crooked glasses, something tickling in the back of his mind like he was forgetting something. Focusing was difficult with the intoxicating scent of flowers short-circuiting his brain.

“Well, for all your bluster…” With a mischievous glint in her eye, Ginny triumphantly raised his phone screen to his line of sight. “You still lose.”

Harry’s heart dropped to the floor. His eyes darted from the phone to her face and back again. He made a wild swipe for it, but Ginny was prepared.

“Whose call were you so eager to answer, hmm?” she taunted as she ducked into the family room.

“No, Ginny!” He followed her frantically, nearly knocking over a vase. “Come on, don’t—!”

“Not Cho, I hope?” She ran around the couch, strategically placing it between them. Her hand waved the phone tauntingly at him.

“No,” Harry said, slowly drawing nearer, adrenaline drumming in his ears. He frantically looked for an opening. “Cho and I aren’t a thing anymore.”

“Then it’s no problem if I check, is it?” Ginny turned the phone toward her, eyes slowing lowering — with his heart lodged in his throat, Harry lunged.

The two of them tumbled to the ground in a mess of limbs.

Harry groaned at the sting from where his head had connected with the floor. Somehow, in the chaos, he had managed to be on the bottom, which was good because Ginny hadn’t felt the brunt of the fall. But as the pain began to recede, he was suddenly very much aware of the soft curves pressing into him, her legs tangled up with his. She moved, wiggling enough to make him yelp.

Oh God, was this it? The only time he would ever get this close?

How pathetic could he get?

“Harry?”

He winced and waited for her to punch him and call him a pervert or something. When it didn’t come, he dared to open a tentative eye. Ginny had lifted herself up, hovering above him, her fiery red hair a curtain around them. Unable to stop himself, he stared up at her, bewitched by her freckles up close, the growing flush on her cheeks that reminded him of a sunset.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Am I your lockscreen?”

Harry swallowed hard, his chest twisting painfully. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Her lips quirked upward. “Planned on keeping it a secret for life?”

“Worth a shot,” he said dryly, even though his pulse was racing. She was smiling — could that possibly mean…?

“Yes, well. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, what are you going to do about it?” Her eyes flashed.

His traitorous hand reached up, lightly brushing her hair back. As his fingers skimmed her cheeks, she released an unsteady breath that whispered against his face. Ginny, his best mate’s little sister, his brilliant friend who could kick his arse, who made him laugh until his cheeks hurt.

“Ginny,” he said, barely able to think over the hammering in his heart, trying to form the words he had been reciting endlessly ever since she and Dean split up. “Will you be my lockscreen?”

Wait. Did he just…?

Mortification surged inside him. Where was a hole to bury himself in when he needed it? He would never be able to show his face around the Weasleys again — how was he going to explain that to Ron? He’d go abroad, Scotland maybe, explore castles or woods, anywhere really, just somewhere far, far away.

A peal of laughter tore him from his runaway thoughts. Ginny gave him such a bright smile, it was hard to look at her straight on. She was leaning closer, her eyes blazing. “Only if you’ll be mine.”

“Fair is fair,” he said, holding her gaze for what seemed like an impossible time, the tension between them making his chest want to burst, and then suddenly they were kissing.

He had imagined this moment many times in the past few months since his feelings had all but clobbered him over the head when he and Ron bumped into Ginny and Dean snogging under the bleachers. He’d replaced Dean with himself, imagined his hands around her waist, his lips fused with hers.

But this — this was so much better than anything he could have imagined. All conscious thoughts were obliterated by a warm sunshine that effused his every nerve.

“Harry,” Ginny breathed heavily when they finally broke apart. The smile she was giving him made him smile what was surely the soppiest smile in existence. “That was…”

“Lockscreen worthy?” he asked like an idiot.

She chuckled, her body shifting against him, turning that sunshine inside him to molten heat. “Might need to double check.”

“Happy to oblige,” he said, as she leaned down and kissed him again. He ached to be closer, his hand tangling into her soft hair, and she pressed closer as if also driven by the same reckless desire. He was so lost in her, he only barely registered the distant noise that was getting closer.

“Where’d you go, Har— oh my God!” Ron’s cry pierced through Harry’s hazy brain. “Get off my sister!”

Fear spiked through Harry. He looked up at his best mate (who was hopefully still his best mate), who looked as if he had been clubbed on the head.

“He can’t get off me, I’m on him!” Ginny replied unhelpfully.

“Oh then… Get off my best mate!”

Ron grabbed her ankles and started pulling her off of Harry, but Ginny, in a fit of rebelliousness, clung onto Harry harder.

Over their bickering about “bro code” and “we don’t need your permission” and “took you both long enough, but no snogging in the family room,” Harry let his head fall back with a thunk against the floor.

Nevermind – Scotland it was.

#i wrote a thing #fluff and humor #lol wth it's fluff #i didn't know what to do with myself with all this fluff #but have a sweet macaroon #Harry Potter #Ginny Weasley #Harry/Ginny #Hinny #anonymous #prompt #this took forever #but i do intend to get to all the prompts #one day #hope you still enjoy it after all this time #muggle au #but that should be obvious #they have phones lol

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 3 years ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

1.1. Introductory remarks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Then, she lets herself go.

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

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

But it's not him.

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

"No."

She didn't even see him fall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is a soft chuckle in her mind.

"What's so funny? You love plans."

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

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

1.2. A brief reflection on personal experience

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

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

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

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

"How did you find me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You've done what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For once, he doesn't argue.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Well.'

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

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

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

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

"Oh, what do you know..."

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

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

1.3. Materials and methods, an overview

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1.4. Common pitfalls

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ezmerelda doesn't reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're no family of mine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ezmerelda--"

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

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

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

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

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

'How do you feel?'

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

1.5. Notes on useful classification and categorisation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It also feels... hers.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sits down to write.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She lights another candle, and continues.

1.6. Conclusions and remarks on future work

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

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

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

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

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

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

She refuses to allow this to happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is quiet.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ingrid van Richten

Erasmus van Richten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is quiet.

---

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

#ezmerelda d'avenir #rudolph van richten #curse of strahd #dnd #dungeons and dragons #fanfiction #my fic #oathkeeper writes things #erasmus van richten #ravenloft #gonna take my horse to the old svalich road #tabletop

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soulmate-game · 4 years ago

Text

This is an alternate ending for my Bio!dad Joker / Bio!mom Harley AU. Or really, the timeline itself will be entirely different starting from the moment that Marinette’s plane lands in Gotham. If you haven’t read the original, you can do so here.

—*—*—*—*—*

“He’s going to find out, Mom.”

“No he won’t, don’t be silly! I’ve been very careful about hiding you from him, Nettie-pie.”

“Mom… I just have a bad feeling. I don’t think we can hide who I am from him. If he sees me, I think he’ll know.”

The phone went silent.

“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him. If I was crazy about him, Sugar, then I’m head over heels for you. Not even he can stop me from caving his skull in if he tries his usual tricks with you.”

“... My plane leaves soon, I’ll talk to you when I land. And mom?”

“Yeah, honeycake?”

“I love you.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette often hated how accurate her intuition tended to be. She had barely even stepped out of the airport before she had felt the prick of a needle in her neck and the sensation of being shoved into a small, dark space before her vision cut out.

Looks like her mom wasn’t able to hide her existence away as well as they thought.

And unfortunately for Marinette, her darling asshole of a father had apparently had ample time to plan his first meeting with her. If he had just used the much easier to acquire Chloroform on her, then Marinette likely would have woken up early enough to come up with a plan. Chloroform was unreliable and wore off fairly easily. But no, he had actually had the time to steal hospital grade anesthetic.

Which meant that Marinette woke up with her wrists zip-tied to heavy links of chain above her head, and her ankles connected to the chain below her with what felt like ten layers of duct tape.

Lovely.

“Ah, there she is! Good morning, sleepyhead!” Those were the high-pitched, dramatic words she heard when she came back to consciousness. She didn’t even need to open her eyes to know who the speaker was— she had watched enough videos online and not-so-legally obtained Asylum and Prison footage to immediately recognize the speech patterns and tone that was echoing around her.

Apparently keeping her eyes closed was not allowed, because it was only a few seconds later that Marinette felt a harsh slap sting her cheek and whip her face to the side. Oh, that would become a bruise without a doubt. Her teeth betrayed her, cutting into the inside of her mouth with the force of the hit. So, when Marinette opened her eyes to glare at the sperm donor responsible for half of her DNA, she aimed her bloody spit right at him. It landed on his shoe, which only a few seconds later slammed into her gut.

Marinette gasped for air even as the chain she was on swung violently, making her dizzy and upsetting her stomach. Too bad she didn’t have anything in there to throw up on him, she thought angrily. The chain links rattled loudly, ringing in her head alongside the electric pain of both of her newly forming bruises.

“Honestly, is that any way to treat your dear ol’ Daddy?” Joker cooed with false offense, one hand over his heart. Marinette glared at him as best as she could as she continued to sway in the open air, the chain she was tied to being the only thing keeping her from plunging straight down into a vat of sickly green, bubbling liquid.

Marinette didn’t need to be told what that liquid was. And joker knew that, the moment he saw her look down at that vat and saw the realization almost immediately cross her face. So instead of explaining, he laughed. Loud, high, and deranged.

“Good, good! That idiot Harley kept you educated, at least,” he said between psychotic chuckles. “Ah yes, and she somehow managed to choose the perfect name,” he glided over to her, as if he was some ethereal demon of chaos instead of a human. His paper-white hand reached out, grabbing her chin in a crushing grip and turning her face this way and that. Inspecting her as if she was a piece of china and not a living being. “So easy to adjust. Right now, you’re Marinette. Just like how, all those years ago, your mother stood here as Harleen. But just as she was dunked into acid and became my harlequin,” he stepped back and grabbed Marinette’s shoulders. He spun her like a top, making the metal chain creak and clink as it wound into a few weak coils and then released back out, trying to go straight again. It sent Marinette twirling through the air in a horrid half-spin, one-eighty degrees one way before sharply spinning to the other side. Joker laughed.

“Just like that, you’re gonna go from boring old Marinette,” he stuck out his tongue like a child, as if the mere taste of her name was bitter. “And you’ll be reborn as my new little Marionette. Aren’t you excited?!”

“Fuck you,” Marinette spat, even as she tried to blink and return her vision to normal. She was far too disoriented to even come up with a plan— but she was still coherent enough to register that the sky was dark outside the high windows of the factory she was apparently in. She had been missing for a few hours then, which meant that her mom and Momma Ivy would have called for help a long time ago. Maybe if she just stalled long enough, it would get there in time. “I’m not a puppet. Not for you, not for anybody!” She snarled.

Joker rolled his eyes, but his smile still widened. “Oh, that’s what they all say. In fact, your mother put up a good resistance there for a while, but her inner chaos couldn’t resist me. You’ll bend even easier, I have no doubt,” her ran his hand along her cheek in a motion that was so gentle that it felt foreign, wrong, to her coming from him. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to whiplash her, take all her hope away before dangling the option he wanted her to choose in front of her like a carrot on a stick.

Too bad he didn’t know her at all. She cringed away from his gentle touch, revolted by the mere feel of his skin on her’s.

“And your accent is a nice touch,” he cooed as if her reaction didn’t bother him at all. It probably didn’t. “Exotic. Just the thing I need to freshen up my usual act a bit, the Boston twang my old Harlequins had is just… stale by now, don’t you agree?”

Marinette clenched her jaw at the reminder that he had tried to pass off a cheap look-alike as her mom when she disappeared, back when she was pregnant with Marinette, to hide her baby from Joker. How he had discarded that woman like trash when Harley went back to him, only to replace her again when her mom left him for good.

No matter how badly Joker spoke of her mom, Marinette knew that Harley had been the only Harlequin of his to actually last. The only one he kept around, and there was a reason for that. Now, he was looking for another replacement. One that was more than a cheap knockoff, and he was hoping that a teenager with not only Harley’s genetics, but also his own, would be the exact kind of right-hand prop he wanted. An obedient little puppet of chaos, just for him.

But Marinette was nobody's toy. She had been used and taken advantage of enough back in Paris, she had spent her whole life struggling to escape the side effects of her parentage. To deal with the things she inherited.

The obsessiveness, the way she was so quick to get attached. She knew she inherited that from her mom. But there was also the rage, the anger that Marinette constantly had to stuff down. Hide below the surface before it hurt someone. Keep under a tight reign and hide away in the back of her mind, her own dirty little secret.

The constant reminder of just who her biological father was. Because that anger, that viciousness, could only have come from him.

She had spent her whole life trying to carve herself her own identity, to create beauty with the chaotic elements she got from her blood. And she couldn’t blame her mother, not really. Her mother at least did her best to help, and always leant an empathetic ear when Marinette needed it. But Joker?

Oh, she could, and would, blame him even long after he was dead and gone. Because he was the one who hurt her mother, he was the one who twisted her and drove her to feel unfit to be a parent. And sometimes, Marinette thought it would be better if Joker never existed. Sure, that meant she never would have been born. But wouldn’t that have been easier, too? To not ever have to experience the struggle that came with being his daughter, a title she never consented to?

But she couldn’t change the past. She was alive, and she would use her life to spite everything that the Joker stood for. That would be her revenge. He wanted a toy?

Joker had been monologuing, but Marinette drowned it all out as she kept her periphery vision on the windows above her. Shadows moved out there, with familiar bright yellows and shadowy blacks. The bats were there. She just needed to stall.

She opened her mouth. Joker pulled a lever.

Marinette dropped.

Wire whizzed through the air, knocking the breath out of Marinette as it wound around her torso. She was barely able to piece together what was happening; one of the bats shot a human-safe grapple to try and pull her away from the acid.

But the chain and her restraints were stronger, heavier, and just dragged the grapple down with her body.

The impact sent a large wave of sickly green liquid surging over the side of the vat, and Marinette was dragged from view underneath the surface.

It burned.

She distantly felt the tape around her ankles peel itself away from her skin, the combination of acid and wetness rendering it useless. She felt the chemicals burning at her, sending painful tingles across every last inch of her skin. It got in her mouth, she didn’t have any breath in her to hold and ended up swallowing some. It seared her throat and created a river of lava inside her. It hurt.

It hurt so bad, she just wanted out. Out. Out. Out!

Someone pull her out now!

The zip tie around her wrist loosened enough for her to pull herself free, right as something heavy slammed into the heavy metal bowl. The entire container sloshed, slamming to fall onto its side. Marinette’s body was pulled alongside the rush of liquid as it flowed out, and she was able to breathe air again. Sweet, cooling air.

And then she hacked up acid, spitting and spewing it in an attempt to purge every last drop she had accidentally ingested. Like a cat choking on a hairball, she coughed and hacked and her chest convulsed and contracted to try and help her. Her ribs ached, she figured that the grapple that had tried to save her had ended up fracturing or breaking a rib or two. But all she cared about was breathing and getting rid of the chemicals she had inhaled. She needed it out. All of it. Out. Out. Out of her!

“Try to take a deep breath,” a gruff voice commanded, soft but solid. Something stable for her to cling to. So she did as it asked, forcing herself to stop hacking and instead focus on inhaling. As slowly as she could. It was difficult, the first few breaths cut themselves off with more involuntary coughing, but the owner of the gruff voice stayed nearby. Repeated it’s request. “Deep breath. Steady, now. In. Out. Good.”

Marinette was just starting to calm down, just starting to claw herself out of the haze of panic and adrenaline, when that wretched laugh cut through the air again.

“There you are! Heheheheh! My cute little Marionette!”

Marinette froze. She could barely think, barely understand her own emotions. But she knew she was different now. She knew there was no way back, he had taken it from her. He had taken her normality, he had taken all of her years of hard work and burned them right in front of her.

He had won. The bats hadn’t been fast enough. But, if her foggy mind was correct, Batman was the one trying to bring her back to lucidity. Batman was the one trying to help her get air back in her lungs.

Not her so-called father.

If he wanted a toy, she’d be a haunted doll. She’d harass him, haunt him, until he wanted nothing to do with her. She’d come back, like a possessed porcelain doll refusing to be thrown away. She would make him regret ever awakening the monster that she had spent so long forcing down. Because she was her father’s daughter, yes. But she was also her mother’s daughter.

And most importantly, she was Marinette Quinzel-Isley. Her own damned person. The Chosen wielder of the Creation miraculous. And she would never bow down and be used by anyone, ever again.

Tikki’s words from so long ago echoed in her mind. Resounded even louder than Joker’s laughter;

“That’s all order really is, Marinette. The decision to take all the chaos and madness around us, and make it make sense. Make it do something good.”

And wasn’t that everything Marinette had ever done? It was a part of her now. Like a tattoo she had inked into her very soul.

She took the chaos she was given, and turned it into something beautiful. And right now? Right now, the most beautiful thing she could think of was Joker’s face when she slammed her fist into it.

“Easy,” Batman repeated, but for a different reason now. Marinette’s lungs still stuttered a little, but her breathing was mostly under control. Now, he was saying it because Marinette was forcing herself to her feet. Her legs trembled under her, threatening to lay her out on the floor again. But she was every bit as stubborn as Joker, which made for a terrifying combination with her all-consuming fury. The acid had broken the mental chains Marinette had been using to hold it back, and now it burned fierce and bright in her eyes.

So Marinette kept herself up right, cognizant of Batman’s hand on her shoulder but ignoring it. She grit her teeth against the burning light of the room, everything suddenly too bright and colorful. Too vibrant. But it did little to distract her. She realized that one of her hands still gripped the heavy chain that had sent her drowning in the acid, and sent a snarl at her darling, jackass of a father as she whipped it out right towards him.

“Marinette!” Batman yelled, his grip tightening on her shoulder. But he didn’t pull her back, which spoke louder than any words he could have said to her right then. He wouldn’t save Joker from his daughter, he knew the man deserved at least this much pain. And sure enough, the metal links slammed right into Joker’s side, winding around him like a crushing whip.

But that was all Marinette had the strength to do. As soon as she saw Joker’s body hit the floor, writhing in agony and painfully loud cackles, her hand let go of the chain and her body tumbled down. Batman caught her.

“Red Hood, Nightwing, get Joker back to Arkham,” Batman’s order faded in and out of focus. Now that her most pressing desire was taken care of, the effects of the acid reared their ugly heads with renewed ferocity. Everything was too bright, too loud, and her thoughts echoed in her head like voices wrestling for supremacy. “Robin, Black Bat, stay on alert. Harley said that she’s incredibly trained,” he warned his partners. Marinette didn’t begrudge him, the only other two people who had survived being dunked into those chemicals hadn’t exactly treated him with kindness and pacifism. But she could barely focus on them anyway, too distracted by trying to reign in the chaos in her mind.

But Joker would never stay silent, even as he was dragged away in chains.

“Hehehahahahaha! Paper white, paper white!” He jeered cheerfully. “That’s my girl! Violent just like Papa!” Red hood knocked him out with a harsh punch to the side of his neck before he could say another word. But it was enough— enough for Marinette to gasp in realization.

Her skin. It was paper white, just like his. Not even Harley’s skin had been bleached like the Joker’s after her dip in the acid. That had always been makeup. Her mom had a healthy, peachy complexion like anyone else. A complexion Marinette had shared— until now. Now, she was unhealthily pale. Just like him.

A painful screech tore itself from her already raw throat, and Marinette’s fingernails immediately began to tear at her own skin. Red. Red was better than white— she didn’t want to look like him. She couldn’t. White was bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

“Marinette! Stop!” Strong hands clamped around her wrists, pulling her hands away from herself even as she wriggled and tried to keep clawing at herself.

“No! No no no!” Marinette howled. “I don’t wanna look like him! I don’t wanna be like him!” She managed to get one hand free and immediately tried to tear away at her face. Batman was able to wrestle her arm away before she could do any damage besides a few angry red lines. “I refuse! I refuse! I refuse!” She shook her head, not feeling as tears flung themselves off her cheeks.

“Okay,” Batman’s voice was solid again, soft and grumbly and stable. She grabbed at it again, drawn to anything that might help bring her stability. She needed his unflappable attitude right then, and he probably didn’t even realize how badly. “That’s good. But you don’t need to rip your skin off to do that, you know that right?”

Marinette hiccuped, finally sinking down to sob as the weight of everything she had lost pressed down over the chaos of deafening light and blinding sound that continued to jumble around inside her head. “He changed me,” she choked out. Batman nodded even though she wasn’t looking at him.

“He did.”

“Th-that f-fucking bastard,” Marinette managed a sad chuckle before devolving right back into sobs. “I wo-worked so h-hard. N-never hurt any-anybody. Never… never yelled. Ne-never hit… Not people who didn’t attack f-first.”

“I know. Your mom told me,” he confirmed calmly. Solid, tethering. Marinette swallowed another gulp of air, trying to calm down. But everything was too much.

“Mom!” She suddenly realized out loud, turning and grabbing at Batman’s chest, clinging to his uniform. She didn’t even care that she almost sliced herself on a batarang, she clung to him desperately with wide, crazed eyes. “G-get Mom and… and Ivy! They… they can help. They know—“ Marinette paused to breathe, then resumed. “Momma Ivy— she gave me—gave me a diluted… th-thingy, years ago, I can’t remember—“ Marinette’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to get her mind to calm down. To work.

“The serum she gave Harley?” He asked. “The one that made her immune to poisons, and gave her increased physical abilities?”

“That!” Marinette agreed frantically, nodding. “I was too— too little, to give the real thing, so she diluted it,” she swallowed her spit and winced when it burned her throat. “It… I think it’s helping with the—the—the—“

“The chemical’s effects?” Batman suddenly sounded like he was paying much more attention than before, his shoulders a little straighter at her explanation. “You think it’s slowing down or numbing what it did to your mom and Joker?” Marinette couldn’t talk anymore, it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much, so she just nodded. “Good. That’s good, Marinette. Robin! Get Harley and Ivy down here, now!”

That was when the voices started. Sometime during the ten minutes it took to get her Mom and Ivy to her, they had apparently been waiting nearby anxiously incase the Bats had needed backup, the voices had built from ominous whispers to devious shouts, ordering her to do things like slam her elbow into Batman’s throat or see what happened if she splashed Robin with some of the acid that was still on the ground.

Her body didn’t move. She kept herself carefully still, focusing on ignoring her impulse to listen to one of the voices. She was still lucid enough to know that she would regret it if she did any of that. That the Bats were more on her side than any of the voices or the Joker were. But it was growing painful, and Harley and Ivy walked in to Batman trying to keep Marinette from hitting her own head. She had devolved to trying to knock herself out to get the voices to be quiet.

“Shut up,” she hissed, her voice hoarse and gravelly. “Shut up, shut up, shut. Up!” She was clearly talking to herself, her eyes screwed shut as she continued to try and hit her head. Harley gasped, hands flying to her mouth and eyes watering at the sight. This was something she had hoped she would never see.

“Harls,” Ivy spoke softly, putting a gentle arm around her wife’s back in support. It hurt Ivy to see Marinette in so much agony, but she knew it pained Harley even more. And much more personally. “Come on. We can help.”

“Y-you’re right,” Harley agreed shakily, taking a deep breath to try and compose herself before they both approached their daughter. Batman didn’t let go of Marinette, but did lean out of the way to give them access to her.

“Honeycake?” Harley called out softly, a little unsure how the chemicals were affecting her baby’s personality right then. The first few days were going to be the worst, and she knew that. The Dunk never took it easy on it’s victims. Marinette gasped, stopping her muttering and raising her head to look at Harley with wide eyes.

“Momma?”

Harley had to swallow heavily to shove back the sob that wanted to bubble up out of her. She had to be strong for her baby. She couldn’t break yet. But Marinette hadn’t called her Momma since she was little, now she called Pamela ‘Momma Ivy’ and her just ‘Mom’.

“It’s me, sugarplum,” she assured her daughter, kneeling down and cupping one of Marinette’s cheeks in her palm. And that was when she noticed it, and couldn’t help but widen her eyes in shock. But Marinette’s senses were so sensitive that she noticed it right away, and stiffened.

“Wh-what is it?” She grew frantic when Harley didn’t immediately respond, only winced in sympathy. Marinette knew that wasn’t good. “Mom? What is it? What did he do? What else did he do to me?”

“Darling,” Harley started, licking her lips nervously. “My sweet baby girl, your right eye… it’s green now, sugar.”

Marinette’s world froze. She tried to smile, but it came out lopsided and disbelieving. “No,” she somehow managed to breathe. “No, mom, I have your eyes. Your blue eyes. I love your eyes,” Her voice steadily got more and more panicked as she went on, not wanting to accept what her mother was clearly seeing. She watched as Harley’s face broke a little, a few tears escaping before the older woman could stop them. Marinette shook her head again, slipping her tiny wrist out of Batman’s hold and raising it to her eye. “No. It’s one of his tricks. He—he must have slipped a contact in my eye when I was passed out, that’s— that’s— that’s all—“ but her fingertip met her normal eye. No contact to be felt. Marinette’s hand fell into her lap limply. The room was absolutely silent as everyone gave her a few seconds to process just how much she had been changed, entirely against her will. She opened and closed her mouth, not sure whether she wanted to yell or curse or cry. Instead, her voice just came out in a very tiny, broken:

“...fuck.”

��*—*—*—*—*

Marinette had gone mostly mute. She would say a word here or there, but for the most part she was doing a good impression of a vegetable. She stayed silent, as still as possible, and just stared at the ceiling of her hospital room.

She had been like that for the past two weeks they had been monitoring her in the Acid’s aftermath. Her ribs, which had turned out to only be bruised thankfully enough, had healed. Her cheek and torso were healed up too, only the barest hint of sickly yellow to show as a reminder of Joker’s hits on her. Sometimes the cameras would catch her talking to seemingly empty air, only for a nurse to rush in and see that Marinette had gone silent yet again.

Tikki was doing her best to help. She had been separated from Marinette, but Pamela had found Marinette’s purse and returned it— and subsequently Tikki— when they had gotten her to the hospital. She was the only person Marinette regularly spoke to, because Marinette knew Tikki understood. Tikki had been around since the Big Bang, she had seen worse things than a little insanity. Tikki had always been there to help her feel at ease with her mind and body. She shared a piece of Tikki’s soul, even, according to the tiny god.

But talking to anyone else was too hard. Too scary. She still had those damned voices at war in her mind, trying to convince her to do things that made her lock her joints and keep her body absolutely still before she acted on any of the coaxes. Possibilities she had never considered before came startlingly easy to her mind now— like how it would only take two seconds to tear her IV out and stab it into her nurse’s eye. How she could use her blanket to strangle Momma Ivy, or how she could fake jumping out the window and Harley wouldn’t waste a second trying to save her.

They were horrible thoughts. Intrusive, ugly, and far too loud. She didn’t want to act on any of them, but sometimes she found her fingers twitching only a second before she could follow through on one.

She spent a lot of time meditating, because of it. Which is why most people thought she was ignoring them. She didn’t mean to, she just needed to meditate. It was like her brain was a giant room filled with filing cabinets that held her thoughts and emotions. Her whole life, Marinette had carefully kept this room alphabetized, organized, and neat. Every file in its correct drawer. Until Joker had come along, and ripped the entire place apart. Tore certain files in half, broke her cabinets, ruined her filing system. And now she had to put the room back together, one drawer and piece of paper at a time.

That’s what the meditation was doing. She was getting reacquainted with herself. Learning what had changed in her mind and trying to adjust. She couldn’t be the old Marinette anymore, but she’d be damned if she let the Joker turn her into someone ugly like him.

So she needed time.

One day, towards the end of those two weeks, she got a visitor slipping through her window. Considering her room was on the tenth floor, she had it pretty narrowed down as to who it could be. Batman had visited her every night, a silent shadow in the corner, but he had already left for the day so it couldn’t be him. None of the other bats had dropped by after the second day.

She turned her head to see that that was now changed; Red Hood sat on her windowsill with one leg inside the room and the other bent on the sill itself. He looked the very picture of comfort despite being a stiff wind (or quick shove— no, bad brain) away from falling to his death. And then Hood took off his helmet, which was ugly enough to inspire some of the more violent suggestions in her brain and make them seem appealing.

“Ya know. Red Hood used to be what Joker called himself,” were the first words out of the vigilante’s mouth. Marinette’s eyebrows pulled down, and it was clear she was confused (and a little angry) at what he told her. He grinned, his eyes still hidden by the domino mask on his face. “Eh. The bastard killed me, ya know. I was the second Robin, a lifetime ago.”

Marinette’s eyes widened at that, and the violent voices dimmed and seemed to grow muffled. Marinette couldn’t quite understand what they were trying to tell her anymore, which made her figure that she had better pay attention to what Hood had to say. She licked her dry lips, and spoke softly. Her throat was still damaged from the acid, so she couldn’t speak very loudly yet.

“Then how are you… you know, here?”

The man chuckled. “Another group of assholes happens to have a magic pit in their basement. It’s a glowing green lake, ten different types of bad news. But it brings people back to life, and they dunked me in it without even caring for a second if I even wanted to come back.”

Marinette’s shoulders relaxed all on their own. It seemed to sink into her brain all at once, a simple:

Oh. He gets it.

“I guess the water doesn’t take it easy on your brain, either?” She hazarded an educated guess. He laughed, shaking his head.

“Not at all. I went off the deep end for a while, and killed a lotta people. They deserved it at least, but I don’t like how violent I was back then. Before I learned how to cope. Attacked people who were innocent. Red Robin almost died when I attacked him, back then, when he was just Robin.”

“Then why’d you keep calling yourself Red Hood?” She asked, tilting her head. He finally turned his head to look straight at her instead of just staring out the window. His grin widened, but it was lopsided. The grin of someone who was healed from some serious shit, but knew that it would always ache. A bittersweet expression.

“Cuz he doesn’t own that name. I made it into something that stands for at least a little good. Something that scares the assholes who don’t care about killing or abusing innocent people. Hell, some people take comfort in the name Red Hood now. And you know what that means?”

Marinette shook her head, and his grin widened into a shark-like smile.

“It means I stole it from him. The name Red Hood. He’ll never use it again, and now it stands for the opposite of anything he’d agree with. You can do that too, you know. Find something to steal from him, or use something he gave you, and make it your own.”

“Turn the chaos into something good,” Marinette said dreamily, clearly quoting someone. Red Hood nodded.

“Exactly. It’s not gonna be easy, but you got the choice here. You ain’t going back to who you used to be, but you can take the victory away from him.”

“... make him regret ever dunking me in that stupid vat,” she agreed, narrowing her eyes as they filled with determination for the first time since her body hit the acid. “He wants a puppet, an obedient little doll, I’ll give him Annabel.”

“There ya go,” The vigilante slid off the windowsill and approached her bed, holding out his hand for a shake. “I can help you get to that. What do ya say?”

Marinette was silent for a long minute, staring straight into his masked eyes. And then, a slow smile spread over her lips. “I got one question, Red Hood.”

“Shoot.”

“How do you feel about black cats?”

—*—*—*—*—*

This took four hours, holy hell. I’m actually happy with how this turned out. What do you guys think? I even got to max length on Tumblr 😂

#maribat #ml x dc #mlb x dc #jasonette #bio!dad joker #bio!mom harley quinn #Poison Ivy x Marinette #platonic brucinette

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xx-thedarklord-xx · 4 years ago

Text

Marked Reality

Harry had never been one for following the rules. Whether that was petty spitefulness from constantly having to listen to the Dursley’s, he wasn’t sure. So, when Dumbledore wanted him to go through the Ministry fireplace after Sirius’ death, he didn’t listen.

What was the point?

If he went through, Harry knew he’d do something he’d regret. The leftover rage from Voldemort possessing him was just as strong as the crippling grief that tore apart his emotions. If he entered Dumbledore’s office things wouldn’t end well, he’d probably break something.

As Harry walked back through the Ministry, retracing his steps from earlier in the night, all he could see was Sirius falling through the veil. Guilt clawed at his throat with each passing second.

It was his fault. All his fault.

Sirius wouldn’t have been there if Harry hadn’t been stupid enough to fall for Voldemort’s tricks.

“You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

Harry’s head lifted automatically but his mind was elsewhere. He barely registered the words at all.

“Do I need to get my manager?” The man asked, nose lifted in the air in some kind of snub as he looked up and down at Harry’s torn, tattered and scorched robes.

“No,” Harry shook his head. Fighting was the last thing he felt like doing. He just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, not argue with some snooty employee.

“I was just leaving.”

“See that you do.” The statement was accompanied by arms folded and narrowed eyes. It was a good thing the employee didn’t work in customer service.

On his way out, Harry paid more attention to his surroundings and noticed a display of glowing orbs. There was a glaringly large and ostentatious sign that read, ‘Do not touch’, which only made him that much more curious.

Each orb glowed brightly with different colours. Some were dark and cloudy while others glitched and stuttered into many different colours. There was one in particular that drew his attention; a small orb shoved into the corner, almost as an afterthought, changed colours so rapidly that Harry couldn’t decipher them all.

There was something about the orb that made Harry want to touch it, the sign be damned. But he had more self-discipline than that.

Just as he turned to walk away, a soft whisper had his head snapping back toward the display. What had previously been a rainbow of colours was now a swirling dark black. The whispers grew louder but no less inaudible than before. The desire to touch the orb was back but so was a sensibility warning him not to. Something wasn’t right about the orb, something sinister lurked below, he just knew it.

One step back. That’s all it took before the whispers changed. Harry froze, mind blanking as his mind was once again filled with the image of Sirius falling through the veil. Only the memory of the voices that only he could hear were loud… just as loud as the whispers coming from the orb. The exact same voices.

Sirius.

Was that it? Was the orb somehow connected to the veil?

His hands moved involuntarily, fingers closing the distance and ghosting near the glass surface but not quite touching.

A glance toward the sign coincided with a loud, “Don’t touch that!”

Too late. He never did like to follow the rules.

With a much stronger grip than intended, Harry held onto the orb as the world grew dark and his consciousness slipped into nothing. ——————- A hard poke to the face was the first thing he felt, but Harry’s energy had depleted to the point that he didn’t really mind the pain.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

The familiar drawl had his muscles freezing as his mind blanked.

“I would hope not,” the sound of Lucius’ voice angered him. He had thought the Ministry arrested Lucius. What was he doing free? “Who knows when the last time this place has been cleaned.”

“Who do you think he is?” Malfoy asked. “Kind of looks like a Muggle.”

What? What were they playing at?

“I’ve seen Muggles dress better.”

If it hadn’t been an insult directed at him, Harry might have snorted.

“Oi!” Another jab to his face. “Wake up.”

“Draco, where are your manors?”

“Sorry, father.” There was a small moment of silence before a harder jab to his face had Harry wanting to hex Malfoy. “Please wake up.”

That did cause him to snort as he opened his eyes, struggling to sit up.

“Oh,” Malfoy breathed, far too close to Harry’s face. “He’s pretty.”

Harry glared, unable to help it.

“What?” That didn’t sound like Malfoy at all. Was it really him?

Malfoy arched a brow. “Don’t know how to take a compliment? I could have called you an ugly cow but I didn’t, did I?”

Oh. Harry relaxed. That sounded a lot more like Malfoy.

“Draco,” Lucius chided. Which… that didn’t seem like him. “Be nice to strangers.”

“Strangers?” Harry shook his head. What on earth did that orb do?

Lucius’ brows arched. “Have we met? My apologies then.”

That did it. Whoever was in front of him was not Lucius. Harry scrambled to his feet, slowly backing away.

“Kind of hard to forget a spineless coward,” Harry said, aware of the way Malfoy withdrew his wand.

“What did you just say? Wait until my mother hears about this.”

“Your mother?” Harry asked, bewilderment making him nearly stumble over his feet. He turned around and headed for the exit, aware of Malfoy screaming after him, but he wasn’t paying attention, the urge to get out of there too strong to ignore.

He didn’t want to return to Hogwarts, didn’t want to have to face Dumbledore. Didn’t want to have the conversation that he knew was waiting for him. If he went there then it was all too final. Sirius would truly be dead, and that wasn’t something he was ready for. Not really sure it was something he would ever be ready for.

Despite the pain in his heart, Harry headed to the one place that would make it worse. Perhaps misery was what he needed.

-----------

With a hand raised, Harry stared at Grimmauld place. Did he really want to go in there? Face reality? Face an existence where Sirius was truly gone? Was anyone even there? Would Remus be there or was he at Hogwarts with Dumbledore?

As his knuckles made contact with the door, he wondered if there was a finality to the action. Would this be his last time here? What was the point of returning without Sirius? It’s not as if Kreacher’s presence was a defining factor.

When the door opened, Harry expected Remus or perhaps another member of the Order. What he didn’t expect to see was—

“Sirius?”

A tilted head, furrowed brows and an oddly misplaced smirk was his response.

“What--I don’t understand,” Harry’s words came out in a rush. “You were just at the Ministry. I saw you fall through the veil.”

With each word he spoke, Sirius’ brows rose higher and higher.

“If I had known you were here I would have come sooner.” He wasn’t sure anything was real. Nothing made sense. Was he even awake? Had the orb made him dream? Was everything a figment of his imagination?

“Now why would you want to do a silly thing like that?” Sirius asked, tone quiet but mocking in a way that made Harry shiver.

Something wasn’t right. Sirius seemed off.

As Sirius uncrossed his arms, the feeling not only intensified but grew tenfold. Because a familiar mark gleamed on Sirius’ arm. A mark that shouldn’t be there, that had never been there.

The Dark Mark.

#Drarry #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy #Duhn Duhn Duhn #Thoughts?#I'm obsessed with this idea

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depressedhatakekakashi · 3 years ago

Text

Kakashi Week Day 3: Bleeding Out

Gift For: @alumort

For You

@kakashiweek

Words: 2195

Warnings: Blood Tw, Near Death experience.

Pairing: Kakagai (can be read as platonic or romantic. it's up to the reader)

The battlefield is a blur. Even Obito’s sharingan struggles to keep up with the speed of all of the enemy’s movements, just barely giving Kakashi the information he needs to dodge an attack or to strike at the perfect moment.

Winning feels like an impossible task, but he continues moving. This wasn’t a fight that he was willing to lose easily.

Not when Gai’s life was on the line.

“Nice try!” Hearing a triumphant call from his best friend, Kakashi risked a glance. A moment to check-in and make sure that everything was alright, and just in time to see Gai planting his foot into the enemy’s face. Sending him stumbling back with a bloody, most likely very broken, nose. “It will take more than that for-”

The rest of Gai’s words faded into the background when Obito’s eye locked onto an incoming attack. The sight of sharp steel gleaming in the sunlight made his blood run cold, and the target was clear.

Gai.

Kakashi’s body moved without thought. Kunai coming up to guard against the incoming attack. To protect Gai, no matter what. That was his goal. The only goal that mattered at this moment.

Steel clashed, a struggle for victory between Tanto and Kunai while Kakashi stared down his enemy. It didn't take long for the victor to be decided, and unfortunately for Kakashi, this one wasn’t his battle to win. Feeling his hand giving out, he watched as the Kunai was flung off to the side. Decoration for the dirt until the battle was done.

The enemy’s speed didn’t give even for a second. His eye followed the tanto as the enemy pulled it back, leaving his body to react on instinct rather than logic. Lightning sparked in his hand, a desperate last-ditch attempt to protect himself and his friend.

The warmth of fresh blood is a feeling that’s all too familiar to Kakashi. The way it drips from his fingers, staining his hand the same as every shinobi who has met their end on Kakashi’s chidori.

The coldness though, that’s a feeling he doesn’t experience a lot.

A feeling that could only be compared to being thrown headfirst into a frozen river, his fingers ache when he tries to move them. The warm blood provided no relief to the sheer cold that settled into his bones.

“I won’t allow y-you-” His words faltered, sharp pain in his own chest suddenly making its presence known. Lowering his eyes, he stared down at his enemies’ tanto. Cold steel buried deep inside of his chest, mirroring his own attack against the enemy.

There’s no response to his words, and when he risks a glance upward he can see why. The only thing keeping the enemy’s body up is Kakashi’s hand. A limb struck through a now lifeless body, refusing to allow it to crumple to the ground.

At least if he died here he could say he wasn’t the first one to fall.

Removing his hand carefully, he ignored the slight tremble in his fingers. A response to the memories that came with the attack. No longer being held up by Kakashi, the enemy’s body crumpled to the ground. Lifeless and forgotten in favour of the much more pressing matter of his own wound.

“Kakashi?” Gai’s back pressing against his is another familiar feeling, though a lot more comforting than any of the other ones he had experienced in the last few minutes. “I appreciate the protection, and I’d appreciate it a lot more if you told me that you were uninjured.”

Just like Gai. Always worried about Kakashi when he needed to focus on the battle, not that Kakashi was any better. After all, it was his worry for Gai that had landed him in this position.

“Tell me you can keep fighting,” The voice behind him grew distant. As if Gai was moving away from him, even though Kakashi knew that wasn’t possible. Not when he could still feel Gai’s back pressed up against his. Protecting him from an attack from behind. “Kakashi-”

“Don’t think-” the wound in his chest ached. A pain that he was far too familiar with, but was also somehow ten times worse than he had ever experienced before. “Might need to, fight alone. Sorry.”

His knees gave out suddenly, sending him crashing to the ground as the cold that had burrowed its way into his bones just moments ago disappeared suddenly along with the sound of Gai’s voice. He’s certain that he should feel the moment that his body collides with the ground, but the only thing that he registers is the distant sound of fighting. Fists colliding with flesh and nunchucks deflecting Kunai and Tantos.

Laying there on his side, he watched as feet rushed past him. The fight continued as he lay there, surrounded by silence and feeling nothing except a deep numbness that could only be attributed to blood loss.

This was where he was going to die. A cold body on the ground, unable to do anything while his best friend fought for his life, and yet he couldn’t find it in him to be sad. At the end of the day, he died protecting Gai. Gave his friend another chance to win the fight and complete the mission.

To get home alive.

It was a fitting death, and as the world around him slowly started to fade away he couldn’t help but allow a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips.

Waiting was always the hardest part. No matter how much people talked about the pain of seeing someone they care about injured or watching them slowly dying in front of them, it was not knowing that hurt the most.

Wondering if this was going to end with another funeral.

Another goodbye.

Or if somehow he had managed to make it on time. If his feet had moved just fast enough, carrying him home just in time to save his best friend from otherwise certain death.

Staring at the door that Tsunade-sama had disappeared behind with Kakashi, he waited. The only thing keeping him in his seat is the constant reminder of who it is behind those doors.

Hatake Kakashi.

His eternal rival and best friend.

A wound like this would not be Kakashi’s end. It couldn’t be. There was still so much that they had to do together. Challenges that Gai hadn’t even thought up yet, and festivals for them to enjoy together.

“Gai-Sensei?” Dragging his eyes away from the door, he focused on the pink-haired Chunin who had just arrived, her hands held timidly in front of her chest. “Shizune said-Is Kakashi-Sensei.”

Shoving all of his feelings aside, Gai smiled at Sakura. A bright confident smile, followed by his signature thumbs up.

“Kakashi will be fine,” he assured her. “He’s Kakashi. He’s not one to give up easily. Besides, Tsunade-sama is looking after him. She is not known as the best medical ninja in all of the lands for nothing.”

If anyone could save Kakashi, it was Tsunade-sama.

“Good,” lowering her hands, Sakura glanced towards the door. “Captain Yamato is keeping Naruto distracted. When Shizune gave us the news he said it was best if Naruto didn’t find out until- well…”

It made sense. Yamato was always level-headed, even in times of great stress. There was no doubt in Gai’s mind that he was concerned about his Senpai’s current condition, but he knew when his attention was needed elsewhere, and when it came to Naruto it was best to keep him in the dark. If he found out what had happened-

Hearing a door opening, Gai pulled himself out of his thoughts and looked back over at the door he had spent the last four hours staring at. The first thing he noticed was all of the blood that now stained Tsunade-sama’s hands.

Kakashi’s blood.

“Gai, focus,” Tsunade-sama ordered, sighing when Gai diverted his eyes. Ashamed of himself for thinking of the worst before she could even get a word out. “Kakashi is fine. It took a bit of work, and there was some damage to his right lung, but he pulled through.”

Hours of worry melted away. His body released all of the tension that had been building up while he sat there waiting, hoping that Kakashi would be alright. That he hadn’t been too late.

“C-can i…”

“He won’t be awake for a while,” Nodding he waited for her to continue. “But, once we have him in a better room to rest and recover, you can sit with him. Though I do suggest we keep guests at a minimum. Sakura, can I trust you to make sure the room doesn’t get too crowded?”

“I’ll make sure Naruto stays out,” Sakura confirmed, a smile on her face when Gai looked back at her. “Team Kakashi can wait to see him. As long as we know he’s alright, we’ll be fine. You should be the first person he sees when he wakes up.”

“Thank you.” with that decided, Gai turned back to Tsunade-sama. “What room is he going to be in?”

“34,” she held out an arm, pointing towards the hallway with her hand. “I’m sure you know the way.”

That was an understatement. After all of the visits he had made over the years, between Kakashi, his old teammates, and his own student’s injuries, he could now walk the hallways with his eyes closed.

A challenge he may take upon himself another day. When there was a little more energy, and a lot less worry, in his soul.

The smell of cleanliness is the first thing Kakashi registers when his mind starts to swim towards consciousness. A smell that he knows all too well. Has spent too much time around not to recognize it as soon as it hits his nose.

The hospital.

If he were dead, he wouldn’t smell the hospital. There was no way that whatever afterlife there might be, that it would smell like a hospital. That would be the worst way to introduce someone to death.

Which meant only one thing.

“Gai,” he spoke without thought, already knowing that his best friend was there by his side. “How…”

“Are you really doubting my resolve right now, Rival?” he longs to open his eyes. To see that blinding smile that he knows is on Gai’s face at this moment, waiting to welcome him back into the world of the living. It’s too much though. There’s too little energy in his body to even manage that one small gesture. “Tsunade-sama said that it would take a while for you to recover. The enemy’s sword did a lot of damage. It even hit your lung.”

That explained why it was a little difficult for him to breathe. Tsunade-sama must have had a hell of a time trying to save him this time, and there was no doubt she had a lecture already brewing for him when he woke up again.

Speaking of lectures.

“I don’t regret it.”

“I know.”

“But you’re mad.”

Silence settles over the small room. Not a word was spoken, or a muscle moved. The two of them just sit there, wondering what to do next. How to continue a conversation that neither one of them wanted to have.

“You almost died.”

“For you,” he’s surprised by how easily those words leave his mouth. Words he wouldn’t dare say to anyone else, for fear of the reaction that they might give. “And I'd do it again.”

He expects anger, perhaps disappointment. A reminder of how precious his life is, and how Gai can’t stand the thought of having to bury him. Being forced to say goodbye when they had so much life to live.

Instead, his ears are greeted with laughter.

Bright, beautiful laughter. The kind of sound that makes his heart flutter, and gives him the energy he had been missing just minutes ago. Cracking his right eye open, he turned his face to the left and stared at Gai. Watching as his best friend shut his eyes and threw his head back, his laughter growing louder with each passing second.

A sound Kakashi would gladly listen to for the rest of the day.

The sound of life.

“Don’t you dare,” he’s surprised by the words, not because he doesn’t expect Gai to say them but because of the way they’re said? With so much joy and kindness that Kakashi’s certain his friend has lost his sanity. “You’re not allowed to die, Kakashi.”

“Mmm, is that so?” Relaxing back into the bed, he chuckled to himself. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m apparently too stubborn to die then.”

It would take a stronger enemy to take Kakashi out, and he was alright with that.

As much as he didn’t mind the thought of dying to protect Gai, he was much more fond of living. There were still so many contests for them to have and so many opportunities for him to get under Gai’s skin.

“For you,” he whispered once more, a tender smile pulling at his lips when he felt a hand rest on his arm. “I’ll fight to live.”

#Hatake Kakashi #Maito Gai #Haruno Sakura #Tsunade #Kakagai #Kakashi Week 2021 #kakagai #Kakashiweek2021

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