#but i want you with a ferocity that rivals nothing else in my life

[michiganmerchant]

as always pls do not interact with this post or read the tags

[cinnamonest]

Yandere Profile - Link (Legend of Zelda)

ABSOLUTELY YES. MY BOY. LOVE OF MY LIFE.

As some of you may know, today is the release date of Skyward Sword HD for Switch!! So I decided to release this one now in honor of that :3

NOTES:

I went towards the idea of a Princess!reader because that just opens the gate for sooooo much potential. I'm leaning heavily towards the ZeLink interactions in BoTW and Skyward Sword just because those games have the most interaction between the two.

Also! This is great bc it gives me the opportunity to explore an idea I've actually had a long time! I've always thought about how many opportunities there have been across the games for Link and Zelda to be kinda like "haha well seeya later" and just... bolt, run away from everything, abandon their roles and responsibilities and all that. Like, if OoT kid Link got her before Ganon did and ran, if SS Link just decided to get her on the bird and bolt before everything went down, if botw Link was just like haha what if we ran away from everything together... jk... unless...?

And final note, Link is a great pick for the very traditional yandere -- sweet and : ) but can snap into darker personas. I really liked writing this bc I tend to have more self centered yans and less of the "worships the ground you walk on" type of yans like I think Link would be, so it's a nice change.

As usual now the nsfw section is divided by a ---- line.

TWs: fem reader, heavily implied Zelda!reader, stalking, murder, very brief mentions of gore/dismemberment of rivals, manipulation, very brief suicide mention, themes of reincarnation (I’ve been told this can be triggering to some people so just in case)

TWs (nsfw section): noncon, somnophilia

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Severity Scale

Intelligence/Perceptiveness: 4 Brutality: 8.5 Physical capability: 8 Mental/emotional instability: 7 Restrictiveness: 6 Sexual sadism: 5 Stubbornness: 8

What are they generally like? Lucid, aware? Obsessive? How do they behave?

The primary trait of Link that any darling -- any person, really -- would notice is that he is, well, quiet. He has always been a man of few words, and really, he often doesn't know exactly what to say. On his own, at a first glance, he really does seem like a gentle, humble spirit, someone who blends into the background pretty well, who isn't particularly prideful or reckless or aggressive.

Which is why, to be honest, he might sort of evade the gaze of most people -- he doesn't stand out. You remember him as the boy that smiled at you now and then, it's a soft, gentle sort of smile, one that you feel conveys nothing but the utmost innocence and contentment with the world. You know he's pretty good at fighting, but doesn't get into fights needlessly, he's accomplished and respected, but has never been the guy everyone is talking about -- he's in the background, against the wall. Never speaking, always looking out, sometimes at the sky, sometimes carefully watching people. Sometimes you see him, gaze blank and tranquil, and wonder what he's thinking about. Whether he's the village boy in the time of Twilight, the trained and honored warrior that slept for many years, the boy that came down from the sky -- you can't help but feel at ease around him, safe, you can't help but find him endearing and pleasant.

Yet, you always seem to notice him. Other people... forget he exists, sometimes, he's so quiet. You never do, for whatever reason.

When he needs to get something across, he prefers to express himself through actions, not words. If you lived in Skyloft, or Ordon village, you might find problems mysteriously solved, work suddenly done that you don't remember doing. That fencepost outside your home that broke has been replaced overnight. A village child went missing and he comes back a few hours later with them in tow. Always humble, never demanding or expecting thanks, he tells you in his quiet voice that he's happy to help you.

And should you ever ask him for anything, he'll drop whatever he's doing to help. Anything for you, he says with a smile, which makes you feel a bit guilty when, honestly, you're not even sure you're remembering his name right.

And yet, sometimes, you feel so at ease around him it seems unnatural. He seems so easy to trust. You feel like you've known him forever. And sometimes you feel... for just a split second, less at ease. You find yourself randomly stiffening at his calm, sweet voice. You find yourself looking around when you're alone, as if you feel someone is there, and for some reason, his face flashes through your mind. Sometimes when he looks at you, you feel sort of cold. It's almost like invoking a memory you don't have, like some kind of learned instinct you can't recall a reason for. But those moments are fleeting, they come and go before you can even process them, replaced by warmth and comfort.

If you do spend time with him, if you find yourself gazing out your window when he's training, the next thing you notice besides him being quiet and sweet is that he's strong. It's almost ironic, how all the other knights or village boys are so aggressive and rowdy all the time, many of them taller or bulkier, and yet, none of them could ever dream of defeating Link. Not one can match his agility, speed, prowess. Such a pleasant, calm person, with so much skill, strength, and power, but that power is so rarely seen exerted. People marvel at his talent, they say it's as if he has the experience of lifetimes and lifetimes of battle in his blood.

And it's why you feel at ease when he's assigned the task of guarding you. His capabilities are unmatched, and yet you'd never fear any harm to you from him. Both of those traits put together make him the best candidate to protect you.

Of course, you do find yourself doing most of the talking. Sometimes you find yourself rambling to fill the silence, and you fear you're annoying him, but when you stop he raises an eyebrow and asks why you got so quiet. Did he do something wrong? He seems to worry about that a lot -- has he done something bad? Has he made you upset? Are you mad? At first you think he's worried about his position security, but after a while you realize he genuinely worries about it.

And when you do continue your ramblings, you're surprised to find he remembers your words -- every little thing you say. Things you don't even remember telling him. He asks you about that relative you mentioned one time, his eyes light up and he walks a bit to the side because look, it's your favorite flower over there, he'll get it for you. It's impressive, really, how he manages to remember such things. He must take his job very seriously.

He does enjoy giving you such things -- he loves giving you gifts. It's usually things he finds, wholesome little things -- makes a crown out of the flowers you like so much, finds something interesting here or there, while he was off-duty he saw something in the markets he thought you'd like and got it for you. You almost feel guilty, it's so constant that he's giving you things.

Sometimes you ask him about himself, you realize he knows so much about you and you so little about him. He blushes, he rubs the back of his head, he insists there's nothing interesting about him, he wouldn't waste your time like that. It takes time to get him out of his shell, but eventually, he tells you this or that, little stories from his life.

Sometimes you take long walks, you like to get out of the stuffy walls and have fun outside, he accompanies you across Hyrule. Sometimes it feels familiar, you pass places you've never been that give you a feeling of nostalgia, deja vu, a sense that you've been here before.

He’s protectiveness incarnated. Insanely so. He can spring to his feet at a moment's notice and deals with anything that comes for you before they can even get close.

It makes you feel safe, but there's something else there. It's a ferocity that is so contrasting to his normal self, different even from the times you've seen him fight as he trains. It's a glint in the eyes, an aggression in his expression, that almost makes him seem like a different person. And it lingers for a moment, once the creature is dead and his sword hand falls to his side, he turns and glances at you to his side, a hand raised to wipe the blood off his face, and for that lingering second, it's still there, his blank expression and wide eyes -- a ferocity so intense it starts to look like bloodlust, chaos, destruction. And then, it's as if you imagined it. Smiling and telling you it's gone now, you're ok. You're glad he's so truly devoted.

In fact, he's so dedicated to his job that he starts... doing it... outside of his job hours...? Well, today he was given the day off, and you were told to stay inside because you didn't have to go out. He comes knocking on your door, says not to be startled if you hear someone outside your door move or shift or anything, but he just wanted to let you know in case. He'll be right here. Keeping watch. So don't worry. You're safe.

And likewise, he was supposed to have a day off when you were supposed to enter the town. You were assigned two other guards to watch you, since it's a special trip, so you're surprised to find just Link waiting for you. He took care of it, he says, he didn't feel right leaving your safety up to someone else, he doesn't trust them. So they agreed to let him take over for today.

All of this said, he doesn't have to grow alongside you, he doesn't have to be the childhood friend, the knight who guards you. He doesn't even have to have met you. Fate works in odd ways like that. There's a sort of inexplicable instant attachment he takes to you, almost as though it's some kind of destined, divinely inspired sort of thing. He would describe it as saying you feel familiar to him.

He's also, notably, prone to a more traditional trope of what you might call humility whiplash. For the most part, he's got that overly humble, worshipping, "I don't deserve to even stand in your presence" sort of mentality. However, although it's rare and requires a lot of wearing down his mental state, if pushed far enough, he can have brief moments where he snaps into more or less the complete opposite -- entitlement, arrogance, aggression, getting mad at you for the behavior he'd normally take with a smile on his face. Thankfully, unlike some yanderes that have a whole snapping episode towards their darling, his are very very brief, usually only a matter of seconds or a single snarled sentence before he snaps back to normal, wide-eyed and apologetic and telling you I don't know what came over me. It’s... a little frightening to say the least, but you blow it off, tell yourself that hey, everyone has moments like that... Right?

How likely are they to kidnap their darling? How quickly will they do so?

For the most part, he doesn't need it, he can pretty easily cling to your side well enough to be assured of your safety, and he manages to scare off the undesirables not with a glare, but a smile that's just a little too sweet and far too persistent -- it unnerves people. You hear a lot of people say that something about that guy rubs me the wrong way. Or that he gives me goosebumps for some reason. Even the people he scares away themselves can't pinpoint exactly what it is, all they know is that, despite being reputed as kind and quiet (and maybe a little dense), somehow a lot of people agree that something about him puts people at unease, and that's all he needs. Because they stay away from him, and if he’s by your side all the time, that means they stay away from you too. Why keep you trapped when you can just be isolated?

An aware Link is a a unique scenario. One scenario that's rather... interesting to imagine is a Link that defies fate itself, a Link that decides to be selfish in one of those rare snapping moments of his. Perhaps he makes a decision when everything starts going down, when the chaos is beginning, or perhaps he has somehow managed to gain knowledge of the bigger picture at work, the reality of the nature of your existence and his.

Perhaps he begins to think it's unfair. To suffer again and again. To prove himself again and again, and not always even to reap any benefits, to work so hard and yet still -- still -- you slip out of his grasp. He longs for a life with no tribulations, no struggle, no fights to be fought. He begins to feel like it's what he wants the most. He begins to feel like maybe it's what he deserves. So many lifetimes of struggles, if the higher powers won't give him a reward, he'll take it himself.

And perhaps, for all their higher power, not even the great goddesses themselves would have ever predicted it -- humans are ultimately creatures of will. To defy fate and to run away from destiny -- it wouldn't be the first time a human has tried such a thing. Sure, Hyrule may be destroyed. The people may all die. There may be nothing left. But you know what? He's stopped caring. If you're alive and he's alive, tucked away in your little corner of the world where you've found respite, well, that's all he needs. Even if you're on the run from forces that would want to find you, even if the threat of the final third of the triforce owner looms over your head. He'll ignore it, he'll look away.

You'll live a quiet little life together, a happy life without suffering, without quests and enemies, without strife, without worry. That's what he tells you when he steals you away, lifts you out of your bed one night. Says to be quiet, there's danger outside your door, he's rescuing you. You have no reason to not believe him. He waits until things go down, a castle under siege, but rather than taking you to where you're supposed to go, he climbs onto the horse and starts... riding away. It gets further and further into the distance, and you might ask why, what's going on? You have a job to do, he has a battle to be fought. But he says you're going far, far away, someplace you'll be safe.

But what about the divine beasts, the seals, the Twilight, whatever threat runs in this world in this time, what about the threat of Ganon, you ask? He says it doesn't matter anymore. You were doomed to fail, he thinks, it's either stay here and die, or run away. All that matters is you. And he'd like you to feel the same way for him. You will with enough time, don't worry.

He just wants this happy, quiet life with you that he’s been denied time and time again. It’s all he wants. If fate won’t give it to him, he’ll make it happen himself, and carve out the life he is determined to have, defying even the will of higher power.

How difficult is it to escape from them? How do they keep you restrained? How do they deal with attempted escape? 

He gets it. Really, he does. "Stop following me!" You yell. Well, he understands why you might feel that way, but this is kinda his job. He thinks you're naive. Not that he would ever, ever have a thought that you're imperfect, of course! It's because you're so perfect and pure that you're... less aware of the dangers all around.

He'll let you think you're free, perhaps. He's more than capable of being quiet, quiet is kind of his thing. Watching you from a short distance is easy. Of course, his horse might make a noise, he can't really help that, or he might misstep on a branch or something. And then you turn around and get all mad again. Now you're even more angry. Well, he can also tell your guardians/father, who will encourage you to accept it. You can't help but feel a little bad -- he's just doing his job.

Now, our aware, runaway Link, well, does he really need to keep you restrained? What would you go back to? Certain death, a land destroyed? Sometimes you mention home, and he's quick to remind you that home doesn't exist anymore. His home is where you are. Can't you feel the same way? You found peace here in this little place -- a village far far away. Travelers, you call yourselves. What's the point in going elsewhere? How would you ever survive without him? He's not very good at being subtle or skillful about the psychological manipulation, it's obvious he's trying to scare you into not leaving, but... it still works, because really, he has a point.

He doesn't want to have to use physical restraint, in any case. And for the most part, it's not needed, because one important aspect of your relation is that his job kinda revolves around you (in some incarnations), or, perhaps you live in the same little village, but either way the thing is that his presence does the job well enough -- he's always there, perhaps more so than almost any other yandere. Even when you think you've managed to get away from him for a moment, somehow his face pops up out of nowhere. How he manages to pull it off is a mystery, you swear he manages to find you so well and predict your movements it's inhuman.

But if you really, really pose a problem, a smarter and sneakier darling that somehow manages to keep slipping out of his grasp and running off (you never get away for more than about 20 minutes or so, but nonetheless), you keep trying to run off when he's sleeping (he wakes up in approximately 25 seconds if your presence is absent from the bed, but that's still enough time to run out the front door), every time he turns his head (which isn't often) you're trying to disappear... well, in that case, he can reach a point of deciding more straightforward measures are necessary. He hates to do it, really, at least when he's not yet at a snapping point. But it's for your own good. And he says so, quite apologetically.

But it's not so bad, it's not like you're being chained to a wall or anything. For one, he got leather ties so you'd be more comfortable, but more importantly, as your guardian, he figured the best thing for you to be tied to would be... himself. Think of it like friendship bracelets! It's just... got a 5-foot chain connecting them. This way you can't sneak off at night, and you won't get too far when he's distracted. It's a safety measure.

How easy are they to trick, deceive, or manipulate?

He's a learner. At first, it's easy. Honestly, he is a rather naive, gullible boy, sometimes he reminds you of a happy dog with his bright eyes. He likes to believe the best of people, give them the benefit of the doubt in all circumstances, and that goes double for you, who he believes can do no wrong.

And even when you do lie to him, it's still not wrong. You didn't do anything bad. Clearly there has simply been a misunderstanding, and you thought you had to lie. Or perhaps you simply forgot a detail or were confusing something with something else. It wasn't malicious on your end, he knows that.

He's actually significantly smarter than he lets on in practical knowledge, though. Those dungeon puzzles pay off, you know? He's got pattern recognition down. So over time he learns how to distinguish when you're lying to him or attempting to deceive him, and sees through it increasingly well.

And yet, he doesn't really... get mad over it, most of the time. Again, he's just capable of deluding himself into believing there's a reason. He believes so strongly in your goodness that he finds a way to interpret everything you do as out of benevolence. So you snuck out the window and didn't tell him you were going for a walk because you just wanted to get away from his suffocating presence for once? You were just thinking of him. You didn't want to burden him and wanted to give him a break. Well, that's thoughtful, but don't worry, he doesn't need a break. He thinks it's precious you're so considerate of him though!

You don't tell him you were talking to that person, and you lie and say no when he asks, because you don't want him to worry, and because you underestimate how dangerous others can be. He's told you a million times and you don't listen, but that's ok, it's because you're just so pure you see the best in everyone. Everything you do is good.

Because he perceives your lies, he will still work against and around it. He won't confront you on your lies, he'll just make sure to deal with the situation -- you lied about sneaking out, well, he'll just keep watch and be ready to meet you outside next time. You lied about talking to a person, well, he'll just have to make sure they stay away from you instead.

If you're trying to trick him, he just plays along until necessary. Smiles and nods. He gets the suspicion you're planning a break-out when he told you he was leaving to go get something from town... rather than saying so, he just decides, you know what? Why don't you come with him? Oh, you're feeling sick, you tell him it's ok, go without you? Well, he can't leave you alone then! Because you're clearly not and just trying to get him to leave... or, as he says, he can't just leave you alone. He'll go another day.

He's fairly manipulable when it comes to praise and affection. You can easily Pavlov him into certain behaviors or patterns with just the slightest words of praise and affection. He's not a very outwardly expressive person, tends to stay quiet, but you can tell how he feels inside when you give the slightest praise, a hug, a kiss on the cheek -- you can see that soft hint of a smile and tell that inside, he's basically melting, even if it's not obvious to most people. And, much like the lying, he’s honestly often aware of it, but he just can’t help it.

How lenient are they? What privileges can you have, and what will you be denied?

He tries to get you the things that he feels will make you happy. Your happiness is incredibly important to him, and he usually thinks about how any action he plans to take might affect you, spends a lot of time debating choices of things to do or say and try to determine how each one will affect you and choose accordingly.

As such, he goes out of his way to support the things you want to do. Have a hobby? He'll find the best materials available. Want a book or a food? He'll obtain it through some means. Even if procuring it involves a side-quest-y set of mundane tasks or scouring the world for 70 of this and 50 of that to exchange it for the item from an obscure specialist, it's all worth it.

The only thing he just doesn't give up on is the constant vigilance and insistence on being by your side more or less every waking second. And every sleeping second. And just every single moment you're alive. It's for your safety.

This is actually one of the things he can get a little nasty about when it comes to how he deals with it, because he quickly has the bright idea that if you don't get it, he'll make you understand. Of course, he can't actually risk you getting hurt, so he stages it. Allows you to sneak off, or at least think you have, and walk right into the path of those monsters he lured, or the people he hired to intimidate you. Of course, it's only natural that he shows up at the last possible second, right on time to save you. You should expect that, after all, it's his responsibility to protect you, of course fate works out perfectly like this. See, he was right, it's so dangerous, and without him you'd be dead. Hopefully you grasp that now.

What kind of rules do they have? What kind of punishment would they use?

His is mostly related to vigilance. Where are you? Who have you been talking to? Who was that person you were talking with just now? What did they say? He's not nosy. He just cares about you. It’s in the job description. You ought to understand just how much certain bad people would love to find you and hurt you. That's why he has to know.

This isn't our modern world, so there's no phones or tracking devices to speak of, just himself, which, well, might as well be a tracking device since he never seems to have difficulty finding you. Sometimes you're not sure how he does it.

He tells you that you don't have to be with him 24/7, but you will be, even if you don't realize it. He's aware enough to know that you'll feel suffocated and get mad if you're aware of his presence all the time, so he gives you your "alone" time, aka, the "follow her quietly from a 20+ foot distance" time. It all feels the same to you. Well, sometimes you feel eyes on you, but you shake the feeling off as paranoia.

So it's not so much that he sets rules and reacts when they're broken, but rather, he works his way around anything you might do so well that he doesn't need you to follow his rules, or really, you take them more as suggestions. But honestly, that's kind of worse. It's enough to drive a darling to the brink of a mental breakdown very quickly. With Link you will inevitably become paranoid, nervous, you feel like you're going insane because he manages to pop up everywhere, he always knows what you did when you did it and you have no idea how it is even conceivably possible for him to know some of the things that he knows. He confronts you very plainly and quietly, often sweetly, asking why you did this or that or telling you it's ok, you don't have to hide anything, surely there’s a good reason, and if not, he forgives you anyway. In a way, it's worse than an angry confrontation. You begin to feel like he's omnipresent, like he can read your mind, and it truly takes a mental toll and affect you worse than any normal yandere's concept of punishment.

This ultimately works out well in his favor. The more you just do what he wants, the less it feels like a violation or intrusion that he knows these things, since he was there with you, it makes sense, and you continuously get bent to his will.

How do they deal with rivals, or perceived rivals? Will they get rid of them? Will they kill them themselves, or find another way?

Ah, and thus we get to that brutality rating.

It would be unthinkable to think that any sort of scum would even dare. Even he isn't worthy of being with you, and someone else thinks they could be? So, he more or less views "rivals" as an offense. When they're threats, well, he's allowed to deal with them. When they're not, well... he has a wonderful reputation. If he says he overheard that person planning usurpation or assassination, that they realized he was listening in and wildly attacked him, everyone will believe him. Even if the death seems a little... non-immediate. And uh... frankly... overkill. How exactly... did those limbs get perfectly severed during equally armed combat? And was it... really necessary... to kinda spill entrails all over like that? He'll apologize, of course, he was just so outraged by the thought of someone hurting you or your family, you know? You notice his eye twitches a bit as he says it.

He has a lot of... bottled up frustrations, which we'll touch on in the nsfw section as well, but it tends to manifest in those two ways: sex and violence. Rather than exerting stress and anger and frustration as it comes, he lets it fester. He tries to maintain being the noble, humble, self-sacrificing person he feels he should be. That is... difficult to do for a long time. People expect a lot from him, even in timelines where he's not necessarily realized as the hero quite yet, he usually has a lot of responsibilities. But then you tack on the whole hero thing? The weight of the world is sometimes, quite literally, on his shoulders. Do you have any idea the kind of stress that comes with that knowledge? It's not pleasant. And it quickly bottles up, a very very fragile bottle set to eventually shatter in a matter of time.

On a longer sort of quest, he just kinda... leaves a trail of destruction in his wake. Enemies don't actually just poof out of existence the way they do on-screen, you know. Anyone coming across an area he's just been through is met with literal piles upon piles of corpses, sometimes monsters, but sometimes people. He takes a very scorched earth sort of policy when it comes to dealing with things.

He's able to easily get close to people, with that sweet face and puppy eyes and lithe body, people don't really feel on guard around him nor intimidated. That makes it significantly easier to infiltrate enemy hideouts, earn favors, and work his way in to be able to commit mass murder more easily. Granted, no one thinks too much of it because they *are* truly enemies, after all, they *did* need to be taken out and well, if the rulers can choose to either send a group of ten soldiers or just one guy and get the job done equally well either way, they'll go with the latter option. No one thinks anything of it, except the occasional person who laughs and says something to the effect of remind me to never get on your bad side, haha! He gives that sheepish, sweet little smile, and jokingly tells them that yeah, better not.

How easy is it to make them mad? What does their anger look like?

For you, nearly impossible. For others, at a hair trigger.

For the most part, he conceals anger well until, as aforementioned, it bottles up and bursts. The truth is he gets irritated virtually all the time by other people. People who talk to you. Look at you. Smile at you. He’s actually rather easily annoyed even when you’re not involved, but again, he’s good at hiding it until it builds.

His rage has a commonality with his calm -- it's quiet. At least, at first. When it's directed at others, his eyes narrow. It's the telltale sign that someone has ignited his rage. It burns on the inside, it starts off as a spark that builds and builds and grows larger and larger until it's a blazing fire that consumes everything in his path. It's a loss of composure, a rare moment of complete loss of self-control. From his own perspective, it feels like he's not in control of his own body, it's all a blur happening in front of him and when it's over he's looking down at his own hands, unable to process his own actions, sometimes unable to remember them.

But it's violent, merciless, unforgiving. It does not yield to begging, it does not leave anything alive unless forced to. You remember the first time you realized how unnatural it was, how shocked you were at how he did something that certainly went against the code he was sworn to follow, the very first time you felt truly afraid of Link. It was a walk in town -- someone called out to you, spitting obscenities about you and your family, your lineage, threw something at you -- he caught it in his hand and crushed it, and quickly, without a word, advanced on the offender. And, to make a long story short, you had to prevent him from beating a man to death in public in broad daylight. He was forgiven by his superiors, but even they seemed shocked. You had to pull him off, and when he jerked his head around to look at whatever was stopping him -- before his face softened as he recognized your own face -- the split second you saw the burn of hatred and fury in eyes that were normally so soft and loving, was nothing short of unsettling, you still recall the chill that ran down your spine.

And honestly? It's terrifying. And the first time, it's shocking. Sure, you knew he could fight. You've seen him fight off monsters, bokoblins and lizalfos and the like. But something is different about seeing the blood of a human being run down his sword, dripping onto the ground, to see the bodies and the blank, numb gaze on his features he always has after it's over. The absolute lack of hesitancy he has to run human enemies through before they even have a chance to explain themselves, how unbothered he seems by the carnage left in his wake. The way he turns back to you, drenched in red and smiles, tells you it's ok, you're safe now. There's no need to look so scared.

And it changes how you view him, in the long run. Less of a guardian angel, more of a guardian dog, one that defends your name when you never asked him to. Pleads to tell him not to fall on deaf ears -- you just don't understand why it has to be this way, he says, you can't comprehend the threat they posed. From the sweet boy that leaves you flowers and repairs and instead leaves a wave of destruction in his path you would not have thought possible.

Directed towards you, though, it's entirely different. He tries his best to have patience with you, no matter what. He smiles, he tries to make excuses as to why you'd say this or do that, why you'd feel a certain way, and he's rather good at deluding himself to give you the benefit of the doubt.

But when it reaches an end, when he can no longer lie to himself, when you push it to a point that you truly make him mad, it's more of a snap. The times he'll lay hands on you in a truly violent way are rare, and as aforementioned, very brief. It's usually not so much of actually a blow, so much as a grab. He just can't get what he's trying to tell you through your thick head, so he stresses it, trying to make you understand as he grabs you by the upper arms, shaking you with each word, and he only stops when he sees the pain and fear in your eyes, drawing his hands back at lightning speed. He saves you from some danger very narrowly, one of the few times he lost track of you for a moment and had to frantically search before coming across you being attacked. What would I have done if something happened to you? Don't you understand that? He's so lost in the relief it takes him a moment to feel you beating on his arms in the embrace, choking and wheezing that you can't breathe, that his grip is so tight it feels like he'll snap you in half. He draws back again, and he apologizes, but it will certainly happen more than once.

So they see you as above them, beneath them, or equal to them?

Above. Like, so, so, so far above. He feels like he doesn't even deserve to look at you. Of course, neither does anyone else, so he's just, you know, stepping up to bear the burden of wrongdoing to keep people even worse than him away from you.

So it's less that you're just above him so much as you're above everyone. He's actually, perhaps surprisingly, a little bit of a pessimist about the world. The world is full of so many terrible people and so many horrible things happen that he's borne witness to. It's a "world cold and hard, (y/n) soft and warm" sort of thing. You're the one good thing, the thing that makes him happy, the ultimate source of comfort he has, and he has to prevent you from being defiled by the evil of the world, keep you innocent and sweet (even if he's just deluding himself to think you are those things in the first place).

This ties into, again, how he interprets every action you take as good and benevolent -- he has the "you can do no wrong" mentality. Even very blatantly malicious things, he'll interpret in a way that makes you somehow still come out a perfect, innocent angel. If you do harm to others, well, they simply deserved it. You did something technically wrong, but you knew no better, or you were desperate. You can't be held responsible for any of it. And if you're mean to him, well, he probably did something to make you upset.

How determined are they for you to love them? How hard will they try to make it happen? Or are they content just having you?

Sort of a duality. Yes, he's very persistent. He thinks about it all the time. Every time you yell and try to run and hurl nasty insults at him, it hurts far more than you realize. He doesn't let it show on his face or in his voice, but it really does, and it gets to him sometimes. He's hyper observant of every little thing you do, your body language, your tone, the way you look at him, and the slightest of differences can change his mood internally, although it tends to look the same outwardly.

He makes little mental notes of it -- today she didn't flinch when I touched her shoulder. Today she didn't frown when she saw me coming. Little things like that will make his entire day. Likewise, the inverse kills him inside. He aims to make every day one of the former days, where the littlest signs of acceptance or even kindness and affection give him a sort of high that makes him feel like he's floating.

He tries his best to do things that he thinks will, well, earn love. Every opportunity to do something for you, he takes it. Everything he sees he'd think you'd like, he buys (or steals, or... loots from a dead body) for you. On and on that idea goes. And although he doesn't say too much, when he does speak to you, he usually has something nice to say. He views it in a formulaic way -- ironically, think about it like those collectibles in overworlds. You get enough of this or that thing, and once you have enough, you can go talk to this or that person and donate them all and get a reward, right? He's accustomed to viewing things that way. Love should be the same way. If he just completes enough tasks and gathers enough items, eventually he'll unlock your love.

That being said, even if it doesn't happen, much to your despair, he just... doesn't. Give. Up. He doesn't quit. No matter how many times you tell him, it doesn't make a difference. You can tell him you'll never love him, and it's like it goes in one ear and out the other. He keeps trying. And he never, ever, ever stops trying. What did you expect? The boy's been fighting the same enemy over and over across lifetimes, needless to say his spirit has build up some persistence.

Bonus: Is there anything that makes them unique, in comparison to other yanderes?

Bonus: Zelda/Triforce of Wisdom Darling

And don't worry. If it all goes wrong, when he fails, those divergences in time where the hero is vanquished and evil wins out -- it's not the end. Somehow, that's the feeling he gets, holding your little lifeless body up, running hands across your cold skin. Somehow, he feels oddly calm. Like it hurts, but it's ok. Like he'll see you again. Maybe not soon, but one day. This time didn't work out. But the next one will.

And that's the feeling you'll always have. Every time you meet him and you feel like you've met before, the lingering memories when you wake from your dreams -- flying through skies and sailing on oceans, a child, an adult, a boy you've never met, or one you've known all your life, but it's always the same face, the same voice, the one right beside you in the waking world. You sometimes wonder if he has the same feelings, the same dreams, the same sense of something greater than yourselves at work, the sense of being just smaller pieces in a much bigger picture.

The sense of permanency, that each other is all there will ever be -- regardless of how it makes you feel, regardless of how that scares you, sometimes you feel like you can never be free. Sometimes, when you think of running away, those dark moments when you think of even escaping from life itself, it feels futile. It's as if you know it would never hold him away forever. As if death is insignificant. Perhaps in this lifetime, you'll become aware of why that is, or perhaps not.

With other obsessive lovers, just the idea of til death do us part is a terrifying thought. But, for Link, not even death can keep him away from you. Your suffering is already determined by the will of higher power, for the sake of a greater good. 

In truth, it’s the goddesses who made him this way intentionally -- it’s designed to ensure your safety, even at the cost of your suffering. Again, for a greater good. Sure, you may live one lifetime to the next desperately locked in the same cycle in which your freedom and will is stripped from you, but in the end, it serves a purpose. 

Nor will he change -- perhaps this one this time is a bit more spirited, more calm, more pessimistic, more optimistic... but in the end, at their core, they're the same soul, with the same will deep, deep down. The same drive to find you and protect you. The same love for you, an all-consuming love that destroys everything in its path to you and leaves ruin in its wake.

And if fate should one day keep you apart, should things change, for whatever reason, it’s unable to change him. There's another force even more powerful than fate determined to keep you together. The only thing more unavoidable, inevitable, and unescapable than fate, is Link himself.

------------------------------------

General perverseness: how sexual of a person are they? What’s their drive like? How touchy do they get? Do they have any reservations about sexuality?

In moments of passion, he changes a bit, unlike other more submissive yans who stay consistent in their reverence and desire to please.

You see, after a while, being as lenient and tolerant and flexible and completely devoted as he is... constantly self-sacrificing in so many ways, to you, to Hyrule, to the world... some frustrations build up. It's a big, big bottle of emotion, all tucked away and festering, getting greater and greater and eventually it has to explode somehow.

His reservations and inhibitions fall away. Perhaps a darker, more selfish side comes out. Perhaps that's why he's so rough. He knows he'll regret it later, the bruises from how hard he grips, the marks from the bites, but the hormones and the heat takes over. He'll feel bad for defiling you. He'll apologize. And he'll do it again. And again. And again.

But once the resolve crumbles, it topples. That is, he can't partially maintain it -- if it's partially gone, it falls apart completely. He lets go, so to speak. And when he lets go, you find that underneath that carefully constructed resolve and willpower that holds him back, he can be a very, very rough and possessive lover. In his normal state, he wouldn't dare think of you as a possession, or as something he's even worthy of. He would like so, so much to think that, to feel like he's allowed to -- but he doesn't. He chastises himself for even having such a desire. But in those moments, when his resolve is gone and his brain isn't thinking quite too clearly, he might even have to audacity to say "mine." Even if it's not true, not now, maybe it will be. He would like that so much. His and his alone.

And in a moment of clarity, he might even throw away the inhibition on purpose. The more selfish side, the same Link that drags you away from your destiny -- he's already forsaken his responsibilities, hasn't he? Why care anymore about the structures that no longer exist, your status and his, if there's no kingdom left? He likes that it happened, even. This way, this time, you can throw off those titles, those roles. Without your status, your title, there's nothing stopping him from making you his. And you will be his, and nothing more. It's all you need to be. So he doesn't have to care anymore about any of that, he doesn't have to stop himself from going wild. Biting into every little spare patch of skin, covering your body with marks that make him feel comforted to see.

As far as drive it's a bit of a two-sided duality. Outwardly he's not a very sexual person at all, blushes and stutters and averts his gaze at the slightest mention of suggestive topics, tries his best to be Respectful(tm) by always looking away when you're in a compromising position, or your skirt flies up, etc etc. Given how constant his vigilance is, he has a tendency to accidentally walk in on your changing or bathing, except unlike with many yanderes, it's genuinely an accident. Not that the image doesn't stick in his mind, nor does he wish he hadn't gotten to see, but he does feel guilty, and it was genuinely unintentional. He kinda freezes up, so it takes a moment for him to actually snap out of it and run out.

That being said, he quickly develops something of a masturbation addiction when he's younger, it starts as more of a stress reliever than anything, He's so sweet and always feels bad about talking about his problems and feelings, so that and, well, violence are the only ways he can get it out. Thus he learns to channel stress and nerves into sexuality, and once he has a real living body and not just his hand, that dependency on cumming to relieve it doesn't change.

How forceful are they? Do they care about your willingness?

Particularly so, yes, cares quite a bit. And it takes a while for him to feel comfortable. Even consensually, the first few times he touches you for several months, he's got trembling hands and stays quieter than ever, constantly freezes up every time you move or make a noise because he thinks he's done something wrong. He has to be coaxed into feeling more comfortable before he gets used to it, but he will build confidence over time.

As addressed before, though, if he's pushed and pushed and pushed long enough, you can get a darker side to come out. This is most likely something that would only occur post-kidnapping in a distant time, once he's far away from any possibility of consequence and destruction has set in to the world around you. He starts to get a little bitter, if you've been mean to him. It all builds up. Don't you get that he's literally saved your life? That he devoted every waking second to you? Isn't he kinda entitled to some thanks? The cycle of time never rewards him. Even the figures he helps over time rarely give him more than a verbal praise and thanks, maybe an item here or there, and then disappear. His role feels thankless. He starts to feel like he deserves something, something tangible, in return.

Surprisingly, though, he actually does not take the route of guilt-tripping or emotional manipulation or gaslighting his way into it like a lot of the sweeter yanderes when he does have that snap. His snaps/breakdowns are rather extreme in terms of how much of a polar opposite they are to his normal state, rather than just a slight bend of his normal personality. Rather than taking the route of most yanderes like himself, he just gets directly physically forceful. Still somewhat sweet, though, reminds you he loves you, he'd die for you, you're his entire world. You'd argue that doesn't really change the actions, but considering how frightening he is in that state, you're not dumb enough to vocalize that.

The guilt consumes him alive afterwards. Like, immediately afterwards. He's still panting and twitching and buried inside when it sets in. That being said, he doesn't get to stuttering and profusely apologizing, like he does over smaller offenses. It's all done and he can't take it back, so he just kinda collapses and says nothing. He's not the best with words, you know. It's an odd mixture of guilt and, honestly, a bit of satisfaction and relief. It feels like letting go of some self-imposed burden, that feeling of finally surrendering to some deep want, even if it comes with a lot of remorse, the relief of finally letting go does have a good feeling as well... and because of that, it’s another one of those barriers that, once broken, can’t be built up again.

What sort of kinks or fetishes do they have, or would they fill?

In all honesty the boy is, for the most part, a fairly gentle and vanilla lover. He doesn't really need anything special to get off -- he's easily excited and cums very very easily too. Just the prospect of getting to stick his dick in you in any capacity is enough to make him nearly burst at the thought honestly.

In general, as aforementioned, he's very very cautious and gentle to a point, but has a tendency to get actually kinda rough once he gets into it. The thing is, the roughness aspect is actually unintentional. He's one of those boys that is a little bit unaware of his own strength, doesn't process exactly how hard and fast he's going. He just gets lost in the feeling, kinda enters a dazed lusty haze where he's less aware of his actions. Doesn't realize he's literally got an iron grip pressing your head down on his dick or into the bed until you start flailing your hands because you can't breathe. Doesn't realize how hard he was gripping until he sees the bruises on your arms and hips later. That sort of deal -- poor thing is just unaware and doesn't have enough blood in his brain to think straight.

Biting

Surprisingly a really big one for him. (Remnants of a past life cycle with some lupine experiences perhaps?) In all seriousness, he could not explain exactly why if asked, it's one of those "I just like it" sort of things. It feels like yet another way to conjoin the two bodies, pulls you close. The marking aspect is also nice. Granted, he feels guilty afterwards, tries to help it heal. He has that same duality where moments ago he was this intimidating beast of a human being, rough and growly and jerking you like you were weightless, and now he's back to this bright eyed softie stuttering while he apologizes.

The guilt is mixed with a bit of enjoyment, though. It's constantly conflicting -- sure, part of him understands it's embarrassing and will help you cover up, but part of him doesn't want to, he wants people to see. Part of him looks at the marks and tells himself internally to never do that again, and part of him sees them and just wants to give you even more. It's a constant internal conflict, poor thing.

As far as a place, he likes the neck and shoulders best, simply because it's the most visible and it's the most passionate ones to create, when your bodies are tightly locked together. That being said, though, he also has a thing for biting at the insides of your thighs. It's another one of those I just like it sort of things.

Sometimes, when you're asleep, or pretending to be, you can feel him trace the bite marks with his fingers, softly running them over the circular pattern, just enough to barely ghost over your flesh.

Somnophilia

It puts him at ease. This one is particularly prevalent towards the beginning of your relationship, before you really know... how he is. He has this image of you as so pure and he couldn't bear the thought of defiling you with his horrible horrible thoughts. The guilt eats away at him for a while, but eventually he just can't hold back, but how could he ever do anything to you and risk consequence? So... the solution he comes up with is waiting until you sleep.

He tests the waters to see how heavy of a sleeper you are. Calls your name at increasing volume, lightly runs his fingers over your hair, pokes your face, whispers in your ear, runs his hands over your arms. Just to see what makes you rustle, if anything, so he knows the limits. If it turns out you're an incredibly light sleeper, well, unfortunately that means he's limited to just jerking off to your sleeping form, but that's ok. Just seeing your soft face and the cute way you breathe, the slightest way your lips open, that's enough for him.

If it turns out you're a heavier sleeper though, well, he tries to fight the temptation, but ends up going further. Slowly climbs onto your bed, careful to make the weight shift as gently as possible. Slowly pulls the covers back. Runs his hands up and down. It's a lot better when he can actually see your body as he jerks off, honestly. If he's feeling particularly risky, he might press your thighs together, feel how soft your skin is to his cock, how nice the squeezing pressure between them is.

He gets easily lost in a haze, though, so he inevitably ends up accidentally cumming on you and has to frantically find a way to lightly dab it up without waking you. He panics quite a bit, but that doesn't stop him from doing it again the very next night.

Overstimulation/Forced Orgasm

It just means he's doing a good job, really. Sure, you squeal and kick your feet back and forth and tug at his hair, but that's just because it feels good. Orgasms equate to love and feel good, right? Sure there's a little bit of pain when you go overboard, but then it just leads to feeling even better, right?

It's kind of an irrational compulsion rather than a logical goal, though. He just has an impulsive need to feel you quiver and spasm and clench, it basically gives him a chemical high hit and a wave of reassurance, makes him feel good in both the physical sense and the emotional sense. The first one sends him into this compulsive need to feel it over and over and over again, as many times as he can. It's another one of his internal conflict things -- sure, he knows it's hurting, but he just has to get one more. Just one more. But of course, every time turns into "just one more" when he's been saying that for half an hour now.

And, to be honest, it kind of gives him a pride boost to think he can make you cum against your will. How many people struggle to achieve that even when both parties are trying? It makes him feel good in an adequacy sort of way, he feels needed.

Size Kink/Distension

You know, there's a well-known thing among the male-lovers in this world when it comes to size. It's never the arrogant, loud guys, it's never the social butterflies, it's never the tall guys, it's never the beefy muscly guys. No, they're not the ones that end up somehow bestowed with absolute monster cocks. It's always the soft, lean boys who don't talk much. And they're always painfully unaware of it, too.

He's no exception. Not to the size or the complete lack of awareness. He hasn't spent a lot of time around guys his age too much, he's always been the one sent for some special task and ends up out in the wilderness by himself on journeys, or, in some lifetimes, accompanying you most of the time. He doesn't know what the average dick looks like, so he has no idea he's far above average.

This might sound like a plus, and of course in some ways it is, but also he doesn't think about the fact that the average body isn't properly equipped to handle it. You're supposed to just kinda put it in, that's how the sex works, right? Poor thing, especially if it's entirely consensual sex, he's just kinda ???? because why are you in pain? What is he doing wrong? You have to eventually explain it's literally just his body, not something he's doing.

That being said, naturally, he's a humble person, but hearing you say that does kinda... make him feel good inside. A little bit proud. He's not a person who takes a lot of pride in many things, so he likes having this one thing, and quickly notices you can visibly see it through the bulge it makes in your stomach. Especially if it's in a position where your back is pressed to his front, every little movement creates the bulge, so expect to get a lot of that.

He doesn't really bring it up much or talk about it when he's actually fucking you, it's more like, as with many things, something he's quietly aware of and silently enjoys a lot internally, even if it's not voiced.

How do they feel about pregnancy or babies? Do they want them?

Yes and no. It has to do with his overactive protection instinct. What if something happened or went wrong? He couldn't take that. He couldn't lose you.

At the same time, he likes kids, and he's very good with them, very patient. And over time, realizes that a kid would be the perfect tool of manipulation, and besides that, isn't it a beautiful thing, an ultimate manifestation of love?

So how to work around that... Ultimately, what he decides to do is have a kid... Just not by blood. There are plenty of orphans in Hyrule, wandering the streets and the wilderness, picking one up is easy. ...You wouldn't leave this poor child to suffer out there, to fend for themselves, would you? Nor would you leave him to take care of it by himself... Right?

What kind of (nsfw) punishments would they use?

Oh, it's not like he thinks of it that way. He would call it... a reminder. You put yourself in danger again? You tried to go back again? You were gone and for ten whole minutes he didn't know where you were? What could the solution to this issue be? The only thing his brain can really come up with is making sure you need him. Making sure you're content and satisfied here with him so you don't go running off.

Thus we return to the forced orgasm thing -- see, you do need him. It feels good, right? You say it hurts, and maybe it does a little, but ultimately you wouldn't be cumming if it wasn't good. No one else can ever do that. No one else knows you like this. No one else was made for you like this. You can't replace him. You need him. And he can keep going as many times as it takes until you see that, too. Even if he gets milked dry, he has a mouth and hands for a reason.

And by "until you see that," I mean until you say it. In his more... emotionally intense moments, he gets a bit insistent. He needs to hear you say it. Admit it to yourself. And to him. That you need him, that you depend on him, that you'll never leave again. And don't think your patience and tolerance can stand a chance of outlasting his -- it will keep going until you say it.

What body parts of their darling do they like the most?

He's one of those wholesome type of boys who goes with something sweet. He says maybe your hair, your face, your skin, your eyes. It's all so comforting. So familiar. Of course, not to say that he doesn't like your less wholesome mentionable parts, but he wants to be chivalric about such a question, and feels answering that way would be too disrespectful.

In his unspoken thoughts, though, he likes the hips. It's a part of you he can grab onto and hold you close with. He puts his hands there a lot and holds tight, like he feels like at any moment you could slip out of his grasp. And, I mean, it's nice to look at, can't forget that.

[midoriyashotos]

Unbreakable

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationships: Kirishima Eijiro/Midoriya Izuku

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Kirishima Eijiro, Bakugo Katsuki; MINOR ROLES - 1-A students

Summary: “Get out of the way, Kirishima,” Katsuki warns him. “I won’t hesitate to break your face in fucking pieces!”

“Then DO IT! I DON’T CARE!” Kirishima roars. He’s never sounded this angry. “I won’t let you break Midoriya EVER AGAIN!”

--

In which someone finally stands up for Izuku.

AO3 / Fanfiction

A/N: basically I wrote Kirishima being protective of Izuku, because it’s interesting how he hates bullies but never stands up to Bakugo...

I hope this isn’t too OOC. Enjoy!

TRIGGER WARNINGS - minor violence, bullying/abuse and injury.

*NOT BAKUGO/KIRIBAKU/BAKUDEKU FRIENDLY!

--

Izuku is happy, really.

Sure, it can be exhausting. It can be aggravating to live up to what comes with being the Symbol of Peace. And it’s also terrifying the reminder that Katsuki knows about his secret and has a lot more reason to hate him.

Not that Katsuki would ever quit hating Izuku, but still.

In the very least, the explosive boy doesn’t hit Izuku regularly anymore. People in their school don’t take Katsuki seriously like it happened in Middle School, so it’s a relief.

(They constantly call Katsuki and Izuku childhood friends, though.)

(Or rivals. Are they really rivals?)

Regardless, as long as Izuku stays away from Katsuki, he’ll be fine.

So, he’s happy.

--

When they can, 1-A has fun nights that may include eating cake and candies, playing games and watching movies – sometimes all in the same night. His classmates are very united in that sense.

Tonight, they’re sharing a big cake everyone helped Sato with; the teenagers are all separated in groups that fill the common room with life.

Izuku might subconsciously flinch every time a certain voice raises near him. Thankfully, it’s not directed at him – once he looks, he finds Katsuki and his friends messing with him. The greenette sighs in relief.

The boy spends most of the night alongside Uraraka, Iida, Tsuyu and Todoroki. At one point, though, Izuku rests alone on the green couch, honestly a little drained by all the energy today, given the yelling and cursing that persists in what should’ve been a good time.

As his head is stuck in his thoughts, Izuku jolts when someone reaches him in the almost untouched spot.

“Hey, Midoriya! What’s up, man?”

Kirishima grins at him. His usually spiky hair is down today (a detail Izuku strives not to stare at for too long, because that’s creepy).

“K-Kirishima-kun! Hi!” Izuku stammers.

“You partied a lot?”

Izuku laughs shyly, “Yeah, had plenty of cake.”

“That’s the spirit,” Kirishima smiles. “Mind if I take a break with you?”

“A-Ah, sure. I mean, you can sit! Feel free to!”

His red-haired friend sits close to him, maybe… a little too close, the other notes. Izuku holds his cup of now-warm soda, playing with it nervously. Kirishima’s enthusiasm and passion honestly still catch him off guard. At first, Izuku thought he’d be… different. Spiky hair, red eyes, sharp teeth…

Instead, Kirishima turned out to be one of the sweetest and brightest people Izuku has ever known. He brings a lot of spirit to their class.

(And now that Izuku knows, Kirishima does look a lot more friendly and… cute.)

“… Midoriya, you’re looking kind of red…”

Izuku’s green eyes enlarge comically, cheeks burning.

“GAH! I-It’s nothing, Kirishima-kun! It’s just- h-hot in here, isn’t it?” Izuku ignores the fact they’re all wearing sweaters in this chilly night; but he supposes Kirishima does it as well, since he doesn’t touch on it.

If anything, the redhead smiles at him fondly.

(For the love of All Might, it’s too breathtaking.)

Izuku finds some ease, though, in his friend’s heat next to him. Kirishima’s presence is solid and stable like his quirk, but soft and gentle all at same. It perfectly encapsulates who Kirishima is, as a hero and a person.

Still, the freckled boy can’t help but wonder why Kirishima has decided to join him. Izuku is not doing anything particularly interesting. They’re not talking… but it’s not awkward, either.

Regardless, Izuku’s peace is disturbed yet again by Katsuki’s yelling bursts, his steaming hands felt from far away. As always, it’s just Sero, Kaminari and Ashido having fun with him.

Before Izuku can dive in his terrified relief, he’s reminded of the fact Kirishima is next to him, and maybe watching him as well.

“You okay?”

“Y-Yeah! Yeah… Kacchan’s enthusiasm is…” Izuku gulps, “a little too much sometimes.”

“Oh.” Kirishima sounds a little suspicious, but he quickly resumes his smiley nature. “Man, tell me about it,” he jokes.

Izuku holds his plastic cup tighter, refraining himself from tearing it apart and spilling all the soda on the floor.

“I can tell he’s having fun, at least,” Izuku analyzes. “He really likes you guys.”

“Yeah…” Kirishima pauses, only to laugh nervously, “he doesn’t really know how to show that, though.”

(Izuku recalls all the punches to Kirishima’s stony hair, and the insults Katsuki throws at him on a daily basis.)

“At least he likes you, Kirishima-kun,” Izuku reassures him in a lighthearted tone. “Kacchan was never happy with me.”

Admittedly, he hasn’t quite thought over these words – nor was he expecting Kirishima’s concerned gaze, his fondness of Katsuki gone.

“What do you mean?” The red-haired boy inquires.

“Ah, you know…” Izuku clears his throat, as his other classmates party and pay them no mind. “Kacchan’s called me weak since we were kids. He’s always been competitive, and- since my quirk took a while to show up”— he gulps due to the weight of the lie —“we were never…” he trails off, really not wanting to give more details.

“… you were never friends?” Kirishima completes.

Izuku swallows the bitter taste in his mouth and silently shakes his head.

“B-But it’s okay, though! We’re good now,” he tries to convince his friend (… and himself). “I just have to stay away from him because- you know how he is. But he’s got you guys as friends, so I know he’s happy.”

Kirishima looks away, thoughtful. He doesn’t seem entirely relieved by his words. Izuku suddenly feels the need to escape – what has he done?

“I- I need to go to the restroom!” He jumps from the sofa before Kirishima stops him.

Izuku is in such a rush that he doesn’t realize Katsuki is in his way.

“Oi!” Katsuki snaps. His eyes are immediately spiteful. “Deku…”

“K-KACCHAN! SORRY!!” Izuku runs even faster – how embarrassing.

“Get in my way again and I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Bakugo, chill,” Izuku hears Kaminari say nonchalantly.

This is his reality.

He’s happy with it. He is.

--

Everything was fine. Truly. Izuku has no idea what he did wrong.

(He’s never known, beside having no quirk in the past.)

They were training at the gym, outside of class time. Izuku tends to train on his own, but lately he’s been sparring with Kirishima, whose quirk helps with more physical attacks. It also helps Kirishima’s special technique in return.

Basically, Izuku and some of his classmates were going for a break, to drink water and eat whatever strengthens their quirks (like Sato having to eat more sugar). On his way, Izuku passed by Katsuki, who’s literally never in a good mood.

“Deku.”

“S-Sorry, Kacchan! You can go ahead!”

“As if I’ll fucking do what you say,” Katsuki bumps his arm into Izuku, hard, as he mutters in his breath, “shitty nerd.”

Izuku gulped and said nothing else.

(The freckled teen strived to not let One for All concentrate in his clenched fists.)

So, when everyone is gathered, chatting with one another, Izuku is admittedly distant from them. Katsuki would glare at him every now and then just for existing, no matter how far he was.

That’s the reason Izuku refuses to train with all of them when Kirishima suggests. Izuku tells them he’d be on his own again – his tone maybe too tight and serious. His classmates don’t question it, despite their concerned looks. Izuku tries to avoid Kirishima’s in particular – because he loves spending time with them, with him, he really does but…

“Yeah, leave Deku,” Katsuki voices in opposition, “it’s better than dealing with a dead weight.”

“Yikes, Bakugo! That’s really uncalled for!” Kaminari protests.

“I know you guys are rivals, but that’s too much, don’t you think?” Sero scolds.

Izuku stares at Katsuki, ignoring his classmates’ statements. Izuku stares deep into his red eyes: unlike Kirishima’s, they’re dreadful, have been since they were only five. He has the same superior stance and tone. Katsuki is the exact same person as the senseless bully that told Izuku to kill himself not too long ago.

The green-haired teenager’s look becomes intense. Furious. The kind of fury that doesn’t always show, because everything is bound to fall apart.

Even when his eyes avert from Katsuki, that’s what ultimately happens.

“Oi, fucking look at me!”

Despite Katsuki’s terrifying rage, Izuku defies.

“Why should I?” He mumbles, his voice gradually raising and deepening, “I can’t even exist near you.”

“What did you fucking say?”

Izuku’s hands clench into tight fists, glowing with One for All. His green eyes sparkle with intensity and ferocity.

“You heard me, Katsuki.”

The atmosphere is instantly changed.

“H-Hey guys, come on, don’t fight!...” Sero chuckles nervously, only to be pushed away by powerful hands.

Katsuki rages and advances, raising his arm.

Although he can defend himself, Izuku can only brace for the impact.

(It’s what he can do. The anticipation. The acceptance. He’s always expecting a blast to his face, and the reminder that he’ll never be good enough. No matter how hard he tries, whether or not he has a quirk; nothing matters to Katsuki, as long as Izuku stops existing.)

Izuku waits.

But it never comes.

No. He hears the explosion blocked by something hard – hard like a rock. And once Izuku looks up, he covers his mouth to contain a gasp.

“What the hell is your problem?!” Kirishima screams, arms together like a shield, the sharp skin scratched by the burnings of Katsuki’s hands.

Katsuki himself is also shocked for a moment. For one, nobody else has ever dared to get in the way of his attacks, either because they’re too scared of him… or they don’t fear him enough to stop him. But most importantly, Kirishima has never stood up to Katsuki. Kirishima has endured his insults, sure, but he’s never defied him in an actual fight.

“Get out of the way, Kirishima,” Katsuki warns him. “I won’t hesitate to break your face in fucking pieces!”

“Then DO IT! I DON’T CARE!” Kirishima roars. He’s never sounded this angry. “I won’t let you break Midoriya EVER AGAIN!”

Izuku can’t move. He can’t say a word.

Katsuki is about to hit Kirishima again without any remorse, only for Sero to hold him back with as many tapes as he can make. Sato, Shoji and Koda help, while Kaminari tries to calm Kirishima down, which has zero effect.

“You’re not a man, Bakugo! You’re a goddamn abuser!” Kirishima points at him. “And abusers ARE NOT MY FRIENDS!”

“Dude, stop! You’re going to make it worse!” Kaminari scolds him, whereas Katsuki has already reduced himself to incomprehensible, enraged noises. Jiro might even rush to call Aizawa-sensei to hold both Katsuki and Kirishima back.

In spite of all the rage he must be feeling, Kirishima still stands protectively in front of Izuku, instinctively approaching him every time Katsuki threatens to break free and come after them.

Regardless, Izuku can still do nothing.

Nothing at all.

--

As expected, Katsuki and Kirishima are suspended for days – similar to when Izuku was forced to fight his classmate a few months ago.

Uraraka and Todoroki stay with Izuku as they wait. Only Kirishima returns to the dorms for now. His friends initially don’t understand why he fought Katsuki, assuming he’d lost his calm for nothing.

Yet Kirishima answers to none of these questionings. The moment he finds Izuku, his look softens, and he rushes to check over him.

“Midoriya,” he whispers in concern, “are you okay?”

Izuku dumbly gazes at him in response, swallowing a gasp when he notices the damage that Katsuki’s explosion did to Kirishima’s face; even with Recovery Girl’s help, the painful scratches can still be seen.

“K-Kirishima-kun…” Izuku chokes with tears welling up in his eyes, and the many feelings and words he’s struggling to understand.

The boy isn’t sure how he should feel. He’s guilty for putting Kirishima in danger, and for ruining his friendship with Katsuki. But Izuku is also angry at Katsuki for not hesitating to hurt someone that cares so much for him. Izuku is furious that Katsuki hasn’t changed at all.

Even so, the freckled teen feels relief. That someone was there, that someone actually stepped up and defended him.

(That someone was his hero, differently from when All Might saved him from the slime monster.)

Izuku launches himself towards Kirishima, wrapping his shaking arms around him. He wants to say all of those things so badly, but he fails. Kirishima’s soft arms hold him back and caress him, fingers running through his messy green hair.

“It’s okay,” Kirishima whispers to him, and says those same words countless times. Izuku’s cries are muffled by his shirt.

It’s like everything else disappears, and it’s only Kirishima and Izuku in this world. Kirishima shields him from every insult, every kick, every punch and slap across his face and his ruptured heart. Kirishima embraces his scars and making sure to be there to tend to them.

Izuku can only cry.

--

Later that night, Kirishima stays with Izuku in his dorm. It’s not like he can sleep with Katsuki’s room right next to his.

Izuku has already dried his eyes out of tears, and flooded Kirishima’s shirt as a result. Regardless, the two boys are glued to one another in Izuku’s bed, Kirishima rubbing his shoulders and the back of his neck. Izuku can’t help melting and clinging to him.

Even so, Izuku only has one question in mind.

“… Why did you do it?”

“He hurts you,” Kirishima answers simply.

Izuku gulps. “But he’s your friend…”

“I don’t think he was ever really my friend, Midoriya.”

Izuku pulls away to face him, the scratches in Kirishima’s face clearer than ever.

“I remember our first class with All Might. Bakugo wanted to kill you,” Kirishima harshly reminds, hands tighter on Izuku. “I knew there was something wrong with him, and yet I still went on to hang out with him. I admired his skills, I called him a man, I sacrificed everything to save his goddamn life because I cared about him. I… thought he was my friend.” He pauses. “Even when he called me Shitty Hair or hit me… I thought I could endure him – and maybe I did. But in the end, I ignored who he really was, and I let him hurt someone I care about for way too long.”

“No…” Izuku protests, “please don’t blame yourself! I was the one who—”

“Midoriya, you’re my friend. I knew Bakugo sucked, and even if he was my friend, I never did anything! And I’m really, really sorry.” Kirishima cups Izuku’s cheek with one of his hands. “I’m so sorry I ignored you. I promise you, I’m not enduring any of his shit anymore.”

Izuku gapes at him. “Kirishima-kun…”

“If he ‘cares’ about me, I don’t give a crap,” the red-eyed boy says firmly. “He sure as hell doesn’t respect me, only when I behave the way he wants. I don’t owe him anything, and I’m not standing around and letting him hurt me or my friends ever again.”

Maybe he should insist. Tell Kirishima that, if it weren’t for Izuku’s pathetic existence, his friendship with Katsuki wouldn’t have ended.

But Izuku doesn’t.

Because Kirishima is right.

Izuku’s hand touches his face, internally flinching when he feels the wounds caused by Katsuki.

“I just don’t want you to hurt because of me,” Izuku admits.

“Midoriya… nothing Bakugo does to me could ever hurt more than knowing he’s abused you for your whole life.”

Abuse. The same word he used for Katsuki earlier today.

“I’ll make sure he never hurts you again, okay?” Kirishima squeezes him. “I promise.”

Although he doesn’t literally say it, it’s clear to Izuku the love in his friend’s words.

The love in Kirishima’s smile whenever Izuku stutters and says a jumbled mess. The love in Kirishima’s concerned eyes when Izuku insists he’s okay when he isn’t. The love in his red eyes and words when Katsuki hurt him. The love in his touches, his soft hands protecting Izuku, understanding his scars.

Kirishima loves him. He really does.

Izuku bursts in tears again and Kirishima lets him, soothing him until the end.

[captainkurosolaire]

A Father’s Instinct!

The emerging stark black and white halves returned with a shattering of Silv’a ice-fence with a flashiness, they were past their play-enclosure. When arriving they saw only the foul demon who was kicking back and forth Nihlius and Klethera with their helpless unconscious state, each painfully being decimated and cheaply used as something to get aggression off with sadistic intent. Grinding a foot over and slamming it over and over Klethera who was screeching in bloodied pain in such defensiveness, trickling of celestially sparks of life, called tears, were protruding from her oceanic blues. Captain and Shiro stood in dismay both trembling but a slow-languid stare, tilted head of the Noble, came to look at the pirate’s response… Blistering red heat emitted his sun-kissed complexion. Why... why was it so scorching hot, so hot, so painfully searing like being thrust in the Sun. Blood pumping and swelling out against the surface breaking every blood-vessel into vascular veins, muscles enlarging and expanding from tensing, bulging, nail’s breaking flesh into its own. Sweaty and unruly deep thick melting red waters flowed in contesting against the cool-shifting room’s temperature. Brow-twisting and twitching, eye’s dilating and spinning around faster than the rotating orbit of the world. This feeling… Uneven attainable unless you possessed someone of your own, those tears held glitter stars of hope, and they were shedding from anguish. Gut-wrenched his diaphragm uncaring to even breathe. Caution drowned away, rightful sanity was murdered. Zieton’s own heed, ‘The half-soul you have is now an empty pot, what you fill, is what you’ll receive, that goes for all seed’s in life.’  Disregarded, nothing mattered, who cared anymore, was transcribed over. He was careful. Never wanting to let a child of his own into his dangerous sailor escapades, the same went for all he valued and loved, wives.., To know him, is to die so it seemed the outcome, or be forced to be strong, he pushed away everything and castaway it for many sake’s…but... Klethera, weaseled herself into his life with unrelenting to track and succeed in finding her deadbeat and chose this on her own, not for him, but her. Shiro was staggering noticing and barely able to fathom what was consuming his rival. Captain drowned and died on this day. He blew through with a Father’s instinct, of sheer resolve, the power that’d DESTROY anything God or none, to rip the head off shoulders for those who’d make their children suffer. The same adrenaline that’d an exhibiting atypical regular parent, under desperation were documented in news the uncanny performance to seething of upset feats which punctured through impossibilities. Pupil’s swallowed away as his eye’s seethed and glowered red. He broke through a Ghost-Step and round kicked the devil off her and then instantaneously a series of two identical clones carrying his fury began erupting with the same rage, the room was being taken over from an uproar of animistic rage that brought even sorrow.  A demon found himself becoming intensified and strong from this and was able to dodge the clone’s before grabbing both their legs on respective sides. Limit’s were insignificantly allowing Captain to push another close in quarter, ghost-step, nothing would allow him to get away, his teeth puncturing his own mouth, as he brought an indomitable punch that shattered through Silv’a’s entire sternum and broke through on the opposing side. Silv’a found himself in more agony than he could suffer screaming, ‘get off, get off, get off!’ getting his karma. Senses overloaded Captain was devoid of all reason, logic. Returning to his heritage of a lineage of savages. Harkening primal and primitiveness that conquered his mind.  Backhead round kick’s of the clone’s unleashed before squeezing this fiend’s arm’s and tugging on them to yank them off with a ferocity. Trying to escape the clutches but that blasted fist straight through the sternum prevented him, his feet were caught and pinned as Captain’s boots and weight prevented him, that facial rage overflowing with hostility, Captain broke a torrent of headbutts and then wrapped his second palm around a wrangling throat and began tugging up, at the risk of tearing this demon sheerly apart from spine, like a furious lion who watched a cub being abducted. His aether… so volatile was biting at both their fleshes like stings of bees. Shiro reinforced his rival with a skin of diamond ice but had to channel it and maintain it. Captain was temporarily indestructible, unwavering, finding his nails growing and sharpening from the Amdapori’s cell that had a small remnant trace left, settling into puncturing that so called perfectly immortal body Silv’a sold himself too. Silv’a felt every bone of his rattle like tide’s were going to swallow him into an endless vortex. His own survival instinct, unleashed all the might of the medallion’s of fire and lightning he swallowed. Captain scowled and winced before erupting even more angry and explosively mad, “ANYONE WHO MAKES MY BABY GIRL CRY IS T’ DIE! I WILL RIP YOU LIMB FROM LIMB N’ EVERY EXISTING HELL, THERE IS NO REALM YOU’LL ESCAPE ME.” This was not a threat… It was a promise! No.. worse, it was being proven. Fear knew the demon of a Father who held the belly of a beast. So counter-opposite in their parental approaches and handling. Silv’a was fighting for his life and survival as his neck bones were heard snapping from their sockets. The clone’s kept back and forth punching his face into left and right cheek barrages of complete annihilation and barbarically. Flesh and skin was being removed in an unbridled flash flood of gore. The clone’s dissipated and were electrified out. Giving back his arms, Silv’a unrelenting back, squeezing back and punching fist’s of the voidal inferno into the Seeker. Even with reinforced diamond skin it still busted through with hellish need. The Warlock set a palm on Captain’s face to push him back and even gouged a thumb against his eye socket.  This viscous black lion, wasn’t halting though, only terrifying ever shivering bone of the demoniacal entity. His soul and spirit were being feasted by a fearful aura. Shiro collapsed from being aethercially drained to maintain and sustain all those hits, “I’m sorry.” Face planting with exhaustion barely conscious. Captain showed no restraint as if he was accepting on dying here, wanting to claim the trophy of this demon’s head before. It was his resolve. Though suddenly in fortunate favor, for the demon, the pressure loosened as Captain slunk back and collapsed instantaneously with a lifelessness thud into the pavement. The Noble actually had a shot of mourning and disbelief. Did he just witness his first unspoken…secret friend… die. The Keeper didn’t have anything in his reservoir to repeat the same feat. He didn’t have the force of a brute with carnage. The opposite effect transpired throughout him though. Realization of something angelical, as if felt, he saw the glimpse of a bright sun-ray exorcise all the traces of evilness in him. He felt sheer remorse and emotion that could icebreak his coldness. Convinced and impulsed, ‘to save’ Solaire. At all, cost. His body denied him, making him crawl like a peasant but his arrogance was beside that fact. For once he wanted more than any other time, he wanted to save and protect a life truly. He never wished to do anything else but be an Aegis. Though always unsuccessful or felt, never achieved it. The terrible Silv’a still looked through his shallow hole that went completely through him. He kept puking up an endless entrails of organs. Starting to regenerate, heaving and having to use the maximum force of his medallions wasn’t designed. Furthermore, that shot also broke a Voidal Relic mirror that Silv’a kept clinging to prevent that type of thing from occurring, this beast even punctured through that, these infuriating insects had nullified his foresight, overextending only for that to fail too. Their troublesome union and teamwork was a fellow nightmare. Silv’a gassed and tried to recuperate with such dreadfulness and still a swelling of life-threatening that crept in his spine, immortality… Was this useless his plan for Project Immortal Age? “NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” How dare this mortal question his own self! Demon’s can't feel doubt… He couldn’t either, he achieved a higher-level above all these scattered disarray insignificant whelps!                         (Previous) << (Voidal Relics) >> (Next)  

[dragonswithjetpacks]

The Gratitude of a Hunter

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Ferelith roams the wood at night in search of a clear mind. Just as she finds silence, she finds a beast awaits. Rather than flee, she tames the beast. And extends an offer.

Notes: I have not given anything for BG3 in awhile. While Theurgist is still under works, I am afraid I am stuck. So as a treat and an apology gift, I give this to you all. I have also been extended my writing. So this is not written in my past-tense third party style. If there are mistakes made, please let me know as I am fairly knew to this type. Thank you all so much! <3

Read here on Ao3!

The memories of a place I once called home are still fresh in my head. As I walk through the trees, I can remember the smell of freshly cleaned wood. Though it was never clean for long. The lower part of Baldur’s Gate was dirty. And my shop was filled with dust. With every stack of books I moved, it would shift. And my counters would be dirty again. On the other hand, the trees would always be this way; untampered. Unlike me. Unlike this shift in my head. Unlike the crushing wave of anxiety growing in my chest with every second I felt Fian stir uncomfortably in the back of my thoughts. I wish the trees brought me peace as they did before. But now they look more like the tombstone for my grave.

At least the nights are peaceful here. If there was anything louder than the noise in my head, I am very likely snap. No one would blame me, or so I believe. Even if they did, they wouldn’t for long. Oh, I am quite grateful for the quiet times like this where I can have such impish thoughts. The cruelty in me has not yet been satiated. I have a desire building inside me that I cannot explain. One that has been burning the moment that worm came crawling into my eye socket. If I am quiet enough, I can hear it in there burrowing deeper inside. But tonight, I hear something else that has my attention. A soft moaning through the thicket accompanied by rustling. It sounds more like a wounded animal, but I’ve heard people sound that like before. My feet are cautious and my pace is quick for the sake of my curiosity. As I round a tree I can see it from the corner of my eye. There is a deer on the ground. Beneath its head is a pool of blood. And hovering above it is a fang dripping vampire.

I pause, attempting to calm myself and my heart before he can hear me. But it is too late. He looks up, his red eyes narrowing as he searches for my reaction. My sight shifts to his mouth painted red with fangs unsheathed. The same fangs that were once embedded in me. I recoil in shock, gasping quietly as I am unsure of what offending him might do. His brow becomes furrowed and I can see the wrinkle on the bridge of his nose. He is disgusted with me. I have made him angry.

“Why are you here?” he calls out to me.

I cannot answer. A carnal hunger pulses in my core as I recall his need to taste blood. My skin is reminded of what it felt like to have him clutch my body, the fluid racing through me to reach his lips. I slow my breathing, he cannot know of the uninvited excitement that has introduced itself into my thoughts. I examine him, his chest heaving upward to hide his shame, his fists clenched with anticipation. The deer is barely alive, struggling to keep its eyes open. A leg stretches forward, looking for something solid to keep it steady as it crawls away. I do not care if it lives or dies. But perhaps tonight it will be lucky enough to keep the rest of its blood. I am feeling generous. I am feeling… a bit of pity. But for a different kind of beast. And that burning desire rears its beautiful head in approval toward me. I blink slowly as if the night has taken me into a haze. It almost rings true as my impulse has taken control. He looks confused standing there over his prey, looking at me with anger and a hint of fear. Truth be told, I cannot stand the sight of it. It makes him look so weak.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

The aggression did not take away its true intent. It was a demand, but I could hear it as a plea. I push myself forward and watch him rise to his feet. He brushes the back of his hand against his mouth, removing the blood that remained. How bitter it must taste to come from a being lower than himself. While people are often like cattle to creatures of the night, at least it isn’t feeding on actual mindless animals. The substance of one with intelligence that rivals his own could even be sweet. And I could only imagine I am like honey to him. He can hear my heartbeat race and I can almost see him salivate as I undo the first button on my blouse.

“What are you doing?” he reaches up to grab my hand, but I pull away.

“I can’t watch you like this.”

“Then don’t watch me.”

He spat back and I pause. He is embarrassed, to say the very least. My inner thoughts are not doing him any favors, either. I should not look at him with such disdain. And I would be lying if I said I was doing anything because I felt sorry for him. No, I had thought about the piercing of my flesh for by the sharpness of his teeth since the morning I woke from that first night. I had touched the mark on my neck as I reminisced the sensation it left. The curiosity boiled inside me each night when I watched him slink out of the camp. And the urge to feel him taking my life away grew stronger the more I resisted. It was addicting to have yourself fade away. To know the moment before your body has relinquished its ownership from your soul. I had never experienced anything like it before him. I wanted to slide into a blissful moment where nothing mattered but life... and death.

I move to the second button on my shirt.

“I don’t want your pity,” he almost snarls at me.

I like this about him. Very much.

“Consider it an offering,” I say softly.

My tone changes him, softening his gaze as his eyes flicker to the crook of my neck. The marks from the first bite are still there. The way he inhales sharply makes me believe he likes the way they look, that he would leave more if he could. Whether this is the last time or the beginning to many… I am willing.

“Why would you offer such a prize to me?”

“Because I like you better when you’re properly fed,” I say as I pull on my collar. “When was the last time you drank from something that didn’t walk on four legs?”

“It’s been a few days,” he admitted. “But I’m fine, really.”

The smirk on his face is a lie.

“I’ll have no trouble getting any… sort of…”

I take his hand and surprisingly, he does not resist. It is larger than mine, but not by much. I grasp two of his fingers and he allows me to guide them to my neck. I know he notices my pulse through his gloves, the small palpitations beating into his fingertips. I know because he swallows hard and he stares at me defiantly.

“Just take it,” I shake my head.

I let go, giving him the choice to remove his touch. He does not. His fingers linger at the base of my neck, listening to my heart beating faster with every second I can feel him there. My heart feels as if it will explode, but his hand relaxes and slides to the base where the warmth of his palm greets the nape of my neck. He grips it with ferocity and I am suddenly aware of something sinister behind his eyes. It does not scare me as I smile up at him.

“I could kill you.”

“I know.”

The silence between us lures in tension. I can sense it turning inside my stomach.

“I trust you won’t toss aside the only opportunity you’ll have to feed on decent blood when needed.”

“Decent?” he grinned as he clenches harder. “My darling, you are the definition of exquisite.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“I am not certain you know the decision you’re making.”

“Bren nha ath tel'quiet lor. Teshuel salen alusfaen.”*

His eyes widen as he hears the familiar words from my tongue. He knows elvish. But I imagine it has been a long time since he last heard it spoken fluently. I am surprised to hear how clear it sounds, myself. Though I believe I have Fian to thank for that. And I have no time to thank him. Astarion hesitates no longer and I am caught off guard by the force of his fangs. The initial penetration is more painful than the last as if he was striking with a distinct purpose. Though, his drinking has become more controlled. The pull is slower like a rising tide rather than a bursting wave. My neck does not sting from the sheer force of the blood leaving my body. And I can feel his tongue. It traces the side of my neck between swallows. I clutch his chest, but the leather prevents me from clinging too much. I can already sense my conscious slipping, my vision blurring as I can only make out the ends of his curls. His other arm wraps around me and he leans me back. My blood begins flowing smoothly up my body. And it becomes more comfortable to lose control. I reach up, folding my arms around his neck, cradling him as he takes slow… long drinks…

Everything grows colder, but I ignore it until I can feel it in my fingertips. He notices the change as well as his lips come free of my skin. It is not my voice that brings him to a stop but the loosening grasp of my number fingertips. My knees shake beneath me as my body searches for strength. As he lifts me, my hands clutch the back of his shoulders. His face is close. So close. His eyes are hooded, looking over my profile. They stop at my lips where he looks for what seems like several minutes and I can hear my muffled breaths. He tilts my chin upward, now looking to my neck and the trickling stream of blood running down to my chest. Not a drop goes to waste as his tongue returns to lick from my collar bone to the freshly made wounds. A sigh escapes as I close my eyes. For a moment, I feel his lips again. But he is not drinking. He is just… tasting. They are gentle, sucking on what remains. The second time they make contact, they are softer. This is not a way a beast eats his prey. This is how a hunter gives thanks. And I receive it all down my neck as he peppers my skin with small caresses. I want to enjoy it. I want to urge him to continue. I want to tangle my hands into his curls. I want to feel lost in him further than I already am. But the blackness surrounds me. And I give one final squeeze as everything goes dark.

When I wake, I can hear the faint sound of birds in the trees. I blink slowly, looking as the sky becomes a bit brighter than it was before. I can smell the dew on the grass next to me. And I realize I am still in the wood. I push myself up, ready to sprint back to camp. But I am stopped by two red eyes as Astarion is propped on his elbows at my right.

“Good morning,” he says flatly.

“Morning,” I breathe, looking up to the still darkened sky.

“I’m glad you’re awake, though you look a bit pale,” he leans in to examine me. “Tch. I don’t think this will scar like the last one.”

My head jerks downward as I watch his lip uncurl. The assumptions I had made before were correct; he wants to mark me as his own. I look away quickly under his observing stare. I am not uncomfortable. I am… vulnerable. “Last night was a lovely surprise,” he goes on.

“I wanted to help,” I shoot a glance toward him.

“And you did,” the grin blossoms into a smile as if he is keeping a secret that I only knew a small portion of. “The offering, as you called it, was a treat. But the way you spoke… well,” a heavy breath came through his nose like a machine relieving pressure, “that was a pleasure.”

I open my mouth to speak. But nothing comes out. A flush of heat spreads across my face as I quickly turn away. I reach to close my blouse, but my buttons are already done. I touch the side of my neck and find no moisture. No dried blood. No cover. It is but smooth and clean skin.

“Did you-”

“It felt indecent to leave you exposed,” he rises to his feet.

The impression he leaves is that he had not been by my side the entire night. I fear he had left to find another feast once he had finished with me as there is more blood on the ground just a few feet away. And he looks… rejuvenated, just as before. There is a glow in his eyes and somewhat of a genuine smile that showed happiness. Looking down at me, he holds out a hand. I take it, though rather begrudgingly. I am guided upright but my legs are still weak. The blood rushes as I stand and the throbbing begins.

“We best get back before the others wake,” he suggests.

“Very well,” I nod.

“If they are awake, I am leaving the explanation to you.”

My eyes narrow at him in annoyance.

“I mean, I could think of many ways we were together alone for an entire night. But I will refrain from giving any sort of excuse unless approved by you, my dear.”

The pur in his voice brings me the same sensation as his tongue against my skin. I shutter and attempt to shake my head free of his nonsense. Though, he has a point. It was a valid excuse.

“Let’s just make our way there and I will think of something. If they are awake…”

“I will be right behind you,” he slightly bows. “I do want to make sure my investment is capable of making it back.”

Ending Notes: *This is mine to make. Take my blood. -There is literally nothing on elvish in the Forgotten Realms and yeah I'm angry about. This was the best I could do. Don't yell at me.

[subarublue]

Sparda Family Bonding Time Series - Part 1

Series Description: It’s family bonding time! Sparda family style! A series of short stories revolving around platonic familial relationships between the members of the DMC crew. Warning: Lots of fluff and bonding ahead.

One Shot

Title: Kindred Spirits

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Timeline: Post DMC5

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 4153

Read on Ao3

Summary: Losing a brother is hard, even if you don’t always get along. Which is why Dante is ever grateful for this second chance with his...because he knows someone who’ll never get another chance with hers.

Notes: Mostly just some platonic comfort and family fluff between Dante and Kyrie with a splash of Vergil, Nero, and Nico.

It was inevitable, really.

They’d been back from the underworld for almost a month now, but they were still adjusting back to normal life. They’d been down there for so long, after all; constantly fighting for their lives and sparring each other in between. It wasn’t easy getting back into the normal swing of things. Well, normal for Dante, anyway. Vergil’s definition of normal was a whole other story.

So it really wasn’t surprising that a fight (a real one and not a sparring match) had finally broken out between them. Honestly, Dante was surprised it had taken this long to happen. Then again, he had been trying not to start one, not that he could say much for Vergil’s effort, if there had even been any. He didn’t quite know for sure. Talking wasn’t exactly Vergil’s strong suit; of course Dante wasn’t much better in that regard, either.

He wasn’t even sure what had started it. It probably didn’t matter; whatever it was had likely been trivial. This had been brewing ever since they got back (probably before so, even) and one wrong thing was bound to set them off, eventually.

Because things always ended up like this between him and Vergil. Yeah, sure they were capable of getting along for long periods of time, but somehow, no matter how good things were going, it always ended up in a fight eventually. That was just how it had always been, ever since they were kids. It was just unfortunate that this time it happened at Nero’s place.

Luckily, it was late so the boys were all in bed, sound asleep. At least, Dante hoped they were. They were making quite a ruckus outside and this was not something kids needed to see. Nico and Nero were watching on the sidelines and the latter was trying his best to not resort to yelling at his father and uncle, which would make even more noise. Dante was certain it wouldn’t be long before his nephew dove into put a stop to their brawl.

Except that Nero never got the chance.

Vergil had just given Dante his usual spiel of “Die!” which Dante was sure was only said in anger and he didn’t actually mean it (probably) when a distinctly feminine voice pierced the air with a ferocity he had never before heard from the young woman.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

It was like time had stopped for everyone, including Vergil and Dante who both froze in mid-strike. Everyone turned to look at the petite woman standing on the steps of the porch. Dante wasn’t sure when they had gained another audience, but he now knew that in addition to Nero and Nico, Kyrie was bearing witness to the traditional Sparda way of ‘discussing your problems.’

Apparently though, she was far less than content with the way their family handled their issues. Her hands were fisted in her skirt with a white-knuckled grip and the look on her face was one of absolute fury; an expression Dante had never thought the innocent girl was capable of. When he saw her angry tears beginning to fall, he felt panic well up inside him, though he tamped it down as best he could. He was never good at dealing with crying women. Not that he would have to worry about that. Nero would take care of her.

“If you two want to kill each other, then go do it somewhere else! I’m not going to stand around here and watch you two make the biggest mistake you’ll ever regret. This is our home and I WON’T STAND FOR THIS!”

No one dared to say a word. By now Dante and even Vergil had lowered their swords and while the latter appeared mostly stoic as always, there was the barest hint of shame in his expression. Dante’s expression was more akin to a scolded child. Even Nero and Nico were taken aback, though Nico recovered more quickly. She snickered a bit, but seemed to realize that was a big mistake and tried to stifle it, though the glare Kyrie shot her told everyone she hadn’t been successful.

“Um, Kyrie?” Nero addressed her tentatively in an effort to distract her. This was new territory even for him. They’d had disagreements before of course, but nothing that had ever brought out this kind of anger in her.

She leveled her heated look at Nero, and he stiffened in response until she looked back at the battered duo on their lawn. He didn’t get another word in.

“I won’t repeat myself. Either put those away and get cleaned up or leave! I’ll not have two grown men who are supposed to be brothers trying to kill each other at my house.” Her voice had calmed now, but only because it was devoid of emotion; as if she didn’t have the energy to feel any more. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode back into the house, slamming the porch door behind her causing everyone except Vergil to flinch at the sudden noise.

The silence that followed in her departure was tense. Nero slowly turned to glare at his father and uncle with a look that rivaled his girlfriend’s from just moments ago.

“You two finished, then?” he said through gritted teeth. Dante could tell Nero was trying to rein in his temper.

“Yes.” Everyone was surprised when Vergil spoke first, but Dante was more so by his answer. He’d been certain Vergil was going to drag him off to finish their fight elsewhere. Instead, his brother sheathed Yamato without any complaint. That was definitely a change.

Huh. Guess he really is trying… But his thought didn’t get far before being interrupted.

“Dante?” Nero’s voice still held that angry tone, obviously waiting for a confirmation from his uncle, as well. Dante almost felt like a little kid again, being reprimanded for not paying attention.

“Yeah. No complaints from me.” He dismissed his sword as well to hopefully further appease his nephew.

“Soooo, uh, that was new. Didn’t know she had in it her, ya know?” Nico spoke up then, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Nero turned his glare on her, but it only lasted a second before worry settled on his face and he turned to looked at the door his girlfriend had left through.

“No, it’s not like her at all. I mean, she always gets a little emotional around this time of year, but she’s never gone off on anyone like that before...” Nero trailed off, obviously confused as to exactly what had Kyrie so upset all of a sudden.

“What significance does this time of year hold for her?” Surprisingly, it was Vergil who spoke up out of curiosity this time.

Nero looked stunned at first that his father had even bothered asking, but the look on his face quickly turned into a sorrowful grimace. Whatever the significance was, it affected Nero too, Dante noted.

That’s when he remembered.

Of course. This was the same time of year that the Savior incident occurred. They’d both been kidnapped by that old codger and used for his own, personal world-domination plan. Kyrie had been the bait and Nero had fallen right into his trap. It had been a horrible situation for the both of them. He was lucky he’d been able to rescue them...or well, Nero anyway; his nephew did all the damsel in distress saving. Either way, it stood to reason that the whole event left lasting scars.

“Her brother, Credo...he died around this time.” Nero looked pained as he spoke; Credo had been a brother to him, too. “I had to watch him die, but Kyrie? She never even got to see him one last time or say goodbye.”

At the mention of Credo, Dante’s eyes widened in realization and he suddenly felt very stupid for not putting two and two together immediately. Of course she was upset with them. Kyrie would have probably given anything to have her own brother back and here he and Vergil were, trying to make pincushions out of each other with their second chance.

He remembered Credo’s death clearly in his mind: questioning the dying man for information. Information that he gave freely in hopes that it would put an end to Sanctus’s plans. The man using his last bit of strength to stand, to ask Dante for one final request: to save Nero and his little sister.

God, I never even told either of them about his last moments. Nero probably didn’t even know he was still alive after the Savior took him. I should have...

Movement from Nero drew his attention away from his own thoughts. It was clear, despite what he’d just told Vergil, that Nero was still in the dark about exactly why their fight had upset Kyrie so much, but he was already moving to go after her. Dante panicked before he could stop himself.

“Wait, kid!”

He almost cringed as Nero turned to regard him with an angry look. What had possessed him to stop his nephew? Nero knew his girlfriend better than anyone so the kid was the logical choice to go and comfort her. Hell, he could probably do it better than Dante and Vergil combined, though relatively speaking, the two of them combined was almost never a good thing. Not to mention they both were complete shit at comforting others.

“What? You got a problem? You’re half the reason she’s upset so unless you’re gonna go fix this, just shut your damn mouth.” It was clear Nero was still angry with them, and Dante didn’t blame him. He didn’t like his father and uncle fighting if his stopping their fight right before their little underworld vacation was anything to go by.

But now, Nero was turning back to go after Kyrie, not even bothering to wait for an answer.

I should just let him go. They’ve been together long enough, surely she’ll tell him what’s bothering her and he can comfort her way better than-

Nero was opening the back door now and Dante couldn’t stop the words that left his mouth.

“Let me talk to her.” He regretted them the second he said it.

Stupid. This was a stupid idea. He was no good with crying women. Why was he doing this? Why was he putting himself in a situation where he was probably just going to make matters worse?

Oh, who was he kidding? He knew very well why he was doing this:

Guilt.

Not only did he feel somewhat responsible for what happened to the both of them and Credo, he’d never even told them about the man’s dying wish for Dante to save them. And here he was, fighting with his own brother right in their backyard.

Nero couldn’t cover his shocked expression, not that Dante expected any different of a reaction. In fact, even Nico and Vergil had surprised looks on their faces. When no one made a move to say anything, too stunned into silence, Dante figured he’d have to explain.

“Look, I think I understand what’s really bothering her, so...just let me talk to her. If I make it worse, you can step in and fix it.”

“If you make it worse, I’ll do more than just bitch-slap you this time.” Nero crossed his arms and leveled Dante with a glare to show he meant business.

“Deal.” He nodded to Nero as he passed him to head through the door. He really hoped he didn’t screw this up; for Kyrie’s sake...and his own.

It didn’t take him long to find her; she hadn’t gone far. She was sitting on a swinging bench on the front porch as he stepped out the door. When he heard her quiet weeping, he felt the panic rise up in him again.

Why? Why’d he volunteer for this again? He wasn’t any good at this whole comfort thing. Where was he even supposed to start?

Sorry’s usually a good place. He sighed. Yeah, right. What the hell was he supposed to say sorry for?

Sorry my brother and I not-quite killed each other and bled all over your lawn? Sorry your brother’s dead and mine’s not? Sorry it looks like we’re wasting the second chance we have when you deserve it a hell of a lot more?

God, he was terrible at this…and he hadn’t even said anything, yet.

He heard her try to stifle a sob, apparently now aware that she had company. He swallowed hard. He was not prepared for this at all.

Guess it’s time to do what I do best: wing it.

He took a seat at the opposite end from her. He watched her stiffen when his weight shifted the swing of the bench, slightly. Still unsure on how to start, he looked straight ahead, only glancing over at her every now and then as she tried to quiet her tears. He was half-hoping she’d say something first, though it soon became evident that would not be the case. He was just stalling because he was afraid; more so of upsetting her further than of Nero’s wrath.

He caught her out of the corner of his eye, chancing a glance in his direction to see who was currently sitting with her. He heard her choke back another sob, though whether it was from realizing it was him or some other reason, he didn’t know. It still solidified his thoughts that this was bad idea, but he was already here and Nero was expecting him to fix this. Besides, she deserved to know about her brother’s last moments. It was the least he could do. If he made things worse, he’d just have to let Nero beat the crap out of him. Maybe that would make her feel better, though he doubted it. This was Kyrie, after all. She’d never wish harm on anyone.

He cleared his throat finally, trying to gather up some courage. He knew he couldn’t stall forever.

“I’m no good at shit like this, so you’ll have to bear with me a bit.” Probably not the best start, so he paused to give her a chance to tell him to leave in case she didn’t want to talk to him. When she finally spoke, she didn’t tell him to leave, but she didn’t bother to turn and face him, either.

“It’s very rude to have fights at other people’s houses, you know?” There was a tinge of anger to her voice still. “Especially when you should be happy to have each other back.”

There it was. There was no mistaking the disdain in her voice. She really did think they were taking advantage of this second chance they had. So he’d been right, after all. Now, what to do about it?

Well, set her straight, of course....hopefully.

“I know it doesn’t look like we’re thankful to have each other back, but that’s not the case. Well, for me anyway. I can’t really speak for Vergil, but...he seems to be trying, I guess.”

“Is that how you show it? By trying to kill each other?” He could still hear her sniffle now and then, but her anger was overriding her crying for the moment. He sighed again.

“I ain’t gonna get into why we do things the way we do. We’d be here all night. What I can tell you is no matter how serious it looked, we weren’t gonna kill each other. Maybe a long time ago that might’ve been the case, but not anymore. Things are different now.”

“Because of Nero.” The anger was gone from her voice now, but it was replaced with an emotion he didn’t really think he could deal with well: sorrow.

“Yeah.” The silence following his admission was terribly uncomfortable. She was back to crying quietly again and he decided he should go with what his first instinct had been: apologize. Though he had far more to apologize for than just the brawl in her backyard.

“I’m sorry for what happened back then.”

“Just don’t fight here. I know Nero hates it.”

So do you. He didn’t say it out loud, though. Instead, he opted to correct her assumption. “I wasn’t apologizing for that, though I am sorry for that, too.”

He saw her in his peripheral vision; she slowly turned to face him. He was really glad he wasn’t looking directly at her. He could tell her face was tear-stained and it would have probably shot down any confidence he had to say what he needed to next.

“What are you apologizing for, then?” Her voice was strained from all the crying, but the confusion was still evident.

“For what happened to your brother.”

Her gasp was so quiet he would have missed it if he didn’t have exceptional hearing and he glanced at her briefly. Her eyes were wide and her hands covered her mouth in shock, obviously not having expected his answer. He swallowed thickly.

No backing out now, he thought. “I guess you could say I know what it feels like to lose a brother, too. I thought Vergil was dead for a long time. Even before that, I lost him to his own desire for power. We never really got along very well, but…it still hurt.”

“What happened that made you think he was dead”? Her shock had died down as she’d listened to him, now voicing an obvious question he should have anticipated.

A pained look crossed his face at the memory. She just didn’t know what can of worms she was trying to open. That was something he might tell them someday (or maybe Vergil would, if he really remembered it), but for now it was better left unsaid. They were getting off topic, anyway. Fortunately, she’d seen the look on his face at her question and understood it was a subject he didn’t want to get into.

“Sorry. I should have known better than to ask that thoughtlessly. It still hurts to talk about how Credo died, too.”

They were getting back to the reason he originally came out here in the first place and he was never one to pass up an opportunity, so he took it.

“You probably didn’t know it, but I was there…when he died, you know?”

“Yes, I know. Nero told me. He said you were there to catch him when he fell,” she said it like it should have been obvious and he knew she didn’t understand what he meant.

“No. Nero only told you what he knew.” She looked at him as he spoke and he turned slightly to face her more directly. Surely if he could face demons on a daily basis, he could face this. “He was still alive after Nero was taken by the Savior.” There was a long stretch of silence as she realized what this meant.

“But…Nero said he was probably dead when he fell from the Savior. He said that Sanctus…with Yamato…” She faltered, unable to talk about how her brother had died at the hands of someone he had respected and served. She was crying again now, and it took all his resolve not to look away again.

“Well, he wasn’t.” He met her eyes. He could barely catch the small glimmer of hope in them through her tears. She hadn’t had a body to bury and he suddenly realized that all she’d ever really wanted was a bit of closure, since she’d been practically comatose through the whole thing.

“I talked to him, before…you know.” He refrained from mentioning the man’s death again to try and avoid more of her tears. He turned away again, finding he couldn’t handle the look on her face. “He told me what the old man’s plans were. I guess that was his way of trying to right any wrongs he’d done in his last moments.”

“He was always very noble and selfless. He really thought what they were doing was for the better of the world.” She seemed to have gotten her crying under control somewhat as she reminisced about her brother, but her tone was still heavy with sadness. “And he was never one to be afraid of accepting responsibility for his own actions. I’m glad in his last moments that he wasn’t alone…and he was thinking of redemption.”

“Those weren’t his last thoughts, though.” He braved another glance at her before looking away again to stare at nothing in particular.

“W-what do you mean?” She seemed confused, as if she couldn’t think of anything else that might have mattered to Credo in his last moments.

“What do you think it means? He was pretty stubborn. Even as he sat there bleeding out, he forced himself to his feet so he could meet me face to face and ask me to honor his one last request-” Dante turned back to look at her fully this time “-to save you and Nero.”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly before the waterworks started up again and he felt more panic welling up in him. Great. He made her cry more. God, this is exactly what he was afraid of.

“At the end…h-he was thinking of us?”

She was staring at her hands in her lap as more silent tears fell from her eyes. She wasn’t really talking to anyone in particular; just thinking out loud, but he countered her question, anyway.

“Did you really expect any different?” Her tearful gaze met his and he willed himself not to look away. “You said it yourself: he was pretty noble and selfless. Seems very much like him to be worried about the two people he cared about most rather than his own fate.”

He’d hoped that would be of some comfort to her and stop her crying, but he jerked when she suddenly let out a rather loud sob and lunged forward, gripping the lapels of his coat as she practically fell into his chest and started weeping. He swallowed nervously, half-expecting Nero to come out the front door ready to knock him around a bit, but no one disturbed them and he settled for awkwardly patting her on the back as she cried her heart out.

They sat like that for a while; long enough that awkwardness dissipated for him somewhat. He eventually opted to rest one arm around her back in a gentle half-embrace, which seemed to do far more at comforting her than anything else. Eventually, she stopped crying and he hoped that was good enough.

“Dante?”

He looked down at her as she pulled away from him and the panic came back full force when he noticed there were still tears running down her cheeks. There was something different about it this time, though. This wasn’t the sorrowful weeping from moments ago. Instead, the silent tears were a stark contrast to the gentle smile on her face.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Thank you.” She said before attempting to dry her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

He let out a short huff of relief. It seemed he wouldn’t get the crap beat out of him for the second time tonight. At least he could say that Vergil hadn’t faired too well, either. More so, he was just happy he could give her that little bit of closure that was long overdue.

“I’m sorry I never said anything before. Nero told me once he was the only family you had left and I guess I just didn’t know how to bring it up. I’m not real great at dealing with cryin’ women,” he admitted. That prompted a quiet laugh from her as he stood up from the bench and offered her a hand up, which she accepted graciously.

“I can understand that.” She gave him a knowing smile. “He was wrong, though.”

“Huh?” Now it was his turn to be confused.

“Nero. He was wrong. Credo wasn’t my only family left.” The smile on her face held a bit of a teasing look to it. His confusion bled into his expression as she took one of his hands in both of hers. “I have a new one now, in all of you.”

Tears started forming in her eyes again at the admission, while his widened in surprise this time. Her expression was anything but sad though, and Dante now recognized these tears for what they were: tears of happiness. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as he pulled her into a gentle hug.

“It’s a bit late and maybe Nero hasn’t made it official quite yet, but...welcome to the family, Kyrie.”

“Thank you, Dante.”

When he pulled away, her smile was brighter than ever, despite the tears, and he thought that…maybe not all crying was so bad.

Part 1 of this series • Part 2 →

[ardenssolis]

@assortedsnacks​​ said (inbox):

' mountains are nothing like desert dunes. they can easily reach a hundred times higher than the greatest pile of sand, enough to uphold a vast sea of trees upon their rocky backs, and hard stone does not crumble the way grains might give way beneath your feet. but beyond the great sense of humility it can instill into anyone, a mountain's true grandeur lays within its noble quiet, its powerful echo ... ' and the king of beast's silence, testing the reverberation of the pharaoh's palace as well like it were its own sort of mount, fast results in a satisfied smile.

' my kingdom is fond of music that contains strong emotions. sorrowful longings, bitter separations, happy reunitings, and forms of love that transcend what is both mortal and human. these are powerful melodies that can carry across the land should one sing from the proper place. they are sung strongly from the chest, because it is always the cry of one soul seeking out another, to be heard. and ... because i cannot remain here forever, i still want to try to leave you with as much as i can. ' his gaze, an eager, bright ruby burn, is marked by a particular tenderness when it turns towards and catches the other's. that earnest peer does not waver.

' i ask that you entreat me, my friend. would you listen to my song? should we ever long for one another, i can sing from high upon my mountain, and pray that you hear me upon the wind. ' the pharaoh, whose royal expectations differed from his own, need not sing. ' as for me, i only need feel the beat of your heart in the burning sun to feel at peace. '

     RAMSES HAD NEVER TRAVERSED great mountains before, although he did know of a path through one of them that was known for its freezing weather and ice the higher one went. Such a place was not somewhere he wanted to be considering the cold might as well be a bane to one so used to desert heat with the occasional chilly nights that soaked through the bone. But the way that the other described their home…well, it was DIFFERENT. It was not barren rock, but a unique habitat that flourished with life – the other, its ruler. ❝ The way you speak makes me curious as to what this mountain kingdom of yours looks like. Mountains here are merely rocks; shelter from the sweltering heat for both man and beast, and then during the winter seasons, the cold can create gusts of winds that could freeze water or even create ice from what I am told. Powerful echo… Such a fascinating way to describe things.❞ Oh, but Seung-ho was always good with words, for he could wax poetry in a way that would not have made anyone question his noble heritage as a great king.

     Though this topic intrigued him, what captured his attention the most was what was said afterwards. It was no secret that Ramses loved music – singing most of all. Even without instruments to enhance one’s voice, he could still be just as drawn if that individual had natural skill that could put even the songs of birds to shame. Lyrics filled with longing, lyrics filled with hopes and regrets, of love lost and love gained... How was he not to be smitten with such things when he had a romantic’s heart? There was both tenderness in Seung-ho’s tone and within that ruby gaze, a tenderness that at one time, Ramses would have never thought existed considering the sheer ferocity of the beast known as a ‘tiger’ in comparison to anything else he had ever seen. Even now, he could recall the fire that had been ignited in Seung-ho‘s eyes, claws like knives unsheathed and ready to dig into flesh without hesitation and how the other’s roar could rival even the great lions that wandered about the dunes with their powerful muscles and equally fearsome gaze.

     Right now, he saw beyond this.

     Lips curled into a soft smile, his gaze just as gentle as he gave a nod. ❝ I would like that. I may not understand the words, but that is not what matters. It is the feeling that transcends language itself. In return, I will share one with you as well so that when you sing it, you think of the palace and the Nile itself with its gleaming water amidst golden sand and towering dunes.❞ This was not a gift he gave lightly, and yet, he could tell that for Seung-ho, this too held true. Until his life came to an end, Ramses would never forget this song bestowed upon him. It would remain deeply embedded in his soul itself.

[arsnovacadenza]

Ikevam Jean & Napoleon fanfic- quietly invite me to where you are

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Characters: Jean d’Arc, Napoleon Bonaparte, Vincent van Gogh, Yukari (MC)

Pairings: Vincent x MC

Word count: 3881

Warnings: possible OOC due to historical references

shoutout to @weird-profiterole​, @kisara-16​, @hokkaido-the-hellbeast​ @dear-mrs-otome​ , @kasu-gay-ama​

Icy blue and brown eyes peeked innocently into the training room. The rapiers continued to dance as the couple watched the dueling Frenchmen.

To the girl,  Jean and Napoleon’s sessions were always a sight to behold. She could feel the ferocity, the tension as the blades weave through the air and find each other with an echoing clang.

“No matter how many times I see them spar, it’s always so intense. They’re both so masculine.”

The girl admitted she knew little about sword-fighting, but she noticed the beauty with which Napoleon urgently thrust at his opponent.

“…Masculine….” Vincent quietly mumbled.

Jean parried the oncoming blade with ease. If there was even a slight fault in his form, neither couple had noticed it.

The couple continued to stare at the soldiers until a voice called from the kitchen. Immediately, the girl turned at Vincent and pecked his cheek. "I have to go. See you later, Vincent!"

"Oh, right. Have fun at work."

She thanked him and rushed down the hallway. Meanwhile, Vincent's soft gaze was trained on the soldiers' eyes, both burning with rivaling passions.

"Adorable... masculine."

Swords crossed as both combatants' faces were suddenly inches away from each other. Vincent could discern Napoleon's winning smile from where he stood.

With the primal sounds of their duel still ringing in his head, the painter turned and walked away.

.

 "Pay them no heed, Jean,"

Jean immediately backed down in surprise, his cheeks growing hot from the look in Napoleon's eyes.

"And always keep your eyes on me.” Napoleon murmured in a steady voice.

But Jean's breath was ragged, and his eye was unfocused despite staring straight at Napoleon. Even his stance looked unsteady for someone so well-trained. The former army commander let out a sigh.

"Guess you got nothing more in you." Napoleon looked at Jean wryly. "We've had enough anyway. Let's call it a day."

Jean wanted to argue and say he's fine, he's just tired, but Napoleon was already sheathing his sword and making his way to the side. The former emperor sat back against the wall with another sigh. It was at times like this that Jean's reminded of his friend's long, previous life.

 "Come. Sit. You look like you need it." Napoleon called out softly despite his stern gaze.

Jean obeyed. To him, small moments like these were just as cherished as the momentary passion sparked during their routine duels. Besides Mozart's, Napoleon's company was the few threads that kept him hanging to his deplorable days at the mansion.

And it was always his firm and gentle voice that made Jean want to believe that he had been born with no fragility— that he regarded Jean just as everybody else. 

Sometimes Jean felt he was undeserving of that attention, and sometimes he yearned for more. Not that he knew exactly what he sought from the former emperor.

Jean dispelled his thoughts as he sat down by Napoleon's side. He purposefully put some distance between them, but the man, as he won't, nudged closer until their shoulders almost touched.

And then he'd put a hand over Jean's shoulder and speak with his face only several breaths away. Either he was concerned Jean couldn't hear him well enough, or he ignored personal space just because he could.

Napoleon's attempts at fraternizing did come across as overbearing, sometimes. But Jean guessed anyone with his charm could freely worm their way right up to everyone's face if they liked.

“You heard something," Napoleon broke the silence. "You heard something I couldn't."

Despite being worthy opponents to each other, even Jean had to admit that his senses as a lesser vampire surpassed that of Napoleon's. "It's nothing."

Napoleon let out a friendly smile despite his harsh words. "Considering how out of touch you were, I wouldn't say it's nothing."

Jean went rigid at those words but said nothing. 

"And I hate opponents who fight half-assedly." 

It wasn't very Napoleon of him to throw such words without care, especially since it's Jean he's addressing. Even the seemingly unflappable soldier turned at him with an open mouth.

"Got your attention," Napoleon flashed his signature smirk. "Now tell me what bothered you or we can just drop this forever."

Always hitting where it hurt the most. Napoleon always seemed to know which buttons to push if he wanted to peer into whatever thoughts clouded Jean's head at the moment. Not that he did it often.

And Jean always secretly seek company and consolation during times like this. While Mozart had always been his person of choice, getting the time and attention of somebody as....beloved as Napoleon was also gratifying, in its own way.

"Napoleon, do you think I'm masculine?"

The question earned a snrk from the other man. Jean already regretted blurting out the question.

Napoleon tried to stifle down a laugh. "Wh —where's this coming from?"

Jean's eyelashes fluttered as he spoke, "It's Vincent and the girl. They were talking about how masculine we look whenever we're sword fighting."

 “I guess two soldiers engaging in sword-fighting is as masculine as it gets." There's nothing brave nor virtuous about actual killing, though. A voice at the back of Napoleon's head seemed to say. "What of it, then?"

But Jean's deep, amethyst eye was downcast. They both knew where this was going. 

"No matter what people say, they always seem to have a way of making me an epitome of something."

Well, that wasn't what Napoleon was expecting. Jean continued.

"Masculine. Beautiful. People will always look me from afar and immediately put me on a pedestal regardless of what I do." Jean murmured. "I know I should be flattered. That I should take their well-intentioned praises and smile back. But it's the look in their eyes that haunt me.”

Napoleon shifted in his seat. He sensed from Jean's tone that this wasn't something he'd indulge in more than once.

"Mere words shouldn't have this effect on me, Napoleon. But recently, I've begun to feel unease whenever people look at me from a distance and immediately assign me to a place they can't quite reach. Like I'm separate, different." His voice took a breathless turn. "Inhuman."

Napoleon leaned back against the wall in thought.

If this were one of his marshals (which marshal of his would dare falter in his presence?), he'd look at them straight in the eye and tell them to pay those thoughts no mind. Baseless doubts, he thinks, will only drive any soldier away from an assured victory. 

But this was Jean. And although he hated to echo the man's own words, Jean was indeed unlike any soldier or person he had ever met.

In the end, he closed his eyes and urged Jean to go on. "Do continue."

Jean did so without hesitation.

"Sometimes, the look in their eyes when we marched into battle made it seem like I wasn't leading their sons off to die. In the beginning, I was grateful that God gave me the power to move them and get them on their feet. To fight. The people's prayers had been my strength. But then..."

"But?"

"But as time went on, they came knocking on my door, pleading for me to anoint their belongings. Every word, my every gesture... it was no longer the angels that spoke to me they listened," Jean's voice wavered even more. "It's as if I had taken their worship away from God, and unto me."

If there was something about Jean he could never touch upon, it was Jean's complicated relations with God.

Napoleon never aimed to please any God. He chased his dreams with confidence in his stars, crossing lands —and rulers —in his path. If anything, it was His image that helped Napoleon put his plans into motion and swayed the people into placing their faith in his arms.

Just as he had used Jean's image.

At that point, Napoleon realized that despite other residents commenting on his and Jean's closeness, there was nothing both truly shared beyond having the same occupation.

Despite igniting that momentary spark in Jean's spark whenever they dueled, despite his invitation to let Jean taste his and Isaac's cooking and him closing his eyes in satisfaction as he bit into a sandwich—

They were nothing compared to the hurt Jean had been carrying long after his death.

Napoleon, a father to his men and the nation of France, could not understand this peasant teenager who lead the charge ahead of king's seasoned knights. Could not fathom how he braved the winter at La Charité with only the hand of God to drive his heart along.

There were unspoken truths and distant dreams —as well as four hundred years’ worth of history  —separating them both.

Napoleon stared at his hand and closed it around nothing. His resurrection had stripped away all his power and influence into nothing. Even a lifespan of 51 years had become nothing to this era and city that no longer needed him.

But then again, maybe nothing was what he needed to approach the vulnerable man next to him. Throughout his careful interactions with Jean, he had indeed counted on Jean's lack of awareness regarding the true scope of the 'terror' that he inflicted upon Europe.

But a part of Napoleon did wonder how their relationship would change if Jean ever came to know about what the world had written about him. The younger man's illiteracy was both a blessing and a curse.

Napoleon decided to clear his thoughts away and face the matter at hand. Whatever proceeded from then on was tomorrow’s problem.

"Jean," he softly called.

"Jean," Napoleon prepared for the next part. He never thought talking to another man would be this hard. "I don't know what to say since I never know what it's like to be spoken to by angels."

He immediately recognized the letdown in Jean's eye as it shifted to the side. He continued hurriedly.

"But there's nobody else who knows what it's like to undeservingly be called a hero, except me."

Jean turned his face to look at him in the face. It was a small victory to Napoleon, but there was still an uphill climb, nonetheless.

"I said that I didn't die with much regret," Napoleon pressed on with a much higher voice than intended. "And it's true. Everything I did, I'd done for France. If it had been God at your side, I had her. And, despite what other people thought of me, being an emperor wasn’t that depressing.”

He was surprised by his sudden burst of passion in his speech. And so was Jean, judging from his widening eye.

"But," Napoleon's breath hitched. "But as a man, there was nothing more lonely than being alone with my feelings."

"Those feelings accompanied me even as I grew into a self-absorbed, cynical old bastard who’d thrown away every last bit of human decency to wage war against the world," Steely emerald eyes fixed themselves on Jean. "They accompanied me as I walked down the streets alone, as a military student without friends."

"I gave them the confidence of a leader, all the composure expected of an emperor in his divine right. What they didn't see were the emotions closing in on me as I sat alone."

Jean once again closed his eye, seemingly digesting what Napoleon had said.

"What kind of emotions?" Despite Jean's almost accusatory tone, Napoleon's gaze couldn't help but soften. Ah, to be burdened with such tremendous pressure at so young an age.

"Simple emotions, unfortunately." He smiled. "I cried after hearing news of my wife's death. And there wasn't a day I didn't think about my son after they took him away."

Jean watched Napoleon from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, their youthful appearances deceived him into forgetting that Napoleon, Mozart, and even Arthur had wives and children they left behind.

"And, for all my years riding out into battle, the feeling of losing your comrades remain the same," Napoleon continued, turquoise eye interlocking with Jean's. "The previous kings hardly knew of losing comrades who'd been standing behind your back from even before you were emperor."

"How strange" The older man suddenly shut his eyes with ferocity. "How strange that this warmongering monster, this emperor who very nearly thought himself to be beyond God —still has very human emotions that keep him from becoming neither."

Josephine, Lannes, Joseph, even parting from France caused grief more profound than a king losing his crown.

No matter deep the abyss he fell into, it was always France that took him into her forgiving arms, time and time again.

Napoleon had always wondered if the same worked for Jean. Martyr or no, losing your life in battle in devotion to the fatherland was the highest virtue a soldier could ever achieve in their lifetime.

Anger suddenly sparked within Napoleon at the thought of Comte appearing to Jean over the pier, offering him salvation. He respected St. Germain as a man, but it disheartened him as a Frenchman to know that he dared to condemn a celebrated hero into spending his eternity as a monster. But no matter, he can confront the Count in his rooms later. Napoleon would rather speak to him with a clear head, free of misgivings. 

Yet Napoleon couldn't stop himself from imagining the Pureblood emerging suddenly from the crowd around the pyre, extending his hand towards Jean. How did the young warrior see him then, while smoke began spreading throughout his lungs?

Napoleon, in this second life,  had never once let emotions take hold of his heart this strongly. But now, seeing the depth of Jean's anguish, he wondered if he'd drown in it too.

All this time, Napoleon had always used his hand to support Isaac. Now, he's going to use it to reach towards Jean, even if that means following Jean into the most treacherous crevices.

Napoleon was assured that he'd have the strength (and time) to pull Jean back to the shallows. Still, it’s a shot in the dark, ensuring that Jean remained happy for the rest of his life as a vampire. Napoleon would first have to think about guiding Jean out under the clear skies.

Once, the entire nation of France revered him as their sun. To reprise his role would mean chasing the elusive moon.

"Jean," Napoleon softly called, "I was... I had been afraid of turning into a monster. I look at you and sometimes wonder if I can live with the pain.”

The venerated soldier turned to face Napoleon entirely.

Jean, truth be told, had long waited for Napoleon to address his impurity. He had long worn it like an armor after all. Napoleon's lack of inquisition regarding the matter secretly gnawed on him, for lack of a better word. He believed the other French soldier was willingly turning a deaf ear towards him, as other residents did. Mozart, at least, told him point-blank that he didn't need 'to hurt himself further' by saying 'things he didn't truly mean'.

"If that day comes to pass, the day when I finally succumb to this- this monstrosity," Napoleon let himself stumble through his words. " I don't think there's no one better to help me get through the process but you." 

Jean's brow furrowed at Napoleon's firm statement. "Why me?" he demanded. "You know firsthand how well I've been faring through this entire ordeal. If it's guidance that you need, go to that Comte or Leonardo. If you need a poor soul to suffer together with you, there's Isaac, who at least doesn't willingly starve himself. But with me, Napoleon? Why?"

Jean had never strung words so long and full of vitriol before. If it had been any other person, he would've apologized. Not to Napoleon. Not to this man who purposefully sought him out this entire time. If he wanted to see his worst, Jean would show every bit of his hideousness, one by one.

But Napoleon stared back decisively.

"If I had gone to anybody else, where would that leave you then?" Napoleon's hands went to grab both sides of Jean's upper arms. "Go back to that prison of a tower? Will I have to hear from Sebastian that you've stopped consuming rouge completely? Do I have to imagine you passing alone in that lonely room? To look back on today and the days before as something that will never happen again?"

Jean shirked away at the abrupt burst of anger in Napoleon's voice.

"I... I am not that important to you." He directed his eye towards the wall. Frustrated, Napoleon gripped his upper arm tighter.

"Not important." Napoleon whispered harshly, "Once, you had been a shining glimpse of everything I wanted to be. Even as I ended up sabotaging myself with delusions of grandeur, you remained pure. Without you, there'd be no France for me to protect. And what good is a soldier with nothing to protect?" 

Napoleon felt he was back into that mortal body of an emperor as he gritted through the tears.

"I shall never forgive myself if I let such a beloved person die when I could've saved him." His eyes pierced straight through Jean's. "I'm not any less guilty than those people that put you on that pedestal, Jean. But now that I finally see the real you," Napoleon hesitated.

Jean dreaded the words that were about to come.

"That feeling of wanting to get closer to you hasn't diminished in the slightest. If anything, Jean..."

Napoleon sucked in a deep breath. If he fails, if he fails.

If I fail, he will draw away from me, and I'll lose him forever.

If I succeed, we can emerge together victorious. But even this I cannot guarantee.

As if never tiring, emerald eyes locked once more with Jean's, steadfast. All was quiet, both men awaiting the other with bated breath. Even Napoleon's heart, which just now had been erratically beating, had slowed down in time for this gamble.

It's all up to you now, Jean.

Now or never.

"Jean," Napoleon finally breathed out. "I need you."

A lone dark eye blinked, uncomprehending.

"I need you," Napoleon repeated. "Not as a soldier to another, not as a man to a boy. And not as a demi-vampire to a lesser one. I need you as you are if you'll have me."

Great of an actor as he was in his previous life, Napoleon realized there'd been no greater truth in his words. With Isaac, he acted as a loving brother and a steady bulwark. When he was with Sebastian, he reverted to being a father who treated his one of his men with more affection than a master to his servant. Upon facing Leonardo and Comte, he'd effortlessly slide back into the role of a seasoned man, brilliant and amiable. 

But this man.

This man drew him in as a fellow soldier, then as a young lad whom Napoleon felt he needed to care for, and then to a formidable sparring partner. Yet the more Napoleon tried to uncover his layers of secret, he, inevitably, would have to bear his well-kept emotions as well.

As emperor, he had never felt lonely nor regretful. But as strangers to this era, he saw Jean as another stranded, fellow countryman, despite the irony of waking up on their very soil.

The France they found themselves in wasn't the France they knew, but it had been France nonetheless. Can they somehow seek out and explore this strange, paradoxical landscape together?

I need you, Napoleon's eyes wanted to say, I need you, as much as you need me. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Jean audibly sighed. "You'll regret this, sooner or later," he tried to move. "Let go of me."

Napoleon released his grip, and Jean leaned back to sit on the ground properly. On his usually stoic face was an unguarded expression Napoleon rarely saw.

Resignment. And contentment, if Napoleon were to hope.

"So, what about—"

 "You always go on about being stubborn in whatever you do," Jean cut him off, "I never thought you would be this persistent. I can't see how this would benefit you in the end."

Napoleon crossed his legs and hugged them. "I've always wanted to tell you about the France of my time," he smiled warmly, " I'd be eager to hear about yours."

 Not caring whether Jean was convinced, he carried on.

"For the longest time, I've wanted to tell you about the chaotic Paris of my days. Oh, how things were different compared to the beautiful city we have today. I can tell you about the dunes that covered Egypt, a distant land beyond the sea, and its dunes and magnificent statues of kings from a past civilization. And, oh, how I bested England and their treacherous allies at every turn,"

Napoleon didn't lose sight of the interest that flashed briefly through Jean's face. And maybe, he thought somberly, I'll tell you about that winter in Russia. Or the violets I planted on Elba. 

 Just as Napoleon's thoughts were veering towards a darker path, Jean stood up and patted his pants. He offered his hand.

 "Consider it a deal, then." Jean asserted, "I look forward to listening to your stories."

 Napoleon let himself be hoisted on his feet. Confidently, he clasped one of Jean's shoulders, as he usually did to Isaac and some of his marshals. "Much obliged." He smirked. "We start tomorrow."

 Jean regarded his suggestion with a rigid smile. "Tomorrow." He murmured just as stiffly.

 Convinced, Napoleon let go of Jean's shoulder and watched as the man walked away to the halls. But Napoleon refused to let the man go with one final note of goodbye.

 "The turtle-doves and quails, and bonny partridges," he sang softly. "And my pretty stock-dove. Which sings both night and day."

 Jean stopped in his tracks. "Napoleon, what—" 

 "Which sings for all the lassies," Napoleon ignored him and continued. "Who hasn't got a lad,"

 "It scarcely sings for me now, for I've a handsome lad."

 Jean spun around, the pink turning to red and spreading all over his cheeks. Napoleon's calm voice took on a jovial turn 

 "O, in my father's garden, the lilies are in bloom;" Emerald eyes shone merrily as the ditty came to an end "O, in my father's garden, the lilies are in bloom."

 In front of him, there was Jean, completely, absolutely, flustered. "What were you doing?"

Casually, Napoleon sauntered towards the man and rested a hand on his shoulder. Jean had probably been unaware that Napoleon touched him a little too many today.

 “Oh, just a little song from camp I’m going to teach you." He peered closely into Jean's eye. "And if being called beautiful bothers you, maybe you should pay more attention when they call you handsome. Which you are."

With a flourish of his cape, Napoleon left the confounded man on his own. Indeed, there was much to prepare for the days ahead.

 I hope the weather will be lovely. The former emperor mused. Come to think of it, I've never asked Jean out on a ride before. If I guess correctly, he should be enjoying it.

And the flowers at the meadow are in full bloom this time of the year.

[unleashed111]

57. “Well, this moment certainly got away from me” with Ryan and whoever else you want :)

Thank you!!!! Sorry this one took a while. This one is John/Ryan! I don’t usually write for this so I gave it a try. I also changed up the phrase a little bit.

More angst? More hurt comfort? May be more likely than you think!

Rating: T

Warning: ptsd, stalking, kidnapping

————

The cool night breeze gently blew through Ryan’s ginger locks. He sat on the ground quietly looking up at the stars absentmindedly. The quiet night sounds filled his ears. Rustling of branch’s and chirps from crickets made up a typical summer night. Ryan was mentally exhausted. He had a long day with a lot of difficult calls. He could barely keep his thoughts in line.

He glanced sideways at the man sitting next to him grumpily. The moonlight was soft against his pale skin and caught on his bright blue eyes, making them shine brightly. There was such a spark in those eyes. A spark driven by pain. Ryan also knew of that spark driven by pain. Pain and fear. He hated it but he just tried to pretend it wasn’t happening instead. Everything was fine. Normal.

Flashes of red and darkness. Cold and loneliness. Despair.

He was back in a basement in New York. Trapped by an obsessed girl. A gentle touch and sweet innocent voice all held lies.

I promise I’ll never let you go...

Ryan felt sick all of a sudden. He couldn’t move. He mouth felt dry and sour. His vision tunneled. Gone was the soft moonlight and brilliant blue eyes. Long dirty blond hair and pink lipstick swarmed him.

“Ryan? Are you ok? You look kinda pale?” A voice snapped him back to focus. “I mean paler than you are normally...”

Ryan meet John’s gaze and with a big mental effort he shoved all the thoughts aside. A surge of anxious energy forced him to stand abruptly.

“I’m bored.”

John opened his mouth and looked startled. Ryan wiggled his fingers nervously.

“Uh-“ John started.

Ryan could tell John knew something was bothering him more than usual. He also knew that John would like to poke and prod into his life.

Ryan started sweating nervously and tried to play it off, “sorry. This moment really got away from me, huh?”

John blinked, “you had that far away look in your eyes. Reminded me of Jacob.”

“Ah yes, Jacob. My red head rival.” Ryan chuckled awkwardly.

“You were thinking about your stalker weren’t you?” John said bluntly.

Ryan’s entire posture changed. He shifted uncomfortably. He smile fell and his eyes had that haunted look back.

“I shouldn’t have told you about that.” He whispered.

John scoffed, “I also probably shouldn’t have told you a lot of things either but here we are. So are you gonna talk about it or not?”

Ryan smiled, “there’s nothing to talk about. She kidnapped me and I was rescued.”

“Oh yeah? Is that why you have nightmares? Is that why you lie about your scar? Is that why you worked 80 hours this week?” John stood up.

“Shut up!” Ryan snarled uncharacteristically.

There was a raw feral fear in his eyes. He knew the truth. John knew too. John wondered what would happen if he pushed just a little harder. What would snap? What would break?

John stepped closer, “is that why you can’t even be in the same room as Faith? She reminds you of Emily-“

Ryan suddenly grabbed John by the lapels and pulled him in for an aggressive kiss. John’s eyes widened in surprise. He quickly recovered and kissed him back with the same ferocity. John pushed forwards and Ryan had to step back to regain his footing. John had to admit it was one of the angriest and most aggressive kisses he had ever received.

“Fuck you.” Ryan said breathlessly as he pulled away.

John just laughed. He gently pulled the ginger in closer for a softer kiss. Ryan complied a small smile on his lips. He definitely thought he escape the conversation but John was determined to get the story out of him one way or another.

What a pair they made.

[project-ohagi]

Isaac “Zack” Foster x Reader {Satsuriku No Tenshi}

Doll/Puppet, Dissection.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Since the advent of your maturity, a profound and overriding sense of infatuation had blossomed, yet it wasn't for the usual suspects - teachers, peers, cousins...No, this all-consuming emotion, poisonous and blackened to its very core, was, oddly enough, directed at a child serial killer. Although, about a decade in the making, you figured that the offender wouldn't exactly be pre-pubescent any longer. This seeped into your imagination, intertwining it with severed demon limbs, or forbidding scarlet thread. It thrilled you, perhaps more than was healthy, but your heart just couldn't help the fascination, the intoxicating allure of the entire situation. After all, questions such as 'What drives a child to murder?' permeated your brain constantly, for they were simply beyond human comprehension. True responses, whether through psychosomatic research or basic interrogation, bore little real fruits. The mind of a murderer, however horrifying and depraved, still demanded thorough investigation.

Isaac Foster was hardly an exception, and yet for years, nobody had developed an understanding as to his location. This unfortunate fact wouldn't ring forever, though, as lady luck appeared to favour both you and your research. The moment in which the killer, Foster, paraded forth from within the shadow of a burning building, cradling a young girl in his arms, was recorded and played on repeat for your benefit. Questioning from law enforcement was methodical, yet Isaac Foster never once caved, not truly, despite what they might have you believe.

The bandage-wrapped dreamboat clicked his tongue, signalling his intense displeasure at the questions concerning the young girl, Rachel Gardner. From behind the two-way mirror, you observed and noted down his behaviour patterns, his posture, his words (how he spoke and what, precisely, he said), and anything else of personal interest. Your heart commanded the scribbling of tiny hearts on the page, alongside quirky drawings of a possible future life together. You, of course, understood the need for such a homicidal maniac to be separated from his body, but you desperately wanted to be the one who ended him. If he couldn't remain essentially conjoined at your hip in life, then he would most certainly in death. A simple excuse would likely suffice: you were absolutely appalled at the treatment of his previous victims, and the most recent, almost-victim, Miss Gardner.

"Alright, Isaac." One of the policemen, Arthur, began. "Before the trial, we have a criminal psychologist here, who would be quite happy to study you. What do you say?"

A sigh of contempt passed his lips. "I told ya, my name's Zack, and I don't think I have much of a choice."

Arthur laughed, rather heartily. "And all my sources said you lacked common sense, as well as intelligence."

"Whatever, gramps. Just bring this guy in here, would ya?" Another sigh echoed off the walls, sending the most wonderfully warm shivers rocketing through your body.

An officer insisted on the utmost security, and he intended to remain in the interrogation room, with you and the killer. This really wouldn't do, however, because capture was only a viable option later, when all Zack's screams and cries were lost to history. Nearly-convicted murderer though he may have been, the truly deranged mind, bubbling away in a cauldron of wicked schemes and bloody torture, was your very own. With the sternness to rival a military commander, you dismissed the officer. Zack's lips parted slightly, as you slid into the room. Those gorgeously-asymmetrical gemstones, just above an adorable little bandaged nose, offered a glimmer of astonishment, maybe (dare you say) even curiosity. The snowy paper obscured his cheeks completely, but he was definitely blushing; a crimson hue manifested on his ears, which you found incredible.

Choosing a seat directly opposite the drop-dead handsome serial killer, you reached out a hand for him to shake. Upon realising that this gesture was unfamiliar, you retracted your hand. "My name is (Y/n) (L/n). It's nice to meet you..."

"Zack. It's just Zack." He replied, apparently refusing to acknowledge the sloppily-concealed admiration in your eyes.

"Okay then, Zack. Tell me, when and why did you start killing? Did it possess any element of fun, or was it simply out of revenge, or spite?" Notebook in hand, you posed the first set of questions.

For a moment, it seemed as though he would decline to answer. "I started...well, it was 'cause of the orphanage."

"The orphanage?" You prompted, when Zack failed to continue his sentence.

Like a bursting dam, water free-flowing and chaos-wreaking, Zack's tongue released all his repressed emotions, all the knowledge, all the agony. In a matter of minutes, each piece of valuable information (that which you had yearned for, almost since conception) was written so beautifully on your paper. The sudden urge to allow your crystal tears to bleed the words arose, but for the sake of your master plan's survival, you swiftly pounded it into ash. The less-than-innocent, pure-hearted Zack, for all his primal instincts, couldn't have possibly guessed what you had veiled within that notebook. Two scalpels were buried compactly, inside a hollowed-out section of the book. These would issue Zack's most grievous punishment, and hopefully, his worst nightmare.

The ease with which you were able to progress, was due in large part to the handcuffs adorning Zack's wrists, pinning him to the table. Before the complimentary three or so seconds Zack would normally permit a victim were up, one of the scalpels was protruding forth from his chest. A surge of blood erupted from his mouth. Zack was in pain, and you relished every last second.

"What...the...hell?!" Anger swelled in his voice, yet the words sounded crackled, sputtered, as he attempted to speak through the bleeding.

Without leaving him a moment's respite, you once more plunged the scalpel inside, deeper and with increased ferocity. Zack's entire figure trembled, although he wasn't afraid. The handcuffs appeared close to losing their grip on the table, so, to cover your bases, you quickly grabbed the second scalpel. Finding purchase in a vital - his trachea - you dragged both scalpels down, ripping open his flesh in the process. It was the most amazing sight you had ever witnessed, and it was flourishing, growing more beautiful by the second. Zack stopped struggling after another few lacerations, and the puncturing of both lungs. Now, there wasn't even a sliver of oxygen for the bloodthirsty monster. He was nothing more than a doll, stiff, lifeless, and oh so handsome. Cutting around the organs, you carefully removed his heart, lungs, pancreas, kidneys and liver, refusing to bother with the rest.

Dwelling within the warmth of your palm, Zack's silent heart almost seemed to shiver. You placed his blood-soaked organs on the table. You found some suitable replacements, in old, scrunched-up papers. Drawing out a needle and thread from your pocket, you began stitching his gaping wounds closed, although the crimson liquid dripping from your hands made this task a little difficult. The zig-zag pattern looked lovely when completed, and you again stepped back to admire the scene. Zack's life-force had ceased to exist; his soul had vacated this world. Gently, you lifted up his chin. A chaste kiss was planted on his lips - a symbol of your undying affections. You lolled his head back and forth, moved his arms in all directions, squished his mouth and even removed some of his bandages, to unearth what had been hidden from you.

Ah, what beauty, what grace; such an angelic little doll.

[monkwrites]

For fairness, here’s the beginning of the BokuAka story. Whether or not I can get past chapter one will probably be the deciding factor lol

To think it all started with one oversized little brat, coming in out of nowhere like a tsunami, shoving himself into everyone's life as though he belonged there. Hate is a strong word; there's a lot that Akaashi Keiji dislikes, like a whole fucking lot, but he prefers to think he's a somewhat reasonable man. Still, of all the things that bother him, that shake him to his core and send him teetering on the edge of murder, Haiba Lev is one of the few things he can say he absolutely hates without a shadow of a doubt.

It's not the kid's fault, and he knows that. But still, holy shit. If he thought he could get away with it, he'd have strangled him months ago. What it would feel like to have his hands firmly around that pretty little neck of his…

No, it's not Lev's fault, and he tries to remind himself of that, but it's hard. It's so fucking hard, and the wine doesn't help. A whole bottle all to himself, who the hell let this happen?

The more he drinks, the more he realizes it really isn't Lev’s fault. Not all his fault, at least. That selfish bastard Yaku Morisuke is at fault, too, and the longer the night drones on, the more he thinks about it. He thinks about his past with Yaku, the time they spent together, the love he felt for him...and how that piece of shit just couldn’t love him back. Sure, it was a no strings attached thing, and yeah, maybe that was his idea in the first place, but still. But still.

Fuck, it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad, and he was the only one to feel it.

Just. How fucking dare Yaku do...do...this.

Fuck him.

Fuck, why isn’t he over him yet? He thought his time in Paris would ease the pain, that he could have the love fucked out of him by every hot guy he could get his hands on. Turns out magic dicks don’t exist and sex doesn’t heal deep wounds. And he should know because he slept with a lot of guys in Paris. He came back home to Japan and his feelings were still there, along with the addition of one tall, childish, Russian piece of shit─that fucking bastard Lev.

He takes another swig of wine and watches Yaku disappear from Oikawa’s flat. Bokuto is saying something, but Akaashi can’t be bothered to pay attention. He’s too drunk and jealous. Bokuto doesn’t know to take the wine away, and he likes it like this. He’ll drink and everyone else will be too drunk to stop him, and Bokuto will be too ignorant to do anything about it.

He watches Lev disappear through the elevator as well, most likely to rendezvous with Yaku somewhere. He’s not stupid, he’s fully aware those two will finally hook up tonight. It’s New Years and they’ve been hanging off of each other for months. Of course it’s finally happening. It’s happening and Akaashi feels...well, it’s like everything is folding in on him and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. All he can do is drink and observe and be bitter and jealous because that’s all he’s fucking good for.

It’s all he’s ever been good for. Maybe that’s why Yaku never loved him?

Fuck.

The lights are dimmed in the living room as it’s just minutes from midnight. Everyone in the flat drunk-whispers in anticipation.

And everything is spinning. Everyone shouts a countdown, fireworks explode across the cityscape just outside, everyone kisses someone, everyone else is screaming about it, and then he’s at the kitchen island with Oikawa and Kuroo. They talk, he listens, but just barely. His head hurts and he doesn’t remember getting this drunk, but he is. Nobody’s taken his wine away, at least. At this point, he’d probably fight them if they tried.

Man, he really hopes he doesn’t end up vomiting on anyone tonight. That'd probably be a little more embarrassment than he's willing to deal with. 

Suddenly, Oikawa is calling someone over. Oh, he’s calling over Yaku, who has a Lev shaped tumor attached to him. Isn’t that nice.

Oikawa teases them about fucking on the roof, or making out, or whatever the fuck they actually did up there. It doesn’t matter at this point, Akaashi was right. They’ve made it official, but knowing what was going to happen does nothing to dull the sting he feels in his heart.

You knew this was coming, Keiji. You’ve known for months, there’s no reason to feel like this, you idiot, you absolute idiot.

And then, he hears Lev say, “I'd like everyone to know, though. You're mine now,” and it’s all fucking over from there. The glass shatters in his hand─when did he grab a glass?─and everyone is looking at him, but he doesn’t fucking care. Fuck all of them, all he can see is red and the shock on Lev’s stupid, handsome face, and FUCK does he HATE this kid.

He isn’t even looking at him, but it’s still all he can see in his mind as his eyes stare at nothing dead ahead of him.

“Holy shit,” Kuroo says. “Are you okay, Akaashi?”

He reaches for Akaashi’s bleeding hand, but Akaashi pushes him away. He tries again, and this time Akaashi punches him in the chest with all the strength of a heartbroken twink...it’s also with his left hand, which is probably the only reason why Kuroo doesn’t die instantly by the force of his rage. Kuroo leans back, raising his hands in defeat.

Yes, leave me the fuck alone, asshole.

Oikawa looks like he’s about to stand up. “Kei-chan…”

“Don’t,” Akaashi warns him.

“What the fuck, Akaashi?” Iwaizumi steps forward, but he stops when Akaashi points at him with his good hand.

“Don’t,” he warns again. He realizes his hand is shaking. Fuck, his whole body is shaking and he feels like he’s on fire, from the alcohol or the burning rage, he can’t be sure. Who fucking cares at this point? He feels red hot from his cheeks all the way to the bottom of the soul he’s sure plenty of people don’t believe he has. But of course he does, and it’s in just as much pain as the rest of him.

Then Yaku speaks, and Akaashi wants to cry. “Keiji, what’s wrong?”

You, us, this, he thinks. If only he hadn’t left Japan, maybe he could have done something, anything, to make Yaku love him. There had to have been something, he just missed it, he fucking missed it because the only thing he knows how to do is run away from his problems. He fucked up and there’s no going back and it just...everything hurts so, so bad.

Yaku makes to step around the island, and Akaashi’s body moves on its own; he’s on his feet in an instant, so quick it must startle Yaku, because he stops before he gets any closer.

Before he knows it, he's screaming at the man, laying every insecurity he’s ever had out for everyone to see, letting all of their friends know just how pathetic and weak he actually is behind his stoic exterior. He screams at Yaku, then he screams at Lev, and it feels like it’ll never end, like he could go forever on a drunken rampage until he’s ruined every single thing he’s ever cared about in this world. That's not a lot, so it’s perfectly feasible. And maybe he should burn everything down right here and right now so that he can fuck back off to Paris and pretend like his life in Tokyo never existed. He likes to think it would be easier. God, something has to be easier than all of this shit.

He thinks he might throw up. If he does, he hopes it hits Lev.

Fuck, when did he start crying? His tears are just as hot as the rest of him, so hot they have to be leaving blisters where they fall down his cheeks. He’s bracing himself on the counter, he can’t even stand up anymore, and then Kuroo is there, and he thinks he’s screaming at him, too. It’s hard to tell what’s happening, and it feels like all he can do is scream. And then there’s Bokuto putting himself between him and Lev. For some reason, it just makes him angrier. Akaashi lashes out at him, too, because at this point, why the fuck not? He screams and flails against him, hitting whatever he can of Bokuto’s stupid, rock-hard body. It hurts, but Bokuto takes it, so Akaashi keeps doing it. He gets blood on the man’s shirt, but he can’t be bothered to care. Fuck him for getting in the way, anyway. Fuck him, fuck them, fuck everyone, fuck everything.

When did Bokuto start talking to him? How can he be so quiet and calm at a time like this? Who the fuck does he think he is?

“Let’s get you out of here, Akaashi,” he says in that voice that’s too quiet and serious to belong to Bokoto, but it comes from his mouth all the same.

He’s not sure when or how, but a few of them manage to drag him to the sink to clean his wound while he does everything in his power to make it as difficult as possible, but he’s suddenly so tired and super lightheaded and they're just too shit-faced to properly appreciate his ferocity.

They manage to drag him into the elevator, and then he’s out in the freezing cold of the night. Standing is hard, so he relies heavily on Bokuto to keep him from eating shit on the pavement. Bokuto helps him get his coat on, not even stopping when Akaashi tries to fight that, too. When did Bokuto become so patient and caring?

He doesn't notice he’d stopped crying until tears are streaming down his face again.

“Fuck. Off,” he sobs. Despite popular demand, Bokuto does not fuck off.

“Nah, man. We need to get you home...or. I dunno.” He looks around. “Your place is kinda far from here, isn’t it? C’mon, you can crash at my place tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Just leave me to die in the streets, I don’t want to do...anything else right now, okay?”

“Nah, I can’t do that.” Bokuto puts one of his thick arms around Akaashi’s shoulder, gently edging him forward. He tries to fight him, but all the fight left him as soon as the bitter winter air hit his skin. So, he reluctantly lets Bokuto walk him. “You’ll be okay, you just gotta sober up and sleep it off.”

“I’d rather...drink myself to death than sober up and face any of this later,” he admits with a bitterness to rival the winter chill.

Bokuto continues to reassure him in that uncharacteristically calm, even tone. Akaashi assumes that’s what he was doing at least, because the rest of the night is a blur. He remembers Bokuto carrying him up a few flights of stairs, stumbling into a door and tripping over something, and being caught by the elbow before he could knock his teeth out on the hardwood floor. He remembers falling into a mess of blankets and unfolded laundry, and having his shoes taken off for him. He doesn’t remember taking his jacket off, but it was gone at some point, and then Bokuto was there with water and pajama pants, and it was kind of nice until Akaashi couldn’t hold it in anymore. The last thing he remembers is instinctively leaning forward and throwing up an entire bottle of wine and his dinner right in Bokuto’s lap.

[carewyncromwell]

[Taking Ben’s recommendation, Carewyn headed to the Training Grounds. Although she hadn’t seen either Beatrice or Merula yet and was concerned about both of them, she already knew full well who she was going to find there. Sure enough, Merula Snyde was lashing out her wand in violent turns, burning and slashing at the dummies with ferocity.

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed upon Merula’s back as she watched her for a moment.

Her old school rival was laser-focused on what she was doing. There was a tenseness in her shoulders and a harshness to her stance that spoke of intense, cold rage. Even as Merula’s hand clenched over her wand and she precisely slashed the dummy’s head in half before it magically reformed a second later, it was clear there was no control -- no hint of restraint. She had a hold over her wand movements and dueling form...but her emotions were clearly set ablaze.

Her eyes softening grimly, Carewyn approached Merula. When she spoke, her voice was very soft.]

[Merula seemed to have already sensed someone was there, but there was an odd twitch in her neck and shoulders at the sound of Carewyn’s voice.]

And thinks too little...

[Pushing that meaner thought down, Carewyn tried to respond with some dry humor.]

“Well, I suppose he was sorted into Gryffindor for a reason. They do have a talent for making a commotion...”

[Merula, however, didn’t seem in the mood to chat. Her turning around was harsh and confrontational.]

[Any trace of lightness left Carewyn’s face.]

“Ben seemed to think that you’ve been having a tough time, after what happened last year.”

Merula: “And I suppose, as usual, you thought to stick your nose in other people’s business?”

[Carewyn refused to rise to the insult -- so instead she just pursed her lips, letting Merula rattle on a bit while she conjured up a more level response.]

“(warily) Get in the way of what?”

Merula: “Of killing Rakepick.”

[Carewyn faltered visibly.]

Merula: “I know you want to stop her too, Cromwell. We’re looking at a ‘kill or be killed’ situation right now...and I know what side I want to be on.”

[Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed over her narrowing eyes critically.]

[Carewyn’s eyes widened, her chest filling up with an emotion she couldn’t quite define.

The idea of killing Rakepick hadn’t seemed completely out of character for Merula. She’d always been a very vengeful sort, and she could go way overboard in trying to hurt someone. After all, this was the person who’d trapped her and Rowan in a Devil’s Snare in first year. But this -- this response --

It infuriated Carewyn.]

“...How dare you.”

[Merula’s eyebrows knit together over her eyes, creating an expression that both looked offended and confused.]

“(lowly and harshly) After all those years of ranting about how you’re going to be ‘the Most Powerful Witch at Hogwarts’ -- after all the work you’ve put in, to prove yourself -- to show up all those people who misjudged you, for what your parents did -- you’re just going to throw that all away? All of your dreams, all your ambitions -- your future, your life? And for what -- to kill Rakepick? You know the Aurors are hunting her down -- there’s a very good chance she’ll die trying to escape from them! And even if she doesn’t, she’ll be locked up in Azkaban for life.”

Why would you choose this!? I don’t have a choice -- my life is never going to be the one I wanted now! Why would you -- !?

“Why would you throw away your chance of living a normal life, just to -- ?”

[Merula’s pink eyes flared.]

Merula: “Normal? Nothing is normal for me! I’m not like you, Cromwell -- I can’t just get up and go to class every day like a good little witch planning her career...not as long as Patricia Rakepick walks the earth!”

[It was interesting how differently Merula and Carewyn expressed their anger in that moment. Carewyn, as always, tended to go ice cold whenever possible, so as to better keep hold of herself and her head -- Merula, of course, had no desire to censor herself or hold back, so her anger came out like licking, hot flames.

As the two glared at each other, something in Merula’s eyes shifted a little.]

Merula: “After what Rakepick did to your brother...I thought you’d want revenge too.”

[Carewyn’s blue eyes darted down to the ground just to the left of Merula’s foot.]

I do want Rakepick to pay. I do want justice for what she did to Jacob -- to Bill...even to you. But...I know I could never kill anyone...not even Rakepick. And I definitely -- definitely don’t want you anywhere near her again -- not when she has all of R behind her, when she’s such a threat --

“(solemnly) ...Seems to me like the best revenge would be not letting Rakepick have that kind of power over you. To live well and become powerful despite her.”

Merula: “(scornfully) So just staying in line and letting her get away with it.”

[There was a short, tense pause. Then Merula spoke again, her voice a bit lower than before.]

Merula: “...I heard Khanna telling Barnaby that you weren’t planning on going after the Vaults or Rakepick, but I didn’t think you’d become this cowardly, Cromwell.”

[The word “cowardly” was an arrow in Carewyn’s heart, but she was too proud to acknowledge it. Keeping her eyes just to the left of Merula’s face, just over her shoulder, she responded as levelly as she could.]

“It’s not cowardice -- it’s preservation. Rakepick tortured you, Merula. She injured both Bill and me, and we both know it could’ve been so much worse. This whole thing has gotten way out of our control, and I don’t intend to lead anyone else on any more crazy adventures.”

Merula: “So this is you stupidly trying to ‘shield’ everyone. (mutters) Why am I not surprised... (more confrontational) Whatever happened to not relying on anyone more than you rely on yourself, Cromwell?”

[Carewyn met Merula’s eyes squarely, her blue eyes very cold. She hated being reminded of that conversation.]

I don’t. But...

“(lowly) ...You’d said I sounded like Rakepick when I said that.”

[Merula’s pink eyes, however harsh and confrontational they were, seemed to glint with something...tenser.]

Merula: “Well, for once, you both had been right!”

[What was that look in Merula’s eyes? Was she...actually a little frustrated? It seemed like she’d been trying to say something, but it was almost like -- she didn’t know what to say...

Almost like how Carewyn felt, not knowing how to talk to Ben...

Carewyn’s stony gaze cracked, betraying some amazement and softness despite herself.

Before she could say anything, however, the two Slytherin girls were interrupted by another girl in Hufflepuff robes dashing over to them.]

[Penny glanced from Carewyn to Merula, looking confused.]

Penny: “Why are you both out here alone in the dark?”

Merula: “(very sardonically) Oh, so you’ve come to judge us, Penny? Brilliant.”

[Penny looked very taken aback by Merula’s hostility.]

Penny: “Huh? What’s going on? Do you hate me, all of a sudden?”

[Carewyn rested a hand on Penny’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.]

“(coolly) No, Penny -- Merula’s just in a mood.”

[She shot Merula a very reproachful look, but Merula rolled her eyes.

Penny turned to Carewyn with a bit more concern in her face.]

Penny: “...I was actually looking for you, Carewyn...it’s about Beatrice.”

[It took all of Carewyn’s composure to not snap at Merula as she shot her a very sharp glare out the side of her eye.

Penny, however, merely shook her head, her face rippling with worry.]

Penny: “No...this may be worse...”

((OOC: Wow...I’m pleasantly surprised by how much I’m enjoying writing Merula and Carewyn’s interactions, now that they’ve surmounted the Portrait Vault together! I still don’t think they’ll ever be friends, exactly -- more like frenemies -- but they’ve really developed a very interesting contrast, as two Slytherin girls with similar ambitions but completely different personalities and methods of going about achieving their goals. Plus their eyeshadow looks are now rather similar! I plan to keep using smokier eye make-up for Carewyn in year 6, at least until that certain Redacted event.*groans in despair* But yeah, I’m going to get a lot of use out of my character theme for Year-6!Merula while writing her, from now on...

Next-up...year-6!Beatrice.))

[adrenaline-roulette]

Absolute Beginners

Chapter two: Of Oubliettes and Tunnels 

Make sure you’ve read chapter one first!

“The goblin king!” Sarah yelled, as she pounced on him, wielding a wooden spoon in what was supposed to be a menacing manner. With a cackle of glee from Jareth, they both went down laughing, falling onto the wooden floor of the kitchen. Sarah kneeled over him, waving her spoon above his face as if preparing to strike. Jareth could do nothing but laugh, his hands resting on her hips from when she had pushed them to the ground.

 In an instance, everything seemed to freeze, the light breeze that had been allowed entrance into Sarah’s apartment after Jareth’s marvellous arrival had fallen still. No birds chirped from the tree’s outside, and the Goblin King himself lay frozen on the floor, his hands holding onto her hips tightly, as his eyes glossed over. Sarah looked down at the King, the hand holding the wooden spoon falling to her side, as she raised an eyebrow at the curious turn of events. As quickly as it had come, all life seemed to return to everything around her, and Jareth’s eyes flickered until they found hers.

“What was that all about?” Sarah asked, as Jareth slowly sat up, moving Sarah until she sat on his lap.

“A summons, someone has wished away a child and the goblins are unsure of what to do.”  At Sarah’s quizzical look, Jareth quickly continued. “We have not had a summons since yours precious, and many of the goblins who took Toby that day, are now too old to deal with summons. I now have younger goblins, none of whom have dealt with taking a child before.”

Sarah nodded in understanding, at least she thought she understood what Jareth was saying. Though she had always assumed the goblins were born with the knowledge of how to kidnap wished away children.

“Do you think I could maybe come with you? To the underground that is, not to the summons. I would quite like to see things from your perspective, as opposed to that of the runners.”

The look Jareth returned was one of both surprise and absolute shock. “I, you, What?!” He gasped out, his grip on her hips tightening. Neither human nor fae seemed to remember, or at the very least mind the close proximity they currently shared.

“I’m going to take that as you not wanting me to come?” Sarah blushed. It had been a long shot to ask such a thing, but she had hoped that maybe he would say yes.

Jareth frowned, shaking his head as a smirk crept onto his thin lips. “Dearest Sarah, I would love for you to accompany me to this summons.” He purred, lifting one of her hands towards himself, before brushing his lips against her knuckles. This was certainly not something he had ever thought she would ask. But yet, here they were, Sarah truly was a mystery to him.

The blush that covered Sarah’s cheeks as he kissed her hand, was one to rival the colour of a fresh tomato. “Just give me a moment to change, then I’ll be ready.” She grinned, before leaping off Jareth, and jogging up the stairs to her bedroom. Jareth watched her go, a wicked smile playing on his lips.

 Ten minutes passed, and Sarah came racing back downstairs, wearing a fresh pair of jeans, combat style boots, a simple shirt with a denim jacket over the top. “I’m ready!” She declared with a joyous grin, as Jareth stepped towards her, chuckling softly at her excitement. “I see that.” He teased, before reaching out and taking her hand.

“Hold on tightly, I do recommend closing your eyes, especially for this first journey. I would hate for you to be sick in my castle.” Her fingers clasped tightly around his, and despite the ferocity in which she held onto him, neither could deny the slight spark they felt at the mere connection. “1,2,3” Jareth whispered, and suddenly Sarah felt as if the world was turning upside down. Lights seemed to flash before her closed eyes, and the floor seemed to disappear from below her feet, and suddenly she was floating. “Open your eyes.” Jareth whispered in her ear, as he released her hand. Slowly, she peeled her eyelids open, her eyes adjusting to her new surroundings. They weren’t in the underground, or at least not in a part that she was familiar with. They were surrounded by lush greenery, not a single trash heap, chicken or goblin in sight.

“Where are we?” Sarah breathed out, turning in a circle to gain a better view of where they had landed. Jareth grinned beside her, gazing over the land which was his kingdom, attempting to compose himself before he responded. He found himself still attempting to process the news of Sarah wanting to join him here. The last thing he had ever expected was for his champion to wish to come back.

“The underground of course, just a part you did not see the last time you were here.”

“I don’t see the Labyrinth though? Isn’t that the entrance to the Goblin City?”

Jareth chuckled, his sharp teeth peeking over his lips. “There are many entrances, I would hardly expect all of my guests to reach me by having to make their way through the twists, and turns of my Labyrinth.”

“So, the Labyrinth is only for runners then?” Sarah surmised, as she finished her circle, standing beside the larger than life King. “How far out from the city and your castle are we?”

“Quite a far ways, however there are tunnels that run beneath the entire kingdom, you just need to know where to look.” Jareth gestures towards what appeared to be a large oak tree; however the leaves were in various shades of purple. The lower branches were decorated in lilac, slowly growing darker as they went up, finishing in an eggplant colour. “It is easy to mistake one of the many oubliettes for a tunnel, you must be cautious.”

Sarah moves towards the tree as Jareth follows closely behind, she reaches out to the trunk, the bark deceptively smooth. “It looks like bark , but it’s not rough?”

“Remember precious, everything is not always as it seems.” Jareth whispers behind her, leaning an arm over her shoulder, resting her gloved hand over her own. He guides her hand over the smooth tree trunk, until it lands on what felt to be a door handle. It was cold to the touch, and smooth like metal. She clasps her fingers around the circular object, and twists, pushing out until a door which had no been visible before opens, revealing a dark, dusty tunnel. Instantly Sarah felt a wave of panic wash over her, the tunnel looked exactly as the oubliette she had fallen into had looked.  Surely, she couldn’t have been so foolish as to fall for another one of Jareth’s tricks! Had this nice guy behaviour all been an act?

“’Ello there.” A gruff voice pierced through the blackness, before a torch came into view. Shortly after, the one and only dwarf Sarah had ever know stood before her.

“Hoggle!” Sarah squealed, as she leapt forwards, falling to her knees and wrapping her arms around her first Labyrinthian friend. “It’s been far too long!”

Hoggle made slight sounds of disgruntlement, though he was desperately trying to hide the smile the had crept across his wart covered face. He couldn’t have the king see him get all mushy over this girl, even if she did beat his Labyrinth. “Go on, ge’ off. We spoke jus’ last week. You was showing off the new bed spread ya got.”

Sarah blushed as she pushed herself back to her feet, bending over to brush off her dusty knees. She could hear Jareth stifling a chuckle behind her, but decided to ignore it, just this once. “I didn’t have anyone else to show it to! Karen is away at the moment, and all of my friends are out of town!” She protested, resting her hands on her hips.

Hoggle rolled his eyes, before turning his attention to his King. “Tha goblins are goin’ crazy, majesty. They’ve even started tryna set up traps for tha runna. Not sure how ta stop ‘em. Sir Didymus ‘as been tryna get ‘em to calm down. But he ain’t been havin’ much luck.”

Jareth groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his middle finger and thumb. “Hoggle, will you please take Sarah to the castle, I will go and attend to the lunatic goblins, and then to the summons.” He turned to face Sarah, a tired look crossing his features. “I’m so sorry Sarah, I had intended to walk with you myself, though I fear if I do not hurry, my kingdom may be in ruins within the hour.”

“That’s fine, it gives me a chance to catch up with Hoggle, but promise you don’t start the timer for the runner until I can watch!”

For the millionth time that day it felt, Jareth was surprised by Sarah. He understood her wanting to see what the Labyrinth could look like from behind the scenes, but he hadn’t expected her to want to witness the runner. He wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or honoured by her taking such interest in his work.  After a moment of pause, he nods, he blonde halo of hair swaying at the motion. “I promise you, the timer will not start before you are there with me.”

“Thank you.” Sarah smiled, before Jareth vanished from sight, once again, a cloud of glitter sprinkling down to the ground around where he had just stood. “Well, come on feet.” She smiled, as she turned to Hoggle, who chuckled deeply.

“Do ya say that ev’ry time ya go ta walk?”

Sarah frowned slightly, tilting her head to the side in though, come to mention it, she didn’t, it seemed to be a phrase she kept for the Labyrinth. “So, is it a long walk to the castle?”

“Nah, no’ really. It can be if ya stop an’ look at everythin’ ya pass. But if ya just keep walkin’ straight, ya reach tha city and castle pretty quick.”

“What sort of things are there to stop and look at?” Sarah queried, as the two began a casual walk through the tunnel. Neither were in a hurry, as they knew Jareth would stick to his word, and besides, who knew how long it would take for him to gain control of his subjects.

“All sorts’a things, there’s short cuts ta that Firey forest, tha junk city, and all differen’ places ya didn’ see tha last time ya was ‘ere. I’m sure tha Rat King will show ya aroun’ some time.”

Sarah rolled her eyes at the nickname Hoggle insisted on using, even despite know she and Jareth were rather good friends now, he refused to call him anything else, unless speaking face to face of course.

“Let’s try to avoid the firey forest, yeah?”

“Had no intentions of goin’ there. Don’ like the buggers either.”

The two walked in companionable silence, occasionally being broken by Sarah as she asked what certain things they were as they passed them by. Before long Hoggle came to a stop, a door made of wood panels in various shapes stood before them to their left. “And ‘ere we are. This door leads righ’ ta tha castle.” Hoggled declared, as he pulled the door open, the bright light of daylight momentarily blinding Sarah.

“Oh, good lord!” She cried, shielding her eyes from the harsh light, they had only been in the tunnel for half an hour or so, but she had become accustomed to the dim light the torch Hoggle carried, provided.

“Sorry love, just me.” Came Jareth’s accented voice, as he stood in the doorway. Sarah pried her hand away from her eyes, and her vision slowly returned to her, finding herself now standing in the throne room of the Castle beyond the Goblin City. Unlike her previous visit to the castle, this time the throne room was bustling with life, of course the ever-present chickens were nesting around the large, stone room, but there were also countless goblins, all wearing various articles of ‘battle’ gear.  Some with saucepans and colanders on their heads, and others with actual knights helmets on.

“Please tell me they aren’t armed.” Sarah gasped, as she watched two goblins in particular run headfirst into the wall, one wearing a helmet, the other not.  The helmet clad goblin stumbled away, with a dopey grin on his face, whilst the other lay motionless on the floor. A bruise already forming on his head.

Jareth chuckled, shaking his head at the antics of his subjects. “Do not fear, they are armless, and also about to be legless I am sure. He sighed, spotting two large barrels of goblin ale being rolled into the throne room.

“This runner is about to walk straight into something directly out of a Lucas and Henson film.”

“What is a Lucas and Henson?”

My Masterlist

[retvenkos]

Hey! I’m resending my 🔥 ask, because it may be deleted. For a guy from Sherlock, the X-Men and MCU please! I’m 28, hetero girl who’s about to get her PhD in a month. Oblivious to flirting, very clueless about intimacy. Proud Slytherin, INTJ-T, Virgo, melancholic. I’m always kind and friendly but does have a temper and a poisonous tongue. Perfectionist. Nerd. Tomboy. I enjoy reading, films and TV series, colouring books, metal music. I hate loud, bossy people, snakes and being told what to do.

woah, early congrats on getting your phd! that’s huge!!!! also, disclaimer that it’s been a while since i’ve seen x-men, so i might be a little rough on the details for that ship.

Sherlock:

I ship you with Sherlock!

alright, so you are the only one who is able to handle sherlock, and that’s truly something. 

there is no doubt in my mind that you and sherlock had a rivals to lovers story line or at the very least a begrudging allies to lovers story line.when you first met sherlock you thought (rightfully) that he was arrogant and bossy and rude - the last person you’d ever want to spend your time with. and throughout the case that you’re working on (maybe your case? idk, but it’s a group effort), you are certain that you will be glad when you never have to see sherlock holmes again......but you spoke too soon. for some god forsaken reason, you keep running into sherlock holmes and john watson. now, john watson you don’t mind so much, but that sherlock holmes.... he infuriates you to no end. and he seems to find joy in annoying you, and that’s the worst of it.but, then again,,,,, the more you see sherlock..... the less you hate him? it doesn’t make much sense, because if anything, he only gets more cocky the longer you spend time together, and usually that irritates you more than anything else, but.... it doesn’t? and maybe it’s your lack of irritation that bothers you when sherlock is around....

meanwhile john is watching all of this go down like the ben affleck smoking meme,,, a veteran of many things, including the “why the hell do i like sherlock holmes?” phenomenon.

but anyways, you and sherlock are actually really good together.

both of you are intjs, which means that you understand each other really well, something that’s probably rare for the both of you. and yet, you also have many qualities that sherlock doesn’t have that would be good for rounding him out. you’re more patient than he is, more apt to show your feelings, and more reliable. you’d be able to balance sherlock’s instability but still meet him at this own level, and that’s good for your relationship.

the two of you definitely knew each other for a long time before you got together, both of you are wary of bringing others into your circle until you know you can trust them, and both of you are romantically clueless, so you’re a little slower to figure things out, which isn’t bad.

you both are also wicked smart, not afraid to say so, and ambitious as hell. the two of you are constantly in forward motion, trying to find the next thing to keep you occupied, and this trait would be bad in other relationships, but both of you are equally as motivated, so there’s no misunderstanding with that.

i also love how both of you can be kind and friendly, but you also have tempers and quite the tongue. you can both destroy your opponents, and no doubt that’s something you find attractive in the other.

X-Men:

I ship you with Erik Lehnsherr!

alright, so the power couple vibes i get from the two of you are astronomical. the both of you are hella determined, ambitious, introspective, and great leaders as you are informed and rational as well as loyal to your beliefs. and for your shyness, erik is incredibly charismatic, so the two of you could persuade armies to your side. iconic.

i also think the two of you would be great because while you are both determined, you are also very versatile, curious, and creative. you would bring an interesting viewpoint to any challenge that you face, and you’d be creative in getting the both of you out of trouble.

i think the two of you can be very domestic in your down time together - i imagine you both reading together, but also! i think you’d do puzzles together - they’re fun, not too difficult, and the perfect, mindless task to do while having deep conversations.

oh! and the two of you together are the most sassy, sarcastic people i’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, but all of your comments end with a wide grin, so most of the time, you’re not hurting anyone’s feelings. you definitely walk the line sometimes, though.

i also love the idea that erik is flirting with you and you’re just like ??? yeah no, he’s just like that with everyone. it makes the other x-men want to run into a wall. eventually you get better at knowing when erik is flirting, but for a while it’s rough going, and erik is like ??? how are you this oblivious? it’s cute.

MCU:

I ship you with Steve Rogers!

alright, so i’m taking a different approach with this ship, but i think you and steve would go really well together! you’re both kind and patient, with a bit of a sad streak to you as well as a ferocity that is deep seeded into your being and is often shown in small ways like your determinedness and your loyalty.

both of you can be a little shy and a little oblivious, and i think that together, you would have a really cute dynamic. steve is the more emotional side of the relationship while you offer him a really grounded approach to things that he definitely admires and needs in his life.

you are more the brain where steve is more the heart, and together you are able to balance each other out and compliment each other’s strength. i think that with steve, you would really be heard, and that’s important for you. you like to know that you’re helping out in palpable ways, and you like to know your advice is thought about, and steve is nothing if not thoughtful.

also, the two of you have the sweetest quiet moments. you definitely read together - often to you read to steve out loud because he insists that he loves the sound of your voice. 

you also draw and color together! steve knows first hand that it’s a great stress relief to do something artistic and mindless like coloring, so i 100% believe that the two of you get those adult coloring books and work on them together. 

steve also loves your music taste? like, at first, you didn’t think he would, because he is so much that 40s gentleman, but when he actually really enjoys your music, you remember that he’s friends with people like tony stark and natasha romanoff and it all makes sense. he definitely has you branch out and listen to some more slow jams, though. especially when he’s feeling homesick or melancholic, listening to older, calmer music just takes him back.

and while the two of you are definitely a soft couple, i think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the ferocity that steve can have. he’s a very emotional person, and when he’s angry, he can surprise everyone with how harsh and ruthless he can be. steve contains a great many multitudes, and i think you would be able to appreciate them rather than fear/dislike them.

also! you are so smart, and steve really admires that. he’s pretty smart himself, a creative thinker and used to outsmarting others rather than punching them down, so he recognizes your intelligence and appreciates that you can recognize his. 

[echoeternally]

If Alakazam and Machamp Survive Together...

Balancing the votes between Machamp and Alakazam in the Hero’s Second Wind poll will bring them into the next story together. Those potential scenes are found on this page!

Brief descriptions and scene titles will be included below!

Fair warning: There is some content dealing with death below as well.

Second warning: This post is long to depict several developing scenes!

... ... ... ... ...

Cave of Wonders

At the conclusion of their battle, Alakazam was barely able to Teleport himself and Machamp to safety. They discover that they’ve healed, and wonder if they can place where they’d arrived.

...

His eyes snapped open, and Alakazam grasped at Machamp, who jolted awake as well. He quickly grabbed at Alakazam and scrambled to the surface.

Gasping, Machamp lurched forward, coughing a bit. He pulled up on Alakazam, who gasped, coughed, and sputtered. Both stared at one another, panting as they steadied their breathing.

Alakazam quickly patted at Machamp’s chest, and they looked down. No stab wounds were on him. While Machamp glanced around the cave, Alakazam held his hand out, telekinetically lifting his spoons back out.

“How did we…?” Machamp returned his attention to Alakazam. “Did you bring us here?”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” determined Alakazam. “We’ve never been here…”

“Wait, but even if you did, that last Teleport should’ve killed you!” Machamp splashed water out as he scooped up Alakazam’s hand. A soft orange glow lit up around their wrists. “…Your…pulse is fine…”

“And you made a remarkable recovery as well, yes,” pointed out Alakazam. “None of this makes any sense, unless…”

“This can’t be that place, can it?” Machamp brought Alakazam closer into him as he paddled over to the nearest ledge. “You remember the legend about the hidden lake that we read about?”

“Now that you mention it…” Alakazam studied the cavern as Machamp gently lifted him to the land, and then pulled himself up. “But how…can it really be…?”

... ... ...

Charting the Waters

As they proceed with climbing the mountains of the monarchy, Machamp takes a moment to talk with Samurott about some potentially developing feelings.

...

“…So…” Machamp slid over to Samurott, who slashed at a rock. “That Typhlosion pal of yours, huh?”

Samurott sighed and rolled his eyes. “What about him?”

“When did you start liking him back?”

Jerking back, Samurott spun around to Machamp, whiskers standing on edge. He pointed his blade at him.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“What? I wouldn’t tell him anything!”

“No, I’m not going over this with you, ok?”

“From what I was told, he gave you some clear moments that you could’ve talked to him about it,” reasoned Machamp. “But you’re holding back, because you already screwed up a few times, didn’t you?”

“Just what do you think you know?”

“Well, if you tell me that I’m right,” started Machamp, “that’ll be good to work with, because I went through the same problem with Alakazam.”

“…Wait, you two weren’t always…?”

“Us? No way!” Machamp laughed. “We needed help from your friends to sort our own feelings out!” He sighed and rubbed behind his neck. “A while ago, I, uh…I messed up with Alakazam pretty badly.” Machamp smirked. “We try not dwelling on it, though, because we’re really happy together nowadays! But…I could go over it with you, if you want.”

“Look, I don’t know what I’m feeling,” admitted Samurott as he sheathed his blade. “I just can’t sort it out, and I don’t think your little story would help any.”

“Maybe not, but you’d be surprised.”

Silently studying Machamp for a moment, Samurott sighed and nodded.

... ... ...

Battle Harmony

During a battle trial to prove their worth to the monarchy, Alakazam and Machamp outshine rivals from the mountains kingdom, with unrivaled pairing skills in combat.

...

“There’s no way they can be this good! …Can they?” Krookodile fumbled back. He glanced at Audino, who blankly shrugged to him. “Come on! We’re in a band together! It’s literally our job to synchronize and harmonize!”

“Being a band doesn’t really mean that you two are that close,” contested Machamp, as he folded his lower arms. “And it’s got nothing to do with your battle prowess.”

“What would you know about that?!” Krookodile folded his arms. “I bet your boyfriend over there is the one with all of the tactics.”

“Me?” Alakazam chuckled and shook his head. “I only know the tactics that Machamp has extensively taught and practiced with me.” He cupped his hands together and charged energy between his spoons. “The tactics that you’re dealing with are all his ideas, not mine.”

“Seriously?!”

“Aw, listen to you bringing me up.” Machamp beamed to Alakazam as he lifted the ball of green energy. “Don’t mind if I do!”

Alakazam waved to us, and then winked as Machamp pulled his fist back. “Always here for you.”

Orange energy focused around Machamp’s hand as he swung forward, slamming the orb at their opponents. Audino clapped as Krookodile grabbed her and dove aside.

He glanced back and watched the energy ball burst, with leaves scattering around the impact, and orange ashes coating them. Grinding his teeth, he twisted back to the pair.

“What the hell kind of combination is that?!”

“You mean you don’t have attack combinations?” Machamp grinned. “You’re only proving how much more we’ve got going on over here!”

“Bah!”

Krookodile lifted his foot and slammed it to the ground with his tail. A tremor ripped across the earth and toward the couple.

“Oh, I’ve been waiting to test this.” Alakazam slid in front of Machamp. “Ready, darling?”

“Always!”

Concentrating on his lower hands, red energy crackled from Machamp’s fingers, as he cupped his hands around Alakazam’s waist. Alakazam outstretched his arms, with his spoons levitating out from them.

Clapping his hands together, a fuschia aura lit around them as Alakazam pointed them to the ground. As the ground split open, his spoons, glowing with both energies, slammed into the earth and forced a heavy bubble between them.

... ... ...

Stoking the Flames

As a midpoint in their journey and after a show performance, Alakazam picks up on Typhlosion’s wavering interest in Samurott and decides to lend him some advice.

...

“Do you want to talk about your feelings regarding Samurott?”

Alakazam folded his legs as Typhlosion deflated and stared across the table to him. He lowered his head and plopped it down.

“There’s nothing else to talk about,” mumbled Typhlosion. “I told him months ago how I felt, and he…doesn’t like me the same way.”

“Has he ever actually told you that he doesn’t like you?”

“Does he have to?”

“Probably.”

“If he has by his inaction and disinterest, shouldn’t that count?”

“Not necessarily, considering that he’s likely struggling with sorting out his own feelings regarding the matter,” assessed Alakazam. “In all honesty, his mannerisms and hesitation around you seem to indicate that he has interest in you, particularly after your little, ah, performance back there.”

“Can we not talk about that?”

“Ha, you didn’t see how he watched you, and how he scowled at the crowd,” teased Alakazam. “Machamp guards me with that same underlying ferocity, so if he’s not romantically inclined to you, then that’s still a supremely excellent friend.”

“If he still even sees me like one…”

“Without a shadow of a doubt, he certainly cares for you,” reassured Alakazam. “Even when Machamp and I weren’t getting along years ago, he would always defend me.”

“Hold on, what?” Typhlosion picked his head up. “You and your boyfriend didn’t get along? I thought you were childhood sweethearts.”

“That’s not quite the story.” Alakazam sighed. “To tell you the truth, you and I are quite alike. My emotions twisted my thoughts up miserably, and I thought Machamp wasn’t as interested in me as I was in him.” He gazed down at his hands on the table, twirling his spoons around one another. “It was actually because I caught his mind off at the wrong moment, or uh, several times, really, but…I just repeatedly misinterpreted his love for me as curiosity and lust.” He sank down in his seat. “And lust for someone else, but I’d rather not get into that part.”

“But you’re both so…” Typhlosion sat up. “Now you’re both so inseparable!”

“Absolutely.” Alakazam grinned. “Your friends helped us come together, and we’ve stayed that way happily since.”

... ... ...

Echoes of the Apex

Near the conclusion of their journey, Machamp and Alakazam must face off against Mega Garchomp once again.

...

A heavy roar erupted from the rainbow light as it faded, and Mega Garchomp lowered his head, wildly grinning at the couple.

“Yeah, I definitely didn’t miss that psycho smile,” muttered Machamp. “Now what do we do?”

“Last time, we were throwing ourselves at him to defend our home,” pointed out Alakazam. “We were stuck with putting ourselves on the line because if he crossed it, everyone else would have died.”

“In case you didn’t notice, we’re falling right back into that scenario,” pointed out Machamp. “Just not at our home, but we’re not going to let innocent people die, are we?”

“Not at all.” Alakazam smirked. “But, unlike last time, we can’t give up breaking through to him.” He frowned. “Also, we don’t have you get too close to him.”

“Definitely not planning on a full repeat performance,” agreed Machamp. “So if you’re trying to get to his head, what do I do?”

“Keep me alive.”

Machamp twisted around to fully face Alakazam, who softly smiled to him.

“Yes, I would absolutely leave my life in your hands,” Alakazam answered Machamp’s thoughts. “And we’ll need to once he comes across the way to us.”

“Alakazam, we can’t—I can’t!”

“Would you rather just find a way to kill him, after what we nearly died discovering about him?” Machamp paused before he shook his head. “Good, because I’d rather not either.” Alakazam searched the mountaintop, and spotted the green dragon. “As a matter of fact, I have a few ideas on appealing to him this time.”

Following his eyes, Machamp spotted who Alakazam focused on. He grinned as Alakazam turned back to wink at him.

“Ok, I think I can follow.” He picked up Alakazam’s hand and kissed it. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Just…let’s be very careful this time.”

“Absolutely.”

... ... ... ... ...

(Remember, these are scenes in development. However, this is what you can look forward to, should the vote tallies of Machamp and Alakazam be close enough together! See if you can get their combined return for the stories!)

(Head back to the poll here!)

(Still not sure or want to read more? Check back here!)

[rufousnmacska]

Goodbye and Hello - 7

Manon and Dorian said goodbye in Orynth. But for them, saying hello again is only a matter of time.

fanfic master list (includes the link to my fics on AO3)

Previous chapters:

Part One: I Wish…

Part Two: Another Day

Part Three: Those Two Words

Part Four: Breakfast in Bed

Part Five: Waiting

Part Six: Confessions (smut warning)

***

Part Seven: Old Friends

A knock at his door broke the heavy silence Dorian had been enjoying for the past hour. Flinching at the sound, he left a long streak of ink across the letter he was writing. He swore, and as he tried to sop it up with a handkerchief, a young page stuck her head into the room.

“A visitor, Your Majesty. Lord Westfall suggested you’d want to see him. Even though he has no appointment.”

Dorian smiled. The page, Kalla, was a stickler for etiquette and rules, and he suspected Chaol had employed her specifically for that reason. Dorian was always glad when someone else was on the receiving end of her disapproval. He nodded for her to show the guest in and was surprised to see Aedion enter his office.

Aedion glanced warily at the young woman as he walked past her. “I will be sure to arrange an appointment the next time,” he said in apology, then cringed as the door was closed just a little too loudly.

Dorian stood quickly and came around from behind his desk. “I can get you some bandages for the daggers she just shot at you,” he said, holding out his hand, a little unsure if or how the greeting would be taken. “It’s good to see you Aedion.”

The male gripped Dorian’s hand firmly. “Your Majesty.” His greeting lacked any mockery that might have been there in the past. With a deep laugh, he added, “I think I will survive. Barely.”

Waving towards the back of the room, Dorian offered Aedion a seat next to the large stone hearth. As he sat, Dorian got them each a glass of wine then joined him. Curiosity threatened to overtake him, but he forced himself to be polite and not pepper Aedion with questions. “This is a surprise. I’d thought the winter had already sealed off Terrasen.”

After taking a sip of the wine, Aedion said, “Not quite yet, but soon. We are on our way to visit Eyllwe. A mix of business and pleasure.”

“We?” Dorian prompted.

“Lysandra and Evangeline are with me.” Before Dorian could ask, Aedion said, “We’re taking the slow, scenic route since Evangeline gets seasick. We just got to the city this morning. They’re visiting old friends, so… I thought I’d do the same.”

Dorian had never thought of Aedion as a friend. An ally, yes. At least, since shortly before the war. But they’d never been friendly. He didn’t begrudge Aedion his hatred of Adarlan, or its previous king. He couldn’t even blame the general for disliking him. For far too long, Dorian had sat passively by while his father brutally conquered most of the continent.

Hearing the term now, he studied Aedion. More surprising than his presence and his offer of friendship was his demeanor. He was calm, composed. None of the underlying fire and ferocity that so characterized him before the war. Dorian had no doubt that it was still there, ready to be called upon when needed. But it no longer seemed to simmer just below the surface, threatening to rear its head at the slightest touch.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important,” Aedion said, breaking the somewhat awkward silence. He looked back at the large desk, overrun with stacks of papers.

Dorian thought of the letter he’d been writing. And blushed in a way he hadn’t since he was a young boy. The heat in his cheeks was due to a rather racy book of poetry he’d found the other day in a newly opened book shop. So many of the poems made him think of Manon that he bought the book and was now copying some of the lines into a letter to her.

“Judging from your expression, I did interrupt.” With a grin, Aedion said, “You know, I’d pay good coin to see Manon Blackbeak’s reaction to opening up a love letter.”

The redness grew over his face, but Dorian laughed. “We have that in common then, because I’d pay to see it too.” He knew he was taking a bit of a chance with this letter, especially since none of the others contained anything this risque. If nothing else, he thought she’d laugh. And that was a reaction he’d do anything to see.

“Have you seen her since…Orynth?”

The male’s hesitation was no puzzle. He’d meant to say since the war. Since she’d lost her entire family. Since he’d lost Gavriel.

Dorian hadn’t spent much time with Gavriel. Chaol thought highly of him. And while that certainly added to his opinion, Dorian had already grown to respect and admire the fae male during their time in Skull’s Bay. His quiet strength and steady presence. Dorian realized that was what he was seeing in Aedion now.

“I have actually,” he said. “We just met at the Ferian Gap.” Aedion raised a questioning eyebrow. “About the aerial legion we’re developing.” Those Ashryvver eyes didn’t blink and Dorian felt himself flushing again. “And trade agreements. Borders. All that… stuff.”

Aedion nodded, a smirk sliding across his face. “And you’re following up with some bawdy correspondence to solidify your agreements. And stuff.”

“I fear you know me too well,” Dorian replied, earning a hearty laugh.

Falling quiet, they booth watched the fire for some time. Just as Dorian was about to offer him more wine, Aedion asked, “How is she?”

Again, his meaning was clear, and the concern lacing his words made something warm ache inside Dorian’s chest. He’d gathered as many bits and pieces as he could about those long days of siege and despair in Orynth, understanding nothing he’d been told would do justice to what Manon, Aedion, Lysandra, and their forces had experienced. The fear and fatigue, the loss and grief, the never-ending dread of the army waiting each morning to destroy them.

“She is doing well,” Dorian replied, giving Aedion a grateful smile. “Still adjusting. But she’s keeping busy. Training the new aerial legion is a positive step I think.” Aedion nodded, genuinely glad to hear. “And, how are you?” Dorian asked.

The male’s eyes flicked away, back to the fire. Dorian wasn’t sure if he’d answer, but after a few moments, Aedion said, “Adjusting.” With a quick smile, he added, “It’s good to have the others around though. Lorcan and Fenrys and Rowan. They knew my father the best. They have endless stories.”

A smile crossed Dorian’s face as he thought of what Orghana had told Manon. Stories honor the loved ones we’ve lost. “I imagine you could write a few books of their adventures. I’m sorry you never had the time to know him.” A stirring deep inside prompted him to add, “And, I’m sorry for all my father did to you.”

Aedion met Dorian’s gaze. As before, he was surprised when there was no blaze of emotion. Instead, he was met with the thoughtfulness of an older man. They were all so much older now, he supposed, even though only a few years had passed.

With a slight nod of thanks, Aedion said, “And I’m sorry for blaming you for your father’s deeds.”

“I deserve some of it I think,” he answered, forcing visions of the collar from his mind. And failing.

Dorian had never gathered the courage to ask Aedion about that time. He could have sought out details after the castle was destroyed. But he knew no more than that the general had briefly been imprisoned. Which dredged up some particularly horrific dreams that Dorian couldn’t dismiss as just dreams. The sounds were too clear. The smells too pungent. He’d done those things to real people. Had he done them to Aedion?

As if reading his mind, Aedion said, “You saved me. Do you remember that?”

He shook his head, unable to speak.

“Before Aelin rescued me, I was in the dungeon, dying from an infection. You came to see me.” When Dorian winced, Aedion clarified, “Just that one time. You came to gloat if I remember correctly. I thought you didn’t notice the wound, but just as you left, you ordered a guard to get a healer.” With a grim smile, he added, “Which pissed me off. You screwed up my well laid plans to die before I could be used as bait.”

Huffing out a humorless laugh, Dorian asked, “I saved you so you could be publicly executed?”

“Well,” the general said with a shrug, “yes. But another way of looking at it is that because of you, I lived to see Aelin again.” Growing more serious, he continued, “I knew at the time it wasn’t really you, Dorian. But looking back on it, I can’t help but wonder if there was a piece of you, the real you, responsible for that.”

Dorian looked back to the fire, swallowing hard to contain his emotions, and to keep from arguing with him. To keep from admitting how powerless he’d been against the valg.

“You survived it,” Aedion said. “Just like I survived dark periods of my life. If you can, use it for something good. So it never happens again.”

It was as if the male had been reborn in some way, Dorian thought. Or perhaps, he’d just never been allowed to see this side of Aedion before. Hoping to bring some levity to the conversation, he narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m not sure how I feel about you becoming so…optimistic.”

Aedion laughed, standing to get more wine. “Something else we have in common.” As he walked by Dorian’s desk, he nodded towards it and said, “You should deliver it in person. Surprise her with it.”

Glad the contents of the letter were obscured, Dorian joined him, smiling at the thought of Aedion giving him relationship advice. Not that the male didn’t have expertise in this area. It was just that in matters of love, he’d always placed Aedion in the category of rival. This new friendship was strange indeed. But, happily welcome. Aedion filled his glass and they silently toasted.

“It’d take me forever to fly to the Wastes. Besides, I only just got back from the Ferian Gap a couple of weeks ago. Chaol would throw a fit if I left again.”

“Just use a wyrd gate.”

The wine glass almost fell from Dorian’s hand. “Excuse me?”

“A wyrd gate.” Aedion drew out each word before leisurely emptying his glass.

“Yes, I heard you. What the hell do you mean by it?”

Since Aelin had destroyed the keys and the way between worlds, Dorian had never tried to contact Gavin. He told himself it was because it would no longer work. But part of him was afraid. Despite all he’d been through, all the progress he was making, Dorian was still stung by doubt. Fearful that the old king would look upon him and see nothing but disappointment.

“Aelin used them to bring the Wolf Tribe and fae to the battle.” Face incredulous, he asked, “I thought you knew that?”

Godsdamn him. To hell with friendship, Dorian wanted to strangle the male. No, he wanted to strangle himself for being so stupid. “My gods. I’m a fool,” he moaned, dropping his head into his hand. “I could use them to be with her right now!”

“Do you know how to do it?”

“Yes!” Dorian growled, his face still covered. Then, after a second or two of thought, he said, “No. I was able to use the wyrd marks to contact Gavin a few times in the afterworld. Is it different to open gates between places in our world? Are the marks different?” He knew they must be, just not how.

“Yes, the marks are different. Aelin taught me how to open a door to a place. Or,” Aedion paused dramatically. “A person.”

Dorian sank down onto his desk, knocking a pile of papers over. “So stupid,” he repeated, as Aedion laughed. The male had the good sense to stop when Dorian shot him a nasty look. Still grinning, he slapped Dorian on the shoulder.

“I can’t speak for other instances, but in this one, you can lighten up on yourself. You’d need to know the entire alphabet to make a door to a specific person or place. And since Aelin barely knew how to do it for that final battle, I’m betting you aren’t fluent in wyrd.”

Dorian nodded in confirmation and released a long, heavy sigh, still angry at himself for never once considering the possibility of using the wyrd marks to visit Manon. Aedion’s assurance didn’t boost his mood. But his next question did.  

“Would you like me to show you how to get to your witch queen?”

 ***

The winds above Blackbeak Keep had always been treacherous. Manon remembered the thrill of riding them as a witchling. The sharp air whipping through her hair, the heart-stopping drops and dives, the rare warm updrafts that carried her into the clouds. Now, with a full grown wyvern instead of an ironwood broom, they were even more dangerous. Behind her, the two Crochan sentinels she’d agreed to bring along were having trouble remaining steady. New to wyverns, the winds threatened to do them in. If she hadn’t been so stubborn and impatient, she would have listened to her great-grandmother and waited until spring to come here.

Signaling to the other witches to follow her, Manon pulled on her reins and guided Abraxos to land.

She shouldn’t have doubted him, high winds or no. He landed smoothly on the largest balcony available, the one that led into the keep’s great hall. The same hall she’d walked through so many times.

As the others landed on either side - clumsily but without injury - she could see herself all those years ago. Strutting between the crowd of whispering Blackbeaks, a new red cloak drapped over her shoulders and a Crochan heart in the box she carried. Her grandmother watching her, unsmiling, sitting like a queen holding court. The memory stood out because at that time, the Ironteeth witches did not have queens.

How had she been so blind? So stupid?

Of course, she had been privy to her grandmother’s ambitions for retaking the Wastes and installing themselves as rulers. But she’d never once considered the lengths to which the matron would go. Allying with valg to destroy the world? And she never truly realized how precarious her own position was until she’d been sliced open by her grandmother’s iron nails.

Blind. She’d been a fool.

This guilt was nothing new. But she should have expected it would hit harder when she’d decided to come here.

The Crochans were waiting for her orders, so she told them to stay on the platform. Scouts had reported that the keep was empty. While that could have changed, Manon wasn’t sure what might be left inside, and the thought of finding Ironteeth trophies with a pair of Crochan witches at her side… It was nothing they needed to see.

Perhaps she’d have the place burnt down after she was done.

The thought eased the tremors inside her chest as she entered the hall. Dark and cold from long dead fireplaces, the place looked foreign. Like something from a bad dream she’d had lifetimes ago. She glanced to the end where the matron’s throne still sat, then turned her nose up at it and continued walking.

Luckily, the keep had not been looted. The few Blackbeaks who’d flown from here to join her grandmother in battle had left quickly. No doubt expecting to return soon, victorious and weighed down with the spoils of war. But that had not happened. So Manon was left alone with a keep still filled with the items of everyday life.

She and the Thirteen had taken the rooms of an entire hallway in the eastern wing, and she was drawn there as if pulled by a thread. Gliding up the stairs, she made no sound save for her thudding heart.

Just at the head of the hallway, she hesitated. Maybe the rest of the place was basically intact, but that was no guarantee that the Thirteen’s rooms hadn’t been ransacked. Especially after they’d left the clan.

There was only one way to find out.

Manon pushed at the first door she came to, Lin’s. Looking inside, she sucked in an icy breath. The room was in disarray. The bed was overturned along with two chests, their clothing strewn across the floor. She could see faded patches on the walls where broad swords and bows would have hung on the now empty pegs and hooks.

The same held true for some of the others’ rooms, and Manon supposed that with so few witches left here when they’d first been summoned to the Ferian Gap and then Morath, only weapons and essentials had been taken. Perhaps her luck would continue.

Slowly, Manon pushed the door open into Ghislaine’s rooms. While the witches had taken the weapons, the books still lining Ghislaine’s walls had been laregly overlooked. Breathing a sigh of relief, Manon walked all the way in and turned in a circle to survey the damage.

Like the others, the room had been trashed. Any weapons or treasure kept here were gone. Instead of bows and swords, shelves covered the walls here. Some books were still upright and in place while others had been pulled off and thrown on the floor. Whoever had searched it had learned quickly that there was nothing useful to war hidden among the shelves.

But the books were the treasure. Then and now.

Manon bent and picked up a few that lay haphazardly against the foot of the bed. Blowing off the coat of dust, she placed them on a table. She had no idea if there would be a book here to interest Dorian. Hell, she had no idea what his reading interests even were. But she was confident she’d know when she found it. So, beginning with the books from the floor, she began to stack them on whatever surface was available, spines out so she could see the title.

It didn’t take her long to find one that might work.

Most of Ghislaine’s books were histories or treatises on magic or nature. There were several on the constellations, a few guides to wildflowers and plants, even a thick volume on the history of the Southern Continent. She sat that one aside for herself. But there were many fictional stories in the mix.

One contained what looked like a variety of myths and legends, each chapter a different story with heroes and heroines, fearsome beasts, and evil villains. As she flipped through the pages, Manon wondered how these tales might compare to her own life story. Another book, surprisingly, appeared to be a romance. She found more, all tucked behind a monster of a book that contained potion recipes. Ghislaine had been smart to hide them. If she’d been caught with these, she’d have seen more trouble than if she’d been caught plotting to take over the clan.

In the end, she had four books she thought Dorian might enjoy, and three for herself. Though, no fun reading for her. They were to help her in her duties as queen.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. All of the books, along with the few odds and ends she’d found in the others’ rooms, were going back home with her. Where they’d serve as the start of a new royal library for the witch kingdom.

It took forever to pack the books and haul them back to where the wyverns were perched. But when they were done, Manon found herself wishing she had more to do. Anything if it meant she didn’t have to enter the one suite of rooms she’d passed by.

Abraxos released a soft howl, as if he knew what she was avoiding. Manon stepped up to let him nuzzle her hand. “I know,” she said. “I need to be brave. Like you.” He replied with a hot breath of air. “Wait here,” she told her sentinels. “I’ll be back soon.”

A few minutes later, she stood outside Asterin’s rooms, hands balled into tight fists to keep from shaking.

Drawing what felt like every ounce of courage she had, Manon opened the door and walked in. Turning in a circle, she took in the room, not much different than the others. A bed, chests of ransacked drawers, racks and hooks that used to hold weapons. In the far corner, a door hung partly open. Forcing herself to breathe, and walk, Manon looked inside.

Old clothing was thrown on the floor of the tiny closet. Even an old pair of boots with the toes worn through. And there, practically hidden in the corner, a dark ironwood broom.

Manon reached slowly for it, wondering if she’d be able to feel Asterin in the object’s magic. When her fingertips brushed over the handle, she realized how silly that notion was. She felt nothing more than a surface polished smooth from decades of use.

Witches were responsible for carving their own brooms upon reaching maturity. It wasn’t until Manon picked up Asterin’s broom and held it in both hands that she remembered this was not her cousin’s first broom.

This one had been made during Asterin’s time with her hunter. When she’d been in love. When she’d been pregnant.

Not for the first time, Manon wished she knew where that cabin was. She had a vague idea, but even that idea encompassed an entire forest. Perhaps it didn’t matter, as she had no body to return to the place Asterin held close to her heart. She had the broom. But she already knew it would be going home with her.

Sitting down on the bed, Manon ran her hands over the handle, admiring its sturdiness, its power. There was a dull pulse of magic to it, as there was to all witch brooms. It just held no distinct sense of Asterin.

“Your Majesty.”

Manon looked up to see one of the sentinels standing in the open door. She made no effort to brush away the tears filling her eyes. The witch made no effort to hide that she’d seen them. Which, strangely, made Manon feel better.

“We’ve loaded the wyverns,” she said in reply to Manon’s encouraging nod. “However, the winds are picking up. Sybil said we should either leave soon or spend the night.”

Standing, Manon said, “We’ll go now. Head back and secure everything. Make sure the books are covered well in case of wet weather. I want to be at the Ferian Gap before nightfall.” The sentinel disappeared and Manon took a final look around Asterin’s room.

Despite the tears, Manon found herself ready to leave. Nothing of Asterin lingered in this place. The same held true for the others. With the possible exception of Ghislaine, who was so connected to her books they were truly a part of her.

She strode down the hall, paying silent respect as she passed each door. Asterin’s broom in one hand, and a small bag in the other. It contained all the remnants she’d found of the Thirteen. A small, sharp arrow head made by Vesta, a worn whetstone used by Sorrel, a wooden figurine of the Three Faced Goddess carved by Imogen. Lin, who so outwardly hated her mother, had kept a miniature portrait of the witch under her mattress. From the Shadow’s rooms, swatches of a dark, two-toned fabric that was clearly enchanted. Fallon and Faline had collected knives, which were, of course, gone. But Manon found sheathes the two must have been making before the last time they’d left the keep. And in Thea and Kaya’s room, a wooden box carved with intricate patterns that fit in the palm of her hand. It was locked, and Manon had no intention of prying it open.

In fact, a part of her felt odd about going through their rooms, even if they had already been largely picked over. But with each item, she’d felt a calm settle over her. Like with the place, these things weren’t her sisters. But they were meaningful parts of the greater whole. All of the things she’d collected were indicative of their owners - some obvious and unsurprising like Vesta’s arrow, others secretive and unknowable like Lin’s portrait.

And Asterin’s broom.

Manon could think of no better reminder to live her fullest life than that.

***

Dorian groaned with exhaustion as he entered his sitting rooms. A full day of meetings with lords and merchant guilds. That alone would have been hell. But he’d had to sit there knowing he could be with Manon in mere seconds.

After learning the spells and symbols to open a wyrd gate, he’d made the mature decision to not leave immediately. He’d had guests after all. Aedion, Lysandra, and Evangeline stayed for two days. Two days that, under other circumstances, would not have felt interminable. By the time they left, he’d become overwhelmed with the nonsense discussed during today’s meetings.

And both Chaol and Yrene had thoughtfully pointed out that walking out of a fire-ringed wyrd gate into Manon’s bedroom might not be the best idea. He’d write to her so she could decide where and when. The letter was already on its way.

But as he walked towards his bedroom, shedding clothes, his finger itched to trace out the marks. He was going over the alphabet in his head as he entered the room and stopped dead in his tracks.

Her scent. It was thick in the air. Warm summer breezes and meadows.

Spinning in a circle and finding the room empty, he ran into the bathing room. Only to find it deserted too.

Back in his bedroom, he noticed something on his bed. A stack of books with a small package on top. It was the only free place to put anything, as every other surface was covered.

Dorian sat the box of pastries aside and examined the four books. Three romances and one collection of fantasy tales. Judging by their wonderful smell, an indescribable book smell he loved, their old age was obvious. A piece of paper fell silently from one and he smiled even before he could read the writing.

Hello princeling,

While I appreciated your gift - especially Qara’s pastries - I prefer our usual greeting and so I thought I’d use my own paper this time.

You may be surprised to know these books belonged to Ghislaine. You knew she was a bookworm of course. But you didn’t know of my plans to return to Blackbeak Keep to retrieve them. I didn’t know it myself until I decided to try and outdo your gift.

Dorian laughed, looking at the books with new appreciation.

I hope I have succeeded. And that the pastries are still fresh. Qara refused to send the recipe. I suppose that means I remain her favorite.

Ghislaine had a small collection, which I plan to use as the start of a royal library here in Morrigna. Perhaps we can schedule an official visit in the spring for you to come and assist with its development?

-Your witchling

P.S. If Altai put this package where I told him to, you need better guards.

To be continued...

***

Note - I hate making up place names. But I grew too lazy to keep calling it Rhiannon’s City. And in the spirit of unity, I think the witches will give it their own name once they are settled (unless it already has some other canon name we were just never told). So I named the witch capital Morrigna. Morrigan is not just a character in the acotar series. She’s also an Irish goddess who is often described as a trio of sisters called the Morrigna. So...kind of like a three-faced goddess?? Maybe? I don’t know. I’m not sure how it’s pronounced exactly, but I thought the symbolism was cool. 

Thanks for reading! If you’d like to be tagged (or untagged, no offense taken) on future manorian fics, let me know.

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