#poor little goal and her taste in men

[swokeeon]

you know i kind of adore this dysfunctional garbage family i may also do toni next (or argus once i get to his storyline in the game)

[forusomimiya]

𝔽𝕠𝕦𝕣’𝕤 𝕒 𝕔𝕣𝕠𝕨𝕕

⚜️𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘮𝘴𝘣𝘺4!𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘱 𝘹 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

⚜️𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦: 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵

⚜️𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 1,4𝘬

⚜️𝘤𝘸: 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦, 𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢. (¡𝘔𝘐𝘕𝘖𝘙𝘚 𝘋𝘖𝘕𝘛 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘋 𝘐𝘛!)

You don't remember how you ended up here, or maybe you do, but you don't remember what led you to make this decision, what went through your wonderful head making you think this would be a good idea.

Because it wasn't just good, it was the best.

A couple of drinks after your first face-to-face game with the team, glances and approaches, brought you, the rookie manager of the black jackals and the four worst men you could have ever met, to spend "a little good time" at your hotel.

It wasn't the first time they got together and talked about how you flirted with each of them or how you enticed them to have a quick, sneaky encounter in the locker room. What they didn't know is that while they were getting hard talking about you, you were in your room cumming on your fingers more than three times in a row, imagining an orgy with them.

And there you were, rejoicing and getting what you had wanted to happen for months.

"Little whore in heat... if you're going to keep looking at me like that while 'm fucking that mouth, I swear I'm going to make a mess on yar pretty face. And I don't think Sakusa likes it when someone messes up what's his, do you Omi-kun?" Atsumu's words are choppy with each thrust and with each touch of his tip at the end of your throat. His muscles begin to weaken but for his life, he will not stop until he has accomplished his goal.

"Just shut your fucking mouth and keep going, Miya. It keeps getting tighter every time you go in deeper."

"Ignore him Atsumu. Down here I can see how he enjoys every praise you give her" you only have a second to switch from focusing on Atsumu's cock to Hinata's and Sakusa's, both alternating to hit your fragile spot and making you moan long and hard as you gargle with Atsumu's cock.

"Holy fuck, so pretty like that… drooling all over my cock…” you moan in pain as you open your mouth wider. Your jaw will remind you tomorrow. "Awww… it hurts… Easy doll, I'll cum in no time and your mouth can rest. But first let me torture ya some more." His hips slam faster into your mouth, causing you to gag and your throat to itch, before you start to tear up.

"Hah, she's already in tears. Poor baby… maybe three cocks aren't enough for her. Maybe ya should slow down your movements, Atsumu…. What do you think? I'd like to have her mouth intact for a while from now" deaf ears to the words of Bokuto, who stands to the side squeezing the base of his cock and stroking the tip, mesmerised by the movement of your tits bouncing back and forth. Atsumu's hands on the back of your neck force you deeper into him, and even though it's your first time sucking him, you know what it means, so you look up and confirm your intuition when you see his eyebrows draw together and his mouth form an "O".

"Ahh keep crying… keep crying for my cock… nngh f-fuck! Keep it up, keep it up!" Quickly the thick, warm liquid runs down your throat and you can only continue to watch him, biting his lip as he is consumed by pleasure and continues to spill now onto your tongue. You swallow, frowning at the bitter taste. It's not pleasant, but fuck, you're a slut at sex, and you like to show it off.

"Damn… you swallowed it?" You nod and lick the remainder left on your lips, sobbing and whimpering because even though your mouth is now empty, your pussy is still filled by two cocks. "Good girl" you smile as he strokes your head, enticing you to close your eyes and appreciate his sweet touch. Atsumu could change his ways with you whenever he wanted.

You were fascinated by the way he was sometimes gentle with you in training, giving you his attention and care. Giving you advice on how to improve or cheering you up when you were down. Other times, he would catch you off guard from behind when no one was watching and he would fawn in your ear about what a good girl you were when you offered him water or towels to wipe off your sweat. He always said he'd thank you later, but it never happened. Until now.

Men who have you dripping, panting and cursing bring you back to enjoy them.

"M-more please… want more, so good…" Sakusa squeezes your hips and increases the strokes, obeying your pleas, grunting with each time you clench around him.

"Fuck… gonna fill this fucking pussy to the last drop. You're taking me so well that i think i wanna do it again…" but you can't take any more. The support of your arms on the bed trembles with each thrust, and the speed and joy of feeling the friction of both cocks in you doesn't help. "Just a little more kitten, just a little more…". You moan louder and louder and beg to go faster, though Hinata, slowly torturing you and dismissing that option, continues to enjoy every inch of your pussy opening up for him, willing to spend the time needed.

"P-please… faster… more - faster."

"Sshh be good for us baby, just have fun and keep squeezing for us, yeah? We promise to fill you up real soon kitty, just a - little bit - more."

You nod unconsciously. You can't stop thinking about how badly you want to cum all over them. And fuck, Bokuto hasn't even touched you yet, and you crave it, you need him to humiliate you and reward you for how well you're behaving. There's still time to enjoy him.

"I can't take it anymore… need her now." Bokuto steps in front of you and from his position you can see what he wants to do, so you stick out your tongue and wait.

"Hah, did you see that? She's as desperate as we thought. Didn't you get enough of mine that now you want Bokkun's?" you look sideways at the blond, who chuckles and grabs you by the chin, moving you in his direction and ordering you. "Now, open up."

The next thing that happens, comes very quickly.

You don't lose eye contact with Atsumu as he drops a trickle of saliva into your mouth. Bokuto, too aroused by the scene with the blond, and by the two partners warning that they are close to cumming, points in the direction of your tits and without control over himself, regretting it, is the next to do it. The warmth of the fluid and how dirty it makes you feel, makes you come and brings you closer to orgasm, with no interest in alerting the men who, by the pressure on their cocks and your uncontrolled leakage, know what is going on.

"Ahh fuck, she's cumming, she's cumming! hah- so tight…" Hinata is next to follow you, letting his cum leak out of your pussy and drip onto it, leading Sakusa to hopelessly let himself go.

"Yeahh, i love it… so wet… you're all mine, you hear me? Fucking mine" Emptying himself completely as he admires how underneath his cock white liquid is still oozing out, possibly a mixture of all three.

You take a few seconds to breathe, still on top of Hinata, who smiles at you as she lies slumped on the bed. You smile back with what little energy you have left, and thinking about it, you miss feeling full again, and underappreciated, in some ways. You think about what you're going to do, but then you remember that you've come here to play, and that you have a side to you that they haven't known yet, and you have to put it into practice.

When Sakusa and Hinata have risen from the bed, you crawl to the end of it and kneel down, staring at them one by one and waiting for them to know what you want. Bokuto seems to be the only one who notices your intentions, which leads him to smile at you for it and approach you with the same.

"Coming for more?" You nod cradling yourself against his hand as he caresses your cheek. Bokuto and the rest can't stop devouring you with their eyes. It was no wonder; a mess covered in tears and semen, with teeth marks at your neck and finger marks on your buttocks. More than one couldn't help but take a breather to get back into bed again.

"We didn't think we had such a docile manager…" Atsumu's voice, sitting behind you, prompts you to lean back against his chest, letting out small gasps, satisfied with the result. You are ready for round two.

"We'll care you for a while longer, if that's what you want."

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@planetmarz

A.N.: Okay, is this an open ending TO A SEQUEL? I don't want to deceive myself but, I would love to do a sequel. I'm not very satisfied with the result, cause I think I'm not very good narrating a situation, and I'm better at making short scenes, so… I'll have to see how much appreciation this short fic has and consider making a last and second part 🫡

[sukunasun]

dont imagine jjk men as footballers 🥵

...don't think about my one true fantasy?

geto who plays with grace, with style, and little bit of chaos. who's so tactile in his approach, isn't afraid to get up close. dribbling with feet so quick as he thinks ten steps ahead of everyone, and sets up these perfect assists, serving goals on a silver platter for gojo. so ruthless and intelligent, with force and agility, he's passing and breaking through a team's flaws, seeing it all. too much space here, no one’s tracking them there. tearing through defenses with such ease it’s almost embarrassing. an opposing player who's brought down by a nasty tackle looks up at him and sees the face of a man who isn't sorry. wholly contemptuous, a tad bit mean, smug, still, geto reaches out a hand to help him on his feet, "eyes up, not on the ball," he says, and they take it as advice.

with his hair up and slipped under a sweatband, damp tendrils stick to his glowing skin. brings the edge of his jersey up to his face and pats it dry, gently. in the crowd, a fangirl almost faints at the sight of his toned abdomen and deep, v-line grooves. he'd blow her a kiss, or maybe a wink, but he reserves it for the twins who watch him at every match, in every country. does that thing for the photo ops where he laces a medal around their necks. bobbing heads of black and blonde, their feet covered in tiny team-branded socks, an exact replica of the ones he wears.

he's got a look—a glistening sweat-covered face, flushed pink from the tip of his ears to the cut of his cheekbones by the labor of playing a full game—oh he's not fond of it, of the grease, and the too-green smell of artificial grass. it's why he spends half a week's worth of pay on skincare and soaps. (uses those travel bags during away games, stuffs them full of mini cosmetics, and you can bet he will not share.)

until he hears you whisper, "i love you like this," while slowly peeling off his track pants and feeling his hardness bounce free. geto's a gentleman of course, but not when you've practically jumped his bones the moment he's stepped foot past your threshold, he'd give in, he'll be just as desperate, just as depraved as you are. taps his leaking cock against your lips in lieu of asking you to open up. taking it down your throat so deep your nose presses into his groin. he still smells of the gym, the lingering bits of his deodorant, and whatever it is that makes your eyes roll back, tasting like sin and salt.

he's got his chest puffed and head held high, probably the only person who puts gojo in his place, without having the pressure or any bit of inclination to praise him, worship him at his feet, who meets him where he's at. which is almost always right next to him, or from a corner flag, screaming at him to get back into position so he can make this free kick. 

——————————————————

or or ... hotheaded sukuna and his anger issues, his stubbornness. rough and heavy-handed. won't suggest getting in his way if you cry easily because he will headbutt and yell in your face. pointing a finger at a ref has never been so instinctual and necessary, has so little regard for the poor defender he chases down the field, they look back and hear his belittling little chuckle before the ball is stolen from their loose grip. with red and yellow cards piling up every season and he doesn't give a shit honestly. suspend him, call him out, he's been on the fifa game cover two years in a row and he'll keep the sponsorships anyways because the fans can't get enough, all the tattoos, dyed hair, bruises, and scars he wears with pride.

he must be a manwhore they think, what with an attitude and ego like that, but he's never had a cheating scandal, nor has he gotten his nudes leaked...no he won't fuck you in a locker room (as if that was possible) and he doesn't like parading you around online. "i don't want other guys looking at you," he says,sukuna has always worked for it, he just makes it seem like he's had it easy. which is why he's cuffing you almost immediately, putting a ring on it, and getting your name inked into his back. he knows it's lame and overdone, but he's just possessive like that. a man who makes it known when he fucks you after every win, every loss. taking his frustrations out on you, sinking his teeth into your neck, backshots and binding you to the bed. "you could have made that goal..." you tease, pricking at his ego, at where it stings the most, hoping that he lets it out when it'll only eat at him.

[duefault]

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗜𝗡𝗙𝗢 𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗧.

𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 : zen'in maki ( 禪院真希 ).

𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 𝗠𝗘𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 :

zen'in maki ( 禪院真希 ) —

in zen'in ( 禪院 ) , 'zen' ( 禪 ) is a translation of chinese chán, which ultimately comes from sanskrit dhyāna meaning meditation. ( 院 ) in means 'institution'

in maki ( 真希 ), 'ma' ( 真 ) means "real" or "genuine," and ki ( 希 ) means "hope".

zen'in can roughly be translated to 'zen hall/temple' - interesting to note that the school of zen buddhism likens its teachings as a finger pointing to the moon. in that, its teachings can lead to enlightenment - but there is caution not to get stuck focusing on the finger. essentially, not getting stuck in dogma or the teachings themselves but the fruit of the teachings. for an incredibly dogmatic and conservative clan, there is definitely some irony when you look at it through that lens.

𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗦 : maki first and foremost. people generally only call her by zen'in once before learning not to do so again.

𝗘𝗧𝗛𝗡𝗜𝗖𝗜𝗧𝗬 : asian ( japanese ).

𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗛𝗔𝗩𝗘 𝗡𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗢𝗟𝗗 𝗔𝗡𝗬𝗢𝗡𝗘 :

- maki's family initially pushed her take up naginata when she was younger. however, after witnessing the kendo class going on at the same time she relented and insisted on doing kendo instead. eventually her parents permitted her. this was considered a little out of the ordinary as kendo and naginata are traditionally ( wrongfully, of course ) understood as 'men' and 'women' sports respectively. she trained alongside another girl in the class named umeko, who became an early ( but soon drifted apart from ) friend of hers. - maki is a pretty inept cook; not for lack of trying or inability but she simply prefers the tastes of 'junk food' - her palette is sometimes a subject of jokes among her classmates. but she is content with easy snacks and fried food. - maki has a pretty poor concept of money; moreso than the average teenager even. being raised in the zen'in family generally meant there was no shortage of money for comforts and luxuries. she tries to be cognizant of this financially privledged upbringing ( and certainly never flaunts it ) but the logistics of saving money and the worth of certain objects doesn't necessarily click with her.

𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗦 𝗗𝗢𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗜𝗥 𝗙𝗥𝗘𝗘 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 :

- fishing. its simple, its quiet and low-stress. when she was younger she'd find her way down to creeks and other wooded areas to get away from her family and the general hustle and bustle of downtown. she'd occasionally bump into groups of fishermen who'd let her hold the fish they'd catch. - running. its her most enjoyed form of physical fitness. she prefers to wake up early in the morning, before anyone else is up, and get in a long run through the empty streets of town. she's more focused on stamina and distance over speed. her long-term goal is to compete in an ultramarathon (100 mi long race) - watching baseball. maki is a big fan of baseball ( and, as evidenced by the goodwill event certainly capable of playing it well as well ) while her favorite team are the saitama lions, she is a fan of kenta maeda and has followed his career onto the detroit lions when he transitioned to the MLB

𝗦𝗜𝗫 𝗣𝗘𝗢𝗣𝗟𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗦 / 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗦 :

- yuuta: while the two had a rocky start she has come to have immense respect for him and his growth as both a person and a jujutsushi - inumaki and panda: classmates who have become great friends, understanding of her circumstances and always willing to support each other - nobara: someone who's not afraid of speaking her mind and sees through others, something maki finds both refreshing and comforting. she enjoys spending her free time with her, which says a lot as maki values her alone-time when she can get it. - mai: despite it all, maki does love her sister. that is why she executes her last wish with no regrets. the blade she carries now is a reminder of that love, which manifested in the ultimate sacrifice someone can make for another. - megumi & yuji: while their antics can be a little much sometimes, maki has a fair deal of respect for the first-years after seeing what their capable of. - jotaro: while she doesn't quite understand his cool nature at first, she comes to learn that he has a heart of gold and the willpower to always go above and beyond to protect those he cares about

𝗧𝗪𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗦 :

- after shibuya, maki does regret having spent most of her time with mai fighting. although it was inevitable they'd clash she wishes they could have spent more time together after coming to terms with their predicament. its not a regret that causes her to place any blame on herself, rather a regret that they were dealt this hand. a regret that mai couldn't at least have had the life she wanted to. - spending more time with others when she had the chance; chiefly nobara. though hours of training paid off, she didn't realize just how little time she'd have to spend with everyone until after shibuya. if she knew their time as "just highschool students" was so fleeting she would've spent more weekends at the mall or arcade with everyone.

𝗧𝗪𝗢 𝗣𝗛𝗢𝗕𝗜𝗔𝗦 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗛𝗔𝗦 :

- losing herself or her drive, mostly compromising her ideals. this is something she worries about moreso prior to confronting the zen'in clan; but it is something she is always cognizant of. she has a worry in the back of her mind that she'll be tempted to take the easy route, to conform back to what the zen'in wish of her. it seems like an irrational phobia for someone so driven and outspoken about her goals but nevertheless its one of those fears that sits just below the surface. - i honestly cannot think of another at the moment but this is something i want to come to back to so im going to put a pin in it !

tagged by : @waraningyo (thank you!!) tagging : @goodgrieved / @omezuki ( your choice ! ), @vessuna @mellodiies @dontm0ve @reqciems ( mai, or your choice ! ) @pontevoix ( haibara or gojo ! ) and anyone else pls steal

[titlemewickedwonderland]

Shift My World (The Witcher Fanfiction Chapter 5)

Summary: Shifting is all grand and dandy for those who believe in it. Does it work? Who knows! Some people say it does while others don't, perhaps it's just something in the mind. Olivia Watson found the truth behind it as she transfers herself into the world of The Witcher one night after a drunken movie night with her friends! Only she wasn't expecting to get stuck there and worse off...she didn't expect to love them as much as she did.

Prompt: In honor of Henry Cavill who no longer will be with us on The Witcher as Geralt of Rivia after season 3. I have decided to take my ongoing story from Wattpad to share with you guys!

workshop

Previous

The rhythmic thumping of hooves on dirt along the main road did not turn many heads as wagons drove by and people passed with goats or cows. This was a busy street so her presence was not noticed as anything odd right off the bat. That was a fact that she was most grateful for as she led her stallion off the main path and through the gates of the town of Rinde. It was a quaint little place if not a little seedy by the looks of the marketplace but this was a place she needed to be. This was where Olivia had finally tracked down Yennefer to be at the current moment. Partly from her knowledge of the TV series but partly because she had to do the grunt work by asking around to get to know just exactly where things were to get a feel of the timeframe she was set in. All the while as she did this she would often hear stories and tales of the White Wolf and the singing bard anywhere she went making the sour taste in the back of her throat worsen with each encounter. She'd left them; Geralt and Jaskier back in that town that she almost had now forgotten the name of even if she had not forgotten the kind people. She hadn't searched for the two men and more often than not had to stop herself from asking around in towns where she knew they'd been for info on their well-being. She'd meant what she'd said all those nights ago and she would not apologize for them; it was a thing of the past she had to forget and move on to achieve her goal in the period that she was able. Because she didn't want to waste time and get caught up in the war that was brewing behind the scenes just ready to explode. 

But in the end, her hard work had paid off and that's all that mattered to her. She'd found her target and it was time she got answers or at least some help; it wouldn't do for her to get distracted now. God, the months she'd spent from one town to another just to find some coin to be able to buy herself much-needed equipment and essentials had taken too much of her time. She knew Yennefer would also want coin as an exchange for her services so Olivia had worked her ass off to get the pouch she carried on her person for this meeting. 

As Olivia pulled Thor to a halt by the back stables she had to look around to make sure no one else was around. The mansion was rather barren except for a greasy large man standing by the gates juggling a small pouch full of coins she had given him moments before as a bribe for his silence and her entry. There was not even a stable hand to take Thor from her. That didn't matter though. She could tack him up in a stall herself. The mayor's stables for his home were better than a local tavern stable but not by much; a testimony of just how far the mayor had fallen under Yennefer's spell. She knew she'd be in there in that room filled with spell-cast people having a damn orgy of all things. She just hoped she had come in time before Geralt came in with an injured Jaskier. Still, it would not be a pretty sight for Olivia's eyes. As she took care of the black horse into a stall and allowed him room to breath without his burden of saddle and bedroll on him she turned down to look at the large grey beast that was sniffing the straw scattered cobblestone. 

"Killua stay here, guard the door until I come back okay? We don't want you giving the poor mayor a heart attack, right?" the woman rubbed a hand along the wolf's head before glancing cautiously down the rows of stalls to see if she could spot a familiar chestnut mare in one. When she found nothing but empty spaces in the other 5 stalls beside Thor's the dark-haired woman sighed in relief realizing she came just in time. 

Pulling the thick coat around herself she walked out of the stables towards the front entrance of the mayor's home. Not even needing to knock as she knew quite well he would be walking into the room moments later naked as the day he was born. She was already looking at a different part of the door as she heard his footsteps enter the kitchen. She grimaced and kept her eyes firmly on the opposite wall.

"Well hello there. I did not know I was getting visitors...I was going to get some apple juice. She does like her apple juice; she was asking for it." the mayor's lulling voice spoke as if he was not at all surprised to have a stranger in his home.

Of course, the poor man wouldn't mind. He was cast under whatever spell Yennefer had him under. He wouldn't even remember what happened in the morning. Better for him. Still looking away from the very naked older man the woman reached blindly out towards him to grab the jug of juice. 

"No need to worry, I'll take it to her. You just go sleep okay?" she offered as she slipped on past him; giving him plenty of room so as she would not have to touch him at all with any part of herself. Making a grossed-out face at the very idea of any part of her making contact with the old wrinkly naked man. 

It was far worse when she walked through the door into Yennefer's lair. Strangers all around her were in all sorts of different stages of undress and the lady herself was right where Olivia expected her to be. Sitting on her throne at the back of the room looking like a seductress at work as she watched everyone. Those enthralling violet orbs turned from where they were watching a couple across the room to meet Olivia's hesitant gaze as she stood at the door holding the jug of apple juice like an idiot. Feeling even more uncomfortable she began stalking her way through the room trying so hard not to touch anyone as she neared the woman.  Yennefer's gaze fixed on the other as she weaved gracefully between bodies until she stood right in front of her. Purple irises sizing her up as much as she was checking her out. Olivia's jaw clenched a little at that but she said nothing about it and instead spoke up before the other had the chance.

"I'd like to cut to the chase. I know you're a powerful mage. I need your help with something important. I have coins to be able to compensate your time." Olivia stated firmly and with as much authority as she could muster.

Her words and demeanor made Yennefer's brow raise from under the black lace mask she wore across her eyes. "Well, not even an introduction before business. Straight to the point, I see; I like that. But what makes you think that I am for hire?" she questioned in a voice that was supposed to be seductive and perhaps a little teasing.

Olivia was not fazed. Not really because she knew all of that was just a cocky act to get under her skin. The pale woman knew what Yennefer truly wanted in life but could never obtain; not that she'd tell her that. "Because you wouldn't be here casting love spells for orgies if you weren't waiting on someone worth your time." Olivia reached over and placed the jug of juice on the armchair of the black-haired woman's throne. "Do we have a deal?" 

Yennefer gave a little haughty laugh and shook her head. "A deal for what exactly. You haven't even proposed a deal worth taking sweetness," she replied with that cocky smirk on her cherry-painted lips.

The traveler took a breath trying to stay calm as she glanced towards the door behind her. "I don't have time for this. I need help with some memory work. It's important, I need you to trust me because I can help you find what you are truly searching for but not unless you help me out okay? So, do we have a deal Yennefer of Vendeburg?" Olivia said impatiently. 

God if this woman wouldn't just agree already she could go ahead and go before those doors open and Geralt walks in with an injured and suffocating Jaskier. As much as Olivia wanted to be there waiting for them she knew her presence would not be wanted. So she had to make this as quick as possible so that she could be on her way and let history play out. 

"Alright, we can talk more later if you are so impatient. Meet me back here in the morning." the mage replied after a moment of thought and a wave of her hand of impatience.

Olivia could have sighed relief but she knew she didn't have the time for emotional reactions. She gave the female mage a nod of agreement before she turned to scuttle back out of this eyesore of a room but she pause before she made it far as if thinking better of it. She turned and swiftly grabbed the apple juice from where she had set it a moment ago. 

"Don't worry, you'll get your apple juice here in a moment," Olivia replied seeing the distaste in the dark-haired mage's eyes. 

The cloaked figure fled from the room then made sure to place the jug right back on the table before she was out the front door just in time too as the back door opened and a familiar pair stumbled in. She didn't know what stopped her from rushing off immediately. But she stopped, hiding behind the half-closed door watching Geralt and Jaskier. Gods Jaskier looked far worse than he did in the TV show. She wanted to go to them and help but she knew she couldn't. They'd made their choice and so had she. She knew Yennefer would help them and Jaskier will be well again in no time if not a little disgruntled. Geralt and Yennefer would have wild sex together after nearly dying from the Djin that nearly kills them and they part ways in the morning. When Geralt and Jaskier leave in the morning after said scene Yennefer will be alone and that's when Olivia will make her appearance to talk more to her about what she needs help on in specifics. But just the thought of what was going to go down here in just a few hours made Olivia's stomach turn. Not because intercourse revolted her but somewhere inside of her she knew it'd hurt her. Her emotional feminine feelings would get crushed because Yennefer and Geralt were meant for each other and Olivia well...jealousy was not a good color on anyone. She closed her eyes a moment to regain her composure and as she opened them again and begin turning to leave as intended. She swore her gaze met Geralt's for that split second it took the door to close and her heart skipped a beat. 

~

She let herself into the mayor's home. The house was a wreck for the most part. Except for the far wing that thankfully was left untouched. The rest of the mayor's home was in shambles and he had already left this place after waking up from Yennefer's freaky spell with a headache and great confusion. Olivia found her there, sitting in the bath of steaming water; gaze zoned out somewhere off to the side as she seemed to be lost in great thought about something as she idly rubbed a sponge along her arm. Olivia knew she could have waited until the mage was done with her bath. But she didn't. Something inside of her told her her presence was needed right now of all times. So here she was. She did not care if the mage was naked beneath the clear water. It would not be the first or the last time Olivia would see a naked woman's body; although she did not look purposefully to stare. Instead, the reality shifter pushed off the doorframe of the bathing room and draped her cloak over the edge of a bench, and rolled her sleeves past her elbows before kneeling beside Yennefer and taking the sponge from her hand. The mage startled and turned to look at her. 

Olivia's gaze softened slightly as she gave a small smile. "I think you look better without all that makeup and cockiness," she commented as she began to gently but persistently scrub at the mage's golden skin of her back. 

"You act differently when you are not around half-naked people." Yennefer commented making Olivia laugh. 

"And you act differently when you aren't trying to be someone you're not," she replied pointedly before adding after a short pause; voice again gentle and understanding as she said. "You'll see him again, don't you worry about that. He isn't hard to ignore. Not a man like Geralt of Rivia." 

Yennefer stilled a little before half turning to face the dark-haired woman. Purple clashed with blue as the mage stared at her searchingly. "How do you know him?"

"I used to travel with him for a few years...Although, it's been quite some time since I've last seen or spoken to him. We did not part ways on good terms." Olivia started worrying the skin of her bottom lip. 

"And how do you know I will see him again?" the mage demanded. Olivia's gaze lifted from her task to see the other's hopeful gaze. 

"I just do." Olivia forced a smile she did not feel to her face before handing back the sponge to the mage. "You can say I know the future," she added making Yennefer frown.

"You do not look like a mage...I cannot sense any chaos or magic within you." 

Olivia's eyes darkened. Of course not, because she was nothing special. Nothing but a burden to others. That's why she left. That's why she forced her heart to shield itself from anyone else that dared knock at its gates for entry. 

"No...I have neither magic nor chaos within me. I'm human...I'm nothing more than human. But I know things. Things that will come to pass and things that have already passed. It's confusing but...if you care to hear my story with an open mind I can tell you how." she turned to face the mage who stared at her with weariness but curiosity boiling behind those violet irises. 

"I'd like to know; tell me," Yennefer demanded.

Olivia stared at her for a long moment before taking a breath in resignation. She knew this would happen. She had mentally prepared herself to tell Yennefer; it was after all the only way the mage would trust her enough to help. 

"Are you sure you'd like to know? It's very unbelievable." Olivia had to confirm if she could trust the mage. Right now, she knew she couldn't but if she told her her story would the other woman trust her or use her? There was only one way to tell at this point so she helped the witch from her bath and allowed her to dress before the two sat in the bathing chambers side by side.

Olivia spilt it all to Yennefer. Not letting go of much more detail than what was needed for the mage to know. She told her how she came from a different reality and that in her world this place was nothing but make-believe. At first, Olivia could tell Yennefer wanted to laugh at her and call her crazy; hell Olivia would have thought the same thing. But the more she talked. The more she described her story the more the truth dawned on the mage. It finally sank home though whenever Olivia told her she knew; describing in great detail just exactly what happened to her to make her the beautiful powerful woman she was. No one outside of the academy knew what Yennefer did and most certainly not a stranger like Olivia. It was a hard pill to swallow that she knew as much by the look in her eyes as Yennefer rose and began pacing the small chambers trying to mull over the information. 

"So, asides from all that...what is it that you are needing from me?" she demanded. "This story is too wild to be true but the fact that you are describing such things is....undeniable." she finally said with shoulders slumping a little as the truth settled in.

Olivia clapped her hands together and leaned them on her legs as she looked down at her feet. "The way I came to this world was by a method called shifting. It's this weird mental projection thing like dream hopping or something that my friend back home described to me. Unfortunately, I was too drunk to realize what I was writing...I don't know if this is scripted out right now or if it's off the books because I can't find those damn pages that I wrote everything on; honestly wasn't expecting to find them here but I can't even remember what was written. I figured you could cast a spell or something to be able to go into my memories. " the dark brunet started looking up at the other.

"I don't know that sort of magic to do that...not without killing you." Yennefer stated after a moment looking regrettable as she said it. "But, there is an ancient way that could help if you'd be willing to try it...the problem is the ingredients for the spell are very hard to come by and are very rare. We'd have to go traveling in search to find them."

She sighed rubbed at her temples. "If it's the only way Yennefer then I'll gladly do it," Olivia replied softly; a voice full of exhaustion eclipsing every syllable.

"Something doesn't sit right here though...I understand that you must return home back to your time but...even a blind person could see that that is not what your heart wants." Yennefer sat beside the older girl and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You don't want to go home, do you?"

Olivia looked at her boots with a frown in thought. "I-of course I do! It's my home, my time. I got friends and family back there waiting. It's just..." she trailed off tipping her head to look into those deep violet eyes. "This place seems so much like a dream. Yet, even in this dream-like place...I've never felt more at home." she said softly. 

Yennefer didn't say anything after that, just looked at her with this sort of look that Olivia couldn't describe. "We'll figure it out." Yennefer finally said with a small smile. "Thank you for trusting me."

Olivia forced a small smile in return. "Thank you for believing me." now all she hopes is that she did not just screw herself over by exposing herself to the mage knowing just how vengeful Yennefer of Vendeburg could be. 

Chapter 6 Coming Soon

[thedeviljudges]

the devil judge + the seven deadly sins

so, i made a gifset about who i thought falls under the seven deadly sins. and also shameless plug - please go reblog the gifset i made for this. took me ages to do.

but i figured i might as well make a meta post to correlate. so this is that post. it’s not everything i could discuss. i could be here for hours more, truth be told. but i hope it’s enough to chew on.

while i feel like a lot of these are going to be a no-brainer, i still want to talk it through because idk. i can, and i want to, and i feel like it, lmao.

gluttony

the elite are privileged and have an opportunity to indulge so much more than the general public, but in many different ways. this is shown throughout the show in the fact that they can indulge on luxury food, have political power, they can make a phone call or snap their fingers and everyone must follow their orders.

and the thing about gluttony is that there is always more to be had. you take a little and then realize it’s not enough and so you ask for more. case in point: in episode 11 when sunah suggests that yohan could be the new president, the current one gives her an alternative: dictatorship. because it wasn’t just enough for him to be an actor and the presiding president.

you’ll also know they turn in on themselves - the two other guys in the elite group. one who owns the company and the other dude - i really cannot remember their names and what they do, but y’all know who i’m talking about. it was so easy for them, when threatened, to fabricate documents to give to yohan about each other in order to get ahead. gluttony is only shared in the relationships we have until one realizes they can take a little extra of the pie. it’s the selfishness of having all the leftovers. gluttony cannot necessarily exist without someone else’s sacrifice.

lust

i kind of had an ah-ah moment when i was talking this over with @technitango​. i was trying to decide who was going to be lust because lust is portrayed very, very differently in this show than what most of us are used to. we, of course, know sunah who lusts after a life of indulgence and riches because she equates that with respect more than actually wanting it because it’s monetarily worth something.

but then i realized the public is lust because of their need for justice. i won’t say revenge necessarily because they’re doing as they’re told when given the judge show. but we can quickly see how that evaporates into something akin to bloodlust, for criminals and people who normally get away with shit, to have their fair taste at conviction for their misdeeds. we even see it with yohan’s fanboy club - the lust that comes from adoration and dedication.

and even more so, the public is easily swayed and so is the nature of lust. it follows in the vein of needs and wants, and as soon as new information is presented, however may false, so does the wants and desires of what people want sway. how easy was it for them to turn on yohan for a split second on two occasions - on two accounts of bribery.

envy

envy, above all, is about wanting what others have because you do not have it yourself. it may not be exactly what they have, but a form of it. some people don’t necessarily want money - they want what it can by, which is time, health and material goods.

sunah is the perfect example of this. she envies respect and recognition. she talks about bright and shiny objects, and that’s true to her kleptomania tendences, but more than anything, she wants to be seen as an equal because being poor with a vastly different upbringing means she’s looked down upon by those she thinks matters.

which also begs the question why she feels the need to seek validation from people in higher statuses to begin with when she can be the exception and not the rule - form her own understanding and environment to show others that the typical way of the elite is not actually all it’s cracked up to be - to which we see when she has no one to celebrate her victory with. it’s lonely being at the top. you get to your goal you thought you wanted but then what?

more importantly, sunah also envies family, relationships and simply put, human interaction. she wants to be cared for and treasured, and she looks for that in her position of power. because then all eyes are on you. because then that’s what people care about. what she fails to see is that those eyes are just as fruitless and just as wavering. to be a leader means people loving the idea of you but not you as a person.

“people of envious nature are sometimes stimulated to seek to emulate those who have completed some great achievements and in doing so achieve something great for themselves,” according to Understanding Philosophy.

wrath

while i realize that gaon not might entirely fit the wrath trope, he certainly has his moments, and i think he’s lived with a tampered flame since his parent’s death. he just learned to briefly put it out in the form of distractions and a false sense of righteousness and justice. it isn’t until he meets yohan that someone finally gives him the okay to feel the entirety of his emotions, that lets him breath and tells him it’s okay to feel anger and hurt. and while gaon ultimately chooses not to exact revenge, his wrath is what led him to becoming a judge and walking away from his teenage crimality.

gaon transposed his wrath into seeking justice, transformed it into livelihood, and reformed his narrative so that he was no longer angry and a teen with rash emotions. it was simply redirected and never really forgotten. yohan turned that redirection back around onto gaon’s ultimate heartache. fueled with that, it became easier to justify himself and his actions.

the most pivotal moment of turning his back on this mindset is, of course, the minister’s suicide, where he takes a good look at himself and doesn’t like what he sees. at this point, gaon’s upset isn’t necessarily at yohan but at the situation in which they got themselves into. because the thing is, gaon doesn’t absolve himself from what they did. he doesn’t turn a blind eye to that and try to dismiss it. he owns up to what happened and confesses how he feels to yohan and how he has to leave for his own good, and in some indirect way, for yohan’s, too.

with yohan, his ultimately weakness, despite never admitting to it, is family. his wrath comes in the form of anger when the ones he loves are threatened. yohan lives by a moral code of loyalty because that means you won’t be abandoned, and as a child who lived with that verdict since the day he was born, it’s an ever-pressing theme of his.

thing is, wrath comes in two particular forms for yohan. again, one is family and the second is the rose-colored glasses he’s given himself in his revenge story. he’s always had a goal to presumably make right the wrong for taking away isaac, but within that, 10 years is a long time to plot revenge, to the point where it becomes so much easier to lose yourself to that, to become enraged with it and forget the initial goal all along. we see this in his inability to form the bonding moments needed with his niece and his casual throwaway comments over people’s lives - the comment he made to gaon about moving on to the next plan, and the ultimately nail in the coffin of pushing gaon to leaving him.

his fury has also led him to convince himself his own humanity is nothing short of a lie. therefore, it’s easier to justify the means to an end because of his own self-worth and self-deprecation. it’s almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy: he even admitted to gaon’s mentor that he is an abyss. he’s referred to himself as nothing but an animal or a monster - all characteristics of despondency to survive and to justify what he’s doing. sort of like a catch 22, yohan claims he’s an animal/monster and behaves as such, but because he behaves as such, it means he’s an animal/monster.

wrath for gaon and yohan are very different yet the same. they are slow-burning, and that’s a dangerous type. it’s actually interesting when you think about the fire imagery surrounding the two of them because flames are quick to lap at anything in its wake, to destroy within a matter of minutes. and yet for the two of these men, their internal fire eats them from the inside out, painfully, until they’re almost unrecognizable to others and to themselves.

sloth

sloth was a little more difficult to pinpoint because of its characteristics. it was either the minister versus the mentor, both of which i think could work in this role. however, i chose the minister simply because she’s featured more and intertwines heavily with the plot line.

soth is a medieval translation of the Latin term acedia, meaning “without care.”

the ultimate characteristic of sloth is often identified as laziness, and while it’s easy to argue that the minister hasn’t been lazy in her ability to get where she is, she became as much when she started lying to get to her position. isn’t lying known as the easier way out? it absolves you of responsibility, of putting in the hard work, of apologizing and making things right. in the end, she had a goal and found the easiest solution to get there through her lack of responsibility for the roles she more than likely swore an oath to.

but that also translates into the other attributes of sloth: a failure to do the right thing, lack of emotions for people or of the self, and the fact that it “hinders man in his righteous undertakings and thus becomes a terrible source of man’s undoing” according to The Seven Deadly Sins: Society and Evil.

while i think there are a lot of components of sloth that may not necessarily fit the minister, the apathy and carelessness are enough to showcase her aggression, despondency and restlessness when what little efforts she does put in do not go her way. another interesting thing to note is that many of sloth’s traits correspond with symptoms of mental illness, such as depression and anxiety. it’s an interesting thing to note given the way the minister chooses to end her life.

greed

i don’t know that jinjoo would’ve had any provocation to the limelight if it wasn’t for sunah’s direction, but she’s eager to please and wants to be useful. it’s only natural for her to want more because it’s clear she’s a career woman, loves her job and has a heart for serving the people.

but like gluttony, greed is also that little thing that plants itself and can take on a life of its own. you start looking for justifications as to why you can’t have more than what you do, and in jinjoo’s situation, she’s already overlooked through no fault of her own. and it’s not that gaon and yohan are doing it purposefully, which is what makes their neglect heartbreaking, because truthfully, they’re after the same thing jinoo is. sure, it looks different and the foundation of it is different, same with their motives. but they’re all three judges on a residing bench working to exact justice - even if all three of them have their own personal agenda. 

i don’t think jinoo fully aligns with greed, but she does want more for herself, and i think that’s only natural. you can tell she has a heart, and she’s keen not to be overlooked. this isn’t her pain point so much as it is she knows her worth and is more than ready to do what it takes to get where she wants. this, in and of itself, isn’t necessarily a bad trait, but we can see how it leads to being deceived, especially for someone who’s been left in the dark for so long.

she is enticed by the glitz and the glamour of being a head judge, but you can tell she feels some remorse and guilt for those thoughts at times. i think her sense of greed is a battle within herself more than it is extremely outwardly.

pride

soohyun’s pride comes in the form of her imbalance with right and wrong. her sense of righteousness and justice is so far leaning, even more than gaon’s. it can be chalked up to her being a cop, but we’ve seen instances of this outside of her role within that agency. her pride doesn’t let her see beyond saving gaon and getting to the bottom of every mystery that comes her way.

it also comes in the form of impulsiveness and her savior complex, putting elijah in danger, for example, instead of waiting for backup. it’s not necessarily from a belief that she can fix things all on her own, but she sees injustice and immediately jumps in. another case in point is her and gaon watching yohan wreck the minister’s son’s car. she’s ready to go stop him, but gaon pulls her back, most likely because at that point, they hadn’t been observing the situation for very long to get a read on it. also the fact that at that point, neither of them truly knew yohan and his capabilities.

but as to where her characteristics come from, we simply don’t know beyond that of gaon. it’s unfortunate because we don’t have much of her backstory, so there is no real understanding why she so firmly believes in entities of regulation beyond keeping her friend out of jail. she prides herself on her work and what she’s able to accomplish, which is why it’s devastating to her to have to protect gaon by cleaning up his bloody handprint.

aristotle is of the belief that, “pride, then, seems to be a sort of crown of the virtues; for it makes them greater, and it is not found without them. Therefore it is hard to be truly proud; for it is impossible without nobility and goodness of character,” from Nicomachean Ethics.

but pride for soohyun isn’t about honors or rewards. it’s for herself and her capabilities, her ability to protect gaon, and the virtues she’s set as the precedent for herself. because sometimes it’s not even about establishing morals and ethics upon yourself. it’s about feelings/intuition, logic and observation. and no, i don’t mean the feelings she has for gaon. there are things that humans do, both actions and words, that we inherently know are bad without someone telling us as much and without the rules of the world seared into our brains. there are some things we know, for a fact, are wrong to us as individuals.

for soohyun, she knows that gaon’s actions, and even her own, have consequences. from what we’ve seen, i think it can be argued that it’s really about not doing those actions to prevent an outcome - not necessarily from a place of being just and right. that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand good morals/ethics, but again, we have no background of what her internal guidance actually is.

to put this in layman’s terms, we’ll use gaon wanting to stab the conman in his youth. soohyun knows it’s wrong because it will incriminate gaon and therefore she stops it. gaon’s gone to her because he sees her as a moral compass. but is her own internal navigation rooted in justice the way gaon had to find it in the judicial system, or is hers rooted in her pride of keeping gaon safe? she stops him from doing things that will get him in trouble, but is she stopping him because the action itself is wrong or because the outcome will result in undesirable consequences for the two of them?

and of course, there is a flipped argument to be had there - i’m not arguing that gaon stabbing the conman would be right or justified. but what i am saying is that for her, her worldview is the only right one, and when anyone steps out of that, even gaon, it becomes a bit of an issue: the pride she has for that is palpable.

every character indulges

truthfully, every character has at least one form of these sins rooted in their characterization. some are larger than others, but the breadth of it can be explored even further for each. and that’s what makes them more realistic and not just characters written on a page or following a linear progression of their writing deity.

the seven deadly sins are also notoriously rooted in religion. they’re also a defining feature of aristotle’s works that represent the golden mean, in which each vice is parallel to a virtue.

the devil judge is so layered, but i think at the heart of it, it’s about humanity at its core. sprinked in are the philosophies and contradictions and what it means to look in the mirror, what happens when we’re blind to seeing our true selves and most importantly, how much changes when we’re swayed by our own misgivings. it really asks us to understand nature versus nurture, that people must find a belief in something to keep them going, and how futile our hopes and desires can actually be if we’re not carefully regulating ourselves, nevermind the entities established by society to regulate us, too.

the entirety of the show genuinely begs the question as to who is truly right, who is truly wrong, and if it’s even possible to find the correct answer.

[flightfoot]

Miraculous Ladybug Season 4 Episode rankings (As of Optygami’s release)

ML season 4 has knocked it out of the park so far! It’s been absolutely amazing, and I’ve greatly enjoyed every episode.

That being said, some episodes have still been better than others (or have contained elements I find more appealing at least), so what better way to show that than with a ranking?

9. Queen Banana

We got a new hero this episode, and she is awesome! Vesperia and Chat have a nice little interaction, and while Vesperia gets taken out, it’s for a good reason - distracting Queen Banana so Ladybug can put glue in her pocket, disarming her. It was a really nice way of showing Zoe’s humility and ability for teamwork, even when it meant giving up the starring role, in order to complete the group’s overall goal.

The mini-movie felt like foreshadowing, what with the “Superheroine of Creation” being an obvious Ladybug expy, while the “Supervillain of Destruction” was a Chat Noir expy, though with fewer connections. Interestingly, it’s also used to parallel Zoe’s and Chloe’s relationship, with Zoe even quoting from the movie at the end.

And Andre’s character development was top-notch! Bully him around to do material things as much as you like, but hurting Zoe is off-limits. She’s Andre’s daughter too.

So why is it so low down? Simply put, it didn’t feel like it changed things as much as Sole Crusher did, nor did it showcase Marinette’s and Adrien’s relationship as much. It was good, but there was less to talk about concerning it than I thought there’d be.

8. Furious Fu

The first episode of Season 4 aired (even though it was episode 6 in production order), we got some lore drop this episode! Su Han gave us a better idea of what to expect from the Guardians and what their relationship with the kwamis had been like overall. Poor Plagg especially, he’s just treated like a bomb that could go off at any moment.

I especially liked seeing Ladybug and Chat Noir’s relationship this episode, and their differing reactions to Su Han and his proposals. Ladybug was insecure about not having defeated Hawkmoth yet and thought Su Han might have a point about the Miraculous being better in other hands, and for this to be something for the Guardians to handle.

Chat Noir meanwhile didn’t give a crap about Su Han’s authority, about this random guy who just showed up and tried to boss them around; but he DOES respect Ladybug’s, and made that known. That he’d give up his Miraculous, his ticket to freedom and also the vessel for one of his closest friends, Plagg, but only at LADYBUG’S request, not this dude.

But it also showed the limits of that, with him refusing to go along with even that when it’d mean that Ladybug would get amnesia. That he’d not only lose his Miraculous, but his closest, dearest friend as well.

The episode was well done, but just didn’t feel like it either changed things as much or showcased character development as much as the other entries on this list, which is why it’s lower.

7. Sole Crusher

This was our first look at a new character, Zoe, and she did not disappoint! She was absolutely adorable and I really felt for her, with needing to pretend to be nasty in order to not be practically disowned from her family. 

It showcased how much Marinette had grown as well, with having Marinette see through Zoe’s Mean Girl act when they reunite and not jump to hasty negative conclusions, like she did with Adrien, instead considering that there may have been other factors involved with making Zoe act differently while with Chloe.

Also character exploration and growth for Andre, of all characters! Very unexpected. I really wanted him to succeed in his original dream, and I was thrilled at him comforting Zoe, with him empathizing with her, with acting as a parent towards her, even with her being his stepdaughter and presumedly not knowing her very well before this.

Zoe’s ability to anticipate how she’d need to act in order to conform with her family’s expectations while still getting to do what she wanted (for the most part), like with her pretending to be all prissy and stuck up when interacting with Audrey, or pretending that her messaging with Marinette was a setup to betray and humiliate her, showed a great understanding of the people around her as well as some great acting ability. And her realization of how she’d been putting on acts like this for so long before this, of her people-pleasing and afterwards attempting to just be herself, felt like foreshadowing for Adrien’s own arc.

 And we got a few seconds of Marichat. Yay for crumbs!

6. Mr. Pigeon 72

This episode was PACKED. We got to see the followup to Gang of Secrets, with Ladybug freaking out and Alya trying to center her, as well as some followup to Lies, with Marinette trying to “help” Kagami get back together with Adrien. And on top of the stuff that forms the premise of the episode, we got to see Rena Rouge be badass again, Plagg and Ladybug team up, and even Umbrella scene 2, which I don’t think ANYONE saw coming!

Marinette was a lot of fun and we got to see some good stuff from Kagami and Alya here. It felt a little disjointed with how much was crammed into it and I missed Chat Noir, but overall it was really good!

5. Guiltrip

What an amazing episode! Rose is one of the least developed members of the class, mostly being known for being really sweet and being Juleka’s girlfriend, and not much else. Here, we got an inner look at her, at WHY she’s so positive, and how powerful that positivity can be. That she’s not innately positive just because, but that it’s a choice she makes.

Plus the class is AMAZING here. They care about their friends SO MUCH, even if they go about it the wrong way. We got to see Juleka and Rose caring about each other, and even though it went wrong, Rose understands why Juleka ended up spilling her secret and doesn’t blame her for it.

It also really showcased Marinette and Adrien, there different ways of dealing with serious issues, with Marinette jumping ahead and trying to do whatever she thinks will help immediately (help now, ask questions later) while Adrien tried to do the opposite, asking Juleka what she wanted first and trying to stick with that (ask questions first, then help). Both can be useful, depending on the circumstances.

Also got to see a bit more about Adrien’s turmoil, with him being borderline suicidal, and Nino feeling guilty that he wasn’t able to help Adrien with his father, hinting that something bad went down with Gabriel before this. 

There was just a LOT to unpack with this episode, but it all fit together neatly!

4. Lies

All of the “Truth” related episodes were amazing! Lies being no exception. Also our first (and so far only) Adrien-centric episode this season.

Lies catapulted discussion of Adrien’s looming identity crisis, as well as his deflections and near-suicidal behavior, stuff that becomes even more apparent in Guiltrip. The breakup was handled well, with it not being Adrien’s fault (he had to leave and lie for the same reasons Marinette did), but with Kagami’s reaction being totally understandable and valid. She was a very active participant in it, even testing to see whether Adrien had lied. And she was ALLOWED to be pissed afterwards, to not trust him, even though she could tell that he wasn’t just doing this for no reason. 

I wish we’d gotten more time with her as an akuma, but I can see why we didn’t. There just wasn’t that much time in the episode, and the emotional crux of the episode occurred between her and Adrien - there just wasn’t much she could do as an akuma that was gonna add much impact to the episode.

3. Optygami

Oh WOW did this episode make an impact. Major Wham episode in a season chockful of major revelations, status quo changes, and character progression.

 Nathalie and Gabriel actually had a pretty clever plan, spying on the revealed wielders this whole time using the “one sentimonster per wielder, but there can be multiple sentimonsters from different wielders out at the same time” loophole. It meant that Nathalie was actually doing something while she was benched, and I’m willing to bet that she’s the one who came up with the plan in the first place. Say what you will about her morality or her taste in men, but she is an effective supervillain who may be an assistant (and totally fine with that role, which isn’t so common), but one with a lot of agency. And using impostors and try to force a situation where Ladybug would have to give a Miraculous to one of them, and using that opportunity to plant a spy sentimonster in a Miraculous in order to discover Ladybug’s identity and the location of the other Miraculous? Was inspired!

We were baited on there being a Reveal, but that wasn’t exactly a shocker. In any case, we did have a bunch of OTHER cool, impactful stuff. 

Hawkmoth stepped up his game with his sentimonsters, making a couple of impostors to control the situation, with Senti Alec and Senti Nino. Seems like foreshadowing about there potentially being more sentimonsters in disguise...

The major developments everyone’s screaming about though, are:

1. Alya getting her Miraculous permanently, being the first “temporary” wielder to get that honor, and putting her in a greater position to help with any akuma that’s causing more trouble than usual.

2. And the one that’s gotten everyone theorizing, screaming, and writing fics: Chat Noir and Ladybug’s seemingly deteriorating relationship, with a special emphasis on how left out Chat is and just how much he’s being kept in the dark, and how he’s beginning to realize this, feeling unneeded. How much Chat’s hiding his hurt, and how that’s going to lead to some sort of emotional confrontation or breakdown down the line.

My ranking of Optygami may go up or down depending on whether future episodes follow through on what it sets up, especially with the foreshadowed Ladynoir confict.

Looks like we’re gonna have a hiatus after Optygami, considering that we don’t currently have airdates for any more episodes, but what a note to leave off on!

2. Truth

This episode was AMAZING. We got to see Luka and Marinette just hanging out casually, having fun together, like with the little trivia game they played on the way to the theater. Luka even showed a bit of a playful side, with setting up the last question so that the answer would end with “kiss me”. 

Luka was also allowed to feel negative emotions for reasons aside from protecting Marinette, with him feeling down and a little abandoned because of Marinette constantly ditching - something that was given more context, with how we learned that he never knew his father, and how much it bothers him that his mom won’t tell him who it was.

The revelation of Jagged Stone being Luka’s father was one that’d already been leaked way back in January, though few people believed it at the time and it got little attention. It gave Luka a plotline that had nothing to do with Marinette, something that was sorely needed and one that I’m hoping gets expanded on later.

Also had some great Ladynoir, with Chat Noir and Ladybug discussing their relationship during the akuma fight, when they were forced to be truthful to boot! Ladybug really does like Chat’s sense of humor, and Chat doesn’t have a problem with Ladybug’s status as Guardian, so long as it doesn’t interfere with their relationship.

1. Gang Of Secrets

Gang of Secrets was a great followup to Truth, showing Marinette attempting to cope with with breakup, and the subsequent realization that she has to lie to everyone always, and how little time and trust that leaves for her regular relationships.

Meanwhile, the people around Marinette worry and try to help and comfort her as best they can, even when they don’t really know what’s wrong or what to do. From the Girl Squad to Chat Noir to... kind of the kwamis (though with them it’s more lack of understanding of romantic relationships rather than lack of knowledge that holds them back), everyone attempts to help her, but it’s just not feasible under the circumstances for her to be helped the way she needs to be while keeping her secrets.

And in order to keep those secrets, she snaps, forcing all her friends away.

But they don’t take that easily. They want to be there for Marinette, they want to be friends, and become akumatized specifically in order to find out what was wrong, comfort her, fix whatever it was, and become friends again. They really care for her a lot.

And then- AND THEN-!

ALYA DEAKUMATIZES HERSELF

BECOMES RENA ROUGE AGAIN

AND MARINETTE EVEN CONFESSES THAT SHE’S LADYBUG TO HER.

It’s one of the biggest changes to the status quo we’ve had. Like, Master Fu being introduced changed what Marinette was doing, meaning that they could call on new heroes and she had someone to discuss Miraculous stuff with besides Tikki, and Master Fu renouncing his Guardianship and passing it on to Marinette changed what Marinette was doing on a day-to-day basis more, but... well, it didn’t represent as big of a change in themes, of things that had been built up for seasons. Breaking the Secret Identity Rule? DOES.

Also sets up for some potential LadyNoir conflict down the line, with her not having told Chat that she told her identity to someone else yet. I’m sure they’ll be okay in the end, but it could test their relationship and the rules they’ve lived by since they started being superheroes.

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

So that’s my ranking with the episodes we’ve had released so far. We’re a third of the way through the season and I gotta say, I’m really happy with it so far! Can’t wait to see what the rest of the season has in store for us.

[erotomania-if]

Hi! I love your story and your characters! I just want to let you know that I have noticed a lot of sexual comments about Anjelo and while I get it, it also seems the other ros don't get as many and it is kind of uncomfortable that a man of color is the one receiving most of the focus when it comes to sexual comments. It might just be that I tend to notice the posts about Anjelo more since he is my favorite, so if that is the case my bad, but if it isn't I just wanted to let you know

I'm sorry if that's the impression I've given to you but all I can really do is give you my word that it's not about his skin colour/race, I guess? It's because he's 6'4. built like a brick shithouse and the **bodyguard** which is a heavily romanticised 'look but don't touch' kind of trope... which is where the looking and longing and, yes, sexual comments/jokes are sprouting from lol.

I think Hope gets less of them because the core of their arc is SO angsty, but I also had to find like 3 separate half naked men for m!Hope so everyone had one they could think was hot cos MGK is an acquired taste so maybe not lol, Chris would get more but they're gender selectable as m/f which makes talking about them a little more broad because, like I've said, the gender aspect differs between the two, Samata is a more antagonistic role and the only canon female so I think I've probably been more cautious about sexualising her more than I have with anyone else? And Jamie has barely been talked about because they're meant to be a complete unknown but I think the thirst trap asks showed that they sexualise themself just fine lol.

That leaves poor Anjelo, the only canonical man, playing the role of big strong male protector who will literally sweep your MC off their feet and carry them to safety like they don't weigh anything and my heart gets all doki doki and makes me want to get all hearteyes at my beautiful gentle giant lol.

The actual content of his character and the way he's written should hopefully show that it's not a race thing? As a character he's probably the least sexualised out of anyone in the actual text? But until I've actually produced something you have no way of knowing that lol

So... yeah? I can stop with the jokes if the general consensus is that I'm offending people cos that's not my goal and I would prefer it if my idiot brain going 'ooo big strong man' didn't get me a label of 'vaguely racist connotations from this bitch' lol

[getitinbusan]

Namjoon:

The Grammy Sessions

18+ smut part of The Studio Sessions

It's not a Grammy award but I hope it's a little distraction for you all until the performance. Written for @jungkookbabyyyy and @etherealxjiminx thanks for the love 💜 I hope you like it.

"You all look so handsome."

Gushing over the five men in front of you was easily one of your favorite  pastimes.

"You need to be out of here in 5 minutes, where's Jin and Joon?" 

"I'm here," Jin walked in tucking his arm around your waist. "But there's a little issue with Namjoon," he whispered not so softly in your ear. Everyone looked at each other nervously. 

"What the hell does that mean?" Yoongi vocalized what everyone was thinking. 

"It means he's a little freaked out. I've never seen him like this." Jin was usually Namjoon's support and if he was saying it, it wasn't good. 

Jimin pulled out his phone, "Should we call Sejin Hyung?" 

All eyes turned to you, waiting. "Why do you think I know the answer?"

"You always know what to do Noona, you take better care of us than anyone." Jungkook flattered while looking worried. 

You looked to your boyfriend, "He's not wrong," Yoongi shrugged.

The wheels turned in your head as you tried to formulate a game plan. 

The doorbell rang, "The cars here, what are we going to do?" 

You looked them over analyzing  who would be your best accomplice. "Jimin put your phone away, i'm going to handle this."

You tried hard to sound confident. "You're going to stay with me. Everyone else go get in the car. If we're late, you're going to have to do press alone." 

The looks of terror that befell them made you sigh. "Seriously? You all speak perfectly fine English. Stop being such cowards and use it." You kissed their cheeks one by one as they filed out. Jungkook was last.

"You've got this baby, I promise. Your English is so good now, you can do it."

"Do whatever it takes Noona, just get him there." 

"So why am I here? What exactly is my role in all this?"

You placed your hands on his shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes. "I'm gonna need you to drive." 

"That's it? I could be drinking free champagne at the virtual pre show but instead I have to be the chauffeur?" 

"I'm sorry but Guk or Jin would be messy, we've gotten too close and they'd be hurt having to watch."

"Watch what?" 

"Me fucking Joon in front of them.  God Jimin, keep up we don't have much time." 

He stood puzzled. 

"Taehyungs a pervert and he'd get too turned on and try to make it about himself. There's no way Joon would fuck me in front of Yoongi and Hobi is just a shit driver." 

He didn't even bat an eye. "So your plan is to bribe him with sex?" 

"Can you think of a better option because I didn't see you suggesting  anything."

He grabbed the keys from their hook and shrugged, "I guess I'll be waiting in the car." 

"Joon?" You knocked lightly on his door, turning the handle before he could answer. 

He was in his own world pacing the room as if he was lost in thought. 

"Hey sweetheart." You startled him. 

"You know you can't skip this right?" He sat down onto the edge of the bed with his head in his hands nodding. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?" 

Kneeling in front of him you pulled his hands away from his face. He looked tired. 

"What if we don't win?" 

"Joon what's really going on? You never worry about things like this."

"This is our ultimate goal, everyone knows. There's so much riding on this and it's all on my shoulders as the leader." 

He began pacing again. "If we lose I'm the one who has to tell everyone it's okay, i'm the one who has to calm the fans and I'm the one who has to console the members." 

"But what if you win and you're worrying about this for nothing?" 

"Thats it though, the one thing nobody's thinking about. If we win tonight we've reached our highest goal, where do we go from there?" 

"Namjoon," you couldn't help but smile in fondness, "you think too much." 

Wrapping your arms around him you gave him a squeeze. "Shut your head off and try to live in the moment for once." 

He kissed your forehead, "I wish you could come tonight." 

"Well your car already left so you've got me until we get there."

You picked up his jacket and flung it at him. "Now let's go before you miss anything."

He went to open the passenger door but you pushed it closed. "Don't worry Jimin's got this under control. You're going to ride in the back with me and relax." 

His hand was clammy and he kept squeezing yours like morse code.

"What are you doing?" His eyes were clamped tightly shut and his lips were moving but no sound was coming out. 

"I'm practicing my speech in case we win. I'm sorry I just can't make my brain stop." 

"So if you can't shut it off…" You let go of his hand and palmed him over his pants. "We'll just have to find a way to distract it." 

He looked at the front seat towards Jimin. 

"Don't worry about him. He's going to keep his eyes on the road and make sure we get there on time."

He was growing firmer with every stroke, straining against the fabric that held him in. "Doesn't that feel better already?" 

He smiled with a nod.

"I just want you to sit back and enjoy the ride."

Sliding to your knees in the back seat you carefully undid his zipper. Gently lifting his semi hard dick out of his underwear you leaned in for a suck.

"You have the nicest cock Joon." It twitched at your flattery. 

He wrapped his hand into your hair and pushed you closer to his swollen member. You could feel him relaxing under your touch.

"Suck it for me." 

Wrapping your lips around him you embraced his shaft with your suctioned movements. Wet lips worked him in and out of your throat while your other hand burrowed around his balls squeezing them gently. Small sighs escaped him, the sound of tension leaving his body.

"What are you thinking about?" You licked the head of his cock. 

"How good your mouth feels." 

"Umm," you hummed. "If you're still thinking I'm not doing good enough." 

You sat up and leaned against your side of the door spreading your legs wide open you fully exposed yourself. 

"You're really not wearing anything under there?" 

"I wasn't planning on leaving the house." You pulled the oversize sweater you were wearing as a dress over your head.

"I was just going to stretch out on the big couch and watch you perform." You dipped your finger into yourself and his jaw dropped.

"I figured I'd be so turned on and none of you would be there to satisfy me so I'd have to take care of myself." You grinned sinfully, "Undergarments just get in the way." 

Catching Jimin watching in the rearview, you circled your clit, teasing the little bud for your audience. He shifted in his seat while adjusting his hard on, "Eyes on the road please driver." 

Namjoon reached forward, wanting to explore you like your own fingers were. "Go ahead, put in."

His index finger slid in beside yours and he slowly pumped it in and out matching your movements. "You're  so fucking sexy." 

"I want you to fuck me Joon, my pussy wants more." 

He pulled his finger out and you grabbed his hand, holding it still.

"We should tip the chauffeur, give him a little sample don't you think?" 

Namjoon was hesitant, unsure, until a soft, "please, let me taste her," came from the front seat. 

Namjoon reached around the headrest and he held his finger out. Jimin's plush lips latched on greedily sucking it clean, running his tongue around the tip for good measure. "You taste so fucking good Noona." 

Eyes totally glassed over, Namjoon was desperate for satisfaction. 

"What are you thinking about now?" You bit your lip. 

"Pounding that pussy into the car seat until you can't walk anymore."��

"Yes please." You used your legs to pull him in closer, "get over here and fuck me."

He slid into your wetness with ease, your excited pussy drenched in anticipation for his meaty cock. His body had you pressed into the leather seat while Jimin sat staring at his ass pumping furiously into you.

Catching his eye and holding contact you smiled and moaned louder. You wanted him to have to sit there, horny, counting down the minutes until he could find a release. Knowing he'd be thinking of ways to punish you for putting him through this the entire show made you even wetter.

Wrapping Namjoon tightly in your thighs you whispered, "Cum in me Joonie please, I want you dripping out of me all night." 

Ramming himself into you with a newfound energy the car shook as he shot his load deep inside you and collapsed. 

"Namjoon baby, what are you thinking about?" 

He started laughing from where he was tucked into your neck, the vibrations tickling, making you squirm under him. 

"Absolutely fucking nothing." 

With Namjoon safely delivered you turned your attention to Jimin. 

"Why aren't you getting out of the car? You're already so late."

He looked at you in the rearview mirror,  "Don't smile at me and pretend that wasn't intentional. I need a minute,  I can't exactly walk in there with a boner."

You couldn't stop laughing. "My poor Mochi. I'll tell you what, I'll make it up to you when you get home."

He pushed the door open to get out but came and leaned into your unrolled window.

"Win or lose you'll be getting something later."

Walking away he grabbed his dick and winked at you.

"You'd better be waiting up for your prize." 

[javier-pena]

bloodstain

Chapter 2 of The Hunt

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Rating: Mature

Warnings: mentions of death and trauma | very brief mention of blood | brief description of a panic attack | still a lot of hurt and just a little bit of comfort | misunderstandings | mild to moderate language | but maybe there’s also a ..... soft scene ...... | Din’s hands

Notes: First, let me start with saying that at this point taking a bullet for Dani @javierpcna​ doesn’t feel like it would be enough. She literally drops everything whenever I send her a new or revised chapter to look over and i cannot thank her enough! I kinda surprised myself with how quickly I finished this chapter, but that’s also thanks to Dani because the highlight of my day is sending her small snippets of what I’ve written and having her reply with “?????”. I also want to thank all of you who read the first chapter and left comments and sent messages, it means the world to me! I was so nervous about sharing this with you all, but I’m so glad I did. And finally, let me end this with saying happy birthday, Chrisann @darksber​!!! I hope you have a fun birthday and I hope you enjoy the second chapter as much as you enjoyed the first one.

masterlist | join the tag list

The snow comes over night. The cold, clean smell is the first thing your mind registers, even before it has time to make you feel confused about the strange bedsheets wrapped around you. And then you remember.

The screams.

The blaster shots

The fire, the blazing heat engulfing you, burning your skin.

Those men on their speeder bikes, laughing, looting, taking whatever the fuck they want.

And you, unable to stop them.

The feeling of cold, all-consuming despair makes a shiver run down your spine, makes you curl up in a tight ball beneath your blanket and shake so violently it makes you feel sick. Then you cry, and with the tears comes the heat until you’re so hot you feel sweat collect at the nape of your neck and run down your back in icy beads. After yesterday, you hadn’t expected there to be any tears left, but there are, so many, and they don’t stop, they seem to be endless, like a river flowing, rushing, tumbling over rocks and down a precipice, drowning everything in its way.

You hate those men, you loathe them, you want them dead, torn apart by wild animals, you want them dead after they beg you for their miserable lives, you want them dead and forgotten. That anger and that lust for revenge that seem to take up every cell and atom in your body are what finally helps you to stop crying. They don’t help you to calm yourself – you are anything but calm – but they help you to focus your rage on one goal: kill them all.

Because with the memories of the pain and the despair and the utter helplessness you felt yesterday (and still feel today) comes the memory of him. The Mandalorian. And remembering him means remembering the hope you felt when he offered his services, when he pledged himself to your cause. Shit. You shake your head. He did no such thing. He accepted a job. He only cares about the money, he doesn’t care about the cause. Yes, he will help you achieve your goal, but he’s emotionally detached from it. And you need to remember that. You need to remember it for your own sake because as soon as you assume anything else, it’ll get messy.

And he terrifies you. He terrifies you so much, especially in the light of day. Because the morning sun makes him feel real, solid, and so much more dangerous. And you have a feeling you shouldn’t keep him waiting.

You finally sit up and roll your neck and shoulders to relieve the pain the previous day’s labors have left behind. You couldn’t defend yourself against the Mandalorian, even if the muscles in your body weren’t screaming with pain. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. You don’t know why you would trust a complete stranger like that after everything that has happened to you, why you would trust a complete stranger who could snap your neck like a dry twig. Being around him feels like being constantly held at gunpoint. One wrong move and you’re dead.

But you need him.

Maker, you need him.

You get out of bed and stretch, then run your hand over your face to dry it off. There is a bowl of water on a small table next to the bed. You have to break the thin layer of ice that has formed on the surface, and when you splash it on your face, it is freezing, but at least it makes your burning cheeks feel numb and it eases the stinging in your eyes. You know you look a mess, but you don’t care. You get dressed in your soot-blackened clothes and then leave the small room. You have no idea if you’ll ever sleep in a bed again.

***

The morning air is icy cold. Two suns have risen, but the third one still hides behind the trees. The air is foggy, misty, and clouds of smoke pass you by. The settlement is already busy. In a shop next to the inn, a man heckles with the vendor in a raised voice. Two farmers lead a small herd of tauntauns down the street, while everyone tries to get out of their way. In the distance, a child is crying. It smells like fire and snow and life. You hate it.

The everyday noises are overwhelming to you; the melody of a hammer hitting metal in a nearby forge makes your skull vibrate, the voices of people talking makes you want to cover your ears with your hands and yell at them to shut up, the reverberations of the tauntauns’ claws against the frozen ground makes you want to take cover somewhere and hide until nightfall.

But you don’t run or hide or even just turn around to take a breath. Instead, you focus your attention on the Mandalorian.

He is waiting for you outside the inn. A thin layer of snow has collected on his shoulders, a sign he’s been standing motionless for a while. Even though the morning sunlight is pale and makes everything look hazy, you see him clearly. So clearly that you have to squint your eyes when you look at him. His beskar armor glistens from the sunlight it reflects, so much that the people on the street turn their heads to look at him. The wisps of smoke rushing past shroud him, but it’s not enough to dim the dancing shimmers. He carries a long staff strapped to his back, a kind of spear you’re pretty sure he didn’t have with him the previous night at the inn. And his face is hidden behind the helmet again, which probably shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. All of this just makes him look wrong. He looks so out of place standing in the middle of this dirt-poor settlement it makes you want to pretend you don’t have anything to do with him.

So you focus on what’s behind him. In one hand, he holds the reins of three orbaks, in the other a small bundle. He presses it against his chest like he’s holding a small child, not a lifeless piece of cloth. The orbaks are big, wooly beasts, dark grey in color, with two long, dangerously pointy tusks hanging from their mouths. Two of them have saddles strapped to their backs, the third one is laden with crates, saddle bags, even two long guns. The more you look at it, the more weapons you spot. What does one man need so many for? So much baggage will just slow you down. The bandits already have a day’s head start and travelling on heavily loaded orbaks will give them even more of an advantage. But this is probably the best the Mandalorian could do – the settlement is so poor, not even merchants sell speeder bikes – who would be able to afford them?

You shudder and wrap your arms around yourself, painfully aware that the fire destroyed everything except for the clothes you’re wearing. But they’re not enough to protect you from the bitter cold. You can see your breath hovering in a pale cloud in front of your face when you exhale slowly, you can feel the snowflakes on your bare lower arms as you walk toward the Mandalorian. You have no idea how he can stand there like the cold is nothing to him. Beskar doesn’t protect against low temperatures. To you, this is just further proof of how much he’s not human.

“Here,” he says, as you stop in front of him, holding the bundle out to you.

“What’s this?” you ask with a small nod at him, the bundle, and the orbaks. You don’t take it.

The Mandalorian looks behind him, then back at you. “Supplies,” he says.

You take the bundle from him and untie the chord that’s tightly wound around it. Folding back the thin cloth, you unwrap a long, dark brown leather cloak with fur linings and a thick, woolen scarf. The scarf looks itchy but feels very soft against your skin and the coat lies heavy in your arms, like a dead animal. The sight of these clothes leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and you don’t move to put them on. Instead, you stand there, pressing the unwrapped bundle against your chest, and look at the Mandalorian with raised eyebrows.

“What’s this?” you repeat.

He doesn’t reply, just nods and makes a gesture with his now empty hand, motioning you to hurry up.

You don’t. You just look at him, shivering more and more with each passing second. You’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from the anger you’ve been feeling since yesterday, since waking up this morning, since unwrapping the bundle; everything is stoking up the fire, feeding your flaming rage

“Listen,” you start. You try not to let your feelings get the better of you, but it’s impossible. You don’t quite know yourself why this small gesture enrages you as it does, you just know you need to set some boundaries right now. “I don’t need your pity,” you continue. “I don’t need you to look out for me. I can take care of myself.”

The Mandalorian huffs. “This isn’t a gift,” he says, his voice completely level. “I’m paying for it with your money. I’m not forcing you to wear it, but if you go on the journey like that,” he nods at you, “you’ll freeze. You’re no use to me dead.”

You feel heat rush to your face and settle in your cheeks. Without another word you put on the coat and tie the scarf around your neck. The coat rests heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down. It’s a size too big, but snug, and you stop shivering immediately. You run your left hand along the right sleeve under the pretense of fixing it, but you just want to feel the material under your fingers. It’s softer than it looks, which just serves to make you feel embarrassed and … stupid.

You feel stupid, so, so stupid. Did you really expect him to make you a gift? To look out for you? To care for you? You hired him to do a job and he’s just making sure you stay alive long enough to pay him. Much like the owner of a racing stable would do with his fathier. You scold yourself for having misread the situation. You blame it on the exhaustion you still feel, on the trauma you lived through, on the need for human connection you had no idea you even felt. There is no way to come out of this situation without feeling like a fool, so you just decide to ignore it. After all, it’s best if you just forgot about the whole thing. All you need to do in future is to be more careful around him so you don’t misinterpret his intentions again.

“Supplies?” you ask to distract yourself.

You wish you could see his face when he says, “Were you just going to follow them on foot with no food or weapons?” Because it doesn’t sound as if he’s mocking you, even though he should be. Hell, you should be mocking yourself. But he just sounds genuinely curious, as if this is a discussion about a topic you’re both not emotionally invested in, not a question of life and death.

“No,” you answer slowly, then look away. You have to admit you hadn’t thought about it yet, you were too focused on the idea of hunting those men down that you didn’t even consider you needed tools, supplies, food, and a means of transportation. “Thank you,” you add.

The Mandalorian gives you a curt nod, accepting your words of gratitude. You’re glad he doesn’t press the subject, any subject really.

Without him, you would have been dead within a day.

***

It is still snowing when you and the Mandalorian leave the settlement behind. As you begin your journey into the unknown, tiny snowflakes settle in the fur of your orbak, making it appear white instead of dark grey. It blends in perfectly with your surroundings, where everything is light shades of blue, grey, and brown. And white, so much white. You squint your eyes and yet the light still stings to the point you tear up. You envy the Mandalorian his tinted visor and you wish you had something similar to protect yourself. Alvorine’s three suns hang low, their pale blue light filtered through hazy clouds. Everything you see is blurred and too bright to look at directly – it makes you feel vulnerable and exposed. Even as you enter the cover of the trees, their bare branches do little to help keep out the light and the snow and so you lower your eyes to your reddened hands holding your orbak’s reins as you trust the Mandalorian to lead the way.

The air is cold this morning, so cold you tie your new scarf over your mouth and nose and still feel it sting in your throat. Your face, still raw from crying, stings too. Your hands are frozen shut around the reins and you can’t feel your fingers. When you try to move them, the action is painfully slow. You shiver despite the heavy coat on your shoulders as you sit hunched over to give the cold air less opportunity to cover your body with icy touches. You would never admit to it out loud because you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day, but the Mandalorian was right – you would have frozen to death within a few hours of leaving the shelter of the settlement.

You raise your head briefly to look at him riding ahead of you, but he is the brightest object in a 10-mile radius, you think, brighter than your orbak’s fur or the snow-covered ground. Back in the settlement, you already noticed how the suns’ light reflects off his polished beskar armor, but out here in the forest with nothing around to distract your gaze, he is like a homing beacon, like a bright, blazing fire lit in complete darkness. This brazen display makes you shiver; he is on top of the food chain, too quick and powerful and deadly to hide his presence. He could be spotted from miles away by someone on a sentry tower and yet the person keeping watch wouldn’t stand a chance. The Mandalorian would catch them sooner or later, no matter how well they were trying to hide. Nothing can escape him, so there is no reason for him to hide his presence, to sneak from cover to cover like a thief in the night.

He frightens you.

What is also bearing down on you is the silence surrounding him, you and your orbaks. Yes, there is the sound of their hooves against the frozen ground, the swoosh of their fur every time they shake their heads, the soft thud whenever they brush up against a branch, making snow glide to the ground. But that’s it. That’s all you hear. The Mandalorian travels in complete silence. His armor doesn’t squeak or thump. You cannot hear the sound of his slow, steady breathing. Even his hands lie completely silently on the nape of his orbak’s neck, the reins resting against the worn leather of his gloves. And you envy him those gloves because the further you travel into the forest, the colder it gets, and the stiffer and more unresponsive your fingers get.

You cannot recall the last time you felt this uncomfortable. You wish there was something to distract you from – well – everything. Yes, you’re grateful the Mandalorian doesn’t ask you personal questions because you buried your old life beneath wet soil and dirt yesterday, and with it you buried any desire to share it with a complete stranger. He also doesn’t ask you about the men you’re hunting, and you feel like he doesn’t have to because he just knows. Maybe he talked to the people back at the settlement, maybe it’s the years of experience he’s had hunting people for a living or maybe it’s just instinct – he knows where he needs to be going, he knows what kind of equipment to bring along, and he knows what the best strategy is to catch his quarry.

You don’t know any of these things. And the more you stray from the bare minimum of human civilization and into the wilderness of Alvorine, the more you realize you wouldn’t stand a chance without the Mandalorian. You would’ve frozen to death if he hadn’t given you the coat. Or you would have starved, or died from exhaustion from trying to carry all your supplies yourself. You would have gotten lost and eaten alive by a wild beast. Or you would, by some miracle, have caught up with the men, but would’ve gotten killed by them because you didn’t bring a weapon. By the look of it, the Mandalorian brought enough for a small army. And the more you think about it, the more you are prepared to admit that you were never seriously planning on going after the bandits. You are prepared to admit you were just looking for a way out so you wouldn’t have to live with the pain. One or two rash decisions made from a place of hurt and despair, one or two unplanned steps can mean death on Alvorine. While wallowing in your revenge fantasies, you weren’t thinking about Brea – you were just thinking about yourself.

But somehow – and this time you’re convinced it’s because of his instincts – the Mandalorian offered you a chance at success, one you might not even have wanted. He listened to the people in that inn and decided helping you with your cause is the right job for him. You’ve never heard of a Mandalorian like that. You always assumed they were only interested in money or the thrill of chasing down the rich and the powerful, in letting them know that no amount of credits can keep them safe. But here he is, content with spending a week or more in the forests of Alvorine, hunting down base criminals for the ridiculous amount of 240 credits. It doesn’t add up. And you would ask him about it if he wasn’t an unapproachable, withdrawn man, covered in impenetrable armor. You would ask him if he didn’t terrify you so much.

You wish you could talk to him about … something, you just don’t know about what.

But he makes that decision for you. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

His voice cuts so unexpectedly through the silence that you flinch. It somehow surprises you that he is real and not just a concept you’ve made up in your mind, and idea to help you live out your fantasies of revenge and vengeance.

When you don’t answer, he turns his head to look at you. You squint when you return his gaze, trying to make up your mind whether you are hungry or not (something that feels impossible when all you are is terribly, terribly cold), but then he pulls on the reins of his orbak and brings it to a halt in the middle of the path. He glides down from the animal in one swift movement; a small cloud of freshly fallen snow rises up when his feet hit the ground but there is still no sound and this is starting to unnerve you. It takes him a few steps until he’s next to you, the top of his head reaching your shoulder, even though you’re still mounted high on your orbak, and then he says in a rough, almost unkind tone of voice, “I asked you a question”.

And you remember the deal, you remember having agreed to doing as he tells you. It’s just, you don’t have an answer for him. So you just shrug.

He grabs the rein of your orbak and you finally – finally! – hear his movements make a sound, a low creak as the leather of his glove brushes against the leather of the bridle. The orbak shakes its shaggy head but he doesn’t flinch. His visor is directed at you and you know he expects an answer from you. He’s growing impatient, you can tell from the way his shoulders tense as he lets his gaze wander over your body.

“You’re hypothermic,” he observes, and as the words leave his mouth, so does the air you’ve been holding in and you start shaking uncontrollably.

Now that he’s pointed it out, there is no denying it. You’re cold, so, so cold, frozen and raw, you can’t feel your own lips, your nose, your cheeks. Your fingers are lifeless lumps against the coarse fur of your orbak. If the animal would decide to bolt at this very moment, you wouldn’t be able to hold it back. You’re not even sure you could climb down from the beast right now. Of all the deadly dangers of Alvorine it’s the cold that has finally gotten to you. It’s laughable, and you would laugh, if you could feel your face.

“Can you dismount?” he asks you then.

This is a question you can answer. “I think so,” you say, even though you know you can’t. Your legs are like two solid bricks of ice, too stiff to be moved.

“Do it then,” he says, and it sounds so much like a challenge that you’re determined to show him you can do it.

He doesn’t watch your pathetic display though. He lets go of the rein and walks to the third orbak that is carrying most of your supplies. You’re grateful for that because as soon as you try to dismount, you feel your body tense even more until you glide down from the orbak with a disgraceful plop and land in the soft snow with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The sounds you make draw the attention of the Mandalorian back to you, but he doesn’t rush to your side to offer you help. Instead, he turns his attention back to the task at hand, looking through one of the bags strapped to the pack animal. You’re convinced he rolls his eyes under the cover of the helmet.

You try to get up, and you manage after two fruitless attempts. Your legs are shaking, but at least they’re supporting your weight. Walking on them is another topic you’re not prepared to cover yet. And then you feel it again, that hot sting of embarrassment you felt this morning, trying to make itself known by speeding up your heart rate and adding a feeling of nausea to your general discomfort. You push it down without batting an eyelash. There is no reason to feel like this, especially if you compare yourself to the Mandalorian. Not everyone can be a ruthless killing machine, immune to environmental influences.

Then he’s back by your side, and with a gruff, “Hold this,” he pushes a heating pad into your hands. You’re not sure at first if it’s switched on because you don’t feel anything, but when you move it around in your hands looking for the on button you notice it’s cranked up to the highest setting.

“You need to tell me when you’re cold,” the Mandalorian continues in the same gruff tone of voice, while he unscrews a flask.

Once it’s opened, he pushes it into your hand with such force you stumble backwards. Your whole body tenses at the contact and you realize you’re completely alone with him. There is not another living soul around for miles except for the three animals next to you, and they won’t come to your aid if he suddenly decides to kill you. And he could. He is so strong; you had no idea how strong until he pushed you back like that with a motion that didn’t seem to take any effort at all. And with another effortless motion, he could close a hand around your neck and squeeze until there is no air left in your body. You wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Drink,” he orders.

You do. It’s a hot liquid – tea, you think – but with a bitter taste to it. It warms you up instantly, much quicker than the heating pad does. You still can’t feel your fingers.

“Just tell me next time,” he repeats. “Losing a finger to hypothermia is a nasty business.”

And now you do feel embarrassed again. You’re a burden, you’re slowing him down. You already lost a quarter of an hour because you can’t handle a bit of cold. It’s not surprising he usually works alone. No one is able to keep up with him, least of all you in your weakened, exhausted state.

But you can’t turn back. You refuse to give up so easily.

You nod to show him you’ve understood his instructions. Then you let your gaze wander around, looking for something to distract you. You can feel heat rising to your cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the warm drink or the heating pad. You know it doesn’t because you’re still shivering. But you’re not going to apologize to him. For some reason, you feel like he would just brush it off, act like it’s no big deal. But it is to you, and you wouldn’t be able to bear him acting nonchalantly. The other possible response to an apology from you would be him trying to comfort you and you definitely. don’t. want. that. The mere thought makes your heart beat so rapidly it feels like it’s going to explode any second. The mere thought of one of his hands resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture makes you want to run. You don’t want him to care for you because it’s entirely at odds with his character, his whole being. He is here to hunt and kill, not to hold and comfort. And this is what you need right now – a killer, not a caretaker.

You take a few steps, walk past him toward a fallen tree to calm your nerves. The deep breaths of cold air you take make you cough, but he doesn’t even flinch. Good. You’re usually not like this, you’re usually not someone who can’t take care of themselves. After all, you’ve lived on Alvorine your entire life, you know how harsh the winters can be and how dangerous the cold is. But yesterday’s events broke something in you, and the realization that you might never recover from it begins to dawn on you, take hold of you with a grip icier than the snow clinging to your worn-out boots. The weight of what happened to you slams into you with full force and you have to lean against a tree, its rough bark scraping uncomfortably against your cold, bare hand.

And then you see it – the bloodstain. One single, impossibly small, impossibly red bloodstain on the virgin-white snow. And everything stops.

You lurch forward and fall to your knees to examine it more closely. Yes, it’s definitely blood. You raise your head to look around, but you can’t spot anything out of the ordinary, just trees and snow and your own footprints. Your breath comes in short, labored bursts, and you suddenly don’t feel cold anymore. In fact, you don’t feel anything at all.

“What is it?”

The Mandalorian is there, crouching by your side. You point to the small, red dot, and he raises his hand to touch his helmet. His body grows rigid as he examines it, all the while not moving an inch. You don’t want to hear his verdict, don’t want to hear the conclusion he’s come to. That bloodstain stirs something inside you, a panic with such deep roots you feel it taking over your entire body, growing like weed, choking all other feelings, all life out of you.

Something in your body language must have given away this panic you feel, because suddenly the Mandalorian turns to you and says, “I need you to calm down.”

You nod, unable to speak. Then you turn your head away from him and throw up.

“Hey,” he says, and something in his voice catches your attention. It sounds almost … soft.

You turn back to him, running your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you apologize.

“I’m going to look around,” he tells you. Then he raises his hand as if to comfort you, but you flinch away from him. His hand hovers outstretched between the two of you for a brief moment before he lowers it again. “Just stay here. Try to eat something. I won’t be long.”

He pushes himself off the ground, towering over you. You stand up too, your legs shaking, but before you can embarrass yourself more by stumbling into him, he takes off in a slow-paced run and you stare after him until the trees swallow him up. And then you’re alone. Alone with three orbaks and your panicked mind.

It’s not Brea’s blood, you tell yourself.

But what if it is? a different voice asks.

It’s not. It snowed during the night, and we’re too far behind those bandits. It can’t be hers.

It can, you know it can. They could have left her here to die.

There would be more tracks.

Then why are you panicking? Why did you throw up?

You can’t argue with that. Instead, you sink to the ground again, bury your head in your hands, and scream. You scream so loudly that even though the sound comes out muffled, the orbaks still move their heads nervously. A few trees away, a flock of birds takes off, chittering in disapproval. You scream until your lungs begin to burn, until your throat stings, until you feel like you’ve just sprinted ten miles. Then you grow quiet.

***

When the Mandalorian returns, it’s almost dark. You’re not freezing anymore because you spent the last two hours or so pacing up and down the path through the undergrowth you’ve made earlier, your mind racing with scenarios of him not returning before nightfall. You fear the nights on Alvorine and you know you should have told him about the dangers these forests hold. Because how could he have known that it’s almost impossible to survive a night out in the wilderness? Almost because if anyone could do it, it would be him.

When he returns, the pauldron on his right shoulder is smeared with dirt and his chest is heaving with silent pants, but he’s alone. You’re simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“We’ll make camp here for the night,” he decides without so much as a greeting.

You open your mouth to tell him how dangerous that would be but then close it again when you remember the nearest settlement is miles and miles away and you wouldn’t reach it in time before nightfall. You don’t have any other choice.

He sends you to collect some wood while he moves to tie up the orbaks. You scold yourself for not having done that earlier when you were waiting for him, but you had hoped it wouldn’t take him quite as long and he would be back sooner. As you move around, picking up the driest branches you can find, you glance over at him from time to time. He is lost in his own task, tying the reins to nearby tree trunks, patting one orbak’s neck, then scratching another one’s muzzle. They trust him, stand completely still in his presence while he circles them, examining them for any injuries or anything that might cause them discomfort.

Finally, curiosity gets the better of you. “What did you find?” you ask, as you break a big, dead branch into two parts.

“Nothing,” he replies in his brusque fashion you’re slowly getting used to. “A dead animal.”

You nod, then focus on the task at hand. Your small discovery and subsequent … breakdown? … panic attack? … you don’t know what to call it, has already cost you so much time. You could’ve covered twice the distance today if he hadn’t stopped here because of you. But … this isn’t a rescue mission, you keep forgetting about that. This is a quest for revenge, and those bandits will be there, no matter how long it will take you to find them. It doesn’t matter if it takes you two days or two months to reach them.

“Did you eat?” the Mandalorian asks you, interrupting your train of thought.

You shake your head and he sighs. Then he reaches into one of the saddle bags and pulls out a ration pack, tossing it to you. He proceeds to clear away the snow around the small pile of wood you’ve collected before doing something with his arm, so flames shoot out of the vambrace, igniting the stack. You can’t help but stare in fascination because you’ve never seen anything like it.

It doesn’t take him long to get a fire going. You grab one of the two bundled up, coarse blankets from the pack orbak and spread it on the ground next to the heat source, huddling up close for warmth and protection. You tear open the ration pack and begin to eat.

“I should’ve told you before, but it’s dangerous out here at night.” Your mouth full, you watch as the Mandalorian sits down opposite you, the fire between you. The warmth spreading through your body and your steadily filling stomach make you talkative. “There’s monsters in these woods.”

He chuckles softly but you’re sure it’s just your imagination. There is no way you could’ve heard a sound like that over the crackling fire. But before you can ask him about it, he raises his hand to remove the dirty pauldron from his shoulder, and you’re so distracted by that piece of steel being lifted off the body it usually protects that you stop thinking altogether for a moment. It’s stupid, you know that, but a part of you still thinks he might be a machine, and seeing that pauldron being removed from his shoulder feels almost forbidden, like you’re the audience to some ancient, sacred ritual you have no right to observe. You lower your gaze to the flickering flames.

“I’ll keep an eye out for those monsters,” he assures you, and you’re not sure if he meant for it to sound mockingly, but it doesn’t.

You still don’t think he fully believes you.

“Alvorine is a dangerous planet,” you tell him in a quiet tone of voice. “It might not seem like it compared to what you’re used to, but to us the dangers are very real.” You’re still not looking at him, but there is no point – you can’t see his face anyway.

“I believe you,” he says. “But fire is usually enough to keep the monsters at bay.”

As a response, you nod, even though you’re not sure he’s watching you. So you finally raise your head again to look at him. The pauldron is back on his shoulder, but his gaze is directed at the orbaks.

“I’m going to feed them,” he tells you. “They’re getting restless. Try to get some sleep.”

You nod again and stretch out on the cold, hard ground. Shivering, you pull your coat tighter around yourself. The fire is barely warm enough to keep your fingers and toes from falling off, and once it dies down, there won’t be anything keeping you from freezing to death. Briefly, you’re considering pulling the blanket out from beneath you to use it as a cover, but then you wouldn’t have anything to protect you from the cold ground. With a sigh, you close your eyes, trying to ignore the discomfort. Instead, you focus on the sounds around you, on the branches brushing against each other when a cold breeze tears at them, on the orbaks huffing impatiently and almost nervously, and on the crackling fire, the heat that makes a piece of wood snap in half ever so often. And then you hear another sound, footsteps, and your eyes snap open again.

The Mandalorian towers over you, and it’s the first time you were able to hear him approach. Instead of feeling proud of yourself, you bolt upright, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Whatever happens next, you know you don’t stand a chance against him. He slowly leans down, and you try to get away from him, but your muscles are frozen stiff and don’t cooperate. His arms move as if to grab you and a strangled cry escapes your throat.

But it’s just a blanket, just the other blanket, and he wraps it tightly around your shoulders. “Here,” he says with a low grunt. If he noticed your alarm, he doesn’t comment on it.

You look at his helmet reflecting the light of the dancing flames, and you wish you knew what was going on beneath it. Is he offended? Annoyed? Or maybe just as cold and exhausted as you?

“What about you?” you ask, grabbing the coarse material to hold it tightly against your body.

“I’m not cold,” he answers, standing up again. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you before sunrise.”

You watch him walk back to the other side of the fire and settle down on the cold ground with just his cape to keep him warm. And for the first time since you met him, his stoic presence doesn’t fill you with dread or panic or trepidation – he just makes you feel calm.

tag list: @bella-ciao​, @chattychell​, @darksber​, @filthybookworm​, @frannyzooey​, @khalysa​, @leannawithacapitala​, @magicrowiswritingstuff​, @mothandpidgeon​, @mbpokemonrulez​, @mrsparknuts​, @mxsamwilson​, @mylifeofcalculatedchaos​, @pescopadral​, @piscespussybabe​, @something-tofightfor​

[phantomato]

Five Tom Riddle Crossover Fics to Read

Tom Riddle is a difficult character to ship. For those of us who want to see pairings beyond the Big Two (Tomarry and Tomione), canonical options peter out relatively quickly. Sure, we can invent our own pairings by fleshing out side characters, but sometimes, the itch is best scratched by borrowing from another canon.

And it makes sense for Tom more than nearly anyone else in HP. Tom was born into an era that is the subject of so much literature, so it’s easy to find another person kicking around postwar Europe if that’s your goal. He’s an archetypal character, the villain seeking immortality, and can be matched against other villains with the same aims. Hell, even his quest to recover lost artifacts turns into the basis for two of these works—Tom Riddle has the perfect combination of a recognizable context and character model, plus the ambiguity of his canon timeline, to slot him alongside so many other fictional figures.

I want to pause on some of these themes for a second. Immortality or relationship to age, for one, is something that comes up in three of these pairings: the Darkling and Koschei the Deathless are both immortal characters in their own canons, and Edmund Pevensie is not immortal but has aged and de-aged repeatedly in his travels to and from Narnia. The HP series doesn’t give us nearly this wealth of different perspectives on age and immortality, which is fair—HP makes it clear that immortality is unnatural and undesirable, and Flamel is notably a ‘good person’ because of his willingness to accept his own death—but for a character as obsessed with the idea as Tom, some emotions can only be explored when you match him with another character who has a complicated relationship to aging. Even someone like Indiana Jones, not immortal and not trying to be, has an interesting perspective to bring to a story because he has seen so many other quests for power gone terribly awry.

Of course, the other thing we get from crossover pairings is the ability to match Tom with a villainous character. And whether you’re a fan of conflict at the start of a relationship or not, I think there’s something to be found in putting two villains together: moral arguments, when they exist, are rarely about whether death is necessary but about what kinds of death are best used when; the entire concept of either a redemption arc or a breaking bad arc can be thrown out a window. It’s a space wherein our two villains are allowed to be themselves, and the reveal of the extent of each character’s villainy becomes a strange form of celebration. This is challenging to achieve if one sticks to HP canon alone, whereas crossovers are a fruitful space.

My selection methodology was to read every crossover fic with a clear focus on Tom Riddle or Voldemort on AO3. I found crossover pairings by visiting the meta pages for the Tom Riddle, Voldemort, and Tom Riddle | Voldemort tags—I may have missed some pairings for Tom Riddle, as the character has over 300 child relationship tags and AO3 cuts off at 300 displayed. If you know of any ships I missed and should check out, do tell! I’ll also make a note here that one of these fics is my own—if self-recs bother you, skip Bluebird.

The following five fics are ordered by wordcount. Let me know what you think!

Neurotic Virtuosi, by skazka

Crossover: Hannibal Rising (movie version). The wizarding world exists, and Tom and Hannibal encounter each other in non-magical Eastern Europe.

Summary: Tom and Hannibal ride the same train when Tom is hunting down the diadem. Tom shares an apple and thinks about keeping Hannibal.

Mature, <1k, Graphic Torture Fantasies

Why?: This is one of those pairings that I wouldn’t have thought to do when the characters were both young, but it’s so much better for that choice! The length of this fic means we only get a taste of their interactions, but what a taste it is. Tom’s internal fantasies are horrifying and described in a very erotic way, which fits both characters.

This also serves as an interesting vision of what Tom might have experienced during his world tour to find the diadem, a period we rarely get to see. I particularly like that the author chose to write it as frustrating and mostly fruitless; a Tom who is stymied and unsuccessful is a particular weakness of mine.

Two Sides of the Same Coin, by Anonymous

Crossover: Chronicles of Narnia. Both Hogwarts and Narnia are real, and the characters meet in Britain. The magic isn’t the same, but there’s mutual recognition.

Summary: Tom tries to use sex to seduce secrets out of Edmund. Edmund sees something reminiscent of his younger self, the version of him who could join the White Witch, in Tom Riddle.

Explicit, 2k

Why?: Edmund and Tom are a pairing made in crossover heaven, both boys of a similar age born into war in the same country and whose discoveries of magical worlds help them escape it. Both lust for power and make poor choices; Edmund canonically recovers and finds redemption from his actions, and Tom does not.

This fic wears the hat of something pure smut, starting in the middle of a sex scene and tagged with top/bottom roles, etc., and it is that and does that well. But give it a shot for Edmund’s reflection at the end, his hopeful musings that he can apply the lessons learned from Aslan to help Tom before Tom’s utterly lost. It’s a crossover ship with unbelievable potential for both characters, and this fic makes me want so much more.

Shedding Skin, by electric_typewriter

Crossover: Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente. Both the wizarding world and the magic of Deathless exist.

Summary: Tom meets Koschei before splitting his soul. They keep meeting, and Tom keeps attempting to match Koschei’s immortality.

Not Rated, 2k

Why?: Immortality via relocation or storage of souls is an idea that easily predates Harry Potter as a series, and seeing two different versions of the some core idea interacting with one another is precisely what crossovers exist to enable. Koschei as an immortal being that found his immortality in a way he considers superior is a fascinating concept, because it creates a power imbalance between them that leaves Tom always running to catch up. And Tom, poor Tom, feels like a desperate man, finding sensation only when he’s around Koschei and feeling nothing at any other time.

This reads a bit like you’re dissociating. The author uses descriptive language to keep the reader a little distant from the grounded reality of the events happening, which has the effect of keeping you focused on the metaphysical question of what it means to have part of a soul.

Bluebird, by Phantomato

Crossover: Shadow and Bone. S&B summoning powers instead of HP magic, set in the real world, with characters’ histories preserved.

Summary: Tom is the second sun summoner to exist, born long after the first gave up her powers and lived out her natural life. He tracks down the Darkling, the shadow summoner who never really died.

Explicit, 17k

Why?: Tom is an immortal being for at least part of his life, and his character arc is about pursuit of immortality, but he is fundamentally a young immortal, and is killed before he can graduate to old immortality. Aleksander, the Darkling, is canonically an old immortal, and his character arc is about the burden of living with the knowledge that you will likely always be alone. That loneliness sets the scene for the relationship between Tom and Aleksander, driving Aleksander’s behavior—he fundamentally believes he will always be alone, even an immortal like Tom passes through his life.

There is a high proportion of smut in this, serving in place of the emotional honesty that neither character can muster, and I recommend it for that. But the story also relies on investment in quiet everyday moments shared between the characters. It’s a fic told through behavior because both men are so cautious around one another, where they nevertheless manage to find sympathy for the other.

Riddles of the Dead, by Maeglin_Yedi

Crossover: Indiana Jones. Blends together the wizarding world and the mysticism present in Indiana Jones films.

Summary: Tom Riddle hires an expert archaeologist and gentleman adventurer, Dr. Indiana Jones, to help him pursue an artifact that might grant him immortality. There’s fucking, fighting, magic, snakes, and some difficult choices in store for our leading men.

Explicit, 18k, Angst

Why?: Maeglin Yedi has been a mainstay of the Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort ficspace for nearly two decades, but an old crossover like this can unfortunately slip through the cracks. It shouldn’t! With an original publishing date in early 2005, this predates the concept of horcruxes, the knowledge of Tom’s early years at Wool’s orphanage, and, well, so much of what we would eventually learn about Tom Riddle as a person. It’s a testament to the author that the story manages to capture Tom’s character in such a way that he’s still fully recognizable to a current-day reader, despite working with so much less canon.

This fic is fun. It’s an adventure, featuring hazards and traps and assassination attempts that you would expect from an Indiana Jones film, but the magic and mystery never overwhelms the relationship at the core of this story. It’s set up beautifully, with a mirrored structure between the front and back halves of the fic that foreshadows the inevitable end of the story. Watching older, confident Indy seduce young, hungry Tom is a delight. One (possible) mark of a great Tom-centric fic, imo, is to be able to portray Tom enjoying the exchange of power, giving it to someone as well as taking it from them, and this Tom is able to revel in giving up some perceived power as he practices being vulnerable with Indy. The romance is quite sweet, especially considering that ‘angst’ tag at the top of the fic!

[sarahjkl82-blog]

Artistic Instinct Chapter Eight

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 5,600

Warnings: Language as always, mentions of drinking, alcohol and drunkenness, mentions of sex OH AND HEARTBREAK

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something. This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

The right person, the wrong time.

The right script, the wrong line.

The right poem, the wrong rhyme.

And a piece of you

That was never mine

K Towne Jr.

Chapter 8

The black topped streets of Lewisham radiate the day’s spring sunshine as if intent upon sending the heaven sent warmth back up through Marcus’ soles. The evening’s golden light creates a love song in his heart - one that morphs from the irritation and melancholy of the morning to a happier more uplifting tune.

When did that mood change? Oh yes, that embrace.

Nush.

Marcus hadn’t realised just how low his battery was for touch until you threw your arms around him. How much much he’d needed your body close to his again. Feeling your softness against him, inhaling your intoxicating scent. How he’d longed to kiss your forehead and stroke your hair in that cuddle. Remembering the pain of breaking that contact, plastering on a smile and kicking himself for it.

Constantly having to watch his need for your touch and tempering it within the normal parameters for a working relationship, Marcus has found himself reaching out for you- making excuses to touch you as you passed him, finding imaginary eyelashes on your face. Being around you felt like a breath that he was unable to release, continuously having to dampen down his natural instincts to hold and stroke you.

Kiss you.

Taste you.

Had he been back in the States, he would have said fuck it and asked you out, but that didn’t exactly go well last time. The pain of knowing exactly what he wants and it just being beyond the reach of his fingertips plagues Marcus daily with the dream of coming home to be loved, nurtured and protected and offer it in return. How do you ever allow yourself to become vulnerable to that risk of failure again? One thing he is certain of, is your current ignorance of the true level of his feelings. The kindness you show others - so much care for everyone around you, albeit through a thinly veiled layer of sarcasm and swearing- and the love your friends show for you, demonstrate that you would be nothing but clear if he was to reveal his true feelings.

Squeezing politely through the crowds, between the narrow shack-like stalls of the fairy-light illuminated market, Marcus heads towards the Highline where Andy had told each of you to meet him. Before he could start climbing the staircase up, a large hand grasps his upper arm, another patting the space between his shoulder blades. Marcus spins, slightly surprised by the touch, to be greeted by Andy’s grinning face.

“Looking good, Sir. Bit sharper than at lunch today,” Andy observes, giving Marcus’ leather jacket, Henley and indigo jeans a once over, “and before you complain, I am going to get you a beer because of the day you’ve had. You can do your management thing of buying the first round in a bit, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

With Andy’s face explicitly telling Marcus not to disagree with him, he nods, definitely needing that drink. As they head together towards the bar, they are both absorbed into the throng of a hundred voices holding loud conversations as they compete with the soundtrack from the decks. The crowd is a mixed bag of teenagers, students and families - the children chasing or trying to catch the sparkling spotlights as their parents reminisce over large gin and tonics about lie-ins and late nights not hunched over a crib.

Winding their way through the laughing and dancing bodies, they head in the direction of the alcohol to order some locally brewed ales, bumping into an already buzzing Kiritopa at almost the front of the queue. After a round of handshakes, back slaps and hearty laughs, they edge ever closer to their goal of amber nectar. Before their drinks are poured, Marcus’ eyes scan the market for the rest of the team when they are caught by a flash of colour. Bright turquoise stockings, a mustard corduroy pinafore, red and white striped T-shirt - oh, it isn’t you. Your wildly coloured legs bring so much colour to his day and they are the first thing he checks as he enters the office. Elbow nudges and a pint glass from Andy brings his attention back to the men in front of him for a quick cheers-ing of glasses before heading out of the melée.

The table on the Highline that Andy had reserved was utterly perfect. It afforded a bird’s eye view of the market - a true dream come true for any avid people watchers, whilst also allowing everyone to talk and be heard by each other with its one storey elevation from the thronging crowds. Andy and Kiritopa are animatedly talking with each other lounging amongst the piles of cushions and blankets on the pallet seating, while Marcus leans against the walkway, clutching his beer, staring off into the urban sprawl of concrete car parks and fried chicken restaurants but only looking for one face.

“Hey, what time do you call this...Whoa - Nush, is that makeup? On your face?” Andy’s eyes are utterly saucer-like in this discovery.

“Hush your mouth - she did it to me,” you jab your finger in Dian’s direction, pouting your lips at the indignation and as Andy goes to make another quip, you add- shoving some chips in his mouth, “Dirty masala fries- thought we’d need something to line our tummies this evening. Although equally, they’ll do a wonderful job of keeping some people’s mouths shut!”

“I think I did a great job- she looks stunning!” having put three portions on the table, Dian steps back to admire her handiwork as you pull a duck face pout at her.

She always looks beautiful.

“So, what’s on these fries?” Marcus asks as he desperately tries to avoid the other thoughts running through his head of how that pencil skirt runs along the curve that falls and rises from your waist to your hips beautifully or the horizontal stripes of your t-shirt - an outfit winning in its quest to distract.

As for that goddamn red lipstick…

It would leave a mark all around my-

“Ok, so they’re skinny French fries with spices shaken over them and a dollop of channa masala on top. Oh and that white shit is garlic mayo to dip them in,” you grin broadly as you pass him a portion - the picant vibrancy of the food telling stories of the fresh, bold flavours to come. Always being a believer in food being one of the ways that you can love a person, the mouthful of potatoes, spices and chickpeas envelops Marcus in an all encompassing hug. His belly sings with happiness with each mouthful he consumes, his tongue delightfully tingling from the chilli powder.

“Y’know Nush. Not had one of your curries for a while,” Andy not-so gently hints.

Marcus can’t help but raise his eyebrows, “Nush, you make curries? How many other hidden talents?”

“She also plays the piano and did ballet until she was fifteen,” Andy adds, ducking as you lob a cushion at him - your face reddened with a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

“Badly according to my mother,” you say, rolling your eyes as you shove another mouthful in, “Mine aren’t particularly elegant but they are edible. Well they are now anyway - there was one, a keema matar, that I made as a kid where I didn’t realise that chili develops over time. Put in roughly five tablespoons by the end. Could have been used for chemical warfare. Never lived it down but it got me out of cooking for a while.”

The table explodes in uproarious laughter, earning several odd looks from the patrons nearby.

“Well, I’m considering this an invitation to try one of your edible curries as you so eloquently call them,” Kiritopa rubs his belly in anticipation, chuckling at your modesty, “When can we get a date in the book?”

“I love a good curry, so count me in,” Dian chimes in as she pops the chickpeas like sweets into her mouth.

Marcus watches you shift uncomfortably in the spotlight of demands from your co-workers, “If I do this, I need a bigger space to work in as I can’t fit you all in my flat. I’ll need to borrow somewhere that can fit more bums.”

“Could use my apartment to cook and host, if you like?” Marcus proffers, secretly hopeful at trying some of your dishes and perhaps more than a little excited at the thought of spending some one on one time with you.

“Shall we do Sunday evening, if nothing turns up from work?” Kiritopa asks hopefully.

Marcus shrugs by way of confirmation, catching your gaze, drinking in the swirl of colours in your iris, to give you a nod.

With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, you exclaim, “Andy- what the fuck have you started? You’ve all grossly overestimated my skills, and now I am going in search of alcohol to dull my senses and make poor decisions,” you dramatically announce with a theatrical bow, “What can I get everyone?”

Seeing an opportunity open up, Marcus touches your arm as you go to leave, “It’s my round. Help me carry them?”

“Deal,” Marcus feels his heart grow as he sees your smile reach every corner of your face.

Before reaching the top of the stairs, Marcus moves himself around to walk in front of you. His body on an autopilot of manners. On reaching the bottom step, he reaches back - unthinkingly - to grab your hand so as not to lose you amongst the multitude drinking, eating and dancing the night away. The momentary panic that spread at the thought of you rejecting him recedes as your fingers thread between his.

Sending a warm smile at you over his shoulder, you follow in the wake of him quietly.

The people near the bar are flowing like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but twirling, swirling around them nevertheless Marcus guides you through, never letting go. The noise of the chatter and throb of the music surrounds you, not allowing for much verbal communication so he settles for small movements and gestures with the hand that is holding yours. When you finally arrive at the queue by the bar, that is when you can speak a bit more freely albeit in theatrical whispers in each other’s ears.

Marcus watches how the evening breeze kisses you, blowing the strands of your growing-out fringe into your face. How you gaze around and observe people whilst also managing to make him feel like he’s the only person there. The way your eyes crease into crescents when you laugh or smile and how much he wishes he could thank all those people jostling you into him. But like all moments with you, it ends too quickly as soon you’re both heading upriver against the current with your trays of drinks.

“Nush, I’ve always thought it was some kind of miracle that you never spill alcohol,” Andy teases you as you bring the drinks to their owners.

“Hah! I don’t waste the good stuff,” you mutter indignantly, “Although perhaps if we want to protect the office carpets, I should…”

“No,” Marcus mock-sternly interjects at the thought of you being drunk and the chaos that would bring, “No day drinking at work, Nush. I’d prefer the coffee stains.”

Your pout and subsequent upward glance through your eyelashes, makes Marcus turn towards the railings, hiding his thoughts in his beer.

Fuck, Nush.

If you only knew what you do to me.

“Hey Kiri, isn’t it? You playing in the tourney tomorrow?” a deep, cut glass accent calls out, cutting through the crowds surrounding them. Marcus turns towards where the sound is coming from and as he does, he catches a strange look cross your face.

“What the fuck are you doing here and how the fuck do you know Kiritopa?” The tone of your voice, narrowed eyes and furrowed brow makes Marcus turn back towards the group inquisitively.

“Nush! Haven’t seen you in a long time but you are looking amazing,” the voice is attached to a face, the kind that would stop anyone in their tracks, “can barely recognise you with makeup on- you should wear it more often.”

You breathlessly mutter, “Fuck off, that’s never going to happen.”

Good girl. Don’t put up with that BS. You’re better than that.

“I know Seb through rugby training,” then tilting his head quizzically, Kiritopa asks, “How do you know him?”

“Since school isn’t it, so what? Roughly twenty years? Through her brother, Adam as we played rugger together. Although, despite such a long time friendship, you wouldn’t let me in your knickers until more recently,” Seb shoots you a wink from over his beer.

The words burn through Marcus as he considers your connection with this man - his eyes narrowing, lips thinning. Loneliness echoing through his racing heart. He hadn’t considered you seeing anyone else- even for the briefest of dalliances but then not everyone is a serial long term monogamist.

Of course you’d have needs, you are an adult woman.

I just wish you’d explore them with me.

“Every now and then it’s nice to have an orgasm attached to a pulse that isn’t delivered by a battery,” you deliver, utterly deadpan.

Seb pretends to be mortally wounded by your words, playing dead into the chair next to yours, languidly flopping his limbs around. Oh, how Marcus would like to wipe that stupid smug smirk off his face!

For fuck’s sake, Pike. Why didn’t you sit next to her when you had the chance?

White knuckles wrapped around his nearly empty pint glass, Marcus silently watches as Seb desperately works to get your attention whilst you chat animatedly with Dian and Andy while Kiri downs the rest of his beer. He hasn’t noticed the pretty young woman with bouncing corkscrew curls observing him from amongst her friends on the next table along.

“Hey. You look like you could do with a drink, can I get you one?”

Abruptly removed from his poorly concealed glowering, Marcus raises his eyebrows in surprise at this question, pausing for some time before realising that it was aimed at him.

“Oh, look don’t worry. It was just a silly thought...” the beautifully tight curls go to withdraw from view and return to their friends.

“No, I’m sorry. I was lost in thought,” Marcus offers apologetically, “It’s been a day from hell. Let me get you a drink.”

“Wanted to talk to you as I was a bit concerned that you were about to break that glass with how tightly you were gripping it. Glass is an arse to get out of wounds so thought it better to save your hands before you come visit me in A&E,” she gently proposes, “There are better places to spend Friday nights!”

Welcoming the pretty distraction from his destructive thoughts, Marcus’ cheeks dimple as he nods, “I can imagine. Are you a doctor?”

“Yeah, for my sins,” she amusedly huffs, “And on a rare night out, so shall we go get that drink? I’m Kemi, by the way.”

✪✪✪✪✪

Oh, how you long to rip the makeup from your face! As a child, it had been a form of let’s pretend that turned into a mask to hide behind as a young adult as you experimented with finding your true self. Now, that you are established in your womanhood, you feel no need to add layers to your face other than when you are convinced it would be fun by a fast-becoming firm friend.

When Sebastian made a remark about how pretty you looked with the makeup, it made you want to run to the loo right then and there to claw it from your skin.

And what the ever loving fuck is he doing here? Fucking Sebastian of all fucking people, who you accidentally keep finding yourself fucking. You’d just come around to the idea that it might be ok to occasionally go out with people from work but when they meet people from your everyday life - your home life - that isn’t ok. Especially when that person is just a hate fuck. Great in bed but an odious human being as you can’t be that handsome and a decent person, it seems.

Unless you’re Marcus Fucking Pike.

Who is now grabbing a drink with an absolute goddess of a woman.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint why it had hurt so much when he’d walked off with her but there was such an ache deep in your tummy that could not be ignored. Between that and the appearance of fucking Sebastian, you just want to jump on the 178 home and throw on your jammies, curling up under the shit crocheted throw that you’d made during your leave - more holes than stitches. If it wasn’t for Dian, you would already be on your way there, demolishing something unhealthy from UberEats, glugging a wine or two.

Dian seems to pick up on your drop in mood and decides that it’s time for a trip to the tequila bar. With Andy’s husband now joining your rag-tag gang, you agree to chase some bitter hits of alcohol. As you wind your way among the dancers and drinkers, you see him standing by one of the upturned kegs, laughing at something she has said. You catch his eye, plaster on a smile and send him a wink in the hope that your wish for him to have fun seems genuine.

You sign to him whether he wants a drink but a small shake of his head tells you all you need to know before Dian tugs your hand back in the direction of the bar. Standing in front of the bartender, a moment of sadness washes over you until Kiri passes the salt, Seb licks your hand and the rest of the evening finally takes a softer tone after one, two, three.

The tequila in your tummy makes it hard to concentrate on what Dian and Kiri are chatting about while the three of you curl tipsily upon the comfy cushions as a large fluorescent pink, plastic sign declaring TREAT YO’SELF looms large over your heads. Excusing yourself to the loo, you walk past Marcus - steadfastly refusing any eye contact but ensuring he sees you. As you go to repeat the action on the return journey - not entirely sure as to why you feel the need to seek your boss’s attention - a hand goes to balance you as you walk down the final step.

“Whoa - steady, Nush,” you look up to see Marcus’ concerned face looking down at you.

“Hah! I’m ok. You having a good night?” You ask, your eyes searching his, “She’s truly stunning.”

“Yeah, um, were you guys doing shots?” he enquires, brow still furrowed.

“Yup. It's a really good tequila bar upstairs - should have joined us,” you jab him in the chest with an index finger, “So good that the world just looks like an impressionist painting. All swooshy and a little bit blurry.”

You watch Marcus scratching his neck, “Anyway, what on Earth are you doing here with me? Go get her, idiot.”

“Ah, here you are Bad Idea Puppy- thought you’d fallen asleep on the loo. Although that wouldn’t be the first time would it?” Sebastian brays, stepping between you and Marcus as he grabs your hand to lead you onto the dancefloor. Allowing yourself to be led away, you look back over your shoulder at him, mouthing go get her with a wink as if that would soften the pain that had appeared with her.

The music flows through you - the clearest way to communicate you have ever known- your body rolling and swaying with the sensuality of the music. Sebastian moves effortlessly around you thanks to his mother, who having had only sons, deciding that her youngest would get the dance lessons that she’d hoped the daughter she never had, would take. The two of you vent in movements all of what you could never be said between you or to anyone else aloud. As you twist together under the orange stained hazy night sky, you notice the goddess’ hand on Marcus’ face, stroking his cheek. The poisonous ache returns to your tummy and however your face contorts, causes Seb to pull you closer, cradling your head into his neck. You know how the night will end and the loneliness stings.

✪✪✪✪✪

His mouth bone dry, Marcus awakes fully dressed, on top of the comforter, with a cool bed surrounding him. Reaching for his phone, pulling the charging cable from it, he flicks through messages and emails trying to work out what had happened from when Kemi had left him in the bar to rejoin her friends. Her words still ring in his ears - you didn’t come alone tonight - when she had watched his eyes trace your path out of the market. How he’d initially thought about taking her up on her offer to help him forget, wanting to obliterate last night from his memory and lose himself in her eyes and lips. Her final words to him, cutting him to the core- she must be really special and if she is as special as you think she is, you fight for her.

Bloodshot eyes and deep creases stare back at him from the mirror. More grey. They say that age exchanges beauty for wisdom but they are the same mistakes he keeps repeating. A strangled gasp escapes him as he tries to regulate his breathing, lifting his chin trying to fill his lungs with more oxygen. His shoulders are racked by gut-wrenching sobs and like an overwhelmed dam, the tears spill in hot torrents down his cheeks. Marcus slides onto the floor, allowing the grief to pour forth.

His first marriage was too much, too soon, too young. An art historian and an artist in love with creating and observing beauty until the former decided to change tack after being recruited by the FBI. The long hours of training at Quantico, the subsequent hard days and irregular nights as he worked his way through the ranks of the Art Crime department, wrung the patience from his wife. Gradually growing further and further apart until all that was left were two strangers constantly at odds, her cutting comment about how she felt that he gave her only apathy - never coming to her when she needed help or affection. She hated him for the choices he made - feeling that his work was merely interacting with the meaningless. The law enforcer spent more time at work to hide from the inevitable ending until the artist found someone who appreciated her and the beauty she created.

As for Lisbon. Was she really ever his? Wasn’t he really just a footnote in the Patrick Jane story? The whirlwind romance that progressed and extinguished again at such a heart attack inducing pace, emphasised by that stupid-ass move to DC. Although, if it wasn’t for that move, he wouldn’t be here in London now. Oh yeah. That was out of the skillet and into the fire, Pike. Another excellent career move.

So much love to give and nowhere, no one to give it to. The lessons he has learnt and is still learning but oh, just to find that person with whom you can drop that mask and enjoy togetherness, warmth and serenity.

The side of the bath offers a solid cool support to Marcus as he sits there on the herringbone tiled floor, sobbing into his arms. There is only one voice he needs to hear right now. Grabbing a tissue from the side to noisily blow his nose into, he rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes before putting his glasses on. Phone in hand, he dials the number he knows better than his own name.

The familiar dial tone is like a lullaby in his ear, “Mamá?... Hey! How are you doing?... I’m sorry Mamá - I forgot about the time zone difference... I’m ok, just missing you… It’s just been a long week and... Yeah, London is awesome and I managed a trip to France this week which was incredible to be back there. So weird having so many different countries within such easy reach…Come visit me soon?... Thank you... I miss you… Te quiero mucho Mamá… I’ll ring you in a couple of days. Hasta luego.”

Hanging up, everything feels a bit more manageable and less painful- I wish I could bottle my Mamá’s voice. Hauling himself off the bathroom floor, he turns on the faucet to splash icy water on his face. Sniffing his t-shirt, realising the shower could wait - perhaps a good run to get the endorphins pumping would be his best move. Or perhaps a text to Nush to check what ingredients he’d need to have in for the curry tomorrow?

Stop it, Pike. You’re just fucking torturing yourself.

Opening a drawer, he pulls out basketball shorts, a clean t-shirt and a pair of sneaker socks to throw on, discarding last night’s clothes in a heap by the washing machine.

AirPods in and classic nineties dance anthems to pace himself to, he gives his quads and hamstrings a quick warm up by the front door before it is time to convert the emotional pain into miles.

One of the many things that Marcus loves about London is the constant greenery with every second corner a park or stretching heathland. Texas is so proud of its big sky country status and yet, there are parts of central London where you could lie down and not see anything but skies around you. It is truly hard not to fall in love with such a beautiful, historical and spacious city.

Pounding the pavements towards the park, his feet hit the concrete slabs softly, sending small shockwaves to his brain. Whilst Marcus knows that the power in his thighs could have him across the park in seconds, he savours each step. The precision in his movements is perfect as he takes lungful after lungful of the sunshine filled air. It feels like part of a meditation - a mindful prayer. Dodging around errant dogs and small, clumsy yet terrifyingly aggressive children on scooters, he winds his way through the avenues of trees until he comes across a small lake.

He pauses the thrumming music in his ears to just soak up the tranquility of the moment as he stretches out his limbs. The lake is the kindest of nature’s mirrors, never truly showing exactly what is above, but converting it to an image so beautifully smudgy. The weeping willow stroking its branches elegantly across the skin of the water, the clouds gliding silently above as a host of waterfowl paddle effortlessly through the cool, clear pool, all become a priceless Monet hanging in The National Gallery – all free for the looking. Sure, it is transient, changing by the day - unlike the fixed in a moment of time pieces by the grumpy old Frenchman - but that's what makes it all the more precious.

There’s a family by the water’s edge. Marcus can’t help but be amused by the toddler’s antics as they threaten to jump in and become irritated that they can’t, especially when they have their wellies on. Can’t fault that logic! The older child is gathering sticks to make a “campfire” with their dad - discarding most of their parent’s choices with withering looks and expressive rolls of the eyes. The dark-haired mom, whilst trying to reason with the toddler, is swaying with some sort of baby carrier tied around her - a tiny one clutched tightly to her chest. The infant is virtually invisible from the passes of material, only two tiny socks and its little woolly hat peeking free. A collie is also darting between and around them, rounding up his flock of sheep, taking his role as protector very seriously.

The scene makes Marcus smile as he stretches out his muscles. Whilst he can’t help but watch and yearn for something similar in his life, the mom looks up and over in his direction,

“Are you going to come over and say hi or just be a park weirdo that lurks in bushes pretending to stretch?” a familiar voice curtly teases.

Nush - what the fuck?

“Your face is a fucking picture! Take a breath - these are three of my five niblings - big one is Sophia, middle one that keeps threatening to swim in the pond is Alexa and this little dot is Oscar. As for that blundering idiot, this is Adam, my oldest brother- their dad,” gesturing towards your brother you giggle, creasing up in laughter at the sheer shock then relief on Marcus’ face, “Ads, this is Marcus, my new boss that I told you about.”

The male version of Nush outstretched his palm, offering a sympathetic look, “Hi Marcus, pleasure to put a face to a name. I’m so sorry that you have to put up with my cowbag-of-a-sister at work.”

Marcus can’t help but laugh at the friendly sniping between brother and sister, reminding him of his own teasing relationship with his sisters back home, “Hey! Your kids are beautiful. Oh, you must be Sebastian’s friend - who we saw at Model Market in Lewisham yesterday, Nush?” he questions.

“As much as Sebastian can have friends… Oh Nush, you didn’t, did you?” Adam’s face scrunches in disgust and judging in the way that only a sibling can do.

“No! Not this time,” Marcus loves the speed and vehemence to which you respond to your brother- and enjoys the sheer relief that is now guiltily coursing through his veins, “To give the man his dues, he won’t ever sleep with me when I’ve had too much to drink. Not that I was going to and not that it is any of your fucking business in the first place.” You add jabbing your brother in the softness of his tummy with every word you say.

“Nush, I was gonna text you this morning about tomorrow, if you’re still on to make the curries?” Marcus gently questions, willing you to agree.

“Hah! You’re trusting her to cook?” Adam laughs heartily at the suggestion, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Our mum still won’t let her near the chilli powder now.”

You growl at your brother, “I was a fucking kid at the time! And yes, I am more than happy to come and cook curries- what time suits you for me to come over? They do take a bit of time to make.”

Marcus struggles to hold back a snort of laughter, “Any time is good - and perhaps while they’re simmering, we can have some classic films on in the background?”

“Ah that sounds perfect,” your smile warming every inch of his skin.

“You sound perfect for her,” Marcus catches Adam muttering under his breath, his eyes widening at your brother’s comment.

“Shut your damn cakehole, twatface,” you slap your brother’s arm hard as you grind the words between your teeth, the two of you glaring with a mirror image of your eyebrows raised at each other.

“Um, I’d better continue my run before I cool down too much,” Marcus manages to spit out between the flushes of heat through his skin, “Great to meet you and your family, Adam. Nush, it’s lovely to see you and I’ll catch you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow, Marcus,” you smile at him before turning back towards your niblings, who are working together to create a den using an old fallen branch.

“I saw you running earlier,” Adam adds, “You’ve got a really good gait - as a physio, it’s great to see someone not destroying their joints. Do you do anything to support your running through cross training?”

“Uh no, but that’s a good idea as I don’t want any injuries. What would you recommend?” Marcus asks, genuinely intrigued and flattered by your brother’s compliment of his running style.

“Speak to Nush - yoga is perfect for stretching your IT bands, which as a man they’re generally always tight and only get tighter with repetitive movements like running or cycling. She’s the yoga queen and will know of a local teacher who can help you,” Adam grins, nodding towards his sister.

“There’s so much I have yet to learn about her,” Marcus shakes his head as he sorts out his headphones.

“Yeah, good luck with that!” Adam laughs as he pats Marcus on the back, “Anyway, enjoy the rest of your run and hopefully see you again soon.”

As Marcus gradually picks up his pace away from you and your family, his heart that had felt so dark and lonely, now feels light and airy. The release valve in his chest is finally loosened and there is a little bubble of excitement in his belly that he allows to build at the thought of tomorrow. The thought of your presence in his apartment, doing something as domestic as cooking, is truly a salve for his soul.

Perhaps he can just make believe until it becomes a reality.

Tag list of glory: @astroboots @silverwolf319@sirowsky @leonieb @disgruntledspacedad @bison-writes @the-ginger-hedge-witch @danniburgh @sugarontherims @green-socks @tardisfangurl @absurdthirst @pedropascalito @mouthymandalorian @mrsparknuts @lunaserenade @zukoyonce @agirllovespancakes @yespolkadotkitty @theravenreads @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

[dwellordream]

“…Courtly love is commonly cited as marking the nascence of the modern era’s notion of romantic love. Although Eleanor undoubtedly heard the troubadours’ songs as a child, the extent to which their new ideas on love and marriage shaped her own views cannot be known. Too little evidence from Eleanor’s early life survives to resolve much debated claims for her role in fostering the doctrines of courtly love disseminated by troubadours or claims that she influenced later notions of romantic love. Troubadour poetry was in its infancy in the years before she left for Paris, and its theme of a young knight’s adoration of his superior-ranking lady would not become a literary norm until the later twelfth century.

Nonetheless, because the adult Eleanor is so often associated with courtly love and outrageous claims have been made for her as its sponsor and propagator, the unfolding of this phenomenon during her formative years must be understood. Today it is hard to know what to make of courtly love that seemingly celebrated adulterous relationships between a married noble lady and her knightly admirer; nor can it be known what those living in a Christian society that classed adultery and fornication as serious crimes were to make of it. 

The troubadours’ love was full of contradictions: sensual yet spiritual, both ethically edifying and sinful, open and at the same time secret. The elevation of women in their songs conflicted with teachings of eleventh- and twelfth century Church reformers who portrayed all women as descendants of Eve, the temptress and source of sin, spreading wickedness and disorder in the world. Because troubadour love contradicted Church teachings on love, marriage, and sex, it was suspected of contamination by the heretical Cathars or even of Spanish Muslim influences. 

…Also responsible for blending clerics’ courtliness, knights’ prowess, and “courtly love” into a new standard for knightly behavior were authors of late twelfth-century vernacular romances. More numerous in northern France and the Anglo-Norman realm than in the south, the romance writers adapted the love portrayed in troubadour songs, making adoration of a noble lady a key characteristic of the perfect knight. Romance writers borrowed from troubadour lyrics language that applied a knight’s service to his lord to the language of devotion to his lady. 

…Unlike the knights of the romances written in the north, Occitan knights would continue to identify chivalry with purely warlike traits, rather than with exalted love for a lady, and the sponsors of singers of troubadour songs were more likely the husbands of noble ladies than the ladies themselves. Songs of the Périgord knight Bertrand de Born, writing for Eleanor’s sons, say nothing of knightly love for ladies, but extoll warfare and taunt those nobles who refrained from fighting. In the few poems that Bertrand authored with amorous topics, his treatment of love is decidedly unromantic. 

Courtly love’s language of knightly devotion to a lady cannot be regarded as an accurate portrayal of the position of women in the aristocratic society of Eleanor’s youth. While power for women of the Midi was possible, and some ruled lands in their own right or on behalf of absent spouses or minor offspring, many others found their fates entirely in the hands of fathers, husbands, or other kin. Indeed, property rights enjoyed by southern women in the eleventh century were weakening in the early and mid-twelfth century. 

While encouraging courteous conduct toward the ladies at princely courts, it is unlikely that the troubadour love lyrics brought significant betterment of their lives. Perhaps such songs were little more than moves in a complex game of flirtation. Once troubadour poetry reached the French and English royal courts, listeners there would find the depiction of adulterous love alarming, and such songs may have inclined Eleanor’s subjects to believe the worst of her. At the same time that poetry at the court of Eleanor’s grandfather was defining “courtly love”, it was also contributing to a new understanding of “chivalry” at Poitiers and at other princely courts. 

In Eleanor’s early childhood, the Old French and Occitan terms that would evolve into the modern “cavalry” and “chivalry” still applied primarily to skill with horses and weapons, the qualities of knights, military professionals fighting on horseback, men in those days often of non-noble rank. In the violence and chaos of the tenth and eleventh centuries, polite manners or moral behavior were little valued, although knights felt a strong sense of honor and shame, making them quick to avenge any affront that dishonored them. 

Desirable characteristics for knights described in the late eleventh-century epic poems, the chansons de gestes, center on prowess, including physical strength, mastery of fighting skills, and courage. Less attractive traits also characterized the epic heroes: pride, arrogance, disdain for lesser persons, and willingness to humiliate others. This individualistic ethos clashed with the Christian contemplative ideal, exemplified by the monastic life, and by the late eleventh century, churchmen were seeking to harness the warrior elite’s ferocity for spiritual ends. They tried to channel their fervor toward Christian goals, enforcing the Peace of God to defend the poor and weak and crusades to liberate the Holy Places. 

During Eleanor’s early years, first as a child at Poitiers and later as an adolescent bride at Paris, courtliness, or courtesy, was beginning to dilute the warrior ethos of chivalry. Courtliness stood for a new standard for the nobility of polite and principled conduct gaining ground in the late eleventh century, inspired by ancient Roman ideals. Cultured ecclesiastics had kept alive classical ideals of conduct advocating upright character, eloquent speech, good taste, and polished manners aimed at preparing Roman youths for the life of statesmen. Under the influence of churchmen at princely courts, this classical ideal began to take on new form among both clerical and lay courtiers. 

Soon the two concepts of knightly prowess and clerical courtliness were giving rise to a new standard of chivalric conduct that combined fighting skills with learning and courteous conduct. Over the twelfth century, a new definition of nobility was taking root as knights, originally rough soldiers, were exposed to courtly conduct in their lords’ households. As models for conduct followed by both landless knights and nobility of ancient lineage meshed together, they coalesced as a single class in people’s thinking. The terms “knight” and “noble” were becoming synonymous, and individuals of either status were expected to exemplify chivalry and courtesy as members of a single superior caste standing above the common people. 

This change in social structure would not be completed until Eleanor’s mature years at the end of the twelfth century and the beginning of the thirteenth century. Eleanor, growing up in William IX’s sophisticated court, a model for courts throughout southern France, saw at first-hand the elegant behavior characteristic of a courtly culture. There she would have witnessed women enjoying a more respected position than later at the French or English royal courts, where religious teachings demanding women’s deference toward males bore greater weight. Southern women freely joining the men in witty and flirtatious conversations would have shocked visitors from northern France or England, who feared the skill of ladies with words, their ability to apply verbal weaponry and sexual wiles for plotting and intriguing. 

Yet court life had less appealing aspects that young Eleanor could have observed. A competitive atmosphere permeated the princely courts, for courtiers flocked there to win the prince’s approval and patronage; and in their competition for favors, they resorted to scheming, slander, and flattery. As a girl, she would have heard scurrilous rumors at the ducal court spread by ambitious courtiers about their rivals of the sort that would circulate later at her two husbands’ courts about her own alleged sexual misconduct.”

- Ralph V. Turner, “Growing Up in the Ducal Court of Aquitaine, 1124–1137.” in Eleanor of Aquitaine: Queen of France, Queen of England

[hope-to-hell]

The Message. Symbiote!August. Blood, gore, violence, guns, death. August in pursuit of his goal is a man without mercy.

Once upon a time there was a man. And then there wasn’t.

Let’s try again.

Once upon a time in the deep dark underground, August Walker found his tipping point. His eyes rolled over white and what he saw was this:

Death. Only death. And he knew that even he would fall into its cold embrace; even he would perish and leave his body for the worms. August Walker made a bargain then, with shards of silver underneath his nails and the biting hateful whine of the drill as it caught and tore at his muscles. He said let me live and I will—

August Walker wakes. He tastes blood and swallows down the last vestige of the dream; it didn’t happen, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Anger roils to the surface and shakes itself out into his limbs. It tastes adrenaline and the sourness of fear, savoring it, transmuting it into something they can use. Rise and shine, my pretty thing. There’s work to do.

Once upon a time there was a monster. It fell to earth in a shower of sparks; it melted snow and blasted the flesh from the bones of little creeping things. It raged in an empty valley where all its food was small and frightened, and it gave itself a name.

Anger.

They walk together, Anger a writhing mantle over August’s shoulders. They do not stop for the trill of the metal detector. They do not stop for some poor soul’s strangled halt! And they do not stop when Agency men pour out from offices and corridors. There is work to be done.

Anger lets the bullets land; August grins as he feels his cells separate and mend in an instant. It hurts, of course it fucking hurts, but the endorphins sing through his veins and feed his Anger; they feed him too and together they bathe in bloodlust. And you love it. It’s like fire in you. Come. Show them what we’re capable of. Soon there is no sound but fading gasps and the crunch of teeth beneath August’s boots.

August leaves red footprints as he walks; he is all eyes and teeth and blood, and he is without mercy. He trails his hand along the wall on the way to Erika Sloane’s office, and in the marks he leaves behind is writ the story of his meteoric rise within the agency, his betrayal and disillusionment, long nights of stale coffee and the blue glow of the laptop screen reflected in his reading glasses. He opens the door and says I have a message for you.

I saw a hole in the world and I wanted to make it bigger. I wanted to dig into its molten core and drag this world’s cancer into the light. I wanted to rain down fire and ash. I wanted. Sloane watches with wide eyes. She doesn’t understand, can’t understand, because a dead man has risen in her office and he is furious.

No one could’ve survived that fall.

Am I no one? There is no right answer and so Sloane says nothing. August runs a hand across his scars and bares his teeth in a smile like bones in the desert. I nearly saved this nasty, wretched world. I was so close, so fucking close.

You’re a fool and a murderer. You killed so many, and for what? The gun is in her hand and the bullets are buried in August’s flesh but it doesn’t matter; Anger worms them out one by one and keeps him standing; they fall to the floor in a dull and thudding rain. They are not dead, not even close; they are invigorated by the burn and tear and the creeping crawling sickness of cells regenerating in double time. And Erika Sloane sees her end reflected in eyes gone strange and pale.

Do you remember Oslo in the spring? How good I made you feel? Hold on to that memory, Erika, because we’re going to make you hurt.

Death is a spiral, a slow dance with entropy toward the end of all things. Those who are lucky feel it tugging gently; they follow its call in a narrowing circle down to darkness. Others find Death when it knocks them sideways off their paths; they fall and are gone before they realize what has happened.

And then there’s Sloane.

August is not quick, nor is he gentle; he takes her apart by inches, and when she is beyond even screaming, Anger descends to sip from her cells as she goes silent. The last breath is something exquisite. Taste it with me, darling. Anger curls around August’s tongue; together they savor the last of Sloane as she departs.

One down. So many more to go. August makes his way through back rooms and secret tunnels, leaving carmine footprints in his wake. The world can wait. He ascends through a grate in a back alley, metal squealing on concrete. We’re still hungry. If August draws the stares of passers-by it doesn’t matter. They are gone in an instant, in the space between breaths. They are hunting.

[moiraineswife]

Mine - A Navani/Raboniel Fic

IT’S TIME FOR THE GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY. 

Title: Mine

Rating: M  Content warnings: Violence. Sexy violence. But still violence.

Summary:  Set during Rhythm of War. THEORETICALLY it’s canon-compliant. Just gayer. After several failed attempts, The Pursuer sends men to bring him Navani, believing Kaladin will come to the Queen’s aid if she’s in danger. Raboniel takes issue with this, and refuses to allow them to take Navani.

Teaser: ‘“You will tell him that Navani is mine. If he may claim that Windrunner, then I claim her. He will not touch her. He will not send men to take her from me. He will not so much as think of her or utter her name without my knowledge and consent. She is mine, and I will send every one of his worthless soldiers back to Braize screaming if that is what it takes to make that known throughout this tower.”’

Link: AO3

It had been a long time since Navani had studied by candlelight. 

Glowing gemstones had ruled her life for so long now. Woven into her hair as a symbol of status in Gavilar’s court. 

Counting spheres as the cost of conquest had piled on her shoulders as her husband had drunk, and killed, and warred his way to glory, with no idea what she did in the background to prevent his fledgling kingdom suffering economic and social collapse in the wake of his passing. 

Powering the fabrials that had brought her such joy and fulfilment, a constant support in her life. 

Now the Stormlight that fueled the Radiants as most of her family was pulled into this war. 

Raboniel preferred to work by candlelight. She said it soothed her, and reminded her of days when she’d been younger. Stormlight had not been plentiful for Fused in eras gone by. Odium had disapproved of it surrounding them, and Voidlight was a poor source of illumination. 

Navani had to admit they brought a certain warmth to the small room she was ensconced in with Raboniel. They were alone together now, as Raboniel had just dismissed the guards, who had been visibly wilting, and told them to send a replacement team down to them instead. 

There was no sound save the soft scratching of their pens on the notebook between them. Raboniel was studying her latest addition, making small, careful notations in the women’s script. 

One could tell a lot about another’s script, Navani felt. Jasnah’s for example, was pristine, a perfect example of the women’s script, honed over much time. Dalinar’s was less practiced, with large, bold lines, each word somehow making its own statement upon the page. 

Raboniel’s was sharper than Navani’s, more cramped. This was to be expected, given her unfamiliarity with it, but she wrote curiously, each spike and line written with a differing pressure or firmness, to a rhythm, she realised. Right now that rhythm was frantic, her eyes focused, entirely consumed by the work.

Navani understood that feeling. Like Raboniel, she had been many things to many people over her years. Mother, mentor, wife, queen. For herself, she was a scholar. Yes. A scholar. It was still sometimes difficult to ignore the words whispered in Gavilar’s voice at the back of her mind that told her she was nothing herself. Always defined by what she was to, and what she could get from, others. 

Raboniel had helped her see things differently. This was who she was. Navani. Not Queen Navani. Not Brightness Kholin. Just Navani. Navani was a creator, an inventor, a scholar, a pursuer of secrets, and she thrived in this environment. 

She felt the same way about Raboniel. 

She was many things to many people as well. A mother, certainly, even now that Essu was dead, by her own hand, she would never stop being a mother. A soldier, and a war leader. A servant of Odium. An immortal Fused reborn. A Voidbringer, in the minds of many humans. 

Raboniel, however, not the Lady of Pains, the Lady of Wishes, Ancient One, or General, just Raboniel was as Navani was: a scholar. She too thrived on this. She had ulterior motives, certainly, Navani had already seen several of them. 

Yet even without them, she felt sure she would be driven, as Navani was herself, by the question, the seeking, the taste of new knowledge, the thrill of uncovering things that had been buried for millenia, of cracking puzzles buried in the very fabric of their world that no-one had ever cracked before. 

In her heart, in the deepest, most fundamental fabric of her soul, Raboniel was a scholar. And in that way, mortal and immortal, Fused and human, their essence was the same. And it sang in harmony with one another in these moments, cloistered alone together, picking out the mysteries of ages gone by. 

It was a strangely intimate process. Navani had always worked in groups before. She had flitted between ardents and engineers and storm wardens like an insect pollinating flowers, bringing little bits of insight or inspiration, but never lingering with any. 

With this project, she had worked exclusively with Raboniel, for hours and hours at a time. They had only had one another to feed off of and consume with their theories, and thoughts, and ideas, and experiments. 

She felt as though she knew this woman, felt as though she connected with her, in a way she had rarely done with another human so swiftly. 

She adored the bones of Dalinar, she truly did. But it had taken a while to understand him. Part of the reason she had taken such time between Gavilar and Dalinar in their youth was that it took her a while to feel she knew a person, and was close enough to commit to them. 

How wrong she had been, in mistaking Gavilar’s mask for the truth of him. While she had missed the good heart buried beneath the layers of scar tissue Dalinar had hidden it behind all those years ago. 

Raboniel, though, she felt she knew her, knew her, beneath the blood and bones, straight to the soul, the moment they had first worked on Rhythm of War together, and she had looked into her eyes, and found that same bright, consuming, almost manic light gleaming in them that lived within her, too. 

With a small nod, her rhythm shifting to one of satisfaction, Raboniel pushed the notebook back towards Navani, gesturing her to the new notes that had been made in the Fused’s hand. 

As she bent to examine it, however, Raboniel sat up beside her, straight and intent, head turning towards the door. The way she sat when they were not alone, when she was a regal Fused, not a scholar. 

Navani turned, too, and found six of the Pursuer’s Fused soldiers standing in the doorway. 

Raboniel did not seem surprised. If anything she seemed...Resigned. 

Navani was not overly aware of the situation in the tower, but she knew that tension between the Pursuer and Raboniel’s calmer, more reasonable rule were straining. Especially as his hunt for Kaladin continued to refuse to bear fruit.  

Raboniel stood, and a power seemed to radiate from her, as if she were a perfect gemstone, containing an immortality’s worth of stormlight pulsing within. 

She was rather impressed that the soldiers didn’t turn and flee at once, as Raboniel reached her height and stared them down without a flicker of fear, despite being outnumbered six to one.  

“Our master has sent us,” the lead soldier said, red eyes gleaming as they flickered from Raboniel to Navani, still sat at the desk behind Raboniel, who suddenly felt like a shield against that hungry gaze. 

“I thought that he might,” Raboniel replied, her rhythm becoming dark and tempestuous. 

“Then you know why we are here, Lady of Wishes,” said another, taking a step forwards, “This can be resolved without any bloodshed.” 

Bloodshed? Navani felt herself growing cold. On some instinct, she picked up the Rhythm of War notebook and began to try to surreptitiously move to the back of the room. Putting as much distance between herself and these men seemed the most sensible course of action now. 

One of them noticed her, and began to hum in a loud, derisive rhythm, jeering, “See how it runs. The fear is obvious! She knows she is pursued.” 

Pursued? They were here for her? 

Raboniel glanced over her shoulder, long hair strands swishing around her like a cape as she did. She gave Navani a small nod, telling her she had done the right thing. 

“Do not fear such as these, Navani,” she said, her rhythm soft but strong, pulsing against Navani, almost strengthening her, “They do not warrant any reaction from yourself.” 

“It is true, then?” the lead soldier said, his rhythm scathing, his tone far bolder than any she had heard taken with Raboniel before, “You have grown fond of his human pet of yours, and it has made you weak, sucked the passion from you and put it into her instead.” 

Raboniel actually growled at him, her rhythm becoming dark and dangerous, Voidlight collecting around her hand as she stared the soldier down, “Do not forget yourself, Devail,” she said, her rhythm an angry, swirling snarl of sound. “I am not some common Fused like Lezian, and if you speak to me in such a way again you will regret it for the rest of your pathetic immortal existence, I swear to you.” 

Navani trembled and the words were not even directed at her. The soldier took a step backwards, humming softly in a rhythm of apology. As well he might. 

Raboniel took a breath, and looked at each of the men in turn, giving them a long, piercing look, “Is this something you truly wish to do?” she asked them quietly. 

“We’re under orders, Lady of Wishes,” the lead soldier said, “We’re not to use violence as a primary method of achieving those orders, but the Pursuer expects resistance. In that case, he says we are to achieve our goal at all costs.” 

Raboniel hummed a sharp, destructive rhythm, “You would raise your weapons against me, truly?” 

Oh Stormfather, Navani thought, trembling. This could turn ugly, well and truly. Raboniel was a competent warrior, she was sure, but she was primarily a scholar, thinker, and organiser, from what Navani had seen. The Pursuer’s men were among the most finely trained, as brutal and bloodthirsty as their master. 

“We would take up arms against one who tried to defend a human, Lady of Wishes,” the soldier said again, his rhythm respectful, but firm. 

Raboniel shook his head, “Lezian is a fool,” she hissed, “What does he possibly wish to accomplish with the queen that could be more than what I have accomplished with her?” 

“He will use her to lure his prize,” the soldier Raboniel had named Devail said, an indecent hunger in his eyes as he once again looked past Raboniel to Navnai, cowering on the floor behind them, feeling like a hog in a pen at a slaughter market beneath that gaze. 

“The Pursuer believes he can use the queen to draw forth Stormblessed,” the lead soldier said, “He would of course come to the defence of his queen were she threatened.” 

“Or publicly executed,” Devail added, with a gleeful grin. 

Navani quivered. She had rarely felt so helpless. She held the Rhythm of War against her chest, as though it could do anything to help her. She had no weapons, not even her customary painrial. She was tired, and weak, and fragile. 

If Raboniel gave her over to these men there would be nothing she could do to stop it. 

“He thinks to set an ambush for the Windrunner, using something the man will seek to defend to draw him to a place of contest, does he?” Raboniel asked, and her rhythm sounded strangely amused. Perhaps Navani could not read her correctly. 

“You are wise as ever Lady of Wishes,” the lead Fused said, with a small bow of the head, “This is indeed his intention.” 

“And why should it work this time when he has failed twice already, with far more fixed and defensible locations at the shield points?” Raboniel demanded scornfully. 

Devial took an angry step forwards but, wisely, his commander restrained him. 

“I will not relinquish an asset to him for the sake of his wounded, failing pride,” Raboniel continued derisively, “Navani is of far more use to me than Lezian could ever fathom to put her to in his wildest moment of clarity and intelligence.” 

“We are under orders, Lady,” the lead soldier said, “Our master was quite...Insistent.” 

“And you think I cannot be equally so?” Raboniel said, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning. “Return to your master and tell him that he has no authority to issue me with orders in this tower, or anywhere. Tell him he should count himself lucky I do not escalate this insult and return him to Braize, screaming. And tell him that if he wants to request something of me in future, then I expect him to pay me the respect I am due and come himself.” 

With that, she turned her back on them, as though done with them. Navani had to clap her safehand to her mouth to stop herself uttering a warning. It seemed so foolhardy for Raboniel to put her back to these men. 

The tension inside her was vibrating like a lost tone. She could barely breathe for the pressure of it welling inside her. Her eyes flicked up towards Raboniel’s face and found it wearing a soft, reassuring smile. 

“This was not an option our master will allow us to pursue, lady,” the lead soldier said, quietly. 

The Fused behind him drew their weapons, holding them in distinctly aggressive postures. 

Raboniel sighed heavily and turned slowly back to face them. 

“Perhaps I was not clear enough, captain,” she said, her voice quiet and dangerous, “I am giving you this chance to return to your master and have him confront me himself. Take it.”  

“I cannot, lady,” he said, shaking his head, “We were prepared for this eventuality, our master-” 

“If your master wishes so much for me to bleed him,” Raboniel growled, “Then perhaps he can cease being so cowardly and face me himself.” 

Devial made a noise of outrage at that, and several of the others hummed to an angry rhythm. “He already has his prey!” one of them called, “It would break centuries of tradition were he to pursue another before he has claimed the life of the Windrunner.”  

“What a convenient excuse,” Raboniel said scathingly. 

“We have no quarrel with you, lady,” the lead soldier interrupted, “We only want the queen.” 

“Then that is your quarrel with me, captain,” Raboniel snapped, “Navani is mine. As I have made clear to your master, and indeed to all who reside in this tower. If you wish to harm her, or indeed remove her from this room without my authority, then there will be a quarrel.” 

Navani felt almost breathless, as Raboniel glowered down at these men, heavily armoured, ancient, powerful, returned over and over to kill. And she stood her ground and stared them down to protect her. 

A part of her wanted to protest, wanted to stop this hopeless fight before it began. Raboniel being killed might have once been a desirable outcome, but her honour in this moment would not allow the woman to get herself killed protecting Navani, when the outcome would be the same. 

Yet these men terrified her. She did not want to leave this safe, quiet, candlelit room, her books, her scholarship, her safety that she enjoyed with Raboniel. 

She stayed quiet. Cowardly. And watched with wide eyes. 

“Then a quarrel it shall be,” the captain said, sounding resigned, but not altogether surprised. 

They had expected this? They had expected Raboniel to stubbornly face her death rather than simply handing Navani over? 

“Then come, quarrel with me,” Raboniel said in a dangerous hiss, drawing twin blades from her hips as she spoke, “And do make it quick, captain, I have work I must yet attend to tonight. 

There was a moment. A single, eternal moment that hung in silence for a cluster of frantic heartbeats. Like the breath of calm and quiet before the full force of the stormwall was brought to bear upon the world. 

Raboniel and the Pursuer’s men faced one another, Raboniel crouched low in an offensive stance, the men standing in a furious formation, weapons drawn, carapace gleaming, the flickering candlelight casting deadly shadows across their inhuman faces. 

Navani cowered in her corner and whispered a soft prayer to the Almighty, hands clutched over her chest, wishing, absurdly, that she had a glyphward to burn. 

Then the stormwall hit, and Navani pressed herself back against the wall, as if she could push herself into it and escape the cacophony of death and violence that erupted around her like a highstorm. She felt vulnerable, exposed, tied out to bear it alone, with no shield against what was coming. 

Except that she was not alone. Raboniel stood in front of her, protective, a shield against the horrors that had come for her. 

The Pursuer’s men moved forwards in a tight formation and they seemed, absurdly, wary. Though they were six warriors against one scholar, they seemed to actually fear Raboniel. 

A heartbeat later, Navani understood why. 

The men came for her, but she did not wait for them. In a single bound, she crossed the distance between them, and landed in their midst, blades flashing, teeth bared, hair flying like a banner behind her. 

Navani gasped as both of her blades - thinner, and shorter, than a common lighteyes side sword, pierced both eyes of a Fused in the centre of the group. He went down with her landing on his chest, like a mink atop a thrashing rat, his flailing limbs knocking into his companions and sowing chaos in their tight formation. 

Raboniel grinned a feral, dangerous smile at the others around her, then leapt, yanking her blades from the corpse of the Fused beneath her, and scraping along the carapace of the men before her. 

The noise it made was awful, and Navani clapped her hands to her ears. The scraping, shrieking sounded like a dirge of death, and the men around her flinched at the sound of it. 

This was clearly the reaction Raboniel had anticipated, for she sprang backwards out of the chaotic fray, putting her back once more to Navani, keeping herself carefully between her and the Pursuer’s men. 

She jerked her chin towards them, inviting them to come and take her if they could, and Navani felt a chill of understanding. 

In essence, this woman was like her. They were both scholars, driven by their passion for learning, for teasing the secrets from Roshar that it tried so hard to hide from them. But she was more. Far more. And one aspect of herself was this. 

The Lady of Pains. A Herald in her own right. A Herald of Death. Bearer of devastation and violence. A woman who held a sword as easily as she held a pen, and unravelled men with as much skill and precision as she unravelled secrets. 

She spun, both blades whirling through the air, flashing in the candlelight, casting terrible, dancing shadows against the walls. She caught another Fused in the throat and he stumbled, but Voidlight glowed from the wound, healing it. 

Before that could complete, she stepped in to him and rammed her blade, designed, Navani saw now, to pierce armour - or carapace - into his chest, and Navani heard the telltale crack as his gemheart shattered. 

A sword clattered against her back and she turned, snarling, blood flying from her blades, and parried the next swing that should have taken her head from her shoulders. She caught the blade between both of her own, crossed like a chasmfiend’s mandibles, and twisted, shattering the wrist of its bearer. 

He dropped the sword, screaming, and Raboniel moved in as though she might have kissed him, but breathed out, engulfing him in a cloud of blackness that began to devour his flesh while he howled in pain, clawing at it and writhing on the floor. 

Navani had thought herself a connoisseur of death. She had watched countless duels in her life, attended many wars. Her first husband had begun a war of conquest which had often spilled blood upon those closest to him. Her current husband waged a war for the world itself. Navani had seen the aftermath of battles, had even seen a few battles themselves. 

She had never seen anything like this. 

Raboniel moved faster than she would have believed, blades a silver blur, Voidlight rising from her skin as she swayed. 

Dalinar and Gavilar had been skilled. They had talent, practice, and shards to cause devastation. But this? This was an immortal who had been singing to a rhythm of war and death at Odium’s bidding from the moment she had drawn breath. 

She was like a shard all her own. Created to kill. She was like a highstorm, these men a foolish cry for it to quiet its winds, utterly lost to its fury and tempest. 

One of the men cracked the head of a spear against her shoulder and she turned, grasping at the staff. It crumbled to dust at her touch, but the blade remained intact. It fell, as if in slow motion, and she snatched and hurled it across the room, lodging it in the forehead of another who dropped instantly. 

The now weaponless man stared at her with eyes wide, full of fear, then full of nothing but death as Raboniel took both blades and rammed them, one on either side, into his chest, piercing directly to his gemheart. 

Pain flashed unexpectedly into Navani’s awareness. 

She looked down to find a knife slashing against her arm. A second later, it was at her neck, and she screamed, unable to stop herself, as Devial grabbed her and pulled her against him, blade held tight against her throat, sharp blade scraping the skin. 

Raboniel turned at once, locking on to the sound. She stumbled, as the captain struck her from behind. Without looking, her entire aspect focused on Navni, she whipped a knife from her belt and flung it behind her, narrowly missing the captain, who had to dance aside to avoid it. 

“Enough, Raboniel,” Devial panted, his breath hot in Navani’s ear, “I have her. Set down your blades. I promise I won’t torture her too much before I cut her pretty head off if you do.” 

Raboniel stalked towards him, her eyes blazing like the fires of Damnation, burning with hatred and disgust, each step that of a calculating predator. 

“Release her, Devial,” she breathed softly, a trickle of blood streaming from the corner of her mouth as she bared her fangs at him, “Or I will send you back to Odium begging never to be Returned again lest you be forced to face me and the torments I will unleash upon your worthless form again.” 

Devial laughed, and pressed the blade harder against Navani’s throat in answer. 

“So be it,” Raboniel whispered. 

She moved blindingly, far more quickly than Navnai had yet seen from her. In an instant, she had the blade at her neck in her hands, and it vanished to dust in a heartbeat, Navani dropping to the floor and scrambling away from the battling Fused, clutching at her throat in terror. 

Devial swung for Raboniel’s neck as his captain prowled around them, forcing Raboniel to keep one blade guarding her exposed back. 

Navani wanted to help but storms. She was just a scholar, and she would only get in the way. All she could do was whisper another frantic prayer to the Almighty. Something she never believed she’d utter for Raboniel’s sake. 

“You committed a gross slight against me just now, Devial,” Raboniel called to him, her eyes narrowed, “I will have you correct it before I send you back to Braize.” 

“Oh?” he said, “And what was that?” 

“You forgot my title when you addressed me in your scorn,” she said quietly, “I would remind you of it.” 

With that she lunged for him, throwing another dagger as she did, catching the captain in the hand so he could not intervene as she and Devial slammed to the floor. 

She rammed him through the stomach with both of her strange, pointed blades, pinning him in place as he writhed. Then she pressed her hand to him, forcing Voidlight into him, and caused his carapace to ignite, first like smouldering coals, then a roaring bonfire. 

Raboniel did not seem bothered by the heat as it engulfed him, writhing and screaming beneath her.  

She leaned in close to him, ripping her blades free of his abdomen, sending blood gushing from the wound it left, “I am the Lady of Pains, Devial,” she whispered to him, close and soft as she might to a lover. Then she rammed her blade into his chest and twisted, “My will in this tower is law. My word is final and absolute. And you will pay me the respect I am due by that title. Lest I remind you once more of its origin.” 

Navani had thought she would use her second blade to end Devial, puncturing either his gemheart or his spinal cord to finish him. 

Instead she rose from him, stepping away, leaving him writhing, consumed by flames and agony. His Voidlight supply healed him. Not fast enough to escape the death that was coming, but enough to prolong it, to ensure his last breaths would be spent in pain. 

Navani found she could not feel too sorry, but she did look away from him, watching to where Raboniel stalked towards the last of the men. Their leader, the captain, who cowered on his knees before her. 

He tossed aside his blade as she approached him, “I yield, Lady of Pains,” he said, voice cracking with fear. 

“Oh?” she said, sounding faintly amused, “And you would have allowed me to yield to you, or to Devial, had I been so pitiful as to demand that mercy, would you?” she demanded, rhythm pulsing with derision. 

“I, I-” the man panted, floundering, red eyes wide and terrified as he stared up at her. 

“Do not answer,” she snapped, “I do not need to hear you lie to me as a final insult for this day’s nonsense. I do not wish to hear you speak another word to me while you hold this body, lest I be reminded of this encounter, and your worthless part in it. Do I make myself clear?” 

The captain nodded frantically, humming to a remorseful, subservient rhythm. 

“Good,” she said, coldly. “You will return to Lezian, and you will tell him that my patience with him is growing thin, and if he thinks to test it again, he will be sorry. As sorry as Devial, there,” she said. 

As she spoke, she jerked her head towards the Fused behind them, now spasming and whimpering his last. 

The echoing silence left in the wake of his death was somehow worse than his screams. 

“You will tell him that Navani is mine. If he may claim that Windrunner, then I claim her. He will not touch her. He will not send men to take her from me. He will not so much as think of her or utter her name without my knowledge and consent. She is mine, and I will send every one of his worthless soldiers back to Braize screaming if that is what it takes to make that known throughout this tower.” 

She gave the captain a shove, sending him stumbling away from her. He scrambled to his feet, hovering, waiting to see if there was more she wished of him. 

“Get out of my sight,” she spat, waving a dismissive hand. 

He bolted at once. 

Navani sat, stunned, in the corner of the room, staring with wide eyes at the aftermath of what had happened. She put her fingers to her neck, feeling the faint cut there. It was not bad. Barely a scratch, in truth. But the memory of that blade against her skin, the feeling of the Fused’s clammy hands holding her, pressing her against him, as he spoke so lovingly of torturing her, made her want to claw herself out of her own body just to escape the memories. 

She was jolted back to her surroundings as Raboniel walked to her and crouched down beside her. 

She looked tired. Not physically tired, though. Voidlight, like Stormlight, would support her and stave off fatigue. She looked soul tired. The kind of tiredness that Navani saw when she looked into her eyes as she spoke of the war that had gone on so long for her. 

She had been created to kill, made to bring death to this world on Odium’s orders. She did it well. So very, very well. But she was tired of it. Ready to rest, to sleep, at long last. She was rusted through to her core, done, and finished. The only death she wanted now was her own, Navani was sure. 

“Are you alright?” Raboniel asked quietly, and Navani’s eyes snapped back to her eyes, focusing herself on them. 

“I-” Navani said, her voice shaking.

She wanted to say that she was fine, and she was, in comparison to everyone else in this room, Navani had absolutely nothing to complain about. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she kept repeating that single sound, in a progressively higher voice, shaking violently. 

“It will pass,” Raboniel said, gently, “Come here,” she coaxed Navani to her feet and led her into the small side room that connected to their study, away from the death. 

She settled her on the couch, poured her some strong sapphire wine and pushed the cup into her hands. Then she glanced to the next room, where Fused were calling in their own language, crying out. 

“Stay there,” Raboniel said quietly, “I will return for you in a moment.” 

Navani almost laughed at that command. It was the most unnecessary she had ever been given in her life. She couldn’t have moved if a highstorm had torn off the roof and come ripping through the room. 

Flashes of the battle continued to play out, against her will. Above it all, the look in Raboniel’s eyes as she had defended Navani. 

That had been more than a woman protecting an important asset from a political rival. More even than a necessary academic ally. That had been...Real. True, fierce protectiveness. And her declaration that Navani was hers? That she would murder her way through all of the Pursuer’s men if that was what it took to keep her safe? Storms. Storms. It was too much. 

She sat on the couch, staring into the violet depths of her wine, unable to bring it to her lips. It was taking all of her concentration and will to keep herself in check enough to stop it slopping over the sides with how her hands were shaking. 

Raboniel re-entered the room a moment later, crouching down in front of Navani with a bowl of some kind of clear, strong-smelling liquid and some other supplies she could not take in. 

“The guards I sent for arrived,” she said, quietly, “The Pursuer’s men drugged our earlier group, so that they would become more tired, more quickly, hoping I would send for replacements. I have asked them to put our rooms in order for us. They will take care of the-” 

“You saved my life,” Navani interrupted, hoarsely. 

She had been listening to what Raboniel had said, and a part of her mind recognised that it was important. But that part of her was composed, and in command, and poised. And Navani had never felt less like that in her life. So that part of her mind was most certainly not in charge at the moment. 

Raboniel paused, watching Navani with a strange expression. 

Then she set down her things and said, simply, “Yes. I did. You think I would simply have handed you over to them?” she asked. 

“I would have, if I had been in your position,” Navani replied. 

The words were coming out clipped and jerky. She was still staring straight ahead, not thinking clearly. What was she saying? She shouldn’t be telling her that. Next time she might not stand between Navani and those monsters. 

Curiously, Raboniel smiled, “I appreciate your honesty, Navani,” she said to a quiet rhythm, “But I do not think it is true. You would not have allowed someone to take a friend in your care.” 

“That’s what I am to you?” Navani asked, managing to tear her eyes from the spot on the wall she’d been fixating on, “A friend?” 

Raboniel hummed a soft rhythm she could not interpret. 

She did not answer, but gestured to Navani’s arm and said, “You were wounded, I would clean and stitch that for you, to prevent infection. I shall have the surgeons attend you tomorrow, but I do not want anyone else coming in or out of here tonight. It will be secured by my guards, and I will remain with you, in case Lezian attempts to strike again, thinking me weakened.” 

Navani nodded numbly, barely taking in what Raboniel was saying. Then. Wounded? 

She looked down and saw that, indeed, her havah was torn, and there was a long gash in her shoulder where Devial had first grabbed her. Made by a dagger, she thought? Or had it been his claws? She wasn’t sure. It was all a blur. It was all- Oh storms. 

Raboniel was achingly gentle as she began to unbutton her havah, saying quietly, “I need to move this out of my way, to work on you.” 

Navani nodded vaguely again. She would have let Raboniel do almost anything to her in this state. Some part of her, deeper than conscious sense or reason, trusted this woman. It had identified her as safe, the only safe thing left in her world. 

On a base, instinctual level, that part had seen this woman stand before her, fight to the death to defend her, then come to her afterwards to care for her. In her frantic, terrified state, an anxiety beyond panic or hysteria, she clung to whatever instinct guided her to, and right now, instinct guided her to Raboniel. 

Raboniel prodded gently at the wound in Navani’s shoulder, “Not bad,” she assessed, the quiet scholar returned once more, the feral, violent intensity of the battle gone now they were alone together again. “It will hurt, I am sure, but should cause no lasting damage.” 

“It doesn’t,” Navani replied mechanically, as Raboniel began to clean it, “Hurt,” she added, rather foolishly. 

Raboniel nodded, “Be grateful for that reprieve,” she said, wryly, “It will, once your mind catches up with what your body has just experienced.” 

“It was so much,” Navani whispered. 

The part of her brain that still had a wit left, chided her for the foolish comments, pointing out that Raboniel would not want to hear such babbling from her. 

Raboniel only nodded however, “Your first time is always a lot. The next will be easier.” 

Navani trembled and violently shook her head, “I do not want there to be a next time,” she said, swallowing hard. 

“None of us ever do, Navani,” Raboniel said quietly, “Each time I am forced to pick up my blades and kill again, I hope it will be the last. It never is. I told myself I should stop hoping it will be, as that is foolish, and repeated evidence has been put in front of me that there will always be more. Yet some time will be the last. So I hope for it. Still. I hope for it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Navani said, stupidly, as though she had anything to apologise for, as though any of this had been by her design, “That you had to kill again today on my behalf.” 

“Do not apologise, Navani,” Raboniel said softly, removing a curved needle and surgeon’s thread from the small pile beside her, “For all the times I have had to kill most recently, you have been the most worthy reason I have done so.” 

Their eyes met, and a flicker of warmth flared in Navani, pushing through the cold fog that had descended upon her after the battle. 

Clumsily, she reached out and cupped Raboniel’s cheek in her hand, stopping her from looking away, and taking that warmth with her, keeping her in place, looking at her, for just a little longer. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice hoarse again, but sounding more like her. 

Raboniel placed a gentle hand over Navani’s, then smiled and, sounding faintly amused as she hummed, said, “I appreciate the sentiment Navani, truly, but I need two hands to finish my stitching.” 

Navani blushed as she realised she had clutched onto Raboniel’s hand without realising, seeking to anchor herself in this moment of chaos and terror. She released her, and focused instead, watching Raboniel’s movements as she stitched. 

The pattern was not the one favoured by modern human surgeons, but the stitches were neat, precise, and well-judged. She was obviously practiced. 

“I wouldn’t have thought this was a skill you would need to have,” Navani said, finding that she needed to say something, unwilling to let the moment lapse into silence, “Given that you can use Voidlight to heal yourself.” 

Raboniel hummed quietly, nodding, “This is true. But it was a skill I had acquired before I became Fused.” She looked up to see Navani’s curious look, and explained, “My mother was a seamstress, many years ago, and she taught me.” 

“You remember it?” Navani asked, amazed, “From so long ago?” 

“I maintained the skill, over many years, and many returns,” she explained quietly, “It was not something that I wished to lose. I taught Essu, also, when she-” she faltered for a moment, and Navani squeezed her hand. Raboniel took a breath and continued, “I wanted her to have skills beyond what Odium wished her to know in order to kill. I thought, perhaps, it may help, to have an anchor, something familiar, not drenched in blood, to return to. It was not enough.” 

She trailed off, and though it made her feel as though she were being repeatedly stabbed, Navani allowed the silence to swallow them, not wishing to interrupt Raboniel’s moment of grief. 

A guard glanced into the room as Raboniel finished up, and Navani jumped so badly that Raboniel almost tore out the row of stitches she’d just finished. 

Resting a hand gently on Navani’s knee, Raboniel turned and said, “Speak.” 

“The area is secure, Ancient One,” the guard said, giving her a salute, “We will remain in the outer chamber, with you and the Queen protected here. If we see any of the Pursuer’s men, we shall call for you at once.” 

“Thank you, Vardwi,” Raboniel said, nodding in thanks to the guard, who withdrew with a respectful nod. 

“Will they come for me again?” Navani found herself asking. 

The usual filter that existed between her brain and her mouth seemed to have broken, and she could not stop her tongue giving voice to her fears. 

Raboniel looked at her, eyes steady, intense, “I will not lie, they may,” she said quietly, “But if they do the result shall be the same. They shall not have you. Though we Fused are of Odium, you will find that I can keep my oath as well as your Bondsmith, Navani.” 

“You would do that?” she breathed, “You would cut down your own, possibly anger Odium...For me?” 

“You have proven yourself, Voice of Lights,” Raboniel said simply, placing hands on her knees and starting to rise, “And you are mine. Under my protection and in my care. It would shame me, were I to allow Lezian to harm you. It-” 

She broke off suddenly, swaying slightly in place, putting a hand to her head. Navani reached out to steady her, alarmed, guiding her back down onto the couch she was on. 

“What is it?” she asked, sharply, alarmed. 

Raboniel groaned, “It appears that I have a dagger in my back,” she said, conversationally. Her eyes twinkled as she glanced to Navani, “I might have suspected you as the source of it, if I did not know better Navani" she murmured with a smile. “I will need to ask you to remove it, however.” 

“What?” Navani said, feeling suddenly a little faint. 

“It appears I have shifted the blade while moving, it has nicked my lung, which is beginning to fill with blood. It’s a rather unpleasant sensation,” Raboniel informed her matter-of-factly, as if there was a problem in one of their experiments. “Voidlight has healed me as it can around the wound, but cannot repair my lung while there is a dagger in the way. I will need you to take it out.” 

Navani swallowed as Raboniel turned in place, and she spotted the hilt of the dagger protruding from her back, just beneath her ribcage. 

“Stormfather,” she whispered hoarsely. She reached out to grip the hilt and pull it free, but her hands were shaking so badly. “I, I can’t Raboniel,” she said, staring at the blade, at the blood leaking from the wound, remembering the terror that had only just passed. “My hands- My hands won’t stop shaking, I can’t, I-” 

Raboniel turned, wincing as that shifted the blade again, and held Navani’s hands in her own, “You can,” she said, her rhythm comforting. “It is only shock, Navani, it shall pass. But I need you to do this for me now, do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Navani whispered, taking a deep breath and trying to master herself, “Yes, I. Yes.” 

Raboniel turned in place again, coughing and spitting up blood as she did so. Navani trembled, then wrapped her freehand around the hilt of the dagger, bracing the other against Raboniel’s back. 

“Are you ready?” she asked, shakily. 

“Make it quick,” Raboniel answered, “One, swift motion. And do resist the temptation to try to ram it into my gemheart, won’t you?” she added, glancing over her shoulder and smirking, “That would be rather poor repayment, don’t you think?” 

“I wouldn’t,” Navani said, and knew that it was true. 

Once she might have done. Once she would have taken a knife willingly presented to her in the back of this Fused, and thrown it all to the winds in an attempt to rid herself, and this tower, of her. But she couldn’t. She knew that. And not just because Raboniel had risked her life to save her tonight. 

Navani took a deep breath, then yanked, swift and sure as she could manage. The knife resisted her, the skin having healed up around her, and Raboniel buried a scream in the cushions of the couch beside her as Navani tore the wound open again. 

Then her body slumped, relaxing, and Voidlight began to heal the wound, leaving Navani quivering with a knife in her hands. 

Raboniel turned and took it from her, gently, then used a handkerchief to wipe the blood from it before handing it back, hilt first. 

“You should have some way to protect yourself,” she said, firmly. “Even if you have no training, it is not too difficult to ram the sharp end somewhere that seems painful.” 

Navani nodded and accepted the blade with trembling hands. Then, with nowhere to currently sheathe it, and no desire to be in contact with it, and the memories it carried with it, she set it aside on the arm of the chair. 

“What now?” she asked, slightly tremulously. 

“We shall rest,” Raboniel said, firmly, “It is late, and you look as though you’re ready to faint with exhaustion and stress.” 

She got to her feet, and Navani found herself grabbing for her hand again, saying urgently, “Where are you going?” 

Raboniel crouched down and covered her hand with her own, squeezing, “To speak with my guards,” she said, humming to a soothing rhythm, “And to inspect the defences they have set up against Lezian’s men for tonight.” 

“You will return?” Navani asked, feeling an absolute fool the moment the words were out of her mouth, yet somehow grateful to her fool self for asking it, so she might hear the answer. 

Raboniel hummed in affirmation, “I will not leave you, Navani,” she promised quietly, “I shall remain here tonight with you. And none shall harm you. I swear it.” 

Navani nodded, then released Raboniel and allowed her to step from the small side chamber back into the main study to converse with her guards. 

Trembling, Navani managed to will enough control into her shaking legs to get them to carry her to the small writing desk in the corner. 

There, she took a scrap of parchment, brushpen, and ink, and painted a glyphward of thanks, which she burned in one of Raboniel’s candles. 

***

[thirstyforlulu]

They kidnap reader / fem / omega of alucard / alpha, when it is in heat, then alucard goes after his kidnappers and saves you, a lot of blood and sex.

Most people know better than to fuck with what belongs to Alucard

Even an old pen is safe if it belongs to him

Your scent permeated through the entire manor, making every other alpha hot under the collar

No matter how badly they wanted to go after you, they knew better

Alucard would rip them to shreds if he caught even the slightest scent on you

He knew you were in heat, but unfortunately he had to go to work

It was painful to leave you there, his pants felt so unbearably tight

You whined as the door to your room shut behind

The promise that he’d return and turn you inside out was the only thing keeping you sane

You curled up under the blankets, making yourself a little nest where you could wait for him

Sleep was all you could think of to occupy the time, but you were way too horny

His smell was still present on the pillows and covers, you buried your face in them to keep you calm

That helped you a little, but you never did fall completely asleep

That’s why when someone pulled you from your bed, you were already half awake

You tried to fight them as they dragged you away and into some truck, but your heat had made you weak

They took you to a warehouse and tied you to a chair then they set up a camera in front of you

Meanwhile, Alucard was dealing with the aftermath of the raid

All the stragglers had been dealt with, he was now assessing the damage and trying to figure out what their goal had been

The men he killed told him nothing, they did a good job of keeping their plan a secret

The majority of them had come in through the front, but he suspected that was a diversion

He was calm, until he saw the boot tracks heading toward your room

Dropping everything he ran to check on you, when he found the door ajar he lost his shit

“Y/N?!” He yelled as he ran in, nearly tearing the door off its hinges as he pushed it out of his way

The room was a mess, it was clear they’d taken you

He knew then that the attack at the front was nothing but a diversion, you were the real target

On the nightstand was your phone, when he picked it up he saw several missed video calls

When he called them back, he was met with a video of you tied to a chair with several cuts and bruises on your face

“Finally! We were wondering when you’d figure it all out,” a voice came from behind the camera

You looked up, giving Alucard such a pitiful look

“So, I suspect you have some demands for me?” Alucard began

“Clever vampire, we need you to kill the surviving members of the Hellsing organization, in return we’ll give back your omega,” the man explained

“How childish, you went through all that trouble, and my poor y/n had to suffer.”

“Are you saying you won’t do as we say?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then that’s fine, you’ll come around I’m sure, and while we wait I think we’ll play around with your omega. She’s in heat, we’ll help her deal with that,” the same said, reaching out and grabbing your head

You yelped, his fingers digging into your scalp

Alucard hung up, unable to stand another second

He would have no trouble finding you, when it comes to you he’s a bloodhound

It only took him a few minutes to get to the warehouse

It took even less time for him to kill everyone guarding the doors

The room you were in was off to the side, more than likely an old office

He kicked open the door and found you surrounded by a group of men

When Alucard hung up the phone they quickly moved in on you, reaching out to take handfuls of your hair or attempting to kiss you

Some of them were alphas but they did nothing for you, their scent was nothing compared to Alucard

Seeing those men with their hands on you pissed him off to no end

He opted not to use his guns on them, instead he ripped them apart with his bare hands, wanting to make sure they suffered

You watched with growing excitement

He always looks so handsome and powerful when tearing people apart

When the final man fell, Alucard was covered in blood and breathing heavy

He was already worked up because of your heat, the fight added even more heat to the fire

You whimpered, trying to get closer to him but all you did was tip yourself over, falling to the floor at his feet

“Look at you, my poor neglected omega. I could smell you before I even walked in here, you must be in so much pain~” he teased, bending down to free you

The men from before did nothing for you

There were several alphas among them, but compared to yours they were worthless

Even when some of them exposed themselves you felt nothing, all it did was make you want him more

As the ropes fell from your sides, you quickly attempted to climb up Alucard’s body

Your hands desperately reached for his belts

All you could think of was him finally taking you

“Fuck, y/n. I need to bury my knot in you,” he said, lifting you up as soon as you had his pants unbuckled

Your pants were quickly pulled out of the way as his own fell to his ankles

There was no need for foreplay, your legs were dripping

Several drops fell onto his cock as he adjusted his grip on you

“Get ready,” he laughed in your ear

Without another warning he entered you, easily slipping inside thanks to your arousal

You shouted for joy, burying your head in his coat

There was so much you wanted to say, but your mind was too preoccupied

Drool dribbled out from your mouth, creating a wet spot on his chest, but no worries, he thought it was adorable

You bounced up and down from the force of his thrusts, forcing you to fall back down onto his cock and push it even further inside

His swelling knot spread your entrance slightly, not having enough force to fully slip inside

You wanted so badly for him to hurry up and put it in, but he wasn’t ready yet

“Please, please give me your knot,” you begged, tongue rolling to the side

“What was that my little omega?”

“Please, knot me. Alucard, my alpha I need you,” you cried

With a satisfied grin, he pushed you up against the nearest wall, using it to help him insert his knot

That heavenly feeling of being stretched flooded into you before it finally popped inside

“Yes!” You screamed

The added girth was too much, you came, squeezing hard on him which in turn finished him off

He bit your neck as he came, filling you as his knot continued to swell

As you two relaxed, he carried you over toward the chair and placed it upright

He set you down on the edge, holding you steady until his knot shrunk

While you waited, he kissed you, biting your lip and drawing a tiny bit of blood

Finally he got to taste something delicious, all the soldiers tasted nasty and sour

When he pulled out, his cock made a loud pop sound as the suction released, leaving you feeling so incredibly empty

You gave him your best puppy dog eyes and whined

“Don’t worry, your heat isn’t over yet. There will be plenty more chances for nights like these,” he said as he straightened himself up

He carried you out before the police could arrive and see the carnage

His shoes were a bloody mess, but it was nothing compared to the floor