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vvindication · 11 months

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what would you trade the pain for? — 2. Aftermath

3.6k word count content warnings: smoking, alcoholism, harassment, mentioned break up

Vincent Travart, diligent patrol officer of precinct 41 in the RCM, forms a bond with the infamous Lt. Du Bois when he fails to escape his own inherent need to help people — unwittingly exposing himself to the very beating heart of Revachol, a man who he will never be able to drive from his mind as it seems he's fated to shadow his every step.

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Vincent's absence has become a notable occurrence during the lunch hour, where before he'd frequently lingered in a quiet corner of the break room like a persistent ghost. It started with late arrivals, gradually leading into occasional disappearances - the tar scent of cigarette smoke lingering on his dark uniform - until his presence had ceased entirely. While the chatter of the precinct's officers continues on around him, Harry picks distractedly at his wilted sandwich.

Unknown to him, Vincent himself is leaning against the rusty railing of a decaying fire escape. The structure juts out from the very end of the old silk mill like a metallic fungus, clashing with the ruddy brickwork as it snakes down the building. The air is thick with autumn rain, and he takes a deep breath of his smoke. Below, the city is a hive of activity. Raindrops patter along the tops of tenements, lorries, and people alike as the daily cycle commences before his eyes, to and fro among Jamrock's estuary of roads, filling the silence with the steady drone of ever-moving traffic. He watches it all without comprehension, his focus on a murmur beyond.

Despite their inelegant first meeting - an awkward encounter after-hours that provided more insight to one another than any of the chats they'd had in passing - the two men had kept in contact. He'd offered his phone number - "in case of emergencies" he clarified, though the lieutenant's flash of a grin when handed the scrap of paper implied that he expected otherwise. What had started out as a simple attempt to help a coworker in need transformed into an odd sort-of friendship the evening Harry had called and asked for him.

He rolls the cooler end of his cigarette back and forth between his finger and thumb, habitually. Deep in thought.

When the door behind him opens with a heavy thunk, he jolts - the little spark of a cigarette flickering out and disappearing onto the sodden pavement two stories down.

"Is this where you've been hiding lately?"

He scoffs, straightening out to greet the man who'd abruptly interrupted his thoughts. "Hiding?" He asks, rhetorical. Still, the corner of his lip turns up in a faint smile as he greets him. "Lt. Du Bois."

The heavy metal door swings shut as he steps out beside him, giving the platform a wary glance as it groans with the added weight. "This isn't the safest place for a smoke."

"Yeah, probably not. At least it's quiet." His tone is subdued, shrugging his shoulders and resting his arm against the rail. Already his brown gaze has wandered off, the small fleck of blue in his left iris much more visible in the clouded daylight. He watches the swifts fly in arcs above the roofs of Jamrock, dark little silhouettes dancing in the pale grey sky.

Harry gives what seems an appropriate pause, following his lead in appreciating the view from their vantage point. Then he presents his own box of cigarettes from his overcoat, bright red with a bold triangle of black printed across the front. Astras, half-full. "Sorry about your cig."

"Oh - thanks." His hand hovers, uncertain, then takes one for himself. He uses his own lighter, shielding the flame from the humid breeze, and wordlessly offers him the same courtesy. The lieutenant leans in close with cigarette between his lips to catch it before it's blown out.

He lets the smoke trail from his open mouth, billowing away with the wind. "Since when do you smoke, anyway?"

Vincent chuckles softly. "Since I was young and stupid." He presses his cheek into the palm of his own hand, the darkened rings under his eyes prominent as he closes them. His posture is sagging with evident fatigue.

"Wait - aren't you twenty? That's not even old."

He hums. "Younger and stupider, then."

That at least makes him laugh a little.

The seconds tick by as they smoke side by side, arms slung over the railing, allowing cold raindrops to soak into the fabric of their clothes. Somewhere down the street, the horn of an aggravated driver sounds. In the reverberating heart of a city, beating with the lifeblood of its citizens on their daily commute, there is a shared moment of quiet between two officers. The younger sighs out the smoldering contents of his lungs and bumps his shoulder into the other's.

"How've you been?" He asks directly.

"Me?" Harry asks as if there were anyone else the question could be directed at, "fine. Only drank half a bottle."

His brows lower, blinking open his eyes to examine him closer. "Wait - Only? You're drunk?"

"'Course not, do I sound drunk?"

He frowns, pupils flickering back and forth with close inspection. Eventually, he concedes. "No." His expression has hardened considerably, shifting to stare in the opposite direction of his companion and instead at the horizon. A stagnant silence hangs between them.

"It hasn't stopped my work." He huffs. "I'm still filing paperwork, gathering evidence -"

"Forget it. I'm glad you're okay." Suddenly the lieutenant's fingers are on his wrist - again - and he instinctively jerks his body backwards, pulls against his grasp.

The man's dull green eyes are intense, fingers pressing hard into the small amount of skin exposed from under the sleeve of his work coat. His still-lit cigarette is perched in the other hand, flickering yellow in his peripheral. "What happened?" His tone is far from aggressive, yet the sudden drop in octave makes Vincent freeze.

"W-What?" He stammers out.

"You've been avoiding everyone to come out here and smoke, by yourself." As quickly as his demeanor had shifted before, it eases again, lightening his grip on him. "On an old rusty fire escape that barely holds two people."

He shrinks into himself, tries to move further away from his prying gaze.

"What's wrong, Vincent?"

His jaw juts out slightly, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Don't wanna do this now." He eventually mutters, turning his head and refusing eye contact.

"Do what? Talk?" He remains at his side, unflinchingly fixated as he waits for his answer.

A shaky sigh is released, held within his chest for far too long, nicotine burning at his insides. The sensation pushes up and leaks out from the corners of his eyes, hastily rubbing the moisture away. "Broke up with my boyfriend. That's all."

"Oh." The remark is barely audible, a whisper in the wind.

The cracks in his demeanor have crumbled, his entire weight is on the metal now as he shudders out in a sob, "Happy?"

Harry says nothing.

"I-It's - It's all my fault. After that one night, I just … I don't know. Wanted the chance to know you. I shouldn't have - He didn't …" he trails off as he struggles to breathe, hurriedly trying to explain himself between gasps for air.

He pats his arm, slides his palm up to rest on his upper shoulder. Vincent leans into him for support.

"M'sorry." He sniffles, a little clearer now. "I made such a mess of this."

He's vulnerable, emotionally open. Both are acutely aware of it.

Wordlessly, the lieutenant takes a small step closer into the other's personal space, hand fitting comfortably into the crook of his neck as he lifts his chin. With the way he has to stoop down, he must be about half a foot taller than him - the difference evident with their proximity. His mouth moves to say something. Soothing words. Anything. The other's dark eyes stare up into his own, anticipating.

"Don't." He whispers, breath unsteady.

"Why not?" His tone is equally quiet, leaning in over him. Even with barely any contact between them, their bodies readily share heat as they stand closely together under the overhanging clouds - Vincent's cheeks flushing with bright, unmistakable color. "You want this too, don't you?" Closing the distance would take no effort at all.

He declines to answer, biting his lip.

"Please - talk to me." He's practically begging. Desperate for connection.

Finally, he puts an end to the exchange, dipping his chin and pulling himself away. "I - I can't do this now." He puts his own cigarette out on the railing. "And you've been drinking. Should get it out of your system."

"That doesn't mean anything," he protests, "I can think fine." He moves after him.

"Stop, Harry." He speaks sharply, drying the last of his tears and adjusting the collar of his shirt to look presentable. "Let me … I need to think." He retreats further, back against the door. "I just need to think."

He pursues his exit, hand outstretched. Vincent is faster this time, recoiling from his reach and tucking his arm closely to his chest. There's a flash of fear in his expression, there one second and gone the next.

"… I'll call - I'll call you. Okay?" It's more a question than a statement.

"Wait …"

His request goes unheard. Unceremoniously, the steel door closes.

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#vvinwork #vvin writes #disco elysium #vincent travart #joakim virtaenen #corin petersen #kenrick faure #heloooo disco fans ... wanna look at my oc ... ahaha ^_^ !!#what if I posted a chapter in the main tag at 1:30 am. what then.

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eleanorhucklesby · 1 year

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1913

The town of Lakewood was sleepless. Stretches of bitter gold surrounded it. It was no place to call home with little more in it than what could keep a body barely comfortable, a saloon, a drugstore, a bank, a church. It was no place to call home. A still humidity clung, marked by prairie winds rising, harsh and quick.

From the desert, the two strangers rode in on horseback. The buckskin mare carrying a man, his hat tipped down to his brow and his skin grimy with dirt, his clothes unwashed. One hand held the reins of his horse; the other grazed the pistol at his side. He looked about the quiet town with a curious, lopsided smile. Squeezing the sides of his horse, he continued down the dusty path.

His companion hung back. Riding astride a black gelding, the woman’s hair was gathered up underneath a hat—but there was no mistaking the flame-red curls of her hair. Her eyes, like her companion, were sharp blue. She was not dressed in the usual style of a lady, but in an overcoat covering a checked shirt and trousers. Leather gloves covered her hands.

Following the man, she proved a contrast to her companion. He smiled at the prospect, but she scanned the small town and its buildings with a deepening frown. As they rode she silently observed mothers comforting crying children, and widows in rocking chairs, dozing in the midday sun. They passed the jailhouse. The man extended his lopsided smile as he came to a pause outside the jailhouse door.

The sheriff was a heavyset man, his hair thinning, his grey eyes and brow permanently set into a frown. He was a man, they saw, who lacked the skill to smile. Between the sheriff’s fingers was tucked a hand-rolled cigar. Stale smoke billowed in thin trails from his mouth.

“Few people in this town, Sheriff,” spoke the man, jolly and light-footed with his words, always ready to dig for information or dodge a pertinent question.

“This here’s cattle territory,” the sheriff replied, cigar smoke surrounding his face. He peered at the man, made curious by the bright youth before him. “You ain’t gonna see no people here ‘til winter. Why’d you ask?”

“I’m a social sort, sir.” His horse restlessly whickered. The woman rolled her eyes. “My sister Rosella here, and I, we want to make ourselves comfortable. You know of anywhere?”

“I assume the saloon has spare rooms.” The woman, Rosella, spoke suddenly and clearly without the natural jovial tone of her brother. The sheriff took another draw on his cigar. He straightened up.

“You’ll have to check with Adam.” He turned his back on them, shuffling inside the jailhouse. Rosella glared at her brother.

“You’re a goddamn show-off, Harland,” she murmured. He chuckled in return. That lopsided curiosity he’d shown already settled into his familiar cocksure nature. They turned their horses in the direction of the saloon.

From behind the saloon doors there came no sound of any comforting piano that they’d found in the previous towns. Stepping inside, Rosella tugged off her gloves. The saloon was as quiet, as still as the humidity outside. Sun fell through the windows, dust particles hanging in its light. Harland removed his hat as he approached the bar. Rosella lingered behind. Slowly, she wandered through and around the tables and worn chairs. Playing cards foretold the outcome of a poker game, punctuated with half-full bottles. Rosella picked up one, sniffed it. The sharp scent of whiskey hit her nose. With a smile, she tipped the bottle against her lips. She hadn’t tasted a drop of good whiskey for what seemed to be years. It was a warm comfort after hours of riding and days of dozing by firelight, one hand always on the trigger of a gun.

“Hope you’ll be payin’ for that.” A man stood behind the bar. Middle-aged, neatly dressed. He had eyes that carried the same wry amusement Harland had about him. Rosella reached into the pocket of her overcoat, bringing out a handful of coins. She let them scatter across the table and the playing cards. Moving towards the window, she leaned against the sill and watched the sleepy town.

Opposite the saloon, a narrow building stood between the bank and the jailhouse. Blurred through the dusty glass, but Rosella immediately knew what it was. She was experienced enough to know what a brothel looked like. Shabby curtains were drawn. The door to the jailhouse opened. The sheriff, still with his cigar and in a drift of smoke, locked the door behind him. His figure hurried down the sidewalk towards the building. The door was opened, and a drawn face greeted him. A wrinkled hand reached out. The door was shut as rapidly as it had been opened.

They’d found a ghost town on their travels while high up in the Rocky Mountains. It hadn’t been like she’d thought it would be. It wasn’t a town left pristine with echoes of lives lived. It was half-built, covered in thick spots of mountain snow. The promise of the California Dream had outlived that place, as it would outlive others. Halfway through that town, she’d heard a noise behind her; a scurrying, quickly approaching. She was twelve. Her mother was dead in a common grave. Her brother, then sixteen, laughed as she’d found her victim and emptied her gun of bullets. The first time she’d shot anything, and she’d shot a goddamn lizard.

Rosella felt a small smile come to her mouth. She sipped at her whiskey. That half-built town they’d stumbled across had carried more life in it than the whole town of Lakewood.

*****************************************************

The sunset came quickly, without announcement, red peeking through faint orange. Blue came with the onset of dusk. In her room, a bed, and a single chair. A modesty screen allowed for undressing. A china basin and jug on an ancient washstand allowed for washing. Stripping off, Rosella poured water into the basin. She ran her fingers through the tepid water and set the jug down. Bending over the rim of the basin, she dipped her long curls into the basin. The warm temperature was nothing next to the comfort of whiskey. Yet as she washed, the heat of desert sand faded. The water was cold by the time she poured it over the base of her feet but it remained just as good a relief. The warm air from the window dried her and she dressed again before pulling the chair up to the window. She sat. With the cowboys away on the cattle plains, there was little activity around the brothel. Nothing except the sheriff making his departure. That same drawn face, that same wrinkled hand she had earlier seen greeting him now bid him goodbye.

Behind her, there was a gentle knock on the door to her room. Harland entered, his hand clasped over his eyes.

“I’m decent,” she said with a sigh, looking back down at the street. The drawn face had gone, and the door closed shut. Rosella cursed. She glared hard at her brother and sank lower into the chair. “I ought to hang you, Harland.”

He dropped a kiss on her hair and pressed his chin to the top of her head. His stubble itched her scalp. His breath smelled of a mixture of tobacco and whiskey.

“So that’s their Devil’s Addition, huh? Their red light.”

Rosella nodded. Harland said nothing and made no argument. Others, in the past, had tried. They'd taken it upon themselves to save her from a life of sin and put her on the long road to retribution. She'd turned them all away. Harland had his guns and his aim. She had her body. More than that: she had her choice.

*****************************************************

The main street was dead. No carriages arrived, and no early morning stagecoach. No strangers. Every door remained closed. Rosella’s footsteps scuffed against the dirt of the road. It was the only noise in Lakewood’s early morning. Bending her head, she rammed her hat close over her eyes and headed up the steps. (While she didn't have shame, she could not assume the same of others. That was a mistake made by the naïve.)

The brothel’s door was painted black. Rosella knocked twice on the heavy wood. No response. She knocked three times more. The door opened by an inch. A pale, young face looked out. The girl’s eyes widened. Her eyelashes were painted into black spikes, and her full lips were formed by lipstick into a slash of crimson red.

Rosella cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Could I talk to the owner of this establishment?”

“The ma’am?” The girl’s accent was loose and her words a collection of slow syllables. “She’s still – uh – asleep, miss... She don’t talk to no-one.”

“Go and tell her I’ve got a proposition to make. A business proposition.”

“It ain’t… usual for a lady to ask,” replied the girl, peering at her not with curiosity, but faint hope. Rosella blinked. It had been a long while since someone had looked upon her with hope, even a trace of it.

The girl edged the door closed. Rosella shot out a quick hand, slamming it against the wood. The moment held. “My business is my own.”

The girl’s expression shifted. She lowered her gaze.

“Don’t matter,” she murmured. “Madame – she – she don’t talk to nobody.” Rosella stepped back from the door, watching it closely. The breeze picked up, fluttering at the hem of her shirt.

“Madame,” Rosella murmured, with a twitch of disbelief on her lips. The only other Madame she’d met had been when she was fourteen. She hurried into the saloon. Harland, she found at the piano with a whiskey bottle in one hand. The fingers of his other hand tripped, tuneless, over the keys.

“There’s something strange about that place,” she said. It was a half answer to his look, his wordless question. Harland proffered the whiskey bottle. His bodiless tune on the piano continued. Rosella gulped back the drink. Thoughtful, she shook her head. “All the other places I’ve been to and worked in—”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Worked in,” Rosella repeated, keeping her voice level, “ain’t ever been like that.”

Rosella paused—she glanced over to her brother with curiosity. “How many favours do you owe me now?”

Harland thought for a second. “We’re down to two.”

“Make it one.”

*****************************************************

Evening in Lakewood was as dead and dying as the morning. Harland stood at the base of the saloon’s steps. Per her request, he’d changed. Unkempt clothes gave way to a pressed shirt and red waistcoat. Rosella glanced over to the barman. Another waistcoat—another dark-coloured jacket—hid a wrinkled, muddied shirt. Pulling at the collar of her overcoat, folding it up to her cheeks, she stopped at her brother’s side.

“You think anyone will recognise you?” Harland asked as they headed out. Rosella shrugged. She glanced up and down the empty road.

“One, but she—” She paused as they approached the brothel. It seemed so dull. To a stranger, the house of maybe an eccentric or someone long passed. In her mind’s eye, brown eyes peered at her through unnatural thick lashes with a thought of hope. She could’ve been a fleeting thought in that girl’s mind, or she could’ve stuck. Rosella’s eyes focused on the pistols strapped to Harland’s hips. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”

Distantly horses whickered and brayed in the local stables. Harland knocked twice. The door cracked open. The hand that held it was old: thick blue and purple veins ran underneath pale white skin. Long wisps of grey and white made up the woman’s hair, combed back into a low bun. Pink covered her lips.

Harland gave one of his signature grins. The drawn face with silver eyes that greeted them did not change. She extended her hand. Opened the door wider at the sight of Harland’s offered money. Her fingers curved over his palm, snatching it away. They crossed the threshold.

A high chandelier bathed overstuffed couches in a cold, low yellow. Couches seemed fit to burst against their wooden frames, their black velvet covers. ‘Madame’ walked with a cane made of oak, knotted and gnarled with a golden top. She led them up a once opulent staircase. Halfway up, she paused.

“One room or two?” she asked, with nonchalance.

Harland glanced towards Rosella. “One,” Rosella said gruffly.

Madame continued up her stairs. “You’ll want room six then,” she remarked. The three stepped onto the landing. The low yellow of the lower floor followed them. Doors lined both sides of the narrow quiet corridor. Each lock was stuck with a key. Madame stopped at the third door on her right.

Harland managed a murmur as they entered inside. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The low red light came from lamps on bedside tables. A silhouette of a dresser stood in front of the window. Rosella pressed forward. On it stood a tray. The glass of wine it carried was half-empty. She bent down to sniff it. A strange scent, sharp, met her. She turned towards the bed. From under the sheets, a girl appeared. The bedcovers slipped down her naked body. It revealed a sweetheart-shaped face and sallow skin. Her blonde hair slipped over her eyes when she turned her head, looking at Harland. Rosella’s gaze finally moved, shifting down the girl’s thin, starved body. Exhaustion lined the space underneath her green eyes. Rosella’s lips curled into a snarl. The work of a Madame.

*****************************************************

Rosella hurried down the opulent staircase. Harland wasn’t too close behind, his hand already on his pistol. Madame was sat on one of her couches, her cane set to one side. She had a cigarillo tucked between her lips. Her pink smile stretched thin over her face as Rosella approached. Without hesitation, she raised her free hand. Rosella abruptly stopped halfway down the staircase. The pistol Madame carried was small, embellished with a single pearl.

“Marie told me – she said you had a business proposition for me.”

“I did. Now I’ve got a proposal.”

“I’ll hear it.”

Rosella reached into the pockets of her overcoat and took out a carefully wrapped oilskin. Every last dollar she had, every last dime, poured from her fingers in a flood down the steps. “Early retirement. Take that money, and I’ll take charge of this place.”

The old woman sat, stoic. “Your brother a gunslinger?”

“A damn good one. I can shoot close range, but he can shoot a moving target from two miles away.” Behind her, Harland aimed his gun at Madame. A smirk touched Rosella’s lips. “And he’s just as concerned as I am about how you treat your girls. Is it when they misbehave that you drug ‘em?”

“I made this place what it is.” Madame nodded towards the spilt money. “What makes you think I’ll take a dime of that?”

“Because things change, and people get old. I don’t give a fuck why you take it.” Rosella shoved her hands into her pockets, stepping down the stairs. Madame’s fingers trembled against her trigger. She’d probably never even used it. It looked like the sort of gun used to scare off the dumb punters, the ones who forgot that payment was crucial. Harland’s fingers were still, his aim sure. “Get gone.”

Defeat dimmed the amusement in her opponent’s eyes. The pink smile slipped. She lowered her pistol. “There’s always going to be a whorehouse like mine.” Defiant, she spoke words of an era already faded. Rosella’s jaw tightened. She watched Madame scoop up every last dollar and dime. The door slowly closed behind her.

*****************************************************

In total, there were sixteen girls in those rooms. Sixteen girls ate meagre portions of grits in old bowls. Sixteen girls devoured it like wolves. A lizard scuttled over the porch of the brothel. Rosella let it go on by as she shut the door behind her. She stood with her feet width apart, her arms folded loosely over her chest.

Approaching horse hooves scuffed against dirt. Rosella looked. Harland sat in the saddle of his buckskin, his fingers gripped tight around the reigns. He’d changed once again. Back to the wrinkled shirt and no waistcoat.

“Something’s coming, Harland,” she said. She looked over the quiet, dead-end town and breathed it in. The night air was cool. Her eyes lifted towards the sky. “I don’t know what. Don’t know when it’s goin’ to come. But it’s something big.”

“Nah.” His refusal was slow-spoken, drawn-out. Rosella frowned at her brother. His eyes brightened. “No. Your soul’s too settled, that’s all. It always has been.”

Perhaps a comfort. Perhaps an invitation to abandon hope. Carry on wandering, in search of something they’d lost when she was ten and he was fourteen. Rosella descended the short steps and stepped onto the road. Harland let his right hand loose from the reins. Rosella reached up. She gripped her brother’s hand tight.

“Goodbye, big brother.” He had too many enemies. One of which, she knew, would catch up to him. One day, somewhere in some town. She was too selfish to let herself see that day when reality found her brother for more than a brief moment. (Already, under this dark sky, she wanted him to get going. Get gone, so she could remember that figure. The forever figure that would always wander under a hot sky, with no identity.)

“See you around little sister.” His hand slipped off hers. He steered his buckskin away from her, already heading down the path. He turned and laughed. “You know – I think you’re right.”

Rosella slid her hands against her hips. “Right in what?”

“Something is coming.” He looked over the horizon. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll show ‘em how to play the piano.”

His buckskin whinnied and broke into a fast trot. She watched until her brother was gone, and looked back at the brothel. Her Devil’s Addition. Maybe her brother was a forever figure, but she was one too.

She was one too.

#original fiction #creative writing #historical fiction #western #my writing

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an-ocean-viewer · 1 year

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Warning: might be graphic

The explosion sends the boy tumbling away. The Noble child struggles to stand back up from the dirt and grass floor. His ears ring. The sound of everything around him swallowed by silence. Only the ringing. The smell of burning wood. Smoke. Too much of it overwhelmed his sense of smell.

Crackle.

He twitches.

Crackle.

Exerting his aching body, he turned his head.

Inferno. Hell.

Flames erupt from windows and doors. Panes shatter, walls began to darken, smoke billow out from every crevice of a once warm home. Screams echo around the town as the sky fills with smoke arising from once grand houses.

Six.. Ten.. Twelve. It all burned.

"MOOOM! DAAAD!" he cries. The boy rushes into the hell scape of his house, limping from the pain. He coughs wildly, black smoke entering his lungs. Tears well from his eyes as he covers his face behind the sleeve of his torn, dirty blazer.

Bodies litter the inside of the house. Burnt. Charred. The shine on their coats and dresses are replaced with embers as more and more of their clothes are eaten away by the blaze. Faint words written in foreign language are scattered in the air, slowly vanishing. Ley Markings.

Mark Spread. Unlock. Activate.

The boy is barely able to read them through the suffocating smoke.

A hole. No... a crater. The epicenter of the blast had parted the thick cement floor in the middle of the room, revealing the foundation beneath.

"Mom... papa?" the boy gave way to the ache of his knees as he drops to the scalding hot flooring. Dismembered remains littered the surroundings, the blood evaporating from the raging flames.

"Mom?... mom?.." his voice grows weaker as he coughs violently, gritting his teeth from the agony while forcing himself to stand up.

The boy glances at a burnt locket on the ground. It's wide open, revealing a picture of his younger self. What was left of a hand still clutched Jarv's present.

"There! A child ran inside! Help me out over here!" a man yells at someone outside the door.

Jarv turns to look further in the building and spots Sanata lying on the floor. Her entire right arm turned a pinkish black with skin flaking off. The wounds cauterizing almost as quickly as they formed.

"One survivor. Let's get him out of here," the rest of the rescuers enter the building.

Movement. Her fingers twitches. He stands up, rushing as quickly as possible towards the injured girl, still limping slightly.

"Hey! Hold up, kid! Where are you going?!" a woman raises her voice as the kid escapes her line of sight.

Jarv picks Sanata up, placing her other arm on his shoulder. Flames erupt. The chandelier above falls with a loud bang, separating Jarv from the rescuers.

"Shit! MIKE! GET OVER HERE!" she begged. More and more debris fall. Wooden beams snap, cascading the ceiling on top of the two children.

Jarv closes his crying eyes.

"DANCE FLOOR!" a man shouts as he slams the palms of his hands to the ground, numerous spears of stone jut from the ground impeding the burning debris. "GET THE KIDS!" he orders the rest of his team. The three that rush in put the kids on their back while the last raises his hand and utters words that create a thick disk of water above their heads, the blue gem on his waist glowing bright.

"Let's get out of here!" they nod as Mike stands up, collapsing the spears and then the debris. A large slab drops on the disk slowing down before being shoved to the side of the floating water away from the group. They continue to run and exit the building.

As they arrive outside, they spot a small girl with long hair coming out from another exit in the house. She glances at them and runs away.

"Wait!" he shouts, the girl running farther and farther. He stands up, turning to her direction but is stopped by the woman.

"Wounded first, Alex. Whoever she was, comes second," she scolds him as one of the members open their bag and brings out medical supplies.

"What a terrible day..." the words escape the woman's breathe.

#writing #literature #novel #my writing #Jarv is not Wanted #JinW #on #wattpad #soon #writing this at night may not have been a good idea #i hope there's no major mistake that I left here #this will be my first foray into publishing what I write #hope it goes decently well

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amoonglove · 6 months

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Ina's Nightmare

Tears formed quickly as Anthea watched the corners of the envelopes singe and curl inwards before being engulfed wholly by the flames of the small bonfire. They had been unopened. Although she could probably guess that he wanted to tell her about his travels, or new recipes he had learned, how he constantly fusses over his favorite gloves, or how her friends missed her so; Anthea would never know what Sion had actually written to her.

As the last of the letters was reduced to ash, she felt a sharp, crushing pull, like the grip of a hawk, around her heart. She cried out in pain, the tears flowing freely now. Burning her lover’s letters was symbolic, but the price she would pay for her ritual was very real. She turned sharply and felt the hawk’s talon take a chunk of her heart as it departed the grove. “Sion!” She cried loudly, wrapping her arms around her chest and sinking to the ground. It wasn’t completely gone, but what was left of her love for him was raw, bloody, and burning.

The witch steadied herself as quickly as she could, pushing up onto her knees while still trembling.

She didn’t have time to wallow, there was work to be done.

Anthea took a few deep breaths, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands and willfully ignoring the searing pain in her chest. After a moment, she lit the candles on the altar and placed the incense into the bonfire. She took the lock of hair she’d cut and tossed it into the bonfire with a sneer… it was pure providence that she came upon that hair at all.

She looked deeply into the flames, calming her mind and half-closing her eyes. A plume of black smoke billowed forth from the bonfire, rising up into the canopy before moving back toward the slaver camp she had come from only a few bells ago. A nightmare given form, it snaked its way through the trees toward its sleeping prey.

But there was one more thing… one more crucial thing she had to give up in order to complete the magic. In order to take, one must give, afterall. Her eyebrows furrowed as she brought to mind the precious memories of her grandmother braiding her hair and humming gently. Her grandmother never hurt her, and her fingers glided through Anthea’s curly hair as if it were just a softly bubbling stream. She’d close her eyes, listening carefully, and after years of practice, young Anthea was even able to hum along.

With a quick flick of her wrist, her first braid fell to the earth, like a viper that had fallen from a tree. She gripped the stone spike tightly as her hand moved to the other braid, and in a blink, it too fell. Anthea quickly snatched up her braids and tossed them into the bonfire as well. The fire hummed briefly before receding, the grove becoming silent. It seemed like her sacrifice was accepted.

Anthea needed something more from Ina, and she’d give her heart and her memories tenfold if need be.

((Thank you to the writer of Ina for helping me with this arc! I'm so excited to continue this work together!!! Please find their work here!))

#finalfantasy xiv #roleplaying #short #witchcraft

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ao719 · 2 years

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The Duchess

The Duchess - A Way Out (Chapter 13)

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

Title inspiration: Walk Through the Fire - Zayde Wølf

Summary: Eva gets swept up in a whirlwind romance, but soon finds herself contending with the ghost of the woman who came before her.

Warning: This series will contain sensitive and NSFW material. If you read, you acknowledge you are 18+

A/N: This is the last chapter of this series. I’m so sorry it took me so long to get out, but thank you to everyone who stuck it out through this story and for all of your amazing comments and feedback. Thanks to @dcbbw and @burnsoslow for prereading in part and whole! Also, big thanks to the virtual movie night girls for bringing my motivation back to finish this. Please excuse any errors.

Catch Up Here

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When the truck skidded to a halt just outside the gates of the Valtorian estate, Liam and Eva jumped out and ran towards the blaze. Liam’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach when he looked up in horror to see half of the estate already engulfed. Flames leapt from burst windows, and thick billows of black smoke accompanied by floating ashes in its wake curled against the sky.

The front lawn was in chaos as the pair watched scrambling staff members stumble through the smoke, trying to make their way to safety. Both Eva and Liam snapped out of their initial shock and hurried to help who they could.

“Edward!” Liam shouted when he saw him. “Are you ok?”

Edward nodded, holding a cloth up to his mouth as he coughed into it. “I think so, sir.”

“Eva, get him to the outside of the gates and get someone to call for help!” Liam instructed. Eva hurried the older man away from the heat of the blaze as Liam continued moving toward it. “Drake!” he called out after spotting him on the lawn; he rushed towards him. “Are you alright?” Drake nodded through a cough. “How the hell did this happen?”

“I have no idea, Li!” Drake shouted over the noise as he shook his head. “Tony called and said something was up with the horses, that they were acting really strange, so I went down to the stables to help him; when I got back, the place was up in flames!”

“Are there still others inside?” Liam asked.

“I helped a few, but I’m not sure if everyone’s out!”

Without hesitation, Liam and Drake rushed to the side door; they were met by others stumbling out and helped to guide them through the thick haze, instructing them to get away from the estate.

As Eva made her way back towards the lawn to help, a sudden explosion inside sent shards of glass and burning embers raining down onto the forecourt. She felt her heart stop as she looked around for Liam. When she spotted him and Drake near the side entrance, they were guiding people out of the door and passing them off to others nearby. They gestured towards the gate, instructing all of them to get away from the fire.

Then, they both turned, disappearing as they ran inside into the blaze.

“Liam!” Eva yelled as she went to run towards the door, but she was stopped by Drake’s stable hand.

“Ma’am, you need to get off the lawn!”

“But Liam and Drake!”

“I was instructed by His Highness to get you off the lawn!” he shouted.

Eva didn’t move, digging her heels into the grass as her wide eyes searched frantically for any sign of the two men. Startled by another explosion from the back of the estate, her body jumped, and she sucked in a sharp, panicked breath, watching other staff continue to stumble through the smoke towards the safety beyond the gates.

Seconds felt like hours as she waited.

Liam and Drake finally emerged, coming into view as they staggered out through the door, each with an arm of an older man slung over their shoulders as they dragged him away from the fire. The stable hand turned toward them as they approached, taking the older man from them before they both collapsed into the grass, covered in soot and ash as they coughed and gasped for air.

Eva rushed towards them, dropping to her knees. “Are you two alright?” Drake nodded, unable to speak as he coughed. Liam did the same, taking Eva’s hand as he tried to catch his breath.

At the sound of another explosion, they all turned towards the estate. Everything began moving in slow motion for Liam as he took in the devastating scene in front of him.

Eva looked over at Liam, his hand still clutched in hers; the tears in his eyes reflected the flames from the blaze as he watched the memory of his mother and the legacy she had left for him burn. The one thing he had put his life into -- the thing he had given up everything, even pieces of himself, to protect, the place that was once his safe haven -- became nothing more than smoke and ash inside the firestorm. The third floor was already completely engulfed as the blaze continued to rip through the remainder of the second floor; glass exploded onto the grounds from the windows of the first floor as the heat, smoke, and fire continued to spread from room to room, one end of the estate to the other. There was nothing he could do to stop the havoc of the inferno.

There was no saving Valtoria.

“Ma’am!”

A voice sounded from behind Eva, pulling her attention. She turned to see a visibly upset Rebecca rushing toward her. Stepping away from Liam, who was still staring in a daze up at the burning estate as he caught his breath, she hurried towards her maid. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m ok … but I-I saw her!” Rebecca cried.

Eva’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Saw who?”

“Gladys!” Rebecca shook her head. “When the fire started, we were trying to get out … I was coming down from the east wing, and I saw her walking out of the front entrance.”

A soft breath escaped Eva as her eyes drifted away from Rebecca. She glanced back at the estate consumed by the fire, knowing at that moment who was responsible. Then her eyes fell to Liam; she could just make out the tear trickling down his cheek as he stared up at the devastation unfolding in front of him, unable to do anything to stop it.

Eva’s jaw tensed as she turned back to Rebecca and began walking her toward the gates. “Where did she go?”

Rebecca’s breath hitched in her throat. “She was walking towards the beach.”

“Get off the lawn and stay behind the gates until help arrives,” Eva instructed tersely.

When Rebecca nodded and turned away from her, Eva discreetly moved toward the pathway at the edge of the lawn that led to the beach. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Liam didn’t see her; she knew he would never let her go after Gladys, especially not alone.

****

Moving as fast as she could, Eva blindly made her way through the path in the dark. She glanced over her shoulder, looking back to see the burning estate just above the treeline before refocusing her attention back in front of her.

When she reached the split in the path -- one way towards the beach, the other towards the cliffside of the waterfall -- a silhouette in the moonlight caught her attention; she veered to the left towards the top of the falls. When she got closer, she could make out Gladys near the edge of the cliff as she stared down at the beach; Eva’s eyes widened when she got close enough to see the boathouse off in the distance, which too was swallowed in flames.

“Gladys,” Eva breathed before taking a few steps towards her. “Please … come away from the ledge.” Despite the things this woman had done and said to her, what she had put both her and Liam through, Eva couldn’t escape her empathetic nature.

“You asked for my help …” Gladys looked over her shoulder at Eva. “Here it is.”

“Step back from the ledge, Gladys,” Eva held out her hand, knowing it was in vain. “Please.”

“Riley was all I had.” Gladys stared at Eva, her expression impassive. “He killed the only person I ever loved, the only family I have ever known. I couldn’t let you have Valtoria because it was ours; it never belonged to you. And I couldn’t let him keep Valtoria -- the one thing he loved most in this world -- when he took what I loved most away from me.”

“You don’t have to do this, Gladys,” Eva said, her voice trembling as she took another tentative step towards her.

“I know you’ll stand by him,” Gladys spat. “You’ll keep what you know to be the truth to yourself. But I can take solace away from knowing that you’ll never know an ounce of true happiness and that no matter what … you’ll never compare to her.”

Eva let out a breath; even at this moment, Gladys couldn’t resist taking one final dig. She stood a bit taller as she stared back at the majordomo, her expression twisting with resolve. “Yes, I will know happiness, Gladys. Liam and I both will. And you’re right, I won’t ever be able to compare to Riley … because I’ll never be the cold-hearted, manipulative, selfish monster that she was. And that’s what I can take solace in.”

Gladys’ expression hardened as she stared back at her for a moment. Then, without another word, she looked away from her and straight ahead; she took one step forward, sending herself dropping over the edge of the cliff. Her body plunged toward the water and large, jagged rocks at the base of the falls without so much as a scream.

Eva turned her back, squeezing her eyes shut as she held her breath. After a moment, her eyes opened as she sharply inhaled and let out a few shallow breaths as she shook her head. Composing herself, she started back towards the estate.

When Eva emerged from the pathway onto the front grounds of the estate, flashing lights from the fire trucks that had arrived lit up the lawn. She glanced up at the ravaged scene, watching as first responders attempted to extinguish the fire.

“Eva!” Liam called out. She turned towards the sound of his voice to see him rushing towards her; he wrapped his arms around her, breathing a sigh of relief. When he drew back, he cupped her face in his hands. “Where did you go?”

“Gladys -- it was her,” Eva’s voice trembled. “She set the fire. She told me at the falls … and then she -- she jumped …” She trailed off, shaking her head.

Liam’s brows furrowed, processing her words as he glanced over her head towards the pathway. He let out a breath before looking back at her. “Come on,” he said quietly. “We need to go speak with the investigators.”

****

After two hours, the flames were finally gone. The investigators had taken their statements as well as that of the staff; others had confirmed seeing Gladys on the grounds as well. From what they heard from witnesses and from what they could tell, it appeared she had started the fire in Riley’s old domain of the west wing. Eva also told them about her and Liam’s run-in with Tariq outside of the police station and what he said to them: “Maybe the law can’t get you, but we still can.” His words left Eva feeling as though he knew what Gladys was planning.

Liam had called and made arrangements for Valtoria’s live-in staff to be taken to a hotel in town until they made arrangements for places to stay, fronting the bill for their rooms and meals until further notice.

Eva and Liam stood next to Madeleine and Leo, who had rushed from the palace after being made aware of the fire, staring in silence at the charred remains of what was left of Valtoria. Leo glanced over, seeing the despondent look in his brother’s eyes. “Li … it’s late. Why don’t we head back to the palace.” He knew the longer Liam stood there, the harder it was going to be for him to walk away.

Liam felt Eva’s hand slide into his; he chewed the inside of his cheek and let out a breath. With nowhere else for them to go at the moment, he somberly nodded; they turned and headed towards the gates to the waiting SUV. Liam paused and glanced over his shoulder one last time, letting his eyes take in the scene as a stray tear fell; he quickly wiped his cheek before turning away.

As they rode back to the palace, Liam stared out the window from the third row with Eva’s hand in his. Running through his mind was what came next. He had never been in a place where he felt so unsettled. The last seven years of his life had been anything but exemplary; there was not an ounce of happiness for him … but he always had Valtoria to fall back on, to remind him of what his mother wanted for and from him, to remind him what his purpose was. That safety net was now gone, nothing more than burnt remains and memories.

After a completely silent ride back to the palace, the four of them exited the vehicle and walked inside. In the foyer, Leo glanced over at his brother. “Your old wing … it’s still the way you left it. You know you can stay as long as you need.” Liam nodded silently, staring up at the grand staircase. “Li … I know this is hard on you … that you feel like you’ve lost everything …”

“It’s not just about me, Leo,” Liam bit out. “The staff … people that have lived there for years taking care of Valtoria … all of their personal belongings are destroyed, they’re out of jobs and a place to live,” he shook his head.

“Well, surely the insurance on the estate will handle most of that,” Madeleine spoke up. “We’ll have to find all of the paperwork, but we’ll figure it out, Liam.”

“I think all of the paperwork regarding Valtoria … anything to do with your mother, in fact, Father keeps locked away in a safe in his wing,” Leo said. “I’m sure anything pertaining to Valtoria is there because it was hers. We can get it in the morning, and we’ll go through it all and work on making arrangements. For now, you should both get some rest. It’s been a very long day for you.”

That’s an understatement, Eva thought. Liam’s day had started with him being dragged to a cold jail cell where he spent the entire day, accused of murder, only to be set free and find his home, his life’s work, engulfed in flames. “Come on,” Eva said, gently grabbing Liam’s arm. “Like they said, we’ll figure it all out.”

“We’ll have some clothes sent to your wing,” Leo said, and Madeleine nodded beside him in agreement.

Liam quietly scoffed before he nodded. They really had nothing. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Leo and Madeleine shared a concerned glance as the two of them made their way up the grand staircase, turning left towards Liam’s old wing.

****

After showering in an attempt to eliminate the smell of smoke from themselves, Liam and Eva changed into pajamas sent from Leo and Madeleine. They slipped into bed, and Eva curled her body into the crook of Liam’s arm. After a long bout of silence, she tilted her head up to see him staring up at the ceiling.

“I know this is a silly question … but are you alright?”

“I …” Liam trailed off, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now … what comes next. I thought … I thought that the worst was over, that you and I would finally be able to just put all of this behind us … put her behind us … to be free. But it’s as if … no price already paid is enough. And now … it’s gone. Valtoria is gone. And I just … feel lost.”

“Liam …” Eva whispered, and he glanced down at her, his sad eyes visible in the moonlight coming through the window. She didn’t know what to say to take away what he was feeling at the moment; everything was so fresh and raw. His arm tightened around her, pulling her as close to him as he could, letting out a breath against her hair. “I love you.”

Liam closed his eyes. “I love you, too.”

*******

The following morning, Liam and Eva headed from his wing in the palace down to the dining room for breakfast. Liam was reeling from the events of the day before, still trying to process all of it. Eva was just trying to be as supportive as she could, knowing he was struggling.

When they entered the room, Leo and Madeleine were seated at the table with piles of papers spread out in front of them. “Good morning,” Madeleine ruefully smiled.

“Good morning,” Eva nodded.

“Morning,” Liam said quietly before gesturing to the papers. “What’s all of that?”

“Everything that was in that safe in Father’s wing,” Leo replied. “I went in this morning when the nurse arrived to give him his meds, but he had so much in there, I just took everything out, not knowing where in this massive pile what we’re looking for was buried.”

Eva walked over to the table with her coffee, taking a seat next to Madeleine and glancing at the papers. “So far, we’ve found his marriage certificate to your mother, various documents signed by the council of the official titles he bestowed upon her, your birth certificate, and … her death certificate,” Madeleine said. “But nothing about Valtoria yet.”

“I’ll help you go through it. Let me just grab some -- sunovabitch!” Liam’s words trailed off into a painful growl when something, or rather someone, slammed into his leg.

“Liam! My boy!”

Liam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he bent down, rubbing his leg before glancing in his direction. “Hello, Father,” he grumbled.

“Try the crepes!” Constantine shouted, gesturing to the plate of breakfast crepes on the buffet. “They’re delicious. Riley will love them!”

“Jesus Christ,” Madeleine mumbled with a roll of her eyes as she stood from her seat. “Riley’s not here, Constantine,” she shouted so he could hear her.

“Where is she?”

“Dead,” Madeleine said. She walked over to Constantine’s chair and unplugged the battery before motioning to the aid to take him outside for some fresh air.

Liam’s eyes snapped over to Leo as his father was wheeled out. “You actually let him keep that damn chair?”

“He seems happier with it,” Leo shrugged. “He zips around all day at his leisure. It’s only bad when he slams into my study door while I’m in a meeting.” Leo met his brother’s gaze and quietly chuckled at the imperceptible smile he saw tug on his lips.

It was the first genuine smile, albeit subtle, Liam had given him in a very long time.

Liam joined them at the table with his breakfast and coffee, sitting next to Eva. He grabbed a stack of papers and began to go through them.

****

After an hour of sifting through papers, Liam finally found what he’d been looking for. The crown’s deed to the estate, his mother’s official title paperwork as Duchess of Valtoria, information pertaining to the duchy’s laws and any that were added or changed by Eleanor or her predecessors, and the insurance information.

“The staff will receive a pretty hefty sum from the payout,” Madeleine said as she looked over the insurance information. “It should be more than enough to sustain them, and the crown can offer stipends until they find work unless they choose not to; then they would be on their own.”

“It says here that Valtoria is also a part of Cordonia’s historical conservation,” Leo added. “Which means they will help in terms of rebuilding.”

“That will cost a ridiculous amount of money, Leo,” Liam said, shaking his head. “We’re talking millions. Not to mention time … it’ll be years before it’s rebuilt.”

“We know how much it meant to you, Li,” Leo said. “It was the last thing of your mother’s that you had. Yes, it will take time and funds, but it’ll be worth it to you in the end.”

As Liam and Leo continued back and forth on whether or not to rebuild, Eva read over another set of papers, furrowing her brows. “What is it?” Madeleine asked, noticing her expression. Eva leaned over, showing Madeleine the documents in her hands. “Um, Liam?” Madeleine said softly as she took the papers from Eva, but her voice couldn’t be heard over the two men. “Liam?” she said again, a little more loudly, but still, it didn’t register with the King and the Prince. “Liam!” Madeleine shouted, causing both men to go silent.

“What?” Liam asked.

Madeleine’s eyes were locked on his as she handed him the papers. Liam took it, reading over the words of the property deed in his hand. A property deed to an island that belonged to his mother that he never even knew about, that was never mentioned to him by his father or anyone else. And attached to it were instructions from his mother’s will.

“What is it?”

Liam’s brows knitted. “It’s the deed to a private island … given to her by Father … and left to me upon her death.”

“A private island? Where?” Leo asked as he stood from his seat. He walked around the table, stopping behind Liam and peering over his shoulder at the document.

“You never knew about this?” Liam asked, turning to look at his brother.

Leo stepped back, raising his hands defensively. “I swear, Liam, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Then Valtoria … it wasn’t the last thing of hers left for you,” Eva added.

“My father never told me about this …” Liam said, glancing back at the papers.

Suddenly, everything Liam was told after his mother’s death began to replay in his mind. How his father told him that it was his mother’s dying wish for him to take over Valtoria. How his father was the one to drill into his mind the importance of carrying on his mother’s legacy because he said it was what she wanted for him.

But was any of it true? Or was it his father’s way to ensure Liam stuck around, knowing how he would never want to disappoint his mother, even in death?

“Well … we can figure out the island stuff later,” Leo said. “Right now, you need to decide how you want to deal with Valtoria.”

As Liam took in Leo’s words, he continued to stare down at the paper in his hands; everything slowly began to piece itself together.

Perhaps Valtoria was never a safety net at all. He made it into what he believed his mother would have wanted because that’s what he’d been told. He’d been made to believe and made himself believe that it was all he had left of her. He was slowly coming to realize that the Valtoria he once thought of as a refuge was nothing more than a facade, an image made up in his own mind to justify his years of self-sabotage, something he forced himself to believe was supposed to give his life purpose and meaning when it ended up doing the exact opposite.

That heritage -- and who he had to share it with -- took everything from him.

Liam did what was expected of him and what was best for everyone else, even with dozens of knives in his back. And he allowed it. It was no one’s fault but his own. And it was time he did something for himself, something to bring him solace and, hopefully, eventual contentment.

“There are options, Li. I say you rebuild … start from scratch and build your own legacy for Valtoria with Eva at your side.”

“No,” Liam shook his head, gripping the papers in his hand. The room fell silent as Madeleine and Eva stared at him curiously, and Leo looked at him with confusion. After a moment, Liam broke the silence. “I want out.”

Leo’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I want out … I’m done, Leo … with this place and these people.” Liam looked up, meeting Leo’s gaze. “I want to relinquish my dukedom.”

Eva and Madeleine shared a look while Leo’s brows raised in surprise. “Liam … you don’t mean that.”

“I do. I can’t … I can’t do it anymore. I’ve spent the last seven years living nothing but a lie … being absolutely miserable … and surrounded by nothing but duplicity and betrayal at every turn.”

“But … Li, Valtoria means everything to you.”

“The Valtoria that I thought meant everything to me is gone, Leo! It’s nothing but charred memories … and now I’m not even sure if it’s what my mother wanted for me!” Liam let out a breath as he rubbed his hand over his face. “Yes, Valtoria was once a sanctuary to me, but eventually, it became my prison. Every good memory I had there is tarnished, and it’s been nothing but a reminder of everything that happened, which is why I disappeared for six months because I couldn’t take being there or faking it in front of everyone anymore. And when I came back, I relived it all over again. You have no idea what it was like, day in and day out … and I just … I can’t live like that anymore, Leo. I don’t want to. I’ll never be able to escape my past here … I’ll never get away from what I’ve dealt with the last seven years because there are reminders everywhere. As Duke and Prince, I’m forced to interact with everyone who betrayed me -- for years -- and because of decorum and expectation, I’m supposed to do it with a smile. But this--” he held up the documents in his hand as he met Leo’s gaze once again “--this is my chance to start over.”

“Liam, that’s -- you can’t just …” Leo trailed off, letting out a breath as he ran his fingers through his hair before bowing his head.

“I’d still carry my title as Prince, and I will still take on light duties to help you when and if you need. I’d still remain in the line of succession if anything happened and it came to that. But I would be stepping back from any major royal duties and would no longer be Duke of Valtoria.”

Leo pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to sort through his jumbled thoughts. He knew why Liam was directing this to him. It was his call. Once a peerage was bestowed, it could not be removed by anything less than action taken by the council or reigning monarch. Liam couldn’t simply give up his Dukedom at whim; he needed Leo, as King, to grant him the right to relinquish it.

“You owe me this, Leo,” Liam said, speaking just above a whisper.

His words instantly pulled Leo’s head up to meet his gaze once again. Liam’s eyes held both conviction and sadness, and they were pleading. The weight of Leo’s guilt became heavier at that moment. He wasn’t going to pretend that Liam’s life had been anything but easy the last seven years. He saw the way his brother changed and how he was slowly chipped away at until there was nothing left of him.

And Leo played a part in that. He wasn’t proud of himself, he didn’t get joy out of knowing he betrayed his own brother, and he knew there was nothing he could say to even begin to justify what he did.

But he could take that first step in repairing their relationship and trying to right his wrongs.

*******

•Six Months Later•

Weaving her way through the dark corridors, Eva followed the blur of feathery red fabric in front of her; the woman walked gracefully and with purpose, her long brown hair set in flawless curls cascading down her back. “Tha Epistrépso.” The woman’s echoed whispers taunted Eva as she continued to try to catch up to her. She’d reach out to touch her shoulder when she thought she was close enough, but each time, the figure would dissipate before she could make contact, only to appear steps ahead of her again.

Eva watched the woman stop in front of a familiar ornate door. She slowed her pace and quietly crept behind her, hoping to finally catch a glimpse of her face. Outstretching her trembling hand, Eva reached for her shoulder again. She gasped, feeling the cold, wet skin beneath her palm. “Tha Epistrépso, Eva.” Suddenly, the woman turned.

With a gasp, she bolted up in bed. Tha Epistrépso. I’ll return.

Eva’s breaths were shallow as she ran her fingers through her hair. The dream had been recurring over the last several months, and it was exactly the same each time: Eva is at Valtoria, following a woman through the estate, and she is startled awake when the figure turns before she can see her face.

Eva closed her eyes and shook away the thought as she let out a breath. She glanced down to see Liam still sound asleep next to her before she quietly slipped from the bed, careful not to wake him. Clad in only one of his T-shirts, she padded her way towards the kitchen.

While Eva made coffee, she glanced out the window to see the sun beginning to rise above the horizon. As she waited for it to brew, she stepped outside onto the terrace of the villa on the private island that she and Liam now called home.

Six months ago, Leo granted Liam his wish, allowing him to relinquish his dukedom and step back from his royal duties. Getting any information from Constantine regarding the island left to him by his mother was futile, so Liam and Eva traveled there, just the two of them. To their surprise, a villa sat nestled along the beach. Prior to their arrival, Liam wasn’t sure if his mother had ever even been there before; he didn’t remember it as a child or ever hearing her talk about it. But a dusty bottle of Eleanor’s signature jasmine perfume and an old journal that sat on an antique vanity in the bedroom told him what he needed to know.

His mother loved Valtoria, but this place was her escape. It was her sanctuary … and now it was his.

When they returned to Cordonia, Liam informed Leo that he and Eva would be leaving and taking up residence on the private island.

The news of Liam relinquishing his title and stepping away from royal duties set off not only a media frenzy but a wave of gossip among the Cordonian court. Liam didn’t care. He had an island to escape to with his wife where he would be able to start over.

And he did just that.

In the six months since leaving Cordonia, Eva saw a significant change in Liam. Finally being able to put his past behind him, he was lighter and more carefree, he was happier, he smiled and laughed more. He was loving and tender and never failed to remind Eva each day how much she meant to him and how much he loved her. They had both broken out of the shells they had been trapped in, no doubt thanks to one another. Eva came into her own as Liam took back control of his life.

Lost in her thoughts as she stared at the sunrise, Eva didn’t hear his footsteps approaching. A moment later, she smiled when she felt Liam’s arms wrap around her from behind as he pulled her back against his bare chest. As he tilted his head to kiss her neck, his hand moved up, purposely gliding over her cotton-covered breasts before sliding up further to cup her throat. Eva rested back against him, tilting her head to allow him better access as she closed her eyes, lost in the feel of his lips against her skin. Suddenly, he turned her in his arms, and she looped hers around his neck. She could just make out his smile before he captured her lips in his.

It all seemed very ironic to Eva. Riley was the one known, even in death, as the untouchable Phoenix of Valtoria, yet it was Liam who rose from the ashes of who he was to become who he was supposed to be.

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honeytae · 3 years

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Is this the wife material you’ve been waiting for?

hello my lovies, happy wednesday! i hope you guys are having a great week, but if not...i’m here to provide you with some seokjin mega fluff. it’s got little actual plot to follow along with - however, i think it’s sweet, so hopefully you guys like it!

tags: @ahgasearmyfan, @hoseokayy genre: fluff word count: 1.8k

Coughing as smoke billowed up off the pan, you tossed the lid to the side, eyes burning as you blinked them through the hot air of the oven space.

“Shit.” You cursed as the fire alarm began beeping above your head, reaching for the dishtowel on your kitchen counter and, in a panic, jumping up to bat at the alarm in a desperate attempt to silence it.

This was not how you wanted tonight to go.

All you wanted was to make a nice meal for Seokjin to come home to. It was your anniversary, after all, and he’d been working all damn day.

You already felt bad enough that your dinners were either takeout or something your boyfriend could whip up after work, since your inability to cook was absolutely hazardous to the building and the people in it, as Seokjin had lovingly informed you after you tried to cook the last time he wasn’t home.

But even trying your hardest wasn’t enough, which was evident by the smoke exuding from the pot you’d desperately thrown into the sink to put cool water in, the blaring of the smoke alarms in your apartment, and the panicked “what the hell?” coming from your boyfriend as he walked through the front door.

The next thing you knew, he was directly beside you, arm still cradling his bag as he’d rushed in to the chaotic scene in the kitchen. His arm easily reached the smoke alarm on the ceiling, hitting it a few times before he successfully silenced it.

Glancing around the kitchen with wide eyes, he returned his gaze to you, curled into yourself as you leaned against the counter in shame.

“Hey,” he greeted briefly, “what happened?” He asked, his tone exasperated as he tried to piece together how the kitchen could’ve possibly gotten to this state in the amount of time he’d left to retrieve some clothes he’d left in the practice room the other night.

“I can’t fucking do this.” You whimpered, your tone causing Jin’s eyes to soften immediately as he reached forward to pull you into his arms, his palm cradling your head against his shoulder as his other hand landed on the window, pulling it up to allow some smoke out of the hot room.

You sniffled into his chest as he hushed you, mumbling sweet words to calm you as your fingers clung onto his shirt.

“Okay, it’s okay. Come with me, love.” His warm voice soothed into your ear, you wordlessly following his lead as he guided you out into the living room, allowing him to sit you down on the couch with a quick peck to your forehead.

“I’m going to go clean up, then I’ll be right back. Okay?” He asked gently, rubbing at the top of your spine as you nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry.” You said, not knowing what else to say as the sweet man who’d just stepped in the door was about to clean up another one of your messes. And, not to mention, figure out an alternate dinner plan.

You kept your eyes on the ground as Jin dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands placed on your own as he dipped his head to try to catch some eye contact.

“Hey, none of that, sweetheart. You don’t need to apologize.” He soothed, rubbing his palm up your thigh before his hands went to your own, picking up your fingers one by one to inspect them.

“You’re fine, right? No burns or other injuries?” He questioned, you shaking your head in response and causing him to hum in approval.

“Good. Because guess what? That’s all that matters.” He said, causing you to sigh as you lifted your head to finally look at him.

“What if I told you I burnt your favorite pan beyond repair?” You mumbled, the man shaking his head with a purse of his lips.

“I don’t care. Pans are replaceable.” He said, threading his fingers through your hair to push it back behind your ear as you huffed a breath past your lips.

“I’m still sorry.” You pouted, the man’s features crumbling into a chuckle as he shook his head, rubbing at your shoulder with a comforting palm.

“You’re so silly to think I’d care about a pan.” He teased you, causing you to crack a smile as you met his eye for the first time since his entrance.

“I care about the pan. And I’m buying you another one, whether you like it or not.” You quipped, Seokjin’s shoulders shaking as squeaky chuckles escaped his mouth.

“Silly.” He said before leaning in to press his lips to the tip of your nose.

“Now you sit here and look pretty while I clean up.” He directed you, coming to a stand with a point of his finger, leaving it up at you as he backed out of the room.

You giggled at his actions, his eyes remaining on you challengingly until he rounded the corner of the kitchen doorway, at last obscuring your view of the man.

Sighing, you looked around the living room, thinking of what you could possibly do to make it up to him. Him. The man you’d been with for four years today. Grunting, you stood up to further examine the room, opening drawers and cabinets to inspect their contents as your brain whirred with ideas.

Spotting the collection of candles you stashed away for special occasions, you quickly snatched them into your hands, shutting the door behind you and setting out for the hallway closet.

Grabbing the table runner, you hastily ran to the dining room, lining the table with the fabric and placing the candles inches apart from each other to make an evened out display.

Sneaking into the kitchen in search of matches, you thanked your lucky stars that Seokjin had his back to you with the faucet running, as he could no longer see or hear you when you snatched the flame starters in their little carton from one of the drawers.

Scratching the wood against the strip on the box, you lit a match to hopefully light all of them, dipping the flame down into the glass candle cases and continuing the action with each one.

“What happened to sitting still and looking pretty, love?”

You nearly jumped at the sudden arrival of Jin’s voice from behind you, turning around with a small smile as he leaned against the wall across the room from you.

“That’s your job, Jinnie. Come over here and sit.” You directed him, the man’s face contorting into a beautiful full smile as he pushed himself off the wall to make his way over to you.

Pausing his steps, he instead stood in front of you, his eyes checking out the details of the table you’d built in his absence.

“Cooking is a definite no.” You sighed, turning to look back at your handiwork with a gesture of your hand to the simple decorations you’d put on the previously blank surface.

“But setting the table,” you started, Seokjin raising his eyebrows in amusement, “that I can do.”

Your boyfriend chuckled in response, bringing a smile to your face as he gripped your hand in his to pull you into his chest.

“I love you.” He cooed, your nose scrunching up in response at the sudden affectionate tone he used before you repeated the sentiment back to him.

“This is actually really good.” He admired the table again, making you scoff at the man’s amazement at the simplest candles lined up on a runner.

“Why don’t you set the tables at our wedding?” He asked abruptly, making your chest erupt in butterflies at the mere idea of marrying the man in front of you.

“I can make that happen,” You agreed, “but there’s going to have to be some kneeling and a ring first.” You teased, the man’s lips curling into another smile before his face faded into a more serious expression.

“Okay.” He said simply, confusing you as he stared back at you.

“Okay?” You chuckled, face falling when he wordlessly dug a hand into his jean pocket, producing a small black box between his fingers.

Your mouth dropped open at the sight, widened eyes meeting his own as his pupils seemed to trace your features.

“Jin.” You whispered, allowing him to hold your hand in his with a pounding heart.

“You alright with this?” He asked in just as soft of a voice, you nodding eagerly in response as you grinned at him.

“Is nearly burning our entire building down what you’re into? Is this the wife material you’ve been waiting for?” You chuckled through your shock, the man’s eyes crinkling as he giggled.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He smiled, lifting your hand to his face to press kisses to each one of your knuckles, holding you appendages in his as he lowered himself to his knee.

”I love you so much. Kitchen fires and all.” He teased, squeezing your hand in his as you giggled down at him.

“You are absolutely the only one I want, forever. You’re the only person I want to share my bed with, the only human I want to be close to all the time, the only one I ever want to burn all my pans.”

At his last addition to the speech, you chuckled, bowing your head for a moment as your cheeks heated up before lifting your gaze to smile back at him.

“You make my life so full.” He whispered, the tenderness in his words causing a tear to trickle down your cheek before reaching up to swipe at it with your thumb. “Please marry me.” He continued, making your eyes prick with more tears at those words you knew were coming, yet not emotionally prepared at all to hear them fall from his lips directed at you.

“Yes, I’ll marry you.” You chuckled in bewilderment, Seokjin smiling so big that you could for the first time through the ordeal see the tears brimming in his eyes.

Vision blurring with more unshed tears, you barely registered Seokjin slipping the ring snug onto your fourth finger before you were desperately tugging him up from the ground into a hug.

He only got halfway up off the floor before you were seated on his thigh, his opposite knee supporting his weight as it remained down on the ground. Your fiancé easily intercepted your frame with a watery chuckle, rubbing his palm up and down your back as he lightly swayed your bodies back and forth.

“Oh my god, I love you so much.” You spoke into his shoulder, sniffling as you only slightly pulled your face out from where you’d tucked it into his shirt.

“I love you so much.” He spoke tenderly, swiping his thumb underneath your eye to catch a fallen tear with an adoringly smile.

“We’re getting married.” You wept, Seokjin squeezing you to him with a sniffle as he nodded.

“We’re getting married.”

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embrassemoi · 3 years

Text

Surrounded by the Moon and Stars ✷ 31

Pairings: Sirius B, F!Reader, Remus L Warnings: Language, smoking weed, shitty parenting, mentions of death A/N: more of a filler but it helps establish stuff. *unbeta'd

【 Masterlist | Previous Chapter | ao3 】

Chapter 31: Drowning on Dry Land

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The week before her flight back, Matthew’s parents invited her over for dinner.

Waiting to greet them at the door was Mrs. and Mr. Gaplin. Matthew’s father, a Half-Maj, was a Potioneer while his mother, an Old-Maj, was a Court Scribe. They wore large, kind smiles as Mrs. Gaplin pulled her into a tight, crushing hug.

After pleasantries, she and Matthew kicked off their shoes while his parents ushered them to the dining room.

“How are you darling? '' Mrs. Gaplin asked, floating plates in their direction as everyone began helping themselves to food. “Matt wouldn’t stop talking about you since we knew y’were coming.”

She side-eyed Matthew who groaned loudly. “Did not!”

“Sure thing,” she added, which caused Matthew to slump in his chair as his parents laughed at him.

It was a nice, charming evening; filled with laughter and heartfelt conversations. His parents continued to gloat about Mathew’s achievements that he hadn’t told her. It caused him to almost get up and run out of the room from embarrassment before moving to boast about Y/N. Even Mr. Gaplin asked her regarding her OWLs which pleasantly surprised her.

A few times, Mr. Gaplin pressed a few cheeky kisses to his wife’s face as Matthew made loud retching noises.

“Disgusting!”

Mr. Gaplin laughed. “Ya sixteen. Suck it up.”

“But you’re still my baby!” Mrs. Gaplin cooed, getting up to collect the plates.

Matthew tried to look insulted but she could see the small smile that threatened his lips as jealousy nipped at her toes.

The next few days were spent staying at the Gaplin household. Matthew’s parents insisted constantly that she should stay over so they could utilize the little time they had left before leaving. At first, the idea made her feel intrusive. Although, her mother hadn’t returned to the brownstone house, preferring to sleep in the on-call rooms at the Brooklyn Memorial Hospital. It quickly got lonely and boring before Y/N finally agreed. Besides, Mrs. and Mr. Gaplin were only around for breakfast and dinner - working for the day but never failed to return; always wearing larger smiles than the previous night.

They made her feel welcomed and warm - even taking her and Matthew to the local pictures. They included her in everything, even their trivia and board games after dinner.

It was quite the change compared to her family life.

Then an identical routine ensued. She would wake up, get ready for the day; spend hours with Matthew; then twilight fell as they stayed awake into the early hours of the morning.

The day before she was due to leave, she and Matthew ran up to his room after dinner. He went to lean on top of the small coffee table, rolling up a joint as she collected her possessions scattered around his room; not wanting to leave it for the last minute.

“Fancy some grass?” He asked in a poor British accent.

“Nah,” she shook her head, “But thanks love.”

Mathew’s smile turned bashful as he stood, turning on the radio in the background. She moved to open his window which was just above the roof of his shed as she stepped out with steady feet. Perching herself down on the blankets and pillows they hauled outside the night prior, she stared at the glowing city splayed in front. From the window, The Velvet Underground flowed softly.

Matthew proceeded to hop out, sauntering over as he threw a flirtatious wink.

“Brough this,” he said, tossing the camera he’d taken from her bag. She caught it as he nestled beside her and lit the joint; placed in his mouth. Billows of smoke clouded around them while she snapped a few photos of the view.

“Ya sure you gotta leave?” Matthew whined, embers of the end of the joint sparking with another huff. “Maybe you can smuggle me. Shove me into that trunk.”

She pulled the camera away from her face, inhaling the earthy, pungent scent. Her head felt a bit lightheaded from it. “A hardcore criminal at sixteen?”

Matthew was mildly amused until a troublesome look passed through his features. “Um — name something ya miss most about home.”

Home. What a funny word — place — feeling. Home was supposed to be something that made your heart glow, feel warm and happy — by that definition, a year ago home would’ve been her little house back in Toronto with the beautiful maple trees swaying in the backyard. Or home would’ve been Ilvermorny and its tall ivory walls. But now, London, or maybe just Hogwarts, had become her home. The scrolls around the Herbology greenhouse, the library, sneaking around past curfew; the Black Lake, Hogsmeade — Lily, James, Marlene, Dorcas, Remus, Regulus…

Unsure of what to say, she opted for, “You?”

Matthew rolled his eyes, bringing the joint to his lips. “Real charmer.” Then, smoke surrounded them. “But really.”

“Why?”

“C’mon! I need an answer! — I don’t know… say somethin’ like… lobstah.”

She chuckled. “Lobster? Really?”

“Or coffee from ya regular cafe.”

Deliberating it for a second, lips tugged up. “Coffee Crisp.”

He snorted. “A candy bar? Really?”

“Or Ketchup chips. Haven’t seen them in London yet.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

And then the silence returns but it makes Matthew shuffle in his spot. He blurted out, “Go — more brit insight.”

Y/N felt a bit hazy from the secondhand smoke. “More? You’ll get bored.”

“I won’t,” Matthew replied quickly, sounding oddly sincere. “Please, just… go on. Tell me everything.”

“Um… a friend of mine says crikey a lot. I think it just means to be mildly surprised? — They don’t say bloody or blimey as much as you’d think… Oh! Tea — they really drink that much tea. Also —”

Continuing, Matthew shut off again, going completely silent — not once speaking up or adding funny commentary; only staring at her, simply watching.

“Okay,” she turned to take the joint from his hand, “You're freaking me out. Spill, what's up?”

“S’nuthing.”

Whack!

“Jeez! Would ya stop wiv that! Gonna kill me…”

“Spill.”

“Fine! It’s just that…'' Matthew shifted, obscuring his face. Maybe if she didn’t feel so fuzzy, or if there wasn’t the smoke coming from the blunt or her small headache forming, she would’ve picked up on all the little signs. “It’s just —” he sighed, “I wanna hear ya talk — commit it to memory.”

“Obsessed with me? Not new.”

But that seemed to trouble him more. “It’s just… I don’t know if or when I’ll hear it again…” He looks up to the city in front. “Ya my… best friend. Could never forget ‘bout ya, but s’hard — keepin’ in touch.”

She pats him, encouraging and smiling. Her voice was hopeful, so much so that it made Matthew’s lip quirk up. “We’ll find each other. Always.” She said simply. “You and me, we’re like… salt and pepper. Soap and water — Hansel and Gretel!”

“Fuckin’ Dr. Seuss,” he smiled, that worried look fading away.

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The warm summer breeze flowed around them, just as the sun peeked above the airport. Expanse, clear skies with blue mingled with deep purples and pinks shimmered against the metal from the building.

“Gonna miss ya,” Matthew muttered into the crown of her head. Her mother didn’t want him to come, but Y/N simply ignored that request as he came to send her off.

“Don’t get mushy on me now,” she joked but felt her throat become tight.

“Betta get goin’ — Doc’s lookin’ like she’s ‘bout to butcher me if ya don’t.”

She snickered, pushing Matthew’s shoulder as she picked up her bags, walking backwards while waving. “Write me!”

“Course I will! Until next time!”

“Till next time!”

Once the plane took off, awkwardness swelled among the two women. Not once had her mother said anything to her — not to apologize or see how she was doing — although they never really did talk much. Honestly, she half-expected her to leave her in New York with the Gaplins. Easy to dispose of her.

The next few days Y/N, poorly, attempted to fix her sleeping schedule. It was a miracle that she managed to get up before dinner as her head poked into the master bedroom.

She cleared her throat, feeling herself swaying in place. “Um — hi. I’m making dinner tonight.”

Her mother was dressed in a simple, yet sleek dress. She was bent over, putting on high heels as she looked up.

“The hospital is throwing a party for me — the surgery was a success.”

“That’s amazing! Er — will you be back for dinner though? It’s just that I leave soon and... two parties are better than one.”

She considered her for a long time, eyes mostly distracted by her hair slowly changing to a different colour.

“Sure. But I have to go now.”

“Right, sorry, have fun.”

Thudding down the stairs and the door clicking shut, she followed not too long after. Making her way to the kitchen, she picked up a dusty cooking book, blowing off the dust and cracked it open; flicking through the pages.

Deciding on the seemingly easy noodle dish, she rushed out of the house to the local grocery shop for ingredients. It would be the first time they would be spending any time together. It had to be perfect. But she overestimated that no matter how closely she stuck with the dishes’ instructions, the outcome was a disaster.

The noodles somehow were rock hard. The sauce she made looked grey and was chunky, similar to badly mixed concrete and it tasted horrid. At one point, even the stove exploded into flames as she had to grab her wand and use magic to extinguish the fire.

Potions... She could use a cauldron, use multiple ingredients, make some of the most complicated spells and even had tricks of her own to make the process easier but she couldn’t make a simple dish…

Her face screwed together as she glanced up to the clock; she was going to come home soon as the dinner she made was disastrous. She panicked, cleaning up everything in a rush and decided to order food.

Waiting patiently at the dinner table, her eyes fluttered up to the clock in anticipation. She felt giddy, a surge of excitement rattling throughout her bones at the prospect. Her mother wanted to spend time with her! And she should be home any minute.

But then a minute turned to two, then five, ten, twenty, thirty — then an hour ticked by.

And then another.

Y/N got up, her chair squeaking loudly. Losing all her appetite, she went to her room, sleeping in early.

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August 20th, 1976

Going through the potential NEWT courses she could take was the highlight of her day. The possibilities were endless.

Wanting to take Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfigurations and most of all, Potions, left her excited for the school year.

But the more she thought about the upcoming school year or potential courses, she was left to contemplate what ther5 future entailed.

Was she ready to give up magic? Something that fundamentally altered her life and moulded her into what she was? Magic was her essence, something she developed and nurtured — but to put her life in danger…

Rethinking that word again: home… Was London her home? Was she willing to leave, move again to be safer? But practicing magic around the world these days for New-Majs was dangerous. Or the potential danger she would put her mother in if she continued with it?

But magic… Maybe home wasn’t necessarily a place — but rather something she carried. In all sense, magic made her heart glow, feel warm, safe and happy — it felt like what home was supposed to feel like. And the idea of being ripped away from it, forcing herself to live a normal, Muggle life…

Magic was home.

So die, but have what she cared and loved most was by her side or live a dull life without magic — ensuring her life would be miserable.

There was a clicking of shoes in the hallway that snapped her out of her thoughts. Her mother came walking by.

Lips smushed shut into a tight line, still annoyed from the other night but was determined to spend some time with one another.

“I was planning to go to Diagon Alley for the first time — to get my textbooks... '' She stood awkwardly. “Do you want to come with me?”

“I can’t,” she replied, so quickly that it had Y/N almost scoff in disbelief. “Work. But have fun.”

She sighed but still waved her off and said a small, ‘I love you, stay safe.’ Her mother only gave her a look, something unreadable and left without a word. With a heavy heart, she grabbed her purse filled with gold and left for Diagon Alley.

Passing through the Leaky Cauldron was an adventure in itself. The shabby, tiny pub was jammed with wizards and witches zipping by.

Diagon Alley was bustling with so much magic she could feel it pumping through her blood. Students were hypnotized by the shiny new Firebolt on display; others were giggling, running around with shopping bags while older witches and wizards took a scroll. Her head turned in every direction; walking into the Apothecary, a potions ingredients and book shop.

Emmeline was there. She gave a tight-lipped smile which she returned.

Emmeline by every definition was nice, extremely kind and neither girl ever had a problem with the other. James was the problem and Y/N would gladly stay out of their feud.

Passing clamouring students, she managed to get all her supplies but stopped in front of the potion ingredients. She took a few minutes, flicking through the Advance Potions textbook and grabbed everything listed needed for most of the potions.

She made her way around Diagon Alley, going through many shops. The shelves were stacked high to the ceiling with books and materials. She spent more time than necessary there but it was beautiful.

As she was paying for her Herbology textbook, a large boom! rumbled the ground. Y/N took her bags, ready to sprint to the Leaky Cauldron but the shouts caught everyone’s attention.

“WE WILL NOT BURN WITH THEM!” A crowd of witches and wizards shouted. Their wands were transformed into microphones as a few shot fireballs up in the air.

“What’s happening?” A woman asked an old wizard. He only shook his head, grabbing a copy of the Daily Prophet, handing it to the witch.

On the front page, there were moving photos of people protesting, similar to the wizards and witches currently shouting.

‘Protests Break out in Light of Muggleborns and Halfbloods Burned Alive

Voldemort and his followers have been attacking Muggleborn and ‘blood traitor' families with the usage of fire. By burning them alive, or their houses. They bonded the witch or wizard with magic, making it impossible to apparate or leave their houses. Their broken wands were found at the scene.

Since then, protests all around Britain and Scotland have broken out. The Ministry of Magic —’

“WE WILL NOT BURN WITH THEM!” The crowd chanted.

Rage filled every inch of her body as she stomped out of Diagon Alley.

If she wanted to stay in the magical world, she had to be the greatest at whatever she did, because if she wasn’t, someone of her status was never going to get anywhere.

Magic was home, and she wasn’t going to let them take it from her. She didn’t want to surrender. They weren’t going to take that away from her.

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Immediately after Diagonal Alley, she began working; taking in her thoughts from earlier to heart.

Making sure to cover any windows from prying eyes, Y/N fiddle with first with new charms. Still unassured by her abilities in Charms, she considered taking another class before realizing all the different routes it led to. To become a Healer, Auror or Potioneer, she needed Charms.

Multiple charms backfired, causing them to ricochet off the walls, leaving a dent or chipping the wallpaper.

After trying out more than half the Charms in the book, there was one spell in particular that she attempted to cast many times, but without fail, was never able to properly cast it. Frustrated, her hand made a sharp flick and the spell spurted out instantly.

She tried again with the same hand gesture. To her astonishment, the charm produced easily. Quickly, she jotted down the note in her book.

Next, she glossed over her Transfigurations and Defense Against the Dark Arts book until her eyes caught onto the word: werewolf.

She learned briefly about werewolves, but that was in third year. And now that she knew a werewolf, it would be good to rehash it.

A werewolf, also known as a Lycanthrope, is a non-magical or magical being who transforms under the rising of the full moon. However, non-magical beings have a greater risk of dying rather than turning.

As the name suggests, werewolves are closely related to the non-magical animal, wolves. However, they have distinct characteristics that make them easily identifiable from wolves.

She flipped the page.

Wolfsbane flowers are poisonous to the non-magical world but it has been proven to have no effects on werewolves like they do on wolves. Werewolves are immune from the poison they emit and there are reports that Wolfsbane flowers help alleviate symptoms.

She underlined that section.

It’s a uniquely magical illness known to spread by saliva and blood. Werewolves are dangerous, blood-thirsty beasts — she flipped the page.

They cannot choose to transform and will no longer retain their human mind. Given the opportunity, they would slaughter their loved ones — flipped the page.

A mixture of powdered silver and dittany applied to bites help seal bite wounds. It’s also commonly put in liquid and digested in anticipation of full moons to help with the symptoms of transforming.

Y/N’s face scrunched as she continued to read.

There is no known cure Potion used to help treat lycanthropy.

She felt oddly intrusive knowing parts about Remus’ condition. But then questions arose. How were there no Potions of any kind there to help werewolves during their transformation?

Pushing the thought away, she turned to the cauldron, picking a potion to brew. They all were fairly easy, some she’d even done before just by playing around. But one potion that grabbed her attention was Draught of Living Death. Even at Ilvermorny, that potion was notoriously difficult.

Starting up the cauldron, she grabbed hold of the sopophorous bean. However, it kept jumping when she tried to cut it. She quickly resorted to another method, running down to her kitchen and grabbing the handheld garlic press, placing the bean inside, squishing it down as so much juice spurted out, even going all over her clothing.

The potion turned into the light lilac like suggested. But then as she stirred, her potion quickly became ruined as she restarted immediately.

Hours ticked by; several items in her room were Transfigured into cauldrons, as she poured the existing solution into the nine other cauldrons as she conducted her experiment.

Stirring counterclockwise was a sham, so she stirred clockwise. Nothing, the potion went bad. The next cauldron, she stirred counterclockwise and then clockwise, alternating between every stir. It showed promising progress before it turned a bright red after the seventh stir, bubbling over.

The next cauldron, she stirred counterclockwise, then clockwise after the seventh stir as the potion turned a pink pale. That’s what the book said would happen. She quickly cleared the rest of the cauldrons, pouring in the pink liquid just in case.

She continued to stir until it became a clear liquid. Surely, that was good enough but she could never be sure. After all, she didn’t know if this was what it was supposed to look like.

Deeply immersed, she hadn’t realized how late it got.

She laid on her bed, her light on as she read the scribbles on the margins of the books she'd penned. The textbook was outdated and everything she’s written down, there were easier ways to perform spells, create Potions and more. The other books must’ve been outdated too.

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August 22nd, 1976

Today, her attention was drawn to her Herbology textbook as she flipped right to the medicine section. Y/N had sneakily stolen a few of her mother’s medical journals as she scribbled down notes.

She flicked through the diagrams. Wizards and No-Majs were different when it came to their bodies and sickness, she knew that, but their anatomy was still the same.

An opera played in the background as she sat in front of the television. It filled the silence as her mother came from behind her, creeping her way closer to the door.

Y/N called out from where she sat. “Care to join me?”

“Can't, work.” She grunted out.

She placed the pen down, full attention drawn to her. “I only have a few days until school starts… you can’t spend some time?”

Her mom wasn’t looking at her, ostensibly staring at the floor, anywhere other than her face.

“It’s not that interesting, but um - I need help with medical terms and illnesses. You’re the best at that!”

“I can’t,” she said roughly. “Can't you see? You have to stop bothering me when I’m busy.” And then she left again, leaving her alone. Y/N would’ve been more bothered had she not been so focused on her studies.

There was a pattern.

In the Herbology textbook, in the werewolf section, there were a few ingredients used to help alleviate symptoms of Lycanthropy.

Dittany, Powered silver, Powdered Moonstone, Aconite…

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August 26th, 1976

“Do you want to —” “Work.”

“But you always have work… can’t you take some time off?”

“You know it’s important to me. Why do you keep trying to limit that?”

━━━━━━━━━༻☽༺━━━━━━━━━

August 29th, 1976

She was partially through her Potions and Charms textbook. It was all she could fixate on.

Deciding to take a break, Y/N went to stretch, getting up to talk to her mom who again, was getting ready to leave. She opened the honey-coloured wood draw close to the door. She pulled out a set of keys, fixing her appearance in a nearby mirror.

She had already opened the door.

“Hey mom, I was thinking of getting lunch… Will you be back soon?”

But, there was faint muffling outside the door.

“Ready for our date?”

Y/N, desperate, seized hold of her wrist, pleading. “Please, I leave in a day.”

“I'll make it up to you,” mom replied, “I promise.” And then, the door clicked shut.

Again.

She stared at the door, trying to regulate what she was thinking.

What made them worthy of her time when their’s were limited.

Robotically, Y/N turned to walk to her room, her hip bumped into the drawer which hadn’t been fully closed. Her eyes flew to it, about to push it in as she caught a flash of white.

Yanking it open, she swore her heart could’ve shattered. White envelopes filled the draw; her familiar handwriting scribbled on top of each letter. She picked one up, twisting it over to the flap.

It was unopened.

She picked up another. Unopened.

Then another. Unopened.

Unopened.

All of them were unopened, sealed. Hardly tampered with and there was hardly a wrinkle.

Was there something wrong with her? Something so disgraceful that made her so disgusting that people kept forgetting - pushing her away? Like an insidious disease.

Was she truly that unloveable? That much of a nuisance? What made someone else so much more important than her?

It was too much to process but if she had to describe the feeling, it was like drowning on dry land.

Whatever home was, it shouldn’t feel like this: cold, lonely, sad.

━━━━━━━━━༻☽༺━━━━━━━━━

【 Next Chapter 】

Slang dictionary (+ a bit of history bc i didn’t realize how many ppl didn’t actually understand what I was talking about in other chaps):

Coffee Crisp = a very popular chocolate bar sold in Canada. It was a variation of a treat made by a company from the UK. It was briefly introduced to the UK in the 60s but was pulled back because people thought it was too similar to Kit Kat. From what I know, Coffee Crisp is not commonly found in England (I've never seen it in stores) but it’s sold in Scotland.

Candy bar = US term for chocolate bar / chocolate

Grass = during the 60s - 70s, the term 'grass' was very popular slang for weed in New York bc it featured in vogue.

And yes, the British do drink that much tea.

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teawaffles · 3 years

Text

The Fugitives from the Fire: Chapter 2

As the driver urged the horses on, Lestrade got straight to the point.

“You know about the attack on the department store the other day?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yeah, it was all over the papers. It seems you were quite involved in this one?”

He’d said that with a slightly teasing tone, and Lestrade smiled wryly.

“You’re probably referring to the time I caught the men rushing out of the store, though strictly speaking, I can’t take credit for that……. Anyway, that’s not the issue here.”

“I bet, since the papers continued like this: ‘Bobbies make big blunder! The criminals they caught suddenly escape!’”

“…………”

Sherlock had said that in a rather grandiose way, and Lestrade’s expression turned grave.

“It’s exactly as you said…… Back then, various events led to half the criminals suffering burns. While they were being transported via carriage, one of the men began to show signs of distress, and the officer in the same carriage tried to render first aid. But the moment he did so, the criminal used that chance to flee.”

As he listened to the inspector’s story, a slight smile rose to Sherlock’s lips.

“What a kind public servant. But the papers said “criminals” with an ‘s’. It seems more than one person escaped, huh.”

Hearing that, Lestrade remained in a frown as he continued his explanation.

“……When that man fled the carriage, the other carriages behind it had to stop. Amid the chaos, another man also managed to escape. We did everything we could to track them down, but we ran out of time before we could find them. In the end, our ineptitude allowed two of the criminals to get away.”

Lestrade had said that last line with a pained look. To that, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and simply hummed in acknowledgement. Due to an act of carelessness, two of the criminals they’d worked so hard to arrest had escaped: certainly, this was a pressing situation. But the parties involved were clearly doing some soul-searching, so there was no need for an outside party to reproach them any more than necessary.

Therefore, anticipating how the events from here on would play out, Sherlock expressed his own view on the situation.

“However, after an arduous search, the Yard managed to pinpoint the fugitives’ location. But before you could arrest them, something happened, and you all had no choice but to request my help…… Something like that?”

The detective’s powers of deduction left Lestrade completely astounded.

“I don’t know if I should be amazed, or whether I should’ve expected this…… Anyway, you’re right — but the search didn’t lead us to their location. This morning, we suddenly got an anonymous tip-off on where they were hiding. Officers have already been sent to the scene.”

“A tip-off? ……Hmm.”

Sherlock seemed to have taken a slight interest in that word, but he promptly urged the inspector to continue.

“The tip-off said that the two fugitives seemed to be working together; when the officers arrived at the specified location, it appears they quickly found and apprehended one of the men. But they couldn’t find the other fugitive, so right now, they’re interrogating the man they arrested about the location of his accomplice.”

Lestrade’s tone had been solemn. After nodding a few times, Sherlock shot him a question.

“You kept saying things like ‘seemed’ and ‘appears’; so, you haven’t been to the scene yet?”

“At the time, I was at headquarters. After receiving all kinds of reports, I sent my subordinate officers down to the scene first, and paid a visit to 221B to seek your help.”

Sherlock nodded firmly.

“Both fugitives were in the same place, but one was immediately discovered, while the other remains at large. Could it be that he just wasn’t there when the officers raided the place?”

“That’s one possibility, but we also don’t know his exact appearance. As I said earlier, the first man to escape had burn injuries up to his face, so he was wrapped in bandages to avoid exposing his wounds to the air. As such, we don’t even have a rough idea of his features. Nonetheless, the man who escaped afterward didn’t have any obvious injuries, so it appears we’ve found him in the area we were searching this time.”

“In other words, the one who got arrested was the one who took advantage of the chaos to escape……. But from what you said, he’s still being questioned at the place where he was caught, isn’t he? Why didn’t they take him to the station right away?”

“A valid point, but the place the fugitives chose to hide is a little troublesome.”

Lestrade grimaced as he’d said that, and Sherlock gazed at the townscape that sped past the carriage window. From those clues, he could tell where their carriage was heading.

“I see. The East End?”

As he’d predicted, Lestrade nodded gravely.

“It’s a dreadful place, located further into the slums.”

“A right bother, that is. Though, after the Jack the Ripper case, I thought you’d both managed to reach a compromise.”

A cynical smile rose to Sherlock’s face.

The case of the phantom serial killer that rocked Britain had, in the end, been resolved after both Scotland Yard and the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee joined forces. In reality, that had been an outcome orchestrated from behind the scenes by the Lord of Crime — though Sherlock was still keeping that fact to himself.

At the detective’s words, Lestrade shook his head in regret.

“About that: we’ve continued to cooperate with one another, but there’s still a sense of mutual hostility. Of course, there are those who have resolved to trust us, but the overall wariness towards the officers who patrol the borough just can’t be eliminated.”

The police, who worked to maintain public order, and the residents of the slums, which were a hotbed of crime: it was inevitable that friction would ensue between them. There would be some within the rookery who were abetting the criminals, and perhaps an innkeeper who was harbouring them in exchange for money.

In such a place, there was a good chance that while one of the criminals was taken to the police station, the other would end up getting away. Hence, it was necessary to elicit the other fugitive’s location from his accomplice right at the scene.

From that, Sherlock could understand why they didn’t even have the leeway to wait for John to return. In all likelihood, the officers at the scene were presently awaiting their arrival; on top of that, there would be a hostile crowd surrounding the policemen, making it dangerous to keep them waiting. As such, it was imperative to solve the case and leave as soon as they could, before any unnecessary trouble was stirred up.

Once he’d understood the predicament the Yard was in, Sherlock spoke up with a smile.

“I’m well aware this is an emergency. So you want me to be present at the interrogation, and use the information obtained to find the other fugitive as fast as possible.”

“Exactly. Thank you for catching my meaning so quickly……. Though, it is a little different from the mysteries you love.”

Lestrade looked a little pained as he said that, and Sherlock cocked his head slightly, as if he was in thought.

“Certainly, it doesn’t sound like the kind of case I’d go out of my way to pursue…… But from my experience, the simpler a case looks, the less easily it gets resolved. I might just find an interesting ‘riddle’ here, so for now, I’ll just go along with you.”

As the conversation reached a pause, the carriage stopped in a street within the slums, and the two men promptly got off. Since the path up ahead was both narrow and complicated, it seemed they would travel the rest of the way on foot.

At present, it was just past noon. But in this warren-like district, it was dark enough that it seemed as though dusk had already fallen. Glancing left and right, they could see vagrants sitting listlessly by the roadside, as well as children clothed in dirty garments. Occasionally, a horrid smell would assault the very depths of their nostrils, and something bitter would rise up from the pits of their stomachs.

This place was almost hopelessly uninhabitable. As that hollow thought surfaced in Lestrade’s mind, in complete contrast, Sherlock’s expression remained unchanged as he continued walking.

“It’s always a labyrinth here, huh. I know some guys who’re familiar with this place — why don’t we get them to show us the way? Though, we might get ripped off for a fair bit of money.”

As Sherlock made that proposal, the intelligent grins of the Baker Street Irregulars came to mind — but Lestrade promptly turned it down.

“It’s alright: I know the way. It should be just a little further up——”

Breaking off mid-sentence, Lestrade stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes fixed forward. Puzzled, Sherlock followed the inspector’s gaze — and he, too, froze where he stood.

“……Is it, that?”

Lestrade did not answer.

Before their eyes, behind a row of derelict buildings, a plume of black smoke billowed. At the same time, they noticed a faint smell of soot permeating the air.

“No way…… You’ve got to be kidding me.”

All the colour had drained from Lestrade’s face, and the moment he mumbled that, he broke into a sprint. Sherlock too felt an uneasy premonition; gnashing his teeth, he rushed to chase after him.

The two men arrived at their destination in less than a minute, but it seemed they were still too late.

As Lestrade stood stock-still, before his eyes, the building they were supposed to conduct the interrogation in had been engulfed in flames.

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #the girl who sees rainbows

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writing-on-the-wahl · 3 years

Text

Writing Snippet #5

Queen of the Harvest

*Vibe check: I listened to Warriors by Imagine Dragons while creating this one*

—————————————

Her city was surrounded.

The new queen sat on her throne, fingers brushing the oval sapphire hanging against her forehead as her advisors argued about what was to be done. Her golden hair stood in stark contrast to the dark wood of the throne, gleaming just as deeply as the the gilded heads of wheat carved into the back and sides of the chair.

She dropped her hand back into her lap.

“Could they not have waited for the mourning period to be over?”

Her quiet words brought a crashing halt to the debate.

“Your Majesty—” the Master of the Markets cautiously broke the silence, hands clutching the skirts of her dress.

But the young queen held up a hand. “There is no point going down that path, I know.” She turned to the old grizzled soldier standing near the throne.

“Master of the Watch?”

“Yes, my queen?”

“How many men do we have within the city walls?”

“Less than six hundred, Your Majesty.”

“Against how many?”

“At least five thousand, Your Majesty.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

“I thought Prince Raiiyn was busy attacking the Southwest border. Is that not why we sent nearly our entire army to repel him? And yet, somehow he is here, in the heart of our land?” She looked around the room, her slender brows raised in question.

“Your Majesty, the Crimson Prince is indeed at the border with part of his army. It is one of his generals that now beats at our door.”

“How much food and water do with have within the city walls?”

The Master of the Silos stepped forward. “Enough to feed our people for over a year.”

“If we use the seed intended for planting,” muttered the Master of the Planting.

The Master of the Silos ignored this remark. “But with last year’s drought... the harvest did not yield much. Now that you are queen and the rains have returned, the wells should be...” he trailed off at the raw sorrow upon the queen’s face.

He bowed low, fingers to his brow. “Forgive me.”

The queen offered a small nod and pushed her grief away. “How long would it take our army to return?”

The Master of the Watch shrugged hopelessly. “If they could disengage without being pursued by the Crimson Prince?” His tone suggested just how likely that was. “Ten days? Twelve? The cavalry could be here in three days, but that would leave our army weak, and 400 horsemen would do little against the army camped outside our gates.”

“They have little by way of supplies. Our people took every scrap of food they could when they retreated to the city. We can try to wait them out. The odds of them breaching the gate—”

“Maing Soundolung!” The doors of the hall burst open and a soldier rushed forward.

“Maing Soundolung!” He gasped out as he bowed, fingers to his brow.

Her eyes narrowed in concern. He was addressing her not as the nation’s queen, but as ruler of the harvest. It was the first time the honorific had been used since the sapphire had been placed upon her. Something was very wrong.

“The southern gate is on fire.”

The queen pushed off the arms of her chair and rose to her feet. The entire council bowed, fingers to brows, as she strode through their midst and out the doors. The hall opened up directly onto the hill overlooking the colorful city, which was bathed in the light of the setting sun. In front of her, smoke billowed from the distant wall, flickers of red and orange gleaming through the haze.

She walked across the stone landing until her bare feet rested on the grassy slope that led down to the city proper. Silence reigned as she closed her eyes and felt the earth.

Finally, she spoke.

“The roots are half an inch long. Master of the Fields?”

“They can handle some rain, but not much.”

“Master of the Planting?”

“We have enough seed to replant nearly three quarters of the fields, but that leaves us nothing for next year.”

Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath. “Then we will pray it is enough.” The council bowed their heads as one.

Then she slowly lifted her hands from her sides, raising them towards the heavens. Black clouds formed on the horizon and drew closer as her hands continued to rise. Soon the sun was blocked by the dark boiling clouds.

Her palms touched above her head, and the skies opened. Rain poured down.

Water dropped from her lashes as she lowered her palms until her fingertips rested against the sapphire that adorned her brow.

She kept her eyes fixed on the angry flames that fought against the downpour.

They must have used oil.

“Signal for the guards to abandon the southern wall and have the townspeople retreat to the northern quarter.”

The advisors eyed one another but hastened to obey. A horn rang out in four quick bursts.

When the answering horn replied that all was clear, she split her hands. The rains slowed as she raised her right fist to the clouds and stretched her left down to the earth.

“Can you aim that carefully, Maing Soundolung?” The Master of the Market asked hopefully.

“I can try.” she replied, her quiet voice grim but determined.

In one swift motion, she spread her fingers wide. Thunder shook the air as bursts of lighting split the sky, striking the ground beyond the southern wall in angry streaks of light and power. The thunder rolled unceasingly as lighting struck again and again.

Rain streamed down her arms and dropped off her chin, but the Queen of the Harvest did not cease until a horn blast signaled that the enemy was retreating.

As her arms fell weakly to her sides, the air stilled and the clouds began to retreat.

The council stood, frozen in awe, as the queen looked out at the scorched strip of earth between her city and the vast enemy encampment.

To the right, a brilliant sunset had turned the sky blood-red. A sign of what was to come if she followed this path.

“How fast can you get a message to our army?” She said, voice steady but eyes wide as she took in the destruction.

“Our fastest messenger bird could be there by tomorrow. Are you going to call for the cavalry?”

“No. That would only result in a slaughter.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I’m going to surrender.”

—————————————

She raised her hands to ward off the building protests. “I cannot fend off their attacks indefinitely without destroying the crops, and neither can our army keep the prince’s force at bay forever. If they take the city by force, they will show no mercy. If I surrender, I can negotiate the terms.” She swallowed, then continued. “He does not want this war to drag on either. They want to rule over Zea because they have no good soil of their own. They rely on our harvest as much as we do. He will accept—”

“You cannot negotiate with that monster!”

The queen turned her head to look at the Master of the Fields. “He is a prince, a not a monster.”

“The Crimson Prince is a demon!”

“Prince Raiiyn is a Tyger. If heightened senses and reflexes make someone a demon, then what does that make me?”

She gestured to the burnt earth behind her.

Her advisors did not speak, but the soldier who’d first brought word of the attack stepped forward. “It makes you Cerelia: Soundolung, Queen of the Harvest, Singer of Storms, Protector of Zea.”

He bowed, one hand to his brow, the other raised as if to touch hers. As he straightened, his burning eyes met hers. “It makes you our queen.”

She inclined her head, touching her sapphire, symbol of her role and conduit for her power. “Then as your queen, I must do what I can to protect our people. From starvation and enemy soldiers alike.”

“Your Majesty,” the old Master of the Watch was regarding her with sorrowful respect. “Surrender... you know the cost?”

She turned back towards the hall, where the doors still sat open, the last light of the day casting streams of light on the throne of gilded wheat.

“I know the cost.”

#queen #fantasy #short story #surrounded #surrender #queen of the harvest #snippet #my writing #writeblr #writing #crimson prince #prince #hero x villain

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softcallofdutyimagines · 3 years

Text

Off to the Races | AU: Gangsters/Casino | Russel Adler x fem!reader

Summary: You were born for the stage. A natural dancer with all of your youth used for experience, you now find yourself as a showgirl in one of Vegas' top casinos, the SunDowner. Owned by, Russell Adler, a notorious gangster in the underworld who remains undercover to the public eye, business is booming. Doubly so when a mysterious promotion comes your way, launching you to the top stage...

Just when you thought your life couldn't get more interesting, just how crazy will things get when the old gangster handpicks you from one crazy life to another, to keep for himself?

Tags: Gangster Au, age difference

Warnings: This fic has no explicit smut or anything, but WILL contain some overtly sexual themes and suggestive content, strong language, and age difference bc y'all know me 😪 So reader beware!

Y'all thought I was joking with this post huh lol

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You’d be surprised how much that little mantra has gotten you through.

Tonight, it comes in handy once more.

You scurry into place on stage, surrounded by an array of women around your age in exactly similar costumes. Glittering, skin tight leotards, sky high heels to pop out some ass, sheer mesh sections to show a little skin, and long, billowing feather accents mounted on your back and head for God knows what.

It’s your first night doing a showgirl routine at the infamous SunDowner casino, right here in shiny, shimmering Sin City itself. You’re one of three acts going on at the same time, all on different floors of the building. Your performance is taking place in the middle floor stage where the least amount of people are likely to see you, just in case you turn out to be a waste of a contract.

You take a look around you. The other women seem so confident… That, or they’re damn good at pretending. Makes sense, you think to yourself, everyone and their mother is a damn actor in this town. It’s all an act... When Shakespeare said “All the world’s a stage”, you doubt this is what he had in mind.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker booms, announcing the start of the show. The lights power on over head, blindingly bright as some oldie style song starts up. Something for the oldsters, no doubt. But then again… aren’t you too?

The curtains shoot to the side on the beat and you can feel yourself pulled into auto pilot. You’ve practiced this dance so many times, it’s like second nature by now. So you dance. You parade around, covered in glitter and somehow managing to not break your neck in these heels while you strut around and roll your hips and shake your ass for some drunk old men with all fourteen of the other women beside you doing exactly the same thing.

And while you preform... Somewhere, way way up on the top floor, Russell Adler, owner of this whole joint and a couple city blocks to boot, returns to his office after taking a walk through the gambling pits. He’s caught two hustlers tonight alone, both of which were dealt with… severely.

The Sundowner doesn’t take kindly to thieves, and neither does he.

He dips into a side room within the office space behind a covertly placed door into a soundproof room. Adler switches on the lights and takes a seat in front of a huge stack of tv monitors. He pours himself a glass of whiskey, and watches the live feed from his many surveillance cameras. These are to keep an eye on his dealers and pit bosses rather than the customers, contrary to what most may think.

Can’t be too careful in this line of business, after all.

The room is silent except for the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the large oak desk. He’s not one for glitz and garish glamour, but he is never without his four favorite rings.

They adorn his right hand, all made of polished platinum. Three are made in the shape of a thin, wound coil with some decorative knurling along the surface in a trapezoidal pattern, getting slightly thicker in size right up to the crown piece on his index finger. The largest ring features the hissing head of a viper with inset eyes made of two black diamonds.

Each ring is easily worth several thousand dollars, and not even close to the most expensive item on his person tonight, let alone in his wardrobe.

His eyes shift from left to right, scanning each screen quickly and judiciously as he taps and sips. For a moment, he lands on the showgirl performance. The quality of entertainment and the establishment itself is every bit as important as making sure everyone else stays in line and on their side of the house rules.

Adler checks the camera marker and notes that these are the new hires. Whatever he sees, he’ll make sure to cut them some slack.

Some.

One girl stumbles a bit, right there on stage. She’s out. Another girl brushes against the one beside her. Out. Then, towards the finale, two girls jump out of sync with the rest. He shakes his head and sighs. Where the fuck are his people getting these girls from?

He takes note of the ones he wants gone, then manages to swallow his frustration and watch the wrap up. Things end to light applause and before the curtain closes he taps a key on his board of switches to pause the feed. He counts up the dancers and take notes of each girl personally.

You know… Throughout that entire shit show, if memory serves, there was only one girl who hit all the marks.

Adler rewinds the feed and focuses on you in particular. He follows your every step and leap. Watching every move, studying every turn…

He was right. Perfect, throughout the whole routine. He reaches for his red phone and calls up the man in charge of the girl shows.

“Who’s the one in position seven, middle stage show?”

There’s a moment of silence and a rustling of paper before the other man replies with your full name, a little bit of your credentials, and the date of your hiring. “Something wrong sir?”

“Yes, send positions three, ten, eight, and twelve home. We have standards, for God’s sake”

“Of course sir-”

“And as for seven… I want her performing top stage next time”

More silence, and then a tentative, “...Yes sir”

Adler clicks the phone into the receiver and takes the last sip of his drink. Hmp, lucky number seven… His gaze lingers on you and your supple body only a moment longer. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip... then goes back to the rest of his cameras.

He’ll be interested to see if you can rise to the task he’s gifted to you.

When the last of your shows ends, you and the rest of the girls head back to the dressing room one more time tonight to get changed out of these contraptions they have you wearing. A stern looking man bursts into the room unannounced, he calls out four girls and sends them packing with no explanation given. His beady eyes scan the room and land on you, nearly giving you a heart attack as you brace to be cut as well.

“And you, seven… You’re performing in the VIP lounge next week. Don’t fuck this up”

And just like that, he leaves as quickly as he came, slamming the door behind him. The other girls turn to congratulate you, some bitterly, while you’re left reeling.

Playing the top floor, the “VIP lounge” is… huge.

Some girls perform here their whole lives and never get to see it. You’ve even heard that they hire foreign professionals, just to meet up to their standards. Up there you can make tips on top of your salary. Well, only for... private dances or pole shows, but still…

You go home that night wondering how such a thing is even possible, but soon decide to shake it off. Who cares how, all that matters is that the chance has come.

And you plan to rise to the occasion.

You spend your next two days off practicing and limbering up both with the other VIP dancers and on your own. Most of the women keep to themselves and you can tell they’re a bit resentful of your presence.

There’s no question about it, you’re the youngest one here and by default the least experienced. What gives you the right to be instantly promoted like that? If only you yourself knew.

Regardless, your first performance on the top floor is here before you know it. And things go… Fairly well, to be honest.

The routine is complex, but you can tell it’s been slowed down to give you a chance. The stage is bigger, the makeup more colorful, the costumes more revealing, and the lights brighter, and yet... you feel right at home. The nervousness has worn off by now and you’re a rising star on the stage.

After a few nights of proving yourself, you’re even hired for some private dances and given a chance on the pole.

The cash pool you take home gets bigger and bigger every night, and so does your audience.

But, for all the eyes on you, there’s one strange pair that bothers you the most…

You’re working a routine with the other girls tonight. The leading girl is out with a sprained ankle, so tonight you were given the honor to dance as the Primadona, front and center on the stage. You twirl and strut up to the front, the women behind you backing you up and mirroring your moves. They continue to spin and clear space in a geometric formation to give you room as you perform the finishing stunt.

With a deep breath of air, you perform an impressive high kick on the crescendo beat that transitions into a backwards somersault and ends in a split at center stage.

A roar of applause and whistles comes from the crowd of wealthy men and women watching you.

All except one.

You lock eyes with a lone gentleman sitting front and center at a round booth table in the dimly lit room. He takes a long drag on his cigarette and even behind his dark aviators you can feel his eyes on you. As though to confirm your suspicions, he lowers the glasses to the bridge of his nose, exhaling a plume of smoke as he stares directly into your irises.

He brings his cigarette back for another hit, the small flame highlighting a horrible looking scar that goes the length of his cheek, and as the curtain falls, his creased, glowing blue eyes are the last you see of him.

The truth is… Adler’s had his eyes on you ever since that first night on the cameras. Tonight, he came down just to see your show in person. You’re just as good as you are on camera. Perhaps, even better.

No... definitely better.

He’s been reviewing your track record as of late. You took ballet lessons ever since you were just four years old. Won several awards for dances and even some state level beauty pageants. Joined the dance club at your highschool and got a scholarship from it to put you through college. You’re trained classically, but it would appear the only jobs you’ve ever gotten are clubs, bars, and casinos just like this one.

Adler smirks to himself, thinking of your pretty young face as he takes another drag. Maybe you're not as innocent as you seem.

He can work with that...

#SFJKSJSLJ I CAN'T BELIVE I'M DOING THIS 😭😭#SOMEONE COME GET ME #don't read this y'all lmao #black ops cold war #call of duty #russell adler #russell adler x reader #gangster au

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waking-dreams-of-harmony · 3 years

Text

The Last Dragon

Below the read more I've posted 7 very small sections of a fic that is based on this beautiful and tragic fanvid. I got literal chills watching it. If you wanna sob over our queen and her son wanting to avenge his mother, give it a watch.

I don't think I'll ever go any further, as my writing had an unfortunate run in with a brick wall, which then toppled over it and crushed any urge to write the next bit.

It's not too terrible--though it could actually be total shit, I'm not known for my writing 😂--and it was just gonna gather dust on my laptop, so figured I might as well post it. This was one of my ways of dealing with that fucked up last season within the framework of the show. I dont believe this is Dany's end, and I loathe with every fiber of my being what happened to her and her found family. And after seeing that video, the idea of Drogon doing everything he could to avenge the mother he loved more than anything appealed to that anger inside me. So I'll understand if this isnt for everyone ❤

Chapter 1

Mother.

He flies, great black wings carrying them away.

Mother.

Sharp, massive claws curl in gently. Protectively.

Mother is gone.

The cold creeps, burning against his scales the way fire never has.

Mother don’t leave.

A whisper on the wind calls to him.

Mother it hurts.

East, it sighs. It smells of smoke, and fire. Hope.

He follows, wings beating faster.

They took you.

The rage flares, searing away the cold.

They killed you.

The heat of it bursts within him, scaled skin shaking with the strength of it.

Fire and blood.

Jaws stretch wide, and the air burns red with grief.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 2

The sky bleeds red from the dying sun when Drogon reaches Volantis. The whisper that drew him there stops as he lands on an open balcony.

A woman stands before him, black hair and red robes flying up in the gust of wind from his wings. His claw gently opens, Mother’s cold body slowly sliding onto the hard stone.

Crimson, mournful eyes watch the red woman kneel by Mother, pale fingers hovering over her, not touching, for a long moment.

“I cannot bring her back, Drogon,” she murmurs, regretful.

He throws his head back, bellows fury and sadness into the sky. No, Mother, come back. I am alone.

A faint brush at the back of his mind--where Mother used to be, his brothers, the thoughts they shared together--grasps his attention. Makes him look back down at the red woman.

“I cannot give you back Daenerys Targaryen, but I can give you something else.”

His nostrils flair, and his head moves closer.

“I can give you the revenge you desire. As it stands, you may be able to raze the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, turn it all to ash, but that would not be what your mother wanted.”

Drogon growls, lips pulled up in a snarl. Sheep. All are sheep. Betrayed Mother. Killed Mother. No mercy.

She nods her head. Comprehends what he is unable to say out loud.

“Yes, they all betrayed Daenerys, took from her and killed her when her visions grew too great for their small minds. They could not grasp that the Mother of Dragons was above all a breaker of chains. She would have freed us all.”

She pauses, then continues, her voice hard. “They need to be punished. And they will be. But Daenerys’ dreams must be realized. Dragon’s Bay must remain free. The Dothraki cannot return to what they were, raping and pillaging. And the petty lords of Westeros must be laid low. Those who destroyed Daenerys must see their reigns come to an end not only by dragon fire, but by the unification of the people they have ground into the dust, unified against them.”

“A dragon has the power to do great things, but to lead men, to lead armies, that is the one thing you cannot do, Drogon. Not as you are. You must be more. And by the Lord of Light’s grace, you can become exactly what the people need.”

Drogon rumbles in frustration, steam billowing from between his sharp, clenched teeth. He doesn’t understand.

“Human, Drogon. You must become human.”

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 3

They take Mother, to clean her, he is told. Remove the dagger, her clothes. Wash the blood away.

The red woman directs him to fly from the balcony, down into an open courtyard below. A large fire pit rages with a towering flame. It warms him, feels like Mother’s hand caressing his scales.

Dragons cannot cry. A mournful moan makes his great neck tremble. Human. Perhaps he can cry when he is human.

People in red robes enter the courtyard, one after another, until they circle around Drogon. His tail twitches. Their closeness agitates him.

The red woman appears, crossing the circle to stand in front of the fire. Hatred fills him when he sees what is in her hands. The dagger stained with Mother’s blood. Coward. The coward’s dagger.

“I am sorry Drogon. It is a necessary piece of the ritual. Soon,” she soothes, “you will have all you need to begin your campaign against the traitors.”

Another voice brushes against that same place in his mind. That lonely place where Mother, Rhaegal, and Viserion once lived. Soon, it too promises.

The red woman turns her head, scans the other acolytes before catching Drogon’s eyes.

“Let us begin.”

Voices hum together in chant, and the sky is filled with an agonized roar.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 4

Drogon.

He groans.

Drogon, my love.

Everything hurts.

You cannot sleep forever, my beautiful boy.

He moves his head slightly. Cringes at the sharp pain.

Wake up, Drogon.

Mother? Why does everything hurt so much?

It’s time.

The voice begins to fade. He reaches out a hand, slowly, to make it stay, and freezes. He has a hand. A human hand.

Fingers curl into his palm, and the nails scratch against his skin, bite into it. His legs scrape against the stone as he slowly stretches out one, then the other.

He can still feel the fire to the side of him; it feels heavier, pressing on his skin but it does not hurt his flesh.

What burns more painfully is the missing weight of his wings. No flight for him now.

Cold fingers brush his shoulder, curve sharply to hold him when he recoils.

“Drogon?”

He doesn’t like to be held, or touched, no one but Mother, and his brothers, but they are gone. Gone, gone, gone…

“Drogon! It is only me, Kinvara!” The voice finally penetrates, and he stops pulling away.

Allowing for her help, he rolls carefully onto his back. Sharp pebbles dig into his skin. No scales to protect him anymore.

He feels her fingers move to his face, tracing the human features. “Open your eyes Drogon. See what the Lord of Light has gifted to you.”

Gift? No gift. Just more pain. Weakness. But he opens his eyes. The fire from the pit is soothing, warm. Warmer than...before. Would it burn him? His hand flinches towards it but he’s not close enough to touch.

He turns his eyes toward Kinvara. She is smiling, eyes reflecting the fire’s light.

She waves a hand towards an acolyte. “Bring me a robe. We must cover our dragon prince.”

Red cloth is laid over him, and two other acolytes help Drogon to sit. They hold him up as the other wraps the robe around him more securely.

Drogon grits his teeth, blood rushing angry and hot.

He tries to talk, mouth struggling to form the human words. “W-We—” He growls, tries again. “W-Weak.”

“For now,” she says. “But you will grow stronger, I promise you.”

Drogon struggles to stay awake, but bone deep exhaustion pulls at him, and his frustration wanes as he slips into slumber.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 5

Four moons pass before Drogon is ready to set sail for Meereen. He was like a hatchling again, unsteady, vulnerable, and he hated it. Kinvara and her priests taught him the ways of his new body, how to eat and walk, to read their words.

Coarse fabric to wear instead of steely scales.

But now it is time. Time to search out Grey Worm. Daario. The Unsullied and Dothraki. Train with them and become stronger. Much stronger.

He knew how to fight as a dragon. Armies and castles were nothing against the heat of his fire. He must learn how to wage war as humans do.

Wrapped in a red cloak, hood hanging low over his face, Drogon is ready to begin.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 6

They are waiting for him at the dock after the sun has set, Grey Worm and Mother’s sellsword, two silent figures who do not move, do not speak until Drogon stands before them.

Daario breaks the silence first. “Drogon?”

He pulls back his hood, unnaturally crimson eyes in a human face flashing in the near dark.

Daario sucks in a breath, then huffs out a laugh. “If the red priests had not sent word ahead, I may not have believed it. But by the gods, here you stand.” He reaches out an arm for Drogon to clasp.

He does so, hesitantly, but with a firm grip. Human greetings still puzzle him.

Grey Worm steps closer then kneels, bows his head bowed, fist pressed against his chest. “Ñuha dārilaros. Bisy qringaomatan īlva dāria. Īlon emagon ossēntan se nāpāstre skoriot pōnta iōrtan (My prince. This one failed our Queen. We should have killed the traitors where they stood.).”

Drogon does not know if he is asking for forgiveness or absolution.

Dragons have no real concept of forgiveness. He should be angry the traitors were allowed to live. But Grey Worm is kin, as the little scribe had been. Mother’s old bear too, and the white-haired knight. Everyone who had been under Mother’s protection, had been under her children’s protection as well. And would continue to be.

“Rise, Grey Worm.” His voice is rough and sharp edged, and it seems to startle the two men to hear him speak. “Those that hurt Mother, that used her and took her life will be punished as they deserve. But I need your help. So rise. Let us repay them with fire and blood. For Mother. For Missandei. For them all.”

He holds out a hand, waits.

Grey Worm looks up, eyes bright with unshed tears. His lips tremble, then firm. He takes Drogon’s hand.

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

Chapter 7

They convene in Mother’s chambers, the map room he would never have been able to fit in before almost cavernous to him now.

Spread out around the table, the three men pull together a plan as they look down at the map.

First, they will weed out the opposition in Essos, solidify their hold in the east. Astapor, Yunkai, they will all come to heel, every slave freed. They would be as clever as Mother had been, keep the number of innocents lost as low as they could. Drogon would prefer to burn through the Good Masters, snap them up and tear them apart, but for Mother, he would be patient, and take the slower path. All the slavers would still die, and their victims would live, and live free.

But for what Drogon had planned, he needed steel in place of claws, armor instead of dragonhide. He needed Grey Worm and Daario to make him as fearsome as a human as he’d been as a dragon. And that would take time.

He ground his blunted teeth together; he hated waiting. Hated it. But let the traitors think they were safe for a while longer. It would be all the sweeter when he ripped that feeling of safety away, just as they ripped Mother away from him. His brothers. His home.

They would feel his pain. And then they would feel nothing at all.

#daenerys targaryen #drogon #mother of dragons #got au #team targaryen #team daenerys #daenerys appreciation #drogon appreciation #my fic #my moodboard

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gallickingun · 4 years

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last chance || b.k.

SUMMARY: After All Might’s demise at the hands of an unlikely hero-turned-villain, the world unfurls into chaos. Villains run rampant, heroes are dying in the streets, and you are left with a rowdy group of renegades to seek out the legendary Ground Zero, a vigilante that you’ve only encountered through ghost stories. After narrowing down his sightings to one central location, you are sent out to beseech him for help, if he even truly exists in the first place.

PAIRING: Apocalyptic Pro Hero!Bakugou x Renegade!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: language, violence, smut, etc. WORD COUNT: 7.3k+

FOREWORD: For all intents and purposes, we’re going to pretend that All Might hasn’t lost his power, even after handing it off to Deku!

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

Author’s Note: This is my submission for the bnharem nsfw collab, apocalypse edition! I was shocked that I was able to snag Bakugou on my first round of collaboration, and I’m so stoked to read all of the other fics! The masterlist can be found HERE. This might feel a little OOC, but hopefully it makes sense by the end. It is an AU after all.

“The Symbol of Peace is dead.”

You pull the bandana further up around your mouth and nose, the ash in the air seeping into your lungs, clouding your vision as the debris strains your breathing. Your ankles ache, mile after mile threatening to grind your bones to dust.

“It would seem we never knew the true power of All Might’s quirk, now known as One for All.”

A thickness swells up in your throat, your eyes blurring with tears, and yet you keep walking. You push through the thickets of overgrown foliage, slashing away with the machete you usually keep tucked against your hip. Crying will do nothing to help you, not now. Tears are for the weak.

“He had passed on his power to a successor, a young student named Midoriya Izuku.”

The darkness of night helps to hide you from those who want you slain where you stand. Your black clothing keeps you but a shadow amongst the trees, concealing your identity to anyone who might gaze upon the horizon. Even though you are alone, your mission keeps you company.

“The young boy became an amazing Pro Hero, climbing the charts quite fast once graduating from Yuuei High. And then, something happened.”

You grit your teeth when you see your destination ahead – a large cliff, covered in moss and dense, lush kudzu. There is a cave carved into the side of it, hardly able to be seen from the distance with which you are currently separated from it. And yet, you’ve been dreaming about this place for years, ever since the overture.

“It would seem that young Midoriya Izuku, also known as Deku, has killed the Symbol of Peace.

All Might is dead.”

The weight of the world settles on your shoulders at the memory of the news broadcast. It is like this new path you’ve gone down has formed you into some sort of Atlas, a woman in charge of holding the world together from the shadows, as if it may fall apart if you falter for even the slightest of moments. Your knees ache and your back is slick with sweat, but somehow you manage to shoulder the burden and keep walking, galaxies treading in your wake.

After all, finding Ground Zero is your responsibility.

“We need him.”

You brush your hair from your eyes, looking down at the map strewn out in tatters on the tabletop, “No one has seen him, not really. He’s practically a myth, a legend. Even if he’s real, what makes you think he’ll help us?”

The redhead beside you slams his fists together, the echoing sound of stone impacting stone reverberating in the room. You wince at the sharpness of it, but combined with the determined expression rooted within his features, you feel a renewed sense of purpose settled into your spine. You straighten up, curling your hands to fists, and match his manifestation of conviction with a grit of your teeth and tilt of your head.

“You’re right, Kirishima,” you point to the central location on the map, the one you’ve been investigating for what feels like years, “Ground Zero will be there. And I’m going to convince him to help us.”

The stone bites into your blunt nails, drawing blood that makes it even more difficult to scale the side of the structure. You knew this would come, so the makeshift climbing gear strapped to your waist keeps you secure as you continue to lower yourself down.

At the mouth of the cave, you see a small overhang, just far enough past the opening for you to land. Once you’ve gotten close enough that you know you won’t fall to your death into whatever disastrous demise may greet you thousands of feet below, you drop onto the ledge. Your knees wobble, ankles turned at just the right angle that they absorb most of your fall.

The opening of the cavern is dark; ominous smoke leaking from the front of it, furling around in midair. Your body shudders, a chill sending a fresh wave of goosebumps over your skin, and for a moment you wonder if you should retreat.

Kirishima’s crimson eyes, hard set and piercing, are all you can see when you close your eyes. His voice rings in your ears, reminding you that this is what you must do, you have to find Ground Zero. He is the only one capable of taking down Deku.

You swallow, bracing your spine and curling your fists, forcing yourself to take the first step forward. There is a curtain of vines separating the inside of the cave from you. You reach forward, curling your fingers around the thick, verdant tendrils, and push them to the sides so you may walk through.

Every single nerve within your body vibrates with the knowledge that you may die here in this cave, alone and forgotten. Your lower lip wobbles, but you stamp down the negative emotions and rather channel them into something akin to confidence. Once you’ve passed through to the other side, you release the vines and find yourself shrouded in darkness.

It takes a moment, but your eyes adjust eventually. You can make out the walls of the cave, glistening and jagged, and you use the reach of your arms to press against the rocky surface, guiding yourself further down the winding path. It is strange when you feel a substance much more powdery beneath your touch, and when you pull your hand away to smell it, the scent reminds you of soot.

Sweat rolls down your spine, tickling your skin, but you do not have the patience nor the ability to redirect your attention to it, for fear of what might happen when you refocus to something less important. You hold your breath, trying to listen as best you can for any and all sounds echoing within the walls of the cave, but all you hear is quiet.

Your imagination begins to wander as you take each step, furthering the horrific ends you’ve conjured up for yourself within the confines of your mind. The chill of the cave in tandem with your sweat creates steam from your body, rising high and bringing forth a bout of humidity that gives your lungs more difficulty.

Turning a corner, you feel the air begin to get warmer. You force yourself to take short breaths, bringing oxygen to flow back through your blood as it rushes through you, thundering in your ears. The sound does little to quell the panic rising in your throat, like a billow of smoke suffocating you as it rolls through your body.

Fear grips your heart when you hear the first sound.

You stop, turning your feet in case you need to bolt in the opposite direction. Your eyes are widened, pupils dilated in the dark to try and accommodate. It does not repeat itself, but rather alters, when you hear it again.

“Tch.”

The human-like nature of the sound brings about a whole new level of anxiety, lightning strikes underneath your skin as reality settles in. You lick at your lips, the dryness of your mouth ever present when you prepare yourself for a speech. You continue down the cave pathway, the faint glow of orange beginning to color the walls, giving you more light to see your feet in front of you.

Eventually you are able to stumble through the cavern on your own now, without the guide of your hands on the rock on either side of you. Shallow breaths fill your lungs, erratic breathing making your shoulders shake in anticipation. You lick at the seams of your gums, begging your mind to call forth a beautiful string of words that will convince this legendary vigilante to once again rise up, with the backing of your renegade fighters, to take down the villainous once-hero Deku.

You come up on the furthermost part of the cave, the base of it opening up and rounding out to provide the hideaway with a spacious enough cavity to serve as a living space.

Your eyes are drawn to every inch of the room, starting with the wall where weapons are strung up like trophies. Chiseled into the stone are hollows in the shape of guns and knives and grenades, acting like shelving for the tools of destruction. Beneath it is the fire pit, burning high with flames, licking up at the air and peeling away what little oxygen remains. You find it harder to breathe here, mostly in part to the depth of the cave and the ongoing fire, stealing the breath from your very lungs.

Then your eyes find him, his back to you, settled on a log that will most likely be used for firewood at a later date. Your tongue feels like a sandbag in your mouth and you can’t force yourself to produce enough saliva to make up for the smoke in your throat.

And then he rises.

He is every bit as beautiful as they said he would be in all of the stories. Tales of bulging muscle and tall stature, hands that save the world with each flex of his knuckles, scars littering his body like a map, or like veins of pain running through slabs of chiseled marble.

He turns, and his eyes seem familiar.

You take a hesitant step forward, captivate by his serious stare. The rivulets of crimson and amber swirling in his irises make you want to drown in a lake of fire, burned at the stake for the sake of his cause. Your body cannot resist him, so you draw closer, further into the heat, begging yourself to become a slave to it so long as it means you can continue to find him in the flames.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You are fumbling for words when he speaks again, “You’re wasting my time, baka. I’m not sure what about the sight of a secluded, secret cave gave you the idea to waltz in here like you own the damned place, but I’m kind of busy. So leave.”

The way your eyes roam around his abode, settling on each small space and dissecting it for everything that it is worth, unsettles him. He steps closer to you, blocking your vision with his wide shoulders.

“It doesn’t look like you’re very busy.”

The words are blurted from your mouth with little forethought, but they have you both reeling, your hands slapped over your lips as if you could take them back with simple action. The man stood in front of you shifts into some sort of attack position, hands curled into fists and the air begins to smell sickly sweet.

“Fucking bitch,” he bites the words as they exit his teeth, narrowing his eyes to you until they are but slits, “Get the hell out!”

“No, no!” You are flailing now, the impending doom of your failure to bring him back with you turning your stomach into knots. You shake your head, reaching out to press your hands to his chest, “Listen, please, you are Ground Zero, are you not?”

The sound of his own name echoing in the cave gives him pause. He tilts his head, ashen locks falling over his line of sight. You notice his head is buzzed at the base, nothing but blonde stubble left behind, however the top of his head is covered with pale locks of spike hair, as if he himself is a bomb ready to be blown at all times.

“I don’t know who the hell told you where to find me, but I’m not the guy you’re looking for.” He smacks your hands away with the back of his wrist, turning to stalk back to the fire. Once he settles on his stump again, he pulls another skewer of meat from a pack off to the side, rotating it over the fire to begin roasting it.

All you can think is how much of a let down this entire trip has been. You have walked for miles, for days, in order to hunt him down. You have hidden in jungles and abandoned buildings, and almost been caught by several villains with quirks you almost could not overpower on your own.

“Kirishima spoke so highly of you,” your voice is faraway, like you are on another plane of existence, looking down on him from above, “I thought you’d be more heroic than this.”

At the sound of your friend’s name, the man’s head tilts, eyes shifting as he looks over his shoulder at you, “Kirishima? Eijirou?”

“Y-You know Kiri?”

You take a cautious step forward, unsure of whether he believes Kirishima to be a friend or a foe. His eyes are lost, somewhere between here and there, unable to focus on any one thing as he rolls the name around on his tongue, tasting the distant memories there while they play out against the cavern walls for only his eyes to see.

“Kirishima was my-” he pauses, gritting his teeth together as his knuckles turn white around the skewer, “…he was my friend.”

The man stands to his feet, discarding the half-cooked slab of meat into the fire, “If Kirishima sent you, then things must be bad.”

You nod, striding forward until you are just close enough that his body heat is intoxicating, and the scent from earlier, the one that makes your head spin with saccharine promises, fills your nostrils until you cannot make out anything else.

“We need your help,” you say, voice wavering in the middle, “Deku has started to search for every hero, every renegade, and he’s murdering them. I came to bring you back to the rest of those who are still fighting. You are a legend, if we have your help, there’s no way we’ll lose.”

A wry smirk adorns his mouth, quirking his lips upward, “Kid, I don’t know who told you I was a legend, or that I’d be of any help, but I’m out here for a reason.”

“Just come back with me,” you plead, resisting the desire to wrap your fists around his tank and pull, “we need you.”

There is a hesitant look in his vermilion irises, something that tells you he is still hiding something. But, he straightens his spine anyway, a deep breath puffing out his chest, “I always did like to kick Deku’s ass.”

You cannot contain the beaming smile on your face, even when you turn on your heels to begin walking out of the cave and back to the light.

Which keeps you from seeing the dejected look in his eyes.

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

Weeks of planning the perfect attack have brought you and Ground Zero closer.

Although now you know him as Bakugou Katsuki.

When he first reunited with Kirishima, and his presence was made known to your rag-tag team, you were shaken at the realization that legends are people too. Even in his vigilante times, Bakugou still held that same spark that lit his flame throughout the duration of his time at Yuuei, much of which he spent with Kirishima by his side.

“Holy shit, man!” Kirishima reaches around his shoulders for a hug, which Bakugou hardly reciprocates, “I can’t believe Ground Zero is you!”

There are moments where you catch his gaze lingering on you – when you are cooking dinner, when you chop firewood – and of course your eyes find him too. He trains shirtless most of the time, body on display as the sweat rolls down his body. His knuckles are bruised and his body is battered, and yet he continues to get up every day and start all over again.

You do note that you have not seen him use his quirk, not since he arrived at your renegade hideaway. It seems to be in reverie of everything going on, but from what you remember, Bakugou Katsuki was not a shy man, never one to keep himself from the spotlight. It is why he is the only one who pushed himself hard enough to compete with Deku, and to stay as his rival.

When you ask Kirishima, he just shrugs it off, “He probably doesn’t want any attention. Would you, if you felt like you had run away when the world needed another hero?”

So you co-exist. He near you, and you near him. Always orbiting, but never colliding.

There are times where you allow your affections to slip. When you’re passing him by, a gentle palm on his hip to alert him of your presence. When he reaches above you to pull a weapon off the shelf, his hand finds purchase at the base of your spine, as if steadying himself even though he is one of the sturdiest men you have ever seen.

There is a moment, a drunken haze, that leads you to believe he might even kiss you, however it is gone before it has the ability to flower into anything more.

Time passes, months that feel like years, of tracking and sleuthing and killing. There is murder on both sides, and you have both suffered losses.

One night he finds you, sitting on the beach, your tears glittering like starlight on your cheeks.

“This is war,” he says, squatting in the sand, “none of us is innocent.”

You sniffle, rubbing your arm against your face to rid it of your transgressions, “And what about those who want to be?”

Bakugou reaches forward, a careful palm gliding over your cheek as a new bout of tears springs forth like a leak. You can’t see the sad smile on his face through your tears, your vision glassy and clouded, and he is thankful that you cannot spot his weakness. He brushes the tears away and turns your head with the gentle flick of his wrist, “We’ll get there when we get there.”

You want to crumble, to falter and fall into a million shards of glass, and he knows this. He must, because there’s no way that the pressure of the lives of the rest of the world does not eat away at one’s soul until there is nothing but barren earth left. You circle your hand around his wrist, leaning your cheek into his palm so you can feel the heat of him and find comfort in his touch.

“What if we never get there?”

You can’t look at him, not when your scars are on display. Your heart wrenches in your chest and the pain is like a thousand cuts littered across your body until you are nothing but bleeding wounds. In your mind, you’ve succumbed to the sea of red, drowning in it, choking on it.

Bakugou does a strange thing then. He presses his other palm to your waist, drawing you forward so he can kiss the smooth skin of your forehead, “Don’t be an idiot.”

And then he turns to leave.

Your forehead burns like a blister with the echo of his affections.

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

The time finally comes.

After months of research and loss, there is a plan.

“We know where he’s hiding,” Kirishima points to a central location on the map, releasing a breath as he looks up to Bakugou, “the guards will change shift at midnight, and that’s when you’ll attack. We’ll be on the ground to distract any other, smaller threats, but we’re counting on you to take him down in the end.”

Bakugou shoves Kirishima, but he falters himself, eyes unable to focus on any one thing, “I know, idiot. You didn’t bring me all the way out here to take my victory from me.”

You smile at the scene, catching his gaze as he turns to look back at the rest of the room. There is a crack in his armor when he sees you, confidence melting into something else, another emotion you can’t quite pin down. And you’re not sure if you really want to.

The rest of the meeting is all logistics, something you have already heard a dozen times, so you find yourself wandering along the coastline, the night air washing like a balm over you, sea salt in your lungs when you breathe. Your feet are barely in the water, but enough for it to lap up around your ankles with foam when the waves crest to shore. You hold yourself around the middle, as if you might be able to keep your broken pieces from shattering if you squeeze tightly enough.

Tears of salt match that of the ocean as the droplets roll down your cheeks, hanging on your jaw until they are too weighty, and then they fall into the seawater, melded together as if they belong. Your fingers ache, digging into your biceps to give yourself some sort of anchor while you watch the moon and stars shift in the night sky.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The words are reminiscent of the first time you met, all those months ago. They make you smile, a gentle huff of a laugh escaping your lips, even if the gesture does not quite reach your eyes. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, arms still wrapped around your torso, the jagged edges of your soul sinking in deeper the more you try to hide your faltering pieces.

“Thinking,” you answer quietly, soft voice almost overwhelmed by the waves.

Bakugou is drawn in closer, as if you are the sea, a siren calling to him from the beyond, and he strides forward until he is parallel with you. His eyes watch the waves, but the pull is to you, and he can only resist for so long.

“It’s just Deku,” he is trying to reassure you, reaching out to rest his palm on your neck, sifting fingers through the hair at the nape of it. “I won’t lose to him, not again.”

This brings your attention to his eyes, your body turning so you can approach him head-on, fear wracking your body like a storm. You gaze up at him, jaw quivering under the stress of your teeth grinding against one another, “Why did he do it?”

His hand glides from your neck to your jaw, tilting your eyes upward so you cannot look away from him, in spite of how difficult this conversation might be to have. He has not spoken of his childhood rival for what feels like an eternity; airing out his burdened confessions is but a foreign concept. He would rather keep them bottled away within the cage of his ribs, until the poison slowly dredges through his veins and he can fall away into some deep sleep brought on by death.

“No one could have expected it,” Bakugou starts, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as he speaks, like the ministrations may give him the groundwork to have the conversation, “but One for All had too many wielders, had grown too powerful. Deku’s body couldn’t contain it and still stay sane.”

Bakugou looks frustrated, his brow tugged so his forehead wrinkles. You reach up to brush your thumb over the creased skin, “I’ve heard the stories. That the call to power was too strong, and he never told anyone because he was afraid of being weak.”

“Izuku has never been weak.”

His voice is ragged, as if glass has been lodged into his throat to inhibit his speech. Bakugou turns his head so you cannot see the emotion welling up in his eyes, “All Might should have seen it, but by the time he caught it, Deku had already gone mad. He snapped All Might’s neck on live television, the fucking bastard.”

The heaviness of the situation sits on your shoulders and you wonder if Bakugou has ever felt the burden of Atlas; you recall the significant burden weighing you down when you were first sent to retrieve him. Your mortal body wanted to crumble beneath the importance of your mission, you can’t even begin to fathom the overwhelming guilt he must be riddled with every day from the moment he wakes until he falls asleep.

“Then he came after the rest of us, one-by-one. Todoroki was next, then Uraraka.” Bakugou swallows the thick, pent-up emotion settled in his throat like barbed wire. He steels his gaze, even though it is only focused on the moon. “Kirishima was able to take a group of heroes and hide out when Deku came for me.”

You recall the fight like a movie playing on the backs of your eyelids. Bakugou and Deku fighting head to head, lightning and explosions igniting the swirling storm the unfurled around them. Pouring rain and debris flying, small tornados brought on by the use of Deku’s quirk, destroying the nearby buildings until there was nothing left.

Bakugou’s voice is heady, hands fallen from your face as if he no longer deserves to touch you. He takes a step backward, the roaring of the ocean giving him a pause, as if he were listening to the water for some sort of encouragement to continue his tale, to keep fighting.

You can’t help but wonder if losing the proverbial fight against Deku has tarnished his soul much deeper than he would ever admit, if his body has been at war with itself for years, unable to choose a side, unable to relent.

“I fought him for what felt like hours. Whatever One for All had done to him, corrupted his mind, broken his spirit,” Bakugou shakes his head, a snarl on his lips, “that wasn’t Deku that I was fighting. That was someone else.”

His breath hitches, “I-I’m not sure what the fuck possessed him to do what he did next, but he took-”

Bakugou’s throat bobs and his eyes flit from you to the water, unable to look at you in the face as he gnaws on his lower lip. The words must be too harsh, a pain running much further than skin deep. You know that his soul must be bruised, the very core of him broken beyond recognition.

“Took what, Katsuki?” you ask gently, reaching to tug his chin back so he is looking down at you, “You can tell me.”

Bakugou’s breathing is labored, quick, a mixture of frustration and anguish pressing down on his throat like a pair of hands, encasing his esophagus in a tight grip. He shakes his head, “He, uh- he let me go.”

It sounds disingenuous coming from his mouth, as if he’s forcing a lie through his teeth, his voice grating against his gums like metal. You reach out to touch his arm, but he sloughs you off with a quick movement, taking a step and pushing you further. Tears glisten in his eyes, but he does not let them fall; he cannot lose the battle with his body too. He looks up to the moon and lets loose a feral growl, crumbling to his knees and digging his hands into the wet sand, like tearing into it might provide him some sort of release.

“And then I tucked my fucking tail and I ran. Like a goddamn coward.” Bakugou’s jaw is rippling when he snaps his attention to you, eyes ablaze with red fire, “And that’s the hero you all claim to have needed. I wasn’t a hero, I was a fucking pussy. I was weak.”

Bakugou rises from the water, a murderous glare in his eyes, “And now I’m done being weak. I’m going to finish what I couldn’t before, I’m going to kill the bastard.”

You have let him vent his personal failures into the air, but now it is your turn to speak. Circling your fingers around his wrists, you pull yourself closer to him, as if the two of you are bound by an invisible thread.

“You’re not going alone,” you tell him, voice sure. You stand rooted in the ground, feet dug deep in the sand, “I won’t let you.”

He rolls his eyes, blowing a breath out of his nose, “And you think I’ll let you? No fucking way.”

The words sit on your tongue, burning like embers, syllables you’ve been stoking for months as you’ve grown closer to him. Your body rises up on your toes on instinct alone, eyelashes fluttering shut as you take him in one last time. You grit your teeth and a breath shudders from your lungs, shattering your heart like glass.

Your fingers traipse up his torso, climbing over the mounds of muscle that he has worked so hard to perfect. You feel the heat of tears well up in the back of your eyes, your vision blurred as you try to memorize everything about him in the short time you have left. When your palms reach his cheeks, fingertips dancing against warm, tanned skin, you can’t help but to tug yourself closer.

He can barely protest before you have melded your mouth to his, arching your back so your chest is flush with the broad plane of muscle in front of you. Bakugou hesitates, but just as you are about to pull away and profusely apologize, his arms snake around your waist to yank you closer. Your hips roll into his reflexively, finding the hardened length of his cock almost instantly.

Bakugou’s kiss is bruising, a heated ferocity driving him forward to part your lips at the seams, delving his tongue between your teeth at the first chance he receives. You moan at his affections, your hands threading through his hair, pinkies finding the stubble of his undercut while the others sift between blonde locks.

Tears are pushed from your eyelids, and he feels them against his cheeks as he kisses you. Bakugou slips his hands under the thin fabric of your tattered shirt, warmth spreading from the base of your spine outward to every extremity.

“I won’t lose you,” you manage between breaths, forcing the words out despite the possibility of his rejection.

Bakugou does not stop loitering affection over you like it were his job just because you show a moment of vulnerability. Rather, he’s spurred on by the admission, his hands digging deeper into your muscles now, most likely leaving bruises in their wake, and his teeth and tongue are merciless on your mouth.

The palms of his hands slowly drift down until he has cupped your thighs, his body folded just enough to give him a better angle to pull you up into the air. You hold in a squeal, unwilling to alert the rest of the camp, quickly wrapping your legs around his waist.

He breaks the kiss as oxygen begs his airways to open up once more, heaving breaths making his chest expand with sharp inhales. Through gasping breaths, he shakes his head, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You’re not sure how best to beg him to take you for all you’re worth here on the beach, but somehow you must silently communicate it, because he finds a secluded place and lays you down there, your back dug into the ground, but you are rather uncaring to it all. Your hands can’t find enough of him, insatiable in your efforts to map him out to memory, burning the impression of him into your mind so you may never lose him, even if something tragic were to part the two of you forever.

Bakugou’s fingers make quick work of the button of your shorts, delving his hand inside to brush at the bare folds of your core, already slick with arousal. He chuckles, nudging his nose over your neck, “Prepared for this, were you?”

A laugh is cut short by a whine, his teeth sinking into your jugular, sucking harshly on the skin there. Your hands find his shoulders, blunt nails bludgeoning the skin of his shoulders so he is seething into your body, curses flying from his lips as if they might brand your flesh if he whispers them hotly enough.

You whimper his name as he sheathes his fingers within you, two knuckles stretching your inner walls, scissored fingers making you throw your head back. Your body does not feel like your own, every wanton moan and twitch of your muscles in response to his salacious ministrations, reactions that you cannot fight, even if you wanted to.

Giving in, you reach down desperately, clawing your nails at the waistband of his cargo pants, uncaring as to how you get your palm underneath his underwear. Bakugou uses the hand not buried in your pussy to grab you by the wrist, pinning your hand over your head.

“You’re a needy little slut, hah?” Bakugou tightens his grip and speeds up his pace, earning him a wriggle from your body as you try to fight back. He smirks, teeth and gums on full display as he glowers down at you, “Don’t you worry, baby, I’m gonna give you my cock. Be patient.”

You whine in response, tilting your head to try and capture his lips again. Bakugou finds you halfway, his mouth parted so you can begin mapping out the curves of his teeth with your tongue. You kiss him as if your life may depend on it, like the time you are sharing may end at any moment.

You kiss him like he may die tomorrow.

There is fervor and passion and admiration conveyed with each smacking of your lips, your noses brushing when you try to angle yourselves to become closer. All the while, his middle and fourth fingers are working you forward into the throws of pleasure, lightning striking your core whenever his fingers brush up against your glutinous walls in just the right manner.

“Katsuki, please,” you beg of him, dragging your nails over the corded muscle of his shoulders. You can feel yourself slipping already, the impending doom of what is to come giving your body more urgency.

Bakugou growls when he feels your cunt clamp around his fingers, the thought of his cock within your tight hole making him dick twitch. You buck up when the head of his length brushes your thigh in his arousal, seeking him out despite the fullness you already feel from his digits pumping up into your heat.

Your whole body is shaking with the threat of your impending orgasm on the horizon, brought on by his disastrous fingers urging you forward. You cry out for him, wanton and begging as you pant his name repeatedly, rocking your hips with the rhythm of his fingers. Bakugou’s eyes roam your body as he leans back from you, gaze immediately drawn to the bounce of your plush chest. With each thrust of his fingers, your body quivers, and he knows he won’t be able to last apart from you for much longer, regardless.

As his fingers slowly peel from you, a whine tears your chest wide open. Tears drip down over your cheeks, a mixture of emotion and erotica giving the sound much more conviction. Bakugou feels the reverberations of your voice in his chest, stirring him to brush your silken slick along the length of his cock, pumping his shaft a few times before repositioning himself above you.

Bakugou rolls his wrist so the tip of his dick butterflies your pussy lips. You pant at the exhilaration of it all, your cunt fluttering as he pulls himself away from you only to bring it all back. His teasing strokes make your head spin, eyes barely able to peel open to look up at him. Your tongue lolls out of your mouth, and Bakugou leans forward to tug the muscle between his teeth, earning him an animalistic howl from the back of your throat.

The plea from you gives him the last push he needs to rut forward and claim you in one fatal stroke.

Your hands sink into him like hooks, eyes screwed shut as he starts to suck on your tongue. Bakugou’s breath spills over you like a wash of heat, sending a shudder down your spine. He uses his hands to grip you by the thighs, yanking you closer so your hips are flush as he sinks all the way into you all over again.

“Ka-” you can barely make a sound with the way his mouth has destroyed yours, suffocating you until you are lightheaded with the thought of him. As you struggle beneath him, Bakugou releases you in favor of leaning back to watch as his cock separates your walls and fills your cunt until it stretches to fit his thick girth.

You are a blubbering mess the moment he allows you space to breathe. Your hands can’t find enough of him to paint with your touch, nails dragging thin, angry red lines into his thighs, and your throat only knows how to say his name.

“Good girl,” he chuckles, watching you come undone beneath him, “I can’t wait to feel you come all over my cock.”

His dick is rutting into you at an impeccable pace, the tip of his cock brushing against your walls as he twitches from your tight pussy. Bakugou digs his fingers into the skin of your thighs, likely bruising them with the intensity of his grip, pushing your knees back until they are pressed against your chest so he can fuck into you from above.

You lick your lips, thin rivulets of drool seeping out of the corners of your mouth, “Please, Bakugou, I-I wanna come.”

The desire to rip your arousal from you until you cannot speak in full sentences gives him a fiery drive, his hips slamming into your ass as filthy words fall from his lips. You can feel his cock bottoming out within your cunt, thickening with each stroke of his hips as he grows closer to the end himself. You beg for his spend, for him to coat you until you are dripping with his seed, the mixture of your arousal and his pre seeping from your lips and furthering the wet sounds that echo whenever his balls slap against your ass.

“You wanna come on my cock, yeah?” he asks, voice dithering the longer he’s within you. You are begging him now, your back arched forward so you can seek him out with wide eyes and pleading palms. He soaks in the affections, your hands on his face and in his hair, your lips finding purchase on whatever part of his body you can reach.

A snarl makes his throat shake and, if possible, he rips into your even further, growling voice speaking into your ear as you fall back against the ground at the sheer force of his hips, “Then fucking come, slut.”

His words are all you need to push you into the next plane of existence, where a shattering orgasm racks your body. You convulse around his cock, the newfound tightness as you milk your own release pushing him over the crest as well. He drives his cock as deep into you as he can, your hips flush at the juxtaposition of your sex as he spurts up into your core. You feel the heat of his release, the twitch of his cock, and your limbs grow numb from effort.

Bakugou leans forward so he is balancing himself on his forearms, nosing over the swell of your chest and the column of your neck, small, chaste kisses littered over your skin like stars. He sighs, nudging your collarbone, “You’re not coming with me tomorrow. I won’t lose you too.”

Your heart sings at his admission, and your spirit wants to argue, but when he kisses you again, you can’t find it within yourself to tell him otherwise.

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

“All right, man,” Kirishima claps him on the back, leaning against the brick wall of the alleyway.

You can tell that there is much more he wants to say, but Bakugou has never had much patience for any sort of sappy confession, so all that passes between them is a nod of understanding. You, on the other hand, are careless in your affection, launching yourself forward to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him full on the mouth, uncaring for the onlookers unbeknownst to your time together.

When you pull away, there are tears in your eyes, but you force the words between your teeth regardless, “Don’t die on me.”

Bakugou’s eyes are sad, holding such a dark color in his usually bright irises, “A real hero always comes out on top, no matter what.”

Usually it is said with much conviction, but this time, it sounds like he is trying to convince himself more so than anyone else. Your hands palm over his face, committing him to memory one last time before he turns his back to you, headed towards the end of the line, unknowing as to which side he may end up on this time.

As soon as he steps out onto the pavement, he’s greeted with the familiar laughter of an old friend.

“Oi, Kacchan. It’s been too long.”

Your heart leaps into your throat and Kirishima has to hold you back, hidden away in the shadows. You look at him over your shoulder, eyes blown wide as your pupils swallow your irises, “H-He was supposed to be alone.”

The look in Kirishima’s eyes is haunting, a desolate gaze turned on his best friend. He tightens his jaw and breathes heavily through his nostrils, an answer never given as he watches on in horror at the scene in front of him unfolding.

“I thought I told you to get lost,” Deku speaks, voice confusingly innocent despite the feral look in his eyes. A cackle parts his lips and you’ve never seen Bakugou this quiet during a fight, “But, then again, wouldn’t a fight between the All Mighty Deku and a Quirkless Kacchan be entertaining?”

Your whole world turns sideways.

Bakugou’s words from the very beginning replay on loop in your mind as your breathing corrupts your own lungs, shattered and shaking as your body coats itself in sweat.

His breath hitches, “I-I’m not sure what the fuck possessed him to do what he did next, but he took-”

“Took what, Katsuki?” you ask gently, reaching to tug his chin back so he is looking down at you, “You can tell me.”

Bakugou Katsuki is quirkless.

Now more than ever you want to dart out into the street, to throw yourself down like a sacrificial lamb for the slaughter. Whatever it takes to keep Katsuki safe. Tears blur your vision and anger scars your heart, marring up the organ until you cannot feel it beating within your own chest.

Bakugou turns his head, vermilion eyes seeking you out in the darkness of the alleyway. He smiles, for the first time in full, and offers you one final look at his body completely intact before he returns his gaze to his childhood rival, hands turning to fists at his sides as he gets into his fighting position.

“So pathetic, Kacchan.” Deku looks Bakugou in the eyes as he ignites his quirk, green lightning dancing around as a storm begins to brew.

He holds up his hands, palms open-faced as his skin crackles, the sweet smell of saccharine turning to ash in the air. Colors of orange and yellow cast frightening shadows along the length of the street, a familiar power exploding on the cusp of Deku’s fingers.

“And now you die.”

a/n: i don’t think that went how anyone thought it would! it’s a lot different from anything i’ve ever done, and i’m not fully happy with it. but thank you for reading, if you got this far!!

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #bnha x reader #bnha smut #morgan writes bnha #my writing #bnharem #server collab #bnharem server collab

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 3 years

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Trinkets, Rings, 3: Enough rings and bands to wear three on every finger and toe while still having dozens to spare. Rings, especially magic rings are a very common item of jewelry in fiction and roleplaying. From a basic ring of protection, to the life saving ring of regeneration, the ring of the Nibelungs, the rings of the lantern corps, the ring of Gyges, any wedding ring ever depicted, the ring of Solomon, Sir Perceval’s ring, Aladdin’s genie housing ring, the nine rings of mortal men and the precious one ring of power, these small circular pieces of gems, metal, wood or bone always add more to the story than the sum of their parts. None of these rings are intensely magical in their own right but can serve as basis for a magical or plot relevant ring. When a DM rolls a d100, the bog standard ring of protection +1 they were going to give out now has a unique look and personality rather than just a mechanical benefit.

A big heavy ring made of sterling silver. On the face of the ring is a skull the size of a large man’s thumb, run through with a lance and a flag fluttering around it. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize the sigil as that of the Mad Lancer’s an infamous cavalry unit that was a force of nature as much as a military company.

An onyx ring set with a shimmering opal, from which a thin line of black smoke continuously billows forth.

A shinning brass signet ring that proudly displays a raised fist against a red starburst. Knowledge PC's will recognize the sigil as the symbol of a paladin order known as the Boros Legion. There's a weight to it that belies its size, a weight of strength and of pride.

A cheap-looking tin ring that has a small dial adorned with letters of the alphabet that can be aligned with various strange pictographs. Knowledgeable PC's will recognize it as a decoder ring and can be used to decipher texts that were written using this specific ring or a twin of it.

A ring comprised of two interlocking bands, one gold engraved with a motifs of laughing faces and the other granite with a motif of faces set in stony silence.

A lead ring bearing engravings of an otherworldly entity spreading its unnatural gifts.

Ring of Fire Detection: A pure white ring set with a transparent red gemstone. The gemstone will light up and emit a piercing sound if the ring comes into direct contact with fire, magical or otherwise.

A simple black ring is polished to a shine, and written in gold lettering around the outer band is the phrase "I am better off healed than I ever was unbroken."

A crudely made gold ring set with a huge green gemstone that glows faintly even in full daylight.

An iron ring set with a dark ruby of great size and splendor. Within its heart flickers a mysterious flame, entrapped there in ages past by a masterful mage.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

An onyx ring set with a shimmering opal, from which a thin line of black smoke continuously billows forth.

A ring comprised of two interlocking bands, one gold engraved with a motifs of laughing faces and the other granite with a motif of faces set in stony silence.

A lead ring bearing engravings of an otherworldly entity spreading its unnatural gifts.

A simple black ring is polished to a shine, and written in gold lettering around the outer band is the phrase "I am better off healed than I ever was unbroken."

A crudely made gold ring set with a huge green gemstone that glows faintly even in full daylight.

An iron ring set with a dark ruby of great size and splendor. Within its heart flickers a mysterious flame, entrapped there in ages past by a masterful mage.

A thin ring made of two intertwining strands of silver and gold, both ornate and simple in appearance.

A silver ring in the shape of a spider whose legs clasp around the wearer’s finger and whose body is a yellowish gem.

An unassuming copper ring clean and shiny like a new penny, it has dozens of smiling faces faintly carved into its surface.

A silver ring with golden ram's horns curling around the edge of its crown.

A bog iron ring with a poem in Druidic on the inside.

An onyx ring. When tapped three times, a faint blue light shows the symbol of an assassin’s guild.

A pair of black iron body piercing rings, with a chain linking them.

A copper ring with a small clear gem that shimmers slightly even in the dark. It is badly crafted with scuffs and scratches along the loop and yet there is something quaint about it that suggests more value than the first impression would suggest.

A silver banded ring with a single white gem encased in the center. Etched into the surface are ancient glyphs, binding its power to an individual to be used as a focus. The head of the ring is a flat surface which is adorned with an intricate ritualistic circle design.

A lavender ring with a cosmic gemstone faceted into it. The gem moves and glows like outer space, and has a spiral vortex pattern along its edges.

An iron signet ring whose symbol can be changed once per day by the bearer. The image must be something the bearer has seen and remembers clearly.

A crystalline ring in the shape of a dragon, that changes based on the bearer’s emotional state.

A gold ring whose Randomly Colored gemstone levitates just out of the socket, following wherever the ring goes.

A platinum ring that has a large blue sapphire embedded in the band. When the bearer looks into the stone, he can see a perfect reflection of himself that appears to have a life all of its own. Engraved on the inside of the band one can see a message that reads; "Never lose sight of your true self".

A single human tooth encased in a brass ring, inscribed with a twin-tailed comet. Knowledge PC’s will recognize it as a holy reliquary of a relatively famous prophet and devout follower of the God of the Outer Stars.

An oxidized copper ring etched with ancient hieroglyphs that tell a timeless fable.

A brass ring set with an oversized, round brown bezoar for a gemstone. Extremely ugly, by modern standards.

A heavy silver ring with a flat, round head. A cap lifts off the top, revealing a folded-down needle, which may be lifted into place, and the markings of a sundial around it. None of the marks, all twiggy, natural shapes, correspond to modern notation, save the fact there are 12.

A ruby ring, heavy, plain, and gold, set with a fat, badly cut ruby that's entirely stuck on a finger bone. In modern times, it would be a man’s thumb ring, though an ugly one. The band surrounds a thick finger bone and won’t come off (But could be chiseled out) as the knuckles are knobby and too wide. The bone is fragile with age, and conspicuously blackened.

A signet ring, quite wide, made of cast iron. The signet face is that of a beaked skull, one halfway between that of a human and a crow. The ring is too wide for a human to wear and seems to have been designed for a finger twice that size.

A horrific black ring that turns translucent when submerged in a water and uncoils into a slippery, leech-like tentacle when unworn.

A wide, red brass ring, that's plain, on the exterior. There is lettering inside the band, raised and sharp. If worn on a clenched fist, the lettering digs painfully into its finger, leaving the word "memento" imprinted in red welts.

A mithral ring, engraved with a pattern of rolling waves that encircles the entire band. The ring is immune to rust, both from natural oxidation and rust caused by magical effects.

A steel ring that carries the sign of an armorers’ guild: a stylized helmet with visor, two crossed swords and the rune “A” engraved beneath them.

A lapis colored gemstone embedded into a ring that is stylized with the alchemical symbol of a circle inside a square, inside a triangle, inside another circle.

A mysterious ring; ancient, covered in runes. After spending some minutes sniffing, touching, and examining the thing, the bearer can safely say it exudes an aura of magic. When worn is makes the bearer's hairs stand on end and sparks jump between the metal and his fingers.

A ring carved from a single solid gemstone that glows with an inner light and pulses with its wielder’s heartbeat.

A simple pale stone that sits atop a plain steel band, flickering every so often with unknown power.

A simple gold band studded with blue diamonds. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize it as a ring of office for the Grand Vizier, the highest advisor to a great rajah.

Ring of Bubbles: A delicate ring made of multicolored glass. When this ring is held between two fingers and dipped it into a solution of soap and water, a creature can blow through it to produce dozens of fist sized, glowing, technicolor bubbles which are difficult to pop and last for up to a minute.

Ring of the Firebuilder: A ring made of worked flint. When struck with a piece of steel, it sheds sparks that are able to ignite objects as normal. The sparks created from the ring never harm the bearer, who gains Advantage on igniting objects with the ring.

A ring crafted of simple silver. The band is etched with different letters from all languages of the realms, some unrecognizable to any living person.

A thickly banded ring made of black steel. It sits heavy on the bearer's finger never feeling fully comfortable.

A sapphire banded in gold with a loop of string around it to go around the bearer's neck. The inside of the gem appears to be filled with flowing water that swirls and sloshes magnificently inside the sapphire.

A pewter ring with an inlaid gold band that slowly rotates.

A band of tarnished silver bearing no ornament or inscription, but is icy cold to the touch. The patches of dark corrosion on the ring subtly move and change. This never occurs while anyone observes the ring, but happens constantly.

A gold ring shaped in the form of a manacle, uncomfortably tight regardless of how it's worn.

A brass band in the shape of a dragon’s claw, scuffed and tarnished with age and frequent use.

A ring made from woven lead and silver.

A brass ring, set with rubies and engraved with fire runes, holds a lens of orange-red crystal that has an esoteric circle lightly etched in the glass.

A ring of silver green mithril engraved with runes from the enchantment school of magic. Though plain looking, the edges of the band are decorated with an intricate design of miniaturized knotwork.

An oversized ancient golden ring bears the silver hawk crest of the Yragerne family line on its large flat top.

An ornate golden ring set with a perfect square-cut emerald. A noble insignia on both sides of the gem features two eagles flying in opposite directions.

A platinum ring in the shape of a coiled snake. Its eyes are two perfectly cut rubies. The ring has a mesmerizing aura that attracts the eyes of the greedy and the vain. Only a person with clear desires and unclouded wants is unaffected by its allure.

A dwarven-forged amethyst ring bearing the inscription “Cracked from the hammer of the Forge-Father”

A garnet ring that causes the bearer’s hand to appear to be clawed and demonic.

A signet ring that will magically re-size itself to fit the wearer, but only if the wearer is a direct descendant of the creator of the ring.

A rose gold ring that, when put on, periodically gives the wearer the distinct feeling that he or she is forgetting something important.

A platinum ring set with an opal cracked in a star pattern, like a tiny sun when the light passes through it.

A simple black ring polished to a shine, and written in gold lettering around the outer band is the phrase "Three things cannot be long hidden: the Sun, the Moon, and the Truth.

A bizarre looking ring that could easily be mistaken for a piece of forest debris. Its thorn covered surface throbs with the sensation of a beating heart when placed on the left ring finger.

Sphinx Ring: A small band with a little head of a lion, made of limestone. By stroking the band while worn, the lion whispers a riddle based on events which its bearer has witnessed, and the riddles can vary widely in difficulty, from simple riddles to questions only previous bearers could logically answer. If the answer is correct, the ring purrs, while if incorrect, it roars. It is mostly used to pass the time during long travels, but nobles have been known to use them in party games.

A transparent ring of blue-green resin that smells of strange magical forests. The band is slick to the touch, but never slips off of a finger accidentally.

An unassuming bronze ring that seems less than spectacular in every way and boasts no gems to speak of on its surface. However, within the band lies a diamond pressing softly against the bearer's skin.

A rusty iron ring that appears to show a dusty landscape within it, changing as it’s moved. The finger the ring is worn on always feels warm and dry.

A sealing ring, with the image of a smiling, winking imp.

A band carved from a single chunk of raw amethyst, capped with a black pearl in a truesilver setting. In darkness, the ring glows with a faint purple hue.

A ring whose outer edge has six flat edges, so that it presents a hexagonal appearance. One of the sides bears a setting carved of obsidian, topped by a small black diamond

A ring that is more like a wrap designed to completely encase the bearer’s finger. It is formed of what appears to be a thin sheet of platinum laced with spidery gold webbing. Once slid over a finger, the covering becomes as flexible as cloth and stays in place until the bearer removes it.

A ring consisting of a truesilver core surrounded by a torus of azure ice coated in a slick sheen, as though in the process of melting. The ring is cold to the touch and though the ice remains slippery, it never melts and the ring is never in danger of slipping off the finger unexpectedly.

A ring crafted from pure white gold encrusted with speck- sized fragments of diamond. When held to the light, it produces a prismatic effect, sparkling and gleaming with all the colors of the rainbow.

A ring made entirely of silver, intricately carved in fine patterns. Four small opals are set into the surface at regular intervals. When the ring is worn, they slowly orbit the finger without ever leaving the band.

A black ring made from a single piece of obsidian and bears a gold inlay design of chains.

A ring made up of filaments of bone and black iron of various thicknesses, twisted together in a strange mottled composite.

A ring carved from moonstone in the shape of a miniature, cable-twisted torc. The end-caps of the "torc" rest where a signet would be, each mounting a tiny, curved feline claw cast from silver.

A signet ring made of heavy lead with a distinctively abnormal design carved into it.

A brass ring encasing a small, polished moldavite.

A silver ring made out of very fine wire worked into rather complicated decorative ornament.

An ornate brass signet ring with a coiled serpent design with two freshwater pearls for eyes. The ring has a poison pill compartment that is currently empty.

A small copper ring, inset with flawed pearls.

A ring made out of blond hair and porcelain braided together. Wearing it slowly causes the bearer to experience apathy towards everything.

A mysterious bronze ring, ancient and marked with eldritch signs.

A pewter ring in the shape of a crab with its claws pressed to its body and the legs forming the ring. The shell, claws, and legs of the crab are set with polished abalone and the eyes are tiny garnets.

An adamantine ring is set with a cabochon cut water opal.

A platinum ring set with a large diamond surrounded by a circle of smaller sapphires and rubies. The gems gleam brightly in even the dullest light. An inscription on the inside of the band reads simply “for Alenea” in Elven.

A larger than average ring that looks like sheets of gold woven together into a simple pattern. Despite its size, ring feels almost weightless. On the inside of the ring there is an engraved; "A.Z."

A silver ring encrusted with dark gems. Upon inspection the ring itself smells of earth, mud and worms.

A brass ring that is crudely constructed with dent marks and battle burns.

A lapis colored gemstone embedded into a ring that is stylized with the alchemical symbol of a circle inside a square, inside a triangle, inside another circle.

A simple bronze ring sized for a giant's finger.

A plain-looking wooden ring with no characteristic marks or engravings. It almost looks as though the carpenter who fashioned it never got around to finishing it.

A copper ring shaped like knotted brambles.

A copper ring shaped like a dragon clutching its own tail, holding a moonstone it its mouth.

A petrified stone fist wearing a golden ring. It is impossible to remove the ring without destroying the fist.

A silver ring shaped like rolled arrow.

A bone ring with a deep purple inlay, set with an onyx.

An emerald ring that gives the bearer an abnormally strong sense of balance. The bearer is rendered immune from mundane vertigo effects such as dizziness from heights or seasickness.

A black stone ring made for the middle finger of a man's hand. The band is carved in the shape of a vine with thorns.

An iron band flecked with onyx pieces and is always cold to the touch.

A rough-hewn silver band with a single purple stone inset. No matter how long it is held, it is cold to the touch. While worn, the bearer occasionally hears strange dissonant whispers in Deep Speech promising power and domination over others.

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