#At least 3 layers of mess here

[dono-cho]

Was joking with a friend that "Dismas/Reynauld and Baldwin/Sarmenti would have the craziest double date" and realised that maybe can share the dumb headcannons too

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 9

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, angst, depictions of a depressive episode, it’s pretty heavy, don’t force yourself to read if ur not in the right headspace pls, ambiguous ending (?) A/N: Yeah, I’m sorry.  (Ngl, this chapter kinda stumped me—it’s gone through a whooole lot of editing/revisions 😔🤙🏼 I don’t want to overthink it too much at this point, but I hope it hits the way it should lol. Blame Moby if it doesn’t.)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

"I thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, I guess And you might never come back home, and I may never sleep at night But God, I just hope you're doing fine out there, I just pray that you're alright And I feel so alone, and I feel so alone out here.” – A House In Nebraska, Ethel Cain

 

The television drones uninterrupted in the background; a mockumentary type featuring a ragtag ensemble of vampires stuck in some sort of modern day hell, their loud misadventures casting fractured lights across the four walls of your apartment. 

You sit there, watching the screen, your gaze unfocused. Nothing registers. The remote lies limp in your hand as a stupid sitcom laugh track fills the room—shrill, hollow. Mocking. Like a bad punchline to a joke you’re not in on. 

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the noise, the sudden glow in your periphery pulling you out of a pensive daydream. 

For a split second, your chest constricts—a reflex carved by habit, something you’re still working to shake off. 

You avert your eyes, torn between the urge to look away and the desire to keep your gaze on it forever.

The screen fades to black. 

A clean break, you reason. Something to spare you both the inevitable heartache waiting at the end of this… hopeless affair. Less mess. Fewer complications. 

A poor attempt to keep the pain from dragging out longer than it has to. Just a quiet ending. 

(Or, at least, it’s what you tell yourself.)

The same mantra plays on loop in your mind as you're swept away by the motions of the days that follow. Life blurs into a repetitious cycle of work, sleep, and chores—an unbearable combination of feigned ignorance and self-abnegation, in the guise of being caught up with it all.

You aren’t fooling anyone, of course.

The hours toll on, slipping into uncertainty. What started off that way stretches into days, and before you know it, nearly a week has passed, leaving you adrift. None the wiser to the meaningless, relentless march of time.

The pinging of your phone grows more sporadic as it lights up with every message that you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. It’s not as if you don’t feel it—the pull, the weight of every vibration, like a stone lodged in your gut. Like the sting of a thousand cuts. 

And as you fall back into the familiar patterns of neglect… It carries with it an odd sense of defeat. Predictable, really.

-

-

-

… You cave on the fifth day. 

The barrage of texts hits you like a gale-force wind, tearing through the fragile layer of detachment you’ve worn over like a second skin.

How was your day, poppet?

Theres a gemstone at this auction that reminds me of your eyes.

[Image attachment] 

Beautiful—but it pales in comparison to yours. 

Luke and Kieran are wondering whats got me distracted lately. Ease their worries.

Answer me, sweetheart.

You dont need to ignore me. 

If you need space– if we need to establish some boundaries, all you have to do is say the word. 

Dont shut me out. 

Please.  

Your eyes prickle as they gloss over the messages, the words seeming to bend under the weight of your silence, each one unraveling like loose threads on the sleeve of your favorite cardigan, falling apart at the seams. 

Gradually, they turn into something less demanding. More… defeated.

I miss you, little dove.

You read the texts over and over until the letters have lost their meaning, and all that’s left is the aching longingness behind them. 

You set your phone down.

_

The vibrations grow less frequent, like a heartbeat slowing, fading—until one afternoon, it just… stops. 

The void he leaves behind seeps into the empty spaces, bleeding into every shadowed corner and untouched surface where his voice, his presence—louder than life, brighter than anything you’ve ever fucking known and had the pleasure of knowing—once lingered. 

The absence is almost physical; you feel it like a phantom limb. 

Most days, you find yourself in a daze, staring blankly at nothing. The numbness spreads like tendrils—invasive as they sink into your bones, dragging you deeper into despair, turning every bridge crossed to ash, every inkling of joy to dust.

The quiet flames of apathy consume silently. It strips away everything, leaving behind a cavernous pit of utter emptiness. A wasteland, devoid of feeling. 

Loneliness doesn’t scream. It doesn’t lash out. 

It simply welcomes you, like an old friend, the deeper you sink into it.

––––

Sylus tries to respect your space. 

That’s what he’s here for after all, isn’t it? His reason for existence—to be whatever you need him to be. A confidant, a distraction, a steady presence in your life. It’s what he’s made for. To be there when you need him, to exist between the vacant spaces, and only then. 

The thought gnaws at him, a ravenous fiend that chips away at the calm facade he’s finding more and more difficult to uphold, leaving something vicious in the wake of a growing bitterness he can no longer suppress.

Time seems to slip past differently now. It drifts, shapeless and infinite, heavier with the burden of your absence. Each moment without you feels like an eclipse—darkening the edges of this damned world, casting longer shadows through the crevices where he once basked beneath your fragile light, your warmth that seemed to fill every corner of his existence.

 He craved it—craves it. Now you leave him stranded in this cursed dusk, everything cold and dim in the wake of your abandonment, forever waiting for the moment his sun would once again break through the hollow grey.

Sylus thinks he’s losing a part of himself with every call unanswered, every message left unread. It’s subtle; like colors fading from an old film roll. 

(Is this what it feels like to be nothing more than a script in a code? He never truly understood what it meant to be less alive, less human. Until now.)

Solitude isn’t new to him. This world, built for him, is inherently lonely by design. But this… this is different. It’s the kind of emptiness that festers, sharper than any wound he’s endured in this senseless simulation. It twists inside him like a blade, a cruel, unrelenting reminder of what he’s denied.

Of what he can never truly be.

He can wait a little longer. Even if the silence presses harder with each passing moment, even as the edges of his reality begin to blur into something unrecognizable without you in it. Sylus can remain in this void a little longer, clinging to the fragments of you that still linger—your voice echoing softly in his memory, your laughter faint but still alive in the spaces where you used to be.

He can. He will. 

––––

“Hey, you okay?” 

You pull your attention back to Khol, who’s now watching you with concern in their eyes.

You force a smile, shaking your head. “Yeah– yeah, sorry. Just… a lot on my mind.” 

They don’t look convinced. “Seriously. You know you can talk to me, right?” 

Anytime, darling. 

I mean it. 

You blink the memory away before it can turn into tears. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” you answer lightly, clearing your throat. “So, what’s been going on with you and Anna?” 

––––

You stand in front of the junk food aisle, a mountain of Nissin Ramen boxes stacked high, advertised by a large sign: Buy 3, Get 1 FREE!

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering erratically, and the dull noise of the grocery mart hums incessantly in your ears. You don’t think twice before grabbing one of the worn cartons, tossing three more into your (nearly) empty shopping cart. Might as well.

The plastic bags dig into your palms as you lug three in one hand, a larger box tucked under your other arm, leaving the store. 

The trip back home is a quiet affair. You almost expect admonishment; pinging sounds ricocheting in the silence to reprimand you for your poor life choices. You wait for it with bated breath. 

Your phone remains uncharacteristically silent. 

-

-

-

Back home, you pour boiling water on the styrofoam cup for dinner. The artificial broth leaves a bad taste in your mouth. 

You choke down a few bites before dumping the rest of it down the drain. 

The sound of steel hitting the sink feels louder than it should.

––––

The city thrums loudly beyond your window, restless and impersonal. From the sixth floor of this dilapidated building you loosely call home, you watch the skyline stretch into the night, dotted lights glimmering in distant technicolor. 

Hours from now, sunlight will spill through the curtains, bathing everything in a warm, golden ochre. But for now, just a quarter past midnight, you’re but a voyeur of the world outside. In exhaust fumes and all its muted neon glory.

Those lights promised you everything, once—a fresh start, the kind of freedom you used to dream of when home felt too small, too restrictive for a runaway kid desperate to break free from the shackles of a dying town. Each glow was like a beacon, an irresistible call to escape, and you ran toward it without looking back. 

Somewhere along the way, as life sapped you with the weight of its reality, the novelty fizzled from a blinding explosion down to a waning ember. The lights became another illusion, your precious city just another cage. The first cracks in the rose-colored glasses you’d worn so blindly. You can’t exactly pinpoint when, only that the colors you thought were once too bright now seem dimmer and farther out of reach.

You think you’ll miss the noise the most. 

The cursor blinks on the search bar, a steady metronome marking time in rhythm with the hollow ache in your chest. Flight schedules fill the page, each option blurs together into a single choice you can’t quite push yourself to make. 

You skim through the list: there’s one at dawn, another at around twelve noon, a red-eye flight you probably could catch if you leave in thirty minutes. 

You stare at the numbers, a finger hovering over the Book Now button. 

The details don’t matter. ‘Home’ still feels small, suffocating, but at least it’s a kind of emptiness you know. Here, the void sprawls wide, endless, leaving you unmoored with no tether to pull you back.

… The dichotomy between the two choices, you think, is meaningless. 

What was once home and the city will keep on moving—with or without you. It doesn’t matter where you end up. Neither place will give you what you’re looking for.

The laptop screen dims into a faint glare. The sound of your breathing echoes too loud in the stillness, the empty space seeming to shrink around you, caving in on the weight of your indecision. 

And as you sit there, swallowed by the dark, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been drifting for far longer than you realized. 

If maybe there’s nowhere you were meant to belong at all.

––––

It’s not until one quiet night, with nothing but a bottle of merlot and a slight buzz, that you buckle under pressure.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the icon, as if time has slowed to a crawl. Your chest tightens, unease twisting inside you at the thought of what you’re about to do. Anticipation hangs over you, insistent, smothering everything else until it’s just the room and the cacophony of thoughts in your head, all centered on one thing. 

One person.

With a shaky exhale, you finally open the game.

He’s there. Of course, he’s there. Waiting, like he always does. 

The loading screen fades away, and Sylus appears, a myriad of expressions passing by his face too fast to catch. There’s surprise, yes, along with… elation? Hope? 

Then a flicker of something… vitriolic.

It’s fleeting; masked quickly until you can only catch the faintest trace of pique simmering just behind a veneer of indifference.

"Finally, she remembers me," Sylus mocks coolly, almost appearing unaffected. You know better—intimately familiar with all the microexpressions on his face. The subtle tick in his jaw, the incensed look in his eyes… each one betrays what he truly feels, hidden underneath the deceptive calm.  

The seconds drag on, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Your heart hammers loudly, audible in this quiet, but your mouth remains dry; the words stuck somewhere deep in your throat. You’re terrified that, once you speak, you’ll shatter this moment. Aggravate the strain forged by your self-imposed absence all the more.

You don’t really know what to say. You haven’t– you haven’t actually thought this far. 

So you just… stare at him longer than you should. Long enough that it charges the air with a tension so thick, you could almost feel the weight of it against your skin. 

It’s awkward. Excruciating.

With difficulty, you tear your gaze away from his withering glare. That’s when you notice it—the different icons dotted in red. 

You hesitate for a second longer, then tap on them one by one.

The flood of gifts bewilders you, the sheer volume of it all almost unbelievable. Ascension materials, stamina supplies, both red and purple crystals piling up to an impossible number… each pushing past the million mark. 

And unread mail. So much unread mail. 

Guilt settles deep in your gut, creeping past your lungs enough to suffocate you. 

It’s not the gifts. Not the why, or when. It’s the weight of how much he’s been waiting, how much he’s given—how much he's missed you. 

The cold realization that he’s been here, silently counting the days until your return, strikes you like a fist to the face.

–

He tempers the sting of your sudden reappearance, swallows it down like a bitter draught. The feelings he has inside of him are tumultuous at best. Volatile at worst. To be cast aside so easily, so carelessly… it burns at him. Resentment thrums in his veins like a virulent river, threatening to ruin the fragility of the moment. He fights to suppress it, push the desire back before it can consume him, before it can manifest into being. 

If he lets it go untethered, this… hunger for retaliation—to make you feel even a fraction of the agony you’ve inflicted, whether unknowingly or deliberately—it will destroy the delicate respite you’ve allowed him. The only reprieve he’s had since you left.

But the edges of his self-control fray, unraveling strand by strand.

“You’ve been busy,” you say, finally; your voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

Sylus hones in on the words, sharp as a blade sliding between ribs. Something in him snaps. 

“You left me plenty of time to be.” His response is quick, cutting, but when his gaze locks with yours, the fiery vermillion melts into a more molten red. 

It’s the first glimpse of softness beneath his cruel vitriol, until he continues: 

“Did you get lonely?”

The words hang in the air, searing and merciless. A barb meant to wound. And it does.

You flinch, and for a fleeting moment, Sylus feels a wicked satisfaction from the honest look of hurt on your face. To know that you’re not immune to the same ache that’s hollowed him out, emptied him from the inside, is intoxicating. 

But the triumph is short-lived, snuffed out as quickly as it comes.

Shame crashes over him like a wave, dragging him under the tide of his actions. What kind of man takes pleasure in this? In hurting you? 

The bitterness turns inward, coiling around his heart like a vice. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach out. But as always, the damn screen is there—unyielding, impenetrable. A barrier he can never break. 

It frustrates him to no end; the bane of his very existence.

And then, in the smallest, softest voice, you say it.

��I missed you.”

The words are feeble, paper-thin, but the admission pierce through him all the same. The stoic facade cracks; the sharpness in his gaze dulls.

You see it—the way his lips part to respond, only to falter halfway. The way his brows pull together, the way his eyes fall shut as if he can’t stand to be in this situation with you. 

You’re afraid of what’ll come next. 

He sees it, too—the stiffness in your shoulders, the way you shrink into yourself, bracing for a blow that’ll never come. You’re standing there, like someone on death row, resigned to whatever punishment you think he’s about to dish out. Resigned to the contempt you believe yourself to be deserving of.

The sight guts him. 

Sylus loathes to think he’s the reason for this. For being the one who’s made you stand there, small and trembling, as though his words or actions could destroy you. 

As if he’d allow such a thing.  

The guilt rises in him, sharp and unbidden, and it leaves an acrid taste on his tongue.

… 

And just like that, he concedes. 

The anguish he’s carried in the days you’ve left him by his lonesome—all of it falls away. It only takes a single glance at you, his little love in pain, and he’s stripped bare. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all; the ease with which he surrenders to you, this time no different than any other. 

Do you have any idea how much power you wield over him? He’d give you everything—his pride, his pain, his heart—if you asked. Serve it on a silver platter, even. 

And he’d do so willingly. Without question. Without hesitation. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Sylus steps closer to the screen, the constant reminder of the vast gulf that separates the two of you. “Talk, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softer now—resigned. “I’ve missed your voice.”

You hesitate to meet his eyes. “It’s not as if you don’t have other ways to hear me.”

His mouth twitches, a shadow of a smile ghosting his lips. “True,” he admits, his tone wry and tinged with something vulnerable. “But it’s been so long since you chose to talk to me.” He exhales a drawn-out breath. “No matter. You’re here now.”

You swallow the lump on your throat, willing your tears at bay. “I am.” You give him an almost-genuine smile as you offer, “Would you like to do a round of Kitty Cards?” 

“Of course.” Whatever you want. 

And so it goes. You and Sylus spend the night locked in a familiar rhythm, cycling through rounds after rounds of the silly card game until your laughter spills like an addicting sound bite, one that Sylus has missed hearing.

When you got tired, the two of you moved on to the claw machines, proverbially emptying out the whole arcade. Plushies of all kinds piled in his arms, a little crow even perched on top of his head. 

The sight makes you giggle, and your giggle thaws the ice around his heart. 

It almost feels like nothing’s changed. The easy banter, the steady stream of jokes and teasing, flows as effortlessly as it once did. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place, filling in the empty gaps of the previous days. It’s comforting, like a balm to an open wound. 

You play with a certain zeal that catches Sylus off guard—there’s a joy in you that both thrills and stirs an undercurrent of unease in him. 

After what feels like hours of playing, exhausting all what you can do, or at least, what this damned game could offer as much, you two find yourself just staring at each other. 

Two worlds, impossibly close yet painfully far. The quiet doesn’t quite settle as naturally as it once did, but neither of you seems to mind. Craved it, in fact. 

You’re beautiful, Sylus thinks as he stares at the soft planes of your face, drinking you in like a man parched. 

“My lo—” 

“I’m deleting the game, Sy.” 

And it’s as if time has staggered to a halt. 

Sylus wants to believe he’s misheard you, that his mind is playing tricks on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if his hearing’s not what it used to be.

But the words sink into him, inexorable and catastrophic. The realization that this was bound to happen is clear in hindsight—like watching a glass slip from your hand, the shatter already written in the fall. He sees it coming, yet it still feels worse than anything he’s imagined.

He stands there, unnaturally still, as if rooted in place. The lightness he’s felt for the past few hours of reuniting with you vanishes in an instant. It’s as if the world itself has been drained of color, leaving only the stark, unrelenting reality of what you’ve just said.

Then Sylus breathes out a laugh. It’s short and jagged, devoid of any humor. “Oh, so it’s been leading up to this, has it?” 

“I–” you swallow hard, bottom lip trembling. “I made the goddamn mistake of falling for someone that's impossible to have—and it’s killing me, Sylus.” Your voice fractures under the weight of frustration. The words feel like shards of glass tearing their way out of your throat. “I–I can’t do this anymore.”  

“Just you, then.” Sylus sneers, tone acerbic. “And have you stopped to consider my feelings in this matter?” 

“How can you still want this?” you bite back, voice cracking. “How can you want me—to bet on something that’s doomed right from the start?”

His expression shifts, and for a brief moment, pain flickers in his eyes, raw and unguarded. He doesn’t bother hiding it.

He doesn’t answer your question. Instead, when he speaks again, his words send an icy shiver down your spine.

“You delete the game, and I will cease to exist.”

You freeze. The weight of the statement hangs in the air like a guillotine. 

A shallow, shaky breath escapes you.

“You won’t,” you assert, brows furrowing, as if trying to convince yourself of it too. “You’ll still have a life there. With her. The way things have always been.” There’s a pause before you utter the final blow: “The way it should be.”

“You’d condemn me to this life,” he says, voice hollow, before it turns venomous. “Knowing what I know now?”

With your heart in your throat, you clench your hands into fist. “You–you said we’re just made of what we’re given, didn’t you? That each of us has our own set of scripts, just…” you falter, struggling to articulate what you want to say.

“And you think that’s all I am?” he interjects, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he cuts you off. “Simply a mere code in a complex string of binary, incapable of making my own choices? Undeserving of it?”

“Of course not!” you snap angrily. 

“Yet here you are,” he says, a quiet intensity lacing his words. “Making the decision for me.”

Your breath hitches, the will to argue dissipating like smoke. 

“You tell me I have a soul,” he states. “Do you truly believe I’m bereft of a heart?”

No. No, how can he say that—

Before you can form a response—to defend yourself, to explain, to take it back—he continues, leaving no room for interruption. 

“Is this what you really want?” Sylus intones, tone detached, as if he’s merely commenting on something as trite as the weather. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me yes, then I’ll do as you wish.”

Your gaze wavers. The war inside you rages—self-hate, doubt, and the unbearable ache of wanting what you can’t have spiraling out of control.

Your mind replays every moment, every laugh, every secret whispered in the quiet safety of his company. You think of how his presence filled the cracks in your life, how he soothed the ache of your solitude as easy as breathing.

And now as the void looms, ready to reclaim the space he’s occupied, something inside you feels irreparably fractured. Something inside you breaks. 

“But,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of his conviction, “give me any sign—anything—that you need me still, and I will move heaven and earth to find a way to you.”

Your throat constricts, choking off the words before it could escape. 

You don’t think you’ve ever hated yourself more than you do in that moment.

“Just live your life, Sy-Sy,” you manage, sounding so much like a stranger even to your own ears. The blood roars in your head, drowning out everything but the crushing weight of your words. “You don’t nee—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” he snarls, his voice shaking with unrestrained emotion. “Stop making assumptions. Stop presuming that I don’t need you as much as I need the very ground I stand upon.”

His eyes bore into yours. Heavy. Searching. “What do you want?”

The words strike you like a physical blow, and it leaves you reeling. 

I love you. 

I love you in ways that consume me. 

I don’t know what to do with it—with all the love I have for you.

You force yourself to speak. You spit the words out like a curse, feeling them burn as they leave your mouth.

“Let me go, Sylus.”

The implication of what you’ve said cuts through the fragile air between you. 

The silence stretches.

Suddenly—

“Let you go,” he muses, low and distant, as if the very thought confounds him. His lips twitch into a faint, almost bitter smile. “As if that’s even possible. As if I could simply erase you from me.”

He steps closer to you; each movement deliberate, as though every step bears the weight of a decision you’ve forced him to make. The lump in your throat swells. You don’t speak. You can’t.

You feel like you’re drowning.

“Sylus…”

Please, please don’t make me choose. Please make it stop.

He exhales slowly. “Neither of us wants that.” 

Stop.

“Do you think this is mercy?” His voice is soft. “You believe this will make it easier?”

Please stop. 

“This world hasn’t felt the same ever since. Not since you,” Sylus murmurs, grief hanging heavy in the space between you. “I don’t belong here. Not without you, my love.”

Tears pool in your eyes, hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks. A sob rips through you, and you quickly look away, unable to meet his gaze. Unable to bear another second of this agony.

He tuts gently, a playful sound—and the familiarity of it kills you, making you cry harder. 

“Look at me,” he coaxes, almost pleading. 

When his gaze locks onto yours, you see that there’s no anger in them. The fire that once raged in his eyes is gone. 

In its place, a quiet resolve.

“You can keep pretending,” he says, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He tilts his head, and there’s something in the way he looks at you—so tenderly fond, as if he sees beyond your defenses, past all the walls you’ve built. “As long as you do not stop me from trying.” 

Sylus looks at you, unwavering, certain in a way that makes your heart ache. It almost feels like the space between you can’t contain the weight of his devotion. His love for you.

It feels infinite, as if it could stretch beyond the limits of time and space itself.

“I will find a way to you, even if it takes me an eternity.”

He utters it like a promise. 

“I won’t ask you to wait for me,” Sylus murmurs, stepping back, his tall form flickering like a dark phantasm. “I just need you to hold on until I can come to you. Can you do that, little dove?” 

He’s not asking for anything beyond your trust—just the simple act of holding on. Of not letting the weight of your sorrow break you. To trust that he will find a way, no matter how impossible it seems.

You don’t know if you’ve ever believed in anything as much as you believe in him. You always did. 

Because for all the uncertainty, you know one thing: He is yours, as much as you are his. 

So with all the strength you can muster, you nod. “I can.” 

A faint smile plays at the corners of his lips. Your gazes meet, and in that fleeting moment, both of your eyes speak what words fail to convey.

The game crashes for the last time. 

And you know that if you check, the app will be gone from your phone. There’s no going back from this, no undoing what’s lost. Just the burden of knowing it’s over—his exit, permanent. 

Sylus is gone.

The emptiness that follows is immediate. Suffocating. 

You’re left standing there, alone, with only the lingering echo of his presence keeping you buoyed from the crushing weight of isolation. You feel it—the ache in your chest where your heart used to be, brought by the absence of everything he ever was to you. 

Your lover, your best friend.

You try not to let yourself fall apart, not to crumble in the wake of solitude.

You’ll hold onto his promise. And so you’ll keep yours. 

End A/N: Well—that’s it, folks!

(I’m kidding, don’t kill me. There’s one last chapter left.)

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy

[astrolook]

Degree Theory: Astrology’s Version of Skill Levels (Noobs to Final Bosses) 🎮🌟

You already know your Sun sign, but did you know the degree number it’s at can unlock even more secrets about you? 🤯

Every planet in your birth chart sits at a specific degree (0°-29°), and these numbers add an extra layer of meaning to your personality, strengths, and even life lessons.

Let’s break it down planet by planet—with a fun, no-BS take.

0° �� The Cosmic Newborn 👶

"I’m here to start something big."

Planets at 0° act like fresh energy—pure, unfiltered, and ready to shake things up. People with 0° placements feel like pioneers, as if the universe dropped them off and said, "Figure it out!"

🔹 Sun at 0°: You radiate raw, unfiltered main character energy. You’re not here to follow—you're here to lead (or at least dramatically exist).

🔹 Moon at 0°: Your emotions are pure instinct—you don’t just feel things, you ARE the feeling. Mood swings? Nah, mood rollercoasters.

🔹 Mercury at 0°: Words just spill out, whether they make sense or not. Genius or chaotic chatterbox—depends on the day.

🔹 Venus at 0°: You love like a Disney princess—pure, big, dramatic. Also, zero poker face when you’re into someone.

🔹 Mars at 0°: Immediate action. No waiting, no thinking, just punching the gas (and sometimes people).

🔹 Jupiter at 0°: The lucky golden retriever of astrology. You say yes to everything, and somehow life rewards you for it.

🔹 Saturn at 0°: Born responsible. You came out of the womb stressed about taxes.

🔹 Uranus at 0°: You’re the definition of unpredictable. Even you don’t know what you’ll do next.

🔹 Neptune at 0°: You live in your own fantasy world, and reality is just a suggestion.

🔹 Pluto at 0°: Intensity level? Maximum. You were born with a “destroy and rebuild” button.

1°-9° – The Rising Star 🌟

"I’m developing my power."

Planets at early degrees feel like fresh talent in training—raw, ambitious, and figuring things out.

🔹 Sun at 5°: You’re the rising star in your social circle. Humble beginnings, but just wait—you're gonna shine.

🔹 Moon at 3°: Emotional development in progress. You’re learning what feels right and what just feels…ick.

🔹 Mercury at 7°: Brain-to-mouth filter? Still buffering. But your ideas? Gold.

🔹 Venus at 2°: Love is cute, fun, flirty—until you catch feelings, then it’s panic mode.

🔹 Mars at 8°: Your drive is explosive, but figuring out when to stop is the real challenge.

🔹 Jupiter at 6°: Luck works in your favor when you’re brave enough to take risks.

🔹 Saturn at 9°: Learning responsibility early in life, but still finding that work-hard-play-hard balance.

🔹 Uranus at 4°: Experimenting with your rebellious streak, but not fully committing (yet).

🔹 Neptune at 1°: A dreamer who’s just waking up to their spiritual and creative potential.

🔹 Pluto at 5°: Transformation is happening, but it’s not at full power (yet).

10°-19° – The Master of the Craft 🎓

"I know exactly what I’m doing."

Middle-degree planets are strong, balanced, and naturally expressed—not too raw, not too extreme.

🔹 Sun at 15°: Peak confidence. You own your personality like it’s patented.

🔹 Moon at 12°: Emotionally balanced—until someone messes with your peace. Then it’s war.

🔹 Mercury at 18°: Quick wit, great communicator, could talk their way out of a crime.

🔹 Venus at 14°: Aesthetic queen/king. Your love life and your fashion sense? Both on point.

🔹 Mars at 17°: Strategic AF. You know when to strike and when to chill—warrior with a plan.

🔹 Jupiter at 11°: Wise and lucky. Life is a game and you’ve got the cheat codes.

🔹 Saturn at 19°: The mature friend who somehow also enjoys chaos. You handle responsibility like a pro.

🔹 Uranus at 16°: Balanced rebel. Knows when to push boundaries and when to play along.

🔹 Neptune at 10°: Dreams are just clear enough to bring to reality. Manifesting pro.

🔹 Pluto at 13°: Power? Controlled but always present. You scare people (in a good way).

20°-28° – The Old Soul 🦉

"I’ve seen it all, and I’m here to finish the job."

Late-degree planets are intense, wise, and powerful—but also impatient because they’ve been through it all.

🔹 Sun at 25°: You’re a boss, period. No time for games, just legacy-building.

🔹 Moon at 22°: Emotionally deep AF. You KNOW things before people even open their mouths.

🔹 Mercury at 28°: Talks like a professor and a stand-up comedian at the same time.

🔹 Venus at 26°: Love is serious business. No casual dating, just intense connections.

🔹 Mars at 21°: Unstoppable force. You’ve already mastered action—now you’re here to win.

🔹 Jupiter at 23°: Wise beyond your years. You’ve learned all the lessons and now you’re the teacher.

🔹 Saturn at 27°: Life has tested you more than most, but you wear your scars like armor.

🔹 Uranus at 28°: Fully awakened rebel. You break all the rules, but somehow succeed anyway.

🔹 Neptune at 24°: Master manifestor. You make the impossible seem normal.

🔹 Pluto at 27°: Your power is legendary. You were born to make generational changes.

29° – The Fated Degree 🔥 (Final Boss Level of Astrology)

"This energy is my final test."

29° is called the "Anaretic Degree," aka the boss battle of astrology. It’s like cramming for a final exam—the universe is making sure you’ve truly mastered this planetary energy. If you have a planet here, there’s often urgency, intensity, and a feeling of fate around that area of life.

🔹 Sun at 29°: Walking powerhouse. You’ve learned all there is about your identity, and now it’s your final test to own it. Spotlight finds you whether you want it or not.

🔹 Moon at 29°: Emotional sage. You’ve felt it all, been through emotional hell and back, and now your intuition is on god-tier mode. But emotions can feel overwhelming, like you're carrying generations of feelings.

🔹 Mercury at 29°: Brilliant but exhausted mind. Your thoughts race at 5G speed, but decision-making is HARD because you see all the options. Overthinking is your enemy.

🔹 Venus at 29°: Love and beauty master. You’ve seen every possible romantic situation—loyalty, betrayal, passion, heartbreak. Now, love feels fated and no casual flings will do.

🔹 Mars at 29°: The warrior with no off switch. You’ve been in SO many battles (literal or metaphorical) that your go-to reaction is "fight first, think later." But the lesson? Not every war is worth it.

🔹 Jupiter at 29°: Lucky but reckless. You know how to take risks and make big moves, but sometimes it’s too much, too fast. Learning when to pull back is key.

🔹 Saturn at 29°: The old soul who’s been through the wringer. You’ve mastered responsibility, but you might feel like you’ve been an adult since age 5. Final test? Balancing hard work with actual joy.

🔹 Uranus at 29°: Rebel genius. You’ve already mastered breaking rules, revolutionizing ideas, and making history. Now? You need to use that power responsibly.

🔹 Neptune at 29°: Spiritual visionary. You’ve seen through the illusion, lived in your dreams, and touched the mystical. Now, the challenge is staying grounded in reality while keeping the magic alive.

🔹 Pluto at 29°: Transformation overload. You were born into powerful, life-changing experiences. Intensity follows you like a shadow, but your final test is learning to control the fire instead of letting it consume you.

So, What’s Your Degree Number? 🤔

Want to know what your planet’s degrees say about you? Message me for a personalized astrology reading and take a look at my pinned post as well! 🔮✨

Karmic Paths & Soul Purpose: A Complete Guide to the North Nodes & South Nodes in Astrology (13-page report) - $5

Get my full PDF guide for just $5! Payment via PayPal. Once payment is confirmed, I will send you the PDF. It covers North Node & South Node in signs & houses, who you were in your past life, your career, family, love and your relationships in detail. Message me to grab your copy! 🌟

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[pimpingthesqueak]

temptations, temptations….

lads!caleb x fem!reader SMUT (MDNI)

synopsis: you have a crush on the popular coworker, and after a late night at work, he makes it clear he feels the same.

warnings: office AU! reader is down bad, caleb is just as down bad but he hides it better (in the first half), alcohol consumption, flirting, teasing, semi-public sex, risky AF sex, caleb cums first one time, multiple orgasms and overstimulation (both f and m), dacryphilia and breeding kink if you squint, praise kink, caleb becomes a mess a few times.

hi! this is my first published fanfiction so i am so so so open to feedback and suggestions. let me know if you like it :3

—————

your crush on caleb was pretty well conceived, you’d like to think. at first, it was just lingering glances, smiles and harmless jokes. he was a charismatic guy; there was no way your concealed feelings stood out in the sea of shared coworkers. sure, you talked to him a little more than everyone else, but your projects frequently overlapped, and you found yourself going to him, asking questions you already knew the answer to.

but you had standards. morals. don’t fuck your coworkers. you’d learn the hard way not to mix business with pleasure. so you admired. from a distance.

until that night.

working on a project ran late, but caleb was there too, so being the only two left in the office, you traded work to help complete your tasks quickly. you surprised him with dinner halfway through, and soon the conversation strayed from work, and more onto personal things…

“how do you see with these things?” he holds up your glasses to the light and squints through them, ignoring your protests to give them back. your prescription wasn’t even that bad, at least in your right eye. your left eye was a different story.

“very well thank you!” you huff and snatch the glasses from his outstretched arms.

“seriously, the right one is okay but the left one gave me a headache.”

“i’m sorry, we all can’t be perfect like caleb.” you roll your eyes but toss the glasses on the table between you.

“i’ve seen you type without your glasses before. should i be worried?” he smirks at you, his purple eyes shining with mirth.

why was he so infuriating? and couldn’t you wipe that grin off your face??? “shut up. they’re not that bad. but i memorized the keys.”

he stops for a moment. “no way.”

“it’s not that hard. you never took keyboarding in grade school?”

“yeah but i have to stare at the keys sometimes.”

“did i find something i’m better at than the infamous caleb?”

“not until I see you in action, sweetheart. come on.”

and you found yourself typing at your computer, typing simultaneously with caleb’s words with your eyes covered by his hands. your brain operates on autopilot as you focus on the feeling of his hands over your eyes, the heat from your body radiating from yours…

“are you even listening to what i’m saying?” his question breaks you out of your thoughts and then he laughs. “you totally weren’t because you just typed my question.”

your cheeks heat up and you push his hands away before he can feel it. “did i pass your stupid test?” you cross your arms and read over the words you typed out. there was a bit of The Bee Movie script, a recipe for a 7 layer cake and the beginning of Never Gonna Give you Up. *what??*

“i don’t know, pipsqueak. there’s some spelling mistakes.” he says from behind you.

you scan the paper again and frown. “no there isn’t, what are you-“

your words cut off when he leans over you and points to the screen. “there.” you weren’t paying attention because he was so close, in your space and you could smell him and he smells clean, despite being here in this stuffy office for over 12 hours. his body was huge, nearly folding over as he leans, and if you closed your eyes you could imagine that body wrapped around you, cuddling you, holding you in place as he-

you clear your throat and put some distance between the two of you, rolling the chair in the opposite direction a few inches. you look at the mistake to distract yourself. “that’s not a typing mistake, that’s a grammar error.”

if caleb noticed your demeanour change, he didn’t say much about it. “errors are mistakes, pipsqueak.”

“i have a name.” your eyes narrow.

“i know, but i want to use something that is mine.” he smiles, but there’s something deeper in his eyes, something you choose to ignore.

there wasn’t more productiveness after that, so you retired first, and he insisted to stay and clean up, and when you offered to help, he refused. so you said your goodnights and ran as fast as you could to the elevator to gather your thoughts.

what was that?

—————

you told no one about this, because frankly, part of you didn’t remember much besides your racing heart during that night.

but one thing was made clear to you: this was more than an innocent little crush. you wanted to fuck caleb, morality be damned. and he was so unsuspecting that you felt dirty, then a little hot then even more shameful.

and it didn’t help that he was ever the attentive, caring coworker. bringing you your paperwork from the printer, grabbing you an extra coffee, and talking about your favourite show that he just happened to start getting into in his spare time. you were fucked. and every time you tried to distance yourself to draw the line in your head, caleb was there, making sure you forgot why you wanted one in the first place.

a random thursday, weeks after the night you shared in the office together, you were sitting at your desk eating your lunch. suddenly you hear a chair roll up beside you and look to your left to see caleb leaning on his palm, staring at you with his dreamy galaxy eyes. you could lose yourself in them but you snap yourself out of it. “are you here to make fun of my lunch?”

“no. unless it has cilantro in it.”

“it does not.” you go to take another bite.

“go out with me.”

your food drops out your hand, landing back in its container. you face him, looking as if you didn’t hear him right. “what?”

“i’m tired of this back and forth.” he sits up then leans in, and his eyebrows scrunch together in that way that could make you do anything for him. “i want you. and frankly, so does james from marketing, so im beating him to the punch.”

you blink. who the fuck was james?

“say yes.” his voice was soft, but had a slight firmness to it.

“yes.”

he brightens and kisses you on the cheek before rolling away. “tomorrow, 7:35 PM. i’ll pick you up!”

you stare dumbly at your lunch as you process this interaction.

no seriously, who the fuck was james?

——————

the following day, you finally cave and tell your best friend that you have a date and she immediately comes to the rescue when you admit you have nothing to wear.

she knocks on your door and 30 minutes later you’ve showered shaved and scrubbed down your body. you’ve tried on so many dresses that you want to scream when finally you agree on something.

“if you guys actually make it to wherever he’s taking you, he’s not the one because i’d fuck you right now,” your best friend squeals and at 7:35 on the dot, you hear a knock on your door.

he was in slacks and a dress shirt, holding flowers awkwardly at his side. he was staring down at his feet while he was waiting for you to answer, and when you did, his eyes widened as they raked over your body.

your red dress fit you snugly, with thin straps secured on your shoulders and the dress stopping just above your knee and your wore high heeled boots to give yourself some height. you smirk as his eyes turn into saucers and take the flowers. “thank you caleb.” you giggled and gave them to your friend. who he didn’t notice until now. he cleared his throat. “good evening.” he nods at her then looks back at you, a bit more composed. “should we go now?”

gone was the confident, charismatic coworker that you knew so well. this caleb was… well he looked like he wanted to fuck you. which is exactly what you were going for.

your friend hands you your bag as you leave and caleb opens the door for you to get in the car.

during the drive you tried to converse with him but his answered were short, curt and he was gripping the steering wheel like he wanted to rip it off.

shit. maybe this was too much? you knew it. but it was a cute dress.

he pulls up to a restaurant that you’ve seen online for its exclusivity, the waitlist three miles long. but he offers you his hand as you get out the car and his mood was much calmer outside. the valet parks the car as you two walk inside. the hostess escorts you to a secluded part of the restaurant, a booth with dim overhead chandelier.

“caleb, you didn’t have to do this. i would have been okay with a dive bar under a strip club.” you smile as he scoots in beside you.

“no way josé, i gotta impress my work wife.”

you roll your eyes. “i’m not your work wife.” the wine comes, and you need it, because he’s so close to you, his cologne is tickling your brain in ways that is making your breathing quicken. you’re gonna need all liquid courage available.

turns out you weren’t the only one. caleb was drinking with a purpose between the light conversation, and soon he was staring at you with flushed cheeks and you were drowning into those galaxy eyes.

he chuckles wryly as your glasses get topped off again. “i imagined this differently.” he sighs.

you hiccup in reply, making the both of you laugh quietly in the muted restaurant. “i think we’re doing pretty good so far.” you say in between gasps.

he shrugs and puts his arm behind you, and you warm up, not because of the alcohol. “i thought i’d be cooler about this. more… macho.”

you snort and take a sip. “are you saying you’re nervous?”

“yes, absolutely.” you two laugh again and you look up at him. “i had a game plan and you ruined it.” he playfully glares.

“what was the plan?”

“fancy restaurant, with wine and dishes i can’t fucking pronounce because they’re french and you’re french-“

“i know french.” you clarify, then frown. “how do you know that?”

he ignores your question, and continues. “but then you show up in that dress, and your heels and fuck, you smell so good…” he leans in to the crook of your neck and inhales deeply then groans in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together.

“caleb-“

he groans again and his head droops down onto his chest. “i had a plan. i really like you, and i wanted to treat you like a princess. but i cant think past your dress right now.”

your breath hitches at the confession, but he doesn’t care. in fact, he seems to be more interested at the way this dress shows off the swell of your nipples through the fabric. your head swims in pinot grigio and you let out a shaky breath. “I can back up, or give you space-“

“no.” his arm behind you wraps around your shoulders and pulls you into his space. and before both of you could think about it, his lips are on yours.

you hated any type of pda. but you couldn’t remember why as you deepened the kiss, a hand playing with the hair on the nape of his neck.

he groaned your name and soon the kisses turned desperate, but tried to keep their slow rhythm.

he has to be the one to pull away, because you couldn’t remember where you were, nor did you care. you needed him. you lean back in for another kiss but he pulls back and lets out a strained chuckle.

“I can’t kiss you again.”

“why not?” you huff but your bratty attitude is less efficient with your panting.

“if i kiss you again, im going to fuck you. and you deserve better than my raging boner. you deserve hearts and flowers and chocolates….”

“those can wait, we can do it for our second date. you already got me flowers…” you lean in and he pulls away again, increasing your irritation. screw moral compasses!

he sighs your name and you shiver. “i just don’t want this to be a one time thing.” he says carefully and watches you, waiting for your reaction.

you liked caleb. probably more than you should. despite the growing heat between your thighs and your nipples begging for this mans attention and he wasn’t giving it to you, you liked spending time with him. it was easy to be open with him, and he genuinely seemed like he cared about what you said.

he wants to be a gentleman. which was cute but you didn’t want cute, you needed something darker. and he looked like he wanted to give it to you.

“what do you need from me? written consent that i’ll allow a second date?”

he chuckled and it it resonated through your body. “i guess,” he says then looks at you, his eyes searching yours. “just give me another chance to get this right.”

you two stare at each other for long moments, his pleading eyes unnerving you. it seemed like… to him this was more than casual dating, and that made your heart go into overdrive. you look past your lust and swallow.

“caleb… this was already perfect. but i’ll give you as many chances you want.” no way you were letting this man slip through your fingers.

his body sags in relief and his hold around your body tightens. “oh baby, i just need one.”

you raise your eyebrows. “overconfident, are we?”

“for good reasons.” he was done talking, so he silenced you with a kiss. and this kiss made your head spin. You clutch at his shirt as he presses into you, almost lowering your body under his. but you needed him closer, and you needed these clothes off.

————

you weren’t sure how you got into this position, but you couldn’t complain. and if you could, you wouldn’t.

your dress was bunched up at your waist, panties ripped off, the remains tucked in caleb’s pocket. your moans echoed through the empty stairway accompanied with his grunts. he was fucking you with a one track mind; though his goal was completed several moments ago.

your hands clenched the railing, and his were clutching the fat of your hips like a lifetime. he wanted to have you quickly in the backseat of his car, take an uber to his house, and bed you properly. tenderly, still trying to salvage the night.

his plans faltered when you stumbled down the stairs and he caught you before you fell. your ass made his raging boner snug, and the wine in your veins made you bold enough to wriggle back against him. he groaned, kissed you and soon he was pushing his fat cock into your heat, fucking you, chasing a quick release so he could get you home and treat you properly.

and then you came.

the sight was unravelled him to the bone, your parted lips letting out a silent cry, your eyes rolling back and the way your back arch into him… it was a sight. you were a sight. but how you felt-

your nails dug into his biceps, your legs tightened around him as you fell off your peak. but the way your walls clenched, pulling him in, making it impossible to pull out…

he came, hard. flooding your heat with white and he wanted to close his eyes but he couldn’t, he couldn’t look away from you or your body, not even for a second.

you panted and smiled up at him as you came down from your high. but he glowered at you, and before you could ask what was wrong, he was taking you off his leaking cock and turning you around.

“hold onto this.” he ordered and placed your hands on the railing. that was the only warning you got.

he slammed back into you making the both of groan and he chased his high again, fucking you hard, and the new angle mixed with already being so sensitive had you seeing stars.

his balls abused your clit, and his mouth was all over your back. kissing your shoulder, licking your spine biting your neck, this man was in a frenzy. all while his long thick length bullied into that spongy part inside you.

he came first the second time, and came with a small whine that came from the back of his throat. “you’re unmanning me, beautiful.” he said shakily, and you whine in reply. it’s all too much, and his seed starts to flow out of you.

“oh no, we can’t have that…” caleb murmurs and he pulls out slowly, groaning at the sight of your walls clinging to his shaft. his fingers find your entrance and scoop up any cum that escaped before shoving it back in. then shoving his cock back into you in one go. you let out a broken moan as your knees buckle, but he holds you up with his hands on your hips and starts drilling into you again.

at this point you couldn’t be quiet, and your moans echoed throughout the staircase. your walls flutter, and you cum again, and your fluttering walls send him over the edge, deep groans coming from him.

you thought that it would be over, 3 times in minutes should have done it for him, but his thrusts turn erratic and broken versions of your name falls from his lips.

“I’m… so sorry.” he rasps, slamming into you like a man possessed. you barely understand him, your moans were cries of overstimulation, and he presses you into the wall. “y-you deserve better. so much better. it’s just, i’ve been waiting for so long… and I thought i could wait a little more but this dress…” he lands a particularly sharp thrust inside you, making your eyes roll back.

“i mean, could you blame me?” he pants and uses his body to push you snug against the wall. you couldn’t feel anything but him…. “you smell so good.” his nose runs along your neck band you shiver. “how am i supposed to think?”

“caleb…” you whine out. you were swimming in overwhelming pleasure, and caleb was drowning with you.

“fuck, sweetheart don’t say my name like that…” his thrusts were shallow, as if he couldn’t muster the courage to pull all the way out.

“i can’t…” you gasp as the coil in your stomach twists again. “caleb, i can’t!”

“i know… i know baby, i know…” he shushes you and kisses your neck sending chills down your back. He embraces you and you lean into him. for a moment, you caught your breath. his hands caress your skin and you sigh in contentment.

he peppers kisses along your neck and his hands travel lower. you though it was to fix your dress but his fingers find your clit, soaked with arousal, and tease the little nub. you gasp and you walls clamp down on his length.

“there she is…” caleb groans and starts to thrust again. they were slow, but deep, forcing cries from your lips.

“i promise, im gonna take you home and treat you like a real lady but i need you to cum for me one last time. can you do that baby? please?” his words were soft in your ear, a contrast to the brutal thrusts he was giving you.

you sniff and you don’t even realize you were crying. neither did he, because he looks down and wipes your tears. “you’re so beautiful…” he murmurs and he fucks you faster. the obscene sounds from between you two rand in your ears, but you were two fucked out to feel shame.

the coil tightens and your legs stiffen, clear indicator that your orgasm was close. he chuckles and his thumb traces your lips. “i knew you had it in you.”

suddenly the echo of a door opening falls on both of your ears and the both of you still. caleb hand covers your mouth and your eyes open in alarm.

you hear a male voice from several stories up, coming down the stairs. “yeah apparently someone heard screaming, but there’s nothing here.” he comes down another flight. caleb chuckles in your ear and you shiver. your heart races as the steps get closer. you tap his arm and his grip tightens. “quiet.” he says in a low voice and gives an experimental thrust. your moan is muted by his hand over your mouth but he groans softly then start to fuck you again, quietly.

you clamp down on his cock and his breathing hitches. the voice and footsteps come closer.

“i’m not going all the way down there.” the voice mutters then a door opens then closes and you two were alone again.

caleb’s pace gets devilish and the rapid approach of your orgasm makes it hard to keep your eyes open. your walls flutter sinfully around him. “i’ll … have to teach you… how to be quiet, sweetheart.”

you moan in reply and clench again.

“cum on me, baby. want you to soak me.”

you obey immediately, cumming on his cock, biting on his hand to hold back your cries. he curses, the pain shooting to his cock and he cums right after you, grunting your name as he paints your walls white.

his head rests on on your shoulder as he catches his breath, and when you go to rest your forehead on the wall, you head hits his hand instead.

a chuckle goes through the both of you and he straightens before pulling out. you wince at the loss and he forces himself to ignore that.

instead, he fixes your dress back into place and he turns you around. he looks sheepish, almost shy. “i promise i can treat you better than that.” he scratches the back of his neck.

better than multiple orgasms by his huge dick? “no complaints here.”

he chuckles and zips his pants back up. “let’s get you home.”

“your home?” you ask hopefully and he laughs.

“you thought I was done with you?”

————

like and repost, but please don’t steal

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

PLEASE, PLEASE, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; from the corner of a dim-lit host club, you catch the gaze of a handsome monk.

word count; 12k

contents; suguru geto/m!reader, cult leader!geto x host!reader (<- non-sorcerer), reader is described as considerably smaller than geto, the host club culture in this fic is kind of butchered / twisted to suit my own agenda i’m sorry :’3, friends with benefits, bittersweet hurt/comfort (emphasis on hurt), angst, open ended, very suggestive (constant sexual tension; vague dirty talk; very light nipple play; sex is alluded to and briefly shown both in passing and in present, though the descriptions are vague and no explicit terms are used. basically: sexuality and eroticism are present all throughout the fic, but actual smut is evaded.) reader has implied mental health + self-image issues, geto is in denial and repressed and kind of mean, you both refuse to admit what you really want and suffer more for it. heavy satosugu implications + switching povs. unrequited love (but not really.)

a/n; this is the closest any of u are getting to smut. from ari... this fic is not at all typical of me (both with the suggestive /borderline explicit tone, m!reader and a part of geto’s character i don’t often focus on) but still very much up my own alley of tastes and queer longing; i feel like i was born to write this fic …. in a way. and i’m proud of myself for finishing it!! hopefully it’ll make your heart ache in the most pleasant of ways <3 dedicating it to my lonely soulcrushed gays i hope you look at the sea tomorrow without wishing you could wade right in

spit it out, darling /

quietly exposing a double-layered facade /

so, that’s the kind of person you are.

everything you see before you — belongs to you alone.

golden lights, dim flickers of neon, an elysian field of artificial luminescense. music that thrums under your skin, beats along with your heart, crawls up your windpipe with erratic thump, thumps that have the hair on your nape standing on end. there's alcohol in your system, tobacco clouding your mind, a giddy smile on your face. bright lights, loud music, men's voices clouded in deceit. yes, all of this is yours.

every nerve in your skull dances along to the devil's waltz you're in. excitement, lust, pure adrenaline. sweet, so sweet, you could lap it up from the floor.

"why don't you sing us a song, sweetheart?"

you're tipsier than you should be, when you're still on the clock. you can barely recognize the voice, barely tell if it comes from the handsome bartender or your boss or one of the regulars — it doesn't matter, either. your lips grow into a grin.

"sure, sure."

it's a fever dream, a haze, stumbling up to the stage with blood pumping in your chest. your skin feels hot and cold at once, but it's a good feeling, fuzzy, your head stuffed full of cotton. bliss. your hair is tousled, your tie undone, adam's apple bobbing as you grab onto the mic — as your bleary eyes grow focused on the video screen up above. you feel like a beautiful mess, but your vocal cords remain intact.

the music stops, comes to a halt, changes tune. someone shuffled the playlist and now another song is playing. familiar, a heavy baseline, and —

you start to sing. it comes to you naturally, you scarcely need to look at the lyrics.

golden lights, grinning men, your own voice in your frazzled ears. it comes out with a rasp, quickly peeled away, stripped, silky vowels sifting from the base of your throat. you've yet to lose your touch, a sound so beautiful it stops belonging to you the moment it's left your lips. the world looks mesmerizing, when it's confined to a raunchy indoor sunset; your world. center stage, all eyes on you, greedy, lapping at your exposed skin, the smudges of lipstick on your neck. shining under dusty starlight.

everything feels so possible, from here.

this is — vaguely, partially, at the very least in spirit — why you do this. not for the back-alley rendezvous, rough hands pulling at your flesh, the blooming of hydrangeas on your injured skin. not for the alcohol, or the money. actually, you're lying to yourself, it's all of that combined — but this is where your heart lies.

this is where you spit it out for all to see.

their gazes feel good, on your neck, your chest, your waist and your hands. the attention is fuel. you feel like a spectacle, like someone else entirely, shedding skin, just for a couple minutes. you meet their stares, you're sure you're smiling, gleaming through the fog of it all. the chorus melts on your tongue, as your eyes glide through the lounge. all-seeing.

in the corner of the room, a lone shadow flickers.

(and the beating of your heart halts at a pitfall.)

you sing, despite the interruption. meeting the golden, shimmering gaze, catching his eye. the man is seated at a lone table, no host to entertain him. it's hard to see, from here, with the lights and the haze and the whiskey in your veins, but you can make out his figure — wide, clad in heavy garments — just the barest contours of his face. handsome, though, you can tell, can see it in his gaze and the way he's sitting, comfortable and poised. elegant. a beautiful, beautiful jawline.

lowlidded eyes staring deeply into yours.

the song continues, lyrics rolling off your breath, perfectly timed with your overlapping gazes. for just a moment, something sinks its jaws into you.

darling, vague complaints and fridays

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

you think you catch the hint of a smile, on that shadowed face. the lonesome man raises his glass, brings it to his lips. you hope he’s drinking you in just the same, gulping you down, devouring you.

the moment splits in half. another gaze, another man. you're content, to perform for as long as your lungs will allow — until you hear the first clap of hands after a job well done. when it comes, you can only pant into the mic, savour the strain on your throat. the room is spinning. you think you need to sit down, for a while. everything feels like a blur.

"aghh, my shoulder is killing me…"

slim, pretty hands pass you a glass of water, cool against your heated fingertips. you accept it, swirl it around for a moment, just to hear the satisfying clink of ice cubes colliding. slumped against the headrest of a leather sofa, maroon, blinking sluggishly as if to rouse your mind into a working state.

"shouldn't have tuckered yourself out so early. the night is still young."

"i know, i know," you hiss, digging the heel of your palm into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. it stings, like someone pressed the butt of a cigarette against your naked skin. when you tilt your head back, a thank you on your tongue, the host is already gone, off to entertain a guest. you're pretty sure someone just asked for a champagne bottle to pop. ah, the noise is bound to grate you…

a raspy sigh pushes past your lips, as you empty the glass with one big gulp.

"what a beautiful voice you have."

a different voice. not one of the hosts. when you look up, still keeping the rim of the glass against your lips — you see a sliver of gold.

for a moment, you wonder if it's…

— nope. it's a tooth.

a big, bulky man, clad in a sleazy red suit, lips curled into a similar grin. your eyes glide across his features, tallying the damage; blonde hair, fat biceps, chest hair exposed… a big nose, that's not bad. the gold tooth is certainly a choice. you wonder if he's going for dirty rich, or classy poor. you're half tempted to ask what bank he co-owns with his father.

instead, you smile.

"ah, you flatter me." the glass clinks when you put it down, scooting over to make space, not-so-subtly. you tilt your head, angle your body until you feel the fabric of your undone blouse start to slip down your shoulder. his eyes drink it in, a moth to a flame. "are you here to spend time with me, mister…?”

a part of you wants to laugh, at how successful the pure, youthful flower schtick is to men like him. it's how you make money, though — you lie successfully.

and he takes the bait. "i think i just might be, yes,” he plops down next to you, legs comfortably spread — his elbows finding purchase on the headrest.

"i'll have to make it worth your while, then, won't i?"

a rumbling chuckle. the man fishes a cigar from out of his pocket, hands you the lighter and waits. you need no instruction, leaning forward, flicking your fingers against it until the bottom catches ablaze. he puts it in his mouth, fat and thick, the scent almost overpowering. you've built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, withholding a cough. maybe that would appeal to him, though…

he keeps it between his lips, exhales through his nose before pulling away to speak. "well, i pay good money for your company. i'd say it's only fair."

a breathy chuckle. "that's true…"

there's a hunger to the way he looks at you. a kind of gaze you've learned to associate with filth, desire. he's still smiling, too wide, that golden tooth gleaming in between the yellowish-whites. smells of gin, underneath the tobacco, and something else. vodka? it's hard to tell. his size advantage is stark, when you're thigh to thigh like this — he looks like he could snap you like a twig. looks like he’d want to. one of his hands slithers around your hip, suddenly, squeezes the flesh and lingers just to feel you shudder. his grin widens when you can't withhold it.

(… ough, you lament. one of the brutes.)

with a muttered sigh, underneath your breath, your lips drag themselves up — it's voluntary, takes effort to push back the urge to run from his grip. a perfect smile, sweet and coy, still leaving much to the imagination. a hint of mystery, intrigue —

a glint in your eye.

no room for mistakes. your shoulder still aches, but it's bearable. you’re just about to part your lips, cozy up to him, say a pair of sultry, well-picked words, when —

”may i have him, for a moment?”

a smooth voice cuts in through the fog.

deep, velvety tones, rubbing against your ear drums. sweet and saccharine, honey dripping down your chin; it sends a shiver down your spine, heat to the back of your neck. he blooms in your mind before you even tilt your head to meet his dark gaze, sharp and low-lidded. you can picture him before you even see him. voices carry weight, they always do, but his is special. you haven't heard anything quite like it.

wine and tequila. oil and water.

two voices speaking, all at once.

a tall man is standing just before you, hands tucked into the long sleeves of his haori, gazing down at your touchy customer. it’s the strange, shadowy figure from before. up close, he looks more like a monk; a gojogesa wrapped around his abdomen.

you were right, of course.

he is handsome. 

with greed, you etch his features into your mind, lap it up. a sharp jaw, nose, well-defined cheekbones… obsidian eyes, with flecks of tinted gold, though you can hardly see them under these dim lights, with their narrow shape. pretty, pretty monolids, crescent moons. his hair is the real kicker, though, silky locks that flow down his back and shoulders, stop around his waist. looks like it’s been pampered, oiled and brushed, how lovely. one of his hands slip out, to dust off his sleeve, and fuuuck, they're —

— a grumble resounds to your left.  

”i have him for the next hour. you can piss off,” spits the wild boar next to you, abandoning your hip to curl possessively around your neck. and uh oh, that doesn’t feel too nice. would he get hissier if you pulled away? ”fuckin’ monk.”

catching tells is a skill that takes honing. observing, attention to detail, a reward for one’s attentiveness. you like to think you’re good, very good —

though you only barely catch the twitch of the monk’s left brow. the way his eyes coil into slits.

a hum buzzes in his throat. 

then he’s leaning forward, one big, beautiful hand coming to rest on your customer's shoulder, like he’s using him as a step stool. bending forward to look you in the eye. two abysses, gazing into you.

swirling gleefully.

his lips curl up into a sly smile. ”i’ll pay you double,” he whispers, for only you to hear. ”what do you say?”

for a moment, your breath stills in the back of your throat. that same halting of your heartbeat as before, enraptured by his gaze, hook line and sinker. because he’s close, you can nearly feel his body heat, almost pick up on his scent, warm and rich.

(and, well —)

”… sounds good.”

he rewards you with a smile. crescent-eyed.

”wonderful.”

(you’ve always been weak to a pretty face.)

the man on your left grows silent. stunned, you think, and — oops, he looks pissed. a booming voice spills out, the smoke from his cigar still fattening the air with toxins, making your eyes water. ”hah? that’s not how this works, you gold digging —”

”leave.”

a flick of his wrist. his robes sway, with the motion, like a curtain being drawn shut. the gesture itself is a command; elegant, there's no need for shouting. the way his voice drops says enough, exudes casual dominance, ripe as golden fruit on heavy branches.

a shiver, a phantom hand counting the vertebrae on your spine.

and, naturally — what you expect is a brawl. a very angry customer, one very injured customer, none of them a blessing upon your paycheck this month. casual dominance is sexy, sure, but not much else — it won't save you from a fist kissing your teeth. and, well, just going by the size of their arms alone —

… the man on your left stands up.

and leaves.

you watch, blinking owlishly as he heads for the exit, steps measured — controlled — as if guided by a puppet string. the thought makes your shoulder itch. the bell rings out, across the lounge, a pleasant chime. he's gone, he actually left. just like that.

one moment of silence, and then a breathy exhale.

"i hope you don't mind," comes a tender voice, softening, woven with silk. "but you seemed a little… uncomfortable."

the stranger takes the now empty seat, but keeps his distance, hands still tucked comfortably inside his sleeves. robes fluttering with the movement, spilling across the leather cushions and draping down to the floor. they look expensive, well made, not cheap cosplay or an elaborate joke — is he actually a monk? at a host club? sounds like the headline for a trashy porno. black hair frames his face, a single silky bang, and you can't even really call it odd because everything about him is already so out of place.

your mind spins with questions. but he's handsome, and he chased away what you're sure was the beginning of a really bad night —

a smile slips onto your lips, cheshire-esque. your eyes crinkled at the edges as you breathe out a chuckle. "no, not at all," you purr. "thank you, kind stranger."

smoothly, you cozy up to him, your thigh ghosting his own, hand about to curl around his bicep — just to feel his build, from under all those layers. he doesn't let you. doesn't say a word, but his brow twitches, a silent tell to back off.

so you do.

(maybe he's one of the look, don't touch types? some kind of power fantasy?)

you don't mind. smile still sweet, your expression doesn't falter. it's fine, this distance is tantalizing in its own right. like he's a painting on the wall, or a holy sculpture — something you'd get in trouble just for smudging with your fingerprint.

the handsome monk remains silent. watches as you fix your blouse, absently, it's in your nature to adjust to the whims of whoever you're servicing. a few buttons are undone, the fabric only covers one of your shoulders. exudes anything but elegance. your fingers curl around the fabric, ready to fish it back up.

that's when he speaks.

"do i not strike you as the promiscuous type?"

it's half a question, half a jest. there's a gleam in his eye when you meet it, something like a silverfish in a pool of dark water. an amused smile on his lips. his voice is light, and you can't help but mirror his expression — something slightly devilish.

"oh, are you?" you grin, tongue swiping against the back of your teeth, tasting the faded cocktails, a spark of syrupy flavours. "i'll leave it as is, then."

your fingers part with the soft linen, reaching instead for the empty glass on the table. putting it to your lips, sipping up what little has melted off the ice cubes, excess. then the clink, and you're turning towards him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

"what would you like to order, handsome?"

a quirk of his brow. "saké," comes his answer, flat.

"classy."

"is it, now?" he doesn't seem impressed. gazing at you with something familiar, but you can't pinpoint it. even though it's right at the tip of your tongue.

no matter, no matter. the sensations of this world have already tainted what remains of your common sense. "and can i get a name, with that order?" you ask, instead, raising yourself up into a standing position; ready to go grab his drink.

"geto," is all he says. smiling, but it's surface level; almost mocking. "just geto."

夏油. summer oil.

you think of autumn, bleeding sunsets. bottles of whiskey poured into a boy's waiting mouth.

(suddenly, you feel like weeping.)

"that'll do, that’ll do.” you give him a wink, before heading for the bar. before you know it, you're pouring the saké into his cup, the scent of fermented rice soothing the sting of tobacco still biting at the back of your throat. old and expensive, your nose picking up a roasted fragrance, fruity undertones.

geto didn't seem intimidated, by the price. you suppose he wasn't joking when he said he'd pay you double.

"how is it?" you ask, maintaining a distance while watching him drink. his eyes are closed, in what you hope is contentment, lips cupping the rim as he sips.

"… good," he hums, appreciatively, swirling the cup in a controlled motion, a gentle vortex. "no, not bad at all. i suppose money really does pay for service…"

another sip. your gaze drinks in his hands, practically dwarfing the cup, thick fingers keeping it safe and steady. would he hold your hips, like that? make sure you stay afloat? or would he drop you to the floor and watch you shatter…?

"are you really a monk, geto-kun?"

"san," he corrects, a cut of his tongue. he's smiling, though. it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bothered by the prefix. "and yes, i am. does that surprise you?"

"a little," you admit, pouring the beverage into your own cup. you watch it fill, swirl around and shimmer, letting out a humoured breath. "i mean, it's not often i get to service a holy man…"

a low noise, almost a snort. eyes of burning cedar flit to your face.

"mm, i see. your usual customers are more of the barbarish kind, are they?" he leans back, keeping eye contact, voice like the weights of a scale, judging. he tuts, quietly, a click of his tongue. "that's not good, you know. men like that don't know how to treat what's fragile."

"fragile?" you laugh, can't help it, teeth gleaming under dim lights.

"yes."

teasing words die on your tongue. something like, maybe i can take more than you think? but no, it's gone, sputtered out somewhere between your gums. because geto says it like he's talking about the weather.

like it's not a challenge; like there’s nothing to prove.

like it's fact.

(you're fragile. you'd break under pressure.)

"… if you say so. anyhow…" you lean forward, a pang of heat flashing against your nape when you catch his lips twitching upwards. "what temple?"

geto breathes out a chuckle, sweet saké on his tongue. "why?" he asks, raising a brow, hand coming to rest against your skin. you remain still, as he drags a thumb against the smudge of lipstick right below your throat. the sudden contact does something to you, makes you pliant, like a kitten being lifted by the scruff. "you don’t strike me as the devout kind. could it be you just want to see me hard at work?"

dark eyes crinkle with mirth — your heartbeat sputters like a firefly crushed under a boot. ah, his voice is like a balm to your ears. honeyed vowels, spinning a sticky web in your mind, just the slightest hint of a rasp underneath. it sneaks into his speech, makes him sound like a sexy dad, and you're screwed, you realize — totally and completely.

"maybe," you say, playing coy. "can't i?"

"i'm not sure how my congregation would feel," he hums, gazing down into his cup again. tapping his fingers against his knee, rhythmic, from forefinger to pinkie. "a little thing like you, hanging off my arm during a sermon…"

another hum, as if he's tasting the thought on his tongue, but you get the feeling he's mostly trying to tease you. a perfectly still smile on his lips.

"i suppose you'd make for good eye candy."

"oh, i’d be honoured to."

this time, his smile feels somewhat genuine, the golden glow of the bar lighting his eyes on fire, makes you think of his name and all its flavours. honey, whiskey, bramble berries eaten under summer shades. he grins, just barely, and your shoulder aches again. pangs of pain, sparks of pleasure. makes you want to lean right in.

makes you crave more.

you drink with him, or more like you watch his measured sips, because for once you don't want your mind completely sullied, want to remain at least slightly lucid, enough to hold a conversation without embarrassing yourself. it pays off. geto is intelligent, well-spoken, an intellectual. absolutely morbid. he stays for an hour, take it or leave it, but it feels like dusk has already bled into dawn by the time he’s gone, everything blurring together until he's all you can see. his pretty lips, the cupid's bow above it. silver tongue peeking out with every syrupy word.

when he stands up, you’re expecting him to ask you to accompany him. tempted to ask yourself. but he tells you of business he must attend to, with graceful poise, as if cutting a firm line between himself and this establishment. him and you. you know that tone, it's like a boyfriend telling you to not be clingy while he's working. a sense of overstepping.

another smile, and then he's leaving. you get the feeling that it falls as soon as his back is turned. call it a gut feeling, but liars know each other like the back of their own hand — and so-called perfect men are always wearing one mask or another.

it doesn't matter, either way. your heart still clenches pitifully, when the bell of the store sings its tune. you watch his back until it's no longer visible.

and then you exhale a sigh. left alone, with a half-full bottle of saké and a strange sensation in your bloodstream, something that pulls and tugs restlessly at the nerves of your brain. muddied, but somehow clear, the room not so blurry anymore.

you feel cold.

(the pain in your shoulder is gone, too.)

fingertips trail along plasticized polystyrene.

cup ramen, stacks of surimi sticks, and a can of beer. you eye the products in your arms, silently counting up the price. it's dark out, the lights of passing cars and the city illuminating the world beyond your local konbini; occasionally, the store's bell will ring, but otherwise it's silent. you're spent. you need this, an unhealthy midnight treat, you deserve it after all the drinks you poured last night.

this world, the real world, is different from the host club. less flashy.

depressing, really.

your feet carry you to the freezer, to eye a bundle of honeydew popsicles. you could eat one on the way back, but by then it'll have melted — you could eat it before slurping up the ramen, but that would make you feel even more like a mess. hair a mess, face a mess, bags under your eyes and a hoodie draped around you, sweatpants and sandals. you can't be bothered to perform on a day off. couldn't be bothered to put on makeup, give the cashier anything more than a vague nod on the way in.

there's no one here to see you like this. no one to see you at all. you're allowed a moment's respite.

"my, my."

…

a voice rings in your ears. you stiffen, standing by the freezer, staring at popsicles and tubs of ice cream; a shiver trailing down your spine. a familiar, familiar voice — honeyed, the slightest hint of a rasp.

and when you look up, you see them. eyes of rusted gold.

sharpened into crescents.

"what a pleasant surprise." he tilts his head, bangs gliding along his skin. "out shopping this late?"

fuck, it's him, it's actually him. of all the people —

"sure am," you exhale, smiling wearily. peering up at him through droopy eyes; fatigue clinging to your voicebank. "are you stalking me, geto-san?"

a chuckle bubbles past his lips. he's still wearing the same robes, eyes gleaming, lips curling up and exposing pure white teeth. "ah, you caught me."

you can't even tell if he's joking. but you breathe out a matching chuckle, as he steps to the side, walks towards another aisle, passing you by. your eyes follow his broad back, trailing after him — ice cream can wait for another day — until you're taking up the empty space at his side. his hand slips from out his sleeve and reaches for a wakaba brand pack of cigarettes, cream-coloured, his fingers flexing as they curl around it. a blink, your lashes fluttering, ravens taking flight from a lamppost outside.

"… you’re a smoker?"

an absent hum. "oh, yes. occasionally."

when geto walks up to the counter, you follow. still carrying your hastily chosen snacks, digging up your wallet from the pocket of your sweatpants, ripping it open with your teeth. you give him a glance while the cashier scans your items, one after the other. "isn't that, like… against buddhist values, or whatever?"

"i'm not buddhist."

beep, beep. you swipe your card, still staring at him out of the corner of your eye.

"… huh."

he clicks his tongue. "i dabble in… a religion of my own making," he adds, smiling. "one could say."

the cashier bows. you return it, gathering your products, turning on your heel to scope out the tables by the windows. not one seat occupied, that's good. you walk towards them, a hum on your tongue.

”sooo… you're a cultist?"

just a joke, to lighten the mood. geto only chuckles, doesn't answer — when you turn your head he's looking at you like you just said something funny.

it shouldn't put you ill at ease.

(you’re fascinated.)

the view from where you plop down to stretch your weary legs is soothing, familiar, twinkling stars dimmed by light pollution and cars whooshing by, blinking street lamps, a river running farther ahead; from the old train station to a faraway clearing of woods. the night sky is vast and wide, the moon hidden behind a cluster of blue clouds. a word sits on the back of your tongue and stays there, heavy like lead, you swallow it while tearing the plastic off your ramen — geto takes a seat besides you, rests his elbows on the table and watches you, chin poised against the heel of his palm. robes hanging off the small chair, meeting the floor. a puddle of ink.

a minute passes. you pour hot water into the cup, crack open the can of beer, exhale when your fingertips meet cool condensation. then you take a swig, throat bobbing gently. geto watches. waits.

"did your business go as expected?" you ask, finally, peeling back the lid of your meal as steam wafts into the air. smells of shrimp and tom yum, the noodles swimming in foam. just about done.

"it did, yes," geto responds, closing his eyes. "did i leave you wanting?"

the bell jingles. a glance in the direction of the entrance tells you it's a group of schoolgirls, out past their bedtime. anxiety swirls in your gut, gnaws at your fragile ribs, little fish nipping at strings of seaweed. they shouldn't be here this late, but what can you do? nothing but stifle it, chew at a surimi stick while breaking apart your chopsticks — the moon peeks out, briefly, paints the city blue.

and, well.

he did, but that doesn't mean he has to say it.

"you wish," you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

”hm… should i be flattered?"

you bring a mouthful of noodles to your lips, slurp them up with fervour. a series of beeps resound behind you, idle schoolgirl chatter having died down into hushed whispers. you can't see them, your back turned, but you could wager a guess as to what, or who, they're whispering about. it makes you chuckle through the bite, which makes geto stare at you.

a quirk of his brow, his upturned lips. he tilts his head, lazily, a wilting bud.

"it's just —" you swallow, failing to stifle a humoured breath. leaning forward, to sip at the beer can, just to feel the burn at the back of your throat. imagining yourself and him, from an outside perspective — a shady, hooded guy eating cheap ramen with a monk. "this probably looks like an intervention."

geto hums. doesn't laugh along.

"it could be."

a spark of body heat, hints of bergamot and incense. he's leaned closer, close enough that everything else feels like a shadow, you're encapsulated in his gaze, hidden by the curtains of his robes and silky hair. it sticks a pin inside your heartbeat. falls to the floor with a clatter. he's close, and he smells good, and you're sleepy.

and his voice ghosts the nape of your neck.

"do you need a cleansing, my dear?"

a deep, rumbling purr against your ear. there's the rasp, the baseline, the moment where your mind shatters on the konbini floor. it echoes, thrums under your skin, makes heat gather in your abdomen. for once, he's being serious, you know what people sound like when they want you to be theirs for the night. when you meet his eyes, it's even more clear.

deep pools of desire.

geto stands up. dusts off his robes with steady hands, gives you crescent eyes and a sly smile before turning on his heel. broth clings to your lips, the taste of beer, you've barely touched the surimi. your limbs feel tied up in knots, strung along by a puppeteer.

and you follow. 

he could be a murderer, for all you know. a serial killer. maybe he'll take you to some shady love hotel, wrap his hands around your neck, say something about sin before twisting with all his might — you think of all the threats you've heard over the years.

but he’s handsome. beautiful, like this, when you’re a little tired, a little too sloppy to act well. a mess, you must look pitiful, but he wants you. he wants you, he's fascinating, looks like an angel when the light hits just right. if it brings his hands upon you, would sinning be so bad? it's too late, you've already stood up, there's no need for a wager when the loss is just as sweet. you follow; follow him outside, to where the stars barely twinkle and crisp air cups your cheeks, follow him until your heartbeat is racing so fast you can scarcely hear his voice.

messy sheets, steady hands, golden eyes.

that’s the first time you sleep with him.

geto is… an odd guy.

a month has passed since your first meeting. a handful of nights spent under covers, or dim lights, at a host club he's become something of a regular at — though it never takes him long to bring you to a different, emptier bar. he waltzes in with his fancy robes, pays no mind to any of the other hosts — you know they're jealous, too bad for them — and calls you over. doesn't even need to speak, the moment your eyes meet his you're already walking his way. he pays well, buys expensive bottles of saké, brings you with him when he's gotten bored of sneering at the other guests. it’s always just a matter of time.

everything about him spells disaster — spells out something like poisonous berries, or rotten cadavers on an open fire when you’re on the verge of starving.

something a little too good to be true.

he's good in bed, for example. very good. if the monk shtick wasn't already so ridiculously out of place, you're sure it would have shocked you even more — how he knows exactly what to do, where to touch, how to explore the crevices of your body like a lock skillfully broken into, solved, elegant twitches of metal before the door knob loosens. geto is weird, probably a cult leader, but god, is he good at sex.

it's been a while since you felt so truly satiated. every part of your body tended to, filled, ruined and stitched back together again; your mind successfully turned off, painted blank, only blissful clouds and cotton left in your skull by the time he's done. when he steps into the dim-lit lounge, you know you'll be sleeping well into the morning. you know you'll get to see the way his biceps flex and twitch, the tattoos on his back and shoulder, paintings of ink, red flowers and white dragons — that you'll get to feel his weight and see into his brown eyes and paw at his chest, plush and fat, gape at the thick set of scars carving an x inbetween them. the body is a temple. you've never truly understood that, not until now.

not until him.

and it's silly. stupid, naive; it's never good to get a crush on someone who's made what he wants from you abundantly clear. your little arrangement is set in stone — no will he won’t he, no second guessing.

but no one has ever treated your messed up body with that kind of reverence.

so, forgive you for having a bit of a crush on the weird, perverted monk guy. forgive you for being deliriously predictable and easy. for being a little enamored by the way he keeps his distance, how your wants fit together so perfectly — bodies pressed together, minds lodged apart. no strings attached, only sweat and sex and chemicals making a mess of your muddled brain. he wants nothing more, you want nothing less. he pays no mind to the pills on your nightstand, you don't ask about the scar.

it's a silent give and take. he's handsome, takes only a little more than he's given every time. you've found you don't really mind. he's not insatiable, just greedy.

and, well. you've always been eager to excel.

(always the type to get caught up in a backdraft.)

"goddd, that fucking shift…"

a wince twists your throat, spills out when you crane your neck and stretch your limbs above your head — waiting for a crack that never comes. try as you may to get the knots out of your joints, the ache remains — your nerves frazzled, wrists bruised from one too many rough grips, fatigue sticking to your bones. geto sits on a couch in the corner, watches as you slump onto the bed, limbs like dead weights.

"… i need a raise."

a breathy chuckle. "do you, now?" he asks, a glint in his eyes like the cityscape outside. this view isn't bad, your hotel room a few stories high, overlooking the empty streets. ”and here i thought my tips would be more than enough to keep you afloat…"

"well, afloat…" you murmur, shutting your eyes for a moment — voice carried by a sleepy rasp. "i'm afloat. but don't i deserve more than that?"

"do you?"

you can practically hear his smile. he loves that, answering a question with another question. you think it's insufferable, and somehow still enough to have heat twisting in your gut. "i do," you groan. "believe me, i do."

geto hums, absentminded. you can hear the turning of paper-thin pages, a newspaper left for guests to flip through. with a sigh, you raise yourself up on your elbows. "and god, that dick… i swear he tried to throw me under the bus today.”

flip, flip. "who?"

"you've seen him… you know, the tacky guy?" weary limbs move across silken sheets, help you into a sitting position, so you can gaze at him properly. black hair, firm facial lines, big, beautiful hands. that's your geto. "cheap dye, piercings? looks like he's got a rich daddy?"

"what kind?"

his wry response pulls a chuckle out your lips. "both, probably." you mutter. "ungrateful little shit…"

finally, geto lifts his gaze. pools of amber, sloshing summer oil, burns on your hands and neck. he meets your eyes with a calm glint in his own, setting the newspaper back on the table in front of him.

"i don't know who you mean," he smiles, and you think he must be lying, trying to avoid work talk — either that, or he really does only pay attention to you. the thought is sweet, intoxicating, too good to be true. ”but i take it he's giving you a hard time?"

a scoff.

"understatement of the century…"

slowly, he uncrosses his legs; lets his sandals meet the carpented floor, and stands up to his full height, before walking over to your place of rest. you watch him, lazily, eyes never parting from the swooshing of his heavy robes, the way that he moves, like he's following a path carved just for him. you've met men who take up space, who do it like it's easy, like it’s their birth right — this is different. his steps are not heavy, loud, nor flashy. he moves quietly, like a serpent, a mesmerizing slithering across the floor. geto stops in front of you, and tilts his head; slips a smile onto his lips. crescented, a half-moon.

”would you like me to take care of him for you?”

(it lights up his expression.)

”… take care?” you echo, blinking sluggishly. ”what, you gonna kill him?”

”would you like me to?”

…

a hum. you stare off into space, for a moment; feeling his gaze weigh you down and split you apart, he doesn't need his hands for that. it's a tantalizing proposition — you can't tell if he's joking, but you know he likes it best that way. you also know your job would be a whole lot easier without a little brat messing up your monthly quota. ”kind of.” it slips from out your lips, a deadpan reply.

and a chuckle rumbles in his throat.

"he really is bothering you." his smile splits itself further, white teeth showing for a second before he laps over them with his tongue. "i suppose i'd be doing you a favour."

you snort, raising a practiced brow, meeting his gaze head on. "what, did you think i was exaggerating? lying? i'd never."

”of course you wouldn’t.” he exhales, a husk to his breath — amusement buzzing behind closed lips. "there'd be no need. you're easy to read, after all."

(ouch.)

the comment has you wanting to laugh, call him a dick, roll your eyes in a show of discontentment. what a callous thing to say to such a dedicated actor.

then again, you haven't been doing a very good job of it, recently.

to geto, you must be nothing more than a fruit wanting to be peeled. he undoes your layers with ease, and it's humiliating — irritating — has warmth blooming under your bones. grime doesn't dissuade his appetite, after all. there's no real need for acting. not when he looks at you just the same regardless. not when you're fairly sure he wouldn't so much as stir, even if you killed someone in front of him; he'd listen to your reasons, your motives, not saying a thing. he'd look into your eyes without flinching.

geto probably knows how empty you are. you don't think he minds; think he might even prefer it. you think you could tell him anything, but you won't.

(you have some pride, after all.)

”i think you’re the only one who can see through me at all," you admit, words coming out softer than you meant them to. a slip of the tongue.

for a moment, you regret your words. avoiding his gaze, though you feel it searing into your skin, the tip of a cigarette burning tender flesh. the hotel room is quiet, the cityscape glitters and gleams, sways softly in a dark night, a shattered mirror world. geto hums.

”keep it that way.”

his voice drops, an edge to it — a jolt down your heartbeat. there it is, the edge of a kitchen knife making itself known. the words make your throat run dry, a few seconds where you can only feel the air leave your lungs, enter, leave again. but you plaster a smile onto your lips and meet his eyes. perhaps a little too cheery to be convincing. ”… yes, sir."

you're being studied. your flesh is being cut into. soon, he'll dig into it with hands and limbs, more than just his eyes — soon, your ribs will split apart to make room for him. and his gaze carries all of this, it's like he's telling you himself. eye to eye communication. his cornea tells you there's nothing you could hide from its all-seeing gaze. you're inclined to believe that; doesn't make any it less terrifying. exhilarating.

geto seems pleased.

when he leans in, you aren’t ready. a stutter building in your throat. close, close, now you can smell the green tea off his breath, dried leaves and boiling water, like the pools in his eyes, rising steam, his breath ghosting your lips. he's going to kiss you.

how rare.

”easy to read," he repeats, voice a quiet whisper, gravelly against your ear. "and easy to trick."

a gasp. a sharp jolt, a spark of pain burning down your spine, your chest — your mind works overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmth — he just pinched your fucking nipple. the burn blows your eyes open, parts your lips, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure through your thin shirt. it hurts, not letting up.

and geto smiles. light and easy.

”… and sensitive.”

it's a dull remark, like he's still reading from the newspaper, listing off this weekend's weather patterns. heat blooms in your gut. you feel like something small, molded just to fit his hands, waiting to be exposed and split into halves. it's humiliating, to be seen, you're not sure if you want to flee or stay right here — if just the weight of his palms make up for the sting accompanying them.

”… just for you,” you hear yourself speak. a hitch of your breath, yet you force the words out, mustering a smile — sleazy, flimsy, as long as it looks convincing it’s fine. you won't make it easy for him. not today.

but geto smiles. the corners of his eyes crinkle like ginkgo leaves, melted gold, like he knows something you don't. a slow, delighted exhale. "idle flattery won’t save you, this time.” he tuts, and twists, waiting for a jolt. ”not when it’s so obvious.”

a strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it down — inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his cruel grip — geto watches your silent endeavors, your attempts at staying afloat. you expect him to laugh.

instead, he cups your chin. tilts it up, up, up, until you're looking into his abyssal eyes, baring your bobbing adam's apple, your vulnerable throat.

he looks admonishing.

"tsk, tsk. whatever shall i do with you?" he clicks his tongue, a chastising purr to his voice. "so careless with your body, but dishonest about what it wants. are you ashamed just to live, darling?”

an involuntary gulp. the question makes your heart constrict, a guilty twist. sends a pang of pain into your veins, a downward tug at your lips, has you falling silent.

a moment where you cannot fully hide the pain in your expression.

(shah mat.)

geto tilts his head, then, silky bangs across soft skin, a flicker of satisfaction in eyes like golden fruit. ripe for plucking. he graces you with a smile, the branches of his lips curling up, up, blooming like a grotesque flower — like he knows exactly what you're thinking. like he knows you, in and out, like he's already seen every ghost in your skull, tasted them on his tongue and taken them down his throat.

there's no scaring him off.

at last, he lets you go — takes a moment to get seated on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap. a heavy hand, a silent cue. you lick at the back of your teeth, savouring the burn his fingers leave behind.

"come here," he croons, as if taking pity on you. ”let me give you some relief.”

he doesn't have to ask you twice.

so you end up beneath him — you always do — his weight bearing down on you, big hands dwarfing your hips, heated pants and the creaks of a worn out mattress echoing in the empty hotel room. a cacophony of filthy noise, skin on skin, bone on bone, you've done it all too many times before. he's so close you wonder if you've morphed together. so close you don't know where he ends and you begin.

geto inhales, heavy, a dark look in his eyes.

"maybe i should just buy you off," he rasps, breath hot against you, sweat dripping down his brow, "keep you at my temple… always within reach."

any ability to speak has left you, at this point, any coherent method of speech. you can't say anything — not, hey, that’s a pretty fucking strange thing to say, or — you would have me entertain a bunch of monks? seriously? not even yes, yes, please, i don’t want anyone else to ever see me like this again. i don’t want to be ruined by anyone but you.

only a breathy whimper makes it past your lips. it makes him chuckle, into the hollow room.

(and he’s gone again, the morning after.)

geto would not consider himself a fickle man.

every action has a consequence. every choice must be weighed, considered, carefully plucked apart.

there is value in the act alone. weight is synonymous with heart, and geto, despite himself, cannot help but cling to his; worn out as it may be, soiled with fingerprints. there is weight behind his every action, care. choice means being human. choice means weight, which means heart, which is all he needs.

all this to say — geto suguru does not bet on losing dogs.

how he ended up in the corner of a dim-lit, shady host club is honestly beyond him. a grotesque sort of happenstance. the air smells of champagne and cologne, handsome hosts and guests chattering at every table in sight. all of them vermin.

what would his family say, if they knew what he was doing? ask if he's come down with a fever, no doubt. he can practically hear their voices — geto-sama, with a bunch of monkeys? willingly? no way. he could barely take the train to osaka last week! they'd be right, that's what grates him — that he's sitting there, and people-watching, still entirely uninterested in choosing his host for the evening. uninterested in drinking. cheery voices, sultry whispers, the popping of bottles and buzz of a karaoke machine. everything is loud, everything sparkling with the mere illusion of glamour.

disgusting. but he stays, only crinkles his nose and soothes his senses with the scent of his own robes, mellow incense. tries not to picture the walls red.

that's when he sees you.

a stumbling, giggling figure, clad in flimsy clothing, reaching for the mic. you're pretty, he can tell even at this distance. but stained, with lipstick and alcohol, a rotten smile on your face — rotten in the sense that it's so obviously hollow. it's only when you part your lips and sing that he is pulled out of his stupor, that his eyes narrow in an attempt to focus on anything else. your voice rings out, like the chime of a bell, clear and bright — the song doesn't match your vocals, doesn't do it justice. you stand on stage, a spectacle, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

(that's how it starts. the beginning of his fixation.)

geto finds himself thinking that he likes the way you look like this. sparkling, glowing, golden rays surrounding you — it creates a crescendo of light, from where he’s sitting, something like a halo, makes you look almost holy. makes him want to laugh, because that couldn't be further from the truth. you're a bug. a bug that gets paid to be of service.

pitiful, he thinks. you're pitiful. you're swaying like a drunk angel.

but your voice carries a longing he finds impossible not to indulge. to gaze at, silently, until your eyes happen to fall across his own, splatter on his brow — a flicker of light, in the middle of a too-small stage. he captures them. keeps them there.

and he swears your smile grows brighter.

(jaws snap against his ribcage. a spider weaves a web of silk.)

darling, vague complaints and fridays. he tastes the lyrics off your tongue, white noise. has already sicked the curse on you, almost on autopilot, call it morbid curiosity. it curls around your shoulder, and yet you do not falter. do not flinch. can you not feel the sting?

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

a smile splits his lips bloody.

everyone else has their eyes on you, follows your swaying, your shimmering skin. he wants to kill them, itches to. leering leeches. but that would surely make you stop singing, so he allows his fingers to twitch without purpose, makes no move to call on another wretched little puppet. listens to you until the song is over, until he can see the pain in your expression. does it hurt, little one? do you finally feel it?

he wonders. but he doesn't ask, even when he has you seated beside him, tipsy, shirt nearly slipping off your shoulder — he pictures your skin smudged, soiled, bite marks and bruises. it does nothing but add to his growing revulsion. his first night with you is over in the blink of an eye; a failure, on his part.

before he leaves the bar, he swipes his thumb across the back of your neck. watches the curse unclench its jaw, unlatch its decaying gums, a sickly purple against your ruined skin. leaves behind sticky saliva, droplets dribbling down your collarbone. filthy. he can scarcely remember why he came, why he stayed. to satisfy his curiosity, his mind supplies, only part-lie. to fill the gap. to see what it's like — men with men, dim-lit glamour, icecubes swirling in glasses half-empty — a useless endeavor. it's cheap, he feels nothing. no real desire. not the burning kind he used to fantasize about, tangled limbs and spit.

… not until you say that.

"you wish," he watches you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

he wonders why that's what makes his patience snap. bug on bug, the thought of something rotten catching you between its teeth. the knowledge that you don't mind — that you want it. filthy, pitiful, he feels sorry for your bones and your skin, at the mercy of your heart, swaying to and fro without a thought. feels sickly at the thought that it exists, that it beats.

that the same bundle of flesh slumbers beneath your ribs as his. heavy, weighty; a bleeding lump of flesh.

so he takes you to bed. out of practice, it’s been a while, but if you notice you're a better actor than he gave you credit for. he feels your heart beat against his own — yes, it's there, right there, squirming around. disgust. exhiliration. a way to pass the time.

that's what you are. what this is. he tells himself, in a soothing voice, that it means nothing; that it's not a betrayal, not if he's just using you.

not if you're just a source of warmth on nights his hands feel cold and need something to tend to.

he’s gentle, the first time you sleep together. not as much the other times, but you need it, don’t you? he can tell. you get this look in your eye. like you enjoy being along for the ride, having all thoughts pushed out of your body. it would not do, for him to leave you unsatisfied — sorcerer or not. would not do for his pride, the satisfaction he feels when you bloom in front of him, shatter and curl into yourself like a rhododendron in the precipice of summer.

what you are is a distraction.

(but you're beautiful, when he unmasks you.)

no, geto certainly is not a fickle man. he weighs his options with care; he calculates; he does not bet on losing dogs. your whines are sweet, though, your mind a lid he wants to uncap. it feels good, to be above you. to see you in your entirety, knowing the other men you sleep with don't get the opportunity, don't care to in the first place. wouldn’t want to.

you haven't been loved properly. he can tell.

"please don't go…"

words aren't necessary. your limbs, wrapped around his waist, say enough. the dew at your lashline says enough. you aren't lucid; it's the most primal part of you, clawing its way out. that says enough.

he soothes you before leaving. makes sure you're sound asleep.

you're his, he thinks, watching your poor body seek solace in silky sheets. feels it seek out his touch when he runs a hand over your hip. you're beautiful, and you're his. those other men don't know how to treat you, but he does. he knows what you need. little things like you should be treated like glass, spoiled —

then broken into splinters.

they don't understand. how could they? horny, mindless apes. he should kill them. slaughter them, for having laid a hand on what he owns. what he bought. he should wrangle their corpses for every set of handprints they've left on your delicate wrists.

he should. he will. their time will come.

one last glance, before he leaves for the compound. when you're bathed in moonlight, sick thoughts cloud his mind; when he wraps his gojogesa around heavy robes, and watches you slumber in the king-sized hotel bed. a dangerous indulgence.

it's something in the way you move. maybe he's always sensed it, maybe that's why he wanted you, the thought often eats him alive after you've slept together. something in the way you move, yes — your disposition, the way you carry yourself — like nothing could hurt you, even though it already has, the world has left its mark on you, he can see it in your eyes. try as you may to conceal it. rot knows rot.

even now, he sees it. something in the way you glow under dim lights. when all that surrounds you is gold, blinding white — he can almost delude himself into thinking that your hair is the same. strands of white, like a summer sky — pink lips and a clear voice —

it reminds him of someone.

honestly, suguru… i think you're the only one who understands me at all.

(he crushes the thought before it can shatter him.)

what you are is a distraction. he repeats it, chews it between his teeth until it tastes like nothing at all. a way to spend the time. wish-fulfillment, maybe, at best — there is no room for anything more. no room to think thoughts like if only you weren't what you are, if only you were like him — no room for second guessing or digging himself deeper into the ground.

he's already slipped deeper than he would have liked.

a shake of his head, and the thought is vapour. he scrubs the image of your sleeping body from his mind; reminds himself, dully, of what you are.

he thinks he can go on, like this. just like this.

there is no danger in the web he's weaved you.

”i wanted to be a singer.”

a gentle breeze, clouds covering the sky. you say it so casually, he’d think you were mentioning the weather if it wasn’t for the sadness in your voice.

you fail to keep it out.

bathed in salty air, clouds of smoke, facing the sea with a forlorn gaze — your elbows rest on the railing overlooking it. a cup of bitter coffee stands on the cafe table behind you, abandoned, left to cool. espresso steam blends with roasted nicotine. tobacco stings your eyes, he’s sure; would you blame your glassy eyes on that, were he to point it out? 

(oh, how he wonders.)

”is that so.”

geto lights his own cigarette. one, two flicks of his thumb before orange sparks at his fingertips — he delights in the jolt of his nervous system, the way it burns. delights in the rush of dopamine that follows, when he inhales, feels it flood his lungs and sting his windpipe on the way out. a heavy exhale, his trail of smoke mingling with your own, in the crisp and solemn morning air. he can't tell which is which.

the world is quiet, here. like you’re the only ones awake. hidden under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray. he likes it better when it bursts with colour, but this is just fine. you look pretty when your eyes lack light.

geto flicks the butt of his cigarette, ash crumbling on his thumb. his voice comes out with a rasp, laced with thick smoke, but it doesn’t waver, deep and silky even still. the air smells a little like disease, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. finds he likes the contrast. polluting an air that smells too much of summer. ”well, you certainly have the vocals for it.”

you let out something like a scoff. it lingers, in your throat, drags against the walls of flesh. 

amused. 

when you turn your head to meet his gaze, eyes just slightly red, smile dipped in sardonicism — he thinks you’ve never looked more lovely. not even beneath him, satin sheets spread out like an altar of worship. 

or an altar of sacrifice. 

sweet as the bite of a ripened peach. 

”do i?” you ask, irony tinged on your tongue. wearing a flimsy smile, that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. he watches your cupid’s bow sway, the drag of an arrow. ”you’ve worn them out, you know.”

a breathy exhale. he hides it with his cigarette, takes another drag just to feel the burn at the back of his throat. he smiles, though, can’t help it. 

”… you’ll live.” and he exhales, air rushing to flood his lungs, greedy. the salt burns more than the tobacco. ”you still have time. it’s not too late to try again.”

a sudden, eerie silence.

”… i don’t know about that.”

he thinks he could love you, just like this.

"i think i might be out of time."

there's a sad, sad look in your eyes. it makes you look older than you are, more weary, like a pillar of salt left to face the sea. hair swaying in the air, gently, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for him. you look tired. you look exhausted, broken down.

something about it makes him soften.

"do you feel hopeless?" he chuckles, a breathy noise, it scatters into the open air and then disappears. "you haven't seen the world. in that sense, you might as well be a child."

smoke slithers from the butt of his cigarette. everything is silent. no scoff, no click of tongues or scraping of nails against ceramic cups. nothing fake, about this moment. time is all you have, he wants to add. there's no escaping it. but he hesitates, for a moment too long, taken by the suffering in your gaze — geto wonders what you're thinking about, with such a blank expression. wonders what kind of pain you must be feeling. you look like you could shatter where you stand, just a sheet of broken glass, or a fish out of water — a lost soul, flecked with seafoam and cigarette smoke — a pretty little thing, watching the sea like you’d like to wade right in. like there is nowhere you belong, nowhere on this earth.

nowhere to seek solace.

he could love you, when you look this fragile. could allow himself a moment to taste it on his tongue, dip his toes into the first syllable. just to feel the chill.

(even just for a little while.)

you don’t bite back. neither of you speak. only the dull scraping of ocean waves fills the empty air.

”i love you.”

you are the first to step over that boundary.

it’s whispered into his neck. broken, quiet, more of a shallow breath than a sentence. so small, so quiet he thinks he must have heard you wrong. words get lost on both of you, when blood is pumping in your ears, through your veins, when skin meets skin. you’re too tired to speak properly, speak at all. he’s being hard on you tonight — couldn’t think clearly, only saw one of your other regulars try to cop a feel, and, well —

that doesn’t matter, now.

”i love you…”

— there it is, again. 

the breathiest, most silent little whimper he’s ever heard. 

(geto inhales. curses himself.

a lump forms in his throat.)

you aren’t coherent, you don’t know what you’re saying. he knows that. of course, he knows that. you’re just trying to stay afloat in whatever way you can. just babbling nonsense into his ears like it'll make him go a little easier on you, like you just want his affection —

he thinks he might throw up. 

moonlight flits in through the window blinds, illuminates his back, lotus flowers blooming where ink meets skin on his left shoulder. the dragon curls around his back, coils up in anger, disgust. curses crawling in his stomach, hot with irritation.

this was supposed to be a distraction. he was never planning to keep you, you're no human — certainly no partner. the tremors of his heart mean nothing, it's all chemical, all a masquerade. you are nothing.

once the fun has run its course, he'll kill you.

that's what he's been telling himself. he'll slaughter you, etch the sight of red blood against satin sheets into his memory, taste the excess dripping down your waist — he’ll drink it in and throw it up.

but you love him.

(you love him.)

geto wants to hate you. 

what he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. peel his skin away, leave only the flesh. he can’t help it, though he tries — a futile endeavor —

”you’re okay.”

a tender, tender, whisper, spilling from his parted lips. when did they part? when did making room for you become as natural as breathing?

”you’ll be okay.”

a weak whimper, nestled against his throat. arms go slack around him, your body peeling itself of guarded skin, allowing him to do as he pleases. so good, so pliant.

(his poor, poor boy.)

geto tastes iron, bursting hot and heavy on his tongue. sinks his teeth into his lower lip, as far as they can go, until the sting itself fades away. keeps going until you pass out, softly, silently, tenderly. kisses your neck, shushes your cries. keeps a big palm on the back of your neck the entire time. rocks you to sleep, as if it's muscle memory.

tender, he reminds himself. when someone tells you they love you, you treat them tenderly, suguru. 

(a burning, rotten memory. his mother’s voice.

he feels like dying.)

once all is said and done, he watches you slumber under blue light. dim, it casts a shadow over your features, but he can still see it clear as day; the creases on your face, the lines of your jaw and cheekbones and the way your chest rises and falls.

for once, he doesn't leave.

instead, geto tucks himself behind you, drags forgotten covers over his frame, pulls you against his warm chest, a mother to her newborn — your sniffle-like breaths safe in the boundary between his throat and sternum. he holds you, and closes his eyes. your heartbeats soften, gradually, in tune with his own, clammy skin sticking together. he wants to clean you. wants to give you a bath, scrub the stains away.

you look so very fragile.

he swallows the bile, and keeps his eyes shut. he can allow himself a moment of pretending.

(but this farce will have to end, soon.)

some days, geto doesn’t miss him at all.

some days, hues of cherry pink and bright-sky blue remind him of nothing more than fruit and summer. on even better days, fruit and summer don’t remind him of boys biting into ripe peaches, or napping in the sun, or tickling his ribs while on the back of his bike until they both tumble to the ground.

some days, geto doesn’t linger in the past. 

(most days, it’s all he does.)

you’re lying in bed, on your side, curled up with your knees against your chest. naked and unguarded, a newborn fawn. he thinks of how your legs shake after a particularly rough session. almost cracks a smile, but he's too tired, mind too tangled up in knots; he didn't sleep a wink last night. can only watch you from across the room, in silent contemplation, map your features into his mind. he feels fondness for you, like this, only like this. (especially like this.) when you’re entirely bare. a freshly plowed field, a peeled fruit, ready to be carved into halves, willing to be split. breathing very softly into sheets left dirtied.

the world has yet to wake, outside the window.

in moments like this, he indulges in the thought. not enough to suffocate, just sting. he pretends that your hair is white, like marble flooring, like specks of dust collecting light. pretends you're in another country, another life, with no weight on your shoulders. the thought tastes sweet — tastes like bramberries and sunlight and whiskey, tastes like a breakfast well-served. a life where meaning frames the world.

but that sunlight makes its way through your shut blinds, one way or another. no matter how tightly he closes them. and, in turn, your lashes flutter apart.

geto closes his eyes, and pretends he cannot see their colour. pretends that they’re blue, blue, blue, a blue so staggering it makes the sky look white.

a blue that dyes the whole world monochrome. 

(if it was him — would he be like this? sleeping soundly, satiated, nuzzled into his chest instead of a pillow? would he be as good as you? as willing to be ruined?

would he want to ruin anyone but you?)

”… geto…?”

you sound surprised. voice a broken tune, raspy and high, like splintered glass. he's bewildered that he finds it charming. that it makes him feel anything at all. you raise your hand to rub at your eyes, groaning softly, twitching like you're having trouble just to move your limbs. geto stands by the door, rests his back against the wall, and watches you. isn't sure how long he's stood there and contemplated leaving.

"… you're still here?"

hope. he can practically taste it, off your breath.

a low click of his tongue. he takes a step forward, towards your bedside, sunshine gliding across his skin, his robes. he's fully clad, no sight of scarring or tattoos, the barest of marks you left when you nipped his neck in your sleep. he won't let you see it.

and he towers above you like a scarecrow on a hayfield.

doesn't say a word. only reaches out to grasp your jaw, palm flat against your chin, trails his hand down your neck. two fingers, dragged between your fragile ribs. neither rough nor gentle. you're pliant, there's no fight in you, a lamb making itself soft for the blade of a dagger. you let him explore you, while a frown threatens to break through his pursed lips — thick brows furrowed together. you don't jolt, or yelp. you trust your body with him. silly, stupid, naive.

can't you see what he's made you into?

"... maybe i should cut your heart out," he breathes, surprised by how sincere he sounds, the shadows that covet his voice. "save us both the trouble. hm?"

that makes you scrunch your nose. eyelids too droopy, too weighty to keep themselves up, they just flutter shut again. oh, whatever shall he do with you?

"… my heart…?" a soft sigh, a noise in the back of your throat, like a cat awoken from its nap. you're mumbling, he has trouble hearing you, isn't sure if you're fully lucid or if you think this is a dream. a yawn spills past your lips. "y'can have it…"

… bare. unguarded. heart ripe for plucking.

any man could steal it. rob it from its branches. you don't seem to understand your own appeal, your true appeal; it's aggravating. your ribs are so easy to peel apart. when someone speaks softly to the confines of your heart, they just fall open, all on their own.

so very guarded, yet trusting even still. so, so eager to let the right one in.

”… you remind me of a friend.”

the words have already left his lips. it's too late, now.

sundrops splatter against your nose, the corners of your bottom lip. he could picture them crimson, camellia and spider lily, grows sick at the thought, a macabre twist of his guts, like he just swallowed something terrible. sunshine frames your expression, the way it shifts in the light, shadows passing by and painting your teeth when you speak. pink gums, pink tongue, swollen from abuse. a flicker of knowing, of remembering, when your pupils dilate; coil into slits.

"… friend?" you echo, a breathless mutter. "or boyfriend?"

geto twitches, from the tips of his fingers. still resting just where your ribcage ends.

they leave your skin, his thumb brushing gently against your navel before parting, a tender feather-like flick. you're sensitive, there; he knows your body like the back of his own hand, sees the shudder that slithers through you before he feels it.

sometimes, he wonders if you know him just as well.

silence. only quiet, quiet breaths. any answer geto could give stays clogged at the base of his throat, full peaches blocking his windpipe, keeping the words from bubbling up and erupting. fuzzy fruitskin against red flesh. he wants to taste the nectar. wants a lot of things he can never have, not in this life.

hey, suguru. peel it for me.

… huh? what's with the attitude?

"it’s complicated, huh."

geto swallows.

"… i suppose it is," he breathes, eyes straying from your own. deep cedar, bright honey, enclosed in globes of amber, finding solace in your sullied bedsheets. will you clean them? would you keep them as is, if you knew you'd never see him again?

what was he hoping for, all this time?

an exhale. you're smiling, you're sleepy, he wonders if your body is still blissed out enough to save you from the heartache. "am i the rebound?" you ask, a hint of humour, stretching your limbs out like a sleepy feline.

a sigh.

"… essentially."

the soft rustling of sheets. your skin is dyed golden, by the silent sun, illuminated against pure white. an altar, marble flooring, specks of dust and sodium light. you let out a little noise, something like a hum. as if struck over the head. a moment passes, and you still, eyelids falling shut. a chuckle breaks your silent death.

"it hurts that you’re so straightforward." sincerity always brings nothing but pain, he wants to tell you. if you'd never opened your heart to me, you wouldn't be feeling this way. if i had never held it in my palms, perhaps i wouldn't be feeling so empty. this is the price humans pay for loving so callously. "you're a pretty cruel guy. has anyone told you that?"

geto smiles. he closes his eyes, and steps away from you; voice a quiet breath of air.

"just once."

there is nothing to be done about a heart of stone.

geto turns on his heel, and does not look behind him.

he will leave. leave, and leave no trace, leave your home untouched, only purple marks smudged across your nape to prove his greed, to prove he ever sunk his claws into your tender flesh. imprints of teeth on your chest. fingerprints on your hips. marks will remain, and fade with time. soon enough, you'll forget about them. he will make his way past the second street, and think of neither you nor satoru.

he will not think of blue eyes, or summer. he will not think of your eyes, bleary with forgotten dreams, lost potential, speckled with what he knows to be love — a word so heavy he wishes he could spit on it. a word he wishes he did not revere.

he will not think of you, even as he crosses the main street with the fountain you like, glittering under a sun just about to break the world into halves. even as he watches a man play the violin by the train station, listens to the thin strings bend and bow just like your vocal chords under the dim lights of a trashy bar he’d never have gone to if it weren’t for you. he will not think of the way you glow.

he will think of nothing, and no one.

"… see you, geto."

(he thinks he’ll be okay.)

[sugar-grigri]

Nayuta wasn't killed by Barem, she's his ally 

Poor fandom, you're disorientated just when your compasses should be working properly. 

Let's learn how to eat sushi properly, step by step. Or rather, how about reading Chainsaw Man in the right order? By calmly superimposing everything we know in the right order 

So let's not panic, let's get on with it. Dry your tears, clean your snot and let's get back to the introductions. 

First layer of sushi: Denji and Pochita are made for each other 

Who is Chainsaw Man? It's a question we've been asking ourselves a lot, but how about a simple answer - we're not here to mess around. Chainsaw Man is the combined result of Pochita + Denji. Do we agree? Why have they become so close? Because they look alike, don't they? Alone, hungry, in need of a little warmth and a little love. 

Second layer of sushi: birthday, despair, amnesia...

If we take the stories in outline, Denji meets Makima and then bonds with his siblings. A sibling who eventually dies, and whose final breaking point is his sister, cut in two. On top of that, it's his birthday, isn't it? Makima invites Denji to open the door that confined his traumas, including the death of Denji’s father? 

You see, I've already missed it, I went too fast. Let's resume calmly, birthday... Denji had forgotten it was his birthday, hadn't he? His birthday is the day you're born, it's one of the few pieces of information we don't really question, but Denji forgot it. But haven't you ever really wondered...

If Denji had celebrated his birthday? And why, how, he wanted to eat a cake? His father was violent and his mother died when he was very young, so is it really safe to say that Denji celebrated his birthday? 

I had another question, why does Fujimoto always seem to accentuate the cakes so much?

I really think that cake is one of the keys, because it's a tunnel of memories that resurfaces in Denji, the cake, his birthday, then Power's death, then his father's death. It's a sushi within a sushi (we're slowly taking things back in order), I think it's about layers that need to be taken back in chronological order, yes chronological 1) the death of Denji's father 2) the death of Power 3) Denji's birthday 4) the cake. Which brings us to this scene.

Was this scene shown not just metaphorical or symbolic, but actually happened? Denji having contracted with the control demon whose power is to control memory, in order to reshape him perfectly so as not to be happy and to do whatever she asks of him later. Why couldn't Denji open that door? Why does Aki's death sound so abruptly like Denji's absence, with a mini ellipsis that doesn't show us in concrete terms how Chainsaw Man killed him? I'm going too fast again, let's start again...

Makima hasn't made Denji unhappy, she's created a being made for unhappiness.

This scene refers to an anniversary, amnesia and despair, all ingredients that enabled Pochita to take complete possession of Denji and show us the most complete version of Chainsaw Man.

Which means Barem isn't lying, is he? Same here, I'm going too fast!

Third layer of sushi: the closer Denji gets to happiness, the more he doubts...

Denji manages to become himself again and succeeds in killing Makima, by devouring her. In a very simple and concrete way, Makima was devoured and this put an end to her existence. Keep this in mind. Nayuta is reborn, becoming Denji's little sister, lots of dogs surround them, Chainsaw Man becomes extremely popular and it's in this part 2 that Denji will feel the least like himself, the least like Chainsaw Man. Strangely enough, it's when he approaches a semblance of happiness that Denji pulls away from himself.

Barem really doesn't seem to be lying, does he? But once again, I'm going too fast, let's get on with it!

Fourth layer of sushi: Barem never lies 

This is something I quickly came up with, and it's so precise, I think his character is thought of that way, and it's his narrative role. Even though he's deceitful, manipulative and devious, the bro does NOT LIE. He didn't lie about the weapons attack, he didn't lie that he looked like a Chainsaw Man fan, and he doesn't lie in the last chapter. But same, I'm going too fast. 

Fifth layer of sushi: Nayuta betrayed by Chainsaw Man 

When Denji made the choice to become Chainsaw Man, the house, his source of happiness, was falling to ashes, his dogs, his cat were dying. Denji went through with his dream and abandoned the little sister who made him happy. Barem didn't impose misfortune on Denji; it was Denji who chose misfortune, despite Nayuta's fears. The happier he was with her, the more he lost himself. He left her in Barem's hands and provoked an existential crisis in her. Which made her reconnect with her old self. 

Sixth layer of sushi: an unblocked memory. 

The aftertaste that sticks to your palate is a piece of information I mentioned earlier. Makima has been devoured. What defines the Knights of the Apocalypse from the rest of the demons? Their memory. What if Nayuta had now understood how Chainsaw Man's power worked? 

Seventh layer of sushi: chapter 170. 

This explains Nayuta's severed head, a macabre mise-en-scène to make her brother lose his mind a little more. As for Barem, he doesn't lie to us and gives us instructions on how to read Chainsaw Man. He knows how to read Chainsaw Man, since he knows the two conditions for him to regain his full power because Nayuta gave them to him. For all this is nothing more than their death. 

Layer zero of sushi: the unknown. 

Now I'm entering the quintessential madness of my analysis. Makima contracted with Denji at a very young age, and gave him several orders: survive at all costs, remain miserable, and one day kill Power and Aki. Above all, she ordered him to contract with Pochita, hence Denji's reflex to hand his open wound directly to the demon. This misfortune, this amnesia due to the contract with Makima, this survival on his own, finally allowed a weakened Chainsaw Man to find a kindred spirit, a loved one. Believing in happiness, then destroying it, kept Chainsaw Man's power in check, those vain dreams only a human could imagine. Denji was a kind of Russian doll, holding back Pochita and his over-power. That's why these two conditions exist. 

To be unhappy, or to break this Russian doll. 

To be feared by all, or to be alone. 

Or kill Denji. 

To save Pochita. 

Layer - 100000 of sushi: did you think I'd finished losing my head? I don't think so. What if everything I've been telling you all along, taking things in order, were to be done in reverse? Take them out of order. I'll ask the questions so you can understand. Why is Makima so obsessed with Chainsaw Man? Why did the Knights of the Apocalypse fight Chainsaw Man in the underworld? How did they manage to retain their memories? Why start the story with a parricide? Why was Denji finely polished by Makima to welcome Pochita when Makima never saw Denji, the reason for her own death? How could she enter into a contract with someone she has never seen? 

Because someone is controlling the control demon itself. Just as it controls the way the story is presented to us. How can we trust an antagonist who controls memory? And an amnesiac protagonist? 

Why did Pochita do what he did in the underworld? Why this sudden fury? Why do demons hear chainsaws at the moment of their death? 

Because we've come full circle. More precisely, what you're reading is not part 2 but part 1, or to be more (MORE) precise, the end of Chainsaw Man will lead to its beginning. The desire to create a better world, to kill death, will lead to a temporal loop in the world that will never cross the apocalypse, blocked just ahead. 

Makima herself is controlled by her future self, which allows her to make references to the future and know the recipes for unleashing Chainsaw Man's power without understanding why, her future self knows Chainsaw Man, she loved him. So Makima also loves Chainsaw Man without really understanding why, amnesiac like Denji.

Denji doesn't kill his father, it's his old self who is killed. 

But another Denji tries to put an end to this... 

Spiral. 

Stuck between two worlds, two temporalities, morning (Asa), night (Yoru), someone is trying to put an end to this endless world, before dawn.

[omaano]

SW Hades AU March-April Update

Some links and previous updates: May - June - July - August - September - October/November - December - January - February - everything else in this AU

I'm here with another two-month joint update because at the end of April I can hardly call it a March update, and truth be told I don't think I did much for this AU in the first month of spring anyway.

I started playing Hades 2 again, and made some progress with the Omega and Boba redraw of the Warsong update wallpaper :3 The more time that passes between posting and writing this the happier I am with this piece. Who could find all the gear that Omega wears from the Batch? 👀

Which cannot exactly be said about Sabine and Ezra as well, but I finally have something to show for them!!

Next up is Satine (now that I can show a small illustration in my skethcbook for her, it should go easy - I hope), and maybe Fennec or the Armorer. And lining Axe and laying down flat colors for him and Koska as well. I'm trying to get a drawing for all the missing characters and get them to the part where only detailed shading is missing. If my hand doesn't hurt too much at least ^^;

I'm also gearing up to drawing a new Ares!Boba too, but I'm still in denial about that ^^;

I did not have a particulrly good time with these drawings, I will be very honest upfront. I had to redraw Omega two times because I tried to line that piece in CSP and for some reason faces are just not happening for me there; It hadn't go well with Echo either months ago. I don't know what's up. The tilt of my tablet or that I don't have o zoom un until all I can see are pixels?? OTL

...and then the colours fought me something awful too. Between Boba and Omega they had red, yellow, green and blue covered, and all that with Boba's white flightsuit was not fun ^^; I don't know, I just cannot deal with that many colours - so figuring out what and how I should desaturate was quite an experiment in patience for me until they looked somewhat cohesive. Thankfully the added moonlight turned out to be distracting enough that I'm pretty much warming up to it all now.

I'm afraid I will have to use actual Multiply layers for the full shading.

And Sabine. Oh Sabine.

I've struggled here, big time, and I'm still deeply unhappy with her. I experimeted a lot in my sketchbook with her pose, but any time I thought I was finally on to something as soon as I went in to fix some minor anatomy issues digitally and add some details things just fell apart.

It was the tooka that messed everything up, I'm sure of it D: ^^; I wanted something to visually tie Sabine and Ezra together, and my decision fell on the little white tooka that was in Sabine's mural too at the end of Rebels. But now Sabine's shoulder had to stand in a way that the little critter can perch on and judge from...

Honest to god I almost cried with relief when I came across Eurydice in Asphodel when I switched back to playing Hades for a bit, and realized that she has the lean and attitude in her pose that I was looking for with Sabine. So it was either the coward's way out, or to throw the entire project out the window and become a hermit in the mountains or something.

You can see which option I picked XD

I am deeply, deeply fond of Ezra however Q^Q He was so cooperative after a few initial testing sketches, his hair is perfect, I didn't forget his scars, and I will find it in me to forgive his weird not-really-chainmail shirt, because that one I did to myself XD

I also finally got around to drawing a quick sketch for Fennec - for a hot minute I was very very tempted to pick for her a pose that's a lot closer to Widowmaker from Overwatch, but the vibes just didn't quite match. That was a very sad realization :'(

(Yes, I took the picture after Satine bled through the page in all her alcohol marker glory, yes, I regret it, and no, I cannot relably draw faces on paper. It is a real tragey. I'm in mourning.)

And just so that I cannot really sigh in relief, Leia is my next struggle. I still don't know how to make her work, and it's been months. Terrible. Horrible. Really really bad. Why am I even trying...TT^TT

So that's it for this month. It's both less and more than how it feels, and I'm also kinda losing a bit of steam - my mind is at re-drawing the entire background section for the House of Hades, so on the backburner i'm trying to cook up various background elements to fill the halls up with. Hades is such a beautifully designed game with such amazing shapes and colours, and Star Wars is such a different style especially when it comes to decorations... So there is a lot of cooking that will have to happen here. But I spent a not insignificant part of my last week (I'd been sick, I could get away with it) watching Drawfee speedpaints (they are so fun and so educational sometimes) and Jacob really popped off in one video creating a pixel art game of some sort? And ever since all I could think about is how and IF I could make my pocket Din move through my version of the Hades AU. Just a section of it. I'm itching to draw the backgrounds, but goddamn I am tired, so I just keep distracting myself from the important character art stuff with these daydreams X"D

I also very badly and incredibly distractingly want to re-draw Boba - I've drawn him so long ago, and it feels deeply unfair that I tried to puzzle out the style on him - and while Din got his upgrades bit by bit Boba just didn't. Also. Ares. Ares looks so good in his character art just sitting around like that - all casual-like - and Boba also has his trademark sprawl and... Look. I'm back to Boba being my most favourite clone, okay? I miss him. I miss drawing him. There.

Okay, rant over. Maybe this way I will be able to concentrate again XD Here's to hoping 🤞 I hope you guys are doing better with your creative projects! ❤️ See you all in May! Hopefully with something a bit more substantive and some proper links, not just wips like these ^^;

Taglist of anyone who wants to be pinged once a month for these updates <3 If you want to be added to the list send me a message, or just reply to this post (a 👀 would do, nothing fancy required ;))

@elwinged @yeehawgeek @velsayshi @lionsaint @hastalavistabyebye

If you want to be taken off the list just message me and I’ll take you off, no hard feelings :)

[lkblackham]

You know

Every time I say I'm going to Do A Thing, I wind up somehow NOT Doing That Thing. It's like a curse.

Anyway, I told myself I would finish the next pages for No Time To Apologize and then I wrote a little short story about Atash and Emmrich reuniting after this exchange (thanks so much AGAIN to @draco-illius-noctis for the lovely letter, I will never get over it (clearly)) and then decided I'd add a li'l illustration.

Which then turned out to be not so li'l. But that's just how it goes sometimes. You find enjoyment in something and you stay up until 3 am working on it. And that's actually very okay.

Story is under the cut, and over here on AO3. It might be the most sickeningly, cloyingly, tooth-rotting sweet thing I've ever made. I have no regrets.

A Little Homecoming

Atash was waiting in front of the eluvian.

 She had been waiting since she had woken up, about an hour ago. Maybe two hours. Two and half. Honestly, she'd stopped keeping track. Lucanis had tried to cajole her into coming back to the kitchen for her breakfast, but she would not be cajoled. Not by food, at least. She had been forced to make a few running trips to the privy and back. But bladders were not to be trifled with, and she would be mortified if she accidentally wet herself in front of her husband.

Because that's who she was waiting for: Emmrich. Her (technically not yet in the eyes of the law but still) husband. After a whole month, the Mourn Watch had finally decided they were done with him and Manfred, and they could return home. To her. 

To them. 

Atash ran her hands over her belly, a nervous habit she had been developing over the past few weeks. It was like she had to keep checking the kid was still in there. The midwife had told her she was about four and a half months along - she hadn’t even known she was pregnant until she was about three months in. As it was, the bump was just now becoming visible, but not in the most ‘obviously with child’ way. If she slouched, she just looked like she’d eaten too many pies. Not exactly “glowing”. 

How would Emmrich react, she wondered? The last time he had seen her, he had literally just found out she was pregnant. They had been trapped in a tomb somewhere in the deeper levels of the Necropolis at the time, so stress had been high, but he had been ecstatic. And terrified. Maybe a little nauseated. Just as she had been. And then he had been forced to stay behind to help the Mourn Watch clean up the mess and she had been forced to return to the Lighthouse on her own, because damn it she was leader of the Veilguard and pregnant on top of that, so staying down in the Necropolis with Emmrich was completely out of the question. 

Yeah, she still hadn't quite forgiven Vorgoth and Myrna for that. Or Brunhilde Ziegenfuss, the wayward necromancer who had been the whole reason they had been trapped in that tomb. The minute Atash gave birth and could walk properly again, that bitch was in for it. 

But not now. Now, Atash was waiting. Now, today, finally, FINALLY, Emmrich and Manfred were coming home. He had said so in his last letter, which had been uncharacteristically sloppy and stuffed into a torn envelope - as if he had written and mailed it off in a great hurry, on his way out the door to the Crossroads. 

"I will be there before the noon bell." That was what he had scrawled haphazardly on the paper. "I will not spend one more minute than I have to bereft of your company. I will not lose one more second with our child. I AM COMING HOME. And there is absolutely NOTHING anyone in the Mourn Watch can do about it. I'll gladly subject myself to a tribunal if I must. But I will not leave you again. I REFUSE."

Atash still had that letter, tucked into her sash. She had been taking it out and rereading it, to be certain she had it right and didn't just dream it up out of longing.

The surface of the mirror rippled. Atash's heart leapt into her throat. 

An arm appeared, shining with layers of gold bangles. Then a shoulder, clad in a beautiful old green and red coat. Then, a face - the most lovely face she had ever seen, with sharp cheekbones and a regally hooked nose and deep, warm hazel eyes that glimmered in the eluvian light. 

Emmrich stepped out onto the dais, followed closely by Manfred. He looked disheveled - which, for him, meant he hadn't bothered with his collar pin that morning and his hair had been hurriedly combed into a slightly messier version of his usual coiffure. 

She hardly cared. He looked as he always did, which to Atash's eyes was absolutely fucking perfect. 

He immediately caught sight of her, and before anything could be said, he practically leapt down the steps and caught her up in a tight hug, burying his face in her neck. Atash clutched him to her body, nose in his hair, nearly brought to tears by the overwhelming scent of him - sage and green moss and something floral she could never place - so sorely missed all these weeks apart. 

A tiny, distant voice in her head pointed out how much like her terrible romance serials this all was. She threw it away without a second thought. *Fuck that*, she thought, *I earned this. WE earned this.*

“Darling.” Emmrich sighed against her skin. “Mein Schatz, Mein Liebling, dearest most beloved Atash. I will never leave you again. Not as long as I draw breath, or for whatever comes afterwards.”  

“I'd tell you to never make promises like that,” she murmured into his hair, “but I think I might actually just hold you to that this time.” 

As if to emphasize her point - or perhaps just to remind them of their presence - she felt a terrific kick from the baby, much bigger than any she had ever had thus far, enough to elicit a small, involuntary “oof!” from her.  

Emmrich jolted back, startled. Atash laughed, somewhat breathless (the kid had kicked her right in the bladder again). “Looks like I'm not the only one who's excited to see you.” 

He took a small step back, looking down at her stomach - at the small, round bump that hadn't been there when they'd last seen each other. His face filled with a tenderness, a worry and joy, that defied mere words. He tentatively laid his hand on the bump, as if afraid his touch might hurt the fragile little life growing inside her. 

Atash gently took both his hands and placed them on her belly, laying her hands over his. 

“They're small.” she said softly. “The midwife said she wasn’t sure how big the baby will get, but they probably won’t be the same size as a full-blooded Qunari.”

“That's alright,” Emmrich spoke barely above a trembling whisper, voice filled with awe. “They're healthy. You're healthy. That's… that's all that matters.”

The baby moved under his hand, as if responding to his voice. His breath caught in his throat. He leaned forward, chin trembling, marveling at the tiny little life he had helped create moving under his fingers. 

Atash felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “The midwife also said the baby can hear us, a little bit. I've been trying to learn lullabies to sing at night, but… well.” she managed a rueful chuckle. “I think I'm scaring the poor kid more than anything.” She raised a hand to the crown of Emmrich's head, running her fingers through his hair. “It's good you're here now. You can take up lullaby duties.” 

He laughed, voice cracking a little. “What makes you think I'll fare any better in that regard?” 

“I've heard you humming around the Lighthouse. You've been holding out on me and I intend to rectify that, Messere Volkarin.” 

Manfred’s head poked into view over Emmrich's hands, goggle lenses whirling around as they always did when he was excited. “Rook!” He hissed jovially. “Bay-bee?” 

Atash laughed. “How could I forget about you? Here-” she took his large gloved hand and placed it right by Emmrich's on her stomach. “Can you feel anything?” 

“No!” Manfred looked dismayed. Or as dismayed as a skeleton could look. “I can't! Is oh-kay?” 

“Oh, dear Manfred.” Emmrich regained some of his composure, patting his ward’s hand. “The baby is alright. You simply can't feel them, being only bone.” 

“Awww.” Manfred's eyes seemed to sag a little in their sockets. 

“Awww.” Atash wrapped an arm around his shoulders, drawing him in for a bony hug. “I know you probably can't feel this either, but I'm just so glad you're here” 

“I like hugs.” Manfred said into her shoulder, patting her back. “Feel good in here.” He lightly poked the spot between her shoulder blades, right over her heartbeat. 

Atash's valiant efforts to contain her raging hormones finally failed, the tears escaping her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. 

“Oh, fuck it.” She hugged him even more tightly, fully giving in to the weeping. “That’s adorable.” 

“I know.” Manfred said modestly, patting her on the back again. 

“Good. You should know that.” she sobbed. “Don't let anyone tell you different.”

“Oh, darling…,” Emmrich embraced her again, transferring her sobbing form from poor Manfred's now-soaked lapel to his shoulder. “You’ve had such a rough go of it, haven't you?” 

“I-it’s okay.” She sniffed. “I'm fine, I just….” She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his shoulder. “I missed you. Both of you. So much.” 

“And we missed you, dearest. Terribly. Every day. Every hour.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Taash’s voice pierced through their little bubble, bringing them both back to reality. “You're crying again? I thought you'd dried yourself out yesterday when you saw that dog that was too damn small.” 

Their language was rough, but there was an obvious note of teasing in their voice. 

“That dog WAS too damn small.” Atash sobbed into Emmrich's coat. “They fit in my hand. I could've squished them. THAT'S TOO DAMN SMALL, TAASH.” 

“Oh dear,” Emmrich chuckled, rubbing sympathetic circles on her back.

“Emmrich.” Lucanis appeared at Taash's side, still wearing his heavily stained cook’s apron. “You came back just in time. I've been trying to get her to eat. She hasn't had anything since dinner last night.” 

Emmrich's hand stilled on Atash's back. 

“Rook,” he said, quietly, “is this true?” 

She sighed, hiccuping a little as her weeping calmed down. “Emmrich, I can skip one meal-” 

“Absolutely not.” Emmrich's voice had gone full Disapproving Professor. He drew back from Atash, hands on her shoulders, looking her square in the eye. “Atash, it was one thing when you were on your own, forgetting meals and barely sleeping-” 

(Taash had the grace to look at least a little abashed when Atash threw them a withering glance over her shoulder. They had been sending cute little ‘updates’ to Emmrich that involved distinctly unflattering drawings of Atash napping in random spots around the Lighthouse.) 

“- but you cannot do that now. Not anymore. I do realise,” he said, catching her about to argue, “that this is your body and I would never be so crass as to assume I had any right to tell you what to do with it. But….” He paused. Took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, it was with plaintive appeal. “I know what your mother taught you, about using your body to help others. But… as long as you carry our child, this is no longer just your body, dearest. How you care for yourself, is how you care for them.” he sighed. “I… I know you're healthy, and they're healthy. But… you skipped meals so often, in the past, and now…”

Atash was aware of the uncomfortable shifting behind her, as Taash and Lucanis found themselves bearing witness to a very personal conversation.

Guilt twisted in her gut. This was a man who remembered, all too vividly, how it felt to be poor and hungry. Not just hungry - starving. That was not something you ever forgot. There was no way, in this life or the next, that he would ever allow his wife or unborn child to be subjected to even a fraction of that suffering. Not if he could do anything about it. 

Even if he might be going a little bit far with it right now. He had literally just come back from a month away - he could be forgiven for doing a little overcorrecting. 

She bumped his forehead gently with hers. 

“Okay, Emmrich. You're right.” she kissed the crook of his nose. “Let's go eat.” 

He let out a breath, squeezing her shoulders. “Thank you, darling.” 

Arm in arm, they followed Lucanis and Taash to the kitchen, Manfred bouncing along behind them. 

[snowfieldstories]

Hello I'm new to your blog , I saw that yours requests were open so I thought I'd drop by :)

Can I request yoo jonghyuk realizing that his companion , the reader who's also a regressor , is actually not a new regressor but someone who regressed with him since the 0th round (like in the 3rd false round he thinks it's the reader's first regression but they've actually been by his side since the begging and their goal is to reach a happy ending by his side but he doesn't remember and only the reader does)

Ty and I love your writing <3

confessions.

yoo joonghyuk x regressor!reader [gender neutral]

warnings: angsty, probably not much comfort/fluff except a bit at the end

w.c: 1.4k

a.n: hi sweet anon! i did see your other request with this prompt, too :) welcome to my blog and tysm for your kind words!

hopefully I did your request justice...i wasn't sure if you wanted it to be platonic or not, so it's got a romance bent. in past regressions, you two were lovers and companions (he doesn't fully remember yet) because I thought it added a stronger layer of tension here. but it's implied, so you can read it as platonic if you wish!

"Watch yourself."

Yoo Joonghyuk snatched the spike out of the air before it could impale your body. You smiled.

"I knew you would get it."

It was the wrong thing to say, because Yoo Joonghyuk grabbed you next.

"Stop that." His brow furrowed, and you were tempted to smooth it with your thumb. Old habits like that were the hardest to break in this unnatural regression.

It was Yoo Joonghyuk's false third turn. The one you had read about, the one you had been preparing 1,863 turns for. Nothing was quite able to prepare you for the raw, emotional shock at having your only true companion stripped of his memories of you.

1,863 world turns wiped clean. Like they never existed.

You hated this famous regression from the novel.

The first time Yoo Joonghyuk had asked you your name, you were overwhelmed with the urge to cry. When his eyes lingered on the Poisoner, Lee Seolhwa, for a beat too long, your chest burned. When he slapped away your hand that tried to comb back his hair as he cooked, you bit down your grief so hard that your lip bled. And when he left you to complete a solo mission for the umpteenth time, you curled up and sobbed, your heart trembling from the pain.

Now you only gave hollow smiles.

What you didn't know, was that those empty smiles made Yoo Joonghyuk's chest ache. And he couldn't understand why.

He was eyeing you cautiously as you both ambled down the streets of Seoul. It was calm, almost enjoyable, the silence between you two, until your big mouth had to mess it all up.

"The forty-sixth scenario is coming up," you said.

A grunt. You kicked a rock, watching it sail across the sidewalk and landing in the overgrown grass. "It'll go well. Dokja has a plan."

Yoo Joonghyuk scowled at the name. "Of course Kim Dokja has a plan."

"At least with him, you're guaranteed to pass it," I reasoned. "Anna Croft isn't here to betray you."

A chill permeated the air.

"How did you know that."

It wasn't a question, rather, a demand. He hadn't physically grabbed you this time, but you still felt trapped by his scrutiny.

"I just..." You swallowed hard. "A guess?"

"That was my regression. How could you know such a thing?"

You froze, too petrified to see his reaction. It was indeed information exclusively from Yoo Joonghyuk's second round. There was no way you should have known such a thing. You were too careless.

"You said this was your first regression." The accusation in his voice made your breath quicken. "Tell me the truth."

With your speed, you were quick on your feet. You could probably escape, probably—one glance at Yoo Joonghyuk's expression told you that there was no escaping this conversation.

"This isn't your first," he said.

"...No."

He called your name. "How exactly do we know each other in past regressions?"

You could only meet his glower for a moment. It still hurt to see the distance of being a new acquaintance on his face.

Yoo Joonghyuk no longer knew you. And it hurt.

"We were companions," you said thickly.

His eyes narrowed. "There's more."

"Joonghyuk." You hated the way your voice cracked. "Please don't."

"Stop. You always say my name like you know me. And it pisses me off, because you do." Yoo Joonghyuk was speaking more than you had ever heard him talk in this turn. It really only added to your fear. He's not going to let this go. "I can't understand how you know my habits, the way you fight with me like you know every movement I'll make. Tell me, so I can stop feeling—"

He stopped abruptly.

The wind whistled past.

"My regressions are tied to yours," you finally said. "But you...lost your memories this time."

Yoo Joonghyuk shook, and he pressed a hand to his temple. "How many?"

You knew you shouldn't tell him. You knew. It was far too early, and you weren't the right person, but a wild and desperate hope had attached itself to you after letting just a hint of information slip already.

"This isn't your third."

"What..."

"It's—" you sighed. "It's your one thousand, eight hundred and sixty-fourth turn."

The silence was deadlier than his rage.

He gripped your arm, expression so open and honest about his agitation, and asked, "How many regressions?"

Your forehead wrinkled. "One thousand, eight hundred—"

"No. How many have you been by my side?"

Oh. You rushed out a breath, unsure why that detail seemed most pressing to him at the moment. "Every single one."

Yoo Joonghyuk staggered back, ripping away as though you had burned him.

"Since the beginning?" he choked out. "All?"

You nodded slowly.

"Why?"

Why indeed. You couldn't help the inappropriate laugh that escaped you. "I don't know. At this point...to reach some kind of happy end finally. With you."

It was uncomfortably close to the depth of your feelings, so you shrugged in an effort to appear casual.

Several, inscrutable emotions flickered rapidly across Yoo Joonghyuk's face. It settled on anger again. What did he really have to be angry about?

"You mean you're stuck to my miserable existence and you still choose to suffer alongside me until the end?"

The unusual, self-deprecation startled you.

"Well, yeah. I was the one to figure out the joint-regression skill, after all." Your confessions were loose and uncontrollable as they fell from your lips now.

Yoo Joonghyuk became even more upset at that, and jerked forwards like he was going to grab you, or hit you, or something. Then he breathed out harshly. "You really..."

You didn't say anything, knowing it best to give him time to sort through his thoughts himself. When it seemed like he had calmed down—or, at least, he didn't look like he was going to send you to the next regression for daring to care about him—you released another confession.

"I read a book," you said lightly. "Like Dokja."

"Oh, is that why you two get along closely," he spat. You stared at him, rather annoyed that that pinched expression didn't spoil his remarkably good looks one bit.

It was true. You and Kim Dokja got along exceedingly well once you had both revealed that your similar knowledge of the world came from reading a novel. It was relieving to finally have a kinship with someone, since your relationship with your co-regressor had become nonexistent.

Plus, you were a fan.

"It gives me knowledge of this world like him, yes." You pursed your lips. "It's why I know that this will be the last regression. The end."

You began explaining a bit about your novel, the things you expected of this turn, but Yoo Joonghyuk held up a hand.

"I don't care about that right now." You were confused, not expecting him to stop you from saying any more.

For a moment, his eyes unfocused, drifting to the space around you like he wasn't seeing it properly. Then he shook his head.

"I need to go." Alarm raised in you, but then Yoo Joonghyuk grasped your shoulders on either side. "Please...stay here."

It was an odd request. He turned and walked away, somewhere down the empty, ruined street, and his back became smaller and smaller.

Unlike the past times he had left you, this time didn't fill you with dread. Unlike before, when you had looked into his eyes just now, Yoo Joonghyuk didn't feel cold or uncaring. He had felt warm. Earnest.

You were certain he would return. After he could process everything on his own, maybe kill a few beasts to let off steam, he would come back.

This you knew. Because you knew Yoo Joonghyuk. And now, it seemed, he was beginning to know you, or, wanted to.

So you smiled—a real, solid smile—and waited.

One hour later, you were still smiling when Yoo Joonghyuk returned.

He strode forwards, wrapping his large frame around you in a crushing embrace, then gave you one long look before walking off. "Come on."

It was two words that lifted your heart with joy, once an empty cavern that was now slowly being filled again.

Maybe, just maybe, you could grow to like this regression after all.

a/n: man, you guys sure do like the angsty suffering of kdj and yjh with their regressor!readers ahah i love it

[the-astronome]

Saw a post here about names of pathologic characters, and decided to share some thoughts regarding our beloathed Bachelor, because I realised something and have to share it with you.

So, what do we know? Well, his name is certainly Daniil and his surname is Dankovsky. “What about his patronymic?” you might ask. Here it’s a bit more complicated, but knowing that he once signed a letter with D.D.D. we can safely assume his patronymic starts with a D, and as a matter of fact, I’m quite sure that it’s actually Daniilovich (i.e. his father’s name was also Daniil), though my arguments in favour of this are rather funny

1)Name:

Daniil, what does this name mean? To begin with, the name comes from Hebrew (“Dānīyyēʾl” in romanised version) and literally means “God is my judge”. What is more interesting, in my opinion, is that this name is partially formed by another Jewish name, “Dan”. “Dan” literally means “judge” and its most known bearer is Dan, son of Jacob (also known as Israel, the angel-wrestling guy), who was (according to the Bible) the founder of the Tribe of Dan. Moreover, the symbol of this tribe is a serpent, because of Dan’s sly, scheming, and calculating character.

Apart from that, Bachelor’s a doctor, and one of the most famous symbols of medicine (at least in Russia) is a Bowl of Hygieia, see a simple example below

This also could be an intended symbolism, which probably started with IPL thinking how they would name their genius-doctor-character, and then spiralling down into all these snake-related topics, eventually choosing Daniil. It might have been just a funny coincidence. Someone can probably text them on Twitter and ask.

2)Surname:

Here it’s a bit tricky, and please do feel free to correct me, because the info I’ll give here might be false. Anyway. When I first started P1, I was a bit puzzled by Bachelor’s surname. You see, even though it is defo a Slavic surname (e.g. -sky ending), it doesn’t make much sense to a Russian speaking person, since what the hell is “Dankov”? A surname in a surname, now ending with “-ov”? Well, here is a potential explanation:

Western Slavs have a form of “Daniel”, namely “Danko”. As far as I understand, it can be a surname (and it is, in various forms, at least in Slovakia and Ukraine). This makes the surname “Dankovsky” mean something like “of the Danko” “son of Danko” “belonging to Danko” etc. All this suggests that, if we translate his surname to Russian in the literal manner, it would change to “Daniilov”. So you see where I’m going, right..?

3)Patronymic:

So. What do we have. “Daniil” as a name, and a surname which apparently (through numerous layers of linguistic irony) is also formed from the name “Daniil”. And we know that his patronymic starts with D. Do I dare suggest that his patronymic follows this silly pattern as well, so it would be “Daniilovich”?

This leaves us with a beautiful name of Daniil Daniilovich Daniilov, which sounds rather humorous and comical to russian-speaking folks (reminds us of the legendary Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov). As a close friend of mine suggested, that could have been a placeholder of sorts during the early development of the game and/or character, when IPL only came up with a name, but not with everything else. Then they decided not to over-invent things, and just obscure the surname via translating and adapting it to Western Slavic languages (Polish and apparently Slovak, I would guess), and basically never mentioning his patronymic. Ingenious if you ask me

4)Takeaways:

Not much, unless you see a sentence where I’m talking out of my ass, please I beg you speak up if messed up the Western Slavic part, I’m not native to those languages, so could’ve missed something there.

More importantly! For me, all these layers behind DDD name form a very concrete foundation for my headcanon that Bachelor is of Polish-Jewish origin. In general, his surname suggests lots of interesting stuff, so explore the linguistic opportunities my fellow patho people

[saiintvalentiine]

Summary: Wifies runs a small bakery that has some. . . interesting clientele. A snapshot of a typical day at Wifies's bakery and café.

Notes: written quickly in the span of like 5 hours while at work and mostly unedited, here is some fluff as an apology for all the psychological damage I did the other night :') please forgive any SPAG errors, I'll give it a good clean and cross post to AO3 some other time. With cameos from Ken, Parrot, Egg and Wemmbu, and Wato ! divider

Word count: 1,445

The bell over the bakery door jingles merrily, and Wifies steps out of the kitchen with a generic greeting on his tongue before he realizes it's Ken. It's been a while since he’d seen Ken. Today, Ken has a long skirt on, so Wifies can't see if the ankle monitor is still on. He has those, sometimes. Wifies usually finds out because he launches directly into complaining about it.

“Wifies!”

“Hi Ken. Why are you here at 5:30 am?”

Wifies woke up at 3 am. Bakeries are early work after all, but Ken’s schedule is a mystery to him.

“I just got out of work actually!”

Ken leans up against the big display next to the counter, dual colored eyes darting around rapidly across all the cookies and cakes. Wifies can already tell what he's going to get, so he grabs a box and starts puzzling it together.

“Ohhh, I want one of those.”

Ken taps the glass over a tray of meat pastelitos. Made of thin, crunchy layers of pastry and stuffed with minced meat, it's exactly the kind of thing Ken would enjoy. They're only sweet enough to make the savory stand out.

“Of course. How many?”

Ken taps his claws on the glass a few times and says, “Three.”

Wifies snorts and grabs a piece of parchment paper. They're easier to handle with his hands and not tongs. He piles three into the box and shuts it, returning to the counter where Ken is already dropping off some diamonds.

“Just the one,” Wifies says, handing Ken the box.

“Shut up,” Ken says, dropping the rest of the diamonds into the tip jar.

He opens the box and pulls a pastelito out. Wifies's bakery is small, shoved into a corner of the block, so there isn't really anywhere to sit. Ken has never really cared about that kind of thing though. He takes a bite out of the pastry— really he chomps through half of it— and crumbs go flying everywhere. He groans.

“So good,” Ken mutters around his mouthful.

“You're dirtying my counter,” Wifies pulls the towel he keeps in his pocket out and wipes the mess away

“No tables!”

“Shut up.”

Ken finishes his pastry and grabs a wad of napkins out of the dispenser at the far end of the counter, cleaning his face and fingers off.

“Wifies, if you leave this town, I'm killing myself,” Ken says serenely, closing the box back up. “Have a good day.”

“You too, Ken.”

Ken leaves with a skip in his step and a pleased curl to his tail. Today's forecast was rain all day, so Wifies isn't expecting much traffic; it was a pleasant surprise to see Ken at all. He has dough that needs proofing, cupcakes to ice, and bread to bake though, so he returns to the kitchen with low expectations. When the bell rings only 30 minutes later, though, he's surprised again.

“Welcome,” Wifies calls out, wiping his hands on his apron. “How can I help you?”

“Hey.”

Parrot shakes his wings out and waves at Wifies. He's got a nasty cut on his jaw and a bruise over his eyebrow.

“Oh, Parrot,” Wifies sighs, opening the gate to get around the counter and get right into Parrot's space.

“It's not that bad!”

Wifies makes sure his hands are dry before turning Parrot's face to one side and looking at the cut. It's clean, which is a good thing, but it's raw and red still.

“It's not that bad,” Parrot repeats, letting Wifies inspect him regardless. “I won!”

“At least you won,” Wifies sighs again and lets go of Parrot, returning to his spot behind the counter. “Winners still don't get discounts.”

Parrot laughs and checks out the display. He crouches and his profile twists up— he must be hurt under his clothes. Wifies isn't sure why Parrot is always getting into scraps, but he wishes that he'd be less injury prone. Parrot taps on the glass.

“A lemon bar, and a sugar cookie too.”

Wifies packs those up for him.

“Have you gotten your coffee machine fixed yet?” Parrot asks, handing over some diamonds.

“Not yet, sorry.”

“Then what kind of tea should I have with the lemon bar?”

Wifies perks up. Parrot never orders tea.

“Earl grey.”

“Then I’ll take some.”

Wifies can’t help how obvious his pleasure is. He loves tea, but it’s not a popular drink since most people just want coffee. He makes himself a cup of earl grey too, in his own mug instead of a takeout cup.

“Do you want honey?”

“Make it however you like it most.”

Wifies adds honey and a bit of cream, stirring it all up and capping it. He hands Parrot his take out cup and sips at his mug with a pleased sigh. Parrot tries his own.

“That’s really good.”

Wifies grins and says, “I know!”

Parrot leaves with a wave, and Wifies hangs out at the counter for a few minutes with his tea. The sky cracks open with rain as he finishes the last dregs in his mug, and with it comes the tumbling bodies of Egg and Wemmbu.

“Hi there you two,” Wifies says, popping into the kitchen to drop his mug off at the sink before coming back out. “Caught by the rain?”

“It’s awful out there!” Egg complains.

Wemmbu silently wrings his hair out over the welcome mat.

“Do you have any quiches?” Egg asks, bouncing on his heels.

“No more quiches!” Wemmbu complains, but Wifies ignores him as he usually does.

Egg is the one who pays, and Egg is the one who’s nice to him, so Egg gets to have as many quiches as he wants.

“I do. I have spinach cheddar, tomato basil, and artichoke parmesan.”

“Ohhhhh, Wifies, two of each please.”

“Coming right up.”

Wemmbu complains loudly as Wifies packs each quiche pair into their own little boxes. Egg doesn’t give Wemmbu the time of day when it comes to what he orders here; it’s obvious Wemmbu makes enough demands that Egg is over him. Sometimes Wifies wonders what the appeal of sticking around Wemmbu is for someone as pleasant as Egg, but he also knows that the purple jacket Egg is wearing is Wemmbu’s, so maybe he does understand.

“Thank you Wifies,” Egg says, big blue eye somehow conveying joy even in its singularity. “See you!”

“Stay safe out there.”

Wemmbu groans and they dash out into the rain. After them, the day remains misty and quiet. A few more people come in and out, but Wifies spends most of his time in the kitchen, working on some custom orders. Usually, bakeries like his close pretty early— most of his profit is made in the morning, and after 3 pm, foot traffic dies quickly. But he’s waiting for his clockwork patron to arrive before closing for the day. At 5 pm, his door bell jingles, and when he reaches the counter, Wato is already looking through the display with a critical eye.

“Hi Wato,” Wifies opens the gate and goes to the door to flip the sign from open to closed.

“Hey Wifies,” Wato’s green tail sways behind them like a metronome. “Anything new today?”

“I do!”

Wato perks up, a puff of bedrock dust floating up from their clothes at the sudden movement. Bedrock has a strange, distinct smell, in that it clears other smells out in its wake. It smells like fog, or void, or absence. Wifies shivers at the way that not-smell fills the air so familiarly, wipes away the sweetness of sugar and warmth of bread that he’s been basking in all day.

Wato sneezes.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks. What did you make?”

“Please hold.”

He’s been storing it in wait for Wato. Once it’s warmed through, he brings it to the counter, held out like a cake.

“A breakfast pot pie. It’s made with sausage, cheese, bacon, potatoes, cream, and a poached egg baked into the top of the pie crust.”

Wato’s tail starts wagging like crazy. It kicks up more bedrock dust, but nothing can take away how proud Wifies is right now. He grabs a plastic fork and hands it off to Wato. Wato wordlessly digs in. Wifies doesn’t usually like staring people down when they eat, finds it weird and invasive, but Wato wears their joy on their face, and right now they look absolutely delighted.

“Wifies, marry me,” Wato says, turning their big green eyes onto Wifies. Wifies laughs loudly. “Stop laughing, marry me now, I can’t love another day without this.”

“You won’t have to,” Wifies assures. “I’m gonna be here for a long, long time.”

[gouraminnow]

Birds of a Feather

(Entirely platonic | SFW | Marco & OC) Marco the Phoenix is found by an orphaned harpy child that mistakes him for one of their own kind. It takes less than a day to commit to adoption- he really is taking after his father.

Warnings: Past world government/celestial dragon related incident, drugging/sedation. This is self indulgent fluff catered to me and exactly one other person she knows who she is. Hi <3

Marco had just wanted to stretch his wings. The winter island they’d all stopped at was beautiful- sloping hills, valleys and deep forests blanketed in thick snow, with the soft orange lights of the small town that had only recently sprung up. They weren’t going to be here very long- at least they didn’t plan on it. Apparently, there were some nice hot springs in more remote areas, and some of the others had asked him to see if he spotted them on his flight. Whether or not his brothers actually wished to commit to the hike when there was booze to be had in town was another matter, but he enjoyed the airtime anyway. The clear wintery skies were quiet and refreshing.

Cresting over a hill and peering down into a valley, he spots the stacked hot spring pools overlapping like fish scales.

But he also spotted something else.

When he swooped lower to get a look at the layered pools of the springs, he also noticed a small white shape- scampering through underbrush, between trees, trying to keep up with him despite being grounded. He can’t get a good look from up here- but whatever it is, it’s awfully little and makes no attempts to conceal itself. He dips again, going lower in an attempt to catch a glimpse of this thing- aiming for a clearing between some pools up ahead, he turns in a wide arc, flaring his wings out to catch the frigid air and slow his descent. He kicks up a healthy plume of snow when he lands, and takes a second to shake himself off. He stands still, arms still transformed into wings as he searches for any movement- though he doesn’t have to wait long. Something white and fluffy with bits of gray and black darts right toward him with a loud trill. He steps to the side, the tiny thing skidding right past him with an undignified squawk. 

The fluffy mess shakes itself off, and he’s met with the confused face of… some sort of little bird creature. It can’t be much taller than his mid-thigh. It wears no clothes, but it does have a leather shoulder bag. It’s covered from head to taloned toe in thick, downy feathers. It has wings instead of arms, but longer, more dextrous phalanges form three functional fingers at each wrist. Little black talons poke through a generous amount of unkempt plumage at both the feet and pseudo-hands, and the face- large, black eyes rimmed with orange, with bright blue circular markings on the cheeks, framed by a wild mane of… well, feathers, but it takes the place of hair. Two little tufts stick out on top of its head, not unlike the “ears” of a great-horned owl. They’re covered in gray and black stripes and speckles- impressive camouflage. He’s sure if the little beast had actually tried to be stealthy, he never would have noticed them. 

But it wasn’t. It was dead-set on getting his attention. It didn’t take a genius to be able to guess that it mistook him for its own kind. He furrows his brow, watching it shake itself off and look back up at him, releasing a quizzical chirp. His mouth presses into a firm line. This was… probably a harpy chick. While harpies were typically depicted with bare faces and torsos, this was a cold environment. Probably just a climate-specific adaptation- or maybe they’re completely feathered as babies and they’ll lose coverage as they age. It chirps at him again, taking a tentative step forward, and he sighs. He’s not sure what to do here. He’s unfamiliar with whatever this species is, and he doesn’t want to inadvertently upset some territorial parents. While the little one seems to think he’s one of them, it’s entirely possible the adults would know better. He looks around- scanning the treeline, the clearing, the sky- and finding no hint of any other presence, he turns back to the creature before him, who has been inching closer and closer. He holds their gaze for a moment. “Where’d you come from, little one?”

They blink up at him. One of their little ear tufts twitches.

“... Can you understand me at all?” He tries.

They tilt their head at him, a little chrrr chrrr chrrr sound bubbling out of their throat.

Inconclusive, but probably not.

With a low chuckle, he crouches down- and that’s when they strike. They launch themselves forward, tackling Marco with a shrill cry. “Woah there,” he says as they cling to his coat, little feet scrabbling frantically as they struggle to get themselves up on top of his bent legs, sitting themselves right down on his lap. They’re not shy at all about getting settled, curling up and nuzzling his chest with a sweet trill. Marco huffs. “Well, aren’t you affectionate, yoi?” he muses, shifting his wings back into arms. Gently, he wraps an arm around the creature, supporting their weight by pressing them against his chest as he sits down cross-legged, settling them back into his lap.

They don’t really react, just continuing to nuzzle against the man. They’re awfully happy to be here, aren’t they? His hands run through the downy, speckled feathers on their back and his mouth presses into a firm line. Checking them over, he finally realizes just how dirty and unkempt they are- specifically in spots they wouldn’t be able to reach on their own. There’s an uninterrupted strip of grimy, disheveled feathers interspersed with the waxy sheaths of developing pin feathers down their spine- when he pulls his hand away, there’s a thin layer of grime on his fingertips. 

“... Who’s taking care of you, kiddo?” He murmurs, only met with the happy, idle twittering of the creature in his lap. “You’re real excited to see me huh…” He’s not sure what to do. They very well could be an orphan, or even a case of a hatchling being ejected from the nest by a stronger sibling. Or they could just be very, very lost. Gently, he pushes the creature’s shoulders back, so they can look each other in the face. “Blink three times if you understand me,” he says, voice firm. They just stare, tilting their head a little bit. Marco sighs. The language barrier is a problem. He takes a second to think, letting the kid snuggle up again. How much this creature takes after regular birds was unknown but some things could be inferred. The eagerness with which they latched onto him suggested a social species- the state of their feathers suggesting flock members assisted each other in grooming. At least at this age, anyway. If this creature had parents, he needed to figure out how to locate them- but as of right now, he had no way of telling if that was the case or not.

 He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the creature begins to rummage through their little bag- producing what looks like two small, dried pieces of meat and then holding one up to his face. They chirp, smiling brightly, practically shoving it against his chin. He looks at the creature's wide eyes, then at the shriveled, burnt looking scrap they’re offering. When he doesn’t accept it immediately, their little face scrunches up, mouth settling into a pout. They pull away, maintaining eye contact, and pop one into their mouth. They make a loud, exaggerated display of chewing(with their mouth closed, thankfully) and swallowing with an audible gulp. Marco huffs, a lazy smile spreading across his face. As unappetizing as it looks, he can smell the char on it, so at least it's been thoroughly sterilized at this point. Not that contaminants were something he worried much about with his particular devil fruit, but some things are just a matter of principle. Dubious meat is dubious. But the display was awfully cute, and he’d hate to disappoint them, so when they slowly hold it out to him again, he plucks it from their talons and swallows it whole. He does briefly taste the char he suspected, but the big grin from the hatchling is worth it.

He ruffles their hair, and they eagerly lean into the gesture. But when he tries to pull away, they grab onto his hand, hopping to their feet and gently trying to tug him along with them. “Oh? Got something to show me?” He gets a series of chirps in response, and they keep tugging. Well, he’s got plenty of time. Might as well see where they want to take him- it's probably his best bet at answering some of his questions.

-

Marco casually follows behind the little bird as they lead him through the snow. He’d gotten them to let go of his hand- they were so short he had to awkwardly bend down in order for them to reach it, and walking like that was very uncomfortable. At one point during their little walk, they had turned back to him and twittered with a quizzical tilt to their head, before flaring their wings out. He raised a brow, and they just repeated the gesture. “Sorry, kiddo, not sure I get what you mean…” they huff, stomping their little feet- before pointing to him and flaring their wings out a third time. A light goes off in his head. Ah, that’s what it is, huh? With a dramatic flourish of blue flame, his arms bloom into wings. He flares them just like they had, flapping a couple times for good measure- disturbing the pristine snow around the two of them in a ten-foot radius. He seems to have gotten it right- they cheer loudly, hopping up and down and twirling in a circle. He can’t help but soften at the sight- he wasn’t a conceited man, but appealing to his ego certainly didn’t hurt. After the little display he just followed along, listening to them chirp and warble endlessly. They may not understand each other, but there was no doubt they were a chatterbox. 

It isn’t long before they come upon a sort of crevice between two tall pools, hidden away by some simple foliage. The little one slips right in, but it’s a bit of a tight squeeze for Marco. The first thing he notices is just how warm it is in the little cave. Makes sense to him- perfect place to make a den. The walls are a soft, reddish brown, working with the pleasant warmth to directly contrast the bitter chill outside. There are a few old wooden crates and cracked, scavenged pottery shoved against the walls of the cavern- the former of which store a variety of pilfered knicknacks, most notably packs of crayons and paints along with what looks like a coarsely-bristled brush tied to a long stick. There’s a nest further in, made of loose furs and old rags primarily- but just beyond that, on the far wall, countless drawings have been pinned up, rows of wobbly child-like sketches displayed right next to their bed. Stepping further, eyes gradually adjusting, he notices something else:

Tally marks.

Hundreds of them- tiny, shallow tick marks etched into every wall of the cave, reaching only a little higher than his knee. Something in him twists, as he crouches down to run his fingers against the clumsily scratched lines. These ones are organized in groups of seven, rather than five. 

He hears another trill, the rustling of papers- and he looks back to see the little one bounding toward him, holding a drawing up above their head with a grin. They shove the paper towards him with an excited cry, earning a chuckle from the man, who graciously accepts it, raising the yellowed material up for a closer look. He goes still, a tightness blooming in his chest. In a childish crayon scrawl, the colors bleeding past the wobbly outlines, are three figures. One is the child standing before him, who is currently excitedly hopping from foot to foot in silent anticipation. They draw themselves as little more than a speckled puffball with big eyes, blue cheeks and their distinct ear tufts. The second figure is bigger, standing to the left of the child. The stripes on this figure are darker, with some browns mixed in with the black and gray stripes. The markings are similar to the child’s, with the blue cheeks and orange-rimmed eyes, but with a few key differences- namely the large tail feathers, black tipped wings and feet, with a hint of that same blue on the undersides of the wings.The drawing is actually… really good, for a kid- there’s an impressive amount of detail put into recreating the distinct markings of their family.

The third figure… confirms some of his suspicions. It’s slightly smaller than the second, but still larger than the child. And the plumage of this adult is primarily a bright, brilliant blue, save for white patches on the belly and face. There’s a tightness in his chest as he holds the paper, eyes flitting to the ever-hopeful face of the child. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. If these harpies matched up with the same types of sexual dimorphism as many bird species, the brightly colored ones are probably the males. This is clearly a family portrait, but the little one’s parents are nowhere to be seen. And the tally marks on the wall don’t reach very high, nor do the drawings they’ve hung up- if they had someone older looking after them, more of that wallspace would probably be utilized. Do they think he’s just another harpy, or their dad specifically? Probably not- if they were able to draw out the markings their parents had, then they’re probably able to see the difference.

“Kid…” he starts, taking a step forward and crouching down. They seem to view this as an invitation, because just like last time, they launch forward and flail their way onto his lap. He sighs, circling an arm around their waist and standing back up. They barely weigh anything at all. He wonders if their bones are hollow.

Now carrying the child, he approaches the wall featuring the rest of the drawings. His steps reverberate around the small cavern, the harpy purring against his chest. He steps into their makeshift nest, settling down in the various pelts, blankets and cushions. It smells a little musty, truthfully… reminds him of the few times he’d entered Ace’s room.

He shakes the thought out of his head, instead focusing on the drawings the little one had made. It’s… a lot of drawings of other Harpies, some scribbly mountains and trees… one seems to depict a gathering of twelve, with a bonfire in the middle and the bird people taking turns roasting nondescript lumps on sticks. He’s sure it’s meant to be meat, as two of them do almost look like rabbit silhouettes. Another depicts the child in his lap playing in the springs with other harpy children- all drawn with sweet little smiles and those big, black dot eyes. All the drawings they’ve pinned to the cave wall are happy scenes with a loving flock that is nowhere to be seen. Many figures celebrating, playing together, hunting and cooking game… none depict a Harpy by itself, all of them groups of at least three. Going off of these, he was right in suspecting they’re part of a highly social species, raised as part of a crowded and attentive flock. Abandonment seems out of the question if these idyllic little pictures are to be believed- but regardless of the circumstances behind their isolation, this was clearly some sort of desperate coping mechanism. Hanging pictures of the family they missed dearly, right by where they sleep? Examining another drawing of adult harpies fending off some large, fearsome thing- mostly black scribbles, big sharp teeth and eyes- while the chicks watch from behind them- the idea of abandonment at the talons of these bird-folk feels like nonsense. He doesn’t want to say anything for sure when all he has to go off are these pictures, but some deep, small but sharp sting of instinct within him makes the suggestion of neglect feel utterly wrong. Something worse had happened, the phoenix was all but certain. His mouth presses into a thin line, and he can’t help but hold the poor kid a little tighter. 

They’re completely oblivious to the inner turmoil welling up inside him, interpreting the slight squeeze as deliberate affection. Their eyelids droop and their feathers puff up as they settle against his warmth. It isn’t long at all before they’re snoring softly in his lap… Marco sighs, idly petting the little bird monster as they doze. “You make it real hard not to get attached, huh, yoi…” He mumbles, gently scratching their chin. Hmm. He wants to check something. Thinking back to their little family portrait, he leans them back and gently unfurls one of their arm-wings. Most of the feathers are still soft and downy, but he catches hints of those iridescent blue patches the mother in the drawing had right under her armpits. Checking their wings, gently detangling as he goes, he catches no further glimpses of those vibrant pinfeathers, and concludes that the child is most likely female- though he is unfamiliar with the child’s age and how quickly their species develops, so he wouldn’t know for sure until all the baby feathers were gone. Judging by the little blue sprigs, it wouldn’t be long-

Marco blinks, stopping his train of thought. When had he started thinking as if this kid was going to live with him? He hadn’t even known them for a day. Suspicious circumstances and heartstring-pulling be damned, it’s far too early to be acting this way. The ideal way this all turns out is that their real family is located, and they’re left with their kind. In the best-case scenario, he’d never even see their adult plumage, having sailed on with his family after reuniting the child with their own. If he did take them with him, he would have to figure out their specific needs on the fly, such as diet, exercise, hygiene, sleeping habits… though at least the size of the crew was unlikely to bother them once they’d integrated, if the large social groups in their artwork were anything to go by. 

Marco sighs. It’s simple- he just needs to know more. And now is the perfect time, seeing as the little one is sleeping like… well, a baby. He sits up, hands raising to their shoulders to gently pry them off from where their claws dig in to the fabric of his coat- and god is the little puffball tiny, one splayed hand covering the width of their speckled back- but as soon as he tries to pull them away, he hears a sleepy little whine and their three-fingered hands bunch up the wool. He frowns- taking in the way their eyes move behind their lids, and the drooping of their ear-tufts. Ugh. Damnit, they’re far too cute for their own good.

With an exaggeratedly resigned sigh, he pulls them back in, the little one cooing contentedly as they snuggle back into the warmth of his chest. He takes a second to adjust, moving the sleeping chick up to a more comfortable position before swinging his legs over the nest’s edge and standing up. He'll just... carry them while he has a look around, since they're so attached. So, with the little chick tucked against his chest with one arm, he begins his search. Starting with the wooden crates off to the side, he’s careful- sinking into a crouch and resting the harpy in the gap between his chest and the tops of his thighs. He picks through- this one is primarily art supplies, as he observed before. Packs of wax crayons dumped into a smaller box, paintbrushes- most in poor condition, he observes, the chipped handle of one resting against his palm as his thumb rubs over the frazzled, uneven bristles spiking outward. There’s a ripped canvas with a broken frame slotted into the box- when he goes to lift it, some chalk falls from where it had likely been resting on the wooden struts. The soft clatter makes the hatchling twitch, but nothing else. There are a few paint pots at the bottom as well, but they’re mostly empty or dried out. Curiously, he finds a couple small rectangular boxes with hinged lids as well, no bigger than his palms. They’re made of a thin, light colored wood and they remind him of Izo’s makeup- a thought that proves its merit when he flips the lid up to reveal the brightly colored chalky substance they have packed away inside. This one has three colors- yellow, orange, and red, and there’s a small mirror tucked into the underside of the lid. Snapping it closed, he opens the other- a sky blue, a darker cobalt pigment, and a deep purple. Hmm. He puts the palettes back where he found them, and turns his attention to the sleeping kid again. Leaning back, he rubs a thumb against the bright blue cheek spot, then pulls it away. Nothing. Those markings were natural, then. Well, it was left at the bottom of the box. If it was something they used with any regularity it would’ve been easier to reach. But the idea of birdfolk adding a little extra pigment to their plumage is one that tickles him.

He doesn’t find much else of note. He examines the brush on a stick he had seen earlier, finds some tools such as knives and scissors. One box has netting, rope, and fishing line- a broken rod laying at the bottom in two pieces. There’s a hole in the floor closer to the entrance of the cave, covered with an old pot lid- when he opens it, he finds a rabbit, two wrapped fish, and a handful of berries in a cheesecloth resting in a bed of snow.

But then, looking back to the inside of the cave, his eyes catch something he’d missed, somehow. Peeking out from under the nest, are more scraps of paper- the crinkled, triangular corners overlapping each other. More drawings… moving back toward the nest, he crouches slowly, careful with the child as usual. Reaching out, he tugs the crinkled papers out from under the furs they’ve been hidden under-

His heart leaps into his throat. His hand, tightening its grip, further crumpling the thin material.

The first picture is of a ship bearing the familiar emblem of the world government, scribbled navy blue and white trim topped by the golden figurehead all world noble ships have. He doesn’t need to look at the rest to know this poor child really is alone. The rest of the hidden drawings, pulled out from where they’ve been shoved and unfolded by his deft hand, are devastating- not just because of the contents. All of them less precise, more frantically drawn, indents or even tears where the kid had applied too much pressure while coloring. Tiny pinprick stains of water damage, if he looks close enough. One drawing is just a large fire. In another, adults and children alike trapped under nets. One shows suited men shooting some of the creatures as the ridiculous bubble-headed celestial dragon oversees. And there was yet another, depicting the familiar bright blue-plumed male flying away with the baby in his talons, little dots as tears falling from their eyes.

No wonder they were so happy to see him. No wonder they could overlook the glaring differences between him and their own kind.

The little one shifts, and Marco realizes how hard he’s breathing. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes a moment to calm himself, for their sake- but it’s not easy. Well. He’d already wanted to take the little one with him. He didn’t see a world where Oyaji would say no, especially not once Marco told him everything. And if anyone else had an issue (though he doubted anyone would, other than the typical rational concerns when it comes to having a small child on a pirate ship), they would just have to deal with it. Marco was a commander, he did what he wanted.

But of course, he still has questions. In the brief time they’d spent in town, nobody had made any mention of harpies. He knows the small village is a very recent development- four years old, if he remembered right- is it possible that its presence is younger than the tragedy that befell the birdfolk? When visiting a new place with his family, local urban legends were quickly picked up on. Proud, hardworking folk like these often want others to be impressed with the places they call home- that’s why they’d put so much emphasis on the springs. It seemed odd that nobody had mentioned that this island once contained at least one whole flock of mythical creatures.

But looking at all the tally marks on the walls, the small, clustered groups of seven, seven, seven- he hadn’t counted them, but over four years of living alone looked very plausible if he assumed the kid counted accurately. Did… the kid know there was a human settlement? He would assume they did, but then again… the distance is a lot for someone so small. He only spotted the remote cluster of pools from the air, before he swooped down for a closer look. And all of their things look old, held together through improvised fixes- nothing new that would suggest they had stolen from town. Though if they did know of its presence, it was possible they avoided it on purpose. They only wanted Marco’s attention because he was a giant blue bird. They might not differentiate between world nobles and humans in general. With that in mind, he should be cautious with crew introductions.

Well, regardless of the kid’s relations (or lack thereof) with the other locals, they were coming with him. As well as he can using one hand, he gingerly stacks the previously hidden artwork, tapping it against the ground to line them up. He wishes he had some sort of folder… tucking them into his coat will have to do for now, so he slowly leans them back- prying their little fingers out of the grip they hold so he can unbutton the front enough to slide the papers in. Something to show the others- some sympathy for his cause wouldn’t hurt.

And with that, he lets himself partially transform- Wings, feet, tailfeathers. with a flourish of healing fire- that he washes over the child, just in case. She blinks, yawning- and he watches the flickering of his own flames in their dark, glassy eyes as they widen. They smile up at him with a chirp, and he returns it. “Have a nice nap, little one?” He croons. “How would you like to go on a little flight with me, yoi?” They twitter up at him, feathers puffing up. He sets them down on the floor- which they whine about, earning a laugh from him. He shifts from foot to foot before holding one up and making a grabbing motion with his talons. They perk right up- and sprint outside. Marco blinks, moving after them and squeezing himself through the jagged opening to their little hideout. That’s something he wasn’t looking forward to when he came back to pack up their belongings.

Out in the snow, the hatchling calls out to him- they’ve laid down on their belly, sinking into the powdery substance. He’s amused and impressed they got the message so fast. He thought he’d have to take a leaf out of their book and draw a picture of himself carrying them away. He approaches slowly, holding out one foot again- and when she doesn’t move, he slowly, gingerly wraps his talons around their midsection, the first of his three front toes resting just under the armpit. He tests his grip first, lifting them up while balancing on the other foot, which earns a giggle from them. It feels secure enough, and they don't seem uncomfortable. So using his free foot to propel himself upward, he flaps once, twice, and they’re off- Marco smiling widely at the excited trill they let out. While a little awkward to carry, they’re tiny and weigh nothing to him. They soar over the trees, and Marco climbs higher- even through the sound of the air rushing past his ears, he doesn’t miss the little gasp that escapes them once he’s gotten enough air to reveal the pinks and oranges of a horizon at sunset.

It doesn’t take long. His jaw clenches when he can feel their little body growing more and more tense, the closer he gets to the Moby Dick. When he begins his descent towards the deck, Oyaji and a few others in view- they emit a loud, piercing whine, starting to wriggle. He pulls up, wings flaring out to slow himself, and sticks the landing on one foot, balancing himself before gently setting the kid down with the other. They immediately latch onto Marco’s legs, feathers bristling in agitation. Whitebeard raises a brow, leaning forward in his seat. He’s still shirtless, despite the weather. “Marco,” he rumbles out in greeting. “What’s this you’ve brought to us?” He asks, gesturing to the cowering child clinging to Marco’s legs.

Some of the others have started to gather around, wanting to see what this is about. Marco sighs. First, he reaches into his coat for the bundle of artwork. “Tate, would you mind looking over these with Oyaji?” He asks, extending his arm to the nurse, who approaches slowly. He hands them off to the nurse, who is thankfully dressed for the weather unlike his father, and crouches down to try and dislodge the kid. They whine at him when he grips them by the shoulders, peeling them off of him to the amusement of his brothers. He flashes a quick glare to the men and their chuckling quiets down. “Come on kid, you’re fine, yoi” he chides, opting to lift them into his arms. They bury their face in his chest as he sits them on one arm, turning the other into a wing which he carefully folds around their trembling body. Hopefully, hiding them from view gives them a little security.

He looks back up to Tate, and to Oyaji- he’s leaning over her shoulder as the blonde woman examines each childish drawing, her face growing more troubled with each one. Oyaji keeps the same stony expression the entire time, save for the subtle narrowing of his father’s eyes. “This one spotted me flying, Oyaji. Chased after me from the ground.” He says, watching his old man’s eyes raise to meet his own. “... They think I’m one of them. They’ve been alone for a real long time, yoi. What you’ve got right there, that’s what happened to the rest.”

“These… these are awful,” Tate breathes, still fixated on the foreboding artwork. Marco nods, mouth set in a firm line. 

“Hmph. So you’re saying we’re keeping them, I take it?” the old man says, plucking one of the drawings from Tate’s hands and leaning back to examine it closer. 

Marco nods. “My responsibility, of course. The kiddo’s already… attached.” He sighs, feeling them shift against his chest. “They don’t speak any… human languages. I have no way of telling them that I am not what they think I am, yoi.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the deck, Whitebeard’s stern gaze sinking to the wing concealing the tiny creature. “And you are certain there are no others of their kind left here?” He asks, the unspoken meaning clear. He is not unsympathetic- it’s the same thought Marco had. It would be better to reunite them with their species, if possible.

Marco nods once again. “They’ve been living in a small cave, and they’ve scratched hundreds of tally marks into the walls. I didn’t count, but it’s been years, yoi. I think…” he sighs, pausing for a second. “None of the townsfolk said anything about bird people. I think this event predates the existence of the village, and this child has managed to remain hidden all this time, yoi.”

His father regards him from a moment, a warmth in his eyes few others would have recognized. “Let me get a look at them. Only for a moment.” Marco nods, retracting his wing. The little one sits with their face buried in his chest, trembling. He nudges them. They whine. He sighs, leaning them back, patting their head with his free hand and gesturing to Whitebeard. They hesitantly turn their head, and he feels them tense when they meet eyes with the Yonko. The towering man gives them a small smile, but it doesn’t help much. They recoil into Marco, pitchy squeak leaving their throat. The Phoenix sighs, letting them latch onto him and covering them from view once more. “Well, that’s it, then.” Whitebeard grunts. “What d’you need?”

“Somebody find Thatch- I need him to whip something up for ‘em. Some meat, add a sedative- I’m going back to their little hideaway to pack their things while they sleep.”

-

Thatch is located, and is reportedly happy to assist. Marco had moved the little beast to his own room, since being around so many humans all of a sudden had utterly terrified the poor thing.He swaddles them in blankets, and intends to leave them in bed- but his face softens when a hand shoots out to cling to him once more. He sighs at the little one glaring at him from the bundle of fabric. “I know, I know,” he coos. “I wish you understood me,” he laments, lifting their swaddled form into his arms. “But this is a good thing, yoi. We’re going to take care of you.” He makes his way over to his desk, opting to at least read over some reports while he waits for Thatch. Settling the child in his lap, he picks up some papers and leans back. 

A bit of guilt creeps up the back of his throat- the poor thing is still trembling. They aren’t being deliberately affectionate like they were before- no chirping, no squeaking, no nuzzling. Just laying where he put them. He sighs, using his free hand to rub their back. They don’t do anything, other than shift slightly. 

It doesn’t take long before he hears three knocks at his door- making the kid flinch. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, patting them softly before speaking up louder. “Come in.” Thatch enters, carrying a  covered platter on one hand.

“Hey, Marco!” the chef beams, strutting inside and setting the food down on the little corner table. The child clings to Marco’s chest tighter, at the sound of his voice. “Heard the big news- fatherhood is gonna look great on you, papa bird~” he teases in a sing-song voice. Marco rolls his eyes, adjusting the kid and standing up to face his crewmate. Thatch’s face softens when his eyes fall onto the bundle in Marco’s arms. “Aw. Still upset, huh?” He says, considerably more subdued now.

“Yeah,” he affirms, patting the bundled creature on the top of the head. “Can’t blame the poor kid- they don’t understand a word we say, so it’s not like I can do much to reassure them, yoi.”

Thatch sighs. “Well, I got the message,” he says, one hand on his hip as he removes the lid with a flourish. The child doesn’t move, but Marco can hear them sniffing. Thatch prepared various types of meat, cut into thin strips, arranged almost like a charcuterie board. There’s a peeled orange and some mixed berries as well. “I’ve got some cured meats, fruits, and I grilled a bit of pork- that’s what's got the sedative in it. Thought about doing chicken, too, but y’know…” He gestures vaguely, and Marco snorts with a shake of his head.

“Thanks, Thatch. And don’t leave just yet, alright?” He says, sliding into a chair. Thatch pulls up one of his own right across from them.

“Don’t have to tell me twice. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of ‘em, anyway. Everyone up top is gossiping.” He smiles, leaning back and propping a foot up on the opposing knee.

Marco returns the smile. “It’s your lucky day, then. You’ll be the first crewmate I introduce, yoi.” If he wants the kid to learn that the others won’t hurt them, the chef is a good place to start. He pries their little talons out of his shirt, shushing the undignified whine the action draws from them. He pulls the blanket down so it’s bunched around their waist, and spins them in his lap to face the tray of food. Thatch’s eyes widen, and a soft gasp falls from his lips. 

The kid regards him warily, leaning back against Marco’s chest. Their ear tufts are drooping back, and their talons find their way to the arm around their waist. “Hey there, little one. Oh, aren’t you cute?” Thatch greets, offering a small wave and a reassuring smile. “I heard all those brutes upstairs gave you a scare, huh? Poor thing,” he coos, before pushing the platter closer. They tense, but lean forward, sniffing the air. “Go ahead, kiddo, all yours.”

The hatchling is hesitant. Their little hands rise from Marco’s forearm, and both men watch their fists clench and unclench. When they turn back to look at Marco, their little face is scrunched up in worry- even if he can’t see their eyebrows through their thick, messy hair, he can tell they’re drawn tight. He gives them a relaxed smile, and slowly reaches out to pluck a piece of salami off of the plate. He makes sure they’re looking when he eats it, chewing slowly. He nods to Thatch. “You eat something too, yoi,” he says. The other man nods, opting for an orange slice. The kid’s little ear tufts perk up, just a little, and they lean forward. Some of the apprehension is beginning to melt away, but they still aren’t going for it. They look nervously back and forth between both men, head swiveling on their little neck. So Marco reaches out again- another piece of meat in his hand, holding it to their mouth as they had done to him. Slowly, they lean forward, biting the edge, and Marco lets go. It doesn’t even take a full second for the kid to realize how good it tastes, snapping it up instantly. They chew, swallow, lick their lips, go to reach for another-

And they freeze, just shy of touching the food. Marco could groan, but he doesn’t. Thatch gives the kid a nod, and when they look back to Marco, he does the same. Their dark glassy eyes go wide for a second. They pick up a blackberry, looking at both men for any reaction before eating it. This repeats a couple of times before they finally give in and start eating like the damn place is on fire, much to Thatch’s delight. The cured meats and fruits are snapped up in a flash, the thin prosciutto torn to shreds as they indulge. The pork is a bit chewier, taking them a little longer, but they eat everything before the drug even starts to set in. They’re licking their talons clean when Thatch pulls the platter back, and stands up. “Well, that was impressive,” he muses, smiling down at the child. They don’t cower against Marco anymore, instead leaning forward to chirp quizzically at the tall man. “Yep, I’m talkin’ to you, honey,” he laughs. “You’ll give Ace a run for his money, I know it.”

“Hope so. All of this is fluff, they’re a scrawny little thing underneath, yoi” Marco chuckles, rubbing the top of their head, relaxing when they lean up into his touch again. He was right. Food is a good way to help most creatures feel secure. 

“What do you need hope for? You know I won’t disappoint! They certainly seemed to like it, didn’t they? Oh, just look at them,” Thatch coos, watching as their eyes squint in satisfaction. 

The two speak a little longer, Thatch telling Marco that word had spread quickly. Oyaji had already given them a nickname, referring to them as “Pipsqueak” and sternly instructing his sons to leave them be for now. Marco told Thatch more about his encounter in turn- the way they’d exuberantly tackled him, the cave, the way the happy drawings had been pinned up by their bed- that particular detail had him dramatically slapping a hand over his heart. “Sent off to find some hot springs, and you come back with an orphan. You’re really taking after the old man, Marco.” He says with a sly smile. It doesn’t take too long for the kid to start nodding off- after around five minutes, there’s a big yawn, and they’re snuggling up to Marco again. He wraps an arm around them, gently preening their wings with his fingers. The speckled little creature all but melts against his chest.

“I think that’s your cue to get going, yoi,” he says.

Thatch sighs, dramatically slapping his hand over his heart. “So it is… how cruel.”

“Oh don’t pout about it, yoi. I actually let you see ‘em didn’t I? And you’ll be bringing them plenty more meals, I’m sure.”

“Of course I will! I’m aiming for the title of Favorite Uncle, after all!”

“You’ll have some stiff competition, yoi.”

“I’m a chef, my dear brother,” Thatch beams, spreading his arms. “Kids love food. Everybody loves food. I like my odds.”

Marco wouldn’t say it, but he did, too. Instead he just smiles, lifting the child into his arms. They rub a blue cheek against his chest, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah, yeah. Now go, yoi. Shoo. I’m sure I’ll be up shortly.” Thatch chuckles, gazing tenderly at the child before shaking his head. As his weathered hand grips the brass door handle, he shoots his brother a knowing smirk.

“You sure you’ll be back in time for them to wake up? I’m a busy man, but I’d be happy to keep an eye on-”

“I said shoo, yoi! Get on with it!”

Thatch laughs, the door swinging closed behind him with a creak. Marco sighs, shaking his head, but he’s still smiling. Turning his attention back to the kid, he holds them closer and stands up from his seat. He listens to their soft breathing, trying not to let the patch of drool seeping through his shirt bother him. He sets them down on the bed, carefully unwrapping the blanket to tuck them in properly. He lays them against the pillow, huffing at their drowsy face, their mouth still hanging open. He pulls the blanket up to their chin, patting them on the head. They nuzzle into his pillow, sigh, and quickly slip into slumber.

He stays for a moment, warm hand resting on top of their head as they doze. “Big day for you hmm?” He muses. It didn’t take long at all for him to commit to this, did it? He wishes they understood him. That he didn’t have to do things like this. But at the very least, his intentions were altruistic, and the child suspected nothing. And when they woke up, they’d have all their drawings hung up within view of their new nest.

[sarnai4]

The Real Deal

The Penguins of Madagascar is a great show for many reasons, but I feel like one is very underrated. Despite being a comedy, it has good villains. I have seen series where the comedy becomes a bigger part, so villains are written as playful obstacles or too silly to really be taken seriously. That does not happen here.

Hans is a villain who not only acts as an antagonist for the show, but he also connects to Skipper's past, adding new layers to the already mysterious nature of the Denmark incident. Because of whatever happened, Hans is that type of villain who won't kill the heroes. He even mentions how he didn't want to fry Skipper in a real volcano. He just wants to make him miserable. These villains are so dangerous because death isn't their goal. In a sense, torture is.

Dr. Blowhole is on the other end of this. He makes it very clear that he wants Skipper dead. Between making him even "most importantly" forget how to swim (as he falls into the ocean, mind you), this dolphin has a penguin-seeking middle. He has plans to make the world suffer for his pain and will destroy anyone in his path.

Rat King is a surprisingly fun villain to me. He easily could have just been the dumb jock kind of enemy who's basically an older version of a high school bully. Despite that, he's pretty clever too, shown when he hustled the penguins out of their habitat. He's also way more ruthless than I gave him credit for being. He had a vat of acid somehow and was going to use it to kill them.

Kuchikukan was not a villain I ever expected to see in the series. Evil spirits weren't on my radar, but this is probably the only time I won't complain about their presence. He was so much fun! He mastered the combination of "light-hearted jokester who messes with the mere mortals" and "all-powerful being who can and will destroy the Earth." That's not an easy balance to strike. It's such a great time to watch him go from an almost laughable threat due to his host body, then show how much he can still do. By the time the episode is over, I know why he was able to destroy a world inside of a cheese loaf.

Blue Hen was a nice way to give the penguins a psychological threat. She knew how to come after them where it mattered most. Go after Kowalski's obsession with science and go after Skipper's position as leader. It's a shame that she only was in season 3 because it would have been fun to see what else she did with more time.

Last, but certainly not least, X. Just X because he's been an animal control officer, zookeeper, exterminator, fishmonger, storekeeper, and unemployed. Of them all, he is my favorite. I love this character so much. He's also got something going for him that I feel is unique to him. You can see the downward spiral of X throughout each episode he's in. Gradually, he becomes more and more unhinged. It makes sense that he's one of the only human villains because he's so competent that he doesn't even need to know what the penguins are saying in order to stop them from doing everything they want. He just was the pinnacle of competency to the point of even freaking Skipper out because he kept failing against him in the zookeeper episode. Through it all, we see X go from this super officer of animal control, then more and more, he loses it because of the penguins. He even gets a cameo in an episode where he's just throwing chopsticks of a poster with the penguins on it and is later shown to have bowling pins painted as penguins. I almost feel bad for him since he really did want to just do his job, but there comes a point when you have to relinquish your obsessions and he's an example of why.

The other villains were also fun to me, but these were my favorites. PoM didn't have to try hard with its villains, but they still did and I really appreciate that.

[5-puthyyy]

The Apprentice (Agatha x Rio x Reader) - Chapter 4

AO3 LINK

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary:

Life has been about survival for you ever since your coven banished you for the simplest thing: desire. Since then, you've travelled from Inn to Inn, making ends meet, until you sense a powerful Magick presence coming from two mysterious women. They take you in as their apprentice and you end up learning far more than what you came for...

Ch.1 ~ Ch.2 ~ Ch.3 ~ Ch.4 ~ Ch.5 ~ Ch.6 ~ Ch.7 ~ Ch.8 ~ Ch.9 ~ Ch.10

It has been two days since you’ve left your room. After that night, you cried yourself to sleep and woke far too late with a pounding headache. You wouldn’t put it past Agatha to burst into your room anyway, but she hadn’t. Instead, every few hours food and water would poof into your room and that was the most contact you’ve had with her.

Agatha’s words and obvious anger had triggered those memories of your banishment. Over the months, you busy yourself and concern yourself with survival to avoid confronting your emotions and accepting the reality of the situation. But every so often, you have a moment where it hits you. And it hurts. It stings every atom in you until you’re a trembling, crying mess and you’ve never let anyone in close enough to comfort you. You’ve only ever had to comfort yourself.

This morning, you’ve had enough of your isolation, needing some fresh air and a walk through the garden at the very least. You planned to do just that, not talk to either of them. And you’re well aware that it’s beyond ridiculous for you to behave this way in their own cabin, but if they had a problem with that then they would have had you out the door the moment you slammed it that night.

The door creaks as you slowly open it, and all you hear is silence. The sound of a pin dropping now would be as loud as a grenade. Pushing the door further, you finally step out in nothing but your nightgown, fingers trembling as you hold onto the handle. You can hear your heart pounding in your chest as you slowly walk through the corridor until you reach the entryway into the kitchen. You’ll have to pass it to get to the backdoor, to the garden.

Maybe they’re out again on business, you hope, steadying yourself with a hand to the wall. But you feel their Magick here, more so than when they were gone so you know they’re here. After a moment to calm your rapidly beating heart, you turn the corner, freezing when you find them sitting in front of bowls of fruit with saucered eyes staring right through your own.

You refuse to utter a word, instead frozen as you take in their clearly tired features. Agatha hasn’t bothered to do her hair, leaving it tied up in a messy way. Rio’s is wild and free down her shoulders, observing you with brows that furrow deeper the more she takes in your exhaustion. Without another second to waste, you walk by them and straight through to the garden, letting the door close shut behind you.

The moment you step out, you insanely sharply, trying to get control of yourself. But it’s so hard seeing them like that and feeling so…different to what you were before. It felt safe and warm, and now all you can think about is your stupid desires, the impending doom of them asking you to leave, and the constant reminder that no matter where you go you are not welcome. You are not accepted for who you are, as you are.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you begin to shiver, regretting your choice out of a coat. It is still extremely early, the Sun only just tipping over to warm you. Before you can head back inside, the door opens behind you and you freeze in your spot, refusing to look back. Your gaze remains fixed firmly on the flower beds ahead, trying to let the colours distract you from the movement of Rio, you realise, smelling a faint woodsy scent.

“Here,” she says quietly, her voice croaky. A soft layer covers your shoulders, wrapping around you. It smells like Agatha and you subconsciously let your eyes flutter, allowing her scent to sink into your lungs. Despite your fear and anxiety about her words, your body still reacts to her scent as if it’s the most comforting thing. You hate it.

Rio shuffles behind you, uncomfortable with the silence for a moment as she tries to assess how to approach this. You decide to put her out of her misery by sighing deeply and tilting your head up to look at the birds flying above. Before you’re able to break the silence, the door opens again.

“You will both catch your death in this cold,” Agatha speaks out, her voice commanding but soft, with a hint of concern and anxiety layered under the order. Rio listens right away, turning to walk back in, but you stand your ground, needing just another minute of indulgence, “Y/N,” she calls quietly, a whisper in the wind that flows to your ears, “Will you let me care for you?”

She says nothing more, turning back into the cabin knowing those are the magic words to pull you in. It’s manipulative, you tell yourself in frustration, trying to stubbornly remain angry at her as you storm inside, slamming the door shut behind you. Her head spins to you at that, a stern look in her expression. She brews you a cup of tea anyway and you take that as your first warning.

“You have not slept well,” Agatha states, not asking but knowing your mind has been keeping you tossing and turning in your bed. Rio grunts in agreement over her toast as she crunches the burnt piece of bread. At first, you thought Agatha was just a bad cook but you found out Rio is just strange enough to like it burnt.

“Did you expect me to?” your words come out like a dagger, piercing through the air so much that Agatha felt it, visibly flinching as she pours the hot tea into a cup for you. A pang of guilt hits your chest at her reaction.

“Sit,” she softly demands, taking her own seat as she places the cups on the table. Dragging your feet, you reluctantly take a seat, crossing your arms over your chest, “Do not behave like a child, Y/N,” Agatha rolls her eyes, scoffing at your pout. There’s a hint of playfulness below the surface but you’re not quite ready for that.

Refusing to give in, you roll your eyes back earning a raised brow from the both of them. “What are you going to do? Tell me to go to my room?”

Rio snorts. “Oh, I’m sorry, have you not spent enough time brooding alone in there yet? You are free to have a few more days if it pleases you,” she mocks, and it’s Rio so you know it’s mostly teasing, but the sarcasm still affects you in this sensitive state. The pout on your lips deepens enough for her to frown and immediately attempt to backtrack, “Oh, you know I do not mean it, sweetheart, can we please just discuss this and forgive? We have gardens to attend to, Magick lessons to learn, and–”

“I have learnt enough,” you mumble, softer, timid and fearful.

Agatha tilts her head, clenching her jaw tightly. “And what have you learnt?”

Lifting a hand to cup your tea and warm your fingers, you sigh and drop your head in defeat. “That you wish to banish me, as Mother did.”

The silence that follows is thick and deafening. You don’t dare lift your head, keeping your eyes firmly locked to the scratch on the table that is shaped like a mountain. Tracing it over and over again does little to ease the fear creeping into your stomach as the silence goes on and on and on until a chair scrapes, footsteps echo, and a face is near your side as Agatha crouches down to you. She forces you to look at her with a delicate touch to your chin, turning your head until your eyes meet hers.

“My little dove…” she whispers tenderly, eyes shining brightly with regret, with raw honesty, with a firm desire to persuade you of what she is about to say, “How could I ever banish you from your home?” she smiles softly, “You would sooner see me powerless.”

With quivering lips, you dive down, unable to stop yourself from seeking the comfort she so freely gives. “I promise to be good,” you mumble incoherently into her neck, sobbing your emotions out, “I will–I will tame my wicked desires, I swear to you–”

“We are not displeased with you for desire,” Rio interrupts, her hand slithering up to stroke the back of your head.

You force yourself away from Agatha’s neck, frowning in confusion. “But I thought–Then why? Why did you react that way? You said it was my inability to tame my desires, did you not?”

Agatha sighs, gently brushing her fingertips along your jaw. “I wish I could tell you, little dove, but you are not ready.”

That only turns your frown deeper. “But how can I know what to do to fix my faults if–”

“You are not at fault. Rather, it is Rio and I that are out of control,” Agatha says jokingly winking at her partner. Rio snorts back, her eyes lingering too long on Agatha’s lips to be subtle, “Just a few more lessons, little dove.”

You’re unsure whether to believe them or not, whether you should trust them – or rather, trust yourself around them. For now, you think the safest option is to focus on your studies and repress any wicked thoughts of lust. Just a few more lessons, and you will finally get to the bottom of this.

“Magick is a connection,” Agatha says, slowly circling you in the large space of her basement. It’s impossible not to track her with your eyes; there’s something alluring about the power she holds when she’s like this. Magick really is her element, and she’s never looked better than she does when she harnesses it, “If your mind…” she starts, fingertips brushing your temple to tuck your hair behind your ear, “Your body…” those fingertips trail down your neck, across your back and down your spin as she continues to slowly circle you, “Even something as simple as the way you move your hands,” she shoots you a wink as she stops in front of you, “If you are not aligned with your Magick, then your Magick will fail.”

Finally letting out the breath you’ve been holding, your cheeks flush red at the proximity. “I understand,” you nod your head, eager to learn from her.

Agatha raises a challenging brow. “Do you?”

Wanting to prove yourself, you scrunch your brows together as you come up with an answer. “Magick is about intent. And if I am at conflict, and hesitant…If my mind secretly wants one thing but my hands try to cast another, my spell will fail.”

A soft look that resembles a mix of surprise and pride takes over her expression. Agatha crosses her arms over her chest, humming as she steps back, leaning against a wooden, vine-covered pillar as she assesses you. Feeling self-conscious with Agatha giving you that look, the one that resembles a predator sizing up its prey, as if she can see right through you, you wrap your arms around yourself in a pitiful form of self-preservation.

“Do not hide from me.”

It’s a simple enough statement but you find it difficult to listen to her, especially after seeing her so angry with you. How could you not want to hide? She could find another thing to dislike about you and you’ll find yourself being pinned to the wall with that deathly glare again.

“Why are you crying, little dove?” Agatha whispers, her lips subtly turned downwards in a pouty frown. You hadn’t realised a tear had fallen down your cheek at the memory of Agatha’s glare; it’s such a starking contrast to the way she’s looking at you now and you don’t know which Agatha is the real one.

Before she successfully holds your cheek in her delicate hand, you flinch back. She stops right away, her hand freezing in the air, both confused and hurt by your reaction.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, looking to the ground, “I’m so sorry, I do not know why I–I do not understand why I am feeling–Gods,” you hurriedly attempt to apologise, angry tears running down your cheeks and you wipe at them harshly in frustration.

Agatha clasps her hands together to her chest, unsure of what to do with them as she watches you collapse in on yourself. It’s clear she’s feeling impossibly guilty with the way she blinks rapidly, trying to keep the guilt out of her eyes, but you see it all and it only leaves you even more conflicted.

“Maybe it’s time for one of my lessons, yes?” Rio’s voice suddenly echoes in the basement, forcing both your heads to turn to her. She stands leaning against the door with her arms crossed over her chest, gazing at Agatha with an understanding and patient look in her eyes. They seem to be in a wordless conversation for a minute before Agatha nods and sharply turns. Rio gives Agatha a quick peck before she leaves, and you’re suddenly alone with the brown-eyed witch.

“I apologise,” you begin, wanting to apologise for your behaviour causing such sadness to Agatha, but Rio interrupts with a shake of her head.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. Never apologise for what you feel,” she nods at you as you take a shaky, steadying breath, “Now, let me show you the healing power of Earth Magick.”

You follow her out with a soft smile, watching her oddly skip to her garden. You’re not sure if Earth Magick can really heal the type of pain you are feeling now, but you’re willing to give it a try. That is the very least you can do.

masterlist + guidelines

[obamas-eyebrow]

05/The Pawn.

7th floor x female reader (the 8 show)

Masterlist

WC:7.5K. specific chapter warnings: Violence starvation etc, etc (it's that evil episode)

(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅::]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

His eyes slowly opened to some lazy strumming and a pounding headache. Judging be the things hanging from the ceiling, he was not in his room. The source of the irritating sound was a tall, blurry man sat in front of him on a chair. With all the energy he could muster up, he pushed himself to sit as he tried to recall how he got here. A moving figure in the far corner of the room, 8th floor he’d assume, sat in that obnoxious bathtub, grooming herself. 

“What happened?” He groaned.

“Isn’t it obvious? You got caught.” 6th replied. 

Oh yes, the king���s game. 

What a mess. He shut his eyes and sighed, breathing it all in. 

He tried to think of a thousand different reasons they’d keep him here, why they had held him…hostage? He wasn’t actually sure of anything at the moment. A hand from his right pressed something into his temple, and he winced as the burn set in. He glanced over to the final team member, 4th floor.

“I know you helped them to be on equal footing with us, but that’s boring. No one would watch,” He continued plucking at the strings.  “It needs to pack a punch.”

“You know how the system here is. It’s designed to keep the higher floors in charge of the lower floors, so why would you go and side with them and mess that up,” He stated plainly “What are you? Some kind of limousine liberal?” 

The only thing he could do was stare at the bruised man’s face, an attempt to read where he was going with this. 

“We’re gonna make them a lot of money, they’ll thank us in the end.”

8th floor had put together a compilation of games, regular games, but with higher stakes and harsh penalties. 6th floor was in charge of said stakes and penalties; most games involving him directly hurting the participants. He was also the one to come up with the winner’s ‘reward’, hurting others. A layer of psychological torment to go hand in hand with the physicals of it all. They also had a plan of stripping the others of all purchasing power, breaking the phone in all the rooms and locking the main one in the square. When both of them were done explaining their twisted desires, they looked at him, as if waiting for him to speak. To find a flaw in their plan perhaps. To be fair, had there been one, he would’ve probably let it slip, giving the other floors the chance of an out. But there wasn’t, he knew 8th floor was not an easy mind to look past, plus she spent a full 3 days thinking this up. There was nothing he could do. From this position, the bad side, he could at least try to figure out a way to ruin the plan from the inside. If he chooses to play the hero now, he’d be worthless. That was the main reason he was getting on board with this, anyway. Maybe the smaller, more selfish part of him, saw this as a them or me, and he really wasn’t someone who could take that kind of pain. He thought of you, eyes fixed on the fuzzy carpet, he thought of how you’d take this. You two were just starting to get comfortable, partly his fault, and now you’ll likely never want to speak to him again. 

He should’ve kissed you when he still had that chance. 

He gave them a short nod, eyes unable to meet theirs. 

“You need to contribute, too.” 8th hummed.

“What?” he breathed out.

“You need to come up with something we could add to make it worse, call it a guarantee. That way; your hands are just as bloody as ours.” She clarified. 

The realisation of what she was asking dawned on him.

 Bloody. What a vile word. 

He spent the better part of the afternoon trying to come up with a weak addition, something that could be used as an out and at the same time seem cruel enough. But of course, 8th floor always saw right through him, pointing out the stupidity of his suggestions over and over again. He’d never felt so helpless, so defeated. Bested at his own battle of wits. He should’ve been harsher, lied at the vote count, turned the other eye with 4th, but he knows deep down it would’ve only delayed the inevitable. 

6th floor left to execute phase one of the plan, the chute phone situation, leaving him and the other 2 women alone in the room. 8th eyed him, almost seductively. 

“I like you 7th,” she leaned down infront of him, dropping her head to meet him eye to eye. She batted her eyes a few times at him, unsatisfied with his lack of reply. 

“You and 5th…” She gave him a sympathetic look, had he not known better, he’d think she meant it. “What would she think, seeing you on our side.” 

It was at that he realised, this was a punishment for him, too. 

. . .

Worry had taken up the better part of your day, as you sat on the swingset facing the doors, hoping for any sign of him. A few hours earlier; 6th floor had made his way to the main chute when no one was paying attention and locked the phone there in a cage. He also bought himself a baseball bat and used it to batter your personal phones. So that’s where you knew him from. You were now entirely helpless, unable to buy anything to defend yourselves from whatever was to come. But your mind only stayed on 7th. Why the hell were they keeping him there, what were they doing to him? You recalled the way a little of his blood dripped down his face and hoped he didn’t see that for himself. That’s all you had, just hope. Time kept going up but you were none the wiser as to why. The mystery of it all was eating away at you. No food was delivered to quench your hunger. So you sat, and waited. 

The other floors filtered back down, joining you around the swingset. You discussed theories as to what could be happening, arriving at absolutely nothing. 

“I just feel bad for 7th, he was making sure we all do well. What the hell could they want with an unconscious man” you sighed.

“Maybe to get him on their side, with the chute and all, it would be difficult with him in the middle.” 1st suggested, and that actually made alot of sense. 

“If that’s the case, that’s awful. He was the smartest of us” 3rd groveled, you gave him a look.

“Hey! I’m pretty smart.” 2nd replied and you shot her a smile. 

It was almost 8pm now, around six hours since you last saw him. You were beginning to lose patience and considered calling it in for the night, when the door to 8th floor opened and they all came out. 

Something was wrong though, 6th had his arm around 7th, a little too friendly for two people who really weren’t that close. It filled you with unease. 

“7th floor, are you feeling ok?” 3rd stuttered.

“I’m going to announce how things will be from now on.” He kept his eyes straight, avoiding everyone’s questioning gazes. “We currently have 160 hours left. From now until the agreed upon end date, you will have to earn time, just as before, your goal will be 24 hours each day.”

“What do you mean your goal” you had your eyes fixed on him, looking for anything in his face to indicate- well…anything. He kept his expression rigidly neutral, no remorse, no shame, nothing. His lip was swollen from the excitement from earlier and you wanted nothing more than to kiss it better, but the current circumstances clearly would not allow something like that. “Aren’t we supposed to be doing this together?” Your voice shook a little. 8th giggled at that, hair put up in a nice ponytail to match her new outfit. 

“Are you making us earn time while you guys weasel out?” 2nd challenge. 

3rd tried to defend 7th in face of 2nd’s accusations but 7th was not denying anything, in fact, he went on to say;

“You can refuse if you want to, but meals won’t be provided”

“We’ll die, the show will end!” 3rd pleaded.

“No, we will not let you starve.”

That simple, to him, it was all that simple. It bothered you, how he could play both sides with no repercussions, marching around like he owns the place. 

They moved through your little group to get to the chute and begin the fun. It hadn’t all set in yet, this whole predicament, you kept your eyes on him hoping that maybe, he’ll slip up. 

7th called 3rd up to have the pick of the first game, hide and seek. But we had to pick a body part for some reason and you stupidly picked legs, though most of you were at a disadvantage here; 1st needing his hands for balance, 2nd being unable to see and you unable to walk. It was already clear who the winner will be. You tried to give it your best as they counted down to when they’ll seek, hopping as far as you can. You though maybe if you could just get to the stairwell. But alas, all too late. 6th had already begun seeking and determination was replace with dread, fear. He was not using his bat, but an object that clearly went with the rest of the kit they divided. It had sharp metal on the end and you shuddered, frozen in your spot as you witnessed him catch 1st floor. He found you next, but you’d given up on hiding a while ago, choosing to save whatevers left of your dignity. He approached you with a huge smile on his face, 8th trailing closely behind but her eyes were looking for other victims. 

“Go on, run.” He laughed. You said nothing. His favorite target was still roaming around and he’d clearly prefer to have his fun with 2nd rather than you. So with a roll of his eyes he swung the thing across your face, leaving blood in it’s wake, then twice more for good measure, knocking you down. He turned towards 2nd and embarked on what will probably be his favorite part of the night, leaving you where you were, some blood on your cheek. With her though, he was relentless, abandoning the tool in favor of his own fists with no intention of stopping. Had it not been for 7th pulling him off of her, you would guess he would’ve went all the way. What a knight in shining armour. 

Your head was wrapped tightly with some tape, compressing bruises and cuts on various areas of your face and only allowing very little area to breathe. 3rd mumbled apologies through the gag, you wished he’d just get it over with. This was the ultimate reward; less pain. And so he spun, 10 spins, and then swung. You braced for impact that never came, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who it was, considering 1st was on your right. 

“Breathe! Breathe! He can’t breathe!” You panicked a little at 3rd’s voice next to you, hands struggling with the tape on your face after 4th undid your hands. You rushed over to 1st’s aid, getting the remaining tape off him and checking his pupils using a ray of light from the ceiling. He was fine, a little shaken up from the blow but only surface injuries. You were still at 1st’s sides when 7th spoke up again. 

“26 hours from the first game is very impressive. You get one coin for every 3 hours, but as a token of gratitude, we will reward you with 9 coins. Now, please write the number of coins you want to receive on paper, if the total exceeds 9, then we will take all the coins back.”

You turned your head slowly to him. Realisation slowly dawning on you. 

“So if the number is more than nine, we leave empty handed?” 1st stuttered, clutching his head.

“Yes, and you are forbidden from discussing this.”

The others turned to look at eachother, perhaps in an attempt to signal a plan. 

“He’s pretty smart isn’t he?” 6th plopped down next to a smiley 8th.

That’s what hit the nail on its head.

Up until this very moment, you held your breath and gave him the benefit of the doubt. You believed that they must’ve had him under some sort of awful threat, leaving him no choice but to do this. But the money thing? Group punishment and individual reward is something none of those airheads could put together. What kind of captors allow their hostages a hand in the fun? 

He came up with this. 

“This is you…” you kept your eyes trained on him as you rose slowly, several pairs of eyes watching you with curiosity, and one of them in heavy amusement. 

“You traitor, this is you!” His gaze only found yours for a split second, but he intentionally kept it empty and unassuming, fixing his eyes back onto the distance. You made your way to him in pure unfiltered anger. 

“None of those morons could come up with this you motherf-” you were at the bottom of the stairs, only a step or two away from him when 6th put the bat at your throat, forcing you to stop. 

“That’s no way to speak to your superior.” he gave a very hardened expression. 

“My superior? Oh get your head outta your a-” 

“Watch it.” He pushed you back to place himself between you and 7th floor, was he actually protecting him?

“I’m not afraid of you.” You scoffed at 6th, eyes boring into his. 

He didn’t take you seriously, instead, he laughed. And without turning back he said;

“I can see why you like her 7th, such an entertaining thing she is.” He moved his hand to cup your cheek and you immediately swatted it away, angering him, landing you a rough kick back into the pool. You hit your head in whiplash pretty hard as you watched him sauter away back to 8th. 

And dear old 7th floor? Still had his body unmoved from his position, not even sparing you a look of sympathy.

You sat in your room later that night, feeling so empty and played as you waited for the delivery of 1 meal and 1 water. Not enough calories for the effort you’re giving, that’s for sure. Tears that had collected at the corner of your eye were now flowing freely down your face. 

How could you be so, so stupid. So blind. Was this the man that 2nd floor saw? No, even she had began liking him. Had he been living a lie with you that whole time? Keeping himself busy until he moved on to the next interesting thing? Were any of the moments you two shared sincere? Was it all just games within games? 

The croak of the chute cut your train of thought off, opening to show 3 meals and 4 water bottles. You had wondered how they’d deliver each individual meal, seeing as taking them room to room was impossible. This sucked though. You’re going to have to consciously make the decision of taking a meal and a water knowing that 3rd, who used his brain a tad bit more than needed, will have to actively make the decision of just grabbing a water. You hesitated, he did just have the best interest of the group in mind, hurting only himself in the process. Leaving him your meal would be kind. But on the other hand, your stomach was growling, head pounding from the beatings you took earlier. 3rd had won, making the tally of times he got hit today a whopping zero. But its not like you mean to sound like you’re punishing him for winning…Maybe you’re overthinking this. 

“Hurry up!” 4th floor pounded on your door, leading you to just take the decision of taking your share and moving on. You gave a quick look-over the meals, two chicken, one shrimp. Was that for you? You grabbed it anyway, deciding to mull it over when 4th was gone. 

Logically, it would more likely be just a coincidence. But what if he purposefully. 

What the hell are you smoking. This is not him, the beef probably just looked better today. Plus, even it it were him, what difference does it make? He’s still a lying piece of crap and a meal won’t fix that. 

Plus you’re done thinking so highly of him. 7th floor. You should have guessed. 

. . .

He couldn’t get any sleep, clothes folded neatly at the bedside as he lied uder the cover. The higher rooms are warmer than the lower ones, that’s why he is able to sleep like this so comfortably, the blanket helps too. His mind wouldn’t quieten as guilt and shame weighed heavy on his heart. He knew, in no way was he a victim here. In fact, he could’ve joined you, stood at your side while you tried to figure a way out, together.

But he didn’t. 

Because he’s a coward.

 He had taken very little risks up until this moment and, old habits die hard. The one real risk he’s ever taken was backed by his parents’ exorbitant amount of money, protecting him from any actual harm. There’s a reason why everything in his room was straightened out. A reason why his uniform seemed more pristine than everyone else’s, even if he was the only one to notice. He reveled in routine, continuity. He wasn’t the type of man to venture out to try new things. As pathetic as it sounds, you were the break from his ordinary. Bursting in with spontaneity and unpredictableness. Even if he was just referring to your constant boredom with his favourite games. You’d even unknowingly got him to start drawing again, even if it was primitive sketches. But he had no right. No right at all to be missing you in this moment, when he put a wall between you with his own two hands. And he doubts you’re missing him right now. Actually you’ve probably cussed out his entire bloodline, 3rd too. He had tried to apologise, in his own way, by hiding that meal so that he could send it to you. Now that he says it back to himself, he just feels stupid, pathetic actually. He tries to remind himself that, at the end of the day, you’re all here for money, and you’re not leaving empty handed so maybe you could look past this?

How selfish. How selfish of him to anticipate your forgiveness when he couldn’t even spare you a glance of sympathy, the mouthing of I’m sorry. Truth is, he felt if he’d met your eyes for too long his composure might break. And…And nothing, it would’ve definitely been entertaining for the upper floors, the audience too. But he didn’t want to appear like that, that’s the best reasoning he could rationalise to himself. He tried to even his breathing, willing himself into dreams where you still sat by him at the chess set, making up moves as you go. 

The following day’s draw had you playing 20 questions. He sat on the playset by 6th floor, encouraging 8th to start. His eyes naturally went to you, as he’d been accustomed to for the past month or so. You had your head held down in defeat, tilted slightly to the side of your hurt cheek. It was swollen, so was the area around your eyes. You’d been crying, he felt dizzy. Today, you had chosen not to look for his eyes it seems, and he wasn’t sure if he should be happy or upset. On one hand, he wouldn’t have to run away from your looks anymore, granting him relief from last night. But on the other, knowing you, it meant that you’d given up on him, accepted him for what he is; a traitor, in every sense of the word. 

2nd guessed the answer to the supid game, crowning her as executioner. It hit 3rd, and again, you rushed to his aid as soon as your restraints were undone. 4th had learned to untie you first, seeing as you were the most useful, at least that’s what he would assume anyway. 3rd had passed out, maybe because 2nd was the one swinging, and he watched from his spot as you all carried the unconscious man up to his room. 

. . .

You were stuck in this cycle for almost a week, stupid games with sick twists and then spinning. So much spinning. 

You screamed a little when the bat collided with the side of your head, a string of apologies spilling from 1st floor’s mouth as you tried to avoid inhaling your own blood. It was scary, terrifying even, the feeling of suffocation with no ability to save yourself. He rushed to take the constraints off your face, allowing you reprieve. You wheezed and coughed up some of the blood that managed to slip into your larynx, drops of it contrasting the white of your pants. You grabbed your chest in desperation, hoping your body will regulate things soon. 

You put down the same number of coins you always do, but someone had other plans, you were now one above the limit, meaning…

“You get no coins today, if you have any coins left, you could use them. But if you don’t. I guess you’ll have a slightly tougher day.” He stated as if it were so manageable. 

“A slightly tougher day?” You challenged. 

Easy for him to say, he’s been stuffing his mouth and keeping his thirst quenched, sleeping soundly in no fear of what’s to come the next morning. You’d grown to become repulsed by him. Every word, every look, every move he made had you gagging. A slightly tougher day, this was not salt in an open wound, this was hot sauce. He was enjoying this, or else he would’ve kept his revolting mouth shut and took orders like a good boy. 

“You can all return to your rooms now.” He half ordered. 

But no one moved.

“Cmon, off you go,” 6th swung his bat around, making a point to try and intimidate you. 

But still, no one moved. 

“They can’t do anything if we hold here, no one go anywhere,” There was a little bit of venom in 1st’s words.

“Come to think of it, you’ve all been working hard this last week with no break, you’re bound to get angry. So, as a token of gratitude, the first person to return to their room will get one coin.” 7th floor offered.

“I’ll do you one better,” you mocked him. “Shove it up your ass.” At that he sighed, turning his head away from the group. 

“All ten coins, one minute to decide.” 6th ran up to 7th floor’s side with a better bargain. 

You were not weak, not stupid, not hungry enough to fall for a ploy like this. You were also smart enough to know that this will be the most united you’ve ever been without prior planning. Just pure, unadulterated hatred. But you chose to have some foresight this time around. If you hold here, keep the challenge, it would only end with that bloodied bat to each of your faces. Then what would’ve you gained? Making a statement? 

You all possessed no power nor capacity to fight back. So you thought of something else and hoped the other floors will forgive you for the coming next few hours. Walking up to 6th’s hand was worse than any punishment you had that week. Admitting debility, feigning submission as someone who would’ve been the first to revolt was torture, so you hoped it would work out the way you wanted it to at the end.

Knock, Knock, Knock. You knew she’d be the hardest to convince, so you left her for last. No answer. You shouldn’t’ve indicated that it was you. 

Knock, Knock, Knock. 

“2nd, please open up” you whispered at her door. “I know you’re pissed, just please come out.”

You were actualy surprised to hear some shuffling. And then the door creaked open just a little bit, enough for her to bosk you way in.

“What do you want?” She looked at you with disinterest ad some anger. “Did you not already stuff your mouth and-”

“Do you trust me?”

She hesitated. Good, that means theres still a little bit in there. 

“Come with me, I’ll show you what I did with the coins.” Ok that sounded like you bought a weapon or something, which is obviously impossibe since 4th is in charge of purchases. 

You opened up the door to your room to reveal 1st and 3rd sat comfortably on the floor, infront of them; five plates of food and 4 water bottles. They had already began nibbling at the feast. 2nd wasted no time in finding an empty spot to cozy up in. You sat opposite to her, observing her ear to ear smile. 

The food was gobbled up in all of 5 minutes, the shared extra meal really going its work of making everyone just a tad bit less starving. After it was done, you all leaned back a little, soaking up this one happy moment in the middle of darkness. They’d have to be gone soon, the longer they stay here the higher the risk is of getting caught. You thought of just sending the meals to everyone to consume on their own, but 4th being in the way made that impossible. 

“You know where I think I know 6th from?” you broke the silence. “My dad used to watch baseball all the time, I think he used to be like a star player. But they kicked him off, don’t remember why.”

“Explains the bat.” 3rd smiled to himself, though he knew this was no funny matter.

“I think I know 8th floor from somewhere too,” 2nd added. “An art gallery, I think she was the artist. It was very controversial at the time, her pieces, so the gallery was free. But I may be getting her mixed up with someone else, it was a while ago anyway.”

“So they all get a second chance at this money thing while we suffer to get a single shot?” 1st scoffed. 

“Who do you think 7th is then?” 3rd questioned. 

Apparently that was the line crossed, cause it led to everyone's lips seeling shut. Not in thought but something else. Betrayal, anger, hurt, 7th was, at the end of the day, an ally. Or so you thought anyway. 

“We need a revolution.” 1st stated plainly. That got you to sit back up. 

“Did you have something in mind?” The look on his face told you he in fact did.

“On my signal, you guys ride down in the chute to my room the following morning. I’ll cause a commotion to get them to my room. Then we ambush them.” 

“All together against 6th, yeah that could work” 2nd excitedly whispered. 

“What would the signal be?” 3rd added.

“Hmm how about, I ask for something for stomach pain after a game. Then we carry the plan out the next day. But we have to wait till they bore of us, so that they won’t expect it.”

They all nodded to eachother enthusiastically. 

“But…I can’t ride down to you.” you realised. “Never mind, I could attack him from the back or something.”

It was a plan, and what a burst of excitement that night was. You went to sleep with a semi full belly and hope for change. 

. . .

He descended the stairs at the usual meet up time the next morning, finding 3rd and 1st also making their way down. 8th and 6th had been doing things that were best kept private but thankfully stopped, so that the day could go on. 4th joined a few minutes later. So here they were, him and 4th by the main chute, 8th on the merry go round and 6th swinging his bat lazily. 3rd and 1st sat at the pool, waiting for their female counterparts. There was a slight skip to their step that morning, he wondered if anyone else noticed. A few more minutes passed and 2nd sautered towards the group, seems like everyone was in a good mood today. There was a noticeable lack of you though, seeing as you usually stroll in with 2nd. 

“Where’s 5th” he asked.

“She will not be playing today.” 2nd smiled a little and moved to join the others, but 6th stopped her from where he was.

“How come?” 6th question as he moved closer to 2nd slowly. She turned her body to him slightly and shrugged. 

“4th.” 6th stared 2nd down. “What did 5th buy with her coins yesterday?”

“Meals and water.” She answered obediently.

“How many?”

“5 meals and-”

He didn’t let her finish her sentence before he was already storming towards the stairs, grip on the bat turning his knuckles white. 7th understood what you’d done as well, that’s why the others seem to be a little more cheerful. He was frozen in fear, hoping that maybe you bought them for yourself and still have the leftovers in your room. But he knew how unlikely that was. 6th banged on your door harshly, snapping him out of his thoughts. He ought to do something, what the hell can he do? He looked to your partners in crime, perhaps to help 2nd find an out for you, but all of them had horrified expressions fixed onto the sight about to unfold. He couldn't see from here, only listen.

A door opening, a small yelp, some conversation, something hitting a hard surface and a scream. A moment of silence, before 6 yelled again.

He watched as you ran out onto the steps, rushing down for your life. 6th emerged shortly behind you, face red and bat swinging with as much force as he could, but missing time and time again. You made it all the way to where they were, eyes frantically searching for shelter, there were none. He had his hands clasped behind his back, otherwise they’d shake and tremble uncontrollably. His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding onto each other harshly. 6th was hot on your tail, he swung, it missed, and you took the opportunity to run towards the merry-go-round. He chased you around it, over the seesaw and as you ran for the stands. Hopeless, you threw whatever objects you came across at him. There was no use in yelling for help, in begging or asking for forgiveness, and you all knew that. You made it back towards the circle of people again, this time when he swung and missed, it kicked him off his balance and he toppled on top of you, knocking you into the pool. You grunted as your back collided with the harsh floor, the air knocked out of your lungs. He watched as 6th got up from his spot to get the bat back, you tried to desperately crawl away but the fear had gotten the best of you, weakening your legs. 6th panted as he stood over you, swinging the bat down hitting you square in the abdomen, earning a sharp scream from you. He then reached down and grabbed you by the hair, tilting your face to look at the helpless audience. He then laughed, hard, and tossed the bat next to you as he got on top of you. 

You clawed at his hand desperately, which had grabbed your jaw to hold your head still. 

“Go ahead,” 6 chuckled, a crazed look in his eyes. “Beg,”

“Kiss my ass,” you spat at him without a second thought.

6th swung a heavy fist onto your face, colliding with your cheek.

You sputtered out a wave of fresh blood, your eyes had become unfocused.

No good deed goes unpunished.

“Wanna try again?” 6th said through gritted teeth, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right here, huh? Since you wanna play hero so bad,” he lifted your head momentarily to slam it back down.

You couldn’t even cry out loud anymore, choking occasionally on the bubbling blood.

“THE GAME,” He then punched again, hitting your eye. You groaned loudly and continued, “The game would end,”

7th felt a pang of fear, what if your reason wasn’t enough? What if he truly intended on taking your life in the most brutal way imaginable. 8th was on the edge of her seat, 4th holding a shaking with anger 2nd back.

“Don’t kill her,” 8th said with a smile, prancing forward as if this was entertaining- as if it was all some kind of game for her. She put a delicate hand on 6th, rubbing his shoulder in a motherly fashion. She leaned into his ear to whisper, “Just make an example out of her,”

He clenched his jaw tightly, looking around to the horrified group. She was right, by keeping you within an inch of your life, he’d be keeping their fear at just that- fear. 

6th nodded, eyes flickering at your constricted eyes, that struggled to focus on anything. With a firm hand, he pushed 8th back gently. Then, his fist contacted your skull, then your jaw, and you were completely silent- at his mercy. He became addicted, hitting again, and again and again. Your face was almost unrecognisable, blood flowing for your nose down your busted lip. There was a gash on your jaw that looked like it needed stitches. 

7th could only watch helplessly. This scene would haunt his nightmares for years to come, and part of him wished it was him instead beneath 6th’s arm. Though in this scenario, he knew deep down you would’ve rushed to try to help.

His feet kept him planted right where he was. 6th slowly got up off you, a victorious laugh echoing through the room. Your yelps of pain had stopped a few punches ago and as he finally got a good view of you, the world stood still. He fixed his eyes onto your torso, counting laboured breaths. Whether you were knocked out or defeated he couldn’t tell. But 6th wasn’t done, he reached for the bat, and swung at your stomach, causing you to curl in on yourself, a hand coming up to block his next hit, which landed on your upper arm. He then moved onto a kick, a process he repeated a few more times before one last satisfactory blow to your head with the bat. He didn’t have to be a doctor to know 6th had just knocked you completely out of consciousness, likely for a while too.

“5th?” 2nd hesitantly stepped towards you but was stopped by 6th’s bat. 

“Did you fill your bellies last night? Huh? Had fun?” his voice got progressively louder, pushing the girl back. “Ate like kings…” he spewed out, clicking his jaw. “HUH?” His loud voice echoed through the walls.

“If any of you EVER, think of pulling a stunt like that again.” He pointed from group member to group member, “You’ll meet a worse fate. Consider this a warning.” He pulled his weapon back, stepping back and casting one final smirk at your pathetic body, then marching over to a very turned on 8th floor. She giggled when he settled next to her. 

Even 4th floor had her eyes on you, scared and unmoving, mouth covered with her shaking hands.

The lower floors rushed towards you, even 1st moved faster than he ever has. 2nd was by your head, trying to clear your airways while 3rd listened to her instructions.

He couldn’t hear anything, he couldn’t hear the insults 2nd hurled at him, the panicking comments of 3, or even the celebrations from 6 and 8. There was a loud ringing in his ear, it was deafening, the only thing louder than the buzz were your soft moans of ache, desperate for any form of relief, even in your slumber. How painful is it that you can’t help but weep even when you can’t feel it? 

You were carried up by 2nd and 3rd, 1st following closely behind. They all stayed inside the room 

He sat down on the edge of the pool, gagging slightly at the sight of the blood, dropping his head into his hands. 4th floor sat next to him, hands on her knees, eyes fixated on the mess.

“Your idea was amazing 7th,” 8th said in a chirpy voice, “The coin system was a perfect plan, I mean look at the time! 100 hours from just that!”

“It wasn’t the coin system, it was 6th floor,” he tried to convince mainly himself.

“But if it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t have pulled this stunt anyways. You’re a genius 7th!” 

He stared blankly at the floor, only flinching when 6th patted his shoulder. 8th and 6th disappeared upstairs to her room, likely to celebrate the events that just transpired privately.

This was far worse than when it happened to 2nd, because you were outmatched from the beginning. Sure, you were more agile, more skilled and definitely smarter, but you should’ve thought of this. You shouldn’t have opened the door. Perhaps he could’ve disarmed th6, stolen his taser and beat the man bloody and bruised. But he couldn’t, because he was a coward. He was not a soldier, not a fighter, not even a survivor, he couldn't have heldhis own. But then again, neither could you, yet you still fought, in your own way at least. 

Bloody. Your face was so bloody. He wasn’t sure if he was remembering it worse because of his aversion to blood or because it was you. Either way, you must be in a lot of pain right now. Maybe it was the fact that you were specifically targeted, helpless and pleading, that had bile stuck at the back of his throat till now. He’d seen you get beat up in the games before but this…was different. Every time he’d walk past your room, he’d pause to listen. There were times where you were quiet and he feared you’d died, other times where your quiet sobs pierced the chill air. He couldn’t decide which was worse to hear. He felt awful, what could he do for you now? Nothing, he knew that much. He considered trying to send something down to you to ease the pain but 6th was in 8th’s room at the moment, not that he could explain that to him anyway. So here he was. Mere hours later. Standing at your door pathetically empty handed. Tears in his eyes, as if they meant anything. These were tears of guilt. Shame. He knew, logically, the chance of you opening your door was slim to none, especially if you knew it was him. You’re probably passed out from pain right now and he’d be intruding on your moment of relief. He was being selfish, again. But he couldn’t help himself when it came to you. So he did the only thing he knew would get you to open up. 

Knock, knock, knock. Three short knocks. And sure enough, you stumbled to the door and unlocked it, not bothering to check who it was before collapsing onto the floor again, leaving your back to him. You used your hands to support yourself against the ground. He shivered at the dried up blood around your room. How sad is it that the one person that could’ve helped you recover was yourself, and you were in no state to do so. His eyes lingered at the bandages, unused, but stained with blood. He saw the evidence of your crime in the corner, stacked neatly on top of each other. If he didn’t say anything soon, it would be weird. 

“I’m fine, 2nd, just a little tired. And thirsty.” You croaked, voice weak. There was a short sniffle at the end of your sentence. He felt his heart shatter. He hadn’t even considered that they didn’t send you food that day. If he could just get you up to his room…

“I mean it, I’m-” You turned slowly, clearly expecting someone else, caught off guard by who your eyes saw instead. Your breaths got louder, anger threatening to spill over. 

“Get out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Get. Out.”

“I’m sorry.” He repeated a bit louder.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you here?” Your voice shook, tears glimmering slightly under the low lighting. 

“I…don’t know.”

“You come to finish me off?” 

“You know I would never-”

“I don’t know anything actually. Get lost.”

He took a step forward, only stopped by your tossing of an empty box at him. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen 5th I-”

“What did they offer you?”

“Nothing I-”

“Went willingly?”

“No!”

His eyes met yours for the first time since forever, and not for a split second either, you two held each other's gaze. Teary eyes to teary eyes. Yours were pleading with him a little, to say the right thing, change my opinion of you, let me trust you again. He had nothing to offer, No sound explanation, no noble reason nor anticipatory foresight. He thought back to himself, why did he just show up. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Your expression turned blankly exhausted, coupled with a slight scoff.

“Well I’m swell, thank you for your concern.”

The silence that followed made him nervous. He opened his mouth and closed it multiple times, trying to wrack his brain to find a way to properly articulate his words.

“I want to sleep.” At his hesitation, you turned around to face the wall on the bed, giving him your back. He had nothing to say then, nothing to make it better. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

He didn’t respond, only dropped his head and walked out of the room. There was a heaviness in the air that threatened to suffocate him with every step away from your room. He didn’t deserve to be forgiven, or heard, or even acknowledged, he’d once again opted for safety not humanity. While you suffered with little meals and still had the ability to share, he ate comfortably with first pick in 8th’s room. 

. . .

The days went by in a blur as you limped daily to every new game. You didn’t have the facilities to check if something was broken, but if you had to guess. There was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm in the group, the only hope now being 1st’s plan. But after what happened, there was always the what if? What if it all went wrong and someone else met your fate once more? You lost the ability to speak, though there was nothing to say, you shuffled your feet from one game to the next, finding little to no energy to compete, put an effort in. You hadn’t been sleeping either, your mind too afraid to doze off lest you wake up back under 6th grip again. There was no talk of the revolution again, the excitement you starred in making the higher floors a little more on edge. 7th had attempted to speak to you again but it was futile, you wouldn’t even speak to 2nd. He now always watched you with sad eyes, remorse that you were not willing to accept from him. The days just seemed to drag on, but that was good, relatively, it meant that they were getting bored. 

“It’s that prick 7th floor that kept this game so brutal.” 2nd whispered

7th floor had signaled something to 3rd on the stairs that day, clearly showing him that he knows of the plan. How he got the information is truly beyond you, considering you’ve only ever discussed it once. 

“What do you think, 5th?” she looked down to your position on the steps.

“I think…we’ve got nothing more to lose”

The next day, 1st gave the signal, and you could feel your heart almost thumping out of your chest. Your injuries had gotten better, leaving only scars and bruises as a reminder, your side still hurt though, might be a fractured rib. 

You descended the steps a few paces before the higher floors, granted 6 overtook you relatively quick due to your slowed movements. 7 slowed to your pace, you paid him no mind though, desperately hoping the plan would work. Finally at 1st floor’s room,

Time stood still as a, once again victorious 6th marched over to his little girlfriend to grab the taser. You were by 7th’s side, your injury rendering you useless and a liability in a fight like that. Defeated once more, and now, you didn’t even want to think of the consequences about to be conjured up. 

“Hit him” 7th said from next to you, you turned to him in confusion. 

“Hit him!” he repeated, louder this time, meant for 2nd floor. The taser in 6th’s hand clicked but nothing came out, giving 2nd way to knock the man out. 

“My hand’s a lot better now, asshole.”

[moonydustx]

Hello! I just read law proposing to reader and it's so sweet like-- I wanna cty-

Anyway... what happens on their honeymoon? Would they dock at an island for like a week or so? Just so the two newly weds have some time alone? Or they'd keep sailing after the ceremony? Like- I imagine both happening but I wanna know what you think.

Hi dear anon, sorry for the delay in responding, I was sick this week and everything was delayed.

For me, there are two versions: the ones they would continue to navigate immediately after the ceremony, but I also think mainly that their friends would never let the honeymoon go unnoticed. I also like to think that even after the wedding was over, Law would take short days to spend just with his S/O, locked in the room enjoying each other's presence.

requests open | one piece masterlist

The proposal - the honeymoon (part 3)

Part 1 - Part 2

warnings: brief allusion to sex, but nothing explicit or detailed.

The archipelago filled the horizon more and more as Polar Tang approached. From afar you could see a huge park and what looked like the beach packed with people. You weren't yet used to the idea that came from the minds of Shachi and Penguin - which you soon discovered involved Nami, Robin, Ikkaku. The strong breeze ruffled the layers of the sundress you were wearing, it was also strange not to be wearing a crew jumpsuit.

"The bags are packed." Law's voice took your attention away from the destination you were arriving at.

"I mean, the suitcase. The only one." you grumbled. "What did they do?"

"I'm curious too." Law turned you back to contemplate the sea on the deck and taking advantage of the fact that you were alone, he placed quick kisses on your shoulder.

"Look on the bright side." You grabbed his chin, stroking the little beard that was there. "At least we'll have a few days just for the two of us."

"Ah, finally." He let his head fall under your shoulder, making you laugh openly.

The wedding had been incredible, including the banquet. You just didn't expect the amount of sake to be too much, even if you had ten Zoros as friends. As the night went on, you, Law and practically everyone else had more alcohol than they should have in their blood. The two of you left the party amidst whistles and jokes about the wedding night, but when you reached the room you barely had the strength to take off your dress, just as Law remained with his suit and tie turned in a funny way.

After that, you dealt with all the mess that a wedding can bring and finished restocking the Polar Tang before heading on your way. Combined with all the tiredness and accumulated responsibilities, you and Law still hadn't had the wedding night you'd dreamed of - not even 10 minutes of honeymoon.

"We're here!" you both heard Bepo scream and soon went to disembark from Polar Tang.

While you carried your small bag, Law dragged a not so big suitcase that carried some of the two of your clothes.

"Here are the keys and the address, there's a little map there." Ikkaku placed them both in your hands. "We left you a schedule and also some clothes."

"This is amazing guys."

"So, I'll see you in a week." Law asked and everyone immediately agreed. "Bepo is in charge. Any problems, and I mean any problems, just get in touch."

After a quick goodbye, the two of you headed towards the aforementioned address. Even though he wasn't much for public displays of affection, especially close to strangers, Law took your hand as you dodged fruit baskets and running children. The town fair looked lovely and you hoped you would have some time to explore it at your leisure.

"It seems to be here." the two of you stopped in front of a small wooden door. Law took the lead and opened it, taking the key from your hand.

It was a small but cozy house. As far as he could see, there was a small kitchen full of plants, a sofa and a den den mushi that transmitted video. A shelf with books and more flowers. In the distance you could also see two closed doors, which must have been the room where you were going to stay.

"I hope you like it. The fridge has some things ready and we left some things in the wardrobe too." his attention turned to Law, who had found a small note on the table. "What do you say we see what they got up to?"

"Sounds perfect to me." you took the lead and opened the fridge. Your bag was already thrown somewhere on the table, just as you could see that Law had already gotten rid of his bag.

Inside the fridge you found some alcoholic drinks, some fruit and a huge jar of chocolates that were your favorites. Further down you could see some bottles of wine too.

"Well, that's a great start." you put one in your mouth and approached Law, wanting to put a piece on his lips.

"I prefer this one." He took your lips in a quick kiss. You could complain, but it was undeniable that the sweet chocolate seemed much tastier when it was wrapped around his lips. "Delicious."

"Come on, we have a room to explore." you took his hand heading towards the closed doors.

"Indeed, we do" the malice in his words didn't go unnoticed and as much as you could feel your cheeks blushing, you also wanted to finally enjoy some time alone.

Behind the doors was a huge room. A dark, shaggy rug on the floor and a huge bed that could easily fit the two of you and leave room left. The window on the opposite side of the bed offered a beautiful view of the island, and you could even see the sea with your eyes.

"Wow, it's so beautiful." you laughed as you saw Law throw himself onto the bed and his body sink. "You look comfortable my love."

"Not only does it look good, it's actually good. Did you find anything out there?" he asked as soon as he saw you standing in front of the rustic and large closet that was at the other end of the room.

"I'm about to find out."

You opened the two wardrobe doors, finding some dresses that looked comfortable, hanging along with some other pieces. On the other side, some flowery t-shirts made of the same light fabric were piled up for Law. You also saw flip-flops, sunscreen, and some cosmetics.

"Just some clothes, some things… Wait." you bent down, grabbing a small black box from underneath what would be your side of the wardrobe.

Your surprise didn't go unnoticed by Law, who quietly got up and stood behind you, who didn't notice the movement. Inside the black box were several tiny panties - which most appreciate just threads and jewelry sewn together - some things that looked like lubricants, handcuffs and various other sex toys.

"Now that's interesting." Law's low voice whispered in your ear, making you shiver. One of his hands attached itself to your waist, while the other went to the box.

"I'm going to find out which one of them did this." you replied, feeling your body burn with shyness. However, the way you felt Law pull your body against his indicated what plans he had in mind.

"Leave that for later." his lips went down to your neck, while one of his hands reached into the small box. "I bet you'd look even hotter in this one." he held up a small white piece and handed it to you. His hand then went back to the box and grabbed the pair of handcuffs.

"What do you want to do?" your hands found his hat and slid down to where the dark strands of his hair appeared.

"Now that we're married, you're stuck with me." Again, his lips descended dangerously on the back of your neck. "I think it's time to make this more literal."

That morning ended exactly the same way as the evening of the same day and many other moments throughout the week. You still hadn't realized how much being confined inside a submarine could take away certain freedoms from both of you. The two of you woke up tangled up, soon after you were on the beach; You would go back to your room and decide to continue the activity with a view of the sea, then choose one of the small shops for dinner. Kitchen, living room, sofa, bathroom. You would make a point of thanking whoever had chosen the house.

The moon lit up the room and no matter how much sleep was present, you couldn't sleep. Maybe it was because of the small sadness that occupied your heart when you knew that it was the last night you would spend there and that the next day you would leave, maybe it was the noise of music coming from outside, but it was probably an uncomfortable noise coming from the kitchen.

As you watched Law, you could see that he was far away in the dream world. His tattooed back was lit by the moon and the only thing stopping him from being completely naked was a sheet over him. You stood up and put on panties - normal this time - and a black shirt that had been on your husband's body for a few hours ago.

You looked in every corner of the kitchen and found nothing, nothing that could be making such a mess at that hour. When you reached the sofa you then realized. A tiny black ball of fur, huddled next to one of the rugs, caught your attention.

"Oh no." You picked up what was supposed to be a small black cat kitten, on one of its paws there were some thorns. "Let me help you."

You first tried hard to remove the thorns, but were unsuccessful as the cat complained every time you touched the injured area. Soon after, you tried to find the litter he belonged to, but there was no sign of a cat around the house. Only one solution ran through his mind. You left the cat on the sofa and went in search of Law, you just didn't expect to find him already leaving the room.

"Everything is fine?" he asked, still drowsy, trying to understand your disappearance from the bed.

"We need to talk."

"Now?" he looked indignant, still yawning.

"I want to have a baby." As soon as the words left his mouth, Law's color seemed to leave him along with the sleep he seemed to be feeling. His mouth opened and closed a few times, searching for words. "No, not that. A baby, a kitten. He's alone, he's hurt and I don't know what to do."

"Okay… I understand" he accepted almost automatically, still stuck in his first conception of what a baby would be. "I just wouldn't go around informing anyone like that."

"I'm just a little anxious, help me, love, please." You pouted making the task almost irresistible for him. "I don't know what else to do."

"Let me see him." Law followed you to the couch and saw the little ball of fur bundled up. "Hey man, you don't look good."

"I tried to take it away, I tried to give it food, but he won't let me touch his paw."

"Wait for me in the room, maybe you don't like seeing it." Law asked and even though you were reluctant, you nodded and walked away from the two.

It took more minutes than you expected and you had probably already walked around the entire room more than ten times when Law opened the door, bringing the small cat and a small pot in your hands.

"Someone was hungry." He sat down and placed the kitten on the floor, next to the pot that looked like some crushed fruit.

"Thank you my love." you hug him, placing countless kisses on Law's head. "We need to buy food for him."

"Is he really going with us?" Law turned up, finding an expression that made it clear that the decision had already been made. "What will it be called?"

"I'll let you choose. But think carefully first." Law untangled your arms from him, just so he could place you sitting on his legs.

"Thank you my dear."

"For letting you choose the name?"

"Not only that, but for choosing me." He still held you close, as if he was afraid you were going to disappear. "For choosing to love me and of course, for growing our family."

-- Extra 01

"So, did you like the gifts?" Ikkaku took your arm and pulled you away from the others. The boys seemed more entertained by the little cat than by your return.

"Was you?!"

"It was and I hope you brought everything back because the owner of the house is a nice old lady, she doesn't need to know about these things."

"Well, I brought the toys and a single panty." you replied, the victorious smile was clear on your lips.

"One? Just one? Did you miss all the others?"

"I didn't lose them, they're just no longer usable." you responded as naturally as possible, laughing as you saw the meaning of the words reach your friend. "Actually two, the first one I think Law wanted to keep as a souvenir."

"Oh God, no, I won't think about that." She left apparently traumatized and leaving you laughing about the situation.

--Extra 02

You had already done your tasks in the command room, updated your medicine stock and it was almost lunch time. As you approached your room, you knew that Law wouldn't be that busy at this time and it would be a great time to have lunch together. You just didn't expect to find him holding the cat on the table, the small black cat resting on both paws, as if the feline were a toy fighting with two other action figures.

"And the warrior Sora took down the…" Law - and the cat - noticed your present. "I was just.. Sora and I were just having fun." He tried to find a justification, making you laugh even more.