#a shade darker than red chapter 2

[butchkaramazov]

A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 2

Ten years had passed by in the blink of an eye. Paro and I saw each other often—while coming back from tuitions, we stopped to treat each other to rabri kulfi—other times, our mothers met up and sent us away to Paro’s room to talk about whatever.

That day, ten years ago, Maa had indeed freaked out when she came home. After an hour-long lecture and a peck on the forehead, we walked down the block with a box of rasgullas as I hung onto her elbow, feet barely brushing against the pavement.

Our mothers had a lovely chat while we pretended to organise a court case with our Barbies. It was certainly weird, now that I think of it—but it was a start.

At fifteen, we had grown closer still. Papa appeared in my dreams often, but if I stole Paro’s cologne and wore it myself, he would slowly fade into the background. Sometimes, when I woke up sweating, I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me back to reality. It was Paro—I knew it by the way her fingers splayed across my shoulder, her nails digging into my bones, crushing the marrow open. I want to see, Renu. Let me see the words written inside you. Is it still red?

When I turned, it wasn’t Paro. It was thin air. 

Red air.

But when I held Paro’s hand, swinging it as we sang Kishore Kumar in the wrong key, it was white.

It was normal.

It was nice.

When I held Paro’s hand, Papa seemed as much of a myth as the Gods.

As the day of our board examinations grew nearer, Paro began to come over more often. She was exceptional in the Sciences—whereas I excelled in neither, deciding to rot away in my bedroom, writing things on red paper only to crumple it up and throw it in the red dustbin.

Paro, on the other hand, made chemistry—the demon king of the Sciences—seem like a tiny kitten—a thing to adore, not be frightened of. 

After her daily ‘coaching’, as I liked to tease her, she shut the door to her bedroom and practised bharatanatyam. Sometimes, she allowed me to watch her practice. I always went in with my notebook, in case inspiration struck at the strangest of times. Once she started dancing, however, the pen remained tucked behind my ear.

She had been dancing since she was nine—and yet, she moved like an apsara who had spent her immortal life doing nothing but dancing—she moved like a wild deer, a fierce, glazed look in her eyes; her every step falling on beat, making the ground shake. She was mercy, she was ruthlessness. She was dark, she was light. She was Kaali, she was Parvati.

She was mine, and she was not mine.

One evening, one of the many nights when she allowed me a glimpse into her divinity, I caught sight of things I had refused to acknowledge before—the slight tremor of her fingers when she held a mudra for far too long, how her eyes grew darker when the sunlight clouded her with its divine embrace, a vein throbbing in her temple, a stray strand of hair falling over her face as she held her stance, glaring defiantly at who knows what.

And just like that, the music stopped.

Paro clapped her hands and beamed at me. “So, how was it?” she asked, breathless.

“Great,” I breathed. Divine, on the tip of my tongue.

Even in her slightly frayed shirt and messy bun, she looked like a goddess shrouded in sunlight. And oh, how I wished to be the sunlight. Her sunlight.

“Oh, you,” she chuckled, swatting my shoulder playfully.

“Oh, you,” I repeated under my breath.

@avani-amulya @manujanolavu @nirmohi-premika @lovesickpdf @arachneofthoughts @sonilaalbindi @desi-yearning @alhad-si-simran @thatpagalchokri @trashmeowcan @waitingforthesunrise @vellibandi @thesunandstarss @chanda-chamke-cham-cham if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know<3

ok this is slightly unhinged. c'mon, we all are :')

[short-honey-badger]

An Unexpected Guest 2

SPOILER ALERT for latest chapter of One Piece!

Pairings! Mentioned Shanks x Female Reader, Figarland Shamrock x Female Reader

Warnings! Smut, non-con elements, rough sex, rough blow jobs, cream pies. Sham isn't nice, and Reader is very sad.

Shamrock Masterlist -> HERE

Part 3 -> HERE

You feel sick as you lead Shamrock to the guest room of your home. You aren't about to have sex with this horrid man in your bedroom, on the bed that you and Shanks have spent so much time together tangled around one another. No. You already had plans to call Shanks as soon as this imposter left you alone, to beg forgiveness for not being strong enough for betraying him.

A warm hand lands on the small of your back, and you can't help the shiver that runs through you. Everything about Shamrock reminds you of your dear lover, so little difference in their appearance and body heat that it was throwing you off. But the longer the older twin lingered, the more you could pick up differences.

Shamrock certainly smelled different. His scent is clean with a bit of spice underneath, most likely from the soap he used. There wasn't that familiar scent of salty ocean or sweet sake that always clung to Shanks. His eyes were different, too. A shade off and darker, more burgundy than the carmine gaze that your dear lover looked at you with. You wanted Shanks more than anything in the moment, to come back and save you from this awful man who looked so much like him.

Your thoughts halt once the two of you enter the bedroom, and you freeze at the sight of the bed. Shamrock stalks past you, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands holding his knees head cocking to the side as he observes you with that dark look.

“Come here.”

His voice is a quiet demand of a man who was never disobeyed, and you were a slave to it just like any other. You slipped forward, coming to stand between his legs, eyes front but not truly looking at the redhead. You refused to stare into the face of this man.

Shamrock hummed, eyes shuttering. He could see the resolute fear in your eyes, the sick betrayal you must feel over your actions. He loved it.

“Undress me.”

You flick your eyes down to the complicated looking dress shirt that he wears. Its collar is high around his neck with buttons and thick clasps going this way and that, all covered by a royal red ascot. Carefully, you raise your hands, cursing yourself silently when you notice them shaking, and begin to untie the ascot, frowning when you struggle with the complex knotting. When you finally unwind the knots, you go to drop the fabric to the bed, only for your hand to be caught in a vice-like grip.

“Fold it. Neatly, darling.”

You clench your jaw, annoyed at the constant ordering, but the threat of him taking you away from your home still rings loudly in your head, so you stay silent and carefully begin to fold the ascot to the best of your abilities. You step away to set it on the desk that lines the opposite wall of the guest bedroom, figuring that Shamrock wouldn't be very happy if you'd dropped it on the floor. You suck in a sharp breath when you settle back between his long legs, one of those hands settling on your hip and pushing at the baggy pants that you wear.

“Take these off. I wish to see you.”

Your jaw clenches even more, and you feel your teeth ache at the pressure. Not wanting to draw it out, you grab your waistband and shove your sweats down, kicking them behind you. Shamrock hadn't said to remove your underwear, so you would keep them on for as long as you could.

He reaches out, hands landing on your exposed thighs and trailing his fingertips up and down the prickled flesh. Finger tips dipping down to the apex and swiping over your clothed mound with a mean curl of his lips, so slight you wouldn't be able to tell if you hadn't been so close to him. Despite the touch meant to distract you, you push through the reluctant pleasure his touch makes you feel to focus on getting the complicated clasps of his shirt undone.

On you go, only stopping to fold his clothes and place them neatly on the desk whenever you are finished. Shamrock stands once his top is fully exposed, and you quickly step away from his bare chest before your face can smash into him. You can't help the way your face flushes at the sight, all lean muscle and beautiful flesh.

“Good girl,” Shamrock murmurs and catches your jaw again, pulling your face up to stare up at him, “Now get on your knees and take my pants off.”

Humiliation flares hot in your chest, and you have to bite your lips to stop yourself from saying something that would surely get you punished. Slowly, you lower yourself down, face on fire as you come face to face with his crotch. You can see the outline of his cock through the material, and the sight makes your stomach squirm. You aren't surprised that a man as sick in the head like Shamrock would be enjoying this.

Thankfully, his pants are only held together by a simple button, and you quickly pop it, opening the front of his pants and hooking your thumbs into the material to drag them down. He lifts his feet, allowing you to slide them completely away, and you fold them, handing them off to Shamrock when his hand comes into view.

“You're not finished, darling. These too,” He says above you, tone a condescending coo that makes you burn with mortification.

He watches your hands shake and sick arousal threads hotly through his body. Seeing you like this, so reluctant with that guilty expression on your face, is intoxicating. Shamrock may have told you that he'd leave you here, and he would, but he would definitely be back to experience this again. You were a drug that he would happily become addicted to.

You are so close that when you pull his underwear down, you are greeted with a face full of hard cock slapping you in the cheek. You gasp at the suddenness of it, eyes going wide as you stare at the length that bobs right in front of you. You can't help but compare it to your lover's, and find that while Shamrock looked a bit longer than his twin, Shanks was thicker.

You watch one long fingered hand take himself in hand, staying perfectly still when Shamrock inches forward and spears his cockhead across your lips, leaving behind the sticky residue of precum. His free hand sinks into your hair, gripping the strands tightly and pulling your head back, forcing you to meet that greedy stare.

“Suck my cock like you would my brother's.”

The words make guilt explode in your chest, stomach cramping, and make you feel like a two-bit whore. The hate you have for yourself grows, tears coming to your eyes as you unhinge your jaw, leaning forward to wrap your lips around the tip of his cock.

You cast your mind elsewhere as you suck him off, not wanting to focus on the actions and the fullness of your mouth. You take him down further, tongue laving the underside, massaging against the thick vein you feel there. Your hands clench against your knees, refusing to touch Shamrock more than you have to.

Feeling himself grow impatient, Shamrock takes your face in both of his hands and presses in, baring his teeth when you gag around his length. You feel absolutely divine around him, throat fluttering, tongue lashing against the sensitive flesh. He humps forward without abandon, seeking that delicious pleasure that burns in his lower abdomen. You are his to use, his to own, and there was nothing that could stop him from doing as he pleased.

Hot tears stream down your face, hands gripping his thighs and nails biting into his skin as you struggle to breathe around the intrusion. Your throat burns, lips tight around the cock that beats in and out of your mouth. You can taste him, salty and bitter all at once as he leaks precum into your mouth. You wish he would hurry, to be done with you so that he could leave and you could finally call Shanks.

The thought of him, even as guilty and disgusting as you feel right now, is the only thing that is keeping you sane. You know Shanks, and for as angry he will be, for as devastated he will sound, you know that none of it would be at you. No. This man would pay for what he is doing to you. Shanks would make sure of it.

Shamrock slows to a stop when he feels that tension begins to wind up, threatening to snap at any second. As much as the thought of you swallowing his seed appeals to him, he wants to spend himself somewhere far more delicate. He pulls out with a soft groan, staring down at you as you heave and suck in harsh breaths of oxygen. He leaves you to pant and catch your breath as he crawls up the bed, propping himself up and staring at you over the bridge of his nose.

“Undress the rest of the way before you come up here,” He orders and watches in satisfaction as you strip yourself once you've got your breathing under control. He rakes his eyes over your nude form, finding you appealing to the eyes. The redhead casually strokes his cock, watching you as you shuffle forward until you sit at the edge of the bed.

Shamrock huffs, not expecting this stubborn streak after you've been so good at listening to him. He leans up, reaching forward to grab you by the arm and haul you up the bed, manhandling you until you straddle his waist, cunt poised just above his cock.

“Ride me.”

The hand on your hip pushes you down, and you gasp before you clamp your mouth shut, teeth digging into your bottom lip as Shamrock bullies his cock inside of you. He doesn't move until you are fully seated, hand gripping your hips to the point of bruising pain. You angle your face up and toward the ceiling, refusing to look at him.

A sharp slap against your thigh makes you hiss, and start up at a careful pace, legs and knees working as you begin to bounce up and down, his cock dragging against your walls and pleasure begins to flood you, your body easily betraying you. You cast your mind to Shanks and silently pretend that it is him that you are riding, and not his evil, awful twin.

Shamrock doesn't like that you aren't looking at him. He had told you in the beginning that he didn't want his younger brother to take your attention away from him, and he knows that you've been distracting yourself this entire time, most likely with thoughts of Shanks. His brow furrows, and he lashes out, hand snagging around your throat and jerking you down, til you hovered inches away from his face. Your eyes are wide, swilling with alarmed fear that makes his cock pulse wildly.

“Don't look away from me, Darling. I'm the one who you are fucking, not my dimwit twin. Start acting like it,” He snarls and squeezes your throat to get his point across. When you gasp, he surges forward to claim your lips with his own, hips snapping up as he takes control of the pace. Your nails bite into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as he sets a brutal pace that makes your vision swim.

“Say my name when I make you come,” Shamrock demands lowly when he breaks the harsh kiss, lips brushing against your own. His hand releases your throat to instead grasp you by the legs, heaving himself up with a flex of his core to sit you in his lap. You whine when his length plunges even deeper, eyes wide, and mouth fallen open as you stare at him. In this position, Shamrock can control everything, arms wrapped tight around your body.

He rocks into you, mouth finding your own again in a kiss that is more teeth and tongue. That burning edge is so close, and you begin to unintentionally press into him, seeking your own pleasure as your mind is consumed by this redhead. His name stutters from between your lips before any sound is consumed by Shamrock's mouth, which devours yours once again.

The god knight is close, hips snagging and grinding up into your leaking cunt. You feel so good, so tight around his cock, and he feels that tension begin to unravel. He grabs your waist, slamming into you, needing to leave a lasting impression so that you could never forget how he makes you feel.

“Sham-,” you whine, and your hands scramble for purchase, fingers finding that long red hair and gripping tightly, “I'm close.”

He hums against you, lips attacking your throat with tongue and teeth, leaving behind marks that wouldn't fade until days after he would be gone. Shamrock hoped that they would linger until his twin arrived, knowing that the sight of his little lover all marked up and stuffed full of his seed would set the redhead off like nothing else could.

That thought is what cracks him, his lips curling up into a snarl as he comes, cock throbbing as he floods your pussy, coming so deep within you that he silently hopes it would never leave. You follow right over the edge, cunt tightening around him like a vice, sticky cream gushing around his length. You slump forward, draped across his shoulders as you try and bring yourself back under control.

Shamrock falls back against the bed, taking you with him, arms wrapped tight around your waist and face buried in the crook of your neck. It's soft, intimate, almost, but it doesn't last. His arms slip from around you, and you are pushed up, a wince leaving you when he pulls out and rolls away from you. You curl up in the bed, tucking your legs up against your chest and bury your face in the pillow, not wanting to watch your unwanted lover dress himself.

Once he is put back together, Shamrock rounds the bed and grasps you by the jaw, pulling you out of the nest of blankets. He takes in your tear stricken face with satisfaction, eyes darkening with glee. You look fucked out, hair messy and pleasure still lingering in your eyes.

“Don't miss me too much, darling,” Shamrock murmurs and leans in, lips pressing against yours in uncharacteristic softness, “I'll be back before you know it.”

With that, he drops you like you mean nothing, standing straight and stalking out of your home like he hadn't just come in and destroyed the happiness you've built here. It takes a while, but you drag yourself from the guest bedroom and into the shower, scrubbing yourself until you feel red and raw, needing to force the feeling of his body away from you. You sit on the edge of your bed, bundled up in a fluffy robe as you stare at the snail transponder on your bedside table. You needed to call Shanks, but how the hell could you even explain what happened to him?

@mit-suri @mfreedomstuff

[decayed-cartilage]

The Intern

Masterlist. PT 2

Hannibal Lecter x AFAB! Reader

Warnings for chapter: power dynamic? Mentions of erection.. creepy! Hannibal, Morally wrong! Hannibal

Synopsis: Y/N is on the brink of graduation, with just one requirement left—an internship. Somehow, she finds herself under the esteemed Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a man as brilliant as he is unreadable. Cold, precise, and impossible to rattle, he keeps his thoughts well-guarded. But Y/N can’t help her curiosity—she wants to understand him, to get beneath the surface. And whether he intends to or not, bit by bit, he lets something slip. Something darker. Something she might not be ready to see.

Third person POV

The rhythmic sound of footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, a steady cadence that filled the quiet space between them. Hannibal walked with effortless grace, his posture straight, movements smooth, exuding an air of control that seemed utterly unshakable. Beside him, Y/N struggled to match his measured pace, her breath uneven, fingers fidgeting slightly at her sides as she fought the urge to run away. She was trying—desperately—to appear composed, her facade was delicate though as any small disruptor could make her a stumbling mess. But the heat creeping up her neck, she was bound to be seen.

Oh god. This was bad.

"So… you know a good coffee shop around here?" Y/n asked, her voice carrying a forced lightness, an attempt to fill the thick silence stretching between them. Her steps were uneven, a clear contrast to Hannibal’s smooth, unhurried pace. She hated silence—always had. It left too much room for overthinking, for uncertainty to creep in, and right now, the quiet felt deafening.

Hannibal’s gaze flickered toward her, a slow, deliberate motion, as if considering not just her words but the nervous energy laced beneath them. His lips curled ever so slightly, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"There is one," he said smoothly, his voice rich and measured. "A quaint place, tucked away from the usual bustle. It’s quiet, intimate—perfect for thoughtful conversation." He paused, his gaze lingering on her for just a moment longer than necessary. "I imagine you’d prefer somewhere… less silent, however."

His words, though spoken gently, carried an undeniable weight, a knowingness that sent a quiet shiver down Y/n’s spine. He had noticed her discomfort—of course, he had. Hannibal Lecter noticed everything.

“N-No, sir— it’s fine. The silence is fine,” she stammered, though even she didn’t believe it. Her breath curled in the crisp late-fall air, dissipating just as quickly as her feigned composure. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, a nervous habit she wished she could suppress. The cool Maryland breeze bit at her cheeks, painting them a soft shade of red, though she wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the way he was watching her—so intently, so knowingly.

Hannibal hummed, his pace unchanging, his presence looming beside her with an unsettling ease. “If you insist,” he murmured, his voice smooth, unreadable. “We’re nearly there.”

The words should have been a comfort. Instead, they only made her pulse stutter. The path stretched before them, damp leaves crunching underfoot, but the walk itself blurred, time slipping like water through her fingers.

Before she fully registered it, they were standing outside the café, warm light spilling from within, the hum of conversation and clinking cups breaking the eerie quiet that had accompanied them. The air was no less cold, but at least here, surrounded by others, she could pretend that the weight of his gaze wasn’t still on her.

First person POV (Y/n)

He stepped ahead of me, moving with that same effortless grace, his hand reaching for the door without hesitation. The gesture was polite—expected, even—but as I passed beneath his arm, dipping my head with a quiet “thank you,” I felt it.

His eyes.

A slow, deliberate gaze raking over me, dissecting me like a specimen beneath a scalpel. I swallowed hard, the air suddenly too thick in my lungs. There was something unsettling in the way he looked down at me, something just beyond my comprehension—cool, unreadable, yet… indulging. As if he enjoyed the vantage point, relished the way I had to step past him, small and uncertain. His expression remained perfectly composed, yet his eyes—slightly hooded, sharp as a blade’s edge—held something darker. Something patient.

Like a wolf watching a lamb stumble too close.

Heat prickled at the back of my neck. No, no—what was I thinking? He’s your mentor, for God’s sake, Y/N! I mentally scolded myself, my hands curling into fists at my sides. I read too much into things. I always did. This was serious—no time for stupid, ridiculous fantasies.

And yet, as I stepped fully inside, my back to him, I still felt it. That weight pressing between my shoulder blades.

I wait for him almost obediently as he steps up beside me, his presence both commanding and intimate. I glance up at him with a soft smile, though my stomach knots with unease. Why do I feel nervous?

“What are you going to get?” I ask, my voice quieter than intended.

He barely looks at the menu. “Nothing too particular—just black coffee. This place has an astounding roast.” His voice is silk, effortless.

I nod, considering his words, my fingers tightening slightly around the strap of my bag. His choice is simple, methodical. Of course, it is. There’s no indulgence, no hesitation. Just certainty.

“And you?” He turns to me, the weight of his gaze unsettling, pressing into me like a velvet-lined cage.

I part my lips but hesitate. A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. Oh, God.

“I—” I exhale sharply, my voice dropping. “I forgot my wallet. It’s fine, really. I was just hoping to talk anyway.” I force a small laugh, but it feels thin, brittle. My stomach twists. Why does this feel humiliating?

HANNIBAL’S POV (Third-Person)

She flounders, her words tumbling out in an attempt to reassure herself, to save face. The way she stammers, the way her lips part in that fleeting moment of panic—it stirs something in him, something dark and possessive.

She hates this. Hates feeling unprepared, vulnerable. But God, does it suit her.

A slow, indulgent stretch of his neck relieves a fraction of the tension coiling in his body, but not enough. Never enough.

Hannibal watches her for a moment longer than necessary before allowing himself the smallest of smiles. Then, in one smooth motion, he drapes an arm around her shoulders and presses her forward, guiding her toward the counter. The shift in control is deliberate. Intimate.

“No,” he murmurs, voice velvet-soft yet unwavering. “Now, I insist—you’ll pick whatever your little heart desires.” His fingers apply just the faintest pressure against her shoulder, enough to feel the warmth of her body beneath his touch. “Don’t trouble yourself with paying.”

She stiffens. Just for a second. He knows she hates this. Being taken care of. Being indebted. He sees it in the flicker of her hesitation, the way her mouth opens, struggling for a polite refusal she knows won’t work.

“Black coffee, please.” Her voice is just shy of steady, a nervous smile flickering across her lips as she speaks to the barista.

Hannibal watches, utterly amused. So obedient.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, so low it barely exists between them. But she hears it. Of course, she does. And when her skin betrays her—blooming red at the nape of her neck, creeping up to her cheeks—he knows it got under her skin.

Delicious.

With an almost lazy elegance, he presses a hand against the small of her back, guiding her away from the counter. Steering her. She moves where he wants her to, whether she realizes it or not.

He leads her to a small, dimly lit table near the back of the café, nestled away from the rest of the patrons. Private. Controlled. It’s perfect. He waits for her to sit before lowering himself into the chair across from her, exhaling as if this is all rather troublesome.

Then, he leans forward, clasping his hands together atop the table, eyes never leaving her.

“So,” he muses, tilting his head, his voice laced with mock curiosity, patronizing in a way that makes her feel impossibly small. “You wandered all the way here, without a means to pay, hoping, what—someone would take pity on you?”

His lips twitch as he watches her squirm, delighting in the way her fingers curl slightly against the table’s surface, the way her shoulders stiffen just enough to betray her.

He hums, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. Tsk, tsk.

“Now, that’s very irresponsible of you.” His voice is smooth, warm even, like one might scold a child who forgot their lunch. “What if I hadn’t been here, hmm? Would you have batted your lashes at the barista, hoping for a free cup out of the kindness of their heart?”

He lets the words hang between them, stretching the moment just long enough before leaning back, finally breaking eye contact to remove his gloves with slow, deliberate movements.

“Well,” he sighs, a mockery of indulgence, “I suppose it’s lucky for you that I am here, isn’t it?”

His words hit her like a freight train, the weight of them settling in her chest before she could even think to defend herself. Heat rushed to her cheeks—mortifying, all-consuming. A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it, high and breathless, the kind born of sheer fight-or-flight.

Oh, she’s flustered. How delightful.

She covered her face with both hands, shaking her head as if she could physically shake off the humiliation. Foolish girl.

“Sir!” she gasped, the title tumbling out before she could swallow it back. Even better. “I would do no such thing—I would have just walked home! I could have sworn I brought my money, I—” she sucked in a breath, exhaling sharply. “I’m very sorry.”

She was scrambling, trying to save face, but the damage was already done. He had her. And she knew it.

Still, despite her flustered stammering, her smile hadn’t wavered, soft and uncertain, but there. She wanted him to forgive her. To be gentle. To make it better.

The coffee arrived with a quiet clink of porcelain, the barista setting their cups down with a polite nod before stepping away. The scent curled between them, warm and rich, but Hannibal barely acknowledged it. His attention remained on her.

She hesitated for a moment, fingers wrapping around the cup as if the heat might steady her. Hannibal lifted his own with practiced ease, taking a slow, measured sip before lowering it back to its saucer.

“I must admit,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate, “I was surprised to run into you today. And yet, here you are—wandering the park in the cold, with no money and, I presume, no plan.” His lips quirked at the edges. “Is absentmindedness a habit of yours, or merely an unfortunate coincidence?”

She fidgeted, shifting under his gaze, but instead of answering, she reached for the sugar. Then the creamer.

He watched, vaguely entertained, as she drowned the coffee in sweetness—spoonful after spoonful of sugar, followed by an almost obscene amount of cream. The dark liquid turned pale, swirling into something unrecognizable from what it once was.

Hannibal exhaled softly through his nose, shaking his head just enough for her to notice.

“Ah,” he mused, watching her stir the concoction with quiet amusement. “So you don’t actually like coffee.”

Her head shot up from her coffee, eyes wide before she softened, letting out a small, warm laugh.

"I didn’t have a plan—but I think you just caught me on a bad day, sir," she said lightly, as if his words had gone right over her head. She smiled, easy and genuine. "I’m usually the most prepared person I know. I guess I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed today."

She lowered her gaze, stirring her coffee with the small cardboard straw, watching the cream swirl into the dark liquid.

At his lingering silence, she glanced up again, brows furrowing slightly. "What do you mean I don’t like coffee? I love coffee."

Hannibal let the corner of his mouth twitch, setting his cup down with slow precision before gesturing toward hers.

"Do you?" he mused, eyes flicking to the now syrup-colored concoction she had made. "Because from what I’ve observed, you seem more interested in consuming liquid sugar."

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she took a small sip, as if to prove a point. But before she could protest, he tilted his head, watching her with the kind of amusement that always made her stomach flip.

"Tell me," he drawled, eyes twinkling with mischief, mock concern lacing his voice, "are you not allowed to have sugar at home?"

She giggled, shaking her head as if he had just made a ridiculous joke. "What? No!" she laughed, lifting her cup for a sip. "I’m allowed to have sugar, thank you very much. I just—" she paused, grinning. "I like my coffee to taste good."

Hannibal hummed, watching her over the rim of his cup as he took another slow sip. Amused. Indulgent.

"Ah," he said, setting his cup down with deliberate ease. "So, you prefer your indulgences masked, then? Cloaked in something softer, sweeter?"

She blinked at him, not quite sure whether he was teasing or making some grander statement. Before she could respond, he shifted the conversation entirely, as if he had already grown bored of the subject.

"Speaking of preferences," he continued smoothly, lacing his fingers together on the table, "I’ve been meaning to discuss your upcoming internship with me."

Her spine straightened instinctively, the casual warmth in her face flickering into something more alert, focused.

Hannibal smiled. Good. He had her attention.

Hannibal watched the way she straightened, the way the playful ease in her expression shifted into something more attentive. Good.

“I know this wasn’t supposed to be our first meeting,” he began, voice smooth, almost conversational. “And of course, we can always revisit for a more professional discussion.” He tilted his head slightly, observing her with quiet amusement. “But you seem to be enjoying yourself, so I see no harm in giving you a brief introduction.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, using the moment to study her. The way her hands curled around the cup, the soft furrow of her brow as she listened—so eager, so willing.

How utterly tempting.

His mind wandered, unbidden, to something far less professional. The thought of bending her over this very table, of pressing her into the cool surface while she gasped his name—it was almost distracting. Almost.

The faintest twitch of his jaw was the only sign of his restraint before he continued as if nothing had shifted in his mind.

“You will be assisting me with case studies, research, and—when appropriate—observing patient interactions. Your responsibilities will require a certain level of discretion, as well as an ability to handle uncomfortable subjects with poise.” His gaze flickered, watching for the subtle shifts in her expression. “I trust that won’t be an issue?”

She nodded quickly, almost too eager, and something dark and satisfied curled in his chest.

Eager. Willing. Unaware. How lovely.

“Good,” he murmured. “In return, you’ll have the opportunity to learn in a way most interns do not. You will see things from a perspective that textbooks simply cannot provide.” He leaned back slightly, watching her over the rim of his cup.

-

The sky had faded into a dusky gray by the time they stepped out of the café, the crisp Maryland air sending a small shiver down her spine. She hugged her arms around herself, her warm buzz from the conversation now shifting into something else—hesitation.

Hannibal, of course, noticed.

He stood beside her, perfectly composed, his coat pristine, his presence unshaken by the cold. She envied that. He glanced at her, expectant, waiting for her to speak first.

“Well,” she started, shifting slightly on her feet, “I should probably get going…”

He remained silent, a brow lifting ever so slightly.

She let out a small, nervous laugh, looking away as if embarrassed by what she had to admit. “It’s just—my dorm is kind of… far.” She winced, as if that might soften the confession.

Hannibal hummed, clasping his hands behind his back. “How far?”

She hesitated, toeing the ground. “Like… a forty-minute walk?”

He blinked, clearly unimpressed.

“I mean—” she rushed to explain, “I don’t mind! I walk all the time, it’s just a little late, and I didn’t exactly—” She cut herself off, feeling ridiculous. She hadn’t planned for this. She hadn’t planned for him.

Hannibal exhaled, the sound measured, patient—almost amused.

“Hmm,” he mused. “So, not only do you neglect to bring your wallet, but you also fail to consider how you’d get home.” He clicked his tongue. Mock disappointment. “And here I thought you were the most prepared person you knew.”

Her face burned. “I usually am! I told you, this was just—a bad day.”

Hannibal tilted his head, considering her, before finally gesturing toward the curb. “Come. I’ll drive you.”

Her lips parted, caught between relief and a sudden, new nervousness.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

His gaze flicked back to her, sharper now.

“Come.”

First person POV (Y/n)

“Come.”

The single word left no room for argument. No warmth, no patience—just a quiet command that settled deep in my chest, making my breath catch.

I nodded quickly, falling into step beside him, though I felt ridiculously small doing so. Embarrassment prickled at my skin, a creeping, uncomfortable heat. I must have looked utterly helpless, trailing after him like some lost lamb.

My fingers fumbled for my phone, more for something to do than anything else. The screen lit up—6:30 PM. The sky had already darkened, the crisp evening air sinking into my bones.

I swallowed, shifting my weight as I glanced up at him. “Thank you so much, sir—I, um—” My voice wavered slightly, and I cleared my throat, forcing a weak laugh. “I don’t even think I’d know how to get back on my own. It’s getting dark so fast.”

I hated how nervous I sounded—small, uncertain. But Hannibal didn’t respond right away. He simply looked down at me, unreadable, before turning his gaze back ahead.

And still, I followed.

The silence stretched between us, thick and unbroken.

My own footsteps felt too loud against the pavement, my breath hitching slightly in the cool night air. Hannibal walked with effortless grace beside me, his presence calm, controlled—completely unaffected by my nervous energy.

I swallowed hard, clutching my phone in my hands just to keep them from fidgeting. My mind scrambled for something to say, something to fill the heavy quiet pressing between us.

“So, um—” I started, forcing a small laugh, trying to sound lighthearted, but before I could even finish the thought—

“Do you make a habit of being this careless?”

His voice cut through me like a blade—low, smooth, yet undeniably condescending. I tensed, my mouth snapping shut, my stomach twisting at the sudden shift in the air.

I blinked up at him, caught between embarrassment and the strange, suffocating weight of his attention.

“I—” My voice wavered. I forced a small, breathless laugh, though it did little to steady me. “I wouldn’t say that, I just—”

Hannibal hummed, tilting his head slightly as if studying me, his expression unreadable. Unimpressed.

“You don’t think ahead,” he stated, not as a question, but a fact. “You leave without your wallet. You wander without considering how to return. And yet, you seem surprised when it leads to trouble.”

I swallowed hard, my face burning.

“I—I usually do think ahead,” I tried again, but my words felt weak. “It was just—”

“A bad day,” he finished for me, voice smooth, knowing. “Yes, you’ve already said.”

I exhaled sharply, shifting under his gaze. I wasn’t sure if I was frustrated or just humiliated, but either way, I didn’t know how to respond.

Hannibal, of course, had no such problem.

His lips curled slightly, something mocking, indulgent in the way he regarded me.

“Then let us hope,” he said, voice rich with amusement, “that tomorrow, you wake up on the right side of the bed.”

I needed to make sure to be more prepared next time

[evesedenramblings]

Damon and Diana: Design Comparison

Gear up everyone because this is a LONG post. The parallels between Damon and Diana are plentiful, so this post just sticks to just their design elements or else it would never end. Spoilers beneath the cut.

1. Names

The name Diana in Hebrew means “giving light”, “shining one” and “luminous”, but also is associated with leadership. While Diana already acts as a light for many of her classmates, Damon included, I think her leadership role will begin to bloom in Chapter 2.

Meanwhile, the name Damon means “to overpower”, “to conquer”, “one who subdues” and “to tame”, which associates him with power and control as he displayed in the courtroom. Additionally, these terms can be associated with leadership qualities. Damon can also be associated with “guardian spirit” and “loyal friend”.

When comparing the two names to each other, the parallels become clear. Each represent a different approach for how they want to lead the killing game. Diana represents a light/faith-filled and optimistic approach while Damon leads with a more cautious and pessimistic approach. Diana protects everyone while Damon protects those he needs to. Diana is unable to accuse anyone of being capable of murder, as she’s still to inwrapped in light while Damon has the swift execution of power capable to make the decisions to find the culprit, and even turn on those he trusted if needed. Both need each other- Diana’s strength lays in faith and charisma while Damon’s lays in doubt and decision making.

As of Chapter 1, the two embody each other’s weaknesses. If that will change, it could go either way! In an ideal world, the two could grow and learn from each other (a balance if you will), but I think due to Diana’s idolized version of Wolfgang, and Eva’s betrayal of Damon, the two are going to go further down their own paths, convinced that they’re right and the other is wrong.

2. Appearance

Diana’s main colour palette is primary colours, given the red is substituted with the diluted shade of pink. Additionally, the neutral colour she’s paired with is white, which again aligns her with that idea of light, or brightness.

Meanwhile, Damon’s main colour is green, a secondary colour! First and foremost, it’s outside the primary wheel entirely, creating contrast with Diana’s design. It’s also worth noting that the only yellow in Diana’s design is her bowtie above her blue shirt, right where Damon’s green tie goes. Additionally, whereas Damon’s eyes are green, Diana’s are a lighter magenta, which are opposing colours on the colour wheel. The same applies to their hair colours, as Damon is blond and Diana’s hair is a darker shade of magenta than her eyes, pushing it closer to purple, which are also opposite colours on the colour wheel. For those unfamiliar with the wheel, that means the colours, though opposite, compliment each other when paired together!

The same opposing pattern can be found with Damon’s neutral colour scheme, as a majority of his design is dark neutral colours like grey, black, or brown, which opposes Diana’s prominent neutral colour of white. However, they both do have a white undershirt which is a nice similarity between the two, and both are even wearing vests though of different styles

3. Ultimate Talents I would also argue their talents parallel each other! If Damon’s talent is to convince people of something via words (telling), I would say Diana’s talent is to convince people of something via appearance (showing), both two different ways of conveying information. Damon’s talent is pretty self explanatory. He is the Ultimate Debater, responsible for convincing action through words. Diana’s talent though, as the Ultimate Cosmologist, I don’t think has had enough spotlight. Diana’s talent is good enough to convince people she’d never been sliced with a knife- what is that if not convincing via appearance, showing rather than telling? Damon’s talent embodies telling, while Diana’s embodies showing.

Additionally, there's how the two perceive their talents and others. Where Damon is confident in his own talent but thinks everyone else's talent is useless, Diana has the opposite ideology where she downplays her own talent but uplifts everyone else's.

I think it’s really interesting how much their designs compliment each other and I absolutely cannot wait for Chapter 2 to see them interact as protagonist and antagonist.

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

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Chapter One

Ship of Dreams

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The Titanic AU.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Nesta/Cassian, Feyre/Rhysand, Lucien/Elain/Azriel

Rating: Mature (rating subject to change)

Triggers: Abuse, Age Gap (if you can watch the movie you can read this)

Chapters: 2 (WIP)

Length: 1701 words

Read on AO3 or below the cut

[For @climbthemountain2020 who is a friend to all in this fandom. 💙]

Nesta stared up at the Titanic with ill-disguised contempt. 

“Beautiful isn’t she?” Her fiancé exclaimed, oblivious to her inner turmoil as usual. She wanted to scream, but settled for looking bored. 

“I suppose,” she drawled. “It doesn’t look nearly as big as the Mauritania.” 

Tomas scoffed as he held out a hand to Nesta’s mother. “Your daughter is impossible to impress my dear.” 

“She just knows she deserves the best,” she said, stepping down from the car and giving Nesta a look that silently indicated just how poorly she thought of her eldest child’s behavior. 

Nesta knew exactly what her mother planned to say to her later, when they were alone. ‘You’re supposed to charm him, not deride his every opinion. Do you want your poor sisters to starve?’ 

As if Nesta needed reminding of their dire financial circumstances. She was all too aware of what was at stake. 

It was why she was here after all. 

She watched on as Elain and Feyre were helped out of the other car and stared up in wonder at the behemoth of a ship, ready to ferry them all back to America. Back to society. To fortune. 

To bondage. 

Behind her, she heard Tomas and his valet direct the porters on where to send their luggage. 

“Come along girls,” their mother commanded in that quiet, lady-like way of hers. Elain and the maids followed obediently with Feyre trailing after, head in the clouds as always. 

Nesta sighed and stared up at the ship once more. 

I hope it sinks. She thought darkly as her fiancé offered his arm to her. 

It was a petty thought. Vicious. A desperate cry for help from a woman who felt more like a trapped animal than a human being. 

She couldn’t have known how prophetic it would prove to be. 

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“Lord Noct?”

Officer Beddor—a stout man in his forties—studied Rhys’s ticket and then his face with a puzzled expression. The man in question smiled back placidly. 

“Yes?”

“There must be a mistake.”

“Oh?” Rhys raised his brows. Behind him, Azriel looked on, far less congenial. 

“Is Mister Noct running late?” The officer asked, glancing past the two as if this mysterious man was hiding behind them. 

Ah, he thought. So it’s like that then. 

“Lord.” Azriel corrected, eyes narrowed. “And he’s standing right in front of you.” 

Mr. Beddor blinked at Rhys again, eyeing him up and down skeptically. 

“You ain’t English.” 

“Ah,” Rhys sighed dramatically. “I confess, I am not.” 

The man looked a strange mixture of vindicated and confused. “Then—”

“I’m actually Scottish.”

“But you’re so…” Mr. Beddor trailed off as he eyed Rhys and Azriel’s swarthy complexion—several shades darker than his own. 

“Rich?” Rhys said as he reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “I get that a lot.” 

He handed the man a five pound note, hoping a tip would help him see reason. In his experience, money usually did. Mr. Beddor, however, only seemed intent on doubling down on his bigotry. 

“This can’t be right—”

“Oh I assure you, it’s quite right. I purchased the Millionaire Suite. The best rooms on the ship, I was told. Unless, of course, I was misinformed…?” 

“Rhys,” a familiar voice drawled. “What’s taking so long?” 

At his elbow, a beautiful blonde appeared, dressed in a daring red frock. 

“I’m dreadfully sorry Miss,” Mr. Beddor said, demeanor changing instantly at the sight of the pale beauty at his side. “I’ll get you into your room as soon as I’m done dealing with these gentlemen.” 

He said the word gentlemen with no small amount of incredulity. 

“Oh?” She said, all innocence. “Is there a problem with my cousin’s ticket?” 

At the word ‘cousin’ all of the blood seemed to drain from the man’s face. He looked between the two and suddenly seemed to notice the faint similarities between them. The same pointed chin. The same cat-like eyes. 

“Cousin, Miss?” 

“Yes,” she said sweetly. Rhys knew better though. Mor was a viper if he’d ever met one. “My cousin, Rhysand Noct.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, all girlish flirtation. “He’s a Lord you know!” 

The man suddenly looked quite faint. “Is he…?” 

“Oh yes! Lord of Velaris Castle! He owns half of Edinburgh. Or is it three quarters? I forget.” 

“I…yes. Of course. Lord Noct. I see. So sorry for the confusion my lord. I’d be happy to show you to your rooms.” 

“Would you?” Rhys said, his grin shark-like. “How kind of you.” 

As the man stumbled away, Rhys leaned in towards his cousin. 

“My hero.” 

“Mm,” she agreed. “You can thank me by buying me lunch. I hear there’s a restaurant on board.” 

“You wish is my command.” 

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“Champagne Miss?”

A waiter offered Feyre and Elain a pair of delicate crystal flutes as the former stared down at her treasure trove of paintings like a dragon inspecting her hoard of gold. 

“Such a waste of money,” Tomas murmured dismissively from the doorway of the sitting room, glancing at a beautiful landscape with disdain. “I don’t see why you felt the need to bring these with us. They would’ve been just fine in the cargo hold.” 

The words ‘where they belong’ went unsaid but heavily implied. 

Feyre squinted at her future brother-in-law like a particularly annoying insect. Her smoky eyes—so much like Nesta’s—narrowed in barely-disguised dislike. 

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand,” she replied cooly. 

“Hmm,” Tomas lifted one of the canvases to stare at it with disinterest. “At least they were cheap.” 

As if sensing her younger sister’s outrage from the other side of the suite, Nesta suddenly appeared in the doorway, laying a hand on her fiancé’s elbow. 

“There you are dear,” she exclaimed, half pulling, half leading him towards the exit. “I heard there’s a library aboard. Won’t you escort me? I’d like to catch up on my reading.” 

And Tomas, ever the condescending ass that he was, smiled down at her indulgently. “You women and your fanciful pursuits.” 

“Oh, you know me my love,” Nesta said with an icy smile that seemed to sail right over the man’s head. “I do love my books.” 

Feyre waited for the two to disappear around the corner before she turned to Elain. 

“I hate him.” 

“Oh he’s not all bad!” Her sister insisted gently. “He bought you all these paintings didn’t he?”

“To buy my loyalty,” Feyre said, unconvinced. 

“He means well.”

She gave Elain an unimpressed look. “Does he?” 

“At least be nice for Nesta’s sake,” she urged. “It’s been hard for her.” 

And why do you think that is? Feyre wanted to say, but bit her tongue. She knew her words would only fall on deaf ears. Elain had been nothing but welcoming toward their would-be brother-in-law, falling so easily into step with their mother’s scheming. 

After Father had died, their mother had been ruthless in her quest to regain the wealth and status lost to them. Like an enterprising teapot she had poured all her hopes and ambitions into her two most marriageable daughters and dangled them before every rich gentleman they came across. 

It had sickened Feyre to the core. 

After one particularly dreadful night—one where Nesta had been forced to play the pretty, glittering bauble for a man older than their father—she had confronted her mother over her horrid strategy. 

“This isn’t right!” She had cried indignantly. 

“Neither was your father leaving us penniless,” her mother had retorted, unrepentant.

“There are more important things Mama!”

But her mother wouldn’t be swayed. 

“Do you want to be a seamstress?” She had asked her youngest child coldly. “Would you have us begging on the streets like paupers? Is that what you want?” 

But Feyre, the free-spirited wild child of the family who spent more time climbing trees than attending her etiquette lessons, couldn’t understand her mother’s fears. 

“What’s so wrong with being a seamstress?” She had replied stubbornly. 

Her mother’s response was to pack her daughter off to boarding school. Months later, when Feyre had finally returned home during her summer holiday…she found Nesta engaged to one Tomas Mandray—heir to a railroad fortune. 

All it had taken was a single evening in the man’s company, watching him leer at her sister like a thing he owned, for her to decide then and there that she hated him. And no gentle cajoling from Elain, no beautiful paintings from her favorite artists, and no quiet fury from her mother would ever change that. 

“Hmm,” she hummed noncommittally, turning back to her paintings. 

Perhaps, if she was lucky, Tomas would trip and fall overboard on the journey home. 

One could only hope. 

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Fuck, Cassian thought as he raced across the docks. 

It would be just his luck, winning a ticket onto the Titanic only to just miss her as she sailed off into the horizon without him. 

“Excuse me!” He yelled, dodging a cart and several unsuspecting porters as they sputtered obscenities at him. “Sorry!”

He spied the doors at the top of the gangway begin to close and thundered up the ramp noisily, shouting as he went. 

“Wait!” He waved his hands wildly, catching the eye of one of the men. “I’m a passenger!”

At the top of the ramp, one of the officers—a man who looked to be barely older than Cassian himself—peered at him suspiciously. Cassian held his ticket up cheerfully, hopefully, like a peace offering. 

“Have you been through the inspection?” The man demanded hurriedly. 

“Of course I have!” He lied breezily, “You think I would be here if I hadn’t?”

The officer’s eyes darted from the ticket to the man who held it aloft. 

“Anyway,” Cassian continued, seeing he needed more convincing. “It doesn’t matter because I’m an American. Can’t you tell by my charming Yankee accent?” 

The man hesitated, clearly thinking it over as he eyed Cassian’s ambiguous Mediterranean looks. But Lady Luck, as always, was on his side. 

“Of course,” the officer conceded, backing up and sweeping his arm out in a familiar gesture. “Welcome aboard.”

With a grin Cassian leapt across the gap. 

I really am one lucky son of a bitch, he thought. 

Next Chapter

Enjoy this fic? Looking for another like it? Try reading my other Nessian fic The Hungry House.

Or, alternatively, check out my ACOTAR Fic Masterlists.

Thanks for reading! 💙

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Tag List: (If you would like to be added/removed to/from this or future tag lists for this fic please let me know 🙂)

@arecresswell @climbthemountain2020 @corruptedclarity @gaeleria @jsmelodies @ladyylesbian @popjunkie42 @reverie-tales @romanticatheartt @starfall-spirit @tunaababee @zencetera

[yuriosakawa]

Gothvincible AU

Chapter 1: Darkness Awakens

Mark Grayson had always felt like an outsider. Even before he got his powers, he didn’t quite fit in—not with the jocks, not with the nerds, and certainly not with the normies. His black nails, silver rings, and ever-present band tees (ranging from The Cure to Bauhaus) made sure of that. High school was a drag, but at least he had his goth friends at Hot Topic and his collection of horror VHS tapes at home to keep him sane.

Then one day, his world changed.

His Viltrumite powers awakened, and suddenly, being a pale, brooding misfit wasn’t the only thing that made him different. He was stronger, faster, and able to fly. But instead of the classic blue and yellow suit his dad, Omni-Man, tried to push on him, Mark had his own vision.

Something… darker.

Chapter 2: A Hero in Black

When Mark debuted as Gothvincible, he made sure his look screamed doom and vengeance. His costume was jet black with deep crimson accents. A long, tattered trench coat billowed behind him like a vampire lord surveying his kingdom. The high, pointed collar of his coat framed his face, making him look like he had stepped out of a Castlevania game.

Cecil Stedman, head of the Global Defense Agency, took one look at him and muttered, “Jesus Christ, kid.”

Even his enemies had to admit—he had style.

“I thought heroes were supposed to be beacons of hope,” a villain sneered as Mark loomed over him, red-tinted goggles glowing ominously.

Mark cracked his knuckles. “Hope is an illusion. But so is mercy.”

Chapter 3: Emo-son Issues

Omni-Man wasn’t thrilled.

“Mark, this is ridiculous,” he grumbled as his son floated before him, trench coat flaring out dramatically in the wind. “A hero should be recognizable, inspiring.”

Mark crossed his arms, eyes hidden behind his red-tinted shades. “I aminspiring. Just… to the people who understand the beauty of darkness.”

Debbie, on the other hand, was supportive. “Let him express himself, Nolan. It’s better than that phase where he wanted to be a vampire and refused to go outside during the day.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t a phase, Mom. It was self-discovery.”

Chapter 4: A Dark Love

Despite his gloomy persona, Mark still had a soft spot for one person—Atom Eve.

Eve had always liked Mark, but Gothvincible? She was intrigued.

“I don’t think the world’s ever had a goth superhero before,” she mused as they sat on a rooftop, watching the city lights flicker beneath them.

Mark smirked. “Well, I’m not like other heroes.”

She playfully nudged him. “You mean you’re not like other boys.”

He turned to her, his expression serious. “No, Eve. I’m worse.”

Chapter 5: The Doom that Came for Omni-Man

When the truth about Omni-Man came out, when Mark was left broken and bleeding on the ground, staring up at the sky as his father disappeared into the void, he finally understood.

Viltrum wasn’t just about strength. It was about control, about dominance. And Mark would never be like them.

Standing up, his torn trench coat whipping in the wind, Mark clenched his fists. If Viltrum wanted a warrior, they’d get one.

But not a hero.

Not a conqueror.

Something far more terrifying.

Something goth.

[skullhorn59]

Clouded Sensations 2

A/N: my first Hazbin Hotel Fanfic! heres chapter 2, for all of Moth-hungry Tumblr! :3 if you wanna request anything, go for it! Tags are going to get added progressively! this chapter is an introduction to Y/N's life! Some Angst, but no smut yet. :P

Pairings: Valentino x Fem!Reader Legend: ❲☆❳ - flashback, 『♡』 = change of scenes Warnings/Promises: Valentino, Manipulation, Drugs (his smoke/saliva), flirting, alcohol, smoking, Hell being Hell, mentions of traumatic events, self harm/neglect, implied and mentioned self ending

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Minors DNI 🚨🚔

"so, tell me about yourself, amorcito.~ what's got you down here?" The Moth Demon regards you with a curios gaze, and his smile gains a hint of something hungry.

You think back; how did you get here? 

❲☆❳

Your life was rather unspectacular - you never achieved anything great, only ever strifed to find your personal happiness. (greedy, sure, but what else were you supposed to do?) although you tried your best, it always seemed like there was none reserved for you. the night you died wasnt much better - you just couldnt take it anymore. the next time you woke up, you were confused at first. 

where the actual fuck were you?? was this a dream? are you in a coma and this is conjured up by your brain? theres only one way to find out, as much of a cliché as that may be. so you pinched yourself, which followed a quick, sharp pain, making you wince. okay, so this was real. in the clarity of the pain you stood up, first examining yourself. aside from ripped clothes and lots of dirt, not really much seems to have changed.

well - except the claws, and that big ass white tail you had. following a quiet suspicion, your arms shot up, and you felt around your head. and your suspicion proved itself right - your fingers touched sensitive, white ears atop your head. feeling your face next, you find no major changes, except a bit of a pointier, wetter nose. based on that, you could only guess what you represented. a fox? a cat? both? something entirely different?

You shake your head - those thoughts had to wait. so you looked around you, trying to see if you can figure out where you were. from the looks of it - you were in a city. all around you rather tall buildings, the streets were sprinkled with burning cars, burning creatures, fire in general, blood, demons murdering... wait. demons?! you quickly hide in the next best dark alley, keeping yourself hidden as best as you could, while you observed your surroundings. and as your eyes met with the red sky decorated by a huge pentagram, you sighed. this gotta be a joke, right? like, seriously? Hell?

either this was a crazy expensive show, or actual hell. and judging by the creatures all around here, they seemed too casual and too murdery to be anything else than real, since you could literally watch one of them getting brutally murdered right then and there on the open street. you shuddered; yeah, no way you wanted to be part of any of that. this has had to be hell.

first things first, you looked deeper into that dark alley you were hiding in, and considered your options. you could 1, lie in that alley for days and cry your soul out in hopes that anyone might have pity with you and grant you shelter, or 2, get a grip for once and get yourself in a stable situation. undead sinner or not, you didnt want to find out if you could die from starvation or not, so you chose the second option. so, you had to get out of here and somewhere safe.

examining the alley, you found nothing besides blood, trash and muddy puddles. you scrunched your face at the latter, because you knew you couldnt stay as white as you were now. you have had to dye yourself in a darker shade, or be spotted immediately and murdered on the spot. and you were, ironically, dead-set on not dying. so, following the most logical option, you began covering your ears, hair and tail in mud.

logic. yes. it was gonna keep you alive, if everything else failed.

logic, and your instincts. 

『♡』

after what felt like an eternity of hiding, and sneaking around, you found an abandoned apartment, and immediately made it yours. barricading the door, you tidied the thing up as best as you could, shoving and pulling broken furniture into a corner, and wiping the most important surfaces and items clean. you closed the ripped courtains, falling into the bed exhaustedly. "tomorrow," you thought to yourself while drifting off to sleep, "im gonna look for a job."

after you woke up from a dreamless slumber, you went into the bathroom, examining your appearance in the mirror. Fuck, you looked terrible. it was about time you fixed that. so you tidied up your ruffled hair, washing the mud off of where your skin was exposed. although you did keep the mud in your hair, tail and ears. no way you were risking your life just to look good. when you were satisfied with how you looked, you sat back down on the bed, with the sewing set you found, in one of the closets, the previous night. while fixing up your ripped clothing, you thoughts went to the task before you - finding a decent job. assuming it was much more violent down here than up on earth, you defintely wanted a safe job, something similar to shopkeeper, cashier or bartender.

stashing the kit away, you went outside, immediately trying to act as if you were a regular resident and not embarassingly new to Hell, calmly heading down the street while glancing into shops and bars, even stepping into some clubs, just to take a look. none were looking all too comfortable to work in, let alone the staff even friendly enough to even ask them for a job. while a cashier growled at you, a butcher even threw a knife near you, yelling at you to piss off. ears flat to the head, you quickly retreated, continuing your search.

luckily, as you entered one of the more grand looking clubs, it didn't look too bad. sure, it was hell, so of course it was bad, but not bad enough for you to keep looking. and so, you approached the bar, hopeful for success. and, fortunately, the bartender didnt dismiss you right away. he just waved you to the backdoor, redirecting you to his manager. so, with a pounding heart, you carefully slipped through the door.

mentioned manager wasnt very nice, treating you more a whore than a person, but you didnt mind too much. better have a job than pride. only barely able to convince him, you managed to get yourself a job as bartender. polite as you are, you thanked him before leaving, barely able to hold back a giddy smile. stretching yourself as you stood outside the club, you thought about what to do next. time was on your side now - you just had to find a reliable source of food, you mused.

in your head, you made out a plan to cover your white features in mud everytime after showering, and spraying perfume overtop so you wouldnt smell too bad. so you began to stroll along the streets again, until you found the source you needed. returning to your makeshift home, you spent some time showering thoroughly, and went to sleep after.

soon enough, - still not soon enough for your taste - you found into a rythm. nearly every day - if you could even call it "day" with the non-existent day-night cycle in hell- you woke up, got yourself dressed and ready, checked the fridge for any remaining food, headed out while dodging dangerous scenes of arson, murder and/or sex, worked at that okay-paying club, afterwards went scavenging for food, then headed back home, slept, and repeated that cycle the next morning.

you didnt have the time for hobbies, friends, let alone lovers. work and the hunt for food kept you plenty occupied. and you didn't need anything else either, considering the bar was a source of information and entertainment. through listening and looking, you quickly figured out how things worked. someone named Valentino owned this club among many more, and based on the things you heard about him, you were definitely gonna avoid him. at least, that's what you told yourself, until you found yourself in his grasp. 

❲☆❳

Valentino interrupts your thoughts by placing his hand on yours. "Hello? anybody in there?" he sounds a bit annoyed. shit, did you already piss him off? you flash a quick smile at him, before answering. "sorry, got lost in thoughts for a moment. I dont really know what's got me down here. maybe the fact I ended myself? is that even a valid sin?" he raises his eyebrow at that, taking a drag of the cigarette he holds on one of his lower arms, before he leans in, blowing a cloud of red smoke in your direction. "how interesting. tell me, baby doll, are you interested in a better job~? I can make so much more out of you than a simple Barkeeper." you swallow hard, swirling the alcohol around in your glass as you try your best to casually not breathe in the smoke.

is he gonna kill you if you deny?

A/N: i made a doodle of Y/N!! be sure to check it out :D

─❲♡❳▷Hazbin Masterlist ─❲♡❳▷Main List

Taglist: @diffidentphantom @helreyy @alastorthirsty

[whateverthought]

House Targaryen circa. 135 After Conquest

The next generation of Targaryens per Kass_tanie's 'Red Flame Dragon Empress', drawn with inspiration from @littlest-gemini's family tree and busts.

Both are really Great, this is your sign to check them out!

unnecessary details under cut

Okay, waaay too much thought went into this.

I didn't want to draw characters who had actors because that would be in my head, making them look as close to the real life people, and as the story is Show Canon more than book, I would not be able to get the faces out of my head. Also I was only really interested in the kids. (I called them 6, 3, 2, and Corwyn as I was writing this out, based on group size)

Now, Kass_tanie has graciously given physical descriptions in the notes of one of their chapters, describing which kids have whose eyes and hair of Rhaenyra and Alicent's kids but other than some passing details, the rest are mostly assumed. But everyone's related so I had to decide what was similar between the kids.

Which I put into categories, Alicent/Rhaenyra/Velaryan/Pentos, and what was being separated? Eyes (Color went with shape), Nose, and Ears.

I gave each group their own shade of purple but let them all have the same Live Action White Hair.

Corwyn and the 3 siblings(Laena's) had the same Nose because Laenor and Laena were siblings.

Helaena was described as looking just like Rhaenyra but with Alicent's coloring and Aelyie was described as looking just like Rhaenyra but with Alicent's Hair Texture. So they have the most similarities.

Daeron and Haerrold are twins but they took after different moms, even still I tried to give them the same head shape and Ears.

Ironicly Aemon ended up as the most Alicent-facing child with her Hair, Nose, and Ears.

If you look you can see what each person shares with different people in their family! There's also outliers, like Corwyn's Lannister Green Eyes and the 2 siblings' (Daemon's) Pentos Nose.

I gave Daemon's kids longer faces as thats how I imagined Daemon and Matt Smith does have a thin face...

I also gave the 6 (Rhaenicent) darker-than-pale skin tones since its mentioned 'the Essos Sun darkened the skin' of the characters like Alicent, Rhaenyra, and their Sworn Dad-Knight.

I also had to go back to see how each character was described and if they had a hairstyle. Corwyn is said to look just like Corlys, Rhaena is described as having shaved sides and a "Man's Bun". Aegon (3) is described with braides and thankfully Aelyrie is said to have two braids. Thats how I saw her in my head, little Pippin Longstocking. The rest I got from the Family Tree we get in the later chapters. I also spent days attempts several hairpieces and accessories but God I could not get them to work. The only one to survive was Helaena's headband type deal but I could not detail it. I also experimented with tiny details, like the Edges design on Aegon (3) or Daena's braids being hearts or Aemon and Helaena having more copper highlights because I wanted them to have redder hair.

The color of words was decided based on Alliance. Aemma and Viserys have no side. Laenor is Velaryan but also Targaryen so Red in Blue, Laena, symbolic of her life now, has the same colors but inverted. She's a Targaryen now but they'll always be siblings. Daemon is the "Black Team" so he uses more black than red, the opposite of Laena's Targaryen kids. Rhaenyra is the 'Golden One' so she's Targaryen red encased in Gold, just like her wife. But their kids are inverted, raised in Tolos but now they're Playing the Game as Targaryens. And they each use different shades because they're different flavors of Targaryen. The Red in Daemon's is different than the Red in Rhaenyra's which is different than the Red and Black of Laena's and her kids.

[itsmeemeg-fandomsandfics]

Like Nothing Matters - Chapter 2

“So…” Jayce attempted to fill the awkward silence as the pair walked through the crowded streets of Zaun. Ever the gentleman he had offered to carry Elvie’s bag for her, surprised that all of her belongings could fit into one measly messenger bag. “Have you lived in the undercity your whole life?”

“Mhm.” Elvie nodded, only half listening to the man beside her. “Born and raised. It’s not so bad, believe it or not.”  

Jayce raised an eyebrow, sidestepping a vendor shouting about glow-ink tattoos. “Not so bad? Guess that depends on your definition of 'bad.'”

Elvie chuckled, the sound soft but genuine as she gazed up at the tall man beside her. “You get used to it after a while. Besides, we’ve got our own kind of charm down here. I mean, there's a reason the brothels stay open, even the enforcers can’t say no to Babette and her charms.”

Like a child caught by his mother, Jayces face flushed a deep shade of red at the mention of the undercity brothels. Awkwardly he cleared his throat and readjusted the bag hanging off his shoulder. 

“I forgot topsiders could be such prudes.” Elvie snickered, hand covering her mouth to suppress the smirk that was pulling at the corners of her lips. Jayce was easy to mess with, more so than the average topside citizen she had come across. 

Jayce huffed, his face still glowing red. “I’m not a prude. I just… have standards.”

“Standards?” Elvie quirked an eyebrow, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Let me guess: polite conversation over tea, a strict bedtime, and absolutely no mention of anything worthwhile, right?”

Jayce groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Sure, sure. What do you wanna talk about?” 

“How do you know Viktor?”

Sucking on her teeth, Elvie stopped in her tracks, her eyes fixed on the faint silhouette of Piltover’s skyline, barely visible through the smog that hung heavy over Zaun. The towering spires gleamed faintly in the polluted haze, a stark contrast to the rust and grime of the Undercity.

Her chest tightened as she stared upward. Viktor was there. He had been for years, living in that world of progress and prosperity. And yet, in all that time—nearly seven years—she hadn’t seen him. It killed her to think about it. 

“We grew up together, what more is there to it.” So much more, but she wasn't about to go spilling her entire history to the man before her. This was a chance to move forward and start anew, dredging up the past would hardly do any good.

Jayce- a few steps ahead turned to look at his companion, surprised to see she was several paces behind him. “Are you okay?” He asked. 

Before Elvie could answer, shouting from further down the street caught her attention. The hair on the back of her neck stood up straight as she turned towards the source of the noise. It dawned on her that this was not the usual kind of bickering one could expect while walking through the market, this was different, harsh- dangerous. 

The crowd around them had all but disappeared, the bustling energy of the main street giving way to a darker, eerie atmosphere. The faint hum of machinery echoed off the walls, and the flickering lights overhead cast jagged shadows across the alleyways. 

Bright green spray paint littered the rusted exteriors of abandoned shops. Creating crass illustrations of a bald man with a wide smile and spirals for eyes .The face seemed to leer at them, repeated in various sizes and angles, as though the figure were watching their every move.

“Keep your head down,” In two long strides Elvie had managed to catch up to Jayce and was tugging her bag off his shoulders. “And for the love of god lose the jacket.”

Jayce looked around, his unease showing on his face. “Where are we

She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes scanning their surroundings. “Nowhere you want to linger,” she muttered, her hand subtly shifting closer to the knife tucked into her belt. Elvie’s voice hardened as her gaze returned to Jayces figure, still clad in his pristine academy white. “I said loose the jacket, now.” 

Jayce blinked, confused. “What? Why?” Wordlessly he shuffled out of the academy jacket, a symbol of his status as a topsider. Awkwardly Jace shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to do with it now. 

“Because it screams Piltover,” Elvie snapped, nodding her head towards a nearby dumpster. “Now dump it.” 

Jayce glanced at the dumpster overflowing with trash, and then back at her. “You want me to just—throw it in there?”

Rolling her eyes Elvie bit back a sarcastic remark. “Yes, that's exactly what I want you to do. Unless you want to be jumped by Rourke or his goons? Now stay close and keep your eyes down.” 

Reluctantly Jayce tossed his jacket atop the pile of garbage, watching as the garment almost instantly sucked up the top layer of grime and staining it a disgusting shade of brown. “Happy?”

“Very.” Elvie replied flatley, already moving forward. 

The silence that followed them was suffocating. Every skittering of garbage down the street or hissing of an alley cat causing Elvie to grip her knife a little tighter. Every couple of steps she had to force herself to look back at her companion to ensure he was still following diligently behind her. 

Only once before had Elvie had the displeasure of finding herself in Rourke’s neighborhood- The Maw, years ago when she was much younger. The place was infamous, a part of the city even the most hardened of Zaun’s criminals avoided unless they were desperate. It was a part of the city where people had a tendency to go missing. 

She could still remember the terror that had filled her all those years ago walking the same empty streets. She had been desperate back then and had exhausted all other options before turning to Rourke for information.

A high pitched whistle grounded her back in reality.The shrill sound cut through the stale air of the Maw, snapping Elvie out of her reverie. Her muscles tensed, and her hand instinctively went to the blade at her side, eyes scanning the street ahead.

The sound was followed by the faint scrape of boots against metal. Someone was coming.

Her heart quickened as the figure stepped into view. A man, tall and stocky, with a scar running down the left side of his face, wearing a patched-up leather jacket. His gaze locked onto hers almost immediately, and Elvie felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. He wasn't alone—two more figures emerged from the shadows behind him, their movements deliberate and calculating.

“Well, well, well.” Rourke taunted, dropping his cigarette and grinding it beneath his boot. “I haven’t seen you round here in quite a while. Where's the cripple? The two of you were stuck like glue. He finally bite the bullet?”

“I don't want any trouble, Rourke, just makin' a delivery for the shop,” Elvie lied smoothly, pulling one of the bottles she had stolen from work before leaving. She held it out, shaking it slightly to catch the light, hoping it would distract them from her true intentions.

Rourke’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he took a step closer, inspecting her face with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine.

“Delivery, huh?” he repeated slowly, as if testing the words on his tongue. His gaze flicked down to the bottle, then back to her. "In The Maw?"

Before she could answer, one of the men behind him piped up, his voice sharp and inquisitive. "Who’s your friend?"

“A replacement, “ Forcing herself to breathe steady, Elvie answered. “Since Vik’s not around anymore.” 

“Sorry to hear that.” The shock Jayce had felt at the man's sincerity was quickly replaced with fear as Rourke turned to him with a sneer. “What's your name, friend?

“Jayce.” Jayce answered, throat tightening as he choked out his own name.

Rourke’s lips curled into a cruel smile. "Jayce, huh? You don’t look like someone who belongs here. You sure you’re in the right place?"

Elvie tensed, instinctively stepping closer to Jayce, but Rourke raised a hand, signaling for her to stay back. His eyes never left Jayce’s.

"Not many folks wander into The Maw without something to hide," Rourke continued, his voice dripping with malice. "So, tell me, Jayce... What's a Piltie doing in my turf?”

There was a flash of silver as Rourke’s right hand- Ziggy, lunged forward with his blade raised high. With a moment to spare Elvie jumped back as the knife sliced through the air where she had just been standing. Her shoulder slammed into the wall behind her but there was no time to be hindered by pain. Using the fact that she was much more nimble than the men surrounding her Evlie used the wall to launch herself towards Jayce, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back the way they came. 

“Run!” She shouted.

Jayce did not need to be told twice. 

The men in pursuit howled with laughter as they chased the pair down the narrow streets. The sound of boots pounding against the cobblestones echoed through the alleyways, mixing with the frantic footsteps of the fleeing duo. Elvie, breathless, glanced over her shoulder at the group of rough-looking men gaining on them. They were getting closer, their cruel jeers carrying in the damp air.

Grabbing a trashcan next to a bar's backdoor, Elvie hurled it into the path of her pursuers with the hopes of at least slowing them down. The streets continued to twist before them, growing harder and harder to maneuver in. 

 A hand ghosted over the exposed skin of her shoulder threatening to pull her back and into the arms of danger. Instinct took over, within a split second the knife that had been tucked into her belt this whole time was slicing through the air. Rourke howled in pain as the blade made contact with flesh. For a split second the men pursuing them hesitated- startled by their bosses' cries. 

Using the hesitation to their advantage Evie grabbed Jayce once again, pulling him behind a corner he had failed to notice. Hopefully their pursuits had failed to notice it as well. She pressed her back against the rough stone wall in an attempt to hide within the shadows. Not once did she allow her grip on Jayce to loosen. 

“Don't move.” She whispered, voice barely audible as the thrumming of her heart threatened to give their hiding spot away. 

Wide eyed Jayce nodded, his chest heaving. The adrenaline that had gotten them this far had quickly disappeared, replaced with a heavy blanket of exhaustion. The heavy drumming of boots on the ground drew closer and Elvie could hear their pursuers bickering amongst themselves . 

“Spread out, I want that brats head.”

“Yes sir.”

“On it.

“Won't let you down boss.”

The goons shouted over each other, voices dangerously close. Elvie was sure that if she dared to peek around the corner she’d find herself nose to nose with Rourke once again. Shadows danced on the opposite wall, large and imposing as they darted past the pair's hiding spot before disappearing further down the road. 

Next to her Jayce shuffled, prematurely attempting to push himself out of the shadows to get the two back on track. Swiftly Elvie placed a palm on the man's chest pushing him back against the wall and silencing his protests with a glare. Not wanting to risk drawing attention back to the alley she hoped Jayce could understand what she was trying to convey- wait.

Minutes ticked by- uncomfortably long as they remained unmoving. The air seemed to grow more heavy and oppressive if that was even possible as Elvie and Jayce struggled to catch their breath. 

“I- I think we’re in the clear.” Whipping the sweat from her brow Elvie turned to Jayce, offering him a lopsided smile. “If we backtrack and cut through the fissures we should make it to the streetcars in twenty minutes, thirty tops.”

Jayce let out a shaky breath as he nodded. “They won't be waiting for us there?”

“No,” She sighed. “Too many enforcers. Rourke’s tough but he's not stupid.” 

Jayce looked at her for a moment, his face caught between doubt and trust, before giving a small nod. "Alright. Lead the way."

It didn't take much backtracking for the pair to find themselves on friendlier streets. The labyrinth of Rourkes territory makes way for wider streets bustling with dimly lit apartments on either side. The lack of green spray paint confirmed they were free of The Maws grasp. 

Slowing her pace Elvie looked back at Jayce who had been following no more than a step behind her. “Told you we’d make it.”

Awkwardly Jayce chuckled, his heart rate still elevated from their close call. “You're sure they won't come this far? 

“Positive.”

By the time they finally made it to the street cars night was beginning to creep along the horizon. Tired enforcers stood around chatting with each other. One had even decided to take his break early, seated on a stack of crates with his flask open and half empty.

“Last call to go up to the bridge.” A female enforcer shouted, unnecessarily so as they were the only ones around this late. Next to her Jace said something but Elvie had been too distracted to actually hear what he had said. How could she when the beginning of her new life was only a few steps ahead of her. 

Piltover's gilded gleam stretched before her, both beautiful and imposing. How many times had she stared up at the city, wishing she could claw her way up and join them. To breathe in air that didn't burn her lungs with every breath. To indulge in fancy foods and imported wines. All of it had felt like nothing more than a childhood dream and yet here she was. 

Despite the fact that they were still technically in Zaun, Elvie could already feel the difference around her. Piltover's influence lingered, blurring the lines between the city of progress and the harsh edges of the undercity. The streets were cleaner, the air less suffocating. She really was on the precipice of something great. 

“Ready to go?” Jayce reappeared out of nowhere, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. She jumped slightly at the touch, muscles still wound tight from the earlier confrontation. Turning to him Elvie gave a playful punch to Jayces shoulder.

“Scared the crap outta me there.”

“Sorry,” Jacye chuckled, hand dropping to his side. “We should get going, I’m sure Viktors wondering what's taking us so long.” 

The thought of Viktor waiting for them, for her all the way up in Piltover brought a smile to Elvies face. She could almost picture him now- features sharper from age, staring intensely at the clock while he tapped his cane impatiently on the floor. Had he missed her just as much as she missed him? Five years was a long time, surly over the years he had made new friends. Yet he had sent for her, with a proposal so grand it would change the world. 

Throwing one last glance at the platform before her, Elvie bid her home, her city farwell and stepped onto the street car. The doors hissed behind her as they closed, sealing the pair in with a soft metallic thud. Slowly the street car began its accent bringing Elvie one step closer to her new life. 

It was odd seeing the undercity from such a height. From the streetcar’s elevated tracks, Elvie looked down at Zaun stretching out beneath her, a labyrinth of metal and smoke, its disarray laid out like a tangled web. The city sprawled below in a chaotic mix of rusty rooftops, smoke billowing from forgotten vents, and twisting alleys that seemed to disappear into the depths of the earth. There was no neat order here—no carefully laid-out plans, only the wild, desperate surge of life clinging to the city’s bones.

“Saying goodbye?” Jayce asked, his voice soft yet teasing. 

Elvie scoffed with an equal playfulness, “More like good riddance.” 

Piltover was waiting for her, Viktor was waiting for her. The thought settled in her chest like a spark, warm and comforting. Elvie wasn’t just leaving Zaun behind—she was moving toward something new. A future she once believed was nothing more than a childish dream. The contrast between the girl she had been and the woman she was becoming wasn’t lost on her.

The streetcar continued on, widening the distance between her and Zaun. Zaun had been harsh, unforgiving, and yet it was hers. The struggle, the fight to survive—it had made her who she was. Piltover was a new chapter, a chance for her to be a part of something worth the city of progress. More importantly Viktor would be there with her every step of the way just like when they were children

With a steadying breath, Elvie tore her gaze away from the fleeting cityscape. Piltover was no longer just a distant dream—it was where she was going, where she was meant to be.

And she was ready.

[justporo]

A Night of Fake Smiles and Hidden Lies

Hi, uhm - I don't really now how to start. I am currently writing a long fic in which Astarion and Tav get invited to a ball. It's been going for a while and I thought (very selfishly and self-indulgently) how about I promote it a little since so many new people have joined. It's a still ongoing story. I'd say it's a very chaotic mix of sweet, fluffy, spicy even sometimes and some darker tones in between. I really pour my heart and soul into this project and try to challenge myself! But maybe it's better to just give you some sneak peeks (from like every other chapter)? I'd be super happy if you were interested to check it out! Thanks to @megschaef98 for suggesting some of your fave parts, ily!

To the chapterlist!

You looked at the invitation in his slender hands. Two golden lines framed the card and under a decorative print stood in elegant cursive writing: “His Lordship Lord De Grodt requests the pleasure of the Company of Lord Astarion Ancunín & Tav to a Ball at Herrenfordt Castle on October 5th, 1493 DR after dusk.” “They really only just wrote ‘Tav’? Should I be insulted?” “You don’t have a last name?”, Astarion asked while looking up from the card. “No, Astarion, I grew up on the streets, because my parents abandoned me – I’m only Tav, always have been”, you answered, only a tad of bitterness in your voice. “Well, my love, you could always just take mine”, the vampire replied smugly and grinned at you. “Weird way to propose”, you muttered under your breath but then immediately said before Astarion could react: “So what do you make of this?”

(Prologue)

So, you finally strode over and took in the garment: It was a striking deep blue that became lighter and a wonderful shade of purple up to lavender further down the skirt – impressively similar to the colours the sky turned when the sun set. It had a high collar that didn’t fully close around the neck in the front, so it allowed for a deep neckline that almost looked like a four-pointed star and long flowy sleeves that from the elbows down became cascading trains of fabric. The bodice was decorated with embroidered bigger four-point stars and smaller sparkles in silver and a few shiny stones. From the slender belt around the waistline down it became a luscious silken skirt that was carefully draped with few more star decorations that became fewer the more the colours lightened. It was quite frankly stunning. Regal and elegant, but not overly flamboyant which would have been something you would have never felt comfortable to wear. And the most important thing: no corset. You wouldn’t have believed it, but you were actually excited to put this garment on.

(Chapter 2)

All around people were standing as couples or smaller groups: chatting, slandering, laughing, drinking the champagne or eating the food being offered by the many servants passing through the crowd with huge silver trays. Some seemed to be well in their cups already, staggering or sloshing their drinks while talking and gesticulating animatedly. Some couples already seemed very handsy as well – hands wandering deeper from backs to more insolent regions, décolletages emphasised with a carefully placed hand or arched back, spines straightened and shoulders rolled back to look taller and more intimidating. Gold, diamonds and pearls seemed to be everywhere you looked. Everything and everyone was sparkling in their finery and giving off the aura of careless excess and frivolous debauchery. Jewels shone from daunting cleavages, signet rings clanked on chalices, flamboyant headpieces swung around during coquettish laughter, deep red lips left stains on crystal glasses and silk shone like liquid in the dim lighting. An impressive display of languid ignorance and luxurious degeneracy. And it was more than impressive even – it was intimidating.

(Chapter 4)

“So sweet, my dear darling, almost as sweet as you”, he whispered hauntingly while you felt drips from the delicious fruit run over your fingers and hand and waves of arousal ran through your body. Then he leaned in again, taking the rest of the strawberry out of your hand, his soft lips closing around your fingers, sucking for a short moment and his tongue flicking over your fingers. Astarion’s sparkling ruby eyes were still on you, patiently observing your reaction, one eyebrow twitching playfully. Your lips parted slightly and your eyes widened as the vampire then lifted your hand up farther and just licked the remaining strawberry juice off the palm of your hand, his fingers steadily around your wrist.

(Chapter 6)

The demon gave a low and rumbly chuckle. “I see”, he had said and with a snap his admirers had returned to roam his body with their hands. “But if you ever change your mind…” He had left the sentence unfinished, his gaze again boring into you until you felt almost stripped naked in front of him and Astarion had protectively placed his hand on your shoulder and quickly led you out of the room. So now you stood in the back of another dimly lit room and listened to this poet theatrically presenting some of his poems: “The moaning and the groaning, The sighing and the sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing.” He enunciated every word carefully, his tone and conduct underlining the meaning of his words – it was quite a thing to watch and listen to. People sat and stood around the artist in a half circle, the performance area marked by some small cold, bright mage lights that were the only light source in this room. The sharp illumination from below then made the performance of the poet even more ghostly. Astarion and you were both leaning against the wall in the back, observing the show in companiable silence.

(Chapter 7)

CHAPTERLIST | READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

[bcdrawsandwrites]

[ID: A Team Fortress 2 fic banner showing Pyro standing in front of a fireplace with its back to it, tossing a book backward into the fire. Pyro is in shades of gray, the book is in yellow-white, and only the fire is colored orange, mimicking the style of the Cooking the Books achievement icon. The title is on the left, in yellow-white text on a darker background reading, "CHAPTER THREE: COOKING THE BOOKS" /end ID]

Flickering

Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Rating: K+ Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship Characters: Spy, Pyro, Scout (plus the rest of the mercs, but the others have minor roles in this chapter) Warnings: General references to trauma, TF2-typical violence Fic Description: After the events of the comics, the mercs try to go back to how things were, but it’s never that easy.

Spy can see his teammates going through their own struggles… but something seems to be very, very wrong with Pyro in particular.

And since no one else seems to be doing anything about this, Spy makes it his mission to get to the bottom of what is troubling Pyro. For no particular reason. Beta Readers: @mechmolar, @gonturan0, @junuve

---~~~---

Chapter 3: Cooking the Books Summary: In which Pyro takes notice of Spy.

---~~~---

The bustling atmosphere of the pre-match preparation was tinged with tension, at least for Spy. Sniper kept to himself; Soldier went on a rallying, confusing speech that no one other than Demo listened to; Heavy checked over his guns; Medic prepared his ubercharge; Scout... Engineer talked quietly to Pyro about setting up his buildings.

And Pyro stared directly at Spy.

Spy pretended to check through his disguises, but watched Pyro out of the corner of his eye. The Pyro never looked away, though it did give a tiny nod when the Engineer asked if it heard everything.

"Good to hear," Engineer said, and patted Pyro on the back with his good hand.

That made Pyro finally tear its gaze away from Spy to whirl on the Engineer. But the Administrator’s voice had already called for the match to start, and Engineer was hauling his toolbox out into the fray. When Pyro looked back, however, it gave a start; Spy had taken the opportunity to cloak so he could escape that creature's gaze.

Spy barely suppressed a shudder as he put as much distance between himself and the Pyro as possible. Once he was sure he was far enough away, he de-cloaked and let himself breathe.

Well. This was, indeed, going to make things difficult. If the Engineer hadn't startled Pyro, he wasn't sure what it might have done. But even though he'd gotten away, he couldn't imagine this would be the end of it.

Still, for the time being, he focused on the match. Pyro would likely be spending most of its time in their intelligence room, so he wouldn't get the chance to see it. Probably for the best, this time.

The match went on as it typically did, and Spy managed to sneak in to nab the BLU team's intelligence. As he was bringing the briefcase back, the Administrator's voice cried out that their intelligence had been taken as well.

Interesting—the Pyro had slipped up, it seemed.

Sure enough, Spy entered the intelligence room just in time to see the Engineer's precious gadgets be destroyed by enemy sappers. Sighing, he dropped off the stolen intelligence before charging back out to chase down the thief.

Spy followed the path the enemy had likely taken—through the sewers. Not something he enjoyed doing, but work was work, and the respawn would clean his outfit, provided he actually died. As he was mulling this over, he nearly ran smack into the RED merc standing at the edge of the water. "What are you doing?!" he cried. "They are going to—"

He faltered upon realizing whom he was talking to. Pyro did not acknowledge him, still staring at the water. The last time he recalled Pyro avoiding water was when it was “protecting” something it had set aflame, but it wasn’t holding anything other than its axe at the moment.

Before he could think any further on this, an explosion rang out just outside the sewers, followed by an announcement that the enemy had dropped the intelligence.

"Oh, got some of 'em on me shirt that time!" the Demo shouted with a laugh.

Spy snorted, whipping out his butterfly knife and preparing to leave to defend the intelligence when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—Pyro had turned around to stare at him. Spy stared back, just for a moment, before cloaking and retreating.

He did not see the Pyro for the rest of the match, much to his relief. It must have gone back to defend the intelligence room again, and Spy avoided the room thereafter, instead opting to aid his own teammates in obtaining the enemy intelligence by taking out the enemy sentries and sniper. The remainder of the match went smoothly, with the RED team scoring yet another pointless victory. Spy rolled his shoulders as he headed back to spawn, only to freeze in his tracks.

Scout sat against the wall, breathing heavily.

Spy's mind plunged into a blank, staticy whirl, his heart threatening to break free of his ribcage. He could smell the smoke from the destroyed robots, the metallic tang of blood, and Scout was so hideously pale. There weren't any respawn machines here, and the Medic—

"What're you lookin' at, chucklenuts?" Scout snapped, tipping back the brim of his baseball cap as he fixed Spy with a look. His face was flushed red and glistening with sweat; he wiped his brow.

Rolling his eyes, Spy forcibly shoved the imagery from his mind. "Only wondering why you are wasting time when we need to return to spawn."

"What, I can't take a breather? I ran straight from the BLU intelligence room to here without stopping, or getting hit." Wincing, he held a hand against the side of his chest. "Mostly, anyway."

So he hadn't been imagining the smell of blood. Though it wasn't as strong as it had been back when... "You can rest after you've seen the Medic. Move."

Scout muttered a few unsavory words before pushing himself up to his feet, trudging back toward spawn, and Spy followed, closely inspecting the walls around them so he could look everywhere but at Scout.

When they arrived, Spy busied himself with tidying up his locker. He could hear Scout chatting with Medic, but tuned it out with the rustle of paper and fabric. His hand found a lint brush, and he used it to gently clean off his jacket and pants. Yes, they had another round in a short while, but it never hurt to look one's best.

As he bent down to clean off the bottoms of his pant legs, the hair stood on the back of his neck. Bristling, he whipped around to see Pyro once again staring at him from the other side of the room. This time, he stared right back, maintaining eye contact (or whatever approximated it with that creature's mask) before slamming his locker door shut and striding off to the bathroom to finish tidying himself up.

When he opened the door to step back out, he almost immediately leaped backwards to find the Pyro staring at him from just outside. He half-expected to see an axe or flamethrower being held at the ready, but Pyro's hands were empty.

...Oh. Perhaps it just needed to use the washroom itself. With a grunt, Spy weaved around it and back into the spawn room. But to his consternation, Pyro followed him.

Finally Spy whirled around to face him. "What?" he snapped.

Pyro said nothing, and turned its head slightly to the side.

Frustration mounting, Spy opened his mouth—

"Mission begins in ten seconds!"

Sniper hurried to the Pyro's side. "Mate, can we have a word? An enemy spy caught me last round, and if you could..."

Spy turned away from the conversation, instead checking over his equipment in preparation for the round.

He wasn't sure what he would've gotten out of talking to that thing, anyway.

—-

The match had gone on as normal, other than Spy doing all he could to avoid Pyro. They'd won another swift victory and returned to their base to cool off.

After hanging behind the others to make sure he wasn't tailed by anyone again, Spy quickly found himself in his smoking room, sitting on his chair and facing the fireplace. He had a fire going—entirely unnecessarily for all but atmosphere—and a book open on his lap, a glass of wine at his side. A few drags from his cigarette and a few sips of wine were quickly taking the edge off of the events of the day's match.

A victory, yes. But with more than a few things that bothered him.

Pyro had, of course, realized that Spy had been... well, spying on it. But what it planned to do with that information, Spy had no clue. It had yet to attack him, and he didn't much enjoy being watched by that creature every second it was around him.

It didn't help that he had no way to actually ask the Pyro anything. It couldn't talk intelligibly to begin with, and now it was refusing to vocalize at all. What was he supposed to do? Give it a pen and paper? He didn't even know if it could read or write, let alone hold a pen in its creepy claws.

Sighing, he tried to turn his focus to the book he'd pulled off his shelf. He could figure this out another time—for now, he only wished to unwind.

Of course, no one else in this stupid base seemed to agree.

THUD. THUD.

Spy's lips pulled back in a grimace. "Who is it? What do you want?" he called out, letting the annoyance edge into his voice. Hopefully whoever it was would pick up on it and decide to leave him alone for once.

He gave a bitter laugh at the thought, and sure enough, the bothersome person was once again knocking.

THUD. THUD.

"You have got to be kidding me," Spy muttered, setting his book aside and rising from his chair. He strode over to the door. "Who is it?" he demanded.

No response.

Frowning, he opened the door a crack and peered through. Upon seeing nothing, he opened the door wider, and to his consternation, found absolutely no one outside.

Ah. Probably another one of Scout's stupid pranks. Rolling his eyes, he turned around.

The Pyro stood beside the fireplace, staring directly at him.

Spy gave a start, his heart jumping into his throat before his fear turned to anger. "You—?!" he sputtered, then stormed closer. "How did you get in here?!"

Pyro lifted its left hand, pointing at the door.

Spy glanced back at the door. "Yes, hilarious. But how—" He stopped himself, realizing that Pyro had probably sneaked into here before he'd arrived. But then why go through the trouble of distracting...

Tap, tap.

Turning back to Pyro, he realized abruptly that it was holding something, which it had tapped against the side of the fireplace. It took him a moment to realize it was the book he'd just been reading. "...Wait."

Pyro's head jerked toward the fireplace, and it held the book out.

Spy gave a start. "Don't you dare."

And Pyro tossed the book into the fire, setting it ablaze, and pointed at the burning book.

"Sacré bleu!" he cried, bolting over to the fireplace. "What have you done?!"

The Pyro's head snapped back in his direction, and it pointed at the fire with more emphasis.

Spy stumbled to a halt beside the Pyro and returned its gaze, staring at the reflection of flames in the creature's dark goggles. For a moment he could see himself in Pyro's room the night prior, the creature staring at him through—or with—those same dark lenses. The memory of it sharply brought him back to reality, and he followed where the Pyro was pointing, staring at the pages of the book as they curled and blackened in the flames. After watching this for a second, he looked back.

Pyro gave a brief nod, and reached for him.

"Mon dieu!" Spy stumbled back. "What are you—?!"

Pyro exhaled a sharp breath through its filter, and took a step toward him. Its suit and mask gleamed in the light of the fire, and it made a grab for him.

With a yelp, Spy stumbled back again, looking from the fire to Pyro and quickly realizing what the thing intended to do. Without another word, he bolted for the door.

Yet Pyro had somehow anticipated his move, and swerved to block him. It held one hand out, palm forward, and its breathing was heavy through its filter.

Spy's heart pounded, but he glared. "Out of my way, you mush-mouthed freak!"

To his fury, the Pyro shook its head, and reached for him again.

Later, Spy would tell himself that it was purely on instinct. Maybe it was. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, the next thing he knew he had flipped open his butterfly knife and was swinging his arm in a stab. At the last moment he realized what was happening, and adjusted the stab into an awkward slash, tearing across the Pyro's arm.

Maybe because he was expecting it, he thought he heard a strained noise after the slash. But he was more concerned with rushing to the other side of the room, hoping to find another way to get around that deadly creature. But to his surprise, it was already hurrying out of the room, one hand grasping its injured arm. He watched it leave, and, once he was sure it was gone, hurriedly shut and latched the door behind it.

The room now secured, he stumbled back to his chair, numbly retrieving a cloth from his pocket and cleaning the blade of his knife. As he picked up his wine glass to down it, he happened to glance at the cloth, staring at the mix of blood and soot that was smeared across it.

Why had he ever gotten involved?

[pencildragons]

another snippet (from chapter 2 this time lolol) for my foxquinweek sinner sinner (come to dinner) which shall be posted 22/01!! (fair warning, fox is a VERY unreliable narrator here)

The gloves Vos is wearing, Fox notes distantly as his pounding heartbeat echoes in his ears, are a deep red. Not quite the shade he dictates all armour be painted with—that’s all the same colour, the same pattern, eliminating external individuality for every man except himself, eliminating any identifiable target except for him, because what is his duty as a commander if not to be a shield—but close. A little darker, a little more brown in it. Maroon, he thinks it might be called. He heard a natborn say that, once. It had been a Mando trainer on Kamino, or maybe even Prime himself. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. He heard a senator’s aide call it that too, later on. They say it differently here on Coruscant, drawing out the final syllable into mahrooon instead of dissecting it into even halves. Everything is different here. Conformity is survival, and deviation is certain death. (Shields are hit first. Shields are targets. What is his duty as a commander if not to be exactly that?) (He thinks, if he were to ever utter the word, he would drawl it just like that senator’s aide did. Better to be a nothing than remembered after the fact.) Conformity is survival. Deviation is certain death. He does not know how to conform in this situation, does not know what counts as a deviation. The rules of the game he and Vos play are an unknown, and Fox is all too well aware how dangerous ignorance is. Vos has just trapped Fox with him in a durasteel box halfway between the ninety-first and the ninety-second floor of the Rotunda. Whatever is going to happen, he will not be able to escape it, and he does not know what to do. Vos is silent. Fox wonders if he’s waiting for him to talk, but all the things he desperately wants to say—starting with how did you know I was here? And followed by, why are you so close with my brother’s general? And finishing off with why the everloving fuck are you following me?—are wildly inappropriate, and he is not certain that he wants to know the answers. He is trapped here with Vos, and there is no one else around. Even if he called for backup, it would be too late, and he does not want to risk angering Vos, does not want to risk him taking out any rage on his vod’e. He’s seen it happen before, too many times. He is a commander—the commander. If something is going to happen to him, it will be his to bear, and no one else’s. The silence stretches on. Fox’s skin is itching below the dermis, rotting, rotting, rotting. Everything is different here. Everything is a putrified corruption, and he is no exception. Vos is. The elevator smells of too much metal, and of deathsticks, and of Vos—minty, a hint of the thing that may or may not be woodsmoke. Fox corrodes with this city, with this planet, with this galaxy, but Vos stands apart from it all, whole and hale and untouchable. He leans against the wall, blocking the control panel with his body, and studies Fox, arms crossed against his chest. He’s keeping his distance for now—as much as that’s possible in this tiny, cramped space—but the elevator is small. If Fox were to stretch his arms out, his fingertips would brush its sides. Vos could be on him in a heartbeat if he wanted. The silence stretches on.

reblogs are very appreciated, and tysm to everyone who interacted with my last snippet posting :3

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 39: Take Me to Church (2)

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: The god of her world is dead and gone. Only Jashin can save her now, the woman who is in too deep over her head, the lover who sings of starlight.

Author's Note:

The song is Take Me to Church by Hozier. Please note that the nature of this chapter is much more NSFW than before and proceed accordingly.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

Offer me that deathless death

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

In…

…

Out...

A body. Two bodies. One is laying in front of her, pinkish and red, while the further is staring at them, stance wide as his eyes.

In…

…

Out...

The first body staggers in its attempts to get up as the second draws close. Kakuzu's face is recognized, and for once in this time together...she can tell he doesn’t know what to do.

No. That's not true.

This isn't that far apart from when he cared so much that his hand branded her skin.

In…

…

Out...

The hilt of the knife is sticking out of her thigh. He holds her wrists, palms up. They are hot and sticky.

The sighs of ocean’s tide draw in and fade out once again.

In…

…

Out...

He’s yelling at him. He yells back. Hidan’s face twists in pain as he holds his stomach and tries to keep upright. She sees her fingers twitch up to reach him, to try to help, and the two bodies visibly gasp and flinch towards her.

In…

…

Out...

The view of her thigh, Hidan’s knife slowly...carefully...slipped out by a hand with a rust-toned ring. Another with the color of aged turquoise pinches the open flesh shut, but not before you can see the layers that make up a poor sinner’s flesh. Skin and fat and muscle and bone.

A thin, black, featureless snake crawls from Kakuzu’s leather skin and enters her own. It goes in.

In…

It goes out.

Out...

It goes in.

In…

It goes out.

Out...

Her vision fades with the fragile whims of a shocked mind and the dreams that have haunted her many a night. She hears it, the bubbling, distant laughter underneath the surface of the water that drowned her long ago. Or maybe it’s just the blood in her ears.

Bare arms with circled tattoos frame her view of the wound now, reaching around her. And then her body feels light.

In…

…

Out...

Trees. Passing through them, like flying birds or falling leaves. Air is rushing past her, through a cloth that feels barely wrapped around her cold self. Her head is resting against something. Another rush of liquid, a soothing, slow blink in her reality...and she knows someone is looking at her.

In…

…

…

…

…

Out.

And the tide pulls back, leaving her on the bank of the conscious and living. The shade of light is warm, wrapping around darker features of this space she exists within. A blink of her own eyes...and she can tell she is laid on top of something soft. Flicker, flicker. Her vision passes from one object to the next, different directions and depths away. She doesn’t recognize this place...although…

...It also somehow feels...familiar.

“ACK—!”

She hears her first sound, Hidan grunting despite gritted teeth and bracing for the impact. Kakuzu has no remorse for how harshly he sews the pin cushion man all back together. Damn fool deserves this and so much more.

“What the HELL were you thinking?!”

She tries to answer but she can’t, tongue mute. Fate has decided this is not a conversation for her to partake in.

“Kakuzu, I—FUCK!”

The thread loops into him, though the exclamation may be from the way the named man grips Hidan’s shoulder tight.

“What in your perverted, twisted brain made you THINK-?! No. No. You didn’t think at all!”

“Kakuzu—!”

“Do you know…?!” he leans in close, nice and close so Hidan can see nothing but haunted gemstone eyes, the spirit in them aflame with fury. “Every day...we are one inch away from being THROWN OUT and NEVER seeing her again,” he hisses, deep and low. The reaper’s sneer could be from either his physical suffering or his emotional one. It isn’t enough. Nothing will be enough.

“We started this...with everyone being suspicious,” the rag doll continues. “And we nearly. Lost. It all. When they found that bruise.”

The damn bruise. Maybe that was enough. Maybe they did deserve to never be near her again, if this is what was destined to happen. Maybe then they wouldn't be cowering, recovering where no one can see, in the inn where Hidan tried fish, where Kakuzu began to wonder if he could still find some semblance of a good life. Good fucking riddance to that.

“We were let back in," he seethes, burning and burning with coal of hatred in his chest. "And YOU… You…!”

The grip gets tighter. Hidan hacks again, but no fighting back.

“You may have ruined everything we had.”

Bit by bit, shaky violet eyes unclench, a stutter in the reaper's throat:

“I…” he tries to explain, as best as he can, “I...tried to save her—”

A smack as Kakuzu holds him by the collar and cracks his knuckles into Hidan’s head.

“FUCK!!! Asshole, that HURTS!”

“HOW DO YOU THINK SHE FEELS?!”

And just like that, he’s awake and coherent, at the spur of a woman’s autonomy on the line. “THAT SHE HURTS! THAT’S WHY! That is WHY—!”

His punctured, mutilated chest heaves up and down, a still weary set of lungs catching breath now that it’s been injected with righteous fury. Mask over Kakuzu’s face, all you can see on him is his green, red, glittering anger. Hidan spits, blood in the saliva from somewhere in his impaled guts.

“Kakuzu…!” He needs to understand; Hidan HAS to make him understand. There HAS to be a way—! “She...she’s sick. She’s sick real bad, Kakuzu…”

Kakuzu barely has enough tact to keep the thought of “of course she is” held back from his lips. Through Hidan’s quivering, determination, as ever, overtakes his being, even when he’s bloody and cut and beat up and at the mercy of the world’s most fucked up surgeon, literally holding him together by a single thread. Through the shake eyes have in their sockets...there lies something the old man has never seen before— not in him.

A secret can't be kept any longer.

“I ask her to hurt me to stop her from hurtin’...herself.”

And something in Kakuzu clicks. Little...by little...his iron hold laxes. More...and more...until Hidan is let go. Wide-eyed for a new reason, the masked man now grips onto his own head and falls back against the wall. Hidan’s brow curls as he watches this happen, a long pause of silence until the priest's partner manages to speak again. The rage, perhaps, is gone...or at least redirected.

“...How long?” he asks.

And Hidan knows what he means, though he hesitates to tell. “...Since we got back from the desert," the answer is mumbled. Days and months and full seasons away. And he knows— he knows before Kakuzu beats him to the punch:

“Why?" And then, more urgently, confused. "Why? Why didn’t you...—?”

But he can’t finish the thought, wretched as this all is, barely under wraps like a bedsheet trying to hide a corpse. It’s the reaper’s damn responsibility. His gaze casts down in shame.

“Never felt like the right time.”

Ironic how Kakuzu heard her say the same thing just some hours ago. Finally, finally, the man pulls off his mask lest he suffocate any more, raises his gaze in search for connections and answers. “Hidan…” he mutters. Unsure what to ask next, he simply states thoughts as they come. “There’s no way she asked for this.”

Blood rusting against the stitches on his neck, his chin tilts diagonally away. “...That’s right,” he admits. “I just...told her. I told her she could. I...showed her...she can.”

“And you thought this would make her better.”

...Hidan knows an accusation when he hears one. A magenta stare flickers up to meet the challenge, though head stays meekly down; the man is contradictions, the very thing the woman admired him for. “Better,” he repeats. “...Not perfect. But...”

Kakuzu sighs. “...Better.” Against his better judgment, he understands. He understands much more, now. His skull rests against the planks of wood that make up the inn room’s wall. Heavy lungs exhale. How naive. How stupid of him. The woman he named Takara told him so clearly how her story finished. But Hidan...Hidan…

...He looks at Hidan now, cloak open and barely draped around him, hastily thrown on pants with red seeped into its cloth. On the few missions they shared...since they started to live in that house...Kakuzu had noticed the marks. They always healed so fast. But they were still there. New and fresh and already fading. It had been noted but information not made use of. What did it matter what the guy did in his own spare time? A lot, evidently.

And that is how Hidan got to see how the woman tumbled her way towards the end.

And the rag doll presses his fingertips to his forehead, the sliced headband that eternally reminds his own betrayal and loss, and closes his eyes. Now that the girl is stable and the priest has explained...the exhaustion in him begins to overtake. He needs a second...he needs a moment lest something in him break when his strength is needed most. In this break it provides, Hidan’s spirit too searches for respite; it only makes sense he looks to the thing that’s always calmed him down.

He looks to the side.

There she is.

Laid up on the bed. Kakuzu’s cloak underneath, opened up so you can see the way her chest goes up and down when she breathes. In...out... Like a zombie, he staggers forward mindlessly, without realizing he is until he's already there.

She’s just in her underwear. Used to be something clean and pale, so it wouldn’t show under her dress. It’s a shade of pink now, splotched in different depths of it, based on how long and deep the blood got to soak. He’s standing over her now, and his stare traces all the way down, top of her head...her half open eyes...and lips...neck and breasts...stomach, cunt...thigh. The skin there is angry and reddening. Normal bodies resist the healing process so much more than Hidan’s does; he can already feel the insufferable itch that comes as cells reattach, layers close back in on their own. Hers, though...it isn’t going to be so fast.

Even with Kakuzu’s mending, it’s going to hurt for a while.

Hidan takes a deep breath and feels himself bob side to side, still struggling to focus. His grasp reflexively goes for his neck, but not finding the intended target, instead combs up into his hair, providing a sensation to try and help him concentrate, stay awake. “My necklace…” he murmurs, “My damn necklace…” To pray over her. To ask for forgiveness. Lids crack open...and something is different.

She is looking back at him.

And the whole world stops.

...And he feels like the luckiest man alive.

“Look at her…” he whispers. Because he certainly does. He’s helpless but to lean in, put his hands forward in her space until, as before, they figure out what they want to do. “That’s my angel…!”

Gentle, his palm cups her cheek and Hidan begins to sink closer down. He can feel Kakuzu watching. And it isn’t that he doesn’t care, no...

He’s asking him to see.

“Look at our girl…” And for the first time, this whole time...somehow...someway...Hidan begins to smile. His knees get onto the bed and he looms over her, closing in..and in...and in...until his forehead is pressed so reverently onto hers.

“Isn’t she something…?” he asks, a tremble in his voice. All this time, he's never forgotten the first day he met, how he felt his lord Jashin place a hand on his shoulder and behold...behold the one who will change your whole life. His eyes screw back shut, and she can feel his sharp inhale, both in pain and in marvel. “Isn’t she beautiful…?!”

And she wonders if she’s dreaming, as tears fall on top of her face. Is he...? Is he really...?

“She did such a damn good job…!” a pious soul struggles, gritting his teeth, sneering his lips with effort and overwhelming, holy emotion. And Kakuzu can only watch, no idea what to make of this, no idea what— if anything— he can do. The reaper's lone confidant is begged for once again:

“Kakuzu…”

And the man's breath hitches, a witness in the corner. The Jashinist is all but a puddle, barely held up by his own scratched arms.

“It’s our girl, Kakuzu…!”

The named man remains where he stands, entirely dumbfounded. The most selfish person in the whole world is praying over her, to her, and asks him to do the same. Stitched lips part but can’t find words to speak. He watches her...as she watches him. Even half closed, the big starry eyes are so soft, so knowing. She looks then at Hidan, and Kakuzu can already tell there’s no anger in that heart at all.

She manages...her first words.

“I’m...s-...s-..." Though inevitable, they let her finish. "Sorry.”

And quivering, trembling with adoration, Hidan tells her through sobs, “...Shut up.”

The stars begin to well at the bottom of her eyes, and the ocean, drip by drip, escapes in the saltwater that falls down her face and stains onto the pillow.

He’s only being like this because he feels bad...right? Right? She remembers what he said. “I’m not...beautiful…” she corrects, barely audible at all. “You...don’t..have to…”

And with only Kakuzu and Jashin as his witness, Hidan can't take this anymore shuts her up himself. Overtop of her, in this dingy little inn, he does what he should have done from the very start. His palms hold her face...and with all the gentleness in the world…

He kisses her.

He kisses her.

He kisses her.

In…

…

Out...

The sigh of breath as he pulls back, just enough to look her in the eyes, push stray locks off of her forehead. “I don’t care anymore,” he says, only now that they’ve reached the brink, the edge of universes and fate and faith and chance. “I don’t care about that fucking book. I love you. I love you! Jashin, damn me, I—!”

He.

Kisses.

Her.

And this time as he pulls back, she finally knows how to speak. It takes a moment of furrowing her brow and thinking past both bliss and throbbing pain. “...Book…?” she repeats, dizzy with the taste of him on her lips, blood and all. His eyes narrow but his grin widens, both adoringly and spitefully.

“So you didn’t read it. That’s it.”

A gasp. Her mouth opens.

Despite himself, Kakuzu can only watch. These idiots will figure it out, after all, despite everything and themselves in their way.

“I...I don’t…” Finally, finally. “I don’t...know...how to read.”

…

A stutter.

A twitch.

And a laugh.

Hidan laughs, slamming his fist into the pillow, bitter and relieved all at once. Before she can apologize again, he sits up, winding in an inhale of air and rolling his shoulders, finally feeling like a free man.

“Babydoll…! After all this time...!”

And she can feel every inch of him shake with the next rough, roar of a laugh, as Hidan kneels over a woman who hardly believes this is happening at all.

“Angel, baby…” The word takes on a new meaning now, next to these others. She thought it was just a nickname, an extension of sorts of their relationship...and well...it was. But it was a lot more than that, too.

But it’s hard to outright call someone your love, your light, your everything when you aren’t sure what they feel back. Finally, his eyes roll back down, and he looks more like his usual, coy self...maybe even then some.

“...You could have saved us a lot of trouble.”

Us.

...Wait.

Hidan flinches, visibly shifts. His smile drops. “Wait,” he realizes. And all of a sudden, he feels so wrong. Shit...shit...! She didn't even SAY! “I— do you—?”

A woman's too stunned, stuck within dreams of the beach and heavenly touches come to life, to fill in the blanks for him. He has to ask. He has to be the one to stop assuming, and to save them some trouble. And so he swallows his pride and he begs, one word at a time:

“Do...you...love me...too?”

In the way that he loves her. Because he never figured out what she meant when she said "love" before.

And weight of his shadow on top of her, heat of his body, the sweat on his stomach...the kindness of his face…

Silly. Silly things, they are.

“Yes,” she tells him. And she swallows the ‘but’. “Yes,” she promises him, no backing down. “Yes,” she exclaims, in spite of everything in her telling a woman that she doesn’t deserve it.

And, savoring every inch of it, Hidan comes down and kisses her yet again. Her eyes close, and it still doesn't seem real.

She does not see as Hidan turns his head to look at Kakuzu...not only acknowledge him but beckon him here. The stitched man’s jaw drops; he had thought his fun, the little bit of delight, was all over. Even if Takara was willing to share, Hidan wouldn’t.

Oh how wrong he was.

“Look at our girl,” Hidan tells him again, a cock of his head used to gesture, soon as Kakuzu stands at the foot of the bed. “Isn’t she somethin’?”

And she is. Kakuzu feels himself losing his breath, the twitch in his hands and the blood rushing in his veins. He sees what is happening—

“Hidan,” he mutters. “Be careful.” No, indeed, no rage at all, not even a bit. “She’s still hurt. She’s still scared.” The reaper snorts, giving a lopsided smirk.

“But you fixed us up so nice…!” the silver-haired demon coos, and as he combs into her locks again, the woman’s eyes open. He smiles at her, so very devilishly, longingly. There's no stopping him and Kakuzu can tell. Another secret has to be told:

“She’s never kissed before.”

...

...

Hidan rolls his shoulders and looks back; the lust in his eyes is not reserved just for one, and Kakuzu wears a target on his forehead. Fuck. “...And how do you know that, you old bastard?”

That shuts Kakuzu up right quick.

“You make it to her before me?" the younger man retorts, relentless. "Kakuzu...I’m hurt!” And before she can mumble a sincere apology, Hidan presses a thumb onto the lips of this conversation's subject. “Well...baby,” he turns to ask her now...and all of a sudden she's noticing him stripping off a cloak of black and red clouds. “You ever fucked?”

And of course she hasn’t.

He knows she hasn’t.

Couldn’t have if he was the first person she saw nude. And he’s looking right. At. Her.

"Then I get to be the first at something else."

All of a sudden she remembers how naked she is. That and the glimmer in her eyes makes Hidan so very, very excited.

“I’ll be the first to make you cum, baby.”

A gasp and her heart pounds so heard it hurts. Hidan continues, pinning her down with hooded purple irises as he talks it out to Kakuzu, lest he ruin the moment, make her even more scared.

“I promise...I promise I’ll be gentle... We'll talk it out and nothin' happens she doesn't want..." The tongue that sips blood comes out, swirling slowly over his lips. "And ain’t gonna touch that cute little garter you put on her pretty leg...no matter how much I wanna.”

She looks down. The stitches of her wound do look like a garter. Pulsating pain or not...it…— Oh shit. It took all this for her to realize what is about to happen.

...Just as Hidan places one knee...over the other side of her pelvis...and begins to straddle. That's what it takes.

“Lost your tongue, eh angel…?” he leans in close. His nose rests into her neck. “Then do what you do best…” he instructs her. “Sing to me instead. The first one. The one you said in the woods about prayin’. I wanna make you feel that way...”

So even since back then, not even a full day. That’s all it took for lonely Hidan to change his mind about whether or not she’s pretty. She swallows, and worries try to resurface and explain.

“I...I’ve never…”

“She’s scared.” Kakuzu repeats himself in interruption, and suddenly he’s so much closer, too. Hidan opens one eye and glances up to his partner, daring.

“Then help me show her,” he says. “Help me show her she doesn’t need to be.”

And then the rag doll and his duckling lock eyes. Her lips part with nothing to say but disbelief, sighs and grunts and gasps. She looks so innocent...is so innocent...but as Kakuzu sees the bob in her throat to swallow again...as she sighs...as she begs with eyes alone…

...He just needs to be sure and actually ask. No more assuming. Not this time, especially not when they're her first.

“Do you want me? Us…?”

The line between reality and fantasy blurring is the only thing that holds her back. She looks at them, two men as different as night and day… She went from having the worst day of her life to...to...this…! She’s dreaming. She has to be dreaming.

...And if that’s the case...

Then...

Then there will be no regrets.

Then she can say...yes.

The permission is mouthed and that’s all it takes. The world's most hellish want a bite of heaven. Hidan dips in first.

The man eases into it, trying to keep advice in mind, trying to go slow, starting at her forehead...then her mouth...over the length of her neck, down to her breast. She stutters...and that's when the woman catches as Kakuzu gets onto the bed, easily residing the little free space left. That gorgeous brown hair of his is free, dreadfully long and brushes the top of his muscular bust. A glance of admiration— or perhaps, rather, amusement— and a big hand tenderly takes one much smaller. The man at first just holds it, noting how soft, how selfish he is to know it at all, then raises it next to her head, pinning it by the wrist as he begins to bend down.

“You can say stop at any time,” he reminds, behind her ear in the low voice that sends tingles down her spine. But why on earth would she do that, she thinks, when she's longed for so long? “You’re in control here.”

But is she? How can she be when she is being touched, caressed, held by two men she’s wanted so desperately all this time? She’s going to lose control entirely...but she can appreciate what he means by that.

“Just...don’t...touch my leg…” She’s already whimpering; they’re going to have to draw this out, lest it end so soon. Kakuzu nods, his silky hair bobbing with the motion. He picks her hand back up and traces it onto his stitches...over his chest...down his stomach.

“Do you like this?” half sincere, half teasing. “Don’t flatter me for its own sake.” Of course she nods. And on her own, to answer that question, her hand moves further down.

For someone who hasn’t handled a man’s cock before, she’s damn good at it.

The stiffness already forming firms even more, Kakuzu so hard underneath his attire, coddled in her touch. How many times has he touched himself, imagining something like this? In the bath, getting undressed...one hand balancing himself against the wall while the other pulls?

Maybe as much as Hidan has. Maybe as much as she has.

As Kakuzu moans, so does Hidan. “Angel…” he praises, a palm over her other tit with his mouth takes a break from the first. Not even sex can keep this bastard from talking, though she doesn't mind, not at all. His words just make it all the more incredible. “Look at us, angel. Two of the biggest and baddest and you’re gonna make us cum in our pants like it’s nothing… What a good girl, eh…?”

And he raises up, if only to watch the cute expression she makes as he squeezes, sees the give of flesh between his fingers. The bra just gets in the way.

“Let’s get that nonsense off…”

A flick from his pocket and she’s set free. Kakuzu hums in satisfaction. “Damn kunai...good for something after all…” All the same, he watches the woman for a reaction, just in case it’s too much, being reminded of the weapon. A bit of a glint in her eye, a vocalization of startle—

Hidan catches on first. It’s thrown to the side, far away from where the blade can touch her again. Doesn't need it anymore. “Rest I’m gonna do myself," he says. "Gonna make the old man watch. Can you do that, girlie? Come on...show us how wet we make ya... I'm sure you are...!”

The strap of her underwear is pulled down, and it confirms how right he is. A big, big grin stretches in satisfaction. With that, there's only one question left:

“How do you want it, angel?”

…

It takes a moment for her to realize what that means.

“Face up? Face down? Me? Him? Both of us?” So quick he goes back on his word, his desire to tease the partner he wants so much to beat. Just the sight of the mounds of Venus and all a man wants is to get her off. Choices given, they both give her time to collect, to coherently choose. With some reluctance, Kakuzu takes her hand off his crotch, and Hidan lifts himself up by the palms to get a good read on her face. Sweet little thing...already so hot and bothered. She really hasn’t fucked before. If there was any doubt before, certainly isn’t now…

The woman looks at them both, two men radiant with adoration and lust after holding it in for so long, no outlet for it until everything fell into place. A perfect storm. Surely they want to get inside her...and she nearly asks for this—

...But.

But.

She is still afraid. Even if a little. Even if only because she does not yet know her own body quite so well as they may. And so, despite how much she wants to give, it has to be okay if she takes, instead. Surely they won't mind.

“T-t-touch me,” she pleads under her lost breath, words she’s held back for so long. “P-p-please…!”

And she’ll be touched with hands and mouths as hungry as they are vicious.

Darker lips hold onto hers, matching palms taking their turn massaging nipples and feeling her moan into his mouth, letting her feel the moan from it, too. Her legs are spread open as a man tastes the sweetest thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tracing his tongue around. In between kisses, she sings as requested, even if soft, even if broken up, even if hardly said at all. Even if it feels a little bit silly. It's all that they asked for, so it's what she's got to give. She begs of them:

Take me to church

Waves of her are ridden, unintentional bucking of hips. Her breath quickens...and raises...and loudens... Until she’s begging, until the sound of her crying and screaming in pain is far, far away. Now, it is ecstasy.

Kakuzu holds her hand as she grips tight, and he pulls away just enough to see the look on her face for what comes next.

A moan.

A clench.

...And with her lovely, lovely voice...a release.

Hidan looks up at her, magenta eyes hooded and something thicker than saliva dripping from his lips. A drop of blood is staining into the rest of the liquid. Just as the story started, the girl gets her finish with a reminder of Jashin, of the blessings he bestows. He laps it up, long and slow to savor the taste. To show her how good it is to be in his position.

But a good girl still needs a break before it’s the old man’s turn.

She gets to soak in the hot spring and watch as Hidan decides to finish, next, what she had started, holding his partner's dick like that, getting him nice and hard with nowhere to go. She holds around Kakuzu as he pulsates and moans, and he stretches one arm and pulls her in to brace himself. She whispers to him that it's okay, she likes him holding her tight. The rag doll, with that permission leans his full weight, cheek pressed against her head as he uses his other hand to grip Hidan by the hair as he so wonderfully sucks him dry. Kakuzu worships no god, but he can see the appeal in having a goddess. A goddess and her dutiful priest with a big mouth to shut up.

He can at least understand now...what makes someone worship something outside of themselves.

An exhale and the woman is there to feel his entire body relax. Silver locks drip as they emerge from the surface, a lingering kiss on Kakuzu's jaw and Hidan inhales deep, catching his breath, and wraps around him and his angel, legs and arms and all. His nose finds home in the other side of her, so she is so warmly, snugly flanked by two S-rank missing-nins who will never let her go.

Three of the undead, three who by fate...or luck...or whatever the hell makes life work...ending up like this, together. Fucked up, fucking, and fucked. Sensations unending at least until it’s time to go, lest the others wonder where they ran off to.

But not just yet.

If anyone asks, though? They have two zombies to get through. That assurance alone...helps their treasure feel safe.

 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Oh, good God, let me give you my life

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[amorest-viesse]

[You And I In This World Adrift] - Chloe SSR Card Story Translation

Ft. Akira

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 1

[Manor Living Room]

Akira: (Whoa! What’s with all this fabric!?)

Having finished lunch, I was making my way to the living room for a break only to find it covered in fabrics of all different colors and materials. At the center of the chaos was of course, none other than…

Chloe: Should I use… red here? No wait, the blue might be nice…

Akira: (Chloe seems to be working really hard on something. I wonder what he’s making… Although, maybe I shouldn’t interrupt.)

Just as I was turning around, Chloe suddenly looked up from his project, and we made eye contact.

Chloe: Oh, Master Sage!

Akira: Good afternoon, Chloe. I wasn’t bothering you, was I?

Chloe: Not at all! In fact, I’d say you’re right on time. Come on over!

At Chloe’s invitation, I made my way to him.

Chloe: Could you do me a favor and hold still for a sec?

Akira: Oh, uh, sure.

Upon my agreement, Chloe began to drape several fabrics on my shoulder.

Chloe: Oh, I just can’t decide which one is better! The lighter blue or the darker one? …Ooh wait, what about something right in the middle?

As he swapped colors in and out, Chloe would occasionally turn and look at a sheet of paper.

Akira: Is that a new design? I’m sure it’ll turn out amazing.

Chloe: You really think so? That’s great! It’s supposed to be for you, so I’m really giving it my all.

Chloe: You’re always doing so much for us that I wanted to thank you somehow, and this was the first thing that came to mind.

Akira: Chloe… That’s so sweet of you.

Even without the gift, his words alone made my heart swell with joy.

Chloe: …Alright, this shade of blue has gotta be it! Although it looks like I’m a little short on fabric, so I’ll have to get more.

Chloe: Oh, do you wanna come with me? I gotta figure out what to do for the ribbon too, so I’d love to hear your opinion.

Akira: If it helps, then of course I’ll come!

♡♥♡

[City of Affluence - Day]

Akira: I’m glad we were able to get that fabric you wanted, Chloe. It’s lucky we came just in time to grab what was left.

Chloe: Yeah, me too! It could’ve been bad if we’d just been a little later.

With the goods safely in hand, Chloe sighed in relief although his face was full of determination.

Chloe: Just you wait, Master Sage! I’m gonna make you the perfect outfit with this!

Akira: I’m looking forward to it.

Chloe: Yep yep! …Oh!

Chloe: That golden braid is gorgeous. I didn’t think to include one when I first came up with the design, but I bet it’d look great with this color.

As Chloe zeroed in on the stall’s goods, his eyes sparkled like a child discovering a new toy. Watching him brought a smile to my face as well.

Akira: (There he goes again. Ah well, while I’m here, I might as well take a look around too.)

Hooded Old Man: You there. Youngster.

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 2

Akira: Huh? Are you talking to me?

Hooded Old Man: Yes. You. If ain’t too much of a bother, could ya help an old man with his wares?

I quickly scanned the crowd for Chloe and spotted him chatting away with the stall owner. Noting his presence, I felt a sense of reassurance.

Akira: (I’ll probably be back before Chloe’s done shopping, so it should be fine…)

Akira: Sure I can. What do you need?

♡♥♡

Chloe: Master Sage! What do you think of this color? It would look so good on you, but—

Chloe: …Huh? Where’d they go…?

Chloe: (Maybe they saw something interesting and went to check it out…?)

Chloe: (If so, then I should probably wait here. It’d be bad if we both wandered off.)

Chloe: (Although… this isn’t exactly the safest city. What if they were kidnapped or something like I was…?)

Chloe: (I could never forgive myself if something happened…)

Chloe: I was the one who invited the Master Sage here, so it’s my job to make sure they’re safe!

♡♥♡

Akira: (We’ve gotten pretty far from that street stall… I wonder where we’re going.)

As the distance between us and the noise of the city increased, the sounds of our individual footsteps grew louder, and with it, my anxiety.

Akira: Um… Could I ask where these wares are?

Hooded Old Man: It’s just a little further.

Below his hood, the man’s lips curved into a smile. In contrast with the soft tone of his voice, it sent a chill down my spine.

Akira: (I didn’t say anything because I thought this would be quick, but I really should’ve told Chloe where I was going…)

Hooded Old Man: What’s wrong? We’re almost there.

Akira: Umm…

I had no idea where we were. Stuck in an unfamiliar place, my legs froze out of fear.

Akira: (Now that I think about it, didn’t Chloe mention something about being kidnapped before…?)

He had said it happened because of his naivety. Now it seemed I was learning the hard way what he meant.

Akira: (I fell for the same trap. Since I had Chloe here today, I thought everything was going to be fine and let my guard down…)

It was a huge mistake to leave without a word. If anything happened to me, Chloe would definitely blame himself.

Akira: (I can’t make Chloe sad because of my stupid mistake. I have to find a way to get back no matter what.)

I hardened my resolution and spoke up.

Akira: My deepest apologies, but I need to head back. My friend will be worried if I’m gone for too long.

Hooded Old Man: Is that so…

Akira: Apologies once again, but if you really need help then my friend and I can return together…

As I turned around to leave, the old man suddenly grabbed my hand with a growl.

Hooded Old Man: You’re not goin’ anywhere!!

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 3

Akira: (Agh, he has a tight grip!)

Chloe: <<Suispicibo Voitingoc>>

[Smack!]

Hooded Old Man: Ack! Was that… a button?

The man cried out, grabbing the back of his hand. At our feet, a single button rolled to a stop.

Chloe: What do you think you’re doing?

Akira: Chloe!

Chloe: You’ve got a pretty important person to me there, so you better watch yourself or you’ll regret it.

Hooded Old Man: Hngh…

[Running Steps]

Pressured by Chloe’s fierce conviction, the old man quickly turned tail and darted down a back alley.

Chloe: Eh!? He’s already gone…!

Chloe: I guess he was just pretending to be an old man. His voice did seem young for his age…

Akira: …

Chloe: That aside, are you alright, Master Sage? I’m sorry I didn’t show up sooner…

Doing a complete 180 from before, Chloe looked at me with worry in his face. 

Akira: Yes, I’m completely fine. Thank you so much for saving me, Chloe!

Chloe: I’m so glad you’re okay. I shouldn’t have gotten so swept up in shopping and left you alone like that…

Akira: Oh no, you’re fine! I was the one who followed a stranger without saying anything.

Akira: I guess I thought everything would be fine since I was with you today.

Chloe: What do you mean…?

Akira: I know you told me about the kidnapping incidents in this city before, but I didn’t remember until it was too late.

Chloe: …Well, I know how that feels.

Chloe: During my travels with Rustica, the dangers of the world always felt so far away. With him by my side, it felt like nothing could touch me.

Chloe: Which is why I’m happy to hear you say that.

Akira: Say what?

Chloe: You felt safe because I was here and that everything would be fine.

Chloe: I guess that makes me a little like your “Rustica”.

Chloe sheepishly gave me a smile—one that’s been supporting me all this time without me even realizing it.

Chloe: Ah, but we’re getting off track! I’ll do my best to keep you safe from now on!

Chloe: I know I was the one that asked you here, but if you’d ever like to go somewhere, I’d be happy to accompany you too!

Akira: I’ll definitely keep that in my mind for the future.

Chloe: Alright! Anyways, let’s head back now. I have everything I need, so your outfit will be done in no time!

Akira: I’m looking forward to it.

Chloe vigorously nodded his head as if to say “leave it to me!” With smiles on both of our faces, we set off for the manor.

Chloe and the Bygone Gate - Card Episode

[Chloe’s Room]

Akira: It seems like a gate that shows the past has appeared on Borda Isle’s beach.

Akira: It reminds me of when I had just arrived in this world. I often thought about the past as a way of calming myself down.

Chloe: I totally get what you mean! It’s nice to think about happy or comforting times!

Chloe: What kind of stuff did you think about?

Akira: I’d go back to when I was a kid being read a story by someone I trusted.

Chloe: Whoa! That sounds just like you! I bet you were a real cute kid.

Akira: Ehehe, thank you.

Akira: Do you have any comforting memories like that? Something you hold onto when the going gets rough…?

Chloe: Oh! I wonder… I feel like there’s a lot I could talk about.

Chloe: Of course, most of them have to do with Rustica… Hmm…

Akira: It sounds like you have too many to even choose from.

Chloe: Well, that is true, but it’s also that I just haven’t had many bad experiences since meeting Rustica…

Akira: Whoa! That’s pretty incredible.

Chloe: I know right? I’ve been so lucky that I can barely believe it myself.

Chloe: It’s not that I haven’t experienced any hardships.

Chloe: But whenever I do, I can always find comfort in those memories…

Chloe: It’s all thanks to Rustica’s kindness and the new sights he’s shown me in our time together.

Akira: Knowing him, you two are always making happy memories together, aren't you?

Chloe: Ehehe… We really are.

Akira: Rustica’s pretty cool.

Chloe: Ehehe… Isn’t he? That’s my teacher for you.

Chloe: Even if time rewound to before I met Rustica…

Chloe: I don’t think I’d be the weepy mess I used to be. I don’t think I’d hate myself like before.

Chloe: No matter what terrible things people say to me, I’ll continue to love myself. That’s what Rustica taught me.

Chloe: Even if I have to relive my childhood once again, face my family and their relentless bullying, the way they singled me out, their sudden anger…

Chloe: If I had my memories of Rustica, I think I’d be able to protect myself this time.

Chloe: Haha… It’s just like how you dealt with coming to this world.

Akira: Chloe…

Chloe: Hey, Master Sage. Let’s make a lot more of those memories together.

Chloe: That way, when the hard times hit, we can always go back to them.

Chloe: I love you so much, Master Sage! Spending time with you makes me so super happy! I really, really mean it!

Chloe: Don’t you ever forget that! Remember it!

Home Screen Voice Line

“Surely we’ll experience both sad and happy times in the future, but no matter what happens, let’s enjoy ourselves! After all, we’re wizards who revel in all the world has to offer!”

[kiskivmiske]

The Blooming Fever

Short summary: Sable and his little sister Pebble run from their home to find a better life. During an outbreak of a new disease from far away land, brother and sister are separated. Now Pebble has to face the most evil dragon in Pyrrhia.

Ff takes place between arcs 2 and 3.

Contains: canon level of violence, mild gore, ableism, mentiones of SH, SA, drug abuse, non descript mentions of cannibalism (a baby thinks another dragon is gonna eat her)

Canon characters that will appear: Clay, Umber, Sora, Reed, Marsh, Pheasant, Newt, Peril, Moonwatcher, Qibli, Turtle, Kinkajou, Blaze, Glory, Tsunami, Anemone, Deathbringer, Peacemaker, Sky, original characters

This ff has a lot of chapters already done, but they aren't translated into English yet. You can find it on ficbook titled "Цветущая лихорадка" if you're fluent in russian.

Keep in mind that built-in google translation is gonna suck.

Prologue

The air was clear and icy, with a tang of tree sap almost blocking rotting stench of algae and duckweed coming from the swampland. The sun, peach pink behind the veil of bluish clouds, was slowly disappearing out of sight behind a dark, jagged wall of pines. In the clearing, trees were glowing with all the shades of orange, as if the sun was actually melting into the ground just to be absorbed by the roots.

Lush fruit trees surrounded the clearing, their leaves red and golden, their branches hanging low, heavy with fruits. Red apples, green apples, pears of all shapes and sizes, shadberries, quinces, walnuts, aronia… all growing from the same root! It was almost impossible to tell, which seeds were originally planted here, their bark was a jumble of browns, grays and greens.

Apple sapling, growing in the center of the clearing, shook as someone huge stomped past it.

Cowberry took a deep breath and dug his claws deeper into the ground, enjoying the feeling of cool water seeping through thick layer of white moss. Shaking water off his wings, plump young dragon walked around the tree and picked up one of its apples off the ground. Big, at least twenty times bigger than wild forest apples, which rarely grow bigger than cherries. A bit too soft, with a small scratch on its side, but otherwise fine. Cowberry sniffed it and took a bite. Apple juice, honey sweet with an unusual hint of apricot and carrot filled his mouth. Young MudWing finished his apple in two bites and sat down, squinting at the sunset, his dappled amber and golden underscales glowing as if they were made of pure fire.

«So how's it?»

Cowberry swung his big brown head around, turning towards dark and mossy spruce trees on the other side of the clearing. Black shadows behind large unrooted oak stirred, and another dragon stepped into the light. Berry was fairly large for a three year old dragonet, almost as big as an adult. But the other dragon was even bigger and much more intimidating. Another MudWing, tall and well muscled, with broad flat head covered in battle scars, big snout with nostrils on top of it. However, as he walked out of the forest and golden rays of the sun hit dragon's scales, his color didn't really change that much. Sable was solid black, darker than any NightWing, the only light spots being his bright yellow eyes and wrinkled long scars on, seemingly, every part of his body. One of his wings was torn off almost completely, leaving only one claw, another had three spear holes in it.

«You gave me a heart attack, Sable. And my heart attack has got a heart attack on its own! Don't you ever do that again!» he scolded his uncle jokingly, rolling his eyes and clutching his chest.

«You picked that from your grandmother, didn't you, Berry?» coal black MudWing stretched, clawing at a flat granite boulder.

Cowberry nodded, round hazel eyes sparkling with amusement.

«You were looking for me?» Sable straightened himself, concerned. «Is something wrong with the nest?»

«No» Berry answered, «I was just wondering what you're doing. That's all! That, and… Sapropel started a mudball fight with Tadpole again and I just want some peace and quiet.»

Sable had lost all of his sibs, including Cowberry's mother, to the war that sparked in the Sand Kingdom and soon spread across the whole continent. Cowberry was only a year and a half old when it ended and didn't remember much of its horrors. He could, however, see, that is has left too much scars on his uncle, not only on his scales, but also on his heart. Although is isn't usual for MudWings to care about their young, Sable took full responsibility to care after Berry and six of his sibs, untill they were old enough to show their independence. Cowberry was the only one who didn't stop hanging out with his uncle.

But it will change very soon. His grandmother's eggs, hidden on the edge of the swamp, were going to hatch in the next few days, if not today. Sable sure was more excited about those eggs than their own mother. He even built his new den on a tall cliff where he could watch the nest. Five little sibs to take care of! Berry also guessed that it wasn't the only reason why his coal black uncle was so interested in them: one of the eggs was different from the others. It was red like a cherry! Berry didn't ask what it means, but he thought it could mean that one of his little aunts was going to be unusually colored, too.

Sable sat next to his nephew and fished a stack of papers out of his pouch.

«I found a patch of rare orchids deeper in the taiga,» he explained, showing charcoal sketch of a weird looking plant, with small flower resembling an obese duck.

«I thought orchids grow much further to the south? In rainforest?»

«No, actually, I've seen more species before, too far away to reach at the moment,» he frowned, looking at the sky, «I better come back!»

«If you're worried, I can watch the eggs instead,» Berry offered, «I will call you is something happens!»

«That would be nice», Sable took a piece of charcoal pressed between two wooden planks in his talons and started taking notes next to the drawing of a flower, mumbling to himself.

Cowberry nodded quickly and took off.

His uncle laid down on mossy ground and continued to describe his finds elaborately.

The sun had almost gone, its warm light shined for a brief moment in pines, before finally letting the twilight in. It was much harder to write now, as the forest was completely submerged into the darkness. Sable put his notes in the pouch, well protected under his good wing.

That was when he heard Cowberry's desperate shriek in the distance.

«Sable! The eggs!»

Huge black MudWing jumped up, excited. His little sibs were hatching?! Then, he heard another scream. Too high-pitched to belong to a dragon. Sable's heart sank.

Scavengers!

He ran as fast as possible, for the first time in years wishing he could fly. But, when he reached the swamp, the fight was already over. His other nephew, Peat, held limp body of a small scavenger by its torso, Cowberry and Sapropel were sniffing the ground, trying to pick up scents of the others. Sable's mother, Grouse, sat nearby, looking at her talons.

Despite being throughly hidden between two leaning rocks, behind a wall of dirt, and masked with ferns and ivy, the nest was found. Found and destroyed.

Separate pieces of eggshells scattered around. Four tiny bodies lay near the entrance, just next to a long barbed club.

«Are they–»

Sapropel dipped his head.

«I checked for the pulse,» he nodded at the nest, «The fourth one died just moments ago, and Berry is still looking for the fifth.»

«Those weren't adult scavengers!» Peat noticed, whiping blood from his greenish brown snout. «The others disappeared as soon as they saw Berry approaching. Looks like a game of dare to me!»

«What a fun game!» Sapropel spat, arching his back like an angry cat, «Killing innocent dragonets who can't even fight back!»

«This one tried»

Berry stood over the fifth body, laying farther away under thorny bramble bushes, half pressed into the mud. Sable looked at his little sister, but averted his gaze as soon as he saw a pool of red shining on her head. Looking at the scavenger, he saw two deep bite marks on his foreleg and shoulder, too tiny to be left by an older dragon.

«Her teeth are stained with blood. And it's not her own,» Cowberry explained.

Gently, he pulled dragonet's body out of mud and placed her on a patch of dry lichen. His little aunt's back was dark gray, the colour of thunderstorm clouds. Her scales were rusty red with small spots of the same stormy gray, like pebbles on a river shore.

«Ow! Arf!»

Sable turned around, unable to believe his own ears. He got up and moved closer towards his tiny sister. Looking a bit closer, he could see her chest moving up and down slightly. He sighed with relief, moving his talon across the dragonet's head, wiping away a piece of wet red eggshell he had mistaken for blood. Sister's legs were badly injured and covered in wounds, but she was going to survive. Sable won't let it be the other way.

Grouse stood next to him, frowning. Then, he grabbed her daughter by the chest and reach for her head.

«What do you think you're doing you old fool?!» Sable roared, pushing his mother away.

«Putting it out of its misery,» Grouse flashed an angry look at him.

«You don't get to call my sister «it»! And if you're going hurt her, you're going to get through me first,» black MudWing said, lashing his sides with his tail.

«I'd like to see how would you raise her in your… condition,» she said coldly, looking directly at her son's injured wing, «She will pull you down.»

«Duck dung! I raised Cowberry and his sibs and they turned out fine. So will she.»

«She'll grow up to be a nuisance,» Grouse retorted.

«It'll be my problem, then,» Sable turned away from his mother to Cowberry. «Can you help me?»

With the nephew at his side, Sable managed to pick his sister up and onto his wing. Avoiding eye contact with Grouse, he got up and headed towards a cliff at the edge of the swampland. Berry watched as his uncle stepped into the darkness of his cave, disappearing in it.

Strong smell of different plants immediately hit MudWing's nose. It didn't seem to please his sister. Sable could feel tiny dragonet move on his wing, lifting her head and chirping loudly. Being left without an answer, she called again. And again.

«Tshhh, it'll be okay now,» he spoke very softly, holding her closer.

And again. This time Sable could sense fear in her voice. She was calling her sibs.

«Sorry, dear, but it looks like I'm the only option you have left. Don't you worry, we'll get through it.»

He then put his sister down carefully, lit up a fire in the corner of the cave and started digging through his herb storage. This day had left a new bleeding wound deep inside him, but now he had something to live for. Now he had someone who needed him.

[butchkaramazov]

A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Six months passed by. The results of our board examinations were out. I had scored around 95.6%, surprising even myself. Paro had scored 97%.

“Always two steps ahead of you, Renu,” Maa said playfully. 

“Mediocre coaching,” I laughed, pointing at Paro.

She smiled back. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she tried to cover her teeth with her hand. On wild impulse, I leaned forward and gently pulled her hands apart. “Not happening,” I said.

Paro looked at me like I had punted her puppy into the sun. 

I rolled my eyes. “Stop looking at me like that, idiot. Have a sandesh.”

That day, I was once again invited to watch her practice. I sat on the edge of her bed, swinging my legs and trying my hardest not to glance at her heaving blouse. 

She was dancing to her favourite Hindi song, which was, rather unnervingly, starting to grow on me as well. 

I watched her as I scribbled incoherent lines of poetry—poetry, or desperation? I do not know. Everything was red, anyway. The only poetry I could think of right then, was Paro.

A swat of black hair sent me tumbling back onto the bed—did she just slap me with her hair? Paro quickly paused her playlist and climbed onto the bed, leaning her elbow on the headrest. She still looked at me like I was the stupidest thing she’d ever seen.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all.

“Doofus,” I muttered, grabbing her elbow and pulling her down with me. “If I go down, you go down with me.”

Laughter echoed throughout the room as she fell on top of me and roamed her fingers along my sides, trying to find my ticklish spots. I let out a strangled laugh, rolling over on my side. 

“I’ll—I’ll tell Mumma,” Paro gasped between laughs.

“I’ll tell Mumma,” I mocked her, making her laugh. I could drink up that sound, smear it over my wounds like it was ambrosia. 

A comfortable silence ensued, broken only by her fading chuckles and the creaking of the bed as I sat up. “Wanna go out for ice cream?”

Paro raised an eyebrow, arched perfectly over her almond eyes. “At three in the afternoon?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Paro leaned her elbow against my knee, using my leg as a lever to push herself up. “Sure, okay.”

I climbed off the bed, holding up a finger gun. “I’m not letting you go today, Topper-ji.”

Paro rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Miss Head Girl. Text me when you get home.”

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(we're in the denial phaseee guys and gays) this was pretty short, but we have smth intense coming up next sooo :p (LISTEN I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT BOARDS OK PLS DONT COME AT ME)