#as a child blindness scared him terribly

[prince-jelli-fish]

Modern Luther! He's a kindergarten teacher

[trashogram]

He Chose You (Pt. 8)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated E.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

The illness persists in the weight of your skin over your bones yet the loss of actual muscle and fat that turn you skeletal. Your legs become bow-like and pain radiates just above your hairline. Your vision crackles with scattered flashes of black dots, and you drink like a man lost in the desert. 

Only foods that are red stay down, and even then you only nibble at peppers and plug your nose at the raw meat you stuff in your mouth. You feel the sunlight outside your window when you open it up and stick your hand through, as walking out of your apartment is a chore you can only handle once a week at most. 

Once a homebody, reclusive out of necessity and exhaustion from simple interactions, you now live for Lucifer’s chatter. His presence abates your fever, physically and emotionally. The dependence on him, as sweet as he appears, makes you itch inside. 

Everything is terrible, you tell yourself at least once per day, as the illness persists. 

But if Lucifer is good at anything, it’s providing you with distractions from the ever-present suffering.

—

The sounds you made put the Angelic Choir to shame. 

“Lucifer, don’t say that!”

The King of Hell’s laugh was muffled as he stayed buried in your cunt. The memory of you being so flustered was almost just as sweet. 

He eyed your tightly screwed expression just over your growing belly, and felt gratified at his idea to have you propped up by pillows from head to hips. With the boost, Lucifer could watch you enjoy yourself and remain comfortable. 

Let him feel the springs of your mattress dig into his knees and stomach. They were secondary to the pain of his own hardness straining in his slacks. 

A keen from you, and the feeling of your nails as they raked through his hair and over his scalp, had Lucifer moaning. His eyes rolled back, momentarily blinded by euphoria. 

“Ooh!” 

Eyes snapping open, Lucifer lifted himself from the bed quickly. His tongue slipped out of you, dripping onto the sheets when he was mindless to reeling it back in.

“Why’d you stop?” Your whine between quick pants made him blink.

One eye at a time. 

“I thought I hurt you.” He smiled, sheepishly, once his tongue was back in his mouth. 

His mauve-lids and golden lashes fluttered when you wiped the slick from his chin. There was no missing the color that had returned to your cheeks with all the exertion he was putting you through, and he felt a swell of pride at being able to breathe life back into you. So to speak. 

“Heaven help me.” You said, sarcastically. 

Breathlessly.

The Devil’s hips jerked when your hand rose to grip a fistful of his blond hair. You manually lowered him back between your legs, heedless to the way his entire frame shivered.

— 

‘I think I… I think I’m in love with her.’ Lucifer looked so earnest, meeting the glow of Ozzie’s stare. 

The Sin clucked a tongue in his King’s direction, shaking his head. ‘Well, don’t tell her that. You’re gonna scare her away, man.’ 

—

Lucifer watched you fall apart from just his tongue (its length and width being inhuman notwithstanding). 

You were so beautiful like this. Legs shaking, body spasming, letting go.

‘I love you.’ 

Man’s (alleged) Greatest Enemy could just barely contain himself. 

‘I love you I love you I love you’ 

—

Lucifer brings you another scroll one sunny day, and you find it riddled with names. 

“I’ve been thinking about what to call him or her, so I made a list! …Kinda, sorta during a meeting… whatever, it wasn’t that important!” 

Oh, you could see that. 

“Do you like any of them? Which are your favorites? No! Gimme your top 5!” His jubilation is so innocent, but something inside you hitches. 

“Does it actually matter what I think?” You chuckled. 

“Of course it does!” He cried. “You’re the mo— uh… you’re putting in most of the work!”

The weak save went unchallenged. You were already circling names, likening the process to navigating a minefield as you looked through a long line of names you couldn’t even pronounce or read. 

‘Ehb 

Horus

Azor 

Carlton’

“What about a girl?” Lucifer asked out of the blue. 

Your head cocked to the side as you realized your picks had been relegated to just one side of the endless list. That he’d written down names for boys and for girls struck you as odd. 

 “You think it’ll be a girl?” 

Lucifer looked at you with a curious gaze. “Could be, couldn’t it?”

After a moment, you shrugged. “I guess so…” 

The King’s confusion crinkled around his eyes and caused an uncanny few lines in his otherwise perfect forehead. You flick the pen at him teasingly to wipe the look from his face.

You write a few names down, and watch with a smirk as his frown turns upside down. 

‘Adrienne 

Charlotte

Maleficent’

You ignored the painful thought that this was a pointless endeavor. Naming a dead thing.

—

With eyebrows raised, you sat waiting dutifully, hands clasped over your stomach while he rummaged through the box. 

“Aha!” He pulled out two red objects, one in each hand, and knee’d the chest out of the way to present them to you.

“Surprise!”

Two remarkably crafted stuffed animals were set before you on the couch cushion. 

Goats. 

It took you a second to place them, staring at their intricate appearances — covered in fluffy red fur from head to cloven hoof, with large yellow eyes and tiny red smiles stitched on their stark white muzzles. 

Shiny, metallic-looking horns curled over the curvature of their little heads, tips almost touching the tiny approximations of wings protruding from their backs. You noticed that the little wings were also sticking out of the backs of their tiny tuxedo suits; solid black to further contrast their Luciferean color schemes. 

An uncharacteristically high-pitched squeal escaped you. 

Damn these hormones. You internally chastised yourself while reaching out to finger at the detailed plushies. 

“They’re so cute!” You admired the unbelievable softness of one’s fur, hand overlapping with Lucifer’s as you turned it this way and that. His grin was so wide in your peripheral vision as he soaked up your fawning.

“Aren’t they?!” Lucifer squealed along with you. “They’re twins! But see this one has lighter fur and this one has sharper eyes. I tried to give them little differences so they had some individuality.” 

“Michael and I looked so similar in the Beginning, a ton of people always got us mixed up. Sometimes it was fun, but I got tired of hearing him bitch about it after the first couple centuries.”

A more serene countenance overtook your counterpart, with his line of sight drifting off to the floor beside you. Lost in thought. Or perhaps reminiscing. 

“Michael?” You asked gently. 

“My brother.” Lucifer replied. 

“Ohh, I think I remember… is he a Prince of Hell too?” 

The formerly Divine man frowned. “… No. Not him.”

A shadow fell over you both, distant sadness suffusing the air. You reached for him instantly, only for Lucifer to switch on like a lightbulb and grin manically. 

“Oh well! Who knows, maybe he took Dad’s side just to make sure no one ever confused us for each other ever again!” 

You pulled away. “… right.” 

Lucifer shook his head after a glance in your direction. 

“Um, so, I was thinking…” He began. “Maybe we give one to the baby an-nd… one could stay here… with you…” 

There was no hiding the confusion that crossed your face. 

You ‘tsk��ed. “You wanna deny the baby half this cuteness?” 

In response, Lucifer tittered, still adamant on looking around the room instead of meeting your gaze head on. “Hah, no. I was thinking that, maybe, we could keep one of them here and… and then they could reunite every time the baby and I… or just the baby… visit…”

Slow realization made your already weak constitution roil. 

Perhaps, if you’d been yourself and not the hollow shell of a person you’d become while pregnant, you would’ve been angry. Or upset enough to shout. Maybe you would’ve gotten up and left him there on his lonesome, wordlessly demanding he not entertain that idea ever again. 

Certainly, the You from before this insane, impossible scenario wouldn’t hesitate to react melodramatically. 

You sighed, fiddling with one of the goat’s tails. “Oh Lou…” 

He cringed beneath the weight of your words, laden with a heaviness that harshened his already guilty conscience. 

“Wait, before you say no —” Lucifer felt his mouth running away from him. “Maybe you could think about it and then decide? Maybe after they’re born?”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. I don’t expect anything from you.” 

“You’re expecting me to be its mother.” Your tone broke no room for argument. 

Mauve eyelids drooped as Lucifer looked down in shame. “I — ”

“I wouldn’t make a good mom.” Your statement stopped him in his tracks. 

Frustration simmered in Lucifer, slowly creeping into his expression as you continued, unrelenting. His posture went rigid, hands beginning to clench at his sides.

“It’s not that I don’t care. I probably care too much, actually.” You admitted.

It was true. Regardless of your paranoia and how justified it was or not, the sole basis for why you felt the need to argue in the first place —

(And wasn’t that just pathetic? You had feelings for the Epitome of Evil and had entertained being safe and happy with him) 

— the reality was that you’d been a broken human being before this cosmic impossibility entered your life. 

“I just don’t…” You sighed. “I wouldn’t be a good part of their life if I was in it.” 

Your head whipped up, vision spotting when Lucifer blurted:

“You are the best part of my life.” 

He looked angry. Furious. So much so that the sclera around his irises began to radiate a blood-red. 

“Do you know how hard it is? To leave you? I have to convince myself every single time that you’ll still be here when I return!” Lucifer claimed. “And soon I won’t even be able to do that!” 

“I don’t want to say goodbye forever! I… I l…” 

You shuddered, stiffening in your seat. As soon as he realized, Lucifer’s display was cowed. 

“Fuck, are you alright? I’m not — I don’t know what came over me!”

You shook your head. “No.” 

“It stopped.” You whispered. 

Lucifer’s grip trembled around your wrists. “Stopped?”

His breathless echo of your words drew your eyes up. You saw the storm brewing in his ruby eyes, as even though he waited for you to elaborate, a million thoughts pelting at his brain like hail. 

“The pain stopped.” You said. 

Your hands felt over the bump beneath your breasts, as if you might find the imaginary ‘off’ button and turn it back on.

It was ludicrous to think about, but you immediately wished for the agony that had been crippling you to return if it meant that this baby wasn’t… wasn’t… 

Tears glistened in your eyes. Lucifer drew you to his chest in spite of the fear that was pulling his shoulders taut. 

“Wh-what did you do today? Anything different?” The ex-Angel asked shakily. 

His eyes scanned you up and down, lingering on the little dolls he’d just gifted you. 

“No… n-no, nothing different.” You said. “I was in bed all morning, and th… then Cass was here and we had tea… we went out and walked a little bit outside.” 

“Did you fall?” The King hedged. 

You gasped, eyes widening. Instinctively your arms wrapped around your middle at the foreign feeling emanating from within. 

“Did…! You fell??” He panicked, grabbing onto you like a life raft. “Where? On what?!”

His words drifted away as you were enveloped in the strangest surge of feeling you’d ever experienced. 

You could only just muster up the energy to shake your head. 

Sudden warmth. 

And pressure. 

A tiny flutter, one you’d never felt before. 

You inhaled quickly yet deeply at the feeling of something pressing against your belly-button from the inside. 

It made you grin, hands coming back to grab for Lucifer’s own and to pull them to your stomach. “They’re alive!” 

The man’s jaw went slack, staring sightlessly for just as long as it took to soak up the sudden heat there. The baby took pity on its poor, trembling father and kicked again. 

It was Lucifer’s turn to gasp, looking back and forth between you and the bump with dawning awe. 

“It is!” He laughed, a tad bit hysterically. “It — they are alive!” 

“… And… glowing…”

“You’re glowing!”

*** Tag List: @crescent-z, @for-hearthand-home, @undertale-is-sansational, @loslox, @navierkalani, @yaimlight, @ivoryviness, @crystalplays28, @flowerempress, @wally-darling-hyperfixation, @altruisticradiodemon, @moonlight-readings, @halparkebitch, @charliecharlie65, @sockgoblin, @cocomollo, @caniseethefourthsword, @squeegeeclean, @crow-twink, @an-emovision, @marydragneell, @lafy-taffy, @fandom-imagines1, @loquacious-libra, @glowymxxn, @avadakadabra93, @froggybich, @hamthepan, @ukor02, @adaizel, @boogiemansbitch, @vinillies, @lbcreations-blog, @thesoundresoundsecho, @serenity-loves-red, @alientee

[bruciemilf]

No Capes! AU where Bruce and everyone else is an actor.

Famous Hollywood moguls Thomas and Martha would've rather died in real life than make Bruce a child actor so he didn't start till he was 24

It's an ongoing gag that Thomas always tweets "On my way to die again! As if you didn't know" with every Gray Ghost remake

The Waynes are always just. So chaotic

Bruce and Selina constantly bring stray cats on set; Bruce just hides them under his black shirt famously known as a void with no end.

Behind the Scenes cuts have images of this man pulling 10 cats from under there and the director is convinced he has a cryptid on set

They have to edit so much footage because Bruce always says "sorry" after "punching" someone. "Bruce, they have padding, they're fine!" "And no health Insurance. Do something about that."

Sometimes he forgets to take off the costume after filming. The record set for how many Subways he sent into a panic is infinite

That being said, Bruce's kids aren't afraid of him at all, and WILL run up to him everytime they visit to chant "dork! Dork! Dork!" While flocking around him. He cries from happiness

But he cries all the time, so it's hard to tell for what

The movie's soundtrack is just Bruce's middle school playlist, " They said they needed something rotten and terrible, like, -- poison for the ears. If you listen to it you get sick."

Bruce's biggest "diva moment" was refusing to give up the eyeliner and he still sends apology cards to the cast and crew for his " horrible behavior"

"He just kinda said no a bit loud and ran out of the studio while sobbing quietly."

Literally every villain on set is a sweetheart. Selina does her own make-up as well as Bruce's and Oz's and you can see Carmine lurking like a little gobling behind them just to scare her

There's this joke that none of Selina's streams ever go well because the crew is her curse. She's trying to talk about how to steal on set, meanwhile, Bruce next to her, "Did you know cats have no collarbone. Also, the electric chair was invented by a dentist."

You'd think everyone's favorite duo would be Bruce and Selina, and you wouldn't be wrong, but the public can't wait for Bruce and Carmine to have a press conference or interview together

Mostly because Carmine obviously dealt some shady cards in his past and Bruce is so clueless . " Have I ever tried coke...No, I like Pepsi." While Carmine is trying not to laugh behind him

Edward is just as bad. He's trying to tell the director that's not how bombs are made, and someone's head exploding wouldn't look like that, and Bruce is like :O Eddie, I didn't know you were a gamer

Edward is a menace on set and Bruce stays blind to it because he like him. There's rows of videos of Bruce stopping mid scene, going " Eddie," before jumping on the guy like the kitten he's NOT

Alfred still brings Bruce lunch and snacks and he throws down with Oz for no reason. He always brings the kids (read; they sneak in) and it's very clear they're not getting any shooting done that day

Dick, age 10, impatiently asks why Gray Ghost can't have a sidekick. In the last moments of the movie Dick runs in, improvises a scene with Bruce, and the fans love him too much not to include him after

You just leave Bruce alone when his babies are on set; Damian is strapped to his chest cause he's so small that everyone almost steps on him, Jason is giving the writers tip, Tim is taking pics of everyone, and Bruce smothers them with kisses constantly

[starry-bi-sky]

thinking about Dan in CFAU and just how different he needs to be (in my opinion) in order for Danny's whole thing to work. Canon Danny with Dan's influence, would never even consider thinking of killing anyone even after losing people close to him because he'd be scared of becoming like him. CFAU Danny however has been festering in this hurt and anger for years and wants the Joker dead and is plotting it. I don't think he'd do that with Dan's influence.

I explained how Rath came to be in this post here. Things happened in TUE as normal -- Danny's family dies, he lives with Vlad, Vlad rips out his ghost half. The difference here is that not only was Danny in a grieving state (something exclusive to banshees that the post goes into) but he also doesn't end up fusing with Vlad.

What happens instead is that Danny's ghost half, consumed already with grief and now enraged by being murdered and lied to by Vlad, destroys him completely and disappears into the ghost zone. He traps himself unintentionally in a negative feedback loop of grief, and as a human spirit banshee, cannot mentally handle the constant agony and sorrow he's experiencing. What happens is that he ends up driving himself insane with misery.

So the difference here, ultimately, between Dan and Rath, is that at the end of the day; Dan is fully aware of his actions. He knows what he's doing is wrong, and delights in it. He acknowledges his lack of humanity and feels no remorse in doing what he does.

Rath? He's... not. Not really. Dan is a hulking mass of muscle; tall, towering, terrifying. He loves what he does and does what he loves. Rath, however, appears as a scrawny young boy in raggedy clothes far too big for him, hunched in on himself while dirty, unkempt hair curtains his face and hides whatever he doesn't have ducked down in his curled-in form.

Rath is locked in a constant, unending state of sorrow and misery. He, for lack of better words, is unable to perceive the world around him properly and lashes out terribly and violently at anyone or anything that catches his attention. The only thing that he knows is that his family is gone, his other half is gone, that everyone he loves is gone, gone, gone.

He is a zombie apocalypse wrapped up in the form of a malnourished child, wandering the world in search of people who are not there, and becomes furious if you're not them. He is constantly crying, but he's been crying for so long that he's all but lost his voice. Meaning anyone trying to keep an ear out for him has to listen for soft, pained gasps and quiet whimpering, and wonder if the sound they're hearing are hurt survivors, or the very thing they're running from.

As a result, Rath's influence on Danny isn't that he's scared of doing something bad and becoming like him. He's scared of losing control of himself and dooming himself and others to eternal misery. As a result, he's adamant that things that he's done were not done out of pure emotion, but were active choices he made.

Up to and including killing the Joker. There's enough grief and rage behind his views on him that anyone could argue, especially knowing that Danny's a ghost, that he was not in the right mind when he did it. He was blinded by his emotions and was not in the right mental capacity, he had no control over himself. It'd work as a convincing argument.

If it weren't for Danny himself arguing against it. Killing the Joker was a choice he made, fully and willingly. It was autonomous, premeditated murder and he won't accept anything else -- it was not a fit of passion, it was not act of insanity, it was a decision. He won't accept it being anything else but revenge either, and if anyone tries to claim that it was a necessary evil he will yell at them. He didn't do this for the betterment of the public, that was just a fortunate side effect. He did it for himself and Jason. If you wanted it to be a necessary evil, then you should've killed him yourself. It was a selfish evil and he knows it.

In the end, Dan’s existence would prevent Joker’s death. Rath’s existence only solidifies it.

Rath's complete difference from Dan is one of my favorite parts about this au even if he never makes a direct appearance.

[spacesquidlings]

Don't You Worry Your Pretty Little Mind

Summary: With his lover bedridden after a battle gone awry, Astarion finds himself acting as her nurse, comforting her as best as he can, giving in to many of her whims. And despite all his theatrics, there is no one she wants by her side more than him.

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Warnings/Tags: Hurt/Comfort, mostly comfort, fluff, some suggestive mentions, mild description of acid-based/burning wound, references to pain (nothing graphic)

Taglist<3: @spacebarbarianweird

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

The sharp smell of medicinal herbs burned in her nose, wafting over her as the pillows beneath her head and neck were readjusted once more. Pain followed fast on its heels, a phantom compared to what she’d felt earlier, before she’d blacked out entirely.

“How’s that, darling?” Astarion’s nimble fingers prodded at the pillows, fluffing them as best as he could without disturbing her. He drew her from her memories, from the blinding pain that had sent her into unconsciousness.

She whined, wrinkling her nose as another wave of smell hit her, the ointments smeared across her wounds seeping through the bandages wrapped around them. It burned as she breathed it in, daggers piercing the inside of her nose and scratching at the back of her throat. Pain radiated up her side and she shifted, nearly gagging as the smell grew stronger.

“Hurts,” was all she could manage, her voice cracking from the effort.

He huffed, crossing his arms and stepping back to examine his work. “I think that’s the best you’re going to get, my love. As much as I wish to, I cannot turn the bed into clouds.”

“Thank you for trying,” she murmured, barely stifling a groan as she shifted. 

She kept trying to find a comfortable position and yet she could find none. No matter how she lay she could not take the pressure off of all her wounds, and the pure frustration of it all made her eyes burn, angry tears pooling in the creases of her eyes. It painted the world in quicksilver and moonbeams, and yet she could find no comfort in the facsimile of the calm of the night.

“Don’t cry, please.” Astarion’s voice quivered, his brow drawing together. Somehow his skin grew paler, blanching at the sight of her tears. “Please, darling. You’re scaring me.”

She sniffled, reaching up to wipe her tears away, hissing in pain as her body grew taut, muscles and skin tight from the burns she’d sustained. Her bottom lip quivered, a sob caught in her throat, too weak to even wail.

“Oh my darling,” Astarion cooed, voice soft as feather-down. His hands hovered above her, as if hesitant to touch her. “You’re going to be okay.”

She whimpered. Was she? Was she truly going to be okay? She wanted to reach for him, but useless as she was, she could not even raise her hands to wipe her face, let alone hold him.

She watched as he seemed to come to some sort of resolution, his fingers delicately lowering to brush the tears from her eyes. Her vision cleared for the barest of moments before more tears trekked down her cheeks, the salt stinging where it seeped into her bandages.

“You’re going to get through this.” He brushed back loose strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek, caught in the ointment smeared on her skin. “You’re strong, my love. You were strong enough to survive such powerful magic. You’ll survive this.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. Although she’d survived the initial attack, she didn’t know if she was going to make it through the after-effects.

She hadn’t been thinking when it had all happened, shoving a child out of the way of their assailant, only to be swathed in burning pain. There had been no thoughts of putting up a shield, of casting a spell to push the attacker back. There had only been the thread of panic that had burst in her mind, her body moving before her mind could catch up.

When it had first washed over her she’d thought it fire, but then it had become worse. So terribly worse.

She’d learned, once she’d awoke, covered in the stinking ointment and bandaged, that it had been acid. A horrible homemade concoction that had very nearly killed her from its potency.

But she could not find it in herself to regret it, not really. She had managed to survive, but that child would not have. And her stepping in the way of the attack had been enough of a distraction for Astarion to make a killing blow.

Although she doubted she would make it through the consequences of her actions. Namely the reeking ointment and the near-unbearable pain.

As if reading her thoughts, Astarion clicked his tongue. “Don’t be so dramatic. You can survive anything, darling. Even a little homemade potion.”

She huffed, looking away. It hurt to speak, and yet she couldn’t help herself as she snapped back at him. “It’s a lot more than a homemade potion.”

“Well, it was homemade. He was a master artificer and wizard. I don’t think he bought it from a market.”

Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would staunch the flow of tears. “It hurts so much, Astarion.”

When he responded his voice was quieter, softer. “I know, darling.”

“I feel like I’m being burned alive.”

He didn’t answer this time, not at first. Silence descended, heavy, uncomfortable as her bandages.

It was more unbearable than the lingering sting of the acid, and she opened her eyes, the world limned in silver once more, searching for her beloved in the little room.

His eyes were wide, the crimson of his irises stark against the pallor of his skin. She could see the shimmering silver caught in the alabaster of his lashes, the gold of the firelight catching in his own tears.

“You’re going to be okay.” He spoke fiercely, each word as strong as a blow as he clenched his jaw. She wouldn’t have heard the quiver in his voice if she didn’t know him so well, didn’t know when he was trying to keep something hidden. “You’re going to get through this, and then we’re going on a long vacation.”

Her heart twisted, clenched in the grip of sorrow. “Astarion. My love, I’m so sorry, I-”

He shook his head, his hand delicately cupping her cheek. His own tears streaked down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away. “Don’t apologise. Just get through this, got it?”

“Okay. Okay, I will.” Her heart squeezed all the tighter, aching, struggling to beat. 

She tried to reach up, tried to hold his face, but she’d hardly raised her hand more than an inch before a ripple of pain made her gasp, fingers trembling like the branches of a sapling in a storm.

Astarion chuckled, lowering his head until the tips of her fingers brushed against his cheek. “Is this what you were hoping for, darling?”

“Thank you.” Her bottom lip was quivering again, her heart in her throat. Sadness was a vice that held her tight, nameless, all-consuming, drowning out even the smell of the ointment. She hurt so much, and she had hurt him. In her callousness she had hurt her most beloved and she didn’t know how to fix it, how to make him smile.

With a sigh Astarion lifted his head. His lips twitched, one brow arching. “What’s on your mind?”

“I just… I…” She couldn’t find the words, couldn’t figure out how to say it.

She felt like she was crumpling, formless and weak.

He shushed her gently, brushing the pads of his fingers against her cheeks. “Hush. It’s okay, my love. It’s okay.” Another twitch of his lips. “Wait to thank me until after I’ve changed your bandages.”

Shuddering, she looked away, feeling worse than helpless. “I look horrible, don’t I?”

“No you don’t.” A pause, his eyes searching hers. “It doesn’t look good, but you could never look horrible.”

An entire new wave of misery washed over her, and she wished she could still be unconscious, unaware of this pain and the knowledge that she looked horrible.

“Be honest,” she sniffed. “I look like something from a child’s nightmare.”

“Oh please.” He rolled his eyes. “Now you really are being dramatic.”

She whimpered, scowling as best as she could.

Sighing, Astarion perched on the edge of the bed, toying with the blankets, readjusting them over and over. Even so, his eyes never left hers, earnest and bright. “You’re hurt. You don’t look horrible, you look like someone who’s injured. You look like someone who needs to be taken care of until you’re better.”

Fangs flashing in the light, he gave her a half-moon smile. “And luckily for you, you’ve been blessed with someone as devoted as me, who will be here until you’re all better. Even though you’re being very vain.”

She frowned. “If I could throw a pillow at you, I would.”

“Well thank the gods you don’t have the strength right now.”

He leaned closer, fixing her pillows again. “Beneath all those bandages is the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.” He paused, smirking. “Well, second most beautiful. After me of course.”

“Oh of course.”

“You’re no child’s nightmare, darling.” The corners of his lips hiked higher. “In fact, I’d wager you’re a child’s hero now.”

She snorted. “Oh, I’m so sure.”

He poked her shoulder gently, beaming. “I am. I bet that kid’s already off telling all her friends.”

“She’s probably forgotten by now.”

“Oh no.” he gave a theatrical shake of his head. “No, certainly not. Rumour has probably spread that there’s a new hero on the sword coast.”

The corners of her lips tipped up, tugged by laughter bubbling in her throat. “Oh please.”

“The blade of frontiers had better move over,” he continued, mischief twinkling in his eyes like entire galaxies of stars. “There’s a new hero protecting Faerûn now.”

She giggled, shaking her head as best as she could. “I’m no hero! Besides, what would I even be called?”

Astarion tapped his cheek, eyes skyward as he hummed thoughtfully. “Now that’s a good question.”

“See? You can’t be a hero without a cool name.”

“How about ‘protector of the most beautiful vampire spawn?’ Or ‘the prettiest saviour of children from acid?’” He brushed the back of his index finger over her brow, smirking a little too broadly. His fangs flashed before disappearing again as he spoke, mischief in his words. “Or, and I think this one is the best, ‘the fool of faerûn.’”

She gaped at him, mouth falling open.

“You know, since you ran into an acid attack.” He shrugged. “You got the kid out of the way, but you didn’t get yourself out of the way in time.”

She wrinkled her nose as she answered, equal parts annoyed and amused. “You are so lucky, Astarion.”

“To have you by my side?” He stroked her hair, smirking. He knew perfectly well that was not what she was referring to. “I most certainly am lucky, darling.”

“You’re lucky I can barely raise my arms, or else you’d have a pillow in your face.”

“Yes well, you did kind of deserve that.” He tapped the top of her head, his expression growing more serious. “You had me terrified. I thought I’d lost you.”

His words were sobering, and she no longer felt the glimmer of mirth she had before. She sank into the pillows, dropping her gaze. “Astarion, I-”

“It’s already happened.” He cut her off before she could finish her apology, his brows drawing low as he continued. “I want you to focus on healing, on getting better. That’s the only apology I’m willing to accept.”

She swallowed, finding his gaze. “Okay.”

“And just as I said, once you are better, we’re going on vacation.”

It was so mundane, to talk of going on a vacation. A trip meant for relaxation, for having fun, where the highest stakes were finding delicious new food in an unfamiliar place. The sudden segue felt like something out of a dream, surreal when compared to her most recent memory, the wall of blackness in her mind after the rush of burning pain.

A giggle bubbled from her lips, earning a bemused look from Astarion. “What’s so funny? You think me incapable of a vacation?”

“No, that’s not it at all.” In fact it was all too easy to imagine him lounging around all day, the picture of indolence as he languidly sauntered down unfamiliar streets, as he stretched out on some sumptuous bed in a rented room.

“Well don’t keep me in suspense, darling.” He laid on his side, propping his head up in his hand. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

She giggled again, feeling ridiculous. “It’s nothing, really. It just feels strange to be talking of going on vacation, especially when I’m here covered in this gross ointment.”

He clicked his tongue. “That ‘gross ointment’ is going to help speed along your recovery.” He sniffed, nose wrinkling. “Although it is not exactly a pleasant smell.”

“I want a bath,” she whined. “I want to feel clean and smell pretty.”

“Once you are well enough, my love.” He gave her an indulgent smile. “I will give you the most luxurious bath you can dream of.”

Sighing, she imagined it in her mind. Warm water and flower petals and bath oils perfuming the air, helping her feel alive once again. “Do you think you could do that when we go on vacation, too?”

A chuckle, a darkening of his eyes. “There is plenty I plan to do, once you’re better.”

“Including a bath?” She ignored the somersault of her belly, the heat suddenly blooming at the apex of her thighs. Now really was not the time, not when she could barely stand the blankets that were draped over her.

“Yes,” he drawled. “The most splendid of baths every day for you, my dear.”

She relaxed as best she could against the pillows, daydreaming once more of such a thing. Of feeling the warm heat of the water seeping into her bones, of fingers massaging her scalp, trailing lovingly down her back.

“We can do whatever you wish,” he murmured, his gaze softening. “So long as you get better. You have to promise me you’ll get better.”

“I promise. I’ll do my best.”

“Good.” Astarion sighed, toying with her hair. Just the sight of him was stronger than any balm or medicine. The slight curve of his lips as he smiled, relief stitching itself into his expression, more a comfort than any sleeping potion.

He was still speaking, not that she heard even a word of it. Her mind couldn’t keep itself steady, flitting like hummingbird wings as the pain ebbed and flowed through her. Astarion had to pinch her cheek once, twice, before she could focus her thoughts, like trying to coax the ocean through the eye of a needle.

“Have I lost you, darling?” He chuckled, smoothing his hand over the sting where he’d pinched her. “I would have thought you would listen raptly as I spoke.”

She managed a roll of her eyes, knowing he was doing little more than teasing her. Distracting her, perhaps, to take the edge off of the unrelenting burn of her body.

“Forgive me, my love,” she rasped, batting her lashes as swiftly as she could in the moment. “It’s just hard to focus, even on your limitless charm.”

His brows knit together, lips pursing. She caught a flash in his eyes, worry quickly masked before she could begin to pick at it.

“You should rest, darling,” he murmured. “You’ll feel a little better once you wake.”

Astarion made to stand, the bed shifting as his weight vanished, and a ripple of pain went through her side, her chest. Not only her body screaming from the movement, little more than a jostle and yet enough to irritate the weeping wounds beneath her bandages, but her heart screaming too. Pain lancing in her chest, her heartbeat turning to the quiver of a loosed bowstring.

What would she do without him? How could she stand the anger of the poison that had flayed her skin? How could she try to brave the darkness of her unconsciousness? All without him?

A whimper fled from her lips, drawing Astarion’s gaze. The lines in his brow only deepened, and he sank back into the bed. A question hung on his lips, his hands reaching towards her, hovering, hesitancy making his face look wan.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Please.”

The anxiety in his face fell away, like the last of a stone wall crumbling to ruin. Relief, and no small amount of mischief, remained, shining like light through stained glass, refracting rainbows across the ceiling and walls.

“I’m honoured that you want me close, love, but I’m not going far.” There was laughter in his voice, making it lilt like the opening of a song. “I’ll be back in less than a moment.”

With a swiftness that sometimes scared her, Astarion moved across the room, the sound of glass clicking as he sorted through little bottles and vials on their dresser. There were perfumes, lotions, oils, a pretty pink nail polish he’d presented to her only a few days before the attack.

She wanted to ask what he was doing, but in another moment he was back, wiggling a bottle no thicker than her pinky, filled with an oily-looking, iridescent liquid.

“To help you sleep,” he said before she could ask. “It’s supposed to numb some of the pain so you can rest.”

She tried to sit up, only to cry out as a thousand daggers stabbed at her, as her skin drew taut beneath her bandages. She collapsed back, wincing at the red stains blooming on some of her bandages.

“Darling, I fear that is the exact opposite of trying to get better.” Astarion tsked softly, sliding one hand behind her head, flicking the cap of the bottle open with the other.

“I was going to take the medicine.” She had to draw in lungfuls of air to push past the stabbing throb across her body, steadying the sudden surge of nausea in her belly.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. The arch of his brow and the quirk of his mouth made it seem like she’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world, and it made her want to pout.

“You’re so impatient,” he chided, bringing the bottle to her lips. “Obviously I was going to help you with it. The more you move the harder it is for you to heal.”

She could say nothing as she drank the potion, fighting not to gag as the oily substance slid down her throat. It tasted bitter, and it coated the inside of her mouth like grease.

Setting the empty bottle to the side, Astarion grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He patted her head, not yet done teasing her. “Imagine how much easier it would have been if you’d just waited for me the first time.”

“Are you saying you’ll take care of me? You’re going to nurse me back to health?”

He chuckled. “Of course, darling. I’m terribly keen to play as your doctor.”

“Oh Astarion, don’t tease me so much,” she whined. “I can hardly think of a clever response right now.”

“I don’t mind.” He tapped the tip of her nose, unscathed from the attack. “That pretty blush of yours is all I need.”

“Astarion.”

He lifted his hands quickly, palms out in surrender. “Alright, alright, that’s enough for now. I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Panic seized her and she gasped. “My love, wait. Wait!”

She reached her arms out as far as she could, making a grabbing motion with her hands. Astarion’s brows rose, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Oh? And what’s this?”

Whining, she stretched her arms out a little further. “I want you.”

“So needy.” His tone was chiding, but his smile only grew. “Do you need me to continue comforting you, darling?”

“Astarion, please.” She couldn’t spar with him now, and so she was at the mercy of his teasing. She pushed out her bottom lip, pouting as best she could, giving him her biggest doe eyes. “I need you.”

“And how do you need me?”

If she could have ground her teeth she would have. But as it stood she could not, so she settled for a wrinkle of her nose, her cheeks burning from the heat he’d coaxed into them. He was smiling far too broadly, his eyes full of mirth.

With a sigh she said, “I need you to stay with me. I need you to hold me, my beloved. Please.”

“Oh my.” She could see the faintest touch of colour in his cheeks, like the first hint of the blushing dawn in the dove-grey of the morning sky. “Well how could I ever say no to such a request?”

Happiness softened the edges of her ire as Astarion tugged at the blankets, carefully slipping into the bed beside her. She sank to the side, his body beckoning her close, wincing only barely as he pressed against her side. He draped an arm loosely over her stomach, no heavier than another blanket, and yet she felt safer because of it, warmer than any blanket could make her feel.

“How is this?” He murmured softly against her ear, his breath tangling in her unbound hair. “Better?”

“This is very nice,” she said, just as quietly. “Thank you, my love.”

“Do you think you can sleep?” His voice wobbled, revealing the fear that had been hiding beneath his joking tone. “It will help with your healing.”

“But I only just got comfy,” she whined, not caring how pitiful she sounded.

A snort, cool fingers brushing back her hair. His breath gathered against her skin as he lowered his head, sighing. “That is so you can sleep, darling.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“If I’m distracting you, it may be better if I go-”

“No!” It would have been a shriek if she’d been able to shriek right now. As it was it sounded like a garbled rasp, and Astarion had to press his face to her neck to muffle his laughter.

“Don’t go. Please love, I want you to stay.” She didn’t feel right without him close, felt like she was on the verge of dying. She wanted to cling to him, to hold fast, finding comfort in the acid of his comments and the bergamot clinging to his skin.

“I’ll stay.” He laid a gentle kiss to her neck, a stark difference to the teasing laughter from only seconds ago. “See? I have no plan to move.”

“Really?”

“Why would I, when such a beautiful, needy little thing is in my arms.”

She turned her head away so he could not see the crimson staining her cheeks. She had no response, no clever rejoinder. She was terribly needy for his closeness, but he didn’t have to say it like that.

“You really must rest, though,” he continued, pressing another kiss to her throat. “How else will you get better so we can take a vacation?”

“You seem very set on the idea of this vacation,” she mused. Already she could feel the medicine working, the pain beginning to ebb, dulling breath by breath. “What do you even want to do?”

“What don’t I want to do, darling?” He sighed, stroking her hair. “I want to lounge and sleep in late. And perhaps we can visit a spa; we both need it after this.”

“A spa sounds nice.” She imagined it, sleeping the morning away, skilled hands massaging the knots from her back and arms, floral-scented serums and creams and oils pressed to her face, bringing her skin to life.

“And shopping,” he continued, just as lost in his daydreams as she. “So much shopping. We must refresh our wardrobes, darling. It’s all very…” She could picture the wrinkle of his nose without even looking at him. “Last season. We must be ahead of all the rest.”

“I’ll put my trust in you, then,” she murmured. “I’m sure you know what is best.”

She wouldn’t mind some new gowns, if she were honest. She would need something to make her feel pretty again after she was healed.

Astarion hummed, combing fingers through her hair. “Have you fallen asleep already?”

“No,” she answered, not feeling tired in the least. Now that the pain was fading she felt wide awake, energized.

“Well you should,” he admonished. “It will certainly put me at ease knowing you’re resting.”

“But I’m not tired, my love.”

He sighed, undoubtedly rolling his eyes. “What can I do to help?”

She hummed, wracking her mind for something that could help, that would lull her into the gentle darkness of unconsciousness.

Before she had met him, she would sometimes fall asleep to the faint sounds of music beyond her windows, or she would hum her favourite melodies until she could not hum them any longer.

“Could you…” She licked her lips, twisting as far away from his gaze as she could as a new wave of heat washed over her. “Could you sing for me?”

The silence that fell from her question stretched long, and she feared he would laugh, or tell her that no he could not. But then, soft as a caress, Astarion asked “you wish for me to sing?”

She swallowed, her flushing cheeks be damned. She wanted to meet his gaze as she again made her shameless request, a small comfort that had helped her in the years before she’d met him.

“Will you please sing for me?” He was close enough now for her to take his free hand, even as tremors still quivered through hers. “Please, my love? It really would help me sleep.”

For a moment he searched her gaze, his expression serious. Soft light gilded his features, twinning in the strands of his hair, painting the lines of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. His eyes seemed to glow, and she had the strangest feeling that she was being observed by a deity, a powerful, celestial being not of this world.

Her heart ached, and she held his hand tighter, reminding herself that he was not an ethereal being of light and dreams. He was real, he was here with her, he was not going anywhere.

Astarion’s eyes flicked down, to their intertwined hands, seeming to come to some sort of resolution.

“You are so terribly lucky I find you so wonderful,” he sighed, lashes fanning over his cheeks as he closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t sing for just anyone, you know.”

She gingerly brought his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I think I would hate it if you did. I want you to sing for only me.”

His eyes opened, his expression tender despite how he had bemoaned such a task. “Any requests, my dear?”

“A lullaby, please.” She held fast to his hand, clutching it as surely as a child clutched a beloved doll. “Any lullaby, whatever your favourites are.”

He mulled it over, stroking her hair absently. “Alright, I have a few in mind.”

His voice quivered at first, uncertainty staining his voice. The words tremulous, quiet, yet as he continued, seeming to realize this was not an elaborate ruse to tease him, he grew louder, more confident. The faintest touch of colour stained his cheeks, but it could have been the burning red of the sky at sunset for how it ignited warmth in her own heart.

At first she felt nothing, energy still buzzing like static along her nerves and sizzling in her veins. But the wispy tendrils of fatigue slowly crept over her, Astarion’s words coming in and out of focus, blurring together. She was certain he was switching to Elven every now and again, the songs he was singing old, excavated from a corner of his memory draped in cobwebs and dust.

She yawned, her eyelids growing heavy. It became harder to keep them open, and eventually she just gave in, sighing in response to Astarion’s teasing laughter as his fingertips skipped across her brow.

“Are you asleep yet?”

“Not yet,” she grumbled, scrunching her nose.

“I guess I have no choice, but to keep going.”

She hummed in approval, earning another quiet huff of laughter before he continued, beginning a new song she did not recognize.

She wouldn’t have said he was the very best, and although she didn’t recognize every song he chose, she could tell some of it was off-key, the notes too sharp or flat. But she didn’t care, finding comfort in the off-tune lilt of his voice. It was a melody just for her, carrying her like white-capped waves towards sleep.

Her fingers found their way to his shirt, twisting into the cream coloured fabric, snagging on the ties that held it closed. She could not move enough to tuck herself beneath his chin the way she liked best, but she could hold onto him like this at least. She could anchor herself, no longer lost to the pain of her wounds.

Astarion’s voice blurred, words melting into each other until she could not recognize a single one, her mind muddled as a turbid river. All her thoughts turned to nonsense, but for one, shining bright as a star, holding fast in the cloudiness of her mind.

That she would get better. That she had to get better. She couldn’t let him sing her lullabies for nothing. She had to make up for the worry she was causing him.

She might have said the thoughts aloud, she really wasn’t sure. Her body was growing fuzzy, the world around her melting in and out of focus.

What she was sure of was that Astarion paused for the briefest of moments, brought his lips to her brow. He murmured against her skin, that he was holding her to that promise. That he would need her to get better so she could help him come up with a name for her new heroic persona while on their languid holiday.

She wanted to promise that she would, if only because she loved him so much she couldn’t bear upsetting him. But Astarion started singing again, and his voice suddenly sounded very, very far away, like an echo behind glass.

And then she was gone, lost to sleep, one step closer to healing, just as she had promised.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

S/O managed to put Skeleton into roller skates.

Undertale Sans - He's really uncomfortable right now, holding to a pole for dear life as you're trying to convince him to let go and let you guide him. He tentatively takes a step, his foot goes too far and then all you see are his two legs flying in the air as he crashes on his back. Uh. What did you expect honestly? He's a couch potato who really loves his couch, not an athlete.

Undertale Papyrus - He's very slow and careful at first, but he quickly gets how it works. He's very excited now and he would definitely love to do this with you more often! Look at him go! He's fast! Papyrus is so excited showing off to you he doesn't see the wall in front of him. You cringe hard at the crash. That must have hurt.

Underswap Sans - Welp, that was a mistake. Blue understands very quickly how it works and as soon as he discovers he can go fast, you're doomed. Blue is gone now. You can hear him screaming in glee very far away, but that's all you'll hear from him. He's never getting down off these things. He's never coming back either. Good luck to catch him and convince him to go home now.

Underswap Papyrus - You're hurting for him. Poor Honey was so scared he forgot completely how to use his legs. He's now performing a balancing act and he can't bring his legs to their normal position. He looks at you full of distress, this close to passing out because of how stressed he is. Maybe don't take spaghetti noodle skeletons rollerskating next time :')

Underfell Sans - His ego can't take falling again and again. In the end, he's just throwing a temper tantrum on the ground, screaming in anger at the top of his lungs. He's so mad he doesn't understand how it works. It looks easy with you but he can't do two steps before losing balance and falling. He's frustrated and mad.

Underfell Papyrus - You're so jealous. That's not even 10 minutes and he's already better than you at this. Edge doesn't see why this thing is a big deal. Didn't you say it would be hard for him? He doesn't see what's difficult in this. Do you want him to teach you? You're even more angry and offended now.

Horrortale Sans - You can't see anything. He's holding you like a koala, his arms hugging your head firmly. He's scared to move and there's nothing else to hold to. So you will do. Oak is not comfortable, hyperventilating, and unsure what to do now that he's on these things. You end up guiding him home, more or less, completely blind as Oak won't let you go lol. When you finally get him to let go, you notice all the neighbors are at their windows, staring at you two.

Horrortale Papyrus - He tries rapidly but his back hurts too quickly and he prefers to stop. He's scared to fall and to have his back stuck. He thanks you though, it was fun for ten minutes!

Swapfell Sans - He doesn't want your help! Stop treating him like a child. Nox won't stop hissing and screaming at you every time you try to help him. He's terrible at this, but he has his pride and he doesn't want you to guide him like a child. Eventually, after almost an hour, he manages to roll on five meters. You gave up long ago though and there's no one to celebrate his victory. Nox is so mad he's giving you the cold shoulder all night. How dare you not watch him.

Swapfell Papyrus - It's infuriating how he's good at it. He never roll-skated before but that's five minutes and he already looks like a professional. You scream when he randomly picks you up to hold you above his head like in Dirty Dancing.

Fellswap Gold Sans - He fell on his butt one time and you made the mistake to laugh at him. Now Wine is doing all he can to improve just so he can come and kick your ass. He's improving really fast though and it smells more and more like danger. Maybe taunting him wasn't necessary either. By the time you start running for your life, Wine is coming for you at full speed. Good luck with that.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He takes one step and immediately faceplants hard into the ground. You hiss in pain for him, but Coffee won't look at you. In fact, he decides he will stay like that on the floor. Hopefully, it will swallow him at some point to escape the endless embarrassment taking over his soul.

[we-are-maladaptive]

PEONIES (1/3)

Kento Nanami, a disciplined jujutsu sorcerer, finds himself drawn to a young woman tending to her garden. After a one-night stand, the woman, given an unexpected pregnancy, distances herself from Nanami, fearing the repercussions that could come with shattering his reputation. However, as Nanami's business thrives, he seeks to reconnect with her.

— characters. kento nanami, reader

— contents. suggestive themes, angst, pining, tension, slow burn, blah blah blah

— word count. 1.4k — authors note. GRRRRRRRRHANGFHOSHG SBFHAHBNFHANFHANNNNNNNNNNG HFIEJNDJAONENAAA the writing in this seems to formal gnrhened

As Kento Nanami strolled through the quiet neighborhood on his day off, he noticed a woman kneeling in her garden, her hands gently tending to the peonies that dotted the grass. Intrigued by her quietness and the care she placed upon her flowers, Nanami found himself drawn to her side.

"Excuse me," he began, his voice breaking the silence of the garden. "I couldn't help but notice your beautiful flowers. They seem to thrive under your care."

The lady stopped, a faint blush on her cheeks as she peered up at him. "Thank you," she smiled. "I find peace in them."

Intrigued by her response, Nanami found himself drawn into conversation with the her, their words flowing smoothly as they discussed the ways of gardening and the joys it brought. As they spoke, Nanami couldn't help but admire the passion and dedication she poured into her craft, her love for her garden shining brightly in her eyes.

As the afternoon sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the garden, Nanami realized that he had found something truly special in the girl kneeling before him. And as they continued to talk, he couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps, amidst the petals and the sunlight, he had found something worth cherishing—a connection that bloomed as brightly as the flowers in her garden.

The morning filtered through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft patterns on the sheets that were tangled around you. As you slowly came to, the events of the previous night began to flood back. Your heart fluttered, and a wave of anxiety washed over you. Kento Nanami, the ever-disciplined jujutsu sorcerer, lay beside you, his breathing even and calm. You silently slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and quickly dressed.

Standing at the window, you glanced back at him, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. You had always admired him from afar, his steadfast dedication and quiet strength, and last night, under the influence of a few too many drinks, you had shared more than just conversation. But now, the consequences of your actions weighed heavily.

It was two weeks later when dread began to take hold of you. Nausea and fatigue became constant, and as time went by, you couldn’t ignore the signs any longer. The words staring back at you through the plastic test etched into your skin. Panic surged through you, trembling hands dropped the reminder of your downfall to the ground. Nanami’s career was soaring; he didn’t need the burden of an unexpected child...a bastard, as your thoughts called it.

You would deal with this alone, no matter how scared you felt.

His snow-white hair and cocky grin were unmistakable, even from a distance. He sauntered over, even blindfoled, his eyes somehow managed to look amused.

“Hey there,” he greeted, his tone playful. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Everything alright?”

You forced a smile, trying to steady your hands. “I’m fine, Gojo. Just a bit tired.”

His grin widened, but his tone turned slightly more serious. “You know, you’re a terrible liar. If something’s bothering you, you can always talk to me. Or Nanami, for that matter.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Kento’s name. You shook your head quickly. “It’s nothing. Really.”

Gojo’s expression softened, and he leaned in closer. “Just remember, you’re not alone here. We’re all friends, okay?”

You nodded, offering a weak smile, and hurried away before he could probe further. As you walked through the streets, your thoughts were consumed by the secret growing inside you. You knew Gojo meant well, but you couldn’t risk anyone finding out, especially Kento. Worst of all, if Gojo was going to hound you about it today, Geto would surely follow, as they don't stray very far from one another.

As you walked into the jujutsu headquarters, you saw a familliar black haired man lounging against the wall, his dark eyes studying you intently. His condescending smirk sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re looking a bit pale,” Geto remarked, his voice smooth and mocking. “Are you sure you’re up for the job today?”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine. Just a little under the weather.”

He chuckled, pushing off the wall and walking closer. “You know, you’re not very convincing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re hiding something.”

Panic rose in your chest, but you forced yourself to remain calm. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.”

Geto’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t push further. “Well, take care of yourself. We wouldn’t want anything… unexpected happening.”

As he walked away, you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You had to be more careful. The last thing you needed was someone like Geto sniffing around your business.

It was hard, in the office. They always talked about him, and his achivements. It was clear that Kento Nanami was destined for greatness now that the buisness he's in is flourishing beyond expectations; Kento being the focus mainly because of his great contribution to the company. If not for his focus the past couple of years, the place wouldn't be even close the to state it's in now.

Later that evening, you found yourself back in your apartment, staring out the window at the bustling city below. You found solace in the quiet moments alone, staring at the picture in your hand. Tears blurred your vision as you traced the outline of the tiny life inside you.

You were scared, but a part of you was also filled with determination. You would protect this child with everything you had, even if it meant doing it alone. The weight of your secret felt heavier with each passing day. For the future you promise to protect, even if it meant keeping the father in the dark.

For now, that was the only way forward.

Her gentle personality and the way she tended to her flowers with such care stood in his mind, a reminder of the peace he had found with her near him. It was the reason he invited her to his home and offered a few drinks. It was the reason he lost himself inside her, too distracted with the feeling of her nails clawing against his back to think about the consequences that would come after. He would certainly do it again, though he believed it best to take her somewhere nice first. Money certainly wasn't a problem given his state in the company now. With his jujutsu sorcery business thriving, Kento Nanami found himself in a position of financial stability. As word of his expertise spread, clients flocked to seek his guidance, eager to see the power of his skill. With each consultation, Nanami's bank account saw much higher numbers, giving him time to see the finer things in life. From expensive dinners at upscale restaurants to his weekends feeling less and less wasted at home, Nanami embraced his wealth with a sense of satisfaction, grateful for the opportunities it allowed him. Though, it's quite lonely.

Determined to learn more about the gardener, Nanami made his way back to her home, hoping to strike up a conversation. But as he approached, he noticed a subtle change—a tension in the air that hadn't been there before.

"Excuse me," he called out, his voice cutting through the silence of the garden. "I hope I'm not intruding."

The young woman looked up, her expression mirroring a mixture of surprise and apprehension as she met Nanami's gaze. "Oh, it's you," she replied, her tone guarded.

Nanami furrowed his brow, sensing the shift in her demeanor. "I couldn't help but notice that you've been avoiding me," he said. "Is everything alright?"

The young woman hesitated, her fingers fidgeting nervously as she searched for the right words. "I- am fine, Kento." she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

But Nanami could see through the facade, the tension that coiled beneath the surface. "You left so suddenly that morning," he continued, his tone soft but probing. "I couldn't help but wonder if I had done something to upset you."

A flush of color rose to the her cheeks, and she cast her gaze downward, unable to meet his eyes. "No, it's not that," she replied hesitantly. "I just... I thought it would be best if we kept our distance."

Nanami's brow furrowed in confusion, but he respected her wishes, nodding in understanding. "I see," he said quietly. "But if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. And if you're ever ready to share your thoughts, I'll be waiting."

With those words, Nanami turned to leave, leaving the young woman to tend to her garden once more. But as he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered, a silent reminder of the connection they had shared, and the unanswered questions that remained. His feelings of unease began to grow, as he heard the girl sputter and choke behind him; slightly turning his head to see her hand come to cover her mouth, and a hand to clutch her stomach.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TEN: RABBIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm, fatphobia, body dysmorphia

This is chronologically the tenth chapter in the series.

Read beneath the cut...

Napalm is the slow fire of waking from a terrible dream, blind, gasping, burnt. The pain, though delusive, is made actual by the action of nerves.

Only a hand at your shoulder, vigorous in its attentions, hauls you up from the putrescence of slumber into the light-dark of four in the morning. You find Hannibal's shape through lashes gummed with sleep's adhesive.

His face is as impassive as a star, but his hair, ever coiffed, is displaced from the friction of his pillow.

“You were screaming,” he says, as you sit, stunned, in his arms. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”

“No,” you say, although the scenes remain briefly in your vision, doubling like silk screen prints upon the walls.

Hannibal fills up a glass with fresh water and bids you to drink, his eyes pensive, unconvinced.

Only the notion that he may suggest you share his bed or else intrude upon yours impels you to honesty.

“I dreamt that I was trapped in one of the Silicone Lover’s dolls. That he was trying to squeeze me inside, and I wouldn’t fit. He said, ‘You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you. I’d better do something about that.’

“Then he started cutting me up with kitchen scissors, and I couldn’t stop him.”

You pause, choking on a breath, a verbal stagger.

Dr Lecter offers you the water again, which you take in both hands and drain to its end.

“Take your time,” says Hannibal. “When you’re ready, go on.”

Lying will fail you before the all-seeing eye, so it is with a flat honesty that you say, “It wasn’t what the Lover did in my dream that scared me. It was what he said to me. Because he was right.”

You reach down to pull the quilt up across your stomach, which Hannibal, with a subtle gesture, prevents.

“To agree with such a statement there must be some basis of comparison for you,” he says. “You knew the person standing in as the Lover in your dream. Can you name him?”

Hannibal could guess it, from the little you’ve told him of your unclean past, but if memory conjures the name from the gully of silence he does not say so.

Instead, he comments, “I think it’s unwise for you to sleep again until your mind is settled. Perhaps we may take advantage of the hour to continue your therapy, in an informal fashion.”

He sits in a chair by your bed, producing a notepad and pen from a pocket of his dressing gown.

You see that he will not move.

"What if I don’t talk?” you ask, softly. “What if I say I'd rather take the punishment?"

Hannibal's slender lips upturn.

"I wouldn't be inclined to take such a claim seriously.”

In sullen defeat you flounce back against the pillows.

Dr Lecter takes his cue.

“I’m curious about the friendships you’ve formed throughout your life. Have there been any notable examples?”

“Not many,” you answer, looking at the raw edges of your fingernails. “I was kind of the weird kid. It was like looking through a dusty museum window at everybody passing by, not really knowing how to get out there and talk to people. Like I was too old and too young at the same time.

“I got bullied, kind of. Nothing worth talking about. Just dumb kid stuff.”

“Even persecution of a childish nature bears painful resonance in later life,” Hannibal comments. “Moreover, isolation from one's peers may disrupt development in those vital years.”

You think of dolorous hours patrolling a fallow playground alone, three hundred children staring through you with adult hostility.

“I did make one friend,” you say. “First year of high school. Amy Glass. She was a weird kid, too.”

Hannibal scratches deftly on his notepad.

"Describe how you met."

Closing your eyes, you find your way back through the forests of the past to a corridor whose tiled floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell textbook paper and saccharine body spray. The sweat of young bodies, and the stale cafeteria fare you’d never tasted throughout your time there.

“Between classes Amy would sit in a window listening to music, or reading,” you say. “Stephen King, usually. Sometimes Anne Rice. She seemed to be up there all the time. I don’t think she was getting shit from the other kids or anything; she just preferred hanging out on her own.

“I wished I was like that, not caring. I wished I was her, period.”

“In what way?” asks Dr Lecter, and in the hallway of your mind a slender figure appears, brown of skin and eyes, blue hair cut roughly to the chin, its roots seeping in atop it like a stain.

Amy.

“A lot of ways,” you say. “Before I really knew her, it was about how she looked. She had piercings— ears, lip, nose, eyebrow. Teachers would tell her to take them out, then the second she was out of their eye-line she’d put them right back in. And even back then she had these awful stick and poke tattoos of bats and crosses she covered up with band aids for classes.

“She did all of them herself with a safety pin. God knows how she didn’t get an infection or anything.

“Then there was the fact I knew we liked some of the same music because of the patches on her bag, and her t-shirts and stuff. Nothing you’d approve of,” you add, as interest touches the face of your listener. “Jesus, I can’t even imagine playing stuff like that in this house. Anyway, I didn’t want to just be like, ‘hey, you like that band, too’. It would have been too weird. Stalkery, maybe?”

“Music isn’t such a terrible way to form a connection,” says Hannibal, amused. “I was once approached in friendship through a shared taste in cheese.”

Picturing his restrained derision you cannot help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” you say. “What were they thinking?”

“It was a naive assumption of commonalities. Besides, my commitment to professionalism would never have allowed us to be as close as he would have hoped.”

You give a little start of affront.

“You’ve made friends with other clients.”

Dr Lecter’s smile remains.

“Only with those whom I feel my presence benefits.”

“Benefits you, you mean,” you say, pettishly. “Whoever it was, you just didn’t like him that much. That’s why you turned him down. Or maybe he was too like you.”

Without appearing offended, Hannibal turns a page in his notebook.

“I'm unconcerned with debating my personal relationships, little one. Let’s return to Amy. Who initiated the friendship between you?”

“Amy,” you say. “It was after this councillor was trying to get something out of me, and I didn’t want to talk. I walked out that room feeling so... heavy, and grimy, and embarrassed. Then there was Amy, heading to the same office I just walked out of. She looked at me, scrunched her face up, and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Next time I saw her I made the same face back and asked, ‘how was it?’

“‘The worst, just like always,’ she said. ‘Where’d she get her certificate, anyway? Clown school?’

“I burst out laughing. ‘She’s so bad, right?’

“And that was it. Friends. We went everywhere together. Amy really liked me. I don’t know why. I think maybe she thought I was sort of mysterious and interesting rather than just depressed, probably because I didn’t want to talk about what was going on with me.

“She told me everything about her. How her dad didn’t believe in mental health issues even though he was just like she was, and how her mom just ignored everything, hoping it’d just... go away. But I didn’t tell Amy even one little thing about me, really. Not one.”

Guilt you’ve never truly confronted falls like a petal from a late summer bloom, cloying the dark with its flavour.

“Did Amy ever indicate that she’d recognised your particular illness?” prompts Hannibal, and you shrug glumly.

“A couple of times. I ignored every hint. Changed the subject. Acted like it wasn’t a thing when it obviously was. I knew that she knew. That was the dynamic. She was softer, around me. She got it. She got me.”

Suddenly your breath feels very high in your chest, catching on a rib.

“I can’t help but notice your use of the past tense,” says Dr Lecter. “Might I assume that you are no longer friends?”

“We grew apart after school,” you mutter. “I think she would have liked it if I stayed in touch, but then sometimes I wonder if that’s just wishful thinking, and maybe she didn’t care all that much when we drifted apart and stopping talking.

“I have her on Facebook. That’s all, really. She was never a social media person anyway, but still. I could have tried harder. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Hannibal allows the silence between you to ferment before he speaks again.

“Looking back, what do you think prevented you from maintaining contact?”

“I felt like after school was over she’d find other friends, and I’d just end up being left behind. So I got out of there before I had to see it happen.”

"You abandoned a friendship on the basis of a prophecy that might never have come to fruition."

"It would have,” you insist. “All my life I've had senses about things. Like, if I get a feeling something will or won't happen, I'm always right. Like I was right about you."

Swanlike, Dr Lecter’s hands move across his notebook, tactfully punctuating a note.

"It's common for sufferers of complex post-traumatic stress disorder to misinterpret their hypervigilance as psychic premonition. A heightened awareness of your surroundings and the behaviours of people in your vicinity develops in order to predict danger before it occurs. Pattern recognition is more mathematical than clairvoyant."

"What about my dreams?" you ask, sharply. “Are they math, too?”

"You've had other nightmares?” asks Hannibal, and leans forward, poised to digest you answer.

Canny, you hoard the matter like a serpent its glittering lair.

Hannibal accepts his defeat with grace.

Gathering up his notebook and the empty glass, he says, "That's enough therapy for now, particularly so early in the morning. I'll make you some tea, and you may return to sleep. Peacefully, this time, I hope."

*

Later, there is a meal that sits, sinking in a bath of bronze on Dr Lecter’s dining table, so much of it that you’re gorged merely from the arithmetic of its makeup.

“Arroz de Cabidela,” says Hannibal, as he pulls out his own chair. “A Portuguese dish made with rice, chicken, or rabbit cooked in its own blood. Today I’ve chosen rabbit. Have you ever eaten it before?”

It occurs to you that he expects you to be disturbed by the notion, but you are not. Meat is meat, all of it equally cruel. That life must end for the furthering of your existence has driven you to veganism many a time.

Little chance of sustaining such a diet now that you sleep in the devil’s slaughterhouse.

“No,” you say. “I’ve never tried rabbit. I heard it’s really... gamey.”

Your palate is scarcely educated enough to comprehend the statement. Still, it is apparently accurate, for Hannibal makes a low hum of agreement.

“It has similarities to poultry, in flavour, though it’s rather lean and dry. The blood stew adds a richness you’ll find complimentary, however.”

The scent is certainly inviting, but you are so committed to rejecting whatever is served to you that you feel lightheaded, succumbing to the altitude of starving heights.

“Couldn’t you have given me a smaller portion?” you ask, piteously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s so... much.”

Hannibal glances from your plate to his own, his visage neutral.

“I’ve served you a great deal less than I’ve given myself,” he says. “That said, I’m sure we can settle our differences. I’m not unyielding, if I can see some effort is being made.”

You look him in the eye, hoping you appear more bold than frightened.

“Dr Lecter, you make me all these courses, and they’re crazy even for a normal person. I feel like you do it on purpose. And afterwards my stomach hurts.”

“That’s normal, after a period of fasting. Your body will adjust. Now, please eat.”

You don’t. The cut on your plate makes you think of the Lover’s dolls, how even at your slightest you wouldn’t have fit into such a shell. How, changed as you must be through Hannibal’s cooking, you would ooze over every edge.

“I could use the feeding tube, if you’re unwilling,” says Dr Lecter, rising from his chair to stand at your back. “It would be relatively easy for me to administer. But I’d hate to sour an otherwise pleasant meal with brute force.”

He cups your throat in his smooth hand, and you envision how lovingly he’d coil about you in restraint, guiding the pipe down through you as you choked and flinched in his grasp.

“I’ll eat a quarter,” you say. “That’s it. Then... then nothing else until tomorrow. I won’t sneak out of bed, and I won’t do anything that breaks the rules. Please, Dr Lecter. Uh... Daddy?”

Your confusion between roles endears you to him, as does your breathless, eager willingness to beg.

“Should I allow you to barter?” Hannibal muses, still caressing the wand of your stiff neck. “It’s a symptom of your illness, after all.”

“Just let me choose how much and I’ll try anything you offer me.”

Dr Lecter releases a small breath of laughter.

“I wouldn’t like you to eat your words, little one.”

Gnashing your teeth, you say, “I won’t. I can do it. Please let me. You’re supposed to dote on me, aren’t you?”

You feel Hannibal’s lips against your hair in a kiss of paternal indulgence.

“Always so spirited,” he says. “Very well. I cannot deny my little beauty her request.”

What beauty does he refer to? You’ve only recognised it in the mine shafts of furthest hunger, mistaking a shadow for some precious stone.

Yet clearly you are not so low quality as you believe if both men have fucked you so freely over other women, whom they could conceivably draw into the net of the house.

Then again, there is no accounting for the tastes of madmen, and mad they both are, even Hannibal in his gelid divinity.

From the topiary of his language and flippant games you are beginning to see that you interest him in your very opposition to his being. Were you to succumb completely you would not be so worthy: all men bow to Hannibal, after all, seduced and deceived until they’d lick his fingers like lambs for the milk of his approval.

You, like Will, resist and evade enough of his passes to set yourself apart from the flock.

You may yet throw a halter over the head of the horned man, if only in as much as he allows himself to be reigned.

Quartering your meal as neatly as you're able, you glance up at Dr Lecter, afraid that, by some caprice, he’ll break his code and force you to eat down to the bare plate. But he merely stands by, retaining his honour, and as you look at him you picture his mild hands breaking the neck of the rabbit to drain as though for a ritual of blood.

*

Frequently through your days with Hannibal he immerses himself in hobbies and work about the house, cultivating a necessary solitude after the long hours of ingesting others’ anxious thoughts.

He reads, or writes music, sketches, telephones his friends and past lovers—of whom there are many—or else sets his pen to journals, having seen you safe to your locked room, where he need not prepare for misdemeanour.

In this way your residence in Hannibal’s home does not impede upon his individual pursuits, but rather compliments them, an accent of his sempiturnal glamour.

You are, after all, but one of his many pastimes. It is indulgence, then, when he insists on attending your evening bath.

As he kneels beside the tub to dampen a washcloth his intentions surface, another infringement upon the flesh.

“I don’t need you to help me,” you mumble, arms taut across your chest. “I’m not your baby.”

“Your inner child wails for the tenderness your illness has long obstructed,” says Hannibal, calmly. “Your independence would have you die like an infant abandoned to the forest. Let me carry you, at least in this small act of service.”

You look at him with eyes as dull as old blades and picture the futility of your struggle, his lithe arms holding you, kicking and airless, beneath the foam.

“Don’t you have your own daughter you can do all this with?” you ask; you’ve not yet needled him on his familial relations, and feel yourself more than entitled to know.

Hannibal begins to work the flannel over your naked form, paying no heed to your twitching affront.

“Abigail would have served the role admirably,” he says. “But it wasn’t to be. As for my own children, I have none.”

The revelation passes you without surprise. It’s only possible to imagine him having elegant, adult offspring, absent of the soiling indignities of rearing an infant.

“So you took me away for you and Will to raise,” you say. “Guessing he doesn’t have kids, either.”

The washcloth folds beneath the water, and you gaze studiously at the opposite wall so as not to think about the hand behind the fabric, how it has touched you in other ways, pleasantly, horridly.

“Will is also childless,” says Dr Lecter. “He has never known family, as you have. His mother left him when he was only an infant, and his father was a distant figure, though present. Now it seems that they’re estranged from one another. One can only imagine the loneliness Will has known in his life. Perhaps, with your assistance, this will change.”

Cloth, skin, hands, touch. Gentle and beguiling their trap, to distract from the permanence of this suggested triptych as fingers play against you underwater.

Unsteadily, you ask, “Is Will your boyfriend?”

Hannibal turns you an indecipherable look.

“Do you perceive our relationship to be romantic?”

A strange question, considering the violation with which you were inducted to their company. But not once did either man kiss or grasp the other— a technicality, certainly, yet one, it seems, that holds weight.

“Yes,” you say. “For you, anyway. I don’t know about Will. I know he thinks highly of you. He just sees me as something that’s in the way.”

You kick a foot testily, splashing water over the rim of the bath.

“What are you in the way of?” asks Hannibal, as he begins to lather your hair.

“Not sure. Your friendship, I guess.”

“Do you believe him when he implies that you're only an obstacle to him?”

Water pours over your head, and you close your eyes, enduring the sensation.

“He told me I’m unwanted,” you say.

“When you attempted to kill him?”

Fear bowls over you with a black suddenness.

“He told you?”

“I came to my own conclusions. You weren't quiet, either of you, that night."

You look at Hannibal, at the stag man of your dreams, and taste something like dirt, something like blood, at the back of your mouth.

“Had you seriously injured him or succeeded in your bid to end his life I would have been forced to conclude our treatment,” he says. “But you did not. I’m thankful to have been provided with a truth I hadn’t yet drawn from you: I know that you are not a killer, at least not at this present moment.”

In a strengthless whisper, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Hannibal draws a comb through your hair, unmoved by the conversation.

“As time changes the continents, people come apart through circumstance into new being. That shift may one day lead to the birth of murder’s country.”

A thought stings you like the cold: Will and Hannibal want you to be capable of killing, if not of them, then someone of lesser consequence, the hereditary illness emerging in the child.

That is the secret under this house, the whisper in the walls, its present haunting.

“I hope that never happens,” you mumble. “Never. No matter what you do.

“And yet the whetting of your blood thirst didn’t begin with Will and I,” says Dr Lecter, mildly. “Until you admit your liking of its flavour you will remain unsatisfied, little one.”

You do not ask how he knows you’ve thought of killing, once before, which you yourself had forgotten; having been in your home, the chill sanctum of your childhood bedroom, he may have learned, of you, a myriad, his interrogation merely a practice in contextualising his findings.

“I’d rather starve,” you say, at last, and sink your chin beneath the water.

Dr Lecter takes a razor from a nearby cabinet and begins to shave you with slow precision. He does not ask if you wish for it, only glides the razor across your underarms, groin, and each leg until you run silken beneath his hands.

That done, Hannibal rises, brushing unseen dust from his knees.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” he says, and leaves the room, a ghost departing the stage.

You look at the razor, entrapped in its plastic guard on the rim of the bath.

Had you a pair of scissors you might have cut the metal free to make a weapon, or else an escape into realms unknown to the living. Though its edge is still wickedness manifest, it would take a great deal of pressure to pursue death by this angle, though it would not be impossible.

It is not death you want to meet, however, but another, nameless coward.

You take the blade to your arm, and the pain is like eating, a sin that sates the freak of misery.

The bathwater turns like a devil’s baptism, and though they are but shallow cuts you feel suddenly faint. Lying back, you lay your arm against the porcelain, thinking murky thoughts of your mistake.

Hannibal returns carrying a muted lilac dress and pale stockings, stilling at the sight of you, of the water, red as autumn mud.

He sets down the clothing and kneels beside you again.

“Let me see.”

You let him take your arm and touch the crude little gashes softly.

“Shower, quickly. Then I’ll treat your wounds. Fortunately, they aren’t so deep.”

How gentle he is with you, this beast dressed as a man in his pressed shirt and waistcoat, guiding your numb form about with a soothing authority. You’d once yearned to be handled like this, to be absolved and set free of any and all expectation. That it comes from him is like being spit in the eye by the Fates, one after the other.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: what have you done to so offend them?

It’s only after having bandaged your forearm and settled you, dummy-like, upon his bed, that Hannibal speaks again.

“What motivated you to do this?”

“You know.”

“Elaborate.”

You lie, face down, in the pillows. The cotton smells like him.

“To feel better,” you say. “Amy said it helped her, sometimes. Cleared her head.”

The mattress tilts slightly as Dr Lecter sits down beside you.

“You mirror her pain to feel closer to love lost. Has it helped you?”

“No. I feel stupid. I feel—”

Restless, you turn onto your side and feel a tear, compelled by gravity, mark your jaw.

“I feel like a kid,” you say. “It’s humiliating. I hate that I always feel this way. Don’t make me live like this.”

Dr Lecter presses a tissue into your hand, as much to save his bedclothes as to comfort you.

“Fighting the expression of necessary emotions will only stunt them further, little one. Will and I would dearly like to see you flourish. Amy would surely wish that for you, too.”

Cradling your wounded arm to your chest, you flick the used tissue to the floor with the other.

“Screw you,” you say. “Both of you. That’s what Amy would tell me to say to you, Dad.”

Hannibal stares at the tissue, and you sense the inward twitch of his irritation as he bends to pick it up from the ground.

“Your parents called again, this afternoon,” he says, offhandedly. “I informed them that you were struggling with your treatment. I advised that we continue your residence here a month longer than previously agreed.”

He casts you a pitying look, and you’re reminded of the futility of going to war with Hannibal Lecter.

“It seems that I made the prudent choice,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

[dysfunctional-doodle]

Hello. I hope I'm not bothering you, but I was wondering what's your personal headcanons on the Bayverse Turtles? I may have spelled headcanons wrong, so correct me if I am wrong.

(Dude I always spell headcanons wrong I got you)

Oooh hc time! Random stuff really, but:

Mikey has ADHD and Autism. I mention it very briefly in my tmnt chat fic, but I read a fanfic with this idea and it just fits so much for me. Especially the ADHD, which I think the creator of the movie confirmed somewhere anyway?

Donnie has chronic pain in his upper back/spine area, specifically where the shoulders are. To me, he just seems to have a more awkward, uneven build compared to his brothers - he is thinner and taller, yet his shell is still huge. So i kind of had this hc floating around. Idk if other people like it but eh. Cant be a nerd without a bad back I guess

Mikey and Donnie are definitely the younger brothers. Mikey being almost a full year after Donnie, and Donnie being about half a year after Raph and Leo (who are the same age)

Raph knits. Basically confirmed anyway. Specifically he learnt to knit after they were struck by a particularly harsh winter and needed blankets - Raph, being the only one that wasn’t too weak/in hibernation mode at the time, learnt how to knit to try and protect his family when he couldn’t fight the enemy with punches and kicks. He still knits blankets for them every year when the winter grows cold. They keep every one, so they have the comfiest beds

They share a room. 4 giant turtles crammed into one room with rickety bunk beds and hammocks is very funny to imagine

Leo loves romance movies. In particular the TV movie ones.

Leo had a similar attitude to Raph when he was a child until Splinter went missing for a few days whilst scavenging for food (he was fine in the end…mostly. A hasty escape from a warehouse caused him to injure his leg and be forced to hide until he could gain enough strength to return to his sons). When seeing his brothers grow hungry and scared over the few days he took charge, becoming much more of the Eldest Brother figure.

Mikey idolises Leo. He wants to be just like him one day. He thinks he’s the coolest. (It makes Leo’s comment about his head “always being in the clouds” hurt so much more)

Mikey gets a Klunk eventually, saved from being drowned. Her siblings were not as lucky (yes, I am very much writing a fic for this)

Donnie’s favourite pass time is computer science/programming/IT based activities, like how 2012 Donnie seems to enjoy chemistry the most and 2003 Donnie leans heavily towards engineering.

Leo loves house plants

Raph hates house plants

Donnie is blind as hell without his glasses and spent a lot of his younger years unable to see much. Once he could finally see he suddenly was given a world with endless possibilities and potential

Leo is terrible at technology. I’m talking 80 year old woman bad. He always clicks on scam ads and blows up computers. Something just doesn’t click with him and technology

They all have heavy turtle instincts due to them, like 2003, being just turtles rather than a mix of human dna. This causes them to have instincts and qualities turtles have such as retreating into their shells, brumating (at least partially), chirping, etc.

Donnie has a major sweet tooth

Raph can’t stand most sweet things

As kids, they would spend most their time looking at the human world and pretending they were with them.

Donnie is autistic, and has a lot of stims when he is happy that involve chittering and chirps.

Leo cheats at every video game/board game they play due to the eldest sibling advantage

Mikey loves to draw his own comics

Their Christmas hip hop album is fire

Raph is actually the cook, and is quite good at it. Mikey always burns things or they are undercooked because he’s too impatient, Donnie experiments and Leo blows everything up

That’s all for now!

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Can I request RoR family with a teen reader who's extremely scared of injections due to being experimented on a child? Like having full blown panic attacks and she accidentally ended up scratching one of them really hard when they tried to force her to take her vaccines as she didn't take them as a child

-This wasn’t real, it wasn’t happening! It couldn’t be happening! Your ears were just playing tricks on you! Yeah-that’s it, it’s one of those auditory hallucinations you’ve heard of!

-Nikola, who had been the one to tell you that it was time for everyone’s yearly flu shot vaccine, to prevent anyone from getting sick, since there were so many in the house.

-You were fairly new in the family and the house, having been rescued and adopted by them only about 6 months ago, and those 6 months have been absolute heaven compared to the hell you had been trapped in prior.

-Beelzebub, who was helping administer the vaccines to everyone, looked over, after he finished with Hercules, who bent the normal needle and needed a thicker needle so it would get in, and saw the fear on your face.

-Your hands were gripping at your arms as you started seeing visions, flashbacks from when you were trapped, when they were grabbing your arms, pushing needle after needle into your arm filled with who knows what, ignoring your screams or beating you if you were bothering them.

-Jack, who was going right after you, could see your blinding fear, this wasn’t like what he would see when he could kill others, this was something… terrible.

-You felt like you couldn’t breathe, your throat felt tight, almost like it was stuck, seeing the syringes on the table, waiting for you and the others behind you, your eyes locked on them, unwavering as you struggled to breathe.

-Buddha was quick to put a hand over your eyes, pulling you back into his chest, to ground you, but this had the opposite effect as you immediately flinched and freaked out, crying out, trying to get free.

-They weren’t expecting this reaction, but they also remembered that you had been severely abused, as Buddha was panicking, not knowing if he should let you go or not as you were clawing at his hands, thinking he was holding you hostage.

-He let you go after Thrud told him to release you and you ran, rushing away from the area, looking for a place to hide, as they all realized that you had been retraumatized.

-It was two hours later when Nikola found you, after all the other vaccines had been given, finding you in Raiden’s room, hiding under his kotatsu.

-He was very patient and gentle with you, holding your hand softly, speaking gently, telling you that he didn’t mean to scare you, and unlike those who had abused you, he told you what the shot was for, and what was in the needle.

-That still didn’t mean you got the shot however, as you firmly refused to get poked again, not wanting to be in pain again.

-Your family was supportive, letting you know that was okay, and Beelzebub was the one who surprised you next, showing you that he was able to get the flu vaccine into a pill to take instead, just for you.

-It took you a few days to come around to the idea of taking it, but they never pushed you or rushed you, letting you do it on your own terms, which felt so nice to you, as they let you make the decision.

-Buddha was extra cuddly with you, holding you close as you watched 101 Dalmatians with him and Zerofuku, as his way of apologizing to you for scaring you.

-It was so nice to have a family like this one, to have so many people that cared about you. They made you feel so safe, even when it was flu season.

[importantchaosgiver]

Where Loyalties Lie:

Truth Now Seen

Summary: With a whole new revelation, (Y/N) is left confused, upset and angry. And she needs to vent. And, so... she does...

Warnings: Canon typical swearing

Masterlist

******

No One's POV

(Y/N) held onto a rope as the ship bobbed along the waves. They were heading to High Tide, to Driftmark to meet with Corlys in hopes of betrothing Ser Laenor to Rhaenyra. Unfortunately, most people knew of Ser Laenor's... preferences and most didn't see this working at all. Then, Lord Strong walked up to her. The newly appointed Hand of the King after Otto had been dismissed from his post after rumours concerning Rhaenyra's virtue. "How is he?" (Y/N) asked Lyonel. He sighed softly. "He shouldn't have made this journey," he muttered. She looked down sadly. He was getting worse. And she couldn't bare that thought. "What of you? Are you well?" Lyonel asked gently. He had noticed her usual distant glances and stern, confused stares into the abyss. "Perfectly fine, my lord," she said calmly.

"You're not. It may not be as clear to others, but I can see it," he muttered. (Y/N) turned her head, glancing at Viserys who was coughing into a handkerchief. Then, she looked over to where High Tide was visible. "I've learnt something. Something... that changes everything," she muttered. Lyonel said nothing after that.

When they finally arrived, the winds had calmed somewhat and it was rather beautiful. Laena and Vaemond met with them as they saw Ser Laenor and Joffrey practicing. As Lyonel and Viserys went to go see Corlys and Rhaenys, (Y/N) stood on a balcony, overlooking the sea and High Tide. She then turned her gaze to the skies, to the gods if she could. "Viserys is resting," Rhaenys said from behind (Y/N). She didn't flinch. "Aye. This journey has taken a lot out of him. He should have never came. But, your husband is stubborn," she said. Rhaenys noticed her tone of voice. "Something troubles you, Lady (Y/N)," she stated. The female knight looked at Rhaenys and sighed.

"I've learnt some things... I wish I didn't," she muttered, rubbing her eyes. "Viserys's sickness?" Rhaenys guessed. She wasn't blind, she knew how (Y/N) felt for Viserys and him in turn. "No, well... partially. I learnt... my mother is actually barren. She found me... at the base of a Weirwood tree. Newly born, naked and crying. The face of the tree crying its red sap. A Child of The Seven," (Y/N) explained, looking at the older princess. And Rhaenys was stunned. "You're... a demi-god?" she whispered. "No... yes? I don't know!" (Y/N) said angrily, rubbing her face. "Everything I thought I was. A bastard, the daughter of a whore, a knight and protector... it changes now that I know this. The gods created me for something. And I fear what," she whispered. Rhaenys was of course, flabbergasted at this news. But, gently placed a hand on her back. "It will make sense," she reassured. "But it won't!" (Y/N) shot back, walking away from the balcony and inside.

"I have seen the most terrible dreams. And I don't know when it will happen, but it feels so real. I saw a boy with a crown upon the Iron Throne. And I couldn't mistake him for what he was. Everything about him said Lannister. He was hurting a girl for some reason. An innocent young thing. Then, I hear things. I heard... Winter Is Coming. And... Rhaenys... I'm scared," (Y/N) whispered, her breathing slightly quicker. Rhaenys noticed and moved forward, hugging the knight. "It will be fine. It will all make sense eventually," she said gently. Although, she was just as lost as her friend. She had no clue what it all meant. But, whatever it was... it wasn't anything of comfort or good...

******

Sorry if it's short and the next bit will be the timeskip. Hope you like it!

[uhmbrella98]

Prime Asset OC

I made a new outlast trials OC but I'm figuring out a name for her. This post is a long one but I'm explaining a lot

She's 28, from Los Angeles, and is a prime asset. Her nickname is "Big Sis" because she thinks of the other assets as her family. Gooseberry being the mom, Leland being the dad, Franco being her little brother.

Her backstory (tw for mentions of child abuse, child pr0stitution, and sa) is that she grew up in the bad side of LA, her parents were never around due to them being failed actors trying to make it big, so she had to be taken care of by her own older sister, but her sister wasn't a good sister so she often got brushed aside or forced to do stuff to make her sister money and at one point she was sold for child pr0stitution for moneys sake, money she never saw. When she grew out of the household, she became a bar tender, which explains why she's charismatic like the other 3 assets. While she was working one night, she was SA'd by a drunk man, which caused her to go blind in her left eye and which left a scar. After killing the man, she started killing r*pists and 0ffenders to defend people, unlike how she wasn't defended from that when she was little. She ended up killing over 50 people before being arrested, while in jail she was hired by Murkoff who found her working in the cafeteria, and the prison let her be sold off to Murkoff due to their connections with the CIA

Currently she's very defensive of her "family" but has a very twisted view on it. She's mainly defensive of Franco and when she sees him attacked, she claims he's just an innocent baby. She's very kind but merciless to those she claims are "bad people". Her main personality traits are her overprotectiveness, her kindness, her hostility, and her main emotion is disgust, as she feels disgust towards those who harm her "family". She views Gooseberry as a very kind woman and often talks to herself about how "mama" is gonna be proud of her, but she automatically assumes Gooseberry is always proud of her. On the other hand she works hard to get the approval of Leland, she wants to make her father proud. So she's a bit attention seeking. She's also a big anxious, as seen when she killed someone and had to rip their head off just because the face the person made as they died made her very angry and scared

Her hair is supposed to be messy in a way that she tried cutting it herself but botched it, and her roots are brown but the rest of her hair is poorly bleached. Her complexion is pale and she's the slimmest out of the assets, with her shape being more of a rectangle, with a flat chest and not a lot for ass

Her pronouns are she/her

She's American, fully American and from LA

Her weapon is a Molotov Cocktail since she was a bartender

Her main weakness is loud noises, so she's the only asset deterred by the screamer

The only ex-pops she seems to dislike is the Pusher since she hates how he forces his drugs onto other people

Her relationship with Easterman is sort of father/daughter like, but it's only in a sense where she sort of acts like a moody teenager around him. She doesn't dislike him, she just prefers to either be with Franco or by herself

She loves Franco the most, and will often spoil him with drinks, food, coffee, and cuddles. She loves her "little brother"

She also loves Phyllis, but hates Dr. Futterman because she thinks he's a terrible grandfather, Dr. Futterman doesn't think of her as his granddaughter. But she loves Phyllis and will often stick close to her for love, but she's a little traditional in a sense where she believes the father is better at protecting

As for Leland, she loves him to pieces. She views him as her father and will often seek guidance and protection from him. Sometimes when she messes up by losing track of a reagent or getting interrupted in her killing animation, she'll often seek him out for "discipline". She heavily admires his skills to dish out what they both view as justice

As for with the reagents, she's bitter towards them. She views them as getting in the way of her family and will do anything to get rid of them, even if that includes trying to break into the shuttle to get at them, which has never been successful. She gets anxious when she doesn't see them for a while and often is heard hoping they didn't attack "papa", "mama", or "baby".

She often yells a lot and can have a temper. Her main method of attacking is with her molotovs, but sometimes she just uses hairspray and the lighter for her cocktails to act as a flamethrower. But she hates getting dirty so she'll only get close if she's all out of options

All in all, her nickname is Big Sis, she grew up in the bad part of LA, is fully American, and craves a family. Here's her design, I got too lazy to draw her so I made her in Gacha Life 2 and edited it a bit in ibis.

[winterlynightlystories]

Welcome to Hawkins

Tw; swearing, mention of child abuse, mention of injuries.

To not steal my work, thank you!

Billy Hargrove/Male reader (he/him)

Summary; you find Billy on the side of the road, bloody and angry. The worse part? You are not alone in the dark.

~~~

Hawkins was a weird place. Even before the Byers boy went missing, the town faced strange things. Electrical anomalies, weird sightings in the forest and sometimes animals would meet a gruesome end. By now you were used to it.

Until the Hargrove came to town.

Hawkins was a small place where everybody knew everyone. There was no secret, not even inside your home. Even if you went in the middle of the wood, by morning the whole town would be aware of what you did. So it was no surprise they were met with mistrust.

Because it only took one look for everyone to agree; there was something wrong with them all. Especially with the father, you thought. With the way, he spoke to his son and how Billy would sometime flinch when his father moved his hands. It was obvious that something was going on.

And then they all met Billy Hargrove at school. Violent, racist, and always ready to fight. He tried so hard to be the king of the school, it was almost pathetic. But he was good to party with, you heard.

For your part, you disliked him. Billy and you would always fight; in the corridors, after school or even during sports class. Sometimes he would win, but most of the time? You would show no mercy and beat the shit out of him.

You weren't violent, some would even call you peaceful. But peaceful doesn't mean harmless and you refused to let Billy Hargrove do as he pleased.

You also pitied him.

No one was blind to the bruised he would try to play off as accidents or results of fights that never happened. Or how he would flinch, even so slightly when someone accidentally slammed a door or dropped something heavy. Or the fear his eyes would hold for a second when someone would throw a ball of paper and it would pass close to his head.

It broke your heart.

And there was nothing you could do.

That night as you drove, the forest on each side of the road, you kept thinking about the Hargrove boy. You wondered what kind of person he really was underneath all those masks he wore to protect himself.

Halfway through the forest, something caught your attention. At first, you thought it was a dead animal, maybe a deer. But then, it moved.

- “Shit!” you cursed, hitting the brake. “Hargrove? What the fuck are you doing here?” you asked, getting out of your car.

Because sitting on the side of the road was the one and only Billy Hargrove. Hair messy and bloody lips, Billy seemed to come out of a fight as the loser. But something was terribly wrong; his eyes were red and puffy and wet as if he has cried.

- “Fuck off man.” Billy snapped, looking away.

- “Seriously?” you sighed “C’mon city boy, I'm driving you home.” you added, eyes turning to the forest.

- “I said, fuck off! Or are you deaf?” replied Hargrove, making you grunt.

- “Oh, shut up. You think I'm leaving you here to be eaten by a bear?”

- “There aren't any bears in Hawkins.” objected Billy, scuffing.

- “Ah yes! I forgot it was my imaginary friend Steve who killed those animals!” you replied sarcastically. “Now you either get in the car by yourself like the good boy you are, or I'll get you in.”

- “Fuck. You.” slowly said Billy, smiling. “Anyway, why do you care so much? We are not friends or anything.”

- “Because there is no way I am leaving you here in the middle of the night!” you snapped, approaching him.

- “Wait, wait, wait! Don't tell me you are scared?” mocked Billy. “Seriously? Scared of the dark, Y/n?”

- “No, not the dark, but of what's hiding in it,” you said, seriously, stopping in front of Billy.

Billy was about to reply something when you heard the eeriest scream coming from the forest. You both froze, staring into the darkness. There was no sound, not even a cricket, or wind. It felt just wrong. Like a second before the disaster. And you felt watched like a prey being stalked.

- “Hargrove, get in the car.” you said, voice shaking as you saw a large shadow move between the tree. “NOW!”

You grabbed him by the collar and turned on your heels. Without another word, you two ran as another scream came from the forest, closer this time.

You barely closed the door before turning the engine on and driving away as fast as you could.

- “What the fuck was that?” asked Billy, looking behind. “That wasn't a bear!”

- “I don't know! I don't fucking know, man!” you replied, still freaking out. “It was too skinny to be a bear. Maybe a sick deer.”

- “Bitch, are you serious? Deer don't stand on their back legs!”

You didn't have the time to reply to anything, spotting the shadow on your left. In the dark, you could not really distinguish anything, but you could swear it was now running on four.

- “I don't want to sound dramatic, but I think it's following us.” you said.

- “How...”

Billy never finished his sentence. Instead, you both screamed when a tall shadow jumped in front of the car as you hit the brakes.

Standing on its back legs, the creature had smooth skin, almost like an eel” you thought. But darker. Like charcoal or shadows. And its head was like a flower.

You almost screamed again, feeling Billy gripping your arms and digging his nails into your skin.

- “What the fuck. Man, what the fuck is that?” he asked, his voice a mumbling mess.

- “Don't ask me! I don't know!” you whined, hands shaking on the wheel. “Man, I can't do a U-turn and there is no way I can drive in reverse in the dark.”

- “Then just run over it! Do something!”

And you did just that.

Pushing your car as fast as it could toward the creature. Maybe it knew what you were trying to do, or maybe it got scared, but seconds before the impact, the creature jumped out of your way. You sighed in relief but didn't slow down.

You heard Billy’s breath slow down before you felt his forehead on your shoulder. If he was crying, you saw nothing, because God be your witness, you were too. Not letting go of your arm, Billy actually tightened his grip.

- “Tell me it's gone. Please tell me it's gone.” he begged with a small voice.

- “Yeah, I don't see it anymore,” you replied.

- “I don't think I can go party anymore.”,” said Billy.

- “Yeah. Welcome to Hawkins.” you scoffed. “So, mind guiding me to your place?”

- “I'll rather not” he whispered.

- “Mind if I take you to mine then? I'll give you some of my shit and will take care of those bruised. I know where my parents hid their alcohol. God, I need a drink!”

- “As long as you share that drink, that sounds good to me. But I'm taking the bed!”

- “Fine princess!”

Billy said nothing and you relaxed. Heart still racing in your chest, you wondered of it was that thing who was responsible for the latest slaughter in the nearby farms. Or killed those missing outsiders. A part of you also knew you needed to call the sheriff, but the other knew it was useless. No one would believe you and you didn't want to put Billy in more danger.

So to your home, it was.

[blu-oo]

Ok so I’m a complete sucker for buggy-shanks-roger pirates angsty time travel plots but I’ve noticed that it’s pretty much only ever Buggy (as far as I can recall) being the main POV/one to time travel. While i have absolutely no complaints about this (lol) i do wish we could see more with Shanks behind the wheel, especially since he’s still so mysterious he’s essentially a blank slate.

And im just imagining like:

shanks immediately just gunning to go. He WILL find a way to save his captain, he WILL make it so rouge and/or ace are safe, he WILL keep his relationships with everyone he lost touch with after his captain died, he WILL find a way to make Buggy not hate him anymore.

Except, shanks isn’t a naive little kid anymore. His captain is amazing, he loves him, but it isn’t until he’s back in time that he realizes this man he idolized was terribly flawed. He didn’t always think before he acted, he didn’t always do what was best for the safety of his crew. He didn’t always put his pride aside for the betterment of those who cared for him or the situation at hand. He didn’t listen when buggy was scared, ignored or even laughed at him, at his fear. Why would he do that? He knows roger wouldn’t let anything happen to them, but still, how had he never noticed that before-

He wasn’t too overly familiar with Rouge and her crew but they met up enough that shank’s starts to keep an eye on her and his captain, waiting for any hints of whats to come. He still has plenty of time before anything happens but he’s anxious, doesn’t know if he’ll be able to help them in time. So he decides to try putting ideas in their heads. A little “hey captain, if you ever have a kid one day I can’t wait to play with them and teach them how to sword fight!” here, and and little “our nakama is family! We can always count on one another when something super life changing happens!” there. But when he starts trying to drop hints, no one listens to him. He’s just a kid and no one is listening to him, why won’t they listen-

With his future knowledge, his already rapidly successful sword and haki training grows tenfold (despite having to reacclimate to having both his arms again and woah that’s trippy). And this is good! This means he’ll be even more ready to defend his nakama and their futures as certain events unfold. And everyone is excited for him, throwing prideful smiles his way, and he’s never felt so close, so connected and on equal footing (or as equal as a child could be) to the rest of the roger pirates. Except…

Except the already existing gap between him and buggy seems to become an ever growing cavern. Shanks has never been starved of praise and attention in this or his past lifetime, but now that he’s wise enough to not only look ahead but back, he sees his best friend standing farther and farther away from him. And now that he’s older, now that he’s reliving everything through a new lense, he realizes just how…lonely his best friend was underneath the brazen and cocky bravado. How for every praise he received, buggy got only mockery and impatient sighs. For every successful fight shanks took part in, buggy was told to keep back as to not get in anyone’s way. For every blinding smile he received from his captain, buggy got- and oh. Oh.

Beyond a certain age, Shanks never begrudged buggy’s lack of fighting spirit. He understood now that it wasn’t for everyone, and that buggy especially made do with clever tricks and conspiratorial luck. Shanks was shanks, and buggy was buggy and that was good enough for him. Too bad he seemed to be the only one who thought that. And finally, finally, things have started to make sense. He sees all of his interactions with buggy and the others, from both this new reality and from before, interactions long past and those still to come, and finally starts to understand. Shanks is a grown man parading around as a child, but buggy? Buggy’s just a little boy. Just like shanks used to be.

And if through his righteous indignation on buggys behalf, shanks starts to really perceive his own treatment by his former nakama? Starts to truly feel the weight of their expectations on his shoulders that has ALWAYS been there and is finally able to identify it? Well. No one said fixing the absolute clusterfuck that was the fall of the roger pirates would be easy.

[ask-spooky-manor]

Common Fear Headcanons

What common fear/phobia each manor resident has and why

(Leaving it under a Read More cause it got long oops)

Trigger Warning: There are hints to child abuse in Sally’s and Tim’s parts so read with caution

Toby: The Dark

- Toby has a really bad anxiety disorder that only worsens if he’s left in the dark. Not being able to see anything leads to his mind coming up with more and more horrid scenarios that leave him at best: extremely on edge and at worst: having a full blown panic attack.

Tim: Spiders (and some bugs)

- Not every foster home was kind to Tim. A lot of then were outright cruel. One of them would lock Tim in a dark basement for hours on end where he constantly felt spiders crawl on his skin. Even when he was let out, he could still feel the phantom touch of the spiders. It lead to him developing a really bad case of arachnophobia as the sight of a spider takes him back to a time where he felt so hopeless.

Brian: Heights

- Brian is considered to be very fearless, but the idea of being somewhere high up will have him frozen in place. He fell once, technically died, and he fears of it happening again without being given a third chance at life.

Jeff: Heights

- This one is less personal and more having the general fear of falling to his death. He also deals with that phenomenon where once you’re high up, you have the urge to throw yourself off. It really unnerves him.

Ben: The Ocean

- …okay well sometimes the obvious choice is the best one! Drowning is said to be one of the worst and most painful ways to die. With Ben having been killed that way, they’re not exactly ready to jump into a pool anytime soon. Ghosts are mostly numbed to a lot of sensations but even then, Ben never wants to experience drowning ever again.

EJ: Forests

- The fear is completely ironic, but Jack has lived alone in the woods, freshly blind, for enough years to realize that a lot of freaky shit happens there. From ghosts haunting an area to creatures lurking behind the trees to even inhuman acts happening where no one in society can judge. It spooked Jack to the point where he dislikes having to go into the woods to hunt. Again, it’s ironic when he himself is a man eating demon, but you gotta remember that he still has his humanity unlike most forest creatures (and serial killers).

Natalie: Tight Spaces

- She has a classic case of claustrophobia. Generally speaking the feeling of being trapped makes her slowly lose her shit the longer she’s stuck there. It’s even worse if she can’t move her body. It subconsciously reminds her of the time she was made to stay in a poorly funded mental hospital against her will.

Jane: Mirrors

- It’s also an ironic kind of fear. On one hand, Jane very much adores looking at herself in the mirror. She’s gorgeous, she knows she’s gorgeous, she likes being able to see how gorgeous she is. On the other hand if she stares at it for too long, she starts to dissociate, see shadows lurk behind her, swear the person looking back isn’t her. She hates walking by them more than anything, fearing she’ll catch a monster following her if she glances over to the mirror.

Nina: Being Alone

- She is the kind of person who needs to be with someone else at all times. Being left alone will lead to her thoughts racing faster than it should. Her paranoia worsens, and she starts to feel like she’s losing her mind. The anxious thoughts and scenarios she has scares her to no end.

Sally: People

- After what happened to her, Sally unfortunately is someone who was forced to realize that there are terrible people out there. People who want to hurt others for no good reason. She may seem fine living in a manor with a bunch of people now, but truth is that it took a loooong time for her to get used to it. Each time a new person is brought in, Sally needs to take a good while to see whether or not they’d ever hurt her. Luckily no one in the manor ever would, and if they did they’d be swiftly dealt with.

Slender: The Outside

- Slender is borderline agoraphobic. He can’t really leave the dimension he created because if he did, his Curse of Misfortune would take affect. Anyone he’s near is doomed to face great misfortune to a life ruining degree. For this reason, Slender has grown a fear of leaving the manor knowing simply being out there will lead to people getting hurt. It makes him nauseous to step out there even if the portal to the real world opens up in some secluded place.

[ficzhub]

The Foreign Woman

Part 4

(Art credit to @kevvidile )

Aemond Targeryen x Older Myrish OC (Alexyse Majeríz)

✨✨✨✨

CW: hurt/comfort, obsession, dysfunctional family, mommy issues, comforting a child as an older child, duplicitous OC, creepy crush, jealous Aemond Targaryen, envious Aegon II Targaryen, emotional manipulation, spying, possessive Aemond Targaryen, jealous Aegon II Targaryen, power imbalance, power dynamics.

✨✨✨✨

Chapter 4: Troublesome

"Oh, my prince-" she began while facepalming before he'd cut her off

"No! Not 'your prince', your Aemond!" He nearly yelled

"Shh!" She pleaded, pressing her index finger to her lips before pressing her hand on his cheek "My Aemond," she calmed "what are you doing here?"

She still felt drowsy from being woken up so suddenly, and mildly irritated with him. He's a sad, scared, lonely little boy, terribly misunderstood but it wasn't really her place to watch over him like he wants her to. Though that's her own fault, she could've left when she saw him crying, or when she threw something at her and screamed at her to leave. But she didn't and instead got into bed with the boy, wrapped her arms around him and let him cry until he fell asleep on her chest. She told herself later that it was because he may know something she doesn't, being the quiet listener he is. But that wasn't true. She did it because he needed her to, because no one else had bothered to.

"I told you, I couldn't sleep." He said

"Why? What happened?" She asked

"I had a nightmare." He lied.

He didn't want to lie to his Maery, but what else could he say? He knew he'd have one if he'd been able to go to sleep anyway. "I couldn't stop crying."

That part was true, from the moment she left his chambers until he'd decided to leave them and find her. It embarrassed him, but he felt he should tell her this. It could only work in his favor, in any case.

"Honey, I can't keep you here and I can't stay in your chambers." She explains again, softly "Come, I'll walk you back to yours. You can't be out here, it could even be dangerous."

He didn't care obviously. The worst thing that could happen to him already did. He was deformed, permanently irreparable. The only good thing that came of this besides his dragon was his Maery.

"If it's so dangerous then you certainly shouldn't be out here either." He pointed out, not realizing she was likely the most dangerous thing out there. "Not to mention how rubbish the accommodations seem to be."

He looks back at her little hovel in disgust.

"Dangerous for you, baby. Perfectly fine for me." She explains "And the accommodations are more than adequate for a woman in my station. I don't deserve any more than any other maid working for your family."

"That's not true." He immediately disagrees, liking her loving pet names for him "You're no mere maid."

Her blood runs cold, but she tries not to panic. Has she been doing such a terrible job hiding who she is that even a half-blind ten year old could tell she wasn't who she said she was?

"What do you mean, sweetheart?" She asks

"You shouldn't be working as a maid, picking up other's filth and working yourself ragged. You could do so much more." He says

"You think so?" She asks smiling "Like what?"

"You should be a lady, a grand lady or a maester. If they allowed women to be maesters." He suggests excitedly

"Oh, if only..." she says knowing there are maesters, robes heavy with links who don't know half what she does.

He holds onto her hand firmly, not to keep his balance but to make sure she doesn't stray from him. He wants the least distance possible between them. She smells rain approaching and tries to walk to the castle as fast as she can without making Aemond trip but by the time they get inside it's already too late. The drizzle becomes a storm in mere seconds and she turns to see Aemond smiling widely.

"You could hardly go back to that hovel now."

She puts her hands on her hips and smirks "The rain won't kill me Aemond, I am not made of sugar."

"But you could get sick!" He exclaimed

"I'm not quite so delicate."

"Please don't go." He drops the pretense of being worried of the rain and reverts to begging. "Please."

"Darling, if they catch me in here I'll be reprimanded. I can't stay." She says, squeezing his hand and walking him to his chambers.

"Then I'll make sure you won't get caught." He promises

"You can't be sure of that my love, and even if you could it's not your responsibility. I'm a maid, I have my place and you have yours."

"Your place is with me!" He insists loudly and rushes into a hug, wrapping his arms so tightly around her waist it almost restricts her breathing.

"Shhh, honey you can't be so loud." She says quietly and rubbing her hand on his back to calm him. From his short she is, no taller than 158 cm, she presses her cheek to the top of his head.

"They can't say anything to me, even if we get caught." He retorts stubbornly, not letting go, enjoying the feeling of her softness against him, making him feel better as she tends to do, intentionally or otherwise. He inhaled deeply, trying to memorize the scent of her.

"I meant more so because people are sleeping and we need to be considerate of them." She elaborates in a whisper "Come, let's get you to bed."

They both start walking towards his chambers but his hands never leave her arm and hand, holding onto it with a near vice grip. Scared she'll leave him, scared he'll have to go back out and search for her again only to not find her anywhere. They reach them and she makes sure to tuck him into bed and leave, only to be held back by his hand on her forearm.

"Honey, please." She begs now

"They won't reprimand you, I swear it. Please, Maery." His little eye fills with tears threatening to spill over and she knows he must hate being in the position of begging an underling to hold him so he could sleep.

She thinks of her own parents, her wonderful mother who never let her feel alone and babies her even now as a grown woman for all intents and purposes. Her father, who while firm, made sure to protect her and teach her how to protect herself in case he may not be able to. How could the king not at least ask about this little boy's well being? How could the Queen be doing anything other than fretting over him? What the fuck kind of family is this? Both of their fingers are changing color from the force with which Aemond is holding her hand. She practically slaps the other on her own forehead and sighs, feeling unbearably guilty and unable to deny this sweet boy something so basic, so primal as comfort.

"What makes you so sure you could keep from having me punished? Or fired and made so you could never see me again?" She asks, seeing what plan the little prince has up his sleeve.

He gives you a small smile and looks down shyly. "I've already told the Queen Mother about you, I told her how much I enjoy your work. I'd asked to have you moved to the chambers next to mine so I wouldn't have to call on you so often and have someone else take on the responsibilities that don't pertain to me."

He states these things proudly, but it only makes Alexyse's heart sink. This boy has gotten too attached and because of him she may never complete the assignment. She already can't move about the castle as she used to because of how he keeps following her around. Now she'll have to spend every second of every day attached to his hip as his own personal maid instead of a general family maid?

"And Lady Mochel has approved already?" She asks

"She doesn't need to, she doesn't make those choices." He says, pointing his nose up.

"Well sure honey, but I meant as in she's already had other people take over my work load?"

"I don't know, to be honest I don't particularly care. They'll take care of it."

'And I'll be able to keep you to myself.' He thinks

"There are something's I'm the only one who knows how to do, we don't have anyone on staff who can do them. They're hiring new people?" She asks

"I don't know! I don't care!" He cries "I've done what I've needed to do to keep you safe, just stay

with me."

"Alright, alright." She says, "Move over, sweetheart."

He tries to contain his glee with a small smile that hurts his wound, but he scoots over and makes room for her next to him. He snuggles up next to her with his head on her chest, trying to get as much of his body to connect with hers. The sound of her steady heartbeat quiets his anxiety and the fear that she'll leave him is assuaged, she can hardly leave without him noticing. He pressed himself to her as tightly as he could to the point where she felt his little fingers digging into her ribs.

She tries to make herself comfortable while holding the boy, trying to find a solution that won't hurt his already delicate feelings, allow her to finish her job and leave unnoticed. Trying to work out a way she'll be 'forced' away from him, perhaps. That it's not her choosing to abandon him, never! Just that circumstances are working against them both. But that'll have to wait for tomorrow. Right now she'll just comfort the little prince. No matter how unexpected his attachment to her became, she can't deny he's a sweet boy. Neglected, and maybe a little spoiled, as is to be expected from a prince in the royal family. But sweet, and in desperate need of motherly affection.

She doesn't envy his position. Alexyse loves her life, the life her family has granted her. Thanks to them she's a certified weapon, someone to fear, someone to respect. She doesn't have to be a whore, or a damsel who's only good for getting married and birthing children. Instead she can protect women like them, make sure they're being treated fairly. She can't count high enough to the number of how many monsters disguised as men have been killed by her tiny, unthreatening mother. How many pompous, arrogant cunt lords and merchants have been disposed of by her bastard father. Alexyse herself is now responsible for sentencing quite a few lowlives to very painful deaths by just her word, but she couldn't wait to get her hands dirty.

Still, the whole time they were training her, sculpting her to be someone capable and strong, she never felt like she wasn't cherished by her family. Her father taught her to sharpen his blades and treat his leathers, but also played with her and sang her the Dornish lullabies his father taught him before she fell asleep. Her mother taught her to synthesize more poisons than most people know even exist by the time she was as old as the little boy she's holding now, but she always brushed out her hair and let her play with the other children that lived near them in the water springs.

What childhood was this little man allowed to have? The spare to the spare to the heir of a man who neglects them all but one? Everyone knowing of him, watching him as they watch his whole family, training him in histories and philosophies and with the sword but not letting him behave as a little boy should. It's too dry, too frigid. No child could grow up well of mind in this type of shit, it's no wonder she's only ever seen him smile in the last two days despite being here for a quite a while now. She's the only one who's done anything worth him hurting himself by smiling.

She feels him snuggle his face against her chest and smiles down at him as he falls asleep, unaware that his presence wasn't the only one apart from hers. Aegon had been observing uncharacteristically quiet that day, seeing his little brother mope around following the pretty maid like a lost puppy. He thought he'd call him out on it and make the 10-year-old's cheeks red at the mention of his little crush, until he'd seen what he did to the ranchhand. Now, seeing his little brother clinging desperately to this girl after sneaking off to look for her in the dead of night, he wonders what's so special about her.

Aegon keeps watching them, surprised at his own envy. He can’t remember the last time anyone’s held him like that, anyone he hasn’t recently started paying. Can’t remember the last time a woman made sure he felt warm and safe, touched him because she wanted to, not because he’d forced or paid for it. Aemond was always the favorite, for everyone, even his own. He should’ve been the first born, he does everything the way people would expect of him, from claiming the biggest dragon, to his studies to even taking the loss of his eye with dignity. Aegon is more sensitive than people know, than people give him credit for. He just wants to know what it feels like to be in Aemond’s current position. To have someone, someone genuinely care for you, someone of your own.

AO3 link:

(Part 3 \/)