#but still being a sacrificial bastard

[steviewashere]

No One You Can Save That Can't Be Saved (Love)

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Lots of talk around death, Vague suicidal thoughts (seriously very vague) Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington has Nightmares, Panic Attack, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling & Snuggling, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Introspective, Fear of Death

I don't know what this is. I wrote the opening poem and then wrote the rest. Enjoy, I guess? Title is from "All You Need is Love" by The Beatles.

This is also on ao3, but it's not showing up currently in the Steddie tag. If you'd like to read this in full on ao3 instead, Here's the Link!

💕—————💕 I’ve had no desire to die. None in my body. But if you told me to die, I’d ask: Who for? Where should I lay my body? Like this? I’d perfect it. I’d make a gala out of it. I’d win. Blood on my hands and flesh between my teeth; I am not dead. But— Death is intimate with me. I have no desire to die.

——— The grass pearls with early morning dew. Tacky soil shapes to the bottom of his left sneaker. He takes a step forward, the imprint of his posture a temporary fixture in the lawn. If it rains again, the divots of his soles will collect water like cupped palms. Though the day will surely pass while he stays inside, working the nightmare from his musk scented skin, and he’ll return home dead on his feet. Ready to lay himself bare to a cooling bedsheet.

Tapping his sneakers on the doorway of his vehicle is the first thing he does fresh from his house. Shake the dew from his feet, shuffle inside until his legs are tucked gently under the steering wheel, slam the door shut, turn the engine over, and wait for the radio to croon. If he had the time, he’d pick a tape. But on mornings like these, he backs out of the driveway. One arm on the headrest of the passenger seat. Head peering over his shoulder.

One time he hit the neighbor’s mailbox. His cheeks remember the anger radiating from his father. If even one tire begins to turn incorrectly, he pulls back in and tries again.

Desolate roads are his favorite bit of scenery. Morning drives where people are between waking up and already at work. Long stretches of asphalt against his tires and breeze icing his cheek. It’s the quiet, too. Silences in lulls. Reaching out and holding him.

Today is different. His sneakers are wiped and his legs are burrowed and the cold air reaches his cheek. But today is like no other. Heart racing, blood chilling in his wrists, fingers going numb. The tendrils of a nightmare wrapping around his brain like thorned vines on dungeon walls. He is a prisoner to himself and his surroundings. And he can’t take a deep breath. It’s like drowning, but nothing is like drowning. Drowning is death. This isn’t death. Everything is death.

It’s death in the way his breath tastes like finality. Mouth dry of saliva and teeth as specters, rotting and decaying before he has time to fully swallow. The heave before the storm. Before the vomit goes beige on his thighs and chunky to the floor of his car. And it’s death in the sense there’s blood every time he blinks. He’s reminded of the way he played role as emergency room technician. Two hands on a slim chest, ribs crackling under his palms—the sounds similar to that of heavy tree branches downed in an Indiana snow storm. He is numb in the fingers, but cold on the palms. And it’s the darting in his eyes, sign of life somewhere, sign of life nowhere. The road stretches forever this morning.

It’s death in the harrowing way. A car beelining for the side of a road. Parked in the means to brake, but not to settle. He is thirty seconds away from a crash. Turbulent planes flying overhead, he is an unsuspecting tree. The cat between his front two tires. Mushed traces of squirrel guts half a foot from the base of a robin’s nest; crushed eggs fallen to the floor. It’s death because there is the phantom tail of a bat pinning him to the headrest of his seat. Wrapped to the two metal bars below the bottom of his skull. And his hands are tingling, heavy on his lap. Kicking his legs, feet lurching into the brake, a squeal when his car takes the movement as instruction. He’s not ready to go.

But he can’t escape. And he can’t move. Can’t blink unless the road crumbles below him.

He is trapped. This is death because he’s dying and he’s got the black spots in his vision to prove it, but there is an overbearing glow of a white light like a cone on his peripheral. He is trapped—a dog free from the vet.

Clinking on his window draws him to look left. Blearily. The slow drag of his eyeballs. Two weather vanes in stilted, hazy, sticky summer stillness. Muffled. This is death because he’s forgotten what urgent care sounds like, but this is a near thing.

He’s not ready to go.

It’s death because there is warmth and gentleness. He cries—though it isn’t felt—because there is love. And while love is not absent, he had been chasing it. Longing and yearning. Giving himself in ways not even God would approve of. This time, though, it makes sense he had to die for it.

“You’re not dying, sweetheart,” a pleasant voice says. If Death is speaking, then he is listening. Death has two hands and warm breath and a husk gargled in his throat like sucking down cigarettes on and off for four hours. The stale smell of one smoked swirls in his nostrils. “Not dying, you’re just far away. And scared,” Pleasant Voice speaks again. It’s accompanied by a faint tickle under his eye. He closes up, lost in the sensation.

It’s death because he doesn’t desire, but he is persuaded. God, it’s sweet.

He takes a deep breath. The hurt is temporary as it seems like shards shed from his lungs. Nosing at his headrest, the perfumed scent of floral shampoo and fragrant salty sweat and those cigarettes. It relaxes him slightly, the tail away from his throat. The breathing comes easier and the black spots begin to dissipate. He’s reminded of the aftermath of torture, sleeping fitfully in bed, but alive. And he chases his nose to the left, body twisting around on his seat, hands limp on his legs still.

Pleasant Voice seems to hum. Murmuring low, raspier than before, “Easy, you’ll be okay. Doing a good job relaxing. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Another careful pet to underneath his eye. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” And a caress through his hair, two hands cupping him like water. He ripples with contentment. Crumpling against the pleather seat. He swallows. An uneasy emotion, a vapor, noxious poison billowing through his nose.

His eyes flutter open again. In front of him, two brown irises. Both gentle and concerned, deathly afraid and lowering their haunches. He blinks. Clarity. And he had expected to die, but it’s like drinking ice cold water, coming back to life from the warmth of an early summer’s day. “Eddie?” Steve chokes. “What’re—Eddie?”

Eddie—not Death—smiles a sad thing. Two frowning corners, but the gentle uptick of his lips. His eyes don’t crinkle. And his nose remains stagnant. “It’s me,” he whispers. “I was on my way into town from the trailer and I saw you on the side of the road. Looked like—Thought you were—I was half expecting your skin to be green when I came closer.”

“What does that—“

“I thought you were dead, Steve,” he answers bluntly. His hand tightens on Steve’s jaw, the other pressing closer to his scalp. “Baby, that was horrifying. I wasn’t ready—Why are you out here driving?”

Steve shakes his head. The low ruffle of his hair like two pieces of paper being scrubbed together. “I don’t remember,” he mutters, “I woke up and—My throat was aching and I thought that—Woke up with blood behind my eyelids, Eds.” He tries to swallow again, but the emotion rises. Bile. Pleasantly like bile. Then, he bursts. Crying and keening. Hiccuping through his gasps and breathing as if there are rocks on his tongue. And he isn’t sure where to put his hands, but the rest of his body falls forward into Eddie’s. Though, maybe it was on purpose. An expectancy. Because Eddie wraps back fiercely, tugging, half-climbing inside of Steve’s car. Making the room for this coagulated form of welling fear and quelled calm, the body shivers and sudden blood to his cheeks, a cough caught somewhere between a sob and an expel. It’s death because he’s frightened, Eddie is in there somewhere, too.

Eddie keeps tugging until they’re comfortable in the back of his van. Him on his lap, curled inwards in the fetal position, secured warmly between Eddie’s lithe arms. Somehow containing him. He’s not strong, he’s not weak, but he’s enough to keep Steve’s pieces all mushed in together. Not completely whole, but not spiraling like thread between lengths of road.

He’s worn when he pulls back. Eyes as two cement blocks taped above his cheeks. “Thought I was dying,” he finally croaks.

With a somber gentleness, Eddie pushes back strings of his hair. Whispers, “I know, baby. You kept telling me in your car.”

“I was afraid.”

“I know, baby.”

“I think a part of me thought you were dying, too.”

Eddie hums. “Did you have a nightmare about…About having to save me?” He quietly asks. He’s never breeched the subject before, but it’s different. Today’s different. It’s death because he has to answer.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. Sniffles noisily. The carnage stuffed high between his brain and sinus cavity. “I couldn’t feel my hands. Back in the car. They were completely numb. But—No, that’s not right. My palms were cold like your skin. And I couldn’t hear you at first, just your ribs. And then I—“ He stops to shake his head. Tilting it down towards his chest. Plucking at the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt. He’s fully dressed in casual wear in comparison to Steve’s outfit. Still worn down to his stained Hawkins High gym shirt from early last year, the fall of his senior year, and his red tartan fleece pajama pants. “Think I was searching for you and just didn’t make it.”

“I’m here now,” Eddie simply responds. He pets again at Steve’s face. He likes to do that. Never condescending. As if part of him can’t believe he gets to touch. Or another part can read just how much Steve needs it. It’s death because he’s known. “How about I get you home? Back in bed?”

“Don’t think I’ll sleep.”

“Okay,” he mutters, nodding. “Okay, how about you sit with me today back at the trailer? I’ve got to fill out some job applications. It’ll be quiet. You can bring a few tapes from your car, play them if you like. And I’ll make you hot chocolate. Does that sound…?” Steve’s nodding before he can even finish the question. “Alright, baby. You’ll be okay, you know that? I’m here right now. And you’ll be with me.”

“I’ll be with you,” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And if you need a reminder, you can just look at me. Or…Ask me to tell you a story. You like that, don’t you?” Steve nods again. Eddie pets the crest of his head, down to the tuft of hair on the back of his neck, dipping into his t-shirt to settle his palm between his taut shoulder blades. He twitches when he fully sets his palm. “You have your thinking face on. What’s going on up here?” He asks, tapping at Steve’s left temple.

Steve swallows. “I—I’m afraid of death.”

“I know, sweetheart. That’s okay, you—“

“But I’m more afraid of everybody else dying,” he admits. “I’d die for you. I’d…I think part of me died for you.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Baby, I don’t like that.”

“I don’t like it either. But it’s true. Feels like…I feel like a lot of me has died. For everybody around me.” His voice is shameful, but flat. Tepid and shaking. “But I let it happen. I wasn’t fighting against the urge. It just—I allowed myself to experience death. Either it was my own or somebody else’s. At every turn, I was expecting to be incinerated. Dissolved. Turned over in the ground like recycled soil. I don’t—“ He sighs through his nose. Confesses, “I’d do it again.”

“I really don’t like that, Steve. Is this—Are you asking for help? What do you need, sweetheart?” He’s not sure what Eddie’s eyes look like right now. There’s an infliction, though. A steady storm of concern and mild trepidation. Hands flat and pressing as if he’s willing them to stay rooted to their spots in the back of his van.

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. Blinking and exhaling and shoving the images that haunted him into early morning to just…die, oddly. Allowing Eddie’s gentle touch to soothe his frayed nerves. He collapses further in the lap underneath him. “Don’t go. I’m not ready for you to go.” 

He toys his hands in his lap now. Fingers picking and prodding at healed scabs. Hangnails that were chewed short by his fingernails. Knuckles that have scarred over and over, time and time again. “Don’t go,” he reiterates, whispering. His voice is keening. And he knows that it’s sort of childish, what he’s requesting. Tugging on Eddie’s pant let and wrapping his limbs around his ankle. Thumb in cheek and eyes wet. But though the events of the last few years have manhandled him and stretched him thin like a mushed ball of murky colored Play-Doh, he is immature still. He can beg if he wants to.

And thankfully, Eddie appeases. Pressing again into Steve. In a way, he’s afraid, too. “I won’t, Steve. I promise that I won’t go willingly. But you have to promise me back.”

“I promise,” he immediately mutters.

“Okay,” Eddie says. A default in conversations like these. 

‘I have a migraine.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Just need silent company.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Don’t die again.’ ‘Okay.’ 

He holds Steve tighter. Bending in a prairie dog way to kiss his forehead. Murmuring sticky wet against the skin, “Love you, sweetheart.”

Steve sighs through his nose. This is all going to come up again and again. He’s sure of it. Later today, he’s sure. When he’s half there and half in the dark crevices, the depths of his brain, caverns without crystals. And Eddie will be there, too. As a rescue team, sent far down with nothing but a pickaxe and harsh, yellow rope. They’ll have to talk about it. What he means about doing it again, even though he didn’t die. That significant emptiness that shapes itself like craters in his chest. Or how it all coincides with facing so much with such little time, his self worth and respect like forks in a garbage disposal; clinking and whirring and dancing, then shredding and grating and screeching, and so irreversibly broken, they can’t be eaten off of anymore. And then he’ll probably have to see a therapist, explain what he told Eddie, and listen to suggestions.

For now, he dips forward until his forehead is on Eddie’s shoulder. Nose crushed against his shirt. He closes his eyes as he takes in the scent of an alive and well Eddie. A part of him wants to apologize for all this mess he’s left construed about. But knows the moment he even tries, he will soothed into much needed silence. “Will you hold my hand while you drive?” He murmurs into the base of Eddie’s neck. He’s still crumpled and misshapen, but somehow also held. Held in a way that reminds him of being a little kid. Cherished through fear in both parties. He supposes that’s what he is. Brain still exploring like he’s seventeen, before the demogorgon. A child in a sense. An overgrown weed.

“I will,” Eddie promises.

And so Steve nods. “I love you, too.” He wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, encircling barely, air still able to travel in the gap he creates where his bare skin doesn’t touch the cotton of Eddie’s shirt. Tangling his hands loosely. Not exactly grasping for something, but the suggestion of it. “I love you,” he murmurs once more. The words like white noise, but true.

He’ll say it more later. Curled on one end of Eddie’s couch while he sits on the other side. No space between them because Steve refuses to move his legs, the bottoms of his feet, socked and dry, shaped firmly to the soft give of Eddie’s thigh. In between moments, he’ll whisper the words. As a tape plays and the beats are bright and jingling, while he’s melancholy and still to the soft cushion. When Eddie mutters something indistinguishable, chewing on the end of his ballpoint pen. Over a plain turkey and American cheese sandwich, mayo smeared on his bottom lip, and Eddie wiping away the residue. A reverence focused on him like soft spotlight.

It’s death because he knows they won’t have forever.

He loves, though, and that’s enough to quell the fear that floods him.

He wades in Eddie’s soft touch. In his sticky lips. The lulls.

“I’m going to play my Beatles ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ album,” he tells Eddie. Because, much like the end of the album, love is all you need. He’s afraid. But he can be brave in Eddie’s arms, his warmth, his deserved life.

💕—————💕

[ghcstao3]

some AU rambles again :>

anyway. shadow!soap AU except soap doesn't really have any loyalty to them—doesn't have loyalties to anyone, for that matter. he operates on a self-preservation basis, for whatever outcome would benefit him the most; he doesn't care what or who he's fighting for, so long as they're the highest bidder. moral ground rocky at best, soap has a habit of completing a job, reaping the rewards, and disappearing before things get hairy.

and right now, it just so happens that shadow company is paying the most.

everything is going as expected, at first. but then the betrayal happens—and while soap doesn't care, doesn't feeling anything about it, he does wish someone would have told him beforehand. because now, dealing with the fallout, that need for survival presents him with two options: stay with the company that pays him well, or decrease his chance of getting killed by the 141 by ditching the company’s side.

because while the 141 is small, they're also mighty. soap has witnessed how efficient they are and, ultimately, decides that it's their side he'd rather be on. he does some mental calculations, and figures his benefit lies with the side that was betrayed. so, during that initial fiasco, soap follows ghost to las almas.

the bastard, however, is incredibly good at getting away—but after searching for the right channel and pestering and persuading the lieutenant some, ghost reluctantly agrees to let soap tag along, so long as he can make it to the cathedral on his own. and then, maybe then, he'll consider soap one of their own, at least temporarily.

obviously that's what soap wants, so soap does. he demonstrates his competence ten times over, proves he has no qualms with killing other shadows, and eventually makes it to the cathedral—all while being an unabashed flirt with ghost. he takes great joy in doing it, getting to hear the eye rolls in ghost's unimpressed replies, and see his irritation when they finally meet up.

soap does mean it, though; ever since he'd first met the man, soap knew he was going to make advances at one point or another. ghost was a tree he damn well wanted to climb. but it appears ghost has no mutual interest.

anyway, so on so forth, at some point ghost has a close call and for the first time since maybe childhood, soap does something self-sacrificial to save him after a lot of inner turmoil. thankfully, they both survive in the end, and soap realizes he has feelings going beyond a basic attraction—and learns that ghost had started feeling the same too, eventually, he'd just been reluctant to indulge since he hadn't thought soap trustworthy just yet. after all, he'd switched sides like it was nothing.

after everything is said and done, soap still operates with his selfish mindset, and still refuses to owe loyalty to others—others except for ghost, to whom he willing hands his heart; his entire being.

[inoreuct]

more sanji drinking angst plis,,, 🙏🏼😁

y’know, it’s normal when zoro drinks. he has an iron liver and a sky-high tolerance. he get mildly tipsy with the amount of alcohol sufficient to kill a regular man.

when sanji drinks, though, it’s usually… not very good.

they’re in the galley, have been since dinner. zoro’s drowsy and full and slumped over the table with his chin in his hand as he watches sanji scrub at the dishes until they squeak, divested of his suit jacket and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, and the cook looks haggard. they’ve all been expecting it, really, what with Whole Cake being a fucking doozy— but sanji’s been holding it together perfectly. big smiles and neatly-pressed suits and coiffed hair and all.

zoro knows him well enough to know that he’s due to break at some point. still, tonight is the first time he’s seen sanji like this; like he’d just decided to say fuck it all and throw pretence to the wind. maybe it had been thanks to the emptiness of the galley, save the both of them. maybe sanji had considered it safe because zoro was in no place to judge.

but when sanji had picked up that bottle of rum, he hadn’t put it down until there was nothing left.

zoro had let him drink. the cook hadn’t even been smoking any more than usual— hadn’t had a single hair out of place, no sign of the pressure except the strain at the edges of his smile. everybody had been walking on eggshells for the past few days and sanji had just kept going like nothing was wrong, which zoro knows means quite a lot is wrong, because sanji’s a self-sacrificial bastard who wouldn’t be able to ask for help if his life depended on it.

didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt, though. he’s felt like he couldn’t breathe, the whole of last week; it doesn’t feel right seeing the cook with a bottle between his lips instead of a cigarette, liquor wetting the corners of his mouth instead of smoke. it makes part of zoro tighten into a dead knot. on one hand, it’s an unspoken show of trust— deliberately left alone so as to not draw attention to it, but one all the same. sanji would never let himself go in front of anyone else like this. maybe a few months earlier he’d think the cook just didn’t care enough for his opinion and get all offended, but now?

sanji knows he’s here. he’s never unaware of his surroundings, and especially now after… everything. he’s believing that zoro won’t judge him, and he won’t. he doesn’t. but enough is enough, and sanji’s grip on the edge of the plate is tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

it’s almost a relief in a really twisted way. zoro’s been hovering by the sidelines, sleeping with one eye open and waiting for sanji to crack just so he can catch all the pieces before the cook falls apart completely, and it seems like this is it.

his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. “alright, let’s get you to bed.”

“no.” sanji doesn’t stop scrubbing. he doesn’t even bother looking up. “why?”

zoro scoffs. “because you’re fucking drunk, cook. you’ve been washing that plate for five minutes.”

“well maybe it’s just not fucking clean, yeah?” sanji spits, quiet vitriol leadening his words even with his head bowed, and his breathing is jerky as zoro walks forward.

“oi.” it doesn’t come out harshly, exactly, but he needs sanji to know that he isn’t fucking around with this. “What the hell’s going on?”

“i don’t know.”

“what do you mean you don’t—”

“i don’t know!”

zoro lurches back at the outburst as the cook whips around, seething within the span of a second, plate dropped carelessly into the water in the sink. he hears it thunk when it hits the bottom.

“i don’t know, alright?” sanji laughs, eyes wild. “nothing’s wrong. everything’s wrong. everything is fucking perfect and i feel like i’m fucking dying inside.” his voice cracks right before he takes a visible breath and turns sharply, dipping his hand under the water to grab the plate and sponge again.

zoro watches his shoulders tremble. every movement of his now is precise and carefully calculated; he’s moving like a fucking robot and zoro hates it. hates the way his spine looks rigid enough to snap with a touch. hates the way his face is a placid mask, still water with a storm roiling beneath. zoro doesn’t know how to approach this other than with barbed words and concern thinly veiled as confrontation. he doesn’t know what to do other than be here because it’s better than not being here at all.

sanji’s hands have been scrubbed pink and raw. “get out, mosshead.”

“no.”

the cook’s cuticles are peeling, his fingertips pruned. he never lets either of them get this bad. “i said get out—”

“and I said no.” zoro crosses his arms. he counts three seconds of silence before sanji snaps.

“god, for once could you fucking listen?!” the cook snarls, rounding on zoro like a cornered animal and waving his arms. “i don’t want to talk to you right now! i do not want you here! so please, fuck off and— put me down, you piece of shit!” sanji borderline screams, struggling and wiggling over zoro’s shoulder as he’s hauled up and marched out of the galley.

zoro winces as the toe of a steel-capped oxford jams into his ribs, digging in deeper as sanji grunts with the effort. he doesn’t know where he’s going but they end up outside the infirmary, and he shoulders the door open before depositing sanji on the bed without preamble. “stay,” he grunts, ignoring the noises of outrage and turning to go get water.

“you can’t tell me what to do,” sanji spits from behind him, cheeks red from more than just anger as he pushes himself unsteadily to his feet. he either doesn’t realise that he’s listing to the side or he doesn’t care.

“sit down or I’ll make you.”

the cook barks a laugh that snaps in the air like a neck in rope. “try! i fucking dare you, marimo, you—”

zoro tackles him down and he screeches like a trapped cat, trying to escape even as the swordsman pins his legs and shoves his shoulders down into the bunk. “you are drunk. stop it.”

“why?” sanji shouts in his face. the cook is straining against him, all wild eyes and bared teeth, shoulders jerking with a sardonic laugh. “don’t wanna fight anymore?”

“no. i don’t.” the air is suddenly too quiet, too heavy, with something zoro doesn’t know if he should name. he watches as the cook’s face falls and twists into something sullen as he tries one last time to jerk his way out of zoro’s hold. “not like this.”

their ship rocks gently as zoro slowly eases off, shifting his weight back and sitting on the edge of the mattress with a soundless, weary sigh. there’s still a stubborn set to sanji’s chin even as he lays there on his back, unmoving from where zoro put him— leave it to him to be contrary for the sake of being contrary. the swordsman takes a deep breath to suppress an eye roll and opens his mouth to say something—

“it hurts.”

zoro stills, turning so he can see sanji better. “what hurts, cook?”

“everything.”

the blond is staring at the ceiling, unblinking and unreadable. the fabric of his slacks is riding up and zoro swallows down the urge to curl a hand around his pale ankle for comfort. he tells himself he doesn’t know where the urge to soothe came from, but he knows, he knows— this melancholy is something that sanji buries so deep, none of them catch even a glimpse of it on a normal day. his face is a blank slate, his usual fire banked, and he looks so drained. an cracked shell of himself running on empty. “i don’t want to feel it. i don’t want to feel anything,” he continues, softly enough that zoro has to strain to hear, leaning in instinctively. 

glossy blue eyes flick over. golden hair scrunches against the off-white sheets as sanji turns his face towards him and whispers, “doesn’t that make me exactly like them?”

no. zoro swallows, at the same time both too wet and too dry, feeling a little like he’s been gutted with a dull knife. he says a mental to hell with it and slowly shifts his hand to wrap his fingers around sanji’s ankle, just a gentle grip, his thumb resting beneath the notch of bone. he can hear the soft sounds of the waves outside as it melds with sanji’s breathing, as he opens his mouth and comes up dry for things to say. “…get some sleep, curls.”

“can’t.” sanji purses his lips, shrugging a shoulder as he looks away like it’s no big deal. “can’t sleep. not well, at least. not since…”

zoro feels his own heart thud against his ribs as his gaze slips over sanji’s face, the redness rimming his eyes and the dark circles beneath. “i’m sleeping with you tonight,” he decides. 

the cook makes an aborted noise of indignation before apparently deciding that it isn’t worth the effort. “we can’t fit two people in a bed.”

zoro shrugs, unaffected in the face of the venomous look sanji shoots him. “we can try.”

sanji mutters something to the ceiling under his breath. the swordsman pretends not to hear it.

they end up crammed onto the infirmary bed, sanji squashed against the wall and zoro almost falling off. the blond wiggles around in discomfort for five minutes before sitting bolt upright with a hissed curse and undoing his dress shirt in a frenzy; zoro stifles a laugh as he balls it up and hurls it at the desk across the room before flopping back down with a loud huff. 

the cook scrunches himself up, spine pressed against the wall and one knee pulled up between them to maintain the distance, pointed at zoro’s gut as a subtle threat. “i’m not gonna bite you, y’know,” zoro grumbles. here he is doing this out of goodwill and this is how he’s treated. 

“i wouldn’t put it past you,” sanji snips in reply. “also, you stink.”

“no i don’t. i just showered.”

“irrelevant.”

“priss.”

“moron.”

“spoiled.”

“i have standards, you sentient piece of kelp.”

“you—” zoro grits out, before he stalls. somehow, throughout this whole exchange, they’d inched closer and closer together and now sanji’s shoulder is digging into his breastbone, his breath warm across zoro’s cheek even as a brush of his skin above the loose, low front of zoro’s shirt feels completely opposite. “why’re you so fuckin’ cold?” he mutters, briskly rubbing at sanji’s upper arms before the cook bats him away with a startled hiss.

“don’t—” he cuts off and huffs a harsh breath, sneering in the dark as he digs for the right word, “—coddle me.”

“why not?” zoro shoots back. the words are out of his mouth faster than he can process, but it’s too late to take them back. “give me one good reason and i’ll stop. just one.” 

the quiet that falls into place after that is broken by the sound of sanji’s swallow and nothing else. it’s nearly pitch-black; they’d put out the lamp on the wall and the infirmary has no windows. if zoro strains his eye he can see sanji’s outline curled close to his own front, golden hair darkened to honey and arms wrapped around himself.

he recalls how it had felt to have fine bones beneath his hand. how the cook hadn’t kicked him off. 

the hand he rests on sanji side is tentative. barely-there pressure, a ghost of a touch with enough space for sanji to back away. he settles his palm down more firmly after a few seconds, tracking his thumb up and down the bumps of sanji’s ribs, and he barely stops his breath from catching when the cook wiggles away from the wall and presses his spine into zoro’s hand. 

sanji’s looking at him. he can see the occasional flutter of long lashes, feel the weight of the cook’s attention like sanji’s preparing to say something, but it never comes. a soft breath slips from his lips before zoro feels a hand curl around his waist, fingers curling into his shirt. 

“sanji.”

the cook heaves a long-suffering sigh. it doesn’t hide how he’s affected by zoro using his real name; zoro can read him too well for that. knows him too well for that. “what.”

zoro readjusts, fingertips pressing into the small of sanji’s back to pull him closer, and wonder of wonders, the cook lets him. “you’re nothing like them.” 

he pretends he doesn’t feel sanji’s arm tighten around him after a few seconds. he notices that his shirt’s damp right before he falls asleep, right where sanji has his face buried in his shoulder.

he doesn’t mention any of it.

*

the next morning is… interesting.

zoro had woken to an empty bed, with the sheets just barely warm and hazy recollections of a lithe body tucked to his side, a leg thrown over his and soft hair under his chin. he stretches and ambles down to the galley, scratching at his stomach beneath his shirt as he yawns, and right on cue— sanji’s disdainful little tongue click reaches his ears, and he smiles. everything’s back to normal, then. 

there’s more of the usual; luffy getting yelled at to leave the eggs alone, i don’t care if you’re hungry, they are raw, and nami and robin being handed their special little tiny cups of coffee and tea respectively. the rest of the crew filters in, and zoro people-watches from his spot on the ratty corner couch before he eventually gets up and slides into his seat at the table. 

but when sanji takes his spot beside him, it feels different. the cook’s made onigiri for breakfast, the plate set down just a little closer to zoro’s side than usual before he sits, and zoro pauses with his chopsticks in the air as an ankle bumps into his. 

not roughly, or painfully, nowhere near, no. just a reminder. a small nudge that could say any possible number of things, but from the way sanji’s gaze meets his before darting away, he’d guess it’s the thank you that their cook always has so much trouble saying. it’s never a lack of gratitude— more of a refusal to acknowledge that he needed help in the first place, that he accepted it, but zoro will take what he can get.

the circles under sanji’s eyes aren’t quite so dark anymore.

zoro knocks back. he feels the rasp of his boot laces against the heel of sanji’s patent leather oxford, and neither of them pull away. the swordsman presses his lips together and takes a big bite to hide his smile, failing momentarily when sanji immediately starts berating his abysmal table manners, marimo, honestly, if you choke i will leave you to die, and yeah, sure. back to normal.

he catches sanji’s eye again, sky-cornflower-ocean blue, and he wonders what sanji could be seeing in his to make his face soften like that.

normal, and maybe a little something new. 

(he isn’t quite sure what to do the following night. sanji’s already in his own bunk when he slips in for a quick few hours of shut-eye, but it isn’t long before he feels someone climbing in with him, and he just knows instinctively without even needing to open his eye. they’ve got limbs hanging out here and there but they fit reasonably well and zoro wakes with sanji’s sleep shirt tucked in his fist and his thin blanket pulled up around his shoulders.

it goes on like this night after night to the point where their crew knows, he thinks. even if zoro discounts the fact that most of them share a bunkroom, they’ve still got to know something’s up; sanji glows like sunlight reflecting off the ocean now, real smiles and laughs that have him tossing his head back and holding his stomach, eyes in sapphire half-moons. robin brings it up offhandedly one day and zoro hums that proper sleep’s doing their cook good— she gives him that look that she does, and he turns away with a smile that he hides in his arm.

the first time sanji finds him in the crow’s nest, he’s still asleep when zoro’s watch ends. the cook’s stretched out on the bench above as zoro sits on the floor, hand draped down against zoro’s collarbone, his face so peaceful that zoro can’t— fuck, he can’t wake him.

and it can’t be comfortable lying on his own arm like that; zoro sits down and carefully pushes him up until sanji’s leaning on his shoulder, that sharp nose tucked under his jaw, and drifts asleep.)

(he stirs awake before sanji’s gone. his eye flutters open to find the cook mid-yawn, working out a crick in his neck and bathed in early-morning light, warm and golden. the cook realises he’s watching and freezes, shoulders going tense and stiff—

he deflates a little when zoro blinks at him, sleep-warm and bleary. “gotta make breakfast, marimo,” he murmurs, reaching out after a moment’s hesitation.

the hand that cups zoro’s cheek is gently callused and somehow familiar. he turns into it like a flower to the sun and breathes in something that he never even realised he’d gotten used to, olive oil and shoe polish and orange blossom pomade. “i know,” he replies, pressing the words into sanji’s palm, and a thumb drags across his cheekbone.

“need anything before i go?” sanji asks, and they both know it’s half a joke. what could he possibly give zoro in here? a dumbbell sandwich?

that other half, though— it’s far too serious. a cold plunge of water through zoro’s muddled early-morning brain. he knows what he wants, but zoro also knows that patience is a virtue for a reason.

the cook already has a hard enough time letting people in. zoro doesn’t want to push. the hand against his cheek is enough for him, even if it is all sanji could ever want, and so he slips the blond a wry grin. “onigiri?”

“you— ugh, fine.” sanji huffs. “anything else?”

zoro frowns, growing increasingly convinced that this is some sort of trap. these are unprecedented levels of generosity. “…protein shake?”

it takes all of two seconds before sanji puts his face into his hands, taking a deep breath before zoro hears something about having to do everything myself, don’t i? the cook plants his hands on his hips, tapping his foot with one brow arched. “of all the people in the world,” he mutters through his teeth, advancing on zoro with enough of a menacing air that the swordsman leans back into the backrest, “of course it had to be you.”

“me what?” zoro says warily, eyeing sanji up and down, and opens his mouth to continue before a fist grips his collar and there’s a brush of contact at his temple— a kiss, he realises, before all the thoughts drain out of his fucking brain.)

(he’s still reeling when he stumbles his way to breakfast. still wide-eyed as he washes the plates, for once, without complaint. it’s when it’s just the two of them, when zoro twists around to ask a question that he hasn’t yet phrased, that arms lock around his waist and sanji’s forehead presses to his nape.

they’re quiet for a long, long while. “you remind me that i’m not like them, y’know,” sanji breathes, barely loud enough to be heard.

zoro turns in his hold, hands dripping all over the floor, fuck, the cook’ll make him clean that up later, he knows and he isn’t even mad about it. “what do you mean, curls?”

sanji leans into him, all sharp edges and bony joints softened by lean muscle and zoro’s fondness, fingers long and thin and laced together over zoro’s hip. “i’m pretty damn sure they’ve never felt like this.”)

(not much changes after that. franky does make them a bigger bunk to share, though, and they fight perhaps even more fiercely now; afternoons are spent toying with each other across the deck, pushing their limits, pushing each other higher until nami yells at them to stop making a racket. zoro doesn’t pretend that he can’t tell when sanji needs a little more contact, keeping him close when perfectly filed nails dig into his shirt. sanji takes care of them all like he always does, and he lets zoro take care of him— most of the time, at least. it’s still a toss-up on whether he’ll explode or break down whenever anyone tries to help him, but with zoro it’s either both in succession or neither.

sometimes he picks a fight and then cries afterwards. others, he concedes to being wrapped in a ratty old blanket and tucked into zoro’s chest where he can hide from the world.

he sleeps through every night now, though. he’s fiery and sharp-tongued and bright-eyed and when he’s had a bit too much to drink he just gets loud, fooling around with their captain and cackling with nami in a corner of the galley between conspiratorial whispers, but zoro can’t deny him anything even though he’s fairly sure they’re plotting his downfall.

he wouldn’t have it any other way.)

[yourdoorisunlocked]

Kill Your Darlings - Part Three

𝐀/𝐍: I think I'll start posting the rest of this series on A03, while posting one-shots and requests on Tumblr. It's been cool posting my series here, but I prefer posting to A03 when it comes to longer fics.

Nonetheless, please enjoy!

➺ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 𝟑,𝟑𝟓𝟎

The incessant clicking of a mousepad and the mad ticking of fingers flying over a keyboard filled the barren kitchen, as he occasional moan of the wind rocking the apartment complex back and forth and the cold, hard blare of the silver screen on your laptop aggravated the pain of your headache.  

The tips of your toes just barely brushed against the frigid kitchen tile as you leaned obsessively over your computer, clicking away on the mousepad like it was your lifeline.  

At that point, it very well could’ve been, since the precious piece of technology held all of your answers, answers that Alastor wouldn’t offer you – not without a price. 

And you had nothing left to barter, since he already owned your soul – a thought that loomed over you when the demon wasn’t around to distract you from that chilling reality. Alastor owned you. He could’ve pushed you around like a dog strapped to a chain, and yet he didn’t. Most likely because he couldn’t truly control you, since you weren’t lost to his wrathful clutches just yet. 

So, using your timed freedom, you did some digging around on the web in a last-ditch attempt to find anything about Alastor himself, and his history. Know thy enemy, as the saying goes. 

But whether he was truly your enemy, would be tested with time. 

And right now, the blasted internet was proving to be a worthy opponent, since you were practically tearing your hair out by the bunches since you barely discovered anything about him. Still, you were determined to decode his mystery. Humans were terrifyingly efficient at finding each other, and dead ones would be no more difficult, even if you found squat about Alastor. 

Mark my words. I’ll find out who you are, Alastor.  

“Where there is a will,” you clicked away from the barren search results, fully prepared to surf around the dark web if you had to, “There is a fucking way.”  

Even though you hadn’t a clue to his origins or background, you were convinced that Alastor had to have been some kind of serial killer while he was alive, and you’d bet your soul on it.  

His personality fit the stereotype – a well-based one, at that – he was haunting your fucking radio – granted, a very swanky radio – and on top of that, Alastor was a literal demon . Maybe. You weren’t all that certain about what exactly he was, but there was too much evidence supporting the theory to consider him being anything but. 

Whatever the case, you were convinced. Alastor was, without a doubt, a bona fide serial murderer . Perhaps that ominous information should’ve put you on edge, but you were twisted too deep in Alastor’s captivating mystery to care. Fascination had overcome your fear of the unknown, and you were ready to dive in, and lose yourself in his mysterious past. 

But that was proving to be damn near impossible, when you could barely find anything about the bastard. He was a footnote in history, at best. No last name, no family members related to him, nothing.  

Still, you were determined. 

Leaning forward, you chewed on your thumb nail whilst scrolling through yet another forum that went into thorough detail about demon encounters and sacrificial rituals. Or, at least, a human’s rendition of them.  

You had sifted through a fair share of information on demons as well but turned up with virtually nothing, save for many helpful bold-lettered warnings that demanded to be heeded: Do not. Fuck. With demons.  

“Gee, thanks,” you muttered to yourself, clicking away from the site before groaning and massaging your aching temples. 

By all standards, it had been an agonizingly unproductive session of information-scouring. However, you had made some headway with a client of yours and finished most of your task list. Everything minor was shoved to the side in desperation of somehow piecing together Alastor’s intentions, stressing over his poorly veiled threats, and trying to figure out just whoever the hell he was in life. 

Just as you were about to yield to the great barriers of the internet, with nothing but an increased hopelessness and frustration at your lack of understanding of your new “Master” – as you were loath to call him – a soft wisp of a shadow flitting about the kitchen caught your attention out of the corner of your eye. 

“Hello, there,” you sighed without looking up at the shadow, already annoyed with its presence as it leaned over the counter with a smug grin.  

One glance at the computer and your hopelessness told it a thousand words regarding your predicament. 

“Yeah, yeah, you can gloat later. I got plenty done, anyhow.” You raised an eyebrow towards it. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about him, would you?” 

The shadow stared down at you, unimpressed as it crossed its arms, crackling curtly in response. Absolutely not.   

“Aw, come on, not even for a snack? I could make you something.” You nodded towards the fridge, grinning when it perked up and followed your glance. “Just throw me a bone here. Give me a hint, anything, and maybe I’ll give you a nice meal. How does that sound? C’mon, I’m sure you’re hungry.” 

Its emerald green sockets glimmered mischievously, and it bristled with a soft purr as it leaned down on the counter, practically drooling at the thought of a meal.  

A low rumble shook the floors with an unmistakable growl of hunger, and it whined softly. 

You pouted sympathetically. Seems like Alastor hasn’t fed it, recently.  

“Oh, poor baby,” it nuzzled into your soothing touch as you scratched behind one ear. “I’m sure he doesn’t feed you as much as he should,” the shadow’s stomach rumbled in response. 

“Resorting to bribery, are we?”  

You rolled your eyes as the radio flickered on, and you raised an eyebrow at it as it sat innocently upon the coffee table. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” You cooed down at the eager shadow as you completely ignored Alastor and his offended scoff.  

“Ignoring someone when they’re talking to you is quite rude, my dear-!”  

“I have some chicken that I can prepare for you. You can choose the spices, the temperature, whatever you want,” you were beaming cheekily when the shadow perked up, one fuzzy ear twitching towards you. 

“Temptress,” Alastor snapped. 

You at least had the decency to feel partly ashamed, though you just grinned triumphantly. You weren’t proud of having to barter for information, but whatever got you the scoop on Alastor was well worth it. 

“That’s right, just imagine those carefully baked, golden-brown edges, and oh, think of the spices!” Alastor rolled his eyes at your dramatic tone, choosing to peek through the shadow’s eyes at you. Pretty little temptress. You’d somehow tamed his shadow, and he was certain it wasn’t just the chicken that it was after.

To Alastor’s chagrin, the devilish phantom had all but leapt over the counter towards you, curling around you with a loud purr as it nuzzled into your neck.  

You chuckled at its antics and pushed yourself up from your seat, stretching your cramped back and legs and wincing from the lightning strikes of pain that shot up your joints from the hours of sitting in a hunched position. 

“Alright, let’s get you some food,” you scratched beneath its chin, and it hummed contentedly in response, its fluffy tail enthusiastically beating the air. 

“Traitor.”  

You cast a triumphant smirk at the slight pout in Alastor’s from the other side of the line. “Oh, I’m just doing some charity work. Clearly, you’ve been starving the poor thing,” you rubbed the shadow’s cheek, grinning smugly as it nuzzled into your neck with a soft coo. 

“Charity work!? You’ve seduced it with your wiles!” Alastor spat indignantly. 

You rolled your eyes while pulling out a few ingredients. “It’s food, Alastor. And you know what they say,” the shadow suddenly tittered and flew away from your side to rummage through the spice cabinet, “The way to a man’s heart, is through his stomach.” 

“It has no heart, and it is no man,” his tone darkened slightly, but you either took no notice or simply didn’t care as you took out the raw chicken from the fridge. 

“But it’s attached to one,” you grinned cheekily as the shadow returned with several spices in its arms while smiling widely with a wagging tail, while Alastor scoffed with a roll of his eyes. 

You clapped your hands. “Alright, let’s get to work.” 

. . .  

Alastor had grown quiet for most of the process, leaving you and the shadow in pure, content silence as you got to work around the kitchen. The shadow was entirely unbothered at his master’s sudden radio silence, instead choosing to make itself comfortable looming around your form while watching you season and prepare its supper. 

As you waited for the chicken to be cooked, you turned to the shadow who had been staring at you with its head resting upon its inky palm while watching you work with salivating, emerald eyes, simmering with the fire of raw gemstones.

“Now, I believe I was promised some information in return?”  

Static buzzed as it put a finger to its chin, humming softly before speeding off into the apartment, and it soon returned with a pen and paper and scribbled madly across the parchment. 

Alastor Hartifelt.  

As soon as the name tumbled from your lips, a loud record-scratching screech sounded from the living room.  

Ӻᵾȼҟ.  

But you didn’t even flinch at the ear-splitting noise as you grinned and nodded in approval, your determination flickering bright yet again. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere.” You barely got a moment to process your excitement at a new lead, a possible doorway to the holy grail of information about the strange, ominous demon haunting your actual radio-!  

Ding!  

The shadow’s ears twitched in the direction of the noise, and it was suddenly nipping at your nipping at your heels and pushing you insistently towards the oven. You were certain that it was drooling all over your floor, but you stifled your jittering excitement anyway. There were promises to be fulfilled, after all.

“Alright, alright!” Batting the phantom away, you grabbed the oven mitts with a sigh. 

“Not so easy now, is it?”  

“Oh, nobody asked you!” 

You soon plated the chicken and served it over to the phantom, who made quick work of the poor bird in mere seconds. At least it was already dead, you shuddered, trying to push the image of being ferociously torn apart by its razor-sharp canines out of your mind. 

It licked its chops with a satisfied rumble once it finished with not a crumb left on the plate you offered, and you were still reeling from the bizarre few minutes you spent watching it enjoy your cooking. 

I wouldn’t be surprised if it licked the plate. Seriously, how long has it been since the poor thing’s eaten?  

The shadow immediately curled around you as you sat down in front of the counter, hissing lowly at the laptop before burying its face in your neck with a soft growl. You didn’t want to be rude and shove it away, and besides, the shadow’s aura was surprisingly warm, which shielded you from the cold, drafty air of the apartment. 

And so, you allowed it to remain cooing and teething around your neck – as on-edge as it made you – while you typed Alastor’s full name into the search bar. 

As soon as you hit enter, the internet decided to be helpful again, and provided you with a golden website, containing any and all answers to your ever gluttonous curiosity for your new demonic companion, and his shadowy servant.

You smirked and ruffled one of the shadow’s ears. “Nice sleuthing, Alastor Jr.” The shadow grinned into your neck and pulled you even closer, while Alastor chuckled softly at the nickname, choosing to survey the laptop through the eyes of his ghostly scout. 

Not the first choice I’d make, since simply going down to the station would’ve sufficed.  Alastor sniffed and rapped his gleaming nails against his desk, eyeing the device with distaste. Then again, it doesn’t seem like those incompetent oafs would want an account of something so gruesome happening just beneath their noses staining their records!  

You relaxed into your seat, mentally preparing for the deep dive into Alastor’s shady past that you were about to take. It seemed that no information was buried enough to be obscured, so long as you were awfully specific with your search.  

But thank the merciful deities above that some history buff – who seemed quite outraged at the lack of discussion and information around their favorite serial killer – had taken it upon themselves to collect and piece together a consistent timeline of events, all centered around one Alastor Hartifelt. 

Got’chya.

You scrolled a little bit through the Godsent gold mine of information, baffled at just how much there was for you to access. Apparently, Alastor Hartifelt had been a charismatic personality on the radio, a beloved host and rising star in New Orleans. Around the time that he’d made his debut as a radio host, however, was when the murderers started. 

The presence of the Bayou Butcher rocked the city harder than any other scandal at the time, and you couldn’t blame the people for being so paranoid, after reading the brief description of his kills, and his M.O. 

You whistled. “Damn. You have quite the track record, Alastor.” 

“I’m well aware, my dear!”  

You raised an eyebrow at the sound of ruffling paper in the background, accompanied by the clicking of frantic typing. But it didn’t sound anything like the short tapping of a keyboard, and the telltale ring heightened your suspicions. He cannot be serious...  

“Alastor, do you have a goddamn typewriter?”  

“It’s essential, darling! Every good radio host needs a captivating script,” you laughed and shook your head. He’s committed to the bit, I’ll give him that. 

As you explored the very depths of the case surrounding the Bayou Butcher, you began to grow quite curious and weary of just how Alastor disposed of his victims. Unfortunately, there was a certain tab that fed into that very curiosity. At least they provided a warning, before you could view what came next. This one was on yourself. 

“Fucking Christ!” You nearly jumped out of your seat as you clasped your mouth in horror, eyes widened with terror at the gory, uncensored photograph of one of Alastor’s maimed victims.  

The poor soul’s belly had been slit open with a still-inserted butcher knife, with his rotting insides displayed for all to see and staining the floor with bile and undigested food. Squirming maggots and fat cockroaches feasted upon the corpse, which had been festering with mold and disease in Alastor’s basement for quite some time before the authorities found it. 

“Language, my dear~,” said demonic psychopath sang from the radio, and you were just about ready to chuck that thing out of your window as your eye twitched. 

“Prick...” you muttered, quickly scrolling away from the photograph. 

“I heard that.”  

“Greatest apologies, my liege,” you rolled your eyes. Alastor let out an amused huff but said nothing as he went right back to typing out his script. 

Bold headlines like ‘The Bayou Butcher Strikes Again!’ or ‘Victims Brutalized and Missing, Families Torn Apart’ were thrown around wherever you scrolled, and a mere glance at the cohesive timeline provided in one of the documents gave you a good window for how long Alastor had been active. 

“Huh. Seven years...” Alastor perked up at the sudden weariness lacing your meek voice. He had been tuning out for most of your little binging spree, instead electing to tuck into a book in the later evening, since sleep was seldom required for him. Nonetheless, he reluctantly took a peek through his shadow’s eyes to see what you were looking at on that blasted lap-top doohickey of yours, and dread filled his heart. 

Seems that some folks were quite fixated upon my choice of diet...  

Alastor bristled at the other end of the line, practically scenting the small flicker of terror. Your rising fear of him was building up again, and that just wouldn’t do.

Sure, Alastor was cruel, a monster, even, and he knew it. His deeds would instill fear in the hearts of even the most hardened soldiers, and his gluttony, his bloodlust knew no bounds. But not to you, not to the poor, lost little lamb that he’d so graciously taken into his care, that practically domesticated his shadow, who bantered with him. And just when he’d finally broken down a small part of your walls- 

“...So, is it true?” 

Alastor raised an eyebrow, halting from his tireless typing for a moment. “Is what true, my dear?”  

“That you...” you held back from gagging, and a slick smile crept onto his gray lips, “That you ate some of your victims?” 

Sighing, he leaned back in his cushioned chair and gripped the small microphone that he used for broadcasting. The idea of lying to you, treating you like everyone else prickled at his heart with resentment. There was no need to push you away. You were different. It would be different, this time. 

It had to be.

With a defeated sigh, Alastor nodded, though you couldn't see him. At least you’d know, now. At least there wouldn’t be any secrets between you two. 

“Yes,” was the demon, the cannibal’s resounding answer, and the room grew a few degrees colder with tension.  

You’d known that Alastor was... shady, at best. But now, it was out. It was certain. Alastor was a dangerous man, during life and death, but you knew that from the jump.

But at least he told you the truth, and maybe you could count on that, which was a strangely comforting thought. 

You sighed with relief. “As long as you don’t force me to try it.” Alastor chuckled along with you, grinning wider when you clicked away from the computer and sat back with a tired sigh.

“I think that’s enough snooping for tonight. ‘Night, Al’,” you yawned and softly rolled the shoulder that the phantom had been leaning on, and it retracted reluctantly with a soft whine. 

“Wait-!”  

You paused. Turning to the radio, you cocked an eyebrow at the desperation in Alastor’s voice, and he seemed to notice it too, since an awkward silence followed. Heat crept up the radio host’s neck, prompting him to itch and pull at his collar with a low snarl. 

Alastor fucking loathed this feeling. 

“Did you... Did you see anything else? Anything that caught your eye, perhaps?”  

It was the first time that Alastor had spoken to you with anything but suave confidence. “No, why? Is there something even worse than cannibalism, that I should know about?” Crossing your arms, you leaned against the threshold of the living room. 

Alastor softly cleared his throat. “No, nothing like that, my dear. I was simply curious as to how much information was disclosed...” he straightened in his seat, refusing to recognize his anxiousness. “Any mentions of family, spouses, perhaps...?”  

You shook your head with a negatory hum. “Nope, it was all just about you. Why’s that? Did you have a wife? Or a husband?” 

“Just wondering, darling,” he replied hastily, choosing to side-step that question as relief flooded him.

You eyed the radio sympathetically. “Sorry, if that’s... a bit too personal for you. I get it, if you don’t want to talk about it.” Shrugging, you started down the hallway with a wave and a yawn. “Goodnight, Alastor.” 

Alastor watched you, yearning, remorseful eyes tracing the familiar, soft curves of your form as you disappeared down the hallway.

And he answered your final words of the night, a solemn whisper against the cold, bleak air as memories of decades passed invading his memory, threatening overflowing emotions to pool to the surface. 

If you only you could hear the choke in his voice, the restrained tears, the remorse, the regret.  

“Goodnight, my darling.”  

. . .

𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: Thank you for reading <3 It'll be a while before I post here again, since I'll be focusing on my series on A03. If you'd like to read the rest of the fic, I'll put my account below for ya'll

𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 - A03

. . .

➺ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @starsformydarlingmazel, @chitter-chatter, @hazzbindarlingg, @darkangel582, @matrixbearer2024, @prosciuttosblog, @frog-fans-unite, @mysterypotatoink, @burgerflipper72, @chibikochannumberone, @strawberry-gothic, @roboticsuccubus83, @lulurubberduckie, @fangirlanxiety74, @viviannagiorgini, @localmsifan, @justtnat, @karolinda007-blog, @mglawwica, @wonderlandangelsposts, @saitisfied, @repostingmyfavs, @weirdflower2024, @montis-posts, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @theperfectmangovoid

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[carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich]

Diaboy Yandere Quiz Results

So if you haven't taken my "which one of the diabolik lovers boys would go yandere for you?" quiz, you might want to do that before reading the rest of this post. If you have taken the quiz and are curious as to what the other results are like but don't want to retake said quiz 14 times, then this post is for you! Below the cut are the yandere!diaboy x reader drabbles for every diaboy + Karl that I wrote for the quiz.

Quick warning: These drabbles feature dark content including themes of imprisonment, torture, blackmail and stalking.

Combined these results have a total word count of 3.4k :') If you enjoy them, let me know which one is your favourite!

Shuu

You’re crying again. You’re not being loud about it but from where you’re currently splayed half on top of him—the heat of you warming his bones in lieu of the fireplace he refuses to light—it would be impossible for him not to notice the faint trembling of your body and the growing wet patch on his shoulder. There isn’t any point in saying much when you’re like this, which is somewhat ironic when you’re the only person he’d even consider putting the effort in for. Instead he shifts slightly, moving his arm over you so you’re more securely held against him while the other slips out one of his earbuds and places it into your ear instead. He’s not stupid, he knew what dragging you to the other side of the world—far away from everything you’d ever known—would do to you, but if he’s honest with himself he’d do it again in a heartbeat. It was your own fault, in a way, for making him care, for making the fear when he saw the way Reiji looked at you sharp enough to cut through the numbness he’d lived with for so long. Yes, it was you who’d sought him out in the first place, so no matter how miserable you might be now, you only had yourself to blame.

Reiji

The tea in your cup is poisoned. You’re sure of it, even without the faint bitterness tainting the delicate aroma, you can tell from the look in Reiji’s eyes alone—you’ve seen it often enough. The question is what concoction he’s prepared for you this time; whether he’s decided he’d rather you be numb and pliant or feverish with want. Still, you do not break your composure, remaining the image of grace as you lift the cup to your mouth. The tight corset your captor has forced upon is not nearly as constricting as the way he watches you, his own cup left ignored on the table. Months ago you’d have scoffed at the idea of someone willing drinking poisoned tea, but now you are aware the consequences if you do not will be far worse than whatever toxins he’s prepared for you. He won’t kill you, you don’t think, not when the way he looks at you can only be described as obsessive. You used to think it came from his desire to mold you into his ideal of a perfect partner, but now you’re not so sure. Sometimes, when you catch him watching you while you’re supposed to be asleep, you wonder if just maybe he simply wants you. A pity for him then, that no matter how many restraints he binds you with or drugs he pours down your throat, you will ensure your heart remains forever out of his reach.

Ayato

Blood always tastes at its best when the person being drunk from enjoys it. It’s something Ayato figured out after the old bastard let them loose in the human world, the occasional sacrificial bride being ferried in to keep them from causing enough trouble to attract unwanted attention. But no blood has ever tasted as sweet as yours when you’re pinned down beneath him, whimpering in the ecstasy of having your lifeblood drained away and mixing with his. He draws away only briefly to take note of your expression, eyes screwed up with tears of pleasure brewing at the corners. You look amazing like this, even better than you had in the cute little cheerleading outfit you’d worn to school sports games, back before he’d had his first taste of you. You’d screamed the first time, your usual bright enthusiasm falling off your features as you’d realized what he was. And yet you’d still come to your practice the very next day, a brightly coloured band-aid on your neck to hide the marks. When he’d come back for a second bite, you’d only struggled a little—enough to keep things interesting, but not so much that you could fool him into thinking you were actually trying to get away. No, you want to be here, he’s certain of it, and he’s generous enough to keep you.

Kanato

You’re alone again today. Sitting perfectly still, empty bento box in your lap, eyes shut as you listen to a soft melodic tune through your headphones. You look lovely like this, the moonlight filtering through the window painting the planes of your face a silvery hue. It's only the fact you look so peaceful—almost like one of his wax dolls—that keeps Kanato from tearing your headphones away. He will, once he's had enough of watching you like this, and he knows from your previous encounters that the wide-eyed expression you’ll make is almost as good as the one you wear now. The still healing marks from his fangs peek out from the collar of your white school shirt and the corner of his lips twist. You’ve not told any of your schoolmates of any of your encounters, he’s certain of it from how closely he’s been watching you. If anything, you’ve isolated yourself even further than you already were, only briefly exchanging pleasantries in that barely there voice of yours he’s grown so fond of. The air stirs faintly, a gentle breeze through a cracked open window, and you open your eyes. The fear is immediate as you take in his face, close enough to yours that you should have been able to feel his breath—if he had any need to breathe. He does now, to take in the scent of your terror, and it is oh so very sweet.

Laito

Laito has broken so many mortal things, he’s long since lost count. He can’t even remember what all of them looked like, but he does remember the expressions on their faces in their final moments—fervent devotion, desperation and sometimes just pure madness. You, however, he’s had for months, and yet the light has yet to fade from your eyes despite his very best efforts. Sometimes you even look at him with pity—likely due to what you’ve put together of his history from the scraps of it scattered over the manor—though those days have grown less frequently since he made your move to his room a permanent affair. Now when you look at him, it’s mostly filled with a hatred that burns brighter than any emotion he’s ever had from his other lovers. It’s intoxicating, more so than even your blood. Laito’s not sure when exactly he stopped wanting anyone else to see it—or when he stopped wanting anything else for that matter. He thinks you feel the same way, that you’d like nothing more than to see him dead, enough that it keeps the spark inside of you burning bright. You’d confessed to believing in love once in the early days and he’d laughed at you for it. Even now the memory makes him scoff, for the love you spoke of that day could never possibly compare to this.

Subaru

You get the impression you’re being watched. It’s subtle at first, a small movement at the corner of your eye that vanishes as soon as you turn towards it. A faint prickle on the back of your neck every so often when you walk through the hallway. It doesn’t take long for things to escalate, until you can no longer shake the feeling of eyes on you almost everywhere you go. You think there’s something else going on too, the underclassman who you could have sworn had a crush on you now refuses to so much as look at you and he’d gone running like the devil himself was on his tail when you’d tried to approach him. Other people around you have started behaving weirdly too, a strange hush following you wherever you go, your fellow students going out of their way to avoid jostling you when you have move classrooms between lessons. There is one constant in all of this, and you’re starting to wonder if he might somehow be responsible for it. Subaru Sakamaki, despite the prestige of his father’s name, has the air of someone who’s had a difficult life. You’d decided to make an effort to be kind to him when you’d first noticed it, not necessarily going out of your way to hunt him down, but to grant him a little more patience and understanding than you might normally. He’s currently the only person who hasn’t started acting like you’ve contracted some horrible contagious disease, but you do catch him looking at you strangely sometimes. The moment he notices and immediately turns away are the few occasions you no longer feel watched. His expression in those moments is a bit like someone caught between wanting something but feeling conflicted over whether or not they should have it. And for some reason, the thought that he may eventually make up his mind fills you with nothing but dread.

Ruki

You’re being difficult again. It’s not that Ruki had believed you were past this stage—far from it in fact—but he had thought the punishment you’d received in your last session with him might have at least served as a temporary reminder to not push his limits again so soon. He knows the wounds have yet to properly heal from the faint trace of your blood that blossoms in the air whenever you move in a way that strains the skin of your back—and yet still you insist on running your mouth. Ruki regards you coldly for a moment. Back when he’d first met you, he might have mistaken the look on your face for defiance, but now he takes note of how brightly your eyes shine, the faint tremble of your lower lip. You’re lashing out because you’re afraid, like a cornered animal that hasn’t yet learnt not to bite the hand that feeds. He closes his book and places it to the side, not missing the way you try to hide your flinch as he stands up. There need to be consequences for this type of behaviour, there’s no point in putting this much effort into your training if not, but rather feeling annoyed, Ruki finds himself almost pleased at the prospect. For as much as your insolence grinds, there’s something about the way your tough façade breaks almost as soon as he gets started—and in the way you fall apart under his hands with the sting of antiseptic that follows. You cling to him sometimes, half delirious with pain, and it’s those moments he finds he savours the most.

Kou

Kou chuckles as you cling onto his arm, still unused to the heels he’d forced you into before you left the mansion. It’s honestly pretty cute, although not as cute as the way you keep glancing around anxiously, convinced that at any moment now his fans will appear around the corner and start baying for your blood. That same fear, however, is the only reason you’re here in the first place—his demand in return for not posting staged pictures of the two of you tangled together online. You’re actually doing pretty well all things considered, you even manage to flash him a wobbling smile when he tells you about the café he’s taking you to. Kou can’t quite decide what he likes most about about your little arrangement—that you’ve gotten good enough at acting that he can almost pretend you’re on a date with him because you want to be, or that the scent of your fear in the air tells him is doesn’t really matter because he has you right in the palm of his hand. 

Yuma

Yuma’s used to people being intimidated by him. If not for his stature, and it usually is, then the way he speaks is often enough to set those around him slightly on edge. Not you though. No, the first time you meet, you look him dead in the eye without a hint of any sort of fear in your face. It’s not a judging look either, more of an assessment, that you realize he is used to being one of the biggest people in the room but that will carry no weight with you. It feels more like a challenge than anything else, and he feels the tips of one of fangs peek out from where the corner of his lip curls into a smirk. You never show fear when you look at him in any of your subsequent meetings either, even when you really should—like now, when he’s keeping your hands secured above your head with only the sheer weight of him. You're not stupid enough to put up a real fight, not when you can already feel the strain on your bones from his grip, but you are stubborn. And the defiance in your face even when you’re pinned helplessly just makes your blood taste all the sweeter for it.

Azusa

It had been an accident, the first time you’d pushed him down the stairs. You’d been in a rush, running late to one of your classes, when you’d tripped over your own feet, the hand you threw out to steady yourself slamming into the back of someone you hadn’t realized was there. All you could do was watch with a look of horror as the figure lost their balance and fell right down the otherwise abandoned stairwell. Perhaps you should have registered there was something wrong then, when instead of crying or getting angry at you or having any sort of normal response to being shoved down a set of stairs, Azusa—as you’d later come to find out his name was—had simply sat up and stared up at you like you were some kind of god. The second time you’d pushed Azusa down the stairs was less of an accident. He hadn’t left you alone after the first unfortunate incident and no amount of apologizing or promises it wouldn’t happen again were enough to get rid of him. One day, he’d managed to corner you after the ring of the final bell, standing so close you could feel an eerie coldness emanating from his body, and you felt the final threads of your patience snap. In truth, you hadn’t registered how close you were to those wretched stairs—too focused on the primitive part of your brain that screamed to get away from the strange boy—and thus, the quick short shove you gave him was enough to send him tumbling a second time. You’d stood there, frozen, as he slowly sat up, a rivulet of blood trailing down his face from where he must have knocked his head on the way down. And yet the injury was not the most appalling part of the scene. No, that right was reserved for the look of pure adoration in his eyes, directed straight at you.

Carla

You’re too kind for your own good. It’s something Carla’s become painfully aware of over the months he’s known you. At first he’d believed you were simply frightened by him, acting on his wishes to avoid his wrath as so many others had done in the past. But he’s familiar with the scent of your fear now and it is not fear you feel when you check on him after hearing the Endzeit-induced coughs from his room or when you make dishes with cured ham for him after he let slip that he was fond of it. It is a weakness, he thinks, but one he could perhaps tolerate if simply reserved for him. It is not however, anyone who crosses your path is greeted with your good nature and it eats at Carla’s insides far more than the disease rotting his blood. He is the Founder King, he should be able to have what he wants. And he will have you, all of you, so that no one else ever will.

Shin

Shin knows you like him, at least, he’s nearly certain of it. Because despite the hell he’d put you through after you first met, you’d still ended up hanging around him. The once fear-filled look on face whenever you saw him slowly becoming resigned until, at some point, your gaze had started to turn heated. For Shin’s part, you’d only been a bit of idle amusement at first, someone to terrorize whenever the frustration of his and Carla’s situation got to be too much. Eventually, however, your interactions had gone from being a way to pass the time to something he looked forward to; a wolf anticipating a meal. It was the first time he’d noticed the look of want in your eyes that he’d started to feel the same. So then why? If you want him, why does he never quite feel like he has you? His initial conclusion had been that it was something to do with Carla, that you were trying to pull one over on him to cosy up to the Founder King. But no amount of stalking from you from the shadows or checking on your scent every time he saw you had revealed that anything was going on between the two of you. If anything, you actively avoid his brother—Shin’s only ever seen you in the same room together when he himself is present. Perhaps you’re still hung up on how your relationship started, some part of you yet to forgive him for all the things he did to you. Or maybe, you’re doing it on purpose. After all, you’ve seen enough of his wolf form to know that when something runs away, there’s always an instinctive drive to chase.

Kino

Kino makes it seem like a coincidence when he runs into you outside of the local games arcade. You have no need to know he’d seen your social media post featuring a photo of a popular new café, the one opposite the shop he’d lingered in, waiting to stage this particular encounter. He’s done it a couple of times now—pulling at the strings attached to you to arrange these chance meetings. A couple of months ago he could never have imagined putting this much effort into a single human, especially one who wasn’t the Vampire Lord’s chosen Eve, but now it's turned into a game of sorts—to what degree can he entangle you in this web before you start to notice. It’s going well so far, you think him a simple classmate who’s a regular in the area—you’ve even given him your ID for a couple of the games you have on your phone. Tonight’s looking to be a lot of fun too. In just a couple of minutes, the friend you’d been hanging out with will get a call from their mother who should have just received a selection of pictures showing her precious darling skipping the cram school she paid oh so much money for. The friend will likely get called home—a shame, Kino will say, with a smile on his lips, but there’s no reason he and you can’t still have some fun before the night is over.

Karlheinz

Under any other circumstances, the scene before you would have had you swooning. A meal not out of place in a Michelin star restaurant laid out beautifully before you on top of an intricately carved antique table with possibly the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on seated at the opposite end to you, swirling a glass full of a rich, red liquid. The view out of the floor to ceiling windows is spectacular, a sky full of stars and a view of the forest and various small towns far below. Except these are not other circumstances, and the man who sits, watching you carefully as you cut into your food is none other than the Vampire King himself—and you are quite certain that it’s not wine that sits in his cup. The view is no comfort either, not when you know you are looking out over the demon world, a place that you’re sure would be quite hostile to you if not for the protection of the man keeping you here. Not that you’d gotten any real chance to see it save for the view from the castle you hadn’t left once in the months since you’d arrived here. You tell if the complete lack of any sort of guard makes you feel better or worse, on one hand at least you’re not followed everywhere, but on the other hand, the fact Karlheinz is powerful enough to keep you here without them makes the odds of escape seem slim. 

[lavenderslabyrinth]

A Sacrificial Game 2

King!Dragon x Reader

Masterlist

p.t 1

pt. 3

Welcome to part two! I'm a very slow writer so you may notice that I posted these parts somewhat consecutively. That's bc I wrote part one last year;;; I know, I know, but I got a new keyboard and I'm obsessed with the way it feels so hopefully it will get me back into writing again! Does anyone even read these...? Gah whatever. Enjoy!

CW: ♢ Abduction ♢ Blood/Injury ♢ Mention of Forced Stripping (Brief, not done by love interest) ♢

The next time your eyes opened back up to the dreary world, a groan was involuntarily passing through your lips. Pain. Fuck. Every breath felt like you were splitting open, and as a result, moving was not a very appealing option. Your ribs, whether fractured or broken, you didn't know. But, oh, it was undeniable something was wrong.

The pain had you sweating despite the night's air being blisteringly cold-- colder than it should have been for this time of year, and the more you got your bearings, the more you were able to process what was around you.

A single, dingy lantern hung from the wooden ceiling above you. It swung wildly with every bump and jostle, the flame within it threatening to flicker out each time. The room you were in was moving, no, no room, you were in a carriage. You tried to push through the pain to get yourself up but found your movements restrained-- expensive looking silk ropes curling around your body and a simple white gown you hadn't been wearing before was now draped over your figure. Though pretty, and far more expensive than anything you'd ever owned before, it did little to ease the painful shivers that wracked through you.

You'd been washed, groomed, and redressed with care, but hot rage filled your chest nonetheless. You'd had little to nothing to your own name-- living still with your family and no claim to a spouse, child, or land.

They've stripped you of those things. Taken away your chance at a normal life, and now, too, they've taken your dignity.

A particularly rough bump in the road sent your body up and off the ground for just a moment before slamming you back into the rough wood of the floor. By the Damned... The pain left you winded as a stabbing sensation shot through your entire body.

"Are you alright?" A meek voice spoke up from above you. There, on one of the benches, a meek priest looked down at you with sad eyes full of pity. Was he also Chosen? Were you both about to meet your end? No... His hands were not bound behind his back as yours were-- instead, they freely laid folded in his lap.

Your gaze hardened and, seemingly unable to stand it, he looked away in shame. “Why are you doing this?” You asked coldly--you knew... but hope was still pushing back the dread that was steadily gathering in your gut. He didn’t answer at first, instead he simply shrunk into himself more, as if somehow he would be able to curl around himself and hide away from your accusatory eyes. “Where are we going?”

It took time for him to give you an answer. Time you, whether willingly or not, gave. The air thick with the silence between you two, only broken periodically by the groan of wheels or the creaking of the lantern above, but with your stubborn, uninterrupted glaring, he broke.

"The border that separates man from beast... you've been Chosen."

Bastards. Those bastards! What were the chances?! Did they even actually draw?!

It kind of dawned on you that... they may not have. You questioned authority often, butting heads against those who supported this horrific tradition-- many of the higher officials found your outspoken presence to be a nuisance, and with their own unmarried children to look out for..... Was it really that far of a stretch to say you'd been sacrificed in more ways than one?

"...Let me go." You demanded, and when you were met with resistance, your rage bubbled over. "Let me go this instant! Now!" Shouting hurt, but the fear and adrenaline eased your pain into fuel for your rage.

“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Harder than it has t- was he fucking kidding?

“You cruel bastard! Damn you and damn that Temple as well!”

As though the carriage had also had enough of your behavior, the jostling movement stopped. With an eerie croak, the doors swung open to reveal the drenched silhouette of gruff looking man in temple garb. If it would have been a stranger you saw, it would still have been equally terrifying, but perhaps it would have hurt a bit less.

You immediately recognized the man as Father Kyron, and a cold weight settled in your gut. The Father had watched you grow and mature since before you could walk-- often taking the time out of his day to play ball or sneak treats to the other children after services had ended. He'd always been such a warm pillar of the community, someone everyone could feel safe with. But those kind eyes that had always looked on at you before were now completely vacant of that gentle affection.

A monster was all that was left.

The rain pelted down on his leather-clad shoulders, cold droplets splattering onto you from the force of their impact. Whether or not he was a holy man of the temple, he looked nothing short of a demon in this moment.

Your screams went ignored as you fought not to be dragged out by your hair; body being dumped unceremoniously into the ground's painful embrace.

Kyron didn't spare you another glance as he once more took ahold of the reins. The priest did the same, shutting the wooden doors with a slam, snuffing out the little light the lantern within had to offer you.

The raging tides of emotions slowly simmered away as the carriage finally moved out of view, and now, instead of anger, hopelessness began to ease it's way into your veins. What could you do? You'd been abandoned. Left to lie in the dirt with only the echoing throbs in your side to keep you company.

Your screams turned to wails, then to sobs, and then to silence. And for a few moments you sat there, unable to process the shock of it all.

There's a funny thing about shock that no one tells you about. When there are plenty of important things for your mind to race through-- whether that be the betrayal of a beloved mentor figure, what would happen to your family, if your father was alright, who would tell Alikar... your mind often defaults to something insignificant; something harmless. And all you could think about were those damn peaches that had been laid together so carefully in your mother's wicker basket by Alikar's careful hand.

Had they all been trampled into the ground? Or would your family be able to salvage the last things you touched into something good and safe and warm for themselves...

Your eyes fixated on watching the way the rain thinned your blood and how it trailed down your skin to mix with the mud beneath you. The colors sickeningly seeped into the once pure white satin of your dress like the branching of a tree. The fabric feeling like it took root to your skin as it clung uncomfortably to your figure. It was a suffocating feeling and, surprisingly, was enough to bring a grimace to your face and give your mind enough clarity to realize footsteps were fast approaching where you sat.

"Here! Over here!"

"Damn it all, I knew I heard something!"

"Get the towels, the poor things soaked!"

Unknown voices made their approach accompanied by the warm, softened glow of lantern light. Though vaguely, you could make out the figures of a small group of armor-clad individuals.

Perhaps it was a bit of a cliche. The knights in shining armor coming to the maiden in distress-- but you could afford little to focus on the irony of it all. All you knew was that whomever held that lantern would be a fate far kinder than hungry animals or a slow fall to the elements.

Saved.

You were saved.

"H-Help me" Was all you could muster, the relief allowing exhaustion and weakness to finally take root in your body. Lead weights settling in your limbs and a quiver in your voice.

The closer they came, the clearer you could see them. They were guards, no doubt patrolmen assigned to protect the border, but very obviously not those of the human kingdom.

Otherfolk

Primarily shifters from what you could tell because, despite their mostly human appearances, their natural, beastly features still shown through. Large rabbit ears, a long flowing tail, wings stuck to their backs, or faces that just weren't quite arranged in the typical human fashion.

To some it would have an been off putting sight, but frankly after all the interaction you'd had with humans for the day... an inhuman face was a welcome sight.

"We've got ya, we're here to help, don't be scared." The rabbit shifter cooed, her gentle paw-like hands cupping your face sweetly as the bat's nimble fingers worked away at your bindings.

Her palms were soft and warm, the sleeves of her tunic smelling like the herbs and incense your mother often used at home. Your eyes closed as you couldn't help but lean into her comforting touch. For a moment, just a moment, the thumb swiping away your tears was not that of a stranger, but your mother. And for a moment... just a moment. You weren't shivering in the cold rain of an unknown land, but instead simply sat at the kitchen table at home waiting for peach pie on your birthday...

---

---

---

Ah. Was this death? If it was... it was peaceful. Never before had the space around you felt so soft and warm, and, faintly, there was the gentle scent of citrus in the air.... but was death supposed to be this painful?

Inhaling deeply, you winced, eyes cracking open as you moved blearily to try and sit up only to experience probably one of the most excruciating pains you'd ever felt.

"Easy! Oh, easy, my lady!" A familiar voice fretted, those same gentle hands from before supporting your weight with surprising strength against your shoulders. Carefully, she eased you back in place. "Lie down, the doctor gave strict orders for you to rest as much as possible until the healer can arrive. They aren't broken, but whomever you put up a fight against did one hell of a job on your ribs."

Your gaze fixated on the rabbit as she began to visually check you over once more with her large, rounded black eyes. She wasn't very tall, a bit below average at most, and held a very lithe figure. But despite that, she was donned with heavy, metal plated armor kept a sword neatly sheathed at her hip.

"Who.. are you?" You cringed as your voice was much rougher than expected, but who could blame you? After a night of screaming into the cold like your life depended on it, because it most certainly had, anyone's voice would have been a bit spent.

Without missing a beat, the rabbit shifter handed you a warm glass of water, which you greedily gulped down as she spoke.

"My name is Eve. I am a member of the king's guard here at the palace. I've been assigned as your personal guard, my lady." She bowed at the waist with a practiced precision, her fluffy ears tilting back so as to not land in your lap. "May I know the name of the lady I serve?"

"Hey, pause. Palace?" You full-stopped your assault on the glass of water and took your first good look at your surroundings. Sure enough, it was far from your typical healers hut or hostel.

The sheer size of the bed alone was the first thing you noticed. It was definitely made for something, or rather someone, that was far larger than you as the length of it easily extended another three or four feet past where your own legs ended. The tall, expertly carved banisters loomed over your head, supporting a canopy of heavy silks that seemed to trickle to the floor like water.

And the room

What a room it was. It was as massive as the bed with pristine, marble cut floors and high arching windows. Beautifully intricate moldings were placed all around, masterfully crafted to perfectly mirror one another. It was a chamber fit for a lady, no, a princess-- both of which you were not.

"I... don't think I'm supposed to be here." You murmured, eyes still trailing over the details of the walls that practically dripped with luxury.

Eve's ears tilted back once more, this time nervously as her tiny mouth curved into a frown. "Is the room not to your liking, my lady? I can ask to have you moved to something bigger--"

"No! Goodness no! This is more than enough! Too much, actually." You stumbled over yourself in your haste to not be fussed over to such a grand extent, which made Eve's expression falter from one of concern to confusion. "I'm not a noble," you clarified. "My name is (y/n), just (y/n)." Back home, impersonating a noble was enough to lose a limb if you were lucky-- your head if you weren't. Hopefully, if you cleared up the confusion quick enough, whoever misunderstood and brought you here would be more lenient with their anger.

"How could I dare call the future queen by her name?"

"......Pardon?" Surely you hadn't heard that right. "The what?" Was it.. the shock? Yes, the shock. It must have not worn off yet, that was all.

"The future Queen. I'm afraid it isn't my place to elaborate any further, lady (y/n), but I assure you once his Highness' meeting finishes up he will be here to speak with you himself."

So it wasn't the shock... and the king of beasts himself would be coming here, to you, like.. this?

You didn't need a mirror to know you were ill prepared to be meeting royalty. Your hair and skin still felt dirty and strange from your previous night's rather rough introduction to the ground, and your clothes... well, perhaps more accurately described as the lack thereof...

You felt your cheeks heat in a bit of embarrassment as you gently lifted the warm blankets to peer below. You still wore the underwear you'd had on before, identifiable by the stains of blood and dirt which had settled permanently in the crevices of the fabric, but what covered the rest of your torso and legs were bandages and dressings. Your cuts and bruises had been treated, rather professionally at that if the skill and quality of the supplies had anything to say about it.

But still, it was far from a dignified look.

As if reading your mind, your rabbit knight chimed in once more. "Don't worry, my lady, his Highness is an understanding and gentle ruler. He won't judge you for something like being wounded."

While it was sweet Eve was attempting to comfort you, you were less worried about appearing weak and more focused on the fact you were damn near naked-- though that was probably an idea that mattered a lot less to someone completely covered in fur... You didn't have the heart to tell her that though. Not when she was so eager to please and had that hopeful look in her eyes.

Not that you would have had the chance to anyway as, without so much as a knock, the two heavy doors to the room swung open.

Your hands moved in a flurry to gather the thick comforter up over your chest, your startled eyes locking with another's, and for a moment, the both of you paused.

He was tall, taller than any man you'd ever known, with shoulders just as broad that laid draped in a dark-stained cloak. It was still wet with rain and what you could guess was blood based off the thicker, red pigment that dripped from the bottom hem. Heavy, leathery wings sat poised behind him like two elegant, massive shields as his spear-like tail swung languidly between them. It was evident why everything here was the size it was now. He was massive. He was imposing. And he was horrifically attractive in a way no boy from your village could ever hope to compare.

He didn't need the crown or fine clothing to be identified. You could feel the authority he held in the air the moment he entered the room, and immediately upon seeing him, you understood the stories of your kingdom's best soldiers turning tail the second his taloned foot stepped onto the battle field.

Dipping your head as best you could, you quickly averted your flustered gaze and blushing face. "I greet the King of Beasts."

You'd expected a plethora of reactions. A gentle acceptance of your greeting, a roar of anger as to why someone as lowly as you laid within his palace, or even silence as he ignored you completely

What you hadn't expected was laughter. It was a deep rumble that could have shaken the cores of mountains if he'd leaned close enough.

"Is that what they call me nowadays? 'King of Beasts?' Of all things... you humans and your silly imaginations never fail to entertain."

You only felt your cheeks darken in humiliation as you lifted your head to stare at him with complete bafflement. Was that the wrong thing to say? Instead of answering your wordless query, he instead pulled up one of the oversized chairs to your beside.

"Eve," he called to your rabbit companion with a far calmer and level tone. "You're dismissed." Your guard, whom you'd momentarily forgotten in the chaos of it all, quickly scampered out and very suddenly it was just you and him left alone in the room together.

"Forgive my intrusion, this won't take long." His tone didn't flow like an apology, but more like an order or expectation that you would forgive him. It left a sour taste in your mouth and evidently an equally sour look on your face.

His eyes narrowed.

"Unless there's something you'd care to object?"

For a moment, a primal instinct surged in your gut beneath his gaze: Fear. He was the descendant of a long lived, powerful bloodline known for having the power to snuff out thousands of lives like yours. You were comparable to a meager speck of dust in his eyes, surely-- but an emotion that overtook your momentary fear was... anger.

No, it was rage. To be ripped from your home, stripped of your dignity-- your identity, thrown to the wolves, all to be mocked and disrespected and then be told to forgive them? Forgive him?

How far must you bow your head in order to save it? How much more humiliation did you have to endure for the sake some man deeming you worthy of survival?

Men in power had stripped enough away from you today, you'd be damned if you allowed this one to make you watch the last shred of self respect you had trickle through your fingers.

"I do actually. Quite a few actually."

The beast's narrowed eyes didn't ease, but he made no move to stop you.

"Well? Go on."

You took a breath, steeling the nerves that were pleading with you not to go through with what you were about to do. It was far too late to back down now. Instead, you hold his gaze.

"You laughed at my greeting, yet failed to introduce yourself. You came in without so much of a knock, not having a shred of thought towards my decency. You sent away the only person I knew, leaving yourself, a man, alone in a room with me, a woman, which shows you also have no concern for my dignity. Not to mention you're absolutely filthy covered in... who knows what. And to top it all off you don't ask me for forgive you but tell me to." You begin to falter, slowing your ramble as his slitted pupils begin to round out. "I think you're rude, and inconsiderate and..."

"And?" He urged, leaning forward a bit which only had you pressing further back into the plush pillows that had propped you up.

"And scary."

"Scary?"

At that, the towering dragon leaned back, the sturdy wood of the chair beneath him creaking with the shift in weight. "You look me in the eye, tell me what I can and can't do within my own home, in my own country, tell me all your objections about me... all while you think I'm scary?"

Unsure where this is going, you nod a bit lamely. What else could you have said?

"I see. Well. I suppose, in my haste, I have treated you a bit roughly for a lady."

"You...have." You affirmed hesitantly, your death grip on the blankets over your collarbones easing slightly.

"Then, for that, I extend you my sincerest apologies and ask that you find it in that fiery little heart to forgive me." You weren't sure if his tone was playful, mocking, or both... but it was a start.

"I'll think about forgiving you then."

"Then I'll put forth the effort to earn it. But for now, let's start from the beginning. I am King Jarkah Drak'in, ruler of the Etherian Empire. And you are?"

You had pondered giving him a false name before, but at this point there seemed little reason to it. "(Y/n). My name is (y/n)."

"(Y/n)." He repeated back to you, the gentle rumble in his voice almost bringing back that warmth to your cheeks. "I rarely hear human names so sweet on the tongue."

You tried and failed to formulate a reply to the compliment, your thoughts stuttering over themselves.

Seemingly able to see your internal struggle, Jarkah stood back up, signaling the end to your little exchange.

"As much as I'd prefer to talk further, I realize I should take your fragile circumstances into consideration, I'll postpone our conversation until I hear word that you've recovered." Was he... still mocking you? Or was that genuine consideration? It was difficult to read his reptilian features, and even more so when his back was turned to you. "Goodnight, (y/n)."

You floundered for a response but all you managed was a meager "Goodnight" as the door clicked shut softly behind him.

[ride-thedragon]

Nettles, A Sacrificial Lamb.

This is a previous discussion I've had but can't find, so we're back again. Within the written narrative of Fire and Blood, Nettles is the Sacrificial lamb.

What is a sacrificial lamb?

How is Nettles this?

Within fire and blood, Nettles is accused of being a seductress of the Prince, Daemon Targaryen. An accusation of her use of spells is put forward by Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen to the end of Nettles, claiming a dragon and sleeping with Daemon. This is enforced by the accusation made by Mysaria that Nettles will soon be pregnant with the Prince's bastard.

All of this, and treason committed by two other dragonseeds, convinces Rhaenyra that she has been betrayed and has her send a Death Decree calling for Nettles' head and Daemon's return to Maidenpool where they both are protecting from Aemond and Vhagar.

Nettles is positioned as the thing given authority to be destroyed in order for Daemon to return and protect Rhaenyra and her throne.

Nettles is made the sacrificial lamb. Her demise is made to be the catalyst for Daemon to return to Rhaenyra.

But that doesn't happen, which is why the narrative both has someone take her place and adds a visual cue to this iconography.

Nettles is one of the characters explicitly tied to something outside of her dragon, which is sheep. She kills sheep to gain her dragon Sheepstealer. Something no one else does throughout the history of Westeros but ties her back to the sheep herders of Old Valyria that became the Dragon lords. So when I say that,

Nettles Kills Daemon.

What I mean is that he takes her place as the sacrificial lamb in the narrative to protect her and there is visual language that communicates this in the text.

Nettles, through her connection to sheep, is made clear when we learn that while in Maidenpool, she still feeds Sheepstealer one sheep a day. On her last day when her and Prince Daemon return from a night of disappearing into their rooms, she specifically kills a black ram. Never before is the type of sheep she kills specified so this is important.

In this context, Daemon is symbolised by the Black ram.

Rams are often symbols of masculinity, power, strength, and fertility. Black sheep are members of a family who are seen as a disgrace. Daemon could obviously be a ram, but to symbolise him as a black ram spells out his next decision. He's about to disgrace his family.

He does this by letting Nettles go and not returning to Rhaenyra. Two actions that mark him as a traitor to his family and his queen.

Nettles slaughters the black ram before she leaves Maidenpool sealing Daemon's faith to this narrative. Dying for her to escape and be tree allows him to become the sacrificial lamb needed for Nettles to live.

Before we learn that this is his decision, we learn that if Daemon or Nettles fought Aemond individually, they would die.

Daemon's decision is him choosing death in place of Nettles dying by Rhaenyra’s command or for her when fighting Aemond.

Daemons last words tie into this motif beautifully.

Aemond says, "You have lived too long, nuncle."

Daemon responds, "On that, we agree."

[alexanderwales]

Pitchposting: The Reused Maiden

(Pitchposting is a way to write up an idea that won't get the honor of becoming a story. Free to a good home.)

Like a lot of good ideas, this one was based on me misreading something. The actual thing was rescued maiden, but my brain doesn't read so well without context, so I read reused maiden, and it fired up some neurons.

Our protagonist is a fifth daughter, in a time when that means she would be a burden on her family. In other times, on other worlds, she might be sent off to become a nun or work as a governess in a socially ambiguous position, or maybe even be sent to an asylum if she was "difficult". In this world, there's always some demand for maidens, even if they're a low birth. When a dragon spews fire above a village in his third flyby that month, the village elders take stock of who might be able to allay the dragon's desire for "unspoilt" flesh.

Everyone agrees that it's best that a maiden goes willingly. There are always stories about what happens when a maiden gets taken by a dragon, and before a sacrifice, those stories become unaccountably upbeat. They pretend that no one really knows what a dragon does with a maiden, that perhaps it's not horrible, and sometimes, yes, the maidens do go to their fate willingly.

Our protagonist goes kicking, screaming, and biting. She vows revenge on her father, her mother, her sisters, and everyone in the village. She says, in a rage, that she will kill the fucking dragon herself if she has to. She has no means to get free of her chains, let alone to kill a dragon, but her anger is hot enough to sustain her even as the night grows cold. She howls as though trying to awaken something inside of her.

She doesn't end up saving herself. A knight in shining armor comes and slays the dragon in glorious battle, which our protagonist only learns about later. The knight is not even aware of her existence, only of the tradition, and anyway is mostly after the hoard.

When the death of the dragon is reported and confirmed, some very sheepish village elders come to where our protagonist is still chained to a rock. It would be possible, perhaps, for everyone to forget this whole awful thing had ever happened, but the protagonist's threats are echoing in everyone's ears, and her horrible howling could be heard through the night. There is some question about how much she meant it when she said that she would "fucking kill you bastards with my bare hands if I ever get free".

After some discussion, it is decided that the protagonist can have no place within the village, if only for the safety of the townsfolk. But there are other villages, and while there's no question about releasing her, those other villages have their own problems: sometimes dragons, sometimes spirits, sometimes ancient curses. Our protagonist has been spared a messy death at the talons of a dragon, but now she's in the position of being a commodity.

She's first sold to an intermediary, a mercenary group or a passing wizard or someone else that gets her onto the next place. If you wanted to write this story, here is where you could pivot into being a different sort of thing: maybe her captor only meant to free her, and this is the start of a romance, because every romance loves an inauspicious and problematic start. But if I were writing this story, she would be treated as the commodity that she is, only well enough that she can be sold as good stock to the next party.

And there would be a next party, someone who wants a sacrificial maiden for a different purpose: appeasing a volcano or calling on the power of the ancestors or something like that.

And again, fate conspires for the sacrifice to not go through, and our protagonist is shuttled off to another place where she's to be put to death for some reason or another.

Astute readers will have noticed that our protagonist has a distinct lack of agency here, and is essentially being manhandled from place to place. This is the wonderful thing about pitchposting: I'm not actually writing this story, so don't have to actually solve these problems. I think it's fine for a story to be about a character with no agency, who is constantly struggling and fighting and trying every trick and still winds up at the mercy of a knight in shining armor coming to rescue her for unrelated reasons. Maybe that says something, or maybe stories don't have to say something.

(And maybe she gets saved by the same knight in shining armor, who has been crossing paths with her while entirely ignorant that it's simply been the same maiden across different kingdoms and continents. This is one of those little nuggets that I think is almost worth writing a full book for, a scene where it's revealed that they have, impossibly, been entwined with each other this entire time. A mistreated, reused maiden and a knight so shiningly pure that he's been the lone driving force behind putting down thirteen different evils as he came across them? I think there's something there.)

But there's a different version where perhaps the maiden gets out of the jams on her own, using only her wits. Maybe she meets with the dragon and dupes him into going to the trap the knight in shining armor has set for him. Maybe she gets offered as a cultic sacrifice to a demon, but she'd dragged a toe across their waxen sigils and ruined the summoning to her benefit. She uses her wits, and her bag of tricks, and a few things she picks up along the way. The reused maiden, scraping by every time, narrowly dodging death but always with death on the horizon like an arctic sunset.

I guess my version of this story is about the rage, but it doesn't have to be that. Maybe it can be about sadder things, like being sad about the uses that a society has deemed you fit for, or the inhumanity of humans, or something like that. I don't know how many times you can reuse the same maiden for this story before it gets to be boring or unbelievable or you've just mined out the available space. My guess would be that five is stretching it, so long as they're varied enough, and one of them looks like one of those suspicious happily-ever-afters that seems to be coming two-thirds of the way through a book.

But as an ending, I like the idea that the maiden eventually gets thrust at the feet of an old crone, bound and gagged, but with blood around her mouth where she bit one of the guards (and she has, after all this time, become very good at biting guards). The witch waits until the guards have retreated, then cuts our protagonist free of her bindings, and our wily spitfire of a protagonist probably does attack immediately after that. But once the hostilities are over, the witch asks for the maiden's stories, how many times she escaped death and at whose hands, and they drink tea as they talk.

I mean, obviously the witch was once a maiden too, and she had her own trials and tribulations before making a successful transition to old crone. Maybe we reveal that the witch has been a guiding hand this whole time, except that seems needlessly cruel (but perhaps this works as just one more injustice inflicted on the maiden, another battle to fight). I tend to think endings are important and need to be considered, but they're also very hard. Maybe we can have some cosmic reveal about why this world seems to have endless uses for maidens, but that leans just a little too meta for my current tastes.

Look, I'm not going to write this story, even if this was a longer post than pitchposting is supposed to be. There's a lot to be said about the role of the virgin sacrifice, and there's a lot that's been said, with much of it clumsy. There are needles that I would be worried about threading, particularly with regards to sex and sexual violence, implied or otherwise. The obvious thing to do, if you're a virgin about to be sacrificed for the third time, is to just lose your virginity, which ... certainly is a plot beat, I guess. I'm not sure I'd want to go there, or how I would go there. It's hard not to think of the whole thing as social commentary, which makes it hard not to write it like that.

But I think it would be better being its own thing. I guess if you disagree, you could just write it some other way.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 17 - Gods

The rogue has a conversation.

On AO3.

So. They’ve a cult of their very own.

Astarion has been of the opinion that the only thing wrong with this Absolute nonsense is that they made him a victim. But were he (and the others, he supposes, as long as they minded their place) to come out on top, well. That would be quite the advantage. (He imagines setting an entire hoard of frothing cultists upon the crimson palace, dragging that bastard out and ripping him apart piece by screaming piece; ripping those giblets apart again so the bastard can’t even regenerate).

The fish—kuo-toa, they name themselves—are nowhere near as effective. But they’re a start.

Dearest leader already gave him a healing potion, which stitched his skin back into place. And she had the good graces to order her new followers to provide him with blood.

Alas, it’s entirely fish. It’s still blood, but within the ranks of thinking-creatures-to-not, the cold and slimy things fall most decidedly on not.

He’s become accustomed to finer sustenance in his time after the nautiloid. But his most divine leader has kept herself scarce for the last few hours. Probably some silly moral conundrum. Setting fish on fire and bashing their leader into pulp is fine. But becoming their benevolent god? How dreadful.

Gods. It’s so hard to get a read on her sometimes. Just when he thinks he’s found it…

Speaking of.

His ears catch her heartbeat a few hundred feet out. Over the gurgling of their hosts and the lapping of water and splashing as they dive about—all he has to do is lay here and wait for them to bring him his meager feast, how novel—her pulse is a beacon.

He’s been on the lookout for books discussing his condition, his own information being somewhat limited. Oh, he knew he was being kept from his full potential; they all did. Stories of vampires and their spawn were and are a popular subject for children’s stories and have been for centuries. But he hadn’t the slightest idea of how much he didn’t know until he landed on that beach.

He’d not a clue what feeding on a thinking creature could even be like. What it could do. He has no particular attachment to any of the others he’s fed upon (they’re mostly dead anyway). He doesn’t notice the others the way he does her, and he’s reasonably certain he’s supped from the Blade or the druid a time or two when their hunts came back far too light to fill up the goblet they bring him. Their blood doesn’t sing to him (delicious as it nevertheless is).

No. She was his first thinking creature. And it’s done something to him and he’d very much like to figure out what, exactly, that is.

Because she’s coming towards him, and his insides squirm. Not unlike having them pulled out while tied to a sacrificial alter while some kind of gore-soaked goblin cackles. Only without all the blinding (ha) agony.

She…saved him. (Disgusting.) (Though that surely means his plan is still working, does it not?) (So why in the sweet hells does he feel so…so…horrid about it?)

She came back and murdered a fish god. After she saw his memory of leaving her to drown.

His innards shiver again.

He shoves that down as she creeps around the outside of his makeshift hut. Their generous hosts have set him up in a sickbed, more or less, inside the hull of an upturned bow of a ship (according to his leader). She, in her most illustrious benevolence, had them clean out the bones and piles of viscera the former occupant left behind—even had them wash it.

Now she sneaks around, skirting the nearby shoreline as he assumes she tries to avoid the notice of the main group camped outside.

She’s certainly an odd one.

“Astarion, you awake?” she says, still hiding against the overturned hull, a murmur only his ears would detect.

“Oh yes,” he says in his most unbothered tone, even as the squirming reaches his limbs.

She runs warm, he’s noticed. When she enters what he assumes is a ramshackle room, the air warms with her.

“How’re you?” she says, “Aside from, y’know.”

“I’m doing swimmingly, darling. A steady supply of half frozen blood, and I’ll be back on my feet in a day or two.”

She hums in lieu of words, as she’s started to do.

Then she stands there. With him flat on his back at her feet, and the squirming takes on a different feeling entirely.

“Did you need something?” he says. “I’m afraid I’m in no shape for a cuddle at the moment.”

Another pause, and he’s beginning to think he might hate her for those. She never can just answer anything. Always has to think about it.

Then cloth rustles and her left knee pops as she lowers herself to her knees beside him. “Is the fresh blood helping? To heal you?”

“Yes, of course.”

Though not as well as—

He clears his throat.

“Would…” Another accursed pause. “Would my blood help?”

He’s certain his eyebrows try to crawl up into his hair. Tendays of nothing from her, and now two feeding in less than half of one?

“What’s the occasion?” he says. And he wants. Oh, how he wants. He can almost taste it, thrumming under her skin so very nearby. Then the next pause begins and he can’t take it again. “Because I rather recall you were injured recently as well. Seems ill timing when you need all your blood, hmm?”

She doesn’t answer. She sits there in her godsdamned silence and he’s going to—

“I got a cut and some bruises,” she says. “And I already took a potion. You…you were hurt real bad. Like…real…so I’m offering. If you want.”

She’s bloody doing something to him. Twisting him up inside and he doesn’t even understand how. He should refuse. Should chase her away so he can lick his wounds in safe solitude.

But…but he doesn’t want solitude (no, please, I’ll be good). Some pathetic, mewling piece of him wants to bask in the warmth she carries with her (godsdamned caves and their chill).

And he is a vampire spawn. Her blood calls to him. And he, greedy wretch, cannot resist.

“If you’re offering, darling, I’m hardly going to say no.”

She rolls her sleeve up (he knows that sound, now) and then she must lean over him, because he’s suddenly awash in her body heat and the scent of her. Rich blood, river water (she bathes every chance she gets), fresh sweat, and that clean scent that’s simply her.

It still hurts to lift his arms (shredded chest muscles and all), so she obliges him and lowers her wrist to his mouth. The moment that soft skin brushes his lips his hunger takes hold.

No chance to savor the moment, this time. Can’t take a few seconds to feel the strong beat of her heart, trace the tendons with his lips, follow her veins with his tongue. He needs it and he needs it now.

He bites. And it’s just like the first time. That hot spurt. The way is coats his mouth and the saltiness sweeps over his tongue. He thinks his eyes roll back and he makes a noise through his nose. Can’t help it. It’s so rich, so alive.

He gulps it down. His body is hollow and aching. It needs to be filled with her; her blood, her life. Because he’s a dead thing but she’s not and he needs. Oh, how he needs.

She bleeds more freely like this, with him below her. He wants to reach up and pull her down, feel her heat on him. Let him soak in all of her, everything he can get, everything he can take.

The mending ruin of his body soaks in her essence like drought-cracked soil. Flesh begins to knit back together. Ragged openings close. Something shifts and pops, and his skull crunches and yes, yes, it’s all good, but he needs more. More.

Time disappears. Everything is the taste of her. Filling his mouth. Coating his throat. Her pulse beating in his gullet and filling his own, withered veins.

Her hunger. Days without even a cracker and now surrounded by fish and old wood and she can finally make a fire.

The burning chill of her anger still threads through her.

And the sour burn of…fear. Terror. It’s been there this whole time. Had been building. Terror for herself, certainly. Lost and hungry and uncertain. He can taste her worry. But also her reluctance. Her shyness. She doesn’t want to be a god, wants nothing to do with gods. And a different note, buried under the others.

He swallows, and this time that flavor fills his mouth. She’s not afraid for herself. It’s directed elsewhere, outwards…

He pulls away. Sputters. She’s quick to withdraw and the sound of her wrapping her wrist fills the narrow space as he blows like a wounded beast.

She’s afraid of him. No. No, nothing so simple. It’s more…altruistic than that, isn’t it? Not of him. For him.

And the shivering, squirming of his insides becomes too much. He can’t bury it under his usual facade any longer. It’s too much. She’s too much.

“Why are you here?” he says. Tone sharp. A dangerous thing, letting that show when he’s so helpless, but he can’t modify it. Can’t smooth it out. All her blood churns queasily inside him and he doesn’t know why. Why…any of this. Why she’s even next to him.

He ought to take it back. Apologize. Thank her for the gift (and never mind the crushing weight of his debt piling up). But he’s not a smart man. He’s a weak, pathetic boy with no manners. “Why did you come back? You saw what I did at that river.”

“I knew from the first day,” she says, voice infuriatingly calm.

“Then why. I left you to die. You should’ve done the same.”

And gods help him, she goes quiet. He wants to shout. Wants to find her and shake her until her teeth break loose and rattle around in her mouth. If he could lift his arms, he might even try.

“Other people’ve made that decision,” she says. Cryptically. Because the woman is incapable of giving a coherent answer to anything, ever, in all her life. “Remember that story about the team eating their dead?”

Oh yes, that had been delightful. But it has nothing to do with why in the sweet hells she’s sitting here with him, the taste of her blood still on his tongue.

“People gotta make shit decisions, sometimes,” she says.

“It actually wasn’t hard at all.” He can’t stop. He needs to, but he can’t. “I barely thought of it. A little swipe and off you went.”

That’ll strike. She’ll see her error. Finally. He’s a vampire spawn and more, a bloody coward. Always has been. Bleeding out in the streets, he’d known the noble with the glowing, red eyes was a monster. But he was dying. And that terrified him. So when that bastard promised him eternal life, he hadn’t hesitated. Not for a moment.

He will always save his own skin. Always fold. Always grovel and always, always beg. She has to understand that. Has to know what she came back for and why it was a waste. Why she shouldn’t…shouldn’t…

“You were scared,” she says.

“And I left you to die.”

Gods, just let him get through that thick skull of hers. Fucking yokel. He’s not worth anything. Certainly not all of this. She seems so clever, but she’s being stupid. He’ll make her see. He will.

“But I didn’t,” she says.

“By chance, you infuriating halfwit.”

She shifts. He’s getting to her. Good.

But then she says, “Maybe” and he nearly chews off his own tongue.

“People deal with things by giving them a meaning. Gods or fate or whatever the hell. When you cut me loose, my bag got caught. I’d’a died if it hadn’t. And maybe, if you hadn’t cut that rope, maybe I wouldn’t’a been in the right position for that to happen. Maybe it was because of what you did that we both didn’t get fucking eaten by this goddamn cave.”

“That’s an awful lot of ‘maybe’ darling.” He packs as much sneer as he physically can into that.

And she continues, words steady, but voice shaking. “That would’a been a hard decision, Astarion. I don’t think I could’a made it. I wouldn’t want to. And I just…I’m mad at a thousand other things. I could be about this. I could let it make me scared and mad and never trust nobody ever again. Or I can not do that. I can live my fucking life. I don’t want to carry that around with me. So I ain’t gonna.”

He has…nothing to say to that. It robs him of his faculties. It’s so mind-boggling ridiculous. She can’t just…that doesn’t even…

“You’ll just…let me get away with it?” he finally manages. “Who’s to say I won’t do it again?”

Crime needs to be punished. Mistakes must be corrected. That’s how the world works.

“I guess you would,” she says.

“You can’t do that. You can’t decide that and then just…choose whatever nonsense you’re spouting. You almost died.”

“I know.”

Nothing. She gives him absolutely nothing. He can’t block that, can’t strike at it, or…or…

“That’s stupid,” he says.

And she goes as quiet as a living person can get. Then, “Yeah, it probably is. I…I don’t know what the right thing is. In general, but especially over this. I ain’t your mama and I ain’t the pope, and I can’t make decisions for you. But I can make decisions for me. And you do what you gotta, but I’m doing what I can live with. You’re just gonna have to deal with it. Or don’t. That shit’s up to you.”

Her knee cracks again as she rises to her feet. Hard to lord over him all self-righteously from his level.

“If you think you’ll be good to go in a couple days, I don’t mind staying put for now,” she says. “I’ll make sure they keep bringing you what they can.”

And she leaves him. Finally. Gaping and gasping as everything in him screams and flails about.

[dielgonacoffee]

i must finished s1... i have So Many Thoughts

- why in the ever living FUCK did they decide that danny getting together with rachel AGAIN was a good idea huh...? despite that relationship with stan crumbling apart she was still MARRIED mind you!! why did we decide that danny engaging in infidelity was a good idea 😭 (i have a bad feeling about her. HORRIBLE!)

- wo fat... hes like a persistent cockroach that just wont die despite how well you exterminate the place

- kamekona has got to be my favorite recurring character. shaved ice vendor by day, informant, gambler, weapons hoarder, babysitter, etc. at night. also all around A Very Good Bro. hope he sticks around for the rest of the series.

- is it weird that i like sang min's character? LOL hes like a pesky little shit and i love him for it. also helped 5-0 catch the hpd mole! brownie points for u sir!

- steve is such a menace to society honestly. how is he not charged with multiple counts of property damage and endangering of civilians. that grenade in the pawn shop? really? i will personally start a gofundme for your therapy bill mr. super seal

- you would think that danny would be able to control steve's worst impulses but hes just as erratic and impulsive lmao its quiet broody chaotic good meets loud mouthed argumentative chaotic good. they are cut from the same cloth.

- CHIN HO KELLY YOU SELF SACRIFICIAL BASTARD i swear if i wasnt so in love with your voice i wouldve throttled you across the room. handing over the deed of your house to a bookie? really?! 💀

- anyway i also love how he always has a shotgun instead of the standard handgun that they all have. (but when he shot that guy aiming for his cousin?! sir u were directly behind him im pretty sure u just blew a fist sized hole through that mans body 😭)

- kono kalakaua my beloved my surfer girl the most competent rookie in the history of rookies she went from being fresh out of the academy to being part of hawaii's elite task force. DESERVED. but i do wanna see more stuff about her that isnt surfing. the amount of time she spent in this season in a bikini is ABSURD.

- the dressing down steve gave ms cia agent whats her name?? HOT. that was unfair, i never stood a chance.

anyway i probably have more thoughts but theyre lost somewhere in the gray matter highway and i cant cough up more for this word vomit. might add to this post or make a new one when they arrive to me 🤷‍♀️

[onceonafullmoon]

A Marionette's Ball

Yan! Chevalier x Fem! Reader x Yan! Gilbert

Tw!! Manipulation, threats of violence, implied captivity, period typical misogyny and Gilbert Von Obsidian himself

You didn’t tame shit; you were at best, a sacrificial lamb sent to curb the hunger of a ravenous tiger, only to end up becoming a plaything instead of a meal.  And now you were here, having somehow fooled another apex predator into thinking you were some sort of beast in your own right.

-----

You need to stop fiddling with your necklace.

You know you need to calm down, but doing so is another story; you can practically feel the weight of everyone’s stares on you, not malicious, but prying still in their curiosity.

And it’s tough fighting the urge to snatch one of the champagne flutes off of the waiter's plates and down it in one gulp, but the subtle warning of Chevalier’s fingers pressing at your waist helps you forget the idea.

Right.

Just make a good impression and then you’ll get to go back to your own schedule with only one scrutinizing set of eyes on you.

It’s almost impossible to mess this up anyways, with all the effort Sariel has been putting into making you a “true lady befitting of a prince”.

Ha.

The audacity of that claim makes you laugh. 

As if you had a choice in any of this. 

As if you were something more than a puppet on a string pulled by the most powerful man in the kingdom.

Nevertheless, you pushed through the lessons easily enough, it was, at the very least, an escape from Chevalier’s smothering presence, although you would rather have buried your nose into a good book instead.

At any rate, it doesn’t seem like much of your work will be put into play considering the way that Chevalier has you glued to his side.

You suppose you get the hostility, he’s always been a touch smothering even before… this, and it doesn’t help that princes from other nations are currently visiting too.

Not that you would have the opportunity to meet any of them considering how anal Chevalier was about your “safety”.

In fact, if it were a year ago when you were still “unruly” he would have probably kept you chained in his room the whole time.

Well, if all good behavior amounted to was this then you probably could have thrown a fit to get yourself locked up again. Now it was too late, and you were stuck smiling fakely at some random noble who came to give his greetings. 

“My, my, if it isn’t the mystery woman that everyone’s been wondering about. Everyone’s been wondering about the one who stole the Chevalier Micheal’s heart, it's a pleasure to finally be able to meet you.” The nobleman, who you recall vaguely being named Lord Wessley, greets you with a certain, subtle prying look on his face as he studies you.

“Oh, you flatter me, but I’m afraid I’m not much to speak of. Any compliments should be redirected towards my fiancé.” You smile, cringing at the use of the word fiancé but happy enough with the way Chevalier’s brow furrows ever so slightly in annoyance.

You can almost hear his voice ringing out in your ears.

“If you have enough time to dish out praise, then you have enough time to do something useful with yourself, simpleton.”

“Praise worthy indeed!” Another man cuts in, rudely, albeit he’s possibly a bit drunk already. “An arsenal of military feats, a genius intellect that only appears once a century, and now a bride to be, you’re truly something else Prince Chevalier!”

You have to try your hardest to bite back the laugh bubbling up in you and Chevalier slightly grimaces.

Wessley furrows his eyebrows slightly at the intrusion but doesn’t comment, or rather, doesn’t get the chance to comment as he’s interrupted again. 

“And what a beauty she is, I can see why you’ve kept her locked up away from the rest of us!”

And now you are no longer smiling.

Karma really is a bitch.

The grip around your waist tightens and you find yourself conflicted about whether to celebrate the (hopefully only) verbal lashing this misogynistic bastard will get or to intervene for the sake of this very clearly drunk man.

Empathy wins out in the end, but also because you don’t trust Chevalier not to immediately jump at the chance to “incidentally” find this man charged with treason.

“I’m flattered by praise, truly, but you look a bit sickly to me, are you feeling alright?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but you cut him off smoothly.

“Poor thing, I bet you can hardly stand, much less answer coherently, but there are several couches in the foyer for you to rest at. I’d escort you myself but, considering the circumstances, perhaps Lord Wessley can escort you instead?”

Of course, Wessley himself isn’t too keen on leaving the conversation, seeing as he probably started it to discuss his own business. But when you phrase it in such a way of offering good will, he can’t refuse. 

With a furrowed brow he replies in kind and leaves.

Perhaps Sariel’s lessons did come in handy, you think as you find yourself alone again.

A sigh from Chevalier has you mending your thoughts, not completely alone, unfortunately.

“How bothersome.” He grumbles, finally letting his arm drop from your waist.

“Yeah, being stuck around someone you can’t stand, tell me about it.” 

He gives you a look which would scare the living daylights out of even a battle hardened soldier, to which you innocently smile at.

You know him well enough to know when you’re actually in trouble.

“What? Just offering some words of support in your trying times Prince Chevalier, now wipe that look of murder off before our guests get any ideas.”

Your smile dips into a frown when instead of falling for the taunt he smirks at you.

“Prince Chevalier? I recall being referred to as fiancé earlier.”

You narrow your gaze, regretting your earlier decision to speak.

“Don’t read much into it, you’ll strain your eyes trying to find nothing.”

He simply smirks again.

“Complacency is a dangerous thing isn’t it?”

He leans in closer, tilting your head up, sending roils of annoyance and slight embarrassment through you as you fix your eyes on his face, unwavering from his.

“...It’d be a shame for you, if all your efforts were for naught.”

He chuckles derisively, letting you go. 

“Now, wipe that look of murder off before our guests get any ideas.”

You glare at him, annoyed that he used your words against you, before deciding to make a tactful retreat.

“Now that I’ve taken care of your nuisances, I’m taking care of mine for a bit and freshening up. Does that please your highness, or should I stay tethered to your side for another hour?” 

He scoffs. 

“Just don’t get lost, simpleton.”

To use Clavis’s terminology, the Cheva translation of that would mean: “Go ahead, but if you aren’t back in 10 minutes I will find you and there will be consequences.”

“...Whatever your highness wishes.”

—

You supposed Chevalier already knew that you weren’t going to the bathroom to freshen up, rather instead to find a private area to ruminate at being bested by him once more, and that almost made you even more upset.

It’s stupid that you’re even angry, you know that there's no winning a fight against him. It was already a given that he would twist your words around in an attempt to make you succumb to him, and yet…

You furrow your brow as you turn the corner.

It was all you could do, if you could annoy him, even just a bit then that would be victory enough… 

At least it should be, if you didn’t get carried away with it.

But damn you for having a competitive streak and damn him for pointing out the one idea that would make you sick to your stomach.

(Although, maybe if you thought about it more, you would find it was only his own sick desires taking form in his words.)

“Complacency, my ass.” You mutter, as you push open the door to the library.

Despite this being originally Chevalier’s domain, you’ve also been quite the avid reader, and so any time alone with books was welcome. And even if you weren’t alone… well at least he had the sense not to disturb you, outside of his general presence.

Scanning the room when you enter, you find your eyes catching on the rows of bookshelves before halting when you see the shape of a figure, dimly lit by a candle.

You frown slightly.

While there were no set rules against entering a host’s library, it was still considered bad taste to enter rooms you weren’t explicitly given access to. Not that this person seemed unaware of it, judging by the lofty coat you could make out they seemed to be born into wealth.

Well, you weren’t exactly a shining beacon of manners either, considering that you were ditching your debut ball in order to sulk in the corner of a dark room because your captor/fiancé bested you in a game of wits.

Although, when you put it that way, your life does sound significantly more ridiculous.

You, albeit hesitantly, decide to give the person the benefit of the doubt and approach them to direct them back to the ball.

“Excuse me?” You call out, nearing the figure. “Are you lost?”

They turn around, and it becomes apparent that they’re a man. But not just any man, you realize, as a few more details come to light that have you suddenly freezing in place.

First, the dark crimson eye that gazes upon you while the other hides behind a black eye patch.

Second, the black cane who’s shiny finish glints in the candle light.

And lastly, the golden encrusted emblem, signature of an Obsidianite.

“Oh no, I’m exactly where I need to be.” Gilbert Von Obsidian responds cheerfully.

…

You suddenly have the sense that you’ve, to use words that Chevalier claims are “crude and boorish”, absolutely fucked up.

To be fair to you, you hadn’t been able to see even a glimpse of any foreign princes, much less would you have predicted that the damn Prince of Obsidian was going to be there, or more accurately here, in your lovely library safe space. 

It’s not often that anyone other than Chevalier makes you stumped on what to do these days, but that goes to show how dangerous complacency really is.

“Prince Gilbert.” You finally manage to greet, falling into a practiced curtsey. 

When you pull your head back up, he has an innocuous smile on his face, eyes crinkled slightly.

“No need to lower yourself, (Name) (Last Name), soon enough we’ll be on the same social standing won’t we?”

Oh, of course he knows who you are, couldn’t make it any less difficult for you could he? Still, the provocation (actually, whether he knew it as a provocation or not was a matter to be unseen yet) of your future engagement has you irritated as well as afraid.

“You never know what might happen.” You respond neutrally. “I’d hate to offend because I grew cocky.”

“Cautious, aren’t you?” He questions.

“That’s a good trait to have, although, I can’t say I would’ve thought the woman who tamed the Brutal Beast would be so meek.”

You want to laugh at his attempt at a jab, because he couldn’t be closer to the truth.

You didn’t tame shit; you were at best, a sacrificial lamb sent to curb the hunger of a ravenous tiger, only to end up becoming a plaything instead of a meal. 

And now you were here, having somehow fooled another apex predator into thinking you were some sort of beast in your own right.

But even still, you couldn’t help the words that poured out of your mouth.

“I would argue that being meek and being cautious are entirely different, but it must be difficult to understand from your perspective.”

“That so?” He hums. “What’s your view then?”

“That you can’t tell the difference, because for you, someone who has been powerful and feared for so long, there’s hardly any need for subtlety when dealing with others. For people like me, discretion is a necessary tool.”

A tinge of bitterness seeps into your tone as you respond, or maybe it's jealousy; you can’t tell. 

But it’s enough to make Gilbert pause, facing you, seemingly looking at you like he hasn’t seen you before, his eye glinting with something akin to interest. 

Oh.

Shit.

You’ve always had a bad habit of overplaying your hand during your time with Chevalier, possibly because you were so used to a lack of consequences due to his soft spot. It would’ve been better and safer for him to believe you were Chevalier’s little trophy wife and suffer the stab it would take to your ego. 

“...I suppose that “genius’s thinking alike” must be true, for you to be able to make such a succinct assumption about me.” He smiles, this time his eyes glinting with something darker.

“...I wouldn’t go so far as to imply that Prince Gilbert.” You say, desperate in your attempt to backtrack.

“Oh? Cowering now, are we?” He asks, the smile on his face growing more predatory. “And here I thought you’d be more vicious.”

He’s clearly trying to pry at you, to goad you into snapping at him, but you’ve since realized that the playing field had favored him from the start and you’d do better to avoid the trap he’d set for you.

“...I think you have rather high expectations, that you might think of me similar to the company I keep.”

“And you’d be right.” He says, drawing himself closer to you, even more empowering as he draws near, his red eye glistening like the blade of a knife.

You find yourself wanting to run, like the terrified lamb you are in the face of the threatening jaws of the beast in front of you.

But you don’t.

Because these damn beasts are always just toying with you, never daring to go for the killing blow.

He towers over you, clearly trying to get a reaction out of you, but you find that you can’t quite summon up the effort to change your expression.

“…”

“…”

Moments pass and his eye widens a bit, seemingly shocked at your lack of expression.

“You aren’t scared, are you?” He states, more as a fact than a question as he pulls himself away to an appropriate distance.

You shrug as if to say you don’t quite care, but you felt like laughing.

The truth is, he’s wrong. 

You’re constantly scared, every single day of your life.

When you wake up, when you go to sleep, you’re filled with horror constantly, terrified by the man who lays beside you. Every move you make is calculated and stuff, made in fear of the blades, not set to cut you, but rather everything you know and love.

Even now you’re scared, not quite by the prospect of death, but by the fact that it doesn’t scare you.

The fact that you would rather accept freedom in the form of being removed from your earthly ties than to live another life being tethered to this life scares you, because you know death is the only way you’ll be safe from him.

It brings you only slight ease that despite his best efforts of chasing perfection, Chevalier still only amounts to a man.

Gilbert’s laugh snaps you out of your thoughts, bringing you back to the man in front of you.

“That’s excellent!” He says, toothy grin lighting up his face, eye lighting up like he’s a child who’s found a new toy to play with.

Somewhere deep down you can feel a familiar sense of dread forming in the pit of your stomach that only comes with Chevalier, almost like deja vu.

It shouldn’t surprise you, after all it’s said that the prince of Obsidian is a genius only the likes of Chevalier could rival. It’s the type of gossip you used to absentmindedly listen to while busying yourself walking down the streets.

Still, you’ve survived Chevalier, albeit with your share of scars, you can handle at least one chance meeting with another snobby prince.

“Are you done threatening me then Prince Gilbert? I believe my fiancé is looking for me.” You say, keeping your tone neutral.

He chuckles, that wide, creepily childlike smile still on his face as he hears you speak.

“Of course. Tell Prince Chevalier that I congratulate him on finding such an interesting toy.”

“Of course.” You mimic, turning on your heel to leave. “Perhaps next time we can meet in a more fitting setting rather than the library, Prince Gilbert.”

Petty, yes, but he doesn’t seem affected by the rebuttal you throw his way judging by the small laugh he lets out as you leave.

Toy, huh?

You think, as you find yourself retracing your steps back to the ballroom. 

More fitting than lover that’s for sure, but you doubt even a genius like Gilbert would understand from just a glance that that was the case, rather he meant it in a dismissive manner.

But still, you can’t help the bitter smile that appears on your face at the statement.

Because you would end up back at Chevalier’s side, and either through your expressions or through his own logic system that you couldn’t possibly fathom, he would understand everything that happened. And then, like always, you would end up locked up in a cage while, ironically, the beast who should be locked in there would prowl around, growling at anyone who came close, possessive of his toy.

And the worst part is, even though you could see the path paved for you, leading you to your own demise, you still had to follow it, like written in a story, like fate.

And maybe that’s why you smile instead of frown when you see your beloved captor’s face twist into a look of grim understanding as he sees you again, wordlessly gesturing you to draw nearer with his gaze.

Because ironically enough, the only person even close enough to understanding or even changing your situation was the same breed as the monster that possessed you.

And it’s an amusing thought to you.

But if you could see the expression of a certain dark haired man, thinking almost fondly on your interaction, you wouldn’t find it half as funny.

[andauril]

Chapter Title: Sacrificial Lambs Chapter Summary: Shadowheart has to make a decision when the party comes face to face with the Nightsong, and Astarion finally learns the meaning of his scars.

(art by @/dafna-winchester)

Pairing: Astarion x Female Dark Urge

Summary: When Astarion called Silaestra a "kindred spirit", the first time they met, he could never have known how right he ended up being.

Excerpt:

And there it was. The entire reason why these scars had been carved into his back, why he’d had to sit still for hours, screaming his throat raw while that dagger cut into his flesh. Why Cazador would never simply let him be.   “And that, my tragic and toothsome friend, is that”, he heard Raphael say. The devil bowed,” Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere”, and snapped his fingers, disappearing once more into smoke and shadow.  Astarion stared at the spot where he’d stood, just a moment before.  His head was swimming.  The Rite of Profane Ascension …  Cazador would hunt him to the ends of Toril. And beyond it, across every plane of existence he might try to hide in. There was no place he could hide from him. Not if Cazador needed him to finish the ritual. Astarion had forgotten to breathe.  “Hm …”  Silaestra was looking at him, a small furrow etched between her brows and lips pulled into a thin line. “Astarion …?” Her voice was quiet, eyes searching.  “This is rather a lot to take in.” And he still wasn’t sure what he should be thinking, even now. He felt dizzy. “What do you think I should do?” “I think we should stop the ritual.” She inhaled sharply. “And kill Cazador. I won’t let him lay a finger on you ever again. Death is probably too good for him.” There was a sharp anger in her voice. And she was right, of course. Cazador had to die. As terrifying as even thinking about that was … “I need to take the fight to him. And I need you to help me.”  “I was always going to help you kill him, Astarion.” Her tone was deadly serious. A promise.  “Thank you.” He could never hope to kill Cazador on his own. Without the tadpole, he was only a spawn, and even with it … And once that was gone … Cazaodor had to die before he lost his only advantage. If he could get the drop on him during the day, and with Silaestra’s help, then perhaps …  But she was right about more than just one thing.  “Death would be letting the bastard off easy.” There was no guarantee it could be done, and yet …  The Rite of Profane Ascension. “What if we did more than simply kill him.”

[virtue-and-beneviolence]

This made me think how much hanma and draken have this funny enemies thing going on so imagine ur pissed at shuji or just sick of him not making a move yet? Y’all act like a couple but this mfer never made it official? Like why is his hand always in the back pocket of ur jeans? Why does this mfer offer u the last bite of his donut? No tell me why tf does he hold ur hand in a crowded place?🤨And when u lowkey joke about oh are u in love with me? And he laughs saying “don’t be silly doll” doll? (I’ll end him I swear) so u flirt with draken and yknow how he hates his guts that’s why u do so to piss him off and I think pissed shuji very sexy tbh wow 🤲🏽👍🏽and the thought of losing u to another man? And that man is bald with a braid? Aw hell naH Shawty he confessing so fast🤭😳

No because making draken the sacrificial goat is killing me lmao. Dw we won't do draken dirty here I've got a work-around.

also massive apologies to you vivi i'm sorry you knew abt this for an inordinate amount of time

Official.

it takes idiots (reader and shuji) many months, jealousy and miscommunication, and some prettiness to finally make it official.

cw: fem!reader, reader loses her temper and shuji is super needy so its a lil more subby!shuji smut, cream pie, unprotected sex (don't recommend, be safe out there), ye idk im gonna go pretend this isn't posted now, peace ✌️ ~2.2k

God but hear me out it starts at a toman party. Shuji and you are acting the way you always do. You're literally in his lap lounging in the corner of the couch. He's playing with the hem of your skirt, flipping the end between his fingers and rubbing the skin of your thigh. You're talking to Yuzuha who's occupying the chaise lounge. You haven't seen her in a while, she's been abroad with hakkai on so many modelling gigs lately. And she totally misreads the situation. She's like, so how is it, finally being together?

At first it's silly, though you have a tinge of want at the end of your words when you joke back with, "Well we've actually been married for three years, we just never found the right time to tell you all."

Yuzuha clocks it as a joke, but not as a sore spot for you. Or maybe she's so shocked and that's why she won't let it go that easily. "Hanma what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Undiagnosed ADHD and probabl-"

You give your friend a we're-going-to-talk-about-this-later look as a baffled Yuzuha cuts him off. "Wha- Hanma god damn it I meant-no- you know what I meant."

He offers a half shrug, "What? M'young."

That's when you excuse yourself blankly to get another drink. The insinuation that Shuji was still playing the field left you a bit numb. He wasn't. You knew that he wasn't because you were with him 90% of his waking hours. Hell you'd platonically (as platonically as you and Shuji ever really were) slept in his bed last night and woke up next to him. The bastard slept with his arms around you and snored in your ear half the night and he has the balls to joke like that? His words stung like a betrayal of the highest degree.

In the kitchen you found Draken looking for a pong partner. Perfect, you decide, a distraction with alcohol built in.

He tells you casually between turns he's fresh off (another) a break up with his on again off again girlfriend and you feel a dark part of you light up and a wicked idea is born.

You throw the pong game. To the point where Draken has to give you pointers. Has to get real close and talk lowly in your ear about how we need you to aim for the left one this time okay? His honeyed baritone sends shivers down your spine and you wonder for a second how much better this scenario would be if it were Shuji in your ear. Shuji's hands on your hip, his thumb dipping below the waist band of your skirt.

You huff a little. Nah fuck him. it's time to put your plan into action. You throw with your usual accuracy. You get the point. Out of the corner of your eye you see a certain skunk striped boy half-fixated on your game.

Showtime, you brain screams.

Excitedly you hop in Draken's grasp, throwing your arms around his neck and revel in his pleased laughter. "You're up again," he says as he puts you down and steps back. You stop him by the wrist, tug him back a little.

"Wait can you help me line it up again?" You bat your lashes a bit, playing at being drunker than you both know you are.

"Sure thing." You feel his warmth and relish in it, stalling and pressing into him. It's a miss, but the tiny peck under your ear he plants feels like a win.

The ball splashes in a cup on your side and you opponent, Kazutora smirks. Draken offers to drink it but you refuse. It's cheap beer. It's rough going down. Draken puts his hand between your shoulders and says that for such a pretty little thing you sure can hold your alcohol. The praise, more than the alcohol, warms your cheeks.

It's the last shot and you make it. You excitedly turn around in Draken's grasp and catch his lips in yours. You never intended for it to be a just celebratory peck, but you pull away, blushing a bit and stuttering apologies to make it appear so. Draken drawls out some praise for his pretty girl that won the game and draws you back in by the small of your neck and pulling the plush of your lower lip between his teeth.

You hear Kazutora cat whistle and know, you just know, it's meant to alert his buddy Shuji. Mentally you apologize to Emma but after she's regaled you and the girls with all the filthy details of the nasty make up sex she and Draken have, somehow you think she won't mind this little show, given that's all it was.

You hope she'll also forgive the two heavy punches Shuji lands on her Kennyboy before Kazutora pulls your next friend back and you can get back between the two again. People are staring, hoping for a fight. Some even boo when Emma whisks Draken away by the collar of his shirt and you try to push Shuji away.

"Fuck him," he spits and looks at you, "you too you little shit," he accuses and pulls you away by the wrist.

--

God, you're a certified sucker for that crazy look in his eyes. It's the first thing you think when Shuji slams the door of a spare bedroom in Pah Chin's house. You can't help it. There's nothing like Hanma Shuji slipping into his aggressive chaos mode on this earth. His irises glow with his emotion. And, wow was it easy to forget that he had you pressed against the door of this room with all his energy and attention fixed on you.

His fingers were knotted in your hair and you vaguely noted his growl asking you what the FUCK you thought you were doing.

"And who are you to ask that? I'm not yours. We're not together Shuji. Never have been. You're young, still right?" You shoot back

"Tch, that's what this is about?"

Maybe he had you caged against the door but liquid courage had you fighting back. You shove his chest. "Yeah. Yeah that's what this is about. What the fuck right do you have to treat me like I'm yours? You drive me everywhere. You hold my hand. You share your bed. You kiss my forehead. You make me breakfast. You know my secrets. You call me yours. But you can't make it official? What the fuck is up with that?"

With every sentence you've pushed Shuji back till he was perched on the corner of the bed.

"How the fuck is that fair, huh? You want me to be yours Shuji? Then tell me you're fucking mine." It's not a request. It's a demand. An ultimatum. A last chance to be honest with you.

He's looking up at you still as a statue, emotion so unreadable it unnerves you. You know how he wears almost any emotion. He rarely surprises you, and yet...

"I'm yours."

Shuji says it quietly at first like there's a lag between his awareness and speech. You're shocked he's caved so quickly and you stutter out an "Excuse me?"

"I'm yours." He repeats, more confidently. "God I'm so fucking yours." He's dragged you by the hips to straddle his lap and his lips are on yours and you swear you can taste the adrenaline on his tongue.

It's every bit as addicting as you guessed to properly make out with Shuji. You don't know how long you've been sat on him attached in this kiss but when you tug him by the hair to catch your breath and hear him groan at the tension you think you've died and gone to heaven. He's mumbling little "all fuckin yours, baby" up and down your neck and you feel his voice reverberating in your throat.

You grind down on the swell of his hardening dick and smirk a bit, lips ghosting his, "all?"

"All."

He's shimmying out of his pants, when you slide off his lap to kneel on the floor. You're met with a sizeable bulge hidden under tight black fabric and you damn near moan just at the sight of his freed dick springing up to tap his abs when you pull the last offending piece of fabric away. "Shuji you're so fucking beautiful." You say as you brush your fingers over his length carefully. His mouth opens in an amused playful smirk but you're on him immediately, stealing his words by licking a stripe from base to the tip that you pop right in your mouth. His jaw hesitates and then goes slack as you look up at him and take as much of him as possible.

You don't know what you expected but he is not quiet. He's mumbling praise and expletives and he exhales the hottest, breathiest moan you've ever had the pleasure to hear, let alone cause, when his tip hits the back of your throat and you swallow around it. You smile around him and want to giggle but you settle on humming around him. You force his fingers in your hair into a fist telling him to set his pace but he pulls you off instead. He's panting a bit and you feel a pang of pride in your chest.

"Need to fuck you. Need your pussy." He's already clamoring to help you up and discard your skirt. You do him the honor of not remembering his words as needy and stuttered as they were just this one time.

You climb over him to straddle his hips and stroke his cock once, twice, before running the tip along your slit. Rather than taking the tip you pivot your hips and pin his dick to his abs and run your soaking lips along his length. The sensation of his hot head nudging your clit brings you to your elbows, moaning in his ears.

Big hands grip your ass and grind you even harder into his dick. And between the warm stimulation and the nails digging into your skin you're already on the fucking edge, but you'll be damned if the first time you fuck Shuji you don't cum around his cock.

Finally after your relentless teasing you lined up his dick and hovered over him bobbing just enough to tease his tip with the velvety walls of your pussy. Shuji can barely whine a "fuck, doll stop teasing me cant take it," before you've sunk down and taken his cock whole and he's groaning and squeezing your ass, pulling you onto himself with bruising strength. You're suddenly laying on him again, collapsed down to your elbows with the power of your orgasm, while your fluttering walls only spur him on.

The weight of years of fantasies of this moment hit him at once and before you can process it, he's bear hugging you and rolling over to take the lead. Fuck, how could he not? After pining after you for so long, imagining getting to finally fuck you and promising himself that he'd make sure you wanted no one else when he was done with you.

It's endearing, you think, how he mutters as much to you over and over as he makes your pussy his as he fucks you through your high and beyond. You giggle and moan and gasp and think this is exactly how you pictured sex with Shuji to be needy, whiny, unexpected, a little rough.

You can read him so well that when his breath hitches just right, you wrap you legs around his waist, ignoring the stuttered warning of his own impending orgasm. Instead you gripped his hair, pulled his face to yours and breathed, "Gonna make me all fucking yours?" over his lips.

Immediately he pulled away from your kiss, unable to coordinate as he lost his composure and filled you, half locked in place by your legs. Muttered curses and filthy nonsense about how you feel around his is all he can get out until he's spent, finally latching his mouth on your shoulder to give an affectionate bite, not unlike bites you'd exchanged as friends a few hours before. You let him lay on you a minute or so to recover before he pulls back and sits up on his knees to look down at you, at his handiwork.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah," you agreed.

"Why haven't we done that before?"

"Hm...something about you being young?" You tease as he eases out of you.

"Yeah yeah, I get it. We already fucked that issue away," he jokes back and combs his fingers through some minor tangles in your hair, "S'not like I meant it anyway, y'know."

You catch his hand and tug it, wanting to be closer, "You're free to prove that to me any time."

In true Shuji form, he gasps in that goofy performatively dumb way he likes to as he brings his face close to yours for a kiss, "You mean I can do this again?"

[mrsarnasdelicious]

That thing about fertility

A great many people who are befriended/follow Uhtred say Sihtric is favoured by Freya and Freyr

This stems from one Yule time in Cookham, when Sihtric was allowed to sacrifice the boar

It was his very first time

He got more blood on himself than on the sacrificial grounds

That brought around the joke that from now on Freya will favour him

He will have many children it is said

And nothing has ever been more true

His libido is off this world!

He can go for it anytime, anywhere

He is not quitting until you are with child

And even when you are, he will only leave off when you tell him

He is 100% horny!

And a himbo

You are most certainly with child 80% of the time

So many babies!

And Sihtric loves all of them

He is such a proud and loving father, holy fek!

He definitely does his best to be involved as he can be

Considering Uhtred still likes him by his side in battle

He also all but insists on being with you during your labour

Uhtred usually allows that

And how elated he is when he gets to hold another newborn babe in his arms

And he finds you so pretty when you are with child

He will not waste a single moment to make you feel confident

Be it with a baby bump, just post partum or with a baby on your boob

Sihtric will always tell you how amazing he thinks you are

And often also how much you turn him on

Because fuck you do!

Especially in your second trimester

There is barely any leaving your bed

Because holy shit you drive Sihtric wild every hour of the day

It's become a bit of a running gag for Uhtred to ask you if you are pregnant every time he sees you

Be it with a bundle of joy new in your arms or with a belly full to bursting

And you always answer 'Knowing my husband, I might be'

Though Sihtric will absolutely give you time to recover as much as you need after birth or when one baby is particularily difficult

And then there is the adopted kids

First it is just Cynlaef

But Aethelstan seems to yearn for a true family as well

So you say he can go ahead and call you Mother and Sihtric Father, if he wants

The young royal bastard had already been living under your roof since Uhtred had taken him in on Edward's request

You and Sihtric simply have the most stable family/homelife

Sihtric and you are absolutely loving parents to your boys

They are both raised, like the children of your blood, with the old gods

Though Finan and Osferth make sure Aethelstan gets a christian education as well

Cynlaef and Aethelstan are both very good big brothers

They are very helpful with the younger children

Especially Aethelstan is soooo good with the young ones

Oh the happiness

BIG FAMILY, HAPPY FAMILY

[hoverboards-and-dragons]

What's god's opinion on Charlie?

Layered and Complicated :D

She is, first of all, His granddaughter and He loves her for that, He's so weird about it, but He loves her. He gets to just be an annoying Granddad sometimes, "at least one morningstar will still let Me show them affection~" (He's the one who didn't return Lucifer calls for eons, bastard<3)

She's also a Creation of His Morningstar, so He's always, quietly appraising her quality and attributes.

He causally calls her the Antichrist in conversion and will not explain it, not even with a negative connotation no one knows what to make of it.

She fits in a very weird middle ground between belonging to Him and not, being hellborn, which almost pushes her into the same territory as Lilith "He can only make sense of His feelings by considering her an equal" but not quite, since those feelings aren't hatred and He's has a patriarch role without being God.

She's the Chosen child who will return His Morningstar to Him and unite their broken family, bringing needed changes to the deteriorating systems of Heaven and Hell,

There is no guarantee this isn't a sacrificial role, God is known to be fond of His scapegoats. There's a tendency of fixing things by allowing a necessary transgressor to do what needs to be done, and also allowing them to be fully punished for those crimes once complete so His word is still upheld.

Just hanging out, she's an incredible combination of young Lucifer and Lilith so they get along like a house on fire. Charlie's tolerant of His off-putting and suffocating demeanour and has just enough audacity in her to tell God to be nicer.

And of course, He's a smug cunt about Lucifer ending up with a rebellious child

Lucifer and his Father get into quite a few fights about whether Charlie getting dragged into conflicts he started is meaningfully different from what God did to him.

'I won't hurt her like You hurt me.'

'and yet, hurt she became, nearly dying by man's rage for you. I touched not a feather of yours either I remind, fledgling. and it is also by My grace you yet live. you cause her pain, and you saved her, alike I cause you pain, and I saved you'

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

One of the things that sticks out to me about Jon is just how active and readily available his kindness is. And it’s funny because the fandom at large considers Jon to be someone with a good heart, but he usually isn’t specifically linked to kindness as a key character trait even though he should be. Because every now and then, we have moments where Jon is just so proactive in how good he is to people. Not like it’s a performance, but it’s just something that comes to him naturally. And it doesn’t have to be big things either because sometimes, it’s really the little things that matter. Take this interaction with Tyrion for example:

“Boy,” a voice called out to him. Jon turned.

Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a gargoyle. The dwarf grinned down at him. “Is that animal a wolf?”

“A direwolf,” Jon said. “His name is Ghost.” He stared up at the little man, his disappointment suddenly forgotten. “What are you doing up there? Why aren’t you at the feast?”

“Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” the dwarf told him. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?”

- Jon I, AGOT

First, it’s quite adorable how readily he strikes up conversation with Tyrion, a man he’s just met. The hint of curiosity mixed with concern when he asks Tyrion why he isn’t at the feast is cute.

But it’s the last line that stands out to me. “Shall I bring a ladder?” Because he could’ve just said “shall I call for a ladder?” but he didn’t. The latter suggests that someone else will do the brunt of the work. It’s still kind, because he’d still be looking out for Tyrion, but it puts him in a passive role. Instead, he means to get the ladder himself. He will look for it, bring it, and position it for Tyrion to use. So now his kindness is very much active. His empathy is on full display here as well because he acknowledges that Tyrion may need assistance and takes the initiate to provide it.

This seems like such a silly thing to get hung up on but I love this small moment because it provides a lot of depth to a character who is meant to serve as the series’ traditional hero - a role that is often times “good” by default without exploring how or why. Anyone who’s read Jon I knows that he has spent the chapter being a raging jerk. But GRRM uses this moment to remind us that despite being a moody, asshole-ish, 14 yr old boy, Jon is a really good kid at the end of the day. He’s is kind and he’s so active in how he practices his kindness. Even to people he doesn’t know and has no obligations to.

Because we’ve had a bit of whiplash so far. Bran I established Jon as a sweet and empathetic, self-sacrificial brother. But the first part of Jon I makes us question that when we see his pettiness and immaturity on full display. It almost seems like a case of unreliable narration from Bran, until we get to this last part when Jon gets a small moment to redeem himself. Which he does ~ and it’s done beautifully because it later links to some of the larger themes in Jon’s storyline. That he is one who actively looks out for the “cripples and bastards and broken things”. It’s not just looking out for Bran when they found the direwolf pups, but looking out for Tyrion in this chapter, and then for Arya and Bran again in Jon II, and then for Grenn in the last part of Jon III, and for Sam in Jon IV, and so forth and so forth. It’s a pattern that’s established through big and small moments all throughout AGOT where Jon still has a lot of growing up to do. But these moments, at large, serve as an anchor to remind us why we ought to care for this hero’s journey.