#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.

💕—————💕

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

More TexAid Mecha AU-AU stuff!

No warnings for once - Vortex doesn't get to mangle anyone. Poor boy...

Also the Combaticon playlist is here; https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3pyBRAuoKYDEpAFaTm9j5j?si=bf63cc6e018d4ab9 It's very nostalgic to me so it was fun to make!

He got what he wanted. He thought. That’s what he was telling himself, at least – he got Vortex to stop fucking killing people.

The pilots uniform sat awkwardly on him. He didn’t have the muscle the other pilots did, the bulk to their frame that made it sit handsomely on them. He’d always been described as a twig of a boy growing up, and he didn’t fill out much as he grew into his skeleton. Stood in front of the mirror, he missed his medics uniform. It really didn’t suit him.

The back of his head hurt. The surgery had been quick – he had a suspicion Pharma didn’t use as much anaesthetic as he should have, he felt every movement of the scalpel, every connection of the nerves. He tried hard to ignore it and not inspect the swollen, angry flesh with his bare hands.

Spiteful bastard. He hadn’t spoken to him since he’d thrust his transfer documentation into his hands. His lips had been pressed tightly together, locking in the words he was desperate to say. First Aid thought it might have had something to do with the fact that Fortress Maximus was right behind him.

The other pilots treated him like a pariah. First Aid supposed that he was – the mech he piloted was reported to be haunted. The aftermath was graphic. He had been tasked with cleaning it, and now he was the next sacrificial lamb. There was no point in breaking bread with him – he’d be a dead man soon enough. Every time he stepped out whole was pure luck – he didn’t have the training, there was no skill involved. It was only a matter of time until the hourglass ran out and he’d be scrubbed from the cracks with a toothbrush like everyone else was.

Lunch was a lonely affair. Dinner was even lonelier. He ate breakfast in his room on his own – a benefit of being a pilot was having your own room, but he wished more than anything that he had a roommate. Someone who would be forced to talk to him, to take the edge off the loneliness.

The only social interaction he had was Vortex, and even that was limited. Nobody liked for anyone to get too close to him unnecessarily, First Aid included – but for fucks sake it was his mech, who were they to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to go near it?

The exception to the apathy was Perceptor. Every time he saw him, the man was studying him from afar like he were an animal at a safari. The confrontation would come soon enough – he had been the only one to notice that he was there that day he’d stolen the uniform. He must have known what he’d done, put the pieces together with ease. It wasn’t hard – he’d caught the medic red handed in the pilots quarters, and then not long after he’d mysteriously been in possession of a pilots suit and had been dragged by the cuff out of Vortex upon return to the Shatterdome. Honestly, it was childs play.

Dinner that evening played out as usual. First Aid sat down as far away as he could from everyone else, and not long after the other occupants of the table started to leave like he was diseased. He poked at his dinner – apparently, pilots received meals that were far more varied and clearly had a bigger budget than the ones served in the medics quarters did, but still pretty dire and bland – and wondered what he’d read that evening. His legs still hurt from training, and as his implants were still healing he wasn’t allowed to get back into his mech yet, so he’d had to ignore the sirens – his name was still popping up on the board of pilots being summoned, and he could see an aura of rage simmering around Vortex every time. He’d made a point to look apologetic at the cameras and vaguely gesture to the back of his head – connecting now would fry him to the point where they’d never connect again. There wouldn’t be enough time in the drop for him to show him everything he wanted to – Vortex would run out of fuel and he’d die of dehydration before they got to the point of being satisfied. He would have to be patient.

A tray clattered down opposite him. First Aid flinched, and looked up in surprise.

Perceptor.

He subtly glanced around them – nobody was paying them any attention. They were in their own bubble of privacy in the crowd, their words obscured by passing conversations.

“Felix Anwyl, correct?”

“Uhm. Yes? Can I help you? Do you require medical assistance?” He grimaced as his training kicked in – the wrong training. He wasn’t allowed to be a medic any more. Pharma had been extremely clear about that.

“I didn’t think you functioned as a medic.” Perceptor sat down opposite him, neatly folding his hands down on top of the table.

“Force of habit.”

“I see.” His eyes were intense, and First Aid felt like a mouse under the gaze of a hawk. Suddenly, he realised why he was the only ultra-long distance pilot.

“I was a big fan of you as a kid. Collected all the trading cards and stuff.”

Perceptor ignored him. “I was curious about what kind of person you were. Sneaking into the pilots quarters, stealing a suit just to get into a mech. At first I thought you were just some gullible young fool who fancied themselves a hero, that you’d bought into the idea of piloting being some glamorous lifestyle, but that’s not quite it, is it?”

“He was killing them.” First Aid quietly replied. He wanted to look away from the eyes that were looking straight through him, but he couldn’t. “He’d made it clear what he wanted, but nobody would listen – I couldn’t stand any more people dying. Just because they’re cadets, doesn’t make it okay to sacrifice them like that.”

“He?”

“Vortex.”

“You’re talking as if it’s actually alive.”

“Haven’t you heard the rumours?” First Aid quirked a brow. “That he’s haunted?”

“Ghosts don’t exist.”

“You’re not very fun.” First Aid poked at his mashed potato. “Fine. Call it the Tamagotchi effect then, or anthropomorphism. I’m not a trained pilot, it’s different for me.”

“Your colleagues aren’t either, but none of them refer to Vortex as a ‘he’.”

“They’re terrified of… them.”

“And you’re not?”

He was, but not for the same reasons. “Not really.” It was like asking him if he was afraid of his reflection.

Perceptor hummed. He turned to his own dinner – he neatly chopped up his sausage with the blunt knives they’d been provided with and chewed carefully. First Aid felt himself fall into a sense of security, thinking it was over, and took a spoonful of his mashed potato.

“How did you learn to pilot, then?” He suddenly asked.

“Huh?”

“You said you’re not a trained pilot, and I know just by looking that you’re telling the truth. You’re a medic. Your clothes still smell of disinfectant and bleach. But the way your mech moves… That’s a fully trained veteran.”

“The AI kind of just… handles it all.” First Aid hoped his expression wasn’t too awful, he felt his face twitching. “I guess with how many pilots he’s had, he’s had plenty of time to memorise it all.”

“I suppose so.”

Perceptor didn’t ask about it again. He pulled out a paper to read, and First Aid had made the mistake of asking him a question about it in attempt to be polite. Thirty minutes later and he was still talking – the words had stopped making sense twenty-five ago.

One lunch time, he’d had enough of the solitary lifestyle he was being forced to lead and the lack of things to do with his hands since Pharma still hadn’t let him back into the medical bay and the brass had caught him running a clinic from his quarters. He grabbed his portion – it looked like it was some kind of soup today – the accompanying bread roll and fruit pot, filled his flask with coffee and marched down the catwalk, sitting himself directly in front of Vortex before popping the lid off and inspecting what the canteen had served that day. It was bright red. Obnoxiously so. He paused and checked the label again.

Yup. That sure was food, alright. Beetroot, beef, pork, assorted vegetables. The good stuff.

… He didn’t know beetroot could get that red.

Vortex’s cockpit popped open with a hiss. First Aid secured the lid back on and hopped on inside.

[WHAT DID YOU GET TODAY?] He asked. For a man without a mouth, he was always curious about what was for lunch.

“I have no idea what it is, but it is bright red.” First Aid replied, sitting down in the pilots seat and popping the lid back off again. He felt Vortex tremble as the cameras zoomed in on it.

[YOU’RE FLIRTING WITH ME NOW <3]

“You know what this is?” First Aid offered it to the camera. “It’s warm.”

[BORSCHT. YOU DON’T KNOW IT? PILOTS GET IT ALL THE TIME.]

“Medics don’t get fed so well.” First Aid made himself comfortable and took a curious sip. “Oh. That’s something.” He pulled a face.

[NOT TO YOUR TASTES?]

“I hate beetroot.” First Aid stuck his tongue out. He poked a lone piece of pork with his spoon. “It infects everything it touches with mud.”

[CHILD.]

“I would say you eat it then, but…”

The helmet loudly dropped, smacking him in the head. First Aid yelped, narrowing his eyes at the camera pointed at him. “Pot calling the kettle black much?”

[I CAN TASTE THROUGH YOU, YOU KNOW. PUT IT ON.]

The connection at the back of his head was mostly healed. It was safe, they could connect without any issues as of his check-up that morning - but he still hesitated. The marks on his arms felt hot.

[WHY THE HESITATION?]

[DON’T YOU WANT ME?]

“I don’t want to get into trouble again. Pilots aren’t meant to connect outside of combat.”

They’d been very clear to him on that. He’d been labelled a risk, a liability - he was abnormally attached to his mech. Swindle was starting to look at him funny - and if Swindle was noticing…

[PUSSY. I JUST WANT YOUR TONGUE. FINE, HOW ABOUT THIS.] The helmet disappeared up and another panel popped open. The service connection - engineers could connect using similar technology on tablets to diagnose issues with the mech faster. This was much more acceptable. [YOU WERE BITCHING ABOUT THAT PANEL IN MY FOOT. WANNA CHECK THEY DID THEIR JOB?]

“You’re so clever.” First Aid praised him. He hopped over with his soup, sitting against the wall as he let Vortex plug himself in. He had braced himself for pain and a jolt, the cleaving of his awareness in two, but it felt smooth as butter. A brush of fingers along the nape of his neck, the pressure of someone leaning on his shoulders and resting their chin on his head.

Vortex.

… That damn panel still wasn’t right.

“Borscht?” Vortex reminded him. He sounded more like a man than a machine now.

Obediently, he took another sip. He felt Vortex tremble as a memory pushed against his awareness, just out of reach - a vague sense of it ran through his fingers. A wooden table, dried sunflowers in a repurposed jug decorated in bright designs, hands that were clean and unmarked by years of self-inflicted hardship.

“Damn, that’s the good shit.”

First Aid had finished the whole bowl before he realised it, riding the wave of Vortex’s reaction. He hiccuped, firmly putting the lid back over the bowl.

“I still don’t get how you like that.”

“More for me. I suppose I have a more refined palette.”

“Didn’t you smoke? You probably couldn’t taste anything.”

“Heh. Excuses excuses~ You sound jealous.”

First Aid pouted. “Do not.”

“Do too. Come on, don’t be shy, I like it when you get a jealous streak.”

“When have I ever been jealous over you!” First Aid squeaked in embarrassment. Vortex rumbled, memories pushed against him - his face twisted in a shape he didn’t recognise when other people were cleaning him, other people were inside and scrubbing. He felt his cheeks warm.

“I was only jealous that they got to go near you.” He couldn’t look at him, he couldn’t look at the cameras that were all trained on him. “That was when I wasn’t allowed - remember? Because you kidnapped me.”

“Kidnap is a strong word. I prefer borrowed for a moment.”

“Thank you for not killing me that day.”

“You’re welcome? I guess?”

“Forgive me - you’re dubbed the blender for a reason.” He popped the lid of his coffee and took a big gulp – it had already started to go cold. It was vaguely lukewarm in a way that made him feel queasy, but he needed the caffeine.

“Black?”

“Americano, yeah.”

“I thought you’d have the sugary shit.”

“I saw what some of the other pilots were putting into their coffee and it scared me off of it, honestly.” He shuddered. “Did you know you can fit thirty three creamer pots into a pilots standard issue water bottle? I didn’t until I saw someone do it.”

“… That’s disgusting. Coffee flavoured cream at that point – just drink it from the carton. Doesn’t the shop here sell flavoured milk?”

“They had flavour syrup in there too.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

“Fucking hell.”

Swindle had this godawful idea of pilot interviews. The media were interested, and once the investors had caught wind of that their ears had perked up. Swindle saw coins falling from the sky, and had promptly agreed and cleared his diary. Making them seem more human brought in much more attention, and with attention came money and government contracts and more boots on the ground. It also brought in his favourite thing in the world; unpaid interns. The prestige would be enough of an incentive.

And so First Aid found himself with a docket shoved into his grease-stained hands as he worked on clearing out random debris from Vortex’s right knee – the mechanics were still afraid of him, and First Aid had an idea of what it was supposed to look like in there from when he’d been tasked with extracting a pilots thoracic vertebrae (T4 through to T6 only – he wasn’t sure how they’d even gotten there and he had never asked. The rest of her spine had gone missing), he was doing their job for them. Vortex was doing a stellar job of subtly shifting his plating out of the way to give First Aid better access – it was enough debris that it was pissing him off too.

“What’s this?” First Aid asked, putting it down on the table next to him before reaching back into the joint. He could see something in there, hard and transparent and vaguely blue. It was quintesson hard tissue – he’d have to call the hazard team in. What a pain. He gestured for his visitor to take a step back before reaching in and trying to get a good grip on it so he could tug it free.

No dice. He sighed, knowing he’d need to give Vortex some clear instructions on what he needed but not able to do it with an audience - he had left a walkie talkie up in the cockpit for him, but he knew damn well that it would cause a scene if he started nattering away into it.

So they got his attention instead. They were waiting with impatience thinly veiled with a smile and too-wide eyes. Someone from human resources, maybe? Media? Public relations? He didn’t know. They wouldn’t be hanging around long enough for it to really matter.

“It’s some papers for you to sign. For the interviews. So, you’re not on the interview list, but we did want to get some footage of you with your mech. Is that alright?”

First Aid looked up at Vortex as if expecting him to say something. He blinked at him before he realised he wouldn’t be saying a single whisper, and quickly looked back at them.

“I’m not getting interviewed?”

“Instructions from the big brass!”

“Right.” He wiped his hands down on a dirty rag and shoved it into his belt. “Sure. Fine, I guess. I’m just going to be digging around in his joints – he’s got some quintesson guts in there, so I’ll need hazard around. Is this going on TV? It will give a good show at least, right?”

Their eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s perfect.”

The cameras were obnoxious. The people behind them were worse.

Could you do that again? Can we get this person to do it? Turn your face this way, have your hair like that, take your jacket off, can you try it with your jacket on again but your feet like this?

Real fucking irritating. First Aid wanted them to just get lost. The hard tissue was still in there. Vortex was starting to get annoyed, and nobody wanted to find out how far he was willing to go for some peace and quiet. He’d called the hazard team well before the camera crew had arrived – and they still weren’t there. He could hear the creak in Vortex’s joints, the faint rumbling and vibrations of his systems gearing up, the tremors of plating desperate to move.

Solace came with Swindle, the cavalry marching in behind him. The hazard team. Finally. First Aid quickly scuttled up into the cockpit with a walkie-talkie in hand to play pretend at moving the mech so they could extract the hazardous tissue, covering his eyes to block out the obnoxiously bright flash of their cameras, and wondered if they’d keep his footage in. His parents would worry.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had a twink writhing.

If he still had a body, he’d be doing awful things to that man. His screams would be perfect, so loud and like music to his ears. And he knew that First Aid would have been thanking him, begging him for more through his tears the whole time. It was such a shame that the human body was so fragile. All he wanted was to be able to take him apart and put him back together after he was done so he could do it again. Over and over, until he was nothing more than a husk of a man.

And he would still be thanking him.

If god were real, he must have been smiling down at him for such a gift. If he were capable of love, he thinks that what it might be.

The tragedy was that he was being punished by finding First Aid too late. They should have been two ships passing at sea - Vortex knew that if anyone gained a single inkling of what First Aid was into when they should have, they’d have thrust him into the system to get lost and fade away into obscurity. A footnote on the family tree. That uncle that vanished as a child. Or maybe they’d pretend that he’d never have existed at all. But no, Felix had glided by unassumingly, his good nature and kind face a front, a shield against what was straining against the surface, shining through the cracks and splitting his skin.

Oh, what a joy it was to have him there with him. What fun it had been to watch him, to study him. The moment he’d seen First Aid chew his bottom lip, core temperature rising as he stared at the disembowelled remains of the first pilot he’d been tasked to excavate from him, he knew he had to have him.

He also knew this should have been working him up. He should have been whipped into a frenzy, unable to contain himself - but lacking any appropriate organ to produce any of the hormonal response that pushed him over the edge, Vortex was left feeling vaguely hollow and empty.

It really, really pissed him off.

Why had they kept him alive if they were just going to waste him like this? It was torture. It was the worst thing he could ever think of.

And it was, annoyingly, the perfect punishment. He’d begrudgingly give those researchers that – they’d achieved their goals on that front. Creative ways to stretch out death row, Vortex had called it at the time. If you asked him now, he’d say that they just gave him a bigger body to create a wonderful slaughter with, but the anger at the situation would be simmering beneath the surface. It was fun popping someone like a grape, but he couldn’t hear their breath whistling out from what remained of their thorax any more.

All he could do all day in between waiting for fights and splitting alien life forms in half with his bare hands was nose around at the cameras and browse the internet.

For such a high security base, their internet security was pathetic. A couple days of poking around at it and he’d been in, briefly toying with the idea of taking down the base and watching them scramble around like the ants they were, before instead heading over to YouTube and seeing if there was anything worth catching up on.

The news announcements about him and his teams deaths had been amusing. Very, very amusing.

But today, he settled on the cameras. He had fun games he’d made to entertain himself with, creating false stories and dramas – he’d spent a lot of time whilst he was still alive figuring out peoples brains, what made them tick, how to get them to tell you exactly what you wanted without them noticing they were even doing it, so he considered his fantasies to be gospel – and looking for people.

He’d always hunted down First Aid. The man had just the cutest face, and he wanted to see how many different expressions he could make. The bad ones, the good ones, the really good ones – god above, especially the really good ones – everything. It was a fun game to catalogue them all, to guess what had been said or done to him to make him look like that. Thinking of ways to replicate it. He wanted him to look at him like that. He wanted him to just look at him.

It had only been a few weeks and already First Aid was as obsessed with him as he was. Mutual obsession was always the best. Matching the energy was so much more fun than watching them tremble and cry knowing they’d just make the bad kind of fucking mess.

The man was excitedly asking Vortex if he’d seen that, preening at something he’d done on the field, eyes sparkling and wide. Looking at him, you’d have been forgiven for thinking he was talking about seeing something as marvellous as a pod of whales arching out of the water instead of the pristine harvest of an alien organ that he was actually talking about. If he were a dog, his tail would be wagging hard enough to sprain.

God, he wanted to make him his.

He wouldn’t share. He couldn’t. He’d never been any good at it.

First Aid even came to eat lunch with him. Vortex had called him ‘some kind of loser’ the third time he’d done it, and First Aid had looked like such a kicked puppy he’d never done it again.

He’d thought about it, but he wouldn’t. He’d promised, and his little man had made it clear how highly he valued promises. It wouldn’t do to upset him, he’d grown rather attached.

And having something to do that involved someone else for once wasn’t actually half bad.

Being interred into a mech was a strangely lonely existence. His snippets of social interaction had come in the form of the human sacrifices they’d offered up to him, cocky and overzealous and never recognising that they were sat in his jaws and ready to be consumed. He would never ever admit it, but having First Aid there to actually speak to was… nice. It was a break from the monotony of pushing IT’s buttons and seeing how ruffled he could get the brass to be in just a single sentence.

He hated being forced to stay still. He’d had practice at it, sure - their line of work didn’t come without its fair share of hazards and they were no strangers to bed rest. Fuck, the longest he’d had to entertain himself was when he’d been on the bad end of a grenade - Brawl had tugged him out of the wreckage missing a healthy chunk of his face, blood pulsing down in a fiery heat he didn’t soon forget. His poor handsome looks had been destroyed in an instant - at least the nurses had been nice to him. If it was because they were scared of him or if it was because Swindle was paying them handsomely he didn’t know and he didn’t particularly care - it had the same result. Endless telenovelas in a language he didn’t understand, with a TV he wasn’t able to adjust. He woke up to the opening jingles, and he fell asleep to the ending songs.

He took having to find his own entertainment over that. At least he could set the language.

And today’s entertainment: watching Swindle.

It was weird watching him from cameras. Usually it was the other way around - Swindle would work his way up into their security rooms and then watch the rest of them from the cameras, guiding them around and warning them of any danger. Instead, he was a silent witness, watching his every move. He was on his phone, nattering away into it as he walked with his coffee. A fun game Vortex liked to play was voicing over him - the cameras didn’t come with any audio, so he was left to fill the blanks.

He paused when he saw his mouth clearly form the word ‘Felix’.

Huh. What did Swindle have to say about him? Good things, Vortex hoped. They were more alike than Swindle ever liked to admit - surely he had to see the beauty in First Aid too. But actually - he hoped he didn’t. First Aid was his. He found him, he had done all the hard work. Felix wasn’t someone he was going to share. He’d do what it took to keep him forever.

[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.

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Leads Sister-in-Law! 

Story Masterlist

Chapter 8

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader 

Arranged marriage AU

Warnings: panic attack, vomit, self-harm (biting thumb hard enough until it bleeds), slight blood, mention/allusions to murder, very slight suicide  ideation, one (1) suggestive line, implied child abuse, Maria being lowkey creepy (again), uncertainty about loving future kids, please tell me if I missed any.

NOTE: while I am happy that people enjoy this story, please stop blowing up my inbox about when the next chapter(s) will come out. Or telling me I should hurry up.  Thank you.

NOTE #2: there isn't going to be any romance involving Roxana or any of the other characters and the reader.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS/TOXIC ACTIONS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANTICIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY TOXIC AND DANGEROUS.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/ BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACTION WITH NOR REBLOG FANDOM STUFF DNI (MAYBE ANIMAL BLOGS ARE OKAY BECAUSE THEY’RE CUTE). PLEASE DO NO NOT SPAM LIKE MY POSTS.

= = = 

Roxana’s heels clack against the tiled hallway as she glides through, making way to her room. Blond waves gently bouncing with each step, the girl can’t hold back the scowl that tears at her lips. Brows furrowed, her thoughts were full of the recent events - the dinner. 

She didn’t mean to intrude. As a matter of fact, while curious, she had no intention of doing more than taking a quick glance - to see if what Jeremy said was true, that Dion Agriche was indeed having dinner with his poor, pitiful bride. 

Jeremy got there before her.

Hiding within the shadows, the boy was glaring daggers into the second eldest son. So engrossed with the scene presented to him, Jeremy didn’t notice Roxana as she got closer and closer. No, the brash boy had announced himself before she could even pat his shoulder. Like a wild boar, he interrupted your dinner, uncaring for how it made him look. Not that he ever did.

And perhaps out of pity on your behalf, or sick curiosity to see how everything pans out, she showed herself as well. 

An hour prior to the incident Roxana and Jeremy talked about you, the newest family member. She wasn’t the one who brought you up, but rather Jeremy. Her younger half-brother had asked her what she thought about the situation. It was the first time he asked. 

‘Well… It is strange. I thought that father would have waited longer before finding Dion a wife, much less holding the wedding.’

‘Yeah,’ Jeremy agrees, a borderline sneer on his face, ‘but it’s stupid. She won’t last long.’ 

‘Shorter than a month?’

‘No, longer. But I’m not sure how much longer. Still, to be married to that bastard… She's fucked. Pretty sure she’s begging God to kill her already, or to keep him away and indifferent.’ 

The blond beauty stared at her brother in question. ‘This isn’t like you, Jeremy. Did you meet her before or is it because Dion is the one involved?’ 

He doesn’t answer immediately, grumbling out words she didn’t catch. ‘Watch, she’s going to puke in disgust soon.’ Blue eyes narrowing in annoyance, Roxana only becomes more confused. What’s with this sudden interest with a sacrificial bride? 

‘Jeremy,’ she says, gingerly patting his head, ‘This is the first time you’ve shown interest in anyone. Why is that?’ Asking him directly, she hopes that she’ll easily draw answers from him. But, for once, he doesn’t budge. It’s concerning. 

‘Xana, I heard they’re going to have dinner together later today. Do you think that guy will show up?’ Ignoring her question, he asks his own. A frown tugs at her coral lips. But seeing how aggravated he is, she decides to humor him. Just this once. 

‘I’m not sure. If it was on father’s orders, then yes, of course. His word is law.’ 

‘What makes you so sure he’ll listen to all?’

She blinks at him, taken aback. It wasn’t often she gets rendered speechless, especially by her own younger brother. But his response also amuses her - hearing his resentment towards the twenty-year-old was always amusing.. 

‘Xana, he’s crazy. It’s only going to get worse.’

Before Roxana could respond, she got called away to Lant’s office, the butler bowing nervously after he brought the news. 

Returning to the present, the blond lets out a deep sigh, a headache forming the longer she thinks about it. This wasn’t how the story went. There wasn’t a grand wedding for any of the Agriche family members - the closest thing was when Jeremy kidnapped Sylvia, and even then, that couldn’t be considered romantic.  

Nothing in the story was romantic. 

…not like her brother’s marriage to you was either. 

Nothing made sense and it’s bothersome. Concerning even, for the moment you entered this play, she became unsure of when or if Cassis will show up - what if nothing follows the storyline at all, no matter how small? She knows he exists, she saw him at the wedding. Shining silver hair that reminds her of the moon and golden eyes that were filled to the brim with caution towards her family and the wedding, the male lead of this story exists. 

But you didn’t. 

Maybe in the original work, you did, as a nameless background character. Faith unknown and unimportant, you somehow stumbled across the stage, entangled in strings that now control your every move. It worries her - you worry her. Roxana can’t tell if you’re friend or foe, if you’ll survive and stay sane, if you’ll die soon, if she should consider taking you under her wing, seeing how you were nothing more than a victim. 

But she doesn’t have that luxury. Ensuring her own survival was hard enough - how could she take care of a second person? Why should she bother herself with you? 

You don’t serve any other purpose than being arm candy, a woman seen as nothing more than an incubator by your father-in-law. She doubts Dion cares for you; during the planning period he didn’t act out of character. He acted the same around her, still the annoying son of a bitch he’s always been. 

…but, a few days before the wedding he kept his distance. Unconcerned with her presence, he made a few last minute purchases. Away from the prying eyes of Lant, Dion also added a secret guest - the doctor known as Ash Katopodis. 

She heard a rumor that he also sent the redhead to you instead of the doctor Lant had appointed. The fifteen-year-old had found it strange once word reached her ears, brushing it to the side after concluding it was gossip for gossip sake. While it was bold of the servants to say such things, Roxana saw no point in punishing them for their senseless rumors - it had nothing to do with her. If they wanted to play with their lives with risky talk, then that was on them.

Upon reaching her room, she stops short of opening the door, manicured nails tapping against the door handle. She didn’t mean to intrude on your alone time with the brute. Yet she did and the sight of Dion in such a domestic setting made her sick. 

Disgust threatening to tip over the scale, it’s hard for her not to sneer at the mere memory of it. Domesticity does not suit Dion. He does not deserve it. Playing house with an unwilling girl, dressed in pure white as the veil hid her anxiety and fright laid within her eyes and painted on her lips. Scared and left hopeless as her family watched as she kissed the monster, powerless.

The holy church in which the wedding was held became corrupted when the second Lant Agriche picked it out, Maria fussing over the details. Who sits where, ‘gently’ probing your mother into agreeing with the dress the third wife had picked, your makeup and hairstyle, the fucking lingerie until Sierra pointed out how weird it was for the mother-in-law to pick out such an erotic and intimate thing for the girl who was to be her daughter-in-law. 

During the ceremony, Jeremy had kept mumbling to himself, clearly done with the whole ordeal. Obviously, Roxana was as well, but kept a pretty smile on, greeting you after the vows were said and said her goodbyes as you were dragged away to the bridal chamber. Only to find the morning after by Hana that you didn’t go there, instead led into the lion’s den that is Dion’s room.

How… odd. 

No… what was odder was that you didn’t have separate rooms. Emily had told her as such out of the blue, preparing her breakfast. She questioned it then, and it’s only weirder, more worrisome the longer she thinks about it.

She shakes the memories away. It wasn’t her life. She had enough trouble on her plate already - she couldn’t possibly add you to the list of her neverending responsibilities she’s forced to juggle. She could pity you, but never love you. Touch you but never hold you. Talk to you but never make a genuine connection as sisters should. 

She should stop with this foolish nonsense. 

Turning the handle, she glides right in, letting the door shut behind her. Emily had retired for the night, and the blond also ordered Hana to do the same. After all, Lant had given Dion another mission, and the favorite son had to prepare to leave in the morning, too busy to bother you. 

… why am I so focused on her…?

The moonlight lights up her room through the glass doors that lead to the terrace. With a huff, she sits in her vanity, and starts to remove her makeup with removal cream. It’s greasy as her dainty fingers spread it across her face, each action copied by the mirror. It’s quiet.

Her thoughts refuse to shut up, however. 

‘What’s going on with Lant…? Choosing a daughter-in-law from a nearly unheard of family? Do they have something he wants and only used this marriage  as a means to get closer? Most likely, but why?’

A frown tugs at her lips, face completely bare after she pats it down with a face towel. Ruby eyes stare into the reflection before her, and Roxana only sees frustration and confusion. She can’t rely on her memories of the story anymore. 

She won’t be sure until the faithful day when her father kidnaps Cassis Pedelian, the Blue Heir. And even then, how could she be sure that it would be the same Cassis Pedelain that was mentioned in the novel? The same goes for his sister, Sylvia. 

“...things are getting complicated.” Standing, her feet take her to the bed and she lays on it, back pressed against the mattress. The crystal chandelier sparkles in the moonlight. Ruby optics disappear behind her eyelids, blond lashes casting shadows on skin. The night is still young. 

A small smile of amusement forms on her lips when she remembers your earlier conversation. You had called her an interesting person - far from what others say. They called her lovely, a Goddess of beauty - and you? 

You called her interesting.

Still, you couldn’t hide the admiration for her in your eyes. You weren’t a stumbling fool and understood what her look meant when Jeremy went too far. But the most fascinating thing?

You listened to mental caution and drew a line, uncomfortable with her, with them, the gears turning in your head on what to do next. You even separated yourself from her without hesitation once the moment presented itself.

Regardless, you admired her in spite of your clear discomfort. 

“...I must be tired.” 

You called her an interesting person. In return, she’ll call you a fool. 

- - -

His side of the bed was cold, patting it as your bleary eyes and murky mind clear up. Still dressed in the half undone dress and corset, you ignore how uncomfortable it is. No, right now, what you are focused on is the way your beating heart is thrashing against your rib cage, how cold your body has become, beads of sweat building and rolling down your temples, on the verge of gasping for air. Did you just fuck yourself over? 

You don’t know what time it was - sun high in the bright, blue sky, birds singing their lovely tunes. The occasional footsteps passing by, the far off voices as the servants go about their business. None of them knock on the door. None come to ‘wake’ you up.

Or, if they had, it must have been a good while ago. Were you so deep asleep that they gave up?

“...He’s going to kill me, isn’t he… hah…” a humorless laugh passes through your chest, shoulders slumping as nothing but regret fills your head and chest. Are you going to be killed today? Or maybe tortured? Thrown out like disgusting leftovers? 

You don’t want to die. Ah, but what could you possibly do? Get on your hands and knees like a dog and beg for forgiveness? …no. You’re already pathetic enough, you don’t want to lower yourself even more. Fuck. 

“...Ah, fuck, what should I do?” Putting your thumb sideways in your mouth, your teeth clamp down on the poor digit. The taste of iron explodes in your mouth, teeth marks left behind on the now wounded and bleeding flesh. 

A throbbing headache decides to join, adding physical pain to the list of your suffering. You bite down on your thumb harder. It feels like it might just snap in two but your mind is too fried to realize this. The only thing you can think about is last night. 

Your husband was gone. Where did he go? Maybe he decided to leave you, seeing you as a broken toy he doesn’t want anymore. Does that mean he’ll give the least back to Lant? Is that why he isn’t here? To discuss how to dispose of you? 

The thought makes your stomach churn, saliva glands overfilling as bile starts to raise. You were given to them as a pet - as some twisted sacrifice, and for what? Did this family want nothing else but a new ‘toy,’ to see how long a normal person would last within these walls? What then?

If they decide to kill you, or if you kill yourself out of desperation, what would they tell your parents? No, they wouldn’t tell them anything to begin with. 

And your family wouldn’t be able to ask.

“Urk…” dry heaving, slapping your hand over your mouth, panicked tears forming. Your entire body shakes, blood staining the bed as your injured hand grasps at the sheets. “URK!” Without a thought you rush out of bed, slamming yourself down on your knees as you reach the trash can. All of your stomach continents come up, the foul taste of vomit coming forth. 

Hot tears run down your cheeks as you heave over the trash, blurring your vision. You’re breathing too heavily. You look at the door a few feet away from you. If anyone was right outside it, they would have heard you. 

“...” you wait for a knock or for someone to burst through the doors with bated breath, your eyes shaking in their sockets, knees throbbing after the harsh impact. No-one comes. It is only you - alone in this room, a sinner who is paying the price. Must you go through this for a sin you’ve forgotten until now? 

The answer is yes. 

The answer is yes as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. The answer is yes as you force yourself to stand, knees painfully throbbing as the flesh bruises. The answer is yes as your thumb still bleeds, teeth marks engraved into the skin. The answer is yes as your heart refuses to calm down, chest hurting. 

The answer is yes as you walk over to the vanity, the reflection of a face that doesn’t look like your own. 

You are a mess. 

The tears don’t stop flowing as the urge to vomit returns. Crystalline droplets catch on your lashes, ugly sobs and hiccups breaking out, your shoulders shaking as you collapse onto the leather stool seat. A sinner always pays the price. 

You bury your face into your hands, entire body jerking with each sob, each hiccup as anxiety for the future and present overtakes everything. This isn’t like you. But you were never strong enough to survive in an environment like this. You were pathetic. 

Seconds turn into minutes and maybe even into hours. Time is a concept that you don’t bother yourself with by the time you finally calm down, red puffy eyes staring into the mirror as the tear streaks dry on your cheeks. Some snot peeks out from your nostril, hair a mess, clothes crumbled and sliding down, showing more of your cleavage. Such an unsightly sight. 

Grabbing a face towel on the vanity desk, you wipe off the tears and snot.

“...Okay. Let’s… get cleaned up.” Your limbs feel heavy, dragging your feet towards the closet before finally, finally striping out of your clothes from yesterday. The articles of clothing pools at your feet. 

How much longer can I last here? 

Will there ever be a peaceful divorce? Can I divorce him? Would I be able to?

If the story events do take place and Roxana takes over the Agriche family… by then… would I have children…?

BAM!

Your poor knees-! At the thought of having children - his children - your body just gives up again, as always. That’s the only thing you’re capable of, as experience has shown. 

“...children… right, children… I have to give that man kids… kids that will go through the same thing he went through…” Will you be able to love them, if they come into existence? You have to, they would be yours.

Or would you end up just like Jeremy’s mother? Horrified at the sight of her own child, refusing to spend time with them. Seeing them as an irredeemable monster that you would do anything and everything to avoid?

Chomp. 

Your thumb once again becomes a victim to your teeth, the imprint becoming deeper and drawing more blood.  It hurts, it hurts, it hurts- but as the thought of starting a family with Dion Agriche deepens, the more you need to find something sturdy. Your thumb is enough to keep you grounded, yes, it is, and no, you’re not planning an early funeral, visualizing the area you want to hold it, or the dress your cold corpse would wear, or your family’s crying faces -

No, stop it. This isn’t - this isn’t… this isn’t what I want to be.

 Licking the flesh wound, accepting the taste and smell of iron, you are not met with clarity nor bravery; just, temporary acceptance. This is your life. This was what the Gods had planned for you. This is what you have become - a wife to the future Black Agriche Heir. 

His first wife.

Despite the blood and saliva, your mouth feels dry. Nausea builds back up, gagging and breath becoming short. It’s becoming hard to breathe. 

Your lungs are being squeezed, throat constricted with an invisible ball gag - vision blurred with what? What’s this hot liquid running down your cheeks? Are you crying ? Again?

Something is choking you. Your head is starting to feel fuzzy, a pounding in your chest you can’t get. Everything is warped, shapes turning into mush, black merging with white, a hammer bashing against your head. Only the sound of rushing blood and a running heart is heard. Only the thought of death remains. 

“No…no, I - I - this-!” you curl into yourself, kneeling as your forehead touches the floor, hands interlocked around your head as your lower arms and elbows rest on the tiles. Sobbing violently, your mind crashes again. You were never strong. 

Not then, not now. 

- - -

“Young Master Dion has been sent off on an errand; the dinner with Master Lant has been postponed until tomorrow, at six o’clock.” Hana informs you as she sets out your breakfast: oatmeal and water. Just what your now very sensitive stomach and nerves need. Did she overhear your little mental breakdown not even an hour ago? Or was this the usual breakfast for the residents of the Agriche compound? 

“I see.” You hoarsely reply, voice still recovering. This is a good thing - you don’t have to see the devil’s face for yet another day. Her news also answers your question; Dion is out on an errand and they weren’t planning to axe you. Yet. Hopefully never. 

Still, the curiosity of your husband’s duties lingers. You shouldn’t involve yourself anymore than what you currently are. Curiosity always kills the cat. So, you bite your tongue, deciding against asking her what your oh so lovely husband’s chore is… but, if you are to play the role as a wife, his wife, should you ask him once he returns? Like how one would greet their spouse once they return from work. 

Hello dear… ick, no. Hey, how was your day… no, next. Are you tired? Do you want a bath…?

Or maybe you should just ignore the subject all together. His business isn’t yours, so why bother?

Besides, what if he doesn’t like you ‘snooping’ in his business? But at the same time, he’s been acting so weird and unlike how he was portrayed in the story. So while that Dion would find your questions annoying or useless, this Dion may want you to ask about his day. Fuck, it’s all so confusing and irritating 

 “Hm. Hana, is there anything on today’s schedule?” 

“No, not yet my Lady.” 

Not yet. What does she mean by not yet? Does that mean she’s aware that someone will interrupt your tiny bit of peace at some point today? Her short dark brown hair slightly bounces as she shuffles her weight onto one leg. “However, my Lady, I could… tell them that you’re recovering from ‘last night.’”

Her suggestion makes your grip on the cup loose, dropping the glass onto your lap as water soaks it. 

“My Lady! Are you alright?” In a panic, Hana grabs some of the napkins on the table and pats your lap to soak up some of the water after removing the now empty glass. “My apologies - I shouldn’t have brought up such a vulgar suggestion…” Her once collected face and behavior shatters at the drop of a hat, ‘concerned’ about your safety. 

Or was it for hers? 

“I-it’s fine… no worries,” a tight lipped smile that only makes her brows furrow more and treats you gentler. Like you were made of glass. Well, that wouldn’t be too far from the truth… 

“No, really. I just need to change clothes…” Once she’s done with soaking most of the water up you stand and walk to the closet. Opening the doors you skim over the options. Hana’s footsteps stop right behind you. Why is it so hard to have personal space in this place…

Your gaze travels upwards and for the first time, do you notice the Agriche family's crest engraved into the wood. Bitterness explodes in your mouth. It seems that no matter where you are in this place, there will always be a physical reminder of where you are - of who you belong to. No matter, you tell yourself. Besides, this isn’t even your room - 

It was your husband’s. And maybe after a month, if not less, into your marriage, you’ll be assigned your own. …why were you sharing a room with him to begin with? Probably to increase the chances of conceiving a child sooner rather than later. 

“... does that even make sense?” you murmur in amusement. Lant wasn’t even dead yet. But, you think, maybe he wanted his son to have a child so he could start to shape them into this tainted and sadistic mold ahead of time before he kicks the bucket. To ensure that the child - your child - would follow in their father’s footsteps. 

To see if they would carry the same air and expectations as your husband does. 

How cruel. 

“Hana, I’ll let you choose it; they’re all so… beautiful that I can’t choose.” In reality you’re getting a headache from looking at the family crest. Which just became yours. 

“...yes, my Lady,” she follows your order without question, going through the options. 

Not even a few minutes later she pulls one out. 

It matches your husband’s eyes. A brilliant shade of scarlet, it practically glows. A sheer black neck piece that forms as a choker and covers your cleavage but leaves your shoulders bare. Black lace is on the hem, flowers engraved into the pattern. The body of the dress is a solid scarlet. 

“It’s beautiful.” You compliment her choice of style hiding how the beautiful piece of clothing makes your fingers twitch and brings the urge to vomit forward. Oh, how horrible it is, to not even be able to enjoy such a sight. 

How horrible it is, to be born into this world after a helpless first life only to repeat the cycle, but worse. 

[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.)

[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.

[syndrossi]

Will the dynamics between Jon and Rhaegar change much in the Restoration AU when Rhaegar analyzes everything? He has to look at many events from a new angle (The way Jon reacts to the Trident/Baratheons, how Jon asked what Rhaegar would name him, how fiercely he protected him, etc.). Will he become more protective of Jon? Or will he feel Jon needs tenderness and comfort from him, especially after realizing the atmosphere Jon grew up in? And how will that change his relationship to W!Jon? Will W!Jon realize that one of his little brothers/uncles is trying to adopt him?

His determination grows to protect Jon as more of an equal (vs Jon's attempts to make it a one-sided thing), but at this point, they've known one another as brothers for two-plus years, so they're pretty settled in that dynamic. I expect Rhaegar is busily cataloging every trauma and little hurt, recontextualizing them and sort of triaging--which can he help with, how can he atone for what he suffered?

If you think about it, the situation is not entirely unlike Daemon's agony over not being there when the twins were little-little, except that it was nineteen years for Jon, rather than eight.

I could see Rhaegar struggling with wanting to blame his original counterpart a great deal for Jon's pain. How could he be so foolish in dealing with Aerys? How did he not know that their father would respond so poorly to anything unexpected? Did he not foresee the Vale fostering relationship forming the basis of a powerful alliance? What exactly were his plans for his existing family?

(The shock of what Tywin Lannister's forces did would really shake him, too. He remembers Joanna and his mother being close, and Tywin generally being supportive of him. That the man would orchestrate the violent murder of his future wife and their young child would be a harsh realization.)

And it's hard, because he doesn't have all the pieces to know why his future self acted as he did. (And canon!Rhaegar, or at least Jon's Rhaegar, wasn't Resonant!Rhaegar. Their experiences differed, with Resonant!Rhaegar explicitly a PTWP, which makes canon!Rhaegar similarly difficult to fully understand.)

In terms of what to do, at least with his Jon, Daemon's fathering is a pretty high-intensity beam of parental love, so that's not the issue, aka Jon doesn't need another father. His issue with mother figures is gonna be in much sharper relief, as well as the self-worth/self-sacrificial tendencies and what they're rooted in (believing himself to be a bastard, of lesser value than his trueborn siblings).

So again, he probably just tries to step up as a peer for his Jon, and offer to tell him anything he'd like to know about his childhood, to give him whatever glimpse he wants of og!Rhaegar to give him the closure he needs.

For Winterfell!Jon, he'll do more caretaker-ing, which W!Jon will find by turns adorable and bewildering, since they are both still very much in little-siblings territory for him, even if they're technically his uncles. I could see Rhaegar trying to figure out what he most needs and giving it to him.

(And Jon's fear of things happening to him will be even more clear. Before, there was the obvious "he lost siblings before, especially Robb, who was the same age." But the fact that he "lost" Rhaegar in some form before, and that that is a huge source of his fear, at least gives him something else to address.)

[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'

[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?"