#drinking from the poison fountain

[acommonloon]

Spent the last couple of months drying out last years beer/booze aftermath so I’m somewhat excited to restart my normal consumption/consumerism.

I’m especially wanting to lay in product that may be affected by tariffs. La Fin Du Monde is a Canadian brewer who makes mostly Belgian style beer. The other two are a Welsh Lager (not seen previously in market) and the Fullers bitter ale is an English staple.

The Elijah Craig barrel proof is an allocated bourbon I’ve not seen on a regular shelf at retail price in five years or more. I think the bourbon industry is headed for hard times. They invested in expanding their distilleries and now the extra bourbon may end up on shelves domestically because of retaliatory tariffs.

Beer imports have only recently begun to pick up again after being crushed by Covid. Too bad there isn’t a vaccine for stupid.

[aleksatia]

💗 Rafayel – Five Years Later 

The second in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Trauma & PTSD themes, Implied past abduction, Betrayal / emotional manipulation, Poisoning & near-death experience, Violence (including one execution-style kill), Self-sacrifice, Intense emotional conflict, References to grief, guilt, and long-term separation, Complex relationship dynamics, Themes of forgiveness and healing While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

(He taught himself silence. Learned to paint with absence, to breathe through longing. But when your shadow crossed his path again — living, breaking, real — the stillness inside him remembered how to shatter.)

The thing about disappearing is — if you do it right — no one comes looking.

Not because they don’t care. But because you made it easier to pretend you were never real in the first place.

You left the sea behind. The salt. The songs. The man with sunlight in his laugh and grief in his hands. You traded it all for concrete, steel, smoke. Somewhere between New Madrid and the Eleventh Sector, you stopped being a person and became a profile: Level 3, Tactical Division, Close Range Neutralization. Specializing in high-value body retention.

A shadow with a badge.  A ghost on retainer.

It suited you.

You didn’t drink anymore. You didn’t play games. You didn’t say his name.

“Client arrival is in twenty minutes,” crackles the comm in your ear. "Full week assignment. High confidentiality. Zero contact protocol unless engaged."

You glance at your reflection in the elevator’s gold trim.

Eyes colder. Shoulders straighter. Gun holstered under a matte jacket that still smells faintly of last week’s adrenaline. You're not the girl who once cried into coral bedsheets. You're her replacement.

The hotel smells like money. That antiseptic richness meant to distract from the emptiness.

You position yourself in the lobby near the marble fountain — half concealed, half obvious. Just enough to look like part of the architecture. Just enough to see everything.

The concierge nods. The manager paces. The staff adjust flowers no one will notice.

Then: the cars. Black, sleek, ghost-silent.

Doors open.

Two assistants spill out first. Press, probably. One on a tablet, one on comms. Then a manager — with a face oddly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory trying to surface. Then—

Your heart forgets how to be a muscle.

He steps out like the city belongs to him. Like time bent itself around his absence.

Still tall. Still too elegant for the world he’s forced to live in. Purple waves of hair tied back. Sunglasses sliding down a nose built for poetry. He’s wearing that long beige coat he used to throw over your shoulders when nights got too cold, and his cologne hits you like déjà vu dipped in seawater and regret.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are ice.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

You do what you were trained to do: you check for threats. Scan exits. Ignore your pulse.

He walks through the lobby as if unaware. As if untouched. But when he passes, just before the elevator closes — he turns his head.

And smiles.

Like sin. Like summer. Like he knew it would be you.

Then—

“Hello again, Ms. Bodyguard.”

***

The suite was silent. Too silent for something this expensive.

No music. No hum of ventilation. Just the hush of carpet under your boots, and the faint, distant rhythm of city breath outside the window.

You stood near the corner, hands behind your back, spine too straight. Default position. Default you.

He was across the room, jacket already off, sleeves rolled. Moving like someone who was used to being observed. Not by the public — by ghosts.

The wine had already been poured. He handed you a glass like it was part of the ritual. You didn’t take it.

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m working,” you said.

He didn’t insist. Just smiled, faintly.

Of course.

He used to fill every room — all noise and color and heat. But now, somehow, he'd grown quiet. Not in absence — in weight. Like a masterpiece in a gallery. Like the only rose in a field of thorns. You could look away, but you’d still feel him. Like a crosshair you couldn’t shake.

The window beside you looked out over the city — not that you were looking. Your eyes were trained on his reflection in the glass. Even blurred by distance and light, you could tell: he hadn’t broken. But he’d bent.

Harder than most things could survive.

His voice came low, like something remembered instead of spoken.

“You weren’t always stone.”

You didn’t answer.

He crossed the room without hurry. You didn’t move.

His eyes found yours — not searching, just… waiting. Like the question wasn’t whether you’d speak. It was whether you still could.

“And yet here you are,” he murmured, “standing in my suite like you were carved to fit the corner.”

You felt the words land somewhere deep in the ribs. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He took a slow sip from his glass. The color of the wine caught in the light — the same shade he used to mix on his palette when painting you in shadow.

“I saw the new series,” you said, voice even.

He glanced at you over the rim.

“Did you?”

“Less gold. More... grief.”

A pause. Then a smile — dry, almost kind.

“I ran out of yellow.”

That made your throat tighten. You looked away before it showed.

He studied you. Not your face — your posture. Your silences. You weren’t hiding emotion. You were holding it.

Like a soldier holding a wound closed with one hand.

“And you,” he said, softly. “Still chasing bullets?”

“I don’t chase. I shield.”

“Of course you do.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that you could feel him again. That impossible warmth, wrapped in restraint.

He looked at you like an old painting. The kind you see once, remember forever, and never find again.

“You followed me,” he said, almost offhand. “Even after you left.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I had to know you were… functioning.”

He laughed — quiet, empty.

“Functioning,” he repeated. “Right.”

You searched his face for anger. You didn’t find it. Only something slower. Older.

Like ash.

“How have you been?” you asked.

It was a mistake. The question hung in the air like smoke from a match — small, stupid, but dangerous.

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then the glass in his hand cracked. A clean, bright sound. Like winter splitting.

The wine didn’t spill. He didn’t move.

“You left,” he said.

Not bitter. Not accusing.

Just: you left.

“And now you want to ask if I��ve been well?”

You shifted. Just enough to register discomfort. Nothing more.

He looked at the flame creeping along his knuckles — Evol, awake and restless. He closed his fist, and the fire vanished like breath from a mirror.

“What did I do?” he asked, quieter now. “What sin did I commit to earn a silent goodbye?”

You drew breath through your nose. Measured.

 “I was tired.”

“Of what?”

You looked at him.

“Of being a story you told instead of a person you knew.”

That did it.

Not an explosion. Not a slam. Just a shift. Like something in his chest cracked, and he had no hands free to hold it in place.

He turned. Slowly. Set the broken glass down. No sound. No shatter.

Then he walked to the adjoining door, pressed it open.

“You’ll stay here,” he said.

A simple guest room. Clean, unpersonalized. Quiet.

He didn’t look at you when he added:

“You’re my shadow for the week. No leaving. No exceptions.”

“And if I object?”

He paused at the threshold. Then turned. Finally met your eyes again.

“You won’t,” he said.

Not a command. Just a prophecy.

***

The days blurred.

They stretched long — drawn out by tension and silence — and yet they flew past with the quiet cruelty of something you couldn’t stop. You caught yourself counting minutes. Not until the assignment ended — but until he left again.

You told yourself it was duty. But no. You knew. The closer it got, the more it scared you.

You’d thought you’d buried the past. That five years had been enough to cauterize what you felt. Enough to flatten grief into dull, predictable weight. You’d taught yourself not to cry. Not to ache. Not to wake up reaching for a voice that wasn’t there.

But now—

Now the thought of losing him again bled through you like poison Slow. Sharp. Relentless.

For the first time, you truly wondered — had you made the worst mistake of your life?

You’d always known leaving was cowardice. A reaction. A wound reacting to pressure. You’d told yourself it was necessary — that you couldn’t survive another secret, another lie, another impossible moment in his orbit.

But now, as you stood in his shadow again, you returned to the one truth you kept avoiding. It wasn’t just the secrets. It wasn’t just his careful, curated nonchalance. It wasn’t even the things he didn’t say.

It was that moment — the one you could never forget.

The Nest. The kidnapping. The deal he’d made behind your back.

The betrayal.

The man who once made you feel like a myth had handed you over like a pawn. And you’d left. Because you couldn’t find a version of yourself that could love him and survive it.

But now…

Now you knew. The price you both paid for your fear had been too high.

***

He treated you like a shadow. Professional. Polite. Silent.

He didn’t try to speak. Didn’t joke. Didn’t prod. Whatever playful gleam had once lived in him now belonged to the stage.

You watched him wear charm like a costume — perfectly tailored, easily removed.

The real man?

He wore quieter things now. No more garish brands. No flash. Just silk-lined precision. Weight without noise. Like he’d stopped needing to be seen in order to feel powerful.

And yet — you felt it. The way his gaze burned across rooms. The way silence wrapped around you both like a loaded pause.

Something was coming. You didn’t know what.

Only that it would not be small.

***

Then came the reception.

A charity event. Wealth, power, and politics pretending to like each other in the same room. He handed you your role the night before — not as a request.

You weren’t the bodyguard tonight. You were his date.

No one must suspect otherwise. His reputation demanded it.

And so here you were:

Draped in sea-glass velvet, cut to glide and cling. Your hair swept into soft, impossible waves. Sapphires at your ears, your throat. Everything felt too heavy. Too expensive. Even your heels were a weapon you didn’t know how to use. You hated how they made you move — slow, deliberate. Exposed.

The car slid to a stop. He stepped out first — a vision in black and steel. Then he turned, offered you a hand.

You took it. His skin was cold.

But the touch — the touch burned. Like nothing had ever healed.

Cameras. Screams. Flashing lights.

Your instincts screamed — scan the crowd. Find the threat. Always the threat. But his fingers tightened around yours. Hard.

He leaned in, breath against your ear — warm, familiar, furious.

“Smile, for fuck’s sake.”

You did.

Not for the cameras. Not for the cause.

But because you knew — the storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

***

You played the part well.

Neutral. Polished. Cold enough to earn whispers you never heard, but felt just behind your back. 

No one dared speak them aloud, of course. They looked at you and said the compliments to him.

“She’s stunning.”

“Such a refined presence.”

“As if she was made to be on your arm.”

As if your face belonged to him. As if your silence was his design.

In some twisted way, maybe it was.

You didn’t remember how you got here. One minute you were cataloguing exits with your eyes, tracking the crowd with practiced ease —

 The next —

You were dancing.

His hand on your waist, the other guiding yours. Everything too close, too warm, too practiced.

The chandelier above cast a slow rain of light. The room turned gently, spinning around its own silence.

His touch wasn’t tender. It was intentional.

“Your expression,” he murmured, “is slowly assassinating my reputation.”

You didn’t look at him. “Your reputation as what, exactly?”

He paused. Just a second.Then:

“A man of appetites.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How poetic.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Though the press prefers playboy.”

A beat.

“So you’ve read it,” you said.

“I have someone who clips the good parts.”

“Must be a short list.”

He smiled — not kindly. “Normally, I’m seen with far more… expressive company.”

“Then why break tradition?”

His fingers flexed slightly at your waist.

“I suppose I wanted something quieter.” A beat. “Something that might bite back.”

Your gaze flicked to him. Just once. A sharpened glance.

“And how does this help your image?”

“It doesn’t.” He leaned in, voice a thread. “But it’s not always about image, is it?”

You could feel it — the heat building between syllables.  Not passion. Not yet.

Just tension. Waiting.

You moved together like two creatures pretending not to hunt each other. Each step precise. Each breath withheld.

“You used to enjoy this sort of thing,” he said, voice soft now, too close. “Crowds. Light. Being seen.”

“I used to believe in things,” you replied.

He said nothing. But his hand curled tighter against your spine.

For a second, you let the silence say everything.

Then—

You noticed it.

The way his eyes had started slipping away from you. Again and again — to a single shape on the edge of the room. A man. Grey suit. Clean line. Controlled posture.

You knew that look.

The dance ended, but you weren’t let go. He took your arm, like a gentleman.

But you knew better.

***

The garden was colder than it had any right to be. The kind of cold that wasn’t about temperature — it was about distance. About the way stone walls and sculpted hedges swallowed sound and left only the weight of footsteps behind.

You followed him without a word. Because you already knew.

You’d seen his eyes stray to the man in the grey suit half a dozen times during the reception. Not nervous glances — calculated ones. Not curiosity — confirmation.

And now here you were, walking straight into the web.

The man waited by the marble fountain, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something expensive and unnecessary. His smile was pleasant. His suit was quiet money. His name was carved into memory from the briefings you used to skim with more detachment.

Elias Varrick. Publicly: philanthropist, investor, art collector, father of four. Privately: suspected ties to high-level biotech experimentation, classified marine acquisitions, and several quiet disappearances.

 All rumors, of course. Nothing on paper. Nothing proven.

Still — you knew. Your gut always knew.

But you didn’t know what Rafayel knew. Not yet.

They greeted each other like old acquaintances. A handshake that looked effortless. Painless.

“I thought it best to deliver the piece myself,” Rafayel said. His voice had its old rhythm — slow, warm, dipped in charm.

You watched him as he spoke. Not the words — the tone.

Polite. Polished. Performing.

“That kind of personal art,” he added, “deserves a personal hand.”

Varrick smiled wider. “Very kind of you. My family will love it. We’re planning to hang it in the main lounge — the one where we gather in the evenings. My wife, the children, my mother. It’s where we live.”

And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t freeze. Not outwardly. But something inside you did.

That phrase. The way he said it — we live here.

You didn’t hear a lie. That was the problem. You heard sincerity.

You saw the portrait — Rafayel’s portrait — hanging above a mantel. You saw children playing on a rug beneath it. An old woman sipping tea in a chair nearby. You saw innocence. Unaware. Wrapped around a weapon.

And suddenly, all the scattered images connected. The rumors. The names. The “environmental” fund. The experimental projects tied to Lemurians. The disappearances.

He wasn’t here for charity.

Rafayel was hunting. And you were holding his arm like a lover while he did it.

It wasn’t the lie that made you pull away. It was the memory of all the ones that came before.

You stepped back. A breath lodged in your throat.

“I need a moment,” you murmured.

He turned. “Wait—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t.”

You turned away.

You needed air. Space. Time. You needed to stop hearing the echo of his voice in your chest, the one that said it’s different now, even when you knew it wasn’t.

But he followed. Of course he followed.

“Let me explain—”

“No,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. “No more explaining. That’s always the beginning of the lie.”

He reached for your arm. You stopped him with a look.

“I want to know one thing,” you said. Your voice was low, barely steady. “That painting… it’s a weapon, isn’t it?”

He hesitated. Just a breath. But it was enough.

“Not here,” he said softly. “Please.”

“There are children in that house, Rafayel. Children. How can you guarantee there won’t be innocent blood?”

His jaw tensed. The silence between you vibrated with unsaid things. Then:

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll explain everything. But not in public.”

“Answer me.”

“I said not here,” he whispered. Not angry. Not cold. Just—desperate. Controlled. And that — more than anything — told you what you needed to know.

And that’s when it happened. The movement was too fast.

You heard it before you saw it — a hiss of compressed air.

Then the glint of metal. Then the needle, already buried in the side of Rafayel’s neck.

Everything shattered.

Rafayel stumbled, hand flying to the injection point. His eyes widened — not with pain. With realization.

Varrick stepped back with chilling calm, adjusting his cuff.

“I knew it was you,” he said simply. “The moment I saw your face, lemurian. I knew you were the one behind Raymond’s death.”

You didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t need permission.

You drew and fired — one shot. Silent. Precise. Varrick collapsed with a grunt of pain, clutching his leg.

You were on him in three strides. Knee in his chest. Barrel to his throat.

“What was in it?” you growled.

His breath rattled, half from the pain, half from the thrill of it all. He was enjoying this — the game, the brink.

“I’m not—”

You slammed the muzzle harder against his neck.

“Tell me. Or I swear, I’ll have your lungs painting that lovely family room of yours by morning.”

He laughed, blood in his teeth.

“Requiem Coral,” he gasped. “Gen-modified. Synthetic compound. It bonds to Lemurian blood — slow neural degeneration. Burns out the body one nerve at a time. Quite poetic, really.”

You stared at him. Then you fired again.

Between the eyes.

No poetry. Just silence.

***

You found Rafayel still upright. Barely. His pupils were uneven. Sweat glistened on his temple. His balance was shot.

You got under his arm, bore half his weight.

“No hospital,” he muttered.

“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “We’re going home.”

You drove with one hand clenched around the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around his — clammy now, fingers twitching less and less.

The city blurred past like water through glass, useless. Silent.

He was slumped in the seat beside you, head tilted back, jaw clenched.

“Is this your version of a confession?” he muttered, voice paper-thin. “Waiting ‘til I’m half-dead to finally hold my hand?”

“Shut up,” you hissed.

He smiled — barely. “So harsh. Romance really is dead.”

You tightened your grip on his hand. His skin was cold.

“Don’t do that,” you said. “Don’t talk like you’re not about to die.”

“I mean, statistically—”

“I said shut up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. 

The rest of the ride was agony. You didn’t feel the road. You didn’t feel the turns. You felt him — fading beside you. His breath going shallow. His body heavy.

And all you could do was drive faster.

***

Your home wasn’t built for tenderness. It wasn’t a place to recover. It was a place to survive.

The door slammed behind you, and you half-dragged, half-carried him to the medical bench. He tried to help. He couldn’t.

He collapsed like a broken marionette, breathing hard, sweat cold on his brow.

You moved by instinct.

Antitoxin. Anti-inflammatories. Burn stabilizer. Anything. Everything.

Tubes. IV. Scanners.

Your hands didn’t shake — until you realized that nothing was working. His vitals dipped. Once. Again.

No improvement. And you weren’t a doctor. You weren’t a biotech. You were a weapon.

You could take a man apart in thirty seconds, but this — this—

You couldn’t fix this.

You hovered over him, swallowing panic, shoving down the scream forming in your throat.

He opened his eyes — only halfway. Saw the mess you were making. He lifted one trembling hand, and caught your wrist.

“Stop,” he whispered. “You’ll do more harm than good.”

You shook your head violently. “No. No, I can— I just need time—”

“There is no time.”

His voice was barely there.

“I don’t— I don’t know how to stop it,” you said, broken. “I don’t know how to fight it—how to save you—”

“Then listen.”

His eyes found yours.

“If this is it…” His breath caught. “If I’m not waking up from this—”

“Raf, no—”

“Then I want the truth.”

He looked at you like a man watching his own shadow disappear. Like someone who knew there was no second chance this time.

“No secrets. No lies. Nothing between us.”

You froze. And something inside you cracked.

The words came out on a sob.

“I know.”

He blinked slowly. “Know what?”

“I know you sold me out. N109 Zone. Five years ago.”

The air stopped moving. His lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked down, ashamed and shaking.

“I found the records. I connected the drops, the timing. You handed me over.”

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly — he laughed. A ragged, broken sound that became a cough.

“Oh, you—God.”

His smile was pained. Too pained.

“You wanted to reach Onichynus, remember?”

 You looked up.

“There’s no easy road there. No clean path.”

 He coughed again, winced, and gripped your hand tighter.

“I was watching. If things had gone wrong, I would’ve stepped in. I wouldn’t have let them break you.”

Your lips trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t trust myself not to stop you. I didn’t want you to look at me like you are right now.”

He coughed again — something wet in the sound now.

“I never betrayed you.”

His hand drifted to your chest, barely touching.

“You were always my heart.” He smiled faintly. “And when you left… you took it with you.”

You crumpled. Your hands went to his face, cold and pale, and your voice shattered into pieces.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I thought— I thought you used me. Manipulated me. Like everyone else.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I would’ve died for you.”

“I know. I know now.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“I took your heart, Raf, but mine—” You pressed a hand to his chest. “Mine never left you. I… still love you.”

Your voice broke like a body under fire.

 “God, I never stopped loving you.”

You leaned down, kissed his lips — dry, cold, still his. Your tears landed on his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Fight. Just… fight. Tell me what to do. Anything. Because if you die— if you leave me now— I swear—”

“I’m already leaving,” he said.

A beat. A breath.

“I don’t think anything can stop it.”

You shook your head. “No—”

“But there’s something you can do.”

You stilled.

“Take me to the sea,” he whispered.

His eyes were almost closed.

“If I die… I want the ocean to take my last breath.”

***

You helped him into the water, one arm steady around his waist, the other gripping his wrist as if holding on could somehow hold him here.

The sea was cold, even for nightfall. Each wave climbed higher, tasting skin and memory as it came. Rafayel leaned into you, too light, too quiet. His steps were uncertain, but not from fear. He wasn’t afraid. He was done.

By the time the water reached his chest, he stopped.

His breath caught. Not sharply — softly, like a curtain falling.

For a moment, under the pale gleam of moonlight, he closed his eyes. His features relaxed. And it struck you — how little color remained in his face. How glass-like his skin looked. Almost translucent. Almost not there.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words never found shape.

Because he let go.

He stepped back. And before you could stop him, before you could tighten your grip — he slipped beneath the surface and vanished.

No sound. No splash. Just absence.

“Rafayel.”

Your voice wavered, swallowed instantly by the dark. Then louder—

“RAFAYEL!”

But there was only the sea.

You surged forward, boots stumbling, breath catching in your throat as you threw yourself into the waves.

Cold bit into your spine. Your jacket dragged you down. Salt stung your eyes. None of it mattered.

You dove.

Once, five years ago, it had been the same. Different ocean. Same cold. Same fear.

You remembered that too well — sinking below the surface on a job gone wrong, your lungs seizing, your vision narrowing. And just before the dark closed in, it had been him who pulled you out. His arms, his breath, his voice.

Breathe, cutie. Come on. Breathe.

And now—

Now it was your turn to find him.

You kicked downward, deeper, into the black.

You couldn’t see. The moonlight didn’t reach this far. But you didn’t need to see. You needed to find.

The water grew colder the further you went. Each stroke slower, weaker. The pressure in your chest building, blooming like fire. Your hands swept forward, wide, desperate — fingers searching for fabric, for skin, for anything.

You found nothing.

The panic came slowly. Not like a scream, but like a slow tightening, a noose drawn carefully across your ribs. Your lungs began to burn. Your mind whispered it was too far. Too late. But your body refused to listen.

You kept going.

Until your arms stopped obeying. Until your legs stopped kicking.

Until your last exhale slipped from between your lips, and with it, the only word that still meant anything.

“Rafayel,” you mouthed.

And sank.

Everything stilled.

Time, sensation, thought.

And just as the darkness began to take you—

Something changed.

A pulse. Not from the sea. From inside.

Evol. Dormant until now — roared awake. But not with power. With purpose.

It didn’t surge to protect you. It didn’t scream in defense. It answered something quieter. Deeper.

A wish.

You weren’t trying to save yourself. You weren’t trying to rise.

You were trying to give him your heart back. To pour your strength into his veins. To reignite the spark inside him — even if it meant extinguishing your own.

Let me give it back. Let him live. Let me take the weight.

That was the prayer beneath your ribs, and Evol obeyed.

It moved through you like liquid fire, searing down to your bones, pulling from every corner of your being. It hurt. God, it hurt — not like dying, but like unraveling. You were emptying yourself willingly. Not out of fear. Out of love.

And then — resonance.

Not just from you. From him.  Like something in the darkness roared back.

No. Not her. Not this way.

You felt it — a pull in the opposite direction. Not rejection. Not resistance. Reciprocity.

His Evol flared back — instinctive, involuntary, desperate. Refusing the gift. Refusing the cost.

He wouldn’t let you die for him.  And you — you couldn’t let him die for you.

And so you were pulled. Not rising. Not flying.

Drawn back. Both of you. Together.

Because even now, even here — at the edge of everything — neither of you could bear to leave the other behind.

***

You came back coughing.

The world hit in pieces — salt on your lips, sand beneath your palms, the weight of your own chest struggling to rise.

And then—

Arms.

Not the ocean’s. His.

He was holding you. Soaked. Shaking. Alive.

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, ragged but real. His breath skimmed your temple. His fingers gripped your shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether to anchor you — or himself.

You opened your eyes. The sky swam above you, vast and starless.

And Rafayel’s face was there. Pale with exhaustion, hair clinging wet to his skin, eyes too bright in the dark.

You reached up, touched his cheek with trembling fingers. He leaned into it.

No words passed between you. There was nothing to explain.

“This,” you whispered, voice torn to ribbons, “is exactly where I want to be when I die.”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile breaking through.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, “next time we die.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Raf…”

He hushed you with his thumb against your cheek, his gaze steady and quiet.

“It’s over.”

You shook your head. “But how—”

He didn’t answer right away.

Only looked at you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you saw it— light. Faint, buried, but alive in him.

“Cutie,” he said softly, “how could I keep dying when you needed me this much?”

The sound you made was broken, wild — grief and love tangled into one. You folded into him, arms tight around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

“Then you’ll have to live,” you whispered, choked, “for a long, long time. Because I need you. Every day. Every second. Every stupid heartbeat.”

He laughed — quiet and hoarse, and it felt like sunlight after rain.

“Another eternity, then. Sounds like a curse. Or a blessing. Maybe both.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. Moonlight caught the water on his skin, and you felt like crying again.

“I was such a fool,” you said. “You shouldn’t have brought me back. I ruined everything. I wasted so much—”

“I’m not arguing,” he cut in gently. “But I figured… maybe you’d want to fix your behavior.”

A huff escaped you. Wet, shaky. Almost a smile.

“Will you let me try?” you asked. “Will you—can you forgive me?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” he said, cupping your face in both hands, “this was never about forgiveness. Not really. Not about second chances or fresh starts.”

His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“We’re us. Flawed. Messy. Brilliant and brutal in equal measure. We hurt each other. And we heal each other.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I was only angry because I didn’t understand. I thought maybe—if I’d been softer. Or warmer. Or better—maybe you would’ve stayed.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free.

“I never left you,” you said. “Not really.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward. And kissed you.

Once — soft and slow, like breathing. Then again — deeper, like memory.

And when you kissed him back, there was no anger left. No questions. Just the weight of five years falling away between your mouths.

You broke away just long enough to murmur, “We almost died.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth.

“We’re always almost dying.”

You laughed, breathless.

“This is a terrible time—”

“There’s no better one,” he said. “You never know which kiss is the last. Which night is the edge.”

He pulled you to him again.

And beneath the moon, on wet sand and shaking limbs, you gave yourselves back — completely. No hesitation. No conditions.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

You loved him like you remembered how. And he held you like he never forgot.

And this time, it didn’t feel like the end.

It felt like the beginning.

***

You woke to the sound of brush against canvas.

Soft, rhythmic. A whisper of motion. It tugged at something in your memory, something half-forgotten.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even open your eyes.

There was warmth on your skin — sun, blankets, and something else. You inhaled. Salt. Linens. Paint.

And him.

When you finally blinked into the light, it took a moment to understand where you were.

The room was high-ceilinged, the windows cracked open to the hush of waves. The bed was too big, sheets still tangled, your body aching pleasantly in ways that reminded you — yes, it was real.

Last night was real.

And then—

“Don’t move.”

His voice. Low. Focused. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Rafayel. Sitting on a low stool near the foot of the bed, bare feet braced against the floor, shirt half-unbuttoned, canvas before him. A brush in one hand, a palette balanced on his thigh.

You blinked at him. “What… are you doing?”

“I said don’t move.” He didn’t look up. “You’ll ruin the pose.”

“I wasn’t posing,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I was sleeping. Possibly drooling.”

He finally glanced at you. A glint in his eyes — amusement.

 “You were beautiful. Are. I wanted to keep this one.”

“Raf,” you said, stretching with a grimace, “I probably look like a tangled sea urchin. There’s still sand in places sand should never be. I need a shower.”

“If you let me finish, we’ll shower together.”

Your brows lifted. “Tempting bribe.”

“I know.” He smirked. “Also—note to self: never again sex on sand.”

“The ocean was too cold,” you teased.

“Not in my arms.”

That stopped you for a breath.

You smiled. A small, stunned thing.

And somewhere in the middle of smiling and remembering and wanting to kiss him again, you noticed something on the canvas. You squinted.

“Wait... is that yellow?”

He flinched. The brush stuttered.

And then—he groaned, deep and dramatic. “Dammit. Now I have to start over.”

You sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Was that my fault?”

He stood slowly, brush still in hand. “You moved. You talked. You ruined my masterwork.”

You grinned. “Your nude beach goddess masterwork?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “It was going to hang in the Met.”

“Well, in that case—” you started.

But before you could escape, he lunged — grabbed your ankle, yanked you toward the edge of the bed with a playfully feral grin.

You shrieked.

“Raf!”

“You destroyed art!”

“I was the art!”

You kicked. He caught your other foot.

Laughter spilled from your throat — loud, full, aching in your ribs. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this.

He climbed over you, breathless with mock outrage, and you tangled together in the blankets, in limbs, in joy.

You were still gasping when you murmured, “I’m sorry I can’t erase the past. Those five years... they’re etched into us. But I swear, I’ll spend every day trying to heal what I broke.”

His expression softened — all teasing gone.

“Cutie,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “you still don’t see it, do you?”

You stilled.

“Last night,” he said, “you were ready to give everything. Your Evol, your life, your soul — for me. Even when you thought I wouldn’t survive.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“In that moment, I think even the gods cried.”

You closed your eyes.

“My wounds healed the second you chose to stay,” he whispered. “There’s barely even a scar left.”

Then his voice dropped lower.

“Just promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Never disappear again. Not without giving me the chance to fight for you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You looked him in the eyes — and felt the weight of every mistake, every mile, every ache that had brought you back here.

And then you said, quietly:

“Even if all the oceans rise, even if this world burns and time eats itself whole — I’ll find you. In every life. I’ll find you, and I’ll stay.”

His lips parted. He didn’t speak.

He just kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t for survival.

It was for everything else.

[wonderlandwalker]

The masks we wear | Finnick Odair x reader

thg masterlist / inbox

summary: Johanna doesn't know what do anymore, but she knows someone who does. (set in the same universe as 'The promises we cling to')

word count: 1.3k

tags / content warnings: some angst but major fluff later, depictions of violence, descriptions of a panic attack

a/n: @meikoo oops my hand slipped

You had been struggling to keep it together all night.

Smiling when they praised you for your "spectacular" victory. Nodding when they asked if you missed the adrenaline of the arena. Laughing when some Capitol socialite with gemstone-encrusted eyelids asked, "So, what have you been doing with yourself since you won?" as though you hadn’t spent the last three months staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks like they were the tributes you’d buried.

But the worst part was the way they touched you. A hand on your shoulder, fingers trailing down your arm—every brush of skin like a brand, every whisper of "You were my favourite" slithering into your ears like poison. You could feel the cracks in your composure spreading, your breaths coming shorter, your ribs tightening around your lungs like a vice.

You barely made it out of the ballroom.

The garden is cold, the air sharp with the scent of roses and something bitter. Your knees hit the gravel path hard enough to bruise, but the pain barely registers over the roar of the pulse in your ears. The fountain beside you is a grotesque Capitol extravagance—some weeping nymph with hollow eyes, water spilling from her cupped hands like tears. You focus on it, desperate for an anchor, but all you see is her—the girl from District Nine, the one who’d begged you for mercy with those same hollow eyes. A shudder wracks through you. You dig your fingers into the dirt, nails grinding against the stones, but the memories don’t stop.

"Breathe, you idiot."

The voice is sharp, familiar. You don’t look up, but you don’t have to.

"I’m fine," you lie, voice ragged.

Johanna makes a noncommittal noise in her throat, halfway between a scoff and a sigh, and then there’s a flask being shoved under your nose, the smell of cheap liquor overwhelming you. "Drink. Before I dump it on your head."

You take it. The alcohol is terrible, warm and biting — District 7’s finest. It’s the same rotgut she’d smuggled into the hospital after the Games, when the morphling drips ran dry and the only thing louder than the screams in your head were the Capitol doctors sighing about "adjustment periods". It burns the same now, but it gives you something else to focus on as its nostalgia hits you, and it’s honest in a way nothing in the Capitol is, with no candied flavours to mask the aftertaste. Johanna studies you with narrowed eyes and crossed arms as your breathing remains laboured, your hands still shaking, but she doesn't leave; she just stands there.

“They’ve been asking where you went.” She says after another moment. ‘That new Gamemaker’s convinced you're playing hard to get.” A broken laugh escapes you at her words. “I told them you were puking your guts out in the bathroom.” She shrugs, but her jaw is tight. “Figured that’d buy you time.”

You should thank her. This—the lurking, the lies, the way she’s still here—is practically a love language in her terms. But your tongue feels like lead, your pulse rabbiting in your throat like it’s trying to escape. She studies you again, and for a moment you wonder how much longer she will put up with you before she loses her patience. Then, without a single word, she spins on her heel and stalks back toward the ballroom.

Alone, the night air presses in like a suffocating hand. The fountain’s water mocks you with its rhythmic drip-drip-drip, a countdown to the moment you finally shatter—

Then Johanna returns, and she’s not alone. Finnick Odair stumbles behind her, his wrist locked in her grip, his usually flawless hair mussed like she’d dragged him from the other side of the mansion.

“Johanna, just tell me already—” He freezes when he sees you, and Johanna shoves him forward. “Fix it.” The puzzled look in both your eyes makes her sigh before she continues. “You’re good at this, at pretending you’re fine, at making them believe it.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it, something almost like concern. “So fix it.” Then she's gone, her boots crushing rose petals into the dirt as she walks back inside.

Finnick stands there, and for a terrible moment, he just stares, his face unreadable in the moonlight, the usual easy charm stripped away as the silence stretches thin between you. "You can leave," you mutter, digging your nails into your palms. “I don’t need a babysitter.” He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just studies you with those sea-green eyes of his.

"Yeah," he says finally, so quietly the word nearly drowns in the fountain's murmur. "You do."

And then—

He sits.

No hesitation. Finnick Odair—Capitol darling, District 4's golden boy — drops onto the damp grass beside you like it's a throne. Dirt smears his tailored pants. He doesn't seem to care.

"What are you doing?" you rasp.

Finnick leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out with deliberate ease. "Sitting." As if it's that simple. As if he hasn't just thrown away every carefully constructed mask for this—for you.

“Why?”

He meets your gaze, and for the first time, you can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the same exhaustion that's been haunting you. “Because sometimes,” he says, “you just need someone to sit with you.” Your breath stutters, and his shoulder presses against yours. And for the first time in months, your heartbeat doesn't sound like a countdown to destruction.

After a while — when the adrenaline fades — his breathing is steady beneath your cheek, his pulse a quiet metronome where your head presses against his shoulder. A prickle at the base of your skull guides you out of your trance. He’s staring. You lift your head. Finnick looks at you like you’re something rare, like a piece of sea glass worn smooth by oceans of tides. His gaze traces the curve of your cheekbone and the part of your lips, as if memorising a piece of art he’s not sure he’ll see again.

Your throat tightens, but it’s a different kind of ache.

Hesitation flickers in your fingers as you reach up. The moment your fingertips graze his jaw, his breath hitches. His skin is warm under your touch, his jaw smooth from a fresh shave. He doesn’t pull away. He’s waiting. You see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the barely-there press of his teeth into his lower lip. He’s searching your face for permission, for a sign that this is real, that he’s allowed to want— You lean in. He smells like Juneberries and saltwater, the ghost of liquor still clinging to his lips. Your nose brushes his, and—

“I said fix it, not make it worse.”

You jerk apart like live wires. Johanna leans against the stone railing, arms crossed and one eyebrow arched up. The moonlight reflects the smirk that sharpens on her face.

Finnick groans—a sound caught between a laugh and a prayer for patience—and thunks his forehead against your shoulder. “Mason, I swear to the fucking—”

“Save it, Odair,” she interrupts, but you don’t miss the slightest upward twitch of her lips. “If I had to watch you two eye-fuck each other for one more second, I would volunteer for the next Games just to end my suffering.”

A beat passes. Then, quieter, as she turns away, she speaks, “And clean yourselves up. The Sponsors are lurking by the roses.”

[sodapopper]

TW: // death, implied suicide

-

There were seven of them, bruised and shining, electricity under their skin. Boys; young enough to shake the world, futures unexplored, untainted, unwritten. They were buddies. They fought together, bled together, loved together. The streets echoed with their laughter and the sky wept for their tears.

There were seven, and then…

Johnny Cade was the best of them—that’s why he went first. He died in a fire, but was doomed long before Windrixville, before the fountain or the knife or the blood gushing over his hands. Nothing gold can stay. Johnny was more golden than any of them, burned up in a blaze of glory.

Then there were six.

Dally, vice and violence, backed into a corner. He couldn’t imagine a future, couldn’t see himself on the other side of the fight. Desperation drove him to it. Sorrow kept him going. Just a scared kid, bleeding out under the streetlights, a bullet in his chest. Just a kid, after all. Nothing more.

Then there were five.

Soda, beautiful Sodapop. He laughed when he got the draft notice. “Grease goes international,” he said, all jokes, untamed and untamable, too wild to see death written in the words. Reckless, sensitive Soda, who hugged his brothers tight and raced off to war with a chuckle and a grin, hair wild in the wind. The last thing they saw of him was that smile—they weren’t even given a body to bury.

Just like that, there were four.

Two-Bit never wanted much from life. A drink and a laugh, a smoke and a fight. Good food, good company. A pretty face by his side. Two-Bit had no goals outside of Tulsa, no dreams beyond each passing moment. They found him in an alley. The bottle still in hand, like a murder weapon. Alcohol poisoning, the doctors said. Two-Bit drank his life away; he had no reason to grow old.

There were three.

Steve simmered in his anger until anger was all he knew. Years passed, the tireless slog, every day the same: he wakes with rage held tight in his fists, holes in his wall, dents in the door. Work until his palms bleed grease. Home again, where a family should have been, where the absence of parents burns a hole through the carpet, where his anger coils like a noose. He sleeps, and dreams of Sodapop, beautiful beneath the sky. One day, he doesn’t wake at all. The pill bottle beside his bed, refilled only the day before, lays discarded on its side: empty.

Now there’s two.

Darrel lives a long life. He made his peace with what could have been, a version of the future never meant for him. That part of himself, laid to rest long ago. People cast him pitying glances, think washed out has-been Darry Curtis but his back is broad and his skin is thick, impenetrable. “I’d do it again,” he says, holding his baby brother’s—his last brother’s—hand, as the monitors beep around them, antiseptic in the air. Their hands are wrinkled now. Their faces faded. “Every moment was worth it,” he says, old and sick but still burning with that secret strength he never lost, not even in the hardest times. “For you. For our brother. I’d do it again.”

The jagged line goes flat. The beeping stills. His hands are cold, but even still, strong. The hands of a laborer. The hands of love.

One.

One goes home. Cane, limp, faded sight, grey hair. He climbs the worn porch steps, presses his fingers to the doorway and blesses the wood. The halls of that house are haunted. He hears voice, trapped like a smell in the carpet, the plaster. There is the sofa where vagrant boys found refuge. The dent where Soda’s elbow hit the wall too hard. The scratches from Dally’s knife, a name carved into trim. There is the coffee stain, Darry’s, a full mug dropped. The table where Steve arm-wrestled anyone and everyone.

There is the drawing little Johnny Cade gave to a mother not his own, who hugged him closer than his ever had. It’s still taped to the fridge, brittle and yellow, the faded pencil lines impossible to make out. He’s drawn a family. A gang of boys. Seven.

Now there is one.

Ponyboy Curtis. The last of them, the best. He stands on the threshold of everything they had to give. He holds their love like a beacon inside, trapped where the eyes don’t see, where the hands can’t touch. He is the monument of their combined greatness; he is a patchwork quilt of all their best parts.

They were children once, running free, dirt on their faces and grease in their hair. Those children never made it out of Tulsa. They were never meant to.

Doomed by the narrative, some say, born to fail and suffer and be broken.

But they were children, once.

Ponyboy Curtis strokes the faded photographs on the walls. His gnarled hands touch unblemished faces, a snapshot of time, gap-toothed smiles, unbowed shoulders, messy hair.

They were children, once.

“We were happy.”

[mainstreamangel]

FRESH OUT THE SLAMMER

Princess!P. Bueckers x Princess!Fem!Reader

Summary: Paige is from a neighbouring kingdom who you meet at one of your family galas. You fell in love that night but are to be wed off to a prince. When you sneak off to meet with Paige, you're caught by one of the guards. You're to be thrown in the dungeon and beheaded at sunlight.

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Warning(s): Homophobia, attempted murder on the reader, to be wed to a man (sorry male audience).

WC: 1.8k

Part 1 / Part 2

You ran. That's what you did. You didn't look back afraid if you did, you were going to go back.

If anyone had been in your current situation, they would have run with no destination. But you? You ran as far and as fast as your legs could carry you to somewhere specific.

Rather, someone.

Now, pretty baby, I'm running back home to you.

Your breaths were heavy and your body struggled. It had only been a mere day since you were thrown in the dungeon. But your hair was messy and your clothes were uncomfortable.

One thing was, they were flexible. More flexible than a ballgown so it made it easier to run. You could hear shouts in the distance, but they didn't follow you.

You had just escaped the dungeons and even though the guards could still be heard, you had left before they had the chance to track you down.

Fresh out the slammer, I know who my first call will be to.

You sat in a beautiful ballgown, tailored specifically to hug your body in all the right ways. These events always bored you to death. Your parents held these events to flex their wealth and attract potential suitors to create even more wealth.

"You look cheery." A voice said next to you.

You turned your head slightly as you leaned against the wall of a secluded hallway of your palace.

"Very." You said sarcastically.

"Champagne?" She asked.

You hesitated, it could be poisoned. But regardless you take it anyways.

"Do I get the pleasure of knowing your name?" She purred.

You give her your name and she introduces herself as Paige Bueckers from the Uconnian Kingdom. She was pretty you couldn't lie. Her dress equally as custom as yours. Pretty blue and purple accents wrapped around the black fabric in contrast to her blonde hair.

"Keep staring and I might just kiss you."

"Fast much?" You laughed, taking a sip of your champagne.

"You don't have much to do around here do you?" She asks, scanning the hall.

"No. It sucks, but I can bring us somewhere at least a bit prettier." You offered.

"Will it be as pretty as you?" You glance at her with an awkward expression, but you couldn't help the blush that crept up on you.

"Maybe, you can be the judge of it."

You led Paige to the gardens, a fountain in the very centre. Flowers bloomed and tended to carefully by your father's gardeners and florists. The sound of rushing water fills the area as you carefully pick up the front of your dress to walk.

Another summer taking cover.

The summer air warmed your skin. Although it was night and the sun had set making the air cooler than the daylight, it was still comforting to be outside without anything other than your gown.

"It's very beautiful." Paige commented, not looking at the garden.

"Thanks, my father's gardeners work very hard to make this place look how it is." You respond, looking at the floor.

"I wasn't talking about the garden."

You look at her shocked.

"What?"

"I was looking at you."

You blushed and looked down. You knew it was wrong to be flattered by another kingdom's princess. You had barely just met her. Maybe it was the drinks or her attractiveness.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Wasn't planning on it." She smiles and stops at the edge of the fountain.

You turn to face her and you look up into her eyes. They were just regular eyes but they brought a sense of comfort and it almost felt magnetic. Paige extended out her hand and you slowly place it in hers.

"Do you dance?" She asked.

"I think it's a requirement for all royals to know how to dance."

Paige laughed and started to sway you two to the sound of the water.

"We don't have any music."

"We don't need any. Dancing can be done in even the quietest environments."

You put your hand on her shoulder and she put hers on your waist.

"Is this alright?" She mumbled.

"Yeah."

You two moved back and forth just enjoying each other's company. It was nice and peaceful that contrasted with the hardships that came with being a royal. It was comforting to know Paige understood as a royal herself.

"You're beautiful you know that?" Paige smiled.

"I'm not anything special though?" You laughed.

"You don't have to be special, when you find something you like it can be as ordinary as the regular."

You looked down and placed your head on her shoulder.

"Flatter isn't going to get you anywhere, Bueckers."

"Maybe it won't, but hopefully it'll get me closer to you." Paige whispered in your ear.

"This is wrong you know." You said, not moving.

"Is it? I'm not sure I've heard." Paige said sarcastically.

Lovers of the same sex were often outcasted and shamed for simply feeling attraction. You truly thought it was an issue, but you weren't sure how to speak out about it. Your parents would be upset if you spoke of such unruly manner.

"You don't seem to care though." You said.

"I can't change who I am, and honestly, being normal is the cruelest insult of them all." Paige said.

You smiled. You always wanted someone who wasn't afraid to be brave and speak their thoughts. You thought that maybe if you were with someone like that then it would make up for your cowardice.

Your time was cut short as a low grumble of the sky travelled out. Just then, you feel wet droplets fall onto you and Paige.

"Rain."

"Great observation."

It started to pick up and you took Paige's hand, fleeing to shelter in the palace. Dirt and debris gathered along the bottom of your expensive gown but you laughed. Paige ran behind you, her hand still in yours as you feel the water soak into your skin.

"Come on!" You laughed, as you saw the entrance to your home.

A guard spots you and open's the door for you and Paige. You quickly thank him and bring Paige to your bedroom. It was big and lavish but it felt warm with the things you tried to make do with.

"Here, you can borrow one of my gowns so you don't have to go home in yours. Sorry for ruining it."

"You didn't ruin it princess, the rain did. Plus I hate these dresses anyways so I don't feel too sympathetic. But thanks."

She takes the piece and heads to change. You strip from yours and put on a fresh dress so your parents won't pester you about cleanliness and the importance of appearance.

Paige steps out and your breath hitches. She's so beautiful.

"Like what you see?"

"Always."

A knock sounds at the door. It's your father.

"Father? What can I do for you?"

"Where have you been? I haven't seen you the entire night."

"I apologise, I was just showing my new friend your garden."

Your father sees Paige and gives a tight practiced smile.

"Princess Bueckers, I apologise I didn't see you there. But if you'll excuse us, your parents are looking for you and I must have a word with my daughter."

Paige nodded and gave you a sad smile. She bid her farewells and thanked your father for his hospitality. She walked away and out of sight.

"What is it father?"

"I think I found the perfect suitor for you to be wed to."

You sat with your fiancee at the table, dishes galore of different cultures and cuisines tailored to your preferences.

"So princess, has anyone told you how ravishing you look right about now?"

It was the same concept of the same compliment Paige had given you but this time it felt different. Almost insulting. Maybe because it came from a man.

The colder air nipped outside to anyone who dared to face it. It was now autumn and it's been 2 months since your night with Paige. You hadn't heard from her since and it made you feel alone.

You yearned for her touch and you wanted to feel that rush you did when you locked your eyes with hers.

"I'm thinking 3 kids and the eldest shall be a son. No daughter of mine will rule my legacy. A woman cannot rule." Your fiancee spoke, shovelling food into his mouth and chewing it openly.

You gave him a look and felt disgusted that this was what your father had proposed the best.

Splintered back in winter, silent dinners, bitter. He was with her in dreams.

"I don't really want kids."

Your fiancee gave a look of disproval before speaking.

"It's your job to have kids. You're the woman."

Gray and blue and fights and tunnels, handcuffed to the spell I was under.

You're not sure, but you snapped and excused yourself to your room. Your dress bringing discomfort and restriction, you carefully tore it off and gave it to the maid to take care. A pink box that stood on a table near your fireplace caught your eye.

It was an old music box that you had repurposed as a jewelry holder that your mother had given you in your earlier years.

It started to collect dust since you grew up but every once in a while you had reminisced the memories you had gained through it.

Carefully you peeled back the top to reveal a beautiful ballerina in a lacy tutu. A beautiful melody rung out and it brought you chills. But inside not only was the contents, but a small piece of paper.

Confused, you pick it up and flip it open. In perfect cursive, you intake the information.

Princess, Tonight was magical. Words cannot describe the beauty you hold and it was a pleasure to meet you. As divine as the goddess above, you outshine her in all departments. Shall I to see you again, I shall wait. If you feel the connection I felt tonight, shall I see you at the border of our two kingdoms in the secluded forest. A clearing among us shall guide us to each other. The flowers will regain it's bloom as you enter, your energy bringing them life. A smile shall to be upon me as I see you again. You truly are merely a fantasy those may say is unachievable but I know that tonight, I had met that fantasy and she is truly one only the lucky few can say. P. Bueckers August 21, 1392.

Your heart dropped. You were supposed to see this 2 months ago, but because you never really open this box, you hadn't seen it.

Quickly you threw the note back in the box and changed into some more comfortable clothing that you had begged your maids to retrieve.

You headed out into the stables and retrieved your horse. Directing her to where you may find Paige. You knew it was a long shot, but you just had to see her again. You had to try.

The night sky loomed over your kingdom and you travelled a bit to find your destiny.

For just one hour of sunshine.

[hewantshisbrideback]

ARYA STARK AND THE GODS ❦ BOURNE FOR THE GOD OF DEATH

Thirty different gods stood along the walls, surrounded by their little lights. The Weeping Woman was the favorite of old women, Arya saw; rich men preferred the Lion of Night, poor men the Hooded Wayfarer. Soldiers lit candles to Bakkalon, the Pale Child, sailors to the Moon-Pale Maiden and the Merling King. The Stranger had his shrine as well, though hardly anyone ever came to him. Most of the time only a single candle stood flickering at his feet. The kindly man said it did not matter. "He has many faces, and many ears to hear."

The Many-Faced God, also known as Him of Many Faces, is a deity worshipped by the Faceless Men, a guild of assassins established in the Free City of Braavos. The tale of the guild's beginnings centers around a figure of unknown origins, the first Faceless Man, who heard the prayers of the slaves to their various gods of death and came to conclude they all prayed to the same god "with a hundred different faces", the Many-Faced God, and that he was "that god's instrument".

This belief came to be reflected in the Guild's temple, which has a large public sanctuary that contains idols of thirty death gods. The religious order refills its pool of black water with a poison, so that drinking from it leads to a painless death. Visiting worshippers light candles to their god, then drink from the fountain using a stone cup, then go lie in one of the alcoves. Others take advantage of special alcoves, called "dreaming couches", which have special candles that bring visions of the past, for a sweet and gentle death.

Followers of Him of Many Faces consider death to be part of the natural order of things and a merciful end to suffering. The guild will agree to kill anyone in the known world, for a price, considering this contract to be a sacrament of their god. The price is always high or dear, but within means of the person if they are willing to make the sacrifice. The cost of their services also depends on the prominence and security of the target.

The High Valyrian words associated with the cult and its assassins are valar morghulis, or "all men must die", and its traditional response, valar dohaeris, or "all men must serve". This philosophy runs deep. Members are made to forsake their identities for the service of the Many-Faced God, and may only assassinate targets they have been hired to kill. They are not allowed to choose who is worthy of the "gift" by themselves.

[vividiana]

wip whenever 📝

thank you so much to @xxnashiraxx @deadly-diminuendo @hellethil and @khywren for tagging me over the past week or so 💕 I've been feeling very uninspired lately so I didn't have anything to share

but! yesterday in a flash of fever-induced genius I had an idea for a modern au involving Eve and Astarion that I'm very excited about. I don't want to spoil things but the very basic premise is that Eve is in a witness protection program and she had to uproot her life and assume a new identity (for... reasons... don't worry about that yet.) and Astarion is, well... running from his past, let's say.

here's a draft of the not-so-cute meet-cute:

The white-haired man doesn’t look up when she stands before him, seemingly lost in thought as he scribbles something fervently in a journal in sweeping, messy handwriting. Through the scent of stale beer and fried food, she singles out a hint of his cologne—citrusy, fresh, and far more pleasant than anything the men around here usually wear, if they even bother. “Hello, my name is Eve–” He startles at the sound of her voice. There is a trace of panic in his eyes as he looks up, one that he instantly tries to cover up by straightening in his seat and donning a forced smile. The moment their eyes meet, Eve gets the strangest feeling of déjà vu she’s ever experienced. There is something familiar in that shade of blue, in the way his hair curls behind his ears. It catches her off-guard, the rehearsed introduction dying in her throat mid-sentence.  “I’m sorry, do I know you from somewhere?” she asks instead.  The man instantly tenses up with a loud scoff.  “Of course you would know me from somewhere. What else did I expect?” He gestures animatedly as he speaks, Eve blinking in confusion as she listens to his rant. “You move halfway across the country to finally get a break for once and– Are you one of those true crime freaks? Do you want to ask me how I did it? Do you want to know all the gory details? Fucking hell…” He drops his fountain pen on the counter with a loud thud and slips his glasses off to massage his temples, eyes shut tight in frustration. A couple patrons turn their heads to look in their direction, Eve’s cheeks growing hotter at the sudden attention. And perhaps, after this hell of a shift, that was simply the last straw. “Do not raise your voice at me,” the words slip past her lips before Eve can think better of it. The man seems genuinely taken aback and he opens his eyes, brows furrowed when he asks: “Excuse me?” “You seem to think you’re someone important. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. And no matter who you are, you shouldn’t speak to people that way, but especially not to those who handle your food and drinks.” She didn’t mean it to sound like a threat, but she has no emotional energy left to dull the edge of her words.  Maybe getting fired wouldn’t be so bad. Then I’ll never have to come back here. For a moment he just looks at her wide-eyed, opening and closing his mouth a couple times. Eventually he clears his throat and puts his glasses back on, sounding genuinely embarrassed when he admits: “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just– It’s been a long day. But still, that’s no reason to– I’m sorry.” The anger pent-up in her body starts to dissipate at his tone. He sounds… tired. In a way she recognizes all too well. “It’s been a long day for me, too,” she says. “Maybe we can try again.”  She turns away and takes a couple steps along the bar, then returns with a polite smile on her face to say: “Hello, my name is Eve, I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you started with something to drink?” He chuckles softly and now that his face is more relaxed, Eve can’t help but think that he is quite handsome, in a manner that feels utterly out of place here. “That depends,” he says. “Are you going to spit in it or poison it?” “You’ve apologized, so neither. But you’re on thin ice.”

tagging: @verbenaa @funniestbitchinfaerun @obsessedwhyyes (word on the street is you have some Bloodweave cooking 👀) @roguishcat @olivedrop if you have anything you'd like to share ✨

[blnova180]

The Bad Sandwiches

This story contains: multiple sick characters, with descriptive belly rumbles, scat and diarrhea!!!

Sci-fi setting: In a world where humans and robots are at war with each other, during a rare moment of armistice, two unfortunate guys end up with a bout of food poisoning. Fortunately, their commander is there to take care of them.

(FYI I'm terrible at names so...)

------------------------------------------------------------

On a normal, sunny afternoon, lieutenants Fleck and Hade were having lunch at the canteen, partaking in their favorite activity: talking crap about their unit's new commander, Spree.

It was ridiculous that the higher ups thought she'd make a better commander than either one of them. Spree was more book smart than street smart, and she was always coming up with new strategies and training regiments.

"She's not right in the head," Hade said, getting up from the table. "There's an efficient way to hold your blaster, and there's a hundred ways to do so inefficiently," he mimicked her in a high pitched voice.

"The old commander never cared how we shot, as long as we hit out targets," complained Fleck. "Whatever, let's got train on our own for a while, yeah?"

"Sure, man."

Throwing out their trash and leaving thier trays behind, the two made their way to holo-room 4 to start on some light training.

They'd been fighting holo-bots for about an hour, sweating and already growing a bit tired, when Fleck started noticing an uncomfortable pressure building in his stomach. Glancing at Hade, who was still going, he shrugged it off and decided to push through it. Unbeknownst to Fleck, Hade was beginning to feel something too; his insides were rather tender and were twinging in pain with the slightest movements.

They finished the round and Hade paused the session.

"I need some water," he said.

Fleck nodded, needing the break just as much. He wiped his sweaty hair out of his face, and winced as a cramp raced down his abdomen. Hade was getting a drink at the water fountain, so Fleck allowed a soft pfff to escape him, trying to ease the pressure.

Hade bent over the water fountain, really hoping the cool water would sooth his stomach. Unfortunately, bending put more pressure on his gut than he intended.

Phwaaarghhhhh. It moaned like a whale and Hade flinched. He wiped his mouth and straightened back up.

Just then, the door to holo-room 4 opened.

Fleck and Hade looked up, and Commander Spree stared back at them.

"There you are," Spree said coolly, crossing her arms. "Have you been down to the canteen yet?"

"What's it to you?" Fleck snapped. "Gonna regulate what we eat now too?"

Spree raised an eyebrow. "Control's reported a situation. Did you stop at the canteen or not?"

Fleck glared at her, his aching stomach emboldening him. "What's it matter if we did or didn't? What's the situation? Is there an attack, was there a breach?"

"More of a human error," Spree said. "Answer the question, lieutenant."

"What? So it's a matter of rank?" Fleck sneered. "We're not high enough to know what's-" he took a breath, a cramp rolling through him "-what's going on?"

Spree narrowed her eyes. She crossed the room towards him, opening her mouth to no doubt berate him, when all of a sudden, she was interrupted by a noisy fart.

As it turned out, while Fleck had been arguing with Spree, Hade was having a bit of a predicament. He'd placed his hands on his stomach, surprised to find it protruding in a tight bloat. He could feel his belly bubbling against his hands.

Grrrrrrrrrrrr.

Hade's stomach quaked warningly. He gasped and clenched his butt. But it was so no avail, his cheeks were split open with a booming, dry fart.

BRRRRRRRAAPPPPPP~

Spree and Fleck looked at him. Hade's ears turned pink from embarrassment, but he didn't have time to dwell, because he wasn't done. His next string of farts spluttered out painful and wet.

Phllllbrrrrrrrtttttttttt. Krpppppppluttttttttt. Phbraaaap-braapppp. Grrrrll. Poooot.

Hade held his stomach, his legs weak and shaky. His breath came quick and hard, his stomach aching and burning.

Spree sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "As I was saying, Control reported a situation. The tuna sandwiches served at the canteen today were expired. A few people have turned up sick at the med-bay. Did both of you eat the sandwich, or just Hade?"

Gwwwwlp. The wet, upset gurgle from Fleck's own stomach answered her question for him.

"Do you need to use the bathroom before I escort you to the med-bay?" Spree asked them.

"Yes," Hade whimpered, clutching onto the side of the water fountain for support.

"I'm fine," Fleck snarled, crossing his arms.

"Suit yourself, then."

Spree walked over to Hade, supporting him the few steps to the bathroom behind him. Hade stumbled into the first stall, desperately pulling his belt loose and dropping his pants.

The moment his butt touched the porcelain bowl, a wet fart exploded from him, carrying a stream of liquid diarrhea out with it. Hade whimpered, tears pricking in his eyes. His gut was so tight and tender he couldn't do more than let spurts of mushy poo shot out from his sore butthole. Except something was getting stuck, and he needed to push, but he was in too much pain.

Gasping, and choking on a sob, he tried rubbing his belly to move things along; but he couldn't even fart anymore.

He heard a sigh, and Spree was in front of him, roughly feeling his forehead. Hade gasped for air. His breathing suddenly eased out when a new hand gently ran up and down his stomach.

Grrwwwwullllll. His tummy yawned thankfully, and his lower belly unclenched what it'd been holding back. A log pocked out of his hole, slowly working its way out with a mix of dry and wet prrts.

Outside the bathroom, Fleck stood massaging his abdomen. Alone, he let his face turn red, twisting in discomfort as he forced out little chirping farts. His churning stomach wasn't feeling any better. He thought releasing some gas would make the building pressure ease up some, though so far, it did not good.

Fleck felt bad for Hade, who'd thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of their straight-laced commander, and was sorry he was so sick. Fleck didn't think he needed to take a dump that desperately, yet, but the noises from the bathroom were starting to make his own stomach burble sympathetically.

A cramp stabbed his bellybutton, and he opened his cheeks to let out another fart.

KSHHHprrrrrrrrrtt-toot~

Only, what he'd expected to be another dry peep, came out instead as a sickly shart.

Fleck broke into a cold sweat. He made a b-line for the bathroom, holding onto his bottom like his life depended on it.

Inside, Hade, who's own pain was easing up as his log inched it's way out, saw a flash of Fleck as he raced to the next stall. Bubbly farts followed him, along with a string of breathless curses.

Fart after fart rocketed out of him, his belly crying for sweet relief. Making it into the stall, his fingers trembled on his belt buckled as he fumbled to unclasp it.

Braap. Braap. BRRRAAAP.

He kept farting consecutively until finally, finally Fleck managed to drop his pants and collapse onto the waiting toilet. He farted. And farted. But nothing but a few little mushy sharts came out.

Fleck tried pushing on his taught, bloated stomach. His guts boiled with fury at his harsh treatment.

PSHHHHHHPRRTTTTBRRRRRRR.

His booming fart echoed in the toilet bowl.

In the next stall, Hade winced sympathetically, listening to his friend's persistent farting. His log tapered off and he let out a sigh of relief. His poor gut was still hurting, but he was done pooping for the moment.

Spree handed him a wad of toilet paper.

"Thanks," Hade mumbled weakly. "I think I'll be all right to go to the med-bay after, y'know..."

He nodded towards Fleck's stall, where he'd started panting and grunting in an attempt to move things along.

"He's gonna be here all day at this rate," Spree said, shaking her head before walking out of Hade's stall and into the next.

Fleck glared at her when she took a step towards him, and she raised her hands in surrender, leaning against the stall's frame. Fleck's pants pooled around his ankles, the skid mark on the inside of his underwear visible.

A cramp rolled like thunder through him, and he bent over to fart again.

PshhhBRRRRRRTTTTT~

It started as a hiss, quickly becoming another boom. Fleck's face turned red as he strained, bending forwards, hugging his knees. His belly couldn't take being squished so hard.

The head of log snaked out of him. Fleck pushed. And a short log slid out into the bowl. He panted with relief, leaning back. He almost wanted to laugh at how over dramatic his body had been acting. After all that effort, the only thing he'd expelled was-

Another sharp cramp pierced his bellybutton; like an extra long, hot needle.

And in an instant, his cheeks were parting. Fleck held his breath. It felt like lava running out of his bottom. Clumpy and slushy, burning his butthole on the way out.

Over the sound of his diarrhea, he could hear Spree saying something to Hade. He heard her leave, foot steps fading. For a few minutes, Fleck held back tears, resigning himself to his twisting guts.

Kshhhrrrt~ Bllllrrrrrp ~ Phhhwwwwggggg. The chunky streams continued.

Then, all of a sudden, Fleck registered a hand combing through his hair. Exhausted, he fell forward, and an arm was holding him, the hand moving down to rub circles along his back. His stomach burbled and he whimpered.

Spree readjusted him and knelt down. Softly, she rubbed his sore, fussy tummy, until the last of his bout trickled to a stop.

She stood back up, offering him something. Fleck looked up to find Spree was handing him a pack of wet wipes. Embarrassed, he took them from her, thankful she left the stall while he cleaned himself.

A bit gingerly, Fleck put his pants back on. He joined the others in front of the sink and washed his hands.

Spree walked them down to the med-bay, keeping watch while the nurse asked about their symptoms and pain. Hade's stomach was achy and Fleck's still a bit bubbly, but it seemed the worst of it was over.

Their unit commander rejoined them when the nurse let them lay down. Spree cleared her throat.

"You've got the next two days off, but I expect to see you both bright and early Friday morning. Is that clear?"

"Aye..." Fleck and Hade saluted her weakly.

"Good. As you were, lieutenants."

Spree left the med-bay and Hade turned to Fleck.

"Never met such hard-ass Commander in my life."

"Don't think you will again, in this life or the next."

------------------------------

Yeah, okay, so I got supper excited to write my first post and might've put all my favorite tropes together. Anyway, my first post!

[saltburnontherim]

Trigger warning: talking about the motif of thr*w up in Saltburn

Examples:

- Oliver’s dad’s stone lands in puke instead of in the water

- Oliver’s puke covers the mirror the morning after he drinks himself to sleep after being rejected by Felix

- Oliver mentions getting an upset stomach from runny eggs

- A girl throws up in the fountain at the party

- Oliver throws up in the maze

I think the vomit motif in Saltburn was so interesting. Oliver is the fingers down the throat of this family. He’s forcing his way in as they are forcing him out and it creates a purge.

It is the perfect motif for greed and overindulgence. It also reflects the contrast between Oliver and the Cattons. Oliver is not afraid to get down and dirty whereas the Cattons are squeamish and easily repulsed (Elsbeth choosing men over women simply because they are dry as opposed to wet). Oliver, as Venetia points out, is “real”. Her obsession with vomit is a shameful secret until it is exposed by Oliver. He continues to push their filth to the top until secrets begin to overflow and create a purging process.

Oliver is unafraid to clean Felix’s grimy room, drink his bath water, suck his sister’s blood, fuck his grave, or rip his mother’s breathing tube out.

In a reverse Romeo & Juliet turn of events, Oliver purges himself of the poison that he had just handed off to Felix. Felix will die. Oliver will live. Only one household can live on. This is where vomit almost plays the role of a rebirth. It is a purge of the past and an invitation for something new to begin.

Hope this didn’t gross you out too much.

Thoughts????

[bokettochild]

Christmas of Closure - Day 1

A continuation from the Febuwhump storyline including Downfall, Crushed, and Infected.

Day 1 (you are here) | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 (soon?)

Full fic under to cut

 -

It’s hot.  

  That’s something he’s noticed about this era. Where moisture is abundant, even if not always welcome in his own time, Hyrule’s era is always very hot. It's little wonder the trees they pass are nothing but husks, the ground barren and cracked, and water so rare. What springs they have run across though are poisoned, which he’d realized quickly, and luckily before he’d tried helping his brother to drink any of it.  

  And as for said brother, the traveler has still not woken. He’s running a high fever too, which, strapped as he is to Legend’s back, means their heat is shared and made all the worse even without the sun beating down on them. The infection in his leg has truly set in too, blessedly not worsening over much, but it’s far from improving.  

  He’s not sure, at this point, what else he can do.  

  They still have food rations left, but without water it’s hard to stomach. They’ve been walking for four days- or, well, he has. He has and its agony at this point to keep placing one foot before the other, lungs heaving on each breath as though, somehow, there’s still dirt clinging to them from the hour or so spent buried and fighting free from the landslide that landed them in this predicament.  

  Needless to say, he’s not sure, entirely, how much damage he’s sustained himself. He just knows he’s still able to keep moving, although if he stops, he’s not sure he’ll be able to start again. So, onwards they go, he carrying the body of his brother and praying on every breath that something will arise soon before them.  

  And he is looking. Every few steps, he will stop and lift his head from where it’s bowed to watch his feet, to ensure he doesn’t stumble, doesn’t step where it’s unsafe (for it is unsafe often), and he’ll scan the world around them. There’s a dark mass rising up before them, closer with each step and yet so very far away. His eyes won’t focus long enough to tell what it is, but the vet hopes against all hope that it’s the castle that the traveler had spoken of before. If it is-  

  If it is he hopes they have potions, because he’s not certain anything else could help their traveler. If he knew where the fairy fountains were in this world, he’d have moved for one, but everything is so changed since his own time, so distorted and different. Even the mountains are different in their crags and peaks, and there is no great plume of smoke that rises up from the Eldin region to mark where its most famous mountain lies.  

  Legend shakes off that thought. It’s no good, really, dwelling on it. Not now. Not ever if he can help it, although he knows that’s not an option. The fate of the world he leaves behind is lesser in his mind now though- it’s reality already set in- than the fate of his brother, who still stands a chance, who still relies on him, and who still has hope yet for a happy ending if only the veteran can get him to safety.  

  He lifts his head again, scanning the horizon through blurry vision. The dark thing in the distance is now closer, and when he looks, he thinks he can make out a slope leading up to it, as though it is set above... something (likely a moat), although still in something that’s either a valley, or else just land lower than what he stands on.  

  Are they on a hill? He hadn’t... he hadn’t really been paying attention to the slope of the land. His focus is on what moves and what doesn’t, on bright colors when they do appear to mark danger, and on the shapeless seeming mass he carries them towards. They could have been walking downhill or uphill and he wouldn’t know one way or the other save if he looked back, which, unless he wants to turn and lose any sense of direction, isn’t really an option. The curly head resting against his shoulder blocks his vision, and besides, both the traveler’s arms are wrapped up around his neck to keep his brother secure where he hangs, and they too stop him seeing behind him.  

  Another cough wracks through him, following wheezing breathes as he lifts on hand from supporting the legs of his fellow hero, instead hunching forwards to take the weight and trying, although likely with little effect, to bring some circulation into the traveler’s hands. It can’t be good for him, he muses, to have them tied and tugged on so, and held up over his head for so long. It’s the only thing he can do though. He’s not Twilight, or Sky, he can’t just sling the other over his shoulders or keep him held tight in his arms. His back is all he can offer, and even that isn’t the safest of places as he’d be hard pressed to protect from any attack from behind, vision blocked off and senses muddles already from a breathing body pressed so close.  

 They just have to keep going though, just a bit further still. Just a little longer until that dark shape is closer. It wasn’t there at all a couple days ago which means that either by nightfall or the next morning, they should be there.  

 Just a bit longer, he reminds himself, relief in the words. Just a bit longer. If Hyrule is right, then that dark shape should be the castle and if it is-  

 “Excuse me?”  

 Normally, Legend is far better about noticing things, noticing people, and responding to them, but somehow, the voice not only seems to come from nowhere at all but when he reaches for his sword, rather than drawing it ad holding it before them, he ends up tumbling over on one side instead, barely avoiding falling back on top of Hyrule, but only by twisting mid-fall as best he can so as to not further injure his brother.  

 “Good heavens,” an older voice creaks, and then there are feet moving.  

 He should move. He should get up and grab for his sword. He should be ready, he should defend. They’ve already run into far too much trouble, and they’re so close! They’re so very close, he can’t just let something happen to them now!  

 Through some force he could never name, indeed doesn’t know the source of, Legend manages to push himself somewhat upright, up onto his knees at the least and this time, instead, he brandishes his fire rod before him.  

 Vaguely, for a moment, he wonders if it would be better to use his ice rod; it might be more effective, and melting the produced ice could give them water, although he’s rather certain the rod can’t just spontaneously create water from nothing (something about condensation in the air or manipulating nearby factors in order to create ice, but his brain is still foggy and his ventures into magical study aren’t usually in regards to tools so he’s not sure).  

 Whatever tool he holds though doesn’t appear to make a difference, because the feet stop, seemingly at the sight of it, and when his vision stops swimming, clearing some, he finds himself face to face with what appears to be a hylian. The first hylian they’ll have seen since losing their brothers, if indeed she’s real and not some magic wielding imposter.  

 Shock and concern war on her pretty face, blue eyes fixed on the figure tied at his back, but darting down to his own face once and again, hands hovering and unsure, but body tensed up ad clearly scared. Briefly, the sight makes his heart stutter, guilt at bringing fear to someone else worsened all the more at seeing how young she looks, how unsure, but he quickly quashes those feelings a moment later.  

 It could be an act. It could be a trick to make him lower his guard. That’s how these things work after all, isn’t it? They appeal to your sense of humanity before they display their lack of the same?  

 “Princess!” the shout is not his own, or Hyrule’s, or that of the girl, and when he turns his eyes away just for a second, he can see an old woman shambling towards them at all the speed her hunched over frame seems capable of. White hair peaks out from beneath her headscarf, but a flash of crimson red beneath tells him her age might be less than it looks; she’s sheikah.  

 Legend lowers his fire-rod minutely.  

 Sheikah are good. Sheikah are safe. Sheikah are loyal to the crown and will do no harm to its protectors unless he gives them cause to.  

 Unlike himself, the girl does not acknowledge the voice of the stumbling woman, instead focusing on him, hand fisted in her drab looking skirt, shoulders set but chin quivering slightly as blue eyes try their hardest to summon a blaze to fix him under. “Who are you?”  

 “You-” he tries to shoot back ‘you first’, but it breaks off with a rough cough, words still more pain than he’d thought, having not spoken at all in the last days. Hunched over as he is, balancing both their weight on bent knees, while brandishing a weapon, the cough lasts longer, airway far from direct and making the sound all the worse, and more painful.  

 The girl’s face twitches further towards concern, even as doubt lingers in her eyes.  

 She’s cautious, the veteran notes. She’s wary and slow to act, not bold and overly friendly as Hyrule and Wild both have warned that pretenders will be. More than that though, she doesn’t rush him the moment he’s struggling to breath, doesn’t take advantage of his weakness. If anything, she stands there, looking conflicted and worried, and that, at last, is enough to let Legend lower his weapon.  

 “Are you-” Another hack cuts her off, tears rising with it at the pain of the action, the way it further aggravates his throat, and she pauses until, at last, his chest stills and he’s mostly silent again. “Who are you, and are you. Are you alright?”  

 It’s rather obvious, he thinks, even not able to see himself, that he is not, but he hasn’t really got a way to say as much without causing another flare of coughing.  

 “My gracious,” and it’s the sheikah lady again, coming up to a stop just a short distance behind the girl- young woman? She looks about his age but Legend’s not sure any longer if he’s a boy or a man in the eyes of the world- in his own, he’s long since left childhood behind, but not everyone can see as much by looking at him.  

 Whatever the answer, it has no bearing on the older woman, who takes one look at the pair he and Hyrule make and immediately starts forwards, pushing aside the rod he raises more out of habit than otherwise. She’s stronger than she looks, but gentle too as she moves a hand to push hair from the face tucked to his shoulder, ignoring Legend’s own presence for the moment.  

 “Impa?”  

 “I’m almost afraid to ask what happened,” the woman says, and then crimson turn on him, not harsh, but stern all the same. It’s a look he’s used to being fixed under though; an appraising one, one that tries to read him, to guess his intent, to guess at who he is.  

 She’s sheikah, he’s certain she’ll find what matters without him having to speak. After all, his own Impa can do the same. Although, if she is also an Impa, that would mean that the girl-  

 “He’s a friend, Zelda,” the words have the girl before him relaxing, and confirm his suspicions. “No enemy would help our hero so much, even as a trick.” And then, to him, “let us help. You both look in poor shape.”  

 He hasn’t time to answer before wizened hands move for the belts and chords holding his brother close. Still, when they do, he finds himself tugging away.  

 They may be an Impa and a Zelda, but he doesn’t know them, and Hyrule might, but Legend- Legend isn’t ready to let his brother loose. Not out here; out near threats and foes at any moment, out where neither old woman nor princess can likely do much. If danger was to come, his first duty would be to his brother, crown of Hyrule before him or no, and risking leaving the other in the care of a total stranger, regardless of their nature, is unthinkable.  

 The Impa tries again, but Legend shifts, pushing himself up and hearing some on his brother so they don’t both go toppling again. When she meets his eyes, he just shakes his head at her.  

 Thin lips purse. “Can you speak?”  

 Again, he shakes his head. Usually, speech isn’t a problem. Some days it might be, but that has nothing to do with his reason right now. That doesn’t matter though, what does matter is the hand that comes up to support him, that doesn’t move to untie Hyrule, and instead, the woman moves to guide him forwards again.  

 “Alright. Then I won’t ask why you won’t let us take him. I will ask you to let us take you both back with us though, it’s dangerous out here, even when you aren’t alone.”  

 That, he doesn’t object to. The princess doesn’t either, and so they all move towards what, to him, still looks like just a dark shape in front of them, but the closer they get, the more it reveals itself to be what he’d hoped; a castle.  

 It’s in poor shape, much like the rest of the kingdom, but as they enter the halls, he finds they’re oddly clean for a crumbling structure. Where the exterior is crumbling, it’s clear someone has made efforts to do repairs on the inside. Granted the results are varied, but it’s comforting in an odd way. He’s used to seeing these halls kept, and grand. He’s used to great tapestries and carpets that stop the stone leaching heat from those who travel over it. He’s used to paintings and art, gifted by allies and friends, lining the walls. Even for the state of his own world, the danger it knows like a heartbeat, Hyrule Castle has always been a grand place in his era.  

 It’s a shade of itself in this one, but he minds his tongue as they lead him to what used to be familiar halls.  

 Impa moves, again, to take Hyrule from him as they walk, and this time, all he can do is help her.  

 It’s fine, he assures himself, fumbling with a buckle past the heavy folds of the cape he’d wrapped his brother in. There are walls between themselves and the world. Hyrule will be safe in here, with no enemies to be found and only trusted allies, which he’s spoken of with fondness, within.  

 Still, catching a glimpse of the fevered face of his brother makes his stomach twist as Impa takes the traveler up in her arms. She’s stronger than she looks, and she doesn’t so much as stumble as she sets off for some room or another, Legend ad the princess now left to follow at her tail.  

 The next minutes are something of a blur. There’s another girl waiting for them in the room that looks like it must have been made an infirmary for the time being. She’s... oddly familiar, yet a total stranger to his memory. Still, she looks a ridiculous amount like his own princess, if, of course, Zelda had red hair, which this girl does and his own sister markedly doesn’t. Whomever she is, she’s quick to spring to helping Hyrule, the three women bustling about and fetching a fairy and a potion which they nurse carefully past chapped lips.  

 The first girl, Zelda, smooths back his brother’s hair with worried murmurs as the potion is administered, her eyes trailing up and down him, waiting for a change that Legend himself is just as eager to see as it slips over.  

 The red in freckled cheeks fades, leaving the healthy flush that he’s been missing. The grey of his lips is replaced with the same, and the swelling of his leg, poorly wrapped but tended as best as the vet could manage, seems to fade in a blink. Impa checks it of course to be sure, and despite the churning of his guts at the sight, legend follows her lead, watching over her hunched shoulders as she applies some sort of ointment to the wound after feeling along the bone to inspect the break.  

 Red eyes turn to him after a moment, something warm in their depths, not quite the same as his own Impa, but kindly all the same. “You must be an expert, it’s set perfectly.”  

 He’s had lots of experience.  

 “Now,” she’s wrapping the traveler’s leg deftly, careful with her motions, but familiar as well with what she’s doing, which means it’s finished in a moment. “Let’s see what’s wrong with you, young.... traveler.”  

 For a minute he’s not sure why she hesitates, and then he remembers; he’s covered and dirt and the identical twin to the most beautiful woman in all Hyrule, so, unfortunately, both those things make it terribly difficult for people to realize he’s a man. Or, well...becoming one? He’s not sure of that still.  

 Zelda stays with Hyrule while Impa works, but the red-head comes to his side, bobbing about at her elder’s commands and fetching this or that before helping where she can. Dark eyes, not quite purple and not quite blue, keep peeking up at him past long lashes, shy but curious glances that he’s not sure what to do with when they’re slipping away the moment he moves to meet them.  

 His focus is more on what’s done anyway.  

 His hands are a wreck, Impa declares, washing them and murmuring soft words of encouragement as he bites back tears and some screams as the raw and ruined skin is scrubbed at. It’s necessary, he knows, if he wants to avoid becoming infected himself, but it still sucks. It is the worst he’s suffered though, save his lungs which, according to the old sheikah, will mend themselves given time, rest, and care.  

 “Although, I will say, dear. You look a corpse that’s dug itself from its own grave.”  

 For lack of better to do, Legend’s chest swells on a hysteric laugh, one that heaves and hacks and leaves him lightheaded enough that he’s not sure when he got put to bed with Hyrule, but when he’s next clear enough to think again, he’s lain out with Hyrule’s head tucked against his chest, the traveler’s hand wound purposefully into his shirt, and a soft hint of a smile on the others face.  

 Legend elects not to move when he sees that. Not more than he has to in order to feel for a pulse, and then settle one hand near mittened in bandages into his brother’s hair. He slips away again after that, eyes falling shut with a sigh of relief and maybe curling a bit closer around his brother.  

 They’re safe. They’re okay. Hryule will live. He will live they’re both going to get better. They just need time, he thinks wearily. They just need to rest and regroup and take care of themselves, at least until the next steps in their journey present themselves. He’s not sure what they’d be though, especially now that their party is split, and despite his own safety and that of his brother, Legend has no clue where the rest are.  

 But they’ll be fine, he tries to tell himself. They have Sky, and Twilight, and Warriors and Time and Four. They have Wild and his refusal to stay down. They are some of the strongest and best, even if they are a bit clueless at times. They’ll be okay.  

 Not that he believes that for a moment, but with Hyrule’s soft breathes sounding against him, breath warm on his collar and steady in its pulse, he’s hard pressed to keep that worry present, instead slipping away with a sigh to the smell of sweaty curls and the familiar scent of oils and salves and fresh, clean linen.  

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

and found - outtakes

Hey, folks, I have weathered the first feast holiday of my winter season and had a super breakfast, and now I have to be at work but there's obviously nothing doing so it's time to post a couple of things that got cut from "and found," generally due to lack of narrative space for them.

***

girlboss

“Jiao Liqiao did some incredibly out of pocket shit, but she was kind of a girlboss. Or at least she knew how to be straightforward about, like, ‘hey, Di Feisheng, I want to tie you up and have insane sex with you.’”

Di Feisheng lets out a startled cough. “You're overestimating her willingness to explain anything ever.”

“Well, ok, yeah, but she knew what she wanted and she did something about it and I respect that as someone else who would, like, commit serial murders to hang onto you. And like. She looked at you and said, man, he's super hot and good at kung fu, the dick must be insane, and it's not like she was wrong.”

This time it's Fang Duobing's turn to cough, as Di Feisheng transitions into looking smug. “She had y–h–Bicha poison?”

“Oh, and god forbid women do anything.” Xiangyi glances at them and then cackles. “No, I mean, don’t get me wrong, if I could time travel I’d break her fucking jaw, but game recognize game.”

“I don’t. I don’t think that phrase applies here? Since you’re not evil?”

“You are seriously underestimating the degree to which you both make me feel like an insane person, if something happened to either of you nothing could get between me and the nuclear launch codes.”

“The. The Secret Service?”

“Shifu. I could take them! You don’t think I could beat up the entire Secret Service?"

Di Feisheng snorts. “And you worry about me getting on watchlists.”

***

“Of all of the technological innovations you’ve seen over the course of your life so far, what would you say is your favorite?”

(this one isn't even an outtake, it's just something I wrote down because it was funny even though there's never been a spot in the story where I could start having Xiangyi shoot interview questions at various immortals)

Fang Duobing: “I really like typewriters? Fountain pens were good, but getting a typewriter was game-changing.” (“Not word processors?”) “I mean. A word processor is fine, but it doesn’t go click in the same way.”

Di Feisheng: “Motorcycles.”

Wen Kexing: “Zippers are the greatest invention of the past eight hundred years. Although blenders are also good.”

Zhou Zishu: “Milkshakes and smoothies, any frozen drink. Unless that doesn’t count as technology, in which case hydroponics.”

Jing Beiyuan: “Hm. Noise-cancelling headphones. And there have been significant advances in the field of sex toys that I really appreciate, but I doubt you want to hear about that.”

Wu Xi: “Noise-cancelling headphones. Rubber gloves. Poison control hotlines.” (“You think of poison control hotlines as a technological innovation? What are they an improvement over?”) “They’re better than waking me in the middle of the night because some idiot’s eaten something they shouldn’t.”

Orlando: “Photography, and I do appreciate how easy it is to bathe now.”

Kenzaki Kazuma: “I mean, I haven't actually lived longer than a normal human yet, but smartphones are great.”

Kurenai Gai: “Ramune.”

Hob Gadling: “Modern painkillers are incredible, do you know what I would have given in the 1500s to be able to go round the corner store and get a bottle of paracetamol?”

Wen Ning: “Electric lighting is really nice.”

Song Lan: [ text messaging ]

Xiangyi: “If we don't get flying cars in the next hundred years or so I’m fully going to throw a tantrum. Unless Elon Musk is involved. Hey, A-Fei, can we kill Elon Musk?” (“You have a major study running right now.”) “Well, yeah, obviously we’d do it after that.”

***

Ultraman

Xiangyi bats his hand away without looking at the screen. “Cut it out, illegal to be horny at me during Ultraman time.”

Di Feisheng raises an eyebrow. “You said earlier that Ultraman makes you horny.”

“Which is true, and I stand by it, but this rise is important to the whole, like, emotional arc of the show and I don't want to miss it.”

“Not that I’m not enjoying this show, but I didn't think these aired in the USA.” Fang Duobing adjusts his glasses, apparently fascinated as he watches the transformation sequence. “How did you get to be such a big fan?”

“Oh, Uncle Xun had a couple of the old shows on, like, laserdisc, Yuze and I used to stay up all night watching them when we were kids. We got in fights about which one to put on, even, because he always wanted to watch Return because he has no fucking taste but then he’d make fun of me for wanting to watch Ace because he thought it ‘wasn’t fun’ or some shit.”

“I’ll be honest, I don't recognize any of those names? I watched the original show when it first aired, and Ultra Q before that, but then after that I was busy doing other things, so I never got around to watching anything after those. Didn't see the point, anyway, since Eiji had died, it felt weird watching his thing without him working on it.”

Xiangyi freezes, reaches for the remote very slowly, pauses the show, and turns. “Xiaobao, are you saying you knew Tsuburaya Eiji?”

Fang Duobing blinks. “Yes? Him and Kinjo Tetsuo, they were good men. I spent a few decades living in Japan mid-century.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Ah…sabotaging warships and fighter planes, mostly. Well, until I got arrested. I broke out, of course, but I couldn't manage to get out of the country, so I was living under an assumed name for a while, and then there was. I mean. I…” He trails off, looking haunted. “It's hard to stay angry at an entire country after you see something like that happen. So…I stayed. Someone always needs a doctor. I’d rather not talk about it. Ah, so, I set up a practice and one day a couple of men came in and asked if I’d come with them because there’d been an accident, and when we got there the first thing I saw was a monster? It was very startling.”

Xiangyi realizes that he's been holding his breath. “Was it Godzilla?”

“No, ah, Rodan. Anyway, someone had a sprained ankle and once I’d gotten it wrapped up I said, what were they doing here, and they said they were making a movie, and here was the man who’d designed the monster and he wanted to know what I thought of it, since apparently the face I’d made was very funny.” Fang Duobing smiles fleetingly. “I kept hanging around because safety standards in filmmaking at the time were…not good.”

[chained-sweater]

🥀 Death Headcanons 🥀

Notes: This is my interpretation of what would happen if everyone in the Curtis gang died. These are all in chronological order. An important thing to remember here is that Dally’s death differs from canon.

TW / CW !! : Mentions of death, war, murder, and su¡c¡de. Read at your own risk.

JOHNNY CADE · Aged 16

Died from severe burns and shock after saving children from a burning church in Windrixville while on the run from the law after killing Bob Sheldon.

DALLAS “DALLY” WINSTON · Aged 17

After running out of the hospital after his friend’s death, Dallas was walking around town trying to calm himself when someone jumped him and stabbed him in the chest, the blade spearing right through his diaphragm. He died from suffocation and blood loss.

PONYBOY “PONY” CURTIS · Aged 14

Racked with survivor’s guilt and his brain diseased with grief, Ponyboy returned to the park where Bob had been killed and drowned himself in the fountain.

SODAPOP “SODA” CURTIS · Aged 19

After being drafted into the Vietnam War, Soda was killed when he was shot in the head by enemy soldiers. He was dead before he hit the ground.

STEVE RANDLE · Aged 20

Steve, too, was drafted along with Sodapop. He was there to witness Soda’s death and, too stunned to do anything but stare at his friend’s body, he too, was shot; in the side of his head. He too, was dead before hitting the ground, laying beside his best friend since grade school.

KEITH “TWO-BIT” MATHEWS · Aged 21

Died from alcohol poisoning after drinking too much at once. This was shortly after he received the news of Soda and Steve’s deaths in Vietnam.

DARREL “DARRY” CURTIS JR. · Aged 25

Relapsed and sl¡t his wrists, only this time, nobody was there to save him.

[the-whispers-of-death]

*Soap and a recruit talking while in the training room* Recruit: I want to befriend Stone, especially since I'm planning on becoming a medic too. He seems like he has a fountain of knowledge. Soap, chuckling: That he does, he has been in the military for fifteen years after all. Recruit: So, will you help me befriend him? Please, Sergeant? Soap, realizing how much chaos he can get up to with this: Sure, lad. I'll help. *An hour later, the recruit is passed out in the infirmary & Soap is in Price's office* Price, pinching the bridge of his nose: Sergeant, would you care to tell me why you told the recruit to make Stone a cup of chai? Poor recruit is now in the infirmary, unconscious. Soap, trying to act all innocent: They wanted to befriend Stone, Cap! Price: *sighs* Soap, Stone tackled said recruit because he thought they were poisoning him! Soap, very remorseful: I didn't know he was paranoid about potentially being poisoned! Price, stepping closer to Soap which makes Soap step back: Stone doesn't even eat any food that's made by others in the mess hall! He makes his own food! Soap, trying to get away from an angry Price: I thought Stone would just say no or give them a look saying "fuck off"! I didn't know he'd tackle anyone who would offer him a drink or food!

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated!

[jazzystudios82]

Diabolik Lovers: An Angel's Embrace AU Shorts #5 - Akira ♡

DL OTP Prompt #23: Family

"Life doesn't come with a manual. It comes with a mother."

This is, once again, another entry for @yuriko-mukami's DL writing prompt. And like the others, this one may take a while to make.

WARNING: Diabolik Lovers is a series with dark themes and topics. Discretion is advised.

Content Warning: This short contains pregnancy, birth (not descriptive; off-page), mentions of a difficult birth, blood, and nightmares about death.

If you're not in the right mind set to read this, then you don't have to. Your mental health is more important.

——————————————————————————

The Sakamaki Mansion. . . .

Angelica was sitting in a comfy chair while a maid poured her a cup of tea. The pregnant woman gave the maid a soft 'thanks' as she accepted the porcelain tea cup. The tea itself had such a lovely aroma, and it made the pink haired woman smile with. It wasn't necessarily the tea itself that made her smile, it was in fact that she was finally able to have some time for herself without Karlheinz practically looming over her shoulder.

She couldn't be too annoyed with him though, as Angelica knew that her husband was concerned for both her and their baby. The unborn babe was going to be the heir to the Vampire Clan after all.

But as much as she loved seeing this from her husband, Angelica did have a limit for how much Karlheinz seemed to be smothering her when he was off duty. Again, she loved it, but she needed her space every once in a while.

As soon as she took a sip of her tea, Angelica let out a positive sigh. "Is the tea to your liking, my lady?" the maid asked. "It is. Thank you for making this for me." Angelica answered.

"It was nothing. How's the baby? Do you think that today's the day?"

Angelica looked at her pregnant belly. It had been nine months already, but so far there were no signs of the baby coming out. While Angelica had no issue with it, the baby comes whenever they want after all, Karlheinz and some of her family members were impatient. Angelica could understand them though. After all, her family was getting a new addition for them to love and spoil, and the baby was also the future ruler of the Vampire Clan.

Because of this, Angelica and her unborn baby's safety was taken extremely seriously. Karlheinz had even went as far as to hire a poison taster to check if any of Angelica's food and drinks were laced with a drug that could harm her and the baby's health, who just so happened to be the maid that was with her right now.

As soon as she finished her tea, Angelica stood up from her chair and was going to go back into the mansion for some light reading, when she felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen.

"!"

"My lady, is something wrong?" the maid asked. "I. . . .I don't know." Angelica said. "I felt this-" The silver eyed woman nearly let out a yell when the pain became more intense, and when she felt a strange wetness between her legs, Angelica immediately knew what was going on.

"My lady? What is it?"

"I'm afraid that my water broke."

The maid's facial expression changed from one of confusion to great worry immediately.

"Shit."

.

.

.

.

Karlheinz's Office. . . .

The Vampire King let out a sigh as he finished the final piece of paperwork that was on his desk. What it was for, he had forgotten hours ago. But he didn't care about that.

All he wanted right now was to go be with Angelica and spend time with her. Especially with the baby on the way. There'd be little time he could spend with Angelica when their son arrives.

Why does he assume the baby will be a boy? Karlheinz just had a hunch that it would be, is all.

A smile appeared on Karlheinz's face when he put the last signature on the piece of paper before him. 'Finally finished.' he thought to himself. As soon as he put his fountain pen away, Christa, (who was followed by the head butler) slammed the door open, nearly startling him.

"Christa! You know that I have established rules for-"

"Karl! You have to hurry! It's Angie!" Christa exclaimed, who herself was nearly on the verge of tears. "S-She's. . . .she's-"

"What? What is it?" Karlheinz asked, his annoyance from earlier now gone. "Is she alright?" Though with the way Christa struggled to communicate while teary eyed, it was likely his annoyance could return.

"Her water broke! And now she's in labor!" Christa revealed.

"!"

"B-But something's wrong! The butler, h-he said. . . .that-" "What is it?! Spit it out!" Karlheinz almost shouted, making Christa flinch.

"W-What Lady Christa is trying to say is that Lady Angelica's labor appears to unfortunately be. . . .rather difficult for her." the butler revealed.

". . . .What?"

"We must make haste!" The butler said as he led Karlheinz and Christa out of the Vampire King's office. "The doctor and the nurses claim that she needs you right away!"

.

.

.

.

Karlheinz had been told by others that the day his son would arrive would be a joyous one. That he and Angelica, or whoever would have given birth to his heir first, would have him cry tears of joy.

That was not the case.

He paid no attention to what the doctor and nurses were saying.

He paid no attention to Cordelia and Richter's momentarily shocked faces and hushed whispers.

He paid no attention to Beatrix trying to keep her composure.

He paid no attention to how Christa was on her knees, sobbing as the maids tried to comfort her.

All that Karlheinz could focus on was what was in the blonde maid's (Angelica's taste tester) hands: the once pristine white sheets that were covered in blood.

.

.

.

.

Angelica's body felt completely weak from the ordeal she went through for what felt like hours. She so desperately wanted to hold her baby, but the doctor had the nurses take the baby away while he took care of her.

After that, she blacked out. She did hear some of the others, such as Richter and the other wives outside of the door, but what exactly they were saying was unclear to her. But it didn't matter to her. All Angelica wanted was to see her baby and introduce Karlheinz to their child.

But her attention drifted elsewhere when she heard a faint voice calling her name.

"-ca? Angelica my dear, are you awake?"

The pink haired woman slowly opened her eyes to see that it was Karlheinz, who seemed to have changed from his usual attire and into something more casual, such as a simple white shirt and black pants. In his arms was a bundled up blanket that was the color of the egg of a robin, a baby who was whimpering and making grabbing motions with his chubby hands.

"Karl. . . .is that. . . .?" Angelica asked, her voice quiet and slightly sore from the screaming from the birthing process. "It is. It's our son, Angelica. And I believe that he wants to meet his mother." Karlheinz handed their newborn son to Angelica, who gently took him in her arms.

The baby was a bit smaller than she expected, and his face was a bit red due to his intense crying that happened shortly after he was born, as he was desperately gasping for air. Though it was a bit hard for her to tell, Angelica noticed that his little wisps of hair were the same light pink color as hers.

Tears welled up in the corner of Angelica eyes as she smiled at her son. "Oh Karl, he's gorgeous!" she said softly, as their son began to calm down and stop fussing.

"Isn't he?" Karlheinz said. "Though I can't say that I'm surprised. After all, just look at his parents."

Angelica couldn't help but smile and let out a soft laugh. "Karl. . . ."

"What? I can't say something nice about our baby?"

"You can! It's just-"

The baby let out a whine, interrupting his mother.

"He's probably hungry," Karlheinz said as he got off of Angelica's bed. "I'll give you some privacy." "Karl, you don't have to go." Angelica said as she began the process of nursing her baby, which did in fact seem to be what he wanted.

"It's fine, pet." he said as he got to the door. "Besides, I think it's appropriate for you to get to spend some time with Akira."

"?" Angelica blinked in surprise. "What?"

"After all, I did everything that the doctor said that was required for a father to bond with his child. And I think that-"

"Not that." Angelica said. "Akira. . . .you gave him the name I picked." "And this is a surprise to you?" "It's just that. . . .I thought that you would have named him after you and RIchter's father."

Karlheinz looked back at his wife and gave her what was probably the softest and most genuine smile she had ever seen. "It's simple, pet. It was my favorite of the names we discussed, and I thought it was fitting for a king."

.

.

.

.

By the time Angelica and Akira slept, Karlheinz had ordered for the amount of guards protecting their bedroom to be doubled, getting new locks, hiding a weapon (a pistol) under his pillow, and the golden eyed vampire even convinced his wife to have Akira sleep in their room for the night, which didn't take much to get her to agree to.

He didn't care if it seemed excessive, he'd do anything to keep the two safe and by his side. Besides, it was perhaps the most tame thing that he's done today.

It happened when he saw Angelica's motionless body in the delivery room, and something in him snapped when he heard that the baby that Angelica oh so longed for never cried when born.

And so, he did what he had to: he reversed it all until he got the correct version of events that he wanted. Karlheinz did it up to around seventeen times until he got what he desired, a scene before him where both mother and child survived and were healthy.

A part of him even thought it was funny when the others (especially Richter and Cordelia's) had the most confused expressions on their faces when Karlheinz left his office early and attended to his wife's delivery himself instead of waiting for the doctor's arrival.

Karlheinz was immediately brought back to the present when he heard his son stirring from his sleep. He moved swiftly from his and Angelica's bed and to Akira's crib to pick up the baby.

"There there, it's ok." Karlheinz muttered, rocking Akira back and forth softly. "Normally I'd say it's unbecoming of a king to cry, but after today? I suppose it's well deserved."

——————————————————————————

Whoooooooo!!!!

It's done, the final short story for the Angel's Embrace AU for this year! Hopefully I'll be able to write for 2025. Also, sorry that this one turned out to be so dark. This is the first time that I've written something like this, and I did my best to be as respectful as possible with subject matter like this.

If there's anything that you think needs some editing, let me know.

[the-bar-sinister]

Deicide: Red Shift (41888 words) by VickytheSnake, thesavagesabretooth Chapters: 10/?

Summary: A mysterious signal is drawing ships across the Grand Line to a place called Elegia for the first ever concert by the rising star singer, Uta. Following the signal are Cross Guild and fallen emperor Shanks, the Charlotte family, the Donquixote Pirates and the shattered remnants of Law's crew, and Kid's crew, and Cavendish and Bartolomeo.

And the Straw Hats and their captain Luffy, who hasn't seen Uta since they were both little children at their idol Shanks' knee.

Perhaps this meeting was ordained by fate. Perhaps, in the end, there was only ever one tragic outcome possible.

But Luffy has other plans.

catch up here

-

"So uh—I imagine you're upset and confused, Stra—Luffy." 

Confused and upset was the beginning of it at least. Luffy had rarely been knocked out of a good mood faster. From the high of seeing his sister again, and almost certainly convincing her to join his crew to…

Whatever this was.

Law was important to him. 

If Law hadn't already been a fellow captain, Luffy would have dragged him onto his crew without hearing any argument about it. He was starting to think that he should have done so anyway because Law was apparently mind controlled, or poisoned, or had brain damage or something.

And where was the rest of his crew? Standing around with the Donquixote pirates (only a few of whom Luffy actually recognized, but the rest he could make assumptions on) Luffy saw Bepo… and Komurasaki. He didn't see any of the other guys that Law had introduced him to.

He did see Viola though.

And that was weird.

"I'm really fucking confused, Traffy." He put his hands on his hips, waiting to hear what the explanation would be. He'd dragged Robin over with him when Mingo had sidled up behind Law not because he expected her to be able to go toe to toe with him, but because he trusted her judgment. Robin would know what was going on, and she'd be able to tell him if he couldn't figure it out.

Viola waved at him pleasantly from the other side of the bridge. It was still weird.

Law grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Yeah well—I've had a really confusing couple of weeks. Things weren't exactly going to plan long after we split up after Wano. They kinda went to shit actually."

Robin made a soft 'hmmm' sound beside Luffy, her fingers moving to her chin as she peered up at Doflamingo—was she studying his expression?

"What do you mean by that? Did Mingo do something?"

"I'm hurt, Straw Hat," Doflamingo purred.

Luffy pointed at him. "I'm not talking to you."

-

This was a disaster. A fucking disaster. Straw Hat thought that—he didn't know, Doflamingo had sunk his ship and brainwashed him or something. Surely that fucking nonsense head of his was thinking up some elaborate scenario where the reasonable solution was his favorite—'punch the bad guy into paste, bang about it after'.

He rubbed his fingers on his temples before he hissed out a sigh and held up his hands. 

"Mingo didn't do shit except pull us out of the drink, Strawhat-ya. It's goddamned BLACKBEARD who did somethin' to me!" The anger bubbled up in him like a fountain, his expression hardening as he hissed out. "Blackbeard ambushed us. Blackbeard sunk my sub and probably killed my entire crew. Saki and Bepo are the only ones who were with me when I woke up, fished out of the ocean by Doffy and his gang."

Robin tilted her head. "And—how exactly had you found him, Doflamingo? I thought you were sent to Impel Down." 

"Am I allowed to speak?" Doffy drawled, looking imperiously down at Luffy.

Straw Hat shrugged. "Sure, fine, go ahead."

Doffy smiled and held up his hands. "I never made it to Impel Down. I was rescued— thanks to Sir Crocodile, as well as the valiant effort of our own dear Violet. We've been working with Croc's new gig, Cross Guild, since then."

Law watched Luffy look at Robin, probably looking for her to offer any additional information.

Robin's expression softened somewhat, her brow knitting together at the mention of Crocodile. "I see—so you're a part of Cross Guild now. Crocodile's answer to the World Government—I hear they've been doing admirable work."

She glanced up at Violet, who smiled at her and nodded her head, calling out from the other side of the bridge "I happened to notice the Polar Tang while providing recon—and I saw it get sunk with enough time to redirect our efforts towards Law's safety."

"Thanks again, Vi," Law gave her a weak smile before he looked at Luffy again. "They're working with Crocodile and Buggy and Mihawk now—and—-"

He made sure to watch Luffy's expression "Hancock Boa and the Kuja, as well as a bunch more."

Law's calculation had been correct, Luffy's expression softened at the mention of Hancock. He puffed his cheeks out for a moment, and blew out a long, slow breath that rustled his bangs under his hat.

He looked back at his crew for a moment– Law thought he saw him lock eyes with Vivi for a moment, before turning back to him.

"So… alright. So. Mingo never went to Impel Down. And he saved you from Blackbeard. And he's working with Crocodile and Hancock and… and what, Traffy? I thought you hated Mingo so much! You told me about it for like, hours while we were on our way from Punk Hazard to Dressrosa!"

In hindsight, it probably hadn't been his best pillow talk ever.

Law flushed down to his chest at the memory, and he pressed his hand to his face. 

"I did hate him, Luffy—but I was angry, I was angry like you've been angry at people before. I'd hyped myself up for revenge for 13 years after I lost Cora—Rosi–--but after winning, I dunno…"

His shoulders sagged slightly "I grew up in the Donquixote family, after I lost my hometown they took me in—gave me shelter, friends, a home. Tried to help me stop tryin' to kill myself. And after I was convinced they were usin' me, and after I lost someone important to me, I let that anger drive me, hopefully I thought at the time, to my death."

Robin hummed under her breath. "Regret is a powerful emotion."

Luffy glanced over at Robin, and then back at the crew again. And then at Law.

"So, you're not mad at Mingo any more." He was quiet and for a moment his mouth was a hard line. "He hurt a lot of people, Traffy. All those people in Dressrosa. Rebecca. You remember Rebecca, right?"

"Of course I remember Rebecca!" Law said, running his hand through his hair with a sharp hiss "and trust me, I've laid into Dof—Doflamingo about it plenty. I'm not letting him pull anything like that again, ever."

And he had– moments when they were alone, he'd absolutely given him hell about it. Lots of threats of 'that's what happens when you go to far, you fucking idiot' and 'you aren't pulling anything like that again'.

"A lot. Rebecca, she deserved better than that shit, the people of Dressrosa? They also deserved better—-but where's Rebecca now, Strawhat?" He leaned in with a thin smile. "Didn't see her with the Strawhats, and I heard she fled Dressrosa."

"She left Dressrosa with us!" Luffy said huffily. "But she decided to stay with Sanji's siblings, I guess, after she met them."

Law watched him chewing his lip, as if chewing the whole thing over.

Doffy meanwhile chuckled. Law knew that Doffy already knew what Luffy said was true. He had been the one who told Law about it. And he'd heard it from Violet, her aunt.

"You mean the army of evil?" Law said carefully. "The army that's committed atrocities the world over as a hired gun for whoever paid top enough dollar? And then there's Alabasta—" he glanced at Robin, who looked briefly down with a soft 'hum' of breath.

Violet walked a little along the bridge with the click of her heels. "Luffy, if she's in range I can check on her and see how she's doing—she is my beloved niece after all." 

"Your niece." Luffy bit his lip harder. He looked back at the crew again. "Sanji, you know her, right?" He waved toward Violet. "Is she Rebecca's aunt?"

Sanji stared at Luffy for a long moment, before he looked up at Violet with a suck on his cigarette "I never forget an angel—-yeah, that's the lovely Viola Rik—"

"Violet please," Violet corrected."I left that name behind when I fled home"

"But of course," Sanji dipped into a bow. "That's Violet, of the Riku family." 

"Thanks, Sanji." Luffy nodded, and turned back to Violet, pointing at her. "You're Rebecca's aunt and you're here, too, huh? Alright, if you can check on Rebecca for me, that's fine. I'd like to know how she's doing."

Violet laughed into her hand. "I was—inspired by her, and I fled home as well. But I had difficulty abandoning my second family." She gave Doflamingo a lingering look, affectionate even with her slightly muted emotional expression.

Robin chewed her lip thoughtfully for a moment before she murmured to Luffy. "I think we should hold off on the violent approach. I don't believe Law is compromised—but we'll face this with caution."

Luffy slowly nodded.

Violet raised her fingers to her eyes and seemed to concentrate, her eyes opening wide and intense behind the 'focusing lenses' she used to zero in her powers—only something seemed to go wrong.

First her lips formed a sharp frown—and then her eyes widened and pinpricked behind her circled fingers. "I…I…I…"

She stammered, Law had never heard the woman stammer before, she was always so surefooted with her words, but here she was starting to shake and stutter out the same aborted sentence over and over.

"I…I…" 

Immediately the whole family turned toward her. Doffy fucking rushed to her side, scooping his arms around her. "Vi? Are you alright?"

"What's wrong with her?" Luffy demanded, staring.

Violet was shaking as she stumbled back into Doffy's arms with a voice filled with blind panic. "I'm blind—" she murmured. "there's—there's something, it's not—"

Law wheeled around with a frown "is she having a stroke? Hold her steady, let me have a look at her!"

"Elegia is—isn't—I can't see—" her eyes rolled back as her fingers dropped from her face as her entire body went slack in a dead faint into Doflamingo's arms. 

Luffy whirled around. "Chopper!"

Concern shot through the group like a bullet—Sanji had rushed across the bridge to her almost as soon as she dropped as the Straw Hats and the Donquixotes dropped their feud for long enough to rush to tend to the fallen member.

Law met Chopper in the middle, helping the small reindeer doctor to Violet's side as they began checking vitals. She was out cold, though her body still shook against Doffy's and the occasional murmur broke through the stupor—she sounded scared.

Law was terrified to know what scared the unflappable dancer Violet of the Donquixotes. What was it about this Island—this fucking concert—that could scare the woman who saw everything?

-

When Violet had passed out everyone had rushed to help. Donquixotes, Straw Hats—there was a tense and temporary truce declared while the doctors went to work. With Violet stabilized and in the care of Chopper and Caesar, they'd taken refuge in one of the empty guard booths on the far side of the bridge.

Her vitals were stable, and Law couldn't find anything amiss— not even a clot of blood that might have sent her into a panic and a dead faint. He'd left her in the care of the two doctors while the Donquixotes and the Straw Hats stared one another down. Things were tense, but—at the very least violence was averted.

It was clear everyone was confused, which was fair. Law knew this whole situation was a stupid and confusing mess. The silence was broken only a few times by some attempts at friendly conversation—which was exactly when Luffy had grabbed him and started to drag him off for a 'chat', while Jinbei was left on what Luffy called 'Mingo Guard Duty'.

They stood now in one of the empty rooms of the guard house—why the fuck was it empty anyway??? Where were the guards?? — as Law rubbed his arm with a grimacing smile. "Hey, Straw Hat…" 

Luffy closed the door of the little garret room that seemed to have once been used as some kind of break room. There was a rough wooden table, a couple of matching stools, and a crude wooden bed with some straw and a couple of blankets.

"Hey," Luffy nodded. "So. You're not brainwashed or something."

Law held his hands up. "I ain't brainwashed, Luffy!" 

He knew why the guy was worried, sure—there were powers on the grand line that could twist even someone's thoughts—but it was rare enough that he was still a little surprised it was where Luffy's mind instantly went.

"Okay." Luffy nodded, still leaning against the door. "I wanted to make sure because you were really, really fucking mad at Mingo and usually I'm the one who just… stops being angry. People have told me that's weird."

Law laughed sharply. "Yeah, well—it is a little fucking weird, Luffy. But I'm kinda weird too. I…" His brow furrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I wasted a lot of my life just thinkin' about revenge, Straw Hat. 13 years of holdin' a grudge."

"That's a long time to be mad," Luffy agreed, biting his lip. "I don't think I could stay that mad for that long. I'd just burn up."

Law looked up at him. 

"Which is exactly what I was doin', Luffy. I was burning up, I'd intended on dying basically as soon as we were done, you know. But you kept me alive—and I dunno. When we were sailing from Wano, I realized how much that fire burned away. Especially when Blackbeard sunk my ship, took my crew from me besides Bepo and Komurasaki, who was only on the crew for a few fucking days." 

-

Luffy looked at him with his big, dark eyes. "You were planning on dying?"

The realization hit Luffy in the chest like a fist. It was just like with Robin. Robin who had never planned on making it out of her last encounter with Crocodile. Robin, who had put Luffy in charge of her life after he saved her.

Maybe he'd realized it in the back of his mind that Law was the same way. Maybe he'd just unconsciously known that he had to keep him close.

So maybe that meant that what Law was going through now was like if Robin had gotten picked back up by Croc. Croc who was friends with Vivi now. Croc who, he was pretty sure, had made up with Robin, too.

And Croc who was apparently working with Mingo.

And Mingo who had apparently saved Law's life.

Law nodded with a wry smile. "I'd been planning on dying since I was a kid, Luffy. Even more so after—after Rosi died because of me. Shit, you know how I met the Donquixotes? Have I ever told you that story?" 

Luffy shook his head. If Law had ever told him, he didn't remember it. And with the way Law was talking, he was pretty sure whatever it was was memorable.

Law's smile took on a feral edge as he squeezed his arms tighter around himself. "I'd lost my family to the disease I knew was gonna kill me before I left my teens, my whole town had been killed, and everyone treated me and the marks on my skin like the plague even if it wasn't even fucking communicable."

He mimed pulling something from his belt. "So I'd decided I was going to burn down as much as I could before I died. Ran into the Donquixotes when I'd strapped myself with stolen grenades. Told them that if they didn't take me on and let me cause as much damage as I could before I died, then I'd suicide bomb 'em right then and there." 

Luffy felt his stomach lurch again, and his gaze was drawn to Law's hands at his belt, lingering on them before he snapped back up to look at his face. He could picture it, in his mind's eye. It grabbed him by the heart. It made him think of Nami. Of Sabo.

Of himself, in another world.

He remembered the look on Robin's face the first time he met her. And the look on her face at Enies Lobby when she called out to him.

Could Law see that every hair on his body was standing on end?

"What happened?" Luffy asked quietly.

Law seemed to look at him with his dark, long lashed eyes in a way that said he might have—he took a meandering step towards him but stopped and ran his hand through his hair with a thin smile

He took a deep breath before he continued. "Doffy took me in. He took responsibility for me, you know? Sure, he'd said that if I wanted to kill and destroy that badly I could do it in his name, but it was pretty clear pretty fast that he'd taken responsibility for me. I mean—even though I knew I was dying and that I wasn't going to make it past a handful of years, he still cared for me. He still educated me, trained me to be his Corazon in the future, and made sure I had things to live for even when I was sure I was about to die." 

Luffy was tempted to go and pull him into a hug right then— but he hesitated. He wanted to know the rest of the story. He thought he knew the rest of the story, but now he felt like he didn't understand it.

"But what about what you told me?" he asked, thinking back to their days huddled together on the ship between Punk Hazard and Dressrosa. "What about Cora-san, and the snow, and your fruit? And how Mingo only wanted to use you."

Hearing about it had made him think of Nami back then, too. Of the room full of maps and the smug, nasty look on Arlong that Luffy had been all too excited to punch right off of his face. Luffy couldn't stand people who used others, who forced them to do what they wanted instead of following their own dreams. It reminded him of his Grandfather.

But now he was realizing he wasn't sure what Law's dream had ever been.

Law grimaced again, and his fingers lingered over his tattoo, that smiling face in the center of his chest. 

"I dunno if Cora really believed it, or was just trying to get me out of there, Luffy—but he was a marine. A marine sent into the Donquixote family on the inside to get intel and break them apart. I loved him for trying to save me, but that doesn't mean everything he said was honest."

Law looked down. "It's complicated, but he was convinced his brother was born evil and he'd done everything he could to drive away anyone Doffy took in, Baby 5 and me included. When Cora fled with me, and we went through hospital after hospital—I was desperate, and dying, and when he told me that he found that fruit and that Doffy only wanted it to make himself immortal, I believed it." 

"But it… wasn't true?" Luffy guessed. He shuffled toward him. 

Everything felt uncertain these last few days. Everything he thought he knew had turned upside down. Shanks was untrustworthy– a man who never cared about him except for wanting to make him into a god. A man who'd abandoned his own crewmate, his own adopted daughter, and lied about it.

If Luffy could be that wrong about Shanks, maybe he could be that wrong about Mingo too. 

Yes, Mingo had hurt a lot of people. Hurt people that Luffy cared about, like Rebecca. But Luffy wasn't some pure innocent soul who never hurt people when he was mad.

There had even been that stupid time so long ago when he had been ready to beat the shit out of Zoro.

Who the hell even knew why people did anything? Who knew who was right or wrong, and or who was worth loving and who was worth leaving to die?

The god in his head that Shanks thought was so good and noble had wanted to kill Kaidou. Maybe he should have done it, too, if he was a good, noble person.

But Luffy was not a good, noble person. He was not a hero. He was a pirate.

Luffy watched as Law grimaced and answered him stiffly. "It wasn't true. Turns out the person he stole the fruit from was the guy that Doffy was trying to buy it from— and it wasn't for immortality, it's too risky of an experiment even if he did want it. It's uncertain if it'll work, it needs perfect trust—it's suicide. He wanted it because it could cure me. But Cora got it first and— and then he died, and it convinced me that it was all because Doffy was pissed because his plan failed. So I —I swore revenge."

He threw up his hands with a sharp grin. "13 years of being pissed off due to a misunderstanding fostered by a marine who probably meant well, but drove me against the guy who tried taking me in as part of the family. Made me destroy my relationship with my best friends, Buffalo and Baby 5, and— and for what?"

For what? That was a good question. They'd 'saved Dressrosa', he guessed. They'd returned the doll people to humans, but that was like… that was hero stuff. Luffy didn't actually care about that. Really the only things he cared about were helping Rebecca, which had been accomplished, and helping Law which, he had to admit, even at the time hadn't seemed like it turned out exactly as Law had planned.

In hindsight, Luffy was pretty sure that he'd made a complete mess of whatever Law's plan had been.

But anyway aside from saving Rebecca it had all been a wash.

"I donno," he admitted. "I guess I can see where you're coming from, a bit, Traffy."

"Glad you can at least see it a bit, Straw Hat." Law pressed his hand to his face. "Anyway. Dressrosa's free, right? And Rebecca's running around with the fucking slaughter-brigade for hire made up of genetically engineered mass-murderers, so she's doing well probably—"

He gave him a weak smile. "and Doffy's working with Cross Guild, who really are doin' something important here. Fighting the World Government like only pirates can. And he offered me a place again, even after all the shit I did to him."

Luffy found himself biting his lip. "And you took it, huh? It was something you wanted to do? What about being a pirate captain?"

He was pretty sure he already knew the answer to that, though. Law's crew was gone. They'd been decimated by Blackbeard. 

Luffy looked at Law and for a moment he saw Gecko Moria. He saw the Crocodile that Robin had told him about.

He saw himself, shuddering in Hancock's lap in some horrible world where his whole crew had died at Sabaody and Marineford.

And as far as he could tell, Law had never even wanted to be a pirate captain, or to go after the One Piece either. It was just… stuff that had happened to him.

Before Law could answer him, another question– not quite the same– tumbled out of his mouth. "Is being Corazon what you want to do, then?"

Law nodded slowly as he dropped himself on the edge of the bed, fingers tented like they'd been all those years ago on Sabaody. He smiled, though it was tentative—maybe he wasn't sure how Luffy would react. 

"Yeah, Luffy—I want to be Corazon. I'd wanted it when I was a kid, and now I've got the chance again. I've got my crew, what's left of it, in my 'army', I've got the family, I've got a dream."

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "They're good people, Luffy. I ain't given up on getting across the Grand Line right behind ya, but—I'm happy doing it with them, too. Especially since it means I can fix some mistakes." 

Luffy shuffled forward across the room and dropped himself on the bed next to Law. He leaned his head on his shoulder. Luffy had been happy for people for chasing way stupider dreams. And he was friends with people who were probably just as bad, if not worse than however bad Mingo was. Hadn't Luffy been so excited to be friends with Jaggy– Captain Kid before they left Wano? And Jaggy's temper was famous, and he was well known for just getting pissed off and murdering people.

If Law said that Mingo and his family were good people, and Law wanted to be Corazon, then Luffy was not going to stop him, or say he was wrong. Even if a little jealous part of him had wished he'd been the one to drag him onto his own crew.

This was what Law wanted. Luffy could tell. There wasn't anything false in what Law was saying.

He nuzzled his shoulder with the top of his head, his hat hanging around his neck.

"Okay. If it's your dream, then I'm happy for you."

Law visibly relaxed—hell, a moment later he grabbed Luffy in a tight hug to draw him close as he laughed with quiet relief. "Thanks, Luffy. This ain't gonna change anything between us, least not for me-– but I'm gonna be happy to introduce you to the gang. I think you'll like 'em when we ain't just fighting our way through 'em."

Luffy wrapped his arms around him tightly, holding him close. "Good! So… we're not going to be enemies, then? I was hoping not!"

-

It was a miracle. Despite Law's anxieties that Luffy wouldn't come around—that he'd see Law joining the Donquixotes as some kind of betrayal and refuse to see that they were all on the same damn side— Luffy was hugging him tight and seemed to understand.

He smiled a bit, lightly patting the captain of the Straw Hats on the back. 

"Tch—course we ain't enemies! Hell, the only reason the Donquixotes were against us in the first place was because shit went sideways, but—we're all on the same side now. And even if we weren't…" He squeezed Luffy tighter and murmured, "Doffy's so happy I'm back he basically does anything I ask. I'd just tell him that we had to make up with ya, or I'd walk… and he'd do it." 

Luffy giggled, his arms curled double around him, and it was very encouraging to hear him actually laugh after seeing his serious face and intense stare for so long. "Oh? You've got him wrapped around your finger, huh?"

It was impossible to know what was ever going on behind Luffy's staring eyes—but it must have been good. He was glad, real glad for that.

Law snickered with a nod. "That's right, I do. Poor bastard's down bad, which is good. I can steer him away from his dumber ideas. And—I'll be honest, the whole family's pretty easy to get along with. Baby 5's gotten attached, like 'attached at the hip' attached, to Saki. So if I ask Saki to convince her, she'll be on my side too." 

"Baby 5 is the one who was pointing a gun at me?" Luffy asked, blinking. "I don't think I actually met her before, did I?"

"They were all pointing guns at you, Luffy." Law snorted as he tugged at Luffy's hair. "She's the one who turned into a gun. The one who was yellin' to me. You uh—" he thought for a moment. "Might have kept missing her. She's one of Pica's assassins. Sweet girl, we grew up together." 

"Pica's the really big guy with the funny voice, right? Traffy, I think you're gonna have to introduce everybody to me again, because that whole day in Dressrosa is kind of a blur."

That was unsurprising, really. Luffy had spent most of the day running around, screaming and punching people really, really hard. His rubbery brain probably did not remember much in the way of fine details.

Law grabbed his shoulders and looked down at him with a laugh. 

"Yeah, no shit Luffy. I doubt you remember jack shit about it—so…I'll introduce you around, alright? It'll be fun, just uh—when you see Pica try not to make fun of his voice, ok ? He's sensitive about it and he MIGHT start a fight if you do." 

Luffy hesitated. "A good fight or a bad fight? He does have a funny voice, Traffy. But I don't want to be mean to your friend."

"I mean at this point probably just an arm wrestle until you can convince him not to stew about it but—ya know," Law chuckled with a shake of his head. "Everyone's got their peculiarities in the DQ family. Bunch of freaks and weirdos." 

Luffy nuzzled him again, climbing halfway into his lap. "Well, it sounds like you really like them. So I'm sure we'll figure it out. And maybe I'll even remember some of their names."

Law flushed, and nestled him more firmly on his lap to wrap his arms around him with a nuzzle to the top of his head. 

"I do, we'll figure it out—" he laughed. "Maybe you'll remember their names. And hell…maybe you and Mingo'll get along, huh? He's a huge fan of your sister's, you know. Like, fucking obsessed. That's why we're here." 

"Oh yeah! She's kind of a fan of his too, I saw his wanted poster on the wall of her dressing room!" Luffy laughed, and put his hands against Law's bare chest. "Do you think we have time to make out a little, or do we need to go make sure nobody's thinking about killing each other?"

Law was thrown by the first half of the sentence. "She's a fan of Do–" and then the second half hit and sent his face flushing "...."

He smirked , rolling his eyes. "You never change, Straw Hat. I think we got a lil' time before they come kicking the door down." 

"Perfect!" Luffy grabbed the waistband of Law's pants on either side of his hips and grinned widely. Typical Luffy behavior. "Oh hey, have you made out with Mingo? Is he a good kisser?"

Typical Luffy question.

Law sputtered , before he grabbed Luffy's shoulders and shut him up with a kiss. He'd answer that—later. When the very fucking question didn't make Law want to implode in embarrassment. Until then he'd stall the best way he knew how when it came to Luffy—amorous distraction. 

[edenscollardrawer]

Hot Singles - f!Kylar/f!PC

18+ content warnings & tags: !!SELF INJURY/SELF HARM!!, manipulation, mental illness, established relationship, delusional behavior 2018 words (kylar is off her rocker again, head the warnings)

It was a day like any other, Kylar was browsing on her ridiculous computer setup - bulky headphones blocking out any ambient noise. Crushed energy drink cans littered the floor around her, sweat clinging to her forehead as she clicked on another pornographic video of a girl vaguely resembling her girlfriend. Her hand stuffed down her pants, eyes glued to the screen - the hundredth popup of the day blocked her view. She sighed, leaning forward to click away, when she noticed - the photo… It was… you. Her girlfriend. Fully nude, hands cupping your breasts, big letters plastered in front of you - 

“Hot Singles in your Area”

Kylar’s breath caught in her throat. She pulled her pants up, straightening up in her gaming chair. Her breathing came in short, quick gasps - sweat prickling the back of her neck. She stared at the ad, hyperventilating. This isn’t real. It can’t be. Somebody is defaming you by photoshopping lewd photos of you and distributing them on porn sites. That must be it. Those… they… they don't even look like your boobs, really. Right? They don't, right? 

She pushed herself up from her chair, biting her nails down to nubs as she paced back and forth through her bedroom. Her eyes landed on the knife atop her desk, next to her keyboard. She needed to make this right, she needed to avenge you. Somebody needed to pay for this. Pocketing the blade, she frantically sent you a text with shaking hands. 

“Need 2 talk, meet @ park” hitting send, she rushed out her door, hand still firmly gripping the weapon in her sweatshirt pocket. She tried to control her erratic breathing as she descended down Danube Street. High top sneakers scuffing against the concrete, she rushed through alleyways to the town’s center. Her oversized sweatshirt hinted at her rushed arrival. She sat down at the park’s fountain, picking at her cuticles. Her eyes were fixed on the pink tulips swaying back and forth in the soft breeze, terrible thoughts overwhelming every fibre of her being. 

The soft sound of heels against concrete snapped Kylar’s attention upwards. She rushed up to you, arms flinging around your neck. 

“My love… something absolutely awful has happened…” She whispered into you, voice shaking. Pulling back to look at her with furrowed brows, tears welled up in Kylar’s eyes. Your hand raised to cup her cheek, rubbing it softly. 

“What is it? Are you alright?” you asked softly, thumb quickly wiping away her falling tears. 

“Th-there’s… photos of you…” She inhales sharply, looking down. “O-on… adult sites.” You immediately pull back, face contorted with anger.

“What are you doing on adult sites?” you spat, crossing your arms and stepping away from her. Kylar looked at you like she’d been shot, but continued talking anyways.

“I… my love, there were pictures of you! Naked! And it said…” She shivers, looking away and then back to you. “ It said… you were… single.” The words tasted like poison oozing out of her mouth, and she visibly shuddered. A panicked laugh leaving her chest as she looked back up at you. Your anger very quickly dissipated into overwhelming remorse. Fuck. Your photoshoots.

“W-who is doing this to you, my love? You know you can tell me anything, r-right?”  Every syllable that spilled from her mouth shook with visible nerves. Hands shoved into the pockets of your sweater, you couldn’t get yourself to meet her gaze. Shame washed over you in a powerful wave of self-hatred. How were you supposed to tell her that this wasn’t some attack against you? That you had willingly chosen to get naked and pose for those photos? You looked down at your kitten heels, mindlessly kicking at a rock on the ground. 

“Kylar…” you whispered, barely loud enough for her to hear over the noise of the crowded park. Her tear-filled eyes met yours, and you quickly looked away, the all-consuming shame holding you hostage. The tone of your voice snapped her out of her ranting haze. She looked to you like a lost child in a shopping mall. 

“Nobody…made me do it,” Your voice was meek and quiet, still hardly audible. Kylar walked closer, looking up at you with her worried gaze. Her brows furrowed as she grabbed mindlessly at the strings of her hoodie. An unsettling smile crossed over her features, replacing the previous look of distress.

“M-my love, that’s nonsense.” She grabbed ahold of your hands, squeezing with a grip that bordered on painful. “Y-you can tell me the truth, you can t-tell me who made you do… that.” Your hands flinched under the pressure, but you composed yourself, looking into her eyes. 

“Listen to me, Kylar,” you inhaled a shaky breath, holding her gaze. “I… I chose to do it.” Kylar immediately scoffed, shaking her head and letting out an incredulous laugh. 

“You…You must s-stop saying such… ridiculous things,” she smiled like the Cheshire cat, but the grin didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her grip on your hands tightened to the point of you whimpering in pain, but she didn’t let up. “I-I know y-your heart is good. You w-would never do that. I trust you.” 

The remorse you felt permeated every inch of your body. How could you even begin to explain this to her when she’s clearly made up her mind? You shuffled your feet, failing to wiggle your fingers in her iron grasp. Looking around at the swaying leaves and children playing, you tried to ground yourself before responding. 

“I love you so much. So… so much. And I am so sorry,” you began, staring her square in the eyes. “I don’t… I don’t know what I was thinking.”  Kylar let go of your hands, staring at you with a blank expression as you continued. Her hands reached into her jacket, gripping firmly around something you couldn’t see. She started to pace back and forth as you continued trying to apologize, refusing to look up at you or acknowledge anything you were saying. 

When you stopped talking, Kylar looked up at you, eyes wider than you thought possible. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line as she fidgeted in her pockets. She stepped closer, tilting her head as she stared at you. 

“Y-you’re saying that you d-did this yourself, but I know you b-better than that, my love,” A small grin spread across her cheeks, her gaze unblinking. “You would… n-never do that to me. You wouldn’t. Because if you d-did, it would be very…bad. Very bad for everybody, right?” Your expression shifted to one of pure guilt. Kylar slowly slid her knife out of her pocket, holding it by her side. Your gaze dropped down to the blade and back up at her.

“I…I’m really sorry, Kylar. I’m so-” Kylar interrupted you, stepping closer.

“P-please just t-tell me the truth, my love… I…I can’t handle these… these lies. If you d-did something like that, I wouldn't be able to live with myself,” She glances between the knife in her hand and you, suddenly shifting the blade to be pressed against her wrist. It looks like it’s digging into her skin, nearly cutting her. “If you… g-gave yourself up to everybody like that, you d-don’t know what I’d have t-to do…” Her smile had since fallen, a look of pure concern etched on her features. 

You reluctantly reached forward, trying to grab the knife from her hand. She quickly ripped her arm away, hiding it behind her back. Taking a few steps back, she put a couple feet of distance between the two of you. You looked down at your scuffed heels, trying to focus on anything but the overwhelming remorse you felt. She wouldn’t actually hurt herself, right? She’s just trying to scare you, you’re pretty sure. You needed to tell her the truth, she’d only find more photos if you didn’t. Kylar rambles on and on incoherently about how you’re perfect and innocent, pacing back and forth in front of you. 

“Listen to me!” You interrupted her train of thought, grabbing onto her shoulders and forcing her to look at you. “I…I know that it hurts you, but I… I chose to do it. I did. I can’t lie to you.” Kylar instinctually shakes her head, a high-pitched cackle leaving her lips.

“That is ABSURD!” She laughed, drawing the attention of nearby pedestrians. She held her knife out at you, waving it around as she talked, “Y-your lies are very hurtful, my love.” Stopping in her tracks, she stared up at you, knife pointing towards your stomach. Walking a step forward, the blade pressed lightly into the center of your sweater, right above your belly button. Just as the knife started pressing into you harder, the jab causing a dull pain that makes you wince, she looked down at the weapon and whimpered. Turning around with her back to you, she alternated between laughing quietly and mumbling to herself. 

When she suddenly fell silent, you reached forward and grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her around to face you. A gasp fell from your lips as you realized she was holding the blade to her wrist hard enough to draw blood. A small trickle of the red liquid dripped down her skin, pooling in her clenched fist. She looked up at you as she pressed the sharp edge into her skin harder, blood spilling down onto the sidewalk.

“N-no! Stop that!” You tried to rip the knife away but her grip was stronger. She kept it firmly planted against her wrist. 

“D-do you see what y-you’re making me do?” Her voice was trembling, tears welling in her eyes as her breaths became erratic. Before you had the time to stop her, Kylar grabbed the knife with her other hand and dragged it up her arm, leaving a 3 inch wound up her inner forearm. The knife promptly clattered to the ground, dropping from her shaking fist. Tears started spilling from her eyes faster than before, a small whimper falling from her pouting lips. 

“Okay! Okay!” You cried, rushing forward to wrap your arms around her waist. Pulling her into your chest, you held her arm up, examining the gash more closely. She might need stitches.You left a kiss in her palm, letting her hyperventilate into your chest. You untied the jacket around your waist, fastening it tightly around her wound. Onlookers gave you wary glances as they passed by, but you held her in your arms for several minutes until she calmed down enough for you to speak again. 

“We… we can talk about this later, okay?” you asked gently, cupping her cheek in your palm and wiping away a stray tear. A soft nod and a sniffle were enough, so you wrapped your arm around her waist, guiding her out of the park. You doubted you’d be able to get her to go to the hospital willingly, so you walked her back to the orphanage instead. You pushed the door of the bathroom open, and sat her down on the toilet. She’d calmed down quite a bit since leaving the park, her gaze now fixed on her feet. As you unwrapped your jacket from her arm, you sighed a breath of relief. The bleeding had stopped on its own, and you didn’t think she needed stitches.

A soapy rag cleaned up the dried blood, and you pressed a chaste kiss right above the wound. Underneath the bathroom sink was a rudimentary first aid kit. You used a handful of bandages and gauze to fashion a dressing for the wound. She looked up at you with puffy eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her furrowed brows told you she felt bad, but you didn’t want her to. You’d never really thought about where your photos got distributed before, but now you would. A heavy silence fell between both of you and stayed there until she fell asleep against your chest in your cramped twin bed. Maybe you wouldn’t talk about this later, maybe it was better to just let her be… delusional.