#for being a fool who risked a beating to feed him

[thevapollo]

in an AU where Shen Yuan and Shen Jiu coexist and SJ is the Shizun I think it would be super fun (not) to make Shen Yuan resemble YQY

[ohcaptains]

knuckle velvet

synopsis. he walks you home, then lets himself in.

pairing. logan howlett x f!reader. tags. [18+] dubious consent, vaginal penetration, female receiving oral sex, spitting. honey don't feed it, it'll come back type beat.

Some deep part of Canada, where everything was white. Snowstorms that swarmed through the sky, and the only warmth you could find came from the bottom of a bottle.

The wood floor of the sticky bar you worked in was soaked from frost covered boots – haphazardly scraped across the welcome mat, owners preoccupied with getting their first drink than keeping the place tidy.

You existed there, behind the bar that patrons lent against, like a metal cage with leering onlookers. They paid in drinks, but you took the money home as tips, your warmth stoked in a fireplace.

How you’d ended up there in that forgotten part of the world, you didn’t know.

Perhaps you’d followed a narrow path, one strung out with thorns and rubbish, but the money was okay.

When it got slow, and there wasn’t much else to do, your boss let you read a bit, too, while you sipped on your endless supply of Coca-Cola.

At the end of your shift, your teeth were fuzzy from all the sugar. 

An easy existence, but some nights, the patrons got too friendly.

They were fresh off their trucks, looking for some place warm to bury for the night, but you weren’t offering.

So, you’d peer at them, watch them make a fool of themselves as they spewed putrid words in your general direction – alcohol and lack of sleep causing the floor to sway from beneath their feet.

It was always the new boys who would try it.

Risk it all for a chance between your thighs, unaware of the hound sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a whiskey and a vendetta.

The first time he fought for you, the air had changed. Gone cloudy with the chance of a brawl – that sixth sense that all bartenders have switching on.

“Lady said no, ain’t she?” he bellowed from across the bar.

The voice thick with smoke and alcohol, you recognised him as the guy who’d been drinking whiskey all night, but he was as sober as a nun. No stumble to his step, or slur to his cadence, either.

He was built like an oak tree. You noticed when you served him. Slid him his drink and gazed at the sheer bulk of him. At the weathered, handsome age to his face, to the spray of grey in his brown hair.

His thick arms were snugly buried under a button up shirt, and you didn’t see, but rather imagined, the way his muscular legs were stuffed into jeans, and the way his size 12’s rested against the hardwood.

His eyes though, were hiding something. Milky brown concealing his curiosity – easily done with the hard panes of his face.

You imagined letting him take you home, and you thought about being friendly, before a whisper in the back of your cranium told you to back off.

Perhaps safer.

You didn’t know where this man had come from, let alone where he’d been. So, you continued to serve him drinks, and tried to ignore the quiet hum of his presence, until the hum turned to a crash.

The patron was scorned. He paused, and turned to the end of the bar, where the brown eyed stranger was waiting. “What’s it to you?” he slurred.

But the man with the whiskey wasn’t looking to him. He sipped his drink, and said, “she said no. You don’t remember your manners?”

The bar adorned an eerie quiet. Nerves sat low in your belly, heart picking up speed.   “This guy serious?” he asked you.

You went to say something, but he was already throwing words at the stranger.

“She yours or something?” “It matter?” “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” The stranger scoffed, and brought his drink to his lips, “whatever bub.”

“We got a problem?” the man uttered, stalking towards him, but his friend took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear, forcing him to deflate.

You wondered what he’d uttered. Whether there were rumours about the guy – a reputation you didn’t know about.

Brown eyes didn’t bat an eye when the man and his buddy slid out the door, cold filling the room before the door slammed shut.

The bar exhaled.

People went back to their business, and you thought about it, you really did. Thought about leaving him alone. Going back to your measly existence. Your home – the pit for all of your things.

But it didn’t win over in the end.

You topped up his drink. He took it, and glanced at you, brown eyes ringed with mystery.

“That happen often?” he uttered, voice a gruff grunt.

You put the bottle down, and looked away, thinking back to last week when you nearly fought a guy for staring for too long. You glanced back to him. “Sometimes.” “Your boss is an asshole for letting you work here alone.” “That so?” you laughed, shocked at his candour. He nodded and downed his drink, eyeing you from over the rim.

Finished, he put the glass down on the bar, and shrugged his jacket on. He got up to leave, and you felt a chasm begin to open up in your chest.

You went to say something. Anything, to make him stay. But he paused and looked over his shoulder.

His jaw was clenched when he tentatively offered, “be safe.”

When you locked up, he was waiting for you. 

It didn’t scare you. Really, it should, but when you left the bar and saw him standing there, toking on a cigar in the cold, all it did was make you pause. He stood there, gazing at you, eyes clouded by smoke. 

“You waiting for me?” you uttered, making it real, even if the light drift of snow was giving the world a dream like quality. 

He shrugged. “Just waiting.” 

You nodded, and put the bar keys in your bag, ignoring the chasm get wider. If he was going to rob the place, he’d have to get through layers of receipts and tissues to get in. But you knew the bar wasn’t what he was after. Something about his posture, the luring look in his brown eyes — curious, like he was trying to figure something out. 

You began to walk past him, but when he didn’t follow, you paused. You peered over your shoulder, and he was still looking at you. 

Taking you in. “Well,” you started, hitching your bag up your arm, “you gonna walk me home, or what?” 

He followed you in comfortable silence.

Just you, the night, and the crunch of dirt under his boots. His cigar smoke drifted by, and it wafted through your subconscious, followed by pine, and crisp scent of the snow.

He sounded like the noise of the woods — ever present in these parts. A comfort, if one had adapted to its unpredictability. When you got to your familiar walkway, you opened the gate, but he didn’t follow you through.

Instead, he stood by the entrance, watching you unlock your door like he’d just dropped you off from a date. it was when you were halfway through that he spoke up. “You work every night?”

“Yeah,” you started quickly, looking to him. “Apart from Wednesday and Sunday.” He considered you, then gave you a sharp nod, and turned to leave.

That’s how you ended up with a wolf at your door.

Every night, he was the last one left, then he silently walked you home.

Some nights, you’d find him leaning against the entrance, and he’d quietly peel away from the door and follow you. At first, he simply walked closely behind, a looming shadow, until he began walking beside you.

Then one night, you let him in.

Made him a cup of coffee to fight off all the liquor he consumed, and he sat at your kitchen table, and drank every drop.

Watched you in the low, fluorescent lighting, and you did the same. Curiously studied him. He looked different in your home. In your kitchen. Looked a little softer around the edges, even if he couldn’t relax completely.

It went like that for a while. It was on one of these nights that he gave you his name, followed by a shitty cup of coffee. Sometimes two. Maybe a biscuit, or a piece of cake. Leftovers turned into home cooked meals. Sat at the kitchen table and watched him eat. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Lasagna. Sipped at your cup of tea as he slopped up his pasta, using the back of his hand to wipe the sauce off his mouth.

You left him finishing off his plate to get ready for bed, and it was when you were sorting your hair out, that he came into your bedroom and began taking his boots off.

You stood at your mirror and watched him place them near your door.

Then he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

One by one, you watched his thick fingers reach the bottom. He took it off, revealing a white tank off and broad chest, and hung the shirt up on your door frame.

Jeans next.

Popped the button and shucked them to his feet -- threw them with his boots and dragged himself towards your bed.  

You went to say something. Anything.

But he looked so exhausted as he crashed onto your frilly bed, that all you could manage was, “You lock the door?”

Logan nodded. His eyes were already closed, and he was hugging the pillow when he uttered, “you coming to bed, or what?”

You let him stay the night.

Maybe it was raining, maybe he was too tired – it didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that he was warm, and sometimes, when you woke and felt the terrifying ache of being alive, he’d be there to quiet the pain.

Hush you with the soft swell of his lips and wandering hands.

You’d come with a hushed whisper, hot and sticky over his calloused fingers -- drowsy from how high he took you. Then he’d kiss you, fix your clothes, and go back to sleep.

Always the middle of the night. When it was dark and quiet out, and it felt as if you were the last people alive.

His skilled hands bringing you to the brink, a soft kiss, then back to bed.

You would wait for it. Watch him nurse his whiskey at the end of the bar, the night dragging with every drink you poured. Then, he watched you lock up.

Waited at the door for you, so you could walk home together, wordlessly taking the familiar trail.

He’d eat, you’d watch, then leave for your room.

Once, you woke to his head between your thighs. The night was quiet, room dark – slither of moonlight from your window cutting a line through your bodies.

You were slick with sweat, and as you flexed your taunt muscles, they fizzled and singed. Hot heat pushed low in your belly, rooted between your thighs.

Logan hummed, and you reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, whimpering his name to grab his attention.

He had palm fulls of you. Fists of your thighs, soft of your belly, leaving marks with his desire – desperation. The first thing he did was apologise. Muttered a hoarse, m’sorry, into your soaking cunt, but continued tasting you.

You used his hair as leverage, and hitched your hips up an inch, causing his nose to bump into your sensitive clit, and you hissed, as if in pain, but the sound trailed off into something similar to his name, and Logan grunted, moving your hips further up so he could twist a thick finger inside.

You took all he gave.

Moaned into the pillow beside you as you rocked your hips against his face, soaking his nose and mouth. Said shit you didn’t mean, but meant all the same, and Logan got off on it.

This mysterious man who had taken over your life, grunted your name like it belonged to him. Made you come on his thick beard and puffy lips, then made you taste yourself as he kissed you.

You hugged his sweat slick frame to you, fingers scratching his scalp, mindlessly grinding against his clothed cock. You were content to just kiss him, until he dragged his fingers between your thighs again.

You startled, gasping into his hot mouth, but Logan hummed, near smiling against your lips.

“’think there’s another in there for me,” he drawled.

When he fucked you, there was so much of him that you went blind with it. Eyes half lidded, delirious as he pushed inside, making himself fit. Stuffing you full, then pulling out, just to feel it all over again.

Again and again. You moaned his name into his soaked, scarred chest. Felt yourself leave your body, so hot, so wet, that it was all sensation. Just the slap of his hips against yours, the feel of his hands on your tits, in your mouth, telling you to open wide.

He spat, and when he missed, he smeared the mess off of your chin and rubbed it into your cunt.

Made you come, then filled you with his own. Leant back, and watched it drip out of you. You were so consumed by him, that you didn’t have enough energy to feel self-conscious.

No, when he had his wild eyes on you, you reached between your thighs and stuffed it back inside.

The next evening, and he was back at the bar, waiting for you to bring him his whiskey. When you placed it in front of him, those wild eyes were on you again.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting to play out your usual routine.

masterlist | ask | reblogs appreciated endlessly

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine Sanji getting told off for the pantry rendezvous with you…

A/n: Part 1 got such love. It was only fair to see the other side.

Also, I read every single one of your tags and comments. I’m slow to reply but I see you x

Zeff had already spoken to you about what had transpired. The next stop was his lovestruck sous-chef who constantly drove him up the Baratie walls.

Sanji couldn’t understand why Zeff kept pulling him away from you. He’d have thought that the man had experienced some form of attachment in his younger days to understand better. But clearly, his shitty restaurant was more important.

Huffing, Sanji wiped his hands on a clean towel and grabbed a tomato from the bowl of vegetables in dire need of prep work. Quietly, he began dicing. His thoughts slowly drifting off to when he stood close to you only moments ago.

Thunk, thunk… thunk.

The unmistakable wooden leg echoed against the kitchen tiles, stopping when they reached his station. Sanji didn’t need to look up - he knew Zeff was at the other end of the counter watching silently.

A few beats passed and even the blonde-cook disliked the lingering audience. “If you’re going to stand there all day, I could use an extra pair of hands.” He said.

“That’s funny because I was thinking of feeding yours to the sharks.” Zeff snapped.

The cook slowed his knife movements and squinted. “That’s a bit extreme.”

“Trust me it’s lenient compared to the other bit I had in mind.”

Picking up a carrot, Sanji shook his head and began chopping. “I’m not sure what you’re upset about, I hardly distracted Y/n enough to slow the line.” He defended preemptively.

Zeff crossed his arms. “I’m not here to talk about your distractions although that’s high on my very long list.” At this point he’d have a full-volumed series.

The blonde-chef had worked his way through at least another two more vegetables and was busy with a cauliflower. He was biting back the urge to tell the old man that he was the one being distracting.

“You use your hands to cook in this kitchen, Little Eggplant. You don’t use them to fool around in the pantry.”

The blade missed the leaf and slammed against the chopping board. Sanji’s reaction was almost the same as yours. Muscles stiff, jaw slack as if he had been confronted with the Lord of the Coast.

How had he found out? Granted that neither of you were completely silent but you had been quiet enough to not cause any stirs from the sleeping crew.

Zeff narrowed his eyes. He could see gears ticking away in the young man’s eyes.

“Apples.” He stated which only confused the poor boy. “They sit in baskets at the top of the shelf except when they’re on the floor.”

Sanji cleared his throat and immediately deflected. “How do you know it wasn’t a drunken Patty stumbling around in there?”

The blue-haired chef was too far away to hear his name be thrown into the mix. A blessing in disguise otherwise Sanji risked a saucepan to the head.

“He’s never been that drunk.” Zeff argued.

“Well, we’re on a floating restaurant.” Sanji tried again. “It’s hardly stable ground so you know, it rocks.”

Zeff was not impressed. He moved around the counter and grabbed Sanji’s tie, pulling him through the bustling kitchen. None of the other cooks seemed to have noticed in the frenzy of the lunch rush.

It wasn’t a far walk and Zeff finally came to a stop at the scene of the crime. He walked Sanji inside the large space of the pantry and then stepped forward, pointing at the base of the metal shelving units.

“Because of your little stunt, the bolts that ground the shelves to the floor need to be repaired - trust me Little Eggplant, the Baratie doesn’t rock that hard.”

A small glaze fell over Sanji’s eyes as his mind recalled exactly why those shelves suffered. He had tried so hard to be gentle but you were far too intoxicating when he-

“Oi!” Zeff snapped his fingers loudly, a scowl on his face. “That wasn’t a cue for you to take a trip memory lane.”

When Sanji refocused and calmed the warm feeling in his chest, he noticed that the shelves were empty. Not an apple basket in sight. An oddity for a restaurant of this scale.

“Uh, where are the supplies?” He asked curiously.

The Head Chef huffed. “I’ve had them moved temporarily to fix the damage you caused. And so place can be thoroughly cleaned.”

He turned away from the boy to examine the framework. In all his years, these shelves had stood their ground. Now, after the romantic antics of two of his best cooks, they needed repairing.

He needed to find solution for the Sanji-Y/n problem otherwise no surface of the Baratie would be safe.

Behind him, Sanji’s eyes brightened as a thought came to mind. “So you’re saying that the space will be unoccupied for a while?”

Zeff nodded with a long sigh. “It’ll be a few weeks at least until-” when he finally caught on to what Sanji was thinking, his eyes almost popped out of his head. Whipping around, Zeff pointed at him sternly. “Don’t be getting any ideas, Little Eggplant!” He shouted. “Hands to yourself or you lose them, am I clear?”

Sanji held his hands up in surrender and said nothing. The moustached man stormed out of the pantry, grumbling about his blonde-haired headache. He had had enough of loved-up cooks for one morning.

As Zeff began barking orders about the kitchen once more, Sanji stayed back in the pantry for a little while longer.

He glanced at the shelves and their askew hinges, letting out a small hum. Pride filled his chest and then burst with a huge surge of love for you. Sanji couldn’t wait until the lunch rush was over to find you once more.

What difference would it make if the repairmen found some broken shelves instead?

Masterlist here (for more One Piece)

[pooks]

part 3 of "straw hat Ichiji"

Fullbody and Gin

we've gotten to the events of the Baratie Arc in the East Blue Saga

Ichiji is fucking pissed that someone has shot a cannon ball at the restaurant. because it means repairs and it costs Berry. he's really irriated and snaps at everyone who isn't a customer. it doesn't help that "incident" could've killed Zeff

the day gets worse when a Marine Lieutenant, Fullbody, insults the food and causes a mess. then he hears his little brother beating up the sucker. while the cooks are restraining their sous chef, Ichiji simply adds a quarter Berry to a glass jar in the kitchen and walks to a sign that says "Days Sanji Hasn't Beaten Up An Ungrateful Asshole Customer". he changes the number 21 to a 0. then Ichiji calls for Zeff to handle the situation.

Ichiji doesn't have a particularly flattering image of Marines. he despise them in fact and he doesn't believe there's a thing like "a good marine". for him, every marine is the same. "egocentrical, power-hungry and very entitled bastards" but as a waiter of the Baratie and an emergency cook (it's needed when they're short-staffed), he knows he can't treat a customer differently. he usually vents in his private journal.

while Zeff effectively stops Sanji from killing Fullbody (which Ichiji mutters that no one would've missed the asshole), Ichiji puts on his work persona and reassures their guests, telling them to not be alarmed and continue enjoying their meals, with some unexpected brawls as dining entertainment. this brings some laughter from the customers.

after Fullbody leaves and Gin, an escaped prisoner from Fullbody's marine ship, enters the restaurant and is starving. Ichiji does his usual duties as a waiter and shows Gin to a table, but he's then taken hostage by Gin with a gun pointing at his temple. Ichiji doesn't move and is surprisingly calm about this while the chefs nearly worries for their waiter's safety.

all Ichiji does is to sigh heavily and say that Patty will sort everything out once he comes in. which is exactly what happens. Ichiji takes his chance while Gin being distracted by Patty. he kicks backwards right into the...family jewels and easily escapes his "hostage situation". Ichiji then says that he could've done that the whole time, but he rather not risk customers' lives.

Sanji feeds a starving Gin outside the restaurant, who comments it's the best food he's ever eaten. this makes Sanji really happy and Luffy meets Sanji, deadset on making him his cook.

Ichiji knows what Sanji is doing, but he says nothing and silently agrees with Sanji's actions. his experience of starving on a rock taught him a harsh lesson when it comes to food.

meeting the Straw Hats

Sanji refuses to join Luffy's crew and tells about Zeff's background as a pirate, how the Baratie is Zeff's treasure and all the chefs are pirate-types. all waiters couldn't deal with the fighting and left, leaving his older brother Ichiji as the only waiter taking on the burden. Sanji has nothing but fond adoration for his brother and tells Luffy that there is no one wiser or better storyteller than his "other half" Ichiji.

after waving off Gin, Luffy and Sanji re-enters the Baratie. Ichiji greets them by nagging at Sanji that their sous chef is needed and he has no time "fooling around" when there's at least 20 customers needs to be fed. Sanji dives instantly to work, but not without insulting Ichiji for being a "stuck up know-it-all".

Luffy breaks several dishes while being the "chore boy" (as debt for accidently shooting the cannon ball at the restaurant) and Patty demands that he pass up the guests instead. he's angry at seeing his crew relaxing in the restaurant while he's working. this catches Sanji's attention and he instantly swoons over Nami.

Ichiji gets really pissed because he was doing his waiter duties and taking orders from the straw hats when Sanji butts in and gives "special treatment" to Nami. Sanji yells that a lady needs proper care and Ichiji isn't doing it right. Ichiji's patience runs dry and he shouts an iconoic like

"A customer is a customer, Sanji! I don't give a rat's ass about their gender!"

(and this gets a little approval from Zoro in the background)

Sanji answers by ignoring Ichiji, which irks at him a lot, and he dotes on Nami, proclaiming his love to her and laments the "obstacles" between them. then Zeff appears and says that Sanji is free to become a pirate if he wants, he's not needed at the Baratie. Sanji is visibly annoyed while Ichiji barks a "HAH!" at his misery.

Zeff turns to Ichiji and says that he either shut up and work or he can go swimming with the sharks. Sanji starts a fight with him and says that he will work at the Baratie until Zeff dies and Zeff retorts that he'll live for another hundred years then.

afterwards, Ichiji is still annoyed that Sanji "serves" the straw hats, but favors Nami. Usopp calls out on this special treatment, which Ichiji tells him to just ignore his foolish brother and takes their orders instead, recommending options as the daily soup, fish dish or the head chef's speciality.

Nami realizes her advantage and plays up for a free meal. Ichiji mutters that they're fortunate that Sanji won't be in charge of the Baratie or they'll go bankrupt. both Zoro and Usopp snorts at this, finding Ichiji more likeable.

two days later, Don Krieg arrives with his remaining armada and begs for food, seemingly weak. Patty suggest to call the marines, something Ichiji is against and the latter claims that they don't need prissy marines for this matter.

Sanji, however, returns with some food despite Carne's warnings about Don Krieg, determined to feed anyone who's hungry. Ichiji briefly nods in approval...until Krieg strikes down his baby brother and claims he wants the ship for himself.

Straw Hats & Baratie vs. Don Krieg

the civilian guests has fled in fear as Krieg wants the Baratie ship for his own, claiming that his own is messed up. Ichiji doesn't believe him, as he's good at spotting liars.

the conflict and battle against the Don Krieg pirates happens as in canon, with added fighting and interractions from Ichiji, who's determined to defend the Baratie.

it's also revealed in his inner monologues that he knew all along that Zeff couldn't be a pirate anymore after sacrificing his leg and that he's the only one, except for the author himself, who knows where Zeff's log. Ichiji only reveals that he knows where it is, but he will never tell because he rather bring the secret to Davy Jones' locker.

this infuriates Don Krieg, who beats up Ichiji nearly senseless for his insolence. however, Ichiji claims that Krieg's beating is nothing compared to "a monster" he once knew and calls Krieg for a weak slug.

Ichiji watches Zoro challenging Mihawk to a duel, which Sanji calls madness. Ichiji, however, has a newfound respect for Zoro who acts on his dream and is willing to die for it. he muses out loud that he wishes that he had Zoro's courage and resolve to go for his dream, compared to him who still feel indebted to Zeff. he also mumbles about how he's still chained to his fate while Sanji is free to do whatever he wants. Sanji overhears him and feels guilty.

Zoro loses however and vows to never lose again before losing consciousness. Ichiji is quick to jump down to deck and help out with his injuries. after that, Luffy stays at the Baratie while he sends Zoro and Usopp to go after Nami (who has left them on the Merry, seemingly betraying them).

Luffy wins against Don Krieg and settles his debt to the Baratie, which has become a battlefield during the fight against the Krieg pirates.

leaving the Baratie and joining the Straw Hats

as they're recovering from the battle, everyone claims that Sanji's soup is revolting and bad, even Ichiji. as Sanji stomps off in seething anger, Luffy asks what they're talking about and Sanji's soup is amazing. it's revealed that Zeff, Ichiji and the chefs wants Sanji to leave and seek out his dream, the All Blue.

Ichiji is conflicted, though. he wants his little brother to go and head to the Grand Line for his dream, but he also yearns for the Grand Line. similarly to his previous feelings at Germa, Ichiji feels a mild resentment that Sanji is, once again, free to do whatever he wants while he must stay and continue his "duty" as the eldest son.

Luffy speaks with him outside the restaurant and asks him what he will do if Sanji goes with him. Ichiji responds that he will continue work until he dies, to repay the life debt he owe Zeff. he talks about Sanji being free as a bird, but Ichiji feels chained to his duties, since he's the eldest brother and he needs to step up, be the responsible one. he's the one who make sure everything runs smoothly and he speaks briefly about enduring "six months of absolute hell" for Sanji's sake.

Luffy doesn't take this well and delivers a punch to Ichiji. the latter is furious until Luffy says "tell me what you want to do, not what you should do!"

Ichiji is shaken and is instantly reminded of his mother, who once asked the same words when he was little. we get another iconic Ichiji moment, this time between him and Luffy

"...I wish to travel to the Grand Line and write a book about it. Everyone knows about the late Pirate King and how great he was, but almost no one knows about Gold Roger's adventures in the Grand Line, in details. There is no logs or book, even a journal about them. I want to write a book about the next Pirate King and about their adventures, all of them, and make damn sure these stories become archived. Everyone would know the tales of the next Pirate King."

upon hearing about Ichiji's dream of being a pirate author and archivist, Luffy only grins and says "well, someone has to tell about my adventures one day! how about you join my crew and become our archivist?"

Ichiji widens his eyes in surprise, unsure if he should take the offer or not. he glances behind him to the Baratie and thinks about Zeff, about how the former pirate has done so much for him and Sanji. Ichiji is starts to thank him for the offer, but he doesn't get to decline before he's interrupted. all the chefs from the Baratie yells that if he doesn't take it, Ichiji is a hypocrite and threats to feed him to the sharks.

Ichiji shares an emotional moment with Zeff, who has heard everything and tells him that he isn't bound by duty and never was. Ichiji struggles to keep his emotions in check, being a stoic person, but he's trembling with unshed tears. Zeff reminds him that Ichiji also deserve to have dreams and act on them.

this makes Ichiji cry and he embraces Zeff, thanking him for everything and vows to look after his little brother if Sanji comes with them. Zeff reponds with a "look after yourself, for a change. you can't help the eggplant if you keep trying to sacrifice your life for him."

a little important here, but Zeff calls Ichiji for "radish", similar to how he calls Sanji "eggplant"

the whole exchange is overheard by Sanji, who changes his mind and decides to join Luffy's crew as a cook.

Ichiji has already boarded the boat with his things when Sanji comes with his luggage, joining them. since he already had his emotional farewell moment with Zeff,

Sanji has his big, emotional farewell moment with Zeff and bows in respect. Ichiji is fast to follow his example, although he bows in a more traditional and elegant way.

both Ichiji and Sanji waves goodbye to Zeff, the chefs and the Baratie onboard the ship with Luffy. Sanji is still crying and Ichiji sheds some tears, both brothers are eternally thankful for the man who gave them everything and raised them to the men they've become.

Sanji breaks down a little about leaving his home, which prompts Ichiji to move forward to hug him. Luffy is very happy about having a cook and an archivist on his crew. they're now setting course to find Nami and rejoin the rest of their crew.

(end. part 3)

(read part 1 and part 2 here)

[yallemagne]

For the first time... Mina doubts the effortless confidence in her marriage.

Mina has expressed before that she keeps her journal to share with Jonathan.

It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in Whitby and all the world before me... Some day he may ask me about it. Down it all goes.

She restarted her journal knowing Jonathan might inquire about the foggy time in his memory when he was sick and so much was going on around them.

Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all; and lest it should ever be that he should think for a moment that I kept anything from him, I still keep my journal as usual. Then if he has feared of my trust I shall show it to him, with every thought of my heart put down for his dear eyes to read.

But today, she writes so Jonathan will not suspect that she is keeping anything from him. When has she ever worried that Jonathan would doubt her? Certainly not when she was meeting with unmarried men alone and staying over at one's house. Nope. No worry of doubt or perhaps jealousy then. Not until now, when their honest and trustful marriage is being challenged by Van Helsing's stubborn insistence on secrecy.

Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying again! I wonder what has come over me to-day. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he knew that I had been crying twice in one morning—I, who never cried on my own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear—the dear fellow would fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on, and if I do feel weepy, he shall never see it. I suppose it is one of the lessons that we poor women have to learn....

What good does keeping her feelings a secret from him until "the right time" do him? When that time comes, wouldn't it hurt more for Jonathan to find out that as he and the men went gallivanting like fools into the night, she was hurting and blaming herself fully for Lucy's death, and he wasn't there to comfort her? Perhaps, she counts on Jonathan simply never inquiring after her. Perhaps, she is hoping that he will follow the other men's example and worry more about themselves and their grief than ever give a thought to hers.

Mina records an experience that is almost beat-for-beat Jonathan's encounter with the Weird Sisters AND Lucy's recall of her assaulter's eyes. And she just. She just writes it all off as a dream. Why? Because if what happened was real, then that means she's at risk of worrying the men!

I must be careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one's reason if there were too much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe something for me which would make me sleep, only that I fear to alarm them. Such a dream at the present time would become woven into their fears for me.

That would be a good thing, Mina! They should be fearing for you! VH has been preaching up and down about how he's put you in this precarious position for your own good, and if you would only reach out and inform him that you are being hurt because of his negligence, you could catch Dracula in the goddamn act! If VH's going to use your safety as an excuse, he better stand by that and start actually fucking protecting you.

But he is not actually concerned with her safety in any meaningful way, just how he can use her womanliness to rally the men along!! And Mina understands this best of all. What matters most to her and VH is that the men think she's safe. Who cares if the vampire is feeding off of her?! All that matters is that no man's feelings get hurt.

[summerwritesfics]

🗺️Trust Belongs To You (Trust Is For Fools)

Pairing: Shang Tsung/Kuai Liang Length: 1887 Words Rating: Mature Warnings: Spy AU, Espionage, Trust Issues, Spy!Shang Tsung, Kuai Liang duel wields ice and fire, Mild violence, Sparring, Threats, Knife to throat, Manipulation, Emotional Manipulation, Guilt AU-Gust 2024 Day 19: Spies

AU-Gust 2024 Masterlist

Notes: Another fic where Shang Tsung just demanded that I let him commit psychological warfare, what a bastard. Title is from Trust by Bitter Ruin.

Infiltrating the Lin Kuei had been surprisingly easy.

All Shang Tsung had to do was show off some of his sorcery skills and say how he could use them to benefit the Lin Kuei’s bid for power. The Grandmaster was thoroughly enthralled by Shang Tsung’s display, immediately taking him within the Lin Kuei’s ranks. Then, as he’d shown himself to be an asset to the clan, he rose the ranks, now comfortably within Grandmaster Bi-Han’s innermost circle.

Which made it oh so much easier to feed information back to Shao Kahn.

He walked out into the courtyard, intending to see what training was going on today. There wouldn’t be too much to report from it, but it was always useful to know what kinds of preparations they were making. He was surprised when the only people outside were Grandmaster Bi-Han and his General, Kuai Liang.

General Kuai Liang was a strange man, and Shang Tsung had initially wondered why Bi-Han would have thought so highly about him to promote him to such a title. Then he found out they were brothers. Kuai Liang being the younger of the two. After that, he believed he’d be content to put it down to nepotism. But then he realised something fascinating about the General.

He could yield both ice and fire magic.

Such a thing was practically unheard of. How Kuai Liang had been able to do so, he didn’t know, but he definitely started to take a lot more of an interest in him afterwards. He hadn’t told Shao Kahn about that yet. He knew it would be of interest to him, but Shang Tsung rather liked having it as his little secret for the time being.

Right now, the two brothers were sparring, Bi-Han repeatedly striking at Kuai Liang with a practice pole arm. Kuai Liang had a training sword, desperately trying to block Bi-Han’s attacks. He could barely keep up however, having to summon ice shields in order to protect himself. It was curious he wasn’t using his fire too, but Shang Tsung supposed if this was a friendly fight, then fire ran too much risk of genuine harm.

Still, Bi-Han thrust the Polearm forward, Kuai Liang only just dodged out the way. Unfortunately for him, it seemed this was what Bi-Han had really intended. His foot darted out, catching Kuai Liang’s legs and sweeping. Shang Tsung had to hold back his laughter as Kuai Liang went tumbling backwards onto his ass. Then, Bi-Han’s polearm was at Kuai Liang’s neck, and it was clear the spar was over.

“Do you yield?” Bi-Han asked, grinning ear to ear. Shang Tsung couldn’t help but find the way he seemed to revel in defeating his brother a little sadistic at times. But hey, who was Shang Tsung to judge? He did rather indulge in sadism himself from time to time.

“I yield,” Kuai Liang whispered, sounding so disappointed with himself. Shang Tsung licked his lips. It was that sort of weakness that he could exploit. Maybe sew a bit of discourse between the brothers.

Bi-Han moved the polearm away, holding it by his side as he held out his hand to Kuai Liang. The younger accepted it, letting the elder haul him to his feet. He looked so defeated, head low, refusing to meet Bi-Han’s gaze. Bi-Han put a hand under his chin, tilting it upward.

“Do not beat yourself up General,” Bi-Han softly told him. It was amazing, just how different Bi-Han could be with his younger brother compared to the rest of the clan. There was a gentleness there he never showed to anyone else. “You have improved a lot since last time.”

“I should still be better,” Kuai Liang spat bitterly, his hands clenched at his sides. “I don’t deserve the title of General.”

“Nonsense,” Bi-Han sharply replied. “You are more deserving of the title than anyone else here, and don’t you dare try to claim otherwise.”

Kuai Liang flinched slightly, but replied with a resigned “Yes Grandmaster.”

“Just keep training, you’ll get there eventually.” Bi-Han pulled away and turned to walk off. “You just need to keep trying.”

“Yes Grandmaster,” Kuai muttered, barely audible. Bi-Han took no notice, instead making his way over to Shang Tsung.

“Shang Tsung, is there something you need?” He asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Ah, no, I guess I was just looking to see if there was anything to be done,” Shang Tsung replied, his eyes wandering towards Kuai Liang. His head was downcast, staring sadly at the ground.

“Hm.” Bi-Han noticed where Shang Tsung’s gaze lay. He grabbed Shang Tsung’s arm lightly and lent in, lowering his voice. “It may be a little unorthodox of me to ask this of you, but do you think you could cheer my brother up a little.” He glanced over his shoulder, Kuai Liang wasn’t moving. “He does so take these things badly.”

“Of course, Grandmaster,” Shang Tsung jumped at the opportunity. Sure, it was mostly to try and sew the seeds of doubt into Kuai Liang’s brain, but the Grandmaster didn’t need to know that.

“Good man.” Bi-Han patted his arm a couple of times, before finally walking back into the temple.

Shang Tsung set his sights on Kuai Liang, who still had not moved. He sauntered over, expecting at least some reaction to his approach, but Kuai Liang just continued staring at the floor. He hooked his arm into Kuai Liang’s, who finally looked up to glare at him.

“Care to take a walk with me, General?” Shang Tsung asked, smiling politely at him.

“If I must,” he grumbled, letting Shang Tsung pull on his arm to get him to walk.

“You really shouldn’t let these things get to you, Kuai Liang,” he said in as sympathetic a voice he could manage. “You’re still young, still learning. It is natural that you would be unable to best your Grandmaster.”

“Thank you for your observation,” Kuai Liang sarcastically replied, letting Shang Tsung lead the way.

“You know, I believe that you could be more powerful than him, if he weren’t purposefully keeping you down.” He smirked as he watched Kuai Liang’s brows furrow. “I think he knows you could lead this clan, probably better than he can, and he-”

“Stop,” Kuai Liang hissed, yanking his arm away from Shang Tsung. “You think I don’t see what you’re trying to do?” His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth. “Who exactly are you Shang Tsung? You came here, told very little of your past, and seem to have just slithered your way into our innermost ranks.” He began to circle Shang Tsung, and it was clear he was trying to be intimidating. To Shang Tsung however it just looked like a kitten hissing at his new owner. “Bi-Han might not find your appearance here suspect, but I do.”

Shang Tsung smirked as he added “and that’s part of why you’d make a better Grandmaster, dear.” He watched as Kuai Liang’s fists clenched. “You would be far more careful in choosing who you trust.”

Shang Tsung was surprised when he suddenly felt himself being pushed backwards. His back hit a tree, and next thing he knew a dagger made of ice was being pressed to his neck.

“Who are you?” Kuai Liang growled, his other hand grabbing Shang Tsung’s clothing, balling it in his fist.

“I am a sorcerer who-”

“No,” Kuai hissed, yanking on his clothes and pressing the dagger a little closer. “I don’t want your bullshit. Tell me who you are.”

“Very well,” he said, trying to maintain a calm smile. He had a backup story that didn’t give away his true purpose here. “I was once the high sorcerer of Outworld under Shao Kahn. However we had a disagreement one day, and he cast me aside. I merely came here seeking sanctuary, Kuai Liang, nothing more.”

“What was the nature of your disagreement?” He asked, pulling on the cloth again.

“He wished to execute someone who did not deserve it, and I stopped him.” A lie, of course, but given Kuai Liang seemed to be a bit of a self righteous little brat, it was one he might fall for.

“Then why the hell wouldn’t you say that?” Kuai Liang squinted at him in a distrustful manner. “Why would you conceal your past?”

“I feared my former connection to Shao Kahn alone would dampen the chances of the Grandmaster accepting me,” he smoothly replied. “I have no bad intentions for your clan, my dear.”

Kuai Liang still looked at him with daggers in his eyes but finally drew back. Shang Tsung found himself able to breathe freely again now that he didn’t have a dagger at his throat. As he rubbed at his neck, Kuai Liang turned away, his gaze returning to the floor. Shang Tsung reached forward, taking his chin in hand and gently tilting his face back towards him.

“I do mean it, Kuai Liang. I think you have the power to become one of history's greatest warriors, but this clan is keeping you down.” His other hand found Kuai Liang’s cheek, gently tracing the scar that laced it. “I have never met someone able to wield both ice and fire. It is usually one or the other. You are unique, yet they never let you use your flames.”

“They don’t-” Kuai Liang stopped, looking like he was in pain for a second. “It isn’t Bi-Han who stops me. I do.”

“Why would you ever do that?” He meant that question genuinely. He could not understand why Kuai Liang would hold himself back.

“Because the last time I used them to their full capability… People… People got hurt.” He managed to get his face free from Shang Tsung’s grasp, walking away and holding his head in his hands. “I lost control and…” Running his hands down his face, he stared blankly at the forest. “The temple caught fire. People got burnt. No one died, but they could of and I-”

Kuai Liang didn’t continue, just stared down at his hands, eyes full of disgust. Clearly, he believed they were covered in blood.

“Oh, darling, that’s not your fault.” He approached Kuai Liang again, slipping his arm around his waist. “Someone should have been helping you, teaching and guiding you how to control yourself.” He tried to stay neutral, because if he didn’t, he’d seem a little too happy about this. Now this? This kind of guilt? The absolute perfect strings to pull and make Kuai Liang his puppet. “I have some mastery of fire myself, you know. I could help you. Teach you how to more effectively wield those powers.”

“You- You could?” Kuai Liang looked at him, eyes wide and pleading. Oh, poor thing, he really thinks he is a monster, doesn’t he?

Poor, poor thing.

“Of course.” He brushed a strand of hair out of Kuai Liang’s face. “It would be my honour.”

Kuai Liang’s eyes softened slightly as he whispered “thank you.”

“Oh, you are most welcome darling.”

He would keep Kuai Liang a secret from Shao Khan a little longer. Long enough to shape him into exactly what he wanted him to be. And once they’d gotten everything they needed from The Lin Kuei?

Well… Shang Tsung doubted he could ever leave Kuai Liang behind.

[randomingoftherandomness]

Heyo, so ALoN fic prompt... You didn't specifically mention this pairing but what about Mowen × Zhang Ping, especially when they met in the forest? The drama jumped from ZP passing out and then waking up leaning onto a tree next to MW but what happened in between?? What happened after?? We need answers!! (In the form of fics)

I gotchu I gotchu Nonnie (♡-_-♡)

~*~*~*~

If nothing else, Mowen really should stop being surprised by anything Zhang Ping does.

Risk his life for someone who has been nothing but nigh on antagonistic toward him? Sure, why not. Stubbornly dig in his heels when facing people who have the power to make him disappear with a tilt of their head? Yeah, not a big deal.

Make him, Wang Yan, produce noodle dough just because he lost a bet? Of course.

Somehow have the luck to be found by Mowen's men on patrol while they're stuck in the miasmic quagmire of this forest? Yes, not out of the ordinary. In fact, Mowen thinks that Zhang Ping must have tied some thread of fate between them.

(if he did, Mowen hopes it is one that is coloured red)

"Sir."

Mowen shakes his head, carefully angling Zhang Ping's face so that he won't wake again with a crick in his neck. Not that that will be their biggest issue while being stuck and lost in this place, but whatever small comfort he can give to him, Mowen will do his best to facilitate it.

"Now is not the time," Mowen whispers. The syllables come in a dry click. When was the last time he had a sip of water? He'd been passing off his share to his men, so it must have been awhile. Licking at the cracks on his lips, he runs his eyes over Zhang Ping's sleeping form.

"Sir--"

"It should be almost time to split up the rations again. Make sure everyone has a bite to eat. Go."

His Lieutenant obeys but not without a beat of reluctance.

A blind man can tell that there's a level of unhappiness brewing in the air here. Mowen would have to be a fool not to realise that from the moment they brought Zhang Ping back with them, he is nothing to these men but yet another mouth to feed.

Mowen would care, perhaps, if the sight and feel of Zhang Ping's body next to his own is not something that has unlocked the part of his heart that he had kept shut away the moment the city gates were nothing but a smudge in the distance behind him.

Reaching over, he adjusts the collar of Zhang Ping's robes. It's so threadbare. Rubbing a thumb over a well-worn patch, Mowen promises himself that he will have new sets delivered to the man if he returns in one piece.

And just then, Zhang Ping shivers.

Mowen pulls back, swallowing down a swell of emotion that chokes him from the inside out. He aches to grip him by the shoulders, to shake him, throttle him, demanding why he was here, why would he come, how did it not occur Zhang Ping that it is a bad idea to be out here when there are arrows with no eyes and you could simply lose your life just by breathing in the wrong place and the wrong time.

Even more than that, Mowen wants to hold him close. Press him so tight against his chest that it would feel like he could just make Zhang Ping one with himself.

But he won't.

Not when he knows how words can spread. How their enemies in court will chance on every speck of misconduct to weaponize against them. Not when Mowen also knows that Zhang Ping being here has all the hallmarks of one of Peizhi's stupidly intricate machinations about it.

And so, Mowen sighs. Allowing himself just one moment of weakness to brush his thumb to the arc of a sharp cheekbone.

Zhang Ping will wake soon. They'll need to talk then.

[send me an ALoN fic prompt!]

[yanderefairyangel]

Edelgard is a good actor, Claude says she had everyone fooled.

Something you might not have considered regarding Kostas' plan is what would happen if the Church of Seiros had captured him in the Red Canyon.

If the Flame Emperor told him that he had succeeded in his secret plan to scare away the teacher and he was captured, what do you think the first words out of his mouth would be?

There is data mining in the game to find that Kostas was a recruitable character which could mean that the above situation of capturing him might have been an idea at one point.

It would be extremely stupid to tell him the actual plan of scaring away the teacher. It would tip off the academy and it would make it pretty obvious that the person who hired the bandits was an Eagle.

Why not use the Death Knight?

Why doesn't the Death Knight attack in the Holy Mausoleum?

Edelgard knows that he's not the most reliable. He can go into a bloodlust any time he is in combat as the Death Knight. She would need to use her authority as the Flame Emperor to stop or slow him which would show her hand. It would also reveal the Death Knight to the church much earlier and put the Knights on there trail sooner.

Edelgard also looked into the location beforehand to ensure her gambit was safe. Another character ponders how fortunate it was that the well known mercenary band just happened to be nearby when the bandits attacked. This matches up with Edelgard's dialogue immediately after the attack where she is the one to ask Byleth who Jeralt is in detail, having known about him beforehand.

Her plan minimised risk to both the students and her larger plans. They were in the capable hands of the Knights until Claude ran off, and they were then protected by the mercenaries. The plan was protected by feeding Kostas incorrect information about the attack's intention, and the attack also gets to disguise itself as an opportunistic hiring to kill the heirs of the three nations that could have come from anywhere.

Edelgard doesn't show up to help the Death Knight, btw. She shows up to help the students and Byleth. You can defeat the Death Knight and the scenario doesn't end but it does when you beat all the other combatants. The reason for that is how much stronger he is than the classes at that time, she doesn't want anyone to try attack him or him to attack them, and get hurt needlessly once the situation has resolved.

OHHH no for infortunate soul that I am... alright let's see

Something you might not have considered regarding Kostas' plan is what would happen if the Church of Seiros had captured him in the Red Canyon.

If the Flame Emperor told him that he had succeeded in his secret plan to scare away the teacher and he was captured, what do you think the first words out of his mouth would be?

There is data mining in the game to find that Kostas was a recruitable character which could mean that the above situation of capturing him might have been an idea at one point.

Considering I am not talking about him being captured but more "Why didn't Eddie killed him herself on the spot" this whole argument is invalidated. I also never said Eddie should have revealed her plan because I still have no idea where and when she declares that her real intention was to just scare off the new teacher. She could have easliy hired Kostas to kill said teacher.

I repeat : if you have it that because of the fiasco Eddie learns she doesn't have a real control on the death Knight and that's why on the others chapter you defeat him she made sure he isn't the main operator, that would made her plain failing more legitimate and would show she learns from her mistakes. Hiring Kostas and giving him a false objective is not a good idea at all when this objective is to kill students, putting her in danger as well.

Edelgard also looked into the location beforehand to ensure her gambit was safe. Another character ponders how fortunate it was that the well known mercenary band just happened to be nearby when the bandits attacked. This matches up with Edelgard's dialogue immediately after the attack where she is the one to ask Byleth who Jeralt is in detail, having known about him beforehand.

Yeah, so I guess Claude escaping was all part of the plan ?

But here again we are speaking as I still don't know when Eddie reveals her REAL plan ? Can you tell me where it is Anon ? somewhere in Crimson Flower ?

Also, my sugesstion about the Death Knight isn't that it would have worked, but simply to ameliore the plot because if what you say is true; that has to be the most convoluted idea I have ever heard. Really.

Edelgard doesn't show up to help the Death Knight, btw. She shows up to help the students and Byleth. You can defeat the Death Knight and the scenario doesn't end but it does when you beat all the other combatants. The reason for that is how much stronger he is than the classes at that time, she doesn't want anyone to try attack him or him to attack them, and get hurt needlessly once the situation has resolved.

She shows up to tell him to retreat. And honestly, seeing who we are talking about, it's probably she was actually helping both Byleth, the students AND Jeritza. But still, for her to pop up like that means she was there, somewhere, hiding and watching over everything.

Edelgard is a good actor, Claude says she had everyone fooled.

Claude is an idiot for if you actually pay attention, you can actually recognize Eddie's voice even if it's modified by the mask. At least in JPN version. I still didn't played too much, but I didn't noticed a lot of different speeches marker between Eddie and the Flame emperor.

Also, I like to received ask, but you know Anon ? Id' rather have you argue something about Engage then trying to drag me down into the 4 year wars that is speaking of Eddie

[murdercapitxl]

David did look. Any sentimentality was replaced with disdain, his expression reflecting as such. His memories of being human were a blank canvas, completely wiped and erased once he was sired by Max. Maybe that was a good thing. It would get in the way, remembering who he once was; there was no real connection to those he fed on. They were now sources of sustenance, and no guilt followed afterwards. It was the perfect balance. Time and time again, he reminded his boys to detach themselves from forming any sort of relationship with their meals. Have fun - fool around, sure - but never let emotion get in the way of survival. At the end of the day, their prey could quite easily bite back and it would soon compromise the rest of them. It was a risk he was unwilling to take. But he trusted his boys to make the right decision. He chose them to join his gang for a reason; they each had something to contribute that benefited their lifestyle. So far, they were unstoppable forces.

"When did your heart start beating again?" He scoffed, a light smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knew they were being sarcastic. They could be as monstrous as the rest of them, but there was a hint of softness in that smile which had him feeling dubious. Some vampires still wanted to hold onto their humanity. His boys often displayed their desire to retain some semblance of before, participating in the latest fashion trends, attending concerts and taking hits, or messing around on the boardwalk like any other normal teenagers would. It was a distraction from what they really were underneath the playful exterior. But once the time came, they effortlessly slipped into their roles as merciless killers. He could not be more proud. "Bunnies for hawks," he huffed out a laugh, the phrase amusing him. "I like that." They were right. Everyone walking the boardwalk tonight were easy pickings, ready to be selected. But where he was taking them for a feed, they were nowhere near the bright and dazzling lights. He wanted to shake it up for a change.

"You make this place sound terrible," he returned, but there was no defensiveness. Santa Carla was a cesspool of different characters and constant loud noises, but it mingled together nicely. It worked in their favour. This was his home -- his domain. "After all, crowds make it easier for people to disappear. Nobody pays attention. Nobody notices suspicious behaviour. And nobody gives two shits about anybody else." It was why so many people went missing without a hitch. Santa Carla was the perfect feeding ground for a band of bloodthirsty vampires. "In fact, your guy has probably already been mistaken for a local druggie and left alone," he continued speaking as his boys finally joined them, jumping over the banister and bustling by their sides with excited energy. "This place works. Right, boys?" He was met with hollers of agreement, despite them missing half of the conversation and probably having no clue about the context. If David said so, there was no dispute.

"Hear that, boys? They're worried about us." There was a chorus of chuckling, and in response, Paul immediately pulled Marko into a headlock and pretended to snap his neck. The smallest vampire feigned dying, producing a short choking noise before falling limp in his brother's arms, a grin permanently etched on his face. With a dramatic oh no! from Paul, they both started laughing uncontrollably. Dwayne was more subdued, rolling his eyes at their antics but no less amused by the display. "Play nice now," their leader responded with no real commitment, watching as the two blonds crowded around Coyote -- Paul lazily slinging his arm around their shoulders, whilst Marko pretended to use their side as a punching bag. Boys will be boys, but one look from David had them behaving and taking a step back. Now was not the time.

"Lover's Lane," he stated, looking at Coyote directly. That was their meeting point. "Directly near the cliffside. It's a popular place for young couples to park up and fool around." With a quick nod, the boys started making their way towards their motorbikes in preparation of racing ahead. They were always eager. "There should be plenty for us to share." The sound of rumbling engines and tyres screeching indicated the departure of the vampires, leaving behind a trail of smoke that had some nearby tourists hacking up a lung. With a chuckle, David approached his own motorbike and began setting up, before casting another glance towards the other. "You better hurry up. My boys can be impatient when they're hungry."

"Astute observation, Dave. Maybe you should get into the fortune-tellin' business. The boardwalk could always used ten dozen more." Coyote rolled their eyes but smiled nonetheless. "Metal pipes tend to do that to those who are made of flesh and blood. No matter how cold they run." They continued to pick at the remnants of crusted blood on their face.

They looked on over the bustling human condition before them with a soft smile: children dragging alongside their parents while sick on sugar, lovers walking hand-in-hand, packs of teenage girls giggling to each other, elderly tourists stopping to take pictures of anything that had blinking lights. "Look at them out there. What a beautiful thing it is to be alive. And exercising gratefulness for it. They're almost cute, don't you think? Bunnies for hawks."

They sat on David's question for a moment, if only to hold him in anticipation. A mean little thing to hide behind spaciness, "And there's always something goin' on. A party somewhere, drunkies in the diners. What a wonderful place to be dead." Turning to stare at him, they snorted back a laugh: "Yeah, he was alone. And after I scrambled that egg he calls a brain, I doubt he'll come back around. If he does, we can always kill him proper."

Noticing a ripple in the crowd, they followed David's eye. Sure enough, it was the rest of the boys coming around, being as bothersome as ever in the process. "You boys play rough, you know that? If you stick your heads up too high, somebody's bound to come 'round and cut 'em clean off if you're not more careful." Throwing their jacket back on, "But I could use the nutrition. I'll be gracing you with my presence tonight after all. You're very welcome."

[urupotter]

So while I've said before that I don't like the HP subreddit, I still frequent it because occasionally I read something insightful. This is one such case, where I read a reading of Lupin that I'd never seen before in response to a comment of mine analyzing the shrieking shack confrontation between Snape, Remus, Sirius and the golden trio, where I mentioned that Lupin was a gaslighter so I wanted to share. It was created by reddit user u/UsuallySiSometimesNo and is posted here with his permission. We had a little conversation in the comments. Read it under the cut

UsuallySiSometimesNo: That struck a cord with me, too. I didn't think about that on a conscious level before, but when I read it, it felt instantly true.

Honestly, I think the strongest examples of Lupin gaslighting are actually done to himself. The biggest, character-defining example, I think, is that after finding friendship with James, Sirius, and Peter, he becomes so desperate not to be ostracized from them (due to his issues of self-worth and his personal brand of impostor syndrome) that he deliberately and routinely feeds himself false narratives about their behavior until he can no longer tell fact from fiction, even as he's experiencing it.

Their relentless bullying of Snape? A childhood rivalry.

Their casual bullying of other students? Kids being young and stupid.

Their clear disinterest verging on contempt for Peter, someone less fortunate and vulnerable with whom they're supposed to be good friends? Just mates being mates.

Even actions taken against Lupin, himself, are revised in his memory to be 'no big deal', because he desperately needs that to be true. Let's pretend for a moment that Snape indisputably deserved to be slaughtered by a werewolf the night Sirius told him how to get past the Whomping Willow. Sirius did not send Snape to be killed by any old werewolf. What happened that night was that Sirius - one of Remus' best friends, if not his actual best friend - attempted to use Remus' curse/illness against someone (which is a big enough betrayal on it's own) without ever telling Remus that when he woke up in the morning (covered in blood and in the presence of a shredded corpse) it would be to find that he had committed the act he was most petrified he might one day commit. In setting Snape up to be killed by Lupin, Sirius, at the very least, risked Lupin's sanity, and, at the very most, risked Lupin being sentenced to death.

Now, I understand that Sirius wasn't thinking about all of that when he did what he did, and I, as a someone removed from the situation (and armed with the additional character/situational knowledge granted to a reader) can even understand why Sirius' own trauma led him to grant such a blind death sentence to Snape (which I think is related to a point you made elsewhere, u/Adventure_Time_Snail, about Sirius' "violence towards those who trigger his fundamental fear of wizard fascists" because of his abusive upbringing). But Lupin's perspective is not one of an unbiased observer. And once James found out what was happening and pulled Snape back before it was too late (which, I would think, was more to save Lupin than to save Snape) and once Remus awoke the next to day to discover everything that transpired the night before, I find it hard to believe there wasn't at least some conversation about the true gravity of the situation. And yet, even all these years later, Lupin doesn't bat an eye when Sirius not only doesn't display shame when the event is mentioned in POA, but offers something akin to regret, NOT at the fact that his actions could have gotten Lupin killed, but that that they DIDN'T get Snape killed: "It served him right...", he sneered. etc. etc.

I think the obvious question here, is 'Even disregarding what Sirius did to Snape - how can Lupin be okay with the knowledge that Sirius has no regret, at all, for what he did to him, even now that they're adults?' Well, we're not in Lupin's point of view in the books, which means we can't hear his internal monologue, but I think a satisfactory answer to the question is that he's done a substantial amount of internal gymnastics in order to get to a point where he doesn't see this as a big deal, or even as something that he has a right to be upset about.... just like a gaslighter does to their victim.

Again, because we're not in Lupin's POV, we can't point to the exact instances that such internal gaslighting took place, but, based on what we do observe from Harry's POV (and based on external knowledge of gaslighting as a true-to-life concept) I wouldn't be surprised if Lupin so desperately needs everything to be okay that he derides himself for feeling bad or betrayed, that he calls himself stupid for thinking terrible things that have happened to him are a big deal, that he wars with himself about how people who are his friends and who are so good to him and who are better friends than he thinks he deserves could possibly do something to harm him/others, and that he beats down whatever emotions and senses and gut feelings he has that tells him something his friends have done might be very wrong. What we see in the books is a man who makes excuses for his friends and harbors a warped perception of reality in much the same way victims of gaslighting do, and he seems to exploit his own insecurities in order to instill doubt in his own experiences in much the same way perpetrators of gaslighting do.

I can't help but think that, by the time Lupin tells Harry that Snape harbors a particularly strong hatred for James because James was a better Quidditch player, Lupin has become so adept at gaslighting himself that he actually believes it.

tl;dr: One of Lupin's defining characteristics is that he gaslights himself out of a desperate need to be liked by others, since he has a difficult time liking himself and seems to believe all of his relationships are incredibly fragile.

Urupotter:

This is a fascinating reading on Lupin that I've never seen. I don't read him the same way, in that I think Lupin actually does know that what he's doing is wrong, he just doesn't have the moral courage to act on his conscience. (I view him as the anti Snape, great conscience, but abysmal moral courage, while Snape had unbelievable moral courage but a shitty conscience. Their arcs are about growing their moral courage and their conscience respectively) Realizing that his negligence almost got Harry killed is what triggers his arc, concluding when he goes back to Tonks and Teddy after running away, taking responsibility for his actions for the first time.

But this reading is so interesting that I'll have to reflect on it. Do you mind if I post it on my Harry Potter tumblr blog? I'll credit you of course, I would just like to discuss it with my followers. Of course if you don't want to I won't.

UsuallySiSometimesNo:

Honestly, I think the lack of in-depth conversation about Remus Lupin (at least compared to fan favorites Sirius Black and Severus Snape) is a missed opportunity and a shame. Don't get me wrong, I can discuss Sirius and Snape until blue in the face, but Lupin's arc is just as powerful in an understated (and often underestimated) way. The muddy, oversimplified truth is, without the fatal-flaw decision making of all four Marauders throughout their lives, the series of events proceeding the first chapter of the first book don't happen, and the story we all know and love never comes to be.

And speaking of sparking a discussion about Lupin...

I think Lupin actually does know that what he's doing is wrong, he just doesn't have the moral courage to act on his conscience.

You know what? I agree. And that's what makes him so interesting, I think. He is constantly and dependably full to bursting with internal conflict. When his friends are wrong/do something wrong/say something wrong, he can and does immediately identify the situation as wrong. When he does something wrong, or when he does nothing in the face of something wrong, in that moment I believe he knows the full weight of the situation. Like you said, he has a strong conscience, as well as a deeper, perhaps more nuanced understanding of right and wrong than do, for example, James and Sirius. Now, Lupin needs his friends. They're not just people to hang out with, they're a lifeline for him. He's not going to engage in conflict with them if there is even the slightest chance that he might lose them (for a variety of reasons, he lacks, as you said, the moral courage to do so). But he's also a generally decent human being, and with a strong conscience comes the capacity for sincere guilt and remorse. So, not only will he not confront his friends, he needs it to be okay that he doesn't confront them. And it's at that point that I think the self gaslighting is triggered.

But Lupin is intelligent and nobody's fool, so the gaslighting creates only a thin layer of ice over the problem. Just enough of a cover that he can live with the things he would otherwise deeply regret. I do think he believes the alternative reality he makes for himself to be accurate as long as it isn't really challenged. Crack the ice, though, and we see him express remorse and reveal an underlying awareness of past and present truths. But then the moment is over, and the war between the uncomfortably and full weight of the truth and his need for the companionship of his friends returns, and then the gaslighting begins again, allowing him an easier return to his closest friends (and eventually his closest friend, singular, after the others have been taken from him as was his fear all along) without conflict and with minimal strain on his conscience.

Once Sirius, the last of his original chosen family is gone - truly gone, as opposed to 'located elsewhere' as he was when in prison - following OOtP, suddenly Lupin's arc takes off at a greater speed than at any point prior. He's now literally lost all of the people he'd been terrified of figuratively losing. Although there are still people and things he cares about, he isn't as dependent on any of them as he was on those foundational friendships, and the finality of their absence allows him to finally grow beyond his stifling cycle of reality shifting, confront the truths of his reality and his circumstances, and, as you said, finally take responsibility by returning to Tonks and Teddy - a decision that, ultimately, triggers his death (I don't mean to imply that it was a bad decision or that it's the sole cause of his death, but Rowling has said that being 'out of practice' contributed to his loss at the Battle of Hogwarts, which makes for a fantastic tragedy).

I don't mean to overstate the importance of this theory or imply that it's always present when he's on-stage, and, as with anyone, many other elements, of course, factor into his actions/words/motives. But I think it's a fascinating potential component of his character all the same. If you have more thoughts on this, I love to hear them - and I look forward to reading the discussion on your blog!

So what do you think? Is this a valid reading of Lupin? I'd say it is, but I'm interested in reading my followers thoughts!

[feralaot]

GIVE ME. FRIENDSHIP/RELATIONSHIP DYNAMIC HCS

for example AruAni gives off “I hate everybody but I hate you less” energy

literally any duo/trio/group you want just plz. I love them and I have my own ideas but wanna see yours ✌️💋

ohoho here we go.... this is gonna be a long one

AOT pairings + their dynamics

no warnings

eren / mikasa (romantic): the crime fighting duo

they can and they will mess up anyone and everyone who fucks with them. the kind of duo that seems to bond the most when they’re being violent and they want to make you scream “JUST CONFESS YOUR LOVE FOR EACH OTHER, FOOLS” and the slowburn is far too painful on the soul

eren / armin (platonic): the bad guy and the virtuous ray of sunshine

armin is the sweetest creature to grace this world and eren is literally the opposite but somehow they’re compatible. eren acts emotionally unavailable but good god armin brings out even the most buried emotion in him through his blinding rays of obnoxious joy and caring. obviously this didn’t last forever

eren / levi (platonic): the obnoxious child and the tired parent

somebody please give levi a break. it’s difficult being a single mother of six especially when you’re a middle aged man and one of your children is a war criminal.

sasha / connie (open to interpretation): the dumb & dumber mutual enablers

where one goes, the other goes. what trouble one gets into, the other gets into. they enable each other’s chaos and general misdeeds and will sit next to each other in a jail cell awaiting levi to bail them out while giggling and saying “wasn’t that fun?”

sasha / reiner (platonic): the eccentric girl and her emotional support himbo

one is a ball of chaos with a soft spot and the other is (relatively) normal but is also a chaos enabler. they feed off of each other's energy and are just about the closest thing you can get to the human equivalents of a bull and a matador but they also rely on each other for emotional support

armin / annie (romantic): pure looking (but hella shady) and scary looking (but actually a softie)

they are definitely not what either of them appear to be. the gentle little ball of sunshine is actually a scheming bastard and the one that looks like she’ll beat you up just for looking at her the wrong way is actually very soft at heart. and they are in love of course

jean / armin (platonic): the delinquent and the keener

jean used to skip, get bad grades, and get in trouble a lot but eventually worked on becoming a lot better because of armin’s enthusiasm and borderline annoying encouragement. on the other hand armin loosened up a lot and became less strict thanks to jean’s easy going attitude and they help each other improve themselves :’)

jean / connie (platonic): the dumbass and “oh god I guess they’re MY dumbass”

connie is like a dog without a leash and jean is the wrangler that desperately tries to keep him at least relatively tame. although sometimes it’s hard to keep somebody in check while also not wanting to give into their shenanigans and enable them

connie / reiner (platonic): the idiot and the idiot in progress

one has been an idiot since birth and it shows. meanwhile the other is losing more brain cells the more time they spend together. they feed off of each other’s energy and channel it into chaos and misdeeds

historia / ymir (romantic): the loner and the popular chick

historia is one of the few people who actually notices ymir, who doesn’t get the hype about her at first but warms up to her over time. they seem like polar opposites to anyone on the outside so it might be hard to tell that they’re very compatible with each other and lowkey enable each other

hange / levi (open to interpretation): the hooligan and the voice of reason

hange is the big bad conniving bastard and levi is the poor sod that has been dragged into their mess and was hit with a sudden and painful realization that he’s in deep trouble in every possible sense of the word. they are of equal strength except one has rabies

erwin / levi (open to interpretation): the kind giant and the bundle of repressed rage

one will make impulsive decisions on a dime and the other is the only one that can keep him grounded, at least most of the time. one is easy going the other is seething with buried anger and they balance each other out. however both would throw hands if anyone got between them

levi / zeke (open to interpretation): enemies to acquaintances to friends to ???

nobody knows what they truly think about each other and they probably don’t either. they’ll be fighting tooth and nail one moment then probably go out to get lunch an hour later. it’s a bit rocky, but they’ll figure it out eventually

reiner / bertholdt (romantic): two bros chillin in a hot tub 5 feet apart because they won’t confess their undying love for each other

literally everyone can sense the mutual pining from a mile away but they’re both so dense and oblivious for the longest time until they get things sorted and confess. one has too much pride to risk losing and the other is scared to ruin their relationship. this pairing will test both your patience and your sanity

reiner / eren (platonic): rivals to dumbass bros

most of the time they can’t stand each other and will argue with no end in sight but other times they’ll be slumped against each other or one will be sprawled out across the other and they’re having deep conversations and watching tv. it’s really a hit or miss situation

reiner / ymir (platonic): the gay solidarity

the mlm and wlw solidarity is real and it shows. they’re both jerks who only really have each other in terms of close friendships but by all means it’s an unbreakable bond

reiner / armin (platonic): honorarily deemed “one of the boys”

they have some kind of solidarity but neither of them really knows what it is, they just get along really well for some reason. thus reiner has deemed armin officially one of the boys and is included in activities w the boys e.g. movie night. they have a lot of inside jokes

reiner / zeke / bertholdt (platonic): the pining couple and the third wheel

reiner and bertholdt won’t admit it to his face because it would boost his ego tenfold but they’re lowkey kinda scared of zeke. but zeke is just a himbo that kind of hangs around and judges them and can tell they’re in love and is just waiting for the day they admit it

bertholdt / armin (platonic): the pessimist and the optimist

they’re both very pure sweet besties except one is a cynic and the other focuses on all the joy in the world. fill in the blanks.

pieck / porco (open to interpretation): the cinnabun and the hothead

one is too sweet and wholesome to be alive and the other is perpetually angry but is still cute. the contrast shows but they’re still sweethearts that are obviously meant to balance each other out

porco / reiner (platonic): the bastard and the accidental bastard magnet

they started as enemies and slowly evolved into something vaguely reminiscent of... friends? yeah, friends. reiner doesn’t know how he keeps attracting assholes like this but for some godforsaken reason he puts up with it.

[mandospace]

Fooled Around (Din Djarin x Reader)

Request: Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Din x female reader inspired by the song "I Fooled Around and Fell In Love" by Elvin Bishop?Hope u can do it 💕

Requested By: @pepperlen

Word Count: 4,680

Warnings: Some mature content (mention of sex and brothels), extreme pining by our one and only Mando

A/N: I have never written an entire fic in one character’s POV, so I hope it turned out okay! My requests are open for both Din and Boba. I hope you all enjoy!

MASTERLIST

The galaxy was immense, the stars and planets innumerable. People of all races were still trying to understand just how big it was, to what depths the black and empty space stretched out before them. Sometimes, the distances between each point of light were immeasurable, too far for any humanoid to comprehend, no matter how hard they tried. Within the galaxy, there were trillions upon trillions of souls- each with a name and story to tell. One of those souls was a lone bounty hunter that traveled the immense space between the points of light.

Din lost track of how many planets and towns he has been to. The number ranged in the hundreds, if not thousands. Each planet and town was all the same though, even if their topography differed greatly. Every planet held small backwater towns where the scum of the galaxy seemed to hide, evading their captors. In those backwater towns, there was always a lone cantina that sat on the edge of town. Locals and vagrants alike frequented the establishment, where there was always an old bartender. At that bar, drunks of every race tried to drink their worries away in the same liquor every night. Desperate people wandered amongst the booths, looking for work, money, and sex. Sometimes, all three if you met the right type of person.

No matter the planet or town, it was always the same. The lone hunter had fallen into a pattern, one that he upheld almost as strictly as his Creed. Pick up a job, track down the bounty, capture the scum, and haul them back to the Crest. Depending on the job or planet, sometimes Din would wander back into the cantina looking for something to keep him entertained. Sometimes it was fighting amongst the drunks- eager to release his pent up adrenaline from the hunt. Other times, he looked for other means of releasing the tension that constantly laid beneath the shining beskar. More often than not, this release was found in the company of women who too were looking for company.

He wasn’t proud of the numerous one-night stands that he had during the length of his career. It was nothing personal- both participants looking for an escape from the dreary life the galaxy offered. No questions were asked of either party, both just eager to feel something besides the numbness that surrounded them in their everyday lives. While Din wasn’t proud of his many encounters, he certainly wasn’t ashamed of them. Each was a necessary means to an end- a way to break the tediousness that was bounty hunting. A way to feel something besides anger and violence.

When the kid entered Din’s life, his well-adhered schedule was practically thrown out the window. He was no longer the lone bounty hunter that jumped from planet to planet in search of quarries or release. Now, he was a single father that fended off the remnants of the Empire that was hell-bent on taking his foundling away from him. Din was tasked by the Armorer to reunite the foundling with his own kind- even if he had no clue what kind of creature the small green foundling was. It was declared that they would be a clan of two: branded in the Mudhorn signet on the tempered beskar of his pauldron. Wherever he went, the child followed; even into dangerous situations.

After too many close calls with the little womprat, Din started to realize that he couldn’t do this on his own. When foundlings are taken in, the whole covert would raise and care for them. Show them the ways of the Mandalore: how to fight, how to protect the covert. Din didn’t have his fellow covert that he could rely on to help raise and protect the foundling. He was always out-matched in terms of fighting and raising the kid. When it came to fighting, Din couldn’t be as ruthless as he needed to be when he was constantly concerned for the child’s safety. When it came to raising the kid, the little green booger seemed to out-wit him at every turn. How could he discipline the small child that had Din wrapped around his tiny little clawed finger?

He couldn’t rely on the covert that seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Mandalorians were rare already, and the only ones he knew had vanished without a trace. Kuill was Din’s next option before he remembered the early demise his close friend had met because of his relation to Din. Cara was on Nevarro, wiping up the last remnants of Empire scum. Greef had resumed his position at the Guild; and besides, Din didn’t want the kid anywhere near him. Peli was running her hangar on Tatooine, too busy scamming pilots out of their credits over small repairs. He had quickly exhausted his very short list of allies that he could trust with the kid. It had become apparent that he would have to look for outside help.

Din wasn’t looking for anything specific in a caretaker, just someone that seemed competent enough to handle a child. He wasn’t even actively looking for someone when you literally stumbled into his life.

He was in one of the many familiar backwater towns of Dantooine, leisurely strolling through the open-air market that lined the town’s only street. The kid was nestled in the pouch Din had draped over his shoulder, dark eyes peering over the burlap sack. They were in town looking for some supplies, food and medicine mostly. The child had eaten up Din’s entire stores, though he wasn’t sure how he could eat that much. He was only a 50 year old baby, after all. 

When they were landing on the outskirts of the small town, Din had noticed that there was a local brothel that appeared on the holo-map. It had been months since Din last had any form of release- caring for the kid and evading the Empire had taken up his entire time. Even though he desperately wanted to relieve some stress, Din couldn’t. The kid was too important to risk taking his eyes off of him for even a moment. 

Distracted from the tension and stress that lingered underneath his beskar, Din didn’t realize that he was on a collision course until he collided with your body. You had been carrying a basket full of fruit that was piled high above your head, hence why you didn’t see the intimidating hunter in silver beskar. When the two of you collided, you fell onto your bottom with a groan, fruit rolling out of your basket and onto the dusty ground. Din just looked down in shock at you, surprised that he didn’t even see that you were right in front of him.

“Do you ever watch where you’re going?” You groaned, rubbing your backside in pain. 

He just looked at you, blinking slowly behind his helmet. You were beautiful, even though you were scowling up at him. Your hair was tousled from the fall and dirt was coating your clothes. The sun was bringing out the highlights in your hair, and Din longed to card his fingers through it. He had barely known you for two minutes but Din was already fantasizing about the feel of your skin under his, the soft breaths that would leave your lips. Stars, it had been too long.

“Hello, Dantooine to Tin Man?” You were waving your hand in front of his visor, trying to get some type of reaction out of him. “Mind helping me with this?”

All he could do was nod as he dropped to his knees and started to help you pick up your spilled fruit. Your hair had fallen into your face when you bent over and he wished he could tuck it behind your ear. He silently chastised himself. He hadn’t even said a word to you and there he was, dreaming about touching you while you were picking up the fruit that he spilled.

“So, what’s your name?” Your soft voice pulled him from his thoughts as you looked up at him. Din couldn’t breathe when you locked eyes with him- even though you had no way of knowing where his eyes laid under the black visor. Your eyes, though, were mesmerizing. “So you’re the silent type, then?”

Din cleared his throat and offered his hand. “I’m Din.” What was he thinking?! He had never revealed his name to another living being voluntarily, and yet here he is, freely and openly giving his name to a beautiful girl he had just met.

“(Y/N),” you smiled and took his hand in yours. He was shocked at how small your hand looked in his, but even more shocked at the overwhelming sense of rightness that flowed through his veins at the sight of your hand in his leather-clad one. “Oh Maker, who’s this?”

Din hadn’t realized that the kid crawled out of his satchel and started to waddle over to you. He moved to pick up the kid and put him back in his bag, but you had beat him to it. You easily swooped the kid up into your arms, setting him down on your lap. The kid just stared up at you, offering a toothy smile. “Are you hungry, little guy?” Riffling in your basket, you picked out the juiciest looking fruit before handing it over to the child. “There, enjoy that, little guy. He’s precious. Is he yours?”

“Sort of,” Din admitted as he shuffled to his feet. He offered you a hand to pull you to your feet which you gladly accepted. The kid was still cradled in your arms, munching on the fruit. Since your hands were full and the kid looked too happy in your arms to take him away, Din picked up your fruit basket instead. He was amazed at how easily you interacted with the kid. You hadn’t even known the small child for more than five minutes but the little womprat was utterly enamored with you. It had taken Din weeks to gain that level of trust with him and yet here you are, plucking another fruit out of the basket in Din’s arms and feeding it to his kid. “Do you want a job?”

Confusion flashed across your features before a blush settled on your cheeks. “Look, sir, I’m not that kind of girl...”

Embarrassment flooded Din’s system. “No! You misunderstood me. I would-” he almost said ‘I would never ask for that’ when he realized that he has asked for that in the past. He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the awkward tension. “What I meant was, you seem to be really good with the kid, and I need some help looking after him. I can’t provide for the both of us when I am constantly worried about him.” You just stared up at him, the child wiggling in your arms while he reached for your necklace. “I could pay you, and you wouldn’t have to worry about food. I would just need you to look after the kid while I hunt after bounties.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?” Din regretted telling you that detail, afraid that it would scare you off. Bounty hunting wasn’t the life for everyone.

“Yes, but I-”

“Do you travel the galaxy?” You eagerly asked, eyes shining bright at him.

“Of course, I often have to go to lots of different planets to track down my quarries. Why-”

“I’ll do it.” You had cut him off again, but he didn’t care. You had just said ‘yes’ to him without really knowing him at all. You were either crazy or a very trusting person. Maybe both. “I’ll meet you at the south edge of town at sunset with my things.” Handing the child back to him, you swapped the kid for your basket of fruit. You started to head off in the direction of what Din assumed was your house before you turned around to look at him. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Din was puzzled at the girl that was smiling back at him. The sun caught your hair, illuminating the soft highlights hidden within the locks. He wanted to reach out and touch it again.

“For giving me an adventure.”

___

For the past three months, Din has been in an almost constant state of agony.

He thought that bringing you on board would be a good thing: a much needed help in raising the kid. And it was a good thing, for the most part. You were always helpful, willing to do more than was asked of you. Many times Din would come back to the ship and you would have a warm plate of food waiting for him, the kid already asleep in your arms. The first time you did this, Din had to explain his Creed and why he couldn’t eat in front of you. You had nodded along, taking in his words before walking out of the hull and up the ladder leading to the cockpit. Before you had shut the doors, though, you called out to him and told him to eat his food and not to worry. You would take care of the kid and put him down for his nap. That miniscule kindness that you had shown the lone bounty hunter shook him to his core- a warmth seemed to have spread over him and his heart stammered in his chest. You did that for him every night, for every meal.

Not only that, but you were amazing with the kid. Suddenly the rambunctious little green womprat would mellow out any time you walked into the room. He would be fussing in Din’s arms, crying about something and you would just walk up to the hunter, take the kid into your own arms, and he would immediately calm down. It was like a sixth sense you had- you always knew the right thing to do to get him to calm down. When you started to sing the child to sleep every night, that’s when the warm feelings inside of Din’s chest turned to white-hot agony.

It was his favorite kind of torture, listening to you sing softly to his kid. Din was never in the room when you did this, he always kept far away because of his fear. Your voice was so soft, so melodic that if Din heard it directly, he would surely fall even harder for you than he already had. He would gladly succumb to your siren’s call and let you lure him to the vast depths of the ocean.

He wasn’t used to this, feeling something for another person. Sure, Din had cared for other people before, namely the little green foundling in his care. But he had never felt this deep, aching pull inside of him. Whenever Din was with other women, it was to get over the stress and tension that came with his bounty hunter life. The feelings he felt for those women were purely physical, purely surface level. A temporary lust that would dissipate the next morning after he had released his frustrations. Din had never felt these feelings that were emotional, deeper than any he felt before. When he looked at you caring for his kid or making dinner for the three of you, his heart would stop in his chest. With every smile you gave him, Din felt those at first insignificant, warm feelings grow and burn until they developed into a raging fire. He felt like he was swallowed whole by flames and every glance or touch you gave him was only adding kindling to the fire burning in his heart. If your little smiles and touches piled twigs onto the fire, he couldn’t imagine what feeling your lips on his would do to him. He would probably combust into a flaming inferno.

Din tried to ignore the white-hot agony being around you brought. He tried to reason with himself that he wasn’t that type of man. The type that brought home flowers to their lovers just because. The type that would rush home from work just so they could wrap their arms around their lovers and kiss them. The type that would actually want to settle down and start a family. Every time he looked at you though, he imagined what it would be like to have that type of life instead of the violent one he lived. He imagined that he would come home from work, and you would be cooking dinner for the three of you just like you do now, except things would be more permanent. The three of you would actually have a house- he didn’t care on which planet, you could choose any one and he would gladly build the house for you from the ground up. The child would attend the nearby school and make friends with kids his own age- well, kids that were actually kids and not 50 years old and still a child. He imagined that you would be cooking his favorite meal, that he would be able to come up behind you and kiss your neck and pepper kisses across your face because he no longer wore the helm of a Mandalorian. He imagined that you would laugh at the feeling of his stubble tickling your skin before you would turn around in his arms and truly kiss him. You would hold his face against yours and on your left ring finger there would be a simple band of beskar wrapped around it. He imagined that he would have a similar band on his own finger- a symbol to the galaxy that you were his and he was yours. He imagined that he wouldn’t be able to pull you flush against his chest because of your rounded belly, swollen with his child...

“Din?” 

Reality came crashing down around him at the sound of your voice. The image of the two of you in his mind faded and was replaced with the very real image of you staring at him, a worried expression etched on your face.

“Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry, Cyare.” Din cleared his throat. He hadn’t meant to call you that affectionate Mando’a nickname, but it just felt right. He hadn’t meant to do a lot of things, namely fall for you.

“I asked if you could pass me the wrench.” Wheeling yourself out from under the ship, grease had smeared across your cheek. Just like you were an amazing caretaker for his son, you were also an amazing mechanic. The place where the ship needed maintenance was too small for Din to get under, but you were just the right size.

Din grunted in response and handed you the wrench. The tips of your fingers just barely grazed the tips of his leather-clad ones, but it was enough to set the Mandalorian on fire with desire. He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t deal with the agonizing feeling of being this close to you but not being able to touch or hold you like he wanted. Before he could do something stupid, like ruin the only friendship he’s had in decades, Din bolted up from the crate he was sitting on.

“I’m heading into town, I’ll be back later.” Din didn’t pause to listen to your concerned questions on if he was alright. This wasn’t the first time he had just bolted mid-conversation. 

The Razor Crest quickly disappeared behind him as Din trudged into town, looking for a distraction. It was all the same, each town he visited. He didn’t even need a map to find his way through the dust-covered streets. His feet just took him to the nearest cantina that sat on the edge of town. It was loud inside the bar, music blaring and people laughing. Din didn’t pay attention to any of the people- he just trudged to the corner booth and sat down. His head was swimming with thoughts of you. Even miles away, he could still smell your sweet perfume. It had somehow lodged itself in his helmet’s filters. He would have to change them out soon if he were to ever be able to focus on a hunt.

“You here alone?”

Din glanced up at the woman standing before him. She had some drink in her hand and a lazy smile on her face. Her hair was pulled up into a knot on the top of her head and was the same color as your hair. In the dim cantina lights though, Din was almost positive that your hair would look prettier, much prettier. It was always so shiny, smelling so good.

“Yeah.” His voice sounded gruff through his vocoder. He wished he could drink something, but he wouldn’t be able to in this crowd.

“Want some company?” The woman smiled at him, and all he could do was shrug. People could do what they wanted, it was a free galaxy, after all. “What brings you here?”

“Work.” He didn’t mean to be so short with the woman. Din was just preoccupied with his thoughts of you.

“No,” the woman laughed, resting her hand on top of Din’s. His eyebrow quirked under his helmet. “I mean what are you doing here?” Her thumb started rubbing circles into his worn leather. His brow raised even higher. 

“Escaping, I guess.” Her thumb continued to rub over his hand. She gave him another smile.

“Really? Me too. What a coincidence.” The woman grabbed his hand then, intertwining her fingers with his. She pulled his hand until he stood next to her. “Why don’t we escape together?” Her hand started moving over his silver cuirass. Din knew he shouldn’t go with this woman, but as the thoughts of you started to swirl through his head, desire pooled low in his stomach. If he couldn’t have you, he might as well go with someone who wanted him.

So he followed her out the cantina’s back door and into the dark alley. The sun was just starting to set on the town and Din realized that he has been gone from you much longer than anticipated. You were probably worried, wondering where he was.

“Relax, baby,” the woman purred, running her hands down his chest. “Let me make you feel good.” The woman pushed him up against the alley wall and started to palm the front of his pants. It had been so long since Din had gotten the release he’d been craving. His eyes slipped closed under the helmet. 

The woman continued her ministrations, hands roaming over his beskar-covered body. His eyes stayed closed the entire time as he imagined that you were the woman that was touching him, running your hands over him. Her hand slipped into his trousers and cupped his growing length.

“(Y/N)...” Din moaned, eyes screwing shut even tighter. Your smile flashed through his mind, adding more kindling to his fire.

The woman stopped dead in her tracks and removed her hand from his pants. “My name’s not (Y/N).”

Her voice broke the carefully crafted illusion that Din’s mind had conjured. His eyes opened to reveal the woman from the bar in front of him, not you. In this lighting, Din noticed that her hair actually wasn’t anything like yours. Hers was a much duller shade, lacking the shine yours held. Her smile wasn’t as radiant as yours. Din’s illusion shattered into pieces before him.

“I-I have to go.” Din adjusted himself in his pants before making his way out of the dark alley. The woman let out a disgruntled cry, but Din didn’t turn back to offer his apologies. Instead, he pushed his way through the crowd of locals making their way back home. The people that saw him jumped out of his path, terrified of the Mandalorian stalking through their town. He didn’t care, though. The only thought Din had on his mind was you.

By the time he got back to the Razor Crest the sky was black- only the stars lit his path home. With a press of a button on his vambrace, the ramp started to descend. He didn’t even wait for it to fully touch the ground before he jumped into his ship. His eyes swept the hull until they landed on you standing near the ladder leading to the cockpit- eyes wide with surprise.

“Din, where did you go?” 

He didn’t say anything, only slammed his fist against the button next to the ramp to close it. Din strided over to where you stood, pressing another button on his vambrace. The ship fell into darkness.

“Din, what are you-” Before you could even finish your sentence, Din had ripped his helmet off and tossed it to the floor. His gloved hands reached for your face and pulled you to him, crashing his lips against yours. Din could feel you freeze under his lips for just a second until you melted into his touch. A breathless sigh slipped past your lips and Din breathed in your sweet breath. His heart was slamming against his chest as he kissed you. Your kiss acted like fuel to an already raging fire that warmed him to his core. His left arm wrapped around your waist, tugging you tightly to his chest. Din’s right hand cupped the back of your neck, holding your lips against his whilst he drank you in. Your lips were so soft against his chapped ones and with every brush of his against yours, shivers ran down his spine. Your arms had wrapped around his neck, trying to pull him even closer to you. The way your fingers carded through his hair and lightly tugged made Din moan in pleasure. His grip on you never loosened as he continued to move his lips against yours. When you sighed for the second time, Din took the opportunity to lick into your mouth. He loved the way your tongue tangled with his. Din felt like he was a raging inferno- a star burning brightly in the dark limitlessness of space.

You had moaned his name against his lips when he pulled away for some much-need oxygen. He sighed your name into your skin, peppering kisses down your throat. His name continued to fall past your lips while his made their way back up your throat and to your lips. 

“Sweet, sweet girl,” Din breathed against your skin before capturing your lips once more. This kiss was shorter than the last but still held the passion shared in the first. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” you smiled against his lips as you held his face in your hands. Your thumb was rubbing soothing circles into his cheek, goosebumps left in its wake. “But why did you kiss me? Why now?”

Your question weighed on his mind before the answer became as clear as transparisteel. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since I’ve met you. I finally decided that I couldn’t wait a moment longer.”

Din could feel your smile against his lips. “I’m glad you became impatient, Tin Man.”

He felt a chuckle rumble through his chest at the nickname you had given him the first day you met. Din couldn’t see you through the darkness of the ship, but he was sure your smile was radiant and would surely blind him if he gazed upon it. He never meant to be the type of guy who fell in love. He always thought that he would be by himself, following his Creed until the day he died. The only future that had stretched out before him was one of loneliness and hunting. Now that the kid and you had entered his life, another path had revealed itself. One where he wouldn’t have to be alone. Instead his future was much brighter: fueled by your kisses and surrounded in the warmth you gave him.

“Me too, Cyare,” Din nudged his nose against yours, fingers grasping your chin. He tipped your face towards his and brushed his lips over yours. “Me too.”

[kodzumie-archived]

OMGOMGOMGOKOKOK SOOO CAN I ask for a gentle vampire komaeda who has a crush on a very apprehensive and easily scared fragile girl who’s kind of scared of him at first but then after seeing how kind and soft he is, eventually comes around to like him? Also, he protects her bc vampires are vv strong 🥺 THANK YOU ILY DUDE <3

❝SERENDIPITY❞

Synopsis; Against the unruly clutches of chance, could the blossoming of a bond between two fundamentally forbidden species piece itself together?

Featuring; Nagito Komaeda x Fem! Reader

Warning(s); Vampire Komaeda, blood, alternate universe (AU), injury description, slight gore, and themes of predator/prey.

Kodzumie’s Note; This was so fun to do! Thank you so much, dear, for the request! Aah, vampire Komaeda is forever welcome on this blog. Thank you for bringing this idea to life, I love you so much!! Muah, muah! <3

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ The inception of adoration is an enigma. A blossoming of a passion so seemingly fantastical, yet ever-so ontological. Love―in its most bare form―is unpredictable.

⤷ You’re meek; the glorious crumb of bread dropped in a fish pond. But life is much more unforgiving to those who are unfit for the calamities of the world. Reflecting upon existence in a metaphorical sense, that fish pond could only wishfully have been inhabited by mere Koi, but rather barbarous piranhas.

⤷ In this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival. A population divided into two―humans and vampires―you’ve been subjected to the former; necessitating hospitality and the protection of another.

⤷ If not by mere chance, you’d have met your doom inevitably. It’s alarming; your fate cradled by the clutches of chance itself. But, as cruel as life proves itself to be, you harbor no command over your own providence.

⤷ And chance, as it has instilled within you relentlessly, prefers to plays it’s promiscuous games unfairly. Which you are reminded of once more as you find yourself cornered. Yet again, you are the helpless prey.

⤷ Your heart pulsates; a beating that rings amongst your ears almost deafeningly. The sound nearly drowning out the malevolent growls of the vampires seeking victuals of whichever foolish, helpless victim to feed upon. If only the thumping of your heart could drown the tantalizing realization that you are the pathetic victim.

⤷ In the mere blink of an eye, eclipsed figures sprint towards you. Hauntingly, their footprints seemingly inaudible as though they were flying. But if only you’d known better. You were human; weak and delicate. Whatever fragmentations of survival chance had provided seemed void in that instance.

⤷ Even by the grace of your legs carrying you as fast as they could possibly go, the odds were tauntingly against you. Granted, you likely wouldn’t even have time to accept the bitter reality of your predicament; you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

⤷ Your breathing is erratic; uneven and forced out in puffs of desperation. But there’s a will within you. Though the poignant truth encapsulates your hope in shackles, you continue to fight. For every breath you take, you push yourself to run faster, dodge the clawed hands reaching for your feeble body, and to do whatever it takes to survive. 

⤷ It’s a humane instinct; to fight for a continuous existence despite fate’s stamp of undeniable death. You were steadily approaching your due date, and predictably by the end of the night, you’d be nothing more than the feed of the pack of vampires.

⤷ After a sharp turn, jabbing your heel into the ground as you whirl your body to turn; the air resistance inducing your eyes to clamp shut. It was a turn too fast for your body to handle, stumbling forward sporadically, but it was enough to throw the famished vampires off of your tail, even momentarily.

⤷ Run, run, run! Dumbified by the desolate venom of oncoming death, you leap forward, narrowly avoiding what would’ve been a climatic fault; tripping over the thick roots of an unforgiving oak tree.

⤷ The night air in which you once believed was refreshing and serene now plagued with the tang of your own demise. It’s suffocating; feeling fear for your life and yet unable to provide some sort of protection for yourself. You were cowardly, and you were weak. Yet in this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival.

⤷ And life doesn’t make exceptions for anyone. You, just as much as anyone who finds their fate at the mercy of chance, were no exception to its cruel deduction as a pair of arms envelope your form.

⤷ At long last, the chase has concluded. Of all nights you’d spent tossing and turning in a pitiful attempt to subdue the remanence of a nightmare―a lucid illusion of your innermost fears―nothing of that caliber could begin to compare to the piquant dread settling within you. You’ve been caught.

⤷ But even as the sinking anxiety pricks at your delicate heart, the tendrils of terror stabbing into your mind, you thrash. Kicking and scream, you fight against the figure engulfing your form, pressing your back against their abnormally cold front.

⤷ You, yourself, weren’t quite aware of why you kept insisting on resistance. Perhaps it was the hope residing within you; the hope that there’s even the slimmest of probabilities that you’d find a way out. Or perhaps that, itself, was the naked core of the human will.

⤷ Sobs tear through your throat, ripping your vocal cords raw as you screamed for help. Your desperate pleas for somebody―anybody―to help you. But even if they managed to hear you, who would be dumb enough to put their own life at risk for the sake of yours?

⤷ Such is life; we live, and we die. Those who are unable to fend for themselves are sacrificed to the grip of gravel as their corpses rot amongst the cycles of parasitism; cells feed upon your body until you’re nothing more than a husk of what once human; what was once alive.

⤷ Yet, even as you thrash and cry, begging for some sort of escape to the Hell you’ve been forced to witness and endure, you find that as moments pass, the anticipated pain of claws tearing into your plush skin as teeth sink into the conjunction of your neck never come.

⤷ You should be wary, you should expect for life to expose its cruel, ugly face to you in its hideous nudity. But such is the fragile mind of someone as meek as you; truly, you were what the world deemed as unfit for existence. You believed what embodied the hope towards a unified tomorrow. And that, in itself, was fatal.

⤷ As you calmed your body, easing the subtle tremors, you crane your head to meet eyes with your captor. Ghostly green hues interlock with yours as you gulp. It’s a man, an alarmingly paled young man.

⤷ His skin powdered in thin layers of dirt as he reciprocates your fearful gaze with a gentle grin. Features ever-so delicate you almost assumed that the mere flick against the plush would result in scarring. He was gentle and, at that moment, you felt as though you could trust him.

⤷ But trust is fatal in this world. And as you meet eyes with him, you finally push away with a shove of your shoulder against his throat. He chokes momentarily as you stumble back, albeit tripping over your own feet and landing on your rear.

⤷ Could it be that he’d come to aid you? Could it be that for once in the hauntings of this unforgiving world, you were provided with a temporary protector?

⤷ No. You’d be a fool to believe such audacious hospitality from the likes of what had damned you to such a corrupt fate; caught amidst a forest of brambles and blood-thirsty monsters, seeking to drink upon your viscous fluids.

⤷ As you continue to meet eyes with the boy, you manage to stutter a question that rang much too loudly for your liking. Yet you needed to stay assertive. One crack in your visage and you life would be taken before you could even comprehend it yourself. Who are you?

⤷ Truthfully, you didn’t even know if he’d muster a genuine reply. For all you knew, he could leave you with a cold shoulder and put an end to your miserable life. But, much to your surprise, he manages to croak out a choked answer; “I’m Nagito Komaeda.”

⤷ Though as soon as his name escapes from his lips, he shrinks his gaze away as he bows to you. A gesture that startled you as you quickly realized who he was. Or rather, what he was.

⤷ As he voiced his name, baritone voice resonating against the hollow oak, his fangs barely showcased themselves from within the caverns of his mouth. You, really and truly, were in a predicament. And one that would seemingly result at the end of your life; an unfathomable death.

⤷ He lifts his head as you shriek, finding your figure to be rapidly crawling away from his in desperation. There was no way in Hell you were going to stick around if it meant being in the presence of the one who―you were certain of―would take it upon themselves to feed on you.

⤷ “H-Hey, where are you going?” He questions, beginning to pace after you. How belittling. His jog was quick enough to synchronize with your frantic crawls. You stood no chance. You were at his mercy.

⤷ Lifting your head once more, a frustrating cry escapes. “You’re one of them!” Your tone sharp despite your countenance openly conveying your vulnerability. Even to him, it was blatantly clear that you’d dubbed your fate as under the terrorizing control of his will.

⤷ “I don’t mean any harm to you.” He admits. His voice a mere whisper amongst the chirping of the nocturnal melody the crickets sang. Ghostly green orbs glossed with earnest intentions as he respectfully kneeled before you, holding his hand out towards you.

⤷ It’s strange. This―in every way imaginable―was abnormal. A taboo, even. His lips curled into a smile that genuinely expressed his yearning to assist you was wrong; it shattered every miserable rule this corrupted cycle of life instilled.

⤷ And yet you still place your hand within his, allowing him to help you up to your feet. He even went as far as to pat down the front of your garments, ridding you of the accumulated dirt from your attempted escape. It unnerved you. Why is he acting as though he truly wants to help you?

⤷ “You were running away from a pact of vampires, weren’t you?” He asks, stepping away from you. The space allowing you personal room to breath yet enough closeness to ensure you’re within arms-reach. With a shaky nod of your head, you agree to his inquiries.

⤷ Yet you’re still cautious. He’s a vampire, he’ll easily be able to overpower you and strip you of your life, leaving you with the travesty of what you fear would only be momentary trust.

⤷ “Why are you helping me?” It’s a direct question, and one you prayed he wouldn’t dodge. You had to know; you needed to know. But were you truly prepared for the truth? Were you prepared to hear what the embodiment of your fate had to say over your very own survival? A confirmation of your death?

⤷ You almost managed to interrupt him and admit you don’t want to know, but he beats you to it. Truthfully, it takes a moment to register. You almost don’t believe it, but the haunting vivid reality of his lips moving as each word escaped his lips leads you to believe that it’s real.

⤷ “I couldn’t sit back and allow someone so hope-filled to be mauled by the obscene, hideous hunger of despair. I want to help you. I want you to survive.”

⤷ With a dazed mind, you begin to question whether or not you’d managed to hit your head previously. Was this an illusion? It’s against the principles of this perpetually miserable world to allow unity between the two ruptures of the population; vampires and humans.

⤷ But it was real, real, real. The ontological sensation of his hand cradling yours as he helped you up, that was real. His arms encapsulating you as he put a halt to your sprints of flee, that was real. This entire situation was so hauntingly real. Yet how could he insist on something so unworldly?

⤷ Though you weren’t allowed to voice your perplexed distrust as he ever-so gently takes your hand within his once more. The soft, alarmingly cold skin of his hand figuratively melting against yours; in which your body regulated to remain at a forgivable body temperature.

⤷ He tugs your hand to signal for you to follow him, his eyes glistening with the reflection of the moon as he smiles. The curling of his lips oozing with a foreign sincerity you’d never have guessed to be found from someone like him; someone you’d predicted would be the death of you.

⤷ “Come on, I know a place where you can hide. They’re not going to find you there, I promise.” It’s a voiced assurance; a promise of your survival. Or, at the very least, for your protection.

⤷ But did you really have any option other than to rely on him? Rejecting his offer could insinuate a possible rage and result in his teeth sinking into your flesh. Yet abiding could, too, result in the findings of your hideout and fatally subject you to the mauling of multiple slobbering, fanged mouths.

⤷ You nod, deciding to agree. “O-Okay.” It was faint, but induced the softening of his gaze as a breathy chuckle escaped him.

⤷ “It’s not the best place around, but it’s the most scum like me could find. Sorry I can’t give you anything more adequate.” He apologized. It was a charming apology, yet unnecessary. Truly, you’d have never expected him to provide a location for you to seek shelter within.

⤷ “No, it’s fine...” You trail off, eyes narrowing on your intertwined hands. He was abnormally cold, yet you still seemed to feel strangely warm. A flurry of fondness smothering your chest as you suppressed an oncoming smile, finally tearing your gaze away from your joint hands.

⤷ “Thank you, Nagito.” Amidst the crescendo of nocturnal chirping and the gust of the nightly breeze, you voice a mere echo. Yet it still is audible and resonates within the pointed ears of your fanged potential ally.

⤷ He turns to you with a momentary visage of bewilderment. It seems that he, too, is susceptible to shock despite the loops of flummox he’s thrown you in for the night.

⤷ After a moment, his confusion melts into his fond smile that you’ve rapidly grown fond of. This meeting, by all odds, was due to the clutches of unapologetic chance. As he squeezes your hand within his, you’re reminded that this is inexplicably irredeemable.

⤷ Hand-in-hand, the two of you fragment the shackles of taboo; the perpetual division of your diverse species. It’s by chance that a vampire has taken it upon themself to assist a human. And it’s by chance that what life’s fundaments deem an impossible allegiance is the blossoming of your potential bond.

⤷ But there’s a chance―an undoubtable hope―that a unified future between the two unaligned. It’s a slim probability. But when has life―when has chance―ever proven itself to be fair?

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Cold As Ice. 

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Fae!Yandere!Todoroki/Reader

Synopsis: Todoroki, the King of the Fae, seems to have lost his vulnerable, helpless, idiotic little mortal. He's as displeased as you'd expect, and he does plan to make his anger known.

TW: Graphic Violence, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Animal Death, and Imprisonment. 

One of Shoto’s greatest pleasures was recalling the spring you’d first met.

Parts of it were true. Fae couldn’t lie, but they could omit, and he never failed to find a new detail to leave out whenever he recalled the months he’d spent in the mortal world. He told his court of the weeks you’d spent attending to his wounds and soothing his pain, or the charming cottage you shared and how quaint human civilization had become, since his last visit. With a small smile, he would speak of the livestock you’d tasked him to feed and the herbs you’d mixed into your tea, creating a concoction his fleet of servants could never seem to replicate. His favorite memory was the kiss you’d shared when he was finally healed, before he departed to return to his mysterious ‘homeland’. He loved you, and you loved him in return. It was something out of a fairytale, for him.

He didn’t tell them of the translucent blood that stained your hands for days after you freed him from the thawing ice, or the strange symbols he drew in the snow until it dissolved under the warmth of the spring sun. He never saw fit to mention the mare he beheaded, whose organs he carved out and jarred and kept in your pantry, if only to remind you of your companion’s slaughter. He wanted to make you seem like a willing partner. A sweet mortal who didn’t know better than to love a fae, a soulmate born into the wrong world. But, soulmates didn’t have to be held down to be kissed. They didn’t have to be threatened into returning their admirer’s affections. They didn’t have to be dragged into a land they did not know and thrown at the feet of a man they did not love. They should not hate their lover, not as you hate Shoto.

They should not run as soon as they’re given the chance to.

Shoto thought you preferred him to death. That was his mistake, his underestimation. He thought, if you were given the option of throwing yourself from the window of your tall, lonely tower, you’d be more scared of the inevitable injury that would entail than spending another day in your captor’s company. Now, with a hand clasped to the numb, throbbing shoulder that’d broken your fall and the bare soles of your feet beating harshly against the frozen ground, you thanked whichever gods were listening for his assumption. The forest, with all its winding roots and outstretched branches, was your safe-haven, the brisk air filling you with a sense of freedom, of strength. You weren’t sure how to get back to the human plane, not without magic, but a damp, dark cave would be a sanctuary compared to Shoto and all his fineries. You would be content with misery, as long as you were the one to choose it.

But, it was a hopeful dream. Already, you could hear the crack of hooves against soil, the soft footfalls of those agile enough to chase after you without a mount. This was just another hunt, to them, and you were an animal to be tracked and captured, to be skinned for your fur and declawed and thrown back into the wild because they thought that was better than putting you out of your suffering. Your revenge came in the form of boredom, in how easy you were to catch, in the refusal to indulge their desire for clever prey. Rather, you ran blindly, searching for a hole to hide inside of, a frozen lake their horses wouldn’t be able to follow you across. Simple methods, but fool-proof ones. Strategies even you wouldn’t be able to blunder.

A woman called out, a bird of prey screeched, and you spotted a knock in a barren cliffside, a deep hollow in an overlap of rock. It would be a tight fit, but if you held your breath and worked quickly, you might be able to find your way inside. You’d almost overlooked it in your panic. Surely, if you were quiet enough--

You never got a chance to finish that thought. Without warning, a gust of ice-cold wind washed over you, and something sharp and burning embedded itself in the back of your calf, your knees buckling as soon as the arrow found its mark. You collapsed, catching yourself with your injured arm out of instinct and screaming as a bright, primal burst of pain etched itself into your bones, your flesh, your being. But, that didn’t stop the hilt of your aggressor’s sword from colliding with the nape of your neck, cutting the sound short and sending you back to the ground. You didn’t try to catch yourself, this time.

With some effort, you roll yourself onto your side, gritting your teeth and tilting your head back to state up at the two faeries who surround you. Your found the woman first, a knight with a sword at her hip and a small, tight-lipped scowl. Yaoyorozu, the leader of the hunt, her hair darker than the night sky and her skin pale enough to put the falling snow to shame. A beauty, like all her kin, almost human if you looked beyond her swirling eyes and the pointed tips of her ears and nails. You had to remind yourself that she was one of the reasons for your current vulnerability.

Beside her was Shoto, a bow slung over his shoulder and an arrow missing from his impeccable quiver. His expression did little to betray him, all regal neutrality and flawless perfection, but his anger was present in his wings, outstretched and taunt behind him, in his white-knuckled grip on his chosen weapon. You met his eyes, and in a moment, his hand was around the shaft of another arrow, ready to send it through your chest with little more than a flick of his wrist. When he realized what he was doing, he dropped it, a fleeting look of self-scrutiny and pity passing across his expression. You could try to convince yourself that it’d been a reflex, that he didn’t truly want to be more destructive than he had to be, but you’d be lying if you tried to say there wasn’t the slightest hint of hesitation. Just another sign that his generosity wasn’t the reason for his delicacy.

He simply didn’t want to break his newest toy so quickly.

Yaoyorozu spoke first, addressing her ruler rather than her prisoner. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been treated as more than an extension of your captor. “I can call the others,” She said, her gaze flickering vaguely over the blood pooling underneath you. “We’ll need a healer if you want your pet to walk without a limp. I didn’t think to bring one, but the castle isn’t far.”

“I’ll handle it,” He replied, kneeling beside you. So close, you could make out the thin lines running through his translucent wings, flowers of ice and glass that deserved a better place to bloom. The corner of his left-most wing was scarred over, burnt to a leathery crisp, not unlike the matching scar over his nearest eye. In the back of your mind, you fantasized about what it would be like to rip them from his back, to crush thin skin and impossible formations in the palm of your hand and render him as flightless as yourself. Shoto chose to pretend he didn’t know what you were thinking about. “This is my responsibility. Gather your pack and have a medic waiting for when I return.” He paused, letting his temper flare with a narrow-eyed glance in your direction. “You shouldn’t have to rush, I intend to take my time.”

Yaoyorozu bit the inside of her cheek, but she didn’t protest. Rather, she nodded, bowing her head as she turned, following her footprints back into the tangled woods. As soon as she’d disappeared into the darkness, Shoto took the time to sigh, to glare properly the next time he bothered to face you. His bow fell to the ground, abandoned and forgotten. You weren’t particularly concerned.  He had a dozen more waiting to be used on something helpless and disobedient.

“You humiliated me,” He started, his hand drifting to your injury, freeing his arrow before a gloved thumb drove itself into the open wound, his touch as agonizing as a hot iron rod against unprotected skin. You had to fight not to lash out, to condemn yourself to a fate worse than momentary discomfort. There was still a knife sheathed at his belt, and you could only be thankful he hadn’t thought to use it. “I trusted you to go without restraints, to go without guards, and the first thing you think to do is prove to my subjects that my lover would rather risk death than be with me. Tell me, does that sound like behavior I should reward?”

You didn’t answer. Your arm was going numb, equal parts due to the fracture and the chill, and you couldn’t tell him anything he wanted to hear. That’s what it came down to, in the end. How you could make Shoto happy, even if he claimed to be willing to return the favor.

He shook his head, pulling away from your wound and taking up your chin. His hold wasn’t tight, nor did he make an effort to force you into a submission more demeaning than your current surrender, but those small shows of grace were nullified by the feeling of your own warm blood beginning to stain your skin. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

You didn’t have to think. You barely had to open your mouth. As soon as your lips parted, the words were already falling from your tongue, a blunt, shallow river of things you knew you’d regret. Things Shoto would make you regret. “Eat shit and die. You can impale yourself on your own crown, for all I care.”

His frown barely wavered. There was a beat of silence, an idle evaluation of your current state, but his disdain was never vocalized. He didn’t bother to. He didn’t have to.

You didn’t see his hand move, not before the grip of his knife was making contact with the back of your head, your vision going black before pain had a chance to follow.

~

Your contempt for the Winter Court was the only thing that rivaled your loathing for Shoto.

It was a place of joyless, merciless conduct, of cruel smiles and stone painted with gore, although the colorless blood of fae rendered the violence a sightless affair. Two guards were flanked at your sides, but neither dared to look at you, staring straight ahead as they opened the massive oak doors of Shoto’s throne room. The quiet was heavy, tense, but you didn’t attempt to make conversation, not as the panels of wood slid away and a narrow carpet came into view, a rich navy to guide all newcomers to the elevated stage on the otherwise of the room. He could’ve easily come to you, sent a servant to alert him when you awoke or been waiting there himself, but he wanted a show. He wanted you to grovel at his feet, and he wanted his subjects to see you do it.

Oftentimes, you wished you’d been taken by a member of the Summer Court. You wished you’d never been taken at all, of course, but you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what it would like to exist in a land without ice and sleet and stares that are only barely concealed. You’d visited their valley once or twice with Shoto, and although they weren’t any less wicked than their cold-blooded counterparts, they hid their malicious intent under charms and spells and tricks, traps that kept their victims rooted out of delusion rather than fear. It’d be a deceptive fate, but compared to the reality of the Winter Court, it couldn’t be unpleasant. If Shoto could simply invoke your name when he craved control, you wouldn’t be favoring your right leg over your left as you dragged yourself down the well-tread pathway.

There were sneers from the stands as you passed by, harsh whispers of rumors and tales that were just untrue enough to burn at their tongues as they spoke. You tried not to pay them any mind, but it was difficult. Your latest ‘betrayal’, as Shoto had put it, would only fuel their distaste for their ruler’s mortal partner. Perhaps if you were something else, they’d be entranced. If you were an abnormality or a beast or something dangerous, you’d be able to do more than run and make noise and disobey rules they hadn’t thought not to follow. But, you were human, so you were boring. A feral mutt whose tricks had long-since grown old.  

You came to a stop in front of Shoto’s throne, a massive structure of silver and velvet and ornate carvings of every woodland animal you could imagine. You didn’t attempt to meet his eyes, only dropping to one knee, assuming the position he’d force you into, if you didn’t fall into on your own. You didn’t speak, though, letting Shoto greet you with a tone so stoic, you had to wonder whether this was a punishment or an execution. “How are your injuries?”

“I’ll live, unfortunately,” You replied, under your breath, rolling your shoulder back, making an effort not to wince. You didn’t want to show weakness, not when he was already so far above you. “The healers say I’ll need a few days to recover fully. That won’t interfere with…” You trailed off, your eyes flickering around the courtroom. Searching for any sign of a looming threat. “That won’t interfere with what you have planned, will it?”

He huffed, a small pout pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he accepted the announcement without further argument, leaning back and letting his chin come to rest on a closed fist. With his free hand, he gestured for you to come closer, an indolent wave barely worth the energy it took to execute. Slowly, you pushed yourself to your feet, only pausing when Shoto tapped his thigh. Disappointment washed over you, but any shock was minimal. If he couldn’t have his revenge, then your shame would serve as a consolation prize.

You clung to your last scraps of dignity, keeping your expression stern and your posture rigid, but Shoto freed you of that with an arm around your waist, dragging you into his lap, your side soon flush against his chest and your back pressed against his armrest, your legs left to tangle with his. He was quick to deflate, to melt into you and bury his face in the crook of your neck, the affection intimate and sickeningly underserved. The tips of sharpened teeth brushed against your skin, but thankfully, abstained from taking root. The last thing you wanted was another wound to fret over. “Can’t you bring me the smallest relief?” He asked, chilled breath washing over your skin, earning a shudder. “An apology, words of remorse, a purpose, anything. I don’t want to be bitter with you, beloved. Any sign that you care for me is a sign I’ll take to heart.”

He sounded exhausted, exasperated. You attempted not to let his disposition faze you, keeping your gaze fixed on the furthest stone wall. “My words would bring you no comfort,” You muttered, more to reassure yourself than to convince him. “There’s nothing I can say to quell your anger. You saw what I did, and you know why I did it. An excuse would only frustrate you.”

You felt him grit his teeth, his hold around you tightening. His wings flickered before resuming their trained motionlessness. “You have no reason to despise me--”

“I have every reason.” You didn’t wait for him to finish, nor did you have any interest in letting him. This was a dance you’d practiced many times, a song you could identify from a single note. You would sing along, but you wouldn’t let Shoto act as if you’d never done so before. He didn’t deserve your patience. “I’m a prisoner here, Todoroki, I’m your prisoner. You provide for me, and I understand that you think you’re being kind, but no amount of luxury can make this place my home. I don’t belong here, I’m…” You were different. You were alien. You were lesser. “I’m not meant to be here. I’m not meant to be with you.”

Early on in your captivity, you’d convinced one of Shoto’s servants to smuggle an iron knife into your chambers, the weapon forged in the human world and stolen from a fae noble with questionable intentions. When Shoto next visited you, letting his guard down in favor of rambling on about his day and the ongoings of his court, you’d driven the dagger blindly into his chest over and over and over again, only stopping when one of his knights dragged you off of his limp body. You didn’t have to say it’d been useless. Cold Iron was effective on most creatures, but you’d need something much stronger to kill a fae as powerful as Shoto, whose veins took the shape of snowflakes and whose wrath bunt with the heat of glowing embers. The servant was killed by sunset and your knife was melted down into two nails, both of which were then driven into your heels as retribution. You hadn’t been able to walk for a month, but Shoto told you time and time again that he was being lenient, that was being merciful. You’d believed him. The fire in his eyes had nearly been enough to melt his frozen heart.

Compared to his current rage, his fury back then seemed like child’s play.

“A prisoner, you see yourself as a prisoner,” He spat, pointed talons biting into your hip, cutting through fabric and skin and drawing blood before he thought to stop. “I’ve never asked anything of you. I gave you a castle, beautiful clothes, a life befitting divinity, and you say you feel like a prisoner just because I urge you to tolerate me in return.”  He paused, scoffing, letting out a breathy, humorless laugh before he went on. “If you’re a prisoner, you’re a rather coddled one. That’s my fault, isn’t it? How can I expect you to learn your place when I treat you like a lapdog?”

“That’s not what I meant,” You responded, hastily, avoiding his question. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m only trying to--”

“You’re trying to earn your discipline, apparently,” He warned, nearly snarling against your shoulder. His fingers found their way to your hair, taking you by the scalp and jerking you backward, just far enough to allow him to glare, to bare his teeth and growl. “I’ve kept you safe. I’ve let you live in leisure because I wanted to believe your pathetic human mind would let you be motivated by gratitude, rather than fear. I can see that allowing you to love me on your own terms isn’t an option, anymore.” He wretched you upward, forcing you to straighten your back, a pitiful whimper escaping from your lips before you could suppress it. “If you think you’re a prisoner, then I’d be more than happy to treat you like a prisoner. It’d be a shame not to give you what you’ve been begging for, wouldn’t it?”

You moved to argue, to apologize, to do whatever would sway Shoto’s resolve, but by the time you opened your mouth, he was already calling over his guards, metal gauntlets soon clamped around your forearm and your shoulder, ready to dispose of you at the slightest omen of their King’s will. Shoto only leaned back, watching as you lost your composure, as you panicked. He didn’t yell, nor did he lecture you further, but as always, his rage found a way to make itself known, if only in the grin that ghosted across his lips. Satisfied and decided. The smile of a man pushed to the edge and far too prepared to push back.

The smile a monster, finally ready to devour its prey.

“This might be a change for the better.” His tone was one of sterile contentment, a serenity that ran deeper than his voice could ever portray. You had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to shake him, again, not so easily. 

You had a feeling he wouldn’t give you the chance to, again.

“You might finally come to see how loving I’ve been, when you’re stripped of my favor.”  

[malghra]

tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks (3/3)

AO3 link

This is a bit of plot and then about 3k of smut (my first Darklina smut 😱). Rated E, but on the softer side.

A little explanation on Alina's underwear: she's wearing drawers, which are tied at the waist and have buttons running from the front to the back. My reasons for giving her this kind of underwear are 1) pseudo-historical accuracy, sort of, not really (though I did spend too much time doing research to find out what kind of underwear Alina would be wearing in fake 1800s Russia) 2) opportunities.

The Ravkan alphabet, for reference in the second half of the chapter. You'll get it when you reach that particular part.

Alina wakes up alone, and far from well-rested. She must have felt more tired than this in her life, what with her being sick all the time, but this is different. Trying to think about everything that has happened, it's hard to believe all of it occurred in one single night.

She realizes she's in his bed as soon as she opens her eyes, and with a quick glance around the room she learns that he isn't there. It gives her some sense of relief. She promised to show him, and knowing him, there is no chance that he'll forget. Her heart is in her throat as she imagines it. Whatever his reaction will be, there will be no turning back.

She is relieved that he wasn't waiting for her, she muses as she climbs out of the bed and sneaks out of his room to return to her own suite, where she asks for a bath to be drawn. She's relieved, but his absence has her aching. The feeling isn't new, it's something she's carried inside of her for her entire life, barely ever aware of it, never knowing it was him she'd been aching for.

Genya enters the bathroom with curiosity burning in her bright eyes and pursed lips. "You weren't here when I came in earlier," she says lightly. "And your bed hasn't been slept in," she adds more pointedly.

"That would be because I didn't sleep in it," she replies matter-of-factly, her fingers absentmindedly brushing her mark. Let Genya think what she will. She can't tell her the truth anyway. She glances up with a barely suppressed smirk, and then she sees Genya's ashen complexion, her red-rimmed eyes.

"What happened?" she whispers.

...

She dresses in the nightgown and robe she'd laid out before stepping into the tub, sliding a pair of soft slippers on her feet and marches back to his chambers. If this is something else he was intending to keep from her, she's going to find out.

She doesn't bother knocking, but pushes down the doorhandle and steps into the room, closing the door behind her and turning around again.

She freezes when she sees him, not because she's afraid, but because it takes every ounce of willpower not to throw herself into his arms. It's as if ever since she found out it was his name that is written on her breast, that pull she's been feeling has become irresistible. As if knowing has made it even stronger and nearly impossible to ignore.

"Alina." He says her name in a soft voice full of wonder, blinking as if he's seeing her for the first time, and it breaks her resolve.

She flings herself across the room, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest, clinging to him.

His body is stiff with surprise and his arms are awkward around her.

"Genya told me about Marie," she mutters into his kefta.

He relaxes around her, pulling her closer. "I wanted to spare you, last night," he murmurs. "We found the person who did this."

She inhales and exhales slowly, bracing herself against his solid chest. "What are you going to do to them?"

She can feel his hesitation before he answers, "We're still questioning him."

She tilts her head back to look up at his face. "But you'll punish him?"

"Obviously," he says calmly, his dark eyes hard.

She shakes her head. "Who did this? Why would they do this?"

His hand travels up her back and starts stroking her hair. "He was working for General Zlatan." There is a barely concealed tremor in his voice. Being so close to him, she easily recognizes it as rage. "Remember when I told you my enemies were more afraid of you than of me, and you didn't believe me? This is all the proof you need."

So this is all her fault. Poor Marie, did she realize the risk she was taking? Did anyone? Aleksander once told her the Little Palace was the most secure place in Ravka. They must have gone to great lengths to get in, just to find her and eliminate her.

"They all think I'm going to destroy the Fold," she realizes, aghast, "but apparently they don't want me to."

She pulls back so she can look at him. She half expects to find a grim but smug satisfaction on his face, but she can't read it.

She doesn't understand. She thought destroying the Fold would be the solution. She tried to see his point of view when he told her it wasn't last night, but she remained skeptical.

"You were right," she mutters. A quick flash in his eyes, a slight flare of his nostrils, that's all the reaction she's getting out of him, but she can practically feel the elation of triumph rolling off him.

"I did tell you I'm not in the habit of making a fool of myself," he reminds her.

Without thinking, she swats at his chest. He catches her fingers, sending a jolt of power and calm certainty through her body, but the corner of his mouth tugs up into a half-smile.

She can feel his sudden impatience. "You promised to tell me why you ran away."

"I promised to show you," she corrects him, stepping out of his embrace. She unfastens the sash of her robe and her hands curl into its lapels, but she can't force them to move. She purses her lips to hold back the smile that tugs at them when she sees the confusion in his features.

"I panicked," she reminds him. "I was so overwhelmed after..." she bites her lip, eyes travelling to the side of the map table he'd lifted her onto last night. "And after everything Baghra told me," she continues, "but most of all," she says, pushing the robe off her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet, both of her hands rising to cover her mark through the thin fabric of her nightgown, "I was overwhelmed because of this."

He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing, even as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes following her hands and the fall of her robe. "This? You're speaking in riddles now."

She takes a deep breath, her fingers clumsy as they fumble with the tiny satiny buttons of her nightgown. Her heart is beating in her throat when she folds back the fabric to reveal her mark to him.

He blinks once. After a short silence, he utters her name in a broken whisper. "Alina." His throat bobs, his eyes still glued to her mark. And then, "Alina," again, a low rasp.

He takes a step closer, and reaches out to touch the mark, glancing up to meet her eyes.

A gasp escapes from her throat as his fingertips brush over the red letters. Every single time he has touched her before felt so unreal, but this, this feels like the first warm and golden ray of sunlight in spring after a long winter.

"That felt nice," she mutters, inadequate as it sounds.

"Did it?" he asks, holding her gaze.

She nods. "Like a tingle, um..." She's suddenly so incredibly hot, and already too taut inside her own body. Her nipples have pebbled into hard peaks.

He repeats the motion, watching her face, and then brushes his knuckles over his name. She jerks away from him, her heart hammering in her chest.

He follows her, tracing the letters on her skin, as if he's trying to imprint them again. It's too much. He's quickly reducing her to a panting mess.

He arches an eyebrow, his eyes blazing with a fierce hunger. He licks his lips and his nostrils flare. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," she confesses.

She believes he shivers when he groans, "My Alina."

"Saints," she whimpers as his calloused palm slides under her nightgown, making contact with her hardened nipple. "I want you, Aleksander."

He squeezes her breast, his other hand curls around the back of her neck and then he is kissing her.

It's everything it was the night before and more. Every pull of his lips, every nip of his teeth and every stroke of his tongue is feeding a fire inside of her. His hands are burning brands, seering her skin even through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Last night, she felt like she was drowning, now she's burning up, but she's desperate to be consumed by this fire.

She's not quite ready to trust him completely, but she can trust him with her body. She'll have to, this compulsion is too strong, too irresistible.

"My Alina," he groans again, hot breath fanning against her neck. He picks her up with  great ease, and she wraps herself around him as he carries her across the short distance to his war map to lift her onto it and insert himself between her legs. One of her slippers slides off her foot and falls to the floor with a thump.

"This feels familiar," he mutters, nudging her nose with his own, pulling her closer.

She hums in amused agreement as he nuzzles her cheek, the scratch of his beard grazing her skin as he pulls away and fixes her with burning black gaze. His kefta slides off his shoulders and hits the floor with a heavy thud as his hands come to rest on the neckline of her nightgown. "Off?" he growls.

She doesn't remember how to speak, so she just nods, an eager whimper escaping from her throat.

He lifts one hand, his middle finger trailing her bottom lip, his eyes following the movement. And then he lowers his hand again and rips her nightgown open all the way down the front, buttons flying everywhere.

"Hey!" she chides him. "I liked that!"

"I'll get you a new one," he mutters as his eyes drink her in. The hunger and adoration in his gaze bring a blush to her cheeks and make heat and wetness pool between her legs.

He splays his hand over her sternum, his palm warm against her skin and pushes her back, his other hand sweeping under her back before it hits the wood. He cups the back of her head as he lifts himself over her, covering her body with his own.

"You were made for me, Alina," he rumbles. "You cannot begin to comprehend how long I have been waiting for you."

His hot lips are on her neck, his hard erection is pressing into her blazing core through layers of fabric, and his beard and tunic are rough against her naked skin. There are too many sensations, and Alina feels as if she's had too much kvas. When her fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, she twines them through the soft strands, pulling at them to ground herself, and he groans into the hollow of her throat.

As he starts sucking on her neck, a wave of panic crashes over Alina.

"Aleksander," she pants, and he grunts and sucks hard, pressing his tongue to her pulse point. There's a bit of pain, but the jolt shooting straight to her core is stronger.

"Say it again," he orders her.

"Aleksander," she whimpers, but then she finds her voice and addresses him more firmly. "Aleksander."

He appears to catch on to her mood and props himself up on his elbows, arching an eyebrow. "What's wrong, solnyshka?"

She licks her lips and stares up at him, opening her mouth, but no sound comes out. He leans down to nip at her chin.

"Tell me," he commands firmly.

"I don't have a lot of experience," she blurts out.

His brow furrows as he brushes his knuckles over her cheekbone. "Don't worry about that," he answers as he starts trailing kisses down her sternum. "I'll make this an experience for you."

He uses his fingers and lips and teeth and tongue to lavish attention on her breasts, taking his time. When his tongue traces the letters forming his name on her skin, Alina is sure she's about to burst out of her skin.

"I'm going to mark you all over," he announces, "to make sure no one will ever doubt that you belong to me."

His declaration gives her pause, the intensity of it almost frightening, but every fibre of her being is screaming yes, so she ignores that suspicious voice in the back of her mind.

His teeth graze her nipple and nibble. He sucks and nips, and she shudders at that novel, intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. Her hands have found their place in his hair again, and she's starting to worry about possibly pulling it out when he suddenly veers up to stare down at her.

She moans at the loss of contact and props herself up to reach for him, her other slipper hitting the floor, but he grabs her hands and keeps them in a firm hold.

"Hush, solnyshka," he tells her, pulling her arms away from her body and placing her hands on the smooth wood of the table. "I'm admiring my work."

She twists her neck to find out that her right nipple has come to resemble a purplish sunburst. Her skin is reddish where his teeth and beard have grazed it.

"All mine," he rumbles as he trails one long finger down her stomach, over her navel, and still further down. He takes a moment to untie her drawers, and then his hand disappears under the waistband, into the coarse curls covering her sex. Her heart is beating violently, her breath coming in painful pants, and then the tip of his finger slips between her folds, brushing her clit, curling as it slides through her slick heat.

"Saints," she shudders, her fingernails digging into the wood.

"So wet for me," he croons, lifting his finger to his mouth, closing his lips over it, his eyes fluttering closed as he groans. "You taste like your light," he tells her.

Her cheeks burn, at his actions, or at his words, she isn't sure. She licks her lips and looks down, avoiding his face.

"Don't look away," he orders her.

When she glances up, he's kneeling between her legs, sliding his hands under her thighs to tug her closer to the edge of the table.

She wasn't lying when she told him she didn't have a lot of experience, so though she might have a fairly good idea of what he's about to do (she spent a decent amount of time in army camps after all), she doesn't exactly know what to expect, and it has her heart doing summersaults inside her chest, sparks of light flaring up under her skin as she watches him, her breath stuttering out of her.

A wicked grin spreads across his face as he looks up at her from between her splayed legs. He opens his mouth over the cloth that is still covering her cunt and breathes hot air into her core, making her whimper and shudder. Slowly and deftly, his eyes never leaving hers, he unbuttons her drawers, uncovering her.

His gaze leaves her face and his dark eyes blink slowly as they take in the sight he's revealed, before flicking back up as he tells her, "That pretty little cunt will be mine as well, soon."

He hooks her legs over his shoulders, holding her steady with one hand on her right hip. He starts lapping at her folds, lightly at first, parting her lower lips to tease his tongue around her clit, carefully avoiding direct contact. He licks and sucks and nibbles, dipping his tongue into her from time to time.

She sighs and moans, the sensation of his mouth on her already too much, but never enough.

"Please," she mutters.

"Say it!" he groans into her sensitive flesh, the vibrations rippling through her core.

"Please, Aleksander," she breathes, her eyes fluttering closed.

"Eyes on me, solnyshka," he reminds her.

The whimper that leaves her mouth is clearly one of frustration and he finally gives in. He closes his mouth over her clit and chuckles. Her hands fly up, twisting themselves into his soft, dark hair, sighing in relief as he finally brings the building tension inside of her to a crescendo, a steeply rising ascent instead of the rolling hills he kept her on earlier.

"Aleksander," she mewls. Every trace of shame has left her. She's grinding her cunt into his face, her toes curling into the fabric covering his back, her head lolling back against the table.

"Alina," he groans, "you're mine." His voice alone could be enough to unravel her, she thinks, more heated pleasure washing over her.

"Say it!" Ever the commander, it sounds like an order falling from his lips, but there's an edge of despair to it. "Tell me you're mine!"

"I'm yours!" It's not even half a lie or a reluctant confession. It's nothing but the simple truth she can no longer deny. "I'm yours."

He laps at her like he's been starving for years. "Mine." A single, simple word that coaxes more pleasure from her, but his voice almost breaks on it.

Her grip on his hair tightens, twisting them around her fingers and her hips buck forward involuntarily. He hums and sucks, and suddenly the tension snaps and the light bursts out of her as her orgasm crashes through her body in waves of ecstasy.

Before she's able to come down, his mouth is on her again.

"No," she objects, "no, I can't," trying to push him away, clenching her thighs to deny him access.

A jolt of power and desire surges through her as his hands enclose her wrists and pin her arms to the table. "You can," he growls. More gently, he pries her thighs apart, fingers brushing the insides, trailing closer to her cunt, raising goosebumps on her skin.

He flicks his tongue out and starts tracing intricate patterns with it on and around her clit. A single circle. Mirror curves. Another circle, but different, there's a loop at the end, she thinks.

A blunt fingertip nudges her entrance, and a long, thick finger slides into her. Saints, she's so wet for him. She mewls at the intrusion, but still finds herself vaguely wondering at what he's doing. She can't follow the next couple of shapes he traces, they're too complicated. There's another circle, but then more intricate ones again.

"Oh," she whimpers when his tongue traces a perfect Ravkan 'o' on her nub.

"You like that one?" he chuckles, crooking his finger inside of her, finding the exact right spot, and then adding a second one. Even as she quakes, the realization hits her. He vowed to mark her all over, and that's what he is doing. He's spelling out his name with his tongue.

Now that she's no longer questioning it, she can surrender to the feeling, and once she does, her second climax comes quickly, her cunt clenching around his fingers and her nub throbbing against his mouth as rainbows dance behind her closed eyelids, and a soft sobbing cry of his name escapes from her lips.

She slumps back and lets one hand slide out of his hair to cup his cheeks and he turns his head to press his lips to her palm, his beard wet and sticky against her skin.

He's pulling her up and into his arms then, brushing her sweaty hair back from her face with his dry hand, slanting his mouth over hers to kiss her. She can taste herself on his lips and tongue, and though part of her wants to shy away from the obscenity of it, she decides she doesn't care and kisses him back more hungrily. His grip on her tightens and he moans into her mouth.

"Bed," she manages to pant out between kisses.

"Bed," he agrees in a low growl, lifting her into his arms again, shadows dancing around them. Alina hardly has time to blink before she's lying on her back in Aleksander's bed. The black silk of his sheets is cool and soft against her skin, and it smells of him, she muses as she watches him remove his boots.

He climbs onto the bed, and offers her a slow and dangerous smile as he moves to brace himself over her. She can't help it, she feels her lips curve up into a smile of her own.

"This isn't fair," she complains when he lowers himself to cover her body with his own.

He arches a dark eyebrow. "What isn't?"

"You're still dressed," she points out.

"That can be remedied." He pushes himself up and off her, pulling his tunic over his head as he sits up. She only takes a moment to admire his shoulders and chest and the hard ridges of his stomach before she reaches for the buttons of his trousers, brushing her knuckles over the hard bulge straining against the black fabric.

"Alina," he groans as she unbuttons his trousers and slips her fingers into the garment to curl them around his thick, hot, velvety and considerable length. Together they get rid of his last piece of clothing, and Alina shoves her open drawers down her legs.

She reaches for him and clasps her hands over his elbows to drag him down on top of her. The sensation of so much of his exposed skin on hers is almost too much, but she needs him to get even closer.

"Eager, are we?" he teases her.

She doesn't care about coming up with a witty remark, she just nods and tilts her head up to capture his lips, but he hisses sharply as soon her tongue licks at the seam of his mouth.

"What's wrong?" she whispers.

He braces himself on his arms and twists his neck. "It felt like a knife slicing my skin."

"Where?" she whispers, eyebrows pulling together in worry.

"I can't see," he grunts. "It itches."

She wrenches out from under him and sits up, finding an angry red mark on his right arse cheek. As she leans in closer, she clasps a hand over her mouth but the giggle bursts through anyway. She extends a hand to brush her fingertips over the letters of her name, still looking as if they've been branded into his skin. The confused glare he gives her makes her laugh even harder.

"Looks like I've marked you as mine as much as you've marked me as yours." She puts a hand to his shoulder and pushes him back until he's lying on the bed, staring up at her. She braces her hands on his chest and swings a leg over his hips to straddle him, smiling down at him. "It's your mark," she tells him. "My name."

She reaches between their bodies to wrap her fingers around his cock and guide him to her entrance. Never averting her eyes from his face, she takes her time, slowly sinking down as she takes him in, and when he's finally fully sheathed inside of her, she moans at the feeling of being filled by him, nearly drowning out the sound of his gasp.

"You're mine, Aleksander Morozova," she sighs as she rolls her hips.

"Alina," he groans, his hands sliding up her thighs as reverent eyes roam over her body.

"You're mine, and I'm yours," she promises him, taking his hand and placing it over the mark on her breast, holding it there with her own. All Alina has ever wanted is someone to belong with, a person to call her own. She won't let anything take that away from her.

[dwellordream]

I’d love an analysis on Ser Barristan quote regarding Danny’s options in marriage. How he described mud and fire, and how you think that relates to the main couples past and present. For instance, cateyln and Ned singinling mud and maybe doran and marla was fire? But how do you think he categorised Robert and Cersei? Rhaegar and Elia? Tywin and Joanna?

“Prince Quentyn was listening intently, at least. That one is his father's son. Short and stocky, plain-faced, he seemed a decent lad, sober, sensible, dutiful … but not the sort to make a young girl's heart beat faster. And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever else she might be, was still a young girl, as she herself would claim when it pleased her to play the innocent. Like all good queens she put her people first—else she would never have wed Hizdahr zo Loraq—but the girl in her still yearned for poetry, passion, and laughter. She wants fire, and Dorne sent her mud.

You could make a poultice out of mud to cool a fever. You could plant seeds in mud and grow a crop to feed your children. Mud would nourish you, where fire would only consume you, but fools and children and young girls would choose fire every time.” (The Discarded Knight, ADWD)

First off I have frequently seen the interpretation that this passage is Barristan going on a racist and mean-spirited rant against Quentyn and unfairly projecting onto him his own insecurities and self loathing. I half disagree.

That is to say, I do think there is some projection at play here and Barristan is not nearly as neutral and unbiased a narrator as he pretends to be, but I do not think this commentary is meant on his part to be disapproval or cruelty towards Quentyn, and I think the racial undertones of referring to a Dornish boy as ‘mud’ go largely unnoticed both by Barristan and by GRRM the author.

If we’re being honest here I think a lot of racism in the books is not meant as intentional or thought provoking commentary by the author but is just a result of genuine ignorance and privilege. That doesn’t excuse it but that’s the reality.

Barristan begins by describing Quentyn’s personality and praising him. “...a decent lad, sober, sensible, dutiful” might come across as sneering criticism from someone like Petyr Baelish or Daario Naharis, but given Barristan’s own sober and dutiful personality, I think it’s obvious that he has a lot in common with Quentyn and recognizes that. It is with a rueful edge that he continues, “but not the sort to make a young girl's heart beat faster”.

I don’t think this is intended as a cruel dismissal of Quentyn based off his looks but a recognition that while Quentyn is dutiful and serious, the ideal prince, he simply doesn’t have the flashy looks or charisma of men like say Daario or Oberyn, and never will.

Ironically or not, neither does Barristan, who frequently thinks back to Ashara Dayne, the one woman he believes he truly loved, despite her clearly not reciprocating his unspoken feelings.

Barristan goes on to admit that Dany wants fire (ie. a passionate and playful man, someone willing to make her laugh and take bold stands and be risk taking and impulsive), but has already set her desires aside once to agree to marry Hizdahr. She is not going to break the betrothal for anything less than true fire, and while Quentyn is a prince, he is just not the type of man who is going to sweep her off her feet or overwhelm her with immediate attraction the way Daario did.

Barristan then goes on to praise all the values of mud. While it may seem mundane and dull, even unappealing, mud is very practical and has many uses. Mud can save lives through healing, it can raise crops to feed thousands, it can build up cities, etc.

Quentyn is not a ‘useless’ person. He has real value. He is sensible and loyal. He cares deeply for his friends and family. He doesn’t want to use Dany’s power for his own profit or advancement, he just wants to make his father proud.

But ultimately Barristan admits, ‘fools and children and young girls’ ie basically everyone in love, is going to choose fire every time, even if it harms them in the long run.

I don’t think we can squeeze every couple into this metaphor, and it’s not like Barristan was very well acquainted with the personal dynamics of every couple in Westeros. He isn’t talking about marriage but attraction, and people in Westeros frequently wed partners they aren’t necessarily attracted to.

But I think it’s clear he also sees himself as ‘mud’ and thinks that if he’d had ‘fire’ then perhaps Ashara would have fallen for him as well, or perhaps the ‘fire’ in Prince Rhaegar is what drew Lyanna to him, since Barristan seems pretty inclined to believe that this was not an abduction, given his high opinion of Rhaegar.