#help what is the bloody ship name

[datsazu]

Love. Lots and lots of love for everyone!

Hope you all had a great hollyday filled with love and happiness.

[positive-total-drama-takez]

I think it would be so cute if ripper actually had a mlm relationship in season 2 like-

Imagine if he started to create a "frenemies to friends then romantic feelings" towards damien and someone from the his team notices it, then they go talk about to ripper nd ripper kindof gets desesperate for a bit but then they say that they'll help Ripper get with him and it actually happens

Like, If that happened it would be so real because we all know that a alpha male's true soulmate is a men/j

-Bloody Valentine Anon❤

.

[the-case-book-of-fanfiction]

Burns Like Rum

Ship: Astarion x female!human!reader/Tav

Summary: Astarion's hunger worsens every day and you don't have any blood to spare—but that doesn't stop you from inadvertently tempting him at every turn. Luckily for both of you, you've both got the same idea to cure him of his hunger.

Word Count: 7,840 words

Warnings: sexual content (18+), menstruating reader, hungry Astarion, mutual pining, possibly OOC dialogue, vampire feeding, soft Astarion, no particular timeline but Astarion hasn't told you anything yet

18+ Warnings: period sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), hand job, bite kink, blood kink, aftercare, use of the words cunt & cock

Note: For my usual readers, more Stranger Things content is coming, I promise! But this bitey boy currently owns my heart so I'm gonna show him some love :)

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

Astarion was hungry, and it was entirely your fault, for more than one reason.

The first was that, almost a month ago now, you had let Astarion drink from you. He'd been starving, and it didn't help that the others had given him strict rules about feeding, so when he flashed those sad but gorgeous red eyes at you, complaining of hunger, you'd all but gifted him your neck.

He'd practically drained you that night. You had been weak for days. Of course, the others, namely Gale and Lae'zel, were furious with you for letting him drink from you, but the sated, content look on his face after feeding made it all worth it to you. He'd become more comfortable around you after that, too, and you'd considered that an improvement.

It hadn't been all that bad, really, for him to sink his teeth into you and drink until your grip on him had grown so weak that he'd let up to check on you. In fact, it had been...rather pleasant. He'd been gentle, careful, his bite sharp but considerate. You knew then that you'd risk becoming anemic for a week just to feel the pleasure of his hand cradling your neck and head, his mouth against your neck, his tongue soothing the bite he'd left when he'd had his fill.

But in the weeks that followed, his hunger gradually returned, and with a vengeance. It was as if he'd never fed from you at all, suffering hunger pangs he hid from the others—but you noticed, recognizing them from the night he'd begged you to let him drink from you.

You'd offered him more of your blood since then, but he'd refused you every time. He could smell your guilt, your need to make him feel better simply because you felt responsible for his current pain.

"I won't accept blood from someone who feels obligated to give it to me," he'd said, and his tone made it difficult to tell if he was being snide or kind.

Sometimes, you simply didn't understand that man.

And then three days ago, you'd been injured in a fight. It was nothing fatal, the gash in your midsection missing any major muscles and not deep enough to jeopardize your organs, but it was bloody. You'd limped your way back to camp, your head swimming, the world around you growing darker around the edges with every step.

You'd fainted in Astarion's arms—although collapsed was a better word for it, according to Karlach—drenched in blood, some of which was yours and some of which that wasn't.

"You should have seen his face!" Karlach had laughed when you'd woken up the next morning, woozy but fine thanks to Shadowheart. The blood loss kept you off your feet for the day to recover, and Karlach had taken the time to visit you.

"What do you mean?" you asked, although you already had a good idea what might have happened after you passed out.

"You put him in a right pickle, collapsing on him like that, all covered in blood and losing more of it quickly," she said. "He didn't know what to do with you. It was— It was like he didn't want to drop you, but he really did want to drop you, because all he wanted to do was drink from you. Can't say as I blame him—he's not fed in weeks and you turn up with his next meal draining out of you." You hid your face in your hands with a groan. "Why'd you beeline for him anyway? Shadowheart's tent was just a few paces away!"

You glared at her through your fingers. "You know why I went to him, Karlach!" She, of all people, would understand. She had been the first person to find out that, as much as you flirted with them all, Astarion was the one you wanted.

"Well, obviously," she said, "but it didn't occur to you that he might...have an adverse reaction?"

Rolling your eyes, you snarked, "No, Karlach, it didn't, I was bleeding out and suffering from head trauma. I just...saw someone I trusted to keep me safe and ran to him."

She cocked her head to the side. "That's sweet, but stupid."

You snorted. "Yeah, I know—Shadowheart won't stop yelling at me for it."

You hadn't seen Astarion until that night, when the group of you had gathered at the campfire. It hadn't meant to be like that; you'd seen him and had wanted to talk to him, at least apologize for throwing your bloody body at him, but Shadowheart followed you closely to keep you safe and soon the others had gathered.

It had been like a very strange family dinner, made awkward by everyone dancing around exactly why you'd gone to Astarion, knowing a hungry vampire and fresh blood were not a good mix.

The final reason you were making his hunger unbearable made itself known at the end of the night, when it was just you, Astarion, and Shadowheart at the dying fire.

She must have caught sight of the way you kept looking at Astarion out of the corner of your eye, embarrassedly looking away or pretending to gaze into the trees behind him every time he caught you looking. She tapped your shoulder and told you she needed to get rest. The "you should, too" was implied, hanging in the air along with her worry about your healing.

"I'm fine, Shadowheart, really," you insisted. "I won't rip myself open again, I promise."

"I'll keep an eye on her," Astarion promised. "Nothing too...strenuous for her just yet." Something in his voice made you shiver.

She left the two of you alone. You looked first at the fire, then down at your hands, folded in your lap. Anywhere than at him.

You didn't even hear him move. You only knew he had when you felt him sit on the log beside you, one of his hands covering your own.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft. "I...am sorry I didn't visit you, it's just—"

"It's just that I threw myself at you when it looked like I'd taken a shower in blood and that made things a wee bit difficult?" you interrupted, the words spilling out before you had time to process that you were speaking. Embarrassed heat flushed through you instantly.

But Astarion only gave you that soft, slightly toothy smile. You drank it in, relishing his smile lines and the brief contentment on his face. "Something like that, yes," he said. "I was...worried I might hurt you if I saw you again and you still smelled so deliciously of your blood. I'm so hungry, darling, it's unbearable. All I wanted was to feast until there was nothing left of you, and I'd never forgive myself if I—"

"Stop." You held up your hand. "Please. I don't... Don't be so nice to me, it makes me feel like I'm on my deathbed."

Astarion laughed, throwing his head back. "I'd hardly call wanting to drain you nice, my love." Almost unconsciously, your gaze dipped to his exposed neck and you wondered idly what he would do if you were to bite him back.

Probably the strenuous activity Astarion had promised Shadowheart you wouldn't be doing.

He met your gaze, a sudden depth and seriousness in his crimson stare. "Stick with me, and you might soon be on your deathbed." Pointedly, he broke eye contact with you, letting his eyes drop first to your neck and then further down your body. You tingled, the feeling reminiscent of the anemia that had possessed your body in the hours and days after he'd drank from you.

You realized Astarion was waiting for a reaction from you, hoping for something more than your stunned silence. So you let your eyes drift across his body, resting on his mouth as you said, "Doesn't sound like a bad way to go out."

From the back of his throat came a sound that wasn't quite a growl or a groan, but somewhere in between, just as needy as either sound. "Don't tempt me, darling," he whispered. "I promised Shadowheart I'd keep you safe, and you certainly wouldn't be if I did everything I want."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Astarion..."

He closed his eyes, leaning toward you, releasing a tense breath. "Darling..."

"What if I want to tempt you?" You put your hand on his leg, sliding closer to him.

"Cheeky thing," he said, eyes opening in small slits. "But only when you're healed. I can still smell the blood on you." He sighed. "You have no idea how much restraint it takes not sink my teeth into that pretty neck of yours."

You frowned. "But I am healed," you said. "Just tender. Shadowheart wouldn't have let me leave her tent otherwise."

"I can't blame you for wanting me," Astarion teased, that familiar charm honeying his words, "but I've never been wrong." He cupped your cheek, his touch taking the bite out of his words. He offered you a small, sympathetic smile.

You put your hand to your abdomen, half-expecting to find that your wound had ripped open of its own accord. Your shirt and the bandage beneath it was dry—but a sudden twinge of pain, appearing only once it had been acknowledged, came from lower. You hissed.

Astarion sat up straighter. "What is it? Are you alright?"

"Shit. I think I've figured out why you still smell blood," you said through clenched teeth.

Astarion's eyes dipped to where your hand rested. "It's that time again already, is it?"

"It's early," you groaned. You stood slowly, regretting it instantly.

He tracked you as you moved, his gaze becoming dangerous and predatory. It was the look that had scared you when he drank from you, practically convincing you he wasn't going to stop. Still, his need for you burned through you like rum, its heat spreading through your belly.

"I didn't smell it before, not under all the blood you had on you," he said. His voice was deep, dark, dangerous. "But, oh, darling—I smell it now." He licked his lips and your stomach did flips that were neither pleasant or unpleasant. The hunger in his eyes was palpable

"I, ah, have to go. For your sake and mine. Um. So, uh, goodnight, Astarion. I...I'll see you when this is all over."

He stood up quickly. "Darling, do you need—" He cut himself off as you waved away his concern, crossing the camp to your own tent.

"No! Goodnight!" you called over your shoulder.

Astarion sighed. "...Night."

~❊~

You avoided Astarion like the plague. Well, perhaps not, because while you never wanted to see the disease, you were always on the lookout for your favorite vampire.

You caught glimpses of him through the open flaps of your tent, sauntering by with a swagger you found unfairly attractive. You saw him reading on his own when Shadowheart helped you changed your bandages, his handsome face fixed in concentration. A few hours later, you heard him arguing with Gale about the very same book, which had apparently gone missing, and you hated the flutter in your stomach at the growl in his angry voice.

"Stop that," Karlach said, glancing up at you as the pair of you cooked, Karlach helping you roast root vegetables evenly.

"Stop what?"

"Mooning over him," she said, jerking her head in Astarion's direction.

Your body flushed with heat. "I'm not—"

"You are, and we can all tell, and you should just get it over with, but only if you mean it."

You frowned, tearing your eyes away from the blessed sight that was Astarion basking in the sun. "Sorry, what?"

Karlach sighed. "If you sleep with him—" You spluttered. "—it had better be because you truly want him and not because you're bleeding."

You blinked at her. "Karlach, of course I want him, you've heard me talk about him before this!"

"I know, I know," she relented, "but I have a feeling there's more to our vampire than meets the eye." She glanced over at Astarion. "Just...be kind to him, dear. He's more fragile than he looks."

You followed her gaze over to him. He was stretching, his arms lifted high above his head, undoubtedly oblivious to the two of you watching him. Want and need bubbled up inside of you, both clamoring for Astarion, agreeing that he would fulfill them both. The deep-seated lust you'd had for him since he'd first put a knife to your neck burned even brighter as the breeze that had been kicking up dust all morning played with the silver hair curling around his ears.

His nostrils flared and you knew he'd smelled you. He looked over at you and Karlach and you froze. She waved cheerily, then frowned at you when you didn't move. You swallowed harshly and went back to removing the scales from the fish in your lap.

"He doesn't like not being around you either, you know," Karlach said, returning to the task at hand. "He's always looking at you when you're not looking. You're perfect for each other like that."

"I don't want to make this harder for him by being around him," you said, glancing back over at him. He was watching you as he poured himself a glass of wine. Had it been normal circumstances, when you weren't driving him insane simply by smelling like blood, you would have teased him for day-drinking. "He's already so hungry, I'd only make that worse. It was bad enough I threw myself at him covered in his favorite snack!"

Karlach snorted. The sound of a light laugh floated over to you and you looked up to find Astarion smirking into his goblet. He beckoned you over and your eyes grew wide.

"Excuse me for a moment, Karlach," you said, clearing your throat.

Karlach followed your gaze and giggled. "More than a moment, dear. I'll come back later to help you finish this." She left the log you'd been sharing and you waited until she was in her own tent again before you jumped to your feet and practically ran to Astarion.

"Hello, darling," he purred. "Care for a drink?"

"I could go for a little," you said.

Astarion smiled, that rakish charm summoning warmth that spread through your entire body. "I hope you like red," he said, and put his own goblet to your lips.

You held his gaze as you drank. You saw his nostrils flare, his pupils growing large. You knew he could hear how your heart was racing, could smell your arousal mixing with your blood.

He pulled the goblet away from your lips and took another swig. You licked the red wine off your lower lip and heard the breath catch in his chest.

"You're starving, aren't you?"

"You have no idea," he whispered.

"I might," you said. "Thought I'd say it's a hunger of a different kind."

Astarion's smirk was so wide you could see his fangs clearly. "Oh, really, darling?"

You nodded, taking a step closer to him. He breathed in deeply. "We could help each other, you know. Satiate our hungers."

His eyes grew dark, trained on yours. "Is that so?" He raised his hand, nearly brushing your cheek, but stopped himself just before he touched you. "You'd let me soothe your pain by..." His gaze dropped to your waistline. "...eating from you?"

A tremor passed through you at the sound of his voice, deeper than you'd ever heard it, laced with a danger and a seduction you were embarrassed to find attractive. Your body was tuned to it, his words seeming to drop like a stone from your ears to your core, spreading fire through your veins and melting your organs.

Astarion took a small step closer to you and took your chin in three gentle fingers, tilting your head up toward him. For a moment, you thought he might kiss you then and there. "I'm going to need an answer, darling."

"Yes." You couldn't get the word out fast enough. It came out breathy, nearly lost on the wind still swirling between you.

He chuckled. "Well, then. You asked for it." He dropped the hand on your chin back to his side. "Once everyone else is asleep, come find me. We'll find a quiet place and...have a little fun."

~❊~

Of all the nights, it had to be this one where everyone came to check on you before they went to sleep. Thanks to Astarion avoiding you like the plague when the two of you had become inseparable, your monthly bleed had become public knowledge. So practically everyone in camp came to you with solutions you declined, claiming to feel fine, even though your pain had worsened over the course of the day.

You watched Astarion slink off into the forest after the sun had gone down and waited until the others were sequestered in their tents, nearly an hour later, to pull your boots back on, stand on shaky feet, and follow the path you assumed he'd taken.

You had started to believe you'd taken a wrong turn somewhere when you heard his cool voice from behind you: "There you are. I've been waiting."

Astarion stepped out of the shadows. He ran his gaze over you, observing your slightly hunched stance, your hand on your lower abdomen. Your shoulders relaxed at the sight of him; he looked softer in the moonlight. The silver light fell across his curls and the statuesque panes of his face, somehow making that face that was so gaunt with hunger unbelievably beautiful.

He looked like a poet or a god, even in just the simple shirt he insisted on wearing around camp instead of the finer silks you knew he carried with him. Or perhaps it was the simplicity that made him so godly. You couldn't tell.

A frown graced his brow. "The pain is worse now, isn't it?"

You nodded. "Just a bit."

Astarion left the small hill he stood on and came closer to you. He offered you his hand. "Come on, dear, let me make you feel better."

You let him guide you away from the path you had taken and into a small clearing just a few feet away, conveniently hidden by thickets, trees, and tall grass. He stood aside, letting you take it in for a moment, as if waiting for your approval of the place. You looked down at the mossy ground and decided it would be soft enough.

"Well, this is nice," you said, seconds before you heard fabric rustling. You turned and blinked rapidly at what you saw: Astarion, his shirt now off and in his hands. You watched him lay it down where the ground was most level. Your breath caught horribly in your throat at the sight of the scar covering his back. You fought back the urge to ask, knowing it would only piss him off.

He turned back to you with a smile. "Your bed for the evening, my love," he said, gesturing to it.

"Oh, Astarion, I can't, I don't want to get blood on your shirt. What would the others—"

Astarion cupped your face in one hand. "The others will assume I hunted something and got messy," he said. "And I'll enjoy your scent while I have it."

Flutters in your stomach nearly brought you to your knees. You looked up at him, drawing in a tiny breath, and brought your hand up to hold the wrist that cradled your cheek.

"Please," you whispered, unsure of exactly what you were begging for but knowing what you wanted.

"Promise me you'll tell me if...I'm too much," Astarion said, and you got the sense he'd changed what he was going to say.

You nodded, whispering your promise, and wound your free hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, standing on your tiptoes to push your lips to his.

It was a messy first kiss. It was little more than teeth and spit, but it felt like heaven anyway, because his free arm was winding around your waist and pressing your bodies together, his leg sliding between yours. Bliss spread through you, starting at your core.

Astarion pulled away from you. "Someone's eager, isn't she?"

You whimpered and he stifled it with another kiss, softer than the first. He was gentle, more than you'd expected from a starving man. He cupped the back of your head and your hand dropped to his hip. You opened your mouth to him and reveled in the feeling of his tongue sliding against yours. He made a soft sound of satisfaction and pushed his leg up against your clothed core. You moaned loudly, your grip on him tightening. Need flooded you and your hips pushed down on his leg, finding relief in the pressure.

The two of you pressed your foreheads together, breathing heavily.

"Shh, darling, not too loud. You don't want the others to come investigate, do you?" His cheeky tone suggested he would love it if the others found the two of you like this—or, perhaps, further along.

You wrapped both arms around his neck and buried your head into his shoulder, heat burning through you, a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. You felt like there was a pendulum inside you, swinging constantly between wanting to slow down, afraid of coming off as too eager, and desperately needing him to get to it.

Astarion chuckled. "Don't hide, love." He smoothed his hand over your hair. "You do trust me, don't you?"

You kissed his shoulder and heard his breath catch. "With my life, Astarion."

"Are you ready?"

You nodded and he walked you over to his shirt and helped you to sit on it. He watched you lay down, his gaze falling your exposed neck. There was something more than hunger in his eyes; it made your breathing hitch.

Astarion crawled over you and placed his hand underneath your head before he kissed you. You draped your arm over his shoulders, holding him close to you, enjoying the soft touch of his lips against yours. It was chaste, as were the next few that followed it in quick succession, one after the other.

One hand slid down your body and stopped at the hem of your trousers. He tugged at the shirt tucked into them. "Darling? May I?"

"Please do," you said.

"Arms up."

He pulled the fabric over your head and tossed it to the side. He looked down at your torso from where he straddled your hips. His hands skimmed over you and he leaned down, pressing more gentle kisses to your neck and collarbones. Your body tingled with remembrance, practically yearning to feel his fangs sink into your neck, to feel your blood leave you with a burning that felt like intoxication.

"Astarion." His name was a breathy cry on your lips, and you saw how much he liked the sound of it when he looked up at you, a smile curving onto the lips still pressed to your skin.

"Yes, dear?"

You gently coaxed him back up to you with your hand on his chin. "Let me kiss you."

He smiled, brighter than the moonlight falling around you, and you pressed your mouth to his. He hummed happily into your mouth, a pleasant sensation that made you reluctant to break the kiss. But you did, kissing along his jaw and down his neck instead. You nipped gently at his neck, pulling a surprised laugh from him.

"Really, darling? Biting the vampire?" Astarion's eyes were sparkling with amusement. His face had relaxed into an easy smile. It was a good look on him; you liked it.

You giggled and placed another kiss over the bite. The pair of you rolled onto your sides and you peppered his chest with kisses, your arm wrapped loosely around his waist. You went back up to his neck and sucked lightly.

"So much for the others not knowing," he teased.

You looked at him through your lashes. "What if I want them to know?"

"Cheeky little thing," he whispered, dragging a finger down the side of your face. "As much as I love this—and believe me, I do love this—I can't wait any longer. I'm starving, darling. Let me taste you. Please."

Slightly subdued, you rolled onto your back. "Alright," you whispered, your chest tightening in anticipation.

Astarion climbed on top of you again. He undid the laces at the front of your trousers and slipped his hand inside them, moving slowly and keeping his eyes locked on yours.

The moment two of his fingers slid between your wet folds, your eyes fluttered shut and a happy sigh slipped from your lips.

"There she is," he whispered, his eyes half-lidded, as he worked you gently and slowly. You felt the blood and arousal gather on his fingers as he grew closer to your entrance. He dragged them back up to your clit and rubbed in a slow circle. You gasped, arching into his touch. Astarion giggled. "Oh, you like that, don't you?"

You wriggled underneath him, trying everything in your power to get more of his touch. He smiled down at you, kissing your cheek and cooing softly at you. If he spoke words, you didn't hear them, too lost in the pleasure he easily, skillfully, brought to you.

Without warning, Astarion plunged both fingers into your entrance. You moaned, grabbing at his hair. He chuckled, curling his fingers inside you. Whimpers slipped past your lips; you couldn't have controlled them if you tried, but you were by no means trying. His smile grew with every sound you made, and you wanted nothing more than to see that smile.

Just as suddenly as he'd pushed his fingers in, he pulled them out. You whined instantly but he shushed you and removed his hand from your pants. A small streak of blood was left on the skin of your stomach as he raised his hand to his mouth. You watched raptly as he licked your blood from his fingers, never once breaking eye contact with you.

He wasn't even touching you and the fire in your belly grew at the sight.

Astarion moaned softly around his fingers. You watched his deft tongue catch every drop of blood, thinned by your arousal, from his hand. He whispered your name in a whine and you let go of a long breath.

Once he'd licked his fingers clean, he bent down and yanked your trousers off your legs. You spread them automatically and he put one leg between them. He pulled off your undergarments and sat back, admiring your naked body with a satisfied smirk.

"Look at you," he whispered.

The need for him to touch you won out over the desire for him to keep staring at you. "Astarion." His name was a loud whine, emphasized by your writhing hips.

He chucked. "Needy girl." His hand returned to your cunt, his palm applying pressure to your clit while his fingers toyed with your bloody folds. His eyes practically rolled into the back of his head, the smell of blood so heady even you could smell it.

He teased your entrance for a moment and pulled his fingers back up, the tips of them coated in thick blood that looked black in the night. He sucked it from his fingers with a toothy smile, his fangs peeking out over his bottom lip.

You pushed your hips up enough to catch his eye. "Please," you whimpered.

"Alright, love, alright," he said. He put his hand back and slipped his fingers back inside you. Relief curled through you—as did his fingers. "I'll starve myself a bit longer for your pleasure."

You cupped his neck and brought his face to yours and kissed him fiercely. He made a surprised but pleased sound into your mouth and quickened his pace. You gasped against his lips and he ducked his head to your neck, kissing you quickly with every curl of his fingers.

You twisted your fingers through his hair, rapidly kissing the top of his head, pushing your hips up into his hand. He chuckled, his breath ghosting over your skin and raising goosebumps. You shuddered in his arms.

"I've got you," he murmured, sucking a light mark into your neck. You felt his teeth prick you and saw the shudder that passed through his body at the tiny droplets of blood that appeared.

He pulled away from your neck and curled his fingers just so. You groaned.

"Astarion!" you cried, throwing your head back.

He grinned and quickened his pace. You sucked in a deep breath, fighting back tears of pleasure.

"Let go, darling," he whispered. "I've got you."

Astarion looked back down at your neck. He locked eyes with you as he pressed his tongue to your skin, slowly licking up the droplets as they began to run down your neck. The combination of his intense stare and the movement of his fingers was all you needed; with a loud cry, you came on his fingers, your walls clenching so hard around him he could hardly keep moving them.

He chuckled. "That's it, dear, that's it." He cooed softly, helping you through it with his voice, his soft touch, and gentle kisses to your lips.

You were breathing hard when he finally pulled his fingers out of you. You whimpered at the slight pain but realized your cramps had all but disappeared.

Judging by the state of his hand, you didn't want to know how bloody his shirt was. It looked as though he'd reached into someone's chest and ripped their heart out; his hand was drenched and rivulets of blood ran all the way down to his elbow.

Astarion giggled at the sight while you burned with embarrassment. "Well, well, well. Someone's happy, isn't she?"

"So are you," you said, nodding to the bulge in his pants.

He grinned. "Well, what did you expect? You were quite vocal, my needy little thing." His eyes drifted back down to your cunt, lust curling through his gaze. "Tight and wet and utterly desperate for me."

He licked a stripe up his hand, his eyes fluttering shut. "Oh, darling, you taste good." He sucked your blood off of every finger, pleasure sliding over his face.

You smiled. "There's more where that came from."

Astarion raised one perfect brow. "Can you handle another little death?" he teased.

You nodded. "I can take a few more."

He chuckled and groaned at the same time. "Oh, my love, don't make promises you can't keep."

You met his gaze as he finished cleaning off his hand. "Believe me, I can keep it."

The vampire grinned. "Very well, then. I'll eat good tonight."

He kissed you chastely as he put his hand between your legs again.

Astarion brought you pleasure unlike anything you'd ever felt before as his fingers slid over your blood-slick skin, teasing your folds and entrance with a smirk, often just barely inserting the tip of his finger before pulling it out again and tracing over your clit and smearing blood across your skin. He kissed and sucked on your breasts, leaving darkening bruises and tiny scratches from his teeth, licking up the tiny beads of blood that sprung from each nick. He kissed along the line of scarring and stitches you had gotten from your injury, fading fast but still a reminder of what had gotten you on your back for him in the first place. Now that he'd eaten a little, he was intently focused on bringing you to the edge and pulling you back, again and again and again.

He worked another orgasm out of you and was on his way to coaxing out the third when you stopped him.

"Is it too much?" he asked, frowning. His unbloodied hand moved to rest on your hip, his thumb smoothing over your skin. His eyes searched your face, looking for anything to tell him why you'd stopped him.

You shook your head. "I need more, Astarion," you gasped, slurring his name into Astari. The unintended nickname made him blush. "I need more of you. Please. Please."

The smile returned to his face, cockier than before. "Oh, darling. I need more of you, too," he said, looking into your cunt and licking his lips. "I could just eat you up."

You spread your legs wider. He settled between them. "Please do."

He breathed in deep and his eyes practically rolled back into his head. "You're going to be the death of me— Ah. Well, you would be, if I was alive."

You frowned. "Would this even be happening if you were alive?"

Astarion thought for a moment. "Let's not think about the logistics," he decided and licked the drying blood from his fingers off your abdomen. Your body trembled. He lifted your legs over his shoulders. You squeaked and smiled at him.

"Lay back," he whispered. You obliged him.

Wet warmth touched your skin just above your clit and you glanced down at him, watching him slowly lick the drying blood from your skin. He kissed your skin as he cleaned it, leaving you covered in slowly darkening bruises.

You stared at the stars as he pressed a soft first kiss to your clit. You let out a slow breath and he began to suck, his lips closing around it, his tongue licking light stripes.

You pushed your hips against his mouth. "Circles," you whispered.

"As you wish," he said, his breath fanning over your cunt and making you tremble. He went back to his feast, licking in circles this time, and you let out a soft whimper. You reached down and he reached up, lacing your fingers together and squeezing your hand. You squeezed back.

He moved further down until his nose bumped your clit and his lips found your entrance. He moaned, the sound deep and guttural, at the taste of your blood. He lapped at your entrance, his tongue sweeping up the blood as soon as it collected there. You shuddered, your breaths coming in heaves.

Astarion kissed your entrance once before he dove in, pushing his tongue into your cunt. You gasped and he laughed and buried his face in you.

Through the pleasure, you wondered dimly how he was breathing (did he, as a vampire, need to breathe?), but the thought was pushed away the moment his splayed fingers on your hip dug into your flesh and pulled you even closer to his mouth.

The sounds you were making were obscene: your moans were loud and coarse, and your cunt squelched lewdly as he drank your blood and arousal. You felt filthy, aware that the mix was running down your legs and buttocks but knowing the vampire eating you out was enjoying you too much to care.

Astarion himself was quite vocal, moaning into you and making you shiver. He whimpered, whined, groaned, and keened, growing louder with every swallow of blood. He alternated between watching you writhe and squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure.

You watched his hand slide from your hip to his bulge. He palmed himself through his trousers, hissing in pleasure, and the sight was enough to send you over the edge for a third time.

But Astarion didn't let up. He lapped at you, sucking so harshly your pleasure bordered pain, until your legs stopped shaking and your breathing evened out.

He lifted his head with a grin. "How do I look?"

You looked at him and started laughing. He was the smiliest you had ever seen him, his eyes practically glowing, and the lower half of his face was covered in your blood. His teeth were stained red and sticky blood dripped slowly from his fangs. It ran down his chin in rivulets and splatters dotted his lower cheeks like freckles. Some of it was even in his hair.

"You're ridiculous," you giggled. "And a messy eater."

He snorted. "Excuse you!"

"It's all over your face!"

He sat up with a grin, licking his lips. "You mean you are all over my face."

Satisfaction curled through you. "Yes," you said, reaching for him. He took your hand again. "Yes I am."

He wiped his face with his hand and licked it clean once again. You reached up and wiped some off on your thumb, then held it out to him. He took your thumb into his mouth and sucked. Your heart stopped beating.

"Feeling better?" he asked you, lightly placing his palm over your abdomen, applying a little pressure, and rubbing gentle circles.

"Much better," you said. "Thank you. But, ah..." Your gaze drifted from his beautiful, if slightly pink, face and down to his bulge. It was just as, if not more, prominent now that he'd gone down on you. "What about you?"

Astarion smirked. "I like your enthusiasm, but don't worry about me. Not tonight, darling."

You frowned. "Why not? What if I want you inside of me?" You walked two fingers up his leg and slowly covered his crotch with your palm. When he didn't protest and his eyes fluttered shut, you gave him a gentle squeeze. He let out a soft moan through closed lips and tilted his head back. You kissed the column of his neck and bit down gently. You sucked—hard—and a rumbling moan came from his chest.

"Because," he said finally, drawing in a ragged breath. "Because that would be a terrible waste of your precious blood." He looked at you with half-lidded eyes. "When this is over, I promise you, you can have as much of me as you want." He pushed his hips into your hand and you gave him another gentle squeeze. He gasped.

You nuzzled into him and his arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you there. "And what if I want all of you?"

The question hung in the air. He looked at you for a long time and suddenly you saw the fragility Karlach had mentioned this afternoon, which felt like years ago instead of mere hours. You reached up to cup his cheek and, though you were stark naked, the sexual desire in the air seemed to have disappeared.

"I want all of you, Astari," you whispered. The nickname made his eyes grow wide. "All of you, in every way, for as long as possible. If you'll let me. If you want me, too."

He whimpered, and the sound was broken. You hated hearing that pain coming from him. "I want you, I do, I just..." He closed his eyes and you were suddenly very sure there was a darkness, a secret, he was trying to hide from you. You were certain it had to do with his vampiric master he'd so often complained about. "I'll try, my darling, I'll try for you."

You sat up on your knees and cupped his face in both hands and kissed him. You didn't break the kiss once as you pressed your body against his and held him tightly. You felt the scar on his back and wanted to ask but didn't, letting him keep his secrets for now.

His arms came around you, cradling your back and holding you tight to him. The kiss became a long-lasting hug, the both of you burying your heads in each other's shoulders until Astarion pulled away from you, a smile on his face. You returned that smile and sat back on your heels.

His eyes trailed over your body again. There was a note of nervousness in his voice as he asked, "Darling, would you mind...touching me again? I could use some relief."

You grinned. "Of course, my love. All you had to do was ask."

Relief crossed his face. He leaned back as you trailed your hand from his shoulder, down his chest, and back to his bulge. You tipped his head back with your free hand and kissed his neck while you rubbed him. He pushed his hips into your hand, sighing blissfully, and your hand was in his trousers in seconds. He grew loud, thrusting his cock into your hand with a power that surprised you.

"Take what you need," you told him, your voice hushed, your lips directly next to his ear. "Help me give you what you want."

He whimpered, your name a broken cry from his lips, and he cuddled into you as he came. He buried his head into your neck, hiding his eyes and barely holding back grunts. As his thrusts grew weaker and you slowed your hand on him, you felt hot tears on your neck and wondered what this poor man had been through that he hadn't yet told you.

You removed your hand from his pants and he immediately wrapped you in another hug, one strong enough to knock you down and knock the breath of you. You held him as tightly as he held you.

When Astarion at last pulled away from you, his tears had stopped but his eyes still shone with them. He kissed you softly.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I... Thank you."

You brushed some of his hair from his face. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. You were... It's just that no one has cared about me during sex in a very long time and...you did. So...thank you."

You took his hand and squeezed it. "Oh, Astarion," you cooed. "I always care about you. Like this or otherwise. You could stop this right now—or before it even began—and I wouldn't have stopped caring about you."

He smiled. "Oh, darling. I love the sentiment, but I'm not done with you yet."

Astarion kissed down your body and laid between your legs again. He licked another stripe up your cunt and you saw the coating of blood on his tongue before he swallowed. "Shall we try for a fourth? Or perhaps even a fifth?" He raised his brow, leaving the decision up to you.

You laid back. "We'll try for as many as you'd like," you said.

He bared his teeth in a feral grin. "All night it is!"

~❊~

You woke up the next morning sore and alone and with very little sleep.

Astarion had been relentless and stopped only when you simply couldn't take it anymore and he was practically drunk on your blood—all without making you bloodless and woozy. When you had finished for the final time, he had cleaned you up, helped you back into your clothes, picked up his own shirt, and walked you back to camp. He was so gentle that you didn't even mind the teasing about how you limped.

Dawn hadn't been far off as you each went back to your tents after exchanging a final, solid kiss. So you woke to the sound of everyone else beginning their day just a few hours later.

You felt the soreness in your core before you even moved. Biting back a sigh and not regretting it one bit as you pictured Astarion's happy, bloody face, you rolled over and hoped your recent injury would be enough for the others to let you sleep in.

You were wrong.

Shadowheart opened your tent a few minutes later with a urgency that made you jump.

"What? What's wrong?" you asked, blinking blearily in the bright sunlight.

"Are you alright? You never sleep in, you're always up making breakfast!"

You groaned. "Is that it? Are you just hungry?"

She peered at you. "Are you hurt? Did your wound reopen?"

"What? No! I'm fine, I'm just tired, that's all! I have lost a lot of blood recently, in case you forgot."

She sighed. "Oh. Alright. Well, just know the others are worried, too—Astarion especially."

You remembered how he'd checked in on you last night and had asked if he'd hurt you at all when you'd returned to camp and wondered if you had worried him by sleeping in. Suddenly you were grateful the others could chalk it up to his not-so-secret crush on you.

You dressed and hid the light bruises on your neck and collarbones in a high-collared shirt. You only noticed you were walking with a slight limp still after you'd left your tent and made your way across camp.

Karlach called your name and was at your side immediately. "You're limping! Are you hurt? Do you need me to fetch Shadowheart?"

You blinked at her. "What? No. I'm fine!"

"You don't look fine," Gale said, a few feet away, looking up from the book he'd been engrossed in for days. "Did you hurt your leg the other day? Or have your stitches ripped?"

"My, my," said a suave voice behind you. You turned and found Astarion grinning like a cat. "You do have quite the limp, there, darling. Are you sure you're alright?"

You huffed at him, your body remembering his touch immediately, his ghostly hands sliding across your skin. "I'm fine, I promise. Now hush and someone help me make breakfast."

Both Karlach and Astarion sat with you, Astarion very close to you and giving you a smile you couldn't help but return. Karlach stared at Astarion like he'd grown two heads, her gaze flickering between the two of you. She gasped very suddenly.

"Not a word," you hissed at her, knowing she'd figured it out.

Astarion smirked.

"And nothing from you, either," you added. "You're the reason I'm walking like this, you bastard."

He smiled sweetly at you, catching the fondness in the words. "And I gladly will be again." He took your hand and lifted it to his mouth, kissing it. Your eyes grew wide.

Karlach squeaked.

"You know nothing," you told her. "At least for a little while."

"Yes," Astarion agreed. "At the very least, tell Shadowheart nothing—I broke my promise to her to keep our dear girl from doing any strenuous activity."

You turned red and Karlach groaned, "Not before breakfast, please!"

Astarion opened his mouth—undoubtedly to say something about how you were technically his breakfast, based on the hour you'd returned to camp—but you moved quicker than he could speak. You grabbed him by the collar and yanked him toward you, kissing him heartily to shut him up.

A heavy silence settled over camp. You cracked one eye open and found the rest of your companions staring at the pair of you, mouths agape and eyes wide.

"Oops," Astarion muttered, sounding rather pleased.

You cleared your throat. "I, ah, I've been meaning to tell you all. Honestly."

Gale heaved a sigh. "How much do I owe you, Wyll?"

Your jaw dropped open. "You placed bets?!"

"Alright, you bloodsucker," Wyll said, holding his hand out and waiting for his payment from Gale. "You win."

"Yes," Astarion said, and you expected him to be wearing a smirk infused with his charm, his triumphant eyes on the others. But when you turned to him, he was staring at you, a dopey smile fixed on his face. "Yes, I did."

☞ ❊ ☜

Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Acunin

part 2 (Sweet Like Wine) {here}!

Taglist: {comment and let me know if you'd like to be added to the Astarion taglist!}

[cleabellanov]

"But Lokius isn't even canon! Stop making everything gay!"

...

The Loki series isn't just about romantic relationships and shouldn't be seen as so. However, there is a lot of subtext. Maybe this ship is not canon, but it was intended to be seen as so by the fans.

If Lokius isn't canon, then why were the last two shots of the series showing Mobius and Loki?

If Lokius isn't canon, why would there be so much touching and scenes so physically close to one another? (believe me I know they're friends. that just offers a solid base for something more)

If Lokius isn't canon, why is there an OFFICIAL track named like that?

Why is said track played or incorporated in different scenes of the series? like

-the first McDonalds meeting with Sylvie,

-the back-in-time conversation with Kang

- the ASCENSION to the throne?

Why is the Sylvie and Loki kiss never mentioned, by the producers, in the series per se, or even in the season 1 recap?

Why is Mobius the only one looking at Loki when he leaves down to the temporal loom?

And the other way around, why did Loki only make eye contact with Mobius in that scene?

Why is Mobius the only one to notice there is something wrong when Loki is still trying to fix the Loom?

Why did Mobius/Don on the original timeline, mention he's single, trust a complete stranger, invite him for a drink, AND offer to sell him a quite personal jet-ski?

Why did Loki, the LITERAL GOD OF MISCHIEF stutter and fix his hair and coat for no one else but Mobius (who by the way is just a jetski salesman on that timeline)?

Why is the timeslipping Loki had to go through directed to Mobius twice, him being the the only one he doesn't need a TemPad to "recruit"?

Why would Loki bring up Thor and Jane if it wasn't to mirror him and Mobius? (because, as he already was talking to Sylvie, he certainly wasn't implying it's about her. They were arguing, AND Mobius was implied in the conversation. Loki defended him in front of Sylvie, in case you forgot.)

Why would Mobius's voice be the one to echo back to Loki on his throne? let time pass time pass time pass

Why the RAINBOW?

WHY DID LOKI LOOK AT MOBIUS RIGHT BEFORE THE FAMOUS LINE "IT'S ABOUT WHO"? (important mention: Sylvie was behind him when he said that. why didn't he just turn around when saying it? nope, they know what they're doing)

Why is the shot cut to Mobi after Loki's "it was more about what I wanted" line?

Why the shot where 7 characters could've been showed (Mobius, Loki, Sylvie, B-15, Casey, O.B., Victor Timely) there are only 2: Mobius and Loki?

Why is Mobius the only one to tell Loki he can be someone good, and the first one Loki actually believes despite his tendency to do the other way around in the past?

Why does Mobius finally find insight, and reinvent his whole life at the TVA because Loki helped him do so? (they're not even the first Loki variant he faced, but something clicked this time)

Why does the bloody sleeve, representing Loki being hurt by Sylvie just because he "wore his heart on his sleeve" disappear on episode 2? (because he finally understands who he needs to be next to)

Why did Mobius risk his life on the first episode?

Why did Loki go to past Mobius for the final advice, not to the present one, not to Sylvie?

Why did Loki ultimately sacrifice his life for the ones he loves?

And why is Mobius left alone, with the door locked, after Loki leaves in the Loom's radiation?

Why would there be so much endearing looks, and smiles at each other, if not for a conscious acting choice?

Why why why why why if it isn't canon?

Nothing is for nothing. Especially in television, where everything counts from the light to the angles and the way the lines are spoken.

We don't need to see two characters kiss to know they are made for one another. In fact, I think implied canon is so much better for now, because it leaves free interpretation for the fans, and nothing to strike on for the haters.

Of course, that doesn't change the fact that the ending is still tragic, although it holds its sweet from bittersweet. But remember: there aren't tragedies without love.

[syrupfog]

Zoro wakes up to the scratchy feeling of a note beneath his haramaki. 

“Cook’s name is Sanji. 

You fight every day. He hates you. He knows your favorite foods. You loved him. 

Hanahaki got bad again. You took the pill. 

No. of times this has happened: [a number of scribbles] 11”

The note looks like it’s been through the ringer, crumpled and bloodied. Zoro reads it, folds it up, and sticks it back in his haramaki. He assumes he’ll need it again.

The cook— Sanji— is hard to get along with. He yells at Zoro, fights with Zoro, complains about Zoro. He’s terrible. 

Living alongside him is like breathing. 

It feels so natural, slotting into place next to him. Zoro knows instantly why the disease keeps coming back. It’s hell.

Robin knows. Nami knows. Chopper doesn’t seem to, and if Usopp did then Sanji would. And Sanji doesn’t seem to know. 

Thank god Sanji doesn’t seem to know. 

It’s only a few weeks before Zoro’s coughing up petals again. Small and blue and fragile.

They’re on an island and it’s autumn and the town’s harvest festival is happening. There’s a cult or possibly just a really zealous group of farmers. Zoro doesn’t know; he got lost and ended up at an old woman’s cottage on the outskirts of town.

His theory circles back around to *cult* when he ends up prone on her floor after some apparently drugged mulled wine. She stands over him and rants about something or other— he doesn’t care what she has to say, he’s preoccupied with the way the drugs coursing through his system are making it hard to cough, and the flowers in his throat are sticking to his insides. 

It’s gross. He doesn’t cough them up so much as pukes them out. 

The old woman also thinks it’s gross. She kicks him, but she’s old. He doesn’t really feel it.

Anyway, it’s a whole thing. The problem is that the woman wants to drag him somewhere to be a sacrifice to the great pumpkin or something, but Zoro’s too heavy and she can’t move him. But when she opens the door to find a neighbour to help— 

Sanji’s there.

(Or, as Zoro has taken to calling him recently, Curly). 

(Nami told him after he started that he often ends up at that name). 

Sanji lays on the simpering to the old woman for all of about two minutes, asking if she’s seen some lost moss and then going on about her hair care. But eventually he does notice Zoro there on the floor behind her. 

Slipping around the woman, who seems to be somewhat at a loss, Sanji starts ranting to Zoro about how he shouldn’t drink so much if he’s going to puke it all up, and how he stinks now— and to be fair, Zoro’s shirt is covered in puke and wilted flower petals. But then Sanji starts pulling his shirt off of him while Zoro’s still struggling to get up, and as he does so, the note— The note slips out of his haramaki. 

And Zoro can’t grab it.

(He still can’t REALLY move, although he suspects that puking the flower petals did get some of the poison out). 

But he cant stop Sanji. His weak “fuck off, give that back” falls on deaf ears as Sanji unfolds it. Frowns at the state of it. Reads it. 

Fuck.

Then, fast as anything, Sanji stands up and punts Zoro hard enough that he flies across the room, hitting the far wall and sliding down to the floor with a grown. 

Awesome. Great. Good to know how Sanji feels.

He hears the click click of his dress shoes as Sanji hurries out. And then he’s alone with the old lady, who seems truly at a loss for what to do, but that’s okay. Zoro’s too busy coughing up whole branches to notice.

Zoro is retrieved by Robin and Usopp not too long after that. By the time they’re back at the ship he’s regained a fair amount of his mobility. Whatever was going on in town, Luffy took care of it. Or Usopp did, depending on who Zoro asked. 

It doesn’t matter.

Zoro coughs up petals and licks his wounds and starts searching for those pills. And probably it’s too early this time, but he just— 

He wants to forget this. 

He can’t find the pills, though, and he remembers too late that Sanji kept the note. He needs that.

But he’s a coward. He waits until everyone should be asleep before sneaking into the galley to see if he can find the note in the trash or something. 

He miscalculates, though, and runs straight into Sanji, smoking in the dark.

“Eleven times?” Sanji asks him, staring resolutely at the wall next to Zoro. 

“Apparently,” says Zoro. 

Sanji laughs. Humourlessly. “Can’t wait to make it a twelfth, can you?” 

“Listen,”growls Zoro. “It’s not my fault you read the fucking note. Just pretend you never found it.”

Sanji grits his teeth around his cigarette. “Is it that fucking horrible?” He asks. “The idea of having feelings for me is so fucking repulsive you’d rather rip me out of your life entirely?” 

Zoro goes to say something, but there are petals squirming their way up his throat.

He coughs, hacks, spits them into his palm. Delicate blue petals splattered with blood. “You asshole,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What, would you prefer I wallow in rejection and suffocate on a fucking plant? I don’t plan on dying here.”

Sanji goes still and quiet. 

“You hid the pills, right?” Zoro continues. “Give them back. I’m done here.” 

“No,” says Sanji. Quietly. “I— Moss, you can’t believe that.” 

“Who else would it have been?” 

“No, I mean— yeah okay, I threw your pills overboard. But that’s not—“ He swallows. “Zoro. You can’t possibly think I would reject you..?” 

Zoro scrunches up his face in confusion. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “You flirted with that old woman who drugged me. You’ll flirt with our literal enemy before even looking at me.” He blinks. “And then you threw me into a wall!” 

“I was caught off guard!” Sanji shrieks, jumping up. “Anyone would have done that after reading that note!” 

“THAT’S AN INSANE THING TO THINK!” 

“WELL MAYBE I’M A LITTLE INSANE RIGHT NOW.“ 

They’re suddenly at each others’ throats. Zoro grabs Sanji’s collar as Sanji grips his shoulders. He’s grimacing, face inches from Zoro’s, cigarette smashed on the floor. 

“You don’t get to DECIDE WHAT I THINK and then HURT YOURSELF OVER AND OVER AGAIN,” Sanji yells. 

“I’m FINE, COOK,” Zoro yells back. “I was HANDLING IT.”

And then Sanji smashes their faces together. 

It’s a terrible kiss. Someone’s nose is bleeding and Zoro thinks it’s his. He thinks Sanji’s broken it. 

Pulling back, Sanji says, “You didn’t have to handle it.” He pushes his forehead against Zoro’s. “That’s the fucking problem.”

Zoro purses his lips because his eyes are damp. “Shut up,” he says. “How was I supposed to know?” 

Sanji’s hands are still on his collar and he pulls Zoro impossibly closer. “Just. Don’t forget me again.” 

Zoro closes his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Eleven was enough.”

[penkura]

last forever [3/13]

Summary: Zoro only offered to marry you to keep you out of an arranged marriage with a man much older than you. You agreed with the caveat of ending it via annulment once you received word from your parents regarding the original engagement, despite your growing feelings for your close friend.

Pairing: Zoro x Fem!reader, mentioned Sanami later (like epilogue later so chill)

Warnings: Marriage of Convenience, Fake Marriage, referenced sex (waaaaaay later on), mutual pining, Zoro is bad at feelings but what's new there, eventual romance I promise, mention of past attempted assault (I'll warn in that chapter), creepy older dude later on

Note: At time of posting, this is the most recent chapter I have finished. Chapter four will be worked on and hopefully posted tomorrow (4/29), then I will update every Monday, hopefully.

[Ch. 1] ● [Ch. 2]

Your stress is through the roof, watching Zoro fight against Dracule Mihawk. You're wringing your hands hearing Luffy tell Johnny and Yosaku not to interfere, and it makes you want to jump over and help. You knew this was his plan as soon as name left Johnny's mouth before you all arrived at Baratie, you hadn't gotten the chance to tell him he should wait, and seeing his swords break, the large attack from Mihawk that left him bloodied and Luffy screaming his name now makes you wish you could go back and do that.

"Sis, we need your sewing skills!!"

Johnny and Yosaku brought Zoro onto a small ship manned by Usopp, one you'd probably be taking to go after Nami and bring her and the Merry back.

You're about to jump in and go to them, before remembering the one thing keeping you from doing so.

Damn it, I can't swim!

"You have to bring him over here! You guys know I can't swim!"

"We can't get close enough," Usopp yells and looks between you and Zoro, "He's bleeding really bad!"

Biting your lip, you barely notice Luffy wrapping his arms around you three times before he says your name.

"You're gonna fly!!"

"Wait wha–"

Luffy lifts you up and stretches his arms all the way over, making sure you've touched down on the boat before he lets go, arms snapping back as he tells you to help Zoro. You start getting your supplies ready, your heart pounding in your ears and you barely notice Zoro awake, lifting up Wado Ichimonji and making a promise to Luffy with heavy breaths and tears you've never seen before.

Actually, you've never seen Zoro cry before this day.

"Until I become…the world's greatest swordsman, I swear…I'll never lose again! Got that, King of the Pirates?!"

Hearing Luffy's agreement makes you smile as you stare at Zoro, quickly remembering you have to start stitching him up or he'll bleed to death in this tiny boat. Usopp starts you all in the direction Nami took the Going Merry, while Johnny and Yosaku watch you with tear filled eyes as you stitch up the gash from Mihawk down Zoro's chest, he's nearly fast asleep by the time you finish and cut the thread.

A very quiet word of thanks leaves his mouth before he's asleep, you simply respond telling him not to mention it, rinsing your hands in the sea water. Johnny gives you praise for being able to stitch up such a large wound, Usopp saying you were one of the best he'd ever seen for a makeshift doctor. You hear them, but don't respond, watching Zoro sleep instead. Despite his loss to Mihawk he looks as if he's resting peacefully, and that makes you happy to think about for the time being.

You're quiet as you place a hand on his face, stroking his cheek slightly while telling the others that he'll be alright, before removing your hand from his face.

You'd love to tell him how amazed you are and that you have feelings for him, but now's not the time. Maybe another day, when you aren't chasing down your friend who's stolen your ship and is going off to who knows where, and maybe when Zoro isn't unconscious from nearly bleeding out after taking on a fight he couldn't win (but oh how badly you wanted him to win it).

Right now, you have to focus on Nami.

+!+

How you all have now liberated three towns from Pirates or the threat of Pirates, you aren't sure. Your crew isn't anything like the Pirates your parents had tried to teach you to fear as a child. Luffy was far too kind and really only wanted to be King of the Pirates, but helping Nami came first.

Freeing her home from Arlong and his Fishman Pirates was the main priority of the day, and you were glad to lend a hand. Nami had become your best friend in no time, you had to help her. Even when you were told (ordered really) to stay back by Zoro, you made sure you were ready to help if needed.

And you tried. Tried to pull Zoro away after he'd beaten Hachi and was on the verge of collapse from a fever and his wounds from Mihawk, but he tried to shove you away and tell you he was fine despite the dizzied look he had. Arlong ripping his stitches out caused you to try again, trying to help him, but you were stopped by Johnny and Yosaku pulling you back, telling you not to bother because you'd just die.

Even seeing Luffy swap places with Zoro terrified you that he was going to be even more badly injured, but you were still held back by your old friends through the end of Luffy's fight against Arlong, finally freeing Nami and her hometown.

Your biggest concern afterwards was Zoro, but when you saw him later that day with a drink in hand you knew he was fine. Most of your time at the party was spent with Nami and her sister Nojiko, listening to Usopp tell his stories to the kids, and sharing Sanji's food with Luffy. Every now and then you'd look for and find Zoro, a few times smiling brightly at him when you caught his eye, which made him look away from you immediately.

Sanji, still brand new to the crew, noticed the looks you and Zoro shared that night. You were strange, your relationship with him, whatever it was, was strange to him.

Even stranger, he notices you leave Nami and Nojiko at one point, hurrying over to Zoro and latching onto his arm, making him lean in to hear whatever you had to say. He rolls his eyes while you smile, but doesn't shake you off, letting you move his arm around your shoulders while he has another drink.

You're weird, both of you. The rest of the crew isn't phased at all by the two of you being so buddy-buddy, but Sanji wonders what you two have going on. Are you together? How long have you known each other? Surely you only met when you each joined Luffy, right?

When Zoro leaves you to go look for Luffy, food, or another drink, whatever it is, you seem content to be left alone, until Sanji sees your shoulders drop and you look almost like you're going to cry. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, he's not sure.

But if Zoro said or did something to upset you, Sanji was going to make sure the swordsman paid for it.

+!+

The majority of your crew doesn't know of your struggles with nightmares. Normally they take the form of your parents, the man they were going to force you to marry, and being trapped in a loveless life in your home village where most treated their children like property to be sold. Your only solace there being your older brother who was protective over you. Being the one to help you run away, making you swear to never come back and to take his sword to protect yourself after he'd spent the last few years teaching you how to use it.

You were good at keeping those demons to yourself, to not worry anyone. The nightmares had been less lately anyway, you felt safe with everyone around. The six of you on your way to Loguetown, you and Nami snatching up the office area as your room, both turning in late in the night after long talks about numerous things.

Your bad dreams, however, took a new form that night. This time, the dream takes you back to Baratie, back to Zoro's fight against Mihawk, and instead of him waking long enough for his promise to Luffy, you're sitting beside him while he bleeds from the wound and you're unable to move. You can't bring yourself to start stitching him up, and before anything else happens, you've woken up.

While it wasn't as bad as the dreams about your parents, it was enough to shock you awake and into a seated position on your bed. Nami is still fast asleep in her own bed, apparently not having noticed or heard your heavy breathing from the nightmare. You don't know why your nightmares took this turn, you'd much rather deal with seeing your parents in your dreams than seeing your closest friend and ally dying in front of you, even though he was just down the hall and alive.

It's several minutes of tossing and turning before you decide to get up and sneak off to the boys' bunks, turning back to your habit you'd been determined to stop as more crewmates joined, but you can't help it.

The past nightmares have been enough to make you slip into bed with Zoro before, he never fought you over it and let you stay, let you continue when it was just the two of you, but with more friends you worried they'd all get the wrong idea.

And maybe they will, but if Zoro doesn't mind and it helps you sleep, they shouldn't complain or tease you. Hopefully.

Usopp and Luffy are both spread out on the floor, making you have to tiptoe around them to get to Zoro's hammock, not even registering that Sanji's is empty.

You're quiet while you slip in and under the blanket, wrapping your arms around Zoro and making yourself comfortable. You figured he was asleep when you walked in, but his hand moves to grab one of your own, thumb stroking the back of your hand while he waits to hear if you say anything.

You don't, Zoro doesn't mind, he knows you won't tell him the contents of your nightmares anymore, not after the first one. If you're unable to sleep, he's glad to let you join him and keep you safe. He promised he would do so, helping keep your demons away so you could rest.

Unfortunately, your peaceful sleep is interrupted early in the morning by Sanji shouting at Zoro to get off you, like he'd done something wrong when you were the one to climb into his hammock.

"What do you think you're doing to [Y/N]-chan, you moss head?! Get your hands off her!"

A pillow lands on your face, likely aimed for Zoro, but it misses him due to the fact his face is buried in your shoulder while one arm is around you. Normally your face would be red at this, but with Sanji still nearly screeching for Zoro to "unhand" you, all you can think about is crawling in a hole and dying.

Zoro gets fed up and eventually lets you go, taking the pillow that disturbed you both and throwing it back at Sanji with twice the force.

"Shut up already!! You're going to wake the whole damn East blue!"

"I will as soon as you stop violating sweet [Y/N]!"

Yeah you really want to just up and die right now.

"Who's violating her?!"

"You are, you savage!"

"How do I violate my own wife when she's the one that crawled into my bed?!"

Everything goes quiet, you don't want to know what look is on Sanji's face at the moment, but you're grateful for Nami coming in and telling everyone to shut up, even though she's a moment too late. Luffy and Usopp were awake and just watching the scene unfold, until Zoro's statement which makes Usopp's eyes go wide and Luffy laughs. He just knew you two wouldn't be able to keep this secret.

You're so embarrassed that you pull the blanket up over your now definitely bright red face, wishing Zoro and Sanji didn't feel the need to egg each other on and instigate all these petty fights.

When you finally decide to look and see what's going on, Luffy's still laughing, Nami is confused, Zoro's still got a glare set on Sanji, while your chef and Usopp are both looking at the two of you wide eyed, disbelief on their faces before there's one outburst from Sanji.

"Your WHAT?!"

+!+

It feels like an interrogation. You're in the kitchen still in your pajamas with Usopp and Sanji both questioning you and Zoro about your little marriage, Nami and Luffy enjoying breakfast to your side.

Zoro's completely unbothered by the whole thing, answering Sanji's questions with an annoyed look, while you answer Usopp's inquiries with your face still red from the way everyone was woken up that morning.

Eventually, they come to realize you two are only married to prevent the arranged one your parents set up, making Sanji sigh in relief and Usopp is slightly concerned but seems to understand.

“So, one more time,” you just can’t look at Usopp while he relays your situation once again, “You and Zoro got married to prevent you being forced into an arranged marriage, but you’re going to annul?”

You nod, taking glances at Zoro, who continues to glare at Sanji for waking you both too early. All of this was too much first thing in the morning, and you both had decided to keep this little marriage a secret from any new recruits, wanting only Luffy and Nami to know because you’d both slipped up with calling each other husband and wife without thinking about it in front of them.

"And you're just waiting for your parents to say something?"

You nod again at Sanji's question. "It's weird, I know but…I just can't go back there. My older brother told me never to go back, or I'd definitely be forced into that marriage."

"Your parents suck." Luffy nodded, still eating his breakfast when you look over at him with a smile. "But we'll keep you safe! We'll fight anyone that tries to take you from us!"

"No one's forcing you back home," Zoro doesn't look at you, instead moving to leave and start his training for the day despite not having breakfast yet, "I'll make sure of that."

There's something in the way he says it, as you thank everyone, that makes Sanji lean back in his seat and watch Zoro leave. Even with you both stating you were not in love and were going to annul the marriage as soon as you heard from your parents, Sanji swears there's something weird about the way Zoro treats you.

It might just be friendship, but it feels like something more that neither of you are saying. You absolutely could be hiding real feelings for each other, he knows that, the way you two speak to each other and work together seems to say so, but until either of you say anything, Sanji isn't willing to believe this is anything more than a sham marriage.

There's something else, he's noticed in his short time with you all, in the way you look at Zoro, the way you speak to him as well. Zoro's a tough guy, but you speak so gently and kindly to him, it's almost like you really are his wife and want to stay that way. Maybe it's just your dynamic since you two have known each other much longer than the other Straw Hats, but Sanji isn't convinced. You and Usopp break him out of his train of thought by asking for breakfast, which he proceeds to provide you both with a grin, deciding he'll have to ask you another time if you have feelings for the moss head swordsman. If your heart's already taken, he'll gladly leave you be, despite his rivalry with Zoro.

[leonieweird]

The First Time I Saw A Scared Human

The first time I saw a human scared was when I was only 6 years old.

The Irdbay species had adopted a human on board to get them used to children of different races. I was the more socialable one inside of my nest, and the human was very kind. Always got onto our level when we were learning and helped us when we were learning to fly.

The older Irdbay’s loved the human whose name was Jo’an. One day, they had to leave on important business. By then, human Jo’an had aquatinted with my entire nest and we were comfortable with being around her.

That’s when the Enahyay attacked.

The ship flashed red, alarms blared, blood of my fellow nest mates fell onto the group. The Enahyay was ruthless. They ripped apart younglings, smashed eggs that had yet hatched, and didn’t hesitate to rip into Human Jo’an’s leg. To this day, her scream has made its own nest in my mind.

I remember hiding with Human Jo’an, now the last of my nest.

Her hand covered her mouth, trapped in a closet as I tried to quiet down. Even with Human Jo’an right next to me, I couldn’t hear anything but her heartbeat. The loud thumping was quiet compared to the blaring alarms, however I could hear it.

If I could hear it, so could the Enahyay. Footsteps echoed from our hiding spot, the growls making Human Jo’an’s heart speed up even more. The pounding thumps made a rhythm that I could follow. The footsteps continued on, the growls slowly growing quiet.

I tried to shift to fix my wing and possibly squeak to Human Jo’an about her leg, but her gaze made me stop. A gaze of fear, worry, but also anger. Her eyes were that of a predator backed up into a corner and the gaze of a caretaker who lost all of her young. Her eyes were telling me not to move, even though I could not hear the predator anymore.

With my head, I barely motioned to her leg. Blood dripped down from her thigh. It stained her shorts, her socks, and even her shoes that she wore around the ship. She looked down only briefly before her entire body started to shake. The anger slowly dwindled down in her gaze until it was only fear. I didn’t understand what was wrong until I remember what my mother had told me.

‘Most predators can smell a range of things. Blood is one of them, myy atchlinghay. If you’re bleeding, fly as fast as you can as far as you can-‘

I could barely make out Human Jo’an’s slowly movements to grab the metal rod that was in the closet. She had a bone crushing grip on it.

‘If you get caught, it’s over. Just screech for me or Jo’an, and we’ll come over.’

The door ripped open and the bloodthirsty eyes of a Enahyay flashed through the dark lighting with the occasional flash of red. My wings bristled with fear. Before I could act, Human Jo’an let out a yell that rang throughout the ship. The metal rod in her arms swung towards the Enahyay, knocking him away from the closet.

I could only curl in fear, but I heard it. The Enahyay’s whimpers, Jo’an’s screams, and the sound of a metal rod connecting with skin. The whimpers eventually died down as the sound of metal against skin slowly sounded like metal hitting a liquid. Human Jo’an screams did not stop.

I heard more Enahyay coming, yet I could only hide and quiver in fear while Human Jo’an kept screaming. I could hear both her blood and tears drop onto the ground along with the bodies of Enahyay.

The rescue team and older Irdbay arrived only a mere 10 minutes later. By then, I was in Human Jo’an’s bloody arms. Black stained every part of us. Human Jo’an still had the tight grip of the metal rod, rocking me back and forth with tears streaming out of her dead eyes.

When I was just 6 earth years old, I learned the terror that humans feel and the actions that come with it. I learned what a scary existence scared human truly are.

[hardly-an-escape]

Square: C3 - Clairvoyance

Title: "can you scare me up a little bit of love?"

Rating: G

Ship: Dream/Hob

Warnings: No archive warnings apply

Additional Tags: pre-relationship, Halloween, Hob Gadling's birthday

Summary: Before their friendship ever develops into something more, Dream attends a Halloween party at the New Inn and learns something new about Hob.

Link to AO3.

kind of shoehorning this in but heck it we ball!!! @dreamlingbingo

Monday, October 31, 2022

Calling all devils, demons, imps, sprites, and spectres to The New Inn for a HALLOWEEN SPOOKTACULAR Monday October 31st 4:00-9:00 PM Snacks! Games! No cover and one free drink ticket per attendee! Come in costume or come as you are! It’ll be… A HELL OF A PARTY!!

Hob had had a soft spot for Halloween for years. Always loved a good scary story, he had, and nowadays? The creativity and pure talent people put into their costumes and their horror movie marathons? It beats the hell out of carving faces in turnips and decking yourself out in a flour sack. And he couldn’t deny that his hedonist heart loved the lack of inhibitions that went hand in hand with costumes, sweets, and a little bit of booze. He may have had six centuries’ worth of practice at enjoying life, but a little help never hurt.

So he’d papered his little neck of the woods with posters, stuck them on the bulletin boards around campus – even put an announcement up on the New Inn Instagram account one of his young bartenders had convinced him to start. It had all been up for a couple weeks, but on the day of Hob was still gratified to see how many people had turned up for his Halloween do.

No matter how old you got, it was still nice when people wanted to come to your parties.

He’d even told his stranger about it, when Dream (and yes, the name felt like its own kind of gift) had popped up unexpectedly one evening in late September. He hadn’t gotten around to printing the posters yet, but he was already full of plans for the hellishly-themed decorations. Dream had listened to his descriptions with a little smirk that Hob was beginning to categorize as “sarcastic but fond (?)” in his private lexicon of Dream’s expressions.

That is not what Hell is like, Dream had said matter-of-factly.

Oh, and I suppose you’d know? Hob had responded teasingly, and of course Dream had said nothing, just sat there with the same little smirk and a disconcertingly knowing look in his eyes.

You’re welcome to come, if you’d like! Hob had said, brightly. If Halloween parties are even a thing you do.

I have been known to attend parties, Dream had said. Albeit never one for Halloween.

Well… come by if you want to try one out! Hob had said. He’d wanted to say more. He’d wanted to say Please come and I want you to be there and I want every moment with you I can possibly scrape out of this long life. But he’d managed to avoid it.

It was Monday night, the Inn was full, the cider was flowing, and Hob was happy. The decorations had turned out rather nicely, he thought: lots of big black candles, a real skeleton in the corner courtesy of the biology department, a few red lightbulbs scattered about, and of course a good spooky playlist. Behind the bar, lifelike plastic models of giant cockroaches and trilobites were taped up on the mirror. In the low lighting he hoped they appeared to be scuttling.

Hob was quite pleased with his costume, as well. He’d gone with a classic vampire look – slicked back hair, black embroidered waistcoat, a big cloak (the real deal, his from the 1890s, thank you very much), and of course some ostentatious costume jewelry. He was back by the bar with some of his colleagues, most of whom were dressed as various superheroes, when the bell on the front door tinkled.

Hob looked up reflexively at the sound and almost swallowed his tongue. Dream was standing in the door and he looked… he looked…

He looked fantastic. And bloody terrifying.

His hair was even wilder than normal, as if he’d been standing in a wind tunnel, and his face looked somehow paler and more gaunt, if that were even possible. He was dressed in all black, as per usual, but – different. Almost alien. His leather tunic looked stiff and structured, like it was holding something at bay, with a high collar and long sleeves that reached almost to his knuckles. It came down to a point at Dream’s narrow hips, and from under the edge of the leather flowed a kind of two-tiered skirt that pooled on the floor and looked like it was moving on its own – although perhaps that was just a trick of the moody lighting.

Under his arm was some kind of… helmet, Hob supposed, was the only word. It, too, looked strange and alien – all rivets and leather and… was that a spinal column hanging down? Dream cradled it as though it was a precious thing, and also as though it might explode at any moment. The glassy eyes gleamed red.

Hob saw all this in the second it took for the door to swing closed behind Dream, who stood, poised, looking slightly unsure what to do next.

“Who’s that then, Robbie?” asked Lidia from the English department. “He’s got a wicked-looking costume. Friend of yours?” But her question was directed at Hob’s back as he wound his way through the crowd to Dream.

“You’re here! I didn’t think you’d actually come, to be honest,” Hob said with a tentative smile.

“I have recently been persuaded that it is wise for me to spend more time among the humans whom I serve,” said Dream. “This seemed like an appropriate opportunity.”

“I’m so glad.” The words slipped out before Hob could stop them.

There was a heartbeat’s worth of awkward silence.

“Right. Well. D’you want to come over and meet some of my colleagues? They’re a good lot.”

Dream inclined his head in a gesture of assent and Hob ushered him across the room, one hand hovering an inch or so over Dream’s shoulder blade.

“Er, how should I introduce you?” he asked quietly as they navigated the crowd. “Only I think ‘Dream’ might raise a few eyebrows. Dunno if that matters.”

“I am the Prince of Stories. The Ruler of Dreams and Nightmares,” said Dream, somehow enunciating every capital letter. “But your colleagues may call me Morpheus.”

“Righto,” said Hob as they rejoined the professorial circle. “Everyone, this is Morpheus. Morpheus, this is everyone. Lidia, Michael, Phil, Christo, What’s-His-Face, the French one… pause for jeers…” His colleagues obligingly jeered. “Now, who wants a drink?”

His hand descended the final half-inch to rest briefly on Dream’s shoulder. The Inn was full, the cider was flowing, and Hob was happy. His friend was there.

“So, how come we’ve never seen you around, Morpheus?” asked Lidia. “How do you know Robbie?”

“We met in a pub,” Dream said. “A long time ago. My sister introduced us.”

“Morpheus is maybe my oldest friend in the world,” said Hob. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known him my whole life.”

“Then why’ve we never met him before?” pressed Lidia, the ever-inquisitive.

“My work keeps me exceptionally busy,” said Dream.

“Oh? What is it that you do?” asked Michael.

“Lord, who wants to talk about work?” exclaimed Hob. “It’s Halloween, for Christ’s sake. Go bob for apples or something, leave off.”

It was very strange, watching Dream of the Endless circulate through a normal human party. The fact that it was Halloween actually helped, reflected Hob; somehow, seeing Dream lean down to listen to tiny Professor Hathaway as she chattered about the Pre-Raphaelites was easier to swallow when said professor was wearing a witch hat and drinking punch out of a goblet. Dream wandering through the costumed crowd with his outlandish helmet under his arm and a cup in his hand made far more sense than Dream in normal clothes on a normal night in the pub ever could.

Hob watched him, and wondered idly what parties were like in Dream’s realm; he imagined them weirder, and far more grand, perhaps with dragons in the rafters and other fae beings waltzing through enormous ballrooms. Dream had mentioned, in passing, a throne room and a vast library, a castle which Hob’s imagination populated with fairy tale creatures, ogres and dryads and talking animals.

But it was hard to believe anything he could imagine would be better than this. All his favorite people – even his old stranger – in his cozy pub, on a special day.

Around 8:30 those who had to teach the next morning began to take their leave. Hob retrieved his big umbrella from behind the bar and escorted Professor Hathaway into her waiting taxi.

“That young Morpheus of yours showed quite an astonishing understanding of the work of John Everett Millais,” she said as they walked down the front path. “You must bring him round again, Robert. I have a few books he might be interested in borrowing.”

“He’s not my Morpheus, Professor,” said Hob. “And he’s not exactly young, he’s older than I am. But I’ll tell him you enjoyed his company.”

“Tch. He may not be yours, but I rather think you’re already his, aren’t you?” she said knowingly. Hob grimaced.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re far too insightful for your own good?” he asked extremely courteously as he handed her into the backseat and closed the car door. Professor Hathaway waved a birdlike hand cheerily through the window as the taxi pulled away.

Hob paused for a moment in the drizzling darkness. The light rain tapped on his umbrella and the warm light streamed out of the front windows of the New Inn. He shivered slightly and drew his cloak a little more tightly around his shoulders. The night was chill, and if it weren’t for the cars parked on the side of the street, Hob felt as though he might have been transported back in time. Professor Hathaway’s parting words rolled around inside his head like a snowball.

I rather think you’re already his, aren’t you?

How had she known – what clairvoyant spirit had possessed her? How had she seen, in just a few hours, what it had taken Hob decades (if not centuries) to admit to himself?

Because he was Dream’s. He was, and had been for a long time, and he’s pretty sure he hadn’t realized just how far gone he was until Dream had walked through the front door three months ago and Hob had released a breath he’d been holding for thirty-three years.

He shivered again. Time to go inside.

Hob got caught up in farewells to several more colleagues before he found Dream again, perched on a barstool and looking like a great black bird. His weird helmet rested on the corner of the bar.

“Well? What did you think of your first Halloween party?” he asked, sliding onto the stool next to him.

Dream paused before answering.

“I found it more illuminating than I expected,” he said. “The people here are… contented. Uninhibited, but not to an extreme. You have created a comfortable space here. I commend you.”

“Thank you,” said Hob, touched. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“You are welcome,” said Dream. “However, I admit I am slightly confused about some of the costumes. Yours, for example. Are you… dressed up as me?”

He sounded almost uncertain, and Hob couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

“No, no. No fear, my friend, I’m just a regular old vampire. I suppose it was this that made you ask?” He touched the large red fake jewel that was nestled in the collar of his black shirt.

Dream nodded.

“Saw it in the shop while I was looking for plastic fangs,” Hob chuckled. “I can’t lie, it did remind me a bit of you. But then, after Dracula was published I spent a good few years thinking you might actually be a vampire as well. So it seemed fitting.”

“I see.”

Hob waved to Lidia and Christo as they ducked out the front door into the night, then turned back to Dream. “Listen,” he said, “there’s one more thing I want to do tonight, after all the punters clear out. Do you… would you mind sticking around? Just a bit longer?”

“I will, if you so desire.”

“Great!” said Hob. And if his voice was just a trifle too enthusiastic, well, that was between him and the skeleton behind the bar. “Give me half an hour to get last call sorted and we’ll go upstairs.”

Eventually they made their way upstairs together to Hob’s flat; Hob loose from cider and contentment and Dream as upright and straight-backed as ever. Hob kicked his shoes off and hung his cloak on the rack by the door.

“Can’t believe I used to dress like this all the time,” he muttered, loosening his cravat. “All these stiff bloody buttons.”

Dream was perusing the bookshelves, which was typically his first stop whenever he happened to be in the flat; Hob supposed the Prince of Stories must have a natural affinity for the written word in its infinite variety. Hob slipped into the kitchen and came out bearing a small cake with a little candle stuck in it, which he laid out on the coffee table.

“This is what I wanted to do,” he said, gesturing for Dream to sit and digging a lighter out of his pocket. Dream deposited himself gracefully on Hob’s couch and placed his eerie helmet on the cushion beside him. “It’s… ah, it’s my birthday, actually. My real birthday.”

“All Hallows’ Eve was the day of your birth?” asked Dream, intrigued.

“Well, I don’t know exactly,” said Hob, lighting the candle. “Calendar was a bit squiffy back then. But I know it was after the main harvest and sometime around Allhallowtide, because I remember hearing stories about the martyrs in church when I was just a lad and thinking how that was a bit of a downer, as far as birthday celebrations went.”

“In that case, I wish you a happy birthday,” Dream said. “And how old are you now? If it is not impolite to ask.”

“That’s the best part,” Hob said with a grin. “When I met you in the summer of 1389, I was about to turn 33. So in Anno Domini 2022, that makes me…”

“Six hundred and sixty six,” said Dream dryly.

“Yeah! The number of the Beast! That’s a milestone birthday if I ever heard of one. Especially now, when I know that apparently, Hell and the Devil are real.” He laughed quietly, staring into the candle for a moment. “You know, most of the people I knew growing up didn’t even make it to sixty. My father didn’t. Those blokes I was with in the White Horse when I met you – none of them did. Sometimes I wonder what they’d think of what the world has become. What they’d think of me, if they could see me now.”

There was a long moment of meditative silence, and then Hob blew the candle out.

“Are you not supposed to make a wish?” asked Dream, and Hob thought he must be imagining the teasing note in his voice.

“Do you know,” he said. “I can’t think of a single thing I would wish for that I don’t already have.”

“Is that so?”

Hob made a show of deep thought.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It is. Now, do you want half this cake or should I eat the whole thing myself?”

read on AO3 >>>

fun fact, this is one of the very first fics I ever started in this fandom – over two years ago! it was originally inspired by this post by @littledreamling

[the-ace-with-spades]

I need a fic where Ghost and Soap are on the run but like, framed and on the run.

They're on an assignment, just the two of them, to co-lead a team for the prevention of assassination for some big-name politician (dunno, I like to think this would happen either in usa or in the uk...) and it's all done and they're about to pack their shit and go back to base when Soap gets an encrypted call from Price to tell him that a video of Ghost killing the same big-name politician is on the telly

It's not Ghost, obviously, but it's someone of Ghost's posture, in Ghost's gear and Ghost's mask.

Also obviously, Soap doesn't believe it.

They get surrounded pretty fast by the local SWAT-like team and Soap makes Ghost use him as a hostage so they can escape with a minimal amount of maiming -- Soap is pretty sure Ghost could escape on his own, but it'd be a bloody mess that would follow him after he was proven to be framed.

Of course, Ghost tries to get Soap to leave once they're out of the danger zone. He does not.

Cue Ghost and Soap on the run while Price, Gaz and Lasewell try to find out who is framing him.

Simon's existence was erased so much that there are no pictures of him anywhere so instead, his APB has a sketch and a description. Problem is, the scars on his face were included, and way too characteristic to miss them (whether it's the glasgow smile or other scars, dunno, but you get my point). At first, it's really hard to move around because scars/mask + Simon being like 6'4 and built like a tank scream 'notice me'. Simon grows out a beard - it's red-ish blond colour so he ends up dying his hair red too. He absolutely doesn't care but Soap mourns because he's barely started being able to see Simon's face and hair and now it's all changed up.

Soap doesn't have an APB at first, but after a couple of days he is named as complicit (because he's seen helping Ghost run) and his photo is out. He has to shave the mohawk because it's too eye-catching (he's fucking bald and he hates it). He has to rein in his accent because he is described as glasgowian scottish. He can't call his maw so he sends her a random postcard he picked up a few towns ago and sends a short and cryptic message, hoping she believes he's not a terrorist.

Soap also finds out Ghost knows way too many shady people and knows way too easily where to look for even more shady people if he needs something the former people don't have. They steal shit out of necessity, often clothes and food, but sometimes they pickpocket cards and wallets. Some days they sleep in the car, some days they stop at questionable motels or hostels, and some days they don't sleep at all. They have burner phones but don't contact Price at all.

There would be a mandatory 'taking care of each others' wounds' scene (no bandages, please, you rarely use bandages in healthcare nowadays) after a dangerous run-in, a mandatory 'pretend to be a couple to lose the trail' and after that, an awkward 'there was only one bed' scene where things happen for the first time and they have a sloppy handjob or two.

They're probably trying to escape the country but can't do it via air because of the APBs and have to make their way to some shady port and even shadier ferry or cargo ship that won't run their fake passports in the system if they pay well enough.

Ghost is surprising Soap once again with an off-shore bank account and a knowledge of whichever country they're in's language. They move somewhere less crowded but not small enough that two Brits would be weird. Some people refer to Ghost as Soap's husband.

Weeks or months go by.

"What if they can't prove I didn't do it?"

"You faked your death once, love, I think you can do it twice."

[kallie-den]

Rescue Hound Chapter One

Kione Monax, a mercenary pilot, is hired to rescue the captured, brainwashed Sartha Thrace. But getting her home and healing her mind prove to be very different things - and Kione's feelings for the hero threaten to pull her into the darkness when she discovers just how malleable Sartha can be

A new Warhound story!! The preceding stories can be found at this tag

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I  write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

---

Nothing makes Kione Monax feel good the way being saddled up in the cockpit of a huge mech suit does.

Cause it pays really, really well. Duh.

Provided you’re the best, of course. Kione doubts any of those fifth-rate Imperial grunt pilots they never seem to run out of get paid more than a pittance—not that they’ll ever live long enough to spend it, if she’s the one they’re up against. But Kione? She’s the best. Nowadays, at least. And that means she can name her damn price and the rebels will pay it, no matter how sour the looks on their faces when she comes to collect.

It’s not all about the money, obviously. Kione would be the first to admit that there is a very clear and distinct pleasure in being the very best. To ruling the battlefield like a queen. To tapping into the merciless rhythm of combat, and feeling the beat change when she decides it’s the moment - the moment to kick her Theaboros’s reactor into the red and soar, allowing herself just a single moment to drink in the stupefied, upturned, defeated faces of her prey before she puts them out of their misery.

Fuck, it’s good. It really gets her hot.

But it’s not better than money, because money was what had bought her the Theaboros and its wings, and its state-of-the-art systems, and its fresh coats of paint—for vanity, although sometimes she lies and calls it ‘branding’—and all the fancy drinks she buys for the very best hookers before she buys them too. That’s what life is all about. Not principles. Lots of people get big, stupid ideas in their heads once they’re sitting behind the controls of a sixty-foot mechanical god. If your ideas are big enough and stupid enough they start calling you a hero, and Kione is very, very determined not to end up as one of those. They always die bad.

That’s how scumbag mercenaries like Kione wind up as the best.

Hey, merc, comes a terse voice over a shitty, crackling radio, just as Kione finishes planting the charges, you better be in position.

Kione sighs quietly to herself before she answers: “I am. Plan B is in place.”

Good, says the girl on the radio. Get ready. And remember: no work, no pay.

Kione rolls her eyes. Why do people always feel the need to remind her? Contrary to popular slander, mercenaries aren’t cowards or turncoats. Any mech-for-hire who pulls that kind of shit just saw their very last payday. And besides, Kione refuses to help out the imperials. Just out of self-interest, of course—there’s no place for free spirits like her in the kind of world they’d like to build. She’s bloodied their noses more times than she can count, and you’d think that would win her some actual gratitude from the rebels she fights alongside.

Hell no. Kione had fought with unit after unit, recruit after recruit, and each one proves to be just as naively idealistic as the last. They all think they’re put here to save the world, and they hate that Kione knows she’s only here to make some hard cash. The girl barking orders at Kione over the radio is one of those. An idealist. A firebrand. She’d flashed Kione a nice, mean look before they’d shipped out. Stars in her eyes, hell on her lips.

Kione knew then and there she’d have to fuck her, once they made it back. It wouldn’t be hard. Girls like that always went for her once they saw first-hand how good she was. She went for them, too. She just loved to make them choke on her.

She’s here. Cut the chatter. Everybody focus.

At once, Kione lets go of her sleazy fantasies and gets herself back in the zone. Not for the first time, she wonders about the targets. How many? How well-equipped are they? Guess she’ll find out soon enough. Not that she can see shit right now, hanging from the underside of this colossal bridge.

It’s a good place for an ambush and a great place to get yourself killed if a thousand tons of reinforced concrete come down on your head before you know what’s happening. That’s why Kione’s there. That’s the truth of mercenary work: you get the real shit jobs. The ones they don’t expect you to walk away from.

Suits Kione just fine. She’ll groan and grumble until they pay her double, then prove she’s worth every penny.

For now, though, there’s only waiting. That gets to Kione the same way it does to every soldier. Eventually, her mech’s sensors pick up vibrations. Footsteps on the bridge above. Another machine. A pretty big one, too—but only the one, which prompts some serious fucking questions. Who the hell are they ambushing here? A high-value target, clearly. Maybe an imperial higher-up. But those don’t fly solo. A pilot, then? Some ace? It’d have to be. Kione can’t think of any other reason they’d pay her fees for a gig like this.

It has to be someone good. Someone only she can beat.

Kione finds herself grinning.

More waiting. The target is moving slow. A nice, steady march. It gets closer, and closer, and closer, until Kione can hear each step; can feel them reverberating through her body. Until the enemy is directly above her. The enemy mech’s footfalls are heavy and almost familiar. Despite everything, Kione is all but bursting with anticipation. She loves getting to put a rival ace in the dirt. Nothing better. But she knows she needs to be patient. She’s not the first wave. She’s the coup de grâce.

The radio crackles again. Now! Open fire!

An instant later, the air trembles with the report of a dozen guns. The rebels scattered themselves across the bridge, each pilot picking their ambush spot to secure kill zones and neutralize cover. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The rebels don’t have a lot of advantages over the imperials, but this is one of them: they’re good at this kind of guerrilla shit. As the barrage wears on, Kione’s grin starts to slip. She’s beginning to think they won’t need her after all.

Then, one by one, the guns go silent.

Kione can pick out each machine as it goes dark, just from the sound. No two rebel mechs are alike; consistent supply and production lines are a fleeting fantasy so each machine is somebody’s pet project, customized according to parts and needs. That makes it all too easy for Kione to count.

One down. Two down. Three down.

What the fuck?

It’s hard to believe, but Kione can hear it happening. Up above, the enemy mech pounds the bridge with its footfalls. That thing must be moving like a hound out of hell, dodging beams and missiles, throwing itself at one rebel after another. Its engine is deafening; an insane scream of tortured metal and unholy combustion that fuels the carnage. Screaming is just about all Kione can hear over the radio, too. The rebels’ comms discipline has broken down. They can’t make sense of how fast it's gone wrong.

Merc! Where the fuck are you?

That’s her cue. It’s the moment—and with a worthy foe, too. Kione can’t stop herself laughing nastily into the radio as she retracts the anchors keeping her attached to the bridge and slips into freefall.

And again, when she punches ‘startup’ on Theaboros’s flight system.

Mechs can’t fly, yeah? Everyone knows that. It just doesn’t make a lot of sense. You want to fly, you get in a plane. You’d need a stupid amount of thrust to get something as big as a mech suit in the air. A big engine won’t help. The tyranny of the rocket equation will murder you. Weight means fuel, fuel means more weight. The aerodynamics would probably be shit too. And that’s not even getting into the economics problem. Nobody can spare that much reactor fuel for just one machine. The best way to square the circle would be to build the entire thing out of some kind of crazy cutting-edge superalloy, but those are hell to get and worse to maintain. No; a flying mech would be a ridiculous vanity project. The imperials would never sanction it, and the rebels could never afford it.

Good thing Kione Monax has never worked for free a day in her life.

It helps that she built Theaboros smart—or at least, paid other people to. It’s a slender beast; tall, upright, almost human-like in its posture. It weighs a fraction of most of its rivals, and so when it spreads the six sleek, silver pinions mounted on its back, Kione can actually feel them catch the air. Every little helps when you’re fighting gravity.

But what really, really helps is the state-of-the-art antimatter reactor surging to life and pumping out a steady stream of anti-Fermion particles that singe the air around her mech a deep, unearthly red as they annihilate and, for just a fraction of a second each, keep the fundamental forces of the universe at bay.

With that on her side? Fuck yeah, Theaboros can fly. And Kione falls a little more in love with it every time.

It flies now, with her gripping the joysticks, gliding the unnaturally nimble machine between cables and tresses as she boosts clear of the bridge’s superstructure and tilts up, pulling a tight loop that brings her down onto the deck, ready to give her target the surprise of a lifetime.

Except, no.

Kione is the one left with her jaw on the floor when she sees who she’s up against. All at once, she realizes she was wrong before. It’s not someone only she can beat, because it’s the one person she never ever managed to beat, in all the long evenings they spent sparring together.

It’s Sartha.

It’s Ancyor, anyway. Or most of it. Actually, it’s more like Ancyor died and came back wrong. The base frame is still there; Kione can tell as much from that dragging, lupine gait as it lurches across the bridge. The exoskeletal armor is the same too. If anything, it looks even more beat to hell than usual. But beneath that, it’s all wrong. The reactor. The weapon systems. The raised, pneumatic hackles that augment those deadly claws. They’ve all been replaced. Upgraded. Imperial tech. It gives Kione the creeps. It’s like someone’s wearing her dead friend’s skin.

Whatever they’ve done to it, it’s clear Ancyor has lost none of its effectiveness. In its terrible, wake, Kione counts four of the mechs she shipped out here with lying in shattered, ugly heaps. They went down bad. Catastrophic kills. If anything, it looks like Ancyor’s pilot took special pleasure in plucking out and crushing each cockpit. That really gives Kione the creeps. Even Imperial pilots usually don’t sink that low.

At least she knows it’s not Sartha in there.

Unsurprisingly, the remaining three rebels have gone to pieces. They’re backing away, giving up the only tactical advantages they have—prepped positions and unit cohesion—and the radio channel is full of little more than panicked screeching. The squad leader, the girl who was barking at Kione earlier, is trying to instill some kind of discipline. It’s not working. She’s too young. They all are.

Take her down, damn it! she yells, when she sees Theaboros land. This is what we’re paying you for.

“You got it,” Kione mutters.

In all honesty, she’s weighing up the pros and cons of simply hitting the bricks and running. But she reminds herself: this isn’t Sartha. Just a pale imitation.

And besides, there’s money on the line. Duh.

In any case, the choice gets taken away from her when Ancyor turns its awful snout in her direction and starts barreling toward her.

“Shit!”

At once, Kione kicks her mech’s flight system into high gear. She manages to get enough thrust to pull up and clear—but only just. Ancyor is even faster than the last time they fought. Kione wheels around in the air to find her target, extending and clasping her long spear in Theoboros’s right hand. Once the weapon is deployed, its tip starts glowing red-hot as her systems reroute surplus reactor heat. Kione would prefer to keep Sartha’s hellhound at a comfortable distance, but CQC is the only good way to finish a fight sure and quick.

As soon as Kione sets her sights, she realizes that Ancyor has already turned to look up at her. Silently, four openings appear in its torso. An instant later, four wire-guided harpoons are coming right at her.

That’s new. Fuck.

Two of them, she manages to dodge. One, she bats aside with the flat of her spear blade. But the fourth, kept on target by tiny thrusters, buries itself in one of Theaboros’s long, slender legs. That’s not good. The damage itself is fairly negligible. What’s not negligible is Ancyor’s massive weight as it pulls the wire taut and starts reeling her in.

And, at the same moment, launches itself into the air with enough force to crack the concrete under its feet.

Kione’s display is filled with warnings she’s pretty sure she’s never seen before. She dismisses them with a furious gesture, but all she sees on the viewscreen afterward is the ruin of Ancyor’s face coming at her at an insane speed. No time to cut herself free, and no aerial maneuver Kione can think of is going to make a damn bit of difference with another mech weighing her down like an anchor.

So, stupidly, she does the only thing she can think of: she points her jets in the opposite direction and blasts herself straight down toward Ancyor.

Fifty feet in the air above the bridge deck, two meteors collide.

Ancyor has sheer mass on its side, but Theaboros has gravity and thrust. Kione is no rookie; getting her head knocked around in the cockpit isn’t going to ruffle her. She’s focused on what counts: getting this damn dog off of her.

It’s not easy. Ancyor is scrambling all over her, its wickedly sharp chain-claws working to find purchase. It’s clear whoever’s behind the controls knows Sartha’s style. They want to keep the two mechs bound together, grappling, where Ancyor’s sheer savagery makes it invincible.

All Kione can do is wield her long, elegant spear like a brawler’s stick, keeping it between them, leveraging them to try and force Ancyor away. Unfortunately, Theaboros isn’t great at this kind of contest of strength. It’s just not built for it. Desperately, Kione uses the flight system’s jets to throw the two of them into a series of loops, heads over feet, hoping the g-forces will destabilize the beast.

Of course, it’s just as likely that what happens is that Theaboros goes down face-first into the bridge.

Splat.

But maybe it’s working. Ancyor is starting to peel off. The harpoon comes loose and one of its arms slips, windmilling through the air. Kione presses the advantage, wrenching her spear around to make Ancyor’s grip untenable. After one last lunge that goes clean past her shoulder, Sartha���s mech is sent tumbling back down to earth where it belongs.

Wiping sweat from her brow, Kione grins. Get down, dog. The sky is all hers.

Then she notices the warning lights. She stops grinning as she realizes that last lunge didn’t go clean past her shoulder at all. It hit exactly where it was meant to. It ripped off one of her goddamn wings.

Ah. Well, that’s really not good.

Theaboros isn’t dead in the air. At least, not quite. But the thing about wings is: however many you’ve got, you probably don’t wanna be on less than that. Lest she choke her reactor to death, Kione is forced to ease off and touch down on the bridge. Once her baby has cooled off, she should still be able to pull off a trick or two.

Merc? You still breathing?

Kione’s glad radio girl is still here. Judging from the guns Kione hears, her surviving squadmates are too. Maybe they can still do this.

“I have a name, you know,” she grunts.

Yeah? Get us back to base in one piece, maybe I’ll think about learning it.

Kione cackles at that. She likes a girl who can keep her head.

“You can buy me a drink instead,” she tells her. “You already know my name. If you’re not careful, I’ll make you say ‘please’ when you use-“

She cuts herself off when she sees what’s about to happen.

Kione never takes her eye off the ball, but it’s taken her a moment to stop seeing white. Now that she has her sights on Ancyor again, she’s realizing it’s not nearly as debilitated by its fall as she’d hoped. It always was freakishly tough. And it’s doing the worst thing it possibly could. Worse even than coming at Kione again while her flight system’s cooling down.

It’s going after the easy prey.

In a single bounding leap, Ancyor hurls itself at the rebel currently spray-and-praying it with ineffective beam fire. The poor bastard freezes up, and Ancyor lands squarely on their shoulders.

It doesn’t need weapons. Its weight does the work. Even Kione flinches from the crunching sound.

No!

It’s radio girl. So much for keeping her head. Maybe she knew them well. Maybe it’s just one loss too many. Either way, because she’s one of those rebel idealists, she’s doing the brave thing. The stupid thing.

Breaking cover. Trying to save her comrade.

Idiot. That’s exactly what a predator like Ancyor wants

There’s some distance between the two of them, but nothing Ancyor can’t cross in the blink of an eye. It’s happening half the bridge’s length away. Theaboros has a rifle, but the stopping power is nowhere near enough. Kione can already see exactly what’s going to happen. Radio girl is going down. No chance her last squadmate sticks around after that happens, which leaves Kione trapped in a one-on-one. Not good odds.

So, the right move is obvious: ditch. Now. The mission’s a bust. Losing Kione’s pay is better than losing her life. As long as she takes off right this second, she should be able to make it out clean.

All she’s gotta do is outrun the other rebel, right?

Kione sighs. It’s an easy choice. But here’s the rub: she really was looking forward to that drink with radio girl.

So much for letting the reactor cool.

As Theaboros throws itself forward at her command, Kione punches the reactor straight back into the red. The thrust alone has her in the air; Kione works the flight system with a master’s touch, pitching her machine slightly off-axis to compensate for the wing she lost. It’s a rough ride. Her baby’s running too hot. The wingtips are starting to disintegrate. Antimatter annihilation’s a bitch. Kione doesn’t want to think about how much the repair bill’s gonna come to this time.

Instead, she just grins.

You thought your ride was fast, Sartha? Think again.

Ancyor lunges. Radio girl is right under its outstretched claw. Theaboros is hurtling toward them at a truly unwise speed. In the cockpit, Kione is rattling around like crazy—but she doesn’t let up. She only has a fraction of a second. No time to shoot, no time to strike, no time to parry. Only time to do something dumb.

Theaboros rams into radio girl shoulder first, shoving her out of the way. She raises her left arm in a feeble bid to fend off their attacker. The impact with the rebel mech wreaks havoc on Theaboros’s frame.

And then Ancyor’s claws rip her arm off.

Shit.

No time to take stock of the damage. No room to get her balance. No heat overhead to spend on a boost. Ancyor just keeps coming. It switches targets to Theaboros without missing a beat. Kione stumbles back just barely out of reach, wheeling her spear in a furious series of parries and ripostes.

Not furious enough. Nothing’s as furious as Ancyor. It matches Kione step for step, blow for blow. Only a matter of time until one of them lands home. Kione grimaces. At least radio girl is free and clear—not that that’s worth much. Can’t get paid if you’re dead, and she’s sure starting to feel dead. Theaboros has taken up too much damage to put up an even fight.

Kione snorts, despite everything. What, is she making excuses for herself?

That’ll look great on her tombstone. Kione Monax: it wasn’t fair.

It stings that it’s not even true. Now that she’s at the right distance to get a good look at Ancyor, it’s plain enough that it took a fierce beating in the rebel ambush. Radio girl’s crew wasn’t so bad after all. They took some mean chunks out of its armor. All over Ancyor, clouds of leaking coolant hiss and exposed electricals crackle. At least one or two major servos are missing. It must be handling like a pig right about now, but it’s moving like nothing’s happened. Whoever’s behind the controls is just that good.

Which begs the question, doesn’t it?

Who the fuck is piloting that thing?

Sartha Thrace is dead. Kione made her peace with that a long time ago, and she has no time for stupid rumors. But now she can’t help but wonder. Who else could handle Ancyor like this? From their sparring sessions, Kione recognizes all the little trademark moves. Hell, the only reason she’s lasted this long is because she has a sense of Sartha’s cadence. It’s like she’s fighting her friend’s ghost.

No, not her ghost. Something worse. Sartha was never quite like this. Never quite so heedless of herself. Never so proud she wouldn’t simply retreat from this kind of ambush. This animal ferocity—Kione has seen it before, but it was always a rare thing. It came over Sartha only when something drove her to her very limit. This pilot? It’s like she’s got all of that side of Sartha, and nothing but. Her rage and violence, distilled. Purified.

A shiver runs down Kione’s spine. It’s so wrong.

Merc?

That’s her radio girl. Kione rolls her eyes. She’d been hoping the rebel pilot would just run. If both of them die trying to save each other, she’s gonna throw up. That’s just too much.

“You clear of the bridge?”

Yeah.

Thank the gods.

Her distraction almost spells her end. Theaboros is driven yet another step backward and almost trips off the side of the bridge. Kione glances behind. She’s out of space. Shit. Shit! There has to be something left. Kione knows it. She feels it. This can’t be the end. Not of her. Not yet. She’s too good. There has to be something.

A plan B.

Oh, right.

Kione checks her reactor. Flight still isn’t on the menu. It’s gonna be ugly.

“Radio girl?” Kione calls out, as Ancyor brings its claws up for an overhead blow. She raises her spear to meet it. Sparks fly as the weapons meet.

Who- yeah?

“Plan B. Blow it.”

To her infinite credit, radio girl doesn’t hesitate, which means Kione only knows it’s happening when the ten thousand-ton reinforced concrete bridge under her feet suddenly isn’t.

In desperation, Kione throws herself over the edge. A drop is one thing. But getting crushed? That’s what’ll kill you. Unfortunately for her, the bridge is already falling. She can’t kick off cleanly. Best she can do is scramble at asphalt and rebar that’s quickly turning into little more than dust while she overboosts her flight system as far as it’ll go.

It’s good enough—almost. For just a moment, Kione thinks she’s threaded the needle. She’s going to glide clear.

Then Ancyor comes flying at her one last time.

How it managed a leap like that, Kione will never know. The way it screams as it comes at her almost stops her heart. It gets close. Way too fucking close. But Kione manages to wheel her machine around, kicking its legs up and out of Ancyor’s reach.

Not the wings, though. It gets another one of those.

That’s bad. Extremely bad. Kione suddenly realizes she ought to have been more appreciative of only being down the one wing.

Mercifully, Ancyor falls away and disappears into the bridge’s wreckage at the base of the valley. That’s a mercy. But Theaboros isn’t much better off. Spitting smoke and almost completely out of control, the best Kione can do with it is a crash landing.

But hey, any landing you can walk away from. Right? And Theaboros can still walk. It just can’t do anything else.

Kione lets herself throw up in the cockpit. That’s a first.

A minute or two later, while she’s slowly picking herself up, radio girl comes skating down the wall of the valley. Her mech is a bit shit—common enough, for rebels—but it looks a damn sight better than Theaboros right now.

Holy shit, radio girl calls out. You’re alive! You… you saved me.

She’s got that naive awe in her voice, like she’s talking to some hero. Kione frowns. Can’t have that.

“Don’t get used to it,” Kione retorts gruffly. “You die, who’s gonna make sure I get paid? Duh.”

She senses radio girl bristle a little, but it’s not quite enough to penetrate that thick coat of rebel sincerity. Thank you, Kione, she replies earnestly.

Even though it almost makes her throw up again, Kione laughs thickly.

“Told you. You already know my name.”

Now she senses the other pilot blushing.

Well, shit, radio girl says after a moment, as her mech’s head turns toward the ruins of the bridge. We really fucked this up. I don’t know how I’m gonna explain this to command.

Kione happens to disagree with the ‘really fucked this up’ part of that assessment. She happens to think she pulled off a goddamn miracle, actually. But then, she still doesn’t know what they were really after. Who they were really after.

Wait, radio girl says slowly. Is that… oh gods, I think that’s her.

Before Kione can ask, she’s dashing for something she’s spotted in the wreckage. Kione makes Theaboros limp after her. When she spots it too, her eyes go wide.

It’s Ancyor.

It’s almost in one piece. Almost. Tough son of a bitch. Kione half-expects it to come roaring at them again, but once radio girl shifts the bridge pylon that landed on it, she sees that Ancyor has finally given up the ghost. It’s not beyond repairs but the torso is cracked open like an egg, leaking oil and worse in a steady stream. Looks like the protection systems deployed OK, at least.

Which means the pilot might actually be alive.

Sure enough, as radio girl peels away one half of Ancyor’s ruined cockpit, Kione sees her—and for the first time, she’s completely and utterly lost for words.

Lying there, battered and bleeding and unconscious but very definitely alive, dressed just like usual except for what looks freakishly like a fucking muzzle strapped to her head—is Sartha.

Sartha Thrace. The hero. Kione’s friend.

“She…” Kione splutters eventually, overcome. “But… how did… all this, just for…”

Yeah, radio girl answers. All this was for her.

There’s something in the rebel’s voice. Something at once sorrowful and unbearably hopeful. Kione has never heard anything quite like it. But, uncomfortably, she realizes it was in her voice too.

She’s the objective. We’re bringing Sartha Thrace home.

---

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[alexander-arcturus-black-lupin]

Sneaking around

Summary : Draco is being tailed by Harry, but he doesn't know that. He goes to meet his secret Ravenclaw girlfriend y/n. 

Harry slid out of Slughorn's party and followed Malfoy. He knew his cloak would be of use as he threw it over him. Draco Malfoy during this whole semester looked sickly and pale but today he looked…Draco.

 He followed him through the secret passageway on the third floor that was rarely used; he wondered when Draco had found it. He was so deep in thought he hadn't almost noticed that Draco had stopped. 

Suddenly black hair flicked from a corner. Draco lounged and pulled out a laughing Ravenclaw girl. 

"Salazar Y/n," 

"Hi~" Draco's scowl dropped and a shy smile made its way there instead. 

"Hello," Draco rolled out. 

"Your hair is a mess Malfoy, are you actually using your shampoo?"

"Of course I am, i was bloody thrown from Slughorn's stupid party" 

"Sounds a bit hmmm jealous, was a certain Harry Potter there?" Harry froze once he heard his name. 

"Don't start, you saying his name once is enough,"

"Shall I start calling him the chosen one or the other he who must not be named." Harry was mesmerized by her, it was like she radiated happiness. 

Draco shook his head so hard that his hair became more messed up. 

"Jeez, Draco relax," 

"Potter's been trailing me lately," Y/n raised her eyebrows. 

"If I didn't know any better I'd ship you two," Harry wanted to retch in his hiding place. "Lorminuim"

"That's new," Draco remarked, flopping on a nearby couch. "Made it?" 

"Nah 7th years, it's a silencing charm which also acts as an alarm if anyone steps within 10 feet of our invisible bubble we'll know"  Harry froze again, if he moved. He'll be in deep trouble.

However everything except for one fact flew over Draco's head as he sat up. "7th Year boys?"

Y/N blinked at him before she threw back her head and laughed. "What if it was a boy?" Y/n teases coming closer. "Mmm, what if it was?" 

Draco rolled his eyes. Y/n sat on his lap and cupped his face in her hands. Smooshing his face makes him look like a fish. Harry was still in severe shock. 

“I’m yours, mon amor est pour toi et toi sulement,” Draco burst out laughing. “Stop laughing I tried.” 

Draco pressed soft kisses into her palm. “I know, bloody accent needs help but, I love you too” he then said something in perfect french. Harry had enough and he, under his cloak, moved backwards inch by inch turning with each step, he did so till he was out. 

“Harry?” He spun to find Hermione and Ron behind him. "Harry? You look like you've seen a ghost,"

"Malfoy,"

"Don't tell me you followed him, can you belive this Ron, wait, you knew didn't you," Hermione pointed at Ron's red ears.

"I- Harry what about Malfoy what did you catch him doing," 

"He and y/n are a thing," 

"What? They barely are in the same space at the same time," Hermione said crossing her arms. "I mean yeah, y/n is close to the slytherin boys."

"What-" 

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

Somehow news had spread quickly. Mostly thanks to Ron and his, "MALFOY AND Y/N ARE YOU BLOODY SERIOUS MATE" Soon it even reached the love birds themselves. 

"Pansy told me that she heard it from Luna who heard it from Ginny who heard it from Ron."Y/n was sitting at the head of Draco's four-poster bed with his head in her lap 

"Do you think he caught us snogging somewhere," 

"I would hope not else you won't be getting any." Draco pouted. 

You’re cute when you pout

“Thank you,” Draco flushed slightly. She herself blushed, she said that outloud. 

"Nevermind, it was probably Potter maybe he tailed me on one of our dates," 

"Maybe," Draco started to play with her hair.  

"We can't keep hiding in your dorm, unlike you, a dinner person, I am a breakfast person." 

Draco sighed at that. They only had two classes today both after lunch. "Please let's just stay here, just for now," 

"Fine, you owe me," 

Draco just smiled and cuddled into y/n, "I really love you y/n, like a lot that i actually let on" Y/n froze.

"Y/n? Y/n you don't have to say it back, I just-"

"I love you too,"  Draco sat up and looked at her. 

“You don’t need to tell me you love me, I don-” she shut him up with a kiss. Suddenly the door barged open, 

“HA PANSY YOU WERE RIGHT COME CHECK THIS OUT,” Blaise in all his glory stood heaving with laughter. Soon they were joined by Pansy Theodore Matheo and Lorenzo. Draco with a wave of his wand had shoved them out and locked them out. 

“Why are we friends with them,”

“Say the word and they’re gone,” she laughed an kissed Draco back. 

���I’ll think about it, since we’ve been caught and I’m starving, let’s go,” Draco sighed and help her off the bed. “But you’ll still owe me a bunch of snacks later,”

Draco looked at her a small smile on his lips. “Deal,” she smiled and his heart stuttered. He was truly enamored with her.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Johnny Cade fic

Sometimes, keeping secrets is necessary.

For all the gang is close, close as brothers- sometimes closer than that if Soda and Steve’s weird dynamic is anything to judge by- Johnny knows that some things are best kept between two people, three in some situations, or guarded closely to oneself when a secret is more shame than anything more. It’s why he and Dally patch each other up so often and leave the others out of it, Dally with his warlike ways and gritty survival, him with his stupid broken heart and the bruises it earns him. It’s easier he thinks, to keep that sort of sharing and vulnerability for two people instead of seven, just like it’s easier for Darry to only ever truly talk to Two-bit, and for Soda to haul Steve out for a drag race when he shows up on the Curtis’ front porch with cold eyes and yet another bloody lip. Not everyone needs to know everything. Some things are best kept between a few folks, and if those things are named secrets, well, so be it. It would do more harm than good for Darry to find out what Pony says when he’s ranting to Johnny, and Dal never needed to know half the things Johnny and Darry did to get him out of scrapes he never even realized he’d gotten himself into. 

Another thing Johnny knows about secrets: some are more important than others. Knowing the nickname Steve’s mom used to call him is a far less important secret than the real reason Dal left New York, but Johnny keeps any and every secret entrusted to him locked up tight behind layers of stubbornness that could rival Pony in even his most pigheaded moods. He learned a long time ago that loose lips sink ships- and he couldn’t live with himself if something he knew and let slip ever ended with one of the gang getting hurt. Hell, he can hardly stand to live with himself now.

“Stupid grease,” For a second Johnny thinks the insult is being tossed at him, but when he looks up the soc- some asshole with the dumbest fucking haircut Johnny’s ever seen- doesn’t appear to have even noticed he’s rounded the corner as he grumbles to the rest of his buddies all dressed in letterman jackets and combover hairdos, “can’t believe some greaseball kid thinks he can work with my girl.”

“Least the kid is smart,” a guy with a yellow madras shirt Johnny recognizes from his own C level english class says. Johnny had thought he was dumb as a post before he’d been sat next to the guy. Compared to goldie he was fucking Einstein himself, “I got stuck with Rosie. Dumb bitch wouldn't recognize her own face in a mirror.”

Look who’s talking, Johnny thinks, fully intending to keep minding his own business. Socs pissed off and planning to jump a greaser kid was nothing new in the halls of Tulsa high, and he wasn’t planning to stick around and find out which unlucky guy was gonna be the latest target of the football team. Maybe they’d be stupid enough to go after Curly Shepard again and get their asses handed to him. Johnny fucking hates Curly shepard, but even he has to admit the guy is a straight up beast in a fight. Real tuff.

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna let some freshman grease named after a damn horse chat up my girl.” The soc with the ugly haircut sneers, “we’re gonna teach that kid a lesson. Lawson says the kid’s on the track team, so we’ll catch him when he’s done practice so the coach don’t go looking.”

The soc keeps talking, joking with his buddies, probably describing in vivid detail how he’s planning on beating up Johnny’s best friend- his thirteen year old best friend- into a pulp. Johnny can’t hear it anyway- not over the roaring in his ears.

Steve is cursing and fighting with his combination lock when Johnny finds him just outside the science wing, his carefully gelled hair a stark contrast to his grease stained t-shirt. For all the dark cloud of his mood is nearly visible, Johnny still can't help but feel bad for him. Soda had officially dropped out just over a month ago and Steve was still taking it mighty hard. He kind of understood- Steve didn’t have a ton of friends besides the gang, and with Evie skipping half the week and Soda working full time, Steve's social circle at school had shrunk to near zero. 

“We got a problem,” Johnny tells him without preamble, and there’s a grim determination in Steve’s eyes when he turns to him, nodding and following him down the hallway without a word. Besides his gruff but unflinching loyalty, one thing about Steve that Johnny appreciates is that, like him, Steve feels no need for meaningless pleasantries. 

As they stalk through the halls, no doubt looking like they mean business if the way socy girls and a few fresh men give them a wide berth is anything to judge by, Steve doesn’t ask questions, no doubt knowing that Johnny will explain everything as soon as they track down Two-bit. 

“Two,” Steve barks as soon as they spot him, flirting with a pretty blonde who’s rolling her eyes but moving closer to him just the same, “let’s go. We got a problem.”

He must be able to tell he’s serious because he gives the blonde a final leer and joins them immediately.

“What’s goin’ on? I’d nearly talked her into lettin’ me take her to the Dingo on Saturday.”

“There’ll be other girls for you to disappoint sexually,” Steve rolls his eyes, “but Johnny says we got a problem right now.”

He turns to Johnny expectantly.

“I overheard some socs earlier talkin’ ‘bout Ponyboy,” Johnny starts. Both older boy’s eyes darken, comprehension dawning. This isn’t the first time one of them overheard some soc planning to give Pony a good jumping and Johnny doubts it’ll be the last, just like he knows it won’t be the last time he, Steve, and Two will fight them off before they can so much as breathe wrong in pony’s direction. Of all the secrets he keeps Johnny thinks this might be the most important, and he thinks Two and Steve feel the same way. Darry and Soda worry about Pony enough as it is, they hardly need to be terrified about him getting beat up at school too; and Pony would never forgive them fighting his battles for him. Hell, if he ever found out he’d probably pick a fight with a soc on purpose just to prove he’s tough. He still don’t get it, that he’s tough enough already for all he likes his books and movies and stuff. Not many folks can go through what Pony’s gone through and not lose a piece of themselves that Pony has kept spectacularly, miraculously, intact.

 “Said they were plannin’ on jumpin’ him after track practice,” Johnny continues, “it was some guy with a dumb haircut, and that guy I sat with in english last year. Mark somethin’?”

“Bradshaw, I think,” Steve spits, “Sounds like him and Ian Cosegrove. They were in my history class last year, and they’d probably be in Pony’s english class now he’s been moved up. One of them has that real dumb haircut?”

“That’s them.”

Two bit cracks his knuckles,  “Let’s go.”

It’s not hard to track the socs down from where they’re hanging out on the hood of some flashy mustang Johnny wished he could steal. It also isn’t hard to beat the two of them to a pulp, and their buddy who joined in too, because for all they’re football player they aren’t greasers, and they aren’t filled with the sort of fiery rage that’s coursing through Johnny’s veins, and Two-bit and Steve’s too.

Sure, no one was allowed to mess with anyone in the gang, but that went double for Ponyboy. None of them would ever be right again if anything happened to the kid, and they all knew Darry probably couldn’t survive it. Hell, Soda couldn’t either, 

Later that day, after Steve has waited around an hour to drive he and Ponyboy home just in case, Johnny hides his swollen knuckles in his jacket pockets and tucks this latest fight close to his chest, another secret best kept to himself.

He’d never have it any other way. Steve and Two wouldn’t either. The Curtis’ looked out for them all- it was only right they return the favour whenever and however they could.

Johnny listens to Pony and Steve argue, watches Two light up a cigarette, and smiles.

It’s no secret it’s tough sometimes to be a grease. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[ivystoryweaver]

Special Delivery

Based on this very patient nonnie’s requests: “I was thinking about Steven Grant x male reader. Like something very and super fluff with him, cause I love him so much and I love fluff stuff with him” Original asks here, here , and here - tysm nonnie!

Summary: You're making a delivery to the museum's gift shop and the cutest gift shop clerk has to sign for it (It's Steven, of course)

Pairing: Steven Grant x m!reader

Word Count: 724

Content: fluff, flirting, meet cute, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

“Stevie, if I have to ask you one more time to answer the back door bell, I swear I’ll take the shipping fare out of your paycheck.”

Steven’s entire body tenses as his supervisor’s grating voice echoes across the museum gift shop.

“Right. On it, boss,” he amicably musters with a cheesy mock salute, grumbling a curse under his breath as he shuffles off the sales floor, through the swinging door marked “Employees Only”. Rummaging around for his keys, he groans as the bell rings again, signaling what’s likely to be an impatient and possibly rude delivery person.

“Just a moment,” he sighs, checking each and every pocket for his keys, hopelessly tossing his dark curls out of his eyes as he finally produces his keyring. “Could’ve sworn I left those in my jacket,” he murmurs, attempting to remember the past twenty-four hours, vaguely realizing he could not, in fact, remember much at all.

Then the bell trills again - insistently. One, two, three times in a row.

“All right, hold your bloody horses…” Steven trails off, yanking the door open, eyes going wide at the sight of you.

Dressed smartly in your delivery uniform, you chomp on your gum, reaching up to cheekily tip your cap to the flustered gift shop clerk.

“Doorbell broken?” You casually ask, popping your gum. “Must’ve rung half a dozen times.”

“So sorry,” Steven rushes to apologize. “Bit of trouble finding my keys. Come right in.”

You chuckle warmly, rather than condescendingly, as the shorter (and very cute) man reaches for a box to help you unload.

“You know, they pay me to do that, mate.” The corner of your mouth curls as his bright brown eyes go wide.

“Oh god, sorry. Wouldn’t want to break anything.” Steven almost jumps back, pulling his hands closely to his chest - a gesture so adorable your heart trips over itself. “Just wanted to help, is all,” he adds.

“Appreciate it,” you sincerely reply, but…noticing the rosy hue creeping across his cheeks, you chance a wink, nodding down at his name tag. “Steven.”

“With a V,” he chuckles, a bit flustered. “Steven with a V. That’s me.”

“I see that,” you smirk, pointing, once again to his name tag. “Can’t really make deliveries if I can’t read now, can I?”

The thing is - everyone calls Steven the wrong name. Everyone. Stevie, Scotty, ‘hey you!’ The fact that you read his name tag and winked... Maybe you winked?

Steven probably imagined that. "Right, em, guess I'll get out of your way then." He makes a circular motion with his hand. "Sure you have a whole system going. Sorry to bother."

"No bother," you shake your head, expertly offloading a huge palate of shipment with astonishing ease.

Steven wets his lips at the way your uniform shirt fits your arms and chest. "Must be new here..." He finds himself murmuring.

"What's that?" You pause, slinging your arm over your dolly full of boxes.

"Oh, em, haven't seen you 'round. Must be new," Steven repeats, snapping out of his distracted stare. Returning the favor, he reads your name from your uniform shirt tag.

"New route," you explain, pivoting the dolly up with your foot, ready to move it again, but you pause - eyes raking over Steven's adorably hunched body. A mess of dark curls, and purple circles under eyes with secrets and stories to tell. Hands with long, lovely fingers drawn carefully to his chest. Still...he's handsome. And kind.

To most people, you're invisible. But Steven's noticed you. "Gotta say. I like the view." With another well-timed wink, you chomp your gum and carry on with your task.

Once you finish, you have the gift shoppist electronically sign your tablet. "I will see you later, Steven with a V." You smile warmly.

"Every Monday and Thursday!" He exuberantly quotes the delivery schedule to you, as if you aren't aware.

"All right. Thursday then." Pulling your work glove off your hand, you take a chance, crossing over the line of professionalism. "Nice to meet you...Steven." You extend your hand for a shake, completely right about how it would feel to touch him.

Yeah. You're glad you've left your number scribbled on the top box. Maybe he'll call you before Thursday. If not, you'll make sure to write it on his hand next time.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Steven Grant-Centric stories

Moon Knight Masterlist

Main Masterlist

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

[luna0713hunter]

Please more writing for shanks! It's so good

Author's note : I've come back from the death!!!i just had one of my final terms today and saying im exhausted to bone is a misunderstanding. Anyways!!!i hope u enjoy this!!

A safe place to rest

Shanks x reader

Summary : being a pirate,may seem like an easy job. But after fighting marines and looking after your crewmates,you cant help but to feel exhausted.

Warnings : none,hurt/comfort,overworked reader,pet names such as "princess,darling and etc", gender neutral ,metion of blood

*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘˚˳°*.✧∘

Peeling the bloody shirt off of your body and throwing it on the wooden floor of the ship,you sit heavily on your bed and heave a heavy sigh; today was exhausting.

It started out like any other day;with you waking up to your crewmates loud banter and getting dressed as you made your way over to the kitchen to have a simple breakfast. Soon,a small land was found,and it was time for reloading the stuff you needed to sail off again.

Helping everyone was as always,a challenge. As you tried to stop your crewmates from making any mess,and at the same time remembering every single item on the list. And simply putting them in the storage had took all your afternoon rest. And if that wasnt enough,everyone on the ship had agreed to go out and drink because it's been a while since you had hit the land.

And if your day wasnt exhausting enough,all hell broke loose as you stepped inside the bar.

Everything was good for the first thirty minutes. That is,until a group of young marines had barged in; seemingly have heard from the locals about the pirates luring around.

The fight was ugly.

You take your head in your hands as the images of the fight flashes across your eyes;the sickly smell of blood still lingering in your nose.

Gods above,you were beyond tired. You were ready to crawl under your blanket and never get out,when a gentle knock broke you out of your trace.

You hastily throw a clean shirt on,and slowly open the door only to be greeted by a flash of red.

Shanks,your captain, gives you a small smirk as he takes in your appearance and leans against the door frame.

"comfortable there, princess?"

You give him a confused look before taking a good look at what you're wearing and then your cheeks are burning bright red. You swallow down your embarrassment and fold your arms against your chest with a slight pout.

"your fault for leaving it in my room,Cap."

Shanks lets out a free laugh and raises his single arm up in mock surrounder.

"dont get me wrong. I love to see you in my clothes more than anything."

You hum,a slight comfort taking place in your weary bones as you lean against the door as well.

"more than wine?"

Shanks leans slightly closer,and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear,and you try to look away when he gives you the softest smile.

"more than air itself,my dear."

You lean in his touch shyly and look up at him from under your lashes.

"would you like to come in then, captain?"

Shanks nods and closes the door behind himself.

Its not his first time in your room;after all,its been a while since the two of you started dating. But it still made you slightly awkward having him in your messy room.

A slight tug at your hand and warm fingers interwining with yours,makes you look at the red haired man standing in front of you.

"what're you thinking about,doll?"

And just seeing him there;in the comfort of your own room and under the soft glow of the candles;in his cloths,has you letting out a soft sigh and leaning your forehead against his shoulder.

"I'm just... exhausted,Shanks. Today was alot. Everything is alot."

A strong arm wraps itself around your shoulders and pulls you flush against his chest. You feel Shanks' lips press firmly against the crown of your hair and you close your eyes upon the feeling.

"Take the day off tomorrow. No,take a week off;a month if you need,my dear. It kills me to see you wear yourself thin,and I've been meaning to ask you to take a break. Lets just,rest until you feel better yeah?" You raise you head up and look at him,only to see him smiling softly;his hand caressing your hair, "no need to push yourself. My princess deserves the best."

You blink rapidly;only to get rid of the stray tears stinging your eyes. A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips before you're pulling yourself up on your tiptoes,and pressing your lips to his stubbled cheek.

"i appreciate it,Cap."

A horse chuckle escapes his lips,and before you know it, you're being lead to your bed.

"then how about we start from sleeping this awful night off. What do you say?"

And when you pull him down along with you and let out a relaxed sigh as you lay your head on his chest,a genuine smile finally blooms on your lips.

"sounds just wonderful,my love."

And you let the sound of Shanks' soft breathing and waves,lull you to sleep.

[chaoticevilspacewitch]

RWBY Fanfic Recommendation List

Fics that have really struck me, vaguely organized by ship and/or topic.

Bumbleby (Blake x Yang)

first off, basically anything by pugoata. She's the goddess-empress of the Bees. I'm gonna give particular props to Banshee, as it was the first longer fic and AU that I read, and it really opened up my mind to what fanfic could be.

You're a Mountain, Full of Glory - a ski/snowboard with amazing characterization and a closing scene that will live rent-free in my head forever, in a good way.

They Can't Steal the Love You're Born to Find - childhood soulmates repeatedly torn apart and reconnecting, with courtroom drama. One of the most angst-ridden Bee fics I've ever read.

Fucking In Love - pornstar AU that gets right to the sex and slow burns the romance. Hot as hell while also full of tenderness and pining.

Midnight Menagerie - exotic dancer, kinda-cyberpunk dystopia AU. Edges you forever with the sex, earns all the angst tags, and we are majorly trusting @kaelidascope when she promises an amazing happy ending.

Bite Me Like You Love Me - one of the hottest Bee smutfics I've ever read.

You and Me - Blake discovers she's pregnant the day Yang goes MIA on a mission and struggles through being a single mother teaching their child about her amazing other mom. Short, happy ending, amazingly sweet.

You and Me, and One Hot Summer - tropical beach Bees. It's fun, and hella spicy!

WhiteRose (Ruby x Weiss)

The Foxtrot - Ruby and Weiss repair their broken lives after the war. It's one of the most popular RWBY fics of all time for a reason.

Can You See My Strings?/Deja Vu - premium mentally ill Weiss escapes from child abuse angst, with a happy ending if you read the sequel.

But Your Voice Used to Be Mine - Weiss escapes abuse to join RBY's punk band whose smash hit she inspired.

Just One Cigarette - Ruby and Weiss have a little meetup roleplay and it's really good.

Faunus Weiss (generally major themes of struggling with internal and external racism)

Craving the Sky - Weiss has painfully concealed her faunus heritage while she tries to earn her father's love. The support of her team, and the love of Blake and Yang (BeesSchnees) help her soar on her own.

Black Swan Theory - faunus Weiss struggles to recover from child abuse and navigate a deeply racist society while building a relationship with Pyrrha (Schneekos).

Clipped Wings - secret faunus Weiss, dealing with racism and abuse from Jacques, this time slow burning towards Pollination.

Villainesses

Melting Glace - Cinder and Neo find love, and no redemption, in the trauma of failing to destroy Beacon. Will make you cheer for them to win by the end.

Rise from the Ashes - Cinder has a Vader moment and saves Ruby from Salem, and Ruby's pure heart helps her heal, and their adversarial relationship turn to affection. Peak RWBY enemies-to-lovers.

Odds & Ends

The Bermuda Triangle - great modern AU BeesSchnees that gets filthy hot at the end.

Midnight Rose - Summer rescues and adopts Cinder out of Atlas. Their relationship, and Cinder coming to love the Xiao Long-Rose family, is beautifully depicted. Still very much ongoing (no ships as of yet).

Fallen Maiden - Jaune dies protecting Pyrrha at Beacon, and the Fall Maiden power remains split. Will Pyrrha's bloody crusade of vengeance consume her? Or, 'Pyrrha goes full Magneto and fucks Cinder up'.

What's In A Name? - Winter and May grow up together, struggling to cope with their feelings for each other against the background of the Atlas aristocracy.

Red Sky at Night - This excellently-composed fic has a hacked Penny as the primary antagonist of the Beacon arc and builds it to Nuts & Dolts. It captures both Penny's horror at being controlled in her own body and RWBY's fear in fighting a seemingly unstoppable enemy, almost like Terminator vibes, and ultimately takes it to a very sweet relationship.

Linked In Life and Love - I'd be remiss if I didn't mention this one. I really, really love the first act, where Team RWBY sees Blake suffering terribly through a surprise heat cycle and decides that they will all "help" her with it. It's sweet and tender and feels legit for them. I'm not a huge fan of where all the series has gone since, but I would invite anyone to judge that for themselves.

Sparks in the Dark - an Emerald/Penny/Ruby trio that's really masterfully done, exploring all three characters in very novel ways, and also doing great things with Salem and Cinder.

War Machines - a Penny/Ruby role-swap that follows Penny's adventures on team BXPS with Blake, Yang, and Weiss. It's very thoughtful and a good read as science fiction for its exploration of Penny's artificial personhood.

(As I see this getting a decent amount of traffic, I'll just point out that, if it's convinced you [correctly] of my impeccable taste in fanfic, you might want to check out my own RWBY writings)

[star-farer]

bruises and bickering

Summary: Children will always find a way of getting into trouble AU: Ik'aad Taglist: @kybercrystals94 @fionas-frenzy @padawancat97 @margindoodles2407 @comfy-vember @dreamsight73

Comfy-vember 2024, Day 5: Saying their name

For the forty seventh time that day (but who's counting?), Hunter sighs.

“We told you to be careful, kid.”

Omega just shrugs, legs swinging as she munches on Mantell Mix. She’s barely concerned for a clone who’s just had her elbow scraped and bloody.

Kneeling down beside her, Tech winds the last of the bandages and throws Hunter a look that tells him this is all his fault. How precisely their resident genius figured that out is beyond Hunter. Last he recalls, it was Wrecker who was running beside her on their latest mission.

“Well,” says Echo cheerily, snapping the medkit close, “You know what they say: Like buir, like ad’ika.”

“Hey, wha’s that s’posed ta mean!” Echo only grins as he leaves for the cockpit, an indignant Wrecker hot on his cybernetic heels.

“It was rhetorical, Tech,” says Crosshair tiredly when the vod’ika in question raises his finger and opens his mouth in the manner that precedes information.

A shrewd glint of disapproving eyes is shot the sniper’s way past yellow lenses. “I am aware of that. However, I do believe Echo is right. Omega appears to be taking after our unruly ways.”

Crosshair snorts. “Our callsigns start with Havoc. Our ship is called the Marauder. And don’t get me started on all those ridiculous plans we’ve come up with.”

“Remind me who aided with the invention of said plans?”

A triumphant smirk tilts both toothpick and lips upwards at the edge.

“Wrecker.”

“You are incorrigible,” sighs Tech in exasperation, shaking his head.

“Are you surprised?”

“No,” drawls Tech, winking at Omega as he stands, which gets her smothering a laugh in her palm, “I suppose not. I’ve had to deal with your madness since I was decanted.”

“Yeah, which was a couple hours after I was decanted,” puts in Hunter with a grimace, “I nearly lost my hearing when he came screeching out the tube. You just got the scowl because he'd calmed down by the time it was your turn.”

“Wait," Omega blinks, "You remember all that?”

“Sure I do. He came out cranky and crying like always. With the tattoo and toothpick, of course.”

And even as he grins, even as Omega frowns up at him, squinting, he knows he’ll never fool a child as clever as his own.

“I don’t believe you.”

Crosshair huffs triumphantly, flicking the toothpick so that it grazes along Hunter’s nose. He holds out a hand for Omega to take. “This is why you’re my favorite ad. You’re smarter than all these di’kute.”

Two dry are-you-serious expressions are shot Crosshair’s way, and Hunter can’t help but choke on a laugh at the sight of his brother and daughter levelling the most deadpan stares he has seen in all his short life at his sniper.

“She is our only ad, Crosshair.” Omega nods with Tech’s observation, grabbing the bowl of Mantell Mix.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone she’s your favorite ad too.”

Hunter clears his throat. “You know I’m right here.”

“You don’t count.”

“Rude.”

Flapping a hand his way, Crosshair gently tugs Omega along with him to the cockpit, stealing a handful of the Mix and earning him a laughing Hey! from the daughter in question as he pops them into his mouth. Tech, as expected, follows right after, resuming their argument about who-knows-what-at-this-rate.

“Hey ‘Mega,” calls Hunter, just before they step out the rear cabin. She turns, eyes bright and face open, bandaged arm still gripping Crosshair’s hand while the other wraps around the Mantell Mix at her torso.

He grins. “Make sure those two don’t kill each other?”

And she giggles like he’s told her the funniest thing in the world, one eye slowly closing in an attempt of a wink.

“No promises.”